Mac shook the rain from his cloak and followed Talar into a tavern on the fringe of Mythnar’s tiny merchant district.
“So, is she really the daughter of the Christo Wintherford?” asked Talar, sitting at an empty table near the door.
“I don’t know.”
“You lied to the magistrate?”
“Do you honestly expect an answer?” He would have torn the city down if he thought it’d help him find her. Panic still raced through him, the same as it had when he’d woken to find her missing. He would have expected his martial training to have taken over by now, calm him down, think strategically, but he couldn’t reason beyond the knowledge that he had failed her.
“If she is Wintherford’s daughter and those brigands are deserters, like you believe, there’ll be a ransom note for her soon.”
Mac rubbed his face with his hands. “Which is why I went to the magistrate. You could have at least warned me that Kaelyn Wintherford is in love with Prince Wyndham.”
“I would have if you had mentioned that I might be traveling with her.” Talar’s expression darkened and he turned away from Mac, waving for a server.
Mac hadn’t expected Talar to stick around and help with the search, and was surprised by the man’s fervor.
“Besides,” said Talar, “it’s all over the kingdom. Where have you been for the last ten years?”
“Drunk.”
A buxom server flashed Talar an inviting smile but that only made him scowl more. He ordered food and well-watered wine.
“Don’t worry,” said Mac dryly at the well-watered part of their order, “I was drunk for longer than that. We don’t have the money for me to drink myself into a pleasant anything.”
“Why, in the name of the Goddess, did you spend ten years drunk?”
The wind threw rain against the shuttered windows of the inn, and the handful of other patrons chatted amongst themselves, unaware that they were in the presence of Meriduin’s greatest hero.
Mac rubbed his face again. His hair was growing back and so was his beard. He’d need to shave soon. He’d probably needed a shave yesterday. That was likely why the magistrate hadn’t believed a word he’d said. Would he believe him if he knew how he looked? Probably not.
Damn it, he had no idea how he was going to find her.
“Never mind. Are we going to keep looking, or start again in the morning?” asked Talar, breaking Mac’s reverie.
“I don’t know. You said that she and Wyndham have been the talk of the court for years?”
The server set their food, a pitcher of wine, and two mugs on the table while giving Talar an indecent view of the top of her breasts.
Talar narrowed his eyes. “The gossip increased once they’d reached sixteen and no betrothal agreement was made for either of them.”
Mac pushed a piece of carrot around his bowl. “The magistrate said Prince Consort Gregor and Prince Wyndham are here. I doubt they would have left home without a minimum detail of guards.”
“Are you suggesting we asked the royal guard to find her?”
Mac shrugged. “They might recognize her.”
“Assuming our Kaelyn is Kaelyn Wintherford.”
“We need more men to search town. The Prince Consort has men.”
“Sure. Let’s just drop by, say, good morning, Your Highness, could we borrow your men for a while, we’ve lost someone.”
“Why not? Greg is probably going crazy penned up in meetings all day.”
“I would rather not,” said Talar.
“I wouldn’t either. But I made a promise.” One he intended to keep.
Talar rubbed his wrists and sighed. “So did I.”
#
Reynold’s head pounded and he couldn’t sleep. He slipped from his tent, careful not to wake his man servant, and shuffled to the edge of camp. Last night had been their last stop at civilization on their way to Kardesh and there were no more Meriduinian nobles he could impose upon for shelter. They’d stopped in a clearing just off the road and made camp surrounded by towering trees.
He rubbed his temples. His head had throbbed for the last two days, without relief, regardless of what potions his physician brewed for him. He’d been reluctant to turn to his magical advisor for assistance, but now he couldn’t remember why. Surely Meeshmaltok could help.
Light flickered deep within the forest and something tugged at his heart. He glanced about. His guards stood on watch, likely aware that their Prince–soon to be King–was up, but offering him the semblance of privacy.
Another tug and he took a few involuntary steps forward. More light danced among the trunks and braches, like sprites from a minstrel’s tale. One moment they were there, the next gone, or a different color, or bigger, or smaller, or–
A branch slapped him in the face, and the pounding in his head resumed. Trees and underbrush surrounded him. Spinning on his heel, he searched for his camp. The campfire was a tiny flame, far away, partially obscured by branches and leaves. He hadn’t realized he’d been walking.
And yet, he had to keep moving, was compelled to move. When he was walking, his head didn’t hurt. A speck of white light drifted in front of him. He held out his hand, letting it land on his palm. It lay there for just a moment then dissolved into his flesh. A jolt of lightning shot up his arm, igniting the pain in his skull into an inferno.
His knees buckled and he clung to a tree to keep standing. Ancient Father, where was his advisor? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white. He turned his head. Shadows swarmed across his vision. He blinked his sight clear and there, among the trees was a ghost, his advisor.
Reynold stumbled toward him and sucked in breath to call out when a strange drone rumbled around him. The noise vibrated in his chest and his heart raced against it. He crept to the edge of the clearing where Meeshmaltok stood with his head bowed.
“I have a cure for your headache,” said his advisor, his voice coming from all around Reynold.
That invisible forced tugged on his heart and he lurched into the clearing. Meeshmaltok looked up, his face was smeared with blood and bathed in a sickly green glow. At his feet lay a guardsman, his throat ripped out.
Stark against Meeshmaltok’s blood-stained white robes, hovering at chest height, was a smoky cloud, emanating the light. Shapes swarmed within it and it rumbled something. Meeshmaltok nodded. He held up the crystal caged in gold, the same one he’d given Reynold before.
“This will help your head, Your Highness. But you have to come closer.”
The muscles in Reynold’s legs trembled. He didn’t want to come closer, he wanted to run, scream, claw out his eyes.
Wisps of light burst from the cloud and danced around him.
“Come closer,” said Meeshmaltok.
A fire blazed in Reynold’s skull.
“This will help.”
Flashes of light danced across his vision. The cloud rumbled something, and the fire in his head turned to thousands of insects, buzzing and buzzing and devouring his thoughts.
#
Mac’s rear had fallen asleep from waiting on the hard bench outside Mythnar’s great hall. He tugged at his doublet, more uncomfortable with how short the style had become since his absence from court than the lack of feeling in his butt. He always thought he’d looked handsome in the fitted, mid-thigh length doublets. They had been cut like a coat with buttons up the front and a slit to the waist up the back and sides, made of soft materials, and elaborately ornamented. However, over the years, the length of doublets obviously had shrunk, and Mac was forced to wear a plain, short doublet while fighting the feeling that he was placing emphasis on his less than legendary girth by wearing less than adequate coverage.
Talar shifted to his other foot but remained leaning against the wall. They’d waited most of the morning, watching scribes, soldiers, and minor nobles approach the guard at the door before being admitted into the hall beyond, where the Prince Consort held an audience with his private court.
“Oh yes,” said Talar under his breath, “we’ll just walk on in.”
Mac ignored the slight and tried to think through the dark cloud that had settled over him as the hours had slipped by. Queen Adelicia’s court appeared as changed as the style of the doublets. The air of importance and pomp from all involved was noticeably less than Mac remembered, and although he could distinguish the court as being a court, he saw no courtier or functionary who appeared familiar. And if he didn’t recognize anyone, it clearly meant that no one would recognize him. He would need to take a greater action than just sitting around waiting on the pleasure of Gregor’s underlings. He did, after all, still look like a ruffian; a clean ruffian–since he’d shaved this morning–but a ruffian none-the-less.
Mac sighed. He hated drawing attention to himself. “I’ve had enough.”
Talar pushed away from the wall. “So we leave and do what?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Mac strode to the closest of the two guards at the great hall’s double doors. He grabbed the boy’s spear and smashed him across the face with his free hand. The boy crumpled to the floor as Mac brought up the butt of the spear into the chin of the guard beside him. That guard stumbled back giving Mac the space needed to throw open one of the oversized doors.
The scribe who’d laughed outright when Mac had given him his name raced to meet him, stammering something about due time and intrusions.
Mac sensed an attack behind him and side-stepped the sword stroke, grabbing the wielder’s arm as it passed him. He jabbed his thumb into the nerve in the guard’s wrist and took the sword from the man’s numb hand. In his past, he would have done something showier.
He really was old.
He grabbed the frenzied scribe by the front of his smock. Another guard swung at Mac. He blocked with his newly acquired sword and kicked the guard in the gut, knocking him back. The guardsmen encircled him, but didn’t advance.
“I have business with the Prince Consort,” said Mac, pitching his voice so it would carry through the hall. He strengthened his grip on the scribe and marched down the aisle toward the dais, knowing that the wary guards would give him way. The Consort’s personal guard formed a protective shield around the throne which Gregor made ineffective by standing to see what was happening.
Mac strode to the front of the hall, threw the whimpering scribe to the floor and bowed low to his Liege Lord. He was met with shocked silence. Even the usual twitter from the courtiers was stilled. He remained in position, bowed on one knee, sword presented, resting on flat palms with arms stretched out and up, waiting for Gregor’s permission to rise. But Gregor was silent. Surely the Prince Consort recognized his old friend. Maybe Mac was too different, too old, to be recognized.
He tilted his head to try and see Gregor’s expression. The Prince Consort didn’t look impressed. In fact, he looked mad, very mad.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe he should have tried something a little more subtle, like sneaking into Gregor’s chambers later that day.
That seemed like a better idea. His legs and back probably wouldn’t hurt as much from the sneaking around as they were from trying to hold his bow.
