Author: Hedge
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to me. Characters, universe, bad grammar. All of it.
Synopsis: A group of unlikely heroes set out to save the realm. When fate has a sense of humor, no one is safe.
Notes: Another one I revised and reposted.
Chapter One: Unheard Prayers
The copper-haired woman sitting in one corner of the crowded tavern chewed on her lower lip lightly, brows drawn together over emerald green eyes that, for once, held no humor. When she spoke, her smooth, melodic voice was pitched carefully; loud enough to carry over the crowd, but soft enough that only her table mate would hear her. "So let me get this strait. The king is dying, the heir to the throne went missing last night without a sign to track him by, and you've been sent to rally the troops and find the lad." She raised a brow, expression ironic. "And you're sure that the boy didn't just get sick of court life and that hag stepmother of his and run off with some pretty milkmaid?"
The man sitting across from her, a burly fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and the look of a seasoned warrior, shook his head. "Kaleigh knows his duty, Ranit. He wouldn't leave us heirless, especially with the king like he is."
The woman, Ranit, shook her head, resting her elbows on the sturdy wood of the table and pausing a moment to take a drink from the mug in front of her. She didn't care if people said that the Red Eagle was a whore-house and a murderer's haven; they had some of the best ale in the city, and in her opinion, whores and murderers made better company and audiences then stuffy nobles and pompous merchants did. For one thing, they were more inclined to join in on well-known songs, and for another, they were less inclined to criticize her style or choice of music. "Alright Gerik. I'll believe that. Why did you want to talk to me about it? Urgently enough to summon me back to the city, even."
Gerik sighed, rubbing his forehead as though he had a headache, which he quite possibly did. "Rally the troops isn't an accurate description. The lad is well loved by his subjects, so the king doesn't want it to get out that the boy is missing - he's afraid it will cause a panic. Which means he wants me to gather a small group of civilians that are useful, can keep their mouth shut, and have an excuse to be traveling. Mercenaries would be too conspicuous. As far as everyone knows, Kaleigh is once again at Nevolja's temple, learning how to control his gift further. The priests are actually supposed to send one of their seers to accompany me by tomorrow, or the day after. And you know how those folk are; they wouldn't tell their own mother the time of day unless their god commanded it."
She snorted in response, for she had known several priests of the god of justice and fate, and knew that their reputation for fanatical devotion was, if anything, understated. "Fine, but that doesn't answer my question."
The large man gave her a half-smile in response, and shrugged massive shoulders. "I want you to come with me, and see if you can round up a couple more people."
Ranit blinked, and set her mug down with a thud, brows drawn together again. "Gerik, I'm a minstrel, not a warrior."
He shrugged again, then leaned back in his chair. "I've seen you use a crossbow, and you keep your head in a crisis. That makes you useful, and being a minstrel gives you an excuse to travel. So, as far as I see, you fit the criteria."
With another snort, Ranit nodded. "Fine then; if you want me, you have me. I don't see what I can do as far as rounding others up, however. I've been gone from the city too long to know who's useful and who will keep their mouth shut."
Gerik leaned across the table, taking one of her long-fingered hands in his own ham-sized mitt. "I missed you, you know." This drew a small smile from the minstrel, before she took another drink.
So involved were they in their conversation
that neither one noticed when their belts suddenly became lighter without
the added weight of the coins in their purses.
The thief known as Iute whistled a jaunty little tune as she left the tavern, her own purse, tucked safely under her loose shirt, heavy with other's gold. Outside, the sun was just starting to sink, coloring the silvers and grays of the city of Lutati red and orange. She paused a moment, giving her eyes a moment to adjust from the bright light of the Red Eagle to the dimming light on the street.
She glanced around thoughtfully, half of her mind on where she was going to sleep that night, the other half protesting that it was far too early to think about turning in. She was inclined to agree with the later half. With a little smirk, she caught sight of a pair of boys quite obviously of noble descent, probably looking for a good time here in the lower city. Well, hard to have fun of any kind here without money.
She sidled up behind them, and made sure that her body blocked the view of the rest of the street from what she was doing. Drawing one of her knives, she flicked it over the bottom of the first young man's belt purse in a practiced gesture, other hand going to catch the coins that fell out.
It was pure dumb luck that he turned at that moment.
Startled green eyes met mock-guileless brown ones, both parties surprised into silence for a moment before the man's friend realized what was going on and started hollering for the street guard. Who would have thought he'd have such hardy lungs, Iute thought ironically, grinning vaguely at the man before turning on her heal and heading down the street at a break-neck speed as several men in the livery of the city guard came around the corner. She wondered vaguely if any of them would recognize her this time. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she had led the street guard on a chase through the streets and, on occasion, over the roofs.
She turned sharply into an alley and scrabbled up the fence that divided it from the next street over, fingers and feet finding little holes and gaps to help her to the top. She balanced there for a moment, daring a glance back at those pursuing her before dropping to the ground. After regaining her balance, she considered a moment, then headed towards the upper city. There at least she could hide in some merchant's fenced in garden until the guards decided that it wasn't worth the effort.
She slowed to the trot as she reached the temple district, the area that separated the upper city, where the rich and middle class lived, along with some of the better shops and inns, and the lower city, which housed the working class at best, and thieves, beggars, and drunks at worse. Well, here was as good a place to wait as any.
She passed the temple of the Goddess of the Moon, also Lutati's patron goddess, without slowing. Instead, she wandered onto the grounds of the one next to it, passing the temple itself and wiggling between the wall and the building into the garden where only priests were allowed. She wasn't quite sure whose temple this was, but most of the big temples in the city were set up to the same design, and she had pulled similar tricks at the temples of Len, the god of smith craft and fire, and Ishchel, the goddess of love and war. The later she wasn't planning on trying again; she had forgotten that most of Ishchel's priestesses, for she had no priests, were also warriors of a sort.
Plopping down on a marble bench tucked into an alcove and shaded by trees, she took the time to look around, hoping for some clue as to whose temple she was trespassing on. The temple garden was lovely in its own way, though absent of the flowers that most gardens boasted at this time of year. Instead, trees and vines were growing everywhere, absent only on the footpaths and alcoves such as the one she now occupied. It made the garden darker then it would have been, to the point where even in the full light of day it was probably a cool twilight here. There were lamps, scattered every ten feet or so along the wall, but they were dim. Her eye was caught by something gleaming in the soft light, and she stared at it a moment before groaning. Well, that answered her question. It was the crest of the god Nevolja, the god of justice and fate; a pair of scales with a wheel behind it, and a serpent wrapped around the edges. It figured that she would stumble into the temple of the god of justice while escaping the guard.
"Kazikci laughs," Iute murmured with a role of her eyes, naming the trickster god that she loosely followed. She sighed heavily, shutting her eyes and straining to hear if her pursuers had passed yet. The priests and priestesses themselves wouldn't be around for a while; like most of the temples in the city they prayed from sundown until first bell.
Which was why she was surprised when someone spoke from in front of her, slightly to the left. A man's voice, with a hint of an ironic drawl to it. "Can I help you?"
Iute nearly fell out of her seat, brown eyes snapping open to stare at the young man in front of her. He was dressed in the rust-colored robes of a priest of this temple, with a gold eye embroidered onto the shoulder that identified him as a seer, as did the kohl lining his eyes. Said eyes were rather uncanny, a strange sort of amber-gold set under slightly raised brows. Course, black hair framed a face that would have been attractive if his expression hadn't been so disagreeable. Skin even paler then her own spoke of days spent indoors.
After regaining her composure, and feeling significantly uneasy under his fierce scrutiny, Iute though up a plausible response. "I'm waiting for someone." Her brows drew together, the picture of innocent uncertainty. "He said that here was a good place..."
The young man made a disgusted sound, and gave her a look that said he was seriously doubting her intelligence. Then, he made a vague shooing motion. "He was wrong. Go on, get out of here. If he shows up, I'll tell him the same thing."
Babbling apologies, Iute backed out of the garden the way she had come, relaxing only when she was out of his line of sight. Since when did a priest skip prayers? She shrugged to herself, turning onto the street. Maybe it was a seer thing. Or maybe he was playing hooky, skipping something he was supposed to be doing, like some of the school children did... He looked young enough, maybe. It didn't really matter to Iute, she'd just avoid hiding there again. Not that she'd been planning to, as it was never wise to tempt the gods. You never knew when one might take interest and intervene, and if it was the justice god who did so she was willing to bet that it would not be on her behalf.
With a wry chuckle at the thought of a god of justice doing something that benefited a thief, she set about looking for somewhere to sleep for the evening.
The first place she would try was the public gardens. They were warm enough at this time of year, and as long as she was out by time the gardeners came around in the morning, which she most always was, she shouldn't run into trouble.
Turning a sharp left, she came upon the block that held the cemetery and the temple to Deatay, the hound-headed goddess of death, as well as the public gardens. She had always found it somewhat ironic that whoever had built the city had placed the barren looking black-marble building and the lush gardens on the same street. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of one of the gray-robed priests; Deatay's disciples did not pray at sunset or any of the other normal hours, instead doing their rituals at midnight, and sometimes continuing until morning.
She shook her head, as though to clear it, ignoring the shiver that walked up her spine. There was one place she never planned on hiding!
Finally, she reached the gardens. They were walled in, but there were several gates, all of which stood open. The walls were plain, a simple gray clay with hints of white sandstone here and there, but they were mostly lost under thick hanging of ivy and other climbing plants, trees showing over the top. The gates were iron, twisted and welded in a decorative manner so that they showed pictures; birds and beasts and plants and other odds and ends.
The pathways were as simple as the walls had been, lit by the occasional lamp post, cobblestones for the most part. Not pleasant for those in sandals, and only slightly less so for Iute, as the soles of her boots were almost worn through. However, the variety off the path was amazing. Thick trees, gazebos with night-blooming flowers set aside for those wanting more privacy, both manicured and wild bushes, fields thick with grass, ponds and lakes. In truth, the 'gardens' were more like a very strange forest. You could almost believe that, were it not for the faint sounds of life from outside the walls or from the others who visited this place at this time of night, no few of them seeking a place to bed down comfortably, like Iute.
After scouting out three of her usual places and finding them occupied, Iute headed for her forth and final bet. If someone was there, she would have to scout around and find a new place to spend the night. The first, a gazebo so thick with flowers it you could barely see the doors, had been occupied by a pair of rather enthusiastic young people; they hadn't even noticed her when she had been within feet of them. Her second try had been under the bridge that went over the fish pond, and it had already been claimed by other of the numerous other street people. The most recent had been taken by a small group of men, passing around a bottle and telling stories, a star-watching stone near the easternmost wall.
Her last attempt was a willow tree, located near a small wishing fountain dedicated to Taymara, the goddess of luck, a rendition of the goddess herself occupying the center of the fountain. She was the goddess that, supposedly, took the most pleasure in meddling in the lives of mortals, usually in unexpected but pleasant ways. It was vacant. With a shrug and a silent thanks to the goddess of luck, Iute removed one of the coins she had stolen from the young noble and flipped it into the fountain, listening for the soft 'plink' that told her that she hadn't misaimed. It was more an offering then a wish, so she brushed the hangings of the willow aside and slid in without voicing a hope.
It could have been her imagination
or the dim light in this part of the garden, but as she looked over her
shoulder before the curtain the willow formed closed, she could have sworn
that the small, lopsided smirk the statue wore was a little wider then
it had been.
Taman watched the girl depart with narrowed eyes, and shook his head. 'Waiting for someone' indeed. Most likely just a beggar looking for a place to sleep, but at least humoring her had gotten rid of her in a fairly quick manner.
After staring after her a moment longer, he spun on his heel and made his way back towards the temple, the hem of his robes whispering softly against the paved path. The sundown worship was almost over, and the High Priest had requested his presence afterwards. He had begged off worship itself on the grounds of an, admittedly nonexistent, headache.
He traveled the hallways of the temple from memory, not pausing to admire the carved walls, muted but lovely tapestries, or statues in their alcoves. At last, he came to the High Priest's office and quarters, knocking politely and waiting to be invited in before pushing the door open.
The chamber was simple in a rather wealthy way, as though the man wished to give visitors the impression of piety because of his simplicity without making them think that the temple was poor. This room was sparsely furnished, but all of the furniture was of good quality and fine materials, and tapestries and rugs whose price would have no doubt fed a poor family for half a year kept the warmth in and covered the cold stone of the floor. The High Priest himself sat behind a desk littered with scrolls and lit by a small oil lamp. He didn't look up until Taman was fully inside the room and had shut the door behind him.
The head of the temple was a fairly unremarkable man, almost homely, tall and slim with hair that had once been dark blond but was now for the most part gray and mud colored eyes, his dark rust robes seeming almost too large for him, like a young man whose parents bought him clothing a few sizes too big, so he could 'grow into' them. However, he carried himself well, and while not exactly kind, he was always fair and never overly cruel. Taman didn't like him much, but then again, there were a great many people he didn't like. Most people, in fact.
Just now, the other priest was studying him with carefully blank eyes, rising slowly. "Seer Taman." His voice more then made up for his uncomely appearance, a deep, smooth baritone - Exactly the sort of voice you'd expect out of the High Priest of a major god.
Taman bowed to the man, a bow that held only a hint of mockery. "High Priest Morathi."
With a soft snort, Morathi took his seat again. "Sit down. We have a great deal to discuss." Without waiting for the younger man to obey, he started speaking, choosing his words with a sort of deliberate care. "Last night, the heir to the throne disappeared. We have ruled out that he may have fled of his own accord," The High Priest waved a hand to keep the young man silent, "In case you were about to ask. We believe that he was kidnapped, and not by ordinary means. Some of our seers are trying to track him... But that will take time, and for the King wants to try to find him in other ways while we wait. For the moment, the public is being told that the prince is once again cloistered here, learning to control his mage talents. Weapons-master Gerik is gathering a small group, civilians, and we have promised to donate one of our priests to the cause."
He watched understanding dawn on Taman's face with impassive eyes, before the younger man regained his control, expression turning blank. "Why not send one of the mages? They'd be more useful for this sort of," he paused a moment, looking for the right word. He strongly suspected that only minstrels and scholars could use the word 'quest' with a strait face, so finally he settled on, "Expedition."
Morathi gave him a stern look. "The mages are busied by their duties dispensing Nevolja's justice, and are spread thinly enough without one of them leaving for any amount of time, as you very well know."
Taman gave a rueful laugh, completely without humor. "Oh, I'm sure. Or is it just that you wish to be rid of me in a respectable manner? Or maybe I'm the only one useless enough for you to spare?"
Leaning his forehead against his hand for a moment, as though courting a headache, Morathi shook his head. "That's not it at all." He looked up, squaring his shoulders, face turning stern again. "And even if it were, you would still go. You're not getting a choice in the matter, Seer Taman."
The clenching of the seer's jaw was almost audible, and his tone of voice spoke of his displeasure. "When?"
Morathi bit back a relieved sigh when the young man didn't argue further, a blessing he hadn't dared to hope for. "Dawn, two days hence. You'll meet at the Red Eagle Tavern in the lower city. I'll have someone speak to a tailor, have her prepare proper traveling clothes for you. The rest of the things you will need will also be taken care of."
Without another word, Taman rose, bowed stiffly, and exited, seething inwardly as he made his way towards the room his shared with another of the junior priests. It figured that they would find some way to get rid of him, eventually. They could not cast him off, as they would any other priest who caused them such trouble, as he had nowhere else to go, no parents to run home to. So instead, they sent him off on something that would either turn out as a wild goose chase or a suicide mission. He wasn't particularly fond of either option.
Shoving the door to his chamber open,
he sighed, his anger cooling, but not leaving him completly. As the High
Priest had so kindly pointed out, he didn't have a choice in the matter.
In two days, at the break of day, he would go to the 'Red Eagle' and meet
those he was to travel with.
Chenoa sneezed for the thousandth time since she had left the village she had called home for eighteen years, and would have happily called home for the rest of her life, result of the layer of hay that covered the bottom of the cart she was sitting in, then favored her brother with a sharp glare. "I'm never going to forgive you for this, I do hope you realize that." Her voice held the rough accent that most westerners developed, drawing out the O's and seeming to spit each word out.
Her brother, Kass, just chuckled and leaned forward to flick a piece of hay from her strait, brown hair before responding in his mostly accent-free voice, come from years of training from a minstrel. "You'll forgive me eventually. You always do." He smiled charmingly at her, even though he knew by now that his twin was immune to his charms.
She only snorted, adjusting her traveling pack so that she could lean against it and look over the side of the wagon. The road this close the capital was in good condition, not full of ruts or even washed away in places as it had been earlier. The land to either side was patterned with farms, summer grains shining dimly under the light of the crescent moon, a faint breeze blowing from the east making them bend ever-so-slightly. It was a beautiful sight, and one Chenoa could not bring herself to appreciate.
It had been three days since she had left her home with her brother, three days in the back of a cramped cart and three nights sleeping on the ground under said cart. They would be in the big city soon enough, and if they didn't find Kass's mentor within a few days, their already slender coin pouches would be empty. And as for the likelihood of finding Ranit, in a city of this size, trying to find one minstrel would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. It was a senseless, illogical cause. She knew it was a senseless illogical cause, and would willingly list out all the numerous reasons why. Yet here she was, bouncing along in the back of a merchant's wagon, because she couldn't let her irresponsible, feckless sibling strike out on his own and get himself killed.
She shook her head, forced to admit that the thought didn't exactly do Kass justice. Her brother wasn't the most practical of sort, but he was sweet-tempered and rarely held a grudge, even when he had been drinking. She, on the other hand, was snappish and prickly without ale, and she lived for the good grudge - not only would she see an enemy to the grave, but she would return once a year to do a spit on their headstone and keep the victory fresh. Well, that was what she would do if she had any enemies, at least.
Kass laughed, as though she had spoken out loud, and she glanced up to catch his eyes. He didn't favor her with his usual grin, but his eyes sparkled at her across the wagon, and, for just a moment, she allowed herself to sparkle back. He was right. She couldn't stay mad at him.
With a resigned sigh, she glanced back over the land, golden grain fields tapering off into the thick trees of the royal forest. She took a moment to form a single, absent plea, almost a prayer. Please, don't let me regret this any more then I already do.