Toria allowed herself a thin smile that she shared with the captain and the rest of his men. “Obviously not, or do you wish to report to King Rymark that you and your men were incapacitated by an ordinary dog? Our conversation has become tedious. I’m going to tell Wag to release you, and you’re going to escort my companions and me to the king. Wag will be following. Be careful how you move. As a sentinel, Wag is worth far more to the defense of the forest than a mere captain. Your death would be nothing more than a regrettable footnote. Understood?”
At the captain’s nod, she called Wag back to her side. “How far is it to Rymark’s camp?”
The captain rubbed his neck, his expression sullen. “Most of the day. If we push the horses, we’ll make it before nightfall.”
She kept her expression neutral, just. “He’s farther south than I expected,” she said to Fess. “You will accompany us alone, Captain. I’m sure your men are needed on their assigned patrol.”
The sun had sunk to two hands above the horizon when they crested a hill and came within sight of Rymark’s encampment. A double palisade of sharpened stakes framed an area large enough to hold several thousand men and hundreds of horses. To the south, outside the camp, dozens of mules had been staked on a picket line near innumerable carts. More tents had been set up outside the walls to the east and west, and men moved between them, their motions brisk, almost urgent. Rymark’s headquarters bustled with the activity of a small city, but there were no cries of hawkers or sellers. Only the occasional bark of an order, given to men training in the center of the yard, broke the silence.
“It’s quiet,” Fess remarked.
She nodded. Memories of other silent encampments, all prefacing the clamor of battle and dying cascaded through her, but this would be different. “Night is coming,” she said.
They proceeded through the gates on the captain’s authority, but when she asked to see King Rymark, a ring of soldiers surrounded them, refusing to let them advance or withdraw while a runner sprinted away toward the center of the camp. Moments later she saw the king’s diminutive figure emerge, flanked by a tall, bulky man on his right with a heavy beard that defied traditional attempts of grooming. On Rymark’s left, but two paces back and outside the ring of guards, a man with the dark olive skin and coloring of Aille strode, leaning forward as if he were walking into a gale.
“That explains the extra men outside the walls,” she said to Fess. “The man on Rymark’s right is King Ellias of Moorclaire. The other is a surprise. That’s Prince Maenelic. Queen Chora’s son.” She looked down at the sentinel by her side. “Wag, keep close.” His tongue came lolling out of his mouth in a grin.
Chapter 25
“Welcome, Lady Deel,” Rymark said. He spared a glance for Fess before his gaze landed on Wag. “You’ve come with an unexpected gift.”
His command tent, a perfect square, could have held nearly a hundred officers, far more than just the four of them and the sentinel. The abundance of so much covered space after days of riding in the open air made Toria feel oddly confined, as if she should be able to see the sun or trees in the distance, but couldn’t. At her request, the traditional guards had been dismissed. More than one, unaware of her identity or station, had communicated their silent displeasure to her on their way out, with glowers that had intensified when they landed on Fess.
Rymark and Ellias wielded the gift of kings for their respective kingdoms, Owmead and Moorclaire. Each held the same gift, yet two more different men would have been difficult to find. Short and clean-shaven, Rymark dominated the space within the tent with his intensity. Quick gestures and a darting gaze created the impression of a man whose slight stature barely contained the force of the personality within it.
While Rymark stalked about the tent as if searching for some hidden enemy or slight, Ellias stood to one side like a plinth of granite, tall and broad-shouldered as a blacksmith. His demeanor and gaze testified to a temperament of thoughtfulness or observation rather than the passion that ruled Rymark. Yet for all their differences, the two kings seemed at ease with each other.
The third man, Prince Maenelic, stood a space apart, careful to observe a polite distance between himself and the kings, but he watched with the focused attention of a surgeon. Circles of fatigue or grief beneath his eyes testified to his physical state, and Toria flexed her hands, resolved to delve the prince to learn what had happened in Cynestol.
“You’re farther south than expected, Your Majesty,” Toria said. “We didn’t expect to see you for another day,”
Rymark nodded, disgust written on his face. “You have King Ellias to thank for that.” He shook his head. “Thankfully, the move was preemptive. If our greater distance from the forest means it takes us longer to fight, then it also provides us with a measure of safety.” Rymark’s jaws clenched over and again, chewing words he didn’t want to say. “The boundaries of the forest have become unpredictable, and the attacks are . . .” He faltered before nodding toward King Ellias. “He’ll have to explain it.”
Instead of responding directly, Ellias strode to the tent flap and beckoned. A moment later a captain in the red and green of Moorclaire strode through the entrance carrying several rolls of parchment and laid them on the rude trestle table that dominated the tent. But when they were unrolled, only one of them showed a map. The others were filled with the arcane symbols of the mathematicum.
Fess bent at her side to peer first at the map, then at the other papers. “What is all this?”
Toria sighed. Members of the Vigil rotated among the kingdoms, changing location
