Homage and Honour

By Candy Rae

The Planet Wolf Series: Volume 3 - Dynastical crisis looms in the Kingdom of Murdoch. The war-loving, wolf-like Larg of the southern continent are plotting the destructon of the free north. Four young people, life-bonded with their telepathic Lind partners of the northern continent have dedicated their lives to stopping them. Will the quartet make a difference? Can they?

PLANET WOLF
(1) Wolves and War - (2) Conflict and Courage - (3) Homage and Honour - (4) Dragons and Destiny - (5) Valour and Victory - (6) Ambition and Alavidha - (7) Paws and Planets - (8) Tales and Tails

DRAGON WULF
(1) Journey and Jeopardy - (2) Gossamer and Grass - (3) Flames and Freedom

FLYING COLOURS
(1) Rascals and Renegades - (2) Outlaws and Overlords - (3) Sparkles and Sphinxes (forthcoming)

T’QUEL MAGIC
(1) Ephemeral Boundary - (2) Enduring Barrier - (3) Eternal Bulwark

MULTIVERSE MUDDLE (forthcoming)
(1) Vampyre Crypt - (2) Faie Castle - (3) Shadow Cave - (4) Demon Citadel

SAMMY THE CAT
(1) Cat in Charge - (2) Cat at Christmas - (3) Dog not in Charge

KILL BY CURE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candy Rae
• Release date: Sep 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452380926

Candy Rae

Candy Rae has been an avid reader since childhood, with fantasy and science fiction appearing on her bookshelf in her first year of university when a friend introduced her to talking dragons. All her life, she has wanted to write, but it wasn’t until Christmas Day in 2003 that she sat down and started planning the book that, after many revisions, became the first book in the Planet Wolf series: Wolves and War.As a former accountant, Candy was notorious among her family for elongating her commute home by parking in a safe space and starting to write, having got into the habit of carrying a notebook with her wherever she went, a habit she continues to this day. When she’s not writing, her hobbies include knitting, tapestry, and trying to figure out ‘whodunnit’ in murder mysteries.Candy lives in Ayrshire, Scotland, with her large black cat, Sammy, and her Labrador-Corgi cross, Alex. She writes her books in British English with a Scottish flavour.

Book preview

HOMAGE AND HONOUR

Candy Rae

* * * * *

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Homage and Honour

Copyright © 2013 Candy Rae

Artwork Copyright © 2010 Jennifer Johnson

Proofreading and Editing by - Colt Proofreading Services, Auchterarder

* * * * *

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This electronic book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by any way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

* * * * *

Homage and Honour is dedicated to my writing friends - talented writers of a fan-fiction writing club. They taught me how to write.

* * * * *

PLANET WOLF

Planet Wolf is a world where the grass is not green.

It's a planet where alien trees and spiky foliage move strangely in the breeze.

It's a world of gigantic mountains and deep valleys, of huge rivers and primaeval forests, of vast plains and arid deserts, of restless seas and great continents.

On Planet Wolf, the native creatures act and sound like nothing mankind has seen before.

* * * * *

BOOKS BY CANDY RAE

PLANET WOLF - Wolves and War - Conflict and Courage - Homage and Honour - Dragons and Destiny - Valour and Victory - Paws and Planets - Tales and Tales - Ambition and Alavidha

DRAGON WULF - Journey and Jeopardy - Gossamer and Grass - Flames and Freedom

T’QUEL MAGIC - Ephemeral Boundary - Enduring Barrier - Eternal Bulwark

Kill by Cure

INSURGENCY (2017) - Rascals and Renegades - Outlaws and Overlords - Soldiers and Songsters

* * * * *

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Vadrhed (Second Month of Summer) - AL156

Lokrhed (Third Month of Summer) - AL156

Sanrhed (Fourth Month of Summer) - AL156

Rakrhed (Fifth Month of Summer) - AL 156

Dunthed (First Month of Winter ) - AL156

Vadthed (Second Month of Winter - AL156

Lokthed (Third Month of Winter) - AL156

Santhed (Fourth Month of Winter ) - AL156

Rakthed (Fifth Month of Winter) - AL156

Dunrhed (First Month of Summer) - AL157

Vadrhed (Second Month of Summer) - AL157

Lokrhed (Third Month of Summer) - AL157

Sanrhed (Fourth Month of Summer) - AL157

Rakrhed (Fifth Month of Summer) - AL157

Dunthed (First Month of Winter ) - AL157

Interregnum

Lokrhed (Third Month of Summer) - AL166

Sanrhed (Fourth Month of Summer) - AL166

Vadthed (Second Month of Winter - AL166

Lokthed (Third Month of Winter) - AL166

Santhed (Fourth Month of Winter ) - AL166

Rakthed (Fifth Month of Winter) - AL166

Vadrhed (Second Month of Summer) - AL167

The Southern Continent - AL234

Characters and Glossary

Appendices

* * * * *

Vadrhed (Second Month of Summer) – AL156

Convergence (1)

In the decades to come glorious tales will be told and songs will be sung about the exploits of ‘The Quartet’ but in the summer of the year of landing one hundred and fifty-six, they are but four anxious young people travelling north, east, west and south.

The first to set out on the journey hadn’t even heard of the Vada until a few tendays prior to when this story opens, the second had known for a number of years that joining the Vada would be her future, the third had always wanted to join the Vada and the fourth had never in a million years thought she would get the chance.

* * * * *

Nemesis (1)

The creature bursting out of the egg was three millimetres long.

Thirty years before, in the summer of Anno Landing126 it had been hot and arid enough to dry out the marshes and allow the creature’s mother to mate and breed. Since then the egg had lain hidden under the marsh-mud, waiting for a dry summer like the one of its conception.

Anno Landing 156 was such a summer.

The shell had begun to harden and the cells within the egg sac had coalesced to form the creature. Safe within, the tiny infant had eaten the remaining nutrients and hungry, began to tap at the shell.

It would have died if pure chance had not intervened. The creature needed rain to soften the shell the drought had hardened and, in the summer of AL156, no rain fell. The season would go down in history as the hottest and driest since mankind had arrived on the planet.

Chance, fate, atropos, clothos, lachesis, call it what you will, unfortunately, the dry mud in which the tiny egg was embedded was lifted out of the ground as the man dug his shovel in and hefted the clod upwards and out into the daylight. Life might have ended there but the man decided at that point to spit out the mucus he was swilling around in his mouth, which landed on the spot where the egg sat.

It was enough, the liquid began to soften the shell’s hard outer layer and when the shovelful was dropped into the waiting barrow the creature was well on its way to the next stage of its existence. It emerged from the shell and into the daylight.

The thin and ragged boy who manhandled the barrow over the rough ground had no way of knowing that its contents consisted of more than simple mud and dried out plant-matter.

Reaching the spoil heap that was his destination and with a pair of mud-caked hands the boy lifted the first clod out of the barrow and on to the pile.

He did not feel the creature bite. He continued with the task in hand, for that was his job, to cart the mud away from the irrigation ditches his Lord and Master had decreed must be dug.

The ricca fields were drying out. If they did not get water soon many would go hungry this coming winter. Starvation was a very real threat and as a slave, the boy was right at the bottom of the food chain, even the animals would be fed before him. Slaves could be replaced at need. His master’s prize cattle herds could not.

At least, the boy was thinking as he bent down to pick up another sticky clod of the mud, his eyes flicking right and left in case the overseer with his whip was hovering nearby, the ditches would be finished soon and he would be able to return to his more usual occupation of tending the ripening crops in the ricca fields, his fears about impending starvation at bay, just so long as the river kept at its present level.

* * * * *

The state of the river was the subject under discussion by the Duke of van Buren, Lord Raoul and two of his companions. The fourth member of the party was not talking; he had not wished to accompany his cousins and his father on the tour of inspection of this, one of the more productive areas within the Duchy of van Buren.

The three discussing the state of the river were dressed in workmanlike garb of soft linen surcoats and leather breeches of superfine quality, but plain. The fourth was dressed in a far more fanciful, some might say foppish, style and he looked as if he wished to be anywhere other than where he was.

It was not one of the younger Raoul’s favourite occupations, watching as a hundred or so sweaty slaves toiled at the ditches under the eagle eyes of the overseers. Raoul van Buren the Younger had far more interesting matters to think about. His marriage to Contessa Celine Brentwood was scheduled for a tenday hence and dreaming about the imminent delights of the marriage bed was a far more agreeable occupation.

It was to be a double celebration. His sister Eloise was to be married the same day, a good match, to the nephew of the King no less, Prince Brandon of Murdoch.

He, the heir of van Buren would have liked to marry a Princess of the Bloodline himself but his father’s choice of Celine Brentwood had its compensations. All the Brentwood girls were pretty but Celine’s prettiness was considered out of the ordinary even by that good-looking family and although Prince Brandon’s sister was as yet un-betrothed, she was only fourteen years old and Raoul was not emotionally suited to waiting to get what he desired.

Not long before this Raoul had overheard his uncle describing him as an ‘arrogant young pup’ who needed his corners rubbed away before he would be fit to take his father’s place.

The two boys, Raoul’s cousins, who were riding alongside his father were the Duke’s nephews, Wolfram and Brandon, the latter a jolly and muscular boy of fifteen, a year younger than his brother and three years younger than Raoul himself.

The fifteen-year-old Margrave Brandon van Buren would not be attending the double wedding celebrations as he was to leave next day for the Duchy of Graham, there to marry the Daughter Heir of its Duke. With him would go his elder brother Wolfram and his father the Count Wolfram, Duke Raoul’s younger brother.

Raoul couldn’t be bothered wondering what political shenanigans had occurred to arrange that betrothal. As women could not hold land, his cousin would, on the death of the present duke, become Duke of Graham with a seat on King’s Conclave, as would Raoul himself when his father died and he came into his inheritance.

The one whose nose was out of joint, reflected Raoul, was his older cousin Wolfram. He was the future Lord William, Count van Buren, in rank a full strata lower than the future ranks of his younger brother and older cousin.

Wolfram was betrothed to one Thanessa Sheila Ross; a relation of the newly appointed Lord Marshall, Philip Ross and a Thanessa was the female equivalent of the lowest strata of nobility. For the nobility, especially those not at the top, rank and prospects were of paramount importance.

It was a good marriage for Sheila, at present a very junior lady-in-waiting to the Princess Jennifer but Wolfram must be wondering why his father and uncle had arranged the match and why his brother had been selected by Lord Jeremy Graham as heir and not him.

Raoul thought he knew why. His father, Duke of van Buren was an ambitious man.

For years now the Dukes of Gardiner and Brentwood had been the two with the most influence in Conclave and Raoul’s father had decided that it was time the van Buren family had a turn. A marriage alliance with the Lord Marshall would help.

His horse stumbled and Raoul came back to himself with a start. They had arrived at the site of the new irrigation ditches.

He looked around with unconcealed disdain. Wolfram and Brandon, however, kneed their mounts forward and dismounted, the better to see how the job was progressing.

One of the smaller slave urchins, Raoul noticed, was being sent off towards the water butts. Bucket in hand; his skinny legs were moving very fast and sending mud-dust up behind his running feet. The senior overseer was deep in conversation with his father who had also dismounted and, to Raoul’s horror, looked as if he might be actually intending to go to the ditches to inspect the progress close up. He hoped his father wouldn’t demand that he accompany him. Raoul disliked the smells that emanated from the lower classes, especially the lowest caste, the slaves.

Catching his father’s eye, he reluctantly decided that he might as well show willing and swung his legs down on to the ground. To stall for time he pretended to be busy adjusting his horse’s harness but was distracted. The slave urchin had returned with his bucketful and was offering up a battered cup brimming over with fresh drinking water. Raoul could not bring himself to drink out of the same cup the slaves had been using. He shuddered and pushed the boy’s arm away. He took a kerchief out of his pocket and wiped at the dirty spot where their skins had touched. The kerchief he dropped on to the ground.

He watched while his father, Wolfram and Brandon accepted the cup and drank their fill. He listened amazed as Brandon thanked the lad for his trouble, but that was Brandon all over. He had a ‘feel’ for people, an attribute his brother Wolfram shared, although to a lesser degree.

He stood to one side trying to look interested and hoping that his father would not call him over. It was with relief that he mounted his horse when he realised that the inspection was over and followed his father and cousins back to the manor.

The skinny slave urchin watched them leave; he was absently scratching at the part of his hand that the creature had bitten, the same hand that young Raoul had brushed aside.

The Lord Raoul, Duke of van Buren rode home in fine fettle. The irrigation ditches were almost finished, the ricca crop was safe. Son, daughter and nephew would be advantageously married before the month was out and the other nephew before summer’s end.

He was not to know that death rode behind him and that only one of these marriages would take place.

* * * * *

Convergence (2)

The first of them to set out on her journey to the Vada Stronghold hadn’t even heard of the Vada until a few tendays prior to when this story opens.

Marry Brentwood’s heir or enter the cloister, it is your choice.

The Duke of Graham’s second daughter stared at her father with despair in her heart. She knew her elder sister Marcia was the important one. The present Duke of Graham had no sons and it was Marcia who would inherit the ducal position although it would be Margrave Brandon van Buren who would take over the actual governance of the dukedom when Marcia came into her inheritance. He would become the fifth Lord Graham and Marcia his consort.

Tom, heir to Brentwood was a large clumsy man, some five years older than Elisabeth and the one time they had met she had not liked him at all. It appeared, however, that he liked her otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken to his father about a match.

Could I have some time to decide Father? Elisabeth faltered. She did not want to become Lady Elisabeth, Duchess of Brentwood and brood mare of the Brentwood bloodline.

What’s to decide? It’s a good match.

Elisabeth knew that the situation was hopeless. Her father had decided, had already accepted the proposal on her behalf.

Yes Father, she answered, the picture of a dutiful daughter, when will the marriage take place?

That’s better, said Lord Jeremy, patting her on her head, much as he did one of his hound bitches, as for the marriage, after Marcia’s. Let us say that you will be leaving for Brentwood in a few months. He turned away. It was a dismissal and Elisabeth knew it.

She fled to the rooms she shared with her sister.

What did you expect? was Marcia’s reasonable question as she continued with the elaborate embroidery on her wedding-gown, you’re fifteen this summer.

I didn’t think it would be so soon, fretted Elisabeth, I thought there’d be time.

Time for what?

I don’t know, Elisabeth muttered and flounced off towards the window embrasure.

Marcia laid her needle down.

Beth, you knew this would happen one day, why trouble yourself about something you can’t do anything about? If not Tom Brentwood it will be another. At least, she continued, picking up the discarded needle and frowning over tangles in the thread, you’ll be able to attend Court and we’ll be able to see each other.

"I don’t like Tom Brentwood."

You’ve only met him once, she answered reasonably, same time as I met Brandon. Give it time.

I don’t want to give it time, answered Elisabeth with passion, "I don’t want to marry him. I won’t marry him."

Marcia ignored that.

It’s either marriage or the cloister, Marcia said, echoing her father’s words but she was talking into thin air. Elisabeth had gone. The elder sister shrugged, Elisabeth would come round. Of that Marcia was sure. She had no other choice.

* * * * *

Elisabeth retained an outward docility over the days that followed.

Her father made arrangements for her dower and she made arrangements of her own.

She stood at Marcia’s side as her sister married her young husband. She sat in her assigned place at the nuptial feast, the very picture of a dutiful daughter. She made polite conversation to the noble guests. She accepted their congratulations concerning her own impending nuptials. She retired to her bedchamber.

Her knapsack was packed. She unbuttoned her dress with fingers that shook with haste and stepped out of the silken folds. She dragged out the tunic and trews she had hidden under her bed wishing she had managed to steal some boots but it couldn’t be helped. It had been difficult enough stealing the clothes. She picked up the scissors she had ‘borrowed’ from the sewing room earlier and took a deep breath. It was time to cut off her hair.

At last the discarded ringlets lay in an untidy heap at her feet. Elisabeth thought for a moment then picked them up and tossed them in the chest at the foot of her bed. Another moments thought and she locked it. What to do with the key? She would have to hide it somewhere where it couldn’t be found.

The key tinkled with merry abandon as it tumbled through the necessary hole and down into the cess-ditch underneath.

She rubbed dust from the corner over her face and rubbed it into her hair.

One last look round the room that had been her home and refuge for the last six years and she opened the door, looking up and down the corridor to make sure it was empty. She tiptoed down the corridor and through the large hardwood door at the end. Head high, she began to walk down the long hall and reached the corridor beside the kitchens. It was now only a few steps to the door that led out into the courtyard.

Elisabeth took a deep breath and as bold as brass, though her knees were shaking, strode out as if she was a servant boy out on an errand. The cart she was heading for was parked in its usual place and she hurried towards it.

The smell was overpowering and Elisabeth gagged, for this was the ‘dirty cart’, the means by which body and other waste was removed from the castle and its environs.

Holding her kerchief to her face Elisabeth scrambled aboard and not a moment too soon. She squeezed herself in between two of the large seeping barrels and settled down, the rose-scented cloth pressed hard to her mouth and nose. She listened as the driver and his boy approached and felt the cart move as they settled themselves on the front seat. The man clicked at his pony.

With a rumble the cart began to move over the cobbles and towards the back gates. The guards never searched this cart, as long as she remained silent and out of sight she would be safely out of the castle before many heartbeats passed.

Outside the town and at a convenient spot Elisabeth intended to leave the cart and make her way to the coast where she hoped to find a boat that would take her to one of the islands in the Great Eastern Sea. She couldn’t remain in Murdoch; her disguise wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny for long, eventually she would be found and after this escapade, being locked behind the walls of a Thibaltine convent would be the least of her worries.

When the cart slowed down to negotiate a rough patch, Elisabeth squeezed out of her smelly hidey-hole and jumped down.

There was no moon; the night was dark as pitch. As Elisabeth struck out across country she stumbled often, lost one slipper then the other. She was cold, her feet hurt but never once did she regret what she had done. Anything was preferable to marriage to Tom Brentwood, ducal heir or not.

She knew Port Graham was some miles to the northwest. What she would do when she got there she had but a hazy idea. She had some money and jewels, perhaps enough to buy passage in one of the island trading vessels, definitely enough to rent a small room and hide for a while until she found a trader willing to take her.

The hunt would begin at first light Elisabeth decided and began to worry about where her father’s men would look for her.

It was a split second decision. Elisabeth decided not to make for the Port. Her father would think she might try for passage to the islands from there, that or head for the dangerous island chain; these would be the first places they would look for her. Well, she would not make it easy for them. She would try to cadge a ride in a small fishing boat and avoid the traders entirely.

There were plenty of fishing villages and she was disguised. Her father’s retainers would be looking for a longhaired girl, dressed as a girl, a Contessa, a Duke’s daughter. Elisabeth no longer thought of herself as such.

She reached the first village at dawn and decided to skirt round it; it was too near to the castle. She did the same at the next and the next after that. She wasn’t challenged; in fact she met hardly a soul. She was not to know that her father had declared a two-day holiday in honour of his elder daughter’s marriage and that the free citizenry were making the most of it. She slept the night under a thick hedge and woke with the sun, thirsty and hungry. Her thirst she slaked by drinking her fill from a nearby stream but she knew she would have to get herself something to eat and soon. She decided to try the next village and limped into its environs at the mid-morning candlemark. There were a few curious looks but on the whole she was ignored.

Elisabeth was by now very hungry indeed. The village boasted one tavern, a seedy-looking place and none too clean she realised as she went in.

It had one customer, a rough-looking man in seafaring boots who was eating at one of the rickety tables in the corner.

The man looked at her with an interest that missed little as she asked for a meal in a voice that trembled with nervousness.

Elisabeth realised from the man’s sharp intake of breath as she began to talk that something had alerted him. But what? She was dirty. Her hair was short. She was dressed in typical boy’s garb. She kept her voice low and copied the attitudes she had observed in the behaviour of her father’s pages in the great hall, at once deferent yet confident.

The landlord said nothing although his eyes opened wide at the coin Elisabeth placed on the counter but he nodded, picked up the coin and bustled away to bring her a simple meal.

The man in the boots stood up and sauntered towards the bar where he stopped.

Elisabeth held her breath.

A boy who can pay for breakfast, the booted sailor said to no-one in particular and pointedly staring at the wall, could surely afford to buy a pair of decent second-hand boots.

Elisabeth said exactly nothing.

Rudtka got your tongue? Where you from?

Elisabeth couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t give her away. She stared at the dirty counter and hoped that he would go away.

The man looked her over. Strange sort of boy he was thinking, why didn’t he speak? Most boys of his acquaintance would fall over themselves to talk. There was something strange here. The clothes, although dirty were of good quality, so why was he not wearing anything on his feet? Perhaps he had stolen the clothes?

He looked at the boy’s hands and blinked. These were no ragamuffin’s hands. These hands were of a delicate nature; the nails manicured. They reminded him of the hands of his sisters.

I think, he said in a low voice, that you’d better tell me what you’re doing here.

Elisabeth flicked a sideways glance at him.

You’re a fool if you think the landlord’s not wondering.

What do you mean?

When an unshod and dirty boy pays for a meal with a gold circle any landlord worth his salt is bound to be just a teeny bit suspicious, he explained, I noticed the glint of gold. He probably suspects you’re a thief. What if he sets the Watch on you?

Elisabeth paled with fright.

What shall I do? she gasped, completely forgetting to try and disguise her voice.

His eyebrows rose as realisation hit him.

Young lady, he continued, ignoring her gasp of terror, if I were you I’d get out of here as soon as you can. You’ve run away, haven’t you?

There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending any longer. What gave me away?

Your hands. No boy has hands like yours and your voice is a sure giveaway. You should have practiced more.

Oh.

The coins jangling in your belt-pouch don’t help either. There are cut-throats and cut-purses around, slavers too, a young thing like you would make a fine price in the slave markets at Fort.

I’ve got to get to the North, Elisabeth blurted.

I see.

Elisabeth had the nagging suspicion that the man saw all too well and knew exactly who she was.

How much money do you have?

This and some jewels.

Show me.

She did so, inwardly quaking, her instinct said to trust him but he had frightened her with his talking about thieves and slavers.

You’re a lady of noble birth are you not? There will be a search called for you soon.

Elisabeth hung her head, she was positive that he intended to hand her over and collect the reward that her father would have posted.

He debated with himself. He knew of the disappearance of the Duke’s daughter but he doubted if any of the villagers would know yet. He paid well for speedy information, in his line of business it paid in the long run.

You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that, he said at last as he came to a decision, you can ship out with me – though it’ll cost you.

I’ll do anything, Elisabeth quavered, anything except being returned to her father.

Not that sort of price girl. What sort of person do you take me for? he declared with some heat, shall we say half of these jewels of yours, the least notable and traceable and two gold circles?

Elisabeth nodded. He wasn’t going for the reward after all.

The Landlord returned with a platter of cheese and bread and looked surprised to see them together.

Where d’ya want to eat? he asked her.

The lad will eat with me, answered the seafarer with great presence of mind, I’ve only just hired him, been looking for a ship’s boy these past three days.

He indicated that Elisabeth should make her way to his table in the corner. Elisabeth took the hint and shuffled over. Her rescuer took the wooden tray from the landlord and followed her with a curt nod of thanks.

When it’s dark I’ll sneak you aboard, he told Elisabeth sotto voce as she relaxed enough to force some of the dry bread down her throat, you’re not the first I’ve smuggled north. It won’t be a comfortable trip mind, I’ve got a secret compartment fitted out in the fish-hold. No customs man has found anyone or anything I’ve hidden yet.

Elisabeth nodded in between mouthfuls. The bread was at least five days old she reckoned and the cheese hard, but she was famished. It tasted like the most scrumptious feast.

I’m not headed for either Argyll or the Islands, he added.

Where?

Vadath.

Vadath! Elisabeth knew a little about Vadath – the country in the Northern Continent ruled jointly by Lind and man. Vadath was the home of the Vada. She had heard the pages talking about them the afternoon she had stolen the clothes from the store.

Her face betrayed consternation at the prospect. What would they think when a noble female fugitive from the Southern Continent arrived on their doorstep? Send her back?

You’ll be welcomed there lass, he said, divining her thoughts. If there is anywhere on this world where you can be safe it will be there. Trust me.

Surprisingly, Elisabeth did.

The hidden compartment on the boat was just as uncomfortable and smelly as she had thought it would be (far worse than the cess cart) but she endured it, eking out her water and trying not to retch. Of the hard biscuits and dried fish her protector had given her when he had led her aboard that evening, she ate only a small portion. She was feeling so ill with the sway, swell and smell of the hold that food didn’t seem to matter.

At last the boat arrived in a wooded northern inlet. Her rescuer was one of those stalwarts that dared trade with the hated Vadath, not that it was strictly illegal but he was careful not to draw attention to his lucrative activities.

Elisabeth was hustled ashore and into a hut where the sailor took his leave of her.

Good luck, he said as he disappeared, someone will come for you in a bit.

She realised when he had gone that she hadn’t asked his name.

Two ‘someones’ came; a man dressed in maroon leathers and his mount, to Elisabeth’s amazement, was a beautiful creature all shades of blues and browns.

Now, Elisabeth had been told about the Lind.

This creature was nothing like the stories.

It, he, she, was large, though smaller at the shoulder than her father’s horse. A riding horse was a rich man’s transport, she had never ridden the fiery stallion, hadn’t even touched him. This creature was nothing like her father’s horse.

It was beautiful with soft glossy fur, striped blue-brown and when she looked closer, she noticed that it had tinges of grey and yellow at its neck ruff and on its face.

The man at the creature’s side was grey-haired. He had a craggy face, criss-crossed with fine lines and a scar down one cheek.

A fighter, Elisabeth realised. Some of her father’s most experienced battle retainers looked the same, it told of a life spent in the pursuit of arms. She wondered who or what this man had fought against. Elisabeth knew little about the countries in the Northern Continent. A southern female’s education, even a noble’s daughter’s, was sketchy at best and devoted to what was known as ‘womanly pursuits’.

That there were no Dukes in Vadath as in Murdoch, intermittently squabbling with each other, she knew that much. So Elisabeth wondered greatly as they drew closer and the man introduced himself and his Lind partner.

His accent was strange, oddly clipped and the words seemed to tumble into each other.

I am Harld, he announced, Supply Officer at this station and this, he indicated the Lind with a wave of his hand, is Alya. You are?

It was time to eradicate the last link with her old life.

Beth.

That your real name?

She shook her head.

Fair enough. It’s as good as any other. What brings you to Vadath at such great cost and danger?

I am running away.

I and Alya know this already. What we need to know is from whom and from where. Are you running away to escape justice?

So she told him, of how her father had arranged the marriage, of how she had engineered her escape, how she had made her way along the coast and her experience in the tavern.

You were lucky it was he who found you and not a slaver or worse.

Beth had stumbled across something here, something she did not understand.

This feeling was substantiated as Harld began to grill her unmercifully about everything she knew about the Graham demesne. How many men had her father? What did she know about the Larg? Beth got the distinct impression that Harld knew the answers to most of the questions already but she told him what she knew. It wasn’t much.

I’m a female, she explained, the men don’t tell us much.

Harld nodded.

Another man appeared, older than Harld and carrying a bread roll and some root tea. Elisabeth thought it strange that the man was doing what she had always considered to be a woman’s task, unless he was a slave, then she remembered that there weren’t any slaves in the North. The man placed his burden down on the table beside her and left.

What do you intend to do now that you’re here? asked Harld.

I’ve still got some of my jewels, Beth answered, I thought I could sell them to get enough money until I find a job.

You trained for anything?

She shook her head.

Thought not. A Duke’s daughter wouldn’t need to be would she?

Harld thought for a moment. His eyes grew distant. Alya’s eyes mirrored his and with a start Beth realised that the rumours were true, the Lind and their human partners could converse telepathically.

The best thing I can do for you, he said at last, is to send you up the line to Vada. They’ll find you somewhere to live and something to do. What do you think? You’re a free woman now, you can do what you like.

Beth blushed and Harld had another thought.

What age are you?

Almost fifteen.

In that case you haven’t a choice. Up to Vada you go. You’ll need to attend classes, catch up with your education.

Beth was surprised.

We educate both sexes here in Vadath, Argyll too and we make provision for orphans and the like. Have you ever ridden?

Not very much.

Don’t tell me, females don’t often ride where you come from. Well, I’ll go and get you some clean clothes. These reek of fish and after you’ve washed, changed, eaten and had a rest for what remains of the night, you can be on your way. I’ve a message to send anyway, a written message. You can take it.

I’m scared of horses, she confessed.

Great Andei’s pawprints girl, you won’t be riding any horses! This is Vadath. Here we ride the Lind. His eyes grew distant again, he grinned at Alya, smiled in a whimsical way and added, and I am reminded that even then it is with permission, of a sort.

Alya chortled and set her deep blue eyes on Beth and the girl had no inkling of the fact that the two were discussing her.

: Altei I think : Alya telepathed to Harld after some heated mental debate.

: Are you sure Alya? I thought Lalya, she is faster :

: Definitely not, it must be Altei, Lalya is far too inquisitive, she is also female :

: What has that got to do with it? :

: Think about it :

One of the unpaired Lind will take you, Harld informed Beth, better get you a provisions’ sack too. Apart from the farms, the countryside you’ll be passing through is pretty empty and it will be best if you don’t stop.

You want me to journey to this Vada place on my own? squeaked Beth.

Why not? You’ve got this far haven’t you? This isn’t Murdoch. You’ll be safe with Altei. You were in far greater danger when you ran away from your father.

Beth did not sleep well. As she tossed and turned, her dreams relived her escape and, as dreams do, embellished them. A vengeful, looming father haunted her. She relived the candlemarks spent in the tavern; she was a slave, slave tattoos black against her skin, dressed in rags as she worked in the fields in mute terror of what was to come. The overseer drew her aside into the trees and lifted her tattered skirts.

Beth woke trembling. She lay for some time before drifting off to sleep again.

This time terrifying images did not haunt her dreams. They did try to return but it was as if a nebulous sheet of light was between her and them and she sheltered within the protection they provided. Within the light a shadow was moving. Beth walked beside this shadow under tall trees, serene and content. She wanted this part of the dream to last forever.

Of course it could not. Morning came at last and Harld arrived, set down the bundle he was carrying on a small table and opened