Chapter 339: He’s A Valorhold Mage

"We cross here," said Draeven.

He had slowed his horse. He sat very straight in the saddle, with his eyes on the far side, and a stillness had come over him that she’d learned to recognize.

"What is it?"

"Someone is waiting."

She followed his gaze.

On the far bank, at the edge of the trees, stood a single figure. It was a young man in grey robes, thin and pale, with a sparse beard and a bundle clutched to his chest. He stood very still. His hands were raised, palms out, shoulder high, in the unmistakable gesture of someone who is trying very hard not to be shot.

Kaelen swore.

It was a soft, vicious, fluent oath. The air around him went suddenly cold, and the water at the edge of the ford crackled and crazed over with ice.

"Easy," said Draeven.

"He’s a Valorhold mage."

"We do not know that."

"He’s wearing the grey. I saw the same robes on the clerk in the council hall."

"That was a council robe. This is something else." Draeven’s voice was level. "Look at his hands."

"What about them?"

"They are shaking."

She looked.

They were. They trembled, thin and white, like leaves in a wind. The young man’s face was the color of old candle wax. His eyes, even at that distance, were enormous.

"Stay behind me," said Draeven.

"Why?"

"Because it might be a trap."

"It might not."

"It might."

"He looks terrified."

"So does a bird in a snare."

She pressed her lips together.

Shadowmere shifted under her. She felt the stallion’s muscles bunch and release, restless, uncertain. His ears were flat. A low, warning sound rumbled up from his chest.

"Easy," she murmured. "Easy."

Draeven urged his horse forward.

It stepped into the water with a soft splash, and then another. Kaelen followed, a pace behind, with frost spreading in a fan from his horse’s hooves. Morgana came last. The ford was cold. It splashed up around her boots. The stones rolled under Shadowmere’s hooves, and he picked his way across with great delicacy, head low, ears pinned.

They stopped ten paces short of the bank.

"That is far enough," said Draeven.

The young man swallowed.

"Yes, Majesty," he said.

His voice cracked on the second word. It was high, and breathless, and utterly without guile.

"Who are you?"

"Brother Tavish." The hands rose a little higher. "Of the Order of the Lantern. At Valorhold."

Silence.

"You are a long way from home," said Draeven.

"I know."

"Why?"

"I...." Tavish’s mouth worked. "I came to warn you."

"Of what?"

"That it’s a trap."

The words fell into the quiet water.

Nobody spoke.

"I know it is," said Draeven calmly. "We have been aware of it for some days."

"No." The young man’s face twisted. "No, Majesty, you don’t understand. You know it’s a trap. You think you know what’s in it. A few men. A watcher at the inn." His voice shook. "It isn’t. It’s him."

"Who?"

"The High Priest."

Kaelen’s hand moved to the hilt at his belt.

"Ormund," said Tavish. "He’s at Ashford. He left Valorhold three days ago, in a carriage, with an escort of twelve. He’ll be there by now. He’ll be waiting."

"For what?"

"For her."

His eyes went to Morgana.

She felt it like a touch. The pale, terrified eyes found hers, and held, and in them she saw something that she had not expected. It was grief.

"Lady Morgana," he whispered. "I’m sorry."

"For what?"

"For all of it."

"I don’t understand."

"No." His breath caught. "No, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You don’t know what he is." He lowered one hand, slowly, and pressed it against his mouth. "I’ve served him since I was fourteen. I thought he was a good man. A wise man. I thought he was...." He stopped. His eyes squeezed shut. "I thought he was kind."

"Tavish," said Draeven.

"He’s not."

"What is he?"

"I don’t know." The young man’s voice was barely audible. "That’s the thing. I’ve been trying to work it out for three nights. I don’t know. He’s four hundred years old, Majesty. At least. There’s a painting in the Founders’ Gallery, of the first Warden. It’s him. It’s his face. And nobody says it. Nobody ever says it."

A chill ran down her spine.

"He doesn’t age," said Tavish. "He doesn’t eat. I have served him for eleven years and I have never once seen him blink. And last week I stood outside the Lantern Room and heard him say a name."

"Whose?"

"Hers." He opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed. "Morgana. He said it like a prayer. Like a man who’s been waiting for something his whole life."

Nobody breathed.

"He said she’d be the key," said Tavish. "To everything. To the Lantern. To the old fire. To the thing under the temple." His voice broke. "He doesn’t want her dead, Majesty. He wants her whole."

"For what?" said Kaelen. It came out hoarse.

"I don’t know."

"You must have an idea."

"I don’t." Tavish’s face crumpled. "That’s why I ran. Because I was in the room when he said the mother must die first, and I thought, which mother? And then I understood."

Morgana’s heart stopped.

"What did you say?"

"He said it quietly. He was talking to Carrick. He said, the mother is no longer needed. Let her go when the girl arrives." Tavish swallowed. "I think he meant...."

"Elara," whispered Morgana.

"Yes."

The ford spun.

She felt it, a great slow wheel, and the sound of the water roared in her ears. Her hands, on the reins, were numb. She heard Kaelen shout. She heard Draeven’s voice, sharp and low, saying her name. She felt Shadowmere lurch under her, and then a hand closed around her wrist, hard and warm, and she was held.

"Morgana. Morgana. Breathe."

"She’s...."

"I know."

"He said...."

"I know. I heard." Draeven’s face was very close, pale and fierce, and his eyes had gone molten gold. "She is alive. Rhen’s men are with her. She is guarded. Nothing has happened. Do you hear me? Nothing has happened yet."

"But...."

"We will be there by dusk."