Victoria's arriving home... a little bit too late for the excitement...
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Chapter 8.
Myrionar's Balance I am tired. Victoria sighed, shaking her head, as she let Chirrup trot towards home. The bird made soft noises in anticipation of arriving at its paddock, where there would be fresh greens and comfortable hay to lie in.
Victoria was looking forward to getting home too, but she doubted she'd be sleeping easily. It was, if anything, worse than she had imagined. It was, of course, bad enough – incomprehensibly bad – that the King had been killed. But the way in which he had been killed? Nightmarish. Slain on his own throne, apparently by something able to approach him without rousing the slightest suspicion, or able to move at utterly terrifying speeds, or able to teleport into one of the most heavily warded chambers in the entirety of Zarathan.
Old Bridgebreaker had the investigation underway, of course. The five very peculiar children who had been the last known to have seen him alive had gone, and naturally they were prime suspects. Victoria's heart said that they were not involved in this, but even if she was right, they might know something vital to the investigation. It did seem that poor Toron might have had a bit of luck in the two Adventurers who'd been present at the discovery, though she wouldn't get a chance to interview them to make sure until tomorrow; they'd been seen to quarters and were undoubtedly asleep before she arrived.
The gate slowly came into view. She sighed again. The worst of the situation was the chaos that would result once the news got out. Such a thing hadn't happened … well, ever. At least, not since the Fall, and no one really knew details of that time.
It was the work of about half an hour to get in, close the gate, see that Chirrup was properly rubbed down and fed, so the dawn was starting to lighten the darkness in the east. Weighted Balance, and I need to be back at the Castle at some kind of reasonable hour.
She almost missed it in her hurry to find her bed and get a few hours' rest; a pale rectangle against the dark wood of the hall table. But old instincts registered the anomaly and she halted, backed up. Two sheets of paper, one atop the other.
The first was from Ingram:
Lady Vantage,
I am called away by an imperative summons of my Clan, one which brooks no hesitation – which technically includes even taking the time to write this note. I am, however, an Adventurer and one who had accepted employment from you; this requires you know why Quester and I are departing.
It has been an honor and a pleasure to serve you and your household, and I wish we had been able to stay longer. I will always remember this time fondly, and hope you will also remember us well.
Yours,
Ingram Camp-Bel, Clan Camp-Bel
Well, now, that was mysterious enough. Clan business that found him this far from his home, and so urgent he couldn't wait a few hours? She shook her head. Good luck to you, young Ingram, Quester.
The note from Urelle was even shorter:
Aunt Victoria,
Ingram and Quester are in much more immediate danger than they know. I have to go warn them and help them. No time for more explanation. I'm sorry.
Love,
Urelle
Victoria sat down hard, staring at that brief missive. Gods above, what was the child thinking? She'd gone off in the middle of the night for this?
But no, that was foolish. If she took what Urelle said at face value, the girl had discovered some objective evidence that the two were in danger, and – quite naturally, for a Vantage – decided that the only thing to do was to go immediately.
Had she been thinking that rationally? Easily enough determined.
A swift survey of the house, and especially Urelle's rooms, showed that she did seem to be acting rationally. She had clearly packed quickly but carefully, and it appeared that she'd taken everything a reasonable Adventurer under time pressure would. She smiled a bit at that; it was good to see the girl was keeping her head.
Or at least was in that sense. Would she have gone so quickly for any random person? Perhaps, but Victoria was hardly blind to the way in which the two younger people had been becoming closer. It was possible they didn't even notice it themselves.
In any event, it was a pretty situation, no matter how she looked at it. There wasn't the slightest chance that Urelle would leave the two voluntarily, assuming she caught up with them. Ingram … he would be driven to press onward. Possibly he would send Quester back with Urelle, although that would be quite a job in itself, making Urelle leave if she didn't want to; she did have the Vantage strength herself, after all, and her not-inconsiderable magical talent.
But that was all secondary, circling around the point without addressing it, and Victoria frowned at herself. Am I that old, that I dance about a subject instinctively? Or am I so afraid for her that I don't want to think of it?
The latter, she decided. Urelle thought there was a great and immediate danger, and the girl was neither stupid nor unobservant, so Victoria thought she could take that as a given truth. And that meant that – in all likelihood – her little niece was going into a trap meant to capture, or kill, a Camp-Bel and anyone who might be with him.
Urelle is in terrible danger.
The thought, finally expressed, constricted her chest. The loss of their parents had been terrible; Rion's death, horrific. Letting Kyri go on her god-ordained mission, heart-rending.
Losing little Urelle?
"Absolutely not!" she snapped. "There's no help for it; I have to catch up with all three of them."
There was no time to lose, no chance to rest. Well, for that, at least, I have recourse. Opening the chest that held all her old Adventurer's gear, she began unpacking it efficiently, pausing to extract a bottle from her healing kit and set it aside. The alchemical draught was expensive, difficult to make, and dangerous to use more than once or twice a month … but used occasionally, it would substitute completely for a good night's rest. Best to take it just before she set out; no telling how long she'd be on the road.
Her battle coat settled across her shoulders familiarly – perhaps a touch looser than it had been twenty, thirty years before. Haven't kept myself at my peak, have I? Scarcely needed to, of course. The bracelet Ingram had noted stayed, of course – she hadn't been separated from it and the weapon it concealed since she'd first won it in a lethal contest. From the chest she drew and put on other items, rings and jewelry, a simple coronet of platinum across her brow, armored boots, Enkanir's Gloves, all of them more than mere decoration; and as their mystic powers flowed back into her, Victoria felt herself standing even straighter, the world sharpening into greater focus, becoming lighter and stronger and faster.
She smiled. I had forgotten this. She glanced down at the Guild patch on her right arm; an instant of compressed reminiscence, where she seemed to re-live a thousand adventures, passed through her mind. She shook off nostalgia, dove back into the chest. A bow, a pair of red-metal throwing knives, and her neverfull pack – still filled with everything she'd need to travel. She kept it that way … just in case.
It seemed that such prudence was about to pay off.
With the pack on her back and all the rest of her equipment in place, she headed back downstairs. Need to leave my own note for the staff. And somehow get my apology sent to Toron. He'll be disappointed, but he'll understand. But by the Balance, how was she to make sure Kyri knew? The girl might be gone for a year or three, or be back in weeks. She couldn't imagine how Kyri might react if she came back to find her aunt and little sister gone without warning.
There was a chime in her ear. Someone was at the gate.
Urelle and the others? Perhaps she convinced them to come and at least tell me, get what help I can provide. It seemed unlikely, given the wording of Ingram's note, but possible. Or perhaps the immediate danger was taken care of, and Quester had brought her home somehow?
She hastened to the gate.
There was but one figure at the gate, and it was too tall for either Urelle or the young Camp-Bel, and far too human for Quester. As she got closer, the figure became clearer. No, not human … Artan.
"Lythos?" she said in astonishment, staring at the Vantage's Sho-Ka-Taida, Master of Arms. "I thought you went to rejoin your people?"
Then she saw how he stood – exhausted, his impeccably-polished armor dented and scratched, a new and raw scar on his face – and new horror began even before he spoke:
"My people … are no more."
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