“I am sent at the command of your husband, Lady, to bring a message important. First, two tokens of faith, that I may be known as friend and not a liar thought. He says you will know the true message they carry.” He handed her a ring of plain gold and a small dagger with a tiny silver three-armed swastika inlaid in its hilt.
Nepanthe collapsed into a chair, one item in each hand. Yes. She understood. The messenger had to be genuine. Who but Mocker would know how much these meant? The ring she had given him in token of love soon after their wedding. There was a love charm graven in invisible characters round the inner face of the band. The dagger had been a tenth anniversary gift. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before him, a token of the power of a once mighty family. Someday it would belong to Ethrian. Yes, only Mocker would guarantee a message by sending those. “I accept you as the real thing. Go ahead. What’s the message?”
Ethrian demanded, “Where is my father?”
“Be quiet, Ethrian. Go stand outside the door. Warn us if anyone comes.” The messenger had chosen the perfect day to appear. Almost everyone was out of the house.
The courier produced a sealed packet. “I am to give you these letters. Read. Then we will talk.”
Nepanthe ripped at the packet, fumbling in her eagerness. Finally, she got to the first letter.
It was not written in Mocker’s hand. She wasn’t surprised. Her husband could write, but unless he worked with uncharacteristic patience his penmanship remained impenetrable even to himself. Anything he wanted understood he would have someone write for him.
The letters were crazy. Bizarre, paranoid, unbelievable. Rambling, tortuous, and only partially coherent.
He flatly accused Bragi and Haroun of plotting against his life. He was in hiding in the middle east, where he had friends. He wanted her to slip away and join him before Bragi took the next logical step and imprisoned her and Ethrian.
It made no sense. He’d never mentioned having friends in the east. And what reason would Bragi or Haroun have for trying to kill him?
The messenger asked, “Have you finished?”
Startled, she looked up at his cold assassin’s face. “Yes. What’s it all about?”
“Lady, I am sorry. I was not told. I was sent to bring you to him. I have two friends with me. We are to guard you during your journey to Throyes. We are to avoid notice by local authorities. That is all I was told.”
“But...”
“I am sorry. Will you come?”
“Yes. Of course.” She rose, surprised by the haste with which she had made her decision. It was as crazy as Mocker’s letters.
“Pack quickly and lightly. We will travel by horseback, in haste, lest our enemies discover us and give pursuit.”
“Yes. Of course.” Of course. That was Mocker’s way of life. Travel in the shadows, work in the shadows, always moving fast and light. Live and die in the shadows. Don’t look back because something might be gaining.
She burst out of the library. “Ethrian, pack some things. We’re going to your father. No. Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re told. And hurry.” She left him looking baffled.
She threw things together with little thought for the journey she faced. Her mind was wholly taken with the puzzle of what was happening.
“Keep up, boy!” Scar snarled. In all the weeks of travel Nepanthe had learned no name for Mocker’s messenger. He was in a vicious temper today.
She didn’t blame him. His wounds had to be hurting him terribly.
Two days earlier they’d had a brush with bandits, just when Scar was beginning to relax because they were nearing Throyes. His comrades had both been killed.
“It’ll only be a little while longer, Ethrian,” she promised. “We’re almost there.” They were among the farms which supported Throyes. A hazy patch of horizon lay ahead. “We should spot the city walls any minute now.”
“No walls at Throyes,” Scar said. It was one
Nepanthe collapsed into a chair, one item in each hand. Yes. She understood. The messenger had to be genuine. Who but Mocker would know how much these meant? The ring she had given him in token of love soon after their wedding. There was a love charm graven in invisible characters round the inner face of the band. The dagger had been a tenth anniversary gift. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before him, a token of the power of a once mighty family. Someday it would belong to Ethrian. Yes, only Mocker would guarantee a message by sending those. “I accept you as the real thing. Go ahead. What’s the message?”
Ethrian demanded, “Where is my father?”
“Be quiet, Ethrian. Go stand outside the door. Warn us if anyone comes.” The messenger had chosen the perfect day to appear. Almost everyone was out of the house.
The courier produced a sealed packet. “I am to give you these letters. Read. Then we will talk.”
Nepanthe ripped at the packet, fumbling in her eagerness. Finally, she got to the first letter.
It was not written in Mocker’s hand. She wasn’t surprised. Her husband could write, but unless he worked with uncharacteristic patience his penmanship remained impenetrable even to himself. Anything he wanted understood he would have someone write for him.
The letters were crazy. Bizarre, paranoid, unbelievable. Rambling, tortuous, and only partially coherent.
He flatly accused Bragi and Haroun of plotting against his life. He was in hiding in the middle east, where he had friends. He wanted her to slip away and join him before Bragi took the next logical step and imprisoned her and Ethrian.
It made no sense. He’d never mentioned having friends in the east. And what reason would Bragi or Haroun have for trying to kill him?
The messenger asked, “Have you finished?”
Startled, she looked up at his cold assassin’s face. “Yes. What’s it all about?”
“Lady, I am sorry. I was not told. I was sent to bring you to him. I have two friends with me. We are to guard you during your journey to Throyes. We are to avoid notice by local authorities. That is all I was told.”
“But...”
“I am sorry. Will you come?”
“Yes. Of course.” She rose, surprised by the haste with which she had made her decision. It was as crazy as Mocker’s letters.
“Pack quickly and lightly. We will travel by horseback, in haste, lest our enemies discover us and give pursuit.”
“Yes. Of course.” Of course. That was Mocker’s way of life. Travel in the shadows, work in the shadows, always moving fast and light. Live and die in the shadows. Don’t look back because something might be gaining.
She burst out of the library. “Ethrian, pack some things. We’re going to your father. No. Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re told. And hurry.” She left him looking baffled.
She threw things together with little thought for the journey she faced. Her mind was wholly taken with the puzzle of what was happening.
“Keep up, boy!” Scar snarled. In all the weeks of travel Nepanthe had learned no name for Mocker’s messenger. He was in a vicious temper today.
She didn’t blame him. His wounds had to be hurting him terribly.
Two days earlier they’d had a brush with bandits, just when Scar was beginning to relax because they were nearing Throyes. His comrades had both been killed.
“It’ll only be a little while longer, Ethrian,” she promised. “We’re almost there.” They were among the farms which supported Throyes. A hazy patch of horizon lay ahead. “We should spot the city walls any minute now.”
“No walls at Throyes,” Scar said. It was one
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