---Chapter 3

A Queen is the most deadly piece in a game of chess...but if her King is captured, all is lost---

Game rules by Tician the Philosopher

For a moment, a crown of fire and a face surrounded by dark hair floated in my memory. Slowly, I walked over to comfort Dee and pull him away from the trampled soldier. Running a hand down his neck to quiet him, I looked over at Shyven. “The Ebony Queen?”

He nodded solemnly. “The lady of the currant ruler of Shardland. She is called that because of the color of her hair. As black as a Swaif’s dreams, they say. Or a raven’s wing. She has gone missing and the king has sent me to find her.”

I took a deep breath, glancing around at the still figures on the ground. “We have to get out of here. More might come any time. Get up and we can talk as we go.”

We climbed back onto the seat if the wagon and made ourselves as comfortable as possible as Dee pulled us eagerly away from the sight of the battle. Each jog of the wooden wheel sent an uncomfortable tingle down the left side of my back. I was glad that Shyven had bound it up as we continued along the road. He waited only a few minutes before explaining further.

“As you know, the king is dying. They say that there are two reasons for this. First is that he has some mysterious disease that the physicians know no cure for. Secondly, he is said to be pining away in sheer grief. Because his queen walked out on him. She was called the Ebony Queen for her dark beauty and, some say, for the darkness of her heart. I do not know about that. There are usually two sides to such a tale. But the king wants her found and as I have somewhat of a...reputation in such things, he summoned me to find her. There are few leads to go on. The trail is at least nine years old--”

“Nine years?” I broke in. “He expects you to find a woman who went missing nine years ago? If he was pining for that, he should have kicked the bucket long ago.”

Shyven shrugged. “The ways of the heart are mysterious. The idea has grown on him since his illness. But there is a substantial reward promised if I complete the mission. And you can share in it, if you help me.”

I closed my eye for a moment, shaking my head in thought rather than denial. All the images I had seen of the Ebony Queen replayed behind my eyelids, in ponds and dreams throughout the Dardec. Perhaps now I could discover why she was haunting me.

“I have little interest in prestigious rewards. What is he offering?”

Shyven hesitated, rubbing a hand thoughtfully across his chin. “You might not believe me if I told you. Let us just leave it that the reward is enough for both of us to live comfortably on for many years, or pay off any debts we may have gathered in the past. But if you do not want the prestige, I do not have to tell him you had a hand in it, or he can keep it quiet himself. I will share the reward with you out of my account.”

“Kind of you,” I remarked, not without irony. But I could feel myself slowly inclining towards a decision to go with him, like a boulder poised to roll down a hill. All it would take was a little shove.

“If you come with me,” Shyven offered with a slow deliberation, “I will not ask prying questions about your past. As long as you observe the same decorum towards me.”

It was the small push I needed. My only qualm now was where we were heading first, if there was any trail at all.

“To an inn called the Playing Prince, in the large northern city of Daggasta,” Shyven replied to my question, “she was often known to stay the night there when traveling alone. And she was friends with the landlord. So you will join me?”

“It’s a deal.”

We shook hands on it in approved trader’s fashion. The Ebony Queen of my visions might finally be revealed, I would gain some small living by it to repay my time, and my heart was beating a little faster at the thought of adventure ahead once again, though I told it that it was foolish and should stop.

It was not long before we spotted a narrow track leading off of the road to the right. It led onto a wide flat containing house, barn, windmill and the other appurtenances of a farmstead. We turned off there and found the farmer and his family in the middle of fixing damage done by a raiding patrol of the Newfound army. Once they heard we had just wiped out that same patrol, they were glad enough to give us some fresh supplies in trade for coinage. And show us a horse that one son had found wandering on the plains that very morning. It was a bony mare of a dirty brown color, with a long head that looked built for biting the arms of the unwary.

“Layla!” Shyven strode forward to run a hand down the horse’s nose. “Naughty girl, leaving me behind like that. But it turned out for the best, I suppose. We have a partner.”

The farmer was happy to give him back his horse, along with its saddle and tack. Meanwhile, the farmer’s wife saw my shirt and began clicking her tongue disapprovingly. Soon after that, she appeared from the farmhouse carrying a worn, but clean and whole shirt which belonged to one of her grown sons. Though I offered to pay her for it, she wouldn’t hear of it. “Bless you, it’s only an old shirt. I have to make a dozen of them a year, it seems, with how quickly the menfolk go through him. And that one you have is a mess! If you don’t mind me saying it.”

“Of course not.” I took the faded red and cream checked shirt from her and draped it over one arm. “It is a mess. Thank you for your kindness.”

The farmer answered for her, “it’s nothing! Nothing at all, friend. Will you and your companion stay the night and have supper with us?”

I had to refuse this generous offer, as we wished to make more distance before evening fell. Saying farewell to the farmer and his family, Shyven mounted his horse while I turned Dee and the cart around. We rode jingling out of the farmyard, Dee casting curious glances at the recent addition to our party. She was a bony, ugly nag, but had a good pace that kept up with him while in the harness. He seemed to approve, at least, because he blew a soft snort at her and drifted a little closer as we rode along.

“I’m going to go scouting ahead to watch for further ambushes,” Shyven said eventually, “you can keep along at this pace and trail.”

I nodded, and he rode away.

We spent the rest of the day in traveling across the plains towards the north. Shyven’s scouting did not turn up anything ahead of us, or behind when he slid back that way to check our trail. Evening came, and we camped in a low dip with a few scrub brushes in it, keeping the fire in the stove burning only dry wood so that it would not make too much smoke.

After dinner I took down my Vhoe and unwound the broken wires from both sides, coiling them up and putting them away. The fine strings it took were expensive, but I carried a few replacements in the cupboard. If the break had been more to one side or the other, I might simply have slacked off the tightness of the wire and stretched it down further. But with the cut exactly in the center, it had to be completely replaced.

Once I had restrung it, I ran a light finger over the strings, testing their tune. After a few adjustments, the highest string was once again at the right pitch, that light, airy tinkling that could be either piercing or ethereal. Positioning it in my lap as I sat on the edge of the bed, I began to play it in the traditional, wandering style. As few songs are written for the Vhoe, players improvise most on the spot. I could play this way for hours when the time permitted. And I have even come up with a few songs that I made notes of to replay later.

But at the moment I just played to my feelings. Up and down, wandering over notes high and low or combinations of them that sounded like cascading water. The world slipped away from me gradually and I was standing on a high, rocky pinnacle perched between land and sky. The wind blew in my face, cold and fresh, as I felt myself lifted away from earthly cares...

Then a voice broke through the dream and asked, “may I try a few notes?”

Opening my eyes, I found myself in the wooden-framed, dim interior of the gypsy wagon. The smell of smoke hung in the air, salty and rich from the wood stove. Cooked food scents clung to the inside of the room and added to the general fragrance of a bachelor’s abode. I blinked at Shyven for a moment and he gave a half-apologetic wave of one hand.

“It sounds beautiful. I have never played something like that before...you must love it to do it with your eyes shut.”

I handed the instrument to him with care. “Do not pluck them stiffly. A soft touch is needed.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

He took the long-necked object and balanced it on his knees awkwardly. Grasping the neck with one hand, he strummed the strings with the other. It made a thin, wailing noise and he winced. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“Like this.” I repositioned his left-hand fingers on the strings. “You have to move them, too, cramping the strings down to the board to make different note variations. It is difficult to learn...it took me months to play the simplest songs.”

Shyven flashed his wry smile, but leaned back and tried to play the Vhoe. It gave out slightly more harmonious noises, one bumping off of the other like shaken bells. After a few minutes, he gave up with a sigh. “The only instruments I can play well are weapons, it seems. I once tried a lady’s harp, and they nearly threw me out of the house.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Because of the harp, or the lady?”

His teeth showed for a minute in a wider grin. “They were almost one and the same. And I could play neither.”

He gave the Vhoe back. I hung it on its peg, peering out of the door at the orange glow of the fading sunset. It was a warm, fine night after the last storm, so I gave Shyven the bed and took my blanket outside. He tried to protest, but I explained that sleeping indoors too often made me feel cramped. Only in the wet or extreme cold did I stay inside. I was too used to the ways of a traveler to give them up for a little extra comfort.

I wrapped myself in the blanket beside the wheels of the cart where the grass was thick and wondered if I would dream of the Ebony Queen that night. But sleep took me like a thick, dark blanket with nothing to show.

---

It required nearly a week to travel to Daggasta. The road slowly became more hilly, the land dividing into foothills or ridges with oval, comfortable valleys in between. Daggasta lay in one of these valleys. I was almost shocked when coming to the head of the low canyon to find that it filled the whole thing. They even built houses up onto the sides of the ridge, with balconies which overlooked their neighbor’s roofs below.

The woods came right down to the city, both behind and above it, so most of the buildings were built of solid timbers. But there was also some stone work and even adobe, dredged from the narrow river that cut the city in twain and crossed the road just outside.

But its size should not have surprised me. The road had been becoming better-traveled and more occupied the further north we went. People trudged up and down it, on foot, in wagons or on horseback. Beside the road, the number of farms and side-roads also became more common and better maintained. Even the country houses of rich folk were seen now and again, tucked back behind flowering bushes or willowy trees.

Placed at the back of the town, almost atop the river, was a great, pointed structure. It was built of wood and covered in shingles, all weathered to a rich, dark brown. Three tiers of it rose towards the sky, each huge, round and sloping towards the one above. The top tier ended in a belfry with a pointed roof, looking out over the city like a watchful guardian.

The river was sludgy as it flowed from the city, full of all its refuse. But the streets were clean, with gutters beside them and cobbles keeping them from turning to mud. Piers stood along the narrow river with slim, angular boats, like a canoe with higher ends, tied up at them. A few bridges crossed the river, the largest having small shacks built all along one side, sporting signs advertising every sort of purchasable goods that could be imagined. These huts seemed to have the cheapest prices and customers.

As we rode into the city, our horses’ hooves beginning to ring on the cobbles, I felt a tense sensation creep up my neck from the middle of my back. With an effort, I pushed the feeling away, reminding myself that we were on a mission here and no one knew of me. Or at least, I hoped no one I knew had moved to Daggasta. I had certainly never visited the place before.

The smells and sounds of a lively habitation poured over me as we clopped inside. Children ran and played, often dressed in little but a long tunic. Women wore their best to impress each other, while men vied to do the most work or lift the greatest weight in the day. Old folks sat shelling peas or smoking on their narrow front porches, laughing at it all and retelling how it had been in their youth. Everywhere on the streets was clatter, commotion and the selling of wares. It was a large city, undeniably, but one that traced its roots to a homesteading frontier. I relaxed a little and looked up to find Shyven pulling his horse up next to the wagon.

“I have to find the inn and try to get information,” he said in a low tone, “do as you like and I will meet you back by the Great bridge--” He pointed at the one with shops lining it. “Around noon.”

I frowned for a minute, wondering why I should stay behind, but then nodded. “Very well. You don’t need a backwoods merchant sticking his clumping boots in your delicate business. I’ll do some trading and meet you later.”

Shyven squinted one eye at me. “I think you have more knowledge and discretion than most would guess at. But do be careful of thieves and the Assassin’s Guild...I heard that this is one of their main secret hideouts.”

Then he was gone, nudging Layla between a man carrying an armload of firewood and another driving a cartload of beets. I watched his brightly colored hat disappear into the city, before urging Dee on down the road. We reached the Great Bridge, and I found an empty spot on the edge of it to park the cart. It was where a building had once stood but had been torn down. The gypsy wagon, painted black with a green roof and blue stripes on the side as it was, elicited a small amount of curiosity from the passerby.

I took advantage of this by displaying the miniature blocks of Nallax resin I still had, along with some brushes and dyes I kept in case of an emergency. Once word spread that a painter’s goods shop had been set up on the Great Bridge, curious artists began to arrive. I purposely undersold the goods as to price, as I had got them cheaper than anyone outside of the Dardec could. Also, I wanted to get rid of my goods quickly, to travel light on the quest with Shyven.

As I bantered lightly with the artists and the goods slipped through my fingers, I began to feel a small amount of disturbance about this venture. Did I really want to link myself to this unknown man, traveling who knew where in or out of Shardland and running into unknown troubles? I had settled down as a trader in the woods to avoid the disturbances that had been plaguing me in my earlier life.

But that, I thought with an ironic smile as the last slab of resin left my hands, was exactly the problem. No matter how much my logical, practical instincts told me I wanted a life of peace and calm, something was telling me that another fling, perhaps a last one, was just what I needed after a year of serious work.

Also, there was the Ebony Queen herself. Somehow, she had found her way into my head and was calling me. The reasons were unknown, but the message was clear.

I had just shut up shop and was fastening my back door shut when I saw an officer of the Watch stroll by, then stop and give me a long, suspicious glance. At first I was worried that word had spread of my supposed thievery in Rockyford, but then I shrugged the idea off. It was much too small an affair to have spread so far north, especially in such a short time. Then I saw the badge on the officer’s tunic and realized how narrowly I had missed getting another infraction of the law. He was the market inspector, and it was most likely that a license of some sort was required to vend goods on the bridge.

Since I was doing nothing but shutting up my cart and checking on Dee, he walked on by. He was not gone long when I heard some excitement headed my way, and saw a procession approaching the bridge from the opposite side. First, came a pair of guards with long spears and uniforms sporting a pale rose on the chest. Secondly, there were a few servants on foot, carrying bundles and baskets for their master or mistress. The palanquin came after this, carried by four stout men in cloth-of-gold striped togas. The curtains of the palanquin, which were the same blushing shade as the roses on the uniforms, were looped up so that the personage inside could look out. A crowd was following the palanquin and ringing it around, waving and shouting at the passenger or running along just to get a closer look at them.

Despite this turmoil, I drifted a little closer to get a look at what richness-fattened celebrity was being carried through. I was only a fifteen feet away when the litter passed and I finally saw the person inside. It was a girl, laying full length on her side dressed in airy, soft clothing. My eyes opened wide, and I stared in amazement. I recognized her. The chopped-short hair had grown out, and the face been powdered, but there was no mistaking it. It was the face of the lad who had passed the stolen clothes to me in Rockyford. Now I realized that it had not been a boy at all, but a young woman dressed in men’s clothing.

I jumped forward without thinking and pressed towards the palanquin through the crowd, staring at her.

“You!”

Her gaze flickered up and eyes sparkled with recognition and something close to fear. With a gasp, she said something to her bearers, and they sped up. I tried to stride closer and demand an explanation, but the guards in the rear came up and forced me back with the butts of their spears.

“Stay back! No botherin’ her ladyship now. You ruffians stay back, I say!”

I fell back, out of the crowd towards the rear, still blinking in surprise. It could not simply be someone who looked like the thief, such as a sister or other relative. It was the very same person, as shown by her recognition of me.

But why a highborn lady had been masquerading in boy’s clothes in a little place like Rockyford, just over a week before, and stealing things like a common street urchin to boot, was a question which astonished me. She must have traveled quickly to reach here and change positions ahead of us. But why? Why steal a poorer man’s clothes and try to pass them off on me? And in a little town far from what was most likely her home.

There was a pack of children following the train, inevitably, and they began to flow around me. Stopping one, I asked him, “who was that in the palanquin?”

“How should I know?” He grinned. “Just so long as it entertains me.”

He ran on again. I stood in bemusement for a moment before deciding to follow at a distance and see where the palanquin was taken. It was not difficult to attach myself to the caravan at the rear, following with the slowest of children. But when we came into the richer parts of the city towards the north, the kids began to drop away. The whole following did, in fact, until only the palanquin and its servants remained. Then I had to be more discreet, following at a distance or hiding around the edges of walls or buildings as it traveled down a street.

Eventually we came to a large, stone house (or mansion rather) built near the huge shingled cathedral which overlooked the city. There was a low, red-brick wall around the mansion grounds, with an ostentatious gate set into it. The litter passed through it and disappeared out of sight. As soon as I was sure it was gone, I walked up to the gate and had a look at it. Wrought-iron roses adorned the gate, which was made of woven bars of the same material. Heavy, rich and imposing, it solidly blocked the gravel drive leading inside. But beside it on the brick wall was a bronze plaque bearing the inscription, ‘Residence of Sir and Lady Delascas.’

“So, Lady Delascas, are you?” I muttered under my breath, “or a daughter, more likely. What games are you playing, miss, and do your parents know of them?”

But there was none to answer my question and, tipping back my head, I saw that noon was swiftly approaching. It was time to return to the bridge and meet up with Shyven.