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flew from its owner s hand, with many ill deeds to its name.
The Prince attempted to disguise his voice, hoping that the war mask would
help, as he faced them and answered, I have just made obeisance for my liege,
Knight-Commander to the Warchief of Alebowrene, at the feet of your Queen. My
horse was lamed and I was given this one to take Her Grace s regard to my
lord.
Novanwyn inclined his head politely. Please excuse my aide s curiosity. He
smiled blandly. And let us keep you tarrying no longer. Oh, and if you would
be so kind Legion-Marshal Novanwyn s respects to your liege?
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Springbuck grunted noncommittally and continued on his way, shaken. Passing
long walls and hedgerows bordering the way in this area, he rode for a time,
then paused in a side street and squinted back along the way to see if he were
being followed. To no avail; either he wasn t pursued or his nearsightedness
made it impossible to see those behind him.
He decided, though, to take a circuitous route, swinging past the marketplace
and coming round to the southern wall and the Brass Lion Gate by back streets.
He hoped that, in tomorrow s turmoil at his escape, no one would link a
renegade Prince to a lone Alebowrenian. Then it occurred to him that it was a
foolish hope; Duskwind had seen his attire.
Memories of Hightower s death began to intrude again and he spent the ride in
painful examination of his conscience. Alternate outcomes spun in his head; if
he d moved sooner, faster, fought harder, could he have saved the Duke? Should
he have stayed in Earthfast and fought the duel? At best, he would eventually
have had to meet Strongblade in arms, Strongblade who was wont to toy with two
lesser opponents at a time and who d often bested their instructor, Eliatim.
Springbuck s stealthy leave-taking and the deaths of Hightower and Faurbuhl
began in him a desire for some act of violence and retribution, with a vague
idea that he could expiate his shame and redeem his self-respect.
Perhaps there would come an opportunity in the promised war between Coramonde
and Freegate, if things actually went that far. No major war had been fought
in or by Coramonde in nearly a generation, but Fania and Yardiff Bey seemed
set on starting one. There were many and diverse substates under Coramonde; to
greater or lesser extent internal friction was a constant. It wasn t beyond
conceiving that Springbuck could find support for an attempt at wresting back
the Crown.
But there came to him the lines from the Old Tongue, impressed upon him with
admonishments by his father, regarding civil war:
He should pause and search his heart well Who thinks to go Doomfaring In the
War that is war between brothers.
A single house bleeds with Every internecine fall of the sword And the
abattoiral axe.
Could such wounds to Coramonde be justified? The Prince was unsure.
Still, if armies were waging war on the far side of the Keel of Heaven, the
situation could come full ripe for the dislodging of Fania and Strongblade.
And Yardiff Bey.
Springbuck thought again of the look that had passed between the Queen and
the sorcerer in the throne room, that of vassal to Lord.
Bey in command?
How much, after all, did anyone know about him? The archives had it that he d
first appeared in Earthfast over half a century earlier. Since then he d been
away often, for as long as ten years at a time. He d come back from one such
sojourn, twenty years earlier, with the bizarre ocular in place of his left
eye, object of cautious speculation.
Rumors about him were inexhaustible: that his sword Dirge dealt wounds which
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couldn t be healed, that he had an enchanted flying vessel concealed in the
mountains of the Dark Rampart, that some of his hidden conspiracies and secret
liaisons led ultimately to the distant south, to Shardishku-Salamá, where
oldest magic still worked against men.
But little was known of Bey for sure, and few dared pry.
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