Assassin's Quest

A rider came, swiftly, leaning low, clinging to his horse's neck, urging him on. There was a simple safe beauty to the duo, the running horse, the man's streaming cloak echoed by the horse's flowing tail. For a time, there was no more than this, the dark horse and rider cleaving the snowy plain under an open moonlit night. The horse ran well, an effortless stretching and gathering of muscles and the man sat him lightly, almost appearing to ride above him rather than on his back. The moon glinted silver off the man's brow, glistening upon the rampant buck badge that he wore. Chade.

Three riders and horses appeared. Two came from behind, but those horses were running wearily, heavily. The lone rider would outdistance them if the chase went much longer. The third pursuer cut the plain at an angle to the others. The piebald horse ran with a will, unmindful of the deeper snow he churned through in pursuit. His small rider sat him high and well, a woman or a young man. The moonlight danced lightly along a drawn blade. For a time it looked as if the young rider would intersect with Chade's path of flight, but the old assassin saw him. He spoke to his horse, and the gelding put on a burst of speed, incredible to see. He left the two lumbering pursuers far behind, but the piebald reached the packed trail now and his legs stretched long as he endeavored to catch up. For a time, it looked as if Chade would escape cleanly, but the piebald horse was fresher. The gelding could not maintain his burst of speed, and the even pace of the piebald slowly ate into his lead. The gap closed gradually but relentlessly. Then the piebald ran right behind the black gelding. The gelding slowed and Chade turned in the saddle and lifted an arm in greeting. The other rider shouted to him, her voice thin in the cold air. "For Verity the true King!" She tossed a bag to him, and he threw a packet to her. Abruptly they separated, the two horses both veering from the trodden path to go wide of one another. The hoofbeats dwindled in the night.

The laboring mounts of the pursuers were lathered and wet, steaming in the cold air. Their riders pulled them up, cursing, when they reached the place where Chade and his cohort separated. Snatches of conversation mixed with curses floated on. the air. "Damned Farseer partisans!" and "No way to tell which one has it now!" and finally "Not going back to face a lash over this mess." They seemed to reach an agreement, for they let their horses breathe, and then proceeded more slowly, following the trodden path away from wherever they had come.

I found myself briefly. Strange to discover I was smiling even though sweat misted my face. The Skilling was strong and true. I was breathing deep with the strain of it. I tried to draw back from it, but the sweet rush of knowing was too keen. I was elated at Chade's escape, elated to know that there were partisans who worked on Verity's behalf. The world stretched out wide before me, tempting as a tray of sweet cakes. My heart chose instantly.

A baby wailed, in that endless, hopeless way that infants have. My daughter. She lay on a bed, still wrapped in a blanket that was beaded with rain. Her face was red with the earnestness of her screaming. The pent frustration in Molly's voice was frightening as she said, "Be quiet. Can't you just be quiet!"

Burrich's voice, stern and weary. "Don't be cross at her. She's only a babe. She's probably just hungry."

Molly stood, lips pinched tight, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her cheeks were red, her hair had gone to wet strands.

Burrich hung up his dripping cloak. They had all been somewhere, together, and just returned. The ashes were dead in the fireplace, the cottage cold. Burrich went to the hearth and awkwardly knelt by it, favoring his knee, and began to select kindling to build a fire. I could feel the tension in him, and I knew how he strove to contain his temper. "Take care of the baby," he suggested quietly. "I'll get the fire going and put some water to boil."

Molly took off her cloak and moved deliberately to hang it by his. I knew how she hated to be told what to do. The baby continued wailing, as remorseless a demand as the winter wind outside. "I am cold, and tired, and hungry, and wet. She's going to have to learn that sometimes she just has to wait."

Burrich leaned down to blow on a spark, cursed softly when it did not catch. "She is cold and hungry and tired and wet, too," he pointed out. His voice was getting crisper. He continued doggedly with his fire making. "And she is too small to do anything about it. So she cries. Not to torment you, but to tell you she needs help. It's like a puppy yelping, woman, or a chick cheeping. She doesn't do it to annoy." His voice was rising on every sentence.