Bradshaw drew an angry breath, but Ewen merely waited. He hoped he was not to be sent home, for he loved it out here. In the Keep, he could not help thinking of Da, who had worked in the dungeons for his entire life.
The Mace frowned. “Andalie’s little one is only three years old, and I am not a man to base strategy around a child’s dreams. But the fact remains that Glee is often correct.”
“She does have a gift,” Bradshaw ventured.
“This is my dilemma. Levieux says that the Queen is in the Palais dungeons; he saw her there himself, and I trust his word. Glee says the Queen is in Gin Reach, and Andalie tells me that Glee is correct. So what am I to do?”
“Where is Gin Reach, sir?” Bradshaw asked.
“It’s a tiny village in the southern Almont, just north of the Dry Lands, a way station for fools who mean to cross the open desert and try to get into Cadare without paying the King’s tolls. There can’t be more than two hundred souls in the town, and I don’t know what the Queen would ever be doing there, but all the same . . .” The Mace’s voice trailed off.
“You must cover your bases,” Bradshaw supplied.
“Yes. As strange as it sounds, I want the two of you to go down to Gin Reach and simply keep your eyes open. Look for anything out of the ordinary.” The Mace rustled through his saddlebags and tossed Bradshaw a bag of coin. “That should keep you in a good room for three weeks. If nothing happens and you see nothing, then come home.”
“What if we see something?”
“Then use your judgment. Our priority is the Queen. If we recover her, we mean to head for the Keep as soon as possible, and we won’t have time to come looking for you down in the Dry Lands. If anything should happen, send word back to this camp. Several of the Guard and most of Hall’s people will stay here.”
Ewen didn’t like the sound of this errand. It seemed as though they would be all alone in a tiny village in the desert. Bradshaw might have magic, but neither of them knew how to wield a sword.
“You will leave tonight, quietly, after dinner. Follow the irrigation system off the Crithe. A good night’s ride and a bit, due south, should see you down to Gin Reach.”
“How will we know it?” Ewen asked.
“By asking, I suppose. Bradshaw is in charge.”
Bradshaw looked surprised by this, and Ewen was too. Aisa had told Ewen that the Mace didn’t like magic, though Ewen didn’t understand why. Surely the world was better when unusual things could happen.
“I am going to trust you, magician, though I trust none of your ilk.”
Bradshaw shrugged. “The Queen did me a good turn, Captain. I will do her one if I can.”
“Dismissed.”
The two men wandered out of the tent. Ewen had the feeling that Bradshaw was just as surprised as he was. Bradshaw could do many amazing things; perhaps that was why the Mace had chosen him. But after thinking about it for a moment, Ewen was fairly sure that the Mace didn’t expect anything to happen to them at all.
“Pack yourself up,” Bradshaw told him. “I’ll see about food and water.”
Ewen nodded and went to find his horse. From the noise around the campfire, he could tell that the deer was finally ready, but he had lost his appetite. He had been terrified of the very notion of Mortmesne, the wicked kingdom that Da spoke of in all of his fairy tales, but at the same time, he had been proud to be chosen to venture there. He knew he was not smart enough to be a Queen’s Guard, and he had been ready to bow out and go on the hunt for the witch, Brenna. There was honor in that. But this mission did not feel real.
As he neared the horses, he saw a solitary figure: Pen, sitting alone, facing east, on one of the rocks that bordered the corral. More than once, Ewen had heard others in the Guard say that Pen was the Queen’s favorite, and he had noticed that Pen did not seem himself since the Queen had left. Ewen thought it best not to talk to Pen, so he merely dug through the pile until he found his saddles and saddlebags, then took them over to his horse. Ewen was not a good rider; he had learned with his brothers when he was young, but he had never taken to it the way Peter and Arthur had. Bradshaw was not much of a rider either, and the two of them had often lagged behind on this journey, hurrying to catch up while the others rested. Now they were being sent away, off to some place Ewen had never heard of. His horse, Van, stared at him, almost as though he understood, and Ewen stroked Van’s neck for a long moment. It was one thing to go to Mortmesne himself, another to drag an animal there; at least Van would be out of danger as well.
When he slung his saddlebags over the horse’s back, his grey Guard cloak fell to the ground. They hadn’t been allowed to wear their cloaks on this journey, but Ewen had brought his anyway. It was the dearest item he owned, though he understood that it had never really belonged to him. He went to the Mace’s horse, folded the cloak, and draped it over the Mace’s saddle.
“Ewen.”
Pen was beckoning him over. Ewen touched the cloak one last time and then went to Pen. As he neared, he saw that Pen’s eyes were red, as though he’d been crying.
“You’re going to Gin Reach.”