Free The Man In The Wind by Sorenna Wise

Serberos, royal notices were put into production in every kingdom with which Volikar shared a border. Steward Tarnslen oversaw the process, making absolutely certain that every inhabited inch of the area would be covered. If the necromancer somehow managed to slip through their fingers at this late stage, chances were that they would never find him.
           Tarnslen was afraid the king might not survive news as bad as that.
          The notices were being printed in the afternoon of the third day since the break-in. By the morning of the fourth, distribution would begin. He had elected to utilize several squadrons of low-flying aircraft which would literally drop packets of the flyers over predetermined routes. It was, he thought, the fastest, most all-encompassing method. Within hours, the streets of Volikar would be coated with the information. And then, all they had to do was wait.
           There was no photographic evidence of the necromancer’s companion; this was their only setback. Though he had questioned everyone in the castle extensively, as ordered by Serberos himself, he had received no new intelligence. He hadn’t been expecting any. The climate on the night of the theft was abhorrent, which, he admitted, added to the daringness of the feat. No one could possibly have seen her, even if they were mad enough to be standing outside.
           Ever diligent, Tarnslen compensated for this deficiency by ensuring that a large portrait of the necromancer was displayed across the top half of the page. The boy was effectively ageless, a fact that currently worked enormously in their favor. He would not die of exposure, nor would he ever tire in his flight, but Tarnslen knew for certain that he was clad in little more than rags. Unless he and the woman made it out of the vicinity fairly quickly, he would not be in disguise. In fact, the tall, steely-eyed sorcerer would stand out like a sore thumb. 
           Tarnslen was pleased by the thought of recovering Serberos’ necromancer soon. Since the day he had discovered his prized treasure lost, the king’s health had seemed to be in a steady decline. The old man spent more and more time alone in his room. He didn’t eat. When he did rarely emerge, his face looked spent with age. Shadows lurked under and behind his eyes. Nothing touched him any longer. Among the soldiers, the bets—of which Steward Tarnslen strongly disapproved—were raging. But he, too, had to concede that the outlook on Serberos’ already waning life looked grim. The only thing to bolster him was the reinstitution of his precious sorcerer. This, Steward Tarnslen was determined to do.
           The telephone beside him gave a tinny ring. He picked it up, cradling it between chin and shoulder. “Yes.”
           On the other end, an indistinguishable voice issued words that seemed to satisfy the steward, whose stern face eased into something resembling a smile.
           “Excellent. Move out. We’ll have these fugitives found by sundown.” He hung up the phone, straightened his tie, and went to inform his master.
     
    ---
     
    From a distance, Volikar’s most major thoroughfare looked like little more than a sled run. Great tracks were carved into the dirty snow, punctuated by a mess of hoofprints. “Isn’t it glamorous?” Iris asked, her voice a caricature of dreaminess. “Isn’t it everything you imagined?”
           “I’m putting you down,” said Rai. He noticed that her hands lingered on him for a second after her feet were safely on the ground. She came to stand at his side.
           “Okay,” she said. “Let’s hitch a ride.”
           Volikar’s reputation, or the reputation of its king, preceded it, and so it wasn’t exactly a popular destination for tourists. If people had to pass through the snow-ridden nation for any reason, it was usually qualified with a statement such as, “Oh, we’re not staying there.”