Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  Her mind reeled. A man so saintly it was said that even the Sanhedrin knelt when he entered a room. A man who had led a life of wandering austerity, owning nothing, relying eternally on charity to feed and shelter him. A Chantry Knight who had chosen a life of teaching, Edion had embarked on journeys to all stabilities, dispensing the word of the Holy Books, expounding, explaining and enlightening. Even she had heard of him. He had brought a message of hope, rather than obedience, and the people had loved him, loved him more perhaps than his fellow chantors had.

  ‘He didn’t desert Chantry, Chantry deserted him. They excluded him,’ she said, ‘because of his blindness. Or maybe because he spoke too much truth. They threw him out, removed him from the Knighten Ordering and excluded him. After the kind of life he had led, the kind of man he had been? It was unjust!’

  ‘Such a knightly man should have been able to accept the burden,’ he said. ‘He could have preached in the Unstable. Maker knows, there’s enough work to be done here among the tainted and the Unstablers. Instead he turned to the forbidden. To ley.’

  ‘You’d like to denounce him, wouldn’t you?’

  He ducked his head to avoid her gaze. ‘What’s the point? He’ll stop me if I try. Let him go his own evil way without you. I don’t care what he does.’

  She stared at him in surprise. ‘You should care.’

  He caught her look of surprise and reddened. ‘I—er—right now I’m just a traveller. Like anybody else.’

  Why, she thought, all he cares about is getting himself to the Eighth so he can bed his chantora. Portron did not want to involve himself in Chantry controversy along the way. She felt a sharp disappointment, which was irrational seeing that she really did not want Meldor to face Chantry wrath.

  Portron shook his head sadly. ‘He wasn’t really a Trician, you know. The “of Galman” was honorific, bestowed on him by Chantry because of his saintly character. I can’t believe it of him…that he would come to this.’ He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he left her.

  ~~~~~~~

  The ley-crossing of the Wide, long dreaded by Keris, passed without incident. The colours of the line remained pale and dormant around their feet with no hint of Lord Carasma or his Minions.

  The fording of the Flow, which she had not feared at all, was much worse. A thick yellowish cloud of vapour resembling teased wool hung over the river that morning. When she entered it, her throat rasped, her eyes stung and her ears rang with sound. Quirk doubled over, coughing. Worse, it was impossible to see further than a horse’s length ahead. Blinking back tears, she failed to keep a watch on the person in front—Corrian—and the next time she looked, there was no one there. No Corrian, no horses or mules, no fellowship.

  She called out, but the sound of her voice was muffled and thin, suffocated in the mist-smoke. Nervously she urged Ygraine on, hoping the horse would find its own way through. Beneath its feet, the water of the river was sluggish and shallow. The horror was in being closed off from the rest of the world, in being out of touch with the others, in hearing that keening sound in her ears.

  She tried to convince herself that a fog could not sing, but the dirge went on, whispering its melody intimately into her head with each tendril of vapour. There were no words, just a tuneless song, a lament that faded in and out as the vapour thickened and thinned.

  Once or twice she thought she caught glimpses of shapes wading through the water, shapes that were too small to be mounted riders, but then the fog would close in and whatever they were would vanish. She kept swinging around, trying to find the others, but there was no sign of them. She was no longer sure she was heading the right way, and was forced to halt Ygraine. She looked down at the water, trying to decide the direction of its flow so that she could orient herself, but the river seemed stagnant, lifeless.

  Is this also part of the disintegration of our world? she wondered. A river that does not flow. That has no sea to flow to anymore…

  She gave Ygraine her head once more and gripped Tousson’s lead-rein tighter. Over to her left there was a violent splashing, but she could see nothing. The water reached Ygraine’s belly and the horses slowed. Then, out of the yellowish fug ahead, something dark loomed: rocks. A low huddle of rocks barely breaking the river surface, and someone crouched on them. A naked youth.

  She halted, uncertain. Through the smudge of the mist, the boy grinned at her, a mischievous grin of glee. Even partially obscured, he seemed beautiful, golden, lithe, all slim muscle and youthful strength. Water glistened across his skin, slid down the midline of his chest to be lost in golden curls. Keris looked for the Unmaker’s sigil, but there was none. He stood and turned his back. For a brief second he looked over his shoulder and smiled, then he dived into the water—and vanished. She drew a sharp breath at what she had seen as he unfolded himself from his crouch and turned his back: the triple set of swollen nipples on his chest, the grotesquely elongated penis below, an animal’s appendage rather than a human’s, surely, the viciously taloned feet and spurred calves, the furred and ridged back ending in a tail…

  She dug in her heels and slapped Ygraine across the rump, not knowing why fear clawed at her insides, urging her to run. Wasn’t he just an Unbound man, to be pitied?

  But something told her otherwise. The face and arms and thighs had seemed human, but the rest had been more than just a distortion of a human form. The rest had been pure animal, corrupted animal. A half-forgotten tale heard in the mapmaker’s shop slid into her mind: they say Minions breed with their Wild sometimes and the offspring are…

  Are what? Vile? She had forgotten. She was not sure she wanted to remember.

  The water shallowed, Ygraine heaved her way out of the river on to the sand of the bank—and balked, startled as more figures loomed in the fog. It was the animal-youth again, and this time he was not alone. A man stood with his arm draped casually across the naked golden shoulders. He was immaculately dressed in a Trician’s costume, yet with additional gold chains and brooches and other ornaments forbidden to the unencoloured. His shirt was unhooked to the waist to show the sigil fused to his skin, as if the owner was proud of his allegiance.

  She recognised him, and went cold all over.

  Baraine of Valmair. Prime Beef. Ley-life, how could she ever have mocked him by privately calling him that? He was not funny now…

  She sat still and debated what to do. Plunge back into the river? Try to get a knife into him—them—before Baraine used ley on her?

  Impossible…

  ‘Maid Kaylen.’ He sketched the kinesis of formal greeting.

  She merely inclined her head. ‘Baraine.’

  ‘So we all meet again. What happened to Graval?’

  She withstood the temptation to lick dry lips. ‘He died. Of a sore throat, I believe. Came on quite suddenly. Alive one minute, then—’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Dead, just like that.’

  He stared, doubtful, as if he could not decide how much she knew.

  ‘It seems the immortality of Minions is not so long-lasting after all. You did find out he was a Minion, I suppose?’ She pretended to examine her nails. ‘Better watch it, you scummy bit of boglife, or you may find yourself absorbed into the Unstable with no soul to live on afterwards, either.’

  The creature at his side sensed Baraine’s anger. It bared its teeth in an animal gesture of rage, and lashed its tail.

  She pretended to ignore it. ‘Why, Baraine? Why did you give yourself over to Carasma? You had everything a man could want, surely. Looks, wealth, position—in the Maker’s name, why?’

  He stroked the arm of the creature next to him, allowing his hand to trail lower and lower, until it was buried in the creature’s genital hair. He smiled. ‘That is why, girl. This is why.’

  She still did not understand and he saw her bafflement.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Can you be so innocent, so stupid? Try to imagine, if you can, what it is to lust, yes, and to love, but never to be allowed to fulfil that lust, that l
ove. Because Chantry says it is a grave sin. Because Chantry says it is a perversion. Because Chantry says one man cannot lust after another. Imagine, if you can, what it is to live afraid even to let your eyes roam in the wrong direction, always to have to hide your love.’ He snorted. ‘By Chantry’s Rule I was already condemned to the Hell of Disorder anyway. What did I have to lose? Here I can love whom I please, forever. Here I will never grow old. Here men can lust after me for all eternity.’

  A tumult of emotion stirred in her: fear, understanding, compassion, revulsion—she could feel it all. The Rule, she thought. Causes always seem to be rendered down to the same thing: the damned Rule. He’s right. He shouldn’t have had to hide his desire, or his love, anymore than I should have had to quash my desire to be a mapmaker. Or Thirl his need to be something other than a mapmaker.

  Reading part of what she felt on her face, he said harshly, ‘I don’t need your pity, girl.’ He smiled, and it was not a nice smile. All her fear came flooding back in. ‘That’s better,’ he said softly. ‘That’s better. I wonder if I should let Carve here loose in your direction. He’s not fastidious in his tastes.’

  She kept her eyes on Baraine. ‘No. I can see that.’

  There was no mistaking Baraine’s anger this time. He raised a shaking finger in her direction.

  She shuddered, the rest of her courage vanishing. You fool! You’re going to die because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut!

  And then there was a snorting heaving horse between her and Baraine, the sound of a cracking whip and a wild cry of rage.

  Davron’s cry. Baraine’s answering pain.

  A gaping line of red was opened up across Baraine’s face and chest. Blood dripped from Davron’s whip as he whirled it back for another strike.

  And then the scene froze as if time had stopped. The Wild was crouched, poised to leap, spurs extended; Baraine’s hand was raised, about to make some gesture towards Davron. His fingers crackled with ley, Davron’s arm remained stilled, whip motionless. Then with a deliberate gesture of contempt, the guide lowered his arm and rolled up his sleeve to display the sigil on his amulet. ‘Dare,’ he said, and his voice was thick with contempt. ‘Just dare, and see what happens to you.’

  One Trician to another, Keris thought. Ley-life, how he hates Valmair! With sudden clarity she knew why. In Baraine, Davron saw himself, the Trician who had betrayed the code of his class by bargaining with the Unmaker. It was not Baraine that Davron despised, it was himself.

  ‘We’ll meet again.’ Baraine said softly. ‘You’ll rue the day you struck me, Davron of Storre.’ He turned away, beckoning to his Wild to follow.

  Pure Chantry theatre, she thought, but somehow she could not laugh at Baraine. Even as he turned away, the cut on his face was closing up, healing.

  Davron swung his horse to face her. The rage in him was intense and dark. For a moment she thought he was going to seize her, shake her unmercifully, but the moment passed so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  ‘Damn it Kaylen,’ he said without rancour, ‘what have you got for brains? Sitting there like Lord Carasma himself, trading insults with a Minion?’

  ‘Oh. You heard,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Enough. Were you out of your tiny little mind?’

  ‘It was either that or blubber. Thanks, anyway. For making a habit of timely rescues.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Oh shit, Keris—’ He was looking at her helplessly, his expression a mixture of pain and horror. It seemed a long time before he had gathered himself together enough to say: ‘Please don’t do that again. I don’t think I could stand it.’ He turned his horse away from the river and called back over his shoulder. ‘Come on, the others are waiting for us.’

  ~~~~~~~

  Chapter Nineteen

  Beware the fence that devours the crop.

  —old saying of the Margravate of Malinawar

  They were never free of Minions and their Pets after the crossing of the Flow, except for the one night they spent in a halt, where they felt reasonably safe. Otherwise, sleek black shadows haunted them by day, slinking away if anyone approached too closely; shapes hunkered down around their camp at night, growling softly. Sometimes Keris would catch a glimpse of Baraine, mounted on a horned beast, with his tailed pet mounted behind him. At other times there were different Minions, men and women she did not know. Careful and furtive, they kept out of accurate bow range, yet near enough to be menacing.

  She thought of the trompleri map and tried to contain her fear.

  It was easy to see she was not the only one who worried. Portron spent more time than ever in kinesis devotions, while Quirk often preferred to walk rather than ride, explaining he felt less conspicuous that way. Corrian defiantly spat in the direction of their unholy escort, but her occasional muttered, ‘Bloody unnerving bastards. What in all the muck in the midden are they waiting for?’ showed that her defiance was more for show than as a result of indifference.

  Davron and Meldor ignored the followers with superb aplomb, perhaps because they knew that Scow, more pragmatically, rarely took his eyes off them.

  ‘What are they up to?’ Keris asked Scow when her nerves could stand it no longer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted with a laugh, then added more soberly, ‘I suppose the Unmaker lost his spy when Graval Hurg died, so now he’s had to resort to this.’

  ‘Were you spied on before Hurg turned up?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, no more than most fellowships are. I think we may have drawn attention to ourselves over this business of the trompleri map, unfortunately. Until then, I don’t think Carasma took too much notice of Meldor. He was just a no-account blind man who rode with Davron, and Davron was just a guide who would one day have to do the Lord’s bidding.’ He shook his maned head unhappily. ‘I think perhaps it’s beginning to occur to Carasma that there’s more to us than that.’

  ‘Then why not wipe us out one dark night in a Minion attack? It would be so easy.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Possibly. Probably. Do you think we don’t know it? But apart from the difficulties the Unmaker has with regard to directly conniving at the death of those who follow the Maker, he wants us alive. That way he will learn more. About who supports us, for a start. And let me tell you another thing about the Unmaker and his Minions that may cheer you: they don’t have much comprehension of time.’

  She did not understand and told him so.

  He explained, ‘If one has the possibility of extended lifespans, urgency has little meaning. Ordinary humans are driven to act now, to act quickly, to try to fit a lifetime of living into a short time span. The Unmaker and his ilk have no such sense of urgency, especially those Minions who have been around for a few hundred years. Most of them spend a great deal of their time sleeping. Even the Unmaker finds it difficult to prod them to action. His best servants are those who’ve been recently corrupted and have not yet forgotten what it is like to be human. But even Lord Carasma is slower to act than he should be. It is his weakness and has often been our salvation. Meldor believes that the world could have been long since disintegrated, if the Unmaker had worked at his unmaking with human dedication.’

  ~~~~~~~

  And so they rode on, taking more care with their guard duties at night, being more watchful by day. Around them, the land changed. Trees did not grow here, nor did anything else that could be thought of as normal vegetation. Fortunately, the horses and mules ate rounded bulbs that pushed their way up out of the soil like giant grey pearls, and appeared to thrive on the diet.

  The ground itself was twisted. The land had the appearance of being momentarily caught in a hiatus of its movement, giving Keris the impression that if she turned her back, everything would rush to finish its interrupted convulsions. Those ridges of red earth, shaped like poised waves, would break. Those sculptured rocks, halted in the midst of the undulations of a cataclysmic upheaval, would spiral upwards. Those teetering boulders would fling thems
elves off that cliff.

  And indeed sometimes things did move. They would wake in the morning to find that their surroundings were not quite as they had been when they had gone to bed; they would occasionally see the land shift before them, as if a giant were turning over in his sleep under the soil somewhere, disturbing his covering. It was a world in the process of disintegration, of being unmade. Meldor’s right, she thought. Things are growing worse. Father never told me that it was like this.

  Portron apparently agreed. ‘I keep on expecting to wake one morning to find there’s a hole in the world, a place where there’s…a nothingness,’ he confided to her one day. ‘A place where the ultimate unmaking has already been achieved and nothing is left except space. A void. An—an absence of anything.’ He rubbed his bald patch anxiously. ‘It wasn’t like this when I passed through here twenty years ago.’

  She shivered. She did not want to hear.

  The changes made their journey difficult; Davron was always consulting his charts, not Kaylen maps now, but the work of Way Letering of Dormuss Crossways, a town in the Fifth. ‘Ley-life,’ Davron would complain, ‘I wish this fellow could draw maps like yours, Keris! Come, tell me what you make of this.’

  She would bend her head over the skins, only too aware that he was being careful not to brush against her as they stood together. ‘It’s changed since I was here last,’ was his constant comment. ‘The land is becoming more and more unstable.’

  And her heart would skip a beat as she considered the implications, even as she worked to interpret the maps and make sense of their own position in a changing land. Letering’s maps had never been as good as hers and Piers’; now they were often next to useless. Still, she thought, he does have an interesting way of showing the relative height of hills and mountains. I’d like to talk to him about that. In the meantime she did what she could with his maps and her compass and theodolite, the latter now minus its telescope. By studying present configurations and comparing them with the past landscape as drawn in Letering’s charts, it was often possible to work out the best routes around recent changes.