by Ru Emerson
She sighed, dropped her cloak and worked to clear rock and branch from a wide sleeping sward near the fire. She hesitated then, but Marhan had left her no other tasks. She went in search of the pool she had seen from above.
It was not very far, and a stand of aspen shielded her from the camp. She undressed swiftly. Water swirled down into a bay from a short falls, carving out a deep pond near one bank. Morning sun shone full on the water. It was cold, colder than the Torth, but she took a deep breath and plunged in. She emerged shivering violently, her teeth chattered, but she was cleaner than she had gone in. She staggered to the bank on numbed feet, found a place to sit and dry in the sun while she combed her hair out with her fingers, rewove it into plaits, tied them firmly with bits of leather thong. The sun was warming; she thawed slowly, blank-minded, content to watch the tops of trees, the dark blue sky between them, to listen to squabbling birds in the underbrush.
She stirred herself finally, pulled the woolen shirt over her head, laced the heavy pants down snugly from knee to ankle. She left off her boots, carried the mail and padded surcoat with the King's arms quilted to the breast: the day was already too warm for Tower winter garb, and the protective garments were heavy, even though specially made to her small size.
And that surcoat. She scowled at it. She was cutting it short, hip length at most, before the day was out; she'd determined that after wading the Torth. The thing had nearly thrown her under more than once, and for most of the night it had twisted wetly around her legs, unnecessarily spilling water into her already wet boots. There were no elderly conservative household knights and City ladies to horrify with sight of her trouser-clad legs anyway. And the time for such modesty—never, the Mothers knew, her own modesty—was long past.
Malaeth wouldn't like it, like so many other things she'd never liked. She'd simply have to adjust.
Levren had not returned; Marhan had come back to camp once but was now at the pools near the waterfall. Golsat was still prowling the heights. Lisabetha lay curled in her cloak, partly in shade as the sun rose higher. Malaeth sat on a slab of rock, her feet in the shallows not far away, where she could keep half an eye on the child. Brendan sat on one side of her, Brelian on the other. Her slippers lay behind her, totally ruined: she had walked nearly barefoot most of the night. Ylia sank down behind her, picked up one of the battered shreds of silk and thin leather. The old nurse slewed around, shook her head ruefully.
“My feet feel worse than that slipper looks, in truth they do! Well, there is something to be said for those boots of yours, child, for I see your feet are still of a piece.”
Ylia laughed. At this moment, warm and clean, surrounded by this ancient garden, the fears and battle of the day before had no more hold than a nightmare would. “Somehow we shall fashion you footgear, old woman. You cannot walk the length of the Foessa in those!”
“I should hope not,” Malaeth retorted. “I should have feet as black and rough as Nisana's.” A round head on Brelian's far side popped up at mention of her name, sank sleepily back out of sight. The brothers looked at each other uncertainly across Malaeth's white hair.
“Lady—how d'ye mean, the length of the Foessa?” Brendan finally asked. “Where is it we go?”
“Ylia,” she reminded him blandly. He eyed her doubtfully. “We swore dagger-oath,” she added even more blandly and held back a sigh with main force: the man was as humorless as the rocks around them. “As for our path, we are bound for Aresada and so remain perforce within the mountains. I hope,” Ylia's eyes mocked, “you have no fear of them. Marhan and I felt danger known must be counted greater than that unknown. The Tehlatt were a more certain death than anything spoken of in the old tales.” Sarcasm, however, also seemed to pass him by. Brelian gave her a grave wink; it wasn't lost on him.
“That is true, Ylia.” However his brother felt, Brel seemed to share none of his doubts—or his prejudices. “I have no fear of the Foessa. Nor has Bren—did he fear anything, that is” Brendan transferred the dubious look to his brother. “We have heard the tales also, of course, who has not? But we have hunted within the mountains, near enough the Caves, in fact, and seen nothing to give shape to the tales.”
“How could such a place as this harbor evil?” Malaeth was sufficiently awed by their surroundings to put aside were beings, fear-bringers, odd footprints and invisible rollers of stone.
“I am for the Caves,” Brendan said soberly. “We can hold out long there, if need be. And—and many of the folk may be there.” Brelian leaned across Malaeth to grip his leg.
“I, too, am for this way. After all, I risked my life to drag Brendan from the walls at the last, that some of our family live. I saw no reason then to throw my life senselessly away, nor will I now. There is nothing for me in Yls or Nar.”
The four of them joined hands on that. Brendan's hesitation was so slight that this time, Ylia thought, she might have imagined it. Sensitive, overly so, she chided herself. At that moment, Marhan and Levren returned, bringing with them rabbits and a quail.
The fire took time to bring to proper heat. The only wood to be found was damp at best, and rigging spits was a matter of trial and error. When the meat was finally shared out, it seemed days since any of them had last eaten, and the fact it was not as done as most Plainsfolk preferred made no difference at all.
Nisana held Lisabetha to eating and drinking, then allowed her to sleep again. ‘I can aid you in what you must do, all you need, but the action must be yours, girl.’
'I know.’
'Good. Sleep first, then.’
'She—won't thank me.’
'No,’ Nisana replied with her usual terse directness. ‘Foolish, but she won't.’
Ylia eyed the sleeping girl unhappily. She liked Lisabetha, even though they had little in common, dreaded the scene sure to come.
Golsat had returned while they were occupied with Lisabetha, and was giving Marhan a report before he ate. He had traced a way around the meadow at its upper edge before descending to the valley floor along the westerly ledges. “No other folk have been here this year, probably not for many years. I saw tracks of a cloud-cat on the heights, but they were over a five-day old. There were others near the waterfall, but they were even older. There were—” he hesitated, frowned, “odd little prints crossing those of the cat, not much larger than a fisher's, but they were nothing I had seen before.” He accepted his portion of meat with thanks and retired to a sunny spot on the creek to bathe his feet and eat. Brendan watched him go, tensely; even more tensely, Levren turned away, determinedly set his gaze to the waterfall.
Lots were drawn for the watches even though the Meadow seemed safe; the first fell to Marhan and Golsat. The rest of the company settled on whatever dry ground they could find.
'Ylia.’
'Now what?’ She pried open one eye, gazed at the cat.
'Search, of course.’
Ylia yawned, closed the eye. ‘You can manage without me—’
'That is not how you learn. Now.’
Ylia mumbled under her breath, but rose to her feet; impossible to win this particular argument, they'd had it often enough over the past several years. Easier to give in. ‘Here?’ She glanced at the Swordmaster, back at the cat, whose tail twitched once. ‘I know I can, Nisana, same as you do,’ she added, her mental voice sharp with irritation. ‘I just don't like to.’
'You ought—oh, well, it doesn't matter.’ Tail high, she turned and strode off. Ylia repressed a sigh, and any thoughts Nisana might hear and find offensive, and followed.
They followed the stream back up to the grove where Ylia had bathed. It was shaded now, pleasantly cool. She found a seat near the water, propped herself against a tree; Nisana climbed nimbly onto her lap, one delicate white foot across her forearm.
'Join.’ It still required concentration; several moments passed before the thought faltered from half-AEldran human to AEldra cat. Nisana shaped the link between them, a part of each, now a thing of its own, sent i
t forth.
As they had at the Torth, they scouted the land around them for some distance, with considerably better strength and concentration on Ylia's part. Golsat was right: no humans here, none had been within a ten of years, at the very least. There the cloud-cat he had mentioned. Other small animals—plentiful. Fish—small but in great numbers.
Ylia cried out and shivered; the contact was abruptly severed. A fear to chill the bones lay near the waterfall—Golsat's fisher-sized prints were filled with it. It was old and faint, yet still so strong she had to swallow rapidly, breathe deeply or retch. Nisana's fur hackled down her back; her eyes were black.
“By the Mothers, what was it?”
'Beyond my knowledge.’ Nisana shook herself, hissed. ‘A thing to perhaps lend truth to Malaeth's tales.’
“No.” Do not think it! “The tracks are old—”
'That means nothing! If the makers return? Or we meet them elsewhere? No. The Swordmaster must be told.’
Ylia shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself. “I—all right, Nisana. But—against such a thing as that—what could we do—what could I?”
'You are your mother's daughter,’ Nisana replied shortly. Ylia's head snapped up; anger pushed terror aside.
“Is it necessary to argue this again? We have done so, I swear, cat, at least once a five-day since I reached my sixteenth summer! I am not Scythia's, save that she bore me! Scythia of the Second House,” she went on bitterly, “counted among the AEldra great, and for a daughter she must needs have me, who cannot sweep dirt from the floor with the Power in her.” She shook her head. “Enough of it! We have spoken of this before to no point. And this is neither the time nor the place for it!”
'Oh? If something befell me, what then?’ Nisana was in no good mood herself.
“What do you want of me? I have tried! My mother tried! Look at the result!”
'Scythia, may she walk now in the Meadows of Overworld, was a fool, and so are you! Look at me—look, I say!’ Nisana wriggled free, dropped neatly to the ground. The full spectrum of the Power played around her dark head. ‘I am more of mixed blood than you!’
“So?” Ylia retorted. “I am not nearly so blessed as you, and I can wield little and in few ways.”
'Because that is what you believe. You convinced yourself of that, stubborn girl, and will listen to nothing I try to tell you! Scythia was of the Second House, yes. And her skills were undeniably great. But yours,’ she snapped, her mental voice throwing sparks in all directions, ‘is no less a gift. One day you will be grateful that is so!’ Her thought was suddenly gentle. ‘Ylia, listen to me. Just once. The AEldra blood in me has been mixed with that of cat-kind more often that anyone can tell. I am as you see me, and my mother was accounted among the greatest of AEldra. Of any kind.
'The Power exists, that is all. It cannot be lessened, or broken, or divided; only improperly used. It takes forms, like talents. Your mother could heal; I can't. But she could not bridge greater distances; I can. Perhaps Scythia—no. She was wrong. You are wrong. The Power is in you.’
“Perhaps.” Ylia was clearly unconvinced. “To what point, if I cannot use it? No. I am what I am, and if there is a way to change things, I cannot see it.”
'Nor can I.’ Nisana clambered back into her lap, leaned against her hard. ‘And I have none of the Plainsfolk's Sight. All the same, I know.’
“Good,” Ylia replied dryly. “Hold that thought for me, cat.” Nisana sighed heavily, moved to the girl's shoulder as she rose. “Marhan,” she added flatly. “This will not be amusing, we had better get it over.”
It was not particularly pleasant. The old Swordmaster believed none of it, eyed the AEldra cat with open mistrust the entire time. A thing only to be sensed by sorcery? When all he could see was a small, harmless looking print in the wet ground? But he had been armsman too long not to take heed of possible danger, whatever the source of his knowledge. “No point to sift the tale for fact until we see this thing,” he said finally.
“No. We have more than enough troubles. But we had better keep close watch.”
“We would anyway.” Reproof was in his voice, though milder than Ylia expected. Don't lesson the Swordmaster, fool! “We will speak of this at evening meal,” he added. “Yours is the next watch after Lev's, go sleep.”
“I—yes.” She hesitated. “Marhan—another thing—”
“Well?”
“Golsat.”
The old man eyed her thoughtfully. “You like him well enough, or so I thought.”
“No, not my meaning. Brendan—”
“The lad's young and he hasn't spent much time outside the barracks.” Marhan considered briefly. “He'll learn. If he lives so long.”
“Well—”
“He's an odd package, the lad,” the Swordmaster went on. “Brave as a company, and skilled. Well, you saw him at Fest last winter, didn't you?” She shook her head. “Skilled. Took on two of your father's best and disarmed both of them. Not once, but twice; they thought it a trick the first time, y'see.”
“Oh.” Helpful, perhaps, to know he wasn't all stilted talk, and that there might be ability behind that wooden mask.
“Lev, though.” The Swordmaster sighed. “He tries, our Lev. And it's not Golsat himself, or even that he's half Tehlatt. You know he was born in the North?”
“In Anasela.” Her father had told her, some years back, when there had been trouble over training a handful of Ylsan lads.
“Even so. He's told me about it, now and again. First things he remembers are the raids. They left the North when he was perhaps four, moved first to Teshmor then Koderra. There was other trouble after his father took to merchanting, took Lev with him once or twice. Sea-Raiders. He hasn't said much else, ever.”
“It—must have been bad.”
“I'd say so. He tries; he managed the Narran embassy last fall without a visible twitch, even gave some of their guard training when they asked for it.” Marhan sighed again. “It's just a thing—”
'Like your fear of height.’
'Thanks, cat.’
“—he can't control. At least, not totally.” He shook his head. “He'll stay away from Golsat; there'll be no problem. And Golsat knows to avoid him—probably learned that at the same time he learned where the bowmen's mess was located. As for Brendan—” He cast a meaningful glance at her hand, chuckled. “He has enough sense not to start a fight with you around, I'll wager. Go on, go sleep.”
How simple, after the truth came out, to say I should have known at once what had walked the valley before us and left terror behind. Perhaps I should have. That it was the Lammior's fear cast into some walking form, I knew, of course. Pointless to share such a thing with a half-trained child, or with the old woman. In that, I had become more like those I dwelt among so long—putting aside an unpleasant thought in the hope that it would thereby vanish. I was wrong—though even I could not have foreseen how horribly wrong.
The Nedaoans do not believe as the AEldra, in the One and his chosen representatives, the Nasath: They pray instead to the Mothers, whom they believe made the world and all that dwell therein. They are weavers, the Mothers: lnniva, who chooses the threads for the pattern; Noteyen, who lays the warp and the woof, which is how a man or woman shall go in life; Lel-san, who ties the knots when the weaving is complete. It is their way, not mine. Yet sometimes it does seem that there are patterns.
6
Nisana set out on her own to hunt. Ylia rested. She couldn't sleep, still shivered now and again as her nerves remembered the shock of discovery. She took her watch with Brelian at midday. Some time after she lay down again, and exhaustion took over; she fell into such a deep and dreamless sleep that she was several moments remembering where she was and why, when Nisana roused her at dusk. She stretched cat-wise, laughed quietly at the cat's amused thought, and made for the stream. Chill water felt even colder against her overly warm face, but it brought her fully awake.
Everyone else had found seats abou
t the fire. There was fresh meat, and Malaeth had gathered liontooth to make a pale tea in Marhan's blackened old kettle. A shadowy shape well across the clearing was Golsat, perched on a boulder to keep watch. The brothers tended the spits.
Swordmaster and Bowmaster were bent over something near the fire. Ylia rubbed her eyes, still couldn't fathom it and finally moved closer. The ruins of Marhan's ancient jerkin lay between them; they were fashioning Malaeth boots. She stood watching them.
Delaying. You know it. You and Nisana both. It was true; anything at the moment would have held her attention, kept her from the task at hand. But truly, she dared wait no longer. Lisabetha came willingly, docilely away from camp, sat where placed, on smooth, dry granite, a tree at her back. Her eyes, dark blue, overly large in the thin face, were open, glazed. Ylia sighed, closed her own eyes, took a deep breath, and began to prepare. Nisana sat between them, waiting.
They could continue to lead her. And feed and care for her. Tempting thought. But it was unfair to the others, particularly the men who must carry her when the ground was rough, and though they pitied her now, that pity would turn to dislike and anger, given time. No. No alternative. Nisana's thought touched her. ‘If you're ready—’
She sighed. ‘As ready as I'll get, cat.’
“She is beautiful.” A quiet voice spoke behind them. Ylia uttered a choked little sound, whirled around, dagger half from its sheath. Brelian stood behind her, an astonished look on his face. “I'm sorry, I startled you.” His attention was all for Lisabetha, though; he was already on one knee beside her.
“You—” Ylia bit back the rest of her comment, met the cat's eyes with astonishment. ‘He loves her.’
