by Ru Emerson
“No. Nisana and I will go for more; we alone have any protection against such an evil as that.” ‘I hope, girl.’ Ylia closed her eyes briefly. ‘Thanks, cat.’ “Swear to me you will not look away from that fire!” She swallowed, strode into the trees.
Not so terrifying, once she forced herself to move. Even without the second level of Sight, this near the camp she could see well enough, could of course see the rest of the company huddled together around the now high-burning fire. ‘An unformed seeming!’ Nisana was stunned, still scarcely coherent. ‘I have only heard of that kind of thing, it is among the most vile uses of the Power—who would set an unformed seeming?’
“And who could expect it to catch prey in such a deserted place as this?” Her voice, she was absurdly pleased to note, was steady once again. That, at least. “Fear—an unformed seeming—Mothers, what else walks these mountains, Nisana? Lisabetha may have been right, we may have done worse for them than if we all died in Koderra!”
'Nonsense!’ the cat retorted crossly. ‘Do not speak like that, poor, foolish child; you banished the thing, after all. And alone, when I had no wit to aid!’ What she had seen, what had shocked her so deeply, she would not say. Ylia decided she had no desire to know.
“And—and if I had not banished it, and it had invaded me?” It smote her, suddenly, just what she had faced. Her knees nearly buckled. She bent to wrap shaking hands around a dry chunk of wood, forced one deep, slow breath after another. The sickness passed.
'Why think on it, since that did not happen?’ Nisana demanded reasonably. She was nearly her normal, cat-practical self once again. ‘And we take overlong with the wood; they worry back there.’
“Of course,” Ylia replied dryly, but there was affection there, too. She freed a hand, rubbed soft, dark ears.
They made four trips altogether, until a stack of thick branches and one long log lay just outside the camp.
The others still huddled together, staring intently into the fire. All save Lisabetha, who lay, eyes closed, in the comfort of Levren's arm. Ylia dropped exhausted between Marhan and Golsat, warmed chilled fingers. She could not bring herself to meet what must be angry looks. She'd shouted at them, bullied them. However necessarily. “I—I'm sorry, all of you.”
“Why?” Marhan demanded sharply.
She shrugged. “For my harsh words. I was afraid, and there was great danger. For all of us. But I was afraid, mostly, and fear overrode sense. I shouldn't have shouted. I'm sorry.” Lisabetha raised her head, gazed at her with dark, tragic eyes. “Lisabetha.” She met the girl's eyes with a visible effort. “That was not your brother, I swear it.”
“I know it,” Lisabetha whispered finally. “Gors is dead. But—but it looked so like him. I forgot all, save that.”
Ylia eyed the rest of the company. “There, you see? That is how a seeming is.” She sighed, then. “So much for a decent sleep tonight, for any of us. Tonight, of all nights. However,” she added, forcing a little life into her voice, “Nisana and I will take first guard. We'd better watch in pairs tonight.” No one argued.
“That thing—what if it returns?” Brendan wanted to know. “Can it be touched with steel?”
“No. You wouldn't in the guise it had for you, though, would you?”
“I—no. But you and the cat cannot watch for the entire night!”
“No. I do not intend to. As for protection—I know of nothing, I fear. With other evils, well, you must know as well as I, which fear steel or iron, which fear fire or light of sun, the burning of certain herbs, or the circle and silver triangle of the Mothers. But a seeming—no. And the warding I used against it is an AEldra thing.
“You could not see it as it truly is, my friends. It has no form, no being. It is Power, raw force, like a snare triggered when a small beast blunders into it. There is no protection against an unformed seeming, save not to look upon it.” She paused, tried to think.
'Ylia.’ Nisana pressed a suggestion of her own.
'I don't think I could—’
'My strength, of course. Try it.’
'Well—’ She closed her eyes, concentrated, bolstered her strength heavily with Nisana's. “Do you see it?” Marhan's eyes went wide as the pale colors of the AEldra Power danced around her plaits. “I can stretch this to surround us all—at least, I can if we stay very close together tonight. It's not complete protection. But it will warn me if anything evil approaches. And it may well frighten such a thing away, thinking us better armed than we are.” The light flickered and died. “I will rekindle it when I waken you and Brelian, Marhan.”
The Swordmaster heaved a sigh of relief when it vanished. He and Brelian exchanged unhappy glances, but neither said anything aloud. Levren built up the fire and rolled into his cloak. The rest followed suit.
It is my considered opinion, having crossed the terrain we traveled that day, that the folk of Nedao have there a perfect model for their Black Well. A more hellish, cold and miserable land I have never seen, and hope never to again.
10
The night stretched; watch followed watch under a cold, moonless sky. Of all the company, only Nisana truly slept. Ylia tried, knowing that for the sake of her companions she must appear confident of their safety. Brendan feigned sleep after his share of the watches, his body relaxed against the hard ground; only his breathing gave him away. No one else seemed able to close eyes at all. Brelian and Brendan had the fire built high and water heated at first light.
There was little to eat—only a few terribly dry pieces of biscuit, a little cold bird, some stale fish Levren shared out. As soon as there was sufficient light to make out the footing ahead, they were gone.
But the trail was lost in scree before day properly broke, and they wandered in a world of biting wind, narrow gullies and ravines, where footing was hard and treacherous, where rock bruised feet even through heavy boots or rolled treacherously from underfoot. A constant chill air flowed across the ground. Lungs burned. Hands clawed at rock that too often tore loose from crumbling yellow dirt, frozen fingers slipped across rough granite and bled stingingly.
They took it in bits; necessary, since it was impossible to see any distance at all and because no one could bear to face longer stretches. Cut into pieces, it was still not easy, only easier: another distance, that pile of red and grey rock—so. And now up and across, and down again. Halt in what little shelter a narrow cut in the cliff gave. On again—remember to stand slowly, for the air is still thin and a blackness teases the eye and mind of those who rise too quickly. Sway, grasp at cold rock with chilled, aching fingers, try not to cry out as the icy wind strikes again, tearing through cloak and mail alike. On once more.
It was impossible to choose any kind of route here, for there was no place from which they could oversee: At most, they gained a ridge from which they could see more rock, another ravine or two, and from that, take a direction. Left unspoken was the dread that they blundered toward a place unpassable, that they would need to retrace their path.
During the second hour, Marhan ordered a longer halt. His maps and Golsat's fine-honed sense of direction were useless.
Damn. He didn't like his options at the moment, but nothing else presented itself. They were going to have to send a scouting party ahead to find the best trail—any trail. And the two best trackers among them—Golsat and Levren. He could send one of them, but two would be more than twice as efficient. And they needed out of this foul high country, and that before dark.
Malaeth and the girl could clearly go no farther without a prolonged rest. Damn, and damn again. No help for it. The old Swordmaster sighed, walked away from his huddled companions, caught the Bowmaster's eye, drew him after.
“Marhan? You don't look pleased. Anything else gone wrong?”
“No—just what might,” the old man growled. “Listen, our odd lad there, I know you've a problem, and I know it's not only him—no, listen first, will you? If you had to, could you deal with it enough to work with him?”
> Levren gnawed at his lip; he'd gone pale. “Marhan, it's not a thing I chose, you know that.”
“I know that. You've done well this far, and I know it's much to ask of you. You're the only decent scouts among us, you and he, and you're the only ones with enough energy for what we need. Someone has to go ahead, make certain we're not heading for a box canyon, find us a proper way and get us down among the trees again before night.”
“I—I know. No food, no reserves, no firewood, even. But I—”
“I'll send young Brelian with you; you needn't even talk save to him.” A tense silence. “Look, I don't ask you to make friends. Just—deal with it, if you can. Can you do it?”
Levren drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, let his gaze travel back to the chilled, exhausted company. He forced himself to look directly at Golsat. A lump like fear or sickness formed in his throat; he swallowed, closed his eyes until it went away. But the knowledge he'd do what Marhan wanted was already thick in his mind. He had to; the old man was right, all around. “I—I can try, Marhan. I can't promise anything, but I'll try.”
The Swordmaster clapped him on the back. “Good; I knew you'd never let me down. And he knows to avoid you.”
“I know.” Mothers, what a thing for one man to need know of another. He drew another deep breath, let it out even more slowly as Marhan walked away, drew Brel and Golsat off in the other direction.
Levren swallowed, hard. All right. A man does what he must—you dealt with those Narrans, a year past, at Brandt's request, and they never knew how even sight of their foreign faces curdled your guts. Once again, he forced his eyes to dwell, briefly, on Brelian and his darker companion. No easier this time. Likely it never would be, not at his age. He is of use to us, of use to Nedao. You need not talk to him, just to the boy. That helped, a little. Enough that he could bring up a small smile in the general direction of the three men when Marhan, Brel and Golsat came toward him.
Golsat, they decided, would lead, since he had done the most pathfinding, and his sense of direction was near infallible. The others gave them a rather anxious send-off.
“Give us a full hour before you follow,” Golsat advised, “lest we need to retrace any of our way. We will leave rock stacked—so,” agile hands made a familiar pattern of four rocks, “or branches where we can—” He broke off, grinned at the Swordmaster briefly. “I certainly need not tell you, need I?”
“No,” the old man replied dryly. “I know how to mark a trail also. We will see you by evening meal.”
“Mind it is evening meal, too,” Malaeth began with a heroic effort at her usual bantering tone, but she broke into harsh coughs.
“We shall indeed, Dame, by the Mothers’ favor,” Golsat replied gravely. He motioned to his companions, then; they climbed into the wind. Brelian's cloak flared out wildly above his head as they dropped down out of sight.
“And may we see them again,” Malaeth whispered. Lisabetha closed her eyes, pressed further back into the slight shelter of two uptilted slabs of black rock.
“Of course we shall, Dame,” Brendan said firmly. “They are the best we have for this sort of thing, and doubtless this foul place is merely a small field which we shall see an end to before the sun drops from nooning.” Malaeth smiled at him, but it was a forced, exhausted thing, and she leaned back against the Swordmaster, closed her eyes once again. “We'll see them, if only at the bottom of the Black Well,” Brendan finished grimly, so quietly that only Ylia, huddled in her cloak behind him, heard his last words. She stirred, touched his arm.
“The Mothers would not send us there, do you think? The Black Well, instead of the White?” Anything to take her mind from the white-faced Bowmaster following Golsat up that rock-strewn ledge.
Brendan considered her question gravely and with more attention than it would have merited in another place and time.
“Perhaps,” he said finally. “But why would a warrior choose the White Hall, and the eternal feast? King Wergn, they say; did not, but when Lel-san tied the threads of his life she gave him choice, and he took the road to Hell, that he might yet confound his enemy.” The faintest of smiles lit his normally somber face.
She edged nearer, gave him a tentative smile in reply. “I had not heard that tale, and I am well versed in our history. I know how the Great Isles were taken from us in siege—”
“By the Sea-Raiders, who hold them to this day—”
“—and how Wergn made the bargain with them, that the folk who could or wished to might go hence—”
“—and so many did that the sea was ablaze with the many-colored sails of their ships—”
“—that did, but only if Wergn and his Council remain as surety against treachery.” She was taking fire from the conversation, could see the answering color in his face. Cold, Lev and Golsat, the night's terrors were temporarily forgotten: from childhood, she had loved best the tales of Wergn and his brave Queen Leffna, she who had led the folk to the Plain, who had fought personally, sword to sword, against the Tehlatt. “And when his Lady would not leave, he ordered her bound and taken aboard the ship perforce. But he never came to the Plain.”
“Slain by treachery,” Brendan said. His speech was almost a minstrel's chant. He must also, she realized with a kind of wonder, truly love the old tales. “By the treachery of the Sea-Raiders, with the aid of one of his inner council who saw him as traitor to Nedao—but by treachery in any case, for no other way could serve against such a man.” He met her eye then and flushed. When he spoke again, his voice was more normal. “Well. It is said in the North that when he came before the Mothers and they judged him, the bargain was then made.”
Silence. “Inivva,” Ylia murmured finally, “she who chooses the thread; Noteyen, who lays the warp and weft; Lel-san, who ties the knots when the weave is complete—”
“Mothers of the sacred Well of Life, guard us now.” Brendan touched his fingers to his lips. He smiled then, rather diffidently. “Many of the North follow the ways of the Chosen, but as you see, I do not.” Lisabetha, an ardent disciple of those same Chosen, scowled at him indignantly. Brendan shrugged. “Their god is no warrior, is served by no warriors, how should I understand such a god? Why, they do not even have tales of a single hero—if they have any, that is!”
Ylia clapped a hand across her mouth; above it, her eyes were merry. “Do not look at me to gainsay you,” she said, “you know what I am. The Chosen look upon AEldra as servants of their Evil One, even such a blameless creature as Malaeth, or an unskilled, such as me.”
“Well, then,” Lisabetha demanded suddenly, “what do you believe in, you AEldra?” She stopped short, her face red to the ears.
Malaeth touched her arm. “It is a fair thing to ask,” she said mildly, “though not of this one,” she added, waving a hand toward her charge. “Ylia mouths the prayers of Nedao and Yls both prettily, but she believes in nothing but her steel!” Ylia opened her mouth indignantly, closed it as Malaeth went on regardless. Brendan caught her eye, winked gravely. “The AEldra do not have gods. We look upon the One or the Mothers as a way of putting a face, a being, to that which cannot have such a thing, a way of understanding that which cannot be understood. To the AEldra, there is good and evil. There are also the Nasath, the Guardians; they who gave power to the AEldra. They are not gods, though many worship them and call upon them as if they were. For we have not seen them in many hundreds of years, not since they laid upon us the Gifts. They watch, it is said. But none know for certain, and none of Yls have seen a Guardian.”
Marhan roused himself with a huge yawn. “All this talk of gods is putting me to sleep,” he grumbled. “It has been long enough, we had better set out after them.” Malaeth closed her eyes briefly, but held out a hand for Brendan's aid and staggered to her feet. They set out in the direction the foreguard had taken.
“Well, I cannot see a thing!” Marhan's temper, never even in the best of times, had given way long since, and he was in as foul a mood as he had ever been. Br
endan set his lips in a sour line.
“Shall we stop here, then?” he demanded sarcastically. “The women will thank you! There is less shelter here than where I suggested we stop, but you would not listen—”
Ylia stepped between them. “Stop it, both of you; my head aches, I'm cold, hungry, wet and tired of all this snarling.” She shifted her shoulders, felt a trickle of water slide down between her shoulder blades where the seams on her cloak had been imperfectly lanolined; bits of hair stuck to her forehead. Brendan returned her scowl, glared at the old Swordmaster, stalked away muttering. Marhan rolled his eyes skyward and started out again. “I cannot see any great distance, either,” she added, “but it seems to me—”
“Do you wish to lead, lead,” Marhan cut in nastily.
Only long-instilled caution kept several tart remarks behind her lips. She pushed past him in the direction where it seemed there might be a pile of stone. The second level of Sight was useless, regular sight not good, and Nisana of no aid at all. She, when it began to rain, had crawled determinedly down into the travel pouch which hung at Ylia's breast, under the cloak. At least one of us is dry, she thought miserably. It wasn't really any comfort.
The stack of four neatly piled rocks pointed right. She glanced over her shoulder, but maintained that same careful silence as they passed it. Blind old man, why he can't admit it instead of stubbornly trying to lose us all. On a day like this, he might as well wear an eye cloth and carry a stick to feel his way. She waved an arm overhead, caught Brendan's attention. He'd moved westward across the open field in hopes of finding the marker. Relief was in his face as he rejoined them and took up rear guard. They plunged into a narrow cut, followed its twists and turns. Ylia stepped aside to let Marhan go ahead once more. In such a place, there was only one direction and no danger he would lead them astray as he had done in the open.
“A ledge, just ahead,” he called out suddenly. He bundled Malaeth and Lisabetha out of the rain, took the bits of wood they'd gathered over the past hour or so and built a fire. It was necessarily small and didn't last long, but it warmed hands and feet.
