by Ru Emerson
“When I opened my eyes again, I had drifted onto a sandbar some distance down-River and the pain in my arm had pulled me awake perforce. I cut the shaft close to the skin, since I could not remove it and could not bear the pain whenever it moved. Once again I went into the Planthe; the banks were dark, the moon down. I had no idea how far I had come.”
He paused, his normally impassive face grim and sad. “I found my mother the next day, in a cave along the River, at a place where the shores rise to great height. Not far from Teshmor. She had been unable to keep all the children together in the dark and so had clung to the youngest and most helpless, but my brother drowned during the night. My sisters reached the City before us; a fisherman found them down-River of my mother's cave, on an island, and brought them on. They lived in Teshmor until—” He paused, went on in the same flat, emotionless voice. “We never found trace of my father's body.”
A heavy silence fell. A night bird screeched sharply overhead and several of those around the fire started; Lisabetha cried out faintly, pressed a fist against her mouth. Marhan stirred. “Well. Perhaps your luck will hold for us, eh?”
Golsat raised his head. “Perhaps. I own we fared better than most. I certainly did—a green boy with his father's cutdown sword, his black hair marking him to the Tehlatta as clearly as stripes tell chipmunk from squirrel. And we are more here than an old man and green boy.” Of fears or hopes he might have for his remaining family, Golsat said nothing.
Brelian roused himself and volunteered to take the first watch; Golsat stirred, offered to aid. The two men strode into the night. Brendan gazed stricken after them. “Inniva's breath, what I called him—” He set his jaw, leaped to his feet and vanished into the dark. Levren gazed after them, closed his eyes. Beneath his cloak, his hands slowly unclenched. It seemed not as hard to manage, quite, this time.
Marhan was already half-asleep, Malaeth snored softly. Lisabetha lay close to her, wide-eyed and pale. Nisana slid away from the old woman, yawned widely, leaped neatly across her. Lisabetha started as the cat rubbed against her shoulder, stretched across her arm. Silence. One slender hand moved tentatively to stroke the soft fur.
'Thanks, cat.’
'Mmmm.’ Sleepy response. ‘She's warm and she has nice hands; I like that.’
Ylia stood, stretched hard, strode off toward the lake. Lisabetha would sleep, and sleep deeply. Nisana would see to that. One less thing to worry, but something else was working at the back of her mind, had returned after Golsat ended his tale. It worried her, the more so because she could not label it. If I knew—think, girl. She walked partway around the lake, retraced her steps. Finally she sat on a shelving slab of rock that overhung the water and listened to night noises: the distant drone of bees, the little rustling sounds of small, shy, beasts; the occasional bark or shrill cry from the distance. She watched starlight glitter on the lake.
“My mother, would you were here to guide me now,” she whispered, and the bitterness of the thought was alarming. She pushed it away; it returned. I should have saved her; she should have come with me. I swore it, I promised my father, myself, and what came of it? And, angrily: How dared you to leave me so, Mother? I'm alone, I'm frightened! She had sought death, what could anyone have done to restrain her? “Well?” she demanded of herself. “What could you have done, half-blooded, unskilled—powerless as you are—to restrain a full-blooded AEldra of the Second House?”
The water rippled with a light breeze and she gazed at it gloomily, drew her knees to her chin, let her thoughts float.
At first, she was not aware of the change in the faint light. But it danced; how had she not noticed? And such patterns, such beauty. She fought a yawn, suddenly had to fight to hold her eyes open. How could I have thought myself unable to sleep? The light rippled across the water, dazzling, swirling—shaping—a form, a person—Mother. Scythia, clad all in white and silver, stood before her.
'Ylia.’ The voice belled through her inner being, rainbow-shimmered arms reached. ‘Daughter.’
“Mother.” A knot loosed in her throat. Tears smeared her vision. She blinked them furiously aside. Mother. See how her arms reach for me, I must go to her. She stood, wavered light-headedly, her foot came down on a loose branch and twisted, throwing her to the rock. Pain in scraped palms and knees brought her to herself in an instant: No! She rolled, raised arms in the AEldra warding, too late.
With a shriek that burned the mind, the thing was on her, clawing at her inner being, pressing against her will. Its thought, horribly, still retained a semblance of Scythia. Do not resist—daughter.
“No!” She cried that aloud, or thought she did. No! But it was a battle with cobwebs, nothing upon which to fix a grasp. She clenched her teeth, held even as she realized I cannot hold, I am lost.
Gone. All gone. She lay as she found herself, sprawled face down on the hard rock. Nisana's small head filled her blurred vision. She tried to reach, had no strength.
Nisana radiated fury. ‘Fool! To come away from the fire and make yourself a target! Have you learned nothing these past days?’
“I—” She cleared her throat. “I have. Now. And I am glad you are here to tell me so.” She closed her eyes. Tears edged down her cheeks. “And I am very, very glad that I am still here to listen.”
The cat rubbed hard against her shoulder. ‘Mph. We need you. I cannot speak with your Swordmaster, and he would never listen to Malaeth!’
Ylia eyed her in astonishment. Laughter bubbled up; she silenced it. There was nothing humorous in any of it. “You—did you see?” she asked finally. “A—another seeming. And yet we sensed nothing of it—”
'No. Not like the other. It was not unformed, it was made to resemble Scythia and so set to have your inner being.’ Ylia shuddered, closed her eyes again. ‘Or mine, of course. Likely, though, yours. After all,’ the cat continued remorselessly, ‘the bat-thing chose you over the two helpless females we had with us. And think—’
“No. I will not, not tonight.” She leaped to her feet, turned to look back at the water only when they were very near the fire indeed. A shard of moon topped the eastern peaks. She breathed properly only when she gained the relative safety of firelight. She warmed herself at the fire: her palms were scraped, her knees were sore. Fortunately the heavy cloth of her trousers hadn't torn. Be sensible, you're safe now, she ordered herself sharply and moved to lay near Malaeth. Nisana crawled under her cloak.
'Sleep, girl. You will be safe, I'll see to it.’ Nisana soothed, as she had Lisabetha, pressed against Ylia's shoulder, purring gently until the girl's steady breathing told her she slept indeed.
She slept, my Scythia's child. I did not, the whole night: It worried me. How had I not sensed the thing which nearly had her? Or the unformed seeming of the previous night? Ylia would likely not have found it, but I should have, and that was not a false pride, such as our young hero bore, merely clear knowledge of my strengths. No. I feared even then that Ylia had the right of it. Something wrong, she had said. Something about the mountains—or in them.
13
It was late; she knew that by the warmth on her face even before she opened her eyes. There was no one else in camp. She sat up, stretched. At first, she could not even see anyone else; finally she picked out Lisabetha and Malaeth down by the lake. Somewhere back in the trees, then, Marhan shouting at Golsat.
The fire had burned down to coals; one leaf-and-grass-wrapped packet sat among the hot edging stones, close to Marhan's kettle. Pleasant odors came from both.
A wash first. She rolled to her feet, brushed dried grass and dirt from her pants, shook out the heavy cloak.
Malaeth smiled as she neared. “Hoo. Sleepy thing, you looked like a baby, all curled up like that.”
Ylia laughed, blushed. “Baby! Malaeth!”
The nurse laughed merrily, patted her shoulder. “Well, as near as I remember, it's been so very long,” she teased. Ylia cast a glance heavenward—if anyone ever won such a contest of words with her,
I would love to hear it!—and smiled at Lisabetha, who had tucked her skirts high so she could gather lily root and fresh cattail greens in the knee-deep water of the marshy shallows. Rather surprisingly, the girl smiled back, shyly, but a genuine smile, as she started back to the fire with her thick bundle.
“Nisana sent her sleep last night; I think she has not slept well since we came into the mountains,” Malaeth confided as soon as she was out of hearing.
“Mmmm. She sent me sleep last night, too.”
“I had no need of help,” Malaeth admitted ruefully. “But that was a bit more walking than I am used to.”
“By the way,” Ylia grinned at her, urchinlike, “when did you begin to snore, Malaeth?”
“I?” the old woman drew herself up indignantly. “I, snore?”
“It wasn't Nisana. But don't take my word, ask anyone at the fire last night.”
“Pooh,” Malaeth replied comfortably. She pulled her feet from the water to eye them critically. “You'd all lie; you think I don't know what your Swordmaster calls fun?”
Ylia laughed, bent to wash face and neck. The water was cold where it entered the lake, but not as cold as she had thought the night before. “If the sun stays out, we could actually bathe.”
“Well—” Malaeth cast a doubtful glance toward camp, an even more doubtful one at the water. “I suppose so.” She didn't sound terribly enthused. Ylia dragged her boots off, washed her feet and went barefoot back to her breakfast.
The day was mostly given over to rest, to drying the fish and bird Golsat and Levren brought in. Marhan improvised a rack of green branches to hold the meat and turned it over to Malaeth. For the rest of the afternoon, he sat hunched over his map with a purplish liquid of the old woman's distillation, incorporating Verdren's changes and landmarks into its faded surface.
The light wind dropped away in the early afternoon; Lisabetha and Ylia took a swim, washed those few items of clothing that would dry over the fire, kept watch for Malaeth after she found a place sufficiently secluded for her taste. She washed down with warm water from the kettle, spread her underthings on low bushes, out of sight.
The evening passed pleasantly. The party might have been a pleasure expedition instead of flight. In her wanderings around the meadow, Malaeth had found young chickory and set Brelian to digging the roots for her; there was a proper tea, finally, not merely hot water with herb flavoring.
Lisabetha was weaving a carry-bag from the tough lake grasses; she'd completed one for Malaeth earlier in the day, another for Golsat.
Marhan belched loudly, drew out his map and glanced up with a wicked gleam in his eye. “C'mere, boy. Double-check tomorrow's trail with me.” Brendan raised his head indignantly, but his anger gave way to bewilderment when Ylia sighed heavily and moved around the fire to the Swordmaster's side. Marhan grinned evilly. “Thought I meant you, hey?”
“Well—” Brendan spread his hands, shrugged.
“It's a habit of his,” Ylia was stiff with irritation in spite of all intentions not to let the Swordmaster get under her skin. “He has called me ‘boy’ for years.”
“But—boy?” Brendan looked at his brother, back across the fire.
“If you really want to know,” she pulled Marhan's hood down over his eyes as he opened his mouth to cut her off, “he thinks it a great joke. After all, how many Nedaoan swordswomen do you know?” She tapped her chest with one finger. “But my father knew I must have it when it was clear I was the last of his children and the one to succeed him. Of course,” she added diffidently, “I wanted it. Swordplay has always appealed to me more than—oh, needleplay, and the other diversions permitted young noblewomen.” It was Malaeth's turn to sigh; poor woman, she had tried! “And when my father brought me to Marhan to train, he flatly refused.”
“I did not!” Marhan protested as he pushed the hood back to his shoulders. “I only said—”
“That you had never tried to teach a maiden—heir or no—and were not about to begin at your age,” Ylia overrode him. “I was only a child of thirteen summers at the time, but I remember every single word you uttered that morning, Marhan.” The old man eyed her sidelong; some of his language had been strong indeed. “But Father wouldn't listen,” she went on, laughing at the memory, “fortunately for me! He just told Marhan he would have to adjust, old age or no, and that if he was too damn-fool stubborn to teach a girl, he could pretend I was a boy.” She leveled a black scowl at the old man. “And so he has called me boy ever since. When he remembers,” she added sweetly.
“Huh. Memory's all it ever was.” Marhan rattled his map. “Anyway, boy, what say we go this way and then—” a weathered finger traced across new, purplish landmarks. “Now, that hunter said it was possible to go this way, but I think if we came down further east—see, like so—and then he said there was—” Ylia followed him with all the concentration she had; it took that much to understand maps, and she admired the Swordmaster for his easy grasp of them. Not that she'd ever tell him so, of course.
Watches were kept singly to allow each as much uninterrupted sleep as possible. The next morning they were afoot before the sun topped the eastern ridges. They skirted the lake, forded a narrow brook and crossed the valley, bore north and a little west. They were deep in forest once again before they were twenty lengths past the far edge of the lake.
“Trail.” Golsat came back to join them. “Deer. It holds near the waterfall. Hear it?” Impossible not to. “It veers west near the top of the ridge, turns back north. Faint, but better than none, I'd say.”
“Mmmm.” That was the way Marhan liked it; a true path of some kind. It irritated him when, as in the open rock field, he was forced to admit to himself that his eyes weren't what they should be.
The water remained within hearing all morning but stayed out of sight. The trees were wide-spaced, the forest floor open. But still, they could not see any distance at all. For the first time in days, the snow-covered peaks were invisible.
Two days they traveled through heavy forest. The deer trail petered out early in the first afternoon, leaving them to rely on Golsat's sense of direction once again. The forest floor was thick with old needles, dead leaves.
The quiet was with them, the breathless hush they had come to associate with the Foessa, but never that unnatural silence encountered in the high ravine where the seeming was. Here were flowers on the berry bushes; a meadow thick with new yellow and lavender blossom, shoulder high, the heady drone of bees, and game, though they seldom saw anything but prints.
With no sign of anything unfriendly, even Nisana and Ylia began to relax, a little. Ylia spent most of the second day with Brendan, Brelian and Golsat, each one trying to top the others with outrageous old jokes and tales. Lisabetha, not far ahead with Malaeth, turned now and again to smile or laugh, though she still would not be drawn into conversation, and spent all of her time with the old nurse and the Swordmaster.
The next day saw them once again climbing through loose rock into a region of wind-twisted, gaunt pine, and then above even those. Just above tree line, they rested and took a long-overdue noon-meal while the foreguard searched out the easiest way down.
Marhan brought back the good news: “There is a trail, not far ahead.” He dropped to the ground, gratefully accepted his share of the food and Brelian's water bottle. He was a little short of breath. “It leads to a ledge—wide and grassy—looks about two leagues long. But smooth and level.” He swallowed. “There is another valley below that; I think we can reach it before dark. With luck.” He chewed, washed down a rather tough bit of cold rabbit.
Malaeth fetched a relieved sigh. “This roundabouting is wearing. Come, Brel,” she held a hand out to him, “help me up.”
“If we can make better time there,” Marhan began apologetically.
Malaeth sighed again but nodded. “If the footing's better, I can try, Swordmaster.”
He flushed, a rare thing. “It's just—”
“Just,” Brendan put in, �
�that we'll be until first snows at the rate we're presently walking. No, Malaeth, it's not your fault,” he added, “But—”
“Never mind, lad.” Malaeth patted his shoulder.
Far overhead, a raven cried harshly. There was shelter almost immediately from the ever-present high-country wind as they dropped down into a field of snow and ice-moved boulders. On the edge of hearing: water; the faint hiss of wind through the forest still well below them. Human footsteps rang loud and foreign.
Marhan led, followed by Lisabetha and Malaeth. Brendan, Brelian and Levren then, together. Golsat. Ylia brought up the rear, Nisana's travel pouch now slung, much more comfortably, across her back.
She halted abruptly. A slithering of rock that did not belong to them, behind but a length or more to the right of the way they had just come. She listened intently—nothing. She shrugged, hurried to catch up. A sharp, thin “click!” rang in her ears as something struck hard against her left shoulder. She fell, more from surprise than the force of the blow.
“Golsat!” she hissed, and spun back around, crouched. Nisana was already on the ground, testing the air. No one to be seen or sensed, though there was certainly proof someone had been there. Golsat reached down to scoop up the glittering object near the swordswoman's feet: a black, hand-chipped and polished knife, its handle inlaid with tiny bits of shell. The tip was broken. He searched further, gathered up another finger's worth of blade from between two rocks.
“That was foiled by my mail.” Ylia glanced across her shoulder cautiously. The others had stopped but were not close enough to hear. Good. She waved, smiled reassuringly. “Nothing important. Go ahead!”
“All right?” Levren demanded.
“All right!” she shouted.
Golsat balanced the knife on his hand. “Well. This is interesting.”
