by Ru Emerson
“I can guess,” Ylia began, but the girl swept on, not even aware the other had spoken.
“That you were witches, you and the Lady Scythia—AEldran, possessed of the Ylsan Power, dedicated to the destruction of all who serve the One. That—that one day the King would die, and that Nedao would be ruled by magicians, as Yls is, and the land would be ensorcelled, the true faith prosecuted. So—so many of the Chosen say, those who were my tutors—so my nurse and many of my friends said.” She stopped, frustrated for lack of the right words. “I—it was what I knew, I never knew any of the—any of Yls, any—there was only one side to the coin, until I came to Koderra. Father—Mother—they never said such things, but, then Father was a good friend of King Brandt; they would not have said such things to me, even had they believed them. I—” She hesitated again, went on rapidly: “And so did another tell me.” She added no name, but she had no need; Ylia could, with a face to go with it. Vess! Foul cousin, a death at the hands of the Tehlatt is too clean for you. May we meet again, and you will know fear!
“You believed this of us, my mother and me? Old Malaeth?”
Lisabetha looked unhappy. “I—I didn't know. And those who taught me—Jers, my father's scribe until two winters ago, my tutor, he is a wise man, a devout follower of the One; how could I dare gainsay what he said? He knows good from evil and the kinds and ways of each; I know nothing of such matters. And—and yet—I was confused, afraid, when I came to Brandt's Court. For what they said of you, of the Queen—how could it be true? To heal, to save people from pain and death by magic—how could such a thing be evil?”
Ylia pressed her hands. Patience. Difficult, at the moment, to achieve, and yet, absolutely necessary. “How could you be held responsible for what you were given to believe?” How could Lord Corry have permitted such narrow men to form his only daughter's mind? “And—there is no need to tell me this, it pains you.”
“There is need,” she said flatly. “I have been more than a burden to you and these others, and you had better know the worst of it. All of it. I was a spy in your chambers, I would have been your death. I was to have been.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Brelian lay and then for the first time met her Lady's eyes squarely. “Your cousin, the Lord Vess. He came to Father's Court this last winter. I had seen him before, of course, though seldom near to hand. But—but all at once, he seemed—oh, amusing, and he spoke me fairly, his manner was all courtly around me. Now and again a rose, still wet with dew, would lie on my morning table, or a width of lace from Oversea would appear in my chambers, or a kerchief with scent from Nar.”
“Yes.” Ylia tried to keep the loathing from her voice. “They say he is fine-spoken with the ladies and has gallantry that serves him well.” She could not resist adding, “He has never used it on me.”
Lisabetha nearly smiled at that. “He would not. He fears you, for you have the AEldra Power. Though—though I have heard it said, also, that he finds you fair. He feared your mother.
“But I was an easy mark for him, I know that now; I had only begun to feel my woman's blood, to enjoy the flirting, the bandying of words with boys, when it before had seemed only silly. Vess was—he was like a hero out of the old tales, with his weapons-skill, his songs, his fine gifts, his pretty speeches. And I was a fool,” she added bitterly.
“'Betha. Could you tell Lossana, your mother, what you tell me now? Or Lord Corry, could you tell him?” She shook her head, and a dark flush spread across her cheeks and throat. Ylia once again fought down anger. “Never mind. The shame is not yours, girl. Vess has had the virtue of women older and more world-wise than you and I together will ever be. No, I can hold no blame to you.”
“I—I had no excuse. I was carried away at the time, I told myself that. But I gave to him willingly. And—and if my father knew—”
“He did not?”
“No, no of course not. Vess arranged it that I be sent to the City; a suggestion through my mother or her women—through the council, I don't know—”
“Never mind. I know how my cousin works.”
“That a suitable husband be found for me. Or that my position in the Queen's household might make me worthy of an Osneran noble. But it was a lie; for me there was none but Vess. Even after—even after he made me the bargain.”
“Silence on your loss of maidenry in exchange for my death.” Foul cousin, live yet, that I may find you! Lisabetha nodded miserably.
“A—a powder to put in your drink. And so much time to—to accomplish the deed. But,” she swallowed, blinked hard. “But I could not.”
“Of course you could not.” She lowered her voice; Levren and Golsat had returned to camp and both had cat's ears. “And you cannot think how glad I am!” That won another near-smile. “But you would not have done it, Lisabetha. Whatever Vess thought of you. You take too great a burden upon yourself, little sister.”
“But I—”
“No. Enough. Do not worry the matter further, ‘Betha. Please. And do not worry over Brelian. He will probably waken later today, as well as any of us. Probably better, for all the rest.”
“All right. I—thank you.” Lisabetha met her eyes, smiled tentatively. “I must look a sad sight,” she added, “if I am half as dirty as you, my Lady.”
They both laughed, a trifle shaky, more than a little nervous. “Ylia, same as everyone else. Please. There will be time enough later for the formalities. I don't care for them much anyway, you know that. And if I am half as dirty as you, I am surprised you recognized a Lady at all!”
“It wasn't easy,” Lisabetha admitted. Her eyes were warm.
“Well, let us eat first. Golsat has something over the fire. And then you and I will do what we can to find women under all this grime.” Lisabetha hugged her hard, and they walked back to camp arm in arm.
Marhan stared at them over the spits. Women. Make sense of them, try it. But Lisabetha's gaze was once again anxiously on Brelian and the hunched shape of his brother beside him.
“Would—would he let me keep watch, do you think?” She would not name Brendan. “I owe Brelian blood-debt.”
Ylia considered this, finally shrugged. “Perhaps. I will do what I can. Eat as soon as Marhan has something ready.”
Brendan sat with one hand on Brelian's cloak, his eyes staring blankly across the valley. Such was his preoccupation that he was not even aware of her presence until she touched his shoulder; he started, whirled around. “Bren. I told you he is well.” Gently, Ylia, he will crack into shards. There was a terrible tension to the set of his body, a wildness in his red-rimmed eyes. “He sleeps, but he must, to repair his strength. He is healed, though, I swear it. Or can you not believe what I say? Would you see where his wound was, and no longer is?”
He turned away, shook his head. “No. You would not lie to me, one arms-mate does not lie to another.” He shifted; a little of the tension seemed to go from him. “I watch, that is all. We are the last of our father's line, he and I, and so—and so I watch.”
“If that is so, then you must take care, Bren. Brelian is out of danger, but I am concerned for you now. We move again tomorrow, early. This place is safer than the ledge, but not safe enough.”
“You are concerned for me.” Brendan turned back to face her; his face wore that bemused expression that went with Brelian's sallies at his expense. “For me? Why?”
Why indeed? On a sudden impulse, she laid a hand against his cheek. He started, but did not move away. “Another attack will be the death of all of us, if we do not eat and sleep. You already look like death itself, Bren. You need food and rest. We cannot afford for you to be unready, should we be attacked again; you are the strongest fighter we have.” She leaned back, burrowed both hands under her cloak. “Lisabetha,” she went on, “has asked to watch while you sleep.” His head jerked up at that, and his eyes were hot. “No, do not glare at me! He would have died to save her, and she has acknowledged blood-debt! Do you think it was an easy thing for her to ask, knowing how yo
u feel? Would you throw such bravery back in her face?” Doubt was on his drawn face. “No. Such as you are, I know you will not. And how would Brelian say?”
Brendan gazed down at his hands. Shrugged finally. “So be it. Blood-debt, that is a serious thing. And—and Brel will be pleased. But I swear to you,” he added darkly, “I swear I will not see him hurt again by this wench, no. That I will not.”
She caught at his hands. “Thank you, Brendan.”
“Thank my brother, when he wakens.” But his hands tightened, briefly, on hers.
Marhan and Golsat had already portioned out some of the meat, and Lisabetha ate quickly, finishing almost before anyone else began. Then, stopping only long enough to wash her hands and face at the water's edge, she timidly approached Brendan. Perhaps she had feared what he might say and wished to get it over with, but he merely glanced at her, stood and walked over to find a place near the fire.
Watches were chosen, and Lisabetha insisted on her share. “I have shirked long enough,” she argued, and Marhan reluctantly gave her the first with himself. Ylia searched once again before sleeping, and stretched the personal shielding to encircle the campfire. How easy this time. She pulled the still sleeping Nisana close to her shoulder and was asleep in moments.
But dreams kept her from full rest. Once again, she fought against the horror in the tunnels, or ran, ran along twisting and turning underground ways that had no end, that narrowed, shrank until she must crawl and all the while the sound of running feet echoed from behind and ahead both. She was almost pleased when Levren roused her to share watch with a silent, withdrawn Brendan. She woke Marhan, fell back asleep then, and slept deeply and without dream. That she remembered.
She woke late in the afternoon to find Nisana gravely studying her. ‘You have grown.’ There was awe in her thought. ‘What chanced last night, to bring this?’ Ylia opened her memory; the cat sat a while, pondering. ‘Well—I said you would—’
'You needn't be so smug about it. But how can it be mine? I, who never had much at all, and then, suddenly—all this?’
'Whose else? Do you think the Power can be lent, like a comb? I told you, it simply is. There was a need such that you pushed beyond your own stupid arguments to take it.’
'Well—perhaps.’ She wasn't really convinced. ‘But then, whose was the voice? That was not my imagination!’
'One of the Guardians. Obviously.’
She laughed, she simply couldn't help it. Nisana glared at her indignantly. ‘Nisana. Nisana, I am sorry, truly! But—but the Guardians! Listen cat, I love the tales, you know that. But to believe in Mother's Ylsan folk tales—’
'You did not believe in Mathkkra until last night,’ Nisana objected huffily.
'No. Not until I saw them. Nisana, I am truly sorry. Perhaps I am too much like my father, but wishing to believe in something is not enough.’ They sat silently for a while; Ylia held out her arms, finally; Nisana, with a mental shrug, climbed into her lap and allowed herself to be hugged.
As stubborn and prejudiced in her way as the Bowmaster in his—though a change had come over the man since my kittenhood trick scattered the Mathkkra. And so, one could, I supposed, hope for eventual sense in the girl.
The sun dropped behind the mountains and the wind, which had blown fitfully through the afternoon, abated. The silence was total, save for the crackling of the fire. Marhan had meat on the spits and Golsat was pushing small fish into the coals.
“Food?” Ylia demanded wistfully as she came into the light. Her stomach was beginning to hurt, she could not remember the last decent meal she'd eaten.
Marhan grinned. “If you like it cooked the way this wild man does, there is food! For the rest of us, however, it will be a little longer.”
Golsat cast his eyes heavenward. “I never said I liked it half-raw,” he protested. “Only that I can eat it that way, if I must. Or raw,” he added thoughtfully, “if it is fish, and fresh...” his voice trailed away.
“Ah? Ah?” Marhan laughed. “You should have seen him. No, perhaps you should not have. The fish were barely warm.”
“It was hot enough,” Golsat replied, shoving the last of the fish into the red coals with a bit of stick. “It's these cities of yours. They soften you, turn you into old women—ah, eh, your pardon, Mistress Malaeth,” he added hastily. Malaeth made a primly disapproving little noise.
“Well, I think our old woman has done very well.” Ylia dropped down next to the old nurse. Malaeth had Marhan's kettle boiling and a soothing odor was wafting across the fire. “And never again will I believe she led the refined youth she has always told me.” She ducked, giggling, as an elderly but still accurate hand swung and a blow glanced off her ear.
“Never did think to come to this,” Malaeth said. She sounded perversely proud of herself. “Climbing rocks like a lad! Next I'll probably be climbing trees, or fighting with one of your swords!”
“Now, you know,” Levren began earnestly, “that might not be such a terrible idea.” He was interrupted by a muttered comment from Marhan, but the Swordmaster would not repeat himself aloud.
'Malaeth.’ Ylia leaned over to sniff at the kettle and laid a hand on the old woman's shoulder to strengthen the mindspeech. ‘It might not be amiss to add chamomile to that tonight, later. Perhaps a little dried lettuce also, what do you think?’
'If I had it.’ Malaeth's thought was thin, faint. ‘I have plantain, elder flower, raspberry leaf; but no soporific.’
'I have a little in my pack, I was holding it for such a time as this. Here.’ She undid the strings, handed it over. ‘That is all we have, use it as you think best.’
Often I wonder—to myself alone, since the girl would be scandalized if I shared the thought with her—how long it would have been, under ordinary circumstance, before Brendan and Golsat would have become friends? Or before Levren could gaze eye to eye with the Anaselan and not turn white and sweat? Battle and near-death brought them close where nothing else could ever have.
17
Levren made room; she dropped down between him and Marhan. Brendan, on Lev's other side, made no sign he was aware of any of them but studied the flames as though he were a seer. Lisabetha alone was not at the fire.
The swordswoman inhaled deeply. “I would have starved before now on my own, Marhan.” The Swordmaster nodded absently, but his eyes were fixed on his hands. “Are you asleep?” she inquired sarcastically. “You should have done that on your watches, old man!”
Silence. Then: “Go ahead, Marhan,” Levren prompted across her shoulder. “You said—”
“I know what I said,” Marhan snapped. He brought his head up reluctantly, met her bewildered eyes. “Meant it too. The girl has her mother's blood, like that cat's. AEldran.”
“I can't really help that,” Ylia said dryly. “Or an apology might mean more. Now what have I done?”
“You?” He was genuinely astonished. “Don't you mock me, boy! You warned me loud and clear up there, and I ignored you! Same as if—as if Golsat had seen tracks and I'd ignored him. If you hadn't returned when you did,” he continued, “Brel would have died, and I would have been to blame.”
“We were all dead when we entered the Foessa,” Brendan said bleakly. “Do not take Brelian's harm to yourself, Swordmaster. It was his choice, where and how he fought. And why.”
“Not entirely his choice,” Ylia reminded him. “And there is no need to lay blame.” Marhan shook his head unhappily. She caught at his shoulder, hard. “Stop it, Marhan! Why should you have believed me? What proof had I? I could scarcely believe myself!”
“If I may suggest,” Golsat cleared his throat. “You cannot agree on that subject, so let us have another, shall we? I would like to suggest we move north in the morning—not far. But there is a ridge just yonder, through those trees,” he gestured into darkness, “and another valley beyond that. There is game, a lake. I would feel better myself, I admit it, with a height between us and that ledge.”
“I suggest thi
s also,” Levren said, “that if it is a reasonably safe place, we stay there a while, a full five-day at the very least, to dry meat. We have been so far fortunate, between our hunting skills and the quantity of game in these mountains, that we have not truly gone hungry. It is not wise to trade on luck, though—not here. We may come again to a place where nothing lives, or chance may separate us.” Golsat surreptitiously made the Northern warding sign against evil.
“I agree.” Marhan nodded. “We have had fools’ luck so far. And we all need rest, not just Brelian.” His voice dropped so low that even Ylia, close by, could barely hear his next words. “And this pace will be the death of Malaeth.”
She opened her mouth; closed it again. He was right, of course: distance, cold, poor food and scarce. No rest. Malaeth had borne up wonderfully so far, but she was old. Old and soft. She could not take much more of their present pace; they dared not ask it of her.
“Such counsel follows my own thought.” Brendan looked up abruptly. “What do you say, though, Ylia? Are there more of the things that attacked us? And—and what were they?” Eyes still black with his brother's near-death held hers.
“We are safe for now.” She avoided his last question. “There are none alive of those who attacked us. That much I know. But I had better go and see to Brelian,” she pressed to her feet, “before the meat is ready.” The last, rather wistfully, to Levren. He laughed.
“Almost,” he promised.
Lisabetha sat with Brelian, a darker shadow among the overhanging trees. Ylia felt the pulse in his throat, touched his forehead. His face was cool, his breathing normal. But the girl at his side was drawn and anxious. “Have you eaten or slept, ‘Betha?” She shook her head. “He laid blood-debt on you, and you acknowledged that. So it is not right that you lay one on him in return, that you are haggard and worn when he wakens.”
“I—”
“Go wash, eat. If he wakens, I'll call you. Go on.” She watched the girl walk toward the fire and gingerly ease herself down next to Malaeth. She leaned back then, watching as the stars slowly became visible in the night sky. A bat flew overhead, vanished into the trees.
