by Ru Emerson
“Ylia?”
She started. “Bren—Brendan?”
He took her hand, dropped to her side. “I have not given you proper thanks for saving Brelian's life,” he began hesitantly. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful in your eyes.” And he brought her fingers to his lips. She stared at him, totally caught off guard, astonished. “And now,” his grip tightened painfully, “tell me what secret you hide from me, what secret you have hidden since I slew that bat-creature!”
“I? Secret?” She pulled to free her hand but his grip tightened again.
“Secret, my lady. Sent, you said,” he stated grimly. “I asked of that and you put me off. You put me off a while since over the stone knife. I will not be put off any longer. What are they?” His voice was low so it would not carry to the fire, but harsh with anger. “What was that bat-creature, and who sent it? How can I aid you when you tell me nothing?”
“Brendan, give me back my fingers, that is my sword hand you are crushing.” With a startled oath, he let go. “I—all right. Perhaps I should have told you. Events have intervened, though. And just now, I would have had to tell everyone. I would rather not.” A silence. “But I meant to tell you, believe that.”
“Then do so, now. What was that thing?”
“I cannot say exactly, because I have no idea myself. I swear it.” She met his eyes. “You want to know all of it? All right, then, listen!” And she told him—the footprints in the Hunter's Meadow; the Fear; the warning. “Of the seeming, you already know.”
“As much as I care to. Go on.”
“I know nothing of the thing you slew. I have never heard of such a thing, anything like it. But—” She hesitated, sought words that could, perhaps, explain. “I was aware beforehand that something was wrong, though I couldn't tell what it was; do you remember? Well, I know now. Someone of the Power—of a power—bridged a night-creature to us. It was that I sensed, the surge of power that accompanies a bridging. Though I did not have enough Power of my own, then, to know what it was.”
“Bridging.” He scowled at his hands. “It was somewhere else, and then, instantly, with us.”
“You pay good attention. It was sent to us. To us in particular. We are not alone in these mountains.”
“It was bridged to us, and then, when I slew it, the body was bridged back.” Brendan was following his own thought. “Who did this?” he demanded.
“I do not know. I wish I might never need to know. But there is still more you do not know.” She told him then of the seeming by the lake. “Unlike the other one, this was meant to look as it did. Like the bowmen in Koderra. It was set to snare one who held Scythia dear.”
“And I dared accuse you of fear because of a knife.” Brendan gazed at her unhappily.
“No, it is past. Do not worry it, Bren.”
“But—but how could anyone know—?”
“Know to choose that likeness? How else? Someone knows that I am here. And Nisana. Probably that someone knows something of each of us, by now. And do not apologize again, please, Bren, because I was afraid. I still am. Someone knows a great deal about us, about me, and I know nothing, except that he—or she—exists.”
Brendan was silent for a while. “And those things last night?”
“Mathkkra.”
He laughed. “No. They—they are only legend!”
“Then,” she replied dryly, “You have slain legend, my Lord.”
“But—no!” He shook his head, rather wildly. “They had no weapons, the Mathkkra. I know the tales, as well as any man. Merreven and his followers, they slew every one!”
“That was never likely. Think! It makes a good ending for an ancient tale, that all died, but how could we trust to the truth of such a thing? And Merreven's bards sang of it, but they could not have known for certain. And as to weapons, well: It has been five-hundred years. Merreven fought with a single-edged sword and a great shield—what man has worn such war-things in Nedao for over three hundred years? Why should the Mathkkra not change as well? It is not as though they were well armed, you saw the temper of their blades, didn't you?”
“But—Mathkkra!” He considered this in silence for some moments. “Mothers guard us! What will you tell the others?”
She shrugged. “The truth. I must, don't you think?”
He nodded reluctantly. “We must know what we fight. But —Malaeth and the girl—”
“Stronger than you think. Stronger than I think, even, probably. They will not be pleased, but they will deal with the knowledge. I find it amazing,” she laughed, “how easy it is to accept knowledge when there is no alternative. Don't you?”
Brendan laughed softly then. “We give ourselves airs. Why should a Mallick ascend from the Black Well to wreak havoc against such as us?”
“One does. Or a semblance of one. Something as evil as a Mallick. See, though, Bren, I am as much in the dark with such things as you. More, maybe, for the AEldra are blind to the black uses of the Power. It is said evil use was denied us by the Nasath.” She laughed again, but there was no amusement in the sound. “It frightens me, because I cannot understand it.”
“I thought,” Brendan said, gently mocking, “that there was nothing at all you feared.” His hand caught at hers again and held it lightly. She started, turned as Brel moaned. She freed herself from Brendan's suddenly nerveless fingers and, faint though the sound had been, Lisabetha came running.
In the dim light of fire and stars, Brelian's face was a mere blur against the ground; they sensed more than saw his eyes open. His hands sought Ylia's where they lay against his arm.
“Who—?” A mere hoarse whisper. He coughed. “Who—?”
“Myself, Ylia.”
“Where are we? Bren—Lisabetha—?”
“Well. They have kept watch over you.”
“The—Lady.” An even fainter whisper. “How does she?”
“Ask her. That is she to your left.” But Lisabetha backed away hastily and practically ran back to the fire. “She is well and unharmed, only she has not eaten or slept much today. Here, speak with Bren, I will bring you food shortly.”
Lisabetha sat close to Malaeth and her face was white; she did not look up as Ylia returned to the fire. The swordswoman ate quickly, scarcely tasted what was put into her hands, swore as she scalded her lip on the kettle. She took a portion of meat and the tea back to Brelian. He was sitting, wrapped in his cloak, his back against a tree,and hungry.
“And now,” he said finally, “if someone would only tell me what has chanced. Bren will not tell me a thing—I swear to you, brother,” he added testily, “there is nothing wrong with me!”
“I think we might piece it together for you,” Ylia said. Brendan cast her a reproachful glance. “If you feel well enough to join us at the fire, that is.”
Brelian considered this. Shrugged. “I—certainly. Never better. Your arm, Bren.” And with his brother's aid he stood, but refused any further aid and walked alone to the fire.
There was a deep silence as he came into the light. Lisabetha glanced up, let her eyes drop back immediately to her hands. Marhan gaped openly, but Lev was already on his feet, clapping the boy on the back. He and the Swordmaster made room for the brothers between them.
It was a jumble at first, with all of them, save Lisabetha, trying to tell the battle from a different vantage. Ylia went on, then, to tell him and the others what had passed in the caverns. She glossed over the sudden astonishing change in her AEldra Power, said nothing of the voice. “It—I suppose it was the fear of death, the threat of—of such a manner of death. For one moment it was the weak thing it always had been, and the next—” She shook her head, brought her portion of the tale to a close. Marhan picked up the last of it.
Brelian broke the ensuing silence. “I remember, I think.” He closed his eyes. “The battle in the fog, the sudden pain that nearly tore consciousness from me; I knew I was badly hurt, but somehow, it didn't matter, not like—like other things did. The tunnel—it wou
nd on forever, like the pits under the Black Well. Witch-fire—Lisabetha. The way back was—so very long.
“But mostly the pain, and then its lack. Time seemed to hold, then, and I remember Bren's face, uncertain whether I saw it in truth or only thought it, and I knew I would die. And yet, I have wakened in health, and where there was a wound I can feel nothing, nothing at all. And you tell me less than a day has passed.” He bowed across the fire. “I will pay the debt of my blood.”
“I thank you,” Ylia replied formally. The ancient vow acknowledged the saving of one's life at risk to the saver's own. I risked so little—almost nothing to save him. But she would not dare speak that.
Levren stirred. “I did not know you had the healing. Well that you do; Brel was hurt to the death when we found him.”
Ylia shook her head. “I did not have it until last night. Not the healing and never enough strength to use it. I am reminded, though. You,” she added pointedly, “limp. I will see to that tonight, Lev. We need you whole.”
He smiled. “You have no argument from me. I twisted it in the rock. It's not badly swollen, but it hurts.”
“And you, Golsat?”
He smiled faintly, touched his hairline. “You might have had to reattach my head, or at very least my scalp, had it not been for Levren. It isn't bad.”
If it hadn't been... She pulled her mouth closed with an effort. The Bowmaster shrugged. “It wasn't—"’
“Not much, it wasn't,” Golsat broke in bluntly. “I was down and at least five of those creatures were on me; I couldn't even get my sword up.” He inclined his head. “I hadn't thanked you for your aid, but not for lack of gratitude,” he said quietly.
Levren drew a deep breath, let it out in a rush and extended his hand. It cost him; not as much as it once would have. There was a time—not many days before—he'd no doubt have hesitated, and Golsat would have lain dead at his feet. His action on the ledges had been automatic, his fear that he might be too late as deep as it would have been for any of the rest of the company. “No need, friend.”
Golsat took the proffered hand, gripped it briefly. It was damp, tense. Not friends, not really. Not yet. “Mathkkra.” It still amazed him. “Who would have believed it?” He stirred the coals, dropped more wood onto the new flames. “I never thought them other than legend.” Brendan's suddenly amused eyes met Ylia's. “They are carried on poles at the Harvest-Fest, but I deemed them one with the other such things. Werewolves. Vampyres. You know—made up by folk who would then frighten themselves with the very things they create. Real terrors are enough for me!”
“Are you so certain the other things are make believe?” Levren inquired dryly. “Anything we meet hereafter will not surprise me!”
“But, what are they?” Malaeth demanded. Brelian laughed.
“And you lived in Nedao—how many years, Dame?”
“I had my hands full with Scythia and then with this girl,” she retorted. “I never had time for tales, and never time for the sort of tales that would rob me of sleep!”
“And yet you told me—” Ylia began, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Things in the mountains, yes,” the old woman broke in sharply. “Nothing like that!”
“I know of them.” Lisabetha leaned forward and gazed self-consciously at the hands she held to the fire as they all turned to look at her. “I have heard most of the old tales, like you, but I have also read many others no longer told in the land. Father gave many of the ancient writings that were kept in the Tower to the Chosen to recopy.” Her voice gained strength as she spoke. “They were never numerous, the Cavefolk. That our long kin could tell. They hunted in small bands and went abroad at night, preferring to avoid even light of moon, if they could. Mostly they ate small animals such as they could catch by snares, or pits, or thrown stones. But they found sheep easy prey and were not above killing the herder as well, if they could. They—they drank blood, and left the kill behind if it was large. Drained.”
“Ugh.” Malaeth shivered.
“But there is nothing in the old tales of Fear, is there?” Ylia demanded. Lisabetha shook her head.
“No. Nothing. And such a thing would have been recorded. Even though no accurate description of them survived, I think mention of the Fear would have.” She glanced at Golsat. “Small wonder you could not recognize them as Mathkkra. The figures from the Harvest-Fest bear no resemblance to what—what was on that ledge, do they? At Teshmor,” she went on haltingly, her eyes going back to the fire, “in my father's halls, there was a room where ancient things were kept. A chair of Bergony's, an old sword or so, painted shields, woven breastplates. Other old-styled weapons. Were you never there?” Her eyes met Brelian's; both of them flushed.
“I knew of it.”
“There was a knife. Black, smooth stone, with a leather thong threaded through its handle, its blade chipped into a sharp cutting edge. It was called a sacrificial knife, though that was conjecture, really. It was said to be Mathkkra, was said to have come from the Lord Merreven's raid, though of course this could not be known for certain. But—when I saw the one Golsat had, I knew, I knew what awaited us. I mean,” the high color left her face rather alarmingly. She stumbled on, “I knew what—had attacked you.” Mothers, Ylia whispered fervently, had I known what the weapon was, would I have borne up as well as Lisabetha did? Silence, which Marhan finally broke.
“All my days,” he said heavily, “I have held to my weapons, and they have served me well. Magic, and creatures out of myth, and again magic.” They had never seen him so unhappy. “I no longer know what I should trust.”
“Marhan. Look at me, old man.” Ylia could, suddenly, have wept for him; she moved to his side, gripped his arm as he looked up. “Nothing has changed overnight; things have only been added to what we already knew. Strange things, I grant you. Nisana saved us from those on the ledge, but we killed many with steel, Marhan. To each thing its place.” He tugged at his moustaches impatiently. "Listen to me! I have AEldra Power—the full powers of my mother's kind, I think, and unless there is a thing I do not know of AEldra Power, it is mine forever. But that is not my only safeguard. When a sword is needed, then I shall use that, but if the Power is called for to aid us, then that. To each thing its place, Marhan.”
“There is this, also,” Levren added matter-of-factly. “There will unfortunately be more need for fighting before we reach Aresada. So much is clear, even to me. And so is another thing: need for sleep, and as much of it as we can take. In pairs, for the watch tonight. Two together are less likely to doze. But the rest of us had better take what rest we can get. Now.”
Brendan and Ylia drew the third; Levren and Lisabetha garnered the first, to be followed by Marhan and Golsat. Marhan would have argued against Lisabetha, but Ylia came to her side and, in the face of two determined women, he gave up.
“On your head, boy,” he finally said, “be it.”
“I cannot fight, I admit that,” Lisabetha said flatly. “But my eyes are good and I can rouse the camp quite speedily if there is need. What else do you want, sir?”
Brelian laughed suddenly. “Trust her, Marhan! You have heard her—she could wake a drunken Tehlatt!”
“Huh.”
The Power itself is inborn; its uses require long and hard hours of instruction and longer and harder hours of practice. To know precisely how much strength is needed for a certain task—that may be the difference between saving three lives and only one; it may be the difference between bridging to safety, or not bridging at all. I cannot think which was more irritating: that the girl once insisted she had little so that I must push her to use it, or that she now used it so lavishly that I must bully her to hold back something of her strength against other need.
18
By the time the sun topped the eastern ridge the next morning, they were halfway down to Golsat's valley. Wide at its midpoint, it pinched off sharply to north and south: hours of sunlight would be short here. But it was a sheltered place, and ther
e was game.
Another stream came out of the north, dropped rapidly across the valley floor to a small lake, out its southern end to disappear finally in a boulder slide. Here were pools deep enough to cover the tallest of them, shallows easy for even old Malaeth to wade. Here were the red groundberries, bright against the pale, thick grasses; here, also, on the northern shore of the lake was a flock of the great geese that winter in the southern marshes. These were so unused to people they remained on the water and even allowed approach within a few lengths before they swam unconcernedly away.
They dropped packs and loose bits of clothing: Cloaks in need, all, of repair; Marhan's blackened and oily kettle, which needed not only a hard cleaning but a patch of some sort, for it had recently sprung a leak; Ylia's tiny healing pouch and the food bag—empty—she had filled in the great kitchens in Koderra a lifetime ago.
Even before they reached level ground, Levren was busily appointing tasks: Malaeth to begin gathering herbs—those that could be used for cooking as well as the healing varieties; Lisabetha to aid her in that if needed, but otherwise to weave more of the tough grass bags. The brothers with Golsat, for fish, unless Brendan would rather gather wood. He and Marhan would go for game.
“What of me?” Ylia demanded as they separated.
“You search,” Levren replied tersely. He and Marhan vanished northward. She sighed, dropped to the ground and pulled her boots off.
Malaeth gazed around at the tattered bits that were all their belongings and shook her head unhappily. “I am going to bathe my feet first; they are hot and dirty, and they hurt. ‘Betha, Ylia, you had better do the same. We will get more done thereafter.”
Brendan glanced at Ylia, mumbled something she couldn't quite catch, and strode off toward the woods. Golsat stretched, yawned hugely. “That was pleasant sleep I got last night, and I wager I could match it today. However.” He yawned again. “Ah, well. Brelian? What do you think—there, hm?” Brelian followed his companion's finger. Shook his head firmly.
