by Jim Grimsley
“We’re early,” Karsten noted. “We made better time than we planned.”
Imral hovered near the door. “The city’s full of troops, and more arriving all the time.”
“You think they’re looking for us?” Her question went unanswered.
Kirith Kirin sat beside me on the narrow bed. He stroked my hair and felt my forehead again. “You should rest. We’ll be leaving tonight.”
I lay along the straw, curled at his back. If I closed my eyes I would soon drift away. It was as if all my humanity had come back to me, and none of the strangeness had lingered. “Who’s meeting us?” I asked.
He lay his finger to his lips. “You’ll see.”
Drowsiness enfolded me, I don’t know how long. When I woke, only Karsten and I remained in the room, and someone was pounding at the door. Soldiers burst inside as I sat up, a grizzled woman barking at Karsten in an accent I could hardly understand. I stood from the bed and she saw me, her eyes narrowing.
Karsten lunged for me, but too late. Hands grasped me and led me into the courtyard, where they held me while runners hurried off. I waited, hardly breathing, with Karsten pinned against the wall by three of the soldiers. I signaled her with my eyes that she should not struggle, and she played the part, another ragged peasant mother afraid for what might happen to her son. After some time, a woman rode into the courtyard astride a healthy horse. Beyond, other soldiers had completed the search of the hostel, and waited. The commander put herself forward and said something. But the woman on horseback had eyes only for me.
My scalp prickled when I saw her. She had power, this one, and eyed me up and down. She was reaching toward me, her lips moving, muttering Ildaruen. I was what she wanted, and for a moment she knew it. A gleam of triumph consumed her features, and she gestured that I be brought forward. I took a deep breath.
I looked into her eyes. I am not who you think, I told her, all in silence; I am not the one you want; a simple thought. I gazed at her evenly, and breathed; and suddenly her expression became downcast and she gazed sourly at the commander. “This urchin?” she spat. “You think this is the one?”
“He’s the right age, my lady, and he fits the description,” the soldier stammered, but when I turned to look at her, she filled with sudden doubts, as though she were seeing me for the first time.
“Look at this wretch,” the mounted woman shrieked, kicking my shoulder with her stirrup. I ducked from the kick and took even breaths. “A pup not even fit for labor camps. He hasn’t eaten in a month, look at these bones.” She poked my side with her staff and spat at me. “I haven’t ridden two days from Ivyssa to find a starveling country bastard.” She gestured that I be taken away. Someone grabbed my shoulders hurled me toward Karsten, who caught me and pulled me close. We huddled in the door to our room. The mounted woman drew up tall in the saddle. “So if that’s the best you can find, we’re done here, I suppose.”
The commander nodded, downcast. The witch wheeled her horse and rode through the low gate, ducking her head. They headed elsewhere, and we watched as the last of their party filed out. Karsten whispered, “That was neatly done.”
I had felt no power, no Wyyvisar moving through me. Something had changed.
We closed the door, with the bolt now burst loose, and waited. Karsten stayed close to the greasy window, looking out, till nearly dark. Then she gestured for me to come and we took up our packs, hurried into the street. I had no idea our journey was beginning at that moment, but we never returned to the hostel, and what became of the horses I don’t know. I imagine, in a city as hungry as that one, someone ate them.
She led us toward the waterfront, I could smell the salt in the air. Kirith Kirin and Imral Ynuuvil met us at the dock and we hurried below, into a boat. We cast off from the dock and Karsten and Kirith Kirin rowed us, dipped their slim oars silently into the black water. They picked their way among the moored boats, the hulls of the few merchantmen still in service. They rowed along the quay that leads from the city harbor into the open water of the bay, all calm, hardly a breeze stirring. Only there did anybody speak, and even then in whispers. “We were visited,” Karsten said, and I could feel the attention of the others.
“When?”
“This afternoon. Hours ago.”
Imral cursed quietly and Kirith Kirin asked, “Who? How many?”
“Thirty soldiers, by my count. They searched the hostel room by room.”
“And?”
She sighed. “They found us. They knew Jessex and it was clear they were searching for him. They took him to wait in the courtyard and sent for the new one, Cormes. She showed up and took one look at him and suddenly lost interest and took the troops away, to continue their search, I suppose.”
The name was familiar to me, but I could not place it. Was she someone still alive, from my time? “You’re sure it was Cormes?” Imral asked. “You got a good look at her?”
“Oh yes. It wasn’t hard to guess he would send her. She was stationed in Ivyssa, we already knew that.”
“She lost interest,” Kirith Kirin muttered, and I could feel him watching me. “I suppose I know what that means.”
“She wasn’t very skilled,” I said. “But if Drudaen questions her, if he examines her, he’ll know it was me.”
He blew out breath, but said, “All right. He knew we were here anyway. He knows you’re out of Aerfax, if he’s looking this hard. So no harm done, as long as he doesn’t find us.”
He won’t, I thought. But I said nothing.
We rowed down the coast, taking turns at the oars. With the white moon in crescent we had light; near midnight we headed for the coast again. Imral and Karsten, who were rowing, drove the boat through the gentle surf, and as we waded through shallow water to the beach, a cloaked figure stepped toward us, beckoning. I hardly glimpsed the outline of the person beneath the cloak, but I sensed it was a woman, and she led us through low dunes and sea grass, a hard passage with the sand always shifting underfoot. The smell brought back my memory of Kleeiom, those last days before I slept, walking with Kirith Kirin along the water’s edge.
Another woman awaited us beyond the dunes, with fresh horses. One of these I knew by smell. He recognized me too, though he had the good sense not to whinny. I buried my face in Nixva’s mane, turned to find Kirith Kirin grinning. “He’s waited a long time for this,” Kirith Kirin whispered, and we all mounted, all those familiar horses tossing their heads, Artefax and Kaufax, the Keikin, two other royal horses for the women who were our guides. Walking the horses through the sand, we presently came to a trail and followed it, and rode along the vestige of a trail, passing the dark shape of a house behind solid walls. We rode, and I was on Nixva’s back again, and leaned over him and nearly whispered Words to him, but caught myself at the last moment.
Now we were six, and well mounted, and I had a feeling of safety from their presences, even without knowing who the guides were. We made good progress along that road, which ran, as I guessed, through Amre country, east of the city. We were headed toward the Onge forest, but not traveling along the main road.
We stopped for shelter in a round-house, abandoned but mostly intact. We lit no fire but contented ourselves with cumbre and some good cheese one of the women had brought. Spreading pallets on the cleanest patch of floor we could find, we slept a while, and rose before dawn, and saddled and mounted the horses.
I have traced our route since, and know we rode far to the east of Novris, hugging the Amre foothills in the shadows of the Barrier Mountains. Riding from the dusk of early morning into the thin light of day, we streamed over the countryside on those good horses, stopping for water at a clear stream that flowed down through the hills, eating more cheese and bread and riding on. By daylight I studied the two women who had become our companions, one dark-haired, the other with hair the color of fire; they were dressed in the same rags as we were, with tattered cloaks and worn boots, and I fancied them guides hired for the journey, or else soldiers in Ki
rith Kirin’s service. They sat their horses with the skill of Woodland folk. I was suspicious, and could easily have known the truth then, if I had wanted. We rode, all of us, till late in the day we entered the Onge forest.
Chapter 25: CHALIANTHROTHE
1
We headed east along a hunting trail. I had expected we would make camp in the open woods, but we pressed forward past sunset, stopping only to water the horses at one of the creeks that descends out of Suvrin Caladur.
I felt the house before I saw it, beyond the twist of a creek, standing in a grove of trees. The outlines of the cottage loomed over us as we approached, and the women hurried forward and dismounted. We others followed, but more slowly, as one of the women struggled with a ring of keys and the other beckoned us forward. The house was neither large nor grand, but, unlike anything we had used for shelter lately, it had an aura of solidity. We entered through a door in good repair into a narrow antechamber; we carried our packs and crept into the center of the cottage, where Karsten lit an oil lamp stored in a cabinet.
We stood in a comfortable room, recently swept clean of dust and cobwebs, furnished with chairs, ottomans, cushions and thick carpets. The red-haired woman knelt by the broad stone fireplace and lit a fire; the wood had already been laid and waited only for the touch of roch in her hand. That she carried roch surprised me but I assumed one of the twice-named had given it to her. She glanced at me and smiled. She had the broad face of the people of Vyddn, a smattering of freckles across her nose. Timid, she turned quickly away. But I had time to note her beauty, the strength of her limbs, the clear milk of her skin beneath the freckles.
Kirith Kirin had stayed outside with Imral and the black-haired woman, one could hear them settling the horses. I had time to look around, noting the good hangings on the walls, the clean stone floor, the rooms that opened off this one, a small eating room and a kitchen, a narrow closet for winter gear, a study of some kind, a narrow stair; this was someone’s hunting lodge, I guessed, though it had been out of use for a while. The adjoining rooms were not in such good order as the sitting room where the fire was burning. Karsten caught me snooping and said, “Curious?”
I shrugged. “A little. What is this place?”
“A summer lodge. A place we knew about, where we could be safe for a night.”
When the others came inside the black-haired woman laid out food in front of the fire, real stuff like I hadn’t seen since I’d wakened, fresh cheese and winter fruits, salted hams and dry breads, even a flagon of wine and Drii brandy, a feast after what we’d found for ourselves on the road. We sat down anywhere we could find a space and drank and ate, and I sighed at the comfort of the fire, the cushions, the gentleness of the room. We might have been dropped down into some peaceful time, I might almost have believed that, except for the anxiety on all their faces, the ones I knew and the ones I didn’t. Hardly anyone spoke while we ate, till the wine and the fire had warmed us some. Outside the wind had picked up, one could feel the teeth of the cold through the walls. Imral remarked, “I wouldn’t be surprised to see a storm tonight.”
“We might get snow, so close to the mountains.” The red-haired woman had a rich voice, like a low flute, that one could feel as well as hear.
“I’d be glad of that,” Karsten said, “to cover our trail.”
“You think we’re being followed?”
“If we’re not, we will be.” She told the story of Cormes and the soldiers in the hostel courtyard while the red-haired woman stirred the fire. The other woman listened attentively, glancing at me once, then away.
“That would be Cormes,” she agreed, when Karsten said the name. “It would make sense that he’d send her.”
The red-haired woman said, “I’d wished for a better head start.”
“It can’t be helped.” The black haired woman was watching Kirith Kirin when she said this, and he nodded agreement. Something about the tilt of her chin, the way the firelight caught the bones of her face, told me who she was. But she turned away and the moment passed; I would pretend not to know if that was what she preferred. After only a few moments in general company, she and her friend retreated to another chamber.
Kirith Kirin, Imral and Karsten sat up a while longer. I drowsed against Kirith Kirin while they talked, idle stuff, mostly, fretting about our route north, whether we would be spotted, whether the witch Cormes would follow us, whether the trails would be safe. But even then, even in that comfortable place, I felt distant from any need to speak. My anchor was Kirith Kirin, and he was all that held me in the room, at times. Without him there, I might have floated clean away.
There was only one question I wanted answered, and I asked it when their conversation had burned away to embers like the fire. “Where is Drudaen now?”
The sound of my voice must have surprised them. “I thought you were asleep, you’ve been so quiet,” Kirith Kirin said.
“I’ve been listening.”
He poured himself the dregs of the wine and settled beside me again. “He’s camped in front of Drii with an army.”
“Though he may have left there if he knows we have you awake again,” Karsten said quietly.
“He knows.”
2
For safety’s sake we slept in the sitting room, pulling the heavy furniture aside; there were bedrooms upstairs but they would be too cold for sleeping in the winter night, and Karsten and Imral decided we should not risk another fire. They were afraid the light would be seen from the trail, since patrols might already be searching for us in this part of the Onge. I might have told them that anyone who found us here would be sorry for it, but I said nothing and let them fret. Kirith Kirin found the conversation amusing too, and looked at me. We spread our pallet in a corner where we could see the fire. We lay awake watching it a long time, wrapped in the safety of each other.
What to call my silence of those days? Was it detachment, did I truly care for no one except Kirith Kirin? Even meeting Athryn Ardfalla, as I had that night, and her lover, the redhead, Sylvis Mnemorel; even the news of Drudaen, the fact that he had Drii under siege; all this meant so little. Had I lain in sleep so long that I was condemned to numbness?
The feeling continued in the morning. We rose and everyone made a show of putting the lodge to rights, getting rid of the ashes from the fire, leaving the place as if no one had been there; and I might have spared them trouble, but I said nothing. We rode through the long day and into the night again, and took shelter in a cave for the night. The winter wind was howling. We had borrowed better clothes from the lodge and were warmly dressed, at least, but the night would be a bitter one, unless we had a fire. Sylvis was afraid to light one, there was a chance we should be seen. Karsten countered that we’d freeze unless we took the risk. They argued back and forth while Kirith Kirin watched me, and he was smiling at me without any visible change of expression, and finally, that time, I relented. “We won’t be found,” I said quietly, and the women stopped talking and looked at me. “We’ll be safe.”
Kirith Kirin had already begun to build a rock circle, and Imral gathered wood, and soon we had a fire, burning big and bold in the mouth of the cave, while Athryn laid out our meal and I spread the bedding close to the warmth.
We rode northward for several days after that, and we did encounter patrols, and other folk. The Onge forest is not like Arthen; there have always been people living in it, and there are even small villages along the road on the banks of the river, and houses and lodges in the hills. One saw wrecked cottages along the road, and everywhere one found evidence of the poverty the people endured, but these places had survived better than others had, judging from what I had seen. The forest offered some protection, being nearly as old as Arthen, and having a reputation for unfriendliness to wizards' armies. The Verm avoided forests whenever possible, and Drudaen cared little for the place, and so the Onge-folk had been spared some blows of the long war. Two nights we slept in the villages, but most often we found a hunting hous
e away from the trails, and a cache of supplies in the houses, and I always suspected that the lodge belonged to someone in our party, or someone known to one of us, but I never asked. Some nights we slept in the open, with the wind howling down from the Caladur peaks and the hand of winter closing.
Only one patrol came anywhere near us, at the place where the River Isar runs into the Deluna, where we had to cross the main bridge. Soldiers held the bridge, a party of a hundred or more, and there was a witch with them who saw me, for a moment, till he forgot me as Cormes had forgotten me, and we passed over the bridge, following the Isar. The main road leaves the Onge there, headed west for Ibraxa and the country around the Krom Hills, but we traveled east away from the road, following old trails, where we would be hidden.
I had no notion of our destination until we had traveled nearly as far north as the forest could take us, and we reached the place called Chalianthrothe.
We had followed the Isar to its source, or at least to the place where it surfaces out of the deep mountains. To the Orloc this is a holy river; they say it runs under the mountains all the way to Zaeyn, and this, then, is one of their holy places, but was given to the Jisraegen long ago, when the Orloc left the surface for good. We rode the horses along a narrow valley which ascended at first gradually, then more steeply, and we came to a place where the Isar formed a perfect, round pool on a terrace of rock. The surface of the terrace had been polished and inlaid with cunning designs that were part writing and part picture, and the lip of the pool was carved in intricate shapes to resemble flowers and vines. From one side of the pool, framed in immense, old cedars, a series of broad, deep stone steps mounted toward another terrace. We dismounted and led the horses up, climbing alongside the craggy face of a spur of the mountain. The surface of each step had been worked by hand with more of the designs, and the faces of each step were carved in reliefs, a parade of dwarf-men on animals I had never seen before, an army passing, the faces of crowned women, a gathering of people at market, a series of panels telling a story; I had only time to glimpse it all. We arrived at the highest terrace and found ourselves facing a double gate cut into the stone. Carved into the stone were the same figures as before, but along with this script were words in archaic Jisraegen, spellings and shapes of letters I could hardly make out, though I was able to read a name, Jurel Durassa.
