“It is not meat,” Teryn said grimly. Making a hand signal to Morag, she took point, and rode out a good distance ahead of them through the thin undergrowth. Morag drew a sword in his knobbly hand and took the captain’s place at the head of the party. Tildi leaned close to Rin as she watched Teryn scanning the ground between the trees. The guard captain stopped and shook her head. Automatically, Rin trotted toward her. Teryn held up a hand.
“It’s a corpse,” the captain called. “You don’t want to get too close. It’s nasty. Morag and I will bury him.”
“I’d like to see him,” Edynn said. She urged her horse forward. Rin followed. Tildi, curious but horrified, leaned for a look over the centaur’s shoulder.
The captain made a gesture of resignation and made way for them. The body of a human male lay on its belly on the ground. He had long, thinning black hair and wore rough-spun clothing. Under the filth Tildi could only guess at the color, they were probably muddy green and brown, the cheapest kinds of dye. “Looks like he was running away from something.” Teryn nudged it over on its back. It shifted with the slackness of a sack full of mud. Tildi let out a gasp and retreated behind Rin’s silky back. The man’s face wore an expression of terror that death had not erased. His hands and arms, up to the middle of his chest, were horribly burned, far worse than Halcot’s had been after he had touched the leaf in Tildi’s collar. Rin knelt down beside the body. Tildi caught a whiff of the corpse, and gagged.
“These surely did not belong to a man with such humble clothes,” the centaur said, bringing a bright silver chain out of the corpse’s belt pouch.
“I suspect that you are correct,” Edynn said with a sigh. “And he chose to rob the very worst person possible. A man or woman, walking alone far from the main road, must have seemed like easy prey. See what happened when he tried to take the Great Book from its guardian.” As one, they all turned to look at Tildi.
“He couldn’t have died of the pain, could he?” Tildi asked. “He’s not that badly burned.”
“Not likely,” Teryn said. “I’ve seen men hurt worse that this and live. He’s dead because someone tore his heart out.”
Edynn examined the corpse’s chest. Tildi had all too clear a view of the shattered rib cage and the gap beneath. Her stomach squeezed, threatening to expel what was left of lunch.
“You are right,” Edynn said at last. “I could do a working to reveal what happened here, but speculation can do as well. A brigand waiting in the shadows hears a lone traveler. Anything that person has may be of value, and you can be sure that our quarry would cherish his burden most carefully. The thief tries to take it away. The burns could have come from what may have been the merest touch of the book. He recoils before the book can consume him completely. Our thief could not stand another thief capturing his prize, and takes his attacker’s life. So easy. Too easy.”
Edynn looked up at the others, and her dark eyes were sorrowful.
“We must catch up with him.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Praise to the Mother and the Father! Praise to the Parents of us all!”
The daily song shocked Nemeth out of his fitful sleep. He snarled at the dark walls of his damp prison, and cursed his foolishness in placing himself in such a stupid position.
Outside the singing continued, more voices joining in. That meant that dawn had come. He clenched his teeth and peered out of the tiny knothole that served him as a spy window.
In the pale light, about thirty men and women clustered about the enormous hollow tree in which he had lain hidden for more than a month, their faces wreathed in joy. The fools. How humans could be so stupid and superstitious made his mind spin. They saw a miracle to be celebrated, and by heaven and earth, they were making as great a matter out of it as they could. Ah, well, he had been as stupid as they.
Undoubtedly he would have yearned for any kind of novelty, if he lived in as pathetic a village as Walnut Tree. He had drawn attention to himself, a terrible error in such a thinly populated place. Not himself, in truth, but the book’s marked presence, impossible to conceal completely in the uncivilized wilderness, for so this appeared to him. He had so little experience with anything outside of cities. It had been an age since he had lived anywhere but a capital. He was accustomed to having everything he might need at hand, or at least within an hour’s demand. When he had set out to liberate the book from its hiding place, he had been able to travel as an ordinary man, stopping in inns and traveling in carriages and ships.
No one paid him any attention.
Nemeth could see in their minds that they forgot him the moment he was past them, and if they did not, he made it true, with a simple spell. He dined alone, took private rooms and cabins, and ignored his fellow beings. He had always prefered to pass unnoticed. He didn’t like other people watching him. He always knew when they were thinking about him, and could often divine what they thought. It was not usually flattering, so he tried not to focus upon the specific details.
The other voices were awake, too. They had never left his mind, not for a minute. Nemeth clapped his hands to his ears to shut them out, but it was never any use. They were inside his head.
A gift, his parents had called it, and sent him to be trained by wizards. It was a curse! He heard voices from all over the world, from every species of being, including ones that no one else knew could think, like trees or stars. He could not call all of them intelligent, including members of his own race, humans. The nonsense that echoed around inside their skulls was gibberish, including some of what were known as the “best people.” Most of the time the cacophony was an unmitigated and undifferentiated din, like being in the middle of the marketplace.
More and more, lately, he had heard his name popping up among the noise. They were talking about him. They were looking for him. Certain voices were always talking about him now. Some of them had reached out, with words of power that he knew well but had never had much skill at using, to try and find him, to compel him to come to them. He knew what they wanted! Nemeth snatched up the book from the crumbling floor and cradled it. They would not have it, not ever. Some of the voices were getting to be very familiar, and he did not want them to be. They swooped and dived around him like swallows catching flies, but had not touched him, yet, not really. He yearned to go where the voices could not find him.
They were even louder and more prominent since he had rescued the book—yes, rescued it, for all that one deep, slow, authoritarian voice kept telling him that he had stolen and was misusing it, and commanding him to bring it back. This voice was not like any of the others, who sounded weak and familiar, humans and other sorts. This one was different. In his heart Nemeth believed he was hearing the voice of Father Time himself. He would have thought that Mother Nature would have been angry with him, especially concerning the episode with the cattle, but this voice was distinctively male. Father Time, berating him for destroying His consort’s creations? That did not come in any interpretation of the Origins that he had ever read, but those had been written by humans, not the creators themselves.
It did not matter if it was one of the architects of creation dinning him. Nemeth hated being spied on. He locked up his defenses tighter, drawing upon the book for aid. The voices dimmed slightly, giving him a measure of relief from their badgering. He had such a long way to travel. If he dropped his guard he could be intercepted long before he reached his destination.
At last the terrible singing was over, and the people outside dispersed. Nemeth relaxed against the inside of the tree. If he had the least idea a month ago that he would be trapped inside it all this time, he would have gone hungry a few hours longer. His human weakness was to blame for his predicament.
It had been impossible to travel back along the same roads he had taken south. The book lent its sheer power to everything around it, making even the humblest stone glow. Indeed, it was an excellent tool for study, but a poor one for stealth. Nemeth was forced to retreat into the byways. Luck
ily, there were many, more than he had ever dreamed, traveling as he habitually did on the main thoroughfares whenever forced to leave his fastness. He now found paths that led through forests and behind hills, to secret bridges and unexpected tunnels, providing him with shelter when it rained or when the cursed thraiks flew overhead, as they often did. What the byways lacked was a range of decent inns. He had never had to forage for food before, never. Below the waves he had eaten what he had to, when he could, but in his own environment of dry land, he was unprepared to deal with the lack of basic necessities. He starved for days. When the pain in his stomach and his head became unbearable, he stuffed anything that seemed remotely edible into his mouth.
The book could only tell him that these were natural things, not whether they were good for him.
He had eaten green apples as a child, but there was a difference between those and the ones he found north of the blasted mountain. That fruit had been hard and very sour, and had caused him hours of distress. He found berries, but never enough to assuage his hunger. He killed small animals or birds, then was unable to figure out how to cook them to edibility, never having had to learn the basics of housekeeping. That left him with no choice but to steal food.
His crimes began with a fish pie stolen from among half a dozen set out to cool on a rock beside a hut, in a tiny village of similar huts on the banks of a river. He knew that the pie was foul and badly made, but nothing had ever tasted so good. The dirty fisherwoman who returned to find some of her food missing abused one of the many brats running around for the theft. The boy denied it, of course; he was innocent. The woman didn’t believe him, and slapped him about the head for it. No doubt he had plenty of minor peccadilloes to his name. Nemeth slunk away, the sound of the child’s protests in his ears.
Traveling in the general direction of his goal, Nemeth journeyed from village to village, lurking out of sight in the most uncomfortable places until he could spot unguarded food, and making off with it, leaving the cooks to blame dogs, small children, or hungry husbands who couldn’t wait for the evening meal. Nemeth knew from skimming the voices he heard in the air that there was always someone to blame. Most of the peasants were so magic-blind that they ignored the runes that appeared on everything around them. When one did notice, it drew attention away from the fleeing food thief. Nemeth’s system had worked in both continents, up until he reached the smallest and rudest of habitations, Walnut Tree.
The minutes seemed to stretch out forever as he waited for his opportunity. At last, a woman sent her children running to find their father and elder siblings. He felt her yearning for a moment’s gossip with her neighbor. Nemeth strengthened that longing, to the point where the woman emerged from her home and walked purposefully toward the next house, leaving the dinner to cook on its own.
As soon as she was gone, he dashed out of the shadows and into the house. It had been tiny, cluttered, and filthy, but on the fire was a bubbling, good-smelling pot. He had his hand on the handle when he heard the sounds of the children laughing and shouting as they returned from the fields. Nemeth had no choice but to run away without his treasure. As he emerged, he saw to his horror that the husband had decided to race his family home. The laughing man poised at the edge of the circle of trees and looked back over his shoulder. Blessing the distraction, Nemeth dashed to the only point of cover he could find, the great tree. He hid around the back of it until the family was safely inside, but he was not safe. More families were coming home. He must hide. But where?
The book in his arm seemed to urge him to look more closely. The tree’s rune hovered just under his nose. He noticed suddenly that there was a flaw in it that set it apart from the symbols of other trees. He felt his way toward the flaw.
Nemeth’s hand slid into a crack in the bark. To his amazement, he felt farther in. The tree was completely hollow. With the book’s aid he widened the crack enough to let his body pass, then closed it again. He had gotten so much better at subtle manipulation. No longer was he blindly changing elements in hopes of finding the right alteration. He had had plenty of time, and mistakes, to learn the parts, while still traveling as fast as he could. His days of learning how to ken runes were so far behind him that it had all come as a shock to do it again.
He was just in time, for the next ploughman to come home let out an exclamation of wonder at the “sacred sign” that had appeared on the tree trunk. His cry brought all the neighbors running. They marveled over the rune, wondering how each of them saw just one, no matter where around the tree they stood. At last the headman had declared that it was a special marvel, bestowed upon Walnut Tree. Nemeth cursed himself for not retreating all the way out of the village. Of course the tree’s rune had become visible.
A brave lad, urged by his friends, had put out a hand to touch it, but the liberty earned him a cuff over the ear, probably from his father. The women conferred, and decided that a miracle deserved a tribute of some kind. A few of the men proposed a sacrifice. There was a lamb or two of the quality they felt was necessary, but it always seemed the perfect animal for the task belonged to another farmer, who proposed somebody else’s beast right back. With the long-neglected dinner on their minds, the women countered with a gift of already slaughtered meat, namely ready-made food, a share of what was already on their hearths. The men looked at one another and agreed this was wise. Nemeth felt his stomach squeeze in anticipation of that out-of-reach object of desire. Soon, the women emerged, bearing bowls or trenchers containing steaming stew, beans, porridge, or whatever happened to be on the menu for the night. It was more food than Nemeth had seen since he had left the south, a week’s worth of meals. His mouth had watered.
It took hours before everyone had said all they had to say about the miracle of the rune. They even attributed the other enhanced symbols on other items within the book’s range to the magic that had touched the walnut tree.
Nemeth waited impatiently while a few of the men came out with beer, toasted the tree by splashing it with the yeasty, sour beverage, before drinking the rest themselves and having a conversation that undoubtedly sounded learned to them in its presence. At last, after midnight, they had retired, congratulating one another on living long enough to have witnessed a marvel. Nemeth had waited until the sounds of voices had died away over the green, then crept out to collect his feast. He felt as though he had witnessed a miracle of sorts, as he ate his way through the offerings. So much food had given him a bellyache, but he didn’t care. He was replete for the first time in months.
The townsfolk met the sight of the empty dishes with delight that their sacrifice had been accepted. They continued to leave food out every morning to appease the spirit of the tree. These were not the type of comestibles he would have chosen, but the women did their best with the ingredients they had. Sleeping inside the tree was better than sleeping in the woods. He kept the rough hollow clean by using its memorized rune to restore it to the state it had been in when he first crawled inside, as he did to maintain his garments and shoes. Once he had regained his health, he realized he must leave.
Such a goal was not easily attained.
From the moment that the “miracle” had occurred, the tree had seldom been without company. Even late at night a villager might take it into his or her head to come out at some odd hour and behold the amazing sight. Nemeth had tried to use magic to counter their untimely curiosity. More than once he put a compulsion on all the villagers to sleep soundly, gotten a few yards out of the village, then been chased back into his hollow by a nocturnal predator drawn by the scent of food. Safely inside the tree, he reminded himself he was the master of all creatures. He could kill any animal. But when danger threatened, such thoughts fled from his scholar’s mind, driving him back to the primitive state ruled by fear. The tree afforded him protection. There was no answer but to escape by daylight.
Nemeth could have laughed at the absurdity of his situation. He had been trapped for a month, but now he had plenty to eat. He chafed for
his freedom, though with it would come the freedom to go hungry once again. But he must go. He was becoming frustrated every day that his mission was delayed. There was more: in the last few days the voices in his mind had mentioned him much more frequently, and a few of them felt as if they were drawing closer. They must not be allowed to catch up with him.
The moment came that he had been waiting for all night. The village matrons returned from their cottages, bowing deeply every few steps. Nemeth eyed them warily. Did they have his breakfast? Yes! What a relief that they had never ceased to marvel at the wonder of the glowing sign on the tree. Now came the inevitable speculation on the meaning of the sign. If there had been a competent schoolmaster in their midst he would have pointed out that all it said was walnut tree, the eponymous sponsor of this blighted spot, not a message from Mother Nature and Father Time. Nemeth quelled his feelings of hunger and waited for them to go away. He had gone through the book for the correct signs to help make the coming day warm and clement so they would leave him alone. They must see that there was not a moment to waste in a potentially productive day. These farmers and artisans worked from the moment they rose until sunset, and if resources afforded it, celebrated in the evenings until their tallow dip candles or stinking oil lamps burned out. A fine day was a gift.
See that sunshine? he thought at them. The tree gives you a gift, its last gift. Go away. Don’t make me make you go.
Indeed, he did not want to hurt anyone.
These people were not the objects of his coming vengeance. He was sorry, sorry, sorry about what had happened to the man near that little inn. Nemeth looked upon his imprisonment in this tree as a punishment for killing, but the brigand had sought to steal his beloved book. That must never happen. It was joined to him now and forevermore. He was a part of it. He liked to see the page on which his own rune appeared joined with the book, seeing his own place in the great scope of creation.
An Unexpected Apprentice Page 23
