by Robert Ryan
He did not look like an old man any more; strength and confidence was in his posture, power beyond their understanding burned in his eyes. He made no move, nor the slightest threat, yet they sensed the might of him, the hidden and deadly strength of lòhrengai.
He gave the king a final look, ignored Mecklar and the rest of the retinue, and strode from Murhain’s presence. No one tried to stop him.
“Come,” he said, as he passed the others. “Our time here is done and we are needed elsewhere.”
Lanrik, his mind in turmoil, followed. The Raithlin, against all his expectations, had been disbanded. What would he do now? What could he do? Being a Raithlin was his life; it was all he had ever trained for and all he ever wanted. He felt betrayed and empty of purpose.
They walked in silence. Aranloth was in the front, leading a roan mare that he had retrieved from near the king’s pavilion. He was followed by the Lindrath, his expression grim and his eyes a little wild. Erlissa was beside Lanrik, and she glanced at him from time to time. There was sympathy and comfort in those looks, and the occasional brush of her arm against his.
They headed to the cottage where their own horses were tethered, and he knew Aranloth would not waste time in leaving. As if reading his thoughts Erlissa placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Come with us, Lanrik. I need you.”
Her green eyes were sincere and concerned. She was reaching out to him, trying to give him a purpose. How had she come to understand him so well in such a short period?
Aranloth, not slowing, looked over his shoulder. “She needs you more than she knows. There will be dangers on the road, and the lòhrengai I must work at times will require all my concentration.”
It did not escape Lanrik’s attention that the lòhren had said dangers on the road, and not just at the end of their journey. At any rate, he was wanted with these people. He admired them, liked them, and could possibly be in a position to help them.
“I’ll come along,” he said.
He felt relief from Erlissa. She smiled, and they continued toward the cottage. Arriving there, he swiftly collected his belongings and saddled the stallion.
When they were ready, he shook the Lindrath’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You and the Raithlin taught me much over the years. I’m sorry things have ended this way.”
The Lindrath mustered a smile. “All things come to an end,” he said. “The Raithlin are no more, but our lore will be with us for life. Use it, expand it, teach it if opportunity arises. Who knows where the seed will grow again?”
Aranloth, who had been leaning on his staff and waiting, tensed.
Lanrik unslung the talnak horn from his shoulder and held it out to the Lindrath.
“A final gift,” he said.
The Lindrath was shocked. “It’s too much,” he said. “The horn must be worth a fortune.”
Lanrik shrugged. “I’ve got the sword. This will only be a burden on the journey. Take it for Lathmai, and the others who’ll never return from Galenthern. Use it as a symbol of all that the Raithlin have achieved over the years.”
The Lindrath reached out. As his hands touched the horn Aranloth spoke, and his eyes were once more deep pools of shadow.
“It will be more than a symbol,” he said. “Blow it when Esgallien’s need is greatest, and help unlooked for will come.”
The lòhren said nothing else, and with more handshakes and well wishes the Lindrath parted. He walked slowly, with head bowed, and Lanrik knew that if he himself had lost all he had ever known or loved, it was worse for the Lindrath.
“He’s a good man,” Aranloth said quietly.
“The best,” agreed Lanrik. “He took the place of my uncle when Conrik fled the city. That’s if he survived. I wonder now if Murhain didn’t actually find him and have him killed.”
The lòhren’s eyes were veiled. “It would have been like him. But I think in time you will find your uncle escaped Esgallien and is alive and well.”
“I hope so,” Lanrik said.
Aranloth did not respond, but Erlissa was watching them both. A grin flashed on her face.
“Of course he escaped,” she said. “Aranloth knows what he’s talking about. Only lòhrengai could have gotten him away.”
Aranloth looked at her solemnly. “None in Esgallien need to know that,” he said.
Lanrik turned to her. “How did you guess?”
Erlissa shrugged and Aranloth answered. “She did not guess. Her intuition told her it was so. She is not, nor has the desire to become a lòhren – but the talent remains.”
The smile faded from Erlissa’s face, and she gave no answer.
“Come,” Aranloth said. “We have places to go and things to do.” He hesitated and looked at Lanrik once more. “We’ll meet Conrik on our travels. But you must be prepared – he’s no longer as he once was.”
The lòhren turned quickly and mounted his horse. Clearly, any questions on the subject were unwelcome. The main thing though was that Conrik was alive, and they would meet again. Lanrik could not imagine him any different from what he used to be, but Aranloth indicated it was so. What changes would time and the treachery of the king have wrought?
As they moved on, it occurred to Lanrik that if Aranloth had helped his uncle escape Esgallien, he was probably living in Lòrenta. If so, he was in danger, and it was yet another reason to join the lòhren and Erlissa on their quest.
10. The Witch in the Wood
Mecklar hastened along the still road. His chestnut gelding was tired, but he pushed it on through the night. It was a poor time to ride, but he had pressing news to deliver; information that should lead to a reward, but that could end in punishment too. He served a harsh mistress.
The elug army would not break through. Even so, it had been difficult to convince Murhain to let him return to Esgallien. But the king was a fool, easily manipulated on most occasions, and oblivious to the forces shaping his own court.
Lanrik was a better opponent. He had a remarkable store of patience, something that he had proven during the testing on Galenthern. The lòhren was dangerous also. The man’s eyes seemed to see straight through everybody. It was not a pleasant feeling when you had things to hide.
He nearly missed the turning he was looking for, seeing it late and reefing hard at the gelding’s reigns. He moved off the main road and down a lane surrounded by open fields. These eventually turned into constricting woods. He went deeper, and then slowed as the lane dwindled and finally disappeared.
Trees grew thickly about him. The wood was dark and secretive, a tangled confusion of ravines and ridges on the hills southwest of Esgallien. It was a treacherous area, chocked with scrub and clinging vines. Even hunters shunned it, and the few who tried found little game, some becoming lost and never returning. He had thoughts on that.
Ebona was a strange woman. She was mistress of the wood, more secretive and dangerous than it. Who she was, and her true purposes were matters to which he had given thought but found no answers. That she hated Aranloth was obvious, though why, he had not discovered.
She was in league with Esgallien’s enemies, but he did not think she was one of them. She commanded powers that stilled his heart, powers the lòhren did not display, and though she was not an elùgroth, he feared her. However, he had prospered since entering her service.
He had accumulated gold beyond the dreams of his youth, yet lately his dreams had grown. He exerted authority and influence also. If Esgallien fell, he would lose those, but the gold would buy a lifetime’s luxury in another city. The north would not fall to the enemy in his time, at least not all of it. He owed nothing to Esgallien. All it had given him, the fifth son of a farmer, was poverty and hunger: until he met Ebona. Now, people looked up to him, fawned upon him, and he held power over them. It was intoxicating.
He regretted not killing Lanrik when he had the chance. It was ill fortune that they had ventured onto the plains when the elug army marched. He knew it was coming, Ebona had told
him so, but not when.
When they found Lathmai on the tor and she spoke of the attack, he knew he must do something to prevent word reaching Esgallien. When he returned with the elendhrot root, he saw his chance. The Raithlin turned around at the last moment though. He had thought he would get other opportunities, but Lanrik’s intention of staying behind to slow the army confounded him.
Could Ebona hold that failure against him? Because of it, long developed plans were ruined. Yet always there were plans within plans. It was an unexpected discovery that the attack was part of a greater scheme to destroy Lòrenta. He wondered if Ebona knew. If not, the news he brought would please and surprise her. A rare event!
His return from the plains had posed a dilemma. To travel too fast was to give Esgallien time for it to act: to travel too slowly was to draw suspicion on himself when Lanrik arrived. He had delayed as much as he dared and also given Gwalchmur word and opportunity to escape.
Gwalchmur had done so. He had betrayed Esgallien once, and Ebona would persuade him to act similarly in the future, but there was some doubt that he was fully committed to her. Did he realize that such hesitation risked his life?
Mecklar travelled the rest of the night through the woods. They closed about him, silent and watchful. He knew creatures stalked it that were not found elsewhere. He had seen glimpses of them, or perhaps Ebona had allowed him to see them. Fear, he understood, was better motivation than threat.
Dawn broke and shone through small gaps in the leaf-canopy. He went slowly, picking his way carefully and heading down into a deep ravine. There were several ways to the bottom, but they were all watched. Whether he saw the guards or not, Ebona would receive report of his coming.
He dismounted and led the gelding by hand. It was rough going, and the horse, catching a scent that made it skittish, fought his lead. It took some time, but when he finally reached the bottom the trees thinned. Here, there were several acres of green grass completely cleared of timber. A white dairy cow grazed contentedly, a small herd of sheep bleated peacefully, and a young foal galloped awkwardly near a mare. They too were white.
Mecklar mounted again and rode slowly toward a cottage and barn near the center of the field. The cottage, small and neat, was fenced with wicker, which also enclosed several rows of fruit trees. These were well pruned and heavy with growing fruit. Several white ducks had the run of the orchard and waddled after insects beneath the trees. A vegetable garden, enclosed by its own fence, was near the orchard. It was weed free and productive.
Mecklar reached the barn. He dismounted and tethered his horse to a hook on the wall. As he did so the door opened, and Gwalchmur emerged, his red hair disheveled and his freckled face haggard. They did not shake hands.
“Has Lanrik returned?” he asked.
“He has,” Mecklar said, “The king outlawed you.”
Gwalchmur cursed but Mecklar merely shrugged. “Ebona will find a use for you, even if it’s not in Esgallien.”
Gwalchmur did not answer, and the two of them walked to the cottage. There was a gate in the fence, and they went through it, careful to close it behind them.
Ebona waited in the doorway. She was a tall woman with wide set eyes and high cheekbones. She was not young, but neither was she old. Mecklar could not put an age to her, and it disturbed him. He thought she had passed middle age, yet her hair was a luxurious blond, not white, and she wore it long. She was dressed simply in white linen, cinched with a red belt, but the dress draped her full-figured form with grace. She smiled, her teeth beautifully white and even.
“Welcome,” she said, and there was warmth in her voice and gesture to enter. They did, but Mecklar was not fooled. His heart beat loudly and his palms were clammy. Ebona, for all her sweetness, would kill him the moment it served her purpose.
It was well lit inside. A log burned in the hearth and sunshine streamed in the windows. Through one of them Mecklar had a good view of the foal which now approached the cottage. It was not pure white, for its long ears were tipped with crimson.
On the back wall were racks covered with root vegetables and dry cheeses. Cured sausages and hams hung from the ceiling. On the table, a neat construction of well-scrubbed timber, lay a dead duck. It had just been killed, and Ebona was removing the feathers. She finished the task, her deft fingers working quickly.
She looked up from her work. “The trick is to dip the bird in near boiling water, and then wrap it in a bag to steam. The feathers come off easily that way.”
Mecklar and Gwalchmur nodded but did not reply. Ebona stood, washed her hands carefully and dried them on a clean towel. She brought over a bronze pitcher of water and filled cups for them before sitting down. She waited until the others drank before delicately sipping the water herself.
Mecklar knew she would have heard from Gwalchmur what had happened on the plains. He began by telling her of the failure of the elug army to breach the ford, Aranloth’s audience with the king and of Erlissa’s information about the danger to Lòrenta.
Ebona listened calmly until he finished. “This would have been prevented had you killed the Raithlin on the tor,” she said.
“I know,” replied Mecklar, “but there was no opportunity.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll ensure that you make an opportunity next time, won’t you?”
Her perfect teeth gleamed behind parted lips, but there was a cold look in her eyes.
He swallowed hard. “I’ll not fail again.”
Ebona reached out and patted his hand. Her fingers were long and delicate, but her thumb was wide and fat like a big toe.
“Of course not. I have complete faith in you.”
She sat back thoughtfully, giving no indication of whether she had known of the plan to destroy Lòrenta. The smell of smoke in the cottage was strong, but fresh air came in from the open windows.
“What of the Raithlin? Is he going on this quest with his new friends?”
“He didn’t say,” replied Mecklar.
“But you know him. What do you think he’ll do now that the Raithlin are disbanded?”
“I don’t know,” Mecklar said. “I don’t see why he should go with them. What are the lòhren and the girl to him? He’ll likely sulk in the city for some time, too proud to join the ranks of the ordinary army but no good for anything else.”
“I wonder. Was the girl good looking?”
Mecklar shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Gwalchmur laughed. “You’re blind. She’s stunning. Too thin for my liking but there’s fight in her. She has a sharp mind too.”
Ebona ran a hand absently through her long hair. “What do you think, Gwalchmur? Will he go with them?”
“I think he might. There’s nothing left for him in Esgallien.”
“I think so too,” she said, “but there’s more to it than that. All three of them are linked now. I feel it.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Mecklar.
Ebona looked at him, her glance still cold. “It matters very much. You underestimate him, but I don’t. Though you’ve played down his achievements, it’s clear that he’s a dangerous enemy. Alone and unaided he defied an army. He penetrated their camp, rescued a prisoner, and stole a shazrahad sword for good measure. Most of all, he slowed them down and ruined plans that had long been in place. No, it just won’t do to underestimate him again.”
Mecklar nodded. “Well, his luck has run out now. Before I left, the king asked me to arrange things with some of his guard. They have orders to find and kill him, wherever he is, and obtain the sword.”
Ebona smiled. “Murhain has a spine after all. I hope the guards won’t be obvious about it?”
“They’ve been cautioned not to, even though it really is obvious this time, but what’s anybody going to do about it?”
Ebona pursed her lips but said nothing, and Mecklar studied her ageless face. What had she looked like in the first flush of youth? But of her youth, or her past, he knew nothing. That she held a
grudge against Esgallien and Aranloth was obvious, but he did not know why. Whatever else, she had been born of the aristocracy. It was evident in her every move and word. The only sign of ill breeding that he saw was her habit of chewing, however delicately, at her fingernails. She was doing it now.
The log burned in the hearth, and neither he nor Gwalchmur spoke while she thought. At last, she broke the silence.
“It’s clear Aranloth believes he can stop the destruction of Lòrenta, and this must be prevented. That means he and the others must be killed.”
She rose abruptly. “Come,” she said, and led them out of the cottage into the bright sunlight. The grass was green and springy beneath their boots. It was a beautiful morning. The sheep and cow grazed peacefully in a far corner of the field while the mare lay in the sun, the foal standing beside it.
She stood in the open field. “Put your horse inside the barn, and then stay back from me,” she said.
Mecklar did as instructed, and when he returned to stand beside Gwalchmur she looked at them both. “Whatever you do, do not run.”
She lifted high her arms and her chin tilted forward. Her eyes closed and she began to sing. It was soft at first, then her voice grew loud and strong. She drew breath from her stomach, but her chest began to heave with effort. Mecklar did not know the language but sensed it was the forerunner of what they spoke now, the speech of their ancestors that had not been heard since even before Conhain founded Esgallien a thousand years ago.
As Ebona sang the cow continued to graze, and the sheep bleated peacefully. The mare rolled in the grass. The sun shone bright; bees droned as they moved from flower to flower in the garden, and multitudes of black and white butterflies drifted by lazily on a southerly breeze. But even on such a beautiful morning, Mecklar went cold as he heard far off in the woods an answer to the song. It was the howling of beasts.
He glanced at Gwalchmur and saw the Raithlin’s face was white. Suddenly, Ebona ceased singing. Her eyes, filled with power and joy, sprang open. The howling stopped.
