“It's perfectly safe,” Yriatt said, when Lottres sat still too long. “No one is here.”
“Is this an Urulai village?” Lottres asked.
“It is. The villagers came to stay with me after Shaelen warned them on her way to Altannath. No one has been here for two months.”
Lottres seemed to relax, but Brastigan swung down from his mule. “If it's all the same to you, let's scout it out first.” He waved at Pikarus, and three others dismounted, following him. Brastigan didn't think he needed permission to scout, but it did feel good to be listened to for once.
Brastigan moved quietly through the woods, blessing the craftsmen who made his harness. Only the occasional squeak or heavy step betrayed them as they came up behind the settlement. First they passed a large dung heap, and then an oval of packed earth suggesting a rudimentary stable. Beyond that was the first of the tree-caves.
A long, rectangular hearth had been raised up of earth and river stones. It was much like the one of Hawkwing House, except smaller. Beside this was something new: a long granite stone. Its surface was pocked with mortar holes for grinding grain. Leather thongs dangled from the branches overhead. Those must attach some kind of roofing. A series of holes along the rear of the space suggested that tent pegs might have been driven into the soft ground.
It was well enough to shelter under the trees in summer, when the weather was warm, but the mountain winters were harsh. There had to be some other sort of dwelling for winter. Maybe the tribe wintered at Hawkwing House.
The troopers followed Brastigan through four of the shelters. All were alike except for trivial details. Tucked between the trees, they found a trio of light canoes concealed by branches. Brastigan felt like an intruder. This could have been his home, but now he didn't know if he had the right to step up to his ancestors' hearth.
There was no time to wallow in self-pity. He glanced at Javes and the others, confirming his opinion there was nothing significant to be discovered. They tramped back to their waiting fellows.
It galled Brastigan to say it, but he did. “She's right. There's no one here.”
Pikarus asked, “Do we stay the night?”
Lottres seemed to think about that. “There is free fodder for the mules.”
The animals were looking thin, it was true, and the tree-caves were safe enough, but Brastigan knew he couldn't sleep here.
“If there's daylight, I say we move on. We have places to be,” he said
Yriatt said, “Brastigan is correct. Let us go.”
Before anyone else argued, Brastigan strode to his mule. As he passed the girl, he stopped. There, in her hand, was the trail bread he had given her. It hadn't been touched in all their hours on the road. What kind of creature was she? With a disgusted snort, he took it from her unresisting hand and tossed it into the brush.
The line was already starting to move as he swung into the saddle and kicked his beast into motion. Yriatt led off, following the curve of the meadow and keeping them under the eave of the trees. Brastigan felt strange as they passed the row of empty shelters. He was glad they weren't staying, and yet he felt that he was leaving something behind, as well. He stiffened his back and rode on.
PLAYING PEEK-A-BOO
They didn't just leave the Urulai camp behind. It seemed they left daylight behind as well, for the path clung stubbornly to the forest's green gloom. Were his ancestors so afraid of the open sky, Brastigan wondered. It seemed unnecessary. What was there to fear?
Again, the trail roughly followed a watercourse, this one the broad stream that was the lake's outlet. Glancing at the sky, when he could see it through the tree canopy, Brastigan realized the sun was setting over his left shoulder. The waters flowed northward, and not just for one stretch. Every stream the troop crossed went that way, running along narrow valleys and foaming through clefts in the rocks. They had crossed the spine of the mountains. Crutham lay behind them. Before them was the unknown and hostile land of Sillets.
On the other hand, it was hard to feel too nervous. So far, Sillets looked exactly like Crutham. Still they rode, keeping under cover, until at last the leafy twilight dimmed into a true dusk. It was almost too dark to see when Yriatt led them down a steep bank. She reversed direction to head upstream, beside the water, and called a halt in a deep oxbow. Huge logs, left by some long ago flood, lay scattered about like jackstraws. The falcon perched on one of these, looking smug. Beside it was a gap just wide enough for the mules to skin through.
Beyond the ready-made barrier was a level patch of sand and gravel right up against the bank. This place bore no sign of human shaping, so it wasn't another Urulai redoubt, but that didn't seem to matter. A pit was dug, and once they were sure no water seeped in, a fire lit. The log dam provided plenty of dry wood for fuel.
Brastigan helped tether the animals against the barrier. He did his part willingly. Just for one moment, one of the Urulai horses leaned over as if it might stand on his foot, but he brushed the two horses well, and they suffered the attention.
Brastigan was gathering the long, coarse grass from the steep dark bank when a sound stopped him. It was a kind of falcon's cry, starting high and descending in short barks, but this was much deeper. After the falcon, it sounded like a man's voice compared to a boy's. Brastigan crouched, making sure his long form wasn't exposed. That was no enemy, condor or crow, crying alarm at the sight of them. It came from high above, where the rocky peaks merged into the rusty sunset sky. He couldn't see the creature, but he knew what it was.
Brastigan stayed low, plucking up grass by its roots in the failing light. A griffin! How could he forget those miserable beasts, scourge of the high peaks? He'd seen them from a distance while hunting with his brothers in Begatt, but never had to fight one. Eagle wings and a cruel, curved beak together with a panther's claws—it was an absurd combination, and frightful. They weren't terribly smart as animals went, but they didn't need to be. Their fearsome strength was dangerous enough.
This explained the Urulai compulsion to stay under cover of the trees. Being big creatures, griffins ate big: elk, mountain sheep—and horses. Brastigan hurried down with his burden, adding it to the piles Javes had already accumulated along the picket line. Any horse was a precious resource in this wild country, and the Urulai horses were exceptional. He completely understood the need to protect them.
More shrieks came echoing down on them as Brastigan approached the fireside. It sounded like more than one beast. The soldiers sat tense, looking over their shoulders at the dark crags above them.
“Easy,” Javes was saying as Brastigan sat down on an exposed rock. “They're just talking to each other. It's how the prides defend their territories.”
Someone muttered, “They come in packs?”
“They're just beasts,” Pikarus answered calmly. “No worse than bears. We've nothing to fear.”
“Bears can't fly,” Yugo retorted.
Yriatt, at the fireside, answered serenely, “They will not attack us. They killed yesterday.”
How did she know that? Brastigan turned his face away, hiding his sneer for the sake of unity. The griffins went on screeching. Their cries made a poor accompaniment to a poor meal of dry bread, dry meat and sour cheese. The men ate hunkered down, as if one of the creatures might stoop upon them at any moment.
When Brastigan was finished, he sat up tall and looked over Lottres's back. Yriatt had gone to kneel beside the fire pit as soon as she had eaten. No feminine tasks for that one. She now sat unnaturally still. The flickering red light played over the angles of her face. It gave her a mask-like seeming, remote and inscrutable. It was well enough that she left menial tasks for the soldiers, but Lottres seemed to feel he was free of chores, too. He watched Yriatt with an intense focus, though Brastigan saw nothing worth seeing. Meanwhile, the moon-pale maiden sat behind Yriatt, shadowed and ignored.
Brastigan stalked over to the girl. “Here,” he ordered curtly, extending a parcel of dry sausage and cheese. She didn't
acknowledge him. How could anyone be so mindless? He dropped onto a nearby stump and kicked the rock she sat on.
Finally, when her seat rocked beneath her, the girl did blink. Her head moved in slow jerks, turning over and downward. Like a babe, he thought—a suckling child that couldn't control its own body. The smooth brow puckered slightly, and she stared at his boot as if she had never seen such a thing before.
After she'd had a good look, Brastigan abruptly put his foot down. Then he raised his other foot, and set it on the other side of her rock. A long moment passed, and then, again, her face twitched over to regard the new and amazing presence of a different boot. His sister's brats did the same thing when they played peek-a-boo. Was that what this girl was, a babe in mind despite her adult size? Yriatt had said people sometimes came to her for healing, though he couldn't imagine the witch doing it out of charity alone. Yet what other purpose could the girl serve?
This game continued for several minutes, first one foot and then the other. When Brastigan had enough, he set both feet down and leaned forward, offering a bit of cheese. Now the girl did stare, turning jerkily from one side of the rock to another. Finally her pale eyes moved outward, finding his two feet braced on the ground. She looked upward next, and seemed perplexed to see his knees.
“Come on, eat.” Exasperated, Brastigan stuck his hand under her nose.
The girl leaned back, giving his fingers and the bit of whitish cheese the same confused examination his feet had gotten. He sighed aloud, and leaned closer to rub the food against her lower lip. The girl opened her mouth and he shoved the cheese in. She seemed startled when he lowered his hand to pick off another bit of cheese. His movements were too quick for her to follow. She chewed even more slowly than before, as if she couldn't remember how it was done. Or maybe the taste of the cheese bothered her.
“Okay, it's a bit sharp,” he growled. “It isn't that bad.”
The girl continued eating as he gave her bits of cheese and meat. Brastigan sighed over the chore. She seemed so helpless, and that was an impediment to the speed that was so crucial. He really couldn't see what Yriatt brought her along for. It was necessary, the witch had said. Or did she? Brastigan couldn't recall her exact words.
Of course, there was little use in challenging Yriatt's judgment. The stars would fall from the heavens, most likely, before that one explained herself. Not that Lottres would ask a sensible question to begin with.
Brastigan turned his head, and saw that his brother was actually moving. Yriatt sat stiff and still, but Lottres turned his head from side to side, as if his neck had cramped. Then his brother turned toward him. Like the girl, Lottres seemed startled by Brastigan's presence.
Before he could turn away, Brastigan asked, “What are you two up to?”
He spoke neutrally, to avoid giving offense. Which, for Brastigan, was an unnatural event in itself. Lottres frowned warily.
“No, really,” Brastigan said. “I want to know what you're trying to do.”
“We're listening,” Lottres replied. He waited. When Brastigan didn't laugh, he went on, “Listening for the enemy. Any noises that might tell us where they are.”
“Sounds useful,” Brastigan admitted.
Lottres shrugged and turned away, muttering something under his breath.
More time had passed than Brastigan thought while he tended the witling waif. The sky above was strewn with a splendor of stars. Pikarus was telling out watches, and those men not on duty demonstrated how the sand was loose enough to dig out shallow trenches for sleeping. Lottres joined them. Brastigan shifted his own shoulders and thought sleep did sound appealing.
The girl had stopped eating as soon as he didn't push food at her. Brastigan wondered momentarily if she wanted a bed dug, or needed a trip to the latrine first. He quickly decided his duty didn't extend so far. He left her staring at the space where his feet had been.
Brastigan walked past Yriatt, who remained as still as one of the logs behind her. He took the first available bed, with a nod of thanks to Roari, who dug it. Javes took the next one over, but Brastigan was in no mood to talk. He lay down and pulled his cloak over his head. Despite the discomfort of sleeping in harness, he fell asleep at once.
* * *
As the days passed, Lottres had but two tasks: listening to those around him and blocking Yriatt's probes. She tested him constantly. The only respite was when they worked together, searching through the fire for any sign of the Silletsians. Yriatt had an evil instinct for knowing when Lottres was tired or distracted. Most nights, he went to bed with a throbbing headache from her painful strikes.
“Remember, Thaeme,” she would say if he protested, “this is what you wanted.”
Then, like as not, she would probe again to see if he had kept his defenses up. More and more, Lottres did just that. He was learning to sense an attack coming. Some of the time, he even blocked them without accidentally holding his breath.
His eavesdropping skills had improved, as well. Lottres was able to focus on any of the men, whenever he wanted to. Only the nameless girl continued to resist his probes. And Yriatt, of course. Lottres didn't quite dare eavesdrop on his maess.
Still, it bothered him that he couldn't hear the girl. Lottres sensed only emptiness in her. It was like listening for voices at the bottom of a well. He didn't understand it, and that made him wary. He reminded himself that it was Yriatt's business, not his.
Maybe that was why Brastigan wouldn't leave the girl alone. In his perversity, he insisted on interfering with her. Brastigan didn't like Yriatt, and he wanted to bother her. Bother Lottres, too, if he could. Then there was the basic attraction of a female. He had seen Brastigan charm enough girls with his roguish grin, just to pass time. As long as the two of them weren't alone, Lottres supposed it was all right. After all, he had more to worry about than his brother's petty games.
In a way, Lottres felt sorry for Brastigan. He wasn't pretending to be affected by the news that his mother hadn't been born Urulai. The pain was sincere. Still, Lottres kept his sympathies to himself. Brastigan wouldn't want his pity.
Besides, it was such a refreshing change that he, Lottres, got to drag Brastigan along where he didn't want to go. He rather enjoyed doing it. Lottres admitted to himself that he wasn't ready to yield the upper hand. Not yet.
* * *
The days fell into a routine of hard riding and snatched meals. The land was no friend now. The mountains on every side were as jagged as jaws full of teeth, and they no longer had smooth Urulai trails before them. The falcon scouted out game tracks that kept them in the woods, scurrying to cover when they must cross open land. Every dawn and dusk they heard griffins calling, and it wasn't only the falcon that kept its eyes on the sky. Yet every night the bird found them some secluded place to camp.
Every night, too, Brastigan found himself tending the silent girl. It became a part of the daily pattern to lift her up and down from her horse and offer his arm while she stretched her legs. If the men looked askance, Javes had been the only one to speak of it.
Despite her witless seeming, the girl came to recognize Brastigan. At first it was just his feet she knew, and then his hand holding some bit of bread or cheese. On the second night she insisted on feeling his hands. Soft fingers glided over his calloused ones, probing and puzzling. He could hardly feed her.
“Just don't chew on my knuckles,” Brastigan told her. That was what Estarra's babes usually did.
On the third day, the girl picked his face out from whatever mist she saw before her. She gazed at him, and her eyes were no longer quite so empty. Brastigan felt his heart turn over. He had never been looked at this way before. The court women were worldly, knowing. None of them were innocent, not even little Cliodora. This girl, Yriatt's pathetic baggage, didn't chatter or invite or suggest. She just looked at him as if he was wonderful.
Nor was she, in truth, the mindless creature she appeared. The girl did perceive what went on around her. The others were just too
busy to see the slight reactions that made up her unspoken vocabulary. When camp was set and Brastigan must leave her, the girl kept her eyes on him wherever he stepped. Sometimes, when he spoke, her lips twitched as if she were trying to smile but didn't know how. For the girl did remain silent, despite her new responsiveness. She sat like a dream, as perfect and lovely as a sunbeam or a drop of dew.
By the fifth day, the Urulai horses were forgotten. Brastigan was the girl's willing servant. What man could resist such flattery? Brastigan couldn't, and he knew it. Once, long ago, Lottres used to look at him the way the girl did now. Being a proud thirteen-year-old, he hadn't appreciated what it meant. Not that any girl could replace his brother's friendship, but it soothed his wounded pride to be regarded with unqualified admiration.
Besides, he now knew Yriatt was wrong about the girl. That alone was enough to cheer him. Despite a strong desire to rub it in his brother's face, Brastigan held the knowledge close. If it were Yriatt who made this pretty girl into a nothing, she might put her back that way. If that happened, Brastigan would have to kill her, and Lottres would never forgive him.
If Brastigan was content, his brother wasn't. Just as the girl was really blossoming, Lottres appeared at Brastigan's shoulder while he was tying up the mules.
In a harsh whisper, Lottres asked, “What are you after?”
Brastigan had been aware of his brother's agitation when he cared for the girl. Yriatt didn't seem to care, but Lottres obviously did. Now Brastigan's mind was crowded with things he couldn't say: that he felt so isolated from the men, so alienated from his brother, it felt good when someone, however strange, seemed to need him.
He swallowed these thoughts and answered, “I'm working.” Brastigan lifted the bundle of mules' reins in demonstration. “Which, by the way, you haven't been helping with since —.”
Too Many Princes Page 19
