“Not have feelings?” he scowled. “Everyone has feelings. Even you.”
Yriatt ignored the jibe. “I permitted you to care for her because I thought you could do no harm. I was wrong. You cannot be trusted with her.”
The girl herself had been crowding closer to Brastigan with every harsh word spoken. As Yriatt stepped closer, she slipped completely behind him. He could feel her breathing hard as she clung to his grubby surcoat.
“I don't think she likes you,” Brastigan smirked.
Yriatt drew herself up, her eyes blazing with anger. Whatever she might have done was interrupted as Pikarus suddenly stepped between them.
“You cannot argue here.” Pikarus's clipped voice was a surprise. No polite phrases and deference now—his blue eyes were stern as steel. “These are wounded, tired men. Your quarrels will destroy their spirit when they need it most. If you must disagree, then move out of our hearing.”
“Fine with me.” Brastigan glared a challenge to Yriatt.
“Very well,” hissed the witch. “Let us walk.”
The four of them pushed their way upstream. Lottres had to help Yriatt get her horns through the tangled branches. They stopped in a hollow among the crowding willows. The amber glow of sunlight through the branches seemed to come from very far away. There was scarcely room for Brastigan to stand straight, but he found a twisted root for the girl to sit on. Then he stood in front of her, facing Lottres and Yriatt.
Pikarus came as well, to Brastigan's surprise, placing himself between the two sides. Ready to jump in, if he had to. What Brastigan didn't know was whose side Pikarus would take.
“All right,” Brastigan began, “before you land on me about what I've done, why don't you tell me what you've done?”
“I?” Yriatt said. The single word was sharp enough to cut leather.
“You,” he answered. “You told us you try to help sick people. It's obvious she's not right in the head. So is she sick or under a spell? What are you doing to help her?”
“She is not under a spell,” Yriatt bit out. “She is a spell. A shadow, to be precise.”
“A shadow?” Brastigan asked. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Even Lottres looked confused, but the witch regarded Brastigan as if he had asked the most stupid question possible.
Coldly, she explained, “We had not been able to learn my father's fate for weeks. Shaelen offered to investigate. Yet a sorceress would be captured or killed before she learned anything. Sillets has many ways to find out its enemies.”
“You mean the dogs,” Lottres supplied eagerly.
“And others. That is why I must take such care.”
Carefully, Pikarus asked, “Could no one else go?”
“Only a sorceress could understand what she saw,” Yriatt told him, “or I would have asked the Urulai to do it. I could not come myself, and so I was forced to accept Shaelen's offer. To make her safe, I divided her temporarily from her power. That,” she looked to the cringing girl, “is merely a shadow. A vessel to contain Shaelen's power until she reclaims it.”
While Brastigan stared at Yriatt, trying to wrap his mind around what she'd said, Lottres gazed at the girl with stunned admiration.
“Amazing,” he breathed.
The object of all this scrutiny seemed to shrink in on herself. She turned her face away, like a babe too overcome by emotion to even look at what she feared.
Pikarus said, “Surely some other...”
Yriatt shook her head. “It must be a living thing, and I could not bestow such power on an unthinking beast.”
“So you made your own unthinking beast,” Brastigan managed. “You made her, full grown, from nothing?” How could she have such power, he wondered.
“I did,” Yriatt said. Her dark eyes narrowed with utter contempt. “And you took her for some peccadillo.”
Now this, Brastigan knew. He could understand and answer an insult. “I don't know why you should assume that about me,” he said, with some of her coldness, “but it isn't a peccadillo. It is friendship, no more.”
“It didn't look like friendship to me,” Lottres retorted.
“Things change,” Brastigan thought. Until today, he hadn't known the girl had the feelings she did. He wasn't going to say that to his brother, not when he sided with Yriatt.
“That's because you've had your head in the clouds,” he snapped back. “You don't see men dying around you —.”
“I shall take your word,” Yriatt interrupted, “as to the nature of the relationship, but you have placed me in a difficult position. The shadow was not supposed to awaken. I didn't think it could. I would very much like to know what you did to cause this.”
This was the first time Brastigan had ever heard Yriatt admit any uncertainty. “If you must know,” he drawled, relishing the moment, “we played peek-a-boo. And I guess I have to remind you that we're only having this conversation because of her. There were twenty of those bone men to eight of us, and the two of you sitting up there, not stooping to get your hands dirty —.”
“You are lucky she didn't kill you,” Yriatt answered fiercely. “She has no control of her power.”
“Well, she didn't kill us. She saved us,” Brastigan retorted, “and I consider my friendship well repaid.”
“I am not interested in your judgment of my actions,” the witch said. “Do not forget, it was I who summoned you, to aid me and do my will. In doing so, you act in the defense of Crutham. In defying me, you place all in peril.”
“She's right,” Lottres reasoned, exasperated. “Saving our home is what's important, isn't it?”
“Maybe so,” Brastigan snapped, “but we're not servants to send here and there. She treats us like Sillets does the bone men, using us for her own convenience.” Yriatt stiffened angrily at this comparison. Brastigan spoke on. “These men are under my command. I'm responsible for their welfare, and I won't have their lives thrown away.”
Pikarus shifted, as if he would say something, but Brastigan narrowed his eyes and stared straight at Yriatt. “What's incredible to me is that you made this girl without thinking about what it means. She is alive, just as if you gave birth to her, yet you expect her not to live.” He swallowed an angry knot in his throat. “Living things live. It's what we all do. Why would you think this girl is any different?”
Softly, terribly, she answered, “Not every life is equal. This one was always intended to be brief. The shadow was not supposed to exist in its own right. Whatever you have done to her, she holds within her the essence of another person. That must be returned to Shaelen.”
Brastigan stared at Yriatt. There seemed no appropriate response to such arrogance. Even Lottres looked taken aback.
Finally, Brastigan managed, “How can you create a life, just to destroy it?”
“When one has lived as long as I have, one develops an impartial perspective,” Yriatt said.
Brastigan found himself scrambling in the face of her callousness. “Well, I hope I die young, then.”
“You may get your wish,” she warned softly.
“Just give the power back to your friend and give the girl to me,” Brastigan demanded. “I'll take care of her.”
“I shall consider it,” the witch said, in a way that made him think she wouldn't consider it at all. “But you cannot expropriate what is rightfully Shaelen's. I will not permit it.”
Brastigan had never liked Yriatt. From the moment they met, he hadn't liked her, all the more because she said they were related. Until this moment, he had not truly hated her. Somehow, his loathing gave him a kind of calm.
Yriatt's flat black eyes fixed on Brastigan, as if she knew his thought. “I caution you not to interfere further.”
“Or what?” Brastigan gave a bark of laugher. “You'll do nothing. Someone might know you're here.” He clapped a hand to his cheek, feigning alarm, and then sneered, “Don't threaten me when I know you don't mean it.”
Clearly it galled Yriatt to admit he w
as right, so she didn't. “I suggest you enjoy the time you have left.”
Brastigan turned and took the girl's hand, drawing her to her feet. He led her through the tangled thicket, toward the mules.
“Don't you worry,” Brastigan told the girl. “I won't let her hurt you.” He hoped that promise wouldn't be as empty as Yriatt's threat.
Lottres stayed behind, of course, heeling to his new master. After a moment Brastigan heard footsteps behind him. He turned with a jerk, then relaxed.
Pikarus fell in at his left shoulder, murmuring, “Your highness, is it wise to quarrel with her?”
“Someone's got to,” Brastigan growled back. He felt an absurd relief that Pikarus had chosen to follow him today, not Lottres. “Look where it got us, following her blind.”
“We are also following your father's orders,” Pikarus pointed out.
“Orders?” Brastigan gave another harsh laugh. “Is that all you can think about?”
Quietly, Pikarus told him, “Orders are all a soldier has. We speak or stand silent, strike or withhold, based on our orders. It's difficult for us when the orders aren't clear.”
“I know, I know, but that witch controls everyone I care about. I can't just let her do whatever she wants.” Brastigan stopped, facing Pikarus. “We lost two men today, good men. You heard how she talked about them, like it was nothing. We can't count on her. We have to protect ourselves.”
“Attrition may become a problem, your highness,” Pikarus answered with mild irony.
“Don't remind me.” Brastigan clapped the officer's shoulder briefly, feeling the rigid metal beneath his hand. “We'll hold it together somehow. We have to.”
The girl clung to Brastigan's arm as they wound through the willow thicket. This time, he didn't try to make her let go.
* * *
Brastigan snatched a moment to speak with Yugo and Henrick. Then it was time to hoist them back up on their mules, without so much as a word from Yriatt for their pain. She should have been able to do something for them, Brastigan thought bitterly. But no, she protected herself at their expense.
The stream was shallow, so they rode under the patchy shelter of the willow trees, moving slowly to spare the mules. The water would disguise their scent, if more dogs hunted them, and shade was welcome as the sun rose higher. They stopped often, too, but no one questioned that. Not when every man could see ravens and crows criss-crossing the sky. Brastigan knew he wasn't the only one who noted a steady spiral of condors in one particular quarter.
At the bottom of a hill the stream veered north, running toward the lake Brastigan had glimpsed earlier. The rutted road into Crutham ran beside it. They urged their mules out of the water and waited for a raven to soar another way. Also for the water to run off their beasts' hooves. When Yriatt deemed it safe, they cut across the Crutham road and up toward yet another fantastic rocky spine. Luck was their friend, this time. They crossed without incident and hid in the rocks on the far side.
Still they listened for sounds of pursuit, straining their ears into the quiet afternoon. Hooves on stone sounded very loud. No crows called now, but many scrub jays. Listening to the shrill rasping, Brastigan wondered if Sillets tolerated only birds with ugly, grating voices.
Yriatt stopped abruptly. After a moment, Brastigan realized she was listening to the strident bark of a ground squirrel. The witch turned aside, toward an arch weathered into the pale rock. Beyond that was a narrow canyon, all but closed at its top. The interior was cool and dark. The riders stopped when Yriatt did.
“We wait,” she told them.
They didn't wait for long. Within moments, Brastigan heard hooves. They sounded soft, as of a horse not shod. An Urulai horse? Even as he made this guess, a horse and rider were silhouetted against the light from outside. Tall, slender—even as she merged with the shadows of the canyon, Brastigan knew the rider was an Urulai woman.
Yriatt rode back along the line, Lottres following closely. “Shaelen,” she assured them as she passed.
The stranger drew closer, appeared from the darkness at Yriatt's side. Briefly the two women clasped hands. They exchanged a few words in Urulai. Yriatt introduced Lottres, and he took the stranger's hand as well.
Brastigan stared at the shadowy figure, looking for some reason to despise her. He soon found one: this was another of Yriatt's female warriors. Shaelen wore dark trousers with a leather jerkin above them. She carried a bow, too, and a quiver of arrows across her back. Her horse was gray, a glimmering phantom in the dim light.
Shaelen's body might look Urulai, but her face was the wrong shape. Too round, the mouth too full, the skin too brown. Her eyes were dark enough for an Urulai, and two braids dangled beneath the flaps of a leather cap. But that hair was red—Silletsian red. So she was a child of the war, a half-blood like Brastigan. The slight similarity made him like her even less.
Those dark eyes swept the Cruthan line, seeking, and finally settled on the girl. A kind of calm seemed to come over Shaelen. She showed a quick interest, too, as her eyes fell on Brastigan. Looking back to Yriatt, Shaelen murmured something. The witch answered with quiet scorn. It was plain who they were talking about.
To Brastigan's surprise, Shaelen spoke softly, in a passable Cruthan. “That was rude, to speak a foreign tongue in front of you. I apologize.” She bowed her head toward Javes, who was the nearest officer to her.
He glanced back at Pikarus and Brastigan before answering, “Accepted.” Then he spoke the question uppermost in Brastigan's mind. “Now what?”
“We must take time to plan,” Yriatt answered. She asked Shaelen, “Do you know of a place where we can be hidden, yet overlook the valley?”
“This way, Maess.” Shaelen turned her horse.
Shaelen led them under cover of the jutting rocks. As shadows lengthened toward evening, they followed a line of sharp plates which stood precariously slanted. The trail angled down, the rocks leaned over them, and just as it seemed they would be crushed, they emerged into a spacious cavern with a level, sandy floor. At the rear, a spring yielded cold drips of water. Scattered stems of dry grass and mounds of manure suggested a resting place for Shaelen's horse. Large rocks were laid out for a fire ring, with wood neatly sorted by size. However, there were no ashes within it.
A broad opening on the western side was screened by pine trees. Beyond those was a sweeping view of the valley, washed with sunset's bloody glow. The hill Brastigan had seen earlier stood directly before them. Now that he wasn't riding for his life, he recognized its smooth, conical shape.
That made three of the enigmatic mounds they had seen so far: the Dragon's Candle near Harburg, the Dragon's Tooth at Rowbeck, and this one. Its presence made him wary.
The soldiers began to set camp, but Brastigan didn't want to leave the girl alone, so she held the reins while he and Javes tended the mules. One by one they stripped saddles, watered them, and gave each one a well deserved rub down. They fed the beasts what they could of grain.
Pikarus made sure all injuries were properly cleaned and bandaged, while another man distributed packets of cold food. The men ate in silence. Exhausted, maybe, or fearing what was to come. Remembering Pikarus's words, Brastigan wondered if they were really just waiting for someone to tell them what to do. For orders.
Meanwhile, Brastigan saw Yriatt talking with Lottres and Shaelen. The sky was getting truly dark when they emerged from their huddle. If they had a plan, they didn't mention it. Yriatt went to the spring to drink, while Lottres and Shaelen collected their meals.
Then Brastigan heard Pikarus ask, “Noble lady, I have been wondering. What were those creatures we fought today?”
In the quiet chamber, you could fairly feel the men straining to hear the answer.
Somberly, Yriatt replied, “Someone called them bone men. That is as good a name as any.”
“Those are no men,” Pikarus objected.
“But once they were,” she said. “There is a place in Sillets called the Valley of Walki
ng Bones. Criminals and enemies, any who resist Ysislaw's power, are sent there. It is a prison of starvation. There are no animals, no growing plants, not so much as an insect to eat.
“When the captives are reduced to the point of death, they are fed from a foul brew. Only the strongest spirits refuse it. Others, who are desperate to live, drink. But they do not live. They are changed.”
Her voice left a terrible silence in its wake. Brastigan thought he wasn't the only one who shuddered at her words. To imprison an enemy was one thing, but deliberate starvation... What kind of man was this Ysislaw, to order such a torture?
“Can nothing be done?” Lottres asked, subdued.
“To cure them? No.” She shrugged. “Your soldiers handled them well enough this morning.”
Easy for her to say, when two men were dead and two more wounded. Brastigan kept his peace, sharing a quiet meal with the girl. It was an unpleasant surprise, then, when he heard a soft footfall and looked up to see Shaelen approaching. The younger witch seated herself directly in front of Brastigan, where he couldn't avoid looking at her.
The newcomer had removed her cap, releasing a tangle of ruddy curls behind the two braids in front. At least she had no horns, he thought. A whiff of pine came with her, as if she had used the powerful scent to disguise her body odor from enemy trackers.
Brastigan scowled. “What do you want?”
He could see the details of her garb now. Rows of stitching showed where something had been sewn into her jerkin to stiffen it. From the spacing of the stitches, it was most likely elk rib bones. A dark blue jeup hung at the base of her throat. Its design was invisible in the failing light.
Her face, above it, was thinner than he had first thought. Dark hollows ringed her eyes, and her cheek bones stood out below. She looked at the girl with a kind of hunger.
“Answer me,” Brastigan growled.
Shaelen's dark eyes were faintly sad now. She nodded toward the girl, who made herself small against Brastigan's side. “Maess said you took good care of my shadow. I came to thank you.”
“I didn't do it for you,” Brastigan answered curtly. Yriatt's student didn't seem to have the same egotism, but it would take more than a soft voice to placate him.
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