The night continued to burn behind Yriatt, but if she sensed his hate she gave no sign. She turned toward Ymell, and her cool voice came to him faintly across the sand. “Oh, yes, Father. Leithan's boy is here.”
Ymell turned as if she'd bitten him. “Where?”
The witch gestured and his eyes followed, finding Brastigan among the other dumb beasts. Ymell's stunned expression was not unlike Unferth's when Brastigan last spoke to him.
Brastigan couldn't face that searching gaze. Instead, he looked to Yriatt. He might despise her, but at least she was familiar.
“So, are we done now? Do we stay here, or go on?”
His harsh voice brought a lull, during which Yriatt's dark eyes took in the exhausted men around her. And, maybe, the amount of packing to be done before the troop could move anywhere.
“We stay,” she said.
She spoke as if she were granting some special favor, but you took what you could get with Yriatt. The battle lines quickly dissolved as soldiers put their weapons away and fell to talking among themselves.
Ymell was still staring at Brastigan. He took a step forward, raising one hand, but let it fall as Brastigan turned away. It wasn't as if he felt anything for the man. He wanted no more of witchery. What Brastigan wanted was to lie down. To get out of his harness, too, but mostly just to lie down.
Before he reached the pile of clothes where his bags used to be, Pikarus strode over to join him. “Do you want a hand?” His quiet tone suggested he would back away if Brastigan wanted it that way.
“You don't have anything better to do?” Company was not what Brastigan wanted, but his elbow hurt enough that he wouldn't refuse the offer.
“Nothing that can't wait.”
Soon Pikarus was easing off the mail hauberk. Without it, Brastigan felt as light and insubstantial as the girl had been. There wasn't a proper rack, so the two men laid it flat on the ground, where the dry sand could absorb some of the sweat.
“You could have been killed, your highness.” Pikarus said, so calmly he might have been discussing the weather. “That would have been disastrous.”
“Disastrous for whom?” Brastigan retorted wearily.
“All of us.”
Next was the quilted gambeson, slimy and stinking like a patch of toadstools. Brastigan closed his mouth on a grunt of pain as Pikarus twisted his sore elbow. Fortunately, the rank odor of sweat dissipated quickly in the open air.
“Because your orders were to protect me?” the dark prince mocked.
“No,” Pikarus answered patiently, “because the men depend on you. Prince Lottres may be intelligent, and he is often correct, but he doesn't fight like a soldier. You told me earlier today, we'll get through this. I still believe that.”
Brastigan remembered the conversation only vaguely, as if it had happened months ago. He made a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. “I was kidding myself.”
“Your highness...” Pikarus was silent for a moment. “We all saw how you fought just now. I've never witnessed the like.” He quickly added, “Please, don't ever do it again.”
“No promises.” Brastigan shivered as the cool air met his sticky, damp skin.
“You may be feeling low now,” Pikarus said. “Nobody blames you for that. But you really are the greatest swordsman in Crutham. I know you will survive this.”
The unexpected repeat of his habitual boast made Brastigan swallow a lump in his throat. He forced a smile. “The greatest in the world, you mean.”
Pikarus chuckled, but his gaze was steady. “Could be.”
“Maybe that's my problem,” Brastigan said, almost to himself. “No one gave me any orders, except to get out of Harburg.”
The soldier surprised him with a dry chuckle. “The only one who can give you orders is King Unferth, and he only sometimes.”
Pikarus went off to organize something. Brastigan's arms trembled as exhaustion really set in. He jerked on the first clothes he could find, not caring what they looked like, and kicked open his bedroll.
It wasn't easy to get comfortable on the hard ground. Bruises mottled his skin, like spots on rotten fruit, and each one had a pain to go with it. But that wasn't what kept Brastigan awake. It was the absence of the girl.
Was it really such a little while ago he fed her bread and cheese? Her last meal, as it turned out. Brastigan felt he had known her forever, but it was really just a handful of days. Such a short time to be the whole of someone's life. It seemed impossible that she was gone.
* * *
The fire burned low and the floor of rock shelter was paved with sleeping men. A sentry was still awake, and so was Lottres. Yriatt and Ymell sat near the fire. He could feel them communing on a level much deeper than he was capable of. Even though he was exhausted, Lottres was far too excited to sleep.
The evening battle had been exhilarating, even better than the afternoon's. For one thing, Lottres had done more. It had felt so good to act without hiding, and Shaelen, his fellow thaeme, gave so much encouragement. She had showed him how to make fire follow his arrows. It was so simple! Lottres had never been able to fight this way before. For the first time, he understood why Brastigan liked it so much.
“I am worried, heart-kin.” Shaelen's voice came from the darkness in a thread so fine Lottres wasn't sure if she spoke aloud or directly to his mind. “Will Brastigan be all right?”
“I don't know,” Lottres answered with his mind. Any mention of Brastigan irritated him, these days.
“Can't you do something?” Shaelen persisted. “He is your brother.”
Lottres raised himself on his elbows just enough to see the glint of Shaelen's eyes in the darkness. He didn't understand why Shaelen even cared, after the way Brastigan had treated her.
“No one can do anything for him,” Lottres said. “You've seen how he is.”
Shaelen seemed to sigh in the darkness. Lottres sensed her affectionate dismay.
“You listen to fire and wind, heart-kin,” she said. “You hear condors, mules and crows. But do you listen to your own brother?”
“It would be nice if he listened to me,” Lottres retorted. “Anyway, I've heard what he has to say.”
“Then listen to what he doesn't say,” Shaelen answered gently. Her mind-touch slipped away, leaving Lottres suddenly alone in the darkness. He eased back down.
All the men had been talking about how Brastigan went berserk in battle. Brastigan was grieving, and that anguish was real. Yet his brother had brought this on himself. Lottres was tired of running after Brastigan, picking up his messes. It was past time for Brastigan to do his own dirty work.
Lottres turned over, trying to get comfortable. Then he sighed, knowing that Shaelen was right. He couldn't turn his back on a brother, however much he felt like it. Lottres had to clean up this one last mess, make it right between them.
But not now. Not while the stench of the bone men's burning made the night air heavy as a woolen blanket. Not now, Lottres told himself. Tomorrow.
DARK REFLECTIONS
Brastigan woke up and muffled a groan in his bedroll. A faint glow suffused the rock shelter. Dawn was coming. He didn't greet it gladly. Brastigan's eyes burned, his head felt thick, and there was no part of his body that didn't hurt.
The bitter scent of smoke wafted past. Moving slowly, he sat up. The sky outside was gray as a ring-necked dove. His sluggish mind registered the pine trees, ranged in a black overlay against the frosty glow. Someone stood in silhouette at the cave mouth, crooked horns jutting above. The general form wasn't slender enough to be Yriatt. It must be Ymell.
Even as Brastigan thought this, the man turned toward him. “Good morning,” Ymell remarked. He didn't speak loudly, but it was so quiet that his voice easily carried across the shelter.
Brastigan got up, though he wanted to lie back down. The men had fought hard yesterday. Even Brastigan wasn't selfish enough to wake them before their time. He walked unsteadily to join Ymell at the cave mouth, where sand-fill
ed baggage still stood in a makeshift wall. It appeared even less stable in the daylight. The scorched hillside dropped away on the other side. Only a swath of trampled earth showed where the bone men had come up the slope. No trace remained of the enemy army. The ground had been burned clean.
Beyond the line of blackened trees lay the empty valley of Altannath. The mound rose above it, half dark as soot and half pale as gold. Wisps of smoke still rose from the ruins of the Silletsian camp. Even the emerald lake wore an ashen pall. At least no black wings defaced the lightening sky.
“I don't want to sleep, either,” Ymell said, talking almost to himself. “I spent three months asleep, thanks to Ysislaw and his eppagadrocca. I think I shall enjoy standing for a while.”
Even exhausted and discouraged as he was, Brastigan was too proud to ask how Ysislaw's spell had worked. Most likely, he wouldn't have understood the answer, anyway.
“What did you dream about for three months?” Brastigan asked disinterestedly.
“I don't remember,” Ymell confessed. Then he asked, “And you?”
“Nothing,” Brastigan mumbled. No dreams he wanted to remember, anyway.
Not to be put off, Ymell said, “I heard about what happened with the shadow child. That was very unfortunate. I am sorry for your grief.”
Brastigan felt his guts tighten with fury. He knew good and well that Yriatt hadn't told her father the story. She considered the girl's life of such low importance. These wizards had no respect for privacy. Always picking out people's thoughts, they were.
“As a rule, I do not spy on others,” Ymell corrected gently. “Shaelen told me about it. It wasn't easy for her, being divided from a part of herself. I only wish the circumstances permitted her the time she needs to heal, before we must fight again.”
Ymell glanced at Brastigan, perhaps suggesting Shaelen wasn't the only one who needed healing.
“Poor Shaelen,” Brastigan mocked. Maybe she was still human enough to feel remorse, but that didn't excuse Yriatt.
“My daughter has her pride, I fear,” Ymell went on quietly. “Had I been there, I would have counseled her not to take such a drastic step. But,” he shrugged, “it was my very absence that brought them to this. Alas that we cannot change what is past.”
Brastigan stared across the charred valley, rejecting the implied defense. Excuses wouldn't bring the girl back.
“There is one thing I must tell you.” Ymell's grave voice interrupted Brastigan's bitter thoughts. “I must warn you to beware Ysislaw.”
“Really?” Brastigan widened his eyes in a pretense of surprise. “The king of our enemies, the leader of the invasion—you think I should be worried about him?”
“You misunderstand,” Ymell said, though he smiled faintly. “I have foreseen...”
“Stop!” Brastigan clapped both hands to his ears. “Don't tell me.”
Ymell regarded him with brows raised in surprise. When Brastigan was sure the wizard wouldn't speak, he lowered his hands and prowled along the wall, restless.
“You gave my father that “gift” years ago,” Brastigan said over his shoulder. “It changed his life—and not for the better.” Indeed, it seemed to Brastigan that Ymell's foretelling had set Unferth on a long road which led only to grief. “I don't want your prophecy. I'll make my own decisions, not be sent here and there because someone says it's my destiny.”
“Perhaps you're right,” Ymell replied. If Brastigan's rebuff upset him, it didn't show. “But do heed my warning. Ysislaw will go out of his way to take you if he can. You must be cautious.”
“To hold me hostage?” Brastigan retorted. “Good luck. I'm, what, thirteenth in line for the throne of Crutham? I don't think he'd have much use for me.”
“Not to hold you,” Ymell answered seriously. “Merely to slay you. There is reason for him to hate you especially.”
Brastigan's mouth twitched. “I've never even met him. I haven't had time to annoy him properly.”
“But your mother did.”
That did make Brastigan turn and look at him. Leithan had been so quiet and gentle, bearing every insult her life offered without a word of complaint. How could she have angered anyone?
Of course, Brastigan had never truly known her. All he had was a child's adoring memory. Only now, having met Yriatt and Ymell, did he recognize the aloofness in Leithan's bearing, the isolation even from her own son.
Ymell looked back at him, perhaps waiting for permission to speak.
“Mother wouldn't slap at a flea that bit her.” Brastigan snapped.
“She would reject an unworthy suitor,” Ymell replied. Now it was he who looked away from Brastigan.
So Ysislaw had been Leithan's suitor? Brastigan tried to picture a man wooing his mother. Then he tried to imagine the exalted dragons doing anything so earthy as courting. Both times, he failed.
“Was that before he conquered her country, or after?” Brastigan asked wryly.
Ymell chuckled, but his mirth was bitter and terribly sad. “Yes,” he said.
“Yes, what?” Brastigan was forced to ask.
“We dragons have always been divided about the reason for our existence,” Ymell said. “I, and the majority of our kind, believe we have a noble purpose, to guide and protect humans. If we can, we will lead you to greatness.” His voice swelled with sudden vigor, and Brastigan felt his blood quicken in response. Then Ymell's voice dipped and darkened. “Others have held that the only true purpose of any living creature is self-interest. Because of their mighty powers, they believed they had the right to do whatever they wished, even to rule over humans as tyrants.”
There was no need to guess which side Ysislaw was on, but Brastigan didn't see what this had to do with Leithan. Why, he wondered irritably, could these wizards never say things plainly?
“These latter ones,” Ymell droned, like a tutor lecturing a pupil, “warred against each other and humans. Fortunately, they exterminated each other over time. Of all this evil brood, only Ysislaw now survives. His domain is made up of lands seized from his fellows. The irony of his success is that, despite his vast power and endless life, Ysislaw has no real future.
“It's said that we most desire what we cannot have,” Ymell went on. “Ysislaw dreams of a dynasty, eternal conquerors with power enough to bring the world to its knees. He wants the very thing your father has in such plenty: sons.”
“Well, why not?” Brastigan asked with deliberate callousness. “You seem able to make yourselves into whatever you want. Surely Sillets has women who are willing to be its queen.”
“We can change ourselves, yes,” Ymell said, a forefinger raised in emphasis, “but only so far. Our horns, you have noted. Those do not change. They are the source and the symbol of our power. If we change our horns, our power is also changed.”
Well, that explained why Yriatt took such pride in her horns, dressing them up with jewels and finery. Brastigan cast a skeptical eye on Ymell's horns. From a distance they seemed a smooth, uniform dark brown. Standing so close, he could see streaks of darker and lighter matter. Tiny ridges and grooves followed the curved surfaces in a complicated pattern. Still, they seemed ordinary enough, except that they grew from a man's head.
Then the obvious struck him, and he blurted without thinking, “Mother didn't have any horns.”
“She did when she was born,” Ymell corrected in a soft, careful tone.
“But?” Brastigan pressed. Despite his distrust of all things dragon, he had to know what had happened.
“Returning to your previous question,” Ymell said, “Ysislaw can make himself into a human man, and he can enjoy human women, but he can get no offspring on them. Only another dragon could serve that purpose. Our kind are not many, and there are even fewer females. Those there are despise Ysislaw, as my daughters do... did. If he wants an heir, he must capture a bride and keep her. That is what he sought to obtain in Urland. He wanted my Yrien.”
Brastigan sucked in a breath, understanding now why Yme
ll went on at such length about dragon politics and breeding. Leithan had been in the thick of both.
“Yriatt dwelt in Verelay, near to me,” Ymell continued, “but Yrien dwelt in Urland. She was born there and had vowed to protect its people. We did not realize how isolated she was, how vulnerable.” His voice trembled with remembered emotion. Brastigan said nothing, but listened and waited. “Ysislaw had massed his troops in several locations. Some were near the border of Urland and Paltey, but the larger group was just to the north of here. We thought that my mound was his target, and the troops in Paltey were merely to keep Yrien's Urulai from riding to my aid.”
“It wasn't,” Brastigan prodded. He felt anxious to hear more, and yet dreaded the tale.
Ymell nodded slowly, sadly. “Ysislaw waited until Yriatt joined me here, then swept into Urland. Too late, we realized we had been deceived. Even with Yrien's power, the Urulai were overwhelmed. She was forced to flee. That was a long and terrible war.” Ymell trailed off, then said briskly, “I shall not bore you with minutiae. Though she defied him to the end, Yrien was trapped. Ysislaw vowed to make her his bride. At last, when she had no other choice, she did the unthinkable.”
“She changed her horns,” Brastigan whispered.
Once again, the horned wizard's voice was dark. “My beautiful daughter gave up her great heritage, her horns and her power. All that she was, she put aside. She changed herself completely and became an Urulai woman. Because of Ysislaw,” he hissed with bitter hate. “Thus she denied his desire.”
For once, Brastigan was left speechless. What could he say to such a tale—what could anyone say, who was merely human? Only now did he understand, very grudgingly, why Yriatt had been so afraid Ysislaw would find out where she was.
The silence went on too long. Brastigan couldn't bear it. He made himself ask, “What did Ysislaw do?”
“He tried to kill her, of course,” Ymell said. “Not quickly—he wanted her to suffer in the form she had chosen. He flew with her to a high mountain glacier and threw her into a crevasse. He left her to die in an icy tomb.”
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