As adamant as Arduwyn sounded, Mitrian almost expected him to end his statement with “again.” For now, she let the matter rest and tried to address all the concerns he had raised. “First, I’m not certain anyone is chasing Garn, though it wouldn’t surprise me. Once I get home, I can call off the pursuit. Second, even if they caught up with Garn, no one would try to make you into a slave.” The image of the skinny, little archer as a gladiator was so humorous, Mitrian barely suppressed a laugh. “If a fight started and you didn’t attack, I don’t believe anyone would hurt you. Third, I’ve seen Garn in the woods. He can move as quietly as an animal. I don’t think he’ll hamper you. Fourth, I’m willing to pay you vast sums of money. What more do you need?” Again, she offered the garnet.
This time, Arduwyn scooped the gemstone from Mitrian’s hand and placed it in his pocket. “All right. I suppose Garn’s presence ought to keep me safe from muggers in the towns. I like being alone, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk with, too.” His words seemed more for convincing himself than explaining to Mitrian.
A smile of excitement touched Mitrian’s features. Finally, everything seemed to have fallen into place. Garn’s in good hands. We’re no longer hungry. I have my special sword, and I’ve performed Shadimar’s act of defiance. With the other concerns settled, Mitrian wondered how the Wizard’s magic would work. Will my father have changed his mind about women and swords? Mitrian shook her head, unable to picture the possibility. Perhaps the war will threaten our town, and we’ll need every sword arm, no matter how untried their skills.
Sudden fear gripped Mitrian. Her mind created images she could not shake. She pictured cruel, dark soldiers swarming upon her friends and family, the Easterners’ sword skills crude but as deadly as the Strinian barbarians she had seen by Shadimar’s magic. The men of her village sprang to the attack, some with nothing but the tools of their trades: Listar swung his father’s hammer, his strokes frantic, the butcher hacked a bloodstained cleaver in strong but wild arcs, the farmers used only their picks and hoes. Women’s screams and wolf howls echoed down the streets Mitrian had known from childhood. Again, she saw the bandit Garn had disemboweled writhing on the stone, but her mind gave him Rache’s familiar features. Not Rache. Please, gods, not Rache. Terror ground through her. Gritting her teeth, she forced her thoughts from the illusion. Maybe my father’s right. War is not for women. As the visual imagery faded, Mitrian calmed, and the idea ached within her. War is not a pleasure; it’s a necessity. I know how to fight, and I know how to do it well. It’s my responsibility to help my town and the Westlands in any way I can, no matter the cost.
Apparently realizing their conversation was finished, Arduwyn slipped away to tend to dinner. Mitrian scarcely noticed. Her life had turned upside down just in the days since Shadimar gave her “the only magic sword of the Eastern, Western, and faerie worlds.” I’ve come of age. I’ve seen war and death. Though both frightening and beautiful, Mitrian’s night with Garn seemed to pale in comparison, a grand passage into womanhood dwarfed by larger concerns. And why did the Wizard choose me to wield the sword? At first, she had accepted the reason that Shadimar had traded it for the sapphire he had named the Pica Stone. But he came into my room and took it without awakening me. Why buy it from me when he could so easily steal it? Mitrian sighed, doubting she would ever discover the truth. One thing seemed certain; she had no choice anymore but to trust the Wizard’s words. Somehow, I’m going to war. For the sake of my life and those of my friends, I can’t be afraid to kill. For now, she put aside the threat of Shadimar’s prediction that she would kill a friend, the image too vast and appalling to contemplate.
Arduwyn’s call cut through Mitrian’s musings. “Time to eat.”
Mitrian turned, still haunted by her thoughts. She headed back toward the fire.
* * *
Mar Lon did not know how long he sat in his chair in the Rozmathian tavern, but the arm beneath his head had gone past pain to numbness; his body had ceased to register the presence of the lonriset in his lap. Slowly, he raised his head. The tavern crowd had thinned. Sunlight no longer streamed through the windows. Only scattered candles lit the room, but even those looked painfully bright after hours of self-inflicted blindness. Sensation returned to Mar Lon’s arm in a rush of pins and needles that made him grunt. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the ache to subside and coherent thought to return.
Gradually, the pain faded to a fuzzy throbbing, and Mar Lon noticed he had company for the first time. An elderly man sat in the chair directly across from the bard. His hair had turned gray, masking its original color. Creases marred what might once have been a handsome face, and skin sagged around his cheekbones. Deeply etched crow’s-feet made the eyes seem squinted and sunken. He reclined in his seat, gaze squarely on Mar Lon, occasionally pausing to sip from a mug.
“Hello.” Mar Lon straightened, surprised by the company.
In reply, the other nodded.
“I’m Mar Lon,” the bard said, hoping to elicit the same courtesy from the stranger.
The elder obliged. “Tyrle.”
Accustomed to playing with words, Mar Lon considered the spelling. The stranger gave it the Eastern pronunciation “Tie-ar-lay,” though it did not seem like any Eastern name Mar Lon had heard. In the North, it would have meant “present from the god Tyr” and been articulated as “Teer-li,” with the last syllable scarcely audible.
“Tyrle, pleased to meet you.” In Mar Lon’s Western accent, it came out more like “Tur-lee.” The oddity of the name clued him to take a closer look at the stranger. In the dimness of the tavern, Tyrle’s eyes seemed nearly invisible, but Mar Lon caught a faint glimmer of watery paleness. Obviously, this man was, at most, half-bred Eastern.
Tyrle set down his mug. “Do you really believe you can overcome generations of prejudice and breeding? Surely you don’t believe one young man can stop a war.”
Mar Lon shifted position, sending the lonriset into a dangerous slide toward the floor. He caught it against his knees, hauling it safely back into his lap. “I have to try.” Resolve returned with the verbal challenge. “If I can only find the right words, the right tune, I can get them to see that we can accomplish the same goals with trade and cooperation. Imagine a world fully at peace.” He made a grand gesture, buoyed by the picture his own words conjured. “No more hunger. No more wars.”
Tyrle seemed unimpressed. “It’s good that you’ve chosen to do some traveling, Mar Lon.” He gave the name its proper, Western pronunciation. “Neither geography nor the laws of either culture encourage intermingling of our races. But you have much to learn about people.”
Mar Lon balanced the lonriset beside his chair, his feelings mixed. He felt certain he could learn much from Tyrle. Westerners who visited the Eastland even once were rare enough. Aside from the Renshai, Mar Lon had never heard of a Northman setting foot in the East, let alone living there; yet Tyrle’s name and blue eyes gave the bard pause. Still, Mar Lon could not help feeling insulted by Tyrle’s slight against his knowledge. “We all have the same needs: food, shelter, and loved ones.”
“Basic needs, perhaps. But that’s too simplified. So long as men can think, they will always also have the need to believe in causes and higher purposes.”
“I don’t see your point.”
“It’s very easy really.” Tyrle took another sip of beer. “Unlike animals, men can understand and, thus, fear death. It’s a cruel burden inflicted by Sheriva or Ruaidhri or Odin or nature or whatever theology you believe in. The result is, each man has this irresistible need to leave his mark on the world, to prove that he lived and that he did not die in vain.” He drained the mug. “The only way to do that is to dedicate your life to a cause, whether it’s religion, tribe, country, family, self, or peace, and to believe that cause takes precedence over all other causes.” Tyrle set the mug down, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Then, to give your cause meaning, you have to believe all other causes are inferio
r, along with the people who champion them.”
“That’s not right.” Mar Lon’s experiences told him that at least part of Tyrle’s explanation was true. Imbued with evil, the Easterners seemed self-dedicated to a man, and the Northerners had an unshakable devotion to tribe and family. “We could all learn to respect one another’s causes, even if we don’t believe in them ourselves.”
“Maybe,” Tyrle said, though the partial agreement sounded grudging and the words that followed denied the possibility. “If there wasn’t this driving need for each man to believe that his cause is the cause. And to prove it. The slave needs to believe that he is the fastest and strongest worker, that he is secretly smarter than his captors, or that his god or gods will come and crush those of his oppressors. The kings in Stalmize, Nordmir, and Béarn each believes himself the one and only, true, divinely-appointed ruler.” His voice became a whiny parody. “My god is bigger than your gods. My family deserves more food than your family. This finger’s breadth of land should belong to me.”
Tyrle struck closer to home. “Do you truly believe that you have some sort of new idea? Do you have the arrogance to think you’re the first person who ever considered unity and peace? There’s not a man nor, I’d venture to guess, a woman who hasn’t had the same idea in his or her youth. Peace. Only with time and observation, they come to learn that the differences between people become more, not less, defined. It’s not enough to understand one another. To achieve peace, you’d first have to overcome each man’s need to prove his cause’s superiority. I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Of course, it’s possible.” Tyrle’s opposition fueled Mar Lon’s fervor. “All it would take is for people like you to stop thinking it’s impossible. And well worth the effort if it means every man would put aside his weapons. We could focus on the things we have in common, to learn about each other’s causes.”
Tyrle laughed. “You’re singing to the wrong crowd, minstrel.”
Mar Lon knew he was overstepping his boundaries as a bard by slipping from the role of listener to teacher, but he could not let Tyrle’s misconceptions go unchallenged. “World peace, Tyrle! How could anyone possibly believe this would be a bad thing? How could any intelligent person be against it?”
“It’s not a matter of being for or against peace.” Tyrle rolled the empty mug from hand to hand. “Clearly, war isn’t necessarily good or evil. And neither is peace. If so, the Easterners would be constantly at war and the Northerners constantly at peace. War brings change and the need to rethink causes. Strategy spurs creative thought and invention. To some, it brings profit.” Tyrle cupped both hands around his mug. “Think about it. If war was evil, the Easterners would have enslaved the Northerners by force. The peaceful Northerners would never rise against their captors. The Northmen slaves to the Easterners’ causes.” Tyrle spread his arms to indicate a grand solution. “Ultimate peace.”
The image made Mar Lon shiver. “That would be evil.”
“Exactly.” Tyrle let his hands fall to the table. “Evil ultimate peace. What a concept.”
Mar Lon looked up. His musical talent had always gained him awe, thanks, and respect. He had little experience with being mocked. Yet the elder’s words brought home other circumstances he had never thought to doubt before his arrival in the Eastlands. Once before, he had questioned Odin’s system of balance and the opposition of the Wizards. This time, he looked at it from the perspective of the men beneath its rule. Pure evil and pure good may have meaning to the gods and Wizards but not to mortals. Mar Lon had never met the Southern Wizard, Carcophan, but stories led him to wonder if even the champion of evil were wholly evil himself. After all, the Wizards begin as mortals.
Still, Mar Long clung to his hopes for peace. “I appreciate all you’ve taught me. You understand that I have to try, and I hope you’ll help me. Try believing in peace. See what happens.”
Tyrle rose, smiling. “Mar Lon, you’ve chosen your cause. I’m not sure it fits you, and I fear it will destroy you. But I wish you all the luck in the world.” He headed for the door.
Mar Lon raised his lonriset and, amid the noises of revelry, began to compose a new song.
CHAPTER 11
Golden-Haired Demon
As the day dragged into late morning, Mitrian sympathized with Garn’s impatience to move onward. Unwilling to waste a commodity as valuable as meat or to let a forest creature die in vain, Arduwyn insisted on the full day it would take to jerk the meat. Mitrian brought the men to a compromise that pleased neither. Garn waited while Arduwyn peppered and packed the venison for the trip, and the horse grazed the scraggly vegetation of the glade.
Mitrian, Garn, and Arduwyn headed off before midday, the archer leading his donkey, grumbling about spoilage, Garn guiding the horse through the mountain passes and sulking over wasted time. Mitrian ignored both men, usually walking between them, sitting on the horse’s back when the terrain grew too uncomfortable for her sandaled feet.
By evening, they reached the Northern boundary of the Granite Hills. The sun hovered above the western horizon, its beams radiating over a cluster of thatch-roofed buildings. Though this town sported no wall, the huddled arrangement of dwellings appeared defensible, and distant dots that were people walked the streets.
Arduwyn stopped at the top of the last rise, looking down over the Northern town. “Exactly what supplies do you need?”
Mitrian rattled through the list she had constructed in her mind as they traveled. “Food that will keep and something to hold it. Water. Clothing.” She swept a hand over her sleeping gown and tattered sandals, then gestured at Garn’s secondhand buckskins, crinkling her nose at the mixed odors of sweat and deer guts. “Fresh horses.”
“One horse,” Arduwyn corrected. “For you. Traveling the forests is a lot quieter and easier on foot.”
Garn glared at Arduwyn, opening his mouth as if to protest.
The hunter finished forcefully. “Especially if we’re being pursued by others on horseback.”
Garn closed his mouth, obviously surprised by Arduwyn’s knowledge of possible pursuit and willing to listen to the hunter’s explanation.
“There are places horses can’t maneuver but we can. Between the trunks we’ll need to move at a walk anyway. Why leave any more evidence than necessary?”
Garn looked at Mitrian who nodded her agreement. Deferring to his companions’ judgment, Garn turned his attention back to the town.
Arduwyn folded his donkey’s ear, scratching absently behind it with his other hand. “I’ll get the supplies, but I work alone.”
“Work alone?” Mitrian regarded Arduwyn curiously. “What does that mean?”
Arduwyn eyed the town intently, as if measuring its defenses and plotting war strategy. “I’ve stood on both sides of a selling table, and I pride myself on getting the best of a bargain in either case. Just the presence of a woman can double the prices.”
“Really?” The statement floored Mitrian. In Santagithi’s Town, it seemed exactly the opposite, particularly with the spice seller who always had a special deal when her mother came to his shop. Of course, I’ve never had to bargain. She recalled Nantel’s stories of Pudar’s rapid-fire haggling and how a slick-tongued salesman could sell him junk he did not want for more money than he could purchase it for back home. Other times, the men boasted of deals they had put together by double-teaming the merchants. In Santagithi’s Town, the prices were set fairly and generally paid without a struggle. For the cooper to slight the blacksmith meant being treated in kind when the time came to buy barrel hoops or a new knife.
“Really,” Arduwyn confirmed. He released Stubby’s ear, still staring out over the town. “I wouldn’t mind having Garn along, for protection at least, but I’d rather I was alone than that you were.”
Mitrian nodded in agreement. Not yet ready to confess her feelings for Garn, she had convinced herself that the danger of bandits and other unseen perils in the Granite Hills was the major reason she
had waited for a horse and supplies before heading home. Maybe I can hire an escort while we’re in a town. “So you want us to wait here?”
“No.” Reluctantly, Arduwyn pulled his gaze from the town to confront Mitrian. “I’d rather you waited in town, so I can find you if I need money or get into trouble. A village this small probably won’t have an inn, but they may have a meeting house or a tavern.”
“Money?” Mitrian reached for the pouch of gems in her pocket. “Of course, I’ll give you money. I don’t expect you to pay for our supplies.”
Arduwyn frowned, brushing away her offer. “We can settle up later. I do better when I’m limited by what I have in my pocket. If I don’t have it, I can’t spend it.” He patted the packet of deer meat strapped to his donkey’s back. “Between the venison and trading your horse, I think I may manage to buy everything we need.” He considered aloud. “I don’t speak much Northern, which may work against me, but I don’t imagine they see a lot of fresh meat this close to the mountains.” He considered. “I don’t suppose either of you speaks the Northern tongue?”
Mitrian shook her head.
“You take Stubs. I’ll take the horse.” Arduwyn traded lead lines with Garn. “Let’s go.” He started down the final crest, dislodging a line of stones with his first step.
Garn and Mitrian followed.
“Have you ever been in the Northlands before?” Arduwyn called over his shoulder.
“No.” Mitrian answered for them both.
“Well, watch yourselves. They like to fight, and they don’t care much for strangers.”
Mitrian looked up quickly, not liking the sound of Arduwyn’s description, but he added, apparently to put them at east. “So long as you’re polite and don’t let their stares or whispers bother you, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 29
