by Mark E Lacy
No natural fire could have burned that quickly, with enough ferocity to leave so little behind. Or burn itself out without spreading farther than these few hills. There was no sign of Strigin or the Gauntletbearer. Perhaps the other resari could help.
Longhorn guided the mare to a small stream and let her drink for a moment. He took the reins and led her to the top of the hill, stepping around the warm coals. The irrilai was pleased to see a gully not far below gently descending in a long curve before disappearing behind a hill crowned with a boulder shaped like the head of a wolf. Longhorn placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. He knew where he was, and where the resari might be.
The irrilai followed the gully till he reached the edge of a bluff. Through the trees, he could see the canyon he expected. A buzzard drifted overhead like a dead leaf caught on a puff of air. After descending several long switchbacks, Longhorn found himself at the base of a high waterfall. This end of the canyon was scooped out like a bowl. Spray from the waterfall swirled in the air around him. Behind the spray, the pool formed by the falls flowed back into a cave. If this was the cave the resari had described to him, there was a chance they would be waiting for him here.
He tied the horse to a nearby tree and whistled the call of a bobwhite. There was no response. He drew his irril horn from its saddle scabbard. Longhorn climbed behind the falls, wading into the cold water as he stepped into the mouth of the cave.
“Hello!” he called.
When there was no reply, he extended the irril horn before him and moved into the cave.
He let his eyes adjust to the lack of light as he took measured steps, winding through a short passage. At the end of the passage, he stepped out of the water and onto a dark, sandy beach. Before him lay a large black lake, its surface glinting from some unknown source of light. Above the lake, the cavern ceiling could not be seen. Longhorn wandered a short way along the beach in each direction and found footprints in the sand, footprints of two people, probably men. It was impossible to say how long the footprints had been there, as they were protected from the weather. They could have been a day old or a century.
A little farther along the beach, he found a dagger stuck blade-first in the sand. By its jewels and styling, it looked very similar to the kind favored by Braemyan nobles, but there was no clue how it came to be there.
Longhorn turned and walked back out, feeling the whole time like something unusual had once taken place in this cave, or that something unusual would someday take place here. In any case, the resari were not here.
It was time to move on and look somewhere else.
The sky looked like it would not go completely dark. As the sun was setting, a full moon began to rise. By twilight, then moonlight, Longhorn entered a small cove among the hills. He could smell, but not see, the smoke of a campfire. He hoped that meant the resari were near. The mare stopped and nickered, a small, empty glade before them.
Longhorn whistled. A moment later, he heard the gentle call of a bobwhite and then heard it again.
A horse and rider emerged from the forest at the opposite side of the glade and walked toward them. The rider held a bare blade at the ready. Longhorn nudged the mare forward. She broke into a little trot, knowing who it was approaching them.
“Benshaer,” said Longhorn to the rider.
“Longhorn,” replied the other man, tall and dark and grim, cloaked against the chill of the night, the braided leather corocir of the resari around his brow. The rider sheathed his sword. “Come,” he said, pulling his horse around and heading back into the trees.
Over the past few weeks, every time Longhorn had seen Benshaer, the man had seemed more quiet, saying little and thinking much. Now, the resara had spoken only two words, and already, the irrilai knew something was wrong.
They splashed across a small stream and followed a path of trampled grass along the bank till they came to a bend. A man and a woman stepped into the moonlight. Like Benshaer, each of them wore a leather corocir. Longhorn dismounted.
Ardemis approached him first. He was taller than Strigin, not as gray, his hair still long in the back but receding from his forehead. Like Benshaer, he was cloaked against the cold. His green eyes glinted in the dark.
Ki'rana stood beside her father, wrapped in a shawl, her light brown hair curling and cascading to her shoulders. Nearly as tall as her father, she was old enough to be married or on her own, but as a resara, she had a lifelong commitment. Despite Longhorn’s past among the irrilaii, Ki’rana had never shown any fear of him. The sight of her always warmed Longhorn's heart, but the resari were not smiling.
Longhorn heard the creak of saddle leather, the thump as Benshaer dismounted, the jingle of bridle and harness as the resara led their horses away. The irrilai looked from Ardemis to his daughter. In each face he read nothing but grief.
Ki'rana's hands were clenched. She broke away from her father and ran up to him.
“Longhorn, Strigin is dead.” She grasped his shoulders, muffling her sobs in his cloak.
The irrilai held her, stroking her hair, hoping to soothe her. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized his loss, their loss. He looked at her father and hoped Ardemis could see the question in his eyes, for he didn't believe he could speak.
“How?” he whispered.
“Umars,” said Ardemis. “All we could See were palace umars.”
Longhorn swallowed, afraid of the answer to his next question. “And a Saerani tribesman? He was with him, did you know? I'm sure he's the one we've been waiting for.”
“Yes, we knew. He is, in fact, the Gauntletbearer. And he lives, but surely wishes he were dead.” Ardemis extended his hand to grasp Longhorn's in sad welcome. “The Gauntletbearer has been placed under a spell by the musara he was destined to destroy. Raethir Del has moved the Gauntletbearer safely out of his way by placing him in something known as the Dreamtunnel, though why he didn't kill him outright we don't understand.”
“Raethir Del? Thesir placed Strigin in the dungeon at the order of a man named Raethir Del. Raethir Del is the abramusara?”
Ardemis nodded.
“And the Dreamtunnel?” said Longhorn. “What is that?”
“A living hell of nightmarish experiences. The Gauntletbearer will be tossed all over the world, unable to stay in any one place for very long, facing danger at every turn.”
Tears welled above Longhorn's grimy cheeks. “Then I am twice-failed, and twice-damned.”
Ki'rana wept, and the irrilai wanted to weep with her, venting his sorrow, his anger, his frustration. Instead, he held it in, and after a few minutes Longhorn spoke again to the older resara.
“Couldn't Strigin See what would happen?”
“You forget, dear friend,” said Ardemis, placing a hand on Longhorn's shoulder. “Reading the Weave requires more than one resara. Only through the collective effort of two or more resari can Seeing be accomplished.”
“And the three of you couldn't See this any sooner?”
Ardemis stroked his daughter's hair and shook his head in resignation.
It was Benshaer, coming out of the shadows, who answered the irrilai. “Eloeth chooses to reveal only parts of the Weave,” said the dark man. “Even a resara's own destiny is never revealed.”
“Their safety was my responsibility. Now, both are lost,” said Longhorn, pained. “Ardemis, can you forgive me?”
The resara grasped the irrilai's shoulder and looked him in the eye. “You did your best. Come, let's talk.”
They followed Ardemis to a patch of sand hidden among large boulders. In the middle of the tiny clearing, a flat rock squatted, and in a bowl-shaped depression in the rock, the coals of a small fire pulsed. The men sat cross-legged in the sand while Ki'rana sat on a large piece of bleached driftwood. A few yards away, the stream whispered words of caution.
“What else can you tell us?” said Ardemis.
Longhorn explained how he had met Enkinor and how he had learned Strigin would b
e executed the next day. He told them of Strigin's escape and how Raethir Del had tried to take the Gauntlets from Enkinor before Longhorn was able to help the Saerani escape as well.
“I don't know why I didn't realize who Raethir Del was. I should've aimed the flareburst at him, not the Gate.”
“Would that you had,” said Benshaer in a low voice, looking away, his eyes pools of darkness. Even by the dim firelight, Longhorn could see bags under the resara's eyes. Benshaer stood and rubbed his face, and a moment later squatted down on the balls of his feet.
“Longhorn,” said Ardemis, “we can't always See the Weave the great Pathweaver lays before us. All we can do is read the Weave as best we can and direct our actions accordingly. Though you aren't a resara, you do know these things, for we explained much of this to you. It was our first night together on the Plains, remember?”
The irrilai nodded, looking away.
“Nevertheless,” continued Ardemis, “in all the world, there were only four musaresari. Now, with Strigin gone, there are only three.” He turned to his daughter sitting quiet in her grief at Longhorn's side and Benshaer, crouched nearby. “And the Gauntletbearer lies under a powerful spell.”
“Are we then doomed?” said the irrilai.
“No, perhaps not.”
“Yes, we are,” said Benshaer. The dark resara stood again and began to pace. “Listen to me. The Gauntletbearer can't reach Raethir Del now. The sorcerer might as well have killed the Saerani, for all the good the man can do us. We have no power to break the spell or rescue him. We should find Raethir Del and kill him ourselves.”
In the months since Longhorn had joined them, he had never heard Benshaer openly disagree with Ardemis.
“It's not likely you could get close enough to kill him,” said the irrilai. “He'd only feed you to your own blade.”
“There is another possibility,” said Ardemis to the tall resara standing by the fire. “The Swordbearer.”
“He comes too late,” said Benshaer. “He can't reach the Gauntletbearer. Don't you see? He can't help him.”
Longhorn looked at Ki'rana, surprised she was not speaking. She sat huddled with her arms folded, looking down as if she felt a chill the warmth of the fire could not dispel.
“Who is this 'Swordbearer'?” said Longhorn.
Benshaer clapped his hands to his head in exasperation and turned away.
Ardemis paused for a moment before beginning, staring into the flames of their fire.
“Longhorn, we’ve entrusted you with very important knowledge. We've spoken to you before of the Weave and the threads we've followed,” said the elder resara, voice pitched to carry no farther than their small circle. “First, the Weave may lead to destruction if a certain abramusara achieves his goals. We now know this musara is Raethir Del. Second, we know the Gauntletbearer has an important role in stopping the musara, if only the knots in the Weave can be circumvented. And we now know the Gauntletbearer is Enkinor the Saerani. We know no more than that. Our mastery in reading the Weave doesn't come close to that shared by the resari many years ago.
“Now, we entrust you with something else, something we learned only today, before we discovered Enkinor's fate. Another man, the Swordbearer, must assist the Gauntletbearer. How we don't know. Perhaps he can't help Enkinor now that the Gauntletbearer follows the Dreamtunnel. But we know the Swordbearer has left his tribe, following his own thread in the Weave.”
Longhorn leaned toward him, eyes narrowed. “Can we help him somehow?”
Can I atone for not saving Strigin and Enkinor?
Ardemis turned to his daughter for a moment and then looked at Benshaer leaning with his hands on one of the boulders.
“Perhaps. We only know he's a Saerani like Enkinor. We must find him, but we must be very careful. We can't afford to draw Raethir Del's attention. We may help the Swordbearer, but for now, we should do it without his knowledge. We must use absolute secrecy.”
“But if Enkinor is trapped in the Dreamtunnel, how can the Swordbearer find him?”
“He can't,” said Benshaer, stomping back to the fire. “That's just it! The Swordbearer is of no use now.”
“We don't know,” Ardemis said, looking at Longhorn.
“Then what can we do?” said the irrilai.
“Nothing, I'm telling you!” said Benshaer. “It's hopeless.”
Longhorn was surprised and annoyed by the man's vehemence. He stood to face the resara. “What do you suggest, Benshaer? Sit here by the stream and fish? Do a little fortune-telling in Kophid? Maybe make a little gold in the gambling dens? We're faced with the greatest danger we've ever seen, and just because it looks hopeless, you want to do nothing?”
Benshaer's glare was tipped with poison. Longhorn's stare challenged the resara, but Benshaer said nothing. The irrilai looked to Ki'rana.
“You must return to Kophid, Longhorn,” said Ki'rana, finding her voice at last.
“The Swordbearer will be there soon,” continued her father. “On foot. Find him, get him mounted, make sure he gets out of Kophid safely, but tell him nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Though the Swordbearer has begun his quest, it is too soon for him to learn more. The Weave tells us we should locate the Gauntletbearer and find a way to guide the Swordbearer to him,” said Ardemis. “It is all we can hope to do.”
Longhorn turned and stared into the darkness. “You know you must keep moving. Raethir Del is bound to come after you.”
“We know. Once the Swordbearer has left Kophid, look for us at Tura Mezar.”
Benshaer turned on his heel and disappeared into the night.
With the help of Ardemis and Ki'rana, Longhorn found his horse. It was still saddled, as if Benshaer knew the irrilai wouldn't stay.
“Are you sure you don't want to rest a little longer?” said Ki'rana.
Longhorn shook his head. “I'll be alright. I can't take a chance on missing the Swordbearer. I'll need a little time to prepare in any case.”
Ardemis placed his hand on Longhorn's shoulder. “May Eloeth keep you safe. Go now.”
Moments later, Ardemis was alone with his daughter, and they held each other against the chill of the night.
Chapter 15
Through the darkness crept a man, a slender, dark form that melted with the shadows among the trees, flowing through the forest like an incarnate piece of night. Benshaer made no sound and left no sign of his passing, following no trail but seeking the darkest pockets among the hills. After some time, he halted among a stand of boulders that blocked what feeble starlight and moonlight penetrated the dense, denuded woods. He looked around but could see very little, even himself. He was far from their camp. He wanted to cry out into the night, but the other resari would hear him if he did. Standing with clenched fists, he closed his eyes and tried to center himself, but it was no use. He knew who they were up against. He knew in his heart they could not win, but he couldn't bring himself to truly give up.
Yet, Strigin was dead. There was an ache in Benshaer's heart he had not shared with the others.
The only thing left to do was gamble. If Ardemis and Ki'rana would not listen, Benshaer would have to act without them. It would mean playing a dangerous game.
From beneath his cloak, Benshaer brought out a small leather pouch. Raethir Del had given it to him the night the sorcerer had revealed his true identity in the Shrine of Lassar.
If you should change your mind ...
Benshaer loosened the drawstring. He turned the pouch upside down, shaking it. Nothing came out. Inside was darkness deeper and more fearsome than the shadows of the Braemyan hills.
“What is this?” whispered Benshaer.
He jumped as the void within the bag expanded and a low voice spoke.
“Have you finally made your choice, resara?”
“Perhaps,” said Benshaer, recovering his composure.
“What do you want?”
“Want? I want to be free of you.”
Raethir Del's laughter spilled out of the bag. “Are you not free? Do you need my permission for your every decision? Of course not.”
“You play with me, sorcerer. You know the grip you have on me.”
“Do you have something to offer in exchange?”
“I might.”
“Speak, then.”
“You are in danger from another quarter.”
There was a short pause before the bag spoke again.
“How so? Both Strigin and the Saerani are out of my way.”
“There is someone else.”
A moment of silence. “Tell me more.”
“Only if you vow to release me.”
“I can't undo the past. I can't give you back your pride.”
“No. But you can get out of my life.”
Raethir Del laughed again. “Go on.”
“If I give you this information, I want no more contact between us. Give up this notion of uniting the High rutaya. I won't do it.”
For a few moments, no sound came from the empty pouch.
“Very well. Who else wishes me ill?”
Trust him? I am a fool.
“Another Saerani,” replied Benshaer. “One known as the Swordbearer.” There was silence for several long moments before Benshaer spoke again. “This man has left his tribe. His steps follow a strand of the Weave which may bring about your death.”
“And you're sure he's the Swordbearer?”
“Yes.”
“Will the resari go to him?”
“No. They don't want to risk drawing your attention to him.”
