Exile's Return

by Gayle Greeno

  With a belated shout of dismay Ezequiel took off after a child dashing across the gathering area—and one he’d already counted, at that—just as Eadwin and Arras Muscadeine appeared, Hru’rul and Felix at their sides as they moved informally amongst the throng. A rider on a lathered horse had just entered the gates, shoving his way through the crowd, waving a sealed envelope in one hand, intent on attracting attention. The Monitor’s device was emblazoned on his tabard, scarcely visible through the damp caking of mud and sweat, and his eyes were narrowed and searching in the midst of a face grimed by a long, hard ride. Bending, he grabbed for a servant, tried to halt and question him.

  Arras noticed the commotion first and hailed the man, who kicked free of his stirrups and came running over. Thrusting out an envelope, he only tardily realized who stood beside Muscadeine, made a sketchy bow, clearly unschooled in high formality. “Sir? Your Highness, sir? An urgent message from the Monitor, Kyril van Beieven. He asked me to deliver it before you left, if possible. Made it just in time.” Another sketchy bow and he melted back to grant them privacy.

  Eadwin broke the seal, whistled low, and motioned for Muscadeine to read over his shoulder. Arras’s face darkened as he scanned the message. “So, Wycherley’s being held hostage. I told you, Eadwin, this royal progress isn’t wise in the midst of Canderis’s own personal turmoils. Our presence would be equivalent to rubbing salt in their wounds. Thank the Lady we received word in time. Surely the whole thing’s off now.” Inner relief wrestled with misgivings, one less thing to worry about, and yet one more. How was Doyce Marbon taking the news of her husband’s capture? Worse, it would be totally in character for Wycherley to attempt something foolish, strive to escape against overwhelming odds, get himself killed—and how would Doyce take that, especially in her condition?

  Tucking the letter into his surcoat, Eadwin surveyed the courtyard, now stilling as people became aware of silence at the center of activity, assessing its import. “Van Beieven hasn’t canceled our visit. He simply wants us to be aware that the stakes have risen, and that if we decide against the trip, he’ll understand. ” He shook his head thoughtfully, staring into the distance. “No, Arras, it’s even more imperative that we go now. Their Resonants have given provocation by taking Wycherley and the others hostage, even if their motives are well-intentioned. It’s possible we can defuse the situation there, perhaps reassure their own Resonants. It’s up to us to alter the balance, make the two sides more nearly equal.”

  “Fine, we create a stand-off—and what happens when we withdraw, return home?” Cursing under his breath, Arras savaged his mustache. Alter the balance of power, indeed! Even van Beieven lacked the political savvy or support to do that, his power eroding with every day as he tried to strike a balance, reach a compromise. This was a time to rule, not govern! And he, Arras Muscadeine, wanted to rush to Canderis, either to Doyce Marbon’s side to comfort her, or to rescue Jenret Wycherley, if that would ensure her happiness. When had he become so noble—willing to give up the woman he loved to another? As big a romantic fool as Eadwin!

  His duty to his king came first, not Doyce’s happiness, not his own. Madness to go there now, sheer madness. Either that or Eadwin had grown more canny than he’d realized, envisioning a greater pattern, a greater potential than he could conceive. Fah! Greater potential for disaster, but even that had a reckless appeal. So—go they would, but with him damn near joined at the hip to Eadwin to keep him from harm, and Arras slapped his.own hip for emphasis.

  “It might be expedient to stop at the Research Hospice, bring Mahafny Annendahl along with us. After all, she is Wycherley’s aunt by marriage. ” And then it hit with a knee-buckling shock and a wintery chill of foreboding. Mahafny! Did she know how Harrap and Parm fared in their quest after Hylan Crailford? Was everything all right? No recent word had reached him, and he’d relegated the whole thing to the back of his mind, intent on Eadwin’s “crusade,” as he derisively called it to himself. If anything, that’s where he’d anticipated trouble arising, a danger no one else acknowledged, rather than this twist to their problems.

  She’d promised to send regular messages, regular reports twice an oct, every fourth day—when had they trailed off? Which meant that either all was well and he was being ridiculous, or that something had happened that even Mahafny and Saam weren’t aware of yet. Had become equally distracted by their own multitudinous problems in analyzing how Resonant skills worked. Be damned how they worked! They did, and that was that, but the use of such power by untrained minds worried him. And whatever Hylan Crailford was or wasn’t—and he had no idea what she was—something simmered deep and deadly inside her, ready to blow the proverbial lid off the pot when she came to a boil. Never had he sensed such unfocused malignancy in a human being, eating away at her inside. If it boiled over, who knew what could happen?

  He registered Eadwin’s concern at his long, abstracted silence. “Maybe we’ll be able to free Wycherley, convince our Canderisian brethren to release him to us. ” Clear that Eadwin suspected his love for Doyce, was striving to commiserate without being too obvious. And he didn’t have the heart to inform Eadwin of his greater, deeper fears. “How far must we travel out of Sidonie before Hru‘rul can ’speak Saam, let Mahafny know we’re coming?” Maybe that was it—Parm and Saam had reached the end of their mindspeaking range. How simple!

  With a hundred questions rising to his lips at Muscadeine’s chameleonic changes in expression, Eadwin selected one. “Why not contact them directly? After all, there are Resonants at the Hospice. ”

  No time to explain, nor did he want to do so, despite Eadwin’s logic. An excuse, and quickly. “I don’t know whom to trust—Yulyn Biddlecomb’s off with Wycherley. Most of them respect Mahafny, but their loyalties have to be divided given everything happening around them at this point. ” And most of all, he didn’t want Eadwin to think he’d gotten panicky, although he suspected Hru’rul had some inkling of what his jumbled thoughts encompassed.

  Eadwin consulted with the ghatt at his feet. “Several days—at least. With a group like this we won’t make good time, and I gather Saam still suffers from some residual mindspeech problems regarding distance, especially now that Nakum’s left him to Mahafny.”

  Yes! That had to be it—Saam and Parm were too far apart! Eadwin had confirmed it. “You wouldn’t consider,” he paused, not wanting his fears to shout out, alarm Eadwin, “letting Hru‘rul range ahead? Catch up with him later? I’m anxious for Mahafny to know she’s coming with us, give her time to make plans.” A plausible reason on the surface. And if there were anything crucial to report, he’d know that much sooner, although so would Eadwin, since that’s whom Hru’rul would mindspeak. Still, it was worth a try.

  Parm’s head hurt. Hurt astonishingly. He cracked open an eye, squinted at blurred suns setting. Shook his head, looked again—better. Only one sun, though there were many moons. Dusk? Already? Stretching each individual toe, he rubbed his muzzy head against the canvas. Canvas? Oh, yes, the canvas covering the goat cart. Been riding, I have, he decided as his head continued its annoying thump-thump-thumping. Hurt, but it didn’t matter, so happy, so nicey-wicey, floaty-woaty ... happy. A little purr rippled and buzzed, oooh ... tickled.

  He tried to gather his muddled thoughts, floating beneath the surface slippery as eel grass, sometimes as dangerously choking. Oh, yes, walked today, walked and rode, rode and walked, or was that road walked? No, the road didn’t walk, but he had, he and Harrap, face creased with an absurdly happy grin, eyes spacily zigzagging across everything in sight, each thing a revelation. Blue feather on the roadway! Oh, glorious, he and Harrap scrabbling to claim it, scuffling over it, both giggling happily at the shared novelty. Such ... fun! Harrap lumbering along with the goat cart, galloping with it, sandals flippity-flopping, clippity-clopping, refusing to let Hylan help. Well, he’d helped, given Harrap something to chase, hopscotching along, hind legs springing his rump high into the air.

  Funny, he reckoned Har
rap had a headache but didn’t mind either. How could you care about a minor hurt when you burst with happiness? Harrap had burst as well, a funny, falsetto sound yodel-lodel-lodeling from his mouth. So fortunate to be here, wrapped in each gold-tinted moment, the wonder and wondrousness of it all. Rapture!

  And when he’d tired of running, chasing his tail, dancing ghatti gavottes across the roadway and up and down the slopes, Harrap had scooped him up, weak with laughter, and deposited him here on the top of the cart. Yes, lord of all he surveyed, and Harrap his humble servant. An absurd bow, Harrap’s robe sweeping the dusty road, Hylan watching as if she didn’t approve of their antics, but was somehow relieved, unable to resist them. Such ... fun!

  So, they’d stopped for the night. And stopping meant it was almost dinnertime. And dinnertime ... meant, Parm licked his chops, yawned, heard Barnaby stir and whimper uneasily from under the cart. Dog didn’t seem happy, poor, poor dog. Not happy dog, not happy as Parm was happy. Must ... cheer him up. But later, because stopping meant ... dinner. Perhaps, oh, perhaps, more of that lusciousness Hylan had sprinkled on their food last night. It had been last night, hadn’t it? He didn’t care as long as he received more, could read in Harrap’s bumbling, fumbling thoughts that he yearned for more, craved it with every fiber of his being. A faint unease—not right, nice, to crave, to covet a thing so deeply, was it? To hunger and hope for something so much it consumed every bit of willpower, swept you away on a riptide of desire.

  Parm scrabbled against the canvas, intent on making his legs work, and at last rose, dizzy with delight, head weaving. Yes, yes! Spin, world, spin and dance in kaleidoscopic colors and shapes and sounds and smells that trumpet the infinite glory of the whole creation! Yes, join in the dance with Harrap, but one small thing nagged at his mind. Something left to do, something left to be done? Something? What?

  Something about dusk? Something about ... he squinched his face so tight he feared the orange right side might migrate to the black left side, his earring hoop bouncing, tickling his ear. Ears? Hears? Ouch, his head hurt! He pressed a paw between his eyes. Dog whining again, how could he love each particle in the world yet wish the terrier would shut his trap? Ears? Yes, something to do with ears, ears waiting to hear ... ? Scrambling upright, coasting down the canvas covered slope and tumbling off the cart, Parm landed in an undignified heap. The shock cleared his head a little. Didn’t matter, but it did matter that he’d promised to report to Saam at dusk. Almost forgot, but almost wasn’t the same as forgetting, he consoled himself, couldn’t muster the energy to stay worried for long.

  After nudging Harrap with his nose, he meandered away, weaving and looping. The big man leaned against a wheel, head tilted back and snoring, utterly limp, a little smile tickling his lips as he smacked after a particularly strident snore. Harrap happy, too! Bless his soul, and Harrap had assured him he had one, he was happy, too. A bobbing halt as he tried to stare at his stomach, finally see his soul inside, his whole being so light and translucent anything seemed possible. No, no soul, nothing remotely resembling a sandal or shoe, just fur... but Saam. Oh, yes, that was right, that was what he was supposed to be doing. Silly old serious ghatt, not to appreciate how wonderful everything was, always worrying.

  Feet fickle as his brain, Parm haphazardly chose and discarded spots from which to broadcast his mindspeech, whoofling to check the wind direction against his whiskers. Wonderful, airy soft caress! Tantalizing smells! “Oh, world ... oh, world!” he ’spoke with an excess of love. “Oh, wonderful world that has a Saam ghatt in it!”

  “What’s so bloody wonderful about it?” came the response after what seemed a languid, satin-soft pause. “Where have you been? What have you been up to? I was concerned you’d forgotten to report tonight. It’s dark now.”

  Parm blinked. Surprise! So it was! When had the dark sifted down, the sun disappeared? Marvelous, like easing the wick of a lamp so slowly that even the flame barely noticed it’d been snuffed. “Easy, Saam, easy! Such a wonderful day....”

  “I know. You’ve told me that already—or was it a wonderful world you were babbling about. What’s going on there? Anything we should know about?”

  “No? Know?” Parm craned his head one way, then the other, tilting his muzzle high. Oooh—stars! “Oh, no ... nothing to know. Walking on, you know, no, you didn’t know, I know unless I say so. Made good ground today. But the ground’s always good, always wonder—”

  “Parm! I swear, what’s gotten into you, you’re raving like a lunatic!”

  The words stung, but Parm shrugged them off. “Oh, by the way, you know what Hylan’s carrying in her cart? Trees!” A touch of triumph that he’d remembered. For some reason he thought Saam would like to know.

  Saam’s ’speech shot back, stung like pellets. “I know she’s transporting saplings, you’ve told me that. But what’s she doing with them? Why is she carrying them?”

  “Trees,” he repeated solemnly, “little baby trees, twiglets, thirsty, always crying out for water, pointing to water.”

  “What kind of saplings, Parm?”

  He yawned, couldn’t help himself. “Hitch-hazel. Witch-wazel. Hitchy-witchy wazely-hazely.”

  “Parm! What’s gotten into you?” Concern clear despite the distance. “Are you all right? Is Harrap all right?”

  “Oh, of course,” Parm ruffled himself, settled his fur with dignity. “Absolutely, of course. Couldn’t be finer. Nothing much going on, but if you want us to stay with Hylan, fine. Wonderful walk, wondrous scenery. I wonder... why we didn’t do this before.” His stomach growled. Blast Saam for yammering away when he was so ravenous, his very flesh and fur quivering with hunger. He nearly gave himself over to the hunger and yowled with dismay.

  As if in reprieve, a distant shout floated to his ears, “Parm, supper!” The banging of spoon on pan for emphasis. Glorious noise, rapturous as the bells on a Bethel chiming! Or was he picking up Harrap’s thoughts? “Really must go now, Saam. Oh, and by the way ...” He stood, trembling with longing, tasting the faint remains of that glorious seasoning from yesterday in his mouth, “I love you, old chap. Never fear, Parm’s here, on the job, as always.”

  “But what’s your course? What town are you approaching? You promised you‘d—”

  Town? The truth was ... he couldn’t think of the truth ... or the town. Oh well, didn’t matter, he would, always did. Oh, wait! “Dales and tales, wry tales, rye grows in the dale, you know, Saam, good old whatsis! You know.” Ignoring Saam’s demands, he broke the mindlink and dashed off, feet scrambling and tripping, drool threading his chin. Could he smell it? Yes, yes! Oh, don’t let Harrap have it all—save some! I’m coming!

  And in the distance at the Research Hospice, Saam sat, perplexed, sorting through what he’d learned, assuming he’d learned anything at all. Parm was in one of his moods again, and when he was, it took effort to make heads or tails of what he’d said. But usually at least one nugget of information would be buried there somewhere, waiting to be panned. Dales and tales, wry tales? Rye in the dales? Ruysdael? Mayhap, mayhap not, knowing Parm. It just wasn’t like him to be that flighty, as if he were in the grip of something greater than himself. Tell Mahafny everything Parm’d told him? No, not worth it, she only listened with half a mind these days, so intent on tinkering with that infernal machine she hadn’t time for anything else. Parm’s rhymes wouldn’t amuse her. If only she did make time, he’d feel better about things.

  The upriver trek in the midst of melting season lasted longer than Matty had liked, a constant foot-slogging battle against soggy snow sharp with splintered ice crystals, wading through clinging patches, jumping freezing freshets of runoff, and worst of all, the dragging, sucking mud when the sun came out and thawed the earth. Still, spring was nothing to sneeze at, though he did anyway, the residue of a cold. His boots squelched, always wet and beslimed, but barefoot season hadn’t arrived, not unless he relished seeing his feet blue.

  Worst of all, Kharm moaned and groaned piteously
whenever he planted her on her own feet, lifting first one damp paw pad, then the other, balefully silent as she skittered from one dry spot to the next. Truth be known, there weren’t many—had there been, he’d have fought temptation not to shove Kharm clear and clamor to dry land himself. In penance he’d carried the ghatta as often as possible, slung round his neck like a muffler, toted in his sack, or balanced on his shoulders, her long, curved claws digging through coat and shirt and sweater whenever he slipped or slithered. Blessed be the shepherd near the river who’d offered to trade him a cured sheepskin for three twists of copper wire (one blue, two yellow) and a silver coin, smallish, with the profile of a man with his hair knotted behind his head. Better yet, the man had helped cut a hole in the middle of the fleece to put his head through. Now, with it belted around his middle, he felt warm at last—overwarm. sometimes—and safe from Kharm’s claws. The ghatta could cling without lacerating him, and they both rejoiced in it.

  Today the sheepskin and all of his upper garments hung on a tilted, rotting fence post as Matty wiped his brow with his forearm and went back to swinging the mattock. Spring had progressed enough that folk could consider planting, and Matty had found a place on the outskirts of Waystown, or Waste-town, as it was nicknamed, helping the Widow Veltbrock till her fields. In build she reminded Matty of Mad Marg, though completely lucid, trenchant to a fault, sparing no more words than the situation warranted, grudgingly subtracted from her daily quota.

  Skirts kilted, she labored ahead, leaning into the ox-drawn plow while he followed behind, breaking the clods the blade tossed aside, or running ahead to dig in front of the plow when she backed it after a clanging crunch that indicated she’d uncovered a stone too deep to turn with the blade. Those and other stones he hefted and carried to one side of the field or the other, stacking them for later wall-building. Rough work, his hands and arms stained red with the rich loam, feet and legs as well. Still, a repetitive peace to the effort, a battle slowly being won with each furrow.