by Gayle Greeno
Rumors had it, confirmed by the broadside published each Acht-dag, that the Marchmontian King and his entourage were on their way to visit Canderis, tour the country. The idea delighted Lindy no end as she’d stumblingly read through the paper that night. “Oh, bet they wear gorgeous jewels and crowns and all sorts of fancy satin and velvet robes.”
“Edged and lined with ermine, perhaps,” he’d teased, wondering from where this fanciful elaboration had sprung. “But their jewelry isn’t a whit nicer than your own,” and he’d tapped a finger at one of her ears. “Think they have problems setting their crowns straight and level on their heads?”
She’d crowed with laughter. “Even royalty have uneven ears?”
“Sure,” he’d confirmed. “Probably his crown rests on one ear and doesn’t even touch the other.”
“Oh, I wish I could see a real King!”
“Well, mayhap, mayhap you can. Make a small detour.” Now the girl lay asleep, blanket over her and on top of that, his tabard. He’d carried it out of habit, surprised at its bulky weight when he wasn’t wearing it. Stretching long legs toward the fire he wished he hadn’t said anything about detours. Hated to promise the girl something, only to deny her. Byrta wouldn’t approve.
“You don’t want to meet more Marchmontians, do you?” M’wa tucked white front paws inward, roosted compact, warm-breathing fur by his side. How could one presence remind him of another absence so much?
“No. No, not if I can help it. Even seeing Doyce and Jenret, Parse or Sarrett, is too close a reminder to ... to what....” he didn’t bother to go on.
“Eadwin wasn’t the enemy, nor Arras. Doyce and Jenret and the others even less so. They all just had the misfortune to be there, like you.”
Misfortune! The word sounded far too benign, like a minor mishap. He clenched his eyes shut, as if that could block the vision of Byrta’s severed head flying through the air, his mad dive to catch it, protect it, cradle it, kiss the still lips. Worse, in fact, with his eyes closed; everything engraved in his mind, impossible to obliterate. And all for him. Each always willing to sacrifice for the other, but they’d never counted on separation. A one-sided sacrifice they hadn’t taken into account. A moan escaped, and he pressed his hand hard enough against his mouth to make his teeth saw through his inner lip. The pain a pleasure, just deserts for his dereliction. Why not just join Byrta, work up the courage to do it?
Claws struck the back of his hand so swiftly there was no evasion, scored the flesh with four parallel strokes. “And abandon me? Leave me all alone—just as P’wa did? Deny our Bond?”
Bard patterned the blood with a finger, connected the lines. “We could go together. ” A sense of hopefulness, “The way Chak and Rolf did, so they wouldn’t be parted. ”
“Chak had no say in it, he died first. For all his love, he never would have beckoned Rolf down the path after him.” Though neither had witnessed Rolf scooping up Chak’s still-warm body and taking that final walk off the cliff just before The Shrouds, the high, echoing falls that separated Marchmont from Canderis, the shared image was vivid, passed along by Khar and the ghatti present. “For our love, would you beckon me so?”
“Only if you freely choose to come. ”
“And where does that leave the child?” M’wa sat hunched, head thrust-forward, glaring.
Bard scrambled, breathless for words, couldn’t find any. Finally controlled his breathing by sheer force of will. “I didn’t say it had to be this moment! Once we leave her with Doyce, that’s another story. We’re free again. ”
“Leaving her to worry and mourn as she’s mourned for Byrta? Unsure what happened or why, but suspecting she’s responsible in some way? Haunted by nightmares of things she never saw but somehow sees?”
Unable to help himself, balked at every turn, he slapped the ghatt, a hard shoulder blow that spun him sideways. Ears pinned, M‘wa reared and retaliated, claws unsheathed. Knuckles slashed, Bard slapped harder, M’wa’s head wobbling as he connected, but then M’wa righted himself and sprang. And they collapsed in each other’s arms, hugging close, whimpering, sobbing, desperate not to waken the child. “All we have is each other, and I’m trying to destroy that ! ”
“And Lindy, at least for a little while.”
“We could go, ” he temporized, “catch up with the royal progress, I remember the route the broadside listed. Rubber-neck at royalty. Bound to be plenty of street entertainment at each stop, dancers, musicians, souvenir sellers. Lindy’d like that. ”
M‘wa hedged, wondering who else might be there—Reapers eager to kill the King or any other Resonants they found—or think they’d uncovered. And Bard’s mindsharing with Byrta came perilously close to Resonant skills whether he acknowledged it or not. Still, who’d suspect a retired Seeker Bond-pair? “They’re not all bad, you know. Eadwin and Muscadeine would have fought to the death to save Byrta and P’wa if they could.”
Bard stretched out, M‘wa layered on top of him from chin to hip as he fumbled a blanket over them. “You know, Doyce isn’t in Gaernett right now,” M’wa admitted.
Almost enough to make him sit up in shock. “What?” It burst out sharper than he’d meant, and aloud. Lindy stirred and mumbled, tucked the end of her braid against her lips for comfort and subsided. “Where is she?” he continued in mindspeech.
“You’re retired, remember? Actually, any number of things have been happening, but I didn’t think you retained any interest in that life.” The tone caustic, meant to shame, and it did because it was true. “Doyce is visiting her mother and sister in Coventry, saddled with Davvy because the Seeker General thinks there’s less risk for him away from the capital. And Jenret’s been captured by Resonants, held hostage to insure the safety of Resonants still concealed in Canderis proper.”
“That’s a benighted plan if there ever was one!” He was seething now. “And I’m not sure any place is safe these days if the wrong person suspects you’re a Resonant. ”
M’wa chuckled, well-pleased. “Almost makes you wish you could put things to rights, doesn’t it?”
“Go to sleep, M’wa. And Bard let his breathing slow, knowing full well he wasn’t fooling the ghatt. Kept his eyes closed but imagined the stars wheeling overhead, knew their patterns, and wondered what part he played in the pattern. One twin above, one twin below. Wondered what his obligations now were—and why. Doyce was carrying twins, but he’d not breathed it to a soul, the coincidence too hurtful.
Hru‘rul the Magnificent, King’s Bond, terror of the wild, continued walking, fluid strides that effortlessly covered the ground, veering to take shelter as needed, check for danger. Yes, he was Hru’rul, entrusted with a mission, returned to the wild, ruler of all he surveyed. Reach the Research Hospice or venture near enough to contact Saam, relay information about Harrap’s and Parm’s doings back to Eadwin and Muscadeine.
Mostly he ignored the young man lagging behind, dark auburn hair sweat-slicked, mouth ajar to suck in lungfuls of air as the incline grew steeper. No, Hru’rul hadn’t asked for company, didn’t require a guide or guard, and Ezequiel Dunay was neither. Silly human constantly spinning in circles until he matched the disk with its floating needle to their direction. Still, best keep an eye on him or Eadwin would be angry, though not half as angry as the stork-leg man would be.
Ezequiel chewed his lip, shifted the pack straps to a less sore spot on his chafed shoulders, and checked how far his hose had slipped. Pull them up now and they’d only slip again—might as well wait until later when they’d dropped as far as they could go. Just keep going because the ghatt wasn’t inclined to wait, taking paths and shortcuts he had no hope of following. Thigh muscles burning, he bent and straightened each leg, drove himself up the slope.
Well, it’d seemed an inspired idea at the time. Catching the king’s uneasiness at letting Hru’rul journey alone to the Hospice, Ezequiel had decided to accompany him, abandon his castle duties for a day or two and make sure the ghatt arrived safely, then skedad
dle back across the border before anyone discovered his dereliction of duty. How was he to know the ghatt would disdain to ride with him, pick his own solitary way through mountain goat trails where a horse couldn’t follow, secure in his own sense of direction?
A rock reared up in his path, a magnet attracting his weary toe—oouch! The flat black slippers he and his grandfather wore to unobtrusively slip around the castle were ruined, offered no protection or support, no purchase on rocks. He’d skidded and fallen more times than he could count, raw spots on knees and elbows, scabs itchy, breaking and oozing, his hose sticking to them. Everything he’d brought had been wrong: not enough sustaining food—who knew it would take this long or how ravenous he’d be?—too much cooking gear, the ghatt’s combs, brushes and sleeping pillow, his own toiletries and dress clothes for their arrival at the Hospice. If he’d provisioned the royal progress as ineptly, he was in for it! In short, he was thoroughly miserable, and likely to be more so if his grandfather caught him at the Hospice—if they ever reached the Hospice.
They’d been traveling almost two full days now, Hru‘rul and his laboring shadow, and Hru’rul sat suddenly, amused to see Ezequiel collapse with alacrity behind him. In truth, he felt footsore and weary. Ghatti didn’t normally indulge in forced marches but traveled when and as they chose, seeking food, resting as the spirit moved them. And, oh, the spirit moved him to nap! Ah, ghatti did that so well, spent most of their time in some state of sleep, conserving themselves for lightning bolt spates of activity. His left hind paw-pad stung and he licked it thoroughly, biting at the long fur between his toes, licked some more, tongue a soothing balm. Oh, to sleep! His stomach rumbled piteously, reminding him of the other thing bothering him, though he’d tried to ignore it. The boy was down to a dozen nougats and two apples—not to his taste.
Truly, ghatti didn’t have to eat as often as he did now, cosseted by Eadwin, no longer hunting for them both, too often resigned to passing his hard-won prey to Eadwin through the narrow window slit in the imprisoning tower. How often then had he gone hungry to ensure Eadwin ate? Well, he’d had a huge breakfast the day they’d left, so much that his sides bulged, and he’d indulged himself with Ezequiel’s tidbits while they lasted—smoked salmon, paté. Nothing today but a few unsatisfactory but crunchy mouth-fuls of late crickets. He still bore the packet of trail mix Eadwin had lashed to him, a small canvas pouch that curved round his back, secured with leather thongs slipknotted at his chest where his teeth could pull it free. The more he fixated on it, the more the scents wafted from the pouch. Only trail mix, but even that sounded delicious. Share with Ezequiel? Or didn’t humans like it? He hoped not.
How much farther? Eat now or wait? He heaved himself up, resolute, and glided ahead, favoring his sore foot, checking once to make sure Ezequiel followed. Contacting Saam wouldn’t be easy; he’d tried several times but to no avail. Was Saam simply not listening, intent on searching out Parm’s voice, or was he wrapped up in communication with Mahafny? A shame his mindvoice had faded, but better that than the nothingness, the speechlessness caused by hurt and anguish. Such emptiness, such aloneness, and knowing now what he himself had nearly missed with Eadwin, before they’d discovered true Bonding, Saam’s loss pained him.
He worked upward from rock to rock, hesitating occasionally to reconnoiter. A thud, a slither, and another “ouch” told him Ezequiel still followed. Hard to concentrate with him banging and clanging like that, those pots and pans. Would the increased height enhance his mindspeech? From the pictures of the terrain he’d gathered from Muscadeine’s mind, they must be close. He popped his head over the top of the ridge, cautious—eagles capable of carrying him away in their talons soared through these peaks, and claw-feet were the one thing he feared—and peered down, eyes sweeping the landscape, tufted ears swiveling, listening for danger. A puff of smoke, no—he sniffed, cracked his mouth to waft the scent across his palate—not smoke ... so much as steam. A wind shift gusted the steam away and he saw it rising in the distance, the uncompromising white of the Research Hospice, its high, white central chimney.
End in sight, he worked at the slip knot, stepping free of the constraining leather thongs and nosing the pouch open, noisily crunching as he considered. Needed the energy. Ezequiel labored beside him and flopped on his stomach, spent, his pack rising like another insurmountable peak, weakly waved him away when Hru‘rul dragged the pouch toward him. All his!—he crunched more, greedy, gulping some whole. Nosed for the final crumbs. Yes, he was Hru’rul, powerful and competent, ruler of all he surveyed. No way his mindvoice couldn’t pierce that shell of a Hospice, rouse Saam with the clarion call of his mindspeech.
A deep breath as he concentrated, arrowed his mindspeech with the arching beauty of a shooting star. “Saam! Hear me, Saam! I am Hru‘rul, Bond of Eadwin. Hru’rul calls!”
“Hru‘rul?” The voice floated, gradually gaining focus as it groped for range. “Why are you contacting me? In fact, where are you?” Hru’rul ruffled at the suspicion in Saam’s mindvoice. This was the gratitude he received for undertaking such a trek?
“Eadwin riding, be at Hospice late tomorrow. You tell white-coat lady ride with him. Also, word from Parm?” The words crowding his mind always snarled together when he ’spoke, so long had he been bereft of shared converse before his Bonding. In that, he was as crippled as Saam with his imperfect distance abilities.
Skittering caution, even at this range he sensed something askew, not as it should be. “Where are you?”
Patiently, Hru’rul described where he perched, the sun descending behind his back. Not happy to see him, not happy Eadwin coming? What?
“I’ll have Mahafny send a horse and rider for you. Unless you’d like to leg it?”
The thought of riding sounded wonderful, a chance to nap, groom, ready himself for the meeting. In truth, he didn’t know Saam well, the steel-gray ghatt keeping to himself, only comfortable around Doyce and Khar and, of course, Nakum, and now, Mahafny. “Appreciate ride. You know Ezequiel? Here too, tired,” he sent back. “You hear Parm voice? Muscadeine worrying?”
Again an awkward hesitancy. “Yes, but ... not exactly informative. He should be ‘speaking me shortly, in fact he’s overdue. Please, I should listen for him, not waste time ’speaking you.”
Ruff bristling, Hru‘rul jerked as if slapped at the slight, raised himself higher on the ridge spine to hurl back a rejoinder. Eadwin was king and Hru’rul his messenger, worthy of respect, worthy of being heard. A dark shadow blotted the sky and a down draft smote him, dust flaring up, burning his eyes. “Ware!” “Look out!” gonged in his mind and ears, Saam and Ezequiel both shouting as the eagle dove, talons outstretched, beak a sharp-curved hook of a smile.
“No, no, no!” he flattened himself, mind exploding with another time he was too young to consciously remember but could only relive. Snatched from his nest in the tree crotch, bereft of mother and sibs before his eyes had opened, his tail clipped short by a cruel beak. No Eadwin now to drive off the bird, save him, salve his wounds.
A taloned foot sank into the loose skin at the back of his neck, the other foot searching out a grip lower down, near his tail. Air under him, not solid ground, and the thunderous beat of wings buffeting him senseless as the eagle strained aloft. He twisted, clawed at the feathered underbelly, bit the scaled leg, the taste bitter in his mouth, but not as bitter as his fear. “No, no, no!” Something whizzed by him, struck the eagle, more stones, one slamming a sensitive wing joint, and the bird screamed with pain, Hru‘rul echoing it. Hands full of stones, Ezequiel clambered nearer, gaining one step for each two he slipped back. Squirming, biting, yowling, Hru’rul fought, the eagle sinking lower, wings mantling, scooping air, kicking up gravel and dust at Ezequiel.
Pack strap in one hand, Ezequiel swung the pack high, the other shoulder strap noosing the eagle’s neck, the pack slamming his chest. Shocked, the bird loosened his grip and Hru’rul pulled free, a patch of his soon-to-be winter coat remaining behind. Shouting
, Ezequiel lobbed his final stone, scored on the sensitive nasal area above the beak. With a long, drawn-out scream of protest at such ill-treatment from prospective dinners, the eagle flew off, pack bouncing against his chest, the rattle and clang of pots and pans drumming against him.
Hru’rul licked the boy’s bare leg, the long hose completely ruckled around his ankles now, and felt thankful to be alive.
“Bravo! Did you snatch a feather for a souvenir?” And Hru’rul couldn’t think of a suitable rejoinder, so he retrieved a long, golden feather and presented it to Ezequiel.
Humming, Doyce began setting up her mother’s small loom for a weaving, warping the threads. Sunlight beat on her head and shoulders from the tall windows, bathing the room in brightness. This was the only part of weaving she actually enjoyed, making sure the threads ran true, unblemished by flaws, weren’t twisted or kinked, their tension consistent. Orderly, dependable, logical, one following another in ordered ranks. Ever since she’d been a child she’d had a knack for this part of the task, the part her mother and sister considered deadly boring.
Well, hadn’t lost her touch after all, had she? As if in mockery, a strand snapped, wrapped itself around her finger. And with that she went to pieces, something within her snapping as well. Damn, hateful, hateful, hateful when she overreacted like this, and the more she struggled for control, the worse she became. Another strand snapped as she brushed it, dangled there tickling her ear as she detached the first culprit.
