“Hmm. I wonder.” Morgan scratched a forefinger thoughtfully across his beard and grimaced.
“How about trying to bluff our way through?” Duncan suggested, after a pause. “In these clothes, and bearded as we are, I doubt anyone would recognize us. You saw how little reaction we got on the road this morning. We could even try to steal a boat tonight, if you think the broad daylight idea is too daring.”
Morgan shook his head. “We daren’t risk even that. We must reach the dissident bishops. If we were captured before we could get to them, and had to use our powers to extricate ourselves, we’d never be able to convince the bishops of our sincerity.”
“Then what do you suggest? Take two days to ride to the northern approach to the city? That’s hardly feasible.”
“No, there has to be another way.” Morgan paused. “Ah, you don’t suppose there are any Transfer Portals around here, do you? I wonder how the ancients built them.”
Duncan snorted. “As well wonder why we can’t fly! What we could do, though, while we’re trying to figure out a solution, is to talk to a few local citizens and find out what the situation in the valley really is. If worse comes to worst, we can always appropriate another Torin badge and try the broad daylight approach. I still have mine, you know.”
At Morgan’s look of surprise, Duncan pulled the object in question from his belt pouch and began attaching it to the front of his leather cap. Morgan watched the operation in silent appreciation for his kinsman’s foresight, then nodded slowly as he considered the last suggestion. Within minutes, they were moving back toward the road to choose a suitable informant. It could do no harm to pretend devotion to the local saint.
They did not have long to wait. After letting a caravan of pack animals and their guards pass unchallenged, their vigil was rewarded by the approach on foot of a fat, balding man in the robes of a minor clerk. The man wiped his sweating face with the sleeve of his habit as he came abreast of where the two lurked; and since there was no one else in sight on the road, and they had not much time, Duncan cast a final look at his cousin and stepped into the road to bow with a flourish.
“Good morrow, sir clerk,” he said courteously, sweeping his leather cap from his head and smiling engagingly, making certain the man saw the Torin badge. “I wonder, could you tell me whose army lies camped in the valley below?”
Duncan’s sudden appearance startled the man; and as he drew back in surprise, his eyes going wide, he backed directly into Morgan, whose hand closed over his opening mouth.
“Just relax, my friend,” Morgan murmured, extending his powers as the man began to struggle. “Step backward and don’t resist. You won’t be harmed.”
The man obeyed tremblingly, his eyes going slightly glassy, and Morgan half-dragged him back in the brush until they were safely shielded from the road. When they had reached suitable cover, Duncan touched his fingertips lightly to the man’s temples and murmured the words that would seal the trance, smiling faintly as the man’s eyes fluttered closed and he sagged against Morgan’s support. When they had eased him to the ground and propped him against a tree, Morgan sat back on his haunches with a grin as Duncan made sure of their control.
“That was too easy,” Duncan murmured, glancing up with a gleam in his eye. “I feel almost guilty.”
“Let’s see if he can tell us anything worthwhile, before you gloat,” Morgan said, touching his fingers lightly to the man’s forehead. “What’s your name, my friend? Come on, you’re all right. You can open your eyes.”
The man’s eyes flicked open and he looked up at Morgan in mild surprise. “I be Master Thierry, good sir, a clerk of the household of Lord Martin of Greystoke.” His eyes were wide and guileless, with no trace of fear showing through the Deryni-induced trance.
“Are those Bishop Cardiel’s troops assembled in the valley?” Duncan asked.
“Aye, sir. They be camped there more than two months now, waiting on word from the king. ’Tis said His young Majesty will come soon to Dhassa, to be absolved of the fearful evil he has taken upon himself.”
“Fearful evil?” Morgan questioned. “What kind of fearful evil?”
“The Deryni powers, sir. An’ they say he has given succor to the wicked Duke Alaric of Corwyn an’ his cousin, the heretic priest, when all know that those were excommunicated when the bishops met in April last.”
“Ah—yes, we know about that,” Duncan said uneasily. “Tell me, though, Thierry, how does one get into the city now? Are pilgrims still obliged to pay homage to Saint Torin?”
“Ach, of course Saint Torin must still be honored, sir. Ye wear the badge. Ye should know. His pilgrim tokens are distributed near where stood the paddock of the old chapel. Fearful rogues they were, who burned it down this spring. Duke Al—”
“Who guards the ferries?” Morgan interrupted impatiently. “Can the boatmen be bribed? What kind of guard is kept on the quays?”
“Bribed, sir? The boatmen of Saint—”
“Relax, Thierry,” Duncan said, touching the man’s forehead and exerting control. “Is it possible for two men to cross the lake without being challenged at the quay?”
Thierry had slumped back against the tree at Duncan’s touch, and now resumed his previous matter-of-fact recitation. “No, sir. The guards have orders to search all travelers and to detain those who look suspicious.” He paused wistfully. “I must say that you do look suspicious, sirs.”
“Indeed,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“I said, is there any way to get to Dhassa besides across the lake? Aside from riding around to the other gate, that is.”
Thierry knew of none. Nor did the next three travelers whom Morgan and Duncan interrogated and left sleeping beneath the trees. Happily, their fifth informant, a grizzled master cobbler, was more useful. His response to the fateful question began in much the same way; but this time, it had a slightly different ending.
“And do you know of any other way to the city besides crossing the lake?” Morgan asked patiently, never dreaming that he would receive an affirmative answer.
“Nae more, sor. There used to be, but that’s been twenty years now.”
“There used to be?” Duncan murmured, sitting up straighter and glancing quickly at his cousin.
“Aye, there was a wee track through the high pass to the north,” the man said pleasantly. “Hardly more than a game trail, it was. But that was washed out by the floods when I was just a lad. ’Tis just as well. Otherwise, impious souls might try to reach the holy city without paying their respects to our patron. That, of course, would be—”
“Oh, unthinkable, of course,” Morgan agreed, edging closer to gaze into the man’s eyes. “Now, just where was this trail, Dawkin? How can we get to it?”
“Och, ye cannae get through. I told ye, it’s washed awa’. If ye would to enter Dhassa, ye must take the ferry—unless, of course, ye wish to ride to the northern gate.”
“No, I think we’ll try to find this old trail,” Morgan said with a small smile. “Now, tell us how to find it.”
“If’n yer sure.” The man shrugged with apparent lack of concern. “Ye go back to tha road and follow it for ’bout half a mile, then take a trail that heads north. After a few hundred yards, the trail enters a defile that splits north an’ west. Ye take the north fork; the west fork leads to the village of Garwode. After that, ye’re headed toward th’ old trail.”
“You’ve been a great help, Dawkin,” Morgan said with a grin, nodding toward Duncan.
“Oh, it won’t do ye a bit of good,” the man chattered on, as Duncan leaned toward him. “The trail’s now’t but a track, an’ it’s washed out. Ye cannae get through…”
His voice trailed off and his head lolled onto his chest as Duncan exerted control, and he lapsed almost at once into comfortable snores. With a smile, Duncan got to his feet and glanced down at the man; then, on second thought, he bent to remove the Torin badge from the man’s shirt.
He handed it to Morgan with a wry grin as they made their way back to the horses, and Morgan polished it against his sleeve before affixing it to his cap. The stolen pewter winked warm and silvery in the leaf-filtered sunlight as the two mounted up.
“Remind me to offer a special prayer of thanks for Master Dawkin, Duncan—the next time we visit Saint Torin’s officially.”
“I shall, indeed.” Duncan chuckled. “The next time we visit Saint Torin’s officially.”
An hour later found the two riders high in the mountains walling Lake Jashan and Dhassa from the rolling plains to the west. After taking the fork in the defile that Dawkin had described, they had made their way down a gentle slope to a grassy meadow beyond, where half a dozen scrawny sheep and goats cropped contentedly at the rich mountain grass. They saw no one in the vicinity, and the animals had paid them little attention beyond eyeing the horses warily for a few minutes. It had taken a while to locate the trail that led from the other side of the meadow, but at last it was found and the two proceeded on their way.
The trail, once found, was little more than the track Dawkin had described, and obviously little used. The new green growth of spring grass had hardly been disturbed, and field flowers seemed to spring in riotous profusion from every patch of earth and rock cranny. The trail worsened as they rode, the ascent steepening and the footing becoming less certain. The horses were still able to pick their way without too much trouble, but far ahead they could hear the sound of rushing water. Morgan, in the lead, chewed at his lip thoughtfully as he listened, finally turning back to glance at Duncan.
“Do you hear that?”
“It sounds like a waterfall. What do you want to bet that—”
“Don’t say it!” Morgan replied. “I was thinking the same thing.”
The sound of rushing water grew louder as they rounded the next bend in the trail, and they were not surprised to find their way barred shortly by a rather sizeable stream. A cascade roared down the mountainside to their left and formed a fast-flowing torrent that disappeared into the forest to their right, in the direction of Lake Jashan. There appeared to be no way around it.
“Well, what have we here?” Morgan said, drawing rein to survey the flood.
Duncan reined his horse beside Morgan’s and studied the falls dismally. “In case you require a reply, that is called a waterfall. Any brilliant ideas?”
“No brilliant ones, I’m afraid.” Morgan moved his horse a few yards downstream to study the current patterns. “How deep do you think it is?”
“Deep enough,” Duncan replied. “Well over our heads. Besides, the horses could never get across in that current. We’d be swept away and battered to death—if we didn’t drown outright.”
“You’re probably right,” Morgan said. He reined in his horse once again, then turned in the saddle to peer up at the falls.
“How about going above the falls? We might be able to get across, even if the horses couldn’t.”
“It’s worth a look, I suppose.”
Swinging a leg over his saddle, Duncan jumped to the ground and shrugged his leather cloak back on his shoulders, letting his mount’s reins dangle. As he began scrambling up a fairly easy game track toward the falls, Morgan, too, dismounted and secured his mount, following close behind his kinsman.
They had traversed perhaps two-thirds the distance up the face of the cliff when Duncan froze momentarily, then scrambled onto an outcrop and turned to give Morgan a hand up. The ledge where the two found themselves seemed quite ordinary at first; but then Duncan drew Morgan’s attention to what had first caught his eye: a deep cleft in the rock, rising vertically for more than thirty feet until it was lost in a veil of mist from the thundering falls. They needed several treacherous steps to reach a point from which they could both peer into the cleft.
The opening was narrow, no more than five feet at its entrance, but from where they stood they could not see the back wall, lost in the shadows. The side walls, as far as the eye could see, were covered with a verdant growth of lichen and moss, the velvety perfection broken only by an occasional patch of ruby or topaz. In the floor of the cleft, which lay a few feet below the level at which they stood, a thin trickle of icy water welled out of a crack in the stony floor, the water so cold that the air above it condensed into shimmering mist where a narrow shaft of sunlight struck it.
The two of them gazed at the swirling mist in awe for several seconds, neither quite willing to break the mystical mood the place had cast. Then Duncan sighed, and the spell was broken. Together they peered more closely into the cleft beyond, returning their focus to their original concern.
“What do you think?” Morgan whispered. “Could it go all the way through?”
Duncan shrugged and lowered himself gingerly into the cleft to take a closer look, but after only a cursory incursion into the shadows, he turned and came back, shaking his head as he accepted Morgan’s hand up.
“No joy there, I’m afraid. It doesn’t go much farther than what you can see from here. Let’s see what’s at the top.”
The prospects farther up were no better than below. The water was fast-moving and tumbled over jagged rocks and enormous boulders in the streambed. It looked shallower here, probably little more than waist-deep, but the current was treacherous. One false step could sweep a man’s legs from under him and carry him over the falls to the rocks below. The watercourse farther upstream was even worse, with steep banks sloping sharply upward on either side, with no room for a man to even stand at water level, much less cross it. Some other way would have to be found, perhaps farther downstream, below the falls.
With a quick grimace of frustration, Morgan turned to begin climbing back down the cliff face, Duncan waiting above him to follow. But no sooner had Morgan begun his descent, than Duncan glanced below and froze, reaching to touch Morgan’s shoulder in alarm.
“Alaric, get down!” he whispered, flattening himself against the rock and restraining his cousin with a warning hand. “Get down, and then don’t move. Look behind you, quietly!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Make thy shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday…”
ISAIAH 16:3
HUGGING the cliff face, Morgan turned his head slowly and peered over the edge to where Duncan pointed. At first he could see nothing out of the ordinary: merely one of the horses placidly cropping grass beside the stream bank below.
Then he realized he couldn’t see the other horse—and caught a flash of movement farther underneath him, closer to the falls. He leaned out farther to see what the motion had been, then froze in astonishment. He could hardly believe what he saw.
Four children, their heads tousled and damp, homespun tunics plastered close to their bodies, were leading the second horse into the water at the edge of the waterfall. The horse was hoodwinked with what looked like the blanket from the saddle’s pack, and one of the children held his hand on the animal’s nose to keep it from nickering as they urged it into the cold stream. The oldest of the four appeared to be a boy of about eleven; the youngest could not have been more than seven.
“What the devil?” Morgan murmured, hazarding an astonished glance at Duncan.
Duncan pursed his lips grimly, then moved as though to start down the slope after them. “Come on. The little thieves are going to steal both horses if we don’t stop them.” Morgan could only barely hear him above the roar of the water.
“No, wait.” Morgan grabbed Duncan’s cloak and halted him in mid-motion, watching as children and horse waded toward the falls in a patch of calm water. “You know, I think those beastly urchins have a way across. Look.”
Even as Morgan spoke, horse and children disappeared behind the falls. Morgan glanced around, then scrambled partway down the side of the cliff, beckoning Duncan to join him behind a rocky outcropping. As they took cover, horse and children reappeared at the other side of the falls, drenched and shivering, but none the worse for wear. The youngest of the four, a girl by the long br
aids dripping down her back, scrambled up the embankment with some assistance from her companions, then took the reins and led the snorting horse up and out of the water. As the girl calmed the frightened animal, pulling the blanket from its head to begin wiping it down, the other three children disappeared into the falls once more.
With a look of firm resolve, Morgan slapped Duncan on the shoulder as a signal to go, then began clambering down the side of the cliff, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and trusting the roar of the waterfall to cover the sound of their descent. His face was grim but pleased as he and Duncan ducked into cover near the remaining horse, and he controlled the urge to smile again as the three children came out of the falls and hauled themselves dripping onto the bank.
The three glanced back at their friend across the stream, who was letting the captured horse graze while she scanned the cliff far above their heads—looking for them, Morgan realized. Then the other three began moving stealthily toward the remaining horse.
Morgan let them all get within touching distance of the animal, one of them actually taking the reins and reaching to stroke the beast’s nose. Then he and Duncan broke from cover and started grabbing children.
“Michael!” squealed the lone child on the opposite bank. “No! No! Let them go!”
In a flurry of screams, frantic squirming, and flailing arms and legs, the children tried to escape. Morgan succeeded in getting a strong grip on the first boy, who had been gentling the horse, and had a hold on a second for an instant. But the second boy was also the oldest, and strong, struggling hard; and after a few frantic squirms, he was able to wrench loose to flee shrieking toward the falls.
Duncan, his hands controlling the third child, made an effort to capture the second as he shot past, but ended up with only a handful of wet tunic to show for his trouble. The boy—for there was no mistaking that fact with the tunic missing—streaked for the falls and jumped into the water like an eel, disappearing behind the falls before either of the men could take more than a few steps in that direction.
High Deryni Page 12
