by David Keck
But this was not all. "Was there any sign of the baby?" he breathed.
"God, I... I never thought. She never mentioned. Just Alwen sprawled in a rowboat." Only the dark hid Durand's shudder.
BY DAWN, COENSAR had hired a merchantman to carry them across Silvermere to Acconel where Lamoric would see his sister buried. No one asked how he knew. But Durand remembered that pale figure in the dark; Lamoric had not been wearing white.
As they sailed, the night's drizzle swelled into a wild gale that beat Silvermere into a realm of surging mountains. Back and forth across the face of the wind, the ship's master set a reeling course with straining giants at the steering-oar. Through the screams of the horses below and the wind above, the men on decks watched Lost Hesperand and the Head of Merchion pitch into view and out again—places where no man would land. Men saw monsters pitched up from the depths by the waves. Even the creatures of the deep could do little in such a storm.
Through it all, Durand watched Lamoric clinging like some bleak figurehead in the merchantman's forecastle, though the bow swung and crashed down like Creation's end. Durand hung on with the sailors in the ship's waist, tethered like a dog to the rail. He fought with the others to keep the horses upright and alive. Lamoric haunted him, and, from time to time, he would catch Guthred watching.
Finally, as light failed them on the second day, the great port of Acconel hove into view. The rain had returned to its steady drizzle, like some guard dog curling back into its kennel. Every man aboard was left soaked and pale.
When pinpoints had swelled to arrow loops in the dark face of the city's walls, the captain's mate hallooed until they sparked some action on the quay. Men came running along the wharf, leaping into boats to meet the ship and haul her in. The boatmen shouted their astonishment to the sailors who threw them lines and bragged about their passage.
Among these men, Lamoric appeared like a specter. As each man noticed the lord among them, they shut their mouths, some snatching hats and skullcaps from their heads. Lamoric bent over the rail. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet.
"Were you here when they found my sister?"
Most of the longshoremen scratched their necks or turned to tie off lines; one bow-legged man, braver than the rest or in charge, answered.
"Lordship. They brought her here. They say little Alraora spotted her."
"Almora?" She was his youngest sister, a dark-haired child.
'They say the girl rose from a sound sleep, Lordship, went off through the passages of the castle and fetched up at a window high in Gunderic's Tower." Durand flinched at the likeness: Alwen in her tower. "Could see her clear. All in white, she was, sliding over the water. Laid out like she was sleeping, a candle in her hands."
Lamoric hardly breathed the next words. "You saw this?" His hands shook.
"My grandmother. My sister, Lordship. The wise women of the fourteen duchies knew before morning. Your brother sent fishermen scrambling out to catch the boat before it was lost on the mere. The lads and I, we helped getting her in."
Lamoric was nodding. He was fighting with tears.
"I've come to bury my sister," he said, finally.
Now, the longshoreman closed his mouth, and Durand had a premonition of what was to come. None of the men in the boat wanted to look Lamoric in the face. Every hand was still.
"It is done, Lordship. Your father's buried her this afternoon," the longshoreman said.
Lamoric blinked. He pushed himself upright. The men had taken a half-step back, as though the group were inhaling.
'The high sanctuary then."
LAMORIC STALKED OFF between upturned dories and drying cordage, a few of his men in tow. Most of the others remained behind, keeping an eye on horses and supplies. Durand could not be one of those—he had to say something. He was glad when Guthred joined Sir Agryn and Coensar to follow their master.
Lamoric stalked under the cavernous Fey Gates as the curfew bells tolled, Durand and the others hurrying after. Shopkeepers hauled great shutters over their windows; alehouse signs hung swollen in the drizzle. They passed one called The Waterclock on Fishmarket Street where Durand had passed long evenings. The city smelled of privies, dung, and the rain: everything the same, nothing familiar.
They wound their way through the stone warrens of the citadel. Walls crowded overhead till the streets seemed little more than damp passageways. Pigeons stormed and swirled between the eaves.
At more than one corner, Durand was ready to turn for Gunderic's Tower and the Painted Hall of Lamoric's people, but the young lord's twisted course led only to the high sanctuary. White spires rose from the midst of shops and guildhalls: a relic from the days of the High Kingdom when the kings of Errest ruled all the Atthias.
There was a double door: oak enough for a warship carved with all the writhing vines of a forest. Low in one door, Lamoric found the hidden outline of a smaller portal. The young lord took hold of an iron knocker half-concealed among the carvings.
They stood for twenty heartbeats, waiting. Lamoric never turned or said a word. A hundred yards of empty street stretched at Durand's back. Suddenly, the carvings split as the wicket door creaked wide. A crabbed hand beckoned them inside.
Beeswax candles filled the vast nave, glowing-over ancient columns and throwing shadows over interlaced branches and running beasts. An entire forest of tapers glittered thirty paces down the aisle. Durand could see the long shape of a plain sarcophagus. He thought of the long white form in his dream.
The acolyte who opened the door pointed to Oredgar, the Patriarch of Acconel himself. In samite and gold, the tall priest might have stepped from the mists of the lost High Kingdom a thousand years before. There were private rites and vigils long after the public ceremonies were finished.
Durand and the others let Lamoric proceed alone, and waited, dripping on the entrance tiles, under the undulating sheet of a dark window. Durand rolled his eyes at himself. What was he if he held his tongue?
The silver-bearded Patriarch set his hand on Lamoric's shoulder, then stepped back as Lamoric crouched low among the candles. Durand found he didn't know what to do with his hands.
Guthred was watching him, his face sour. It was as though the man could look into his soul. Finally, he relented.
"God," he said, peevishly. "Long time since I been in a place like this." He peered up where the slender pillars crisscrossed among the vaults and arches, high at the limits of candlelight. In the dark, the thousand thousand panes of the windows were black and glinting.
Agryn snorted. It was more a sigh.
"You can feel Him," the old shield-bearer said. "Watching you. Watching, but not saying nothing. My dad was a great one for that. Had a way of looking at you till you knew you must be up to something."
"The King of Heaven watches always," said Agryn.
Guthred grunted, and Durand winced hard.
In the high sanctuary, you could feel the Lord of Dooms, like some vast thing rising from the sea.
"It is a sanctified place and older than the kingdom," said Agryn.
Guthred grunted once more.
The Patriarch shot a scathing glance down the aisle at their chatter, his tiny eyes as piercing as a sea eagle's.
"All right, men," murmured Coensar.
As Durand writhed in a fool's agony, he glanced up in time to notice something strange in the high glass sheet beyond the others. One of the tiny panes of glass didn't have the same sheen as the rest. Something was moving beyond it: an eye slipping away.
Something moaned—nowhere near the window, but high above. The sound throbbed again. Down the aisle, Lamoric had struggled onto one knee. The Patriarch was turning, his long mantle swinging out. Every bell in the sanctuary tower moaned in doleful warning.
Snarling, Durand leapt past the others, springing low through the wicket gate and out into the dark. The spy had been at a side window, so Durand pelted for the corner, knowing he had taken too long, and that any spy worth his wages would be gone
.
As he careered into the dark yard, however, he saw a figure stooped some twenty paces away. The man wore a black gardecorps robe. The sleeves swept the turf like black wings.
The Rook lifted his finger. "Shh."
Durand charged headlong, but the little man spun from him, darting off in a riot of cloak and sleeves and shadows, until there was nothing left but scattering darkness.
With nothing to chase, Durand skidded to a halt, his gaze raking every crevice and shadow among the tombs and trees and distant houses. And then he heard voices. Swords were rattling from scabbards.
"There!" Guthred shouted. Coensar and Agryn followed him, looking up toward the roof of the high sanctuary. The throbbing of the bells had ceased. "What's he done? Is there something here?" Guthred was saying.
It was Agryn who approached Durand first. His eyes were on the yard, as he murmured, "What did you see?"
Durand did not know how to answer. What unwholesome impulse had drawn the Rook to Alwen's tomb? What was he doing in Acconel? Durand could not lie, but what could he say that would not destroy him?
"Someone. In the dark. Watching," he said.
Coensar had stalked over to the flawed window. He thrust two fingers through the space of the missing pane.
"I gave chase," Durand continued, "but he'd gone before I could lay hands on him."
"Now you've got us chasing shadows?" Guthred said.
Oredgar the Patriarch stalked around the comer with Lamoric following behind.
"No," said the Patriarch. He stalked straight for Durand. "It has gone. But there was something here. Unnatural, but held at bay by the wards of the Ancient Patriarchs." He turned, robes bright against the darkness. "It had its eye on you all."
Lamoric's retainers stared out into the streets of Acconel. No one said a word.
"My sister is inside," Lamoric said.
THE OTHERS WAITED in the dark sanctuary, as nervous as a lost troop in a hostile land. A man could not draw steel in the high sanctuary without barring the Bright Gates, but each of them had his fingers on his blade's hilt. Durand clutched his new sword with the same hand that had seized Alwen's arm.
Their clothes dried where they stood.
In the third hour of night, Lamoric completed the cycle of prayer for his sister and took the long walk back to his men. Durand avoided his eyes.
"You will want to be with your family," was Coensar's surmise.
"We will go to High Ashes," Lamoric answered.
Coensar tucked his chin a fraction. "Lordship, we have lost two days. And, from Acconel, half of Lost Hesperand is between us and Mornaway." It was too far.
'Then we must hurry."
Coensar fixed Lamoric with a steady stare, then nodded. "Aye, Lordship."
The company crowded the courtyard of an inn, men and horses jostling for space. Though Lamoric had wanted to be gone in the night, the men had been desperate for sleep. Now, though, it was nearly noontide and still they lingered in Acconel. Durand slung the last of the saddlebags just as Lamoric stalked from the inn doors, heading straight for Guthred. "Where did those whoresons go?" he demanded. "Still down at the barber's," said Guthred. "Badan won't be fit to ride till—"
"—Then we'll haul him on a bloody cart!" snapped Lamoric.
"We'll get him," said Durand. Guthred rounded on Durand. "Find a damned wheelbarrow; it was your elbow cracked his teeth."
Out they went, jogging over mud and cobbles to a market in Haywarden Street. Durand's empty wheelbarrow boomed like battle drums.
Drunken storefronts and canvas stalls leaned over the heads of a mob of townspeople. There was no sign of the two stragglers.
"Hells. Should have been here," said Guthred, out of breath.
Durand surveyed the stalls and caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of soldiers reeling past the mouth of an alley. One had a patched eye. "There!"
Guthred was off, bowlegs pumping. They charged through crowds and alley rubbish, Durand shoving the wheelbarrow bounding ahead.
In a few moments, Guthred had hold of Berchard's sleeve. The one-eyed old campaigner had Badan braced like a drunk against the wall.
"Are you finished, Sir Berchard?"
A wide grin split the man's beard. "Oh! You should have seen our Badan."
The stricken man sagged, his eyes like two slices of boiled egg. There was a butcher's gutter down his shirtfront.
"We have to get back," Guthred said. "It's bloody leagues to High Ashes. We're losing time."
Berchard nodded. "Here," he said, "let's get him into the barrow." Durand took Badan's ankles, and they swung him in. Durand lifted the handles.
Berchard whacked Durand's shoulder. "Durand, boy, you ought to have come along."
The face looking up from the barrow was swollen as red and hard as an apple. The man had deserved it. Durand set off, pushing as fast as he could.
"Anyway," Berchard continued cheerfully, "the tooth-puller pried open our man's jaw, and what's he reckon? He'd best yank seven. Not one. Not two. Seven!" Berchard shoved a blunt finger into his mouth. "Everyshing on zhat shide." The finger smacked free. "A penny a piece."
Guthred was shaking his head. "He pays the puller by the tooth," the old shield-bearer muttered, disgusted.
"I'll tell you this for nothing, friend Durand," said Berchard. "It's a lucky thing you've still got both eyes. You'll have to sleep with one eye open if you want to see your next Naming Day."
Durand gave the man a pained grin, preoccupied with the wheelbarrow. Badan was no lightweight, and, at Guthred's pace, the barrow's wheel dove down every rut, careering for walls and alleys like a living thing.
"Anyway," said Berchard. "I take Badan into the little tent." He waved back toward the market. "It's in a tent. Just a pair of stools and a box of picks 'n pincers. The man looks into Badan's mouth, staring right into the reek. And Badan opens as far as he can, only it's nowhere near far enough. You couldn't ram a knifepoint between his teeth. So the puller sets his hands on Badan's face, real gentle. Badan hardly noticed. Then the fellow yanks." They passed under a sort of bridge between two houses, and the old campaigner's laugh racketed around the arch.
T thought Badan was going to crack his skull between his heels, he jerked back so fast. Lucky thing Badan was drinking since sunset." He tapped his temple with one knuckle. "No fool him."
There was a louse on the back of Durand's neck, pricking like a needle. He couldn't stop to claw at it.
"Truth," Berchard swore, jogging sideways with his hand in the air. "I swear, I think he bought half that innkeeper's claret. He figured the red stuff had to do with blood, and that he was going to lose a fair bit.
"Anyway, we start to pick Badan up, and, when he realizes what's happening, he shakes us off. He doesn't want to look like any coward. He sits down on his own. No help. His fingers are digging into his knees pretty good, though. His chin's up. I thought he was going to be first to draw blood.The puller pries our boy's mouth open. And—oh!—the tears are squeezing from Badan's eyes. But he takes it! He lets the bugger work."
Durand nearly walked the barrow into the legs of a carthorse. Gjuthred had tramped right through a crossroads.
"Then the examination commences," said Berchard. "Our puller's got this iron needle. I say needle, but it's longer, more of an awl, and it's blunted on the end. Squared off. Badan doesn't open his eyes. The guy starts probing, and you can tell when he hits a bad one from the way air kinda sniffs— sharp—up Badan's nose. So he's prodding and prodding and Badan's all hisses and whistles."
Guthred cursed. Durand's shoulders and fists were burning.
Berchard held off the interruption with the flat of his hand. "But then the puller starts talking”. I don't know what was going on in his head. Me, I'd've got in and out quick as I could, but he started up: 'This man I knew—in Eldinor—he was working on this woman once. Pretty thing. And the worms had had one of her teeth. Too many sweets. It was near gone.
Just a ring. Nothing in it. And he to
ld her what he had to do, and he went in with his pliers, and he started to work on her. Pulling and pulling. You know? And then the tooth popped. He had the pliers too high up, you know? And the tooth just snapped shut under the pliers. Now. He went one way, and she went the other. Knees up, if you follow. From the waist down, bare as the day she was born. And he's looking at this—arse, dimpled knees, thighs—staring while she blubbers on— when, all of a sudden, he feels this greasiness under his hand, and he looks. His hand's all blood. He's used to blood, of course, being a tooth-drawing man, but, when he looks close, he sees something else. He thinks one of his fingers is bent down—broke probably and when he looks even closer. Kind of turning it over? There's naught there. Naught but this little white chicken bone sticking out of the blood, halfway—'" Durand winced.
"Hold on now. You've got to remember; Badan's hearing this the whole time. He hears every word, and I can see sweat standing all over his face. I can smell it. He lets go of his knees. Quiet. He's all restraint is our Badan. And he slips his hands up, while the fellow's talking, and poking, and he slides his fingers into the greasy collar of this fool's tunic, and just as he got to the part about the chicken bones, Badan jerked that collar tight.
"That fellow froze, and Badan gave him this look." Berchard took a moment to make a mocking fist and finger sign over his heart. "I've never seen anything like it. Drawer's eyes are bulging out, and Badan's are just these puckers of yellow bile.
"When he lets go, this puller, he isn't about to say another word. You could see him shoving all his stories about wrong teeth pulled and broken jaws and wisdom teeth and rusty pliers and all that sort of thing into a big old strongbox, and tipping the lot into a river. I swear. He even brought out the good stuff. Must have been poppy or ivy or mandragora. Let them both settle down a bit. I swear though, the vein in that man's neck stopped jumping the same time Badan's eyelids shut.
"Once he got going, though, he seemed to know his trade. Badan didn't stay out once the drawing started. I expect it's hard to doze with a man up on your chest." He shook his head thoroughly, valiantly suppressing a laugh, when a moan from the wheelbarrow broke his will.
