by Angus Wells
“We cannot delay here.” Bracht indicated Gannshold with a sweeping hand. “Each day brings Rhythamun closer to his goal—we must go on, swift as we may.”
“The Lykard will not believe this,” murmured Gart. “Do we bring them this tale, they will claim it a coward’s imagining, to buy you free of Jehenne’s wrath.”
“Do you believe me?” Bracht demanded.
Gart and Kythan looked long at each other, then, in unison, nodded. The elder brother said, “Aye. You were never a tale-spinner.”
“Nor a coward,” added Kythan. “But still—what shall we do?”
“Say nothing to them of this quest, but take my offer of werecoin to them.” Bracht looked toward the other tavern. “Mediate on my behalf as best you can. Do the Lykard halt us, then they leave Rhythamun free to bring down the world.”
“Even do they accept”—Gart stabbed a thumb in the direction of the Lykard—“still word must go to Jehenne, and she make the decision. Save she know your story, I do not think she will agree; save the drachomannii see this warlock for what he is, hell find sanctuary with the ni Brhyn.”
“He’s cunning,” Bracht said, “and a sorcerer of great power. He might well hide himself from even the drachomannii. I say again—take my offer of werecoin to the Lykard; offer four thousand for Jehenne, the rest to buy me safe passage. Do enough headmen agree, then Jehenne must accept.”
“It may be enough,” Gart allowed cautiously. “But in the doing we must reveal your presence here. If they refuse . . .”
“I’ll take the chance,” Bracht said, “and trust the covenant holds. If not . . . we must go north, no matter.”
“Likely to ride into Jehenne’s arms,” Gart said, his dark face dour. “And die.”
Bracht only shrugged.
“Send word ahead,” Kythan suggested. “Send a messenger—I’ll go, do you ask it—to tell Jehenne your story. Mayhap she’ll believe it and have her own drachomannii assess the man.”
“Or laugh at the telling, as Gart says.” Bracht shook his head. “No, I do not think that is the way. And such an envoy might well warn Rhythamun of our coming—afford him chance to flee.”
Kythan sighed, accepting; Gart said, “This is no easy thing. It seems the scales stand weighted against you, danger to both sides. Even do you escape Jehenne’s wrath, the ni Brhyn will not likely hand you this man, not thinking him one of theirs by blood.”
“Send word to the ni Errhyn,” said Kythan, “to Mykah—that he send a raiding party to snatch the man.”
“Who is a sorcerer of great power,” Bracht repeated, “and likely capable of slaughtering the raiders before he flees. No, it is we three who must go against him and we three alone. So was it scried—that none others may do this thing.”
Kythan grunted, frustrated, and scratched his head. Beside him, his brother drank ale and absently called for more. When it was brought he supped deep and said, “So you would have us act as intermediaries, with no word of what you attempt.”
Bracht ducked his head and said, “I can think of no better plan.”
“And do the Lykard agree,” said Gart somberly, “you ride against a mage protected by both his thaumaturgy and the ni Brhyn. I do not see how you can win this.”
“Nor I,” said Bracht cheerfully, “but still it is written that we must attempt it. Listen—we have spoken with gods on this quest and they have promised us what aid is theirs to give. When the time comes . . .”
He shrugged as the brothers gaped afresh. “You have spoken with gods?” Kythan mumbled.
“Ahrd sent a byah to warn of Rhythamun’s treachery,” Bracht said, “and in Kandahar, Burash saved us from the Chaipaku; on the road here Dera appeared to Calandryll and Katya. She said”—he turned his head to indicate Calandryll—“that he holds the means of Rhythamun’s defeat.”
“He’s a thaumaturge?” asked Gart suspiciously, and Bracht shook his head. “No. There’s power in him, but neither he nor we understand its nature. Only that the goddess promised it may defeat Rhythamun—to which end we must confront the mage.”
“This is the stuff of legend,” whispered Kythan. “The bards will tell this ages hence.”
“If we succeed,” Bracht said. “And to succeed, we must find Daven Tyras; we must go into Cuan na’For.”
“And we’ve a part to play.” Kythan grinned proudly, clapping Gart enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Well, brother, do we go to the Lykard with Bracht’s offer?”
“Aye”—Gart nodded, more cautious—“but softly. Do they refuse us, then there remains the matter of these three departing Gannshold unhindered. Let’s think on that awhile.”
Kythan sobered, his smile fading. Gart stroked his chin, then nodded as if some decision were reached. “Do they accept, all is well,” he said carefully. “There are sufficient here Jehenne must stand bound by clan decision. At least that you have safe passage outside the ni Larrhyn lands. If not, then you must look to go out unnoticed. Those mounts you ride look sound enough and a night’s rest should see them ready to run should flight be needful, so—do you rest yourselves, Kythan and I will take the offer to the Lykard and bring you word of what they say. Be it nay, then you go out at dawn, when the north gates open, and I’ll find warriors of the Asyth to guard your backs, to delay pursuit or troublesome messengers.”
“I’d not see you break the covenant,” Bracht said.
“We’ll not.” Gart smiled wolfishly. “Does it come to that, you’ll go out with a party—the covenant holds no sway beyond the gates and we can set an ambush, that you may ride free.”
“We’ve lodgings nearby,” offered Kythan, “and you can find rooms there. Wait for us there.”
Bracht looked to Calandryll, brows raised in question. He thought a moment but could find neither a better plan nor fault with this: he nodded his acceptance and Bracht said, “So be it.”
“Then let’s fetch your animals and bring you to the inn,” said Gart. “Then we’ll beard the Lykard.”
“Ahrd grant they agree,” declared Kythan fervently.
They drained their mugs and Bracht tossed coin to the table, waving away the brothers’ offer of payment. The sun was moved across the sky by now, the afternoon darkening toward twilight with rafts of heavy grey cloud blown southward on a wind that whispered chill from the mountains, slapping at the pennants along the walls of the citadel. Lanterns were already lit in several of the taverns and most had emptied as they spoke, the bustle of the Equestrian Quarter diminished, the haggling of the traders outweighed by the sound of horses as business wound down. Calandryll stared warily about as they passed close by the tavern favored by the Lykard, but none there paid them especial attention and they came unopposed to the brothers’ corral. The yearlings there were grouped toward one end, nervously eyeing Bracht’s stallion, who stood as if on guard, the two geldings in attendance, snickering a greeting as he saw his master. They fetched the three horses out and followed Gart and Kythan back across the great yard, along an avenue to an inn surrounded by a high wall. Over the gate hung a sign, its faded paint depicting a prancing horse, beneath the equine figure the name: The Horseman’s Rest.
“The stables are good,” Gart said, “and mostly Asyth find lodgings here—you’ll sleep safe enough.”
“You’ve our thanks for this,” Bracht said.
“What else should we do?” Gart smiled. “Come, let’s find the landlord and see you settled.”
“I’ll see to your horses,” Kythan offered, and somewhat to Calandryll’s surprise, Bracht agreed: it appeared a fellow Kern might be entrusted with the task.
This early in the year there were rooms aplenty and they were quickly ensconced in three adjoining chambers, the brothers leaving them with promises that they would return immediately they had some response from the Lykard. No sooner were they gone than Katya presented herself in Bracht’s room, shouting for Calandryll to join them. Her voice, he thought, sounded stormy as her eyes had been while she sat unknowing what w
as said throughout the afternoon: he hurried to obey her summons.
She stood with her back to the window, resting against the sill, arms crossed over her chest; Bracht stood facing her, his expression apologetic. Calandryll closed the door and found a place on the single bed.
“So, I’ve sat listening without understanding, patiently.” Her voice was carefully measured, as if she held temper in check. “Do you now tell me what you discussed? Is Daven Tyras gone on?”
“Gone on,” Bracht said, and outlined the gist of his discussion with the two Kerns.
When he was finished Katya nodded, fixing him with an unfathomable stare. “So we must go into Cuan na’For,” she murmured, “and whether that be hard or easy hangs on the Lykards’ decision.”
Bracht nodded, and in a colder voice Katya asked, “And this Jehenne ni Larrhyn? Who is she? Why does she seek your death?”
Calandryll, no less curious, turned eagerly to Bracht, awaiting his response. Perhaps now he would learn what mystery lay in the freesword’s past that had driven him outlawed from Cuan na’For, the bits and pieces of the afternoon’s conversation knitting into some comprehensible whole. He saw Bracht swallow, ill at ease, eyes falling a moment from Katya’s demanding gaze. Then the Kern shrugged, cleared his throat, and began to speak.
“Jehenne ni Larrhyn is the daughter of Chador, a ketoman—headman—of the Lykard,” he said slowly, raising his eyes to meet Katya’s, his expression that of a man who pleads for understanding, or forgiveness. “My father is Mykah, ketoman of the ni Errhyn family. Our grazing grounds adjoin, and down the years our clans have feuded. My father sought to forge a lasting peace and sent a matchmaker to the ni Larrhyn, to arrange a marriage that should bind our families—mine to Jehenne.”
Katya’s tanned face paled, save where a flush suffused her cheeks, as if they had been struck. Her eyes, stormy until now, grew icy and when she spoke her voice held a hollow chill.
“You are wed?”
“No!” Bracht shook his head vigorously, a hand chopping the air in dismissive gesture. “Ahrd, no!”
“Then what?”
Calandryll was unsure whether Katya’s tone was cold with anger or fear. He saw her folded arms tighten, fingers clutching at the fine links of her hauberk, tight against the emotion that played in her eyes.
“The arrangement was made by our fathers,” Bracht said, squaring his shoulders. “I met Jehenne and . . . she was attractive. I agreed to think on the union . . . She was a prize . . .” His voice faltered and he licked his lips as if fear of Katya’s reaction dried his mouth. “Her father sent forty horses for pledge-price, thinking the affair agreed. I . . .”
He shrugged, raising his hands, dropping them, the left clutching the hilt of his falchion as if seeking strength in that contact, the right opening helplessly. Calandryll had never seen his friend so ill at ease.
“Go on,” said Katya in a tone cooler than the wind that now rattled about the shutters.
“Jehenne favored the match,” Bracht said, “Chador and my father favored it—all thought it pleased me.” He paused again, sighed, and went on in a low voice. “At first it did . . . the preparations were begun, but then I saw Jehenne’s temper. We courted—we were riding together when her mount faltered, threw her. It was no great fall, but she was enraged—she used a whip on the horse, cut the beast bloody.”
He shrugged and said, “I could not troth myself to a woman who beats horses.”
Katya’s fingers loosed their grip on her shirt, the wintry storm departing her eyes, replaced with puzzlement. In a softer voice she said, “And?”
“I told my father. He told me the matter was too far advanced—that did I withdraw I should offer insult to all the ni Larrhyn and likely spark clan war. But I could not wed a woman who strikes her horse! I fled into Lysse. With”—this with a grin part shamefaced, part triumphant—“the forty ni Larrhyn animals.”
“So you are not wed?” said Katya. “Nor ever were?”
Bracht shook his head. Calandryll looked from one to the other, not sure whether he felt amused or shocked, awaiting Katya’s response.
“Merely a horse thief.”
“They were ni Larrhyn horses.”
The Kern’s tone was defensive, as if the origin of the animals justified and explained his action. Katya said, “And now this Jehenne ni Larrhyn would see you dead.”
“She’s a fierce temper.” Bracht nodded.
“And you spurned her because she beat a horse.”
“She used a quirt,” Bracht said, his tone outraged, as if such action were unthinkable.
For long moments Katya stared at him and he stood silent, a man awaiting judgment. Then, like winter’s ice melting in the heat of a fire, the grey eyes warmed, the full lips curved in a smile. She moved from the window, a pace forward, a second, arms unfolding, rising to strike balled fists against Bracht’s chest as she laughed, loud and long. The Kern, surprised, staggered back. His legs met the bed and Calandryll flung himself clear as Bracht toppled, sprawling full length. He rose on his elbows, staring up as Katya faced him, hands on hips now, shaking her head. Calandryll saw him flinch as the warrior woman abruptly leaned forward, kneeling above him, hands reaching for his head.
No blow landed, but instead Katya cupped his face in both her hands, stooping to kiss him, briefly, but nonetheless soundly, full on the lips. As suddenly, she withdrew, chuckling as she returned to the window.
“You’re not angry?” Bracht asked.
“That you’re not wed?” The flaxen mane tumbled as she shook her head. “No! That this woman threatens our quest? Aye,”
“Mayhap my offer of werecoin shall settle that,” Bracht said, easing upright. “It’s a greater price than any has offered before.”
Their eyes locked, feasting on each other’s faces, hot with this clearing of doubt. Bracht rose, pacing a single step toward Katya, halting, right hand reaching out to touch her cheek, the callused fingers gentle as they stroked a swift caress. In his own language he whispered, “This vow is hard.” In Lyssian he said, “That was why I took Varent’s coin—to end the matter.”
Calandryll saw Katya shudder at the touch, heard the sharp intake of her breath, her eyes closing a moment, still smiling. Bracht lowered his hand and she asked, “And if it does not?”
“It may, at least, buy us passage over those lands not claimed by the ni Larrhyn,” Bracht said. “To the ni Brhyn grazing, where Rhythamun has likely gone.”
“And if not that?”
“Then we ride wary.”
“Through a land filled with enemies.”
“Aye, but together.”
“Aye,” she said softly, her gaze like fire on his face. “Together. I’d have it no other way.”
“RHYTHAMUN would seem to be moving north-ward, if he travels with the ni Brhyn.” Bracht pushed aside the detritus of their evening meal, drawing his dirk and using the point to scratch a crude map into the wood of the tabletop. “The Lykard grazing lies to the west, from Hell Mouth to the opening of the Gannshold pass. The ni Larrhyn lands are here, the ni Brhyn here.”
Calandryll watched as the blade charted the grasslands of Cuan na’For. The territory claimed by the ni Larrhyn lay hard against the Gann Peaks, its easternmost boundary touching the egress of the canyon guarded by the great citadel, extending toward the central mass of the Cuan na’Dru. The ni Brhyn occupied an area to the north, about the edgewoods of the great forest.
“We thought as much,” he said, and tapped a fingertip to the splintered circle indicating the Cuan na’Dru. “But will he go through the forest or around it?”
“Around. The Cuan na’Dru is guarded by the Gruagach, and I wonder if even Rhythamun’s magic could stand against them.” Bracht glanced at Gart and Kythan, who nodded emphatically. “They’re an older folk than men and possessed of older powers. More, Ahrd’s strength is greatest in the forest—which Rhythamun must surely know—and I do not think the god would allow him passage. No, I think he�
�ll go around,”
“Then”—Calandryll traced a line from Gannshold to the ni Brhyn grazing, around the Cuan na’Dru— “does Ahrd favor us, we’ve the opportunity to get ahead of him.”
“Dera promised we should have help of her kindred gods,” Katya murmured. “Perhaps this is our chance.”
Bracht nodded, once, doubt cloudy in his eyes. “Even so,” he murmured, “we must cross the eastern portion of the Lykard grazing. And for days we must travel over ni Larrhyn territory.”
His smile was grim as the news Gart and Kythan had brought back from their attempt to mediate with the Lykard: the representatives of the ni Larrhyn had refused point-blank to accept offer of werecoin. The others, cynically, had agreed that in return for one thousand varre Bracht should have free passage over their grass and—rejecting the advice of the brothers—he had decided to pay that sum.
“Ahrd, man!” Gart had protested. “Why waste the coin? You’ll not reach their grazing save you escape the ni Larrhyn.”
He had not needed to add he thought this unlikely, but still Bracht had shrugged and asked him to return with the payment, pointing out that did they survive the crossing of the ni Larrhyn territory they would still ride within the aegis of the Lykard, and the pursuit of Rhythamun would be the easier without hostile families opposing their passage. Grumbling, but nonetheless obedient, the brothers had gone back to their negotiations, returning to the Horseman’s Rest with the tokens of safe conduct. Those talismans—small sticks of oakwood inscribed with clan marks and tied with colored feathers—now rested in Bracht’s saddlebags as he outlined the path they must soon take.
“The covenant ends beyond the walls of Gannshold,” he continued, “and while the pass is claimed by none, the ni Larrhyn may look to attack us there.”
