by Angus Wells
“This is Jehenne ni Larrhyn?” Katya whispered, not really asking a question. “What did she say?”
“She invites us to her camp,” Bracht explained.
“Invites?” Katya glowered at the bowmen spread along the ridge. “That she may crucify you?”
“I believe,” Bracht said carefully, “that such is her intention. But first she looks to amuse herself.”
Katya spat, her grey eyes stormy. Calandryll asked, “Will she not take your offer of werecoin?”
“Jehenne?” Bracht laughed, a single, cynical bark. “I think not. At least, not for my life, but for yours . . . perhaps.”
“I’ll not leave you,” Katya said.
Bracht looked at her then, and smiled fondly. “Does she agree to that exchange, I ask that you, too, accept it,” he said, his voice gentle. “Shell not let me ride free, but there’s a chance you two can go on. She’s no quarrel with you, save that you ride in my company.”
“Does she harm you,” Katya said, steel in her voice, “then I’ve quarrel with her.”
“And more,” said Calandryll, “we are three. The spaewives, the Old Ones, all have spoken of three on this quest.”
“It may be,” Bracht murmured as they crested the ridge and the Lykard bowmen parted to let them through, forming in a solid mass about them, “that Jehenne breaks that pattern.”
“She cannot!” Katya cried.
“That’s a word for which Jehenne has little liking,” said Bracht. “And we ride Lykard grass; we are in the territory of the ni Larrhyn, where Jehenne’s word is the law.”
His face was set in resolute lines and Calandryll saw that he held no doubt but that he was doomed to suffer crucifixion. Neither did there seem much doubt but that Jehenne intended to extract her full revenge for the slight offered her: that Calandryll had sensed in her voice, seen in her eyes. He forced a measure of calm upon his racing thoughts, desperately seeking some solution to this impasse.
“The ghost-talkers,” he said at last, as their escort lifted to a canter, Jehenne at their head, “might they not scry our purpose? Might they not prevail on her to set us free?”
“The one, perhaps,” Bracht answered. “The other? I think not.”
“But surely if they know it,” Calandryll insisted. “If they scry what Rhythamun will do? Surely then she must heed them.”
Bracht laughed again, no more humorous than before. “Jehenne heeds her own voice and none other,” he said. “And save she allow the ghost-talkers their divination—which I’d doubt—they’ll likely look only to please her.”
“We can, at least, try,” said Calandryll.
“Aye,” Bracht replied. “As I shall seek to persuade her to take my werecoin and set you two free.”
“No!” Katya cried.
“If it comes to that, you must.” Bracht reached across the space between them to touch her hand. “I ask you do it.”
“Does she harm you,” Katya returned, her voice low and hard with anger, “I shall slay her.”
For a man confronted imminently with painful execution, Bracht’s smile was bright, the eyes he turned to Katya filled with admiration. His words, however, were sober: “We’ve hope while we still live—hold to that! And does Jehenne make good her promise, remember how we met, and why. This quest of ours does not end with my death. It must not!”
Katya’s eyes flashed angrily, as if the rage she felt at this turn of events became directed at the Kern, for his calm acceptance. She tossed her head, an angry gesture, denial writ clear upon her face, mouth opening to voice a negative that Bracht halted with a raised hand.
“Should you attack Jehenne, she’s but to order it and every blade in the ni Larrhyn camp will taste your blood. I’d not see that; or know my folly results in your death. Neither yours nor Calandryll’s. Does she nail me to the tree, then I ask you bear it and go on. Find Rhythamun and take the Arcanum from him; take it to Vanu, as we vowed to do. Does that not outweigh the importance of my life?”
Calandryll saw Katya’s eyes cloud with doubt, saw her teeth catch at her lower lip, biting so hard he thought she must draw blood.
“I’d command you,” Bracht said, soft and urgent, “but I’ve not that right. Rather, I ask for your pledge—that you’ll not spend your life uselessly, but live to continue our quest.”
It seemed, for an instant, that the warrior woman would refuse. Her right hand bunched, rising, the fist descending to strike against her thigh, so hard her horse skittered, dancing sideways, bringing a harsh warning from the Lykard. Then she shook her head, not in refusal, but in resignation, her voice low as she said, “You’ve my word on it. And Jehenne ni Larrhyn my curse, must I keep it.”
Bracht smiled tightly and nodded. Then grinned, pitching his next words too low their escort might hear him.
“Of course, should the chance arise you might slay her without harm to yourselves . . .”
Katya nodded in turn. “My word on that, too,” she promised.
“And mine,” said Calandryll, surprising himself as he realized that he undertook to slay a woman who, as yet, had offered him no harm. No less surprised to know that he would, did it come to that, slay Jehenne ni Larrhyn in cold blood should she execute Bracht. The thought of his comrade’s death chilled him, as if he contemplated the amputation of some part of himself. They had grown close this past year, that he had known, but not, fully, how close, not until now, when he was forced to consider the severing of their bond. Closer than any brother, he thought, and closer than ever I was to my father. Aye, does Jehenne make good her threat, I’ll put steel in her belly without compunction; I’ll measure my mercy to hers.
He was not aware how grim his face became until Bracht clapped his good shoulder and said, “We live yet, my friend.”
“Aye,” he grunted.
Bracht favored him with a solemn stare and said, “That pledge I had from Katya I’d have from you, too.”
“You have it,” answered Calandryll. “That, and the other.”
“Then I’m content,” Bracht said.
They fell silent after that, each encompassed in the web of their own thoughts, riding at a steady canter in the midst of the ni Larrhyn warriors, who eyed them with the incurious looks of men observing animals bound for slaughter. Calandryll, in turn, studied the Lykard, noticing for the first time that several among them were women, though save for the obvious distinctions of gender there was little enough to tell them apart from the men. All wore leathers, similar to his and Bracht’s, but of shades of brown, rather than black, and sewn with plates and studs of metal that were both decorative and defensive. Falchions and sabers were sheathed on waists, or slung across the shoulders, and all carried bows; a few had small, short-hafted axes or broad-bladed knives in saddle scabbards. Their hair, like their tunics and breeks, was brown, from dark chocolate to the red of Jehenne’s, the men’s worn in long plaits, the women’s loose. Their faces were tanned dark, stern, their eyes no less so. In none did he see hint of sympathy.
They rode until late in the afternoon, angling a little west of north, and then, where a shallow strath, a stream running down its length, indented the prairie, came upon the ni Larrhyn camp.
Bracht had described the nomadic shielings of Cuan na’For, but they were things he saw as commonplace and his words had done little to prepare Calandryll for the reality of the encampment. That came as a surprise, and despite their circumstances, he found his scholarly interest aroused as he gazed on the great mass of movable dwellings. They spread across the valley bottom, hiding the grass beneath motley leather, save where avenues and alleyways were shaped by the placement of the tents. Or were they, properly, tents, he wondered, for as they came closer he saw that the canopies were mounted on great, many-wheeled carts, and only around the periphery of the encampment were the pavilions set upon the ground, like the poorer dwellings that spring up about the great mansions of a town. But even those were spacious, and he recalled Bracht’s words—that the young men and u
nwed warriors of each clan family pitched their tents around the periphery, sentinels over the core. There were, he estimated, perhaps two hundred souls present, and most of them come out to greet the returning party. To either end of the valley, penned in corrals, or tethered on picket lines, were horses, a multitude of horses, filling the warm air with the scent of their flesh and droppings. It was as if a village was built in the strath, but one that might up and move on the morrow, shifting on the whim of its inhabitants. Or, he corrected himself, Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s word, for she was clearly in command here.
That was obvious as she rode her white horse down the slope to where the outermost tents stood, the first people there, parting as she reached them, saluting her and calling questions that went unanswered as she walked her mount along the widest avenue. Behind her, the warriors of the escort were more forthcoming, and Calandryll listened to them explaining that Bracht ni Errhyn was taken, with two strangers. To his surprise, the onlookers made no overtly hostile moves, only stared, talking among themselves until the procession was gone past, then following toward the center of the camp.
Jehenne was already halted there, where carts stood either side of the stream, approximating a village square. She dismounted as her retinue arrived, tossing her reins to a waiting man who led the horse away, turning to speak with the two who stepped forward. These, Calandryll guessed, were the drachomannii, for they stood out among the rest. Their hair was not plaited, but worn loose and decorated with colored shells and feathers, their faces painted blue and white, and instead of tunics they wore long, sleeveless leather robes. They looked to be in their middle years, neither old nor young, and they deferred to Jehenne, bowing and smiling as she praised their skill in locating the three. Calandryll thought to cry out, demanding that they apply their occult talents to a scrying, but a bow jabbed his ribs and a gruff voice ordered him to dismount. He obeyed, and was promptly cut off from the ghost-talkers by a ring of warriors whose hands rested threateningly on their swordhilts; he could only stand, nervously waiting as the horses were led away.
Then the circle parted and he saw Jehenne again, the ghost-talkers dismissed, splashing across the stream, taking hope with them as the woman beckoned. A hand pushed him forward and he walked to face her; her smile held malice.
“Come, you’re likely hungry.” She gestured at the closest, largest cart. “I’d be a poor host, did I not offer you refreshment.”
The invitation was mocking in its urbanity, eliciting a humorless smile from Bracht, a scowl from Katya. Calandryll, torn between fear and fascination, moved to follow as Jehenne climbed the ladder reaching to the cart’s deck, pausing at the foot to add, “Perhaps best if you leave your weapons.”
There was little they could do but unbuckle their swordbelts and pass them to the watchful escort before mounting the ladder.
They stood then in a kind of vestibule, facing a leather curtain that two men drew back to reveal the interior. It was opulent, a dramatic contrast to the outward appearance of the pavilion. Thick carpets covered the floor with bright patterns, scattered with great piles of vivid cushions, the walls hung with some silken material, pale yellow. Pomanders hung from the roof, their scent sweet, and a circular table of dark red wood stood low in the center, a jug and cups there. Jehenne motioned at the cushions and the three settled themselves as she barked orders, the warriors turning back sections of the roof, letting in sunlight. Jehenne passed through a second curtain, this silken like the drapery, its parting affording a brief glimpse of a sleeping chamber, all pastel shades and no less luxurious. Calandryll stared about. Two men and a woman sat facing him, two men by the exit; all were armed and none spoke, their expressions unfathomable. Jehenne returned moments later, her sword and tunic removed, revealing a russet shirt that drew taut across the full contours of her body as she sank gracefully to the cushions, her smile speculative.
“I am remiss,” she beamed with horrid pleasantry. “Take wine with me.”
She motioned, and a man filled cups, passing them round. Whatever fate she planned, Calandryll did not think she intended to poison them; he sipped, barely tasting the tart vintage.
“Do your companions understand us?” This to Bracht, who answered: “Calandryll, aye; but not Katya.”
“Then we shall converse in the Envah,” Jehenne declared in the lingua franca, “that there be no misunderstanding between us. You spoke of were-coin . . .”
“Four thousand varre,” Bracht said.
“You gave me great insult,” Jehenne returned.
“For that affront I ask your forgiveness. For what I did, I offer you the four thousand varre in compensation.”
Bracht’s tone was earnest and it seemed Jehenne considered the offer. Or, more likely, Calandryll thought, toyed with the Kern, toyed with them all. There was about her an air of knowingness that seemed to him a thing apart from her desire for revenge, and he felt, intuitively, that she held back some knowledge.
“I named your father my price,” she said at last. “And that was not so much, but still he compounded the insult.”
“He’d not see me crucified,” Bracht said. “For which you surely cannot blame him.”
“No,” Jehenne allowed. “But you . . . I can blame you, and easily.”
“Aye,” said Bracht, “or think yourself well rid of a poor husband.”
“Would that have been the case?” The green eyes turned a moment toward Katya. “You once thought otherwise. Do your affections now find another home?”
Bracht’s expression was answer enough; Jehenne chuckled. Bracht said, “Might four thousand varre not assuage the hurt?”
“Might I not have that and satisfaction, both?”
“Were you devoid of honor, aye. But I do not believe you devoid of honor. Do you take the werecoin and your vengeance, together, then are you better than some common bandit?”
“I am ketomana of the ni Larrhyn.” For an instant the casual mask dropped and Jehenne’s voice grew sharp, her eyes flashing dangerously. “My word is law here.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Bracht agreed. “But still . . . it would not be honorable.”
Calandryll guessed that his words were directed as much at the other Lykard as at Jehenne, that Bracht sought to gain some leverage, if not for himself, then for his companions. He waited for Jehenne’s reply, his own mind racing as he sought some gambit he might use, some way in which he might assist Bracht.
“Perhaps,” Jehenne murmured, her expression bland, “there is something in that. But what you did was hardly honorable.”
“Then punish me,” Bracht said. “Let my companions go. Take the werecoin for their lives,”
Calandryll heard Katya’s sharp intake of breath; saw, from the corner of his eye, her body tense. He held himself still, concentrating on Jehenne’s face, and saw her smile again.
“Are their hands not stained with Lykard blood?” she asked.
“We were attacked,” said Bracht quickly. “We sought no fight, but your folk came on us and offered us no choice.”
“You trespass on our grass,” came the woman’s reply. “What should they do, save attack?”
“It was an honest fight,” Bracht said, “and they were seven to our three. Surely that might be settled with werecoin.”
Jehenne was seated apart from her fellows and Calandryll’s gaze flickered from her face to theirs. He was uncertain what he saw there, but sure now that Bracht sought to sway them, that they, in turn, might influence their leader.
“It might,” Jehenne admitted. “Though a question hangs thereon—why do you cross my grass?”
Bracht paused before replying, turning briefly to Calandryll, his eyes framing a silent question; Calandryll nodded.
“We hunt a man,” Bracht said then. “A half-blood of the ni Brhyn who names himself Daven Tyras.”
Jehenne nodded and Calandryll saw unfeigned amusement in her eyes. He felt cold shock as he sensed this announcement was not unexpected, staring at her, w
ondering what it was she held back.
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
Again Bracht paused, as if weighing the situation, as if he balanced revelation against the likelihood of disbelief. Calandryll felt an ugly certainty descend and said, “She knows,” and saw Jehenne’s eyes narrow, fixing on him.
“What do I know?” she demanded coldly, raising a hand to silence Bracht’s reply. “No! Let this young outlaw tell me.”
Calandryll swallowed wine, not tasting it. There was nothing gained by prevarication, he decided; perhaps lives lost by concealment. Gart and Kythan had expressed disgust at the notion of shape-shifting; perhaps these Lykard would feel the same. He set down his cup and said carefully, “Daven Tyras is a shape-shifter, gharan-evur. His body was taken by Varent den Tarl of Aldarin, whose life, in turn, was taken by a warlock named Rhythamun. Rhythamun seeks to raise the Mad God; we seek to prevent him.”
“Ah.” Jehenne’s response was deceptively mild; it confirmed his worst suspicions. “You quest to save us all from Tharn.”
“Aye,” he cried fiercely, unable to help himself in face of her indifference. “And do you halt us, then you condemn the world to chaos.”
“So I had best let you go? You and Katya, and Bracht, too?”
“Aye,” was all he could say as Jehenne laughed.
“A poor attempt.” She chuckled. “Daven Tyras warned of your cunning tongue.”
“You know him?”
Bracht’s question was sharp, as if he, not the woman, commanded here: Jehenne favored him with an angry glare, no longer masking her expression. “I know him,” she said. “Is he not, in part, at least, Lykard?”
“He’s gharan-evur!” Bracht rasped. “That body is a skin he uses, nothing more. In Ahrd’s name, Jehenne! Do you shield him, you condemn your soul.”
“And you wriggle to escape your rightful fate,” she returned, her voice spiteful now. “Just as Daven Tyras said you would.”
“Ahrd!” Bracht grunted. “He’s seduced you with his lies.”
“As you once did,” she retorted.
