by Angus Wells
“Let your ghost-talkers scry us,” Calandryll asked. “Let them examine us and you’ll have the truth.”
“Of that, too, he warned me,” said Jehenne. “That you have magic in you to deceive the ghost-talkers. So—no; their part was done when they found you. The rest is mine.”
Calandryll groaned as he felt hope dwindle, its faint flame doused by Rhythamun’s subtlety. The sorcerer outthought them, left behind more defenses than the raised corpses of dire-wolves. He saw it now: that the mage used the truth itself to thwart pursuit, that he took Jehenne’s lust for vengeance and molded it to his own needs.
“Blind vengeance?” he heard Bracht demand. “Ahrd, woman, if it’s blood you must have, then take mine. But let these two go!”
“And take your werecoin in their place?” Jehenne resumed her guise of affability. “Your life and four thousand varre for their freedom?”
“Aye,” Bracht said.
“No!” Katya cried, speaking for the first time, rising partway from the cushions in her urgency, so that across the table the watching Lykard grasped their dirks. She sank back, but still her voice was fierce, her gaze intent on Jehenne’s face. “Listen! What Bracht, what Calandryll, tells you is the truth. I am of Vanu, and the holy men of my land sent me to find them, to secure the Arcanum that it might be destroyed. Spaewives and sorcerers have scried there must be three to secure that end, and if you slay Bracht, you grant Rhythamun the victory. Slay Bracht and you’ve the world’s blood on your hands!”
Jehenne’s brows arched in open mockery. “A pretty speech,” she remarked. “But tell me, what is the Arcanum?”
It was Calandryll who answered: “An ancient book that tells where Tharn was banished by the First Gods. The gramaryes of unlocking, Rhythamun has already. With the book, he may find Tharn’s tomb and raise the Mad God.”
“I see.” Contempt dripped from Jehenne’s words. “A magic book, a shape-shifter, holy men from a land beyond the Borrhun-maj; and you three questing to save the world . . . Such a tale as the bards spin. Filled with romance, but little substance.”
“Let your ghost-talkers scry us,” he asked again, desperately. “Let them determine the truth.”
“Or you deceive them.” Jehenne shook her head. “I think not; I think I shall judge this.”
Calandryll looked at her face and saw no hope. Her eyes were cold now, and if any amusement remained there, it was the malevolent humor the contemplation of their fate afforded her, a dreadful satisfaction that she might, at last, take her revenge for the slight Bracht had given. All else, to this woman, was incidental: there was a madness in her, born of pride, a gift to Rhythamun. He looked to the other Lykard, not so familiar with the folk of Cuan na’For that he could be sure he read their expressions aright. Their features were composed, impassive, but in a few eyes he thought—or hoped—he saw a measure of doubt.
“Do you fear the truth so much?” he asked, aware he clutched at a straw, not knowing what else to do, save concede Rhythamun the victory. “Are you afraid the ghost-talkers might deny you your vengeance?”
Jehenne’s hand flashed out and he jerked back as the contents of her cup splashed over his face. He wiped it clean, wondering if he had achieved anything save to stoke the fires of her anger. Had she worn a blade, he had no doubt it would have been steel that touched his flesh. He watched as she composed herself, the effort visible.
“Your fate I’ve yet to decide, but you serve yourselves ill with these feeble fantasies.” Her voice was sharp as any blade, her eyes furious as they fastened on Bracht. “I had expected a measure of courage from you, Bracht ni Errhyn. Not that you’d look to hide behind this tissue of lies.”
“You hear only the truth,” Bracht said quietly. “What lies there are come from Rhythamun. But you’ve not the ears to hear them, nor the eyes to see the straight path.”
Jehenne’s lips stretched in a wide smile, prompting Calandryll to think of a cat as it contemplates a trapped mouse, enjoying the suffering of its victim. “I see the path clear enough,” she said. “It leads to a tree, where you shall hang nailed. Where the birds shall peck out your eyes and the dogs gorge on your flesh. You are judged, Bracht ni Errhyn, and on the morrow I shall crucify you.”
Bracht nodded once, his dark face like granite, denying her the satisfaction of his fear. He said, “And my companions? Do you take my werecoin for their lives?”
“That, I shall sleep on,” answered Jehenne, and turned to her followers. “Now take them away.”
THEY were taken from Jehenne’s opulent wagon to another, smaller and empty of such luxury, but comfortable enough for all it smelled of leather and oiled metal, as if customarily used for the transport of materials. Its covering was hide, tight-stitched and windowless, the entry curtain a single flap that was laced shut behind them. Plain cushions were scattered over the bare planks of the floor, and when Bracht pressed an eye to the curtain, he announced two men stood below, likely more guards invisible beyond. Enclosed, they were in a twilight fusty from the afternoon’s heat, with little to do save stretch on the cushions and curse their fate.
“He thought ahead of us,” Calandryll said, his voice bitter. “With the memories of Daven Tyras to guide him, he uses Jehenne’s hatred to thwart us.”
“Aye,” said Bracht, “but where is he? Not here, I think, for were he, surely he’d come to gloat.”
“What matter?” asked Katya. “We’re doomed.”
Her voice was husky, as if she fought back tears, or held rage in narrow check. Calandryll saw Bracht reach out to touch her cheek, gently, his reply soft.
“I am, it seems; but perhaps not you or Calandryll.”
“What?” Now scorn, frustration, entered the warrior woman’s tone. “She’s mad, and sees what lies between us—she’ll slay me for that; Calandryll for the fact of his friendship.”
“Perhaps not.” Bracht’s voice grew thoughtful. “Her claim on me is valid, but against you the only charge can be the slaying of those seven warriors, and I offered werecoin for that. By the ways of Cuan na’For, it must be the kin of the dead who decide the aye or nay there.”
Calandryll heard Katya moan, her response muffled as her head sank, her hair falling in a flaxen curtain about her face, that held in both of her hands.
“And do they decide to let us go? Are we to ride on, while you hang nailed to a tree?”
“Aye,” said Bracht. “As we agreed.”
Katya’s shoulders trembled, and from between her hands there came a sound Calandryll did not at first recognize: he had never thought to hear her weep. He watched helplessly as Bracht set an arm about her, drawing her close, so that she rested against his chest. He was surprised she made no move to escape the Kern’s embrace, but lay against him as he stroked her hair, his voice a calm murmur in the darkness.
“Rhythamun is gone from here, else we’d have seen him. He must, therefore, continue on his way, and you must go after him. Listen”—he held her chin, turning her face toward his—“Jehenne will nail me to the tree, surely; but no man lives forever, and you’ve still a duty to perform. You’ve not let what’s between us halt that yet, and you shall not now. You must not! I think I likely sowed sufficient seed among these ni Larrhyn that Jehenne shall be forced to agree to the acceptance of werecoin for your lives, or stand doubted as their leader. And in my saddlebags are the tokens of safe passage to see you safe over the lands of the other clans. If you can, learn where Rhythamun goes; if not, go on to the Cuan na’Dru, and seek Ahrd’s guidance. But go on you must, or all we’ve done—and all there is between us—comes to naught.”
His smile was resolute and in a while Katya nodded. Delicately, he brushed her cheeks, though in the shadows it was too dim that Calandryll might see if tears lay there. He thought they did, but then Katya sighed and straightened, seeming almost to regret such demonstration of frail emotion as she shifted from the compass of Bracht’s arms. Though not far, composing herself, leaning back against the cart’s side, her shoulder hard agai
nst the Kern’s.
A thought occurred to Calandryll then, and though he felt scarcely confident of any success, still he considered it worth the voicing.
“Does Jehenne stand alone in judgment?” he asked.
“She commands the clan,” said Bracht. “She was elected ketomana.”
“And the ghost-talkers have no say?”
“Not in this, save she ask it of them. I see your gist, but you heard Jehenne’s word on that—she’ll not let the ghost-talkers scry us. There, too, Rhythamun showed his cunning.”
“She said he warned against me.” Calandryll frowned, unwilling to forgo the least avenue of hope. “But not, I thought, against you or Katya.”
“It matters not,” said Bracht. “My offense is known, and in that Jehenne’s word is final. Were Katya of clan blood, then aye—she’d have the right to demand a scrying—but Vanu born, she’s no such claim.”
“The gods curse him!” Calandryll snarled. “He foresees each chance and seals the way.”
“Likely the gods do curse him,” Bracht said, his grin tight. “But the defeating of him they leave to us. Or you, come the morrow.”
“You said that while we live we’ve hope,” Calandryll returned. “And we live yet.”
“Aye.” Bracht snorted somber laughter, self-mocking. “But even I am not always right.”
“There’s no chance we might speak with a ghost-talker?” Calandryll was not yet ready to give up all hope. “None at all?”
“Save Jehenne agree it—which she’ll not—no,” said Bracht.
“There must,” said Calandryll, “be something we can do.”
“If there is, I cannot see it.” Bracht shrugged, sighing. “Rhythamun set his snares too well, my friend.”
Calandryll’s teeth ground angrily together. With fast-waning confidence he asked, “Sword-trial? May we not challenge Jehenne’s dictate?”
“Not where I am concerned,” answered Bracht. “In your case, perhaps, though even then—because you are not of Cuan na’For—Jehenne might refuse you. And your shoulder’s not full-healed yet.”
“But I am hale,” said Katya. “Could I challenge her?”
“Do the dead’s kin accept my coin, you’ll have no need,” Bracht told her. “Do they refuse, or Jehenne seek to override them, then you might ask it. Whether Jehenne would agree, or not, rests with her. But for me, such a course is denied.”
“And does she refuse,” Calandryll asked, “what then?”
Bracht offered no immediate reply, then, quietly, said, “She’ll order you slain. It is Lykard custom to behead offenders.”
Such a death was, Calandryll thought, a better end than crucifixion, but no more welcome. “The Younger Gods,” he muttered, frustration lending a note of anger to his voice. “Burash and Dera, they’ve aided us ere now—shall Ahrd not play his part?”
“Pray that he does,” said Bracht. “But I think I’ll not be there to see the outcome.”
“Three,” Katya murmured in a voice almost too low the others might hear her. “Three was ever the number. Save we be three, how shall we succeed?”
Bracht offered no answer, nor could Calandryll think of any response. It seemed, truly, that Rhythamun had snared them, and whether it was Bracht alone who died on the approaching morrow, or all of them, they had no chance now of defeating the mage. He groaned, tilting his head back against the leathern walls, staring into the shadows as his mind roved in search of a solution.
FOOD came before he found any answer, delivered by a silent Lykard woman, two men flanking her with drawn blades, no more talkative, even though Bracht demanded to know whether or not his offer of werecoin was conveyed to the families of the dead, cursing them soundly when they failed to reply. The woman simply set down the basket she carried, her eyes darting from one face to another, and withdrew between the swordsmen. They, in turn, stepped back and closed the curtain, lacing it tight.
Outside, night had fallen. Within the cart-borne pavilion, the gloom, of both sight and spirits, heightened, and the prisoners fumbled for the contents of the pannier.
“They might, at least, grant us light,” Calandryll complained.
“And give us the chance to fire this wagon?” Bracht shook his head unseen. “Too great a danger, my friend.”
“Had I but the chance, I’d set torch to their whole camp,” Katya said, low and angry.
“The blame lies with Jehenne,” Bracht murmured. “Not the clan.”
“They follow her,” the warrior woman snapped. “They obey her.”
“As is the way of Cuan na’For.” Bracht’s voice was mild. “Save she go against clan law, they must.”
Katya snorted. Calandryll, extracting a haunch of meat from the basket, said, “Still, they feed us well enough.”
And that was true: the meat he found was venison, and while they must pass it from hand to hand, tearing with their teeth, it was good, with it a stew of cold vegetables, bread, cheese, even a flask of the tart wine. Such donation of creature comforts surprised him, until he thought that likely it was the hospitality customarily offered the condemned, and that the stronger Bracht was, the longer he should suffer his crucifixion. After that, the food lost its taste and he ate mechanically, from instinct rather than appetite. He thought, as he chewed, that of them all, Bracht seemed the calmest, for all the Kern faced the least palatable fate. For himself and Katya there remained the chance of escape; Bracht was denied that hope, yet he showed no sign of fear. He was, Calandryll decided, a truly courageous man. It did not occur to him that he gave no time to his own potential demise, but thought entirely of the Kern.
Bracht, in turn, appeared concerned for his companions, and when they had eaten went to the curtain, asking that they be allowed to perform their toilet. Once more Calandryll was surprised by the odd courtesy of the Lykard, for they were promptly brought from the wagon, albeit under guard and separately, and escorted to leather-curtained latrines downstream of the wagons.
It was embarrassing to perform such personal duties surrounded by watchful men, but still it gave him the opportunity to study the camp a little further.
Fires were lit now, the largest at the center, where the largest carts stood, and he saw that folk were gathered there, seemingly engaged in argument. Their voices were muffled, but he thought that he heard anger, and once saw Jehenne on her feet, gesticulating furiously, and the two ghost-talkers. What it meant, he had no idea, nor, when he was returned to the prison cart, could Bracht enlighten him, save to suggest hopefully that the matter of the werecoin was debated.
There seemed little more to say after that, except, perhaps, their farewells, and those none wished to voice, still clinging, against all odds, to the impossible hope of some miracle. The debate was a background murmur, no more distinct than the ever-present sounds of the horse herds, and in a little while they composed themselves to sleep.
Discreetly, Calandryll piled cushions at the entrance, as far from his companions as he might contrive. He thought perhaps their good-byes would be intimate, for Katya, rather than finding a place separate from Bracht as had always been her custom, stretched out beside the Kern, and Calandryll saw the silver of her mail-clad sleeve fall across the subfusc leather of Bracht’s tunic. He turned his back and closed his eyes, endeavoring to block his ears, too. Those organs, however, refused to cease their work, and though he buried his head beneath a cushion, still he could not help but catch snatches of their low-voiced conversation.
“I’d not lose you,” he heard Katya say, and Bracht’s reply, “You’ve not yet.”
Bodies shifted, the cart’s deck creaking slightly with the movement, and Calandryll felt his cheeks grow hot, no more able to dull his hearing than halt his breath.
“We vowed,” he heard from Bracht, the Kern’s tone shocking him, for it was filled with pent longing, and denial; and Katya whisper, “But then we could not know.”
“Even so,” came Bracht’s voice, “we vowed—until the Arcanum is destroyed.
”
“Then likely never,” he heard Katya respond.
“If Ahrd wills it so,” Bracht murmured. “But a vow is a vow, and I’d not see you dishonored.”
“Honor!” Katya’s voice rose, then softened again. “Is that so important, now?”
“Aye,” Bracht said, gently earnest. “Yours and mine. I’d not go to my death robbed of that, nor have you discard yours on fate’s whim.”
Katya’s response was lost as Calandryll found another cushion to add to his barrier. His head grew hot, the cushions stifling, smelling faintly of horses. He thought perhaps he would escape Jehenne by suffocating, but then he heard the woman laugh softly, and Bracht chuckle, though the cart did not creak or sway as he anticipated. Instead, something struck his barricade and Bracht’s voice came clear to his burning ears: “We hide nothing, Calandryll, and you’ve no need to hide yourself,”
He pushed up then, grateful for the fresher air, and saw the Kern with a second cushion ready to throw; he smiled, gesturing surrender.
“I thought,” he began. “I thought that . . .”
“Aye,” Bracht said, “and your tact is appreciated.”
“But this is an honorable man,” said Katya. “And so you may sleep comfortable.”
In her voice Calandryll heard respect, and love, like a hymn of praise, and he wondered, as he lay back, if he, in such circumstances, could exercise equal restraint. Shall I ever know? he thought as, like some welcome thief, sleep stole his senses.
HE was surprised to realize he had slept, for it seemed more appropriate that he should have spent the night awake, contemplating his life, holding vigil over his condemned friend, or worrying at his own fate. But light falling across his face and the gruff voices of the Lykard roused him and he opened his eyes to see a guard beckoning.
Again he was taken to the stream alone, washing, snatching what glimpses he could of the waking camp. The sun was barely over the horizon, heralding a high, bright day. Ground mist curled among the tents; cookfires burned, the central bonfire a smoldering pile now; children scurried among the carts, and all along the watercourse, folk bent to their own ablutions. When he was done, he was returned to the wagon, where another basket waited, this filled with bread and fruit, cheese, a jug of water.
