by Angus Wells
“He rides westward,” Morrach continued; “Around the edgewoods,” said Nevyn.
“With the six elected by Jehenne,” said Morrach, Nevyn echoing: “Still in the shape of Daven Tyras.”
“How far ahead?” asked Bracht.
The ghost-talkers exchanged a glance and Morrach said, “Forty days or more.”
“He was last seen by a camp of the ni Brhyn,” said Nevyn. “Nine days ago.”
“By now he’s likely on Valan grass,” said Morrach.
“And the speaking grows harder,” said Nevyn.
“Though the drachomannii of the ni Brhyn endeavor to contact the Valan,” Morrach promised. “And will send word back.”
“We depart on the morrow,” Bracht said.
Morrach frowned then, and Nevyn’s lips pursed. Morrach said, “Do the ghost-talkers of the Valan learn what he is, they’ll seek to take him.”
“Shall they be able?” asked Bracht.
Once more the shamans looked one to the other and Nevyn said, “This we do not know.”
“But they will attempt it,” said Morrach. “And riders go out from the ni Brhyn camp, hunting.”
“Rhythamun is powerful.” Bracht spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, tactfully. “Down the ages of his ill-won life he’s accrued such occult strength as few sorcerers may claim. I’d not belittle the skills of Cuan na’For’s ghost-talkers, but I think that none have faced such as Rhythamun before. And plain warriors will stand no chance against him.”
Morrach nodded, understanding, though it was Nevyn who replied, “Even so, they shall—Ahrd willing!—attempt it. Whether they be successful, or not . . . that rests with our god.”
“And you’d face him,” said Morrach. “No?”
“We would,” said Bracht solemnly. “But that is a duty given us by fate, or the Younger Gods, and we’ve no choice in it.”
“Nor we,” Nevyn said.
“Nor,” added Morrach, “our fellows. Ahrd grant the Valan agree, the attempt shall be made.”
“Then I pray Ahrd grant them success,” Bracht murmured. “But still we three must leave tomorrow.”
“What hope have you of overtaking him?” demanded Nevyn.
“He’s forty days, perhaps fifty now, ahead,” said Morrach.
“He skirts the Cuan na’Dru, you say?” Bracht waited as they ducked their heads in agreement, then: “We ride for the holy forest.”
Stark surprise showed on the faces of both ghost-talkers. Morrach’s hand shaped the sunburst sign; Nevyn stared, as if struck dumb by Bracht’s calm announcement. His fellow said, very softly, “You look to pass through the forest? The Gruagach . . .”
“Serve Ahrd,” said Bracht. “His guardians. Do we three, too, not serve the god? You say Ahrd’s sap runs in my veins now, no? Then shall the Gruagach deny us passage through, when we ride in defense of Ahrd and all his kin?”
“Even so,” Nevyn whispered. “To dare confrontation with the Gruagach is not a thing to take lightly.”
“I do not,” said Bracht earnestly, glancing at his hands. “Before . . . Jehenne did what she did to me . . . I’d no great desire to run that risk. I’d hoped to find Rhythamun before he reached the Cuan na’Dru. But now—save we venture through the forest, we must likely remain ever behind him. And do your fellows fail to take him, then he goes free.”
“It may be you shall succeed.” Morrach sounded doubtful. “The sap is in you, aye; and that may prove token of safe passage.”
“For you,” said Nevyn. “But for your companions?”
He turned, encompassing Calandryll and Katya with a troubled glance. “We take that chance,” Calandryll offered.
“We ride, as Bracht has said, in defense of Ahrd,” said Katya. “Shall his guardians not see that?”
“Perhaps.”
Still Morrach sounded unconvinced; Nevyn sat silent, his face clouded with doubt.
“We shall attempt it,” Bracht said firmly. “We must—else Rhythamun elude us and continue northward across the Kess Imbrun.”
There was authority in his voice and both ghost-talkers bowed their heads in tacit acceptance. “We shall pray for your success,” said Morrach. “As shall all our fellows,” said Nevyn.
“Our thanks for that,” Bracht returned. “And word will be given to us, of what your fellows learn? Of what transpires, do they confront Rhythamun?”
Again, the shamans nodded their agreement, and Morrach said, “You need but ask, in any camp.”
“What is known to one is know to all,” said Nevyn.
“You serve Ahrd well,” Bracht said.
“We do no more than our duty,” Morrach replied.
“Would that we might do more,” said Nevyn.
Bracht smiled and said, “This is service enough.”
The ghost-talkers left them then, voicing further assurances that whatever news they gleaned should be instantly communicated, and the three set to readying their gear for departure. Dachan had promised them supplies sufficient to see them through to the next Lykard camp, and they had little enough to occupy them, save the stitching of leathers, the honing of blades, the small tasks attendant on the journey. Calandryll had thought Bracht might go about the camp again, but the Kern expressed himself loath to suffer such attention more than he must, and so they lounged within the wagon, the entry curtain drawn back and panels in the sides rolled up to ventilate and light the interior, aware of the curious children still huddling outside, the more adventurous daring to approach the steps and peer in.
“I feel like some freak,” Bracht muttered as a small, dark face showed briefly at the entrance, disappearing with a squeal as he looked up. “An exhibit in some mountebank’s show.”
“You’re a hero,” Katya declared, mocking him with her exaggerated solemnity. “They’ve never seen such as you.”
Bracht grunted, frowning, then grinned. “But is it only me they seek?” he demanded. “I suspect you are no less an attraction. You are, after all, the slayer of Jehenne. There are doubtless stories in the making even now—of how the woman from the north defeated the finest swordswoman of the Lykard.”
He spoke in jest, teasing, but still Katya’s face clouded and she shook her head. “I’ve no great pleasure in that,” she said quietly. “What I did then, I did in anger—because Jehenne would have slain you—I take no pride in it.”
Her conscience was, Calandryll thought, fine-tuned. His own was likely roughened, coming more to Bracht’s pragmatic way of thinking—that Jehenne would have slain them all, and so had earned her death. Had his been the sword opposed in that duel, he did not believe he would, in the least, mourn the taking of Jehenne’s life. But on Katya’s face he saw genuine regret, and wondered at the tenets that governed the ethics of Vanu.
Bracht, too, recognized the warrior woman’s unhappiness, and said softly, “Calandryll told me of that duel, and I say you had no choice but to fight her. Had you not, we’d all likely be dead now, and Rhythamun free to go on. If you must blame someone, lay that charge at Jehenne’s feet, or Rhythamun’s, for it’s not your burden.”
Just as his conscience grew harder, Calandryll thought, so was Bracht’s softened: a year ago he could not imagine the freesword Kern offering such comfort. It seemed they each reacted, the one upon the other, for the better, their company changing them. He toughened, no longer the scholarly prince, the pampered aristocrat, while Bracht softened, his mercenary ruthlessness tempered now with consideration. Like pebbles in the stream of fate, he thought, rubbing one against the other as the current shifted them, accommodating to one another, rough edges smoothing, weaknesses eroded, the core the stronger for that.
He saw Katya smile, setting her doubt aside, returning to the mending of a frayed sleeve, and Bracht watch her awhile, his eyes gentle, before he, in turn, went back to his work.
THE day grew older, the sun moving toward its setting, and in a while Bracht rolled down the leather flaps and drew the curtain closed across the entrance. Cal
andryll lit lamps and they stowed their gear in readiness for a swift departure. Soon evening shed blue light over the valley, the glow of the cookfires brightening, the smell of roasting meat pervading the wagon. Then drums began to beat, a sonorous cadence that drew steadily closer. Bracht sighed and set to combing his long hair, muttering something about ceremonies. Intrigued, Calandryll went to the curtain, looking out to see a crowd gathered, Dachan to the fore, Morrach and Nevyn at his side, each with a hide drum slung from their shoulders, beating the slow rhythm with long sticks of polished wood, and a great throng of folk beyond, all their faces expectant.
The drumbeats softened and Dachan took a pace forward, crying out in a great voice that carried through the camp, “We would honor Bracht ni Errhyn and his companions. Do you come feast with us?”
Calandryll felt a hand upon his shoulder and turned to find Bracht there, stepping out from the wagon to stand upon the ladder and answer formally, “You do us great honor, Dachan ni Larrhyn, and we accept in gratitude.”
Over his shoulder he murmured, “Come. Bring only dirks.”
Calandryll thought him regal as he went down the ladder to meet Dachan’s embrace, a shout of approval rising at that, the drums lifting to a crescendo and dying away. Formality, too, as men and women pressed in to take Bracht’s hand, surrounding him and bearing him off toward the central fire. Katya, no less, was swept up in the acclamation, and Calandryll felt somewhat ignored, the least of the three, as he followed behind.
It suited him well enough, for it gave him better chance to observe and listen than he had had the previous night, when he had been the focus of attention. Now that distinction belonged to Bracht, and to Katya, and he was able more to play the scholar, and take note of Lykard customs as the feast proceeded.
It was unlike any banquet he had attended in Secca, and what little formality appertained was cursory. They were seated to Dachan’s right, Morrach and Nevyn to his left, the elders and most prominent warriors of the clan completing the circle closest to the fire, the lesser members in ranks behind. Bracht was offered first choice of meat, served wine before the rest, Katya after, and then Calandryll himself, and that did serve to conjure memories of his father’s palace, himself the least of the den Karynth there. The very least now, he thought with wry amusement, proscribed outlaw, a price on his head. Should he one day return, as Bracht had come back to Cuan na’For, to win such acclaim? To overturn his brother’s ruling? Even overturn Tobias? He chuckled at the random thought. Did it matter? Now, more than ever, he felt no wish to be Domm; that was a duty he left cheerfully to Tobias. Save, it occurred to him as the wineskins passed round and a great platter of succulent venison was given him, it seemed Tobias, albeit unwittingly, played Rhythamun’s game. He looked around the fire-lit circle of smiling faces, thinking that had Jehenne had her way, these folk would even now be readying themselves for war with Lysse, seduced to that bloody cause by Rhythamun’s subtle blandishments. And that all he had heard in the crossing of his homeland suggested that Tobias took the same road. Were his brother successful, then the Domms of Lysse would agree to war with Kandahar, and that, as with the warlock’s meddling in the affairs of Cuan na’For, must surely serve to pave the way to the Mad God’s resurrection.
He grew somber then, thinking that surely forces beyond his understanding moved in the world, and that whatever promises the Younger Gods had made him, he, and no less Bracht and Katya, were but three pawns in some incomprehensible game. Could they truly hope to win? Rhythamun was so far ahead, and he had no confidence the ghost-talkers might halt the mage, less that they might defeat him. Yet surely those shamans commanded powers greater than anything he might hope to bring against the warlock, and if they could not prevail, then how should three itinerant freeswords? Faith, his comrades had urged; but was that enough? Burash and Dera had both spoken of powers that would aid the quest, but in terms so enigmatic as to leave him no wiser as to their efficacy, nor any more enlightened as to how Rhythamun might be defeated—should they succeed in gaining on the warlock. Faith, he thought, was ofttimes a very hard thing to hold.
“Ahrd, but you’ve a miserable look! Is the wine soured? Or have you enough of feasting?”
He turned, abruptly shamefaced at his doubts, to see Bracht grinning cheerfully, a smear of grease across his lips, a brimming mug in his hand. He smiled ruefully and shook his head, murmuring, “I thought of Rhythamun, and all he does,”
“Put it aside,” Bracht advised. “For now enjoy the night. Come the morrow we commence our journey, but this night is for enjoyment. We’ve new friendships to cement, and an easier path before us—drink to that.”
Calandryll’s smile warmed and he voiced a silent prayer of thanks for such a comrade. “Aye,” he said. “You’re right.”
He drained his mug, shouting for more wine, deciding that it could not hurt. They were safe here, surrounded by warriors who would now, he suspected, defend them with their own lives if need be; and ghost-talkers with their strange magicks to pass word and bring news of the warlock. It came to him that this was the first time in long weeks they had been, truly, safe, and he elected to take Bracht’s advice, relaxing.
Even so, he avoided excess, and saw that his comrades followed suit, eating their fill and drinking heartily, but neither consuming so much the morrow’s ride would prove uncomfortable. For himself, he ate until he felt his belt draw tight about his waist, and after that ignored the meat that still passed round; likewise the wine, taken in slow sips as he felt a pleasant languor seep through him.
Not so their hosts, for long after the carcasses of the deer were reduced to bare bones the wineskins continued to make the rounds and the Lykard brought out drums and pipes, the bards of the clan composing songs that rose like the sparks coruscating from the fire into the night. They sang in the tongue of Cuanna’ For, and Calandryll wondered if he saw Bracht blush as they wove their tale of the Kern’s ordeal and the great quest he pursued. Certainly, Katya appeared embarrassed as Bracht translated those verses describing her part, casting her in the role of savior, a mysterious warrior woman come to defeat Jehenne and thus save the ni Larrhyn from dishonor. Calandryll himself, he noticed, was allocated by far the lesser part, little more than a companion, attendant on the Ahrd-favored hero and the flaxen-haired woman. He minded not at all, for it gave Bracht little opportunity to jest at his expense, but still was glad when the singing took on a more bawdy tone, with choruses that all the camp took up.
It seemed the Lykard were set to drink and sing the night away, and already there were folk succumbed to the wine, their eyes glazed and their voices slurred, some slumped and snoring about the circle. In time the bards grew hoarse and ceased their rhymes, and gradually the rest quieted, the singing giving way to individual conversations. Women began shooing reluctant children to their beds and warriors set to reminiscing, often enough, Calandryll heard, about battles with the Asyth, though such tales were told in a spirit of comradeship, with the valor of old enemies praised highly as that of kinsmen, and Bracht joined in without sign of affront. There was in these people a simplicity and a generosity of spirit that seemed to Calandryll lacking in the more sophisticated societies of Lysse or Kandahar, and he warmed to them, thankful that they were no longer foes.
In a while Bracht murmured to him that they might find their beds without giving insult, and for that he was grateful. He took Bracht’s cue, rising and bowing, expressing his gratitude to Dachan and the others, who promised again that they should be seen off with filled packs and an escort for at least part of the way. Morrach and Nevyn, themselves looking not entirely sober, declared their intention of seeking further contact with their fellow ghost-talkers before morning, and the three returned to the wagon.
They were ready enough to sleep, somnolent from so much food and more wine than they had drunk in longer than any could remember. Calandryll stripped off his tunic and collapsed onto soft cushions, drowsily tugging at his boots. He wondered idly where Bracht would
make his bed this night, his speculation ended by the Kern’s soft words, bidding Katya sleep well as he ushered her courteously into the sleeping chamber. The warrior woman smiled and nodded, closing the curtain behind her as Bracht loosed his belt with a heartfelt sigh.
“Ahrd, but I doubt I could survive overmuch of such hospitality,” he grunted as he hauled off his boots.
Calandryll yawned in answer, stretching luxuriously on the cushions. They were very soft, and he felt no desire for further conversation, only to sleep. A pleasant torpor gripped him, reducing Bracht’s low voice to a distant drone. He heard the sound of a body settling, then Bracht’s snore. He sighed contentedly and gave himself over to sleep.
IT was long past the middle of the night when he woke, but not yet dawn, the darkest hours, the camp silent, Bracht’s snoring a dull murmur, little louder than the splashing of the stream. He grunted, burrowing deeper into the cushions, not wanting to be awake, nor sure why he was until he felt his bladder protest. He cursed then and fumbled his way across the deck to the entrance, pausing as Bracht muttered something, whispering his explanation. Bracht mumbled an inarticulate reply and turned on his side; Calandryll went out into the night.
The moon was low in the west, its face scarred with streamers of cloud, more rack blown on the wind that had got up, soft and warm from the east. From beyond the wagons came the nighttime snuffling of the horse herds, and somewhere a child cried once and then was quiet. The central fire was a glowing mass of red beside the stream, its dulled light revealing the sprawled bodies of those too drunk to find their own beds. Calandryll blinked, his eyes yet gummed with sleep, squinting as he climbed down the ladder, his caution exaggerated. He yawned, feeling damp grass beneath his bare feet, and made his way to where the Lykard had dug their latrines, scarcely awake as he vented the pressure that had roused him. It seemed that even the hardiest of the ni Larrhyn had given up their celebrating, for all the wagons stood dark and still.
Save one, he saw as he returned, recognizing it for that occupied by the ghost-talkers. A lamp burned there, painting a thin thread of yellow between the edges of the outer curtain, and he supposed that the shamans went about their occult business. He marveled at their fortitude, for they had seemed to drink as much as any at the feast, and had seemed no less inured to the wine’s affect than any others. Perhaps they had some magical trick, he thought, that overcame weariness and wine, grinning sleepily as it occurred to him that such a gramarye could be most useful, and that had he possessed such a knack he might not now be here, creeping barefoot through a Lykard camp.
