“I do not need to observe them,” Rin said diffidently. “Tildi, do you need me?”
“I am all right,” Tildi said. The sorrow she should have known still felt removed from her, as if it were on the other side of a thick wall. “I think Serafina needs us.” She looked around. “Where is she?”
They all looked around, but the wizard was nowhere in sight. Tildi could not even discern her rune in the immediate vicinity.
Captain Teryn nodded toward the north, where the trees were thickest. “I saw her walk that way during the burial.”
“She’s gone off to be alone for a moment,” Lakanta said. “Heaven knows we could all use a moment’s privacy, if you ask me.”
A soft chanting arose from the knights across the way. Tildi saw sorrow written upon them, but thought she could also detect hope.
Serafina returned to them after the knights had finished their grim task. Without a word, she mounted her white mare and fell in beside Rin and Tildi.
The path widened out upon Magpie’s promised clearing within a hundred yards of the divided boulder. It was by then full dark, with enormous stars glimmering in the sky overhead. Sharhava called a halt. The knights immediately unsaddled their horses and gave them a rubdown. Once the animals had been given a long rein to forage for grass, the humans set about making camp. Tents were unrolled and erected, and rugs laid out inside for a modicum of comfort on the cold, thin grass. A woman just older than Lar Inbecca assembled a pyramid of logs and tinder inside a circle of rough stones for a bonfire. She struck flint against steel, trying to generate a spark, but the stones kept jumping out of her hands. Tildi suspected the cold of the night had chilled them past feeling.
“I can light that for you,” Tildi offered.
The knight gave her an eye-rolling look of dread. Tildi withdrew, feeling stung. She sat on the cloth with the book in her arms for comfort.
“She does not understand,” the Great Book whispered to her. “She cannot see reality.”
It took the woman several tries to ignite the tinder with her flint and steel, but she stuck at the task until she was rewarded with a spark. Perversely, Tildi hoped it would go out. Soon a small blaze caught, and spread from one to another of the dry logs until a fragrant and crackling fire filled the circle of stones. Through the heat generated by the book, Tildi felt the edge of the warmth as it spread throughout the clearing but she did not need it. She watched the others relax as the cold was driven back. Their runes changed a little, as did those of the plants around them. Everything flourished when it was warm.
Three of the knights—Loisan, a stout, swarthy man, and a rangy woman with very thin limbs and long fingers—appeared to be some kind of lieutenants to Sharhava, each responsible for a different part of the camp. The rangy woman oversaw care of the horses and pack animals and their tack. The stout man ordered his subordinates to unload heavy bundles from the pack animals. By the shape of them, they contained cooking pots. Tildi also saw food within the coverings of other pouches and skins. Idly, she imagined what a convenient skill she now possessed, never again to have to look inside a canister or a crock to see how much of an ingredient remained. How long, though, would it be until she was in a kitchen all her own once again, with people to feed?
Loisan seemed to be in charge of securing the grounds. He wove in and out of the trees at the edge of the oval clearing, his eyes moving all the time. When two of the younger scholars had finished caring for their mounts, he tapped them to begin a circuit of the encampment. They drew swords and set off in opposite directions. Tildi was amused to see that they crossed in exactly the same two places at the top and bottom of the circuit each time. She wondered how long it had taken them to learn how to do that.
“They are completely mad,” Lakanta said aloud, not caring if she was audible. A pair of guards had spread out a fine woolen rug of complex pattern and vivid color for Tildi and the Great Book to rest upon. The cloth that had been draped over Rin’s back was folded up again in the ancient leather pouch, no doubt awaiting the morning’s departure. The guards stood over Tildi, one of them holding on to her waist tether, but neither of them attempted to touch the scroll. They paid no attention to her companions, who made themselves comfortable on their own blankets and ground cloths around her. The other knights had withdrawn to the far side of the fire to cook their evening meal. “All this trouble, and they still don’t know what they are doing.”
“Do not underestimate them,” Teryn said very quietly from her place beside Morag. “The Scholardom’s reputation for competence is deep. They are prized as officers in every nation’s army.”
“Not in mine.”
Teryn smiled a trifle. “I beg your pardon, Mistress Lakanta. In every human nation. I fought with them and against them in the war, five years ago. The general who commanded me was of their number.”
“Is he here?” Lakanta asked, looking about. “Why will he not help us?”
“He died,” Teryn said. “And he would not help us, even if he had lived. He was sincerely devoted to his cause, as these are. Never doubt that we are among enemies. I am sworn to defend you, Mistress Tildi.”
“Not me,” Tildi said. “The book, of course.”
Teryn shook her head, her face grave. “My king charged me with your care, as did Mistress Edynn. It is your task to guard the book itself. You may count upon us remaining by your side, no matter what comes.”
Tildi looked hopefully at the knights’ version of journey rations. The contents of the pot that one of the men stirred over the fire smelled so good. She could not bring herself to protest. Damaged as he was, Morag had so few things in which he could take pride. Cooking, alas, was not one of them, but he was jealous of his task and allowed no one to help or supplant him. Even the outspoken Lakanta was too kind to comment upon the guard’s ineptitude.
Morag kept his head bowed while he unloaded the much-mended pots and pans from their packhorse. He brought his cooking gear downwind and began to chop root vegetables, one of many gifts left for them by the dwarves whose halls they had traversed on the way to Orontae Castle.
“Those look like Rabantavian military gear. Served in the war, did he?” Auric asked, watching Morag’s laborious gait.
“That is correct,” Teryn said, glancing at Auric warily.
“Ah,” Auric said. “I’m an old soldier myself.” He raised his voice to call to Morag. “Brother, let me fetch water for you. Rachine said that there’s a bit of a waterfall close by. It’s on the steep side from here.”
Morag nodded without looking up. The older knight took the heavy pot. He dropped the rope by Tildi’s side.
“I’m trusting you, girl,” he said to her. “Don’t make me sorry.”
Tildi nodded. She felt so forlorn at Bertin’s death that she could hardly move.
“We must get away from these people,” Lakanta said, unsaddling Melune with emphatic motions. The stout pony spat out its bit and began cropping at the thin grass. Lakanta poured oats into a nosebag and hooked it over Melune’s muzzle. She looked up at the remaining sentry, a knight in her fifties with deep brown skin and dark, slanting eyes. “Why don’t you go off and help your friend, eh? We won’t be here by the time you get back.”
The knight paid her no attention. Instead, she watched Morag with sympathy. Tildi was rather touched by their regard for his service as a soldier, though to be able to smell the knights’ meal without being able to taste it was like hearing about a beautiful sunrise while one stood with one’s face to the wall.
Teryn brought a bowl of food to her. Her eyes, edged by wrinkles drawn by time and care, made no apologies for the half-burned stew or the flat, half-burned, half-raw journey-bread, and expected none.
At least it was hot, Tildi reasoned to herself, finding her spoon and cup in the top of her rucksack. The homey carry-all was another reminder of her lost brothers. She found it comforting, as though they were with her. At the bottom of the bag she had hidden mementos of each one. Not for a
moment did she think of bringing them out, not in the hostile company. It was bad enough she had to be there herself. Whatever construction the abbess put upon it, the knights blamed her for the death of their fellow.
“It will not be forever,” Rin whispered, as though she could hear the smallfolk’s thoughts.
Tildi nodded. The Great Book lying beside her added its whispers. The cool night breeze, warmer than it had been in the heights of the castle, whisked around the edges of the rug on which she sat, ruffled the edges of the fire. Its faint rune spread out upon it like a thin silver cloak. She fancied she saw more runes written on the back of the breeze, with interrogative strokes overlaid. Master Olen had taught her how to read those diagonal lines in some of the ancient texts. They were always meant to outline a question. Could a wind be curious? It played about her, then, to her relief, died down. She ate her swiftly cooling stew and mopped out the bowl with the chunk of scorched bread.
Lakanta vanished from the fireside and returned shortly with an earthenware jug full of water. She poured Tildi’s cup full, then Rin’s skin bottle.
“Drink up. There’s plenty where that came from. Good water in these parts,” she said to Magpie, who sat a quarter of the way around the fire on a stone.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I made sure there were plenty of waterfalls along the way so we will have enough to drink.”
“A good host. A pity you aren’t the heir to the kingdom.”
“It’s too much responsibility for one such as I,” Magpie replied. “I am far happier as I am, but thank you.”
“Lar Vinim and Lar Mey, you are on first watch,” Loisan said, appearing out of the darkness. Some of the others jumped, but not Tildi. She had seen his rune approaching. “Inbecca and Robi, second watch. Follet and Ecris, third. Lar Brouse, what do you need to prepare breakfast?”
The stout man looked up from the spit he was turning. “More water. A few more rabbits would help eke out the meal.”
“I’ll get them myself about dawn,” Loisan said. “They’re abed now. As the rest of you should be. We ride to the southwest tomorrow. My reckoning is three days’ ride there, then three days more westward to the Scriptorium.”
“Lar Loisan,” Inbecca said. “The best path to the Scriptorium in Orontae is across the Arown and toward the southern mountain pass, just south of the capital. We could likely arrive in four days.”
“We are not going directly there, Lar Inbecca,” Sharhava said, stepping into the firelight. The cook’s assistant set up a small table and chair and waved the abbess to be seated. The stout cook himself brought her her supper in a fine bowl with polished utensils and a gleaming white napkin. “I have another mission I wish to undertake before we settle into our studies.”
“What mission is that?”
“You will find out in time, Lar Inbecca,” the abbess said sternly. “You must learn not to question my orders. We have rules. You will read the first section tonight before you sleep, and you will not be late for the second watch. Mey,” she said, looking at the tall, thin man who sat cross-legged on the ground with his bowl on his knees just out of the circle of the fire, “if she does not appear on time you will report to me at once.”
“Yes, Abbess,” he said, swallowing hastily.
“Aunt!” Inbecca protested.
“You will address me by my title, Lar Inbecca,” Sharhava said. The girl’s cheeks reddened, and not just from the heat of the bonfire. She opened her mouth to protest. Sharhava held up her bandaged hand imperiously. “No, you may not speak again. I will not hear you. Knights, when you have finished your meal, clean up, see to your horses, then take your rest. I wish to be on the way tomorrow before the sun touches the treetops.”
“Yes, Abbess!” the others chorused.
Inbecca shot one embarrassed look at Magpie before leaving the fireside.
How could my own aunt humiliate me in front of the others? Inbecca thought furiously as she upended her saddlebag. The borrowed mare she rode only shifted when she had unfastened the pannier, but Tessera, Eremi’s mare, scenting an old friend, let out a nicker of welcome. Inbecca smiled wryly and gave the piebald a quick stroke.
“You’d never do that,” she said. The horse murmured into the girl’s palm. Inbecca went back to her search.
The contents of the pannier, hastily packed, were largely items that she had borrowed from the other knights in Orontae. She longed for her fur cloak and her soft riding breeches, left behind in the guest chambers allotted to her in the castle. She had not expected to go on an extended cross-country chase lasting days and end up fighting stone giants in a downpour of colored rain. Nor had she conceived that she would wind up riding in a half-destroyed wilderness for days, sleeping on the cold ground and living on journey-rations, responding to barked orders and battling with unnatural monsters summoned up from paving stones. Whatever her mental picture had been of an intellectual escape by joining the Scholardom, this was worlds away.
How different things would be if she was at home in Levrenn. Inbecca thought of how she would be bathed and dressed for the day at home, by how many women. More would attire her for dinner in a fine gown prepared with care by seamstresses. Foot servants would have been waiting to open the doors for her, and pages scurried eagerly to escort her and do her bidding. If she needed an item she had left in her pannier, the grooms would express it their pleasure to retrieve it for her. Now she took care of her own horse’s tack. She was too short to boost the heavy war saddle on without help, but she did the rest. Always, if she could not turn a stone out of a horse’s frog there had been a groom to help. Now, she could have aid only if she asked. All the other knights were self-sufficient. She was most impressed with them. Sharhava’s three favorite acolytes, who at court seemed like simpering fools, were as at home in the saddle and sleeping on stones as they were sitting at a reading table. They accepted without comment when it was their turn to scrub out the cooking vessels with sand or to mount sentry during the night. Inbecca had had to change her opinion of a lot of people. It was not too late for her to learn the value of others. She hoped such a revelation was to be within her aunt’s lifetime.
She shook out the second habit, her only other suit of clothes. From it fell three sets of smallclothes, thick woolen stockings, a comb and a towel, plus two tightly wound scrolls. The one with blue-painted spindles was the object of her search, and her punishment. She had read the Scholar’s Guide twice as a child, at Sharhava’s urging, and a few times as an adult. Those last were when she had doubted her commitment as her mother’s heir to the throne of Levrenn, as she now doubted her devotion to the Scholardom. Was she never to feel she really belonged anywhere in the wide world?
If she was to examine her wind-tossed emotions for more than a moment, she knew perfectly well when she had lost the rudder that steered her life. She had wanted to marry Eremilandur, third prince of Orontae, ever since they were children together. She wanted him more than anybody else or anything else in the entire world. As consort he would have lightened the burden of her future reign immeasurably with his sense of humor and his innate kindness. But having broken his betrothal vows in such a public fashion left her, she felt, with no choice but to withdraw. He did not want her, or so it appeared when he vanished from their engagement feast. It seemed that he had run off on a foolish chase, giving details to no one. In a fit of pique—she admitted it now—she had given her vow to her aunt, who had long sought to enlist her in the Scholardom. She, Inbecca, had sworn fealty to Sharhava right in front of her parents, Eremi’s parents, and all of the royal families of the three noble kingdoms and the lesser realms, including King Halcot of Rabantae.
Of course, now she knew Eremi had had good reason—he was keeping a promise he had made to the wizard Olen. From what she had seen in the tower of the old castle, he probably had saved the world from destruction, by distracting Nemeth until Mistress Serafina and the others could take the Great Book away from him. How horrible it would have been if
Eremi had ignored the signs. His big brother Ganidur had told the puzzled crowd at the feast that Eremi had seen the mountains moving. The only ones who really believed him were King Halcot and the knights. Inbecca was ashamed to admit that she had not. She had followed her aunt Sharhava to give Eremi a well-deserved piece of her mind, then nearly saw him die before her eyes. She still loved him with all her heart. The reasons that she had given her vow to the Scholardom were all wrong, but she had given it.
How could she possibly back away from her promise now?
She was not certain that she should. To what would she be returning? To public shame? To her mind Eremi had not apologized adequately for having run away from their joining ceremony. It was an affront to her, to the gods, to everything. She was a princess of Levrenn. She deserved better! Eremi had always been so careful of her dignity. Since they had learned what it really meant, he had shown respect for her rank and the difference between them, though it had not interfered with their friendship and the love that had grown between them. Inbecca felt forlorn. She was not accustomed to the sensation, and she didn’t like it. Nor did she like being put in second place to any cause, however just. She drummed her fingers on the saddlebag, then snatched away her hand. Her father had always chided her about showing impatience. It did not suit the habits of a queen. She frowned. It would seem that she was no sooner to be a wife than a monarch. Eremi had to explain himself, then make amends in public, and in a serious fashion.
The two of them would have to have it out, but not yet. She was not ready to face him. It was painful even to ride beside him, having seen what she had seen, yet her pride smarted. He had disappeared many times in the last few years, without explanation or apology. He could do it again. Could she accept that her consort kept such secrets from her? She had forgiven him over and over again. Would this be one time too many?
What should I do? she wondered, clutching the small scroll in her hand. Where did her genuine loyalties lie? Would the gods condemn her for breaking one vow after another? Was she to blame for what happened? Should she have stayed in Orontae with all the guests in spite of the humiliation? It was her pride that drove her to kneel to her aunt. But she doubted her commitment to the cause. The Great Book was her aunt’s passion, not hers. Though Inbecca believed in the sanctity of life, she had to make allowances for change. Was no one ever to breed a better hen or a faster horse, for fear of going against the plans of the Mother? Was no one to attempt to live longer and thwart the Father’s creation of history? Yet, with a single promise, she had made the book her responsibility as well. It was an astonishing, amazing thing, too much for her to encompass in such a short time.
A Forthcoming Wizard Page 7
