He wanted to make them hoist him up by main force. But he sensed that the threat was not idle; the slavers seemed to have reached the last stages of exasperation. Reluctantly, slowly enough to make them lash at him from behind, he went up and took his place in line. He had never felt less willing to yield; his helplessness would not let him yield, his lost self cried out for recognition like an infant screaming in the night. But the body wished to survive.
The slavers placed him just behind the old man in the string, and Trevyn was glad of it. Even to the unspeaking, the old man provided more decent company than most. They all set out toward the distant market. The four slave traders rode shaggy ponies and led pack animals. With their whips they kept their human merchandise to a shambling trot over wild, rocky terrain. Most of the slaves went along readily enough on thickly callused feet, but Trevyn’s feet, long accustomed to boots of soft leather, had not had a chance to toughen. Before the first day’s journey was half over they had started to bleed. Trevyn’s pace slowed, and the slavers had run out of patience with him. They kept him going with the lash.
At dusk they stopped at last, and the slaves dropped where they stood while the slavers pitched camp and built fires for themselves. After a while one moved down the line of slaves tossing each a chunk of bread and, for a wonder, a bit of cheese. But when the slave trader came to Trevyn, he only paused with a hard smile. “None for ye, bully,” he said. “By the goddess, ye’re too full of sauce to bear feeding. Bow when ye face me, sirrah!”
He passed on, laughing aloud, while Trevyn stared. When his back was well down the line, the old man halved his portion and passed Trevyn a share. “Pride makes a thin porridge, lad,” he remarked. Trevyn was thankful that his muteness saved him the necessity of replying.
The slaves huddled their naked bodies together through the night while their masters dozed blanket-wrapped by the fire, taking guard by turns. The next morning Trevyn’s feet were oozing pus. The slaver who brought bread noticed it and came back with a bucket of brine. He grasped at his slave, but Trevyn stepped in with high head and a level look, though the pain took his breath. The man scowled and went away, bringing no bandaging for the feet.
That day was a nightmare for Trevyn. He could not keep the pace, stumbling and limping despite himself, and the slavers flogged him until his back was as raw as his feet. Pain and hunger made him reel lightheadedly. More than once he would have fallen if the old man had not caught him with the rope. Nearly hallucinating, he imagined that none of this was happening to him, that he was not himself at all, but Hal, facing the torturers in Nemeton’s dark and hellish Tower.… Had Hal cried out? But he was Trevyn, after all. He would not cry out.
“If ye’d only yelp once in a while, or even lower yer head a bit,” the old man whispered to him in honest concern, “I believe they’d treat ye less cruelly.”
Trevyn answered him only with a wry smile, wishing in a way that he could take the advice, knowing that, being what he was, he could not.
Chapter Two
In a small chamber of the royal palace at Kantukal sat the king of Tokar, Rheged by name, and his counselor Wael. Rheged was a lean, long-armed man of middle age. Sparse, flabby flesh draped his loose frame; his look was hungry. He hungered insatiably, though not for food, and he could be as dangerous as a starving wolf. Wael, his advisor, was a shrunken wizard of incalculable years, a scholar of intrigue and the arts of influence as well as a sorcerer. The two men found little to like in each other and less to trust, but their mutual greed for power bound them almost as securely as love, for the time. They hunched in council over a figurehead in form of a leaping, gilded wooden wolf.
“It seemed faultless,” Wael breathed in his soft old voice, hypnotic as the hissing of a serpent. “A young prince must perforce fancy a fairy boat of gold, and once he was on it, all was easy. I drew him here more surely than if I held him by a rope in my hand. Who would have thought it would shipwreck? Never has such a storm been seen in the spring of the year. In autumn, perhaps—”
“Ay, ay,” Rheged interrupted impatiently, “no one can fault your scheme, laugh though they might that we took armed men to the harbor to await a swimming wolf! They do not smile to my face, not unless they wish to die quite slowly, but I cannot stop the snickers behind my back. But that is past; the question now is, what to do about Isle? It is small use to us that the heir is dead, if his body cannot be found.”
“Perhaps he is not yet dead,” Wael mused. “If he got ashore, he could be anywhere by now; it has been almost two weeks. But we should hear news of him, for he would cut a strange figure in these parts. Perhaps he has been enslaved. It would be wise to check the markets.”
Rheged nodded sardonically and made a note.
“If I could only have something that belonged to him, a piece of clothing or a knife or even a coin,” Wael went on intensely, “I could draw him to me, dead or alive, as surely as if—”
“As if you held him by a rope in your hand,” Rheged finished sourly. “What of it? Am I to send to Isle, now, for an article of his apparel?”
“Nay, nay, Majesty, send men to search the beaches! Offer rewards enough to render them honest. And send spies throughout the realm to find news of him. Offer rewards for that, also.”
“You make plentifully free with my gold,” muttered Rheged. “Even so, it shall be done. It will be worth much gold if I can hold that prince my hostage.”
“Or even,” whispered Wael, “your sacrifice at the altar of the Wolf.”
“As you will,” Rheged growled. “But how is that to help my invasion of Isle?”
“That upstart little country, Isle!” Wael laughed softly, a wheezing, murky sound. “King, I could have given you that victory a dozen times by now. But it is the game itself that brings more joy, and the game has just begun, do you see? Just begun!” Wael lurched forward in his intensity. “And you know wolves belong to the winter. We will strike then.”
“If you say so, wizard,” the monarch wearily assented. “As you say.”
The slave market was nothing more than a large cobbled clearing set amid the houses and shops of a place called Jabul. Here the traders came with their wares at the dawn of the market day, and even before the arrival of the buyers the place was crowded. Thousands of human beings filled it—an eerie gathering, Trevyn thought, for the slaves hardly moved or spoke. The silence of despair hung over them all. About half of the slaves were women, bound in their own strings apart from the men, many with babes at their breasts. Trevyn stared, gaped indeed, for they were as naked as himself. The sight did not thrill him so much as dismay him; they were as beaten, as filthy, and as bereft of dignity as he. Suddenly he thought of Meg, imagining her in such company, and his face turned hard as stone. He stood like rage immobilized while the buyers arrived and looked him over, feeling his limbs for soundness as if he were a draft animal.
“Here is a man looking for a mute!” one of the traders cried to another, leading a buyer through the lines of slaves.
“Then here is his mute!” shouted the other, striding to Trevyn and jerking him forward. “Right here, sir, a fine, strong fellow!”
“Are you quite sure he is unable to speak?” the buyer asked, addressing the slave trader with distaste he made no effort to conceal. He was a slender young man, a bit shorter than Trevyn, with a high, pale forehead over eloquent eyes. The noisy slave merchant did not seem to mind his evident distrust.
“Why, he’s not made a sound these two weeks past,” the slaver blustered, “not even in pain. Here, let me show ye.” He grabbed Trevyn’s finger and wrenched it back, but the young man gasped and struck his hand away.
“That will not be necessary,” he said imperiously. “I take it, then, that he has not lost his tongue?”
“Nay,” answered the slaver, crestfallen. Then he brightened. “But if ye want him, sir, I’ll take the tongue out of him for ye, right enough—”
“Great goddess, nay!” The man was emphatic, and Trevyn allowe
d himself a sigh of relief. “Mischance enough if it was born in him.” The young man turned to Trevyn, studying him, not poking at him as the others had done, but looking into his eyes. Trevyn met his gaze steadily, and the man nodded, satisfied. “How much?” he asked.
“Softly, sir, he’s a handsome piece; if I put him on the block he’ll bring me a pretty price.”
“I cannot wait for the bidding; I have business at home. Name your price.”
The slave trader named a price. It was high, but the young man doled out the gold without demur. The slaver undid Trevyn from the string, leaving his hands tied.
“He is mine now,” the young man said.
“Ay.”
“To do with as I like.”
“Ay, to be sure!” The slave merchant laughed and cracked his whip.
“Good.” The young man brought out a slender knife, such as scholars use to sharpen their pens with, and began carefully to cut Trevyn’s bonds.
The slaver shouted, and his face went white. “Nay, young master! He’s a wild ’un—he’ll go to kill me!” But the thongs were cut, and the young man stepped back without comment. Trevyn rubbed his chafed wrists and studied the shaking slaver, who was backing cautiously away. No courage in the man without his fellows, it seemed! He would gladly have settled his score with this tormenter, and it was no cold caution that restrained him. He could not say why he stayed his hand, unless it was somehow because of the young man who stood quietly beside him. He could have leveled him with a single blow, by the looks of him, but the fellow had freed him fearlessly.… Trevyn turned and nodded farewell to the old man who had befriended him. Then he looked to his new master.
“Here,” the young man said, handing him a sort of loincloth; hardly the raiment of a prince, but Trevyn put it on gladly. His feet were healed by now and his back mostly healed. The traders had been obliged to tend to him, not wanting to bring him to market looking like a scandal. Still, the young man winced and muttered to himself when he saw the stripes.
“This way,” he said when they were both ready. They walked together through the marketplace. “My name is Emrist,” he told Trevyn. “Not that it matters, I suppose,” he added vaguely. “Though, of course, you can hear.…”
They turned out of the marketplace into a crooked alleyway that wound up terraced slopes between houses perched precariously on their foundations. At the top of the steep hill they paused for breath. If Trevyn had looked back, and if he had known, he could have seen Rheged’s men entering the marketplace to search for him.
He and his new master traversed a ragged country cut by rocky ridges into patchwork gardens, vineyards, and orchards. They stopped often to rest, for Emrist was not strong. Toward noon they shared bread and cheese and a flask of weak wine. It seemed to Trevyn that Emrist was not a rich man. He went afoot, though easily tired, and his tunic and sandals looked plain and worn. Trevyn wondered how he had got the gold to buy him, and, indeed, why he had bought him at all. For his manner was gentle, and he did not seem to be the sort of person who would lightly own another.
By early afternoon they had moved into wilder country, where habitations were fewer and growth cluttered the meadows until they were really young forests. The look of the land made Trevyn wary, and he was not entirely surprised when robbers ran at them, screeching, out of the brush. There were four of the rustic brigands, each armed with a wicked-looking sword. If Trevyn had been by himself he might have run; his fray with the slavers had taught him caution. But there was Emrist to be thought of.… Trevyn lunged under a whistling sword, wrested the weapon from its owner, aware that Emrist had already fallen. He killed the robber with a swift stroke to the throat and turned on the other three, frantically beating them back from Emrist’s prostrate form. In a moment they rallied and circled him; he took some cuts then. But he had been trained to use the sword against odds and soon felled them. Though it sickened him to do so, he made certain that each robber was dead before he turned his back on them.
Emrist was sitting in the roadway, holding his head and looking pale as a wraith. “What are you?” he whispered. “You fought like a King’s man.”
Trevyn laid down the bloody sword before he went near him, not wishing to alarm him. He kneeled and probed his master with careful fingers. A welt was rising on Emrist’s head, but nothing else was wrong that Trevyn could find. Yet Emrist reeled and went limp under his touch. Though he hated the thought of staying any longer in these unfriendly parts, Trevyn could see nothing for it but to make camp. He slung Emrist over his shoulders and carried him into the woods, looking for shelter.
If it had not been for fear, the night would have seemed luxurious to Trevyn. He found everything he needed on the bodies of the slain robbers. In the shelter of a rocky scar he made a fire with their flint and steel. He set rabbit snares with the lacings of their sandals. Later he warmed himself against the night chill in a looted cloak while he carved his dinner with a looted knife. It was the first fresh meat he had eaten in over two months. Bits of bread, too, had been in the robbers’ pockets. Trevyn saved them for the morrow.
Throughout the night he sat by the fire with naked sword in hand, starting at every shadow. Strange chance, he mused, that he, a king’s son, should have become a robber of robbers. At his side lay Emrist, also wrapped in “borrowed” cloaks. From time to time the young man moaned and gazed half fearfully until Trevyn soothed him with a glance and a touch of cooling water. Strangest of chance that bound him to this slaveholding Tokarian! Not that he could ever desert a helpless man, but—was a courteous word so rare in this eastern land, a friendly glance so precious, that Emrist had sent such a flood of comfort to his heart?
Emrist awoke fully in the morning, and though he sat up painfully, the dazed look was gone from his eyes. Trevyn gave him the bread and the little wine that remained. He ate slowly, but finished it all. “Did you not sleep at all?” he asked.
Trevyn cast a wry glance at the woods all around them.
“Ay, it is an evil place,” Emrist agreed. “I would rather be far away from here.” He hesitated. “Good friend, it should be no more than a half-day’s journey—do you think you could help me home?”
Trevyn nodded his willingness, then pointed inquiringly. Emrist laughed.
“Of course, you do not know the way! Or you would have taken me yesterday, hah?” Trevyn grinned and nodded. “Well, it’s not hard,” Emrist continued. “We just follow the road. It turns to a track, then to a trail, then at last to a little path through the forest, and it ends at the house, in the clearing atop the hill. My sister will welcome us. She must be frightened by now, though she is a strong-hearted woman. There are no neighbors to comfort her. Even the robbers do not come near the haunt—” Emrist stopped short. He had spoken with dreamy happiness about his sister and his home, but now he believed that he had said too much. He stared at Trevyn in open terror.
“I beg you, do not leave me,” he whispered.
Trevyn shook his head and laid a hand on his master’s arm in assurance. He filled their flask at a nearby stream, and he cut Emrist a staff to lean on. Trevyn still wore his looted cloak, and he belted his captured sword to his waist, but the rest of the robbers’ gear they left behind. Trevyn helped Emrist pick his way back to the road and strode beside him restively as he slowly moved away from the scene of carnage. They could not leave this place soon enough to suit him. After a while they had put it well behind them, and Trevyn’s impatience quieted. But Emrist’s pace grew slower yet, and soon Trevyn had to support him with a hand under his elbow. It was not yet midday when Emrist began to topple. Trevyn caught him easily and did what he had expected to have to do before then: rolled his cloak as a pillow for Emrist’s head and slung the man upon his back.
Even carrying his master, Trevyn could now move far more quickly. He strode along, sharpening all his senses for any sign of danger. That his new master lived in a haunted place had been the best of good news to him. No evil would trouble him there. Only people
versed in the mysteries of the Beginning could brave the haunt, and only those of good heart. But what sort of man, then, must this Emrist be that he lived among the shades?
At long last he felt the heaviness of Otherness around him and passed through the haunt to a feeling of warm welcome, even a sense of coming home. Everything was just as Emrist had said. The track had long since dwindled to a trail, and now a mere path wound up a steep hill amid tall, silent trees. Trevyn followed it until he saw light ahead and the gables of a building. Bent under Emrist’s weight, he entered the clearing. An old man looked up from his gardening, stared, and scuttled inside. A moment later a dark-clad woman came running out.
“What has happened? Oh, Em!” she was crying, but as Trevyn only stared at her she took control. “This way,” she gestured, and he followed her inside, up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, she indicated a room furnished only with a table, a cot, and a sturdy wooden chest. Trevyn laid Emrist on the shabby bed and gently turned the man’s limp head to show the bruise. The woman nodded. “I shall care for him.”
In the doorway stood the old man and an equally ancient woman, both shaky and gaping. Their mistress spoke to them firmly. “Dorcas, pray find our friend something to eat. Jare, prepare a room for our guest. I shall see you later.” She almost shooed them all from the room. As Trevyn turned to leave, he saw Emrist’s sister reach to unlock the wooden chest at the bedside.
In the kitchen old Dorcas set about heating Trevyn some dinner. She was obviously frightened of him, so he kept away from her, sitting still and looking about him. The house was simply but strongly built of stone and timbers, with a low roof and small windows—not a rich man’s home, by any means. Emrist’s bed had been hard enough, his chamber bare of comforts, and Trevyn saw nothing downstairs either that betokened ease. No rugs or draperies softened the floor or walls. Instead, traces of mice lay about, and cobwebs covered the windows and rafters. On the table sat some greens and a few onions. Little food for much labor, especially for the old ones. Trevyn could understand why the cleaning was neglected. And Emrist was sickly, it seemed.… But had he come all this way, then, just to serve such as these?
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