In fact, this turned out to be true of the majority of the passages. But there was one passageway, going straight into the mountain right behind his apartment below the tower that was obviously not for storage. This shaft went somewhere, purposefully.
Narrow vertical shafts that were cut at angles upward through the stone dimly lighted it, reminding him of the technique that had been used inside the pyramid on the high plains. The tunnel went straight on through the very heart of the mountain and finally came to an end on the other side at the lip of a precipice. Lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Aram saw, far below, a room lit by the angled rays of the afternoon sun. He’d come completely through the mountain and found an egress to the other side.
Peering over the side of the precipice, he could see no footholds or handholds or anything else in the smooth rock that would allow it to be climbed, but beside him on the floor of the tunnel was a pile of rotted wood and material that may, once upon a time, have been a rope ladder. And there were steel rings set into the rock on either side that had once been stays. But if he were going to be able to use this passage as a quick way to access the western side of the mountain, he would have to construct his own ladder out of deerskin or something similar for that purpose.
That is how he spent the rest of the winter. Using smaller limbs of hickory wood that he’d gathered for firewood, and lashing them together with strips of deer hide, he finally made a ladder strong enough and long enough to get him down over the edge of the precipice and into the cave below.
The room let out onto the spine of one of the jumbled foothills above the broad rocky slope that he’d often gazed upon back in the days of his captivity. Far away to the west he could see the broad smooth and white snow-covered expanse of the field that, once upon a time, he’d helped to create. He could not imagine what would arise that would engender a need for him to access this side of the mountain but if it did arise, he could now do so.
The novelty of this new discovery wore completely away as the cold, dreary days stretched out, and still winter lay over the valley. So, he made furniture for his room below the tower. He constructed a table and chairs, lashing the legs together with thongs. And he made a chair just to sit in, with deer hide cushions. It turned out to be somewhat more comfortable than his bed so, rather than improving the bed, he often slept in the chair.
Then, at last, the long-overcast skies cleared and the sun shone into the valley with increasing energy. The snow began to melt. And once the weather moderated, spring came quickly. The warming sun cut deeply into the banks of snow every day. Out in the valley, Aram could see the broad silver mass of the flooded river moving ponderously toward the south and hear its muted thunder.
Within two weeks, the snow was gone from everywhere except the deeply shaded northern sides of the corrugations in the valley floor and Aram moved out into the world again. He rejoiced in the warmth of the sun as it came back northward. The ground would be too damp for some time for him to plant his crops, so he wandered, counting deer and checking on the damage done by the flooded river.
One afternoon, as he returned from a trek into the southern part of the valley and visiting with Willet and Cree in their grove on the flank of the mountain, he found Borlus sitting sleepily in front of his cave. Aram went gladly to him.
“Borlus, my friend, did you winter well?” He looked closely at the bear, noting that his fur hung from him in loose wrinkles. He frowned. “Are you well, Borlus?”
Borlus groggily licked Aram’s hand. “I am well, master. But I am hungry. I will need to go hunting for grubs. It was a long winter.”
“It was that, indeed,” Aram agreed. “But there’s no need for you to hunt while you’re still weak. Will not apples satisfy your hunger, my friend?”
Borlus raised his small eyes. “I would not ask my master to provide me with food.”
“Nonsense. I’ll return quickly.”
Aram brought Borlus a bushel of apples and sat with him, enjoying the spring evening, while the bear munched happily on the treat. It was the warmest day so far of the new year. He got up and went down onto his worked land and pushed his fingers deep into the soil. In another few days, if the good weather persisted, he would begin planting his crops. Then, he would go to Derosa. The thought gave him an inner thrill.
The good weather did persist, although it stayed cool to the point that it still frosted at night. Up on the mountains, the heavy snow stayed. It would be some time before the pass would be open to the high plains. He didn’t know when the horses would return north from their winter lands, but he would probably have time to finish his planting, go to Derosa, and return before Florm and Thaniel made their promised visit.
He was excited at the prospect of seeing the horses again, but his thoughts turned most often to the woman. He wondered about her; who she was and what she was like. Mostly he wondered what she would think of him. And then a sobering thought occurred to him.
What if she already belonged to another man? For that matter, she might even be the wife of Findaen. He knew nothing of the man’s domestic matters and she had stood very near him upon the plain on the day of the battle. He didn’t believe that she belonged to the tall gray-haired man. For reasons he couldn’t justify, Aram believed him to be her father.
Not being able to resolve all these issues troubled him greatly, but they drove him to finish planting his crops as expeditiously as possible. And finally, they were all in the ground. He checked everything well and then put together a pack of enough food to get him seventy miles to the southeast. He would not be mounted this time and the trip would consequently take substantially longer.
He found Borlus on the north side of the avenue digging for grubs and informed him that he would be gone for at least a couple of weeks.
“Borlus, too, master Aram.”
“You’re leaving also? Where are you going?” Aram asked him.
The bear turned his broad snout north and looked at the jumble of rugged foothills beyond the upper reaches of the valley.
“To find a mate.” He answered.
Aram followed his gaze. “Yes, of course. You told me. Do you know where she is?”
Borlus rumbled deep in his throat; a sound that was suspiciously akin to laughter. “No. That is why I must find her.” He looked curiously up at Aram. “What about you, master? When will you find a mate?”
Aram felt his chest tighten. “Actually, Borlus, that is why I am leaving. I think maybe it’s time I found a woman as well.”
The bear’s small eyes grew very sincere. “I wish you well, master.”
“And you, my friend,” Aram patted the beast’s shaggy head. “I hope you find the mate you want.”
That night, Aram bathed in the spring and using a sharp knife and the magnifying glass in the tower, trimmed his hair and beard. Then he laid out his best clothes. He decided that he ought to take gifts for his hosts, so he chose two swords and two daggers, including one sword that had a green jewel embedded in its handle. It was a beautiful weapon and Aram had often admired it, but it had never felt right in his hand.
The next morning, Borlus was absent, having gone northward at first light. Aram shouldered his pack and went out and stood on the great porch and looked up at his city for a few moments, and then he went down the stairs and turned southward along the mountain’s base. When he came to Willet and Cree’s grove, he found Cree on the nest.
“I’m going southeast to a town by the plains,” he called up to her. “If the horses come before I return, is there any way you can get word to me?”
“If the horses come, lord Aram, you will know.” She answered shortly.
“Thank you, Cree.” He told her, ignoring the sharp tone she always seemed to use when speaking with him, and then he turned southeast and went toward the river.
It took him four days to cross the twin rivers, climb the southern ridge and make his way along the familiar long ridge top southward through the green hills to the plain.
But at last he stood at the base of the bluff among the trees and gazed eastward at the gates of Derosa. It was about noon.
He scanned the plain for signs of people and saw that, here and there, there were men working the earth, but none of the dwellings exhibited signs of being inhabited. Looking back to the east, he saw two men carrying tools coming along the road toward him. Cautiously, he stepped out where they could see him. Startled, they stopped dead. Aram held out his hands, with his empty palms turned upward.
“My name is Aram,” he said. “I am a friend of Findaen. I would like to speak with him. I was—“
He stopped himself in time. How would it look, he wondered, if he claimed to be their savior of a year ago? He changed tactics and spoke carefully.
“I am a friend of the man on the horse that came to the battle last fall. Ask Findaen; he will know that I speak the truth.”
They dropped their bundles and stared at him. Finally they approached and the older man spoke.
“Are you he that sent the Black Rider?” he asked, and his awe was obvious, if uncertain. “If you are, Findaen speaks often of you.”
Aram decided that it was a tack that would work for the moment, so he answered simply. “I am he.”
The man studied him closely for a moment and decided that he spoke the truth.
“Come,” he said, “I will take you into the city.”
They crossed to the road and went east toward the gap in the hills where the river exited. Aram’s suspicions of the previous year proved correct. The gate, beginning at a rock bluff in the hill to the left, or north, crossed the road and arched completely over the broad stream to its southern shore and was anchored by stone pillars on each bank.
At the gate they were challenged by a sentry and the older of Aram’s escorts shouted up excitedly.
“This is the man that sent the Black Rider!”
A face stuck itself out of a high window. It was the big man, Mallet.
“Yes, I know this man. Hello, friend from the valley. Welcome and come in. Open the gate,” he called down to someone inside.
The gate swung back and Aram went through. Mallet swung in beside him and gestured for him to go on up the road. The road curved up a high bank and angled away from the river. It was lined on both sides by small wooden defensive positions.
After it topped the hill, however, it went through a thick stand of pines and broke out into a large circular valley. The river had angled away and flowed along the southern edge of the valley. The valley floor was broken into dark squares of freshly plowed farmland.
On the north side, against a backdrop of wooded hills was the town, a large square mass of wooden structures, many of which had two or three stories. In the center, at the end of the road that became an avenue lined by businesses as it entered the town, stood the largest building. This, Mallet made him to understand, was the home of Findaen and his father, Lancer, the Prince of Derosa.
As Aram passed up the avenue, which was paved with rough cobbled stones and much narrower than the avenue before his own city, and was lined on either side with places of business, people stopped and stared at him. He became increasingly conscious of the fact that he must look like a savage compared to most of the town’s citizens.
The men all wore coats and trousers of cloth, and the women wore dresses. As they passed one low, dark building, from which raucous laughter and loud voices emanated, Findaen appeared from its depths to welcome him. Grinning broadly, he faced Aram and bowed low.
“Welcome, welcome, my lord.” He said effusively and as he did so he emitted a peculiar aroma. “You are most welcome here.” Bending to peer into the interior of the building he’d just left, he shouted. “Jonwood, Wamlak, come out here.”
Aram studied him and then looked up at Mallet, who was also grinning at Findaen. “Why is he so happy?”
Mallet chuckled. “He’s been drinking, my lord. All day, by the look of things.”
“Drinking? Drinking what? Something other than water?” Aram stared at Findaen, puzzled, while Findaen grinned back at him.
Mallet roared with laughter. “Oh, yes. Something much other than water.”
Jonwood, Wamlak, and several others joined them, and Findaen looked at him more seriously. “Forgive me, my lord. We finished planting just an hour ago and for people like me, who detest farming, it was an excellent reason to get drunk. Now that you’re here, of course, we have an even better reason.”
He stood quietly for a moment, looking at Aram. “My lord, I don’t know your name—you’ve never told me. Would you honor us by giving your name?”
Aram smiled slightly. “It’s no great honor—my name is Aram.”
Findaen bowed again, with a flourish. “Welcome to our humble town, lord Aram. It’s nothing so grand as yours from what I hear, but it suits us.”
Aram looked around. “It’s a fine town, full of people.” He looked back at Findaen. “I’m glad to see you, my friend.”
Findaen took his arm and pointed him up the avenue. “My father will want to meet you, lord Aram.”
Aram looked at him. “I am no lord, Findaen.”
Findaen didn’t meet his gaze but spoke more quietly, and this time there was no jesting in his voice. “Such a statement will not be believed in this place, my lord.”
Mallet, on the other side of Findaen spoke up. “He sent the Black Rider, you know.”
Findaen spoke coolly. “Sent him or was him, I wonder.”
Aram looked at him sharply. He’d already decided that his visit would be more comfortable if he was not believed to be the town’s savior. He decided to refer to Thaniel as their benefactor in all his discussions, though not by name. “No, Findaen, I sent him. Well, not even sent, actually, he is simply a friend.”
“Then you have very powerful friends, my lord, I must say.” Findaen looked at him sidelong. “I’m glad that you are our friend.”
Aram nodded and glanced around at the growing crowd of people. The tall building at the end of the street loomed above them. He stopped.
“Is something wrong, my lord?” Findaen looked at him curiously.
Aram hesitated and glanced at Findaen. The man’s cheerful face was clean-shaven, his blond hair was combed and his clothes were of good cloth. Beside him, Aram felt barbaric.
“Findaen, is there something I can do about my appearance? I don’t wish to meet your father looking this—rough.”
Findaen grinned. “I don’t think you look so bad, my lord, but sure, we can take care of that for you. Right this way.” And he led him back the way they’d come toward a small narrow two-storied building set between many others of similar design.
Aram hesitated again and pulled Findaen to a stop. He’d never been involved in commerce of any kind but he understood instinctively that some sort of currency must change hands in order to keep these businesses operating.
“I don’t have any money,” he said. “Is it possible to trade something of worth for clothing and, well, are there people here who—?”
Findaen cut him off with a laugh. “My lord, I know precisely what it is that you desire and if you had money, it would be of no use here. Come, we’ll get you trimmed and combed and my tailor will get you clothes. My father would evict anyone that charged you a cent.”
A large crowd had gathered in the street by this time and on the fringes, Aram could hear Mallet proudly informing everyone that this was the man who sent the “Black Rider” and “killed the wolves” and that he was, in fact, a particular friend of Mallet’s. Findaen led Aram into the narrow shop where a tall thin man was attending to another citizen seated in a chair before a mirror.
“Jaffa, this man needs the works—I will pay.” He turned to Aram. “Do you want the beard trimmed, my lord, or shaved completely?”
Aram rubbed his hand over his face. “Just trimmed, I think. I wouldn’t feel like myself without at least some hair on my face.”
“There you go, Jaffa. Treat him well; many of us owe our lives
to him.” His voice hardened a little as he glanced around at the assembled company, most of who were grinning at Findaen’s jovial treatment of the tall, rough-looking stranger. “It is no joke, my friends. This man is a great warrior. Let no one forget it.”
Findaen turned back to Aram and looked him over with a critical eye. “I will leave you with Jaffa while I go and talk to my tailor, my lord. We’ll work on getting something put together. I’ll be back before you are ready.” And he spun on his heels and left the shop.
Jaffa had not finished with the other man and he approached Aram and bowed low. “Would you like to bathe, my lord, while I finish with Hender? There is water and a basin in the back, and soap for your hair.” He blinked at Aram and swallowed, as if suddenly realizing that he might have offended this dangerous man in suggesting that he needed cleansing. “It’s just that it makes the trimming easier.”
Aram smiled. “Thank you—I will.”
The warm water felt marvelous on his skin. For seven years he’d bathed only intermittently, almost always in cold running streams. He dressed and after Jaffa finished with him, he felt more human than he had in the course of his life. Findaen returned and led him further back down the avenue to a larger shop where a portly man named Suven was waiting with a variety of garments.
Aram was finally dressed in black trousers with a deep green shirt and a vest of dark leather. Though the mirror told him that it was a much more civilized look, he felt self-conscious. And he could not stand in the soled boots Suvan found for him—he was too used to his boots made of deerskin, so he decided to forgo that one luxury.
Findaen eyed him approvingly and suggested that they have something to eat. Aram was hungry so he agreed. He added his old clothes to his sizeable pack and started to follow Findaen. Mallet stopped him.
“My lord, I would be honored to carry your pack for you.” He offered.
Findaen agreed. “Good idea, Mallet. In fact, why don’t you take it up to my father’s house and put it in a room. And tell my father to expect a mighty guest for supper.”
Kelven's Riddle: The Mountain at the Middle of the World Page 28
