Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  His grin spread wide. Once Flysse would have blushed at the innuendo, but now she smiled and nodded eagerly. “I pray it be so, husband. And soon.”

  “It shall be,” he promised. “Wife.”

  “And are you to row to hard,” she said, “then you had best sleep now, eh?”

  Arcole had sooner remain with her, but she spoke the truth and he nodded, passing her the musket. “This is primed,” he explained. “You need only cock the hammer—thus—then squeeze the trigger. Your pistol works the same way.”

  Flysse took the musket gingerly. “You must teach me how to load,” she said.

  “As I promised.” Arcole rose. “And how to shoot. And you must teach me how to butcher meat and set a snare.”

  “We’ll teach each other,” Flysse said.

  “I think,” he murmured, “that we already do.”

  He found his bed and stretched out, listening to the small sounds Davyd made. He wondered what they augured; but not for long—he was incredibly weary, and even as Davyd groaned and thrashed, he drifted down into welcome sleep. All well, the morning would be soon enough to discuss the future.

  45 The River

  “There was the river, running into the forest. It went toward mountains, and I knew I must reach them, but not how.” Davyd shook his head, struggling to find the words that might accurately describe his dream. It was not easy: words were too precise for such amorphous things, too limiting when the oneiric images flickered and shifted and were, anyway, composed more of emotion than any substantial matter. “I had to leave the river, and then I was in the forest. It … felt … dangerous, as if it watched me. Or something in it watched me. Then there was fire, and I thought it must devour me, but then a wind blew down from the mountains and made a way through the flames. I went that way, and the fire reached for me.”

  He broke off, shuddering at the memory. Flysse set a hand on his shoulder, her touch a solace; Arcole passed him a canteen. He drank, and sighed, smiling ruefully.

  “It’s hard to describe, but … Anyway, the fire reached for me, and then the wind blew stronger and drove it back a little. I walked into the wind—toward the mountains. I knew I should be safe there if I could only reach a place—a special place—but I didn’t know where it was. I just had to go into the mountains to find it. The fire came after me, chasing me. I ran, and then I woke.”

  He shrugged. It felt strange even now, even with these good friends, to talk about his dreaming. It was a matter kept secret for so long—on pain of horrid death—it still unnerved him to discuss it so openly. He raised his head, reassuring himself they sat beneath the open sky, beside the Restitution—far from Grostheim and the Autarchy. That calmed him a little, but still it was not a thing with which he felt entirely comfortable.

  “What do you think it means?” Arcole looked from the smudged map to Davyd’s face. “You’re our guide in this, no?”

  The words were designed to encourage Davyd, and he smiled his thanks. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Before I came to Salvation, the dreams were never so clear. They warned me of danger—as I’ve told you—but never so … so …”

  “Specifically?” Arcole supplied.

  Davyd supposed that was the word and ducked his head in agreement. “Never so specifically,” he said. “It was like … Well, if I were planning a job and dreamed of burning, or Militiamen, I knew I shouldn’t try it. But since I came here, I’ve dreamed of … specific? … things, like the forests and the demons.”

  “Were there demons in this dream?” Arcole asked.

  “No.” Davyd shook his head. “Only the fire—which means danger—and the wind and the mountains. I suppose that means the mountains are safe. If we can find the special place.”

  “Perhaps as we get closer to the mountains,” Flysse said, “you’ll know.”

  “Perhaps,” Davyd allowed cautiously.

  Arcole studied the map. “The river isn’t charted past Salvation’s boundary.” He turned his head, staring to the west. “It comes out of the wilderness, and past the forest’s edge there’s nothing drawn. But rivers rise in high ground, so …”

  “We follow the river,” Flysse said.

  “As far as we can.” Arcole frowned. “But the closer we get to the mountains, the stronger the downstream current gets. There has to come a time we can’t row against it, and we must proceed on foot.”

  Flysse said, “Isn’t that what you planned?”

  He nodded. “But I confess my plans were mostly concentrated on escaping Grostheim. After that, I was relying on Davyd.”

  That seemed a tremendous burden, but Davyd squared his shoulders and said, “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will,” Arcole declared. “I’ve faith in you. So, we know there’s danger in the forest.” He folded the map. “That much we knew already. Also that Davyd’s dreamed of safety there. Now we know there’s a specific place—we head for that.”

  “How?” asked Flysse. “Davyd doesn’t know where it is.”

  Or if it really exists, Davyd thought.

  “I trust him,” said Arcole, smiling. “If he’s dreamed there’s such a place, then it’s there and we only need find it. Davyd will dream the way for us.”

  His confidence was flattering, but still Davyd could not help the disturbing thought that his dreams warned of danger in equal measure with safety: they did not tell him which should prevail. It was hard, this burden of trust.

  “So, do we go?” Arcole rose businesslike to his feet, retying the bandages about his hands. “Are we to reach the safety of the mountains, we’ve some way yet to go.”

  He kicked sand over the fire and turned toward the dinghy. Davyd thought he likely sought to occupy them all, that none brood overlong on the bad part of the dream. Well, he was happy enough with that. He gathered up his gear and followed Arcole to the boat.

  That day, around noon, they saw a band of demons on the north bank.

  In the sun’s bright light the creatures seemed somewhat less terrifying than the fire-lit shadow-shapes of Grostheim’s night, but nonetheless menacing. There were six of them, barbarically clad in leather and animal skins, their hair woven in long braids. Their faces were distorted by bars of paint, black and white and red, so that it was difficult to discern clear features. Their hostility was obvious: they raised bows and sent arrows arcing across the water as Arcole turned the dinghy to midstream. They wore the shapes of men, as best he could tell, but he had no wish to study them close and bent to his oars, propelling the little boat out of range.

  The demons promptly mounted horses and for a while paced the boat, howling, but the river was wide, and turned, and timber showed more frequently along the banks. In time they fell away behind.

  Arcole wondered if they would continue the pursuit. It was an alarming thought—mounted, the creatures might well catch up. He decided that their camp that night should be on the southern shore.

  “I think,” he gasped, “that I must teach you two how to shoot as soon as we’ve time.”

  Flysse nodded from the stern, her eyes fixed nervously on the north bank. In the bow, Davyd clutched his musket with white-knuckled fingers, little more color in his face.

  “We’ve lost them,” Arcole declared with far more confidence than he felt. “And tonight we’ll have the river betwixt us and them.”

  “What,” Davyd asked in a low voice, “if there are others on that side?”

  It was not possible to shrug as he plied the oars, so Arcole only grunted and said, “We’ll pick our spot with care, eh?”

  Davyd frowned and said, “I didn’t dream of them.”

  None had explanation for that, and so neither Flysse nor Arcole gave answer, only looked at each other.

  “I should have,” Davyd continued. “God! If my dreaming is to be useful, I should have dreamed of them.”

  His voice was plaintive, and Arcole said, “Perhaps your dreams are of the great events only. Like the attack on Grostheim, or the sea serpent
.”

  “No.” Davyd refused to be mollified. “My thieving was no ‘great event,’ but I dreamed of danger when I did that.” He shook his head and asked, “What use to dream of ‘great events’ if some band of six come on us in ambuscade and I don’t give warning?”

  “Perhaps,” Flysse said, “you must concentrate.”

  “How so?” asked Davyd. “What do you mean?”

  Flysse’s brow wrinkled as she thought, seeking to define her notion. “Before, in Bantar,” she said at last, “did you try to dream?”

  Davyd thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not try.” He smiled wanly. “I was always afraid I might be discovered. That an Inquisitor …” He fell silent, shivering at the memory. “No, I never tried to dream. Until …”

  “Until?” Flysse prompted him.

  “Until I came to Grostheim.” Davyd spoke slowly, as if realization were dragged unwilling from his mind. “When Arcole spoke of our escape and looked to me for warning … Yes, then I tried. It was not … pleasant. I was afraid.”

  “But you made the effort,” said Flysse. “You sought to dream. You concentrated on it.”

  She waited until Davyd nodded. Arcole went on rowing, waiting himself to see where this led.

  “There are no Inquisitors here.” Flysse’s hand gestured at the river, the empty landscape beyond. “Nor hexers or priests. Only we three, and the danger of the demons.”

  Davyd pondered awhile, then ducked his head in reluctant agreement.

  “And the demons,” Flysse continued, “are a danger like the God’s Militia. It’s as if you were planning a—” Almost, she said “robbery,” but amended that to “job. Yes, it’s as if each day, each night, you plan a job. It’s like that, save now there’s no need to fear discovery by the Autarchy.”

  “No,” Davyd agreed. “I suppose not.”

  “So perhaps,” Flysse said, “if you try to dream … If you lie down determined to dream …”

  “It might work,” Davyd finished for her. “Yes, it might.”

  He sounded doubtful still, or wary, so Flysse said, “It worked before, no? When Arcole asked that you warn of the attack, it worked then—when you tried.”

  Davyd said, “Yes.”

  Flysse said, “And it should be without risk of burning. It should be in a good cause.” She smiled encouragingly. “It should be in defense of us all, no?”

  “That’s true.” Davyd’s nod was more enthusiastic now. It was hard to resist Flysse’s smile, harder to think of some demon taking her head. He was, after all, their guide in such matters: Arcole had said so. It remained a frightening responsibility; but he would not—could not, he thought—deny Flysse. He said, “Yes, that’s true. From now on I’ll try.”

  Flysse said, “You are very brave.” And though he did not think it so, he basked in the accolade and endeavored to set his jaw in a stern and manly line. He could not bear to think that harm might come to her for want of his efforts. Yes, he would try hard; he would be their dream guide, if it lay in his power. He liked that—Dream Guide. That, he decided, was his title now, though he blushed to say it out loud. He nodded solemnly and returned his attention to the river ahead.

  Arcole caught Flysse’s eye and beamed his approval. God, to think that he had once considered her beneath him—a tavern wench, a farm girl. She was so much more than that, he felt ashamed of those old, near-forgotten thoughts. God, but he loved this woman!

  By mid-afternoon he could row no longer. His arms lost strength and his back protested each sweep of the oars. He thought that did he not rest, the dinghy must drift on the current. And that was now all downstream: they were long past the influence of Deliverance Bay’s tidal flow, the Restitution turning its power to the east. Did they drift, then it must be back the way they had come.

  “We must halt,” he said. “I can row no more.”

  Flysse said, “It’s early yet.”

  “Even so.” In unintended emphasis he missed his stroke, the starboard oar sweeping clear of the water so that he pitched backward, almost tumbling from the bench. “No, enough.”

  “We’ll take over,” she said. “Davyd and I.”

  Arcole could do no more than hold them steady against the current. “You don’t know how,” he said. “And it’s hard work.”

  “Then it’s time we learnt,” she replied. “Nor am I a stranger to hard work.”

  He hesitated, and Davyd lent his argument to Flysse’s. “You said you’d teach us,” he reminded Arcole. “And can we all take turns at the oars, then surely we must make better time.”

  “Very well.” Arcole bowed to their persuasions. “But first, bandage your hands, or they’ll be raw by dusk.” He held the dinghy stationary as they cut strips from their shirts. “Then we must change places. But carefully, eh? Else we all find ourselves in the river.”

  The dinghy rocked precariously as they shifted position. Arcole went to the stern, where he might watch them and issue instructions; Flysse and Davyd settled together on the rowing bench.

  “So, you must do this in unison.”

  “What’s that?” asked Davyd.

  Arcole said, “Together. Each oar must land at the same time, or you’ll be fighting each other and we’ll zig and zag and go nowhere. Now, this is how you do it …”

  Their progress was at first erratic, and more than once one or the other tumbled backward off the bench. Flysse was glad she wore breeches: in skirts she’d have no dignity left. Twice, oars were dropped, and caught only by dint of speed and good fortune. For some time they did no more than hold station, but then they began to move—slowly—upstream again. Arcole voiced his approval, and was answered with two triumphant smiles.

  He brought the map from his shirt and set to calculating the distance traveled. By his reckoning they should reach a holding before dusk. Wyme had not marked the farm as visited by the demons, but, he thought, the map was drawn some time ago. He decided they could not risk discovery, and blessed Flysse for her butcher’s skill—there was ample meat they could eat well again. And, he thought, eyeing the sweaty faces of the two rowers, we all shall need sustenance tonight.

  He rose a little, studying the river ahead. Wyme’s maps had not run to such details as the marking of woods or highlands, and he thought to find a suitable resting place, hopefully sheltered from observation.

  One appeared in a while. The terrain grew rougher, and a low bluff showed where the Restitution meandered southward. Loblolly pines grew tall on the crest, running down the steep flanks to form a screen between the river and the land. He pointed, advising Flysse and Davyd of their destination, then must explain how the boat might be turned in the desired direction.

  It took some time before they reached the bench beneath the bluff and got the dinghy beached. Neither Flysse nor Davyd was reluctant to halt their labors, and Arcole could not resist chuckling as they groaned and stretched their backs.

  “Hard work, eh?” Flysse scowled; Davyd grunted. Arcole, somewhat rested now, told them, “Do you take your ease here and I’ll climb up that headland, see what’s beyond. Do we have … visitors … then fire a pistol, and I’ll return.”

  Flysse plucked her shirt away from her breasts and asked, “Can we safely bathe? I’m …” She grimaced her distaste.

  “When I return,” Arcole said. “When we know it’s safe.”

  She nodded and said, “Be careful.”

  “Yes.” He took his musket and set to climbing.

  From atop the bluff he could see the Restitution sweep away in wide curves to north and south, thankfully empty. The far bank was a heathazed blur, and for a while he checked the sky there for sign of smoke. None showed, and he moved warily through the pines until he might see what lay inland.

  At the edge of the hurst he perused the map again. As best he calculated, the closest holding was the Bayliss farm, a good league or more to the west. He wondered if he stood on Bayliss land, and if the farm survived still. He could see no signs of habitation; no catt
le grazed the vast expanse of grass spread out before him, and there was no smoke to indicate fires of any kind. Faint in the distance he saw the glitter of a stream, and dotted over the plain were stands of timber. He hoped none hid demons, and decided that their watch this night should be set upon the bluff: that would afford a better vantage point than the bench.

  As he returned it came to him that he fell back into a way of thinking he had believed lay behind him. This sense of ever-present peril, the need to set a guard each night, the endless vigilance—it all reminded him of the conflict Evander named the War of Restitution, the Levan the Conquest. Evander had won that struggle, he thought, but shall not win this small fight. No, neither Evander nor the demons—whatever they may be—shall defeat us.

  He was grinning as he approached the others.

  “The land stands empty,” he reported. “And the river. Flysse, do you wish to bathe, it’s safe enough.”

  Flysse said, “Praise God,” in a voice so earnest, Arcole could not resist taking her in his arms and kissing her soundly.

  “And we’ll get a fire ready,” he promised, then glancing at the sky: “Though lighting it must wait, I fear.”

  “No matter.” Flysse lifted hair rendered heavy by her efforts from her neck. “The sun is still warm—I’ll bask awhile.”

  Davyd could not help the image that flashed into his mind at that, and turned away so neither she nor Arcole could see him blush. “I’ll gather wood,” he declared gruffly.

  “There’s plenty up there.” Arcole stabbed a finger at the bluff.

  “Fresh pine?” Flysse shook her head. “That spits and smokes. Better search along the shore for drifted wood, or fallen branches. It’s dry stuff we need.”

  Arcole exaggerated a bow. “I learn apace,” he laughed. “God, what would I do without you? Without the two of you?”