Feather-light and chill, the wind brushed my stubbly cheeks, and like a gauze curtain, the light snow blurred the hills beyond Howlett. For all the howling and rushing of the night before, the storm had deposited only enough snow to provide a light blanket on the ground. Each hoofprint showed the frozen mud beneath.
A single plume of gray smoke spiraled from the main chimney of the Snug Inn, and flattened mud around the front doors of the inn showed that even though it was far from even early mid-morning, many had already left. Most of the tracks seemed to lead toward the road to Hrisbarg.
Now that there was a new duke, the merchants and traders were losing no time. I shook my head.
Justen eased Rosefoot closer to Gairloch. “Do you want to bargain, or to let me do it as if you were my apprentice? You’re paying.”
“What do I gain?”
“If I do it, everyone will link you with me…”
“But if I do it, they give me greater status and assume I’m the one who rode the deadlands.”
“Perhaps not, but they will think of you in individual terms.”
“It could cost more if you purchase things. You’re a great wizard-although they won’t cheat you on quality.”
Justen smiled. “That covers it. It’s your choice.”
I shrugged. “I’m not up to being a hero this morning. I suspect I’ll have plenty of opportunity in the days to come.”
“The last building on the right,” said Justen. His soft voice carried, yet I had the impression that I was the only one who could have heard it.
Built of the same wide gray planks as the stable of the Snug Inn, with the gaps between the warped edges chinked with dirty mortar, the one-story structure bore no sign, and only the planks that approximated a walkway from a hitching-rail to the battered and red-painted doorway indicated the possibility of a commercial enterprise. A single mule was tethered at the rail as Justen eased himself from the saddle, stepped across the frozen mud crests, and wrapped Rosefoot’s reins to the post. I followed his example, far less gracefully.
Crrrreeeaaaakkk… The three men seated in wooden rocking chairs around the hearth on the left side of the room barely moved, even with the alarm from the hinges of the ancient door. The fire in the hearth, consisting mostly of red coals, barely flickered.
Heaped on four tables between the door and the hearth were all manner of saddle-carried gear-blankets, hand-shovels, hand-axes, canteens, saddlebags-and the majority were frayed and worn. To the left, on five shelves, were arrayed an assortment of small packages wrapped in oilcloth: trail food.
Justen stepped up to the first table.
“Another apprentice, wizard? Last time, you said you weren’t up to one more.”
Justen gave the heaviest man a rueful look. “And you said I wouldn’t see you here another winter, Thurlow.”
“What do you need?” Thurlow leaned forward but did not leave the chair, spindly-looking to hold his bulk.
“Canteen, basic travel food.”
“What you see is what there is.”
I let my fingers run across the assortment of bedrolls and blankets, stopping when my fingers recognized a certain tight weave and waterproofing that matched my pack.
Justen nodded minutely, and I set it aside for the moment, while he casually picked up a canteen and an assortment of small oilcloth-wrapped packages.
“Got everything?” grunted the heavy man as he levered himself from the chair and waddled toward the tables.
“Just a few things.”
“How a,bout a silver?”
Justen shook his head slowly. “I’m a poor traveling wizard reduced to taking apprentices, and you treat me like a rich merchant.”
The other two men, much thinner than Thurlow, guffawed, but they had stopped rocking as they watched.
“Pretty young for an apprentice.” Thurlow’s deep-set black eyes raked over me.
“Times are rough all over.”
“Seven pennies, but that’s because you’ve always been kind to an old man.”
“What about that bedroll-the brown one?”
“That? It’s Recluce-made, worth at least five silvers. Something like that stays dry anywhere but the sea itself.” Thurlow’s voice was indifferent.
“Some folks don’t like Recluce products,” Justen answered.
“That’s true, but they’re good, you have to admit.”
“How did it end up here?”
“One of their kids-dangergelders, they call them-sold it to someone I knew in Fenard. Prefect outlawed the sale of Recluce-made stuff. So he sent it to Jellico, and I got it there. The viscount doesn’t care.”
“One silver?”
“Not much good to me, but it is worth more.”
In the end, Justen paid not quite three silvers for the bedroll, canteen, and five packages of food. I couldn’t have done nearly so well.
“Well, wizard… you won’t see me here another winter.”
“And you won’t see me with another, apprentice,” countered Justen.
They both laughed,.and we left with me carrying everything.
Outside, the wind had picked up.
“Ah… hum?”
Justen raised his eyebrows as I laid the bedroll over the saddle in order to pack the food parcels.
I looked back at him.
“Two plus nine,” he reminded me. His face was impassive, but I wondered if he were trying to hide a smile.
I dredged three silvers from my belt pouch, noting that my funds were disappearing all too rapidly, and remembering that the bedroll had belonged to a dangergelder who hadn’t gotten very far before he’d had to sell it. I shivered, although I wasn’t even cold.
A few fine swirls of snow whipped past my face as I packed the food into one saddlebag, and rolled the waterproof cloth of the one-piece bedroll into a tighter bundle that I tied behind the saddle.
“We’ll fill the canteen along the way, in one of the cleaner streams.”
I also agreed with that. Hewlett didn’t look as if it were the most sanitary of communities.
Without another word, Justen untied Rosefoot and chucked the reins. I was still struggling with Gairloch when he had reached the edge of Howlett and took the left-hand road. It took me almost three kays to catch up because Gairloch insisted on an even walk, barely faster than Rosefoot.
Even then Justen said little, though we rode side-by-side on the crooked road.
XXVII
JUSTEN REINED IN his pony.
I did the same, but Gairloch decided he didn’t want to stop, at least not there. First, I had to lean all the way back, using all my weight on the hackamore, wishing for the moment that mountain ponies used real bridles with bits, if only to get Gairloch’s attention.
Then, .he stopped-all four feet instantly frozen.
Only the stirrups kept me anywhere near the saddle-that, and the fact that the stubby saddle horn had somehow grabbed my belt and almost eliminated any future offspring.
“Uhhhmmmp,” was all I could say, spitting out horsehair as I disengaged my face from the now-immobile pony’s mane.
Justen managed not to laugh. In fact, he didn’t even grin. Just sighed.
Once I was generally back in position on Gairloch, the gray magician inclined his head toward the left. At one time there had been a crossroads, but the post showing the town that lay down the narrow path to the left had been split by weather and the part with the name was missing. The arrow still pointed through the gap in the brush, with the notation “5 k.” remaining on the bottom on the squarish pillar.
“To the left are the… is the old town of Fairhaven. I usually take my apprentices through there… but since you aren’t an apprentice…”
“Why?”
“Because it gives most of them a unique perspective. Those few who totally failed to understand never became masters . ; .”
No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from it. More veiled messages. Do what you want, but…
; I shrugged. “Fairhaven, if you don’t mind, then.”
“It will add half a day or more to the trip.”
“Doesn’t matter to me, but if you feel we have to get somewhere quickly… you said Weevett is another day. There’s two days and more hills before we get close to Jellico.”
“It’s worth the detour… in more ways than one.” Justen didn’t seem to make a gesture, but Rosefoot began walking the trail toward Fairhaven. Unlike most of the roads I had traveled in Candar (except for the wizard’s road leaving Freetown), the path, though overgrown near the edges and far narrower than the twisting main thoroughfare, was straight.
I swished the reins, but Gairloch didn’t budge. Flamed stubborn pony! Just as I was ready to jab both boots into his flanks, he ambled forward after Rosefoot and Justen, as if he had intended to do so all along.
The path seemed scarcely more than an overgrown trail, if that, straight though it was. Though I scarcely qualified as a tracker, I looked for traces of earlier travelers, without leaning too far over in the saddle.
In the dried mud, perhaps half a kay from the fork, I saw a series of widely-spaced deer-prints, but neither hoofprints, wheel-ruts, nor boot-prints.
At one time, the road had obviously been much wider, wide enough for four wagons abreast, if the regular line of trees behind the low bushes and undergrowth signified the old road boundaries. The trees were white oaks, their branches bare in the cold.
In places, leafless creepers now crossed the track, positioned to assault the road in the spring. In less than a handful of years, the brush would reclaim the trail entirely.
“Justen, does anybody still live in Fairhaven?”
“I’m not certain. The last time I was here, there were still a few… inhabitants.”
“Wasn’t it once an important place?”
“Very important. You can see how straight the road is.”
As we approached the top of the gentle grade, the trees seemed taller, and the wind picked up, with a hint of another storm.
Looking back over my shoulder toward Hewlett, and the not-so-snug Snug Inn where I had met Justen, I studied the overhanging gray clouds. But they looked no different than they had that morning-the almost featureless gray of winter, without the darkness that usually signified approaching snow.
I sniffed at the wind, sensing a bitter odor like ashes or slag, which blew from the direction of Fairhaven.
Had the once-prosperous town caught fire?
Straining in the saddle, I looked forward as the trail crested.
Nothing. The road continued straight ahead, straight down a gentle grade into a wide and shallow valley, dotted with small hills and scattered trees.
I looked again, then at Justen, whose eyes looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, or perhaps something I could not see myself. Without realizing it, I shivered-not from the cold, but from something else.
The taller trees seemed to form a pattern, although I could not discern exactly what it was. All of the taller ones seemed to be deciduous, and only a scattering of scrubby juniper brush showed green against the browns and blacks of winter.
Closer at hand, about a quarter-day ahead on each side of the trail, were two large hillocks, or heaps of white clay, or…
“Justen… was this whole valley Fairhaven?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
Some recollection from somewhere tickled my thoughts, but as I strained to remember, whatever it was disappeared.
“Those were the north guard towers?” I pointed to the white heaps ahead.
“No… Fairhaven didn’t need guard towers. Those were the gates. They were always open.”
By now I could see the so-called gates. Under a light covering of dirt, the hillocks were a dead pure white. Nothing grew on them. Nothing. As we rode closer, I realized why. Something had melted the stone. Melted it like sugar candy at a carnival.
My eyes flickered from the melted gates to Justen, who was sitting on Rosefoot with his eyes closed, concentrating as his pony picked her way past the old towers.
The odor of old slag and ashes was stronger, almost overpowering, and a cloud of unseen darkness loomed ahead. Everything looked normal for a winter’s day in Candar: gray and brown, cold and sere, with the northern wind at my back. Except for the dead whiteness of the melted gates…
For some reason, I put my hand on my staff, the one that marked me as different whether I willed it so or not. The black steel bands at the top were warm to the touch, even through my gloves.
“Lerris.” Justen’s voice was low. “There may be trouble ahead. Do exactly as I say.”
“What?”
“Do what I say. Do not leave the road. Hold your staff, but do not unlash it. No matter what.”
His eyes were still closed, his features expressionless.
OOOoooooooooo…
At first, the sound recalled the wind, but the breeze had disappeared once we passed the gates. Overhead the sky was darker somehow, although the clouds looked the same as before, and it was not even quite midday.
The odor of dead fires and slag was stronger now, but there was still no sign of anything that had burned, not any time recently.
The leafless bushes by the roadside seemed somehow twisted, and the few leaves left hanging from the autumn before were all white. So were the branches themselves-a near-shining white, although I had never seen a bush with slick white bark. Even the bark of the birches was off-white and rough.
OOOOOoooooooooooo…
I clutched the staff with my left hand, gripping the reins even tighter in my right. Gairloch plodded on down the gentle grade.
Ahead the road flattened and widened. Under the dust and mud I could see traces of stone paving-blocks. Behind the bushes now were roofless buildings, only a story high.
“This was the old town center, made of solid stone. Granite, in some cases.”
I glanced back from Justen, who still rode with his eyes closed, to the ruins beside the road. The roofless buildings were more intact than the gates. Except for the debris piled around and against them, several looked as though a new roof and some interior work would make them habitable.
OOOOOooooooooeeee…
“Ahead is the newer town center, where the council held court…”
How anything in ruins could be called new was beyond me, and I was getting nervous about the howling sound. Jus-ten seemed to ignore it as he talked and rode, his eyes still closed.
Justen had to be looking at something. He was a wizard. Antonin had said he was, and he had a number of apprentices who had become masters, or so he had indicated.
OOOOOOOOOEEEeeeeeeeeeee…
The sound was closer, on the other side of the “newer” town center.
My left hand still on my staff, warmer to the touch even through the leather of my gloves, I tried to study the ruins, even as Gairloch and Rosefoot picked their way toward the howling.
The stone-melting that had destroyed the city gates had struck even more wildly around, the “newer” square. The ruined buildings were twisted as if they had been hot white wax flung through a whirlwind and then stomped flat by a giant foot.
“This was built by the Magician’s Council, the old square by the Stonecutters’ Guild.” Justen did not open his eyes, but, for the first time, his voice sounded strained.
I shook my head. Why bother with the descriptions? The place was clearly dangerous. By now the smell of ashes made every breath almost burn.
“Don’t look at them. Just look straight ahead. Recognition leads to fear, and fear increases their power.”
“Whose power?”
“The howlers’ power.”
I clutched the staff, ready to pull it free, if necessary.
“Don’t!”
I tried to relax my grip on the dark wood, forcing myself to look straight ahead.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee…
From the corner of my left eye, I could see a shape flicker, trying t
o grab my attention.
I glanced down at Gairloch’s mane, and the whitish shape disappeared.
“With each generation, they are weaker. And with each person who passes successfully their powers are diminished.” Justen’s voice was faint, but clear.
The road began to slope upward as we continued southward.
“OOOOOOOOEEEEEEEE!”
I started, looked straight ahead at the suddenness of the sound.
On the trail, standing on a liquid-white paving stone, was a twisted and turned figure, white and streaked with red, but shining.
I blinked, trying to look down, but the figure seemed different… more human… almost as if wearing a red-and-white robe… and the twisted white was more like a reverse shadow cast behind him.
“Mine!”
The robed figure seemed to spring from the pavement, which spread to resemble a wide avenue, along which tall oaks rustled in the wind.
Mine!
As the second voice echoed in my thoughts, I found the staff in my hand, up before my face.
The figure hit the staff as if to rip it from my hands, which were bare against the wood. The impact rocked me in the stirrups, jolted me back in the saddle… and it was gone.
“Accuuuuughhh… ” I was half-coughing, half-retching, surrounded by the foulest odor I had ever smelted, a cross between rotten fish, wet ashes, and brimstone. The mist burned my eyes, and I could see nothing except a tan blur that was Gairloch’s mane.
Managing somehow to empty my stomach without losing the staff or my balance, I teetered in the saddle, finally straightening up.
Justen had said nothing. But I could tell both ponies were moving forward, still on the old trail. By the time I could see and breathe, I could also see why Justen had said nothing. He lay spread over Rosefoot’s neck, somehow in the saddle, but very still.
At the same time, the feeling of the white oppression, more sullen than darkness itself, was gone, although the gray clouds seemed lower than before, and darker. The darkness was that of an approaching storm.
Swishing the reins, I tried to get Gairloch to move closer to Rosefoot. Grudgingly, the pony obliged.
As I drew abreast of the other pony, I could see that Justen was breathing. His arms were thrust into sheaths on each side of Rosefoot’s neck.
The Magic of Recluce Page 21
