by Susan Dexter
Kellis was still in the doorway, though he stepped back out of the cow’s path. Something in his expression—which was unhappy, to say the least—caught Druyan’s full attention. “Are they coming again?” she whispered. Her hands went cold. She forgot the cow.
For answer, Kellis walked slowly to the well and hauled the bucket up, hand over hand, not troubling with the slower winch. The black bowl sat waiting on the well coping; he poured into it from the bucket until it was brim full.
The water was clear, but within the bowl it looked like a puddle of tar. Kellis leaned forward and blew one breath across it. Ripples spread, then stilled once more. Druyan could see the bottom of the bowl then, the faint ridges the potter’s fingers had left, their circles growing ever smaller as they spiraled in to the exact center of the bowl. Remembering the last time Kellis had shared a vision with her, she reached to take his left hand. His fingers were cold as dewsoaked grass, and near as damp.
He would need to woo this vision—though his dreams had been tangled and vivid for far too many nights, those had been memories, never prophecies. No insistent visions were battering at the barrier behind Kellis’ eyes—the well had not been emptied, but enough had been released that the visions no longer spilled out unstoppably. It was his normal state, when he could choose not to see, not to risk pain and confusion, failure and embarrassment—it had been a fatally easy choice for him to make, once before.
Kellis crooned the summoning so softly that he could not hear the sound with his own ears. His throat was tight with fear, he had to force the sound through, and it was far louder in his mind than in the air. One could entreat the visions, but they did not respect whining—they wanted a submission that came of respect, not fear. Concentrate. Focus. Believe the foreseeing would come. . .
Pain stabbed his temples. Vthth better practice, he could have ignored it for the trifle it was. He must pay it no heed, must certainly not dread that the pain would increase if he persisted. If he flinched, it would only be worse.
You have to want to do it worse than you don ’t want to do it.
Wisir hadn’t been much of a teacher. He hadn’t been much of a student. And they hadn’t spent time enough together for their mutual dislike to be refmed into a useful I’ll-show-him hatred.
Be a channel for the vision to flow through.
His stomach twisted, counterpoint to the throbbing behind his eyes. It wasn’t going to work. . .
Kellis felt a reassuring pressure, other fingers intertwined with his own. The contact was so startling, so unexpected that for a moment Kellis forgot his dread in wonderment.
Light flashed across the surface of the water. It was white wave-foam, breaking over a shingle beach. Cliffs rose up almost at once. Druyan looked harder and saw ships rounding a rock the height of the duke’s castle at Keverne, entering a harbor that much resembled a keyhole—narrow at the entrance, widening out inside to a safe, sheltered anchorage. There were a lot of buildings clustered behind its stone quays, rising up the sides of the hills as if they’d been pushed there by the crush at the harborside.
“Do you know it?” Kellis asked harshly, his pupils pinpricks in his silvery eyes.
“That’s Porlark,” she answered, unhesitating. “Fishermen call it the Mousehole, because of that harbor. But that harbor’s a trap, you can hold its entrance with half a dozen men—”
Kellis tore his hand free and rose abruptly. The images in the bowl slopped over the edge and vanished. He dumped the remaining water unceremoniously onto the ground, the stream wavering with his trembling.
“It’s not as far as Falkerry,” Druyan said, feeling in consternation at her muddied skirts.
“Aye, you’ll weigh every word I tell you, twice and thrice,” Kellis said bitterly. “You won’t trust me.” He backed a step away.
“There’s no harm to ride that way—if the raiders have been there already . . .” Druyan gave her head a shake to chase that fell thought. She faced him. “Suppose they haven’t? Should I not warn the folk of the Mousehole? I couldn’t live with myself, if I knew and said nothing.”
But he would not look at her. And she did not know what was amiss, that he should out of nowhere offer his help, then complain because she believed his warnings. When she went to saddle Valadan there was no sign of Kellis, nor when she rode out to cry her warning to the folk who lived behind the Mousehole.
To the natural blessing of their harbor’s narrow approach, the citizens of Porlark had added a great bronze chain, which lay at the bottom of the channel, running from far side to near. They kept a sharp watch, too, and when Druyan gave them her warning, that chain was winched up till it rode just below the surface of the waves, ready to rip the keel out of any ship that dared the passage without the watch captain’s leave.
Simple defense, but scarcely an instant one—the winching required a full hour, and a dozen men working each capstan. Signal flags had to be unfurled, to warn off Porlark’s fishermen and to alert incoming trade ships that they must choose other ports. Druyan watched uneasily all that while from Valadan’s back. Her word of seeing ships upcoast had been believed—but if the ships did not come? If Kellis’ vision failed, no one would listen to a second warning from her—she hadn’t said how she knew, she’d said she’d seen, and failure would brand her a liar.
The flags warned off Por1ark’s ships. But what wamed nearby villages and settlements? Anything upriver from Porlark was safe, but what of up- and downcoast? Druyan had asked and did not care for the answers she was given along with thanks for her warning. She could see no reason why the raiders, refused Porlark, should not simply nose into another harbor or river mouth, a place unwamed and unprepared.
Valadan carried her eagerly along the clifftops, where they paused at many a steading ere turning back for Splaine Garth. And on their homeward course there were settlements to alert, as well—it was long after dark when Druyan fetched Darlith once more, despite Valadan’s speed.
The wolf waited atop the headland, from which vantage he could mostly keep the woman and the black horse in sight, That was far easier to do once they had stopped running—he had been hard-pressed to keep close enough to track them as they galloped, and his lungs had been aiire for far too long a while after that race. Wolves are fairly tireless, but he was not wind-sired.
Thankfully, there was no present danger for him to fend off. The incoming ships would not get close enough to Porlark to fight for passage—in the narrow way, they could not offer any fight at all. There was no peril to the woman from the raiders—he had not sent her into danger, this time. He did not allow himself any relief over that.
When she rode out once more, he mistook the way, assuming wrongly that she would be bound for the farm. He looked over his shoulder and knew a1arm—there was no sign of any horse, any rider. The wolf loped back the way he had come till he spotted them at last, going in what he felt certain was the wrong direction, but after the second steading was visited, he saw clear enough what the game was and relaxed. Unless they stumbled across raiders strayed from the main pack, there was no danger. He paid more heed to staying out of sight, too, after a farm dog scented him and came snapping after him, turning back only when the poor brave beast came close and saw plain what it had so rashly challenged.
Druyan snatched a few hours of sleep before ’twas time to rise for milking. The sun was just up as she crossed the yard, to see Kellis at the well, the dark bowl balanced percariously on his lap, his head drooping over it. A shudder went through him when Druyan put a hand on his shoulder. He raised his face to hers, and his expression was despairing.
“Far up a river, somewhere,” he whispered bleakly. “I couldn’t see open ocean, only the river winding out of sight.”
“Show me,” Druyan ordered, weariness forgotten. She had not expected another alarm so soon, but surely that was foolish. She had denied the raiders the Mousehole; they had to go somewhere else.
Kellis shook his head. “I can’t get it back. I have bee
n trying till I’m dizzy.” He had not wanted to look at all, worn out and short of sleep as he was, unlikely to succeed at understanding—but the vision had demanded his attention, just as he had feared it might. “They bumed something, Lady, I could see that much.” Nothing to go on, except ’twas trouble for someone, somewhere.
“If it was a long way inland, it would need to be one of the deeper rivers,” Druyan speculated. “Most of them don’t run more than a few leagues before they’re too shallow or too rough for ships. Maybe they got up the Fal. If they left Falkerry itself alone, maybe they could slip past the watch. If there was fog . . .” There often was, on the coast.
“There was a town,” Kellis declared. He frowned, trying to sift out more details, significant landmarks. Whatever those might be. He’d only had an instant’s glimpse. “And a lot of rocks in the river. The water went white.”
“The Fal’s known for its rapids,” Druyan mused. “It’s broad and it’s deep, but you can’t ship as far upriver as the merchants would like, because ships can’t get through the rapids. The river runs a long way after, but it’s no use to ships from the sea. There’s a cattle market, they drive beasts there, so ships can take the beef—”
She arose and went to fetch her saddle. Kellis staggered after her, full of foreboding. “Lady, be careful. This one feels different? He could not have said how, but his head was near to bursting, and the edges of objects were haloed with light, though the sun was scarcely over the horizon. His hair clung damply to his forehead and cheeks, but he felt cold all over. When last a vision had repaid him so for viewing it, what had it meant? Future or irretrievable past? He should know. He should have learned. “I don’t think there’s very much time.”
In fact, there was no time at all.
Teilo had been a prosperous cattle market, where beasts were gathered, sold, slaughtered and butchered and salted, then shipped down the Fal to many markets. There were tanneries to begin making use of the hides, a whole guild of leatherworkers to finish off the process. There were saddlers and harnessmakers by the score. Many a rich merchant dwelt there, in a home well appointed by his wealth. Druyan caught the smell of smoke from those homes on the sultry wind as she neared the river. The glow of the flames had been invisible, obscured by the new-risen sun. The same sun now showed the disaster plain. Her broad hands tightened on Valadan’s reins.
Perhaps the raiders had fired only a building or two, for a diversion while they plundered. But the fire had spread while Teilo’s folk had struggled to chase off the thieves, and in the end the flames had taken most of the town. Smokesmothered cattle choked the holding pens. Others, fortunate enough to escape through weak fences, had run bawling through the streets, adding confusion, trampling folk fighting the fires. Everything of any value had been carted off, along with a few of the women. Fifty men were dead of the fighting, and the tally of those caught in the flames would run near as high when there was time to number them. Somewhere a dog howled disconsolately.
As Druyan was turning for home, heartsick, she spied two riders cantering over the moors and caught a glimpse of sea-blue tunics. She legged Valadan toward them, urging him to make good speed to intercept them.
The post riders caught sight of her and swerved to meet her the more quickly. Their faces were grave—the smoke rising from what had been Teilo was unmistakably ill news.
“How soon may word be got to the duke?” Druyan asked, when the Riders had taken a few moments to gaze upon the destruction. She had told them of the attempt on Porlark—though she pretended only to have heard of it from another. They would never have believed that she could have seen it, then been at Teilo next day. Even used to Valadan’s swiftness, she herself still marveled at it.
“We will carry the news to our next way-station, Lady,” the senior Rider said. “A message can be sent direct to Keverne from there. It should reach the duke by sunfall.”
“For what good ’twill do,” the second Rider interjected bitterly. “Those who did this deed are back on the sea roads, where the army can’t touch them. Brioc has a thousand men armed and in the field—and still this happens!’ He gestured wildly at the wreckage on the banks of the Fal, and his horse reacted by flinging up its head and plunging against the bit.
“I know,” Druyan said, smiling without humor. “All the men of my freehold are kept with the duke’s army meanwhile my farm is raided. Those men would have been far more use to me than to my uncle.”
The senior Rider squinted at her. “Lady, I think I should know vou.”
She should perchance have known his name, also, but did not. “You are acquainted with my brother, I suspect. We are colored something alike, and Robart’s one of you.”
The Rider’s face split with a grin. “Of course! I’ll say this, though, Lady—the captain’s not so well mounted as you.”
Valadan arched his neck, playing with the bit till it jingled, accepting the homage. Druyan patted his shoulder indulgently.
“See you stay aboard him,” the Rider advised soberly. “I’d arrange you an escort home, if I could. There’s no knowing where those bastards will strike next.”
But there was, Druyan mused as she jogged homeward under a glooming sky. Teilo notwithstanding, she had the means to know what they must guard, where and when. And the post riders, faster than any army of a thousand footsoldiers, had means to spread that knowledge quickly. Surely twoscore of Riders could accomplish more than one solitary rider—even if they could never be mounted on Valadan’s equals.
Next time Druyan rode out from Splaine Garth, she was bound for Keverne.
Audiences at Keverne
The bundle tied securely behind her high-cantled saddle contained a gown made of Druyan’s own weaving—its soft wool dyed a pale green with lady’s mantle, embroidered about the hem with a pattern of blue waves. It was her best gown, and nothing less would do for an audience with her uncle.
That interview was a frightful risk—if it led to the discovery that she was attempting to freehold Travic’s land, there was yet ample time for Splaine Garth to be taken from her. The duke himself could urge a marriage upon his niece if he apprehended the situation, and he would surely do so. There were always men about people and places of power expecting payment in land for their service and loyalty. Druyan could easily be used to settle such indebtedness, and would be utterly helpless to prevent it.
Still, her uncle might not guess how matters stood. Travic’s rank had not been especially high. Other men had fallen when he did, and there had been great confusion afterward, as the army was gathered and moved about. Perchance the duke knew naught of his death. Perchance he knew, but had not connected it with one of his numerous nieces. Certainly Druyan was not about to inquire and give up the game while she still had a chance to win it.
She let Valadan canter when they reached the broad beaches that flanked Keverne. There had been no need to use the utmost of his speed—if she arrived at Keverne too soon, no one would believe she had been at Teilo, and her report of it would be suspect. Even the men who had seen her there would be confused, and ’twas risky enough explaining why she’d been there at all. She had rested for three rainy days at Splaine Garth, telling Kellis what she proposed to do, leaving orders for the work to be done in her absence.
Kellis was carving a spoon out of a branch from one of the wind-downed apple trees. It had an ordinary roundish bowl, but he was leaving the handle fat, shaping it to fill a hand so that sore fingers need not grasp tightly to have a secure grip. When his own hands had been at their worst, small objects had given him a great deal of misery—he’d been able to manage a hoe better than a spoon. He had seen Enna weeping that morning, as she struggled to stir the cooking porridge. If the tool helped her, he would make others, spoons and ladles and forks. He could make knife hafts, as well, he supposed—but he didn’t much care whether Enna could grip iron weapons painlessly.
His little bronze knife teased fragrant shavings from the wood. Every pan of an apple tree
smelled pleasant, not only the blossoms and the fruit. Kellis was glad that even the ruined tree would have a use, beyond brief winter fires. A spoon was more lasting than a little heat, a swirl of smoke up the chimney. . .
Smoke like that from the town he had seen aflame, too late to save it. Well, the worst he had feared had come to pass—he had given a fruitless warning. The lady had at least not reproached him for it. She knew how little he liked her riding out with warnings on the strength of his predictions—now she knew why, as well.
He watched the spoon taking shape under his knife, with pauses now and then for sketching the charm of keen edge onto the bronze blade. The grain of the applewood made a pattern like an eye, looking back at him out of the bowl. Kellis became uncomfortable with the scrutiny and turned the spoon to shape the backside, which had no eyes to watch him, to see his thoughts.
If I go, she wouldn’t ride out into any more trouble. True, an Eral captain might chance upon Splaine Garth itself again, but that risk was less likely, less constant. There was no doubting it—she would be safer if he went.
He had given her his word that he’d stay—but set against his other sins, oath-breaking scarcely seemed to matter. His clan would not sit in judgment upon him. And if he reached the Wizards’ City, no one there would know.
lf he went, he would be doing it for her good as well as his own—it was perilously easy to convince himself of that.
Kellis had been distressed by her determination to continue riding out with warnings, but he liked better her scheme to ask her uncle for mounted patrols, Druyan thought. No real wonder there—a force with scope enough to do what the army could not against a fast-striking enemy didn’t hinge so tightly on depending upon what Kellis himself did not trust. Still, there had been a haunted look in his eyes when she’d told him, and Druyan had no notion whether he’d be at Splaine Garth when she returned. He’d be out from under her eye, and if he chose to break his pledged word, there was nothing to hold him. There was nothing she could do about it. The man would stay, or he would go. She could not solve his riddle, could not guess what his choice would be.
