by Sean Russell
“But …” Cynddl’s voice trailed off as he gestured towardthe pond.
Alaan turned to the story finder and nodded. “Yes,” he saidsoftly, “she has been here all this time. There is a story of grief for you. Ormadness.” Alaan took the reins of his horse from Crowheart. “We have journeyedthis far-come gaze on the final river. On the other shore lies Death’s kingdom.The gate is not far off, above the steps of an ancient quay. But we will not gothere this day.”
Alaan did not mount but led his horse through the twilightwood. In a short distance they came to the murmuring river, which ran like grayink through the doomed landscape. The far shore was lost in shadow, though ifhe stared Tam thought he saw more barren trees, perhaps a cliff, he could notbe sure.
“Is there a more oppressive place than this?” Fynnolwondered aloud.
“Yes,” Alaan answered, “but no one returns to speak of it.”
“I thought to see this place only once,” Cynddl said, hismanner distant.
“Innithal, it was called in ancient times,” Alaan said. “Riverof tears or perhaps river of sorrow. But men do not name it now, if they evenbelieve in its existence. Be sure your ashes are spread upon theWynnd beforeyour body is cold. Then you will follow the black wanderers, Cynddl’s people,back to the breathing sea. Better to lift upon the breast of a wave beneath thesun than pass into the darkness.” He turned away, and the others followed, morethan one glancing back. As Tam did so he realized Fynnol still stood gazingout over the river.
“Fynnol …” Tam whispered, jarring his cousin from hisreverie. The little Valeman turned away. “Come on,” Tam said. “Let’s be shut ofthis place.”
They mounted horses and followed Alaan, an empty windplucking at their clothing.
Twenty-seven
Dusk brought the town of Weybridge into view. Jamm hid themin a small wood not far from the manor house of Prince Michael’s cousin.
“You won’t want to appear by day, your grace,” Jamm said, asthey hunkered down in a small copse.
“Hunger is tempting me to take that risk,” the Princeanswered, his gaze wandering to the mansion house.
“I think Jamm is right,” Carl offered. He had slumped downwith his back against a tree, a tired, disreputable-looking nobleman if thereever was one, Samul thought. “You can’t trust their servants or the freemenwho work their land. Better to go hungry another few hours than be handed overto Menwyn Wills.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but if I don’t eat a real meal soon,or preferably several, I shall fall into a state of unreason.” The summer sunfloated up, bringing a hot, windless day. The wood seemed close, but the shadewas a welcome relief. All day they could see the comings and goings of thepeople who lived on the estate. The dairymen and their dogs took the herd outto pasture after milking, and hay was cut on a field not too far off, men andwomen swinging their scythes beneath the hot sun. The bright skirts of thewomen and girls showed up at a distance, though their faces were hidden bystraw bonnets. The previous day’s cut was raked and pitchforked onto wagonsthat rolled slowly back to the barns and stables.
Samul felt a growing envy of these people, whose livesseemed so simple and untroubled by great decisions.
The day crept by, hunger taking a grip on all of them, andmore than once Samul was doubled over with stomach cramps. Sunset seemed worthyof celebration to Samul, and he almost smiled as the first stars appeared.
“I have been wondering all day,” Samul said, “who will accompanyPrince Michael? Shall we all go?”
“I won’t go,” Jamm said quickly.
“Then should the three of us go?” the Prince wondered.
Carl A’denne shook his head in the gathering gloom. “Are youknown in that house? Would the servants recognize you?”
“Certainly, yes.”
“Then there is some risk in what you do.”
The Prince considered this. He was brushing his coat in avain attempt to make it presentable. “I would like to take Lord Samul with me.After all, I shall make the claim that I have made agreements with the Renne.Having a member of the family with me will be of some benefit.”
“Unless, of course, they know my recent history,” Samulnoted.
“There is that,” the Prince said. “You were to have lostyour head …” He thought a moment. “But I can introduce you as some otherRenne, can I not? There seem to be so many of you.”
“Archer. I shall be my cousin Archer. We look much alike andfew know him, anyway. He keeps to himself and hasn’t entered a tournament sincedoing grave injury to his back, some years ago.”
“Lord Archer you shall be.”
The two noblemen set off down the hill toward the manorhouse, the thought of a meal, and perhaps a bath, lifting their spirits. Asthey departed from their friends, Jamm called after them. “Say nothing of us!”
The door to the house was answered by a footman, who, out ofrespect for the state of the world, wore a sword.
“Sir?” he said, regarding Michael by the small light thatshone through the barely opened door.
“Would you tell Lady Francesca that her cousin is here?”
“Do excuse me, sir, but may I say which cousin?”
“I’d rather surprise her, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish, sir. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Well, he didn’t recognize you,” Samul said, “or he wouldn’thave left you standing out in the dark.”
“We’ll hope for better luck with Franny.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Oh, not a year ago. We have always had great sympathy, sheand I.”
A noise from within silenced them, and the door creakedopen, a distinctly feminine eye regarding them through the crack.
“Franny? It’s Michael.”
The eye widened. “Michael!” A chain rattled, and the doorwas flung open, light flooding out. A lovely woman threw her arms about Michael’sneck as though he were a lost son. “We thought you were dead,” she said, hervoice betraying her emotion.
“Nearly, and more than once, but I survived.”
She pulled away, all joy swept from her face. “Your father-”
“Yes, I know.”
“Who is there?” came a male voice from inside.
“Look, Henri!” Franny said. “Look who’s returned from thegrave!”
“River save us!” the man said as he caught sight of Michael.“Michael! You are a sight! Come in. Come in at once!”
Food was brought to the two vagabonds, and baths promised.Samul Renne tried to restrain himself, but feared he ate like a starvingsoldier rather than the nobleman he was. Henri A’tanelle paced back and forthacross the kitchen, where Samul and Prince Michael sat, and Franny bustledabout keeping their plates filled.
“First he formed a secret alliance with your father’s alliesand senior officers,” Henri said. “By this means Sir Eremon’s guards wereeither destroyed or driven off. Menwyn then arranged a coup, displacing theruling council he had created himself. There is no one now to oppose him. Allhave sworn allegiance to the Wills-to Menwyn Wills, that is-and anyonesuspected of sympathy to the claims of Lord Carral Wills have been eliminated… brutally.”
“And what will he do when Sir Eremon returns, I wonder?”Prince Michael asked between bites of food. He stopped a moment to drain hisalmost empty wineglass, which his cousin Franny immediately refilled.
Henri paused, placing an arm on the high mantelpiece. For amoment he stared into the fire, a portrait of a troubled man. “Men-wyn willhave no choice but to fight-and he will have a great army on his side …against Sir Eremon and a handful of his guards.”
“It doesn’t matter how small Eremon’s force,” Samul said. “Hewill win any battle against Menwyn and his armies. If Sir Eremon returns,Menwyn and his supporters will die.”
Henri and Franny glanced at each other. They werefrightened, though of what Samul was not sure.
“The Wills are demanding the greater part of everything weharvest, an
d we don’t hold out much hope of payment,” Franny said, fillingSamul’s glass as well. She was quite a lovely woman, Samul thought, with awarmth and ease of manner that was unlike the pampered ladies of Castle Renne.
“If Menwyn Wills has made himself so unpopular, then itshould ease our task,” Prince Michael said, not without satisfaction.
“So it would seem, but the truth is, anyone you might havecounted on in such a situation is either dead, in a cell, or has joined MenwynWills.” Henri still stared into the fire, shaking his head. “There are a few wemight speak to secretly, but any one of them might give us over to the Wills.Menwyn has been doling out portions of your father’s estates-your estates-tohis supporters, and promising even larger tracts of Renne lands.” Henri turnedaway from the fire and offered the prince a tight-lipped smile. “But we will see.There is no doubt in our minds where our loyalties lie,” he said, and looked athis wife, who nodded firmly. “I will sit and think this night and make a listof men who I believe will be loyal to the House of Innes, or those who mightthink to gain by Menwyn’s fall, and we will go over it together in the morning.But you, cousin, and Lord Archer, must have rest this night. Baths have beendrawn for you, chambers made up. Until the morning.”
Twenty-eight
Not all of Hafydd’s guards could fit in the boat, what withHafydd himself, Beldor Renne, the mapmaker Kai, and his manservant. Lord A’dennewatched the legless man carefully. If he had an ally in this place, it wasKai-whom Hafydd called “Kilydd.” Ever since they had entered the boat and setout along this unknown river he had felt some tension grow between the leglessman and Hafydd. There was some history there, Lord A’denne thought; someancient history, if he was to believe the things he was hearing.
He looked around, the river stretching broad and slickbeneath a low leaden sky. The forest there was almost unbroken, only theoccasional meadow interrupting the dense tangle of green. If men had ever dweltthere, it was a long age ago.
Kai shifted on the plank thwart, the Fael pillows that hadlined his barrow getting soiled and wet, their beautiful fabrics ruined.
“Do you recognize this place?” Lord A’denne asked.
Kai shook his head, drizzle running down his round, pinkface. “I traveled here once, long ago-with Sainth. Several generations of treeshave come and gone, embankments crumble, even the river might change its courseover so many centuries-but this is the way, all the same.”
Lord A’denne glanced over at Hafydd, who sat in the stern bythe helmsman, if that’s what you would call the black-clad guard who anxiouslyclutched the tiller. No one spoke much in the knight’s presence, but hisattention seemed to be elsewhere, and A’denne refused to be treated like justanother one of Hafydd’s servants. He might feel the same fear of the man thateveryone else did, but he would be damned if he’d show it!
“Where is it we go?” the nobleman whispered.
Kai glanced at him, then away, like a truant schoolboy. “Anisland. There is an ancient, sacred spring there. Hafydd is looking for theresting place of his … of Caibre’s father-the great sorcerer Wyrr. It is hisplan to give him up to Death.”
Lord A’denne shook his head. “I seem to have fallen into anightmare. Death? Is this not a creature of fable? An artifice of theballadeer?”
Kai closed his eyes, a faint smile flickering over his lips.“I wish it were so. The creature we call Death was once a sorcerer, likeWyrr-or perhaps more akin to his father, Tusival. But his mind turned intounwholesome paths and over an age he grew into the creature we now call Death-asreal as you or I.”
A’denne felt a shiver run up his back and along his arms,his hands twitching once involuntarily. “Why has he brought me?” he asked alittle desperately.
A hard rain spattered down on the river then, a sound likehail on gravel. The legless man turned and looked at him, his face glisteningand running with rain. “Hafydd does not carry his enemies with him in hope thatthey will convert to his cause, that is certain. You are to be sacrificed, LordA’denne. That is what I think. Beldor Renne knows something of this, and he isnot clever enough to keep knowledge to himself. You might learn something froma conversation or two with the Renne-”
“A’denne!”
It was Hafydd, glaring forward over the pumping oarsmen.
“Your turn at the sweeps.”
The nobleman made his way aft, stepping gingerly over thebaggage they carried, his hands on the wet gunwales, rain pounding down uponhis back, running inside the neck of his coat. He took the offered oar from oneof the guards and tumbled into place, setting the sweep between the tholepins,hesitating only a second to catch the rhythm of the others, then digging hisoar into the rain-battered river. The slick wood slipped between his fingers,and he gripped it more tightly, his hands cold and stiff from sitting. Heglanced out at the passing riverbank, tree branches drooping down, heavy withrain.
You are to be sacrificed. The words echoed in hismind. Sacrificed!
Hafydd sat staring darkly at the shore, his manner grim.Lord A’denne wondered if it would be possible to kill the knight. Certainlythe guards would immediately bring down any man who managed it, but what ofthat? A’denne believed his life was forfeit anyway. If he was to be sacrificed,let him choose the cause he would be sacrificed for. How to manage it, that wasthe difficulty. Hafydd was vigilant and possessed powers of which others knewlittle. Others but for Kai … Kai knew more than he was telling, he wascertain of that.
Sacrificed!
Hafydd stood and drew his sword from its scabbard. Lord A’dennealmost lost pace with the oarsmen, his eyes fixed on the blade, but Hafydd satdown again and thrust the smoky blade into the river. For a moment he sat, eyesclosed in concentration, and then he cursed with such perfect rage thateveryone on the boat was overcome by fear.
No one could clearly see what Hafydd was doing. The knightwas all but hidden by trees and bushes, and though it was not yet night, thethick cloud and shadows beneath the wood held almost all the light at bay. Heperformed some arcane ritual involving fire, for he could be seen walkingaround a blaze-and once he had walked through it! Apparently he had suffered noharm, for the ritual continued.
Some hours later he stumbled into the camp, his guards rushingto support him. They lowered him on a log, where he slumped with his head downbetween his knees.
Lord A’denne realized at that moment that here was his opportunity.Everyone’s attention was on Hafydd, even while men tried to look busy at theirappointed tasks. He went quickly to the fire and ladled some thick stew from apot into a bowl. No one paid him the least attention, and A’denne set the bowldown for a moment, waving his hands in the air as though the bowl had been toohot to hold. He took up bit of cloth that lay there and used it to carry thebowl, hoping no one realized the cloth had been thrown down on a sharp kitchenknife.
A’denne could hardly catch his breath, and had to exercisefirm control to keep his hands from shaking.
You are dead anyway, he told himself. What betterway to die than killing this sorcerer?
He felt as though he were pulled half out of his body-sothat he both animated his limbs and was someone else, watching. His visionnarrowed so that all he could see was Hafydd, bent over like a man exhaustedbeyond measure. His head was bent so his face was hidden, only the oval of dullgray hair apparent. A’denne knew that he would have to get the knife intoHafydd’s throat where the major blood vessels ran. Nothing else would do. Onechance; that was all he would have. He made himself breathe and tried toconcentrate his will as he had so often in tournaments. It would be like thejoust-one opportunity and no room for errors.
The guards glanced at him as he approached, then, seeing thefood, let him through.
“Sir Eremon?” A’denne said softly, bending over and offeringthe soup.
Hafydd raised his head, his gaze out of focus, clearlyconfused, but then he raised his hands to take the bowl. The second Hafydd beganto take the weight of the bowl, A’denne drove the point of his blade toward theexposed throat.
He felt his hand stop, clasped in a grip like stone. Hafyddlooked up at him, his eye suddenly clear, the stew, unspilled, in one hand, A’denne’swrist in the other. The nobleman dropped the knife unwillingly.
“You were too respectful, A’denne,” the knight said. “Yougave yourself away.” Hafydd shook his head, a look of disgust, perhaps evendisappointment, crossing his face.
A’denne was dragged back by two guards, and Hafydd took upthe spoon from the bowl and calmly began to eat his stew, as though nothinguntoward had happened. A’denne thought he would be killed then, but instead hewas thrown roughly down on his bedding and left, as though he were so littlethreat they needn’t do more.
For a moment he gazed at the little group surroundingHafydd, but then he realized someone regarded him, and turned to find Kaistaring at him evenly.
“Why didn’t you speak to me?” the legless man demandedsoftly. “That was your one chance, and you’ve wasted it!”
For a day Hafydd slumped in the stern of the boat, like aman too ill to care where they went or why. Seldom did his head rise, and whenit did his eyes were not focused, and his flesh was an unhealthy gray. Hishead soon fell forward again, and he appeared to sleep fitfully. His guardshovered over him like nursemaids, their faces filled with concern.
A’denne was seated in the bow with Kai and his servant,Ufrra, when he was struck with a thought. He turned his head away so that nonemight see his lips move and leaned toward Kai, speaking as softly as he could.
“We might overturn the boat,” he whispered.
Kai leaned to one side so that he was hidden from theoarsmen by the large bulk of Ufrra. “He cannot be drowned, even if this couldbe done by only three of us.”
Lord A’denne turned away, staring at the passing riverbank.The sky remained obscured by cloud, but the position of the sun could be foundnow, as it struggled to burn away the haze, illuminating a circle of cloud witha faint urgent glow.
