The Still

by David Feintuch

  “Come along!” I stalked out, and was astride Ebon by the time he emerged.

  We chose the old abandoned road to Cumber. Hester had been seen on it, and she’d said her sister’s cottage was near Cumber.

  The rustic village at the rock was soon swallowed in leafy curtains. I rode alone, behind Genard. Rust, moody and silent, brought up the rear.

  Our path took us through thickets and groves, ever upward. For long stretches, stands of sycamores and maples supplanted the bright-lit meadows. Only the occasional wagon or rider had kept vegetation from overrunning the road.

  At intervals we passed terrain once cultivated but now abandoned. Decaying shelters were reclaimed by relentless vines and shoots.

  At least, as we rose, the air was cooler. But a canopy of drooping leaves blocked the sun, and the afternoon bled away in sullen mist.

  Rustin fell in alongside. “Hester can’t make much speed on such a road. We’ll soon be upon her.”

  “If she isn’t bound for the Eiber passes.” Who could know Hester’s mind. She was a law unto herself.

  We plodded along. “Desolate country,” Rust muttered.

  “Mother spoke of settling the land, to hold it against Cumber’s ambitions.” I’d played at her feet, while she conversed with Uncle Mar. “Nothing came of it.”

  “When you’re King, think of it again.” He looked to the brooding forest canopy. “It could be made good grange, I warrant.”

  “I wonder if once it had a Power of its own. It seems ... sullen.”

  “How can a land have Power, without a people?”

  I shrugged. “I’m no Ritemaster.”

  Above the thick blanket of trees, the sky was darkening, as if to storm. It was impossible to get dry if one set up shelter after the rain started. If we were in for a tempest, best we unroll our canvas tarpaulins, hang them from suitable branches, and shield ourselves from the worst of it.

  I said hesitantly, “I hate to waste the time.”

  Rustin wrinkled his brow, laboriously worked through my unspoken thoughts. “It’s too early to stop.”

  We toiled on. Once, we came to a rivulet, not deep enough to warrant a bridge. I got down, examined the ruts. “I think she’s been this way. These look recent.”

  As I remounted, the first raindrops hit. Quickly we put on our cloaks. Genard, to my disgust, had none. When the downpour intensified I had to lend him a spare jerkin as an overshirt, lest he sneeze and whine and complain all the way to Cumber. He swam inside it, wet and forlorn.

  Heads bowed against the driving rain that lashed us regardless of the twists of the road, we made our way deeper into the hills. Hours passed in dreary monotony. Ebon trudged along a track grown muddy, on which water gurgled in the roadbed. Surely Hester, if she had indeed come before us, was forced to stop and wait out the squall.

  As suddenly as the torrent had started, it stopped. But instead of the cool that oft followed a summer shower, a sultry mist rose from the earth. The leafy canopy dripped persistently on my neck, but I couldn’t wrap myself in my cloak, lest I broil.

  “Demons take this weather!” I stood in my saddle, massaged my aching rump. Ebon chose that moment to slip on a stone, almost catapulting me over his head. I clung precariously to his mane, adding wet horse to the effluvia of our journey.

  Another hour, and I’d had enough; Elryc wasn’t worth the misery. I needed sleep, food, dry clothes. Brusquely, I ordered Rustin to look for a suitable place to camp. For once, he made no objection, either because he shared my weariness, or had at last learned to heed his liege.

  We stumbled on under darkening sky for what seemed a good hour. At a clearing, I veered off the road, found an isolated glade where a quiet brook flowed.

  “Here!” I swung myself off Ebon, stamped the ground to see if it was marshy.

  Rustin glanced about. “We need to be under trees to tie the canvas.”

  “Bother the tarpaulins, the rain’s come and gone. We’ll sleep in the open.”

  “Boars may roam the forest, and—”

  “A canvas won’t stop a razor tusk. Genard, lay the tarps on the ground, put our blankets on top.” I stretched, groaning.

  “Aye, m’lord.” As if resigned, he began unlacing our bedrolls.

  Rustin unknotted a saddlebag. “I’ll loosen the cinches but leave the horses saddled in case a patrol comes on us.”

  “And gather firewood after. We’ll brew strong hot tea, to wash down our jerky.”

  “Aye, master. And what about you?”

  “Me?” I kicked at a rotting log. “I suppose I’ll start the fire.” Did he expect a prince to labor alongside a stableboy?

  We made do with dried fruits and crackers, and torn chunks of dried meat washed down with the tea I’d promised. Not the finest meal I’d known, but it appeased my hunger, and the tea revived me.

  I threw another stick onto the blaze, watched sparks shoot skyward. Genard leaned close to the fire.

  I said, “You’ll roast, boy.”

  “Gotta dry my clothes.”

  “Wear others, and hang them to dry, as we did.” I flicked a thumb at my wet clothes, on a branch.

  His glance asked if I could be serious. “I have but one other jerkin, and Lord Elryc wears that.”

  I shrugged. If peasants weren’t so lazy they could afford proper attire.

  Rust said, “Hang your clothes from branches, lad, and wrap yourself in my second blanket.” He grimaced at his dried meat, said to me, “A pity we didn’t bring a roast fowl from the inn.”

  My mouth watered. “Why didn’t you think of it at the time?”

  “You gave me other to think about.”

  “Bah.” If he took that road, we soon wouldn’t be speaking. “The light’s gone. I’ll match you stories.”

  Behind us, Genard peeled off his garments, draped them over a limb. He wore no underclothes; Lord knew how he survived our snow-blest winters. He unpacked Rustin’s blanket, padded back to the fire in it, stumbling over its tail. “Thank you, m’lord.”

  “Sit.” Rustin made a place. “Stories? Made up, or truth?”

  “Truth. Tell me what you know, that I don’t.” I made myself as comfortable as I could in the oppressive heat.

  Genard said eagerly, “Tell of the Furies. Or the Settling.”

  Rust pondered. “No, I’ll speak of Powers.”

  I stirred uneasily. We ought not discuss the Still, or its requirements.

  “My father Llewelyn is initiate in the Rite of the Seven Nations.”

  “Seven?”

  “Not the nations you know, Genard.” He patted the boy’s blanketed leg, held up a warning hand. “Though perhaps ... the Steppe. In old days, Varon came to rule there, but we speak of times when he was not yet seed in his mother’s belly, nor his grandfather yet born.”

  He tossed a berry into the fire; it sizzled and vanished.

  “In those times, they say, the Steppe was a vast forsaken land, and its Power was strong.”

  Genard piped, “Strong enough to—”

  “Hush. The Steppe was one nation. Soushire was another.”

  I said, “Soushire’s a mere fiefdom of—”

  “The name remains, as a great man will hand down his name to his son, and he to his, until a once-proud title is worn by an idiot of the village, who remembers not.”

  An owl hooted.

  “Soushire is today such a place, forgotten of the glory of old. The Lady Larissa is but an echo of the Lord who ruled a dominion that stretched west from Farreach Ocean to lands unknown. And the Lady’s Power to make dogs fierce is but a remnant of the land’s ancient Power.”

  “Impossible. No king can master so great a—”

  “Not kings of our day.” Rustin waved away an inquiring insect. “There were the lands of Cambod, and the Russ, and the Hills of Evalon, a place of such beauty that it is remembered still, though it’s long sunk under the waves.”

  “How, m’lord?” Genard couldn’t help himself.

&n
bsp; “No man knows. Perhaps Lord of Nature was jealous of its grace.”

  For a time we were silent.

  Genard counted on his fingers. “That’s six.”

  “Aye, and I’ll speak of Erre.”

  High above, a bird of night screamed. Ice shivered my spine, despite the stultifying heat. Genard giggled. “Erre is what you say when you forget someone’s name.”

  Rustin smiled, but his eyes were solemn. “Fitting then, for Erre is forgotten. Long before Evalon, and the Russ, Erre held sway over lands so vast that Soushire, the Steppe, and even the Norlands are but pebbles on the beach of them.”

  I contented myself with throwing twigs at the fire, to watch them glow into nothingness. After a time I said, “Great Powers such a people must have plied.”

  “Aye, and there’s the mystery.” Rustin brooded. “There’s one thing on which the legends agree.”

  I waited, but Genard blurted, “Yes?”

  “Erre had no Power.”

  I knew Rustin well. If I spoke my mind he’d stalk off in a fury, and the next days would be dreary until again he came round. But I knew full well no land could subsist without its Power.

  True, some talents were more useful than others. The Rood of Norland, carried into battle, brought fear and consternation on the enemy, which was often enough to weaken them and turn the tide. As a result, the Norlanders were enemies to be reckoned with. On the other hand, I couldn’t see what a tree in Cambod might say of interest, when the moon was full upon it. And the Warthen’s Power of Return was a dreadful gift.

  The point was, what was a land without its particular Power? How could it be distinguished from its neighbors, hold its character? Caledon was of the Still, and the Still was Caledon. The Power ran with the crown, and the land. Before Elena, long before Varon, there had been the Still.

  I grumbled, “How can I know about mysteries and Rites I’ve never been told? It seems to me—” Recalling my good intentions, I restrained myself from saying more. “Let’s go to sleep.” I unrolled my blanket on the canvas carpet. “Bank the fire.”

  In faintly hostile silence we got ready for bed. I stepped out of my breeks and shirt lest I smother from the heat, wrapped half the blanket under me for a pillow, threw the other half loosely on top, slapped at a mosquito.

  It had been a night and a day since I’d slept, and that poorly. I drifted almost immediately into an exhausted stupor, not quite the blessing of sleep.

  Time passed, in the glow of the embers. Lying on my back, I could see few stars; the clouds of evening had not dispersed. I sighed, rolled over onto my stomach, and drowsed.

  I woke in the dim night, a persistent insect buzzing round my ear. I chased him off, scratched my back, drifted into torpor.

  Again a buzz, and I fanned the darkness. A pin pricked my leg; I spread the blanket to cover me more fully. A moment later I swatted two mosquitoes on my arm. With a muttered curse, I made a tent of the blanket, crawled completely inside. Gnats swarmed about my head.

  Rustin yelped, cursed under his breath. Across the firepit I listened to his scratching.

  I buried myself under my cover, ears and all. At last I was left in peace, though between breaths I heard the swarm buzzing outside the blanket. I drew up my legs, made sure my toes were covered, drifted into a doze.

  I woke moments later, drenched with sweat. I threw off the cover, gasped for breath, batted away a hundred insects, dived back under the covers.

  Something was wrong. The ground on which we camped wasn’t marshy. The day’s heat had evaporated what was left of the rain. Why were we plagued with—

  “Demons’ lake!” I slapped something on my leg whose bite burned like a coal.

  The buzz was incessant. Genard and Rustin too were kicking at the blankets, slapping at invisible tormentors.

  I rubbed my face, found swellings where I hadn’t known I was bitten. Desperate, I dived back under my covers, sucked in breaths through the stifling heat

  “Roddy!”

  I grunted an unheard answer.

  “Dress! Now!”

  I moved the cover an inch. “Are you giving up sleep?”

  “Aiyee! Hurry, for Lord’s sake!”

  I risked a view, waving away an avid swarm of pests. Rustin had kicked the last of our pile of twigs onto the embers. He danced, slapping himself, trying to get into his breeks, staggering like a souse. “Now, Roddy! A woods Power is aroused!”

  I took a deep breath, flung off the cover, felt for my discarded clothes. Mosquitoes attacked with a vengeance. I batted at my upper arms, my chest. My back prickled as if I’d stumbled into a briar. Where in the demons’ lake were my breeches?

  “M’lord, are we leaving?”

  “Yes!” I tripped on the blanket, went down cursing. I rose, shaking off ants. “Quick!”

  Genard stopped thrashing under his covers, jumped to his feet, made no effort to dress. Instead, he ran, blanket and all, for the road.

  Ebon reared and neighed, his eyes white with terror. Santree bucked in frenzy, as if mites bored under his saddle.

  I couldn’t find my clothes.

  Rustin was half-dressed, his bare chest swarming. “Free the horses!”

  “I can’t find my breeks!”

  “Leave them!” Easy to say, when he had his. Rust stumbled across the firepit, grabbed my arm, hauled me toward the road. “Run! There’s evil loose!”

  “Where did I leave—aich!” I slapped at my loincloth, squashing whatever had darted underneath.

  “Now!” He half dragged me toward safety, shutting his eyes to a squint against a horde of probing mites.

  “Grab Ebon’s reins!”

  With a swipe, he pulled the reins free of the bush on which they’d been tied, but Ebon reared in a frenzy. Rust threw his hands in front of his face, dropped the reins. “No time!” He dragged me to the trail.

  On the roadway, Genard did a mad dance, pounding at his wrap, kicking at nothing. “They itch! It hurts!”

  I staggered to the miserable excuse for a road, stopped for breath. The swarm had definitely thinned; here only a dozen mosquitoes landed on my chest. I crushed them with frantic blows, leaving spots of blood. “Ebon, here!”

  My stallion bucked and kicked, too frantic to heed. Rustin scratched himself, swiveled his head constantly as if expecting ambush. I waved away gnats.

  “They’ll kill the horses!”

  “We’ve got to—” He braced himself. “Now!” We charged into the treacherous meadow. He raced toward Santree; I veered to Ebon. A thousand pinpricks. Rustin slipped a foot in Santree’s stirrup, but the desperate bay bucked too hard for him to mount. Rust slapped his rump and the bay clattered to the road, turned back toward Seawatch, galloped off.

  Ebon wouldn’t let me mount. I got behind the frantic whinnying horse, shooed him out toward the road, eyes near-shut against the angry swarm. Huge mosquitoes, fat with blood, landed on my exposed parts. Flailing, I dashed after the horse, hoping to overtake and mount him.

  Ebon cantered along the trail. I tripped on a log, fell hard enough so the breath was knocked out of me. While I struggled to my feet, an ominous buzz grew louder.

  Tiny shapes flitted past my head.

  “Wasps! Run!” Genard, on the roadway, lifted the skirt of his blanket, raced toward Cumber. I sprinted to the trail, batting aside angry drones that attacked as if in concert. From Rustin, a cry of dismay.

  For an instant I paused, thinking to help him, but I wore nothing but my loincloth; a horde of wasps might sting me unto death.

  Even as the thought came, the menacing swarm swooped, flitted, danced toward me. “Run, Rust! Save yourself!” I dashed headlong down the road, praying to Lord of Nature that I not trip again.

  My eyes were nearly shut from bites. Genard, screaming as he ran, was well ahead, chasing Ebon. Behind me, silence. I hoped it meant Rust had escaped; were he attacked, I could do naught.

  As I ran, the meadow alongside gave way to a dark brooding canopy that made
a tunnel of the road. Hearing or imagining the whine of wasps I panted into darkness, feeling more than seeing the roadway, knowing from Genard’s panicked cries that I followed him.

  I blundered into something large and wooden, squawked with pain, staggered on. I’d gone no more than three steps when a lash cracked onto my bare back, sounding the clap of doom. I shrieked, fell to my knees. The whip cracked again. I convulsed in torment.

  “Begone, scoundrels of the night!” A high-pitched voice, from above, that creaked and grated. “Rob us, would you?” Another lash of the whip, which missed my face by a whisker. “Willem, Verstad, to arms! Wake the others!”

  Hands behind me to protect my bleeding back, I lurched away, collided with something hard, went down. I clutched it as I fell; it was a wheel.

  “Begone, assassins!”

  I gibbered, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Don’t hurt the Prince!” Genard scampered toward me, arms spread wide, his blanket gone. “Hold, Dame Hester!” He threw his arms round me, tried to haul me to safety. “Help! Lor’ Rustin! Help!”

  Another crack of the whip. Genard howled.

  From above, silence. Then, “Roddy? Rustin?”

  I wailed, “Please, no more, Hester, I’ll be good!”

  The clearing reeled. I tumbled, and knew no more.

  Chapter 11

  I WOKE TO A cool compress on my forehead, and forced open my swollen eyes.

  Elryc, framed against sunlit canvas, grinned down at me. “You look a fright.”

  I blinked, tried to orient myself. “Where ...”

  “In the wagon.” As I frowned he added, “Hester’s thrown up a tarp. It makes the cart into a tent.” He looked small, in a worn peasant shirt.

  “Hester.” Scratching an itch, I shuddered, recalled the horror of the night. “How did you escape? I know you weren’t in the wagon.”

  He smirked. “Turned me into a bird, she did, and I flew over the—”

  I snatched at his arm, but he easily dodged me. Dizzy, I fell onto my back.

  “Be careful, you’ll—”

  “Aiyee!” I spun back onto my side, teeth clenched against the searing pain between my shoulder blades.

  “Take care. Aside from the lashes, you’re covered with bites.”