Harric handed Spook and his reins to Caris and took down his water skin from his saddle. The long-suffering musk-auroch watched through wooly bangs as he approached.
“This should be entertaining,” said Brolli.
“If it works at all,” said Harric. “He’s pretty far gone.” Standing outside the priest’s considerable reach, he squirted his water skin into the priest’s face, and jumped back.
“Time to wake, father!” Brolli crowed.
Kogan’s eyes fluttered. His bleary gaze found the Kwendi on Idgit. “Lead on, fair damsel!”
Brolli looked to Harric. “What is this damsel word?”
“It means ‘brave warrior,’” said Harric.
Brolli grinned. “I am the damsel.”
“Har! Me too,” said Kogan. “We’re damsels together.”
Caris gave Harric a look.
“No way I’m telling him,” Harric whispered. “Too funny.”
“Harric, you read Iberg,” said Willard, “so I want you to keep the map.” He drew Mudruffle’s map from its oiled leather case and held it out for Harric. “Unroll it so we can see it together.”
Harric hurried to Willard and accepted the map. It was a heavy, impressive document inked on calfskin and wound about a pair of staves as long as his arm. Harric imagined it would have been much too large for Mudruffle to pack around on his map-making expeditions, so the little golem must have used rough parchments for notes and drawings while out, and then transferred them to this “master map” when he returned.
As Harric unrolled it, Willard said, “Since we haven’t looked at this map together since before the attack on the fort, I want you all to see it afresh. If we’re separated, remember it, and you’ll be oriented and know where to expect us.”
Harric climbed onto a high knot of roots and held it up while they gathered close.
“We’re here,” Harric said, pointing out the tiny sketch of a silver tower in the center of the map. “To our west”—he pointed to a blue line running up and down the left edge of the map—“is the River Arkend and Gallows Ferry. The gray line running the river must be the Free Road to the northlands.”
Willard nodded. “Our first objective is to get back to the river so we can get a ship to take us up through the Giant’s Gap up into the northlands, but Bannus and his men cut off our routes west. Therefore, our only choice is to ride east into wilderness, and hook north to skirt our enemies and find another way to the river.”
“It’s a race,” Brolli said.
“It is,” said Willard. “Harric, point out Mudruffle’s route through the wilderness.”
Harric put his finger on the map. “Mudruffle’s trail goes east down the far side of this ridge and into the next valley…” He drew his finger east and paused to read the golem’s writing. He gave a grim smile. “He names that valley the Yoab Maze, and the trail north through it he named Yoab Highway. That sounds fun.”
“He refers to the yoab runs that crisscross the old forests,” said Willard. “The beasts use the same paths every year, and over generations they’ve established runs as clear as any highway. If it weren’t for their plowing, the place would be impassable with fallen trees.”
Brolli’s eyebrows had risen from behind his daylids while they talked. “Yoab? This is the blind four-leg mountain that almost killed us when we woke it?”
Willard grunted in the affirmative.
“How is this a good trail?” said Brolli.
“A yoab is big and unpredictable, but it isn’t sadistic, insane, cruel, or invincible, like Bannus. It’s just hungry, preparing for hibernation, like bears.”
Brolli shook his head. “I like this not.”
“Nor do I,” said Willard. “But it’s what we’ve got. Our one advantage in this race is that while Bannus knows we must get back to the river, he does not know we intend to go north to get to it. He’ll expect us to head south toward civilization and the Queen, not north into the teeth of an unmapped wilderness.”
“I see,” Brolli said. “Unmapped for him, not for us.”
“And if we can leave him a false trail heading south,” said Willard, “all the better. We head north while he goes south, and if luck is with us, we’ll find one of the Queen’s ships anchored below the Giant’s Gap, and our troubles will be over. If not, we’ll book passage on the next waterwheel up the Gap.”
Kogan poked the top of the map with a finger like a dirty potato. “That’s your goal? A blank spot on the map?” He’d poked the space beyond the Godswall, which remained conspicuously free of all but a few words in Iberg that Harric understood as lost magic, maybe, or stolen magic. “Reckon that’s the Free Lands, but your map don’t show where to go.”
“Those are the Kwendi lands,” said Brolli. “And there, I shall be the map.”
The priest did not seem to notice, but to Harric, the ambassador’s tone was one of careful correction, as if to remind all present that the lands beyond the Godswall were not “Free Lands” open for Arkendian settlement, but part of the Kwendi lands, and that until a treaty was reached, Arkendian presence there was contested.
“No Chimpey lands for me,” Kogan said. “Once we strike the road, I’ll ask after my flock and Widda Larkin and rejoin them as soon as I can. I worry about the families we brought north. And Widda Larkin never wanted the burden of leading them.”
“That’s all one,” said Willard. “Our trails are one until then.”
“We will help you find your flock again if we can,” said Brolli. “You have sacrificed much to help me this far.”
“Saddle up,” Willard said to Harric. “Every moment here is a moment gained by our enemies.”
Harric mounted and then partly unrolled the map. It seemed to him that it wasn’t just the space above the Godswall that lacked notation, but much of the space below, as well, and that bothered him.
As he fell in line behind Willard, he kept the map open before him, and gave Snapper his reins to follow Molly, while he examined it. A quick look confirmed that his initial impression was right; though Mudruffle had crammed most of the space below the Godswall with carefully written details of landmarks and geographic features, the notes dwindled the closer they got to the lower edge of the Godswall. He guessed that the terrain grew more and more difficult the farther north one went, and that for such an ungainly hiker as Mudruffle, a journey all the way to the Godswall would be nigh impossible. It seemed unlikely, therefore, that he’d ever actually been to the head of the valley, and that more likely any notes there were based on what he had guessed from some viewpoints farther south.
After rolling the map carefully on it staves, Harric slipped it back in its case. As he stowed it on his pack and took up the reins again, he pondered the implications. If he was right, it meant that they might fight their way through wilds to the Godswall, only to find the way west to the river impassable. And if Bannus or his allies were hot on their trail, they’d be trapped against the mountains.
He let out a worried sigh. No point in telling Willard. Like the knight had said, they had no other options. For now, they’d have trust in luck and hope Mudruffle woke before they made any crucial blunders.
Spook mewed in his basket as they left the ridge, so Harric slipped his hand under the lid and rubbed behind the little cat’s ears to comfort him. He also kept the lid on tight until they’d ridden beyond the cat’s familiar hunting grounds; if the little furball shot out after a squirrel, there would be no halting to recapture him, but once they were in less familiar territory, where he never ranged far afield, he could be trusted to stay near.
*
As they descended the switchbacks into the valley, Harric caught magnificent views of the ancient forest of the Yoab Maze below, and in spite of everything—Willard’s hurried pace, the yoabs before them, Sir Bannus behind—Harric felt his spirit opening. For the first time since they’d arrived at the tower, they were on a new trail, headed in a new direction, descending into the unexplored east.
The trail down from the ridge proved easy to find and only slightly overgrown. Harric guessed it had originally been cleared as a fire-escape road by the toolers who constructed the thunder spire, and though the toolers had never returned to it, he spied evidence of Mudruffle’s lonely maintenance in the form of more recently pruned branches and saplings.
That road ended abruptly, however, and dwindled to something more like a game trail. Harric kept the map handy after that, and it proved useful, for the way was often obscure, but Mudruffle had annotated this portion of the map with an almost absurd amount of detail. Notes like Burned Trunk or Tumble of Red Rock were abundant. Farther north up the Yoab Highway was a feature in red ink that he’d named Toothed Canyon, with no other explanation.
When Harric shared it with Brolli, the Kwendi said, “That sounds pleasant,” and yawned hugely, displaying his thick canines.
“You ought to sleep,” said Harric. “It’s way past your sleep time. Spook’s already snoozing.”
Brolli shook his head. “I must see this trail myself.”
When the path finally deposited them in the green valley, far below Abellia’s ridge, scores of grasshoppers erupted from the trail, wings snapping angrily. Willard called a halt when he’d led them from the shaded forest into sunlit meadows of wildflowers and summer grass beside the roaring river. Mudruffle had named the water the river the Deeprush, which was appropriate, for it was twice as wide as Harric could throw a stone, and looked deeper than a tall man in its most muscular rapids.
Harric brought Snapper to the edge of a glassy pool in an offshoot of the main river, and let out the reins so the gelding could drink. An otter cut a shining V across the surface of the pool, its black head watching them before ducking under. On the far bank of the river, a half-dozen red elk raised their heads from grazing, blazing in the sun. A blackbird trilled in reeds, and something in Harric’s spirit, long cramped and starved of natural peace, grew light and drank it in.
Molly lunged toward the elk, shattering the mirror of the pool before Willard could rein her back. The elk sprang away and vanished into the brush, and the Phyros snarled in frustration.
Harric tried to focus on the scents of watercress and carrot weed, but Molly’s ozone stink stopped the air in his throat.
“Way to feel the moment, Molly,” said Harric when he’d regained his breath.
“She’s hungry,” Willard said. “Needs to feed on something more than the blood mash from the fort. Especially when I’m bleeding her. Would’ve given her one of Abellia’s goats, but I didn’t think the old gal would like that.”
“These noble elk will do?” Brolli flashed his canines. “It would please me to hunt for her in the night. And it would please me to eat roast meat.”
Willard frowned. “No roasting for us, ambassador—not until we’re out of yoab country. But I’d welcome a fresh kill for Molly. Mudruffle’s marks cross this river here, yes?”
Harric nodded. He pointed upstream to a reed-rimmed bend in the river, where the floor of the valley appeared wider and the river shallower. “The map says we can ford it around that bend.”
“Good. Lead the horses in where you will leave no tracks. Somewhere rocky, not sandy. And when you leave the water on the other side, be sure to find a place where tracks will be difficult to see. Once you find the Yoab Highway, follow it north and camp on high ground before dusk. I’ll catch you up before you get to the canyon.”
“You aren’t coming?” said Harric.
Willard shook his head. “The fire in the meadow this morning probably signaled Bannus to move through the pass. That puts him no more than a day behind us—”
“You don’t think to meet him, do ye?” Kogan said. The priest’s head, which had been resting on his chest in apparent slumber, rose with a jerk. Red-shot eyes squinted at Willard from a tangle of braids. “You ain’t ready, Will. Not yet.”
Willard whirled in his saddle. “Shut your idiot mouth!” His fury exploded with such ferocity that Harric nearly dropped the map and Brolli jumped. The knight’s face flushed purple and his fists trembled on Molly’s reins as if barely able to withhold the signal to attack. Molly waited, spring-tight, eyes on Kogan.
Kogan shut his idiot mouth. He very slowly raised his hands in placation.
“Willard and I will run the extra horses south,” Caris said, so softly that Harric almost missed it. Her gaze appeared distant, as if half in the horse world and half in the human, but her eyes rested on Willard, whose shoulders rose and fell in shuddering breaths. “We’ll head south down this side of the river,” she said, her voice still low and calm, “and hopefully Bannus will see our tracks and follow them. Once we get the captured horses moving southward on their own, we’ll let them go and break off to cross the river and double back. With luck, Bannus will waste days on the false trail.”
As she spoke, she kept her eyes on Willard, as if gauging his reaction. Gradually, the flush of purple retreated from his skin, his eyes regained focus, and his breathing normalized. When she finished her description of their plan, he’d calmed enough to give a curt nod and a hoarse “As she says.”
Kogan lowered his hands, and Brolli exhaled slowly. Harric guessed the ambassador’s eyes were as big as goose eggs behind his daylids. When Kogan seemed about to speak, Harric shook his head behind Willard and drew his hand emphatically across his throat.
Kogan’s eyes flicked to him, and to Harric’s relief, he clamped his mouth shut again.
“If I say I do not like this plan to split up,” said Brolli, voice low but clear, “will you become monster and kill me?”
Willard flushed again, and his jaw muscles pulsed. “Just stick to the map,” he said, voice hoarse. “If you get lost, stop and wait.” He turned Molly about, ending the conversation. While Molly’s bulk shielded the view of the others, Willard tossed a pouch to Harric, who, surprised, barely reacted in time to catch it. Hefting it in his hand, Harric knew instantly it was not coin. More like strips of dried bark, or herbs.
“If you need it, eat it,” said the knight, just loud enough for Harric to hear.
Harric palmed the pouch as Willard and Molly turned south along the riverbank, Molly’s huge hooves thumping the shallow soil.
Kogan let out a noisy sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.
As Caris gathered the leads of the captured horses, Harric said, “We should call you the Willard whisperer.”
Her eyes distant—her mind obviously in the world of horses again—she managed a faint, embarrassed smile.
“Good luck,” Harric said. He couldn’t help a little worry leaking into his tone. And if it wasn’t a trick of her horse-touched trance, he thought he saw worry in her eyes as well.
She cast him a cryptic glance as she mounted, then rode after her mentor.
Each moon has its servants,
Both celestial and mortal.
Celestial servants walk the earth as guides
To the mortal—
As tutors and conduits to their moon—
That the mortal may accomplish on earth
The eternal purpose of the moon.
Without their mortal counterpart
The celestial must remain on their moon,
And without their celestial guide
—Saying of unknown origin, common in the Iberg Compact
26
The Price Of Immortality
Abellia sat in her window with the view of the west valley.
The tower was still and quiet without the busy sounds of Mudruffle’s industrious hands mending, cooking, and cleaning. The larder was fully stocked with jarred pears and lentil soups, and the pantry was full of milled flour and spices, but there was little use in it. He’d been gone a day, but she hadn’t eaten since he left. Now, on the second morning of his absence, she finally heated a pot of broth he’d left on the hearth for her first day alone, and drank it as she stared out the window.
Below, the morning sun angled through the tops of the fire-cones an
d dappled the far end of the little valley where Caris had pastured her horses and the old knight had trained her in arms.
An ache of regret touched Abellia’s heart.
Watching Caris had reminded her of what it meant to desire something so much that she would sacrifice all for it. What it meant to seek a dream in spite of censure and opposition—to lose family, friends, status, everything for the dream. She too had followed a dream in her youth, giving up everything to take her vows to the Bright Mother.
But her dream had betrayed her. It had used and forgotten her. She closed her eyes against the memory of the Light Bringer in the tower—its cutting, unseeing eyes; her own invisibility before eternity—and suppressed a moan that threatened to push past her lips.
Trembling hands lifted the broth to her lips, and she sipped it, heart thumping in a ribcage that felt to her as frail as last year’s reeds.
All will be restored, she reminded herself. Soon. Drink your broth, old husk. You must be well and strong to make this journey.
Her eyes fell on the nexus where it lay on the table beside her, bright as a promise. Mudruffle’s nexus. How fortunate it was for her that he had been unable to take it with him—that he’d spent himself in suppressing the fire and was unconscious when they left and took him with them. Surely he would have insisted he take it; no magus of her advanced age had ever been allowed to keep a nexus, unwatched. And yet she could not be sure he would have done so. Mudruffle had expressed concern about her safety in his absence should the murderous knights return and surround her tower; perhaps he would have left her the ancient stone to protect herself until he returned. She liked to think so. And it would have been a reasonable gesture, given her lifelong loyalties.
But he would have been wrong.
She blushed at her own audacity. Yet it was better he leave her this way, for he did not have to take the stone, and she did not have to lie to him.
She would wait another hour before she acted.
The Jack of Ruin Page 22
