by Ru Emerson
These were men who'd been part of the herd-guard; Ylia's young women replaced them. Most of the men were riding border guard and Erken had admitted frankly that his own young men found herd-duty tedious and boring. It was, under ordinary circumstances.
But if the herds were attacked again, it was no assignment for the ill-trained, and when Ylia took it for her swordswomen she made that clear to the council. They won't look upon them as lesser because they're women, not if I can help it. Lesser because they're not much trained yet—that's a different thing. So long as they recognize the difference.
Her women made no objection when the task was set before them: They were bored, they had some training, certain skills, and since the raids had ceased, they'd mostly returned to their households. Farm chores were boring indeed, compared to the exposure they'd had so far to fighting.
And Levren was pleased: His Lennett was one of those assigned to herd-guard. A little routine, he reasoned, might give the girl a dose of patience, and teach her that being swordswoman had its disciplines besides just the heart-speeding pleasures of learning crossing patterns and fighting. And she'd be there to help Nold keep an eye on Danila.
28
It was a vast hall, its ceiling higher than the greatest hall Vess had ever seen in his life. Gold shone dully among the beams, touched the edges of occasional tables, benches set here and there along the chill marble-floored length of it. There were fires at either end; he avoided these and the clutter of men who surrounded’ them. All they did was discuss their problems: what chances they had the Heirocracy would meet with them, hear what they had to say, give them what they sought. I do not lay my soul bare for any man, any woman, let alone these. Two months of kicking his heels in the enormous lobby had erased whatever respect he'd once had for Chosen: the men, the organization, the religion itself. To the Black Well with them all, he'd think savagely—behind a blandly polite smile of his own—as yet another grey-robed individual passed him, smiled pleasantly and moved, on.
He hadn't seen Tevvro in three days: the Chosen had finally been summoned into a clerk's room, after seven petitions and three purses of his father's gold, judiciously spread among those who saw petitioners. From there—well, he couldn't guess. And he certainly would not ask those pale, snotty clerks, any of the gossipy, whispering clans of grey robes leaning close to the fires. For all he knew, Tevvro might be laying in a head-foreshortened coffin—rumor had it they'd once executed their own, if they felt the failing great enough. Perhaps they still did.
Then again, such an absence, combined with the more speculative glances of those sharing the vast hall with him, the more frequent attempts to draw him into conversation: Perhaps Tevvro was even now meeting with the Osneran Great Father and his council; maybe...
There had been the one moment his heart had risen, just that one moment, when Tevvro had spoken to a Chosen clad for long travel and learned of the Ruling that was on its way to Nedao. It had shattered around him as Tevvro explained in cold, ruthless detail why the plan would fail, why this was good, why it suited them.
It doesn't suit me! A smile turned the corners of his mouth as yet another grey-robed man bobbed his head and passed. To wait—here, of all the Mother-forsaken places on earth!—to wait two years or more? “He imagines I'll forget the bargain I made with the Vitra's captain,” he whispered. “But I'll return to set that bargain into force sooner than he thinks.”
Because there was the other thing: the thing about which Tevvro knew nothing. Nor, if Vess could help it, would he. The odd message pinned to the inside of his door by a plain silver dagger. His mother's dagger had looked like that, unadorned save for the hilts that looked like twisted rope—until you looked closely and saw it was a serpent, eyes and mouth hidden beneath the cross-grip. Hers had been smaller, a lady's nail tool shaped to match her Lord's. Save that Nala had never had a proper Lord.
Impossible to locate the deliverer of the note and its rather unusual pin; in a maze like this, anyone could have slipped into an unlocked chamber to leave it. He wouldn't ask.
He fished the message out of his belt-pouch, devoured it once again though he knew its contents by heart already. One hand traced the rough, poorly healed scar that ran from temple to jaw as he read: “There will be a ship leaving Osnera, a five-day from the day this reaches you. It is called the Vanity, it is Holthan. Take it. A 5-day out from Osneran soil, another will come to take you from the Holthan ship. You will know it by its shape and color. You will know its captain by his eyes.” Unbidden, a man stood in his thoughts: Captain of the Fury, Mal Brit Arren, eyes like northern snow and ice in a frozen dawn. “He will bring you to a place of sanctuary. What you want will be yours: Nedao. Nar. Power.”
His hand moved down to touch the edge, where the signature had smeared. He couldn't make out the name at all. The two words under that were hardly any clearer, but they'd leaped off the page at him, catching in his throat, threatening balance and vision both so he fell, weak-legged, onto the bed the first time he saw them. They still dragged at his breath with little clawed hands. “Your father.”
“Father,” he whispered, as he had that first night: a testing of the word. It vibrated his whole body, filling him with a hunger he'd never known, never realized he could know. And how strange it felt: not your father, his father, anyone's father, no. "My father.”
He'd tried since then, tried hard to remember everything she'd said about him, the few words she'd written in the diary he'd found after she'd gone to the Citadel. He was tall, very tall. There was more he couldn't remember, perhaps later he would. He folded the note with grave care, restored it to the belt-pouch.
Movement, chatter and the click of a latch brought him around: Tevvro came through an open door surrounded by clerks and other Chosen. He was red-faced, grim. It was some time before those around him disbursed and Vess could reach him, but the look of the man was enough.
Tevvro confirmed that as they walked back to the small room they'd shared the past long days, and longer nights. “They won't listen to me! Father did what he could, but it was only enough to get me in the door, not to pay anyone to listen. They made up their minds. We'll get nothing further until Jers fails and Nedao is more settled. They'll let us return, then.”
Bribes. One thinks of them as holy because they are the Fathers of these religious. They're men, just like any men. He'd known of Tevvro for some time, of course: he'd spent too much time too close to the young Chosen not to be aware of his desires, his all-too-human attributes. Tevvro was ambitious, greedy, and he'd taken this less physically chancy way to his goals.
And: They'll let us! I am a Prince of Nedao, no common grey-clad Chosen! I do what I choose, none of their desire!
It took effort for Vess to compose his face to sympathetic listening to distress at the final blow to their hopes as Tevvro spoke. Deep down, he was assessing the Chosen, finding him wanting indeed. Just behind that sympathetic face, there was a man impatient to wind up the loose ends of this fool's mission and be gone. But with care. He's a piece of low value, but he may still come to use. The groundsman travels the circuit, weaves the marks, becomes Duke. A groundsman is no use on my board: a Duke might be. Dare not waste him.
It took everything in him not to draw a great relieved breath, as though from where he stood he could smell the sea and freedom.
So often that summer, I found myself grateful that such young as I bore have long since grown arid left me. Young are a burden. That feeling was particularly strong when I came inadvertently against that hoyden Lennett. Had she been one of my own she would have felt the touch of my claws against her ears, I can assure you.
29
The sun dropped into ominous black mountains of cloud; the air was thick and wet. An occasional flash lightened the cloud front from within; thunder rumbled across the valley. The Month of Storm-Clouds looked ready to live up to its name.
The landsmen hurried tied sheaves of grain into carts and barrows, bundled it into shelter. The mar
ket was already deserted. Canopies fluttered and snapped in a rising wind; a yellow-grey light filtered into the upper chambers of the Tower. Women ran to close windows, to pull shutters over openings as yet un-glassed. Marckl and his road crew cut short the celebration of the last of their work and pelted back to the City. The Narran ship tied at the dock was brought around into shelter and re-tied, more securely and at both ends.
Nisana, whose fur had been crackling for two days, sought shelter in an inner corner of the main dining hall and determinedly willed herself to sleep. She hated storms.
Rain slammed into the valley, bending trees under a shrieking wind, lighting it from end to end. The thunder was immediate and deafening. But as quickly as it came, it was gone, rolling rapidly toward the Plain, leaving behind soaked wash, flattened gardens, enormous puddles, and a much lighter atmosphere. People emerged from their houses and barns and set about their remaining chores. The sun came out briefly, dipped behind the horizon moments later.
“Well, that should make tonight's council meeting more pleasant.” Lisabetha pushed the enormous shutters open, returned to Ylia's sating area where they'd been sewing: the girl on her pale green silk, Ylia mending her spare dagger, belt.
“I hope so, it's certainly lightened my mood.” She stood, fastened the dagger back below her knee. “I think that should hold. It still slips down my calf, though.”
“Put guides for the belt on the breeches themselves,” Lisabetha suggested. She set aside her own work. “Someone's coming—fast.”
“I hear them.” Boots; someone was taking the stairs two at a time. Merreven and Eveya slammed into the door jamb together. “Lady—,” they began, stopped. Eveya pushed past the door-warder. “Lady, the herds—”
“By all the black hells at once, tell me you weren't jumped in the storm!”
“They caught us by surprise, we were on the way back to the new pens, thought we'd have time—”
“Tell me, we'll bridge back to them. Did you ride?”
The girl shook her head; blood splattered in drops from a cut high up in her hairline. “No, I had to run it; the horses scattered first thing.” She plaited her fingers unhappily, watching from the door as Ylia caught at her cloak, brought down her sword, pulled on her boots. “We were out where four of the back grain-fields come together, you know it?” Ylia nodded. “The sky just opened, there was lightning practically on top of us.”
“And so, sensibly, you had everyone bunch the animals and get down off the horses, so as not to attract it. Don't look so upset, girl, it's the first thing any of us learn about storms, isn't it? And as soon as you did, there they were.”
We never even saw them coming,” Eveya said flatly.
“Any killed? Here, let me heal that, it won't take half a moment and it must hurt you.”
“My fault I have it,” the young swordswoman began angrily. Ylia shook her head.
“Don't argue, hold still! There. Now, take hold of my arm, you'll feel like you're falling but it won't last long. ‘Betha, you or Merreven, get Erken—get someone out there, fast!”
The grass was soaked and it was growing dark. One of the women lay flat, another braced herself upright against a stone fence, nursing an ankle. Nold sat on the grass next to her, his back to the fence, his right arm cradled in his left. The sheep bleated and tried to bolt as she and Eveya came in, but the rest of the swordswomen and the herders had them well bunched.
They'd come off well, considering: one bad concussion from a flying rock. Another woman had tripped over a small white body and twisted her ankle in the fall. Embarrassing but not serious. Ylia put both quickly to rights. Nold's wrist was badly sprained, not broken. He flexed it, took the first deep breath he'd had since the storm broke. And then, as he stood: “Oh, no.”
“What?” There was nothing she could see wrong, except that the boy's color had gone, and she had to catch at his arm to keep him from failing.
“Danna—she's gone. They have her.”
“No.” Eveya had caught his last words. “No, I watched them go! They had no prisoners, boy!”
The One protect,” Nold whispered, and touched his lips with his left hand, “Lennett's gone, too. They've gone after the Mathkkra, Lady.”
“They wouldn't dare!” Eveya began, but Nold shook his head so vehemently she stopped.
“Danna would. And Lennett—she'd dare anything, you know that!” the boy said flatly. “Lady, you know how Danila felt, you saw her last time, when they killed the sheep.”
“I thought she'd forget,” Ylia said.
“Well, I did, too.” Nold was walking in a nervous little circle, peering out across the valley, though it was still too black with clouds to see far. “She didn't. She wouldn't have anyway, but Lennett—she and Lennett—they've been full of plans, all this time.” He shrugged, scowled westward. “I don't know what they were, not for certain, Danna wouldn't tell me, and Lennett—she wouldn't—well, nevermind.”
“I know Lennett, it's all right.” Maybe Lev wouldn't discipline the girl, maybe Ilderian couldn't, but Ylia had words stored to heap on a swordswoman who'd look upon a boy like Nold as inferior. If she's done this, taken that child into such danger, given this decent lad such a scare—given me such a scare!—I'll have the hide off her!
“They were at it again this afternoon, though,” the boy finished. His eyes were still hunting, but without hope.
“This is my fault,” Eveya said grimly. “You gave me the task of caring for the flocks, and I failed at it.”
“You did all anyone could have done to protect them and the herders,” Ylia said sharply. “Better than any of us have met their match in Mathkkra before this! How did you intend to manage against a grandfather of a storm, a skylarking fool of a swordswoman and a stubborn, unforgiving child, all at once. Answer me that!” Eveya shrugged unhappily, turned away. Well, then! Think on it. Use sense! We intended to track the Mathkkra. We'll have to track Mathkkra and the girls.”
“I'm going with you,” Nold said, and his young face was set. Ylia nodded.
“You have that right. We need horses, though.” It was some few minutes before riders approached in the now near-total dark. Torches spluttered to life as they came to a halt. Galdan jumped from his horse, handed the reins to Brelian and came to meet them.
“Merreven said the herds were attacked.”
“No loss to the flocks, minor injury, all dealt with. But—”
“We came prepared to track now, before they can destroy the trail.”
“We have to track them anyway. Danila and Lennett are both missing. We think they went after the Mathkkra.”
“That girl! If it isn't one thing with her, it's ten,” Galdan replied feelingly. “All right. I brought extra horses. Your boy said the guards’ were scattered.”
“We need two: I'm coming, so is Nold.”
“If you—”
“You don't intend to argue with me, I hope,” she began sharply. Galdan shook his head, lowered his voice so Nold couldn't hear him.
“Not my intention. But to follow the Mathkkra! Are you certain they aren't prisoner?”
Ylia moved closer to him as Nold started toward them. “Eveya says they had no prisoners. Her eyes are good, and Nold says it's what Danila wanted to do.”
“What Lennett convinced her she wanted, more like.” He expelled air in a noisy gust. “I just thought. You can track them, can't you? Nedaoan girls out there? Even if the Mathkkra can hide themselves, the girls can't.” Ylia nodded. “So I'd be twice a fool to argue you're going with us. We'd better start now, we're nearly out of light. Eveya, do you want extra guard?”
The swordswoman shook her head. “I think we can manage from here,” she said sourly.
“Don't misread my words, girl!” he snapped. “We've all been knocked down when we least expected it, one time or another. We brought half a dozen spare mounts. Lady, choose for the boy, your own's among them, and let's go!”
“Right.” They moved swiftly, but it wa
s still full dark by the time they started into the foothills.
The trail led into a grove of aspen, across a muddy little creek heavy with runoff and up a ravine. They climbed, crossed the creek several times, came out onto a bare ridge. The trail, still clear, dropped down again and into pine forest, and for a few minutes they lost it on thick needles. Golsat leaned low on his horse's neck, finally found where they'd gone through brush. Branches were pushed west, and hadn't yet completely snapped back into place. Not far from this, he found a yellow-fletched arrow, set on a low branch.
“Lennett's, I think. They use similar. Not stupid, not totally,” he said as he passed it back. “They're setting a trail for us.” He slid it into his own arrow pouch.
For some distance, they moved through the open-floored forest, and again there was conscientiously good sign: broken branches, footprints in the mud at the edge of a rill, stacked rock when they suddenly emerged from woods and onto a deep, boulder-strewn, dry stream-bed.
But it was still slow going, even with that much aid. It was middle night and they had covered less than two leagues when the Mathkkra trail vanished completely. Now there was only Lennett's and Danila's.
Mind-touch was tenuous: Ylia could not sense the Mathkkra any longer when they shielded, and somehow the girls following that path were partially shielded also. She had enough sense of their direction to keep after them. That alone saved them twice, when there was no marker and the ground was too hard to give normal clue.
The moon rode high, slid in and out of cloud, sank toward the horizon and was gone. They came out onto a crumbling ledge far above the valley into near total darkness. The torches were wearing down, and one or two had gone out. They dismounted, led the horses up a steep bank, through a muddy cleft and onto higher ground. Westward, the ground sloped down to trees and brush. The ledge dropped off sharply east and west, widened here and there to a furlong or so.
