by Ru Emerson
“No. Don't leave, Marhan. She needs you.”
Marhan scowled, sucked at his moustaches. “She'll forget me.”
Galdan's fingers tightened angrily on unresponsive shoulders. ‘You can't believe that, look at her!’ his thought railed. The old man recoiled a pace from his fury. He darted a glance in Ylia's direction, turned back to fasten a doubtful look on what was before him. ‘You're a father to her,’ Galdan argued, ‘she's lost Brandt, will you deprive her of her other?’
'I'm not—!’
'No? You and she are like my father and I were, when I was a boy. Brandt never gave her that kind of love, for all he loved her. He loved her like a daughter, you've loved her like a son. You know what that's meant to her.’ Silence. Marhan just stared at him. ‘You know what she's feeling just now, don't you?”
'No!’ The old man turned away, covered his ears, but the inner voice assailed him.
'She lost Brendan, just that way. He bled to death before she could save him.’ Something deep down quailed from that; he'd known, Golsat had told him, He'd never known it like he did now, and it cut into his concentration; the old man seemed, briefly, to shimmer.
A sudden warmth pressed against his leg, a furred presence; he glanced down, startled. Nisana. Dark, wide green eyes gazed up at him as Nisana fed him what little strength she had left.
“She can't face that, Marhan.” The form steadied as he spoke. “That you should die, here and like that: it'll drive her mad, it'll kill her. You can't die like Brendan did. You can't do that to her.”
“I know.” The faintest of whispers again, touching only the inner ear. Marhan had lived through the pain of her loss; his own rage at being unable to prevent either Brendan's death or his beloved Ylia's hurt. He hesitated. Turned back and took a hesitant step toward Galdan. “I—I don't know the way. I can't.”
'You can. We can.’
'The pain,’ Marhan whispered. ‘There was so much of it. I can't face it, not again.’
'You won't, Marhan. I swear it.’ The shirt was clinging to him, back and front, sweat prickled his eyelids, beaded his lip. Marhan cast Ylia another glance, this time so full of love and pity it brought tears to Galdan's eyes. Nisana nudged against his leg again; he shifted his grip on the Swordmaster's body, rubbed his eyes left-handed and closed them.
Warmth spiraled through him; he couldn't hear the cat the way he knew she could, but he could sense what she was trying to tell him. It wouldn't work that way, though; he could tell. He shut her out; finally, burrowed down into the very innermost of himself and sought strength. His ears were humming, his entire body vibrating with this strange new thing. There was enough awareness left to him that he would hear Ylia's choking, dry sobs, Levren's soothing whisper.
Warmth moved through him, coursed through his hands. He couldn't think, there was nothing left to think with, there was only this, only here and now. It seemed forever, it seemed no time at all. He started as strong old fingers twitched against his arm, and the old man's body moved abruptly as Marhan drew in a deep breath.
There are those who have suggested since, many times, that it was my notion, my thought he took when he restored the old man to life; at the very least that it was my Power that aided him. Nothing of the sort. Seldom have I been so frustrated in my attempts to communicate with anyone; never have I so urgently—and with so little success—wished a link between myself and a human.
In the end, of course, he did not need my aid at all though I think he was glad of my presence. For he was as resourceful with his odd gift as he was strong and stubborn. Fortunate that he was so stubborn. I doubt anyone else could have argued that obstinate old man back to us.
31
It was nearly noon-hour when Ylia woke, dazed, stiff and miserable, uncertain why she was any of those things at first. She lay still a long while, trying to remember: the battle, a daze of lightning, blood, shrieking, a confusion of bodies and sudden black dark, heavy shadows from overhead as Thullen swooped across them. And gods guard them all. Galdan's sword hard against her own. Her body jolted with the remembered shock of that touch. Everything rain and mud and puddles as the Mathkkra fled, and then the healing, moving from one man to another until she could have wept from the ache in her knees, standing and kneeling again. The blur her vision became, until She could barely see where the next fallen lay, could hear little of the muted cries of pain through the ringing in her ears.
He'd stayed with her that entire time, he'd been with her when she'd found Marhan. Tears tightened her throat painfully; she fought them back. It was confused, it had been then, it still was.
Because Marhan was dead, he had been. She'd never, ever get over the touch of his hand: limp, chill beyond the chill of human flesh, unresponsive. Levren had held her, she'd only been dimly aware of Power somewhere.
Then Nisana teetering on her shoulder—the cat was nearly as worn as she was, insisting she pay attention, the feline mental shout reverberating through her agonized thought that the Sword-master was not dead, that she'd misread him because she was too worn. Galdan's hand on her shoulder, he and Levren leading her back to where the old man lay. Marhan's fingers warm, moving against hers, his breath a garlic-flavored mist against her cheek.
'He's sleeping still,’ Nisana's thought touched her. The cat was curled on the blankets, halfway down the bed. ‘Worn, that's all. The man's too old for such sport.’
“Nisana. Don't lie to me, he wasn't just unconscious. I didn't imagine it, he was dead.”
'Don't start again or I'll send you back to sleep,’ Nisana warned. ‘He wasn't. Because if he had been, who could have healed him?’ Ylia opened her mouth, closed it again. ‘I can't heal at all, and you were past helping anyone just then.’ Silence. ‘Well? That leaves no one. You made a misjudgment. Fortunately not a serious one. But you wore yourself silly with weeping for no cause.’
“Cat, you're not telling me everything. I know you, I can tell.”
'Nonsense. If you'd been in control of yourself, you'd have found pulse. It was there.’
Ylia sighed, closed her eyes. She didn't believe a word of it. Nisana gazed at her with mild irritation. I tried, man of the Foessa. It wasn't likely to work anyway, was it?
She brought her attention back to Ylia: she was staring up at the ceiling now, talking as much to herself as to the cat. “That sword. It's been responsible for too much.”
'Now what has it done? You said something last night, but made no sense. No more than you re making now.’ Ylia told her; Nisana digested the knowledge in silence for some moments. ‘Ah. I knew something had changed in him, I couldn't understand how. You should have had the shield with you, as Eya told you,’ the cat added accusingly. ‘No one's fault but yours if he touched the blade and its strength was free to work on him. The shield's at the foot of your bed, back in its chest; Brelian found it and returned it. Fortunately for you. Learn to use it! You could have avoided some of this, if not all.’
Ylia sighed. “She said not to let him touch the sword! When did I ever let him near it? And would you have had me carry that awkward bit of wood and metal for the first time in a real battle?”
'I'd have you practice either its use or practice carrying it out of your way, that's what I'd have.’ Nisana grumbled. ‘You needed it, you didn't have it. Don't blame the blade or the Folk. You can't say you weren't warned.’
Silence “No, I suppose not. It did something to him. Did you feel it?”
“I had other things to worry.’
“Even later?”
Nisana stretched hard, sat up. ‘I wouldn't chew at it so, girl. He's not worried about it, not like you think.’
“How would you know?” Ylia demanded irritably.
'You need more sleep,’ Nisana commented. Ylia sighed. ‘Because he was down in the square an hour ago, he, Brelian and Golsat. They were making certain the Ambassador's minstrel gets a straight version of the tale of Queen Ylia leading Nedao into battle!’ Ylia groaned. ‘So if he's chewing at a wo
rry, he hides it better than most men.’
“They'll all three think worry,” Ylia said, momentarily distracted, “if they sell Grewl another exaggeration like last time.” She pushed covers aside, padded across the cool floor in search of a clean shirt and breeches.
'I like that song,’ Nisana replied. ‘The Narran has talent, and he leaves out the high notes that hurt my ears. He says very good things about me. And it served your purpose, after all. That Narran boy no longer pursues you, does he?’
He probably has nightmares about the Tanea-a-Les,” Ylia retorted, “but that's not the point. It's embarrassing, listening to all that, as though I actually—”
'—actually went openly into a Tehlatt war camp, stole their prisoners, fired their tents, battled and slew their chief,’ the cat broke in calmly. ‘All of which you did. So?’
Ylia shrugged into her shirt, tucked it into the breeches. “It's embarrassing,” she repeated firmly. ‘Especially with everyone sitting there smiling at me. Try it!”
'I was there also, remember? I didn't see what the fuss was, but then, people always stare at me. It doesn't bother me anymore.’ She jumped down from the bed, stretched and bounded into the hall. Ylia scowled after her, sat back on the bed to lace her breeches down.
Are you—you are awake, good.” Lisabetha paused uncertainly in the doorway, came in with a tray. “Malaeth thought you might be up, or that you should be, and sent me with food. Tr'Harsen's back, he has flesh oranges.”
“Good. I forgot I was hungry, until just now.” She settled down with her meal. Lisabetha caught up the comb and went to work on her hair. “Ouch.”
“Don't pull away, the comb's caught—sorry.” She replaited one side, began loosening the other, picking out snags as she went. “What's wrong, ‘Betha?” Something was; the girl was radiating worry in all directions.
“Nothing.”
She caught at the comb, the hand that held it. “Not nothing. Tell me.”
Lisabetha stood silent for some moments. “I dreamed last night. I couldn't sleep, I was worried. Most of us were. We didn't know what would happen. But then, I was—just there, in a large, round room. I thought I could see water beyond a window, but it was smeared with rain and the glass was warped, as though it had been poorly made. There were tapestries on the walls, rich carpets on the floor. I thought I saw a fine Southern one among them, one of those the Ragnolers weave with the dark colors and curious patterns they take from smoke dreams.
“And then he was there Lyiadd. He and Marrita stood before a brazier, the smoke was dark red, and it seemed to me they were waiting for someone She finished the second plait in silence. “It was dream, the true kind. He waited, and whatever he was waiting for, he wanted it very much. She stood by him, aided him, but I knew she was not pleased. That whatever Lyiadd sought, she did not want it.”
Ylia closed her eyes. The cold truth of the girls words shivered through her. “We knew he lived. I knew, even when I denied it most. But if I had it to do again,” she added bitterly, “I'd make certain of both of them, and let them try to fight their way back up the walls of the Black Well! Not my fault, he said,” She added, even more bitterly. “If he knew!”
“He?” Lisabetha touched her arm.
“Someone I spoke to, once. A little while since. About Lyiadd. Nevermind. But I should have killed him. When I had the chance. Should have killed them both.”
You thought you had. There was no time to be certain,” Lisabetha urged. “And Marrita: I cannot believe you would have killed a woman unarmed.”
“Perhaps not. Though Marrita is scarcely unarmed! I didn't, that's all that matters now.” She roused herself. “There'll be council tonight. We'd better tell them.”
Lisabetha looked even more unhappy. “Must we?”
“We'd better. No one will look oddly at you, that you dream, remember that; not my council, not with me for comparison! But not at you. ‘Betha, they ought to be told what you've seen. Perhaps not all of them will believe—”
“Marckl,” Lisabetha said feelingly.
“And Erken,” Ylia said, “who should know better since his wife had Sight. But now we've destroyed the Mathkkra, people will want to think us safe and relax vigil. If Lyiadd lives, we dare not. She picked up the orange—it was pale green around the stem, soft and juicy as she bit through the rind. Lisabetha took up the comb and finished her plaits in silence. Ylia rose, pulled on her boots and started for the door. “It'll come out all right. Don't worry it, ‘Betha.”
“I won't.” Lisabetha's smile faded as soon as Ylia was gone. The other she'd seen—the one she couldn't bring herself to name. The one she thought she'd seen, and in such circumstance? What if she'd held back vital information, not telling all of the dream? “I did it to keep her from worry, that's all,” she whispered to the empty chamber. That was at least partly true. Then again: What if she was wrong? But—what if she wasn't?
Ylia had a long search for Erken—partly because the man himself had just been seen almost everywhere but was none of the places where he'd just been seen, mostly because she was too tired, to move energetically after him. She finally ran him down at the far end of the bridge, where he was speaking to the prior night's herd guard. He was muddy, rumpled, his hair and beard tangled and his eyes heavy. He confirmed what she could see: he hadn't yet slept, had remained behind with a contingent of his men to see to the burning of the Mathkkra slain, had ridden back to the stream to see if any had recrossed it, had helped seal the main entrance to the tunnels. He hadn't left the high ridge until an hour past daylight.
“We can safely consider that hold wiped out.” Pride vied with exhaustion. “I will not wager as to whether there are more of them, however.”
“No. I doubt anyone would, after this.”
“I was proud of our forces.” Erken ran a hand through his hair, scowled at it in distaste. They walked slowly back across the bridge. The river was heavy with runoff; a number of men were down by the supports, dragging trees and snags free. “Considering how young and how green-trained many of them are, we still lost only fifteen all told.”
“Did you get a count when it got light?”
“I lost it at eight-fifty. Marckl thinks a thousand, though I myself doubt that.”
“Gods and Mothers, if we'd known that—” She stared at him, shocked. “It goes against everything I know of them. They do not live so many to a den. Erken, they must have been set against us!”
Erken bit back a yawn. Shrugged. “I know little that's real save what I've seen in these mountains. It's not sense, though: Those who subsist on meat alone do not live in large tribes, it leads to famine.” He smiled faintly. “That's plain logic.”
“It's sense, either way,” she replied. She added, as they stopped mid-bridge to let wagons by, “You should see yourself, Erken; you're near to falling where you are. Get some sleep, man, you're no use to yourself or any of us if you're that tired.”
“I'd thought to—”
“No. Whatever it is. Do it later, or pass it on to someone else if it won't wait.”
“I suppose,” he yawned, stifled it neatly with the back of his hand. “Your pardon. I suppose that's sense too. I'm too tired to think whether I should go sleep now, or wait until tonight.”
“I know what you'd tell any of us,” Galdan's voice came from behind them. “Revered Father, you've saved Nedao for the moment, go rest on your honors.” Erken cast his son an exasperated look. Galdan clapped him on the back and gave him a hard shove. “Go ahead, you'll feel foolish indeed, being carried to your blankets! We'll manage somehow in your absence.” Erken sighed and threw up his hands in surrender.
“All right, I'm outnumbered, boy. Though I'd like to see you carry me anywhere, considering how I still outsize you.”
“Old bones don't weigh as much,” Galdan retorted with a wide grin. “There's council tonight, blessed and honored parent. I'll see you're wakened for it.”
“You'd better!” Erken started off.
“It was a particularly bad storm last night—but you're right. Your father had men out this morning, he and Marckl, to take note of any spillover from the banks.” She leaned on the upper rail, too, but she had to stretch to get her elbows comfortably set. She finally hunched her shoulders, since Malaeth couldn't see her, and rested her chin on the smoothed wood.
“I should have known,” Galdan said ruefully. “That he wasn't out making up to his women as soon as he came back.” And, as Ylia cast him a sharp glance, he grinned. “Come now, that was a jest, and you know it! Father's not looked at any woman but you since Mother died—and it's not,” he added hastily, “at all the same kind of look.” Momentary silence. “If you thought I meant that.”
“I should hope not,” she replied stiffly, but he winked at her and she laughed. “He's a good man, Erken. I'd be lost without him.”
“He knows things—one or two of them.” Galdan nodded. The smile slipped from his face; he, brought it back with an effort she missed; her gaze was on the workers who were dragging the wreckage of a flat-bottomed boat back up the west bank. “Did you sleep well?”
“I must have, I remember nothing. Nisana brought me home—I think I remember that. I could have ridden.”
“There wasn't any point to it, and I don't think she wanted to ride with a group of smelly humans.” Ylia cast him a sharp glance; his attention was all for the water. Or perhaps he was looking through it.
She swallowed. Opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. Shifted her weight and swallowed again. “I remember before Nisana took charge of me, though.” The high, strangled voice scarcely sounded like hers.
