by Angus Wells
Therefore, Amadis thought as he watched the priest study the ground and sniff the air, Laurens and the forester were proscribed, and he would side with Per Fendur and hope to become master of the keep, and somehow find himself in Lord Bartam’s place—lord of Border Castle and bed, both. He contemplated the prospect until a voice interrupted his musings.
“What?”
“Do we make camp?”
He glowered at Drak and rose taller in his saddle. “No. We’ve quarry to pursue, so we wait on—”
“This way.” Per Fendur swung astride his horse. “Come!”
Amadis waved for the disgruntled troop to follow.
EBEN BENT OVER LAURENS, examining the wounds and easing more of the blue liquid into the man’s mouth.
“At least three days,” he muttered, more to himself than Cullyn. “Then, perhaps …”
“Perhaps what?” Cullyn was confused and frightened and irritated. He understood that he and Laurens were pursued, but little of what Eben did, and he had sooner quit the cottage to find refuge in the forest. Nor did he enjoy the wizard’s shifting humors.
“Before he’s well enough to travel,” Eben grunted. “Put him on a horse now and he’ll be dead, despite all my care.”
Cullyn felt fear overcome his other emotions; he did not want Laurens to die. “And so?”
“We wait and hope,” Eben said. “Hope that my fends distract the priest; hope that he and his soldiers do not somehow stumble on my home; hope that Laurens does not die.”
“And if not?”
“Then we might be safe. You and Laurens might not be put to the question. I might not be hung and burned for a Durrym wizard.” He settled wearily at the table. “The gods know, boy, but you delivered me trouble. I wonder if you’re not a syn’qui.”
“What’s that?” Cullyn asked.
“A Durrym word,” Eben replied. “It means a …” He shook his head angrily, as if he could not quite grasp the point, or understand it. “A confluence. It means … a person who gathers events to themselves, so that the world revolves around them, and others are swept along in the train of events.”
“Me?” Cullyn stared at the wizard.
Eben shrugged and said, “Perhaps. I wish you’d not come here. I was happy before you came.”
“And I was happy in my cottage,” Cullyn returned.
Eben laughed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “The way of the world, no? We’re all happy until something happens to disturb it. Then … Oh, gods, boy, fetch me that flask and let’s have a drink while we decide what to do.”
Cullyn fetched down the flask and filled their cups.
“THIS WAY!” Per Fendur beckoned the troop. “They went this way—I can smell them.”
Amadis urged his tired horse forward. His men came behind, weary and cold and thoroughly disgruntled. The sun was down now and the night chilly. The moon illuminated their way, casting long shadows over the mud and the glistening snow. They were all hungry and tired, and wanted nothing more than to halt, make a fire, and sleep. But Per Fendur took them onward until the moon was overhead, shining its cold silvery light over the grove where they finally made camp.
“We need to rest the horses and the men,” Amadis insisted. “Neither can go on much longer.”
“But we ride on come dawn,” Fendur decided. “The heretics are in sight now.”
They rose to a wet morning. A wind blew from the south, and it set the trees to dripping afresh, and muddied the trail anew. But Per Fendur led them keen as a scented hound toward their quarry.
Until …
He reined in his horse, glancing hither and yon.
“What’s amiss?” Amadis asked.
“Confusion!” Per Fendur swung his horse around, swung from the saddle, threw the reins to Amadis and knelt to sniff the sodden soil. “Fends!”
“Fends?” Amadis stared at the priest, amazed to see the man sniffing the ground like a dog in heat.
Fendur rose, and wiped his nose. “Aye, fends. They’ve a sorcerer aiding them, and he’s sent fends out to confuse us.”
“So what do we do?”
Per Fendur snarled like a rabid dog. “We must follow every trail. The gods damn whoever did this! But I’ll find him and destroy him.”
“And meanwhile?” Amadis asked, thinking of the keep and Vanysse. “What shall we do?”
“Hunt.” Per Fendur indicated the tracks Eben’s animals had taken. They spread in numerous directions.
Amadis sent men dashing to north and south, east and west, chasing trails that went off into the forest and disappeared into dens and burrows, setts and dreys, trees, so that all came back with no report. Per Fendur grew angry.
“We shall lose them soon.”
Amadis glanced at the risen moon and wished he were back in the keep, in his mistress’s bed. The gods knew, that was more comfortable than this cold ground.
“We go on. We must find them.”
“Now?” Amadis stared at the priest and found the courage to dispute. “My men are weary; tired and cold and hungry.”
“But nonetheless they’ll go on. On my command.”
Amadis shrugged and turned his eyes from Per Fendur’s gaze, and called his reluctant men to their saddles.
“WE NEED TO BUY TIME,” Eben said. “The fends will have confused him for a while, but even so …”
He picked animals from his stacked books, opening one and another, studying pages, sweeping more protesting beasts from shelves as he took down parchments and leather-bound tomes. Cullyn wondered that so many tracts existed even as Eben glanced at the pages and muttered to himself as he read.
“Not enough!” he told himself and looked to Cullyn. “Not enough! We must do more. I must do more. You don’t understand, do you?”
Cullyn shook his head.
Eben turned more pages; unscrolled aged parchments; shook out the droppings of animals. Paper crackled as he unrolled it, like old, dried flesh unwilling to give up its secrets. He studied each parchment and manuscript and book and threw them aside in a great confusion of movement and fluttering pages that set the animals still about the cottage to stirring nervously.
Then, “I have it,” he declared. “At least, I hope I do. Come!”
Cullyn followed the man to the stable. Eben carried twigs and herbs, and Cullyn wondered what he did—what they did. But Eben urged him to mount Fey, so he did. They went out into the night.
Fey was eager to run, but Eben went afoot and so Cullyn must hold the stallion to a slow pace as Eben waved his branches and chanted, and they rode in what seemed to Cullyn circles until dawn. Then they returned to the cottage.
Cullyn could not understand how so old a man could run so long, but Eben seemed untired.
“I think,” he said when they returned, “that I might have confused the priest long enough.”
“So we’re safe?”
“For a while. Hopefully long enough for Laurens to ride again.”
“And then what?” Cullyn asked.
“If we remain here,” Eben chuckled cynically, “then sooner or later he finds you and Laurens—and me. So we’d best hope Laurens recovers, and we see him safe.”
“We?” Cullyn asked.
“It would seem that my lot is thrown with yours,” Eben replied. “Not my choice, boy. But you brought this to me, so I’ve little other choice than to face the Church. And damn you for that!”
“I sought none of this,” Cullyn protested. “I only did what Laurens asked, bringing him here.”
“Even so,” Eben said.
“So what do we do?” Cullyn asked again.
“Wait and hope that Laurens is well enough to ride before the priest finds us.”
“And then?”
“We go where he can’t—at least, not without difficulty.”
“Where?”
Eben stared at him with a gaze that proclaimed him an idiot. “Why did you start all this? Was Abra somewhat to do with it?”
Cullyn n
odded.
“And she’s gone into Coim’na Drhu with Lofantyl?” Cullyn nodded again.
“Then,” Eben said, “I suppose we must go after her.”
ELEVEN
THEY HAD RIDDEN HARD, anxious of pursuit until they crossed the Alagordar, then eased the pace once the river was crossed. Even so Abra was wearied by the journey, and confused by the strange land they entered. It was simultaneously like and unlike Kandar: woodland and meadows, streams and rivers traversing the undulating landscape, save Kandar was winter-gripped and this place—this fey land—basked in lazy autumn, and more. There were trees she did not recognize, and weirdling beasts that roamed the forest. Birds far brighter than any she had seen before mingled with such ordinary avians as she did recognize.
She was both excited and afraid. Lofantyl assured her all was well and no harm should come to her, but Afranydyr frightened her. He seemed to her a dour man, who wished her no good, and since the rescue he had be come even grimmer, hardly speaking to her at all—and then only in terms of hard courtesy. But Lofantyl joked with her and promised her ease and comfort once they reached his father’s hall, and she could not help loving him.
“It shall be easier when we reach Kash’ma Hall,” he said as they sat about a fire on which some animal she did not recognize roasted. “My father shall welcome you as my bride-to-be, and put Afranydyr in his place.” He took her hands and bowed his head. “Please forgive my brother’s intransigence, and trust my love.”
Abra was not sure she could do either. She felt a great affection for Lofantyl—indeed such affection as might be love. But still he was a Durrym, and perhaps this was only seduction. Save when he held her hands and looked into her eyes, she felt her heart lurch and knew that she wanted only to be with him, man and wife.
But in Coim’na Drhu?
Could she live here? They certainly could not live in Kandar, for the Church would proscribe such union and execute them both as heretics. Her father might accept it, but never the Church.
She sighed and clutched Lofantyl’s hands tighter. “What shall happen to us?”
“Why, we shall come to Kash’ma Hall and be wed. Do you not want that?”
“And Afranydyr?”
“Shall accept our father’s decision.”
“And if your father says you nay?”
“Then we’ll go off and live like Cullyn. All alone in the forest between our lands.”
“As outlaws?”
“If you like.” He leaned toward her and they kissed. “I’d give up everything for you.”
“Your hall? Your family?”
Lofantyl shrugged. “I don’t much like Afranydyr, anyway. And my father has little time for me—he believes me too interested in you Garm.”
“But still he’d see us wed?”
“He’d not deny my wishes. And my wish is to wed you.” Lofantyl held her hands tighter. “Think on it! You and I married—Coim’na Drhu wedded with Kandar. Might that not bring us peace?”
“It might,” she said as he kissed her again. And then, “Or deliver war.”
They stared at one another as the fire spluttered and the night grew dark, sparks rising toward the many stars that speckled the fey lands night. Abra stared at Lofantyl and there came between them some understanding that they could not define, but only know. Lofantyl said, “I shall never betray you.”
Then Afranydyr came to them, before Abra had chance to answer, all stern admonishment. “Best sleep—we ride out early.”
“Sound advice, my brother.” Lofantyl grinned. “And we shall take it in a while.”
Afranydyr snorted and turned away.
Lofantyl said, “It is good advice,” and took Abra’s hand to escort her to her bed, where he left her with a courteous bow.
THEY WENT ON THROUGH impossible forests where impossible animals crossed their path, and came to Kash’ma Hall.
“My home,” Lofantyl said.
Abra could scarcely believe it. How could such a place exist?
She was familiar with the confines of her father’s keep—all stone, walled with granite, the village of Lyth below like some succored hybrid, the keep a defensive tower looming over the village.
This unbelievable place sat within a great swath of forest, isolated only by the meadow that spread around it like a great grass moat. The trees within which they stood halted on low, encircling ridgetops, and grew no farther, leaving the grass sway. It was a low bowl, encompassed by the forest, then the grass, which ran like some green sea to the walls of Kash’ma Hall, speckled with flowers, so that the emerald green of the grass was marked with blossoms of white and blue and yellow that filled the air with sweet scents that set Abra’s head to spinning with their seductive perfumes.
“Is it not beautiful?” Lofantyl asked.
Abra could only nod her agreement.
She studied the keep—save was it truly a keep? It seemed more like some fairy castle, some fey fantasy. It seemed all wooden, as if trees were trained to ward the perimeters, and all the buildings inside those walls grown rather than built. All the buildings shone in the sun. It seemed as much forest as fortress. The grass sparkled, and the towers she saw carried the hues of wood, as if all were built of oak and ash and birch and beech, willow and aspen: every kind of timber imaginable, with great spills of flowers tumbling from the walls—as if it were all some great blossoming basket that shed happy colors into the latening day.
“My home,” Lofantyl said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Then let’s go there and meet my father.”
THEY RODE IN THROUGH wooden gates all draped with ivy and climbing plants that flourished blue and yellow flowers that filled the entrance with perfume. Men and women and children watched them silently as they followed an avenue that was lined as much with trees and shrubs and flowers as with houses to—Abra was not sure what it was: the central keep, or some unbelievably vast tree? It seemed to have grown, rather than been built. It boasted swirling branches so unlike the battlements of her father’s keep that she gasped in wonderment. It stood taller than any tree could grow—in Kandar—and all its boughs were cut with windows, its roots with doors, its trunk with balconies. She felt awed, that the Durrym magic could create so magnificent a hold.
She clutched Lofantyl as they approached a vast doorway, where Durrym warriors stood.
“Don’t be afraid,” he urged her. “This is how we live—with the land.”
She nodded, unsure, and let him help her down from the big bay horse, and took his hand as he led her into the tree keep.
Afranydyr came after, and all their footsteps echoed on wooden floors. Abra felt very afraid as they paced the entry hall to a doorway guarded by two solemn-faced Durrym.
“Now you’ll meet my father,” Lofantyl said, as the guards swung the door open.
Abra swallowed hard and went with Lofantyl into the central hall.
ISYDRIAN WAS A TALL, hawk-faced Durrym, more akin to Afranydyr than Lofantyl in both appearance and manner. Abra felt quelled by his presence as he studied her, and Lofantyl ducked his head as he delivered their introductions.
“Father, this is Abra.”
“Who is Garm’kes Lyn.”
“And whom I’d wed.”
The hall in which they stood was also timber, windows of some substance Abra could not define set in irregular places along the wide walls, like knots in the limb of some ancient tree. She was accustomed to the regularity of Lyth Keep, but this place was all curves and angles that tricked her eyes and set her head to spinning. Balconies ringed the room above, like intertwining branches within the central bole, smaller windows there, but all sunny, allowing in dancing shadows and shafts of brightness. It seemed to her that she stood within some massive tree, as might a squirrel. She caught the scent of wood, musky and heavy, and thought that she stood within a labyrinth.
Lofantyl’s father sat at the center of the great, strange room, on a dais that supported a throne that seemed to be
built of wood and bone. A shaft of light slanted downward to illuminate the planes of his stern face. She felt his cold gaze intimidating, and steeled herself to dignity.
“And how say you?” Isydrian asked.
Abra met his gaze. “I love your son.”
“You are Garm. How can you love a Durrym?”
Lofantyl squeezed her hand and the answer came easy: “Because I do.”
“And shall you stay here, in Coim’na Drhu, and forsake your own people?”
Abra hesitated a moment before she answered. “If I must.”
She looked into Lofantyl’s eyes and saw only love there.
“And you?” Isydrian studied his younger son. “How say you?”
“I’d wed her,” Lofantyl said.
Afranydyr snorted.
“Then so be it,” Isydrian agreed.
TWELVE
Cullyn studied the trail, idly stroking the fox that sat beside him. The day was warm for spring, melting more snow and transforming the pathways to a mess of mud that must surely—or so he hoped—slow Per Fendur’s pursuit. He listened to the birds: they’d bring him messages, Eben had said, but all he heard was their singing. He looked at the lures Eben had set and wondered if they’d work. He hoped so, for Laurens was not yet ready to move. And, indeed, he was not sure he was, himself, ready to go into Coim’na Drhu. It seemed a mighty venture that he’d sooner not attempt, save it seemed he had no choices left him.
Then a thrush settled on a branch close to his head and trilled a warning. The fox stirred, brush lifting as it moved from under his hand to stare into the woods. Cullyn crouched behind the cover of a bush and saw three horsemen coming slowly forward.
They were keep folk—he could tell from their accoutrements—and they studied the ground. He thought one of them was the warrior called Drak, who appeared to lead the others. He remained in cover as they reached the division of paths and deer trails, and halted, staring around.
Eben had hung his talismans all around the wood, and Cullyn watched Drak stare at the feathers and dangling bones. He frowned and shook his head, and waved his men back as if confused. It seemed to Cullyn that he had not seen the magical workings, but was only turned away in confusion.
