by Robert Ryan
“What is it?” Erlissa asked.
“It’s burnt down,” Lanrik said softly.
“I’ve seen several others like that,” she replied.
“Yes, I saw them too. But this was a Raithlin home. I knew the five men who lived here. They rented the house from a nobleman.”
“Do you think Ebona did it?”
“Who else? She hates us.”
Erlissa frowned. “I know that she hates the two of us. We’ve given her plenty of reasons. By why does she hate the Raithlin so much?”
“We have skills. Skills that can be used against her.” He thought about it a bit more. “Also, I suspect that it’s because we stand for everything that she hates. We’re an old organization. We date back to Conhain himself, and if the stories are true we were devoted to him. She wouldn’t have liked us then, and she sees us now as a rally point for the people, for we represent the things that Esgallien admires the most. She would want to ensure that no Raithlin lived who could rouse the people to fight her.”
They moved on, their mood somber now, until they passed the middle of the city. The ground sloped upward slightly, and they soon came to the Merenloth. It stood on the left side of the Hainer Lon. Massive columns of carved granite flanked its entrance. Beyond, were hundreds of curved rows of stone benches terraced into the slope overlooking the stage. Thousands of people could sit here, and see and hear every movement and word of the performers.
A large crowd gathered inside now. The Merenloth was not full, but nearly so. Behind the stage the large surface of a many-storied building threw back the voice of the current speaker onto the crowd. Even as Lanrik and Erlissa stood at the entrance, they caught the words of an ancient lay telling of the Halathrin and their struggles against elugs and other enemies in the years predating the founding of Esgallien.
Lanrik did not know the performer. It was not Bragga Mor, nor could he be seen anywhere, but there were dozens of men seated on special benches near the stage, several of them wearing the distinctive many-colored cloak of the bards, and he could easily be among that group.
Lanrik and Erlissa passed inside. It was warm here, the heat from many people filling the amphitheater, and yet it was eerily quiet, for Esgalliens considered it rude to speak when a performer was on the stage.
The bard finished, and his words echoed back into the crowd from the brickwork behind him. It remained quiet for a moment longer, and then a loud applause rose and swelled strangely in the Merenloth.
The clapping died down, and then another man took the stage. He wore the simple white robes and customary oak-leaf brooch that Esgallien’s philosophers favored.
Lanrik held Erlissa’s hand. The crowd was thick as they worked their way down a long aisle between rows of stone benches. They could get no closer than the top level of seats, high above the stage.
The philosopher was a good way below them, and yet they saw and heard him clearly. He had started to speak. His voice was soft, but buoyed and magnified by the Merenloth, it rang with quiet surety.
“People of Esgallien,” he said. “These are troubled times. And in such days, there are few who give better counsel than the wise old men and women who have seen turmoil before and passed into calm again. These oldsters know how the bad days begin. And how they end.” He paused. “I speak to you now not as a philosopher, but as a messenger, for I have spent much time listening to our grandfathers and grandmothers, and I will report their words to you now.”
The man spoke fluently. Everyone listened, and a deep hush fell over the crowd. Yet in that moment of perfect quiet, Lanrik saw something that he did not like. There were Royal Guards near the stage. He did not think they were looking for him. They were seated, stony faced and straight backed, on their benches. He realized that there must be twenty of them, and their expressions worried him. They looked void of emotion, their eyes staring and their mouths clamped into tight lines.
The speaker paid them no heed. “The oldsters tell me that there are beautiful women. Smart women. Kindhearted women. And, for myself, I do not doubt that most husbands here know their wives are all three.”
This brought a chuckle from the crowd, but when the philosopher continued, his voice carried a new note.
“The oldsters also tell me that there is yet one more type. The beautiful one. The one with skin that glows and eyes that shine and a voice that makes a man want to sing. But for all her beauty, there is darkness in her heart. It is a cold thing, heavy with malice. It beats to the rhythm of wickedness. Trouble, suffering and woe are its lifeblood.”
The crowd stirred, but remained deathly silent. They knew of whom he spoke, and so too did the Royal Guards. One by one, they stood.
The speaker did not look at them. “We have one such among us. Her name is Ebona. And she is as wicked as she is beautiful.”
“Enough!” yelled one of the guards.
The philosopher turned to him.
“Can the truth no longer be voiced in Esgallien?”
The guard drew his sword. “See this blade? It’s the only truth that I know. And its word is final.”
“Will you kill me then, just for speaking?”
The crowd, quiet until then, began to stir. There was anger in their sudden shouts.
One voice rose above them all, though Lanrik could not see him.
“Let him speak!” the voice said. Others took up the call, until it became a chant and the Merenloth thrummed with it.
Let him speak! Let him speak. Let him speak!
The guard looked around, doubt and surprise on his face. He spoke quickly to his comrades, and then they all drew their blades.
The guard, resolved now to act, stepped toward the philosopher, and the other guards faced the crowd.
The philosopher stood still. Whether in fear, disbelief, or defiance, Lanrik could not tell. Too late he moved, trying to step back as the guard darted toward him. The long sword ran him through in one quick motion.
The guard withdrew the blade, and when he did so the philosopher reeled away, blood staining his white robes, while red drops dripped from the still raised blade.
The philosopher fell to his knees. His hands clamped tight against the wound. He did not utter a sound, and remained that way for several seconds. Then the life went from him. He dropped to the ground and lay still.
The crowd, for a moment shocked and silent, suddenly began to scream. Some made for the exit; some edged closer to the guards. But the guards began to swing their swords in a defensive motion, and moved forward themselves.
The crowd backed off. Everything was in a state of flux, and then the momentum shifted. Now, the crowd just wanted to get out of the Merenloth.
Lanrik watched in horror. He had never seen anything like it before, nor even heard of it. The Merenloth had always been a place where people freely spoke their beliefs. Arguments were common, but violence, especially a killing, was unthinkable. He knew things were bad under the influence of Ebona, but to see something so callous with his own eyes was shocking.
He broke out of his stupor and took hold of Erlissa’s arm.
“Let’s go!” he said.
She did not need any convincing. Nor was there much choice. The crowd was moving. It flowed like a great river and rushed out between the pillars at the exit like a fountain. They were swept up within it.
Erlissa nudged him. “There!” she said. She pointed to a tall figure ahead in the crowd.
Lanrik did not know what she meant at first, but then he saw what she had seen. Bragga Mor was ahead of them. His face was red, and his expression thunderous. He was clearly in a rage at the turn of events, and yet even he, influential as he was, dared not stay. He must flee with the rest of the crowd.
Lanrik held Erlissa’s hand. The crowd was wild and pressing in all around them. They could not afford to become separated from each other.
He worked his way as best he could among the bumping and jostling people toward Bragga Mor. It might be their only chance to ever s
peak with him.
The panic of the crowd had not lessened. Several times people fell and screamed. And yet, things had not quite tipped into madness. He saw no one trampled, but many helping hands reach out to assist the fallen to their feet. Yet in the push and shove of things he made little headway, and Bragga Mor’s many-colored cloak disappeared from view near the exit.
They soon passed between the granite columns themselves. There were people everywhere, but at least there was increasingly room to move. Many people ran, though most just hastened away with a look of shock on their faces and their heads bowed.
“There!” Erlissa said again. She had seen Bragga Mor once more. They ran themselves. It did not look suspicious now in the panic all around them, and they caught up swiftly to the bard, for he did not run. He strode ahead, as though he had a definite destination in mind, and not as though he was fearful.
Lanrik studied him for a moment. It was rumored that the man was a great swordsman, though he carried no blade now. At least, none that was visible. Yet a short sword might well be concealed beneath the cloak.
After a moment, Lanrik levelled with him.
“Bragga Mor. I need to speak with you.”
The bard glanced at him, but did not slow his stride.
“Get home, boy. Get home while you can, and stay there.”
Lanrik held his gaze. “I am home. This,” he swung his arm in a wide arc, “is my home. And I would protect it.”
That got the bard’s attention. He stopped still and looked hard at him for a moment. His glance flickered to Erlissa, and he gave her a slight bow, before looking back at Lanrik.
“Listen, boy. The streets aren’t safe today. They may never be safe again. Get home, and take your lady friend with you. For the last few months Esgallien has been full of heroes like you. Most of them are now lying dead in dark pits. Don’t become one of them.”
Bragga Mor gave them both a stern look and strode ahead again.
Lanrik hesitated. This was not going as he would like, and he had to make a fast decision if he was to retrieve the situation. There was risk to what he must now do, and yet it had to be done. He thought he was a good judge of character, but if he was wrong, he might just as well knock on the Witch-queen’s own door and hand himself in.
“I’m a friend of the Lindrath,” he said quietly.
Bragga Mor stopped as though his legs had turned to stone. For a moment, he did not turn around. He stood there, looking like one of the statues in Conhain Court, while he made decisions of his own.
Lanrik waited, and said no more.
After a moment, the bard turned. “Listen, boy. I don’t have time for this. And you should know better, young though you are. What you just said could get us both killed. And for what? Anybody could say that he was a friend to the Lindrath.”
What the bard said was true. Bragga Mor stared at him. His freckled face was still red. His gingery beard bristled, and his curly hair looked like fire. He was an angry man, and in a moment he would turn and walk away.
“I’m not a boy,” Lanrik said. “And though anyone could claim to be a friend of the Lindrath, not everybody carries a token to prove it.”
Bragga Mor’s eyes fixed on him like an eagle watching its prey. But Lanrik waited. He glanced to the side while a group of people hurried past them.
When there was no one near enough to see, he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and drew the blade a few inches from its sheath.
Bragga Mor watched him. For a moment his face was blank, and then Lanrik saw recognition in his eyes as he noticed the trotting fox motif etched into the blade. The bard’s eyes widened.
Lanrik slammed back the blade. “I’m not a boy. I’m exactly who I say I am, and I need to talk to you.”
The face of Bragga Mor was blank again. He was unreadable. He showed no anger, or fear, or frustration. Nor was there any indication of loyalty or surprise. The bard was adept at hiding his thoughts, and if it was on his mind to betray them in order to gain favor with the Witch-queen, Lanrik could not tell. But he knew this: the Lindrath had called the man a friend.
“We can’t talk here,” Bragga Mor said finally.
The bard walked ahead once more, striding out with his long legs, and they walked with him. But he did not take them far. Nor did he speak again while they remained on the Hainer Lon, and there was a chance of being overheard.
After a few minutes, he turned abruptly and walked beneath an elaborate portico. It was dark under the shade of the tiled roof, and a wide shop entrance, flanked by marble statues opened before them.
Lanrik could not see inside, but a young woman stood at the entrance, and she smiled at the bard.
“Your usual seat, Sir?”
“No. I’ll need a table for three today.”
The girl curtsied and led them through the doorway.
Lanrik was distrustful. He did not know Bragga Mor, still less this place, and there was likely only one exit if it was a trap. Still, he took a deep breath and followed the bard.
Erlissa took his hand and squeezed it. It was her way of saying that she understood the risk they were taking, and that she agreed with his judgment.
They entered a dark room. Thick rugs lay on the floor, and scented candles burned in ornate holders. There were only a few people here, but they all had the look of wealth about them. Lanrik felt out of place in his ordinary clothes, and he removed his hat.
The girl led them to a booth at the back of the room. It was quiet, with no tables nearby, and they would be able to speak in privacy.
“Tea,” the bard said to the girl. “And for my guests also.”
She curtsied and walked away.
Lanrik guided Erlissa to one of the cushioned seats, and then sat himself. He made sure that he faced the entrance.
Bragga more noticed and smiled for the first time.
“You haven’t decided to trust me yet?”
“No. But I need information, and I think you have it. If this is a trap, I can see the entrance. More importantly, I’m close to you.”
Bragga Mor took no offense at the implied threat.
“Yes, that’s fair enough. But think on this. You’re just as likely to be a trap for me as the other way around.”
The girl returned, and they did not speak for a moment. She deftly served them three mugs of hot tea, a concoction that Lanrik had never drunk before, but one that the aristocracy favored. He tasted it. It was not unlike herbal drinks that he had sometimes made in the wild on cold nights, except that it was sweetened with honey.
Before the girl left she gave Bragga Mor a white cloth and a bowl of water. Lanrik wondered what it was for. He understood when the bard wetted the cloth and started to dab at droplets of blood that stained his shirt. He must have been close to the killing in the Merenloth.
Bragga Mor noticed his glance. “I told the philosopher not to speak. He should’ve listened.”
For the first time, Lanrik caught a glimpse of the man behind the public mask. He was furious, and for just cause. The killing of the philosopher was a shocking deed, but it would be more so to one who knew him, as Bragga Mor likely did.
“We don’t have much time,” the bard said. “I’ll not stay here long, and after that I doubt we’ll see each other again. So ask what you want, and I’ll give what answers I can.”
Lanrik got straight to the point. “Do you know what happened to the Raithlin?”
Bragga Mor sighed. “The king never liked your lot. It seems that the Witch-queen likes you even less, though. Anyway, some of them spoke against her when Murhain invited her into the city. That was a mistake. She wasted no time in having them killed. And soon after others, even those who hadn’t spoken, were taken from their homes. They disappeared, and haven’t been seen since. Not that you have to be a Raithlin for that to happen. Many others have disappeared too.”
He looked around him casually, making sure that no one was near, before he continued.
“The Raithlin
went into hiding after that, but they still spoke out. They spread dissent through the city, and it must have lit a fire under Ebona. She didn’t like it at all. But somehow, slowly and surely, she rooted them out from their hiding places. They were taken, and no doubt killed. For a while, barely a week went by without a house being torched or some rumor surfacing of another fight. And fights there were, for none of them went willingly.”
Bragga Mor did not drink his tea. His eyes were downcast, and he spoke softly, fluently and with a rich voice that drew a vivid picture for them.
“I saw one of the killings myself,” he said. “It was near the palace. I knew him. His name was Gilhain, and he leaped out of the crowd to try to kill the Witch-queen. Knives flew from his hands as he ran, but they had no effect. They struck her, but bounced away as though they had been thrown into a brick wall. He drew his sword then, but before he reached her she flung fire at him from outstretched arms. Otherworldly it was. I’ve never seen the like. It burned and sizzled through the air and knocked him down.”
Bragga Mor paused. Lanrik and Erlissa exchanged a glance. He read in her eyes that she recognized the Raithlin’s name. Gilhain had welcomed them back from Galenthern when they crossed the ford to bring word of the elug army approaching Esgallien. It seemed a long time ago now.
The bard took a sip of tea. His hands trembled slightly, but his voice was steady.
“Gilhain somehow got back on his feet. He was burning all over, but he ran at her. The steel of his blade flared white hot. She flung flame at him once more. He tottered, but only fell when Royal Guards filled him with arrows. He died cursing her name, and I shall never forget it, for I saw bravery then that a thousand lays of the old days never showed me.”
He took another sip of tea, and Erlissa put a hand over Lanrik’s on the table.
“The Raithlin disappeared from Esgallien after that, however many was left by that stage. Perhaps half of them.”
