And that truth was a weapon.
It seemed all was well with the saddlebag, for her quarry now urged his horse on. Lark watched until he was lost from view at the turn. She closed her eyes then, the better to listen.
At first, nothing. Then once again the ring of metal-shod hoof on stone. She waited as the sound drew closer, then pressed her heels into her horse’s sides. They trotted back down the slope and out onto the trail, blocking it.
She had timed it well. Raven was not yet in sight. Lark wrapped her jelah a little closer and waited. The other horse came on steadily; she could hear the stallion snorting softly. Any moment now … .
The rider pulled up short and exclaimed in surprise. One hand flashed to the dirk hanging at his side, then dropped. He stared at her. His mount bobbed its head, iron grey mane falling over black neck.
“Good morning, Raven,” Lark said pleasantly. “Going somewhere?”
He said nothing, but his eyes were hard and angry. Lark settled the jelah about her shoulders a little more comfortably. She wondered if he would try to push past her—and if the Llysanyin would agree to it. If yes, there was little she could do to stop them. Her rangy Tah’nehsieh mount would go down before the massive northern horse like a pin in a game of draughts.
But the Llysanyin—Stormwind, she remembered, rolling the Yerrin word in her mind, delighting in its sound—stood like the rocks around him, solid and unmoving.
After what seemed a hundred years Raven said, “I’m going for a ride.”
“Indeed?” She guided her horse forward until the two animals stood facing each other, with Stormwind slightly to her left. “And if I asked to look in that saddlebag you were so concerned with before, I wouldn’t find the dyes for skin and hair, now would I?”
A wave of pink passed over Raven’s face, then ebbed. His chin went up as he answered, “Very well, then; you know where I’m going.”
“Even though Zhantse warned you that if you went, they would fail?” Her jelah slipped a little; Lark drew it closer once again.
Raven’s legs closed around Stormwind’s sides, urging him on. “I don’t believe him. Or you.”
But the Llysanyin clearly did, for the stallion ignored his rider’s command. Instead he turned his head so that one eye looked back at Raven. Now Raven’s face turned nigh as red as his hair and stayed that way.
“Well, I don’t,” he said to the horse.
The Llysanyin snorted and turned back to Lark.
“Everything will be for naught,” she said to the horse. “They will all die. Zhantse has Seen.” She should feel silly, she thought, appealing to an animal. But there was too much knowing in the great dark eye that regarded her.
The Llysanyin backed up a few steps, his meaning as plain as if he spoke words: No. We go no further.
Lark gently touched her heels to her horse’s sides; it stepped forward to close the gap.
“Stormwind!” Raven cried. “We have to—”
But there was no arguing with the Llysanyin who backed one more step to drive his point home, then stood like a statue.
Frustration twisted Raven’s face. “Damn you,” he said to Lark. “She needs me.”
“Does she?” Lark countered. “For what? Do you know how to live off of this barren land as Shima does? Do you know the trails, the hiding places? What could you do for her save betray her with your curling hair that will still glint red in the sunshine even with the dye? And there’s one other thing … .” She swung her head slightly so that her braids fell forward and saw his eyes go to them.
“I still have them,” she said, her voice even.
“So I see.” He sounded wary as if unsure where she would lead him with this unexpected opening. “Grey and black binding. Wolf Clan.”
“I’m still Yerrin in my heart although I’ve lived these many years in Jehanglan.”
The wariness increased. “As am I, although I spent most of my life growing up in Thalnia.”
“As to where this trail is leading … . Have you seen a single Jehangli or a Tah’nehsieh with anything even remotely resembling a clan braid?” she challenged.
First came confusion, then annoyance. “Of course not! After all, they’re not—Oh, gods.”
Comprehension at last. The freckles stood out starkly as Raven’s face paled to a sickly white.
“Just so,” Lark said, left forefinger jabbing the air for emphasis. “Will you hack off your clan braid, declare yourself outcast? Is simple jealousy worth that? For that’s all it is, isn’t it? You want to be with Maurynna; you resent that it must be Shima who goes instead.
“Well, my young friend, believe me when I say I wish it was you with her,” Lark continued vehemently. “Think you I like sending my son into such danger? Better he bide at home and tend to his drumming for Zhantse.
“Yet did I think that your going would help them, I would keep your clan braid in reverence. I would even return with you to declare you a hero before Marten clan’s elders, tell them that you sacrificed your braid to aid a Dragonlord—and I’ve no wish to leave Jehanglan anymore. My life is here now with my husband and children; if I left, I might never be able to return past the Straits. But I would do it.” She leaned back slightly and wrapped her legs about her horse’s barrel. “So, young Raven—what shall it be? Will you try to pass me? Or will you go back with me to the mehanso?”
Raven snorted. “I’ve not much choice, have I? Stormwind won’t go—will you, boy?”
The Llysanyin shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.” For a moment, he scowled at the horse’s mane then, raising his eyes, asked, “What chance would I have afoot?”
“As a stranger in this country? None,” Lark said frankly.
He nodded at that, accepting her word. Thank the gods, beneath all the foolish, romantic, youthful notions, the boy had a solid streak of common sense.
“Then I’ll go back with you.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Raven,” she said, her voice shaking with relief, “You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear you say that. I did not want to have to use this.”
And now she flung the jelah back from her shoulders, revealing the long sailor’s dagger—almost a short sword—hanging at her right hip.
“Ah,” Lark said as Raven’s eyes grew wide. “You didn’t think I’d do such a thing, did you? But I’m a mother, Raven; I would do anything to save my son from certain death, even if it had come to killing you—for Shima would die were you to follow him and Maurynna. And I could have done it, too. You didn’t know I was left-handed, did you? You wouldn’t have been expecting to be struck by a weapon and from that side.”
Stormwind’s head had come up at the first sight of the sheathed blade and he sank down upon his haunches. Lark held her breath, but the stallion’s forefeet stayed on the ground. Still, she kept her hands where the Llysanyin could see them until he accepted that she meant his rider no harm after all. She relaxed only when the stallion did.
“Shall we return to the mehanso?” she asked, a little shaky from how close she’d stood to death from those deadly hooves.
For his answer Raven signaled Stormwind to sink down upon his haunches once more. But the big stallion merely pirouetted in place on the narrow trail. Then man and horse set off at a fast walk back along the way they’d so recently traversed.
She wanted to call to him, tell him she was sorry but this was for the best. Yet she knew there was no consolation for the way he’d been outguessed and, yes, tricked into letting her get so close to him. Instead, she followed without a word. It would do no good to rub his nose in his failure.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking, Thought you’d nothing to fear from a middle-aged woman like myself, did you, boy? Never underestimate a mother, my fine lad—or any woman for that matter.
Maurynna shifted in the saddle, trying to ease her sore muscles. Boreal whickered softly to her as he felt her move. She leaned forward and patted the dappled grey shoulder. “I’m well
enough, boy. Someday I’ll get used to this.”
And pigs will dance. Well and well, she could always hope.
Ahead of her Shima rode easily, following a trail that was invisible to her, but plain, it seemed, to him. To take her mind off of her physical discomfort, Maurynna began wondering what they would face once they reached their goal: the mines in the valley of the Temple of Iron.
And once there, how was she expected to get away again? Surely the soldiers would be hunting her and Shima. To the best of her remembrance, that little detail had never been discussed—or at least not in her hearing. Even Zhantse had not Seen how they were to do it; he just blithely assured her that they would come up with some idea.
How comforting, she thought with a scowl. As comforting as finding one’s ship aground on a reef with a hole the size of a bear through the hull, and a storm from the depths of hell on the way.
Perhaps she’d think about how much her rear end hurt instead.
The sun had gone down perhaps a candlemark or more ago before they caught up with the Zharmatian scouts who trailed the troop.
“They’re over that rise,” one of them said, “riding along the road as if they own it. We let them see us earlier; they’ve been trailing us ever since, but they’re all in armor and are too slow.” She grinned as if this was the best game in the world.
“Shall we go see?” Dzeduin said. “I suggest we leave the horses down here; they’d show up on the ridge.”
“Good idea,” said Linden.
Soon they were lying in a row, only their heads peeping over the hill. Below them on the other side was an empty road winding between the ridges.
“Listen,” whispered Lleld. “They’re coming.”
Sure enough, the vanguard of the troop came into sight. At their head rode a man dressed in a dark Jehangli robe.
“Damn!” the four northerners said at once.
Dzeduin jumped.
“It’s not Taren,” Linden explained.
“Still, they’re with the lord who’s with that bastard Taren,” Lleld pointed out. “Wish we could put their noses out of joint somehow.”
“Dzeduin,” Otter said slowly, “once, when talking to Taren, he told me about some Jehangli legends. Do you know of the things called ‘corpse lights?’”
“Oh, yes; they’re very bad luck to meet. If one touches you, you’ll die before a year is out,” Dzeduin said.
Linden listened with half his attention, vaguely wondering what Otter was getting at. The soldiers on the road below would soon reach where the Zharmatian scouts had turned off. There was no way, Linden knew, their trackers would miss the trail, not with so many torches holding back the night. The men below knew their business.
Otter persisted in his questions. “What color are they? How large? How do they act?”
“Blue as a corpse’s lips, the stories say. As for size—perhaps a man’s fist?” Dzeduin replied in puzzlement. “They dance in the darkness, around and around their prey, seeking souls to join them. Otter, why do you—”
Linden began laughing quietly the same time Lleld and Jekkanadar did. “Shall we?” he said to them.
For an answer, three balls of coldfire sprang into existence above the road ahead of the troop.
Dzeduin hissed in surprise. He scrambled back as if he would run.
“Don’t worry, lad,” Otter said, putting out a hand to stop him. “It’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Hunh,” Lleld grunted softly. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not easy creating them from this distance.”
“Indeed,” Jekkanadar agreed. “There!” Six balls of blue coldfire now danced in the darkness.
They were right. Until now Linden had always called coldfire into existence from the air around him. This was much harder; but once created, even from this distance it was easy to control them. He sent his coldfire to join the others.
“Let me have them,” Lleld said. From the wicked glee in her voice, the men below were in for a bad time.
Linden gave control of his coldfire over to her. Immediately, the glowing blue lights spread across the road as if to contest the soldiers’ coming. Then they advanced, first one, then another, darting forward with the speed of a striking snake, stalking the soldiers like cats.
And now the Jehangli saw them. Startled yells carried up the hillside. The band pulled up short, some soldiers hauling back on their horses’ mouths so hard that the poor beasts sat down. Linden winced, remembering the harsh bits the Zharmatians used; these looked like more of the same.
The line of coldfire lashed out, curling around the soldiers like the length of a whip, trapping them within a slowly revolving circle of lurid blue “corpse lights.” Now and again, one would dart in at a rider, veering off just short of touching him.
The shouts of alarm now held a note of panic as the soldiers dodged the ill-omened lights. Then their leader bellowed orders, telling them to form up once more. Lleld swore as they slowly obeyed, drawing strength from their leader.
“Ah, bother him,” Lleld said. Her hands swept through the air as if the coldfire were puppets and she the puppeteer tugging their strings here and there. The coldfire leapt in response. “Give me more,” she demanded, her eyes intent on the scene below.
Linden obeyed. So did Jekkanadar. More coldfire burst into light.
The newcomers were too much for the soldiers. One trooper, wielding a torch like a mace, swatted frantically at a light darting at him. He missed the coldfire, but a companion wasn’t so lucky. The second man caught the blazing torch full in the face. His scream of agony pushed his fellows over the edge into mindless panic.
Lleld thoughtfully left a gap open and the troop was not long in noticing. There was a frenzied scramble to turn the horses; some of the animals nearly went down. Then the troop fled back down the road in a terrified rout.
To his credit, their leader was the last to leave; one light of a particularly sickly blue flung itself after him, touching down light as a feather between his shoulder blades, illuminating the man’s back for a moment before rejoining the other globes of coldfire.
Linden frowned. That last bit was a nasty touch he wouldn’t have thought Lleld would stoop to. It disturbed him. She had a wicked sense of humor, yes, but not cruel. At least the poor beggar hadn’t seemed aware of what had happened.
“That was uncalled for,” Jekkanadar snapped.
At first Lleld said nothing. Then, in an odd, strained voice, “Both of you—bid your coldfire to go out. I’ll do the same with mine,” she said.
Baffled, Linden did as she asked. A blink of an eye later, only one dancing light was left—the one that had touched the Jehangli. It wandered along the road as if seeking something, hesitating at the place the scouts had turned off.
“That one,” said Lleld far too calmly, “is none of mine.” She jumped up and ran down to Miki as the ghastly blue light inched along the scouts’ path, like a hound baffled for the moment, but sure of its trail in the end. She flung herself into the saddle and wheeled the little mare around. “I suggest we get the hell out of here,” she yelled, “because that one’s real!” The little Llysanyin mare raced off.
For once no one argued. As he helped Otter down the slope to the horses, somewhere in the back of his mind Linden wondered if this was the first time in her life everyone agreed with Lleld wholeheartedly. Without further ado, the rest of the party scrambled into their saddles; the next moment they thundered over the crest of the next gentle hill, following Lleld and Miki down the other side.
While they rode, Linden wondered if corpse lights ever haunted a large camp. He sincerely hoped not.
Kwahsiu caught up with his men and, with a generous dose of whip, curses, and threats, stopped them some three ta’vri down the road. They huddled around him, their faces masks of terror in the light of the torches they carried.
The Dragonlords had been out there—of that, he was certain. This was some trick of theirs; he’d never heard of that
many corpse lights at once.
He looked from man to trembling man, and decided he might as well call off the search for the northern weredragons. These dogs would refuse to hunt that quarry any longer.
“Back to the barracks,” he said. “Tomorrow we start for Rivasha.”
Fifty-two
For lack of anything better to do, the morning after being foiled by Lark, Raven decided to explore the land around the mehanso on foot. So he went out, picked a direction, and began walking.
Soon he found himself among the garden plots of the Tah’nehsieh. To his northern eyes they looked odd; instead of large fields of grain, there were strips running along narrow irrigation canals. Laid out between the canals were little gardens thickly planted with crops both known and unknown to him. He recognized gourds and beans, but what were the tall, thick stalks that supported the vines? They bore a long fruit tightly wrapped in its own leaves. Walking carefully along the path worn between the vegetation, Raven decided on a closer look.
He examined one of the strange fruits. There seemed to be only one or two per plant, and they grew directly from the thick stalk. A tassel of silky threads protruded from the pointed end. They were turning from a soft golden color to a brown. Gingerly he squeezed the odd growth at its thickest part. It was hard beneath his fingers.
“Not ripe yet, I guess,” Raven murmured.
“On the contrary,” a voice piped up from behind him—in Yerrin. “See the color of the tassel? That means the maize is nearly ready to pick.”
Raven jumped and whirled around, one hand on his belt dagger. “Who’s there?” he demanded.
From the next garden plot, a hand waved from what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle of vines. “One moment.”
A crouched body scuttled sideways from under the jumble of vines and unfolded itself, revealing a long, lanky boy of perhaps fourteen years. The boy pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead with one hand; the other held a clump of weeds. He had an air about him that made him seem older than his years. “You must be Raven.”
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