When Ashlord came to him in Vanara, and offered a commission to work with him, Ullin jumped at the chance to get as far away from the desert as possible. Looking back, it was an ironic reaction because almost immediately, and ever since, he felt a deep longing to go back, to find his way, somehow, through the southern mountains of Vanara, back out into the desert, and to the Free City of Kajarahn. It was a miracle that he had survived what should have been a death trek from the desert. And though he still could not say for sure how it was that he survived and made it out, the longing to return to the place of his suffering grew stronger with every passing year. But it was not the desert itself that attracted him so, nor was it the pain that place had inflicted upon him, but the memory of the person he had left behind and had ever since longed to see again.
Robby would never understand. No one would.
Ullin fingered the locket beneath his shirt. So many things to explain! No. And now he had risked Robby's ire by refusing the Hoard and by placing unreasonable conditions on these meek Nowhereans. Could they truly be of any help? But Tallinvale, the eastern lands, needed allies, any they could get, even if they were little people, unsure, untested, naïve of the world, and, well, small. He rubbed his head. It was too much.
"I should have stayed in the desert," he muttered. "My bones would be better off bleaching in the sun, as do those of my kin."
"Why do you say such a thing as that?"
Ullin flinched at the voice, not realizing that he had spoken his thoughts aloud, and turned to see Esildre standing on the other side of the pool. He felt his face redden as he stood.
"I think you do not mean it," she went on, stooping to put her hand to the water. She first held her open palm near to the rippling surface, then dipped into the water and drew it up, watching the moon-sparkled beads drip away. "You have much that so many long for or would envy. Strength. Wealth. Freedom."
"Freedom?" Ullin snorted. "What freedom do I have? Bound by contrary oaths. Shackled by circumstance and jostled along paths not of my desire. What would you know of my freedom?"
"You choose, nonetheless. Your loyalties. Your way of facing that which you would rather not face. You choose. To go on, to keep moving. That is your freedom, if nothing else is. I heard how you refused the Hoard, how you made a challenge to these people. So, not only do you choose for yourself, you choose also for others. Your freedom, your choices, gives you power over others."
Ullin stepped up to the edge of the pool and looked across at her. She stood and put aside her cloak.
"I wish to bathe. If you don't mind."
"I don't mind," Ullin shrugged. "Why do you veil your eyes? The light is not strong enough to hurt them."
"It is to avoid...complications."
"Take it off and look me in the eyes with your own. Then talk to me of choice and of freedom."
"I dare not."
"Then I will help you," Ullin strode through the pool toward her, but she shrank away, drawing her sword.
"Would you strike me for such a thing?" he asked.
"To save you, I would."
"To save me? From what?" He stepped out of the pool and stood before her.
"From me," she raised the sword.
"From you! By striking me you would save me?"
Before she could react, Ullin sprang forward and gripped her sword arm, locking the weapon upright, and held her other wrist to prevent it from reaching her dagger. She squirmed, but he held her tight, his face close to hers.
"No!" she cried, though she ceased her struggle.
"Do not fight me."
"I have no wish to."
"Look me in the eye and say that."
"No." She tried to shrink away. She did not sense he had already eased his grip, or that he had stepped back from her just a bit. She was already fighting the deep swell of desire that could not be controlled, could not be pushed away. If she had any contrary thoughts or reactions, they may have been those of surprise or of disappointment. Not in Ullin, but in her own circumstance. Not since she had left her castle on the borders of Shatuum had the curse come upon her. For months, since Raynor had summoned her, she thought she was free of it. She wore the veil, as Raynor had insisted, in fear that the shadow of Secundur might return. And now it did. She shot out her freed hand and gripped Ullin's arm just as he was turning away. She shook with remorse, with futile resistance, and with animal anticipation. Ullin saw two moonlit tears fall away from her face as she dropped her sword and reached up to pull away the veil.
When her eyes met his, they burst into flame and something streaked from hers to his, setting off a fire within him. He staggered with the weight of a thousand years of sadness, crossing through into anger and remorse, and passing into shame and resignation, now released like a beast too long caged, too long humiliated and ruined by a world made small by the trap. He was unaware of the ruddy glow that surrounded them and engulfed them. Ullin was filled with desire and longing, not for Esildre—for he no longer even saw her—but for the vision he now saw, and held, of the one he longed for most in all the world. He was not capable, in his state, of questioning how it was that she could be here, how she could be touching him and pressing her lips once again to his. There was no possibility of doubt in their touch as they passionately embraced. He was happy, filled with complete joy, and they rejoiced in the pleasure of each other as only those truly in love may do when passion is at its utmost. Together they committed themselves to each other, flesh and spirit, heedless of consequence, mindless of the impossibility of their union.
Ullin and Esildre were lost. Another presence took them over, shadowy and cruel. It dogged Esildre, and she knew of it, and wore her veil because of it, to guard herself, and others, against it. It was her bane, and her weakness, her demon held so carefully in check for so many years. The shadow that she thought might be gone from her life after so many months of peace. But she was wrong, it was still with her, and it had never slept. Now, as it had done so many times before, it used her, as a hook may hold a lure. And, stabbing through each with its unrelenting barb, it made lure and prey willing puppets to its string. It delighted in tugging deeper and deeper into the couple, as vengeance for ancient rebuffs that its Master took for betrayal. And, if such long, thin shadows may do so, it laughed, revelling in their compliance.
But Ullin was strong, and the desire of his heart, she whom the shadow conjured Esildre to represent, was his true love. Still, the shadow vied with him, determined to leave its barb in him. Delivered through the hapless Esildre, it would nevertheless be a thorn that would, in its own time, continue to do its work of madness and discord. Just as it had with all of its victims before him. With Esildre as its lure, the curse upon her pulled its string, and set its poisoned barb deep into Ullin's soul.
• • •
Lady Moon hid her face behind her fan and peeked through the treetops at Ullin's body, prostrate, half in and half out of the cold pool. His heart, full and complete just moments before, now shuddered as his dreamlike swoon turned dark. He stood, warm and satisfied, as if the overhead sun glowed from within him, holding the hand of his refound love. Her smile vanished as a cloud crossed the sun, and she dropped his hand. The bright day grew black, and horror grew within his heart. Now he saw her again, standing over him in battle gear, just as she was when he first beheld her those years before, faraway and across the southern mountains. All but her eyes were covered, and they were deep tearful pools of disappointment.
"Are you so weak that you would betray me in this manner?" she demanded. "But I should not blame you. We are long parted and far away. And she is very beautiful."
Then she turned away and a shiver passed through Ullin's body. He awoke, thrashing in the pool to gain his feet, the water heavy, like the quick-blown sand of the duney desert, making him clumsy and off balance.
"Come back!" he cried out. But now he understood. His heart pounded against the crushing realization of what had happened as he turned this way and that, look
ing for her. And her. But no one was there. Esildre was gone, if she was ever actually there. And so, too, was the object of Ullin's deepest affection.
He groaned aloud at his humiliation, grabbing up his clothes and cursing as he dressed. Once he was dressed, he paced, still cursing himself, wondering how he could face his companions. Anger at Esildre swept him, then passed; she had tried to warn him. Shame, confusion, and black self-loathing racked him as the ache of his passion taunted him spitefully.
"Bones! Bones!" he cried, drawing his dagger and immediately putting it away. He took the dagger out again, looking at the dim glint of the blade. "Worthless fool! Worthless and weak!"
So easily is the worth of anything, everything, called into question! How well Doubt knows every gate and every path into the heart, never long without its companion, Pain, in the guise of whatever suffering is at hand, great or small. But Ullin knew this, familiar too much with the turnings of his own heart.
"My use is what I make it to be," he said, putting away his dagger. "A little farther I must go. For the sake of those I love and care about, though they may despise me and hold me in contempt of their favor."
Feeling a new pain in his shoulder, he reached into his shirt and flinched when he touched bleeding scratches. The growing desire to pass it all off on a strange dream was thus obliterated by this confirmation of a darker experience.
Quickly, owing to his training and to the direction of his remorse, the Kingsman slipped out of his blouse and took out his dagger and knelt over the pool, dipping the shirt into the water and washing his wound and his dagger ritually.
"Let this water wash away my transgressions," he recited as he washed. "Let not dishonor stain my name."
His hands shook as he dipped again and squeezed out the water over his head.
"Let this water wash away the hurt I give to others," his voice cracked, his eyes full of tears. "Let no enemy...let no enemy entice me to evil."
He stopped, having no heart to continue the ritual, staring at his blurry moonlit reflection in the rippling pool.
"Oh, fie upon me!" he cried, falling into the speech of the west, staring again at his dagger. "It is useless! And I am trapped! Oh, blade! Ye rightly desire my blood. And I would give it to thee, now, but I needs put thee off for a time, if I may bear it. For duty is greater than grief, and honor still requires of me some effort to my companions, unworthy though I am."
He put his blouse back on and slinked away, still trying to gather his composure, looking about as he went through the woods. He did not see Esildre hiding from him within the nearby brush.
When she could no longer hear his receding movement, she got to her feet and, dragging her clothes, went to the pool. Standing in the spray of the falls, she scooped up gravel and sand, and she viciously scrubbed, making terrible bleeding scratches all over her body. Then she fell to her hands and knees, sobbing as she let the cold water wash across her back. While she wept, the blood was rinsed away, and all her wounds rapidly healed so that no blemish remained but those that shed no blood and cannot be seen. And in that eternal moment of her Elifaen mind, all her woes and all her hopes were crossed and recrossed, questioned and confirmed. But what settled upon her at last was the wish that one man could really be with her now. A man who, if he wished to do so, might have within his heart the power to make everything good and to heal all her wounds. This thought suddenly stilled her, like something mysterious which is seen but not believed, not understood, and not even to be contemplated. Then, without a sound, her lips quivered his name, and her tears came once more.
Chapter 20
Ullin and Micerea
In the Badlands were bands of renegades that preyed on any they came upon. They seldom took prisoners, except for sport or rape, and lived so miserably in the desert that a bag of crumbs or a flask of wine was worth more than life. United only by the might of the quickest sword, or whichever one of them eliminated all who would rival his authority, these groups often split up, feuded, or combined forces, depending on the spoils at stake, or the skills and lack thereof of their bands. They were deserters from every army, Dragonkind, Elifaen, and Men, and so could never be reunited with their own kin on penalty of death. Each was once a member of a proud army, each highly trained and skilled in combat. The Dragonkind members of these bands were fewest in number and they survived the longest, but of the renegades few lived very long. Hunger, thirst, and the cruel desert took the greatest toll, while wounds received did away with the others. But their numbers were replenished, quickly or slowly, as the tides of war ebbed and flowed across the generations. Every few years, some general would determine to wipe them out and rid his flank of the aggravating stings of these marauders. More than one general made the mistake of becoming obsessed with their obliteration, to the destruction of his own army. For wherever one band of renegades was destroyed, and all its members utterly hunted down, another would soon arise from a different flank.
Ullin had encountered enough of these renegades to know that their fighting skills, added with their innate desperation, made them truly dangerous and unpredictable. He also learned from cruel experience that the Badlands was no place to be without the company of loyal swords. But here he was, alone. No horse, no companion to watch his back, and very little water left in his flask.
It was a mixed terrain, swaths of rock and rubble reaching far out from the northern mountains, formed into long thin arms of craggy broken ridges reaching southward. Once, in eons past, the terrain was covered in forest, and, no doubt, streams once ran freely through the gullies. But since before the First Age, the only green was the pale scrawny sage that somehow managed to cling beneath rocky outcrops here and there. Otherwise, very little grew between here and the southern side of the mountains, now a pleasant blue line in the far distance.
It was to the south, where the jumble of stone fanned away and flowed under the dunes, where the ground was neither too sandy nor too rocky, that a path edged along. Ullin watched, lying on his side just behind a low ridge, his light brown robe pulled over his head for shade and his shemagh over his nose and mouth against the blowing grit. He could just make out a faint trail of dust rising in the distance, wavering through the hot silver haze. He wished he had his spyglass, but it had been smashed to bits in a rockfall two days ago. Squinting, he watched the trail of dust carefully. It was coming along a route commonly used by the Dragonkind, going from their eastern provinces to the Free City, Kajarahn. Here, where the road took a turn between the sand and the rocks, was a favorite place for ambush by renegades who ever preyed upon the unwary or ill-armed. He had already seen enough signs of their activity, tracks, and rubbish from recent camps, to know they were about, but he had luckily avoided any contact. He watched intently, but he could not yet tell if the dust in the distance was from a party of renegades or whether it was the approach of travelers.
Shifting his position, slowly and slightly, hoping that his movement would not be noticed, and hoping that his robe blended well enough into the terrain, he carefully scanned the surroundings. Other than a scorpion crawling over the top of a nearby rock, he saw no other sign of unwanted company. This was little comfort. The all too familiar sensation in his gut and the prickling of the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck assured him that danger was very near. Whether it was from the approaching riders or from nearer to hand, he could not tell.
"All you need know," his commander had told him, "is that your contact will be there. He will most likely be one of their high-born and in company of armed servants. Most likely the same ones that you have met before. They will be riding under yellow pennants. As usual, your man will be wearing a red shemagh covering his face. Accept what he gives you and give him this packet in return. That is all you are to do. Identify yourself in the usual manner, with your signal glasses, and all will go well, I'm sure."
"What if it's cloudy?" Ullin quipped. The commander was not amused.
Now he could just make out the ribbon-like yell
ow pennants on the lances carried by the lead horsemen, and he took out his signal kit and carefully unwrapped it. Taking from it a round disc of light green glass, he put out his cupped hand and with the other held the disc in the sun until its glint was on his palm. He moved the mirror so that a flash of light was thrown at the approaching party. Three times he did this and then paused. He repeated, paused and repeated. After the fifth repeat he saw the reply: three answering green glints, like his own, pausing and repeating. Ullin put down the green disc and picked up a red one and flashed it four times, long and deliberately. He watched and waited. This red signal was to be answered by the proper colors. After a moment the signals came, two white glares and three long blue flashes from the horsemen. Relieved, he answered with white, and put away the kit.
His sensations of danger were not alleviated. Indeed, as he gathered his things the feeling only intensified, approaching a shiver, so starkly did his armhairs rise. Nonetheless, he picked up his shoulder bag with the special packet and his water flask. He tightened his face coverings and fixed his light robe in place with a band holding his hood around his forehead and tucked the flap across his face. As cautious as ever, he began making his way forward, crouching low among the rocks, with one hand on his bag to keep it from swinging, and the other on his sword hilt. Soon the ridges were too low in the sand to offer cover, and he halted for a moment to give the landscape another close examination before exposing himself.
The party of about ten riders along with several pack animals was about a furlong away, and, still crouching, he waited before starting out so that they would come together at the same time at the path nearest to him.
This was the third time Ullin had been on such a mission, to a secret rendezvous in the south, but before he met with only one or two riders. The size of this party of Dragonkind put him more on edge. As he began his way to them, the foolishness of what he was doing, walking alone to face ten of the fiercest race, struck him cold. So much could go wrong. Besides any misunderstanding that might arise, there were other, darker possibilities. What if his contact had been captured and forced by torture to give up the signal codes? Not only would the packet he was to deliver fall into the wrong hands, but his life would surely be forfeit. Dressed as they were, with armor and robes from head to toe, with only their eyes showing, he would hardly be able to recognize his contact. His last meeting was foremost in his mind.
The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of the Year of the Red Door) Page 53
