“Here, then,” he grumbled.
Perhaps twenty paces away, Robyn turned her horse and came forward, swinging her leg over it as it stopped short. Fletch looked up and saw them, too.
“How is he?” Robyn asked.
“He lives,” said Poe, still wary. “But Aewyn is in a bad way.” Robyn looked, and recoiled when she saw the wound and the blood from her shredded breeches.
“Fools,” Celithrand said again. “Should have left me.”
“Gods,” Robyn muttered. “What happened to her? Can you do anything with that?”
Celithrand shook his head. “Not much without my bag,” he said. “It’s clean enough. I can try to set the bone. But the wound will turn without—”
In answer, Robyn tugged the old man’s satchel from her horse’s saddlebags and threw it at his feet.
“Make this right,” she said. “Work your magic. Make her whole.”
The old druid looked up with surprise. “How did you find—”
“You must have escaped with it,” said Robyn. “And with a couple of waterskins, too, damn you.” These she set down beside Celithrand, who was already mashing dried leaves into some kind of paste.
Between Poe’s strength, Celithrand’s healing craft, and the medicines of the old wood, they managed to reset the leg well and construct a crude splint for it. With the last of Celithrand’s strange liquor they washed and bound the wound as Aewyn whimpered in agony. Fletch watched the ordeal in great worry with a hand at his mouth, lost without direction. Robyn, for all she could assist, was helpful enough; but time was passing, and she knew they had precious little of it. Celithrand whispered things in the language of the old wood as he worked, and his bony hands were passing wondrous in their skill. But Fletch paced before him so nervously that Robyn had to send him away.
“What shall I do?” he asked.
“Plant an arrow and watch for them,” said Robyn. “Up on the trail.” She threw him one of the waterskins. Fletch ran back up to the trail, searching for a depression in the packed earth that was sheltered from the wind. When he found one to his liking, he took careful aim and sank an arrow into the earth, and gently poured the water out around the shaft until enough of a murky puddle had been made to reflect the upright shaft in the noonday sun. And there he lowered himself carefully to the earth upwind of it, and watched on his belly, and waited in silence.
“Don’t use much of the water,” Robyn called after him. “They’ll need that to run.”
“We can’t run,” said Celithrand. “Not with her in this state.”
“You have not much choice,” said Robyn. “They’ve sent their fastest riders to warn the post-wardens. The Grand Army will tighten around these woods like a fist. You have to get away, and quickly.”
“If they reach the sea before us,” said Celithrand, “the way will be closed.”
“You must have a hidden road,” Robyn prompted.
“I can go over the cliffs,” Celithrand said with a shrug. “But Aewyn? Like this? She would never survive the climb.”
“You cannot leave her!” barked Poe. “For what she has done to save you, she is as good as dead!”
Celithrand turned even more pale. “What has she done?”
“I fought,” Aewyn breathed, half-conscious. “I fought.”
Poe tapped the side of his head. “She put an arrow straight into the eye of their chieftain,” he said. “He still lives—or did, when I left town. But I think he has seen his last sunrise.”
Celithrand shut his eyes; whether it was from pain or sorrow was hard to tell. Aewyn’s own tears were loosed by the news, and streamed down her cheeks though she was too weak to weep loudly.
“She loosed that arrow to save your life,” said Poe. “You cannot let her face certain death while you make your escape!”
“They’re not looking for Aewyn,” said Robyn, to the surprise of everyone. “I don’t think a one of them saw her.”
“Not even when they rode her down?” asked Celithrand.
Poe hung his head. “It did not happen that way. In that moment, all their attention was on me.”
Robyn touched the Karach’s shoulder. Only now did she realize he was trembling.
“Oh yes,” she admitted. “They definitely want you dead. They will kill Poe if they find him.”
Poe looked her in the eye. “And the Havenari?”
Robyn’s mouth drew tight. “We will kill you if we find you,” she said. “We must not find you.”
A single realization cut the gathering storm of Poe’s worry like a bolt of lightning.
“She cannot run,” he said. “And I cannot stay.”
“You’re dead, if you do,” said Robyn. “And if they find you with her—the least they’ll do is kill you in front of her.” She looked back down the hill with firm concern. “I think they’ve had enough of hangings, too.”
“But her destiny—” Poe sighed. “The prophecy, and such.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in prophecies,” said Celithrand, recovering a little of his strength.
Poe snorted. “I don’t. But she was beginning to choose it. I wanted—as she wanted.”
“I want—to—” Aewyn started, but did not finish. Celithrand tied off bandage and splint alike, and wrapped her in a blanket with bloody hands.
“I’ve done my part,” he said. “Change this bandage in three days—and every day, after that. It will heal clean with time. But time and rest is the heart of it.”
Robyn jerked her head to the west. “You know what lies ahead of you. Are you well enough to make the climb, old man?”
“I scaled those cliffs a dozen times in my youth,” said Celithrand. “If anything, a thousand years of erosion will have made the rock face more gentle.”
Aewyn gathered her strength and pulled him close. “A thousand years of erosion,” she breathed, “has been no more of a friend to you.” Celithrand laughed sharply, and Poe too, though it turned to a weighty silence in his chest as soon as he understood.
“I have sworn to protect her,” he said.
“And that is why you cannot be found with her,” said Celithrand. The slump in Poe’s frame as the heart went out of him was felt by all.
“I’m so sorry,” said Aewyn. “I meant to do good. To do what is right. I’ve ruined my destiny, haven’t I?”
Celithrand dared not answer her directly. “This is not what I foresaw,” he said. “I am an old fool. I did not expect things to go this way.”
“I cannot leave her,” said Poe. “But I cannot stay. But I cannot leave her.”
Celithrand tried to rise, but his full weight was still too much. “I cannot take her to Dær Móran,” he said. “My errand has failed. I have failed. They will all be coming for me, now. The soldiers. Ashimar. Even the village will not be safe for her.”
“Then let her ride out with the Havenari, as she once wished,” said Robyn. “We’ll take her far from here. We can ride through the winter, at need. Keep her on the move, as soon as she is healed enough to sit a horse. You need to take Poe and go, before your window of escape is shut forever.”
“Go?” asked Aewyn, tears still welling. “Where will you go?” Even in her sorrow and agony, she saw the steely conviction in Robyn’s eyes. The First Spear had hidden away all trace of warmth, now; she had seen hard times before, and now that they were come again, she would not dance or laugh or wear her dress again until they were past.
“To Nalsin,” said Celithrand. “To Dær Móran, and the halls of my ancestors, for a time. To the isle of the druids, whither I would have taken you, whither the grasp of Travalaith does not reach.”
With a momentary thought, Robyn unbelted the sword at her waist. “This belongs to you,” she said.
“Niurwyn,” said Celithrand, and took it. “You have my thanks.”
Poe, still in denial, let his great head sway from side to side in disgust.
“My place is here with Aewyn,” said Poe. “She is my tribe.” He hes
itated, snorted, muttered softly. “My whole tribe. All my people. She is all that stands between my people and dreamless oblivion.”
“Captain!” called Fletch from the road. The reflection of his arrow was twitching, almost imperceptibly, in the surface of the puddle, as the shaft stirred tiny ripples in the water.
“Gods,” Robyn sighed, rolling her eyes. “We have no time at all. Can you make it, old man? If you take this one with you, can you beat Castor’s rider to the docks at Lockmouth?”
“If we go now,” Celithrand conceded. “If I abandon her, and go home to the druidlords empty-handed, with no child of prophecy and little hope for the Godswar. If I am prepared to fail in my errand, we can make it. But I fear it will not save her. There will be questions when you take her back in this condition. Questions for which there are no easy answers. Questions that Ashimar may take great delight in asking.”
Poe took a ragged breath and waited until both of them were silent.
“I did this,” he said.
“What?” Robyn asked. Poe gestured with his snout toward Aewyn's splinted leg, and the open wound that stained Celithrand’s makeshift poultice a ruddy brown.
“I have done it before,” said Poe. “I have broken the laws of men when it suited me, and then fled like a coward when my reckoning came. It is a credible story.” He brushed an enormous hand gently over a stray forelock of her autumn hair.
“She came after me,” he said. “Tried to stop me, tried to talk sense. So I did this to her. They cannot possibly question her story then.”
“Poe, no…” Aewyn grasped at his fur.
“They adore her, Poe,” Robyn warned. “The whole village has come to love her. If I tell them you did this to her, they will not forgive it. Not ever.”
“Captain!” called Fletch. “They’re coming!”
Robyn cursed under her breath. “You cannot come back after this. They will hunt you. We will hunt you. If we find you…”
“Take her,” Poe urged, holding out one of her spindly arms as if offering. “You must keep her safe for me.” But as he reclaimed his clawed hand, there was a smaller white hand in his that would not let go.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Aewyn said, clutching suddenly at his chest.
In spite of her fragility, he wrapped her in his muscled arms and surrounded her with his bulk. “You can never leave me,” he said. “Never.”
“Captain!” Fletch urged, as loudly as he dared. Celithrand made to stand, and seemed much improved on his feet with the passage of time.
“You will see him again,” said the druid. “I swear it.”
“Go,” said Robyn. “Go now. I will not let you down.”
She would not have been strong enough to take Aewyn from the karach if he had not let go. But his massive hands, far down at the ends of his arms, seemed to release her of their own will. He watched, as if he were already far away, as she passed from him and into Robyn’s embrace. Distantly, in moments when the breeze was still, they could now hear the hoofbeats of men coming at speed.
Celithrand had shouldered his pack, hoisting himself with the aid of a curved stick he had found in the brush. He was unsteady, but the fire of determination was in him, and for just a moment, he cast as noble a shadow as he must have long ago.
“Come,” he said. “All is not lost until they see us together. Come with me.”
Poe turned his feet, but he remained fixed on the girl as Robyn pulled her away. With three clawed fingers he tapped at his breastbone.
“My stories are your stories,” he said.
She repeated the gesture. “Ossili ei, ossili lai.”
She could not watch him go for all the tears in her eyes. Robyn held her tightly, but the woman’s breastplate was cold and hard, and the touch of the steel was painful on Aewyn's cheek.
“No,” was all Robyn said, and that only once. When next Aewyn raised her head, the druid and the karach had gone, though in what direction even she could not tell. The thunder of hooves was audible now, and Fletch began working his arrow free of the soil.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aewyn wept, clutching at Robyn’s breastplate like a child. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.” Her leg burned and left her dizzy, but Celithrand’s woodcraft has done its work.
“I wish I could have done as you did,” said Robyn. “Gods and fishes, how I wish it.” Her own eyes were not so dry as she called her horse, but her jaw was set firm by the time Bram rode up the long trail at the head of the search party.
“Captain,” he nodded to his sister. “We came as quickly as we could. No sign of the prisoner or his rescuer.” He looked back at the uneasy soldiers, all of whom had been run to fatigue on the twisting road, but were ready for a serious fight. “Or perhaps his accomplice,” he added. “Whatever the less kind word for a ‘rescuer’ might be.”
“I found a trail,” said Robyn, “and traced it here. He laid the old man down here—and then, nothing. Druid’s magic, I’ll wager. There’d be no less trace of them if they turned into starlings and flew away.”
“Is that Aewyn? Mother of Sorcery, what happened to her?”
Robyn met his eyes. “She tried to stop him. The karach did this to her. Tore into her leg and got away.”
“Did he,” Bram said. He didn’t believe it for a moment, but she knew he could be trusted to repeat it.
“The leg is broken. I’ve set it as best I can. She can’t ride. I’ll need Fletch to help me cut a litter to get her back to town.”
Bram, looking to the men with him, who were still gnashing and eager to put their swords to the beast who brought down Derec. One or two looked with pity on the wounded girl and vowed to kill him slowly for it.
“I’ll take them all the way up the ridge,” said Bram. “We can’t be sure they got past us until we’ve waited them out.” With a nod from his sister, Bram spurred his horse onward and led the men up past Maiden’s Watch, through the wide grove where Grim had first met the karach some years before, and upward until the trees crowded together so tall and thick that they had to dismount and lead the horses by hand.
Bram’s patrol was the first and largest, but by no means the only one led up into the deep wood during the last two days of the Harvest Fair. The soldiers were tireless, ranging ever wider, and the Havenari rode with them and on their behalf, scouring the forest for the fugitive, the karach, or any other menace, as was their duty. For all that Aewyn wanted to ride out with them, she was for some weeks a prisoner of the bed they made up for her. One by one, from furious Darmod to suspicious Venser, the townsfolk would come to wish her good health, and to promise her that the monster who savaged her had finally gone too far. At night, when it grew too dark to search, she would simply lie before the open door of the little cottage, comforted by the hearth-fire on one side and the cold night air on the other. For hours upon end, lost in a haze of pain, she would watch the trees, hoping to catch momentary sight of Poe, or Celithrand, or at least some sign of their passing.
There were some in the village who did not really expect them to have gone far. Heartbroken by Poe’s betrayal of Aewyn, the townsfolk would send a search party out night after night with torches and long spears; and more than once, she thought she caught a glimpse of Poe’s eyes burning bright green in the glow of their torchlight—but always, then, she would wake on her bedroll under the dusty rafters and know that even that glimpse of him, even the smallest flash of his sad eyes, was now no more than a dream.
The first thing to come back to him was hunger, a hunger so powerful that the faint smell of fresh-baked bread on the wind was more insistent than the pain. But the pain came right behind it, and it kicked the breath from him before he could even open his eyes. The whole side of his head burned like fire and he was suddenly dizzy. He tried to turn onto his side and retch, but could not move his head for the agony. His stomach heaved as he lay flat on his back, but there was nothing left in it to drown him with.
“Well tan my doubting ar
se,” said a deep voice. “I thought you were a dead man, Stannon.”
Castor Stannon heaved again, gasping for breath, clutching at nothing in the air as he drew his first deep breath in days. His whole face burned too fiercely to concentrate on the rest of his body in any real detail—but aside from an ache in his back and a burning in the pit of his stomach, nothing below the neck seemed too worse for wear.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “What’s happened?”
“It’s the twenty-fifth day of Laeamaunt,” said the other. “You’re in a little pisspot of a border town. Widowvale, sir. And you and I are the two luckiest men in it.”
“My head hurts,” said Castor. “I can’t get up.”
“Don’t try,” said the voice. “I’ll come to you.” A long, dark shadow loomed over him, and coarse hands lifted a wet fragrant cloth from his face with surprising gentleness. He opened his eyes—one of them, anyway—to look on a towering, broad-shouldered man in black, balding hair cropped short, smiling down at him the way a wolf smiles at a lame sheep.
“Don’t strain yourself,” said the big man. “I’ve saved your life, and that’s worth something. If you take sick and die before I get you back to Wescairn, I’ve done spit-and-fiddle, and that’s worth nothing.”
Castor took a deep breath, smoother this time, and collected himself quickly. “Kellan, wasn’t it?”
“Yeh,” said Kellan, nodding. “Still is. You’ve got a good memory. Smart man.”
“What happened to me?”
“You took an arrow to the eye. I dug it out.”
In the gleam of his good eye, Castor’s impassive countenance was a broken mask belying his terror. “The arrow?” he asked. “Or the eye?”
“Yes,” said Kellan, turning away. He placed a heavy book back on a shelf—Castor found the gesture odd, for some reason, fixated on it. Whose house were they in? Who would have an old book? Why would an unlettered soldier have taken it down? His mind leapt to any thought at all to evade the grim truth of his maiming.
“You saved my life,” he said, more a question than a statement.
The Season of the Plough Page 24
