Bloodsongs (10 page)

She paced her horse slowly at the foot of the
Sha-Nakare,
straining to see some trace of the upward trail. In daylight she wouldn't have bothered, just climbed the slope. But at night she wanted safe footing. The horse was dear to her right now, and her neck dearer still. She wouldn't risk either on an unseen hole or a loose stone.

The moon, at last, floated over the rippled crests of the
Shai-Zastari.
Frost sighed, cursed gently to herself. She must have ridden past the trail half a dozen times in her blindness. She sighed again. A wash of ivory light showed the way.

It was a narrow path of hard-beaten clay packed down by the feet of centuries. Nevertheless, clumps of grass and a few pathetic shrubs encroached on its boundaries, reclaiming inch by inch as time crawled by. Few men came here anymore; only the occasional hunter or a weary patrol in a mood for a view.

It had been twenty years and more when she'd first climbed this trail with Kimon at her side. He'd sung to her as they'd ridden. She couldn't remember the song.

The summit of
Sha-Nakare
was broad and flat, windswept. A lonely tree stood there, a dead and rotting hulk. Its bare, splintering limbs shivered in the stiff breeze, and she shivered, too, not from the breeze, but from the awesome sense of time and age the tree exuded.
Nothing lives forever,
it whispered to her, and the thought seemed to echo among the worn, eroded hills.
Nothing, nothing
. . . .

Frost stepped out of the saddle and rubbed her stiff back. Moonlight limned everything with a pale shimmering. Rings of small stones marked where campfires once had burned. Larger stones indicated where men had leaned back and gazed into those fires. She led her mount to a stake some traveler had planted in the earth and tethered him.

The rich, sweet smell of water wafted on the air. She drew a deep breath, shut her eyes for a quiet moment, and then walked to the western edge.

A tightness squeezed her chest.

The moon made a winding silver ribbon of the Lythe. The scent of the river rose upward like the perfume of the world. The shadows of the hills only slightly dappled its sparkling, rippling surface. But she turned her gaze beyond that beauty.

Esgaria.

The thought flickered briefly through her mind of what she had come here for.
In time
, she promised. But there was time, too, to stare over the river into her homeland, time to remember its wildness and its wonders, time to reflect.

She had seen but seventeen summers before that last fatal night in Esgaria. It had been late spring when the forests around her father's estate were heavy with foliage, teeming with game. Often, she had stood on the parapets and listened to the owls calling. Then, when her family, the servants, and all her father's soldiers were finally asleep, she would sneak to the lowest levels of the castle, where she kept a sword and shield hidden. For long hours she would practice in secret with her teacher all the skills and techniques that made a master warrior, then a few hours' sleep before dawn.

It had had to be done in secret. In Esgaria it was death for the woman who touched a man's weapons.

Frost pulled back from her memories. The wind that blew at her back rushed on across the Lythe to her homeland. It shook the tops of the trees that drew almost to the water's edge. In all her travels she'd seen no nation with forests as dark and majestic as Esgaria. She wrapped her cloak tighter about herself to stop the noisome flapping.

Her brother had found her that last night, her jealous and hateful brother. As she was denied the right to touch a sword, he was forever forbidden, as were all males, to study the secrets of sorcery. They'd each had what the other most wanted, and he'd despised her.

He'd found her that night, and he'd tried to kill her. It had been his right. But her teacher had taught her well. Very well. Fighting had been a game until then, an exercise, a game like any other.

She still remembered vividly her brother's body, his red blood dripping down the length of her blade, spattering the floor. That had been the beginning of her nightmares. Her father, unable to punish her as the law demanded, and ridden with shame and grief, killed himself rather than raise his hand against her. Her teacher, Burdrak, then challenged her. Her father's closest friend, he had blamed himself and sought revenge.

She hadn't known then why she'd fought back. She recalled how her thoughts had churned; fear had raised turmoil inside her. Her sword had seemed to work of its own will without her participation. Later, of course, she had realized it was her will to live that had driven her.

So Burdrak had died.

“Though your tears mingle with his blood, foolish daughter, you will never be redeemed!”

For a thousand nights those words had echoed in her dreams, and she remembered the look of grief and anger on her mother's face as she had screamed them. That tormented visage haunted her even to this day. And though Frost had made a kind of peace with herself over the many seasons since, still, in the long, empty nights she sometimes heard her mother's voice.
“You are a thing of fire and frost,”
her mother had cried, taking the wet blade from her child's hand.
“Frost, that should have been your name. And I curse you, you cold and unfeeling creature!”

And it had been an evil curse, but not so evil as her last act. To follow her husband and her son, she had plunged the sword deep into her breast. Only a hint of pain had creased her features. Instead, her expression had betrayed a malicious glee at the black guilt she had laid on her daughter. She'd actually withdrawn the blade and given it back into Frost's hand before falling down by her husband to sleep at his side forever.

It had been long ago. Time had eroded the sharp edges of memory; the nightmares no longer tortured her. All that remained was a deep, sorrowful regret and an abiding homesickness.

Frost stared out across the Lythe. The Waters of Forgetfulness, some called the river. In a vain hope, she once had drunk of those waters. But she had not forgotten.

She turned away. Another purpose had brought her to this high summit, and it was time to be about it.

She went to the old tree and put her back to it, facing west. On her right was the first of several long-unused firepits. A small boulder rested near it. She walked to it, placed her palms on the cool rock surface.

Twenty years ago Kimon had helped her. Could she move it alone?

She leaned her weight against it and strained. The stone didn't move. She stood back a moment, rubbed her hand where the rough rock had abraded the flesh. This time she put her shoulder to it. Her muscles trembled and popped; a rushing roar filled her ears.

The stone rocked slightly, then settled back in its familiar place.

She backed up and kicked it, cursing, breathless. The moon seemed to laugh at her. She cursed it, too.

She peered around. Nothing to use for a lever but her sword, and she would not risk that. She got down on her knees, braced her shoulders, and dug the toes of her boots into the earth. Slowly, inexorably, she pushed, straining until her joints cracked. She sucked for breath, but she didn't stop.

The stone moved. She eased and let it roll back into the depression where it had rested so long undisturbed. She pushed again, blowing air to concentrate her effort. The stone rolled again a little more and settled back.

She rolled it back and forth, each time gaining a bit of ground. Finally, with a furious determination that ripped a raw-throated yell from her, she straightened her body, every muscle taut and burning. Her toes carved furrows in the moist earth before finding purchase. A red haze filled her vision.

She fell flat on her nose. The stone rolled an arm's length away and stopped.

Frost sputtered, wiped dirt from her mouth, sat back to catch her breath and let the heat in her cheeks cool. Her hands felt raw; she licked them, rubbed them gently together.

When she was rested she crawled back to the depression and began to dig. The point of her sword broke the earth; she scooped it out with her hands. It surprised her how easy it was. The ground was not packed at all, but loose and easy to turn.

In only a short time the sword scraped something metallic. She arched an eyebrow. Hadn't she buried the box deeper? Perhaps time had dulled her memory. Or perhaps excitement had made her dig faster. She brushed the last of the dirt aside and lifted out a small iron box.

She leaned back against the boulder and balanced the box on her lap. Her fingers hesitated at the catch.

When she knew that her adventuring was over those long years ago, she had buried the dagger. Demonfang was too dangerous, its power too unpredictable. An innkeeper and a dancer had no use for such a weapon. Here, deep in the earth, she knew it would be safe.

But now she was a warrior once more. And if it was truly a sorcerer who had murdered her husband, then she wanted Demonfang at her side.

She twisted the catch and threw back the lid.

The dagger was not there!

She tilted the box until moonlight limned the bottom. She shuddered. It was full of dead insects! Even with the moon she could not see clearly. She pinched one of the creatures between thumb and forefinger and lifted it onto her palm for a better look.

To her surprise a tiny amber light winked at her. Startled, she shook her hand. The light winked again several paces away and hovered in the air.

A firefly! It hadn't been dead after all.

Suddenly the box was filled with a pulsating amber glow. All the insects were alive! By twos and threes they sprang into the night. A chill raced up her spine; her free hand closed on the hilt of her sword. With the back of her hand she knocked the box back into the hole and leaped up.

Her horse gave a fearful whinny and stamped the earth.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of fireflies blinked in the darkness. She spun about and quickly noted the unbroken gloom that shrouded the crests and valleys of the lesser hills. She shivered again, seized by a single thought.

Sorcery!

One of the insects landed on her hand. Its small light flared, and Frost screamed. Her left hand shot out and squashed the bug to a pulp. A blister showed where the firefly had burned her!

They came for her then, swarming, diving, seeking her bare flesh. She flailed at the air in a vain effort to drive them away. They lit on her face, on her hands, bringing searing pain.

Straight for her eyes one flew. She caught it reflexively, crushed it, and screamed. A blister rose in the center of her palm.

She smelled an acrid odor of singed hair. They were in her hair!

She ran blindly for her horse, throwing up her hood to cover her head, clutching it around her face. Even the fabric of her clothes smoldered where the fireflies touched it.

She snatched the reins and leaped into the saddle. Before her feet found the stirrups the beast gave a bellow of agony and reared, nearly unseating her. The unholy insects attacked both mount and rider with unrelenting malevolence.

A sudden intense heat on her back warned her that her cloak had caught fire. She ripped at the clasp with one hand, fighting to control her horse with the other. The flames raced up her neck, and she let go a terrified shriek. Then the clasp came free; she flung the blazing garment away.

A fireflash on her hand; a sob tore from her, and the reins slipped from her tortured grip.

The panicked steed seized its chance. Frost could only grab for its mane to hold on. It fled from the insects, carrying her along, over the western rim and down the precipitous incline.

The fireflies pursued mercilessly, flying with an unnatural speed.

A horrible sound filled her ears, the horse screamed as only an animal can. It smashed forward, falling on its neck. There was a loud, sickening snap as she pitched over its head, weightless for a dizzying instant before she hit the ground. She rolled, tumbled downward, unable to stop. The bulk of the horse crashed behind, threatening to crush her.

How she managed to find her feet she never knew, but suddenly she was up and running, not daring to look back. The Lythe swept below, shining in the moonlight.

With a cry of triumph she flung herself into the river and swam until she thought her heart would burst. Water filled her mouth and eyes and ears. Her sodden clothes weighted her arms and legs. The current battered her.

Just when she thought she was too weak for one more stroke, her feet touched the soft silted bottom. She scrambled ashore and collapsed, gasping for air.

On the far side of the river the fireflies had stopped. They flitted furiously along the bank, but they advanced no farther. Their arcane flashing illumined the night, reflected on the silvery river surface, tiny, sharp firespots far more brilliant than nature allowed.

Frost bit her lip, watching, thanking her gods. Water often proved a barrier to the supernatural. Ghosts could not cross it, and some demons could not. Sorceries faltered or dissolved completely for all but the most adept conjurers.

She had gambled rightly that the Lythe would be her salvation.

The winking grew dimmer and dimmer. One by one the fireflies apparently vanished until the night was dark and calm once again, and the moon was the only light.

Frost rose shakily to her feet on the grassy bank. A sweet smell rode the wind. Behind her, the leaves of great trees rustled. An owl hooted ominously. She caught her breath and listened.

It was home soil she stood on. For more than twenty years she had dreamed of Esgaria, and here she was.

Esgaria.

In renewed fear she leaped back into the Lythe, driven by ancient guilts and nightmares. She had not dreamed of this land—it had haunted her dreams like a vengeful specter.

Again she swam, desperately beating the water. But this time fatigue and the pain of her burns proved too much. Before she could reach the Keled shore the last strength went out of her arms.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to gulp one more breath. The river sucked her helplessly down.