Dark Magic (43 page)

“Roasted or raw”—Calandryll rubbed his complaining belly—“I’m ready for it.”

Still chuckling, Bracht fetched the strips from the fire and they ate. For all that blood dripped when his teeth broke the charred skin, it seemed to Calandryll a banquet, and he gorged, lying back when he was done with a sigh of pure contentment.

“These little mountains,” Bracht said with a grin in Katya’s direction, “would seem to edge our comrade’s appetite.”

“And render him somewhat barbarous,” she returned, dabbing fastidiously at her mouth.

Unconcerned, Calandryll licked blood from his lips, wiped grease away with a careless hand. “Dera,” he remarked cheerfully, “I think I’ve never been so hungry.”

“You’ll find it so awhile,” Bracht told him, “until we reach the lower slopes.”

“When shall that be?” Calandryll lifted on his elbows, deciding his feet could remain a little longer by the fire.

“We climb no higher.” Bracht tossed a fresh branch into the flames. “From here, the way runs down. Two days will see us on the grass.”

“And those wolves?” Calandryll cocked his head, listening to the eerie howling. “Shall the horses be safe, or must we mount a guard?”

“No need.” Bracht shook his head. “They’re below us yet—where the hunting’s better—and the fire will hold them off. That and my horse: he’s match for any wolf.”

Calandryll nodded and yawned. With his hunger satisfied he realized he was mightily tired. Idly he murmured, “Did your Lykard friends pursue us? I wonder.”

“No friends of mine.” Bracht’s voice grew harsh. “And if they did, they’ll have a hard time of it.”

“Gart and Kythan proved true friends,” Calandryll murmured.

“They’re Asyth,” Bracht said, as if that were all the explanation necessary.

“True friends,” repeated Calandryll drowsily.

“Clan,” Bracht said. “That bond runs strong.”

“And the tokens you bought?” asked Katya. “Shall they prove as sound?”

“Aye.” Bracht used his dirk to return a fallen log to the fire. “Once given, they may not be reclaimed. With those, we’ve safe conduct over all save the ni Larrhyn grazing.”

Katya nodded, her face thoughtful. “Even the ni Brhyn?”

“Even the ni Brhyn,” Bracht confirmed.

“Then the Lykard cannot know that Daven Tyras is Rhythamun,” the woman murmured.

“I doubt even the Lykard”—Calandryll heard contempt in Bracht’s voice—“would give Rhythamun aid. Did you think it so?”

Katya shrugged a vague negative. “I know as little of Cuan na’For as you know of Vanu,” she said pensively, “but it would seem that if Rhythamun hides his identity, he must travel slower—at whatever pace the ni Brhyn set. Also, he cannot suspect we chase him—if he did, surely he’d have fabricated some tale, that the Lykard hold us back.”

“Likely,” Bracht agreed.

“Then I believe we’ve a better chance than any yet of halting him.” Her tone was enthusiastic enough; Calandryll shrugged off his weariness, concentrating on her words. “We’re agreed he’ll not risk facing Ahrd in the Cuan na’Dru—that he will look to go around the forest?”

Bracht nodded; Calandryll waited.

“And Ahrd lives in every tree?”

“The forests and woodlands are his,” Bracht said. “The oaks more than the rest.”

“Then shall Ahrd not know where he goes?”

Again Bracht nodded.

“While the ni Brhyn are unlikely to give him up, save he reveal himself for what he is.”

“Even the ni Brhyn despise a gharan-evur,” Bracht said.

“Then I think that if we’ve Ahrd’s help we can find him, away from the ni Brhyn. When he travels on—around the Cuan na’Dru.”

Bracht frowned as realization dawned, doubt—and perhaps, Calandryll thought, a measure of fear, too—in his eyes. “You’d go through the Cuan na’Dru?” he asked.

Katya nodded: “Did Ahrd permit, then we’d likely emerge ahead, with the god to tell us where we might cross Rhythamun’s path.”

“Did Ahrd permit,” Bracht said slowly. “And the Gruagach.”

“Burash aided us,” Katya reminded the Kern, “and Dera. Why not Ahrd? And these Gruagach?”

“The Gruagach are strangeling creatures.” Bracht’s voice was wary. “No man has seen them and lived. They guard the Cuan na’Dru fiercely. I’d not count on their permitting it.”

Katya shrugged. “I say only it is a way. Mayhap the best way.”

“I’d sooner face him among the ni Brhyn.”

The Kern spoke low, clearly troubled by the thought of encountering the mysterious Gruagach. It came to Calandryll that it was the first time he had seen hint of fear in Bracht. “You spoke of drachomannii recognizing him,” he offered. “What are they? Would they aid us?”

“Did they recognize him,” Bracht said, “but they are not sorcerers. The word means ghost-talkers—you’d name them shamans, I think. They guide the clans, speak with the spirits, make the offerings to Ahrd. They might discern what Rhythamun is and cast him out, but more than that . . .” He gestured
helplessly. “No, I think we must rely on that power in you to win this fight.”

“And in the Younger Gods,” Katya insisted. “In Ahrd.”

“Aye,” Bracht allowed, somewhat reluctantly. “But still I’d not go among the Gruagach, save we’ve no other choice left us.”

He was obviously discomforted by the thought, rising to check the horses as if he sought those few moments alone, forcing an end to further discussion of the prospect.

“At least,” Katya murmured as she watched him, “we’ve the advantage of surprise. Rhythamun must surely believe us trapped in Tezin-dar, and thinking that will leave no ambush behind.”

Calandryll grunted sleepy agreement, neither then knowing Katya was wrong.

M
ORNING
found the wind dropped away and the grass frost-rimed, glittering silvery under the harsh blue of a cloudless sky. The sun was a hazy disc far off to the east, hurling long shadows from the peaks and crags, outlining soaring birds stark against the azure. Breath steamed, and Calandryll hurried to build the fire as Bracht tended the horses and Katya retreated behind the privacy of the rocks to attend her toilet. They boiled tea and ate more of the dried meat, crouching, wrapped in their cloaks, about the fire as the sun climbed a little farther up the sky, then kicked the smoldering logs submissive and saddled the animals, riding out of the hollow’s shelter onto a trail that slanted precipitously down across a face of smooth stone.

As Bracht had promised, they had crested the backbone of the mountains now and their way was a steady descent, though still by no means easy. Lesser tors lay below them, cordillera that ran like telluric waves washing against the distant blue-green mistiness that was the flatland of Cuan na’For, and the
trail wound a tortuous way down shale-strewn gradients, along gullies, cliff faces, and couloirs. The few level places they crossed were a welcome relief, the gradients they climbed fewer and less steep, the road mostly finding a way around the heights, or between them. Timber grew thicker, spruce and hemlock and cedar spreading over the slopes, and they rode over more mountain meadows, an ever-increasing number of streams running cold and silver toward the foothills, like pointers to their destination. Squirrels chattered at their passing and the birds of the high mountains were gradually replaced with crows and kestrels, peregrines and buzzards. The air warmed and they shed their cloaks as the sun approached its zenith, donning them again as the day aged, the sun westering, allowing the new moon’s sickle dominance of the heavens. That night owls hooted in the trees sheltering their camp, pine needles affording a springy mattress, the fire giving off the sweet scent of cedar as it crackled cheerfully, coruscating sparks toward the overhanging canopy of branches. The moon hymn of the wolves sounded closer and Calandryll fingered his bow, wondering aloud if they need mount a guard.

“No.” Bracht shook his head, tossing a flesh-stripped bone onto the fire. “They’ll not trouble us.”

“But they hunt nearby,” Calandryll protested.

“But not us,” said the Kern easily. “What do you know of wolves?”

“Not much,” Calandryll admitted. “That shepherds hate them, and farmers . . . In Lysse they’re sometimes hunted. Folk say they’ll attack unwary travelers, be the pack large enough.”

Bracht laughed. “Shepherds hate wolves because they threaten the flocks,” he said, “and so they weave tales of their ferocity. But never have I known a pack—no matter how large—attack a man. Rather, they avoid men, and men’s fires. They might, were they hungry enough and in sufficient number, try for a horse, but I think we’re safe enough.”

“And the horses?” Calandryll frowned, still toying nervously with his bow. “Shall they be safe?”

“This close to us and our fire,” Bracht answered, “aye. Those wolves you hear can fill their bellies readily enough on the game in these hills. And as I said before—my stallion is match for any wolf.”

Calandryll bowed to the Kern’s greater knowledge. His own experience of the lupine predators was, he allowed, limited mostly to folklore. In Secca he had taken little enough pleasure in hunting, preferring his books, his scholarly pursuits, to the chase, and had largely refused the invitations extended by his father and brother to join them on their forays, from which they would sometimes return with the carcass of a wolf, and lurid tales of the dead creature’s ferocity. Bracht must know, he thought; but still, as he lay in his tent, he found sleep hard to find while the pack chorused, and kept both blade and bow to hand.

The dawn reinforced Bracht’s assurance, for neither had the horses suffered attack nor could any sign of wolf spoor be found nearby; there was, Calandryll thought not for the first time, learning to be gleaned outside the books he had loved so well, in the observation of things beyond the confines of the palace library or the dissertation of scholars. It came to him then, as he squatted among the trees, that he had not held a book—save for that cursory examination of Varent den Tarl’s library—in over a year now. Nor—this to his surprise—much missed the lack. A year ago he would have believed that unthinkable, but now the tomes over which he had doted, the scrolls and parchments and leather-bound volumes that had comprised the major and undoubtedly most important part of his life, seemed little more than a nebulous memory of a life left behind, like Secca’s walls and Nadama, Tobias’s scorn and his father’s contempt. He rose, smiling and stretching, listening to the bird song in the surrounding trees, able now to identify far more than he had known that long-ago day when he had ridden out through Secca’s gates to
find—he now recognized—a freedom he had not known existed.

He was still smiling as he returned to the fire and took the tea Bracht offered, savoring the brew as he watched the light strengthen, filtering in shafts of golden blue through the timber.

“You’re mightily cheerful,” Katya remarked, and he nodded, beaming, answering “Aye,” encompassing their camp with a gesture. “This life is good.”

“As well you think it so,” said Bracht dryly, “for there’s much of it ahead. By nightfall we’ll be on the grass and in ni Larrhyn territory, and there we shall need to mount a watch—against human wolves.”

“Are the Lykard so fierce?” he asked, and Bracht nodded.

“They are,” he said. “And I think that with Jehenne leading the ni Larrhyn now, that family will be the fiercest.”

Even that sobering warning failed to dampen Calandryll’s good humor and he hummed a half-forgotten song as he struck his tent and stowed it with the others on the packhorse, saddling his chestnut and taking the rearmost position as Bracht led them onward through the timber.

They rode until midmorning through the trees, then over more rock where only scrub grew, picking up a stream and following its course down through clefts and gorges to a wide cirque where a lake pooled blue, reflecting the firs that ringed its circumference. There they halted and ate, leaving the lake behind as they climbed a narrow chine, seeing the final, lowest stretch of cordillera ahead, beyond that, still misty, the grass of the plains, an ax-sharp cut showing where they should emerge onto the grassland.

Between the chine and the last line of hills the trees grew thick, the trail patterned by the sunlight that shone through the interwoven canopy of branches, the air resinous and drowsy with the buzz of insects. The hills ahead were lost behind the trunks and it was a shock to find themselves in the mouth of the cut, the
timber ending dramatically on grey stone. The sun was moved toward its setting by now and Bracht announced that they would traverse the ravine and make camp at its farther end, heeling the black stallion into the defile.

The horse snickered nervously, tossing its head and stamping; behind, the packhorse whickered, plunging on the tether. Abruptly, Calandryll felt his chestnut quiver and curvet, threatening to unseat him. He heard Bracht curse and as his mount spun, prancing, he saw Katya’s grey demonstrate the same reluctance to enter the cleft. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle, fighting the protesting animal to a standstill that left it with flattened ears and wildly rolling eyes, teeth champing against the bit. It pawed the rocky ground, snorting, and he backed it a little, feeling its protestations diminish as it moved farther from the ravine. Katya came back to join him, and her mount, likewise, calmed as it drew away from the shadowed stone. His eyes met the warrior woman’s, hers clouded with a doubt he knew must be reflected in his own, and they both looked to where Bracht still fought the nervous stallion.

“Something must lie within,” Calandryll shouted. “The horses sense it, or smell it.”

“Come back,” Katya called.

Cursing soundly, Bracht turned the stallion and trotted back to join them, the wild-eyed packhorse needing no encouragement, but matching the black stride for stride.

“What?” snapped the Kern, turning in his saddle to peer into the depths. “I saw nothing.”

“It must lie farther in,” Calandryll said. “Out of sight.”

Bracht leaned forward to stroke the stallion’s neck, soothing the great beast, and it tossed its head once and was still. The packhorse moved to the farthest extent of its tether, as far from the rock as it could get, seeking the proximity of the other animals, where it stood trembling.