Dark Magic (55 page)

Calandryll could offer no answer, but one of the ghost-talkers approached then, his expression tentative as he ducked his head and said, “I speak your language. No Lykard will offer you harm, for we shall send word to all the camps of what has happened here, and all shall know of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s blasphemy, and that Ahrd looks with favor on Bracht ni Errhyn. Be it your wish, we shall carry him back to our camp, and he shall rest there until he wishes to leave. The sap of Ahrd’s holy tree is in his veins now, but be our healing skills needed, then they are his. And yours.”

He paused as Katya glanced down, seemingly aware for the first time of her own wounds. She dismissed them with a careless gesture, fixing the shaman with her stare.

“And shall you pass word of Rhythamun? Daven Tyras?”

“That shall be done,” the drachoman promised. “From camp to camp the word shall go—that Daven Tyras is outcast, to be slain on sight. Ahrd has judged Jehenne, and all shall know her dream of alliance was a madness, born of this Rhythamun’s seduction.”

“Still we’d pursue him,” Katya said. “For he carries with him a book that we are vowed to bring to Vanu.”

“None shall prevent you,” answered the shaman, “and be he slain, then all he has with him shall be delivered to you, wherever you may be on the grass of Cuan na’For.”

“So be it, and our thanks for that.” Katya inclined her head. “But for now, do we bring Bracht back to your camp?”

“As you wish it.” The ghost-talker bowed, turning to call in his own language, sending men hurrying to fashion a litter from the pollarded growths that flanked the edges of the hurst.

T
HEIR
return was met by all the camp, and a great cry went up as Jehenne’s body, slung across her white horse, was seen, another at sight of Bracht, still unconscious, on the litter. The ghost-talkers rode ahead, shouting news of the crucifixion and its outcome, of the combat, and of Daven Tyras. Word spread fast and awed faces looked up at Katya as she rode between the wagons, her eyes intent on Bracht, troubled.

They were brought to Jehenne’s wagon, which, by custom, was now theirs to command, and Bracht was laid upon a bed of silk. Impatiently, Katya allowed the ghost-talkers to dress her wounds, going, once they were done with their ministrations, to Bracht’s side. The Kern appeared unharmed. The wounds in his hands were mended, the flesh there sound, no longer even shaded with the greenish hue of the sap that had flowed out to expel the nails and heal him. Save he had seen it happen, Calandryll would not have known his friend had suffered any hurt. But still, as dusk fell, Bracht slept, and none could say when—or if—he
would awake, for none had ever seen a man survive that ordeal.

“He lives,” Calandryll said, as Katya gently bathed the peaceful face, her own creased with worry, “and we—you!—won an advantage this day.”

“Save he wakes, that shall be lost.” Katya set aside the cloth, not looking at Calandryll, her voice defiant. “For I’ll not leave him, and Rhythamun is powerful. I know not what magicks these ghost-talkers command, but I wonder if they own such gramaryes as may halt that mage.”

“Aye,” granted Calandryll. “And so we can only wait.”

“Until he wakes,” said Katya, smoothing Bracht’s hair.

B
RACHT
slept on, peaceful as a babe, as dusk darkened into full night. Lykard came, their silence respectful now, to show where lamps were stowed in compartments ingeniously built into the wagon’s walls, containing food and wine, to offer invitation to the communal feast that would decide the clan’s new leader. Katya refused to leave the Kern’s side, but Calandryll elected to attend, aware an honor was done them and thinking the ni Larrhyn might be insulted did they both refuse, and also that he might well learn something of value.

It seemed to him impossible that Bracht should not awake: Ahrd had saved his life and surely would not now condemn him to a living death. The strange slumber was, he told himself, some part of the healing process, some necessary thing, that Bracht should fully mend, in spirit no less than in body. He shuddered at the memory of the nails entering the Kern’s palms, and told himself no man could swiftly recover from such ordeal, that this unduly long sleep was equally part of Ahrd’s blessing. Too, he felt a strange embarrassment at remaining in the wagon, the soft conversation of the previous night, Katya’s unhidden concern now, prompting a feeling that he intruded on
their privacy, like some voyeur, spying. It was irrational, and Katya gave him no reason for such emotion, but still he felt it, and left her alone with Bracht, promising to return once the feast was done.

Outside, the moon hung full over the strath, attended by a sweeping panoply of courtier stars. Fires burned, painting the night with red-gold light and coruscating sparks, the air warm and filled with the odors of roasting meat, so strong they overcame the scents of horse flesh and leather. The largest fire was close by the stream and he found the drachomannii there, and other faces he recognized now, belonging to those who had attended the crucifixion and the subsequent duel. They turned toward him as he approached, unreadable until a ghost-talker smiled a welcome and motioned for him to take a place to one side of the shamans. He bowed his thanks, as yet a trifle apprehensive, knowing some among them for kin to the warriors he had helped kill, but it seemed no grudges were held, those canceled by the payment of werecoin, and he settled on the grass, his hand soon filled with a brimming mug, a platter set before him, listening intently to the conversation, the arguments, ranging back and forth around the circle.

These, he soon realized, were the most prominent of the clan, the decision makers, men and women speaking as equals to determine the path the ni Larrhyn should take. None seemed to much mourn Jehenne’s demise, and he guessed she had not been overly popular. Neither did any speak for pursuing her dream of clan alliance, for her intended invasion of Lysse. In that at least, he thought, some setback was given Rhythamun’s design, that shedding of sacrificial blood denied the mage and the insane god he worshipped. Jehenne’s body, he learned, would be taken far from the camp on the morrow and left for the wild dogs to devour, in dishonor: her blasphemous rejection of Ahrd’s judgment denied her the customary practice of tree burial, the body laid in ceremony on the branches of an oak. Of greater interest was the
ghost-talkers’ repeated promise that word would go out to all the shamans of the Lykard, and from them to the ghost-talkers of the other clans, that Daven Tyras spoke for none save himself, and was a shape-shifter and a patricide, against whom all should join. In this debate, Calandryll took part, for the ghost-talkers urged him to tell all he knew of the warlock, elaborating on what Katya and Bracht had already said.

He spoke then of the quest, seeing no reason to prevaricate, and told them of Varent den Tarl’s coming to Secca, and the long journey across Kandahar and into Gessyth; of finding the Arcanum in Tezin-dar, and how Rhythamun had snatched it from them; of their return to Lysse and their pursuit into Cuan na’For.

When he was done, he saw all their eyes studying him gravely, with admiration, as though he were some mythic hero, woven from the fabric of a bard’s imagination, and experienced a further flush of embarrassment that he sought to hide behind his mug. That was never allowed to go empty, wineskins circulating constantly, carried by women and young men who eyed him with awe, and as the night grew older and the clan folk fell to discussing who should now lead them, he feared drunkenness.

He sipped then, not wishing to lose his wits, fleetingly amused by the memory that it had been that state that had first introduced him to Bracht, then concerned again for the Kern, seeking opportunity to question the ghost-talkers. Fruitlessly, it transpired, for all they could tell him was what they had said before—that ere now, a man crucified had hung on the tree until he died, and none been saved—and offer reassurance that they were confident Bracht would awake when Ahrd willed it; though when that might be, they could not say.

Dawn was close before the feast ended, and Calandryll longed for sleep himself. He had succeeded in remaining—unlike most there—sober, but his head swum from the babble, and his belly felt overly full;
he was thankful when finally a leader, Dachan, was elected and the gathering began to disperse. A trifle unsteady, he rose to his feet, climbing the ladder into the wagon to find the lamps pinched out, Bracht and Katya dim shapes in the farther chamber, the Kern’s head pillowed on the warrior woman’s outthrust arm. He shrugged off his tunic, pulled off his boots, and sank gratefully onto the cushions. It seemed he slept on the instant.

And woke as soon, gaping at Bracht’s puzzled face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a callused hand clamped down to silence him and Bracht pointed warningly to the sleeping chamber, where Katya lay, touching a finger to his own lips as he beckoned Calandryll to follow him.

Amazed for all he had felt—or convinced himself he felt—confident of Bracht’s recovery, Calandryll snatched up his tunic and his boots, going after the Kern into the pearly-grey stillness of the false dawn. After the excitement of the night, the camp slept yet, the fires burned down to embers, the air chill. Calandryll’s own exhaustion was evaporated by the delight of finding his comrade awake, and he beamed hugely as they crouched by the ashes of the central bonfire, studying Bracht’s face, shaking his head and chuckling, unable to resist clutching the Kern’s hands to peer wonderingly at the unblemished palms.

“What happened?” Bracht’s voice was hushed, his blue eyes narrowed, perplexed. “I remember the nails . . . the pain . . .” His mouth tightened at that memory. “But no more than that.”

“Ahrd saved you,” Calandryll said, and told him everything.

As he spoke, Bracht examined his hands, turning them this way and that, rubbing curiously at the palms and the backs, as if not quite able to believe the evidence of his own eyes, the evidence of his survival. When Calandryll was done with the telling, he sat silent for a while, digesting all he had heard. Then, as though relegating the wondrous to some hinder
part of his mind, said, “So Katya slew Jehenne, eh? And now the ghost-talkers send out word to slay Daven Tyras?”

“Aye,” Calandryll confirmed. “But Katya—and I think her likely right in this—remains uncertain they’ll succeed.”

Bracht nodded and said, “I, too. The drachomannii of Cuan na’For have many skills, but they are not sorcerers of Rhythamun’s standing. Save they act in concert, I doubt they have the strength to hold him.”

“Will they not,” asked Calandryll, “act in concert?”

“How?” Bracht shrugged, gesturing at the slumbering camp. “This is as large a gathering as any, and there are but two of them here. In ones and twos, I think Rhythamun must find them weakling foes.”

Calandryll saw the slender hope their quest might find its ending in Cuan na’For dissolve, and sighed.

“You thought to find our work done for us?” Bracht laughed, slapping a hearty hand to Calandryll’s shoulder. “Not so easily, my friend. But simpler—we’ve free passage now, no further need to hide from the Lykard; and likely news of Daven Tyras along the way. Even are the ghost-talkers unable to slay him, they’ll at least pass word from camp to camp and thus make the finding of him easier.”

“Save he shifts his shape again.” His optimism dampened somewhat, Calandryll grew once more practical. “Save he takes another’s body.”

“Even then,” declared Bracht. “For does he assume a new identity, he must leave behind the old. With word passed, should the body of Daven Tyras be found, then the new vessel will be known—some warrior will be missing, and we may learn his description.”

“Still he’s ahead of us,” Calandryll said.

“Aye, but the ghost-talkers—all the clans now—are valuable allies.” Bracht’s cheerfulness remained un-dimmed, as though his survival, perhaps the oak sap that mingled with his blood, imbued him with a
dauntless vitality. “And so we must hold to our design—go north from here to the Cuan na’Dru and seek passage through the forest; perhaps emerge before him.”

There was, in his confident statement, none of the doubt he had previously evinced at the prospect of entering the great central woodland, and when Calandryll looked, in some surprise, at his face, there was none visible there, only a smile.

“That tune is changed,” Calandryll murmured.

Bracht frowned then, as if himself surprised at his confidence, and ducked his head in thoughtful agreement. “It is,” he said, and paused. “I know not why, save perhaps . . .”

He held up his hands, staring at the palms. Calandryll waited. Then, slowly: “Ahrd gave me my life; the ghost-talkers say the holy sap runs in my veins. Surely, then, Ahrd will grant us passage.”

“And the Gruagach?” asked Calandryll.

“They are the guardians.” Bracht shrugged, some slight shadow of his old trepidation crossing his face. “But still they serve Ahrd, so perhaps they’ll not deny us. And we’ve but the one way to find out, eh?”

His good humor returned in full measure and he rose to his feet, stretching, staring about as if surveying a world newfound, or one he had thought to have quit, its regaining rendering it the sweeter. Certainly, his smile was wide, and he drank the air, savoring its mingled scents of woodsmoke and horses and leather.