Havenstar (26 page)

As she helped
to load the horses onto the ferry, Keris eyed the children playing
at the water’s edge, aimlessly throwing sods of earth into the
water, and then at the ferry itself when it began to pull away from
the bank. ‘I didn’t know the tainted could have children,’ she
blurted out to Scow. She was fighting her revulsion; the children
seemed more twisted than their parents. One girl had a hump of
loose flesh on her back and some deformity of the spine that
doubled her over to such an extent she scrabbled about on all
fours. The other children, seeing the ferry was now out of range,
threw earthen clods at her instead. Keris winced as one
particularly large lump caught her on the ear and she gave an
animal yelp.

Scow turned
saddened eyes towards the youngsters. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s
possible for us to bear children. But they always seem to lack the
intelligence of their parents. They ... degenerate, generation to
generation, until the family finally dies out because those born
don’t have the intelligence to look after their own young. The
Unstable is a hostile world to children. Without care they quickly
fall victim to ley, or to predators. Did you know the Minions hunt
humans for food? The younger the better.’ He turned his regard from
the children to her. ‘I would father no children in this
place.’

She nodded
dumbly, unable to speak in the face of his tragedy.

~~~~~~~

Davron Storre
used the Kaylen maps well; he was an expert at finding the best
route through a trackless environment; and his foresight meant that
many problems were avoided rather than confronted.
Like
Piers,
Keris thought.
I wonder if they knew one another
well?
She had not asked him that.

He was not so
skilled at dealing with people. He had little patience at the best
of times, and none at all with stupidity. He treated Quirk no
differently now the man had been tainted, which might have been
wise, but he was rarely polite to Graval anymore, evidently finding
the man’s constant carelessness and effusive apologies too
irritating to bear. He ignored Portron to the point of insult, and
although he sometimes seemed amused by Corrian, he was less
tolerant when she deliberately needled Graval or Portron. Most of
the time, however, he just seemed self-contained and remote. If
there was pity for Quirk within him, he never showed it. If there
was real concern for his friends, it was impossible to read it in
his face or words. If there was any anger at Baraine’s acceptance
of evil and the man’s subsequent abandonment of the fellowship, he
never let it be seen. If he still desired her, he hid it well. He
performed a job, and did it with skill, but he gave the impression
that if he had lost the lot of them in some cataclysmic upheaval,
he would have just shrugged and ridden on.

She knew now
that his indifference was a façade. Davron cared. He cared deeply.
He cared enough to take meticulous care of their safety even at the
risk of his own. He cared enough to take the trouble to make them
as comfortable as possible in arduous circumstances. He’d done his
best to save Quirk from tainting and to divert Baraine from the
Unmaker. She remembered his heaving shoulders after they’d emerged
from the ley of the Dancer when he’d known he had failed in both
those endeavours. And she knew he was deeply shamed by the bargain
he’d made with Carasma—she had seen that in his face, in his eyes,
in his blush. Was it shame that kept him so self-contained and
remote from most of the rest of the fellowship? It may have been.
She didn’t know whether to despise him, or pity him.

To her
surprise, he did spend more time talking to her than he had done in
the past. She was not sure why, because he made no special effort
to encourage her to like him, or even to trust him. In fact,
sometimes she thought the reverse was true and he actually wanted
her to see him in as bad a light as possible. ‘Don’t turn your back
on me, Kaylen,’ he’d say when they were alone. ‘Never forget that
one day I will serve the Unmaker.’ Or, after he’d explained
something about the Unstable to her, ‘Arm yourself with knowledge,
Keris. You never know when it may be necessary. I’ll teach you all
I can, and who knows, one day you may be able to use it against
me.’ And he would give his lopsided ironic smile.

At least he
now saw her, acknowledged her as a person in her own right, and was
prepared to listen to what she had to say. She’d proved herself,
but the thought brought her no satisfaction. Worried by her
knowledge of his bondage to the Unmaker, unsettled by the nature of
her own attraction to him, she remained uneasy in his company.

She made no
attempt to talk to Scow or Meldor about Davron’s bonding to the
Unmaker. They knew about it, they had done nothing, and Meldor had
used ley to release Scow from the bilee. It all pointed to the two
of them being committed to Lord Carasma, or at least to the
dangerous use of ley. She wanted nothing to do with any of them. It
even made her uneasy to see Scow spending much of his time with
Quirk, helping him to come to terms with his tainted nature and
teaching him the survival skills needed in the Unstable.

Day by day
Quirk grew in confidence. He began to delight in his camouflage
abilities, and practised stalking through the camp, challenging
them all to see him. He’d decided to add to his name, as many of
the Unbound did, and had chosen to be known as the Chameleon. Keris
was glad to see his renewed joy in living, but feared that along
with his proffered aid, Scow would involve Quirk in Davron Storre’s
affairs.

Just thinking
about it made Keris irritable. The trouble was she liked Scow,
respected Meldor and found Davron physically attractive, even as
her instincts screamed at her to have nothing to do with any of
them. Morose, she tried to avoid them all, which meant she’d a
choice between Portron’s loquacity, Corrian’s vulgarity or Graval
Hurg’s ingratiating flattery and disastrous clumsiness.

Chantor
Portron questioned her on every aspect of her encounter with Lord
Carasma, only to be thwarted by her noncommittal answers; she did
not want to talk about it. She hadn’t come to terms with her guilt
yet, and there was hardly an hour went by that she did not wonder
if Sheyli had died...
Perhaps she is taking her last breath
right now and I’m not with her. Perhaps she died last night, alone.
Thirl wouldn’t stay home just because she’s dying
...

Fortunately it
was easy to side-track Portron on to some other topic, so that he
was the one who ended up talking.

~~~~~~~

One night
Davron told her to mount guard duty with Meldor, which surprised
her. Up until then she had always been paired with Portron. Meldor,
as far as she knew, had previously always taken his watch alone.
When it was over she went to wake Corrian and Graval, who had the
pre-dawn stretch. She poked her head into Corrian’s tent, to find
her sprawled out on her bedroll with her mouth open. Her pipe had
fallen out of her mouth and was lying on her blankets with all the
pipeweed spilled out of it in a black dottle. There were several
old burn marks on the covers and Keris made a mental note not to
pitch her tent so close to Corrian’s another time. Once the woman
was awake, she went on to Graval’s tent only to find he was already
up, roused by Meldor.

‘I want to
talk to you,’ Meldor said quietly and led her off to his tent, with
his usual unerring sense of direction, deftly stepping over
tent-pegs he could not see on the way.

It was the
first time she’d been inside his tent and she was not surprised to
find it more luxurious than her own. It was tall enough for Meldor
to stand up inside and the central pole was made of sturdy but
lightweight whipwood. The undersheet of his bedroll was well padded
and his blankets were woven of fenet wool, the finest and warmest
yarn in all the stabilities. A warmth-stove that burnt chips of
compressed mata leaf was an indication of wealth, as was a cake of
fine-grained soap lying in a tortoiseshell dish, and a soft towel
of bedraggle cotton from the Fifth.

‘I’m afraid I
don’t use a lamp,’ he said. ‘Do you mind sitting in the dark?’

She refrained
from telling him the stove gave off sufficient glow for her to see
by, and even took comfort from the thought that he didn’t know
everything about his environs after all. ‘Not if all you have in
mind is talk,’ she said bluntly.

He laughed
softly. ‘You have no need to worry. Sit here on the bedroll. I wish
to discuss Davron’s situation with you. Tomorrow we reach Pickle’s
Halt, and it disturbs us that you may be considering passing on
what you know to other people.’

‘Can you give
me one reason why I should not?’ she asked as she seated herself.
Even as she spoke she wondered if he would say,
Because we’ll
kill you if you do.

He was more
circumspect. ‘Davron is not an evil man, merely a tormented one.
Scow and I are with him all the time he is in the Unstable, every
trip. When the time comes, we hope to sabotage the Unmaker’s plans
for him. If we can’t, then Davron will die. Scow and I are pledged
to kill him.’

‘He knows
this?’

‘He suggested
it.’

‘You’re all
mad. Snatching at dreams, hoping Davron will be able to escape the
final reckoning. Do you think the Unmaker will let any of you ruin
his plans? You can’t watch Davron all the time! One day you’ll wake
up and find him gone, and the horror will have begun before you’ve
even worked out that he’s left your guardianship.’ She paused, then
added, ‘If you are still alive.’

‘The Unmaker
is not all-powerful. He can be thwarted.’

‘I thwarted
him,’ she said, ‘but believe me, I did not have the impression he
would let me get away with it for long.’

‘You intend to
betray Davron.’

‘Betray is an
emotive word, Master Meldor. Let’s just say I haven’t made up my
mind what to do.’

‘You leave me
no choice, Keris. I did not want to do this, but you have forced it
upon me.’

Her hand flew
to the knife at her side and she began to move, to flee. She never
even reached an upright stance.

Light—a
tendril of colour—seeped out of Meldor and spiralled itself around
her arm. It stung like nettle rash. She released the knife she
held; she no longer had the strength to hold it. Worse was what he
did to her will. She felt her determination drain away like water
pouring from a jug.

‘You will
neither speak of nor write of Davron’s bondage to anyone but the
three of us, Scow, Davron and myself,’ he said. His deep voice was
beautiful and caressed her as it bound her to his will. It seduced,
even as it wove its bonds. ‘Within the hearing of others, you will
keep your counsel on this matter. You will not mention to anyone
who does not already know it, that Davron and I use ley. You will
not talk of our affairs to others.’

The light
faded away and she rubbed her arm. ‘You
bastard
,’ she said
in outrage. It was the first time she had ever used such a word
aloud, and it felt good on her tongue. He’d taken away her freedom
of choice; she would not be able to betray Davron’s secret. She
felt violated. And furious. She picked up her knife and stood,
shaking with rage. ‘Keep your filthy ley practices to yourself! I
want no part of them.’

‘I’m sorry.
Too much rides on what we do to allow you to blunt our blade with
your interference.’

It was only
when she was outside the tent that her anger subsided enough to
allow her to feel real fear. Who were these people? Who was this
Meldor that he could sap the will away from someone and make them
into a reluctant accomplice? She wanted to throw back her head and
shout to the world,
Davron is bond-servant to the Unmaker!
But the words would not come. Nothing would come. When she tried
even to think about betraying Davron her mind seemed
woolly—vague—as if she could not quite remember...

Damn the
lot of you,
she thought in a fury.
I won’t ever
forget.

~~~~~~~

And the
Minions of Chaos serve the Lord in all things, with their Wild Ones
tied to them by chains we cannot see, Pets and Master both
glorifying in the Lord’s dread service. Beware, Pilgrim, for I say
unto you, there is naught you can do against such servants if
Carasma has sent them after you. Fall instead to your knee, hand on
heart, and make your peace with Creation, that you may one day be
at one with That Which Was Created.

—Pilgrims V:
22: 6

‘You’re
Piers’
daughter? By all that’s dark in Chaos, what are you
doing here, girlie?’

The large
green troll blinked at Keris from across the other side of the
table in the halt common room, while she resisted the temptation to
respond to the ‘girlie’ by calling him froggie. Instead she asked
mildly, trying not to feel five years old, ‘Why not, Master
Pickle?’

‘Your father
wouldn’t have liked it for a start. This is not a pilgrim trail for
ordinary people, lass, at least not from the direction of the
First.’

‘I’m not
particularly ordinary. I’m ley-lit, a master mapmaker’s daughter.
Piers’
daughter. That counts for something. I came because I
want to know how he died. And why.’ She fingered the end of the
staff propped up against the table. It was Piers’ blackwood staff
that he’d taken everywhere with him and she had brought it down
from her room on an impulse, thinking that perhaps she would give
it to Pickle. The wood was warm and smooth under her hand.
Comforting.

‘Krissy,
Krissy, what does it matter how he died? He died, and a fine man he
was. Remember him for that. I’ll get you included in a party of
Chantry dignitaries or some other suitable escort heading north for
the First—’