Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (6 page)

“Just tell me one thing,” I said, almost pleading. “This horse that saved my life, what’s his name?”

He stroked the ring he had worn on his finger, and then put it away inside his cloak. “He is Prince Nixva out of Queen Mnemarra. He is a royal horse and will live forever. Pay your respects to him. His speed today saved us from disaster.”

I stroked his mane and whispered my thanks in his ear. He heard me and I think he understood. But he, like my uncle, knew that now was not the time for thanks but for riding farther. He let me turn him toward the forest interior and Arthen embraced us at last.

1

I performed my first soldier’s task, helping Uncle Sivisal cut out the arrow in his shoulder and dressing the wound with a poultice of theunyn leaf. Theunyn aids healing but also drinks up poison on the barb. I knew the leaf but not the use; my uncle taught me. He kept a store of the herb in his saddle-pack. Directing me in the preparation of the poultice, he leaned white-faced against a tree root, the arrow causing him to flinch in pain each time he moved.

The cutting of the arrow out of his shoulder became an ordeal for us both. My uncle wore a quilted leather tunic in which the shaft had spent most of its force, but enough arrowhead had cut into the flesh that I had some nasty work. A few barbs had taken deep hold into the muscle. Uncle Sivisal had a sharp dagger and I used it to cut the shaft of the arrow, so I could open his tunic to get at the wound. Swallowing brandy as an anesthetic, he kept still while I worked the tunic free, then, with the bleeding wound exposed to air and dripping rain, I cut out the arrowhead. He hardly made a sound but his face remained as white as the witch’s cloak. The most vicious barbs of the arrowhead remained clear of the tender shoulder; I avoided touching them at all. Using the knife as Uncle Sivisal directed, I lay the poultice onto the wound. Theunyn leaf has the property of easing the pain of such insults, at least to a degree. “That’s my boy,” Uncle Sivisal said, grinning palely, as blood sheeted down his shoulder. “Now pour brandy over it,” he said, and handed me his flask. I did it and he made a face like his body was burning, but not a sound escaped him.

Afterward, he drank more brandy as I packed the gaping wound with clean, dry spider-web. I retrieved stuff for bandages from his saddle-pack and wrapped his shoulder tight. At first the blood quickly soaked into the wadding but after a few moments of quiet, the ground theunyn began to work and the blood flow eased. I secured the bandage. He drank more of the brandy and lay back on the ground with his eyes closed. He offered me a sip, saying I had earned it after my morning’s work. I wanted to make him a decent bed but rain dripped all around us.

The storm continued fiercely, thunder crashing north of us over the plain. Uncle Sivisal looked miserable lying on the ground in his wet cloak and I asked whether he had a tent in his pack. The question roused him. He sat up, gauged the day and said, “No, give me a minute. The brandy has me a little dazed, that’s all. We have some riding to do before we can camp tonight, wound or no wound. There are soldiers meeting us.” He noted my wonder-struck expression and nodded. “Welcome to the Woodland.”

“I like it so far.”

“Well, I have certainly liked it better.” He got to his feet slowly. He waved away my help, buckling on his sword and plucking off wet branches and leaves from his cloak. He moved gingerly, favoring the shoulder, but if he felt any pain he refused to show it.

When Uncle Sivisal whistled, his sorrel stallion came to him. Nixva went on watching me until I said his name, low. He approached me, nuzzling my hand. I mounted him with pride, my uncle watching. He said. “Don’t get too attached to Prince Nixva. He belongs to your betters and you’re not likely to ride him much in camp. You’ll get something more like my Sythu to ride, if you get a horse at all.”

Sythu shook his head at me as if to tell me he was plenty of horse, whatever I thought. Sivisal stroked the sorrel’s thick mane. When he looked at me again I could not read his face. “Did you see the white-cloaked rider in the grassland?”

“Yes,” I said, remembering her pale arms raised toward the dark clouds.

In rain-smudged light the gray of his beard became more evident. “What did you sing? ‘Light in the Darkness?’”

“Yes. A little of it. Could you hear?”

“Yes,” he gave me an odd look. “Did my mother teach it to you?”

I nodded, hoping he would tell me something but he mulled over what I had said and then declared we were ready to ride. A dozen questions died on my lips. I felt for the necklace to make sure it was still secure. Soon I must find a safer place to keep it.

We rode again, with nearly the same urgency as before. Every step jolted my uncle’s shoulder; I could see him clenching his teeth. But the bandage remained dry and the poultice did its work, bleeding stanched. The keen forest air carried different smells, a pungency of cedar and perfumes of cilidur, vesnomen and elgerath. The last abounded in vines the size of houses or barns, spilling down from the trees in vast lattices. We took no time to study anything, Sivisal being in a rush and me dumbstruck. Everything was strange, green and beautiful, vaulted and awesome, and we rode forward through high leafy caverns whose size made our progress seem miniscule.

Wonder struck me when I saw my first duraelaryn, a high broad tree, the shade of which might have dwarfed Mykinoos. Duraelaryn grow only in Arthen Forest. We rode beneath their spreading branches for a long time, till we came to a grassy road marked with stone obelisks. We headed along the road toward the interior where the storm behind us hardly moved breezes. The horses frisked in the crisp air, the eerie forest light filtering down around us, almost hazy. Under the high canopy of the duraelaryn the forest floor is open except for grass and light brush, since little else can thrive in the shade. Here and there a long bright beam of sunlight slanted to the forest floor, illuminating shaggy falls of elgerath. It was the fourth sun, the amber light. Once we paused for rest beside a clear stream and I changed the dressing on Sivisal’s shoulder, washing off the old poultice with brandy and crushing a new one from fresh leaves. The wound had puffed and swollen purple, but a clot had begun to form despite the jolting from the ride. I packed the wound tight again, poor Uncle Sivisal grimacing and biting his lips. I bound the bandage tight, as before. He thanked me for my trouble with a face the color of new milk.

The stream was remarkable, I had never tasted water so fresh. Sivisal explained with some pride that the water fell straight from the mountains round Drii. This amazed me, because I had sometimes suspected Grandmother made up Drii. “Oh no,” Sivisal said, “It’s there. And the people who live there really do have silver skin.”

I finished tending his shoulder and we mounted the horses again, riding through the long afternoon. The unfamiliar posture was making me sore but I tried to endure it since I had no choice. Near dusk we came to a place where this road merged with another. Above the trees, a large shadow loomed, split and became two shadows, two carven seated figures, a man and woman, grand in demeanor. These statues were ancient wardens of the road, one a male and one a female priest, my uncle said. We stopped at the base of these monuments to wait, letting the horses graze in the cleared ground at the base of the massive statues. We made a fire for ourselves and had our supper as if we were expecting nobody, and I laid out my uncle’s bedroll, checked the dressing on his wound. I also fetched more brandy from his pouch. He watched me do all this with a kind of amusement.

I made his bed among menumen trees, their soft leaves hanging white and silken round his dark hair and swarthy complexion. Menumen is not a hardy type of tree and does not grow many places outside of people’s gardens. These were fine big ones that had recently bloomed, white petals strewn along the ground. Uncle Sivisal said he had not smelled that fragrance in years.

Evening chill set in and I wrapped myself in the plain blanket Mother had given me. I sat near the horses at the edge of the grove of trees. From that vantage I could see the priest statues and the road running off in three directions. Last light was on us and we waited to see what stars we would have. The red moon rose but the white one did not. In the south this is called “blood-time”, and people are said to commit strange crimes during it. Grandmother had explained to me we northerners are skeptical of this power of the red moon. Though one never knows what the skies will bring, as the saying goes.

Uncle Sivisal directed me to build a fire by the statue of the woman, giving me ifnuelyn to kindle the wood. Ifnuelyn is a kind of powder which kindles fire quickly following a slight spark. I unwrapped the viis cloth that protected Uncle Sivisal’s store of the chemical, and soon enough had a good fire going. I sat watching the flames contentedly as the sun descended into the trees and beyond. We would have no lamp tonight, only the fire, but in the wild I supposed a fire would serve.

A moment later, horses stepped through the underbrush from every direction on both sides of the road. I stood, confused, my back to the fire. Most of the riders halted, but two came toward me without fear. One wore a leather jerkin and red cloak much like the one Uncle Sivisal wore, but the other was more grandly dressed, in a red cloak trimmed in black fur.

“You’re the son of Kinth,” the man said, speaking Upcountry with elegance and a peculiar lilt. “Where is your kinsman?”

“Uncle Sivisal is lying under that tree. He was wounded this morning.”

“Wounded.” The commander sat very still for a moment. He rode to the pallet where Sivisal drowsed and called out in a tongue I did not know. He dismounted and knelt to study my uncle. The people he had called hurried to him quickly, among them a physic. I heard Sivisal speaking in that language, and I heard my name once or twice. But I stayed by the fire where the commander had found me.

Apparently it was better to await summons. A moment later the silver-eyed man sent everyone away but Sivisal and the physic and called for me, without any sign of impatience. I ran to the place where he stood over Sivisal. “There were two parties of Blue Cloaks,” Sivisal was saying, in Upcountry now, his voice strained some since the physic was probing his wound to make certain I had picked out all the arrow’s barbs. “The riders broke toward us as soon as we got onto the Girdle. They knew we were coming. The storm was blowing pretty good by then too, and I knew something was up. We slipped past one party but the other looked like it was going to catch us. I used the ring the Prince gave me and told Nixva to save the boy, but I was afraid it was no use by then, the White Cloak was coming fast.”

“A White Cloak?” The commander leaned toward him, kneeling under the soft menumen leaves. “Did you recognize which one?”

Uncle Sivisal shook his head. “Once we were inside the woods she let down her hood and we saw her face, that was all.”

I said, “She had red hair and a silver headpiece. Her skin was very fair, not like a woman who works in the fields.”

The commander received this as bad news, turning away from Sivisal and me. He looked at me keenly. I could hardly read his expression for the fascination of watching his eyes. “Don’t speak about this to anyone. Don’t describe the white-cloaked woman again.”

We affirmed that we would keep the story to ourselves.

To my uncle he said, “You’ve done good work, Sivisal, as I knew you would. Your nephew is safe.”

“Yes sir,” Sivisal said; and then they both switched to that more sibilant language that I did not know. From Sivisal’s expression it seemed plain that the commander’s earlier orders were being repeated. When they were done, the commander walked away from the menumen, gesturing for me to follow, and Uncle Sivisal indicated I should go with him.

We walked to the shrine in a circular garden between the statues. Everything was in perfect order, as if the grounds were carefully tended. The commander found a clear spring behind the shrine. The water running had smoothed the stone to the slickness of glass, and its gurgling over the pebbles made a pleasant song. The commander looked down into the water for a long time. He was a tall, fair-haired man with fine bones in his face, and long, tapered hands. His slender body gave the impression of strength. This man’s skin and eyes were silver, like starlight, and his skin nearly glittered in light. I noticed this and the commander looked up again, smiled gently. “You’ve had a hard day’s ride. Are you sorry you’ve come to the Woodland after so much trouble?”

“No. I like it here, I don’t know why.”

“Your first taste of soldiers’ life hasn’t discouraged you?”

“Blue Cloaks were quartered on my father’s farm two seasons, nearly three. I know something about them.”

“And the woman in the white cloak?”

I shivered. “I haven’t seen anything like her before. But the village folk have always said my Grandmother and Mother both knew witchcraft.”