Land of the Burning Sands (7 page)

The griffins surely would not stop to trouble Eben Amnachudran. They did not seem inclined to stop for any reason. The other one had not paid any attention to them; these three hadn’t stopped to tear Gereint to pieces, though they’d clearly seen him. Why would they pause to kill a man who was, after all, already dying?

They wouldn’t. Gereint was certain of it. Almost certain. He took a few steps along the river, northward.

Then he stopped again. What if the griffins passed Amnachudran by? They probably would not pause to kill him. The scholar had thought them beautiful as well as terrible. Maybe he was awake now. Maybe he would see them pass. Helpless as he was, he would be frightened. He would watch the griffins pass by—surely they would pass by. And then he would wait. And for what? How long would it take for the injured man to give up hope? How long might he linger, in pain and growing despair, until he finally died quietly there by that fire? While his wife and children and grandchildren waited for him not ten miles away?

Gereint could not put that image out of his mind. It was worse than imagining griffins tearing the scholar to ribbons. How long
would
it be before someone came down to the ford looking for the man? Who would it be: His wife? One of the grandchildren?

So it wasn’t fear of the griffins that made Gereint turn back south. After all, if they wanted to kill Amnachudran, Gereint could never stop them, even if he was there. But the image of that kind, civilized, cultured man waiting in slowly dying hope, while the hours passed, maybe days, and no one came… that was what made Gereint turn back.

It took about a quarter of an hour to get back to the ford. Everything was exactly as Gereint had left it; there was no sign that griffins had stopped there. This was almost a shock, even though he had thought it unlikely that they would. Nor was Amnachudran awake. But he was still alive. Gereint stood for a moment, gazing down at him, and wondering if he wished the man had died. He did not know. But he knew he could not simply leave him a second time.

It took another quarter of an hour, maybe, to make a litter with green saplings and the blankets. Longer than seemed likely to get Amnachudran on the litter and the saddlebags arranged. Gereint discarded the packs, only tucking his own books into one of the saddlebags. He would not need tallow candles or a cooking pot now.

Then he picked up the stripped ends of the saplings and leaned into the weight.

His knee screamed as he took the weight. But the leg held. Blades of pain lanced down his back and stabbed into his hip, but he still thought nothing was actually broken. His hands hurt when he gripped the poles, though next to the knee and hip that seemed a minor distraction. Less than ten miles, Amnachudran had said. How much less? It had better be a lot less, Gereint thought grimly, or he would never manage it.

The ground might be easy compared to the high mountains, but soon enough Gereint doubted whether he’d manage this last leg of his journey after all. Merrich Berchandren had famously declared that the last mile of any journey was always the hardest. If the last mile was harder than the one he was currently traveling, Gereint did not look forward to it.

Now, though, rather than trying to coax the
geas
to sleep, he could actually use it. He pretended Amnachudran had ordered him to get him home. He imagined the man’s pain-filled eyes and strained tone:
Gereint, get me home
. The
geas
couldn’t really be fooled, but then, getting his badly injured master to his home
was
a desperately important service. There was no pretense about that. He glanced over his shoulder at Amnachudran’s white face, thought hard of getting the man to shelter and safety, and felt the
geas
shiver awake at last and bite down hard. After that there was no question of stopping: Next to the compulsion of the
geas
, neither his hip nor his knee nor his bleeding palms mattered at all.

Gereint had been tall, big all through, all his life: He had been big for his age as a child and a boy and a youth, and once he’d got his growth he’d seldom met a stronger man. And much good it had done him. But his strength served him now. And hard-trained endurance. And sheer doggedness… The sun slid lower in the sky behind him. Shadows stretched out. The countryside opened out, patches of open meadows and woods replacing forest and then pastures replacing the woodlands. Gereint watched the shadows to keep his direction. He tried to remember to glance up sometimes, look for apple orchards and a house set against hills where a stream came down. He was thirsty… Thirst became a torment as soon as he thought of it. He had not thought to fill waterskins at the river. He put one foot in front of the other, though half his steps were short; he could no longer bend his right knee very well. But that was all right because the pain of his hip would have shortened his steps anyway.

Dusk, and shadows stretching out to cover the countryside, and no house with candles in its windows to light home a late traveler… He had missed the house. He knew he had missed it. Every little rough place in the ground made him stumble. He should just stop, wait for dawn. But he
couldn’t
stop, not now, no matter how unreasonable pressing forward might be. Not until the last shreds of his strength had been spent and he just fell where he stood… He realized, dimly, that he was no longer going straight east, and for a long moment could not understand why. Then the breeze shifted, and he blinked. Apples. It was too dark now to see the trees, but he could smell the fruit on the gentle breeze. He lifted his head, turned his face toward that sweet fragrance… There was a light. There was a lantern, after all: a lantern in a high window, and beyond the light, dark rolling hills that cut across the starry sky.

Gereint made it through the orchard and right up to the gates of the house’s yard. The gates were closed. He stood for some time, too dazed to understand why he had stopped. Then a voice called out from within the gate, and another voice answered. Gereint did not understand anything he heard, but he let go of the litter poles. His hands, cramped from hours of gripping, could not open. But he could hammer his fists against the gate. He could not form coherent words. But he could shout, hoarsely.

There were more voices, then. And the ringing sounds of boots against flagstones. And the scraping sound of wood against wood as the gates were unbarred. Lantern light spilled out as the gates were opened, and incomprehensible voices exclaimed. Gereint barely heard them. He was aware only of the
geas
relaxing within and around him. He did not even feel himself fall.

G
ereint dreamed of the hot iron. It traced a circle across his cheek, burning.

When the branding had actually happened, they had warned him against struggling. He might lose an eye, they warned, if the iron slipped. Gereint had been horrified by the threat. He had not fought them.

This time, he knew what the hot iron meant. He knew there were worse things than risking the loss of an eye. He fought desperately.

Weight pinned him. Hands gripped his arms, his shoulders, his body. Hands clamped around his head, holding him still no matter how he fought. The iron was slow, this time, tracing its deliberate path around its circle. Its path was agony, and the scar it left would be a torment forever, but he was held too tightly and could not stop them. He screamed… He had not screamed at the time, but he did this time, because he knew what kind of life the iron would leave him. And he screamed because he had nothing left but his voice; the
geas
would take his body and his hands, but it would leave his voice… Darkness and fire and the hot iron, and screaming in the dark…

Gereint jerked awake, shaking.

He was lying in a bed in a large, airy chamber with a pale-yellow ceiling and delicate yellow curtains fluttering at the window. He understood that almost at once. He was not in pain; he understood that almost as quickly. His face did not hurt. The iron had only been a dream; the branding was years in the past. But he dimly felt that he had been injured, that he should have been in some pain. He wasn’t. He felt… well. Confused. But well.

His wrists were tied to the sides of the bed, and his ankles to tall ornate posts at its foot. Gereint realized this only gradually, when he tried to sit up. He did not immediately understand why he couldn’t. Then he lifted his head as well as he could and squinted at the bonds, which were soft cloth. Nothing to cut or chafe. No wonder he hadn’t understood at first that he was bound. He couldn’t think why he should be tied to the bed… Well, he could think of one or two reasons a
geas
slave might be tied to a bed, but they seemed unlikely… Why unlikely? Ah. Eben Amnachudran. Some of the immediate past began to settle back into order. Yes. This was Amnachudran’s house, surely. And those reasons did not seem very likely, if he was still
his
slave.

But he
was
bound…

Someone opened the door and came in. Gereint could not lift his head enough to see who it was. It occurred to him only too late that perhaps he might have been wiser to pretend to be asleep, but he did not think of that until the person made a little sound of surprise and hurried out again.

Gereint lowered his head back to the pillow and tried to think. It was hard. He felt strangely adrift. Thoughts came slowly and faded before he could quite grasp them…

The door opened again, and this time Amnachudran himself came in. He walked quickly to the head of the bed and stood frowning down at Gereint. His round, mild face did not seem meant for frowning. Gereint stared back at him in confusion, feeling the internal shift of the
geas
. Was the man angry? He had not meant to do anything to anger Amnachudran… Had he? But it must have been Amnachudran himself who had ordered him tied down… but the man could simply have commanded him to lie down and stay in the bed… Gereint looked away in confusion, feeling weak and somehow ashamed. He
was
weak, but he didn’t understand the shame.

“How do you feel?” Amnachudran asked. He held up one hand. “How many fingers am I holding up? What’s your name? What’s
my
name?”

Gereint turned his head back, stared up at him. “I think I could manage… three out of four, maybe.”

“Which one seems doubtful?”

“I feel… very odd.”

The other man laughed, sounding relieved. He was no longer frowning. “Gereint…” he said, and shook his head.

“Why am I…?” Gereint moved his hands illustratively.

“You fought us. Very hard.”

“The
geas
didn’t stop me?”

“Nothing stopped you. You were out of your mind. I don’t think you recognized me. It was a lesson to me about desperation and the limitations of the
geas
.” Amnachudran produced a small knife and began to cut Gereint loose, very carefully. The knife did not want to cut the soft cloth. If Gereint had made the knife, it would have done a much better job.

Gereint watched the knife. He watched the other man’s hand working carefully to cut the cloth bonds. He said tentatively, “I was… you were… is my memory right?”

“I don’t know. What do you think you remember?”

“Didn’t you have a broken leg? Among other things.”

“Among other things, yes.” Amnachudran finished cutting Gereint’s hands free and stepped down to the foot of the bed. “My wife is a skilled healer-mage; fortunately she is skilled especially with traumatic injuries. I… um. I’m more of a specialist, myself.” He finished cutting Gereint’s feet free, reached to a table by the bed, and handed Gereint a small hand mirror. The kind a lady would use, with an ornate brass frame and little birds etched in the corners of the glass.

Gereint took it wonderingly. Looked in it, since that was what his master clearly intended.

He almost did not recognize the face that looked back at him. Oh, the
face
was the same: The forehead with untidy hair falling across it; the wide cheekbones were the same, the nose, the line of the jaw… but there was no broad circular scar from the branding. Gereint stared hard, not understanding what he was seeing. Or not seeing. There was
nothing there
. He lifted a hand, traced with his thumb the path of the brand. But he had to trace it from memory: He could not find the smooth raised scar by touch. He began to put the mirror down, snatched it back upright and stared again. Tried to speak and found his throat closed—and besides, he had no idea what to say.

“I’ll be, um. Around,” Amnachudran said quickly. “Come find me when you, um. Feel up to it.” He gestured rather randomly around the room. “There’s food—be sure and eat something. I think the clothing should fit. Um—” He retreated.