The Barrow (57 page)

But here they were, saying they were going after the Barrow of Azharad and the sword
Gladringer
. So fools, then, the both of them, and dangerous fools at that.

But he had to admit he'd been wrong before on rare occasion.

“Whatcha think, chief?” came a voice to one side. He glanced over at “Handsome” Pallas Quinn, a lean, wiry dark-haired man with a handsome scar running down across his face. Handsome must've spotted him sizing up their employers and companions, and was looking at him with an expectant grin. Godewyn glanced over the rest of his crew. Caider Ross was driving the wagon that Godewyn rode in, glancing back over his shoulder to hear his response. Caider was from Westmark, and once upon a time had been a city fighter, discreetly fleeing a murder writ; now he was a veteran jack-of-all-trades, who'd been practically everywhere and could kill with practically anything. In addition to Handsome, golden-red-haired and -bearded Giordus Roame sprawled his big-boned frame out in this wagon, as did Garrett Akin, a short man from down near Volmore that they all called Too Tall on account of him being so fucking short. Too Tall was sharpening a long wicked dirk with a whetstone. Isham Wall with his shaved head drove the other wagon behind them, the newest addition to their hearty company, with Cole Thimber, a dumb brute of a man that Godewyn knew he could trust to follow any order, sitting next to him. Gilgwyr and the magician had settled into the back of the wagon that Isham was driving, apparently feeling it more suitable than continuing to ride the rumble seats of the Lady's coach.

He looked his crew over and felt pride, knowing them for what they were: one of the hardest lots in the Danias, roustabouts and cutthroats, rogues and rutterkins, wag-halters and thugs all, no deed too low, no crime too ugly to contemplate, every single one of them loyal and dependable to the bitter dark end that they all knew was coming for them.

He grinned back at Handsome. He knew exactly what they wanted to hear.

“No worries, boys, we got this lot covered,” he said easily.

Those that heard him laughed quietly and nodded to each other as he turned back to stare at Black-Heart and Erim in the lead, his eyes narrowing.

Stjepan aimed to get them across the Scented Hills and into the trackless Plain of Flowers so that they could stay off both the West King's Road and the Road of the Mark, which ran up and around the Plain of Flowers and marked the onetime limit of the wood of An-Athair. As they followed the shepherd's paths through the gently rolling hills, Erim could occasionally feel the eyes of the newcomers tracking her as they passed each other. No more or less than she expected or was used to, particularly the faintly curious stare of their crew captain, Godewyn. She knew that stare well, the one that asked
and what, pray tell, are you?

She measured them the same way they were measuring her, though she felt she managed it a bit more discreetly. She catalogued the weapons they wore, the weapons they hid, their scars, their missing teeth, their haphazard but effective-looking gear. She pinpointed the one who looked like he'd fight left-handed (the one named Garrett); the one with a bum knee and every-so-slightly limping gait (the one they called Too Tall); the street duelist (Caider Ross); the one she shouldn't find herself alone with (the big scary one with the dead eyes they called Thimber, who just smelled wrong). She found herself intrigued a bit by Godewyn; under the greasy, unwashed hair and rough-hewn stubble he was handsome enough in a brutish sort of way, all peasant muscles and a cock-sure swagger that called some part of her to attention.

But she was surprised that the primary response Godewyn invoked in her was a kind of sadness, as he and his crew seemed little more than uncouth, country cousins to the late departed Guilford and
his
crew. And Guilford and his men had themselves been in turn little more than down-market versions of the great city crews of Therapoli. She had no doubt that Godewyn and his crew were a dangerous lot, destined for the same Hells as most of the men to whom Stjepan had introduced her, but there was also no doubt in her mind that they utterly lacked the glorious delinquency that marked the Gilded Lady or Bad Mowbray, Petterwin Grim or Mina the Dagger, Jon Deering or Red Rob Asprin.
Give me true city folk any day, and not these pale country echoes
, she thought glumly.

That sadness was compounded by the sneaking suspicion that the fate of Godewyn and his crew would be the same as Guilford and his; she was beginning to suspect, in fact, that being a friend and traveling companion to Stjepan Black-Heart was a fast way to an early and unfortunate end.

This somewhat morose thought was forgotten when she crested a final rise as lead scout and saw the beginnings of the Plain of Flowers ahead of them.

In the hills they had been riding and rolling through a landscape of shrubs and brush and tall grasses, with the occasional copse or a lone tree silhouetted against the sky, a gentler, greener version of the hills of the Manon Mole. Signs of spring were everywhere, with trees and flowers budding or blooming. But ahead of them, the green hills sloped down and leveled off into a vast rising plain that filled the western horizon with myriad shades of white, mostly white with dots of yellow, orange, pink, and red—flowers, flowering shrubs, even occasionally flowering trees, as far as the eye could see. She reined in her horse and stood in the saddle, staring at the sight. Stjepan rode up next to her and stopped. They said nothing for a while. From their spot on the hill, she could see hilltop castles to their north and their south, each about three or four miles from where they had emerged from the hills. She thought she could make out what would be the West King's Road leading to the castle to their south, and there was a pair of roads, one minor and one major, that cut cross across the vista in front of them. The minor road led up to the castle to their north, and also seemed to mark more or less the starting point of the flowering fields. The major road was a dark line that ran through the field across the horizon, north to south.

“The Plain of Flowers,” she said, when she finally found her voice. “I always thought it was . . . I don't know, just an expression, you know? An old bard's tale, the ‘fields that never lose their color' . . .”

“No, I'm afraid the name is a sad testament to the lack of imagination in our modern language,” said Stjepan drily. “In Athairi this is the
Caewyr drum Genichallach
, the Bed of the Earth Goddess; in old Maelite it was
Mathene d'am'avargas Dessine
, which is more or less the Place of Drowning Dreams; in old Éduinan the
palaza rememorigas de Paradiso
, the Memory-Place of Paradise. But nowadays in the Middle Tongue, we call it the Plain of Flowers. Since, after all, that is what it is. Over thirty miles of them, at its widest point.”

Erim shook her head. “And they're always in bloom, like in the tales?”

“Yes, even in the dead of winter, though their colors tend to run more toward white and pale pinks when it's cold,” said Stjepan. “Snow never seems to stick on the Plain. You can be struggling through a blizzard and then suddenly find yourself up to your waist in flowers, with a warm breeze like a kiss upon your face, and you know you've stumbled into the Plain.”

“But . . . how?” Erim asked. “Why?”

Stjepan shrugged. “The Athairi believe that there are still many places where the earth remembers its departed Queen and Goddess, where Geniché's touch still lingers. In the case of the Plain of Flowers, at its center is a circle of
menhirs
, standing stones; a place of great power in both our world and the Otherworld.” He reached into one of his satchels and pulled out his spyglass, which he handed to Erim. She brought it to her eye and gazed at the distant fields.

“It's beautiful,” Erim whispered.

“Aye,” said Stjepan. “But it's an old place, touched by the divine, and man is ultimately not welcome where we're about to go. Nothing grows but the flowers; if you try planting crops, the flowers just choke them out. Farmers have tried the plough, fire, even poisoning and salting the earth, and nothing works for long; the flowers always come back. A trail disappears, even as you're making it. It took years of work by laborers and magicians alike to get the North Road to stick, and to build the site of the Tournament of Flowers. Mind you, that's great for someone who wants to get lost, and that should be useful for us should someone decide to come ask us questions.” He pointed to the castle to the south, and then to the one to the north. “That castle astride the West King's Road on our left is Burnwall, held by Crown Prince Hektor of Erid Dania. And the other one on our right is Hagenwall, held by Prince Fionne, the youngest of the sons of Eolred. If any of their watchmen are paying attention, they'll be able to see us coming out of the hills and making our way out into the Plain, and some overeager captain might decide to take an interest in why a small caravan chose to cross the hills rather than take the roads.”

“We won't be able to move that fast, not with the wagons, and not through all that brush,” said Erim. “A troop of horse will have no trouble catching up with us.”

“The way through the Plain of Flowers is easier than you might think, and we'll have a head start, and as long as we get deep into the thickets before the sun sets we should be okay. There's many a bandit that's used it to throw off the sheriff; but there's also many a man that's wandered in circles in there and then just disappeared. It's worse than the
fae
woods; and it gets worse the further in you go.” He reached into one of his satchels and removed a dry mariner's compass, a small brasswork wonder that cost quite a pretty penny. She'd never seen him use it if they had roads to follow.

“How far in are we going?”

“We'll start heading due west, but to get where we're going, we're going to eventually cut right across the middle.”

Erim grimaced and nodded. “Of course we are,” she said with a sigh.

Arduin fought it, but the pang of nostalgia and regret came hard and sudden into his heart and throat as they rode down into the Plain of Flowers. If he had his bearings correct, they would be passing just north of the site where the Tournament of Flowers was held each year. It was the first of the five Great Tournaments of the tourney season (the others being the Tournaments of Stone, Horns, and Gavant, followed last by the Grand Tourney hosted by the High King on the fields north of the capital, Therapoli Magni), and though it was still almost two months away Arduin was sure that there would already be groundskeepers and laborers beginning to prepare the site.

Over a decade had passed since his great glory, the pinnacle achievement of his life to date, his crowning as Champion of the Tournament of Flowers in 1459. Those had been heady days. He'd been doing better and better in each passing tourney, first learning the ropes as squire and then as a young knight testing himself against a great generation's champions. Old-time tourney watchers liked to claim that the early '50s had been the peak of knighthood in the Middle Kingdoms in living memory, and Arduin was inclined to believe it. He'd squired for Sir Bueves, who became champion for King Colin of Dainphalia, at the Tournament of Gavant in 1454, and for Arbier, Baron of Karsiris, in 1455 when Arbier won the Grand Tourney. Up close he'd seen some of the greatest jousters and swordsmen of the day: Sir Penwyn son of Penwyn; Sir Naeras Orenge of Tamatra; Sir Clodin Torgis, of Duke Tenreuth's vassals; Sir Lars Urgoar; Lord Gier Merislas, brother to King Fionne of Umis; Sir Mowbray, Lord of Gil-More; Sir Hec, Lord of Valenwall; Sir Gerard, Lord of the Sare; Wallis the Elder, Baron of Misal Ruth; the young Porloss, Earl of Orliac; Orphin the Bull, Earl of An-Athair; and the Lis Red brothers: the Grand Duke Owen and his brother Austin, Lord Sunhawk. He'd even lost to a few of them. Champions all, of one Tournament or another, building rivalries and striving to outdo each other, leading up to the Grand Tourney of 1456, when for the first time that anyone could remember they were all present in the lists. There were even rumors afterwards that Uthella of Uthmark had competed in that Tourney in disguise. And it was Derrek, Watchtower King of Warwark, who walked away the clear victor and with the best claim to be the greatest knight of his generation.