The Dark Ferryman (26 page)

Did she think she argued for her fate? He had already decided it. His silence fell upon her.

“I have my uses,” she said defensively.

“I’m certain you will.” He swapped the bow and arrow in his hand and nocked it, hearing the string stretch as he did so.

Her face went pale under its natural coppery sheen. She moved when he did, but even her unnatural speed and grace was no match for the flight of the arrow. It struck home,
thunk
ing deeply into her arm as she let out a cry of anger and surprise. She fell with a second gasp to lie writhing upon the floor in a spreading pool of crimson as the arrow shaft sank deeper and deeper into her, working its way through her flesh and bone as Narskap had promised him it would. He stood over her to watch its progress.

He had not missed. He had wanted a wounding, to incapacitate her, to bend her completely to his will. She writhed upon the floor. Pain tore words from her mouth, and Tiiva thrashed soundlessly, her limbs flailing in her agony. He could almost hear Cerat’s hum of satisfaction as it devoured her from the inside out. The blood which had seeped out began to disappear as rapidly as it left her, absorbed by the Souldrinker. It appeared excruciating. Kill shots, when he made them, would be most interesting.

The arrow ate through her arm and then leaped into the air, to his hand. He held it for a long moment, smelling the stink of fresh blood and mortality upon it, but it was clean. Not a smear of crimson nor a gobbet of flesh decorated it. It might never have been loosened upon a target. He returned it to his quiver.

Tiiva lay with her eyes open and back arched, her hands knotted with her arms thrown akimbo with an immense red flower through the sleeve of her gown, expensive fabric tattered about the ruin of her flesh. Her copper color had gone gray. The bleeding had stopped, absorbed by the arrow. He wouldn’t even have to cauterize it, he thought. A last look of consciousness sobbed out of her into stillness.

“Yes, I’m certain you will be of great use,” he told her slack body.

DARAVAN RODE INTO ABAYAN DIORT’S encampment, taking note of the many tents and wagons and cooking bays without seeming to. The tang of the horse lines and middens and the smell of woodsmoke lingered on the air. Still, as his casual gaze took in the sights, he made note that this was not necessarily an offensive army hidden among arid hillocks. The wagons and larger tents held community groups of women with babes on their hips and backs and children playing with sticks and stones, as well as moving along the horse lines grooming or sitting with elders repairing tack. This could well be a recruitment movement, headed back to the east to one of Diort’s burgeoning cities, bringing nomad Galdarkans home. If not, Diort had no heart to be taking babes to war.

He recognized the golden tents that pantomimed the Pavilion of the Sun on a rise which overlooked the encampment. His escorts took him to the foot of the knoll and motioned for him to dismount. Before he could reach it, Diort came out and stood, framed by the canopies, his flaring eyes of jade set off by the golden tent and that of his own bronze-hued skin. He wore a woven headpiece that both swept his hair back from his forehead and protected his temples, setting off the tattoos on his cheekbones which marked his rank and bearing. He closed the ground between them, wearing an expression of mild curiosity, a man among the few who could look Daravan in the eyes. The Galdarkans alone matched the height of the Vaelinars, although their frames were more muscular and coarser, and their skins almost universally of bronze tones, from light to dark, and their eyes of green or blue tones. They had been made, it was said, of a union between the Gods and the Mageborn, bred to guard the Mageborn from the rigors of a physical world while they tamed a spiritual one. More likely, they had been specially bred to guard the magic users from each other and the jealous spats which had eventually led to the full-blown wars. However that had come to be, Daravan knew that here was a Galdarkan devoted to his own heritage of guardianship now for his people. But did he also wait for the return of the Mageborn after a thousand years and more?

Daravan doubted the Gods would stir a finger to see them brought back. They had destroyed those the Mageborn had not killed already and disowned all the peoples of their world. But he would be a fool not to fear the return of native magic wielders of Kerith. The pools of chaos they had left behind were disturbing maelstroms of destruction, and if but one person could utilize or awaken them, he feared for the world itself. In all his years roaming these lands, he had never met anyone with even an inkling of this worry, nor did he dare repeat it in case it might find a way to echo into the sleepy minds of Kerith’s Gods. Not even within the Vaelinars who worried overmuch about many things had he found a murmur of his concern. They worried, yes, about the attention of the Gods, and the Kerith-born wondered when they might be in the Gods’ favor again, but Abayan Diort had never given any sign of waiting for his kings to return. When he spoke of his destiny at all, it was as a unifier of wanderers who needed protection. If his attitude was a weather vane, Daravan prayed it would be a true one.

A slight breeze ruffled the mantle upon his shoulders. Daravan inhaled deeply for a moment, found no hint of rain upon it, and closed within reach of the Galdarkan.

“Do I greet an envoy, a friend, or a spy?” Diort asked of him, a smile on his face.

“I would lie if I did not say all three, depending upon the candlemark of my life.”

“And a long life it has been. Therefore, such circumspection must serve you well, even in the camp of a potential enemy. If you’re spying today, you are a poor one. May I offer you a cooled beverage?”

“If you will let me sit and drink, that would be most appreciated.”

Daravan waited as Diort signaled two men who had flanked him in the canopied shadows of his tent, and they slipped away to do his bidding. More, he could be sure, waited in the shadows. He sat on a hide chair when Diort did. Diort wore a war kilt, of a sort, and a half cloak folded upon his body, giving warmth and yet lending good access to the war harness he wore strapped across his chest and shoulder. The great hammer rested at his back, much like a great sword, its grip aiming at the sky, its head in the curve of Diort’s lower back. When Diort sat, he did so at ease, seemingly unaware of the massive weapon and weight he carried. Daravan thought he heard a buzzing in his ears, like that of hornets for sweet nectar, but he couldn’t be certain. Did the thing hold a kind of life to it, that it sang to the Galdarkan? And if it sang, what tune would such a thing carry? He had not heard of Demons who communed, but this one did, it seemed.

Daravan flicked his attention away from the weapon as he settled in the chair, and the leather creaked as it shifted to hold his weight. Abayan waited until cups arrived and his men faded to a discreet distance from them, their hands near but not on their weapons. Daravan did not wait for his host to drink, but drank deeply, signaling a trust he did not quite feel. Diort followed without hesitation. The watered juice was indeed cool, with a slight hint of sweetness and another flavor he could not identify except that it refreshed with a tang. The warlord watched his eyes and noted that he had taken a quick sweep across the gathered army on the grounds below them.

“Do you count my numbers? I would be a fool to have them all on display for you.”

“And we both know you’re not a fool. Actually, I was looking at the mix. Mostly Galdarkan, with a scattering of Kernan and Dweller. No Bolgers.”

“I have Bolgers. You haven’t looked far enough south. Not the raiders who slapped your queen a bit; they were rogue, but my clan chieftain is a good man with a forging background. He does metalsmith work and repairs for me. His name is Rufus.”

“Who keeps the raiders?”

“Again, no proof, but I’d say it is Quendius.”

“Not a stretch of imagination there.”

“No. Quendius runs a small army of very hard and ruthless men. He never intends to stay and rule, just drill through and destroy what he can, get what he wants, and get out.”

“Not your tactics.”

“No. Any alliance we had was based on the need to comply at the time.”

“And you’ve no need now?”

“No, thank the Gods. I won’t move openly against him yet, and so he leaves me alone.” Diort shifted a little uneasily in his chair, despite his words.

“But the day will come.”

“Perhaps. It seems I have other concerns for now.”

He took a slow sip of his juice while judging the posture of the man opposite him, and Abayan mirrored his actions. Diort lowered his cup to add, “For today, then, may I ask what compels you to visit me?”

“I’m here, unofficially, on behalf of the Warrior Queen.” Daravan leaned forward, his voice pitched so that the only one who could actually discern his words sat close to him and the others would know only that he spoke in a mild, unthreatening tone.

“Unofficially. You carry no papers and no seal, then.”

“Not at this time.”

“Interesting. And do you allow me an unofficial response, or do you intend to hold me at my word even when I cannot hold you at yours?”

Daravan lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I haven’t heard it said that you are dishonest. It costs you nothing to listen.”

“That’s where you are wrong if you’re here to distract and delay me. These people need solidarity and a home. Our days of wandering have to be over.” Abayan leaned forward on the table, resting some of his weight on his well-toned forearms. The scars of a fighter decorated his arms. “I’m glad to have good proof of my word, and I expect no less of the queen . . . but you’re another sort altogether.”

Daravan said dryly, “Again, I suppose it would depend on the hour of my life. However, my deeds today are not for myself but for Lariel Anderieon, and so you may count upon what you expect.”

“But I have no expectations. You’ve not given me any.”

Daravan cradled his unfinished cup of juice. “Is this a good time, then, Warlord Diort? I take it you’re listening?”

“Only a fool would forget to listen.”

“I know it seems, on the surface, that Lariel determines to go to war with you, but only because there seemed no alternative if you were entangled with Quendius. That bond seems sundered, and so gives rise to the notion that there are options that can be explored. She’s concerned that you’re pressuring people into a nation who don’t wish to be under your rule. If you can dissuade her of that, there are alliances which might be more advantageous.”

“True.”

“There are alliances of fealty. Of blood and marriage. Of commerce. And of partnership.”

“Among others.” Abayan Diort leaned on one elbow, his chair creaking companionably as he did so. He showed no sign of his feelings other than that he listened. His jade eyes, like his face, remained implacable.

“The question, of course, is which would be the most appealing to you and do your following the most good, a question which has a complex answer. You would wish ties that aid, not constrain, and lessen, not greaten, your strife. An alliance and truce that go beyond a mere marriage.”

“A marriage is not mere, depending on the woman, Lord Daravan.”

Daravan allowed himself a flash of a smile. “Corrected. While the Warrior Queen hesitates to offer herself, she has asked me to convey that it could be a consideration.”

“And what if I want children? It’s said that a Galdarkan/Vaelinar match is sterile.”

“It is not uncommon, is it, to have a second wife for heirs if the first is infertile? All parties accepting, of course, and there would certainly be no slight felt if such were the case. Only if she were to be humiliated and put aside without honor or estate, which I know you would not do. In fact, you look to me like a man who could handle two wives.”

Diort’s mouth twitched. “There isn’t a man alive who is able to, but thousands who think they can.” He put a hand palm down on the table, fingers spread. “I’ve heard no terms that make me think this would be a bargain. If we meet in combat, and I dominate, these lands fall to me, ripe for the plucking, along with Lariel.”

“If you meet in combat, excepting the rout you witnessed at the river a few days’ past, I cannot predict who might win, but I can predict that there will not be enough survivors of either army to stand alone. You both may well waver on the threshold of annihilation, and what sort of victory is that? Quendius will wipe out the remnants, his work having already been done for him.”

“Does she know that?”

“She,” answered Daravan slowly, “is a very wise woman.”

“I would hate to settle for second best.” Diort stood slowly. His jade eyes crinkled at the corners from the sunlight flooding the encampment.

“If not her, there is another . . .”

Abayan glanced to him.

Daravan cleared his throat. “She has asked me, independent of the queen’s offer, to put herself before you.” He shifted in his chair purposely. “Lara has kept her hidden, and she’s not been publicly embraced by the court, but I imagine you’ve heard some tales of her. She holds the Talent of water, and no one’s been able to measure how strong it is. Your lands to the east are often in frequent need of good wells.”

Diort’s nostrils flared slightly as he gave a mild snort and said, “I can hire a dowser.”

“This woman cleared the Andredia of corruption and poison. Think of it, Abayan, sweet water when and where you need it. With water, even stone can bloom.”

He blinked.

Daravan pushed his lies a little. “Rivergrace asks only for peace. If you agree, she’s naïve enough to politicking that she would leave the details to such as you and I. Consider her suit as well.” Daravan left his cup sitting on the table.

“A queen or a foundling with rare magic. I would be a fool not to consider either, if either considers me.”