The Dark Ferryman (39 page)

He took their hands and led them toward his doors, laughing as he did. He left them inside the great stone arches. The building looked more like one of the great temples of Calcort rather than a home or manor, for there were only alcoves and no real sign of welcome until the apprentice led them to a side wing where fires roared and the stone warmed, and rugs appeared on the flooring, with chairs and small tables grouped by the fire-sides. In that room, they could smell the scent of a kitchen: coal and wood burning, and bread baking, and meat sizzling on a spit filling the air with its appetizing scent. The apprentice said nothing, but a wide grin flashed across his young, freckled face as he bowed and promised to bring them food back as soon as possible. He took to his heels.

Nutmeg sat and primly tucked her legs under her chair. “I hope he’s right about hurrying. I swear I could eat a book.”

“A book! I doubt if that would taste any good.”

“No, but chewing all that paper would keep me busy for a while.” She sighed. “And it has to be better than dried fish.”

Rivergrace circled the room before picking a spot by the fire and warming herself for a while. Her sister’s humor and chatter had begun to thin, and an uncharacteristic frown line deepened between her amber eyes, letting Grace know that something profound worried at her, like a street dog at an old bone. She would talk more about it when she was ready, but Grace knew she wanted to find proof that she loved the right person and that it could work. For herself, she already knew the answer to that when the daughter of ild Fallyn turned Jeredon’s head so easily. Yet it was a realization that would have to come to Nutmeg when it came, and Rivergrace also knew that things could change and she could be wrong. No one could tell her how her destiny would be with Sevryn; that was something that would have to be forged between the two of them, and so it would be with Nutmeg. Or, as Tolby Farbranch would say, the seed is far from the sprig and farther still from the sapling which grows into the tree.

The apprentice and a kitchen maid interrupted her thoughts just as the fire had toasted the icy wind from her bones very nicely. They each bore a tray of piping hot bread, slices of juicy meat, fresh fruits and cheese, and a mug of steaming cider. They pulled the small tables together to make a bigger dining table, tucked large napkins about each of the girls, and left them to enjoy their feast.

Nutmeg put down a sandwich and a half before mopping her mouth and chin and sitting back. “Now, what is our plan of attack?”

Grace who could eat as much as any hearty Dweller although she always did so at a much slower pace, raised her eyebrows in surprise, her mouth and hands full of food. “Attack?” she managed between chews.

“Azel will want to know what it is we want to know, and do we tell him or do we come armed with a well-placed distraction.”

“Lie to him?”

“Put it that way, aye. Shall we lie to him? Iffen we do, what shall we say?” Nutmeg took up a small plum and polished it on her sleeve before biting into it.

“I don’t know that we have to do that.” Rivergrace finished her bite and swallowed slowly, considering. “He’s always been truthful with me, even bluntly so.”

“That he has. A-course, his job here is to preserve the truth, isn’t it?” Nutmeg looked across the table at her. “A different job from that of a Warrior Queen.”

“I know. She does things for a deeper purpose than you or I can guess. She has centuries of history behind her and ahead of her, and she has been trained for all that. I don’t want to try and doubt her reasoning.”

“She is flat-out wrong about you and Sevryn. That I know,” declared Nutmeg, sitting back in conviction that was only a little marred by the fruit juice dribbling down her chin.

“She might see something in the pattern of the weave we can’t.” Rivergrace ate the last bite of her sandwich, chewing as though it were the problem before them. “It’s like your mother at the loom, but Lariel has decades and decades of time to choose the threads.”

“She can be as wrong as anybody. And, seems as if I have to be the one to say it, Azel is a Vaelinar and she is a Vaelinar.”

“As am I.”

“No,” Nutmeg told her. “You’re my sister, and something more than Vaelinar, that’s what they all think, an’ a few have said it—they don’t know what, and it scares them.” She punctuated the air with a poking finger. “You’ve seen it, though you’ve not said much to me, and I’ve seen and heard it. Lara doesn’t know what to do with you. I imagine she’s had Azel lookin’ through all the piled-up words here trying to help her decide. So, is the twig going to be bent or straight?”

Rivergrace opened her mouth to answer, when a quiet footfall sounded behind their chairs, and a commanding voice noted, “It is a poor guest who comes to a host for aid and lies about what help they wish, intending to steal what cannot be offered.” She snapped her lips shut as Bistel Vantane stopped beside their table. “Are there leavings for me?”

Nutmeg hopped up and made a plate for the warlord, her face flushed and her own mouth pinched, but she said as she gave it to him, “That doesn’t deny the fact that’s behind us and brought us here.”

Bistel sat down heavily, smelling of horse and leather and the evergreens. He balanced the plate on his knee. “And I won’t deny it either. Lariel is more like her grandfather than many know, following in his footsteps. He was always a quiet man, keeping much that he knew and wished to know to himself, for voicing either answers or questions would leave a trail that he didn’t want anyone following but himself. She has that caution in her. As for fearing you, Rivergrace, can you blame her? When the two of you met, you feared yourself. As for now, well.” He took a hearty bite, chewed and swallowed before finishing, “If you’ve come to Azel for help, let him give it as fully as he can. Otherwise, you’ve made a fool’s journey to do a fool’s task.”

“Trust in Azel.”

“You cannot trust halfway. Either you do, or you don’t. Either you trust, or you distrust and deal with caution.” He shrugged. He finished off the sandwich Nutmeg had made him in two more bites, then leaned forward to the table and made himself a second, a massive sandwich larger than his hands, and placed it on his plate while stabbing a slab of cheese.

“And what do you do here?” Nutmeg asked pointedly, refusing to give way before the warlord.

He examined her closely. “I’ve come to do a ritual.”

Rivergrace found her hands shaking and dropped them quickly into her lap to hide it. His statement had a finality about it that scared her. “Before you go to war?”

“Before I go to this war, yes, m’lady Rivergrace. I doubt I will have time to do it elsewhen. I’ve promised Queen Lariel to meet her, so I leave as soon as I’ve done.”

“Where is Azel?” Rivergrace picked up her mug of still warm cider and held it tightly.

“Out with a few guards looking at the border of this small corner of the lands. I thought I saw the lean and hungry man who shadows Quendius on my heels as I rode through. Now there is a man whose story I would like to see in the Books. He might have much to tell us.”

“Narskap.”

“That’s the one.” He nibbled on his crust.

Rivergrace and Nutmeg traded looks. Had he followed them there, trailing them without the girls knowing it? The thought made her cold in spite of the warm drink in her hands, and she took a hasty gulp of it. “He was with Quendius when he . . . they . . . killed Osten.”

“I know, lass. War falcons flew fast and hard to carry that sad news. I would be after Quendius even now, but the queen is determined to put Abayan Diort in his place. She has some reason for her stubbornness, but she hasn’t enlightened me. Still, I am here, on my way to the battle.”

“Because of trust.”

“Trust and honor and loyalty.” Bistel nodded, the light in his blue eyes fierce. He paused, then added, “I wish I could say I knew your father and mother, lass, but I can’t. Yet that doesn’t mean you don’t have a rightful place among us. What it means is that their names were forgotten, obliterated, or never brought to light.” He thought a moment, then said, “In the old days, those of us who had no lands or titles risked the anathema of creating Ways to gain those things. Ways were made and sometimes unleashed such terrible power that, so we would not end up like the Mageborn, they were outlawed. Still, some would try. They usually failed. A Way is a feat of great magic and most of us aren’t capable of it, or if we open one, we can’t control it. Bloodlines which broke those laws were subject to death. One might hide their children from that sort of justice if they knew they were going to take the risk.” He looked squarely at Rivergrace. “Your name may not have been known except in the records of those death sentences. It would not be written anywhere else, but here, in those cases.”

His words stunned her, and it fell to Nutmeg to stammer faintly, “Thank you, Lord Bistel,” in Rivergrace’s stead.

“It’s little enough help.” He finished his supper and stood, putting his metal plate back on the table. “Perhaps I will see you later this evening, when Azel breaks out the good liquor.” He winked and left with the confident long stride and straight shoulders of a leader of men, his white hair looking like a torch of light as he disappeared into the depths of the library.

A GREAT WIND RACED through the night. Narskap bent in it, perched upon the tiles of the high roof of the library. He would have shivered, but that might have given him away, and so he found a stillness and wrapped it about himself and endured. It would be daylight soon, with hopefully a bit of sunlight to thaw the winter a little, and he would live to see it.

He had doubled back to keep a watch on his master and found him watching prey, and so trailed the tracker. A nagging worry about the true intentions of Quendius proved well-founded when Narskap caught him after Rivergrace and Nutmeg. Where Quendius had lost them and turned back only to disappear himself, Narskap chose to follow Rivergrace and her short sister for reasons he did not entirely know. Perhaps he followed in place of his master, perhaps he followed because as a hound, keeping to the trail was required of him. He found the Ferryman waiting for him on the bank of the small river. The phantom took him without query or coin to the other side where he quickly caught up, staying to cover as the forests grew thicker and greener and colder until they reached Ferstanthe.

Then, and only then, Narskap left them, tethering his horse in a small dell outside where the beast could crop grass and find water, and yet still be waiting for him when he returned. He slipped past the guards and the vigilant Azel, and heard of the visitations expected and unexpected, and made his way to safety upon the rooftops. From there, he would take whatever opportunities presented themselves to him, to slip through whatever cracks the enemy might leave open to him. He slept, fitfully, on the roof, his ear pressed to the tile as if he listened to a better life within. Then, as the first of the sun tried to crack open clouds that curtained it, he crept to the wing where chimneys puffed out thin, gray columns of smoke, and found an eave and a window. He shinnied down to test the window and slipped, his hands and body still half numb from the cold, and banged against the closed shutter. The sound it uttered was not all that great, but he scuttled back to the shadows and clung, holding his breath, to see what he might have roused.

Nutmeg woke. Soft mattress and blankets surrounded her, warm with her body heat and that of Rivergrace, and of the still glowing coals in the nearby fireplace, and as she rubbed at her eyes, she could feel sleep falling away. She closed her eyes again, determinedly, but her mind filled with thoughts that tumbled around like a pile of puppies. A bit of breakfast might quiet her, she thought. Her stomach woke then and it was not about to let her sleep until she had a morsel or two to fill it. Not about to stop grumbling and rumbling like a cranky old man until she paid it attention. Better than thinking overmuch, though.

She got up carefully and dressed, getting her soft boots on as quickly as she could, for the flagstone flooring held the night’s chill in it, and she shivered as it tried to sink into her. She opened the bedroom shutters and looked out into the shank of the morning, early but undoubtedly dawn. She closed the shutters but not carefully, in a hurry to get out of the room before she might awaken Rivergrace who lay on her side, auburn hair trailing upon her pillow, her eyes peacefully closed but with dark bruises of fatigue and worry still marking her face. She did not hear the rustle and quiet step behind her as something entered the room from the outside window and joined the deep shadows of its corners as she left it.

Once outside the bedroom, the halls lay steeped in nighttime yet, although she could see the barest first light of dawn filtering through the shutters and covering drapes. A shadow fluttered behind her. Meg rubbed her eyes, still crusted with sleep, and turned back for a moment, listening and watching. An eerie feeling of not being alone crawled down her neck, but she couldn’t see anything in the draperied halls to prove it. She could smell the very faint aroma of baking bread and headed toward it, her thoughts filled with mornings with her family, tussling with her brothers for the first crust of fresh bread to fill with cheese and smoked meat. To her surprise, she found Lord Bistel perched upon a humble three-legged kitchen stool, carving bits of meat for himself.

She dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Lord Bistel.”

“Come join me before the cook discovers we are stealing her most tender bites and kicks us both out.”

Nutmeg hid her grin and climbed onto a tall stool herself. He served her quickly with a trencher of fresh bread, sprinkling it with meat still sizzling and pink in its juices, and pushed a wheel of cheese her way, and a crock of what looked to be sweetened berries to join it. A feast, all in all. She settled down to eating. They ate for a while in silence, enjoying the fare.