The Eye of the Hunter (80 page)

“I would say…young,” mused Aravan. “Lord Hanor at Caer Pendwyr guessed his age at no more than thirty years.”

“What art thou driving at, Aravan?”

“Just this, Dara. Baron Stoke said that Elves were not the only immortals, and in that he was right…the Hidden Ones are immortal, as well as the Gods and others.

“Stoke claimed that he was immortal, too, saying that he could only die by silver pure or starsilver rare, by fire, or by the fangs and claws of another—”

“So cursed!” interjected Riatha, her heart hammering in her breast, hope soaring. “Urus is so cursed. Oh, Aravan, do you think…?”

Aravan raised his hands, palms upward. “We can only
wait and see, Dara. Urus may be immortal, or long lived but mortal…or neither. Yet this we know: time will tell…time indeed will tell.”

* * *

They travelled by day and camped at night—the blind master, his wife and daughter, and his huge bodyguard—occasionally stopping in foothill villages to spend a day resting in a suitable inn, seizing the opportunities to bathe in private, to sleep in beds, to take on supplies.

And along the way they saw evidence of the casting down of the religion of the Prophet Shat’weh—minarets fallen to ruin, abandoned temples and mosques, the absence of morning and evening prayers. Too, now and again a troop of soldiers would ride past; whether this was commonplace in the back country, the foursome did not know, but even so it did seem somehow significant.

On two separate occasions rain fell: the first time gently, but on the second occurrence it was driven before a harsh wind. Days after, they forded swollen streams flowing down from the mountains above.

For nearly a month they wended northward, but there came a day—the twenty-ninth after leaving the mosque—when they topped a rise to stare out on the azure waters of the Avagon Sea. Below them lay the port of Khalísh, and out in the bay plying the waters fared lateen-sailed dhows. At sight of these, Faeril burst into tears, and when Aravan asked, she said, “Oh, Aravan, do you recall the mirage? Ships like these sailing the desert? Gwylly was so happy then. And so was I…so was I.”

* * *

Keeping but few items unto themselves, they sold the caravan goods in the city, including the camels, the blind master haggling skillfully, haggling well, obtaining a fair price for all, the huge, mute bodyguard with the great scimitar weighing out the silver and gold.

They booked passage for Arbalin since no ship from Khalísh fared to Pellar, and nine days after arriving at the port city, they set sail in the morning on a three-masted dhow—the
Hilâl
—running out on the ebbing tide.

Across the Avagon they fared, coursing day and night, the ship crewed by dusky sailors, wiry and small. Through waters plied by rovers they ran, seemingly without fear, for Hyree and Kistan had strong ancient ties in commerce and
combat and religion. And so they ran at night with lanterns lit, and lurid red sails in the day, announcing to one and all alike that here was a ship of courage, here was a ship of
Men
.

Although the captain had his cabin and the crew quartered on the cargo below, the blind master and his huge slave slept in the open, while the wife and girlchild shared a small deck tent. These female passengers remained enclosed in their canopy during the day, stretching their legs only after dark, as was the Hyrinian custom for Women aboard ships. It was during their nighttime exercise that Riatha and Faeril—soft Elven step and silent Warrow foot—came upon the steersman, his face to the stars, praying to the Prophet, for they heard the word
Shat’weh
. When the sailor saw that he was observed, he fervently pleaded with the
thōbe
-clad “Women,” but what he said, they knew not, for neither spoke Hyrinian. Yet they stiffly bowed in silence and continued their stroll, while behind the shaken steersman plied the tiller and watched them walk on, anxiety in his eyes.

The very next eve was the night of the vernal equinox, and Aravan stepped to the same steersman and spoke softly to him. And in the wee hours, the sailor watched in wonderment as the four passengers stepped the stately paces of the Elven rite celebrating the coming of spring, Riatha and Aravan softly humming the ritual hymns.

When the dance was done, with tears streaming down her face behind her veil, Faeril said, “I must stop weeping at every little thing. Yet how can I stop, how can anyone stop remembering times past when there was another standing at hand, a love now gone.”

Urus knelt and hugged the wee damman in her robes. “You must not even try to forget, Faeril Not ever. Instead, relish those good times you had, for as long as we remember, something of Gwylly yet lives.”

* * *

The seas were calm, though it rained several times, and the wind in the main blew briskly. Still, in all it took some twenty-one days for them to reach the Isle of Arbalin, running in on the afternoon tide.

And that evening ashore, once again appeared two Lian Elves, a wee Warrow, and a huge Baeran—the blind master
and his mute bodyguard gone forever in the suds of a bath, his wife and daughter vanished with the doffing of
thōbes
.

* * *

They were fortunate and booked an early passage on an Arbalina vessel—the
Delfino
—a carrack sailing for Pellar within but two days. And on the eleventh of April, they weighed anchor on the tide of dawn.

Along the shores of Jugo they sailed and past the mouth of the mighty River Argon, and now the land to the ship’s port side was the Realm of Pellar. Beyond Thell Cove they fared—there where the
Eroean
was hidden in a grot—continuing easterly along the Pellarion coast.

They sailed into Hile Bay on the midday tide, the cliffs of Pendwyr towering above. Faeril was relieved to be once again at the city, though everywhere she looked, the despoiling hand of Mankind was evident: sewage stains running down the sheer stone bluffs from Pendwyr above, the waters of the bay unclean.

They put ashore in the early afternoon and clambered up the stairs of the cliffs, making their way through the noisy, crowded city, the odor of middens thick, the effluvium of sewage wafting.

At the caer they were welcomed by Commander Rori and ushered to suitable quarters. Later word came from Rori that he had arranged for them to see Lord Leith, Steward, on the morrow, for King Garon and Queen Thayla were of course in Challerain Keep, having fared north in early spring, not to return till early autumn.

In the darktide as Faeril lay down to sleep, she reflected on how good it was to be back. But even better would be going home…wherever home might be. When she thought about it her mind did not conjure up a vision of the Boskydells, but instead she saw a cote in Arden Vale, where buccan and damman had lived on the hill above the River Tumble.

That night Faeril cried herself to sleep.

* * *

“Damnation!” exclaimed the portly Man, crashing a fist to table. “Another
jihad
now? Will they never learn?”

“My Lord Hanor,” soothed Lord Leith, “it was not said that there would be a
jihad
, only that the mosques of the Prophet had been overthrown, and that is not news. Our spies have—”

“Military movements, that’s what I heard. What else
can
it be if not preparation for a
jihad
?”

The steward turned to Commander Rori. “What say our spies about such, Rori?”

“It seems to be on the increase,” answered the Realmsman, “as if something is afoot.”

Aravan cleared his throat. “Mayhap the Sultan’s schemes have been set back, for with the death of Stoke, any plans for an army of corpses have gone aglimmering—the secret of such died with that monster.”

Lord Leith sighed. “Perhaps so, Lord Aravan. In any event, King Garon must hear of this. I will dispatch a rider to Challerain tomorrow, giving him your news.”

Silence fell among those gathered. At last, Faeril turned to Rori. “Commander, did Halíd return? Last we saw, he set out across the desert for Sabra, to intercept Captain Legori and the
Bèllo Vènto
.”

“Aye, that he did,” replied the commander, glancing at the silver lock in the damman’s otherwise black hair. “Came here back in December. Said that he was almost hanged as a horse-thief in Sabra.

“He stayed here but a day, leaving the very next morning for Darda Erynian…and in early April he and two Elves—Silverleaf and Tuon—appeared here in Pendwyr and set sail for Sabra, heading for that well in the Karoo where the creature dwells.”

“Uâjii,” murmured Aravan.

“Aye, that’s it,” said Rori, “the Well of Uâjii. They went to kill the wyrm, to avenge Reigo. You missed them by—let me see…why, just eight days.”

“Fiddle-faddle I say to this monster down a hole in the desert,” grumbled Lord Hanor. “A bigger monster sits on the throne of Hyree, and something must be done about it—an assassination, perhaps—else we may have a
jihad
true.”

Aravan’s sapphire-blue gaze took in the advisor. “The Sultan a monster, thou dost say? We brought only suspicions. Hast thou proof of monstrous deeds?”

Hanor clenched a fist. “Pah! I need no proof, Lord Aravan. My suspicions are enough. I say that he is a monster, and like all monsters everywhere, he should be killed.”

Aravan’s gaze grew icy. “We met several monsters on this journey, slaying the greatest of them, though not the
one I seek. Yet many more are left in this world, and if thou wouldst hunt them all down, Lord Hanor, thou wilt have taken on a task thou canst not complete, for more are in the making even as we speak.

“Mayhap thou art right and all deserve to die, and surely they will if they are but mortal. Yet neither thee nor anyone else I have met can pierce the veils of time, and thou hast only suspicions of vile deeds to come; none have yet been committed. I ask thee, Lord Hanor, wouldst thou slay everyone thou dost suspect might commit perfidious acts sometime in the future? And this I ask thee as well: if thou couldst slay every one of them on thy suspicions alone, who would be the monster then?

“Mayhap thou wouldst be right to seek the deaths of those who can cause the slaughter of innocents, yet I think that in the main, other ways are available to thwart their vile schemes.”

Hanor snorted. “You are one to talk, Elf, for you seek the death of another. And what is the motive?…Revenge!”

“That I do not deny, Lord Hanor. Yet in many ways, vengeance is the purest motive of all, exacting just retribution for an unjust deed done, and at the very base it is the sum and substance of thine own man-made laws.”

Lord Leith held up his hands, palms out as if stepping between the Elf and Man. “Let it lie, m’Lords. I will say this, though: Lord Aravan, your point is well taken; we must indeed exact retribution for foul deeds done…but as to those we merely surmise
might
be done in the future, who knows precisely the foul deeds yet to occur? Had we this knowledge, then we could prevent such acts, but alas, we do not.”

Lord Hanor ground his teeth. “I know in my heart that the Sultan of—”

“Hanor, I said let it lie,” snapped Leith.

Hanor fell silent, clearly choking on his own words.

A long, uncomfortable moment passed, then the Steward stood and stepped to Faeril, taking the tiny damman’s hands in his. “Mistress, I am most saddened to hear of your loss. Yet know this: your Sir Gwylly was a hero, and the world is a poorer place without him.”

Faeril’s eyes brimmed with tears as Lord Leith kissed her hands. She had no words to return to him.

* * *

Three days later, Faeril, Aravan, Riatha, and Urus rode away from Pendwyr, heading northward, returning home. Six horses were in their train: four riding and two pack animals.

Up through the Glave Hills they rode and beyond, coming into the Greatwood, Urus leading the way, Faeril’s horse on a long tether after. Behind followed Riatha and then Aravan, a pack animal trailing each.

Spring was on the land, life quickening, buds opening, pale green leaves sprouting, yellow grasses turning verdant, flowers bursting up and out from the soil. Faeril found that she had nearly forgotten how very green were the High King’s Realms, for the ocean voyages crossed deep, dark waters, and the Karoo had been a deadly dun brown. Even the green of the Talâk Range seemed thin and lacking by comparison to the verdure now in the surround.

And as they wended through the awakening forest, birds returned from their long journeys and sang the four awake at every dawning. Animals scurried among the trees, and occasionally she saw a deer bounding away, and in the evenings they were serenaded by piping frogs.

The spring rains came, and they rode for days through a forest awash or adrip, their storm cloaks fending the water from them. At night they made camp wherever they could, at times beneath hastily constructed lean-tos, at other times below hollow bluffs, and at rare times in a woodsman’s shack or crofter’s barn.

When it was not raining, they camped in the open, and many were the discussions ’round the fire.

Faeril remembered one in particular, the night she sat on the briar:

“Ow!” The damman stood, the others looking her way. “Hmph! Look here, mister thornbranch, I mean to sit on that log.”

Faeril rummaged through her saddlebags, finding and donning her climbing gloves. Then she took hold of the long stem, haling upward to pull it free of the earth. It did not budge.

Again she tried, to no effect.

Urus, waterskins over his shoulder, stepped to her side. “Come, wee one, let us pull together.”

Faeril again haled with all her strength, and Urus added
a bit of his own, and out came the briar, root and all, and the root was nearly as long as the branch itself.

Faeril looked up at Urus and grinned, and the Baeran grinned back, then he and Riatha headed for the stream. The damman’s gaze followed them a moment and then she glanced at the crescent Moon and smiled. She turned and cast the thornbranch on the fire and sat and watched it burn, lost in her thoughts.

After a while she looked up to see Aravan regarding her. “Would that all our problems were so easy,” said Faeril, gesturing at the briar.