The Jackal of Nar (49 page)

Sabrina straightened and flashed him a careful smile. “I’m just being silly, I suppose. I just thought if I could share these things with you, I could understand you better. I want us to be closer.”

“What a favor Arkus did for me,” said Richius with a sigh. “You’re more than I deserve. I’ll keep my promise to you, Sabrina. Now that the other families know about the war I can have others take care of business for me. We’ll have more time together. You’ll see.”

Sabrina only nodded, her face going blank. The western sky was just beginning to flare with the ruddy haze of twilight.

“We’re far from home,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be heading back soon?”

“Not yet,” said Richius, reclining back on an elbow. “I’ve ridden these paths dozens of times. I could find my way back to the castle in a snowstorm from here. Let’s relax awhile, enjoy ourselves. I’ve—”

A glimmer of white in the distance beyond snatched his attention. Something in the woods. Man-sized. He froze, fixing his gaze on the trees past Sabrina’s head. It was yards away, hanging in the thickets like a pale, thin mist.

“Richius?” asked Sabrina. “What’s wrong?”

Richius put his finger to his lips.

“Quiet,” he cautioned. “There’s someone behind you.”

Sabrina stopped breathing. Her eyes widened with fear as she turned to follow Richius’ stare. For a long moment they remained motionless, like two guilty children hiding in a wardrobe. Richius licked his lips. Whatever or whoever it was, it looked frighteningly like a Triin.

“Where is he?” whispered Sabrina. “I don’t see anyone.”

Richius cocked his chin forward. “There, by the bend. See the white?”

Sabrina’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

Richius could still see the flimsy figure in the trees, almost floating above the mossy earth. A mane of milky hair blew unnaturally in the breezeless air. The figure swayed and shimmered in the ebbing light, watching them without menace, its gray eyes full of discovery. Richius watched in horror as the thing stretched out an arm toward him.

“My God!” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He felt Sabrina’s hand reach up for him.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Don’t you see him?” asked Richius. “Look, Sabrina. Look!”

Sabrina looked. She got to her feet beside him and stared directly at the road ahead.

“I see nothing,” she cried. “Tell me what it is!”

The figure in the forest stepped out from behind the trees.

“He’s smiling at me,” said Richius. “My God, he’s smiling!”

It ambled closer. Richius could see it more clearly now. He could see the good-natured eyes and the fibrous wisps of hair. He could see the sharp nose and the contemplating crease of the brow as the figure regarded him, not like a stranger but as one would an old comrade. And most remarkably he could see
past
the man. Not merely around him like a thing of flesh and bone, but through him and behind him to the road and trees beyond. A transparent wraith, grinning with the face of a friend.

“Heaven defend us,” Richius moaned, clutching Sabrina’s hand. “That’s Lucyler.”

“I don’t see a thing,” whispered Sabrina.

“But he’s there, right there! What’s wrong with you?”

Sabrina yanked her hand away. “You’re seeing phantoms, Richius! There’s nothing there.”

“There is,” replied Richius. A sudden understanding dawned within him. “It is Lucyler. Only you can’t see him.”

He took a cautious step forward. The luminous face of the Triin lit with that old, sarcastic grin. He knew it was impossible, yet Richius was overjoyed at the sight. He raised his hands in greeting.

“Lucyler,” he cried. “Is it you?”

The apparition nodded. Behind him, Richius could hear Sabrina mumbling, fretting over the sickness she was sure had overcome him. He reached back a hand to silence her and moved slowly toward the translucent figure. Lucyler shook his head, as if to stop him.

“Lucyler?” asked Richius, perplexed. He started again to move forward and this time the figure’s extraordinary face dimmed with a frown. It turned away, stepping back into the veil of trees.

“Wait!” yelled Richius, scrambling toward the forest. “Lucyler, come back!” He clenched his fists and drove them into the air, cursing. “Don’t leave me, damn you!”

He stared into the forest, hoping to glimpse the fleeing ghost, but saw only an unending labyrinth of leaves and branches. Lucyler was gone, or hidden somewhere unseen within the tangle of trees. And he wanted Richius to follow him. There was something telling in the way he looked, something he had been screaming in dreams for Richius to hear.

“I have to go after him,” said Richius. He glanced over to where Sabrina stood, her arms wrapped about her like a blanket. “I have to talk to him.”

“You’re mad,” she said simply. “There was nobody there, Richius. Nobody.”

“You couldn’t see him because he didn’t want you to. He has to talk to me. Alone.”

“Who has to talk to you? Who’s Lucyler?”

“I can’t explain, not now. You didn’t see him because he’s a Triin. Probably it’s some kind of magic, I don’t know. But I have to go after him.”

“You can’t leave, Richius. It’s going to be dark soon. What if—”

“I’ll be back before sunfall, I promise. Just wait here for me. Don’t move from this spot. I’ll find you.”

“Richius, please …” Sabrina implored, but Richius was already on his way into the forest. He heard her voice calling after him, yet he didn’t stop or call back to her. He was on a hunt, and his quarry was already far ahead. Around him the forest thickened, the old branches of the ancient oaks reaching out for his cloak and face, and he guarded his eyes with outstretched hands as he moved with finesse through the brush. He spied every tree and hollow log, heard every bird and every croaking bullfrog. His senses were alive, more vital than they had been since leaving Lucel-Lor. He had a mission to confirm a miracle, and the zeal put fire into his steps.

“Lucyler!” he called, his voice booming through the trees. He had already come a thousand paces and had seen nothing of his friend. Again and again he cried out the name, hoping for the apparition to reappear. “I’m here, Lucyler. Talk to me!”

Nothing. He stopped. Panting, he squatted and surveyed his surroundings. Sweat fell from his brow, stinging his eyes, and he rubbed at them to clear his vision. A rabbit scampered by, startling him. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

“Damn it, I saw you,” he said. “I know I did. Come back to me, please. Come back.”

Misery seized him, just as it had when he learned of Lucyler’s death. Death at the hands of Voris. A death meant for him.

Is that why you’re haunting me, my friend?

Slowly he rose to his feet. Nausea coursed through him. His legs quivered uncontrollably, rubbery from the run and the nagging thought that he had truly lost his mind. There were no ghosts, his father had told him once. Only madmen. He looked up into the graying sky and thought of Sabrina. It would be impossible to explain this to her. In the morning she would be penning a letter to Arkus, begging for an annulment. And Patwin and Jojustin would hear about it, too, and look away when he passed, and who could blame them? They had a lunatic for a king.

Despondently he began the long walk back, his eyes downcast. Grime covered his boots and knees, and leaves and bits of branches clung to his hair. Viscous ribbons of sap ran down from the canopy of pines above him. Only the thought of Sabrina kept
him moving forward. She was alone and defenseless with night closing in on her. If she were a man he would have left her there, but she was his wife. She needed him.

Ten paces later Lucyler stepped out from behind a tree. Richius froze.

“You have come,” said the spectre in a voice not wholly human. The sound of it rang unnaturally, but it was Lucyler’s voice, hard and clear and unmistakably Triin. Richius regarded the figure in wonder. It wavered in the breeze, shimmering the way sunlight does on water. It was whiter than a dove, more silent than death, and thinner than the little white vest that clings to the inside of an eggshell. Impossibly beautiful. Astonishing. Richius cranked up his courage and moved toward it.

“My wife thinks I’m mad, ghost,” he whispered. “Tell me that I’m not. Tell me you exist in more than just my mind.”

Lucyler, or the thing that looked like him, laughed. “I can hear you,” he said gleefully. “Lorris and Pris, I can hear you!”

“What are you?” asked Richius. “Are you Lucyler?”

The figure glanced down at its hands and flexed its bony fingers. “It works!” it declared. “Richius, I am really here!”

“Are you? Are you Lucyler?”

“It is me, Richius,” said the figure. “It is Lucyler.”

Richius stepped back dubiously. “How can it be? You’re dead!”

“Do not be afraid of me,” begged Lucyler. “I am not dead. And you are not seeing a spirit. It is I, and I live.”

“It does look like you,” said Richius, inching closer. He reached out to touch the gauzy fabric and watched his hand pass through it.

“This is not a body,” Lucyler explained. “It cannot be felt. But it is me, my friend.”

“But how?” stammered Richius. “Lucyler, what
are
you?”

Lucyler held up a cautioning hand. “I cannot describe this to you, Richius. Not now. This form is difficult to hold. So listen carefully to me, I have to be quick.”

“Not good enough,” said Richius. “Tell me what’s happened to you. This form, what is it? Are you somewhere else?”

“I am safe,” replied Lucyler. “That is all I can say for now. You must listen—”

“Where are you?” Richius demanded. “You’re alive and yet you are a ghost. Explain it to me.
Now.
”

“No questions!” boomed Lucyler. “There is no time. I have something to tell you and you must listen.”

Richius laughed. It was all impossible, yet this hot-headed apparition was truly Lucyler.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Lucyler seemed to sigh. “This form you see is a projection. I was told I would appear dead to you, but I assure you I am not. I have tried for days to reach you, to touch your mind, but I was unable to, until today.”

“The dreams,” said Richius knowingly.

Lucyler nodded. “You resisted me. So I took a form you could not ignore.”

“But my wife couldn’t see you. Why not?”

“I am appearing for you, my friend. I cannot appear to someone I do not know. Do not ask me why, it is a mystery to me, too. Oh, but I waste time. Do you remember the place you told me about in the mountains? The plateau?”

“I remember,” said Richius, recalling the flat hilltop in the Saccenne Run, the rugged passage cutting through the Iron Mountains and linking Aramoor to Lucel-Lor. Richius himself had scouted it out. They had planned to retreat to that plateau if Tharn and his minions ever succeeded in ousting them from Lucel-Lor. “What of it?” he asked.

“You must go there,” said Lucyler. His image was starting to waver. Frowning with concentration, he continued, “It is a safe place for us to talk. Bring provisions for a long ride. I will meet you there in three days’ time.”

“What? I can’t leave Aramoor. And you don’t even know where the plateau is. You’ll never find it.”

“I will find it,” insisted Lucyler. “You must meet me there.”

“But why? Why not come to the castle? Why all this secrecy?”

“Please, Richius,” Lucyler begged. “There is no time to argue. Will you come to me or not?”

“I won’t,” said Richius angrily. “Not until you tell me why. If you have a secret, spit it out. Tell me what’s so damn important.”

Lucyler’s expression dimmed. “Richius, trust me,” he said. “Please. Meet me in the mountains.…”

“Tell me the truth, Lucyler,” Richius demanded. “What do you want me for? Why this bloody magic?”

“You want proof, is that it?” asked Lucyler angrily. “Very well. I will tell you one thing only.” He leaned in close and spoke a single, remarkable name.
“Dyana.”

Richius stumbled backward. “My God,” he said. “What are you telling me?”

“The woman is alive,” said Lucyler. “I know where she is.”

“How do you know? How do you even know who she is?”

Again the transparent hands came up. “No more questions. Do as I ask and I will answer everything. But ask me nothing more now. I cannot stay, Richius. I am losing control.…”

“No, God damn you, no! Don’t you leave me now. Not until you’ve told me about her.”

“Will you come to meet me?”

“Where is she?” Richius thundered.

“She is safe, Richius. I swear it.” Lucyler floated a bit closer. “Will you meet me?”

Richius laughed bitterly. “Is there a choice? I will be there as you ask. But I warn you, my friend. Trifle with me in three days and I will kill you. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Lucyler. “You will forgive me this, Richius. I know you will.” The image began to fade. “In three days, then.”

“Three days,” Richius agreed. “And if you’re not there I will hunt you down, Lucyler. And no magic under heaven will save you from me.”

The phantom gave a sorry smile, wavered a moment, then popped like a bubble, leaving Richius alone in the gathering darkness. Painfully he pulled brambles from his hair, cursing and wondering what had really transpired. It was Lucyler, certainly, but how? And why? What ungodly news did the Triin have for him? A cold anguish gripped him. If the apparition was to be believed, Dyana
was
still alive, maybe waiting for him the way he had dreamed. He shut his eyes against the onslaught of questions. He would have to go to Lucyler, find out where Dyana was and then …

What? Lucyler had told him to pack for a journey. Would he guide him to her? Would he even be able to rescue her? Lucel-Lor was Tharn’s now. How would he ever make his way to her unseen?

Slowly he began making his way back through the brush. Dusk was coming in ever-quickening steps, throwing twisted shadows against the mossy earth. Above him he heard the whooing of an owl as it prepared for its nightly jaunt across the sky. This was the time when the rodents cowered, when sane men went indoors. The thought quickened Richius’ stride. In all her life Sabrina had probably been in the forest only this one day, and was no doubt chafing at the notion of nightfall. She would be irate, and he would have to explain it all to her. Even as he raced past the trees he considered what lies to use.