The Shattered Chain (27 page)

She said in a harsh whisper, “Let it eat! It’s too late to save the animal, and if it’s full it won’t turn on us!”

Magda knew that made sense, but the screaming of the dying beast, the terrified screams of the other horses and the foul stench of the great predator turned her sick. She covered her face with her hands as the wicked talons struck down, scraping, raking, and the evil beak plunged down, again and again, as the banshee gorged his fill. Jaelle pulled Magda down behind the horses, and ‘the women lay there concealed, trying not to hear or to see as the creature ate with little growling clucks and snarls.

God, those talons! One blow from them almost ripped the animal in half!
Magda thought.

It seemed a long time before the banshee jerked up its huge head, darting it from side to side without interest, then plunged back once for a final tidbit and lumbered heavily away. The talons left great sloppy prints of blood and filth on the snow. Magda, struggling to control her sickness, got up slowly. The antlered pack beast lay almost still, and—this was the ultimate horror—whining thinly, still alive. Magda could not stand it. She bent swiftly, drew her knife across its throat, and with one final twitch, it lay still. Behind the horses Jaelle was lying in the snow, retching weakly, helplessly.

Magda went to her. “Come on! Help me get the pack off that thing, and onto our horses! And then let’s get the hell away from here before all that thing’s brothers and sisters come around looking for another helping!”

Jaelle came, wiping her face on her sleeve. Her face looked grotesque, red and blotched. “Oh, that was horrible—horrible—”

“It was. But it could have been a lot more horrible if it had grabbed one of us instead,” Magda said, and bent over the dead animal to cut the straps that held the pack to the half-eaten carcass.
The same strap we so carefully had replaced in the village!
With Jaelle’s help she managed to haul it off the dead animal, though their hands were slimy with blood and entrails before they finished. Magda hoisted it to the back of her horse. “We can divide up the load tomorrow,” she said. “Right now we’d better get moving.”

Numbed by fatigue and horror, the women stumbled upward, higher and higher; and suddenly, rounding a curve in the deep-beaten trail, they were not climbing anymore. They stood in the top of the pass of Scaravel, and there was no way to go but down. Magda was too weary even to feel relieved. Jaelle was stumbling with fatigue and weariness, and Magda wished it were safe for her to ride. Certainly she could not go on much longer.

The going was easier now, although the horses had a tendency to slip and stumble; before long Magda felt the lessening ache in her ears that told they were losing altitude. She recalled hearing that banshees nested only above the timberline; when they reached the first clump of gnarled trees, thick wind-tangled evergreens, she could feel the tension running out of her like water. She stumbled along for another hundred feet or so, found a thick grove of trees where the horses would be a little protected from wind and the still-falling snow. Jaelle was dazed, out on her feet; she stood blinking, unaware what was going on. Alone, Magda tied the horses and blanketed them, managed to get up one of the tiny tents, got Jaelle out of her snow-caked riding-cloak and boots and shoved her into her blankets. She fell into her own without stopping to take off anything but boots; The tent was much too small for two—Magda had thought it was too small for one—but claustrophobia was better than taking the time to get up the other one; besides, they needed the warmth. She thought, as she fell asleep,
I’d bring the horses in if I could get them in.
Even the faraway wail of another banshee—or the one who had attacked them?—could not keep her awake.

The weather cleared in the night, and they looked on a dazzling white world, with evergreens bent almost double under their weight of snow. When Magda dressed Jaelle’s wounds, they looked dull-white and macerated; they had been frozen, and this would make the scarring worse, but there was nothing to be done about it. She used some of the water she had boiled for porridge to try to clean them, but there was not much she could do. Jaelle ate listlessly, but she did eat, and Magda was glad; that glazed, numb look of exhaustion had frightened her. When she had done, she pointed to a low peak in the next range.

“Sain Scarp,” Jaelle said. “If the weather holds we will be there tomorrow.” Magda’s eyes were sharp, but try as she might, she could see nothing but trees.

Jaelle laughed. “I doubt Rumal di Scarp will entertain us, so we may not have much of a midwinter-feast this year! But no doubt your kinsman would rather eat porridge on the open road than feast with Rumal! And if the weather holds fine, we might reach Ardais by midwinter; you cannot see it from here, though if you have good eyes you can see it from the very top of Scaravel. But I am not going back up to look now!”

Now that they were actually within sight of their goal, Magda found herself wondering about Peter again. How would he feel, to be rescued at a woman’s hands? An hour later, as they rode down the trail through the melting snow, Jaelle voiced the same question.

“Your kinsman, will it damage his pride too much, to accept rescue at a woman’s doing? Or don’t the
Terranan
have that kind of pride?”

“Not usually. On other worlds men and women usually share the risks equally,” Magda said.
But Peter was reared on Darkover, like me. And I found my Darkovan training too strong even for the Empire. Will it damage him, destroy him, as it might a Darkovan man?

And suddenly Magda understood something about herself that she had never realized before.

Brought up as I was, at Caer Donn, only a Darkovan could have attracted me; they say the way you react to the opposite sex is conditioned before you’re seven years old. None of the Terran men, I knew seemed right, none of them had the right sort of emotional
—
or sexual
—
wavelengths for me. The sexual cues were all wrong. So Peter was literally the only man I knew to whom I reacted as to a male at all.

And when I was ripe for a love affair, he was the only man I knew; literally the only one. It wasn’t that I cared more for him than others: it was that there were no others.

She realized that this might very well be the most important insight of her life, and resolved that she must somehow manage to hold on to it, even after she met Peter again.

Sain Scarp was an enormous fortress, isolated beyond a long rock causeway. The next day at noon the two women rode across the causeway, and Magda, at least, had the sense of eyes watching them from the tower at the far end. At the end of the causeway a big, rough-looking man stopped them, demanding their business.

Now. This is the culmination of it all; everything else that has happened
—
even the Amazon oath, dividing my life in two
—
was all for this.
Strangely, Magda had almost forgotten that. She said, “I am the Free Amazon Margali n’ha Ysabet”—(how strange that sounded)—”come on a mission from the Lady Rohana Ardais. There is a prisoner and a ransom to be paid. Carry this word to Rumal di Scarp.” They waited, shivering in the bright cold air, until the bandit chieftain came.

Afterward she could never remember what Rumal di Scarp looked like, except that he seemed a small man to carry such weight of rumor and horror tales: a small, wiry, hawk-faced man with fierce eyes. Behind Rumal, his hands bound, Magda saw a slender, familiar figure.
Peter!
He was thin and pale, dressed in shabby and torn mountain garments; a narrow fringe of coppery-red beard shadowed his face, but Magda knew him.

Rumal di Scarp came slowly toward them. “Well,
mestra,
I hear there is a ransom to pay. Who are you?”

Silently, Magda held out her safe-conduct; Rumal took it, handed it to the huge bandit at his side, who overshadowed him physically as much as the little man seemed to dwarf his giant companion in every other way. The man read it aloud to Rumal. “Lady Rohana Ardais… empowered to deal in a family matter…”

Rumal took the safe-conduct, crumpled it contemptuously and tossed it back to Magda. He said, laughing, “Gallant are the men of Ardais, that they send women to pay ransom for their menfolk! Why should I deal with you?”

Jaelle said, “Because I am the Lady Rohana’s kinswoman, and if you do hot honor your word I will spread it far and wide, from the Hellers to Dalereuth, that Rumal di Scarp does not honor his bargains. And then you may sit here in Sain Scarp and make soup from the bones of your captives for all the good they will be to you, since no one will ever again pay a single coin in ransom!”

Rumal made a gesture of contempt, signaled for Peter to be brought forward. “Well, there he is, heir to Ardais, whole and well, sound in wind and limb as a horse in spring market. And so, my ladies”—he used the intimate inflection, which made it sound even more contemptuous—”let us see the color of that ransom, then.”

Magda knew her hands were trembling as she counted out the copper bars. Rumal shrugged, signaled to his giant henchman to wrap the ransom money in a cloth and take it away. “You have your kinsman. Take him away, then.”

Jaelle looked at him defiantly, and said, “His horse and gear?”

“Oh, that,” said Rumal. “That I kept to cover the cost of feeding him between snowfall and midwinter-night, lest the ransom grow too great for one horse to carry.” He said ironically to Peter, “Farewell, my Lord; fortunate is that man so loved by his kinsmen that they entrust him to a woman’s ransoming. See that you repay these ladies well for their courtesy, my Lord, since no doubt it was only their pleas that persuaded the menfolk of your clan to ransom you at all. And now—” He made a deep, graceful bow, whose very courtly grace sent a shudder of horror through Magda, much worse than if he were ugly or deformed. “Farewell, dom; a safe journey and a fortunate homecoming.”

Peter made him a deep, equally ironic bow. “My thanks for your hospitality, messire di Scarp. May I sleep the night in each of Zandru’s hells in turn before I taste of it again.”

“A churlish speech,” Rumal drawled, “but the color of money is not brightened by courteous words—nor dimmed by boorish ones.” He turned on his heel and walked away, not looking back.

Peter reached out and seized Magda’s hands in a hard grip. His own were shaking. “It
is
you,” he said. “I dreamed—I dreamed—” His voice caught, and for a moment she thought he was about to weep, but he managed to control it, clutching her ringers painfully hard in his own.

She said, and her heart was wrung with pity, “You are so thin and pale! Have they been starving you?”

“No, no, though the fare was not what I could have hoped for in the Hellers,” he said, still clinging to her hands.

Jaelle broke in: “There is a horse for you at the end of the causeway; we traded for it in the last village. I thought Rumal would keep yours, as he did. I hope it suits you.”

“Mestra,
I would ride a rabbit, or walk from here to Thendara in my bare feet, it is so good to be beyond these walls,” he said. “Come, let us get out of bowshot. … How came this to be? I had utterly lost hope that you would ever know where I was, or how, even, I had died.”

Jaelle was studying him curiously as they came to where they had left the horses. “I cannot believe it! This is not a joke? You are not my cousin Kyril? Are you truly—
Terranan?”

“I am,” Peter said, and glanced curiously at Magda, “Who—and what—?”

“She is my friend and sister, Peter,” Magda said quietly, “and she knows who we are, so there is no need for pretense.”

Peter bent over her slender hand. He said, “How can I speak my thanks,
mestra?
Midwinter-night is too near for me to pretend I was not afraid.”

Jaelle looked back, saw that Rumal and his men had turned to watch them from the end of the causeway. She said, with a hesitant laugh, “Now, indeed, I believe you are not my cousin Kyril. I think he would rather be hanged in fragments from Rumal’s walls than confess himself afraid!” She added, after a moment, “No doubt they are watching and wondering why you do not greet me as a kinswoman.”

From anyone else Magda thought that would have sounded almost unbearably flirtatious; Jaelle only sounded embarrassed. Peter said, “That will be my pleasure, then—kinswoman.” He bent forward and made as if to give her a brotherly embrace and kiss on .the cheek. Jaelle colored and lowered her eyes; suddenly, gently, Peter took Jaelle’s slender hand up in his again, bent and laid a light kiss on her wrist.