The Still (35 page)

My hand trembled, touched the water. As it rippled, my reverie shattered. I lay for a long while. Then, with an effort, I sat.

“No.” I spoke aloud, to the breeze. “It isn’t so.” I stood, cupped my groin for shyness, looked about, let go myself. “It’s their fault, not mine.” Consider: Rust swore himself to me, led me into this mindless venture, then ran away. Elryc plots against me. It was he who convinced them to flee to Cumber.

“You hid while we fought for our lives!”

I whirled, but the stableboy’s voice echoed only in my mind. “Shut thy mouth, lout!”

Coward of Caledon!

I covered my ears, but the voice was no longer Genard’s; it was my own.

I cried, “I’m brave, and steady, and true!”

I fell to my knees, atop my soaking breeks. The wet on my bare knees smashed the remnants of my illusion. Am I not coward? What, then?

I put my forearm to my mouth, bit down in rage, let loose only when the toothmarks were deep in my skin.

Yes, I’d hid under the table, at the first sign of fight. And I’d been petrified when the miller seemed about to slash my tongue. When he made as if to slit my throat I’d been transported beyond terror.

Was it not understandable that I wanted life more than honor? Could I not live with that knowledge, and esteem the man I was?

No.

Not when I, Rodrigo Prince of Caledon, crouched naked and ashamed by a stream, wiping shit from my breeches.

Life itself wasn’t worth that.

“I won’t be coward.” It didn’t satisfy; I spoke again to the foaming stream. “I’ll be coward no more. I swear, by all that is holy, by every Rite ever devised by man, that I will have no fear of death—well, if I have fear, it won’t matter. Do you hear, river? I shall not run from fear again. If it costs my life, let it be so.” My cheeks were wet.

The river babbled on, uncaring.

I picked up my soggy clothes, and my boots. “From this day forth, I am no coward.” Clutching my garments, still naked as the day I was born, I picked my way across the stones to the cottage.

I
GATHERED ARMLOAD
after armload of brush and fallen limbs, and built a huge fire in the hearth. I draped my clothes from the mantle, holding them in place with rocks, and sat shivering, feeding sticks to the flames.

In my eagerness, I let the fire grow too hot. My jerkin began to smoke. I yanked it from the mantle, let go with a curse as it threatened to blister my hand. More cautiously, with a stick, I pulled down my breeches and loincloth. The breeks were still too wet to wear, but the loincloth was merely damp; gratefully, I put it on.

I propped the breeches farther from the fire, and examined my shirt now that it had cooled. I sighed. It wasn’t my fault that sparks had burned tiny holes through the midriff. What did I know of drying clothes? That wasn’t my role in life.

It didn’t matter. My silver coin would be ample to buy another shirt. And food. I was now many hours without, and my stomach grew restive. A hen would be best, though I wasn’t quite sure how to pluck and dress a fowl. On our hunts, Griswold or a servant handled such trifles. A fish, on the other hand, I could fry. Well, there was no pan, but I could bake it on rocks. I’d watched Rustin, once. Fish or fowl for my dinner?

I’d spin my silver pence to decide. I fished in my breeks for the coin purse.

Nothing.

Alarmed, I thrust my hand deep. No purse.

“Lord of Nature, don’t do this!” I jammed my feet into my boots, dashed across the field to the stream.

I fell on my hands and knees, swept the grass with my fingers, tore at the earth, blackened and broke my fingernails.

The coin purse was gone. In my haste to wash the filth from my breeches, I’d let the brook have it. I tore off my shirt, plunged my arm deep into the searing cold stream. I could bear it only for a moment; I pulled out my arm, danced away the pain of the frigid water.

Nonetheless, I gritted my teeth, bent again to the water, tried once more to sift the bottom.

No coin.

Desolate, I trudged back to the cottage, dragging my shirt behind.

I would starve.

By now my breeches were almost dry. I dressed, welcoming their warmth, not minding the sooty scent they bore. I slumped on the plank floor, stared at the crackling flames.

Nothing turned out as it should; Lord of Nature himself was against me. Was it because I’d mocked the Rites? Did they reveal arcane truth I was too dense to see?

My stomach growled. I curled myself before the fire, miserable beyond belief. Day passed into evening. At last, I raised my head.

Hard as it might be to admit, perhaps some aspect of conducting a man’s life had escaped me. Though despair at his father’s treason had briefly unhinged him that night at the inn, Rustin seemed far more prepared for life’s vicissitudes than I.

Perhaps I could follow his ways, learn from his manner. Always, until recently, he’d been generous of his time and care. One night he’d even bathed me, soaped my hair. Would he—

No, I’d driven him away. My words had been justified, but he’d recoiled from them, and from me. Well, maybe I’d overreacted a trifle. Rust should have understood, though.

So should Hester.

And Fostrow.

And Genard.

Elryc too.

As the last flames flickered into embers, I sat appalled.

Was I so evil, that men turned their faces? Nothing else could explain their mass desertion.

Outside, an owl hooted.

Hester accused me of being selfish, making their lives a torment. Nonsense, wasn’t it? Or had I really done so? My heart began to sink.

I’d ruined all. Was there still time to find them, somehow make amends?

I began to gather my few things, suddenly afraid. What if they’d turned off the Cumber road, took some bypass I knew not? What if Rust spat in my face?

What if I spent the rest of my days frightened, miserable, alone?

“Roddy, what have you done?” None answered, but the floor creaked, and my back prickled with alarm. When one was alone, imps and demons gathered near. Mother had always warned me so.

I tied my saddlebag tight, led Ebon from his grazing, mounted in the fading light. I could ride thrice as fast as the lumbering wagon could roll. With luck I’d find them. What I’d do then, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t face a night in the cabin.

“Let’s go, boy.” I patted Ebon’s flank. The night air was cool, and I shivered. There was no help for it. I flicked the reins, and we were off.

The night was cold, and I reeled with hunger and exhaustion. My tongue still ached, but I spoke—babbled—to myself and Ebon, to stay awake, to stay sane.

I was an insufferable fool. Where Rust kept his temper, I blazed in fury. Where he stopped to ponder, I charged ahead, thoughtless. I was a hopeless dunce. No wonder they all snickered behind my back; compared to my idiocy, my virginity was but a trifle. Even before we’d left Stryx, I’d raged and ranted at Uncle Mar, like the merest child.

We climbed to the high point in the miserable road, began the long descent toward Shar’s Cross, and the cutoff to Cumber Gap.

No wonder they all saw me as a youngsire; I acted the child. But that was no excuse, I was grown, or near so. Wasn’t I?

Or was I ... Unpalatable as the idea might seem, I seized on it. Did a man’s feeling in my loins necessarily make me a man?

Bayard and my cousins were married, and considered adult, though no older than I. True, Mar supervised his son’s holdings, gave him to spend, collected his debts. But that was because Uncle Mar was overbearing, not because he saw Bayard as yet a youth.

A haze of doubt, nonetheless. I sucked at it greedily. If I were boy yet, and not man, I could lay down some smidgen of my burden. It would be pleasant to be cared for, if only for awhile.

Slipping from the saddle, I jerked myself awake and clung to Ebon’s mane. Be careful, Roddy. But hurry. You want to catch up to them before—

A bird screamed in the night, and I with him. I lashed Ebon’s flank, and we thundered under the dark canopy. Did a demon lurk, waiting to seize me, eat my liver while I thrashed in helpless agony? Rustin, I’ll say anything, do anything, for the comfort of your arm. Hester—even you. Feed me warm soup, tell me all will be well ...

“Aiyee!” A smashing blow to my chest. I toppled head over heels off Ebon’s rump, landed with a thud. Ebon galloped on, but the sound of his step slowed.

I lay still, too terrified to look. What imp of the night had clubbed me from my saddle? Had he fangs, rending teeth? Wicked claws? Trembling, I buried my head under my hands. So much for an end to cowardice.

No.

Cowardice was in my acts, not my fears.

I gritted my teeth, forced, my glance upward. No imp. No prancing demon. Nothing, save the low-hanging branch that had knocked me from my mount.

Groaning, I got to my feet. “Ebon!” I staggered down the road. “Horse, where are you?” Ten steps, in dark. Fifty. “Cursed beast, foul hateful thing, stop hiding! You evil spawn of a mule and—oh, bless you. Hold still, boy. Wait.” I clutched the pommel, rested my head against Ebon’s side, waited ’til the pounding of my heart slowed.

Aching from chest to spine, head to toe, I slowly climbed upon my patient stallion. “On, boy. But not so fast.” I clicked my teeth, jerked the reins. We cantered on. I bent my legs, leaned low, rested my head on Ebon’s mane.

The moon floated high. At first it meant an end to my fears, but eventually the shadows took on renewed menace. Jouncing in the saddle, I squinted at shapes I couldn’t make out, flinched when the breeze caused one of them to move.

From time to time I slowed Ebon to a walk, to conserve him. A cold wind pierced my every pore, and was all that kept me awake. Once, when the stream came close to the road, I got down to drink, but managed only a few mouthfuls before dread overcame my thirst. Only Hester knew which part of the forest was benign, and which swallowed adventurers in the night.

Kicking at the stirrup to remount, I clung to Ebon until a wave of giddiness passed. The ache of my empty stomach merged with my other miseries.

We cantered on down the road. I grew more fearful with each passing moment. Unless I found Hester’s cart, I’d be begging on the pike, and I suspected the country folk would give me short shrift.

Why hadn’t I the sense to chase after Rust and Hester the day they’d left? I’d have avoided my humiliation by Danar. Even now, the memory of washing my clothes drove me near tears. “Ebon, why didn’t I realize?”

Because you’re a young fool, he said in horse talk, through my grip on his mane. A child in man’s garb. An insolent youth.

I tried constantly to shift my weight; I was saddle sore, and my damp breeches chafed my thighs.

Riding as if in a dream, an eerie landscape floating past, I clung to Ebon ’til at last the road joined a wider path. Dizzy, I groped for direction.

Shar’s Cross lay ahead, and past it, the way back to Stryx. Cumber lay at the end of the other fork. I had but to follow the stream, the same one that chuckled past Hester’s cottage.

Why was I confused? I’d been here but a few scant days past, to sell my sword—Rustin’s sword. I flushed. I’d been so arrogant, and to make it worse I’d spurned his protest.

We hurried on, into the dawn. After a time I was sure I’d chosen the right road; Shar was nowhere to be seen. But where were my companions? Surely they’d stopped for the night, and in that case I should be upon them. Had they turned off the road; would I miss them entirely?

It was a chance I couldn’t take, and in any event I was reeling with exhaustion. I walked Ebon awhile, dismounted, walked him some more. Then I loosened his saddle, hobbled him to graze, sank to the ground, my back against a tree. If the cart rumbled past, I’d hear it. If not, I’d ride on, after a while.

I closed my eyes.

The sun was high in the sky when I awoke, refreshed but weak. “Come, Ebon.” I tightened the cinches, hanging on to him for support. For a moment I thought I’d be unable to climb into the saddle, but with a great lunge I threw myself onto my stallion, held on while the dizziness faded. I would have to find food, ere long.

I kept a steady pace, drowsing while we rode. Ebon knew enough to follow the road, so long as there wasn’t a choice of paths.

What woke me, of late afternoon, was a waft of smoke. My mouth watered. Perhaps someone was cooking, and I could beg his hospitality. Perhaps I’d ride into his camp, snatch up his dinner, gallop away. I only knew that I wouldn’t leave hungry.

“Who goes!”

Ebon reared. I clutched his mane and the pommel, desperate to keep my balance. My half-sword flapped uselessly at my side.

“You!” Fostrow gazed in astonishment.

“Me.” I soothed Ebon while my own heart’s pounding eased.

His face neutral, the soldier took a step back, gestured me past.

They’d made camp alongside the road, not far from the splash of the stream. The dray horses were unhitched and tethered, Genard sound asleep under the wagon. I dismounted, rubbed my raw thighs.

Elryc, propped against a wheel, glanced up. “Hello, Roddy. Why is your shirt scorched?” Was he glad to see me? Or even surprised? I had no way to tell.

“Where’s Hester?”

“I’m here.” She stepped round the cart, with an armful of firewood. “Why did you come?” She set down her load.

“Yes, tell us.” Rustin poked his head over the side of the wagon. His manner seemed distant.

I shrugged. “Tantroth’s men may be about, or brigands. You might need help.”

“We don’t.” Hester’s voice was flat.

“I realized I kept the half-sword, and you’d probably want another. Besides ... Her eyes were stony. I ground to a halt.

I turned to Rustin, searching for some sign of compassion.

“Well, I’ll leave it for you.” I unbuckled the scabbard, laid it on the grass. “That’s all I came for.” A moment’s pause, while none protested my departure. Desperate, I blurted, “Rust, could you give me another chance?”

He seemed startled, and I fastened on it as a sign of hope. “I’m sorry, Rust. I don’t know what to do.” To me it sounded as if I’d explained all, but they merely looked puzzled.