The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (10 page)

Tam wondered if the whole hill would catch fire, perhaps even spreading down into the valley, when a drop of cool rain splattered on his forehead and ran down into his eye. In a moment it was rain-ing hard, and the fire was failing. One of the strangers made an ef-fort to keep flames in the fire pit, and by this frail light Tam and the others gathered their trampled belongings, some of which had been spread far beyond the small circle of light.

"I don't know what use a boar would have with my spare breeches," Fynnol said, "but clearly one of these foul beasts made off with them." He was rooting about in the bushes on the edge of the darkness. "That's probably why they attacked—not a stitch to wear among the lot of them."The men who had come to their rescue were obviously the men from the giants' keep, the men the Dubrell had gone to such pains to hide. The strangers kept glancing at Alaan and the others, their gazes filled with questions.

Two of the giant boars lay dead not far from the fire, and Tam could see them now. They were gray-skinned, short-legged, and armed with tusks like daggers.

"Shall we spit one and roast it?" Fynnol asked, coming up be-side Tam, who stood staring at one of the monsters.

"You won't want to eat them," one of the riders said, his accent not so thick as the giants'. "The meat is foul and will give you the belly torment. Some people it's killed."Tam turned away from the beast and came back to the fire, cool rain streaming down his face and neck, soaking his clothing. On the edge of the small clearing, Wolfson was speaking with the man Tam guessed was the leader of the riders. Their impenetrable accent kept Tam from understanding their words, but it was clear they were arguing, and the man was red-faced with anger.

Some riders had posted themselves as guards around the camp's perimeter, but the others gathered with the outlanders around the fire. The downpour had slowed to light drizzle so that the drying power of the fire was just greater than the rain's ability to make them wet. There was no other conversation in the camp, and no one would look at the giant and the angry rider, but all ears strained to pick up what was being said above the drumming rain and the harshly moaning wind.

With a final shouted word, the rider turned and stalked directly to the fire. He took a seat on an empty saddle, which had obviously been set out for him, and stared a moment at the flames. Tarn thought the man was trying to calm himself.

Wolfson did not move, but watched the men seated around the fire, his face filled with concern.

The captain of the riders looked up from the flames. "So you have come from the land beyond," he said evenly.

Alaan nodded, glancing once at Wolfson, who stood in the dark and rain, alone. A wolf trotted up and licked the giant's hand, as though it sensed his need for comfort.

"From the land of men… ?" the rider said.

"Yes," Alaan admitted, "from the land of men."This caused a stir among the riders, who glanced one to the other, as though Alaan had confirmed something miraculous.

"Our ancestors came from the land of men," the rider said. "Eight generations my people have dwelt here, in Borenfall. Orlem Slighthand led my ancestors here to aid the Dubrell, and we have been here ever since.""Slighthand!" Alaan said, surprised. Tarn could see the traveler in the firelight, rain like dewdrops on his beard, running down his face like tears. His eyes darted from one rider to the next as though he were weighing them—weighing the truth of this last statement.

Slighthand!

"You know of Slighthand?" the captain asked.

"I know of Slighthand," Alaan agreed. "Why did he bring your people here? Were you mercenaries?"The captain of the riders shared a glance with the man beside him. "We were members of a knightly order that Orlem Slighthand had founded with another named Kilydd. Orlem had become lost in the land of men, where he met a sorcerer who gave him the power to travel hidden lands. The Dubrell were besieged by men from the south, and Orlem brought my people to aid the Dubrell, whose enemy was cunning and ruthless. We have dwelt here since, on lands the Dubrell granted us." He pointed. "Not far to the east. Orlem Slighthand promised that we would one day return to the lands of men.""It is a only a story," Wolfson said, coming and standing over the men seated by the fire—looming over them.

Tarn realized then that the giants had been hiding his company from the riders—not the other way around.

"But you are Knights of the Vow," Fynnol said. "Isn't that true?"The riders all stared at this new voice, but none of them an-swered.

"We found a token of the Knights of the Vow in the courtyard," Alaan explained. "A small broach made in the form of a fan of sil-veroak leaves. It is the token of a knightly order in the lands of men."The riders shifted in their seats, not meeting Alaan's gaze.

"Don't speak of this matter, if you'd rather not," Alaan said. "How many of your people are there?""Six thousand," the captain said. "Two thousand are men-at-arms.""Would you leave us now," Wolfson cried, "in our greatest need?""Eight generations we have given to your struggle!" the captain spat out. "We would go to the land of men, where there is peace."Alaan sat back and ran a hand through his wet hair. "The same enemy threatens our lands. The same war spreads everywhere. I know nothing of your accord with the Dubrell, but it appears to me that your part in the war is to fight here. When the war is over, I will come and lead you back to the land of men, or I will send another to do so."Wolfson turned away, as though a sudden pain coursed through him.

The captain of the riders rose up from his saddle to stand be-fore Alaan. "This war does not end," he said firmly. "We could come with you now."Alaan shook his head. "I travel south, into the borderlands of the shadow kingdom—""You will not return from that place," the rider said, distressed. "It is the place of nightmares, of unspeakable horrors." He waved a hand at the giant boar that lay two dozen feet away. "These are the least of the monsters that come from the south. The Hand of Death will steal the life from you. You will lead no one back to the land of men, for you will be drawn into the darkness."Alaan shrugged. "I have traveled into the borderlands of Death's kingdom once before. I returned unharmed. I see no rea-son why I shouldn't do so again.""The borderlands were quiet then," Wolfson interjected. "The threat was small. Now monstrosities appear on dark nights. And new monstrosities far too often. My people die defending our bor-ders." He gestured to the captain. "Nathron's people die.""Even so, that is where I must go. The safety of all our peoples depends on it." He stood and looked the captain of the Knights in the eye. "I will return for you. Or send another. I swear."

They lay in the long grass, trying not to breathe. Lord Carl looked over at Jamm, his battered face turning slowly crimson. With ribs that were either broken or badly bruised, thanks to the minis-trations of the Duke of Vast, Jamm could hardly keep his breathing quiet. Carl was terrified that the thief would cough and give them away, for he had coughed much the night before.

A dozen feet off, a small company of men-at-arms had stopped to water their horses. They wore the livery of the House of Vast and were, almost certainly, searching for Carl and Jamm.

The dawn had only just broken, the coarse grass slick with dew, the ground beneath them a cushion of moss. They had slept here for a few short hours, Jamm unable to continue. Their stolen mount had been abandoned in the night, set loose in a field with some other horses in hopes that she would not be discovered for some hours yet.

We should have cut her throat and left her in a wood, Carl thought, somewhere she wouldn't be found for a day or two. If she were found that day, Vast would know where to send his men-at-

arms. Escape would be nearly impossible with Jamm so injured. What a beating he had taken!

But even so, the little thief's instincts remained intact. He rea-soned that the Duke would assume they would go to Kel Renne. Best to do something unexpected, that was the rule Jamm lived by—do the unexpected. So they set out for the river, hoping to cross over and make their way to Westbrook. The Isle was large enough that Vast could not keep it all under his eye at once. And Jamm was clever enough to keep them out of sight for some time yet, unless luck turned on them—which it might at any moment if the little man coughed.

"They won't have gone this far," one of the men-at-arms said firmly. He had a deep voice, thick and heavy like the rumble of dis-tant thunder. "That little thief couldn't go more than half a league, even on horseback. We saw to that."The others laughed.

Carl saw Jamm bury his mouth in the sleeve of his jacket.

Don't cough, Carl willed him. Don't cough…"Who's this, then?" one of the others asked.

Carl heard the men all rise to their feet, swords slipping from scabbards.

"Ah," the deep-voiced one said," 'tis only some Renne, hoping to find the last few men of Innes to hone their blades on."Carl dared not look at his guide, fearing what he would see.

The Duke's men greeted the Renne.

"So what game has Carl A'denne been playing?" one of the newcomers asked.

Carl could hear the stir of excitement among the horses being watered as the other horses appeared. The grass stirred over him in the breeze, and a wren scolded. He felt like it was only a matter of time, perhaps only a moment, before they were discovered. Jamm could not run, and how far would Carl get, chased by mounted men? He closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart. It was over. They had only this last moment of freedom.

"Seems he was spying for the Prince of Innes, or so we sur-mise. But he must have been playing both sides. He came over the canal the other night with a little thief guiding him. Someone knew the thief by name, and Vast soon had the story from him. A'denne and his thieving friend slipped away by night, a sure sign of his guilt, I say.""Well," the Renne said, "we'll soon have the story from A'denne himself.""Not if we find him first," the Duke's man growled. His com-pany all laughed.

"We've been ordered to bring him to Lord Kel alive," the Renne said.

"We've been promised a reward to bring back his head and leave his body for the crows," the man of Innes answered. There was silence for a moment, and Jamm coughed.

He'd muffled the sound as best he could, but not well enough.

"What was that?" one of the men asked.

Carl heard blades being drawn, followed by footsteps through the long grass.

Jamm looked at him, eyes wide. He knew he couldn't run. Would the men of Innes kill them before the Renne could intercede?

Suddenly something shot through the grass.

"There!" someone yelled.

Carl rose to his hands and knees, prepared to fight or run.

A small pig flew out of the grass onto the road, and the men of Innes took after it. Swords flashed, and the pig squealed and screamed. The little animal dodged this way and that, as the men flailed away at it, finally landing a blow and spraying them with blood. The pig still ran, and a second blow brought it down, but it was up again, struggling forward on three legs. It only went a few feet before one of the shouting men raised a sword over his head, two-handed, and finished the little animal. The men were all laugh-ing and pointing at the swordsmen who'd missed.

A wind sprang up then, combing through the grass. Carl and Jam went crawling off, the sound of their progress lost in the wind and the cruel hissing of the fields.

Dease noted each of his visits to Lady Llyn Renne in the back of a book. He did this so that he could not lie to himself about the frequency of their talks. There were reasons of decorum that would justify this scrupulous accounting—you simply didn't visit a lady too often unless you were betrothed. But that wasn't really his con-cern; he didn't want to appear foolish before Llyn. Everyone in the castle knew that she loved Toren. It was Dease's fondest hope that she would one day see the futility of her feelings for Toren, then Dease might woo and win her affections.

But now he had heard another rumor; while he was away, Llyn had often been visited by Lord Carral Wills, and she had allowed him into her garden and met with him face-to-face.

A feeling like falling came over him, and he could not help but shut his eyes. The darkness brought no comfort. Unlike Dease, Lord Carral was blind. The minstrel could never look upon Llyn's scarred face. She did not know that the people who loved her cared not at all about her appearance, no matter how terrible she thought it herself.

Dease didn't care, that was certain. The longing to be in her presence, to be near to her, was at times unbearable. He would lie awake nights thinking of nothing else. He dreamed of Llyn, of see-ing her face for the first time. In some dreams she was hideous be-yond bearing—and he would run away, down long endless hallways. In other dreams her beauty was dazzling. Sometimes he dreamed that he traveled far, and against great odds, found a cure for her burns, and carried it back to her.

But these were dreams. In real life, he kept count of how often he visited so he should not appear too foolish—like an in-fatuated boy.

A maid curtsied him out onto the balcony, where he stood, gaz-ing over the walled garden. By day, he had never seen it. By night it was a mysterious place, filled with shadows and unrecognizable shapes in shades of gray. Lavender was the scent of the place, and a small tinkle of running water was its voice. That, and the sighs and whispers of the trees.

Dease gazed down into the shadows, starlight glinting off the water of a small pool. He struggled with the feelings inside of him, as he always did in this place.

"Ah, Lord Dease," came Llyn's lovely voice. It stabbed into him like a blade—then the pain dissolved into an ache.

"Lady Llyn," Dease said softly.

"I cannot tell you how happy I was to hear that you'd returned.""And that Toren had returned with me, no doubt."A small hesitation. "Yes … I was happy to hear of Toren's re-turn, as well."Movement caught his eye. She was there, beneath the thin fo-liage of a lace maple. Her famous blond hair caught his eye, and he remembered the scent of it—that night they'd danced, she in cos-tume and carefully masked.

He shut his eyes a moment and breathed in the scent of lavender.

"Lord Carral is a guest of Castle Renne, I've been told?""Yes," she said, her voice soft and tentative. "He has become our ally, as you've no doubt heard.""So I understand." Dease read much into her voice, into the pauses, the little inflections, the warmth with which she said a name. Later he would revisit each little nuance, wondering what they meant. Pondering them over and over, until he had made so many interpretations of her words that he would finally lose all sense of what she might have truly meant.

"There are rumors all around the castle that you traveled to some distant place and saw magic performed…""We did not appear to travel far—a few days' journey—but we were in strange lands all the same. It all seems like a dream, now— or a nightmare.""And did you meet a rogue there who called himself Alaan?"Dease was taken aback by this. "Has someone told you of our journey already?""No one has. But you did meet such a man?"Dease moved his hand on the smooth railing, gazing down into the dark, trying to make sense of this new interest. "Well, I would not say I met him. He was ill nearly unto death and hardly able to mut-ter a few words most of the time, let alone carry on a conversation.""Then Toren did save him?""No more than a number of other people. We all fought Hafydd, who sought this Alaan to murder him.""How utterly strange," Llyn's voice drifted up from beneath the canopy of leaves. A moment she was silent, the soft whispering of the wind in the branches, like some languorous speech, too slow for man to comprehend. But then, Dease thought, the trees had so many years to live, why should they hurry like short-lived humans?

"And Samuel and Beldor; did you ever find them?""Yes. Toren granted them immunity, as long as they never again set foot on Renne lands."She seemed to consider this a moment. "It is like Toren to be compassionate, but not at the cost of justice.

What transpired, I wonder, to lead him to make such a decision?""It was very simple, really: we needed Samul and Beld to fight Hafydd and his … supporters.""Ah," Llyn said. "The Renne have made many such alliances in our history. Some for good. Some for ill."He could almost feel her staring up at him through the leaves, and he was suddenly uncomfortable, almost embarrassed.

"What became of Samul and Beld?""No one knows. It is something of a miracle that Toren and I survived and found each other. Many, I fear,were lost, including Samul and Beld, which would be for the better, in many ways.""I suppose it would, though I would dearly like to know what they were thinking, trying to murder Toren."He saw her thick cas-cade of hair shake in the starlight.

"Beld did not need to think; he hated Toren completely. Samul… ? Well, who ever knew what Samul was thinking?""I did not know him well," Llyn said, "but it would seem to be true. He was a hidden man. I wonder how many people came away from conversations under the impression that Samul agreed with them, when he did not at all? There was never any truth to him. Nothing revealed. I wonder what made him so?"The question did not seem to really be addressed to Dease, but he tried to answer it all the same.

"I don't know, Cousin," Dease said. "He was always thus. Even when we were children, or so I think now.""I shall have to hear the story of your adventure in its entirety sometime. I am delighted to see you have returned unharmed. And the blow to your head that you suffered trying to save Toren?""It is healed. The headaches gone"—he raised his hands, and smiled—"as if by magic.""There is some good news, I'm glad to hear."There was the quick crunch and scatter of gravel as someone trotted along the path.

"Your grace?" a maid said softly.

"What is it, Anna?"

"A company of men-at-arms has just arrived with a man they found wandering in a wood. He is said to be Lord Samul Renne."Dease closed his eyes, leaning his weight against the railing.

Suddenly his head throbbed, and the fatigue that had beset him seemed to cast its net over him again,dragging him down. He thought he might begin to sob and went quickly from the balcony, collapsing into one of the chairs in the small drawing room.

Would he never be shut of Samul and Beld? Could they not die or flee? As long as they remained alive he would know no peace. The truth would come out one day,Llyn's words came back to him then. There was never any truth in him.

She should have been speaking of me, Dease realized.

He turned to look back out toward the garden but caught sight of his own dark reflection in the glass of the opened door. How shadowed his eyes were. How contrived the look of his face. He was becoming more like Samul each day, a hidden man. A man in whom there was no truth. And how would he ever change that now?