Witchlanders (18 page)

“You can't control them, can you?”

“What?”

“Your dreams.”

“Control my dreams?” Falpian laughed nervously. “I'd bash my head in with a candlestick if I thought it would help.” He sat back in his chair and tried to act friendly, casual. After all, Ryder had said he was leaving that morning. Falpian just had to keep him calm for a little while longer. “Can you people control your dreams?”

Ryder scowled but didn't answer. Outside, Bo galloped up to the window and peered in at them, his ugly face warped and distorted by the glass. He barked plaintively. When Falpian and Ryder made no move to come out, he went away again, nose to the ground.

Falpian got up slowly, muscles aching from yesterday's fight. “Eat before you go. I'm heating up the fish-egg stew.”

Ryder was still glaring at him, his brown face hard, but when Falpian looked more closely, he saw how tired he looked, and sad. An unexpected twinge of pity went through him. Ryder's coat looked like an old blanket lined
with fur that someone had sewn arms onto—in fact, that was probably what it was. And he was about to go out in the snow in that, to who knew where.

Falpian sighed and went to the fire, slopping stew into two bowls. If he let this poor lunatic leave, wouldn't it be the same as killing him? But then, Ryder was just a Witchlander, after all.

“Here,” he said, putting one bowl in front of Ryder and the other at his own place.

Ryder's lips curled at the sight of the stew, but he dutifully began to eat. “Why are you living here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked, his mouth full.

Falpian frowned, spreading his napkin on his lap. “This
is
Baen land.”

“But where are your people?” Ryder pointed his dirty spoon like a weapon, making Falpian flinch. “What's the purpose of this place? Are you a spy?”

Falpian felt annoyance prickling at him. He took a while to answer, pretending to be savoring the first taste of his breakfast, which in fact was a bit too burned and chewy to really enjoy. “There's no reason I should tell you my business.” Immediately he regretted his words. What was he doing? Only madmen got into arguments with other madmen.

“I told you mine,” Ryder said.

“When?”

“I'm looking for an assassin. A witch predicted he would be here.”

Falpian froze.
Oh Kar above,
he thought. “You didn't mention witches before.”

Ryder shrugged, but Falpian was struggling to hide his fear. Maybe it wasn't madness that had sent Ryder over the border. Maybe the witches knew something. After all, Falpian
could
be an assassin. If the message in the scroll said to kill somebody, he would do it—or try, anyway. Whether he had an assassin's heart or not.

Falpian dabbed his face with his napkin and tried to make his voice indifferent. “This witch didn't say anything more than that?”

Ryder hesitated, and Falpian watched the hard look on his face turn to confusion. “I don't know,” Ryder said finally. “I don't know anything. I thought the Baen in my head and the assassin were the same person, but . . . the prophecy was so confused!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He's evil, I know that. He can make monsters. They're made of mud. They come from nothing!”

Falpian stifled a nervous laugh. Just when he was starting to think Ryder was sane! Monsters? Made of mud? It sounded like a tale of the gormy man come to life.

Ryder didn't miss his disbelief. “Don't change the subject,” he snapped. “We're talking about you, not me.” The Witchlander leaned forward, his chair creaking.
“You're telling me what you're doing here, Baen.”

Falpian shrank back a little, both alarmed and annoyed by the note of threat in Ryder's tone. He knew it was wrong to use Farien's death to hide his mission, but he didn't think he had much choice. Besides, it was
a
reason he was here—just not the only reason.

“I am in mourning, if you must know,” he said. “That's what Stonehouse is for. I'm supposed to spend a hundred days here. Meditating and praying and such . . .” He paused, but further explanation seemed necessary. “My twin brother Farien died this summer.”

He expected the usual display of sympathy, but Ryder only turned back to his stew, grunting into his bowl. “Well, that must be nice.”

“Pardon me?”

“It must be nice to have the whole world stop for you just because someone in your family died—we don't all get that, you know.”

Falpian slammed his hand on the table, making the wooden bowls jump. “You wouldn't understand. He wasn't just my brother; he was my talat-sa. It's a very . . . it's a very complicated relationship that you couldn't begin to understand. We shared our dreams. . . .”

Ryder's eyes narrowed to slits of blue light. He carefully put down his spoon. “What exactly do you mean, shared your dreams?”

But Falpian was in no mood to say anything more. “It's private,” he snipped.

Ryder leaned forward again, but before he could speak, a long, low howling came from somewhere outside. Falpian had heard his dog's hunting howl many times, the mournful wail he gave right before he took off after prey, but this was different somehow—angrier and less musical. Something about it sent cold fear up Falpian's spine. Both he and Ryder leapt from their chairs.

Sleet blew into Falpian's face like pinpricks. “Bo! Bo!” He ran around the side of the house, snow filling up his unlaced boots. “Come here, Bo!”

Ryder came up behind Falpian, and the two stopped and looked around, trying to work out from which direction the howl had come. Falpian clutched his coat closed around the neck, half blinded by the sleet.
Please, Kar,
he thought,
don't let anything
happen to my dog
.

“There!” said Ryder. He grabbed Falpian's elbow and pointed.

Across the plateau, just before the sheer drop that marked the edge of the gorge, two dreadhounds were slung low, circling each other. Bo was by far the smaller, a puny gray blotch against the white snow.

“Someone's brought a dog,” said Falpian, curious but relieved. Whoever it was must be Baen.

“The assassin,” Ryder said darkly.

“No! Kar's sake! It's probably just a messenger from my father.” At that moment the two dogs launched themselves at each other, snarling wildly. “Bo!” This was madness. Bo couldn't fight. “Hello!” Falpian shouted to the master he knew must be somewhere near. “Please! Call off your dog!”

The two animals were a blur of teeth and tails and blowing snow. A high-pitched yelp sounded—Bo had been bitten!

“Bodread!” Falpian staggered forward.

“Where are you going?” Ryder grabbed his arm. “Without a weapon they'll both tear you apart!”

Falpian nodded—a weapon. He raced back into the house and stumbled to the pantry, boots slipping on floorboards. He grabbed Ryder's sword from where he'd hidden it. A jar of pickled fruit fell off the shelf with a crash, but Falpian left it where it was.

Harroooooo!
Bo's shrieking howl seemed to quiver through the house. The sound was so full of fear and pain that Falpian let out a cry. He flew back out through the door, almost crashing into Ryder.

“Go back! Go back inside!” the Witchlander shouted. “That thing's killed your dog and it's coming for us!”

“What!”

Ryder pulled at his coat, but Falpian staggered forward, clutching the sword to his chest. A huge, pale shape was
galloping toward him out of the whirling sleet. Falpian wiped at his eyes.

At the edge of the plateau, something gray lay motionless.

“Oh,” Falpian groaned.

He ran toward the attacking dreadhound, fumbling with the scabbard of the sword as he went. He raised the weapon over his head. The strange dog was almost upon him, its mouth open, its massive curved fangs ready to strike.

Then the creature gave a yelp. It faltered. Something was on its back.

“Kar's eyes!” Falpian shouted. He stopped, and Ryder was beside him in moments. Bo was on the dreadhound's back, gripping the larger animal with powerful claws.

“Never turn your back on a dreadhound,” Ryder murmured, wonder in his voice.

With one swift movement of his head, Bo sank his long saber teeth into the other dog's throat. This was what the saber teeth were made for, Falpian knew, their one purpose—the jugular vein. Blood spurted from the wound, a surprise of red in the white landscape. Falpian put his hand over his mouth and stepped back. The dying dreadhound fell to its knees, trying frantically to shrug Bodread off. Quickly Bo yanked his teeth through the dog's neck, tearing the throat wide open. The dog collapsed heavily into the snow and was still.

Bo stood over his kill, muzzle dripping blood. He lifted his head and stared at Ryder and Falpian. For one brief moment, Falpian thought he would attack, but then Bo threw back his head and gave a howl of fearsome joy.
That's not my Bo,
Falpian thought.
That's not my lapdog
.

Somewhere near, another dreadhound answered Bo's howl. Then another. Ryder gripped Falpian by the arm.

“I hear them,” Falpian said. He turned a circle where he stood, but could see nothing. “Two more dreadhounds. Maybe three.” He thrust the sword into Ryder's hands. “Here. Take this.”

“Where are you going?” Ryder called, but Falpian had already taken off at a run toward the path that led to the gorge. “You coward!” Ryder shouted. “I can't fight them on my own!”

CHAPTER 14
ASSASSIN'S KEY

Falpian skidded down the steep slope. The sleet was harder now, heavy drops that froze as they hit the ground. About a third of the way down the path, he stopped. He couldn't see Ryder, but he could hear Bo barking and snarling from up above. As quickly as he could, he climbed out toward the echo spot, hugging the icy rocks and shivering.

“Kar above,” he hissed, half prayer, half curse. The ledge was slick with ice. With wobbling knees, he placed his boots onto the tiled footprints. He chose a winter key, one he could sing his fear into: the key of slivered glass. There was no time for hesitation. He took the deepest breath he could. And as soon as he began to sing, the world cracked open.

Winter keys were more dissonant, more deadly; Falpian had never sung them well. Now he was shocked by the cold strength of his own voice, shocked by the stark and
stunning world his voice revealed. He made up the melody as he went, and the more he sang, the more clearly he could see the world. Below him, the trees were brittle with ice and glimmered like jewels. Sleet fell around him as if it were made of light.

Falpian turned his mind to Bo and Ryder on the ledge above, two small creatures in a sea of snow. He saw the dead dog at their feet. He saw Ryder's fear. He saw Bo's bloodstained saber teeth. He saw the other dreadhounds slinking around Ryder and Bo in ever-tightening circles. Falpian's brain was full, his brain was going to split, crack his skull. Sleet fell around him like stars; sleet hit his body like shards of glass.
I'll die of this,
he thought, but still he sang.

Falpian could hear so many hearts pounding in his ears—his, the dog's, Ryder's. Someone else's, too, someone near, someone hiding. One of the dogs lifted her head. They were all female, but this one was the lead, smarter than the others. She sensed the danger. Breaking off the attack on Ryder, she came bounding over the plateau toward Falpian and the echo site.

Falpian lifted his face to the cold sleet, reaching out his arms. He could feel the dreadhound's warm body racing toward him. Farther away, the two other dogs lifted their heads, understanding too late that invisible fingers gripped their hearts. Ryder and Bo shrank back, diminished in
Falpian's mind. Now all Falpian could see was his prey.
Who doesn't have an assassin's heart?
he thought. He closed his fists, and with a shudder of joy, he snuffed out three lives.

The music stopped, and Falpian found himself sitting on the stone ledge, gasping, the cold air like knives in his lungs. He wanted to laugh. Why did people shrink away from winter, he wondered, safe in their blankets, hiding by their fires? If they knew how beautiful winter really was, they would walk out naked into the snow, walk and walk, until their frozen hearts split open with joy.

He sat for a while, gripping the rocks, waiting for his vision to return. It took him a while to realize that the world had always been this dim, muddy gray, that his vision now was exactly as it had been before.

“Ryder?” he called. It was strange not to be able to see over the lip of the plateau, to be limited by his eyes. “Bo?” The enemy dogs were dead, Falpian was sure of that, but the master, the heartbeat he had detected when he sang . . . It was a common battle strategy for a man to send his dogs in first, then strike when chaos was at its highest; the master was still near.