Godswordsman, Book One

R Y T H A H N D E R

(GODSWORDSMAN)

 

by

Bryan Wray Davis

 

Book One

“Be afraid, children of Eve. This Evil does not die, it sleeps. …And in sleeping, it gains an appetite.”

–The words of Meivin Blai, the Accused.

 

I begin this tale far in the East, where the land is always young, and man is very old. Passing rivers wider than cities, passing crumbled ruins of the Lion’s conquest, through mists that veil the narrow valleys each morning, I place us deep in the heart of the Southern Gallendries, a mountain range known to the local inhabitants as “Illentyr’s Fingers”.

Hidden from all trade roads and passes, an immense palace-fortress carved from the white mountain granite sprawled along the edge of a particularly treacherous ridge. A perennial snow blanketed the slopes around it, providing a gleaming camouflage, while the sharp peaks clawing at the sky on every side served to fend off any unwitting, wandering mountaineers. By design, its planners, its location, and even its existence were known to none still living in The God’s world; only a few circling hawks and shivering mountain goats were privy to its secrets. It was on no maps, and no one sensed the danger it held. This was the home of Lilith’s Get, where evil slept.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Miriam made her way down the center of the lower corridor, marking off even paces with slow, stately strides. Oil lamps at long intervals provided a flickering dull glow. The air was stagnant and oppressively thick, and smelled of disuse and rot. Later she would add a perfume to the flames, as it was not fitting for the Queen to be subjected to such a stench in her own palace. A simple fragrance would not suffice to disguise the millennium of neglect, however. This palace, once the greatest splendor of the East, was decrepit. Thin cobwebs hung like lace from the marble-veneered walls. Dust covered everything, floor to ceiling. The red carpet that ran down the halls, long ago rich and deep with color, was now age-eaten and worn. Where there was wood it needed to be replaced, and even if it had survived intact, it badly needed polishing.

There was a time, in the first year of her solitude, that Miriam thought she would keep the palace clean and in order. She was used to having servants to do that sort of work for her – in truth, she had never before concerned herself with the thought of cleaning duties, any more than to assign a whipping if she couldn’t see her own reflection in the marble – but she wouldn’t let such paltry excuses stop her. For more than a month she had scurried about, wiping down statues with rags, beating out rugs, dragging heavy mops over the vast stone floors of empty chambers. But even if she had been able to keep up with all of the rooms and halls and corridors in the palace by herself, she was simply not of a maid stock. Dirt and grime revolted her, and her desire to maintain a clean palace could not defeat her hesitance to pick up a filthy cloth. Now, so many years later, she contented herself by keeping tidy her own small rooms and tending the flames in a few lamps throughout the palace.

Boring. That’s what a thousand years alone were. Miriam left the palace occasionally – she had to if she wished to eat – but it was her prison all the same. There was no entertainment, no new pleasures, no surprises. No one to wait on her. In the beginning she had stolen people away from their quaint little villages in the foothills and brought them back to the palace to amuse her with staged hunts or cat-and-mouse games, or simply to do her cleaning for her. But those people never remained alive long. She had read every book in the library, pored over every map, walked every hall and staircase until she had them memorized. Even now, as she rounded a turn in the hall, her mind, unbidden, marked pace. One, two, three, four steps, and there was the first door on the right, a heavy, wooden door with ornamental bronze studs. The wood was sagging and splitting, of course, and the bronze had tarnished, but at one time the door had been grand. Seven more steps to the first door on the left, a similar door in a similar state. She could navigate the entire palace with her eyes closed; she knew because she had done it for a week.

Miriam resisted the urge to let her eyes flutter shut; games were no longer fitting, not now. She glanced down at what she held in her hands and felt relief and a secret, hot joy run through her again. Her years of waiting were over. She had performed her duty and would be rewarded. Perhaps. It was over, and that was what was important. Soon the palace would be alive again; soon there would be entertainment, and a dozen servants at her side whenever she snapped her fingers; soon she would be away from this place, and on the hunt again, a real hunt for real food. Food. She glanced down at her hands again. Carried lightly between the tips of her fingers was a deep chalice, half-filled with a dark, heavy liquid. Her lips would have quivered with desire at the sight of it only a week ago, but she was fully sated now. Now, her skin was smooth and her flesh pink; her lips, breasts, and cheeks were full and healthy. A week ago she could have counted her ribs. Now, the chalice had no power over her – she could not take another drop if she had wanted to. More to the point, this meal was not for her – and she had an allegiance to pay with it.

The corridor branched off to the right, but Miriam continued straight ahead at an even stride. A white, vaulted ceiling crossed with gold-painted supports hung twice her height above her head. Rose-veined marble wainscoting lined the walls; above, panels painted white with gold trim reached up to meet the ceiling. Engaged pillars of the same rose marble bulged out from the walls at every six of her paces precisely, providing bases for the ceiling supports. Everything was cracked and faded, of course, and shrouded behind hints of spider web and dust. Small chips of paint and plaster littered the edges of the floor. At several spots along the corridor, and elsewhere through the palace, a small alcove held a life-sized marble statue of a nude – almost always a woman – kneeling and holding a chalice to its lips. Miriam passed by a statue bearing her own face and did not spare a glance for it. She did not need to be reminded of it, nor of the cup she had drunk from.

She ran her thumb along the outside edge of the chalice she carried so carefully before her now. It was the model for all the statues’ chalices, but fashioned from engraved thinsilver rather than sculptor’s stone. The liquid inside the chalice was still warm, and its heat washed deliciously through the metal to her fingers. She slid her finger over each letter etched in the old fashion around the lip of the cup. “Couliye maedran, inde maedran,” it said. “In Your Life, My Life.” That language had not been ancient when the chalice was made.

Miriam stopped as the corridor came to an end, wider for the last few paces to form a sort of entry chamber. Before her was a pair of immense wooden doors, similar to the ones she had passed before, but at least twice as tall. A script in beaten gold letters ran around the door frame, giving all-but-forgotten names and empty titles to whomever dwelled beyond. She moved the chalice to one hand to push open one of the large doors; the door resisted and creaked, but it did move. There was a slight suction as she turned it the first inch, and swirls of dust blew across the stone-block floor. With her free hand Miriam lifted a lamp from its hook just outside the door and carried it in before her. It cast a feeble yellow light – not enough to see more than a few feet before her – but it was more of a formality anyway. Her eyes, slitted like a cat’s, saw more than enough.

She stepped gracefully around a chair that had collapsed under its own rotten weight and moved through the center of the room. The furniture in this room had once been of the finest quality, worked from a dark redwood imported from the Tel. It had been carved with elaborate scrollwork, accented with beaten gold, fitted with handles of ivory set in silver. What Miriam saw now was twisted and sagging and frail. A heavy desk to her left had suffered the least, though whatever had been on it was now a ruin of tatters. Bookcases reaching to the ceiling stood behind the desk, but only a lone, sagging shelf managed to continue to cling to its supports – the others lay broken in a scattered heap on the floor, mixed with the books of vellum and wood they had once held. To her right, a leisure couch sat with the semblance of structural integrity, but its cushions were flat and ragged. The wardrobes behind it were bent and leaning away from the wall, but were perhaps repairable.

Miriam continued, swishing across the floor to the far side of the room. There a two-stepped dais served as the base for a large bed, elevating the sleeper above all others even when she was not awake. The bed had posts at each corner that supported a curtained pavilion, once a beautifully lush cream silk, but now more closely resembling a spider’s web that had suffered at the wings of a too-strong moth. Miriam stepped up beside the bed and brushed the curtain aside, tearing it from its fasteners. She dropped her eyes to the center of the bed, where a woman lay motionless, unbreathing, and sprawled gracelessly.

The woman was naked – Miriam couldn’t remember if she had been when she had laid down so long ago – and the sheets that covered her were in no better condition than the curtain had been. The woman was normally quite lovely, as were most in her line, by her order. Her hair was a pale golden color – not native to these lands – with a slight natural curl to it; her face was smooth, marked by a button-nose and a childish beauty (now emphasized by the way she slept with her mouth open). Her frame was slight, though she had been supple, and her stunning blue eyes commanded the attention of anyone they caught. The millennium, however, had treated her no more kindly than it had her furniture. Her nails were frightfully long and jagged; her hair was matted horribly and knotted around her shoulders; her skin was dry and stretched tight over her bones. Her lips were pale, crusty with relic saliva, and peeling.

Miriam touched her own lips; she knew they were red and luscious. She had straight black hair, which she kept twisted up behind her head in a frame of thin silver wire. It shone like silk and fell loosely with a healthy weight when she let it down. Her face was more serene than the other woman’s, and it had been considered a model of royal beauty while she had been alive. She had dark, arched brows above eyes that appeared as little more than slits beneath long lashes. Her high cheeks sloped down to a sharp, stubborn chin. A graceful neck led to properly curved shoulders. Her back was straight, her breasts and hips ample, and she made it a point to show her small, curved feet in slippers beneath the long gowns she wore. Few wondered long why Vashti, as concerned with appearance as she was, had made Miriam as her First.

Miriam knelt before the bed and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mother.” Her own voice, with a rich and low brandy flavor, surprised her now, as infrequently as she had heard it recently. The woman did not move, so Miriam shook her shoulder, creating a stir of dust. “Mother, it is time to rise.” The woman twisted in the depression she had created in the bed, smacking her lips and pulling her arms above her head to stretch. She released a long, deep breath, which she must have held the whole while she slept, by the smell of it; Miriam discretely held a perfumed sleeve to her nose. As the other woman’s eyes fluttered open, Miriam presented the chalice and bowed deeply, very nearly pressing her face to the dusty mattress. “My Queen-Mother Vashti. I bring you Life.”

Vashti lifted her head and opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a rasping scratch. Miriam pressed the chalice into her hands and stood, having completed her part of the ceremony, to brush off her dress where it had brushed the bed. She crossed to the wardrobes, carefully pulling open the doors, and began to rummage about for something to cover her Queen’s nudity. Inside the wardrobes were more useless tatters. With a disapproving eye she passed her hand over the shelves and through the hanging garments, netting wispy shreds of faded cloth which clung to her nails or floated down to the floor. Silently cursing herself for not bringing a new dress with her, she probed deeper into the wardrobe until her fingers brushed something solid. Stepping back out, she pulled the garment from the rack and shook off the tendrils of cloth that hung to it. It did not fall apart in her hands, so she held it up to look it over. She turned her lips unhappily as she remembered it. It was a cloak woven from thread-of-gold, and it was unforgivably gaudy, just as the Queen preferred. But it would have to do. Miriam walked back to the bed, threw the cloak out, and draped it over the other woman. She wiped a small space of the bed near Vashti as clean as she could, then sat, hands folded in her lap, to wait.

Vashti took no notice of this. She had drained the chalice completely and was now proceeding to wipe it clean with the side of one finger, which she then licked. She had made a messy crimson smear around her lips in her haste to drink, and a few drops had run down to her chin. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, before they could fall into her lap. The change had begun in her already. Dry skin peeled and flaked away from her body, leaving a soft, pink layer beneath. Her figure had filled in, her features had smoothed, and even her hair and nails seemed healthier, though they would still need trimming. Her eyes were even brighter than Miriam remembered them.

When Vashti was quite finished with the chalice, she dropped it carelessly onto the bed beside her and turned her gaze on Miriam. She looked her over carefully, thoughtfully, touching her face, leg, and arm, feeling her gown between her fingers before speaking. “Gormo basni koyoto, Mir-yam. Inde cormo, daeyande asban adul?“

Miriam’s mind rolled as she readjusted to the old language. Though it was the language she had been born into, she had been careful to follow the tongues of lands around her as they changed, becoming more stupidly complicated and less expressive. She replied in the same language, “Eleven hundred, seventy-three years since you closed your eyes, my Queen. It is the second day of spring. Lady Ashiere put out the call to wake only this week, and I have been busy making preparations.”

Vashti nodded slightly, perhaps absorbing the number of years. No plan had considered more than seven hundred, and that had been thought unreasonable. If she was surprised, though, she did not show it. She simply sat, her eyes locked with Miriam’s, boring into her.

Miriam shifted under Vashti’s gaze. It wasn’t the Queen’s slitted, cat-like eyes that unsettled her – everyone in the breed, including herself, had the same – but Vashti’s eyes, so blue, so bright, could penetrate to her deepest thoughts. They touched her just as tangibly as fingertips, exploring her, feeling where Miriam herself did not touch. They seemed to wrap around her heart, to cast doubt on everything she said, to demand further explanation, to find her lacking in some way. Miriam knew this wasn’t necessarily the case – the same gaze turned equally on everyone – and she at least had the strength to keep her own eyes up and level. Even still, she felt the need to somehow give more. “You remember Ashiere, Mother? She was left in charge of deciding the time to rewake. They thought her most likely to be impartial, as her line was cut off? ” Ashiere had not even been in the one hundred closest to her Mother before the War of the Lion, but nearly all of her breed – including everyone above her – had been killed, and she was left matriarch-by-default. Since she had been of the most minor nobility before the War, none of the other Queen-Mothers thought she was of the stock to be their equal, and they refused her their permission to expand the numbers of her children and re-strengthen her line. To appease her, though, and to protect themselves against the threat of rebellion, they gave her roles of minor importance and little power, such as this role of overseeing the sleep for all the breeds across the world. Miriam smiled inwardly. Ashiere was led as easily as a bull with a ring in its nose.

“Of course I remember Ashiere, my darling. Go on.” Already Vashti’s use of the old language seemed to flow more easily in Miriam’s mind. The Queen took Miriam’s hand into her lap as if she were her birth mother.

“She wouldn’t even have put out the call except that the rest of us forced it upon her. She may not have done it for another hundred years, if at all. I believe she may have begun to rebuild her breed while the Queens slept. She might even have planned to start the new conquest by herself.”

Vashti shook her head. “What a naughty little imp. Something will have to be done about her.” She patted Miriam’s hand and smiled.

Miriam’s heart outraced her mind and thrilled at this little display of affection. She did not show it, of course – she had enough control to simply straighten her spine and maintain a serious face – but she felt it. She had been so certain that after this many years alone, she wouldn’t be susceptible to these kinds of feelings, to this sway Vashti held over her. She had planned on being bold and self-assured; after all, she was the most powerful being for leagues in every direction (after the Queen) – far stronger, far more intelligent than any of these so-called kings. The life of anyone she saw was hers for the taking, if she wanted it; whole nations had trembled at the mere thought of her, once. Why should she be treated as a child? Why was it that, if she wasn’t careful now, she would climb up into her Mother’s lap and ask for a sweet?

Vashti spoke again. “You believe this to be the proper time to wake then, daughter?”

Miriam nodded her head once, serenely. That was better–much more mature and independent. “It was a longer sleep than we planned, Mother, but. . . yes. The lands and rulers of the Living are in relative peace. Most of them are fat and stupid. They are self-absorbed, and have very little contact with each other.” Miriam smiled, pleased with the next point. “The worship of Lilith has even revived. It’s not what it was before, but we may find it useful.”

Vashti’s eyes widened; she granted that statement a look of mild surprise. “The Cult of Lilith? And they have survived? The bastard jeya Indrachmenan. . . ?” LionSwords. Vashti’s mouth couldn’t form those last words without her lips curling in disgust. “They haven’t. . .”

“There are only three of them left that we know of. And Sadari’s First has two of them in her dungeon, awaiting her Mistress’ pleasure. If the third is not dead, he is as good as. No one has heard of him in years.” She knew her mother would like that. She nearly clapped her hands in delight. Miriam was slipping back, dangerously close to childishness again. She couldn’t help herself when Vashti smiled that way at her.

The Queen continued to stroke Miriam’s hand as she pulled her closer. “Mir-yam. . .”

In an instant, Miriam’s heart fell from delight into fear. She knew the look in Vashti’s eyes. Now was the time for her to drop her own eyes, to feign ignorance. She clutched her hands before her breast and shivered as the Queen pulled her toward her lap.

“Mir-yam, I’m still hungry.” She ran a gentle hand along Miriam’s neck, brushing away a few stray strands of hair. “Ya umbrede do.” Give me what is mine.

Miriam’s throat tied knots around her heart as she lay down in Vashti’s lap. She could have cried as she turned her head submissively, baring the side of her throat. Vashti enveloped her in the gold cloak and closed her lips around the soft part of her neck. As Vashti pierced the tender skin with her longteeth, Miriam confessed to her greatest fear: I’ll never be my own again.

 

 

* * *

It was the early spring, and Illentyr’s Fingers were beautiful. A heavy blanket of snow hung from the ridges, pierced and torn where jagged peaks and mist-shrouded cliffs offered no support. Icy rivers roared through the valleys, leaping down rapids and waterfalls in their hurry to reach the flatter lands where they would feed lakes and slower, wider rivers, and eventually meander out to the sea. Bits of green poked up through the snow, tasting the air for hints of the warmth that meant Winter’s harsh reign was at an end. Down in the foothills, a few tiny, frail flowers made the first advance in what would eventually be an unstoppable onslaught of color pouring over the land.

On their northern side, the Fingers tumbled down ragged slopes into a black, turbulent sea. Outcroppings of those slopes created a coastline strewn with ship-eating rocks hiding just below the surface and coves too treacherous even for pirates’ harbor. Wandering the barren hillsides and gritty beaches on their ponies, outcast bands of the Magoi scavenged for food and war. Villainous savages that they were, they stole whatever they could, even from members of their own family, and fought to blood whenever one group stumbled blindly upon the camp of another. They grew their hair to their feet and never bathed, and the mothers cut the faces of their children to produce the scars of warriors. Whenever sea gulls circled overhead, the Magoi chiefs would shake their spears, daring the birds to come down and do battle, as in the days of old.

To the south, the four main branches of the Northern Gallendries sprawled out onto the Aevery Peninsula, giving rise to the name, “Illentyr’s Fingers”. Many leagues southerly, and a few to the west, the single ridge of the Eastern Gallendries completed the grip on the peninsula, and for this it was named “the Thumb”. Clutched within this massive hand was a broad land of rolling hills, productive farmland, stone-walled pastures, towns, cities, and forests as dense as jungles. One such forest, in those parts called “the Wild”, covered nearly the whole eastern third of the peninsula. As was always the case with dark, thick forests filled with hisses and swishes and threatening growls and eyes that glow in the moonlight, the Wild was largely avoided, except by brave woodsmen and the King’s Highway Patrol, who cut back the trees each year to be sure that no brigands or robbers would be able to come within two bowshots of a royal road unseen.

The capital city, like the land, was called Aeverion. It was ruled by a king, under a loose interpretation of the Daethan tradition, and was home to more than twenty priests. The city was not as great in size as those our Western lands are accustomed to build, but it was the largest on the peninsula, and it had the advantage of being located on the innermost tip of a bay favorable for sea trade. Ships from as far as Cosili and Rojo and the Kantish Isles brought goods to Aeverion and left carrying the most precious product of the land, silver. From the city, foreign goods were taken to all parts of the peninsula by way of well-traveled roads that branched out from Aeverion like the spokes of a wheel. One of these roads, the largest and most well known, led nearly due north (and for this reason was called the Belantine Road, from the word “bel”, or “north” in the Daethan tongue). After passing through the crowded lands around Aeverion, gliding over and around several ranges of hills, visiting one of the five chief cities of the peninsula, and wandering off into the deep country in the foothills of the Northern Gallendries, this road finally retired in the small town of Boundary Rock. Little more than a village, it was the last marker of the King’s Domain – it was here that the Royal Highway became an unclaimed mountain pass, and a traveler continuing into the Fingers took his safety into his own hands. This town, this outpost of civilization, was as unlikely a place as any for the GloryWolf to reappear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dafyd hiked along the top of a chain of rounded hills, using his shepherd’s crook as a walking stick. Overhead, the Great Shepherd watched the world with his single round eye, bringing light with his gaze. He had a full flock of sheep, groomed in perfect whites and greys, and he led them eastward, in from the sea. The flock floated along in little puffs and larger clusters, looking harmless enough in their vast blue pasture. Occasionally the sheep would crowd around their master, casting shadows on the hills as they hid him from view, but each time he pushed back through, ever vigilant as the sentry of both air and earth.

Down below, Dafyd’s flock was neither so well groomed, nor so well trained. His sheep ambled along behind and around him at whatever pace was to their liking. They sometimes wandered down the sides of the hills, searching for particularly tasty sprigs of grass. He knew better than to try marching them all along in formation – individually they would mind him well enough, so long as he was insistent or waved his crook, but as soon as his back was turned they would forget about him again. The sheep were supposed to follow his lead; so said the men of Boundary Rock. He didn’t fret about it, however. No sheep could wander too far without a nip at its heels that would send it pushing back to the center of the flock. Hatch, the black and white sheepdog, was in many ways more the shepherd than Dafyd. He trotted back and forth around the flock, watching for vagrants, barking a warning at any suspicious-looking trees, and making sure the sheep remembered that he had teeth and knew how to use them. Dafyd recognized where he stood in this circle of power and respected his place. He might not have been able to travel as fast as he would have liked, but the system worked.

He and the flock had been on the move for almost two weeks now. The men of Boundary Rock had made him repeat a thousand times, “When the leaf of the blue-singer’s as long as your finger, hurry back and do not linger.” It wasn’t fine poetry, but the men had known what they were doing. It was his first time wintering with the flock in the Gallendries – much less leading them there and back by himself – and he needed all the help he could get. Even from simple little rhymes, if they served their purpose.

Dafyd approached a large, flat rock at the top of a hill and whistled for Hatch to stop the flock. The dog just sat down where he was and began scratching behind his ear. The flock, no longer forced to continue their trudging, was content to mill about. Pulling a folded piece of cloth from his coat pocket, Dafyd spread it out on the rock and placed small stones at the corners to keep it under the breeze. On the cloth, a rough map of the route between Boundary Rock and the glen where the sheep were wintered had been sketched in ink and stitched over again with thread. Dafyd turned a full circle, searching for landmarks among the shapes of the hills, then looked down at the map and traced his finger along the threads to the place that looked the closest to where he was. He used his thumb to mark off leagues to the town, then raised his brows in surprise: he was covering the route faster than he had expected. Though he hadn’t planned it this morning, it looked now as though he might be able to make it back to the town by nightfall, if he quickened the pace just a bit. It was worth it, to save another night’s restless half-sleep and other morning’s frost.

He scanned the map. The Belantine Road, or rather the mountain-pass extension of it, was just a half-dozen miles to the west, and if he took the flock down to the open highway, he could move twice as fast as he was now. Several nearby valleys led down from the hills in the direction of the road, but nothing on the map distinguished one from the other. Convenience would have to make the decision for him. Dafyd folded the map back into a tight little square, re-bound it in string, and tucked it into his coat pocket. Slinging his crook over his shoulder like a water-bearer, he gave Hatch the whistle to move and started walking toward the nearest valley. He smiled. He might even make it before supper cooled, with a little luck.

 

Luck, he did not have. The valley he had chosen had seemed clear enough from the hilltop, and there was even a stream to follow. But, a few twists and turns later, small stands of trees began cropping up along the way. The small copses were replaced by longer stretches of trees, which banded together into a thin woodland. Eventually, well into the valley, the woodland became a true forest. It might even have been a tendril of the Wild – there were more than a few fingers that stretched up this far, and even into the feet of the Gallendries proper. Rather than turn back when this growing infiltration of trees first became apparent and risk camping another night in the hills, Dafyd pushed on, following a well-trodden deer path that led alongside the stream, straight through the forest. He thought it might even be the same stream that crossed the road past the old Ruins – it was going in the right direction to meet the road, more or less, and he had heard there was a collapsed wooden bridge somewhere just beyond the Ruins. It certainly could have been the same stream, anyway.

But then the trees closed in around the river, choking the deer path, and the flock was forced to stretch out into a thin, snaky line. Reed-like plants and water-rounded rocks obstructed what might have otherwise been an easy route, and with all of the twists and turns, Dafyd couldn’t see the tail of his herd. He had to rely on occasional calls to Hatch and the replying barks to be sure the dog was still following with the rest of the flock. As if the difficulty of the trail wasn’t enough, one sheep or another seemed to tangle itself in the undergrowth every few minutes, and Dafyd would have to stop to work it free. Thorns in the bushes tore his clothes and left red, puffy scratches on his arms. Yet as slow as they went, the flock was still moving, and by the rays of light that filtered down through the trees overhanging the stream, they were moving in the right direction.

Dafyd realized how foolish he would sound when he explained this to the men in Boundary Rock. He had driven the flock through a forest filled with unknown sheep-eating animals, burrs and twigs that seemed to jump into the fleece and not let go, and goodness knows what else; he ripped his clothes past where they could be mended (this would earn him a tongue-lashing!); he risked becoming unrepairably lost – all because he wanted to get home a little early? He knew he couldn’t risk spending the night in the forest, not if the idea of meeting the morning with half the flock gone concerned him, and it was too late to turn back now. But if the map and his memory met correctly, the road couldn’t have been more than a mile or so ahead. He pressed on.

 

Matters worsened. The shadows began to deepen as the clouds overhead collected, showing grey underbellies. No rain fell yet, but the light stolen by the clouds was sorely missed. The noises of the forest were made bold by the early dusk; they nearly drove Hatch to distraction as he ran this way and that, answering every threatening sound with a stern bark and sniff of the air for danger. The sheep huddled together, splashing into the stream to avoid the darkest voids between the trees. Dafyd nearly lost hope when the stream seemed to disappear into a thick tangle of trees, but the path picked up again on the other side, and it was only a matter of spreading a hole between the bushes so the sheep could squeeze through one at a time. The stream wound back and forth, seeming to double back on itself at times, but with no visible sun and the impenetrable thick of trees, Dafyd had no choice but to follow it. Hours of slow, miserable trudging slipped by, and he had to light his lantern for the darkest spots. He was itchy and weary and hot inside his jacket, and his arms were sticky and sharp where sweat had run into the scratches. The sheep followed like a long white ribbon dragging through the dirt behind him. They were almost too tired now to bleat their uneasiness at the forest. He hadn’t seen the whole flock together for a quarter of the day; he only hoped they were still all there.

When the forest finally began to thin, relief nearly pushed him to his knees. As soon as he saw a clearing, he abandoned the stream to hurry through the last few trees and into the open space. The clearing was long, and there were no trees visible at the far end – it seemed he had finally come to the forest’s boundary, to a branch off the grass lanes that lined the highway, here somehow surviving the verge of the Wild. The dim light from the sky, though heavy and gray, was a welcome change. Dafyd leaned on his staff and choked the lantern as the flock came into the clearing, appearing in one’s and two’s and three’s between the trees. The sheep wanted to press past him, away from the trees and their untold dangers, but he called Hatch to round them up, and the clear threat of the sheepdog’s teeth at their ankles kept them still.

Three, six, nine, twelve; twelve-and-three, twelve-and-six. . . Dafyd continued counting the sheep on his fingers as they cleared the trees. When the last pair stumbled out, he would have cheered when he was done if there had been anyone to hear him. The flock numbered the same as it had this morning, the same as it had on leaving the glen – only one less than it had on leaving Boundary Rock at the end of autumn, and that one ram had died of age anyway. Dafyd made a special check of the heavy ewes, nearly ready to lamb; even they seemed not the worse for wear. And now he would be returning, certainly not before supper, and probably not before true dark, but before the middle of the night, having wintered the sheep on his own, with no real practice beforehand, and without losing a one that any of the other men in the town could have saved.

Dafyd whistled Hatch to move the flock again, and began down the length of the clearing. At the distant end, he thought he could almost see the long mound of earthwork that would be the raised highway. A new energy seeped back into his legs; his arms didn’t hurt at all. Tonight, he would sleep on a bed.

He glanced back when he didn’t feel the sheep bustling around his legs. A good third of the flock had broken rank and followed him, but the rest remained where the sheepdog had earlier demanded them to stay – they respected the authority of the snapping teeth. Hatch was back at the edge of the forest, ears perked up and head straining forward as he stared through the trees at the way they had come.

Dafyd called the dog – several times – and when he would not come he turned back to see what was keeping him. As he approached, he could hear the low growl in Hatch’s throat and see that the hair of his back was on end. Dafyd tried to follow his line of sight; he peered at the dark spaces between the trees, but could see nothing. He squatted down beside the dog and patted his side. “What is it? What do you see?”

Hatch spared a quick glance up and barked a threatening warning at the forest. He was not going to tolerate this menace.

Dafyd looked harder, squinting his eyes. All he could see were the dull brown trunks of trees and dark underbrush fading into black. There was nothing there; just trees and . . there! Staring back at him were two glittering golden eyes. He felt the ground for a stone. Finding one the size of three knuckles, he stood and flung it into the trees. The eyes winked out, replaced by a flash of grey fur, and then nothing.

Wolves!

Dafyd clapped his hands loudly, startling the sheepdog and the sheep, and gave the command to move. Gathering a few more stones, Dafyd crowded through the flock, tapping the sheep with his crook, inciting them to run with him. With Hatch at their heels and the forest behind them, they did not hesitate. Dafyd had been told it wasn’t wise to run when there were wolves at your back, but he couldn’t see the sense in waiting there for them, either. Still hustling the sheep with the staff end of his crook, he glanced back and forth at the trees that flanked the clearing. There was movement there. Whenever he imagined seeing grey fur weave between the trees, or thought a pair of glittering eyes turned in the direction of his flock, he threw a stone and shouted threats. Most of the stones bounced harmlessly off trees or skittered into the underbrush. Most.

The clearing was long, but at this speed the flock would be out of it in minutes and into the open space beyond. He was certain he could see the road now. If there were wolves tracking him, he didn’t think they would follow him onto the road – that was Man’s domain, and wolves didn’t dare intrude on it.

Hatch started barking. Dafyd looked back to see two shady forms slink from the trees behind. He let the sheep push past him. When the shapes got close enough, he threw all the stones he still held, then yelled and waved his hands. The two wolves shirked away from the pelting missiles; one flinched and skittered off into the trees when it was hit. The other trotted back out of Dafyd’s range, then stood and watched.

It couldn’t have been more than a hundred paces to the road by this time. The struck wolf regrouped with the other, now joined by yet another companion. They kept to the edge of the clearing, sliding through the dark spaces between the trees, waiting for the time to strike. Dafyd walked backwards behind the flock, scooping up whatever stones he could find on the ground and flinging them, buying time by keeping the wolves at bay. Hatch was barking for all the world to hear and arguing with the foolish sheep, who were too frightened to want to go any direction.

Then there was a deep, unfamiliar snarl and Hatch’s furious voice and the screaming of sheep, and the flock folded and bolted in three different directions. Dafyd turned to see several more wolves tear through the whirling, woolly mass; they had cut the flock off from the front while Dafyd was distracted in the rear. The sheep dashed around in a turbulent, stupid race for their lives, tripping and sliding to the ground as teeth found shanks or necks or bellies. Anxious for their share, the wolves from behind now broke and rushed into the confusion, low to the ground and fast as darts.

Dafyd moved without thinking. He swung with his crook and brought it crashing down on the back of one of the wolves; he turned his wrists and yanked, and the hook snagged a hind leg and snapped it, flinging the wolf back to the ground. Snapping jaws flew through the air and just missed his arm; he twisted and shoved the butt-end of the staff into a set of grey-shag-covered ribs. Hatch and another wolf were a ball of blood-matted fur growling and snarling and trying to reach each other’s throats.

Dafyd turned to swing at the muzzle of a wolf angling toward him – there seemed to be more of them now – when hot, ragged teeth clamped onto his leg and jerked it out from under him. His cry was cut short when he crashed to the ground, the wind pounded from his lungs. The crook bounced from his hand. He kicked with his good leg and found only air. The shock of being bit was quickly being replaced by hot, searing pain. He brought his arms up to cover his face and neck and rolled just as jaws snapped the air behind him. The wolf was on him again in an instant.

Then there was another cry – a war cry, or that’s what it sounded like – and the wolf over Dafyd crumpled and fell on top of him, bleeding from its now-ruined skull. The shape of a man leapt over Dafyd and the wolf, wading through the tide of sheep, striking again to fell another wolf. He seemed a blur to Dafyd, faster than the grey streaks that rush to meet him. Dafyd lifted himself on his arms, trying to roll the dead weight of the wolf off so he could reach for his crook. A bleating, bloody, woolly bulk tumbled onto him, knocking him back down to the ground. His head hit something hard and made a sharp crack; he saw a white flash, and then nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Camlain Gymbria was a man of duty; he had always been. Even before he served in the Kari Mein along the Eastern Rim, he had done whatever duty required of him, whether that meant working in the fields to support his mother when his father left to “seek his fortune”, or keeping his post on the Flagline even as the Bachan Magoi myriad came pouring over the hills, shaking their long spears and barbarous hooks. He had served the full length of his term with the Kari Mein, never dropping his pike to flee from battle. While on the Rim he met a young Rorilund woman, Gitru, whom he laid with. Though no child came of that night, he married Gitru, as duty instructed, and was completely faithful to her. After his discharge, he took his settlement pay and his wife back across the sea and built The Lion’s Pike Inn, in the backcountry town of Boundary Rock (which was Gitru’s choice), and was fair to all travelers. When the priest of this town came to him with the infant Dafyd, a foundling, and asked Camlain to foster him, he accepted the responsibility and raised the boy with the same fatherly kindness he showed to his own darling daughter. Later, when the venerable Dielen passed on, and when Camlain saw that he had more knowledge of finances, of the kingdom, and of the world as a whole, than any other man in the town, he realized his duty and moved himself to replace the dead Silverman. Once raised, he served justly and honestly.

Thus, it was duty that brought Camlain to this point, stumbling out of his warm, cozy inn and into the cold of night on a quest for more barley wine. As he was both silverman and the keeper of a well-stocked tap, the common room of his inn had been the natural place to hold the monthly meetings of the Town Council. Indeed, the people of Boundary Rock flocked to his inn for gatherings of most any kind. Per usual, this evening’s Council meeting had continued overlong, but even after so many hours the cups were barely filled before they were emptied again, straining even his “everflowing” tap. Also per usual, Gitru remained calm and smiling, gliding quickly but unhurriedly between tables and chairs, replacing empty cups with full, and offering the glowing end of a twig to anyone with a freshly packed pipe.

Morgan, their daughter, had shut herself into her room upstairs and was probably pouting. Camlain smiled; he remembered last year, when he had agreed for the first time to let her sit in the Council meeting rather than help her mother with the serving. For the whole day she had thrilled with the anticipation of that night’s meeting – how exciting and sophisticated she thought it was to be a party in the town’s affairs. But after an hour of the meeting she had grown restless and had started fidgeting in her chair; after two hours she had retired upstairs, complaining of head ache. Since then, she had refused to come out of her room whenever the Council met, even to help her mother; she said it was hardly worth the effort of coming downstairs to listen to a bunch of old men reminisce over last year’s weather, or argue the benefits of lanolin, or praise the flavor of the Dormathian leaf.

He could sympathize with her, in a manner – apart from Dafyd and Palin, no one her age sat in the meetings, and those two, who came only at the request of the priest, did not speak unless first spoken to. The elders preferred it this way. Indeed, when he allowed Morgan a place, several of them had leveled a questioning brow in his direction. He stood firm, though – at twenty years his daughter was fully a woman, and, by the sword, she was to be treated as such. His own sister had been little older when she stopped having children. Of course it did not help matters that very few women participated in the Council. In fact, beside his wife – who never spoke – the only woman ever present was Berry, the cantankerous old goose lady, and he had a serious doubt as to whether her mind was as fully present as her body. She could out-smoke any of the men in the room, and that was saying quite a bit, but then she would start rambling or calling the elders by the names of her miscreant geese. If someone at the meeting upset her particularly, she was as likely as not to reach over with the long reed switch she carried and strike them across the knees. This would not have been very amusing, but everyone there had been welted by her at one time or another, and it was considered a hazard of the night. Only Chawen, the priest, seemed to be exempt from her wrath. The one time Berry had raised her switch in his direction, a sternly peaked eyebrow from him had been enough to settle her back in her seat, ashenface. Camlain thought she fancied the priest, perhaps.

Camlain shut the door to the inn’s kitchen and faced the frozen air with a soldier’s determination. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and blew out a short breath, which clouded up and drifted away in the nipping breeze. Pulling his arms tight to his body to keep warm, he took quick steps across the dirt yard toward the half-buried hut where he kept supplies. The normal night sounds of Boundary Rock – the rustling of leaves, the occasional birdsong of a yellowtip, the gurgling of the brook that cut through the town – drifted from the trees beyond the yard. The clouds from that afternoon had broken and fled, and the sky was ablaze with stars and a near-full moon. Night slipped her fingers down the neck of Camlain’s coat and tried to steal his warmth, but he fended her off with shivers.

Camlain reached the hut and shouldered the door open, not yet willing to pull his hands from his pockets. Inside were shelves lined with full wineskins, salted dried meat wrapped in cloth, small stoppered kegs filled with various preserves, stacks of candles, and every other sort of supply he needed for the inn. At the back of the shack a heavy tarp of sailcloth covered hundreds of stones of iceblocks packed in straw. The ice had been cut from the lake only a few weeks ago, just before the first thaw. Even in the damp shade of the hut much of the ice would melt, but there would be enough. What remained would last to the end of the summer months, when the whole town would be fanning the heat from their faces and asking for iced punch. Iced punch, iced punch, and more iced punch.

But for now, it was fire in the belly that was being called for. Camlain turned to the wall just inside the door and looked over the two full hands of casks stacked there. Twenty-four casks – it should have been enough to last through the spring, even if every room of his inn was filled with lodgers, but Council meetings like this night’s took a heavy toll. Most of the barley wine had been aged in town by Haible, the goodsman, but there were a few, smaller, more expensive barrels in the back that had been imported from places as far away as Dormad and Ikari. Caimlain pulled a pair of leather straps out from where they had been tucked through his belt and looped them around either end of one of the local casks. He tightened the buckles, wrapped what remained of the straps around his hands, and began to heave the cask off the rack.

With a quick sigh and a groan he set it back down again. The wine got heavier every year; he would swear against the sky on it. A year ago he could have lifted that cask without even a heavy breath. Well, perhaps it was four or five years ago. If Dafyd were home, he would have been the one out in the cold doing this, and Camlain would be back in the common room, his feet propped up before the fire, his teeth clamped on the bit of his favorite pipe.

But Dafyd was not home. He had taken the town’s sheep up into the Fingers to winter in the glen – and alone, no less, which still nibbled at Camlain. That had been a fool idea from the outset. Of course, it wasn’t the original plan: Palin Kandri, who had been wintering with his father several times, was supposed to go with Dafyd, but then that demon-cow of Janon’s had leapt the fence and gone trampling through town, charging anyone who came near her and going so far as to break Palin’s leg when he got in her way. A few of the men had suggested that Dafyd wait until someone else could be found to go, but the boy had developed a particularly keen sense of duty, and he chose that moment to display it. He argued that the first frost had already set in; he joked that the sheepdog was as good a shepherd as any two men who could come along; and before any more discussion could be made, he was gone. In truth, it must have been a week between the breaking of Palin’s leg and Dafyd’s leaving, but it had seemed no time at all.

Camlain shook his head and suppressed a blended vision of Dafyd lost in the mountains and fighting bears and slipping off the edge of a snowy cliff. He shouldn’t worry. He had never been up into the Fingers, but he had heard from the men who had gone that the way was easy, and that there were relatively few beasts up there. Dafyd was safe. And he had probably been right about the sheepdog, too. Within a week, he would be back home, and there would be nothing more to worry about. Beyond that, Dafyd was a fosterling, a Child of the Lion, and thus had the special attention of The God – so said the priest.

Camlain tightened the leather straps on the cask and prepared himself for another mighty heave. Bending his knees and using the bulk of his ample belly to steady himself, he groaned and pulled the cask onto his legs, and then a few inches into the air. Straining every muscle he had left in his back, he began to straighten up an inch at a time. Once upright he would be able to manage the weight of the cask and carry it back to the inn; it was just a matter of that first awful lift. But one of the town’s dogs chose that very moment to let loose a pitiful, ear-piercing howl just outside the door of the shack, and Camlain, startled, lost his grip on the straps. The freed cask bounced off his knees and fell back onto the rack, settling into the depression it had occupied before. Without the ballast, Camlain lost his balance and fell onto his rear with a dull thump. He rubbed his legs where the cask had hit; there would be bruises there. He had a few trusted soldier’s curses already prepared for the dog, and was about to use them when he heard more howling a little farther away, and then a few answering barks. Standing up and brushing off his trousers, he peered out the doorway. A pair of speckled mongrels padded through the yard between the supply shack and the inn, and into the trees on the other side. A moment later three more dogs followed, and then a final straggler.

Camlain thought it was a bit late for a group this large to be on the move – a glance up at the moon told him it was an hour past the midpoint of the night. It would be best if he saw what they were after; it was most likely just a family of squirrels in a tree, but it would do to be safe. Tucking the leather straps back through his belt, he set off lumbering across the yard after the dogs, puffing out little clouds of breath as he moved. His short legs and sizable belly made it hard to keep up, and harder to follow the dogs between the trees, but after only a few feet the trees cleared, and there was the Highway. (As was the custom, he had placed his inn closer to the road than any other building, so as to be the first sight to fill the eyes of any weary traveler who happened through the town.)

There were even more dogs on the Highway – indeed, every dog in the town’s pack must have been there – and they were all howling now and trotting northward up the road. Camlain’s pounding heart and empty lungs forced him to stop once he made it onto the road. He held his sides and took a few deep breaths until his chest calmed. Squinting his eyes, he peered out beyond the pack. Faintly, just over the sound of the baying and howling, he heard some other commotion, but there was nothing yet in sight. And then a single black and white dog came bounding out of the darkness toward and through the pack; it raced around in wide circles as the other dogs spun to chase after it. They all met in a jumble and leapt playfully at each other, barking and rolling and sniffing each other, crowding around the new dog to greet it. That meant it was one of the pack, and only one dog had been gone. Camlain lifted two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle. Half the pack perked their ears up, and the one in the center pushed its way through and ran to greet him.

Camlain knelt as the dog rushed upon him, eager to knock him over and lick his face. Camlain held him off enough to tousle the fur on his head and scratch him behind the ears. “Hiya, Hatch! What are you doing here, boy? Are you back early? Did you bring Dafyd back early?” He scrubbed his fingertips down the length of Hatch’s back, which usually had the effect of making him arch in pleasure and whine for more. Instead the dog cringed and yelped when Camlain’s nails scratched away scabs or mange–it was too dark to tell which. He patted the dog in apology and sent him running off to the town, the rest of the pack in pursuit.

Camlain stood and strained his ears. He was sure he could hear the bleating of sheep not too far away. He closed his eyes and concentrated on an old sentry technique, filtering out sounds one at a time. There were sheep out there; he’d shear himself if there weren’t. Raising his voice, he bellowed out to anyone who could hear, “The flock is back!” and began jogging up the road, toward the sound of sheep and his son Dafyd.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Morgan sat on her hard wooden chair, shivering. The tapered candle on the desk in front of her flickered and dripped wax on the book she wasn’t reading. Oil lamps in the corners of the room gave off a dull yellow glow, but not even enough heat to warm her little finger, were she to combine their flames. She pulled the blanket tight around her neck and hugged her knees to her chest. The air in her room was frozen, but even if she were to sprout icicles from her nose, she wouldn’t go to the common room where the “Town Council” was meeting. Town Council. She snorted. They were just a bunch of old men talking about fool pigs and complaining about their aches and pains and filling the room with pipe smoke. And then there was the Goose Lady and her switch – Morgan had taken enough strokes from that woman as a child to know better than to be anywhere near her for very long, if it could be avoided.

Why couldn’t they hold their stupid meetings in the chapel? It wasn’t fair – they were trapping her up here in her room. There was no chance she would go downstairs now, not even to help her mother, after the way they had thrown her out from the meeting the last year. They had thrown her out, too – or as good as – with all their stares and frowns and looks that said, “And just what do you think you are doing here in our meeting, Little Missy? You don’t know anything about sheep or sprouts or weather or anything.” She didn’t care. It was boring, anyway.

She cupped her fingers and blew her warm breath into them, and wiggled her legs beneath the blanket. And there was no one to talk to now, either. Even if Dafyd had been there, instead of off in the mountains somewhere in some hidden valley with the stupid sheep, he would have been in the meeting with Palin. There was no one else in the town her age, not after Jannie and Brawen had been married into villages across the hills. Well, there were the Nob boys, but they were too stupid to talk to, and they were dirty and wicked besides. Then there was the Town Wives’ meeting across the green at Windi’s home, the low stone building that attached to the forge where her husband Mossy banged on metal all day. But they only took married women into that meeting, and Morgan had no plans to be married any time soon. At least, she wouldn’t marry anyone from this town. She would be no farmer’s wife.

She pushed a few stray hairs from her face and looked back down at the vellum page in front of her. The letters swirled and smudged together and made her head hurt. She closed the book and made a face at it, then stood from the chair. Holding the blanket around herself like a cape, she crossed the room to the window. The glass was fogged over from her breath, and the shutter outside was closed against the cold anyway, so there was nothing to see there. She would die of boredom in her room, and die of humiliation if she left it to go down below. She would show them – she would open her window, and die of cold before either boredom or humiliation could set in. Maybe then her father would let her sleep in one of the lodger’s rooms, one of the rooms with its own private hearth. He might let her if she asked him, anyway – his heart was soft to her touch.

She pulled open the glass and lifted the latch on the shutters; pushing them clear of the window, she leaned out and let the icy teeth of Night bite her face. The cold rushed past her into the room and quickly devoured whatever small amount of heat she had stored up there. She sucked on her lips and shuddered, then reached for the shutters – perhaps death by cold did not suit her after all. It did nothing for her head’s ache. Neither, for that matter, did that terrible noise. Twenty paces from her window and down on the highway, a group of dogs were baying and barking and howling to bring the moon down on top of them. There were at least a hand there, maybe half the bloody pack, and every one of them had to add its own throat to the din. Morgan grabbed the first thing beneath her hand: a loose wooden sphere that topped her bedpost. Pulling it off the bed, she flung it out the window toward the dogs, cursing after it, “Seal your lips, you stupid beasts!” The missile landed well short of the pack, but the dogs had begun running up the road anyway, taking their barking and yowling with them. She would get the wooden ball back the next morning, if she remembered.

Again Morgan reached for the shutters, when she saw someone push through the trees at the edge of the road just behind the dogs. It was her father. He had his hands on his gut, and he was panting – he must have been running – and he was staring up the Highway. Morgan squinted and tried to follow his line of sight, but the branches of a tree were in her way. Then her father turned and shouted, and the crisp air carried his voice right up to her ears: “The flock is home! Dafyd is come home!”

Morgan did not even bother to shut her window; she turned and bolted for her door, flinging it open and out of her way. She had both feet on the stairs before she realized she was not suitably dressed to appear below. Returning to her room, she quickly pulled an old dress on over her shift, then fought with a coat and a wooden clip to hold back her hair as she ran down the stairs in giant stomps. She flew out of the door into the common room, and was nearly through the tables and chairs to the door beyond before her mother could react with a startled, “Morgan!”

Morgan caught herself by grabbing the corner of one of the heavy tables and spun to face the others. The sight of all of the surprised old faces, too stunned to regale her with any tongue-lashing, was enough to make her grin. Seeking out the face of her mother, she took a deep breath and spurted out, “The flock is back! Didn’t you hear?” Without waiting for any answer, she turned and ran through the door and out into the night. She knew that in all the excitement, no-one would remember to scold her.

Morgan’s feet touched down on the frozen stone pathway before she realized what she had forgotten. Leaping to the dirt with a pained yelp, she rubbed her toes with her hands and glanced about for the sandals her mother often kept among the flowers. They were there, resting on top of a rock, waiting just within reach to save Morgan’s soles. She sat down and pulled them on, slipping the buckles into place. The leather cracked, displeased at being left out through the winter, but it would have to hold. She rolled to her feet and sprinted out onto the highway, just moments before the men inside the inn gathered their senses and followed her outside. Leaving them behind to puff after her at their own tired pace, she ran after her father.

He was a ways up the road, an island in a lake of milling sheep. As Morgan got closer, she saw another man just beyond him; he looked too short to be Dafyd, but maybe it was just a trick of the moon. The other man seemed to be propping up something in front of him; it was a large lump, lashed to a pair of thin, stripped trunks that were braced apart to form a crude sled. Dafyd knew she liked venison – maybe he had come across a doe on the way home and couldn’t pass up the shot. He could place an arrow almost as well as she could.

She reached the edge of the sheep and grinned, calling out, “Dafyd!” Her father turned, and she could see the face of the man behind him. It wasn’t Dafyd. This man had black hair and heavy brows and a thick neck and was well built. The hilt of a sword stuck up over his shoulder. She blinked. His face was well defined and pleasant to look at, and intelligence shone in his eyes. He was dirty, and his clothes were torn, but the metalwork studded into his belt and the cut of his clothes spoke of quality – and of money. He was probably not married. He was staring at her. So was her father.

“Morgan, did you hear me?” Her father was speaking to her, she realized. He had that cold, detached tone that he got when he was remembering battles. “Go get your mother. Get the healer. Tell the Council to come out and lend their shoulders.”

Morgan looked between her father and the strange man, then glanced down at the sled. A bit of flesh caught her eye. It was a hand, hanging loosely from a blanket that she now saw was wrapped around a body. Blood and dirt were caked onto it. She looked up to the head, to the face. More dirt and blood, but even under all of it, the features were recognizable. It was Dafyd.

Her father was shouting at her, “Go, girl, go!” but she had already turned and fled. She ran, screaming, at the Council, which had congregated only a few paces up the road from the inn. They parted for her, unsure what to do with a girl who first comes flying down stairs and then racing up the road like a fox with its tail on fire. Her mother was not among the Councilmen, so she didn’t stop.

Some thoughtful husband had crossed the green to tell the Wives the news, and they were already out in front of the inn. Morgan searched the faces for the healer. “Kerai! Kerai . . .”

The healer’s head turned, and their eyes met. Kerai reached a hand out for Morgan’s shoulder. “What is it, Morgan? Catch your breath. What- “

Morgan gasped for breath and gurgled; tears were already choking off her throat. “Dafyd! He’s . . . bloody! Hurt! ” She waggled her finger in the general direction up the road. No more words came, but Kerai had taken her meaning.

The healer nodded quickly, then gathered up her skirts and began running. Several women gasped or held their hands to their mouths. They caught up their own skirts and followed the healer.

Morgan pushed open the door to the common room and stumbled inside, now sobbing. Her mother was wiping down a table with a rag and stopped to raise her head. Morgan pushed her way through chairs and fell against her mother’s breast, splashing tears onto her dress.

Gitru allowed a brief moment for the unexpected embrace, then gently pushed her daughter away to look into her face. “Morgan?”

Her mother’s low voice, with the inflections that still seemed strange to her, calmed Morgan enough to speak. She sniffed a run of snot from her nose. “Padra needs you to come to him. He’s on the road. Dafyd’s hurt very badly. A man brought him back.” Tears welled in her eyes again when she said Dafyd’s name, but she brushed them away with her sleeve. Why did she have to cry? He was really only like a brother to her, and she’d seen him hurt before. None of the other women were crying. She was a woman, wasn’t she? Even her mother didn’t seem shocked, or ready to cry, and she loved Dafyd more than anyone else. She never cried, not that Morgan had seen. Why wasn’t she like her own mother?

Gitru had taken her shawl off a peg on the wall and was pulling it around her shoulders. She was speaking in her quiet, calm, no-time-for-discussion voice. “Morgan, draw water enough to fill the kettle and bring it to a boil. Bring towels out of the closet, as well.” With that, she opened the door and left.

 

Some hours later, Morgan sat in a chair in the corner of the common room and rubbed her eyes. They were red, and cried dry. She tugged at her dress and frowned into her lap.

Glancing up, she saw that the room was now fairly still. Kerai stood with Morgan’s mother and father in the center of the room, and was speaking to them in a low voice. The healer had finished her bandaging and stitching and herbwork and now sipped a cup of tea as she talked. Nearby, several men and women were singing and offering incense to The God for Dafyd’s health and life. Others were scattered around the room, sitting in chairs or leaning against the wall, whispering to each other or staring at nothing. Most of them had a cup of tea between their hands as well. The greater part of the Council had returned to their homes, ashamed to appear useless. Chawen, the priest, was still there, mumbling readings from the small book he often carried. One of his hands rested on Dafyd’s forehead where he lay, stretched out on a table. The bandages and the blanket over Dafyd were stained with small splotches of blood. He had not opened his eyes or even moved yet. According to the man who had dragged him to the town on the sled, Dafyd had been unconscious for a good day and night before arriving in Boundary Rock. Attacked by wolves, he had said. Bloodied and mauled, and now he just lay there on the table, limp and lifeless, and with a breath that wouldn’t flicker a candle. Kerai said he would live, though, and heal properly. Much life had poured out from him, but none of the wounds were deep. But, she had added, he certainly would have died if left out in the wilderness.

The whole town had shown the strange man a hero’s welcome. He had the finest room in the inn, at no cost, and offers of meals and supplies from everyone in Boundary Rock. After helping to bring Dafyd in, he had disappeared into his room, assumably to stow his belongings. At least, Morgan had seen him disappear with a large backsack and heavily laden belt, and re-appear with nothing but his own clothes. He carried a lot of weapons, and Morgan thought if anyone else had noticed, they might have been uneasy. Beside the large sword that had been strapped to his back, there had been a hunter’s bow and quiver, a pair of handled fighting sticks slipped through loops in his belt, and a knife long enough to be called a short sword, kept in a sheath that was strapped to his thigh. Morgan had noticed the knife in particular, because it was very like the one her father had kept up on the wall, mounted between the other trophies from his days in the army. If this man was in an army, she couldn’t imagine which one would be close to this town, at the edge of nowhere, or which one had a livery of dark blues and greys, almost meeting in black, as the man wore. Morgan did know a bit about hunting bows, though, and the one this man had was the finest she had seen. He did have money somewhere, or he had stolen that bow. And everything else he had.

The man sat silently at the edge of the room, watching the others with a solemn face. His gaze seemed to cover everyone, both generally and each in turn. Morgan had made a point to return his look with a stare when his eyes passed her direction–a stare and a small smile, anyway. He had smiled back.

No one talked to him now. At first, when everyone had been excited and worried for Dafyd, the Council had approached the man to ask him his name–which was Riel–to ask where he was from, how he had found Dafyd, and other fairly useless questions. His answers, from what Morgan could hear of them, were short and uneventful, and in a peculiar accent. The Council had eventually drifted away from him, more interested in their own discussions. Later, Camlain and Gitru had approached him for the same purpose, with much the same results. He was not a conversationalist, but Morgan found that intriguing about him. Perhaps she would speak with him later. She yawned.

 

Morgan opened her eyes when she felt a hand gently shaking her shoulder. Her mother leaned over her and stroked her hair. “Morgan-daughter,” she whispered. “Go up to your room. Your father and the priest will stay with Dafyd.”

Morgan stretched her arms and yawned. Apart from her mother and father, Dafyd, and Chawen, the room was empty. The strange man was gone from his chair. She nodded groggily. “Will he be well?”

Gitru nodded. “He should heal well, so says Kerai. Go now, and sleep in your bed.”

Morgan nodded again and stood slowly. Her eyes didn’t focus very well. She brushed her lips against her mother’s cheek and plodded toward the stairs. Her heart sank as her mind went ahead of her, up to the room. The window was still open–she would freeze tonight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Camlain leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his eyes. The morning sun had just broken over the tops of the trees, and its long, golden beams were now streaming through the uneven glass windows of the common room. One of the rays had been focused by a ripple in the glass and was shining directly into Camlain’s face. His body felt too creaky and heavy and cumbersome for him to stand and move his chair; instead he squinted and cupped his hand over his brow, shading his eyes. He yawned. It had been ages since he had been up for an all-night watch–not since Morgan had been brought down by a fever, which was when she was . . . five, was it? Had it really been fifteen years? Months seemed to blend together into moments for him now. Bright yellow light found its way around his fingers and into the corner of his eyes. He turned his face away from the blinding spot in the window; it would give him head ache soon, and he knew that would make him grumpy.

A soft scuffling of sandaled feet came from across the room. The priest seemed not in the least hindered by the lack of sleep; if he was at all tired, he did not show it. He still stood over Dafyd, mouthing some hymn or prayer. The boy lay in a makeshift bed of blankets on the same heavy wooden dining table, breathing lightly and not moving. It was just as well for him–if he turned or shifted he was likely to start the wounds bleeding again. Camlain had seen worse on the fields along the Rim: men with arrows sprouting like reeds from their back, dragging themselves along the ground toward what they prayed would be safety; soldiers with gaping, unhealing holes of pus and flesh and bone where they had been gored by a spear or lance; a woman who had been crushed under the wheels of a wagon and lived for three agonizing days afterward; horsemen who had lost an entire leg or arm in battle and been too caught up in the frenzy to notice, at least until they lost their balance and fell and the pain hit them at last with a fury. The images, the sounds–the screams–were still clear in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut to wash them away.

Though Dafyd’s wounds were many, they were not nearly as bad as they had looked at the first glance. There had been a lot of blood lost from gashes along his forehead, arms, and legs, but only one of the bites had gone to the bone, and the healer, Kerai, had promised there would be no infection. In truth, Camlain believed that Dafyd would be awake now, wincing and smiling together, if he hadn’t taken that nasty blow to the back of his head. The man who had brought Dafyd and the flock back to town said that the boy had fallen on a stone half-buried in the ground. It seemed a plausible story, and Camlain saw no reason not to believe him–the man had the eyes and demeanor of a soldier (and weapons enough for six of them), and Camlain knew how to read the face of a soldier. But, still, this man was of an odd sort. He called himself ‘Real’ or ‘Ree-uhl’ or some unnatural name near that–his accent was choppy and quick, and hard to make out. His clothes had an unusual cut, and if they were any kind of military dress, Camlain didn’t recognize the army.

Camlain blinked his thoughts away and looked up when the priest started chanting again. He had been at it–now chanting, now singing just under his breath, now silently arranging symbols around Dafyd or rocking back and forth in prayer–for several hours now. It was at the least an hour more before that when he and Camlain had last spoken to each other. There was no tension or ill will between the two of them, but Camlain had little in common with the priest beyond a fatherly feeling for Dafyd, and he was not one to speak only to fill the air with sound. The priest respected this, and did not chatter.

Camlain studied the man. The priest was short–even shorter than Camlain himself, who fell below the shoulders of most of the men in the town. The priest carried a bit of an extra stomach, as well, though it was forever hidden beneath the floor-lengthed robes of his station. All of his robes, like the one he wore now, were of the same faded shade of creamy wool, and were loosely tied about the waist by a finger-thick cord. He kept the cowl thrown back behind his shoulders, revealing a wispy crown of white hair that provided little cover for his shiny scalp. Like most priests, he wore a long beard and mustaches that completely covered his mouth. The moustaches could not hide his near-constant jovial smile, however; it shone through in the crow’s feet around his eyes and the upward-turned whiskers above his lip. The priest did not wear his smile now, not over Dafyd; his brow was creased and drawn together in what seemed not to be worry so much as concentration.

Camlain was about to drop his head back into his hands when the door from the kitchen opened and Gitru glided in. She carried a tray, on which several cups and a steaming pot were visible. She slipped the tray gently onto the table near Camlain and began filling the cups with a strong-smelling root tea. She moved smoothly, without a wasted motion, and without seeming to exert any energy. She had an unreal grace and fluidity about her that reminded Camlain of why he had opened the gates of his heart for her the first time, so many years ago. It was as if the world moved to meet her–she needed only to lay her hands on the pot’s handle for it to lift itself in the air and tip over to fill the cups. She closed her hands around the cups and the table dropped away; she turned toward him and the floor slipped along behind her. It was all so dream-like. Camlain’s eyelids drooped under their own heavy weight, and he began to feel as if the world was slipping away beneath him, too.

Gitru set the cup between his hands and ran her fingers through his hair. “Wake up, morning bird. You nearly dropped your head into your lap.” She paused, then asked, “Perhaps you should retire to the bed? I will wait with Dafyd, instead.”

The steam from the cup in Camlain’s hands wafted up to his nose and began chasing the blur from his thoughts. “Hm?” A groggy moment later he shook his head. “No, no–I’m awake. Perfectly awake. Thank you. No, I’ll watch Dafyd.” He took a sip of the tea and raised his cup to Gitru. “Thanks to you, wife, and a good morning.”

She smiled with her eyes shut, as she often did, and dipped her head. “A good morning to you, husband.” She then took another cup across the room to the priest. “A good morning, Father Chawen.” The two of them began speaking in soft voices, or rather she asked a single question, and he replied with a monologue around sips of his tea. He must have been aching to speak. She nodded as she listened with one ear to what he had to say, and lifted the blanket over Dafyd to check on his bandages.

Camlain’s nose began to pick up a mixture of odors slipping in through the steam from his tea, and he turned his head toward the tray his wife had brought in. Beside the pot and the cups and a short stack of warmed cloths, there was a plate spread with all of the fixings for a fabulous morning meal: a small loaf of knotted bread surrounded by slices of yellow cheese, a bowl of mixed berries, and fried sausages. Sausages–that was the smell that had set his mouth to watering and his stomach to gnawing at his insides. He hadn’t realized until now how hungry he was. He reached out to snatch a single link, but a hand quickly grabbed his arm and pulled it away.

His wife placed his arm back into his lap and gave him a look of minor annoyance. How she had managed to cross the ten steps from where the priest still stood without him hearing, he didn’t know, but she had always been a jealous guardian of her food. She lifted the tray off the table and held it out to him. “Perhaps, my husband, you would be willing to bring our honored guest his meal?” It wasn’t much of a question.

“But–”

“I set Morgan to making the morning meal, once I was able to pull her away from the fire and all the blankets she was wrapped in. Your food will be waiting when you return, along with a complaint about how bitter-cold her room is without a hearth, I would suppose.” She tapped her foot. “And if you frown at me like that again, husband, I’ll give your plate to Father Chawen before you get back–he should be hungry enough for two meals after such a night.”

The priest clasped his hands together and stepped toward them, looking to ease what seemed to be mounting tension. “Oh, no, of course not. I . . . I will go with you to greet Dafyd’s savior, Camlain, and thank him again.”

Camlain harumphed. There was no tension here. Gitru knew him well, and was taking advantage of the fact that he was too tired to protest.

She placed the tray in his hands. “Thanks to you, husband.” She smiled, parting her lips to kiss the air at him, then turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Camlain groaned as he called his aching muscles to attention and stood from his chair. Every part of him, from his back to his toes, wanted to rebel and drop him back into the chair. He nodded to the priest. “Let’s go, then.”

They walked down the short hall and around the half-turn to the best and largest room in the inn, the pride of The Lion’s Pike. The door was shut, so Camlain rapped on it with the toe of his boot and waited. After a short spell of silence, he tried it again.

Chawen glanced up at him. (Camlain always took note when someone looked up to speak to him.) “He must still be asleep,” the priest whispered, though if all of the boot-knocking didn’t wake the man, their voices weren’t likely to either.

Camlain nodded and whispered back. “We’ll just leave the tray, then, and then go back so we can eat, yeah?” He smiled conspiratorially.

The priest grinned through his long beard and mustaches. “Here, let me hold that door for you.” He pulled the latch and swung the door in.

Camlain stepped just inside the door and set the tray down on the small table nearby. He shivered at the sudden shock of cold air that hit him from the room, and he blew into his hands as he began a hasty retreat into the hall and toward the warmth of his common room. The priest held the door to the room, ready to close it behind him, but Camlain’s mind clicked. “No, wait–” The priest tried to shush him with a meaningful glance toward the bed, but Camlain shook his head and glanced around. “He’s not here.”

“What?”

“He’s not here–look.”

The room was clean and in order. The bedsheets were neatly folded down and matched precisely to the corners of the pallet; the blankets were thrown out over the bed, but had not been pulled back. It didn’t look like anyone had slept in it. The table and shelf beneath the windows, where most lodgers seemed to spread out their personal belongings, were empty. The candles around the room had barely been burned. There was no fire in the hearth, though Camlain had set it himself the night before, and left enough wood for it to smolder into the morning. The window in the far corner, the one closest to the ground outside, was wide open. Camlain shivered as an icy breeze blew into the room, lifting the corners of the curtains. The moist early-morning air had probably put the fire out hours ago. He quickly crossed the room to close the glass. Outside, directly below the window, a bundle of firewood, which should have been next to the hearth, provided a step within a man’s body length down from the window ledge.

Camlain spit out the window and pulled it shut. “Why that bloody, sneaky–” He bit his tongue when he remembered who was still in the room with him. “I knew there was something odd about him. Ungrateful wretch! I’d do better to make sure nothing is missing. Stealing away in the dead of night! I’ll never. . .” He stuck his hands on his hips and began turning a slow circle around the room, making notes of what remained.

The priest had lifted the lid of the chest near the table, and was peering inside. “I don’t think he’s gone, Camlain. Look here.”

Camlain frowned as he leaned over the priest’s shoulder and glanced into the chest. “Hmph.” Inside were the man’s bag and the belt that held most of his weapons, along with a few other items. He folded his arms across his chest. “I still say slipping out the window of my inn in the dark of night is mighty suspicious, yeah? Who knows what he’s doing out there, that he wouldn’t walk out the door like normal folk to go do it.” His stomach rumbled, demanding attention. “Come along, then–let’s go have our meal. Afterwards, I’ll find this fellow, and then we’ll see if I don’t have a thing or two to say to him about all his sneaking.” He turned and strode out of the room.

He barely heard Chawen’s voice behind him. “His sword is not here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Betheni balanced easily on the limb of a tree, some thirty feet above the ground, and concentrated. The bark was frigid against her bare feet in the morning cold, but it did not suit her to be bothered. Down below and coming toward her, a man dressed in dark colors slipped quickly between the trees and rocks. Had he looked up, he would have seen a woman, naked but for a decade-deep layer of grime and a ragged, threadbare blanket tied around her shoulders like a cape. Had he looked up, he would have stopped, for he was stalking her. He truly was skilled–none of his footsteps stood out from the woodssound, even at his present jog, and she had lost sight of him more than once. He carried the long, vicious-looking sword easily in one hand, balancing it as though it was more natural for him to grasp the metal-and-leather-banded hilt than for his hand to be empty. She knew that this particular sword would kill her, given the chance. She didn’t have to see its patterns of scrolls and symbols along the blade or its faint glow; she could feel the sword–a sharp pain in the bubble of her awareness. She knew the sword could feel her in the same way, and the man could feel the sword. She also knew that this man below her would use this sword on her at the first opportunity he had.

She had no intention of allowing him such an opportunity. She had spent the last sixteen years prowling these woods, and she knew them well, every tree and bush and stone and hollow. Every branch that could support her weight, every animal track, every caved-in stream bank was at her command. The smudges of dirt on her face and the leaves matted into her hair provided an effective camouflage. There was no color in her lips, no sparkle in her eyes to give her away. She was invisible to the man’s eyes.

She had ways of avoiding the sword’s groping perception as well. She rolled her eyes up and turned her concentration inward. She forced her mind to collapse inward, drawing in her awareness, her aura, and even her presence in the physical world–everything the sword could sense–until she was just a ghostly speck. That was as best as she could explain it, anyway. It was quite a difficult feat, really, even for her; it had taken her millennia to master it, once she finally wormed the secret out of her Father. Every ounce of energy she had was being spent to keep her focus inward. There was no room for thought. Numbers drifted vaguely through her mind, uncontrolled. One. . . Two. . . Three. . .

 

At twelve twelves she opened her mind, and it was like releasing a breath held far too long. The branch creaked under the sudden return of her weight, but did not break. She steadied herself, then glanced around, looking for the man. Overhead, the sun was nearing its zenith. She had been gone for several hours–much longer than she had thought.

She realized all her muscles were taut, so she relaxed and slumped back against the trunk of the tree. Cursed man. He was so inconvenient right now.

She needed Her Boy, needed to have him. She needed to taste him between her lips and feel the warmth of his body beneath hers. Four months she had waited, four grueling, frozen, winter months when she couldn’t wash her tongue and ease the screaming in her bones with his hot, salty life. The animals of the forest did not suffice for her–they were little better than drinking water. She couldn’t have another person, either, not without breaking the bond she had spent the last sixteen years creating. Sixteen years of careful, patient acquisition. She was his mistress, and he knew, however deeply buried within his mind, that he belonged to her. But she was tied to him, as well. What minute trickle of life that flowed through her veins had once pulsed through his. Those sixteen years she had come to his window every few nights, slipping into his bed and into his dreams, sipping from his veins–never enough to harm him, but never enough to satiate her hunger, either. She was always hungry, always cold, always empty. But it was worth it all. He was hers.

But for the moment, she needed him, and badly. She had smelled him the night before, not so many hours before dawn. She had been stalking through the forest, searching for nothing in particular to take the ragged-sharp edge from her nerves. He was still leagues away then, in the direction of his town, but his scent was unmistakable to her. It brought water to her mouth, moistening her tongue. She licked her lips as the feeling of him tickled her bones. She ran through the forest, sending rabbits fleeing and birds aflight, leaping and bounding at unnatural speed along the paths she now knew so well. She broke into the clearing around the village, and could feel him in the inn he lived at. He was home at last! She would feast that night–not enough to kill her boy, of course, but more than she had taken in years.

She was perhaps not cautious enough, hovering about outside the inn, planning how she would have him. She didn’t feel the sword, that cursed sword, until it’s man was nearly upon her. Foolish! She needed no warning, no call to battle–she turned and bolted, already feeling as though she were being burned by its proximity.

That was how, hours later and well into the morning, she had come to be balancing on the branch of a tree thirty feet from the ground, hiding from a dark-haired man who sought to end her. But she was better than him. She had won this game, and she would win every other one they played. There would be more–she would have her boy again, regardless of this man. She always had her way. She ran her tongue lightly over the sharp points of her longteeth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chawen fussed with his belt-cord as he paced in wide circles around the green in front of the inn. He gathered up the soft tassels that hung from the knot in his belt and twisted them around each other. When he noticed what he was doing he stopped, not wanting others to see his agitation. He began to wring his hands instead. He worried that this might not be the best place to wait. Maybe he should wait behind the inn, instead, near the open window. If the man came from the north, Chawen wouldn’t see him at all from this place. But it would be too obvious if anyone saw him standing back there. Maybe he should wait in the man’s room. No one would see him in there, and the man would certainly go back to his room first, if only to shut his window. No. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He had to see this man before Camlain did, before anyone did, if he could. He had to know.

It was only a few excruciatingly long minutes more before his choice to wait in the village green paid him. The man came walking up the highway from the south, thumbs slipped through his belt, whistling for all the world to hear. The two-handed hilt of his sword bobbed menacingly behind his shoulder, but he walked along as if it were the most natural thing. As if there was no significance to it. Chawen needed to get him alone before the Town Council asked him more questions, before they discovered what they would not know how to deal with. He didn’t think anyone else had guessed what he had guessed, yet, but if his guesses were right, he had to get this man alone.

He hurried out to the road to meet the man. He raised his hand to hail him, but paused. What was his name? He had heard it last night. Rowell? No, that wasn’t right–it was more of an uncommon name. Rhil. Reeyull. Chawen thought that was it. The man pronounced it shorter though, with some odd, perhaps eastern, accent. Riel. “Riel? Master Riel?” He held out his hand, palm open, in greeting.

The man smiled and dipped his head in greeting. “Father.”

Good. Riel. That was his name. It might have been uncomfortable, otherwise. “Please, Master Riel. I must speak with you. To the chapel with me?”

The man nodded, and followed when Chawen led him off the road and past the inn, along a path that crossed the town’s stream by way of a sturdy little bridge and wound through several clumps of trees before climbing a short hill to arrive at the steps of the chapel. Chawen was getting old enough that the walk could steal the wind from him, if he took it too quickly. The years remaining to him were few. He had a duty, though, a most important and secret duty, and he would see it through to the end. The God had blessed him, and he knew he would live long enough to finish his task, at least.

Right now he had another duty, though–one to the town. He hurried up the steps to the chapel, ushering the man inside before him. He followed just inside the door and pulled it shut, then slid the latch decidedly closed.

The man, Riel, stood calmly inside the chapel and looked around, apparently studying the scrollwork carved into the stone blocks which served as seats, admiring the artistry of the stained glass windows, paying homage to the sign of the God by touching his thumb to his forehead. Chawen noticed that his fingers were strong and thick–they belonged to hands that worked. The man was shorter than average, though he was a head taller than stooped old Chawen, but he held his body and head straight and alert. He had wide shoulders and strong-looking legs. His hair was black, and cut the same way the innkeeper Camlain had his when he had first arrived in the town: short, almost scruffy, with “cheekguards” that went below the bottom of his ears. The rest of his face was clean-shaven. It was the fashion of soldiers. His clothes were all dark blues and greys and greens, the color of the night in the forest. It was obvious that they had been torn in several places, but they had been carefully and neatly stitched back together. He wore a plain belt of leather–much less audacious than the weapon belt back in the chest. That was good. His boots were soft, uncreased black leather. Fairly expensive, Chawen thought, though he knew little of such things. Camlain or his daughter, Morgan, would probably know.

Chawen caught the man’s eyes. There would be no putting it off. “No kontei kar tam chae dei, rythander, bodash sem synri thenWeiyu.” May the strength and peace of the God be with you always, Rythander. Rythander. There was no direct translation for it outside of the Daethen language. Man who bore the rytha, the Sword of God. General. Judge. All of these applied.

Riel responded without hesitation, and with no obvious change in expression. It seemed casual for him. “No kontei kar tam chae dei, gentyrwei, lapta sem feriyei thenWeiyu.” May the mercy and grace of the God be with you always, Priest.

Though Chawen hadn’t heard the words in twenty years, he knew them well. These were the ritual greetings, used since the time of the Lion between the three stations of God-blessed rulers. If a silverman had been present–a true, fully trained silverman, not a small-town approximation like the innkeeper, Camlain–the third greeting would have been: “No kontei kar tam chae dei, duntaender, hoiyus sem gothsemi thenWeiyu.” May the patience and wisdom of the God be with you always, Silverman.

Chawen was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. It was true–he had suspected the man ever since he saw the cross-handled hilt on his sword and the markings on his sheath–but he had not been fully aware of the enormity of the situation until now. This man was rythander. Where every town had a priest and some semblance of a silverman, there couldn’t be more than a handful of rythanders on the Map, not anymore. Chawen couldn’t say that he had truly believed there still were any, before last night. These were men of violence. Holy Generals without an army. A man like this would not take his skills where he did not think they were needed.

Riel broke the silence before it became awkward. “Not many recognize me and mine, these days.” He still seemed calm. After all, what was there to worry him?

“No. . .” said Chawen, stumbling with words as his brain turned. “No . . . I’d suppose not. We haven’t seen any of you for some time. Years.”

“Many years,” Riel agreed.

Again, there was a silence.

Chawen sat down on one of the stone blocks. The initial shock had already passed, but there was something more now. Something about this man. “Rythander–Lord Rythander?”

“Riel.”

This was good. By the law, the man and he were of the same rank along their different stations. At least, he showed no markings of seniority. Scarcity, however, could give a such a man privilege. This man’s face seemed to tug at Chawen’s mind, though. He had already known, somehow, that this man would not be arrogant. “Riel-I . . . I would be well pleased if you would accept my hospitality and remain with me here, in the chapel, for as long a time as you will stay in this small town. Though, of course, I do not wish to detain you from your journey if it is urgent.”

“I–”

Chawen had to explain. “I know there is greater comfort in your room at The Lion’s Pike, but if you are here for a day even, perhaps I might ask you of what matters bring you along this highway?”

“I–”

“I do not mean to intrude, of course. Though . . . if you might leave your rytha, and your other weapons, here in the chapel? I’m afraid my people are not accustomed to seeing weapons carried around so casually–they may be frightened. And . . . I’d like to ask that you tell no one who you are.”

Riel held up his hand, to stop any further interruption. “I am on my way to nowhere but this town . . .”

Chawen felt his face drain of blood.

“. . . And I will accept your hospitality, Father, though I may stay longer than you had thought when you made your offer. Indeed, I do not know yet how many days–or weeks-it will be before I leave. And I’m afraid I may require my sword, though the other weapons I will leave here with you, since you wish it. As for the rest, I agree.”

If Chawen’s face had been bloodless before, it was on fire now. It seemed like all of the blood from his body was pounding into his ears and beating at the center of his head. His hands were damp. His mind was racing. The way Riel’s eyes were steady and glinting, not at all like deep pits hiding vast amounts of wisdom, but like two immovable polished stones, was so terribly familiar. The way he moved so precisely . . . The accent . . . Details about Riel swirled around his head, trying to form into something half-remembered.

Riel watched Chawen sit unspeaking for a few moments, then pulled the door open. He paused in the threshold. “I’ll bring my things over from the inn now.” He waited for a response.

Chawen just stared at him. Images of night began attaching themselves to the man. Some cold night, many years ago. And there was a female presence, a strong female presence . . . Suddenly, like the snapping of a twig, a scene more clear than a painting appeared in Chawen’s mind. The place, the time, when he had seen Riel before. The significance of the man. He caught Riel’s hand against the door, holding him from leaving. His eyes searched Riel’s for some hint of affirmation. “SamEveya, is it you?”

 

 

End of Book One