“Very good,” Neirin said. “You are most valuable to us. I would not have any harm befall you.” He turned back to the map Katharine was showing him.
“My lord, Six saved my life. I would repay him by cutting his bonds.”
“No.”
“But my lord, they cut at him.”
“That is what bonds do.”
“It is a poor thing to leave an act of heroism unrewarded.”
Neirin met his eye again, cold and angry. “Do you not think he performed that act precisely so you would ask this of me?”
“I do.” He surprised himself. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have answered that.
“Then why should we reward him for a selfish act?”
“Because why he saved my life is irrelevant. The truth is in his deeds, not in his thoughts.”
That stopped Neirin. His eyes warmed and he nodded. “Your friend is a wise one, Katharine.”
She didn’t look up. She didn’t reply. She just stared at the map. She had obviously remembered her anger. She never could let go. Why must she hold onto things for so long?
“The truth is, Master Rymour, that I cannot trust this Westerner and therefore I cannot release him. What if he tries to hurt one of us? What if he tries to escape?”
“Then at least tie him with something more comfortable.”
Neirin thought for a moment. “Very well.” He waved a hand. “Siomi, bind our prisoner with something more comfortable.”
Siomi pulled a scarf from her bags. Silk, maybe. Tom followed her to the Westerner, who held out his hands and waited while Siomi cut the rope away with her knife. The skin beneath it was red raw, ugly against his golden skin. He winced as she retied his wrists with the scarf.
“You are a compassionate one, Thomas Rymour,” she said as she finished her knot.
“It seemed unjust,” he said.
“Being a prisoner at all is unjust,” Six said, but Siomi ignored him.
“Be careful, Tom.” She finished her work and met his eye. The brilliant blue spoke of genuine concern. “Too much compassion can land you in a lot of trouble.”
She returned to Neirin and Six offered him a smile.
“Better?” Tom asked.
“Better.”
“Sorry I can’t do more.”
Six shrugged. “I’m an exile, Tom. What does it matter if I’m here, there, free or bound?”
Tom thought he understood. When you’re not where you belong, everything is a punishment. “Is there any chance you could go back?”
“No.”
It was so blunt, so harsh, that it felt almost like an attack. Like the idea of going back was ludicrous. That Tom was a fool for thinking he could go back to Faerie. Six took a deep breath and sighed, looking out over the poppies. “My father always said you had to take home with you. Because if you went back to what you thought was home, you’d find it grown too small and you didn’t fit in it anymore.” Tom watched his tattoo move as he spoke. It was a sharp, ugly thing. “I worry that I’ve been an exile too long. That the Kingdom will be too small for me.”
“You know that’s where they’re heading,” Tom said with a smile.
“They?” Six turned back with a smile of his own. “Not we?”
Damn. This elf was too smart. Or was Tom too stupid? “Slip of the tongue.” Change the subject. “Perhaps you could find a new home somewhere?”
“You didn’t.” Six turned his gaze on Tom. “You came back to Tir but you never found a home, did you?”
That was true. But Tir had never been his home. Not really. It couldn’t be, after Faerie. The petty things were taken too seriously in Tir and the serious things were ignored. In that, at least, the fay were sensible.
“So what are you doing here, Tom?” Six asked. “Just letting others drive your life for you? Or do you have an agenda of your own?”
Tom wanted to answer. He felt a kinship with the elf, a sense that they were both lost in a foreign land. But something held him back. What if Six tried to stop him? What if he told the others? Katharine would be, what? Angry? Disappointed? Upset?
Six nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I’m not sure either.”
Not sure? Did Six have a plan of his own? Suddenly Tom was glad he had stayed quiet. It was hard to trust someone whose motives you didn’t understand.
“Maybe I am trying to get back to the Kingdom,” he said. “Maybe, in my heart of hearts, I still love it despite what Idris did to me.”
Tom opened his mouth to ask, but Neirin called for him before he could speak. “Master Rymour, a word if you please.”
He nodded to Six and left him staring into the west.
Neirin acknowledged him with a nod, but his look was suspicious. “Katharine has identified where we are.” He pointed at the map. His finger rested on the word ‘Cairnacei’, cradled by trees from the Whispering Woods. “We were fortunate. One wrong turn and we’d still be in there.”
And the trees would have killed them. Tom had no doubts about it. He imagined himself, Neirin, Katharine and the others buried in roots, the trees draining them until they were dry husks. The thought made him shudder.
“Where is the entrance to Faerie?” Neirin asked.
Tom pointed to an island in the Lannad Sea. “Here, I believe,” he said. “Gwedar. The Isle of Glass.”
Neirin nodded. “How accurate is this map?”
“On land you’ll find no better,” said Katharine. “But at sea? It’s not a chart.”
“So this island could be anywhere?”
“Not anywhere.” Katharine would have taken offence at that. Today she seemed to ignore it. “But I don’t know the precise location.”
“So we will need sailors.” Neirin nodded, as if she had confirmed something he’d known all along.
“Experienced ones.” Katharine stared at the map, tense as if the paper might attack at any moment. “I’ve heard the Lannad Sea can be rough. Dangerous. Storms that last for days, waves that can overturn too small a ship.”
“Heard?” It was a question and a challenge.
She looked away, then back at Neirin, chin forward. “I’ve yet to cross the Sea myself.”
Neirin frowned. “Not once?”
She said nothing, and Tom expected Neirin to question or maybe scorn her. He looked like he might. But something in her defiant stare must have quashed that idea, because instead he said, “What do we do?”
Tom could see Katharine was trying to hide relief.
“We need to head to Cairnalyr.” She looked back at the map, running a finger up and down the coast. “There are a few villages on the coast between here and there, but they’re fishing villages. They won’t have anything like the ship or the crew we need.”
“Cairnalyr.” Neirin nodded. “Very good. Let’s get moving.”
“Shouldn’t we rest?” Tom asked. It stopped the pair of them, as if they’d forgotten he could speak. “We’re working the horses hard. And I’m exhausted.”
Neirin didn’t seem happy to be questioned. “I thought urgency was paramount, Master Rymour?” His voice was low and cold.
“It is,” he confessed.
“We’ve shaved weeks off the journey,” said Katharine, not as grudgingly as Tom would have expected. “And he’s right about the horses.”
“They are Withed stock,” Neirin said. “The finest the Marches can offer. I did not pay so much to tiptoe around them.”
“Of course not, my lord.” Siomi stepped into the conversation, voice low and soothing. “I believe our friends are only suggesting the horses performed impressive feats worthy of your investment.”
Neirin nodded. “They are fine horses and they have done well.”
“And you have rewarded our prisoner for good work.”
“I have,” said Neirin. “Yes. It is only fair we extend our courtesy to the beasts that bore us to safety.”
“As you will, my lord.”
And it was done. They fed, watered and tethered the hors
es, then they lay down and slept the perfect, dreamless sleep of the exhausted.
Tom woke with the sun barely up and Katharine sitting next to him.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning.” She watched him sit up, her face revealing nothing. Had she come to berate him some more? To make peace?
“I’m sorry,” she said. The latter then.
“I’m sorry too.” He meant it now. “We shouldn’t have gone through the Woods. I was in too much of a rush.”
“No. I mean yes, maybe you’re right. But that’s not what I was talking about.”
He waited. She seemed to take a while to marshal her strength. Then in a desperate rush she said, “You almost died.”
He nodded. “Six saved me.”
“But I didn’t.” She looked guilty. It was a new look for her. She was always so confident and sure.
“Is that why you’re sorry?”
She nodded. “I froze. I was so scared and when we finally got out I couldn’t bring myself to go back in.”
“I understand,” he said. “I don’t think it’s your fault. There was strong magic in there. It was probably trying to stop you.”
“But it didn’t stop Six.”
“I think he’s used to magic.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“You don’t need to be.”
She smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Thomas Rymour.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree.”
“Modest, too.”
Her expression was too intimate and she felt too close. He climbed to his feet to gain some space.
Six was standing too, stretching as best he could with his wrists tied. The Easterners, however, were all lying flat on their backs, arms crossed over their chests. They lay in the same direction, all with their feet pointing to the west and heads to the east. At first Tom thought they might be sleeping but then he noticed all of their lips were moving. They were whispering to themselves.
“What are they doing?”
“Praying,” said Katharine.
“Praying?”
“A request. An appeal of sorts, to Angau,” Katharine said. “They do it every morning.”
They watched the elfs for a few minutes. Neirin’s face was calm, almost detached. Draig seemed to be praying hard, his lips carefully and forcefully pronouncing each word. Siomi and Brega still wore their veils, the cloth shifting and moving over their mouths.
“Who’s Angau?” Tom asked.
“Their name for Emyr. It means ‘The Reaper’ in their language.”
The Reaper. More death. The Easterners seemed to be obsessed with it.
“Tom, Katharine.” Six gestured and they turned to see three horsemen approaching them.
Katharine cursed. “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.
“They mean trouble.”
“How do you know?”
“They approached quietly and there’s nothing here. Probably bandits.”
It was hard to see the riders at this distance. But they didn’t look like bandits. Tom imagined bandits to be dashing figures, stylish beards and fine clothes. Gentlemen highwaymen from the stories he’d heard as a child. These men looked rough and dirty.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Katharine shot him a look that said she was. And he ought not to question her, especially after the Whispering Woods.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“Show of force.” She walked to her horse and pulled out her short swords. They were more like long daggers, no longer from point to pommel than her arm, and he knew she carried them more for show than for use. Reputation again.
“I’ll wake the elfs,” Tom said.
“They won’t get up,” she replied.
“What?”
“They won’t interrupt their prayers for anything.” Her blades shone bright in the morning light.
“Not even for the risk of dying?”
“Especially not that.” Six wore a grim smile as he stepped into the Easterner’s midst. “They believe the best time to die is in the middle of prayer.”
“And what about us?” Tom couldn’t believe they would lie there and listen to them die.
“What about us?” There was too much bitterness in Six’s voice and the smile was replaced with a grimace. He glowered down at Brega for a moment, then drew her scimitar. A flip of the blade and his bonds were cut. For a moment Tom thought Six meant to kill the Easterners first, but he drew Draig’s sword and tossed it to Tom. Tom jumped back and let it fall to the ground. He wasn’t adept enough to avoid catching the wrong end.
The riders were closer now. One wore a topknot of horseman fashion, the other a thin and elegant beard. The first of them was beardless, his smile oily and unpleasant. “Good day,” he called.
“I’ll do the talking,” said Katharine and Tom was more than happy to agree. He picked up the scimitar, alien and heavy in his hands. There was a degree of artsmanship to it, but it was clearly one of many. The pommel and guard were undecorated, the blade itself plain. Its curve made it seem like it was made for chopping, like its bearer saw foes as trees to be cut down. He didn’t want to do this.
“Good morrow, gentlemen.” Katharine’s voice was empty of emotion, her hands full of blades.
Oily’s smile grew broader, revealing missing teeth. Common in Tom’s time, but not so much these days. “Good morrow to you too, good woman. Looks to be a fine day.”
“State your business.”
Oily put on mock hurt. “So cold. Can we not ex-change pleasantries like civilised men?”
“I’m a woman,” she said. “And the pleasantries are over. State your business.”
Tom wondered if her attitude would antagonise these men. Tom did not fancy their chances if it came to a fight; he could see swords and daggers and bows carried openly, in the way of men who are ready to use them.
Topknot leered from the saddle. “Our business is with Regent now. Got ourselves a reward to collect, I re-ckon.”
“Indeed,” said Oily, looking at Tom. “As I said, a very fine day indeed.”
“It seems you think you know us,” Katharine said. “You don’t.”
“Is that so?” Oily didn’t shift his gaze. It made Tom feel like he was being weighed and measured, like a butcher examining a pig. “Well our village received a bird from Cairnagan. Reckon so did a lot of places hereabouts. Came with a message saying some elfs had made off with one of Regent’s men. The famous Thomas Rymour. Said there might be a woman with them too. You telling me that was a different band of elfs?”
“I am.”
Oily nodded then flicked a hand. The bearded man lifted a bow and drew an arrow. “What do you say?” Oily said to Tom. “Are you Thomas Rymour?”
Tom’s mind scrabbled for something to say. He couldn’t lie. But telling the truth could send him back to Regent. At best. What could he say? How could he answer such a straight question?
“It’s a simple answer,” Oily said.
He thought of something. “Thomas Rymour was born a hundred years ago,” he said. “I don’t look that old, do I?” He tried to sound relaxed and indifferent. The sword was getting heavy so he rested the flat of it on his shoulder.
Oily flicked a hand again, this time towards Katharine, and Bearded nocked and drew the arrow, the head carefully aimed at her chest. “A yes or a no, please. Or the pretty lady might get hurt.”
Tom looked between the arrow and Katharine. He tried not to imagine what would happen if she was shot. “She’s going to get hurt anyway, isn’t she?” he asked. He thought of his foresight, his hands covered in blood and her face a mask of pain.
“This is folly,” she said. She kept her eyes on Oily, refusing to look at the arrow. But her expression was set, grim. She knew this wasn’t going to end well. “We outnumber you. Leave now and no-one will get hurt.”
“My count is even,” Oily replied. “Three of us and three of you. One of you can’t hold a sword properly.” He g
rinned at Tom, who blushed. Tom looked at Six, who held his sword in a loose, ready grip, point resting on the ground. He copied the elf’s stance and Oily chuckled. “We’ll deal with you while the elfs pray. Then we’ll slit their throats before they finish.”
Tom imagined them lying there, throats open. He could imagine Neirin looking pleased and his stomach turned.
“So you would slaughter Easterners? Provoke a war between Erhenned and the Angles?”
Oily’s face darkened. “And then we’ll teach you a woman’s mouth isn’t for questions and attitude.”
Topknot leered again.
“I won’t let you touch her.” Tom spoke before he realised what he was saying. His chest tightened with anger at the thought of that animal being anywhere near her.
“How gallant. Tell me if you’re Thomas Rymour, little man, or the lady gets touched by more wood than my own.” He nodded at Bearded, still holding a steady aim. “His fingers slip sometimes.”
Tom tried to think of something. A clever line. A dishonest truth. A plan or an escape. But he had nothing. “I am,” he said.
“Good.” Oily grinned. “Take them.”
Chapter 8
Bearded shifted his aim to Six and in that moment Katharine threw one of her swords. It was a poor throw but it distracted him and the arrow flew wide. Meanwhile Oily and Topknot jumped from their saddles. Oily went for Katharine while Topknot chose Tom.
Topknot hefted an axe, light and short. He tossed it from hand to hand and Tom had an image in his mind of it being thrown. So, despite what his legs were telling him to do, he moved closer. Topknot kept his distance but Tom pursued him across the field. Topknot kept making feints at Tom, jabbing the axe at him or lifting his hand as if to throw it. So he did mean to throw it. Tom kept his blade high, covering his face and chest.
But he had no idea what to do. Should he wait for the throw and then attack when the other man was unarmed? Or should he attack now? He tried to focus but kept imagining the axe hitting him, blade cutting through meat and bone. His heart hammered and his palms grew sweaty. He didn’t want the bandit to know he was afraid but he had to wipe his palms on his tunic. Topknot grinned.
He couldn’t do this. He was no swordsman. He tried to think of a way out of this. Something he could do or say to save himself from getting chopped to pieces.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 12