The Fall of Neskaya

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  It would be all right; she would find the road and on it would be a travel shelter, with wood and tinder and dry blankets, maybe some food. And then, Thendara and her uncle’s castle. A blaze in the enormous marble fireplace in the central hall. Hot spiced wine, meat pastries, spice cakes. A down comforter with a heating brick at her feet, no, two comforters, and a mound of pillows. . . .

  Within a few minutes, her body felt soft and heavy. Her thoughts drifted, slower and sleepier with each passing breath.

  A tenday later, Taniquel found a road. She had long since finished her own food and the last of the horse’s grain, soaked overnight in a rain-filled rocky cup and chewed slowly. Fernheads and dry, over-wintered wild lady-apples had furnished several meager dinners, although she dared not spare the time to gather the more nutritious nuts. The road wasn’t much, a slender thread of beaten-down earth cleared of stones, winding through the steepening hills. She went dizzy with relief.

  The horse, which had grown visibly gaunt during the journey, stepped on to the road with a heaving sigh. It walked gingerly, head bobbing with the rhythm of its stride, one ear cocked back toward her. No wonder it was footsore, with the rocky terrain of the past few days. She patted its neck and urged it from that leisurely amble into a more animated walk.

  The road ran east and west, not north and south as she expected. It might be one of the many uncharted trails which ran all through these hills. She made the best decision of which direction to take, telling herself that eventually it must join the main road to Thendara. It looked like it had enough usage so there would be travel shelters, stocked with firewood and trail food, at regular intervals.

  The weather had been unseasonably clear since that first night, so much so that she had thought once or twice of the dangers of a Ghost Wind. At midmorning, however, the air temperature dropped and dark-bellied clouds rose beyond the far line of hills.

  Snow weather. Shivering, she pulled the cloak around her shoulders and prayed the travel shelter was not too far.

  Taniquel pulled the horse to a stop, wind lashing her hair to icy threads. Her cloak was already crusted with tiny pellets of ice and half-frozen rain. White and gray masked her vision. Only the horse’s instinct had held them to the road. Moving stiffly, she slid to the ground and slipped the reins over its head. Frozen breath edged the curved nostrils. She tried to speak encouragingly, but her throat closed around the words. When the horse walked on, she followed gratefully, keeping to the shelter of its body.

  As she went on, Taniquel began to feel less cold. The pain in her feet and fingers subsided. A curious languor suffused her, all sense of urgency gone. She must not stop, she knew this, although it made less and less sense to go on. There was no hurry, and she was tired. Surely she could sit down—the snow was not so cold—

  Taniquel knew what the numbness in her hands and feet meant. The longer she struggled on, the more powerful would become the longing to rest, to lie down, to never get up again. For the sake of her unborn son, she must not let that happen.

  She could not go on like this, in the lashing storm, unable to see more than a few feet of trail in front of her. The gray-white of the sky was already darkening with the coming night.

  Taniquel stumbled on a rock and caught herself on the stirrup, leaning into the horse. Shelter—she must find shelter. She’d heard of men wrapping themselves in blankets against the bodies of their horses, but she did not know how to make the horse lie down. A cliff face with an overhang, even a tree—something to cut the wind and give some measure of dryness—

  She peered through the driving sleet, but could make out no details of the landscape. To search, she must leave the trail. What if she could not find it again? At least, it held some hope of reaching a safer place.

  Blessed Cassilda, help me!

  Taniquel repeated the words like a silent chant. Help me . . . Help me . . . Each syllable formed a step and then another. Time lost all meaning in the sameness of the icy snow and wind, moving each foot in turn.

  Gradually, the last light seeped from the blowing whiteness. The horse stopped, bringing her up short. Without forward momentum, her legs gave way under her. The stirrup slid from between her numb fingers. She found herself sprawled in a graceless jumble with no idea how she got there.

  Knees first. Get up on your knees.

  Her legs would not move. For an awful moment, she thought she had broken one of them, but it was simply that she lacked the strength.

  Then I must find it somehow.

  With an effort, she rocked forward, taking her weight on her hands. The icy crust of the snow slashed her skin, drawing blood, although she felt no pain. Taking a deep breath that shivered all through her chest, she brought one foot forward. She was able to brace herself on that knee, push off the ground, and reach up for the stirrup. The horse, miraculous beast, stood firm as she pulled herself up to stand panting.

  She clucked to the horse, indicating it should walk on. For an awful moment, it just stood there, recalcitrant beast, with head lowered and tail clamped to its rump. Then with another of those heaving sighs, it ambled forward.

  How long she went on like that, Taniquel could never tell. Often it seemed that the horse was dragging her forward. Once or twice, she jerked awake, suddenly aware that time had gone by without her knowing it. Was it possible to sleep while walking? She didn’t know.

  At last, the horse came to a halt. She released the stirrup and continued a few paces. The wind had died down and the sleet ended, so that only an occasional dusting of snow fell. The air felt warmer, although she could not trust that. The horse had led her along the lowest part of a series of jagged hills, following a dry riverbed. On this side, a long featureless slope lay buried under snow and ice. Ten feet or so below her, a stream churned and bubbled.

  Worse yet, there was not the slightest trace of a trail.

  Taniquel had no idea how long ago she’d left it. With the sky a uniform overcast, she could not have told east from west from Zandru’s coldest hell. At least she could make out the hills on the far side. Some distance upstream, the smooth contours fractured into jagged shapes, mounds and fingers of stone which promised some sort of shelter if she could get across the stream.

  She gathered up the reins and led the horse, now clearly reluctant, down to the water. It was deeper and wider than she’d first thought. A well-trained horse, given enough room to make a balanced jump, might clear it, but not this horse and not on this ice-slick bank. Perhaps farther upstream . . .

  Taniquel had to pick her way around piles of deadfall wood to follow the stream. It seemed to take forever to advance only a short distance. But as she went on, the opposite hill looked even more promising. In the gathering dusk, the face of one promontory looked as if it well might have a cave, or at least a deep crevice.

  The rocky bank forced her away from the stream and the horse balked at stepping over a fallen tree. Briefly, she considered crawling under the trunk and curling up there for the night, but the ground was soaked by a rivulet. The horse at last yielded to her coaxing and stepped, one high-raised foot at a time, over the barrier.

  By the time she got the horse down to the stream again, the shadows had melted into gloom. If she did not get across here, it would soon be too dark. She picked the stretch of water which seemed the least turbulent, the shallowest.

  It took her two tries to haul herself on the horse’s back. The saddle leather felt icy against her legs. The horse lowered its head to smell the water, then hunched its back. When she nudged it with her heels, she felt the muscles of its body tense in refusal.

  “No! Not now!” she wailed, and then took hold of herself as well as the reins. “You idiot horse! Don’t you dare!” she yelled, then clapped her heels against its ribs.

  The horse flinched sideways, then set itself again.

  “Get yourself over there, you walking banshee-fodder! Or I swear, you’ll regret it!” She gave it another kick, this time as hard as she could muster.

/>   The horse grunted, took a step forward, then threw its head up and shuffled backward.

  Screaming curses, Taniquel reached forward and cuffed the horse on the side of its raised head, by its ear. The horse went whuff! in surprise and turned away from the blow. She tightened the rein on that side, pulling its head to its shoulder, and gave the horse another kick. Startled, the beast jumped, turning tightly around itself. She kept cursing, kept kicking it.

  Five or six tiny circles later, Taniquel released the rein and pointed the horse straight at the stream. Without hesitation, it stepped into the water. She felt unhappiness through every fiber of its old, tired body, for horses resist stepping where they cannot see. The horse staggered, as if the footing beneath had slipped, and as quickly regained its balance. The water rose foaming to its knees.

  Without warning, the horse went down, dumping Taniquel into the icy water. The shock of the cold stopped her breath. The current rolled her over and over. Everywhere she saw roiling dark. She flailed with her arms, searching for the surface. Her feet found something hard and she kicked out. Slipped on river-weed. Kicked again. The toes of one foot caught, wedged in between two rocks.

  The water pounded against her, dragged her down. Frozen fire seared her lungs. The muscles of her thighs screamed in agony.

  Her head burst through to the air.

  Gasping, sputtering, Taniquel fought her way to standing. The currents surged around her hips. Beside her, the horse flailed and heaved itself to standing. She lost her footing and went down again.

  This time, she had a better idea of what to expect. She didn’t try to stand, but crouched with her head and shoulders just above the surface, moving her arms as if swimming.

  The horse began to move off, toward the far shore. She hurled herself at it. As she leaped, her feet went out from under her. The current slammed into her body. Against all hope, she reached out as far as she could. Her hands curled around the horse’s tail. She knotted her fingers through the coarse hairs. The horse took no notice of her, but kept going.

  Once on the rocky bank, she tried to let go, but found her fingers stiffened and bound by the tail hairs. “Whoa! Whoa, there!” Thanks to whatever god was in charge of horse brains that day, the beast stopped after dragging her only a few feet.

  Somehow, she got her fingers loose from the horse’s tail. Half-frozen water drenched every bit of clothing, from her cloak to her boots. Shivers seized her, wave after wave of them, shaking the marrow of her bones and rattling her teeth.

  If I die out here, my son dies with me.

  She had to find shelter very soon, had to get going while she still had the strength. She tried to pick up the reins, but her hands were shaking too badly to hold them.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, given the falling dusk and the uncertain rocky footing, Taniquel headed for the nearest of the outcroppings. The horse shook itself vigorously and trailed after her.

  The rocky mound was farther than it had first appeared or perhaps she was moving more slowly. It receded before her, like a fevered dream. Taniquel trudged on, head lowered, shoulders drawn up against the cold. Her hair dripped on to her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe away the droplets. Several times she slipped and came down hard on her knees, then laboriously clambered up and kept going. Even her thoughts turned numb. Once, she glanced up and caught a sliver of orange light. But when she looked again, a few minutes later, it was gone, a will-o’-the-wisp born of her own desperation.

  More than once, she felt herself at the very end of her strength. Her shivers had begun to subside, and dimly she realized that meant exhaustion. Grimly, she kept climbing, kept hauling herself up every time she fell. She no longer knew or cared if the horse still followed her.

  Then came the moment when, shadowed against the darkened hillside, the mound of rock loomed larger than ever. Its corners took on a squared appearance. Taniquel had no energy to spare for hope. She lowered her head and kept on going.

  But as she came on to the smoother, more level approach, she saw that it was a building, and that what had seemed to be a hump to one side was a shed. From it came the nicker of a horse. Her own mount pushed past her, ears pricked.

  She made out the rough shape of a door and windows, with streaks of yellow-orange light peeking through the closed shutters.

  A dream. It must be a dream.

  Warmth. Life.

  She placed both hands, quivering now with emotion as well as cold, on the wooden door latch. The door swung open. Heat and light bathed her face. She stepped up on the rough-hewn threshold, hardly daring to believe her eyes.

  Like the shelters on Acosta land, this one was a single-roomed stone structure lined with storage bins and beds—wooden frames with some kind of pallet, probably straw. One had been made up with blankets. A fire, small but merry, danced in the fireplace. A black-iron pot sent forth the smell of stewed meat and herbs. A metal trail bowl and spoon had been laid out on the hearth.

  I am either dead or dreaming.

  Taniquel unclasped her cloak, leaving it in a sodden heap just inside the door, and rushed to the fireplace. She knelt, holding out her hands. Her fingers burned and tingled. The heat felt wonderful on her face.

  With the spoon, she ladled out a portion of stew and began to eat. The meat, some kind of jerky which had been soaked and then simmered, was still tough. She didn’t bother chewing, just gulped down the chunks. The hot liquid filled her stomach, warming her from within.

  She would lay her clothes out on the hearth to dry, keeping them well away from any stray spark. The blankets would make a warm wrapping. She could rest here for a day or two, for surely there would be more food, as well as fodder for the horse. . . .

  With a click of the latch, the door swung open and then caught on the rumpled cloak. Taniquel swung around to see a figure in a hooded riding-length cape standing framed in the doorway. For a terrifying instant, she thought the ghostly laranzu from Ambervale had followed her. But the cape was forest green, not gray.

  The man pushed back his hood as he stepped forward. Taniquel’s first impression was of gray eyes filled with light, a halo of unruly copper-bright hair, an expression of deep concern.

  “Praise Aldones, you’re safe,” he said. “I thought I’d never find you.”

  Sweet heavens, he thinks I’m someone else.

  The thought slipped away as the room went sideways, vision dimmed, and her legs gave way beneath her.

  18

  Coryn rushed forward and caught the woman in his arms before she hit the floor. Even soaking wet, she was surprisingly light, as if all her substance had blazed forth in her eyes, leaving nothing but a delicate shell. As he laid her on the bed, he looked into her face. The firelight touched but did not mask the porcelain translucency of her skin, the masses of midnight-black hair, the sweep of the lashes over deep circles like bruises.

  She had called to him in his sleep for two nights now, her voice a song that went beyond pain, beyond longing, beyond courage. He had heard her sobbing in his dreams with a poignancy and power that shook him to the core. And now he held her in his arms, a girl not yet out of her teens.

  He shook himself back to practical reality. Her fingers and face were half-frozen. Whispering that he meant her no harm, he gently pulled off her boots and sodden socks with holes worn in the heels. The dress was more difficult, but he knew from his early training as a monitor that she must be dry to be warm. Her skin felt icy. He dried her with the extra shirt from his pack, soft thick chervine-kid wool, and wrapped her in the blankets, laying his own cape over them.

  She had not awakened by the time he’d seen to her horse and finished his dinner. Her skin felt no warmer and her breathing was quick and shallow. If she had been any of the Tower women, he would not have hesitated to do what must come next. But she was a stranger, not used to the closeness of Tower living. Moreover, she was clearly well-born, and just as clearly hunted and desperate. He had seen the look of terror in her eyes. He pulled off his
own clothes and slipped between the blankets next to her. If she survived the night, he told himself, she could berate him all she liked.

  The cold of her body sent Coryn’s heart pounding and caught his breath in his throat. He settled in behind her, fitting his legs behind hers as he wrapped her in his arms. She smelled of snow and wet wool and some sweet herb. Lessons in body control came back to him, how to deepen his breathing, to generate more heat. The cristoforos developed techniques of staying warm through the terrible winters at Nevarsin, and the workers at Tramontana, where it also got very cold, had adopted some of them for use during long nights of work with little movement. He visualized the core of his body as a furnace with the flames leaping ever higher. Within minutes, the warmth from his own body enveloped both of them. The woman’s muscles softened, she gave a little sigh, and sank into a deeper sleep.

  Coryn woke just before dawn, as had been his habit on the trail. Outside, his horse stamped restlessly in the shed. The woman still slept, snoring lightly. Her hair had dried into an ebony tangle. He slipped out from under the blankets and into his own clothes. After adding more wood to the banked coals, he attended to the horses. In the gray light, he saw that the greedy beasts had made short work of last night’s feed. He left them placidly munching on breakfast. The girl’s horse was in poor shape, so he gave it a double portion of grain and covered it with his own mount’s blanket.

  The rising sun showed more storm clouds from the north, enough to keep both of them pinned here for days. He filled a bucket with snow for meltwater and went back to the shelter.

  “Stop right there!” The woman sat up, blankets clutched to her chest and eyes blazing. “What happened to my clothes?”

  Coryn put the bucket down and pointed to the hearth, where he’d spread them out to dry. “They’re still damp. You’ll be better off as you are.”

  “I have more, tied to my saddle.”

  He shook his head and took a step toward his own pack.