Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  She reached out to take hold of him, but he pulled away from her and stumbled over to his tent, as if he was in a state of shock. Well, she wondered, what was all that about?

  A moment later her thought was echoed in words. ‘What was all that about?’ Davron asked, coming over to her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Are we having only one fire tonight?’

  ‘Fuel is scarce. From here on, there’s hardly any trees. But I don’t suppose I have to tell you that.’

  ‘No.’ She knew what lay on the other side of the Sponge: the Wide and then the Flow—ley line and river, running parallel. Somewhere the Snarled Fist, where four lines met and mingled. And then beyond, a land increasingly hostile and unmade.

  ‘I haven’t thanked you,’ he said. ‘For being here. For agreeing. For giving me hope.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she said, incurably honest. ‘At least, not in that sense. I was afraid of what you would do if I didn’t. I didn’t want another burden of guilt loaded on to my shoulders.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘I ran away from my dying mother. I left her when she needed me most because it suited my—my convenience. That’s hard to live with.’

  ‘Ah.’ He rubbed the back of his neck and the look he gave her was tinged with embarrassment. ‘You—you shouldn’t have felt that you could be responsible for what I might have done. My decisions have always been my own.’

  ‘Yes. And my mother’s decision to ask me to leave was hers, yet it makes no difference. The guilt is there. It always will be,’ she added simply. ‘It is something I am learning to live with and I had no wish to add to it.’

  He nodded and she had the impression that not only did he understand, but that he was reluctantly amused by it, as if what she said struck too personal a chord within him. She guessed he too knew what it was like to suffer from those insidious tendrils of guilt entwining themselves into one’s conscience. She sighed. ‘Davron, I don’t have the faintest clue of how to set about making a trompleri map. I don’t have ideas. I don’t know where to begin.’ This time she was very much aware that she had dropped the honorific ‘Master’. She was determined he was going to treat her as an equal, but found herself blushing anyway.

  He said, ‘We will introduce you to people who knew Deverli. And others who might have ideas. We’ll tell you the same things that we told him. He found the secret, so can you.’

  ‘Well, I hope you take better care of me than you did of him.’

  His lips twisted, but it was hardly a smile. ‘I’ll try. And—I’m sorry about your mother. I remember her. I met her several times. The first time I came to Kibbleberry, years ago, I remember that I noticed she had edged her petticoat with lacework. I saw it, peeping out from underneath her skirt. It impressed me that someone would go to all that trouble just to please themselves, and taunt Chantry in a way that only she knew about. I liked that. I thought her a woman of dignity and integrity.’

  Ornamentation was only for chantors, for the glory of Chantry, but Sheyli, for all her piety, had possessed a stubborn streak and she’d had a love of beautiful things. Davron was right, she had indeed been a woman of integrity, refusing ever to surrender that core of herself to the Rule. She looked up at the guide in wonderment; he could hardly have known Sheyli well, yet he’d sensed so much.

  ‘Hey, Keris—do you have some food for the fire?’ Scow called out. ‘We don’t have much fuel to keep this going.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ She left Davron and headed for her tent, wishing all the while that it did not matter to her that he was married. With children. But it did matter, and it was becoming increasingly hard for her to convince herself that he meant nothing to her.

  Infatuation, she thought, disgusted with herself. That’s all.

  But then she would remember the shame in his eyes and the way he drew on some inner resource to damp it down. She would recall the way he had grieved at Baraine’s defection and Quirk’s maiming. She would remember the turn of his head, the fluidity of the way he moved. She would remember the way he’d sensed her turmoil at Graval’s death, the way he had tried, not to comfort her, for he was not a man to offer platitudes, but to make her strong. There was even something intriguing about his hardness, something enticing in that obsidian blackness; there was something attractive, too, about the weakness within he strove to conceal, something fascinating about a man who blushed so easily and yet whose weapons of choice included a whip. He intrigued. He repelled. And something stirred inside her in response.

  And there was no way he could ever be for her.

  Oh, Creation, why is nothing simple any more?

  ~~~~~~~

  It was not easy to find a way through the Sponge. A chosen route could suddenly end in a blank wall or a dead end passage; or it would simply narrow down so much a horse couldn’t pass. In the soft blue light it was sometimes difficult to see the holes that suddenly opened up in the floor, or to make out the unevenness that snagged their feet. There were sills and nodules and humps and loops, all capable of catching unwary boots. And somewhere within were the Wild that made their nests and webs and dens and burrows there.

  They walked the animals and plodded on. Tousson tossed her head and banged her neck against Keris’s arm. ‘She doesn’t like it,’ Scow remarked. He was bringing up the rear, behind them.

  ‘No. I don’t blame her.’

  ‘Yes. Watch out here, it’s slippery. It’s wet for some reason.’

  She glanced ahead. In front Corrian was swearing because she’d bumped her head, Portron was talking to his palfrey trying to keep the nervous animal calm, and the Chameleon, now a pale blue to match his surroundings, was padding along with his animals, quiet and unobtrusive.

  Funny, she thought, how Quirk moves differently now that he’s the Chameleon. He walked softly, with a confidence that seemed innate, like an animal in its home territory. In company he might still agonise over what to say and he was certainly a dithering mess of nervous mannerisms, but at other times his camouflage seemed to cloak him with assurance as well as hiding him. His maiming had changed him in an unexpected way.

  She looked past him, and failed to see Davron and Meldor. They were hidden by the numerous twists and turns, but she knew which one of the two men led them. ‘Scow,’ she asked, ‘how does Meldor know his way?’

  The tainted man shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve never known him to get lost in here.’

  ‘I’m not worried.’ And she wasn’t. The blind man had that certain quality of leadership that made people feel secure in his company. Even Portron, with all his reservations, seemed to feel it. Charisma. Such men can be dangerous to humankind. And to Chantry.

  For most of the morning they had to walk in single file through the narrow confines of passages and linked chambers, and conversation was not always possible. Only when they stopped for lunch, in a section where the configurations of the Sponge forced the party to break up into twos and threes, was she able to talk to Scow again. She ended up sitting next to the unbound man in a hollowed-out chamber that was barely large enough for the two of them. Their mounts were crowded together in a wider passageway; the others were scattered in other chambers. It was then she asked a question that had been nagging at her, that shamed her to ask, but that she was unable to resist. ‘What is Davron’s wife like, Scow?’

  She thought he might dodge answering; instead his eyes softened. ‘Who told you he was married?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Ah.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Alyss. Alyss of Tower-and-Fleury. She was—is—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. No, perhaps beautiful is not the correct word. Lovely, that’s it. She is lovely. Moonlight and quicksilver. At least that’s what she was like when I first met her, before—before Davron’s trouble. Full of life, a woman who made you feel more vital just by coming within your range. Gentle, loving… Red hair, green eyes, fair skin and fine bones. A soft heart that hates to see pain or sufferin
g. She was there when Davron’s party found me, after my tainting. I’ll never forget looking up and seeing her bending over me like some sort of heavenly vision.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Back in the Fifth, I suppose. Davron does not speak of her any more, although he—he goes to the Fifth whenever he can.’

  And they were going to the Fifth now. Doubtless Davron would go and see her. Moonlight and quicksilver. She felt sick. No one would ever describe Keris Kaylen that way; more like pebbles and porridge, or something else equally commonplace and unattractive.

  Even the name sounded special: Alyss of Tower-and-Fleury. Damn her.

  Then Davron was there, towering over them both where they sat. ‘Scow, go talk to Meldor, will you?’ he asked quietly. ‘He’s worried about the weather.’ He waited until the unbound man had gone then added, ‘My wife is none of your business.’

  He had heard. He wasn’t angry; it was hurt she saw in his eyes, pain of memories that were almost too bad to endure, and that made it worse. She reddened and looked away. ‘Forgive me. Are we going on now?’ She gathered up the remains of her lunch and began to pack it away to avoid looking at him.

  ‘Yes. Meldor thinks it’s going to rain.’

  ‘It has been growing darker.’

  ‘Clouds,’ Meldor said, joining them with Scow in tow. ‘I’ve been smelling rain coming for some time. That could make things a lot worse.’

  She looked upwards. The domed roof immediately above her head was holed. Higher still, she could see more vaults and bridges, layered like some child’s haphazard effort to build something fabulous. It had an exotic beauty, a deep rich blue in the shadows, a paler translucent colour elsewhere, and none of it symmetrical or smooth.

  ‘Would rain come in?’ she asked.

  ‘The light does,’ Scow said.

  ‘The Wild are also closing in on us,’ Meldor added calmly. ‘I think we are going to have a rough afternoon.’

  Nobody said anything. There was little point.

  ~~~~~~~

  They heard the rain some time before they had other evidence of it, but eventually it filtered down in rivulets, wetting the floor and walls and making the footing twice as treacherous. The dulling of the light did not help either.

  ‘Sometimes I think this trip is jinxed,’ Scow muttered to Davron as he picked himself up after a nasty fall. ‘I can’t remember another that’s gone as badly as this one.’

  ‘Nonsense. Graval was the only jinx we had.’

  She reflected on that, and realised its truth. The pack that was lost, the torn tent, the lamed horse, the trouble they’d had from the Wild, the numerous other little pinpricks that had occurred to make life unpleasant—it could all have been the maliciousness of a Minion. He could even have called in the Wild to attack.

  A shudder ran up her spine. She was cold and scared. A smell in the air drew her on, something more than the stink of the Wild. She caught a hint of colour in the air, a pinkish glow that faded when she concentrated on it, but which she caught sight of out of the corner of her eye from time to time.

  The trickle became a torrent as the day wore on and more of the rain found its way into the Sponge. Sometimes they were wading knee deep, worried about stepping into a hole. Just as often they were drenched by water that gushed down chutes from above. They were chilled and wet and tired, and she fretted that her second pair of boots, now her only pair, would not hold up under the constant soaking. She walked with the aid of Piers’ staff, prodding at the floor in front of her when the water was deep, and took comfort from the thought that her father had probably used it for just that purpose on occasion. Gradually all thought of the Wild faded into the general misery. They trudged on, cursing.

  When the attack did come, it arrived with a vicious ferocity that caught them unawares. One minute they were just tired and irritable, the next they were besieged on all sides by a scurry of black beasts. Keris had an appalled glimpse of hairy arms and legs and thin bodies, of swinging animals and snapping teeth, then she was knocked aside by the horses. Ygraine and Tousson panicked, tore the reins free and were gone. She landed hard, cracking her head on a ridge of the floor, bruising her back on her quiver. There was no time to clear her ringing head. One of the black creatures leaped on her prone body from above. Vaguely human-shaped, it was the size of a thin five-year-old child.

  The thick stench of a Wild overwhelmed her. A wrinkled face with a mouth full of pointed teeth was inches from her own. Clawed hands pulled at her shirt. She tried to struggle up, gasping in horror, but unable to scream. The ink-black face moved away from her own to hover over her chest. With an oddly human grip, the hands tore her shirt open and she knew without the slightest doubt it was after her heart.

  She groped for her knife but couldn’t reach it. With her other hand she poked at the bright red eye that glared into her own, and won herself a moment’s respite. Still feeling for her knife, she found the knob of Pier’s staff instead. She jerked the other end of it into the animal’s midriff with a force she didn’t know she could muster, prone as she was. The Wild collapsed, retching, and she rolled out from underneath. Her staff thudded into the black head and the creature collapsed at her feet, suddenly small and insignificant. She dragged in breath, wondering how she had done it.

  There was no time for congratulations. She was leaning back against the wall and water was cascading over her face and shoulders, blinding her, but she could see that she was surrounded. A circle of five or six of the same black creatures closed in on her, snarling. Several of them were climbing down from above, taking their time. She couldn’t kill all with a staff, or even a knife. Her bow, unstrung because of the damp, was strapped to her pack on Tousson and the crossings-horses were long gone.

  Davron crouched in the doorway. His clothing was ripped and a ragged gash scored an arm. He had his whip, yet the beasts ignored him. When he kicked one of them, snapping its back with the power behind his boot, when he lashed at another, opening up a deep cut on its neck, the others simply moved away and closed in on Keris instead. She thought, They know him by the sigil he wears, and felt her old anger at him well up. He plunged in among the Wild, whipping at them, the lash shredding their flesh. They dodged away to make forays at her instead, to slash at her with claws and teeth even as she tried to ward them off with her staff.

  Davron had no knives and using the whip in such a confined space was difficult. She caught glimpses of his face as he whirled among the creatures, and recognised the desperation there.

  Then those above dropped towards her, snarling.

  She screamed then, thinking herself only the rip of a claw away from death. And the room erupted with sparks and colour and power. Ley, she thought, and was slammed back into the wall. Power. It was like the force of the wind, but the air was still. The breath was driven from her body, yet nothing touched her. Around her the Wild folded up into pathetic heaps of skinny limbs and skull-like heads. They were shrunken, as if life itself possessed dimension and it had been sucked from them, leaving only a husk behind.

  Gasping in air, she pushed herself away from the wall. Davron was lying prone in the middle of the chamber. Face down, whip still in his hand. And all the Wild were dead.

  She had no idea what had happened.

  Groping for her knife, she glanced around. There was no sign of anyone else, no movement of any other Wild. She could have been the only living thing left inside the Sponge. The silence was appalling and served only to etch deeper her memory of what had gone before, sounds that had barely registered at the time. Corrian shrieking obscenities, Meldor yelling at someone to run, the scream of horses, the snarl of beasts, the grunts and thumps and thuds… Now there was only the sound of running water.

  She knelt at Davron’s side, fearing the worst, not wanting to know if whatever had killed the Wild had also killed him. Knowing it would be better for everyone if he was dead. Wanting it so—and knowing that if it was, it would be more than she could bear.
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  She went to roll him over on to his back and then paused. There was a vibration coming to her through the floor of the Sponge. A thundering of hoofs. A snorting sound— She whirled to her feet to meet this new attack, and saw the last thing she had expected. It was Stockwood, Scow’s enormous tainted mount. The beast was out of control, gasping and dribbling, swinging its vast head and knife-edged horns, pounding through the tunnels of the Sponge in an agony of mindless fear. Several of the black creatures were clinging to its back, biting into its hide.

  And it was heading straight for her.

  There was nothing she could do for Davron. There was no time for anything, no space to fling herself where she would be safe from those swinging horns…

  She ran.

  And Stockwood thundered after her. His huge feet trampled Davron, but that did not slow him. The horns were a bare few inches from her back and she ran as she had never run before. There was no time to duck into a side passage—she never even saw one until they were past—she just ran and ran. Behind her the crazed animal pounded on her heels. When passages opened up in front of her, when both she and the animal were presented with a choice, it followed her. One of the Wild fell off and was crushed beneath the hoofs; the other was brushed off in a narrow archway, but still Stockwood careened from one side to the other, scraping the walls.

  She was terrified of slipping, of falling beneath those huge hoofs with their immense iron shoes… A gap opened up in the floor in front of her; she took it at a flying leap. Stockwood followed, heaving his bulk after her. The edge crumbled under him, but he recovered and was soon on her heels once more. Her breath laboured. She felt the tip of one of the horns against her buttock and sped up, knowing she could not last much longer.

  What a stupid way to die.

  And then an arm came out of nowhere and snatched her sideways, pulling her through a narrow hole in the wall and into the safety beyond. Stockwood blundered straight on and the sound of his charge faded into the distance.