by Ru Emerson
“I—no one else is coming.” Ylia swallowed, reached to take the tiny soft hand in both her own small hands. “We are all that remain, we here.” Silence. “I am sorry, Malaeth.”
The old nurse shook her head violently and tears flew. “I knew it. I felt it—what she did. No.” She fumbled at her girdle for one of her bits of fine-broidered linen, dabbed at her face. “No, do not be sorry; not for me.”
Ylia patted her hands helplessly. She who had been nurse to the Queen since her birth, forty or more years ago in distant Yls, what could anyone say to her? But there was more she must know. Ylia took a deep breath, plunged on. “We seek Aresada, Malaeth, those of us left. With luck we will find other survivors, perhaps from Teshmor but certainly from the Western farms and herding villages. We must travel within the mountains, though, for safety from the barbarians.” The old woman's eyes went wide. “We cannot attempt Yls; it is nearly 180 leagues to Yslar, across the highest of the mountains; and we are afoot and poorly clad. It is perhaps a third as far to the Caves.” Silence. The old nurse continued to stare at her horrified. “I wish we had another choice, and I cannot command you, Malaeth. But—”
“No. I served your mother, and I now serve you.” Malaeth's voice trembled, but her hand was steady as she touched her forehead in the Ylsan sign of service. “Even if our path lay through the Tehlatt themselves. And someday,” she added, a more normal tartness edging her words as she eyed her charge critically, “someday you will cease trying to ape the Swordmaster and realize you are a woman.” She shook her head grimly, the moment's fears forgotten in old argument. “You need me, child. You cannot travel with men unprotected; I will not have it!”
Ylia smothered a sigh. “Malaeth, I do not forget what I am. Lady of Nedao, Scythia's daughter, she of the Second House of the AEldra. Wielder of the AEldra Power, however poorly I inherited it from her. But also Brandt's daughter. And swordswoman!
“The Power is no real protection for me, Malaeth, you know that. And Father put little faith in such things, you know that, too; he trusted to those strengths he could see. Think if I had not had my sword, and the arm to wield it, when Vess’ man set upon me last winter! Had I not been what I am, had I been instead the jewel on a lace cushion you would have me be—”
“I wish no such thing,” Malaeth replied reprovingly, and untruthfully. “But it's no proper thing for a maid. Look at you,” she went on, “a form such as yours cries for soft gowns, a wide belt to set off such a tiny waist. Such small, dainty hands should wear jewels, not wrap themselves around sword hilts! No. Your mother never cared for it, and I like it even less.”
Was one fated ever to hear the same words, year in and year out, Ylia wondered tiredly. And as for her clothing, gods and Mothers, she was wearing that silly mid-calf length tabard over her sensible breeches and boots, wasn't that modest enough? “Mother never liked it, but at least she saw the need.” Scythia had understood—at least understood that Brandt's heir must be capable of leading Nedao's armed to battle. That Nedao insisted upon it from its rulers, and those few women who had ever ruled had been warrior trained, warrior skilled.
Scythia had understood also, she was certain, the love her daughter shared with her father for the weapons themselves: the grace of a well-fought crossing, the joy of a difficult pass mastered. Though she probably would have approved less, had Beredan lived.
Ylia sighed again, deeply. Beredan: it still hurt, even with all that had passed in recent days. Beloved older brother. He'd given her first lessons, given her his own boy's wooden training blade when her hands were still too tiny to wrap around a real hilts. She'd worshipped him; all Nedao had. He'd died five years past, he and his entire company, protecting peasantry who'd finally been persuaded to leave the Eastern marches hard against Anasela and on the northern edge of the Planthe.
Brandt, after an interval of mourning, had named Ylia his heir, ignoring the advice of his council for once, reminding them of Queen Leffna, ignoring again their outcry that she had been “different” and in any case had ruled 500 years before. Male cousins, a royal uncle or two had been thoroughly enraged, none more so than Vess. It was at about this time “accidents” occurred near the Princess Royal: two distant attempts at assassination—an arrow from across the River during a foot race that missed her by inches, the bowman never found; a knife thrown from the shadows when she returned to the Tower late one evening after a late practice session with the Swordmaster. And then the swordsman who'd engaged her just outside the walls. Vess’ man, she knew beyond doubt. He'd swallowed poison when they took him, and not even her mother would believe her suspicions.
She forced her mind firmly back to the moment again. Malaeth, huddled at her side, looked old and frail indeed, as though twice her three-score and fifteen years weighed upon her. The old nurse's next words took her by surprise. “They owe us blood-price, the Tehlatt,” she whispered fiercely. “And may the day of payment come soon!”
“It may,” Ylia replied, but doubt showed in her voice. “In a way unlooked for, perhaps. We are few, scattered. We must rebuild, for the present, and not think of vengeance.” And where shall we rebuild, my sadly lessened people and I? “If the day comes, we will grasp it with both hands.” She caught Malaeth's hands between her own again, a faint smile bringing one as faint and poor a thing in reply. “I will need you in the days to come, Malaeth, remember that. You are strong, I need your strength. And I will need you at Aresada.”
A long, comfortable silence, broken only by the distant sound of the river and an occasional, faint, cry. Malaeth cleared her throat. “Ylia—I—what of the Foessa? They—if we go there—they are haunted, the mountains.”
Ylia stared at her. Unsuccessfully fought a giggle. “Haunted? Malaeth, I have heard those tales since I was a child! Tales, that was what I thought even then. Be serious, that is all they are, stories to frighten small children!”
“Perhaps.” The nurse eyed her darkly, clearly unconvinced. “Men hunting in the mountains seldom return. Those who do, speak of the fear that followed them in the dark, that they fled witless from it. Or of things that cried aloud and rolled stones upon them. Shadows that moved overhead swiftly on clear nights, strange prints, animals for which there are no names. I cannot believe this is all wild telling!”
Ylia rolled over to gaze through the trees to the west. Across the unseen Torth, the Foessa rose: glorious mountains torn from the Plain, above a single line of tree-capped hills. Sharp-edged; jagged; snow-clad well into summer. “I cannot say,” she replied finally. “Since I have seen none of these things myself, and have spoken to no man who has. And there is no point to gainsaying anything before it is known true or false. But, what need you to look for in mountains other than weather and wind to loosen stones, wind to cry strangely in the heights? And fear of a strange place can put terror into a man in the night, so that all he sees is distorted. And who of us is to say which prints are strange when in the Foessa they may all be? I,” she added with an assurance she hoped she felt, knew she must force upon the old woman, “will put trust in the swords among us, and in our need to reach the Caves. And I will fear nothing to which I can set steel!” Malaeth gazed at her unhappily, but finally nodded.
“I said I would follow you, and I will! But I feel, in the core of my inner being where the Power still stirs, that trouble will come of this!”
“And I will hope that you are wrong, Malaeth. But we cannot use the Plain; we have no choice in our path.” Time to change the subject. “How is Lisabetha?”
“She still sleeps.” Malaeth glanced over her shoulder to the huddled form on the ground. “What will you do with her?”
“Let her stay as she is, we can take in turns to lead her. I used more strength than I thought I possessed merely to close the passage behind us, and that was not all I used this day. I dare nothing else just now if we are to leave quickly at full dark. Rest while you can, Malaeth,” she added. “The way will not be easy, and we will need as much speed as we can m
uster.” Malaeth sighed, but touched her forehead again and rose heavily to her feet.
It wasn't the kind of company that would have been named in one of the old tales, and quite frankly not the one I'd have chosen myself, given our destination and the way we must travel. The presumption of humans! Consider: mountains that have killed or defeated strong men fully prepared, and they intended to breach them half-clad, ill-armed and with such strength. An untried girl, whose blades still bore the shine the smith put on them; an aged and half-blind old man and an even older woman—a stunned and terrified girl, who had to be led by the hand. Two men who openly loathed a third and another so young he'd scarcely finished his height. Well, fortunately for them, they also had me, even though most of them didn't realize yet how grateful they'd be of that.
4
The day crawled by. Impossible to guess the time, for smoke obscured the sun totally.
Again and again she murmured the AEldra words which slow pulse, relax muscles; as often she rubbed damp palms against coarse brown breeches. Their luck had held so far, but how much longer? Inaction ate at her; finally she could no longer wait below. Even if there was nothing to be seen, she could look, could take her share of the watches. She roused Nisana and they climbed the steep, crumbling ledge.
Marhan sat alone, back against a tree, gazing across the darkened landscape. To the right, fires, fewer than the sky would have led one to believe, burned at the City walls. Westward, the red sun cut briefly through cloud and smoke, began to edge behind the mountains: within the hour they could leave. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the old Swordmaster gripped her arm, dragged her down to his side. He gestured with his chin.
Tehlatt. A band of warriors rode from the gates down the wide road to the harbor. Though they were half a league and more distant, the refugees dropped even lower, peered cautiously through tall grasses. The barbarians vanished from sight over the low bluff that edged the water. Marhan shook his head unhappily.
“Won't do. We can't risk the crossing if they don't return.”
“You said others had—”
“Others came this way earlier. Two. And they came back. These might be searching.”
An idea came from a third source. Nisana rubbed against the girl's arm. ‘Tell him.’
'Cat, if I tell him that—’
'Tell him!’
Ylia scowled at her, turned back to the old man. ‘All right, and I'll catch the blame—seven hells.’ “If we wait until full dark, if we stay close together, Nisana can screen us. We could cross under their very noses and not be seen.”
One dark eye regarded the cat warily. “Magic.” The word fell like an epithet. “No.” he said flatly. “Unless there is no other—” He broke off. The barbarians were returning from the harbor; even more swiftly than they had come forth, they rode back to the City. Marhan sighed with obvious relief. “No need.”
Nisana's amusement pressed against her. Ylia scowled at the old man. For one so undeniably brave to fear the Power as he did! “Marhan, it cannot hurt you!”
“Huh. You speak like your mother. And I believe it just as much as your father did. Give me defenses I can see!”
Nisana's amused snort reverberated through Ylia's mind, did nothing to sooth her irritation. ‘You did that on purpose, cat!’
'Nonsense.’
Marhan rolled aside, sat up and waved an imperative, if prudently low, hand. Moments later four men, clad in the dusty brown garb of the Tower Guard, slipped into the grasses beside him.
“Brel. Did you keep count?”
The boy nodded. “As many out as back, Swordmaster.”
“Good. We leave shortly.”
Nisana clambered onto Ylia's lap, studied the armsmen gravely. One of them, the bearded man who had helped Malaeth when Ylia staggered spent from the escape tunnel, gazed back in stunned disbelief, and with patent disdain. “A cat. By all the gods together, what next?” Softly spoken, but Ylia caught the muttered words and flushed angrily.
“A cat. I am glad you came through battle with your eyes intact.” It was the armsman's turn to redden. “Nisana,” Ylia went on, fury clipping her words, “is indeed a cat, but my mother's. She is of AEldra blood, as I am; she has my mother's skills, more of them, and better, than I have. She is no fragile lady's pet, but a wielder of the Power. We need every weapon we can muster among us. Or perhaps,” she demanded, “you doubt Queen Scythia's Power?”
The bearded armsman leaned angrily forward but the lad Marhan had first addressed laid a hand on his shoulder, pressed him aside. “Bren; let me. We do not doubt, Lady Princess,” he added. His own color was high, but it was a flush of embarrassment. “Bren knows. The Queen healed my knee last winter after my horse fell with me. I'd have been a year or more recovering had I been left to the healers. The Lady's ways are not common in Nedao but real enough, I'd vouch for that. If ye say the cat is like to her, I do not doubt ye.” Northern by the accent. So much like his companion they must be brothers, and now she remembered them: Brelian and his elder brother Brendan, sons of Broln, who had been Captain of the Gate Guard in Teshmor until his death two winters since.
She knew neither well. She met them, was at her father's side, when they first came to Koderra and the King's service. She seldom spoke to the armsmen, of course, as she was keenly aware of how most of them regarded her. She had likely never spoken to these. But she recalled something Marhan had said about Brendan's astonishing weapons-skill. He was handsome, yes, undeniably that. Just ask him, she thought sourly. Brelian, a pleasant looking boy, seemed considerably more human.
Brendan, she noticed with dry amusement, had managed somehow to clean his jerkin, and his long breeches were neatly laced and tucked into boots that were scuffed but clean. His cloak lay in tidy folds across the field pack which held his arrow-pouch and food. His bow, strung, lay loosely in his left hand, which was considerably cleaner than her own hands. Only his short-sleeved mail did not shine.
His brother, by contrast, was as rumpled as Marhan, as rumpled as she herself must be. His mail was greened from hiding in the trees, his belt-pouch skewed to one side, and black ash smudged one high cheekbone.
She smiled as she turned to the next of them. “Lev.” She had known him all her life as she had Marhan, for Levren was right-hand man to the Swordmaster, Bowmaster in his own right. He had taught her, though she had less skill than either of them wished. Less than Beredan, who had first pushed her into the training. Levren, near the King's age, hair and moustache beginning to grey, easy-going, unlike the sour and brusque Marhan, and yet, like Marhan, a man to depend upon when there was need. It always came as a surprise to her that he was not that tall; but then, he was so often surrounded by children—his own young ones and, it often seemed, half those in Koderra as well—as he went about his duties.
His only serious flaw that she had ever seen was that unreasoning xenophobia that would have set him at the throat of anyone not Nedaoan, and when he could not control it, he quietly absented himself from offending company. Here, fortunately, there would be no problem. At least—she gazed blankly from Levren to the last of the company. Oh no. Gods of the Black Well.
Golsat. Alone of Brandt's armsmen, she knew this man well, had crossed blades with him once or twice, defended him against certain of his comrades. He had come to Koderra three years before from Lord Corry's Teshmoran Guard and before that from Anasela when it fell to the Tehlatt. Had they captured him, then or today, the barbarians would have burned him alive, a fate they reserved for traitors. For Golsat's mother was Tehlatta, and he resembled her more than his Nedaoan father. Though not much older than Ylia, his somber mien and non-Nedaoan features gave him the appearance of ten years more. He was pragmatic, taciturn, aloof. Not through pride, but because he felt the cast many put upon his mixed blood and did not wish to foist himself upon anyone. A man, altogether, of rare composure and strength.
A good man. A good friend, though, really, she knew very little of him. Would Levren be able to de
al with Golsat at all? The tension in the clearing was palpable, the air around the Bowmaster crackled with his effort to keep his balled fists to himself. He moved, finally, a little beyond Marhan, turned to gaze out across the Plain. Golsat, keenly aware of the Bowmaster's problem, backed a few paces away and eased himself down against a tree.
“Thank you, Brelian,” Ylia met his eyes, with a faint smile. “But, no ceremony between us, we are all cut of the same cloth in our need to escape the Plain. For now, I am no more Lady Princess than you are dagger-sworn. Besides,” she added, a genuine smile touching her eyes, “I wager my face is fully as sooted as yours.” Brelian smiled shyly in return, scrubbed his nose on his sleeve. Ylia forced aside a shyness nearly as overwhelming, suddenly, as his, gazed from one of the men before her to the next, then to Marhan, who nodded. “For now I am Ylia—sword-mate to all of you, if you will have it.” A deft motion freed her dagger from its leg sheath. Brendan cast a dark, sidelong glance at the Swordmaster, hesitated briefly, finally drew his own blade. ‘Does he dare humor me?’ she wondered hotly. 'If he does, he will regret it!’
The other three appeared to have no such doubts, for they had drawn their blades at once and with visible good will. Levren, she noticed with relief, was choosing to ignore his half-caste companion. Better than any alternative she could, at the moment, conjure. Brendan—it figured, given his unbending appearance and Northern heritage—cast his dark ally a dubious glance, but he spoke the oath without other outward misgiving.
At Marhan's order, they broke up, slipped back into the trees to watch and wait for darkness. Ylia moved back into shadow, stood to survey the Plain until the harbor road could no longer be seen in the encroaching gloom.