by Ru Emerson
'He has for some time, even I can see at,’ Nisana watched him thoughtfully. ‘Odd, such compassion in one so young. He has fewer years than you, and he's male.’
'Mmmm.’ It was unusual, to say the least. Boys of Brelian's age were far more likely to think of swords, horses and dogs; to think of women, if at all, as something to be sought and paid for in ale houses.
He sat still for a moment, then reached and took Lisabetha's hand. He bent swiftly, kissed the fingers, and without another glance strode back to the fire.
Once again—as she must, always, and never mind what Nisana, what her mother had thought!—she joined with Nisana, borrowing heavily of the cat's considerable Power as she took hold of the girl's shoulders, reaching at the same time with her thought, this time to will her forth. Lisabetha stirred, struggled briefly, went suddenly limp.
“What have ye done?” she whispered. “Why could ye not let me die?” Tears coursed down her face. But before Ylia could answer, the girl's eyes went to the fire, the trees, the mountains which stood clear even against the black sky, and she twisted frantically. Ylia rolled her eyes, exasperated, shook her fiercely. By all the Mothers at once, did any of us hold terror of the mountains, why must it be this one? Lisabetha slumped weakly against the tree, but the horror was still in her eyes, ready to swallow her whole.
“We are within the Foessa, yes.” Ylia surprised herself; her voice was level, inflectionless, showed none of the distaste she felt for her present task. “We are north of the old Pass, and we make our way to the Caves of Aresada, which your father prepared against such a time as this.”
“Way.” Lisabetha closed her eyes and moaned. “There is no way here which is ours, we had done better to die in Koderra. Better die now, all of us, than face what awaits us.” Her eyes came up then, and with a look so bitter Ylia knew full memory had returned. “Ye have done me no favor, Lady. I chose death, ye had no right to gainsay me.”
“So you say now,” Ylia replied gently, though in fact she was furious with the girl. How dare she carry on so? And however much she had lost, how could she seriously prefer to die? “Would Lossana, your mother, have willed you to such an end? Your father? Do you think Gors held to life as long as he did so that I might escape the Tehlatt?” Stubborn silence. “It was for you he did that deed, and with his death he laid upon you blood-price, that you live and prosper. You are the last of your line, it is for you to see that the House of Planthe goes on!”
But it was no good. Lisabetha raged and wept alternately and ever pleaded to be let alone, to be allowed to die as she had chosen. Such a horror of the mountains was upon her that the assurances Ylia offered—their strength of arms, her own AEldra power and that of Nisana—made no impression at all.
At long last, Ylia's patience snapped, and she sat back on her heels, her voice cold and commanding. “You have one choice, Lady Lisabetha, and one only. Come freely with us, on your own two feet, and cause no more trouble than you can help. Or I will return you to that state in which you walked to this meadow. That would be an unnecessary burden on all of us, but if that is what you wish, so be it, and I can and will do that if I must!”
Lisabetha recoiled, and a fear-born blast of hatred drenched both AEldra minds. “Ye would do this. And I had thought ye different. They were right, he was right, ye would make trained beasts of us all, ye with the witching!”
Ylia jumped to her feet, her own eyes darkly furious. “Someone will bring you food when it is ready. Eat and prepare yourself for the journey tomorrow. Malaeth will aid you, if you need her. Remember what I have said!” And with that she left the girl, stopping only long enough to ask Levren to take her meat when it was ready. She practically ran from the fire into the night to ponder Lisabetha's last words.
Brendan sat now on Golsat's flat rock, gazing toward the north, though the moon would not rise for several hours and it was too dark to see much. He ignored her. She cast him a baleful glance, kept going. Some distance on, she found another rock and clambered onto it, pulled her knees to her chin and thought hard.
Lisabetha had been Lady to the Princess Royal for less than a year, having just come from Teshmor the past fall. Ylia had not particularly wanted her. Had, in fact, wished no Ladies of any sort, since she took no pleasure in the formalities of the inner household, and spent as little time as she could in needlework and gossip.
Of course, what Lord Corlin had asked of the King was not unusual: service in his household for the Duke's daughter would give her greater stature when it came time to bargain her a husband, even though Lord Corry was counted near to the King himself and second to no other Nedaoan Lord. And they were close friends, Brandt and Corry, and so Ylia's father had accepted the girl, and Ylia had perforce gained another Lady.
But Lisabetha had been a pleasant surprise, and Ylia found herself liking the girl in spite of herself: Lisabetha was pleasant, amusing, enough use to the Queen that the Queen's daughter was not embarrassed by her and, unlike many a young and fair maid, had caused no jealousies in the ladies’ apartments, provoked no untoward gossip.
But her thought just now had reeked so strongly of Vess that one less skilled even than Ylia could not have failed to catch it.
Vess. Causer of trouble for so long as Ylia could remember. Seven, eight summers older than she, son of her father's youngest sister Nala, he was—or would have been—fifth in line for the succession behind the Koderran Prince, later behind the Princess Royal, had he not been born, as Nedaoan old women say, on the wrong side of the blankets.
To Vess, of course, that was no matter at all, for he coveted the crown, and to his mind, if a female could aspire to it, so, clearly, could a bastard.
There had been incidents in the North, attempts to turn the people against Brandt and his witch wife, his half-witch son and daughter, and after Beredan's untimely death, against the thought of a woman sitting on the ancient Nedaoan throne, as no woman had held it in the past 500 years. It must have come as a great surprise to Vess that the folk loved Brandt; even, in their own slightly disapproving fashion, loved the fair Scythia and were proud that their King had stolen the White Witch from her own kind. And so, thereafter, there had been incidents, culminating in the assassin at the City gates.
When that failed, Ylia had assumed, childishly, she was beginning to think, that Vess had simply given up. Perhaps, after all, he had not.
She shifted. The rock was cold. Of course he had not! A stubborn man, Vess, and unlikely to relinquish an idea until what he wanted was in his grasp. Though how he thought the folk would accept one like him! Not only bastard, but by the look of him, less Nedaoan than she, though Nala had never said. She had entered the Citadel and taken the robes of the Chosen when he was a child and died of fever not long after.
Vess. Her mouth was dry with frustrated hatred. If I had killed him two nights ago! His blood on my sword—the Tehlatt had no right to him!
She remembered him as she had seen him the time before that: Midwinter Fest in Koderra, surrounded by his personal guard—a calculated insult to the King, which Brandt had ignored with ease. His clothing had outshone that of everyone present, including the King's, and he had only watched the sword competitions, had not entered any of the crossings, lest he rend his fine garments, Ylia had thought at the time. But she was not the only one there who looked upon him with open contempt. Though even she could not honestly deny his skill. He had learned, and learned well, from Marhan.
And now—what to think? Lisabetha was other than the innocent maid she seemed, but—but what? A spy for Vess? Put so, it sounded foolish. But was it?
And if so, had Corlin been in league with Ylia's despised cousin? She nearly laughed aloud at that thought; humor restored a measure of sense. No. Lord Corry would no more work to her ruin than—than Marhan would. Than her father would have. If there had been scheming, then it had been all Vess'.
But it was unimportant now, Vess was dead. She slammed one fist into the other. He'd returned to Teshmor, or so
the guard had said. All injured innocence, that was how Gramad had phrased it. But, was he really dead? Hope never made anything so, and had only one person escaped the walls when the Tehlatt attacked, that one would have been Vess. Presuming, of course, that he had reached Teshmor at all, or that Teshmor had been his goal when he left Koderra. If he lives, his death to my hands.
'So.’ Nisana leaped abruptly to the rock. ‘We harbor a grain-serpent in the threshing house. Is it safe to take her to Aresada awake and under this burden she carries?’
Ylia shrugged. “We have no choice, we cannot leave her. And we really cannot return her to her former state, can we?”
'Well—’ Nisana considered this. ‘It would be impractical, of course.’
“So. She will come to cooperate because she has no choice. Eventually we can persuade her we mean her no harm.”
'Hah.’ The cat pushed her chin over Ylia's fingers. ‘I cannot read futures, unfortunately. But I will keep an eye on this Lady of yours, that she does no harm to you.’
“Me?”
'She might see your death as a way out.’ Ylia considered this in blank astonishment. That had not occurred to her. ‘You are too trusting,’ Nisana went on accusingly. ‘You humans. When she is asleep tonight, I will read her.’ So firm her thought that there could be no argument. Ylia opened her mouth, shut it again. She must strongly feel the need; for as a cat, she would consider such an invasion of thought thoroughly contemptible.
“As you wish,” was all she finally said. Nisana rubbed a last time against her fingers, jumped down and padded back to the fire. Ylia followed.
The others were sharing meat directly from the spits, sipping hot tea in turn from Marhan's pot. Lisabetha and Brelian alone were not in sight.
“He's gone to take food to her,” Malaeth said. Old she undoubtedly was, but her eyes were keen and at the moment bright indeed. Brendan laughed.
“A moon-calf, my brother, ever since Dame Malaeth brought her from the tunnel,” he said dryly. “But his mooning goes back years; he has nursed a soft spot for Lord Corry's pretty daughter since she wore short robes and his sword was a wooden plaything. And when she came to Koderra, he stopped wenching with the rest of us.” He reddened, turned hastily to the old woman. “Uh, your pardon, Lady.” Ylia turned aside to smother a grin; Malaeth looked scandalized.
“Enough of your gossip, brother,” Brelian growled from the shadows. “She asks for you, Dame, if you are free to aid her.” Malaeth rose with the help of his proffered hand, limped into the darkness. Brelian pulled the spit from his brother's fingers and fell to.
Lisabetha approached the fire a short while later. She had plaited her hair and appeared physically, at least, ready for the next day's journey. But her expression was sullen and cold. For that reason, Ylia kept her mouth prudently closed when Nisana returned to the fire during their second watch. It seemed a long time she walked about the meadow alone. Suddenly the cat returned, her thought open, and Ylia read of Lisabetha.
Fear, yes; that lay overall. But underneath, a hatred of the Inner House of Ettel, of the AEldra strengths—the witch-Power—forged with cunning and skill. Again and again, thought of Ylia's cousin, and there was almost as much fear as longing. Fascination, weakness—it was as though he had woven a drawing spell, as though he were a snake, she a field mouse. Fear, a greater fear, of what she had given, fear that Vess would spread that knowledge, as he had threatened, to her father.
“My watch.” Ylia started. Golsat had come quietly up behind her as she sat. She nodded, gripped his forearm briefly and got a genuine, if faint, smile in reply. The fire was warm, the cloak not, at the moment, necessary. She drew it lightly across her shoulders. Ugh. Too much to think about, and she was tired, and the watches near dawn were hers. She sent Vess and Lisabetha from her mind with effort, resolutely closed her eyes.
One thing I will say of humans: They manage to get along better in large numbers than a grouping of cats would. Even those who traveled north with me from Koderra, with all their petty disagreements, sulks, miseries and clashing egos. Of course, there came times—all too frequently—when I thought I would go mad, listening to them bicker for hours over some trivial point. But then, as any of our kind knows, traveling with an equal number of cats—as I did only once, when I was young and reckless—is not simply irritating; one puts one's life at serious risk doing so.
7
The night passed uneventfully. Nisana and Ylia shared last watch with a most aloof Brendan. Apparently he had no desire to push the relationship of arms-mate, though whether because his watch companion was witch, swordswoman, or because she had defended Golsat, she could not decide. After a short period of intense irritation, she refused to let it bother her further, and she and the cat chose a portion of Meadow well away from him.
Only the cry of owls and other night birds broke the silence; the last watches ended as the sky lightened eastward. Ylia built up the fire, Brendan went for water as she woke the rest of the company. First sun had to see them well on their way. None of them wanted to spend more time than absolutely necessary on the journey, and none of them knew how the land might lie beyond the Meadow.
And there were the footprints, though none knew of them but Nisana, Ylia, Marhan. Perhaps, Ylia thought over and over during the cold early morning hours, the makers were like other wild creatures; perhaps they would flee when so large a company approached. Perhaps the sky is green, the trees yellow.
Shortly after sunrise, they waded the stream and set out northward, using a faded, narrow trail that followed the water. Trace of deer was heavy; there was no sign of Golsat's strange prints.
By the third hour they had climbed several dozens of lengths up the steep, rocky shelf and could nearly see back to the Yls Pass. Noon hour found them in a boulder-strewn cut between two peaks, and though the sun was high in a cloudless sky, the wind cut chill through even the thickest of garments. Malaeth and Lisabetha huddled together on the ground; Marhan paced rapidly back and forth as he ate, trying to keep his blood awake. Ylia and the brothers remained on their feet, shifting now and again from leg to leg, fearing to let sore calf muscles tighten since they must go so much further before dark. Every one of them ached miserably from the rough climb. After too short a rest, they moved out again.
But the trail that had brought them from the Meadow vanished among snowbanks and rockslide. Across this uncertain terrain they moved cautiously, the brothers scouting out the most stable footing, the others in a line behind. A long scramble down a narrow cleft brought them back finally to the timberline and to a gentler downslope.
They had crossed a series of sharp ridges and so come to another valley, this at least four leagues in length and two wide. An emerald of a lake snugged between the tall fir that swept from slope to slope. Water cascaded from the sheer rock face directly across the valley; the lake reflected trees, water, clouds, now and again was ruffled by a sudden breeze.
A long rest this time. They were sheltered from the wind by stunted trees of the upper slopes. It was quiet, intensely so for Koderrans who were used to the noise of City. Here, the few quiet words spoken by any of them, the occasional high, whistling cry of the birds wheeling across the lake seemed to echo.
The sun was low when they resumed the downward trek, and by the look of the high rock walls to the west, would drop from sight early. But they only needed now to reach that lake before full dark. By the water would be game, shelter from the wind. Only Lisabetha had not spoken in favor, saying flatly that she was of the party against her will, that the others should all do as they liked, since they would anyway. Brelian would have spoken then, but she turned away.
But she had walked the entire day without aid, had showed more strength than any of them thought possible, though she fell more than once. ‘Pride.’ Nisana's tart comment, her first of the long afternoon. Ylia considered this, nodded. Not that it mattered, so long as the girl kept up with them.
Malaeth was limping again, but it was only w
hen level ground was reached that she finally accepted help.
The land about the lake was thick with old bracken and pine needles, the ground dry. Levren cleared a wide space, dug a shallow pit for the fire before going to see to his snares, and Marhan set out close behind with his precious line and hook. Golsat had left the company near the tree line and now came in with two rather thin-looking ground birds.
“My fingers ache,” Malaeth murmured, holding her small red hands to the fire. “And my feet. And my legs. And—and everything.” Brelian nodded feelingly.
“You are not alone in that, Dame.” He winced as he made contact with the ground, cushioned as it was. “Even a full day horsed has never left me so stiff as this.”
Ylia closed her eyes, adjusted the folded cloak under her head. Her whole body hurt, she was chilled, tired, and hungry. Thirsty, also, but too tired and stiff to take the ten steps to the stream. Tired, though: that was the worst of it, she could have wept of tired. Nisana sprawled at her side, insensible.
Lisabetha nodded where she sat, one hand cupping the elbow she had badly scraped early in the day. She would still have none of any of them, had brushed aside all others of aid and even those small kindnesses Brelian would have given. He now sat with his back to her.
Evening meal was a gloomy, silent affair. Finally Levren stirred. “I will check my snares at first light. We must have food for morning. Do we push on tomorrow?”
“Aye.” Marhan nodded unhappily. “We walk slow, better walk long to make up for it. Best hoard the bread, though, we'll need it later.” The brothers eyed him miserably. Golsat nodded somberly. He had not spoken all day, still sat well away from the others and the fire. Ylia gazed at him a while, cast an irritated glance at Brendan, who caught it but seemed merely puzzled. ‘Don't waste sarcasm on him, it's lost.’ Nisana rubbed against Ylia's arm, closed her eyes again.