by Ru Emerson
'Not for us, that way.’
'For once I totally agree with you, Nisana.’ The cat sniffed in reply, directed the sense northward.
A howling tore through them—a cry of warning! AEldran the language, yes, High AEldran, unused in hundreds of years: “Beware, ye of the Folk! The south is no longer safe to us! Beware of the Fear-That-Follows! Beware, ye of the—”
She was cold, gasping for air, and her palms slipped damp and shaking down her pants as Nisana abruptly severed contact. “Great Mothers, what was that?” The cat made no reply, only shook. Ylia pulled her close, held her until the tremors subsided. Her own heart thumped painfully. “A warning—but what was it?”
'Against the thing we have already found. But the AEldra have never spoken of themselves as the Folk!’
“Malaeth's stories.” Ylia could not force her voice above a whisper. “The fear that sets upon a man at night, so that he runs until he goes mad. But—but, I—they are tales, ancient children's tales, nothing more!”
'They are more,’ Nisana replied grimly, ‘as we two are finding. We will watch, you and I, and guard as best we can, being warned. And pray as well. To the Guardians, to the One of the Chosen—to the Mothers of the Nedao if it will aid, that the message no longer has purpose for us!’
Ylia nodded. Her hands still trembled. If she could have recalled that search—but to not know what came against them—which is worse? She swallowed hard, tasted bile, started back to camp.
The fire crackled cheerfully. She stopped to warm chilled fingers, strode back into the near dark to fill the kettle at the creek.
Golsat was solemnly wrapping fish in long bank grasses—unlike those of the previous day but still trout by the look of them—and had shoved a third into the coals moments before. Brendan, next to him, was almost insufferably pleased with himself, for he had managed, by great perseverance and even greater luck, to catch a fish himself. It had, he admitted when pressed, slipped from his hands at the last, but fell onto the bank instead of back in the water. Brelian finally rolled him over and cuffed his ears.
They were comfortable for the first time: the wind was gone, the cloud cover broke not long after sunset. There was almost enough to eat, something warm for everyone to drink, if only a mouthful. Comfortable, too, in another sense none of them really noticed: they were adjusting to their surroundings. The silence was no longer so terrifying, the lack of familiarity less unnerving.
Levren had first watch. Ylia's last glimpse of the sky before she slept was a frost of stars.
The night passed uneventfully. Once during her watch, a number of deer splashed down the creek, and much later all of them but Malaeth were shaken awake as a bear crashed through the brush not many lengths from camp. But neither bear nor deer paid attention to the humans in their valley, and nothing else seemed aware of their presence at all.
I did try, once, to explain to the girl the difference—how she senses evil as a thing separate from her, and how it pervades my body with certainty of the thinness of the barrier between it and all that is me. She does not understand; how could she? I do not intellectually understand it, either; I only know it, and that is more than enough.
9
The morning sky was a pale, rain-washed blue over the valley. First sun lay upon the lake, mirroring surrounding peaks with their fresh snow. Hard against the west shore, near the twin waterfall, a fire burned, and the smell of baking fish drifted with the faint blue smoke.
Golsat had taken the last watch, thereafter sought the stream, so there was breakfast and plenty of it. Fortunate, since some beast or other had stolen Levren's snares and any game they had held. Marhan wrapped what was left of the meal in grass and leaves, folded it into a sling torn from one of Malaeth's pettiskirts and hung that from his belt. Levren drowned the fire, pressed the turves back into place over the blackened hole and turned to lead the day's climb.
And climb it was: in the light of day, the cliff was dauntingly steep indeed. A short walk over springy leafmold brought them to the base of the ancient trail; it took two easy, near-flat turns, then began to ascend through thick forest. Faint, clearly not used in years, the trail never faded, not even when it emerged from the trees and tilted up in earnest. Once in the open, it worked back and forth across the slope. Roughly dressed stone held against the down-slope side of the trail in places.
The morning wore on, still they climbed—slowly, for it was tiring work and warm, and the air was growing thin. By noon-hour, however, they were even with the ledge dividing the waterfall. A fitful breeze blew cold spray across the trail, and the noise was deafening. Another thirty paces, however, and the trail took another wide swing to the west. They rested there, ate, gazed back over the way they had come.
The scree across the valley looked impassible, they could not tell where they had come down. Ylia turned away from the view; heights. Brrr! Foolish, and it embarrassed her, angered her, but she couldn't help it. Long drops made her dizzy and ill.
They rested only an hour; the saddle still towered above them, and they might well have to go some distance after that to find shelter for the night. And they could travel only as fast as poor Malaeth, who leaned on Marhan and Levren in turns. Her feet hurt, her lungs labored in the thin, chill air. But her spirits held, and she traded chaff with the men, laughed at their jokes, argued with the Swordmaster. Life as usual, save that now and again a shadow crossed her face.
Ylia stayed to the front for the most part, well to the inside of the trail. Once, when it widened, she dropped back to speak with Marhan. Malaeth, again at his side, ruffled Nisana's head. The cat leaned perilously out of her pouch to grip the old woman's hand with soft paws and chew at fingers. Ylia shook her head. “Children, both of you,” she laughed.
“Well, at least I am walking on my own feet,” Malaeth retorted tartly.
'Because no one will carry you, that is all,’ Nisana replied, her thought lofty. Malaeth ruffled her head again. Ylia rolled her eyes, moved, with a caution she hoped unnoted by her companions, back to her place in the lead.
Lisabetha kept her eyes to the ground in front of her for the most part, but now and again gazed wistfully at Marhan and Levren, at old Malaeth joking with Golsat. She was beginning to regret her harsh words, but was too shy and uncertain of herself to speak to any of them. Levren had been watching her, though; before long, he was walking with her, carrying on an animated conversation, and if she did not quite hold up her end of it at first, he carefully took no notice.
It was nearly the fourth hour from midday before the last of them staggered onto the saddle and turned to look north. Marhan eased Malaeth into a cleft in the rock, decreed another full hour of rest.
“It's cold here.” Lisabetha pulled the dark wool high around her throat, tilted the fur-lined hood over her head and turned her back to the wind.
“Nasty cold,” Levren agreed. “If you'd rather move down a ways and wait there—”
“No. Thank you,” she added, and gave him a small smile. “I'm too tired to move just yet.”
“Mmmm.” Levren nodded, eased himself down against a pile of rubble next to her and closed his eyes. “Marhan? You've an eye to the sun, I presume.”
“Aye. It's late enough. We'll do better if we take a decent rest, though. I'd not mind water,” he added. Brendan pulled his bottle free, passed it over.
Silence a while; the last lengths of trail had been nearly straight up, and the air was so thin, so cold it burned. Brelian stood, caught at rock until he could see straightly, moved far enough up the trail that he could see down again.
“Ugh. I thought I liked mountains.”
“Oh?” Ylia hitched her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, walked over to join him. Chill air reddened her cheeks, caught at her throat. She stared out north, nodded. “I see what you mean. To look at, maybe one or two to climb. That—that's not a pleasant sight.” Before them were mountains as far as the eye could see. East and west, rough peaks cut off any view either
toward the Plain or toward Yls. Ahead of them, the ground dropped rapidly but the descent was considerably shorter. The trail showed pale and thin down the slope, vanished in a huddle of dense, stunted fir, wound through a narrow ravine. Another grove some distance beyond that, wider, filled the cleft from wall to wall. And then the ravine pinched abruptly in and took an eastward turn. Rock walls pitched up beyond that, and beyond them, more mountains.
“There, I think.” Marhan came up between them, pointed to the second stand of trees. “Firewood, there. Likely water. Shelter from the wind, anyhow; that's important.”
“More important,” Ylia replied, “it's as far as I intend to walk today.”
“I agree,” Malaeth leaned against her. She was still breathless. “That is, if my poor body can drag itself on! To think,” she added to Lisabetha, who held onto her other arm, “of such a climb as that, and at my age, too!”
The descent proved much easier than the ascent; the trail was less precipitous, though slides had wiped it out in several places and the slope was unstable. But the last of the sun was fading from the trail as they passed through the first grove; only the peaks to the east still shone golden with the end of day. It was dusk in the ravine by the time they reached the place Marhan had chosen from above; darker still under the trees, even though few of them stood man-high. A deep, narrow stream wove between them and bubbled downhill.
“Good enough,” Marhan grunted. He dropped his gear, began clearing for a firepit. “Lev. Bren, Brel. Wood. You women, kindling.” The company scattered. Golsat squatted by the stream, shook his head. Too shallow, too cold. He began pulling rock from the bank to line the firepit. Lisabetha, Malaeth and Ylia gleaned handfuls of dry twigs, fir needles, small sticks. It was rapidly growing dark; Marhan had to light his fire by feel.
But for the noise of the creek, the silence was total: no birds, no chattering of small beasts, not even the faintest whisper of wind. Uncanny, the dark and silence together; even with the fire built, no one could see beyond a pace or two into the trees.
Levren staggered in not long after with a load of dry, rotten branch in the turned-up hem of his cloak. “I see no point to hunting here,” he cast a wary glance over his shoulder. “If we have enough to share out, we should. Marhan?”
“Perhaps. Golsat? You've the last of it.”
The dark man considered, nodded. “I think so. If we're careful.”
“Well then.” Levren unclenched his hands with visible effort, sat with feigned ease where he would not have to look at the half-caste, “unless you think, Marhan—”
“Huh. There's no game here, not any close. I'd stake my blade on it.”
The fire set shadows to dance against the red cliff face behind camp as they ate and night deepened. Black darkness and a heavy, pressing silence.
Marhan looked at them with a practiced eye: he was exhausted, he could admit that, to himself, at least. None of them looked any less tired than he felt: Malaeth was holding herself awake by main effort long enough to eat something. Lisabetha chewed slowly, eyes closed. She and the old woman slumped against each other for support. Good; the girl's coming out of herself. Even if she spoke to no one but Lev and Malaeth, she'd be less irritation than the sulky creature they'd dragged along the two days before. Levren raised his brows as Marhan's gaze crossed his, smiled faintly. He and Golsat looked tired but not completely done for. First watch, those two, the old man decided. No—damn. Lev and one of the lads. Nuisance. But I'll need sleep before I take guard.
Ylia leaned toward the fire, elbows on knees, her forehead in her hands. The cat braced itself against her leg, washed one dainty forepaw. Cat. Huh. It had, he grudgingly admitted to himself, been less problem than he'd thought it would. As for Ylia. Well, she was never any trouble, she took whatever hardships came her way uncomplainingly; all the same, he still wished her in Yslar and out of this. If trouble comes, and I lose my King's only child... He couldn't complete the thought.
“This is uncanny,” Brelian murmured. Marhan jumped at the sound; low as the lad spoke, his words seemed to echo across the rock. “It was quiet below, but not like this!”
“You imagine things, brother,” Brendan replied firmly.
Brelian shook his head. “I do, eh? You've eyed the ground behind your shoulder often enough the past hour.”
Malaeth stirred. “Ylia.”
“Ma'am?” She came awake with a start.
“You and Nisana had better search, even I can sense something wrong here.”
“Wrong—” She closed her eyes again, forced exhaustion aside. The old woman was right, something was wrong. There should have been some sound, somewhere. “All right.” She twisted, gazed out into the dark. “I—” She could feel color mount to her face. Damn. “I'd rather stay here, if no one minds.” No one appeared to. “I'm not—not really good at this, it requires all the concentration I can give it. If—you could keep quiet—” She closed her eyes.
East and north first, in a tight circle about the camp. Nothing within arm's length. A wider circle, and still nothing. Slightly reassured, she relaxed a little as she and Nisana searched further northward. Nothing still—nothing at all. ‘Odd,’ Nisana remarked. ‘No fear. But no beasts, no birds, not even insects. That cannot be normal.’
'No. West, now, but carefully. I would rather not trigger that warning again.’ The back of her neck prickled, as though someone stood, half-sensed, directly behind them. She put it down to those around the fire, pushed the stray tendril of fear firmly aside. The Power will sense anything amiss. Certainly anything that close.
“GORS!” A high, wailing cry tore the AEldra bond. Ylia's eyes snapped open. Lisabetha struggled wildly in Levren's grasp, reaching with two shaking arms toward something across the fire. At my back, oh Inniva. It took all she had to turn and look.
A light, slender and wavering; a dull, brownish-red thing danced against the western rock wall. So much she saw with the clear Sight that still held from the mind-search. Viewed directly, however—
“By the Black Well,” she choked. “NO!” Brandt stood there, his arms outstretched, his lips forming her name—at the same time a drawing caught at her, so strong it had her half-way to her feet before she was aware of it. Evil! Thrice evil! She tore her eyes from it, leaped to her feet, held both hands out in warding: “By the Guardians, I adjure thee, by Eyaliase the pure, begone!” A ball of red-orange Baelfyr crackled from between her palms, arced across the distance toward the seeming. She stared, stunned and half-blinded.
But the thing was gone, gone as though it had never been, and the rock wall flickered with the light of fire only. Lisabetha, with a despairing cry, tried frantically to hurl herself after, but Levren had her. Ylia fought air into her lungs, spun back. Every one of them stared horrified into the night where the foul thing had been.
“You! All of you! Turn away at once, do you hear?” Her voice was ragged with loathing, scarcely recognizable. “What Lisabetha saw, that is nothing for any of us to look upon and live!” She sprang across the fire, caught Lisabetha and shook her fiercely. The girl's head rolled loose on her shoulders. “That was not your brother, girl, that was a seeming! It would have slain your body and devoured your inner being had you followed it!” Lisabetha stared at her blankly, collapsed in tears on Levren's shoulder.
Ylia was already back around the fire; her voice was still harsh with fear, anger at that fear, at herself. “Brendan, Brelian, what did you see there?” Nisana stood at her feet, whole body bushed, her ears flat to her skull. Brendan drew back in sudden fear. You'll get nothing if you terrify him so, fool. She fought for control, knelt and gripped his arm. “I am not crazed, Brendan, I swear it. I must know what thing you saw against that rock. Tell me!” But he could only shake his head. With a heroic effort, he tried to force calm upon himself, and failed utterly.
Brelian wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I cannot tell you what was there; Lisabetha drew my attention, I saw only her.”
“I—saw it
,” Brendan gasped. He was shivering, ill with fear. “But it—but it—” he shook his head angrily, swallowed. “But it was not my friend Gors that I saw, no. My—my mother—” His voice faded. Brelian's arm tightened.
“No,” Marhan said sharply. “It was Brandt, as I have often seen him on the practice grounds, weapons ready for a crossing.”
“As I feared.” Great Mothers, how did she deal with such a thing as this? “That was a seeming, an unformed seeming—a wraith, if you will. We must not look from the fire again tonight. An unformed seeming has no real shape of its own. It takes shape from your mind. That is why each of us saw one dear to him or to her, and not the same person—or thing.” Marhan shuddered. “It would have drawn Lisabetha from us, as it nearly did, over a cliff. Or it would have possessed her body, cast out her inner being and taken to itself her outward shape.” She swallowed hard, tucked her hands under her cloak, held them hard against her sides to keep them from shaking.
“I saw it,” Malaeth whispered. “I saw it.” What she saw, however, she would not say.
Ylia knelt to gather Nisana close. The cat's fur was flat once again but her mind was still turmoil. “They say,” she went on, “that a seeming can draw you once you have looked upon it. That it calls to you. It may be, then, that one or another of us may try to leave the fire tonight. Will you believe me when I say we must not?”
“But—but you slew it!” Brendan protested.
“No. I struck at it with a warding. It is gone, but I doubt I had sufficient strength to kill it. It may only be banished, and if so, who can say for how long? I do not know; how should I? I have never dealt with the black powers; AEldra do not, have not in so many years that the only writings are tales. I know only that if any of us is moved to go into the night, we must not!”
“What of wood?” Levren's normally easy voice cracked. “We have not enough to keep the fire burning all night.”