by Ru Emerson
Nisana behind, no one else; that much she saw in the brief glance she risked. So near. Go. She caught her lip between her teeth. The arm was bleeding again. A step. Another. A third.
“Much joy may you have of your Lord, Marrita. Such as I have left, you are welcome to!” A mere hiss against her ear.
“I will have your death for this,” she spat. Ylia laughed light-headedly, slung her away and staggered back. Marrita fell across the sprawled, still body just as the swordswoman's heel caught against one of the rocks that edged the western side of the field. She twisted, caught her balance, staggered again as dizziness and pain struck hard. Her foot tangled in the spill of mail shirt and this time she fell.
'Ylia! Join now!’ Nisana's thought forced its way into her mind; she clutched at shed clothing, rolled into a ball around it as the ground tilted and dissolved under them. Marrita's hysterical, furious weeping, the sound of running footsteps—all cut off as suddenly as if a door had closed.
Ylia choked, gagged violently. Nisana's small, dark head filled all her vision. ‘Join again—do it!’
'I cannot—!’
'You can! Would you bleed to death, after all of that? I cannot heal you. I can aid, but not here; join!’ Claws sank hard into her knee. ‘Join!’ Between them, they temporarily stopped the bleeding, but they dared nothing else. Ylia had no strength to spare, she would have to sleep long after such a healing. And Nisana had been able to bridge them barely a league from the Lammior's valley.
'Join—do not argue with me, girl, just do it!’ Ylia whimpered, knowing she had no choice but fearing the bridging as much as the threat of Lyiadd's armed.
Two more bridgings. Nisana had to cast about some time for the rest of the company. ‘I have them.’
'No. No.’
'This is no time for foolishness, girl!’
'I do not care! Nisana, I am sorry. I cannot face it please!’
Nisana, for answer, climbed silently into her lap, waited. A deep breath, a second—it hurt to breath, gods and Mothers, it did! She reached finally, rubbed at the cat's shoulder. Nisana leaned against her, silently sympathetic if not understanding. ‘Now, cat. Let us do it now.’ She gripped the bundle with white fingers. Silence, and that horrid sensation of toppling from a height. Voices, then; anxious, frightened voices. She forced her eyes open, struggled to sit. Hands aided her; Levren at her side. Nisana had bridged into their midst.
“How did you come here—you are hurt, girl.” The Bowmaster pushed her hair away from her damp face. “How badly?” Before Ylia could answer, Malaeth pressed forward, screamed.
“Your face!”
“Malaeth, it is nothing.” She forced what little strength she had left into her voice. “A scratch—look, it doesn't even bleed.”
“But—oh, no. Not that. It will scar, even with the healing, you will have a scar!” Ylia began to laugh.
“Stop it!” Levren snapped. She shook her head, tried; could not. Tears burned across her right cheek. A sharp blow across the other sobered her abruptly. Levren shook her hard.
“I—sorry.”
“Don't be. How badly are you injured? What can we do? Wait, drink first.” She took his bottle, drained it.
“I—can walk. I think. We stopped it bleeding.”
“It? They! You do not look as though you could stand alone! Rest.” A pause. “Can we rest here, do we dare?”
“I think we can. A little, anyway. Only three of us knew where Lyiadd set you. And he is dead.”
“Dead?” Marhan and Levren together.
“Dead. I killed him.” Golsat moved around to Levren's other side, dropped down beside her. “My friend.” She caught at his hands, got in return one of his rare smiles. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, already dark purple, his lip cut. “Golsat. Your eye—what happened to you?” He shrugged.
“Marhan hit him,” Levren replied, when it became obvious Golsat would not. Marhan scowled at the ground, sucked his moustaches.
“But—Golsat, not for what you said this morning! Marhan, he was trying to help me, didn't you know that? Golsat, why didn't you tell him?”
“You knew?” Golsat's face lit briefly. “I feared after they took you from us. And I did not know what you might do to protect us, what this enemy might do. I—only thought to aid you. When I realized what you were doing, that seemed suddenly what I had to say. Lest he change his mind and kill every one of us. There was,” he added ruefully, “no point to convincing Marhan, he would never have believed.”
“I know better. And it was aid, Golsat; Lyiadd was more willing to release you, believing that at least one of you was casting me aside. More ready to believe I had no alternative but to stay with him. And so he was more surprised at the last when I gave challenge to fight him to the death. His.”
Marhan pressed forward. “You will be the death of me,” he said finally, his voice ominously flat. “Such a fool's chance.”
“No,” she cut him off sharply. “Not a fool's, it worked.” She cradled her right arm in the left, bit back a cry as pain knifed through her side. “He was aware of us, to our very thoughts, as soon as we came into the mountains. Long before we fought his Mathkkra.” He shuddered. “There was no escape for you, but to do what I did. And none for me—but the rest of it. I fought him, I won. It is over, enough.” He sighed deeply.
“The arm—is that the worst of it?” She closed her eyes, shrugged cautiously. Nothing bled, but pain was overwhelming. Levren pulled gently at her shoulders; she fell gratefully back against him. “We had better bind it, at least. But it will affect your grip.”
“No.” She fought speech past clenched teeth. “It can be healed, but not yet. We dare not take the time here.”
“We go from here? Now?” Malaeth moistened her kerchief, worked delicately at the cut on her young charge's face.
“We must, and soon. We are not far enough from that place.”
'And Lyiadd may not be dead after all,’ Nisana added.
Ylia closed her eyes against encroaching dizziness. ‘No, he is dead, I killed him!’ The cat rubbed against her leg, her thought soothing.
'Lyiadd?’ Malaeth's mind-speech was a mere whisper.
'You heard?’
'Not Lyiadd of the Fifth House!’
'The same,’ Nisana assured her grimly. ‘And now you know why we need such haste!’
'I—was—not close enough—to see him—his face.’ The old woman's though was tenuous, faint, but understandable. ‘My eyes are as bad as Marhan's, now. This is dreadful.’
'No. He is dead.’ Ylia's own mind-speech was little better at the moment. ‘But his armed could pursue us, and if any of them can bridge—or if Marrita can. Lyiadd may have lied about her strengths.’
'Why was he there?’
'Later.’ The swordswoman cast a glance at Marhan's averted head, where he worked over the bandaging of her arm. “Lisabetha,” she added aloud. “Where is she?”
“There.” Golsat pointed. “With Brelian.”
“Help me up.” Marhan glared, would have refused, but she insisted. She had to cling to him until the world steadied. But she could stand, and alone. She forced a reassuring smile. “I will be fine, Marhan, I swear it.” He stepped aside, but unwillingly, and his eyes were still worried.
Some twenty paces away on a ledge looking out north and east, was a pile of rock, a rough, unmarked cairn. Brelian knelt there, Lisabetha at his side. The breath stopped in her throat.
Lisabetha caught at her with chilled fingers. “I knew you would return to us, I knew—oh, Mothers, no, you are hurt!”
“Only a little,” she lied. “'Betha, we cannot stay here. We must leave, now. As quickly as we can.”
“I know it.” Her breath caught on a sob. “He will not listen to me, and I do not know what to say to him. He does not even know I am here!”
“Brelian?” Sweat beaded her upper lip, prickled against her eyelids.
“Ylia?” He turned, but his eyes were not focused. “Why are yo
u here?”
“Lyiadd is dead. Brendan is avenged.” He stared blankly; the words had conveyed nothing to him. “It was Brendan's dagger trick, I killed him with that.” Something of that got through; he nodded, but turned away from her. “Brelian.” She caught at his arm. “Brel, we cannot stay here, we must go. We need haste. You saw the number of armed in that valley. If they pursue—”
“Go then. I—I cannot—I—I will not—” He swallowed. “I stay with him.”
“No.” Lisabetha's voice was a tiny anguished whisper; she turned and fled.
“Brelian, we must. Lisabetha needs you, Brel; she will not go without you.” Ylia blinked rapidly; tears burned down her face. “I—what we loved of Brendan is not here—not under these stones. What can you do in this place save to grieve? Is that what Brendan would ask of you?”
“He—”
“Lisabetha needs you. I need you, we all do, Brelian. And —do you think,” she added raggedly, “that it is easy for me, to ask this of you? Do you think I want to leave—” Her voice broke, one hand caught at the cairn. Brelian's arms were crushing around her shoulders.
“No, please, gods no, do not weep, do not.” But he himself was weeping. “I—let us go. Now, at once.” Lisabetha returned, caught Brelian's hands in hers; Ylia limped back to Levren's side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, she set her good arm across his shoulders, and they started slowly north.
Who, knowing the tale of so much of our journey, would have dared doubt the girl? Brandt had said it to his Council, that last long day: “I name her my heir because she is worthy. And so time will prove.” And so it did.
25
Ylia never after could remember that day's travel, save that she was supported by one or another of the men the entire way: impossible to walk alone for pain and lightheadedness. Golsat moved out ahead long before noon-meal to find a campsite and fresh meat. Nisana rode on Lisabetha's breast, close to hand, willing her strength. Later, when she felt likely to burst into tears, Malaeth was at her ear, soothing and encouraging, cooing as she had to the baby Ylia's first steps: “A little further, my Ylia. There—not so bad, was that? A little more and you can rest, I promise it.” Finally, Levren and Brelian took in turns to carry her. In such a manner they covered a slow league and a half, most of it fortunately downhill.
By the time they reached Golsat's camp, it was late: the sun was down and a cool breeze fingered through clothing. Ylia was glad, for her skin burned. She had been hardly able, even with Nisana's and Malaeth's aid, to eat during the midday stop. Every step tore at the wound in her side, set her arm to throbbing. When Levren and Marhan finally aided her to the ground, she fell over and lay in a heap. Someone draped another cloak over her, but she could not even open her eyes to see which of them, and the inner sense was dead.
'Ylia.’ Nisana rubbed against her face. ‘You've rested enough. We must deal with your injuries.’
'No. Let me sleep, I cannot.’
'You can and will.’ The cat was unrelenting. Ylia opened one eye to regard her, wearily let it close again. ‘Come, it is not so bad as all that. You can heal. I will aid you with my strength. You will no longer hurt.’ A pause. Ylia sighed wearily, but said nothing. ‘Just because we stopped the bleeding, you are not out of danger, girl! And the pain itself weakens you, you know this! We need you fully aware!’
Tears ran down her face; she brushed at them angrily. Weak thing! Nisana was right: she was of no use to anyone in her present state. Hard—nearly impossible at the moment—to find the inner sense, as though the Power itself flinched away from the physical pain in some hidden corner; it was several slow moments before she could relax enough to draw it forth. They probed the worst of it.
Lyiadd had missed the major blood vessels in both her arm and her side, she knew that even in the agony of the moment. Even so, without the healing she would have been seriously harmed by either, if she had not simply bled to death on the spot. The lack of pain was so great a relief, she could have wept again. She let her head fall into her hands, drew her first deep breath in hours. Nisana curled hard against her.
'I intend to sleep a while, and so you had better. You lost blood, and you walked too far as you were.’
'I will—not yet.’ She spoke to one already unhearing. She sat up cautiously, caught at the ground as the fire and those before it blurred ominously. For that, sleep, and plenty of it, was the only cure. But not until she had warned Marhan, at least.
The Swordmaster had been watching her rather worriedly, and he now came swiftly to her side, braced her upright. “Is this wise? Malaeth needs to see to your—” His voice died away; he was staring blankly at her cheek.
“No. Gone, all of them. You know I can heal—”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Not only others, old man. It works on me as well, it just takes strength I did not dare spare before.” She closed her eyes, leaned back against his arm. “I need sleep, but other than that, I am well—enough.”
“Good then—”
“I need sleep, but not quite yet.”
Golsat met her eyes over the fire. “You said you would tell us what chanced. Would like to know,” he added with a rare dry humor, “if this is worth the trouble I took for it.” He closed his blackened eye; Marhan glanced at him uncomfortably, away again. “Never mind, Swordmaster,” Golsat added. “Had our places been changed, what might any of us have done to you?”
Ylia held her hands to the fire. “What—happened on the ledge? I remember little, and I was separated from you.”
Golsat shrugged. “There was a strange feeling to the air; my hair stood on end. We heard you scream. Marhan and I had already moved ahead, but we raced back at that. And, of a sudden, there was a flash of light, red light. Perhaps fifty men and Cavefolk stood there, blades at the ready. Marhan was a little to the side and he plowed ahead, but before I could more than draw sword I was surrounded by at least ten.” He stared blackly at the fire. “I could not fight my way free, never against so many.”
“What else could you have done?” Levren demanded quietly.
“I have wondered since.”
“You are alive.” That was Brelian—the first thing he had said all day. Lisabetha pressed his share of the meat into his hands, forced them upward. He ate, blankly unaware of what he chewed.
“I am alive,” Golsat agreed. His eyes sought first Brelian's, then, when Brelian appeared no more aware of him than he was of his food, Lisabetha's. “Brel was shielding ‘Betha from the Cavefolk. Though she was fighting, too, with the staff Marhan made for her.”
“Something hit me.” Lisabetha touched her head gingerly. “I was aware, but I could not move. When Brelian fell beside me, I thought him dead at first. Then—I heard Brendan, heard him shouting the way he—way he did. And someone shouted at him to throw down his blades, but he laughed.” Ylia closed her eyes, bit her lip hard.
“I went to Marhan's aid,” Levren said. “Though it did us no good at all. When you vanished, he was hurt. Next thing I was aware, three swords were at my throat. We had no chance at all, any of us—let alone Bren. There were at least eight fighting him; even so, he accounted for five at least, that I saw, before he fell.” He shook his head. “We were bunched closely together and—and moved. One moment upon that ledge, the next in the chamber where you found us.
“Brendan was conscious off and on for long, but he had lost considerable blood before we could get to him. Most of the time, he was not aware and could not have felt much pain. He—spoke mostly to you, Ylia.”
“He was aware—once.” The food slid unnoted from Brelian's fingers. “When—when he—” He turned away from the fire, struggled to his feet and walked into the night.
“He spoke to Brelian, asking of you,” Lisabetha whispered. “We could not tell him where you were or what had happened. He thought you dead. He—told me to take care of Brel, then. Not long after, he lapsed into the final silences, and we could not rouse him.”
Oh, gods
, oh Mothers—She blotted tears with her sleeve.
“Where were you?” Malaeth demanded.
She told them, briefly, of her imprisonment and her two meetings with Lyiadd. She told them what he was, and all the horror he had done and planned to do.
“But—the AEldra powers,” Marhan protested, “you said—”
“Cannot be used for evil. No. So I was told, so I have been told all my life. Perhaps he is no longer AEldra. I do not know what he is. But those ruined halls were once the Lammior's.”
“Ah, no!” Malaeth alone understood the full implication of the name and went pale at it. But Lisabetha also knew something of him.
“The Lammior, the Night-Serpent,” the girl whispered. “There are tales—a few tales—in the North of this horror.”
“The Lammior, the Nasath guard us!” Malaeth kissed the knuckle of her smallest right-hand finger. “How came you—Ylia, how dared you stand against him?”
“Because I had to. I could not stand by while he worked his sorceries on all that I hold dear. I drew him out, I fought him, I won. Lyiadd is dead; the price is not as great as it might have been. I am alive and he is dead. Nothing else matters.”
“Are you certain he is dead?” Malaeth asked suddenly.
“Yes. Certain.”
“Because I know him; he is devious.”
“I know he is devious. He could have killed me, he chose instead to amuse himself.” Malaeth shuddered.
“I threw my dagger, struck him there.” She touched the old nurse's breast. “He is dead.”
“But you did not actually touch his pulse then, did you? Do not be so certain, Ylia. And his woman—that was the Sirdar's daughter, was it not?”
“Marrita.”
“I thought as much. I have not seen her since she had barely come to womanhood, but she has not changed at all, and the scarf on her hand gave her away. Remember, she is of the First House and capable of much. Though she never used what she had for other than to enhance her beauty. If—if Lyiadd was still alive, perhaps she could have healed him.”