But Amnachudran had suffered much worse. But he was still breathing, though the sound had a rattle to it that suggested water in the lungs. His pulse was rapid and thready with shock. There was a lump the size of a small egg above and behind his ear. Gereint thought one of his legs was probably broken.
Letting the other man drown hadn’t occurred to Gereint fast enough. But now… an unconscious man could not command his help. Without care now, Amnachudran would probably die. Gereint stared down at him. He could not kick the man back into the river; even without the geas he didn’t think he could have done that. But… he wouldn’t have to do anything so active, would he?
The situation at this moment was too uncertain for the geas to bite hard. His master was too near death, maybe. Too deathly. Interesting word, “deathly.” The geas seemed to accept it as nearly the same as “dead.” Gereint was fairly certain he could simply walk away. His hip hurt; his knee hurt like fire. But it didn’t seem to be sprained. He could walk well enough. He didn’t even need a stick.
Judging from his previous experience, when Fellesteden had left him behind in Melentser, distance alone would suffice to keep the geas quiet. And now Gereint knew, as he hadn’t then, that if he could step into direct desert sunlight, it would break the geas—and he could step back out immediately. He’d made a slight detour, yes. But the mountains still waited, and Feierabiand, and final freedom from the geas.
If Gereint walked away and, against all likelihood, Amnachudran did wake… well, then, he would be hurt and cold, with the chill of the night coming and no fire. It would not take wolves to kill a man left hurt and alone in the dark. He would die… alone and abandoned… fewer than ten miles from his home… Gereint cursed.
Then he heaved the smaller man up into his arms, grunting as his back and hip flared with pain. He limped back to clear ground near the saddlebags and put the man down there. Found out the blankets, and laid one out on the ground for a bed. Stripped away the wet clothing. A great spreading black bruise showed where ribs were probably broken. The leg was gashed as well as broken, but there wasn’t much blood. Gereint bound up the gash and covered the injured man with the other blanket. Made a fire, afraid all the time that Amnachudran might wake after all. But he did not stir. Gereint glanced at the sun. Hours yet till dusk. And Amnachudran’s breathing already sounded better. The pulse in his throat beat more strongly. If Gereint left him now, he might be all right. Though the leg… But surely his family was waiting for him. They must surely expect him to be on his way home. Someone would come down to the river soon to look for him.
Gereint went back to where he’d left the bags and packs. Absently collected the fourth saddlebag from the shallow water where it had fallen and put it with the others. The books it held were dry, he found. Then he looked at the book he held blankly, wondering why he’d bothered to check. He put it back and did up the straps.
He changed into dry clothing. Found his boots and put them on. Did not look back at Amnachudran. Most carefully did not look. If he looked, he might find himself compelled to go back to him. If he didn’t look… If he fixed his mind firmly on the sky and the river and the sound the wind made in the leaves… why, then, he could swing a pack over his shoulder and walk away, upriver. He didn’t look back.
The geas didn’t stop him. He’d thought it might, at this last moment of abandonment: an act of defiance more active than merely letting Perech Fellesteden walk away from him had been. But the geas did not stop him. It wasn’t gone. He knew by this that Amnachudran still lived. But it did not bite hard. An unconscious master, a master who was dying, was not something, perhaps, that the geas magic understood very well. He walked on.
Amnachudran was already too far away to call him back.
But Gereint hadn’t even gone a mile when he saw the griffins. This time, there were three of them: one bronze and brown, one copper and gold, and one—the one leading—a hard, pure white, like the flames at the very heart of a fire. The air surrounding them was dense with light, so that Gereint had to squint against it to see them. It smelled of fire and hot brass; the air shimmered with heat.
As the other griffin had done, these were flying along the river—only these were heading south, downriver. Unlike that other griffin, these very clearly knew he was present: The white one tilted its head and looked down at him as it passed, a flashing sapphire glance of such hot contempt that Gereint swayed and took an involuntary step back. But they did not hesitate in their course or drop toward him, for which he was fervently grateful.
The griffins flew low, so low that their wingtips nearly brushed the topmost branches of the trees, so low that Gereint was gripped by a compelling illusion, as the last one soared past, that he might have touched its feathers if he’d reached out his hand. He wondered if those feathers could be as sharp edged and metallic as they seemed—probably not. But the light flashed off their beaks, and off talons as long as his fingers and as sharp as knives. It came to him, vividly, what those talons might do to a man… to a defenseless man, say, who had been left abandoned and injured on the riverbank… He shut his eyes, trying to close out the images his imagination suggested to him, as well as the too-brilliant light.
When he opened them again, the griffins were past, out of sight. The light was only ordinary sunlight, and the river and woodlands seemingly untroubled by any memory of fire.
The griffins surely would not stop to trouble Eben Amnachudran. They did not seem inclined to stop for any reason. The other one had not paid any attention to them; these three hadn’t stopped to tear Gereint to pieces, though they’d clearly seen him. Why would they pause to kill a man who was, after all, already dying?
They wouldn’t. Gereint was certain of it. Almost certain. He took a few steps along the river, northward.
Then he stopped again. What if the griffins passed Amnachudran by? They probably would not pause to kill him. The scholar had thought them beautiful as well as terrible. Maybe he was awake now. Maybe he would see them pass. Helpless as he was, he would be frightened. He would watch the griffins pass by—surely they would pass by. And then he would wait. And for what? How long would it take for the injured man to give up hope? How long might he linger, in pain and growing despair, until he finally died quietly there by that fire? While his wife and children and grandchildren waited for him not ten miles away?
Gereint could not put that image out of his mind. It was worse than imagining griffins tearing the scholar to ribbons. How long would it be before someone came down to the ford looking for the man? Who would it be: His wife? One of the grandchildren?
So it wasn’t fear of the griffins that made Gereint turn back south. After all, if they wanted to kill Amnachudran, Gereint could never stop them, even if he was there. But the image of that kind, civilized, cultured man waiting in slowly dying hope, while the hours passed, maybe days, and no one came… that was what made Gereint turn back.
It took about a quarter of an hour to get back to the ford. Everything was exactly as Gereint had left it; there was no sign that griffins had stopped there. This was almost a shock, even though he had thought it unlikely that they would. Nor was Amnachudran awake. But he was still alive. Gereint stood for a moment, gazing down at him, and wondering if he wished the man had died. He did not know. But he knew he could not simply leave him a second time.
It took another quarter of an hour, maybe, to make a litter with green saplings and the blankets. Longer than seemed likely to get Amnachudran on the litter and the saddlebags arranged. Gereint discarded the packs, only tucking his own books into one of the saddlebags. He would not need tallow candles or a cooking pot now.
Then he picked up the stripped ends of the saplings and leaned into the weight.
His knee screamed as he took the weight. But the leg held. Blades of pain lanced down his back and stabbed into his hip, but he still thought nothing was actually broken. His hands hurt when he gripped the poles, though next to the knee and hip that seemed a minor distraction. Le
ss than ten miles, Amnachudran had said. How much less? It had better be a lot less, Gereint thought grimly, or he would never manage it.
The ground might be easy compared to the high mountains, but soon enough Gereint doubted whether he’d manage this last leg of his journey after all. Merrich Berchandren had famously declared that the last mile of any journey was always the hardest. If the last mile was harder than the one he was currently traveling, Gereint did not look forward to it.
Now, though, rather than trying to coax the geas to sleep, he could actually use it. He pretended Amnachudran had ordered him to get him home. He imagined the man’s pain-filled eyes and strained tone: Gereint, get me home. The geas couldn’t really be fooled, but then, getting his badly injured master to his home was a desperately important service. There was no pretense about that. He glanced over his shoulder at Amnachudran’s white face, thought hard of getting the man to shelter and safety, and felt the geas shiver awake at last and bite down hard. After that there was no question of stopping: Next to the compulsion of the geas, neither his hip nor his knee nor his bleeding palms mattered at all.
Gereint had been tall, big all through, all his life: He had been big for his age as a child and a boy and a youth, and once he’d got his growth he’d seldom met a stronger man. And much good it had done him. But his strength served him now. And hard-trained endurance. And sheer doggedness… The sun slid lower in the sky behind him. Shadows stretched out. The countryside opened out, patches of open meadows and woods replacing forest and then pastures replacing the woodlands. Gereint watched the shadows to keep his direction. He tried to remember to glance up sometimes, look for apple orchards and a house set against hills where a stream came down. He was thirsty… Thirst became a torment as soon as he thought of it. He had not thought to fill waterskins at the river. He put one foot in front of the other, though half his steps were short; he could no longer bend his right knee very well. But that was all right because the pain of his hip would have shortened his steps anyway.
Dusk, and shadows stretching out to cover the countryside, and no house with candles in its windows to light home a late traveler… He had missed the house. He knew he had missed it. Every little rough place in the ground made him stumble. He should just stop, wait for dawn. But he couldn’t stop, not now, no matter how unreasonable pressing forward might be. Not until the last shreds of his strength had been spent and he just fell where he stood… He realized, dimly, that he was no longer going straight east, and for a long moment could not understand why. Then the breeze shifted, and he blinked. Apples. It was too dark now to see the trees, but he could smell the fruit on the gentle breeze. He lifted his head, turned his face toward that sweet fragrance… There was a light. There was a lantern, after all: a lantern in a high window, and beyond the light, dark rolling hills that cut across the starry sky.
Gereint made it through the orchard and right up to the gates of the house’s yard. The gates were closed. He stood for some time, too dazed to understand why he had stopped. Then a voice called out from within the gate, and another voice answered. Gereint did not understand anything he heard, but he let go of the litter poles. His hands, cramped from hours of gripping, could not open. But he could hammer his fists against the gate. He could not form coherent words. But he could shout, hoarsely.
There were more voices, then. And the ringing sounds of boots against flagstones. And the scraping sound of wood against wood as the gates were unbarred. Lantern light spilled out as the gates were opened, and incomprehensible voices exclaimed. Gereint barely heard them. He was aware only of the geas relaxing within and around him. He did not even feel himself fall.
CHAPTER 2
Gereint dreamed of the hot iron. It traced a circle across his cheek, burning.
When the branding had actually happened, they had warned him against struggling. He might lose an eye, they warned, if the iron slipped. Gereint had been horrified by the threat. He had not fought them.
This time, he knew what the hot iron meant. He knew there were worse things than risking the loss of an eye. He fought desperately.
Weight pinned him. Hands gripped his arms, his shoulders, his body. Hands clamped around his head, holding him still no matter how he fought. The iron was slow, this time, tracing its deliberate path around its circle. Its path was agony, and the scar it left would be a torment forever, but he was held too tightly and could not stop them. He screamed… He had not screamed at the time, but he did this time, because he knew what kind of life the iron would leave him. And he screamed because he had nothing left but his voice; the geas would take his body and his hands, but it would leave his voice… Darkness and fire and the hot iron, and screaming in the dark…
Gereint jerked awake, shaking.
He was lying in a bed in a large, airy chamber with a pale-yellow ceiling and delicate yellow curtains fluttering at the window. He understood that almost at once. He was not in pain; he understood that almost as quickly. His face did not hurt. The iron had only been a dream; the branding was years in the past. But he dimly felt that he had been injured, that he should have been in some pain. He wasn’t. He felt… well. Confused. But well.
His wrists were tied to the sides of the bed, and his ankles to tall ornate posts at its foot. Gereint realized this only gradually, when he tried to sit up. He did not immediately understand why he couldn’t. Then he lifted his head as well as he could and squinted at the bonds, which were soft cloth. Nothing to cut or chafe. No wonder he hadn’t understood at first that he was bound. He couldn’t think why he should be tied to the bed… Well, he could think of one or two reasons a geas slave might be tied to a bed, but they seemed unlikely… Why unlikely? Ah. Eben Amnachudran. Some of the immediate past began to settle back into order. Yes. This was Amnachudran’s house, surely. And those reasons did not seem very likely, if he was still his slave.
But he was bound…
Someone opened the door and came in. Gereint could not lift his head enough to see who it was. It occurred to him only too late that perhaps he might have been wiser to pretend to be asleep, but he did not think of that until the person made a little sound of surprise and hurried out again.
Gereint lowered his head back to the pillow and tried to think. It was hard. He felt strangely adrift. Thoughts came slowly and faded before he could quite grasp them…
The door opened again, and this time Amnachudran himself came in. He walked quickly to the head of the bed and stood frowning down at Gereint. His round, mild face did not seem meant for frowning. Gereint stared back at him in confusion, feeling the internal shift of the geas. Was the man angry? He had not meant to do anything to anger Amnachudran… Had he? But it must have been Amnachudran himself who had ordered him tied down… but the man could simply have commanded him to lie down and stay in the bed… Gereint looked away in confusion, feeling weak and somehow ashamed. He was weak, but he didn’t understand the shame.
“How do you feel?” Amnachudran asked. He held up one hand. “How many fingers am I holding up? What’s your name? What’s my name?”
Gereint turned his head back, stared up at him. “I think I could manage… three out of four, maybe.”
“Which one seems doubtful?”
“I feel… very odd.”
The other man laughed, sounding relieved. He was no longer frowning. “Gereint…” he said, and shook his head.
“Why am I…?” Gereint moved his hands illustratively.
“You fought us. Very hard.”
“The geas didn’t stop me?”
“Nothing stopped you. You were out of your mind. I don’t think you recognized me. It was a lesson to me about desperation and the limitations of the geas.” Amnachudran produced a small knife and began to cut Gereint loose, very carefully. The knife did not want to cut the soft cloth. If Gereint had made the knife, it would have done a much better job.
Gereint watched the knife. He watched the other man’s hand working carefully to cut the cloth bonds. He said
tentatively, “I was… you were… is my memory right?”
“I don’t know. What do you think you remember?”
“Didn’t you have a broken leg? Among other things.”
“Among other things, yes.” Amnachudran finished cutting Gereint’s hands free and stepped down to the foot of the bed. “My wife is a skilled healer-mage; fortunately she is skilled especially with traumatic injuries. I… um. I’m more of a specialist, myself.” He finished cutting Gereint’s feet free, reached to a table by the bed, and handed Gereint a small hand mirror. The kind a lady would use, with an ornate brass frame and little birds etched in the corners of the glass.
Gereint took it wonderingly. Looked in it, since that was what his master clearly intended.
He almost did not recognize the face that looked back at him. Oh, the face was the same: The forehead with untidy hair falling across it; the wide cheekbones were the same, the nose, the line of the jaw… but there was no broad circular scar from the branding. Gereint stared hard, not understanding what he was seeing. Or not seeing. There was nothing there. He lifted a hand, traced with his thumb the path of the brand. But he had to trace it from memory: He could not find the smooth raised scar by touch. He began to put the mirror down, snatched it back upright and stared again. Tried to speak and found his throat closed—and besides, he had no idea what to say.
“I’ll be, um. Around,” Amnachudran said quickly. “Come find me when you, um. Feel up to it.” He gestured rather randomly around the room. “There’s food—be sure and eat something. I think the clothing should fit. Um—” He retreated.
For a little while, Gereint thought he might weep like a child, as Amnachudran had clearly feared. He didn’t, in the end. He ate a piece of bread while standing in front of a full-length mirror, staring at his unmarked face. The geas rings still pierced his ankles, but he had known they must. The cords Amnachudran had used to bind him were still woven through those rings. He had known that, too. But the face… Did Amnachudran know what he had done?
Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two Page 5