“Were Faey, yes—distantly related to either the Ni-Ferys or the Ni-Féa. But as for asking aid of my grandmother’s people…” He laughed, a short, sharp sound without any humor in it. “They care for nothing but their intrigues, love affairs, and revenges. They scarcely notice even the most catastrophic events in the world of Men. I doubt they are even aware we are fighting a war.”
“They must notice us—some of us—sometimes,” said Kivik under his breath.
Ruan gave another bitter laugh. “Or else how should I be here? They do take notice of individual humans, occasionally. They are highly susceptible to beauty, even in Men. But such affairs always end badly, and the children of these unfortunate unions come to be regarded as…an embarrassment.” He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. For a moment, his eyes were veiled under his silvery eyelashes, then a fierce look shone out. “Suffice it to say that I would not ask—or expect—any help from my mother or grandmother, not if my life were in direst peril.”
Even at a short distance, the Whathig Wood had an eerie, unwholesome appearance. It grew on a range of humpbacked hills, where spidery upper branches seemed to scratch at a bloody sunset sky. In the language of the ancients the name might be interpreted in two ways: the wood of knots or tangles, or the wood of bindings, of dark sorceries. Neither one was reassuring.
“It will take two days to ride through—if we are lucky,” said Prince Ruan. “I would rather not spend more than a single night there, and I suggest we wait until morning before we approach any nearer.”
No one protested, not even Sindérian, for all her desire to press on. They stopped and made camp at once. But the near presence of that place of ill omen made for a restless, uneasy night. They woke at dawn not much refreshed, saddled the horses, and strapped on the baggage. A short ride brought them to the eaves of the wood, and it did not take them long to find a path that would take them deep inside.
Most of the trees had shed their leaves, but the limbs and branches overhead were so tightly woven that they blotted out much of the sky. Even after several hours of riding, at a time when the sun surely rode high in the heavens, the light remained murky. There were trees like ancient crones with twisted limbs and birds’ nests in their hair; oak and cowan with the bark cracked and peeling, sap dripping or clotted like blood; rotting stumps crawling with insects. Poisonous plants grew where the shade was deepest, and bramble brakes cut across the path so that the men were forced to dismount, draw their swords, and hack a way through. Before long, their cloaks were ripped and torn from repeated battles with the thorns.
They stopped at what might have been noon to eat a hasty meal. The forest floor was no place they cared to linger long. Leaves were rotting into humus underfoot, but instead of a clean, earthy smell they gave off a faint whiff of graveyards. Pale, whiskery roots pierced the soil from below—somehow, no one wanted to touch them though they seemed harmless enough. Was that a breeze stirring the heaps of dead leaves, or did an army of tiny, unseen presences cause that rustling and fluttering?
Near nightfall, they found a clearing to set up their camp. After passing around a whetstone to resharpen their blades, the men stretched out to sleep in the bright moonlight while Sindérian and Faolein took the first watch.
Twice she she saw things moving in the shadows under the trees. The first one she thought was a deer; the second appeared to be a giant black hare. Her heart began to thud in her chest, for the hare was a form associated with witches. Witchcraft was weaker than wizardry, but to meet such here where even the trees were hostile…Whatever it was, it did not disturb the horses and disappeared back into darkness.
It was nearing the end of her watch when she started up from the ground with a cry so loud it woke the others, and brought them staggering to their feet.
Two figures, as translucent as glass, had walked into the camp. They were men well known to Sindérian, Prince Ruan, and Aell—men who had died on the journey from Leal. Something had eaten Jago’s eyes; there were crabs in his beard and he smelled strongly of brine. Even more ghastly was the sight of Tuillio. Sindérian put a hand to her mouth to hold back the rising bile. His hair had been replaced by wriggling sea worms; bones pierced his skin where the sea dragon had splintered them.
The phantoms passed through the clearing without saying a word, leaving a strong residue of fear and horror behind them. And whether they were genuine specters—or tormenting delusions conjured by the wood—there was no possibility of sleep after that.
Sitting on the ground waiting for sunrise, Sindérian and her companions saw ghost after ghost appear and vanish. There were warriors of Skyrra and Thäerie, showing their seeping wounds and broken limbs. Of her own dead in Rheithûn there were many: boys pierced by arrows; women and children dead of starvation or disease. Some had died in fire or had been crushed by stones, and these were the worst of all.
But no Cailltin of Aefri, she thought with a guilty pang, when dawn finally broke and the last phantom faded. Have I truly put him out of my heart so soon?
She slanted a look in Prince Ruan’s direction. Have I replaced him?
After a halfhearted attempt at breakfast, they discovered that the path which had brought them into the clearing was no longer there, that new trails leading in new directions had appeared between the trees.
“This is not uncommon,” said Prince Ruan. In the shadow of trees his eyes were leaf green. “The paths do shift about, but usually stay in place once you are on them.”
With that in mind, they chose the one heading most nearly south and this time they set the horses to a quicker pace. “I would rather not spend another such night,” said Skerry under his breath, and the others could only agree.
It proved to be a good path; by late afternoon, the tangled growth was thinning out. Because they had pushed the horses hard—and with open meadowlands visible ahead between the boles of trees—they decided to dismount and lead their weary horses the rest of the way.
Wading ankle-deep in the black and stinking leaves, Sindérian was already beginning to regret this decision when something—some presentiment of danger, or a sound or scent just below the level of conscious perception—caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. She craned her neck to get a glimpse of Prince Ruan and learn if his keener senses had detected the same thing. He was glancing from side to side, his nostrils flaring and his eyes dilated.
Then his hand flew to the hilt of his sword and he shouted out a warning. “Something is following us!”
The horses sensed it too. Sindérian’s mare tugged at the reins so hard, the leather cut through her hands as she struggled to keep hold of them. Then there was a loud hiss, followed by a sound from higher up the hill, one that was somewhere between a yowl and a screech. Whirling around to discover the source of the noise, she scarcely noticed when the mare finally tugged the reins out of her hands and broke free. A monstrous catlike creature was bounding down the slope.
Manticore, said Faolein inside her head, but Sindérian had already recognized it.
It moved so swiftly, there could be no thought of escape. Sindérian blinked and Prince Ruan’s sword was in his hand. The other men were almost as swift to draw. But the manticore, after covering most of the distance between them with tremendous leaps, went belly-down in a crouch, shifting its leonine head from side to side. One batlike wing shifted, began to unfold, then snapped shut again; the great bulbous tail with a scorpion’s stinger at the end swept a row of saplings aside as it lashed the air.
It is in no way daunted by the sight of four armed men, said Faolein. It merely calculates when and where to strike first. It has an intelligence far beyond that of any ordinary beast.
Choosing Aell for its first victim, the manticore launched itself into the air—barely missing him as he leaped aside and swung his sword. He was only able to graze the flank, as the creature turned with uncanny agility and swiped at him with an enormous taloned foot. Just in time he dodged behind a tree, where claws as long
as a man’s hand scored deep trails in the bark of the trunk.
Meanwhile, the other men had moved around to come at the beast from two sides. Again it crouched, swinging its head from left to right. Then it threw back its head and roared, showing three rows of dagger-sharp teeth. The stench of its breath was nearly overwhelming: a hot, meaty, murderous smell.
Despite so much lethal energy, Sindérian could see that the manticore was old and ill: its wings were cracked and dry as old leather; one eye half scabbed over, the other bright with fever; foam dripped from its jaws. And gazing into those mad eyes, she tried to cast a sleep spell—but was repelled by a will and sentience of such malicious force it left her mind feeling bruised.
Continue to try to distract it, said Faolein just before he rose into the air. Diving at the snarling face, he swerved at the last possible moment when the creature’s tail swung round and almost struck him.
By this time the men had closed in. Prince Ruan and Skerry had each landed a blow: one to a leg, the other at the base of the tail. Blood seethed and bubbled in the wounds, yet neither was very deep. The skin beneath the tawny fur seemed to be almost as tough as dragon scales. The manticore dodged, swiped, and caught Aell with a blow that would surely have ripped off an arm had it not been for his mail shirt. As it was, Sindérian could hear the bone snap in his arm. He fell to his knees, then was on his feet again almost instantly, whipping out his dagger.
When the manticore beat its wings, it was like a wind off the desert. Skerry’s sword, flashing in a beam of sunlight, sliced through one leathery pinion—a blow that cost him dearly, for the creature rounded on him at once, caught him up in the crushing grip of its enormous jaws, and lifted him into the air. The other men all waded in, hacking with swords and daggers, while Faolein took another dive at the eyes. Under their combined attack, the manticore dropped Skerry and leaped into the air, passing over Ruan’s head and landing almost directly behind him.
It twisted with the same uncanny agility it had shown before, rounding on Kivik, bending its back in a manner that should have been impossible for any creature with a backbone, and striking at him with its tail, scorpionlike. An overhead swing by Ruan connected with the tail, but not before the sting struck Kivik in his sword hand. As the Skyrran prince toppled to the ground, instantly paralyzed, the manticore took another swipe at Aell and sent him flying through the air. He slammed into the earth with such force that he was knocked unconscious.
Alone but for the owl beating its wings overhead, Ruan faced the manticore. Sindérian felt her heart drop. She did not see how he could possibly prevail. Yet, without the others to impede him, he was able to move more quickly, swing his sword more freely. Dancing aside from what could have been a killing blow from one clawed foot, he lunged, slashed, connected twice.
Once, the sword stuck fast until he ripped it free. Already his dagger was lodged between the ribs. Sindérian knew that the creature was growing weaker, but it still had three weapons—teeth, claws, and tail—to the Prince’s one. A clever thrust cut through the bristling mane and left a deep wound in the neck, so that more blood gushed out.
Again Ruan danced aside, again the manticore spun around to meet him. Rearing up on its hind legs, it flung its entire body at him, jaws agape and claws slashing. He threw himself to the right, attacking at the same time with an overhand cut that met the manticore’s skull with a jarring crack. As his blade clove straight through to the brain, the monster dropped.
Though Sindérian was stunned by this unexpected turn of events, it took only moments to collect enough of her wits to think of the other men. Knowing that Kivik—if he were not dead already—was the one in most immediate peril of his life, she ran to the place where he was sprawled on the ground, and threw herself down on her knees.
Feeling for a pulse in his neck, she detected the faintest possible beat of life. The color in his face told her that he still breathed, but the rise and fall of his chest was too slight to be seen. His hand was black with poison, spreading like a bruise under his skin, halfway up his forearm already.
“You will want this,” said Prince Ruan over her shoulder, and looking up, she saw that he was offering her a narrow length of cloth he had apparently ripped from his own cloak.
“Yes,” she said, taking the strip of velvet and knotting it into a tourniquet just below Kivik’s elbow. With the cincture in place, she unlatched the clasp of Kivik’s cloak. “Help me, if you will, to remove his mail, and then see what needs to be done for the others.”
By the time the shirt of linked metal rings had been removed, his pulse was almost too faint to detect; his face had turned a dull, leaden hue. Fortunately, the padding under his armor was no such impediment as steel had been. Putting both hands on his chest, she used all her power of mind and will to keep pushing air into his lungs, to force his heart to keep on beating. So much poison had already entered his blood before she had tied off the limb that she could feel his muscles growing increasingly rigid.
“No,” she ground out between her teeth. “No, you will not die.” Too many had perished under her hands over the years because she could not save them; she was not going to allow it to happen again. Not while there is blood and breath left in my own body.
Yet Sindérian had almost given up hope when the muscles in his arms, legs, and chest began to soften. A shudder passed over his body, and he began to drag in breath without her assistance. His heart started beating of its own accord. She sat back on her heels, weak and dizzy, realizing for the first time that her face was wet with tears. She had been crying without knowing it.
Aell is awake and in some pain, but not in immediate peril, said Faolein, landing on a bush nearby. Prince Ruan has been making a largely inadequate attempt to stop Lord Skerry’s bleeding. You will need to go to him next.
She wiped her face with her sleeve and took a deep breath. Gathering what strength remained to her, she rose to her feet. Watch here, and tell me if he stops breathing again.
Many hours later, when she felt it would do them no great harm, she allowed Prince Ruan to carry first Kivik and then Skerry out of the woods and onto safer ground. Meanwhile, she lent her own support to Aell, who leaned heavily on her arm as she helped him to reach the starlit meadow. Drained by her efforts to save Kivik, she had had little to offer the others but rough battlefield healing. For now that would have to be enough.
“How quickly can you heal them, at least so they can ride again?” asked Ruan when they had settled the wounded men as comfortably as possible on the grass. “Without, that is, doing serious damage to yourself.”
“In a day or two—with Faolein’s help. The skill will be mine, of course, but he can lend me some of his strength.” Indeed, he had already done so, or she would never have been able to walk out of the wood.
“And I can do nothing to assist you?”
“You can spend the time bringing back our horses,” she said, sinking down into the grass. “My father says that none of them have gone very far, but they’ve scattered east and west.”
28
Day after day, there was rioting in Apharos. Though guards from the temple and the palace arrived each time to quell the disturbance in an orgy of bloodshed, the riots continued. Nothing like this had happened in all the years of Ouriána’s reign. Even now, the rioters did not appear to act in any spirit of rebellion but because a madness, a panic, swept through the streets.
A plague of hallucinations had the city in its grip, and most of the island. Fishermen reported that they had seen sea serpents sporting in the shallow coastal waters. In the inland towns, bells were said to peal out with iron voices many times a day—bells, which had been stripped from the fanes and shrines of the Old Religion and melted long ago. In Apharos itself, beggars declared they had seen temple guards briefly transformed into knights of a vanished chivalric order, and acolytes into votaries of the Seven Fates. The mass hysteria spread and spread, and there seemed to be no way to stop it—short of capturing and killing
the man Ouriána held responsible.
After a week during which matters grew steadily worse, two of her priests found the Empress pacing like a lioness in the shady palace gardens. It was not, perhaps, the most auspicious location. The sun came there rarely, yet by some means or another her gardeners were able to nurture the growth of plants like nightshade, henbane, and sow’s-tongue, as well as some so poisonous that it was necessary to wear gloves and masks while harvesting the leaves to avoid being blasted by them.
“There remains some question,” said Vitré, after he had been obliged to report no success in finding the man, “whether the astrologer—mage—whatever he may be—actually causes these prodigies, or merely attracts them.”
“Or,” added the red-robed figure who had come with him, the furiádh Scioleann, “whether the magician is drawn to them. Occasionally, they do appear to precede him.”
Her breath came out in a long hiss. “And no one has been able to learn who he truly is—or how or why he contrived to live here in such complete obscurity for so many years?”
Vitré flinched. There was that in her face that might have killed a more timorous man with a single look. “That very point, your seers and magicians surmise, is the heart of the matter. Was it all a clever disguise, or have forces already at work restored him to…whoever and whatever he was before?”
The priest hesitated, gathering his courage before offering what might or might not have been welcome news. “A name has been suggested.”
“And that name is?” Her voice throbbed with emotions barely held in check.
“Several of our older citizens have said they recognize him as one of the emissaries from Leal who attended your father’s coronation. Indeed, he seems to be seeking out individuals who were attached to the court during that era, and asking them questions. And because the movements of the other two wizards have been accounted for all during the years since, that would leave—”
A Dark Sacrifice Page 30