She, Yrla and Rycol sat in cushioned chairs about a carved- legged table. Bedyr could not, and paced the room restlessly, thumbs hooked in the dagger belt encircling his black leather tunic. Crescents of shadow hung beneath his eyes and there was a gauntness to his handsome features that was magnified by the careless combing of his long brown hair. His wife appeared better composed, though visible to any who knew her well was the fear that lurked in her seemingly calm gray gaze. She sat with hands folded in her lap, still against the dark blue of her gown.
“He will arrive soon,” Rycol promised, watching Bedyr turn before the door and retrace his steps. “Word is out.”
“I know.” Bedyr smiled a wan apology, his tension unrelieved. “You have done all you can, old friend, but—Lady help me!—I cannot bear this waiting.”
“Sit down,” Yrla advised, her voice weary, “your pacing serves only to disturb us all.”
Bedyr sighed and nodded, dropping heavily into a chair. “Where might he be?” he asked.
“Brannoc comes and goes,” answered Rycol, “and few know exactly where he might be at any given moment. But I have dispatched riders to every known haunt, and they will have sent word on into the forests. He will be here ere long.”
Bedyr grunted and reached for the silvered jug of wine, raising it questioningly toward his wife, who shook her head, before pouring himself a glass. He sipped and set the glass down, staring moodily into the rich, red liquid.
“It has been six days.”
“And may be six more,” Yrla said quietly. “We can do nothing but wait.”
“I should have gone with him,” Bedyr muttered.
“And left me to wonder about you both?” Yrla shook her head, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Gann Resyth said an avalanche blocked the Fedyn Pass. He had no proof Kedryn fell beneath it.”
“But we do not know,” Bedyr retorted miserably. “That is the rub of it.”
“Is that worse than confirmation?” she inquired mildly, hiding her own fears. “Would you rather Gann Resyth had brought us back a body?”
“No!” Bedyr’s answer was fierce, startling the dogs into nervous watchfulness.
“Then we still have hope,” Yrla said. “Hold on to that. Trust in the Lady, for she was surely with them.”
“In Ashar’s domain,” Bedyr grunted, then shook his head, enfolding his wife’s hand between both of his. “Forgive me, but I am more accustomed to action than this damnable waiting.”
“You waited well enough when we sat in darkness, besieged,” the Lady Marga said mildly.
“I had my son with me then, and an enemy I could face,” retorted Bedyr, sharper than he had intended, paling the rosy cheeks of the plump little woman. He saw her smooth her grayed hair nervously and smiled placatingly. “My apologies, Marga. It seems I can do nothing but offer apologies for my fretting.”
Marga smiled, regaining her composure. “There are none needed, Bedyr. I share your concern—we all do.”
“I know,” he said, and climbed to his feet again, walking to the hearth, where he stroked absently at the two brindle heads that rose inquiringly at his approach. “Would, though, that I had word. Of whatever has transpired.”
Rycol rose, lean and hawkish, his stem features set in carefully measured lines, and went to join Bedyr, setting a hand to his friend’s shoulder.
“Is it not as it was then?” he asked. “We could not see our enemy then, or know what he planned, but we rode it out.”
“Aye, with Kedryn,” came the answer, Bedyr’s gaze fixed on the flames that danced and fluttered within the confines of the stone. “And for all the gramaryes of the Messenger we knew our enemy was physical. We knew we should face warriors in the end. This is different.”
“It is another kind of waiting,” Yrla said. “A kind you men know little of, and we women much. You ride off to war whilst we wait behind, not knowing if you will return. Or if you will come back maimed. When you rode into the Beltrevan with Kedryn, did you think of me then? Did you think how I worried whilst you were gone? Not knowing if I should see my husband and my son again? Now you share that unknowing, that woman’s fear.” Bedyr’s head rose slowly from his contemplation of the flames. Yrla’s voice had been mild, and he knew her well enough to know there was no condemnation in her words, only truth, but that verity cut deep. He turned toward her, his eyes moist, and when he spoke, his voice was grave and full of love.
“You are right, my Lady, and I stand guilty of selfishness. You and our son are the two most treasured things I have, and I had not seen these matters from your side. I ask again that you forgive me.
Yrla made a dismissive gesture. “We need not speak of ; forgiveness for there is no accusation or guilt. We deal with gods I and their ways are unguessable, implacable. We are caught in a web of too complicated a pattern for our mortal eyes to discern, and we can do nothing but hold to our faith and maintain our hope. Until such time as we know beyond doubt that Kedryn is dead, we must believe he lives.” She smiled at her husband and then said in a brisker tone, “Now, I shall go to the chapel to pray.”
“I will accompany you,” said Marga.
Bedyr crossed the room to hold Yrla’s chair, and when she rose he took her hands, kissing her cheek. “Thank you, my love,” he murmured. “You give me strength.”
Yrla reached to smooth his unkempt hair. “He cannot be dead,” she said softly. “I do not believe the Lady would allow that.” Bedyr nodded and watched her go from the chamber, the shorter Marga bustling beside her. When the door was closed he turned to Rycol.
“No word from Fengrif?”
“The signal towers report nothing,” answered the chatelain. “Fengrif has sent out riders from Low Fort, but ...”
He spread his hands helplessly and Bedyr nodded, turning his back as he went to a window and threw open the shutters. A blast i of winter-chilled air rustled his hair as he leaned against the embrasure, staring into the darkness. Behind him the dogs j growled softly at the intrusion of cold and Rycol murmured them to silence, pouring himself a measure of wine that he sipped as he studied Bedyr’s back, seeing the tense set of the broad shoulders, wishing there was more he could do than advise patience; knowing there was nothing else, and that patience was the hardest thing.
Bedyr found no answers in the night, only the mockery of the 1 wind. The sky was clear, the orb of a full moon pooling a tracery of pale light over the canyon walls, silvering the restless surface of the river below, its lapping a counterpoint to the melancholy draft. Watchfires sparkled crimson on the ramparts and occasionally through the gusting he heard the chink of mail and the sound of voices, too windblown, too far away, to be discernible. He envied Yrla the faith that gave her calm, his own in more material things: the edge of a cared-for blade, the buckling of sound armor, the strength of a good horse. Lady, he thought as the night air chilled the tears that pressed from his eyes, forgive my lack of piety and hold it not against my son. Let him live, I beg you.
As if in answer to the silent prayer he heard a knocking at the door and spun about as the portal opened to reveal a soldier swathed in heavy winter cloak, his hair windswept.
“My Lord Rycol, my Lord Bedyr,” the man announced, “the Warden of the Forest requests an audience.”
“Brannoc? Send him in, man. Quickly!” Rycol barked, startling the warrior so that he jumped back to reveal the figure waiting behind him.
“Brannoc!” Bedyr echoed. “Where have you been?”
“My Lords?” The Warden of the Forest stilled the elaborate salute he had been about to execute, the smile on his tanned features dying stillborn. “What is wrong?”
He entered the room and shucked off his wolfskin cloak, tossing it carelessly to a chair as his midnight eyes studied their faces, the long lashes rising in surprise. He ran a careless hand through his braided hair, setting the feathers and shells that decorated the raven locks to fluttering. As was his custom, he wore motley leather, a Keshi saber hung across his
back, a throwing knife at his hip, another revealed strapped to his left forearm. Rings of Keshi origin shone on his left thumb and the third finger of his right hand, and a hoop of silver hung from his left ear, a necklace of leather and beads about his throat. He wore no badge of office, and to those who did not know him he would have appeared what he was, and had been: a half-breed wolf’s-head, part Keshi, part Tamurin. part barbarian.
“Kedryn,” Bedyr said.
“Kedryn?” Brannoc crossed to the fire, absently dislodging the hounds that he might present himself closer to the warmth. “Surely Kedryn travels to Estrevan with the lovely Sister?” “They are in the Beltrevan.” Bedyr faced the former outlaw across the table, pausing as he marshaled his thoughts, reminding himself that he was, in addition to a distraught father, the Lord of Tamur. “Estrevan deemed it wiser he travel to the Drott in search of his eyes. It seems only the shade of the warrior who took his sight may restore it, so he went to the Drott. Wynett, Tepshen Lahl—a squadron—accompanied him. Then Gann Resyth brought word from the Fedyn Pass that an avalanche had buried them. The Lady Yrla and I came here, to seek you out.”
“Gann Resyth brought no bodies?” Brannoc’s voice was flat, slightly accented.
“No.” Bedyr shook his head. “He saw only a single horse. The fort’s Sister sensed evil—Resyth presumed Ashar’s work.”
“The fire god has power there,” Brannoc nodded. “It had been better they came here, that I might have escorted them.”
“Estrevan deemed there was little time to waste.” Bedyr clasped a chairback, frustrated by the need to explain. “The Sacred City believes the Messenger is abroad; that he works Ashar’s design. And Kedryn is the only one able to defeat him.”
“Where?” asked Brannoc, instinctively shaping the warding gesture of the tribes.
“That they could not surmise,” said Bedyr, impatient. “They know only that he lives. For that reason it was paramount Kedryn regain his sight.”
“And he went into the Fedyn Pass,” said Brannoc as though digesting the news, “and there was an avalanche that was likely Ashar’s doing, and you wish me to inquire of the Drott whether he lives.”
He omitted, Or not, and Bedyr nodded. “I would not chance the upset of our peace treaty by entering the forest with the men we should need to find them.” Like Brannoc he did not speak the alternative. “And you are likely to get word faster. Hence, Rycol’s summons.”
Brannoc ducked his head, tugging thoughtfully on a braid. “The Drott territories are a long ride west and north,” he murmured. “And it is the time of the Gathering—there will be little intercourse between the tribes, so little hope of word filtering down. I had best leave at dawn, alone. I shall travel faster without the encumbrance of an escort, but even so it will take a while to reach the Drott. And return with word.”
“At dawn?” Bedyr asked.
“I need a sound night’s sleep,” said Brannoc. “1 have some hard riding ahead of me.”
“Thank you,” Bedyr said.
“Your son is my friend,” answered the half-breed. “Now, I need a bed, and before that food and drink.”
Without further ado he settled himself at the table and downed a glass of wine, rapidly followed by a second as Rycol shouted for servants to bring victuals and prepare a bed.
Yrla and Marga returned while he was eating, and he rose, bowing courteously.
“My wife, the Lady Yrla Belvanne na Caitin. Yrla, this is Brannoc, Warden of the Forest. The Lady Marga you already know.”
Bedyr effected brief introduction and Brannoc nodded, smiling at the two women. “Lady Marga, you are well, I trust. And Lady Yrla—I regret the circumstances of our meeting, but assure you I shall do all in my power to bring Kedryn safely to you.”
Yrla paused, somewhat taken aback by so courtly a greeting from a man she had heard described as wolf’s-head, who wore the appearance of some mixed-blood forester. Then she smiled and said, “Good Warden, I thank you. My husband has spoken of you, as did my son, and both in glowing terms.”
“I am flattered.” For all the gravity of the situation Brannoc could not keep the bantering tone from his voice for long. “But that weighty title sits a trifle heavily on my shoulders and I would ask you to call me Brannoc, as do all my friends.”
Yrla nodded gravely and said, “Then Brannoc it shall be, for I am glad to count you friend.”
“He leaves at dawn,” said Bedyr, adding, as he saw the question in his wife’s eyes, “alone.”
“I shall travel faster that way,” Brannoc explained, resuming his seat and continuing to eat with a gusto the others could not muster. “The forest folk trust me and it is early yet to send armed Tamurin into the Beltrevan.”
Yrla nodded, taking a chair across from the Warden. “You have heard nothing from the woodsfolk?”
Brannoc shook his head. “It is the time of Gathering, Yrla. The clans of each tribe come together and there is little intercourse between them until First Day, when they return to their hunting grounds.”
“How will you go?” Rycol demanded.
“Through the pass and then due west,” said Brannoc. “Along the Lozin wall until I reach the Saran, then north and west along the line of the river to Drul’s Mound. That is where the Drott gather, and where Kedryn must go to find the quadi.”
“Do you think the shamans will agree to help him?” asked Yrla.
Brannoc shrugged. “It is hard to predict what a Drott shaman will do, but—yes. The defeat of the Horde weakened their hold, and now Cord is Ulan, and he was never fond of the medicine men. Kedryn is the hef-Alador and I think that Cord will respect that.”
“Is Ashar’s power weakened?” she demanded.
Again Brannoc shrugged. “If his power depends on worship, then it might well be. When the Horde broke and the Messenger disappeared, there were many who felt they were betrayed by their god.”
“Do you hear?” Yrla turned toward Bedyr, fresh hope in her eyes.
“I hear,” Bedyr nodded. “But we should not underestimate his strength. ”
“No,” Brannoc agreed. “Ashar is a vengeful god and he will fight for what he considers his.”
A silence fell then and Brannoc finished his meal, taking a last cup of wine before rising and asking that Rycol indicate where he might sleep, “I shall do my best,” he promised.
“My thanks,” Yrla said.
Bedyr smiled grimly and nodded.
The next morning dawned gray, the sky leaden with threat of snow, the sun a faint promise behind the low cloud. Wrapped in cloaks, Bedyr, Yrla and Rycol gathered to bid the Warden farewell. Brannoc was mounted on a sturdy dun horse, built more for endurance than speed, a piebald animal of similar physique laden with his supplies. Both animals wore the red and white peace feathers woven into their bridles, and Brannoc had fastened more into his braids, a cluster lashed to the hilt of the saber that thrust up behind his shoulder. He was clad in his wolfskin cloak and heavy boots covered his feet. A bow and quiver of arrows were sheathed on his saddle. He smiled, white teeth flashing against the nut-brown of his skin.
“If they are with the Drott, I shall find them and bring them back,” he said.
“May the Lady go with you,” said Yrla.
“Be careful,” admonished Rycol, his concern eliciting a grin from the half-breed.
“Find him,” said Bedyr. “Find them for the sake of friendship.”
“I will,” Brannoc said, and without further ado heeled the dun out through the postern, hooves clattering as he cantered down the frosted surface of the Beltrevan road.
They watched until he was gone from sight, and then there was nothing they could do save wait. Bedyr found employment about the fort and Yrla spent much time in the company of Marga, or in the chapel, praying. Time passed slowly, the days merging into one another. Urstide came and went, its celebration dulled by the absence of knowledge, and then, out of a flurry of windblown snow, confusion arrived.
It came in the form
of a weary mehdri on a tired horse.
He approached the gates of High Fort with shoulders slumped, his stance indicative of too many days in the saddle, riding through one of the worst winters Tamur had known. He straightened as he crested the glacis, lifting his head with visible effort to call the traditional demand of his guild.
“A mehdri asks entrance. I bear a message.”
The gates were open but he halted nonetheless, for so custom dictated, waiting until the captain of the watch gave formal response.
“Enter and be welcome, mehdri.”
Soldiers came out to greet the rider as he came through the gates, reaching to help him from the saddle. He shook his head, waving them back as he kicked clear of the stirrups and swung to the ground. His legs trembled then and he clutched at his saddlehom for support, pushing himself upright as the captain inquired for whom the message was intended.
“The Lord Bedyr Caitin of Tamur,” the mehdri answered, “and the Lady Yrla Belvanne na Caitin.”
“I will bring you to them,” the captain offered.
The mehdri stroked the bowed head of his mount and asked, “You will see my animal stabled? Rubbed down and fed?”
“Of course,” the captain promised, turning to bark orders at his sergeant.
“Tend him well.” the mehdri added, “he deserves care.”
“He shall have it,” the sergeant said, taking the bridle.
The mehdri straightened his soiled blue cloak, adjusting the hang so that the tripartite crown emblazoned on the thick material was spread for all to see and set a hand to the pouch secured to his belt. “Lead on,” he nodded.
The captain set off across the courtyard, studying the man as he turned to lead the way through a door and up a winding stairwell that brought them to the labyrinthine interior of High Fort.
“You have traveled far?”
“Andurel to Caitin Hold,” the mehdri grunted. “Then on across the Geffyn to here.”
“A hard road in this winter,” the captain murmured sympathetically.
The mehdri merely nodded: it was his experience that few words were easy when traveled on the king’s business.
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