He began moving toward her, and something told her she had made a mistake. With a series of movements so swift Ash could barely follow them, the stranger reached behind her back, crouched, snatched the sickle blade and its chain from the ground and sprang away. "Far Riders answer to no one except He Who Leads. If you were Sull you would know that." With a snap of his wrist he sent the chain into motion. The metal links rustled crisply as the chain wrapped itself in perfect order around the sickle's handle.
Not even Mal Naysayer had done that.
The chain was weighted with a teardrop of metal studded with peridots. The stranger studied this for a moment, cupping it in his free hand and turning it toward the light. Without looking up he fired off a command in Sull.
The looseness in her belly shifted downward. She had only a few words of Sull and she did not know what he wanted.
"I said show me Dras Xathu" The stranger's voice turned sharp, and when he spoke something unpleasant happened to his mouth. "Now!"
The word hit Ash like a slap to the face. The only other person who had spoken to her in that way was her foster father, and she was surprised by the strong instinct to "be a good girl." Confused, she struggled to comprehend what the stranger meant. Dras Xathu? The First Cut? When understanding finally came she felt no relief. Just more confusion.
Taking a step forward, she tilted her face and raised her chin. The wound inflicted upon her many weeks ago by Ark Veinsplitter was now a rough scar. It had been an initiation of sorts, part of becoming Sull. "Before a child comes to manhood or womanhood," Ark had told her, "blood must be drawn in friendly combat. We wound ourselves so that we might deprive our enemies of the satisfaction of delivering the First Cut."
As the stranger moved forward to inspect it, Ash held herself still. She could not let him know he had upset her. A hand gloved in lizard skin grasped her chin, and suddenly she could smell him: pungent and powerfully alien. Immediately, something primeval at the base of her brain responded with a warning: You will never be one of them.
With careless force he thrust her chin up and back. A finger slid across the roof of her lower jaw, halted, then pushed up at the exact point where bone ended and soft tissue began. Ash coughed in panic. He was closing off her windpipe.
Abruptly the pressure stopped. Turning away from her, he slid the sickle knife into his buckskin tunic. 'You will travel with me from now on, Ash March. Stow your equipment and saddle the horse. We do not sleep here this night."
Ash fingered her throat. She had never seen the wound Ark had inflicted, and for the first time it struck her that the scar felt strange. The raised tissue seemed to form a shape. Briefly, she traced it with her thumbnail but couldn't work it out.
Her attention shifted when a muscular black stallion trotted into view. The animal came at Lan's command, emerging from the darkness of the cedars. Tossing its head and kicking its skirted heels high, it moved with some knowledge of its own worth. It was trapped and harnessed for a long journey, with wide belly and rump straps for hauling camp gear and a leather hood to protect its eyes. Ash had spent time with Sull horses and thought she knew them … but this one. This was one fit for a king.
"Do not touch him."
She had been in the process of reaching out her hand to let the horse sniff her, and she halted awkwardly midway. Her horse trotted past her as she stood there, its head lowered in shy submission, eager to greet this splendid new creature. Was that why he hadn't alerted her to the stranger's presence? Did Sull never warn against Sull?
"Pack your equipment."
Ash rounded on the stranger. He wasn't her foster father, she told herself. She didn't have to obey him. "I choose to travel alone, Lan Fallstar. Do not trouble yourself with me any longer." The words were a mistake-she knew that—but the stranger rattled her. His hot and cold behavior reminded her too much of Iss. Clicking her tongue she beckoned her traitorous horse. Raise camp and depart, that's what I'll do. The best direction didn't seem immediately clear, but she'd think about that later.
The Far Rider's dark eyes glittered strangely. "This Sull believes you are owed a second apology. Sull do not command other Sull." A calculated smile revealed white, even teeth. "But we are all possessive of our mounts."
He wanted her to smile with him, and even though she knew it she smiled anyway. Angus Lok, Mal Naysayer, Ark Veinsplittcr: good men all of them, but god help you if you harmed their horses.
"In my father's house we have a saying. A poor beginning is no excuse for a poor end. So forgive me, Ash March. This Sull has been on the road too long and needs to relearn good manners."
In my father's house we lie and lock people up, she wanted to reply. But didn't. Before she could form a proper response, Lan spoke again.
"Come. We must break bread before the journey." Without waiting for a reply he unbuckled a road-beaten saddlebag from the stallion's rump. Resting it on the ground, he pulled out a rolled-up carpet and an ivory box. Woven from midnight-blue silk, the carpet was old and very fine. A design of five-pointed stars and denuded trees was worked in silver thread. Ash had seen such Sull carpets before—both Ark and the Naysayer had possessed them—but she had never seen one as intricately worked as this. When she blinked the design stayed before her eyes, temporarily burned into her retinas like a light source.
"It is the skin of gods." Lan gestured to the carpet. "Sit"
Suddenly Ash felt very tired. Even her foster father hadn't switched from coldness to civility so quickly, and she placed the chance of Lan switching back as pretty high. Uncertainty is draining, she decided, sitting. At least by staying she didn't have to head off into the night, hungry and alone, with only a horse to guide her. Plus it knocked at least one uncertainty on the head: She no longer had to worry about an arrow in her back.
Kneeling, Lan unfastened the wrought-silver clasp on the ivory box and opened it. As he drew forth items he spoke, revealing that he had marked her interest in the rug. "The carpet is very old, woven by the last of the great threadsingers. It comes from Maygi Horo, the Time of Mages, when threadsingers were blinded once they had served their apprenticeships. A spool boy would prime the loom and block the colors, following the threadsinger's orders. It is said that without eyes they saw farther, though this Sull does not know about that."
As Lan spoke the word Sull he struck a light. One of the items he had taken from the box was a small pewter lamp, and as he adjusted the valve at its base the light shifted from yellow to blue. Unguarded, the flame ripped fiercely, burning mist. Peeling off his gloves, Lan bared long, well-shaped hands. A bowman's callus on the middle finger of his left hand revealed him to be left-handed. On the middle finger of his right hand he wore what Ash first assumed to be two separate silver rings, but when he turned his palms upward, she saw that the rings were fused at the back by a gristled lump of solder.
He gestured toward the lamp. "This Sull asks if you will join him in paying the toll."
Ash looked from the flame to Lan's face. The Far Rider s expression was coolly neutral, but she suspected his motives. Her gaze flicked back to the flame. An icy violet corona shivered around a core of blue fire. She had once witnessed Mal Naysayer put his bare hand into a flame and hold it there for many seconds. It had frightened her, but at least she had understood his motives. The Naysayer had been demonstrating the power of Rhal, the perfect state of fearlessness that Sull sought in times of uncertainty and war. He had not been priming a trap.
Ash shook her head. "This Sull believes this is not her toll to pay."
Lan's cold clear gaze pinned her, searching for weakness. Ash stared right back, silently praying her eyes wouldn't give her away. She didn't fully understand what was happening—neither Mal nor Ark had ever paid a toll with burned flesh—but instinct told her she had been challenged. And when challenged it was best to challenge back.
Long moments passed and then Lan nodded firmly. "It is so." Shifting his position he reached for the coupled scabbard at his waist. One fork of the
sheath held his sword and the other held a dagger. Lan drew the dagger. Ice mist curled across the rug as he held the dagger's blade in the flame. Ash smelled the metal heating. Oil on the blade blackened then disappeared as the edge began to glow. The flame burned hot and clean, fueled by a substance purer than oil. When the knife edge became a wavering red line Lan removed it from the heat. Speaking the Sull words "Gods, judge me" he pushed the blade tip across his forearm. Fluid sizzled. Skin opened but did not bleed, instantly cauterized by the heat. Pumping his hand into a fist, Lan waited out the pain.
Ash held herself still, tried not to breathe in the stench of cooked meat. Why had he paid such a high toll? Letting a few drops of blood was one thing, but this. He'd burned through skin and into fat and muscle. What came at such a cost? She could tell from the many old and silvery scars on his arm that he normally opened veins, so what made tonight different?
He was no longer here, either, on the south bank of the Flow. His eyes were vacant and there was a hollowness to his presence that Ash felt, but couldn't explain. One minute she had been sitting opposite a whole and living man and in the next something integral, like the weight of his awareness, was gone. Excised.
The final thought that struck her was that Lan Fallstar was a Far Rider of a different make from Mal Naysayer or Ark Veinsplitter. At first she had thought it was just his age that set him apart, but now she realized there was more. The fine carpet, the city men clothes. And neither Mal nor Ark had ever paid a toll in burned flesh. What she couldn't decide was how these differences affected Lan's status. Did they add up to less or more?
An eerie hiss, like the sound of air being sucked through a crack, puffed through Lan's lips. It was traveling inward. The Far Rider's chest bellowed out and his clenched fist sprang open, and he began felling forward. Straightaway he stopped himself, slapping down his palm on the rug. Blinking, he took in his surroundings, his seared arm, Ash.
"Break the bread. We must leave."
Ash wasn't sure what she had just witnessed, but her instincts warned her to be cautious. Things were moving fast. An hour earlier this man had been a stranger to her, and now he was not only commanding her but doing so with possessiveness in his voice.
"And if I chose not to?"
"This Sull believes that would be a mistake."
Ash couldn't decide whether his words were a threat. Not waiting on a response, Lan unwrapped the bread. Studded with tiny black horsemint seeds and baked hard for travel, the bread was placed on a small wooden board. Lan sprinkled it with water from his hip flask, placed a palm upon it, and then pressed down with his free hand, breaking the bread into crumbs. He waited and after some time had passed he said, "You wish me to take bread before you?"
Ash nodded. She did not know the Sull custom here, but she had remembered one from her foster father: Always let your enemy eat first.
Lan chose a piece of bread the size of an acorn and brought it to his mouth. Ash waited until she saw him swallow before doing the same The bread tasted bitter, the horsemint seeds like little drops of bitumen.
"Drink." He passed her his hip flask. Fluid was traveling to the bum site on his arm and his skin was becoming bloated. He watched her as she drank, his expression giving away nothing. When she was done, he stood and collected his things. As he rolled the carpet he said, "If you continue alone on your current route you will be lost. Your gelding is snow-, not iceborn, and he has not been bred to thai axtha, the path lores. That he has brought you this far is a testament to his intelligence and training. Do not make the mistake of believing he can take you further. Two days' walk from here lies the birch way. Every tree that grows there has been seeded from a single mother tree. What this means to you, Ash March, is that all look the same. Enter the birch way untrained and alone and you will fall into madness. All do. The birches are beautiful, but you will find no end to them. During the first day you will be hopeful. You will say to yourself; I must simply stay on my course! The second day you will become afraid and the rattle of the birches will begin to haunt you. On the third day your mind will begin to wander and you will catch yourself forgetting your purpose.
On the fourth day you will begin to love the birches, and take long rests to admire them. On the fifth day all is lost.
"No Sull has ever counted how many trees grow there. We do not concern ourselves with such things. But know this: The birch way is just the start. We are Sull and we are hunted, and we will not make it easy for our enemies to harm us."
Lan Fallstar turned away from her and began stowing the carpet and other items in his stallion's saddlebags. Ash watched him pull on his gloves and mount his horse. When he clicked his tongue and headed east she was not surprised. He knew she had no choice but to follow him.
SIX The Lamb Brothers
The dreams were like deep wells; once you stepped into one you kept falling. The sense of dizziess and suspension of thought as you waited for the landing, was the same. Most of the time Raif knew he was dreaming. Dream had a texture to them, a vivid thickness, as if you were viewing them through an inch of clear glass. And they always had an edge, a point beyond which you could not set. Most of the time Raif didn't even think to look. He fell. Days passed, or perhaps they only seemed to, as he plunged deeper and deeper into a floorless world.
All the people he loved were there. Da and Drey, Effie, Ash, Uncle Angus. The world made no distinction between those who were alive and those who were dead. Bear was there, watching with solemn inter-est as she chewed a mouthful of grass. Da told him never to leave his boots wet overnight. Shadows ebbing and swelling formed a cycle, not unlike night and day. When the shadows lifted, people came to visit him. Some watched, others spoke. Angus Lot usually had something to say. "A pretty shot," he offered more than once. "What's next?" None of it made much sense, but it was not unpleasant, just vaguely frustrating Raif seldom had the chance to answer back.
When the shadows gathered and deepened, the nature of his dreams changed. Drey left, that was how the nightmares begin. His brother would be there, at his side, and they'd be facing the danger together and it felt scary yet somehow good. They were brothers, and that was how it was between them. Then Drey would leave. One moment he would be there, his shoulder brushing against Raif, and the next he would be gone. Disappeared Raif's gut would clench. His hand would map out to the darkness, and his fingers close around air.
He fell alone after that. Head spinning, fingers splayed like pinion feathers, he plunged deeper into the darkness. There was no going back, that was the true horror that lay waiting in the shadows.
Drey had gone, and there was no going back.
Time passed. Sometimes Raif would experience a deep bone-numbing cold and grow frightened as he lost sensation in his hands and feet. If the cold continued he would become certain that his hands and feet had broken off and his limbs now ended in stumps. Panic came then. Without hands, how could he break his fall?
An eyeblink could change everything. Cold could be replaced by heat, silence by animal howls. Things huffed and grunted on the far edge of his perception. Feeding. Shadows ebbed and swelled, creating an undertow that sucked him down.
Raif saw things he did not understand: a face staring up at him through a foot of pressure-formed ice; a wound smoking like a piece of kindling about to burst into flame; a thick and unlovely sword without fullers or decorations sinking to the bottom of a lake. Clan and kin loomed from the darkness, then fled.
Effie called out his name, and Raifs heart jumped in his chest. Where was she? He could not see her. Effie, he screamed at the darkness,EFFIE!
Bitty Shank came then, smiling with a closed mouth. He was dressed in armored plate bossed with iron studs and mounted with hammer chains. The chains rattled as he approached. He was shambling slightly, as if he'd had too much to drink or wasn't well. Raif smiled back at him. Bitty spread his lips in a death grin, revealing teeth pointed like fangs. Suddenly he lunged forward, and as his hand shot from his chest Raif saw a fist-size h
ole in Bitty's armor. The skin and rib cage were gone, and something black and gristled and not quite heart-shaped beat in Bitty's chest. Raif turned and tried to flee, but Bitty's hard, pincerlike fingers grabbed hold of his shoulders and bit into his flesh. Corpse breath pumped along Raif's cheek. Bitty hissed, "Where you running to, Raif? I've got a new heart for you to kill."
Stop! Raif cried, trying to wrench himself free. Bitty's armored fingers sank deeper and deeper, ten knives slicing his muscle like cheese.
From somewhere far in the shadows Angus asked calmly, What; next?"
Bitty jumped on Raif's back. Stumbling forward, Raif struggled to keep his footing and failed. Air punched from his lungs as he landed hard on his stomach. Bitty clung to him like a spider, strong and inhumanly fast. Panicking, Raif bucked against Bitty s hold. Every time he took a breath Bitty squeezed him harder. Bitty's knife-fingers slid through the spaces between Raif's ribs, and Bitty was laughing, laughing, and Raif could feel the heart-shaped thing in Bitty's chest thumping against his back.
Leave us. The voice that spoke was chilling, an icy wind blowing through an open door.
Bitty froze, yet even as he stilled he became something other. Something dark and malleable, a heavy shadow spilling over Raif's shoulders and rolling across his face. Gasping for breath, Raif sucked in the shadows and breathed in the substance of Death.
Air crackled as she approached. Light failed her, sliding off her presence like dark wine poured over glass. The sweetly corrupt scent of spoiled pears preceded her as she leaned forward and laid a kiss on Raifs brow.
I believe I will call you son.
Noooooo, he screamed at her. NOOOOOOOO!
"Sshh."
Raif moved his head, tracking the new voice. As he shifted his attention one way, Death withdrew. Chuckling softly, she pulled her nightmare robes behind her, beckoned the darkness, and left. She always had the last laugh.
A Sword from Red Ice Page 12