by Roland Green
Around a waist slender only by comparison to the rest of her was a belt, holding her favorite sword and dagger in a scabbard and sheath worked with silver wire. The belt was set with coral beads, and Krythis would have wagered a barrel of dwarf spirits that the buckle was set with rubies.
Above the waist, Rynthala wore a white silk shirt, with lace at throat, collar, and cuffs, and over it a sleeveless blue tunic, that hung in such a way as to hint of mail within. It also had pouches and pockets for weapons and war gear.
Around her tanned throat, Rynthala wore the silver chain that had been her parents’ gift to her when she was twelve. But instead of one of the other gift medallions, she now wore a plain pewter disk with the buffalo-head sigil of Kiri-Jolith.
Odd gift from a healer, Krythis thought. Then he remembered. Kiri-Jolith was the eldest son of Paladine and Mishakal. One of Mishakal’s priests would well know a warrior when he saw one.
Silence, as Rynthala’s throat worked convulsively from her struggle for words. Then she drew her sword and held it with the hilt uppermost and against the pewter disk.
“By this sword and by Kiri-Jolith, I swear not to shame any here this day.” She tossed the sword, caught it by the hilt, and sheathed it in one flowing motion.
“I will not swear to thank everyone. At least not until I’ve had something to wet my throat.”
“Then let the feasting begin!” Tulia called.
A dwarf standing ready with a mallet swung at a wedge that a kender held against the head of a barrel. The mallet thudded home, and the wedge sank into the wood. The kender pretended he’d been struck and capered around, wailing, until he suddenly flipped head over heels and landed on his “smashed” hands. Laughing, everyone scrambled to be first in the line forming by the barrel.
The united bands were not far on their journey before Pirvan realized his people were being deliberately led hither and yon about the countryside. Whether Threehands’ intent was merely to conceal the true location of the Gryphons’ main camp, or to leave Pirvan’s band lost and helpless in the face of treachery, the knight did not know.
Nor did he care. Darin, Haimya, and two of the men-at-arms who had once been rangers had a nearly magical ability to remember trails and landmarks. All were teaching it to Gerik and Eskaia, who were not backward to learn this useful art.
If Threehands meant treachery, he was merely giving warning rather than weakening his intended prey. He was also going to hear something from his sibling, if Hawkbrother’s expression was any guide. The young warrior’s face grew harsher with each pace into the tangle of hills, ravines, and scrubby trees that seemed to be Threehands’s destination.
They saw what might have been the principal Gryphon camp once, briefly, far off in the hazy heat, at the bottom of a valley. Pirvan did not dare rein in to study the scene more closely, and doubted he would learn much if he could. From this distance, it would be hard to tell if the camp had huts or tents, its own well, cookhouses or cook-fires, and if it could spew forth five hundred warriors or five thousand.
More than the first, much less than the second, was Pirvan’s guess. One clan only among the Free Riders had ever allowed themselves to be accurately counted by outsiders, the Blue Eagles. They could, by arming everyone who could bear a weapon even if he or she could not sit a saddle, put forward about two thousand fighting men and perhaps five hundred women. Not all of these would be useful except to defend camps, which no sane opponent forced Free Riders to do, for then they fought to the death.
But certainly, the Gryphons would have no difficulty swallowing Pirvan’s band so completely that none would know where their bones lay. That they would be avenged was small consolation; vengeance would mean knights consequently allied with Istar, marching against Free Riders, and from there to war with the Silvanesti.
The trail soon took them deeper into the hills, where cliffs and ridges left the riders in shadow much of the time. Above, where the sun touched the rock, it once more glowed orange, crimson, gold, and unnameable colors that the gods splattered in this land when the world was taking form.
The vegetation was also growing thicker, as if there was more water to be found here. Pirvan was not surprised when they reined in beside a pool a good fifty paces wide. Threehands signaled, one of his riders blew on a horn, and all the Free Riders began dismounting.
“From here, only three of you may come with me to face your judgment,” Threehands said.
“By what right—?” Gerik began, before his father, mother, sister, and mentor all glared him to silence.
“By chief right and seer right, for you will meet both my father, Redthorn, and our women of wisdom, Skytoucher,” Threehands said. Gerik remembered his manners enough to bow courteously in thanks.
Pirvan was looking about him, trying to find the shrine, spirit-house, or other planned meeting place, when two of Threehands’ men began pulling on a long rope of oiled leather. The knight’s eyes followed the rope out into the pool, and saw a small hide boat gliding toward them. Behind it was a narrow shelf of rock, and above that shelf the dark mouth of a cave.
With that much settled, Pirvan began considering who should go. Himself, of course, Tarothin, and either Haimya or Darin.
Haimya, he decided. It would be a courtesy to Skytoucher. Also, if there was any need to speak of woman’s mysteries (of which the Free Riders were reported to have many), Haimya would be the only one who could lawfully speak with the wise woman.
Pirvan turned to Haimya, asked with his eyes, and saw assent in hers. When he glanced toward the wizard—he saw a head shaking in firm denial.
The knight’s first urge was to shake Tarothin until the last tooth fell from his gums. Then he saw the Red Robe’s fingers dancing and twisting in complicated movements. To an uninitiated observer, he might have been casting a minor spell, or merely working cramps from his hands.
Pirvan translated as swiftly as if the wizard had been speaking: Threehands does not seem to know I am a magic worker. Easier to surprise him if I stay behind, feigning illness. Also, that cave may be bound to Skytoucher, so that no magic save hers can work within it.
Pirvan’s nod was brusque. He trusted many things about Tarothin, including both his loyalty and his acting ability. He had, after all, once fooled not only the knight and much of his company, but Istarian minions of the kingpriest and even spies of the priesthood of Zeboim, the foul Sea Mistress.
He should not have much trouble deceiving Threehands, who dripped overconfidence as an autumn hive drips honey.
Pirvan looked at his people. Darin was the obvious replacement for Tarothin, but the band needed him as a leader in the event of treachery. Also, his weight might sink the boat.
The knight swallowed. This was a moment that he had known must come, but wished could have come later or under easier circumstances.
“Gerik, you will make the third of our company. Threehands, lead onward.”
And, gods, grant Eskaia the sense to place herself under Darin’s protection if none of us come back, thought Pirvan. Few but he will protect her without demanding marriage.
Krythis did not believe in mixing his drinks. Besides dwarf spirits, there was brandy, mead, ale, and at least three kinds of wine. There was even a keg of something that had appeared so mysteriously that Krythis suspected it was a gift of the gully dwarves.
He had remained true to the ale. Between draining cups of it, he had also eaten heartily of the venison and pork sausages, smoked fish, fried mushrooms, eggs wrapped in bacon, and other solid fare that made tables groan before it was eaten and made the eaters groan afterward.
Krythis saw Tulia moving through the crowd toward him. She passed three kender, who took turns tossing one another off a table in a way that would have shattered the bones of less resilient folk. Now she was out in the open, swaying her hips as she came, in a way she would never have dared if she were wholly sober.
She reached him and leaned against him, and her warmth and Krythis’s desire were
suddenly both real. She caressed him, where no one could see her hand, then whispered:
“The centaurs.”
“May their hooves rot.”
Still half entwined, they steered a course for the guest huts. These formed a square, and in the middle of the square two centaurs (the only ones to appear, although the whole family had been invited) were playing tug-of-war with one of the tables.
They had also gathered an enthusiastic audience. This would have made them reluctant to abandon the contest even if they’d been sober.
“Hold!” Krythis called. “You can’t break up the furniture. Guest rights don’t go that far.”
“Who says so?” the smaller centaur replied. His larger rival, a muscular roan with bells tied into his tail, was either less drunk or more sensible. He held up his hand.
“Oh, pardon, Krythis. But we do have to settle this insult before we leave. Peace in the family, and all that, I’m sure you know.”
Krythis had no intention of keeping peace in centaur families at the price of brawls in his own house, but a flat refusal could turn the brawl vicious in moments. Centaurs were as unpredictable as kender, but by the gods’ favor a great deal less numerous.
Then Tulia whispered what to others would have looked like an irresistible intimacy in her husband’s ear. Krythis nodded and grinned.
“My friends. This is a matter of honor, of course, so I will not prevent your settling it. But allow me to offer you a pair of good staves, padded to prevent injury but intended for just such quarrels as this. Moreover, if you will wait while they are brought, I will also see you given a flagon of the best brandy, to refresh yourselves between rounds. And for those who watch, another barrel of ale might be forthcoming, if the dwarves haven’t drunk it all!”
In the midst of the laughter, Tulia slipped away. She would return with servants, staves, and brandy. The brandy, Krythis knew, was from a special cask judiciously enspelled this morning by Sirbones. One drink from it would remove anyone’s willingness to fight. A second would remove the ability. A third would induce a deep sleep, from which the drinker would awaken hungry enough to eat a raw owlbear, but otherwise unharmed.
Tulia did not sway her hips as she departed, but to her watching husband she seemed more desirable than ever, if that was possible. He had been blessed in her, and said so in words and deeds whenever he had a chance, and she returned the compliment.
But had she been as blessed in him as he in her? If she had wed someone else, she might already have celebrated the coming-of-age of two or three healthy children, instead of singing old elven songs of sorrow before the shrines of three who had died young. Oh, Rynthala alone was worth two daughters, or even sons, but sometimes Krythis thought he saw an emptiness, deep within Tulia, visible only to one who knew her and could look into those blue eyes—
“Filth!” A man’s angry shout.
“I’ve no quarrel with—” a woman began. She was not shouting, so Krythis could only just make out the words, but there was something familiar about the voice.
The man’s next three words were even angrier and far harsher than the first.
The woman’s temper snapped. In a voice that carried like a battle cry, she shouted, “You, sir, are the bastard son of a she-ass who would weep with shame to see you lower yourself thus.”
Then what seemed a hundred voices were all shouting at once, few of them politely or sensibly. But Krythis was listening to none of them. He was drawing his sword, more to clear a path through the crowd than for defense, and moving rapidly toward the place where the woman’s voice had sounded.
That had been Rynthala speaking, and when she flayed someone’s hide off with her tongue that way, she was as angry as any mortal could be. Nor did the man she address seem a model of reason and amiability.
I hope Tulia can finish her business before coming to help me, thought Krythis, or that this affray takes the centaurs’ minds off their little argument.
Chapter 6
The mouth of the cave led at first only to a dark, minding passage, fitfully illuminated by torches in brazen holders of ancient elven work. The torches shed their light in several colors—yellow and red … and a green that made everyone look like something long dead and dragged from a swamp.
It made even Haimya ugly, a thing Pirvan would have sworn neither years nor gods could accomplish.
The dim light and the sinuous bends in the passage made Gerik uneasy. He walked with eyes wide, mouth trying not to gape, and a hand so near his sword that Pirvan watched him closely. The two Free Rider brothers were not watching their backs at all, which to Pirvan seemed either a grand gesture of trust or a sign that the passage was proof against treachery.
Eventually the passage stopped winding and became a series of short, straight tunnels, each at a nearly right angle to the one before. The course bent toward the left, so that attackers advancing would have their sword arms cramped against the wall. Pirvan knew the principles from spiral staircases in castle towers, but had not expected to find it here.
Nor had he expected to find any stone workings of such size among the desert dwellers. This underground meeting place had to be wrought by magic, or vastly ancient, from days when there were more people in this land.… Most probably, it was both.
It also had to have a quicker way to the sunlight, if the place were used often. With hand signals, Pirvan warned both wife and son to be alert for signs of that quicker way. It might be useful, if they came to need a quick retreat.
Haimya and Gerik had just acknowledged the signals when the last passage ended and they stepped out into the cave itself. It was hard to judge its size, for it seemed tall rather than broad, the far wall clearly visible, the roof lost in shadows. More torches burned in holders on the far wall, which was as much carved stone and sun-dried brick as natural rock.
From that natural rock, however, the ancient masons had carved two chairs, each large enough to comfortably seat two men the size of Darin. The chairs were elaborately decorated with carvings of flowers and trees that, to Pirvan’s knowledge, had not grown in this land in living memory.
Pirvan did not need to ask who occupied the two chairs. The man was plainly of the same blood as Threehands and Hawkbrother, and the woman had the air of one who can see into past and future, body and soul, and anywhere else she wishes—and against whom resistance was folly, crime, and waste.
In some magic workers, this was a pose that did not survive a serious challenge. Pirvan doubted that was the case with Skytoucher.
“Welcome, visitors to the home of the Gryphons,” Redthorn said. His voice was higher pitched than one might have expected from a man his size, but it carried well. He was also tall and stout-thewed enough to be a match for his sons, if he had remained fit and healthy.
“Greetings, chief and wise woman of the Gryphons,” Pirvan said. “We have come—”
“It shall be decided how,” Skytoucher said. “Speak, sons of Redthorn. It is our wish to know how you met these visitors.”
Storytelling was an honored art among the Free Riders, so Pirvan had heard. Certainly both of the chief’s sons told of their journeys as quickly and thoroughly as trained scouts reporting to their captain. Nothing in either story seemed to move Redthorn or Skytoucher, but Pirvan would have wagered his second-best sword that this was a pose.
Another of those lengthy silences followed the sons’ narrative. About the time Pirvan had begun to suspect he would be a grandfather before the two Gryphon leaders replied, Redthorn nodded to Skytoucher.
“From these words we have heard, it seems you are strangers but not, perhaps, enemies.”
“They cannot be—” Hawkbrother began, to be promptly silenced by a cough from his father.
“They may well not be,” Skytoucher chided. “Yet they have a wizard in their company, of which neither you nor they have spoken. What else might they be concealing? How might that wizard have wrought your memories, to make that concealment perfect?”
“
I do not lie!” Threehands snapped.
“Nor did I so accuse you,” Skytoucher said. She sounded even more chiding of the elder brother than of the younger, which gave Pirvan some hope.
That hope died in the next moment. Skytoucher frowned. “There is only one trail we can follow to the end. You must open your mind and heart to me, Sir Pirvan. Let nothing be concealed any longer, and we shall know the truth behind your presence here.”
But also, he thought, far too many secrets of the Knights of Solamnia, which honor, Oath, Measure, and good sense alike commanded him to keep.
It did not matter whether the Gryphons were friend or foe, now or ever. Skytoucher was asking Pirvan casually to relinquish secrets that knights had died by torture or their own hands rather than yield.
This may not be treachery, Pirvan considered, but one wonders if it will make much difference, after we are dead.
Pirvan shook his head. “My Oath as a Knight of—”
“The knights had taken many oaths, like you, but it was the ones to Istar that they kept with our blood,” Threehands all but shouted. “So we know how much the knights’ oaths are worth, when it is life or death for our people.”
“Oh, stop picking at old sores,” Gerik said. Before anyone could stop gaping enough to reprove him, he continued.
“Wise chief, wise seer. You need only the truth about our purpose here, nothing else. Enter my mind and heart, where you will find all you need. Leave my sire and mother be, for they will die before they yield up—”
“That also can be done—” Threehands began.
“You must shed my blood before theirs, for I am bound—”
“To those who kill ‘barbarians’ for sport?” Threehands shouted.
By this time Pirvan had dragged his son and wife into a triangle, so that all flanks were guarded and no back was bare. They did not draw steel; Pirvan vowed to leave that dishonor to the Free Riders.