The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Fiffengurt’s our man,” said Neeps, returning the weapon, “but I’ll thank you to put it in your blary coat until we’re back on our feet.”

  With sunrise came a little warmth. Their destination, that notch in the mountains where the river began, was suddenly much closer. All the same Hercol quickened the pace. There was no longer any hope of remaining hidden, should anyone be watching from above: near dawn they had cleared the tree line, and the wind-tortured scrub around them now barely reached their stirrups. Cables of ice braided the rocks along the river. Higher and higher they climbed, the road deserted, and all the land empty but for small, scurrying creatures in the underbrush, and here and there a ruined keep or watchtower, older than anything in the valley below.

  “The thin air may go to your head,” warned Vadu. “Take care above all near a precipice.” And there were many of these: sheer falls of hundreds of feet, with the road narrowed and crumbling, and at times great rocks to weave around. Pazel had thought that nothing could compare to the terror of being aloft in a Nelluroq storm. But this fear was sharpened by helplessness: no matter how true his grip, one false step by the horse and they would die.

  The horse clearly appreciated this fact as well. But alone of their animals, the poor creature seemed unused to mountains, and stamped and skittered and threw its head about, eyes wide with fear. At last the boys could stand it no longer. When the chance came they slid to the ground and led the horse by the reins.

  “He’s loads better now that we’re off his back,” said Neeps.

  “So am I,” said Pazel. The path was bad enough on foot, however, and around the next bend chuckled one more ice-fringed stream. The riders crossed easily, but their horse balked at the water’s edge, backing and snorting.

  “Silly ass.” Pazel moved behind the horse, clapping and nudging its rump, while Neeps, already across, tugged the reins with all his might. At last the beast lunged forward. Pazel gritted his teeth and waded in himself, using his hands for balance on the rocks.

  “Aya!”

  Something had stabbed his arm. He jerked it from the water, then shouted again in amazement. Among the stones where his hand had rested, a huge spider was wriggling away. It was nearly the size of his head, and more amazing still, perfectly transparent. Indeed he had taken it for a lump of ice, and its folded legs for icicles. The spider vanished among the rocks, and Pazel, clutching his arm, stumbled out of the water.

  The pain, as it happened, was not as bad as the shock. By the time Hercol reached him, the bite on his arm felt no worse than a scratch. “But did you see it?” he said. “It was huge. It must have just nicked me, or I’d be a goner.”

  The path was far too narrow for the others to approach, though Neda and Thasha looked back in alarm. Hercol studied his arm, frowning. “There is a bruise already,” he said. “I wish I had seen the creature.”

  “It was a medet,” said Vadu. “A glass spider-if the boy is telling the truth, that is.”

  “Of course I am!” Pazel shot back. “Do you think I could make up something like that?”

  “The spiders are kept in temples across the Empire,” said Vadu, “and Spider Tellers handle them daily. I have never heard of them biting anyone.”

  “That is true, Pazel,” said Bolutu. “Some new mothers even visit the temples and allow the glass spiders to crawl on their newborns. It brings good luck, and they’re never bitten, never.”

  “This one bites,” said Pazel, “but it can’t have been very deep, because it doesn’t hurt much.”

  Neda, turning her horse, gave Thasha an accusing look. “Can’t you make him be more careful?” she said. Thasha just stared at her, too amazed to reply.

  Hercol wound a bandage about Pazel’s arm. “We will keep an eye on you,” he said. “Some poisons are quick, and others slow.”

  On they stumbled, Neeps and Pazel still leading the frightened horse, and the wind stronger and colder by the minute. Pazel’s heart was racing. Hercol’s warning had unsettled him, though at the moment his arm felt almost normal.

  Then they turned a final switchback and found themselves at the pass. Smoke was rising from a point just out of sight beyond the ridge; bells or windchimes sounded somewhere; and a rooster, of all things, was crowing above the wind.

  A last scramble brought them to the top of the ridge. Pazel caught his breath. Straight ahead of them ran file upon file of mountain peaks, towering over the pass, their sharp summits wrapped in capes of snow. These were the mountains that had loomed like distant ghosts, that first day he’d glimpsed the mainland. They were cold and forbidding. And winding among them was an immense, dark lake.

  It was crescent-shaped; they stood near one tip of the crescent, and the other, presumably, was hidden somewhere far off among the mountains. The lake was the heavy blue of a calf’s tongue. Waves tossed on its surface, breaking against the sides of the mountains, which appeared to descend into its depths; and on the narrow, pebbly shores between. Scattered along these shores were humble dwellings of mud and thatch, and docks so frail they might have been made out of the wingbones of birds. Miles offshore, boats with strange ribbed sails plied the lake.

  Almost at their feet, the lake narrowed into a deep defile that looked as if it had been cut by a plow. Of course that plow was the Mai, shrunken here to a swift stream, but still managing to pierce the wall of the lake to start its journey to the sea.

  “Ilvaspar, the lifeblood of Masalym,” said Vadu. “It is more than a decade since I beheld her shores.”

  “It’s mucking enormous,” said Alyash.

  “Twenty miles to the southwest point, where the great Ansyndra is born,” said Vadu. “Some say that a demon prince lies chained in its depths, others that it was cut by the fang of Suovala the Elderdrake. I know not. But I am glad to see that Vasparhaven survives.”

  He pointed, and looking up Pazel saw an extraordinary sight. Built into the side of the cliff on the lake’s southern shore, at least a hundred feet above the surface, hung a stunning mansion. It was all of wood, painted a dark, weathered green, and there was no foundation beneath it; the whole structure rested on five massive beams jutting out from sockets in the cliff wall. One could almost imagine that it was half a mansion, and that the other half lay within the cliff: the tiled roof slanted upward to meet the stone, and ended there. Many balconies and scores of windows looked out upon the lake. From its chimneys rose the smoke Pazel had seen from below.

  “They’re the ones to ask about that bite of yours,” said Vadu.

  “Who are they?” asked Pazel.

  “Didn’t Olik tell you?” said Ibjen. “They’re Spider Tellers, like the prince himself. Vasparhaven is the oldest temple on the peninsula.”

  Hercol was gazing across the lake. “Fulbreech has reached the far shore,” he said, “and begun to descend the other side of the mountain. But he has not gone far; something has impeded his progress.” He turned to the soldiers. “Gather brush here and set it aside-enough for a large bonfire. Tonight I must signal Prince Olik.”

  “What will you tell him?” asked Ibjen.

  “That will depend on what we learn here, and what we choose to do about it. Lead on, Counselor; another day is waning.”

  They rode along the southern shore, past boulders fallen from the slopes and chunks of ice ten feet thick: shards, perhaps, of the lid that sealed the lake in winter. As Vasparhaven loomed nearer Pazel saw a pair of massive green doors at ground level, just beneath the temple.

  More bells began to ring. Pazel saw faces leaning down from the balconies. Strange faces, belonging to many peoples: dlomu, mizralds, Nemmocians… and then a face peered down at him that set his mind suddenly a-whirl. It was a girl’s face, thrust through the rail of the balcony, staring right at him with joy and fascination. But that mouth, those eyes! All at once he could not stand it, and cried out, “I’m here! It’s me!”

  He succeeded in drawing her attention-and everyone else’s. Three horses shied, including his own, and the
rooster they had heard before launched itself from one balcony to another, and came near to falling to its death. Pazel had not shouted I’m here, at least not in any familiar tongue. The sound he made was a wailed, inhuman skrreeee, followed by four emphatic clicks of his tongue.

  “Rin’s mercy,” said Neeps, shaken. “Pazel, you’ve got to stop that right now.”

  “I know,” said Pazel, heart thumping. He had shouted in Sea-Murthish, a tongue no human should be able to pronounce, but one his Gift had forced on him. The face that had looked down at him was that of the murth-girl, Klyst.

  Only it wasn’t, of course; it couldn’t be. The girl in any case had disappeared from the balcony, and those who had not withdrawn stared down in fright. Some of the soldiers in his own party were doing the same.

  “Well done, Pathkendle,” said Hercol with a sigh. “Humans-animals on horseback, to them-appear suddenly on their doorstep, and you treat them to a murthic howl.”

  “He sounded like a stabbed monkey,” said one of the soldiers. “What’s wrong with him? The prince said he was safe.”

  “Oh, he’s far from that,” said Neeps.

  “Undrabust!” snapped Hercol. “Listen, all of you: Pazel has fancies, but they are harmless. The only danger that should concern us is the one we chase. All else is foolishness.” He shot a hard glance at Pazel. “We have no time to spare for foolishness.”

  A chain dangled from a small hole in the wall beside green doors. Vadu pulled it, and somewhere deep in the cliff another bell sounded faintly. But thanks to Pazel’s outburst, perhaps, they stood a long time waiting for an answer, colder by the minute.

  “Neeps,” whispered Pazel, “didn’t you see her?”

  “Which her?”

  “The girl on the balcony. It was Klyst, mate. She looked right at me.”

  “A sea-murth,” said Neeps, looking up at the hanging mansion, with its icicles and frost. “You’re barking mad, you know that?”

  “That’s insulting,” said Pazel. “I tell you, it was Klyst.”

  Through the crowd of men, horses and sicunas, Thasha’s eyes found him suddenly. Amusement shone in them, but also a wariness that was nearly accusing. She knew about the murth-girl too.

  At last the doors groaned open. In the doorway stood an ancient dlomic man, straight-backed and very thin. Like all dlomu he was without wrinkles, his old skin tight and smooth, but his neatly combed beard was white as chalk and hung almost to his knees.

  “I am the Master Teller, father to the people of Vasparhaven,” he said. “I regret that I cannot permit you within our walls.”

  The soldiers glared at Pazel; Neeps’ look was only slightly more benign. But what the old dlomu said next made them forget their irritation. They were not, he declared, the first humans to appear at the temple door. Two days earlier, others had presented themselves, seeking shelter. One was a youth, dirty, frightened, but clever with his words. Another was an abandoned creature who stared at nothing, whose left hand twitched constantly and whose lips formed words it did not speak: a tol-chenni dressed up like a thinking being, and able to walk erect. “A freak of nature, I thought,” said the Master Teller. “The youth held him by a rope about the neck, as one might a donkey, or a dog.”

  The third figure, he said, was a terror to behold: tall, gaunt, with eyes that looked famished and cruel, and a tattered white scarf at the neck. “He was their leader, but he was cruel to the youth, who seemed to have no value to him except as the keeper of the tol-chenni. He required the youth to keep the creature warm, to make it eat and drink.”

  “We seek those three, Spider Father,” said Vadu. “Did they depart in the night?”

  “Yes,” said the old man. “The tall one was anxious to be gone, and tried to demand our help to cross Ilvaspar. But what could we do? There is no commerce beyond the lake-not in fifty years, since the Plazic general summoned the accursed Black Tongue. The three waited long upon the shore, the tall one pacing and cursing, until at last a fisherman returned and was persuaded-or bullied, perhaps-into taking them where they wished to go. You must seek passage with the fisherfolk as well, if you really want to pursue those three.”

  “It is the last thing we want, good Father,” said Hercol, “and yet pursue them we must. How did they come here, though? For they made the journey from Masalym faster than seems possible for man or beast.”

  The old man frowned and closed the doors. At first they wondered if they had given some offense, but soon the doors creaked open again and a younger dlomic man dressed like the Master Teller stepped out nervously. The old man stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder.

  “Have no fear, they are courteous folk,” he said. “Tell them what you saw.”

  The young man struggled to find his voice. “A gandryl,” he whispered. “A winged steed. They rode upon its back, all three of them, and it put them down beside the Chalice of the Mai. I saw it. I was checking my rabbit snares.”

  The soldiers murmured, wonder-struck: “A gandryl! The mage rides a gandryl!”

  “They are not all gone,” said the Master Teller. “More goatish than horse-like, as befits life in the peaks, but the size of warstallions. They are woken creatures, long-lived and crafty. We never see them today, only their footprints on the lake isles, where no goats live. I was not sure I believed our young novice here, until you spoke.”

  “Why didn’t the creature fly them on, past the lake?” asked Thasha.

  Stumbling over his words, the novice explained that Arunis had tried to demand just that. But the gandryl had replied that he had bargained for a flight to the shores of Ilvaspar, and that his payment was barely worth that much trouble, and certainly no more. It had left them right at the Chalice, and the mage had cursed it as it flew away.

  “He may have set out on horseback from Masalym, and called the creature down from the sky,” said Vadu. “The great mages of old were said to do that, upon the plain of the Inner Kingdom.”

  “At least he no longer has the creature’s service,” said Hercol. “He has gained an advantage, but not escaped us altogether.”

  “You should sleep here tonight,” said the Master Teller. “I cannot let you enter Vasparhaven, but there is a Ilyrette, a way-cave, not far from here, and it is safe, and sheltered from the wind. In happier days it was a place where travelers rested often, before crossing the lake or descending to the plain. I will send food from our kitchens, and bedding too.”

  “Both would be welcome,” said Hercol, “though we will only nap on the bedding, I fear. The one we chase is bent on the worst sort of malice, and if he escapes, not even your refuge here will long be spared. Take our animals in payment, Father-or if you need them not, take them as a favor to us.”

  “We have stables,” said the old man, “and will care for your beasts until you return.”

  “I cannot say when that will be,” said Hercol. “But there is a final matter we must raise. Come here, Pazel, and tell him what happened to you.”

  As Hercol unwound the bandage on his arm, Pazel told the old dlomu about the spider. “It was as big as a coconut, Father. And transparent. I thought it was a piece of ice, until it jumped and bit me.”

  The novice, clearly shocked, turned in agitation to his master. The old dlomu for his part showed no reaction at all. He studied the mark on Pazel’s arm. “They do bite, sometimes, the wild medet spiders,” he said, “and some who suffer the bite know great pain. With others, however, there is no pain at all. You may feel a little cold in the arm, but it will pass.”

  “Then with your leave, Father, we will go to our brief rest,” said Hercol.

  “You may have more time than you think,” said the priest. “The lake is vast, and the fishermen go deep into coves and streams, and rarely return before midnight. I will make inquiries, but do not hope for much.”

  The travelers bowed and offered their thanks, and the Master Teller sent the novice to show them the way. A few minutes’ walk brought them to another cliff door, smaller and s
impler than the doors of the temple. Inside was a dry cave of several rooms. There were tables, chairs, rough beds of a sort. Just minutes later the food arrived: cauldrons of thin stew balanced on either end of a staff across broad dlomic shoulders, hot bread, flat cakes made with onion and some sort of corn. It was all delicious, and so was the jug of black beer that washed it down.

  By the time they finished eating it was nearly dark. Hercol asked Thasha, Pazel and Neeps to help him with the signal-fire. Bearing a heavy woolen blanket, lamp oil and a telescope, they set off back along the lake, watching the first stars appear over the teeth of the mountains. In Vasparhaven shadowy figures were moving, placing candles in the windows. The stars were igniting too, and by the time they reached the ridge and looked down on Masalym’s Inner Dominion the sun was gone.

  Hercol dashed oil on the brush pile. Then he bent to strike a match, and soon the dry scrub was roaring with flame. Next he reached into his coat and removed a sheet of folded paper, glanced at it briefly and replaced it. “Very well,” he said. “Take a corner of the blanket, Thasha, and step back.”

  Hercol and Thasha stretched the blanket between the fire and the sweep of the plain. “Hold it higher-we must block as much light as we can. That’s the way. Now flatten it to the ground-and raise it again-very good.”

  They moved precisely, hiding and revealing the fire by turns. Each time they bent down Hercol looked pointedly across the Inner Dominion. At last it came: a pale and distant light. Hercol raised the telescope to his eye. “That is Olik, upon the Dais of Masalym,” he said. “He is answering with the code we agreed. Now to tell him that Arunis is here.”