Nevertheless he demanded my notice. In a voice which must surely have drawn blood from the soft flesh of his throat, he pronounced, “Urmeny, it’s your place to help us.”
Involuntarily, I flinched as though he had slapped at me. Turning my head, I directed my dismay toward him.
“The merchantry was yours,” he continued cruelly. “The villa was yours. We were yours. The burden is yours. If you don’t rescue us, we’ll never be free. Even death won’t redeem us from the Sher.”
Rescue them? I? At another time, I might have laughed my scorn into his face. Only the open agony of his regard restrained me.
I lowered my gaze. “You have mistaken me for my father,” I answered in a groan. At that moment, I loathed myself. Nevertheless I spoke the truth. “I am not such a man.”
There Tep Longeur could not gainsay me. Though he continued to stand against me, he did not speak again. No other farewell passed between us, regardless of our years together. When his men brought the beast they had selected—a tired, old nag with a gait like a broken wheel—he opened the gates for it, but took care to ensure that I could not attempt to enter.
His men had cinched a traveling saddle to the beast’s back. Pitifully, I set my foot to the stirrup and pitched upward. Gripping the reins in both hands—I did not trust my seat otherwise—I hauled my horse’s head around and departed from my home and my life at a wrenching canter.
So it was that I left Benedic on a mount I could scarcely endure, lacking both water and food, with no coin beyond the few saludi I chanced to carry in my purse, no destination except to reach a place where I might gain lodging, and no purpose other than to escape Sher Abener.
I could not say whose voice haunted me more as I rode, the necromancer’s or Tep Longeur’s.
I will render the marrow from your bones, and drink it while you die!
If you don’t rescue us, we’ll never be free.
Under the shade and locusts of Benedic, the sun’s warmth had seemed kindly, beneficent. But when I had left behind the washed plaster of the municipality’s walls and risen among the hills which bordered Benedic to the west, I learned that a benison may also be a curse. In my merchant’s finery, I was foolishly attired for a journey, and the trees which graced the hillsides—olive, locust, and feather-leafed litchi—gave no cover to the dusty roadway. Before my trek was truly commenced, I had begun to ooze like a squeezed pomegranate.
Within a league, I had shed my formal cloak. Within two, I had bundled my robe behind my saddle, leaving myself clad in naught but a loose blouse, my flowing underbreeches, and a fop’s ornate sandals. Still the weight of the sun accumulated on my head and shoulders, bearing down like the threat of Sher Abener’s malice. Under its pressure, I soon saw difficulties and dilemmas throng the shimmering heat before me.
Thirst was the most immediate of my discomforts, although it was among the least of my concerns, for I knew that beyond the next ridge of hills lay the river Ibendwey. Hunger would assume larger proportions as my journey extended itself. However, the lack of substance in my purse posed a far greater peril. Doubtless there were men and women in the wide world who would have called my few saludi wealth, but I did not. With the coin I carried, I could purchase lodging in an austere inn for a brace of days, no more. Then they would be gone.
Worse still was the fact that I could not long call upon the credit of my merchantry to sustain me. Beyond Benedic’s boundaries, men with whom I had indirectly shared many transactions would perhaps make me welcome—briefly—in the name of our joint ventures. Yet I hardly knew their names. I did not know the men themselves at all. While Tep Longeur had cared for my interests, I had paid them a profound inattention. And it was certain those men would refer their curiosity concerning my circumstances to Benedic, and would learn that I could no longer command my own riches.
What would they do then, those men whose names I could scarcely recall? Why, naturally they would be overtaken by pity for my helpless plight, as well as by righteous indignation on my behalf. Being strong, forthright, wise, and above all generous, they would devise some means—I could not imagine what—to quash my dire foe, restoring what I had lost. Would I not have done the same in their place?
Honesty and thirst, and the burnished pressure of the sun, compelled me to admit that I would not. I had enjoyed wealth too much, and contention too little, to bestir myself against any injustice which did me no personal harm.
Clearly, I must prepare myself for the likelihood that men with whom I had once shared profit would simply turn their backs upon me, once they discovered the truth of my condition.
Then what would I do?
I had no idea at all.
If you don’t rescue us, we’ll never be free.
Tep Longeur’s appeal galled my sore heart. I was not fit to carry such burdens—as he well knew. If I could not prolong my life with alms in the days ahead, I would die as surely as if I had given myself over to Sher Abener’s mercy.
Daunted by such considerations, I was in a state approaching despair as my nag crested the intervening ridge, and I saw below me the course of the river Ibendwey.
Eager to slake my thirst, I amended my pace. As I descended, however, I soon observed that the river was swollen and swift, troubled with silt. Quantities of rain must have fallen in the mountains which fed the watercourse, for the current surged and frothed uncomfortably. Even my inexpert eye could discern that a customarily placid ford had become turbulent and uncertain.
In dismay, my heart sank still lower. Here was another obstacle I could not surmount. Not only had the crossing become impassable, but the water appeared undrinkable as well. Now I must either suffer from thirst or make myself ill with unclean drink—and yet neither choice would improve my lot, for I would remain within reach of the necromancer’s power.
Surely a malign fate had stirred my stars when Sher Abener had first selected my merchantry to serve him. My doom had been fixed from that moment, and nothing I might do would alter it.
Thus consumed by my own difficulties, I did not immediately notice that there appeared to be a man caught in the midst of the tumultuous stream.
Blinking against the perspiration of my brow, I peered downward. There, beyond question—a man perched on a jutting boulder midway between the banks of the Ibendwey. How he had come to place himself in such straits I could not at first imagine. Had he attempted the ford afoot, despite the force of the river? If so, he was either a fool or a madman. Or perhaps the Ibendwey had risen suddenly, surprising him with its rush. My caravaneers had often described similar misadventures. Taken unaware, the man below me had gained the only sanctuary within reach before the current could bear him away.
Madman, fool, or unfortunate, he was well stranded. Until the Ibendwey eased its spate—or until some rescue chanced upon him—he remained ensnared, as helpless to correct his plight as I was to answer Sher Abener’s ire.
Whipping the reins, I belabored my mount to a brisker pace.
The man crouched upon his boulder with his knees against his chest, his head downcast. He seemed unaware of my approach—certainly he did not react to it. Instead he appeared to stare vacantly into the current as though he studied the swift tumble of silt for auguries.
At first, I could see little of him. Rudely cropped hair was his head’s only covering. Boots clogged with mud, an unmarked and indefinite brown shirt, worn leather breeches—so much was visible. To that extent, his apparel suggested that he was a traveler. Yet he had no sack or satchel for a traveler’s belongings and supplies. His possessions must have been lost when the rising of the river overtook him. In every particular, he was indistinguishable from the grime and wear of his sojourns.
Nevertheless as I neared the marge where the Ibendwey’s rush gnawed at my road, and halted to scrutinize the man more closely, I discovered that despite his lowered head and dull raiment he seemed more vivid th
an his circumstances or surroundings. He drew my gaze as though he made all other things illusory by comparison. An air of significance resembling a hint of the sun’s own fire defined him against the far verge of the river. In some fashion, he was more truly there than any man I had ever met.
How he achieved this effect mystified me. Whatever the cause, however, its result was to convey the disturbing impression that his crouch upon the boulder was the only aspect of the Ibendwey’s spate which held any importance.
Hardly thinking what I did, I shouted, “Ho, fellow! Do you require aid?”
He seemed unable to hear me—still unaware of my presence. I told myself that my call had not carried over the loud grumble of the river in its ragged banks. Yet I was troubled by the eerie conviction that he would have heard me easily if I had not lacked the vividness to attract his notice. Like the peril in which he found himself, I had no importance. If my pampered and pleasant life in Benedic had owned any real substance, Sher Abener could not have stripped me of it with so little difficulty.
This belief was unreasonable as well as unexplained. The traveler’s need was obvious—and there was no one else to help him.
In response, a sudden, unwonted fury overcame me. My composure had passed its limits. I had suffered altogether too much thirst and heat and humiliation.
“Ho, fellow!” I shouted again. “Do you take pleasure in your plight? Heed me, fool! There is no other rescue! I have seen no one else on the road.”
When he did not so much as raise his eyes, I added, “I will abandon you where you sit!” As I myself had been abandoned by those who held my life in their hands.
For the moment, I had forgotten that I had nowhere else to go.
Yet I did not forget that I possessed a horse. The man trapped before me had none. Contemptible though my nag undoubtedly was, the beast might be able to brave a current which I could not confront myself.
And this deaf traveler was indeed trapped. The Ibendwey’s spate gave no sign that it might abate. In time, of course, the waters would recede, as they must. But that might not occur for days. Indeed, the river might swell still more while the storm in the mountains ran its course—might swell until it swept the man from his perch and carried him to his death. Already I seemed to see the torrent thrash higher against his rock.
Apparently, my mind had ceased to perform its functions. I could neither gauge the dangers nor estimate my chances of success. Without thought or circumspection, I pounded my mount with my heels until the beast plunged unwillingly down the slope into the swift tumble of the stream.
The chill shock of the waters, and the instant frenzy of my nag’s efforts to keep its footing, restored me at once to a saner state of mind. I was no hardy drover or muscled caravaneer to attempt such feats. And I lacked the skills to aid my mount in its struggles. With every heave on the reins, I threatened to overbalance the nag or unseat myself. Quickly, I resolved to retreat while I could—
Yet to turn seemed as perilous as to advance. I kept my beast surging forward. Together, we strove toward the traveler’s rock with all our strength.
Soaked and gasping, scarcely able to breathe amid my efforts to retain my seat, I saw within the space of a few heartbeats that my task was impossible. I had crossed no more than a third of the distance, and already I felt my mount’s hooves skid and stumble beneath me. In another moment, I would cause us both to capsize. The horse squealed in terror. I may well have wept.
As my heart quailed, however, and I began to slip helplessly from my saddle, the trapped man at last lifted his head and looked at me.
For an instant, his gaze held mine, and a sense of dislocation came over me, as though the wheel of time had jumped its rut and run briefly astray. Although I was about to founder and drown, I ignored my plight, for I had never seen eyes as blue and piercing as those of the man I sought to aid. They seemed at once deeper and more uncompromising than the very heavens—eyes which might stare into the heart of the sun as easily as into the pit of my cowardice and futility, without squinting.
During that instant, he appeared to keep me in my seat, and my nag upright on its legs, by the simple force of his gaze.
Then I found that I had covered more than half the distance. I remained in my seat, and my mount had gained better footing—retreat had become pointless. The beast and I had finally achieved a measure of unanimity in our efforts. Though we still plunged and stumbled frantically, we continued toward our goal.
After its brief dislocation, time’s wheel hastened in compensation. Events became a rush as urgent as the writhing of the river. My mount and I gained the traveler’s boulder on its downstream side. By some miracle, the froth-filled eddy there enabled us to turn, and then to press closely against the stone, so that the man might lower himself to us with less risk of a fall. Swiftly, he stretched out a leg and shifted his limbs downward until he straddled the nag behind me. As suddenly as we had reached him, we bore him back the way we had come.
My mount seemed stronger now, despite its extra burden. Doubtless the traveler’s weight improved its footing, and the sight of safety before us gave the beast vigor. Nevertheless I imagined that the nag drew substance from the man’s strange intensity—that the beast’s strength reflected its new rider. I felt the effect myself. Though he kept his seat by gripping my shoulders, he did not overbalance me, as anyone else would surely have done. Indeed, his grasp kept me steady, when I would have floundered without it.
Scant moments later, blowing spume like a creature of the vast sea, the horse heaved us recklessly up the drowned road to higher ground and dry dirt.
There the man squeezed my shoulders as if in thanks, then slid over the beast’s rump to the roadway. At once, all my fear was transformed to weakness. Urgency drained from me as though I were a cistern holed at its base, and a profound lassitude took its place. The day had held too many terrors, too much heat and thirst—more than I could endure. Helpless to do otherwise, I slipped from my saddle and folded to the ground. Supine, I closed my eyes and felt myself swept away by a spate of abject weariness.
I was not aware of sleep. To the best of my knowledge, I rested for a short time only. Yet when I looked up again the sun had moved noticeably toward midday, and my garments were dry. Truth to tell, it was the discomfortable sensation that I was being baked which had roused me.
Blinking rapidly to moisten my parched eyes, I propped my torso upright and peered about me.
By chance my head was turned toward the Ibendwey. The sight troubled me vaguely, but at first I could not name the cause. Was it because I had nearly perished there? No— For a moment or two I regarded the river stupidly. Then I grasped the truth.
Some distance below me, the stream chuckled placidly over a shallow ford. The tumult in which I had risked my life was gone, leaving no sign of its passage—neither debris nor dampness upon the verges, nor erosion of the banks. Tall as a man, the boulder on which the traveler had perched jutted calmly from the ford, unassailed by torrents, the stone as dry as dust.
If I had merely waited for an hour or perhaps two, the endangered man would have needed no rescue, and I could have spared myself—
Stung by a peculiar sense of alarm, I stumbled to my feet and wheeled to look for my mount, as well as for the traveler I had so foolishly aided.
Asked to account for my quick fright, I might have said I feared that the man had taken my nag and deserted me. The truth was otherwise, however—more obscure as well as more disturbing. In fact, I seemed chiefly to fear that he had not left me alone.
Too soon, I found that he had not.
Some small distance uphill from me, he sat my mount as though he owned the beast. Both he and the nag faced me in the light of the sun. By some weird theurgy, the horse had been transfigured. In every particular, it remained the decrepit nag Tep Longeur had granted me—and yet its manner had become regal. It appeared to consider its
elf one of the Thal’s coursers, avid for show or contest. It held its head up, snorting from flared nostrils and champing its bit. Its eyes regarded me contemptuously.
In contrast, the traveler was unchanged. His apparel had dried cleanly, and his boots had shed their mud as if they resisted mire and murk. He seemed untouched, untouchable—beyond the reach of Thals and sovereigns. His seat showed the natural poise of a born horseman. One hand controlled the reins with negligent ease. The sun shone full upon his face—and yet I received no impression of his features. They might have been aquiline or equine for all I knew. His gaze consumed me to the exclusion of other details.
My apprehension grew, and I squirmed under the discomfiting precision of his scrutiny as though I were a misbehaved boy. For a long moment, he studied me, considering what he saw. Then he announced, “I am in your debt.”
His voice was mild enough. Yet it hinted at the clangor of iron—a sound which both dismayed and stirred me, as if those responses were indistinguishable.
Still mildly, he instructed me, “Tell me your name.”
My thirst had renewed its force, accentuated by exertion. My throat clenched, and I could not swallow. Suddenly I feared this man as though he were another like Sher Abener, fatal and malign.
Yet I did not find it possible to refuse an answer. With an effort, I croaked, “Urmeny. Massik Urmeny. Sher Urmeny. Of Benedic.” Awkwardly I concluded, “A merchant.”
The man upon my horse appeared to consider my reply adequate. He nodded once with an air of unalterable resolution. Then he turned the nag and headed away up the slope at a gliding trot.
I was at once so amazed and so appalled that I could not immediately react. He took my mount— Comprehension failed me. I could not grasp what had just transpired. Instead of running or raging after him, I gaped at his back in stupefaction. I did not wonder at what he did. Rather, I wondered where my nag had learned that light-hoofed gait.
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