Franse was quite a good cook, and he did not waste a single morsel of that precious fat either; he tossed sliced vegetables in what was left until they were coated and lightly fried them, too, moving them constantly to keep them from sticking to the bottom of the pan. With a sprinkling of salt, everything was perfect, and Mags thought that this was a meal he would remember for a very long time.
When they were done—Reaylis shared the fish, eschewed the vegetables—and the cleanup was complete, Reaylis hopped up on the table between them. The cat looked deeply into Mags’ eyes, and for the first time since Mags had awakened for dinner, the cat’s mind touched his. :We can only do this once, at least for now,: the cat admonished, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration. :For one thing, we want to do it while there is still daylight so the demons don’t sense it. And if it starts to hurt you, we are going to stop. There will be other days, if you don’t hurt yourself, and you’ll get better and stronger every day. But if you hurt yourself, the damage might be irreparable.:
Mags thought about how he’d been feeling since he’d awakened without Mindspeech and shuddered. No matter how much he had told himself he was resigned to being ordinary . . . in his heart, he knew he hadn’t been, and he would never be. He needed this, and he was not going to risk losing it again. He took a very deep breath, and nodded.
:All right,: he agreed. :So, what do I do? I’ve worked with other people afore, but not like this.:
:You do the reaching. That is all you need do; Franse and I are used to working together, and when Old Harald was alive, we worked with him as well. It will be as if you are reaching for something that is too high for you, and Franse and I are lifting you. You’ll sense it, so don’t be startled.:
Mags looked to Franse, who nodded. “All right,” he said aloud, and he closed his eyes.
Somewhere out there was Dallen. Actually . . . once again, he could just barely sense Dallen, like a sound right on the edge of audibility. Dallen was definitely out there. Mags just couldn’t quite hear what he was “saying,” as if someone were calling far in the distance, but all you could make out was that it was a human voice, and not something else, making a sound.
He “reached,” straining. He felt, as Reaylis had told him he would, the other two, “lifting” him, somehow putting him a little closer to Dallen, making that voice a little clearer.
Now, with great excitement, he realized that he could get some of the sense of what Dallen was calling.
Dallen was weary and in despair. He was calling only because he was driven to, not in any expectation of an answer. It sounded like someone who had been shouting the same thing, over and over, into the wind for days. And the single thing he kept calling was Mags’ name.
:Dallen!: he “shouted,” or tried to. :Dallen! It’s me! I’m here! I’m in Karse!:
There was a startled, incredulous pause. Faint, faint and far, but he felt the emotions. :Mags!:
:Dallen!: he replied, joyfully. :I’m in Karse! Karse!:
But he felt the strain; felt the ache starting behind his eyes. Then it was worse than an ache, it was a burn, and Franse and Reaylis immediately pulled their support away, and the sense of Dallen receded until it wasn’t a voice anymore, it was just that vague presence, faintly, in the back of his mind. He felt a moment of despair himself, he wanted so badly to really talk to Dallen—but the pain in his head warned him not to try.
As did Reaylis’ teeth firmly set in his finger. There was warning there; he knew that if he tried again, Reaylis would put a very quick end to the attempt with a hard bite.
With an unhappy, strangled sob, he let go of the contact and let it fade into the barest, dimmest awareness that Dallen was out there, somewhere. Reaylis let go of his finger, evidently satisfied that he understood the warning.
He opened his eyes. Franse patted his shoulder awkwardly, gingerly. Reaylis still sat like a statue of a cat, eyes tightly closed. Then the cat shook himself all over like a dog and opened his eyes again.
:I was able to reach your Horse long enough to make a contact thread with him. He will follow it to me, and here. Now no more for you today,: the cat said sternly. :And maybe not tomorrow. Things were starting to rip in that thick skull of yours. That makes more dangers than one, you know. Injuries to the parts of your mind that are responsible for Mindspeech are like any other injury except that what they “bleed” is not blood. But it can still be sensed. And you do not want anything that can sense such things to be attracted, now, do you?:
Mags got a sudden, rather disconcerting and frightening flash of something he really did not want to see clearly following a sort of “blood trail.” No . . . no, he didn’t want that.
He started to stand and found himself swaying a little with fatigue, and the pain in his head blossomed into a throb that seemed to go right through his skull. It must have shown on his face; Franse hastened to support him and aided him to his bed, went off and came back with another one of those herbal concoctions of his. Mags was rather more grateful for the very dim light in his chamber right now; light seemed to be stabbing right from his eyes into his skull. He drank down the potion in three gulps and wound himself in the fur blankets, putting his head on the pillow and waiting for the pain to subside. Franse just patted him on the shoulder again and let him be.
But he wasn’t unhappy—far from it! He felt as if he would happily have endured ten times the pain without Franse’s drugs just for that faint contact. And to have that sensation of at last having Dallen back with him again—oh, that was worth anything!
Dallen was coming. The cat had implied as much. Dallen was coming for him, and he was sure of the Companion’s ability to cross the Border, elude demons, and find him. It couldn’t be long—a few days, maybe a fortnight, and it would all be over at last.
He was going home.
* * *
The next morning, his head still ached—it was rather like the way his body had ached after the first time he’d been riding, however, and Franse and Reaylis both decided that he hadn’t done any permanent damage to himself. They examined him minutely over breakfast, although you would never have known what they were doing if you had only been watching what was going on. It would have looked like nothing more than two men stolidly working their way through bowls of acorn porridge in silence, while a cat washed himself on the hearth.
:You are fine. But no more reaching that far for now,: Franse said sternly. :At least a day before the next attempt, and probably two.:
His body ached too, and he felt a little feverish. Again, this was a bit like the way he’d felt the first time he’d been riding and all those muscles that had never been used before protested that they’d been stretched, torn, and fearfully abused. But when the cat accompanied him out into the garden to stand vigil over the vegetables while Franse went fishing, he ventured a question or two.
He took his usual place on the left-side bench. The cat leaped up beside him. Once again, Mags marveled at the size of him. Reaylis really was huge, and the reddish-brown mask, ears, paws, and tail were not only striking, the combination was remarkably handsome. :I think I still feel Dallen,: he said, hoping he wasn’t deluding himself.
The cat stretched and yawned, showing teeth and tongue. :You do. Stop prodding it and leave it alone. You’re like a child with a bitten cheek or a missing tooth, you can’t seem to stop sticking your tongue into the wound.:
He grimaced, because that was exactly what he was doing. And he knew it.
:Patience. Would I catch a mouse if I kept prodding at the hole? Of course not.: The end of Reaylis’ tail flicked. :He’s coming. I am sure that he is getting plenty of help; he would not try to do this alone. He has to work out how to get here, how to get across the Border, how to keep the demons from seeing him. He’ll know all this better than I will. I do not know what resources he has, nor do I know what
powers he may have. I sense that your Horses are somewhat more limited than Suncats, but, then, there are a great many more of them than there are of us. But nothing will keep him from you now, any more than anything would keep me from Franse.: The cat turned his head a little, and he glanced at Mags out of the corner of his eye. :And you are completely missing that blasted rabbit over by the kale. You might have had your breakfast, but I have not.:
Mags took the hint, and the shot. One rabbit later, and one sated cat, the rabbit quarters were in the pot of vegetables stewing on the hearth, and Mags and Reaylis were back on the garden bench. Reaylis was washing himself with great thoroughness and apparent concentration that was belied by the fact that he was talking to Mags at the same time.
:I know that you have many, many questions, and I am far more prepared and equipped to answer them than Franse is. Keep what you say short,: the cat advised, eyes half-closed as he worked on his paws. :Let me do all the work. And if you would rather say things aloud, do. I’ll get the sense from your mind.:
Mags thought about all the things he wanted to know. Things that were important for Nikolas to know. He tried to figure out how to frame his questions about what was going on with the Karsite religion, with the demon-summoning black-robes, with all of the complicated situation—into something very short and very simple. What would give him the most information for the fewest mental words?
Finally he sighed. :What the hell is goin’ on with yer priests? Why’re they so bad?:
The cat paused. :What always happens when religion goes to the bad?: the cat replied, and resumed his grooming. :Power. The love of power overcomes the love of the gods. Priests stop listening for the voice in their hearts and souls—which is very, very hard to hear even at the best of times—and start to listen only to what they wish to hear or to the voice of their own selfish desires. Priests begin to believe that they, and not the gods, are the real authorities. Priests confine broad truths into narrow doctrines, because more rules mean that they have more power. Priests mistake their own prejudice for conscience and mistake what they personally fear for what should universally be feared. Priests look inward to their own small souls and try to impress that smallness on the world, when they should be looking at the greatness of the universe and trying to impress that upon their souls. Priests forget they owe everything to their gods and begin to think the world owes everything to them . . . : the cat stopped, and shook his head. :Power is a poison. Priests should know better than to indulge in it. But once they do, you stop having those who wish to serve becoming priests, and you start seeing those who wish to be served becoming priests, and the rot sets in. It started to happen long ago here as humans reckon time.:
Mags thought about asking why the Sunlord had allowed this to happen but thought better of the idea. After all, not that long ago, he hadn’t been altogether certain that gods existed at all, and now, well, maybe it would be a bad notion to draw their attention too closely.
The cat was far from done with the subject, however. :Once there were the black-robes, the red-robes, and the white-robes. The black-robes were few, and their mandate was to control the demons in order to protect the people of Karse from their depredations, not command them. The red-robes tended to the everyday needs of the people, and the white-robes were made up of outsiders who had been called to the Sunlord’s service or those who went to serve the Sunlord in foreign lands. Go-betweens, if you will, charged with keeping the peace—bridges from the people of the Sunlord to the outside and back again. But then the black-robes began commanding demons; little things at first, hunting down a bandit tribe here, repelling an attempt at an invasion there . . . it all must have seemed to be in the best of causes and for the best of intentions. But they got used to being called on to use the power. They got used to being deferred to because they had the power. And then one day, a black-robe said to himself, “Why shouldn’t I be the Son of the Sun? I’m able, I am powerful, I am intelligent.” And he commanded his demons to make it appear that Vkandis had chosen him.:
Mags’ head hurt, so instead of thinking the question, he asked the next one out loud. “Didn’t anybody say anything?”
:Of course they did. Especially the Gifted among the red-robes, who had the power of Mindspeech, and the white-robes, who were pointing out that this was not the way things were done. In fact, they conspired among themselves and very nearly overthrew him. But his demons were too powerful, the Gifted red-robes were slain, the white-robes fled, and that was when Gifts were declared anathema.:
Mags felt his jaw dropping open a little.
:And that was when the Suncats began coming only to Gifted red-robes, helping them to hide themselves, seeking out and hiding those like Franse. I have been helping the red-robes who live in this place for quite some time. Six red-robes have come and gone, in fact, and Franse is the seventh.:
Mags got his mouth and his brain working again. “Does Franse know all this?”
Reaylis finished his washing and arranged himself in a dignified pose. :Of course not. It will be a long time before the people realize that they are oppressed, that their rulers are evil, and that they must rise up and overthrow them. We are here merely to keep the spark alive. They must be the ones to blow it into a fire to burn away the rot. Gods do not sweep in and fix things. You are not children to be saved. You must save yourselves.:
“Then why are you tellin’ me? Unless you think Valdemar should—”
:No, and your King would be the first to tell you that Valdemar should keep itself to itself unless the people of Karse ask for help.:
Well, that seemed definitive enough.
:You need to know, because your King needs to know that Karse must be left alone and why this is so. The temptation to save these people will be great, but they must save themselves. The key to their prison is within their grasp, but only they can use it.: Reaylis shook himself all over again. :You must tell them, Horse-Boy, you and your Horse. Oh, it will be perfectly all right if you help a few here, some refugees there, if they come to you for help . . . but to make a formal war of it? No. No, to make war for the sake of imposing what you think is right upon someone else is never going to end in anything but agony. And you must tell them that, make them understand, so they do not even think of making the attempt.:
“I will,” he promised, though as soon as he did so, the temptation to go back on the promise was incredible. After all, what had the people in that little village done to deserve suffering?
They didn’t get up on their hind legs and drive the bastards out of their village, that’s what, came the reluctant answer.
It was a hard truth, but unless someone was so vastly outnumbered and overpowered—like, say, the slaveys in Cole Pieters’ mine—they always had the power in their hands to take back their freedom. That was the choice: to lie down and be abused, or stand up and refuse to be abused and throw the abusers out. Lying down and taking it never worked anyway; you might suffer and die if you fought, but you were going to suffer and die regardless, and at least the suffering and dying part would be shorter if you fought.
:So you see.: The cat nodded. :It’s not punishment for allowing this to happen. It’s the consequence of allowing this to happen. It’s the consequence of cowardice, of apathy, of giving up. The two things are very different.:
Mags sighed. He still didn’t like it. He could see it, but he still didn’t like it. He actually agreed with it. But he didn’t like it.
:So see to it that it doesn’t happen to your people, Horse-Boy. Now, let’s work on getting those shields of yours working again.:
13
Three days later, and the ache in his head was still a dull throb, so Franse and Reaylis were still forbidding another attempt to reach Dallen. So, early in the morning, even before the sun had come up over the mountains and down into the valley, Mags was shivering down by the pon
d, bow in hand, and severely puzzled.
There were no waterfowl at all, nor any sign of them.
Though the sky above was a cloudless blue and sun gilded the tops of the mountains on all sides, here in the valley, it was deeply shaded and a thick dew lay over everything. It was chilly, and a faint mist hung just above the surface of the water.
He had come up on the pond as silently as always, and there had been no sounds of birds taking off as if he’d flushed them. But the pond was utterly still and empty; not only were there no ducks or geese out in the open water, there were no little coots, no waders, not even birds in the reeds, rushes, and cattails. It was as if something had frightened everything off before he got there, which made no sense. A fox or a wolf might flush a few birds at the verge, but they’d only go to the deeper water where they knew they were safe. A goshawk might take down one, and perhaps even flush the whole flock, but there would be signs of the successful hunt—like a goshawk with a fat crop and a half-eaten carcass—and a goshawk wouldn’t have disturbed the smaller birds. In fact, the smaller birds would be scolding it right now, noisily.
What could this mean—
“Not to be moving, Northerner,” said a harsh, heavily accented voice behind him. And something sharp pricked through his shirt to his skin, before withdrawing.
He froze.
“Good. I am to be having a large sword, and there are twenty men with crossbows,” said the voice, sounding extremely satisfied. “You will to be dropping your bow. And you will to be turning.”
He did so. Slowly.
The voice belonged to a man who could have been Franse’s cousin: big, very blond, very strong, and dressed in brown leather with riveted plate mail over it. He barked an order, and half a dozen men pushed their way through the cattails and rushes at the edge of the pond, heading for him. They were dressed in much the same way, except without the plate mail.
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