by E. J. Godwin
His son paled in the flickering light. “No—I won’t leave you behind!”
“I’ll have enough trouble keeping myself afloat. Go with Soren—I’ll follow.”
“Promise me, Dad,” Warren shouted back, his teeth chattering with the cold. “Promise you’ll be right behind us—no matter what.”
Caleb’s arms trembled, his muscles aching from his tight grip on the boat. There was no refusing the desperate plea in his son’s voice, and he had to act soon before a surge in the current or some other mishap ended their journey in disaster.
“I’ll get in and hang onto the boat while you go first,” he said. Warren nodded.
Forgetting simple boat sense, Caleb scrambled over the side, gasping as the icy water soaked through his clothes. Soren cursed and leaned the other way to counterbalance his weight. Caleb struggled to keep his position, but the river forced his legs under the boat, and his head—stubbornly following the rest of his body—almost sank beneath the surface. At last he recovered, wiped the water from his eyes, and shifted along the gunwale until he reached the stern.
Wasting no time, Soren propped the torch up on one side of the boat, and deftly entered the water near the bow. He gestured for Warren to follow. After a doubt-filled glance at his father, the boy lowered himself beside Soren.
The lightened craft bounced and clattered against the stone. “Caleb Stenger,” Soren shouted, his voice getting hoarse. “A curse on you if I do not see your cowardly hide within a minute of our return to daylight!” He wrapped one arm around Warren, turned and braced himself against the ledge with his free hand, and vanished.
Alone, the sputtering torch his only companion, Caleb spewed many scathing remarks of self-reproach, all lost in the tumult, all in vain. His limbs were stiff from the cold; his heart hammered faster and faster, and his breath rasped in his throat.
With every ounce of will at his command he reached for the ledge. His hand slipped, and he lost his grip on the stern. He groped wildly as the current bashed his arms against the stone and drove him under the roaring tumult.
Everything went dark. His body, rigid with fear, turned over and over as the swirling water carried him along, the sound of its fury a dull roar in his ears. He stretched his arms out to either side, felt stone racing near his head. There was no room to breathe.
It seemed an eternity before a glimmer danced ahead in the churning waters. Like an explosion, everything around him turned a brilliant blue-white. He shut his eyes tight as he surged out of the water in a rush of foam and noise, sucking air into his lungs in blessed relief.
He could not open his eyes for more than a blink. All around him, high, snow-covered peaks and valleys blazed in the light of a late morning sun. With his limbs weakened from the cold he could barely keep his head above the raging current.
Fighting to regain his sight, he glimpsed an elm that had fallen across nearly the entire width of the river, its bare branches half buried in the water. Soren lay straddled along the snow-caked bole of the tree a few feet above the surface, shouting and waving to get his attention.
Just as he reached him Caleb raised a leaden arm over his head. Soren lowered his hands down on either side of the log and held him in place by sheer strength, his teeth clenched with the effort. As Caleb attempted to grasp the tree with his other arm, he caught a glimpse of Warren, half submerged, dangling from a slender branch next to Soren.
Caleb’s wet fingers were slipping from Soren’s grasp. The Master Raén grabbed his collar, and with a mighty heave pulled him up far enough to allow him to wrap his arms around the log. The old man was at the end of his strength. It was up to Caleb to struggle to the top, while Warren bobbed in the water nearby crying for him to hurry, his stare locked on a frayed bend in the branch near the trunk. Caleb’s legs felt like putty. Any progress took every bit of determination he possessed. Yet eventually he made it, hugging the log like a wet cat while Soren lay next to him.
Again Warren cried out. Caleb reached over, and with the boy half climbing and half treading water, he managed to haul him to safety. By the time Warren sat on the log, gasping and wiping the water from his face, Soren had started clambering toward shore.
“Caleb Stenger! We must hurry!”
Though it was still autumn, and the snow was melting fast, they were still fairly high in the mountains, and Caleb knew their lives were at risk in the cold air. He urged Warren along, following close behind as Soren neared the end of the log. They crawled like inchworms down the remaining length of the tree, until at last they struggled through the upturned mass of roots to stand shuddering in the snow before the Master Raén.
Caleb’s jaw trembled as he spoke. “We need to light a fire.”
“Incredible deduction!” Soren lashed breathlessly. “Remember your training. Gather pine cones, birch bark, standing weeds—anything. And be quick about it!”
Caleb staggered away; Warren crouched shivering against the stump. “Up, up!” Soren shouted, slapping him on the shoulder. “Find wood!”
“Can’t,” the boy stammered in the same language. “Cold.”
Soren grabbed him by his waterlogged coat and hauled him to a stand. “Keep moving!”
Warren, too cold to protest, stumbled off in another direction while Soren searched along the shore for cattails and other tinder. By the time he found anything, however, Caleb had returned with an armload of dry goldenrods and clusters of oak leaves still affixed to their branches. Warren approached, a fistful of twigs and pine bark in each hand.
They cleared a spot near the stump of the fallen tree. While his companions stood shuddering, Soren stacked the fuel, and in time started a tiny flame with his flint and iron. Afterward he trudged away in search of larger fuel while Caleb nursed the fire with the rest of the kindling.
Warren sat against the stump again, his arms wrapped close, his entire body shaking so hard that droplets of water flung from his locks. Caleb tried not to cast worried glances at him. He knew he had good reason to be thankful: had it been a deep winter day, and not a relatively mild one near the end of the autumn month of Terté, they all might have frozen to death.
Soren soon returned hauling several dead branches. At last the flames crackled higher and higher, and they flung whatever they could find on the fire. Soren demanded that they remove their clothes, and very odd did they look after that, jumping around on the frozen earth in the middle of nowhere in nothing but their skin.
Caleb danced around the fire, every step agony to his reddened toes. Somehow it was oddly fitting that they had ended their underground journey as they began it, naked. In time their limbs moved easier, and Soren propped a long branch on the stump on which to hang their clothes. They sat near the fire on wet blankets, undid their packs, and devoured whatever food, water-soaked or not, that sated their growling appetites.
They turned round and round to warm all sides, and eventually their shivers ceased. They dressed as soon as their lighter garments dried, and took stock of the country about. The river, swollen to its banks, flowed south through a short valley between rugged foothills. To the north, above the cleft of rock from which the water surged, rose the towering peaks of the Iéndrai. Now that they sat here in the fresh air and under the bright sky, it seemed incredible how far they had traveled beneath them.
“This must be the river Taéren,” Soren said. “The Treth seldom venture here—they think the mountains are haunted.”
Caleb chopped at a thick branch with his hatchet. “Well, they are, aren’t they?—by Gur’alyreiv. But what about this town Géihtser mentioned? We need food and supplies. Our little swim spoiled a lot of what they gave us.”
“Outway,” answered Soren, “at least a fifteen-mile walk. We won’t be attempting that today. Tomorrow one of us should go while the other two camp in hiding somewhere.”
Caleb threw his latest work into the fire, then started on another. “The Raéni search?”
“I doubt the Raéni will be looking for us in Trethr
ealm: there’s no way they could know where we are. I’m more worried about spies.”
“Hodyn spies?”
“Not necessarily. A few Treth have been known to collaborate with the enemy. I would rather avoid any contact with people altogether, at least until we reach Spierel, but that might take a month. Food or no food, we need horses.”
“Spierel?”
“Yes. The road to Ekendoré is too risky for us right now. It’s safer to head through the less populated area near Illvent, then south around Tnesen. Of all the Raéni, I trust Tenlar the most to ignore the rumors and give us a fair treatment.”
Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “Soren, I know we’re obliged to bring back what we’ve discovered. But a lot of things have changed, and I have to consider Warren’s safety. One man’s trust isn’t enough, even if it’s Tenlar’s.”
“You can’t wait that long,” said Soren. “And if finding the Broken Lor’yentré isn’t enough to gain their trust, then nothing is. You have no choice now but to face your accusers, or else leave Ada altogether.”
Caleb dropped the hatchet with a sigh. Soren was right. There was no sense wasting away the unforgiving winter in some futile attempt to escape or prove his worthiness. If any bright future existed for Warren or himself it lay down a road through Ada, not around it, despite the risks.
As the day wore on their heavier clothes dried, so they dressed and put out the fire. Several miles downstream, where the valley opened out into the wide moorlands of northern Trethrealm, the river made a sharp turn toward the sea. No bridges existed in these remote parts, so they crossed over the fallen tree, wading the short gap beyond. The water was icy cold but only knee deep, and they shod themselves on the far bank and started off.
A small southern outlier of the Iéndrai rose to their left, and they threaded a way along the hills clustered at its feet, keeping within the shelter of trees wherever they could. It soon became clear that their ordeal in the river had taken its toll on Warren. As the sun shone bright and melted the rest of the snow, the boy struggled to keep the pace, plodding between Soren and his father without a word.
The sky faded to evening, and they camped in a grove of hemlocks standing hard against the western slopes of a large hill. The head of a small stream bubbled nearby. Warren sank to the ground at once. They were all dead tired. They ate what they could of their food, trusting to replenish their supplies in the next few days at Outway. Being so close to town they lit only the smallest of fires, and rolled into their damp blankets and fell away to sleep.
♦
A rain blew in from the sea that night and doused the fire. Caleb did what he could to shield Warren, but despite his efforts the boy turned for the worse, trembling with his sandy locks dark against a sweat-soaked brow. When Soren woke at the first sign of day, he cut several thick branches from the trees and leaned them together to form a crude shelter. Caleb smiled his thanks and wrapped himself closer about his son. They had never discussed who was to go on this little rescue mission, but now there was no question about it. The Master Raén gathered his belongings and trudged out into the rain, following the swollen stream until he faded into the mist.
Hours passed. The rain tapered off, but the wind shook the trees, sending fat, cold drops leaking through their shelter and onto their heads. Caleb sat up shivering, then sneezed violently. Warren slept on, his hooded cloak and wet blankets wrapped tight like a cocoon.
Caleb rose stiffly to his feet. The wind had swung around, blowing the rain out to sea, and pale, blue streaks shone between tattered ridges of clouds. The wet expanse beyond the trees cleared to his sight: endless, gently rolling moorlands dotted here and there by a small grove or an outcropping of lichen-mottled stone rising above the heather.
He tried starting another fire, but any fuel on the ground or even hanging from the trees was far too wet for any spark to take hold. After adding a few more boughs to their shelter, he ventured out to gather bundles of heather for kindling, and set them on top of the shelter to dry. He made several trips, making sure he had enough fuel, then crouched down to study his son.
Warren stirred to his touch, and Caleb held out his hand, palm open. “Look what I found.”
The boy smiled weakly. “Crowberries.”
Caleb nodded. “Do you remember the jam your mother used to make?”
“Yeah … I remember not liking it very much.”
“You’re kidding. Well, you made a good show of it.”
Warren ate the berries a few at a time, then lay back down, eyes brimming.
Caleb ventured out many times that day to gather more crowberries, but it was late in the year, and most had been eaten by wildlife. Now and then he would climb one of the larger rock outcroppings to scan the horizon, hoping to catch sight of the Master Raén returning with horses laden with food. But there was no sign of him.
Toward evening he managed to start a fire near the entrance to their shelter. Never had so simple a task filled him with such triumph. And it helped Warren. The boy’s fever dropped a little, and he lay awake by the fire, pale as chalk and ravenous, but alive.
Caleb lay down behind him, sheltering him from the cold. He knew that if Soren did not arrive by morning, he would have no choice but to leave Warren in search of help.
♦
He had barely slept an hour when he woke to a rush of thudding hooves. Beyond the dying flames of the fire loomed the black flanks and steaming breath of a large horse. Caleb, taking no chances, jumped up to reach for his Fetra—then with a jolt realized that he had lost it in the river, scabbard and all. Warren sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
With a cry the rider leaped from the saddle. It was not Soren. It was a woman; she threw back the hood of her cloak, and the fire cast a mellow glow on her braided, white-blond hair.
“Telai!” Caleb shouted. He leaped forward and hugged her.
Warren forced himself up, stumbled over to Telai, and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Warren!” she said, and stooped a little to embrace him. “Am I ever glad to see you!”
“Glad … me you, too,” he returned in Adan.
Telai’s mouth fell open, and she held him at an arm’s length. “He’s been healed,” Caleb explained. “At Graxmoar.”
Her expression sobered. “Graxmoar? You found a way through Gur’alyreiv?” She glanced around the campsite. “Where’s Soren?”
“He left to find help in Outway. It’s only a few miles downstream. But he’s been gone for almost a day, and I’m getting worried. How did you find us?”
“I left nearly three weeks ago. Lately I’ve been riding back and forth on the other side of Westgate. Then I aimed for the coast, terrified you might have headed south instead. I saw your fire from my campsite,” she said, pointing to the right along the foothills.
Caleb nodded absently. “I hope he’s all right.” Telai brushed the tangled locks of his hair back and placed her hand against his cheek. “I know,” he said. “I’m in desperate need of a shave.”
“But you’re so thin and pale, Caleb. Warren, too. What happened?”
“That’s a long story. Right now it’s enough to tell you that we haven’t eaten much for nearly two days. And Warren’s been sick.”
Her lips tightened. “I shouldn’t have spent so much time at Onayonlé,” she muttered, and started rummaging through the packs on her horse. She brought out earthen vials of simple food, a feast to Caleb and Warren: cold beans, stiff bread, apples, and, like an elixir from heaven, a skin of strong raspberry wine. After a few mouthfuls of bread Caleb downed a long, deep draught; it stung his throat and stomach, made his eyes water, and revived him wonderfully. Even Warren took some, Caleb hoping it would speed his recovery.
Telai held back little from her provisions. Caleb and Warren offered no protest. After a half hour of steady eating they lay back to enjoy the effects of the food and wine. Though Telai must have been eager to ask questions she kept them to herself, and before long they dropped o
ff perforce into a deep sleep.
When Caleb woke the next morning she was gone. A small package of food at his side reassured him that her arrival hadn’t been a dream. A note was tucked under the string, but he knew without reading it that she had left to find Soren.
7
Disguise and Deception
A classroom is but one step
along the road to understanding.
- inscription dedicated to Ekatréi, 16th Overseer of Ada
EIVEYA’S HOOVES splashed in the rain-filled ruts as Telai cantered down the road toward Soren. Only when she drew alongside did the old man stop to notice he had a visitor.
His shoulders sagged, and exhaustion deepened the lines in his weathered face. “Telai?” he mumbled. “What are you doing way out here?”
“That’s a fine thing to ask—walking like a man half dead thirty miles south of Outway! Thank goodness the rain’s stopped. When was the last time you slept?”
His brow furrowed as he struggled to answer. “Nothing in Outway. Heading for Waystop. Can’t sleep now, got to find help.”
She dropped to the road beside him. “If you’re talking about Caleb and Warren, I’ve already taken care of that, for a day or two at least. Besides, you won’t be much use to anyone if you end up with your face planted in the mud.” She scanned the valley, then pointed at a small clump of trees to the east. “We’ll take shelter in those woods. I’ll lead Eiveya while you ride.”
She moved behind to help, but relented at his icy stare. Twice he tried to hoist himself onto Eiveya’s broad back. Telai shook her head at his stubborn pride, but he managed it at last, breathing heavily as he leaned against the pommel.
Telai led the way through the damp heather. With the mild climate near the sea the little grove of trees had yet to shed the last of its foliage, providing adequate cover for a campsite. Soren gave strict orders not to start a fire. So Telai gave him what cold provender she could spare, hoping to replenish their supplies later. She spread out her blankets for him, and after promising to wake him before nightfall headed out to keep watch.