“I think I would too,” said Annelys, and Kindra thought: Now, if I were not bound by the laws of the Guild, I could tell her what we are. And this one would be a credit to the Sisterhood . . .
But her oath held her silent. She sighed and looked at Annelys, frustrated.
She was beginning to think the precautions had been useless, that Scarface’s men would never come here at all, when there was a shriek from one of the women, and Kindra saw the tassel of a coarse knitted cap come up over the wall; then two men appeared on top of the wall, knives gripped in their teeth to free their hands for climbing.
“So here’s where they’ve hidden it all, women, horses, all of it—” growled one. “You go for the horses, I’ll take care of—oh, you would,” he shouted as Kindra ran at him with her knife drawn. He was taller than Kindra; as they fought, she could only defend herself, backing step by step toward the stables. Where were the men? Why had the bandits been able to get this far? Were they the last defense of the town? Behind her, out of the corner of her eye she saw the other bandit coming up with his sword; she circled, backing carefully so she could face them both.
Then there was a shriek from Annelys, the axe flashed once, and the second bandit fell, howling, his leg spouting blood. Kindra’s opponent faltered at the sound; Kindra brought up her knife and ran him through the shoulder, snatching up his knife as it fell from his limp hand. He fell backward, and she leaped on top of him.
“Annelys!” she shouted. “You women! Bring thongs, rope, anything to tie him up—there may be others—”
Janella came with a clothesline and stood by as Kindra tied the man, then, stepping back, looked at the bandit, lying in a pool of his own blood. His leg was nearly severed at the knee. He was still breathing, but he was too far gone even to moan and while the women stood and looked at him, he died. Janella stared at Annelys in horror, as if her young daughter had suddenly sprouted another head.
“You killed him,” she breathed. “You chopped his leg off!”
“Would you rather he had chopped off mine, mother?” Annelys asked, and bent to look at the other bandit. “He is only stabbed through the shoulder, he’ll live to be hanged!”
Breathing hard, Kindra straightened, giving the clothesline a final tug. She looked at Annelys and said, “You saved my life, little sister.”
The girl smiled up at her, excited, her hair coming down and tumbling into her eyes. There was a cold sleet beginning to fall in the courtyard; their faces were wet. Annelys suddenly flung her arms around Kindra, and the older woman hugged her, disregarding the mother’s troubled face.
“One of our own could not have done better. My thanks, little one!” Damn it, the girl had earned her thanks and approval, and if Janella stared at them as if Kindra were a wicked seducer of young women, then so much the worse for Janella! She let the girl’s arm stay around her shoulders as she said, “Listen; I think that is the men coming back.”
And in a minute they heard Brydar’s hail, and they struggled to raise the great crossbeam of the gate. His men drove before them more than a dozen good horses, and Brydar laughed, saying, “Scarface’s men will have no more use for them; so we’re well paid! I see you women got the last of them?” He looked down at the bandit lying in his gore, at the other, tied with Janella’s clothesline. “Good work, mestra, I’ll see you have a share in the booty!”
“The girl helped,” Kindra said. “I’d have been dead without her.”
“One of them killed my father,” the girl said fiercely, “so I have paid my just debt, that is all!” She turned to Janella and ordered, “Mother, bring our defenders some of that wine punch, at once!”
Brydar’s men sat all over the common-room, drinking the hot wine gratefully. Brydar set down the tankard and rubbed his hands over his eyes with a tired “Whoosh!” He said, “Some of my men are hurt, dame Janella; have any of your women skill with leechcraft? We will need bandages, and perhaps some salves and herbs. I—” He broke off as one of the men beckoned him urgently from the door, and he went at a run.
Annelys brought Kindra a tankard and put it shyly into her hand. Kindra sipped; it was not the wine punch Janella had made, but a clear, fine, golden wine from the mountains. Kindra sipped it slowly, knowing the girl had been telling her something. She sat across from Kindra, taking a sip now and then of the hot wine in her own tankard. They were both reluctant to part.
Damn that fool law that says I cannot tell her of the Sisterhood! She is too good for this place and for that fool mother of hers; the idiot Lilla is more what her mother needs to help run the inn, and I suppose Janella will marry her off to some yokel at once, just to have help in running this place! Honor demanded she keep silent. Yet, watching Annelys, thinking of the life the girl would lead here, she wondered, troubled, what kind of honor it was, to require that she leave a girl like this in a place like this.
Yet she supposed it was a wise law; anyway, it had been made by wiser heads than hers. She supposed, otherwise, young girls, glamored for the moment with the thought of a life of excitement and adventure, might follow the Sisterhood without being fully aware of the hardships and the renunciations that awaited them. The name Renunciate was not lightly given; it was not an easy life. And considering the way Annelys was looking at her, Annelys might follow her simply out of hero-worship. That wouldn’t do. She sighed, and said, “Well, the excitement is over for tonight, I suppose. I must be away to my bed; I have a long way to ride tomorrow. Listen to that racket! I didn’t know any of Brydar’s men were seriously hurt—”
“It sounds more like a quarrel than men in pain,” Annelys said, listening to the shouts and protests. “Are they quarrelling over the spoils?”
Abruptly the door was thrust open and Brydar of Fen Hills came into the room. “Mestra, forgive me, you are wearied—”
“Enough,” she said, “but after all this hullabaloo I am not like to sleep much; what can I do for you?”
“I beg you—will you come? It is the boy—young Marco; he is hurt, badly hurt, but he will not let us tend his wounds until he has spoken with you. He says he has an urgent message, very urgent, which he must give before he dies . . . .
“Avarra’s mercy,” Kindra said, shocked. “Is he dying, then?”
“I cannot tell, he will not let us near enough to dress his wound. If he would be reasonable and let us care for him—but he is bleeding like a slaughtered chervine, and he has threatened to slit the throat of any man who touches him. We tried to hold him down and tend him willy-nilly, but it made his wounds bleed so sore as he struggled that we dared not wait—will you come, mestra?”
Kindra looked at him with question—she had not thought he would humor any man of his band so. Brydar said defensively, “The lad is nothing to me; not foster-brother, kinsman, nor even friend. But he fought at my side, and he is brave; it was he who killed Scarface in single combat. And may have had his death from it.”
“Why should he want to speak to me?”
“He says, mestra, that it is a matter concerning his sister. And he begs you in the name of Avarra the pitiful that you will come. And he is young enough, almost, to be your son.”
“So,” Kindra said at last. She had not seen her own son since he was eight days old; and he would, she thought, be too young to bear a sword. “I cannot refuse anyone who begs me in the name of the Goddess,” she said, and rose, frowning; young Marco had said he had no sister. No; he had said that there was none, now, that he could call sister. Which might be a different thing.
On the stairs she heard the voice of one of Brydar’s men, expostulating, “Lad, we won’t hurt ye, but if we don’t get to that wound and tend to it, you could die, do ye hear?”
“Get away from me!” The young voice cracked. “I swear by Zandru’s hells, and, by the spilt tripes of Scarface out there dead, I’ll shove this knife into the throat of the first man who touches me!”
Inside, by torchlight, Kindra saw Marco half-sitting, half-lying on a straw palle
t; he had a dagger in his hand, holding them away with it; but he was pale as death, and there was icy sweat on his forehead. The straw pallet was slowly reddening with a pool of blood. Kindra knew enough of wounds to know that the human body could lose more blood than most people thought possible without serious danger; but to any ordinary person it looked most alarming.
Marco saw Kindra and gasped, “Mestra, I beg you—I must speak with you alone—”
“That’s no way to speak to a comrade, lad,” said one of the mercenaries, kneeling behind him, as Kindra knelt beside the pallet. The wound was high on the leg, near the groin; the leather breeches had broken the blow somewhat, or the boy would have met the same fate as the man Annelys had struck with the axe. “You little fool,” Kindra said. “I can’t do half as much for you as your friend can.”
Marco’s eyes closed for a moment, from pain or weakness. Kindra thought he had lost consciousness, and gestured to the man behind him. “Quick, now, while he is unconscious—” she said swiftly, but the tortured eyes flicked open.
“Would you betray me, too?” He gestured with the dagger, but so feebly that Kindra was shocked. There was certainly no time to be lost. The best thing was to humor him.
“Go!” she said, “I’ll reason with him, and if he won’t listen, well, he is old enough to take the consequences of his folly.” Her mouth twisted as the men went away. “I hope what you have to tell me is worth risking your life for, you lackwitted simpleton!”
But a great and terrifying suspicion was born in her as she knelt on the bloody pallet. “You fool, do you know this is likely to be your deathwound? I have small skill at leechcraft; your comrades could do better for you.”
“It is sure to be my death unless you help me,” said the hoarse, weakening voice. “None of these men is comrade enough that I could trust him . . . mestra, help me, I beg you, in the name of the merciful Avarra—I am a woman.”
Kindra drew a sharp breath. She had begun to suspect—and it was true, then. “And none of Brydar’s men knows—”
“None. I have dwelt among them for half a year, and I do not think any man of them suspects—and I fear women even more. But you, you I felt I might trust—”
“I swear it,” Kindra said hastily. “I am oath-bound never to refuse aid to any woman who asks me in the name of the Goddess. But let me help you now, my poor girl, and pray Avarra you have not delayed too long!”
“Even if it was so—” the strange girl whispered, “I would rather die as a woman, than—disgraced and exposed. I have known so much disgrace—”
“Hush! Hush, child!” But she fell back against the pallet; she had really fainted, this time, at last; and Kindra cut away the leather breeches, looking at the serious cut that sliced through the top of the thigh and into the pubic mound. It had bled heavily, but was not, Kindra thought, fatal. She picked up one of the clean towels the men had left, pressed heavily against the wound; when it slowed to an ooze, she frowned, thinking it should be stitched. She hesitated to do it—she had little skill at such things, and she was sure the man from Brydar’s band could do it more tidily and sure-handed; but she knew that was exactly what the young woman had feared, to be handled and exposed by men. Kindra thought: If it could be done before she recovers consciousness, she need not know . . . But she had promised the girl, and she would keep her promise. The girl did not stir as she stepped out into the hall.
Brydar came halfway up the stairs. “How goes it?”
“Send young Annelys to me,” Kindra said. “Tell her to bring linen thread and a needle; and linen for bandages, and hot water and soap.” Annelys had courage and strength; what was more, she was sure that if Kindra asked her to keep a secret, Annelys would do so, instead of gossiping about it.
Brydar said, in an undertone that did not carry a yard past Kindra’s ear, “It’s a woman—isn’t it?”
Kindra demanded, with a frown. “Were you listening?”
“Listening, hell! I’ve got the brains I was born with, and I was remembering a couple of other little things. Can you think of any other reason a member of my band wouldn’t let us get his britches off? Whoever she is, she’s got guts enough for two!”
Kindra shook her head in dismay. Then all the girl’s suffering was useless, scandal and disgrace there would be in any case. “Brydar, you pledged this would be worth my while. Do you owe me, or not?”
“I owe you,” Brydar said.
“Then swear by your sword that you will never open your mouth about this, and I am paid. Fair enough?” Brydar grinned.
“I won’t cheat you out of your pay for that,” he said. “You think I want it to get round these hills that Brydar of Fen Hills can’t tell the men from the ladies? Young Marco rode with my band for half a year and proved himself the man. If his foster sister or kinswoman or cousin or what you will chooses to nurse him herself, and take him home with her afterward, what’s it to any of my men? Damned if I want my crew thinking some girl killed Scarface right under my nose!” He put his hand to sword-hilt. “Zandru take this hand with the palsy if I say any word about this. I’ll send Annelys to you,” he promised, and went.
Kindra returned to the girl’s side. She was still unconscious; when Annelys came in, Kindra said curtly, “Hold the lamp there; I want to get this stitched before she recovers consciousness. And try not to get squeamish or faint; I want to get it done quick enough so we don’t have to hold her down while we do it.”
Annelys gulped at the sight of the girl and the gaping wound, which had begun to bleed again. “A woman! Blessed Evanda! Kindra, is she one of your Sisterhood? Did you know?”
“No, to both questions. Here, hold the light—”
“No,” said Annelys. “I have done this many times; I have steady hands for this. Once when my brother cut his thigh chopping wood, I sewed it up, and I have helped the midwife, too. You hold the light.”
Relieved, Kindra surrendered the needle. Annelys began her work as skillfully as if she were embroidering a cushion; halfway through the business, the girl regained consciousness; she gave a faint cry of fright, but Kindra spoke to her, and she quieted and lay still, her teeth clamped in her lip, clinging to Kindra’s hand. Halfway through, she moistened her lip and whispered, “Is she one of you, mestra?”
“No. No more than yourself, child. But she is a friend. And she will not gossip about you, I know it,” Kindra said confidently.
When Annelys had finished, she fetched a glass of wine for the woman, and held her head while she drank it. Some color came back into the pale cheeks, and she was breathing more easily. Annelys brought one of her own nightgowns and said, “You will be more comfortable in this, I think. I wish we could carry you to my bed, but I don’t think you should be moved yet. Kindra, help me to lift her.” With a pillow and a couple of clean sheets she set about making the woman comfortable on the straw pallet.
The stranger made a faint sound of protest as they began to undress her, but was too weak to protest effectively. Kindra stared in shock as the undertunic came off. She would never have believed that any woman over fourteen could successfully pose as a man among men, yet this woman had done it, and now she saw how. The revealed form was flat, spare, breastless; the shoulders had the hardened musculature of any swordsman. There was more hair on the arms than most women would have tolerated without removing it somehow, with bleach or wax. Annelys stared in amazement, and the woman, seeing that shocked look, hid her face in the pillow. Kindra said sharply, “There is no need to stare. She is emmasca, that is all; haven’t you ever seen one before?” The neutering operation was illegal all over Darkover, and dangerous; and in this woman it must have been done before, or shortly after puberty. She was filled with questions, but courtesy forbade any of them.
“But—but—” Annelys whispered. “Was she born so or made so? It is unlawful—who would dare—”
“Made so,” the girl said, her face still hidden in the pillow. “Had I been born so, I would have had nothing to fear . .
. and I chose this so that I might have nothing more to fear!”
She tightened her mouth as they lifted and turned her; Annelys gasped aloud at the shocking scars, like the marks of whips, across the woman’s back; but she said nothing, only pulled the merciful concealment of her own nightgown over the frightful revelation of those scars. Gently, she washed the woman’s face and hands with soapy water. The ginger-pale hair was dark with sweat, but at the roots Kindra saw something else; the hair was beginning to grow in fire-red there.
Comyn. The telepath caste, red-haired . . . this woman was a noblewoman, born to rule in the Domains of Darkover!
In the name of all the Gods, Kindra wondered, who can she be, what has come to her? How came she here in this disguise, even her hair bleached so none can guess at her lineage? And who has mishandled her so? She must have been beaten like an animal . . .
And then, shocked, she heard the words forming in her mind, not knowing how.
Scarface, said the voice in her mind. But now I am avenged. Even if it means my death . . .
She was frightened; never had she so clearly perceived; her rudimentary telepath gift had always, before, been a matter of quick intuition, hunch, lucky guess.. She whispered aloud, in horror and dismay, “By the Goddess! Child, who are you?”
The pale face contorted in a grimace which Kindra recognized, in dismay, was intended for a smile. “I am—no one,” she said. “I had thought myself the daughter of Alaric Lindir. Have you heard the tale?”
Alaric Lindir. The Lindir family were a proud and wealthy family, distantly akin to the Aillard family of the Comyn. Too highly born, in fact, for Kindra to claim acquaintance with any of that kin; they were of the ancient blood of the Hastur-kin.
“Yes, they are a proud people,” whispered the woman. “My mother’s name was Kyria, and she was a younger sister to Dom Lewis Ardais—not the Ardais Lord, but his younger brother. But still, she was highborn enough that when she proved to be with child by one of the Hastur lords of Thendara, she was hurried away and married in haste to Alaric Lindir. And my father—he that I had always believed my father—he was proud of his red-haired daughter; all during my childhood I heard how proud he was of me, for I would marry into Comyn, or go to one of the Towers and become a great and powerful sorceress or Keeper. And then—then came Scarface and his crew, and they sacked the castle, and carried away some of the women, just as an afterthought, and by the time Scarface discovered who he had as his latest captive—well, the damage was done, but still he sent to my father for ransom. And my father, that selfsame Dom Alaric who had not enough proud words for his red-haired beauty who should further his ambition by a proud marriage into the Comyn, my father—” She choked, then spat the words out. “He sent word that if Scarface could guarantee me—untouched—then he would ransom me at a great price; but if not, then he would pay nothing. For if I was—was spoilt, ravaged—then I was no use to him, and Scarface might hang me or give me to one of his men, as he saw fit.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover Page 3