“Ow!” He snarled and opened his eyes.
Morb stood at his feet, holding a large leather bag. The hand which left Pirse’s forehead to gingerly lift aside the torn shoulder of his tunic belonged to a plump, pink-cheeked woman whose unbelted black robe and peach under tunic seemed stiffly formal next to Morb’s bare chest and black loincloth. She had hair the color of ripe oats, cut short like a child’s, and she clucked over him exactly as his nursemaid had done, long ago when his biggest fears were of thunderstorms and bee stings.
“There, there, don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe now.” Her smile was a delicate curving of lips framed by dimples. “I am Savyea. You haven’t been chasing dragons this far south, have you?”
If only it were so simple! “No.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of yourself. Water, please.” She took her bag from Morb and set it on the ground next to Pirse. When she lifted the flap of the bag, a spicy, nose-tingling scent filled the air. The Greenmother brought out an earthenware mug, squat and red as a tomato, which she dipped into the large bowl of water Morb set beside her.
“Now,” Savyea said, hands busily unfolding small cloth squares, each containing a different powder or leaf or seed. “Help me heal you. Tell me what happened.”
Pirse turned his face away from her sharp, inquiring, black eyes. “Some things don’t heal.”
Morb’s voice startled him. “He grieves,” the wizard explained.
“For your sister, poor boy? I understand.”
Before he could stop himself, Pirse corrected her. “For my mother.” After that he had no choice but to tell them the rest. It didn’t take long. Savyea seemed less interested in the ramifications of Dea’s murder than in hearing a precise account of when and where he had received his various injuries.
He’d only had two engagements with Palle’s guards. One had come at dawn on the first day of the chase, which had resulted in an arrow graze on the left arm for him and a dead archer for Palle. The other had taken place a nineday and six later, in which he had gone sword and knife against four guards and come away with a gash on his forehead and his side sliced open from waist to breastbone.
Days—two? three? —had passed since then. He felt more rational in the presence of the Dreamers than he had since he’d first fled Bronle. He could remember his initial impulse to seek blood debt against Hion, as well as his later, bitter realization that he would have to survive his uncle’s pursuit first. Neither of the Dreamers, however, expressed an opinion regarding guilt, fault, or consequences. Instead, they discussed insects. Morb knew which sorts lived in the valleys and swamps Pirse had traveled. Of those, Savyea knew which carried disease. Pirse marveled that they could be so knowledgeable about such petty details, yet completely naive about the disaster that threatened the entire kingdom.
Savyea lit a tiny fire on the sandy floor, composed entirely of twigs and crumbled leaves removed from her bag. Scent rose from it, soaking into Pirse’s skin as effortlessly as it entered his lungs. The flames were blue. They produced neither heat nor smoke.
Savyea said, “It is time to rest, my dear. You’re going to have to be very patient. I wouldn’t bend the power to heal you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. I’m afraid it won’t save you any of the discomforts of convalescence, though. A body always needs time to recover lost strength. Trust me.”
She cocked her head slightly to one side to give him a serene, if slightly apologetic smile. Huge invisible hands engulfed his heart, folded around his lungs, blotted out sound, covered his eyes with darkness. He would have stiffened in terror if he’d retained the tiniest control over his body.
Like a stream over a precipice, his consciousness flowed away.
Chapter 7
Aage came forth from the realms of magic as he always did; mouth dry, skin clammy, head splitting. He opened his eyes a slit. Sunlight lingered on the peaks facing him from across the valley, and a glow behind the mountains suggested one or more of the moons rising. His brain was too tired to calculate the date. Morb would tell him how many days he’d been gone.
He turned his head from side to side, muscles responding sluggishly until his body remembered it was capable of movement. The path and the mouth to the cave swam into clearer focus. Where was Morb? The old wizard was usually eager to get back to bending the power.
Aage’s fatigue intensified as he got to his feet. He pocketed his rock and drank the water in his bowl in a few long swallows. Morb came out of the cave, his round face wearing so uncharacteristic an expression that for a few seconds Aage couldn’t identify it.
“Aage, are you strong enough to run an errand?” the wizard asked.
Worry, that was it. Morb, defender of the Children, slayer of nightmares, was worried. Aage’s knees went weak.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“A badly injured boy. Savyea healed the worst of it, but when he wakes someone must be here to care for him.”
“Who is it?”
Morb’s expression grew more melancholy. “My dragon slayer. The Dherrican boy.”
“Pirse?” Aage’s dismay increased. Any Shaper who fought the world’s physical monsters was important, of course, but in the larger scheme of things this particular prince had an even larger role than that to play! “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“If we care for him. I can’t stay, and neither can you. Savyea wants you to find someone who will take him away and keep him safe. That’s your errand.” The older wizard stepped past Aage and settled down onto the boulder. In the dimness Aage heard more than saw the clunk of Morb’s rock settling into its bowl of water.
“Why not send him home to Bronle?” The capital was only five days’ easy ride to the southeast. Aage felt the power beginning to bend around Morb’s seated figure and opened his mouth to repeat his question.
“He can’t go there. Savyea was quite insistent on that. Palle would kill him.” Morb’s expression grew placid as his voice faded. “Savyea says Doron in Juniper Ridge will guard the boy against his uncle.”
“Palle? He’s not dangerous.”
Morb did not answer. The power began to play like invisible lightning around his brown, weathered body, and Aage backed away. He’d get no further answers from Morb now.
In the cave, the prince was thoroughly unconscious. Savyea sat next to him, knitting. It was too hot to knit. The woman never could keep her climates straight. She smiled up at Aage.
“Hello, dear.” She pointed one needle at the sleeping man. “Morb told you about the boy?”
“He told me nothing.” Aage dropped tiredly beside the Greenmother and leaned against her. She was nearly as drained of strength as he was. “Why is Dea allowing her brother to threaten her son?”
“Morb really didn’t tell you anything. Dea’s dead.” She looked sadly at Pirse. “Somehow, Palle laid the blame on the boy. Something to do with his dragon sword.”
Aage twisted his head against Savyea’s soft shoulder to take a second, closer look at the prince. “Only Pirse can wield that sword. Could Palle be right?”
“Of course not. That would be Abstainer madness, and this child is no Abstainer. We’ll talk about it when you come back. Morb did tell you what we need?”
“A Keeper. Yes, but—”
“Later, dear. Go.”
Aage allowed himself an exasperated sigh, but obediently got to his feet. There was no discussing anything with Savyea except in her own good time. If she said Juniper Ridge was the place for the prince, then to Juniper Ridge he must go.
Unfortunately, Aage’s options were limited. He was too drained to flit limitlessly from one kingdom to another. He could transport himself to Raisal and confer with his king, or go to the nearest village in hopes of finding a suitable Keeper there. But he would have to make a choice. It usually took days to recover his strength after fighting in Morb’s place. Bending the power now, so soon after leaving the battle with the Others, would not be easy.
&n
bsp; A responsible Keeper. That was easy enough. As unpredictable as many of the Shaper families had become, the Keepers, for the most part, still took their vows seriously. He needed a Keeper responsible enough to be trusted, but atypical enough to be willing to leave home for a few days.
Aage stepped out of the cave. Keyn was a great lopsided ball hovering above the peaks to the east, her light washing out all but the brightest stars. He closed his eyes and sought within himself for the power he needed. A mental twist applied just so opened the path to nearest sizable village, Live Oak. The power wove dizzily around him for a long instant, then faded to leave him standing close beside the low-hanging branches of a huge old oak tree in front of the village inn. He left its shelter, dry leaves crackling under his feet, and mounted the stairs.
A short conversation revealed that Live Oak’s carter was not in town, and not likely to return in the near future. The few townspeople present in the inn’s common room encouraged Aage, however, with the news that a Rhenlan carter had passed through Live Oak that very day, and would surely be able to help him. Aage expressed proper gratitude for the information. Inwardly, he groaned. The gods always provided. Unfortunately, what they provided was seldom exactly what their Children expected.
Aage knew the Rhenlan carter. Stubborn, opinionated, and generally annoying, but more than responsible enough for the task. If he’d been too far away to be of any use—Eastern Sitrine, preferably—Aage could have ignored the suggestion to go see him. As it was, he had no choice. He fixed the location in his mind, then bent the power to transport himself to the soon-to-be-indignant carter.
* * *
Tob was sound asleep by the time Jordy got up to extinguish their campfire and make his own bed for the night. He got the boy’s blanket down from the wagon and spread it on the ground beside him. Tob rolled onto the blanket and covered himself with only a slight prodding from Jordy, and without ever really waking up. Jordy tucked the blanket in around the boy’s shoulders, then got to his feet and stretched tiredly.
They were camped in the lush river valley three days north and a day west of Juniper Ridge. The smell of thick vegetation was not unpleasant, but the increasing proliferation of insect life as they moved into a warmer, wetter climate was less to Jordy’s liking.
Only one log still flickered with flames in the banked fire. It cast insufficient light to reveal the warning wisp of vapor that preceded the arrival of a Dreamer, so that Jordy started and jumped to protect Tob before recognizing the form that materialized in the darkness next to the wagon.
“Aage!” he exclaimed. “Stones, man, don’t sneak up on a man like that!”
The wizard’s pale yellow hair shown dimly in Keyn’s just-past-full light. “My apologies,” he said with no sincerity whatsoever, and stepped closer to the fire. “We need your services, carter.”
Jordy moved away from his sleeping son, more wary than ever at the wizard’s unexpected pronouncement. “We?” he asked.
“We are all Children of the Rock,” Aage said impatiently. “If we do not guard the world, all of us together, we are doomed. I’m well aware of your opinion of most Shapers and Dreamers, but I think you have some respect for Prince Pirse?”
Jordy crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
“He’s been injured. You must transport him to a place of safety where he can recover. He needs to be protected from his uncle.”
“So I’ve heard.” Palle had been a threat to those closest to him for years. Jordy had no doubt there was more to the tale of the queen’s death than Palle’s guards were telling. However, he did not relish the thought of getting involved in the problems of the Dherrican ruling house. “You don’t expect me to smuggle him into Rhenlan?”
Aage looked annoyed. “You’d never cross the border.”
“Where then?”
“Juniper Ridge. There’s someone there called Doron who can keep him hidden for a few ninedays, or so Greenmother Savyea insists.”
“I know Doron.” Jordy was also familiar with the prince. The lad had long since proved his bravery and his commitment to a Shaper’s vow by his tireless campaign against the northern dragons. But the danger of the rescue Aage was suggesting—to the prince himself, not to mention to Jordy, Tob, Doron, and the entire population of Juniper Ridge—made Jordy’s skin crawl.
“Where is he now?”
“In the hills, a half-day north of Dundas.”
“North?” Jordy complained. “There are no cart tracks north of Dundas.”
“The horse can be ridden, can’t she?” Aage replied with an irritable jerk of his head in the direction of the hobbled Stockings. “You’ll manage something.”
“I see I’ll have to.”
The wizard accepted this as acquiescence on Jordy’s part. “I’ll tell them to expect you.”
With no further comment he vanished into thin air.
A stray breeze blew the resulting wisp of fruit-scented smoke into Jordy’s face. He coughed reflexively, then spat to clear the strong taste from the back of his mouth.
“Dundas,” he muttered unhappily under his breath. “I’ve agreed to go to Dundas. I’ve agreed to go north of Dundas. In midsummer, too. I must be mad. Why do I let them talk me into such nonsense?”
Still muttering, he fetched his bedroll from the wagon and spread it across the fire from Tob. He lay there for a long time, as the flames died to faint embers, then to ash.
It was nearly Keyn-set before he slept.
* * *
Eyes. Dark eyes accusing him. No, laughing at him. Laughing at her. Don’t laugh at her! She didn’t ask for this.
She should’ve been more careful.
Darkness around him. Shadows in the room, face in the shadows. Faces watching him. Unvoiced laughter ripped at him from behind the throne.
Pirse’s eyes opened to darkness. Humid heat and the smell of orchids had not been part of the dream. He remembered Morb’s cave, and separated it with difficulty from his memory of the high stone castle.
Palle had been in the throne room.
Pirse stared across the empty cave. This wasn’t a fever dream, even if he was feverish. It was a memory. Palle had been there when he arrived home and learned of Emlie’s death. Palle was witness to the fact that he had not harmed his mother.
Palle had not accused him out of ignorance. He had known the truth, and lied. Why?
Because Palle knew how Dea really died.
Gradually Pirse’s breathing steadied. Outside the cave it was night. Rain fell, gushing steadily along the rock face of the hill. Fatigue was going to drag him back to sleep, but he wasn’t ready. Not because of the nightmares. He had to think this through. Had to think about his uncle.
Father never liked Palle. Tolerated him for Mother’s sake. Servants still told stories about the arguments that went on between the three of them. Father wanted a brother-in-law who would fight dragons with him, care for the best interests of the kingdom, be of some use. Palle preferred to stay close to the throne, advising and helping his sister. Help Mother never needed. Father knew that, so did I, but Mother doubted herself and trusted her brother.
Pirse stared into the darkness. All those years, and no one guessed Palle wanted to be king. Mother was in his way. I’m in his way. He cares nothing for the Law. Gods, how did he do it? Dea did not die by my sword, yet the evidence deceived Cratt. How? A wizard or Greenmother would have seen through the trick, proved my innocence, but Mother allowed no Dreamers in Bronle.
How could he prove his innocence now? Go back to the castle, present himself to the law reader, and hope for understanding and compassion and a judgment that would serve the best interests of all Dherrica?
He could not return to Bronle as long as Palle’s guard was hunting him. Not with everyone in Dherrica convinced that he was a mother-killing Abstainer.
Pirse closed his eyes. Gods, what do I do?
* * *
The news from Edian and Bronle was worse than anything Sene had dared to im
agine. Emlie killed, Dea killed, Pirse a fugitive, and now an Abstainer attack on one of Rhenlan’s coastal villages. The market and docks of Raisal buzzed with outrage and pessimistic speculation. Merchants, shipmasters, artisans, and the senior Brownmothers of the town came to Sene’s house at once to consult with their king.
After sunset a breeze began to pick up. Sene emerged from the last of his meetings and went out to the north terrace. He strode past the still-empty dinner table to stand at the railing and gaze into the night. It had been a difficult day. Another in a series of difficult days of waiting to see how other rulers’ decisions were going to effect his people.
Sene gripped the terrace railing and leaned back, stretching the kinks out of his shoulders. A half-mile away, the sea sparkled and danced with the light of all three moons. Dreyn glittered low in the west, its crescent too small to be discernible. In another ten or twelve days, Sene judged, it would be rising and setting with the sun, invisible to watching eyes until it reappeared in the morning sky at the end of the summer. Sheyn was a third of the way up the sky from the vanished sun, twice its own diameter from the location it had occupied at this same time the night before. Larger Keyn, almost full, had just risen in the east. He studied the three orbs. So dependable, passing across the sky in their intricate dance, waxing and waning, now lost in the sunlight, now dominating the night sky. The gods set paths for us, just as they did for the moons. Why can we not see the patterns laid out so clearly before our eyes?
“You’re brooding, Dad.”
Sene turned at the sound of Jeyn’s accusing voice. “I wasn’t. I was admiring the sky.”
“You were scowling at it.”
“All right.” He linked his arm through hers and allowed her to lead him to the table. “But I was thinking, not brooding.”
“About what?”
He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “About all of us. Wondering why we always complicate our lives.”
Jeyn sensibly made no reply. They took their places at the table, and Jeyn picked up the bell and rang for the servants. She said, “It’s still hard to believe that they destroyed a whole village. I remember docking there with Chasa on our way to visit Dherrica the summer before last.”
Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock) Page 7