by Helen Lowe
Carick watched curiously as the horsemen sprang to do their captain’s bidding. The two who had helped clear the door must be Hamar and Raher respectively, since they both moved to organize the horses. Ser Bartrand addressed the older man who came to stand beside him as Erron, so the brown-haired youth with them must be Audin. Those who were not helping Raher and Hamar with the horses were sharing out food, or holding the torches so there was light for the others to work by. They seemed remarkably well organized, competent, and cheerful, and Carick’s spirits sank as he thought about his flight through the pass. These young men were going to despise him as soon as they heard the tale.
Ser Bartrand studied Raven, a slight, cynical curve lifting his hard mouth. “I take it that it is Ser Raven?”
“It is,” Raven agreed, not shrugging the title aside as he had with Carick. “I shall take knight’s service in Emer, if I can find it. Otherwise I’ll follow the tourney circuit over the summer and move on to Lathayra in the autumn.”
“The circuit, ay,” said Ser Bartrand. His fingers drummed against the leather of his tall, horseman’s boots, but then he nodded. “You start, then. Tell us your story.”
“It’s the maister here’s story,” Raven replied. “I came into it late. I’d seen his tracks on the road, of course, traveling alone through the pass with a mule, but I only got interested when I saw the first of the outlaws’ marks cut across his. Later, I found the destroyed camp and the mule’s carcass. They’d have had him, most likely, if they hadn’t stayed to eat first.” The look he flicked at Carick was dispassionate as he repeated this observation from earlier in the day. But he did not, Carick noted, mention the Seruthi charms or anything about smelling magic. “I guessed he’d have to try to get back on the road sooner or later—assuming he could stay alive. So I was expecting the warning my horses gave, early this morning, when we drew close to the wolfpack.”
Ser Bartrand glanced at the horses, which had been brought out into the yard. “Hill horses, out of Aralorn. They’d know all right. Hamar,” he called, “see those Hill horses get some grain, too, while you’re about things.”
“I have feed for them,” Raven said. His tone was neutral, but the horsemen around him stirred, studying him sidelong.
The captain shrugged. “Keeps the lads out of mischief. And we can spare the grain. What happened when you encountered the wolfpack?”
Raven described his charge along the road to meet Carick’s dash down the hillside. He shrugged. “And then it was just a matter of pressing on hard and hoping to survive the night—which we might not have done, if your company had not turned up.”
“We wouldn’t have been patrolling this way, except that the Castellan felt the Duke might want to receive his new cartographer in one piece.” Ser Bartrand’s heavy gaze swung to Carick, measuring him. “But what in Karn’s name were you thinking, traveling alone through the Long Pass?”
So Carick told him about the caravan that had turned aside and the guide who told him it was safe to proceed alone. He felt foolish, repeating that story, and the two days flight through the wild country adjoining the pass did not make for much better telling. He had survived long enough to meet Raven, but that was all.
Ser Bartrand shook his head. “You’ve had nothing short of Imuln’s own luck, it seems, although I’ll warrant you didn’t think so at the time.” He turned to the lean, grave man at his side. “What do you say, Erron?”
The older man’s voice was slow, thoughtful. “The outlaws cannot have known who Maister Carick was, else they would have tried for a ransom.”
Raven had been studying the ground, but now he looked up. “They were hunting for the kill, not for capture and ransom.”
Carick cleared his throat. “I don’t think anyone in the caravan knew who I was. And I have no great wealth or position in Ar. I was on a prince’s scholarship at the university.”
“Ah, well.” Ser Bartrand began to draw on his gauntlets. “We must escort you both to Normarch and see what the Lord Castellan says.”
“He will send word to the Duke, too, Maister Carick,” Audin put in, speaking for the first time, “so he knows why you are delayed.”
“Of course,” agreed Ser Bartrand, with a short laugh. “Lord Audin here will keep you right with the court, Maister Cartographer.”
Carick thought a slight color might have risen in Audin’s cheeks, but that could have been the torchlight, for the young man’s tone remained calm. “What are your orders, ser? Do we camp here overnight and drive the wolfpack back into the hills tomorrow?”
“I and the rest of the company, yes,” Ser Bartrand replied. “I want you to take eight riders and escort our guests back to Normarch tonight. Maister Carick will be safest there.” The hard, assessing stare found Carick again. “I won’t ask if the Hill horses are up to a night march, but what about you, Maister Cartographer? Can you stand it?”
Carick stiffened, meeting the stare. “Yes,” he said, “although it would be easier if I could use something other than a pack saddle for the ride.”
Audin laughed, and even Ser Bartrand smiled. “I think we could probably manage a spare horse. Erron?”
The quiet man nodded. “One of the dispatch mounts, I think, rather than a warhorse. Mallow, perhaps,” he said to Audin.
“Mallow it is,” agreed Audin. “And you, Erron? Do you ride with us or stay with Ser Bartrand?”
Erron and the captain exchanged a glance. “I need you here,” Ser Bartrand said. “Audin can manage the escort.” He sketched a nod between Carick and Raven. “Maister; Ser Raven. I will see you both in Normarch soon, Imuln willing.”
Audin looked from one to the other as the captain strode away. His smile was pleasant, although his gaze, too, was measuring. “We had best be on our way if we are to reach Normarch before midnight. Although we should have good light once the moon rises, since it’s near full. Come with me, Maister Carick, and we’ll get you that horse.”
“Just Carick will do,” said Carick, limping after him. He had stiffened badly while they talked.
“Carick, then,” said Audin, with another quick smile. “Oi, Hamar! Bring out Mallow for Carick here. And bring your own horse with her. You, too, Raher. We are to escort our friends here back to Normarch.”
“I knew this would happen!” exclaimed Raher. His scowl was intimidating. “Mollycoddling us again!”
“You know why,” Hamar said calmly, but Audin had not stayed to hear Raher’s outburst. He was rounding up the rest of his eight, and one of them, Carick saw with surprise, was a young woman. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, revealing a dark braid wrapped around her head. She seemed shy, Carick thought, watching her stare at the ground while Audin spoke, nodding in response to his words.
“Don’t mind Raher,” said Hamar, bringing two horses out from the line. “He’s always longing to hack or skewer something, and is equally convinced that Ser Bartrand is determined to hold him back.”
“Well, he is!” insisted Raher, but with a grin this time. “And don’t pretend that you’re not as keen to get in amongst the wolfpack as I am!”
“No one,” said Hamar with great firmness, “could possibly be as keen as you, Raher. Poor Maister Carro here has been convinced you’re mad, ever since you told him what a splendid time he must have had being hunted through the pass.”
Raher opened his mouth to protest, but Audin, returning, quelled him with a shake of his head. “Utterly mad,” he said, and passed the reins of one of Hamar’s horses, a golden-bay mare, to Carick. “This is Mallow, who will treat you well, I think. She is a great lady and wiser than the rest of us together.”
“Except perhaps Erron,” said Hamar.
“True enough,” agreed Audin, while the mare looked at Carick out of dark, calm eyes and blew softly against his hands. He could see, looking at the tall, spirited chargers his escorts were riding, that he had been given a safe mount, but not a sluggish one. He stroked Mallow’s velvet nose gently.
“I th
ink we’ll do,” he said, and Hamar gave him a cheerful thumbs-up.
They all seemed friendly enough, Carick decided, as Audin’s riders assembled around him. Even Raher’s ire seemed to be directed at Ser Bartrand, rather than him, and the only person who was silent while they waited for Raven was the young woman. She had led out a great, red roan warhorse and patted its neck while she listened to the cut and thrust of conversation between the other six, who obviously knew each other well. The youth swapping jokes with Hamar was called Arn, while Tibalt, who had a moth-shaped birthmark on his cheek, held a torch steady so that another young man, whose name seemed to be Guyon, could adjust his stirrup leathers.
Carick noticed that they all became more circumspect once Raven joined them. War was what they trained for, he supposed, looking around at their flame-touched faces and recalling what he knew of Emer. The hedge knight might be an unknown quantity in many other ways, but it was clear that however shabby his appearance, war was his stock in trade. And even Ser Bartrand, Carick suspected, had been impressed that Raven snatched him from the wolfpack single-handed.
The eighth rider, and the last to join their company, was the young man called Girvase, who met them at the road and exchanged a resigned glance with Raher. “Curse Ser Bartrand!” he said. The others all laughed.
“Never fear,” said Audin, “our time will come.”
“True,” agreed Raher promptly. “Even Ser Bartrand can’t live forever!”
Everyone laughed again, but Carick saw more than a few make Imulun’s sign against ill luck—or Imuln, as they called the Great Goddess here. He shivered, and Audin at least seemed to catch his mood for he said sharply: “Never wish anyone dead, even in jest! Now let’s move, for it’s a long ride to Normarch. We’ll use the torches until moonrise and then douse them. Raher and Girvase, I want you riding point on either side—and stay alert. Hamar, you and Jarna are rear guard. The rest of you behind me.”
The escort wheeled their horses as directed, and Mallow fell into a smooth stride behind Audin’s destrier. Carick glanced at Raven once, but the hedge knight’s face was expressionless beneath his battered helm. No doubt I’ll learn to understand this new world in time, he thought. I’ll have to, if I want to live here and see other lands beyond the River. But for now, I just have to hope that I can stay awake and in the saddle—and still be able to walk in the morning.
It had, he reflected, been a very long three days, but he would not complain if his body punished him for the next three—or even three weeks. He was glad simply to be alive and amongst those who seemed disposed to keep him that way. Carick gave thanks to Imulun for that, and to Seruth, the guardian of journeys, as the horses’ hooves drummed around and beneath him, bearing him on into the darkness that was Emer.
Chapter 13
Normarch
Carick woke to pain cramping his right leg. He cried out, trying to massage the spasm away, and for a moment was completely disorientated. Then the cramp eased as he remembered the long night ride to the castle called Normarch, and reeling with exhaustion when they finally clattered into a cobbled yard. He recalled the squire called Hamar bracing him as he half fell off his horse and the jumbled impression of torches, voices, and confusion that followed—but that was all. “I’m still alive,” he whispered, feeling the wonder of it again after his flight through the pass.
“Yes.” A grave voice spoke from beside the bed. “But your lip is bleeding again. You will have to remember not to bite it for the next few days.” The owner of the voice moved so he could see her more easily, holding back a heavy, russet curtain that fell from a wooden rail overhead. He blinked, trying to focus, and this time saw a young woman with a cloud of dark hair framing a delicate face. “Drink this,” she said, lifting a cup to his lips. “It will help you recover.”
The drink was as cool as her voice, but with an edge of bitterness, and Carick fell asleep again as soon as he had drunk it down. When he woke next, the sun was warm on his face. The russet curtains had been hooked back and the casement shutters opened, letting in the smell of bread baking and a murmur of voices from outside. Carick felt deeply relaxed and it was several moments before he realized that his whole body was still a dull ache of bruises, chafed skin, and overworked muscles. But he remembered the cramp and the girl with the dark hair, and suspected that he might feel far worse if she had not given him the drink with the bitter edge to it.
The room, he supposed, turning his head, must be somewhere in Normarch castle and appeared to be accommodation reserved for guests—although it was plain by River standards. The bed was comfortable, but the only other furnishings were a painted cabinet, a couple of sheepskins on the floor, and a small, metal-framed mirror on the whitewashed wall. Although perhaps, Carick reflected, even such simple furnishings counted as luxury on Emer’s Northern March.
He wondered where Raven was and how he was housed, but suspected that the hedge knight would make himself comfortable anywhere. He turned his head toward the sound of a horse’s hooves, clopping over cobbles, and heard a smith’s hammer ring out. The baking bread smelled as warm as the sunshine, and his stomach gave a sharp, imperative rumble, punctuating a tap on the door.
“Aha, so you are awake at last!” said a voice so smooth and rich it made Carick think of cream. The door opened wider, admitting one of the largest women he had ever seen. She must have been at least six feet tall, with a mass of curling, dark brown hair piled up haphazardly and kept in place by combs. The body between shoulder and ankle billowed generously and was arrayed in layers of blouse, kirtle, and a lavishly embroidered cote that made her seem larger still. There were some, Carick knew, who would have called her blowsy, but he thought she was beautiful, with skin as creamy as her voice and the largest, merriest, velvet-brown eyes he had ever seen. It was only when she came to stand by the bed and smiled down at him that he saw the deeply etched crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, and threads of silver in her dark hair. “Well, well,” the woman said, smiling still, “we were starting to think your sleep was going to last forty years, like the young man in the fable.”
Carick sat up, wincing as every muscle in his body protested.
“Yes, you’ll feel it for some time,” the woman said, sitting on the end of the bed and regarding him with sympathy. “Your friend, the Raven, told us about your run and that you were out of the habit of riding.”
“Ser Raven,” Carick said. “He saved my life yesterday.”
The woman’s smile deepened. “So I hear. Although from what he told us, you must have done at least some of the saving yourself. But it was not yesterday, young man. This is the second morning since your arrival here.”
“Second?” Carick echoed, startled. “How could I possibly have slept so long?”
She shook her head. “Dear lad, you were mentally and physically exhausted. To have slept like that is not at all surprising.”
“You must not call him ‘lad,’ Manan.” A new voice spoke lightly from the door. “You heard what Audin said. This is Maister Carick of Ar, the Duke’s new cartographer.”
“I know who he is, Damosel Impertinence,” Manan replied. “Now bring in that breakfast tray before the poor lad starves to death.”
The young woman with the dark hair came carefully into the room. Despite balancing a tray of dishes that looked too heavy for her delicate build, her step was as light as her voice.
“Don’t worry about Malisande,” said Manan, correctly reading his expression. “She’s stronger than she looks.” The dark-haired girl smiled and set the tray down on the bedside cabinet, before straightening again and meeting Carick’s gaze.
“Was it you I saw when I first woke?” he asked. He studied her curiously, because her speech and direct gaze did not fit with what he knew of servants. “You gave me something to drink.”
“I did,” Malisande replied. “I am helping Manan this week and gave you the draught under her instructions.”
Carick looked at Manan, guessing that sh
e must be some sort of healer. “Best eat your breakfast,” the big woman said with her warm smile. “Then you may get out of bed, if you wish.” She surged to her feet, and Carick realized that she wore no shoes, a fact he found vaguely astonishing. “They’ll want to see you in the castle as soon as you’re able to walk up the hill.”
Carick blinked. “Isn’t this Normarch, then?”
“Yes and no. You’re in the inn, which lies at the foot of the castle’s hill, on the path to the village. They left you with me since I am Normarch’s healer as well as the inn-wife.” Manan nodded a farewell, and Malisande left as well, smiling back at him as she closed the door.
After the meal was done, Carick looked around for his tunic, flushing as he realized that someone must have removed his outer clothes before putting him into the bed. Or maybe he had undressed himself but forgotten doing so? He almost bit his lip, before remembering and shrugging instead: whatever had happened was done now and must be accepted. And the clothes were there, sitting in a clean, neatly folded pile on top of his rucksack, which was propped against one wall.
He dressed himself slowly, wincing when his clothes touched chafed skin, before making his way to the window. The inn appeared to be a large one, with a buttery and brewery on one side of a cobbled yard. A stable was built along the other, opening onto a smithy, which explained the ringing of hammer on anvil. Looking the other way, Carick could see the boughs of an orchard above the buttery roof, and wooded hills rising, blue in the distance. He had to lean right out the window to catch a glimpse of the castle, which was built of the same gray stone as the inn. Its walls were considerably lower than those of either Ar or Terebanth, and the central stronghold was little more than a single donjon with a series of roofs stretching away on either side. Halls, Carick supposed, cudgeling his memory for details of Emerian castle architecture, and there would be armories and more stables as well. Kitchens, too, he thought, as fresh baking aromas drifted up to the window. He felt hungry again already.