“Remember that,” Shamarra said quietly. “It may yet be of use to you.”
She stood back, and Tirell started away. I came out of a stupor and scrambled onto my horse. “Perhaps we shall meet again?” I asked Shamarra—begging, rather.
She laughed, a rippling sound. “I think we will,” she answered. “Look for me by watery ways.” I urged the white mare after Tirell, and when I had caught up to him I looked back. The black beast was already pacing at my heels. The lady stood by her lake, watching us go. I waved, and she lifted a hand in answer, but already I knew which of us it was that held her gaze, and my heart was sore.
Chapter Five
Tirell was the one who found courage to embrace the beast. Though at the time I did not think of it as courage, but as folly, terrifying folly, maybe madness. I had not yet learned that valiant madness braves the dark and comes through it—that is how Abas failed; he was afraid. And I was afraid of the beast and therefore despised it as somehow misshapen, unclean, in spite of the lady’s words and the fair image in the water. The real enemy was myself. I was a far worse fool than Tirell, those first few days, and I was of no help to him.
He rode out of Acheron with a hard, straight back, and now and then he laughed a laugh I did not like. Sunk in my own gloom, I felt little inclined to speak to him. The black beast paced behind me, once again content to bring up the rear—to my dismay. Soon I had other cause for dismay. Tirell rode far too fast for safety on the treacherous slopes, and more than once I closed my eyes.
We spent the night on a ledge scarcely wide enough for the horses, and we slept little. Tirell stirred and muttered on his narrow space of stone. Once or twice I asked what ailed him. He gave no reply, so I asked no more. He rode through the next day in a tense, rigid daze, almost as if he were in pain. I learned much later that Abas had been calling him, tormenting him with the inner voice. I did not know that at the time, and I didn’t understand—I still don’t understand. I am no visionary, and I cannot imagine what those days were like for him.
By nightfall we found easier footing, praise be, and we camped beneath knobby, gray-fringed trees. I distrusted those trees from our earlier meeting, and I resolved to sleep lightly. Still, I was so exhausted and heartsore that I expect I would have been lost in deepest slumber had it not been for the racket Tirell put up. All night long he thrashed and moaned and whispered and whimpered in his sleep. Any other time I would have gone to him, awakened him, soothed him and talked to him until it passed, whatever mood or dark dream it was. But, whether due to the moss or to my own vexation and weariness, I could not or would not move. I lay dozing and listening to him. “Get away,” he would whimper. “Let me alone.” Finally, just at first light, he seemed to wrench himself out of it and staggered up. I lay drowsily watching him through a veil of eyelash. He looked wild and all asweat, like a frightened colt. Come here, my brother, I thought in my half sleep. I dreamed that I embraced him. Come here, let me comfort you. But he did not so much as glance my way.
The beast lay not far away, at ease in the gray moss. It lifted its head and looked at Tirell out of cloudy eyes, but it did not move or seem to threaten him; the look was flat. Tirell stood returning that gaze, his head up and his lips drawn back in fear or disgust. I thought surely he would move away. Instead, swaying, step by slow step, he walked toward that fell black thing, as if against his will, as if drawn. I willed myself to jump up and save him from that unseen tug, but still I did not move! Then I saw there was no immediate danger. As he approached it, the black beast inclined its dagger horn, sheathed it in earth, a gesture of peace. All the time it kept fixed on him its white-rimmed gaze. Tirell reached it, sank down beside it, and laid his head wearily against its arched and muscular neck.
“Great Eala!” I blurted out loud, startled fully awake at last.
Tirell paid no attention to me; perhaps he had not heard me. His grimace was gone, and I think he sighed. He sat beside the beast through daybreak into sunrise, stroking its neck and sleek black body, even patting its bony head, scratching around its ears and daggerlike horn. That weapon was raised now, but Tirell seemed to have forgotten fear of it. He stroked the folded wings…
His head snapped up. “Frain!” he called to me in peremptory command. “Come here!”
I got up and went at once, automatically, like a well-trained servant. But as I neared the beast reluctance slowed me. Tirell beckoned impatiently. He patted the beast again, then took the left wing in both hands and spread it like the wing of a captive bird. His voice came oddly gentle out of his hard white face. “The creature is crippled,” he said. “Look.”
At the curve of the wing was a great knot where the bone had snapped and crookedly healed. It was easy to see, once I had dared to look, that the wing was useless, except perhaps for frightening peasants and fledgling princes.
“He can never fly on that,” said Tirell in tones of pity.
I stared at the beast, jealous that my brother had turned to the animal for comfort when he would not turn to me, angry at myself for feeling that way. “Come closer,” Tirell urged. “Touch it.” But I still loathed the beast.
“No, thank you,” I retorted, even more sharply than I had expected. “You pat the outlandish thing. Stay there all day if you like.”
Tirell’s face went stony, and he dropped the wing. “I don’t have all day. Come on.” He rose and went to his horse.
“Why, where do you expect to go?” I cried, still angry. “Will Grandfather tumble Melior for you as he did the Wall?”
He returned no answer, only glared and started away. He set a hard pace that morning, and I stubbornly drove my white to stay close to his heels. Down and down we traveled, down to the lowest slopes of Acheron. By midday we could glimpse the breached Wall through the thinning stand of trees. And there, still within the sheltering wood, we had to halt. An army confronted us!
Facing the forest with the stones of the ruin at their backs stood archers and men-at-arms and the Boda themselves in their scarlet tunics, all ranked three deep and stiffly alert. Beyond them, within their line, I could see tents and chariots and horses and strutting warriors, all the signs of a good-sized encampment. Tirell and I left our horses, crept to the last cover, and gaped.
“But our kingly father must be afraid!” I exclaimed. “Is it you he dreads? Or is it these whispering trees?”
Tirell smiled grimly and gave no reply, staring with narrowed, glittering eyes toward Melior. I continued to survey the soldiers. Some men moved, and beyond them I saw something that bent me like an unexpected buffet.
“Look,” I said. “Grandfather’s hut. It’s all destroyed.”
The place was shattered like the Wall. Tirell gave no sign of having heard me. But the beast bounded past us and leaped into the open space beyond the sheltering forest, screaming defiance and hatred at Abas’s army. Its voice was hoarse and gibbering and wailing all at once, like that of a man whose tongue is taken away; it was an ugly, hurtful sound. I was frozen by that cry, and for their part the warriors only stood and shuddered. They stared stupidly at widespread beating wings, rearing underbelly, and hooves and daggerlike horn. I think every man of them would have run if it had not been for the restraint of their own ranks pressed around them. Moments passed before they remembered their weapons. One by one they reached for their bows, and arrows started to fly.
I did not move, for Tirell and I were well out of bowshot. But Tirell gasped and ran to his horse. “Away, quickly!” he shouted at me. “The beast will follow. Come, before he is killed!”
“Why, we would be well rid of it!” I exclaimed in ex asperation. But Tirell had already shot away to the south. I galloped after him, muttering, sure that our noise would bring the whole army onto our heels. Tirell slowed down once we cleared the Wall. We cantered along between the forest of Acheron and the westernmost curve of the river Chardri, which edged ever nearer to us. We glanced behind us constantly, but neither the beast nor the Boda did we see.
&nb
sp; By dusk we were riding along the ridge of a high river-bank. We had never thought of crossing the Chardri; no one would have thought of it, not in Vale. Ages past, folk said, when the land was young, Chardri the bard sang to Adalis where she sat on her high throne at Ogygia. She listened to him often, for he sang superlatively well. But soon her favor made him overbold; he spoke to her of love, and she granted him his pleasure as a punishment. Lying on her, he became the river that runs and sings forever from her headlands to her womb. All the folk in Vale feared him for his godlike anger. Swans dared to light on his back, but no man would willingly touch him. Still, I felt a stirring of some new feeling, an odd sense that he would not hurt me, that I could approach him as an equal.… I shook my head at my own temerity. No need to put it to the test. The horses could not have made the bank.
The forest was edging at us from the other side, and presently our way was blocked by our familiar acquaintances, the stooping, twisted trees. We rode into them. But the insidious things seemed to join hands against us. Beneath the shadow of that particular portion of wood was such a tangle as I had never seen. Roots bulged up and branches groped down and fallen boughs crisscrossed the spaces between. Rocks lumped out of the gloomy loam without pattern, like pebbles scattered by a gigantic child. Here and there lay huge fallen trees, each one a barrier. Between stood patches of brambles thicker than hedges. We had gone scarcely a furlong into this muddle when Tirell was forced to stop, cursing under his breath.
“What now?” I asked. “We are trapped here for the Boda to find. The river confines us on the eastern side, the mountains and this accursed forest—”
“It is nearly dark anyway,” grumbled Tirell, interrupting. “We may as well stay here.”
“But what if the Boda come?” I persisted. “They must have heard us crashing off, and they will be after us. We had better try to find a way around.”
“There is no way around,” said Tirell flatly. “Go get us some water.”
“But where?” He could not be expecting me to find a well in the middle of Acheron forest.
“The river, of course! Go on.” He turned away, dismissing me, as I stared. Had he heard me thinking? All right, I was not really afraid, but I was insulted. Only slaves were sent for river water. I fought my way out of the tangle, seething. There was no talking to him anymore.… I slid down the steep bank to the river, careless of my clothing. The more dirt and tatters, the better. They would speak, and I would be silent. I filled a skin bag with water and clawed my way back up, shredding grass and digging my fingers into the dirt. My anger forced me to make the climb; I would not be reduced to calling for help. When I reached the top, I saw a spark of flame in the thicket. Tirell had started a fire. My temper snapped at that.
“Are you insane?” I shouted. “Must you light the Boda a way to find us?”
“How can the beast find us in this tangle without a light?” Tirell retorted. “And yes, I am insane!”
I said no more. The stark finality of that last statement chilled me. I sat by the fire, but I felt lonely and cold despite the flames. So he thought more of the accursed beast than of me! I ate the last of our food, not even offering to share, and then I got up and stalked away from the fire, making a show of standing guard. But no pursuers came. Instead, toward morning, the beast came, a darker shadow in the darkness of the forest until it stumbled into the firelight. It was carrying half a dozen broken, feathered shafts, and blood lay in sticky puddles on its black flanks.
“Fetch more water!” Tirell called to me. “Hurry!”
I went as quickly as I could. All my anger had vanished at the panic in his voice, though I could not understand his concern. Still, to help a hurt thing was worthy of him.… I scrambled up the bank, gritting my teeth. When I reached the camp Tirell was pulling out the arrows, one by one, and tightly binding the wounds with strips cut from his royal cloak. The beast stood numbly accepting his care, its head nodding to its knees. In a moment it bent its knees and sank to the ground with a groan. It lay stretched there with closed eyes, unheeding, as Tirell pulled the last arrow from its shoulder and pressed on the place with both hands.
The other wounds, in neck and legs and belly, lay quiet beneath their wrappings, but this one spurted blood. Tirell stemmed it with wads of cloth, but the blood welled up beneath his hands and trickled through his fingers.
“Eala, he’ll die!” muttered Tirell frantically.
I stood awkwardly by. It was usual for Tirell to be extravagant over trifles, but I sensed this was no trifle to him. I wanted to help him, but I did not know what to do or what to say to him.
“Come here!” he shouted.
I jumped. “Me?”
“Who else?” he snapped. “Put your hands here. Here, here, hurry! If I have no power of healing, perhaps you do.”
I pressed on the wound as I was bid, puzzling. “Why should I?” I had forgotten my loathing of the beast.
“Come on, just try!” Tirell gestured impatiently. “Say a charm, such as smiths and tinkers say!”
“I don’t know any!”
Tirell grabbed at his head as if it might fly off. “Just say something!” he cried, but then he looked and came to attention.
“Never mind,” he said quietly. “The bleeding has stopped.”
I eased the cloth away. It was true; the blood no longer flowed. Probably it had been just ready to stop when I came. The wound lay like an angry red mouth, a tongue of clotted red between its lips.
“Touch the other wounds,” said Tirell.
“What in the world for?”
“Just do it, would you?” he said tiredly. He started binding the shoulder wound. He had to pass the strips of cloth under the neck. The beast scarcely moved for his gentle prodding.
I touched each of the wounds, reluctantly, with my fingertips. Then I got the water and tried to pour some into the beast’s mouth. It did not gulp or stir. “What makes you think I am a healer?” I asked Tirell bitterly.
“You would do better with metal,” a voice said behind us. We both leaped around, grabbing for our swords. But it was no enemy that faced us. “Grandfather!” I cried, and embraced him.
Daymon Cein stood by the fire, leaning on his staff to peer at us. I wondered how far he had walked to come to us. Perhaps the whole distance from the Wall. “So,” he said, “you are going to Vaire.”
“Are we?” I asked.
“To be sure,” growled Tirell. “What else lies west and south?”
“But why?” I stared at him.
“For help, what else?” He glared up at me from his place by the prone beast. “Do you think I can take Melior single-handed? But no matter.” He turned back to the wounded monster, stroking its angular head. “I’ll not budge without this beast.”
“There’s no budging anyway, in this beastly forest,” I complained.
“And the Boda will be on you in an hour or so, with the dawn,” said Grandfather serenely. “I’m glad you’re keeping a good watch out. I’ll sit by your fire. Thank you for the offer.” He let himself creakily down and rubbed his old hands over the small blaze.
“Grandfather, how are you?” I questioned anxiously. I knew by then that Abas was angry at him. “What will you do, now that they have driven you from your home? Is Mother all right?”
“Leaping panthers, lad, we are fine!” he said emphatically. “Have a care for yourself! Are you going to sit here and wait for the Boda?”
I shrugged helplessly. Tirell moved grudgingly to join us. “With deference and apologies to your old bones,” he told Grandfather sourly, “I dare say it would be well to put out the fire.”
“A bit late for that, don’t you think?” Grandfather kept his place, looking cross.
“We could hack our way through this mess of a forest on foot, leaving the horses,” Tirell muttered, as much to himself as to us. “But I can’t leave the beast.”
“I told you, Frain would do better with metal,” Daymon snapped. “Iron is best. Grasp a knife
blade or something, lad, and have a go at it again.”
I gaped at the old man in bewilderment. His gray eyes met mine steadily, and with unreasoning trust I became willing to try. I drew my iron dagger, the one Shamarra had given me, and held the blade lightly between my curled fingers, sheathing it with my own flesh, so that it could hurt no one except myself. I went and knelt beside the beast, the hurt and crippled thing.… Something warm moved in me, nudging me, so that I suddenly felt quite certain what to do. I touched each wound, then ran my curled hand over the beast from nose to tail and from flank to flank, feeling the warm force join us like brothers. I stood back and raised the dagger. Power shot through me and out, a white-hot, searing, tearing power that made me cry aloud and left me staggering. I lowered my arm.
The beast got to its feet. It stood shakily at first, with drooping horn, but then it raised its head and stood firm. In the faint light of fire and early dawn it arched its neck, lifted its wings, stamped and pawed the earth amidst the tangled forest.
“Tirell!” I exclaimed, still shaking. “Your shield!”
“What!” He crouched and looked about him for an enemy.
“Your shield! Look at your shield, then look before you! This is the place on your shield! It is the same entanglement!”
“Then he has been here before,” Tirell murmured.
He stepped up to the beast and cradled its head in his arms, holding it with his hands below its eyes, so that its dark, pointed horn passed scarcely an inch from his head. I could hardly bear to look. They gazed at each other for a minute or more, and I could feel an understanding grow between them; risk was part of it. Finally Tirell let go his grasp and turned back to us.
“The beast will lead us,” he said.
The White Hart Page 78