Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

It was a couple of hours before business settled down enough to where she could take a breather. Joe spent the time chatting with some of the other horse people, mostly young women. The jukebox blared, and a few brave and tipsy souls slid out onto the tiny patch of clear floor to dance to Bruce.

  When Angie was finally standing at the bar, totaling up the happy hour receipts, he slid across to join her. She looked up, surprised.

  “Hi, Joe. What’s up?”

  “Hey. Mike Garson said you might have Mark’s address,” he lied. Her mouth made an O of surprise.

  “Mike said that?”

  Joe watched her narrowly.

  “Yeah. I think he just didn’t know himself and hoped you might.”

  “Well, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “Angie,” Joe said. “This is gonna sound dumb, but did Mark ride?”

  Her face sparkled suddenly. “Mark hated horses,” she confided, looking around her as if confessing to a crime. “You should have heard him talking about the horse girls around here.” She made a face. “Why not? They’re so stuck up, you know?”

  Joe nodded, but he wondered how Mark and Lynn had been going out. Horses were her life. Angie gave him the answer in her next breath.

  “You should have seen him talk about that girl where you work, the one who took off with that horse.” She giggled, shaking her head as she finished paying out. “He said if she’d just shut up about the horses, she’d be fine.”

  A flush of heat crawled up his skin. As she picked up her tray and got ready to go back to work, he caught her elbow. “Angie, do you know where Mark lived while he was here?”

  “He had a place in town,” she said promptly. “Those little apartments off Main Street. I know because I asked him once to tell me if there was ever a vacancy.”

  With that she swooped up her tray and headed back to work. He slipped out of the bar into the soft evening and crunched across the crowded parking lot to his car.

  Shit, he thought, what am I doing? Mark didn’t have anything to do with Lynn and Kate; he didn’t ride. He hated horses. Hell, he didn’t even like Lynn. It was crazy to think the disappearances were connected. Except . . .

  The expression on Garson’s face came back to him. Why didn’t Mark tell his boss that he was leaving?

  Joe parked at the grocery store lot and walked over to the big old house that was cut up into apartments. Sure enough, there was a vacancy sign out front.

  No one was around as he walked over to the side door of the house. Off to one side was the row of tenant mailboxes. As he turned away, he saw a metal trash can brimming with circulars and other discarded mail. Joe began picking through it. Most was addressed to Occupant.

  One entire stratum, three-quarters of the way down, was addressed to Mark Ballard. Joe hauled it all up, scattering junk mail, and began flipping through it. Circulars, bills, a hunting catalog, nothing more. Joe put everything back, then drew out the hunting catalog. Without knowing what he was looking for, he flipped through it. Nothing but ads for hunting and fishing gear. Waders, camouflage, hunting rifles, sights, the usual. Back home, he used to pore over these as a kid; as an adult, he would look through them with restless boredom.

  Joe turned the catalog over to look at the address label.

  Mark Ballard, it read in fuzzy computer print. The rest of the address was crossed out, and in neat block handwriting was printed the address of Mark’s apartment. Joe squinted, then realized it was hopeless. Adding mail theft to his sins, he gathered up the bundle of mail, circulars and all, and headed quickly back to his car.

  He turned on the dome light to look at his booty. Under the handwriting he could see the original address printed there: Mark Ballard, 127 Daw Road, North Salem, New York.

  For a man who hated horses, what the hell had Mark Ballard been doing, living in the middle of the riding trails?

  Eight

  Gordath Wood held fast to its secrets, and as the fire encroached on Red Gold Bridge, Crae and his men had to turn back, soot-covered and discouraged, without the guardian. With the fire and the near-constant earth shaking, the mood of the stronghold had shifted more toward fear, even as Tharp’s army grew.

  All the signatory lords brought their men. Camrin, of course, and Salt, and now Trieve. More than seven thousand men camped outside the stronghold, a sea of them, bound between the river and the mountain. Seven thousand men and a few hundred weapons that were expected to make Tharp’s point for him.

  At summer’s beginning Tharp’s emissary delivered his message to the Council sitting in convocation at Kenery. He had ridden out on a chestnut warhorse, in full battle armor, carrying a banner with the colors of Red Gold Bridge. The emissary had been flanked by two riders, more plainly dressed, carrying Bahard’s weapons. Crae wished he could have been there when they fired the weapons into the air at the beginning and at the end of the emissary’s speech.

  No more do I yield to the Council, nor am I bound by Council laws. Accept this or not, submit or not, fight or not, I care not. But be warned. For I will yield no more.

  Forest god, damn the man for his pride. He would break up the Council out of nothing more than pique. Had the weapons not come his way, Tharp might have let his wounded pride over his lost wife simply fester, the way most men would. But then Bahard had come, and that was that. Tharp had set his course on war.

  Crae and his men came in from their fruitless search, covered in ash, dirt, and sweat, and dismounted in the courtyard, their horses blowing and snorting in the smoky air.

  “All right,” he told his men, tossing one the reins of his horse. “Get rest and food. We ride out again at Lord Tharp’s wish.”

  “He’s running you ragged, then,” came a cheerful voice. Crae looked around and brightened.

  “Stavin! Have you just arrived?”

  Lord Stavin of Trieve came over, still in his riding dress, the gold of his House a muted pattern on his shirt. The two men gripped hands. “Not half a day earlier. I never thought he’d really go ahead and do it.”

  Crae winced, wishing his friend would lower his voice. “How many of your men have you brought?”

  “Trieve is depleted. Jessamy was not pleased, but in the end, she told me to take all the armsmen. All in or nothing, I always say.”

  Tharp will not thank you for the sacrifice. Crae tried to keep the worry from his face. Leaving Trieve vulnerable in a time of war . . . What had Stavin been thinking?

  Instead he said, “Well, he has some tricks up his sleeve.”

  “I heard,” Stavin said. “The weapons. Have you seen them?”

  “I have. They are impressive, though few.”

  “Perhaps a lowly bond lord will get a chance to try one.” That’s all any of the men had been talking about. Those who had seen Bahard’s demonstration were the most eager— including Crae, even after Bahard had aimed directly at the insignia over Crae’s heart. Some days Crae had visions of himself returning the favor.

  Stavin turned to walk into the stronghold with him. “So tell me everything,” he said. “Tharp, this Bahard, even this woman I’ve been hearing about.”

  Crae shook his head. “I was hoping for a meal and an ale, myself.”

  “You can eat and talk, right?”

  A week after they lost the guardian and found the stranger, Crae took Stavin hiking. At the foot of the stronghold, the mountain stream that coursed beneath the bridge plunged down a short cataract as it crashed on its way to the Aeritan River. The little waterfall set up a constant spray. Crae’s hair and uniform were damp from scrambling around the rocks at the foot of the great cliff. He left his boots and socks back on dry land, and his feet slipped and slid over the rocky boulders. The water was sharp as ice, but he gritted his teeth and bore it.

  Behind him, he heard a splash as Stavin caught his balance but not before planting a foot in the stream. “Crae,” he growled.

  “Come on,” Crae shouted over the water. “It’s not far.” He scrabbled for purchase over the rocks until f
inally he made it to the far side, where the mountain rose straight up in front of him.

  Cursing and splashing, Stavin made it to the narrow strip of land right behind him. He shook his head like a dog, sending droplets flying, and wiped spray from his face. Crae squinted through the water, peering at the wall of rock. He pointed. “There.”

  A fine line, like the etching of a pen, traced its jagged way up the rock until it was lost in the heights above them. Stavin looked at it for a long moment, then turned to Crae. “Crae, I love you like a brother, but it’s a crack. The mountain is full of them.”

  “This wasn’t here two days ago. You remember that last earth shaking?” Stavin’s expression made it clear that he had and it had not been a pleasant memory. “This crack showed up after that day.” Stavin raised a brow, and Crae shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I come here a lot.” It was peaceful for one, but he had added a regular foot patrol around the outskirts of the stronghold out of a sense of the mountain’s vulnerability.

  “You need to stop brooding,” Stavin said. “All right. Where does it pick up?”

  “If it’s the same one, all the way down at the shore. It comes out by the docks.”

  “Have you told Lord Tharp?”

  “I’m telling you. Now.”

  Stavin shook his head before he even finished. “I have no influence with him, Crae. You know that. I’m just a bond lord fulfilling the terms of a convenient alliance.”

  Crae raised an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”

  Stavin snorted. “His message was, ‘Come if you want.’ The implication being that he didn’t care much one way or the other, thank you very much.” He hesitated. “He isolated himself long before this. When Sarita—” He broke off, and Crae hid his impatience. Just say it. She vanished under my protection.

  He looked out into the Wood. They were almost inside the forest, and the trees pressed ominously around the foot of the mountain. The fire that swept through the Wood had been kept back by the little river, and the trees were unharmed, though the air reeked of smoke. The stream was loud here, a constant rush, and their backs were to solid stone. It was the most private place in the stronghold.

  “I think he knows how dangerous the gordath has become,” Crae said. “He just refuses to acknowledge it. He wants these weapons so badly, he wants the gordath to stay open, he won’t see what it’s doing. And it’s getting worse. The earth shakings are happening almost every day now, and this.” He gestured at the crack.

  “It’s just a crack, Crae.”

  “Listen to me. Red Gold Bridge was built to withstand the gordath, and now the walls are cracking. How many more earth shakings will it take to pull these walls down?”

  “Impossible. You always look for trouble.”

  “And you deny what is before your eyes.”

  “Crae, the gordath is closed.” Stavin met his gaze with a forthright one of his own, his face wet with spray. “The fire has prevented Bahard from even going to the weapons depot, and the guardians have gone to earth. How is it opening?”

  Crae threw up his hands and blew an exasperated breath. “I don’t know. Something must be going through. And each time it opens the gordath . . . Do you feel it? The mountain shaking?”

  Stavin nodded. Crae went on.

  “You know the woman? The day we found her, she came crashing down the ridge from the old morrim as if the forest had spat her out. She told me later that she heard something from the Wood. The morrim was whispering at her, she said.” Crae paused. “Now, she could be mad.”

  Stavin shrugged.

  “But I don’t think so. I think the gordath soon will be out of anyone’s control, whether we find a guardian to put a hand to it or not.” He reached out and put his own hand on the cool mountain rock. “I think it’s out of control now.”

  Stavin was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “This is why I prefer the forests of the east. In Trieve, rocks don’t whisper, and the earth doesn’t shake.”

  Crae tried to sound lighthearted. “Never a dull moment, that’s us.”

  Stavin just grunted. He looked back at the fast-rushing stream with distaste. “Let’s go back. If I am going to confront Lord Tharp, let me get back in time to dry my clothes.”

  They splashed back over to where they left their boots and socks and sword belts. Putting his on, Stavin said, “So what of this wandering woman of yours?”

  Crae wiped wet sand off his feet and drew on his socks. “Safe for now.”

  With Tharp and Bahard preparing for battle, they were too busy to consider the interfering stranger. He thought that Bahard might not even know she existed, and as far as Tharp was concerned, she was out of the way in the tower room. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Good,” said Stavin. “But that’s not what I meant. I know you, Crae. You are taken with her; I can tell.”

  Crae tried to keep any expression off his face. “Oh?” he said as noncommittally as possible.

  “Yes, oh.”

  She had been lost, dirty, frightened, and hungry, and trying to keep her mind through all of it. His first impression of her had been tall, thin, plain. Her tangled braid, scandalously uncovered, looked as if a tree imp had snatched it to shreds with long, twiggy fingers. And her clothes! Yet, as outlandish as she was, he found himself intrigued. He had known prettier women, kinder women, and had fallen in love with more than a few of them. But he kept on coming back to her, wondering about her. Curiosity, he told himself firmly. That’s all. But he thought he should keep away from her, just in case. He glanced at Stavin.

  “No. I’m not.”

  Stavin looked as if he were fighting a smile. “Good. Because Jessamy has been making a list of possible women for you to marry. She would be very angry with me if I let you fall in love with an unsuitable woman.”

  Crae nodded, and they began to make their way out of the forest to the shores of the river. “Do I even want to know who’s on this list?”

  “Three widows—all young, don’t worry! One or two spinsters, but still of childbearing years, loosely counting. Tevani, of course, but that one was my addition.”

  Tevani was Stavin’s daughter. Crae snorted. “Stavin, she is only three.”

  “Four. You’ve waited this long, what’s another twenty years?” He said it lightly, and Crae just rolled his eyes.

  “No. Besides, she deserves someone young.”

  Stavin snorted. “I know what young men are like; I was one once. I am not entrusting her to a young man. It’s you or no one.”

  He was serious. Crae stopped and looked at him. Stavin held his gaze.

  “Truly, Crae. I wish she were older, because then I would give you both my blessing. She doesn’t get to choose—none of us do. Why not you?”

  Because I do get to choose.

  Not being one of the governing lords, any marriage he made was through his own desires rather than the laws of the Council. Even so, he had to choose well, for only married men could be eligible for the governing convocation, and only if the marriage was deemed responsible.

  Crae said, selecting his words carefully, “Even if she were older, even if the marriage were approved by the Council, it still wouldn’t be right.”

  Stavin sighed and began walking again. “Jessamy was right. She said you’d never agree.” He waved off Crae’s apology. “No, you’re right, you’re right. I’m trying to save her from all the wrong things. But if she ends up in a bad marriage, I’m blaming you.”

  “I think between the two of us we’ll be able to keep any son-in-law of yours in line.”

  “We’ll have to stand behind Jessamy.”

  “True enough.”

  Stavin fell into a rare silence as they headed back toward the river, leaving Crae to his own thoughts, that somehow, unaccountably, always returned to the woman in the rose tower.

  The forest thinned out, and they made their way to the shores of the Aeritan. The wide river lapped against the shallow water by the docks. Out in midstream, sev
eral broad-beamed boats sailed south, their sails bellied out in the wind, oars poking out of their hulls like spider legs. They rode high in the water, their cargos offloaded onto the docks that bustled with men. For many merchants, this was the last voyage of the season, and in their haste to sail home before the autumn storms, they chose to sail light. In less than a month, the merchant boats would not be able to make it down the river without running into the first bad weather, and a month after that, the river would be iced over. Red Gold Bridge would stand alone until spring.

  The breeze off the river was stiff. The two men put their backs to it and walked back up toward the shallow steps that led up to the stronghold.

  “Do you ride out with Lord Tharp in the morning?” Stavin asked.

  Crae shook his head. “No, the glory of battle is not to be mine.” He gave the words a wry twist. “I am no longer in favor.”

  Stavin grunted. “Lucky man.”

  Crae kept his doubts to himself. Ever since his failure to find the guardian, Tharp’s disappointment in him had been as thick as the smoke-filled air that still surrounded Red Gold Bridge. My insignia is of the stronghold, not the man, he told himself. Still, it burned every time he thought of it. Crae knew what his men were saying under their breath, and it wasn’t good for his command or Tharp’s: the stranger man had brought down the wrath of the Wood on Red Gold Bridge. Finding the guardian would have gone a long way to dampening that talk.

  The steps grew steeper until they were climbing up and around the corner tower of the wall. The breeze grew stronger, carrying the scent of the burned Wood. From the top of the wall they could see over the trees into the blackened patches where the fire had struck first. Crae was used to thinking of the forest as a single mass, but now he could see more of the contours of the terrain, where single trees stood out on barren hillsides.

  Boots clattered along the stone walkway before them, and Tal came round the curve of the wall.

  “Captain! Sir!” he said, saluting them both. “We’ve gotten word of the horse.”

  The stooped and wrinkled farmer glanced from one to the other of them, Crae, Stavin, and Tal, in the little antechamber off the hall.