by Lee Ramsay
The countess blanched, though she kept her face free of expression as she laced her fingers together. The countess was a ruthless politician, but there were limits to her callousness. “An inconsequential matter. Is there anything House Sheranti can do to be of assistance?”
“No,” Urzgeth said with a slight curl of his lips. “Worry not, my lady. I will be sure to tell the grand duchess how accommodating you have been.”
“You said one a prisoner is dead. What would you have us do with the other two?”
“What do I care? I suspect the one named Rashek may soon try to kill himself from a guilty conscience.” The alpha stroked his beard thoughtfully. “He said our prey intends to head west, though a few might try for Reesenat’s border.”
“Then they will make for the Gap of Baeden. It is a high pass and will soon be covered with snow, if it isn’t already. From there, they will need to make for the Eichean Pass.”
Drumming his fingers against his thigh, Urzgeth called to mind a map of the region. The Sheranath Marches were a series of basins connected by a maze of canyons, cradled between the Laithach Mountains on Anahar’s western border and the convergence of several other ranges in the north. The hollows between the mountains were rough, broken landscapes filled with lakes, streams, thick forests, and bogs. Nominally ruled by House Sheranath and lesser houses derived from Ankara’s line, a few minor Houses controlled several baronies. “They’ll want to avoid being seen.”
“To do that, they would need to stay on the basin’s rim. There are a handful of towns, but it is farmland on the lower slopes. They risk being seen, but it will be easier to cross than if they go higher into the mountains.” Galiana supplied tilted her head with a thoughtful look. “Of course, the forests are thick enough to hide them and would provide shelter from the rain and wind. They may encounter a few hunters, as the elk will have come down to the lower slopes.”
Urzgeth gave the noblewoman a short nod, and his leather coat whispered against his boots as he took a step toward his pack mates. “You know the ones we want. Sathra is impatient to have the Hillffolk and Ravvosi returned alive. Shamar will make for the Gap of Baeden, across the basin and through the bogs. Ryzam will take the farmlands to the east. Drazzag and I will track them through the woods. Capture the females, if possible. Kill the bard. Questions?”
He sent them off with a nod when they remained silent. Drazzag lurked near the passage through the public portion of Monschan Manor as the other huntsmen departed, waiting for his father to finish his business with the countess.
The alpha cast Galiana a sidelong glance as he snugged his gloves over his fingers. “The ones for whom we are searching are smart enough to escape from Feinthresh Castle, and they travel with a Hillffolk. He will know hunter’s tricks and may turn them back.”
“If they do, they will be held until you return.”
Urzgeth thumped his fist against his chest in salute. “Glory to Anahar.”
The countess returned the gesture. “Pride and Primacy.”
Chapter 51
“You’ve been in a foul mood for days,” Rathus said from Tristan’s side. He scraped his dagger across his cheek as they walked, cutting down the black stubble as much as possible with the edge.
Tristan glared at the bard with bemused irritation. “Don’t you think it’s appropriate?”
“To be upset, yes. To blame yourself, no.”
“It’s my fault they ran.” The young man grabbed the trailing end of his cloak and threw it over his shoulder to wrap himself against the chill. “They were tired, hungry boys, and I threatened to kill them.”
“Yes, they were tired and hungry boys. So are you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re what, nineteen summers? Twenty? From a farming community, if I remember right. You’re not some jaded, grumpy codger wearied by experience.”
It had not occurred to Tristan that his majority had come and gone while chained in Ankara’s dungeon. It struck him that something once so important had passed without a thought. “I should have known what they were thinking, because it’s what I would have done a year ago. I should have watched them better. I didn’t think they’d run once we all agreed staying together made sense.”
“It didn’t occur to Groush, either. Sweet Siranon’s tits, man, it didn’t even occur to me. I like a good pint and a soft bed, preferably with a woman in it. Trier could have given me all that with a few songs.” Rathus wiped his runny nose with a tired smile. “Let me tell you, a hot bath and an eager woman would go a long way toward making me feel better.”
Tristan fought the urge to return the smile and lost, though it was a weak curve of his lips. “We’ll stop at the next stream long enough for you to splash around if you like.”
“I said a hot bath.” The bard sighed dramatically, then grew serious once more. “I mention your mood because it’s affecting the others. You’re brooding.”
“Groush doesn’t seem agitated.”
“Groush doesn’t get agitated, until he does. From what I have seen, he’s twice as irritable as you when he’s in a good mood,” the bard said dryly. He adjusted his cloak, the simple garment fastened with antler toggles down the front and holes for his arms to slide through. “They look to you, Tristan. Even Groush.”
“I’m not their bloody leader.”
“Whether you want it or not, my friend, that is what you are.”
“Why?”
“What would you have us do? If what you, Brenna, and Groush say is true, Anahari patrols are searching for us. We might get found as a group, but we can at least watch out for each other. Alone, we’d be picked off.” Rathus pulled his arms into his cloak, chewing his cheek as he sought the right words. “Brenna’s smart, but she’s scared and wants to run. Groush wants to fight but feels protective over the lot of you. Esra and Nisha are as scared as Brenna; neither has ever been more than ten miles from their homes.”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the others trailing through the foggy landscape. Though in ill health, the group was stronger than when they fled Feinthresh Castle. Each of the three women was frightened, but exhaustion blunted anxiety’s cut. Stubborn determination pushed them forward when Rashek and Deshan – and, in truth, the five others he had helped escape the dungeon – had left.
Brenna pursed her lips and gave him a nod, her shoulders hunching as she shoved her hands deeper into her battered coat’s pockets. Nisha gave him a wan smile, which Esra echoed. Trailing at the rear, Groush glowered at his surroundings to either side.
“What about you? You’re older than any of us, except maybe Groush, and you know where you are.”
The bard’s lips turned up in a self-deprecating smile. “I’m no leader; I’m a ship whose navigator is drunk at the helm; I go where wind and wine take me. If a woman is attractive to give me a cockstand and friendly enough to relieve it, well, even the wind won’t distract me. You, however, have an idea of where you’re going, you know why, and you have somewhere to be after that. Though Brenna was the one to lead us to the exit, you thought enough of others to free them.”
Tristan glanced toward the notch in the mountains Brenna called the Gap of Baeden. Through the pass was a series of chain valleys she claimed descended to Reesenat’s forested flatlands. His initial plan had the women running north to safety with Rathus while he and Groush turned westward for the long run to Caer Ravvos on the coast. Rathus’s observations left him wondering if their group would separate at the pass – provided anyone could get through it. It was cold and damp in the basin, but the slopes on either side of the Gap of Baeden were already white with snow.
“Something else has been bothering you, and has been since we met,” Rathus said, interrupting the young man’s thoughts.
Tristan said nothing, but the man was right. He felt guilty about running while Gwistain remained Sathra’s prisoner, but he could do nothing for the prince. Dwelling on it changed nothing. What weighed heavier on his mind was Ankara
’s words about the child being his. Though he shied from such thoughts, he kept prodding them like a sore tooth’s ache.
He was not ready to discuss the matter with anyone. The pregnancy might have been another one of the sorceress’s games; the child’s father could have been anyone, but something about Ankara’s voice assured him she spoke the truth. He suspected Brenna knew about the pregnancy but was tactfully avoiding the topic.
Then, of course, there was the guilt of running from Dorishad and his longing to return home, complicated further by thoughts of Jayna. He wanted to tell her everything, and tell her nothing.
“It’s Ankara,” he said when he realized Rathus was waiting him out.
“Of all the things to worry about, that’s not one I expected to be weighing on your mind. Rumor has it she’s dead.”
“It’s the way she died that’s bothering me.”
“An axe to the chest is a bad way to die – an easier death than she deserved, from what you and the others have said.”
“Too easy.”
A broad smile crossed the bard’s lips as he drew out a single syllable. “Ah.”
“What?”
“You caught the woman by surprise, hit her with an axe, and she fell dead. Then you ran away.”
It was more complicated than that. Tristan scrubbed his hand across his chin and nodded.
“What in all hells were you expecting? Some big, heroic fight between you and her? Some great plot revealed before you struck her down? Good triumphing over evil?” Rathus asked with a chuckle, the melodic sound softened by the fog. He glanced at Tristan’s face and laughed harder. “You did!”
“I did not.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I’ve been trained in exaggeration’s finer points, and you’re an awful liar.” The bard shook his head with another short laugh. “This isn’t some fancy story, like those told in great poems and ballads or on the dramatic stage. This is the real world. There are no wizards with long beards and pointy hats, and no great and awful evil countered by a pure, redeeming force of good. The gods may be real, but they don’t take an active hand in our mortal lives no matter how loudly their priests pray or preach at us.”
“I’m not a simpleton.”
Rathus gave his shoulder a soothing pat. “No, you’re not. You’re no different than anyone else – searching for simple answers to life’s complex problems, framed in a way that makes sense. It’s human nature to do so. It is easier to believe in the grand archetypes of the hero and the villain, fated events, and individuals touched by destiny or the will of some god or goddess than to believe chance and choice are what shapes our lives.
“We want correlation to equate to causality,” the bard continued. “It’s how we make sense of life’s randomness – this child died of plague because the gods called them home, or that village was razed by wildfire because they committed a sin meriting punishment.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody looks at the world so simplistically.”
“Do they not?” Rathus gave him a shrewd look. “I’m a bard. As a profession, it’s not solely about plucking strings while reading musical notes scribbled on a sheet of paper or learning how to compose for one instrument or twenty. Understanding how and why our minds work is the difference between a starving minstrel and a wealthy composer. It’s the difference between a forgettable story told over a tankard of ale for your friends’ amusement and a tale told and retold through the centuries.”
Tristan gave the nobleman a mildly insulted look. “Are you saying my reality is less interesting than a story?”
“I’m saying you’ve been conditioned to believe the events in our lives follow a cadence and pattern – a beginning, a middle, and an end, with a series of recognizable climaxes and a predictable denouement. Our minds view our lives as a story, with each of us the hero of our narrative. When things do not follow the accepted script, that’s when things become uncomfortable – and interesting.”
They walked in silence for several minutes. “I’d recommend you not share that view with people who believe in Vastor. They’re likely to burn you at the stake for the heresy of not believing in the gods.”
“I absolutely believe in the gods, but there are two possibilities,” Rathus said. “The first is that we have no say in our destiny, as the gods have scripted all and watch us for their entertainment. As a great bard once said, ‘the world is but a stage, and we merely players upon it.’ I don’t care for that theology, though the second possibility is both more and less comforting.”
“And that is?”
“The Great Composer is involved in every aspect of our lives, and is bored with the way we try to make sense of our world.”
Chapter 52
“We’re being followed,” Groush said, poking the fire with a pine branch as he crouched beside a small fire. They had crossed a bog the day before, the soil saturated by dozens of streams flowing from the higher slopes that formed the basin. After days sleeping in damp clothes and tromping through puddles and streams in ill-fitting, broken-down boots, the five of them were chilled and exhausted. Bred to alpine landscapes and weather, the Hillffolk was better able to resist the cold but recognized the others need rest and warmth.
Tristan scratched his beard as he chewed a hank of dried elk meat, trying to ignore the ache in his teeth. He picked up the battered tin cup heating on a stone next to the flames and washed the mouthful down, and winced at the flavor. The pine needle tea Brenna forced them to drink might help with their bleeding gums, but its flavor was terrible. “I suppose it was too much to hope Sathra would let us go.”
“A good hope. A stupid one, but good.”
“Do you think Rashek and Deshan were caught?” He sighed when the bull gave him a sour look for asking a question with an obvious answer. “You think they gave us up.”
“Probably.”
Tristan glanced around. The women had gone into the woods to attend to their morning needs. Rathus sought edible fungi and roots matching those Brenna had described, which would likely grow in the shelter of the pines and red barked giants; her knowledge of mountain plants had kept them from starving. “You think the Dushken are after us.”
“Probably. Probably have other patrols looking for us, too. I hoped to get further than we have.”
“We’re too sick and weak.”
“Not your fault. Not theirs, either.”
“How certain are you?”
“A feeling, like I know the pass will be too snowy for the others to get through.” The bull glanced toward the Gap of Baeden, though he could not see it for the trees and the irregularities in the land. He ran his fingers through his tangled mane and met the young man’s eyes. “Why Caer Ravvos?”
The young man tossed the tea’s dregs into the fire and slipped the cup into his rucksack. “It is what Gwistain would do.”
“He would. Why you?”
“I left him there. Someone needs to know what is going on in Anahar.”
“We don’t know anything for certain. Gwistain is a prisoner, yes. You think you saw a Meridan, but you can’t be certain. You think there is an alliance; Gwistain put that idea in your head. Ankara is dead, and this Sathra woman may be on the throne by now.” The bull laced his fingers together and stretched them, the knuckles popping. “You’re nobody. Nobody will listen to you in Caer Ravvos.”
“They might listen to you. You were Gwistain’s companion.”
“Long story to that, but for another time. So, you want to go to Caer Ravvos to tell them what you think you know, with no evidence, and hope they send someone to ransom Gwistain because you believe that is what he would do.”
“You don’t?”
“I thought you were stupid. I was wrong. Don’t make me change my mind,” Groush grunted, amusement softening the words. “You were convenient to Gwistain. He might have sent someone for you, but probably not. You’re not worth the effort – not because you might not mean something, but because you’re an orphan.”
Bitterness laced his words as Tristan berated himself for not taking his position into account. “Why would an envoy be sent to negotiate the release of a nobody like me?”
“If you were a village, maybe. You’re one man. If I were you, I’d make for Caer Rochiel. Tell your thoughts to King Garoos of Shreth. Let him send word to Caer Ravvos – and go home.”
It was a more sensible plan. If they could reach the Laithach Mountains’ lower peaks and foothills, they would be in Troppenheim; they could cross the River Ossifor and travel to the capital of the Kingdom of Shreth. He could leave Brenna, Nisha, and Esra there before returning to Dorishad.
Or he could send a letter to Anthoun and Dougan to assure them he was well and disappear. Dark thoughts and twisted longings inched icy fingers into his mind, and for a moment, Sathra’s face overlaid Jayna’s. He shook himself out of the vision. “It would be easier. Do you think—”
Brown skin going pale, Groush scrambled to his feet with a suddenness that startled Tristan. The Hillffolk’s head tilted to the side, the subtly elongated point of his ear peeking through tangled hair. A cold sensation in his belly, the young man rose and strained his ears for whatever caught the bull’s attention. “What is it?”
“Listen.”
The young man closed his eyes to better focus on what his ears were telling him. Rain pattered against the ground beyond the close-packed protection of the pines’ boughs, muffling Groush’s slow breathing and the quiet thump of his heartbeat. His breath caught a moment later. A distant, keening cry with the wildness of a wolf’s howl and inhuman, primal fury slipped through the wind’s moaning, so faint it could easily be missed. “Dushken.”
“Ten miles, maybe less. I hear only one. We have time, but we must go.”
“There will be more than one?”
“Branded Dushken hunt in packs of four,” Groush said, kicking dirt on the fire. “These will not be unblooded youths.”
“Can we kill him and lose the others?”