by Ru Emerson
“Why do you have to go through the camp?” Faric wanted to know. “I mean, if this bridging can take you anywhere, why not just in with the prisoners and back out again?”
“Because someone might cry out,” Ylia said. “Or one of their shamen might feel it. We'll have part of that hill between us and the camp. That and distance will shield us. There may be no one there who could sense us, but we don't dare chance that.”
There was a silence. Golsat slapped the map. “Then we'll do it?”
“Aye.” Brelian dropped his own hand to cover Golsat's, the other two men covered his, and Ylia and Ysian laid theirs on top. Pereden smothered a grin as Nisana gravely placed a paw over all.
“Good. I need my haft done warrior-style, that I can't forego. Brelian, can you plait?”
“I? No!”
“Don't look at me,” Ylia said quickly. “I've no talent beyond a 3-part braid, and even those are indifferent.”
“Fancy plaiting? I can,” Ysian said.
“Good. My hair's too short for a proper job, but the hood of a Nedaoan cloak will hide that. I can describe what I need, if you think you can work from that.”
“I've a better idea. Ylia, show me how they do it.”
“All right. Golsat, what do you want, plain horseman?”
“I think so. Unwed horseman, but with previous battles and several kills. Someone with sufficient war-strength to be trusted with a prisoner, someone still unimportant enough to be saddled with a female one, late at night when senior warriors sleep.”
“Well,” she began doubtfully; but she remembered the previous fall, Kanatan's retinue, his messengers, Marhan pointing out the arm colorings, tattoos, what the various elaborate hair plaiting signified. Warrior, plain horse: she thought so.
“I see.” From the look in her eyes, Ysian didn't care much for what she saw, but she was trying to take things in stride. She expelled a long breath in one fast gust, and was suddenly briskly efficient. “I can manage that. We'll need things. Can any of you supply me with some feathers, dark ones? We could coat them in soot, I suppose, if not. But long.” She measured with her hands.
Faric nodded. “I'll go down to the kitchens, there was a bird and onion mess for dinner two nights ago. There might still be feathers, I'll see what I can find.”
“Good. And a bit of pale leather or fur. I don't suppose,” she added dubiously, “there'd be ribbon anywhere. I never wear such things, so I brought none with me.”
“I don't know who has any except ‘Betha.”
“Well, then, nevermind. The hood will hide that, too. And the dark.” She moved over behind Golsat, who'd resumed his seat, and deftly separated a section of his hair. “Ylia, that tabard of yours is dark and it's already frayed, work me loose half a dozen threads to tie these.”
Golsat fixed his eyes on the map. He was extremely ill at ease and could only hope no one noticed. This Lady, he thought—she was too fine by half to handle his hair as though they were equals. Not as though she were arms-mate, like Ylia: He'd taken practice with her almost from his first day in Koderra, had long since adjusted to the fact that, though she was then Princess Royal, now Queen, she was also his companion and his friend. It hadn't ever been difficult to name-speak Ylia. The Honored Lady Ysian, with her fair face, she was different. He reminded himself she was AEldra and that the AEldra Power would play as much part in their venture as sword-skill. More, please all the gods at once, if it went right. Reminded himself also that she'd asked it, name-speaking, and as if she'd meant it.
Difficult. He felt, as he often did, very much out of place, and he wondered if his father knew what company his black-haired son kept.
He closed his eyes, sat still, jerking only once as Ysian's fingers caught a snarl. She worked it loose gently and swiftly, worked the 4-strand plait, wrapped the end with a twisted doubled thread. She next gathered the hair that normally fell from a center parting, ran it down beside his face, Her nose wrinkled as she worked two of the long feathers into its end: they reeked of damp ash and other things not as pleasant as that. A third braid, behind his left ear then.
“You've wonderful hair,” Ysian remarked. Brelian turned away to hide a grin. Golsat opened his mouth twice but no sound came. Ysian finished off the plait, instructed Pereden to cut an opening in the ragged bit of black worn leather he'd produced, pulled the remaining loose hair through it, twisted and wound it down into a knot which she fastened with a wide splinter Brelian worked from the edge of the table. The leather lay across his right ear, more feathers worked over that. Ylia produced a worn bit of edging from the neck of her tabard; Ysian bound that into the fore plait and stood back to admire the result.
“Mothers,” Pereden breathed. Golsat was scarcely recognizable.
“Right enough,” Brelian said. “You look Tehlatt; I never realized before how Nedaoan you really are.”
“It's a shock,” Faric agreed.
“Well, then, I'd better make certain no one sees me like this before we reach that camp, hadn't I?” Golsat stood. “My hood will cover my head when we leave the Caves, fortunately.” He turned to Ysian, who still stood close behind him. “Thanks, L—Ysian.”
“My pleasure.” She inclined her head gravely. If she'd guessed at or sensed his discomfort, she gave no indication. “If we're to go soon, Ylia, I'd better return to my bedding. I took off my warm stockings tonight, and I want my dark cloak. Is what I wear acceptable, or should I change—or is there time?”
“There's time, get your stockings, and if you have heavier boots, put them on. The ground is rocky where we go. Your slippers would be cut to bits.” Ylia eyed her critically. “Otherwise, you'll be all right.”
“You mean,” Ysian said shrewdly, “you won't let me where anyone might see me. That's fair enough. I won't be long. Come on, cat.”
Ylia turned to the armsmen. “Get arrows. All you can but don't rouse attention, and by the Black Well, stay clear of my Swordmaster! If he finds out—!”
“I know. He won't. I'll go with them,” Brelian said. “What else?”
“Spare knives,” Golsat said. “if you can find them without asking. No one else must know what we're doing until it's done. And if we fail, no one must know. Ever.” He paused. “A last thing. Pray that we come in good time, and that our luck not fail us!”
12
The wind was chill, salt; it cut through her heavy winter cloak. Her fingers were tucked into fur pockets, but they were numb, her cheeks burned. She gazed with weary distaste across the pale green marshes, over a long, flat expanse of sand to a roiling grey sea. There was a tang of sea in the air; an undercurrent of the sour odor of marsh; now and again, when the wind died for a brief moment, the unpleasant smell of burned wood and things long dead slipped up from behind her.
She turned away from the dreary southern view. The northern one wasn't much better. A shamble of wall there, in its midst a single gate hung still by one twisted hinge. Beyond that, disaster: the Baron who'd had these holdings had not gotten his goods free in time, nor most of his folk. Paper, burned hangings, a rubble of furnishings littered the courtyard. The men she'd brought with her were out behind the walls, somewhere, digging an enormous pit for the rest.
For this—for this I gave up my father's wealth, the man he wished me to marry, the splendor of Court, the music, the beauty of Yls—? For the first time in long years, her resolve faltered, I'm tired, that's all, she told herself. Tired. I couldn't have stayed in Yls. Never. Not without him. Whatever it cost me.
And it had cost her: She had the clothes she stood in, a second pair of stockings. Her household women, Lyiadd's armsmen. Lyiadd would want all his armsmen, when he was better. Her hair was uncombed, there were lines around her eyes and mouth. Her hands trembled; she did.
Lyiadd. He caught at her every breath. He'd hovered at the brink of death for so long, every heartbeat so fragile it might have been his last. She'd brought him back from that edge, the first thing she'd done once she'd harnessed the Power
sufficiently to use it at all. He breathed more easily now.
But when he looked at her his eyes were a child's; they held no knowledge of himself, and none of her. And his inner sense might never have been.
She'd bring him back, she could—if she could tame this new Power, bring it under control, learn to use it! In the meantime, the Foessa were no longer safe; she had reached the Caves, doubtless her first act was to warn Yls. And Yls would act—what, such a chance for her father?—they'd act at once, and even if she could save herself, she might lose everything else.
And Lyiadd—what he wanted had to remain paramount: He'd fought for it for too long, he'd nearly died for it. They must not find him!
She'd cast about for a likely safety, finally settled on this southernmost tip of the Plain. The Tehlatt had withdrawn from the sea and the mouth of the Torth alike, but that didn't matter because they'd never approach her. She'd bridged a handful of her people first, brought the rest two days later. Returned the valley to the state they'd found it, though that cost her; she retained barely sufficient wit and skill to bridge herself back to this temporary safety.
This wasn't the best of all possible safeties, no. It was better than most. And from here, she could signal those who would shelter her and hers properly. What better sanctuary than the Great Isles, for who would dare approach those barren rocks save the Sea-Raiders who held them?
And it would give her a great deal of pleasure, negotiating the bargain with them, watching their faces as they smirked at her, woman and alone—knowing that in the end, it would be they who took her orders and later Lyiadd's. They who cringed from her, if she wanted that.
She tilted her head back. Above the reek of the outer courtyard, there was a whiff of woodsmoke. It would be warm up there. She pulled the cloak closer, started across blackened cobbles.
I have said it before, often enough, and I myself merely quote others of reasonable wit, who hold that need brings out quality in some people, and a realization of that quality by others who perhaps had seen no good in that person before. So Brendan and the xenophobic Bowmaster Levren had learned of Golsat on our journey north. So, in fact, I learned myself, for even I could not have known the inner strength the man had, or the coolness of his wits in evil placing, until need brought it out in him. But I learned; Levren did. Young Brendan. And so, even the folk of Nedao. And, my beloved Ysian.
13
Six people and a cat huddled in a deep, crumpling cut at the base of a bald hill. There was a trickle of water at its center, though fortunately there was also room on each side of that for folk to stand dry. There was rock, too, and Ysian was grateful for Ylia's foresight: even her boots weren't thick-soled enough, she'd have bruises to show for the night's work.
She shivered. The wind was fierce and blew down from the north, sighed through willow brash and setting the aspen grove around them to a continuous whispery clatter. Nisana pressed against her, concerned; she stooped to rub the dark fur, sent back reassurance. The cat relaxed, moved back to Ylia's side.
Ysian slid one foot before the other, cautiously, crouched down behind her niece. “All right.” Ylia's voice would not have carried five paces, even on a still night. The armsmen leaned close, heads nearly touching, so they could hear her. “Ysian, you and Nisana stay right here. You'll be safe, you can see anyone coming long before they see you. If there's trouble"—she eyed them in turn—"swear you'll bridge.” And, as Ysian hesitated: “We cannot concentrate properly on what we do out there otherwise, Ysian. That could be very dangerous. Swear.”
“By the Guardians and the One,” Ysian whispered. “But remember I came to aid you!” Her voice shook; all of her did. How can she? She's still a child, and she's going into that camp as though it were a garden walk! It hadn't felt real in the Caves, whatever she'd seen, how could it? It was; and it threatened to make her ill. Golsat touched her arm, smiled at her; she managed a faint smile in reply, and somehow felt a little better.
“Good.” Ylia slipped the dagger from its arm-sheath, slid it up her sleeve where she could reach it in need. Another made an uncomfortable lump against her ankle, down her boot. Golsat tapped Brelian's arm, pointed toward the dimly lit camp. “Brel, the horse line's just there—no, this side of the fire. See it?” He nodded. “Get back under the trees, well in shadow and don't move unless it's absolutely necessary. The guards won't be looking for trouble, but they've good eyes. Remember that!” Golsat cast an expert eye overhead. “The cloud cover will hold. We've that in our favor. For the rest—the Mothers aid us!” He kissed his fingers in blessing, the others followed suit: Only Ylia caught the superstitious warding sign he made after. “Well.” He let his air out with a quiet sigh, held out a hand. “Ylia, if you're ready?”
“As I'll get.” There was the least of tremors in her voice; only Golsat heard it, but when he looked at her she nodded. She extended her arms, let him bind her wrists with thick rope. He caught up the loose end in one hand, drew his sword.
“Let's go. Take care, all of you. Lady.” They were all gone. Ysian wrapped her arms around herself, hard, to stop the shaking. Nisana stared after them.
'It's well, they'll come through. Courage, Ysian!’
“Courage,” she whispered.
The two reached the horse lines in silence. Golsat stopped, pulled Ylia close, to his side and gave her a reassuring hug as Brelian and his two companions slipped out of sight among the trees. Golsat nodded. Ylia swallowed, rubbed her damp, bound hands against her breeches and stepped into the open. Into the Tehlatt camp.
It was gloomy here; there were few fires and all but one had burned to coals. There were no fires near the prison compound, only an occasional torch shoved into soft turf a length from the fence. They skirted a pile of weapons, moved in total silence around the end of one of the warrior tents. Faint snores drifted through the open flap; the stench of male sweat wrinkled her nose. Golsat grinned mirthlessly and pulled her on.
Five paces to that woven fence; three—two. Golsat gripped her arm in warning. A muffled clink of ring mail, a grunt as someone tripped and caught himself before he fell. The guard came into sight, saw them, sauntered toward them. He was half asleep, probably half-witted from the look of him.
“What man are you, and why here with this woman?” His voice was low. Ylia understood sufficient Tehlatt for that, but lost-much of Golsat's swift reply, save “prisoner,” and perhaps, “orders.” The guard lost what little interest he'd had in the matter and was yawning as he pointed. “There.” She understood nothing of his next remark, until he asked, “Do you remain here?”
“No. We come north, all, for the celebration,” Golsat replied. The guard nodded, yawned and moved on.
“Good.” Golsat breathed against her ear. “Trusting fellow; he believed us. And he told me there's another guard at the gate itself, we're forewarned.”
Ylia nodded. The encounter had unnerved her badly and she was trying to keep that from her companion. The inner sense was badly disoriented, despite Nisana's reassuring touch, and she couldn't place any individual Tehlatt for the overwhelming sense of so many, all around her. I could die here. Now. Tonight. The fence seemed to go on forever, though she knew it couldn't be more then ten lengths, less than that across. A torch, a second, nearly gutted. A third, and just beyond it, the indented section that served to protect the guard from north and south wind. The gate was in the back of that black alcove, The gate. And its guard.
Golsat's fingers dug briefly into her arm: warning. She lowered her eyes, let her shoulders sag. The gate-guard came into the light, twigs falling from his fingers: he'd been weaving them into small shapes, the ground all about the alcove was littered with them. He scowled at Golsat, sharp eyes taking in the man from hair to Nedaoan boots before moving to his prisoner. Golsat's fingers twitched involuntarily; he released her then, pulled at the rope and she staggered forward.
Again that harsh question and Golsat's rapid answer. The guard slung the remaining twigs aside, grabbed the rope
and yanked. She nearly fell into him, and the sudden reek of oiled leathers, heavily scented hair oil, the stale musk of his body was overwhelming. The guard snatched her plaits, yanked hard. She gasped as her head snapped back, hard, stared glassily into suspicious eyes. The guard searched her face for what seemed forever, turned to bark another question at Golsat. Golsat began an answer; the guard waved an impatient hand, said something that brought Golsat up sharply.
His face was still so near hers, they nearly touched. She felt slowly, so slowly for the hilt of her dagger, let it slide down into her hand, shifted her grip to a two-handed one, the blade between them. The guard's attention came back to her abruptly as she dropped; too late: her knife rebounded from the stiffened leather breastplate, went in just below his ribs. She pushed up, threw her weight into it; Golsat's arm was around his throat, hand across his mouth, but the guard fell with the least of sounds: Ylia went down with him.
Golsat dragged the dead man back into the shadows. Ylia rolled out of the faint light, worked at the ropes with trembling hands. Her sleeves were wet to the elbow, she didn't dare think with what. The rope wasn't responding to her tugging, Golsat finally had to cut it for her. He held out the dagger; she wiped it on the grass, pushed it hard into the arm-sheath.
Golsat caught at her arm. “You all right?” he breathed against her ear.
She nodded. “Him or me. I remember.” He studied her briefly: She was upset, but she wasn't giving in to it, as she had at the Hunter's Crossing, the first time she'd killed: She'd be all right. He nodded, pulled her back farther into the alcove, pulled the gate open and pushed it shut behind her.
It was black as a pit inside: the moon was not even the blur of white against cloud cover it had been earlier. No light from without penetrated the fence. ‘Nisana?’
'What chanced? What went wrong? Are you all right?’
'The guard was suspicious, he's dead. It's all right, I'm inside. Are you ready?’