Son of Avonar

by Carol Berg

  Morning arrived. As I feared, the nighttime rain had erased any trace of D’Natheil’s passing. A quick survey in the dawn light revealed that our refuge helped form the base of a grassy knob that dominated the rolling sea of grass and rocks—the mysterious Pell’s Mound, I guessed, a matter that might have been of some interest were not our immediate concerns so critical. Karon had believed the hill to be a tribal holy place from which our ancestors—my ancestors—had worshipped the mountains. Indeed the peaks of the Dorian Wall loomed large, as if they had used the cover of the storm to creep up on us. And somewhere in the desolate country between the Wall and Pell’s Mound lay the Glenaven River and the village of Yennet, once known as Tryglevie.

  I could see no hint of D’Natheil’s fate, no evidence of a mishap, no place that looked more worth searching than another. Baglos suggested that the three of us ride in different directions for an hour, then circle right and return to Pell’s Mound by mid-morning. He sounded hopeless as he had not since he’d been reunited with his master. “The treacherous liars have taken him,” he said. “They’ll destroy him, shed his blood on the Bridge . . . Avonar is lost.”

  My search was fruitless. I saw more grassy undulations, one little different from the other, and more granite monoliths protruding from the damp earth as if the roots of the mountains were beginning to sprout. When we came together again at Pell’s Mound, it took no words to share the result. Baglos led us silently to the road. We would go on to Yennet. If D’Natheil were able and willing, he would meet us there.

  As the last of the morning haze burned away, we reached the outlying ruins of a dying village, piles of rubble that had once been neatly laid stone fences or low-roofed dwellings snug enough to hold back the bitter winter that would howl down from the Dorian Wall. The road was a sticky bog, with protruding islands of rock so exasperating to negotiate that we dismounted and led the horses rather than risk their injury in some unseen hole. What structures still remained in the village proper were cracked, crumbled, and overgrown with weeds. A pig rooted hungrily in the mud. The place was a squalid contrast to the mountain vista that lay so close behind it, as if set there solely to demonstrate that the works of man were but a corruption of the works of nature.

  A hollow-cheeked man peered out of the door of a crumbling house. When I greeted him, he clucked to a dog that cowered between his legs and slammed the door. A little further along the way, a woman stood in the middle of a rock-bordered garden, watching our approach, three ragged children clinging to her skirts. Her garden, while not lush, was better tended than anything in sight. A slight move of her hand had the children scattering into the cluster of stone houses and broken walls.

  I called out to her from a good distance. “Health and prosperity be yours this day, goodwife; may your hold flourish.”

  “And your road be smooth,” said the woman. Her wispy braids were streaked with gray, her face lined, though she could well be younger than I. Her bare arms were ridged with sinew, and she gripped a rusty hoe, but did not lean on it.

  “We’re travelers from Montevial,” I said.

  “We see few strangers in Yennet. Why would you come here?”

  The air was crisp and sweet, the sky a deep and brilliant blue behind the sheer white peaks. “To pay homage to the beauties of nature,” I said, unable to think of any more plausible answer.

  To my surprise, the woman nodded solemnly. “ ’Tis the only reason to be sure. The Wall is worth a day’s rising.”

  “Have you seen any other strangers about today? One of our company was separated from us in the storm. A young man of . . . some thirty years he appears. Tall. Clean-shaven. Blue eyes; light hair. Strongly made and riding a spirited chestnut of sixteen hands.”

  “I’ve seen no one like. Mayhap he took the road to Vanesta or got turned about and is halfway to Montevial once more. You’d best be after him.” The woman’s fingers shifted on her hoe.

  “Perhaps.” No other villagers had made an appearance. I saw only one other person, a slim young man sitting on a fence far down the road. Tales said that untaxed grain often found its way into Valleor through the foothills of the Dorian Wall. Smugglers were rightly shy of company. “Is there somewhere in your village where we could stay the night? We hope our friend will make his way here.”

  The woman’s glance darted toward her house. “I don’t know. We’re but poor sheepherders. Most everyone is out with the flocks.”

  From the corner of my eye I caught a movement in the shadowed doorway. I stood my ground. No use to run. To move my hand toward the knife beneath my skirt was to invite unfortunate consequences. “We have our own provisions. We just need a roof and a dry floor. I promise you we’re interested in naught but finding our friend.”

  “But—”

  A body separated itself from the shadows. “What Marika is trying not to say is that she has already sheltered a refugee from the storm. One who asked her to be discreet.”

  “Sheriff!”

  Graeme Rowan looked about cautiously before approaching me. His left temple was mottled purple and green, swollen and marked by an ugly scab. In the center of his forehead was a faint gray smudge of earth. His god had sent him on another journey because of me.

  How do you apologize to a man you despise? Honor demanded it, but my back bristled. Why couldn’t it be enough that we hadn’t killed him? “Sheriff, I—”

  “Madam, I’d be grateful if we could leave off any talk of my profession. I’ve had to swear on my life that I am not here as a representative of the law. Perhaps that vow might ease your own worry.”

  My cheeks felt like a smith’s furnace. “I’m glad to see we did no lasting damage.”

  It was his turn to be surprised.

  “How did you find us here?” I said.

  “It was my impression that you found me, but for the sake of avoiding an argument so early in our meeting, I’ll tell you again, I have a new friend who is very good at tracking.”

  “But it’s not Pere Giano?”

  Rowan’s quiet explosion of laughter was as unstudied as his manner. “Is that what you think? That I—? Holy Annadis, you believe that the one you’ve scorned for ten years as the willful scourge of a corrupt law—a man happy to murder children to prove his worth—is in league with these vile, sorcerous . . . whatever they are? How in perdition did you come to that fancy?”

  I did not share his good humor. “Perhaps we could sit down and discuss this, rather than interrupting this good woman’s work.”

  Paulo had sidled up to the sheriff with a crooked grin. “I’ll show this young renegade where to put your horses,” said Rowan, tugging at the boy’s unkempt hair. “Perhaps then we might have a word.”

  Marika, appearing relieved at the amiable result of our confrontation, invited us inside. A large, well-swept hearth, its chimney blackened by countless years of burning fir and tar bush branches, was the heart of the single room. In the center of the floor stood a thick table and six stools. A pile of sheepskins in one corner were the family bedding, and two grain bins in another corner served for the pantry. A basket held a spindle and a pile of brown wool. A few pegs and a wooden shelf along one wall held the sum of their material wealth that was not sheep: five cups that Marika set out on her table, a chipped flask with a narrow neck that likely contained oil, some wooden bowls, and a few tins, one of which held dried herbs that the woman spooned sparingly into the cups before pouring hot water from the blackened pot hanging over her coals. An ax with a splinted handle hung by the fireplace along with a coiled rope, a fishing net, and two pair of snowshoes. This made my cottage look like a palace.

  “You are very kind to have us, Marika.”

  “It’s good to see a new face, perhaps to hear news of the world.” A red-cheeked boy carried a crock to the table and then sped back outdoors. Marika spooned milk into the heavy cups.

  “Not much news worth hearing, I’m afraid. War or the fruits of war.”

  “The tales we hear say may
hap our life is not so bad as one might think,” said Marika, handing cups to Baglos and me, while pausing over the third and peering out the door. Her boy had joined the other children who stood in an admiring circle around Paulo, treating him with the awe due a bold adventurer, rather than Donkey, the stupid boy with the twisted leg.

  “To make a life in such a place must be very difficult.”

  “Our families have been in Yennet for five generations. Once we sent wool carts by the dozen to Montevial, Vanesta, and Yurevan, but now we’re lucky to send three a year. Our flocks have not flourished nor our people. But times will change if we work hard enough.”

  “I hope they will.”

  I hoped. What would happen if D’Natheil could not do what was needed? There was little enough hope in the world. Baglos was the very image of despair, leaning heavily on the table and staring into his cup, unspeaking. I likely could have pricked him with a needle and elicited no reaction.

  Marika poured the third cup of tea, dropped a tiny pinch of sugar in it, added two spoons of milk, and then laid a rag on the top. “Rilia!” she called, and a tiny, curly haired girl ran to the doorway. “Take this to Old Ghouro and see he drinks it.”

  “Aye,” said the child, in a whisper, her dark eyes fixed on Baglos and me.

  “We have to watch the old man,” said Marika. “He don’t want to eat. Took his flock too far into the mountains two years ago. When he didn’t come back before snowfall, we thought him dead. But didn’t he wander into the village in the middle of winter, half starved and off his head? I hope your friend don’t come to the same.” She finished pouring and returned the tins of tea and sugar to the shelf. “I got to get back to my work now. You can spread your wet things out back if you want or poke up the fire.”

  “Thank you again for the tea.”

  Rowan joined us as Marika left. He picked up his cup of tea and drank, looking at me as if expecting another bash on the head. I didn’t know what to say. He had fought at Avonar.

  “So the mysterious ‘servant’ has gone missing again,” he said, at last. “Have the priests taken him?”

  “I don’t know. He would not go willingly, but we’ve no evidence that he’s been forced.”

  Rowan had left his laughter behind. “Why did you think me allied with the villains? I thought we understood the same thing about what they are.”

  So I detailed the case I had built up against him: his meeting with the Zhid in Grenatte after pretending not to know them, his appearance at Kellea’s shop on the night of the fire, the brass button in the dead professor’s library, and, of course, Teriza’s testimony about the Leiran wearing a dark coat with shiny buttons. “You’re right that I despise you,” I said. “To my mind, you have willingly participated in acts that are beyond forgiveness. So I refused to believe you. Then, two days ago, Paulo very simply and innocently confirmed everything you’d said.” I told him how I’d sent Jacopo a warning of Rowan’s accusations. “. . . and so, because of me, they know you were trying to warn me. I’m afraid I’ve put both you and Jaco in more danger than before.”

  As the sheriff considered what I had told him, his fingers nudged the button I’d laid on the table. His response, when it came, was wholly without rancor. “If a petitioner had brought me such a case, I’d have needed no trial to pass judgment either, especially with what you know of . . . my past.” His skin was as red as his hair. “I’m grateful to Paulo for being such a good witness. As for Jacopo—I don’t think there’s anything you could have done that would put him in more danger than he’s in already.”

  I couldn’t bear thinking of Jaco. My determination to spite Darzid had made me reckless, dragging my only friend into this horror and leaving him in the path of these murderous Zhid. And now I had given the Zhid reason to believe he was of no more use to them. Yet self-recrimination would not help him. Defeating the Zhid might. “Tell me what really happened, Sheriff. Why didn’t you say you knew the priests? And how do you come to be here?”

  “The reason I didn’t say that those you’d seen in During Forest were the same who had come to Dunfarrie hunting for the two strangers was simply that, until I looked through the doorway into Bartolome’s common room, I didn’t know it. They weren’t dressed as priests when Captain Darzid brought them to me, talking of Isker spies. I overheard the captain say he would meet them in Grenatte. It sounded as if the whole world was traveling to Grenatte, and I was damnably curious. When I saw you there, I knew the matter had nothing to do with spies. Only sorcery could have drawn you out. If Captain Darzid caught sight of you, you were going to be arrested.”

  And Graeme Rowan had saved me from it. A hard truth. “You rushed me away.”

  “When you confronted the priests so recklessly, I guessed you didn’t know about the captain’s dealings with them—”

  “—and I wouldn’t listen.”

  “To me? It’s certainly not your custom.” Grim amusement touched his features, fading as he continued. “Giano was full peeved that you three had escaped him, and when Jacopo told him that you’d taken the fugitives off to Yurevan, they were riding out after you before I could spit. I thought it odd they didn’t capture your friends on the road. You were easy enough to track at the beginning, but I never saw the priests behind you. They must have ridden straight through to Yurevan. When I lost you after Glyenna, I did the same, hoping to intercept you before you ran into them. I must have reached the house just as your servant girl was watching from the other side. It was just as she said.” His eyes clouded. “I’ve been a soldier. I’ve seen men do things . . . shared in things . . . no thinking creature should be capable of—as you well know—but that . . . There are no words to speak of it.”

  “Jaco was there?”

  “Yes.” Rowan cast a sidelong glance at me, grimaced, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Before I could go into the house to see if anyone was left alive, your gentleman friend rode in. He appeared to belong in the place, so I left matters to him. It was only later that I discovered that he was a man the law of Leire believes to be dead.”

  Blood rushed to my face. “You won’t—”

  “Father Arot and his sons do not grant us life beyond death,” he said without changing expression. “How could an ignorant village sheriff contradict the gods?”

  I breathed again, and he continued. “I wandered in circles for half a day, hoping to warn you, but I ended up back at the house. When I let myself in, I found only the dead man. I couldn’t leave him like that, so I buried him in the orchard. That’s probably when I lost the button—the damning evidence.”

  And then he had followed us to Yurevan and tried to save us from the fire. “How did you know we survived the fire, and how did you follow us here?”

  “You’ve not guessed it?” He stepped to the door and waved his hand. The slim young man I had seen sitting on the fence sauntered down the road toward us. Only it wasn’t a young man; it was a young woman who could find any herb, no matter how rare—Rowan’s friend with a knack for following people. Kellea.

  “This must be worth a story,” I said.

  Kellea offered no greeting when she stepped through the door, nor would she sit when Rowan pulled out a stool for her. He remained standing as well.

  Rowan glanced over at Baglos. The Dulcé had looked up when Kellea walked in and then quickly returned to his own thoughts, eyes fixed on his cup, though it was long drained. “I wasn’t sure what was happening in that house,” said the sheriff, “or even whether the ones who attacked were your friends or enemies, but I saw the girl creeping out of an alleyway down the road from the burning house, covered in soot and blood, and decided to ask her. She had no more use for me than you ever did. I foolishly tried to persuade her that I was a friend of yours.”

  “And that did you no good,” I said. Kellea’s sour look told me nothing had changed on that score.

  “She insisted that she’d as soon kill you as look at you, which pleased me in a way, since it told me you were still
alive. She got away from me, and for a most of a week she led me a merry chase over half of Valleor. When I finally caught her, it took several days of disagreement for us to come to a truce. I told her what I’d seen, and why I thought we needed to help you fight these priests. She knew your friend, the professor. Eventually, she took pity on my ignorance and told me your guests’ story, and something of the history her grandmother had taught her, and how it all fits together. I don’t understand it all, but the business got stranger yet again when I tried to figure out where you’d got off to after the fire. She hadn’t bothered to mention that she was herself one of . . . these sorcerers . . . and she let me spend three days chasing my own tail before telling me that she could find anyone if given enough to go on. She just needed to be in a place where you’d been. So I took her to that charcoal burner’s—”

  “You knew about that?”

  “I followed you there from Yurevan the afternoon before the fire. Your sturdy friend never left off his watch long enough for me to speak to you. I thought it odd he spent the whole night making fires and letting them go out again. It was several hours of watching before I realized he had no flint . . .” Rowan’s expression was subtle as always. Awe might rob him of words, but it left only a crease in his brow and a slight shake of his head to reveal its depth.

  Outside the open door children squealed with laughter. Something—a rock or a ball—thumped against the side of the house, and Marika’s quiet command shooed the giggling group farther away. So much to consider. I mouthed some feeble apology for Rowan’s injury and my misjudgment of his motives. To say more would be to acknowledge that somehow the honor of a man sworn to exterminate a race was worthy of respect. I could not yet bring myself to do that. But he had surely earned my gratitude. His dogged pursuit had brought me exactly what I needed.