The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “We can see to that without gold. I shall leave them most of the cloth they weave, and when they discover that, I doubt not they shall weave more. As to their houses, if I require fewer days of labor on my own fields and castle, they shall have more time to repair their cottages.”

  “Hovels” would have been a better term, but Kitishane wasn't about to discourage a worthy goal.

  The king turned to Illbane. “How shall I protect them now, though? My enchanted armor is gone.”

  “Your people must become your armor,” the sage said sternly, “and you must work your body back into hard readiness. As to the rest, you still have the knowledge of strategy and tactics the Ulin gave you, and his enchanted sword. Build loyalty from your peasants again, and you shall be still the scourge of bandits and barbarians both, the terror of the marches.”

  “There is hope there,” the king admitted. “With Malconsay gone, there is hope.”

  “And what of the wife he chose for you?” Lua asked, her voice low.

  “Aye.” Culaehra lifted the chest—and stared, amazed at its heaviness. The two guardsmen who had brought it stared at him in amazement considerably greater, though, then began to eye him with fear. Culaehra shouldered it, grunting with annoyance, and said, “Your wife will be wroth when she discovers this is gone.”

  The king gave a mirthless smile. “She will not wish to return to this provincial kingdom when she can dwell at the court of the High King. If you come this way again, look to see the lot of the folk much improved.”

  But when they were out on the road again, Kitishane said, “His wife will not remain at court if Malconsay is dead or discarded.”

  Illbane looked up, eyes glittering with approval. “Truly said. How do you know it?”

  “I do not know it, I guess it,” she said tartly, “and the reason is simple: the wife is Bolenkar's creature as much as Malconsay was, or the steward would never have chosen her.”

  Lua gave a cry of dismay. “What will be the king's fate?”

  “If we come this way again,” Illbane said somberly, “we shall discover that he is either a widower, or she a widow.”

  “Then let us not come this way again!”

  Yocote looked up at a sudden thought. “Might not the captains of the soldiers be Malconsay's creatures, too?”

  Illbane nodded with a slight smile.

  Yocote whirled about, gesturing and chanting, and only just in time, for flowers of fire blossomed in the air as the arrows fired at their backs burst into flame.

  “I thought you would never guess it,” Illbane said, and to Culaehra, “You really should go armored in this world.”

  “Yes, I should,” Culaehra said, shaken, then to Yocote, “I thank you, friend.”

  “My pleasure,” Yocote said dryly. “Let me see, now—you have saved my life twice, and I yours twice.”

  “I shall have to work to get ahead again,” the warrior grunted. He glanced at Lua, then gazed at Kitishane as he said, “And I thank you, too, my friends.”

  “But we did nothing,” Kitishane protested, and Lua echoed, “Nothing.”

  “No, only held off a score of armed men long enough for Yocote to cast a spell that stopped them,” Culaehra said. “Be sure, you strengthened me amazingly, if for no other reason than that I knew you were there to guard my back.”

  “Accept his thanks,” Illbane advised, “for you have all done well, even better than you knew.” He looked from one to the other, his smile broad enough to part his beard. “Yes, you have done very well.”

  Kitishane felt her spirit glow within her at the praise, and scolded herself for letting a man's opinion matter to her. To hide it, she said tartly, “What of you, Illbane? Why did you do no more than speak to the king and his steward, and counter Malconsay?”

  “Because you were quite able to do all the rest yourselves, as you proved,” Illbane told her. “As to Malconsay, you were not yet proficient enough to deal with him—but now that you have seen the way of it, you will be, if you let Kitishane speak the words and Yocote work the spells.”

  Kitishane suddenly felt much less sure of herself, but Yocote said, “You have an uncommon amount of faith in us, Illbane.”

  “Why yes,” Illbane said. “I do, do I not?” But he could not keep the pride from his voice.

  Culaehra's breath came hard; he leaned against the straps Yocote had rigged to hold the treasure chest, and his face was pale.

  “Let us take a turn bearing it, Culaehra,” Kitishane urged for the tenth time. “Illbane and I can—”

  “No!” Culaehra sounded angrier than he meant; the weight was a constant irritation. “It is my burden, and I shall bear it!”

  Lua's eyes filled with tears behind her goggles; she lifted up a hand, but Illbane forestalled her. “He shall bear it himself no matter what we say, gnome-maid. Do not fear, he shall not need to carry it much longer.”

  “Why?” Culaehra demanded, frowning.

  “You shall see at the crest of this hill.” Illbane strode ahead of them to forestall any more questions. Culaehra glared at his back, at his ease of movement unencumbered, not noticing the stiffness of his joints.

  Illbane gained the top of the hill only a few minutes ahead of them and stood waiting, leaning on his staff. As they came to the crest, he pointed, and they looked, then stared, for none of them had ever seen a body of water so big that they could not see the other side.

  “How huge is that lake?” Kitishane asked, awed.

  “A thousand miles across, and its water is salty,” Illbane told her. “It is an ocean, not a lake.”

  Yocote's nose twitched. “What is that tang to the air?”

  “The salt I spoke of, scattered to the air and borne by the breeze,” Illbane told him. “We need not go a thousand miles, though—only across the bay that lies before us, a journey of a hundred miles.”

  “I must carry this chest so far as that?” Culaehra cried.

  “No, Culaehra—you need only carry it down to the ship that we will board.” Illbane pointed and, looking, they saw boats with tall masts beside a collection of houses along the shore. “It will take us to a town behind which mountains rise. We need only walk a dozen miles from that farther shore—but nine of those miles are uphill, and steep.”

  Culaehra groaned at the thought, but said stoutly, “I will be glad of the rest aboard ship.”

  “We must guard this chest closely, then,” Kitishane said, frowning.

  “We must indeed,” Illbane agreed. “Yocote, it is time you learned how to do without sleep.”

  “About time indeed,” the gnome returned. “Culaehra had to learn months ago!”

  The big warrior gave him a whetted glance, but the gnome didn't notice—he had already started on the downward path.

  Illbane found an inn, and left Culaehra in a private room with Kitishane and Lua while he took Yocote out to find a ship. The big man glared blackly about him the whole time, as if he expected the walls to erupt thieves or the door to burst open to admit a dozen bandits. The women did the best they could to distract him with lighthearted talk, but it was a losing battle— so, what with one thing and another, they were very glad when Illbane and Yocote returned to summon them aboard ship.

  “We must hurry, for the ship sails on the tide, whatever that is,” Yocote told them.

  Illbane took a large, empty leather pack from under his cloak.

  “Large enough to hold the chest, Culaehra, and then some, though we shall have to pack spare clothing around it to hide its shape.”

  “An excellent thought!” The big man hefted the chest. Lua quickly folded some cloth into the bottom of the new pack, and Culaehra set the chest in after it. He straightened up with considerable relief. “That will be easier to carry.”

  “Yes, and well-disguised,” Kitishane pointed out.

  Culaehra nodded as he swung the huge pack onto his back. “Aye. No sense in announcing to one and all that we have a small, very heavy chest, is there?” The pack s
ettled into place, and a look of surprise came over his face. “It is lighter.”

  “Only a mild little spell,” Yocote said uncomfortably. “Walk braced for sudden weight, Culaehra—I am still quite new to this.”

  “The relief is vastly appreciated,” Culaehra assured him, “even if it does grow heavy again.”

  But he remained moody as they walked the streets of the little port with the tall masts ever before them. Kitishane eyed him uneasily and finally asked, “What troubles you, companion?”

  “Your forgiveness!” Culaehra blurted. “How can you overlook what I tried to do to you, Kitishane? How can any of you?”

  Kitishane shivered as the memory returned and drew a little away from him. “I do not think of it, Culaehra. You have changed so much that you scarcely seem to be the same man. I think of you separately from the stinking woods-runner who brought me down.”

  Culaehra winced at the words, but did not even feel an urge to retort. “Then I am a fool to remind you of it. You are too good for me to understand, Kitishane—you, and Lua, too.”

  “But not Yocote?”

  Culaehra shrugged. “He is a man, like me—and I have no illusions. He would cheerfully summon a tree to fall on me if he did not think he would need me to save his life again.”

  But the gnome heard, and his head swiveled about to stare with eyes hidden by his goggles. “Do you truly think so, Culaehra?” he asked with a frown. “Well, so.” He turned about and strode beside the sage again.

  Following, Culaehra watched him, frowning. He had to admit that the gnome had not had to make his load lighter; it would not ensure his being able to help Yocote when needed. He fell back a pace so that he could watch all his companions from the back as he followed them, pondering the riddle of human goodness. By the time they reached the ship, he had almost begun to believe in it.

  “Quickly, board!” The captain waved them up impatiently. “Quickly, ere we miss the tide!”

  They hurried, though Culaehra's stomach roiled at the way the gangplank swayed beneath his weight. Two sailors hauled it in the second he was aboard. “Settle yourselves against the side of the pilothouse,” the captain ordered, then turned to stride away down the deck, yelling something about casting off, though he didn't say what they should cast, and something more about cracking on sail.

  Culaehra lowered his pack to the floor gratefully and sank down beside it. “Do you understand one word of what they are saying, Illbane?”

  “I understand 'off,' 'on,' and 'the,' “ the sage told him. “The sailors have their own language, and I have never been to sea long enough to learn it.”

  Culaehra looked up, interested to hear the old man admit to not knowing some definite thing.

  Kitishane leaned closer and muttered, “Do not sailors think it is unlucky to let a woman on board?”

  “The deep-water sailors do,” Illbane told her, “the ones who sail out of sight of land for a stretch of weeks or even months, when there is time for them to work up fights over a woman's smile. But these coasters, who are out of sight of land for only a day or two at a time, have no such dread. Indeed, they make too much money carrying passengers to be able to afford such belief's, for many of those passengers are female.”

  The wind filled the sails above them, and the ship began to glide out toward the horizon. Yocote hopped with excitement. “Bear me up on your shoulder, Culaehra, I pray you! I can see so little down here!”

  “I wish to see less,” Lua moaned, burrowing against Kitishane—but her human friend only gathered her close as she, too, stood, looking out at the vast sheet of water with shining eyes.

  “Do look, Lua!” Yocote cried from his perch on Culaehra's shoulder. “It is amazing! I never even thought to see nothing but water and sky! There is so much!”

  Lua lifted her head for a quick peek, then stilled, staring through her goggles. The sight was amazing indeed.

  “Drink it in while the daylight lasts,” Illbane said. “Brace your feet wide, and hold onto whatever piece of the ship comes to hand, for we will rock like a babe in a cradle.”

  Culaehra and Kitishane caught at the nearest piece of wood or the ropes that wrapped about them, and just in time, for the ship began to rock forward and backward like a trotting horse. Lua cried out in alarm, but the other companions only grinned with delight at the sensation.

  “When the light fails, we must set watches,” Illbane told them, “so that one will always be awake, even as we did in the forest.”

  Culaehra gathered that sailors were not entirely to be trusted. “I could not sleep anyway, Illbane.”

  “You must,” the sage said firmly, “or you will not be able to fight if need arises.”

  Culaehra could feel his fighting readiness rising at the words. Illbane really did not trust the sailors—but who could trust anyone, with a chest of gold about? Especially gold that rightfully belonged to a god!

  But no one tried to steal from them that night, though Kitishane and Culaehra took it in turns to stay awake and watch. Illbane and Yocote sat up all night, but sat in shamans' trances. Still, Culaehra knew from experience how alert they could be in such a state, and took comfort in the thought that of their party of five, there were three always on guard.

  Strangely, Illbane had allowed each of them only a few mouthfuls of bread and a gulp or two of water. In the morning, though, he fed them properly. “Why did you starve us last night, Illbane?” Lua asked.

  “Because I am new to shamanry,” Yocote answered for the sage, “and he needed to be sure the spell I cast against seasickness would hold.”

  “Since it has held well,” Illbane said, “you may all eat your fill,” and they did.

  They grew bored watching the sky and the sea that day, but Lua taught them games to play with the pebbles she had gathered. As the sun was lowering, though, an air of tension began to grow. Watching the sailors, Kitishane could almost see the apprehension thickening the air about them. As one passed near, she called out, “Goodman, is danger near?”

  He stopped and stared down at her as if wondering how much to tell. Finally he said, “There may be, lass. Do you see that island ahead and to port?”

  Kitishane looked. “Aye. What of it?”

  “Peaceful people dwelled there centuries ago—but a wild tribe came to these shores and, not content with the mainland, built boats and invaded the island, slaughtering all the peaceful folk who could not run fast enough. Those who could, fled to the shore, but found the invaders had chopped their boats into kindling, and left guards upon their own craft. The islanders tried to swim the strait, but the wild tribesmen came running down to the shore and shot them with arrows, then took to their boats and rowed out among them, shooting as they went, even spearing the peaceful folk like fish. In despair, some of the islanders managed to grapple gunwales and overturn the invaders' boats, but they, too, drowned. At last, when all were dead by iron or dead by water, the invaders moved into the islanders' cottages and held their own drunken festival of victory. But the drowned bodies rose to the surface, blue with cold, and their ghosts reentered them. They swam back to the island, where they found the invaders all too drunk to stand, and slew them with their own swords. Then they went back to their graves at the bottom of the strait, but it is said that ever and anon they come up to test the virtue of sailors, and if they find them wicked, drive their ships upon the rocks to wreck them. Then they drag the seamen down beneath the waves, to drown.”

  Yocote and Kitishane shuddered, and Lua stared at the sailor in fright. “If you know this, why do you sail through this strait?”

  “There is a riptide on the far side of the island; this is a far safer route, and a shorter one, if one wishes to sail across this bay to the harbors on the far shore. Besides, the Blue People rarely rise, and even then have been known to spare ships. It may be years, or even decades, between their last rising and the next.”

  Culaehra turned to Illbane. “Is this true?”

  The sage shrugged i
n irritation. “It may be. There are many strange things in this world that I know not of, Culaehra.”

  Culaehra stared at him for a moment, then turned away, feeling gratified that Illbane was not infallible.

  “What shall we do, then?” Kitishane asked.

  “Hope the Blue People do not rise,” Illbane said simply.

  “What if they do?” Culaehra felt the beginnings of dread pooling within him.

  “Hope that they declare us virtuous.”

  Culaehra had little hope of that.

  The ship moved onward, but the wind slackened and the sailors began to mutter fearfully.

  “To your oars!” the captain barked. “Have you never seen a wind die before?”

  The men went to the six benches that lined the gunwales and unshipped long, long oars. They set them in thole pins and began to row. The ship moved on into the strait, but slowly, slowly. The wind died completely.

  “They come!” A sailor shot to his feet, pointing; his mate caught his forgotten oar just in time to keep it from slipping away.

  The companions turned to look. Behind the ship, all along its wake, dark heads were breaking the surface. A few had even begun to set up small wakes of their own, arms rising and falling as they swam after the ship.

  “Row!” the captain howled. “For your lives, row!”

  The sailors bent to their oars in a frenzy, but they lost the beat, and oars clashed and tangled. They lost precious minutes in freeing their blades.

  “Together!” the captain bellowed. “One! Two! Three! Four! Bend! Push! Rise! Pull! Bend! Two! Three! Four!”

  “They rise ahead, too!” Lua cried. She had climbed to the pilothouse rail and stood, pointing a trembling finger.

  The ship rocked and came to a shuddering halt. Culaehra ran to the side to look down and forward. Blue faces looked back up at him all along the side of the ship; blue arms rose from the water, pushing against the side.

  “Ship your oars!” the captain cried.

  The sailors tried, but called back, “We cannot!” “They are stuck!” “The Blue People are holding them fast!”

  Three sailors moaned, dropping their oars, and raised arms in prayer.