Her lips moved, but she did not dare say the names out loud, hardly dared to think them: Dyonas. Camhóinhann. No sign of Goezenou.
Realizing that they risked being seen, she and the Prince drew back into the embrasure, and Ruan silently closed the casement.
“They have ways of speaking with each other across great distances,” she whispered. Edging out of the alcove, Sindérian rested her head and shoulders against the wall between two windows. “Goe—the one that we saw in Tregna must have told those down below that we were heading this way. They came here for the express purpose of instigating Dreyde’s treachery, and he—either for fear or a desire to please—was ready to be of use to them. But what can it mean: three of them traveling through Mere?”
“Have we not already guessed where they are going, what they intend? And they are likely to arrive long before we do. Even when we find our way out of this hellish maze—”
Just then, they heard footsteps crossing the hall, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The Prince bit back the last of his sentence, and he and Sindérian dived back into the embrasure. There they waited breathlessly, wondering whether they had already been spotted.
As the sound of boots hitting the polished floor came even nearer, accompanied by a low murmur of voices, a rattle of spurs, Ruan’s right hand went to the hilt of his sword. He drew it out so slowly that it slipped almost silently past the silver guard at the top—only a whisper of metal against metal.
The voices and footsteps came louder and closer. Ruan’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword—then he relaxed his grip and most of the tension flowed out of his body. He knew those voices.
Two men walked past a stone column and into view: one short, dark, compact, and vigorous; the other taller and sturdier, with streaks of grey in his brown hair and beard. But the Prince stiffened again when a third figure entered his line of vision and he realized that Aell and Jago were not alone.
Ruan’s sword flashed up, light from the windows glancing off the blade as it descended in a perfect arc—stopping scant inches above the stranger’s head when Aell cried out, “A friend. He is a friend, Lord Prince. A friend.”
Ruan’s sword hovered in midair.
“One of your own people,” Jago insisted earnestly. “Hear him out, I beg you, Lord. He says he can be of use to us.”
Reluctantly, the Prince lowered his sword. Still glaring at the Ni-Ferys squire, he drove the blade back into its sheath. “Not one of my people,” he said under his breath. “But I will hear him. We have need of friends in this place, I suppose—even such friends as this.”
The stranger smiled, a wry little smile, and a challenging look passed between him and Ruan.
“Gilrain Worricker of Airey,” he said, with a flourishing bow. “You do have friends in this place, as well as enemies. Or at least, there are those here who have no wish to serve Ouriána of Phaôrax in any way, and who would be glad to do her an ill turn. If you will permit me, I will show you the swiftest and fastest way out of Saer.”
Sindérian hooked a long strand of sweaty dark hair behind her ear. “And why should we trust you, having already been betrayed by Lord Dreyde?”
“Discounting the assistance I have already given your friends? I venture to say that you have little choice. The luck has been with you so far; you have been very fortunate to elude capture. But how much longer do you suppose your luck will continue? Yet I know this castle as few others know it; I can guide you to safety by secret ways.”
Aell and Jago became vociferous in support of their new friend, but the Prince remained hostile.
“If it will aid you in making a decision,” said Gilrain, “I will tell you that the treachery at Saer goes farther—and yet began closer to home—than you may imagine. Those who loved Lord Goslin have no cause to love Dreyde.”
Sindérian passed a hand over her face. White-lipped and red-eyed, she swayed where she stood, and Ruan threw out a hand to steady her. Her face was streaked with tears and smudged with dirt; her hands shook with fatigue; yet there was something indomitable about her.
“I say let us accept help when it is offered,” she said in a cracked voice. “Let us be out of this place as soon as possible.”
The Prince shot the stranger another burning glance. “Very well,” he said, the words forced out between clenched teeth. “Take us out of this place, and swiftly.”
They followed Gilrain out of the hall—first the Prince, then Sindérian, then the men-at-arms. Moving at a breathless pace, the Ni-Ferys took them through a doorway, down a short corridor, and up a wooden staircase, to the chamber where they had first met Lord Dreyde. There he flung aside one of the tapestries on the wall, exposing a hidden door.
“Quickly now,” he said, throwing the door open on a dark passageway, motioning the others to pass through. “The light is growing. I can take you past the walls without being seen, but if Dreyde sends men out into the countryside looking for you, they will have no difficulty tracking you down by daylight.”
The Ni-Ferys took them by way of a series of tunnels and cellars, by a passage so low that they were forced to crawl through the filth and the stench of what must be a drain or a sewer, and finally out through a narrow culvert and a rotting iron grate—to a wooded glade beneath the northern wall. They had come (he said) to the other side of the hill from the gatehouse, to rising country above the valley.
There appeared to be adequate cover in this direction, but the morning was by then so far advanced and the light so broad, they would have to go quietly and cautiously, and trust to their guide to lead them aright. Somewhere along the way—the Prince was not sure exactly when, or how it came about—it had been tacitly agreed that Gilrain would continue to show them the way, even though he had only promised to see them beyond the walls.
They followed a narrow path between the trees. After the long night of heartache and peril, it seemed very peaceful, very safe, in the bright wood. The growth there was mostly oak and ilem and beech, dappling the ground with lacy patterns of light and shade. The canopy of green-gold leaves rustled with wings; and every now and then there came a trill of birdsong.
They kept on at a steady pace for perhaps another two miles, until Gilrain indicated it would be safe to stop and rest for a bit. Sindérian threw herself down in the soft leaf mold under a great oak tree, and the others did likewise.
“There is a village called Brill, little more than a league and a half from here,” said the Ni-Ferys, “where I am known, and the people are trustworthy. There we can get horses, food—whatever we need.”
Sindérian knit her fingers together, rested her forehead on the back of her hands. “If you know someplace closer where we can lie hidden until nightfall, someplace we can rest…? If any of Saer’s men should overtake us between here and this village of yours, what could we do as we are now?”
The Prince opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his tongue. For himself, his Ni-Féa pride said to keep on going, show no weakness, but his half-Human flesh was weak, and almost fordone.
He looked at each of his companions in turn. Aell and Jago were wan, shadow-eyed, exhausted. As for Sindérian, if she could even stand again and try to stagger on, that was a wonder.
He had a dim memory of Elidûc saying once, in a time of crisis, that he was borrowing strength from the next fortnight. Whether the wizard had meant this literally, or whether he was being facetious, Ruan had an idea that Sindérian was drawing on resources better left untapped. Every step she took now, every effort expended, would have to be paid for later.
All this being so, only a fool would insist on continuing for another four or five miles.
“I know of a place,” said Gilrain. “A cave in these hills. But if we decide to go there, I think we should go at once.”
Slowly and reluctantly they climbed to their feet and plodded on. Gilrain took them through a cleft between the hills, past a rocky ravine tangled with blackberry bramble and shepherd’s ivy, and at last to
a ferny green dell with a swift-running stream, a deep black pool, and a glittering waterfall.
Without a word, they all fell down on their knees by the stream, dousing faces and hands in the cool clear water, bringing up double handfuls to drink, and to drink again.
They drank their fill, then washed away as much of the dirt and the sweat as they could. With a sigh, Sindérian sat back on her heels, pushing damp tendrils of hair back from a white, glistening face. Droplets of water glimmered in Jago’s brown beard. Everyone turned toward Gilrain, waiting for further instructions
“Behind the falls,” he said, “there is a cave. Very few people know of its existence. And as there is only a single narrow way in, it ought to be highly defensible. If one of us keeps watch at all times, we should be safe enough there.”
He showed them how they might enter: standing with his back to a wall of sun-warmed stone, and edging sideways along a mossy shelf until he passed behind the waterfall. Following after him, the Prince and the rest soon found themselves in a damp cool place, where the clamorous voice of the falls was very loud, and only a dim misty light filtered in through the veiling water.
There they cast themselves down on the rough cave floor, and disposed themselves to rest. Ruan himself had no intention of sleeping—he meant to spend the next few hours gathering his strength, and covertly watching their new friend. But the cave was spinning around him, his eyelids were very heavy, and the dark tide of sleep was not to be resisted; despite his struggles to stay awake, it carried him off into oblivion.
14
Sindérian woke on the floor of the cave, every muscle and joint aching after so many hours on that stony couch. It was a struggle even to sit up, she had grown so stiff. She sat for a long time with her knees drawn up and her head in her hands, taking short shallow breaths, until she finally summoned the will to stagger to her feet.
A little red sunset glow came in through the waterfall, and she saw that Gilrain had already been out to gather windfall and kindle a tiny fire at the back of the cave. Joining the Prince and his men, she held her stiff white hands over the little yellow flames, cherishing the warmth. That offered scant relief against the ache and the chill, but frozen muscles gradually began to thaw, and the pain subsided to a dull throb.
As soon as the sunset faded, Gilrain stamped out his fire. They left the cave, feeling their way in the dark along the slippery ledge under the waterfall, and came out into a bright moonlit night.
For Sindérian, trudging along at the tail end of the party, the five miles they walked to the village of Brill felt like a hundred. The previous night she had been alternately numb and terrified. Now she was thoroughly alive to the shock and the pain of Faolein’s death, the grief every bit as fresh and sharp as it had been when she first held the crystal arrow in the palm of her hand and knew how it had been used.
Her thoughts were a tangle of regrets and resentment: My father who I never knew or understood as I ought, fool that I was—gone now, and I can never make it up to him. My gentle, kindly father, who loved me much better than I ever deserved—We needed more time, more time!
All the while, her joints still ached. She might have managed a shibéath to ease the pain, but she lacked the strength to help the others, too, and she made up her mind it must be all or none. Miserable as she was, she pitied the men in their armor, which must torment them a hundred different ways, they had been wearing it and sleeping in it for so many days and nights. Well did she know how it could chafe and pinch and gouge, having treated such hurts during the war in Rheithûn. They must be cursing its weight and the discomfort it caused with every step.
Meanwhile, her own discomfort continued to increase. The soles of the dainty red leather shoes she had been given at Saer were full of holes; they were worn to rags, worse than useless. The fur lining chafed at blisters on her heels. With a grunt of disgust, she dropped down suddenly to the ground, tugged off the shoes, and threw them under a bush. Then she stumbled back to her feet and walked on barefoot.
She had long since discarded the silken belt with its chiming golden medallions; dropping it down an air shaft while she and the Prince were still prowling through the fortress; now she wished she might be rid of the heavy, impractical gown as well. It had an annoying tendency to catch on rocks and twigs and trip her up. Again and again she tore herself loose from a bush or a branch, reckless of the fine velvet, the rich sable trim. It had been ruined anyway, she reflected sourly, when she crawled through the drain.
They came down out of the hills and into a flat, wooded country. A narrow road led through the forest and straight on to the village, said Gilrain. The road was of hard-packed earth, less rocky than the ground they had been walking for the last three miles, and far kinder to Sindérian’s bruised feet.
They had not gone far when Ruan cried out that he could hear hoofbeats on the road behind them. Caught without a plan, they scattered in five directions, and took cover in the bushes under the trees.
Sindérian lay with her face pressed against the damp, leafy earth. Twiggy branches tangled in her hair; thorns scratched her bare feet. A large company of mounted men rode by at a brisk pace not ten feet away, and the ground shook beneath them. A momentary panic took her. She closed her eyes, breathed in and breathed out, struggling for control. She had supposed she was beyond feeling fear, beyond caring what happened to her, but why then this sick excitement, this trembling in every limb?
As the clatter of the horses and riders gradually died, everyone slowly emerged from hiding. Prince Ruan brushed leaf mold off his cloak. He had blood on his face, Sindérian noted, and Jago’s hands were badly scratched. She had not been the only one to take refuge in a thornbush.
“There is a fork in the road a little farther on,” said Gilrain. “Let us listen and hear which way they go.”
To Sindérian’s ears the night was silent, except for a whisper of wind in the trees, the pounding of her own heart. But the two Faey stood alert and listening.
“North,” said Ruan, after a moment. “They turned north.”
“And the village lies east of here,” said Gilrain. “Let us continue on.”
Sindérian fell into step beside him. She felt strangely exhilarated after her recent fright, more alert to her surroundings, the woodland sounds and scents—more aware of her companions, too.
She had thought when she first met Gilrain that he was a full-blooded Faey, but now, walking beside him shoulder to shoulder, she realized that could not be true. He was not so tall as Prince Ruan, not even as tall as she was, but tall enough at least to betray Human ancestry. Nor was he quite so graceful in his proportions as the Ni-Ferys she had seen at Tregna.
Half-breed like the Prince, she thought. Maybe even less.
And for the first time she began to wonder what helping them was likely to cost him. “What will happen to you after we part company at Brill?”
He hesitated, gave her a sidelong glance out of his yellow eyes. “I have friends I can go to. Or, if you wish, I might continue to guide you. I am much older than I appear.” He flashed her a smile. “A trait hardly likely to raise comment in this company. And I am well traveled. I know all the back country of Mere and Hythe and Weye, the best roads through the Cadmin Aernan. The high passes will be open this time of year, and you would not find it a difficult or a dangerous journey with the proper guide.”
Sindérian drew in her breath, felt a butterfly pulse of fear in her throat. “Why should you think we are heading for the Cadmin Aernan?”
“You need not worry. Your business in the north was not known at Saer. But that you and Dreyde’s visitors from Phaôrax are all heading north and east—to Skyrra, perhaps, or Arkenfell—that much is evident. Also that some great matter hangs on who should arrive there first. With me to guide you it is not too late, you might still win that race. Will you have me?”
She was much inclined to accept this offer, but she shook her head. “It is not for me to decide…or not me alone. I will spe
ak with Prince Ruan, though I am very much afraid that he won’t like it.”
The village of Brill is a scattered settlement, which has stood for time out of mind at the edge of the Foweraker Wood. Cottages of stone and slate, of wattle and daub, of wood and thatch, cluster on either side of a trickling stream, straggle for a half mile down the road, and encroach on the forest. There is a small village green with a well and a fountain, where geese and smaller fowl drink and dabble during the day, and in addition to these amenities, Brill boasts a smithy, a craft hall, and an ancient temple to the Seven Fates. In those days, there was a high earthen dike on the eastern side, and a low thorny hedge surrounding most of the houses. That was all the defense that they had.
It was to the blacksmith—the headman of the village and its most prosperous citizen—that Gilrain meant to appeal for aid. While the others waited in the darkness under the trees, he went on ahead to the forge. Sindérian could see him quite plainly in the pale moonglow, moving toward a square two-story building, with that light feline step that reminded her so much of Prince Ruan.
She saw him raise his hand and knock on the door, but the sound was absorbed by distance and a rustling of leaves over her head. A door opened, letting out a beam of yellow firelight; a shadowy broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted on the threshold. What words were exchanged, Sindérian did not know, but she saw a large friendly hand come down on Gilrain’s shoulder, saw him nod once, twice, then a third time, before turning around and heading back toward the trees.
“Dreyde’s men have searched the village twice already,” said Gilrain when he drew near enough to speak. “Once at noon, and again shortly before sunset. They are not expected back, and the smith says that he and his people will be willing to help us.”
The Hidden Stars Page 21