Rhodry did so, down the long corridor, round a corner, up a narrow flight of stairs and out onto a landing. Opposite them stood an oak door, bound in iron and carved with birds and twining bands of interlace in a loose and wandering style that Rhodry had never seen before.
“In there,” the woman said.
She turned and shuffled off down the stairs, leaving him alone with his guttering candle end for light. Hospitable lot, Rhodry thought to himself. He pushed the door open and found himself in a chamber some twenty feet on a side, with its own hearth at one end and a big window, overlooking the lake, on the other. He set the candle holder down on a little table and looked round—luxury indeed, a bed with embroidered hangings, big carved chests, a round table with two cushioned chairs. His pack and bedroll lay by the hearth. All at once he realized that he wasn’t alone. Angmar was sitting in the window seat, so quietly that he’d never noticed her at first.
“This chamber,” she said. “Does it suit you better?”
“It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Then it suits me better than any chamber I’ve seen in years and years.”
She smiled but sat unmoving, watching him as he crossed the room and sat beside her. When he glanced out, he could see far across the lake to the hills, black against a starry sky.
“I’ll have to leave here as soon as ever I can,” Rhodry said. “Whether I want to go or no.”
“I do know that.”
“Well and good, then.”
When he put his arms round her, she turned toward him and reached up, kissing him openmouthed before he could kiss her. With one hand he untied the thong, and her hair spilled round her shoulders and over his fingers, soft as silk thread.
5
CARCER
An evil figure to the extreme, unless it fall into the House of Salt. Under that crystal presidency it does bode most well for the burying of treasures gained by some unseemly means and the concealing of secrets best left hidden from the light of day.
The Omenbook of Gwarn, Loremaster
ONE OF THE SEVEN worst setbacks in war, Meer would later call it: a surprise attack. When the siege began, it came faster than Jill had ever imagined. On a sunny morning she’d just returned from flying and settled into her tower room when she saw a messenger come riding in the gates. Hurriedly she dressed and rushed down to the great hall, coming in to find the gwerbret conferring at the table of honor with all of his servitors, who clustered grim-faced over a letter spread out on the table. Next to the chamberlain the scribe hovered, looking pale, as if he’d just read some hateful thing—which in fact he had. Lord Tren had replied at last, a message that came perilously close to demanding rather than asking that Cadmar turn his dead brother’s holdings over to him.
“I shall ride to Cengarn soon but on my own terms,” Jill read out the ending. “Let us hope this matter has a quick settlement.”
“No courtesies, no title, naught,” the equerry sputtered. “The gall of the man!”
“Worse than gall,” the chamberlain said. “I think me that this sounds dangerous.”
“I agree,” Jill said. “Your Grace, do you think that the time’s come for alerting the countryside and your lords and suchlike?”
“I do indeed.” He turned to the equerry. “My lord, see to it.” And to the chamberlain. “How well provisioned is the dun?”
“It could be better, Your Grace. The harvest’s still coming in.”
“But here, Your Grace,” the equerry broke in. “Even with his brother’s men joined to his own, Lord Tren could never siege Cengarn.”
“I’m well mindful of that, my lord. But what if he joined up with these other enemies of ours? Some new thing’s made him arrogant, hasn’t it?”
The equerry swore under his breath in agreement. All at once Jill saw what she should have seen weeks ago, or so she remonstrated with herself, a thing that seemed blindingly obvious now that, at last, she had seen it.
“I’ve been a dolt and a lackwit,” she said, surprised at how quiet her voice sounded. “Your Grace, how long ago was this letter written? How far away is Tren’s dun?”
“Close to two days ride, straight north.” The gwerbret had swiveled round to stare at her in something like fear. “Jill, what—”
“The situation’s grave, Your Grace. Our enemies could be upon us at any moment. They could fall upon us like dweomer, because dweomer is exactly what they’ve been using.”
“What? Are they invisible? It’s going to be a task straight from the Third Hell, fighting invisible enemies.”
“Nah nah nah—naught so bad as that! You’ll see them plain enough when they ride off the end of their dweomer road and appear under your walls. Your Grace, there’s not a moment to lose. Alert the countryside, send for your lords, I beg you—do whatever needs to be done!”
Jill turned and ran for the door of the great hall. Although she feared a direct outpouring of the army near the town itself, the letter had implied that Lord Tren would be joining the force before it struck. Thus there was a chance that Alshandra’s minions had brought their army out of Evandar’s country at Tren’s dun and were planning on riding an ordinary road down to Cengarn. If so, she’d be able to scout them out in the falcon shape and bring back some solid information. She ducked into the side broch, climbed the staircase as fast as she could, then rushed into her chamber and barred the door. Panting for breath, and stripping off her clothes as she moved, she walked over to the window. Already, down in the ward, men of the warband were hurrying toward the stables—messengers, no doubt, to rouse the countryside.
As soon as she’d quieted her racing heart, Jill transformed herself into the falcon. As she leapt from the window and flew, she heard a strange noise jangling and booming over Cengarn. Since her senses were bound to the perceptions of the etheric plane, it took her a moment to recognize the sound of temple bells, ringing out an alarum for the town and for all the farmers round about. Down below, the streets and houses, seen from the etheric in full morning light, looked grotesquely dead, all black and gray as if they were carved from shadow made palpable. Among them she saw the auras of the townsfolk swarming about, rushing here and there, some to man the gates, some toward the dun itself. Others milled and bobbed about the streets or clumped in the open spaces, moving aimlessly like particles of flour move, sprinkled on a bowl of water.
Before she headed north she swung out wide, taking a turn south and east over the settled farmlands, where she saw, among the reddish auras of field and forest, the same orderly panic. Already a few farmers were driving herds of cows, judging from the size of the yellow horizontal auras, toward the city. Behind them trudged women, leading children and pushing handcarts. Warned for weeks now, the people were ready to move. In that she could take what comfort she could, and truly, there was little else she could have done to improve their lot. Even if she’d thought of the mothers of all roads that ran through Evandar’s country and had remembered earlier that Alshandra had the same access to them as Evandar himself, the town never could have sheltered the surrounding farmers, with all their families and livestock, for these last weeks of waiting. Things would soon be bad enough inside the walls as it was.
North of Cengarn lay very little but wild hills. As she flew steadily over the dirt track that did for a road north, Jill saw only a pair of shepherds and their dogs, driving a small flock toward the town. Beyond that lay wilderness, forest and stream, boulders and hill, unrolling under the unnatural speed of the falcon’s huge wings. Even though the wind blew in her favor, Jill wondered if she could fly the entire thirty miles or so to Tren’s dun and still return safely in a single day. Fortunately her long weeks of scouting had built up her physical strength to some extent, but she was still, underneath, an old woman trusting in the unnatural vitality of the dweomer rather than to sound muscle and bone.
The sun was just past its zenith when she saw, far ahead at the edge of her view, the clearings in the forest mark
ing the first fields of the late Matyc’s demesne. His brother’s lands lay to the east, the chamberlain had told her. She let her right wing dip, began to turn, beating a little in a gust of wind, and saw far below her the raven. Even from her height she could tell that it was much too big to be an ordinary bird. Like a real raven it flew low, swooping over the cleared fields as if it were feeding on gleaned grain,while, like a real falcon, Jill could fly high enough to be virtually invisible.
For a moment she hesitated, riding the wind while she debated. Even though her human instincts counseled mercy, here was a splendid chance to rid herself of a powerful enemy. On the other hand, attack would reveal her own existence, another mazrak on Cengarn’s side. Yet, once the siege began, she’d be forced to reveal herself, anyway, if, for instance, this enemy dweomermaster should think it could fly over the dun with impunity. The feathers on the back of her neck lifted in rage at the thought that some threat might fly over a place that the falcon instincts saw as her nest and endanger those that the falcon considered fledglings. Jill took her mark, stooped, and plunged.
Down the falcon plummeted, talons extended for a deadly thrust, with the rush of air singing round her like a war cry. All at once some avian instinct must have warned the mazrak below. The raven shrieked in sheer terror, flew and dodged barely in time, and began flapping madly north. Jill sheared off, turned, and rose again for another strike as the clumsy raven flew for its life, shrieking and cawing all the while. If some huntsman had watched, he would have seen an ordinary-seeming pair of birds, except for the size, and an ordinary enough pattern, one he’d seen a hundred times, of a determined falcon marking its panicked kill, stooping and plunging, barely missing while the exhausted raven dodged frantically and flapped northward.
When Jill rose again she knew that this time, she’d have the raven, just as a falcon will, in the end, wear down the wiliest of birds. Yet the raven suddenly steadied itself, collecting its human wits, most likely. Just as Jill plunged, it flew straight ahead—and disappeared. One moment it was there, flying in full sun over a field of ripe barley; the next it was gone, simply and completely gone. With a shriek of her own Jill broke off the stoop, flapped wildly for a moment,then turned and headed back south. She’d seen what she needed to, another mazrak, sure enough, and one that could fly into Evandar’s country and travel the mothers of all roads. Now she needed to make her own retreat. She had no illusions that she could best an enraged Alshandra, if the raven should bring her “goddess” back with her from the astral plane.
Jill flew off south, but just as she reached the forest edge, she circled back for a look behind her. Sure enough, the black flapping shape of the raven had reappeared, and this time, it flew east. Not quite wily enough, were you? Jill thought. She flew up, stayed as high as she could and still keep the raven in sight, and followed her unknowing guide. In just a few more miles, the raven led her to a camp, a vast spread of soldiers and mounts, wagons and servants, apparently stopped for a noon rest, the auras like a bed of glowing coals scattered across the dull bare ground. Without flying lower Jill simply couldn’t see whether inside those auras stood humans or Horsekin, but there was no doubt that the enemy was marching. She circled south and flew off for home, beating strong and steadily against the wind.
It was sundown when she reached Cengarn. Already the town was crammed full of people and animals; with her etheric sight it seemed that in the gathering shadows Cengarn lay burning, all gold and flickering yellow with here and there the red of a warrior’s aura to mimic flames. As she swooped over the dun, she circled to lose speed and height, heading over the ward toward her tower window. Since she knew him well, she could pick out Yraen’s aura in the general confusion. He looked up, saw her, shouted, and began trotting toward the side broch that housed her chamber.
By the time that Jill had landed and returned to her own proper shape, Yraen was pounding on her chamber door. Yelling at him to be patient, she clambered into a pair of brigga, pulled on a shirt, and ran barefooted to unbar the door and let him in.
“Have you seen Dar?” he blurted. “Do you know which way he rode?”
“Which way he what?”
“This morning, before you raised the alarum, he rode out. I mean, him and his men. They rode out to hunt.”
“Well, ye gods, man, they’ll probably ride back before night, like, they usually do. The enemy won’t reach us before tomorrow.”
Yet even as she spoke she felt a stab of danger. At times, sick of being penned up in what they called “stone tents,” Dar and his men stayed overnight in the wild forest.
“I can’t fly anymore today, Yraen. I’m exhausted. All I can do is scry him out and try to tell you where he is, and you can send a couple of men out to meet him.”
At this blunt mention of magic, Yraen rolled his eyes like a spooked horse.
“My apologies, my lady, for forgetting how tired you must be. I’ll go fetch you meat and drink.”
Yraen bolted like the spooked horse, as well, rushing out of the chamber and clattering down the stairs.
Jill walked to the window, leaned upon the sill on folded arms, and looked up at the trail of clouds gleaming gold against the velvet sky of twilight. When she focused her Sight and thought of Dar, she saw him standing in an utterly undistinguished clearing by an utterly undistinguished river, and then, slowly, like figures walking toward her out of a sea fog, his men came into her vision as well, all of them dismounted, standing round their prince and arguing furiously. As far as she could tell they were miles from the town and squabbling, perhaps, about whether to try to ride back in the darkness. When she felt a stab of rage, that today of all days they’d ride so far, she was tired enough that she lost the vision.
All at once she had to sit down. She staggered over to her chair and slumped into it, leaning forward and bracing herself against the table. Dimly, as if she sat at the bottom of a deep well, she heard the clatter of Yraen coming back up the stairs. In a few moments he appeared with half a loaf of bread and a plate of pork and cabbage.
“Ye gods,” he snapped. “You look as pale as Death! Tell me what to do for you.”
“Pour me water from that pitcher on the chest.”
Jill forced herself to eat a few bites of bread and wash them down with the water while Yraen hovered helplessly nearby.
“Are you sure the prince rode south?” she said at last.
“I am, though later he could have gone in any direction, depending on the deer and suchlike.”
Jill swore, mustering oaths that would have shocked her silver dagger of a father. Unconsciously Yraen stepped back, as if out of reach.
“Carra must be frantic,” Jill said, once her feelings were sufficiently relieved. “Is she in the women’s hall?”
“She’s not, but in her chambers.”
“Then go get her and escort her to the hall. Tell her to stay there, too, until her husband returns. There must be an extra bed or suchlike, near where the serving women sleep. Tell her it’s my order, and if she breaks it, I’ll turn her into a frog!”
“I will then.”
Yraen fled her ill temper, banging the door shut behind him. With a massive sigh Jill leaned back in her chair. The lard-glazed food looked hideous to her, but she forced herself to pick at it while she considered what to do. In a few moments she would have to summon her energy to bring the news to the gwerbret. Her physical loathing at the thought of climbing down the stairs and back up again made her realize that no matter what danger Dar might be in, it was truly impossible for her to fly to warn him. Since she couldn’t identify where he was, sending ordinary messengers after him would only mean losing them as well. If only he’d been another dweomermaster, trained to hear her thoughts!
All at once she laughed aloud. Dweomermaster, no, but he was not only a full-blooded elf but a prince, only two generations removed from an extremely inbred line of royalty that had been, if she remembered her history rightly, known for its innate dweomer talent. She smiled
to herself, rather grimly, and finished the water in her cup. Trying to reach him on the etheric was at least worth a try. Since all elves can see the Wildfolk and other etheric forms, he would be able to see her etheric double whether he could hear her thoughts or no. If she waved her arms and made all sorts of dramatic gestures, he would at least know that some sort of danger was pending.
Someone knocked—pounded, really—on the door.
“My lady, my lady? Be you there?”
“I am, Jahdo. Come in.”
All tousled hair and huge eyes the boy burst into the room.
“Oh, my lady, I do be sorry for the disturbing of you, but his grace did send me to fetch you. All the pages, they be busy as busy, rushing here and there on messages and suchlike.”
“No doubt.” Jill got up, grimacing a little at her exhaustion. “Excited, are you?”
“I am, my lady, but oh, I be scared. Meer does keep telling me about how horrid sieges be, one of the seven great disasters for a city, he did say.”
“What are the other six?”
“Well, now, I don’t truly know them all. He didn’t say, like, though I do think that one other be plague. My apologies.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t even really know why I asked. I think I’m scared, too.”
At that Jahdo turned more than a little pale. Jill caught his hand and let him lead her to the stairs.
Down in the great hall the gwerbret was pacing, leaning hard on his stick, back and forth by the dragon hearth. Behind him trailed his worried servitors. Jill was glad to see that Lord Gwinardd stood among them in the company of several lords that she didn’t know by name. Apparently Cadmar’s loyal vassals were riding in to join their lord. When she glanced at the far side of the hall, she found it crammed with men, eating and drinking in a grim silence.
“Your grace summoned me?” Jill made Cadmar a bow.
“I hear from Yraen that you have news for us.”
“I do, Your Grace. May I sit?”
Days of Blood and Fire Page 35