Icefalcon’s Quest
Icefalcon’s Quest
Barbara Hambly
A brilliant new fantasy from the author of the bestselling Darwath series, Icefalcon’s Quest is a follow-up to Hambly’s Mother of Winter.The Icefalcon’s first mistake was to rescue the old man named Linok. His second mistake was to leave Tir, his young charge in the old man’s care…Linok was not as he seemed, and when he disappeared, snatching Tir away with him, the Icefalcon begins a desparate quest to rescue his charge. But this will be no ordinary struggle, for against the Icefalcon come hellish furies – an army of ghostly soldiers horrifically constructed, demons of the air and magic so dark it terrifies him. There is also Hethya, the young woman who was once in Linok’s care. She claims to be possessed by a spirit who lived in the Time of the Dark and believes it knows the secret in the crypt below the Keep, the target against which all the forces of darkness are gathering…
BARBARA HAMBLY
Icefalcon’s Quest
Copyright (#ulink_68ecf3ca-defc-5ff4-9861-132b26031043)
Voyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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Copyright © 1998 by Barbara Hambly
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006483038
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007469208
Version: 2016-12-22
Dedication (#ulink_95712616-83d4-52a4-8852-a88baaa204ab)
For Neil Gaiman
Contents
Cover (#uecd91742-c7ac-561b-8a69-960a4cd596cf)
Title Page (#u3a9a2472-f95d-53e9-aaa0-307f08aec5a5)
Copyright (#uc4fb6196-c00f-5e26-ace2-0f0c39fd066f)
Dedication (#u292bdf24-c9e1-5f8c-832f-2f550cbd7a64)
Map (#u999530c1-afa4-5c21-9c2f-b27ccc88b6dd)
Chapter 1 (#udeb984fa-043e-533c-b594-02ad98247332)
Chapter 2 (#u4b7036a2-6301-5594-8e1a-cda42834ff82)
Chapter 3 (#u5803aacf-d693-592b-8918-c29ac585efd5)
Chapter 4 (#u795ac48c-ebc8-5378-bdee-51236cab5e2b)
Chapter 5 (#u7a5a2ef4-70ee-5e62-b188-b2617fb00f9b)
Chapter 6 (#ua6ffac63-4ff1-5ed8-b260-25ab7c6db2ad)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Map (#ulink_8a5fc69f-1738-512b-9300-4768219272b7)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_074c6693-d934-5a45-bc99-7e3bf533d72d)
Had the Icefalcon still been living among the Talking Stars People, the penalty for not recognizing the old man he encountered in the clearing by the four elm trees would have been the removal of his eyes, tongue, liver, heart, and brain, in that order. His head would have been cut off, and, the Talking Stars People being a thrifty folk, his hair taken for bowstrings, his skin for ritual leather, and his bones for tools and arrowheads. If it was a bad winter, they would have eaten his flesh, too, so it was just as well that his misdeed occurred in the middle of spring.
The Icefalcon considered all this logical and justified: the laws of his ancestors were not the reason that he no longer lived among the Talking Stars People.
All the horror that followed could have been avoided had he minded his own business, as was his wont. Sometimes he felt that he had spent entirely too much time living among civilized people.
It had been a bad year for bandits. The summer following the Summerless Year had seen more than the usual bloody strife in the rotting kingdoms that once made up the empire of the Alketch in the South, and bands of paid-off warriors, both black and white, drifted north to prey on the small communities along the Great Brown River. It was said they had penetrated far to the east, into the Felwoods, though few came so far north as the Vale of Renweth. Now it was spring again. When a woman’s screams and a man’s thin cries for help sliced the cold, sharp air of the Vale, the Icefalcon guessed immediately what was going on.
In the round clearing in the woods about three miles upslope from the Keep, he found pretty much what he expected to find. The scene was common in the river valleys these days: an old man lying with a great bleeding wound in his head by the remains of a small campfire, a donkey squealing and pulling its tether, and a burly, coal-black warrior of the Alketch in the process of dragging a buxom red-haired woman into the trees. In the filmy eggshell brightness of the spring afternoon the old man’s blood glared crimson, the warrior’s yellow coat in brilliant contrast to the emerald of the grass, the beryl of the close-crowding trees. The knife in the woman’s hand blinked like a mirror.
Seeing no point in making a target of himself by crossing the meadow openly, the Icefalcon ducked immediately back into the belt of hazel and chokecherry that ringed the clearing and kept to cover as he worked his way around. The woman was putting up a good fight. She was as tall as her attacker and of sturdy build, dressed as a man for travel in trousers and a padded wool jacket. Still, the man got the knife away from her, twisted her arm behind her, and seized her thick braids. The woman cried out in pain – she had not ceased to shriek throughout the encounter – and the Icefalcon simply stepped from behind an elm tree next to the struggling pair, flipped one of his several poignards into his hand, and slit the warrior’s throat.
The woman saw him a split second before he grabbed the man around the jaw to pull his head back for the kill. She screamed in what the Icefalcon considered unreasonable horror – what did she think he was going to do? – as the man’s blood soused over her breast and belly in a raw-smelling drench, and jumped away as her attacker collapsed between them. The Icefalcon had already turned, sword in hand, to scan the woods behind.
“Shut up,” he instructed. “I can’t hear anything.” A single bandit was even rarer than a single cockroach.
But there was no second attack. No sound in the woods, at least as far as he could tell over the woman’s hooting gasps.
He glanced back at her after the first quick check and pointed out, “Your companion is hurt.”
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Linok!” and rushed across the clearing to where the old man lay.
After looting the fallen body of weapons, the Icefalcon followed more slowly, listening, watching all around him, tallying sounds and half-guessed movements in the shadows of the trees. She’d made noise enough to have brought the armies clear from the Alketch, let alone from higher up the Vale.
He came up on her as she was dabbing clean the old man’s scalp. The cut looked ugly, blood smeared all over the round, brown, wrinkled face and matted dark in the salt-and-pepper hair. “Hethya?” moaned the old man, groping for her arm with a shaky hand.
“I’m here, Uncle. I’m all right.” Her jacket had been pulled nearly off her shoulders in the struggle, her tunic torn to the waist. She made nothing of her half-bared breasts, round and upstanding and white as suet puddings under the terra-cotta spill of her hair. The Icefalcon put her age at perhaps thirty, a few years older than himself. She had a red full mouth and the porcelain-fair skin of the Felwoods and an easterner’s way with vowels as well.
“We’re all right for now,” corrected the Icefalcon, still listening to the too silent woods. “Your visitor’s companions will be along at any time. How is it with you, old man? Can you back the donkey?”
“I – I believe so.” Old Linok had the well-bred speech of the capital at Gae, before the Dark Ones destroyed it along with most of the rest of the works of humankind. He sat up, clinging to his niece’s fleshy shoulder for support. “What happened? I don’t …”
“Your niece will explain on the way to the Keep.” Impossible that the bandit’s companions weren’t only minutes away – the Talking Stars People would have already left the old man behind. The Icefalcon had with some difficulty been taught to follow the dictates of civilized people about those too infirm to look out for themselves, but he still didn’t understand them. “Get him on the beast and don’t be a fool, woman,” he added, when she turned to gather up bedrolls and packs. “The bandits will have those one way or the other.”
“But we carried those clear from …”
“No, no, Hethya, the boy is right.” Linok struggled with maddening slowness to get himself upright. “There will be others. Of course there will be others.”
The Icefalcon already had the donkey over to them. He reminded himself that among civilized people it was not done to grab old men by the backs of their clothing and heave them onto pack-beasts like killed meat, no matter how much more efficient such a procedure might be for a speedy getaway. His sword was in his right hand, his attention returning again and again to the place in the trees where the birds were silent – somewhere between the big elm with the lightning scar and the three smaller elms close together.
“You’re from the fortress, aren’t you, young man?”
“Be silent, both of you.” He was too preoccupied with trying to track potential attackers by sound to inquire where else they thought he might have emerged from, if not the monstrous black block of the Keep, whose obsidian-smooth walls were visible from nearly any point in the lower part of the Vale.
They were there. He felt their presence as one sometimes felt the spirits of holy places, felt their eyes on the little party with all the training of his upbringing in the Real World, the empty lands beyond the mountains. He’d killed their companion and was in charge of two and perhaps three sets of weapons and a donkey, far rarer than gold in this devastated world. He and his companions were outnumbered …
So why didn’t they attack?
And why didn’t these two idiots he’d rescued shut up?
But they didn’t. And the bandits kept to the trees, invisible and unheard. As far as the Icefalcon could tell, they didn’t even follow them as they moved from clearing to clearing down the ice-fed stream, until they came to the open land that surrounded the Keep of Dare, the last refuge of humankind between the Great Brown River and the glacier-rimmed horns of the Snowy Mountains, somber towers blotting the western sky.
“You were fools not to come to the Keep when first you entered the valley.” The Icefalcon glanced back at them, man and woman, for the first time taking his eyes from the surrounding woods. “Where were you bound? You must have seen it.”
“Now listen here, boy-o,” began the woman Hethya, apparently indignant at being called a fool, though the Icefalcon would have been hard put to devise another term that covered the situation.
“No, niece, he’s right,” Linok sighed. “He’s right.” He straightened his bowed back – he was a little, round-faced, stooped man, with blunt-fingered hands clinging to the ass’ short-cropped mane – and looked back at the Icefalcon walking behind them, long, curved killing-sword still in hand.
“A White Raider, aren’t you, my boy? And clothed as one of the King’s Guard of Gae.”
Civilized people, the Icefalcon had discovered, loved to state the obvious. In the improbable event that a man of the Realm of Darwath – and they were a dark-haired people on the whole – had been flax-blond and grew his hair long enough to braid, it was still unlikely in the extreme that he’d have had dried hand bones plaited into the ends of it.
The bones were those of a man who had poisoned the Icefalcon, stolen his horse and the amulet that guarded him from the Dark Ones, and left him to die. The Icefalcon saw no reason for civilized people to be shocked about this, but mostly they were.
“Had you journeyed as far as we have, young man,” Linok went on, shaking a finger at him, “in such lands as the Felwoods have become in the seven years since the coming of the Dark, you’d beware of anyone and anything you don’t know, too. Cities that once were bywords of law and hospitality are nests now of ghouls and thieves …”
His gestures widened to dramatic sweeps, like an actor declaiming. The Icefalcon wondered if Linok sincerely believed that the Icefalcon had somehow missed these events or if he simply liked to hear himself talk, a failing common among civilized people who didn’t have to deal with the possibility of death by starvation or violence as the result of ill-timed sound.
“The very Keeps themselves are no longer safe. Prandhays Keep, once the stronghold of the landchief Degedna Marina, was breached and overtaken by outlaws who nearly killed us when we came there seeking shelter. There is no trust to be found anywhere in this sorry and desolated world.”
“Still,” said Hethya softly, “it is not so bad as it was.” Her voice altered, the broad dialect of the Felwoods lands transmuting into something else, her carriage changing, as if she grew taller where she walked at the donkey’s head. “Nathión Aysas intios tá, they used to say: The Darkness covered the very eyes of God.”
The Icefalcon tilted his head at the unfamiliar words, of no language that he knew or had ever heard. There was the echo of dark horror in the woman’s eyes, and her whole face, in its frame of cinnamon curls, grew subtly different.
“You mean in the days when the Dark Ones rose,” he said.
Her laugh was soft, bitter, and strange, out of place in the lush – featured face. “Yes,” she said. “I mean when the Dark Ones rose.”
Around them in the open meadow a half hundred or so sheep fled bleating, and the dozen cows raised their heads to regard them with the mild stupid curiosity of bovine kind: all the livestock left to a community of some five thousand souls. The pasturage had been shifted again, as the rubbery, alien growth called slunch spread into what had been the Keep’s cornfields, and only a few of the fields themselves remained. The ice storm that struck in the Summerless Year had accounted not only for most of the stock, but for all but a few of the fruit trees as well, freezing them to their hearts. Even the spells of the Keep’s mages had been unable to revive more than a handful. Raised by magic three and a half millennia ago, the black walls of the Keep itself stood isolated in the desolation.
Still, they stood, impervious to horror, night, and Fimbul winter in a world of glacier-crowned rock, and Hethya looked on them across the meadow with sadness and knowledge in her eyes.
“Not the rising of the Dark Ones that you remember, barbarian child,” she added softly. “Not their brief, final rising, when they wiped out the last of humankind before themselves passing on into another dimension of the cosmos.” Her hand shifted on the donkey’s bridle, and she seemed oblivious now to the dead bandit’s blood crusted on her clothing.
“I remember the days when the Dark Ones rose like a black miasma and did not depart. Not in a season, not in a year, not in a generation. I remember the days when humankind shrank to handfuls, not daring to leave the black walls of its Keeps for years at a time, fearing the night, fearing the day almost as much. When the world we knew was rent asunder and all the things that we cherished were swept away so that not even the words for them remained.
“I remember,” she said. “It was three and a half thousand years ago, but I remember what it was like, at the original rising of the Dark. I was there.”
“I don’t know how young I was,” said Hethya, sipping the tisane of hot barley that Gil-Shalos of the Guards brought her, “when she first started speaking to me in me mind.”
She drew up her legs under the borrowed skirts of homespun wool – worn and mended like everything in the Keep these days – and looked around her at the notables of the Keep assembled in the smallest of the royal council chambers.
“Six or seven, I think. I know I startled Mother – and horrified me aunties – by some of what I’d come out with, things no young girl ought to think or know.”
Her wry grin summoned back for a moment that red-haired child, with her pointed chin and wide-set cheekbones and innocent hazel eyes, in a house whose diamond-paned window casements would have been left open after dark to catch the evening breeze. In her smile the Icefalcon, seated with Gil-Shalos and a couple of other warriors near the door, could glimpse the reflection of parents and siblings who had mostly died uncomprehending, terrified, one night when the thin acid winds blew cold from the shadows and the shadows themselves flowed out to drown the light.
Minalde asked, “Does she have a name?” She leaned forward, dark braid swaying over the faded red wool of her state gown, twined with the pearls of the ancient Royal House.
Hethya’s tawny brows tugged together. “Oale Niu,” she said at length. “Though I don’t know whether this is her name or her title. She calls herself other things sometimes.”
The Icefalcon saw the glance that passed around the room, the murmur of wonderment and question like wind rustling the aspens by the orchards. Even the Keep Lords, the few members of the ancient Gae nobility who’d managed to make it to the Keep with food stores and servants and miniature armies of retainers and guards, were impressed, and they tended not to be moved by anything that didn’t directly impinge on their real or imagined privileges. Lord Ankres muttered something to Lord Sketh, who nodded, blue eyes bulging. Three of the Keep’s four mages – Rudy, Wend, and Ilae – leaned forward on their bench of smooth-whittled pine poles, draped in mammoth and bison-hides. Wise Ones, the Icefalcon’s people would have called them, they had summoned spots of glowing witchlight to augment the flickering amber of the small, round hearth, but the blue-white light burned low, giving the big double cell the intimacy of a private chamber.
“Oale Niu,” Minalde repeated softly, tasting the shape of that name with a kind of wonder. The Lady of the Keep and widow of Eldor, the last High King of the Realm of Darwath, had changed a great deal from the shy seventeen-year-old the Icefalcon had rescued from the Dark Ones seven years ago. Thin-boned and delicately beautiful, with lupine-blue eyes that had seen too much: a pawn who had worked her heartbreaking way across the chessboard to become not a queen, but a king.
“And you remember to her?” asked Altir Endorion, Lord of the Keep of Dare.
He had his mother Minalde’s eyes, large and blue as the hearts of the deepest-hued morning glories, and her coal-black hair. Of his father, he had the memories of the House of Dare, memories of the line that stretched unbroken back to the original Time of the Dark; memories uncertain, patchy, in no particular order, memories of other people’s mothers, other people’s griefs. Some members of his house had been spared these memories, the Icefalcon had been told. Others had had them only in flashes, or sometimes in the form of hurtful, restless dreams. Minalde had them, too, inherited from the House of Bes, a collateral of Dare’s line. Sometimes Tir’s eyes were three thousand years old and more.
He’d be eight in high summer and looked it now, small face filled with wonder as he gazed up at this newcomer from another world.
Hethya smiled looking down at him, and her expression softened. “I don’t remember to her, me little lord,” she said. “I – I am her, in a way of speaking. Sometimes. She’s like in a room in me head” – she tapped her temple – “and sometimes she only sits in that room talking to me, and sometimes she comes out, and … and then I have to sit in that room, and listen to the things she says, and watch the things she does with me hands, and me feet, and me body.”
Her brow creased again, and some remembered pain hardened a corner of her mouth. She looked aside from Tir’s too innocent eyes.
After a moment she went on, “Sometimes she’ll tell me things, or show me things, things about the Times Before. It’s hard to explain the way of it, between her and me.”
“Rudy?” Minalde looked across to the young mage who was her lover, seated at a discreet distance with his two colleagues in wizardry out of respect for the sensibilities – religious or political – of the Keep Lords and the Bishop Maia. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Rudy Solis shook his head. He, too, had changed, the Icefalcon thought, over the past seven years. Like Gil-Shalos he was an outlander, son of an alien world. When they had arrived in the train of Ingold the Wizard on the morning following the final destruction of Gae, the Icefalcon had guessed immediately that Gil-Shalos, who now sat beside him in the loose black clothing of the Guards, would survive. He had seen the warrior in her eyes.
Rudy he had not been so sure of. Even after the young man had found in himself the powers of the Wise Ones – powers that evidently did not exist or were not accessible to humans in his own world – the Icefalcon would not have bet the runt of a pot dog’s litter on Rudy’s survival. He might do so today, he thought, but not much more. For all that Rudy had been through, under Ingold’s tutelage and on his own, like many civilized people he lacked the cutting blade of hardness in his soul.
“I’ve never heard of anything of the kind,” he said. “Neither has Ingold, as far as I know. At least he’s never mentioned it to me.” He shook his long dark hair from his eyes, an unprepossessing figure in his laborer’s clothes and his vest of brightly painted bison-hide. “When we’re done here, I’ll contact him and ask.”
“It is a most inopportune moment,” put in the elderly Lord Ankres dryly, “for Lord Ingold to have absented himself from the Keep.”
Gil-Shalos stiffened at this slight to the mage who was her lover, her life, and the father of her young son, but as a member of the Guards it was not her place to speak out of turn to one of the Keep Lords. Rudy answered, however.
“When you come to think of it, my Lord, there never is an opportune moment for Ingold to go scavenging. I mean, hell, nothing ever happens in the winter because the bandits and the White Raiders are as locked down by the weather as we are, but then Ingold can’t get out, either. The only times he can get to the ruins of the cities is in summer. Are you saying you’d rather he didn’t find stuff like sulfur and vitriol to kill the slunch in the fields? Or books?”
“He could leave the books for another time,” responded the stout Lord Sketh. “There are things we need more.”
“Like a new brain for you, meathead?” muttered Gil under her breath.
“Be that as it may,” Minalde intervened, with her usual artlessly exact timing, “the fact is that Lord Ingold is at Gae just now and can be contacted easily by any of the mages here. Wend? Ilae? Have either of you heard tell of such a thing, that one of the wizards of the Times Before should possess the mind and soul of someone in our times?”
Both the dark-eyed little ex-priest and the slim young woman shook their heads. Their ignorance was scarcely a surprise, as neither had received formal training in wizardry. The Dark Ones had been hideously efficient in wiping out the schools in the City of Wizards and everyone else with obvious ability in the art.
“Well, I’ve never heard of such, either,” said Hethya. “And believe me, your Ladyship, I’ve looked.”
“It is a rare – a very rare – phenomenon.” Uncle Linok spoke for the first time, from the corner by the hearth. He adjusted the shawls and blankets wrapped about him, wool and fur and the combed and spun underwool of the mammoth, yak, rhinoceros, and uintatheria that the Keep’s hunters trapped and speared in the winter when the great lumbering animals migrated from the North.
“But it is by no means unheard of. As a collector and collator of old manuscripts myself, I’ve found mention of it only once, in the Yellow Book of Harilómne.”
“Harilómne?” Brother Wend straightened up, dark eyes growing wide. “Harilómne the Heretic? He was a mage of great power, who sought out and studied all records of the arts of the Times Before, in the days of Otoras Blackcheeks, my Lady,” he explained, turning to Minalde. “It was said he knew more about those lost arts than any man living, though no one knows how he found it out. No one has ever found his library …”
“And just as well,” said the Bishop Maia. “Just because a thing was wrought by the mages of those times does not mean that it was wholesome, or worthy of being found. The Times Before were years of great evil as well as great knowledge. Some of the knowledge Harilómne uncovered was used to great ill, as anyone will tell you, my Lady.”
“But three of his books were supposed to be at Gae,” put in Rudy. “That’s what that merchant guy last month told Ingold. That he’d seen them in the cellar of a wrecked villa there. That’s why Ingold took off the way he did.”
“And well he should,” said Linok. “All knowledge, all magic, is precious in these times.” He made a gesture, then, of stroking his ragged beard, and something in his movement – the way his hand came up, wrist leading like an actor’s – snagged at the Icefalcon’s mind. An impression, gone immediately, that he knew this man. Had seen him somewhere before.
But the round face, the wide-set eyes, and the snub nose were not familiar.
Someone who looked like him? A kinsman?
But he knew as soon as he phrased the question that it wasn’t that.
Linok went on, “The single reference in the Yellow Book speaks of a girl in the reign of Amir the Lesser who was ‘possessed of a spirit of her ancestors,’ who apparently spoke languages unknown to any in the world. She could identify and explain an ‘apparatus’ ‘said to have stood in the vaults beneath the Cathedral of Prandhays since the founding of the city.’ What this apparatus was the book did not say, and the apparatus itself is now long gone, but it was said that the thing produced a great light, and while the light shone none could enter or leave the Cathedral, nor certain areas of its grounds.”
“A force field?” Rudy looked across at Gil – the word he used was unfamiliar, in the tongue of their own world that neither spoke much anymore. “I’ll be buggered. You ever hear Ingold mention that?”
She shook her head.
“And was it an apparatus,” asked Minalde, folding small slim hands in her embroidered lap, “that you came to the Vale of Renweth to seek, Hethya?”
The woman hesitated for a long time, her eyes seeking Linok’s. The old man nodded.
“I think we can trust these good people, my child.”
One could have heard a snowflake fall in that lamp-lit golden room.
“She – Oale Niu – says there were caves or something in the cliffs on the western side of the valley.” Hethya brought the words out hesitantly, as if dredging them from deep within her mind. “She says she and some other people, wizards I think, hid up there from the Dark Ones. They walled up things, weapons and … and other things I’m not understanding, to hide them there from enemies, after they got the Keep built.”
The whole room was an indrawn breath. Hope, wanting, flashed between Rudy’s eyes and Minalde’s, palpable as the leap of summer lightning from cloud to cloud.
Lord Ankres said, “But we have all been to those caves, my Lady Queen.” He leaned forward, narrow hands resting on his knees. “Lord Ingold himself has gone carefully over them and found nothing but marks and scratches on the floor.”
Hethya looked puzzled, biting her lip.
Rudy asked her, “Whereabouts are these caves? Down near the old road?”
She shook her head immediately. “No, those were the ones the people stayed in, where there was the water. These were up higher, and farther on, I think. I’d know the place if I was to see it again.”
Rudy looked down at Tir, sitting rapt at Minalde’s feet. “Any of this sound familiar to you, Ace?”
The boy shook his head, eyes shining. “What kind of things?” he wanted to know. “Machines?” For the past two winters he had been enthralled by the mazes of levers and pulleys, belts and steam turbines, that Ingold was constructing in his laboratories in the heart of the Keep crypts next to the hydroponics gardens that fed the population. The few fragments of ancient machines that had been found provided only tantalizing scraps of information, hints and clues and the tiniest seeds of speculation, which, the Icefalcon knew, drove Ingold and Gil insane.
The Icefalcon himself had little opinion of machines. They could not be made to work and took up a deal of space, and, upon two or three occasions, trials of their virtues had resulted in nearly killing everyone in the room. Gil and Rudy had both attempted to explain to him why it was necessary that such machines as Gil saw in the record crystals from the Times Before should be made to work again, but the Icefalcon still distrusted them.
It was said among his people that it took a brave man to befriend a Wise Man, and after eleven years’ friendship with Ingold Inglorion, greatest of the wizards of the West, the Icefalcon had concluded that one had to be slightly mad as well.
Hethya was still speaking, telling Tir and Rudy and the Lady Alde about machines that would draw water from deep in the earth or generate heat and operate the pumps that circulated air and water through the unseen black ducts and pipes of the Keep. Though Maia was shaking his head in disapproval, she spoke of apparatus that would melt snow and cause plants to fruit and put forth crops twice and sometimes thrice in a year – the sort of things the more foolish of the people of the Real World west of the mountains attributed to their Ancestors, as if anyone’s Ancestors would be interested in such matters. The Talking Stars People had more sense.
“I know not whether these things will remain,” Hethya said, the Felwoods brogue dissolving again, the antique inflection returning as the pitch of the voice itself deepened and slowed. “We hid them deep, for the world in those days was full of foolish men and the acts of a few evil wizards had brought down the persecution of the Church on them all. A world of time has passed over them, and time contains many things. We thought, me Uncle Linok and meself …” She was all Felwoods again. “We thought to lay hold of some of these things, to buy ourselves at least a place to dwell, now the eastern lands are all warfare and bandits and death.”
Her nostrils flared a little, and the hazel eyes darkened again, and her fingers clenched the faded gilding of her chair arm.
“You need not trouble yourselves about the purchase of refuge.” Alde rose from her own chair and held out her hand, her full garnet oversleeve falling straight. Against Hethya’s height and strength she had a fragile look, like the chair she had sat in, the delicate workmanship of a world fast slipping away. “Whatever you seek, be sure that you will have our help. Whatever you find, be sure that it will not be taken from you so long as your use of it be honest. That I pledge you.”
Hethya curtsied deep with her borrowed skirts and kissed the Lady’s outstretched hand. Linok carefully unwrapped himself from his many shawls and made his bow, an elaborate Court obeisance that once again tripped something in the Icefalcon’s mind.
But then, it was the sort of silliness that civilized people did, and he had lived among them for four years before the coming of the Dark Ones. There were many in the Keep – not just the Keep Lords, either – who scrupulously maintained the old forms, and it was not unreasonable to suppose that such a one might have a niece with a roving eye and a Felwoods turn to her tongue.
It was the mark of civilized people to make such allowances and not live with one’s hand forever on one’s sword-belt. Commander Janus of the Guards, and the Lady Minalde, and others over the years, had told the Icefalcon repeatedly that every snapped twig did not necessarily presage the swift onset of bloody disaster.
But the reflection that he was right, and they wrong, was of little consolation to the Icefalcon in the face of what was to come.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_31081ead-5485-5a6f-904e-e426fd9d5d36)
“If you mean, do I think she was faking,” said Gil-Shalos half an hour later, walking along the broad Royal Way at the Icefalcon’s side with her gloved hands stuck in her sword-sash, “the answer is yes.”
At midday the mazes of the Keep were sparsely populated, especially in spring. The rasp of files and saws, characteristic noises that rose and faded with the turnings of the fortress’ tangled hallways, were stilled as the men and women who labored all winter in their dim-lit cells joined hunting parties or optimistically cultivated what arable land there was – anything to add to the Keep’s slim stores of food and, especially, clothing. With the destruction of the entire sheep herd in the Summerless Year, the Icefalcon had immediately reverted to the wearing of leather and furs, dyed black as the clothing of the Guards of Gae was always black; others were following suit.
Uneasy torchlight flung shadows over the black stone walls but couldn’t pierce the gloom collected under the high ceiling vaults. Here and there vermillion slits of poor-quality-oil light marked the rough louvers or curtains that closed off doors of the dwelling cells. Raised largely in the open, the Icefalcon had had a difficult time getting used to living under a roof in his years at Gae. The Keep was like dwelling forever in a cave.
A very safe cave, of course. But a cave, nonetheless.
But he had played in caves as a child, up in the Night River Country. He had memorized their most intricate twists and turnings, their tiniest holes and pass-throughs, in order to ambush his playmates, even as the children here learned to run the mazes without lights in the course of their games. He still practiced several times a week, finding his way about the back reaches of the Keep blindfolded. Following his example, as in many other things, Gil did this as well.
“It is not exactly what I mean,” the Icefalcon said, as they turned left and descended the Royal Stair. Many people had trouble keeping abreast of the Icefalcon’s long-legged stride, but Gil was fast. “But tell me why you think this woman lies about the Ancestor who dwells within her head.”
“There’s too much of a difference between her uncle’s class and hers.”
“I thought of that. It is not inconceivable, o my sister, that the man’s sister could have married beneath him.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound happy about it. She understood watchfulness as few civilized people did, the awareness of patterns and when a single trace or scat or spoor looked not as it should. “But anybody can make up gibberish and say it’s an unknown language. Religious fakers in my world have been using that one for centuries. And logic would tell anybody that people had to live somewhere while the Keeps were being built. If you think about it, it would have to be in caves.”
The Icefalcon nodded. It was, he reflected, part of a storyteller’s art, and he’d frequently teased Gil about the fascination all civilized people had for stories that sounded true but weren’t.
They passed under clotheslines draped with garments hung between the Royal Stair’s spacious arches to take advantage of the up-draft of warm air and on into the Aisle. Hundreds of yards long and over a hundred wide, its ceiling vanished high in darkness above them. The obsidian walls, like those of the densely twisted corridors, glittered dimly with squares of scattered lamplight; doors, and windows. Multifingered streams trickled dark and clear as winter midnight under railless stone bridges that cut the black expanses of floor. At the Aisle’s far end, pale daylight leaked through the Doors, the single entrance to the whole of the Keep’s great inner dark: two pairs of massive metal portals separated by the twenty- or thirty-foot thickness of the outer wall itself.
Dare’s Keep. The final stronghold. Unbreachable by the Dark that had shattered the world.
“Both she and that uncle of hers have been eating pretty good,” said Gil, and twisted a tendril of her dark hair around one of the sharpened sticks that held it out of the way. “And there’s a limit to what you can pack on a donkey. But mostly what tips me off is that she thinks – or she says this Oale Niu bird says – that the Keep is powered by machinery. She thinks that the heart of the Keep is a machine. And that would be true for Keeps like Prandhays and the Black Rock Keep in Gettlesand. Keeps where a wizard, a mage, didn’t sacrifice himself or herself to enter into the heart of the Keep as a source of magic to keep it going. If Oale Niu really were a mage from the Times Before, she’d know about that. She’d know about Brycothis.”
She spoke softly the name of the wizard who had sacrificed herself: Ancestor in a way, the Icefalcon thought, of all those who lived here. When first he had been told the secret of the Keep, known only to a handful, he wondered why he had not guessed it already.
There was life here in the lamp-sprinkled midnight among the catwalks overhead, life in the flow of the moonless water along the streams of the floor, life in the breathing of the air. The life of the Keep, like the spirits that dwelled in rocks and trees, in the ocean and in each of the thousand thousand stars. It was the only time he had heard of a human being transforming herself into a spirit, the ki of a place, but it did not surprise him.
The spirit was the mage Brycothis, who had abandoned her body and been absorbed into the magic walls to draw power from the earth and channel it to the uses of her people within those walls forever.
Sometimes he wondered that everyone in the Keep did not guess.
At other times, after he had been dealing with these civilized people for a while – mud – diggers, the Talking Stars People called them, these people who had lived so long so fat and easily, with their wheat fields and their furniture and their clothing that tied up one’s sword-hand-it did not surprise him at all. Civilized people would have trouble guessing what was amiss should a uintatherium take up residence in their parlors.
“But why here?” he asked. “Why make up such a tale?”
“Because we’ve got food here.” Gil shrugged. “And we’ve got the only setup that guarantees production of food. Since those bandits took over Prandhays Keep last summer, we’re just about the last stronghold for the length of the Great Brown River, from Penambra to the Ice in the North, and the most productive. You know how many bandits these days are from the Alketch, soldiers displaced by fighting there since the old Emperor’s daughter gathered troops and threw out the general who thought marrying her against her will would be a good way to become Emperor himself, the more fool he.”
“They are fools,” said the Icefalcon dismissively, “the Alketch.” The original owner of the finger bones he wore in his braids had been a prince of the Alketch.
A door in the Aisle’s south wall, and a dark vestibule, led them into the watchroom of the Guards. The triple-sized cell was bright with glowstones – ancient crystal polyhedrons that shed a kind of stored magelight – and redolent of the warm reek of potatoes, venison stew, and sweaty wool. Sergeant Seya was playing pitnak with one of the rookies – Gil glanced at the sergeant’s tiles and shook her head.
“If our girl Hethya was passing herself off as some kind of ancient wizard to gain status wherever she lived,” she continued, turning back to the Icefalcon, “Alketch bandits’ religious scruples might not have stretched to keeping her around, especially once they found out she couldn’t come across with anything useful. You know what the Church in the South does to wizards. My bet is she and Uncle Linok had to get out of there fast.”
“So they stole a donkey,” said the Icefalcon, “and came here … For what purpose? To hoax us?”
“At a guess. To buy status. Maybe they thought we wouldn’t let them in. Everyone loves a good story.”
“Civilized people do,” retorted the Icefalcon, who wasn’t about to admit to a weakness of that kind. “They could make a good living,” he added thoughtfully, “just selling the donkey.” Knowing some of the speculators who operated in the Keep, Linok had probably already been offered the little animal’s weight in gold, which was cheap these days, since it would neither hold an edge nor stand up to the heat of a cook fire. It was just possible that someone would make an attempt to steal the creature, though with so few animals in the Keep such a theft would be difficult to hide.
It occurred to him that he could have killed both the old man and the woman and sold the donkey himself to the highest bidder, always supposing anyone in the Keep possessed anything he wanted that badly.
None of the Talking Stars People were particularly interested in things they couldn’t carry two hundred miles on foot. The habits of the Icefalcon’s upbringing died hard.
Gnift the Swordmaster came in, calling together his afternoon practice, and now that her son Mithrys was able to walk – and learning to talk, may their Ancestors help them all – Gil had returned to training regularly with the Guards and taking her turn on the watches. While she and the others were stripping to their undertunics and wrapping their hands and wrists, the Icefalcon again put on the soft jerkin of black-dyed wolf-hide he wore on patrol, marked with the white quatrefoil emblem of the Guards of Gae, and pulled on over it a heavier vest, and his gloves. Though it was April, in these high valleys the wind blew cold, colder now every year. There was still chance of snow.
Janus, the stocky, red-haired Commander, called out, “You’re not on now, you know,” and the Icefalcon shrugged.
“I’m just going up the Vale to see about those bandits.”
“There can’t be a lot of them.” He straightened up from lacing his boots. “The watchers at the Tall Gates never saw them. Neither have any of the patrols.”
“Even so.” He gathered up his bow, a blanket, a quiver of arrows, and then, because he had been raised among the Talking Stars People, added to the sword and water bottle at his belt a leather wallet of dried meat and flatbread, enough for a hard day’s walking, and some dried fruit. Like most of the Guards he carried a firepouch at his belt, the whole cured hide of a woodchuck lined with horn and clay, in which was packed a smolder of rotted yellow birch that would burn for a day.
There were few enough guards, and Renweth Vale stretched eighteen miles from the sapphire wall of the St. Prathhes’ Glacier down to the spruce forest at its lower end. A fairly large force might hide in the pinewoods or the rock caves above, and it was not impossible they could have come in over the ice-crowned spine of the peaks, rather than the eastward pass.
It would be as well to know where they were and what they were up to. The regular patrol had departed only an hour before – the Icefalcon briefly considered rounding up a band to go with him, then dismissed the thought. On simple reconnaissance, he would do better alone. Besides, he thought – the reasoning of a White Raider, Ingold would tell him, but he was a White Raider, and the reasoning was logical – bandits might have weapons and horses that could be appropriated.
Instinct made him seek the trees as quickly as he could. From the stones called the Four Ladies at the glacier’s foot one could see all the clear land of the Vale. He worked his way carefully under cover of the woods up to the round meadow where Linok and Hethya had camped. He did not seriously think that anyone was watching from the Four Ladies, but there was no point in giving anyone a hint of his movements or intentions.
He had not seen tracks of bandits yesterday, he thought, nor the day before. The watchers on the Tall Gates that guarded the lower pass to the east had not sighted them, either.
Odd.
From the edge of the trees he scanned the pale sky northward, orienting himself. His upbringing in the Real World had taught him to learn every facet of his surroundings, tree by tree, gully by gully, mudflat, spring, and stone. He knew Renweth Vale as well as he knew the ranges of his childhood, the Haunted Mountains and the Night River Country. Had the sky-shadowing devil-birds of legend carried him off and set him down anywhere in the range of the Talking Stars People, he would have been able to determine where he was, where the nearest cover lay, where to find water and in what direction to walk to come to the steadings and horse herds of his people were it winter, or their summer hunting camps wherever they might be, depending on the rains and the grass.
Therefore he knew exactly where the lightning-scarred elm tree and its three sisters lay.
And above them, there were no carrion birds.
Scrupulous bandits? In his experience bandits didn’t even bury their camp garbage, let alone their dead.
When he wanted to, the Icefalcon could travel very swiftly, but the terrain here was rough, cut with streams and dotted with pale boulders among the trunks of pine and fir. It took him over an hour to reach the place, and when he did the sun was barely a hand span above the marble-white knife of the Great Snowy Mountains in the West.
The bandit still lay at the meadow’s edge, arms flung wide, head twisted over to the side. Both face and head had been shaved a little less than a week before, and though the man’s face was young, the beard and hair stubble were white, a common color among the Black Alketch. No bird had torn his eyes or his belly, no fox chewed the soft parts of his face. Nothing, as far as the Icefalcon could see, had invaded the gaping flesh of the severed throat or begun to eat at the corpse.
It had simply rotted where it lay.
In four hours?
He knelt beside it, pulled off his glove to touch the cheek. Liquefying flesh had already begun to drip away, showing the pale jawbone and teeth.
Plague?
Not a pleasant thought. Particularly not with Ingold a week’s journey off in Gae seeking Harilómne the Heretic’s books. This man had seemed healthy enough to try to rape Hethya, if that had indeed been his intent.
He pulled off the man’s glove, and most of the hand’s flesh came with it. The odor alone told him that all was not as it should be. The wars with the other peoples of the northern plains, the torture sacrifices by which his people periodically communicated with the Ancestors, the hunts of mammoth and dire wolf and yak, would have been enough to teach him the stench of the dead, without the Time of the Dark when corpses lay like windfall plums in the streets.
This stink was only vaguely similar, not like human flesh at all.
He sat back on his heels. Birds were beginning to cry their territories before settling in for the night. A squirrel ran up a tree.
The bandits had gone.
The sun slipped behind the white horns of the glaciers that shawled Anthir, northernmost of the three peaks that guarded Sarda Pass. Blue shadow poured east to drown the Vale, though light still filled the sky. The Icefalcon rose and traced the bandit’s prints back into the trees. Here, where the yellow pine-straw covered the ground, there was no good surface for tracks, a situation not helped by the fact that the bandit had not worn boots. Like the poorest beggars in Gae before the Dark Ones came, he had wrapped his feet in strips of hide. Still, where the man’s marks crossed one of the dozen meltwater streams, the Icefalcon found in the mud of the water’s verge the tracks of three others.
All four had stood there together, not long before the one bandit had gone to meet Hethya, Linok, and his destiny in the clearing. The other men had gone southwest.
The Icefalcon frowned. The light was sufficiently dim that he had to crouch for a closer look.
There was no mistaking it. All four men were the same height, judging by the length of their strides, and all four exactly the same weight.
The Icefalcon had grown up able to differentiate between the tracks of his grandfather’s white mare Blossom Horse and those of his cousin’s mare Flirt and those of any other horse owned by anyone in the family. He had been able to recognize the prints of individual dogs, of anyone in the family or in the larger People, and of many of the members of the wild herds of reindeer, yak, bison, and mammoth as well. Tracks, and scat, and individual habits of beasts were the topic of most conversations around the longhouse fires in winter and under the summer stars while hunting in the Cursed Lands or the Night River Country. They were the heart and business of the Real World, told over the way civilized people told over Gil’s useless tales of enchantment and romance. The Icefalcon could no more have been mistaken than he could have thought that a prairie chicken’s feather belonged to a red-tailed hawk.
Three of the four bandits had wrapped their feet in the same way, and the hide wrappings were thin enough to show him that they all walked in the same fashion as well. Not just that they all toed in slightly, but that they all put their weight on their heels in the same way. Had all worn boots, the pattern of wear on the soles would have been identical.
Brothers?
No brothers he had ever encountered had been that similar.
Save for those of the bandit he had killed, all turned upstream. There was a path along the gorged mountain flank that would take them to Sarda Pass and the little-used way that led down into the plains and badlands of the West.
Why that way? He couldn’t be sure, for the light was more and more uncertain, but he thought the hide wrappings were new. The dead man’s were, without ragged edges or the blurring of long wear.
Disquieted, the Icefalcon got to his feet and drew the bandit’s dagger from his belt. Alketch work, beautifully tooled and quite old. He called to mind the bandit’s clothing, yellow coat and crimson breeches, slightly too big, looted from an earlier wearer. Boots were expensive and required more work to accommodate to another size.
Then he realized what it was that had tugged at his mind about Linok, what it was about him that he had recognized, or thought he recognized.
It was too dark to see tracks in the meadow now, and in any case there might be very little time. Turning, he made his way toward the Keep at a run.
The Icefalcon was one of the tallest men in the Keep, long-boned and rangy, and he ran fast. He was still a mile from its walls when he saw blue witchlight dance in the meadow by the stream, and voices carried to him, too far to make out words, but recognizable in their timbre and pitch. He turned aside, his heart cold in him with dread.
There was only one reason people would be outside the Keep after nightfall.
Though the Dark Ones had been gone for seven years, the trauma of their coming ran deep. Almost no one who had passed through that horror would willingly remain outside of shelter once twilight gathered. Moreover, with the Sunless Year had come changes in the world. Huge patches of slunch emitted a sicklied radiance all along the valley’s floor, and the mutant creatures that grew from it were not all harmless. Even without such beings, there were always the perils of the mountains themselves: dire wolves, saber-teeth, the bears that were coming out of hibernation, now thin and hungry and angry.
Fog lay in the low ground of the meadows, dense and white. The moon would not rise for some hours. The voices came clearer, and the magefire showed him the faces of the man and woman scanning the damp earth for tracks.
“Sometimes he goes exploring where the old road used to run along the west foothills,” said the voice he recognized as Rudy Solis’.
They’re talking about Tir.
“He says sometimes he remembers things there.”
Gil-Shalos. In seven years they had almost completely dropped the tongue of their own world, even when speaking to one another, save for words that had no translation in the Wathe, like tee-vee and car and Academy Awards.
“You think he might have gone out with Hethya? I saw her talking to him.”
“He might have, if she described something he thought he recognized.”
“Yeah, but why wouldn’t I have …”
Even as Rudy was speaking the words, the Icefalcon was thinking, Why would Rudy need to search? He’s a Wise One. He has his scrying stone. He should be able to call Tir’s image …
Unless Tir is with another Wise One.
He’d guessed before, but the confirmation was like taking an arrow in the chest.
“It’s Bektis.” He stepped out of the trees.
Gil-Shalos was already turning. No fool, she.
“Bektis?” She looked nonplussed as she spoke the name of the Court Mage who had years ago sold his services to the power-mad Archbishop Govannin, had followed her to the Alketch and, so rumor said, had assisted her when she carved an unshakable sphere of influence in those war-torn lands. “What does Bektis have to do with Tir being gone?”
The Icefalcon hadn’t even broken stride, forcing Rudy and Gil to fall into step with him as he led the way fast through the knee-deep ground fog and on toward rising ground, the shouldering bones of the hills that guarded Sarda Pass and the road down into the West.
“We have been had for dupes.” The Icefalcon’s voice was bitter, anger at himself tempered by fear. “Made fools of by a shaman’s illusion. The old man Linok was Bektis the Sorcerer. I thought I recognized his voice and the way he stroked his beard. Were we to waste time going back across the meadows we would find his tracks – long and thin, not the tracks of the little short-legged man we saw. The whole thing was a fakement, a lure, a tale, so that he could get into the Keep.”
Gil swore. Rudy, who was a little slower on the uptake, said, “Well, I’ll be buggered. But he isn’t in the Keep. He and that broad Hethya disappeared about two hours ago …”
Gil concluded for him, guessing, but at the same time sure. “And they took Tir with them.”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_bfbef129-97d3-568a-b140-b67831f243b9)
“I was a fool,” said the Icefalcon.
It didn’t take them long to cut Bektis’ tracks. Snow still lay thin where the shadows of the Hammerking mountain fell on the trail, and the prints of the old man’s boots were there, long and narrow, with the heel and nail-work characteristic of Alketch bootmaking. Prints that had to be Hethya’s mingled with the wizard’s, along with the marks of a second donkey, and the three identical bandits with hide wrapped around their feet.
“Where’s Tir?” Rudy held his staff close to the sparkling ground. The magelight playing around the pronged metal crescent at its tip glittered on the crisp edges of the new prints.
“On a donkey.” Gil forestalled the Icefalcon’s reply. Night wind coming down cold off the glacier tore long wisps of her smoke-black hair where it escaped from the leather cap she wore. “We’re lucky the herdkids were just bringing in the horses from pasture when Bektis was getting ready to get out of there, or we’d have lost a couple for sure.” She bore a lantern and a firepouch like the Icefalcon’s, though the lantern was dark; like the Icefalcon, Gil believed in never making assumptions about who she’d be walking with or what she might need.
Some way farther, they saw Tir’s tracks where he’d gotten off the donkey to relieve himself behind a boulder.
“Are they keeping a guard on him?” The Icefalcon scanned the ground by the witchlight’s glow, seeking other tracks near the small boot prints, the little puddle of frozen urine.
“My guess is Bektis has an illusion on him.” In the bluish witchlight Gil’s thin face, scarred across cheek and jaw, was impassive, her gray eyes steely-cold. “He probably thinks Rudy’s with him and that everything’s okay.”
Rudy cursed. He’d been silent most of the way up the glacis, but the Icefalcon knew that the Prince was like a son to the young wizard and that Alde would be frantic with anxiety for her child.
Winds blew down the peaks, pregnant with the scent of coming snow. Not unusual for this time of year, reflected the Icefalcon bitterly, but too useful to a Wise One fleeing over the pass to be accidental.
“I should have known him,” he said grimly, “long before they reached the Keep.”
Gil regarded him in surprise. “How could you?” she asked. “Wend and Ilae – even Rudy – didn’t see through the illusion. I didn’t, and I saw him just two years ago in Khirsrit.”
“Neither Wend nor Ilae ever saw him before the Wizards Corps was organized for the war against the Dark.” He moved off again, leaning a little against the iron hammer of the wind, a bleached, silent-moving animal in the wild dark. “Nor did you, or Rudy, know him much longer. Not to know his voice, or his manner of movement. Not to recognize the way in which he speaks. As court mage to Lady Alde’s brother he was about the palace from the time of my coming there. I knew him well. And in any case,” he added dryly, realizing too late yet another truth, “why would they have camped for the night within five miles of the Keep they claimed to be seeking? I should have recognized a fakement when I saw one.”
“Bektis is a wizard,” retorted Gil. “It’s his job to deceive. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She tucked her hands under her armpits, cold despite the gloves she wore. She was a thin woman, all bone and leather; cold until you saw her smile. Many of the Guards had affairs with the women of the Keep, the weavers and brewers and leather workers and those who tended the hydroponics gardens. The Icefalcon’s affairs, when he had them, tended to be with women in the Guards or in the military companies of the other Keep Lords. At one time he had considered Gil, though it had been obvious to him from the first that her heart was given elsewhere. His only serious love, many years ago, had been so also, and this time he had not deceived himself.
Now he returned her gaze with some surprise. “I speak only truth,” he said. “Had I gone about my business and left these people to their own devices, the Keep would not now be in danger of losing its link with the memories of its Ancestors.”
The pass had grown steeper, Gil and Rudy falling behind the Icefalcon’s swifter strides, though Rudy was tough, as most wizards were, and Gil a proven warrior. From the top of the boulder-strewn slope the pass ascended, a narrowing corridor of gray-black cliff and blacker trees, losing itself in night. Wind bellowed in the pines and all the world smelled of snow, hard spinning granules of it flying through the white circle of the staff’s light. The ki of Sarda Pass were said to be capricious, malignant, and stern, hating equally mud-diggers and the People of the Real World.
Rudy propped his staff against a juniper in a boulder’s shelter and fumbled through the slits in his overmantle to get to the pockets of his vest. Carefully – his hands awkward because of his gloves – he drew out the slip of amethyst that served him for a scrying stone and tilted it back and forth a little until the light of his staff caught in its central facet.
“Wend?” he said. “Wend, can you hear me?”
Watching shamans and Wise Ones communicate always reminded the Icefalcon vaguely of the games children played. Evidently the priest-wizard replied, speaking in Rudy’s mind, for after a time Rudy said, “Look, we’ve found Tir’s tracks. Linok and Hethya took him. Linok put a spell of some kind on him to get him to go with them. The Icefalcon says Linok is actually Bektis, and, you know, looking back I think he’s right.”
There was a pause, occupied, the Icefalcon presumed, by Brother Wend’s exclamations of astonishment – useless in the circumstances. Spits of snow stung his cheek.
“Tell Minalde what’s going on.” Rudy scrubbed a nervous hand over his face. His profile, a little craggy with the bump of an old break in his nose, cut blue-black against the witchlight, flat white triangles of which reflected in his eyes.
“Tell her he seems to be okay. Whatever they want him for, it isn’t to kill him, or they’d have done it already. They’re taking him over Sarda Pass and calling down a storm to close the pass behind them.”
The Icefalcon could well imagine Minalde’s reaction to that information. She loved both her children with a passionate ferocity: he clearly recalled, during the last desperate stand against the Dark Ones in the palace at Gae, her holding Ingold against a wall, the tip of some dead man’s sword pressed against the wizard’s breast, crying that she’d kill him if he did not save her child’s life.
Bektis did well, he thought, to summon the anger of the snows. It was certain that nothing less would stop her.
“Gil and the Icefalcon are with me,” Rudy went on. “We’re going to try to overtake them and hold them if we can. Tell her to get Janus and a party of Guards out after us ASAP.”
He used a colloquial shortening of the phrase as soon as possible transliterated from their outland tongue – the outland trick of using the initial letters of each word in a phrase to represent the phrase itself was one that was creeping steadily into the Wathe as well.
“Tell her not to worry.” Another foolishness, in the Icefalcon’s opinion. “We’ll bring him back.”
Given that Rudy was a seven-year apprentice in arts that Bektis had studied through his lifetime, the statement was wildly optimistic to say the least, but the Icefalcon did not remark on it. Rudy started to put the crystal away, then changed his mind and gazed into it again, bending his head and hunching his shoulders to shield his eyes from the wind.
“Ingold?” he said softly. “You there, man?”
The merchant who had brought Ingold word of the library cache at Gae had said that it was in a villa on the town’s far side, an area largely under water now. The Icefalcon had accompanied the wizard on last summer’s quest – when Gil’s baby Mithyas had been only a few months old – and had familiarized himself with the city in its new state: sodden, ruined, head-high with cattail and sedges and creeping with ghouls. The old man would have to watch his back.
Ingold was evidently there.
“Look, you got to get back here. A wizard showed up at the Keep – Bektis, the Icefalcon thinks, and I agree with him. He’s snatched Tir.”
At least Ingold seemed to have no extraneous comment to make.
“He’s taking him over Sarda Pass. Me and Gil and the Icefalcon are on their trail, and we’re going to try to hold them until the Guards come up, but it’s gonna be rough. I don’t know what’s going on, but I got to get going now. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“How did he look?” Gil asked when they were climbing again. Rudy dimmed the glow of his staff to a marshlight flicker, barely enough to permit his non-mageborn companions to see. There was no sense in advertising their location, but no sense in getting lost either, and the night was without light. Flakes of snow filled the air, blurring the donkey and boot tracks.
Women, thought the Icefalcon. They had to ask. Gil-Shalos was a fine warrior and had a logical mind, but she was a woman to her bones when it came to matters concerning the man she loved.
“I would assume,” he said, bending to examine what might have been marks of someone leaving the party – they showed only the later investigation of that medium-sized black bear that laired on the other side of the Squaretop Rocks – “that he looks like a man of seventy who has been sleeping on the ground for three weeks without trimming his beard.” Gil slapped his arm with the backs of her gloved fingers and turned back to Rudy.
“Not bad. Couple of scrapes and cuts, and his left hand was bandaged, but it looked like he could use it okay. What the hell is Bektis doing here anyway, Spook? I thought you said he was working as Bishop Govannin’s gofer down in Alketch.”
“He was. God knows what influence she had over him, but she ordered him around like a servant. Yori-Ezrikos – the Emperor’s daughter – used his power, too; used her friendship with Govannin. But he hated Govannin. I could see it in his eyes.”
“He hated everyone,” remarked the Icefalcon. Blown snow was swiftly obscuring the trail, but there was nowhere to go in the pass but ahead if they wanted to get through before the storm closed it. He wondered how long the Court Mage would keep up the illusion that Rudy was with the little party – if that was in fact the glamour he had cast over Tir’s mind – and that all things were as they should be. Or had Tir realized already that the man he thought was his stepfather and mentor was in fact only a ghost wrought by a mage’s cleverness?
Tir had never seen Bektis – or at least he had been only an infant when the Court Mage had departed in disgrace from the Keep – though he had heard his name. He would understand soon enough that something was wrong, when the man he had seen first short and pug-nosed gradually melted into another form, tall and thin with long white hair, an aristocratic, aquiline nose, and haughty dark eyes.
Why take him over the pass?
“Why take him over the pass?” That was Rudy.
Gil’s reply came raggedly, her words fighting the storm winds. “They have to want him for what he remembers from his ancestors. If it was just to cripple the Keep, they’d have killed him before they reached the pass and split up to get out of the Vale undetected.”
“But he doesn’t remember everything!” protested Rudy. “And we don’t know what he does remember! Bektis should know that.”
The Icefalcon led them into the lee of a small cliff under the Hammerking’s flank, where the wind was less and the snow thinner underfoot, allowing them better speed. Unseen above them the glaciers that armored the Hammerking’s shoulders sent down their slow, glass river of cold.
“More important,” said Gil, “Govannin should know that. Unless she figures to have Bektis put a spell of gnodyrr on Tir, to dig into what he doesn’t remember consciously. That’s the worst kind of black magic, and God knows what it’d do to a kid that young, but that’s never stopped her before.”
Rudy cursed, viciously and with every step as they scrambled up the protected trail.
By the ground’s shape underfoot and the way the wind roared and shifted, the Icefalcon recognized where they were and steered the others hard to the right. To the left streams had cut gorges in the floor of the narrow, U-shaped canyon. The forty or fifty feet that separated this gash from the mountain’s hip were safe enough to navigate in fine weather but perilous when visibility was poor.
This far from the Vale wolves lived, too, and saber-teeth. The Icefalcon listened for their voices above the sea-howl of the trees.
“There they are,” said Gil.
Light flickered and whipped against the rocks ahead and made buzzing diamonds of the snow. As the Icefalcon had suspected, the donkey had slowed them, as had the presence of the Alketch warriors, unhandy in cold weather. Of a certainty none of them knew the pass.
“How many are there?” asked Gil.
“Warriors? Three.” The Icefalcon glanced around him, calling to memory what the terrain ahead would be like. The deepening gorge, the cliff, the stream; the waterfall that would probably be frozen still and the shouldering outcrop of rocks beyond it, narrowing the pass to a gate thirty feet wide. Remembering the wisdom of Gil’s alien upbringing, he added, “They were alike, in stride and weight, even to the way they walked. More alike than any brothers I have ever encountered.”
“Clones?” Gil spoke an outlander word and looked to Rudy for confirmation. His eyes were half shut, as the eyes of Wise Ones were who concentrated on the casting of a spell.
“Come on.” He seemed to wake from reverie and pressed on again, striding ahead of the Icefalcon now, pushing against the pounding winds. “I put a Word on the donkeys, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. Bektis can use a counterspell …”
“If Bektis figures out why the donkeys stopped.” She was running beside him, a lean dark gazelle leaping up the sheltered goat trail. “He’d have trouble figuring out a Chinese finger puzzle,” a judgment that meant nothing to the Icefalcon but that made Rudy laugh.
“Are we anywhere near that big spur?” he asked in the next breath. The light from his staff dimmed to nothing, but sparks of blue lightning crept along the ground at their feet, barely illuminating the way. “If I can get a rockslide going ahead of them, we can hold them …”
Thunder cracked as blinding light split the darkness. The Icefalcon grabbed Gil by one arm and Rudy by the back of his bearskin mantle, thrust them forward as the snow-roar in the swirling obscurity above told him that Rudy wasn’t the only one who knew how to start avalanches. Rudy yelled “Damn it!” and cried out other words, magical words, answered from far off above the storm.
“Rudy!” It was a child’s voice, piercing and terrified.
The winds checked, failed. Rudy made a pass with his hands, and cold blue light showed the crowding enscarpments of the Mammoth and the Hammerking bizarre in the harsh shadows, the glistening headwalls of the glaciers above. Dune and drift snow clogged the way, and against the thrashing trees, the scoured shelter of the rock-spur and frozen falls, their quarry could be seen.
The donkey was rearing and fighting in terror, the second animal dragging at its rein. Tir was fighting, too, on foot in the clutch of a black-faced Alketch warrior whose grip held him almost up off the ground. Two other warriors, who even at this distance could be seen to be of the same height and build, stood with drawn swords, blinking in the magic refulgence, waiting.
“Bektis!” yelled Gil. “Where’s …?”
A crash of rock splintering. White lightning cleaved the already fading brilliance of the air, and the Icefalcon shoved Rudy in one direction and Gil in the other, springing clear himself as a levin-bolt skewered the ground where Rudy had stood and steam exploded from the snow in a hissing cloud. The renewed glare showed up Bektis, tall now and thin in Linok’s rough furs and quilted trousers, arms uplifted on the rock pinnacle beyond the ice-locked falls. The bandaged head wound – an illusion from the first – was gone. Now his head was flung back, his long white hair and patriarchal beard transformed to flags by the battering wind, and lightning laced his fingers in blue-glowing flame that hurt the eyes.
Rudy shouted a word of stillness, swept away and drowned. The storm winds took the fire he threw and hurled it in all directions, and boulders rained down out of the sudden fall of renewed night, crashing against the walls of the gorge. The Icefalcon, very sensibly, flattened into the overhang of the eastern cliff and stayed there. Levin-fire rip-sawed the blackness, granting brief visions of Rudy and Bektis, and it seemed to the Icefalcon that Bektis wore a device of some kind on his right hand, a thing of crystal and gold that caught and focused the searing light. When Rudy threw answering fire, the jewels seemed to engulf the old man in a protective coruscation of rainbows. The Icefalcon did not watch the battle. Rather, with every explosion of brightness he worked his way a little distance farther toward the donkeys, the warriors, and Tir. They’d all be watching Bektis, too.
It might give him a chance.
The Icefalcon was not a believer in luck. No one was who had been raised in the Real World. He knew Rudy’s chances of defeating the more experienced wizard were negligible, and it was doubtful that he could even hold him in combat long enough for the Icefalcon to get in bowshot of Tir’s captors. Thus he was neither disappointed nor angry when a final incandescence smote the night behind him, a riven cry and the sound of falling rock. He thought he heard Tir scream, “Rudy!” Then the wind’s force smashed the pass with redoubled fury, burying all in night.
The Icefalcon wedged himself into a crevice and waited, conjuring in his mind the slow progress of Bektis down the ice-slick boulders on the other side of the rock-spur, across the winter-locked stream. The temperature, falling all this while, plunged still further. He un-slung his blanket from his back to wrap around him like a cloak, his gloved fingers aching and clumsy. There were broken brush and branches within the crevice, sheltered from the storm and still fairly dry, enough to form a crude torch, though it took him a long while to break kindling into suitably tiny fragments and he had to wait to open the firepouch until the winds eased somewhat for fear of killing the flame within. When he got a torch kindled at last – the Icefalcon was a patient men – he raised it high.
Gil’s voice called out, “Here!”
By the sound she was at the edge of the drop-off into the gorge.
Black lines of charring scored the rocks and earth, as if the ground had been beaten with red-hot rods. Despite the snow already filling the scars, the air stank of burning and coals winked in the ruins of blasted firs all around. The pattern showed clearly how Bektis had driven Rudy leftward to the cliff’s edge, until he could retreat no more.
Gil had kindled her lantern, and its feeble glow revealed a great final scorch on the rocks above the gorge, the boulders themselves split with the heat. Snow hissed and melted as it touched them. The wind’s main force was easing, but the snow came down harder now. The pass would be choked long before day.
It took Gil and the Icefalcon nearly two hours to work their way down into the defile. Rudy lay on ice-sheeted rock beside the still obsidian ribbon of the stream. He had dragged himself to the shelter of a toothed overhang, where spruces clustering on the rock above further broke the wind and snow. Remnants of a heat spell lingered in the place, melting the snow where it skirled around his body.
“You still with us, punk?” Gil pulled off her gloves to touch the long-jawed face with its bent nose, brushed back the blood-matted hair. Her face was expressionless as bone, but she had gentled, the Icefalcon thought, since the Summerless Year. “Don’t check out on me now.”
They had been friends for seven years, coming together from that other world where Ingold had found them, unthinkably different from both the Real World and the world of the civilized mud-diggers in their cities and their palaces. Both had told him of their former home many times, but still he could not picture it, other than thinking it uncomfortable, crowded, noisy, and utterly lacking in sense. Gil-Shalos was a woman whose heart was a sealed fortress, able to survive any loss, but this man was as much family as any she had in this world.
Under her hand, his fingers moved.
The week preceding had been fine and dry. The snowstorm, magically summoned, had not lasted long enough to soak the fallen branches in the crevices and rock chimneys along the walls of the gorge. The Icefalcon made a dozen trips, digging under deadfalls and dragging tinder to the shelter of the overhang, where he piled branches to catch the snow and so form a protective wall, as his people did in wintertime. While he did this Gil probed and manipulated the broken bones and smashed ribs, ascertaining damage and making sure Rudy could breathe easily. The Icefalcon was personally a little surprised that the young wizard had survived the fall at all. By the light of Gil’s fire he could see the side of Rudy’s face was scorched, as it had been in last autumn’s explosion in Ingold’s laboratory. His gloves were burned away completely, and his clothes blackened and torn.
“I doubt the Guards will be here until day.” The Icefalcon sat back and pulled on his gloves again. “The wind’s fallen, but it’s snowing more heavily now. In a few hours the pass will be utterly blocked.”
Gil said nothing for a time, but her eyes seemed very blue in the firelight. Stars of snow spangled her ragged black hair around her face. She and the Icefalcon regarded one another, each knowing the other’s thought and what had to be done.
“Will you be well here until dawn comes, o my sister?”
She nodded.
“It stinks,” she said, and her breath blew out in a jeweled sigh. “I’m sorry, Ice.”
“I shall do what I can to leave a trail in case some do make it through. And I shall at least be on hand to help should the boy attempt to flee.”
“That’s good to know.” She was already sorting out possessions: the lantern, most of Rudy’s arrows, and his bearskin overmantle as well, for the niche was warm now from the fire and there was wood to last well into the next day. She offered him part of her own rations, which at his advice she had started carrying whenever she left the Keep, but he shook his head:
“We cannot know what will befall, o my sister. Your own life may depend on it.”
“Myself, I think Tir has too much sense to run for it once they get to the other side of the pass,” she said, adding a fish hook and a couple of her own hideout knives to the Icefalcon’s already formidable collection. “He’s only seven and a half. There anybody I should pray to?”
“To your Straight God of civilized people.” The Icefalcon adjusted the last of his accoutrements, his mind already on the ice-rimed rocks beyond the waterfall, the angle of wind in the pass. “He is the guardian of Tir’s Ancestors, and of those who shelter in the Keep. The knowledge Tir carries may very well be the saving of them, should some peril arise in the future.”
“And what about your Ancestors, Ice?”
He’d spoken of them to her, Black Hummingbird and Holds Lightning, and all those silent others whose blood stained the carved pillars of the crumbling Ancestor House at the foot of the Haunted Mountain. Had spoken of those ki that could be felt there in the close silences, or heard when the wind stirred the hanging fragments of bone and hair and wood. Noon, the warchief who had raised him, and the shaman Watches Water had spoken of their deeds around the fires of the winter steadings, with the eyes of the dogs glowing like lamps, for they listened, too.
He was fond of Gil but was not sure she would understand how it was with Ancestors.
“My Ancestors would think it only right that I pay for my stupidity with my life,” he said in time.
And Rudy’s. And Tir’s. And the lives of everyone in the Keep. That was the way Ancestors were – or the Icefalcon’s Ancestors, anyway.
“But I have not prayed to my Ancestors in eleven years,” he went on slowly. “Nor would they listen now to supplication on my behalf. I sinned against them and against my people. And so I departed from the lands where I was born. I will be returning to those lands now, but it will be my death should I encounter my own people again.”
He embraced her briefly and then began his slow ascent of the icebound rocks, long pale braids snaking in the wind, to regain the way that would lead down Sarda Pass to the world he had forsaken forever.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_55e14377-3af6-58e1-98e8-3ccbdeb21f51)
Eleven years previously, the Icefalcon had departed from the Talking Stars People, under circumstances which, if they did not absolutely preclude his return, guaranteed a comprehensively unpleasant welcome home. Because it was unreasonable to suppose that any of those who dwelt in the Real World – the Twisted Hills People, or the Earthsnake People, or those other peoples whom the mud-diggers referred to collectively as the White Raiders – would trust one whose Ancestors had been enemies of their Ancestors, there had really been no place for him to go but across the mountain wall in the east.
As a child he had heard tales of the people of the straight roads, the mud-diggers, the dwellers in the river valleys, though the ranges of the Talking Stars People lay far north of the ragged line of mud-digger mines and settlements that stretched from Black Rock among the Bones of God to Dele on the Western Ocean. Noon and Watches Water had told him the mud-diggers were crazy – which he had found later to be by and large true – and also lazy and stupid about important things, and almost unbelievably unobservant about the world around them.
In the warm lands where water was easy to come by and plants were coaxed in abundance from the earth, there were kings and walls and warriors to protect those who didn’t bother to learn to protect themselves. People could afford to be lazy and to make an art of telling fanciful stories about things that had never actually happened, at least for as long as the kings were alive and the walls were standing.
After the coming of the Dark Ones things changed, of course.
But in the high summer of his seventeenth year, when the Icefalcon made his way east over the pass that now he traveled west, the Dark Ones had been only one tale among many to the mud-diggers and in places not even that.
In that summer the cover had been better, pale aspens bright among the firs, with brakes of hazel, dogwood, and laurel to conceal him and his horse. He’d moved mostly by twilight since the people of the straight roads kept guards in the pass at that time, fearing quite rightly the depredations of bandit troops from the West. In those days the Raiders had very little use for the mud-diggers’ cattle. There had been gazelle and bison, red deer and wild sheep then in the northern plains.
The Keep of Dare was the first structure the Icefalcon beheld on the sunrise side of the mountain wall. It had surprised him, he recalled, and smiled a little at the recollection. The houses of the mud-diggers that he had seen before had all been wood structures of two or at most three floors, or in the South low buildings of adobe roofed with pine poles or tiles. He had not expected the Keep. It was some time before he learned that civilized people on this side of the mountains did not all dwell in great dark solitary fortresses, untouchable by enemies.
Sunrise found him in the thin stands of birch and aspen at the western foot of Sarda Pass. Reaching the place nearly an hour short of first light, he found a spot where chokecherry grew thick around the white boulders that marked the ascending road from the West and, crawling in, rolled himself up in Rudy’s mantle and his own blanket to sleep. The snow lay behind him. Clouds piled the gray-and-white western cliffs of Anthir, and bitter wind nipped at him like a Wise One’s leftover curse. He hoped Gil would be well.
Squirrel chitter woke him. He had a sling tied around the bottom of his quiver, and it took him nearly two hours to kill four squirrels: spring wary, and spring thin as well, no more than a few mouthfuls each. Still he roasted them and ate everything that wouldn’t keep: guts, hearts, brains. He’d need the meat later. Some of the innards he used as fish bait in the pools of one of the many springs that came down from Anthir’s climbing maze of hogbacks and scarps, and the fish he caught he cooked also. Time-consuming, but he knew himself incapable of rescuing Tir alone if there were a Wise One in the enemy party, and the tracks of Bektis and Hethya weren’t going to fly away. He shaved – his beard had not begun when he’d first crossed the mountains and he’d never liked going furry – and tried to bring down one of the raccoons that came to thieve his fish but failed in the endeavor. The sun was high before he filled his water bottle and Rudy’s from the spring and set out on what he already knew would be a long pursuit.
He’d taken three horses when he left the Talking Stars People – Little Dancer, whom he had owned for years, Sand Cat, and Dung For Brains. Sand Cat had been shot under him in a brush with Gettlesand bandits, and Dung For Brains he had killed himself when the animal went lame. His dog, Bright Feet, had also been killed by the bandits in Gettlesand: the spirit-bag he still wore under his clothing, next to his skin, contained some of Bright Feet’s hair.
He found horses corraled near the shining jet walls of the Keep, his first day in Renweth Vale. Stealing two was no difficult matter. These he’d named Brown Girl and Wind.
Then, knowing he was going to live east of the wall for some time, he set himself to observe the mud-diggers who lived in the Vale. It became obvious to him at once that these were a war party of some sort, though he could not determine who their enemy was and where they lay. They had neither flocks nor herds (except for their horses), nor did they plant fields of the corn, cotton, and beans that grew in the mud-diggers’ settlements in the South. They had a few dooic as slaves-the slumped, hairy semihumans that the Talking Stars People would have killed out of hand – but he did not see children among them, or old people, though that could have been accounted for by famine or plague.
The men and women of the Keep, back in that far summer, wore either black clothing marked with a small white four-petaled flower or red with one or three black stars. There was a tall man who wore red much of the time and sported a chain of blue gems around his neck and a long black cloak that spread about him like wings when he walked, and he seemed to be in command of the men and women in red. It was a day or so before the Icefalcon realized that another man – equally tall but thin, clothed no differently from all the other wearers of black, save that the emblem on his breast was an eagle worked in gold – was commander over them all.
This man was the one they called Eldor, or Lord Eldor, and this was the man who, the Icefalcon realized on his second day in the Vale, was stalking him.
“It only needed that!” stormed Blue Jewels on that second day, when the two horses were reported missing. He made a great expansive angry gesture that would have startled game and drawn enemies for miles around, and Eldor folded his long arms and regarded him in self-contained quiet, his head a little on one side.
“Bandits in the Vale! I told you how it would be did you reopen Dare’s Keep, Lord Eldor. It dominates all the valley for miles. Instead of expending effort and supplies to make it fit for a larger garrison – which I understand, with the depredations of the bandits growing in the West – you would do better to leave it locked and expand the fortifications at the western foot of the pass.”
His deep, melodious voice carried easily to where the Icefalcon lay along the limb of the great pine tree that still grew between the Keep and the stream. It was the custom of the Talking Stars People periodically to send warriors south to kidnap men from the settlements, whom they kept as prisoners for a winter to teach the children the tongue of the Wathe. These men they usually initiated into one or another of the families so that when the time of the spring sacrifices came nobody who had actually been born into the families had to be tortured to death, though the hair of such men usually wasn’t long enough to make good bowstrings.
“As sure as the Ice in the North,” Blue Jewels went on, “if you leave the Keep open, either bandits will take it as a hold or some troublemaker landchief will.”
“If it was bandits.” The tall Lord Eldor followed the offending sentry back to the horse lines, speaking to Blue Jewels as they walked. “Tomec Tirkenson tells me bandits as a rule are too greedy for their own good. They’ll lift the whole herd, not two out of the middle where they wouldn’t be noticed until the count.”
After a little more bluster, Blue Jewels – whom the Icefalcon later knew as Alwir of the House of Bes, one of the wealthiest and most powerful lords of the Realm – ordered out a party of his red-clothed warriors to search the Vale, and the Icefalcon made his leisurely way back to his camp near the standing-stones, to move it before they got there.
He later came to know both Eldor and Alwir well, but it sometimes seemed to him that all the years of acquaintance only deepened, rather than altered, his initial impression of them: Alwir declaiming and jumping to an incorrect conclusion, Eldor standing a little distance from him, withholding judgment, an expression of observation and a detached amusement in his steel-colored eyes.
Winter still held the land below the pass. The Real World that stretched between the Snowy Mountains and the Seaward was an unforgiving land, a land of little water in most places and few trees, a land of hard, steady winds punctuated by summer tornadoes and, so he had heard, of winter ice storms these past ten years that tore man and beast to shreds and froze them where they fell.
Herds of bison and antelope wandered the open miles of grassland, and as the winters lengthened and deepened, mammoth, yak, reindeer, and rhinoceri joined them, followed by the great killers: dire wolves, saber-teeth, horrible-birds. Since the Summerless Year slunch had spread, the wrinkled, rubbery, faintly glowing sheets of it swallowing the ground for miles, sucking the life from any plant it engulfed. The slunch in its turn put forth a kind of life, strange creatures that wandered abroad but did not appear to either eat, or seed, or excrete. These things died and rotted with a strange, mild, sweetish stench and left patches of slunch where they lay.
The Icefalcon’s hackles raised like a dog’s to see how the slunch and the cold had altered the land. Many of the groves that dotted the western foothills were now dead, buried under the whitish masses. As he followed the westward road that first day, the stuff stretched on both sides, in patches or in sheets miles broad, and neither rabbits, nor lemmings, nor antelope moved over the dying grass that lay between.
By the debris left where Bektis and his party stopped to rest, the Icefalcon learned that in addition to what Bektis and Hethya had carried on their two donkeys they’d helped themselves to the Keep’s stores of dried meat, cheese, and potatoes. With his sling he killed two kites that came down after the cheese rinds and potato parings and added their meat to his satchel, and the rinds and parings as well. With slunch growing abroad in the lands food would be even more difficult to find, and he knew he could waste none. Only in the camps did he see Tir’s tracks and guessed by the marks in the thin dust that they were keeping the boy’s hands tied.
In a way it was just as well, he thought. Whatever Gil might say, the boy might have tried to escape while the mountains still loomed in the east, and his chances of survival would be nil in these desolate lands.
After black-cloaked Alwir with his blue jewels had declared him to be a bandit, hunting parties went out to search the Vale of Renweth for the Icefalcon for three days running. The Icefalcon had been more amused than anything else, patiently moving his camp every few hours – the invisible camp of the peoples of the North, which left no sign on the land – and watching them. He watched, too, the trains of mules that came up the gorge of the Arrow River through the smaller range of peaks west of the Vale, food and seed and saplings; watched the training of the black-clothed Guards under the tutelage of a little bald-headed man with a hoarse voice; watched Alwir and Eldor walk around the walls of the Keep and the edges of the woods that surrounded its knoll, talking and making notes on tablets wrought of wood and wax.
Alwir continued to complain of the size of the Keep and its uselessness as a garrison against the Gettlesand bandits. “In times of siege it’s a jail!” he declared, striding up and down the shallow steps that led to its single pair of dark metal Doors. “To be sure, no one can get in, but the defenders are trapped! Unless there’s a secret way out? A tunnel for sorties, perhaps, or a hidden door?”
His blue eyes glinted eagerly. He was a man who loved secrets, thought the Icefalcon, lying in the long grass beside the stream. Himself, he would never have entrusted any secret to this Alwir, who seemed to consider himself above the laws of common men by virtue of his descent from the lordly House of Bes.
“None that I know of,” replied Eldor calmly and went on with his surveying, knee-deep in the long meadow grass.
This Eldor was a man of thirty-five, as tall as Alwir and just slightly taller than the Icefalcon himself, who at seventeen was an inch or so short of his final growth. Eldor wore his brown hair cut off about his shoulders, as was the fashion of civilized people, and had an air of lean strength. Sometimes he would fight practice bouts with his warriors, either the black-clothed or the red.
Observing them in the light of the fires and torches – which illuminated the whole western face of the Keep and would have made them an easy target for the arrows of any foe on earth – or in the twilight before full dark, the Icefalcon saw with approval the hard stringency of the teaching. The lithe bald man in charge corrected and explained and shouted criticism as if the combatants were stupid children barely able to bat one another with clubs, or put them through endless drills with weighted weapons that the Icefalcon quickly saw were designed to most quickly and efficiently increase their strength and speed. It was a method of teaching he had never encountered among his own people, and it fascinated him. He would go down to the camp by the black walls every evening, after the work of planting and clearing had been done and after the stupid patrols had been called in, and he would watch them for hours. In his own camp he whittled a sword of the length they were using, with a two-handed hilt, balanced differently from the short stabbing-swords used on the plain and made for a different sort of warfare. He practiced everything he had seen the previous night, timing himself against the calls of the night-birds or striking against a tree trunk.
Then he would go back and listen, and heard for the first time the music these people made, with harps and pipes, different from the simple reed flutes of his people, intricate and beautiful if completely useless.
They would also tell tales, of valor and violence and love, and it was some time before he realized that these were made up and had never really happened to anyone. It was an art with them, he learned later – and also among Gil’s people, evidently – to make such fictions sound as if they were true. The tales of civilized people were beautiful and fascinated the Icefalcon in spite of himself, but he told himself they were useless.
Then one night the Icefalcon had returned to his camp to find Wind and Little Dancer gone.
That Eldor hadn’t taken all three animals, as one would do to an enemy, outraged him. I think you’ll need a horse, it implied. That he had left Brown Girl, the worst of the three, was a slap, given teasingly, as a man might slap a boy in jest. And he knew it was Eldor who had taken them. While he was watching the sparring in the evening, he thought, annoyed, as he searched the place the next morning for tracks.
He found them, but it was difficult. The man had covered his traces well. Eldor had distracted him with the large search parties while making solitary reconnaissance of his own.
The Icefalcon guessed they were expecting him to try to steal back Little Dancer, at least, from the cavvy. They always tethered her and Wind in the middle. He noticed the Guards were now more numerous. So he waited and watched, until one evening Eldor rode forth from the Keep alone on Wind, a tall black stallion that the Icefalcon had seen was a favorite of his. He followed him up the meadows to the rising ground above the Keep and shot him in the back with an arrow.
The Icefalcon smiled again, thinking about it now as he made a cold camp in the ditch beside the west-leading road.
Of course Eldor had been wearing armor, steel plate sandwiching a core of cane and overlaid with spells of durability and deflection. If it hadn’t been twilight, blue shade filling the long trough of Renweth Vale like a lake of clear dark water, he’d have seen the awkward fit of the man’s surcoat or wondered why in summer he’d worn a cloak. Eldor had carried a pig’s bladder of blood, too, and smashed it as he fell from Wind’s back, so the Icefalcon smelled blood from where he hid in the trees. He’d thought it sheer bad luck that his victim had fallen on the reins, holding the horse near. The “corpse” had hooked his feet out from under him and put a knife to his throat. The Icefalcon never believed in bad luck again.
“Alwir thinks you’re a scout from a bandit gang,” Eldor said, without relaxing his grip. “But you’re alone, aren’t you?”
The Icefalcon said nothing. He supposed if he had to die at least this was better than the fate he left among the Talking Stars People, but his own stupidity filled him with anger.
“I’ve heard you people don’t ride with bandits.”
Still nothing. It was true that none of the people of the Real World had much use for bandits, not wanting the possessions that lawless folk so stupidly craved, but it was not the way of his people to speak with enemies.
“I don’t want to kill you,” said Eldor, though he didn’t relax his grip or move the knife. “It would be a waste of a good warrior, and I need good warriors. I saw the practice posts you’ve made at your camps, to go over for yourself what Gnift has been teaching the Guards lately. Would you like to learn?”
The Icefalcon considered the matter and pointed out, “I am your enemy.”
Eldor released him then and got up very quickly, stepping clear even as the Icefalcon rolled to his feet. “why?” he asked.
The Icefalcon thought about the reasons that he had left the Talking Stars People and about where he might go, and what he might do, now that it was impossible for him to go back. He found that he did not have any reply to Eldor’s question.
Eldor Endorion.
The Icefalcon drank a little water and settled himself in the bayberry that grew in the ditch. The silence of the prairie drifted over him. He listened, identifying the crying of the coyotes and the greater voices of wolves farther off, the susurration of the ceaseless wind and the smell of dust and growing needlegrass.
The world of his childhood reassembling itself, scent by scent and sound by sound in the darkness.
He was home.
Eldor Endorion.
He hadn’t been at all surprised to learn that the man who had overpowered him, the man who had put himself in danger in order to trap a possible spy, was in fact the High King of the Wathe. Even when he learned the size of the Realm, and the rich complexity of the world Eldor ruled, he had felt no surprise at the acts.
They were typical of the man.
Eldor remained an extra week in Renweth Vale with the men and women he had sent to regarrison and reprovision the Keep, in order to train with the Icefalcon, to get to know him, to test him as leaders test warriors whom they seek to win to their sides. The Icefalcon had trained hawks. He knew what Eldor was doing.
He never felt toward the King the reverence that the other Guards did or stood in awe of that darkly blazing personality. But he knew the man was trustworthy and respectworthy to the core of his being. He was content to attach himself to the Guards.
He spent four years in the city of Gae, training with the Guards. He exchanged his wolf-hide and mammoth-wool clothing for the fine dense sheep-wool uniforms, black with their white quatrefoil flowers; wore the hard-soled boots of civilized men (though they were less comfortable than moccasins and left more visible tracks). When his beard came in the following year, he shaved, as civilized men did, though he never cut his hair. He learned to use a long killing-sword and to fight in groups rather than alone.
In Gae he met Ingold, Eldor’s old tutor, unobtrusively mad and – he quickly learned – probably the finest swordsman in the west of the world. He saw him first sparring on Gnift’s training floor and took him for some shabby old swordmaster down on his luck, which was what he invariably looked like. Later, after he trounced the Icefalcon roundly, they’d have long discussions about animal tracks, the habits of bees, and where grass grew. Just to watch the High King spar with the Wise One was an education. Now and then he would see Alwir’s sister about the palace compound, a pretty, quiet schoolgirl who read romances and never left her governess’ side and had not a word to say for herself. Three years after his arrival in Gae she was married to Eldor, for the benefit of both their houses. Their child was Tir.
Though no one knew it, time was running out for civilized folk, like water from a cracked jar.
It was during this time, too, that he became acquainted with Bektis, who was much more a fixture at court than Ingold. Ingold was in and out of the city, but Bektis had a suite of chambers in Alwir’s palace in the district of the city called the Water Park – less crowded and smelly than the rest of Gae, which had taken the Icefalcon years to get used to. Bektis scried the future and the past (he said) and learned through magic of things far away, and he also worked the weather for court fetes and advised Alwir about shipping ventures, something that made the Wise Ones mistrusted by merchants and farmers throughout the civilized realms. Shamans among the Icefalcon’s people also worked the weather, insofar as they would avert the worst of the storms from the winter settlements and the horse herds, but such workings were known to be dangerous. Besides, working the weather might let enemies guess where you camped.
Alwir and Bektis referred to the Icefalcon as “Lord Eldor’s Tame Barbarian” and made little jests about the things that were, to him, simply logical, like always having weapons and a day’s supply of food on his person, keeping to corners and never being where he could not immediately get out of a room. Their jokes did not offend him. Merely they informed him that they were fools, as most of the people of the straight roads were either mad or fools.
And most of them died with the coming of the Dark Ones.
Wind moved over the land, bitterly cold. Above the overcast that veiled the sky most nights now, the waning moon was a ravel of luminous wool. It had taken the Icefalcon most of a year to separate the reflexive terror about being outdoors after nightfall, developed by those who had passed through the Time of the Dark, from the reasonable wariness he had possessed before. Now he listened, identifying sounds and smells, gauging the scent of greenery and water somewhere beyond the slunch to the northwest that meant he might hunt tomorrow, measuring it against the certainty that there would be predators there as well. A small glowing thing like a detached head on two legs ran by along the top of the ditch – most slunch-born things glowed a little. A night-bird skimmed past, hunting moths.
Tir was out there in the dark, in the camp with Bektis and Hethya and those three identical black warriors.
Eldor’s son.
Eldor was not the kin of the Icefalcon’s ancestors. By the standards of the Talking Stars People, he would be considered an enemy. But he had not been. And he was the only person in Gae – the only person in all that new life the Icefalcon had lived among civilized people for four years – to whom he had spoken about why he had left the Talking Stars People and why he could not go back.
Speaking to him had made him less of an enemy. But what he would be called, the Icefalcon did not know.
The Dark Ones ringed this place.
Tir forced his eyes open, forced himself to look out past the campfire that seemed to him so pitifully inadequate; forced himself to look out into the darkness.
They aren’t really there.
He had never actually seen the Dark Ones. Not that he remembered by himself – his mother had told him they’d all gone away when he was a little baby. Sometimes in nightmares he’d be aware of them, amorphous waiting stirrings in the shadows and a smell that scared him when he smelled things like it sometimes, some of the things the women of the Keep used to clean clothing with.
He saw them now. The memory was overwhelming, like a recollection of something that had happened to him only yesterday: clouds of darkness that blotted the moon, winds that came up suddenly, seeming to blow from every direction at once, carrying on them the wet unnatural cold, the blood and ammonia stink. On this very stream bank – only the gully wasn’t this deep then, and the stream’s waters had lain closer to the surface, gurgling and glittering in the light of torches, a ring of torches – he had watched them pour across the flat prairie grass like floodwaters spreading and had felt his heart freeze with sickened horror and the knowledge that there was no escape.
They aren’t really there.
He faced out into the darkness, and the darkness was still.
The memory retreated a little. He felt weak with shock and relief.
“For the love o’ God, Bektis,” said Hethya, “let the poor tyke eat.”
She stood in the firelight, hair dark except where the reflected glare made brassy splinters in it, red mouth turned down with irritation. Bektis said, “I’m not going to risk the child running away.” He was rubbing and polishing the device that he wore over his right hand with a chamois; the great jointed encrustation of crystals and gold locked around his wrist, gemmed the back of his hand and his arm, and the knuckles of two of his fingers, with slabs and nodules of coruscant light. Polishing meticulously, obsessively, now with the leather and now with one of the several stiff brushes he took from his satchel, as if he feared that a single fleck of grease from dinner – which Hethya had cooked – would lessen its lethal power.
He had killed Rudy with it.
Tir shut his eyes.
He had killed Rudy.
When he shut his eyes he could still see his friend, his mother’s friend, the man who was the only father he’d known.
Hand lifted, the pronged crescent of the staff he bore flashing light, levin-fire showing up the crooked-nosed face, the wide dark eyes. Working magic, fighting Bektis’ spells so that he could rescue him, Tir, get him away from those people who’d somehow made him think that Rudy was with them all the way up the pass, that Rudy was there telling him it was okay to go with them.
He could still see the fake Rudy melting and changing into a black-skinned bald man, a man he’d never seen before, like those two other identical black warriors who’d come out of the woods to follow them toward the pass. Could still feel their hands on him, grabbing him when he tried to jump down from the donkey and run.
Then Rudy had been there, with Gil and the Icefalcon, witchlight showing them up among the rocks and snow and inky shadows of the pass. Rudy running, zigzagging away from the lightning bolts Bektis threw at him, straightening up to hurl fire from the head of his staff, crying out words of power.
The lightning bolt had hit him. And he’d fallen.
Tir clamped his teeth hard to keep from crying.
“Here you go, sweeting.” He heard the rustle of Hethya’s clothes – she’d changed back into trousers and a man’s tunic and coat – and smelled the scent of her, thicker and sweeter than a man’s. He smelled, too, the roasted meat and the potatoes she carried in a gourd bowl and opened his eyes.
“Please untie me,” he whispered. He wriggled his wrists a little in the rawhide bonds, trying to ease the pain. The coarse leather had blistered his skin during the day and the slightest pressure was a needle of fire.
“I’m sorry, me darling.” She picked a fragment of meat from the dish; she’d already cut it up for him. “His High-And-Mightiness seems to think you’ll run off, and then where would we all be?” She blew on the meat to cool it. Steam curled from it, white in the firelight.
“Please.” He tried not to sound scared, but panic scratched behind the shut doors in his mind. The Dark Ones coming. The wizards in the camp setting out flares, setting out what looked like stones, gray lumps woven around with tangled tentacles of iron and light. Fire columning up from them, the wizards’ faces illuminated, tattooed patterns lacing their shaved skulls and grim fear in their eyes. His father’s warriors bracing themselves with their flamethrowers and swords, and the one wizard who’d been engulfed by those rubbery tentacles, falling away from their grip only a heap of red-stained, melted, smoking bones.
It was only a memory. It had happened thousands of years ago. The Dark Ones weren’t coming back.
Hethya made a growl in her throat, glanced back at Bektis, and pushing Tir around by his shoulders, yanked the knots free of the bindings. The rawhide jerking away brought tears to his eyes, and the cold in the open cuts was excruciating.
She turned him around back. “Just till you finish eating, mind,” she said.
Tir whispered, “Thank you.”
“Not so fast, child.”
Bektis rose from his place by the fire, crossed to where Hethya sat tailor-fashion in front of Tir, Tir kneeling with the food bowl between his knees. Tir got to his feet; Hethya too. Tir tried hard to keep his voice steady. “I won’t run away. I just …” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t tell this tall bearded man how badly it terrified him, not to have the use of his hands, not to be able to run in this place where the Dark had descended on them, this place at the far end of that blind corridor of memories.
Bektis said softly, “See that you don’t.”
The flourish of his arm, wrist, and elbow leading – like Gingume at the Keep who’d been an actor in Penambra before the Dark came – seemed to reach out, to gather in the formless prairie night.
Gold eyes flashed there. Ground mist and shadow coalesced. Something moved.
Tir’s heart stood still.
“You know what I am, don’t you, child?” murmured Bektis. “You know what I can do. I know the names of the wolfen-kind; I can summon the smilodonts from their lairs and the horrible-birds from where they nest in the rocks. At my bidding they will come.”
The camp was surrounded with them. Huge, half-unseen shaggy shapes, snuffing just out of the circle of the firelight. Elsewhere the glint of foot-long fangs. A snarl like ripping canvas. Tir glanced back again, despairingly, at the pitiful handful of flames, the three black warriors crouched beside it, staring around them into the dark with worried silver-gray eyes.
Hethya put her arms over his shoulders, pulled him to her tight. “Quit terrifyin’ the boy, you soulless hellkite.” She ruffled Tir’s hair comfortingly. “Don’t you worry, sweeting.” Bektis glared at her for silence – after hesitation she said, “Just you stay inside the camp and you’ll be well.”
Stomach churning with fright, Tir looked from her face to Bektis’ cold dark eyes, then to the lightless infinity beyond the fire’s reach. Movement still padded and sniffed in the long grass. Waiting for him. He didn’t want to – she’d kidnapped him, dragged him away here, lied to him, she was part of Bektis’ evil troupe – but he found himself clinging desperately to this woman’s arm.
She added, a little more loudly, “He’s such a great wizard, he can keep all those nasties at bay, sweeting. They won’t be coming near to the camp, just you see. Now come.” She drew him toward the fire, opposite where Bektis had resumed his seat. “Have yourself a bite to eat, and roll up and sleep. It’s been a rough day on you, so it has.”
She meant to be kind, so Tir didn’t say anything and tried to eat a little of the meat and potatoes she offered him. But his stomach hurt so much with fear he could barely choke down a mouthful, and he shook his head at the rest. When he lay down in her blankets next to her, with the swarthy guards keeping watch, he could still hear the hrush of huge bodies slipping through the grass, the thick heavy pant of breath. Could smell, mingled with the earth smell and rain smell and new spring grasses, the rank carnivore stink. All these interlaced with the clucking of the stream in the gully and lent a horror to dreams in which Rudy’s death – over and over, struck by lightning, endlessly falling from the jutting rocks into blackness – alternated with the slow flood of still darker blackness spreading to cover the wizards’ flares, to cover them all.
Then he’d wake, panting with terror, to hear only far-off thunder and the endless hissing of the prairie winds.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_dfbf3f0b-497b-5630-b1fc-1f3f2867223d)
On the third day out from Sarda Pass, Bektis and his party were attacked by a scouting band from the Empty Lakes People.
This didn’t surprise the Icefalcon. He had never rated the intelligence of the Empty Lakes People much higher than that of the average prairie dog.
He had overtaken Bektis around noon of the second day, though the wizard was not aware of the fact. Sometimes the Icefalcon trailed them north of the road, sometimes south, taking advantage of the gullies that scored this land and the low clumps of rabbitbrush and juniper that lifted above the waving green lake of grass.
The three black warriors, he saw, carried heavy packs – blankets and provisions for many days – bad news given his own need to hunt as he went. When they halted for nooning, he briefly considered helping himself to their stores but gave up the idea at once. Like most of the warriors of the Real World, he carried talismans to give him at least some protection against the illusions – and the scrying abilities – of Wise Ones, but such amulets were only as good as the shaman who wrought them, and he suspected Bektis would be able to see through such wards without much trouble if he had any suspicion that there was a reason to look. Even could he slip past whatever guardian-wards Bektis might put around the camp, the mere fact of the thefts would alert them that they were being watched, and with a Wise One in the party this was far too dangerous to permit. He was eking out his small supplies of meat and fish with the roots of last autumn’s water plantains and cattails, but even they took time to gather and prepare, and he could feel hunger gaining on him.
Toward sunset of the second day they left the road and turned north to Bison Hill, a mound in the midst of the prairie covered with elder and cottonwood and used by travelers as a campsite – and by bandits as a handy place to find travelers – since time immemorial. Deer grazed in the woods, as did the small swift antelope of the plains.
He worked his way up to the knoll through stream cuts and bison wallows and under cover of the long prairie grass, making a mental note to speak to Janus about changing the clothing of the Guards from their traditional black to the colors of the earth. From a thicket of wild grapes some distance back he watched Hethya and one of the three black warriors – clones, Gil had called them, meaning identical people who were presumably common to her world – unload the donkeys while Bektis built a fire at the edge of the shelter of the trees.
Only an idiot or a Wise One would build a fire in such a place, where anyone could take advantage of the cover to come up on them, even as the Icefalcon was doing. But he supposed that with the advantage of wizardry it was possible to remain comfortably out of the wind and not worry about who or what might be deeper in the woods. Any of the Talking Stars People would have camped some distance from the knoll, where they could see in all directions, even had they had a Wise One in their company.
There was never a guarantee that some other war band wouldn’t include a shaman more Wise than one’s own.
“I can help you,” said Tir, as Hethya lifted him down from the donkey. “I promise I won’t run away.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but with a friendliness in his voice that told the Icefalcon that this woman must have used him kindly over the past day and a half. Indeed, the woman’s face was not cruel, and by the way she patted Tir on the shoulder, and the closeness between them as they stood, it was clear that she was used to children and liked them.
She glanced now over at Bektis, who was ordering the warriors about placing the blankets. It was the closest the Icefalcon had been to them – less than a hundred feet – and he studied the weapon of crystal and gold on the sorcerer’s hand with wary interest. A device of similar workmanship around Bektis’ neck, a high collar fitted up close under the ears, was visible only briefly when the wizard pushed down the furred hood of his coat and tried to untangle his beard.
“I think best not, sweeting,” Hethya said in a voice so low the Icefalcon had to guess at some of the words. “But thank you; ’tis kind of you thinking of it.” She ruffled his hair again. “Sit you down there under the tree a bit. We’ll be having supper soon, and I’ll untie you to eat. Are you tired?”
Tir shook his head, though he looked beaten with weariness. He followed her, his hands still bound behind his back – the Icefalcon could see where his wrists were bandaged under the thongs – while she unshipped a little nest of cook pots. “Does Oale Niu just tell you things?” he asked her as she worked. “Or do you see things, or smell them sometimes, and … and remember? Or think you remember but you don’t know what it is?”
“Like what, honey? Here, you, Akula,” she called out, and all three of the guards turned their heads. “One of you go fetch me water from the spring, would you?”
The men stared at her, scorn in their faces, for in the Alketch men do not take orders from women. Bektis snapped, “Do as she says,” and all started off in search of the boiled-leather pail that had hung, filled neatly with potatoes, on the second donkey’s pack saddle. Watching their aimless movements, it occurred to the Icefalcon that none of them were very bright.
“Like this.” Tir nodded toward the rolling wonderment of green beyond the scrim of birches. They had left the great slunch beds behind them, and for the most part the land was as it had been since the world’s dawn: long grass bright with spring, widely dispersed clumps of rabbitbrush, the dark lines of treetops marking stream cuts sometimes sixty feet below the level of the surrounding plain. “It smells like something … One of those other people was here once.” “Those other people” was how the boy thought about his ancestors, those memories of ancient days.
“Only it was in the winter, I think,” went on Tir softly. “Everything was brown. Did Oale Niu come here?”
“She did that.” Hethya settled back on her hunkers, and her voice changed again, slowed and deepened, as she said, “I was here. Twelve of us rode down from the flanks of Anthir mountain. The mages ringed our camp with a circle of flames to keep the Dark Ones at bay.”
Tir frowned. Even from this distance, the Icefalcon saw in the set of his shoulders, the stance of his compact body, the memory of distant things. “He was here with his daddy,” he said, so softly the Icefalcon almost could not make out the words. “His daddy knew the way. The road was that way, north toward the mountains, by those little hills.”
Two of the warriors came back with water; Bektis gave them very exact instructions about mounting guard on the camp, things that to the Icefalcon seemed obvious. The Icefalcon slipped back among the trees, carefully picking hard and sheltered ground, and crawled snake-wise on his belly through the grass to the bison wallow that he knew from other days lay just south of the road. Bandits – or more likely the Empty Lakes People, whose spirit wands he had seen twice in these lands – would be along in the morning.
And they were.
The Empty Lakes People didn’t attack until nearly noon, but the Icefalcon was aware of them when they came up the coulee to the northwest as a redstart and a raven flew out of the trees. They waited there for a time, for the party in the grove to pack up and move on.
When Bektis and his group didn’t pack up, but rather collected more firewood and water, like people who planned to remain where they were for the day, the Empty Lakes People – being the Empty Lakes People – decided that the thing to do was attack rather than make a closer observation of the grove, in which case they’d have seen that there was a Wise One in the party and thought again about the idea.
Or maybe not. These were the Empty Lakes People, after all.
In any case they attacked, with predictable results. The Icefalcon heard a cry from the wooded hill, and Hethya’s scream. The woman always seemed to be screaming. A man broke cover on the eastern side of the hill and ran across the road with his deer-hide jacket in flames. He fell in the long grass. Another warrior rode full-tilt out of the grove on a dun-colored mare that reared in sudden terror at something it saw but the Icefalcon didn’t.
Illusion. There were amulets against such spookery on the mare’s bridle but clearly Bektis’ powers were greater than the amulets’ maker – and since the Dark Ones’ systematic destruction of mages, many of the talismans had outlived their effectiveness years ago. One of the black warriors pelted from the trees and grappled briefly with the warrior, dragging her down from her horse. She cried out in terror and pain, and struck at something – again illusory – in which moment the black man plunged his sword into the woman’s chest. She fell, coughing blood. A war-dog, probably hers, raced from the trees, coat blazing, crying and yipping in pain.
In the grove other shapes were running around or struggling in the trampled underbrush of wild grape and snakeweed. More barking, war-dogs terrified and confused by enchantment. Fire flashed, or perhaps only the illusion of fire.
Tir, very sensibly, climbed a tree. The Icefalcon saw the boy’s bright blue jacket sleeves among the limbs of the cottonwood under which Bektis had built last night’s fire. He was glad that someone – probably the woman Hethya – had untied Tir’s hands and hoped none of the Empty Lakes People remained in the coulee, which was just within bowshot of the hill. The boy probably knew that running away from Bektis would be a waste of time.
Bide your time, son of Eldor. Watch for your chance.
The coyote who waits can eat the flesh of the saber-tooth who plunges ahead into a fight.
The attack was over before the shadows had shortened the last inch or so to noon.
Leaning up on his elbows, the Icefalcon watched the three black warriors load the bodies of the slain onto the horses that remained in the grove and carry them out to the coulee to dump them. Then they returned to Bektis’ camp, tethered the captured horses, and set about gathering water and making lunch.
Thank you, thought the Icefalcon. Now stay put so I can eat, too.
He crawled through the grass – noting automatically that rains had been scanty here and so the herds would not be plentiful later in the year – to the edge of the coulee, which at that point was some twenty feet deep. Even a few years before, the stream at the bottom had been wider and stronger than it was now. Barely a trickle flowed over gray and white rocks, and the sedge and cattail along its verge were thin and weak, though on the whole the bottomland that lay for thirty or forty feet on either side of the water was lusher than the prairie above. Cottonwood and lodgepole pine made light cover from bank to waterside; lungwort, fleabane, and marigolds gemmed the grass.
The half-dozen bodies lay jumbled below in a clump of chokecherry. Their dogs had been thrown down with them, the heavy-headed, heavy-shouldered fighting brutes of the Empty Lakes People. The Icefalcon took a very cautious look around, then slithered down the bank some hundred feet from the place, which he circled twice before coming close. Carrion birds were already gathered. He wondered if Bektis would notice when they flew upward.
They settled again on the limbs of the cottonwood just above the bodies, below the line of the prairie’s edge.
There had been six in the scouting party. Five lay here, fair-skinned like all the peoples of the Real World, bronzed from the sun, their hair – flaxen or primrose or the gay hue of marigolds – braided and dabbled with darkening blood. Four had perished of stab wounds, and one bore the same lightning burns that had marked Rudy’s face. The sixth would be the man who ran out of the grove with his shirt burning, to fall in the long grass.
The Icefalcon waited, listening, for some little time more, then moved in and made from them a selection of trousers, tunic, jacket, gloves, and cap wrought of wolf- or deer-hide, whose colors blended with the hues of the prairie. He changed clothes quickly and buried his black garments in a muskrat hole in the bank, piling brush to conceal where he’d driven the earth in. His weapons and harness he kept; his boots as well, for none of them had feet of his size, and boots would outlast moccasins on a long hunt.
He collected also all the food they carried, scout rations of pemmican, jerked venison and duck flesh, pine nuts, and bison and raccoon fat sweetened with maple sugar. He hung the buckskin pouches and tubes from his belt and shoulders, working fast, with one eye on the birds overhead.
When they flew up, he retreated, picking again the stoniest line of departure, which would show no mark of his boots.
Rather to his surprise he knew the man who slipped down the bank from above and stole up on the bodies, taking far fewer precautions about it than the Icefalcon considered necessary, but what could one expect from the Empty Lakes People?
It was Loses His Way.
Loses His Way was a warchief and one of the most renowned warriors of the Empty Lakes People. He had given the Icefalcon the scar that decorated the hollow of his left flank in a horse raid during the Summer of the Two White Mammoths. He’d been a minor chief then, and the Icefalcon had encountered him twice more, once in a battle over summer hunting and once at a Moot. If the Icefalcon hadn’t left the Talking Stars People, they’d probably have fought again at another Moot. He was a big man, some ten years older than the Icefalcon, with massive shoulders and tawny mustaches braided down past his chin; the finger bones of a dozen foes were plaited into his hair.
He moved painfully now, and the Icefalcon saw the red blister of burned flesh through the black hole that had been the back of his tunic.
When he saw the bodies had been disturbed, he looked around quickly, short-sword coming to his hand.
Conscious of the possibility of sound carrying, the Icefalcon whistled twice in the voice of the tanager, a bird native to the oakwoods along the Ten Muddy Rivers, where the Empty Lakes People had originally dwelled, though it was never seen in the high plains. Loses His Way turned his head and the Icefalcon stepped from cover, crossed swiftly to the pile of bodies at the foot of the cottonwood tree. “I am an enemy to the people who did this,” he said, as soon as he was close enough that their voices would not be heard. “I am alone.”
Loses His Way raised his head, grief and shock darkening gentian-blue eyes. “Icefalcon.” He spoke the name as it was spoken among the Empty Lakes People, K’shnia. He was like a man stunned by a blow, barely taking in the presence of one who was his enemy and the enemy of his people.
“The air was full of creatures that tore at us,” he said, and turned back to the dead. “When we rode away, the horses threw us and ran back. Our dogs attacked us and savaged one another.” He touched the torn-out throat of a big gray dog, as if stroking the hair of a beloved child. “There was a Wise One, a shaman, among them.”
“The shaman is called Bektis,” said the Icefalcon, framing the words carefully, haltingly, in the tongue of the Empty Lakes People, which he had not had call to speak for years. “An evil man, who has carried away the son of one who was good to me.”
Loses His Way seemed scarcely to hear. His thick scarred stubby fingers passed across noses, lips, brows. “Tethtagyn,” he said, framing the name in the tongue of the Empty Lakes People; Wolfbone it meant. “Shilhren … Giarathis …” Under long, curling red brows his eyes filled with grief.
“Twin Daughter,” he whispered, and touched the face of a warrior whose hair was as red-gold as his. “Twin Daughter.”
Gently lifting the thick ropes of her hair – three braids, as was the fashion of his people – Loses His Way took from around the young woman’s neck a square spirit-pouch, decorated with porcupine quills and patterns in ocher and black. Worn under the clothing and out of sight, spirit-pouches were almost the only article decorated by any of the peoples of the Real World. With his knife he cut off some of Twin Daughter’s hair and put it into the pouch. Then he sliced the palm of her left hand, and with his thumb daubed the congealing blood in the open center of the pouch’s worked design.
This he did for all the others in turn, saying their names as he did so: Wolfbone, Blue Jay, Shouts In Anger, Raspberry Thicket Girl. The Empty Lakes People, the Icefalcon remembered, did not revere their Ancestors, but rather the ki of various rocks and trees in the country of the Ten Muddy Rivers. It was to them that these spirit-pouches must be dedicated and returned.
The Icefalcon privately regarded such customs as unnecessary and a little dangerous. Dead was dead, and any member of the Talking Stars People would have been able to find his or her way home without the assistance of a spirit-pouch. But he saw, in the big warrior’s face, the need to do these things for his own peace of mind.
One of the things that the Stars had told the Ancestors of his people was that every people had their custom, and though all other people were wrong, it was not polite and frequently not safe to say so. At least Loses His Way didn’t feel it necessary to take fingers the way the Twisted Hills People did.
“You took all the food?” he asked then, and the Icefalcon nodded. “Then let’s go away. I thought you departed from the Real World for good,” he added, as he and the Icefalcon followed the cliff wall northwest, seeking an inconspicuous place to regain the prairie above.
“I departed,” said the Icefalcon. “Though I fail to see how my comings and goings are the affair of the Empty Lakes People.”
“Blue Child is now the warchief of the Talking Stars People,” said Loses His Way. “Even before the coming of the Eaters in the Night this was reason enough for concern among those of us who hunt the same mammoth and pasture our horses in the same ravines. Now that the mammoth move south, and white filth grows in the ravines of the homelands – now that the Ice in the North rolls south to cover valleys that once belonged to the Empty Lakes People – it is a matter for concern that she rules your people instead of you.”
The cliff was lower toward the northwest, and the Icefalcon recalled how squirreltail grass grew thicker in that direction, amid stands of juniper brush that masked the cliff’s rim from the direction of Bison Hill. Under cover of these junipers the two men scrambled up and glided through the thickets to higher ground.
At the cliff’s top a dark shaggy shape rustled up to them out of the grass, a yellow-eyed war-dog, burned like Loses His Way over his shoulders and back, like Loses His Way mourning his losses and his pain in silence.
He licked the warchief’s hand and wriggled with grateful joy to have his ears rubbed – sniffed the Icefalcon suspiciously but followed in silence. The Icefalcon raised up on his knees to put his head above the clusters of leaves but saw no sign of travelers as far as he could look west along the road.
They were evidently staying put for the day.
“For one thing, the Empty Lakes People never owned a thumb-breadth of the land in the North,” he pointed out. “The starlight wrote our names on forest and stone from the Haunted Mountain across to the Night River Country, and ours it remains, Ice or no Ice, forever. Will these take you and your brother here back to your people?” He nodded to the dog and held out to Loses His Way two tubes of pemmican and one of the several sacks of pine nuts. “I hunt this Wise One and his warriors, and in the North I am told the white filth grows thick. There is no hunting in it. I need all I can carry.”
The brilliant eyes narrowed. “You hunt this Wise One? I thought you had returned to find Gsi Kethko.”
“Gsi Kethko?” The name had two meanings. In the tongue of the Salt People it signified the hallucinogenic pods of the wild morning glory, but in the more melodic (and altogether more perfect) language of the Talking Stars People it meant the Antlered Spider, one of the fifteen Dream Things that sometimes carried messages from the Watchers Behind the Stars.
“The Wise One,” Loses His Way amplified.
“He was a member of Plum’s family,” remembered the Icefalcon, not sure why the warchief thought he should be interested. “A little man so high who dressed his hair with elm twigs. He stayed with us when we camped on the Night River just before the Summer Moot, the year that I departed. I don’t think he was a very good Wise One. We nearly starved to death waiting for him to charm antelope, and his information about the salt grass along the Cruel River left a great deal to be desired. Why would I seek out the Antlered Spider?”
“I thought he might have spoken to someone else concerning the spells he laid on the dreamvine that your old chief Noon took, at the Summer Moot in the Year of the White Foxes, the year that you left.” Loses His Way turned the end of one of his mustache braids around his finger, but his eyes did not leave the Icefalcon’s face in the piebald shadows of the thicket. The Icefalcon felt a coldness inside him, as if he already knew what else his enemy was going to say.
“The draft is prepared on the night the chief takes it,” the Icefalcon said, his soft, husky voice suddenly flat. “He himself gathers the dreamvine before he goes up to the mountain. There can be no spells laid on it since no one else touches the pods.”
“According to Antlered Spider, Noon always gathered the pods in the same place,” the warchief replied. “Along Pretty Water Creek, between the white rock shaped like a tortoise and the three straight cottonwoods.”
The place flashed at once to the Icefalcon’s mind, and he realized that what Loses His Way said was true. Noon had taken him there a hundred times in his childhood and told him of the properties of the low-growing, innocuous-looking vine: how it was prepared by the warchief on the mountain and what it did.
“The Antlered Spider said that Blue Child took powdered elf-root and had him lay words on it, so that when the powder was mixed with water and painted on the pods of the vine, the face that Noon would see in his vision at the Summer Moot would be yours. And it was your face that Noon saw, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know this?” The cold in him deepened, a dream remembered and repressed – the old man’s face impassive, eyes dead, empty with grief. The Icefalcon, and his cousin Red Fox, and their friends Stays Up All Night and Fifty Lovers, sitting by the Moot Fire, the talk soft and nervous as it always was at such times. Then Noon walked out of the night into the red world of the firelight, the white shell held out stiffly in his hand and death in his eyes.
Always just stepping into the firelight. Always just holding out his hand.
“My son …”
My son.
But he had known almost before Noon spoke what he was going to say. They had all looked at him, his kindred. Looked at him, and moved away.
The cold crystallized within him to a core of ice, as the cold had then.
“Why did he tell you this?” It astonished him how normal his voice sounded. But he was the Icefalcon, and it behooved him not to show his feelings, particularly not to one of the Empty Lakes People.
“He was dying,” said Loses His Way. “Fever Lady had kissed him at the winter horse camp. The snow was deep outside, and I could not leave.”
“What was he doing in your horse camp?” The Icefalcon drew a deep breath. Far off over the badlands, thunder rolled, soft with distance. The scent of the storm came rushing at them on the blue-black cloak of the wind.
“He wasn’t really one of Plum’s family.” Loses His Way shrugged. “He was the son of my maternal aunt’s husband’s stepbrother. The Empty Lakes People drove him out in the Year of the Crows for putting a barren spell on his sister because she had more horses than he did. No one liked him. Blue Child took him in.”
“Blue Child took in a Wise One of your people?” The Icefalcon was shocked to the marrow of his bones. “Took him in and had him put a spell on the chief of her own people?”
Loses His Way nodded. The Icefalcon was silent. Winter-night silence. Death silence. The silence in the eyes of an old man who has just been told by his Ancestors that the boy he has raised from childhood, the young man he looked upon as his successor, is the one They want, the one They have chosen to bring a message to them written in the crimson extremities of pain.
The torture sacrifice, the Long Sacrifice of summer, that the people may live through the winter to come.
Lightning flared, purple-white against the nigrous mountains of cloud. Gray rain stood in slanted columns over distant hills. The wind veered: Bektis, at a guess, witching the weather to turn the storm away. Shamans of the Talking Stars People generally didn’t care if they got wet.
The Icefalcon observed it all, staring into distance, feeling nothing.
“I don’t know whether Gsi Kethko told anyone else of this,” said Loses His Way, after a time, stroking his long mustache. “But for two years now I have been watching for you, waiting to see if you will return to your people and claim your due.”
“Are you all right, honey?”
Tir sat back on his heels, trembling, small hands propped on his thighs. Hethya ran a competent palm over his clammy forehead, then helped him to his feet and led him away from the little puddle of vomit among the ferns at the base of the big cottonwood tree. Some distance off she knelt down again and took the boy in her arms.
She was a big woman, like the farmwives and blacksmiths in the Keep. Her arms were strong around him and the quilting of her coat smooth and cold under his face, and her thick braids, tickling his chin, smelled good. Tir rested his head against her shoulder and tried not to feel ashamed of himself for getting sick.
It was weak, like the little kids. He was seven and a half. With the deaths of Geppy and Thya and Brit and all the other older children in the Summerless Year, he had stepped into a position of semicommand in the games of the younger.
Tears stung his eyes, remembering his friends. Remembering Rudy.
“There’s no shame in it, being afraid.” Hethya’s big fingers toyed gently with his hair, separating it into locks on his forehead, as his mother sometimes still did. “Even great kings and heroes get afraid. And sometimes that happens, after you’ve been real afraid.”
Tir was silent, trying to sort out what he had felt clinging to the limb of the tree. He was still sweating, though under his furry jacket he felt icy cold, and his stillness alternated with waves of shivering that he could not control.
“You did well,” she said.
In fact, when Bektis had spun around and cried out “Raiders!” and the three Akulae whipped their curved southern swords from their sheaths, from those dark hollows in his mind Tir heard someone else’s voice, one of those other people, say as if thinking it to himself, Get out of everybody’s way.
Lying on the branch of the tree, he had felt curiously little fear. Too many memories of killing men himself – of those other boys killing men – lay too near the surface. Memories of terror in battle, memories of grief and remorse, memories of the grim rush of heat that drove in the knife, the spear, the sword. Watching Hethya, watching the Akulae, cutting and hacking at the men and women who ran stumbling from Bektis’ unseen illusions filled him with emotion that he could not name, closer to sadness and horror than fear. But strong. Horrifyingly strong.
The emotion, whatever it was, left him wrung out, shaken, sickened, so that as soon as the fighting was over he slid down the cotton-wood’s trunk and vomited, not even knowing what it was that he felt. He could see the faces of the dying men still. Their faces, and the faces of all those others who had died in ages past by the hands of those whose memories he touched.
One day he might have to kill somebody himself.
His face still buried in Hethya’s shoulder, he heard Bektis’ sonorous voice repeating summoning-spells, then the soft scrunch of hooves on leaves and the whuffle of horses’ breath. Looking up, he saw Akula leading two beautiful bay stallions by the bridles, so beautiful they took his breath away. The Keep boasted few horses. Four more stood, eyes rolling, among the trees. Another Akula was tethering them.
This Akula had a bleeding wound on one arm. Hethya made a little exclamation under her breath and, with a final quick hug, released Tir and stood. “Here,” she said, going to the man. “Let me get that covered.”
“My dear young lady.” Bektis strolled over to her through the trees, stroking his long white beard and considering the six horses with a self-satisfied smirk. The jeweled device still covered his right hand. He was seldom without it, even if he had no magic to work, and he seemed to enjoy just looking at it, turning it reverently to catch the sunlight, like a vain adolescent admiring a mirror.
During the fight Tir had seen how lightning and fire had flowed out of it, how strange smokes and rainbow lights seemed to leap from it around the heads of the White Raiders, making them cry out and slash at things only they could see, making their dogs attack one another or bite the legs of the Raiders’ horses. Tir had been badly scared by the Raiders’ dogs.
“It’s scarcely worth your time. The man will be dead before the wound heals.”
Hethya opened her mouth to retort, then glanced down at Tir and shut it again. The Akula looked from Bektis’ face to Hethya’s without much comprehension, a thick-muscled man with grim pale eyes. Tir wondered if Akula – any of them – knew enough regular speech to understand what had just been said.
He’d just begun to learn the ha’al language of the Empire of Alketch and could say Please and Thank you and a number of prayers, though since God presumably spoke all languages he couldn’t imagine why he had to learn, with great difficulty, what God could just as easily understand in the Wathe. But his mother, and Rudy, and Lord Ankres said that the language was a useful thing for a King to know.
“And now that we have horses in the camp,” said Bektis, drawing close around his face the fur collar of his quilted brown coat and tucking his beard behind a number of scarves, “I think it best we keep the boy tied up until his Lordship arrives. See to it.”
“Please, Lord Bektis.” Tir stepped forward, his heart pounding. “Please don’t tie me up. If something else happens, if the Raiders come again, I don’t want to be tied up.”
“So you can run away in the confusion?” Bektis had already started to turn away. There was contempt in his voice, and Tir felt his face flush.
“I know I wouldn’t get far,” he said with dignity. “Even if I stole a horse, you could just make it turn around and come back to you, couldn’t you? Or scare it, like you scared those people with stuff that wasn’t real, so they couldn’t protect themselves.”
The wizard’s dark eyes flashed with anger at this implication of cowardice and cheat. “And a fine predicament you’d be in if I hadn’t, boy. We’re not playing children’s games. Do you think the White Raiders would spare a child of your years? I’ve seen children younger than you with their guts staked over five yards of ground. Tie him up,” he added to Hethya. “And give him a lick or two, to mend his manners.”
He walked away to the edge of the grove, where he settled himself under a tree. Tir saw him take something from a velvet purse under his coat, polish it on his chamois cloth, and set it on a little collapsible silver tripod where the dim sunlight lanced through the thin leaves. Scrying, as old Ingold scried for things in his fragment of yellow crystal. As he’d seen Rudy scry, hundreds of times.
At the thought of Rudy his throat closed and his eyes grew hot, seeing him fall again through the whirl of snow and darkness. Don’t make him be dead, he prayed. Please don’t make him be dead.
Hethya’s hand dropped gently onto his shoulder. “Come on, honey,” she said. “We’d better do as he says. I’ll make it as easy on you as I can, and if we’re attacked again I’ll see to it you can get to safety.”
Tir nodded. He wondered sometimes, lying beside her in the warmth of her blankets, feeling safe while Bektis’ wolves and saber-teeth snuffled around the verges of the camp, if she had a little boy of her own.
“Who’s his Lordship who’s coming?” he asked softly, as she led him toward a thin sycamore tree where there was shade and grass. “And what’s he going to do? Why does he want me?”
“Never you mind that, honey,” said Hethya. “I’ll make sure you’re all right.”
But her eyes avoided his as she said it. She wasn’t lying, he realized. She just knew that she had no power to do that, if Bektis – and his Lordship, whoever he was, and whyever he wanted him – decided to kill him.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_75416ce9-7d09-5fec-92ce-34d10ee27cb5)
Shadow passed over the grass.
The Icefalcon turned, scalp prickling, then scanned the sky. There was no sign of a bird.
The chill wind of morning rippled miles of grass and brought the smoke of the camp on Bison Hill. They were waiting for someone, the Icefalcon thought. Or for some event, as Wise Ones waited for conjunctions of stars and planets that would increase and focus their power. Above the coulee, black birds now gathered in clouds, but none circled anywhere near the hill.
A smoke-colored flicker in the corner of his eye, and this time he was sure of it. Ears tilted inquiringly, Yellow-Eyed Dog raised his nose from his paws and sniffed the air. The sky was empty overhead.
“What is it?” whispered Loses His Way.
The Icefalcon drew breath and relaxed a little, as much as he ever relaxed or could relax.
“Cold Death,” he said.
It was after noon, the day following Tir’s abduction from the Keep, that a mixed company of Guards and other Keep soldiery under command of Janus of Weg finally reached the gorge where Rudy lay. Once it grew light enough to see, Gil climbed the rocks two or three times, snow still falling heavily, to lay out branches and rocks and to carve laborious notches with her footprints in the snow, showing where they were. She had just returned from gathering more wood when she heard voices on the rocks above. “Gaw, what a mess,” said the familiar backcountry drawl of the Commander – and a heavenly choir of angels playing the back half of “Layla” on electrified harps couldn’t have been sweeter to her ears – “I thought you said you could chase the snow-clouds out onto the plain, me dumpling.”
“They should have gone.” Brother Wend’s soft voice was puzzled. “It’s unheard of for weather to cling this long after the Summoner has departed. I think … I’m not sure, but I think there are spells of danger up ahead as well, avalanche and anger among the beasts of the mountains.”
Janus cursed. “Bektis was never that strong,” he said. There was a scuffle, and a couple of little snow-slips tumbled down the rock face. Then Gil saw the black shapes of the Guards, and a couple of the white-clothed warriors of Lord Ankres’ company, scrambling down the way she had marked.
Wend knelt beside Rudy and exclaimed in shock, pulling off his heavy gloves at once to weave spells of healing and stasis over the great burns and cuts on Rudy’s face and chest. Meanwhile, Janus and the others spread out along the frozen stream to cut saplings for a litter. The Icefalcon’s makeshift wall had served to keep the niche under the overhang warm through the night and into morning, but Rudy’s face wore the look of death. “Don’t die on me, man,” Gil whispered, in her disused English, as she watched the priest-wizard’s fingers trace again and again the lines of healing and strength over the still, hawk-nosed face.
She’d have to face Alde, too.
The Lady of the Keep awaited them on the shallow steps of the black fortress, wrapped thick in the faded rainbow of her coat of quilted silk scraps. Like a crooked scarecrow, the Bishop Maia of Renweth stood beside her, and on her other side her friend and maidservant Linnet unobtrusively held her hand. There were other people as well – the Keep Lords, and Ilae, and the entrepreneurs who functioned more or less as neighborhood bosses – but as she walked beside Rudy’s litter with the scrag-end of the storm winds lashing at her face, Alde was all Gil saw.
The younger woman’s jaw set, body stiffening, drawing in on itself for protection, when it was clear to her that Tir wasn’t among the returning Guards.
“Rudy’s alive,” Gil called, as they came near enough for her voice to be heard without shouting. “The Icefalcon’s gone after Bektis and Tir. Tir seems to be all right.”
“Thank you.” Gil could only guess at Alde’s reply by the movement of her lips. Wind lifted the Lady’s hair, a shroud of night, as she descended the steps to grasp and kiss Rudy’s nerveless hand.
Undemonstrative herself, Gil did the only thing she could think of to do to help her friend through the hours of the evening and the night. She stayed beside her in the cell to which they brought Rudy, a chamber in the Royal Sector whose round tiled heating stove and larger bed made it more comfortable than the young mage’s narrow quarters off the wizards’ workroom on first level south. Neither Ilae nor Wend had had early training in their craft, both having denied or neglected their talents in the days before the coming of the Dark Ones. But Wend had, through the years of his priesthood, practiced surreptitiously the healing magic on those members of the small western community who had been in his care, and both he and the red-haired girl had seven years of formal teaching. Together they worked spells of strength and stability on Rudy’s heart and nervous system, and of healing on his flesh, drew runes and circles of power around the herbs they prepared to combat infection.
Through the night Minalde stayed quietly in a corner of the room, fetching water or lint, feeding the fire or holding the knots on bandages when such things were called for. Linnet disappeared to look after Gisa, the daughter Alde had borne Rudy in the Summerless Year, who at eighteen months was old enough to know something was desperately wrong, and to care for Gil’s son Mithrys; Gil remained at Alde’s side. She didn’t say much – she had never known what to say to someone in grief or pain – but once Alde reached out and took her hand and squeezed it hard enough to hurt.
Later she asked, “Did you see Tir?” and Gil shook her head.
“I heard him call out Rudy’s name,” she said. In the soft double glow of lampflame and witchlight. Alde’s face seemed thin and old, an echo of the old woman she would one day be. A woman who had lost the husband she adored and feared and had seen the brother she had worshipped turn tyrant and monster, who had survived the crumbling of her world and found in its wreck a love like the rising of the stars.
“We saw his tracks a couple of times, when they let him off the donkey. I think that Hethya woman must have gotten him out of the Keep to look at the caves along the north side of the Vale, and Bektis put a glamour on one of those warriors he had with him to make Tir think it was Rudy.”
Alde only nodded, her face an ivory death mask.
“I never thought Bektis would possess the power to hold storms so long after he had gone.” Brother Wend turned on his three-legged stool, drying his hands on a coarse hempcloth towel, a dark-haired little man whose priestly tonsure had grown in when he left the Church, only to be replaced by his hairline’s early retreat. “Of course, he will always be a greater wizard than I, but …” He shook his head.
“He had a … a device of some kind,” said Gil. “This kind of crystal thing strapped on his hand. It may just have been reflection, but it looked like it lit up when Bektis threw lightning or defended himself against Rudy’s spells. He’s a stronger wizard than Rudy is anyway, but if it was a magnifier or amplifier of some kind …”
Ilae looked up from grinding dried purple-bead roots in the mortar. “Does such a thing exist?”
“Who knows?” Gil replied. “We don’t know what’s been stashed away all these years, left over from the Times Before. Ingold is always finding references to stuff the Church confiscated and hid and never talked about.”
“And with good reason, if legend is anything to go by.” Maia stood in the doorway, his long face lined with concern. “How is he?”
“About the same.” Gil shrugged, hiding fear and anxiety, as the Icefalcon did. “Maybe other people hid stuff, too, out of fear of the Church or of their neighbors. Now those places have been broken open, and nobody’s keeping an eye on them anymore.” She glanced sidelong at Maia. “Why do you think Ingold’s been in such a panic to find books and implements and whatever other apparatus he can?”
“There were certainly records in my episcopal palace of things I did not understand, hidden in places lost to anyone’s memory,” the tall Bishop agreed. “We do not even know what may still be hidden in this Keep, untouched since the Dark’s first rising.”
“And it’s a good guess Govannin had a couple of secrets on hand. For all she carried on about mages being soulless tools of Evil, she was quick enough to use black magic in anything she considered a good cause. If Bektis ever did manage to break her hold on him, you can bet your best fur booties he’d help himself to whatever he could stick in his pockets.”
“How soon will the storm clear?” Alde, who had sat all this while with bowed head in silence, now looked up at Wend. “How soon can a party go over the pass in pursuit?”
“I’ll go out there in the morning,” the physician promised. “Even the strongest spells disperse, if their maker is not there renewing them. I’m not the weather-witch Bektis is, but I should be able to hasten their breaking.”
“How soon?” Her eyes were like the heart of the night, her voice porcelain, cold and friable, as if it would shatter at a touch.
“Tomorrow afternoon?”
She whispered again, “Thank you.” Her small hands closed around Rudy’s brown, cold fingers, seeking reassurance, perhaps hoping to hold his spirit to his flesh. She hadn’t touched the tisane Linnet had brought, or the supper, either. Gil knew better than to think that she would unless forced.
I’d better get some sleep, thought Gil. And pack. She remembered the three identical warriors. Were others waiting to join Bektis once he got over the pass? A dozen or a hundred, cookie-cuttered out of some unguessable spell? Ingold had never mentioned such a thing to her, nor Bektis’ jeweled weapon, either.
How could she, and the Guards, and a novice like Wend cope with those and whatever else the sorcerer had up his fur-lined sleeves?
But the concern turned out to be moot. An hour or so later Ilae put down her herbs and sat up straight, her hand going to her temple, her eyes suddenly flaring wide. “Damn,” she said.
Alde, her hand still locked around Rudy’s where she sat on the floor, a pillow at her back, looked up sharply at the note in the girl’s voice. “What is it?”
“I …” Ilae hesitated, frowning, listening hard to sounds only she could hear. Then the witchlight brightened behind her head as she dug in the purse at her belt for a scrying stone, a ruby Ingold had found in the ruins of Penambra, which she turned and maneuvered in the sharp glint of the light. “Damn,” she said again, more forcefully, and pushed her rusty hair out of her eyes. “There’re men coming up the road from the river valley, my Lady. Lots of men – horses – spears glittering in the moonlight …”
“What?” Alde surged lithely to her feet, crossed the room in a flurry of petticoats, and looked over Ilae’s shoulder as if she too could see in the jewel. “Where?”
“They’ve just passed the wards we set up in the Arrow Gorge. Hundreds, it looks like. Carts and tents.” She looked up into the Lady’s face with baffled eyes. “It’s hard to see in darkness, but I think they’re black-faced, black-skinned, the men of the Alketch, and the brown men of the Delta Islands with gold beads in their hair. They’re coming fast.”
Alde cursed, something she seldom did. “Send for Janus,” she said. “We need to meet them at the Tall Gates and hold them there, if we can. Thank you, Ilae …”
Gil was already out of the room, striding down the Royal Way toward the Aisle and the lamplit watchroom of the Guards.
The Icefalcon and Loses His Way watched Bektis’ camp through the night, turn and turn about with hunting small game in the coulee. They worked mostly in businesslike silence, though Loses His Way asked about the conditions of grass on the eastern side of the mountains, and the movements of mammoth and bison herds, always a fruitful topic among the peoples of the Real World. He asked, too, about the pedigrees of the horses at the Keep and shook his head sorrowfully when the Icefalcon informed him that the Keep horse herd had been acquired at random from the South and that even before the destruction of the original herd, the ancestry of horses was not a concern of most mud-diggers.
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Barbara Hambly
A brilliant new fantasy from the author of the bestselling Darwath series, Icefalcon’s Quest is a follow-up to Hambly’s Mother of Winter.The Icefalcon’s first mistake was to rescue the old man named Linok. His second mistake was to leave Tir, his young charge in the old man’s care…Linok was not as he seemed, and when he disappeared, snatching Tir away with him, the Icefalcon begins a desparate quest to rescue his charge. But this will be no ordinary struggle, for against the Icefalcon come hellish furies – an army of ghostly soldiers horrifically constructed, demons of the air and magic so dark it terrifies him. There is also Hethya, the young woman who was once in Linok’s care. She claims to be possessed by a spirit who lived in the Time of the Dark and believes it knows the secret in the crypt below the Keep, the target against which all the forces of darkness are gathering…
BARBARA HAMBLY
Icefalcon’s Quest
Copyright (#ulink_68ecf3ca-defc-5ff4-9861-132b26031043)
Voyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © 1998 by Barbara Hambly
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780006483038
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007469208
Version: 2016-12-22
Dedication (#ulink_95712616-83d4-52a4-8852-a88baaa204ab)
For Neil Gaiman
Contents
Cover (#uecd91742-c7ac-561b-8a69-960a4cd596cf)
Title Page (#u3a9a2472-f95d-53e9-aaa0-307f08aec5a5)
Copyright (#uc4fb6196-c00f-5e26-ace2-0f0c39fd066f)
Dedication (#u292bdf24-c9e1-5f8c-832f-2f550cbd7a64)
Map (#u999530c1-afa4-5c21-9c2f-b27ccc88b6dd)
Chapter 1 (#udeb984fa-043e-533c-b594-02ad98247332)
Chapter 2 (#u4b7036a2-6301-5594-8e1a-cda42834ff82)
Chapter 3 (#u5803aacf-d693-592b-8918-c29ac585efd5)
Chapter 4 (#u795ac48c-ebc8-5378-bdee-51236cab5e2b)
Chapter 5 (#u7a5a2ef4-70ee-5e62-b188-b2617fb00f9b)
Chapter 6 (#ua6ffac63-4ff1-5ed8-b260-25ab7c6db2ad)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Map (#ulink_8a5fc69f-1738-512b-9300-4768219272b7)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_074c6693-d934-5a45-bc99-7e3bf533d72d)
Had the Icefalcon still been living among the Talking Stars People, the penalty for not recognizing the old man he encountered in the clearing by the four elm trees would have been the removal of his eyes, tongue, liver, heart, and brain, in that order. His head would have been cut off, and, the Talking Stars People being a thrifty folk, his hair taken for bowstrings, his skin for ritual leather, and his bones for tools and arrowheads. If it was a bad winter, they would have eaten his flesh, too, so it was just as well that his misdeed occurred in the middle of spring.
The Icefalcon considered all this logical and justified: the laws of his ancestors were not the reason that he no longer lived among the Talking Stars People.
All the horror that followed could have been avoided had he minded his own business, as was his wont. Sometimes he felt that he had spent entirely too much time living among civilized people.
It had been a bad year for bandits. The summer following the Summerless Year had seen more than the usual bloody strife in the rotting kingdoms that once made up the empire of the Alketch in the South, and bands of paid-off warriors, both black and white, drifted north to prey on the small communities along the Great Brown River. It was said they had penetrated far to the east, into the Felwoods, though few came so far north as the Vale of Renweth. Now it was spring again. When a woman’s screams and a man’s thin cries for help sliced the cold, sharp air of the Vale, the Icefalcon guessed immediately what was going on.
In the round clearing in the woods about three miles upslope from the Keep, he found pretty much what he expected to find. The scene was common in the river valleys these days: an old man lying with a great bleeding wound in his head by the remains of a small campfire, a donkey squealing and pulling its tether, and a burly, coal-black warrior of the Alketch in the process of dragging a buxom red-haired woman into the trees. In the filmy eggshell brightness of the spring afternoon the old man’s blood glared crimson, the warrior’s yellow coat in brilliant contrast to the emerald of the grass, the beryl of the close-crowding trees. The knife in the woman’s hand blinked like a mirror.
Seeing no point in making a target of himself by crossing the meadow openly, the Icefalcon ducked immediately back into the belt of hazel and chokecherry that ringed the clearing and kept to cover as he worked his way around. The woman was putting up a good fight. She was as tall as her attacker and of sturdy build, dressed as a man for travel in trousers and a padded wool jacket. Still, the man got the knife away from her, twisted her arm behind her, and seized her thick braids. The woman cried out in pain – she had not ceased to shriek throughout the encounter – and the Icefalcon simply stepped from behind an elm tree next to the struggling pair, flipped one of his several poignards into his hand, and slit the warrior’s throat.
The woman saw him a split second before he grabbed the man around the jaw to pull his head back for the kill. She screamed in what the Icefalcon considered unreasonable horror – what did she think he was going to do? – as the man’s blood soused over her breast and belly in a raw-smelling drench, and jumped away as her attacker collapsed between them. The Icefalcon had already turned, sword in hand, to scan the woods behind.
“Shut up,” he instructed. “I can’t hear anything.” A single bandit was even rarer than a single cockroach.
But there was no second attack. No sound in the woods, at least as far as he could tell over the woman’s hooting gasps.
He glanced back at her after the first quick check and pointed out, “Your companion is hurt.”
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Linok!” and rushed across the clearing to where the old man lay.
After looting the fallen body of weapons, the Icefalcon followed more slowly, listening, watching all around him, tallying sounds and half-guessed movements in the shadows of the trees. She’d made noise enough to have brought the armies clear from the Alketch, let alone from higher up the Vale.
He came up on her as she was dabbing clean the old man’s scalp. The cut looked ugly, blood smeared all over the round, brown, wrinkled face and matted dark in the salt-and-pepper hair. “Hethya?” moaned the old man, groping for her arm with a shaky hand.
“I’m here, Uncle. I’m all right.” Her jacket had been pulled nearly off her shoulders in the struggle, her tunic torn to the waist. She made nothing of her half-bared breasts, round and upstanding and white as suet puddings under the terra-cotta spill of her hair. The Icefalcon put her age at perhaps thirty, a few years older than himself. She had a red full mouth and the porcelain-fair skin of the Felwoods and an easterner’s way with vowels as well.
“We’re all right for now,” corrected the Icefalcon, still listening to the too silent woods. “Your visitor’s companions will be along at any time. How is it with you, old man? Can you back the donkey?”
“I – I believe so.” Old Linok had the well-bred speech of the capital at Gae, before the Dark Ones destroyed it along with most of the rest of the works of humankind. He sat up, clinging to his niece’s fleshy shoulder for support. “What happened? I don’t …”
“Your niece will explain on the way to the Keep.” Impossible that the bandit’s companions weren’t only minutes away – the Talking Stars People would have already left the old man behind. The Icefalcon had with some difficulty been taught to follow the dictates of civilized people about those too infirm to look out for themselves, but he still didn’t understand them. “Get him on the beast and don’t be a fool, woman,” he added, when she turned to gather up bedrolls and packs. “The bandits will have those one way or the other.”
“But we carried those clear from …”
“No, no, Hethya, the boy is right.” Linok struggled with maddening slowness to get himself upright. “There will be others. Of course there will be others.”
The Icefalcon already had the donkey over to them. He reminded himself that among civilized people it was not done to grab old men by the backs of their clothing and heave them onto pack-beasts like killed meat, no matter how much more efficient such a procedure might be for a speedy getaway. His sword was in his right hand, his attention returning again and again to the place in the trees where the birds were silent – somewhere between the big elm with the lightning scar and the three smaller elms close together.
“You’re from the fortress, aren’t you, young man?”
“Be silent, both of you.” He was too preoccupied with trying to track potential attackers by sound to inquire where else they thought he might have emerged from, if not the monstrous black block of the Keep, whose obsidian-smooth walls were visible from nearly any point in the lower part of the Vale.
They were there. He felt their presence as one sometimes felt the spirits of holy places, felt their eyes on the little party with all the training of his upbringing in the Real World, the empty lands beyond the mountains. He’d killed their companion and was in charge of two and perhaps three sets of weapons and a donkey, far rarer than gold in this devastated world. He and his companions were outnumbered …
So why didn’t they attack?
And why didn’t these two idiots he’d rescued shut up?
But they didn’t. And the bandits kept to the trees, invisible and unheard. As far as the Icefalcon could tell, they didn’t even follow them as they moved from clearing to clearing down the ice-fed stream, until they came to the open land that surrounded the Keep of Dare, the last refuge of humankind between the Great Brown River and the glacier-rimmed horns of the Snowy Mountains, somber towers blotting the western sky.
“You were fools not to come to the Keep when first you entered the valley.” The Icefalcon glanced back at them, man and woman, for the first time taking his eyes from the surrounding woods. “Where were you bound? You must have seen it.”
“Now listen here, boy-o,” began the woman Hethya, apparently indignant at being called a fool, though the Icefalcon would have been hard put to devise another term that covered the situation.
“No, niece, he’s right,” Linok sighed. “He’s right.” He straightened his bowed back – he was a little, round-faced, stooped man, with blunt-fingered hands clinging to the ass’ short-cropped mane – and looked back at the Icefalcon walking behind them, long, curved killing-sword still in hand.
“A White Raider, aren’t you, my boy? And clothed as one of the King’s Guard of Gae.”
Civilized people, the Icefalcon had discovered, loved to state the obvious. In the improbable event that a man of the Realm of Darwath – and they were a dark-haired people on the whole – had been flax-blond and grew his hair long enough to braid, it was still unlikely in the extreme that he’d have had dried hand bones plaited into the ends of it.
The bones were those of a man who had poisoned the Icefalcon, stolen his horse and the amulet that guarded him from the Dark Ones, and left him to die. The Icefalcon saw no reason for civilized people to be shocked about this, but mostly they were.
“Had you journeyed as far as we have, young man,” Linok went on, shaking a finger at him, “in such lands as the Felwoods have become in the seven years since the coming of the Dark, you’d beware of anyone and anything you don’t know, too. Cities that once were bywords of law and hospitality are nests now of ghouls and thieves …”
His gestures widened to dramatic sweeps, like an actor declaiming. The Icefalcon wondered if Linok sincerely believed that the Icefalcon had somehow missed these events or if he simply liked to hear himself talk, a failing common among civilized people who didn’t have to deal with the possibility of death by starvation or violence as the result of ill-timed sound.
“The very Keeps themselves are no longer safe. Prandhays Keep, once the stronghold of the landchief Degedna Marina, was breached and overtaken by outlaws who nearly killed us when we came there seeking shelter. There is no trust to be found anywhere in this sorry and desolated world.”
“Still,” said Hethya softly, “it is not so bad as it was.” Her voice altered, the broad dialect of the Felwoods lands transmuting into something else, her carriage changing, as if she grew taller where she walked at the donkey’s head. “Nathión Aysas intios tá, they used to say: The Darkness covered the very eyes of God.”
The Icefalcon tilted his head at the unfamiliar words, of no language that he knew or had ever heard. There was the echo of dark horror in the woman’s eyes, and her whole face, in its frame of cinnamon curls, grew subtly different.
“You mean in the days when the Dark Ones rose,” he said.
Her laugh was soft, bitter, and strange, out of place in the lush – featured face. “Yes,” she said. “I mean when the Dark Ones rose.”
Around them in the open meadow a half hundred or so sheep fled bleating, and the dozen cows raised their heads to regard them with the mild stupid curiosity of bovine kind: all the livestock left to a community of some five thousand souls. The pasturage had been shifted again, as the rubbery, alien growth called slunch spread into what had been the Keep’s cornfields, and only a few of the fields themselves remained. The ice storm that struck in the Summerless Year had accounted not only for most of the stock, but for all but a few of the fruit trees as well, freezing them to their hearts. Even the spells of the Keep’s mages had been unable to revive more than a handful. Raised by magic three and a half millennia ago, the black walls of the Keep itself stood isolated in the desolation.
Still, they stood, impervious to horror, night, and Fimbul winter in a world of glacier-crowned rock, and Hethya looked on them across the meadow with sadness and knowledge in her eyes.
“Not the rising of the Dark Ones that you remember, barbarian child,” she added softly. “Not their brief, final rising, when they wiped out the last of humankind before themselves passing on into another dimension of the cosmos.” Her hand shifted on the donkey’s bridle, and she seemed oblivious now to the dead bandit’s blood crusted on her clothing.
“I remember the days when the Dark Ones rose like a black miasma and did not depart. Not in a season, not in a year, not in a generation. I remember the days when humankind shrank to handfuls, not daring to leave the black walls of its Keeps for years at a time, fearing the night, fearing the day almost as much. When the world we knew was rent asunder and all the things that we cherished were swept away so that not even the words for them remained.
“I remember,” she said. “It was three and a half thousand years ago, but I remember what it was like, at the original rising of the Dark. I was there.”
“I don’t know how young I was,” said Hethya, sipping the tisane of hot barley that Gil-Shalos of the Guards brought her, “when she first started speaking to me in me mind.”
She drew up her legs under the borrowed skirts of homespun wool – worn and mended like everything in the Keep these days – and looked around her at the notables of the Keep assembled in the smallest of the royal council chambers.
“Six or seven, I think. I know I startled Mother – and horrified me aunties – by some of what I’d come out with, things no young girl ought to think or know.”
Her wry grin summoned back for a moment that red-haired child, with her pointed chin and wide-set cheekbones and innocent hazel eyes, in a house whose diamond-paned window casements would have been left open after dark to catch the evening breeze. In her smile the Icefalcon, seated with Gil-Shalos and a couple of other warriors near the door, could glimpse the reflection of parents and siblings who had mostly died uncomprehending, terrified, one night when the thin acid winds blew cold from the shadows and the shadows themselves flowed out to drown the light.
Minalde asked, “Does she have a name?” She leaned forward, dark braid swaying over the faded red wool of her state gown, twined with the pearls of the ancient Royal House.
Hethya’s tawny brows tugged together. “Oale Niu,” she said at length. “Though I don’t know whether this is her name or her title. She calls herself other things sometimes.”
The Icefalcon saw the glance that passed around the room, the murmur of wonderment and question like wind rustling the aspens by the orchards. Even the Keep Lords, the few members of the ancient Gae nobility who’d managed to make it to the Keep with food stores and servants and miniature armies of retainers and guards, were impressed, and they tended not to be moved by anything that didn’t directly impinge on their real or imagined privileges. Lord Ankres muttered something to Lord Sketh, who nodded, blue eyes bulging. Three of the Keep’s four mages – Rudy, Wend, and Ilae – leaned forward on their bench of smooth-whittled pine poles, draped in mammoth and bison-hides. Wise Ones, the Icefalcon’s people would have called them, they had summoned spots of glowing witchlight to augment the flickering amber of the small, round hearth, but the blue-white light burned low, giving the big double cell the intimacy of a private chamber.
“Oale Niu,” Minalde repeated softly, tasting the shape of that name with a kind of wonder. The Lady of the Keep and widow of Eldor, the last High King of the Realm of Darwath, had changed a great deal from the shy seventeen-year-old the Icefalcon had rescued from the Dark Ones seven years ago. Thin-boned and delicately beautiful, with lupine-blue eyes that had seen too much: a pawn who had worked her heartbreaking way across the chessboard to become not a queen, but a king.
“And you remember to her?” asked Altir Endorion, Lord of the Keep of Dare.
He had his mother Minalde’s eyes, large and blue as the hearts of the deepest-hued morning glories, and her coal-black hair. Of his father, he had the memories of the House of Dare, memories of the line that stretched unbroken back to the original Time of the Dark; memories uncertain, patchy, in no particular order, memories of other people’s mothers, other people’s griefs. Some members of his house had been spared these memories, the Icefalcon had been told. Others had had them only in flashes, or sometimes in the form of hurtful, restless dreams. Minalde had them, too, inherited from the House of Bes, a collateral of Dare’s line. Sometimes Tir’s eyes were three thousand years old and more.
He’d be eight in high summer and looked it now, small face filled with wonder as he gazed up at this newcomer from another world.
Hethya smiled looking down at him, and her expression softened. “I don’t remember to her, me little lord,” she said. “I – I am her, in a way of speaking. Sometimes. She’s like in a room in me head” – she tapped her temple – “and sometimes she only sits in that room talking to me, and sometimes she comes out, and … and then I have to sit in that room, and listen to the things she says, and watch the things she does with me hands, and me feet, and me body.”
Her brow creased again, and some remembered pain hardened a corner of her mouth. She looked aside from Tir’s too innocent eyes.
After a moment she went on, “Sometimes she’ll tell me things, or show me things, things about the Times Before. It’s hard to explain the way of it, between her and me.”
“Rudy?” Minalde looked across to the young mage who was her lover, seated at a discreet distance with his two colleagues in wizardry out of respect for the sensibilities – religious or political – of the Keep Lords and the Bishop Maia. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Rudy Solis shook his head. He, too, had changed, the Icefalcon thought, over the past seven years. Like Gil-Shalos he was an outlander, son of an alien world. When they had arrived in the train of Ingold the Wizard on the morning following the final destruction of Gae, the Icefalcon had guessed immediately that Gil-Shalos, who now sat beside him in the loose black clothing of the Guards, would survive. He had seen the warrior in her eyes.
Rudy he had not been so sure of. Even after the young man had found in himself the powers of the Wise Ones – powers that evidently did not exist or were not accessible to humans in his own world – the Icefalcon would not have bet the runt of a pot dog’s litter on Rudy’s survival. He might do so today, he thought, but not much more. For all that Rudy had been through, under Ingold’s tutelage and on his own, like many civilized people he lacked the cutting blade of hardness in his soul.
“I’ve never heard of anything of the kind,” he said. “Neither has Ingold, as far as I know. At least he’s never mentioned it to me.” He shook his long dark hair from his eyes, an unprepossessing figure in his laborer’s clothes and his vest of brightly painted bison-hide. “When we’re done here, I’ll contact him and ask.”
“It is a most inopportune moment,” put in the elderly Lord Ankres dryly, “for Lord Ingold to have absented himself from the Keep.”
Gil-Shalos stiffened at this slight to the mage who was her lover, her life, and the father of her young son, but as a member of the Guards it was not her place to speak out of turn to one of the Keep Lords. Rudy answered, however.
“When you come to think of it, my Lord, there never is an opportune moment for Ingold to go scavenging. I mean, hell, nothing ever happens in the winter because the bandits and the White Raiders are as locked down by the weather as we are, but then Ingold can’t get out, either. The only times he can get to the ruins of the cities is in summer. Are you saying you’d rather he didn’t find stuff like sulfur and vitriol to kill the slunch in the fields? Or books?”
“He could leave the books for another time,” responded the stout Lord Sketh. “There are things we need more.”
“Like a new brain for you, meathead?” muttered Gil under her breath.
“Be that as it may,” Minalde intervened, with her usual artlessly exact timing, “the fact is that Lord Ingold is at Gae just now and can be contacted easily by any of the mages here. Wend? Ilae? Have either of you heard tell of such a thing, that one of the wizards of the Times Before should possess the mind and soul of someone in our times?”
Both the dark-eyed little ex-priest and the slim young woman shook their heads. Their ignorance was scarcely a surprise, as neither had received formal training in wizardry. The Dark Ones had been hideously efficient in wiping out the schools in the City of Wizards and everyone else with obvious ability in the art.
“Well, I’ve never heard of such, either,” said Hethya. “And believe me, your Ladyship, I’ve looked.”
“It is a rare – a very rare – phenomenon.” Uncle Linok spoke for the first time, from the corner by the hearth. He adjusted the shawls and blankets wrapped about him, wool and fur and the combed and spun underwool of the mammoth, yak, rhinoceros, and uintatheria that the Keep’s hunters trapped and speared in the winter when the great lumbering animals migrated from the North.
“But it is by no means unheard of. As a collector and collator of old manuscripts myself, I’ve found mention of it only once, in the Yellow Book of Harilómne.”
“Harilómne?” Brother Wend straightened up, dark eyes growing wide. “Harilómne the Heretic? He was a mage of great power, who sought out and studied all records of the arts of the Times Before, in the days of Otoras Blackcheeks, my Lady,” he explained, turning to Minalde. “It was said he knew more about those lost arts than any man living, though no one knows how he found it out. No one has ever found his library …”
“And just as well,” said the Bishop Maia. “Just because a thing was wrought by the mages of those times does not mean that it was wholesome, or worthy of being found. The Times Before were years of great evil as well as great knowledge. Some of the knowledge Harilómne uncovered was used to great ill, as anyone will tell you, my Lady.”
“But three of his books were supposed to be at Gae,” put in Rudy. “That’s what that merchant guy last month told Ingold. That he’d seen them in the cellar of a wrecked villa there. That’s why Ingold took off the way he did.”
“And well he should,” said Linok. “All knowledge, all magic, is precious in these times.” He made a gesture, then, of stroking his ragged beard, and something in his movement – the way his hand came up, wrist leading like an actor’s – snagged at the Icefalcon’s mind. An impression, gone immediately, that he knew this man. Had seen him somewhere before.
But the round face, the wide-set eyes, and the snub nose were not familiar.
Someone who looked like him? A kinsman?
But he knew as soon as he phrased the question that it wasn’t that.
Linok went on, “The single reference in the Yellow Book speaks of a girl in the reign of Amir the Lesser who was ‘possessed of a spirit of her ancestors,’ who apparently spoke languages unknown to any in the world. She could identify and explain an ‘apparatus’ ‘said to have stood in the vaults beneath the Cathedral of Prandhays since the founding of the city.’ What this apparatus was the book did not say, and the apparatus itself is now long gone, but it was said that the thing produced a great light, and while the light shone none could enter or leave the Cathedral, nor certain areas of its grounds.”
“A force field?” Rudy looked across at Gil – the word he used was unfamiliar, in the tongue of their own world that neither spoke much anymore. “I’ll be buggered. You ever hear Ingold mention that?”
She shook her head.
“And was it an apparatus,” asked Minalde, folding small slim hands in her embroidered lap, “that you came to the Vale of Renweth to seek, Hethya?”
The woman hesitated for a long time, her eyes seeking Linok’s. The old man nodded.
“I think we can trust these good people, my child.”
One could have heard a snowflake fall in that lamp-lit golden room.
“She – Oale Niu – says there were caves or something in the cliffs on the western side of the valley.” Hethya brought the words out hesitantly, as if dredging them from deep within her mind. “She says she and some other people, wizards I think, hid up there from the Dark Ones. They walled up things, weapons and … and other things I’m not understanding, to hide them there from enemies, after they got the Keep built.”
The whole room was an indrawn breath. Hope, wanting, flashed between Rudy’s eyes and Minalde’s, palpable as the leap of summer lightning from cloud to cloud.
Lord Ankres said, “But we have all been to those caves, my Lady Queen.” He leaned forward, narrow hands resting on his knees. “Lord Ingold himself has gone carefully over them and found nothing but marks and scratches on the floor.”
Hethya looked puzzled, biting her lip.
Rudy asked her, “Whereabouts are these caves? Down near the old road?”
She shook her head immediately. “No, those were the ones the people stayed in, where there was the water. These were up higher, and farther on, I think. I’d know the place if I was to see it again.”
Rudy looked down at Tir, sitting rapt at Minalde’s feet. “Any of this sound familiar to you, Ace?”
The boy shook his head, eyes shining. “What kind of things?” he wanted to know. “Machines?” For the past two winters he had been enthralled by the mazes of levers and pulleys, belts and steam turbines, that Ingold was constructing in his laboratories in the heart of the Keep crypts next to the hydroponics gardens that fed the population. The few fragments of ancient machines that had been found provided only tantalizing scraps of information, hints and clues and the tiniest seeds of speculation, which, the Icefalcon knew, drove Ingold and Gil insane.
The Icefalcon himself had little opinion of machines. They could not be made to work and took up a deal of space, and, upon two or three occasions, trials of their virtues had resulted in nearly killing everyone in the room. Gil and Rudy had both attempted to explain to him why it was necessary that such machines as Gil saw in the record crystals from the Times Before should be made to work again, but the Icefalcon still distrusted them.
It was said among his people that it took a brave man to befriend a Wise Man, and after eleven years’ friendship with Ingold Inglorion, greatest of the wizards of the West, the Icefalcon had concluded that one had to be slightly mad as well.
Hethya was still speaking, telling Tir and Rudy and the Lady Alde about machines that would draw water from deep in the earth or generate heat and operate the pumps that circulated air and water through the unseen black ducts and pipes of the Keep. Though Maia was shaking his head in disapproval, she spoke of apparatus that would melt snow and cause plants to fruit and put forth crops twice and sometimes thrice in a year – the sort of things the more foolish of the people of the Real World west of the mountains attributed to their Ancestors, as if anyone’s Ancestors would be interested in such matters. The Talking Stars People had more sense.
“I know not whether these things will remain,” Hethya said, the Felwoods brogue dissolving again, the antique inflection returning as the pitch of the voice itself deepened and slowed. “We hid them deep, for the world in those days was full of foolish men and the acts of a few evil wizards had brought down the persecution of the Church on them all. A world of time has passed over them, and time contains many things. We thought, me Uncle Linok and meself …” She was all Felwoods again. “We thought to lay hold of some of these things, to buy ourselves at least a place to dwell, now the eastern lands are all warfare and bandits and death.”
Her nostrils flared a little, and the hazel eyes darkened again, and her fingers clenched the faded gilding of her chair arm.
“You need not trouble yourselves about the purchase of refuge.” Alde rose from her own chair and held out her hand, her full garnet oversleeve falling straight. Against Hethya’s height and strength she had a fragile look, like the chair she had sat in, the delicate workmanship of a world fast slipping away. “Whatever you seek, be sure that you will have our help. Whatever you find, be sure that it will not be taken from you so long as your use of it be honest. That I pledge you.”
Hethya curtsied deep with her borrowed skirts and kissed the Lady’s outstretched hand. Linok carefully unwrapped himself from his many shawls and made his bow, an elaborate Court obeisance that once again tripped something in the Icefalcon’s mind.
But then, it was the sort of silliness that civilized people did, and he had lived among them for four years before the coming of the Dark Ones. There were many in the Keep – not just the Keep Lords, either – who scrupulously maintained the old forms, and it was not unreasonable to suppose that such a one might have a niece with a roving eye and a Felwoods turn to her tongue.
It was the mark of civilized people to make such allowances and not live with one’s hand forever on one’s sword-belt. Commander Janus of the Guards, and the Lady Minalde, and others over the years, had told the Icefalcon repeatedly that every snapped twig did not necessarily presage the swift onset of bloody disaster.
But the reflection that he was right, and they wrong, was of little consolation to the Icefalcon in the face of what was to come.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_31081ead-5485-5a6f-904e-e426fd9d5d36)
“If you mean, do I think she was faking,” said Gil-Shalos half an hour later, walking along the broad Royal Way at the Icefalcon’s side with her gloved hands stuck in her sword-sash, “the answer is yes.”
At midday the mazes of the Keep were sparsely populated, especially in spring. The rasp of files and saws, characteristic noises that rose and faded with the turnings of the fortress’ tangled hallways, were stilled as the men and women who labored all winter in their dim-lit cells joined hunting parties or optimistically cultivated what arable land there was – anything to add to the Keep’s slim stores of food and, especially, clothing. With the destruction of the entire sheep herd in the Summerless Year, the Icefalcon had immediately reverted to the wearing of leather and furs, dyed black as the clothing of the Guards of Gae was always black; others were following suit.
Uneasy torchlight flung shadows over the black stone walls but couldn’t pierce the gloom collected under the high ceiling vaults. Here and there vermillion slits of poor-quality-oil light marked the rough louvers or curtains that closed off doors of the dwelling cells. Raised largely in the open, the Icefalcon had had a difficult time getting used to living under a roof in his years at Gae. The Keep was like dwelling forever in a cave.
A very safe cave, of course. But a cave, nonetheless.
But he had played in caves as a child, up in the Night River Country. He had memorized their most intricate twists and turnings, their tiniest holes and pass-throughs, in order to ambush his playmates, even as the children here learned to run the mazes without lights in the course of their games. He still practiced several times a week, finding his way about the back reaches of the Keep blindfolded. Following his example, as in many other things, Gil did this as well.
“It is not exactly what I mean,” the Icefalcon said, as they turned left and descended the Royal Stair. Many people had trouble keeping abreast of the Icefalcon’s long-legged stride, but Gil was fast. “But tell me why you think this woman lies about the Ancestor who dwells within her head.”
“There’s too much of a difference between her uncle’s class and hers.”
“I thought of that. It is not inconceivable, o my sister, that the man’s sister could have married beneath him.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound happy about it. She understood watchfulness as few civilized people did, the awareness of patterns and when a single trace or scat or spoor looked not as it should. “But anybody can make up gibberish and say it’s an unknown language. Religious fakers in my world have been using that one for centuries. And logic would tell anybody that people had to live somewhere while the Keeps were being built. If you think about it, it would have to be in caves.”
The Icefalcon nodded. It was, he reflected, part of a storyteller’s art, and he’d frequently teased Gil about the fascination all civilized people had for stories that sounded true but weren’t.
They passed under clotheslines draped with garments hung between the Royal Stair’s spacious arches to take advantage of the up-draft of warm air and on into the Aisle. Hundreds of yards long and over a hundred wide, its ceiling vanished high in darkness above them. The obsidian walls, like those of the densely twisted corridors, glittered dimly with squares of scattered lamplight; doors, and windows. Multifingered streams trickled dark and clear as winter midnight under railless stone bridges that cut the black expanses of floor. At the Aisle’s far end, pale daylight leaked through the Doors, the single entrance to the whole of the Keep’s great inner dark: two pairs of massive metal portals separated by the twenty- or thirty-foot thickness of the outer wall itself.
Dare’s Keep. The final stronghold. Unbreachable by the Dark that had shattered the world.
“Both she and that uncle of hers have been eating pretty good,” said Gil, and twisted a tendril of her dark hair around one of the sharpened sticks that held it out of the way. “And there’s a limit to what you can pack on a donkey. But mostly what tips me off is that she thinks – or she says this Oale Niu bird says – that the Keep is powered by machinery. She thinks that the heart of the Keep is a machine. And that would be true for Keeps like Prandhays and the Black Rock Keep in Gettlesand. Keeps where a wizard, a mage, didn’t sacrifice himself or herself to enter into the heart of the Keep as a source of magic to keep it going. If Oale Niu really were a mage from the Times Before, she’d know about that. She’d know about Brycothis.”
She spoke softly the name of the wizard who had sacrificed herself: Ancestor in a way, the Icefalcon thought, of all those who lived here. When first he had been told the secret of the Keep, known only to a handful, he wondered why he had not guessed it already.
There was life here in the lamp-sprinkled midnight among the catwalks overhead, life in the flow of the moonless water along the streams of the floor, life in the breathing of the air. The life of the Keep, like the spirits that dwelled in rocks and trees, in the ocean and in each of the thousand thousand stars. It was the only time he had heard of a human being transforming herself into a spirit, the ki of a place, but it did not surprise him.
The spirit was the mage Brycothis, who had abandoned her body and been absorbed into the magic walls to draw power from the earth and channel it to the uses of her people within those walls forever.
Sometimes he wondered that everyone in the Keep did not guess.
At other times, after he had been dealing with these civilized people for a while – mud – diggers, the Talking Stars People called them, these people who had lived so long so fat and easily, with their wheat fields and their furniture and their clothing that tied up one’s sword-hand-it did not surprise him at all. Civilized people would have trouble guessing what was amiss should a uintatherium take up residence in their parlors.
“But why here?” he asked. “Why make up such a tale?”
“Because we’ve got food here.” Gil shrugged. “And we’ve got the only setup that guarantees production of food. Since those bandits took over Prandhays Keep last summer, we’re just about the last stronghold for the length of the Great Brown River, from Penambra to the Ice in the North, and the most productive. You know how many bandits these days are from the Alketch, soldiers displaced by fighting there since the old Emperor’s daughter gathered troops and threw out the general who thought marrying her against her will would be a good way to become Emperor himself, the more fool he.”
“They are fools,” said the Icefalcon dismissively, “the Alketch.” The original owner of the finger bones he wore in his braids had been a prince of the Alketch.
A door in the Aisle’s south wall, and a dark vestibule, led them into the watchroom of the Guards. The triple-sized cell was bright with glowstones – ancient crystal polyhedrons that shed a kind of stored magelight – and redolent of the warm reek of potatoes, venison stew, and sweaty wool. Sergeant Seya was playing pitnak with one of the rookies – Gil glanced at the sergeant’s tiles and shook her head.
“If our girl Hethya was passing herself off as some kind of ancient wizard to gain status wherever she lived,” she continued, turning back to the Icefalcon, “Alketch bandits’ religious scruples might not have stretched to keeping her around, especially once they found out she couldn’t come across with anything useful. You know what the Church in the South does to wizards. My bet is she and Uncle Linok had to get out of there fast.”
“So they stole a donkey,” said the Icefalcon, “and came here … For what purpose? To hoax us?”
“At a guess. To buy status. Maybe they thought we wouldn’t let them in. Everyone loves a good story.”
“Civilized people do,” retorted the Icefalcon, who wasn’t about to admit to a weakness of that kind. “They could make a good living,” he added thoughtfully, “just selling the donkey.” Knowing some of the speculators who operated in the Keep, Linok had probably already been offered the little animal’s weight in gold, which was cheap these days, since it would neither hold an edge nor stand up to the heat of a cook fire. It was just possible that someone would make an attempt to steal the creature, though with so few animals in the Keep such a theft would be difficult to hide.
It occurred to him that he could have killed both the old man and the woman and sold the donkey himself to the highest bidder, always supposing anyone in the Keep possessed anything he wanted that badly.
None of the Talking Stars People were particularly interested in things they couldn’t carry two hundred miles on foot. The habits of the Icefalcon’s upbringing died hard.
Gnift the Swordmaster came in, calling together his afternoon practice, and now that her son Mithrys was able to walk – and learning to talk, may their Ancestors help them all – Gil had returned to training regularly with the Guards and taking her turn on the watches. While she and the others were stripping to their undertunics and wrapping their hands and wrists, the Icefalcon again put on the soft jerkin of black-dyed wolf-hide he wore on patrol, marked with the white quatrefoil emblem of the Guards of Gae, and pulled on over it a heavier vest, and his gloves. Though it was April, in these high valleys the wind blew cold, colder now every year. There was still chance of snow.
Janus, the stocky, red-haired Commander, called out, “You’re not on now, you know,” and the Icefalcon shrugged.
“I’m just going up the Vale to see about those bandits.”
“There can’t be a lot of them.” He straightened up from lacing his boots. “The watchers at the Tall Gates never saw them. Neither have any of the patrols.”
“Even so.” He gathered up his bow, a blanket, a quiver of arrows, and then, because he had been raised among the Talking Stars People, added to the sword and water bottle at his belt a leather wallet of dried meat and flatbread, enough for a hard day’s walking, and some dried fruit. Like most of the Guards he carried a firepouch at his belt, the whole cured hide of a woodchuck lined with horn and clay, in which was packed a smolder of rotted yellow birch that would burn for a day.
There were few enough guards, and Renweth Vale stretched eighteen miles from the sapphire wall of the St. Prathhes’ Glacier down to the spruce forest at its lower end. A fairly large force might hide in the pinewoods or the rock caves above, and it was not impossible they could have come in over the ice-crowned spine of the peaks, rather than the eastward pass.
It would be as well to know where they were and what they were up to. The regular patrol had departed only an hour before – the Icefalcon briefly considered rounding up a band to go with him, then dismissed the thought. On simple reconnaissance, he would do better alone. Besides, he thought – the reasoning of a White Raider, Ingold would tell him, but he was a White Raider, and the reasoning was logical – bandits might have weapons and horses that could be appropriated.
Instinct made him seek the trees as quickly as he could. From the stones called the Four Ladies at the glacier’s foot one could see all the clear land of the Vale. He worked his way carefully under cover of the woods up to the round meadow where Linok and Hethya had camped. He did not seriously think that anyone was watching from the Four Ladies, but there was no point in giving anyone a hint of his movements or intentions.
He had not seen tracks of bandits yesterday, he thought, nor the day before. The watchers on the Tall Gates that guarded the lower pass to the east had not sighted them, either.
Odd.
From the edge of the trees he scanned the pale sky northward, orienting himself. His upbringing in the Real World had taught him to learn every facet of his surroundings, tree by tree, gully by gully, mudflat, spring, and stone. He knew Renweth Vale as well as he knew the ranges of his childhood, the Haunted Mountains and the Night River Country. Had the sky-shadowing devil-birds of legend carried him off and set him down anywhere in the range of the Talking Stars People, he would have been able to determine where he was, where the nearest cover lay, where to find water and in what direction to walk to come to the steadings and horse herds of his people were it winter, or their summer hunting camps wherever they might be, depending on the rains and the grass.
Therefore he knew exactly where the lightning-scarred elm tree and its three sisters lay.
And above them, there were no carrion birds.
Scrupulous bandits? In his experience bandits didn’t even bury their camp garbage, let alone their dead.
When he wanted to, the Icefalcon could travel very swiftly, but the terrain here was rough, cut with streams and dotted with pale boulders among the trunks of pine and fir. It took him over an hour to reach the place, and when he did the sun was barely a hand span above the marble-white knife of the Great Snowy Mountains in the West.
The bandit still lay at the meadow’s edge, arms flung wide, head twisted over to the side. Both face and head had been shaved a little less than a week before, and though the man’s face was young, the beard and hair stubble were white, a common color among the Black Alketch. No bird had torn his eyes or his belly, no fox chewed the soft parts of his face. Nothing, as far as the Icefalcon could see, had invaded the gaping flesh of the severed throat or begun to eat at the corpse.
It had simply rotted where it lay.
In four hours?
He knelt beside it, pulled off his glove to touch the cheek. Liquefying flesh had already begun to drip away, showing the pale jawbone and teeth.
Plague?
Not a pleasant thought. Particularly not with Ingold a week’s journey off in Gae seeking Harilómne the Heretic’s books. This man had seemed healthy enough to try to rape Hethya, if that had indeed been his intent.
He pulled off the man’s glove, and most of the hand’s flesh came with it. The odor alone told him that all was not as it should be. The wars with the other peoples of the northern plains, the torture sacrifices by which his people periodically communicated with the Ancestors, the hunts of mammoth and dire wolf and yak, would have been enough to teach him the stench of the dead, without the Time of the Dark when corpses lay like windfall plums in the streets.
This stink was only vaguely similar, not like human flesh at all.
He sat back on his heels. Birds were beginning to cry their territories before settling in for the night. A squirrel ran up a tree.
The bandits had gone.
The sun slipped behind the white horns of the glaciers that shawled Anthir, northernmost of the three peaks that guarded Sarda Pass. Blue shadow poured east to drown the Vale, though light still filled the sky. The Icefalcon rose and traced the bandit’s prints back into the trees. Here, where the yellow pine-straw covered the ground, there was no good surface for tracks, a situation not helped by the fact that the bandit had not worn boots. Like the poorest beggars in Gae before the Dark Ones came, he had wrapped his feet in strips of hide. Still, where the man’s marks crossed one of the dozen meltwater streams, the Icefalcon found in the mud of the water’s verge the tracks of three others.
All four had stood there together, not long before the one bandit had gone to meet Hethya, Linok, and his destiny in the clearing. The other men had gone southwest.
The Icefalcon frowned. The light was sufficiently dim that he had to crouch for a closer look.
There was no mistaking it. All four men were the same height, judging by the length of their strides, and all four exactly the same weight.
The Icefalcon had grown up able to differentiate between the tracks of his grandfather’s white mare Blossom Horse and those of his cousin’s mare Flirt and those of any other horse owned by anyone in the family. He had been able to recognize the prints of individual dogs, of anyone in the family or in the larger People, and of many of the members of the wild herds of reindeer, yak, bison, and mammoth as well. Tracks, and scat, and individual habits of beasts were the topic of most conversations around the longhouse fires in winter and under the summer stars while hunting in the Cursed Lands or the Night River Country. They were the heart and business of the Real World, told over the way civilized people told over Gil’s useless tales of enchantment and romance. The Icefalcon could no more have been mistaken than he could have thought that a prairie chicken’s feather belonged to a red-tailed hawk.
Three of the four bandits had wrapped their feet in the same way, and the hide wrappings were thin enough to show him that they all walked in the same fashion as well. Not just that they all toed in slightly, but that they all put their weight on their heels in the same way. Had all worn boots, the pattern of wear on the soles would have been identical.
Brothers?
No brothers he had ever encountered had been that similar.
Save for those of the bandit he had killed, all turned upstream. There was a path along the gorged mountain flank that would take them to Sarda Pass and the little-used way that led down into the plains and badlands of the West.
Why that way? He couldn’t be sure, for the light was more and more uncertain, but he thought the hide wrappings were new. The dead man’s were, without ragged edges or the blurring of long wear.
Disquieted, the Icefalcon got to his feet and drew the bandit’s dagger from his belt. Alketch work, beautifully tooled and quite old. He called to mind the bandit’s clothing, yellow coat and crimson breeches, slightly too big, looted from an earlier wearer. Boots were expensive and required more work to accommodate to another size.
Then he realized what it was that had tugged at his mind about Linok, what it was about him that he had recognized, or thought he recognized.
It was too dark to see tracks in the meadow now, and in any case there might be very little time. Turning, he made his way toward the Keep at a run.
The Icefalcon was one of the tallest men in the Keep, long-boned and rangy, and he ran fast. He was still a mile from its walls when he saw blue witchlight dance in the meadow by the stream, and voices carried to him, too far to make out words, but recognizable in their timbre and pitch. He turned aside, his heart cold in him with dread.
There was only one reason people would be outside the Keep after nightfall.
Though the Dark Ones had been gone for seven years, the trauma of their coming ran deep. Almost no one who had passed through that horror would willingly remain outside of shelter once twilight gathered. Moreover, with the Sunless Year had come changes in the world. Huge patches of slunch emitted a sicklied radiance all along the valley’s floor, and the mutant creatures that grew from it were not all harmless. Even without such beings, there were always the perils of the mountains themselves: dire wolves, saber-teeth, the bears that were coming out of hibernation, now thin and hungry and angry.
Fog lay in the low ground of the meadows, dense and white. The moon would not rise for some hours. The voices came clearer, and the magefire showed him the faces of the man and woman scanning the damp earth for tracks.
“Sometimes he goes exploring where the old road used to run along the west foothills,” said the voice he recognized as Rudy Solis’.
They’re talking about Tir.
“He says sometimes he remembers things there.”
Gil-Shalos. In seven years they had almost completely dropped the tongue of their own world, even when speaking to one another, save for words that had no translation in the Wathe, like tee-vee and car and Academy Awards.
“You think he might have gone out with Hethya? I saw her talking to him.”
“He might have, if she described something he thought he recognized.”
“Yeah, but why wouldn’t I have …”
Even as Rudy was speaking the words, the Icefalcon was thinking, Why would Rudy need to search? He’s a Wise One. He has his scrying stone. He should be able to call Tir’s image …
Unless Tir is with another Wise One.
He’d guessed before, but the confirmation was like taking an arrow in the chest.
“It’s Bektis.” He stepped out of the trees.
Gil-Shalos was already turning. No fool, she.
“Bektis?” She looked nonplussed as she spoke the name of the Court Mage who had years ago sold his services to the power-mad Archbishop Govannin, had followed her to the Alketch and, so rumor said, had assisted her when she carved an unshakable sphere of influence in those war-torn lands. “What does Bektis have to do with Tir being gone?”
The Icefalcon hadn’t even broken stride, forcing Rudy and Gil to fall into step with him as he led the way fast through the knee-deep ground fog and on toward rising ground, the shouldering bones of the hills that guarded Sarda Pass and the road down into the West.
“We have been had for dupes.” The Icefalcon’s voice was bitter, anger at himself tempered by fear. “Made fools of by a shaman’s illusion. The old man Linok was Bektis the Sorcerer. I thought I recognized his voice and the way he stroked his beard. Were we to waste time going back across the meadows we would find his tracks – long and thin, not the tracks of the little short-legged man we saw. The whole thing was a fakement, a lure, a tale, so that he could get into the Keep.”
Gil swore. Rudy, who was a little slower on the uptake, said, “Well, I’ll be buggered. But he isn’t in the Keep. He and that broad Hethya disappeared about two hours ago …”
Gil concluded for him, guessing, but at the same time sure. “And they took Tir with them.”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_bfbef129-97d3-568a-b140-b67831f243b9)
“I was a fool,” said the Icefalcon.
It didn’t take them long to cut Bektis’ tracks. Snow still lay thin where the shadows of the Hammerking mountain fell on the trail, and the prints of the old man’s boots were there, long and narrow, with the heel and nail-work characteristic of Alketch bootmaking. Prints that had to be Hethya’s mingled with the wizard’s, along with the marks of a second donkey, and the three identical bandits with hide wrapped around their feet.
“Where’s Tir?” Rudy held his staff close to the sparkling ground. The magelight playing around the pronged metal crescent at its tip glittered on the crisp edges of the new prints.
“On a donkey.” Gil forestalled the Icefalcon’s reply. Night wind coming down cold off the glacier tore long wisps of her smoke-black hair where it escaped from the leather cap she wore. “We’re lucky the herdkids were just bringing in the horses from pasture when Bektis was getting ready to get out of there, or we’d have lost a couple for sure.” She bore a lantern and a firepouch like the Icefalcon’s, though the lantern was dark; like the Icefalcon, Gil believed in never making assumptions about who she’d be walking with or what she might need.
Some way farther, they saw Tir’s tracks where he’d gotten off the donkey to relieve himself behind a boulder.
“Are they keeping a guard on him?” The Icefalcon scanned the ground by the witchlight’s glow, seeking other tracks near the small boot prints, the little puddle of frozen urine.
“My guess is Bektis has an illusion on him.” In the bluish witchlight Gil’s thin face, scarred across cheek and jaw, was impassive, her gray eyes steely-cold. “He probably thinks Rudy’s with him and that everything’s okay.”
Rudy cursed. He’d been silent most of the way up the glacis, but the Icefalcon knew that the Prince was like a son to the young wizard and that Alde would be frantic with anxiety for her child.
Winds blew down the peaks, pregnant with the scent of coming snow. Not unusual for this time of year, reflected the Icefalcon bitterly, but too useful to a Wise One fleeing over the pass to be accidental.
“I should have known him,” he said grimly, “long before they reached the Keep.”
Gil regarded him in surprise. “How could you?” she asked. “Wend and Ilae – even Rudy – didn’t see through the illusion. I didn’t, and I saw him just two years ago in Khirsrit.”
“Neither Wend nor Ilae ever saw him before the Wizards Corps was organized for the war against the Dark.” He moved off again, leaning a little against the iron hammer of the wind, a bleached, silent-moving animal in the wild dark. “Nor did you, or Rudy, know him much longer. Not to know his voice, or his manner of movement. Not to recognize the way in which he speaks. As court mage to Lady Alde’s brother he was about the palace from the time of my coming there. I knew him well. And in any case,” he added dryly, realizing too late yet another truth, “why would they have camped for the night within five miles of the Keep they claimed to be seeking? I should have recognized a fakement when I saw one.”
“Bektis is a wizard,” retorted Gil. “It’s his job to deceive. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She tucked her hands under her armpits, cold despite the gloves she wore. She was a thin woman, all bone and leather; cold until you saw her smile. Many of the Guards had affairs with the women of the Keep, the weavers and brewers and leather workers and those who tended the hydroponics gardens. The Icefalcon’s affairs, when he had them, tended to be with women in the Guards or in the military companies of the other Keep Lords. At one time he had considered Gil, though it had been obvious to him from the first that her heart was given elsewhere. His only serious love, many years ago, had been so also, and this time he had not deceived himself.
Now he returned her gaze with some surprise. “I speak only truth,” he said. “Had I gone about my business and left these people to their own devices, the Keep would not now be in danger of losing its link with the memories of its Ancestors.”
The pass had grown steeper, Gil and Rudy falling behind the Icefalcon’s swifter strides, though Rudy was tough, as most wizards were, and Gil a proven warrior. From the top of the boulder-strewn slope the pass ascended, a narrowing corridor of gray-black cliff and blacker trees, losing itself in night. Wind bellowed in the pines and all the world smelled of snow, hard spinning granules of it flying through the white circle of the staff’s light. The ki of Sarda Pass were said to be capricious, malignant, and stern, hating equally mud-diggers and the People of the Real World.
Rudy propped his staff against a juniper in a boulder’s shelter and fumbled through the slits in his overmantle to get to the pockets of his vest. Carefully – his hands awkward because of his gloves – he drew out the slip of amethyst that served him for a scrying stone and tilted it back and forth a little until the light of his staff caught in its central facet.
“Wend?” he said. “Wend, can you hear me?”
Watching shamans and Wise Ones communicate always reminded the Icefalcon vaguely of the games children played. Evidently the priest-wizard replied, speaking in Rudy’s mind, for after a time Rudy said, “Look, we’ve found Tir’s tracks. Linok and Hethya took him. Linok put a spell of some kind on him to get him to go with them. The Icefalcon says Linok is actually Bektis, and, you know, looking back I think he’s right.”
There was a pause, occupied, the Icefalcon presumed, by Brother Wend’s exclamations of astonishment – useless in the circumstances. Spits of snow stung his cheek.
“Tell Minalde what’s going on.” Rudy scrubbed a nervous hand over his face. His profile, a little craggy with the bump of an old break in his nose, cut blue-black against the witchlight, flat white triangles of which reflected in his eyes.
“Tell her he seems to be okay. Whatever they want him for, it isn’t to kill him, or they’d have done it already. They’re taking him over Sarda Pass and calling down a storm to close the pass behind them.”
The Icefalcon could well imagine Minalde’s reaction to that information. She loved both her children with a passionate ferocity: he clearly recalled, during the last desperate stand against the Dark Ones in the palace at Gae, her holding Ingold against a wall, the tip of some dead man’s sword pressed against the wizard’s breast, crying that she’d kill him if he did not save her child’s life.
Bektis did well, he thought, to summon the anger of the snows. It was certain that nothing less would stop her.
“Gil and the Icefalcon are with me,” Rudy went on. “We’re going to try to overtake them and hold them if we can. Tell her to get Janus and a party of Guards out after us ASAP.”
He used a colloquial shortening of the phrase as soon as possible transliterated from their outland tongue – the outland trick of using the initial letters of each word in a phrase to represent the phrase itself was one that was creeping steadily into the Wathe as well.
“Tell her not to worry.” Another foolishness, in the Icefalcon’s opinion. “We’ll bring him back.”
Given that Rudy was a seven-year apprentice in arts that Bektis had studied through his lifetime, the statement was wildly optimistic to say the least, but the Icefalcon did not remark on it. Rudy started to put the crystal away, then changed his mind and gazed into it again, bending his head and hunching his shoulders to shield his eyes from the wind.
“Ingold?” he said softly. “You there, man?”
The merchant who had brought Ingold word of the library cache at Gae had said that it was in a villa on the town’s far side, an area largely under water now. The Icefalcon had accompanied the wizard on last summer’s quest – when Gil’s baby Mithyas had been only a few months old – and had familiarized himself with the city in its new state: sodden, ruined, head-high with cattail and sedges and creeping with ghouls. The old man would have to watch his back.
Ingold was evidently there.
“Look, you got to get back here. A wizard showed up at the Keep – Bektis, the Icefalcon thinks, and I agree with him. He’s snatched Tir.”
At least Ingold seemed to have no extraneous comment to make.
“He’s taking him over Sarda Pass. Me and Gil and the Icefalcon are on their trail, and we’re going to try to hold them until the Guards come up, but it’s gonna be rough. I don’t know what’s going on, but I got to get going now. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“How did he look?” Gil asked when they were climbing again. Rudy dimmed the glow of his staff to a marshlight flicker, barely enough to permit his non-mageborn companions to see. There was no sense in advertising their location, but no sense in getting lost either, and the night was without light. Flakes of snow filled the air, blurring the donkey and boot tracks.
Women, thought the Icefalcon. They had to ask. Gil-Shalos was a fine warrior and had a logical mind, but she was a woman to her bones when it came to matters concerning the man she loved.
“I would assume,” he said, bending to examine what might have been marks of someone leaving the party – they showed only the later investigation of that medium-sized black bear that laired on the other side of the Squaretop Rocks – “that he looks like a man of seventy who has been sleeping on the ground for three weeks without trimming his beard.” Gil slapped his arm with the backs of her gloved fingers and turned back to Rudy.
“Not bad. Couple of scrapes and cuts, and his left hand was bandaged, but it looked like he could use it okay. What the hell is Bektis doing here anyway, Spook? I thought you said he was working as Bishop Govannin’s gofer down in Alketch.”
“He was. God knows what influence she had over him, but she ordered him around like a servant. Yori-Ezrikos – the Emperor’s daughter – used his power, too; used her friendship with Govannin. But he hated Govannin. I could see it in his eyes.”
“He hated everyone,” remarked the Icefalcon. Blown snow was swiftly obscuring the trail, but there was nowhere to go in the pass but ahead if they wanted to get through before the storm closed it. He wondered how long the Court Mage would keep up the illusion that Rudy was with the little party – if that was in fact the glamour he had cast over Tir’s mind – and that all things were as they should be. Or had Tir realized already that the man he thought was his stepfather and mentor was in fact only a ghost wrought by a mage’s cleverness?
Tir had never seen Bektis – or at least he had been only an infant when the Court Mage had departed in disgrace from the Keep – though he had heard his name. He would understand soon enough that something was wrong, when the man he had seen first short and pug-nosed gradually melted into another form, tall and thin with long white hair, an aristocratic, aquiline nose, and haughty dark eyes.
Why take him over the pass?
“Why take him over the pass?” That was Rudy.
Gil’s reply came raggedly, her words fighting the storm winds. “They have to want him for what he remembers from his ancestors. If it was just to cripple the Keep, they’d have killed him before they reached the pass and split up to get out of the Vale undetected.”
“But he doesn’t remember everything!” protested Rudy. “And we don’t know what he does remember! Bektis should know that.”
The Icefalcon led them into the lee of a small cliff under the Hammerking’s flank, where the wind was less and the snow thinner underfoot, allowing them better speed. Unseen above them the glaciers that armored the Hammerking’s shoulders sent down their slow, glass river of cold.
“More important,” said Gil, “Govannin should know that. Unless she figures to have Bektis put a spell of gnodyrr on Tir, to dig into what he doesn’t remember consciously. That’s the worst kind of black magic, and God knows what it’d do to a kid that young, but that’s never stopped her before.”
Rudy cursed, viciously and with every step as they scrambled up the protected trail.
By the ground’s shape underfoot and the way the wind roared and shifted, the Icefalcon recognized where they were and steered the others hard to the right. To the left streams had cut gorges in the floor of the narrow, U-shaped canyon. The forty or fifty feet that separated this gash from the mountain’s hip were safe enough to navigate in fine weather but perilous when visibility was poor.
This far from the Vale wolves lived, too, and saber-teeth. The Icefalcon listened for their voices above the sea-howl of the trees.
“There they are,” said Gil.
Light flickered and whipped against the rocks ahead and made buzzing diamonds of the snow. As the Icefalcon had suspected, the donkey had slowed them, as had the presence of the Alketch warriors, unhandy in cold weather. Of a certainty none of them knew the pass.
“How many are there?” asked Gil.
“Warriors? Three.” The Icefalcon glanced around him, calling to memory what the terrain ahead would be like. The deepening gorge, the cliff, the stream; the waterfall that would probably be frozen still and the shouldering outcrop of rocks beyond it, narrowing the pass to a gate thirty feet wide. Remembering the wisdom of Gil’s alien upbringing, he added, “They were alike, in stride and weight, even to the way they walked. More alike than any brothers I have ever encountered.”
“Clones?” Gil spoke an outlander word and looked to Rudy for confirmation. His eyes were half shut, as the eyes of Wise Ones were who concentrated on the casting of a spell.
“Come on.” He seemed to wake from reverie and pressed on again, striding ahead of the Icefalcon now, pushing against the pounding winds. “I put a Word on the donkeys, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. Bektis can use a counterspell …”
“If Bektis figures out why the donkeys stopped.” She was running beside him, a lean dark gazelle leaping up the sheltered goat trail. “He’d have trouble figuring out a Chinese finger puzzle,” a judgment that meant nothing to the Icefalcon but that made Rudy laugh.
“Are we anywhere near that big spur?” he asked in the next breath. The light from his staff dimmed to nothing, but sparks of blue lightning crept along the ground at their feet, barely illuminating the way. “If I can get a rockslide going ahead of them, we can hold them …”
Thunder cracked as blinding light split the darkness. The Icefalcon grabbed Gil by one arm and Rudy by the back of his bearskin mantle, thrust them forward as the snow-roar in the swirling obscurity above told him that Rudy wasn’t the only one who knew how to start avalanches. Rudy yelled “Damn it!” and cried out other words, magical words, answered from far off above the storm.
“Rudy!” It was a child’s voice, piercing and terrified.
The winds checked, failed. Rudy made a pass with his hands, and cold blue light showed the crowding enscarpments of the Mammoth and the Hammerking bizarre in the harsh shadows, the glistening headwalls of the glaciers above. Dune and drift snow clogged the way, and against the thrashing trees, the scoured shelter of the rock-spur and frozen falls, their quarry could be seen.
The donkey was rearing and fighting in terror, the second animal dragging at its rein. Tir was fighting, too, on foot in the clutch of a black-faced Alketch warrior whose grip held him almost up off the ground. Two other warriors, who even at this distance could be seen to be of the same height and build, stood with drawn swords, blinking in the magic refulgence, waiting.
“Bektis!” yelled Gil. “Where’s …?”
A crash of rock splintering. White lightning cleaved the already fading brilliance of the air, and the Icefalcon shoved Rudy in one direction and Gil in the other, springing clear himself as a levin-bolt skewered the ground where Rudy had stood and steam exploded from the snow in a hissing cloud. The renewed glare showed up Bektis, tall now and thin in Linok’s rough furs and quilted trousers, arms uplifted on the rock pinnacle beyond the ice-locked falls. The bandaged head wound – an illusion from the first – was gone. Now his head was flung back, his long white hair and patriarchal beard transformed to flags by the battering wind, and lightning laced his fingers in blue-glowing flame that hurt the eyes.
Rudy shouted a word of stillness, swept away and drowned. The storm winds took the fire he threw and hurled it in all directions, and boulders rained down out of the sudden fall of renewed night, crashing against the walls of the gorge. The Icefalcon, very sensibly, flattened into the overhang of the eastern cliff and stayed there. Levin-fire rip-sawed the blackness, granting brief visions of Rudy and Bektis, and it seemed to the Icefalcon that Bektis wore a device of some kind on his right hand, a thing of crystal and gold that caught and focused the searing light. When Rudy threw answering fire, the jewels seemed to engulf the old man in a protective coruscation of rainbows. The Icefalcon did not watch the battle. Rather, with every explosion of brightness he worked his way a little distance farther toward the donkeys, the warriors, and Tir. They’d all be watching Bektis, too.
It might give him a chance.
The Icefalcon was not a believer in luck. No one was who had been raised in the Real World. He knew Rudy’s chances of defeating the more experienced wizard were negligible, and it was doubtful that he could even hold him in combat long enough for the Icefalcon to get in bowshot of Tir’s captors. Thus he was neither disappointed nor angry when a final incandescence smote the night behind him, a riven cry and the sound of falling rock. He thought he heard Tir scream, “Rudy!” Then the wind’s force smashed the pass with redoubled fury, burying all in night.
The Icefalcon wedged himself into a crevice and waited, conjuring in his mind the slow progress of Bektis down the ice-slick boulders on the other side of the rock-spur, across the winter-locked stream. The temperature, falling all this while, plunged still further. He un-slung his blanket from his back to wrap around him like a cloak, his gloved fingers aching and clumsy. There were broken brush and branches within the crevice, sheltered from the storm and still fairly dry, enough to form a crude torch, though it took him a long while to break kindling into suitably tiny fragments and he had to wait to open the firepouch until the winds eased somewhat for fear of killing the flame within. When he got a torch kindled at last – the Icefalcon was a patient men – he raised it high.
Gil’s voice called out, “Here!”
By the sound she was at the edge of the drop-off into the gorge.
Black lines of charring scored the rocks and earth, as if the ground had been beaten with red-hot rods. Despite the snow already filling the scars, the air stank of burning and coals winked in the ruins of blasted firs all around. The pattern showed clearly how Bektis had driven Rudy leftward to the cliff’s edge, until he could retreat no more.
Gil had kindled her lantern, and its feeble glow revealed a great final scorch on the rocks above the gorge, the boulders themselves split with the heat. Snow hissed and melted as it touched them. The wind’s main force was easing, but the snow came down harder now. The pass would be choked long before day.
It took Gil and the Icefalcon nearly two hours to work their way down into the defile. Rudy lay on ice-sheeted rock beside the still obsidian ribbon of the stream. He had dragged himself to the shelter of a toothed overhang, where spruces clustering on the rock above further broke the wind and snow. Remnants of a heat spell lingered in the place, melting the snow where it skirled around his body.
“You still with us, punk?” Gil pulled off her gloves to touch the long-jawed face with its bent nose, brushed back the blood-matted hair. Her face was expressionless as bone, but she had gentled, the Icefalcon thought, since the Summerless Year. “Don’t check out on me now.”
They had been friends for seven years, coming together from that other world where Ingold had found them, unthinkably different from both the Real World and the world of the civilized mud-diggers in their cities and their palaces. Both had told him of their former home many times, but still he could not picture it, other than thinking it uncomfortable, crowded, noisy, and utterly lacking in sense. Gil-Shalos was a woman whose heart was a sealed fortress, able to survive any loss, but this man was as much family as any she had in this world.
Under her hand, his fingers moved.
The week preceding had been fine and dry. The snowstorm, magically summoned, had not lasted long enough to soak the fallen branches in the crevices and rock chimneys along the walls of the gorge. The Icefalcon made a dozen trips, digging under deadfalls and dragging tinder to the shelter of the overhang, where he piled branches to catch the snow and so form a protective wall, as his people did in wintertime. While he did this Gil probed and manipulated the broken bones and smashed ribs, ascertaining damage and making sure Rudy could breathe easily. The Icefalcon was personally a little surprised that the young wizard had survived the fall at all. By the light of Gil’s fire he could see the side of Rudy’s face was scorched, as it had been in last autumn’s explosion in Ingold’s laboratory. His gloves were burned away completely, and his clothes blackened and torn.
“I doubt the Guards will be here until day.” The Icefalcon sat back and pulled on his gloves again. “The wind’s fallen, but it’s snowing more heavily now. In a few hours the pass will be utterly blocked.”
Gil said nothing for a time, but her eyes seemed very blue in the firelight. Stars of snow spangled her ragged black hair around her face. She and the Icefalcon regarded one another, each knowing the other’s thought and what had to be done.
“Will you be well here until dawn comes, o my sister?”
She nodded.
“It stinks,” she said, and her breath blew out in a jeweled sigh. “I’m sorry, Ice.”
“I shall do what I can to leave a trail in case some do make it through. And I shall at least be on hand to help should the boy attempt to flee.”
“That’s good to know.” She was already sorting out possessions: the lantern, most of Rudy’s arrows, and his bearskin overmantle as well, for the niche was warm now from the fire and there was wood to last well into the next day. She offered him part of her own rations, which at his advice she had started carrying whenever she left the Keep, but he shook his head:
“We cannot know what will befall, o my sister. Your own life may depend on it.”
“Myself, I think Tir has too much sense to run for it once they get to the other side of the pass,” she said, adding a fish hook and a couple of her own hideout knives to the Icefalcon’s already formidable collection. “He’s only seven and a half. There anybody I should pray to?”
“To your Straight God of civilized people.” The Icefalcon adjusted the last of his accoutrements, his mind already on the ice-rimed rocks beyond the waterfall, the angle of wind in the pass. “He is the guardian of Tir’s Ancestors, and of those who shelter in the Keep. The knowledge Tir carries may very well be the saving of them, should some peril arise in the future.”
“And what about your Ancestors, Ice?”
He’d spoken of them to her, Black Hummingbird and Holds Lightning, and all those silent others whose blood stained the carved pillars of the crumbling Ancestor House at the foot of the Haunted Mountain. Had spoken of those ki that could be felt there in the close silences, or heard when the wind stirred the hanging fragments of bone and hair and wood. Noon, the warchief who had raised him, and the shaman Watches Water had spoken of their deeds around the fires of the winter steadings, with the eyes of the dogs glowing like lamps, for they listened, too.
He was fond of Gil but was not sure she would understand how it was with Ancestors.
“My Ancestors would think it only right that I pay for my stupidity with my life,” he said in time.
And Rudy’s. And Tir’s. And the lives of everyone in the Keep. That was the way Ancestors were – or the Icefalcon’s Ancestors, anyway.
“But I have not prayed to my Ancestors in eleven years,” he went on slowly. “Nor would they listen now to supplication on my behalf. I sinned against them and against my people. And so I departed from the lands where I was born. I will be returning to those lands now, but it will be my death should I encounter my own people again.”
He embraced her briefly and then began his slow ascent of the icebound rocks, long pale braids snaking in the wind, to regain the way that would lead down Sarda Pass to the world he had forsaken forever.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_55e14377-3af6-58e1-98e8-3ccbdeb21f51)
Eleven years previously, the Icefalcon had departed from the Talking Stars People, under circumstances which, if they did not absolutely preclude his return, guaranteed a comprehensively unpleasant welcome home. Because it was unreasonable to suppose that any of those who dwelt in the Real World – the Twisted Hills People, or the Earthsnake People, or those other peoples whom the mud-diggers referred to collectively as the White Raiders – would trust one whose Ancestors had been enemies of their Ancestors, there had really been no place for him to go but across the mountain wall in the east.
As a child he had heard tales of the people of the straight roads, the mud-diggers, the dwellers in the river valleys, though the ranges of the Talking Stars People lay far north of the ragged line of mud-digger mines and settlements that stretched from Black Rock among the Bones of God to Dele on the Western Ocean. Noon and Watches Water had told him the mud-diggers were crazy – which he had found later to be by and large true – and also lazy and stupid about important things, and almost unbelievably unobservant about the world around them.
In the warm lands where water was easy to come by and plants were coaxed in abundance from the earth, there were kings and walls and warriors to protect those who didn’t bother to learn to protect themselves. People could afford to be lazy and to make an art of telling fanciful stories about things that had never actually happened, at least for as long as the kings were alive and the walls were standing.
After the coming of the Dark Ones things changed, of course.
But in the high summer of his seventeenth year, when the Icefalcon made his way east over the pass that now he traveled west, the Dark Ones had been only one tale among many to the mud-diggers and in places not even that.
In that summer the cover had been better, pale aspens bright among the firs, with brakes of hazel, dogwood, and laurel to conceal him and his horse. He’d moved mostly by twilight since the people of the straight roads kept guards in the pass at that time, fearing quite rightly the depredations of bandit troops from the West. In those days the Raiders had very little use for the mud-diggers’ cattle. There had been gazelle and bison, red deer and wild sheep then in the northern plains.
The Keep of Dare was the first structure the Icefalcon beheld on the sunrise side of the mountain wall. It had surprised him, he recalled, and smiled a little at the recollection. The houses of the mud-diggers that he had seen before had all been wood structures of two or at most three floors, or in the South low buildings of adobe roofed with pine poles or tiles. He had not expected the Keep. It was some time before he learned that civilized people on this side of the mountains did not all dwell in great dark solitary fortresses, untouchable by enemies.
Sunrise found him in the thin stands of birch and aspen at the western foot of Sarda Pass. Reaching the place nearly an hour short of first light, he found a spot where chokecherry grew thick around the white boulders that marked the ascending road from the West and, crawling in, rolled himself up in Rudy’s mantle and his own blanket to sleep. The snow lay behind him. Clouds piled the gray-and-white western cliffs of Anthir, and bitter wind nipped at him like a Wise One’s leftover curse. He hoped Gil would be well.
Squirrel chitter woke him. He had a sling tied around the bottom of his quiver, and it took him nearly two hours to kill four squirrels: spring wary, and spring thin as well, no more than a few mouthfuls each. Still he roasted them and ate everything that wouldn’t keep: guts, hearts, brains. He’d need the meat later. Some of the innards he used as fish bait in the pools of one of the many springs that came down from Anthir’s climbing maze of hogbacks and scarps, and the fish he caught he cooked also. Time-consuming, but he knew himself incapable of rescuing Tir alone if there were a Wise One in the enemy party, and the tracks of Bektis and Hethya weren’t going to fly away. He shaved – his beard had not begun when he’d first crossed the mountains and he’d never liked going furry – and tried to bring down one of the raccoons that came to thieve his fish but failed in the endeavor. The sun was high before he filled his water bottle and Rudy’s from the spring and set out on what he already knew would be a long pursuit.
He’d taken three horses when he left the Talking Stars People – Little Dancer, whom he had owned for years, Sand Cat, and Dung For Brains. Sand Cat had been shot under him in a brush with Gettlesand bandits, and Dung For Brains he had killed himself when the animal went lame. His dog, Bright Feet, had also been killed by the bandits in Gettlesand: the spirit-bag he still wore under his clothing, next to his skin, contained some of Bright Feet’s hair.
He found horses corraled near the shining jet walls of the Keep, his first day in Renweth Vale. Stealing two was no difficult matter. These he’d named Brown Girl and Wind.
Then, knowing he was going to live east of the wall for some time, he set himself to observe the mud-diggers who lived in the Vale. It became obvious to him at once that these were a war party of some sort, though he could not determine who their enemy was and where they lay. They had neither flocks nor herds (except for their horses), nor did they plant fields of the corn, cotton, and beans that grew in the mud-diggers’ settlements in the South. They had a few dooic as slaves-the slumped, hairy semihumans that the Talking Stars People would have killed out of hand – but he did not see children among them, or old people, though that could have been accounted for by famine or plague.
The men and women of the Keep, back in that far summer, wore either black clothing marked with a small white four-petaled flower or red with one or three black stars. There was a tall man who wore red much of the time and sported a chain of blue gems around his neck and a long black cloak that spread about him like wings when he walked, and he seemed to be in command of the men and women in red. It was a day or so before the Icefalcon realized that another man – equally tall but thin, clothed no differently from all the other wearers of black, save that the emblem on his breast was an eagle worked in gold – was commander over them all.
This man was the one they called Eldor, or Lord Eldor, and this was the man who, the Icefalcon realized on his second day in the Vale, was stalking him.
“It only needed that!” stormed Blue Jewels on that second day, when the two horses were reported missing. He made a great expansive angry gesture that would have startled game and drawn enemies for miles around, and Eldor folded his long arms and regarded him in self-contained quiet, his head a little on one side.
“Bandits in the Vale! I told you how it would be did you reopen Dare’s Keep, Lord Eldor. It dominates all the valley for miles. Instead of expending effort and supplies to make it fit for a larger garrison – which I understand, with the depredations of the bandits growing in the West – you would do better to leave it locked and expand the fortifications at the western foot of the pass.”
His deep, melodious voice carried easily to where the Icefalcon lay along the limb of the great pine tree that still grew between the Keep and the stream. It was the custom of the Talking Stars People periodically to send warriors south to kidnap men from the settlements, whom they kept as prisoners for a winter to teach the children the tongue of the Wathe. These men they usually initiated into one or another of the families so that when the time of the spring sacrifices came nobody who had actually been born into the families had to be tortured to death, though the hair of such men usually wasn’t long enough to make good bowstrings.
“As sure as the Ice in the North,” Blue Jewels went on, “if you leave the Keep open, either bandits will take it as a hold or some troublemaker landchief will.”
“If it was bandits.” The tall Lord Eldor followed the offending sentry back to the horse lines, speaking to Blue Jewels as they walked. “Tomec Tirkenson tells me bandits as a rule are too greedy for their own good. They’ll lift the whole herd, not two out of the middle where they wouldn’t be noticed until the count.”
After a little more bluster, Blue Jewels – whom the Icefalcon later knew as Alwir of the House of Bes, one of the wealthiest and most powerful lords of the Realm – ordered out a party of his red-clothed warriors to search the Vale, and the Icefalcon made his leisurely way back to his camp near the standing-stones, to move it before they got there.
He later came to know both Eldor and Alwir well, but it sometimes seemed to him that all the years of acquaintance only deepened, rather than altered, his initial impression of them: Alwir declaiming and jumping to an incorrect conclusion, Eldor standing a little distance from him, withholding judgment, an expression of observation and a detached amusement in his steel-colored eyes.
Winter still held the land below the pass. The Real World that stretched between the Snowy Mountains and the Seaward was an unforgiving land, a land of little water in most places and few trees, a land of hard, steady winds punctuated by summer tornadoes and, so he had heard, of winter ice storms these past ten years that tore man and beast to shreds and froze them where they fell.
Herds of bison and antelope wandered the open miles of grassland, and as the winters lengthened and deepened, mammoth, yak, reindeer, and rhinoceri joined them, followed by the great killers: dire wolves, saber-teeth, horrible-birds. Since the Summerless Year slunch had spread, the wrinkled, rubbery, faintly glowing sheets of it swallowing the ground for miles, sucking the life from any plant it engulfed. The slunch in its turn put forth a kind of life, strange creatures that wandered abroad but did not appear to either eat, or seed, or excrete. These things died and rotted with a strange, mild, sweetish stench and left patches of slunch where they lay.
The Icefalcon’s hackles raised like a dog’s to see how the slunch and the cold had altered the land. Many of the groves that dotted the western foothills were now dead, buried under the whitish masses. As he followed the westward road that first day, the stuff stretched on both sides, in patches or in sheets miles broad, and neither rabbits, nor lemmings, nor antelope moved over the dying grass that lay between.
By the debris left where Bektis and his party stopped to rest, the Icefalcon learned that in addition to what Bektis and Hethya had carried on their two donkeys they’d helped themselves to the Keep’s stores of dried meat, cheese, and potatoes. With his sling he killed two kites that came down after the cheese rinds and potato parings and added their meat to his satchel, and the rinds and parings as well. With slunch growing abroad in the lands food would be even more difficult to find, and he knew he could waste none. Only in the camps did he see Tir’s tracks and guessed by the marks in the thin dust that they were keeping the boy’s hands tied.
In a way it was just as well, he thought. Whatever Gil might say, the boy might have tried to escape while the mountains still loomed in the east, and his chances of survival would be nil in these desolate lands.
After black-cloaked Alwir with his blue jewels had declared him to be a bandit, hunting parties went out to search the Vale of Renweth for the Icefalcon for three days running. The Icefalcon had been more amused than anything else, patiently moving his camp every few hours – the invisible camp of the peoples of the North, which left no sign on the land – and watching them. He watched, too, the trains of mules that came up the gorge of the Arrow River through the smaller range of peaks west of the Vale, food and seed and saplings; watched the training of the black-clothed Guards under the tutelage of a little bald-headed man with a hoarse voice; watched Alwir and Eldor walk around the walls of the Keep and the edges of the woods that surrounded its knoll, talking and making notes on tablets wrought of wood and wax.
Alwir continued to complain of the size of the Keep and its uselessness as a garrison against the Gettlesand bandits. “In times of siege it’s a jail!” he declared, striding up and down the shallow steps that led to its single pair of dark metal Doors. “To be sure, no one can get in, but the defenders are trapped! Unless there’s a secret way out? A tunnel for sorties, perhaps, or a hidden door?”
His blue eyes glinted eagerly. He was a man who loved secrets, thought the Icefalcon, lying in the long grass beside the stream. Himself, he would never have entrusted any secret to this Alwir, who seemed to consider himself above the laws of common men by virtue of his descent from the lordly House of Bes.
“None that I know of,” replied Eldor calmly and went on with his surveying, knee-deep in the long meadow grass.
This Eldor was a man of thirty-five, as tall as Alwir and just slightly taller than the Icefalcon himself, who at seventeen was an inch or so short of his final growth. Eldor wore his brown hair cut off about his shoulders, as was the fashion of civilized people, and had an air of lean strength. Sometimes he would fight practice bouts with his warriors, either the black-clothed or the red.
Observing them in the light of the fires and torches – which illuminated the whole western face of the Keep and would have made them an easy target for the arrows of any foe on earth – or in the twilight before full dark, the Icefalcon saw with approval the hard stringency of the teaching. The lithe bald man in charge corrected and explained and shouted criticism as if the combatants were stupid children barely able to bat one another with clubs, or put them through endless drills with weighted weapons that the Icefalcon quickly saw were designed to most quickly and efficiently increase their strength and speed. It was a method of teaching he had never encountered among his own people, and it fascinated him. He would go down to the camp by the black walls every evening, after the work of planting and clearing had been done and after the stupid patrols had been called in, and he would watch them for hours. In his own camp he whittled a sword of the length they were using, with a two-handed hilt, balanced differently from the short stabbing-swords used on the plain and made for a different sort of warfare. He practiced everything he had seen the previous night, timing himself against the calls of the night-birds or striking against a tree trunk.
Then he would go back and listen, and heard for the first time the music these people made, with harps and pipes, different from the simple reed flutes of his people, intricate and beautiful if completely useless.
They would also tell tales, of valor and violence and love, and it was some time before he realized that these were made up and had never really happened to anyone. It was an art with them, he learned later – and also among Gil’s people, evidently – to make such fictions sound as if they were true. The tales of civilized people were beautiful and fascinated the Icefalcon in spite of himself, but he told himself they were useless.
Then one night the Icefalcon had returned to his camp to find Wind and Little Dancer gone.
That Eldor hadn’t taken all three animals, as one would do to an enemy, outraged him. I think you’ll need a horse, it implied. That he had left Brown Girl, the worst of the three, was a slap, given teasingly, as a man might slap a boy in jest. And he knew it was Eldor who had taken them. While he was watching the sparring in the evening, he thought, annoyed, as he searched the place the next morning for tracks.
He found them, but it was difficult. The man had covered his traces well. Eldor had distracted him with the large search parties while making solitary reconnaissance of his own.
The Icefalcon guessed they were expecting him to try to steal back Little Dancer, at least, from the cavvy. They always tethered her and Wind in the middle. He noticed the Guards were now more numerous. So he waited and watched, until one evening Eldor rode forth from the Keep alone on Wind, a tall black stallion that the Icefalcon had seen was a favorite of his. He followed him up the meadows to the rising ground above the Keep and shot him in the back with an arrow.
The Icefalcon smiled again, thinking about it now as he made a cold camp in the ditch beside the west-leading road.
Of course Eldor had been wearing armor, steel plate sandwiching a core of cane and overlaid with spells of durability and deflection. If it hadn’t been twilight, blue shade filling the long trough of Renweth Vale like a lake of clear dark water, he’d have seen the awkward fit of the man’s surcoat or wondered why in summer he’d worn a cloak. Eldor had carried a pig’s bladder of blood, too, and smashed it as he fell from Wind’s back, so the Icefalcon smelled blood from where he hid in the trees. He’d thought it sheer bad luck that his victim had fallen on the reins, holding the horse near. The “corpse” had hooked his feet out from under him and put a knife to his throat. The Icefalcon never believed in bad luck again.
“Alwir thinks you’re a scout from a bandit gang,” Eldor said, without relaxing his grip. “But you’re alone, aren’t you?”
The Icefalcon said nothing. He supposed if he had to die at least this was better than the fate he left among the Talking Stars People, but his own stupidity filled him with anger.
“I’ve heard you people don’t ride with bandits.”
Still nothing. It was true that none of the people of the Real World had much use for bandits, not wanting the possessions that lawless folk so stupidly craved, but it was not the way of his people to speak with enemies.
“I don’t want to kill you,” said Eldor, though he didn’t relax his grip or move the knife. “It would be a waste of a good warrior, and I need good warriors. I saw the practice posts you’ve made at your camps, to go over for yourself what Gnift has been teaching the Guards lately. Would you like to learn?”
The Icefalcon considered the matter and pointed out, “I am your enemy.”
Eldor released him then and got up very quickly, stepping clear even as the Icefalcon rolled to his feet. “why?” he asked.
The Icefalcon thought about the reasons that he had left the Talking Stars People and about where he might go, and what he might do, now that it was impossible for him to go back. He found that he did not have any reply to Eldor’s question.
Eldor Endorion.
The Icefalcon drank a little water and settled himself in the bayberry that grew in the ditch. The silence of the prairie drifted over him. He listened, identifying the crying of the coyotes and the greater voices of wolves farther off, the susurration of the ceaseless wind and the smell of dust and growing needlegrass.
The world of his childhood reassembling itself, scent by scent and sound by sound in the darkness.
He was home.
Eldor Endorion.
He hadn’t been at all surprised to learn that the man who had overpowered him, the man who had put himself in danger in order to trap a possible spy, was in fact the High King of the Wathe. Even when he learned the size of the Realm, and the rich complexity of the world Eldor ruled, he had felt no surprise at the acts.
They were typical of the man.
Eldor remained an extra week in Renweth Vale with the men and women he had sent to regarrison and reprovision the Keep, in order to train with the Icefalcon, to get to know him, to test him as leaders test warriors whom they seek to win to their sides. The Icefalcon had trained hawks. He knew what Eldor was doing.
He never felt toward the King the reverence that the other Guards did or stood in awe of that darkly blazing personality. But he knew the man was trustworthy and respectworthy to the core of his being. He was content to attach himself to the Guards.
He spent four years in the city of Gae, training with the Guards. He exchanged his wolf-hide and mammoth-wool clothing for the fine dense sheep-wool uniforms, black with their white quatrefoil flowers; wore the hard-soled boots of civilized men (though they were less comfortable than moccasins and left more visible tracks). When his beard came in the following year, he shaved, as civilized men did, though he never cut his hair. He learned to use a long killing-sword and to fight in groups rather than alone.
In Gae he met Ingold, Eldor’s old tutor, unobtrusively mad and – he quickly learned – probably the finest swordsman in the west of the world. He saw him first sparring on Gnift’s training floor and took him for some shabby old swordmaster down on his luck, which was what he invariably looked like. Later, after he trounced the Icefalcon roundly, they’d have long discussions about animal tracks, the habits of bees, and where grass grew. Just to watch the High King spar with the Wise One was an education. Now and then he would see Alwir’s sister about the palace compound, a pretty, quiet schoolgirl who read romances and never left her governess’ side and had not a word to say for herself. Three years after his arrival in Gae she was married to Eldor, for the benefit of both their houses. Their child was Tir.
Though no one knew it, time was running out for civilized folk, like water from a cracked jar.
It was during this time, too, that he became acquainted with Bektis, who was much more a fixture at court than Ingold. Ingold was in and out of the city, but Bektis had a suite of chambers in Alwir’s palace in the district of the city called the Water Park – less crowded and smelly than the rest of Gae, which had taken the Icefalcon years to get used to. Bektis scried the future and the past (he said) and learned through magic of things far away, and he also worked the weather for court fetes and advised Alwir about shipping ventures, something that made the Wise Ones mistrusted by merchants and farmers throughout the civilized realms. Shamans among the Icefalcon’s people also worked the weather, insofar as they would avert the worst of the storms from the winter settlements and the horse herds, but such workings were known to be dangerous. Besides, working the weather might let enemies guess where you camped.
Alwir and Bektis referred to the Icefalcon as “Lord Eldor’s Tame Barbarian” and made little jests about the things that were, to him, simply logical, like always having weapons and a day’s supply of food on his person, keeping to corners and never being where he could not immediately get out of a room. Their jokes did not offend him. Merely they informed him that they were fools, as most of the people of the straight roads were either mad or fools.
And most of them died with the coming of the Dark Ones.
Wind moved over the land, bitterly cold. Above the overcast that veiled the sky most nights now, the waning moon was a ravel of luminous wool. It had taken the Icefalcon most of a year to separate the reflexive terror about being outdoors after nightfall, developed by those who had passed through the Time of the Dark, from the reasonable wariness he had possessed before. Now he listened, identifying sounds and smells, gauging the scent of greenery and water somewhere beyond the slunch to the northwest that meant he might hunt tomorrow, measuring it against the certainty that there would be predators there as well. A small glowing thing like a detached head on two legs ran by along the top of the ditch – most slunch-born things glowed a little. A night-bird skimmed past, hunting moths.
Tir was out there in the dark, in the camp with Bektis and Hethya and those three identical black warriors.
Eldor’s son.
Eldor was not the kin of the Icefalcon’s ancestors. By the standards of the Talking Stars People, he would be considered an enemy. But he had not been. And he was the only person in Gae – the only person in all that new life the Icefalcon had lived among civilized people for four years – to whom he had spoken about why he had left the Talking Stars People and why he could not go back.
Speaking to him had made him less of an enemy. But what he would be called, the Icefalcon did not know.
The Dark Ones ringed this place.
Tir forced his eyes open, forced himself to look out past the campfire that seemed to him so pitifully inadequate; forced himself to look out into the darkness.
They aren’t really there.
He had never actually seen the Dark Ones. Not that he remembered by himself – his mother had told him they’d all gone away when he was a little baby. Sometimes in nightmares he’d be aware of them, amorphous waiting stirrings in the shadows and a smell that scared him when he smelled things like it sometimes, some of the things the women of the Keep used to clean clothing with.
He saw them now. The memory was overwhelming, like a recollection of something that had happened to him only yesterday: clouds of darkness that blotted the moon, winds that came up suddenly, seeming to blow from every direction at once, carrying on them the wet unnatural cold, the blood and ammonia stink. On this very stream bank – only the gully wasn’t this deep then, and the stream’s waters had lain closer to the surface, gurgling and glittering in the light of torches, a ring of torches – he had watched them pour across the flat prairie grass like floodwaters spreading and had felt his heart freeze with sickened horror and the knowledge that there was no escape.
They aren’t really there.
He faced out into the darkness, and the darkness was still.
The memory retreated a little. He felt weak with shock and relief.
“For the love o’ God, Bektis,” said Hethya, “let the poor tyke eat.”
She stood in the firelight, hair dark except where the reflected glare made brassy splinters in it, red mouth turned down with irritation. Bektis said, “I’m not going to risk the child running away.” He was rubbing and polishing the device that he wore over his right hand with a chamois; the great jointed encrustation of crystals and gold locked around his wrist, gemmed the back of his hand and his arm, and the knuckles of two of his fingers, with slabs and nodules of coruscant light. Polishing meticulously, obsessively, now with the leather and now with one of the several stiff brushes he took from his satchel, as if he feared that a single fleck of grease from dinner – which Hethya had cooked – would lessen its lethal power.
He had killed Rudy with it.
Tir shut his eyes.
He had killed Rudy.
When he shut his eyes he could still see his friend, his mother’s friend, the man who was the only father he’d known.
Hand lifted, the pronged crescent of the staff he bore flashing light, levin-fire showing up the crooked-nosed face, the wide dark eyes. Working magic, fighting Bektis’ spells so that he could rescue him, Tir, get him away from those people who’d somehow made him think that Rudy was with them all the way up the pass, that Rudy was there telling him it was okay to go with them.
He could still see the fake Rudy melting and changing into a black-skinned bald man, a man he’d never seen before, like those two other identical black warriors who’d come out of the woods to follow them toward the pass. Could still feel their hands on him, grabbing him when he tried to jump down from the donkey and run.
Then Rudy had been there, with Gil and the Icefalcon, witchlight showing them up among the rocks and snow and inky shadows of the pass. Rudy running, zigzagging away from the lightning bolts Bektis threw at him, straightening up to hurl fire from the head of his staff, crying out words of power.
The lightning bolt had hit him. And he’d fallen.
Tir clamped his teeth hard to keep from crying.
“Here you go, sweeting.” He heard the rustle of Hethya’s clothes – she’d changed back into trousers and a man’s tunic and coat – and smelled the scent of her, thicker and sweeter than a man’s. He smelled, too, the roasted meat and the potatoes she carried in a gourd bowl and opened his eyes.
“Please untie me,” he whispered. He wriggled his wrists a little in the rawhide bonds, trying to ease the pain. The coarse leather had blistered his skin during the day and the slightest pressure was a needle of fire.
“I’m sorry, me darling.” She picked a fragment of meat from the dish; she’d already cut it up for him. “His High-And-Mightiness seems to think you’ll run off, and then where would we all be?” She blew on the meat to cool it. Steam curled from it, white in the firelight.
“Please.” He tried not to sound scared, but panic scratched behind the shut doors in his mind. The Dark Ones coming. The wizards in the camp setting out flares, setting out what looked like stones, gray lumps woven around with tangled tentacles of iron and light. Fire columning up from them, the wizards’ faces illuminated, tattooed patterns lacing their shaved skulls and grim fear in their eyes. His father’s warriors bracing themselves with their flamethrowers and swords, and the one wizard who’d been engulfed by those rubbery tentacles, falling away from their grip only a heap of red-stained, melted, smoking bones.
It was only a memory. It had happened thousands of years ago. The Dark Ones weren’t coming back.
Hethya made a growl in her throat, glanced back at Bektis, and pushing Tir around by his shoulders, yanked the knots free of the bindings. The rawhide jerking away brought tears to his eyes, and the cold in the open cuts was excruciating.
She turned him around back. “Just till you finish eating, mind,” she said.
Tir whispered, “Thank you.”
“Not so fast, child.”
Bektis rose from his place by the fire, crossed to where Hethya sat tailor-fashion in front of Tir, Tir kneeling with the food bowl between his knees. Tir got to his feet; Hethya too. Tir tried hard to keep his voice steady. “I won’t run away. I just …” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t tell this tall bearded man how badly it terrified him, not to have the use of his hands, not to be able to run in this place where the Dark had descended on them, this place at the far end of that blind corridor of memories.
Bektis said softly, “See that you don’t.”
The flourish of his arm, wrist, and elbow leading – like Gingume at the Keep who’d been an actor in Penambra before the Dark came – seemed to reach out, to gather in the formless prairie night.
Gold eyes flashed there. Ground mist and shadow coalesced. Something moved.
Tir’s heart stood still.
“You know what I am, don’t you, child?” murmured Bektis. “You know what I can do. I know the names of the wolfen-kind; I can summon the smilodonts from their lairs and the horrible-birds from where they nest in the rocks. At my bidding they will come.”
The camp was surrounded with them. Huge, half-unseen shaggy shapes, snuffing just out of the circle of the firelight. Elsewhere the glint of foot-long fangs. A snarl like ripping canvas. Tir glanced back again, despairingly, at the pitiful handful of flames, the three black warriors crouched beside it, staring around them into the dark with worried silver-gray eyes.
Hethya put her arms over his shoulders, pulled him to her tight. “Quit terrifyin’ the boy, you soulless hellkite.” She ruffled Tir’s hair comfortingly. “Don’t you worry, sweeting.” Bektis glared at her for silence – after hesitation she said, “Just you stay inside the camp and you’ll be well.”
Stomach churning with fright, Tir looked from her face to Bektis’ cold dark eyes, then to the lightless infinity beyond the fire’s reach. Movement still padded and sniffed in the long grass. Waiting for him. He didn’t want to – she’d kidnapped him, dragged him away here, lied to him, she was part of Bektis’ evil troupe – but he found himself clinging desperately to this woman’s arm.
She added, a little more loudly, “He’s such a great wizard, he can keep all those nasties at bay, sweeting. They won’t be coming near to the camp, just you see. Now come.” She drew him toward the fire, opposite where Bektis had resumed his seat. “Have yourself a bite to eat, and roll up and sleep. It’s been a rough day on you, so it has.”
She meant to be kind, so Tir didn’t say anything and tried to eat a little of the meat and potatoes she offered him. But his stomach hurt so much with fear he could barely choke down a mouthful, and he shook his head at the rest. When he lay down in her blankets next to her, with the swarthy guards keeping watch, he could still hear the hrush of huge bodies slipping through the grass, the thick heavy pant of breath. Could smell, mingled with the earth smell and rain smell and new spring grasses, the rank carnivore stink. All these interlaced with the clucking of the stream in the gully and lent a horror to dreams in which Rudy’s death – over and over, struck by lightning, endlessly falling from the jutting rocks into blackness – alternated with the slow flood of still darker blackness spreading to cover the wizards’ flares, to cover them all.
Then he’d wake, panting with terror, to hear only far-off thunder and the endless hissing of the prairie winds.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_dfbf3f0b-497b-5630-b1fc-1f3f2867223d)
On the third day out from Sarda Pass, Bektis and his party were attacked by a scouting band from the Empty Lakes People.
This didn’t surprise the Icefalcon. He had never rated the intelligence of the Empty Lakes People much higher than that of the average prairie dog.
He had overtaken Bektis around noon of the second day, though the wizard was not aware of the fact. Sometimes the Icefalcon trailed them north of the road, sometimes south, taking advantage of the gullies that scored this land and the low clumps of rabbitbrush and juniper that lifted above the waving green lake of grass.
The three black warriors, he saw, carried heavy packs – blankets and provisions for many days – bad news given his own need to hunt as he went. When they halted for nooning, he briefly considered helping himself to their stores but gave up the idea at once. Like most of the warriors of the Real World, he carried talismans to give him at least some protection against the illusions – and the scrying abilities – of Wise Ones, but such amulets were only as good as the shaman who wrought them, and he suspected Bektis would be able to see through such wards without much trouble if he had any suspicion that there was a reason to look. Even could he slip past whatever guardian-wards Bektis might put around the camp, the mere fact of the thefts would alert them that they were being watched, and with a Wise One in the party this was far too dangerous to permit. He was eking out his small supplies of meat and fish with the roots of last autumn’s water plantains and cattails, but even they took time to gather and prepare, and he could feel hunger gaining on him.
Toward sunset of the second day they left the road and turned north to Bison Hill, a mound in the midst of the prairie covered with elder and cottonwood and used by travelers as a campsite – and by bandits as a handy place to find travelers – since time immemorial. Deer grazed in the woods, as did the small swift antelope of the plains.
He worked his way up to the knoll through stream cuts and bison wallows and under cover of the long prairie grass, making a mental note to speak to Janus about changing the clothing of the Guards from their traditional black to the colors of the earth. From a thicket of wild grapes some distance back he watched Hethya and one of the three black warriors – clones, Gil had called them, meaning identical people who were presumably common to her world – unload the donkeys while Bektis built a fire at the edge of the shelter of the trees.
Only an idiot or a Wise One would build a fire in such a place, where anyone could take advantage of the cover to come up on them, even as the Icefalcon was doing. But he supposed that with the advantage of wizardry it was possible to remain comfortably out of the wind and not worry about who or what might be deeper in the woods. Any of the Talking Stars People would have camped some distance from the knoll, where they could see in all directions, even had they had a Wise One in their company.
There was never a guarantee that some other war band wouldn’t include a shaman more Wise than one’s own.
“I can help you,” said Tir, as Hethya lifted him down from the donkey. “I promise I won’t run away.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but with a friendliness in his voice that told the Icefalcon that this woman must have used him kindly over the past day and a half. Indeed, the woman’s face was not cruel, and by the way she patted Tir on the shoulder, and the closeness between them as they stood, it was clear that she was used to children and liked them.
She glanced now over at Bektis, who was ordering the warriors about placing the blankets. It was the closest the Icefalcon had been to them – less than a hundred feet – and he studied the weapon of crystal and gold on the sorcerer’s hand with wary interest. A device of similar workmanship around Bektis’ neck, a high collar fitted up close under the ears, was visible only briefly when the wizard pushed down the furred hood of his coat and tried to untangle his beard.
“I think best not, sweeting,” Hethya said in a voice so low the Icefalcon had to guess at some of the words. “But thank you; ’tis kind of you thinking of it.” She ruffled his hair again. “Sit you down there under the tree a bit. We’ll be having supper soon, and I’ll untie you to eat. Are you tired?”
Tir shook his head, though he looked beaten with weariness. He followed her, his hands still bound behind his back – the Icefalcon could see where his wrists were bandaged under the thongs – while she unshipped a little nest of cook pots. “Does Oale Niu just tell you things?” he asked her as she worked. “Or do you see things, or smell them sometimes, and … and remember? Or think you remember but you don’t know what it is?”
“Like what, honey? Here, you, Akula,” she called out, and all three of the guards turned their heads. “One of you go fetch me water from the spring, would you?”
The men stared at her, scorn in their faces, for in the Alketch men do not take orders from women. Bektis snapped, “Do as she says,” and all started off in search of the boiled-leather pail that had hung, filled neatly with potatoes, on the second donkey’s pack saddle. Watching their aimless movements, it occurred to the Icefalcon that none of them were very bright.
“Like this.” Tir nodded toward the rolling wonderment of green beyond the scrim of birches. They had left the great slunch beds behind them, and for the most part the land was as it had been since the world’s dawn: long grass bright with spring, widely dispersed clumps of rabbitbrush, the dark lines of treetops marking stream cuts sometimes sixty feet below the level of the surrounding plain. “It smells like something … One of those other people was here once.” “Those other people” was how the boy thought about his ancestors, those memories of ancient days.
“Only it was in the winter, I think,” went on Tir softly. “Everything was brown. Did Oale Niu come here?”
“She did that.” Hethya settled back on her hunkers, and her voice changed again, slowed and deepened, as she said, “I was here. Twelve of us rode down from the flanks of Anthir mountain. The mages ringed our camp with a circle of flames to keep the Dark Ones at bay.”
Tir frowned. Even from this distance, the Icefalcon saw in the set of his shoulders, the stance of his compact body, the memory of distant things. “He was here with his daddy,” he said, so softly the Icefalcon almost could not make out the words. “His daddy knew the way. The road was that way, north toward the mountains, by those little hills.”
Two of the warriors came back with water; Bektis gave them very exact instructions about mounting guard on the camp, things that to the Icefalcon seemed obvious. The Icefalcon slipped back among the trees, carefully picking hard and sheltered ground, and crawled snake-wise on his belly through the grass to the bison wallow that he knew from other days lay just south of the road. Bandits – or more likely the Empty Lakes People, whose spirit wands he had seen twice in these lands – would be along in the morning.
And they were.
The Empty Lakes People didn’t attack until nearly noon, but the Icefalcon was aware of them when they came up the coulee to the northwest as a redstart and a raven flew out of the trees. They waited there for a time, for the party in the grove to pack up and move on.
When Bektis and his group didn’t pack up, but rather collected more firewood and water, like people who planned to remain where they were for the day, the Empty Lakes People – being the Empty Lakes People – decided that the thing to do was attack rather than make a closer observation of the grove, in which case they’d have seen that there was a Wise One in the party and thought again about the idea.
Or maybe not. These were the Empty Lakes People, after all.
In any case they attacked, with predictable results. The Icefalcon heard a cry from the wooded hill, and Hethya’s scream. The woman always seemed to be screaming. A man broke cover on the eastern side of the hill and ran across the road with his deer-hide jacket in flames. He fell in the long grass. Another warrior rode full-tilt out of the grove on a dun-colored mare that reared in sudden terror at something it saw but the Icefalcon didn’t.
Illusion. There were amulets against such spookery on the mare’s bridle but clearly Bektis’ powers were greater than the amulets’ maker – and since the Dark Ones’ systematic destruction of mages, many of the talismans had outlived their effectiveness years ago. One of the black warriors pelted from the trees and grappled briefly with the warrior, dragging her down from her horse. She cried out in terror and pain, and struck at something – again illusory – in which moment the black man plunged his sword into the woman’s chest. She fell, coughing blood. A war-dog, probably hers, raced from the trees, coat blazing, crying and yipping in pain.
In the grove other shapes were running around or struggling in the trampled underbrush of wild grape and snakeweed. More barking, war-dogs terrified and confused by enchantment. Fire flashed, or perhaps only the illusion of fire.
Tir, very sensibly, climbed a tree. The Icefalcon saw the boy’s bright blue jacket sleeves among the limbs of the cottonwood under which Bektis had built last night’s fire. He was glad that someone – probably the woman Hethya – had untied Tir’s hands and hoped none of the Empty Lakes People remained in the coulee, which was just within bowshot of the hill. The boy probably knew that running away from Bektis would be a waste of time.
Bide your time, son of Eldor. Watch for your chance.
The coyote who waits can eat the flesh of the saber-tooth who plunges ahead into a fight.
The attack was over before the shadows had shortened the last inch or so to noon.
Leaning up on his elbows, the Icefalcon watched the three black warriors load the bodies of the slain onto the horses that remained in the grove and carry them out to the coulee to dump them. Then they returned to Bektis’ camp, tethered the captured horses, and set about gathering water and making lunch.
Thank you, thought the Icefalcon. Now stay put so I can eat, too.
He crawled through the grass – noting automatically that rains had been scanty here and so the herds would not be plentiful later in the year – to the edge of the coulee, which at that point was some twenty feet deep. Even a few years before, the stream at the bottom had been wider and stronger than it was now. Barely a trickle flowed over gray and white rocks, and the sedge and cattail along its verge were thin and weak, though on the whole the bottomland that lay for thirty or forty feet on either side of the water was lusher than the prairie above. Cottonwood and lodgepole pine made light cover from bank to waterside; lungwort, fleabane, and marigolds gemmed the grass.
The half-dozen bodies lay jumbled below in a clump of chokecherry. Their dogs had been thrown down with them, the heavy-headed, heavy-shouldered fighting brutes of the Empty Lakes People. The Icefalcon took a very cautious look around, then slithered down the bank some hundred feet from the place, which he circled twice before coming close. Carrion birds were already gathered. He wondered if Bektis would notice when they flew upward.
They settled again on the limbs of the cottonwood just above the bodies, below the line of the prairie’s edge.
There had been six in the scouting party. Five lay here, fair-skinned like all the peoples of the Real World, bronzed from the sun, their hair – flaxen or primrose or the gay hue of marigolds – braided and dabbled with darkening blood. Four had perished of stab wounds, and one bore the same lightning burns that had marked Rudy’s face. The sixth would be the man who ran out of the grove with his shirt burning, to fall in the long grass.
The Icefalcon waited, listening, for some little time more, then moved in and made from them a selection of trousers, tunic, jacket, gloves, and cap wrought of wolf- or deer-hide, whose colors blended with the hues of the prairie. He changed clothes quickly and buried his black garments in a muskrat hole in the bank, piling brush to conceal where he’d driven the earth in. His weapons and harness he kept; his boots as well, for none of them had feet of his size, and boots would outlast moccasins on a long hunt.
He collected also all the food they carried, scout rations of pemmican, jerked venison and duck flesh, pine nuts, and bison and raccoon fat sweetened with maple sugar. He hung the buckskin pouches and tubes from his belt and shoulders, working fast, with one eye on the birds overhead.
When they flew up, he retreated, picking again the stoniest line of departure, which would show no mark of his boots.
Rather to his surprise he knew the man who slipped down the bank from above and stole up on the bodies, taking far fewer precautions about it than the Icefalcon considered necessary, but what could one expect from the Empty Lakes People?
It was Loses His Way.
Loses His Way was a warchief and one of the most renowned warriors of the Empty Lakes People. He had given the Icefalcon the scar that decorated the hollow of his left flank in a horse raid during the Summer of the Two White Mammoths. He’d been a minor chief then, and the Icefalcon had encountered him twice more, once in a battle over summer hunting and once at a Moot. If the Icefalcon hadn’t left the Talking Stars People, they’d probably have fought again at another Moot. He was a big man, some ten years older than the Icefalcon, with massive shoulders and tawny mustaches braided down past his chin; the finger bones of a dozen foes were plaited into his hair.
He moved painfully now, and the Icefalcon saw the red blister of burned flesh through the black hole that had been the back of his tunic.
When he saw the bodies had been disturbed, he looked around quickly, short-sword coming to his hand.
Conscious of the possibility of sound carrying, the Icefalcon whistled twice in the voice of the tanager, a bird native to the oakwoods along the Ten Muddy Rivers, where the Empty Lakes People had originally dwelled, though it was never seen in the high plains. Loses His Way turned his head and the Icefalcon stepped from cover, crossed swiftly to the pile of bodies at the foot of the cottonwood tree. “I am an enemy to the people who did this,” he said, as soon as he was close enough that their voices would not be heard. “I am alone.”
Loses His Way raised his head, grief and shock darkening gentian-blue eyes. “Icefalcon.” He spoke the name as it was spoken among the Empty Lakes People, K’shnia. He was like a man stunned by a blow, barely taking in the presence of one who was his enemy and the enemy of his people.
“The air was full of creatures that tore at us,” he said, and turned back to the dead. “When we rode away, the horses threw us and ran back. Our dogs attacked us and savaged one another.” He touched the torn-out throat of a big gray dog, as if stroking the hair of a beloved child. “There was a Wise One, a shaman, among them.”
“The shaman is called Bektis,” said the Icefalcon, framing the words carefully, haltingly, in the tongue of the Empty Lakes People, which he had not had call to speak for years. “An evil man, who has carried away the son of one who was good to me.”
Loses His Way seemed scarcely to hear. His thick scarred stubby fingers passed across noses, lips, brows. “Tethtagyn,” he said, framing the name in the tongue of the Empty Lakes People; Wolfbone it meant. “Shilhren … Giarathis …” Under long, curling red brows his eyes filled with grief.
“Twin Daughter,” he whispered, and touched the face of a warrior whose hair was as red-gold as his. “Twin Daughter.”
Gently lifting the thick ropes of her hair – three braids, as was the fashion of his people – Loses His Way took from around the young woman’s neck a square spirit-pouch, decorated with porcupine quills and patterns in ocher and black. Worn under the clothing and out of sight, spirit-pouches were almost the only article decorated by any of the peoples of the Real World. With his knife he cut off some of Twin Daughter’s hair and put it into the pouch. Then he sliced the palm of her left hand, and with his thumb daubed the congealing blood in the open center of the pouch’s worked design.
This he did for all the others in turn, saying their names as he did so: Wolfbone, Blue Jay, Shouts In Anger, Raspberry Thicket Girl. The Empty Lakes People, the Icefalcon remembered, did not revere their Ancestors, but rather the ki of various rocks and trees in the country of the Ten Muddy Rivers. It was to them that these spirit-pouches must be dedicated and returned.
The Icefalcon privately regarded such customs as unnecessary and a little dangerous. Dead was dead, and any member of the Talking Stars People would have been able to find his or her way home without the assistance of a spirit-pouch. But he saw, in the big warrior’s face, the need to do these things for his own peace of mind.
One of the things that the Stars had told the Ancestors of his people was that every people had their custom, and though all other people were wrong, it was not polite and frequently not safe to say so. At least Loses His Way didn’t feel it necessary to take fingers the way the Twisted Hills People did.
“You took all the food?” he asked then, and the Icefalcon nodded. “Then let’s go away. I thought you departed from the Real World for good,” he added, as he and the Icefalcon followed the cliff wall northwest, seeking an inconspicuous place to regain the prairie above.
“I departed,” said the Icefalcon. “Though I fail to see how my comings and goings are the affair of the Empty Lakes People.”
“Blue Child is now the warchief of the Talking Stars People,” said Loses His Way. “Even before the coming of the Eaters in the Night this was reason enough for concern among those of us who hunt the same mammoth and pasture our horses in the same ravines. Now that the mammoth move south, and white filth grows in the ravines of the homelands – now that the Ice in the North rolls south to cover valleys that once belonged to the Empty Lakes People – it is a matter for concern that she rules your people instead of you.”
The cliff was lower toward the northwest, and the Icefalcon recalled how squirreltail grass grew thicker in that direction, amid stands of juniper brush that masked the cliff’s rim from the direction of Bison Hill. Under cover of these junipers the two men scrambled up and glided through the thickets to higher ground.
At the cliff’s top a dark shaggy shape rustled up to them out of the grass, a yellow-eyed war-dog, burned like Loses His Way over his shoulders and back, like Loses His Way mourning his losses and his pain in silence.
He licked the warchief’s hand and wriggled with grateful joy to have his ears rubbed – sniffed the Icefalcon suspiciously but followed in silence. The Icefalcon raised up on his knees to put his head above the clusters of leaves but saw no sign of travelers as far as he could look west along the road.
They were evidently staying put for the day.
“For one thing, the Empty Lakes People never owned a thumb-breadth of the land in the North,” he pointed out. “The starlight wrote our names on forest and stone from the Haunted Mountain across to the Night River Country, and ours it remains, Ice or no Ice, forever. Will these take you and your brother here back to your people?” He nodded to the dog and held out to Loses His Way two tubes of pemmican and one of the several sacks of pine nuts. “I hunt this Wise One and his warriors, and in the North I am told the white filth grows thick. There is no hunting in it. I need all I can carry.”
The brilliant eyes narrowed. “You hunt this Wise One? I thought you had returned to find Gsi Kethko.”
“Gsi Kethko?” The name had two meanings. In the tongue of the Salt People it signified the hallucinogenic pods of the wild morning glory, but in the more melodic (and altogether more perfect) language of the Talking Stars People it meant the Antlered Spider, one of the fifteen Dream Things that sometimes carried messages from the Watchers Behind the Stars.
“The Wise One,” Loses His Way amplified.
“He was a member of Plum’s family,” remembered the Icefalcon, not sure why the warchief thought he should be interested. “A little man so high who dressed his hair with elm twigs. He stayed with us when we camped on the Night River just before the Summer Moot, the year that I departed. I don’t think he was a very good Wise One. We nearly starved to death waiting for him to charm antelope, and his information about the salt grass along the Cruel River left a great deal to be desired. Why would I seek out the Antlered Spider?”
“I thought he might have spoken to someone else concerning the spells he laid on the dreamvine that your old chief Noon took, at the Summer Moot in the Year of the White Foxes, the year that you left.” Loses His Way turned the end of one of his mustache braids around his finger, but his eyes did not leave the Icefalcon’s face in the piebald shadows of the thicket. The Icefalcon felt a coldness inside him, as if he already knew what else his enemy was going to say.
“The draft is prepared on the night the chief takes it,” the Icefalcon said, his soft, husky voice suddenly flat. “He himself gathers the dreamvine before he goes up to the mountain. There can be no spells laid on it since no one else touches the pods.”
“According to Antlered Spider, Noon always gathered the pods in the same place,” the warchief replied. “Along Pretty Water Creek, between the white rock shaped like a tortoise and the three straight cottonwoods.”
The place flashed at once to the Icefalcon’s mind, and he realized that what Loses His Way said was true. Noon had taken him there a hundred times in his childhood and told him of the properties of the low-growing, innocuous-looking vine: how it was prepared by the warchief on the mountain and what it did.
“The Antlered Spider said that Blue Child took powdered elf-root and had him lay words on it, so that when the powder was mixed with water and painted on the pods of the vine, the face that Noon would see in his vision at the Summer Moot would be yours. And it was your face that Noon saw, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know this?” The cold in him deepened, a dream remembered and repressed – the old man’s face impassive, eyes dead, empty with grief. The Icefalcon, and his cousin Red Fox, and their friends Stays Up All Night and Fifty Lovers, sitting by the Moot Fire, the talk soft and nervous as it always was at such times. Then Noon walked out of the night into the red world of the firelight, the white shell held out stiffly in his hand and death in his eyes.
Always just stepping into the firelight. Always just holding out his hand.
“My son …”
My son.
But he had known almost before Noon spoke what he was going to say. They had all looked at him, his kindred. Looked at him, and moved away.
The cold crystallized within him to a core of ice, as the cold had then.
“Why did he tell you this?” It astonished him how normal his voice sounded. But he was the Icefalcon, and it behooved him not to show his feelings, particularly not to one of the Empty Lakes People.
“He was dying,” said Loses His Way. “Fever Lady had kissed him at the winter horse camp. The snow was deep outside, and I could not leave.”
“What was he doing in your horse camp?” The Icefalcon drew a deep breath. Far off over the badlands, thunder rolled, soft with distance. The scent of the storm came rushing at them on the blue-black cloak of the wind.
“He wasn’t really one of Plum’s family.” Loses His Way shrugged. “He was the son of my maternal aunt’s husband’s stepbrother. The Empty Lakes People drove him out in the Year of the Crows for putting a barren spell on his sister because she had more horses than he did. No one liked him. Blue Child took him in.”
“Blue Child took in a Wise One of your people?” The Icefalcon was shocked to the marrow of his bones. “Took him in and had him put a spell on the chief of her own people?”
Loses His Way nodded. The Icefalcon was silent. Winter-night silence. Death silence. The silence in the eyes of an old man who has just been told by his Ancestors that the boy he has raised from childhood, the young man he looked upon as his successor, is the one They want, the one They have chosen to bring a message to them written in the crimson extremities of pain.
The torture sacrifice, the Long Sacrifice of summer, that the people may live through the winter to come.
Lightning flared, purple-white against the nigrous mountains of cloud. Gray rain stood in slanted columns over distant hills. The wind veered: Bektis, at a guess, witching the weather to turn the storm away. Shamans of the Talking Stars People generally didn’t care if they got wet.
The Icefalcon observed it all, staring into distance, feeling nothing.
“I don’t know whether Gsi Kethko told anyone else of this,” said Loses His Way, after a time, stroking his long mustache. “But for two years now I have been watching for you, waiting to see if you will return to your people and claim your due.”
“Are you all right, honey?”
Tir sat back on his heels, trembling, small hands propped on his thighs. Hethya ran a competent palm over his clammy forehead, then helped him to his feet and led him away from the little puddle of vomit among the ferns at the base of the big cottonwood tree. Some distance off she knelt down again and took the boy in her arms.
She was a big woman, like the farmwives and blacksmiths in the Keep. Her arms were strong around him and the quilting of her coat smooth and cold under his face, and her thick braids, tickling his chin, smelled good. Tir rested his head against her shoulder and tried not to feel ashamed of himself for getting sick.
It was weak, like the little kids. He was seven and a half. With the deaths of Geppy and Thya and Brit and all the other older children in the Summerless Year, he had stepped into a position of semicommand in the games of the younger.
Tears stung his eyes, remembering his friends. Remembering Rudy.
“There’s no shame in it, being afraid.” Hethya’s big fingers toyed gently with his hair, separating it into locks on his forehead, as his mother sometimes still did. “Even great kings and heroes get afraid. And sometimes that happens, after you’ve been real afraid.”
Tir was silent, trying to sort out what he had felt clinging to the limb of the tree. He was still sweating, though under his furry jacket he felt icy cold, and his stillness alternated with waves of shivering that he could not control.
“You did well,” she said.
In fact, when Bektis had spun around and cried out “Raiders!” and the three Akulae whipped their curved southern swords from their sheaths, from those dark hollows in his mind Tir heard someone else’s voice, one of those other people, say as if thinking it to himself, Get out of everybody’s way.
Lying on the branch of the tree, he had felt curiously little fear. Too many memories of killing men himself – of those other boys killing men – lay too near the surface. Memories of terror in battle, memories of grief and remorse, memories of the grim rush of heat that drove in the knife, the spear, the sword. Watching Hethya, watching the Akulae, cutting and hacking at the men and women who ran stumbling from Bektis’ unseen illusions filled him with emotion that he could not name, closer to sadness and horror than fear. But strong. Horrifyingly strong.
The emotion, whatever it was, left him wrung out, shaken, sickened, so that as soon as the fighting was over he slid down the cotton-wood’s trunk and vomited, not even knowing what it was that he felt. He could see the faces of the dying men still. Their faces, and the faces of all those others who had died in ages past by the hands of those whose memories he touched.
One day he might have to kill somebody himself.
His face still buried in Hethya’s shoulder, he heard Bektis’ sonorous voice repeating summoning-spells, then the soft scrunch of hooves on leaves and the whuffle of horses’ breath. Looking up, he saw Akula leading two beautiful bay stallions by the bridles, so beautiful they took his breath away. The Keep boasted few horses. Four more stood, eyes rolling, among the trees. Another Akula was tethering them.
This Akula had a bleeding wound on one arm. Hethya made a little exclamation under her breath and, with a final quick hug, released Tir and stood. “Here,” she said, going to the man. “Let me get that covered.”
“My dear young lady.” Bektis strolled over to her through the trees, stroking his long white beard and considering the six horses with a self-satisfied smirk. The jeweled device still covered his right hand. He was seldom without it, even if he had no magic to work, and he seemed to enjoy just looking at it, turning it reverently to catch the sunlight, like a vain adolescent admiring a mirror.
During the fight Tir had seen how lightning and fire had flowed out of it, how strange smokes and rainbow lights seemed to leap from it around the heads of the White Raiders, making them cry out and slash at things only they could see, making their dogs attack one another or bite the legs of the Raiders’ horses. Tir had been badly scared by the Raiders’ dogs.
“It’s scarcely worth your time. The man will be dead before the wound heals.”
Hethya opened her mouth to retort, then glanced down at Tir and shut it again. The Akula looked from Bektis’ face to Hethya’s without much comprehension, a thick-muscled man with grim pale eyes. Tir wondered if Akula – any of them – knew enough regular speech to understand what had just been said.
He’d just begun to learn the ha’al language of the Empire of Alketch and could say Please and Thank you and a number of prayers, though since God presumably spoke all languages he couldn’t imagine why he had to learn, with great difficulty, what God could just as easily understand in the Wathe. But his mother, and Rudy, and Lord Ankres said that the language was a useful thing for a King to know.
“And now that we have horses in the camp,” said Bektis, drawing close around his face the fur collar of his quilted brown coat and tucking his beard behind a number of scarves, “I think it best we keep the boy tied up until his Lordship arrives. See to it.”
“Please, Lord Bektis.” Tir stepped forward, his heart pounding. “Please don’t tie me up. If something else happens, if the Raiders come again, I don’t want to be tied up.”
“So you can run away in the confusion?” Bektis had already started to turn away. There was contempt in his voice, and Tir felt his face flush.
“I know I wouldn’t get far,” he said with dignity. “Even if I stole a horse, you could just make it turn around and come back to you, couldn’t you? Or scare it, like you scared those people with stuff that wasn’t real, so they couldn’t protect themselves.”
The wizard’s dark eyes flashed with anger at this implication of cowardice and cheat. “And a fine predicament you’d be in if I hadn’t, boy. We’re not playing children’s games. Do you think the White Raiders would spare a child of your years? I’ve seen children younger than you with their guts staked over five yards of ground. Tie him up,” he added to Hethya. “And give him a lick or two, to mend his manners.”
He walked away to the edge of the grove, where he settled himself under a tree. Tir saw him take something from a velvet purse under his coat, polish it on his chamois cloth, and set it on a little collapsible silver tripod where the dim sunlight lanced through the thin leaves. Scrying, as old Ingold scried for things in his fragment of yellow crystal. As he’d seen Rudy scry, hundreds of times.
At the thought of Rudy his throat closed and his eyes grew hot, seeing him fall again through the whirl of snow and darkness. Don’t make him be dead, he prayed. Please don’t make him be dead.
Hethya’s hand dropped gently onto his shoulder. “Come on, honey,” she said. “We’d better do as he says. I’ll make it as easy on you as I can, and if we’re attacked again I’ll see to it you can get to safety.”
Tir nodded. He wondered sometimes, lying beside her in the warmth of her blankets, feeling safe while Bektis’ wolves and saber-teeth snuffled around the verges of the camp, if she had a little boy of her own.
“Who’s his Lordship who’s coming?” he asked softly, as she led him toward a thin sycamore tree where there was shade and grass. “And what’s he going to do? Why does he want me?”
“Never you mind that, honey,” said Hethya. “I’ll make sure you’re all right.”
But her eyes avoided his as she said it. She wasn’t lying, he realized. She just knew that she had no power to do that, if Bektis – and his Lordship, whoever he was, and whyever he wanted him – decided to kill him.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_75416ce9-7d09-5fec-92ce-34d10ee27cb5)
Shadow passed over the grass.
The Icefalcon turned, scalp prickling, then scanned the sky. There was no sign of a bird.
The chill wind of morning rippled miles of grass and brought the smoke of the camp on Bison Hill. They were waiting for someone, the Icefalcon thought. Or for some event, as Wise Ones waited for conjunctions of stars and planets that would increase and focus their power. Above the coulee, black birds now gathered in clouds, but none circled anywhere near the hill.
A smoke-colored flicker in the corner of his eye, and this time he was sure of it. Ears tilted inquiringly, Yellow-Eyed Dog raised his nose from his paws and sniffed the air. The sky was empty overhead.
“What is it?” whispered Loses His Way.
The Icefalcon drew breath and relaxed a little, as much as he ever relaxed or could relax.
“Cold Death,” he said.
It was after noon, the day following Tir’s abduction from the Keep, that a mixed company of Guards and other Keep soldiery under command of Janus of Weg finally reached the gorge where Rudy lay. Once it grew light enough to see, Gil climbed the rocks two or three times, snow still falling heavily, to lay out branches and rocks and to carve laborious notches with her footprints in the snow, showing where they were. She had just returned from gathering more wood when she heard voices on the rocks above. “Gaw, what a mess,” said the familiar backcountry drawl of the Commander – and a heavenly choir of angels playing the back half of “Layla” on electrified harps couldn’t have been sweeter to her ears – “I thought you said you could chase the snow-clouds out onto the plain, me dumpling.”
“They should have gone.” Brother Wend’s soft voice was puzzled. “It’s unheard of for weather to cling this long after the Summoner has departed. I think … I’m not sure, but I think there are spells of danger up ahead as well, avalanche and anger among the beasts of the mountains.”
Janus cursed. “Bektis was never that strong,” he said. There was a scuffle, and a couple of little snow-slips tumbled down the rock face. Then Gil saw the black shapes of the Guards, and a couple of the white-clothed warriors of Lord Ankres’ company, scrambling down the way she had marked.
Wend knelt beside Rudy and exclaimed in shock, pulling off his heavy gloves at once to weave spells of healing and stasis over the great burns and cuts on Rudy’s face and chest. Meanwhile, Janus and the others spread out along the frozen stream to cut saplings for a litter. The Icefalcon’s makeshift wall had served to keep the niche under the overhang warm through the night and into morning, but Rudy’s face wore the look of death. “Don’t die on me, man,” Gil whispered, in her disused English, as she watched the priest-wizard’s fingers trace again and again the lines of healing and strength over the still, hawk-nosed face.
She’d have to face Alde, too.
The Lady of the Keep awaited them on the shallow steps of the black fortress, wrapped thick in the faded rainbow of her coat of quilted silk scraps. Like a crooked scarecrow, the Bishop Maia of Renweth stood beside her, and on her other side her friend and maidservant Linnet unobtrusively held her hand. There were other people as well – the Keep Lords, and Ilae, and the entrepreneurs who functioned more or less as neighborhood bosses – but as she walked beside Rudy’s litter with the scrag-end of the storm winds lashing at her face, Alde was all Gil saw.
The younger woman’s jaw set, body stiffening, drawing in on itself for protection, when it was clear to her that Tir wasn’t among the returning Guards.
“Rudy’s alive,” Gil called, as they came near enough for her voice to be heard without shouting. “The Icefalcon’s gone after Bektis and Tir. Tir seems to be all right.”
“Thank you.” Gil could only guess at Alde’s reply by the movement of her lips. Wind lifted the Lady’s hair, a shroud of night, as she descended the steps to grasp and kiss Rudy’s nerveless hand.
Undemonstrative herself, Gil did the only thing she could think of to do to help her friend through the hours of the evening and the night. She stayed beside her in the cell to which they brought Rudy, a chamber in the Royal Sector whose round tiled heating stove and larger bed made it more comfortable than the young mage’s narrow quarters off the wizards’ workroom on first level south. Neither Ilae nor Wend had had early training in their craft, both having denied or neglected their talents in the days before the coming of the Dark Ones. But Wend had, through the years of his priesthood, practiced surreptitiously the healing magic on those members of the small western community who had been in his care, and both he and the red-haired girl had seven years of formal teaching. Together they worked spells of strength and stability on Rudy’s heart and nervous system, and of healing on his flesh, drew runes and circles of power around the herbs they prepared to combat infection.
Through the night Minalde stayed quietly in a corner of the room, fetching water or lint, feeding the fire or holding the knots on bandages when such things were called for. Linnet disappeared to look after Gisa, the daughter Alde had borne Rudy in the Summerless Year, who at eighteen months was old enough to know something was desperately wrong, and to care for Gil’s son Mithrys; Gil remained at Alde’s side. She didn’t say much – she had never known what to say to someone in grief or pain – but once Alde reached out and took her hand and squeezed it hard enough to hurt.
Later she asked, “Did you see Tir?” and Gil shook her head.
“I heard him call out Rudy’s name,” she said. In the soft double glow of lampflame and witchlight. Alde’s face seemed thin and old, an echo of the old woman she would one day be. A woman who had lost the husband she adored and feared and had seen the brother she had worshipped turn tyrant and monster, who had survived the crumbling of her world and found in its wreck a love like the rising of the stars.
“We saw his tracks a couple of times, when they let him off the donkey. I think that Hethya woman must have gotten him out of the Keep to look at the caves along the north side of the Vale, and Bektis put a glamour on one of those warriors he had with him to make Tir think it was Rudy.”
Alde only nodded, her face an ivory death mask.
“I never thought Bektis would possess the power to hold storms so long after he had gone.” Brother Wend turned on his three-legged stool, drying his hands on a coarse hempcloth towel, a dark-haired little man whose priestly tonsure had grown in when he left the Church, only to be replaced by his hairline’s early retreat. “Of course, he will always be a greater wizard than I, but …” He shook his head.
“He had a … a device of some kind,” said Gil. “This kind of crystal thing strapped on his hand. It may just have been reflection, but it looked like it lit up when Bektis threw lightning or defended himself against Rudy’s spells. He’s a stronger wizard than Rudy is anyway, but if it was a magnifier or amplifier of some kind …”
Ilae looked up from grinding dried purple-bead roots in the mortar. “Does such a thing exist?”
“Who knows?” Gil replied. “We don’t know what’s been stashed away all these years, left over from the Times Before. Ingold is always finding references to stuff the Church confiscated and hid and never talked about.”
“And with good reason, if legend is anything to go by.” Maia stood in the doorway, his long face lined with concern. “How is he?”
“About the same.” Gil shrugged, hiding fear and anxiety, as the Icefalcon did. “Maybe other people hid stuff, too, out of fear of the Church or of their neighbors. Now those places have been broken open, and nobody’s keeping an eye on them anymore.” She glanced sidelong at Maia. “Why do you think Ingold’s been in such a panic to find books and implements and whatever other apparatus he can?”
“There were certainly records in my episcopal palace of things I did not understand, hidden in places lost to anyone’s memory,” the tall Bishop agreed. “We do not even know what may still be hidden in this Keep, untouched since the Dark’s first rising.”
“And it’s a good guess Govannin had a couple of secrets on hand. For all she carried on about mages being soulless tools of Evil, she was quick enough to use black magic in anything she considered a good cause. If Bektis ever did manage to break her hold on him, you can bet your best fur booties he’d help himself to whatever he could stick in his pockets.”
“How soon will the storm clear?” Alde, who had sat all this while with bowed head in silence, now looked up at Wend. “How soon can a party go over the pass in pursuit?”
“I’ll go out there in the morning,” the physician promised. “Even the strongest spells disperse, if their maker is not there renewing them. I’m not the weather-witch Bektis is, but I should be able to hasten their breaking.”
“How soon?” Her eyes were like the heart of the night, her voice porcelain, cold and friable, as if it would shatter at a touch.
“Tomorrow afternoon?”
She whispered again, “Thank you.” Her small hands closed around Rudy’s brown, cold fingers, seeking reassurance, perhaps hoping to hold his spirit to his flesh. She hadn’t touched the tisane Linnet had brought, or the supper, either. Gil knew better than to think that she would unless forced.
I’d better get some sleep, thought Gil. And pack. She remembered the three identical warriors. Were others waiting to join Bektis once he got over the pass? A dozen or a hundred, cookie-cuttered out of some unguessable spell? Ingold had never mentioned such a thing to her, nor Bektis’ jeweled weapon, either.
How could she, and the Guards, and a novice like Wend cope with those and whatever else the sorcerer had up his fur-lined sleeves?
But the concern turned out to be moot. An hour or so later Ilae put down her herbs and sat up straight, her hand going to her temple, her eyes suddenly flaring wide. “Damn,” she said.
Alde, her hand still locked around Rudy’s where she sat on the floor, a pillow at her back, looked up sharply at the note in the girl’s voice. “What is it?”
“I …” Ilae hesitated, frowning, listening hard to sounds only she could hear. Then the witchlight brightened behind her head as she dug in the purse at her belt for a scrying stone, a ruby Ingold had found in the ruins of Penambra, which she turned and maneuvered in the sharp glint of the light. “Damn,” she said again, more forcefully, and pushed her rusty hair out of her eyes. “There’re men coming up the road from the river valley, my Lady. Lots of men – horses – spears glittering in the moonlight …”
“What?” Alde surged lithely to her feet, crossed the room in a flurry of petticoats, and looked over Ilae’s shoulder as if she too could see in the jewel. “Where?”
“They’ve just passed the wards we set up in the Arrow Gorge. Hundreds, it looks like. Carts and tents.” She looked up into the Lady’s face with baffled eyes. “It’s hard to see in darkness, but I think they’re black-faced, black-skinned, the men of the Alketch, and the brown men of the Delta Islands with gold beads in their hair. They’re coming fast.”
Alde cursed, something she seldom did. “Send for Janus,” she said. “We need to meet them at the Tall Gates and hold them there, if we can. Thank you, Ilae …”
Gil was already out of the room, striding down the Royal Way toward the Aisle and the lamplit watchroom of the Guards.
The Icefalcon and Loses His Way watched Bektis’ camp through the night, turn and turn about with hunting small game in the coulee. They worked mostly in businesslike silence, though Loses His Way asked about the conditions of grass on the eastern side of the mountains, and the movements of mammoth and bison herds, always a fruitful topic among the peoples of the Real World. He asked, too, about the pedigrees of the horses at the Keep and shook his head sorrowfully when the Icefalcon informed him that the Keep horse herd had been acquired at random from the South and that even before the destruction of the original herd, the ancestry of horses was not a concern of most mud-diggers.
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Barbara Hambly
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Эзотерика, оккультизм
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A brilliant new fantasy from the author of the bestselling Darwath series, Icefalcon’s Quest is a follow-up to Hambly’s Mother of Winter.The Icefalcon’s first mistake was to rescue the old man named Linok. His second mistake was to leave Tir, his young charge in the old man’s care…Linok was not as he seemed, and when he disappeared, snatching Tir away with him, the Icefalcon begins a desparate quest to rescue his charge. But this will be no ordinary struggle, for against the Icefalcon come hellish furies – an army of ghostly soldiers horrifically constructed, demons of the air and magic so dark it terrifies him. There is also Hethya, the young woman who was once in Linok’s care. She claims to be possessed by a spirit who lived in the Time of the Dark and believes it knows the secret in the crypt below the Keep, the target against which all the forces of darkness are gathering…