Brotherhood of the Wolf (36 page)

Averan wondered if Roland or any Invincibles would return, see the signs of their shallow grave. Even if they did, what would they do? Dig her up?

No, she realized. We're safe. Safe from sun and fire. Safe for a little while, until nightfall.

17
BENEATH A DUSTY GARMENT

The Durkin Hills Road was a trail of dust. Erin Connal had ridden down it a couple of days ago, when last week's rains had made the road slick at its low points. But at least then the dirt had clung to the ground, and she'd been riding alone.

Now, after only a couple of days of heat, the road south was as dry as if it were midsummer. Beyond that, it had been much traveled during the past week, and the hooves of countless animals and the wheels of thousands of wagons had churned the soil and ground it into a fine powder that rose dirty and brown all about, marking their passage. Time and again, Erin wished that she could ride off into the trees of the Dunnwood, ride parallel to the army, to get clear of the dust. But the brush beside the road was thick, the trails uneven, and she could not afford to slow her trek. Right now the army had need of haste.

She rode now to war in the vanguard of the army, near the very front, beside King Gaborn Val Orden and fat King Orwynne, a gaggle of lords, and of course all of their attendant Days.

A few dozen scouts and guards were strung out on the road ahead, yet the dust of their passage rose high in the air. Grit caught in Erin's teeth and burned her eyes and sinuses. Grime clung to the oiled links of her armor and heavy powder settled in the folds of her clothes. Though
they had ridden but half the day, she figured it would take a week's worth of baths to ever feel clean again.

There was nothing she could do about it for now. She was only grateful that she was not riding farther behind in the ranks, for near the rear, the dust would have been unbearable.

Many warriors in Gaborn's retinue wore helms that covered their faces, and so they merely put the visors down, affording the face and eyes some small protection from the dust. Erin envied them. She imagined that even the infernal heat inside the blasted helm would have been more bearable than the dust.

But her own helm was merely a horsewoman's helm, a round thing with guards for ears, without even a bridge for the nose. A horse's tail, dyed royal-blue, adorned the top.

So she rode holding a cloth to her face. From behind, the sound of hoofbeats reverberated as a rider raced along the edge of the road.

He glanced at Erin and made to pass her, when suddenly he spotted Gaborn and reined his horse in. The man's face was a study in surprise. Erin realized that he'd been looking for the Earth King, but King Gaborn Val Orden and King Orwynne were both so dirty that one could not distinguish them from common soldiers.

“Your Highness,” the fellow implored Gaborn, “the troops in the rear beg permission to fall back. The dust is fouling the horse's lungs.”

Erin nearly laughed. Apparently these warriors of Heredon could breathe the dust just fine. It was only their horses that suffered.

“Have them fall back,” Gaborn said. “I see no reason to keep close ranks, so long as we all reach Castle Groverman by nightfall.”

“Thank you, milord,” the fellow said with a nod. Yet he did not fall back to spread the word. Instead, he rode beside Gaborn as if he would beg another boon.

“Yes?” Gaborn asked.

“Beg your pardon, milord, but since you are the Earth King, could you not do something more?”

“Would you like me to get rid of the dust altogether?” Gaborn asked, bemused.

“That would be greatly appreciated, milord,” the knight said, gratitude thick in his voice.

Gaborn laughed, but whether he laughed from mirth or laughed the fellow to scorn, Erin could not tell. “I may be the Earth King,” Gaborn said, “and I like the taste of trail dust no better than you do. But believe me, there is a limit to my powers. If I could make the dust settle, I would. Open ranks. Have every man pace his horse. Those with the quickest horses will reach Groverman first.”

The fellow studied Gaborn from head to foot. The Earth King was covered in grime. “Yes, milord,” the fellow said, and he wheeled back, calling the orders for the formation to disband.

At that point, the kings gave the horses their heads, and galloped ahead of the more common mounts. In moments, Erin was racing along and even Gaborn's scouts, at the very front of the line, had to hurry to keep ahead of the army.

Erin stood in her stirrups, riding to the flank of the king, and let the wind clean some dust from her clothing and from her hair.

Beside her, Prince Celinor did the same. She glanced over, caught the Prince staring at her. He turned away when she noticed his scrutiny.

Erin did not have an endowment of glamour to mar her face. Fleeds was a poor land, and so by the High Queen's decree, endowments of glamour were never given. One could not waste precious blood metal on forcibles that would enhance a woman's beauty, not when the same ore could be put to some better use.

Still, even without an endowment of glamour, men sometimes found Erin attractive. Yet she thought it odd that Prince Celinor would gaze at her so. He had at least two endowments of glamour, and so was a fine-looking man. His hair was platinum in color, almost white, his face narrow
but strong. His eyes shone like dark sapphires. He was a big man who stood roughly twenty hands tall. A handsome man, indeed, she thought, though she had no desire to bed him. For as they said in Fleeds, “His reputation follows him as flies follow filth.”

Celinor's Days, who rode behind him, was remarkable only in that he was nearly of the same height as his lord.

No, Erin was not interested in a sot. Last year at Tolfest it was said that Prince Celinor had gone out to distribute alms to the poor of Castle Crowthen and had ridden through the streets in a wagon, tossing out food and clothing and coins. In a drunken stupor, he had soon found himself out of alms, and so had stripped off his own cloth-of-gold breeches and tossed them to the crowd, much to the dismay of those mothers who had children. Rumor also had it that he was well endowed in more ways than one.

It was said that he drank so much that no one was quite sure whether he had ever learned to sit a horse, for he could be seen falling from one more often than riding it.

His vassals nicknamed him “Mad Dog,” for often the froth of ale could be seen foaming at his mouth.

In an hour they reached the river Dwindell, at the village of Hayworth.

There, the lords and their Days came to a halt, riding their horses down to the riverbank east of the bridge, so that they could quench their thirst. As the animals drank, Erin climbed off her horse, gauged the water. The river Dwindell here was wide and deep, its clear waters swirling in eddies. Clouds had been moving in all day, but even behind their screen, the sun was so high that Erin could see huge trout and even a few salmon swimming in the river's depths.

Erin took the cloth that she'd had over her nose, knelt at the riverbank and dipped it in the cold water, then began to wash some of the grime off her face. She longed to strip off her armor, swim out into the river's depths. But there was no time for it.

Prince Celinor knelt by the water, too, and took off his
helm, a thing of burnished silver. He filled it with water twice, swirled the water in it to get the dust off the helm, then filled it a third time and drank deeply, using it as a mug.

When he finished, he offered his helm to Erin while he washed his own face clean of grime. She drank deeply, felt the dust clear from her throat. She'd never tasted water so refreshing.

King Gaborn had halted and was letting his own horse drink, as if too weary to dismount. Gaborn was covered in grime, thick with dust.

Celinor gazed up at the King, the sunlight striking him full on the face.

“Now there is a proper Earth King,” Celinor whispered of Gaborn. “See how well he wears his realm.” He chuckled, amused at his own jest.

“I'm thinking that none wear it better,” Erin said, for she dared not utter anything so irreverent.

“I meant no disrespect,” Celinor apologized, sounding sincerely regretful.

Erin gave him back his helm, shoved it hard into his hands. Celinor refilled it, then leapt up and carried it to Gaborn, let him drink from it. As Gaborn drank, Celinor wet a cloth in the stream, then carried it to Gaborn.

He offered the cloth for Gaborn to wash his face. Gaborn sponged himself, and thanked Celinor cordially. Yet Erin wondered if Celinor served Gaborn for her sake, or if he really had meant no disrespect.

When Gaborn's mount had watered, he and King Orwynne were quick to cross the bridge and head for the Dwindell Inn there in Hayworth, for it was well-known that strong drink clears trail dust from one's throat better than water. With so many hundreds of knights riding through, Erin imagined that it would be a boon day for the innkeeper.

Erin washed herself, preparing to join Gaborn and King Orwynne. She got on her mount and spurred it over the
bridge, and could not fail to notice that Celinor rode at her side.

Yet when she reached the inn and dismounted, Celinor only sat ahorse, watching her. She stood in the shade of the porch, glancing back. The yeasty smell of ale was strong here, having soaked into the floorboards over the ages.

“Are you coming in?” she asked.

His face looked set, determined. He merely shook his head, then apologized. “I'll go on up ahead, let my horse rest a few moments.”

Erin went into the inn, her Days following, and sat down at a table alone, just the two of them. In moments a young serving girl hurried over, asking, “What would please the lady?”

The owner of the hostel, a big-bellied man, sat with King Orden, talking cordially. She heard the fellow congratulating Gaborn on his recent marriage.

“I'll have ale,” she said. The waif hurried off.

In moments the hostler himself ran downstairs to help fetch up some ale kegs. Fat King Orwynne said in his high voice, “So, Your Highness, it seems that Prince Celinor fears to join us.”

“Good,” Gaborn said. “I'd hoped that he might have the strength to forbear this place.”

“But do you think it will take?” Orwynne said. “I for one believe that even the railings of the Earth King will not keep him sober through the week. I'll bet you ten golden eagles, milord, he'll be falling off his horse by sundown tomorrow.”

“I hope not,” Gaborn said, though he did not accept the wager.

“Your Highness,” Erin wondered aloud, “have you spoken to Prince Celinor?”

King Orwynne glanced at her with the dismissive look that some warlords gave the women of Fleeds. He did not respect her, but he answered her question before Gaborn could speak. “The sot had the audacity to present himself to the Earth King this morning, before we rode out, and
offer his sword in service. The Earth King rejected him, of course.”

Gaborn sat wearily, gazing down at his hands folded on the table. “Don't be so harsh,” Gaborn said. “The man has a good heart, but I could not in conscience Choose a man who loves strong drink more than he loves himself or his fellows.”

“So you rejected him?” Erin asked.

“Not rejected,” Gaborn said. “I asked him for a show of contrition. I asked him to give up his greatest pleasure. In return, if he can remain sober, I will Choose him.”

Erin had not heard that the Earth King made such bargains with men. He had Chosen her outright. Yet she was glad of it, glad to know that a man might better himself to some reward.

When her ale came, she took only a small sip, then went out front where her mount was tied to the hitching rail. She poured ale into her palm for her horse, let it drink, the hairs of its muzzle tickling her palm. A strong drink would serve her mount well, give it the energy it needed to keep up with the other lords' horses. Her own mount was a good force horse, with a single endowment each of strength and metabolism and grace, but it was not so lavishly endowed as Gaborn's charger, or those of some of the other mounts in the retinue.