Everran's Bane (20 page)

Beryx watched a moment. Then he said with the tiniest hint of reproof, “If you knew I was coming, ma'am, you also know why I came.”

“The dragon,” she said.
What! What!
She cocked her head and turned the blade this way and that. Then she glanced up, and the gray eyes held a chilling hilarity. “And tha wonders if I'm aedric, and if I'll rid thee of it. Yes, I am. And no, I won't.”

Beryx's levity vanished. He said levelly, “I don't know why.”

“Had sooner... make a scythe... in Eskan Helken,” she was talking as she unraveled a thin leather lace between her teeth, “than meddle in such affairs.”

His brows straightened. “But... you could kill it?”

“Ah. I could.”

He paused. Then he said, “Not for anything Everran can give?”

She replied with the Gebrian negative: an upward jerk of the chin, a tongue's short, decided click.

When he said nothing, she reached behind her for a curved wooden handle, smooth and sheeny with use, split at the head. Working the flint in, she began to lace it on, hands flying unerringly to and fro.

Beryx said, “Will you teach me how to kill it, then?”

“Tha?” It was scorn unparalleled.

“If you won't kill it,” he answered steadily, “I must have someone who will.”

Her hands stopped. She looked round at him, the gray eyes chill, but no longer with mirth. “Tha couldst not learn.”

“I am,” he said without boast, “descended from Berrian.”

“Ah.” She resumed work. “With who knows what sort of mongrel blood crossed in? Berheage!” A snort. “Dost not know tha line's true name.”

Beryx's eyes began to glow. Very evenly he said, “Do you?”

She chuckled. “What would it mean if I told thee? Dost not even know what tha used for the dragon's toy. Ah, I warrant that one walks o' late at nights!”

Beryx stiffened. “That stone,” he said, “came with Berrian.”

She was whipping the lace-end, quick and expert as the rest. “Berrian! A slip that fell off the tree upon treasure waylost. And built it a cage where his betters hoved before him. Dost not know what tha little dung-heap stands upon? That was Ker Thillian'eage. Home of forekin to Maerdrigg himself.”

“And to you?”

She snorted acridly. “I am Fengthira of Havos. Dost not know that either. Not like tha man.” I tried to crawl under the saddle. “Art ignorant as all tha... line.”

“If I am ignorant,” Beryx said quietly, “I am willing to learn.”

She slid the tools into the hide and stood up. “Hast had a long ride, Everran.” That freezing merriment was back in her eyes. “Wilt have a longer one home.”

Beryx was becoming roused: let be the churlishness of her talk, he had been born a king. I doubt he was “thee'd” in the nursery.

“Ma'am,” he said silkily, “if you came to Everran, which I know is unlikely, and if I had a palace, which I have not, you would not find such a welcome at its door.”

Her eyes lit with a genuine laugh. “Hast a sting to tha tongue, at least.” She slid the bundle to the ground, and folded her hands on the scythe haft. Fine-boned hands, but roughened from hard labor, with raised veins that belied her ageless voice. “Well? Use it then.”

“We have tried every weapon against Hawge,” he said, “except wizardry. You are the only wizard we can find. You said you can kill it, but you won't. You say I can't learn. But the dragon told us, the weapon that would slay it has not been forged.”

“So tha'lt be the weapon? And make me the smith?”

“Yes.”

“Dost not know what tha askst.” Now the ice was in her voice.

“But I do ask.”

“Forged! Art more likely to break. Break like a rotten flint!”

“Surely, ma'am,” it was open irony, “not with a skilful smith?”

“Wilt dare me, ah? A wise smith don't try to temper flints.”

“Then,” he said, “I had rather be a broken flint than one that was never tried at all.”

Her eye held danger, open threat. “So tha'lt be broken, ah?”

Deliberately, he answered, “Yes.”

She paused. He held her eyes. Suddenly they twinkled with another of those disconcerting shifts to mirth. “I've broken a good many colts in my life. I've never broken a king.”

He looked half-affronted, half-amused. She cocked her head, studying him. Then she said abruptly, “Take off tha clothes.”

That did shake him. He balked and stared.

“Take off tha clothes. Dost buy a horse in a blanket, or first take a look?”

For a moment I thought he would refuse. Then he began to pull his turban off.

She watched unblinking every detail of his one-handed struggle with the robe, the buttons of his shirt. I doubt she could have found a quicker, simpler way of humiliating him. As the shirt came off she said, “Whoa,” and began to walk round him, running her eyes up and down as if he were indeed a colt.

“Hot-headed.” She poked the huge livid scars on his side. “Headstrong. Tck. Tha own fault.” I saw his jaw stiffen, his chin come up. If he refused counsel, he relished criticism less. But he held his tongue. She felt the arm, and nodded. “Smashed the great nerve.” She pushed it aside to touch the sting-pit. “Troubles thee still?”

He said flatly, “No.” And she flicked her eyes up. “Th'art ignorant. Try not to be a fool.”

He flushed and clenched his teeth.

“Dost think,” she said, “aedryx need strength in naught below the neck? Th'are better stayers than a Quarred mare.”

She came round and studied the scarred side of his face. He looked straight ahead like a soldier on parade.

“Thorgan Fenglos,” she said musingly. “Does Everran suffer blemish in its kings?”

His muscles tightened as if at a punch. “I am king,” he answered, almost under his breath, “by inheritance.”

“Ah. And what does queen think of it?”

Had I been Beryx, it would have ended there. He turned white, making the scar stand out worse than ever, but he did not speak.

She went on with that deliberate, probing cruelty, “Not like it much?”

Looking somewhere over her head he answered, just audibly, “No.”

Her lashes flicked up. “And barren as well?”

He shut his eyes. This time it was a mere whisper. “Yes.”

“Ah.” Then, idly, “Poor child.” She walked away, not troubling to look back. “Put on tha clothes.”

Silently, he obeyed.

When he looked up, she said dispassionately, “Headstrong. Crippled. Green. Crossbred as well. I doubt I'd take the horse. Why should I trouble with the man?”

That was too much. “Because,” he said through his teeth, “I may be maimed, I may be mongrel, but I am Everran's only hope. I don't want to learn for pride, or for power; I am not willful, and I have no time for wantonness. But I have a kingdom, ma'am, and whatever must be done to save it, by the Sky-lords' faces, I will do!”

He glared full in her face, his eyes blazing green. She shook her head. Then, to my utter amazement, her own lashes sparkled with tears.

“Ah,” she said. “Th'art Heagian, sure enough. Straight back to that glorious old clown. Never mind wryve-lan'x, take wryve-lethar. And care naught that t'will bring the roof on tha own head.”

She swiped a hand over her eyes and half swung away. Beryx stood, utterly bewildered, until she blinked away the tears.

“Tha man shall take the beasts back,” she said crisply. “And we'll do without that.” I gasped as his sword slid from the scabbard, turned a somersault, and landed on a rock ledge twenty feet above. “Tha might take to me when tha temper's up. And get it up tha will.”

She turned toward the rock mouth, and paused. Beryx had not moved.

“Well? What art waiting for?”

“This is not a ‘man.'” Beryx's look was icy as her own. “This is my comrade and hearthbard, who brought me away from Coed Wrock. But for him I should not be here.”

Fengthira gave me one razor look. “More fool he,” she said, and I knew it was no cliché. My secret had been read.

Beryx still waited. She scowled. “Wilt try my patience already? What else?”

“We are two days,” he said, “from water. Our horses have had none today.”

That made her soften. “Bring them up. Take off bridles. They'll follow. And leave tha ironmongery here.” Her eyes flicked to self-mockery this time. “I can't abide cold iron. I'm a ‘sorcerer.'”

We unsaddled; she said, “Come then. No, not tha. The beasts.”

And to my wonder they filed after her like dogs. As the last rump vanished, Beryx, recovering some of his poise, murmured ruefully, “I'll pay high for that.”

* * * * *

The cleft climbed steeply, narrow, gloomy, twisting, slippery with wet. Fengthira directed the horses. “Ware that slab. And t'drop.” We groped after as best we could, until the light returned in a fierce blue glare.

We were on a V-shaped pocket of soil rising to the next monolith, hidden from all but the sky, its checquer of greenery framed in fiery red and distant blue. A glance showed me vegetables, a grain patch, a pair of elegant finlythes, a long slope of natural grass to more trees above. The horses were drinking at the cleft-top: a spring, no doubt, deepened and rimmed with rock slabs to make a pool before it seeped downhill, framed by fishbone ferns and overhung by giant tree-ferns, an enchanted and enchanting well.

When the horses finished, Fengthira said, “Down. Come back with the rest.” As they retreated obediently, she turned with a flick of her eye.

“Too full of How and Why to settle First. I'll tell then, and spare all our tongues. This is Eskan Helken.” Red Castle, I translated, wondering who had named it. “The spring rises there,” she nodded uphill, “and t'was here before me. I only make it last. With Ruanbr'arx, yes: the Arts. Wryvurx, the weatherwords. But I steer, not brew, the storms. And that was wryve-lan'x with the horses, mastery of beasts. Not 'prentice work. The grays are mine: they go with my name.” Fengthira: moonlight. “I like horses better than men, so I use Ruanbr'arx to keep men away. And this is my garden, since I'm not Hethox and don't like aedric hunts. Take nine lydyr with wryve-lan'x, but you'll sicken when the tenth hops up. Not that plants,” she added thoughtfully, “don't squeak when you pull them out.”

We crossed the garden, seamed with tiny irrigation channels. “This lives by honest sweat. No Ruanbr'arx'll master weeds.” Beyond a handkerchief lawn under the finlythes we climbed to the valley head. “And this is my house.”

It was backed against the rock beside an even tinier spring thickly bedded in mint. A dirt-floored veranda was roofed by norgal bark that rested on a beam between two trees, overgrown with some climbing vine's black and scarlet flowers. A single stone step, a natural boulder, led inside. The walls were latticed branch and vine, then native rock, which held a fireplace and an irregular door. The furniture, table, chairs, a hanging cupboard, was unsquared wood, tools were propped in a corner, utensils by the hearth. A lydel hung by its curled tail from a roof-beam, chattering with pointed furry face and huge irate black eyes.

“Ah,” said Fengthira, propping up her scythe. “Strangers. Must put up with them.” She surveyed us. “And now th'art here, I suppose tha must be fed.”

Beryx's lip twitched. He said meekly, “Ma'am, I do know how to cook.”

“Ah. Like tha harper shaves. Garden. Lettuces and some corn.” She tossed off her turban to reveal an arrogantly boned face under a crop of iron-gray hair, I walked outside and stood spellbound as all Hethria spread below me, an eagle's vision on the wing.

“Lettuces,” commanded Fengthira. “Wilt have long enough to gawp at that.”

We gawped at it after we ate, silently watching Hethria's solemn evening hymnal to the light. When the last red glow had left the horizon, Fengthira stirred and announced, “Harper shall do the garden. I'll cook.”

Beryx asked demurely, “Am I the horse-boy?”

And she gave him a darkling glance. “Th'art the prentice,” she said grimly. “Tha'lt have work enough.”

* * * * *

We laid our bedding in the outer room, though I doubt either of us truly slept. Fengthira rose with the dawn. After breakfast, grain porridge and honey from the safe, she said, “Now.” Going to her tool-heap she unearthed a long plaited hide rope.

“Four!” said Beryx in laughing alarm. “Are you going to throw and tie me like a Holmyx steer?”And she gave him a straight look. “Ah. Stand up. Put tha hands behind tha back.”

He was not laughing now. “Wilt be taught?” she demanded. “Or not?”

Tight-lipped, he did as he was told. She tied his wrists with a horse-breaker's hitch, ordered, “Outside,” ran the rope over a tree-fork, said, “put tha feet together,” and tied his ankles too. Then she told me curtly, “Down the garden.” As I went, I heard her go on in that curt, intent voice, “The first lesson for aedryx is to know thaself.”