Exile's Children (88 page)

Flysse uncorked the canteen that he might sluice off the gore. Arcole studied the remains of the cow, thinking that enough was left to feed them for a week. “Is that all we take?” he asked.

“Save we stay here to smoke it,” she advised him. “We've easily
enough for a day or two, and more would only spoil. Are there loose herds all along the way, we can find more.”

He bowed to her superior wisdom, aware that she knew far more about such matters than he. Were Flysse not there, he would have simply hacked at the carcass, taking whatever he could cut. He could hunt—handle a musket—but in this area Flysse was the expert. We make a fine couple, he thought, and told her so.

“We've all our different skills, I think.” She handed him his shirt. “Now, how do we carry this meat back without we get all bloody?”

The steaks they skewered on the musket's ramrod; Arcole shouldered the leg, and they returned to the beach.

Davyd had gathered wood, piling it where the bulk of the dinghy would conceal the glow from the river. “I thought it better to wait until dark before lighting it,” he said. “So the smoke won't show.”

“Well done.” Arcole applauded. “You learn fast.”

Davyd grinned, and they settled in companionable silence to await nightfall.

It seemed wise to set a watch, and in light of his hard work that day, Flysse and Davyd insisted Arcole take the first turn, that he might then sleep the remainder of the night. He offered little argument, and it was agreed Flysse take the middle watch and Davyd the last. Unspoken went the thought that Davyd might dream of what lay ahead.

It was a wide and starry night, as if the heavens celebrated their first day of freedom, and Arcole sat watching the river slide silvery and empty by. He heard the calling of owls in the little wood, and bats swooped about his head. His belly was full, and for all he knew they faced hardship in the days to come, he felt content. Were he only able to lie with Flysse, he thought he should be entirely happy.

He turned as he heard a muffled cry, seeing Davyd twist about on his canvas bed, throwing up an arm as if in defense. Almost, he went to the lad, but then held back. Did Davyd dream of their future, it should be better to leave him lie, better they have warning. He cradled his musket and sought to block out the faint sounds.

When Flysse came to relieve him, she said, “Davyd dreams.”

He said, “I know,” and pulled her down beside him. “As do I, save mine are all of you.”

She said, “Arcole …” and then lost her ability to speak under the pressure of his lips. It was hard—very hard—to resist, but she was a modest woman, and Davyd lay nearby—might wake and see them. So
she took her hands from his neck and set them against his chest and pushed him back.

“Not here,” she gasped. “Not where Davyd …”

Arcole sighed and lowered his head in acceptance. “God, Flysse, but this is not easy.” His voice was throaty with desire.

“No,” she murmured. “I know; nor for me. But …”

“But I understand,” he whispered, and touched his mouth to her cheek. Then took her hand and grinned. “It shall spur me on. I shall row as no man has ever rowed before, that we reach the forests and …” He was not quite sure what should happen then. He extemporized: “I shall build us a cabin, and Davyd another—a decent distance off!—and we shall have privacy to …”

His grin spread wide. Once Flysse would have blushed at the innuendo, but now she smiled and nodded eagerly. “I pray it be so, husband. And soon.”

“It shall be,” he promised. “Wife.”

“And are you to row to hard,” she said, “then you had best sleep now, eh?”

Arcole had sooner remain with her, but she spoke the truth and he nodded, passing her the musket. “This is primed,” he explained. “You need only cock the hammer—thus—then squeeze the trigger. Your pistol works the same way.”

Flysse took the musket gingerly. “You must teach me how to load,” she said.

“As I promised.” Arcole rose. “And how to shoot. And you must teach me how to butcher meat and set a snare.”

“We'll teach each other,” Flysse said.

“I think,” he murmured, “that we already do.”

He found his bed and stretched out, listening to the small sounds Davyd made. He wondered what they augured; but not for long—he was incredibly weary, and even as Davyd groaned and thrashed, he drifted down into welcome sleep. All well, the morning would be soon enough to discuss the future.

“There was the river, running into the forest. It went toward mountains, and I knew I must reach them, but not how.” Davyd shook his head, struggling to find the words that might accurately describe his dream. It was not easy: words were too precise for such amorphous things, too limiting when the oneiric images flickered and shifted and were, anyway, composed more of emotion than any substantial matter. “I had to leave the river, and then I was in the forest. It … 
felt
 … dangerous, as if it watched me. Or something in it watched me. Then there was fire, and I thought it must devour me, but then a wind blew down from the mountains and made a way through the flames. I went that way, and the fire reached for me.”

He broke off, shuddering at the memory. Flysse set a hand on his shoulder, her touch a solace; Arcole passed him a canteen. He drank, and sighed, smiling ruefully.

“It's hard to describe, but … Anyway, the fire reached for me, and then the wind blew stronger and drove it back a little. I walked into the wind—toward the mountains. I knew I should be safe there if I could only reach a place—a special place—but I didn't know where it was. I just had to go into the mountains to find it. The fire came after me, chasing me. I ran, and then I woke.”

He shrugged. It felt strange even now, even with these good friends, to talk about his dreaming. It was a matter kept secret for so long—on pain of horrid death—it still unnerved him to discuss it so openly. He
raised his head, reassuring himself they sat beneath the open sky, beside the Restitution—far from Grostheim and the Autarchy. That calmed him a little, but still it was not a thing with which he felt entirely comfortable.

“What do you think it means?” Arcole looked from the smudged map to Davyd's face. “You're our guide in this, no?”

The words were designed to encourage Davyd, and he smiled his thanks. “I'm not sure,” he said slowly. “Before I came to Salvation, the dreams were never so clear. They warned me of danger—as I've told you—but never so … so …”

“Specifically?” Arcole supplied.

Davyd supposed that was the word and ducked his head in agreement. “Never so specifically,” he said. “It was like … Well, if I were planning a job and dreamed of burning, or Militiamen, I knew I shouldn't try it. But since I came here, I've dreamed of … specific? … things, like the forests and the demons.”

“Were there demons in this dream?” Arcole asked.

“No.” Davyd shook his head. “Only the fire—which means danger—and the wind and the mountains. I suppose that means the mountains are safe. If we can find the special place.”

“Perhaps as we get closer to the mountains,” Flysse said, “you'll know.”

“Perhaps,” Davyd allowed cautiously.

Arcole studied the map. “The river isn't charted past Salvation's boundary.” He turned his head, staring to the west. “It comes out of the wilderness, and past the forest's edge there's nothing drawn. But rivers rise in high ground, so …”

“We follow the river,” Flysse said.

“As far as we can.” Arcole frowned. “But the closer we get to the mountains, the stronger the downstream current gets. There has to come a time we can't row against it, and we must proceed on foot.”

Flysse said, “Isn't that what you planned?”

He nodded. “But I confess my plans were mostly concentrated on escaping Grostheim. After that, I was relying on Davyd.”

That seemed a tremendous burden, but Davyd squared his shoulders and said, “I'll do my best.”

“I know you will,” Arcole declared. “I've faith in you. So, we know there's danger in the forest.” He folded the map. “That much we knew already. Also that Davyd's dreamed of safety there. Now we know there's a specific place—we head for that.”

“How?” asked Flysse. “Davyd doesn't know where it is.”

Or if it really exists, Davyd thought.

“I trust him,” said Arcole, smiling. “If he's dreamed there's such a place, then it's there and we only need find it. Davyd will dream the way for us.”

His confidence was flattering, but still Davyd could not help the disturbing thought that his dreams warned of danger in equal measure with safety: they did not tell him which should prevail. It was hard, this burden of trust.

“So, do we go?” Arcole rose businesslike to his feet, retying the bandages about his hands. “Are we to reach the safety of the mountains, we've some way yet to go.”

He kicked sand over the fire and turned toward the dinghy. Davyd thought he likely sought to occupy them all, that none brood overlong on the bad part of the dream. Well, he was happy enough with that. He gathered up his gear and followed Arcole to the boat.

That day, around noon, they saw a band of demons on the north bank.

In the sun's bright light the creatures seemed somewhat less terrifying than the fire-lit shadow-shapes of Grostheim's night, but nonetheless menacing. There were six of them, barbarically clad in leather and animal skins, their hair woven in long braids. Their faces were distorted by bars of paint, black and white and red, so that it was difficult to discern clear features. Their hostility was obvious: they raised bows and sent arrows arcing across the water as Arcole turned the dinghy to midstream. They wore the shapes of men, as best he could tell, but he had no wish to study them close and bent to his oars, propelling the little boat out of range.

The demons promptly mounted horses and for a while paced the boat, howling, but the river was wide, and turned, and timber showed more frequently along the banks. In time they fell away behind.

Arcole wondered if they would continue the pursuit. It was an alarming thought—mounted, the creatures might well catch up. He decided that their camp that night should be on the southern shore.

“I think,” he gasped, “that I must teach you two how to shoot as soon as we've time.”

Flysse nodded from the stern, her eyes fixed nervously on the north bank. In the bow, Davyd clutched his musket with white-knuckled fingers, little more color in his face.

“We've lost them,” Arcole declared with far more confidence than he felt. “And tonight we'll have the river betwixt us and them.”

“What,” Davyd asked in a low voice, “if there are others on that side?”

It was not possible to shrug as he plied the oars, so Arcole only grunted and said, “We'll pick our spot with care, eh?”

Davyd frowned and said, “I didn't dream of them.”

None had explanation for that, and so neither Flysse nor Arcole gave answer, only looked at each other.

“I should have,” Davyd continued. “God! If my dreaming is to be useful, I should have dreamed of them.”

His voice was plaintive, and Arcole said, “Perhaps your dreams are of the great events only. Like the attack on Grostheim, or the sea serpent.”

“No.” Davyd refused to be mollified. “My thieving was no ‘great event,' but I dreamed of danger when I did that.” He shook his head and asked, “What use to dream of ‘great events' if some band of six come on us in ambuscade and I don't give warning?”

“Perhaps,” Flysse said, “you must concentrate.”

“How so?” asked Davyd. “What do you mean?”

Flysse's brow wrinkled as she thought, seeking to define her notion. “Before, in Bantar,” she said at last, “did you
try
to dream?”

Davyd thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not try.” He smiled wanly. “I was always afraid I might be discovered. That an Inquisitor …” He fell silent, shivering at the memory. “No, I never
tried
to dream. Until …”

“Until?” Flysse prompted him.

“Until I came to Grostheim.” Davyd spoke slowly, as if realization were dragged unwilling from his mind. “When Arcole spoke of our escape and looked to me for warning … Yes, then I tried. It was not … pleasant. I was afraid.”

“But you made the effort,” said Flysse. “You sought to dream. You concentrated on it.”

She waited until Davyd nodded. Arcole went on rowing, waiting himself to see where this led.

“There are no Inquisitors here.” Flysse's hand gestured at the river, the empty landscape beyond. “Nor hexers or priests. Only we three, and the danger of the demons.”

Davyd pondered awhile, then ducked his head in reluctant agreement.

“And the demons,” Flysse continued, “are a danger like the God's Militia. It's as if you were planning a—” Almost, she said “robbery,” but amended that to “job. Yes, it's as if each day, each night, you plan a job. It's like that, save now there's no need to fear discovery by the Autarchy.”

“No,” Davyd agreed. “I suppose not.”

“So perhaps,” Flysse said, “if you
try
to dream … If you lie down determined to dream …”

“It might work,” Davyd finished for her. “Yes, it might.”

He sounded doubtful still, or wary, so Flysse said, “It worked before, no? When Arcole asked that you warn of the attack, it worked then—when you tried.”

Davyd said, “Yes.”

Flysse said, “And it should be without risk of burning. It should be in a good cause.” She smiled encouragingly. “It should be in defense of us all, no?”

“That's true.” Davyd's nod was more enthusiastic now. It was hard to resist Flysse's smile, harder to think of some demon taking her head. He was, after all, their guide in such matters: Arcole had said so. It remained a frightening responsibility; but he would not—could not, he thought—deny Flysse. He said, “Yes, that's true. From now on I'll try.”