Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (11 page)

“Aw, and you’ve been there, then?” Chelda taunted him. “I myself was born and raised in those crags and valleys. It didn’t take much planning for all that now, did it?”

“He’s right, Chelda,” Vanx said with a grin at her spunk. “He’s just used to there being a sense of order to things.”

“How would you approach organizing this trek into my people’s homeland, then?” Chelda asked.

Vanx and Xavian both watched and listened intently to the exchange.

“Well, first, we’d only bring one sled,” Brody started. “It would only go with us until the foothills get too steep for the animals to pull it.” He scratched his chin and shrugged. “We would ride the kattens in saddles, like they use to haul ore in Parydon, and maybe take two extra animals to carry the supplies.”

“Nah, nah,” Chelda said with a shake of her round head. “All those supplies will just weigh us down. We carry on our person what we need to stay warm and hunt with: rope, arrows, and dried staples. Those big cats can’t traverse that sort of terrain, and you can’t travel with them without hauling their bulky sacks of meal. You need a hoofed mount up there, not one with pads and claws.” She snorted out a laugh, then. “Stupid cats will fall right off the mountainside and take you down with them.”

“What would we ride, then?” Xavian asked.

“Ride?” Chelda laughed out a big cloud of steam. “If you have to ride, you ride a devil-horned goat, or a big ramma, like the rim riders. It’s easier just to walk.”

Xavian shivered. “That seems so tiring.”

Chelda and Brody both laughed at that.

“If we wanted to ride, say on the less dangerous passes and through the valleys and such…” Vanx smiled at their mirth as he asked, “…do you know where we could get hold of some of these creatures?”

“Of course.” Chelda tried to make a gesture with her splinted arm and the color drained from her face. She cursed under her breath.

“We shouldn’t listen to her, Vanx,” Brody jested. “She found a way to break her arm on flat ground; there’s no telling how bad she could hurt herself up in the mountains.”

“Aye.” Vanx grinned at her. “But I, for one, would want no other to guide us.” He made what he hoped was a serious face.

Poops crawled into his lap because Vanx had stopped his affectionate ear scratching.

“But there’s more to my wanting to go up there than treasure hunting and glory seeking,” he continued after the dog had settled. “It is complicated, and once you hear the truth of it, you may not want to go with me.” His eyes met Brody’s. “When you find out some things, some things that you could have never guessed about me, you might even decide not to be my friend anymore.”

“By the gods, Vanx,” Xavian said suddenly, “you’ve got me more than curious now. What is all this about?”

He told them, then. He told them that he was a fifty-three-year-old half-blooded Zythian, possibly the only half-human, half-Zythian to have survived birth in an eon. He told them that his father was the infamous Captain Marin Saint Elm, the same captain who had kept the Zythian ship witch on board his ship
Foamfollower
. The same captain who went down with said ship on the very first voyage it took without her. He told them that he suspected he was kin to Aserica Rime, and that there was an uncanny power calling him toward the Bitterpeaks. He also told them that he was going with or without them, that he didn’t need the map because he’d memorized it, and that he had no idea what sort of fate awaited him at the end of his quest.

“If she’s a real witch, which I expect she is, to be the root of so much legend and lore, then she might still be alive. There is no guessing what sort of foul things she keeps in her service up there, either,” Vanx finished.

“I’d have never guessed your age,” Brody said with a shake of his head. “You’re right about that, but just because I think of Zythians as strange, don’t mean I can’t be your friend.”

“I know folks who will turn and walk away when they see yellow eyes in the shops along the row, or by the merchants’ bazaar,” said Xavian, “but I’ve been on many a ship with your people, and I’ve found them relatively normal, if a bit cocky and snide. There’s always a heathen—uh, I mean a Zythian—down by the dockside near the luxury district.”

Vanx didn’t let his hackles rise because of the mage’s slip of the tongue. Xavian was blushing furiously, and Vanx could see that he was now getting the gist of what he was concerned about. Vanx searched Chelda now, who was studying him closely, too, a half-grin, half-narrow-browed scowl on her round face.

“I can’t have a problem with you, Vanx,” she laughed. “Not if you’re Marin Saint Elm’s son. You’re practically gargan, like me. Everyone knows that Saint Elm’s priestly father came from over the mountains when the king of his age started up the ore mines and began clearing the great forests of their timber. I can’t recall the whole story, but I remember this much: the Hoar Witch captured a priest of Arbor and bespelled him to fall in love with her, but being that she was immortal and he was not, she used his seed to get her with child, but not just one child, as you think. There are several witch children in our lore. One of our eldritch could tell you the stories of them all.” She shrugged but was smiling brightly now. “Some of the children are supposedly the beasts that wander the Lurr, protecting her stronghold. There is Saint Ash and Saint Blackthorn, Saint Hemlock, and Saint—”

“More likely those are just the trees of the Lurr itself,” Xavian said.

“Bah.” She slapped his chest with her good arm backhand fashion. “Don’t be presuming in the middle of my story.”

The gesture was so much like the way the twin Skmoes smacked each other that both Brody and Vanx had a deep laugh. The mirth only grew when Xavian furrowed his brows and rubbed at his chest like a scolded child.

“Could we possibly meet with one of your eldritch when we go to purchase some ramma or devil-horns?” Vanx finally asked. “Maybe spend an evening hearing all of them?”

“I’m sure it can be arranged.” She grinned. “But it will take more than one evening to hear them all.”

*

In high spirits, despite their injuries and the death of Smythe, they rode through the gates of Orendyn’s ice wall the next evening. Skog the skog sat proudly atop the shrew but had to lie flat against its thick fur to keep from being toppled off of the beast by the city gate’s archway. It was late, and most of the northern part of the city was asleep or bundled in for the night, but still a small crowd gathered and began following them through the streets. It wasn’t every day they got to behold one of the tundra’s fiercest predators.

The companions stopped the monstrous thing right in front of the Iceberg Inn and Tavern. Vanx figured that Lem and Fannie wouldn’t mind. By morning there would be a score of local merchants and tavern men converging to make a bid on a share of the meat, and ten times as many thirsty gawkers hoping to hear about the kill and get a glimpse.

Vanx followed Darbon through the door, holding Poops in his arms as if the dog were a newborn child. Despite the powerful urge he had to be elsewhere, he was happy to be back. Darbon had clearly never been more glad to be someplace in his life. Both of them were grinning, at least until they saw Gallarael Martin Oakarm, the Princess of Parydon, waiting expectantly by the hearth fire. The look on her face told them so much more than they wanted to know. That much grief could only mean one thing. Trevin was dead.

Chapter Twelve

Old Master Wiggins
loved the Spring Fair dance.
He twirled and spun so hard and fast,
he came out of his pants.
-- a Parydon street ditty

When Gallarael saw Darbon’s face, she dropped her eyes. What little excitement she was showing scrunched back into anguish. Darbon stopped stock-still, and Vanx had to brush past him to get inside the tavern. For an awkward moment, he didn’t know what to do with Poops, but the dog began to squirm, so Vanx sat him on the floor. Poops gave Gallarael’s boot a curious sniff, then he hobbled off toward the kitchen looking for a treat.

Vanx wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, kissing the top of her head like a father might when gathering in a troubled child.

“He died, Vanx,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “He got the gut rot and died because of me. And look at Darbon’s scars. Oh gods, look what I’ve done.”

“Quazar and the wizards couldn’t--”

“They did all they could do.”

Vanx didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He looked around the common room as he held her close. At this hour, the tavern was empty. Most of the chairs had been turned upside down, and the floor had been swept. A pair of merchants were at the bar and had stopped their conversation to stare at the teary scene taking place by the fire.

Vanx realized that Gallarael was alone; no handmaidens about, no retinue of armed soldiers to guard her.

Chelda, Skog and a dozen curious townsfolk came streaming in. Chelda ran right into Darbon, who was still standing there like a statue.

Lem, the owner, was trying to ignore Vanx and his terrible situation and motioned for the newcomers to come over to the bar and allow Vanx some space. Vanx nodded his appreciation.

“I’ll buy the first round, if you tell us the tale, Chelda,” a man said jovially.

“Hear, hear! And I’ll buy the second,” said another.

Chelda agreed and whispered something to Darbon.

Darbon blinked himself out of his shocked state and went to ask about Salma.

Vanx could tell that the boy was troubled. He was sure Darbon understood that their friend was dead. He could only hope that seeing Gallarael wouldn’t send him back into his depression.

Brody and the Skmoes came in, bringing with them a blast of cold air and another group of gawkers. Suddenly, the common room was bustling and alive with people.

“Do you have a room?” Vanx asked, having to speak loudly and into her ear now to be heard.

Gallarael nodded into his shoulder that she did.

“Did you run away without telling anyone where you were going?”

She nodded again. Then she pulled back enough to look into his eyes.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. She took in the crowd and then wiped her nose self-consciously. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken into her pale face, and her nose was bright pink and raw.

“They think my name is Galra.” She nodded toward where Lem and Fannie were hustling to fill some mugs. “I told them that I am the sister of a friend of yours who died.” Tears still streaked her cheeks, but a genuine, if slight, smile crept across her beautiful face. “Salma is nice. She’s smitten with Dar.”

“How long have you been here?” Vanx took in her new look. Her once long, wheat-golden hair was cropped short and black as pitch. “What did you do to your hair? Did you dye it?”

“Three days.” She let out a deep sigh as she went on. “And it’s not dye. I’ve changed inside Vanx. I’m not—not--” She paused to brush away a tear. “I’m not normal anymore. The remedy you brought back saved me from death, but I still change sometimes.” She started crying again and leaned into Vanx. “When I get angry,” she sobbed, “the darkness, it just…it just takes me over.”

Vanx held her but couldn’t help shuddering at the thought. He remembered all too clearly Gallarael’s razor claws, her snarling, furrowed face and wild, cherry eyes when he’d seen her huddled over Trevin’s body. Her skin had been dark, as if she’d been dipped in tar. Her eyes had been shot with blood and her mouth full of sharp teeth. She’d been vicious in that state, so much so that she had unintentionally thrashed her lover, Trevin, as well as Darbon’s face.

She must have felt him stiffen, for she pushed herself away from him again and met his eyes. “It’s not like before.” Her voice was defensive but sure and steady. “I have control over my actions. And sometimes I have control over when I change. When the darkness is on me now, I don’t feel terrified. I have accepted that part of me. I’m not prim little Princess Gallarael.”

She seemed to be proud of these things, and Vanx didn’t presume to judge her. He, if anyone, knew what it was like to be different.

“Well, don’t go changing around here.” Vanx forced a smile. “Not unless you can grow a good pelt. It’s cold outside. And I doubt Lem would want you to scare this crowd away.”