Song of the Beast (14 page)

Unable to get enough purchase on the dagger to pull it out again, I left it in him, leaped backward, and ran for the rear door. My chance of escape was so small as to be invisible, but I would not stand still and let them take me. Quickly I retraced my own rapidly disappearing footprints across the snow-covered platform to the gap in the wall. They would assume I'd take the downward path. Beyond the gap the path was dark enough and the wind fierce enough that they wouldn't expect traces. But I leaped onto the wall itself, and without even thinking how impossible it was, ran lightly along its snow-packed top to the corner where the ice-crusted snowdrift lay piled all the way to the roof of the headquarters.

I didn't quite reach the roof before the door burst open, spilling torchlight onto the windswept stone. Flattening myself against the mountain of snow, I dared not breathe until the shouting crowd of warriors disappeared through the gap in the wall and down the path. Quickly I scrambled the rest of the way to the peak of the rooftop, just in time to see a second wave of men follow the first toward Cor Neuill, and a third, smaller group fan out in front of the headquarters.

MacEachern soon arrived at the headquarters running, met by the quartermaster at the door. “Where is he?” the commander screamed.

“Bolted. Into the valley. Before we could—”

“You let him go for the dragons? Gods' teeth, you fool!” With the back of his hand MacEachern bashed the quartermaster in the head, knocking him to the ground. “Incompetent idiots. I should have all of you flogged. What if he—Everlasting damnation!” He stormed through the leather curtain, while the quartermaster picked himself up from the snowy threshold and followed slowly on his commander's heels.

For half an hour I lay on the roof, the sweat on my face turning to ice, my clothes freezing hard under my cloak. It might have been prudent to wait until MacEachern was finished dispatching his searchers and emptying the headquarters building of the unpaid carters and laborers, but I could stay no longer. I had to go while I could still move. My joints were already so stiff I dared not lower myself behind the roof peak when another party of warriors returned. My gloveless fingers could scarcely bend. So I crept carefully down the pitch of the roof to the corner of the building nearest the stable and the lean-to where visitors' horses were tethered. Gritting my teeth, I dropped to the snow.

From the corner of the building to the open-sided shelter was twenty-five paces across open ground within plain sight of anyone stepping out of the headquarters doorway. I pulled up the hood of my cloak, crammed my frozen fingers close to my body, praying them to warm up enough that I could convince my horse to do my will, and stepped out of the shadows. Slowly. I fought the temptation to make a dash for it, instead forcing myself to shamble across the snow, as if sent to do cold, unpleasant, boring duty at the stables. The distance seemed as vast as the frozen wastes of Sunderland, where men travel over ice for days on end to reach the next village. Every shout made me cringe, as I expected to see one of the shadowy forms outlined against the campfires pointing a finger my way. Every movement in the swirling snow induced my feet to move faster. But I kept it slow, and with relief passed into the shadow of the shelter, only to come near leaping out of my skin when a hand fell on my arm.

“Hold! Hold!” said the ferocious whisper as I raised my arm to use as a bludgeon again. “My skull is not half so thick as the Udema's, and it would be a shame to crush it after saving it only two hours ago.”

“Davyn!” I sagged limply against the thick timbers of the shed.

“Well done,” he said. “Using the roof. They're sure you've gone to steal a dragon, so they'll search the whole valley before they figure out you're still up here. And you'll be far away by then.”

Yes, get away ...
My limbs felt like dough. “My horse,” I said thickly. “I've got to get going.”

“Not
your
horse. If anyone found it missing, your ruse would be spoiled. Besides, your horse doesn't know the way and would get you lost and frozen.”

“The way?” I felt dull and sluggish. I hadn't even considered where I could go. Of course Camarthan was no longer safe.

The Elhim led me into the stables and past the line of nervous horses, most of them still skittish from the passage of the dragon flight. But in a corner box stood a smallish roan, peaceably champing at a bucket of oats until he caught sight of the Elhim and whinnied agreeably. “Hey, ho, Acorn,” said Davyn, patting the horse's nose and producing an apple that the beast happily snuffled off his palm. “Acorn will carry you,” he said, noting my skeptical assessment of the undersized horse. “I promise your feet won't drag the ground. And he's carried heavier men than you. Give him his head, and he'll bear you safely.”

“In the dark ... ?”

“... and the storm. He's an intelligent horse. He knows where to take you.”

“Yours?”

“He allows me to ride him, and he will allow you. Now be quick.”

Davyn held Acorn's head as I mounted, and he spent a goodly time whispering in the horse's ear before stepping back. “Give him his head, and don't be concerned. You'll be met by friends. Tell them I'll be along as soon as it can be done inconspicuously.”

“But I—”

Footsteps crunched beyond the stable doors. Davyn pressed his fingers to his lips and laid a hand on Acorn's nose.

“Don't touch me, you creeping ferret.” It was Alfrigg. “You'll not hold me here another moment. I'm going back to Camarthan and search out the egg-sucking, flea-bitten Senai pig. I'll nail his hide to the walls of my shop. I don't care what he's done. I'll gut him with his own bloody knife, I will.”

A quiet murmur was identifiable as the quartermaster's high-pitched voice, but I couldn't catch his words before Alfrigg broke in again. “No, I don't need a guide. I was riding these roads before you were whelped. And in worse weather. Why did I ever think I needed a Senai tongue-flapper? Tell your commander the deliveries will commence as soon as one or the other of us has slit this highborn bastard's throat.”

Never had I been so glad to be despised. From the vehemence of Alfrigg's curses, I was reassured that I hadn't hurt him too much, and, as they were letting him go, I must have done enough for the moment. “I need to warn him,” I said softly. “They're letting him go now, but—”

“The Udema will be warned that a rival merchant in one of his new territories has sworn an oath to eliminate him and his family. He'll be on his guard. And he'll be watched.”

As the hoofbeats died away, the Elhim led Acorn to the end of the stables farthest from the headquarters. My relief had warmed my blood, and I motioned for him to give me the reins. “Wrap them around,” I said, as he looked dubiously at my gloveless hands. “Yes, I know ... give him his head. But I'll feel better with something to hold on to.”

“If he falters, tell him
thanai.
It will remind him.”

Thanai
—home. “Davyn ...” I tried to etch the Elhim's likeness on my memory so I could recognize him if we ever met again. Broad shoulders for an Elhim. Fair skin stretched over fragile bones. A deep cleft in his chin. Laugh lines about his eyes that hinted he was far older than the twenty or so years he appeared. The curl of pale hair that was forever drooping over his left eye.

“Perhaps next time you'll believe it when someone offers you help. Now, be off. I'll be missed soon.” He whacked Acorn's rump, and the horse ambled slowly out of the stable, immediately turning away from the camp and into the whirling wilderness of snow.

In the matter of moments the camp was swallowed by the night. I could not tell whether we were heading east or west or over a cliff or upward to the stars that I trusted were still sparkling somewhere above the storm. Strange. For the first time in six months I was not afraid. There was something reassuring about going blind into the storm, as if I were indeed resting in the palm of the eyeless god.

Chapter 10

I called on Keldar a number of times during that frigid night. Not in fear. Just a soft reminder that I was still there in the blustering wind and unending snow. I didn't want him to forget about me. The night was bitterly cold, my lips and nose and fingers so ominously dead to the touch that I longed for the familiar ache in my hands just to prove I still had them. I was horribly thirsty, but I had no water, no food, no means of making fire, and no shelter but the feeble defense of my cloak. For seven years I had been a traveling musician, priding myself on how little I needed in the way of material comforts, but I had never been trained to survive like a soldier in the field, with nothing. Every time I thought I had been brought as low as a man could fall, I slipped a little further. Why was I yet living? The god of wisdom must have a plan for me, for all knew that horses were beloved of Keldar, and only a horse stood between me and the long, cold descent into death.

To keep my mind off my misery and prevent any panic-induced attempt to head Acorn for Camarthan, I kept trying to make some sense of my interview with Zengal. The Riders were afraid of me. It was the only possible conclusion—their hatred, their determination to force me silent, their defiance of Devlin. No wonder the king was worried. It didn't matter whether I was his cousin or his brother or his wife or his child. If he had to choose between me and his dragon legions, he had only one possible course. Devlin's dragons kept Elyria and his vassal kingdoms in existence.

Those of the Ridemark clan considered themselves above politics. Each of the Twelve Families chose to serve the ruler it considered the best tactician, the fiercest and craftiest opponent, the most ruthless war leader, or the best paymaster. Once sworn in fealty to a lord, the only thing that would make the Riders bend their honor and defy him was a threat to the superiority of their position—that is, a threat to their dragons. But why in the name of the Seven would they think of me as a threat? My brain came to a standstill whenever I hit this question. I would back off and try another path, but always I came back to it.

It could not be that I made the dragons “uneasy,” as Devlin said. Zengal claimed that nothing made them uneasy. But the Rider had exploded in anger and defensive-ness when I mentioned the escaped hostages. He had spewed out contrived stories and rote excuses. And then what had he said?
No black-tongued singer could make the kai let hostages go free.
If the Riders really believed I had made the dragons disobey, caused them to reject the control of the bloodstones ... Vanir's fire, no wonder they were ready to kill me! But why would they think it? A series of remote coincidences? I knew nothing of dragons save the sounds of their voices that a god had used to inflame my music.

“Idiocy!” I shouted on the hundredth occasion I reached this impasse, inadvertently jerking the reins wrapped about my frozen hands. Acorn pulled up abruptly.

“No ... no ... I'm sorry.” What had the Elhim told me to say? For a panicked moment I could not remember. It was too dark; I was too cold. I'd been awake and afraid and freezing far too long. “Go on, Acorn. Have your head. You know the way. Go home to your ... home ... yes.
Thanai!
”

With a snuffle, the sturdy little beast took off plodding again and I leaned forward, burying my face in his wiry mane. “Thank you, Acorn ... Keldar, all praises be sung to your name.” I did no more thinking on that long night's journey, but drifted in and out of sleep, holding on by sheer instinct, for I had nothing of will left. I dreamed fitfully of dragon wings and unclimbable mountains of snow, of Callia laughing as she bled out her life on her green silk dress, of Goryx smiling and fastening the cold metal jaws on my fingers....

“No! No more. Please no more.” I screamed as he began to break them one by one. I fought to make him stop. I felt like I was falling, though my bonds held me tight while lights flashed about me, and he kept on—one after the other. “Have mercy,” I sobbed. “I will be silent until the end of the world.”

“I'm sorry, my friend,” came a familiar voice. “We had to get your hands untangled from the reins. It was a long, hard journey, but you're safe now. You'll be warm again in time.”

Hot wine was poured down my throat until I gagged, and something heavy and blessedly warm was wrapped about my shoulders.

Another voice. “Lift him onto the litter. Careful!” “On his stomach, not his back. Hurry and get him to the fire. Of all the ill luck to have such a storm. One would think the Seven would arrange it otherwise.” There was a great deal of laughter at that.

They should not blame the gods. The storm was surely Keldar's doing. If I was blind, then so were my pursuers blind. I was settled gently on my stomach. My hands—which were not broken, only frozen—were wrapped in warm cloths. I felt the unmistakable jostling of being carried. “I'll be all right,” I said, my words muffled in the soft fur under my face. “I'll be all right if I can just sleep for a year or two.”

Friendly, hearty laughter broke out around me. I wished I could see who it was, but I was carried close to a blazing bonfire, where I caught only a glimpse of a dozen pale gray eyes and a great deal of fair hair before I fell so deeply asleep I could not dream.

 

The smell of new-baked bread and hot bacon drew me out of the luxurious darkness into the gray light of a cold dawn. “I'm sorry we can't let you sleep for a year, but I think I've brought you fair recompense. Am I right?” An Elhim—and I was certain it was Narim—sat cross-legged beside me, holding out a plate piled high with meaty slices of bacon still sizzling from the fire and thick chunks of bread dripping with butter. Behind him a bonfire showered sparks on at least five Elhim who were stuffing blankets and pots and tins into enormous saddle packs. I lay on the snow-covered ground swaddled in thick blankets, close enough to the fire that my face was hot.