The Dark Ferryman (16 page)

“You know them all,” Verdayne noted.

“I do. And so did Magdan.” His gloved hand twitched slightly, and Norda tossed his tashya head in response, dancing sideways under him. His hand moved down to stroke the red-gold hide. They’d come three days’ ride from home and it would be three days’ ride back or longer if the weather did not hold. A tashya did not have the stamina of the sturdy Dweller mountain ponies, but there was no discounting a tashya’s speed or intelligence or willingness or smoothness of ride. Norda blew his nostrils. He would call for the Ferryman, but the capricious phantom might or might not show. It seemed others were learning of that being’s abilities if one’s strength of will were strong enough to compel him. He had his suspicions the ild Fallyns had learned the secret long ago, but now Daravan and even Sevryn were moving great distances in untimely manner. He wondered about the unnamed and unknowable creator of the Ferryman and what he had harnessed by Voice, voice ruling over the air which resided in water, for air was undoubtedly a component of water or else how could fish and all other creatures which lived in it breathe? As for the distance, the Talent ruled earth. He had known, in his youngest days, Vaelinar who could leap from place to place in the blink of an eye. Not far, mind you, but far enough that a sword stroke or arrow’s flight might miss them. That Talent had faded long ago, except for the ild Fallyn ability to levitate.

An exhalation disturbed his thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder at Verdayne where an impatient look faded abruptly. “I shouldn’t have brought you. This isn’t an easy task before us.”

Bistel sat for another long moment before reaching up and removing his half helm, freeing his short-cropped snow-white hair to the afternoon wind. The chill in the air intensified, and the sky took on that sharp blue hue that matched his eyes somewhat, both of them signifying a tempest to come. He took his farglass from the quiver sheath by his knee, put it up, and examined the farmlands, particularly the barrier of aryn trees to the southeast borders. The fields had been shorn of their summer crops and winter crops that could stand, no, make that thrived on the cold, barely pushed up through the soil. It looked barren from here, but his glass showed the shoots growing upward. He sat immobile for long moments as the farglass sharpened in focus, bringing the trees into detailed clarity.

“How do they look?”

“Not as they should.” Their strength tempered only by their beauty never failed to move him. A man of war, he found peace among the massive trees which had grown from a single staff from the old country, a staff which should never have sprouted but apparently had been green wood, like its carrier, a green young boy sent off to war and flung from one world to another. Once planted, that single aryn had sent off saplings and seeds, determined to replicate itself, and he had carried them, transplanting and planting accordingly, to watch them thrive. Magdan had eventually grown to help him in his quest, and then Verdayne to help Magdan. The aryns had a quiet, deep magic of their own, a steadiness which held against fire, flood and drought . . . and chaos. He’d carved an empire with the aryns to fence it off and keep it safe. Now he could see the black threads of disease winding and coiling in their emerald beauty and it felt as if those same dire threads squeezed his own heart. After long moments, he lowered the farglass and slipped it back into its sheath.

Verdayne commented on their mission. “Magdan would say you’ve no choice.”

“Would you disagree with him?” Bistel found and held the young man’s gaze, blue upon blue, so dark the eyes looked like indigo.

“He raised me like a father. I won’t ever live to gather the experience he held, but I might naysay this. Those are farmers down there, Lord Bistel. Can’t they cull and burn the stands clean?”

“They will ask me the same thing. I will give the same answer: no.”

Verdayne made a noise in his throat. “It’s true, then. You’ve sap in your veins instead of blood.”

“Sometimes I think it must be so.” Bistel looked away from the boy who was both Vaelinar and Dweller. “If that were true, though, my blood wouldn’t be running through your body.”

Verdayne flinched. He pushed a hand back through his dark, curling hair, hair that would one day be as snow-white as Bistel’s although it would not be the color of winter wheat first. “I cannot speak like that.”

“No, you cannot. Not yet. I won’t put you in that position. One day, though, you’ll be known. It can’t be helped. You have my love of the aryns even as Bistane has my ability for war.” Bistel gestured downslope. “Usually welcome in this valley, today we will blow in like an ill-wind, and leave in bad graces.” He closed his knees in signal, and Norda moved down the gentle slope toward the farmlands in a long-swinging gait that showed no trace of the gelding’s tiredness. Taking the trail down to the main dirt road with ice from last night’s frost still melting in the deep ruts, he crossed to the Dweller great house of the farmer who held the bulk of the land. A reedy line of blue-gray smoke trailed from the chimney. They would find a warm welcome even if it were only for a moment.

Bistel did not slow his horse as he reached the valley floor, nor did he turn in his saddle, but he did look over his shoulder as the feeling of being watched washed over him. A hot, hostile gaze tickled at the back of his neck and shoulders. He freed his bow to nock an arrow, letting his feet guide the horse. “Verdayne, ride on in and do not stop.”

The lad did as told. Bistel toed Norda about to see nothing in the heavy forest edging the farms, nor did he expect to with a glancing survey. All he could do was telegraph his awareness so that whatever watched him would know that an attack would not be unexpected and, indeed, ill-advised. He did not relax the bow string until he reached the great house’s swinging front gate, and even then the back of his neck burned. Reluctantly, he swung his bow back over his shoulder after replacing the arrow in its quiver.

A Dweller boy clattered out of the stable yard, his vine-woven hat flying off his brunet hair as he skittered to a stop in front of them. “Lord Vantane! Derro, m’lord! Master Verdayne! May I take your horses?” Words spewed from him like a river flooding in a spring thaw, his cheeks apple red from the cold and his excitement, his hands waving in the air under Norda’s muzzle. The tashya stepped sideways with a snort and threw his head up. The Dweller paid no attention to his deficit in height, springing up to put a hand to the bridle and lowering the proud horse’s head to a manageable position. He then stroked Norda soothingly. Bistel swung down, saying only, “Remember this is a tashya horse. Quarter him in a corner by himself till he settles and we’re ready to leave. No feed and just a sip or two of water.”

Verdayne’s horse was more biddable and went quietly beside the prouder Norda who always held himself as if he knew it was a warlord he carried.

“Aye, m’lord, it’ll be done as you ask.” With a nimble hand, he caught the coin tossed him. The lad led Norda away, singing a merry song that Bistel barely caught the words to, a popular song in the taverns that season.

“What song is that?”

“That one? A ditty about the Ferryman taking a wife. Bistane can sing it by heart already.” The first shadow of a smile in a day or two crossed Verdayne’s face.

Bistel turned, stripping his gloves off as he approached the house. Faces must have been pressed to the window shutters for the door was thrown open before he had one bootheel on the step. The farmer himself came out, Pepper Straightplow, tugging on a coat over his work clothes, his sons in a wing behind him. His hand brushed his sword hilt, and then paused as Verdayne put a hand on his elbow. The warlord in him flexed a bit. He shrugged away a momentary guilt. Old habits, distasteful as they might be among the civilized, make for old men. He relaxed his hand on his sword hilt. Master Straightplow never stopped beaming, having not caught Bistel’s movement or, if he had, not comprehending. His sons, gamboling along in their father’s wake like so many fuzzy puppies, certainly hadn’t. Bistane would have slit someone’s throat by now in reflex to so much boisterousness he thought wryly, as Straightplow put forth a square callused hand. Verdayne released his hold on his arm.

“M’lord Vantane, so good to see you! And the young master. You bring dry weather with you, for a bit anyway.”

“So it seems, Master Straightplow. The moon was feathering the clouds like fine lace last night, so I doubt the weather will hold for more than a day or two longer. It would be nice to have rain, if it’s been as dry here as it has been up north. Forgive my imposing on your hospitality without notice. I won’t be here long.”

The smile bled from Straightplow’s round face, and his side chop whiskers slanted downward as his expression fell. “Trouble, then?”

“So it is.”

The farmer shooed his boys away, four or five of them, Bistel couldn’t count them as they jostled and tumbled around one another, and then held the door himself. “Come in, then, sit, have a drink of something to take th’ bite out of the wind and tell me what it is.”

Bistel kept his news until they had done just that, Farmer Straightplow uncorking a bottle of the finest apple brandy Bistel had ever come across, the Dweller lectured as he poured three stiff drinks and seated himself. He fought with straightening his coat sleeves a bit before looking into Bistel’s face and saluting him with the brandy. “This,” he declared, “should put a spark in your kindling.”

Bistel sipped at the rich amber liquid, feeling its smoky glow with its heavy accents of apple and fermentation slide down his throat. He told himself that it was a good thing Magdan had not lived to come with him to do the deed he intended. He would have balked at the inevitable even as Verdayne sat silent, not drinking, but cradling his cup. He waited a moment while the brandy warmed him through his bones before agreeing. “A fine brandy.”

“Made by Tolby Farbranch of Calcort. Used to be of Stonesend before the raiders burned him out but the man knows his apples, be they juice, cider, or brandy.” Pepper Straightplow took another long sip before setting his cup aside on the small pedestal table near his elbow. He settled back in his chair, folded his hands over his slight paunch, and waited.

Bistel looked upon him, remembering the generations of Straightplows before Pepper he’d dealt with. Pepper looked like them, the Straightplow features passed down man to son without seemingly any interference or contribution from female looks in the line. He wasn’t sure if it was remarkable or not. He rarely treated with those of Kerith himself, leaving it to retainers, but the Straightplow family had been an exception. Until now, an exception founded in good judgment.

“Master Straightplow, there isn’t a moment in my life that I have regretted bypassing the petitions and granting your family and associates these lands. You’ve done well by them and for them, and been generous with your tithe to me. These times, I fear, have passed.”

Pepper sat up straight. “M’lord, if there’s been an offense, I wasn’t aware of it. Tell me what I can do.”

“Nothing. There’s no easy way for me to say this, and there is nothing you did or can do. The aryns on the boundaries are dying. Black thread infects them, and all I can do is burn them to the ground and salt the land they stood in.”

“Harsh,” said Pepper quietly. “Are you certain? Surely we can cut and burn where needed, but not all the groves.”

“Neither you nor I can take the chance. Black thread thrives on the aryns, but it will spread, and we can’t let it. The waste is encroaching on your lands, Master Straightplow. I’ve come to reclaim the deeds you hold.”

Straightplow sucked in his breath as the color left his face. Verdayne took a big gulp of his brandy.

“Lord,” the Dweller said, but Bistel interrupted him gently. “All of you and yours and the others living here must leave, immediately. Take whatever you need to pack, but you must be gone as soon as possible.”

A gray sheen lay over the farmer’s face. “What could we have done?”

“Nothing. You have done nothing but that which is right and good.”

“Then why are you doing this to us? This is my home. Has been our home for centuries, as you well know, m’lord Vantane. I can’t just pull up like that, not like a peddler with a wagon. Where would we go? It’s almost winter. What would you have us do?”

“I’ve no choice, Master. Trust me. Black thread is virulent. It won’t only infect the trees, but the soil itself, and the water, and the people who live near it. It’s like a plague, Straightplow, and I’m asking you to flee from it. I would have you go here.” Bistel pulled an oilcloth bundle from inside his leather vest. He laid it on the table between them, took a knife to the lacings and let it fall open. “Deeded land. Yours. As good as the land here, for groves and orchards, pastures and fields. South and west of here, some days’ ride, a little warmer, wetter climate but flat surrounded by hills much as your lands here. They are and will be yours. No Vaelinar or anyone of Kerith can take them from you except by act of war.”

Straightplow’s glance flickered down and then up. His brows etched heavy lines across his face. His thick hands clenched and unclenched. “I already have lands.”

“I can’t let you stay.”

Verdayne coughed as another strong draught of brandy seemed to catch in his throat. Both men waited till he settled.

Straightplow put his hand on the deeds. He said sadly, “But this is my home.”

“I have known the time when it was not. I saw the beginnings of your family settle here, by my leave. Now I must take it back and tell you to move on.” Bistel looked at him, keeping his tone mild. It would not be easy. He had known that.

“You’ve said it was no fault of mine.”

“Straightplow, try to think of this as a rescue and not a punishment.” He stood, towering over the sturdy Dweller. His knife still out, he tapped the point on the deeds as he spoke. “These papers will not compensate for your buildings and the history you’ve invested here. Besides the deeds, you will find letters of credit. You’ll need them to rebuild. But this land is virgin, and a good farmer such as yourself and your family will find much benefit in working it. It’s your choice whether to go there. It is not, however, your choice on whether to leave. You have a handful of days, regardless of the weather. I will be back in force to ensure that you’ve moved on, if necessary. Harsh, I understand, but I know how to deal with black thread.”