The Dark Ferryman (47 page)

“Lies, and you hide behind them.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Priest, but neither do I have any great reason to give you further regard. Turn around and ride back the way you came.”

“Not as long as the Jewel stands!” With that, the priest threw back his robe and sprang from his horse, pulling his knobby wooden staff from its saddle strap.

Garner and his fellows bailed as well, springing apart, and freeing themselves from their robes, swords and staves filling their hands. The Istlanthir whipped about, his hands blurs of motion and the man next to Garner fell, two daggers protruding from his chest, as he coughed and cried out in a pink froth. Garner brought his horse down in front of him as a barrier and unfastened the bolo from his belt. The Istlanthir whirled about and took another man down before stepping back, not winded or dismayed, and called out, “It is not too late to leave, Priest.”

Quendius dropped his robe and drew his bow off his shoulder, and nocked an arrow to it. “I think it is.”

They stood facing one another over the heads and shoulders of the Kernans and others, Bregan Oxfort on one knee, his head cleared of the hood but motionless inside his borrowed robes, watching both of them.

“You’re a fool. Even with the Gate down, you can’t cross the final chasm to the Jewel. The only way is to climb from the seaside. It’s the final defense. Even my brother has to climb.”

“And fall,” Quendius remarked.

Istlanthir’s skin paled to a ghostly white. He gripped a sword as he would a spear. “You will have to go through me to get to the Jewel.”

“Oh, I’m well prepared to do that.” Quendius smiled, and let the arrow fly.

Time slowed. Garner could only watch as the arrow arced across the distance, centered on Istlanthir who heeled in and threw his sword, shoulder muscles rippling. The two weapons passed one another, the arrow far nearer its target than the sword which would fall short of Quendius. Garner let loose his bolo.

The arrow struck Istlanthir in the chest, driving him back, drilling through him as his voice cried out, but he did not fall. He put his hands to the arrow, but it did not thunk home in his flesh. It went through him, like an animal eating through the sweet meats of its fallen prey, and when the arrow came clear of his body, it flew onward. Garner’s bolo twisted across the span and tangled about the sword, bringing it clattering down just short of Bregan Oxfort’s throat. Istlanthir faltered and went to his knees. Turned, his chest destroyed and gaping, and watched the arrow fly onward. It gained speed, blood and gore dripping from its shaft and arrowhead which sparkled like a smaller ruby eye of the main Jewel . . . a splinter going home . . . and it hit.

The Jewel shattered. The cradle let out a groan of metal and shards and ground to a halt, covered in ruby dust and debris. The arrow lay in its midst, head glittering. Then it rose and returned to the outstretched hand of Quendius.

That was when time caught up. Istlanthir toppled with a groan, and his body shimmered, then danced and twitched upon the ground and his flesh began to grow translucent before rending from his bones and he not yet dead but certainly dying. He let out a last, heartbreaking scream. Bregan staggered to his feet. Quendius caught him by the collar.

“Behold the Returning of a Vaelinar where two worlds fight for his dying soul and his dying flesh.”

Garner’s breakfast rose bitter in his throat to choke him. He spewed it out about the ground as what had been a man, a brave and fighting man, disintegrated into ribbons of bloody flesh and broken bone, even the weapons and clothing upon him torn to such a degree that nothing remained recognizable. Kites coasting on the sea winds dipped down with strident cries to the kill and began to fight over it, squawking and flapping at one another. No one who hadn’t seen it could tell who died there. The priest made an incoherent choking noise in his throat. Quendius clapped him on the shoulder.

“Brace yourself, old man. The Gods will come calling soon.” He pointed out to the sea, where small sparkles on the waves bobbed up and down, drawing ever nearer and Garner gulped a sour swallow downward as he saw what Quendius revealed. Sea craft, coming in on the tide, an armada. “My army will bring the Gods back to you, I vow. Never will you pray so hard.” He laughed as he threw himself back on his horse and left them to their small destinies on the cliff.

SEVRYN FOUND TRANTA Istlanthir in the far pasture working one of the ild Fallyn tashya horses as he rode down into Andredia’s river valley. The two made quite a pair as the wind whipped about them, and the horse cantered so close to Tranta who lunged at him on foot that his mane and tail whipped about the man, veiling him from sight in a swirl of flaxen hair. It would be difficult to judge which of them was the most colorful: the horse with the gold-dappled chestnut hide and flaxen hair or the Vaelinar lord with his dark blue hair and clothes of green and sea blue and gold. Neither, Sevryn mused, would be difficult to pick out of a crowd. He watched Tranta pivot smoothly as the horse cantered round and round him, seeing that his friend moved as easily in his gait as the tashya. After his fall from the high sea cliffs of Tomarq, that had been in doubt. But, as tales told, the Vaelinars healed well. What should have been fatal and had, indeed, nearly killed him was now only a memory in his scars and aching bones.

As, nearly, his own wound was puckering down to be, although his healing skills were more attributable to the ability of the queen’s healers. He could not begrudge the full-blooded the advantage he didn’t hold. If it weren’t for that, Jeredon might never have a chance to heal and walk again, and that seemed to still be a distinct possibility in his case. He could not see Jeredon restrained to a cart the rest of his undoubtedly long life. Although Tressandre might have gotten him to his feet for now, who knew what toll that was taking on the natural healing process? It was a risk Jeredon had eagerly accepted. Sevryn could not blame him, although he would not have suffered either hurt or healing at Tressandre’s hands if he could help it. Not again.

Tranta saw him and waved a hand as Sevryn trotted downwind and past. He hoped the queen would be as welcoming. The information he had might soothe her as a balm, or . . .

The border alarm cut across the shriek of the winter wind with its own screeching blast. Leaves shivered and fell from twisting branches. Aymaran tossed his head and danced to one side, his black-tipped ears flicking forward and back at the sound of the trumpeting. Sevryn urged him forward. Trumpets cut the air again, and Aymaran whinnied back in defiance. He looked back to Tranta and saw him falter, dropping the horse’s long rein line and staggering back, one hand to his chest as if the alarm cut through to his very heart. He went to one knee with a strangled cry and then toppled onto his face.

Sevryn flung himself out of the saddle and vaulted the fence post as the horse in training did an awkward bucking jump over the body now in his pathway. Tranta laywith his backheaving as he fought for breath. He groaned as Sevryn took him in his arms and turned him over. A string of spittle hung from his lips as he gasped for air and his pale skin went gray but he lived and there wasn’t, to Sevryn’s questing fingers, a mark on him. Sevryn opened his winter vest to loosen his collar. He feared the worst. He had, once or twice, seen head injuries come back a year or two or even a handful of years later, bursting inside the head and felling an otherwise seemingly healthy man. He brushed his hand over Tranta’s brow. “What is it?”

Tranta’s breath rattled in his throat. Sevryn wiped his mouth and then hoisted Tranta to his feet. “Can you stand? Walk? Just to my horse.”

Tranta’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and then he blinked, trying to focus upon Sevryn’s face. He fixed his gaze upon Sevryn as a drowning man hangs onto a rope. But he stayed on his feet.

Sevryn walked him, step by wavering step to the fence, found a gate, and fumbled it open while Tranta hung on a post by his elbows, swaying back and forth as if the merest gust of wind would bring him down again. Color rose over his skin, though, like the faintest of blushes while Sevryn brought his horse over.

“Can you manage a leg up?”

“Think . . . so.” Tranta wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again, dazed, but he tracked the horse and latched his hands over the saddle’s pommel. He went up like a sack of meal, but he stayed up while Sevryn mounted behind him and put one arm about his rib cage.

“What is it? What happened?”

Tranta coughed. “World,” he husked. “Exploded. My brother . . .”

Fearing the worst, Sevryn closed his legs hard upon Aymaran’s flanks and whistled him to the wind.

"WHY DID YOU DO IT?”

"I saw the path of the sword. I knew it wouldn’t bring down its intended target. It’s no different than sighting a sapling and knowing which way it will grow.” Garner answered Bregan reluctantly. He pulled apart a piece of bread from its crust, both still warm in his fingers, and stuffed it in his mouth. He’d moved aside from his fellow caravan guards to take his meal, watching the sea in its flood tide and pondering what he saw: a sight that dug down and bored its way into him where it stayed as a bloody fearsome thing. He wanted no company while he weighed his actions, but the trader had sought him out anyway. He shrugged as if he’d said enough. He didn’t want to talk, and he hoped that the trader would catch the hint, but Bregan Oxfort merely sat and watched him, his eyebrows knitted low over his eyes. A scarred and muscle-bound Bolger nearby glanced over at them, before grimacing as if in distaste and looking away. Quendius kept watch on them, one way or another. Garner shifted as Bregan prodded him, uncaring that they were being observed. The Bolger got up with a bored yawn and moved away, leaving them alone.

“You joined to pay off gambling debts. If the sword had hit true, you would be freed of your obligation. The holder of your chits would be dead. But you swung your bolo and stopped it.”

“There are many things I won’t do to be free of a debt.”

“A true Farbranch, then.”

Garner’s hands stilled in the act of cutting a sliver of meat from his rations. He’d been found out. Or rather, had been known about all along. Garner resumed cutting his meat before putting his knife aside. He let the juices sop into his bread without eating. “What are we discussing here, Master Oxfort?”

Bregan tapped the side of his leg brace with his fingertips. Garner observed and thought that might be a tell, a giveaway on his emotions. He’d have to watch for it when next he faced Bregan, if ever there would be such a time in the future. Sitting where he sat now, he could hardly imagine being in another time. Bregan continued, “Did you think that I would ever forget the face of a man who gambled across a table from me? Particularly one who usually won? Debts you may have, but I doubt they’re from your gambling habits.”

“I have obligations also,” Bregan told him quietly. “And because of them, I made sure you were accepted as a recruit, because I desired to have the Hand of the Queen know what I might be up to. He would, if he wanted to, would he not, the lover of your sister? So what you have now is my gratitude, for one, and a problem we share, for the other.” Oxfort drummed against his brace. “Whatever debt you claimed, a purse of twenty-five crowns is put to your name. My life is worth far more to me than that, but it’s a fair reward, I think.”

“More than fair.” Garner watched the trader’s face. He might be rewarded, but he thought he was also being bought.

Bregan leaned forward, pitching his voice into a whisper, although it seemed unlikely any would hear the two of them, for he’d already had the area cleared when he crossed the ground to talk to Garner. “Our problem is that we saw a Vaelinar noble murdered.”

“Scant little trace of that deed left.” Garner did not think that sight would ever leave him, it would stay in his mind forever: a greasy, bloody smear and gobbets of unrecognizable flesh that drew the kites from the skies immediately to pick it over until nothing but a few scraps of cloth remained. Gods who warred over a death both body and soul. A coldness shivered down the back of his neck before slithering away.

“I know. I don’t know what it is Quendius plans . . . still, I know what he does is scarcely for the good of my people. Get word to Sevryn what you witnessed. Tell him of the death of Lord Istlanthir. Kever, I think, the younger brother, although I can’t be certain of that. You’ll have set up a way to communicate to the Queen’s Hand, I wager.”

“We should have, if I am what you think I am.”

“Yes. Well, I do make assumptions from time to time. Call it a good gamble.” Bregan paused. “Sevryn’s knowing is the only thing that may get the two of us out of here alive.”

“As one of your guard, I’d hate to disappoint you.” He paused. “I’ll need a distraction.”

Bregan smiled thinly. “I will be providing one, then.” He reached out to shake Garner’s hand.

Garner grasped his firm grip, and the trader left him to finish his dinner. And take care of other matters.

He mulled it over. The trader had waited till high tide. Therefore, the trader had weighed matters before talking with him before deciding the risk would be worth it. Oxfort wanted something done and Garner to be the doer of it. If he was caught, it would be on his head and his head alone. That would be a sure bet. Yet this was a thing he dared not to leave undone. He turned his head, catching the Bolger’s eye yet again, but they both looked to the sea. Ships came in, dozens of them, small and agile, with the tide and wind behind them.

He finished up his dinner which, despite the juices soaked in and the tenderness of the roast meat, seemed to have gone dry and hard to swallow. He watched as other lads finished up, came over and clapped him on the shoulder, and asked him what Bregan’s life was worth. He quipped, “A few crowns.”

His fellow hoisted two bottles of applejack. “And a round of drinks, thanks t’Master Oxfort,” at which they all cheered. He allowed as how he’d be right after joining them in a bit. The guard who’d been watching them lumbered to his feet and followed after, grumbling for a pull at the brandy.