The Gate of Bones (42 page)

He did not know the written language yet, but he recognized the signature, nonetheless. Renart.

Of course. He should have known.

Jon tilted his head at the window again. He knew where the crows had come from, and now he knew who they'd come for. He no longer needed Shmor's help, although he would give the trader credit if he confirmed it. Jon shuttered his Lantern spell and withdrew. A knit scarf hung on a chair by the door. He took it with him.

A little something for the wolfjackals to remember Renart by.

 

Warm with accomplishment, he Crystaled to his Gate instead of going directly to the fort. He dismounted a distance away, as the animal became skittish at the turmoil of energy, and left the horse tied to a shrub. He would go to bed full, in more ways than one, he decided. Jon approached it, the moon lowered in the sky and barely illuminating the night, and he could hear the skeletons rattling about in an ever circling movement of Chaos. He extended his hand to drink of the Magick it contained. It drew him closer. It held everything he wanted or needed. It flowed into him, warmer than sunlight, more bracing than any drink, and it
knew
him. He swore that as it filled him to overflowing. Jonnard broke it off at the moment when it seemed he would become more it than he was himself, and the Gate seemed to sigh as he did.

He pulled his hand back, wiping it on his pants leg. Shadows boiled. Figures began to emerge, watching him with baleful eyes as they solidified. They took a step toward him. He should have felt fear, but did not.

A whisper in the night.
Let usssss hunt.

Jonnard considered that. What would they hunt? Dare he ask? Did he want to know? Leucators had come from this stuff combined with some human essence, and now they'd returned to it. He knew how Leucators hunted.

On the other hand, he had a lesson to be taught.

Jonnard withdrew the scarf from his cloak and dropped it on the ground. “Hunt that one, then,” he said.

Shadows rippled and whirled about the scarf and in moments it was shredded into nothing more than bits of yarn as if devoured. The Gate shimmied. Jonnard backed up a step.

“Hunt no other,” he commanded.

He did not turn his back on the Gate and the fiends as he left. He would find out soon how much a master of it he was. It could be useful.

Or it could be disaster.

T
HE REPAIR WORK is going well,” Renart said, pulling back the reins and drawing his cart to a halt. Avenha was absolutely bursting with construction as they drove in past the new gates. He jumped down to put a hand out to Pyra, but she had already vaulted over the seat, two strides ahead of him.

“Many hands,” she shouted back at him, before dashing off to her father's gatehouse.

Fresh wood gleamed in the afternoon air, and the sound of industry filled the morning. The stench of burned wood and death was gone, cleaned out by wind and rain and hard work as the villagers had hauled out the past. He knew the proverb she quoted, about many hands making a village, and indeed it did, whether building from the ground up or in day-to-day living. He steadied the carriage horse with a pat to the neck before following after Pyra. He would give her a decent amount of time to break the ill news to her father.

The horse, on the other hand, puzzled him. The beast, one of the fine Trader Guild stock, had been skittish the whole trip, as though something trailed them. Once or twice, Renart thought he had seen something loping off the road behind them as well, but few animals could keep up with the sustained trot of a carriage horse bred for stamina. They'd camped overnight, with a bright fire, just to keep the horse quiet although the animal had slept fitfully, ears flicking back and forth and whickering nervously now and then. They'd taken the road slower this morning because the horse had seemed tired. The horse roiled an eye at him now, before dipping his head and shifting his weight and relaxing a bit. A stabling lass approached them, and Renart handed her the reins, and a coin. She bobbed in thanks and led the animal and cart off, chatting cheerfully to the horse in the way that good hands with livestock do, and the horse rubbed his muzzle on her sleeve looking for a treat.

Pyra had not seemed to notice either his nerves or the horse's, her mind filled with worry and grief. Mantor and Flameg had been close, she'd told him on the ride. It would be like losing a brother, and worse, she could not even bring his body back so his bones and ashes could be blended in with the dirt of the village which would mourn him. Renart straightened his clothing, and set off after her.

He entered the gatehouse to hear Mantor let out a guttural sound, the deep-throated noise a man makes who seldom cries and cannot do it even though he needs to. Renart hung back a step or two, hearing that, and feeling his own throat tighten. They all dealt with loss. Some came shockingly quick, some in its own good time, and some never in time enough to prevent suffering. It was the way of all life, but it did not make it any easier to realize that. He straightened his jacket a second time before rounding the threshold.

Mantor sat, his great, scarred hands holding the leather pouch with the only remains of his guardsman. His fingers tightened as he stood. “What is done, is done. He lived well and died well. We will burn his remains with honor and till them into the soil, to return to the living. The Spirit knows his name and will not forget it.”

Pyra looked down quietly. Her shoulders shook a few times. Renart stepped immediately to her side and slipped an arm about her as Mantor looked at him. “Thank you for bringing them home.”

“I couldn't do any less,” he told the chieftain.

The smallest corner of Mantor's mouth quirked slightly, as he observed Renart, and the trader felt himself warm a bit, as though the chieftain could see right through him and how he felt about Pyra. Mantor said nothing, however, except to slap him heartily on the shoulder as he strode past with Flameg's remains. He wondered if the chieftain's daughter was as perceptive. He waited till she stopped crying silently, then stepped away a little, giving her space. She cleared her throat and composed herself, giving thought to the business of the future.

“You will stay the night? To rest the horse, if nothing else.”

He bowed his head. “Of course.”

“Good. We'll be putting Flameg to rest at sunset. It would be nice . . .” She paused, as if searching for words. “It would be nice to have you there.”

His heart soared. Did his feet leave the ground? He hoped not. She had quiet ways and he had no wish to scare her off even though he now wanted to shout from the rooftops. She brushed past him, saying, “Let me show you where you can rest.”

Pyra halted in the doorway, her eyes sparkling. “You're quite flushed, Renart. Perhaps you should wear a hat more often, the sun seems to have burned you a bit.” She ducked out then, and he thought he heard her chuckle as she led him on.

 

He dozed after lunch, though he meant not to, but having stood watch during the night left him drowsy and he slipped into a light sleep despite his intentions. He woke to the sound of voices raised in greeting.

Jason poked his face around the corner. “Hey, sleepyhead! Pyra said I'd find you here.”

“Jason! You are well, then?” Renart sat up hastily, and grabbed for his boots, tugging them on.

“We're wonderful. We've got Eleanora and FireAnn back.”

Renart beamed at the Magicker. “Incredible news! But I thought our endeavor went badly?”

“That part did, but we don't give up easily.”

He joined Jason in the gatehouse hall and noticed that the boy had grown again, and now stood a bit taller than he was. Jason jostled him good-naturedly before wincing slightly, and gripping his right forearm with his left hand.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah. It's healing, just smarted a bit. Tomaz wants me to bring you in. We may have some negotiating to do.”

“Oh? What about?” Renart's eyebrows raised, intrigued.

“You'll see.”

Tomaz sat opposite Mantor who had reined in his emotions of the morning and now sat with his customary, stoic expression. Pyra was dipping out cups of cooled cider and passing them around. The air smelled of the pressing, crisp and sweet like the apples it came from, and Renart took a cup eagerly. Was it his imagination or did her fingers linger on his hand as he did?

His thoughts whirled as he seated himself at the other end of the table, neither with nor against either of the two men already sitting, his trader training working even before his conscious thoughts could gather.

“You ask a lot of us, even as you honor us,” Mantor noted. “I will return Flameg to the ground which birthed him tonight.”

Tomaz inclined his head. “We know this. There aren't enough words to thank you for his help, or comfort you for his loss.” Jason slipped up to the table and sat quietly next to the elder Magicker, his glance darting about, placing and weighing everyone. Renart had a quick thought of what a trader that one would make, before turning his own mind to the negotiations at hand.

Mantor said to him, “Tomaz has asked us to take in a group and keep them secured, quiet, hidden from the Dark Hand.”

“Who?”

“The rescued hostages, and a few caretakers. Such a thing could be done. However, it would not be secret within the village. That could not be kept. Knowing this, then, every Avenhan would be opposing the Dark Hand and the risk is shared by all. We've already paid a price, but I also know that the Dark Hand won't consider that.”

“We wouldn't ask, Mantor, but we know that our academy will be the main target. I'd like to see Eleanora and FireAnn get the rest and care they need without facing that hazard,” Tomaz said evenly.

Jason looked to the outside wall, restlessly, and this time his right hand went to his left hand and rubbed it without his seeming aware of it. Renart, trained to note the movements of everyone at a negotiating table, did. However, it seemed to have nothing to do with the current matter.

“What are the compensations for such a risk?” he asked.

“We can offer lanterns that require no flame to keep lit. Our aid when needed. Training in certain technologies that you might find useful.”

Mantor looked at Tomaz, then at Renart, before commenting, “We need your aid because of your very presence. This would only compound it.”

“You had no bandits before the Dark Hand?”

“The world has always known bandits.” The chieftain smiled wryly, indicating he understood Tomaz's point. He nodded to Renart. “I'm not inclined to say yes or no, understand this. I am only asking if there is a way to conceal this, for the sakes of my people.”

Tomaz tapped his finger on the table. “The Dark Hand won't know of this. I'll ensure that.”

Mantor gave a low laugh. “Spies and greed are as old as bandits. You can't keep an entire village quiet.”

Leaning forward, Tomaz said softly, “I could, but my methods would be no less despicable than those we call enemy, and I won't do it. Have you suggestions, then?”

“I can perhaps find kinsmen who would consider it, outlying farmers or shepherds, that we can support quietly.”

Jason twitched again. His hand rubbed the other once more, a glancing movement that he scarcely seemed to note.

“Hmmmm.” Tomaz scratched a thumbnail along the edge of his jaw. “A possibility.”

Jason opened his mouth and shut it. Renart looked toward him. “Something to add?”

“Kind of. I think I know where to place them, but they'd need Avenha's help.”

“Put it on the table, then,” Renart told him.

“The wanderers would take them in. But, through the winter, having extra people around and stuff might be a hardship. They'd need supplies and things like that, help.”

“The wanderers have chosen their own course.” Mantor's gaze rested lightly on Jason.

“Oh, I know. I understand, and all that. But they're good people, too, and they'd be eager for the lantern lights and such, and I bet the Dark Hand wouldn't even know where to find them.”

“For that matter, where would we?” Pyra set down her cider cup, tilting her head slightly with interest.

“I can find them,” Jason told her confidently.

From anyone else, Renart would have thought it a ploy to shame the Avenhans to take in the Magickers, but from Jason, he knew it was a sincere communication. Mantor shoved back from the table a little, his brows lowering in consideration.

“It might be done.”

“Father?”

“It might be done,” the chieftain repeated, “without breaking their self-imposed exile. We would be aiding the others, not the wanderers, and the Spirit has always guided us to help where we can. This one world is like a great ship on a voyage, and we are all but passengers. To not aid is to impede the voyage for everyone.”

“Right. So it's a deal?” Jason asked eagerly.

Renart coughed. Tomaz leaned slightly, pressing his heavy shoulder into Jason as if to squelch him a bit.

“There are details to work out, not the least of which is finding the wanderers and asking Dokr if he wishes to do this.” Renart began making mental notes.

Jason's head turned away from them, and he frowned, as if noticing his fidgeting for the first time. He got to his feet, still awkward in his lanky body and height. “I'm not sure,” he said, “we have much time.”

“What's wrong?”

“Something . . . is coming.”

“Show me!” Pyra grabbed up her longbow from the rack on the opposite wall, and the two sprinted out of the gatehouse meeting room. The men scrambled to their feet, close on their heels, Renart last of all despite his youth, his fighting instincts not quite as sharp as his trading ones.