The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (14 page)

The two men who bore them on sat talking of the small doings of the Isle, hardly touching on the recent attempted invasion by the Prince of Innes. They discussed the personalities of horses and children as though they were of equal interest. The progress of var-ious crops were examined, varieties of apples debated, and the beauty of various young women carefully weighed.

"People coming. Be still," one of the men said.

A greeting was heard and a conversation engaged in. Unfortu-nately they had drawn up in a patch of sun,and Carl's head began to ache from the heat. The conversation, about nothing in particu-lar, went on at horrific length, or so it seemed. Carl was almost at the point of sitting up and demanding they at least be moved to the shade if they must talk the afternoon away.

But finally the axle started to squeak again, and the slow, sure trod of the horses' hooves began along the dusty road.

"May I speak?" Carl whispered.

"All clear now," the driver said.

"We are baking back here."

"There's an inn not far off. We'll stop there for a jar of ale and get you something to drink, as well.""Can you leave us in the shade?" Carl asked.

"Aye. That we can."

The inn seemed infinitely far off, but then Carl fell asleep and lost track of the time. He awakened as the cart rolled to a stop, and Jamm poked him in the ribs.

"Shh," the little man cautioned.

There were voices around them now, conversation and laugh-ter. A stableboy brought water for the horse and was instructed to leave horse and cart in the shade, which thankfully he did. Carl lay Sean Russell so still he became stiff and sore from lack of movement: couldn't have the hay pile writhing around.

The inn seemed uncommonly busy, but then Carl remembered hearing the men say that people who'd fled at the first signs of war were returning now that the invading army had been driven back. People were rushing back to protect their property and see to crops and gardens.

After what seemed like hours, familiar voices approached, and the two men climbed up onto the box.

"Walk on," the driver ordered, and gave the reins a shake.

The cart trundled out of the yard and onto the road again. A hill presented itself, and Carl could hear the horse straining and heav-ing to reach the top. Once there the cart stopped.

"I think you can safely sit up now," the driver said.

Carl pushed himself up, brushing the hay away from his hair and pulling all that stuck from sweat to his face. He blew hay dust out of his nose and rubbed his eyes. The driver and his companion, two slow-moving men in their fifties, smiled at their state.

One handed Carl a jar of ale. "Here, this will help a little, I'd guess."Hills on the Isle of Battle were not large, but Carl guessed this might be the highest point on the island.

The fields and woods spread out all around, their irregular shapes making a crazy, ran-dom pattern. That a land of such apparent peace and rustic beauty had become a place of fear for him stuck Carl as entirely wrong. He almost drained the jar of ale in one go, then leaned back against the plank that made up the cart's side. The sun was blocked by an-cient elms, their lofty boughs reaching up into the air.

"Two hours more," the driver said. "Then you can rest a few hours. Without a moon we can't move so easily by night, for a lantern might attract the attention of the companies of men-at-arms and other soldiers who are still about on the island. Hey up! Here comes someone over the crest." The driver sent the horse on. Carl and Jamm slid back down beneath their quilt of hay, the cool breeze a pleasant memory.

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Greetings were exchanged with the other party, distances ques-tioned, weather dissected, the steepness of the hill cursed. A jest was told, everyone laughed, and they set off again. The road down snaked back and forth across the face of the hill, descending in a gradual but steady slope. Most of the way was shaded by a small wood, for which Tarn was grateful.

"Men-at-arms," the driver hissed.

A moment later the familiar sounds of a company of riders per-meated the hay: the creak of leather, the snorting of horses. Carl tried to lie still, not even to breathe. The cart rumbled off the road onto soft grass and came to a halt.

"You've not seen two young men hereabout, have you? Strangers. One a nobleman's son, the other a thief.""We've not, Captain," the driver answered, "but I hope we do. The missus thinks we could find some use for the reward."Some of the riders chuckled.

"Anything in the back other than hay?""Just hay, Captain.""And where are you taking it?""Up to Toll's Hill. Traded some oak for two piglets due from a fall litter. This bit of hay is a down payment like—a show of good faith.""Well if it's just hay…" the rider said.

"Aye! Careful with that sword!"A blade hissed down through the hay not three inches in front of Carl's face. The point dug into the boards on the cart's floor. The rider drew his sword out, and Carl closed his eyes wondering if it would strike him next.

"Worried for your hay, are you old man?""You just… frightened me, that's all.""I'll do more than frighten you if you start telling me what I can do and not do.""I apologize, Captain—most humbly.""Be on your way then."The cart rolled on. Carl could hear the riders set off, then the sounds of their passing were lost in the rumble and squeak of the cart's progress.

"Are you both unharmed?" the driver asked after a while.

"Cut the space between us," Carl said.

"We can be thankful for that. Men of that cursed Duke of Vast," the driver spat out.

If they'd only known that cursed Duke of Vast was secretly in league with the Prince of Innes and their precious Menwyn Wills. It was clear none of them had ever met Menwyn—or perhaps it wouldn't matter. His character was of no consequence—it was the promise that he stood for that counted. The unspoken promise.

A few hours later the cart came to a stop.

"You can come out now," the driver said.

With some difficulty Carl raised himself up, brushing away the hay. They were in a barn, large doors open to the fading day. Pools of shadow gathered beneath the trees outside. Carl thought he might plunge into one and hang there suspended, like a swimmer— let the coolness wash into him. He climbed stiffly down from the cart and helped Jamm do the same. His muscles almost cried out as he stretched them, then walked back and forth the width of the barn. The smell of cattle and pigs assailed his nostrils, and the milking cows chewed hay, staring unconcernedly at him, flies buzzing about their glis-tening noses.

"I'm afraid you'll have to spend the night in the loft," the driver said. "I'll bring supper out to you later." He opened the top of a wooden barrel. "There's clean water in here from the well." He looked in. "Though not as much as there should be—that lazy son of mine! Drink what you want. Take a bucket and wash off the hay dust." He looked around at his barn as though he'd not bothered to do so in many a year. "It's not much of an inn, but you'll be safe here this night, I think.""It is more than we should expect," Carl said. "You've taken great risk bringing us here, and that shall not be forgotten. I think Lord Menwyn himself might hear of it one day."The man glanced at his cousin, the two of them suppressing smiles of satisfaction. "Well, we've done only a small part. You've a distance to go yet."Jamm had collapsed onto a milking stool and leaned back against the rough planks of a stall.

"Jamm! You don't look well at all.""All that heat… Not good for my fever."Carl went to the water barrel and filled the wooden dipper that hung there. He gave Carl a drink and poured the rest of the cool water over the small man's head. Twice more he did the same, and Jamm began to revive a little. He even tried to smile.

"Supper!" the driver said, and he disappeared toward the house while his cousin took a fork and emptied the cart of its hay, then led the horse away.

"Well, we've come this far," Tarn said, "wherever 'here' is." "Toll's Hill, or so our driver told the riders.""If he wasn't lying. They were very careful not to speak each other's names—harder to do over the course of a day than one might think.""Did you notice they never spoke our names either? Wouldn't it be a jest if they'd mistaken us for someone else!"Wrinkles appeared at the corners of the thief's eyes.

"I don't think there's much chance of that. Certainly the de-scription the captain offered fit us well: a nobleman's son and a thief."Jamm nodded and looked away sadly, and Carl immediately felt badly. Jamm had been a loyal guide, risking everything to get Carl across the canal… and into the hands of the Duke of Vast.

"Jamm—I'm sorry. I don't think you're a thief," Carl said.

Jamm absentmindedly put a finger in a hole in his breeches. "I am a thief," he said softly. "I've been one all my life. 'Once a thief,' they say, and it's true. Once you've been branded a thief no other life is open to you." He glanced up at Carl. "We'd best get some sleep. It might be a long day tomorrow."Before they could fall asleep, a meal was carried out to them, as well as blankets for their beds. The hayloft made a soft mattress, and they fell asleep to the cooing of pigeons that lived in the barn's upper reaches. A bit of starlight found its way through windows and the gaps between the ancient boards, offering dull illumination to the geometry of the barn—beams and posts, braces and rafters. A bit of rain fell during the night, spattering down on the roof. A lonely sound, Carl thought.

Sometime late in the night Carl was jarred from a harsh dream by desperate fluttering and wings beating against wood.

"What is it?" Carl mumbled.

"An owl," Jamm whispered. "Got into the barn through some hole. He's feasting on pigeons."Carl slept poorly after that and woke to a skiff of downy feath-ers upon the hay. A few whirled up in a small breeze and went spin-ning down from the loft through thin shafts of sunlight that leaked between the boards. He sat up and found their gray blankets spat-tered with down and crimson.

"Is it time?" Jamm mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Time for what?" Carl asked.

"To meet the executioner," Jamm whispered, then his eyes sprang open, and he saw Carl, and he began to weep.

They carried him across the river in the stern of a boat, his bar-row turned upside down in the bow. On the floorboards, Ufrra lay tied and gagged. Four manned the sweeps, which had been si-lenced by rags so that they did not beat against the tholepins. There was no conversation, just the odd whispered word, almost lost in the language of rain spattering down on the surface of the moving river.

Kai considered throwing himself over the side, into the dark water. He'd been there before—when his legs had been cut off by Caibre. The river had saved him then, though he was not so sure it would do so now. He had been Sainth's companion, that day so long ago—now he was no one. A crippled man who went about in a barrow. A man with no possessions and no home. Only loyal Ufrra to tend him. Ufrra, who was even more lost than he, more dispossessed.

A torch appeared through the rain and darkness. The man at the tiller pointed. "There!" he said. "We can let her go downcur-rent a little."He was a corpulent, bald man in a barrow. The task of wheeling him was perhaps beneath the black-clad guards, so they had al-lowed an empty-eyed mute to bring the man into the tent. Beldor Renne wondered what made this castoff of so much interest to Hafydd.

The sorcerer, as Beld now thought of Hafydd, sat in a camp chair, his feet stretched out before him. A thin, frightened boy pol-ished his boots. On a table at his side, a walnut box contained the book Beld had borne from the shadow gate. Hafydd never let it out of his sight.

After the "assassination" of the Prince of Innes, Hafydd had moved out here into the field and quietly assumed control of the army. Even if Menwyn Wills suspected Hafydd of ordering the Prince's death—and he would be a fool not to—there was nothing he could do about it. The family of the Prince of Innes were with-out an heir, as Prince Michael had not only joined with their ene-mies, but was now almost certainly dead. The Wills had always had less power in their alliance with Innes, but now they effectively had no power at all, as Hafydd had cowed the leaders of the army.

And now this legless man had been found and brought to Hafydd, for what purpose Beld could not imagine.

Hafydd looked up from the boy polishing his boots. "Who would have thought that you could survive an entire age…"The legless man did not look particularly cowed by Hafydd, as everyone else was. He answered as though there was nothing odd in the situation. "Yes, when Caibre had me thrown into the river the odds did not seem to favor me.""How did you survive?"The legless man shrugged. "I believe that water spirits rescued me, but I am told that this is merely a trick of my own mind."Hafydd contemplated this a moment, rubbing fingers absent-mindedly over his bearded chin. "Many unexplained events have occurred on the River Wynnd—though this must be one of the strangest." Hafydd propped his other boot up so the boy could pol-ish it. "That was long ago—an age—and you have had your re-venge by living all the while that Caibre slept." Hafydd fixed his gaze on the legless man—the gaze that reduced hardened men-at-arms to frightened children. "Now I have need of your skills. You will take me into the hidden lands, Kilydd, or I will take away the seed that you require for your pain.""You would be surprised how long I can endure that pain," the legless man said.

"That pain, perhaps, but I have other agonies I can minister, other wounds that I might open." He looked over at Beldor. "Put your blade to this child's throat."Beldor scooped up the bewildered child before he understood what had been said. Beld held him easily, pinning his arms, and put a sharp dagger against the soft skin of his throat. The boy stopped struggling.

"An innocent child, Kilydd, but Lord Beldor does not care," and then to Beld, "do you?"Beldor shook his head and smiled. He watched the legless man and wondered what he would do. Would he surrender because of this threat to a child who meant nothing to him?

Kilydd shook his head. "Let the boy go, Hafydd. I will take you where you ask.""No, I won't let him go. He will come with us … as a reminder to you. I seek a place called the Moon's Mirror. How long will it take to travel there?""How can you be sure I know where it is?"Hafydd came to his feet. A tall, proud man, he towered over the creature in the barrow. "Because this boy's life depends on it, as does yours."The legless man considered a moment. "I traveled there once, long ago, with Sainth," Kilydd said. "It is not a short trip—five days more or less—and we'll require a boat at the end.""Could a wagon make the journey?"The legless man thought a moment. "Perhaps, but not easily.""We need a cart to take you, we will manage a small boat, as well." He turned and noticed Beld, still holding his dagger to the frightened boy's throat. "Let him go, Lord Beldor. He lives—for now."A boat was loaded across the back of a wagon, into which went most of their provisions. Kai did not know what arrangements Hafydd made for the army, but he took only a small company— twenty guards, a herdsman, and a handful of servants, and Lord A'denne, who remained silent and aloof from everyone. All were on horseback but for Kai and two others, who rode in the wagon at the fore of the column. For some hours they traveled along a road, going south, but then Kai directed them into a small lane that wound up a wooded hill. A stream coursed beneath the trees, and they crossed it several times as they passed back and forth. At the hill's crest they looked out over a wooded land, no farms or hills in sight. The guards whispered among themselves, but Hafydd did not seem surprised to find the land utterly different than it should have been.

The cart track had disappeared not far back, but the wood was not dense—maple, beech, oaks, elm. The underwood was sparse, and they found a way for their wagon among the trees. Kai guided them unerringly, and Hafydd pressed them to make better speed.

The day was fine, sunlight tumbling down through the boughs and trembling upon the forest floor. Several times they stopped to take down some small trees to let the wagon pass, but for the most part they went forward, if not quickly, at least not as slowly as Kai expected. The boy, who had had the misfortune to be blacking Hafydd's boots when Kai arrived, rode between Kai and the driver, silent, sullen, frightened. Every now and then he would look around at the unfamiliar landscape as though measuring his chances of escape, but always he would find them too small or he would lose his nerve.

Twice streams had to be crossed, but the fords were passable. At dusk a large meadow opened up before them, almost a prairie,and they made their camp in the trees on the edge of the flowing grass. A fire was quickly kindled from deadwood, and the servants began making camp and preparing a supper.

The man Hafydd called Kilydd, but who called himself Kai, was tended by a mute servant named Ufrra, a strange creature, strongly built but oddly gentle. He laid fragrant bed of cedar boughs for his master, covering it with threadbare bedding. A tea he then pre-pared, which seemed to bring relief from some pain, for Kai's face had been twisted in silent agony for some hours.

Beld watched in interest, still wondering who this man was. He was leading them into the "hidden lands," but that was really all Beld knew. And Hafydd had said something about the man being alive all these years. But how ancient did that make him?

The bootblack, whose name was Stillman—Stil, for short—had gravitated into Kai's circle. The legless man spoke kindly to him, and the boy took to aiding the mute servant. Beld watched as he helped Ufrra lift Kai from his barrow and deposit him on his bed-ding. There was not much protection that a legless man could offer this waif, but perhaps the boy didn't know that. Kai was the only man in the company who did not seem to fear Hafydd, and he had saved the boy's life once. Perhaps that was enough. As Beld well knew, one made alliances where one could. Perhaps the boy sensed that Kai was softhearted—softhearted among a company who would murder a baby if ordered to. He looked around at the dark-clad guards going quietly about their business—almost as mute as Kai's servant. There was not a shred of humanity among them, the nobleman was certain.

Kai noticed Beldor's gaze fixed on him.

"Is there something you wish to say to me, Lord Beldor?""Hafydd will kill the boy as soon as he has what he wants. He'll kill you too.""No, he won't kill me. He might have need to travel the hid-den lands yet, and I am one of the few who can lead him there.

Sean Russell

What of you, Lord Beldor? What is it you offer him that no one else can? Maybe it is you he has no need of." Kai looked up, "Ah, Lord A'denne. … Is there something I might do for you?""I have been ordered to lay my bed here, beside Sir Eremon's other captives.""An enemy of Hafydd's is a friend of mine," Kai said, and turned to Beld. "Be sure to report that to your master, it might curry you some small favor.""You know I won't harm a cripple," Beld said. "So how much courage does it take to be insolent to me?""Oh, Kilydd is more courageous than you can imagine, Lord Beldor."Beld turned to find Hafydd standing behind him.

"He once was attacked in a tower by six assassins. He might have escaped—I'm almost sure he could have—but what glory would that have gained him? No, he killed them all in a few hours. My best-trained assassins. One would have easily killed… well, you, Lord Beldor." Hafydd turned his intimidating gaze on Kai. "No, you mustn't underestimate Kai. He is not afraid of you be-cause he would almost certainly kill you in a fight—as long as he kept the dagger he conceals in his clothes. But I will tell you this, Kai. If you are leading me astray, or roundabout, I will kill the boy, then your servant, then Lord A'denne. Their lives are dependent upon you.""I shouldn't worry to much about mine," Lord A'denne said evenly. "My life is forfeit no matter what."Hafydd stared at Lord A'denne who tried to meet his gaze, but after a minute he looked away.

"Lord Beldor," Hafydd said. "Come to my tent."Hafydd was the only man in camp who did not sleep out under the stars, though Beld knew it was not because he was soft. His pal-let was laid out in a small pavilion, and before it sat a folding chair of clever design and a trunk that doubled as a desk. A pair of can-dle lanterns provided the light, and a guard at every outside corner the security.

Hafydd took the chair, where he put his fingertips together and tapped them against his bearded chin. "If I were you, I would keep my distance from Kai, who is something of a sorcerer and a more dangerous man than any imagine."Beld gave a half bow, wondering if he had broken some un-known code or law. Did sorcerers bear respect for one another, even when enemies, the way that men-at-arms did?

Hafydd reached into his cloak and took out a stone on a gold chain. "Do you know what this is?""It appears to be an emerald," Beld said, "though I have never seen one so large."Hafydd held it up so that it spun slowly in the light. "It might be an emerald, in truth—or might have been, once. But it is some-thing quite remarkable now. It seems to be a conscience, or some-thing very like one. I'm not quite sure how it came into my hands, though I believe it must have been arranged by my brother— Caibre's brother, Sainth; the man we know as Alaan, my whist. For-tunately, I recognized its purpose before it had the effect Alaan hoped." He held the chain out to Beld. "I want you to keep it safe. Wear it around your neck. I want to observe its effect on you. See what happens to a man who grows a conscience."Beld hesitated, wondering if he were being played for a fool.

"Take it. It won't harm you. Many believe a conscience is a nec-essary part of a man's personality. Let us see if it will win, or if your true nature can resist it." He leaned forward and dangled the chain on his fingers, the green stone still turning slowly.

Beld reached out and took it reluctantly. He did not like things arcane. The cursed book had made his skin crawl. Now this.

"Put it over your head, Lord Beld. Wear it at all times. Tell me if you have any feelings of regret or remorse. I will have you kill Lord A'denne in a few days, and we will observe the effect that has on you." The knight gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Good night, Lord Beldor. Sleep well."Beldor found his bedding laid out not far from the others who had been abducted, within the same circle of guards and isolated by other men-at-arms from Hafydd's tent. Beld realized he was not trusted any more than Kai or Lord A'denne. He had tried to mur-der his cousin for appeasing the Wills, then offered his services to the Wills when his plot had failed. Who would trust him now? Cer-tainly the Hand of Death had entrusted him to carry the book to Hafydd, and to serve him, but then what fool would betray the Hand of Death?

Kai had been right. He glanced over at Lord A'denne, who sat talking to the bootblack, Stil. The nobleman would be dead in a few days. Likely he knew it. Kai would be kept alive as long as he was useful. The bootblack … he was so inconsequential that his life could slip away at any moment. Hafydd might feed him to a dog.

And here he sat, on Death's doorstep, with these others. He reached up and pressed the hard jewel inside his cloak against his breastbone. Why had Hafydd given it to him? What did he mean it was a "conscience"? A man could not grow a conscience if he had not been born with one. That was a truth. Beld regretted none of his actions—oh, he regretted not killing Toren when he'd had the chance. It was the weakness of other men that they took action, then felt regret and remorse afterward. Beld lived with the conse-quences of his deeds. He did not weep and tear his hair and allow guilt to torture him. That was for weaklings and fools. Men like Dease and Arden. Men who hadn't the stomach to live with their own choices.

He stopped pulling off his boots. And here's where his choices had led him—to the camp of Hafydd, where he was expendable. Where Hafydd hung a bespelled jewel around his neck to observe the effect.

But I was offered reprieve before Death's gate. What choice had I?

None; that was the truth. Anyone would have chosen as he did—not to go into the timeless night.

Beld lay down, gazing up at the great sea of darkness bejeweled by a haze of stars. Something at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he turned to find the bootblack staring at him, his look utterly cold and filled with hatred. Beld did not think he would sleep well that night.