The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (22 page)

ter to lift upon the breast of a wave beneath the sun than pass into the darkness." He turned away, and the others followed, more than one glancing back. As Tam did so he realized Fynnol still stood gaz-ing out over the river.

"Fynnol…"Tam whispered, jarring his cousin from his reverie. The little Valeman turned away. "Come on," Tam said. "Let's be shut of this place."They mounted horses and followed Alaan, an empty wind plucking at their clothing.

Dusk brought the town of Weybridge into view. Jamm hid them in a small wood not far from the manor house of Prince Michael's cousin.

"You won't want to appear by day, your grace," Jamm said, as they hunkered down in a small copse.

"Hunger is tempting me to take that risk," the Prince answered, his gaze wandering to the mansion house.

"I think Jamm is right," Carl offered. He had slumped down with his back against a tree, a tired, disreputable-looking nobleman if there ever was one, Samul thought. "You can't trust their ser-vants or the freemen who work their land. Better to go hungry an-other few hours than be handed over to Menwyn Wills.""I'm sure you're right, but if I don't eat a real meal soon, or preferably several, I shall fall into a state of unreason." The summer sun floated up, bringing a hot, windless day. The wood seemed close, but the shade was a welcome relief. All day they could see the comings and goings of the people who lived on the estate. The dairymen and their dogs took the herd out to pasture after milking,and hay was cut on a field not too far off, men and women swing-ing their scythes beneath the hot sun. The bright skirts of the women and girls showed up at a distance, though their faces were hidden by straw bonnets. The previous day's cut was raked and pitchforked onto wagons that rolled slowly back to the barns and stables.

Samul felt a growing envy of these people, whose lives seemed so simple and untroubled by great decisions.

The day crept by, hunger taking a grip on all of them, and more than once Samul was doubled over with stomach cramps. Sunset seemed worthy of celebration to Samul, and he almost smiled as the first stars appeared.

"I have been wondering all day," Samul said, "who will accom-pany Prince Michael? Shall we all go?""I won't go," Jamm said quickly.

"Then should the three of us go?" the Prince wondered.

Carl A'denne shook his head in the gathering gloom. "Are you known in that house? Would the servants recognize you?""Certainly, yes.""Then there is some risk in what you do."The Prince considered this. He was brushing his coat in a vain attempt to make it presentable. "I would like to take Lord Samul with me. After all, I shall make the claim that I have made agree-ments with the Renne. Having a member of the family with me will be of some benefit.""Unless, of course, they know my recent history," Samul noted.

"There is that," the Prince said. "You were to have lost your head…" He thought a moment. "But I can introduce you as some other Renne, can I not? There seem to be so many of you.""Archer. I shall be my cousin Archer. We look much alike and few know him, anyway. He keeps to himself and hasn't entered a tournament since doing grave injury to his back, some years ago.""Lord Archer you shall be."The two noblemen set off down the hill toward the manor house, the thought of a meal, and perhaps a bath, lifting their spir-

its. As they departed from their friends, Jamm called after them. "Say nothing of us!"The door to the house was answered by a footman, who, out of respect for the state of the world, wore a sword.

"Sir?" he said, regarding Michael by the small light that shone through the barely opened door.

"Would you tell Lady Francesca that her cousin is here?""Do excuse me, sir, but may I say which cousin?""I'd rather surprise her, if you don't mind.""As you wish, sir. If you'll excuse me.""Well, he didn't recognize you," Samul said, "or he wouldn't have left you standing out in the dark.""We'll hope for better luck with Franny.""When did you last see her?""Oh, not a year ago. We have always had great sympathy, she and I."A noise from within silenced them, and the door creaked open, a distinctly feminine eye regarding them through the crack.

"Franny? It's Michael."

The eye widened. "Michael!" A chain rattled, and the door was flung open, light flooding out. A lovely woman threw her arms about Michael's neck as though he were a lost son. "We thought you were dead,"she said, her voice betraying her emotion.

"Nearly, and more than once, but I survived."She pulled away, all joy swept from her face. "Your father—""Yes, I know.""Who is there?" came a male voice from inside.

"Look, Henri!" Franny said. "Look who's returned from the grave!""River save us!" the man said as he caught sight of Michael. "Michael! You are a sight! Come in. Come in at once!"Food was brought to the two vagabonds, and baths promised. Samul Renne tried to restrain himself, but feared he ate like a starving soldier rather than the nobleman he was. Henri A'tanelle paced back and forth across the kitchen, where Samul and Prince Michael sat, and Franny bustled about keeping their plates filled. "First he formed a secret alliance with your father's allies and senior officers," Henri said. "By this means Sir Eremon's guards were either destroyed or driven off. Menwyn then arranged a coup, displacing the ruling council he had created himself. There is no one now to oppose him. All have sworn allegiance to the Wills—to Menwyn Wills, that is—and anyone suspected of sympathy to the claims of Lord Carral Wills have been eliminated… brutally.""And what will he do when Sir Eremon returns, I wonder?" Prince Michael asked between bites of food. He stopped a moment to drain his almost empty wineglass, which his cousin Franny im-mediately refilled.

Henri paused, placing an arm on the high mantelpiece. For a moment he stared into the fire, a portrait of a troubled man. "Men-wyn will have no choice but to fight—and he will have a great army on his side… against Sir Eremon and a handful of his guards.""It doesn't matter how small Eremon's force," Samul said. "He will win any battle against Menwyn and his armies. If Sir Eremon returns, Menwyn and his supporters will die."Henri and Franny glanced at each other. They were frightened, though of what Samul was not sure.

"The Wills are demanding the greater part of everything we harvest, and we don't hold out much hope of payment," Franny said, filling Samul's glass as well. She was quite a lovely woman, Samul thought, with a warmth and ease of manner that was unlike the pampered ladies of Castle Renne.

"If Menwyn Wills has made himself so unpopular, then it should ease our task," Prince Michael said, not without satisfaction.

"So it would seem, but the truth is, anyone you might have counted on in such a situation is either dead, in a cell, or has joined Menwyn Wills." Henri still stared into the fire, shaking his head. "There are a few we might speak to secretly, but any one of them might give us over to the Wills. Menwyn has been doling out por-tions of your father's estates—your estates—to his supporters, and promising even larger tracts of Renne lands." Henri turned away from the fire and offered the prince a tight-lipped smile. "But we will see. There is no doubt in our minds where our loyalties lie," he said, and looked at his wife, who nodded firmly. "I will sit and think this night and make a list of men who I believe will be loyal to the House of Innes, or those who might think to gain by Menwyn's fall, and we will go over it together in the morning. But you, cousin, and Lord Archer, must have rest this night. Baths have been drawn for you, chambers made up. Until the morning."

Not all of Hafydd's guards could fit in the boat, what with Hafydd himself, Beldor Renne, the mapmaker Kai, and his man-servant. Lord A'denne watched the legless man carefully. If he had an ally in this place, it was Kai—whom Hafydd called "Kilydd." Ever since they had entered the boat and set out along this un-known river he had felt some tension grow between the legless man and Hafydd. There was some history there, Lord A'denne thought; some ancient history, if he was to believe the things he was hearing.

He looked around, the river stretching broad and slick beneath a low leaden sky. The forest there was almost unbroken, only the occasional meadow interrupting the dense tangle of green. If men had ever dwelt there, it was a long age ago.

Kai shifted on the plank thwart, the Fael pillows that had lined his barrow getting soiled and wet, their beautiful fabrics ruined.

"Do you recognize this place?" Lord A'denne asked.

Kai shook his head, drizzle running down his round, pink face. "I traveled here once, long ago—with Sainth. Several generations of trees have come and gone, embankments crumble, even the river might change its course over so many centuries—but this is the way, all the same."Lord A'denne glanced over at Hafydd, who sat in the stern by the helmsman, if that's what you would call the black-clad guard who anxiously clutched the tiller. No one spoke much in the knight's presence, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere, and A'denne refused to be treated like just another one of Hafydd's ser-vants. He might feel the same fear of the man that everyone else did, but he would be damned if he'd show it!

"Where is it we go?" the nobleman whispered.

Kai glanced at him, then away, like a truant schoolboy. "An is-land. There is an ancient, sacred spring there. Hafydd is looking for the resting place of his … of Caibre's father—the great sorcerer Wyrr. It is his plan to give him up to Death."Lord A'denne shook his head. "I seem to have fallen into a nightmare. Death? Is this not a creature of fable? An artifice of the balladeer?"Kai closed his eyes, a faint smile flickering over his lips. "I wish it were so. The creature we call Death was once a sorcerer, like Wyrr—or perhaps more akin to his father, Tusival. But his mind turned into unwholesome paths and over an age he grew into the creature we now call Death—as real as you or I."A'denne felt a shiver run up his back and along his arms, his hands twitching once involuntarily. "Why has he brought me?" he asked a little desperately.

A hard rain spattered down on the river then, a sound like hail on gravel. The legless man turned and looked at him, his face glis-tening and running with rain. "Hafydd does not carry his enemies with him in hope that they will convert to his cause, that is certain. You are to be sacrificed, Lord A'denne. That is what I think. Beldor Renne knows something of this, and he is not clever enough to keep knowledge to himself. You might learn something from a con-versation or two with the Renne—""A'denne!"It was Hafydd, glaring forward over the pumping oarsmen.

M

"Your turn at the sweeps."

The nobleman made his way aft, stepping gingerly over the baggage they carried, his hands on the wet gunwales, rain pound-ing down upon his back, running inside the neck of his coat. He took the offered oar from one of the guards and tumbled into place, setting the sweep between the tholepins, hesitating only a second to catch the rhythm of the others, then digging his oar into the rain-battered river. The slick wood slipped between his fingers, and he gripped it more tightly, his hands cold and stiff from sitting. He glanced out at the passing riverbank, tree branches drooping down, heavy with rain.

You are to be sacrificed. The words echoed in his mind. Sacrificed/Hafydd sat staring darkly at the shore, his manner grim. Lord A'denne wondered if it would be possible to kill the knight. Cer-tainly the guards would immediately bring down any man who managed it, but what of that? A'denne believed his life was forfeit anyway. If he was to be sacrificed, let him choose the cause he would be sacrificed for. How to manage it, that was the difficulty. Hafydd was vigilant and possessed powers of which others knew little. Others but for Kai… Kai knew more than he was telling, he was certain of that.

Sacrificed!

Hafydd stood and drew his sword from its scabbard. Lord A'denne almost lost pace with the oarsmen, his eyes fixed on the blade, but Hafydd sat down again and thrust the smoky blade into the river. For a moment he sat, eyes closed in concentration, and then he cursed with such perfect rage that everyone on the boat was over-come by fear.

No one could clearly see what Hafydd was doing. The knight was all but hidden by trees and bushes, and though it was not yet night, the thick cloud and shadows beneath the wood held almost all the light at bay. He performed some arcane ritual involving fire, for he could be seen walking around a blaze—and once he had walked through it! Apparently he had suffered no harm, for the ritual con-tinued.

Some hours later he stumbled into the camp, his guards rush-ing to support him. They lowered him on a log, where he slumped with his head down between his knees.

Lord A'denne realized at that moment that here was his oppor-tunity. Everyone's attention was on Hafydd, even while men tried to look busy at their appointed tasks. He went quickly to the fire and ladled some thick stew from a pot into a bowl. No one paid him the least attention, and A'denne set the bowl down for a mo-ment, waving his hands in the air as though the bowl had been too hot to hold. He took up bit of cloth that lay there and used it to carry the bowl, hoping no one realized the cloth had been thrown down on a sharp kitchen knife.

A'denne could hardly catch his breath, and had to exercise firm control to keep his hands from shaking.

You are dead anyway, he told himself. What better way to die than killing this sorcerer?

He felt as though he were pulled half out of his body—so that he both animated his limbs and was someone else, watching. His vision narrowed so that all he could see was Hafydd, bent over like a man exhausted beyond measure. His head was bent so his face was hidden, only the oval of dull gray hair apparent. A'denne knew that he would have to get the knife into Hafydd's throat where the major blood vessels ran. Nothing else would do. One chance; that was all he would have. He made himself breathe and tried to concentrate his will as he had so often in tourna-ments. It would be like the joust—one opportunity and no room for errors.

The guards glanced at him as he approached, then, seeing the food, let him through.

"Sir Eremon?" A'denne said softly, bending over and offering the soup.

Hafydd raised his head, his gaze out of focus, clearly confused, but then he raised his hands to take the bowl. The second Hafydd began to take the weight of the bowl, A'denne drove the point of his blade toward the exposed throat.

He felt his hand stop, clasped in a grip like stone. Hafydd looked up at him, his eye suddenly clear, the stew, unspilled, in one hand, A'denne's wrist in the other. The nobleman dropped the knife unwillingly.

"You were too respectful, A'denne," the knight said. "You gave yourself away." Hafydd shook his head, a look of disgust, perhaps even disappointment, crossing his face.

A'denne was dragged back by two guards, and Hafydd took up the spoon from the bowl and calmly began to eat his stew, as though nothing untoward had happened. A'denne thought he would be killed then, but instead he was thrown roughly down on his bedding and left, as though he were so little threat they needn't do more.

For a moment he gazed at the little group surrounding Hafydd, but then he realized someone regarded him, and turned to find Kai staring at him evenly.

"Why didn't you speak to me?" the legless man demanded softly. "That was your one chance, and you've wasted it!"For a day Hafydd slumped in the stern of the boat, like a man too ill to care where they went or why. Seldom did his head rise, and when it did his eyes were not focused, and his flesh was an un-healthy gray. His head soon fell forward again, and he appeared to sleep fitfully. His guards hovered over him like nursemaids, their faces filled with concern.

A'denne was seated in the bow with Kai and his servant, Ufrra, when he was struck with a thought. He turned his head away so that none might see his lips move and leaned toward Kai, speaking as softly as he could.

"We might overturn the boat," he whispered.

Kai leaned to one side so that he was hidden from the oarsmen by the large bulk of Ufrra. "He cannot be drowned, even if this could be done by only three of us."Lord A'denne turned away, staring at the passing riverbank. The sky remained obscured by cloud, but the position of the sun could be found now, as it struggled to burn away the haze, illuminating a circle of cloud with a faint urgent glow.

"How much farther?" Hafydd demanded. He was much recovered after a day of utter listlessness, but his mood was black.

They made a camp by the river in small clearing among wil-lows. The dark, threatening sky was breaking up, revealing the last of the day's light, a sky of fading blue, high up, thin wisps of orange-pink.

Kai shrugged. "A day. Two days. I can't be sure. It was an age ago that I came this way."Hafydd glared down at the legless man in his barrow, who alone among them appeared to have no fear of Hafydd and his temper. "If I find you are sending me on a merry chase, Kilydd, I shall cut off your remaining limbs. I will shatter your eardrums and pluck out your eyes, too. And you may live that diminished life as long as you desire." Hafydd turned and walked away.

Kai watched the dark figure go into the gloom, his face an impas-sive mask. Then he turned and smiled at Lord A'denne. "When you are a cripple, long past being of interest to the fairer sex, and not in-clined toward drink, you must take your pleasures where you may."