The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (6 page)

The companions stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned back to their food. An awkward silence settled over the room, broken only by Crowheart humming over the injured wolf.

Tam, Fynnol, Cynddl, and Alaan were led to a long barracks, where a dozen beds lined up against one wall. Stonehand had slipped away and lit a fire in the hearth here, but the room was still cool and damp. The beds were made for the Dubrell and seemed almost comically large to the companions, especially as they were each made for one man.

Cynddl lay down on top of his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I shall need a growth spurt before I fit this bed.""Yes," Fynnol said, "I've heard of having large shoes to fill, but I hate to think what having a large bed to fill might mean."Cynddl laughed, always appreciative of a quick wit. "We might comfort ourselves that they're single beds," he offered.

Alaan climbed into one of the massive chairs by the hearth in the room's center.

"What do you make of these giants?" Cynddl asked him. The story finder rose and went to stand with his arm resting on the back of the second chair. "Given that the hidden lands have seemed al-most empty of people, I'm surprised at how suspicious they are. Who could they possibly be fighting against?"Alaan glanced up at the Fael, and then back at the wavering flames. "I'm not sure, Cynddl, but they fear things that come from the south. The Kingdom of Death is not distant. If the spell that walls Death in is failing, then they no doubt have reason to be fear-ful and suspicious. The Dubrell are tied to the lands hereabouts and will not easily be driven off, but what exactly is going on I can-not say. It was such a long time ago that Orlem dwelt here. Much has changed. You should all sleep. We're safe here, and you might not have that luxury again for some time."Tarn lay awake for a time, even after the candles had been blown out. He finally drifted off as Alaan left his chair by the fire and sought his own bed.

He didn't know how much time had passed, or what woke him, but he found himself aware in the darkness. The fire had burned down to embers, and a faint light of stars or moon illuminated the window. The even breathing of the others reassured him a little: no one else had been wakened. But then he heard a horse nicker.

He was at the window in an instant, staring down into the court-yard below. At first he thought their horses were being taken, then he realized that riders were dismounting—perhaps a dozen of them, it was hard to tell in the faint light. He could see one of the giants holding a lantern aloft and armed men going purposefully about their business.

And they were men, for they didn't reach the giant's shoulder. Some led horses into the stables, and others went silently to a door in the lower part of the building.

"What is it?" Alaan asked, propping himself up in bed.

"A company of riders," Tarn said, pulling on breeches and drawing his dagger from its sheath.

Alaan rolled out of his bed onto his feet, silent as a stone. He was at the window instantly, hands resting on the ledge.

"Have the Dubrell betrayed us?" Tarn whispered.

"Perhaps. Wake the others."

They barricaded the door into the room with the massive chairs, and all waited silently. Their weapons had been left in the entry below, out of courtesy, and all they had were daggers and the fireplace poker.

"What of Crowheart?" Cynddl asked.

"Stay quiet and listen," Alaan said. But there was nothing to be heard.

Alaan lit a candle, and they pulled the chairs away from the door. In the hallway they found no one.

Alaan balanced on the balls of his feet, his every attention con-centrated on listening. "Tarn?" he whispered. "Come with me. You two stay here and open the door to no one until we return. If you are threatened, you might have to go out the window."Alaan held the candle high as they made their way along the hall and down the steps, the treads set at almost double the height of the steps Tarn was accustomed to.

The large chamber where they had dined was empty but for Crowheart, who sat cross-legged by the prostrate wolf. The healer made no sounds, but stayed perfectly still, his eyes closed.

"Rabal?"Tam whispered. "Rabal… ?""Leave him," Alaan said. "He is in a healing trance and should not be roused unless we're threatened."In the entry they found their weapons still leaning against the wall. Alaan sheathed his dagger and straightened up, for he had been half-crouched, like a man about to do battle.

"Whoever these men are, I think they're no threat to us."Tarn was reassured by the sight of their weapons, which had clearly not been disturbed.

"But what goes on here?" Tarn whispered. "Who are they?"Alaan shook his head. "I don't know, Tam. The Dubrell have se-crets, that is certain."Alaan opened the door and looked out. The courtyard was empty, lit only by the last sliver of moon, the ancient light of the stars. He led the way out into the cool night and down the giant stairs. In the courtyard they found barely a sign that the riders had been there. And then Tam saw a faint gleam on the cobbles and bent to retrieve a small object.

"What is it?" Alaan whispered.

"I don't know. It's too dark to tell."Alaan looked into the dark stable, but there was little to be seen there without light, and they hadn't brought a candle lantern. They were up the cold stairs and inside in a moment.

By the fire, Crowheart sat unmoving. Tam paused for a moment in the doorway. He could see the even rise and fall of the wolf's chest, and he was certain it slept peacefully. Whatever magic Crow-heart was performing seemed to be working.

They slipped up the stairs, and the others let them back into their barracks, where it seemed warm after the cold of the courtyard. Cynddl and Fynnol looked anxiously at their companions as they re-turned.

"Who are these men?" Cynddl whispered. "What do they want here?""I don't know," Alaan answered, shaking his head. He went and warmed his hands by the fire. "Clearly they are friends or allies of the Dubrell.""I didn't know that men traveled through the hidden lands ex-cept by accident," Fynnol said. He dropped to his knees before the fire, which had been built up again in their absence. Tarn could see that his cousin was unsettled, wakened from sleep to find himself threatened.

"There are a few who can find their way here, Fynnol," Alaan said. "Crowheart is one. But for the most part, what you say is true."Tarn remembered the small object he had found and fished it from a pocket. He moved to the hearth so that the light shone upon it.

"So, what is that, Tarn?" Alaan asked.

"It appears to be a small broach. Oak leaves, I think."He passed it to Cynddl, who knew more of trees and plants than the rest of them combined.

Cynddl turned it over in the firelight. "It's a fan of silveroak leaves." He looked up at Alaan. "Didn't you tell us, the night we met by Telanon Bridge, that a fan of silveroak leaves was the token of the Knights of the Vow?"Alaan held out his hand. He examined the silver ornament care-fully, turning it over in his hand several times.

"That is the token of the Knights," he said at last. He looked up at the others, his face dark with concern or confusion. "Did these men wear the gray robes,Tarn?""No, they were all differently dressed. Nor was their armor made to a pattern." Tam tried to call up a picture of what he'd seen of the men in the courtyard. "Some wore surcoats, and oth-ers did not. I saw no devices upon the shields, nor did they bear standards.""That is strange," Fynnol said thoughtfully. "In a battle it is easy to kill your own men if they're not clearly marked.""Yes," Alaan said, "if you're fighting men."

He went about in a barrow. Beatrice Renne could not get that thought out of her mind. He looked a bit like a hog as well; round and soft of flesh, his pate bald, and skin of pinkish hue. But he had saved the life of Lord Carral Wills, and for that she would allow a man in a barrow into her hall, and treat him with all the goodwill such a deed deserved.

"It is a story that will surely be made into song," Beatrice said. "Certainly it shall. How you found each other, then managed to get off the Isle without being discovered either by the men of Innes or the many searchers that Kel sent out. … It is almost miraculous."She thought Lord Carral looked rather improved by this un-expected expedition across country. A healthy color suffused his face, and he appeared to have been somewhat strengthened by his ordeal. Certainly his carriage was more erect. Perhaps it had merely taken his mind away from the loss of his daughter, and that would not be a bad thing. She herself had struggled much with the loss of her nephew, Arden—and his part in the plot against Toren had only made it harder. Though, of course, he had acted honorably in the end. It was a small comfort, but she clung to it all the same.

The evening was warm, but they sat by the cold hearth—there were many things that one did not discuss by open windows, after all, no matter how close the night. Lord Carral was dressed in Fael clothing, and she thought it became him in some way, though of course he did not have the night-black hair or the dusky, silken skin.

She glanced at his companion again and had to cover her re-vulsion with a gracious smile. "I cannot begin to tell you how grate-ful I am, good Kai. Anything we might do to repay, you have only to ask…"The legless man smiled at her in return—not an entirely ap-palling smile, she thought.

Carral shifted in his chair, clearly a little uncomfortable.

"There is a greater tale to tell," the minstrel said. "But I don't know how we should even begin, for it is such a fantastic story…" He paused, a hand rising to his forehead, which he massaged gently. "We have spoken, Lady Beatrice, about this man—the 'ghost' who came to me in Braidon Castle.""This is the man, Alaan. The sorcerer?""Yes, though it seems the name Alaan is not quite correct either. You see, he made a bargain with a nagar.""A river spirit?" Lady Beatrice asked. She kept her face com-pletely neutral at this news. She was prepared to listen to any kind of story from Carral Wills at that moment, so happy was she to see him safe.

"I don't know if that would completely describe this particular nagar, for this nagar had once been the son of a great sorcerer named Wyrr, from whom came the river's ancient name."Lady Beatrice felt herself nod, willing Lord Carral to go on. "And what, exactly, do you mean, 'he made a bargain'?""I don't know quite how to describe it, or if I even understand it. In return for power and knowledge he allowed this spirit … to enter him in some way.""You mean he is possessed by it?""That is not precisely true, if you don't mind me saying so," the legless man interjected. "It is a bargain. The man gives part of his life to the nagar, the nagar's memories and some portion of its per-sonality become part of the man.""It sounds horrifying!" she said, with some feeling.

Kai nodded agreement to this sentiment.

"So he is not really Alaan, but some conjoining of these two souls—Alaan and…""Sainth." Carral said. "The youngest son ofWyrr.""But have the children of Wyrr not been dead for centuries? The stories are very old and not widely believed.""A thousand years Sainth has been gone," Kai said, "but not dead. His father sustained him in the river.""But the father, Wyrr, did he not die in some even more distant age?" Lady Beatrice wondered why she was asking such questions. This sounded like the stuff of old ballads.

"He did not die," Kai said quickly. "He went into the river— joined his spirit to it in ways we cannot understand. Ever since he has dwelt in the waters, sleeping, perhaps, but not dead.""Then this Sainth is risen again?""In a way. Certainly he no longer dwells in the river."Lady Beatrice nodded, though she did not really understand.

"Sainth, the youngest son ofWyrr, was given a gift by his father— the ability to travel paths no others could find.""Yes," Beatrice said. "I remember some of the old songs. Was there not some terrible price for this?""He could never find a place that brought him comfort," Kai said, "a woman whom he thought beautiful enough. There might always be some fairer place, a woman more lovely. His siblings were equally cursed, though they chose to be great warriors—the brother wanting to be obeyed out of fear and the sister to be loved and served by all she met. These two fought after Wyrr went into the river, and the One Kingdom was broken. Eventually the eldest son, Caibre, murdered his brother through treachery and made war on his sister. Those two died when they brought the tower of Sianon down on top of them." "And this knight Hafydd, whom we apparently spared, has made a bargain also. That is what's happened, is it not?" Lady Beatrice was a little surprised to hear herself say this, but it sud-denly seemed apparent. How else did Hafydd come back from the dead? "Yes. That's what we believe," Kai answered. He shifted in his barrow, which was softened now with fine cushions the Fael had given him. "He's made a bargain with Caibre. It can be no other.""There seems to be no end of disturbing news," Lady Beatrice said.

"And there is more." Carral joined both hands upon the head of his cane. He seemed to stare blankly through Lady Beatrice, giv-ing her an odd feeling that she was not there—that her existence was so fleeting it was hardly noticed. "Sainth had companions. Men who traveled with him for long periods—many lives of men, in some cases. The sorcerers were untouched by Death, or by his ally Time, and those who served them lived very long lives—longer than even the sorcerers likely expected." He paused a moment. The only sound, a candle fluttering. A sprinkle of black dust floated down from the chimney and settled on the iron dogs in the hearth. "Kilydd was such a man, a companion of Sainth. And beyond all expectations, he still lives.""Now, Lord Carral," Lady Beatrice said. "How can you be sure of this?""Because I have met him, and I have met another as well. A man named Orlem Slighthand, who was celebrated in many songs. And he cannot be mistaken for any other."Lady Beatrice sat back in her chair, shaken by Carral's confi-dence. "There have long been rumors that Sir Eremon was a sor-cerer, or had some knowledge of things arcane. And then we began to hear that he was Hafydd, who had once been our ally but who turned against us and was left for dead on a battlefield—a fate of his own making. But now, these things you tell me. … I fear what you might tell me next. These men who were once companions of Sainth; are they a danger to us?""No," Carral said firmly. "They might in truth be our allies, and welcome they would be." Without turning his head or making any kind of gesture, he said, "Kai, who saved my life upon the Isle of Battle, was once known as Kilydd, Lady Beatrice."A lifetime of training in the social graces would not allow her to laugh, or even to look surprised, but how had this legless man made such a fool of Lord Carral? Was he really so grateful for being res-cued? Perhaps he was.

"You do not believe me, Lady Beatrice," Carral said, not dis-guising the disappointment in his voice.

She had forgotten how sensitive he was. His blindness did not seem to be any hindrance when it came to judging the reactions and feelings of others. He had divined her reaction from her slight pause.

"I don't blame you. I should not have believed it myself, but for things that happened while Kai and I made our way across the Isle of Battle. Like his master of long ago, Kai has the ability to travel paths that others cannot find. It was by this skill that we avoided capture by the Prince's men. And we stopped at the dwelling place of … Is there another in the room with us?" he asked suddenly.

"The three of us," Lady Beatrice said. "Why?"A little trickle of soot tinkled on the grating, and Lady Beatrice was on her feet of an instant, crossing the carpet as silently as she could. In the hallway outside stood a guard, and she gestured for him to be silent, leading him back into the room. All the while she continued talking in the most natural tone of voice as if not a thing were amiss, and Carral followed her lead, continuing his story.

At the hearth she pointed up into the blackness, and by gestures made the guard, who was not quick on the uptake, understand her meaning. Removing his sword from its scabbard, he bent and shuf-fled into the tall hearth, twisting awkwardly to look up. A knife glanced off his helmet and clattered down onto the stone. The guard bellowed and thrust up into the chimney. A second later a small, utterly black figure tumbled down in a rain of soot, the guard holding him by the ankle.

The soot-covered spy snatched up the knife and drove it into his assailant's leg. In a flash he was up the chimney, the guard crum-pling to the floor, crimson flowing from his wound.

The noise brought others running into the chamber, among them Fondor Renne.

"He's gone up the chimney!" Lady Beatrice yelled.

The smallest and youngest of the guards threw off his helm and scabbard and wriggled up the chimney himself, black dust raining down into the hearth.

Fondor ran for the door. "Onto the roof!" he bellowed.

"A healer!" Lady Beatrice called, running out into the hallway. "We must have a healer!"She came back in and, taking off her scarf, tried to staunch the guard's wound where it bled around the dagger blade.

"Are you unhurt?—Lord Carral? Good Kai?" she said, glanc-ing up from her efforts.

Neither of them had taken any harm.

Guards and servants came rushing in, relieving Lady Beatrice of her charge. They bore the man out, a manservant pressing on the wound.

Lady Beatrice caught sight of herself in a glass, blood spattered over her moss-green gown, her hands crimson. A servant brought her a washbasin, and she quickly cleaned her hands, drying them on an offered towel. A glass of brandy was pressed into her hands, and she drained half of it in a most unladylike manner. Her hand trembled so that she spilled the amber liquid as she drank.

"It seems assassins are always in our halls when you are pres-ent, Lord Carral" she said.

"That was no assassin," Kai offered. He sat in his refurbished barrow, for the Fael had rebuilt it with the finest woods, beautifully carved and polished. He was, apparently, untroubled by what he'd witnessed,though Lady Beatrice did see him conceal a dagger within the folds of his clothing. "He was spying. Listening to your conversation, which I would guess he'd done before."This assertion brought Lady Beatrice up short. A bell struck the hour somewhere in the castle's depths.

"My, it has grown late," Lady Beatrice said, though she really wanted to speak with Fondor. It had never occurred to her that a spy would lurk in the chimney! Rising to her feet, she smiled gra-ciously at her guests, only just remembering that Lord Carral could not see. "We will have to continue this conversation on the mor-row," Lady Beatrice said. "Lord Carral, your room awaits you." She rang a bell to call in the servants. "And good Kai. I hope you will feel welcome among us. I've had rooms prepared, near to Lord Carral's. Only tell us what you need…""I thank you, Lady Beatrice, but I will go back to the Fael this night. I wish to speak with Alaan before he disappears again."Lady Beatrice hesitated.

"I will have two guards take you in a cart." She glanced at the sooty hearth. "I feel suddenly that Westbrook is not so safe a place."In the long hallway that led to the various guest apartments, Carral was stopped by a woman.

"Lord Carral?"

Carral knew the voice immediately: one of Llyn's servants. "Yes?""Lady Llyn has sent me to inquire… after your well-being.""I should like nothing better than to convey this small news in person, but the hour is so late.""I don't think her ladyship would mind, sir. She is awake, so concerned have we all been since you were lost."He arrived dressed like a Fael, and for some reason this jarred Llyn. So anxious was she to see him, but the man who descended the stair into her garden seemed a stranger, dressed in his exotic Fael clothing. No doubt his travails had changed his mind on many things, given him a new view of his plans, his future. She felt almost certain that he had come to tell her that he had been in the grip of a brief madness. That his feelings for her had been overstated, caused by the terrible loneliness he felt at his daughter's passing.

He used a light cane to feel the steps as he descended, then he swept it across the gravel path, finding the stone border and fol-lowing it. For a moment, she stood watching, afraid to speak.

"Llyn?" he called softly.

"I am here," she said, her voice emerging as a whisper. He hadn't used her title, and this gave her hope.

He stopped a few paces away, and still she felt rooted to the spot. Neither spoke. Only the little stream that whispered among her flowers voiced its feelings, but Llyn did not understand these, either.

"I suppose I am a fool for it," Carral said, trying to control the emotion in his voice, "but as I made my way across the Isle of Bat-tle, I kept thinking that I must survive to have the gift of your com-pany again."Lynn felt her eyes close, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "It was a fair thought," she whispered. "I believed you had been lost, and I alternately mourned you and cursed your stubbornness for insisting on accompanying the army. But here you are safe"—her voice all but disappeared—"and I have no words for what I'm feeling."He came forward a pace, and she put her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook beneath his chin. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of him, the strange scent of his Fael clothing.

His hand came up and stroked the undamaged side of her face, brushing back strands of her hair. Llyn felt as though she were lifted on a rising wind of emotion, soaring up and up, free of life's gravity. Was this what love felt like?

She heard a door, then hurried steps on the gravel path. Neither moved to separate themselves until a soft voice of one of the ser-vants came out of the shadow by the wall.

"Your grace," said one of Llyn's servants. "Do pardon my in-trusion. It's Lord Toren…"Llyn held her breath.