The Thief's Gamble (Einarinn 1) (56 page)

Shiv joined us in our sheltered nook and rubbed at his thickly bandaged arm.

'One of those scholars has been looking into the healing magic they use in Solura. It seems that's aetheric as well. Whatever, it's put me back together so I'm not arguing.'

I studied his face; his colour was better but he still looked drawn and strained and Ryshad wasn't much prettier. I wondered what I'd find next time I chanced on a mirror.

'We were just wondering what to do next. Any ideas?'

Shiv shook his head wearily. 'I'm needed back in Hadrumal. Piecing together the whole story of our little adventure is going to take a lot of work. The Council will have a lot to discuss and then they'll have to decide what action to take. Some will think we should deal with this all ourselves, another faction will argue for alliance with Tormalin, and there'll be every shade of opinion in between. Some will favour blowing the Elietimm islands out of the ocean, others will want to wait and see and hope they'll just go away. Planir will have his work cut out getting a decision this side of Spring Equinox.'

He heaved a great sigh. 'Still, that's his problem. I just want to go home to Pered and lock the door till the turn of the year.'

That was a more cheerful prospect. 'Will we be home for Solstice? I've lost count of the days.'

Shiv smiled. 'Yes — what shall we do to celebrate? How about a trip to one of the gaming-houses in Relshaz?'

I was about to laugh but the wizard called Casuel popped up through a hatch, looking all ways like a startled rabbit.

'Shivvalan, there you are! Quickly, we need your help.'

Several other wizards appeared and we rose to our feet. I watched, open-mouthed, as a massive wave came sweeping across the ocean at us. Enchantment wove a shining emerald curtain around the ship; we rode the huge swell like a floating seabird and my heart stopped trying to hammer its way through my ribs. The wizards all watched for a moment then returned to whatever they had been doing, their matter-of-fact attitudes taking my breath away.

'You really should keep yourself ready for the Archmage's instructions, Shivvalan,' Casuel reprimanded in a lofty tone which would have had me planning to stitch a fish into his mattress if I'd had to spend any time with him.

'You forget, Gas, I'm Otrick's pupil.' Shiv gave Casuel a charming smile which seemed to annoy him out of all proportion. He snorted but noticed Usara emerging on deck and went scurrying off to hover attentively round him. Shiv shook his head and I caught him flicking his fingers after Casuel in that peculiarly Caladhrian gesture of disdain as we sat ourselves down again.

'You two don't get on, I take it?' Ryshad had watched this little exchange with amusement.

'No, we don't.' Shiv shook his head with a rueful smile and reached for the ale. 'Well, he's not the most likeable type in the world, but it is partly my fault.'

Shiv's faint air of shame was intriguing. 'How so?' I asked.

Shiv shrugged for a long moment before deciding to answer. 'It was a couple of years back, at Solstice. I'd had a bit too much to drink and I had one of those ideas which seem so good until you sober up.'

Ryshad and I both agreed mock-solemnly and Shiv laughed.

'The thing is, no one had ever seen Cas with a girl, he's always been very reserved and it occurred to me that he might be — er — of my persuasion. I'd happened to hear his family are pretty Rationalist in their thinking and you know what they're like—'

'If nature intended men to lay with men, why have women at all and so on and so forth.' Ryshad nodded.

I gaped at Shiv. 'You made a pass at him?'

'No I did not!' Shiv retorted indignantly. 'Pered and I don't stray. All I did was offer to introduce him to a friend of Pered's who was staying with us for the festival…'

'But what's-his-name took this as a calculated slur on his manhood?' Ryshad hazarded a guess, grinning broadly.

'He took a swing at me!' Shiv admitted ruefully. 'He missed — but I didn't and, what with one thing and another, it all got a bit out of hand.'

I laughed and shook my head. 'You idiot!'

'Look!' Ryshad pointed back in the direction of the distant islands. An ash-filled plume of smoke was climbing high into the uppermost skies. The sight dragged us brutally back to the present.

'I'd better go,' Shiv muttered and slipped away.

'I'd say Planir and the others have given Ice-man something to keep him busy for a while,' I joked shakily.

Ryshad nodded, his expression strained. 'It won't stop him though. I reckon Messire D'Olbriot will have the look-outs watching for black ships on the Spring Equinox winds.'

I shivered. When Ryshad opened his arms to me, I leaned into his embrace. I rested my face on the warm, dry wool of his jerkin and shut my eyes, relaxing for the first time since before Inglis. He tightened his arms around me, and buried his face in my hair with a long breath. It was the most natural thing in the world to raise my face to his kiss and then we simply sat there, taking what comfort we could from each other as the ship soared over the seas towards home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Taken from:

Travels in the Unmapped Lands of Einarinn

BY

Marris Dohalle

The Number Song of the Forest Folk

That the Forest Folk are an ancient race is clear from this song. It is used to teach children the words once used for counting; marmol, edril and so on, now meaningless in themselves as the language has changed over the generations.

One is the Sun, soaring in the height,

Marmol, the hearth-circle me all share.

Two are the moons in their dance of might,

Edril, their web woven in the air.

Three races share mountain, plain and wood,

Semil, on all is the sun's face warm.

Four are the winds, bring they ill or good,

Dexil, the life-breath of calm or storm.

Five are the fingers for harp and bow,

Wrem are the days of a minstrel's wake.

Six are the rivers that foil the foe,

Tedren, when hoofbeats the greenwood shake.

Seven, the Wise Ones the windrose spin,

Fathen, the empty, the seat of fears.

Eight are the seasons, each one begin,

Adren, new wood on the Tree of Years.

Nine are the Holy, the Three of Three,

Parlen, the fate-sticks the foolish mock.

Ten are the fingers of weapons free,

Vrek, double handclasp of friendship's lock.

Much of the original meaning of this ancient rhyme has been lost as the Forest Folk have only an oral tradition of history, and that varies from clan to clan, each concentrating primarily on its own members. Concepts once familiar become blurred with repetition and changing circumstance. Forest Folk are not troubled by this, seeing history as an ever-changing, ever-spreading framework for life, rooted in creation and expanding with each new season — the Tree of Years, in fact.

Spreading and dividing is seen as healthy and natural; family groups travel the vast reaches of the Great Forest, joining together at some seasons, separating at others. Bonds are rarely permanent and it is entirely acceptable for family members to leave their own kin for a season or more, travelling with another group or leaving the Forest altogether. It is this tradition that keeps Forest Folk minstrels a familiar sight on so many roads, combining their incorrigible wanderlust with the race's love of music, which stems from their reliance on song and epic poetry in place of a written history.

Given the abundance of the Great Forest, the Folk are able to supply all their needs easily, sharing without conflict between themselves. Accordingly, this results in a lack of understanding of more formal boundaries and concepts of ownership. For similar reasons, Forest Folk are rarely proficient in physical combat, concentrating on those skills of eye and hand needed for hunting in a wildwood rather than for direct confrontation over land or resources. However, the incautious traveller leaving the highroads through the Great Forest risks inadvertently stopping an arrow tipped with deadly venom if he blunders into a chase.

The Forest Folk are largely a tolerant people, living close to nature. Harmony — between races, between individuals and of

course, in music — is highly prized. When they need to decide any question of dominance or authority among themselves, this is usually done in a contest of poetry or song. It is considered far more damaging to humiliate an opponent than to actually kill him. However, when faced with dire peril, the Forest Folk display a doughty determination few races, ancient or modern, can equal.

Shanklane Cottage, Middle Reckin,

40th of For-Winter

It wasn't a long walk and it did me good after spending the best part of six days in carrier's coaches. The tapster at the Green Frog had no trouble remembering Halice and her broken leg and gave me clear directions to the little cottage she'd been renting since the turn of the season. I thanked him and took the road through the broad open-fields with a spring in my step. The weather had turned crisp and dry, there was snow underfoot and, once night fell, the frost would be iron-hard. But, for the moment, there was no wind and the afternoon sun was warm on my face.

Every league of my journey was enabling me to put more distance between myself and my experiences, but I was still suffering odd pangs of guilt and wondering how things were working themselves out. I caught myself hoping Ryshad had been sympathetically received by that patron of his. I didn't want to think about what reception he might get from Aiten's family. Should I have offered to go with him? Only that would have meant going over the whole horrible experience time and again; it had been bad enough the first time and it wasn't going to improve with retelling. No, Aiten had crossed over to the Otherworld and nothing was going to bring him back. His family could grieve for him well enough without my help. People live, people die; Misaen makes them, Poldrion ferries them, that's the way life is.

I wondered how Ryshad was faring. Did he find himself thinking about me? Were sudden rushes of desire warming his blood in the same way as mine? Something had turned that warm kiss of friendship into a scorching blaze of lust that had left us both trembling like eager virgins. Privacy is in fairly short supply on an ocean boat crowded with nosy wizards, but we'd managed to find enough seclusion to gratify the unexpected passion that had seized us. Still, good as the sex had been, even in those cramped and uncomfortable conditions, I'd waited at the stern rail and watched Ryshad disembark at Zyoutessela. Had I made a dreadful mistake or saved us both from something we'd have lived to regret, like my parents? That was something else I didn't want to dwell on too much. I slipped and stumbled where a patch of shade had kept a puddle frozen solid through the brief noon warmth and smiled ruefully at myself. A man hadn't affected me like this any time in the last ten years.

It was proving difficult to shake off the dust of this unexpected adventure though. There were all the various questions about the Elietimm, that lost colony, the dreams and all the other parts of Planir's puzzle. I couldn't help being curious but as my mother always said, 'Curiosity got Amit hanged.' Forget it, I told myself firmly; Tormalin princes and all the wizards of Hadrumal can sort it out between themselves, without your help. This isn't your fight, it nearly got you killed. Yes, it would be nice to pay a little something back for Geris but revenge is for fools; that's what started all this and look where it got you! Walk away from it, Livak, I ordered myself sternly; walk away and don't look back.

I turned off down a shaded, muddy track, the edges of the ruts rock-hard in the frost. A straggle of snug cottages nestled under their wheatstraw thatches and I looked for a green door. If Halice was looking after herself, her leg couldn't be that bad, could it? I began rehearsing all the arguments I'd been preparing to explain why I'd gone off the way I had. The only problem was that they all sounded a bit thin, apart from the muffled chink of the hefty pouch of coin that was plumping out my jerkin. I patted it affectionately, the way some women do with a season's child-belly on them. I'd got a wax-sealed flagon of irreproachable wine in my backpack as well; that should help, whatever Halice thought of me.

I knocked on the door and lifted the latch; my cheerful words of welcome died on my lips as I saw Halice in a chair with two short, blond men standing over her, arms raised.

'And then I said, “Look, how much damage do you think I could do?”'

Halice roared her familiar barking laugh as the fair-haired pair turned to see who had come in.

'Livak!'

Sorgrad and Sorgren hurried to embrace me but I took a step backwards, shaking, struggling with the fears that had come clamouring out of my memories. They halted, concerned.

'Are you all right?' Sorgrad's familiar voice dispelled the horrid illusions and I was able to manage a more normal smile.

'Sure, sorry, just caught a draught from Poldrion's cloak.'

'Come and get warm.' Halice did not stand up and I saw a crutch resting against her chair. I could not see her leg under the blanket over her lap and wondered how it was healing. Well, she'd tell me how bad it was when she was good and ready but I could see she had put on weight through sitting about waiting for the damage to heal.

I moved to the hearth and rubbed my hands over the glowing coals, breathing in the familiar scents of baking bread, meat spitted and roasting, home and safety.

'So, where did you get to?' Sorgren poured me wine from a jug standing in the fender and I savoured the spicy warmth for a moment.