The Wind-Witch (22 page)

Valadan carried her eagerly along the clifftops, where they paused at many a steading ere turning back for Splaine Garth. And on their homeward course there were settlements to alert, as well—it was long after dark when Druyan fetched Darlith once more, despite Valadan’s speed.

The wolf waited atop the headland, from which vantage he could mostly keep the woman and the black horse in sight, That was far easier to do once they had stopped running—he had been hard-pressed to keep close enough to track them as they galloped, and his lungs had been aiire for far too long a while after that race. Wolves are fairly tireless, but he was not wind-sired.

Thankfully, there was no present danger for him to fend off. The incoming ships would not get close enough to Porlark to fight for passage—in the narrow way, they could not offer any fight at all. There was no peril to the woman from the raiders—he had not sent her into danger, this time. He did not allow himself any relief over that.

When she rode out once more, he mistook the way, assuming wrongly that she would be bound for the farm. He looked over his shoulder and knew a1arm—there was no sign of any horse, any rider. The wolf loped back the way he had come till he spotted them at last, going in what he felt certain was the wrong direction, but after the second steading was visited, he saw clear enough what the game was and relaxed. Unless they stumbled across raiders strayed from the main pack, there was no danger. He paid more heed to staying out of sight, too, after a farm dog scented him and came snapping after him, turning back only when the poor brave beast came close and saw plain what it had so rashly challenged.

Druyan snatched a few hours of sleep before ’twas time to rise for milking. The sun was just up as she crossed the yard, to see Kellis at the well, the dark bowl balanced percariously on his lap, his head drooping over it. A shudder went through him when Druyan put a hand on his shoulder. He raised his face to hers, and his expression was despairing.

“Far up a river, somewhere,” he whispered bleakly. “I couldn’t see open ocean, only the river winding out of sight.”

“Show me,” Druyan ordered, weariness forgotten. She had not expected another alarm so soon, but surely that was foolish. She had denied the raiders the Mousehole; they had to go somewhere else.

Kellis shook his head. “I can’t get it back. I have been trying till I’m dizzy.” He had not wanted to look at all, worn out and short of sleep as he was, unlikely to succeed at understanding—but the vision had demanded his attention, just as he had feared it might. “They bumed something, Lady, I could see that much.” Nothing to go on, except ’twas trouble for someone, somewhere.

“If it was a long way inland, it would need to be one of the deeper rivers,” Druyan speculated. “Most of them don’t run more than a few leagues before they’re too shallow or too rough for ships. Maybe they got up the Fal. If they left Falkerry itself alone, maybe they could slip past the watch. If there was fog . . .” There often was, on the coast.

“There was a town,” Kellis declared. He frowned, trying to sift out more details, significant landmarks. Whatever those might be. He’d only had an instant’s glimpse. “And a lot of rocks in the river. The water went white.”

“The Fal’s known for its rapids,” Druyan mused. “It’s broad and it’s deep, but you can’t ship as far upriver as the merchants would like, because ships can’t get through the rapids. The river runs a long way after, but it’s no use to ships from the sea. There’s a cattle market, they drive beasts there, so ships can take the beef—”

She arose and went to fetch her saddle. Kellis staggered after her, full of foreboding. “Lady, be careful. This one feels different? He could not have said how, but his head was near to bursting, and the edges of objects were haloed with light, though the sun was scarcely over the horizon. His hair clung damply to his forehead and cheeks, but he felt cold all over. When last a vision had repaid him so for viewing it, what had it meant? Future or irretrievable past? He should know. He should have learned. “I don’t think there’s very much time.”

In fact, there was no time at all.

Teilo had been a prosperous cattle market, where beasts were gathered, sold, slaughtered and butchered and salted, then shipped down the Fal to many markets. There were tanneries to begin making use of the hides, a whole guild of leatherworkers to finish off the process. There were saddlers and harnessmakers by the score. Many a rich merchant dwelt there, in a home well appointed by his wealth. Druyan caught the smell of smoke from those homes on the sultry wind as she neared the river. The glow of the flames had been invisible, obscured by the new-risen sun. The same sun now showed the disaster plain. Her broad hands tightened on Valadan’s reins.

Perhaps the raiders had fired only a building or two, for a diversion while they plundered. But the fire had spread while Teilo’s folk had struggled to chase off the thieves, and in the end the flames had taken most of the town. Smokesmothered cattle choked the holding pens. Others, fortunate enough to escape through weak fences, had run bawling through the streets, adding confusion, trampling folk fighting the fires. Everything of any value had been carted off, along with a few of the women. Fifty men were dead of the fighting, and the tally of those caught in the flames would run near as high when there was time to number them. Somewhere a dog howled disconsolately.

As Druyan was turning for home, heartsick, she spied two riders cantering over the moors and caught a glimpse of sea-blue tunics. She legged Valadan toward them, urging him to make good speed to intercept them.

The post riders caught sight of her and swerved to meet her the more quickly. Their faces were grave—the smoke rising from what had been Teilo was unmistakably ill news.

“How soon may word be got to the duke?” Druyan asked, when the Riders had taken a few moments to gaze upon the destruction. She had told them of the attempt on Porlark—though she pretended only to have heard of it from another. They would never have believed that she could have seen it, then been at Teilo next day. Even used to Valadan’s swiftness, she herself still marveled at it.

“We will carry the news to our next way-station, Lady,” the senior Rider said. “A message can be sent direct to Keverne from there. It should reach the duke by sunfall.”

“For what good ’twill do,” the second Rider interjected bitterly. “Those who did this deed are back on the sea roads, where the army can’t touch them. Brioc has a thousand men armed and in the field—and still this happens!’ He gestured wildly at the wreckage on the banks of the Fal, and his horse reacted by flinging up its head and plunging against the bit.

“I know,” Druyan said, smiling without humor. “All the men of my freehold are kept with the duke’s army meanwhile my farm is raided. Those men would have been far more use to me than to my uncle.”

The senior Rider squinted at her. “Lady, I think I should know vou.”

She should perchance have known his name, also, but did not. “You are acquainted with my brother, I suspect. We are colored something alike, and Robart’s one of you.”

The Rider’s face split with a grin. “Of course! I’ll say this, though, Lady—the captain’s not so well mounted as you.”

Valadan arched his neck, playing with the bit till it jingled, accepting the homage. Druyan patted his shoulder indulgently.

“See you stay aboard him,” the Rider advised soberly. “I’d arrange you an escort home, if I could. There’s no knowing where those bastards will strike next.”

But there was, Druyan mused as she jogged homeward under a glooming sky. Teilo notwithstanding, she had the means to know what they must guard, where and when. And the post riders, faster than any army of a thousand footsoldiers, had means to spread that knowledge quickly. Surely twoscore of Riders could accomplish more than one solitary rider—even if they could never be mounted on Valadan’s equals.

Next time Druyan rode out from Splaine Garth, she was bound for Keverne.

The bundle tied securely behind her high-cantled saddle contained a gown made of Druyan’s own weaving—its soft wool dyed a pale green with lady’s mantle, embroidered about the hem with a pattern of blue waves. It was her best gown, and nothing less would do for an audience with her uncle.

That interview was a frightful risk—if it led to the discovery that she was attempting to freehold Travic’s land, there was yet ample time for Splaine Garth to be taken from her. The duke himself could urge a marriage upon his niece if he apprehended the situation, and he would surely do so. There were always men about people and places of power expecting payment in land for their service and loyalty. Druyan could easily be used to settle such indebtedness, and would be utterly helpless to prevent it.

Still, her uncle might not guess how matters stood. Travic’s rank had not been especially high. Other men had fallen when he did, and there had been great confusion afterward, as the army was gathered and moved about. Perchance the duke knew naught of his death. Perchance he knew, but had not connected it with one of his numerous nieces. Certainly Druyan was not about to inquire and give up the game while she still had a chance to win it.

She let Valadan canter when they reached the broad beaches that flanked Keverne. There had been no need to use the utmost of his speed—if she arrived at Keverne too soon, no one would believe she had been at Teilo, and her report of it would be suspect. Even the men who had seen her there would be confused, and ’twas risky enough explaining why she’d been there at all. She had rested for three rainy days at Splaine Garth, telling Kellis what she proposed to do, leaving orders for the work to be done in her absence.

Kellis was carving a spoon out of a branch from one of the wind-downed apple trees. It had an ordinary roundish bowl, but he was leaving the handle fat, shaping it to fill a hand so that sore fingers need not grasp tightly to have a secure grip. When his own hands had been at their worst, small objects had given him a great deal of misery—he’d been able to manage a hoe better than a spoon. He had seen Enna weeping that morning, as she struggled to stir the cooking porridge. If the tool helped her, he would make others, spoons and ladles and forks. He could make knife hafts, as well, he supposed—but he didn’t much care whether Enna could grip iron weapons painlessly.

His little bronze knife teased fragrant shavings from the wood. Every pan of an apple tree smelled pleasant, not only the blossoms and the fruit. Kellis was glad that even the ruined tree would have a use, beyond brief winter fires. A spoon was more lasting than a little heat, a swirl of smoke up the chimney. . .

Smoke like that from the town he had seen aflame, too late to save it. Well, the worst he had feared had come to pass—he had given a fruitless warning. The lady had at least not reproached him for it. She knew how little he liked her riding out with warnings on the strength of his predictions—now she knew why, as well.

He watched the spoon taking shape under his knife, with pauses now and then for sketching the charm of keen edge onto the bronze blade. The grain of the applewood made a pattern like an eye, looking back at him out of the bowl. Kellis became uncomfortable with the scrutiny and turned the spoon to shape the backside, which had no eyes to watch him, to see his thoughts.

If I go, she wouldn’t ride out into any more trouble
. True, an Eral captain might chance upon Splaine Garth itself again, but that risk was less likely, less constant. There was no doubting it—she would be safer if he went.

He had given her his word that he’d stay—but set against his other sins, oath-breaking scarcely seemed to matter. His clan would not sit in judgment upon him. And if he reached the Wizards’ City, no one there would know.

lf he went, he would be doing it for her good as well as his own—it was perilously easy to convince himself of that.

Kellis had been distressed by her determination to continue riding out with warnings, but he liked better her scheme to ask her uncle for mounted patrols, Druyan thought. No real wonder there—a force with scope enough to do what the army could not against a fast-striking enemy didn’t hinge so tightly on depending upon what Kellis himself did not trust. Still, there had been a haunted look in his eyes when she’d told him, and Druyan had no notion whether he’d be at Splaine Garth when she returned. He’d be out from under her eye, and if he chose to break his pledged word, there was nothing to hold him. There was nothing she could do about it. The man would stay, or he would go. She could not solve his riddle, could not guess what his choice would be.

Seabirds wheeled overhead, crying mournfully. Valadan outran them, leaping a snarl of driftwood as if he had been winged with feathers, too. Druyan laughed as they landed. She missed riding full tilt along a strip of fine white sand—at Splaine Garth sea met land in a tangle of quaggy soil and twisty river channels, and to ride through at other than a careful walk was insanity. Glasgerion, where she was born and raised, had broad beaches such as these, and she had regretted leaving them, all these years.

She had missed them rather more than she missed her husband, so much more recently reft from her. She never thought of Travic now, except to wonder how he would have done a particular chore, and she found that faintly shocking. She could scarcely recall him as a living man. The timbre of his voice was gone from her memory. Her skin did not recall his hand’s touch. When she strove to bring him to mind, all she could manage was a sort of general shape, and never a face on it at all. The dirt and stones heaped over his burial place had begun to sink, and he faded from her memory as swiftly, as inexorably. And she must go to Keverne as if he yet lived. It seemed impossible.

Valadan galloped through the frothy edge of the water, sending spray flying high. Druyan pulled the stallion upshe needed to catch her own breath, to compose herself before she reached the castle. Her face was wet with saltwater—the sea’s tears or her own, she could not tell.

If he was going, the soonest start would buy him the most time, the greatest distance. Time and distance were his best insurance against being run down by that incredible horse.