White Wolf (11 page)

You seem very sad,” said Rabalyn, moving to sit opposite Braygan at the dining table. The deserted house was cheerless, as if yearning for the people who had deserted it in fear.

“I am sad, Rabalyn. It hurts my heart to see such violence. That family back there were not soldiers. They grew crops and they loved one another. I cannot understand how people can commit such acts of evil.”

Rabalyn said nothing. He had killed Todhe, and killing was evil. Even so he now
knew
how such acts began. Rage, grief, and fear had propelled him into the murder of Todhe. And Todhe himself had been angry with him, which is why he had set fire to the house. Lost in thought Rabalyn sat quietly at the table.

Braygan stared around the large room. It had been carefully constructed, originally of logs, but the inner walls had been plastered. The floor was hard-packed clay, but someone had etched designs upon it, spirals and circles that had then been dusted with powdered red clay, creating crimson patterns. Everything about the room spoke of care and love. The furniture had not been crafted by a trained carpenter, but had been carved and adorned by someone trying hard to master the skills; someone willing to add small individual touches to the pieces. A clumsy rose had been carved into the back of one of the chairs, and what might have been an ear of corn had been started on another. A family had tried to make a life here, filling the room with evidence of their love. Initials had been carved into the beam above the hearth. “I think I would like the people who lived here, Rabalyn,” he said. “I hope they are safe.”

Rabalyn nodded, but still said nothing. He didn’t know these people, and, truth to tell, he didn’t much care if they were safe or not. Rising he wandered about the house, seeking any food that might have been left behind. In a deep larder he found some pottery jars with cork stoppers. Removing one he looked inside. It was filled with honey. Rabalyn dipped his finger into it and licked it greedily. The silky sweetness on his tongue was beyond pleasureable. Aunt Athyla had used honey in her baking, but Rabalyn’s favorite snack was to toast stale bread over the fire, then smear it with honey. Finding a wooden spoon Rabalyn sat down in the kitchen and scooped out several spoonfuls. After a while the sweetness began to cloy on his tongue. Putting aside the jar he walked outside to the well, and drew up a bucket of water. Drinking deeply he washed away the sugary taste.

Then he saw Brother Lantern riding toward the house. He was leading two other horses.

He walked out to meet the warrior. The horses looked huge, quite unlike the shaggy ponies to be seen back in Skepthia. Rabalyn stepped aside as they passed. They loomed above him and he reached out to stroke the flank of the nearest. Its chestnut-colored coat gleamed and its powerful muscles rippled under his hand.

Brother Lantern rode past Rabalyn without a word and dismounted at the house, tethering the horses to a post. Rabalyn followed him as he walked inside. Braygan looked up. “Did you discover any more victims?” he asked.

“No. We have horses. Do you ride?”

“I once rode a pony around a paddock.”

“These are not ponies. These are warhorses, highly trained and intelligent. They will expect equal intelligence from you. Come outside. It will not be safe to stay here long, but we will risk a short training period.”

“I would just as soon walk,” said Braygan.

“There are three dead Datians back there,” said the warrior, “and they will be discovered before long. Walking is no longer an option. Follow me.”

Once outside he gestured to Rabalyn, and helped him mount the chestnut gelding he had stroked moments earlier. “Kick your feet from the stirrups,” said Brother Lantern. Rabalyn did so, glancing down as the warrior adjusted the height of each stirrup. “Gently take hold of the reins. Remember that the horse’s mouth is tender, so no savage jerking or pulling.” He led the horse away from the others, then glanced back at Rabalyn. “Do not grip with your legs. Sit easy. Now merely walk him around for a while.” Releasing his hold on the bridle Skilgannon moved back to where Braygan was standing.

“These horses don’t like me,” said Braygan.

“That is because you are standing there staring at them. Come forward. Keep your movements slow and easy.” He helped the priest to mount, then adjusted his stirrups, repeating the advice he had given to Rabalyn.

Lastly Brother Lantern stepped smoothly into the saddle of a steeldust gelding and rode alongside the two nervous novices. “The horse has four gaits,” he said, “walk, trot, canter, and gallop. Walking, as we are now doing, is simple. You just sit lightly in the saddle. The trot is not so simple. The horse will break into what is known as a two-time gait.”

“What does that mean?” asked Braygan.

“The horse will spring from one diagonally opposite pair of legs to the other. Near-fore and off-hind together, then off-fore and near-hind. This will create a bouncing effect and your backsides will be pummeled until you learn to move with the rhythm. Stay tall in the saddle. Do not slouch.”

They spent an hour on the open fields behind the farmhouse. Rabalyn learned swiftly, and even cantered his mount briefly at one point. For Braygan the entire exercise was a nightmare.

“If I strapped a dead man to the saddle he’d show more rhythm than you,” said the warrior. “What is wrong with you?”

“I am frightened. I don’t want to fall off.”

“Kick your feet from the stirrups.” Braygan did so. “Now let go of the reins.” Once more Braygan obeyed him. Brother Lantern suddenly clapped his hands and yelled. Braygan’s horse reared then broke into a run. The movement was so sudden that the priest fell backward, turning a somersault before striking the soft earth. Shakily he climbed to his feet. “There,” said the warrior. “Now you have fallen off. As ever the fear of it was not matched by the actuality.”

“You could have broken my neck.”

“True. The one certainty about riding, Braygan, is that—at some time—you will fall off. It is a fact. Another fact you might like to consider, in your life of perpetual terror, is that you will die. We are all going to die, some of us young, some of us old, some of us in our sleep, some of us screaming in agony. We cannot stop it, we can only delay it. And now it is time to move on. I’d like to reach those far hills by dusk. We can find a campsite in the trees.”

6

Rabalyn enjoyed the day’s ride more than he could express. He knew that he would always remember it with enormous affection. If he was lucky enough to live until he grew old he would look back to this day as one of the great, defining days of his life. It was an effort not to let the horse have its head and ride off at ferocious speed toward the distant hills. As he sat in the saddle he could feel the power of the beast beneath him. It was awesome. As Brother Lantern had instructed him he chatted to the gelding, keeping his voice low and soothing. The gelding’s ears would flick back as he spoke, as if listening and understanding. Rabalyn patted its sleek neck. At one point he drew rein and let the others ride on for a while, then gently heeled the gelding into a run. Exhilaration swept through him as he settled into the saddle, adjusting his rhythm so that there was no painful bouncing. He and the horse were one—and they were fast and strong. No one could catch them.

As he approached the others he tried to rein in. But the gelding was at full gallop now and swept on by them, ignoring his commands. Even then, with the horse bolting, Rabalyn felt no fear. A wild excitement roared through him. Dragging on the reins he began to shout: “Whoa boy. Whoa!” The horse seemed to run even faster.

Brother Lantern’s steeldust came galloping alongside. “Don’t drag on the reins, boy,” he shouted. “It will only numb his mouth. Gently turn him to the right. As he turns keep applying gentle tugs to the reins.” Rabalyn followed the orders. Slowly the gelding began to angle to the right. He slowed to a canter and then a trot. Finally, with the gentlest of tugs the gelding halted, alert and waiting for the next instruction.

“Well done,” said the warrior, drawing rein a little way from Rabalyn. “You will be a fine rider.”

“Why did he bolt? Was he frightened of something?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know of what. You have to understand, Rabalyn, that a horse in the wild uses its speed to avoid danger. When you pushed him to the gallop ancestral memories took over. He was running fast, therefore he was in danger. Panic can set in very fast in a horse. That is why the rider must always be in control. When he broke into that run you relaxed and gave him his head. Thus, left to his own devices, he panicked.”

“It was a wonderful feeling. He is so fast. I bet he could have been a racer.”

“He is a young warhorse,” said the man, with a smile, “skittish and a little nervous. A Ventrian pureblood would leave him for dead in a flat race. On a battlefield the Ventrian would be a liability. It is not as mobile and its fleetness can be a hazard. But, yes, he is a fine mount for a young man in open country.”

“Should I give him a name, Brother Lantern?”

“Call me Skilgannon. And, yes, you can call him what you will. If you have him long enough he will come to recognize it.”

Braygan approached them at an awkward trot, the young priest bouncing in the saddle, his arms flapping. “Some men are not made to ride,” said Skilgannon softly. “I am beginning to feel sorry for that horse.”

With that he swung his mount and continued toward the hills.

By late afternoon they were climbing ever higher into wooded hills. Through breaks in the trees, Rabalyn could see a vast plain below them to the northwest. He saw also columns of people walking, and occasionally mounted troops. They were too far away to identify as friend or foe. Rabalyn didn’t care which they were. His gelding was faster than the winter wind.

That night they camped at the base of a cliff. Skilgannon allowed no fire, but the night was warm and pleasant. A search of the saddlebags produced two wooden-handled brushes and Skilgannon showed Braygan and Rabalyn how to unsaddle the mounts and then groom them. Lastly he led the horses out a little way to where the grass was thick and green. Then, with short ropes also from the saddlebags, he hobbled them and left them to feed.

Braygan was complaining about his sore legs and bruised backside, but Skilgannon paid no attention, and soon the young priest wrapped himself in a blanket and settled down to sleep. The night sky was clear, the stars brilliantly bright. Skilgannon walked a little way from the camp and was sitting alone. Normally Rabalyn would not disturb him, but the man had—for the first time—spoken in a friendly way after Rabalyn’s horse bolted. So, with just a hint of trepidation, Rabalyn walked across to where the warrior was sitting. As he came up Skilgannon glanced back. His gaze was once more cold and distant.

“You want something?”

“No,” said Rabalyn, instantly turning away.

“Come and join me, boy,” said Skilgannon, his voice softening. “I am not the ogre I appear.”

“You seem very angry all the time.”

“That would be a fair judgment,” agreed Skilgannon. “Sit down. I’ll try not to snap at you.” Rabalyn sat on the ground, but could think of nothing to say. The silence grew, and yet Rabalyn found it comfortable. He looked up at the warrior. He no longer seemed so daunting.

“Is it hard being a monk?” he asked, after a while.

“Is it hard being a boy?” countered Skilgannon.

“Very.”

“I fear that answer could be given by any man, in any position. Life itself is hard. But, yes, I found it especially difficult. The studies were easy enough, and quite enjoyable. The philosophy, on the other hand, was exquisitely impenetrable. We were ordered to love the unlovable.”

“How do you do that?”

“You’re asking the wrong man.”

“That is blood on your neck,” said Rabalyn.

“A scratch from an idiot. It is nothing.”

“What will you do when you get to Mellicane?”

Skilgannon looked at him, then smiled. “I shall leave as soon as possible.”

“Can I go with you?”

“What about your parents?”

“They don’t care about me. Never did, really. I only said I was looking for them so you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

“Ah,” said Skilgannon. “Very wise—for I would have.”

“What will you do now you are not a monk?”

“You are full of questions, Rabalyn. Are you not tired after a day in the saddle?”

“A little, but it is very peaceful sitting here. So what
will
you do?”

“Head north toward Sherak. There is a temple there—or it might be there. I don’t know. But I will seek it.”

“And become a monk again?”

“No. Something even more foolish.”

“What?”

“It is a secret,” said Skilgannon, softly. “All men should have at least one secret. Maybe I will tell you one day. For now, though, go and sleep. I need to think.”

Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet and walked back to where Braygan lay. The young priest was snoring softly. Rabalyn lay down, his head resting on his arm.

And dreamed of riding through clouds on the back of a golden horse.

Skilgannon watched the lad walk away, and, for the first time in many weeks, felt a sense of peace settle on his troubled soul. He had not been so different from Rabalyn. As a youngster his mind was also full of questions, and his father had rarely been home to answer them. Why did men fight wars? Why were some people rich and some poor? If there was a great god watching over the world why were there diseases? Why did people die so unnecessarily? His mother had died in childbirth, bearing a sickly daughter. Skilgannon was seven years old. The baby had followed her two days later. They were buried in the same grave. Then—as now—Skilgannon had no answers to his questions.

He was tired, and yet he knew sleep would not come. Lying down on the soft earth he stretched out on his back, his arms behind his head, his hands pillowing his neck. The stars were brilliantly bright, and a crescent moon shone. It reminded him of the earring Greavas wore. He smiled at the memory of that sad, strange man, and recalled the winter evenings when Greavas had sat by the fireside and played his lyre, singing songs and ballads of glorious days gone by. He had a sweet, high voice, which had served him well in his days as an actor, playing the part of the heroine.

“Why don’t they just have women playing women?” the boy Skilgannon had wanted to know.

“It is unseemly for women to perform in public, my dear. And if they did what would have become of my career?”

“What
did
become of it?” asked the eleven-year-old.

“They said I was too old to play the lead, Olek. Look at me. How old do I look?”

“It is hard to tell,” the boy had said.

“I could still pass for twenty-five, don’t you think?”

“Except for the eyes,” said the boy. “Your eyes look older.”

“Never ask a child for flattery,” snapped Greavas. “Anyway, I gave up the playhouses.”

Decado had hired Greavas to teach Skilgannon to dance. The boy had been horrified.

“Why, Father? I want to be a warrior like you.”

“Then learn to dance,” Decado had told him, on a rare visit home.

Skilgannon had become angry. “All my friends are laughing at me. And at you. They say you’ve brought a man-woman to live with you. People see him walking with me in the street and they shout out insults.”

“Whoa there, boy. Let’s deal with this one at a time,” said Decado, his expression darkening. “First the dancing. If you want to be a swordsman you’ll need balance and coordination. There is no better way of honing that than to learn to dance. Greavas is a brilliant dancer and a fine teacher. He is the best. I always hire the best. As to what your friends say, why should either of us care about that?”

“But I
do
care.”

“That is because you are young, and there is a great deal of foolish pride in the young. Greavas is a good man, kind and strong. He is a friend to this family, and we will brook no insults to our friends.”

“Why do you have such strange friends? It embarrasses me.”

“When you speak like this it embarrasses
me
. You listen to me, Olek. There will always be men who select their friends for reasons of advancement, either socially, militarily, or politically. They will tell you to avoid a certain man’s company because he is out of favor, or his family is poor. Or, indeed, because his life is lived in a manner some people find unbecoming. As a soldier I judge my men by what they can do. By how much guts they have. When it comes to friends all that matters is whether I like them. I like Greavas. I think you will come to like him too. If you don’t that is too bad. You will still learn to dance. And I will expect you to stand up for him with your friends.”

“I won’t have any friends left if he stays,” snapped the eleven-year-old.

“Then you won’t have lost anything worthwhile. True friends stand with you, regardless of the ridicule of others. You’ll see.”

The following weeks had been hard for Skilgannon. At eleven years old the respect of his peers was everything to him. He responded to the jeers and the jibes with his fists, and soon only Askelus remained his friend. The boy he most admired, the thirteen-year-old Boranius, tried to reason with him.

“A man is judged by the company he keeps, Olek,” he said, one afternoon, in the physical-training area. “Now people think you are a catamite, and that your father is a pervert. The reality is immaterial. You must decide what means most to you—the admiration of your friends, or the loyalty of a servant.”

At that tender age Skilgannon longed to be able to side with his peers. Yet the most important person in his young life was his father, whom he loved. “Will I lose your friendship also, Boranius?”

“Friendship carries responsibilities, Olek. Both ways. A true friend would not wish to put me in a position to be scorned. If you ask me to stand alongside you, then of course I will.”

Skilgannon had not asked him, and had kept away from the young athlete’s company.

Askelus remained. Dark-eyed and brooding, he said nothing about the situation. He called at Skilgannon’s home, and together they walked to school.

“Are you not ashamed to be seen with me?” asked Skilgannon one day.

“Why would I be?”

“Everyone else is.”

“Never liked the others much anyway.” It was then that Skilgannon discovered that—apart from the loss of Boranius—he felt the same. Added to this his father proved to be right; he had begun to appreciate and like Greavas. And this despite the man’s mocking tone during dance lessons. He had taken to calling Skilgannon “Hippo.”

“You have all the inherent grace of a hippopotamus, Olek. I swear you have two left feet.”

“I am doing my best.”

“Sadly I believe that is true. I had hoped to complete your studies by the summer. I now see I have taken on a lifetime commitment.”

Yet week by week Skilgannon had improved, and the exercises Greavas set him strengthened his legs and upper body. Soon he could leap and twirl and land in perfect balance. The dancing also improved his speed, and he won two races at school. The last was his greatest joy, for his father was there to see him, and he beat Boranius in the half mile sprint. Decado had been delighted. Skilgannon’s joy was tempered by the fact that the older Boranius had run with his ankle heavily strapped, following an injury sustained the previous week.

That evening Decado had once more set off to the Matapesh borders, and Skilgannon had sat with Greavas in the west-facing gardens. Two other servants had sat with them. Sperian and his wife, Molaire, had served Decado for five years now. Molaire was a large, middle-aged woman, with sparkling eyes and deep auburn hair, touched now with silver. Constantly good-natured she would, at times like this, chatter on about the flowers and the brightly colored birds that nested in the flowering trees. Sperian, who maintained the gardens, would sit quietly staring out over the blooms and the pathways, making judgments about which areas to prune, and where to plant his new seedlings. Skilgannon enjoyed these evenings of quiet companionship.

On this night Sperian commented on the medal Skilgannon wore. “Was it a good race?” he asked.

“Boranius had an injured foot. He would have beaten me otherwise.”

“It is a lovely ribbon,” said Molaire. “A very pretty blue.”

“I fear he does not care about the color of the ribbon, my dear,” said Greavas. “His mind is on the victory, and the defeat of his opponents. His name will now be inscribed on a shield hung in the school halls. Olek Skilgannon, Victor.”