Witchlanders (15 page)

“Kar's breath!”

The sword and scabbard flew out of Falpian's grasp as he launched himself backward into a snowdrift. Panicked, he floundered after the weapon, then turned back to the tree, expecting to see some witch warrior rise up, poised for attack. Nothing. Panting, he edged toward the area
where the thing had touched him. It was still there, low to the ground, poking out of the snow—a gloved hand. He nudged it with the sharp tip of the sword. It was limp.

Keeping the weapon in readiness to strike, Falpian dug around the hand. There was a little cave under the snow, a little cave with branches for flooring. Inside, a large person was curled up in a ball. When he saw a shock of blond hair, Falpian jumped back again, pointing the sword. A Witchlander! The man wasn't conscious, though, and his lips had an alarming blue tint. Grabbing Falpian's leg must have taken his last bit of strength, a gesture to save his life, not an attack. He had dug himself a shelter—Falpian had read of this in survival texts. In the storm he must not have realized that he was only steps away from the house.

“That's quite a nose you've got, Bodread,” Falpian said gravely. The dog sat a few footfalls away, gazing at him with unruffled curiosity. Falpian knew he should probably just turn around and walk back into the cottage. Either that or use the sword to end the stranger quick. Bo gave a whistling whine, stared at Falpian with liquid eyes.

“I know, I know, but we can't be soft. He could be a witch.”

He wasn't wearing reds, though. And Falpian couldn't help but be reminded of another limp form, of a body washed up on the beach—hair matted, lips blue. The sudden vividness of the memory made him wince. Hadn't he
wished a thousand times he could have done something to save his brother?

“All right, but just remember this was your idea,” he told the dog.

He propped the sword up against the tree, then grabbed the stranger under the armpits and heaved. He was heavy. Probably pure muscle.

Both of the man's boots came off as Falpian struggled toward the house. The cold air was painful in his lungs, and by the time he reached his door, he was covered in icy sweat. Bo followed a few steps behind, wagging his tail like a flag.

Falpian pulled the heavy body through the kitchen, snagging the round carpet with the stranger's feet and dragging it along with them.

“Build up a fire,” he ordered, forgetting for a moment that there was no servant to hear. When he got to the bedroom, he laid the stranger down on the floor and quickly threw some logs on top of the glowing embers. He unbuttoned the man's coat and lifted his arms from the sleeves. Then, grunting with the effort, he half pushed, half rolled him onto the bed.

Falpian didn't like what he had to do next, but he knew damp clothes could be deadly. He pinched the man's socks off one by one, keeping them at arm's length as he
set them to dry on the bedroom fire screen. He decided to leave the shirt, but he had no choice about the leggings—they were soaked. Gingerly he undid the stranger's belt and pulled his leggings off at the ankles. Luckily he was wearing woolens underneath—and Falpian decided he wasn't
touching
those.

Bo jumped up and pressed his long body right up against the Witchlander's.

“Stop that, Bo,” Falpian said. “Get down.”

The dog stared at Falpian but didn't move. Nose to tail, he was even longer than the stranger. Falpian snapped his fingers and motioned to the floor, but Bo only blinked.

“Fine. Sleep with a Witchlander. Don't blame me if he gives you fleas.”

He covered both man and dog with blankets and went outside to retrieve the boots and sword. When he came back to the bedroom, the stranger was already shivering. Shivering was good; it meant his body was warming up. But it also meant that Falpian didn't have long to decide what to do. He sat down at the edge of the bed to stare at the person he had found.

He was a Witchlander, all right, not some mixed-blood peasant or a Baen man tanned by the sun. Falpian had seen a few before. There were Witchlander sailors who sometimes traded illegally in the port cities, and
a friend of his mother's had Witchlander servants from before the war. He'd never been so close to one, though.

Tentatively he reached out to touch the stranger's hair. It was so blond. Almost white, like an old man's. His eyes must be blue as sky, Falpian thought, but he didn't quite have the courage to open them up and look.

It's always best to assume the witches know every move we make, and every move we're going to make.
Bron's words rang in Falpian's mind.

True, the stranger wasn't wearing reds, but the witches might have sent him, or he might be in disguise. It was a stupid thing Falpian had done, saving a Witchlander. After all, it wasn't just Bo and himself he was putting in jeopardy. It was the mission. It was whatever was in the scroll. This wasn't really his brother washed up on the shore. But then again . . .

“Bo, he's got no beard!”

The stranger was so big and broad that Falpian had assumed him to be a full-grown man. Now he wasn't sure. Witchlanders never shaved—everyone knew that—but the stranger's face was as smooth as a girl's. Relief swept over him. He'd done the right thing. The witches wouldn't send a boy, would they?

“Maybe he's just some farmer's son or goatherd lost in the snow. Maybe . . .”

The stranger opened his eyes, and Falpian jumped
from the bed with a cry. He'd been right. His eyes were blue. They were daggers made of sky.

For a long moment, Falpian stood frozen. As clear as a word in a book, he could read the hatred in the Witchlander's frigid gaze. It terrified him. Then the stranger's eyes fluttered. His head sank back against the pillow, and he was unconscious again. Falpian realized he'd been holding his breath.

“We're fools, Bo,” he said coldly. “A goatherd or a farmer's boy wouldn't bring a sword.”

All his doubts about what to do with the stranger had flown away.

CHAPTER 11
THE CROUCHING SPIDER

He was in a field of swaying golden plants with round berries growing close along the stem. He slid his hand down the stalks so that the berries came loose. One stalk, then another. He'd done this many times before. Falpian wasn't alone in this dream. Somewhere in the rows, a young man was singing in a deep, throaty baritone.

Falpian followed the voice down a hill, and as he went the soil under his feet grew sandy and white. The tall plants disappeared.
This is my dream now,
Falpian said to himself. The singing man was gone, but he still heard the echoes of the voice inside his head. In front of him was the ocean.

Falpian went to the very edge and let the waves lick over his bare toes. He knew this place. He came to the sea often in his dreams, to the place where his brother had drowned. “Hello?” he said. “Is someone there?” He never
knew quite who he hoped would answer. Farien? Or someone else that he'd been looking for?

Falpian waited. It was a perfect summer day: the sky infinite and blue, the water clear like glass. Then, a ripple, a shape. There was something out there. Something small and white was bobbing on the surface of the water. A bottle. A wave brought it to rest at his feet.

Falpian uncorked it and unrolled the note inside. It said,
I'm going to kill you
.

Falpian's eyes snapped open. It was late afternoon, and the room was growing dim. The chair he'd been dozing in was hard, and his back was sore.

“You're awake,” he said. The young man in the bed didn't move, but somehow Falpian knew he was right. The time had come. He went over in his mind all the things he'd learned about conducting an interrogation. Falpian had never understood why his tutors made him memorize such things. Now he knew. They kept you from having to think too hard about what you were doing; they made it easier to do unpleasant things.

One: Secure the prisoner.

He stood up to check the Witchlander's restraints. While his captive slept, Falpian had placed an iron collar around his neck and attached it to a thick chain—it was Bo's collar and leash, but Falpian never made him wear it.
He had replaced the fastening pin of the collar with a tiny padlock from his jewel casket, and the chain he had secured around the slats of the headboard. He'd tied the prisoner's hands and feet as well, but those restraints were hidden by the blanket. Falpian wondered now if the blanket was a mistake, a kindness his father would have scorned.

Bo lifted his head as Falpian approached. He rolled over, showing his belly, and Falpian rubbed it with a sigh. Dreadhounds were a special breed. They were supposed to know things, have an almost human wisdom—or so it was said—and yet Bo had hardly left the stranger's side. He seemed to have no idea that the prisoner was an enemy, that he posed any kind of threat. Falpian adored his dog, but he was starting to agree with his father's assessment: Bodread the Slayer was a lapdog in a dreadhound's body.

“I know you're awake,” Falpian said quietly. “I'm going to leave the room to let out my dog. When I come back, we will talk. Your chain is just long enough to reach the chamber pot, so if you want a moment of privacy, this is your only chance. As I'm sure you know by now, I've tied your hands and feet, but I think you'll manage.”

There was no answer, no movement from the prisoner. Falpian snapped his fingers, and this time Bo obeyed, thumping to the floor with his tail wagging.

When Falpian returned, he carried a silver tray on which stood a cut-glass goblet and a glass decanter. The
stranger was still in the bed, still exactly where he had been before. The chamber pot on the floor was empty, but all around it there were large, round blotches darkening the embroidered rug. The prisoner had pissed on the floor.

“The manners of Witchlanders are just as charming as I've always heard,” Falpian said archly.

The prisoner turned and glared at him, the pretense of sleeping over. “Really?” He touched his collar with tied hands. “Because I find Baen hospitality a bit disappointing.”

Falpian had to keep himself from stepping back. The hatred in the stranger's blue-eyed stare seemed to mingle with his dreams.

“That's necessary. I don't know who you are or why you're here. Explain yourself.” The prisoner turned to the wall.

Falpian set down the tray on a small table out of reach of the prisoner's chain. He poured himself some water from the glass decanter and sat down. He wished the stranger would turn over and look at him; he'd deliberately chosen a glass that would catch the light.

Two: Develop a persuasive argument.

“You must be thirsty, after your ordeal. I've read that when someone is lost in the snow, the need for water can be just as dangerous as cold.”

There was a pause. “Are you offering me a drink, or are you just talking?”

Falpian hesitated. “I don't mean to be cruel, but it would be foolish to give nourishment to someone who might be here to do me harm. If you tell me who you are and explain your reasons for crossing the border—”

The prisoner gave a short laugh. “Yes, yes, I understand now,” he interrupted. “Thank you, but I'm not thirsty.”

Falpian drank the water quickly and poured himself a second goblet full, holding the decanter high so the prisoner could hear the sound of the liquid splashing against the glass. “If your intentions were honorable, you would not hesitate to tell me what they were.”

The stranger wriggled to a sitting position. “You can pour that water over your head for all the good it will do. Maybe I just don't want to explain myself to a blackhair who takes me prisoner for no reason.”

Again, Falpian had to fight to hide his fear. How uncanny-looking Witchlanders were, with hair and eyebrows paler than their face. And were they all that big?

“You carry a sword,” Falpian said. He made his voice clipped and efficient and told himself that his fear didn't show. “Surely you can see my position. I could have let you die out there in the snow, but I didn't. I may be a blackhair, but I saved your life.”

The stranger shrugged. “I'm just a poor trader from Tandrass, if you must know. I was traveling to the villages along the border and became lost in the storm. As for the
sword, I always carry it.” He glared again. “Never know who you'll meet on the road.”

Falpian allowed himself a faint smile. Carefully he set down his glass and leaned forward. “Liar,” he said. “You're no trader. You are a hicca farmer. And this is the farthest you've ever been from home.”

The stranger's mouth dropped open.

Three: Know the prisoner.

It was the hands that had given him away. Falpian had been careful to examine the prisoner's roughly made clothes, the little pouch filled with tinder and flint and a few strips of dried meat—but when he'd seen the calluses he'd known: Only years in the hicca fields could make someone's hands so rough. The part about being far from home was a guess, but a logical guess, and one that had paid off.