‘He came to
see me off, you know,’ he said. ‘He introduced me to Master Storre,
just to make sure I really was going to join a fellowship bound for
the Eighth. That I wouldn’t change my mind at the last moment. He
was right, of course. If he hadn’t come, I’d probably be heading
for the Second right now.’
‘You’re a
remarkably brave man,’ Portron said. ‘And a remarkably foolish one,
too. It’s your life, lad, and you must learn to have the ordering
of it.’
As long as
you obey the Rule
, she thought.
Quirk hardly
seemed to hear the chantor. ‘I just hope I’m not tainted by the
lines,’ he said and wandered away to wash his plate in the
stream.
‘And I’m
wondering about the kind of man the lad’s father must be,’ Portron
said softly, ‘that he can’t even buy his son a pack horse and a
decent mount. A courier could afford better than that poor old
palfrey, surely.’
‘He could,’
she said, ‘but Camper Quinling’s as mean as a starving tomcat
that’s found a steak. His miserliness is legendary.’ She banged
down her plate in disgust. ‘Chantor,
why?
Why do we all have
to make this stupid, idiotic, dangerous journey? Why does Chantry
insist on it? Why does Quirk have to take this absurd ride when he
doesn’t want to? Why can’t we all stay in the stability we were
born in, if that’s what we want?’
‘You know what
the holy writings say—’
‘Oh yes, I’ve
heard them often enough. And if I believed all they say, I wouldn’t
believe in the Maker! How could I? How could I think that the being
who created the wonders of this world is also so stupid as to
insist that we make this journey to save our souls from eternal
damnation, just to prove our faith? He is surely not so petty, nor
so stupid.’
Portron drew
in a deep breath. ‘No, I don’t think he is. And it’s my belief
there’s a simple answer. Without the pilgrimage, few would come to
the Unstable. A handful of couriers, traders, adventurers, that’s
all. The Unstable would become wholly the Unmaker’s realm. Lord
Carasma would grow in strength, ultimately strong enough to destroy
all stability. The presence of pilgrims, ordinary people
worshipping the Maker, curbs the Unmaker’s power. Each of us brings
a little piece of Order and the Maker with us when we come. We are
stronger than we know and we weaken him, and that’s why the Maker
bade us undertake the Pilgrimage. It’s the only explanation that
makes any sense.’
And it did
make sense, of a sort. She lapsed into silence to consider it.
Portron chatted on, somehow changing the subject to an involved
reminiscence of how he had fallen off the roof of the Drumlin
Chantry House in a thunderstorm.
Keris heard
none of it.
~~~~~~~
And I say unto
you, beware the Ley, for ley is a force of the universe that can
unmake the created, remould the flesh and lie in the hand of Lord
Carasma as a thread to be a noose for humankind. Yet remember too
that the Maker is loving, and so within the heart of that which
wreaks devastation can be found the hope of salvation for the
wise.
—Generations
II: 3: 3 & 4
Davron Storre
led them to the top of a small ridge that evening, and it was there
he called a halt for the night. Keris looked around the place with
an odd sense of familiarity. She recognised it, for all that she
had never been there before. Piers had always used it as a
triangulation point when mapping the area. Baraine of Valmair,
predictably, protested about its exposed position and the
meagreness of the amount of water that trickled out of the spring
on its slopes. Nor would he accept Davron’s tersely given reason
for the choice, ‘It’s safe.’
When he began
to question Davron’s ability to lead a fellowship, and the guide
turned a gaze on him that was as black as pitch, Keris stepped in
without really thinking. ‘It’s a fixed feature,’ she said. ‘That’s
any place impervious to ley change, or nearly so. It’s as safe a
haven as can be found anywhere in the Unstable.’
Baraine stared
scornfully at her. ‘How in Creation could you know that?’
She
deliberately misunderstood him. ‘Because we’re leaving footprints.’
The others looked down. It was true: there were footmarks and hoof
prints everywhere.
Quirk looked
up in quick interest. ‘I’ve heard of them! There are other places
like this in different parts of the Unstable. Most halts are built
on fixed features. The funny thing about them is that they’re
almost always a similar size, and although the Unstable eats away
at the edges, they are almost always straight-sided. Queer, huh?’
Then, when he saw that everyone had transferred their attention to
him, he started to blush and subsided, pulling uncomfortably at the
neck of his shirt. Hurriedly he turned away to fetch his tent and
the others drifted off to unload their pack animals.
As Keris began
to unbuckle her own packs, she found Davron regarding her steadily
over Tousson’s back. She had the sense that for the first time he
was actually
seeing
her, as a person, a personality. A
woman, not a child. A thinking human being, not a faceless entity
he was guiding. ‘Kaylen’s map shop,’ he said. ‘You were serving in
Kaylen’s map shop.’
He had finally
recognised her. She nodded.
He continued
to regard her. His expression was strange, as if he was having to
rummage around for the right words to say. Finally one side of his
mouth quirked up in a lop-sided expression that wasn’t quite a
smile. ‘Ah—,’ he said, ‘—I won’t tell if you don’t.’
She stared.
‘Pardon?’
‘I won’t tell
anyone you stole the horses if you don’t tell anyone that cats
don’t like me.’
She was
speechless for a moment. How did he know? Then: he couldn’t; he was
guessing. Perhaps he had no idea she was Piers’ daughter; perhaps
he thought she was a shop assistant who’d taken the opportunity
provided by Piers’ death to steal the horses. She blushed
furiously.
‘Bull’s-eye,’
he murmured.
‘Why don’t
cats like you?’ she blurted.
‘I tie sticks
to their tails when no one’s looking.’
She stared,
trying to fathom through the nonsense what he really wanted. It
should have all been a joke, but she knew it wasn’t. Her cat had
been terrified, and he really didn’t want anyone to know. Once
again she felt his shame. It was agony for him to have this
conversation, and she had no idea why. ‘You’ll have to try and curb
the desire next time,’ she said, hardly aware if she was making
sense. The conversation was absurd, but somehow the undercurrents
ran deep and dark.
He strove for
lightness. ‘Oh, I will, I will.’
‘Your secret’s
safe with me then,’ she said, but her flippancy was forced.
He sketched a
kinesis of thanks and turned away, but not before she had seen the
beginnings of a flush creep up his neck.
Oh
Creation
, she thought,
what was all that about?
~~~~~~~
As she erected
her tent, she covertly watched not Davron, but Meldor. The blind
man fascinated her. It was hard to accept that there was nothing
more to his skills than sharpened hearing, smell and touch. As Scow
aided him by pitching his tent and preparing food, Meldor reached
for things with unerring accuracy. During the day’s ride he had not
needed much guidance either. His abilities were uncanny, a match
for the magic of his personality. Davron may have been the guide,
but sometimes she felt that it was Meldor who was the leader. He
exuded a calm confidence, a sense of contentment that was almost
contagious. He had an old-world courtesy, the kind supposedly the
hallmark of Tricians. It served him well. He could be friendly with
a man like Quirk and not seem condescending, yet he could command
respect from Baraine. If he made a suggestion to someone, they
followed it as if it had been an order.
During the
course of the day it had become clear to her that he was not just a
member of the fellowship, he was part of the trio who’d travelled
together for some time: Davron, Scow and Meldor. The implications
of that were intriguing, but she couldn’t seem to make any sense of
the combination, and that worried her.
Once the
animals were tethered for the evening and the camp was fully
erected—not without incident for Graval Hurg managed to tear a hole
in Quirk’s tent with a clumsy swing of a peg mallet—Scow called for
two volunteers to descend the ridge on the other side to collect
some fodder for the horses. The last time he and Davron had passed
this way, he explained, there had been some tubers growing there
which made excellent animal food.
Graval and
Portron declined, saying they were too tired; Corrian, with a
disgusted look at Graval, remarked that it was a job for the
young’uns; and Baraine did not even deign to reply. Quirk and Keris
exchanged a glance and said they would go if Scow accompanied
them.
They took
Tousson, Keris’s packhorse, to carry the fodder back, but they
themselves went on foot. It was a short scramble down the ridge to
sheltering trees and at first Scow confidently led the way. Ten
minutes into the forest, however, they abruptly came upon a
steep-sided gully cutting across the route they were taking.
Scow grimaced.
‘This wasn’t here last time we came this way. It must have
moved.’
He hesitated,
glancing up and down the gully. The short, twisted trees clutched
at the eroded slopes with a tangle of roots that writhed into the
soil like living worms attempting to drag themselves entirely
beneath the ground. Above, branches drooped, heavy with blood-red
blossom and clumps of glossy brown wrigglers that crawled in and
out of the flowers. The air was foetid, gravid with expectation,
almost as if awaiting an explosion of violence.
‘Ley,’ Keris
whispered, and was sure of it. The gully was drenched with the
unnatural.
Quirk cleared
his throat. ‘I don’t think I like this place much,’ he said, his
voice suddenly high-pitched. ‘Are those tree-roots moving?’
‘Yes,’ she
said tersely. What was it Portron had said? You feel it corroding
the earth beneath your feet. That was it exactly.
Still Scow
hesitated, assessing the need for fodder against the dangers of
crossing the gully. ‘I think we had better go back,’ he said. He
turned on his heel and then staggered, almost falling. He’d stepped
into some kind of hole.
Keris blinked,
puzzled, as she’d seen no hole there a moment before. Scow moaned
and clutched at his leg. The earth seemed to have closed in around
it. His calf was half-buried.
‘What is it?’
Keris asked, still not aware that anything was terribly wrong.
His face
greyed with shock and pain. ‘Something’s got hold of me!’ He sat
down heavily, still grasping his leg.
She and Quirk
knelt beside him. ‘Midden and Maker,’ Quirk muttered. ‘It looks
like something is trying to swallow him!’
A white ring
of bone or shell encircled Scow’s leg. Keris touched it tentatively
with a finger; it was rock hard and unyielding. Not even a knife
blade could have fitted between it and Scow’s flesh. If it was the
mouth of something, then the rest of the animal was buried in the
soil. She scrabbled with her fingers around his leg, brushing away
the dirt. Just beneath the surface was something hard and
impenetrable and ivory white. It radiated out flat in all
directions. She and Quirk were kneeling on top of it. They
exchanged glances and edged away from Scow.
‘Can—can we
pull you out?’ she asked.
His lips
tilted up in an ironical twist that told her whatever held him
gripped far too tight for tugging to make any difference.
‘I know what
it is,’ Quirk said, his face sick with shock. ‘It’s a bilee. My
father told me about them…’ He looked up at Scow and his words
trailed away.
She stood and
kicked at the creature; nothing happened. She tried bouncing up and
down on it. It never budged. Kneeling again, she began scraping
more earth away, wanting to find out the size of the thing, or if
it had some vulnerable place.
‘That won’t do
any good,’ Scow said from between gritted teeth. ‘I’ve heard of
bilees too. They’re huge. Larger than that tainted horse of mine.
Shelled, with just the one mouth opening. They lie in wait, buried
in the soil. They are of the Wild…’ He shuddered. ‘You can’t kill
them. You can’t break them open. You can’t force them open. You
can’t do a damn thing to them that makes one breath of
difference.’
Quirk cast an
anxious glance behind into the gully and then looked back at Scow.
‘My father said, um, bile juices. Acidic. They digest prey, bit by
bit. The mouth sucks more in as they finish with what they’ve
got—’
Aghast, she
snapped, ‘Unmaker take you, shut up!’
‘Go for Davron
and Meldor,’ Scow said, ‘and make it quick. Tell them to bring the
axe.’
‘I’ll go,’
Quirk said hurriedly.
‘Take
Tousson,’ she told him and watched him fumbling as he mounted up.
‘Is it—hurting, Scow?’ She knew it was a stupid question the moment
she asked it, but her thoughts were mired in horror.
His cavernous
mouth gave a lop-sided smile. ‘I can bear it. It’s got to eat
through my boot first.’
Embarrassed,
she realised he was trying to comfort her.
He shrugged,
resigned. ‘There’s only one way to free yourself from a bilee
alive.’ He glanced down at his leg.
Tell them
to bring an axe.
She felt the blood leave her head and was glad
she was not standing. ‘My father lost a leg to one of the Wild,’
she said finally, unable to halt the words she heard herself
saying. ‘It never stopped him from doing anything—’