Silent Hall (10 page)

They followed the boar's trail for three more days on horseback, bringing them to the foothills of the mountains that had seemed so distant when they left Silent Hall. On the third day, Narky awoke to find himself alone in the tent. As he was preparing to leave, a dark brown patch on the ground made him look twice. Those were definitely blood stains, on the ground where the girls had slept! Panic struck him as he imagined what must have befallen Phaedra and Bandu while he lay blissfully unconscious. How could he have slept through a fight?

Criton ducked his head inside the tent, and Narky looked to him in alarm. “What happened last night? Are they still alive?”

“Huh?” Criton scratched his head. “Yes, everybody's fine. Why, what's the matter?”

Narky pointed to the patch of blood, and Criton shrugged. Shrugged! “It must be one of the girls,” he said. “They bleed sometimes, you know.”

“What do you mean, they bleed sometimes?”

Criton rubbed his elbows and looked uncomfortable. “Well, Ma used to bleed sometimes, and the first time I noticed blood on her sheets, she told me that all women did that. She said it was normal.”

Narky eyed him skeptically. Could this really be true? From what he had told them at the Crossroads, Criton's mother had been a freak like him. How could she know what normal women were like? It sounded decidedly monstrous, and not at all normal.

“Really,” Criton said, sensing his skepticism. “It just happens now and then.”

“You're sure they're all right?” Narky asked doubtfully. It was certainly hard to imagine someone getting injured without the sound waking him up. Criton's theory did explain
that
mystery pretty well.

He shuddered a little, and got up. Did Eramia bleed like this? It annoyed him that Criton might know something about women that he didn't. For Karassa's sake, the man hadn't even been out of his house until the day Narky met him!

The girls were indeed both healthy. Narky couldn't even tell where they had bled from. But he couldn't stay quiet forever – he had to ask Phaedra.

“Is it true that you bleed sometimes?” he demanded.

“Excuse me?”

“Criton says that women bleed now and then. Is that true?”

Phaedra glanced at Criton, a little angrily. “Yes,” she said, “not that it's any of your business. You didn't know that already? I thought Bandu was the one raised by wolves.”

“Are you bleeding now?”

“No!”

“Is Bandu?”

Phaedra stuck her finger in his face. “You stay away from her, Narky. Don't humiliate her with your stupid questions.”

How can I humiliate someone who has no shame?
Narky thought, moodily. But he didn't say anything to Bandu. Instead, he asked Hunter if he had known anything about this whole bleeding thing. Hunter just stared at him, silently, until Narky became uncomfortable and walked away.

Shortly after noon, Bandu cried, “Stop!” and the company came to a halt. She dismounted and the others followed suit, taking their spears with them. “Pig is close,” Narky heard her say.

They dismounted, and the Gallant Ones took some minutes to don their armor and prepare themselves. When they were done, Tana turned to Phaedra. “Stay with the horses,” he commanded. “If they all run off while we're hunting the boar, it will be a long walk back.”

Phaedra nodded and looked relieved. At least her presence was of some use. The others continued on foot, following the boar's trail. “How do you know it's close?” Narky asked Bandu, but she put her finger on her lips and clutched that long knife as if she was afraid it would try to fly away. That was when he realized that the low thundering he heard was not coming from the horses behind them.

The Gallant Ones spread out, their spears at the ready. The horses had been left at a low point between hills, and, as the hunting party neared the top of one of these, a huge boar appeared over the crest.

‘Large as a bull' did not do the Boar of Hagardis justice. It was
tall
as a bull, but twice as massive, its long body supported by thick, stocky legs. The boar's tusks jutted upwards from its jaw like curved swords, several feet in length. And its eyes – Narky did not even want to think about those eyes. The whole eyeball was like one giant pupil, pitch black and filled with malice.

With a cry, the Gallant Ones knelt and planted their spears in the ground against the boar's charge. It mowed through them like they were scattered mice. There was the snapping of spear ends and of bones as the boar broke through the assembled hunters and turned to rush down their whole line, trampling everyone in its path. The Gallant Ones leapt every which way to avoid the onrushing animal, and when it reached the end of their line, it wheeled about and began coming the other way, toward Narky. Narky forgot about his spear and ran farther up the hill, trying to get out of its path. When he turned, Criton was standing alone facing the boar.

He had abandoned his bow and was in his natural form, his golden scales shining against his dark skin. The boar charged him and he breathed fire at it, a long burst of flame like Narky had never seen before. The boar ignored the flames even as its bristles singed and burnt away, filling the air with foul smoke. Criton just stood there, unwilling to admit defeat. The monster bore down on him. At the last second, Hunter appeared out of seemingly nowhere and tackled Criton, and the two of them went rolling out of the boar's path.

The animal swerved to chase them, but Bandu shouted, “Here!” and it turned to face her instead. How it heard her amid all the clamor, and why it responded to her voice among all the others, Narky did not know. Its manner registered confusion for a moment, or so it seemed to him. Bandu was not far from Narky, but now she ran at the boar while it came uphill toward her. Narky watched in horrified fascination as the two of them neared each other, girl and monster. There could be no question of what would happen when they collided.

But they did not collide. The boar must have misjudged her trajectory just as Narky had, because Bandu leapt straight past it, her knife flashing out even while its singed bristles grazed her skin. There was a horrible ear-splitting screech, and the boar spun about wildly, one of its eyes slashed.

Prince Tana blew his horn, and the Gallant Ones re-formed their line. At the sound, the monster wheeled back toward them, its one good eye bleeding hate just as surely as the bad one bled fluid. The Gallant Ones were better prepared for its charge this time, though it did them little good. The boar crashed through their wall of spears once more, fearless despite the many spearheads that impaled its flesh and snapped off when it spun round.

It was getting bogged down, though. One of the hearthmen's spears was lodged in its knee joint, and the boar stumbled this way and that, unable to find its footing. Tana drew his sword and approached to deliver the death blow, only to be flung broken into the air when the animal suddenly bowed its head and then jerked it up again. Only when the Atunaean prince's body came crashing down to earth did Narky finally realize that the Gallant Ones would not be able to do this all on their own. They were old and they were strong, but Magor was stronger.

He never knew what possessed him, but suddenly Narky was running toward the boar – toward danger! He changed his course often, trying always to keep on the animal's blind side as it struggled and flailed. Then he was upon it, and he lifted his spear and thrust it with all his weight and all his might into the boar's bad eye. The shaft went halfway in before the monster shuddered and went still.

There was no celebration. Instead, everyone gathered around Tana as the gray prince looked up at his friends and companions and softly breathed his final words. His back was broken, and his arms and legs fell at odd angles. “There is no pain,” he said.

One of the prince's grizzled hearthmen knelt before him, tears welling at the wrinkled corners of his eyes. “We will retake Atuna for you, my lord.”

Tana smiled. “Atuna,” he said. “Atuna is mine.”

His breathing stopped. A moment later, his eyes began to widen of their own accord. The kneeling hearthman reached out a hand and closed them.

“Put him on his horse,” Hearthman Charos ordered the others. “There is not enough wood here for a pyre.”

They lifted him onto their shoulders along with seven other broken men, Tachil among them. The islanders followed solemnly as they walked down to the horses. The Gallant Ones tied the dead men to their horses, and then set their six packhorses to drag the boar. They seemed to grow old before Narky's eyes, as the soul of the man who had kept them young fled the world. There was no more talk of Atuna.

Narky's fellow islanders clapped him on the back, hugged him and congratulated him. Somehow, inexplicably, he had become a hero. Then Hearthman Charos turned on them.

“This is all Psander's fault,” he said, hefting his spear. “Take up your arms again, boys, and let's teach that wizard a lesson.”

“
W
ait
,” Narky said. “Wait a minute! We just
helped
you!”

“Psander said you were precious to him,” Charos replied. The rest of the Gallant Ones were following his lead, brandishing weapons and moving to surround the islanders. “He asked Tana to keep you safe even as he sent our king to his death. To his death! This won't go unanswered.”

“But it's not our fault!” Phaedra cried. If the Gallant Ones chose to punish them for Tana's ill fortune, there was nothing the islanders could do to stop them.

“No,” Charos conceded. “It's not your fault. But you are the wizard's creatures.”

“No more than you are,” Narky retorted. “We're all just tools to Psander. You think the wizard cares what happens to us, really? If you kill us, it'll just be a convenient excuse not to reward you for the boar.”

The Gallant Ones considered this point, even as they held their spears and short swords ready for slaughter. “This is how you islanders plead for mercy, is it?” Charos asked. “By calling Atuna's finest warriors mere tools?”

“We are not Psander,” Hunter insisted. “If you want to punish Psander personally, you should leave us unharmed. She may let us all into the fortress together, if there's no reason to suspect foul play.”

“Did you just say, ‘she'?” one of the Gallant Ones asked from behind them.

Charos dismissed the question before Hunter could sputter a response. “Psander owes us,” he said. “We
will
collect our reward, after which we will take the wizard's head.”

“Fine by me,” Narky said. “I hope to see it happen.”

Phaedra held her tongue. She did not share Narky's animosity for Psander, and she found his tone chilling, but she had to admit that it put the Gallant Ones at ease. They turned their spears from the islanders and slapped their horses, and the group moved on toward the forest.

When a pyre had been built, loaded, and set aflame, the Gallant Ones decided to roast the boar's carcass and eat it. It was a defiant choice, but also a practical one: the animal was far too heavy to drag all the way back to Psander's hall.

There was more than enough meat to go around, but Phaedra was nervous about eating Magor's sacred beast.

“Isn't there some place where they eat their enemies' sacred animals?” Hunter asked. “Or was that just a story I heard?”

“The Tigra of Mur's Island did that,” she told him. “They believed that eating the sacred animals of an enemy's God gave them that God's strength.”

“Did it work?” Narky asked.

Phaedra sighed. “Most of them died in a famine,” she said, “and the rest were slaughtered or enslaved by Atuna in the sea raids of '42. Some blamed the famine on their blasphemy, but the Atunaeans probably would have defeated them anyway, because the tribes of Mur's Island didn't work metal.”

“So you don't know if eating this will help us or get us all killed,” Narky said irritably. “Great. Thanks, Phaedra.”

“Magor is God of wild things?” Bandu asked. “Wild things eat wild things. Dead pig is food for them. Magor is more angry if we
don't
eat pig.”

“She might be right,” said Narky, his eyes transfixed on the halfspear that was still buried in the boar's head. “It's a little too late to worry about offending Magor now, isn't it? I'd be more worried about the meat poisoning us.”

“Meat now is good,” Bandu insisted. “Only bad if we wait.”

Phaedra nodded, but she still didn't eat. It didn't feel right. “What we need,” she thought aloud, “is divine protection. Karassa can't save us from Magor all the way out here. I want to dedicate the Boar of Hagardis to the local Gods so that maybe They'll protect us from Magor's wrath. But I'm afraid to ask.”

“Maybe we can sacrifice the parts that aren't getting eaten,” Hunter suggested. “They can't possibly mind that.”

The Gallant Ones had already burnt the boar's heart as an offering to their Sun God, Atun, but they had discarded most of the other organs as offal. So in the end, the islanders were able to dedicate the boar's one remaining eye to Ravennis, God of Fate; they gave its trotters to Atel the Messenger; its nether parts to Elkinar, God of the Life Cycle; and its lungs and kidneys to Pelthas, God of Justice. When all that was done, the islanders finally took up their knives.

When the grim feast had ended, the Gallant Ones began bundling up the boar's bones and lashing them to their packhorses. It took a long time, during which the islanders sat back and watched, feeling a little sick. Phaedra held her stomach, wondering if perhaps the boar had defeated them after all.

“Ravennis would have had us eat the boar too,” Narky said suddenly. “Crows eat whatever they can find. They wouldn't avoid a sacred animal.”

“That's true,” Phaedra admitted.

“And we did dedicate part of the boar to Ravennis. If He's still watching me, He might keep Magor off our backs.”

Hunter turned to them curiously. “What made you choose the eye for Ravennis, Phaedra?”

“The scroll that Psander gave me,” Phaedra told him. “I haven't finished reading it, but it's very good. It describes the God from His worshippers' perspective, which is incredibly helpful. Ravennis' followers hold that eyes belong to Him, as a seer of fates.”

“I suppose that's why ravens always go for the eyes first,” Narky said. “They're collecting His share.”

“Yes,” Phaedra agreed.

“What else did it say in there?”

“It's very encouraging, actually. I can lend it to you.”

She fished the scroll out of her travel pack, but Narky did not take it from her. “I don't read,” he said.

“Oh,” she said awkwardly, and then added, “I can read it to you, if you like.”

How foolish she was! Of
course
Narky would not know how to read! She had assumed he would just because he was quick witted, but she should have known better. He was a peasant, a farmer's son. And she had accidentally pulled rank on him.

She wanted to apologize, but she doubted he would accept any apology with grace. So instead she unrolled the scroll and began to read it to him. Narky listened with rapt attention until the Gallant Ones finished packing, and when they stopped for the night, he asked her to stay by the fire and finish reading to him. One by one, the others around the fire retired, leaving just Phaedra and Narky with their scroll. Narky did not often interrupt her. When she had finished reading, he sat back in wonderment, gazing up at the stars.

“So that's what it means to be a servant of Ravennis. It's not as bad as I thought it would be, I guess. I thought His watching me meant He expected me to do something, and that He'd be angry if I didn't do whatever it was fast enough. But maybe it's not like that. He could be watching
over
me. His mark is a sign that He's taken ownership of me.”

“Yes, it seems like it could be a sign of good favor,” Phaedra agreed. “You're lucky.”

Narky made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort. “I've been nothing
but
lucky for a while now,” he said. “Not that I've done anything to deserve it.”

“Maybe you will someday,” she suggested. “Ravennis is the God of Fate. He could be rewarding you in advance.”

Narky nodded thoughtfully. Then he yawned.

“We'd better join the others,” Phaedra said.

They covered the fire with dirt and stumbled into the islanders' tent. The Gallant Ones easily had a second tent to spare for them now, but they had decided that it was still unsafe to separate. Perhaps more so, considering how close the Gallant Ones had already come to murdering them.

Though watching Narky trip over a naked Bandu
did
make her start to reconsider.

Phaedra had tried over and over to make Bandu understand why it was inappropriate to strip naked in front of the others, but the girl simply had no conception of social conventions. The next morning, Phaedra tried telling her that the others would like her more if she kept her clothes on. The truth behind that statement was doubtful, but at least Bandu accepted it. She also accepted Phaedra's wool and linen menstrual pads, much to Phaedra's relief: she wanted no more conversations with boys on the topic of bleeding.

Perhaps it was the discomfort of sleeping in clothes, but Bandu was in a bad mood the following morning. Phaedra asked if everything was all right, but didn't quite understand Bandu's answer. All she said was, “Psander is wicked. She gives bad thoughts.”

Maddeningly, she refused to elaborate. Ah, well. Phaedra had to admit that Psander had a sinister side to her, and she had not failed to note that the wizard had forbidden the villagers from bringing mules within her gates – mules, the animal sacred to Atel. Even so, Phaedra looked up to her. There was something wonderful about the casual ease with which Psander wielded her power. She answered to none but herself.

Psander had put all sorts of strange thoughts in the others' heads. When they stopped at midday to take shelter from the heat, Criton asked Phaedra, “Do you know anything about fairies?”

Phaedra could not help but raise her eyebrows at him. “Fairies? No. I like stories about things that really exist. Fairy stories never really interested me.”

Criton did not seem satisfied with that. “They must exist. What she said doesn't make any sense otherwise.”

Phaedra looked at him incredulously. “They ‘must' exist? Elves and pixies that kidnap people and drag them to another world, and then sometimes bring them back for no reason? You must have misunderstood something. The only people I ever knew who actually
believed
in fairies were children or drunks.”

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Kelina had always insisted that she believed in fairies, but Phaedra had never been quite sure whether Kelina really did believe, or whether she just wanted Phaedra to. There had been a part of Kelina that wanted Phaedra to remain a child forever.

Criton looked irritated. “Psander said that Bandu uses fairy magic. She said she wished she could study Bandu to see how she does it. So they have to exist. Could you tell me any of the stories?”

“Hold on, really? She really said that?” It all sounded so silly, but there was nothing childish about Psander.

“Yes,” Criton said. “I don't know how she could tell about Bandu's magic, though. I've thought Bandu might have some ever since I saw the way she spoke with Four-foot, but Psander recognized Bandu's magic the minute she saw her.”

It took Phaedra some time to digest this. It was hard enough to accept the possibility of fairies, but Bandu a wizard? The contrast between her and Psander was downright comical.

“So,” said Criton, “what do you know about fairies?”

“Tell me about Bandu first. She's a wizard?”

“No,” Criton said. “At least, her magic's nothing like Psander's. But I think animals understand her, even when she's talking normally. It's like there's something about her that
makes
them understand. She distracted the boar just by yelling at it, when it might have trampled me and Hunter to death.”

“I knew it,” said Narky, and Phaedra jumped. She had had no idea he was listening behind her. “I knew she had some kind of magic.”

“But about the fairies!” Criton insisted.

“They're supposed to kidnap children,” Phaedra said. “Don't ask me why.”

“They use them as slaves,” said Narky. “They steal children right out of their beds and force them to serve in their fairy castles, where they starve and beat them. You're not supposed to call them what they are, though, in case they're listening. So people call them the Kindly Folk. They creep out of tree trunks when there's a new moon, and go looking for children to be their slaves. They like the bad ones best, because Karassa doesn't watch over those.”

Phaedra turned back to Criton. “You see why I never believed these stories?”

Criton nodded reluctantly. “Hey!” Narky protested, “I didn't say
I
believed in them! You're the one who asked about the damned fairies, anyway.”

There was no more talk of fairies that day, but Phaedra resolved to ask Psander about them. Perhaps Psander had a useful scroll on them, though somehow Phaedra doubted it. Nothing Phaedra had ever read had given any reason to take the tales of elves seriously. She suspected that any writings on the Kindly Folk would be mere compilations of absurd stories.

And yet… Psander not only believed in their existence, she actually recognized their form of magic! A strange mix of feelings bubbled up in Phaedra – irritation at the fairies' intrusion into a world she had thought she understood, and excitement at the thought that there might be so much more to the world than even the greatest theologians could dream about. Did the Kindly Folk live in the Gods' world, and somehow slip through the mesh to run among humans? Did they dwell in hills in this world, as Kelina had claimed? Were they creatures of the underworld, stealing people away before their time? Why did the Gods tolerate their existence?

These were yet more questions for Psander to answer, so long as the Gallant Ones didn't kill her first. Phaedra's trepidation grew overwhelming when they finally came near enough to Silent Hall to see shepherds from the village out in the fields. The hall was nowhere to be seen, but the poor frightened villagers led them straight to it by running for its shelter. The Gallant Ones simply followed until they reached the spot where the shepherds had disappeared. The heat rose off the baked ground, shimmering and blurring their vision. Phaedra closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, Silent Hall stood before her.

Psander stood in the window above the gate, her disguise wearing a robe of dancing fire. The robe was beautiful, and knowing that the real wizard was wearing no such thing did not diminish its beauty. It amazed Phaedra to think that Psander had probably designed the robe this morning.