Sorcerer's Son (22 page)

“You are Cray Ormoru,” she said.

“Good day, lady.”

“And your friend Feldar Sepwin.” She turned her gaze upon the former beggar. “No need for that eye patch in my presence, young man. Take it off.”

He pulled the bandage from his face, stammering an apology.

“I am called Helaine,” said the Seer. “You may enter my house.”

The companions murmured their thanks, dismounted, and tied their horses to metal rings set in the vast trunk of the tree. Then they followed the Seer through the arch and into a torchlit stone corridor that stretched deep and cool into the hillside. At the end of the corridor was a large, almost circular room with a ceiling so high that torches at shoulder level could not illuminate it. The walls were dark stone, scattered everywhere with crystals that flashed and glittered in the flamelight. The floor was strewn with a pure white sand fine as flour, save at the center, where a raised rim encircled a pool of water no wider than the reach of a man’s two arms. The Seer sat down on this rim and dabbled her fingers in the black water.

“Give me the shield,” she said, and Cray, who had carried it slung over one arm, passed it to her. She touched its battered face, tracing the design with wet fingers. Her eyes closed, and the corners of her mouth drooped as she sought the metal’s essence with her flesh. Watching her, Cray perceived her age for the first time. She had seemed neither old nor young in the sunlight, only timeless, in spite of the color of her hair. Now, from the transparency of her skin, from the fine lines that appeared with her concentration, he knew that she was old—older than Delivev; older than anyone he had ever seen, in web or in person.

“Cray Ormoru,” the Seer said at last, eyes opening. Her irises were pale, like the rest of her, pale as brook water. “These arms are of the House of Ballat at Castle Mistwell, in the south.”

“Can you direct me there, lady?”

“It is a long and hazardous journey.”

“I care nothing for that. Only show me the way.”

She pointed a slim finger at him. “For you, Cray Ormoru, there is sorrow at the end of this journey.”

Sepwin leaned forward. “Death?” he whispered.

“No,” said the Seer. “Not death.”

“What sort of sorrow, then,” said Cray, “beyond that which I have already known?” He touched the rim of the shield with hesitant fingers. “What do you see here, lady, that I cannot see?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not in the shield, Cray, but in yourself. There, I see anguish and despair.”

“I have known both.”

“You shall know them again.”

“For what cause?”

She gazed down at the shield. “I can tell you of the house that bears these arms: an old house, and strong. But the shield has passed through too many hands, has too many lives bound up in it. They call to me, a dozen voices, and I cannot tell which one is your father’s. I would need a relic that belonged to him alone, or at least for the greater part of its existence, in order to tell you his tale.”

“I have his sword.”

“Give it to me.”

Cray ran out to the horses and returned with the rusted blade. The Seer ran her wet fingers over the pitted surface, grasped the pommel, bent her forehead to the hilt. Then she thrust the sword into the white sand at her feet to dry it

“It is the same,” she said. “This has been used by many men.”

Cray took the sword and shield from her. “Then I shall go to Castle Mistwell.”

“You will find no happiness there.”

“I don’t expect happiness, lady. Only truth.”

She smiled gently. “I give you the advice I would give a child of my own, Cray: you have a talent for sorcery; train it, and give over this desire to be a knight.”

He bowed stiffly. “I thank you for your advice, lady. And now I ask only one more favor of you: guidance to Castle Mistwell.”

“As you will.” She rose. “I will give you a map.” At the opposite end of the room from the corridor that led to the outside was a heavy wooden door. She opened it easily, slipped through the aperture, and returned a moment later with parchment and quill and ink. These she set down on the rim of the pool.

“Lady, this parchment is blank,” said Cray.

“Hush. Have you no patience at all?” She gazed into the pool a long moment, and then she took up the quill, dipped it in the ink and began drawing on the unmarred white surface. Never once did she look at what she drew, only into the pool, as if copying something from its dark surface. The map formed under her hand, cardinal points marked, major towns and castles named, the road curving this way and that, ever southward until it ended in a circle. She blinked then, and focused on her handiwork. “Here we are, here.” She placed a star to locate her home; the road between it and the circle stretched the length of the sheet.

Cray looked at the map. “How far would you say that is, lady?”

“If you leave tomorrow, if you encounter no mishaps on the way, you may reach it before the snow flies.”

“So far? Then we shall leave today and gain a few hours on winter. Now, lady, there is the matter of your fee. I have some silver with me, and if that is not enough, my mother can provide other payment

”

“Keep your silver, young Cray,” said the Seer. “We shall meet again, and then we will decide a proper fee.”

“We shall meet again?”

“Yes. You think I don’t know my own future?”

“As you say, lady. I do not doubt you.”

She walked with them to their horses and stood silent while Cray secured the battered sword and shield to Gallant’s saddle. When he had mounted, when he towered above her and raised his hand in salute, she said, “Watch for four men on horseback. Three will have beards. They are bandits.”

“Where?”

“Eighteen days south of here.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be afraid to deal harshly with them. They have killed their share of travelers.”

Sepwin leaned forward, grasping his horse’s mane with both hands. “Perhaps you should have drawn us some other route, my lady.”

“Any other would be so much longer that you would be stranded in the mountains for the winter. You might freeze to death. Would you prefer to chance that?”

“Mountains?” muttered Sepwin. “Can’t we go around them?”

“You can

if you wish to measure your travel in years.”

“Enough,” said Cray. “We will follow your map. Farewell.”

She lifted one pale hand. “Until next time, Cray Ormoru.”

That night, Cray and Sepwin compared their two maps. They overlapped, though from the Seer’s estimate of the distance covered by hers, they were not to the same scale.

“Do you think she was just trying to frighten us with the warning about the bandits?” said Sepwin. “After all, she said she’d see us again.”

“Possibly,” said Cray, tracing with two fingers the route they would be taking.

“She didn’t say we would meet them. Maybe she meant only that we might meet them.”

“I’m going to assume that we will. It would be foolish not to be prepared for such a thing after being warned.”

Sepwin drew his knees up and clasped them with his arms, as if he were cold, though the nights were still pleasant enough, and they had a cheery fire. “Or

she said she’d see you again. Maybe

maybe something will happen to me when we meet the bandits.”

Cray glanced at him sidelong. “Are you going to worry about that for the next eighteen days?”

“It seems like a reasonable thing to worry about.”

“Perhaps you should stay behind, then.”

Sepwin frowned. “And leave you to wander alone in dangerous territory?”

“Well, what use would you be in a fight, Feldar? You couldn’t even defend yourself against a handful of unarmed men back in that village. What would you do against horsemen who would surely be armed with something?”

“You could teach me.”

“Teach you what? We’ve only one sword. You can’t count my father’s blade—one solid blow and it would fly to pieces.”

Sepwin pursed his lips. “She never said they would be armored men, did she?”

“No.”

‘Teach me to use a cudgel like a sword, then. I’ll bash their heads in if they try to touch us.“

Cray smiled. “You think you have the strength for that, Feldar?”

“Since I’ve been with you and eaten well, I’ve more strength than I ever thought possible.”

“Eighteen days is not much for training a fighting man.”

“Then we should begin at once!”

“We’ll travel slower if we stop to practice combat.”

“A small time every day, Cray. We can shorten our evening’s rest.”

Cray shook his head. “Well need it more than ever after hacking at each other. Oh, very well, Feldar, I’ll show you a thing or two. Come, cut yourself a staff from that tree over there, and I will do the same, and we’ll see how well you take to swordplay.”

When the cudgels were ready, Cray wove his friend a light, square shield of supple branches and spidersilk, as proof against sword and staff as his own metallic shield. Then they faced off, armed and armored a like. Cray tried not to strike too hard during this first session, but by the time Sepwin was winded and called for a halt, the former beggar was bruised and battered, red welts rising on his sword arm and the shoulder above his shield.

“The shield is a weapon, too,” said Cray. “You must move it to deflect the other man’s blows, not just hold it still before you.”

“I’ll remember,” said Sepwin, dropping his battle array and rubbing his swollen arm with the hand that had gripped the shield.

“Not so easy as you thought, is it?”

“I never thought it would be easy. Just necessary, I’ll be ready for more tomorrow.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Cray. “You’ll ache tomorrow, far more than you do today.”

Sepwin resumed his place by the fire. “How do you know so much about fighting, Cray? Shut up in your mother’s castle, you never had another human being to fight with, did you?”

“Never,” said Cray, sitting down beside him. “But I watched the webs. I imitated the swordsmen who were praised by their fellows. I didn’t want to come to my training a complete novice.”

“You handle the staff as if it were your arm. Are you as good with the sword?”

“Better.”

“It’s heavier.”

“But it has a good grip, and balance. It has a different feel from a cudgel.” He smiled. “I am very good with opponents who stand quite still. Like trees. You know, I never struck another human being till that day in the village. And now, with you, I really should be grateful for the practice.”

“Well, I won’t stand still, I promise that.”

“Oh, you’re much better than a tree.” He looked into the fire, stirred it with a slender twig until the twig caught and he had to drop it into the flames. “The day after tomorrow, if you’re feeling well enough, we’ll try exchanging a few blows on horseback. We’ll have to be very careful, though; we don’t want to hurt the horses.” He glanced at Sepwin. “The bandits’ horses, of course, would be fair targets. If you aim for the face, I think even one of your blows would bring a horse down.”

“They weren’t very good, were they?”

“You strike too wild. You’re too eager, and you tire quickly. These faults could be overcome, given time and dedication.”

“I have dedication,” said Sepwin.

Cray touched his shoulder lightly. “Listen, my friend: if the bandits do strike, ride away as fast as you can. Your plowhorse is swift—I know that well enough.”

“I couldn’t leave you!”

“When the time comes, you may find it easier than you think.”

“No!”

“Well, this is a different Feldar Sepwin than I picked up on the road so long ago. Where have you found your courage?”

Sepwin shook his head. “It’s not courage. It’s madness. Your madness, Cray. But you saved my life back there in the village, and I owe you something for that.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“And if I ride away and leave you to die at the hands of bandits, I’ll have no one, just as before. I’ll be a beggar again.” He gripped Cray’s arm. “When you are a knight, will you let me be your squire?”

“You think too far ahead, Feldar. Right now, I am only concerned with arriving at Mistwell. Let us leave the rest for later.” He smiled at Sepwin. “And there will be a later, for both of us, I promise you.”

The next day they rode and then they slept; Sepwin was indeed too sore and too tired to lift staff or shield. The following day, though, they spent a little time in a clearing off the road, on horseback, sparring. Cray taught his companion to dodge and duck and still keep his seat, to swipe at the opposing horse’s legs and neck. Having been raised among horses, Sepwin rode well and had hardly more trouble manipulating the staff and shield while mounted than he had while on his own feet. His motions were slow, though, his muscles still being sore, and Cray was careful to avoid hitting him with any real force. Still, he groaned considerably from his own exertion, and when they were finished he only wanted to lie down and be quiet.

He was better the next day.

And the next.

“I make a poor warrior, don’t I?” he said on the tenth afternoon, nursing his newest bruises by the fire. That day they had seen the mountains for the first time, like blue clouds on the horizon.

“You haven’t the brawn for it,” said Cray. “That takes more than a few days.”

“So we’re left with one of us, and perhaps a small fraction added for me, against the four of them. And you don’t seem worried at all.” He frowned into the flames. “She didn’t say we’d come back with all our arms and legs intact. Remember, she prophesied anguish and despair.”

“I don’t think that had anything to do with the bandits, Feldar.”

“I wish I were as confident.”

Cray nudged him in the ribs. “Listen, my friend—knowing how to defend yourself with a good, stout staff is an excellent thing. You could have used such knowledge, I think, in the past. But you probably won’t need it when we meet the bandits.”

“Why not?”‘

“Because I have my spiders.”

“What good will they be?” demanded Sepwin. “Except perhaps to frighten the bandits to death by crawling all over them.”

“You ask that after seeing them spin silk as strong as steel?”