Sorcerer's Son (24 page)

Cray wheeled Gallant about, till he was facing the other two men. “The toll is too high,” he said. “We’ll turn back.”

“You may do whatever you wish,” said the man, “after paying the toll.”

“Now, Feldar!” shouted Cray, and his arms shot out toward the two rear bandits, spraying spiders like fistfuls of grain. The men were startled and raised their hands to fend the tiny creatures off, but those gestures only gave the spiders easier targets; they spun their first silk about the very fingers that tried to brush them away, binding flailing hands with unbreakable wrappings, like steel mittens. Then the spiders began to bind the mittens to the nearest anchor points—the men’s own bodies, their saddles, their horses. The horses reared and struggled at the touch of the spidersilk, and one of the men fell, thrashing, hanging from his saddle by a few near-invisible strands while his terrified mount kicked at him.

Cray turned to Sepwin as soon as he had loosed his spiders, and it was barely soon enough. Either Sepwin had been too far from his quarry or he had failed to use the proper strength in his toss, for most of his spiders fell short, landing on the gate, where they were busily spinning useless silk. The few that had found their human targets could not fashion enough silk to bind the men before both could charge their horses through the gate. The swinging gate had caught Sepwin’s horse in the chest and forelegs, knocking it aside and tumbling Sepwin to the ground. When Cray turned to his friend’s assistance, Sepwin was scrambling to his feet, trying to dodge the milling, whinnying horses and the two riders with heavy clubs in their hands. Cray drew his sword and, shouting, charged the pair.

The odds were two to one, but neither of the bandits was armed with a sword, neither with a shield, and neither with the anger that Cray felt rising in himself. He laid into them with a will, swinging his blade effortlessly, as when his only targets had been trees. The blade clove human flesh with greater ease than it had ever sliced bark. One man rode away, a deep cut in his shoulder, and the spokesman of the group fell, to dampen the ground with his blood. His frightened horse stepped on him twice, but he was already dead when that happened.

Sepwin watched the final fight from one of the slopes that flanked the road, where he had clambered when Cray distracted his pursuers. He still stood there as Cray dismounted and began to move among the frightened horses, trying to soothe them with soft words and caresses. Of the five horses clustered by the open gate, only Gallant stood calm and silent, as if all this had happened to it before.

One horse, still bore a rider, upon whom Cray’s spiders had spun their steely cords; he slumped forward over his mount’s neck, motionless. When Cray touched him, turning steel to ordinary silk, he slid sideways, limply, and struck the ground like a sack of stones. Cray also touched the man who still hung from webbing attached to his mount, the man whose own animal had kicked him to death in its terror; that body had not so far to fall. Cray tied all the horses to the gate, and they were quiet enough at last, except that their occasionally flaring nostrils showed that they could smell the blood spilled on the road.

Sepwin descended the slope slowly, and he stopped some distance from his companion. “You didn’t need me,” he said. “You did it all yourself.” He looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“You did your best,” said Cray. “I know that.”

Sepwin shook his head. “I knew I was too far away. But I was afraid to go closer. I was afraid they would throw their knives.”

“And chance harming good horseflesh? Hardly.” Cray crossed the space that separated them and clapped his friend on the back. “Never mind. It’s all over now.” He stooped to pick up his sword, which lay upon a patch of coarse mountain grass, where he had set it before trying to calm the horses. The blade was bloody more than halfway to the hilt. He wiped it on the grass, back and forth, over and over again, until the red was gone. “My first man,” he said, gripping the pommel in both hands so that the tip of the blade lightly touched the ground. His back was to the dead men. “I should feel different somehow, now. But I don’t. It was like striking a tree, only easier. Flesh is soft, bone is hard, but not so hard as wood. I could have cut him in two without much more effort. He wore no armor.” He leaned on the blade, letting it dig into the ground. “I never expected my first fight to be like that.”

“Not your first,” said Sepwin. “There was the village.”

Cray shook his head. “They were unarmed. Not even a knife among them.”

“They were armed enough for me,” said Sepwin.

Cray looked at him. “You’ve been close to death before. This was my first time.”

“The village

”

“They wouldn’t have touched me. They were afraid of the sword. These men weren’t.” He turned away from the sword, leaving it to stand upright by itself. “Let’s bury the bodies.”

“We haven’t a spade, have we?” said Sepwin.

“No, but we can pile rocks on top of them. Plenty of rocks around here.”

“You think they deserve such decent treatment?”

“I think the next travelers who use this route deserve to be safe from the wild animals that would come to pick the carcasses. Come, there’s a gully beyond that rise; we can throw them into it and then roll the rocks after.” He bent over the man his blade had slain. “Take the feet, Feldar.”

“What about the other man? The one who rode away.”

“Well, I don’t see how we’ll be able to bury him. He’s pretty far away by now.”

“I mean, what if he comes back?”

“He won’t come back.”

“He might, come back with friends.”

Cray shook his head. “Two spiders went with him. He was riding too fast to notice their work. I’ve lost them forever, now, but he won’t come back.” He gestured toward the man who had been dead on his horse, wrapped in silk. “As with that one, a few strands looped about the throat, pulled tight. Even a very strong man could not break them without magic. I don’t want to meet any bandits on this road when we come back. If we come back.” He frowned. “I wouldn’t have used the spiders in a fair fight.”

Sepwin’s right hand crept up to his own throat, rubbed slowly at the collarbone. “You’ll be a very unusual sort of knight, I think,” he murmured, “commanding an army of spiders.”

Cray shook his head. “I don’t have an army, just the few I carry with me, my own personal spiders. I can’t command any others, not like my mother, who has sovereignty over all the spiders of the world. And I intend to put these aside, if there are any of them left, when I’m a knight. They don’t belong with sword and shield.”

“But they give you such an advantage!”

“A short-lived advantage, Feldar. I’ve lost a dozen in this fight—the bandits crushed them. How long would the rest last if I used them so again and again?”

“Can’t you get replacements?”

“I could

with my mother’s help. But I won’t. They would keep me from acquiring the proper skills of knighthood; I would depend on them, and not on my good right arm, and so I would be an inferior knight. Besides

” His lips quirked in a small smile. “My fellow knights might not care for such a hybrid in their midst. I have noticed, in my travels, that the two worlds do not mix well. Eh, Feldar of the strange eyes?”

“You have a point there. I was only thinking that you should use all of your resources to stay alive. The spiders would be a handy reserve.”

“Sword and shield shall be resources enough, when I am trained. I’ll need no spiders then.”

Sepwin shrugged. “As you will.”

“Come now, hit the legs. I want to ride on before the sun sets.”

They rode on, but not far; building a cairn of rocks over the three bodies had taken most of the afternoon. Cray and Sepwin camped that night between two peaks, and the next day the path took them upward, toward the farther of the pair. The wind cooled about them as they climbed, increasing in strength until it beat at them like icy cudgels and they had to lean into their horses manes to remain mounted. All around, the trees and bushes grew smaller, stunted and gnarled, clinging close to the ground beneath the blasting wind. In Cray’s sleeves, where he carried all the surviving spiders, the creatures retreated from the wrist openings to the upper arms, where the cold gusts could not reach them. On the plains, the trees had not yet begun to shed their leaves, but in the highest mountains, the breath of winter was already touching the land.

The first snowflakes had begun to fall by the time the two companions found themselves descending, ever descending, with only foothills still before them. Since dealing with the bandits, they had met no travelers upon the road and had begun to suspect that they were the last to pass that way for the season. Ahead, misty as its name, lay the hold that the Seer had sent them to. As they approached it, the peaks behind them whitened, barring their return.

It was a quiet time at Mistwell. The harvest was done, the grains stored away, the cellars full of apples, the animals fattening for cold-weather feasting. Mistwell was at peace, and the knights of the hold had gathered for the winter, to joust and gamble and drink the lengthening evenings away. The main hall of the keep was a noisy place and bright, full of rich velvets and brocades, of silk, satin, and gold. It smelled good, too—with well-spiced meat roasting in each of the two large fireplaces. Cray and Sepwin, having left their horses in the care of a servant, entered, conducted by a man who wore a white surcoat over his armor; upon his chest were figured the same bearings that Cray knew so well, the same interlocked red lances that the battered shield under his arm bore. The symbols were everywhere here, upon the outer gate, upon the men-at-arms, upon shields ranked along one wall of the hall. Cray felt that at last he had come home.

The lord of the hold, Fayr Ballat, was a man of middle age, blond and bearded, tall and loose-limbed. He received the travelers cordially and listened to Cray’s tale, from which the youth excised all mention of sorcery. At the end, he examined the sword and shield, turning them over and over in his hands.

“These are my House’s arms,” he said at last. “This sword was made within these walls, and this shield, too. Here are the maker’s marks.” He indicated an intricate symbol pressed into the rear of the shield and the end of the sword’s pommel. “Yet, who could have carried them

? You are sure he was a knight?”

Cray frowned. “So he told my mother, my lord.”

Fayr Ballat peered closely at the battered shield, not at the faded design but at other parts of the face, the top, the bottom, the edges. “I say that because this seems to be the sort of shield used by my foot soldiers. It is simply the shield of the House, without any apparent personal symbol upon it. My own shield is like this, but with the addition of a blue canton. The other knights of my family, my brothers and cousins, all have their own individual emblems added to the basic design. So you see, this does not seem to be a knight’s shield at all.”

“He said he was the younger son of a younger son

”

“Still,” said Fayr Ballat. “He would have some mark to set him off from others of the House. Can you see one?”

“There is none,” said Cray. “My mother made a tapestry with his shield upon it, and if there had been some other device, she would have shown it.”

Fayr Ballat reached out to Cray with one hand, laid it lightly on the youth’s shoulder. “I will ask among my men. I don’t know the name you gave, or the face you described, but perhaps there is someone here who will remember him. He must have left a long time ago, and if he was one of the foot soldiers, I’d not likely recall him.”

“A foot soldier,” muttered Cray.

“For now

consider yourself a guest of the House of Ballat. Both of you, of course. It was a good harvest, and we’ve food and to spare for the winter.”

Cray bowed. “Thank you, my lord. We appreciate such hospitality.”

Dinner was excellent, and the lord of Mistwell was as kind and solicitous as the lord of the East March had been cold and abrupt. This was a smaller hold, tucked away in the foothills of the great mountains, a realm of red-cheeked, fair-haired people who loved laughter and gaiety. Sepwin was early drawn into their dancing, and at his urging Cray at last left the cup of dark wine that had been the mirror of his soul and joined the ring. He was light on his feet, for a youth wearing a suit of chain and a heavy heart. Later, he lay down on a pallet in a quiet corner of the hall, while members of the household remained by the fire, talking in low voices, their cheer not yet ready to dissipate in slumber. He lay on his back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Sepwin snored gently beside him, having no unknown father to haunt his night. But the darkness was long, with winter approaching, and the late dawnlight found Cray finally overtaken by sleep.

At midday, Fayr Ballat came into the hall. Cray, awakened by the burgeoning activity of the chamber, red-eyed and groggy, watched his host walk with his councilors, speak with the ladies of the castle, bend near the hearth where the meal was being prepared by fat cooks. The youth waited, sitting at the far end of a long bench, while Sepwin nosed about the room, telling extravagant tales of the loss of his eye. He had the blue one covered for their stay at Mistwell, and his brown eye was being well received by pages and women and the kitchen staff which was moved to give him a taste of hot food before anyone else had any.

“Pity,” said Sepwin, when he returned to Cray’s side with a trencher of meat big enough for both of them, “can be a wonderful thing.”

“You should know,” said Cray. “You traded on it long enough.”

“And the pity of a rich house,” Sepwin continued, “is clearly superior to that of a hovel. I never begged food like this when I was alone on the road. I can think of a peasant or two who would envy me this meal.” He grinned. “We could do worse than winter here.”

Cray looked down at his hands, fingers interlaced upon his knee. His shoulders were hunched, his whole body bent forward, as if the chain were unusually heavy this day. “He has looked at me several times,” he said. “But he chooses not to speak. That promises ill.”