The Guardian (12 page)

“But I’ve a fever, no?” She raised her cap to mop her brow. “I
need
a bath. The gods know, but you need one, too. You stink like … like … some …”

“Traveler too long on the road?” I asked.

“Yes!” she snarled.

I chuckled. “It shall not be in some marbled tub with servants to soap you and dry you: it shall be a tub brought to our room. Which we share.”

“In which case,” she answered with a terrible dignity, “you shall leave me to it and wait elsewhere until I am done.”

“Leave me the water, eh?” I asked.

W
e saw the horses stabled and found our chamber. It was comfortable enough for me; small and mean for Ellyn. There was a high window that opened onto the balcony, and a worn rug on the wooden floor; hooks were fixed to the walls, and a washstand stood beside the single bed.

“Where,” Ellyn asked, “shall you sleep?”

I looked at the bed and knew it should not be there. I pointed at the floor.

“You must hang a curtain,” she said. “Have Jach arrange it.”

“By the gods,” I said, “you’re supposed to be my
son.
I can’t ask for a curtain.”

“Then use that.” Imperiously, she gestured at our gear, our folded tents. “I’ll not sleep unless you do.”

I thought a moment to argue—the gods knew, I felt no desire for her; I did not even like her much—but then I thought that she was a child on the verge of womanhood, and must likely feel afraid to occupy this room with a man of my years. Indeed, with any man. Somehow, it was different to the open road, as if the accoutrements of civilization imposed a different consciousness.

“I’ll do it,” I promised, “but only after the water’s delivered, lest they suspect.”

“But before I bathe,” she said. “You’ll not watch me bathe.”

I agreed. I waited for the tub to be hauled in and filled with hot water. Then I strung cords and hung the tents around the tub. I went out onto the balcony and watched the world go by as she bathed.

By the time I got the tub, the water was cold.

I took down the makeshift curtain—servants would come to remove the tub—and suggested to Ellyn that she eat in the room. She stared at me as if I were mad and shook her head.

“You’d have me twiddle my thumbs here while you gallivant?”

“Hardly that,” I said. “I must trade those horses and find out what I can of events in the Highlands.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” she declared firmly.

I sighed. The room was latched only from the inside, and even did I secure the door, she might still escape via the balcony, or set up such a fuss as must surely render us suspicious. “Very well,” I allowed, “but only on condition you draw no attention to us. Keep your mouth shut and play the part of my son, eh?”

She promptly settled her cap on her head and hooked her thumbs in her belt, squaring her shoulders and assuming a slouch I supposed she considered manly.

“As you command,
Father.”

I sighed again and quit the chamber.

We went down to the common room and found a table in a shadowy corner. A servingwoman came to take our order and soon we were settled to platters of roast pork and steaming vegetables, mugs of ale at our elbows. Inevitably, because we were last come from the Bright Kingdom, folk came asking questions. I answered past mouthfuls of food, grateful that Ellyn kept her mouth shut.

Then Jach came to us with a man who looked his twin and we settled to trading. Jerym had already examined our horses, and offered to buy both the chestnut and the bay at prices greatly in advance of what he’d offer for the brigands’ mounts. I refused that offer and settled on a reasonable sum for the others, save the soundest, which I thought to use for a packhorse. It was sufficient that we might purchase what supplies I thought we’d need without touching Ryadne’s gift. Jerym and I spat on our palms and clenched the deal; he gave me a small sack of coin and Jach celebrated our agreement with glasses of that liquor we brew in the Highlands, which is called brose. I was disappointed that Ellyn did not choke on it.

Our meal and business concluded, I took Ellyn out into the streets of Cu-na’Lhair to find us winter clothing.

Jach had recommended an emporium, and there I bought us sturdy sheepskin jerkins and heavy cloaks; gloves and fur-lined boots; two whole cowhides to floor our tents, and sufficient dried and cured and salted food to see us through several weeks. And then Ellyn surprised me again.

“Do you not think it time I had a sword?” she asked mildly, adding, after, a casual “Father.”

I gulped, taken aback. What new game was this? The merchant beamed, sensing more business, and before I had chance to argue, swept out an arm to indicate the weaponry on display.

“Indeed the lad should have a blade,” he declared. “And a decent shield. But light, eh? He’s but a stripling yet, so nothing too heavy. Look …”

Ellyn was already examining the blades.

I said, “You’re young yet.”

The merchant said, “Old enough to wear a blade.”

Ellyn said, “Think of those bandits, Father.”

From the look in her eyes I knew I was defeated, and so I said, “I’ll choose it, and the shield.”

She agreed to that and I selected a light blade; a smaller version of my own sword, with a basket hilt and breaker-rings, double-edged with a fuller most of its length. For a shield I chose her a small buckler, leather on wood, with embossed metal plates at the center and around the edge. I also chose the scabbard and the belt.

And as we returned to the Lonely Traveler, laden with our purchases, I asked her why she wanted a sword.

“We go the gods alone know where,” she answered, “but surely into danger. What if you are hurt? Or slain? Shall I be then left all alone, without the means to defend myself?”

There was sense in that, but even so I could not imagine this pampered princess wielding a sword. “You were disturbed,” I said, “when I slew those brigands.”

“Yes, I was.” She nodded solemnly. “But I also saw that it was necessary. And might be again. In which case, I’d defend myself.”

“What do you know of bladework?” I asked her.

“Very little,” she said cheerfully, “but you shall teach me.”

And so, it seemed, the matter was decided. I wondered who led our expedition now. Surely there was more to this girl than I’d first thought, and I found myself respecting her more.

“It’s not easy,” I told her. “A sword gets heavy after a while, nor less the shield. And striking a man is harder still.”

“You do it easily enough,” she returned from around the bundles she carried. “I’ve seen you.”

“I’m old,” I said, “and stronger than you. And I’ve carried a blade since I was …”

I broke off the sentence, but she finished it for me: “Younger than me?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“So you will teach me?”

“I will,” I said, “but not here. Only when we’re on the road again.”

“And when shall that be?”

“Soon,” I said. “There’s no point lingering here.”

“But I like this place,” she gave me back. “Can we not stay awhile?”

I said, “No.”

And when we reached the Lonely Traveler, I knew that I was right.

We stowed our gear and found the common room again. Ellyn would have worn her new-bought sword, but I managed to persuade her against that. It was by now dusk, and the inn was filling up. I recognized clan colors in the room, amongst them those of the Devyn. A side of beef was turning on the spit, and I bought us ale as we waited for the meat to be carved. Ellyn demanded that I buy her a measure of brose, which she favored over the ale, and for want of peace I agreed, finding us as secluded a table as was possible in the crowded room.

I sipped my ale and Ellyn sipped her brose. Then two men rose and came toward us. Both wore the Devyn colors, and I knew them both from long ago. One was Athol, the other Rurrid; they were both cohorts of my brother.

They halted before us and Athol said, “You are Gailard, no?”

I shook my head. “My name is Gavin.”

“No.” Rurrid stared hard at me. “You’re Gailard the Exile. Colum banished you, and you return to the Highlands on pain of death.”

From the corner of my eye I saw Ellyn tense. I prayed she not speak, but dared not indicate that need to her. I
stared back at Rurrid and said, “You mistake me, friend. I am Gavin, out of Chaldor.”

“You ran to Chaldor,” Athol said, “when your father exiled you, and Eryk would pay us well to bring you home.”

“Eryk?” I could not hide my surprise. “Is Colum no longer clan chief?”

“Colum died,” he answered. “Now Eryk leads the Devyn.”

I was startled. I had not heard of my father’s death, nor known that my brother took his place. I suppose that I had assumed my father would live forever. I shrugged and said, “You mistake me for this other fellow.”

Then Ellyn spoke. “Who are these men, Father? Do they speak of Gailard, the great warrior?”

Rurrid glanced at her and dismissed her. Athol said, “Who are you, boy?”

“Why,” she answered gruffly, “I am Elward, Gavin’s son.”

“He’s not Gavin,” Rurrid declared, “he’s Gailard.” He was, I recalled, ever obstinate as some dog guarding a prized bone.

Ellyn looked at him from under her cap. “Should I not know my own father? He’s Gavin, I tell you. Do I have it right, then this Gailard fought the Danant and, after, went away and has not been seen since.”

Athol frowned as if almost convinced by her display of innocence, but Rurrid stared at her and said, “There’s something odd about you, boy.”

He reached toward her. I set a hand on my sword and drew the blade a little way clear of the scabbard.

“Do you lay hand on my son, I’ll slay you.” I raised my voice a little, enough that the folk around us—already interested in our dispute—should hear. “What are you? Some fancier of boys?”

Rurrid blushed and snatched back his hand. “You lie,” he shouted. “I’ve no truck with boys.”

Ellyn said, loud, “Protect me, Father!”

Both clansmen touched their swords now, and I thought I might have to fight them, but then Jach appeared. He held a cudgel, and with him came two sheriff’s men, armed with swords.

“What is this?” our landlord asked. “I’ll have no fighting in my inn.”

Rurrid said, “He’s Gailard of the Devyn, and forbidden the Highlands.”

Jach said, “This is Cu-na’Lhair, friend, not the Highlands. And do you draw that blade farther, I’ll crack your skull.”

The sheriff’s men already had their blades out. Rurrid and Athol looked at them and sheathed their half-drawn weapons. Rurrid said, “We’ll find you later, Gailard.”

I said, again, “Gavin.”

“No matter the names,” Jach declared. “You two are not welcome here. Go!”

They went and Jach turned to me. “I know not what that was about, but I think it best you also depart. By day’s break, eh?”

L
ight ringed Chorym in an obscene halo. By night it was the glow of myriad fires, by day the glint of sunshine on polished shields and helmets and spearheads. But always light, and the sounds of siegement—the clatter of weapons and the rattle of chariots, the whickering of impatient horses, the shouting of Talan’s soldiers, and the thudding of axes and hammers and adzes as the siege machinery was built. Towers mounted on wheeled platforms rose ever higher, dwarfing the metal-decked battering rams; catapults took shape, arbalests and trebuchets, mangonels; and pickaxes and mallets hammered against outlying buildings, reducing them to such rubble as might be flung against the walls. Fences and hedges were stripped to construct protective barriers for the Danant archers. And all the while, drums beat a sullen rhythm even as trumpets sounded strident challenge.

Ryadne watched from the outer wall of her city. She stared at the gaily colored pavilions, at the banners fluttering there. At the comings and goings of her attackers. Sometimes she caught sight of Talan, circuiting the walls in his splendid golden chariot, magnificently armored. Sometimes he flourished a bejeweled spear, at others the jar that held her husband’s head. But he never ventured within bowshot; he was too careful.

Thrice, the queen had allowed her commanders to persuade her to send out skirmishers, in what had proven vain hope of slaying Danant’s king. And three times the mounted raiders had been slaughtered. Her finest archers watched the golden chariot with narrowed eyes, shafts nocked ready, but Talan stayed always out of range. Ryadne hated him as she had not known she could hate a man, and nightly prayed that the gods send him a fever or toss him from his chariot, or some camp whore infect him with the rotting sickness. But still, each morning, he presented himself—safely distanced—and hailed her.

“Shall you surrender now, or suffer my wrath? Better now, eh? Your city and all its folk shall suffer else. Surrender now, Ryadne, and I’ll let your people live.”

She doubted that. Already Danant stripped the land. What few animals had been left on the farms were slaughtered, the farms burned; cavalry trampled down the harvest and foot soldiers hacked away the vineyards and the orchards. Beyond that horrid ring of light stood a great swath of wanton destruction. And every so often the Danant men found Chaldor folk and brought them before the walls and slew them—or nailed them to crossed wood, or set them to roasting over slow fires—so that their screaming pierced the days and the nights. Ryadne gave orders that her bowmen put merciful shafts in any they could reach, save they could not and so the screaming went on and on.

The gods knew, but she hated Talan—and scryed his victory.

Albeit that was only a dim scrying, she still felt certain he must prevail. She exercised all those disciplines taught her by the Dur wisewomen, meditating and consuming such herbal potions as augmented the talent, but still her scrying was a misty, undecided thing. It was as if Talan’s Vachyn sorcerer clouded her vision, weakened her ability. She could no longer sense Ellyn or Gailard, as if that aetheric plane she traversed in dreams had become fogged by the Vachyn’s more powerful magicks, and she could only pray they lived.

She had recognized the Vachyn on sight. That fading part of her that still commanded the talent knew him like an aching in her bones, the smell of rain on the air. He was the black-robed one, his face aquiline, sallow as diseased flesh, framed with an oily spill of long black hair. Often he stood alone, staring at the walls, and then it was as if he stared at Ryadne and knew her as she knew him.