The Sage (12 page)

He
followed Culaehra more by feeling than by tracks or sound or scent—the outlaw
moved with the born woodsman's automatic silence, slipping between branches
rather than bending them aside, and only occasionally treading on a patch of
ground soft enough to hold his footprint. Illbane knew he would not even have
done that if he had really been paying close heed. No, Illbane followed as a
shaman follows, by an inner certainty as to which direction his quarry has
taken, as much a matter of reading a host of different signs without realizing
it as of magic.

He
came out of the woods to a small lake, dark in the moonlight. Culaehra sat on a
boulder beside it, shoulders slumped, head hanging. For a moment Illbane felt
compassion, the man looked to be so miserable—but the sage reminded himself
that the brute had to pass through just such misery as this if he were to
become as much of a hero as Rahani thought possible. To stiffen his resolve, he
remembered the degradation Culaehra had forced on the gnomes and would have
forced on Kitishane, then imagined the crimes that had led to the outlaw's
tribe casting him out. Saddened but certain, he sat on a cushion of fallen pine
needles, folded his legs, straightened his spine, and settled himself for the
long vigil. Slowly, his mind stilled, his emotions became tranquil, and Illbane
passed into the waking trance that gave him as much rest as sleep would have.
His eyes held Culaehra, his mind and body were ready to move if the outlaw
did—but only ready; in all else, they rested.

His
mind was still as a sheltered pool, but in its depths, memories moved and
twisted. He saw again the battle between Lomallin's ghost and Ulahane's, marked
in memory the flashing fragment of star that streaked away to fall in the
north, remembered Rahani coming to him, glowing with praise and delight, as he
stepped from the World Tree in the form of a bear, then the desire that beat in
waves from her as, with a gesture, she changed him back into his own form, that
of a man in his prime.

He
remembered the long centuries of loving and delight, let himself dwell on them
for minutes, for he needed that promise to raise himself from the utter
weariness that accompanied age and the discovery that human beings were still
as brutal in their desires and their behavior as they had ever been, needing only
the slightest of temptations from Bolenkar to induce them to abandon the ways
of helping one another, of comradeship and tolerance. He remembered her
caresses, her words of love and encouragement—and of reassurance, as together
they had watched the growth of the cities.

Then
they had watched the poor, heart-twisted children and grandchildren of Bolenkar
come into the cities and the villages, to corrupt and control and rule and
enslave. Appalled, the Ulin and her consort had watched the degradation of
humankind begin.

Ohaern
sat behind the leaves and watched, but his mind's eyes saw more vividly than
his body's. He was suddenly alert when Culaehra rose, looked longingly at the
trail before him, then back to the camp, but at last lay down where he was, and
was soon asleep. Then Illbane relaxed, losing himself in memories again, to
stiffen his resolve for the course that lay before him—because truly, cruelty
did not come naturally to him, and his anger at Culaehra was nearly worn-out.

At
last Ohaern came out of his reverie to see that Rahani's star had risen clear
and bright over the lake before him. He hoped it was an affirmation. He shook
off the lingering dread of memory, held fast to the determination to undo
Bolenkar's work, aligned his heart to the beacon of the promised reunion with
Rahani, and, strengthened and renewed in spirit, rose to work the stiffness and
chill of the night from his limbs. Then he took up his staff and strode over to
Culaehra, to begin the next stage in his campaign to reform the outlaw.

“Wake
up!” His staff whizzed down and struck Culaehra's rump. The outlaw bawled in
surprise and outrage as he leaped to his feet, one hand pressed to the wounded
anatomy, shaking his head to clear it. Illbane roared merrily, “Will you lie
abed all day? Come, blow up the flames to cook breakfast!”

“It's
still dark!” Culaehra protested.

“It
will be light by the time we are done eating! Come, slugabed! To work!” He
swung his staff like a switch, and Culaehra leaped back with a cry of surprise.
Then he turned and stumbled back toward the campsite, too much amazed and too
groggy to work up enough anger to resist.

The
fire was bright and food frying as they came out of the wood. Kitishane looked
up, her face anxious, bereft. “The unicorn is gone, Illbane!”

“He
is not.” The sage lowered himself to sit by the fire with a sigh. “Your unicorn
will be by you until he is sure you no longer wish a guardian against Culaehra,
maiden. He will watch from the wood and from the roadside, but you will not see
him. Warm your heart with the certainty of his presence.” She did.

When
breakfast was done and the campfire drowned, Ill-bane's staff cracked across
Culaehra's shoulders again. The man yowled with anger. “What have I done now?”

“It
is what you have not done,” Illbane said sternly. “You have not washed your
body for as long as I have known you. Off with your clothing, now, and into
that lake!”

“What,
here and now?” Culaehra glanced frantically at the watching gnomes and woman.

“You
were eager enough to strip and show them a part of your own body before!” The
staff struck Culaehra's buttocks. “Off with those rags, now, and wash!”

Mutiny
showed in Culaehra's eyes, but only activated in his hate-filled voice. “Someday,
old man, someday!”

“If
I live long enough to see it!” Illbane snapped, and so did his staff. A half
cry escaped before Culaehra clamped his jaws shut on it and turned his back to
strip his clothes.

“Gather
branches,” Illbane directed, and Lua turned away to find soft leaves—but
Yocote, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, broke off spruce. Kitishane only
watched Culaehra with amusement.

Blushing
furiously, Culaehra rushed back along the trail to the pond. Illbane followed
closely, roaring merrily and swatting him with boughs. Culaehra dived into the
lake to escape him, but whenever he came up, coughing and spluttering, Illbane
was there to strike and swat him with the branches. Finally Illbane tossed him
a square of cloth and sat down on a rock, saying, “Scrub your hide with this,
and I'll let you out of the cold. But you'll do this every morning from this
day forth, or I'll do it to you!”

Culaehra
didn't doubt that he could. He scrubbed.

They
had been out on the trail only an hour before that carved staff struck his
shoulders again. “What now?” Culaehra bawled.

“You
should have turned left where the trail forked! What kind of idiot are you not
to know?” Illbane demanded.

“Idiot?”
Culaehra protested, outraged. “How
could
I have known?”

The
staff whizzed down again. Culaehra yelped and leaped aside, but that served only
to let the wood score the side of his hip. “Woodsman, do you call yourself?”
Illbane roared. “You could not see that the tracks of the beasts led off to the
north? You could not tell from the sides of the trees on which the moss grew?”

“How
was I to know you wanted to go north?” Culaehra replied hotly.

“I've
only said it every day!” The staff whizzed through the air, but Culaehra leaped
inside its arc and blocked Illbane's forearm with his own as he drove a fist
into the old man's belly—and shouted with pain.

“Hard,
isn't it?” Illbane said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Almost as if it were
frozen, wouldn't you say?” His own fist hooked up hard, and Culaehra doubled
over as his belly muscles locked in pain.

Lua
made a soft noise and stepped forward, reaching to heal.

Illbane
put out an arm to stop her. “He'll breathe again soon enough—and then he'll go
back to take the right trail.”

But
later in that day, when they came to a fork and Culaehra stopped to study it
for signs, the staff struck again across his buttocks and Illbane bellowed, “Lazy
knave! Walk, and keep walking! We've only two more hours of light left, and
I've no wish to waste it standing about!”

“But
you told me to study the signs to find the way north!”

“I
said no such thing! I said to
go
north, and the main path does!” And
Illbane drove the baffled man before him.

Kitishane
followed with a small smile, but it faded quickly. Lua came up beside her and
said, “Sister, I think he has suffered enough.”

Kitishane
looked down, surprised by the term—but they had indeed become sisters in shared
pain, imposed by the same “brother.” “Not enough yet, little sister,” she said,
returning the affection. “He hasn't even been punished enough for what he did
to me, let alone you—and certainly not enough for what he would do to us if he
could, nor for the pains he has caused to people before us.”

“But
Illbane does not punish him for those sins! Indeed, he punishes him for none!”

“Without
immediate cause, yes,” Kitishane said slowly, eyes on the trudging outlaw,
every muscle of whose body was tense with suppressed outrage. “Still, let us
trust Illbane; I do not doubt that he knows what he is doing—and why.”

Nonetheless,
around the campfire that night she contrived to sit near Culaehra—though not
too near, and warily. Curiosity overcame fear and revulsion, though it might
not have if she had not been certain the unicorn was watching from behind the
leaves. As excuse for her closeness, she ladled the stew out of the pot and
onto his plate. “Eat well, big man. You will need all the strength you can
gain.”

“What
good will it serve,” Culaehra said bitterly, “if an old man, weaker than me by
far, can defeat any power I exert?”

“You
will endure,” Kitishane said, her voice no longer hard. “You will outlast him.”

Culaehra
looked up at Illbane, glowering. “Yes. There is that, isn't there? I'm much
younger than he—I have only to wait.” He stared, brooding, and began to eat.
Kitishane watched his profile and began to see some signs of humanity there.
Surely it must have been her imagination!

Suddenly
Culaehra turned to her, frowning. “Why would
you
offer me comfort?”

Kitishane
recoiled, taken off guard. Why indeed? But even more questionable—why would he
resent it? “Perhaps because I've been foolish enough to begin to see you as a
man!”

“As
a man?” Culaehra frowned. “How else could you have seen me?”

“As
a beast!” Kitishane snapped, and rose to take her bowl of stew elsewhere. But
throughout that meal, whenever she glanced at Culaehra, his gaze was on her,
and there was no lust in it, only puzzlement.

It
made her shiver.

At
breakfast the next morning Illbane snapped at Culaehra for not bringing enough
water in the bark bucket, then snarled at him again for bringing too much. He
chivvied him for grilling the meat too long when Kitishane thought it done to
perfection—then suddenly praised Culaehra for having boiled the eggs perfectly.
How much skill did it take, Kitishane wondered, to hard-boil an egg? Still, she
had to admit that for Culaehra, that was probably the first time he had ever
done so.

On
his part, Culaehra was amazed at the upwelling of satisfaction he felt at the
old man's compliment, even gratitude— and cursed himself for a fool, reminding
himself that Illbane had cut a long, slender wand and peeled the bark from it
as they were setting breakfast to cook. He was vindicated when Illbane yelled, “I
said to bury the fire, idiot, not raise a cairn over it!” and struck the backs
of his hands with the wand. Culaehra cried out in anger and felt the welcome
upwelling of the old, familiar anger and hatred. It was almost a
relief—gratitude and satisfaction made him nervous.

But
they felt good.

He
put the thought out of his mind as he swung the packs up onto his back. Yes,
Illbane's praise had raised a pleasant feeling within him—but his scolding and
insults raised a bitter anger that he could not discharge, and he had no idea
which actions would bring praise and which punishment. The old lunatic was
completely incomprehensible—there was no way to predict what he would do or say
next. Culaehra was beginning to go in constant dread of the old man's whims—a
dread he had not felt since he had been a boy and unsure how the men of the
village would treat him because he had slain one of them, even though he had
done so as much by luck as skill, and done it to save one of their daughters.
Illbane was very like them, he thought with hatred—telling him he wanted one
thing, but punishing him when he did it, then praising him for something else
he had never even mentioned!

As
they were bedding down for the night, Culaehra heard Lua daring to speak to
Illbane in mild reproof. “The outlaw deserves as much pain as he has given
others, sir, but no more— and certainly for reasons that can be understood!”

Illbane
sighed. “Ah, but when you grow old, you can scarcely understand your own
angers, Lua. The aches and pains of age make us suddenly angry when we would
otherwise be able to keep our tempers—and the regrets and bitterness that come
from a life less than perfect make us liable to sudden changes of mood.”

“Are
there no signs by which we may see if you are in pain or in sorrow?”

“There
are, but you should not have to trouble yourselves to learn to read them.”
Illbane laid a hand on her head. “Sleep peacefully, Lua—and be assured, if I
grow surly or angry, it is Culaehra on whom I shall vent it, and none others of
you.”

There
must have been magic in his touch, for the gnome-maid's eyes closed
immediately, and within minutes her breath was the slow and even respiration of
sleep.