A Shadow on the Glass (18 page)

Yet somehow her bushcraft or her carefully managed talent was just enough. At last she emerged from the swamps into dense forest. She did not see the Whelm after that, for she could move faster here, but she knew they still followed.

Four nights after the affair of the leeches she crept out of the forest, a filthy, bedraggled creature, her tender skin covered in welts and wounds, across gray grass and into the clean water of Lake Neid. Gentle rain pattered on the still surface.
She walked east along the shoreline for half the night, staying in calf-deep water all the tune, weed catching at her ankles.

Midnight. Without warning something clutched at her coat, she thrashed, tripped and landed head down in the water with her pack banging against the back of her neck. Karan tried to come to her feet but she was held down. How had they come upon her here, in the dark? The more she struggled the harder she was pushed. Red sparks danced against her eyelids. Water burned in her nose, her chest. Her strength gave out; Karan went still.

No! Not even the Whelm could have tracked her here. Even the Whelm must sleep some time. Her hand caught a twiggy branch—she was tangled in a fallen tree. She clawed her way along the bottom, pushed through a slippery nest of twigs and floated free. Her feet did not touch the bottom. Karan was too cold and tired to swim. She simply turned on her back and floated, exhausted and lethargic, onto a gravelly shore.

After a few minutes she found the strength to turn over, coughed up water and crawled up the gravel until her head struck something solid—the trunk of the tree. There was a little hollow underneath. She would just lie here for a minute until her strength came back.

How lovely and warm it was.
Warm?
Karan rolled over and the high sun dazzled her. It was midday. She looked around cautiously. The shoreline was bare as far as she could see, and she was lying in full view of anyone to come along. The realization paralyzed her. She peered over the trunk. In the distance she saw a broken wall and, beyond, a pair of standing columns—the ruins of the town of Neid, where she and Maigraith had hidden their large packs, spare clothing and food.

The thought of food became a screaming need but she was too afraid to go on. The force that had driven her had dissipated. There had been plenty of time for the Whelm to catch up; they probably knew her destination anyway.

Where the roots of the tree had been torn from the ground was a small crater, a meager and obvious hiding place. That was where she spent the rest of the day, ravenous, but with not even a stalk of grass to chew on. The only consolation was that a thin sun shone all day, her stained clothes dried and she actually felt warm.

As soon as it was dark she slipped back into the water and swam to the nearest part of the ruins, a small stone jetty. Nearby were the broken walls of a small building, the place where the packs were hidden, but the town proper was perhaps half an hour’s walk to the west.

Karan huddled among the stone blocks, eating small portions of the revolting food, bathing over and over again in the cold water; enjoying the luxury of soap until she was clean all over and the ordeals of the past days were washed away with the muck of the swamps. She perfumed her hair with the lime-blossom essence that so reminded her of her mother, and immediately felt whole again.

Early the following morning she crept through the forest to the place where they had arranged to meet the guide, Waif. She expected nothing, neither Maigraith nor Walf, for she was four days late, but as she stood on the crest of a small hill, looking east toward the ruins, their meeting place, she saw a thread of smoke near the water. A campfire,
here
! Such carelessness—or the mark of a man very much at his ease, as perhaps a smuggler might be when he had nothing to hide.

Waif was little more than a beast, though a cunning and dangerous one. And yet how she yearned to go to the fire, to
warm herself by it, to eat hot food and drink sweet tea. After the past days even his animal company would be welcome.

She approached with caution and found the campfire in the angle of a wall, sheltered from the cool breeze off the lake. Another ruined building, marked only by standing columns, lay behind. The guide sat on a rock beside the fire, massive but shapeless in a coat like a bag. Fish were frying in a pan and a pot was bubbling. He seemed to know she was out there, for as she came across the grass he was already forking fish out of the pan onto a metal plate, hooking out onion rings and pouring tea into a mug.

Her stomach contracted at the sight of the food. He did not look so brutish now—his big ugly face was friendly and Karan was glad to see him. He smiled, showing bare gums, and held out the plate. How she ached for the food.

“Thank you, Waif,” she croaked.

“Where is the dark-haired one?” His voice was indistinct, his lips barely moving. He did not look at her as he spoke and she felt a vague unease.

“Taken,” she replied, putting down her heavy pack but keeping the small one on, just in case.

She sipped her tea. It was wonderfully hot and sweet, just as she’d imagined it would be. She took a mouthful of the fish. Slightly oily, beautifully firm and pink, delicious. So grateful was she, so hungry for good food that tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed the first mouthful, selected another piece with the point of her knife. Her eyes met the smuggler’s across the fire. His eyes slid away and she paused, the fish halfway to her mouth. He was looking behind her, to one side, and there was a shifty look in his eyes.

No!
her talent screamed; she leapt sideways and in the same movement flung the scalding tea in his face. A two-bladed axe whirred through the space she had just vacated and buried itself in the turf. The smuggler clutched at his
eyes, then she was past him, dodging around the end of the wall and away through the rubble and broken columns. There she paused and looked back.

Idlis stood where she had been, his foot upon her plate, retrieving his axe from the lawn. He stared after her, black eyes glittering. Two other Whelm were running jerkily past him, spreading out, axes in their hands. Idlis lifted the weapon and flung it again. She twisted away and it struck a column behind her. Stone chips stung her cheek, the blade rang out, then she was sprinting along the shore of the lake and into the trees with the Whelm in close pursuit. The treacherous guide had already disappeared.

Though she was small, Karan was agile and very fleet, and in the trees she soon put a good distance between her and the Whelm. She felt a moment’s regret for the beautiful fish trodden into the ground but the brutal attack soon put it out of mind. She imagined, as only she could, the axe tearing through her back, the agony blossoming, the futile attempts to pull out the intruding blade, her blood pumping onto the grass, then the light fading, and the pain, and quick death.

More than once that afternoon the Whelm almost had her, for the forest was open here. They spread out, calling to each other in their muddy voices. Each time she took a new direction the nearest Whelm would cut across the angle. They were tireless and they hunted her like a pack of dogs, first one taking the lead then another, so that she could never rest.

Now she was sobbing with weariness, the little pack thudding against her back with every step, her will fading. And darkness was hours away, though it offered little protection against the Whelm, who covered their eyes against even the light of this cloudy autumn day.

Several times they came close enough to fling their weapons, and finally it was only a storm that saved her, the
kind that was common in Orist in autumn, coming in suddenly from the sea in the afternoon. Dark clouds grew in the west, and with them came a squall of wind, then a downpour. The light faded, the air was full of concealing mist. Karan reacted instantly, turning and running diagonally away up the hill, over the crest and down into the thick forest to the east, running and running through the rain until it was dark and she knew that she had lost them. She kept walking in a northerly direction all that night. Just before dawn Karan hid in dense scrub and slept fitfully until dusk.

Now the nights were overcast and Karan traveled quickly, seeing no further sign of her pursuers. Hunger was her worst enemy, for her heavy pack was left behind and all she could find to supplement her rations were fallen nuts, but they were old, shriveled and moldy. Then on the third day she came to a village in the forest and for a few coppers bought food enough to fill her pack.

The way to Sith lay east by north, across the Hindirin River then east through the Zarqa Gap, the tiny break in the mountains that ran up the eastern side of Meldorin, and finally up the wooded eastern coast of Iagador to Sith. That journey would take a month if she could get back to where they’d left the horses. But Karan found that all the roads east were watched by troops in the livery of Yggur, and the bridges guarded. She was cut off, for the Hindirin and other big rivers could only be crossed by bridge or ferry. There was no way to get to the horses either, for the village where they were stabled was occupied.

She sat for a day among the trees, watching the road, wondering what to do. She had vowed to take the Mirror to Faelamor in Sith. But there was no way to get to Sith-the whole of the south was alerted. Yggur must have broken Maigraith.

Her only chance was to go due north, away from Sith, though that would more than double the distance. But in the north there was help, for that was country she knew. Chanthed, home to the College of the Histories, she had often been to. It was not long until the autumn festival.

And the Histories were the key to her dilemma—the legends of Faelamor and her people, the Histories of the Aachim, the
Tale of the Forbidding
. Great events of the past were bound up with this Mirror, and what she chose to do with it could set the direction of the future. How could she decide where to bestow it, which oath to break, whom to betray?

Chanthed was a long march north, but achievable if she could afford to buy a horse. It would be her next destination. And after that, across the mountains to Bannador and home. From there it was not so far to Sith but she would worry about that later.

Karan went cautiously north and joined the Hirthway near the walled city of Preddle. There she found cheerful hospitality and good hot food for the first time in weeks and, most glorious of all, a hot bath and a clean bed.

The next morning, in the market square, twice within an hour she noticed a tall figure staring at her. Her talent did not tell her of any threat so probably it was not a Whelm. Doubtless just an innocent encounter but she dared not take the risk, her talent being unreliable. She walked casually between two booths and ducked underneath a long cloth-covered trestle on which were displayed the wares of a rug-seller: bright tribal rugs in coarse yak wool, red and yellow saddle cloths, towels, gray blankets and, up the further end, under the tireless eye of the merchant, hand-knotted carpets and hangings in lamb’s wool and silk. The rugs and cloths hung down on either side to the paving stones.

Karan sat on her pack and waited. Feet came and went. Abruptly a corner of the cloth was flung aside and a tanned face, hollow cheeks and hawk nose, glared at her from only a handspan away, so close that she could smell his cardamom-scented breath.

“Get out,” he said, with a jerk of his chin and a flash of yellow teeth. “The next time you kids…”

Karan turned her face to his.

“Oh,” he said.

“Please,” she said. “I’m being followed. The tall dark fellow in the hood. I’m terribly afraid.

He stared at her. “No business of mine,” he said, then stood up suddenly and dropped the cloth, leaving her wondering.

A minute passed, then a wiry brown arm thrust in with a glass of cold sweet lime juice. She took the glass with a soft “Thank you,” and drained it. A few minutes passed, then the hawk was back.

“You’re safe now.”

Karan threw a cloak over her shoulders and tucked her hair up under her hat. For the moment that was all the disguise she could manage. No more bed, no more bath; she would not stay a moment longer than necessary. She slid out, scanned the market and bowed to the carpet merchant

“I have daughters,” he said, showing his teeth again, then turned to a customer.

Down a miserable alley near the eastern gate she found a stable. Karan went in despite her misgivings, for it was a dingy place. The straw was moldy and there was manure all over the floor. Two men and an old woman were playing dominoes on a filthy table. Karan felt at once that there was something wrong. She wanted to run straight out again, but she had not seen any other stables and there wasn’t time to start searching now.

“Yeah?” said the old woman. There was not a single tooth in her head. Dirty gray hair straggled down to her waist. The low-cut gown revealed sights that Karan preferred not to contemplate.

“I’d like to buy a horse, please,” said Karan, advancing to the table. The old woman cackled and scratched a draggled armpit.

“You don’t look old enough, stranger!” She turned to the man on her left, a big fellow hideously deformed by the scar of a burn that seamed and puckered him from mouth to ear. The whole side of his head was scarred and bald save for a few bristly clumps of white hair. He was grimy with ingrained dirt. “Does she look old enough to you, Qwelt?”

Qwelt’s mouth flopped open in a leer so grotesque that Karan wanted to scream and run. He had some horrible disease of the mouth—his gums were black and festering, shrunken away from teeth that jutted in all directions like stones in an ancient graveyard.