A Shadow on the Glass (24 page)

It was late on the fourth day that, squelching around a high shoulder of rock, he came in sight of the old village of Tullin. From where he stood the main road from Hetchet to Bannador could be seen winding its way up the steep mountainside. There had been snow the previous night and it still crusted the ground in shady places, but as he looked down to the west he saw that the snow lay thickly on the steep slopes, and dark clouds threatening more were already sweeping in.

He found the village in a dimple near the top of a long steep hill. It comprised a straggle of small stone houses, some ruined, on the downhill side of the inn. The inn was a massive structure of gray stone, with a slate roof and small windows fitted with shutters of weathered timber. The front door was painted dark-blue and reinforced with iron bolts. A pole above the door protruded across the street but it was bare of any pennant. Smoke came from several cottages and the chimneys of the inn but there was no one to be seen.

He pushed open the front door. Before him was a long hall with doors opening off to right and left. The left door was open, and through it was a large, high-ceilinged room with an open fireplace occupying half of the far wall. A few embers smoldered there. The room was chilly and empty. He turned down the hall, passing a narrow stair that ran steeply up to his left. It seemed too small and mean for such a large building. The far end of the hall opened onto the kitchen, where a vast stove glowed. The back door was open and from outside came the sound of wood being chopped.

“Hello, is anyone about?” Llian called from the door.

The chopping stopped. A gray head emerged from behind
a woodheap. “Come and give me a hand,” sang out an old man. The head disappeared and the chopping resumed.

Llian sat down on a stump beside the pile and ostentatiously took off a boot. “Be glad to help you,” he murmured, rubbing his blisters, “just as soon as I get this bound up.”

“Get off, Llian,” said the axeman, turning toward him with a smile. “You tried that one on me the last time you were here. I’ll not fall for it twice.” Dark-green eyes were twinkling in a face deeply tanned, a mountain dweller’s tan. He rubbed square hands through iron-gray hair that was sparse at the front though falling to his shoulders at the back. The woodchopper was shorter than Llian but well built, despite his age, and must have been a handsome man when young.

“Shand!” Llian grinned. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, old man. It’s five years since I was last in Tullin.” He leaned back on his seat, looking around cheerfully, making himself comfortable.

“I’m alive,” grunted Shand. “I can’t afford to die with all this wood to carry by
myself
.”

“Where is everybody?”

“Tullin dwindles. Those that remain are down the Hetchet road a way, looking for a lost traveler. They’ll be back soon, wanting a fire and a hot dinner.” Shand looked west, at the road winding its way down the mountain.

Llian, bowing to the pressure, squatted down and loaded his right arm. “A traveler?”

“Stupid thing to be doing, this time of year, traveling alone across the mountains. Hurt too—broken arm or something. You going to squat there all evening?”

Llian trudged inside and dumped the wood in a recess next to the stove. When he came back out again, the first flakes of snow were falling.

“How did you hear of her?” he asked, picking up another piece.

“That’s what’s so odd,” old Shand replied, laying down the axe and hefting a log rather bigger than Llian would have attempted. “Some other travelers came searching for her; three foreigners from over Orist way, on their way east. Or so they say. And in a right hurry too. Funny thing was, they weren’t in a hurry at all this morning. Went out searching for her, down the mountain.” He settled the log on his shoulder and disappeared up the path.

Llian sat down on the woodheap with half an armload. A chill went through him. Wistan had said that Karan was being hunted…

Shand was back, staring down at him with a half-amused, half-irritated expression. “It’s snowing, Llian,” was all he said, and Llian leapt up and hurried inside with his small load of wood.

“Did they happen to say what her name was?” asked Llian, as he passed Shand on the path again.

“Karan, of Bannador,” said Shand thoughtfully.

By the time they had carried all the wood in and set the fires blazing, it was dark. Llian sat at a table near the fire with a mug of hot wine while Shand passed back and forth, lighting lamps and bearing mugs, plates and cutlery from the kitchen.

The searchers arrived back noisily just after dark, brushing powdery snow from their cloaks in front of the fire and calling loudly to Shand for food and drink. Llian hung back, content to observe for the moment. The landlord, a big bony man with sandy hair and a flat nose, saw the stranger sitting quietly there and came across to him.

“I’m Torgen—your landlord. My wife, Maya.”

She was little and plump, a remarkably attractive woman
of middle age with black eyes, round rosy cheeks and a sparkling smile. Her tiny wrists were layered with silver bands that rang together as she moved.

Torgen went the rounds of the little group: an old man wearing a soldier’s cap, returning to the west from Thurkad; two messengers, traveling east; a couple recently wed, or so their total self-absorption proclaimed, but they were so alike they might have been brother and sister. They were on their way from Bannador to Hetchet. Last of the travelers was a priest with watery eyes. There were five or six villagers too, though they quickly went to their accustomed table and became immersed in a game of dice.

“Rather a lot for this time of year. I see you’ve met Shand already. We have three more, from Orist.” Torgen paused. “They keep to themselves. Haven’t come in yet. If you’ll excuse us, dinner’s already late. It’s been a long day.”

He continued over his shoulder, in answer to Shand’s question: “No, we didn’t find her. I expect she’s in a drift somewhere—there’s a lot of snow on the road.”

The soldier, Jared, and the priest joined Llian at his table. Llian and the priest shared a jar of hot spiced wine, while Jared called for tea. “What’s this about a lost traveler?” Llian wondered.

The priest and Jared looked at each other. Jared had the sad, droopy face of a bloodhound. He stroked his jowl with broad, flat fingers, took off his cap to reveal a blotched dome, slowly rubbed his scalp, the skin mounding under his fingers, put his hat back on again and mutely sipped his tea. There was a long pause, then the priest began, “Well, so
they
say. But it seems mighty queer to me.” He stopped.

“What do you mean?”

The priest squinted at him across the table. “Why is the miserable girl traveling alone at this time of year? And what do those scrawny wretches from Orist want her for? Making
us risk our lives at a time like this.” His tone was peevish. He took more wine from the jar greedily, slopping it on the table, and drank the whole bowl down with a gulp and a gasped breath. He reached for the jar again, then pushed it away, heaved his chair back as if to go but just slumped there, wet lips gleaming, and stared morosely at the fire. Maya tinkled across with a cloth to mop the table.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” said Llian.

“Can you not feel it? The past sweeps toward us, renews itself in the present. At night my bones ache with the imminence of it. The cycle of death, the cycle of ruin.” He shivered. His eyes seemed to be watering more than before and he dashed the wet away with his sleeve.

The old soldier gave Llian a thoughtful glance. He wore thick woolen trousers and a heavy brown cloak, caught at the neck with a copper pin. He rubbed his pouched eyes.

“Your creed and mine are very different, priest,” he said in a slow, low voice, the r’s rolled into a
prrr
. “I’m a pr-rractical man, but there are signs enough for me too. Something is building such as San thenar has not seen in an age. Where is the will to combat it? I don’t have it.”

Their sentiments made Llian shiver. What did they see that he did not? At that point the front door banged, and, twisting around in his chair, Llian saw three people enter in a flurry of snow. The better to observe them he stood up and leaned on the mantelpiece with his back to the fire. He sipped the wine, which had gone cold and developed an oily taste.

The three were dressed alike, in robes of dark-green wool gathered at the waist with cord. Two were tall, with sharp gray faces—the man with scarred cheeks; a woman, lanky though large-breasted. Each bore a short wooden staff but they were otherwise unarmed. The third was shorter and heavily built, almost stout, with thick graying hair. A wallet
hung at his hip from a narrow belt. His legs were bowed so that he walked with a rolling gait, and his skin was as gray as steel.

He spoke briefly to the landlord, whose darting eyes betrayed his nervousness, then glanced around the room. His gaze rested for a moment on Llian, who did his best to look rustic, then he gestured to his companions and they walked off toward the stairs.

Llian was struck by something familiar about them, some image from a tale of long ago, but when he tried to pursue it, it was not there. He sat down again but the priest had moved to a table by himself and the soldier was gone. Llian signaled for food and another flask of spiced wine. Suddenly the benefits of this mission seemed outweighed by the risks.

Shand brought Llian his dinner, a large bowl of soup and some dark bread. The soup was thick, full of vegetables and beans and black, smoked meat. Llian sipped it from the bowl, as was the custom. It was very hot. He put it to one side and tore a strip from the loaf, dipping it in the soup while he resumed his deliberations.

Had Karan slipped by her pursuers, or had she hidden and let them overtake her? Or was she lying injured or dead somewhere off the path?

Just then Shand came back bearing a steaming bowl and mug. Llian gestured him over. Shand sat down, pulled a knife out of one pocket and a hunk of bread from the other and cut the bread into cubes which he dropped into the soup, pushing them under with his spoon.

“Who are they?” asked Llian.

Shand lowered his voice. “Yggur’s trusted servants. Whelm, they are named. The squat one is in charge, called Jark-un, and the woman’s name is Gaisch. They arrived yesterday evening. Took their meal in their room. They called me up there a few times—more blankets, more wood for the
fire, that sort of thing. Shouldn’t have thought they’d feel the cold, coming from Orist. The last time I went up, the fellow with the scarred face, name of Idlis, called me in and asked when the red-haired woman had left. Not secretively, he asked me straight out, but he made me uneasy.

“ ‘Been no one traveling alone these last weeks, and don’t expect none, what with winter closing in,’ I told him. ‘Unusual even the few that we have. Generally it’s a big party or none.’ The other two looked surprised. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asked. As though he thought I was hiding her, but that was my story and it was true.

“Anyway, enough of them. What are you doing here? I’ve heard you’re something of a master now. I should have thought you’d be doing a telling at the festival.”

“I was going to,” Llian said, looking down at the remains of his soup, unsure how much to reveal. “To tell you the truth, I’m in a bit of trouble back in Chanthed. I’ve been satirizing old Wistan in the taverns these past months. The patrons thought it most amusing, and it was profitable for the innkeepers too, I dare say, but Wistan has banished me.”

“Hmn,” said Shand. “Seems to me there’s more than you’re letting on.”

He was disturbingly well-informed. Llian changed the subject, ordered a new flask of spiced wine and began spinning ever more outrageous yarns with each bowl. Shand listened in silence, though once or twice he laughed, and each time the flow dried up he asked Llian something that set him going again.

Llian couldn’t work out whether Shand was enjoying his tale-spinning, tolerating it or secretly laughing at him. Then, when Shand came back from the bar with yet another flask, suddenly he didn’t care. He held out his bowl in an unsteady hand, and as he watched the red liquid rise his quest floated to the top of his mind. He felt a vague unease; there must be
some good reason for not talking about it, but he couldn’t remember what it was. How would he ever learn if he was too afraid to ask?

“Shand—did you hear about my Great Tale?” The words slurred together and Llian realized that he was drunk.

“What tale? The one from your telling of four years ago?
The Loneliness of Faelamor?
”

“No, the
Tale of the Forbidding
I made for the Graduation Telling last summer.”

“Oh yes—strange tale, that. I heard it on the road a while ago.”

“Well…” Llian hesitated. “There’s something bothers me about the ending.”

“Oh?”

“An insignificant thing. You probably wouldn’t recall it”

“If there is something you want to ask me,” Shand said rather testily, “then ask it I remember the tale well enough.”

“Well, recall that the crippled girl did not seem to have been harmed by the Forbidding, but she was found dead That’s what’s wrong.”

“Didn’t she kill herself?”

“She stabbed herself from behind?”

“What are you trying to say, Llian?”

“I think a great secret was discovered there and the crippled girl was killed to silence her.”