A Shadow on the Glass (29 page)

Maigraith could not prevent an involuntary relaxation.

“Not Thurkad. Vilikshathûr? Alcifer—hardly! Gnulp? No, too far away. Of course—not on the sea, but close to it, and on the great River Garr!” Her eyelids flickered slightly, silkily against his fingers. “Ahhh! Sith! You can sleep now. That is all I need to know.”

Yggur gazed at her a moment longer, at her bare shoulders, the dark hair covering her beautiful sad face, then abruptly he rose, collected his lantern and went out, the door clicking softly behind.

She sank slowly down into the bed, pulling the covers tightly around her, shivering. She would sleep no more tonight. All her efforts had been for nothing, and all her training. The lack of sleep had broken her.

There was but one consolation: two days had passed since Karan had fled into the tunnels. But when Yggur came in last night his boots had been covered in mud from the estuary, for she had smelled the sea on him. So Karan had got out of Fiz Gorgo. She must do something to help her. She must make some diversion, little though it might be.

Maigraith dressed herself quietly in the dark, eased open the door and looked out. Across the room, in the far doorway, there was a shadow. She crept nearer, praying that it was not a Whelm. It was not, merely a servant. The man had his back to her. Now he stirred, scratched his back and went into the other room. She withdrew into the darkest corner. Shortly the man returned to his post. Her bare feet made no noise. She struck him on the nape of the neck and dragged him to a corner. Was there another? Not in the room; perhaps outside. She put her ear to the door, but could hear nothing. She tensed, jerked the door open, ready to strike the guard down, but there was no one there.

Maigraith hesitated, knowing she did not yet have the strength to get away. Not yet. She made her way to Yggur’s rooms nearby. They were lit only by a glimmer from the grate. She ghosted in, surveying the room carefully. He was not there, though his presence lingered. The long table attracted her attention, covered as it was with maps and papers. She took up the topmost map, which showed the lands of eastern Meldorin, from the mountains to the Sea of Thurkad. The map was marked in many places. She held it up to catch the light, and a cold hand caught her wrist from behind and held her. Her flesh crawled again, and she almost screamed in fear and disgust.

“This time we will finish our little talk,” said Vartila, and led her away.

T
he shabby, battered figure at Karan’s feet
was
Llian, though much diminished from the great teller she had admired before. Yet his voice, even the preposterous statement, was like a caress. How had he got here without her sensing him? How did he come to be here at all? Could her formless dreams and longings have really fetched him so far from his comfortable teller’s life? It was not possible—she had never had power of that sort. It must be coincidence, but what coincidence could bring him all the way up here? What an honor for her!

Llian groaned and shivered. Blood welled out of his forehead. She heaved him over on his back with one arm, for her other wrist still throbbed at the slightest exertion. Llian’s skin was freezing. He was battered and bruised and drenched. He might die of the cold, and it would be her fault.

Karan built up the fire till it roared, exhausting her whole
stock of wood, then stripped him down to his underpants. She felt as though she was handling a sacred object. His skin was almost as smooth and pale as hers, she noticed with admiration, though badly bruised and lacerated from chest to hip. She rubbed him dry with one of her shirts, chafed his limbs with her hands until he was warm and she was sweating, and wrapped him in a blanket by the fire. The color began to come back into his face.

Karan looked in his pack for dry clothing but everything was saturated. She strung a bit of rope in front of the fire and hung his garments there, so close that they steamed and scorched, the only way to get them dry tonight.

She tried to work out how this had come about. The last week had been one of her worst, climbing the steep path in the snow. Her broken wrist had knitted badly and ached constantly. She had kept herself going with a fantasy about the great chronicler, when she’d been able to think. No romantic nonsense—just someone she could talk over her dilemma with, one to tell her the Histories of Faelamor and Yggur, Mendark and even Tensor, to give her what she needed to make the right decision about the Mirror. She was obsessed with that decision. It had to be right-that was more important than any duty to Maigraith, or to the Aachim.

But what had she expected, when her sending touched someone last night? She had sensed that help was near, but not
how
near, not
where
; certainly not
who
it was. What had she been thinking of, those times she’d called him? She tried to remember. The first sending, more than a week ago, had been just something her dreams made out of inner longings. But in the second, the one that had fetched him here from Tullin last night, she
had
called for help,
had
begged him to hurry, and here he was. What was she to do with him now? He might have a wonderful talent but clearly he couldn’t take care of himself.
I’ve come to save you
, indeed!

* * *

Llian groaned and opened his eyes. He was on the floor in front of the fire. The red-haired woman squatted beside him with a mug of hot water and a rag, dabbing at the cut over his eye. Llian flinched and moaned. His head ached. Every breath sent a sharp pain through his side. She got up abruptly, rummaged in a pack beside the bench and returned with a little soapstone jar. Opening it awkwardly, she smeared brown salve on the cut, stuck a pad of cloth to it and tied a fresh bandage around his head, using one hand and her teeth to pull the knot tight. She made no attempt to be gentle. Then she sat back on her haunches, staring at him.

Aching head and bleary eyes reduced her to the sketch of a face—red pen squiggles her tangled hair, eyes a splash of jade. No, richer and deeper than jade—her eyes were green as the malachite columns in the hall of his college. He tried to sit up. It hurt. He blinked away the tears. She bent down and wiped smears of blood from his cheek. Her features were so neat they might have been engraved, quite unlike his own untidy face. Curves of cheek and brow in single strokes, delightfully rounded, the whole set off by a small scar above her eyebrow. Her hair had a faint familiar perfume, like crushed lime leaves. Jacket and trousers gray-green; right wrist bandaged, the bandage weather-stained, arm in a sling. She fitted the description, but seemed too young. And there was something else vaguely familiar about her. What was it?

She was quite charming in a funny sort of way, he thought, and had she been a bit older and a bit taller and her hair any color but that awful red he might have found her attractive. What accident of fate had mixed her up in such a business? She looked so young that no one could take her seriously. “Karan?” he asked doubtfully.

She stared at his face. One word, but it showed the magic
of his voice. “What am I to do with him?” she enquired of the ceiling in a voice that was gentle and low, and to his discomfort just a little bit amused. “If
this
is the fruit of my sending it is a most unripe one.”

She chuckled, a mellow gurgling sound. The past month and more of flight, pursuit, dreams and nightmares, had changed her: here was a leaner, harder Karan than the one who had crept into Fiz Gorgo so timidly. Her small round face was pale as ever, for she did not tan, but her nose and cheeks were chapped from wind and sun, and she looked worn and weary. Yet she had not entirely lost her sense of humor.

She spoke with a Thurkad accent, that broad and slightly nasal intonation that was really no accent at all, since Iagador and indeed the whole of the island of Meldorin revolved around that great city. But in her speech the accent was modified—less broad, less nasal; traveled, schooled. Enriched with something of the speech of the alps of Bannador, as in the lengthened vowels: “most” that came out as “moost”. This Llian knew after a few words, master of accents and dialects that he was. Yet her speech was overlaid with another accent, another pattern, a lilt that hinted of speaking verse. He could not identify where it came from, and it vexed him. Her apparent lack of appreciation, her disrespectful amusement, were further irritants.

“Are you really Karan? I was expecting… I thought you’d be older.”

The grin disappeared. Karan looked hurt and insulted, that someone she so looked up to could not take her seriously. “I’m twenty-four,” she said in a defensive voice, and immediately regretted it.

“Have we met before?”

“No, we haven’t
met
.”

She had not expected that he would remember her. Why
should he, among the thousands that had heard his tellings? Nonetheless it hurt a little bit.

“Well, I’ve come to take you to Thurkad.”

Karan was amazed. He struggled to his feet, then a shocking pain came, like a spike being hammered into his side, and he would have fallen had she not caught him across her good shoulder. The scorn on her face faded momentarily, for he was in great pain, helpless and more lost even than she. She made allowances. What manner of creature is this, she marveled. Maybe his hurts make him say such silly things!

Llian’s face suddenly went as gray as parchment. He pressed his hand to his side. Swaying under his weight she pushed him backwards until his knees came up against the bench, then let him down with a thump.

“Aahhh!” he cried, lifting himself off the seat.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s … my bottom.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Some lunatic threw a rock at me,” he muttered. “I went the wrong way and this half-naked madman—”

Karan burst out laughing. “A fine comedy. The great chronicler’s dignity wounded by Alus the hermit. I presume you don’t want me to check…No? Let’s have another look at your side.”

She drew the blanket apart and probed bis side with her fingertips, picking out a few small pieces of slate embedded there. “You’ve broken a few ribs. I’ll try to ease them back in place, but it’ll hurt—I’m no healer.” She took her hand out of the sling, using her fingers awkwardly. He caught the enchanting lime aroma again.

It was a painful operation, and after that there was the wound to clean, the bits of cloth and grit to be picked out. He flinched at every touch, and by the end of it her pity was
turning to irritation, so loud and frequent were his groans. Now it was dark. She banged the door closed and wedged it, and pushed the fire sticks together. From a small black pot she filled two mugs and handed one to Llian, saying, “Have some soup. It’s hot, if nothing else.” She sat back and looked at him, feeling a little sorry for him, a little amused by him, but guilty at whatever she had done to bring him here.

Llian, although ravenous, regarded the offering dubiously. It was green, with an oily scum on the surface. A sip confirmed his suspicions. The soup appeared to be based on dried peas and rancid fat, flavored with bitter herbs. “Delicious!” he murmured, trying not to gag. But it was hot, and nothing else really mattered.

“It’s all I have left,” she said.

Llian indicated his pack. “I brought food for the journey.”

Again she stared at him, as though he were a great incongruity.

Llian suddenly remembered why he was here. “There are Whelm down in the ravine. I saw them just before the storm.”

“I know. I can sense them now, when they’re near. They won’t get up tonight—the path will be too icy. Still, I must be gone before dawn. But where can I go?” She looked away, trying to hide her uncertainty. “And what to do with
you
I cannot imagine.” She scowled. “What can
you
do?”

Llian was disconcerted. This was not going as he had planned. “I know the Histories rather well,” he began foolishly.

Karan laughed, her mouth crinkling up at the corners in a most engaging way. There was magic in his voice even when his words were empty, and she had to force herself to resist it. “What will you do when the Whelm come?” she snorted. ‘Tell them a tale?”

He sat up a bit straighter. He spoke more boldly than he
really felt, using a little bit of the
voice
. “You’re safe now,” he said soothingly, as one would speak to a child. “I’m going to take you across the pass to Bannador, and then to the Magister.”

Her green eyes narrowed to hard slits. Was he less of a fool than he looked, or more? Her voice was still gentle but there was no warmth in it anymore. “I do not go to Thurkad. Anyway they’re between us and the pass. How did you plan to get there?” Perhaps he knew some way that she did not.

The vain hope was dashed. “South through the mountains, I suppose, then east.”

“Have you ever been up here before?”

“Not this high,” he replied. “But…”

“It’s coming winter. So far the big snows have held back, but they’ll come any day. The next pass is thirty leagues and more to the south, the way the track winds; in snow and ice that could take fifteen days—or fifty. You couldn’t even carry enough food.”

“We could go back to Chanthed.”

“And what would the Whelm be doing?”

“We could hide until they went away.”