Lyrec (22 page)

“After that we will go south to Miria or east into the mountains of Tasurlak. There are places in both lands where we could hide. Tasurlak is virtually uninhabited, you know. Most important, we must keep the elders such as myself sheltered from sight. My face is difficult to conceal.”

‘‘No more so than your accent.’’

“This is so. Tell us, though, Ly-rek, will we be safe with other soldiers of Ladoman? We had understood they were quite cruel. Are many of your kind here?”

“My kind … no. You will find the Ladomantines most unpleasant. You would do well to … to kill any who see you. Otherwise you’ll be dragged off to work as slaves.”

“But not you? How is it you’re not like that? With the
glom
—with the Borregad?”

“Malchavik, I’m not a Ladomantine soldier. The uniform is a disguise. I’m on my way out of here, too.”

“You could come with us. You could help us get away from here. Do you know the lands south and east?”

Lyrec, remember why you’re here.

Thank you, Borregad.

To the Kobach, he replied, “Some of it I know painfully well, but I cannot join you. And what you’ve told me makes me more certain of that than ever.” Malchavik hung his head. “Not because you’re unsafe to be with. I’ve been searching for someone, and I’ve found him in Ladoman. At least I think so.”

“We did.
I
saw him,” snapped Borregad.

“But we both know as well he dwells elsewhere, and the death-god that led the creatures you called krykwyres also describes him.”

“Hardly a surprise,” said the cat. “He operated on many fronts before—he may even be able to exist in multiple places simultaneously.” He glanced worriedly at Lyrec. “I’m not sure I like what I just said.”

“Excuse me,” the old man interrupted, “I am not understanding you.”

“Well, the story is very complicated. We seek to uncover the location of an enemy we’ve chased for a long time now. He has destroyed people before and intends to destroy all of you and all of Secamelan.”

Malchavik looked back at his people. “Then the omens speak true.”

“Omens?” Lyrec asked, hoping for further enlightenment on Miradomon’s activities, but the old man disappointed him.
 

“The winds have been for three days from the south, with the smell of the sea upon them.”

Borregad said, “I haven’t sme—”

“Hush. What else, sir?”

“The monsters that I spoke of, the krykwyres, are themselves omens—legends have come to life. We’ve felt the breath of such a creature on our backs since the night our village burned. At least one of them follows us—they are night creatures, too, by nature, but a few times we hear in the daylight the flapping of its wings. And night birds are singing at noon. In Boreshum there have ghosts been seen. All of this, each thing of this list alone would be terrible, but so much together is a proclamation of the day the gods come to take back the world.”

“Perhaps. But he has slowed down. We’ve never come to a place before where he had not already finished. Erased the life. He takes more time now, either glutted with power or enjoying the finesse with which he manipulates everyone. I would’ve expected the skies to open and the thunder to roll, but these activities are far more subtle and sinister and, I must confess, more confusing.”

“Such a one must be known to the gods.”

Lyrec cast a silencing glance at Borregad. “We’d thought of that. It may be that your gods are helpless. Possibly even destroyed or driven away.”

“There is such a being as that?”

“Regrettably, there is.”

“And so,” said Malchavik, “you have entreated the Borregad to be your weapon.”

“Um … I never really considered it in that light, but yes, I suppose. He’s my ally. Most of the time. He has even seen this enemy, which is more than I have done. He’s survived two encounters with him.”

“As I thought, you are not Kobach, but you have the powers—you are an avatar. This becomes clear. You fight for the gods. No, please, you’ll deny it, which is as you have to do. We know, we understand this, Lyrec. Forgive us for the burden of problems we have delivered to you. We will go on.”

“You’ll stay.” He would have contested their belief in his divine nature, but could see it would be to no avail: Their belief would triumph because it was faith. “Sleep here, among the rushes, and swim—there’s a still pool in the river over that way. I’ve some food you may share, as well, although referring to it as food is flattering it. In the morning we’ll guide you to a road that will lead you to a tavern not terribly far from here—a day’s walk at the most—on the western edge of Maribus. A friend of mine owns it. He’ll put you up, knowing that he’ll be generously rewarded for doing so.”

“But we cannot pay.”
 
Before the old man had finished saying this, a fat purse landed on the ground by his knee.

“That should keep you in Grohd’s graces long enough for you to recover your health. Then you can send out someone to Lake Cym without risking all of you. You’ll need your health against the soldiers of Ladoman. We travel the same road and will herald your arrival. Grohd wouldn’t turn away that krykwyre of yours if it showed him a purse.”

The old man hefted Lyrec’s purse and slowly shook his head. “How can we accept this?”

“Malchavik, how can you not?” The old man came to him, took his hand and tried to kiss it, but Lyrec drew it away. The other Kobachs stood. “You needn’t thank me. In fact, the money is the work of the Borregad. If you’ve gratitude to offer, offer it to him.”

The cat was slow to see what was coming. He tried to backpedal away, but the Kobachs had surrounded him. They picked him up and hugged him, stroked him.
You’ll regret this
, he silently swore to Lyrec.
I won’t forget.

Weren’t you the one telling me you wanted to play a larger part in things?
 

Soon, he suspected, Borregad would succumb to the attention, secretly relishing it. With everyone else busy, Lyrec wandered off by himself, preferring to be alone for awhile to sort through this new information. He liked the Kobachs—they were more like him than anyone else he’d encountered. From probing he’d learned how inherently peaceful they were. The old man, Malchavik, was suffering under a kind of self-hate for some act he had performed, and also from a terrible loneliness: His body gave off desolation like heat. It was a mood Lyrec could understand, and which he needed to avoid now.

He went down beside the river and sat back against the bank. In the starlight, the water reminded him in a comforting way of his old self, in swirls and speckles of silver against black. Soothing, it carried him along and drew off his anxieties.

When he looked up again, it was in response to approaching footsteps. One of the Kobachs had followed him. He didn’t move.
 

Someone came up beside him and sat down. Lyrec glanced over to find a young woman watching him warily, timid but daring in that she had come to the avatar alone. The thought made him smile. Off to the left he heard sounds of splashing and talking as some of the Kobachs, following his recommendation, waded into the river to bathe. More amazing still, among these sounds he heard Borregad laugh. To the woman, he said, “You should join them.”

When she did not answer, he asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know why I’ve come,” she replied, so quickly that the statement sounded false.

“Well, neither do I. One of us ought to, don’t you think?” He admired her sharp features in the dim light of the great galaxy stretching overhead. Her eyes were in shadow and something about her seemed feverish. He wondered when she had last eaten and asked her.

“Morning past. Some stick-grass pulp.”

“Then you’re desperately hungry. Let me get you food.” He stood. The woman climbed to her feet swiftly and then suddenly hugged herself to him. At the first touch her body jolted as if she had expected to perish upon contact. He stared down at her head, trying to fathom her actions. Her body was warm but she shivered, and he decided she must be cold away from the fire. He folded his arms around her and began to rub her back. When she stopped shaking, he gently moved her away. “There, now. We should get you warm, get you some food.” She wore an odd expression, and showed no sign of moving away. “Am I what you expected?” he asked.

“I don’t know. No. I thought you would kill me for interfering with your solitude. One hears such stories. Or that you would be forceful and take me.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

She shifted. “Most of the stories I know about Voed are how he changed form and trapped women when he decided he wanted them. You’re a god, and I—”

“Am I?” And he answered himself: Yes, to you and your people there’s probably no other way of accounting for me. Miradomon’s a god here; I have to be one, too, to combat him. “I don’t much feel like a god.” He sat down again.

She joined him. “What did I interrupt? Your thoughts are nearly unreadable. Your manner of thinking is not ours.”

“It isn’t? I don’t know about that. You interrupted nothing, some sadness, maybe. My mind had gone home, I guess.”

“Is home far from here? Where gods dwell?”

“Home for me is eternally far. Please leave it at that—I’ve dwelled on it all I care to this night. The river currents pulled loose some memories.”

They sat in brief silence. The woman plucked up her courage.

“My name is Nydien,” she said.

“Nydien. Very nice name.”

“The river is cold. I know, I put my foot in.”

“Perhaps it is, but you should swim. You would find it amazingly refreshing.”

“Do you want to?”

“I’ve swum already. At dusk.”

“Will you swim with me?”

He could not comprehend why his mouth went dry. He thought he would cough if he tried to speak, and so simply nodded his head. He’d meant to shake it. Nydien stood and began to undress, her back to him.

As he watched her, strange new sensations bound him. What could they mean? He thought he might be blundering into some trap but discredited the possibility that this woman was from Miradomon. The constriction in his throat and the tautness threaded through his chest were far more incomprehensible than his earlier, depressed self-analysis. Delicately, so that she would not notice, he probed her. The astonishing answer weltered near the surface of her thoughts, rising and falling through them as she fought to maintain control over her initial panic.

Malchavik had selected her and sent her to him with the express purpose that she should couple with the avatar. The old man hoped the god would find her acceptable and favor a banished people by giving them a child through Nydien: a hero from his body. The bold proposition awed him. But he had to admire Nydien’s courage in accepting the role her people gave her, especially as she expected to die by his embrace.

As the probe receded, Lyrec’s other senses revived. He found tears streaming down Nydien’s cheeks. She stood rigid against the cold. Untouched yearning passed through him again, gently tugged at his resolution. He thought, though he had no idea why, of the galaxy dusting blackness above him.

He stood. “You’re cold,” he told her and reached out to wipe her cheeks. Removing his cape, he draped it over her shoulders, then he, too, began to undress. Like her, he turned his back. She saw the leanness of him, the hardness. Her breathing quickened and she put her arms around him, hugging tightly to his back. He turned around. Her nostrils were flared, her lips drawn back from her teeth. “If you like,” she suggested, “we could swim afterward.”

He swallowed. “Nydien, whatever your tales have told you, I think you should know that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m acting on instinct,” he added, and wondered for a moment whose instincts they were.

“I’ve never made love, either.”

“Oh. Well … let’s swim first, then.”

She dropped the cape and they entered the water together, but they did not remain long. Here the current had more force and the water, as she had told him, was very cold. When they emerged, the night air set their teeth to chattering and they pressed together beneath his cape, huddled tight on the bank to stay warm.

Lyrec could not say when the idea first crept into his mind that made him lean over and kiss her. But when he did, she lay back on his cape and drew him with her. This time, when desire flooded through him, he made no attempt to analyze or defeat it. He let consciousness go, left the river far behind, and swam in Nydien’s beautiful, beautiful eyes.

Chapter 14.

Cheybal walked the perimeter of Atlarma castle for the third time that night. His legs ached, especially the backs of his calves, but most of the pain was attributable to having stood at attention for the larger part of the day as Tynec practiced for his coronation. Under other circumstances, the pain in his legs might have kept him off his feet for the evening.

Guests had arrived continuously throughout the day. Cheybal had missed his midday meal, but hadn’t noticed until the evening one. Ushering in the diplomats was his duty alone, but they seemed to appear in an unending parade, all of them intent upon seeing the new king. Some, with distasteful obviousness, had come for more than that: They brought favors to ask of their rich neighbor, lists of needs, wants and desires, which they petitioned Cheybal to deliver on their behalf to, as one of them put it, “the child.” They angered and abused and berated him, but most of all they wore him out. Still, they were not the cause of Cheybal’s insomniac patrol.

He was tired—his eyes itched and were alternately watery and dry. His mouth tasted like a rotting vegetable. He knew his head burned and his cheeks were flushed. Were it not that the sharp air of the cold night soothed him so much more than the dead air in his room, he would not have been here at all; but he would not have slept. There was this problem dogging him, running his thoughts round and round like a cartwheel. He believed he might never sleep again unless he found a solution. That should have been simple enough to do. The problem? The problem was that something was wrong and he couldn’t identify it.

He entered the castle, wandering past a guard who saluted him and was dismayed in receiving no response.