Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (10 page)

Lanrik, his mind in turmoil, followed. The Raithlin,
against all his expectations, had been disbanded. What would he do now? What
could
he do? Being a Raithlin was his life; it was all he had ever trained for and
all he ever wanted. He felt betrayed and empty of purpose.

They walked in silence. Aranloth was in the front,
leading a roan mare that he had retrieved from near the king’s pavilion. He was
followed by the Lindrath, his expression grim and his eyes a little wild.
Erlissa was beside Lanrik, and she glanced at him from time to time. There was
sympathy and comfort in those looks, and the occasional brush of her arm
against his.

They headed to the cottage where their own horses
were tethered, and he knew Aranloth would not waste time in leaving. As if
reading his thoughts Erlissa placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Come with us, Lanrik. I need you.”

Her green eyes were sincere and concerned. She was
reaching out to him, trying to give him a purpose. How had she come to
understand him so well in such a short period?

Aranloth, not slowing, looked over his shoulder.
“She needs you more than she knows. There will be dangers on the road, and the
lòhrengai I must work at times will require all my concentration.”

It did not escape Lanrik’s attention that the lòhren
had said dangers
on the road,
and not just at the end of their journey.
At any rate, he was wanted with these people. He admired them, liked them, and
could possibly be in a position to help them.

“I’ll come along,” he said.

He felt relief from Erlissa. She smiled, and they
continued toward the cottage. Arriving there, he swiftly collected his
belongings and saddled the stallion.

When they were ready, he shook the Lindrath’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “You and the Raithlin taught me much over the years. I’m
sorry things have ended this way.”

The Lindrath mustered a smile. “All things come to
an end,” he said. “The Raithlin are no more, but our lore will be with us for
life. Use it, expand it, teach it if opportunity arises. Who knows where the
seed will grow again?”

Aranloth, who had been leaning on his staff and
waiting, tensed.

Lanrik unslung the talnak horn from his shoulder and
held it out to the Lindrath.

“A final gift,” he said.

The Lindrath was shocked. “It’s too much,” he said.
“The horn must be worth a fortune.”

Lanrik shrugged. “I’ve got the sword. This will only
be a burden on the journey. Take it for Lathmai, and the others who’ll never
return from Galenthern. Use it as a symbol of all that the Raithlin have
achieved over the years.”

The Lindrath reached out. As his hands touched the
horn Aranloth spoke, and his eyes were once more deep pools of shadow.

“It will be more than a symbol,” he said. “Blow it
when Esgallien’s need is greatest, and help unlooked for will come.”

The lòhren said nothing else, and with more
handshakes and well wishes the Lindrath parted. He walked slowly, with head
bowed, and Lanrik knew that if he himself had lost all he had ever known or
loved, it was worse for the Lindrath.

“He’s a good man,” Aranloth said quietly.

“The best,” agreed Lanrik. “He took the place of my
uncle when Conrik fled the city. That’s if he survived. I wonder now if Murhain
didn’t actually find him and have him killed.”

The lòhren’s eyes were veiled. “It would have been
like him. But I think in time you will find your uncle escaped Esgallien and is
alive and well.”

“I hope so,” Lanrik said.

Aranloth did not respond, but Erlissa was watching
them both. A grin flashed on her face.

“Of course he escaped,” she said. “Aranloth knows
what he’s talking about. Only lòhrengai could have gotten him away.”

Aranloth looked at her solemnly. “None in Esgallien
need to know that,” he said.

Lanrik turned to her. “How did you guess?”

Erlissa shrugged and Aranloth answered. “She did not
guess. Her intuition told her it was so. She is not, nor has the desire to
become a lòhren – but the talent remains.”

The smile faded from Erlissa’s face, and she gave no
answer.

“Come,” Aranloth said. “We have places to go and
things to do.” He hesitated and looked at Lanrik once more. “We’ll meet Conrik
on our travels. But you must be prepared – he’s no longer as he once was.”

The lòhren turned quickly and mounted his horse.
Clearly, any questions on the subject were unwelcome. The main thing though was
that Conrik was alive, and they would meet again. Lanrik could not imagine him
any different from what he used to be, but Aranloth indicated it was so. What
changes would time and the treachery of the king have wrought?

As they moved on, it occurred to Lanrik that if
Aranloth had helped his uncle escape Esgallien, he was probably living in
Lòrenta. If so, he was in danger, and it was yet another reason to join the
lòhren and Erlissa on their quest.

Mecklar hastened along the still road. His chestnut
gelding was tired, but he pushed it on through the night. It was a poor time to
ride, but he had pressing news to deliver; information that should lead to a
reward, but that could end in punishment too. He served a harsh mistress.

The elug army would not break through. Even so, it
had been difficult to convince Murhain to let him return to Esgallien. But the
king was a fool, easily manipulated on most occasions, and oblivious to the
forces shaping his own court.

Lanrik was a better opponent. He had a remarkable
store of patience, something that he had proven during the testing on
Galenthern. The lòhren was dangerous also. The man’s eyes seemed to see
straight through everybody. It was not a pleasant feeling when you had things
to hide.

He nearly missed the turning he was looking for,
seeing it late and reefing hard at the gelding’s reigns. He moved off the main
road and down a lane surrounded by open fields. These eventually turned into
constricting woods. He went deeper, and then slowed as the lane dwindled and
finally disappeared.

Trees grew thickly about him. The wood was dark and
secretive, a tangled confusion of ravines and ridges on the hills southwest of
Esgallien. It was a treacherous area, chocked with scrub and clinging vines.
Even hunters shunned it, and the few who tried found little game, some becoming
lost and never returning. He had thoughts on that.

Ebona was a strange woman. She was mistress of the
wood, more secretive and dangerous than it. Who she was, and her true purposes
were matters to which he had given thought but found no answers. That she hated
Aranloth was obvious, though why, he had not discovered.

She was in league with Esgallien’s enemies, but he
did not think she was one of them. She commanded powers that stilled his heart,
powers the lòhren did not display, and though she was not an elùgroth, he
feared her. However, he had prospered since entering her service.

He had accumulated gold beyond the dreams of his
youth, yet lately his dreams had grown. He exerted authority and influence
also. If Esgallien fell, he would lose those, but the gold would buy a
lifetime’s luxury in another city. The north would not fall to the enemy in his
time, at least not all of it. He owed nothing to Esgallien. All it had given
him, the fifth son of a farmer, was poverty and hunger: until he met Ebona.
Now, people looked up to him, fawned upon him, and he held power over them. It
was intoxicating.

He regretted not killing Lanrik when he had the
chance. It was ill fortune that they had ventured onto the plains when the elug
army marched. He knew it was coming, Ebona had told him so, but not when.

When they found Lathmai on the tor and she spoke of
the attack, he knew he must do something to prevent word reaching Esgallien.
When he returned with the elendhrot root, he saw his chance. The Raithlin
turned around at the last moment though. He had thought he would get other
opportunities, but Lanrik’s intention of staying behind to slow the army
confounded him.

Could Ebona hold that failure against him? Because
of it, long developed plans were ruined. Yet always there were plans within
plans. It was an unexpected discovery that the attack was part of a greater
scheme to destroy Lòrenta. He wondered if Ebona knew. If not, the news he
brought would please and surprise her. A rare event!

His return from the plains had posed a dilemma. To
travel too fast was to give Esgallien time for it to act: to travel too slowly
was to draw suspicion on himself when Lanrik arrived. He had delayed as much as
he dared and also given Gwalchmur word and opportunity to escape.

Gwalchmur had done so. He had betrayed Esgallien
once, and Ebona would persuade him to act similarly in the future, but there
was some doubt that he was fully committed to her. Did he realize that such
hesitation risked his life?

Mecklar travelled the rest of the night through the
woods. They closed about him, silent and watchful. He knew creatures stalked it
that were not found elsewhere. He had seen glimpses of them, or perhaps Ebona
had allowed him to see them. Fear, he understood, was better motivation than
threat.

Dawn broke and shone through small gaps in the
leaf-canopy. He went slowly, picking his way carefully and heading down into a
deep ravine. There were several ways to the bottom, but they were all watched.
Whether he saw the guards or not, Ebona would receive report of his coming.

He dismounted and led the gelding by hand. It was
rough going, and the horse, catching a scent that made it skittish, fought his
lead. It took some time, but when he finally reached the bottom the trees
thinned. Here, there were several acres of green grass completely cleared of
timber. A white dairy cow grazed contentedly, a small herd of sheep bleated
peacefully, and a young foal galloped awkwardly near a mare. They too were
white.

Mecklar mounted again and rode slowly toward a
cottage and barn near the center of the field. The cottage, small and neat, was
fenced with wicker, which also enclosed several rows of fruit trees. These were
well pruned and heavy with growing fruit. Several white ducks had the run of
the orchard and waddled after insects beneath the trees. A vegetable garden,
enclosed by its own fence, was near the orchard. It was weed free and
productive.

Mecklar reached the barn. He dismounted and tethered
his horse to a hook on the wall. As he did so the door opened, and Gwalchmur
emerged, his red hair disheveled and his freckled face haggard. They did not
shake hands.

“Has Lanrik returned?” he asked.

“He has,” Mecklar said, “The king outlawed you.”

Gwalchmur cursed but Mecklar merely shrugged. “Ebona
will find a use for you, even if it’s not in Esgallien.”

Gwalchmur did not answer, and the two of them walked
to the cottage. There was a gate in the fence, and they went through it,
careful to close it behind them.

Ebona waited in the doorway. She was a tall woman
with wide set eyes and high cheekbones. She was not young, but neither was she
old. Mecklar could not put an age to her, and it disturbed him. He thought she
had passed middle age, yet her hair was a luxurious blond, not white, and she
wore it long. She was dressed simply in white linen, cinched with a red belt,
but the dress draped her full-figured form with grace. She smiled, her teeth
beautifully white and even.

“Welcome,” she said, and there was warmth in her
voice and gesture to enter. They did, but Mecklar was not fooled. His heart
beat loudly and his palms were clammy. Ebona, for all her sweetness, would kill
him the moment it served her purpose.

It was well lit inside. A log burned in the hearth
and sunshine streamed in the windows. Through one of them Mecklar had a good
view of the foal which now approached the cottage. It was not pure white, for
its long ears were tipped with crimson.

On the back wall were racks covered with root
vegetables and dry cheeses. Cured sausages and hams hung from the ceiling. On
the table, a neat construction of well-scrubbed timber, lay a dead duck. It had
just been killed, and Ebona was removing the feathers. She finished the task,
her deft fingers working quickly.

She looked up from her work. “The trick is to dip
the bird in near boiling water, and then wrap it in a bag to steam. The
feathers come off easily that way.”

Mecklar and Gwalchmur nodded but did not reply.
Ebona stood, washed her hands carefully and dried them on a clean towel. She
brought over a bronze pitcher of water and filled cups for them before sitting
down. She waited until the others drank before delicately sipping the water
herself.

Mecklar knew she would have heard from Gwalchmur
what had happened on the plains. He began by telling her of the failure of the
elug army to breach the ford, Aranloth’s audience with the king and of
Erlissa’s information about the danger to Lòrenta.

Ebona listened calmly until he finished. “This would
have been prevented had you killed the Raithlin on the tor,” she said.

“I know,” replied Mecklar, “but there was no
opportunity.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll ensure that you
make an opportunity next time, won’t you?”

Her perfect teeth gleamed behind parted lips, but
there was a cold look in her eyes.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll not fail again.”

Ebona reached out and patted his hand. Her fingers
were long and delicate, but her thumb was wide and fat like a big toe.

“Of course not. I have complete faith in you.”

She sat back thoughtfully, giving no indication of
whether she had known of the plan to destroy Lòrenta. The smell of smoke in the
cottage was strong, but fresh air came in from the open windows.

“What of the Raithlin? Is he going on this quest
with his new friends?”

“He didn’t say,” replied Mecklar.

“But you know him. What do you think he’ll do now
that the Raithlin are disbanded?”

“I don’t know,” Mecklar said. “I don’t see why he
should go with them. What are the lòhren and the girl to him? He’ll likely sulk
in the city for some time, too proud to join the ranks of the ordinary army but
no good for anything else.”

“I wonder. Was the girl good looking?”

Mecklar shrugged. “I suppose so.”

Gwalchmur laughed. “You’re blind. She’s stunning.
Too thin for my liking but there’s fight in her. She has a sharp mind too.”

Ebona ran a hand absently through her long hair.
“What do you think, Gwalchmur? Will he go with them?”

“I think he might. There’s nothing left for him in
Esgallien.”

“I think so too,” she said, “but there’s more to it
than that. All three of them are linked now. I feel it.”

“What difference does it make?” asked Mecklar.

Ebona looked at him, her glance still cold. “It matters
very much. You underestimate him, but I don’t. Though you’ve played down his
achievements, it’s clear that he’s a dangerous enemy. Alone and unaided he
defied an army. He penetrated their camp, rescued a prisoner, and stole a
shazrahad sword for good measure. Most of all, he slowed them down and ruined
plans that had long been in place. No, it just won’t do to underestimate him
again.”

Mecklar nodded. “Well, his luck has run out now.
Before I left, the king asked me to arrange things with some of his guard. They
have orders to find and kill him, wherever he is, and obtain the sword.”

Ebona smiled. “Murhain has a spine after all. I hope
the guards won’t be obvious about it?”

“They’ve been cautioned not to, even though it
really
is
obvious this time, but what’s anybody going to do about it?”

Ebona pursed her lips but said nothing, and Mecklar
studied her ageless face. What had she looked like in the first flush of youth?
But of her youth, or her past, he knew nothing. That she held a grudge against
Esgallien and Aranloth was obvious, but he did not know why. Whatever else, she
had been born of the aristocracy. It was evident in her every move and word.
The only sign of ill breeding that he saw was her habit of chewing, however
delicately, at her fingernails. She was doing it now.

The log burned in the hearth, and neither he nor
Gwalchmur spoke while she thought. At last, she broke the silence.

“It’s clear Aranloth believes he can stop the
destruction of Lòrenta, and this must be prevented. That means he and the
others must be killed.”

She rose abruptly. “Come,” she said, and led them
out of the cottage into the bright sunlight. The grass was green and springy
beneath their boots. It was a beautiful morning. The sheep and cow grazed
peacefully in a far corner of the field while the mare lay in the sun, the foal
standing beside it.

She stood in the open field. “Put your horse inside
the barn, and then stay back from me,” she said.

Mecklar did as instructed, and when he returned to
stand beside Gwalchmur she looked at them both. “Whatever you do, do not run.”

She lifted high her arms and her chin tilted
forward. Her eyes closed and she began to sing. It was soft at first, then her
voice grew loud and strong. She drew breath from her stomach, but her chest began
to heave with effort. Mecklar did not know the language but sensed it was the
forerunner of what they spoke now, the speech of their ancestors that had not
been heard since even before Conhain founded Esgallien a thousand years ago.

As Ebona sang the cow continued to graze, and the
sheep bleated peacefully. The mare rolled in the grass. The sun shone bright;
bees droned as they moved from flower to flower in the garden, and multitudes
of black and white butterflies drifted by lazily on a southerly breeze. But
even on such a beautiful morning, Mecklar went cold as he heard far off in the
woods an answer to the song. It was the howling of beasts.

He glanced at Gwalchmur and saw the Raithlin’s face
was white. Suddenly, Ebona ceased singing. Her eyes, filled with power and joy,
sprang open. The howling stopped.

“They come,” she said.

Mecklar waited. He fidgeted on the spot, but
Gwalchmur remained motionless beside him, watching Ebona silently.

The minutes passed, like a trickle of water from a
crack in a rock wall, slow but unstopping. There was noise in the woods.
Something was crashing through them, loud and uncaring of the clamor.

The crashing stopped and there was silence. Ebona
tilted her head, and then stamped her foot in the gesture of a little girl.

“Come!” she commanded. “Don’t be shy my darlings.”

She cupped her hands to her mouth, and her voice
throbbed in the glade.

“Come Balert, my little playful one. Come Bilar, who
always is aloof. Come Bakert and Bikar, come my little sweetlings!”

Four hounds emerged from the eastern edge of the
wood and raced toward her. Mecklar, mindful of her words, stood rooted to the
spot and as still as possible. The beasts snarled and growled incessantly as
they sped across the grass. They looked like they were fighting each other as
they ran, great jaws slavering as they snapped at heels or necks, but he
realized they were just playing.