The Bitterbynde Trilogy (51 page)

At nights, viridescent lights, ringed by pale circles in the mist, bobbed beyond the flicker of the campfire. The vapors would swirl apart to reveal black waters and close in again. Then they would melt and the sky could be seen overhead, thickly encrusted with twinkling white stars like seed-pearls sewn on a velvet cloak. Sometimes Diarmid spoke softly of Muirne, trying to regain her with memories, certain—he said—that she had survived and would be found again, safe and well, certain that they would be reunited. Culicidae Vectors always came, lured by breath and warmth. They whined for blood all night at the edges of the smoke. Once, one of them hovered very close to Diarmid, and he woke to Errantry's shrill scream, lashing out instantly. The frail, venomous Vector dropped from the air, and he crushed it with a stone. It flattened out to nothing, a mere spindly outline with a crimson splash at its center. The other Culicidae droned on monotonously as though nothing had occurred, as though they cared naught for their own kind, which indeed they did not.

One bright morning, busy filling the water-bottle at a limpid spring, Imrhien caught Thorn's smile as he rinsed his knife farther downstream, and she flicked a tendril of water at him by way of reply. He returned the splash. Caught up in a sudden spontaneous joy whose founts she had not guessed, she dropped the bottle and scooped water at him with both hands. Fine droplets flew back and forth like diamonds, catching the light, in a game such as children play. They both returned to camp shaking their dripping hair. She, between shock and shame and delight, could not name her inner turmoil.

On two nights, shang winds came and blew the Vectors away, without much disturbing the surfaces of the lakes. Mirrinor then glittered gorgeously, like a million green-and-silver candelabra, like fires of burning emeralds and ice crystals.

The shoulders of the mercenary and the girl ached from daily rowing and were nightly soothed with herbal balms. At times Thorn revealed to them much lore of the wilderness. At other times he would fall silent for hours, looking out across the water-plains and myriad eyots of Mirrinor as though he saw beyond, to a place no other eyes could see. It seemed some secret sorrow existed deep within him, hidden behind the mirthful gray eyes, although no word betrayed it.

Once, after they had tied up the boat and were making their way along the shores of some islet, danger came on them from an unexpected quarter. All had seemed peaceful, until the trees began to roar and toss before a blasting wind. A huge shadow obliterated the sun's pearl, and with a scream as of seven hundred madmen, something came down at Imrhien on leather wings twenty feet in span, sharp-taloned on their leading edge. The force of its wing-beats tore leaves from their stems. The long, pointed beak gaped red-gulleted, showing double rows of teeth. Small, pushed-in eyes blazed from beneath bony ridges. Feet like bunches of scythes extended to rend its prey. Next the scream rose suddenly to a new height, like a metal auger puncturing the skull, and the tyrax lurched across the sky, crashing down into the undergrowth. The feathered shaft of an arrow protruded from each eye, and the twang of a bowstring stayed on the air like a memory.

Thorn stood, straight as a spear, and watched the great reptilian flier fall. The end of the longbow he held in his hand rested lightly on the ground. The beast thrashed for a few moments, then stilled.

Diarmid moved warily to look at it and returned, shaking his head incredulously.

“I thought our days were numbered. Two shots, and both dead accurate.”

“'Tis the best way to slay them—shafts through the eyes.”

“Aye, Sir Longbow, but I have never seen such marksmanship.”

“A Dainnan must be skilled in archery.”

“Such skill is beyond measure. It seems that in all things you can never fail.”

Thorn threw him an odd look, almost angry. “Fail? Oh yes, I have been known to fail. I have failed at crucial moments. And for that, I have paid dearly.”

He slung the bow over his shoulder. Diarmid found courage to speak again.

“Shall I retrieve the arrows?”

“Leave them.”

They moved off together, Imrhien glancing over her shoulder at one long wing tip of the tyrax, devoid of feathers.

“Is the bow, then, the chief weapon of the Dainnan?” Diarmid asked, intrigued.

“No.”

“The sword, then, is it the sword?”

“It is not the sword.”

Diarmid fell silent, at a loss.

“The finest weapon of a Dainnan is his own being,” said Thorn. “His mind and body, wit and brawn. When deprived of all other weapons, he is yet able to survive and carry out his duty to the King-Emperor. Had I not been armed, I would have found another way to confound the assailant.”

They moved beneath tall golden poplars standing straight as candle-flames and as radiant.

“When threatened,” the Dainnan said, “a Dainnan must look to see if there is anything lying around that he may use as a weapon, such as a stone or a stick. If an attacker carries arms, he may be relieved of his weapons in many ways.”

“An unarmed man against a knife-wielder? 'Tis hard to credit.…”

Impatiently Thorn halted and sloughed his equipment. “Draw your skian.”

Readily Diarmid obliged. The two stood facing one another, poised, watchful. Around them, sun-colored leaves rained down like torn silk, a radiance burning from within.

“Now, try to use it.”

The mercenary's knife arm moved a fraction of an inch. That was all the time permitted it. Thorn's left hand grabbed it by the wrist, striking its owner on the chin with his right elbow. Diarmid's head fell back.

This happened within the space of three heartbeats. Instantly the Dainnan pushed the knife hand back and away from him, forcing his adversary to bend forward, whereupon he reached over Diarmid's shoulder and, controlling the mercenary's elbow with his chest, applied a reverse bent arm-lock, all the time pushing the knife up and away from him. A strong nudge with the knee in the pit of the stomach caused Diarmid to double over farther. Thorn pushed down on his shoulder, using the arm-lock to throw him forward and off balance, simultaneously stepping across to block Diarmid's left foot. The mercenary fell forward onto his face and left hand. Mounting pressure on his right wrist forced his fingers open—he dropped the skian. Thorn picked it up, released him, and stepped back. Diarmid stood up, breathing hard.

Five slow heartbeats passed. The Dainnan offered Diarmid the weapon.

Sheathing it, the Ertishman grimaced.

“I should like to learn that trick.”

Thorn nodded. He said to Imrhien, “Women may learn also. Even those possessing no great strength may be trained to defeat an assailant using Dainnan techniques. The method turns an adversary's own strength against him.”

As they traveled on together, the Ertishman's resentment gradually dissipated. He listened with close attention to the Dainnan's words. At odd moments, Thorn taught him some of the precepts of the Dainnan Brotherhood and showed him basic methods of weaponless fighting: holds and blocks, kicks, throws, and locks.

In reply to Diarmid's petitions for use of the bow, Thorn said, “No man can shoot with another's bow, any more than he can fight with another's sword. Besides, mine is made for a left-handed archer. Howbeit, if you are so zealous, I will teach you a little, and you shall practice and mayhap there will be some gain in it for you.”

The Ertishman took every opportunity to accustom himself to the bow.

So near to each other were these three voyagers of different peoples—so near in presence, yet vast gulfs separated them. He was rare, this warrior of the wilderness—extraordinary. That, Imrhien knew well. Oh yes, he was of the finest.

A thought took shape.

<> Imrhien signed, <>

She and Diarmid, upon the sixth evening in Mirrinor, were alone together. They were helping each other to set up at an island encampment, the one to whom she alluded having disappeared on one of his forays.

Diarmid looked startled.

“Powers? I see no reason to think so. He is skilled, yea, more than any man I have met in the flesh—hut not more skilled than a man may be. Yet”—he scratched his chin thoughtfully—“it might be so. Mayhap he has studied somewhat of the Nine Arts. Wizards, or part-wizards, may become Dainnan as well as any.”

<> She had no sign for “Faêran.” <>

“The Fair Folk? Ha! The Lords of Gramarye passed into legend long ago. Besides, like wights, they could not stand the touch of cold iron. Sir Thorn wields a steel blade, steel-barbed arrows—his belt buckle, too, I'll warrant, is of the same metal. Nay, I've no doubt he is a mortal man, but such a man—one of no ordinary ilk. A man for men to follow. Perhaps a wizard, I know not. But 'tis not couth to speak of him this way, behind his back, as it were—I will not discuss this further.”

Later that same evening, the mercenary took Thorn's longbow, slung the baldric and quiver over his shoulder, and went hunting. While he was away, Imrhien remained beside the fire with the Dainnan, who had asked her to teach him more handspeak. He coaxed her to smile with his satirical portrayal of the upper classes—including his peers—by feigning to guess the signs for “duchess,” “wizard,” “Relayer,” “Storm Chieftain,” “Dainnan.” If she could have laughed aloud, she would have done so. He inspired her to devise lampoons of her own—she could not remember when she had felt so free of spirit as now, delighting in his company, except for the angst of knowing it would not last.

Diarmid was long away and still had not appeared by the time Errantry flew down to his master's shoulder and interrupted the game. Early darkness had closed in. Imrhien was struck with sudden concern.

<>

<> the Dainnan signed. He rose to his feet. <>

<>

He threw her a quizzical glance, then gave a quick nod and snatched up a flaming brand from the fire to use as a torch.

By its light, Diarmid walked unlooked-for from the outer darkness.

“Good morrow,
cirean mi coileach
,” said Thorn. “We are glad you could join us.”

“Ah—good morning.” The Ertishman stared blankly. His face looked as pale as the night mist that now coiled up from the waters. “I was lost, for a time. I found my way back again,” he added unnecessarily, handing the longbow and quiver to Thorn.

<>

“Aye.”

He would say no more, and soon they lay down to sleep.

Magpies glorified the sunrise with their crystalline warblings. Imrhien opened her eyes in the misty morning to see Thorn standing guard by the sleeping mercenary. Diarmid lay in a twisted position, with arms outflung, as though he had met with violent death. His face was still drained of color; only the rise and fall of his chest betrayed vitality.

“In the dark hours he walked,” said Thorn. “I brought him back, with some force. He would not come of his own accord. Wait by him. If he should wake and escape, sound the yellow horn, which is here at hand, unstoppered. I go now to stock the boat with provisions.”

He made the hand-sign for “I return soon” and departed silently.

Diarmid slept as if he had breathed of the fumes of poppies that had lulled him into blissful unwariness. When he did awaken, it was so abruptly and noiselessly that he was gone before Imrhien noticed. Too late, a rustle of leaves alerted her. Holding the brass-mounted horn to her lips, she blew as hard as she could. A single, brazen note sounded, warm and warning, as penetrating as strong wine. As the note seeped away into the mist, she cast the instrument to the ground and ran in pursuit of Diarmid.

Following the direction in which he had headed, she soon found herself running along a shoreline bordered with ancient alders. Streamers of vapor curled slowly over the lake and twined through the black tree-stems. She saw the Ertishman standing a little way off, knee-deep in the shallow margins of the lake where slim rushes trembled. He was not alone. He was speaking earnestly to one who stood in the water before him, and that one was the essence of all Mirrinor's fairness fashioned into feminine form. Slender as reeds, pale as mist, lovely and delicate as waterlilies, was she. Emerald hair dripped down the length of her body. Her clinging gown of lettuce green was convoluted and scalloped as if it were made of watercress and eel-grass and duckweed, which perhaps it was. Slyly, shyly, she reached out to the young man, took hold of his hand and began to step backward, drawing him into the lake. The frail tissues of her emerald gown spread out and floated on the water. Without taking his eyes from her, Diarmid followed meekly. Imrhien's feet flew across the strand and splashed through the lake toward him. She closed her arms about his waist and hauled hard. It made no difference—he was too strong for her, or the watermaiden was too potent, or both. In an effort to bring him to his senses, she tugged his hair, slapped his cheek—but it seemed he was in a trance, oblivious of all she inflicted upon him.

Not so the drowner.

She bent her jade gaze on Imrhien, and her pale hand shot out, imprisoning the girl's wrist in a grip like the jaws of a steel trap. With Diarmid, Imrhien was drawn irresistibly down. She struggled and splashed, beating at the wight with her free hand, but the water rose to their waists, to their shoulders. Long grasses sprouting from the deep mud tangled their feet, pulling them farther into the depths. Before the water closed over her head, the last sights Imrhien saw were the slanted, unblinking eyes of the drowner and her verdant tresses spreading gracefully on the surface, a cloud of fine silk threads.

Underwater, Imrhien tried vainly to kick away the gulping grasses, to wrest free of the inhuman grasp. All the while her last life's breath, and Diarmid's, bubbled up in front of their eyes like an ascent of tiny pearls. Thin strands tightened themselves about her neck. A terrible pounding began in her head, and a pain spilled like molten metal in her chest. Her own hand waved before her eyes, pale and thin like the drowner's, nerveless now as vigor failed.