The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (22 page)

She drew a deep breath, moving slowly but not faltering until she reached the far bank and helpful Forest hands helped her down to the safety of the grass.

“I’d rather risk childbed five times over,” she said with feeling, fanning herself with the edge of her wrap. Still, her voice was firm as she shouted back to her children. “Mirou and Sarel, get your skirts up well out of the way. Go on, this is no time to be coy about men seeing your legs, you silly girl! Esca, you follow your sisters. No, one at a time, I don’t want you all over the water at the same time. Show some sense, Mirou, use both hands!”

She kept up this stern encouragement until they were all safely on the ground, where she hugged them as if she would never let them go. “So, what are you lot waiting for?” the goodwife called over their heads to those still dithering on the far bank.

Drianon grants mothers a tone of command second to none. By the time the sun was fully clear of the treetops, everyone was across the river bar the carters waiting with their vehicles. We all watched the first wagon edge into the water, men cursing as the water splashed up around them. The river was still running strong enough to tug at the wheels and rock the cart bed alarmingly.

“Get on, get on!” The driver lashed at his lead pair, whip merciless around their ears as the horses shied from the assault of the icy water. Men leaned into ropes twisted into the harness of each beast to drag the horses onward. The animals plunged forward, straining at their collars. With a mighty effort, they hauled the heavy cart clear, shaking and sweating, rewarded with slaps of delight, soft words and handfuls of fresh grass. The carter was soaked, but beamed with relief. His livelihood was across the river intact.

As the rest of the wagons made the crossing, I noticed Usara arguing with the merchant waiting by the last cart and I ran back across the bridge. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t think we should risk this man in the cart.” Usara’s displeasure was clear beneath his tight politeness.

“Hory can’t take the bridge,” protested the merchant.

Hory lay on muddy blankets in the bottom of the wagon, both legs now crudely splinted, thick bandages holding green-stained dressings in place.

“You’ll use magic to get him across the water, won’t you?” I queried mildly.

“Of course,” said Usara, exasperated. “Why ever not?”

I saw fear darken Hory’s eyes. “You can trust him,” I reassured the man.

Hory’s mouth set in an obstinate line. “The ford’s sound enough. I’ll trust to that.”

“Your choice.” I took Usara by the elbow to force him out of the way. “Let the runes roll how they choose.”

Usara’s indignant reply was lost as the wagoneer whipped up the horses and drove them into the punishing stream. The cart slipped sideways at once with no weight of cargo to steady it. Hory clung to the sides, white with fear and cursing fit for a mercenary. The wagoneer lashed the beasts but the cart was increasingly dragged askew. If Hory went into the water, he wouldn’t surface again.

“Do something, Usara,” I urged.

“Why should I?” snapped the mage with ill-suppressed fury.

“Fair enough.” I folded my arms. “It won’t be the first time stupidity’s been the death of someone.”

Usara shot me a fulminating glance but shook his cuffs loose from his wrists. With a flash of golden light that left the sun colorless, he sent a shaft of magic into the water. The river seethed around the wagon in a boiling confusion of gold, azure and sapphire and the horses fought against their reins as the carter clutched them in shock.

“Get them moving, you fatherless son of a pox-addled whore,” snarled Usara. Hearing him swear like that outweighed the treat of the magelight for me. The carter brought his whip down on the wheel horses, lashing until the weals on their rumps were edged with blood. I looked across the river to see open mouths and wide eyes on every face as the wagon hauled out onto the shallow slope, the last faint tendrils of magic light fading from its wheels with the water dripping onto the muddy turf.

“Me, I’d have let them drown,” ’Gren commented. Sorgrad was a few paces behind.

“But you’re not a mage of Hadrumal, trained to use your magic for the greater good, are you?” I gave Usara a friendly smile.

The wizard muttered something under his breath, gave Sorgrad an entirely unwarranted look of annoyance and stalked away. He was breathing heavily, cheeks sunken beneath his angular cheekbones and weariness plain in the sag of his shoulders.

“It really does take it out of them, doesn’t it?” Sorgrad remarked thoughtfully.

“It does,” I agreed. “Good thing really, given what he might be able to do if he put his mind to it.”

’Gren had an unfamiliar saddlebag slung over one shoulder and I realized the raiders were nowhere to be seen. “Where did our friends go?”

“Took themselves off back toward Medeshale,” Sorgrad replied.

With a burst of activity the other travelers departed, keen to make up lost time or anxious to get away from Usara’s magic. The Forest Folk began dismantling their bridge and I saw Orial had returned with a litter of rough-cut branches and colorful cloth for Zenela.

“Your outdweller man is a mage?” The good-looking lad came over, eyes bright with curiosity.

“My friend,” I corrected him. “Yes, he is a wizard.”

“This magic, how is it learned?” he asked, evidently intrigued.

“It’s a power one is born with.” I turned my mind to my original purpose. Good deeds today might put me in credit with Saedrin; what I wanted for this life was credit with Messire and with Planir. “Do the Folk have magic among themselves?”

We walked behind four well-muscled lads supporting Zenela’s litter.

The lad shook his head. “No, we have no enchantments.”

I kept my tone light. “Not at all?”

“No. So, what brings you to the greenwood at this season?” He was looking hopeful.

“I have a book of ancient songs, some written in the tongue of the Folk.” I smiled, encouraging. “I want to learn more about them.”

If I could get Frue singing those old ballads, I could look for anyone showing any particular interest or recognition, I decided. We made our way through glorious spring green, creeping carpets of blue hornflower mimicking the bright sky above. Of course, in most old ballads the crucial revelation enabling the lost prince to prove his claim generally falls into his lap three verses before the end. Real life has never proved that easy in my experience.

The settlement Ravin led us to came as something of a surprise. I hadn’t exactly been expecting savages sitting under the trees and waiting for the nuts to fall, but I’d been imagining shelters made of leafy branches or some such. We found a broad clearing and Folk busy around a loose scatter of round dwellings cloaked in thick mats of woven tree bark. A woman was hanging brightly patterned bedding out to air over a wooden frame polished with use and children were playing happily with some half-grown pups by her door. Another circle of women was sitting busy with leatherwork and sewing. The younger ones exchanged lively banter with lads stacking firewood in precise cones close by. All wore close-tailored leather leggings with tunics of varying lengths and cut. The younger men favored a sleeveless style displaying muscular arms to best advantage while most of the women opted for plenty of pockets. So much for the exotic mysteries of the wildwood. This was domestic enough for Ryshad’s mother.

“That’ll be for us.” Frue nodded at a group busy making a new house. One girl was digging out a fire pit while another piled stones ready to line it and a third marked out a circle on the swept turf. Four older women were making a long, flexible lattice of fine wands pierced and tied with leather thongs while a couple more carried over rolls of woven matting.

“Bring her in here.” Orial appeared at a door with a spray of greenery fixed above the lintel. The litter was laid down and Frue carried Zenela into the low house. Curious, I followed to see her settled in a bed frame strung with tanned skins and covered with a woolen coverlet that could have come from any town in Ensaimin. A paroxysm of coughing left Zenela gasping, tears on her cheeks and fear in her eyes.

“Sit her forward and unlace her gown,” Orial ordered. Frue leaned Zenela against his shoulder and Orial rubbed an oily salve into the girl’s back, pungent with garlic and something else that I couldn’t identify. I coughed. There might be mysteries for apothecaries here but I saw no sign of the intense mysticism of the Soluran healers who’d mended Halice’s leg.

“Breathe out, slowly and steadily.” Orial bent her ear to Zenela’s mouth, felt the beat of her heart in her neck and then pulled down her eyelids with a gentle finger to check the color of her blood. Just like any apothecary I’d ever visited. “Now, settle yourself and try to sleep a little.” She shooed me and Frue out with one hand and I saw Zenela’s eyes were already drowsy. I wondered just what was in that rub.

Frue pushed past me and went to speak to Ravin. Sorgrad, ’Gren and Usara were nowhere to be seen and I was uncertain what to do. I didn’t like the sensation.

“You’ll share that with your men.” Orial’s voice behind me made me jump. She pointed at the circle of lattice now roofed with stronger rods all meeting in the middle and socketed into what had to be an old cartwheel. The fire irons being fixed in the pit looked suspiciously like well-hammered wagon struts as well. I thought about going to help but everyone involved looked well used to sharing the task. I wasn’t about to risk showing myself up by making some error.

I sat down next to Orial, who was pounding some hapless root to pulp with a pestle and mortar. Thick mats of coarse linen were wrapped around the walls of our new home, covered in their turn with stout woven bark securely lashed with ropes of twisted vine. “Do we thank Ravin for this?” I asked.

“Frue is of the Folk and as such can expect shelter in any campground.” Orial’s gaze was somewhat superior. “You are not of the Folk, even if you are of the blood, are you?”

“You’re not from around here either,” I countered. “Your speech is different from the rest.”

“I am from the far south,” Orial replied easily. “I am traveling to learn new wisdoms. I will return to my own people in time—for winter.” I had the impression she might have said something else but her face was hidden as she searched in her deerhide bag.

“What kind of wisdom are you seeking?” I asked casually. “Something of the kind my friend Usara has? Magic or enchantments?”

Orial pulled a little knife from her belt and added flakes shaved from a leathery dried stem to her paste. “I’m a herbalist, as my mother before me and most of the women in my line. I look for new knowledge of roots and leaves, powers of flower and fruit to soothe and cure.” She nodded toward the new house. “You should go and light the first fire in the hearth, for luck.”

Like any new bride in Vanam, taking possession of the kitchen soon to become her whole world? Not likely, I thought. Orial was humming again, intent on her work.

“Frue was playing that tune last night,” I remarked. “Do you know him?”

“Not beyond brushing shoulders today.” Orial shrugged. “It’s ‘The Lay of Mazir’s Hands.’ All healers sing it, for luck.”

“Could you sing it for me, please?” I sat on the damp earth, hugging my knees, all innocent appeal. There was something about the tune tugging at me like an importunate child.

Orial looked up at the sun, overhead now and dappling the ground with shadows. “I suppose I could spare a little while.” Her voice was rich and full, her accent far closer to what I remembered of my father’s than Frue’s thicker, more fluid tongue and as the tune soared and dipped, I listened close for the words. Kespar, whoever he might have been, had been duped into a wager with Poldrion that he could swim the river between this world and the Other faster than the Ferryman could row his boat across. Unsurprisingly, the demons got him and Kespar went home to Mazir with pride and hide both in tatters. She healed him with love, herbs and teasing rebuke. That was the burden of the verses at least but the refrain meant nothing to me beyond a teasing echo.

“What does that mean,” I asked, “ ‘ardeila menalen reskelserr’?”

“It’s just jalquezan,” Orial struggled for a translation as I sat looking blankly at her. “Word-music.”

“But what does it signify?” I persisted.

“It’s meaningless.” She waved her pestle in a helpless gesture. “Nonsense, just word-music.”

“You sing this for luck?” I itched to go and fetch my song book. After the delays of the journey and the reverses of the night before, it finally looked as if the luck was running my way.

“It’s a tale reckoned to bring good fortune to medicine or poultice.” Orial was looking perplexed.

“Are there other songs you sing for luck, especially for different things?” I asked with studied casualness. “Are there many with this jalquezan?”

“There’s ‘Viyenne and the Does,’ ” Orial said after a moment. “When she fled Kespar’s advances, she had to turn herself into a deer and hide in the midst of a herd. Then there’s ‘Sens and the Bridge,’ ‘Mazir and the Storm.’ They all have jalquezan but I don’t know of anyone singing them for any particular reason. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Just curious.” I got up and headed for our neat new house, where Frue was unrolling his sodden blanket and spreading it on the roof to dry. Our other bags were stacked inside the door and I opened mine with trepidation. My clothes were damp and smelled like a bucket of frogs but the oilskin I’d added to the song book’s wrappings had been coin well spent. The linen beneath was barely damp at the outermost corners and the book within was untouched. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Frue was looking at me with mingled irritation and amusement as he tenderly inspected his lute. Trimon only knows how he’d kept that safe from the flood. “What are you getting that out for?”

“Orial and I have been talking about songs and I’d like her opinion on some of these.” I smiled at him. “She’s been telling me about the jalquezan. That would be the bits you couldn’t translate for me?” I was mentally kicking myself for mistaking Frue’s meaning when he’d said that. “Mazir and the Storm,” here it was. A tale of losing the path and finding it again.