The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (49 page)

We foraged for a while longer but discovered nothing more than the fact that the height of summer is a bad time to try living off the land. This side of the turn of autumn, flowers and bitter green berries were just a mocking promise of fruitfulness to come. In glum accord, we headed back to the others.

“This is all we could find.” I divided up the spoils into waiting hands, giving Usara the prince’s portion. We all ate hungrily, but the berries did little to fill our bellies. I wondered crossly where those cursed horses had gone. I didn’t relish the prospect of a journey through the Forest without sustaining food, water we could trust or ideally a change of linen. Wishing to no avail for something more to eat, I wiped my hands on my stained shirt and looked around the dejected circle. “So, what now?”

“We get instructions from Planir,” said Usara glumly.

“We need to scry more widely, find out just how many are arming,” mused Darni. “If it’s just a single kindred with an itch to scratch, that’s one thing. If it’s every valley this side of the heights, we’re in for a bloody autumn.”

“You do as you see fit,” I told the pair of them. “I came on this trip to find aetheric lore and I’m not quitting on that.”

“That game’s finished, Livak,” snapped Usara, “all the runes rolled and done. We’re as empty in the pocket as we were when we started.”

“Then it’s time to gather the bones for another hand,” I told him. “Losses only count if you have to walk away from the table bearing them. As long as you’re playing, you can set about winning your coin back.” And if necessary, you set about making your own luck, if the run of the runes is against you. Especially if the other player is already scraping the odds.

“And how do you propose to set about that?” Darni’s tone quite plainly anticipated that I had no real idea.

“Has Planir got anywhere closer to finding a means of waking Otrick?” I demanded of Usara.

“No,” he sighed heavily. “We tried everything Guinalle could suggest over the winter. We failed and unless Planir’s forgotten to tell me, no one has unearthed any scholarship that might help since.”

“I bet that Elietimm enchanter knows how,” I said. “Knowledge may not be a silver cup to steal, but we could try stealing the head it’s held in, couldn’t we?”

Usara looked at me with mingled disbelief and irritation but Darni’s dark eyes were lit with interest.

“Well, we could, couldn’t we?” I insisted. “And we could probably find out just what the Mountain Men are up to. And what pots that Elietimm bastard is stirring. And we could probably find answers to most of the questions about aetheric magic that Guinalle can’t answer. We know these warding incantations of Guinalle’s work now. As long as we get the drop on the Ice Islander, he won’t have a chance to try his tricks.” And I could prove to myself once and for all that Elietimm enchantments need not be feared with the nausea that bastard had planted in the back of my mind. “We had him once before and we can get him again. Tied up and knocked out, he’ll be no more trouble than any other sack of shit.”

“I forbid it, absolutely!” Usara made the mistake of trying to stand up and gasped at the pain.

“Saedrin grant he’s already through the door to the Otherworld,” said Darni slowly.

“If Raeponin’s doing his job,” I agreed fervently. “But what if he’s not?”

“How do we find out?” demanded Darni.

“This.” I dug in my belt-pouch and held up the little knife. “It belonged to the Sheltya woman. She’s been with him before; she’ll be with him again. Usara can find her and we find him.”

“The one who dismissed us from the uplands?” Usara was aghast. “You stole from her?”

“You don’t think she realized it was you?” Darni glowered in the bullying manner I remembered all too well. “You don’t think that’s what brought them down on us?”

“Five fives of men, all armed to the teeth and out for blood, just for a pocket blade and after waiting right around the greater moon and start again?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I hardly think so. I doubt she’s even missed it, and if she does she’ll think she just lost it when the leather snapped.” I waved the tattered end at him and grinned at Gilmarten, who was looking quite nonplussed.

“If Livak cuts your purse after lunch, you won’t know about it till you try to pay the reckoning for your supper,” Sorgrad told Darni firmly.

“I’m here on the authority of the Archmage and I simply will not countenance this!” Usara protested. “I certainly won’t assist you with scrying.”

“We don’t work for you, pal,” said ’Gren sunnily.

“Or your Archmage,” added Sorgrad with a hint of menace. “And if you won’t work the magic for us, maybe I should have a try.”

“I told you before I’m the dog with the brass collar on this hunt,” I reminded the mage. “We’re going to do what we want, with or without your help.”

“I’d like to see you try,” scoffed Darni. “Impossible.”

’Gren smiled. “No such thing as impossible—”

“Just long odds.” Sorgrad stood next to his brother.

“And those are the kind that pay off best.” I joined them. “We’re on our way. Are you coming?”

“We should stick together through the Forest,” Darni glowered. “For safety in numbers.”

The wizards exchanged looks of impatience and uncertainty but each had the sense to realize that with Usara in such a state they needed swords and darts at least as much as spells to protect them.

We started to walk and I began racking my brains; without Usara’s cooperation, I was short of a few key runes. I wondered how to get them, but I was determined to play this hand. Gambling may be all about winning but that doesn’t mean it can’t be about getting even too.

Eight

The wind is a constant feature of life in Dalasor and this song sums up all its various moods—the chill wind of winter, the warm breath of summer, the violent storms that rage above the open grasslands and those oh so rare moments of stillness when it takes one a moment to realize what is missing.

Power so mighty that moves stealthy, never seen

Stream that is ceaseless yet water has never been,

Always it passes yet will remain last of all.

Weakest will bend and live, strongest will broken fall,

Searching and scouring and merciless stripping bare,

Yet both concealing and blowing away all care.

A howl in the darkness with no tongue to make the sound,

Yet biting the bone and the dry flesh split all round,

The cold and the cruel drives sunshine far from the heights

Till moons bring their pity to soften the shrinking nights,

Moist kindly kisses and healing touch to all ills,

Bringing the glory of flower crowned rolling hills.

Storm raging fury and rain lashing naked back,

Twisting and turning and washing out every track,

Senses bemused and all courage fled long ago,

Calm bringing wisdom and bidding the heart to slow,

Respite from fear and true knowledge of self alone,

Peace for reflection and innermost secrets known.

Othilfess,

4th of Aft Summer

The long slate table was bare, a body laid out on the cold stone, wrapped to the neck in white linen. A cowl of the same cloth hid the hair but a few wisps escaped, dull with smears of rusty blood. An insidious hint of decay hovered in the air like an unwelcome truth. The lonely flames of candles set at head and foot held back the darkness as evening fell outside, leaving the rest of the room in disregarded gloom as the fire sank to a sullen red heap of cinders.

Aritane watched the three women weeping as they began stitching the corpse into a shaped shroud of stiff leather. “I see no reason for salting the body,” she remarked coldly. “I could perform the charnel rites at once, if you would only let me.”

Ismenia bent to kiss the marble white brow before closing the folds over Teiriol’s face, hands deft and gentle; Eirys and Theilyn were barely able to hold their needles, let alone sew, their fingers shook so much. The old woman looked up. “I’ll have Sheltya who remain true to their oaths lay my son under the sky for Misaen to judge and the ravens to reclaim,” she said calmly. “Get out.”

The girls both froze, trickling tears their only movement. Aritane’s chin came up on an indignant intake of breath. “You owe me the courtesy of my calling and I’ll thank you for it. You would not have his bones at all, were it not for Sheltya bringing him home.”

Ismenia’s eyes flickered to her daughters. “Please leave us to mourn our dead,” she said in more temperate tones.

“Mourning is all well and good.” Aritane looked around at the disordered furniture and unswept floor with disdain. “Taken to excess, it becomes self-indulgence.” She moved briskly to the hearth and piled fresh wood on the remains of the fire.

Eirys was fumbling as she attempted to thread a needle in the uncertain light. “If my child is a son, I’ll name him for Teiro, Mama.”

“You are truly with child this time?” Aritane’s slaty eyes bored into the girl. “So it would seem. Have you told Jeirran yet?”

“I’ve had no chance.” Eirys’ face crumpled with distress. “I’ve seen so little of him—”

“Do not tell him,” commanded Aritane coldly. “You may well yet slip and he needs neither to be distracted by the prospect of a child nor by the blow of its loss.”

Ismenia’s lips narrowed to a bloodless line as Eirys ducked her head to hide fresh weeping. “Leave my daughter’s care to me, if you please.”

“Pander to her endless hysterics like this and she will surely lose the brat,” snapped Aritane. She did not sound displeased by the notion.

Theilyn’s mouth fell open, puzzlement coloring the pain in her eyes. A dead silence fell, the circle of light around the women of the soke excluding the Sheltya in her severe gray robe.

“There are more besides Teiriol have spent their blood in defense of their beliefs,” Aritane said pointedly after some moments’ silence. “I will ensure their bones are in Maewelin’s embrace as soon as may be.” She strode out of the rekin, back stiff with indignation.

“Why not let her do it, Mother?” whispered Eirys. Her fair skin was blotched from weeping, her eyes red and swollen. “We owe her much, you know that.” She rested a hand briefly on her full skirts.

“Don’t credit her with your blessing,” said Ismenia icily. “She won’t welcome anything that might distract Jeirran from the mark she’s setting up for him. All I owe her is the death of my child. Don’t doubt that I will repay her somehow.”

Theilyn looked from mother to sister, her eyes deeply shadowed in her pale face. “You should not say such things. Don’t even think them.”

Ismenia looked at her sharply. “You’ll be running with tales again, will you?”

Theilyn’s mouth trembled, her lips chapped and bitten. “They can hear such things unspoken,” she said hoarsely. “Sheltya and the man from the east.”

“Do not grace them with the name of Sheltya,” hissed Ismenia. “They do not deserve it.”

“But how will we get the rites said for Teiro?” wailed Eirys, fresh tears running through the smudges dried on her face.

Theilyn wasn’t proof against this renewed assault of grief and wept bitterly in her turn. “It’s all my fault,” she choked. “If I hadn’t told him what Eresken wanted, if I hadn’t listened to Aritane. I don’t know why I did, I don’t know what I was thinking of.”

“You were flattered by their attentions, you saw their favor promising you a good match, a rich husband and whatever else it is you want but you’re not prepared to work for,” Ismenia told her curtly. “I need no Sheltya powers to know just what you’ve been thinking, my girl. Don’t ask my forgiveness.”

Theilyn burst into noisy sobs and fled up the stairs, stumbling as she went. Ismenia sighed and rested her head in her wrinkled hands. Eirys sat in mute misery, absently winding a thread in and around her fingers, finally pulling it so tight she drew blood. She looked at the welling red with bemusement.

Heavy boots sounded reluctant on the steps outside and the door to the rekin opened slowly on the summer twilight. Fithian looked around the heavy oak and sidled in, twisting a rag between his hands. “I brought him,” he said simply, his lined face deeply graven with weariness and grief.

He pushed the door wider and ushered Keisyl in. The younger man was thick with dust from the trail, unshaven and filthy from the diggings. Horror haunted his eyes as he looked at the shrouded body on the bare table and he hesitated on the threshold.

Ismenia looked up and managed a watery smile. “Oh my boy, come here.”

Keisyl stumbled toward her, scowling as he fought tears of his own. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should have stopped him, I should have stayed—”

Ismenia held him tight. “It’s no one’s fault,” she said hoarsely.

Keisyl hid his face in her embrace for a moment before forcing himself upright. He wheeled around and stared at the central hearth where flames suddenly burned bright and heedlessly cheerful as the wood laid on it caught fire. Face contorted with rage, Keisyl grabbed a massive poker and swept aside the logs, sending sparks showering in all directions. Raking embers all over the broad stone plinth, he smashed the iron down on the glowing heart of the fire, strewing the coals to scorch the floor, burn holes in the rugs and cushions and to die, first to red and then to ashy gray, all warmth spent on the cold stone. He stamped furiously on the scattered clinker, reducing the fragments to powder. Ismenia and Fithian watched in silence, faces solemn yet sympathetic. Eirys clutched a scrap of linen, bleeding finger forgotten in her mouth as she looked on aghast.

When the fire was a ruin of cooling ash, Keisyl stood, shaking, head bowed. He dropped the poker with a clang that rang around the room like a death knell. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head but before he could speak, the door was flung open to reveal Jeirran silhouetted against the colorless sky.