The Song of Andiene (23 page)

“Listen, Kare,” he said. “We must play a game. Your father is waiting for you at the end of this path. Run as fast as you can, and I’ll try to catch you. Don’t go off the path. Just see how fast you can run, and how soon you can reach your father.”

She was puzzled, not quite understanding this new game.

“Do you think that I can catch you?” he asked.

“No!” and she giggled.

“Very well then, run!”

She ran forward lightly and Kallan followed. The sun had passed its crest. Fool that he was, he had not wakened her to leave at first light, thinking that he had all the time he would need. The sword swinging at his side made him clumsy, but he could not leave it behind. Some of the forest creatures, the grievers, the rardissian, were mortal, for all their magic.

The child had outdistanced him and was out of sight, far ahead, he hoped, on the winding path. He ran on, and tried not to glance up at the sky, to see how little daylight he had left. Horseback riding, sword fighting, they did not make for swift running. “Though men know the ways of the forest well, they all walk down one path too many.” Someone had said that long ago.

He saw the child far ahead, walking. “Kare, run!” he cried out. Instead, she stopped and waited for him.

“My side hurts.”

“Run anyway!” He caught her by the arm and pulled her along. “If you want to see your father again, run!”

She ran, but not so swiftly. He could keep pace with her easily, now. He could have outdistanced her. Then it was twilight, dimming quickly, and she realized the danger, child of the forest that she was, and ran willingly. “Do not speak,” he gasped. They might buy a little time, even after nightfall, if they went silently.

But the song of death already echoed in the distance.

“Run!” Kallan said, and pushed her on. The howling was very near. He turned and drew his sword, though it was a hopeless gesture. These were the dark ones, the shadow hounds that no sword could touch.

They flowed out of the shadows, running single file, so sure of their prey, so hungry for the taste of death. The leader sprang, and Kallan raised his sword in a futile reflex. In mid-air, a tongue of fire lashed past him and struck the hound. It screamed as it fell to the ground, shadow-body outlined in flames. The second one sprang and fell and burned the same. The hounds sang louder, but slowed their pace.

“Come,” Kare said. She was the leader now, pulling at Kallan’s hand, and every minute, she turned and stared, and behind them was another flash of flame and keening wail.

A bend in the path, another one—the paths of the forest have no end. The safehold was linked to Kallan by his blood, but he had ridden from it on horseback, traveling far faster than he could run. He did not know how far they had to go.

The dark ones stayed well back, but sang still louder, calling their masters to the fight.

But the safehold was ahead now, a sturdy and welcoming pile of stones. Kare saw her father standing at the foot of the steps, between the wide-spreading dragon’s paws, and summoned a sprinter’s speed to outdistance Kallan. A thought of grim irony went through his mind. If she forgot him at the sight of her father, he might be slain yet, so close to safety. But she turned, and again flame crackled through the air, and another hound screamed and was silent.

The rest hung back and were afraid. He needed no more help. When he reached the safehold, Ilbran stood on the bottom step, holding his daughter in his arms. She smiled to see Kallan, then closed her eyes, her body going limp.

Kallan reached out and touched her throat, to feel a steady pulse, then regarded her father. Nothing but bewilderment in his blue northerner’s eyes.

“Why did you not tell me that you had raised one of the wise ones?” Kallan asked.

Ilbran shook his head. “I did not know, though I feared.”

“Why fear? We would have died. Alonsar snapped a bone in his foreleg; I had to kill him. She saved her life and mine. In all my life I have seen only one other like her.”

Ilbran carried his child up the steps. Silently, he laid her down on the safehold floor. Clumsily, he tried to pick out the mats and tangles from her hair. “What troubles you so?” asked Kallan. “She is safe now. She has shown herself brave and wise beyond her years.”

Ilbran flinched at the words. “I had hoped she would have no magic in her. Her mother was one of a kind that is devoured by sorcery, eaten from the inside out till at last there is nothing left. And I did not recognize it in her, so how can I hope to recognize it in my daughter?”

The man believed it. He had the look of one consumed by dread. “Calm yourself,” Kallan said. “You walk ten leagues to pick up a pin. I can recognize witchcraft. Your home stank with it. Those lindel trees were planted by human hands alone. I tell you, there is no trace of that on your daughter.”

“Let our children be born as strangers,” Ilbran quoted wearily. He drew a deep breath and sighed, and stroked his child’s hair again. “I pray that you speak wisely. What kept you there so long?”

Kallan told him the story, telling it simply. “It was a sima, I think. Your daughter recognized it. Tell me, did you bury your wife?”

“I laid her to rest decently.” Ilbran’s voice was alive with pain and anger.

“Rules change in the forest,” Kallan said gently. “Thoughts of blasphemy must be forgotten. The forest folk can take the shape of ones … who die and are not hidden under the earth, and with the shape, they take some memories, enough to beguile people to their destruction. This one was not of flesh and blood.”

Ilbran shuddered. “I remember. There was the stranger who died. I thought I saw his face, afterwards.” He turned to the other man. “I have much to thank you for. You saved her life, over and again, and nearly lost your own.”

Outside, the hounds circled and sang their man-destroying song. Kallan stepped to the doorway and glanced out. “In truth, I’d rather be here than there!”

“You saved her life, and mine too,” Ilbran repeated. “If you wish, I will swear to your service, a life for a life.”

Kallan looked at him, amazed, half-scornful. “What were you before you came to the forest?”

“A fisherman.”

“Then where did you hear of such things as liege oath, or imagine that they might apply to you?”

Ilbran flushed. “A man may set his standards and find his honor where he will, no matter what place in life he is born to.”

“And what use do you think you would be to me? What is your sword worth?” Kallan asked. “No, do not answer.” This was a bitter reminder to him, to see someone ready, as he had been, to fling away his life for the sake of gratitude and pride.

He spoke more gently. “I had no right to scorn your offer because you were born a fisherman. Be thankful I have no purposes, no plans, no need of any servants. I will give you some advice instead. Do not offer your life so lightly. I swore an oath once, and though it is now broken, it dragged me so deep I can never rise up again. I have spent half a lifetime killing at another man’s orders. You offer too much, too carelessly.”

Ilbran stared at him in sudden recognition. “Your name is Kallan, you said. I know you. The years have changed you. ‘Lord Kallan’, they called you. You stood at the side of the room.” He held his daughter close and protectively. “At least you were not one of the ones who laughed … ”

“There were too many of you for me to remember,” Kallan said quietly. “But you are right. Bloody-handed Kallan, who was the king’s sword-arm and best servant till a price was set on his head, and he was hunted into the forest. I am glad you did not remember until now.”

They both were silent a long time, staring at opposite walls of the safehold. “You or I can travel back tomorrow to get the food, your sword, her clothes,” Kallan said. “It will not be dangerous if the trip is made at first light.” His words fell into the silence and died there.

Ilbran bent over his child and listened to her breathing, touched her forehead and her wrist.

“You are young,” Kallan said. “You will need to forgive people many times before you are old. Three are safer than two when traveling in the forest. I can teach you to use your sword. Your daughter can guard us both from the unearthly foes.”

Outside the safehold, the lords of the forest gathered, with their death-bright faces. Ilbran started to turn his head. “Do not look at them!” Kallan said sharply. He continued to talk.

“As you said, I was not one of the ones who laughed. Nahil was my liege lord; he saved my life and I swore to him. And it did not begin the way you saw it.” Kallan looked at the fisherman, desperately anxious to justify himself to someone. “In the north, he was a gentle lord.”

Ilbran spoke slowly, grudgingly. “Which way do you travel when you leave the forest?”

“I meant to go to Oreja, the fair land where I was born, to see how lightly the king’s hand lies on the land. What of you?”

“I am not accustomed to planning for the future,” Ilbran said. “This place held me in its jaws for seven years. I meant to follow where my feet led me.” He looked at Kallan curiously. “Why did the king turn against you?”

“Because I was there the day he took power. The day Andiene escaped. He grew to hate us, for we had seen his helplessness, his shame. And one by one, there were excuses, and false charges; I was loyal to him longer than I should have been. I did not realize, until there were none left but me. All the brave men, the valiant comrades, all dead, all gone … ”

Ilbran broke into his lament. “I cannot find it in my heart to grieve for them.”

Kallan saw the younger man’s eyes, as cold as ice. The fisherman was not the soft fool that he had seemed. “I am sorry,” he said. “You have your own song of grief, if you could find the heart to tell it.” He looked at Kare. “But you have raised a brave child. When she wakes, you can tell her that she is as valiant as the princess Andiene, who held us all at bay while she walked out unharmed.”

“Then the stories were true?” Ilbran asked in wonder.

“All true,” Kallan said. “It was a sight out of a minstrel’s proudest song, though it froze me with fear.”

“What became of her? Was she ever taken by your men?”

“She vanished like bubbles breaking—at a touch they disappear. There was no way to know which of the stories were true.”

“Maybe she died unknown?”

“The rightful heir still lives,” Kallan said. “Nahil knows it; the city has never answered to him. Maybe we will never know what became of her, but I think so strange a story could not begin and have no ending.”

Chapter 16

“Touch not a leaf,” Lenane said to her companions as they entered the dim green light of the forest. “Though the paths are safe from the greatest evil, still they are perilous. Easy for the trees to gain their revenge, if we mistreat them.”

“All things are perilous,” said Andiene.

“Did I not see you break down boughs to make our beds, over on that other shore?” Syresh asked her. “And I watched my men hew down trees by the score, and we went untouched.”

“And where are they now?” Her gray eyes met his. “Do the tides trouble their slumber?”

They walked a little ways apart; she lowered her voice, so that Lenane could not hear her. “I have been thinking of my power, of its limits. It is not as great as I thought it would be. Those ships came to my call easily, only because of the grudge they bore your men, and even so, I did not gain my heart’s desire.

“As for the boughs that you saw me break, they were from the lesser kind, like dumb beasts. Even then, I asked their pardon.”

She looked up into the gray-branched darkness that roofed them over. “These ones—though I have never entered the forest, I recognize their breed. They are older than our race, and stronger, and wiser.”

Her tone convinced him, as Lenane’s warnings had not. He did not stray from the middle of the dark-earthed path, nor did he set a hand to any of the trees.

Before noon they came to a safehold, like a heap of children’s blocks. Wide shallow steps led up to a three-sided shelter, roofed with another dark slab of stone.

“What are these?” Andiene asked, pointing to the ridges of stone that went out from the entrance. Then she looked again and answered her own question. “The dragon’s paws … ”

“City or forest, you cannot escape it,” said Lenane.

Syresh glanced at the sun. “Do you want to go or stay? We have two-thirds of the day left to us. We can go on for a little while, then return if we can find no safe place.”

“We will go on,” Andiene said.

“Wait,” said Lenane. “Remember what I told you. Give me your dagger. We must mark the threshold with blood, so that the shelter will be here if we are forced to return.”

“How can a building of stone move?” There was scorn in Syresh’s voice.

The minstrel did not take offense, merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I do not know. I only know what I have seen.”

Syresh watched in amusement as she took Andiene’s dagger, nicked the back of her wrist, squeezed out a small drop of blood, and smeared it on the bottom step. “Why borrow a knife? Why did you not use your own claws?”

Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Perhaps because they are poisoned.” Then she burst into laughter as Syresh reached up to touch his slow-healing cheek.

“Enough of that,” said Andiene. “Enough of your foolery, or you go one way, and we go the other.” She gravely copied Lenane’s actions, then looked expectantly at Syresh.

“I am no superstitious fool,” he exclaimed. “These stones will be here when we return. They cannot grow legs and walk away, or sprout wings and fly through the air, or turn to mist and disappear.”

Lenane looked at him in exasperation. “I knew you were a fool, but I did not know you were so much of a fool. You will mark this step if I have to shed your blood myself.”

“That would be nothing new.”

Lenane grinned at that, and flexed her claws experimentally, but Andiene was not so amused. “Remember your oath,” she said. “And remember what you saw when you left that other land.” He drew his dagger grudgingly and did as he was told.

Then they went on. Lenane glanced up at the sun, glinting lowly through the trees. “I dreamed a strange dream last night. I dreamed that the path of the sun stretched across the sky like a bar of gold, and lesser ones grew alongside it, like the bars of a cage, and they grew till it seemed that the whole sky was a cage that surrounded us and held us captive on the earth. And outside, a great gray dragon who watched us, his prisoners.”