The Song of Andiene (34 page)

“My child’s mother was one of that same sort, black and rotten with witchcraft.”

“Unsay that, or this day may come to swordwork yet!” Ilbran had never seen Kallan so angry before. “Your wife’s life was lived in a circle of blasphemy. She rooted the forest trees from their proper places and planted them to feed on her own flesh and blood. What has Andiene ever done but fight for her rights? Tell me!”

“What right do kings have to own us?”

“The city answers to them. Their race was chosen from the beginning.”

“I have had enough dealings with witches and sorcerers to last me to the end of time.”

“And may you have many more,” Kallan said, as he looked significantly at Kare, far ahead of them, unable to hear what they said. “Will you deny her her heritage?”

“It is an inheritance that may destroy her.” Ilbran spoke desperately, fighting to convince himself.

“If I had what you have gained, I would not throw it away so easily.”

Ilbran spoke angrily. “How can you judge? You have no children, unless you left one among the forest folk. None that you will ever know.”

Then he regretted his words. This was one who had fought by his side, had saved his life, and his daughter’s life, had done his best to guard them all.

A king’s man, wary and wise, an old fighter. That had been his thought, when he had first seen him.

He is a king’s man still. He will be loyal to Andiene.
Useless to blame men for what they are. He said more softly, “I would rather take a knife and cut my heart out of my chest, than leave her, but a man is given only one chance to cheat fate. This is mine, my only one.”

Kallan looked at him long and hard, and nodded at last. “Your first allegiance is to your own, your flesh and blood.”

Ilbran gazed north and west. The city was hidden now, in these lowlands. “I knew I would never come again to the gates of Mareja.”

“There are other lands,” Kallan said. “Look.” He knelt to draw in the soft earth. “I know the roads to the north. This is the map.”

“I thank you. Take care of her,” Ilbran said, though the words almost choked him.

“I mean to.”

“I am not made for dealing with sorceresses, but I loved her.”

“I know. I will try to explain.” Both of them knew how useless that would be. Little to say at farewells. Kare had drifted back to stand at Ilbran’s side.

“I only regret I never had a chance to save your life,” he said, trying to smile.

Kallan looked at them both, as sober as the lord watching the prisoner he has condemned. “That debt was paid, twice over. You can thank your child for that.”

Ilbran nodded. “Good enough. Come, Kare.”

“Guard your back in a strange land,” the kingsman said. He reached out and rumpled Kare’s hair, and then stepped back.

“May your footsteps lead you to a safe shelter,” Ilbran said.

Kallan’s eyes filled with that same cruel self-mockery that Ilbran had seen before. “More likely I’ll come to my just reward. But I will take a gentle message back to your lady.”

“I am glad of that.” No more to be said. Ilbran took his daughter by the hand and turned to follow the winding paths to the north.

Chapter 23

It would be easy to leave without a farewell, Kallan thought. Not so easy to explain and speak gently. And he spoke with a divided mind, fighting back a fierce joy that he would not show, even to himself, for it was made of foolishness and treachery.

“Why did you not bring him back?” Andiene’s face and voice were filled with pain.

“What was I to do? March him back with my sword at his throat as though he were some felon? He was unsworn, free to come and go as he pleased.”

“Without one word.”

Such grief, such terrible grief was in her face. “My lady, he did not dare; he did not trust himself. He was almost torn in two with his own grief and longing.”

Then Andiene wept, unaccustomed tears. Neither he, nor Syresh nor any man but one, had seen her weep since she had come down from the dragon’s land. They watched in silence, the men from Oreja standing a little apart and murmuring among themselves, not understanding. And presently, Andiene raised her head, stony-faced, and gave the commands. They would turn and march west toward Mareja, as they had planned.

The day was spent descending into the foothills and shallow valleys of the kingdom. They passed a few people, gatherers and travelers, but not many, for most, seeing such a well-armed band, were quick to disappear into the brush at the side of the road. Andiene walked by herself. Kallan stayed back among the men he had recruited.

Syresh sought him out that evening, after they had eaten. “I do not like this. We are strong enough to frighten these weaponless villagers, but what use will we be against the army that Nahil will send when he learns where we are? He has had all summer to prepare and plan.”

“I trust her wisdom,” Kallan said. “I’ll not question it.”

Syresh looked doubtful. “Why did your friend leave?”

“He had reasons. He was no traitor, and no coward.”

On the other side of the campfire, Sireles, one of the archers who had shot their evening meal, spoke to Lenane. She smiled at him, but stepped past him. He spoke more urgently. Syresh began to rise, but Kallan caught at his sleeve and pulled him down again. “Let her fight her own fight.”

“It is mine, too!”

“Is it?” Kallan asked dryly. “I never saw one better suited for a camp of men—to defend herself, I mean!”

Syresh bit his lip and watched as Lenane walked away, not angry, or flirting, but coldly indifferent. He spoke suddenly. “That ring you wear, hidden under your shirt, how did she know of it?”

“Not as you’re wondering. The string that held it frayed, and it fell, and when I searched for it later, I could not find it. So I guessed rightly and asked her.” Kallan smiled as memories came back to him.

“There is an animal of the northern plains, ‘dunnerat’ they call it, that has an eye to little things, and will steal the dagger from your side while you sleep, or take your rings from your fingers … and one man swore that he woke stripped naked, even his boots pulled from off his feet, because the subtle little things had taken a fancy to his clothing.”

Syresh did not laugh. “She would not steal, once she grew accustomed to having all she needed,” he said confidently.

“If you like to think that, you may, but there’s no harm in having a fondness for a dunnerat, if you know it for what it is.”

Syresh started to answer hotly, but Andiene came toward them, her hair gleaming in the firelight like mirror-polished metal.

“Lord Kallan, I would have a word with you in private. Syresh, speak with the other men, and calm them if they should be afraid.”

Kallan felt a touch of fear, but he followed her obediently out of the ring of firelight, to the darker hillslope that rose above the camp.

She sat down in the long grass, hands clasped around her knees. “Nahil has sent his spies through all this land,” she said. “You know that as well as I. I want them to have news to report that will make their travel worth the time and trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“I chose you, because you were the oldest, have the longest memories,” she said. “And because you were the least likely to run mad with fear. You have an army within you. Think of the men you have fought beside, the men you have fought against.”

Her fingers wrapped coolly around Kallan’s wrist. When he had first seen her in the safehold, there had been the same tone of power and determination in her voice. But they had traveled many roads together since then. He trusted her.

Memories, bright memories, and where did he begin? He closed his eyes and called up the garrison of Mareja, numbering through the ranks one by one in his mind. Archers, swordsmen, the few arrogant horsemen. He tried to see them clearly, as she desired.

Then he went further back, and along darker ways, thinking of the ones he had seen executed for treason, not as they were dragged to the executioner’s torch, but as they had been before, strong and proud, too many of them, but he numbered them quickly.

The men he had fought against were blurred in his mind, but as he tried to recall them, their faces became clearer, mazed with disbelief as death came to them. There were some he did not dare to think of, a king of Mareja and his sons grown tall and strong, so he turned his mind north, to other kingdoms, Montrubeja, Lareja, Alliseja—men that had served other kings. The young ones, so foolishly young; the old ones grown grim and cruel. It sickened him to think of them.
Truly, I must be growing old
.

The toll went on, men wearing the mail and colors of the lords of six kingdoms, so many of them dead, so long ago. Kallan was weary beyond all endurance when he opened his eyes and stood up, to see an army standing behind them, an army of ghosts, stretching back and back into the shadows.

They seemed solid. They had no ghost-look about them. Their chests rose and fell gently as though they breathed. They stood as though quietly awaiting orders, but the nearest one, Moranar, Kallan knew. He had died ten years before.

Kallan stretched out his hand, and staggered as he touched not mailed leather, but empty air. And Moranar vanished at the touch, but row after row of silent and patient men stood beyond. Their garments were battle-worn and stained, but they did not bear the marks of their death. Ones who had died at one another’s hands stood together, comrades at last. No life lay in their eyes, but blind patience only.

When Kallan stepped back, Moranar reappeared, his face the same, obediently waiting. Andiene’s voice was proud. “Does it not make a brave showing for any spies?”

Kallan looked at her wildly. “What are these? Where did you conjure them from?”

She laughed. “Nothingness. Air and nothingness. Do not fear. I have not called up the spirits of the dead, but their likenesses only. Nothing but your memories made visible. I could have used my own memories, but you have known many more warriors than I have ever seen.”

The phantom army stood quietly, a well-trained host. Kallan looked at the faces more closely. They were filled with shadowy pain. The tinge of his memories, or some more subtle thing? Did it trouble the dead to have their guises used thus? Then he turned back to the camp, and his own troops, men who breathed and lived and were full of dread at the sight of the shadow army that waited on the hillside above them.

It was not easy to reassure them. Kallan kept guard that night. No movement on the dark hillside. The men were too afraid to try to flee. On the upper slopes, the quiet shapes of the dead blotted out the stars. Kallan watched and did not sleep.

“Why did you summon them so soon?” he asked in the morning.

“They will protect us,” Andiene said. “We need fear no ambush. The spies will keep their distance, and he will know I have an army to be reckoned with. Your men will grow accustomed to them.”

Her gaze drifted to where Syresh and Lenane sat. “What troubles them, do you think?”

They had joined the camp arguing softly, continuing their dispute through a quickly eaten breakfast. Then Syresh’s voice rang louder. “Not so!” he said. He caught hold of her hand and held it above the campfire. “You are witnesses, all of you.” Lenane looked at him in amazement, but made no move to pull away.

“You are all witnesses,” he repeated, and indeed he had the attention of all of them, his old comrades, and the new band that Kallan had brought.

“We have shared our bed, and we have shared our food, and we will walk together through winter and summer, and all that I have I bring to you.”

Lenane opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She swallowed once, twice; Kallan could see the motion of her throat. Her face was filled with disbelief, but at last she spoke. “We have shared our bed, and we have shared our food, and I will walk with you through winter and summer, and whatever I have, I bring to you.”

Kallan spoke softly to Andiene. “In Mareja he has a mother and father, proud and stiff-necked, ready to kill the witnesses to such an ill-matched marriage. But they cannot kill us all!”

Then he smiled as he looked at them, a proper pairing, it seemed, the two least touched by sorrow, grief, and guilt. He was filled with gratitude to them, too, that they had given such a joyful distraction to the others. The men of Oreja laughed and joked and seemed almost to have forgotten the silent ones behind them.

Kallan kissed Lenane, as was his right, and said, “All this great work accomplished so easily, with no show of claws!”

Syresh heard it and turned, ready to fight if necessary, but saw that both of them were laughing.

But the laughter died when they broke camp, for the ghostly army followed after them, marching silently, their feet not bending a blade of grass as they passed. A true army would have filled the air with talking, curses, the ringing of metal. But these were silent, and the true men were silent too, oppressed by the ones that followed them.

In a week they came to the wide valley that lay below Mareja, that Kallan had sketched in the earth for Andiene, weeks before. When he looked to the west now, he saw the dazzle of light upon the water.

The blaggorn grew scanty in the valley. No bands of thornfruit hedges crossed it, nor did any lanara trees grow in it. Rusty flowers sprang in the grass, sangry and carniven, blooming in remembrance and prophecy. The city shone golden in the setting sun.

“Tomorrow,” said Andiene.

“What colors have you chosen?” Kallan asked. “I have worn the colors of two kings, and Syresh, young as he is, of two also, but I think that these you choose will be the last that we will wear.”

“Gray and gold,” Andiene said.

“A strange mix.”

“Gray, for my schooling, and for my adversaries.” She waited and watched him. Though his mind ran wild with speculation, he did not speak. “Gold, my father’s color, and for royalty.”

“Royalty and death,” he said. “The same color.”

“Ilbran might have said that,” she said, the first time she had spoken his name. Kallan nodded. In the stillness, Lenane began to pluck her lute and sing.