The Still (20 page)

I tried to stifle a laugh, but only half succeeded; what emerged was more a moan.

He squawked, threw up the sign of protection. “Demons, begone!”

I giggled, pushed through protesting branches. “Don’t carry on so. It’s just me.”

He jumped down from the saddle, sagged as if his legs wouldn’t support him. “You scared me out of two years!”

“Good.” I clapped his shoulder. “Send the girl back, and let’s be on our way.”

“It’s night. They wouldn’t open for her.”

“Let her wait ’til light.”

“After she helped me escape? Father would lash her to ribbons!”

“What matter whether a ...” To him she was more than just a servant. I sighed. “Let’s move on. Who knows how long Hester will tarry at Whiecliff, now Tantroth’s attacked.” I brooded. “You were right. Eiber’s come for his lost realm.”

“Between Father and Margenthar, he won’t get far.”

We rejoined Genard and Chela, at the split tree.

The girl jumped down from her mount, wrapped herself round Rust in an eager hug. Only when he’d returned her embrace with sufficient ardor did she release him, look to his steed. “Oh, it’s Santree!”

Rust’s delight was obvious. “You thought I’d abandon my horse? Does not Roddy ride Ebon?”

We galloped northward along the coast road, past fishermen’s shelters and open pasture. The seawall lancing into the bay had discouraged commerce along the north road; Llewelyn’s keep had no public way through its north wall as through the south. Still, Hester must have guided her wagon past the soldiers on the battlements, through the very gate we used. The northern settlements were rude hamlets, cut off from the town of Stryx.

The road to Whiecliff was perhaps a league distant. It followed a meandering stream through the foothills of the Caleds, until it met the coastal way on which we rode, some hours north of the keep.

As we paced our mounts alongside the ocean in the lightening dawn, I glanced to the hills. Along the ridge, the King’s forest clothed the slopes in rich umber. Accompanied by Griswold and a party of retainers, I’d hunted boar and deer in its depths, as I’d lengthened to manhood.

At the junction of the two trails a few houses clustered as if for mutual protection, though the borough had been peaceable for as long as I could remember. Ebon plodded past a foundering hut. Two peasant boys stopped their hoeing to gawk. I paid them no notice, but Genard, oaf that he was, sat proudly in his saddle, and deigned to look neither left nor right.

The road climbed swiftly. A twist brought us a view of the shore. Rustin drew a sharp breath. “Look!” Glittering below us was the sparkling sapphire sea, Llewelyn’s keep but a faint smudge on the horizon.

Lying off the beach, twixt Searoad Meet and the keep, where but three hours before we’d ridden, black sails fluttered in the morning breeze.

“Tantroth won’t have to swim the seawall,” I muttered. He’d mounted a second incursion, north of the keep.

Time pressed. Somberly, we resumed our quest, alternately trotting and walking to conserve the horses.

Whiecliff was still two hours ride, and Hester surely long gone to Seawatch Rock. Would I ever see Elryc? Some part of me whispered it was best if not; I’d be free of responsibility for him, and the risk of betrayal. Manfully I thrust down the thought, mindful of my oath. I could not risk the Still.

The gait of a well-trained horse is steady, even if one’s attention drifts from the reins. Ebon plodded on through the warm sun, and I couldn’t help but doze. Behind me, Genard was all but asleep; only Rustin was alert. It was in near stupor that I lurched into the outskirts of Whiecliff.

“Demons and imps!” Ebon pricked up his ears at my exclamation. What a miserable collection of hovels. Grass grew in the roadway—pathway, more like—that traversed the center of the town. Abutting the road was what claimed to be an inn, but it seemed more a pig-farmer’s dwelling, with a sign propped against the stairs, that I suspected few in the hamlet could decipher.

Still, the morning was well advanced. I was thirsty, and Ebon would welcome a rest. We dismounted, and I had Genard water the horses.

The innkeeper threw open the windows to dispel the fetid air, made grand gestures of welcome as he ushered us to a grimy oaken table, which he ostentatiously wiped with his apron.

Genard would have sat with us, but I bade him sit with Chela. Circumstances forced me to break bread in a dirty country inn, but I wasn’t about to dine with servants. No matter that at the castle I took breakfast every day in the kitchen; that was Mother’s fiat, not a sign of my station.

There was nothing like a bill of fare, but the landlord promised us breakfast fit for a king. I snorted, but Rust put a finger to his lips.

While we waited, I made conversation. Rustin seemed preoccupied and sulky. I put it down to his moodiness, until at last his silences began to rankle. “Does my talk disturb you?” My voice was laden with sarcasm.

He grunted, and I fixed him with an angry glare. At last, he noticed. “Do you ever think beyond yourself?” He leaned forward, searched my eyes. “I’ve defied Father, my home is under siege and my family’s lives at risk. So I beg pardon if I don’t clap with glee at your tale of Ebon’s last shoeing.”

How unfair, that he lash at me. “If my company’s so distasteful, why don’t you sit with the servants?”

He considered. “It hadn’t occurred to me.” He picked up his cloth and glass, moved to the lesser table.

When the food came I tore at it in sullen fury, not deigning to spare Rustin a glance. While he and the servants mopped their plates, I snapped my fingers for the landlord. “Did an old crone pass through, driving a wagon?”

The proprietor’s eye flicked to my purse. “I could inquire, your worship. If I hadn’t so much else to—”

I fished in the purse, found a few coppers. “There can’t be so much traffic that it wouldn’t cause a stir.” Especially considering the drover.

Instantly the coins disappeared into the folds of his apron. “I’ll ask.” He hurried to the kitchen, was inside barely long enough to close and reopen the door. “Yesterday, my lord. A penniless old woman with her grandson.”

“That doesn’t sound—was the cart a great ugly affair pulled by a team of six drays?”

“Aye, and they should have been fed my fresh hay.” He licked his lips at the lost profit, but added mournfully, “She looked at my lodging, decided they couldn’t afford a bed. I heard they slept in Jorath’s barn.”

“Do they tarry?”

He shook his jowls. “They left early of the morn.”

“Very well. We’d best be going.” To my disgust, my party looked to me to pay the bill for all. Rustin was a noble, and should have thought to bring coin of his own. I knew Genard had none to speak of, but then, he’d insisted on coming along. By rights he should do without, unless he could pay his way. As for Chela, she was Rust’s responsibility. But I knew he’d take offense if I suggested it, and the few pence weren’t worth the trouble. I had coin for food and lodging for a month or more.

We asked directions to Seawatch Rock, and rode on in silence. Rust plodded alongside, while Genard and Chela rode behind. “We make good time.”

I grunted, my mood sour.

His tone was light. “Will you be angry long, my prince?”

“When I wanted your company, you chose a churl. Now you’d be in my good graces?”

“Only if you want it so.” Always, Rust seemed to laugh at my moods.

Still, the road was long, and the boredom considerable. “As you wish.” I guided Ebon past a downed limb, that would have knocked a man from his horse as it fell. Gnats swarmed.

Seawatch Rock was a famed landmark, one I’d never seen. It jutted from a range of the Caleds between the coast and my great-uncle’s domain of Cumber. At its base three roads met: Nordukes’ Trek, which threaded through the high passes to Eiber; Cumber Trail, to my great-uncle’s domain; and the Sea Road Track, up which we had toiled.

Were the track less neglected, two hours brisk ride would see us to the rock.

I nursed my resentment against Rustin, Elryc, the witch who led us on this foolish chase. Were the world just, I’d be lazing in the castle, waiting for Mar to arrange my coronation.

Ahead, the road wound round the base of a great granite monolith towering over the surrounding terrain. From the drawings I’d seen, it must be Seawatch. Though five leagues from the sea, it offered a spectacular view of the bay, and for the sharp-sighted, the town of Stryx itself.

Because the imp-cursed road wound back nearly on itself, the afternoon was near spent before we arrived. I’d expected nothing but the rock, but we found farms nestled about its base, and a small town where the roads crossed.

An inn of respectable proportions stood along the roadside, and even a smithy advertised itself on the edge of town. Its proprietor amused himself between shoeings by turning out crude replicas of the rock, which he sat on a plank in front of his door. We stopped for a stretch.

Genard examined his gewgaws openmouthed, but I paid scarce heed; I was sore of saddle, weary, and of a great appetite. “What of the inn, smith?”

The burly fellow laid down a hammer, poked at his fire. “Aye, what of it?” His tone was surly.

“Is the food good?”

He spat. “So it’s said. Though with Eiber’s men in the bay, Lord knows how long before they loot our farms.”

“Genard, leave that toy. Have you seen an old woman in a wagon, coming from the sea road?”

“What if I have?” An angry swipe of the hammer, at some rod on the anvil.

“Then you might tell us. Genard, put that down unless you have coin for it.”

“And you might get on your mounts and begone.”

Reluctantly, Genard sat down the artifact, his eyes fixed on mine as if in dimming hope of a miracle. I slammed the door as we left, but it wedged against the porch with an unsatisfying thunk.

“What demon trod on his soul?”

“Who knows.” Rustin. “Maybe Hester’s at the tavern.”

We had no need to inquire; the door to the livery was ajar, and our drays were nowhere in sight. Nor was there a great lumbering wagon in the yard. We found a table. Chela sat before I could object. Dejectedly, Genard made to sit alone, but Rustin caught his arm, beckoned to a seat.

I glared, but Rust said, “We travel as a party, whether you like it or not. Why make him an outcast?”

“He has no right to eat with—”

Rust’s hand shot to my mouth; I flinched, thinking at first he meant to strike me. “Do you truly want it known, Roddy?”

The innkeeper approached, and I held my peace. After we ordered, it seemed too much trouble to make the boy remove himself.

Rust pointed out the window. “Shall we climb it?”

“We haven’t the time.”

Pungent soup in steaming bowls was set before us. I took a spoonful, gulped at tepid beer to soothe my burning tongue.

Rust regarded me quizzically. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

I gave it thought. “I don’t like the countryside. I’ll be glad to leave it.”

The innkeeper approached with a pitcher, refilled our mugs.

Rustin nodded his thanks. “Innkeeper, why is your smith so peevish?”

“Ertha’s son? Coutil’s spent too many nights in the forest, camped off the road. It’s soured him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really.”

“Who doesn’t know that abandoned earth bears a grudge?” He glanced at the stairs, widened his smile in a grotesque attempt at grace. “We’ve good rooms, if you’d stay the night.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll make up a bed with fresh straw, enough for all. The woods are too cranky, these days.”

I smiled at his peasant prattle. “The old woman driving the wagon. Which way did she go?”

“Estra, her boy called her.” Absently, he wiped his hands on his apron, eyeing a pair of travelers at the door, whose walking sticks suggested they’d just been to the peak. “Nordukes’ Trek, she said. Directions she asked.”

“Thank you.”

“But not the way she went this morn. Hanto, here”—he indicated the perspiring barman—“met her near the brew-house, on the old abandoned Cumber Way. She got turned around, or is too addled to know that rutpath from the new Cumber Trail. On her own head be it, as but five farms rest along the foul stretch to the Gap. Sirs, a fine table, by the door!” He hurried off to his customers.

“This morning.” I drummed the table while we ate.

“In that huge sow of a wagon. She can’t be more than a leagues—”

“Suppose it was a ruse.”

Rustin said, “Her ruse was asking the way to Eiber.”

“Or being seen on old Cumber Way instead of the proper trail. We speak of mad old Hester. What if she turned around and took the trail?”

Rust slapped the table. “I have it! She took neither. She’s on Sea Road Track!”

Yes, that would be just what the old—“No, that’s the road
we
were on. How could she have passed—” I looked up, saw his grin. “Demons take you!” I stood, threw coin on the plank. “Genard, get the horses. Rust, ask the innkeeper if he has a place for Chela.”

His eyes beseeched me. “Couldn’t she ...” My face was stony. He sighed.

Rust took the innkeeper out of hearing. He beckoned to Chela; she joined them. Afterward, Rustin disappeared for a suspiciously long while, and when he returned, straw was stuck to his shirt.

“Come along!” I stalked out, and was astride Ebon by the time he emerged.

We chose the old abandoned road to Cumber. Hester had been seen on it, and she’d said her sister’s cottage was near Cumber.

The rustic village at the rock was soon swallowed in leafy curtains. I rode alone, behind Genard. Rust, moody and silent, brought up the rear.

Our path took us through thickets and groves, ever upward. For long stretches, stands of sycamores and maples supplanted the bright-lit meadows. Only the occasional wagon or rider had kept vegetation from overrunning the road.

At intervals we passed terrain once cultivated but now abandoned. Decaying shelters were reclaimed by relentless vines and shoots.

At least, as we rose, the air was cooler. But a canopy of drooping leaves blocked the sun, and the afternoon bled away in sullen mist.

Rustin fell in alongside. “Hester can’t make much speed on such a road. We’ll soon be upon her.”