The Still (52 page)

“Bah. How many times must I say I won’t hurt you? Must I remit your servitude to prove it? There, it’s done. You’re freed, as of this moment.” I waved it away, a small thing. “Finish your thought.”

Anavar’s look was one of wonder. “You truly mean—yes, my lord. I was saying ...” Our officers serve from loyalty to their liege. We need no whips and chains to maintain order.”

“It’s unthinkable your servants have rights they may assert to their very lord.”

“Well, they must use care in the manner they assert them.” He flashed a grin, and for a moment his face was transfigured. Carefully, hugging his ribs, he sat. “Truly, Lord Prince, you allowed yourself to be whipped for beating me?”

“Yes.” My voice was tight.

“A thing of wonder.” He shook his head. “How strange a land is Caledon. Not at all what we were told.”

“And that was?”

“That you’re rustic boors, unwashed, uncouth, with no laws. That pigs and goats share your dwellings, even the castles.”

“It’s not so.” We lapsed silent. Finally, I stood. “I apologize once more. I’ll see you—no, I suppose you’re free to go, now. There’s naught to hold you.”

He swallowed. “As I said, they’d never believe—I’ve no place to go. Might I stay with you, until war’s end?”

“As what? Bondsman?”

“Not—” A sigh. “If need be.”

By the imps and demons, I
liked
him. And he was a noble. “What say I make you my ward in Caledon? Until you’re of age.”

He hesitated. “Provided, I will not fight my own people. With that caveat, my lord, I would accept.”

“That’s fair.” I allowed him to kiss my hand, make the bow that acknowledged his subservience. “Very well. I bid you leave, youngsire. I need to lie down.”

“Thank you, sire—er, my lord. What should I call you? Will ‘sir’ show my courtesy?” I nodded. He got to his feet, showed me politely to the door. “Oh!” He blushed. “I shouldn’t—yes, I must.” He looked up at me. “On the trail, I said Garst hadn’t told me he would flee. It was a lie.”

I shrugged. “I understand. To protect him.”

“No, sir.” Anavar blushed. “So I wouldn’t be beaten.”

“Why confess it now, when it no longer matters?”

He looked down. “Your example shames me.”

“Will you lie to me again?”

The boy took a deep breath. “Never, my lord. I so swear.”

I rested my hand on his forehead, in a sort of benediction. Then I limped back to my room.

At last, we set forth from Soushire, to the obvious relief of the Duchess, who still hoped to conceal our visit from Uncle Mar. For most of the first day I walked with our infantry, too sore for the saddle and scorning to be seen hauled in a cart The next morn, I gritted my teeth and swung myself onto Ebon.

We rode as a group: Fostrow, Elryc, Rustin and I, and now Anavar. From time to time Tursel joined us, to Fostrow’s evident displeasure.

Soushire’s domain stretched east to the foothills of the Warthen Peaks, the great mounts that barred the damp air of the sea from the desert. But the rise to the desert plateau was slow and steady, and the road wide and well kept. As we rode, I made note of the terrain. Tantroth’s army—or any other—could sweep unchallenged across the high slopes, but at the High Pass, the way narrowed to a tiny gap between rugged cliffs. There, the Warthen’s force stood guard. If we could pass, I would beg the Warthen, that his vote might free me of the need for Soushire’s.

The first evening of our journey, deciding on a place for Anavar was a problem. As ward of the Prince of Caledon, he couldn’t sleep with Chela and Genard. Garst was furious that Anavar had been remitted but not he, and his sullenness was such that I dismissed any thought of freeing him as well. Garst was eighteen, four years older than Anavar, yet his manner was by far the more childish.

I bade Anavar stay close to our band, and bed near Fostrow. Tursel might prove a danger to the boy. The captain had exploded with rage when he learned a freed Eiberian noble would travel at my side, and only my bluntest warnings held him in check.

Rustin had directed our tent be set up as usual. I noticed he’d even set our bedding together. He chatted to me with his usual good cheer, and I was hard put to limit my response to grunts and monosyllables. As we got ready for bed, he came at me when I didn’t expect him, and enveloped me in a brief hug.

Cast loose, I muttered, “You take my willingness for granted.” I busied myself with my bootstrings.

He dropped lazily upon our bed. “You’ll get over your pique, won’t you?”

“Not pique. Rage.” I made my voice cold.

“Odd, that you don’t sound the least enraged.”

“I contain myself.”

“Then you’ve learned something from your castigation.” He smiled. “Stand still a moment. You grow ever more tall. Should I say, even handsome?”

“Say little, and infrequently.”

He paused. “Because I lashed you?”

“Because you showed no forbearance. And I see now that you can’t guide me and be my intimate, all in one.”

He cupped his hands behind his head. “Which, then, would you have me be?”

“Neither.”

“Would you have me leave?”

It took effort to say the word. “Yes.”

“Your tent, or your camp?”

Why did he persist in goading me? “Both!”

Rustin’s face was without expression. “Yours is to command.” He uncoiled his lithe frame, swung to his feet. Within moments, his gear was packed. He thrust aside the tent flap. “Fare thee well.”

Despite myself, I cried, “Wait!”

“Yes, my lord?” The dry tone, which maddened me.

I forced my words. “Stay.”

“Where?”

“In camp.”

He waited at the flap, saddlebags in hand. “In the tent?” I floundered, cast about for succor, found none, struck my colors and surrendered. “Yes.”

I felt relieved, when by all rights I should feel the opposite. Under the covers, I talked incessantly—babbled, even—and caught Rustin concealing a smile. That annoyed me enough to sulk, but his hands found me, and enticed me insistently until I had no choice but to respond.

Later, calm and drowsing, I brought up my offer of Groenfil to Lady Soushire, but Rust covered my mouth. “If you had not good cause, your folly will haunt you long, and I’ve no need to chide you. And if you understood that which I could not, time will prove you the wiser. Let it be.”

“But, Rust, I—”

“For our sakes. For peace between us.”

Outside, the wind snapped the loose cloth of the tent, and I curled against Rustin’s warm shoulder. I wasn’t quite ready for sleep. “I know little about the Warthen. His visits were rare.”

“They said your mother held him in great respect.”

A pause. “Rust, at the funeral, did you notice the Warthen’s eyes?”

“I found myself wanting to look away, because of the pain.”

“It’s the Return, Rust. His Power has great cost.”

The Rites were secret They enabled the wielder—the Warthen, or his delegate—to return to an event he’d attended, no matter how far in the past. Not merely return, but well, reenact. No, that wasn’t quite it either. Not like the acting of the mummers, where the same scenes were played in castle upon keep, and always the outcome was the same.

With the Return, one might change what had been.

There was a drawback, of course. Not only must the Return be bought by suffering, moment by precious moment. But the wielder of the Power could only return to one event in his life. He might Return as often as he could abide, so long as he paid the cost. But when the event was chosen, he could return to no other.

The next day, we chose a route more easterly than was necessary, to lessen chances of encounter with Tantroth. Though the land would not hide ambushers well, Captain Tursel took great precautions, sending pairs of scouts to recheck territory already scouted, and himself riding, with a few officers, to the top of each rise to survey the region we were about to cross.

Elryc rode sometimes with me, sometimes chatting amiably with Genard. Occasionally, they shared a horse, though I rebuked my brother for riding with a servant clinging to his back. Elryc shrugged, replied that Genard was vassal, not servant, and further, that I was hardly one to teach him genteel behavior.

For that I boxed his ears, but when he was done crying, he rode again with Genard, and I did not forbid it.

That evening, Fostrow was atop a wagon some distance from the cookfire, taking his evening meal. With him was Chela. The old soldier nodded placidly. “Have you rehearsed your speech to the Warthen, my lord?”

“What speech?”

“Why, the one that will rend him from the Duke’s bosom.”

I glanced to see if he had too much drink in him. “And what business is that of yours?” With a plate of stew, I perched on the tailboard, studiously ignoring Chela. I tore a piece of bread. “Ow. It’s hot.”

Chela’s voice dripped venom. “Manly ruler. Rust savors entering you even more than he did me.”

Thunderstruck, I leaped to my feet. Something hot stung my lap as the bowl overturned. I clawed for the dagger at my side.

“No, Roddy.” Rustin’s strong arms pinned me from behind. “Leave it. No!” He lifted me, turned me about despite my struggles.

“She said—”

“I know. Go to our tent.
Now, Roddy!”

I broke loose, but he hounded me, keeping always between me and Chela, his face set. “Into the tent. Change your breeches; they’re stained with stew. Fostrow, be a good fellow and get him another plate.”

Weeping with rage and frustration, I stumbled into the tent, tugged shut the flap so savagely I heard cloth rend. I didn’t care. I fell upon the bed, clung to my pillow. I knew not how I might emerge to show my face in camp. Better abstinence—better emasculation—than the scorn of servants. How could I have let one such as Rust touch me?

Outside, sharp voices; Chela’s, Rustin’s, others. I could make out few of Rust’s words, but his tone had a harsh bite. From time to time he lowered his voice, but always it crept again into audibility.

Fostrow knocked at the brace pole, came in with a steaming bowl of stew, while I pretended I slept.

After a while, Rust pushed aside the flap, came to sit by my side. “I’m sorry. She won’t do it again.” His fingers soothed the small of my back.

With a curse I threw them off. “Is she dead?”

“No.”

“A pity.”

Rustin gathered me into his arms and after a vain effort to fight him, I clung to him as once I had to Mother, or my nurse.

When I felt myself recovered, I wiped my eyes. “See what I’ve made of myself? I’m undone, Rust. I might as well turn to the sea, take ship to some far place. You’ve made of me a figure of joke.”

“You need have no shame.”

“Speak of yourself!” My voice was savage. “I’ll lie with one of the camp women, tonight. The True be damned; I’ll relinquish the Power.”

“You can’t mean—”

I cried, “I won’t be known as your concubine!” I’d spoken too loud; had they heard me through the canvas? I rushed outside, looked about. Chela sat weeping in the cart, but no others were close.

I stalked back to the tent. “Rustin, we have to end it. I can’t stand the abasement.”

“Do you feel abased, when I ... touch you?”

“Yes. Well, not really. But imagine how others see it!”

“Chela is the only one who cares, and that because I abandoned her for you.”

“Send her away.”

He said simply, “I have. She leaves at dawn.” I said cautiously, “You won’t miss her?”

“Her spirit is too bitter. And besides ...” Idly, he examined the center pole. “I found better.”

T
HE WARTHEN’S EMISSARY
awaited our column in the rocky valley where snowy peaks gave way to the High Pass.

The Warthen of the Sands, he said, refused our visit. Oh, his address was cloaked in flowery words, but the meaning was unmistakable. And the Warthen was leagues distant, beyond my dubious charms and arguments.

I sat grimly, waiting for my tea to steam over the fire. “Tursel, can we force the pass?”

“Unlikely, and the attempt will cost us many men. The very geography conspires against us. Those cliffs, in the shadow, are stronger than walls. See how they swoop down toward the center, and how the rampart is anchored at either side in the rock? The land forces an attack to the middle, and the fortification is hardy.”

“Well, you’re my advisors. What do we do?”

“Vessa, I suppose.” Rustin. Perhaps he hoped to avoid Groenfil, that I might not treat with one whom I betrayed.

Yes, Vessa, though his support was unlikely. His vote, like the Warthen’s, might free me from my vow to Soushire.

“Shall I summon Vessa forth, or sneak into Stryx dressed as a mummer? Shall we ask Tantroth’s leave?” My ill humor was noticeable, even to me. I reined in my temper. “We’ll consult with our allies, then. Back to Cumber.”

“Don’t go back, sir.” Anavar looked abashed. “My father is well thought of, in Duke Tantroth’s counsel. He’s led our men to sweet victory against the Norlanders and Cumber alike.”

“So?” Tursel spat the word, perhaps annoyed at the reminder.

“His shield translates ‘Press on.’ He liked the phrase so, had it adopted as the family motto. When in doubt, press on. Never turn back, once you’ve committed; wolves will snap at your heels as you flee. If you in the first instance judged your cause worth the fight, why then, fight on.”

“You’ve fought many campaigns, youngsire?” Tursel’s tone was acid. “A natural wonder, Lord Prince: a beardless sage.”

“Enough!” I got to my feet. “I would walk alone. When I return, my answer.”

Men of my escort—Lord Raeth’s men—stood about in easy idleness. I stalked past the first knot, barely noticed. Horses sweated in the sun, awaiting water.

I followed the rocky trail along the valley floor, under forbidding cliffs of white lime. Bending, I picked up a stone, hurled it. What now? Cumber? Soushire? War?

The crux of my problem was that I hadn’t a plan. Events had propelled me, ever since I fled Castle Stryx and my uncle. Find Hester. Settle Elryc in the cottage. Rejoin my party on the way to Cumber. None of it planned, none designed to advance my cause. Other than Rustin, who of them had joined me whom I’d truly sought to enlist? Certainly not Fostrow. Genard was a child, Tursel a minion of Cumber.