Yesterday's Kings (22 page)

He built a fire, deciding that neither the glow nor the smoke would be seen as the day brightened. And Laurens needed warmth. They had no food; nor had Cullyn any idea of how long they might run—how long the pursuit would continue. But he’d not quit Laurens.

“W
HERE AM
I?” Laurens woke. “What are you doing?”

“Warming you.”

“A fire?” Laurens struggled upright. “Per Fendur will sense that. Do you want to light a beacon?”

“You fell off your horse.”

Laurens shrugged. “I’m not so fit as I used to be—so, thank you—but now shall we go? Else …”

“I think we’ve lost them,” Cullyn said.

“Let’s hope so.” Laurens coughed dubious laughter. “But with Per Fendur’s magical nose …”

“So what do we do?”

“Run and hide. Kick out that fire, and let’s ride.”

Cullyn stamped the fire to embers and helped Laurens astride the bay, and they went north again until Laurens pointed them westward.

“How can you know?”

Cullyn halted Fey at the fording Laurens indicated.

“Trust me, eh?” Laurens drooped over his saddle horn, his face pale. “I’ve been here before, in pursuit of the Durrym.”

The day had once more lengthened into evening. In Coim’na Drhu it was mellow autumn. Across the
Alagordar it was winter’s ending, the commencement of spring. On one side of the river the trees blushed and faded into autumn’s mildness; on the other, they were stripped and bare and bled moisture onto muddy paths.

“They’ll find us there,” Cullyn protested. “If Per Fendur can find us, he’ll follow us.”

“Trust me,” Laurens said. “It’s likely our only chance.”

Cullyn shrugged. It seemed he had little other choice, so he walked Fey down the bank and into the river.

Laurens came behind on the bay horse, leaning low over his saddle, leaving droplets of blood in the stream behind.

They crossed into winter’s aftermath, where snow gave way to mud, and Cullyn halted again and turned to Laurens. “Where now?”

“North.”

Cullyn stared at the trees, dripping, the evening dark and cold. And he trapped in a forest he did not know.

“Where are we?”

“Hopefully safe from Per Fendur and Amadis,” Laurens muttered. “Go on, eh?”

Cullyn went on, and after a while of riding through winter-hung trees came to a clearing where a cottage not unlike his own stood. It was wood-built, with a stone chimney that bled smoke into the winter sky, and a thatched roof. And there was a stall beside, and pigs grubbing in the wet earth.

An old man came out. His hair was white as the winter and his face lined with wrinkles like some piece of ancient leather. He wore a long robe that was very dirty, drifting shapelessly from neck to feet. It might once have been decorated with sigils, but they were now either covered with dirt or so faded they had become unrecogniz
able. He seemed ancient, save for his eyes, which were a piercing blue, bright as a summer morning.

Cullyn stared at him, and Laurens said: “Eben, we meet again.”

“I’d not thought that should happen,” came the answer. “Save you came to take me captive for your Church. Have you a squad of soldiers with you?”

“Hardly.” Laurens coughed out bitter laughter. “But a squad behind, and we in need of refuge.”

“And wounded, no? What happened?”

“I took a Durrym shaft,” Laurens said. “Were it not for him”—he gestured at Cullyn—“I’d be dead.”

“Through your thick hide as best I judge.” Eben stared at the bloody wound in Laurens’s side. “Best come in and let me tend you.”

“There’s more,” Laurens said. “We’re pursued. Outlawed, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“We fell afoul of the Church, and perhaps Lord Bartram.”

“Like me?” Eben smiled. “Come down off that horse before you fall off, eh? Come inside and explain.”

He turned to Cullyn. “Shall you help me?”

Cullyn nodded, not quite sure of what went on. He helped Laurens down from the bay horse and carried him into the hut, then saw Fey and the bay stabled, and went to find Laurens.

To be sure his friend—and savior?—was well.

T
HE COTTAGE WAS
much like Cullyn’s—a single room with a hearth that served also as a stove, a table set close to the fire, four rough chairs about it, and a narrow bed overlooked by one of the three windows. What made it different was the proliferation of books and animals that seemed to merge into one great mass. Shelves filled with tomes and dusty parchments hid one wall, and on them lay squirrels and rats, while bats hung from the edges and sleepy birds rested above them. More books lay scattered across the floor, dogs and cats spread over and amongst them. Cullyn gaped in amazement as a fox rose from a bed of ancient tomes, yawned, stared at him, and sauntered past. A dog eyed him, barked indolently, and then wagged its tail before settling back on its book-bed. A massive cat, all ginger, stretched and came to rub itself against his legs.

“Dammit!” Eben gestured at the multiplicity of animals lying on the bed. “Get off, eh? We’ve a hurt man here. And you!” He turned to Cullyn. “Stop gaping and help me. I’m not so young as I was, and Laurens is damnably heavy.”

Cullyn obeyed as cats and dogs and badgers and rats clambered from the pallet. He set an arm around Laurens and helped Eben settle the soldier on the bed.

“He took a Durrym arrow in his side,” Cullyn said.

“I’m old, not blind.” Eben shoved him aside with more strength than his narrow frame suggested. “And he’s been bleeding since, no?”

“I did my best to tend him, but I’m no healer. And—”

“Explain later.” Eben pointed toward the shelves around the hearth. “For now, fetch me that blue bottle.”

Cullyn obeyed as Eben stripped Laurens naked and studied the ugly holes.

“A typical Durrym wound. Only the gods—if they exist—know how he survived it. A lesser man would have died.” He took the bottle from Cullyn and bled a few drips of some dark liquid into Laurens’s mouth. “Fine archers, the Durrym.” He patted Laurens’s shoulder. “You should have taken more care extracting the shaft: you’d have done yourself less harm.”

“I had no time,” Laurens mumbled. “I was in a fight.”

“Blood and blood and blood, eh?” Eben watched as Laurens’s eyes closed and his breathing grew deep and steady. “Is it not always the way?”

“Can you save him?” Cullyn asked.

“Perhaps; I shall do my best. And I need your help.”

“Tell me what to do,” Cullyn asked.

“Fill that pot with fresh well water and set it to boiling.”

Cullyn took the indicated pot out to the well,
escorted by a coterie of animals. Bats fluttered by him as he went out, and rats and badgers scurried past his feet. He began to wonder if he were still in Coim’na Drhu, for surely there was magic at work here.

When he returned inside, Eben had numerous pots set on the table, and was busily grinding a pestle into a mortar, crushing ingredients. “When the water boils,” he said, “bring it to me. Until then, keep silent.”

Cullyn stood watching as the silver-haired man bent over Laurens. Eben raised his hands and shaped signs in the air; then he took the blue bottle and splashed some of its content over Laurens’s side, then drew his forefinger through the liquid, marking out sigils.

“Does it boil yet?”

Cullyn started and looked to the pot: “Yes.”

“Then set it on the table, damn you.”

Cullyn found a cloth and brought the pot to the table. Eben rose from beside the bed and kicked a sleepy cat aside before he set to spooning the hot water into a bowl, into which he tipped his medicaments. He mixed them and then went to Laurens, who now lay sound asleep, and set to pasting the mixture over the wounds. Then he produced swathes of linen that Cullyn thought—considering the circumstances of the cottage—were remarkably clean, and wrapped the bandages around Laurens.

“That’s as much as I can do.” He settled a blanket over the supine form. “I’ll pray for him, but that’s a bad wound.”

“I know,” Cullyn said. “I doubted he’d survive our ride.”

“Which you must tell me about.” Eben gestured at the table. “I suppose you’re hungry, so you can tell me as we eat.”

“I need to see the horses bedded first,” Cullyn said. “They’ve run hard of late.”

“Admirable.” Eben chuckled. “I could like a young man who cares for his animals. But don’t worry.” He raised a hand as Cullyn began to rise. “They’re tended. Stripped and rubbed down and stabled safe.”

“How?” Cullyn stared at the silver-haired man.

Eben smiled enigmatically and said, “Magic, my boy. Trust me, eh? Why else would Laurens have brought you here?”

“I don’t know,” Cullyn said nervously. “We were running from Per Fendur, and Laurens found a way. He said it should be safe.”

“And so it shall be,” Eben promised. “Few people can find this cottage—Laurens is one of the few.”

“I don’t understand,” Cullyn said. “Are you a wizard? I thought only the Church commanded magic.”

“And the Durrym,” Eben said. “They command—what should I call it? Land magic, I suppose. They live with the land, and consequently have learned to use it. To bend its power to theirs. You folk look to own it. No more than that.”

“So how is Laurens your friend?”

Eben sighed and rose to bring a flask from his shelves. Filled two mugs with tea and honey wine.

“He’s a good man.” He gestured at the sleeping soldier. “He found me once, when I was sore hurt, and succored me.”

“Why?” Cullyn asked. “What happened?”

“I was a runaway, like you, and Laurens saved me.” Eben grinned. “My father was Durrym, my mother Kandarian. The Church looked to take me, to … study me, I suppose. Which it did for a while. But then I escaped and ran to the forest. Like you?”

Cullyn shrugged.

“I was pursued,” Eben said, “and took an arrow in my back. It would have slain me had Laurens not found me.

He took it out and tended the wound—then left me to heal. He saved my life. So when I came into my power I thanked him, and that’s how he knows where I live. So now tell me your story.”

Cullyn told him, their conversation interrupted by trips to the hearth, from which Eben produced a stew, the taste of which Cullyn could not define, save that it was good.

“So you’re likely proscribed,” Eben said when Cullyn was done.

“Likely to be racked and executed,” Cullyn agreed.

“Because Lofantyl stole Abra.”

Cullyn nodded.

“I must think about this,” Eben said.

The stew was finished and Cullyn took the plates and pots outside to wash them as Eben returned his attentions to Laurens. Animals trailed around him, dogs snapping for his attention, cats cradling his ankles, three foxes grinning at him, four badgers and a hedgehog studying him solemnly.

When Cullyn returned inside, Eben said, “So you’re pursued?”

“By Per Fendur and Amadis.”

“The soldier’s of no account. But the priest …” Eben sighed. “He might find you. And me.”

“I thought you said this place was warded against discovery.” Cullyn felt mightily tired—would sooner have found a bed and slept than have this discussion. Save a troop led by Per Fendur came after him as Laurens lay hurt.

“Against most intrusions,” Eben replied, “but is all you’ve told me true, then the Church has found more magic—and this Per Fendur might well find you here.”

There was an echo in his voice: of fear or regret, Cullyn could not be sure. So he asked.

Eben said, “Do I guess aright, then the Church has found ways to circumvent the Durrym’s magic. Is all you tell me true, then this priest can find a way across the Alagordar and not be turned back. Which means he can follow you here—is his magic stronger than mine.”

“Think you it is?” Cullyn was suddenly no longer tired; fear woke him.

Eben shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose we’ll find out in time.”

“And your magic? Where does that come from?”

“I am a half-breed,” Eben answered. “My father was Durrym, my mother Kandarian. I own somewhat of the Durrym magic, somewhat of the Church’s. They’d have taken me for a priest, save I could not like what Kandar and its Church did to the Durrym, so I chose to live here—alone, and separate from both. Until now.” He sighed, studying Cullyn with his clear blue eyes.