Dark Magic (41 page)

“R
HYTHAMUN
would seem to be moving north-ward, if he travels with the ni Brhyn.” Bracht pushed aside the detritus of their evening meal, drawing his dirk and using the point to scratch a crude map into the wood of the tabletop. “The Lykard grazing lies to the west, from Hell Mouth to the opening of the Gannshold pass. The ni Larrhyn lands are here, the ni Brhyn here.”

Calandryll watched as the blade charted the grasslands of Cuan na’For. The territory claimed by the ni Larrhyn lay hard against the Gann Peaks, its easternmost boundary touching the egress of the canyon guarded by the great citadel, extending toward the central mass of the Cuan na’Dru. The ni Brhyn occupied an area to the north, about the edgewoods of the great forest.

“We thought as much,” he said, and tapped a fingertip to the splintered circle indicating the Cuan na’Dru. “But will he go through the forest or around it?”

“Around. The Cuan na’Dru is guarded by the Gruagach, and I wonder if even Rhythamun’s magic could stand against them.” Bracht glanced at Gart and Kythan, who nodded emphatically. “They’re an older
folk than men and possessed of older powers. More, Ahrd’s strength is greatest in the forest—which Rhythamun must surely know—and I do not think the god would allow him passage. No, I think he’ll go around,”

“Then”—Calandryll traced a line from Gannshold to the ni Brhyn grazing, around the Cuan na’Dru— “does Ahrd favor us, we’ve the opportunity to get ahead of him.”

“Dera promised we should have help of her kindred gods,” Katya murmured. “Perhaps this is our chance.”

Bracht nodded, once, doubt cloudy in his eyes. “Even so,” he murmured, “we must cross the eastern portion of the Lykard grazing. And for days we must travel over ni Larrhyn territory.”

His smile was grim as the news Gart and Kythan had brought back from their attempt to mediate with the Lykard: the representatives of the ni Larrhyn had refused point-blank to accept offer of werecoin. The others, cynically, had agreed that in return for one thousand varre Bracht should have free passage over their grass and—rejecting the advice of the brothers—he had decided to pay that sum.

“Ahrd, man!” Gart had protested. “Why waste the coin? You’ll not reach their grazing save you escape the ni Larrhyn.”

He had not needed to add he thought this unlikely, but still Bracht had shrugged and asked him to return with the payment, pointing out that did they survive the crossing of the ni Larrhyn territory they would still ride within the aegis of the Lykard, and the pursuit of Rhythamun would be the easier without hostile families opposing their passage. Grumbling, but nonetheless obedient, the brothers had gone back to their negotiations, returning to the Horseman’s Rest with the tokens of safe conduct. Those talismans—small sticks of oakwood inscribed with clan marks and tied with colored feathers—now rested in Bracht’s saddlebags as he outlined the path they must soon take.

“The covenant ends beyond the walls of Gannshold,” he continued, “and while the pass is claimed by none, the ni Larrhyn may look to attack us there.”

“We’ve a score of warriors to thwart ambush,” Gart said. “They’ll meet us at the gate, at dawn.”

“And halt any ni Larrhyn messengers,” added Kythan.

“But still you’ve Jehenne to fear,” said Gart.

They spoke in Lyssian now, that Katya might understand, and she nodded, staring at the lines etched across the table.

“How many days?” she asked.

“While the ni Larrhyn might halt us?” Bracht thought a moment, glancing to Gart and Kythan for confirmation. “Twenty if we ride hard and fast, without delay. If we must hide or fight . . .”

He shrugged and Gart said, “What little is left of your life,” in a low voice.

“Skirt round,” urged Kythan, tracing a path east of the Lykard lands. “Go through the pass and cut eastward into Asyth grazing, then ride north. Cut back westward into the ni Brhyn’s territory.”

“Too long.” Bracht shook his head. “Each day brings Rhythamun closer to his goal.”

“Ahrd!” Gart grunted. “You’ve not the least idea where he goes, save that it’s likely beyond the edges of the world, beyond even the Borrhun-maj.”

“Aye”—Bracht nodded—“and so we must look to find him, or find his trail, soon as we may.”

“Shall you hunt him ghostly?” argued the older man. “For does Jehenne find you, it shall be your spirits that are left to quest—your bodies will hang on a tree.”

“We’ve no choice,” Bracht said.

“And godly promises to aid us,” said Katya.

Gart shook his head at that and said, “Ahrd holds sway in Cuan na’For, and to reach his domain you must still cross ni Larrhyn land.”

Bracht toyed with his dirk, turning the blade between
his hands, then looked in turn at Katya and Calandryll. “There’s much in what they say,” he murmured, “and hazard aplenty on the faster path. Jehenne’s quarrel is with me, not you, though if she finds you in my company you’ll likely suffer the same fate. Would you then ride east, find the safer way?”

“And risk losing Rhythamun’s trail?” Katya shook her head, her face empty of any doubt. “We’ve faced hazard ere now and likely shall again. I say we put our trust in the gods and our blades and ride the swifter way.”

She and Bracht looked to Calandryll for an answer and he ran a finger along the scratch indicating the Gann Peaks, the boundaries of the clan territories, up and across to the Cuan na’Dru.

“To reach the Asyth lands, what? Three days, four? Then northward before we may go west again—fourteen, fifteen days?” Like Katya he shook his head. “We’re far enough behind already—I say we take the chance.”

Bracht’s smile was fierce, approving as he ducked his head and grunted what might have been a laugh, fixing Gart and Kythan with a stare both kindly and determined.

“You see? I ride with warriors!” He sheathed his dirk, leaning forward across the table. “We chase the world’s ending and none shall stand in our way.”

Gart sighed; Kythan shrugged. “Then we’ll come for you at first light,” said the older brother.

“There’s more I’d ask of you,” Bracht said. “I’d purchase a packhorse for our gear. We’ve tents and blankets, but I’d lief carry sufficient food we need not hunt. And bows might well prove useful.”

“You’ll have them,” promised Gart.

“How long shall we hold the pass?” asked Kythan.

“Three days,” Bracht said. “Longer if you can.”

Kythan nodded. “You shall have it.”

Gart said, “You’re set on this course?” and Bracht answered, “Aye, we’ve no other choice save to concede the game.”

“Then may Ahrd favor you,” Gart returned solemnly, beckoning to his brother. “Come—we’ve a horse to find, provisions to purchase.”

The two men rose, bowed formally to Katya, and said their farewells.

“Until first light,” Bracht said as they quit the common room.

When they were gone he called for more ale, his dark face pensive. He appeared momentarily lost in thought and Calandryll, himself musing on what lay ahead, felt no great inclination to speak. He had not thought their pursuit of Rhythamun would be easy, but neither had he anticipated the enmity of an entire Kernish family. The odds, it seemed, stood heavy against them and he wondered pessimistically if their quest should end in Cuan na’For, thwarted by a vengeful woman. But there was, as Bracht had said, little enough choice in the matter, save to give up, and that was an alternative none could countenance. They must, he decided, thinking on what Katya had said, place their trust in the Younger Gods—to rely on blades alone seemed foolish optimism.

He was brought from his contemplation by Katya’s voice. She alone appeared undeterred by the prospect of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s wrath, and he wondered if this stemmed from her encounter with Dera, or Bracht’s revelation of his past, the dissolution of that sudden, unexpected doubt seeming to firm the bond between them, to infuse her with renewed determination. It was almost, he thought, as if she regarded Jehenne as a challenge.

“Why did you not warn us of this?” she asked. “Of your enemies in Cuan na’For?”

Her tone was mild but still Bracht grew somewhat shamefaced as he replied, “I had hoped there would be no need. I had hoped the affair would be forgotten—or that the coin I took from Rhythamun would settle it.”

He held his mug a moment, swirling the dark ale,
then added: “I went against my father’s will, and that is not a thing I am proud of.”

“But she beat her horse,” said Katya lightly.

“Aye,” Bracht agreed with a tight grin, “but even so . . . What I did was like to spark clan war. Mayhap I should not have taken the horses.”

“Perhaps you should have followed your father’s wishes,” said Katya, “and wed this Jehenne. Horse beater though she be.”

She teased him, Calandryll saw, and that Bracht mistook her bantering tone. The Kern’s look darkened, his eyes opening blue and wide, the expression on his face intent as he stared at the warrior woman.

“Then I should not have met you,” he said.

“No,” Katya said, and smiled.

“Perhaps there was always some design,” offered Calandryll. “That we three should meet.”

Katya nodded slowly. “I think it must be so,” she murmured. “And if it be so, then surely we are fated to find Rhythamun, no matter what stands in our way.”

“Ahrd grant you’re right,” Bracht said fervently. “But once through the pass we must ride wary.”

“Then let’s to bed,” Katya suggested. “I’d enjoy one last night’s safe sleep.”

It seemed sound advice and they emptied their mugs, settling their account with the landlord before retiring, adding a few extra coins that he warn them should any hot-headed Lykard come seeking them, and keep his mouth closed concerning their departure. Bracht paused a moment when they reached the stairs, bidding the others go on as he went to the kitchen. Calandryll thought perhaps he looked to arrange them breakfast and in his own chamber lit the single candle and voiced a prayer to Dera that she grant them what aid she might, even though they traveled beyond the boundaries of her aegis. That devotion attended, he settled to honing his sword and dirk, his mind too occupied with all he had learned
that day to yet find sleep. He was interrupted by a knocking, Bracht’s soft voice calling for entry.

He set his weapons aside and unlatched the door to see the Kern standing with a steaming bucket in his hand.

“Your hair,” Bracht said in explanation. “Do we encounter the Lykard, they’ll take unkindlier to one disguised as an Asyth. Should worst come to worst, they might hesitate to crucify a Lyssian.”

Calandryll’s hands clenched involuntarily at the thought and he motioned the Kern into the room. Bracht set down the bucket and brought a gallipot from inside his tunic, tossing the small container to Calandryll.

“This, so I was told, will wash out the dye.”

Calandryll nodded, murmuring thanks, and Bracht bade him good night, leaving him alone again.

He latched the door once more and stripped off his shirt, shivering in the chilly night air as he spilled hot water into the basin surmounting the solitary wash-stand. He undid his ponytail and doused his head, opening the gallipot to scoop out thick paste, a creamy white and smelling faintly of roses, that he worked into his long hair. The water in the basin turned a dull grey, then black. He emptied the contents out the window and repeated the process until all the cream was gone: it was difficult to be sure by candlelight, but when he studied his appearance in the little metal mirror, it seemed he was once again fair-haired. It occurred to him then that their early departure would likely be marked, and that if Tobias questioned the soldiers of Gannshold closely enough his brother would learn that he had passed through the city ahead of the ceremonial procession. Might Tobias then recall the Kern he had seen on the road? The thought prompted Calandryll to chuckle as he contemplated his brother’s frustration and, still grinning, he finished the edging of his blades and climbed beneath the sheets.

The bed was pleasantly warm, soft, and comforting
after the nights spent in the open—and the nights to come, when, he surmised, they must sleep light, with one of their party likely on guard. Even so, he could not at first sleep, for it seemed they passed from one chapter of their quest into another, and that set in an unknown land where a jealous woman threatened to halt their endeavor. And did they succeed in avoiding Jehenne ni Larrhyn, still they must find Rhythamun among the ni Brhyn, or pick up his trail, which, in the vastness of Cuan na’For, could surely be no easy task. Somehow, he told himself as moonlight filtered pale through the shutters, layering thin bands of wan radiance across his pillows, they would; they must, lest Rhythamun triumph and the Mad God rise. And should the warlock succeed, then he and Bracht and Katya, surely, would be dead, for in the midst of all the uncertainties fate set before them there remained a single constant thing, the one immutable fact—that whatever hazards faced them, whatever obstacles they might encounter, they would go on, unto death if needs be.

There existed no doubt of that and it was a strangely comforting thought: one that, finally, lulled him into dreamless slumber.

D
AWN,
he saw when Bracht’s knocking woke him, came late to Gannshold. The walls of the pass held off the early sun and the sky above the city only hinted at the approaching day, night still clinging tenebrous against the roseate wash that outlined the eastern rimrock. He sprang from the warmth of the bed cursing the chill that gritted his teeth, and flung the door open with a mumbled greeting. Bracht entered, dressed for departure and cheerful, watching as Calandryll lit the candle and swiftly performed his morning toilet.

“It worked well.” The Kern gestured at Calandryll’s hair as he bound it back in the tail that now felt natural. “You look yourself again.”

Calandryll grunted an inarticulate reply, shrugging into his tunic. He belted on his sword and flung his cloak about his shoulders, taking up his saddlebags, hoping they might find time for breakfast.

Bracht quashed such optimism. “Gart awaits us below,” he said. “Come, Katya should be dressed by now.”

She was, and they went together from the inn, out to the courtyard where Gart waited with six or seven sturdy Kerns, watching the silent street. “Kythan waits with the rest by the gate,” he announced as they saddled their animals. “The packhorse is there, with bows, shafts, and sufficient food to last you a goodly while.”