Dark Magic (56 page)

“I think,” he said at last, “that we had best depart as soon we may. Katya’s wounds are not severe, you say?”

“Cuts,” Calandryll assured. “None serious, and all tended by the ghost-talkers.”

“They’ve great skill at healing.” Bracht nodded. “And your shoulder? That mends?”

“Apace.” Calandryll flexed the hurt joint, forgotten until now. “Your own skills are considerable.”

“Let’s hope they’re not needed again.” Bracht
grinned, sketching a bow, and rubbed his belly. “Now—I’d eat. There’s food in the wagon?”

Calandryll nodded and rose to join the Kern as Bracht set foot on the ladder.

The false dawn had given way now to the first true brightening of the sky, and birds were singing, while from the corrals came the snorting and shuffling of waking horses. A band of fiery red stretched across the eastern horizon, lanced with brilliant gold as the sun edged upward, the radiance striking in through the parted curtain, brightening the wagon’s interior even when the leather was dropped closed behind them. Katya stirred, turning beneath the bed furs, a hand blindly searching to her side. She mumbled something in her sleep and then, abruptly, her eyes snapped open and she sat up, the searching hand reaching instinctively for her sheathed sword.

“All’s well,” Bracht said. “Save I’m mightily hungry.”

His voice burned sleep’s fog from her eyes and she flung back the furs, springing from the bed in a tumult of flaxen hair, legs and arms bare and tan under the shirt that was all she wore. Her saber was flung aside, and in a rush she fell upon the Kern, enfolding him in her arms, her momentum such that they tumbled together onto the cushions. Calandryll could only stare as her lips pressed firm to Bracht’s, his reaction threatening to rescind those earlier, honorable promises. Then Katya pulled away, pushing tousled hair from her face, her eyes alive with delight and wonder. She knelt beside him, taking both his hands, staring at the palms.

“Why did you not wake me?” she demanded, the accusation in her voice belied by her smile, radiant as the rising sun.

“You slept so sound.” Bracht reached out, brushing a flaxen strand from her cheek. “And earned your rest, I hear.”

Her smile waned a little at that reminder, but then
she nodded and said solemnly, “Like you, I keep my vows.”

“To Jehenne’s cost.” Bracht grinned, far less concerned than she with the moral niceties of life-taking. “And these?”

He touched the cuts—already healing, Calandryll saw—on her arm and thigh. Katya shrugged. “Nothing,” she said. “They were no more than scratches, and the ghost-talkers applied salves and chanted words. But you . . . I feared you’d sleep forever.”

“I feel greatly rested.” Bracht chuckled. “And very hungry.”

Katya glanced round, at the compartments and cupboards lining the walls, reaching to open the closest, the movement shifting the hem of her shirt to expose a length of smooth, brown thigh. Embarrassed afresh, Calandryll looked away; Bracht stared appreciatively, and as she caught his eye, Katya seemed to become aware for the first time of how little she wore. She blushed prettily, still smiling, and tugged the shirt down.

“You likely know where food might be better than I,” she murmured, suddenly demure. “Do you look, while I dress.”

“Happily,” Bracht announced, deliberately misinterpreting; answered with a flung cushion as Katya returned to the sleeping chamber, firmly drawing the curtain behind her.

Grinning, Bracht rummaged through the cupboards, finding wine, hard biscuits, a little cheese and some smoked meat. All this he set on the table, and though none was particularly fresh, he consumed it all with gusto as Calandryll, preferring to await the rising of the camp and the more appetizing breakfast that promised, watched. Katya emerged dressed, settling on the cushions as Bracht ate. She smiled still, her eyes soft as she studied the hungry Kern, but had regained her usual composure.

“When do we leave?”

Bracht washed down a mouthful of biscuit with a
long swallow of wine and said, “Likely they’ll insist on feasting us when they find me risen, and to refuse that would be an insult . . . Tomorrow, then?”

“Each day sets leagues between us and Rhythamun,” Katya returned, “and I doubt the ghost-talkers can stop him.”

“Calandryll spoke of this, and I agree.” Bracht nodded. “But still, to go now would be a slur on Lykard honor. And a day may be enough that the ghost-talkers locate him.”

“How?” asked Calandryll, intrigued.

“They speak, one with another, over many leagues.” Bracht shrugged, as if this were a thing so commonplace it begged no questioning. “How, I know not; only that they do.”

“So they may advise us where he is,” murmured Katya. “But not halt him or slay him, you think.”

“They may try,” said Bracht, “but I do not think they’ll have much success.”

“And think you we shall?” Calandryll wondered.

Bracht chuckled, shrugging. “It seems we are chosen for that task,” he said, “and we’ve come too far to let doubt assail us now. We go on—and what comes, comes.”

“Aye.” Calandryll smiled back: the Kern’s enthusiasm was infectious.

B
RACHT’S
surmise that his awakening would be greeted with a celebratory feast proved correct. The sun was not much higher above the horizon before the camp began to rise and the ghost-talkers came to inquire as to his condition. Finding him awake, healed, and in excellent spirits, they sang Ahrd’s praises and declared a banquet must be held later that day. So awestruck were they, it was an afterthought to examine Katya’s wounds, and only Bracht’s earnest intervention—weighted by his newfound status—reminded them of the need to send on word concerning Daven Tyras. That, they promised to do, but more
immediately they insisted Bracht present himself to all the gathered ni Larrhyn.

A shaman to either side, Katya and Calandryll in attendance behind, he was brought to the warrior elected in Jehenne’s place. Dachan ni Larrhyn hailed him as an illustrious guest, embracing him and promising whatever aid he might require before summoning an honor guard that paraded him ceremoniously through the camp. Warriors—male and female—who short days before would have slain him on sight came out to greet him; mothers brought children for him to touch, as though that contact would somehow confer, in surrogate, Ahrd’s blessing; folk with wounds long past all hope of healing asked that he touch their disfigurements. Bracht played his part well, beaming hugely at the crowd, as if they had never been enemies, clasping hands, holding giggling children aloft, and Calandryll found himself reminded of those victory parades about which he had read, long ago, in Secca, when some conquering general paraded the streets, a servant in the chariot at his back, whispering the reminder that the victor was mortal, lest pride overtake him.

Such reminder was not necessary in Bracht’s case, for when his parading was finally done and he was allowed to return to the wagon, he flung himself down, declaring gruffly that such pomp left him weary and he needed wine and quiet, adding the promise that they should depart on the morrow, before their quest was mired in clan hospitality.

First, though, there was the feast, and before that, news from the ghost-talkers.

They came almost humbly, as the afternoon lengthened toward evening and the cookfires filled the air with the odors of roasting meat. Bracht sat with Katya and Calandryll on the steps of the wagon, trying hard to ignore the awe-filled stares of the children who watched them from a distance, not quite daring to draw close to so prestigious a figure, but intent on observing him—and, he pointed out, with
great amusement, to Katya, the soon-legendary warrior woman from the north who had defeated Jehenne ni Larrhyn in single combat.

The ghost-talkers—Morrach and Nevyn were their names, the three had learned—bowed, waiting at the ladder’s foot. Bracht welcomed them courteously and beckoned them inside, offering them wine, which they took with murmured thanks, gradually relaxing as the Kern evinced no signs of abnormality or pride, but only those of a human warrior eager for the news they brought.

“The warlock who calls himself Daven Tyras skirts the Cuan na’Dru,” Morrach said.

“Likely afraid to chance Ahrd’s wrath,” added Nevyn, prompting Calandryll to wonder if they always spoke in unison, the one completing the other’s sentence as though mind and voice were shared between them.

“He rides westward,” Morrach continued; “Around the edgewoods,” said Nevyn.

“With the six elected by Jehenne,” said Morrach, Nevyn echoing: “Still in the shape of Daven Tyras.”

“How far ahead?” asked Bracht.

The ghost-talkers exchanged a glance and Morrach said, “Forty days or more.”

“He was last seen by a camp of the ni Brhyn,” said Nevyn. “Nine days ago.”

“By now he’s likely on Valan grass,” said Morrach.

“And the speaking grows harder,” said Nevyn.

“Though the drachomannii of the ni Brhyn endeavor to contact the Valan,” Morrach promised. “And will send word back.”

“We depart on the morrow,” Bracht said.

Morrach frowned then, and Nevyn’s lips pursed. Morrach said, “Do the ghost-talkers of the Valan learn what he is, they’ll seek to take him.”

“Shall they be able?” asked Bracht.

Once more the shamans looked one to the other and Nevyn said, “This we do not know.”

“But they will attempt it,” said Morrach. “And riders go out from the ni Brhyn camp, hunting.”

“Rhythamun is powerful.” Bracht spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, tactfully. “Down the ages of his ill-won life he’s accrued such occult strength as few sorcerers may claim. I’d not belittle the skills of Cuan na’For’s ghost-talkers, but I think that none have faced such as Rhythamun before. And plain warriors will stand no chance against him.”

Morrach nodded, understanding, though it was Nevyn who replied, “Even so, they shall—Ahrd willing!—attempt it. Whether they be successful, or not . . . that rests with our god.”

“And you’d face him,” said Morrach. “No?”

“We would,” said Bracht solemnly. “But that is a duty given us by fate, or the Younger Gods, and we’ve no choice in it.”

“Nor we,” Nevyn said.

“Nor,” added Morrach, “our fellows. Ahrd grant the Valan agree, the attempt shall be made.”

“Then I pray Ahrd grant them success,” Bracht murmured. “But still we three must leave tomorrow.”

“What hope have you of overtaking him?” demanded Nevyn.

“He’s forty days, perhaps fifty now, ahead,” said Morrach.

“He skirts the Cuan na’Dru, you say?” Bracht waited as they ducked their heads in agreement, then: “We ride for the holy forest.”

Stark surprise showed on the faces of both ghost-talkers. Morrach’s hand shaped the sunburst sign; Nevyn stared, as if struck dumb by Bracht’s calm announcement. His fellow said, very softly, “You look to pass through the forest? The Gruagach . . .”

“Serve Ahrd,” said Bracht. “His guardians. Do we three, too, not serve the god? You say Ahrd’s sap runs in my veins now, no? Then shall the Gruagach deny us passage through, when we ride in defense of Ahrd and all his kin?”

“Even so,” Nevyn whispered. “To dare confrontation with the Gruagach is not a thing to take lightly.”

“I do not,” said Bracht earnestly, glancing at his hands. “Before . . . Jehenne did what she did to me . . . I’d no great desire to run that risk. I’d hoped to find Rhythamun before he reached the Cuan na’Dru. But now—save we venture through the forest, we must likely remain ever behind him. And do your fellows fail to take him, then he goes free.”

“It may be you shall succeed.” Morrach sounded doubtful. “The sap is in you, aye; and that may prove token of safe passage.”

“For you,” said Nevyn. “But for your companions?”

He turned, encompassing Calandryll and Katya with a troubled glance. “We take that chance,” Calandryll offered.

“We ride, as Bracht has said, in defense of Ahrd,” said Katya. “Shall his guardians not see that?”

“Perhaps.”

Still Morrach sounded unconvinced; Nevyn sat silent, his face clouded with doubt.

“We shall attempt it,” Bracht said firmly. “We must—else Rhythamun elude us and continue northward across the Kess Imbrun.”

There was authority in his voice and both ghost-talkers bowed their heads in tacit acceptance. “We shall pray for your success,” said Morrach. “As shall all our fellows,” said Nevyn.

“Our thanks for that,” Bracht returned. “And word will be given to us, of what your fellows learn? Of what transpires, do they confront Rhythamun?”

Again, the shamans nodded their agreement, and Morrach said, “You need but ask, in any camp.”

“What is known to one is know to all,” said Nevyn.

“You serve Ahrd well,” Bracht said.

“We do no more than our duty,” Morrach replied.

“Would that we might do more,” said Nevyn.

Bracht smiled and said, “This is service enough.”

The ghost-talkers left them then, voicing further assurances that whatever news they gleaned should be instantly communicated, and the three set to readying their gear for departure. Dachan had promised them supplies sufficient to see them through to the next Lykard camp, and they had little enough to occupy them, save the stitching of leathers, the honing of blades, the small tasks attendant on the journey. Calandryll had thought Bracht might go about the camp again, but the Kern expressed himself loath to suffer such attention more than he must, and so they lounged within the wagon, the entry curtain drawn back and panels in the sides rolled up to ventilate and light the interior, aware of the curious children still huddling outside, the more adventurous daring to approach the steps and peer in.

“I feel like some freak,” Bracht muttered as a small, dark face showed briefly at the entrance, disappearing with a squeal as he looked up. “An exhibit in some mountebank’s show.”

“You’re a hero,” Katya declared, mocking him with her exaggerated solemnity. “They’ve never seen such as you.”

Bracht grunted, frowning, then grinned. “But is it only me they seek?” he demanded. “I suspect you are no less an attraction. You are, after all, the slayer of Jehenne. There are doubtless stories in the making even now—of how the woman from the north defeated the finest swordswoman of the Lykard.”