The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (37 page)

“I admire a man protective of his household’s interests,” nodded Eresken. He looked at Jeirran, green eyes unblinking. “I came to assist in whatever way I might. How best can I serve you?”

“We are still discussing how to proceed.” Jeirran chewed at his beard.

“The Solstice sun will shed light on the question, when it stirs the bones of the soke,” added Aritane.

“And we will abide by that counsel.” Keisyl looked to the others for agreement, mollified to see them nod.

The newcomer stared steadily at Jeirran. “We are both threatened by those sprung from Tormalin. We both wish to hold those lands we have right to, without fear or threat. We have shared blood to bind us to each other.”

“Where exactly have you come from?” Keisyl asked, unnerved by the trusting way Aritane gazed at the man and the fatuous look of satisfaction driving the scowl from Jeirran’s brow.

Eresken turned his full attention to Keisyl. “From islands in the far ocean, many days’ sail from the farthest east. My people left these shores many generations past. We have bided our time against the day of our return for countless years.”

“Then you are indeed Alyatimm?” Keisyl swallowed hard.

“We call ourselves Elietimm,” Eresken smiled. “Many generations since, perhaps our forefathers said Alyatimm, but what does that signify?”

Keisyl felt there was something important eluding him. He shook his head as Aritane proffered the dew flask. Alcohol after a weary day and a hot bath must be blunting his wits.

“We can raise a good-sized band from the sokes hereabouts.” Jeirran was circling the hearth, all eagerness. “Why wait? We can clear out those stinking huts and hovels from the valley bottom. That will bring more men to our standard. Working together, we can take back the mines the muddy-feet have stolen, let every man who joins us claim a share to add toJüs patrimony!”

“And the lowlanders will send up a double militia company to fight us for them before spit can dry.” A massive yawn interrupted Keisyl, tiredness pressing down on him.

“So we send their horses back with corpses strapped to the saddle bow!” Jeirran poured himself another drink.

“There are advantages to letting your enemy set events in motion and pacing your moves to his,” said Eresken thoughtfully. “We must go through the detail of your plans, to see where I can assist.”

Keisyl struggled with another yawn. “Just what assistance are you offering?”

“I have commanded troops, I have fought to defend my lands and my family,” Eresken replied with a smile.

Keisyl opened his mouth to ask against whom, but profound disinterest flooded through him. “I’m going to bed,” he said thickly.

Eresken stood to bow to him. Keisyl shook his head, bemused as he unlocked the door, and then trudged wearily up the stairs.

“You can get the lay of the land while I gather men together.” Jeirran was pacing around the room again. “And you can contact your people in the east. Yes, a double-pronged attack would be best. We’ll raise a beacon here to carry light the length of the mountains, all the way to the ocean! That’ll give every thieving lowlander notice to quit our lands!”

Eresken resumed his seat and took Aritane’s hands. “Have you spoken to those friends of yours? Did you use the incantation I taught you?”

“I contacted Cleris and Bryn,” Aritane smiled shyly. “I taught Bryn the charm and Cleris tried to eavesdrop as I sought him. She couldn’t find either of us.”

“I told you it would work.” Eresken tightened his grip. “Do they see the wisdom of claiming rights in their own skills?”

“Oh yes,” Aritane nodded vehemently. “And there will be others. Cleris knows several Sheltya in the Middle Ranges treated with courtesy scant enough to be insult. As for Bryn,” Aritane floundered a little, “he has friends who have been rebuked for affection and removed from such intimacy, just as—”

“Just as he had you stolen away from him.” Eresken picked up her trailing words with a fond smile. “I will try not to be too jealous of him, my prize.” He lifted Aritane’s hand to kiss her palm once again. She colored fiercely and glanced at Jeirran but he was still circling the fire, debating the best prospects for battle with himself.

“We must curb his enthusiasm for bloodshed until we have enough men to make a real army.” Eresken gazed intently at Aritane, his eyes unblinking as a hawk. “We need Sheltya as perceptive as you. Once we have power to back physical force, I will make you queen of this land, my heart’s delight. None of your kin need walk in fear of the lowlanders ever again!”

“And what of your kin, your home?” Aritane struggled for words, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Home is where the heart is.” Eresken brushed a kiss against Aritane’s cheek as he stood up. She looked up at him, mouth half open.

“What do you say to that?” Jeirran halted, bold confidence in his stance and expression.

“The lowlanders won’t know what has hit them!” Eresken gripped Jeirran by the shoulders. “Great destiny lies ahead for you, my friend. I am fortunate to share in it!”

“It’s late. Let me set a warmer in your bed.” Aritane took a stone from the edge of the hearth, fussing with a length of flannel.

“I didn’t secure the gate when I came in.” Eresken released Jeirran. “I wasn’t sure if others needed entry.”

“What?” Jeirran looked bemused for a moment. “I’ll see to it, don’t worry.”

As he closed the main door behind him, Aritane disappeared up the stairs. The sudden crossdraft sent the fire flaring, sparks spitting up the hanging hood. Eresken moved to the center of the room and both doors slammed themselves at his harshly accented command. After three rapid breaths, he shut his eyes. When they opened, the vivid green was gone, replaced with calculating brown, and when Eresken opened his mouth, another voice sounded in the silence, an older voice, with a curious hollow quality to it, as if it came from far, far away. “Are they open to you?”

“Both vacant as newborn babes.” Eresken’s tone was coldly jubilant. “Whatever skills the Sheltya teach these days, defense is not one they value.”

“So nothing has changed.” The other voice rang with contempt. “Are they fit for our purpose?”

“With the right encouragement,” said Eresken confidently.

“Is the brother likely to make trouble?”

“He stinks of mistrust for Jeirran and all his works. Simplest just to discourage him.”

“What of the rest of the household? Will you leave before they return?” the distant voice inquired.

“I think not, now I am here. From what I read in the woman, they are few enough and easily dominated with a little skill.”

“Then you have your base. Get to work,” commanded the unnatural voice.

Eresken blinked and the green of his own eyes was restored, a smile curving his thin lips as the doors released themselves at his word.

Six

Dragons were not nearly the danger I had feared in Gidesta, but we would see them flying over in the spring and sometimes raiding down into the valleys in the autumn. This is one of the many Mountain myths in which they figure.

Maewelin made a dale

Of green and sheltered calm.

She set a tree girt lake

About with pretty blooms.

The jealous wyrms looked on

And gnawed the rocks below.

They rose up from the depths

And ravaged all the peace.

Maewelin saw the wreck

Of beauty she had loved.

She begged Misaen’s aid,

He left his forge to cool.

Misaen fought the wyrms,

His hammer broke their fangs.

They fled into the dark,

But vengeance chased them still.

One wyrm called down the rocks

To crush Misaen’s bones.

He shattered them to dust,

That choked the wyrm to death.

The next spewed forth dead air,

A breathless, stifling trap.

Misaen called a gale,

That ripped the wyrm in rags.

The weak wyrm wept a stream,

The waters drowning deep.

Misaen froze the flood.

The wyrm died in the ice.

The last wyrm, vicious, cruel,

Spat fire to scorch the sky.

Misaen quenched its ire

With dust, dead air and ice.

He chained the gasping wyrm

And dragged it to his forge.

Its fire relit his hearth

And thus he forged the sun.

Upper Reaches of the Pasfal Valley,

13th of For-Summer

Come on, wizard! Any slower and your lice’ll get off and walk!” For all his cheerful words, I noted ’Gren was leaning on a large boulder as he taunted Usara.

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to take it a little easier,” I retorted. “The air up here’s thinner than a beggar’s dog!” That was an exaggeration but I was finding the steady incline a long haul. At least there was a breeze to cool the early summer sun. A hopeful butterfly went past in a lazy pattern of pale blue that mimicked the bleached sky above us.

Sorgrad, some way ahead, sat down on the rough turf fringing the narrow scar of the path. “We might as well stop and eat before we go any farther.”

Usara’s pack hit the ground with a thud. “How much farther is it to the next village?” he asked, narrow chest heaving.

Sorgrad shook his head. “There’ll be no more villages, not this high. This is Anyatimm territory now. Westerlings keep to the old ways, more than anyone.”

“So if there are no villages hereabouts, where do these Westerlings live? Where are we likely to get shelter, come to that?” I looked up from unpacking the calico bag of provisions I’d wheedled out of the last hamlet, from women short and stocky, light of hair and eye.

“We stop at the next fess, the next compound,” replied ’Gren with a touch of scorn. “Any traveler has the right to ask for fire, food and shelter.”

“Which is freely given because everyone knows they’re in the same situation when they travel,” added Sorgrad. “This is a hard land and the only way to survive is to cooperate.”

I nodded, seeing the bleakness underlying the thin soil and short-lived blooms so bright with the sun’s gloss. I wouldn’t want to be up here much beyond the turn of For-Autumn. “So who were those people in the valley bottom?”

“Lowlanders.” ’Gren held out his hand to me and I filled it with a wedge of creamy sheep cheese and some coarse bread.

“They looked mountain-born.” Usara had got his breath back.

“Some Anyatimm men marry lowland women,” explained Sorgrad, “but they’re no longer counted as blood.”

I chewed thoughtfully on my bread, not the finest I’d ever tasted but at least it was light with leaven and baked in a proper oven. “Is that important?” I picked a husk from between my teeth.

“Yes, to the Westerlings certainly. Once a man leaves the mountains, it’s hard for him to come back. If he’s married a lowland woman, it’s nigh on impossible.” Sorgrad unhooked a waterskin from his belt and drank.

Something chirruping in a stand of long grass was the only sound to break the silence. I wondered how far we were from Selerima. We’d walked right out of Aft-Spring and on into For-Summer, nearly a whole half-season by my reckoning. The comfortable little towns of Solura growing fat in the lush river valley had dwindled to smaller villages carefully tending stock and crops in less generous lands and these had finally given up to close-shuttered knots of stout stone houses resolute in the hollows of the rising hills.

I looked around as I ate. My wonder at this country was slow to fade. Rolling hills of lush green grass had sharpened to stark fells, purpled with ling and berry bushes, striped with screes and waterfalls. Our pace had slowed and there were days when I’d wondered if we were getting any nearer at all to the great folded mountains that rucked the land up to the sky. Now we were into that land I realized the distances had deceived me. What had looked like a mere shrubby cloak draping the bones of the land was revealed as forest to rival the land of the Folk. Unfamiliar firs mingled with tall straight birches cascading down steep hillsides in endless billows of trees. There were no roads worth the name and precious few tracks. It was a vast country, daunting, and it made me feel very small and insignificant.

On the far side of this valley, I could see a blackened scar of wildfire softened with a bloom of new green. Beyond, a jutting jag of stone burst from a jumble of grass and saplings, a stream fell to its fate over the angular edges, splitting and plaiting to plunge into a rainbow haze. Behind, a rampart of flat-topped rocks marked the far side of another valley hidden in the folded land, no way of guessing how far, how deep or how long it might be. The striped and dappled face of a cliff shifted and changed as a cloud passed between it and the sun. Still farther away, a saw-edged peak pied with snow and rock was merely the nearest of the massive mountains drawing clouds close around their shoulders.

“Are those the high peaks?” I asked Sorgrad.

“No, just the southern ranges. The land falls away again beyond there, into a wilderness of lake and plain. The highest peaks are a season’s journey farther north again.” He looked up at the sky, face unreadable.

“So where exactly are we?” asked Usara with a frown.

“Hachalsoke.” ’Gren waved an expansive arm. “Home to the Hachalkin.”

“One family owns all this tract of land?” Usara’s confusion was hardly surprising. You could fit Hadrumal and all its wizards into the wide valley whose sides we’d been toiling up.

“You have to understand that things are very different up here,” said Sorgrad slowly.

“Tell us,” I encouraged. “We don’t want to get someone’s hackles up by saying the wrong thing.”