The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (8 page)

"I didn't know that you'd kept in contact," I said.
Fenton nodded, though his concentration was focussed on climbing over a jutting ledge. I paused to help him over the hard part. "Emlyn and I have written to each other since I left the south," Fenton said. "He sends his letters to the priest at Blackpass, and I pick them up there whenever I visit."
I thought about this as we made our way up the rocky path to the top of the mountain. Fenton's exercise in subterfuge was perfectly sensible, of course. My father would not like the idea of any of us sending friendly letters to a native of Cold Run – not while our villages were feuding. I could not help but feel hurt, though, that Fenton had never revealed the secret of his correspondence to me. After all, our blood was now mixed, and our spirits had been mixed long before that.
As though guessing my thoughts, Fenton added, "Emlyn preferred that I not mention our correspondence to anyone. He embroiled himself in some trouble during his time at the priests' house – he never got along well with most of the priests there. Therefore, he has trying to live a quiet life now, hoping that people will forget his past so that he may freely make his mark on the future when the time comes."
"What sort of work does he do?" I asked as I scrambled my way up to the mountaintop, and then waited with restrained impatience as Fenton followed behind.
"He is a jeweller," replied Fenton, and smiled at my look.
A more unlikely profession for my cousin I could not have imagined. What little I remember of him is of an active boy, forever darting around our village when he came to visit – often in a secretive manner, since he and Griffith were fond of playing pranks on their elders. When he was not helping Griffith set up water-traps for men or locking indignant women in their chambers, Emlyn was most often busy ducking through the woods next to Mountside, playing Jackal and Prey. He was the best Jackal I ever knew, though he said that I was the best prey. Certainly I was the only boy who had any success in keeping hidden when he went hunting for us.
If I had thought about it, I would have imagined Emlyn as a soldier or a dagger-thrower or at the very least a fisherman. The idea of Emlyn being content to spend his life sitting on a bench, poring over bits of gold and emerald, was sorely disappointing.
"He's not an ordinary jeweller," Fenton said loyally; he always seeks to see the best, even in men who have wasted their lives. "He sells his own work rather than depend on traders to do so – that allows him to travel a great deal. And his way of looking at precious metal and stones . . . He sees into the heart of them. I remember standing in the work chamber of the priests' house when Emlyn was a boy, watching him craft a neck-chain for a noblewoman. He told me – as though he were my tutor rather than I his – that the Koretian people are joined together by their love of the gods, like the links of a precious chain."
I puzzled over this image as we walked across the scrubby grass that shivered continuously from the wind from the black border mountains. "Joined together in what way?" I asked finally.
"I mused on that thought for many a day afterwards," Fenton responded. "I finally came to realize that what binds all of us together is our belief that we must make sacrifice to the gods. If I truly love the gods and their law, I will know when the right moment comes to offer up my sacrifice. That is true of all of us who love the gods."
I raised my eyes from our path and felt a shiver shudder over me as though I were grass, for as chance would take it, at that moment we were passing the spot of my earliest memory.
Although I was only five at the time, I could still remember that day: hearing Emlyn give one of his lilting cries, like a wild animal, and then arriving at the mountaintop to see my cousin standing over the body of a dead man. At the time, being young and filled with stories of the gods, I had imagined that the Jackal would appear at any moment to carry the man away to the Land Beyond. I was therefore eager to help Emlyn start the funeral fire so that I could meet the god.
To my disappointment, the man had been alive, though close to death.
"You offered up your sacrifice to your god long ago," I said as we turned our paths toward the mountain range north of us. "You came to Koretia when your god called you, though you nearly died on the journey."
"The god was guiding me during that journey, else I would never have survived," said Fenton as we reached the edge of the mountaintop and sat down where I had rested on the day I mourned Hamar. "Few border-breachers make it past the patrol alive."
"
You
did, though," I said, feeling pride swell within me as I looked over at Fenton. Even in a lesser free-man's tunic, he is no ordinary man, I decided. Fenton's face contains something I have seen in few other men; my father once told me that Fenton has a look of patience that was won through endurance to hard pain. Fenton's eyes, too, are beyond the ordinary – not dreamy, as one would expect in a pious priest, nor practical, as Felix's eyes are. Fenton's eyes are cautious and calculating, but not in a mean sense – rather, when Fenton looks at you, it is as though he sees everything in you, down to the blackest evil residing within you. And yet I have never heard him say a harsh word against anyone, not even the Emorian slave-master that he fled from.
"I had assistance," said Fenton, his left-hand fingers rubbing the slave-brand on his right arm as he stared out at the black peaks before us. "Do you remember that I mentioned my master's son?"
"Yes, he helped you to escape." I was bubbling with pleasure that Fenton would discuss his life in Emor; he so rarely does. "He and an older boy he'd met in the Emorian borderland. The older boy gave you food for your journey, and your master's son persuaded you to leave Emor."
"He did more than that for me," said Fenton, his gaze continuing to embrace the still peaks. "My master's son and the older boy became acquainted because they both wanted to join the border mountain patrol – in fact, they had spent that day in the mountains, listening to the patrol guards whistle their signals."
"Whistle them?" I stiffened with excitement. This was a part of the story that Fenton had never told me.
Fenton nodded. The wind was blowing his hair into his face like a mask, but he was paying it no heed. "The patrol guards aren't like any other soldiers. I remember how startled I was when I first caught sight of them, for I expected them to be in armor, like ordinary soldiers. I suppose, though, that the weight of leather, small as it is, is considered too high a price to pay for the loss of speed. Speed is all-important to the patrol – it is how they manage, against all odds, to catch breachers who are making their way through or near the pass in the mountains. Speed is important, and secrecy. If it hadn't been for my master's son, I wouldn't have known that the guards were near me, until they had me surrounded. But my master's son, who had spent the day watching and listening to the patrol as the guards went about their business, revealed to me one of the secrets of the patrol's success.
"Rather than shout messages to one another – spoken messages that would be heard by the hunted – the guards instead whistle messages to one another. My master's son, clever boy that he was, had managed to guess the meaning of a few of the whistles. Just a few; I believe that the patrol may have two dozen or more whistle-codes. But the few that he taught me were the most important ones, and with their help I was able to detect the changing movements of the guards and flee accordingly."
I had stayed quiet all this time, but now I pelted Fenton with the questions, like a Daxion archer sending forth his arrows. To my surprise, Fenton answered all my excited queries. Within the hour I had learned all of the whistle-codes Fenton had been taught, as well as facts about the patrol that Fenton had never before told me. I will have to record them here when I have greater leisure, but the one I remember most – because Fenton looked so grave when he said it – is that, if I ever crossed the border into Emor, I must never, ever draw my blade in the presence of a patrol guard. I am not sure why this is so. Perhaps it has to do with Emorian customs I have not yet learned.
As the afternoon shadows began to enfold us, I was still practicing the whistles – for Fenton, always the tutor, had insisted that if I were to learn them, I must learn them well. Fenton had his arm around me, which made me feel like a boy again, but so great was my contentment that I snuggled my head under his chin. I still am not as tall as Fenton, so it was easy to do that. I could hear Fenton's heartbeat, as steady as well-balanced blade-steel, and the vibration of his voice as he said, "I've never wanted to reveal the patrol's secrets to others. I breached the border through sore need but would not want others to follow in my footsteps. Yet it occurred to me today that the day may come when you will wish to visit Emor. I thought I should give you what information I could in anticipation of that day."
"I wouldn't need to breach the border, though," I murmured; I was beginning to grow sleepy in the heat of the sun. "My father would give me a letter of passage. . . . You could come with me," it occurred to me to add. "You could visit your native land and show me places where you'd lived. The patrol wouldn't recognize you in your robe. Where is your priests' robe, by the way?"
"Your mother fetched it away this morning to mend it, before I awoke," said Fenton; I could hear the smile in his voice. "I think it was her way of apologizing."
I was silent for a long moment, listening to the regular pace of Fenton's heart. Then I said, "Fenton, I tried to talk with my father—"
"It doesn't matter." Fenton's voice was quiet. "If this brings good that I cannot yet see, then I am glad. If it brings evil, then I am sure that the gods can transform that evil to good. . . . We were talking of sacrifice before."
This was such a sudden change of topic that it took me a moment to retrace our conversation. I could feel Fenton's hand tighten on my arm, as though he were thinking hard about what to say next. "Yes," I said with a yawn. "Sacrifice. You gave your sacrifice a long time ago."
For a moment more, Fenton's hand remained tight on my arm. Then it loosened, as though a decision had been made. "Not my sacrifice only," he said. "The dearest desire of my master's son had been to join the patrol, yet he broke Emorian law in revealing to me the patrol's secrets so that I could breach the border. He was too honest a boy to lie about his crime to others, so in aiding me, he lost his chance to join the border mountain patrol. I've never forgotten the sacrifice he made for me."
Amidst my sleepiness, I felt a sting of jealousy toward the young boy who had captured Fenton's heart by offering him a sacrifice. I have never had the opportunity to make a sacrifice for Fenton. Then I remembered that I had possessed Fenton's company all these years, while the boy would never even know that Fenton reached Koretia alive. I chided myself for my selfishness.
Fenton said, "The older boy . . . Adrian, are you listening?"
"Yes," I said, swallowing another yawn. "Go on."
"The older boy was named Quentin. Since he did nothing more for me than give me food, it's possible that he joined the patrol in the end. If so, he could be of assistance to you if you ever needed to enter Emor and had trouble doing so – if, for example, you lost your letter of passage during your travels."
I was going to deny scornfully that I would be so careless, but it seemed too much trouble to break through the weight of the heat pressing itself down upon me, hugging me like Fenton's arm. Heat, I thought; a bright spring day. Emlyn standing over a dead body . . . "Emlyn," I murmured, feeling misery embrace me. "The Jackal . . ."
I heard a loud thump against my ear that woke me suddenly. After a moment, I identified it as Fenton's heart, which was now beating hard. I raised myself drowsily, saying, "What happened?"
Fenton smiled at me, though I thought there was a curious look to his gaze. "You were dreaming, I think."
"Yes," I said, remembering. "I was dreaming about the Jackal coming to our land and claiming the High Priesthood. That was one of the reasons I chose him as my god," I reminded Fenton. "Because there's a chance that I might meet him one day. Don't you think that would be glorious? Meeting a god face-to-face?"
"I imagine it will be a bit frightening, too," Fenton said, continuing to smile.
"I suppose so," I said reluctantly, not wanting to dwell on this aspect. "What do you suppose he'll be like? He'll have black fur, I think, with golden whiskers and fiery eyes . . ."
"Fiery eyes for certain," said Fenton with a laugh. "As for the rest . . . I should think that his outward appearance will be less important than his godliness. We were talking of your cousin Emlyn a while ago – do you remember his trick of being able to guess people's thoughts? He always seemed to know when villagers were intending to walk through certain doors, and he planned his water-traps accordingly. I suspect that when the Jackal comes, he will have that power, but in a godly form. He will know our spirits in a way that we do not know ourselves."
I said nothing for a moment; Fenton's words had uncovered for me the forgotten portion of my dream, the part that had distressed me. Always, my first memory had been of Emlyn finding Fenton and calling to the rest of us, but now my dream had reminded me of what had happened a few moments before that call: Emlyn insisting on travelling further, though all of us were planning to return to Mountside at that point. He had ignored our objections and gone ahead to the mountaintop, just as though he had known what he would find lying there. . . .
I felt myself shiver, and Fenton put his hand over mine, though he continued to look deeply into my face. "Is it the dream?" he asked quietly.
"It's something I remembered," I said in a low voice. "I don't remember Emlyn well, but I remember a few things . . . I don't suppose anyone else noticed this about him, not even Griffith; Emlyn always hid it from everyone when it happened. But I was so small, I suppose he didn't realize that I'd understand. I didn't at the time; it was only later, several years after he'd left for the south, when my father was speaking about how Emlyn's illness made him stare into emptiness . . ." I shivered again and gazed upon Fenton, frightened for the first time.
I have never before been frightened in Fenton's presence. I've known, of course, that he is a priest, and I've known what duties that requires of him, but our village has always been filled with god-loving people, so his duties in that regard have gone unexercised, like a blade that remains always in its sheath. Yet if I told him . . . Was it right for me to place Emlyn in danger?