In the Red Lord's Reach Read online

  Half the camp was there before him, blocking his path. He began to elbow his way through the throng, then caught sight of Simir's blond head, surrounded by torches, off to the right. Alaric pressed sideways to reach him.

  "Simir!"

  "Minstrel." The high chief took in his bare shoulders and legs with a single inquiring glance. "What's going on?"

  "I don't know. I went out for a call of nature, and suddenly there was all this."

  With Simir leading the way, Alaric reached the tent. Or what had been the tent, for the whole structure had collapsed, and among the jumbled hides and carpets and cushions were thrashing bodies, though how many was difficult to say. Several voices came from the struggling mass, and one of them was Zavia's, screaming curses.

  "Stop this!" Simir shouted, and his voice was so loud that it stilled the gawking crowd. "Clear this away," he said, waving to those nearest him, and he set the example by pulling a carpet free of the jumble and tossing it behind him. Willing hands took over the task then, and in moments Zavia and Simir's three sons were revealed. Zavia sat astride Gilo, punching, kicking, and gouging him while Marak and Terevli tried to pull her away. Onlookers had trouble separating the four.

  Three knives were found lying loose among the ruins of the tent.

  "What is this?" Simir demanded when the four young people were standing before him, panting and disheveled. The boys were bruised and bleeding, Gilo's nose smashed, Marak's left eye closed and beginning to swell, Terevli with a knife slash on his right arm. Zavia, naked, stood straight and proud and disdainful, though scrapes across her shoulder, breast, and thigh were oozing blood and her cheek was dark with a blow; she hardly seemed to notice when someone wrapped a fur about her.

  Then she saw Alaric and lifted a hand to him, and he went to her and closed her in his arms.

  "Gilo," said Simir, pointing at the youth. "Speak."

  Blood was streaming down Gilo's face and over the hand he held up to it. "A mistake," he mumbled. "Just a mistake."

  "I see that clearly enough," Simir replied. "But how did you make this mistake?"

  Gilo coughed and spat blood and shook his head.

  "We were just visiting Zavia," said Marak. "Nothing more."

  "And she attacked us," added the youngest boy.

  "Visit? Bah!" snapped Zavia. "They came to kill the minstrel."

  "It was a friendly visit," said Marak. "We didn't know the minstrel was there."

  "And your knives were friendly, too," said Zavia. "Do you take us all for fools?"

  "You forced us to draw—"

  "Shut up!" roared Gilo. He coughed again then, and droplets of blood scattered from his nose. "We wanted to frighten him. To make him think again about staying with her." He choked on the last word and sprayed crimson once more with a fit of coughing.

  The crowd swayed back suddenly. Kata had emerged from her tent. She strode the few paces to Simir's side. "Whatever has happened here, this boy needs care." She stretched a hand out to Gilo, and he stepped forward. "Come," she said, curling her fingers about his arm. Without a backward glance, he went with her into her tent.

  Simir glared at the remaining boys, and the cold anger on his face seemed more menacing than hot fury could ever have been. "You think because he is not one of us that you can do as you please to him? You think because you are my sons that I won't lift a finger? Do you know me so little? Very well. I have not beaten you in some years, but I have not forgotten how. Those little wounds that Zavia gave you will seem like nothing when I am done. And afterward you will remember to tell your brother what your mistake has brought you." Half turning, he tapped the man beside him with the back of his hand. "Bring my rod."

  "It was Gilo pressed us to do it!" cried Terevli.

  "I shall not forget him. Now, while we wait for the rod, the two of you will put Zavia's tent back together. And if anything is damaged, you will be responsible for it."

  "I'm bleeding, Father," said Terevli, holding up his slashed arm. It was a shallow cut but long, and the blood trickled over his fingers. "I need Kata's help."

  "Try not to bleed on Zavia's leather," Simir said coldly.

  Someone tossed the boy a thong to bind the wound.

  While they set up the tent, the crowd dispersed, yawning people more concerned with the remainder of a night's sleep than with the beating of the chief's sons. By the time Zavia's shelter was ready, the chief had been holding his rod—actually a length of leather cured almost to the stiffness of wood—for some time, slapping it lightly against one palm in a slow cadence.

  "Thank you, Simir," said Zavia.

  He nodded to her, and then with a curt gesture he directed the boys to the fire, where they began to strip off their clothing. Naked, they took their blows in alternation, and the sound of the rod on flesh was sharp and rhythmic in the night air. Once only, Terevli cried out.

  Alaric tried to urge Zavia into her tent, but she would not go until the punishment was over, until Simir had stalked back to his tent and the boys had crept back into their clothes and followed him. Then she pulled the tent flap back.

  "Get a brand from the fire," she whispered, and she slipped inside.

  They kindled the oil lamp, and by its flame she inspected her wounds. One seemed to have been made by a knife skittering across the skin, the others by fingernails; all were broad rather than deep. Zavia pulled one of the cushions to her, unlaced its edge and raked through its contents. She found a small ceramic pot, a pot such as Alaric had seen often enough in the south, holding a lady's unguents or a cook's spices, but never yet among the nomads. Inside the pot was a salve which she smeared on her wounds, wincing at its touch.

  "I should have killed him," she murmured.

  He cupped her cheek in his hand. "He could have killed you."

  She shook her head. "I wasn't his quarry."

  "Still, in the dark, he might have taken you for me."

  She looked at him levelly. "If you had stayed, we would have been two against three in the dark. We might have killed him at least. Without him, the others would have run."

  "Perhaps it's as well that I wasn't here, then. I don't care for killing."

  "You were here," she said, her eyes steady on his. "But you went away."

  He shrugged. "When nature calls, we can't deny her. They must not have seen me leave."

  "You went away after they were in the tent, my Alaric."

  "No, I was already gone when they arrived. I was by the river when I heard the commotion."

  She sighed. "I woke when they started unlacing the entrance. I felt you beside me. Then they leaped in and suddenly you and your cloak were gone. And you didn't get out past them, my minstrel. I won't believe that."

  "I wasn't here, Zavia."

  "You were here, and then you weren't here. You didn't run away. That just wasn't possible. No, you… vanished."

  "You were dreaming, Zavia."

  "I know the difference between dreaming and waking, Alaric."

  "But this is absurd." He kept his eyes steady. "I wasn't here. I don't deny that I would have run from them, given the chance. But I didn't have to." The lie was beginning to seem lame to him now, but he couldn't go back on it. That would mean too many explanations—why did he go to the river, why didn't he raise the alarm himself, why didn't he fetch Simir? And wouldn't changing the tale just make her more suspicious? "No one can just… vanish."

  She touched his naked arm with the flat of her hand, ran her palm down to his elbow. "What a potent skill it is. Little wonder you escaped the Red Lord. How far can you go, my minstrel? Can you cross the mountains? Or is it just a little thing, a leap, a short run, a bowshot?"

  "Zavia, this is your imagination playing tricks. I don't know anything about vanishing."

  Her hand moved upward, to his shoulder, to the back of his neck. "I would learn this skill. I'll be a witch someday; it's a thing a witch should know. You'll teach me, won't you, my Alaric?"

  "Zavia, I don't know—"


  "You'll teach me, surely," she whispered, moving closer to him. Her free hand slid to his waist and tugged the cloak loose. "You'll teach your Zavia, my sweet minstrel." And then she pulled him down on the cushions, down on her smooth, warm flesh.

  ****

  "HE DENIES IT, Mother." Zavia sat on her knees in the dimness of her mother's tent, her hands folded meekly before her, her eyes downcast. "For two days he has denied it. He even laughs sometimes when I ask him. But I know what happened."

  Kata sat beyond her fire, her hands busy with something her daughter could not quite see, dared not look at too closely. "You are a foolish child," she said. "Perhaps he was right. Perhaps you dreamed it. This is a strange and potent skill you speak of. Why would he wander the world as a minstrel when he could use it to live in luxury? He could steal anything, he could cow anyone, and yet he is nothing and no one."

  "Mother, I have thought back on that time. I swear to you, I was awake. He was touching me, and then he rolled away and was gone. The tent was pegged fast to the ground. There was no way out but where the boys were coming in, not until they brought the tent down." She raised her eyes just a trifle. "Ask them if he was there when they burst in. I know what they'll say."

  Kata was silent a moment. Then she said, "Perhaps I will."

  Zavia rose a little on her knees and dared to look across the flames. "Mother, this would be such a valuable skill. To travel without needing to walk or ride. You can pry it from him, I know you can."

  "Possibly."

  "And I brought it to you, Mother. I could have kept silent, but I brought it to you instead. Surely that shows I'm worthy of your trust. Worthy to do more than grind a few herbs." Her voice became plaintive. "I will work hard, Mother, I promise you. Only teach me. Please."

  For just an instant, Kata looked up from her task, meeting her daughter's eyes above the fire, and Zavia flinched. "You are too young and too angry, child," said the nomads' witch. Her voice was as firm and emotionless as when she spoke to anyone else, no special warmth for the flesh of her own flesh, no hint of intimacy. "When I judge you are ready, you will begin to learn."

  Zavia bowed her head. "Yes, Mother," she whispered.

  "Now fetch Gilo to me, and we shall see how matters stand with your minstrel."

  ****

  MUCH TO ALARIC'S relief, Zavia finally gave over asking him to teach her his witch's skill. He could see by her eyes, though, that she still didn't accept his denials. Perhaps that was because she was a witch herself, he thought, or would be one day, and was accustomed to the idea of magical things—of magical hunting, magical weather, magical cures. Almost, because she seemed so approving, he told her the truth. Almost. But he stopped himself, because nothing good had ever come of revealing himself. Nothing but danger and death. In time, Zavia's memory of that night would fade, and eventually she might even come to believe that she had really dreamed his disappearance. What had she to prove it, after all? Feelings, guesses, deductions. But she hadn't seen him. No one had seen him.

  He was at the fire singing for Simir when he saw Gilo slip into Kata's tent, and still singing when the youth came out some time later. As the afternoon wore on, Marak and Terevli visited her also, one by one. He supposed they were seeking treatment for their injuries. Gilo's was the worst, of course. He walked about holding a huge poultice to his nose, a soggy wad of herbs that covered most of his face, and over the top of it, his eyes peered out, rimmed in black bruise. He spoke to no one, not even his brothers, and he stayed far away from Zavia. The other boys trailed him like a pair of dogs, but moving gingerly, obviously feeling their father's beating. Occasionally one would look at Alaric, but mostly they kept their backs to him.

  That night, as he and Zavia walked toward her tent arm in arm, he heard a quiet voice call his name.

  It was Kata. She stood at the entry of her own tent, between the carven staves. "Come, Alaric," she said. "I wish to speak to you."

  Zavia's hands tightened on his arm for just a moment. Then she let him go; she even seemed to give him a little push in her mother's direction.

  He looked back at her, but she said nothing.

  Kata held the flap of her tent aside and waved him in.

  He had only glimpsed this place before, when Kata's goods were being passed through the entrance, and once or twice when someone went inside. Now he was enveloped by it, and he felt as if he had stepped into a world far beyond that of the nomads. It was a rich tent, richer by far than Simir's, its leathern walls hidden behind patterned hangings, its floor covered with thick carpets as plush as velvet, and high-piled with cushions of crimson, ocher, and citron. The fire, which blazed in a shallow bronze bowl, crackled with strange colors, now blue, now green, now red as the sunset sky, and it gave off a thin plume of smoke that seemed to fill the tent with the thick sweet smell of spices. Kata let the entry flap close on the last cool breath of the evening and, sliding past him, beckoned him to a place by the fire.

  "You are a strange one, Alaric the minstrel," she said, sitting down quite near him. Behind her, the cushions were mounded especially high; she tossed two of them aside to reveal a small wooden chest, its dark, polished surfaces inlaid again and again with the six-pointed symbol of the Pole Star. Tipping back the lid, she drew a ceramic flask from the mossy padding within, and two cups so small they could scarcely hold a single mouthful each. Cups and flask were a set, near white in color, and thin-walled. Kata pulled the stopper from the flask and poured pale liquid into the cups. She offered one to Alaric.

  "Thank you," he murmured, looking down into it. The liquid was transparent, faintly pink, clearly not deer's-milk wine. "What is this?"

  "An herbal distillation," said Kata, and she drank her own share in one swallow. When he hesitated still, she added. "Not poison, minstrel. I promise you that."

  "Oh, I never thought it, lady. What reason would you have to poison me?"

  Her gaze was steady. "My daughter's life is her own, minstrel. I would not poison her choice merely because I would have chosen differently."

  As when they had met, he found himself unable to smile properly before her pale, expressionless eyes. He raised the cup to her health and then, cautiously, sipped. To his surprise, the liquid had hardly any taste, and less substance; indeed, it seemed to evaporate on the tongue and never reach the throat at all. Yet a moment later there was a tartness upon his lips, an aftertaste, spreading gradually to every part of his mouth, and it was not unpleasant. And now the cup was empty—that single cautious taste, he realized, had drained it.

  "You are a strange one," Kata repeated, taking the cup from him and setting it aside. "You are a skilled singer, with many fine songs. You could be living softly in the south, in a grand house, with a grand patron. You could wear jewels and gold and eat the finest of delicacies. Oh yes, we of the north know what such things are, though we have no need of them. We know what the south counts as wealth. And you are from the south. Yet here you are among us, some say on a quest for the Northern Sea."

  He shrugged. "As good a goal as any, Lady Kata."

  "A foolish goal. There is nothing in the Northern Sea but ice and death. I know. I have been there."

  He held a hand out to her fire, disrupting the rise of the smoke, making it eddy and swirl. "I am a wanderer, lady," he said. "The Northern Sea or the southern desert—they are all one to me. I travel, I see new sights, I invent new songs. I have never found a place that held me for long." He watched the firelight play on his palm, flushing the skin now blue, now green, now red as the sunset sky. "It seems I am a nomad in my heart."

  "A nomad follows the same trail year after year, minstrel. He knows what lies ahead of him as well he knows what lies behind."

  Alaric shook his head. "Not I. I never go back. Not to the castles, not to great houses, not to the people." The varicolored flames were beautiful, he thought, like bright draperies rippling in a draft, like skirts swaying with their wearer's walk. They seemed to pull at him, to promise him, as if within the
ir light he could find some truth he had long been searching for. He leaned closer to them, and closer still, till their heat licked at his face.

  Kata caught his shoulders and pulled him back from the fire. He tore his eyes from the flames and looked at her. He saw her wreathed in smoke, he saw a thick pall of smoke filling the whole tent, blotting out the walls and the plush carpets and the thick cushions. And he felt the smoke inside himself, as if he were made of it, as if the slightest breeze would blow him away. He reached for her, and she was solid between his hands, solid in a world made of smoke.

  "Look at my eyes," she said in a smooth, low voice, and her eyes were like pools of water from whose surface fog was rising. "What are you running from?" she asked him, and yet it was not a question. It was a command.

  "Running?" he murmured. And then he could almost feel himself running, running through the smoke, and far behind lay all the places, all the people he had ever known, calling to him, calling, though he never looked back. Dall the minstrel, his friend and teacher, calling from the grave; Solinde, his first love, from her tower window; friends and enemies, highborn and low; all of them, even the woman whose name he had never known, whose blood would always be on his hands, though she had begged him to spill it. But he never looked back, because he knew that close behind him followed death—death to the witch who could travel with a wish, death by the arrow, the knife, silent and sudden. And so he ran, hiding his witch's power, ever onward, ever homeless.

  "But you use it," Kata whispered.

  Had he spoken? Had he said so much aloud? Time passed, but he could not reckon it. The smoke was thick around him, and he felt as though he were floating on a sea of fog.

  "Even though you would hide your power," Kata whispered, "even though the south fears witches so, you use it sometimes when others are watching."

  "To save my life," he said. "As a startled man would raise his hand to ward off a blow, I use it."

  "As you used it to escape the high chief's sons."

  "Yes."

  He felt her hands on his face. "You are just a boy," she whispered. "You are nothing. Less than nothing." Her hands slid downward, over his throat, his chest, to his thighs. He shivered under that sweeping touch. He knew indeed that he was nothing, that for all the years of wandering, for all the places and people he had seen, he had learned nothing. She was wisdom; he could see it in her eyes, he could feel it in her touch. She was the infinite wisdom of the north.