In the Red Lord's Reach Page 14

  She was pushing him back now, back against the mounded cushions, and her cool hands were unlacing his trews, stripping them away. He tried to shrink from her, but could not. She was the cold north, the wind from the ice, the winter darkness. Her naked flesh was frost against his own, but it claimed him, he could not help himself. He shuddered as she moved upon him, and the sea of fog became a sea of ice, the Northern Sea itself, and he was drowning in it, helpless, helpless.

  "You are mine, now, Alaric," she whispered as the sea closed over him. "Mine."

  ****

  HE WOKE GROGGILY. He lay on his back, and above him, rainbows danced wildly. He rubbed his eyes with the backs of both hands and, with an effort, focused his vision. The rainbows coalesced into the gleam of multicolored flames on the smooth leathern surface over his head. He rolled to his side and pushed himself up on one elbow. His naked body seemed twice its natural weight, or perhaps three times.

  Kata sat on the other side of the fire, fully dressed, busy with some small task he could not quite see. In a moment, she looked up.

  "Drink from that flask," she said, gesturing toward his feet. "You'll feel better."

  He glanced downward, saw a leather bottle such as all the nomads carried. But he shrank from it, pulling his feet away as if it would burn them.

  "It's only deer's-milk wine," she murmured.

  His clothes lay tumbled on the cushions beside him. He dressed hurriedly, tying the laces tight, as if that could shut the woman, and the memory of her cold, cold flesh, away. But even with his clothes on he could feel her touch, though she herself sat far beyond his reach.

  "Yesterday you did not believe in magic," she said, and catching his gaze with her own, holding it as a predator holds the gaze of its prey, made him shudder. "You were a witch yourself, but you scoffed at every other form of magic." She smiled slowly, and it was a terrible smile of triumph and possession. Beside it, Zavia's smile had been nothing, less than nothing.

  He knew the tent flap was behind him, knew he could reach it and be outside in the clean, fresh air in a moment, and yet he could not move, could not even look at it over his shoulder. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "I would not scoff now, lady."

  The smile faded at last, replaced by that careful lack of expression, that cool, steady dignity that did not betray the mind behind it. "You have no secrets from me now, Alaric the minstrel. I know your whole life. Your loves. Your fears. Your shames. You are even less fit than I thought to be my daughter's love. But if you would stay with us, I will find some use for you."

  "Some use… ?" he echoed.

  "Are you afraid to serve another witch?"

  He clenched his fists; the flesh of his palms was clammy. "I am a minstrel, lady. I will sing for you…"

  "They all serve me," she said, "in one way or another. And I serve them. Don't be afraid, boy. I will not ask for more than you can give. It is a pity, though, that you cannot teach me your special skill. I could wish to travel by a thought instead of by deer."

  "My lady—"

  "Don't bother denying it, minstrel. I told you, I know everything. From your little love Solinde to your coward's fear of the Red Lord. You could have killed him—you, of all people. But you were afraid of death. That's not an unnatural fear. Do you think anyone breathes who doesn't know it? Some show it less, that's all. But you could have killed him, I think, and escaped with your life. There's where your cowardice showed. You were afraid to chance it. You let your fear keep you from acting for the good of the many."

  He swallowed thickly. "They wouldn't have wanted it, lady. They needed him to keep them safe. They were willing to pay his price for that."

  "So the deer needs the herder," said Kata, "even though he may slaughter it someday. A perverse exchange, wouldn't you say?"

  "Lady, who am I to turn their lives upside down—"

  "Who are you to do justice? Indeed, you are only a minstrel. And will you run from me now, Alaric, so ill named?"

  He wrenched his gaze from her at last and looked down at the carpet beneath his feet. "Lady, I fear you."

  "That is as it should be."

  "You hold my life in your hands."

  She said nothing to that.

  "Will you tell the others about me?"

  "Do you wish me to?"

  He shook his head. "I am not a witch."

  "You cannot deny the name, Alaric."

  "I do deny it. I want to live my life as an ordinary man. I want no power over others, no magic laid to my name. If I must serve you lady, let it be with ordinary skills, with the strength of my arms or with my songs. Let be the rest."

  "Look at me, minstrel."

  Almost against his will, his head lifted and turned toward her, and he looked into her pale eyes, their pupils like dark pits leading deep into her skull. Smoke drifted about her—thin blue smoke, translucent this time, like a nimbus of dawn mist over a river. The fire played a shifting light over her skin, seemed to caress her with its colors, like a living creature.

  "You can run if you wish," she whispered, and her voice was like a breath of wind fanning the flames. "But if you stay with us, you are mine."

  He felt her cold again, as if it moved out from her body in waves and enveloped him, making him shudder in spite of the fire. As if the multicolored flames themselves gave out cold instead of heat. He wanted to leave. He wanted to vanish and find refuge in the forests of the south. There were a thousand places he could go, bowers where the green leaves would hide him away, or lonely roads where no man walked by day or night. He wanted to run from her certainty, from her power. But he could not. She held him, with her eyes, her will, her word.

  "Go now," she said, "and make your choice."

  As if a chain had snapped between them, he staggered back and, groping blindly behind himself, found the tent flap. He nearly fell outside.

  Daylight.

  The camp was awake and bustling, some tents already down, pack-deer standing ready for the day's loads. Alaric squinted against the sunlight. He still felt woozy. Someone caught his arm. Zavia.

  He flinched at her touch. For just an instant, he saw that her eyes were like her mother's, and he felt the cold sweep over him again.

  "Are you ill?" she said.

  He shook his head. The feeling was passing. Yes, her eyes were like her mother's, but still young, still innocent. The acolyte, he thought. No, here was no acolyte, not of that master. Here was simply a passionate young woman with grand dreams. He wondered if she even understood what she aspired to. He closed his arms about her, kissed her there in the bright morning sunlight. Her mouth was soft and clinging and flooded him with warmth.

  What shall I do? he wondered, holding her fast against him.

  "We have to pack up," she whispered.

  A dozen people spoke to him as he and Zavia took the tent down. A dozen smiling, friendly people. They joked as the nomads always joked, and they laughed easily. Some of them were helping Kata to load her deer.

  He stayed away from her, stayed at the tail of the line as the nomads moved north, while she rode near the front with Simir. And though Zavia tried to converse with him as they ambled along through the greening grass, he would not speak. He would not tell her what had happened in her mother's tent, or how it made him feel. He would not tell her that he still didn't know whether to stay or go, to love or to fear, to serve or to fly free. Cold or warm, he thought; is it possible to be both at once?

  ****

  HE SAT BY Simir's fire for a long time that night. Till the embers dulled to red and ceased giving warmth, till the last of the graybeards went to bed. Till even Zavia, sensing his mood, retired to her tent without him. Only he and Simir were left at last, alone among the silent tents, under the distant stars. Alaric had set the lute aside some time since, and he sat with his arms about his knees, his eyes seeing the embers, the past, and nothing at all.

  "Your songs were very sad tonight," said Simir.

  "Were they?" Alaric put his head do
wn on his knee.

  ****

  "A MINSTREL ALWAYS knows more sad songs than any other kind. Perhaps someone should have asked for something brighter."

  "They were fine songs, though. And well sung."

  "Thank you, Simir."

  They sat in silence for a time, and then the high chief said, in a soft voice, "Do you plan to stay by the fire all night, minstrel?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps."

  Simir laid a hand on his shoulder. "Did you and Zavia… quarrel?"

  Alaric shook his head.

  "I thought… perhaps… because of her mother. It was soon to call you to her tent."

  Alaric turned his face toward Simir; he could barely see the man, by starlight and ember-glow. "Soon?"

  "Soon after you and Zavia became lovers. She usually waits till a man's first child is born."

  "Waits? To do what?"

  Simir paused. "Didn't she give you hunting magic?"

  Alaric raised his head. "And how would she do that?"

  "Didn't she take you to her bed?"

  "Is that how it's done? Body to body?"

  "She kept you all night. Everyone assumed…"

  Alaric glanced toward the place where her tent stood, a shadow among shadows. "She didn't mention hunting magic. But perhaps it was included. We spoke of other things. She was curious about my past. She said… she might have certain tasks for me. I don't know what they would be."

  Simir's hand tightened on his shoulder. "If she wants you to go back to the valley, I won't allow it. We have hunters, and brave young men in plenty, but only one minstrel."

  Alaric sighed. "She thought… I might be leaving soon."

  Simir's arm dropped away. The night was very quiet for a moment. At last he said, "Why would she think that?"

  "I've thought it myself."

  He heard Simir climb to his feet, saw the big silhouette loom above him, felt the big hand on his arm, urging him to rise, too.

  "Come, minstrel, walk with me. These are not things we should speak of while others are close enough to hear. Come walk by the river."

  The reflected stars were like drops of silver scattered over the surface of the water, their images shimmering now and then with the breath of the wind or the movement of some fish. Like my life, Alaric thought, placid for a time, and then suddenly convulsed by some outside force.

  Simir was a large shadow beside him, walking, while the river flowed deep and sluggish to one side and the tents receded in the distance behind. "Something is wrong, minstrel," said the high chief.

  Alaric had to laugh ruefully. "Aside from your sons hating me, what could be wrong?"

  "They'll stay away from you now."

  "And your witch thinks I am her personal property."

  "She thinks that of everyone, Alaric. It's nothing."

  "To you, perhaps."

  "Are you restless, minstrel? Are you… sorry that you took up with us?"

  "No, Simir, no. You've been good to me. You're good, kind people, and I find it difficult to imagine you swooping down on the Red Lord's valley to lay waste and leave carnage behind you." He smiled slightly, into the darkness. "All except your sons. I can see them doing it easily."

  "It was long ago," said Simir.

  "I like you people. Most of you. And Zavia—perhaps I love her. But I fear her mother."

  "She is a fearsome woman."

  Alaric sighed. "Has she ever given you hunting magic, Simir?"

  "Why, yes."

  "And… what was the experience like?"

  Simir hesitated. "It was very pleasant."

  "And afterward… did you ever want to go back for more?"

  The high chief's laugh was deep. "I have. Many times."

  Alaric shook his head. No, Simir had not had the same experience. Her magic had been something more familiar for him. Go back for more? he thought. No, not in a thousand years. "I am not used to witches," he said aloud. "We fear them in the south. It is a hard habit to break." There was no way to explain his feelings to Simir, no way short of telling the tale that Kata now knew. He could almost feel her looking over his shoulder at this very moment. Would he always feel that, here in the north? Would he always wonder what way she would find to use her knowledge? To hold him hostage with it, as she had held him with her eyes?"

  "You have been very kind to me, Simir. I like you very much."

  "Are you trying to say good-bye, minstrel?"

  Alaric felt an ache begin, deep inside him. He had never had a home, never. And yet, with the nomads, he had known a kinship, of one wanderer for others, and a sense of comfort that transcended the petty hatreds of Gilo and his brothers. "I don't know, Simir, I don't know. I want to stay. Truly, I do."

  "Then stay. Kata won't harm you, I promise."

  "Ah, Simir, what is harm?"

  "She has our good at heart, Alaric. She takes care of us. We don't fear her, and you—"

  His voice cut off suddenly in a half-stifled cry of surprise, and then someone had seized Alaric from behind, an arm about his throat, choking his breath away. Alaric twisted, staggered, and felt the flat of a knife blade skitter along his shoulder. And then the riverbank gave way beneath his feet, and he and his assailant tumbled, struggling, into the placid water. The shock of the fall made his attacker loose his grip and, kicking wildly, Alaric thrust away, diving, diving for the gravel bed of the stream.

  An eyeblink later, he was crawling up the bank, coughing, gasping, elsewhere. Clutching at the rank grass, he vomited river water. The sound was loud and ugly in the vast emptiness that surrounded him.

  He lurched to his feet. He was safe. He had run, as he always ran, and once again his power had saved him. He took a deep and ragged breath. He was safe.

  But Simir was back there, at that other spot beside the river. Struggling, alone, in the dark. He has been good to me, Alaric thought.

  A heartbeat later, he was there.

  It was a quiet fight, two slim shadows against a bigger one, the only sounds those of hard breathing and scuffling feet, and a distant splashing from the river. They hung on Simir's arms like dogs on a bear. Alaric leaped at the nearest, tore him away from the high chief, and instantly slipped out of reach in his special fashion. The darkness was his friend. He was a wraith, here, there, never where his quarry clutched. The one from the river stumbled into the fight, but Alaric took him on as well, dodging, landing a kick from behind, a punch from beside, then ducking away so that the two of them struck one another, not knowing where their target stood.

  Then Simir came to him, and with a pair of mighty blows knocked his assailants to the ground.

  "Minstrel," he said, his breath coming hard, "are you hurt?"

  Alaric bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs. He felt a little dizzy, and his shoulder was beginning to throb. "I don't think so," he gasped.

  "Ho, a torch for Simir!" the high chief shouted, and his voice boomed toward the camp. "A torch!"

  Sounds of movement came from the tents, and then a brand flared, and another and another. Holding them high, half a dozen of Simir's men followed the trail of his voice.

  The light revealed Gilo, Marak, and Terevli lying on the riverbank. All seemed senseless until, with the torch blazing just above him, Gilo raised his head. His still-swollen face was bleeding, and in his bruise-rimmed eyes was a deep and defiant ugliness.

  Simir kicked him in the side, not too hard, but hard enough to make him grunt. "So you would be high chief now, would you? No need to wait till I'm too old. No need to wait till I say you're ready." He kicked the youth again. "You think they would follow you? As those two dolts do?" He stared down at his eldest son, and his face was grim. "I told myself that time would give you wisdom. I told myself that you were not really a fool. You have shown me how mistaken I was." He turned to one of the torchbearers. "Bind them. Guard them well. In the morning I will give my judgment. Come, minstrel; a cup of wine would not be amiss now."

  Alaric found himself walking a trifle unstead
ily, and his wet clothes made him shiver.

  "You're wounded," said Simir, reaching out to him with both big hands.

  Alaric looked to where Simir's eyes were focused and found that the collar of his tunic had been ripped across, and a ragged cut on his shoulder welled blood. He felt dizzier than ever, seeing it.

  "Kata must bind this up," said the high chief.

  "No! No, it's nothing, I'll see to it myself. But what of you, Simir?"

  "A leather jerkin turns aside a poorly used blade. You should have been wearing one yourself instead of this thin stuff."

  Alaric smiled feebly. "I'm too fast for a knife."

  "Fast indeed," said Simir, and he slung Alaric's good arm over his shoulder and helped him toward the fire. "But for your courage and quickness, I would be dead."

  Alaric shook his head. "You were a match for all of them."

  "I think not."

  "Well, remembering all that courage is making me very weak now, Simir." He sank gratefully to the carpet in front of Simir's tent.

  A few people were looking out of their own tents curiously; Simir beckoned to one of them and sent him for Zavia. "This wound needs care," he said, "and if you won't have the mother, then the daughter must serve."

  Zavia was livid. "I'll kill him for this," she hissed as she peeled Alaric's torn, wet tunic away from his skin.

  "It wasn't Gilo," said Alaric.

  "He planned it."

  "The other two aren't innocent, my Zavia." The salve stung sharply as she spread it over the cut. "He couldn't have moved without them."

  "And they wouldn't have moved without him. Not those two. They don't even breathe unless he tells them—"

  "I'll deal with all three," Simir said firmly. "And you won't kill him, Zavia. You won't have to."

  ****

  THE NEXT DAY, the nomads did not take up their northward journey. Instead, they gathered in conclave, eight-score men, women, and children, all their attention focused on the three bound youths who sat cross-legged by Simir's fire. Even Kata came out of her tent, to stand between her carven staves and watch the proceedings with pale, expressionless eyes.