In the Red Lord's Reach Read online

  "If you've never drunk this before, take care," said Fowsh. "It goes to the head."

  Alaric looked into his wooden cup. "What is it?"

  "A wine we make from deer's milk."

  The taste was odd, but not unpleasant. Having known some of the headiest wines of the south, Alaric limited himself to that cup, and to cold sweet water from a nearby brook.

  They were a family group, the people at this fire. The young woman was Fowsh's wife, mother of the child; the youth was his brother; the elderly pair, his parents. They sat easily with each other, speaking about the small things of the day, the plans for the morrow. The whole camp would be packing up in the morning, moving north. To the calving grounds, they explained to Alaric, so that the does might drop their young.

  "You are welcome to come along," said the gray-beard, "if you'll sing for us again."

  "I need little urging to sing," said Alaric, and he took up his lute. He gave them a cheerful song this time, the tale of the shepherd who fell asleep when he should have been guarding his flock, and who, on waking, found that the sheep had carried him home on their backs, and performed all of his evening duties to keep him from being punished. He had his hosts laughing—and a good many of their neighbors—at the antics of the sheep, who were so much more industrious than their keeper. After the song, a man from a neighboring fire came by to offer Alaric a cup of deer's-milk wine, but he refused it politely. He was already almost drunk on the reaction of his audience. But he did take more water, to keep his throat moist.

  "You have a great skill," said the graybeard.

  "I thank you, kind sir. I fear it is my only skill, though it has served me well so far."

  "You have traveled much, you say. Tell us, pray, about life beyond the mountains."

  Alaric shrugged. "To be honest, sir, I would rather sing. All of my life, every mile I have journeyed, every castle I have stayed in, every hovel, is somewhere in my songs. If I had to speak of it all, I would not know where to begin. Let me give you more music, for that fine supper was worth more than just a pair of songs."

  And so he sang deep into the night, while the fires burned and burned and finally shrank to embers, while the children fell asleep in their parents' laps and even the parents began to nod. Little by little, as the needle-bright stars wheeled in the sky, his audience thinned, retiring to the circle of tents, until finally only Fowsh and his wife were left, barely visible in the fading ember-glow.

  "Enough, minstrel," the herder said at last. "You will have no voice left for tomorrow."

  But the songs had been low for some time, almost lullabies, and Alaric's throat was young and strong. He knew he would be able to sing in the morning. Still, his body was tired with the long walk of the day, and so he set aside his lute.

  Fowsh brought a bearskin from his tent and held it out to Alaric.

  "Thank you, but I have a good cloak to cover me," said Alaric.

  "Dawn comes cold on the plain," said the man. "You may be glad of something heavier by then. Take it and welcome; we have others."

  "You are most kind, sir."

  Fowsh and his wife stood over him for a moment, arm in arm, their bodies faintly silhouetted against the stars. "Minstrel," the herder said at last, "the Northern Sea is no legend. I have never been there, but some among our people have. We will meet them at the calving grounds. If you wish to see it, you must go with them."

  Alaric yawned. "Do they cook as well as you?"

  The herder laughed softly. "So they claim."

  "Then I will consider your suggestion."

  Still laughing, Fowsh took his wife into their tent.

  Alaric slept easy that night for the first time since leaving the Red Lord's domain, and he dreamed of rolling plains of soft herbs, and trees with pale fur pelts, and a sapphire brook; a gentle place where by law, nothing red could flow.

  In the morning, Alaric's new traveling companions struck camp with a speed that amazed him. The tents came apart, each into three or four pieces, and were transformed into pouches for clothing, rugs, cooking utensils. Bound with ropes, these packs were lashed to the waiting deer. Atop them went bundles of posts that had tethered the herd or supported the deer-hide shelters. The sun had barely risen twice its breadth above the horizon when the whole encampment was mounted and ready to move northward.

  Alaric bestrode his steed of the previous day, with a bridle this time and some small confidence. Around him, Fowsh's family was mounted as well, and in addition to their riding deer, they had six pack animals to carry their household goods. Not far away, Alaric saw his host's companion of yesterday with another such group.

  Alaric neither saw nor heard any signal, but suddenly his group was in motion, the creature beneath him lumbering forward in its graceless fashion. The whole crowd, perhaps threescore people and twice that many animals, ambled northward, with the rising sun to their right and the mountains far behind. Looking back a few moments later, Alaric saw their camping place: the trampled grass, the dozen dark patches where fires had burned. A few moments more, and it had melted into the plain, as if it had never been. Alaric smiled and shook his head as he recalled how he had thought of their living place as a village. A village it was, of course; but a village on deer back.

  The members of Fowsh's family shifted their positions here and there in the crowd, gossiping with friends, or swinging far to one side of the line for some time alone. At one point, the herder's wife caught up with Alaric.

  "Minstrel," she said, after riding beside him in silence for a time, "was it very long ago?"

  He glanced at her for just an instant; he needed most of his attention for the inequities of the ground, to anticipate his steed's clumsier movements. "Was what very long ago, lady?" he asked.

  "Your song of last evening. The knight and the princess and the enchantment. Did it happen long ago?"

  Alaric hesitated. Though most folk he met believed in magic, he did not. He had traveled much and yet never seen any real magic, save his own power, and that was just a natural thing, a gift of birth, no black art learned in the hush of darkness. His only concern with magic was that he not be taken, by the fearful, for a dabbler in that art. He had never given a thought to any truth that might lie in the tale of the crystal tree. "It is just a song, good lady," he said.

  "Was it not founded on some true occurrence?"

  For another moment he was silent, and then, slowly, he said to her, "In all truth, I do not know. It is a very old song."

  "Oh." Disappointment colored that small sound. "And there was never anyone to help them?"

  "Not that I have ever heard."

  "Did he never search for help?"

  Alaric had to shrug. "You ask questions that I cannot answer, lady."

  "A witch could have broken the spell," she said firmly. "If only he had come to us, he would have gotten his princess back."

  The young minstrel smiled slightly. "Have you a witch among you?"

  "Of course. Do you think we could live here in the north without one?"

  "Well…I'm sure I don't know. Just now, the north seems pleasant enough, but I recall last night there was some mention of terrible storms…" He chanced another brief glance in her direction. "Who would this witch be? Yourself?"

  "I?" There was startlement in her voice. "Do I look like a witch?"

  "I have met a few witches in my day," he said. "I don't recall that they had any special appearance in common."

  "Had they no amulets, no carven staves, no smell of sweet spice about them?"

  "Are those the things that mark a witch among you?"

  "Of course."

  He shrugged once more. "Well, it is not so in other lands. The world is wide, and there are many customs in its many corners. But if you are not the witch, who is? I saw no amulets, no carven staves last night. Perhaps your witch does not care for music?"

  "Kata is our witch," she said, "and she spends most of her time with the band of Simir, our high chief. I do not know if she lik
es music. You will see her at the calving grounds and may find out for yourself."

  "She is a woman of great power, is she?"

  "Very great power. She brings the good weather every year."

  "Indeed?"

  "And gives us hunting magic. You ate the fruits of her skill last night, that stewed rabbit and those roasted birds."

  "I thought Fowsh's father shot them."

  "Of course. Long ago Kata gave him hunting magic."

  "Indeed?"

  "And if my Fowsh ever needs it, she will give some to him."

  "He is a successful hunter without any magic?"

  "No, he never hunts. The deer are his work. But someday his father will grow too old for hunting, and then another member of the family will go out after game. Either Fowsh or Oren. And Kata will see to their success."

  "A valuable woman," Alaric murmured.

  He had seen witches before, both women and men, who said they knew potent spells, who chanted strange phrases and made passes in the air with their hands, who had the folk of the neighborhood convinced of their power. Such people were usually feared and hated, usually outcasts, often murdered in their sleep or when their backs were turned. In a few places, though, they were kept and even coddled by men whose armies gave them mastery over commoner folk, men who thought a few mystic powers could be useful. When he was younger, Alaric had feared witches, feared that their preternatural sensibilities would find him out, that they would expose him for the creature he was, and even destroy him out of jealousy or self-protection. Yet that had never happened. All the spell casters he had ever met had proved to be frauds: some of them merely poor old women, accused by neighbors seeking a cause for the failure of crops; some of them self-proclaimed but just as empty, deceiving folk for their own advantage. There were real witches in the world, Alaric knew, but they were all of his own blood, and their only mystic power was the one he possessed.

  Is this Kata such a one? he wondered.

  Alaric was an excellent hunter, in his own way. But his gift was not one that could be given away. And controlling the weather? No, she is a fraud, he thought, tricking these people into believing she makes life in the north easier. He shook his head slowly. She must be quite a persuader, this Kata.

  And he found himself curious, most curious, to meet her.

  Shortly after noon, the band stopped to make camp. As soon as the deer had been relieved of their burdens, they were taken out to graze, scattering to the west in groups of a dozen or two, each accompanied by a pair of herders. Other men and boys started northeastward on foot, some following the course of a slow-moving stream, some crossing it and drifting beyond, to search for small game. Alaric stayed at the camp with the women and small children, making himself useful to Fowsh's wife—laying out rugs, clearing a space for the fire, fetching water. Later he sang a little—gay and pretty songs—and the children gathered round him to listen, and to stretch shy fingers out to touch the lute. He even took a few of them on his knee in turns and let them pluck the strings.

  Fowsh's father and brother returned with a bag of hares and a large fish, and by the time the herders had brought back their charges, a savory supper was ready. This time Alaric ate first and then sang, and once again, his listeners were silent, entranced. Late into the night he sang, and he could not help feeling that he had never sung so well in castle or manor house as within that circle of tents. But he stopped this night before he quite lost all his audience, and just as he was settling down for sleep, Fowsh's neighbors came to ask if he would share supper with them the following night.

  And so Alaric began to move among the nomads, from family to family, from fire to fire, as they all paid him in turn with the only coin they had. He ate well, he slept warm, and if rain came by night, there was always a corner for him in some dry, snug tent. The society of the nomads was a place of rare hospitality; it enclosed him like a bright cocoon, and it made the mountains seem very far away.

  A month passed, and as the band traveled steadily northward, Alaric came to know them all, adults and children, graybeards and clean-shaven. They were a close-knit people, always ready to laugh and cry with each other, always ready to work together for the common good, to share in each other's cooking pots or to help in finding strayed livestock. Their leader, Nuriki, a man in his prime, a hunter and owner of many deer, was related in one way or another to virtually all of them. To Alaric he seemed less a commander than a gatherer of consensus, less a judge than a negotiator; certainly, no one treated him with the deference accorded even a minor noble in the south. There was no need for Alaric to please him especially, as he would have had to please a southern lord; Nuriki was happy just to be part of the audience. Alaric liked him for that. Indeed, he liked the whole band, every man and woman among them seemed his friend. He was comfortable with Nuriki's people as he had never been with other folk before.

  Their northward movement seemed almost to keep pace with spring, and so when they finally arrived at the calving grounds, the season was still young, the grass still new underfoot. The calving grounds themselves seemed no different than any other part of the plain, save that they were occupied by so great a throng of people and deer—a chuffing, stamping sea of deer. There were no enclosures for the animals here; they roamed free in a vast, seething mass. It was the tent clusters, set on the fringes of that enormous herd, that were fenced, the ropes and posts now serving to keep the animals out.

  A faint pall of smoke from a thousand cookfires overhung the area, and a constant hum, a wavering blend of human and animal voices, enveloped it. Alaric's companions selected an empty space at the southern edge of the herd for their campsite, and as soon as their deer had been stripped of all burdens, even before a single tent had been raised, Fowsh and the other herders escorted the animals into that milling, bawling mass.

  "How will you ever find your own deer again?" Alaric wondered aloud. He was helping an elderly woman, his most recent host, to lace the pieces of a tent together with deer sinew.

  She looked up at him with incomprehension in her eyes. "How not?" she said.

  "There are so many."

  She grinned, showing gaps among her front teeth. "Yes, more than when I was young. Many more." She nodded. "The north has been good to us, these years."

  "So it seems," said Alaric, looking out upon the chaos of fur and antlers that had swallowed Fowsh and his beasts as a pond swallows pebbles. He put the question to Fowsh when the men reappeared.

  "We know our deer and they know us," Fowsh replied. "Gathering them up will not be as hard as you think."

  In his absence, the tents had all been set in their circle; now the campfires, fueled by deer droppings, were blazing heartily, and in a dozen pots, the midday meal was simmering.

  Hunting had been poor these last few days, with band after band crossing the same territory, and so there were only roots and fragments of dried meat in the stew. But tomorrow, Alaric knew, deer would be slaughtered, and the nomads would begin to feast.

  "I have passed the news that we have a minstrel among us," Fowsh said, watching his wife stir their pot with steady, graceful strokes.

  His mother leaned out of her tent. "You could have waited," she said. "You could have held one more night of him for ourselves before you gave him away."

  Fowsh laughed softly. "One more song, you mean, Mother. I doubt we could keep him secret longer than that."

  "You have been kind to me," Alaric said. "I will not forget that kindness. But I have consumed your substance long enough. It is time others knew the burden of feeding me.

  "It has not been a burden, minstrel." He shook his head. "Nuriki's daughter sings. Or calls it singing, anyway. But she has not opened her mouth since you came to us. After we lose you, I suppose she will take it up again." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, there will be song and music in plenty while we are here in the calving grounds. There are other bands with singers and drums and flutes, and there will be dancing to all the old, familiar tunes." He gr
inned at Alaric, his pale eyes crinkling. "Mark me," he said, "Simir will claim you in the end."

  "Simir?"

  "The high chief. He will offer the most comfort, the best food, the finest diversions. His band is the largest of all. And he goes north when the calving is done."

  "To the Northern Sea?"

  "Some of his hunters have seen it."

  "And Nuriki's band?"

  "No farther than this, minstrel. We are the soft southerners of this country. Life is too hard for us in the north." He laid a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "Take my advice, lad: if you must visit the Northern Sea, go in company. It is easy to die if you go alone."

  "I shall not forget."

  Fowsh grinned again. "Good. And now, if you will, give us a last song for Nuriki's people before someone spirits you away to another fire and a better midday meal."

  And it was a last song because, before it was half-finished, folk from other camps had drifted near to listen to Alaric's clear, strong voice and the liquid coursing of his lute. It was a last song because, when it was done, a clamor, of voices called out invitations, and Fowsh himself advised Alaric on which offer of food and drink was most worthy. It was a last song because the people that Fowsh indicated then surrounded the minstrel and swept him off, leaving Nuriki's circle to fade away in the distance, just one more group of tents among many.

  His meal with the new band was as good as Fowsh had promised, a hot thick stew of small game, a lucky hunter's bounty, well laced with aromatic herbs. Alaric sang after he ate a modest serving, and his new audience was just as entranced as the old.

  Days passed, and the minstrel was shuttled from fire to fire and meal to meal, and he never lacked for praise. Yet he moved only on the fringes of the nomads' gathering. His was a small circle of entertainment, one of many in that vast company, circles of gossip and barter and matchmaking. When he was not singing, he wandered among the tents, listening to folk discussing their animals or trading news, or watching them barter rope, fine leatherwork, furs, and packets of herbs; he even saw a wedding, the bride and groom making their vows before a crowd of elders. And at night, sometimes, he went to the heart of the gathering, where tents stood shoulder to shoulder about a wide clearing with a huge blaze at its center. There by the roaring flames, the nomads danced to the steady beat of drums and the lively trill of flutes, and there they often sang, though to Alaric's ear the tunes were almost too monotonous to call music. Still, he listened sharply, in hopes of finding fresh material for his own verses, and sometimes he felt his own blood answering those steady pulses of sound. .