The Schemes of Dragons wotd-2 Page 8

They were near Garthmorron.

  "My grandfather," Alemar murmured to Wynneth, his voice slurred by exhaustion. "Find him. The rythni will help. Take me there. Take Elenya there. Send the others away." He fainted before he finished the final word.

  X

  ELENYA AWOKE. She lay on a firm straw tick, covered with warm blankets. Wood smoke tickled her nose, and embers popped and crackled nearby. Every sense told her she was safe. She opened her eyes and saw that she was within a woodcutter's one-room cottage.

  Her demonblades and rapier, as well as her gauntlet and amulet, waited on a stool within easy reach. Her clothes, laundered, the tears patched, hung on the nearest wall. Fresh bread and cheese lay on the table, with a flagon of wine. Broth steamed in the hearth.

  Examining her breast, she touched a well-healed scar. She flexed her biceps, and found it stiff but unbruised. A glance in the small mirror beside the bed showed that the abrasions on her face were reduced to flesh-colored areas on her otherwise tan features.

  In spite of this, she felt absolutely awful.

  She tried to control her dizziness as she dragged herself out from under the covers. She noted, gratefully, that the chamber pot had been put close by. She hung on to the bed frame while she used it. By the time she replaced the lid she felt immensely better.

  She tried to stand, but even pulling on the bed with her arms only got her to a stooped-over, bent-knee position. She coughed. The taste in the back of her mouth could have dissolved steel. She stayed there, legs shuddering.

  "Here, now, what do you think you're doing?"

  A man's figure stood framed in the doorway, features obscured by the brilliant daylight behind him. She recognized the voice. "Grandfather," she whimpered. "Help me get back in bed."

  Cosufier Elb-Aratule picked his daughter's daughter up by the small of her back and the rear of her knees, lifted her into a sitting position, and propped up her spine with a pillow. He was still as strong as ever, though a bit grey and weathered.

  "Alemar said you're to remain in bed until he returns," he said as he pulled the blankets over her legs. "You're not out of danger yet." He patted her hair. She realized from the scent and the unmatted texture that he must have washed and combed it for her while she slept.

  "How long has it been?"

  "Three days."

  "That's…"

  "Your lung hemorrhaged," Cosufier said gravely. "He almost didn't save you."

  "I'm not sure he has yet," she said, stifling another wave of nausea.

  Cosufier didn't smile at her attempt at humor. He waved at the hearth. "He had me make a soup-some herbs and things. I don't think you're going to like drinking it."

  She didn't answer. For one thing, her throat ached when she talked, but mainly she knew that she would probably say something flippant, and she had seen her grandfather in this mood before. Her rump had never stung so badly as the time, at age eleven, when she had antagonized him at the wrong moment.

  "How is Alemar?" she asked.

  She wasn't certain, but she thought she saw a flicker of distress on her grandfather's face. "He's better than you are, though he's only been up since last night. He'd be here except that he's gone to rendezvous with a messenger from your father."

  She tried to remember the last few minutes before she'd lost consciousness, but everything after she'd killed Enns was murky. "Is there news?"

  "That's what Alemar has gone to learn," Cosufier said, pouring a small bowlful of broth and holding it out to Elenya.

  She wrinkled her nose. "Smells like oeikani piss."

  "That's the main ingredient."

  She nearly lost her grip on the bowl.

  "I didn't concoct the recipe," her grandfather said indifferently. "I just followed the instructions. He said if it was good enough for Shigmur, it was good enough for you."

  She rolled the broth around in a disconsolate manner, and waited for it to cool. Her grandfather seemed unduly cross. She ran a finger over the pattern etched on the porcelain.

  "This was one of Mother's," she said.

  "Yes. I keep a few things here. It's one of the huts I used to use as gamekeeper."

  "We're on the Garthmorron estate, then?"

  "Deep inside it, yes."

  "Is that wise?"

  "It's territory known only to me and my former assistants. And I don't stay in one place long. Where better to hide than familiar ground?"

  "You've seen the manor recently, then?"

  He nodded, pressing his lips together. "No change. The Dragon's appointee is still in residence. He's let most of the servants be. Hoping, no doubt, a stray word will lead to me, or to you and Alemar."

  "Have you heard from Lord Dran?"

  "He's making the best of his retirement in Aleoth, though I know it hurts him to the quick to face the thought of dying away from Garthmorron. Seven generations of his family are buried in this soil. He had already picked out his tree."

  Nearly as many generations of their own family had found their rest under the boughs of these woods, Elenya knew. And now Cosufier was a fugitive here.

  "I'm sorry, Grandfather."

  The old man shrugged as he threw another log on the fire. "Don't be stupid. If I'm going to blame you for the Dragon's actions I might as well blame Alemar Dragonslayer for killing Gloroc's parents in the first place. Yet if he hadn't, Elandris would never have been built, and Cilendrodel would never have been colonized, and Garthmorron would never have existed. You didn't have any choice about the Dragon hating you."

  His words came out with an odd, bittersweet undertone. He was not telling her something. "Grandfather? What's wrong?"

  He kept his eyes on the fire. "You should have let him go."

  "Who? Enns?"

  "Yes."

  "Grandfather! He tried to kill me! He's responsible for Milec's death!"

  "Yes," he answered wistfully. "Alemar and Wynneth pieced it together, with help from the rythni. He deserved to die. But you took a great risk. You almost died, almost lost the gauntlet. There would have been time for revenge later, under more favorable circumstances."

  "He was mine," she stated.

  "And you got him," Cosufier replied. "It was just luck that your brother found you, instead of one of the patrols Puriel sent to comb the woods around Eruth."

  The back of her throat ached. Why was he being so sharply critical? It was not his nature. "He might have escaped, gone to the Dragon. What would you have had me do?"

  He glanced downward. "Forgive me. You're right. You had no choice," he said quickly, as if sorry he had broached the subject.

  "There's something more, isn't there? Tell me."

  Cosufier sighed. "I am an old fool. I was going to let you rest, not say a word."

  "What is it?"

  He looked up with haunted eyes. "It's gone. It took too much to heal you. Alemar's power is spent."

  Her skin turned to ice. She finally remembered the anguished scream she had heard via the amulet, back at Enns's death site. "But… if he goes on Retreat?" she asked plaintively.

  "We can hope for the best. But tell me, when will he be able to do that?"

  Her hands fumbled at the cup. "I don't know," she said. Even if he were to try, would the Dragon allow him the chance to leave the outside world behind?

  Cosufier exhaled loudly and stepped to the door. "Maybe on some fine day when Gloroc's skull is decorating the mantle in Garthmorron Hall and you've put up your sword to make babies." The undertone of accusation had left his voice; all that remained was melancholy.

  The snap of a twig under his foot echoed between her ears for long moments afterward. She shivered and drew the blanket up tightly over herself. All at once she raised the bowl and drained the contents in one long, searing swallow.

  Or maybe when it rains in the eret-Zyraii, she thought bitterly.

  XI

  THE TREE ROSE HIGH above the delta. The men in the platform at the top commanded an unparalleled view of the estuaries, islands, bogs, and
channels of the lower reaches of the River Sha. Here the land ceased to hide beneath an impenetrable cloak of leaves, giving way to long stretches of reeds, mud banks, and numerous riverside villages of bamboo and thatch, the buildings often perched on stilts. The lookout tree rose from the midst of one of these communities.

  Toren stared wide-eyed at the broad waterway. His gaze kept arching toward the horizon.

  "It's the end of the Wood," he whispered.

  "Yes," Geim said. Behind them lay league upon league of deep forest, a dozen hostile tribes, and long days and nights of travel. The temperate weather of the far South had surrendered to the hot climate of his boyhood. He inhaled deeply the aroma of the delta, and pointed at the lookout platform. "That's an Ogshiel tradition. The Shagas sometimes used to attack from the air."

  Geim had called a halt when the platform had come into view. Now he waved them forward, out from under the trees. There was no infiltrating or detouring around the Ogshiel nation the way they had the other Vanihr lands on their route. Their destination lay at the mouth of the delta, across countless fingers of the Sha. The only way to travel that spiderweb of channels was by boat; a man did not swim this section of the river unless he wanted to be eaten.

  As Geim, Toren, and Deena strode along a wide path through a field of domesticated pomegranate bushes, a horn blast sounded up on the platform. Soon eight warriors loped into sight, spears ready.

  Geim raised his hand. "The river runs clear today."

  The leader of the troop scanned them carefully, pausing on Deena's alien features, and noting Geim's sword. Toren, hair tied up high like Geim, elicited only a brief examination.

  "May it be clear tomorrow," the man replied.

  "I am Han of Three Forks Village," Geim said genially, waving upriver. "We caught our canoe on a snag and it is no longer riverworthy. We would like to hire a boat to take us to Talitha." He gestured at Deena. "We are escorting the lady to her home."

  The villager evaluated the story. The law of the land forbade Ijitians or other foreigners to travel freely on the Vanihr side of the river, but it was quite common for the Ogshiel to hire out their rafts and canoes to merchants and others engaged in travel up and down the length of the Sha. Finally he nodded.

  "Afterward will you need to be taken upstream to your canoe?" he asked.

  "No. We'll be spending a few days in the city," Geim said smoothly.

  The villager grunted. "It's too late in the day to set out. Sleep over and this evening I will find someone who wants the task. What do you offer?"

  Geim jiggled a small pouch. "Market tokens."

  The sentries surrounded the visitors and led them into the village.

  ****

  In the early twilight, Geim sat on the stoop of the guest hut, watching several women bathe near the village wharf, inside a sturdy barricade that protected them from river predators. Deena raised the door cloth and emerged from the portal. She followed his gaze.

  "Your entire race is blessed," she murmured, as one golden-skinned beauty scrubbed another's back. "Even the old ones are trim and smooth."

  "Vanihr do not get old. The gods made us handsome by stealing years from our lives." He had at other times mentioned to her how middle-aged members of his tribe tended to die suddenly from disease or organ failure, rather than slowly wind down to senility and decrepitude. The eldest of the women in the bathing pool was probably in her early fifties.

  "'The Flowers of the Wood,'" she quoted. "So that's what that means."

  He did not comment. One of the girls was striding from the river, teeth white and captivating as she smiled at a companion. She was wringing out her waistlength yellow hair, the rivulet trickling over high, scarcely matured breasts.

  "Geim? Is something wrong?"

  Eventually he lowered his glance to his toes. "I was remembering someone."

  She sat down on the step with him, dangling her feet toward the earth. Geim could see high water marks on the pillar next to her calves. "Do you think the villagers believed you?" she asked.

  Geim was glad to change the subject. "Yes. As long as Toren doesn't open his mouth and let his accent give them the idea he's a scout for a southern tribe, we should have no trouble." At that moment, the other Vanihr was dozing in the main room of the hut. It seemed odd to Geim to think of finally sleeping on something other than bare ground.

  "He's changed," Deena said. "Sometimes I think he's almost grateful that we took his totem." She rubbed the puffy tissue on her forearm where the Amane arrow had emerged.

  "I can't imagine what life would be like, with an active totem inside oneself. As a boy I worshipped my ancestors, of course, but the technique for keeping their spirits alive has been lost to the northern tribes for so long most say it never existed."

  "We would never have made it through the wilderness without his help. I wish we had a proper reward to offer him."

  "Yes." Geim paused to watch the village girl slip on her loincloth. "Yes."

  A series of hailing shouts shifted their attention downstream. A raft had appeared, two sturdy Vanihr youths driving it with long poles. Their load included baskets of merchandise, a pair of milk does, and coils of rope, enough weight to make their work hard in spite of the lazy current. As the newcomers pulled up to the wharf, Geim and Deena could see sweat dripping from their arms and chins. The villagers hurried out to evaluate the quality of the cargo before the light failed.

  Eventually the village chief left the unloading of the raft and approached the guest hut. "These two have just come from Port Ogshi. They'll be taking goods down to Talitha tomorrow. They have room for passengers."

  Geim managed not to jump with alarm when Port Ogshi was mentioned. He thanked the man and went down to the jetty to bargain, resigning himself to a night of little sleep.

  ****

  Geim saw a giant river mong glide past the raft, its dorsal fin knifing the surface. One of the boys lifted his pole out of the way so as not to lose it. The raft rocked in the creature's wake. Geim recalled childhood encounters with the monsters and realized the memories had not become exaggerated over time.

  Excitement over, the boys returned to poling, Geim to his contemplation of the Sha, and Deena and Toren to their language lessons. She pointed to a heron as it flew past, called its name, and Toren repeated it. During the past few weeks his vocabulary and understanding of her tongue had grown far beyond the little Geim had mastered. It was ironic. Now any two of them could talk with each other, but only by leaving the third party out of the conversation.

  Mostly, it had been Geim who had been excluded. Toren and Deena had developed a camaraderie of which he had no part. It was a modest, shy sort of thing. He was not sure they were aware of it yet.

  As the morning wore on, he began to recognize the curves of the river. Shortly before noon they came within sight of a huge village: Port Ogshi, the capital of the nation, his birthplace.

  The boys immediately began navigating toward one of the wharfs. Geim's heart rate began to speed up.

  "Picking up cargo?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone conversational.

  "Yes," the youngster replied, his foot on one of the few baskets of goods that they had loaded upriver. The raft could hold ten times the weight they now carried. "Our brother is waiting for us here." He spoke proudly, obviously still young enough that it made him feel important that he and his junior sibling had been allowed to pilot the raft all by themselves.

  "Going to stay long?"

  "Long enough to take on our cargo," the boy said as if Geim were a fool.

  "Of course," Geim said, and maintained a stony silence as the juveniles tied up, ran up the bank, and disappeared down the broad avenue between a pair of large bamboo and wicker warehouses. Nearby other traders were arriving or leaving. A fishmonger was hawking his wares at the end of the pier.

  "Should we wait with the raft?" Deena asked.

  "Yes," Geim said, rather quickly. "We don't want to disembark here."

  A
s he thought further, he had her sit down behind the small pile of goods already aboard, to draw less attention to her complexion and hair color. He himself kept his face toward the river as much as possible, turning only when he heard the boys' footsteps rattling along the bamboo of the wharf. A man Geim's own age walked beside them, regaling them with descriptions of the excellent haggling he had done while they had been gone.

  "So these are the passengers-" the man began, stepping onto the raft and stopping two paces in front of Geim.

  The man's jaw dropped.

  Every bit of moisture left Geim's mouth. "My friends and I would like to thank you for the transportation," he said hoarsely.

  "Is it truly you?" the man asked.

  Geim chuckled nervously. "I'm afraid so."

  "My great grandfather's ass!" The man pointed to the far end of the raft. "Stay out of view. I'll get us loaded as fast as I can." He jerked a thumb at his shocked little brothers. "Let's move!"

  The boys jumped. The three siblings took the raft to the next pier and began shuttling a stack of merchandise aboard, assisted by Toren. The boys struggled with baskets and chests that would ordinarily be handled by a pair of the porters who could be found lolling on the banks or helping other merchants. The fewer of the village adults who got a look at Geim the better, however. The process took almost an hour, an excruciatingly long wait.

  "I appreciate this, Feirl," Geim told the raft owner as soon as they were under way.

  "What in your mother's name brought you back here?" Feirl demanded.

  "I would have avoided it if it had been practical," Geim said. "I take it that things haven't changed."

  "Ophob is still the chief, if that's what you mean. And he'd still have your balls if he saw you."

  Geim laughed. "Of that I'm certain," he said emphatically. "And Ysmet?"

  "She'd have more than that," Feirl said ominously. "She brought one of the worst bride prices a high chief's eldest daughter ever had to settle for. She's married to Derest, the warehouse owner."