A Darkness at Sethanon (14 page)

“Her own
fate. But I think another sort of salvation was spoken of, one for
you both.”

“You are
perceptive, magician. The star around which this world moves is close
to dying. Its erratic cycle is the cause of this planet’s
ruination. Already we endure an age of vulcanism not seen for aeons.
Within a hand’s span of years this world will end in fiery
death. We stand upon the third world to be called home by the Aal.
But now our race has vanished into time, and we lack the means of
finding a fourth world. To answer your needs, you must be willing to
answer ours.”

“Relocating
you to another world is no difficulty. There are less than a dozen of
you. It is agreed. Perhaps we may even find a way to prevent
another’s mind being sacrificed.” He inclined his head
toward the figure of the cowering girl.

“That
would be preferable, but we have not as yet discovered means. Still,
if you will find us a haven, I will answer your queries. A bargain
has been set.”

“This,
then, I propose. Upon my world I have means to ensure a place of
safekeeping for you and yours. I am counted kin to our King by
adoption, and he will be favourably disposed to my request. But know
that my world stands in peril, and you will share that risk.”

“That is
unacceptable.”

“Then we
shall have no bargain, and all will perish. For I will fail in my
undertaking, and this world will vanish in a cloud of flaming gases.”

The woman
remained grave in appearance. After a long silence she said, “I
shall amend our bargain. I will provide you with the power of the
oracle, in exchange for this safe haven, when you have completed your
quest.”

“Quest?”

“I read
the future, and as we near agreement, the lines of probability
resolve themselves and the most likely future is revealed to my
sight. Even as we speak, I see what you will undertake, and it is a
way fraught with perils.” She stood silently for a moment, then
softly said, “Now I understand what you face. I agree to these
terms, as you must.”

Pug shrugged.
“Agreed. When all has been favourably resolved, we shall carry
you to a place of safety.”

“Return to
the cavern.”

Pug opened his
eyes. Tomas and the servants of the oracle stood as they had done
when he had begun the mind contact. He asked Tomas, “How long
have I been standing here?”

“A few
moments, no longer.”

Pug stepped away
from the girl. She opened her eyes, and her voice was strong,
untainted by madness, but carrying a hint of the alien woman’s
speech. “Know that darkness unfolds and gathers, coming from
where it has been confined, seeking to regain that which was lost, to
the utter ruination of all you love, to the redemption of all you
hold in terror. Go and find the one who knows all, who has from the
first understood the truth. Only he can guide you to the final
confrontation, only he.”

Tomas and Pug
exchanged glances, and even as Pug spoke, he knew the answer to his
question. “Whom must I seek?”

The girl’s
eyes seemed to pierce his soul. Calmly she said, “You must find
Macros the Black.”

M
artin
crouched.

He motioned for
those behind to remain quiet as he listened for movement in the deep
thicket. Sundown was approaching and animals should have been
appearing at the edge of the pond. But something had driven away most
of the game. Martin hunted the source of that disruption. The woods
were silent except for the sound of birds overhead. Then something
rustled in the brush.

A stag leaped
forward, bounding over the edge of the clearing. Martin dodged to his
right, avoiding the stag’s antlers and flying hooves as the
frightened animal sprang past. He could hear the scurrying of his
companions as they avoided being trampled by the fleeing animal. Then
Martin heard a deep grumbling sound issuing from where the stag had
fled. Whatever had spurred the animal into flight was approaching
through the undergrowth. Martin waited, his bow ready.

He watched as
the bear limped into view. At a time it should be getting fat and
glossy, this animal was weak and scrawny, as thin as if it had just
emerged from a long winter’s sleep. Martin studied it as it
lowered its head to drink from the pool. Some injury had lamed the
animal, sickening it and preventing it from getting the food it
needed. Two nights before the bear had mauled a farmer who had
attempted to defend his milk cow. The man had died and Martin had
been tracking the bear since. It was a rogue and had to be killed.

The sound of
horses carried through the woods, and the bear’s muzzle came up
as it sniffed the air. A questioning growl escaped its throat as it
rose on hind legs, followed by an angry roar as it smelted horses and
men. “Damn!” said Martin as he stood, drawing his bow. He
had hoped to get a cleaner shot, but the animal would turn and flee
in a moment.

The arrow sped
across the clearing, taking the bear below the neck in the shoulder.
It was not a quick killing shot. The animal pawed at the shaft, its
growls a bubbling, liquid sound. Martin came around the pond, his
hunting knife out, his three companions behind. Garret, now
Huntmaster of Crydee, let fly his own arrow as Martin raced toward
the bear. The second shaft took the beast in the chest, another
serious but not yet fatal wound. Martin sprang at the bear while it
pawed at the arrows embedded in its thick fur. The Duke of Crydee’s
large hunter’s knife struck deep and true, taking the weak and
confused animal in the throat. The bear died as it hit the ground.

Baru and Charles
followed, their bows at the ready. Charles, short and bandy-legged,
wore the same green leather clothing as Garret’s, the uniform
of a forester in Martin’s service. Baru, tall and muscular,
wore a plaid of green and black tartan - signifying the Iron Hills
Clan of the Hadati - slung over one shoulder, leather trousers, and
buckskin boots. Martin knelt over the animal. He worked at the bear’s
shoulder with his knife, turning his head slightly at the sweetish,
rotting stench that came up from the gangrenous wound, then he sat
back, showing a bloody, pus-covered arrowhead. He said to Garret in
disgust, “When I was Huntmaster for my father, I often ignored
a little poaching here and there during a lean year. But if you find
the man who shot this bear, I want him hung. And if he has anything
of value, give it to the farmer’s widow. He murdered that
farmer as much as if he had shot him instead of the bear.”

Garret took the
arrowhead and examined it. “This arrowhead is home-cast, Your
Grace. Look at this odd line running down the side of the head. The
man who cast these doesn’t file the heads. He’s as sloppy
in his fletchery as his hunting. If we find a quiver of arrowheads
with the same flaw, we have our man. I’ll pass word to the
trackers.” Then the long-faced Huntmaster said, “If Your
Grace had reached that bear before I’d hit it, we might have
had two murders to charge the poacher with.” His tone was
disapproving.

Martin smiled.
“I had no doubt of your aim, Garret. You’re the only man
I know who’s a better shot than I. It’s one of the
reasons you’re Huntmaster.”

Charles said,
“And because he’s the only one of your trackers who can
keep up with you when you decide to hunt.”

“You do
set a fast pace, Lord Martin,” agreed Baru.

“Well,”
said Garret, not entirely appeased by Martin’s answer, “we
might have had one more good shot before the bear ran.”

“Might,
might not. I’d rather jump it here in the clearing, with you
three coming, than try to follow it into the brush, even with three
arrows in it.” He motioned toward the thicket a few yards away.
“It could get a little tight in there.”

Garret looked at
Charles and Baru. “No argument as to that, Your Grace.”
He added, “Though it got a mite close out here.”

A calling voice
sounded a short way off. Martin stood. “Find out who is making
all that noise. It almost cost us this kill.” Charles hurried
off.

Baru shook his
head as he regarded the dead bear. “The man who wounded this
bear is no hunter.”

Martin looked
about the woods. “I miss this, Baru. I might even forgive that
poacher a little for giving me an excuse to get away from the
castle.”

Garret said,
“It’s a thin excuse, my lord. By rights you should have
left this to me and my trackers.”

Martin smiled.
“So Fannon will insist.”

Baru said, “I
understand. For almost a year I stayed with the elves and now you. I
miss the hills and meadows of the Yabon Highlands.”

Garret said
nothing. Both he and Martin understood why the Hadati had not
returned. His village had been destroyed by the moredhel chieftain
Murad. And while Baru had avenged it by killing Murad, he no longer
had a home. Someday he might find another Hadati village in which to
settle, but for the time being he chose to wander far from home.
After his wounds had healed at Elvandar, he had come to Crydee to
guest for a while with Martin.

Charles
returned, a soldier of Crydee behind. The soldier saluted and said,
“Swordmaster Fannon requests you return at once, Your Grace.”
Martin exchanged a quick glance with Baru. “What’s afoot,
I wonder?”

Baru shrugged.

The soldier
said, “The Swordmaster took the liberty of sending extra
mounts, Your Grace. He knew you’d left on foot.”

Martin said,
“Lead on,” and they followed the soldier to where others
waited with mounts. As they readied themselves for the return to
Castle Crydee, the Duke felt a sudden disquiet.

Fannon stood
waiting for them as Martin dismounted. “What is it, Fannon?”
said Martin as he slapped at the road dust on his green leather
tunic.

“Has Your
Grace forgotten Lord Miguel will arrive this afternoon?”

Martin looked at
the lowering sun. “Then he’s late.”

“His ship
was sighted beyond the point at Sailor’s Grief an hour ago.
He’ll be passing Longpoint lighthouse into the harbour within
the next hour.”

Martin smiled at
his Swordmaster. “You’re right, of course. I had
forgotten.” Almost running up the stairs, he said, “Come
and talk with me, Fannon, while I change.”

Martin hurried
toward his quarters, once occupied by his father, Lord Borric. Pages
had drawn a hot tub and Martin quickly stripped off his hunter’s
garb. He took the strongly scented soap and washing stone and said to
the page, “Have plenty of cold fresh water here. This scent is
something my sister might like, but it cloys my nose.” The page
left to fetch more water.

“Now,
Fannon, what brings the illustrious Duke of Rodez from the other side
of the Kingdom?”

Fannon sat upon
a settee. “He is simply travelling for the summer. It is not
unheard of, Your Grace.”

Martin laughed.
“Fannon, we’re alone. You can drop the pretence. He’s
bringing at least one daughter of marriageable age.”

Fannon sighed.
“Two. Miranda is twenty and Inez is fifteen. Both are said to
be beauties.”

“Fifteen!
Gods, man! She’s a baby.”

Fannon smiled
ruefully. “Two duels have been fought already over that baby,
according to my information. Remember, these are easterners.”

Martin stretched
out to soak. “They do tend to get into politics early back
there, don’t they?”

“Look,
Martin, like it or not, you are Duke - and brother to the King.
You’ve never married. If you didn’t live in the most
remote corner of the Kingdom, you’d have had sixty social
visits since your return home, not six.”

Martin grimaced.
“If this turns out like the last, I’m going to return to
the forests and the bears.” The last visit had been from the
Earl of Tarloff, vassal to the Duke of Ran. His daughter had been
charming enough, but she tended to the flighty and had giggled, a
trait that set Martin’s teeth on edge. He had left the girl
with vague promises to visit Tarloff someday. “Still,” he
said, “she was a pretty enough thing.”

“Pretty
has little to do with it, as you well know. Things are still reeling
in the East, even though it’s approaching two years since King
Rodric’s death. Guy du Bas-Tyra’s out there somewhere
doing what only the gods know. Some of his faction still wait to see
who will be named Duke of Bas-Tyra. With Caldric dead and the office
of Duke of Rillanon also vacant, the East is a tower of sticks. Pull
the wrong one and it will all come down on the King’s head.
Lyam is well advised by Tully to wait for sons and nephews. Then he
can put more allies in office. It would do well for you not to lose
sight of the facts of life for the King’s family, Martin.”

“Yes,
Swordmaster,” Martin said, with a regretful shake of his head.
He knew Fannon was right. Once Lyam had elevated him to the position
of Duke of Crydee, he had lost a great deal of his freedom, with even
greater losses to come, or so it seemed.

Three pages
entered with buckets of cold water. Martin stood and let them pour
the water over him. Shivering, he wrapped himself in a soft towel,
and when the pages were gone, he said, “Fannon, what you say is
obviously right, but . . . well, it’s not even a year since
Arutha and I returned from Moraelin. Before that . . . it was that
long tour of the East. Can’t I have a few months just to live
quietly at home?”

“You did.
Last winter.”

Martin laughed.
“Very well. But it would seem to me that there is a lot more
interest in a rural duke than is required.”

Fannon shook his
head. “More interest than is required in the brother to the
King?”

“None of
my line could claim the crown, even if three, maybe soon four, others
didn’t stand in succession before me. Remember, I abdicated any
claim for my posterity.”

“You are
not a simple man, Martin. Don’t play the woodsy with me. You
may have said whatever you wished on the day of Lyam’s
coronation, but should some descendant of yours be in a position to
inherit, your vows won’t count a tinker’s damn if some
faction in the Congress of Lords wishes him King.”