A Darkness at Sethanon (16 page)

Fannon hesitated
before leaving. He was surprised at Martin’s tone and manner.
There was something odd in the way he looked as he left.

Baru quietly
faced Charles. Both men sat upon the floor, their legs crossed. A
small gong rested to the left of Charles and a censer burned between
them, filling the air with sweet pungency. Four candles illuminated
the room. The only furnishings were a mat upon the floor, which
Charles preferred to a bed, a small wooden chest, and a pile of
cushions. Both men wore simple robes. Each had a sword across his
knees. Baru waited while Charles kept his eyes focused upon some
unseen point between them. Then the Tsurani said, “What is the
Way?”

Baru answered.
“The Way consists of discharging loyal service to one’s
master, and of deep fidelity in associations with comrades. The Way,
with consideration for one’s place upon the Wheel, consists of
placing duty above all.”

Charles gave a
single curt nod. “In the matter of duty, the code of the
warrior is absolute. Duty above all. Unto death.”

“This is
understood.”

“What,
then, is the nature of duty?”

Baru spoke
softly. “There is duty to one’s lord. There is duty to
one’s clan and family. There is duty to one’s work, which
provides an understanding of duty to one’s self. In sum they
become the duty that is never satisfactorily discharged, even through
the toil of a lifetime, the duty to attempt a perfect existence, to
attain a higher place on the Wheel.”

Charles nodded
once. “This is so.” He picked up a small felt hammer and
rang a tiny gong. “Listen.” Baru closed his eyes in
meditation, listening to the sound as it faded, diminishing, becoming
fainter. When the sound was fully gone, Charles said, “Find
where the sound ends and silence begins. Then exist in that moment,
for there will you find your secret centre of being, the perfect
place of peace within yourself. And recall the most ancient lesson of
the Tsurani: duty is the weight of all things, as heavy as a burden
can become, while death is nothing, lighter than air.”

The door opened
and Martin slipped in. Both Baru and Charles began to rise, but
Martin waved them back. He knelt between them, his eyes fixed on the
censer upon the floor. “Pardon the interruption.”

“No
interruption, Your Grace,” answered Charles.

Baru said, “For
years I fought the Tsurani and found them honourable foemen. Now I
learn more of them. Charles has allowed me to take instruction in the
Code of the Warrior, in the fashion of his people.”

Martin did not
appear surprised. “Have you learned much?”

“That they
are like us,” said Baru with a faint smile. “I know
little of such things, but I suspect we are as two saplings from the
same root. They follow the Way and understand the Wheel as do the
Hadati. They understand honour and duty as do the Hadati. We who live
in Yabon had taken much from the Kingdom, the names of our gods, and
most of our language, but there is much of the old ways we Hadati
kept. The Tsurani belief in the Way is much like our own. This is
strange, for until the coming of the Tsurani, no others we met shared
our beliefs.”

Martin looked at
Charles. The Tsurani shrugged slightly. “Perhaps we only find
the same truth on both worlds. Who can say?”

Martin said,
“That sounds the sort of thing to take up with Tully and
Kulgan.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “Charles, will
you accept the position of Swordmaster?”

The Tsurani
blinked, the only sign of surprise. “You honour me, Your Grace.
Yes.”

“Good, I
am pleased. Fannon will begin your instruction after I’m gone.”
Martin looked up at the door, then lowered his voice. “I want
you both to do me a service.”

Charles didn’t
hesitate in agreeing to serve. Baru studied Martin closely. They had
forged a bond on the trip to Moraelin with Arutha. Baru had almost
died there, but fate had spared him. Baru knew his fortune was
intertwined in some way with those who had quested for Silverthorn.
Something lay hidden behind the Duke’s eyes, but Baru would not
question him. He would learn what it was in time. Finally he said,
“As will I.”

Martin sat
between the men. He began to speak.

Martin gathered
his cloak about him. The afternoon breeze was chilly, blowing down
from the north. He looked sternward as Crydee disappeared behind the
headlands of Sailor’s Grief. With a nod to the ship’s
captain, he descended the companionway from the quarterdeck. Entering
the captain’s cabin, he locked the door behind. The man who
waited there was one of Fannon’s soldiers, named Stefan, equal
in height and general build to the Duke, and wearing a tunic and
trousers of the same colour as Martin’s. He had been sneaked
aboard in the early hours before dawn, dressed as a common sailor.
Martin took off his cloak and handed it to the man. “Don’t
come up on deck except after night until you’re well past Queg.
Should anything force the ship ashore at Carse, Tulan, or the Free
Cities, I don’t want sailors speaking of my disappearance.”

“Yes, Your
Grace.”

“When you
get to Krondor, there’ll be a carriage waiting for you, I
expect. I don’t know how long you can continue the masquerade.
Most of the nobles who’ve met me will already be en route to
Rillanon, and we’re enough alike to casual observation that
most of the servants won’t know you.” Martin studied his
bogus counterpart. “If you keep your mouth closed, you might
pass as me all the way to Rillanon.”

Stefan looked
disquieted by the prospect of a long siege of playing nobility but
said only, “I will try, Your Grace.”

The ship rocked
as the captain ordered a change of course. Martin said, “That’s
the first warning.” Quickly he stripped off his boots, tunic,
and trousers, until all he wore was his underbreeches.

The captain’s
cabin had a single, hinged window, which opened with a protest.
Martin hung his legs over the edge. From above he heard the captain’s
angry voice. “You’re coming too close to the shore! Hard
a starboard!”

A
confused-sounding helmsman answered, “Aye, captain, hard a
starboard.”

Martin said,
“Good fortune be with you, Stefan.”

“And with
you, Your Grace.”

Martin dropped
from the captain’s cabin. The captain had warned him of the
danger of hitting the large tiller, so Martin easily avoided it. The
captain had brought him as close to shore as was safe, then turned
out for deeper waters. Martin saw the beach less than a mile off. He
was an indifferent swimmer but a powerful man and he set out for the
shore in a series of easy strokes. The rolling swells made it
unlikely anyone in the rigging would notice the man who was falling
far behind them.

A short time
later, Martin staggered up onto the beach, breathing hard. He looked
about, locating landmarks. The action of the currents had carried him
farther south than he had wished. Taking a deep breath, he turned up
the beach and began to run.

After less than
ten minutes, three riders came over a low bluff, moving rapidly down
to the sand. Upon seeing them, Martin halted. Garret was the first to
dismount, while Charles led an extra horse. Baru kept an alert eye
out for sign of anyone in the area. Garret handed Martin a bundle of
clothing. The run up the beach had dried Martin off and he dressed
quickly. Behind the saddle of the extra horse hung an oilskin-covered
longbow.

As Martin
dressed, he said, “Did anyone see you leave?”

Charles
answered, “Garret was already gone from the castle with your
horse before dawn, and I simply instructed the guards I was riding a
short way with Baru as he returned to Yabon. No comment was made by
anyone.”

“Good. As
we learned the last time we faced Murmandamus’s agents, secrecy
is paramount.” Martin mounted and said, “Thank you for
your help. Charles, you and Garret had best return quickly, before
anyone becomes suspicious.”

Charles said,
“Whatever fate brings, Your Grace, may it also bring honour.”

Garret only
said, “Good fortune, Your Grace.”

The four riders
were off, two returning up the coast road to Crydee, two heading away
from the sea, toward the forest, bound for the northeast.

The forests were
quiet, but still punctuated by the normal bird calls and small animal
noises that indicated things were as they should be. Martin and Baru
had ridden hard for days, pushing their horses to the limit of their
endurance. They had crossed the river Crydee hours earlier.

From behind a
tree a figure emerged, dressed in a green tunic and brown leather
breeches. With a wave he said, “Well met, Martin Longbow, Baru
Serpent-slayer.”

Martin
recognized the elf, though he didn’t know him well. “Greetings,
Tarlen. We come seeking counsel with the Queen.”

“Then
travel on, for you and Baru are always welcome in her court. I must
stand watch here. Things have become somewhat strained since last you
guested.”

Martin
recognized the tone of the elf s words. Something had the elves
distressed, but Tarlen wouldn’t speak of it. Martin would need
to see the Queen and Tomas to discover what it was. He wondered. The
last time the elves had seemed this disturbed over something, Tomas
had been at the height of his madness. Martin spurred his horse
forward.

Later the two
riders approached the heart of the elven forests, Elvandar, ancient
home to the elves. The tree city was awash with light, for the sun
was high overhead, crowning the massive trees with brilliance. Leaves
of green and gold, red and white, silver and bronze sparkled across
the canopy of Elvandar.

As they
dismounted, an elf approached. “We shall care for your mounts,
Lord Martin. Her Majesty wishes you to come at once.”

Martin and Baru
hurried up the stairs cut from the bole of a tree into the city of
the elves. Across high arches on the backs of branches and upward
they climbed. At last they reached the large platform that was the
centre of Elvandar, the court of the Queen.

Aglaranna sat
quietly upon her throne, her senior adviser, Tathar, at her side.
Around the court the elder Spellweavers sat, the Queen’s
council. The throne beside her was empty. Her expression was
unreadable to most, but Martin understood elven ways and saw the
strain in her eyes. Still, she was beautiful and regal and her smile
a beacon of warmth as she said, “Welcome, Lord Martin. Welcome,
Baru of the Hadati.”

Both men bowed;
then the Queen said, “Come, let us talk.” She rose and
led them to a chamber, accompanied by Tathar. Inside she turned and
bade them sit. Wine and food were brought but ignored as Martin said,
“Something is wrong.” It was not a question.

Aglaranna’s
expression of concern deepened. Martin had not seen her this troubled
since the Riftwar. “Tomas is gone.”

Martin blinked.
“Where?”

Tathar answered.
“We do not know. He vanished in the night, a few days after the
Midsummer’s Festival. Occasionally he would wander off to be
with his own thoughts, but never for more than a day. When he did not
appear after two days, trackers were dispatched. There were no tracks
from Elvandar, though that is not surprising. He has other means of
travelling. But in a glade to the north we found marks from his
boots. There were signs of another man there, sandal prints in the
dirt.”

Martin said,
“Tomas went to meet with someone, then didn’t return.”

“There was
a third set of tracks,” said the Elf Queen. “A dragon’s.
Once again the Valheru flies upon the back of a dragon.”

Martin sat back,
understanding. “You fear a return of the madness?”

“No,”
said Tathar instantly. “Tomas is free of that and, if anything,
is stronger than he suspects. No, we fear Tomas’s need to
depart in such a manner without word. We fear the presence of
another.”

Martin’s
eyes widened. “The sandals?”

“You know
what power is needed to enter our forests undetected. Only one man
before has had the ability: Macros the Black.”

Martin pondered.
“Perhaps he’s not the only one. I understand Pug to have
stayed upon the Tsurani world to study the problem of Murmandamus and
what he called the Enemy. Perhaps he has returned.”

“Which
sorcerous master it is proves of little import,” said Tathar.

It was Baru who
spoke next. “What is important is that two men of vast powers
are about upon a mission of mystery, at a time when it seems troubles
have returned from the north.”

Aglaranna said,
“Yes.” She said to Martin, “Rumours have reached us
of the death of one who was close to you.” In the elven way she
avoided naming the dead.

“There are
things I may not speak of, lady, even to one as highly regarded as
you. I have a duty.”

“Then,”
asked Tathar, “may I ask where you are bound, and what brings
you here?”

“It is
time to go north again,” said Martin, “to finish what was
started last year.”

“It is
well you came this way,” said Tathar. “We have seen signs
from the coast to the east of massive goblin migrations northward.
Also the moredhel are bold with their scouting along the edge of our
forests. They seem intent on discovering if any of our warriors pass
beyond our normal boundaries. There have been sightings of bands of
renegade humans riding northward, close to the boundary with Stone
Mountain, as well. The gwali have fled south into the Green Heart, as
if fearing something approaching. And for months we have been visited
by some ill-aspected wind of evil, which carries some mystic quality,
as if power were being drawn to the north. We are concerned over many
things.”

Baru and Martin
exchanged glances. “Things move at swift pace,” said the
Hadati.

Further
conversation was halted when a shout went up from below and an elf
appeared at the Queen’s elbow. “Majesty, come, a
Returning.”