Lyrec (24 page)

“Your actions are prudent, captain. I’ll remember that.” Cheybal sat down behind his desk. “Now tell me
why
, Faubus. Is it sorcery again? The same death as Dekür suffered?”

“No, commander. It’s a much simpler explanation, and the why of it is simpler still. It won’t enliven the coronation much, and it’s likely to cause more deaths.”

“You dramatize well. That’s good for poetry but I have little tolerance for poetry.”

“And that, sir, happens to be the why of it. Intolerance. The village of Ukobachia was set to the torch by members of the village of Trufege.”

“Oh.” He sighed as if from pain, then put his fists to his head and fell silent, head bowed. The servant he had called returned with two mugs and a platter of food. He normally would not have left until Cheybal thanked him and let him go, but Cheybal paid him no mind. Faubus mouthed the words “thank you” and gestured for him to leave.

When Cheybal raised his head again, he was surprised to find the food right in front of him. He told Faubus to eat but took none for himself.
 

“Before I do anything about this, I have to know that you have absolutely no doubt as to their identity.”

“We found their priest, commander—I don’t know his name, but I’m certain the Hespet could tell you, since, as you no doubt recall, he sent him there not long ago. That seemed odd to me and I’d like to inquire whether or not the Hespet had advised the priest of Trufege recently on anything. I’m
speculating, of course. I had a lot of time to think about this on the ride back. I’m not saying there was any evidence of the Hespet’s involvement. But I can’t help wondering why that particular priest was assigned to that particular village. Whatever the case, the priest got his due. He’d been beheaded, so I assume the Kobachs gave some account of themselves.”

Cheybal folded his hands. “The blame is placed. What astounds me is how quickly it happened. You do want to look into this business with the priests—in fact I’m ordering you to. I find it virtually impossible to believe Sly—the Hespet, rather—is responsible when he’s forever decrying prejudice against witches. More likely this other priest incited his followers into the act. Trufege’s had its share of troubles, to be sure, but that will hardly mitigate this atrocity. The edict will have to be harsh and quick, else the murderers will find some excuse to make their actions seem the result of a misunderstanding that paints them charitably. And we have to make an example. Now, especially now, with Tynec stepping into the role.”

Faubus said nothing. He ate and drank while Cheybal called out for scribes. When they had gathered, the commander stood and paced behind his desk. “I want a proclamation drawn up,” he told them, “against the village of Trufege and all of its inhabitants. First, they are to be banned from attending the coronation ceremonies. Any who have come here will have a day to leave. The coronation will wait an extra day without any difficulties, I’m sure. The vendors will adore us. Secondly, the village is to be ostracized throughout the winter. No coaches are allowed there. Likewise, no food will be delivered to them should they have a shortage. Disobedience of this order will result in imprisonment, the length of sentence to be set by me alone upon hearing the circumstances of the offense. Note lastly that the above orders may be rescinded in part if the guilty parties give themselves over to me. That’s all. Draw it up properly, I’ll put my seal to it and you’ll have copies posted here and sent to Trufege by mid-morning.”

As the scribes filed out, Cheybal muttered, “If they think the gods can frown on them, wait until they learn what an angry tyrant can do.”

Faubus, feeling better after his meal, made the error of smiling.

“You find that amusing, captain?” asked Cheybal coldly.

Faubus cleared his throat. “No, sir. I find I cannot get over the brazen stupidity of that village.”

“There’s nothing
more
dangerous than stupidity—ignorance and fanaticism being its most exhibited forms. And I tell you this coronation is girdled by
both
those most murderous aspects. Some of it I can suppress, but there are areas under your hand that you can control and I cannot. Like what those guards and your men will believe about what has happened.

“Faubus, tell your story with carefully weighed words. Make the villains unquestionably villains—and, no, please don’t pretend to misunderstand. I have been part of Atlarma’s army for too long not to know what gets bandied about in barracks regarding Kobachs. I rely on you, captain. You’re quick and clever; just be careful of being glib—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

At his call two soldiers came in, one of them bearing a small dark bundle. Faubus quickly stood. “Oh, sir,” he began, “I’d forgotten about the child. This is a little girl we rescued from Ukobachia.” He took the bundle from the soldier. “Actually, she rescued herself.”

“Has someone called for a nurse?”
 

One of the soldiers nodded.

“What is her name?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Faubus. “She has said only that she wants her father. I’m afraid he’s probably dead, sir.” He regretted instantly having said that. Cheybal admonished him with a look as the child began to squirm and cry in his arms. The platter of food on the table suddenly flipped into the air, spilling its contents. The captain’s mug poured mulcet across the floor and dashed itself to pieces against the wall. Cheybal leapt up as his chair began rocking back and forth. The door banged open like a loose shutter in a storm. Something grabbed hold of Cheybal and threw him back. He tripped over his chair and went sprawling. The two soldiers were tossed against the wall behind the door.

Cheybal clawed his way back up to his table. Every loose object in the room was dancing, shaking, and in the center of it all Faubus and the girl stood untouched in the eye of the storm.
 

The nurse, an old midwife with her head wrapped in a wimple, came in and gasped at what she found. She started to back out, but Cheybal yelled, “Don’t you dare leave, missus! It’s the child doing it. I want you to call to her, take her from the captain.” The woman held back fearfully. “Well, go on!” The nurse looked fearfully at the commander. He glowered back and gestured sharply with his head. Putting out her trembling arms, the nurse took tiny steps toward Faubus, poised to flee at any moment.

“Call to her, damn you,” Cheybal snapped. A wax taper slid across the table and struck him between the eyes.

“Dear,” the woman said, her voice fracturing. She cleared her throat timidly and tried again. “Child, you must stop this. Come now, listen to me, dear one, I’m going to take you from these horrible soldiers and show you where I live in the castle. Wouldn’t you like that? I’ll warrant you’d like a hot bath to soak in, eh? What would you say to that?”

The child’s pale blue eyes focused on her for the first time. “I want my papa!”

The nurse glanced at Faubus nervously, not knowing the full extent of where she was treading. “Oh, he’s probably out in the city, you know
—
celebrating the coronation of a boy not much older than you.”

All of the objects hovering across the room began to plummet to the floor. “Can we see him?” the girl asked the nurse.

“Well, yes, but later, I think, dear, if the commander doesn’t mind. There are many people in the city just now. But your papa would probably want you to clean up and sleep first, because it’s very late.”

The child reached out and put her arms around the nurse’s neck, and she allowed herself to be taken from Faubus and carried out of the room.

Cheybal crawled out from beneath the table, climbed up against his chair, then righted it. “
Rescued
herself, was it, Faubus?” he snarled. “Oh, go help out your men, there—get them drunk, just …” Unable to find the words, he turned his back and leaned on the chair. The three soldiers sneaked quietly out. As the door closed, Cheybal shouted, “And remember what I said to you, captain, about stupidity!”

He started to sit down, but then surveying the destruction, changed his mind.

He stepped out into the hall, told his servant to get someone into clean up the mess, then headed off to Bozadon Reket. If ever he needed two bottles of mulcet, it was now. He had never in his life witnessed anything like what had just happened. “She probably dealt with Trufege all by herself,” he muttered.

Halfway up the stairs he began to laugh and continued laughing in disabling bursts until well after the sun had come up and he and Reket had lost the power of intelligible speech.

*****

Borregad sat in his accustomed position, slung across Lyrec’s shoulders. He was wondering exactly how large Maribus Wood was. He had thought of little else since he and Lyrec had left behind those uncommon people at dawn. The tavern inspired almost his every thought—he swore that he could taste the grynne on his dry and surely swollen tongue.

Somewhere behind them, following the same trail but keeping well into the trees, the Kobachs came along at a snail’s pace. If he listened hard, Borregad could hear them like the distant roar of a waterfall, their separate words no longer distinguishable—just a constant, deep, breathy sound. He had liked the Kobachs well enough, but meeting them had made him all the more dissatisfied with his present incarnation. Some of the members of that group had aroused certain unique and zestful ideas in him; he could think of nothing better than to have the opportunity to submerge in pleasure, to forget Miradomon for a little while, and all the dead worlds they had chased him through. But his current form had certain limitations—just how many, he had barely begun to learn. He wondered vaguely how female
cats
behaved.

He’d listened to Lyrec’s bemoaning of this mortal existence, of
how he feared the conflicting emotions that seethed in him and dreaded what he’d become. Borregad shared none of these reservations; if anything, he wanted to have freer expression of all these elements. Having been nearly slain and left to hang in eternal semi-consciousness in a world of nothingness, he was all too happy to embrace
any
existence and its attendant foibles. Compared to eternal exile in the void, even death sounded preferable. Emotions—good or bad—were things to which he could easily reconcile himself. And he noted that Lyrec had not lodged a single protest against his tumultuous passions since that dark witch Nydien had gone to him last night. Although he wasn’t sure what had happened, Borregad was glad
some
thing had—he’d endured enough complaining of how terrible it was to be alive.

The cat stretched out one leg and extended his claws, then turned his paw around and began to lick the rough pads.

A shadow drifted across him.

Borregad paused in his ablution; a rush of wind blew across his fur followed by a
thump
that sounded like the percussive burst of a sudden fire. He was about to say something, but a terrible stench choked him and the oppressive shadow smothered him.

Lyrec!

A green-gray monster swooped down, its shiny legs bent, it claws extended. It dove too fast for Lyrec to defend himself. He raised one arm instinctively to shield his face against the thing diving straight out of the sun, twisted so sharply that he flung Borregad off his shoulders. The cat tumbled into the brush, rolling and coming up alert and ready to attack.

A terrible reek assaulted Lyrec, blinding him with tears. He choked.

Shiny black claws knifed into his shoulders and tore him from his horse. The terrified horse took off at a wild gallop. Chasing after it, Borregad shouted, “Lyrec, Lyrec!” He didn’t know what else to do.

His friend was fast becoming a speck against the clouds as a beast of legend carried him away.

Within moments all trace of Lyrec vanished. The horse was gone, the sky was empty.

Borregad concentrated as hard as he could to call out, but he received no answer. Not so much as a faint echo of his own cry.

He sagged down to the ground. What should he do now? How could he carry on by himself?
 

We must both survive,
Lyrec had said.

Only now, without any warning, it appeared that Lyrec was dead.

Chapter 15.

At first, his reviving senses lingered at half-consciousness. His head pounded in a blood-flecked darkness and he could barely feel his arms at all. Something nearby smelled fetid, and a thrumming wind rocked him, lit his body like a torch of pain. The pain stabbed him alert.
 

Two black boots—his feet—swung free beneath him. Far below he saw trees and hills and occasional tilled fields. Some terrible clawed gallows held him swinging, hanging, this high.

Lyrec raised his head and his neck burned as if rats had gnawed into it. He let his head back hang and strained to look up peripherally instead. The krykwyre held him with its legs bent. He could see the roundness of its scaly belly, its small tucked-up hands, and the crooked hook of its beak. The thing that had chased the Kobachs had been real.
 
They had gone into the brush.
 
He had ridden along, open, visible, inviting the attack. He couldn’t remember the moment now, but he could imagine how it had taken place.

To either side of his head massive talons gripped his shoulders through his blood-soaked uniform, so close that he could see the cingula of lighter shades within the black nails.

Where was it taking him? Did it nest? he wondered. He might well be on his way to feeding a hungry family of the stinking, oily things.

His belt and Ladomantine sword still hung from his hip. Seeing them, he could hardly credit the monster with intelligence. When he tried to reach the sword, however, his numb arm barely twitched. His fingers flexed only slightly. They were stiff and cold. He tried working them, opening and closing, more movement each time, until he could make a fist. Then he bent his arm up. It began to tingle. He worked the other one, too, pumping it up and down. The return of sensations to his arms only extended his pain. He drew breath through clenched teeth. His movement alerted the monster, but it paid him no mind. Probably, thought Lyrec, no captive had ever managed to injure it.