Maeve (16 page)

“Come on. The air's a lot better up there.”

The platform was about ten meters square, with a bark hut sitting modestly in the center. The packs and the waterskin were piled in a heap beside the reed mat that shielded the doorway. Aleytys took a deep breath for the first time in the last several minutes. A relatively cool, clean breeze swept across the platform, stirring the debris that lay haphazardly all over the sunbleached reed matting. Pieces of bone. Tattered leaves. Bird droppings. Other fragments too small to be identified. She kicked fretfully at the mess, then stretched and sighed.

Gwynnor came backing out of the hut, a battered twig broom in one hand. Brushing the dust and cobwebs off his short fur, he pointed at the platform, then the hut. “You want to clean that or that?”

“I was never that great with heights.” She looked at the hut, then up at the sky where dark clouds were beginning to gather. “How watertight do you think the hut is?”

“It's old. About time for the traders to build a new one.”

“In other words, we better look forward to a damp night.”

The sun was still up when they finished clearing the lay-by. As Gwynnor relieved himself over the edge of the platform, his urine arching wide, Aleytys rummaged in his pack and pulled out the firebowl and its grill. He came back as she was piling small twigs in the hollow and making sure the rounded bottom didn't make contact with the highly combustible reeds.

“Feel better?”

He grinned. “It gives a man a proud feeling.”

“Lord of all you survey.” She scraped a match over the metal and set the fire burning. “After you wash, maybe you can dig out the waybread and the smoked meat.” Gradually, she fed more and more of the twigs until she had a little crackling blaze. Then she fitted the grill in place over the bowl and set the waterpot on it.

Gwynnor came quietly up behind her. He reached over her shoulder with the bread and meat.

“Thanks.” She took the food then looked up at the lowering sky. “How long before it rains?”

He knelt beside her, the flames setting, sliding crimson gleams in his short silvery fur and the abundant grey curls clustering over his head. “It comes when it comes.”

“You're a big help.”

“What difference does it make?” He tore a mouthful from the loaf and began chewing at the dense, tough, flavor-filled bread.

Aleytys yawned, feeling comfortably tired even after her long sleep. “You're right. Why worry about what I can't change.”

As the small fire played warmth over their faces, they chewed placidly in a companionable silence until they finished the bread and meat. The water boiled and Aleytys tipped in the cha leaves, swirled them around vigorously, then poured the steaming liquid into the two mugs.

Sipping at the cha, they moved to the western edge of the platform and sat crosslegged, watching the sun dip slowly behind the treetops. The sunset was spectacular, the dark rain clouds flushing gold, then crimson, then purple, then slowly darkening as the last tip of the rusty sun vanished.

“Aleytys.”

“Mmmh?”

“This morning. What was wrong?”

She swirled the dregs of the cha, watching the leaf fragments circle the bottom of the cup. “A mourning time,” she said slowly. “The cludair were so relieved when I left. I couldn't help remembering that I had no home. No place where I really belong. I liked them, you know.”

“I know.”

“I thought they liked me.”

He touched her arm. “They did, Aleytys. Tipylexne, Qilasc, all of them, they felt you were a friend.”

“Still … they were happy when we left. That hurt.” She fell silent again, eyes fixed blindly on the mug, now held still between her palms.

When she spoke again, her words came slowly, the syllables dragging under the heavy weight of her desolation. “I haven't cried like that for two years. I cried a little in nightmares but was dry-eyed in the day. I think I was mourning for my lost innocence, for the friends of my childhood I'll never see again, for the three men I have loved and used to their destruction.” She set the mug beside her and began rubbing her palms up and down over her thighs. “Vajd … father of my baby, my first lover, my teacher and my conscience. Any goodness I have in me I owe to him. He had his eyes torn from his head because of me. I went from him to Miks Stavver, my starthief. A loner and a clever man. I used him. I forced him on pain of insanity to go searching for my stolen baby. He didn't want to do that. I wonder where he is now, if he found my Sharl, my baby. From him I went to my gentle nayid Burash. He … I … I saw him burned to ash half a meter from me when he ran to warn me of danger. My god, he ran out and the guard burned him. Two steps from me. Two damn steps.” She looked down at Gwynnor's hand resting on her arm. “You see what happens to men who try to help me.” Shaking off his touch, she rubbed her hands across her face. “Well, that's it. All the terrors and needs and wretchednesses that add up to my being in this place at this time. And it all landed on me this morning.”

He nodded. “I know a little about losing friends. And lovers.”

“Your teacher.”

“Yes.” He held her hand between his, his higher body temperature making a pool of comforting warmth around her fingers. “You're going on?”

“What else can I do? I have to find my baby.”

“How long are you going to be in the city?”

“Depends on how soon I can get on a ship. A day. A week. A month.” She shrugged. “It's hard to make plans without data. What about you?”

“I have to make peace with my family, see what's happening around home. Do a little thinking.” A few large drops struck against his back. “Rain's here.”

She laughed unsteadily. “It announces itself.”

Together they drowned the last embers of the fire, and pushed everything else into the hut, leaving only the water pot and the mugs out to catch as much water as they could.

Book II:

THE CITY

Chapter I

Gwynnor swung the tiller, aiming the boat across the current toward the blunt wharf. As the boat slid neatly beside the landing, Aleytys stepped out and snubbed the bow rope about the mooring post. Gwynnor watched her straighten and toss her head back, letting the brisk sea breeze blow through her bright hair. He smiled at the unconscious ease with which she coped with the problems of moving in a touchy boat. Two weeks sailing had done that for her. He bent forward and swung her pack onto the heavy planking.

“End of the line.” Her voice was hoarse. She looked at him sadly.

“You remember what I told you?” He felt a sudden reluctance to let her go.

She nodded. “Up the stairs.” Turning away, she swung a hand toward the wooden stairway crawling up the cliffside in repeated uneven zigzags. “Then past the market and past cerddtown. To the monorail. The road splits there, going one way to the port and the other to Star Street. And the rest of the city is dangerous for me. I should keep away from it.”

He looked down, his fingers playing with the tiller bar and plucking at the rope. Then he lifted his head. “Cast off the rope, Aleytys.” As the boat swung away from the wharf, he called, “Good faring.”

Letting the boat drift slowly toward midchannel, he watched her climbing up the cliff, moving from landing to landing, looking back continually, her body getting smaller and smaller until the last detail he could make out was the shining red-gold of her hair. She halted momentarily as she reached the top, waved a last time, then disappeared.

Gwynnor rubbed his hands over his face, then got briskly to work, letting the boom swing out to take maximum advantage of the brisk following wind.

It was very early, the sun a fingernail clipping on the horizon behind him. The morning sea breeze was fresh and steady, coming in off the ocean, blowing west where he wanted to go. He wound the sheets around a cleat and settled at the tiller, keeping watch for snags and sandbars though the Company kept this part of the river dredged free. They liked their vegetables and meat fresh and plentiful.

He chuckled. Less than a month before he'd have found only evil in this dredging. A destruction of things as they always had been. He felt immensely older, even wiser, though that made him smile a little at himself. But he had changed and he felt the change was an improvement.

The morning passed pleasantly and quickly. A little before noon he reached the landing of Derwyn grawh, his home village. He tied up in the shadow of a pair of ancient wrinkled oaks, two of the many that gave the village its name. After making sure the boat was neatly tucked away close to the bank, he slung the pack over his shoulder and strolled slowly along the pale tan sand of the rutted roadway.

The road curved out around the planting of cyforedd trees set in a gentle arc between river and village to protect the people from the caprices of wandering water demons. The dry, tart smell of their fluttering clusters of long, thin, green-grey needles, their papery many-pieced bark, brought intense and painful memories tumbling back.

He stopped by the tree nearest the road and touched the trunk for luck. His back turned to the village, he lingered there, stripping loose small fragments of brittle bark, sniffing with a painful pleasure at the sharp, biting scent of the needles. Too many hard words were said at the time he left, words difficult to unsay now.

But time was passing. He shrugged the pack a little higher on his shoulder, took a deep breath, then stepped back into the middle of the road.

He turned the first bend. Rhisiart's house. Gwynnor frowned. The iorweg vine climbing over the rustic stone wall was torn and turning brown. In one place the wall itself was broken, the tumbled stones lying haphazardly about, some even sitting out in the road with a two-week film of green lichen spreading over them.

The gate was broken, with only the bottom hinge to hold the shattered, charred timbers in place. And there were weeds growing between the flags that led past the house to the smithy. Weeds? In Rhisiart's yard? Modlen would never … Modlen? Feeling a chill congealing in his middle, he moved on, walking more quickly, almost running.

He glanced along the roadway before he turned into Blodeuyn's lane, intending to see his father before he went on into the village for news. The village square was empty. Shaking his head, he jogged down the lane toward the family farm.

Gwilym's farm. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The wall was intact, the iorweg green and abundant, tumbling over the stone in exuberantly healthy growth. But the gate was shut. In the middle of the day? And there was an unaccustomed silence behind the walls.

The stillness shook his fragile calm until he was almost afraid of breaking it, but he pulled the bell rope, shivering as he heard the harsh clang-clank of the cowbell.

A deep male voice demanded his identity.

“Treforis?” Gwynnor's knees shook and there was a slight tremble in the name.

“Who.…”

“Gwynnor.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. What's wrong? Where's father?” He heard scraping sounds, then the gate swung open. Treforis stepped out, swung his head hurriedly from side to side, scanning as much of the lane as was visible. Gwynnor frowned. “I told you I was alone.”

Treforis glanced hurriedly at the sky, then grinned at his younger brother. “Come in, then. Don't stand around, lad.” He caught hold of Gwynnor's arm, dragging him through the gate. “Hold still a minute.” He swung the gate to and slammed double bars into their heavy cast-iron hooks.

Moving at a trot, responding to the intense sense of urgency in the bigger man, they circled the lone cyforredd planted as house guardian before the door, then stepped through the formal maze and walked more slowly into the silent dim interior of the old house.

Treforis stopped just inside and shouted, “Esyllt. Bring wine. My brother is home.” He touched Gwynnor's shoulder with a big shaking hand as if, in touching his brother, he reassured himself. The woman's startled face appeared in a doorway then disappeared as she went back into the woman's hold to fetch the wine.

“Forgive, Gwyn?” Treforis shook his massive head. “Not much of a homecoming for you. But we can sit by the fire and trade lies a little.” Abruptly, he caught Gwynnor in a warm hug then thrust him back, running measuring eyes over him. “You're looking older. And bigger. Maybe you'll reach mansize yet, little brother. Come.” Like a gusty wind he blew through the hallway and into the familiar manroom. He pushed Gwynnor into one of the big wing chairs and pulled the other around so he was facing him, a small fire crackling on the hearth between them.

Esyllt came in with a wine jug and two glasses on a tray. “Welcome home, brother.” She smiled, her pleasant face beaming with her delight in seeing him again. She set the tray on a small table beside her man and left them to their talking.

Gwynnor sipped at the golden wine, finding as much pleasure in the memories it evoked as he did in its mellow taste. “I expected a colder welcome.”

Treforis sighed. “The father always held you dearest to his heart, little one, so it hurt him most to see you renounce him.”

“I'm not a child,” Gwynnor said sharply. “Stop treating me like one.”

“All right. All right.” Treforis gulped at the wine then set the glass down. “Still …”

Relaxing, his feet stretched out before him, Gwynnor frowned down at the glass he held between his two palms. “I can't see that, Tref, the way he kept carping at me.” For the moment he pushed aside the implications of his father's absence.

“It was his way.” Treforis' deep, slow voice came down heavy on the second word, forcing Gwynnor to face what he didn't want to know.

“Was?”

“Two months ago. Company man raided the shrine for maranhedd. Father was there like he always was after a good day of selling in the market. You know him. Too stubborn to let a bunch of bastards destroy a holy place.” Treforis tapped his large fingers on the chair arms, his amiable face turned sad and brooding. “They burned him to ash. Like they did all the others there.”