Redoubt (30 page)

Franse must have been watching on the day that happened; Mags got furtive glimpses
of the scene through his mind’s eye. The terrified villagers, the children herded
into barred carts, the adults tied together at the waist and tied to the back of the
carts. The flames racing through the tightly clustered houses. The carts moving away,
the people forced to follow, stumbling and weeping or numb with shock. The black-robes
moving among the smoking ashes, literally spreading salt over the ground so nothing
would grow there.

Part of Mags wanted to yell at Franse,
Why didn’t you do something?
But really, what could he have done? He was one very young man and a cat. There had
been at least five of those black-robe priests and a troop of armed men.

And, possibly, demons. What could one man and a cat have done against all of that?
Could he have stopped them? No.

So he kept his thoughts tightly to himself.

Besides, Franse
had
helped him, when he had no reason to. Franse had saved him from another demon, Franse
had tended his wounds and fed him. He should be feeling grateful to Franse—and he
was!—not sitting in judgment on him.

But that made him think of something that caused him some alarm.
:That demon you chased off—is it gonna go back to its master and—:

:It wouldn’t dare,:
said Reaylis, and switched his tail angrily.
:We have driven such things off before, Franse and I. It knows the taste of the Sunlord’s
lash, and it will not risk such again.:

Well, Mags reckoned they knew their business better than he did. He took comfort in
the fact that they’d driven demons off before. If no black-robes had come to complain
about it until now, likely they wouldn’t turn up this time either.

Suddenly he found himself yawning, his head feeling too heavy for his neck, and aching.

“Bed, you,” Franse said aloud. “Maybe hunt, maybe not, sleep now.”

Scarcely able to keep his eyes open, Mags could only nod, get up from the table, and
stumble to the little chamber, where he was asleep as soon as he pulled a blanket
over himself. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, he went to sleep without
feeling that part of him was dead.

He woke to the smell of frying fish; for a moment he was confused as to his surroundings.
Franse had
never
fried anything before; his mostly vegetarian diet didn’t give him any fat to fry in.

Then he remembered: the ducks and the geese. Franse was no fool, and he was quite
a good cook. He must be harvesting the goose and duck fat as the birds hot-smoked
in the little smokehouse he had made for the fish that he
was
able to catch. And Franse must have decided that the occasion warranted a little
celebration in the way of using some of that precious fat.

He knuckled the last of the sleep out of his eyes and came back into the main room.
Reaylis was watching the proceedings avidly. Franse looked up briefly and waved him
over.

“Know you calling Horse wish. Is needing more—” Franse gestured.

“Energy,” Mags supplied.

“Aye. So—this—” He gestured at the fried fish. They looked wonderful, crisp and brown
and delicious. “You, me, Reaylis. Reaylis and I help.”

Franse was quite a good cook, and he did not waste a single morsel of that precious
fat either; he tossed sliced vegetables in what was left until they were coated and
lightly fried them, too, moving them constantly to keep them from sticking to the
bottom of the pan. With a sprinkling of salt, everything was perfect, and Mags thought
that this was a meal he would remember for a very long time.

When they were done—Reaylis shared the fish, eschewed the vegetables—and the cleanup
was complete, Reaylis hopped up on the table between them. The cat looked deeply into
Mags’ eyes, and for the first time since Mags had awakened for dinner, the cat’s mind
touched his.
:We can only do this once, at least for now,:
the cat admonished, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration.
:For one thing, we want to do it while there is still daylight so the demons don’t
sense it. And if it starts to hurt you, we
are
going to stop. There will be other days, if you don’t hurt yourself, and you’ll get
better and stronger every day. But if you hurt yourself, the damage might be irreparable.:

Mags thought about how he’d been feeling since he’d awakened without Mindspeech and
shuddered. No matter how much he had told himself he was resigned to being ordinary . . .
in his heart, he knew he hadn’t been, and he would never be. He needed this, and he
was not going to risk losing it again. He took a very deep breath, and nodded.

:All right,:
he agreed.
:So, what do I do? I’ve worked with other people afore, but not like this.:

:You do the reaching. That is all you need do; Franse and I are used to working together,
and when Old Harald was alive, we worked with him as well. It will be as if you are
reaching for something that is too high for you, and Franse and I are lifting you.
You’ll sense it, so don’t be startled.:

Mags looked to Franse, who nodded. “All right,” he said aloud, and he closed his eyes.

Somewhere out there was Dallen. Actually . . . once again, he could just barely sense
Dallen, like a sound right on the edge of audibility. Dallen was definitely out there.
Mags just couldn’t
quite
hear what he was “saying,” as if someone were calling far in the distance, but all
you could make out was that it was a human voice, and not something else, making a
sound.

He “reached,” straining. He felt, as Reaylis had told him he would, the other two,
“lifting” him, somehow putting him a little closer to Dallen, making that voice a
little clearer.

Now, with great excitement, he realized that he could get some of the sense of what
Dallen was calling.

Dallen was weary and in despair. He was calling only because he was driven to, not
in any expectation of an answer. It sounded like someone who had been shouting the
same thing, over and over, into the wind for days. And the single thing he kept calling
was Mags’ name.

:Dallen!:
he “shouted,” or tried to.
:Dallen! It’s me! I’m here! I’m in Karse!:

There was a startled, incredulous pause. Faint, faint and far, but he felt the emotions.
:Mags!:

:Dallen!:
he replied, joyfully.
:I’m in Karse! Karse!:

But he felt the strain; felt the ache starting behind his eyes. Then it was worse
than an ache, it was a burn, and Franse and Reaylis immediately pulled their support
away, and the sense of
Dallen
receded until it wasn’t a voice anymore, it was just that vague presence, faintly,
in the back of his mind. He felt a moment of despair himself, he wanted
so
badly to really talk to Dallen—but the pain in his head warned him not to try.

As did Reaylis’ teeth firmly set in his finger. There was warning there; he knew that
if he tried again, Reaylis would put a very quick end to the attempt with a hard bite.

With an unhappy, strangled sob, he let go of the contact and let it fade into the
barest, dimmest awareness that Dallen was out there, somewhere. Reaylis let go of
his finger, evidently satisfied that he understood the warning.

He opened his eyes. Franse patted his shoulder awkwardly, gingerly. Reaylis still
sat like a statue of a cat, eyes tightly closed. Then the cat shook himself all over
like a dog and opened his eyes again.

:I was able to reach your Horse long enough to make a contact thread with him. He
will follow it to me, and here. Now
no more
for you today,:
the cat said sternly.
:And maybe not tomorrow. Things were starting to rip in that thick skull of yours.
That makes more dangers than one, you know. Injuries to the parts of your mind that
are responsible for Mindspeech are like any other injury except that what they “bleed”
is not blood. But it can still be sensed. And you do not want anything that can sense
such things to be attracted, now, do you?:

Mags got a sudden, rather disconcerting and frightening flash of something he really
did not
want
to see clearly following a sort of “blood trail.” No . . . no, he didn’t want that.

He started to stand and found himself swaying a little with fatigue, and the pain
in his head blossomed into a throb that seemed to go right through his skull. It must
have shown on his face; Franse hastened to support him and aided him to his bed, went
off and came back with another one of those herbal concoctions of his. Mags was rather
more grateful for the very dim light in his chamber right now; light seemed to be
stabbing right from his eyes into his skull. He drank down the potion in three gulps
and wound himself in the fur blankets, putting his head on the pillow and waiting
for the pain to subside. Franse just patted him on the shoulder again and let him
be.

But he wasn’t unhappy—far from it! He felt as if he would happily have endured ten
times the pain without Franse’s drugs just for that faint contact. And to have that
sensation of at last having Dallen back
with
him again—oh, that was worth anything!

Dallen was coming. The cat had implied as much. Dallen was coming for him, and he
was sure of the Companion’s ability to cross the Border, elude demons, and find him.
It couldn’t be long—a few days, maybe a fortnight, and it would all be over at last.

He was going home.

* * *

The next morning, his head
still
ached—it was rather like the way his body had ached after the first time he’d been
riding, however, and Franse and Reaylis both decided that he hadn’t done any permanent
damage to himself. They examined him minutely over breakfast, although you would never
have known what they were doing if you had only been watching what was going on. It
would have looked like nothing more than two men stolidly working their way through
bowls of acorn porridge in silence, while a cat washed himself on the hearth.

:You are fine. But no more reaching that far for now,:
Franse said sternly.
:At least a day before the next attempt, and probably two.:

His body ached too, and he felt a little feverish. Again, this was a bit like the
way he’d felt the first time he’d been riding and all those muscles that had never
been used before protested that they’d been stretched, torn, and fearfully abused.
But when the cat accompanied him out into the garden to stand vigil over the vegetables
while Franse went fishing, he ventured a question or two.

He took his usual place on the left-side bench. The cat leaped up beside him. Once
again, Mags marveled at the size of him. Reaylis really was huge, and the reddish-brown
mask, ears, paws, and tail were not only striking, the combination was remarkably
handsome.
:I think I still feel Dallen,:
he said, hoping he wasn’t deluding himself.

The cat stretched and yawned, showing teeth and tongue.
:You do. Stop prodding it and leave it alone. You’re like a child with a bitten cheek
or a missing tooth, you can’t seem to stop sticking your tongue into the wound.:

He grimaced, because that was exactly what he was doing. And he knew it.

:Patience. Would I catch a mouse if I kept prodding at the hole? Of course not.:
The end of Reaylis’ tail flicked.
:He’s coming. I am sure that he is getting plenty of help; he would not try to do
this alone. He has to work out how to get here, how to get across the Border, how
to keep the demons from seeing him. He’ll know all this better than I will. I do not
know what resources he has, nor do I know what powers he may have. I sense that your
Horses are somewhat more limited than Suncats, but, then, there are a great many more
of them than there are of us. But nothing will keep him from you now, any more than
anything would keep me from Franse.:
The cat turned his head a little, and he glanced at Mags out of the corner of his
eye.
:And you are completely missing that blasted rabbit over by the kale. You might have
had your breakfast, but I have not.:

Mags took the hint, and the shot. One rabbit later, and one sated cat, the rabbit
quarters were in the pot of vegetables stewing on the hearth, and Mags and Reaylis
were back on the garden bench. Reaylis was washing himself with great thoroughness
and apparent concentration that was belied by the fact that he was talking to Mags
at the same time.

:I know that you have many, many questions, and I am far more prepared and equipped
to answer them than Franse is. Keep what you say short,:
the cat advised, eyes half-closed as he worked on his paws.
:Let me do all the work. And if you would rather say things aloud, do. I’ll get the
sense from your mind.:

Mags thought about all the things he wanted to know. Things that were
important
for Nikolas to know. He tried to figure out how to frame his questions about what
was going on with the Karsite religion, with the demon-summoning black-robes, with
all of the complicated situation—into something very short and very simple. What would
give him the most information for the fewest mental words?

Finally he sighed.
:What the hell is goin’ on with yer priests? Why’re they so bad?:

The cat paused.
:What always happens when religion goes to the bad?:
the cat replied, and resumed his grooming.
:Power. The love of power overcomes the love of the gods. Priests stop listening for
the voice in their hearts and souls—which is very, very hard to hear even at the best
of times—and start to listen only to what they wish to hear or to the voice of their
own selfish desires. Priests begin to believe that they, and not the gods, are the
real authorities. Priests confine broad truths into narrow doctrines, because more
rules mean that they have more power. Priests mistake their own prejudice for conscience
and mistake what they personally fear for what should universally be feared. Priests
look inward to their own small souls and try to impress that smallness on the world,
when they should be looking at the greatness of the universe and trying to impress
that upon their souls. Priests forget they owe everything to their gods and begin
to think the world owes everything to them . . . :
the cat stopped, and shook his head.
:Power is a poison. Priests should know better than to indulge in it. But once they
do, you stop having those who wish to serve becoming priests, and you start seeing
those who wish to
be
served becoming priests, and the rot sets in. It started to happen long ago here
as humans reckon time.: