Sun Wolf 1 - The Ladies Of Mandrigyn (20 page)

When she returned to his side.
Anyog was asleep, the little white hands that had never done work harder than the making of music or the writing of poems lying as motionless as two bunches of crushed sticks upon the sunken chest. She satisfied herself that a thread of breath still leaked through those white lips, then sat where she had been and gradually let the silence surround her in a kind of despairing peace. She knew that Anyog was right—without the help of a wizard, she could not hope to enter the Citadel or to rescue the Wolf from the Wizard King’s toils. In a way, she supposed that she and Fawn had both known it from the first, though neither of them had been willing to admit it; neither had been willing to give Sun Wolf up.

From that silence, she sought the deeper stillness and peace of meditation, focusing her mind upon the Invisible Circle, upon the music that no one could hear. Many of the nuns had looked into fire to begin it; Starhawk was too good a warrior to night-blind herself that way, but she had learned, in her long years as a mercenary, that she could find the starting place in her mind alone.

The fire crackled and whispered in the grate, its unimaginable variations of color playing like silk over the edges of brick and wood and flesh. Starhawk became slowly aware of the air that stirred through the winding corridors of the dark inn, of the stress and weight of the beams where they joined overhead, and of the moldering thatch above, cloaked by the frost-silver of the moon. Her awareness spread out, like water over a flood plain—of the mules, sleeping in the darkness of what had become their stable, of Fawn weeping there, of the weighty tread of the brothers as they explored the inn, of the nuuwa prowling and yammering outside; and of the stars in the distant night.

She was aware when the still air of the room was touched by magic.

It came to her as faint as a thread of half-heard music, but clear, like the scent of a single rose in a darkened room. She had not thought that magic would feel like that. It was nothing like the blaze of thrown fire or the deadly webs of illusion woven by the Wizard King and spoken of in four generations of terrified whispers. It was a very simple thing, like the aura of brightness that had sometimes seemed to cling about old Sister Wellwa—akin to meditation, but moving, rather than still.

She heard the faint, trembling voice of Uncle Anyog, whispering spells of healing in the darkness.

In time, she came out of her meditation. Anyog’s muttering voice ran on a bit, then stilled. Without the shift in her consciousness, in her awareness, she might have thought only that he raved with fever, and perhaps he had counted on this. He lay motionless, his open eyes reflecting the embers of the fire like candles in a darkened room. She moved toward him and rested her hand upon his.

“You are a wizard,” she said softly, “aren’t you?”

A hoarse rattle, like a sob, escaped his throat. “Me? Never.” The dry fingers twitched beneath hers, lacking the strength to grip. “At one time I thought—I thought . . . But I was afraid. Afraid of Altiokis—afraid of the Great Trial itself. I ran away—left my master—pretended to love other things more. Music—poems—going in fear lest any suspect. Garnering little pot-bound slips of power, consumed by the dreams of what I might have had.”

The fever-bright eyes stared up into hers, brilliant and restless. Overhead, the boards creaked with the brothers’ heavy stride. Somewhere in the darkness, a mule whuffied over its fodder. “My warrior dove,” he whispered, “what is it that you seek of the Wizard King? What is this dream that I see in your eyes, this dream you will follow to your own destruction in his Citadel?”

Starhawk shook her head stubbornly. “It is not a dream,” she replied, her voice low. “He is my chief—Altiokis has him prisoner.”

“Ah.” The breath ran thinly from the blue lips. “Altiokis. My child, he does not lightly loose what he has taken. Even could you find a wizard—a true wizard—to aid you, you would not live long enough to die at your captain’s side.”

“Perhaps not,” Starhawk said quietly and was silent for a time, staring into the sunken glow of the hearth; the flames were gone, and only the deep, rippling heat of the coals was left, stronger than the fire, but unseen. At length she asked, “And did giving up your dream bring you happiness with your safety, Anyog?”

The withered face worked briefly with pain, then grew still She thought that he slept, but after a long silence, his lips moved. His voice was thin and halting. “This man whom you seek,” he murmured. “You must love him better than life.”

Starhawk looked away. The words went through her mind like the grinding of a sword blade in her flesh, shocking and sudden, and she understood that Anyog had spoken the truth. It was a truth that she had hidden from the other warriors of Sun Wolf’s troop, from Sun Wolf himself, and from her own consciousness; yet she felt no surprise in knowing that it was true. For years she had told herself that it was the loyalty a warrior owed to a chosen captain, and that, at least, had spared her jealousy toward the Wolf’s numerous concubines. From her girlhood, she had known herself plain, and the Wolf had his pick of beautiful girls.

But she was not the only one who loved him better than life.

She closed her teeth hard upon that bitterness and stared dry-eyed into the darkness. Once the thing had been brought into the open, she could not unknow it, but she understood why she had worked to deceive herself almost from the first. Anything was better than the chasm of this despair.

Ram’s voice echoed in the inn kitchen, through the half-open door that led into the common room where Starhawk sat. He was saying something to Orris—something about wedging the windows there tighter shut—and Starhawk sighed. Whether her feelings toward Sun Wolf were a soldier’s loyalty or a woman’s love, whether he ever knew it or was even still alive to care, didn’t alter the more immediate fact that she was trapped in an inn with the nuuwa yammering and chewing at the brickwork outside. First things first, she told herself wryly, getting to her feet. There’ll be time to mess with love—and magic—if you’re alive this time tomorrow.

She found the brothers conferring in the shadows beside the vast, cold kitchen hearth, the light of Orris’ torch throwing reflections like the gleaming eyes of dragons on the copper bottoms of the pans and on the drinking water in the stone basin nearby. The nuuwa could be heard from outside, scratching and mouthing at the window frames, their grunting moans occasionally broken by long, piercing wails. “How is he?” Orris asked.

Starhawk shook her head. “Tougher than he looks,” she replied. “I’d have bet he’d be dead by now—and lost my money. All secure here?”

They both looked deeply surprised. Orris recovered himself first and gave his opinion that the shutters would hold. “We’ve driven wedges in some of the downstairs ones,” he added. “God knows there are axes and wedges aplenty in the wood room, though little enough wood. But as to how we’re going to get out of this hole . . . ”

“We’ll manage,” Starhawk said. “If worst comes to worst, we can pack Uncle Anyog on one of the mules and leave the rest of them as bait.”

“But the pelts!”
Orris protested, horrified. “And the stores! All this summer’s trading . . . ”

“Mother will kill us,” Ram added.

“She’ll have to stand at the end of a long line,” Starhawk reminded him, jerking her thumb toward the shuttered windows. “Where’s Fawnie?”

She found Fawn in the parlor they’d converted to a stable, huddled in the shadows among the unloaded packs of furs, her face buried in her hands. The strangled sounds of her weeping were what had drawn Starhawk, for the room was lightless and the long corridor from the common room almost so. The Hawk stood hidden by the black arch of the doorway, listening to that horribly muffled sound, her instinct to go and comfort the girl’s fears forestalled by the new awareness that Anyog’s words had brought into consciousness within her mind.

She loved Sun Wolf. Loved him not as a warrior loved a leader, but as a woman loved a man; and she could conceive of loving no man but him.

Her childhood had taught her that love meant the subjection of the will to the will of another. She had seen her mother invariably bow to her father’s wishes, for all the love that had been between them. She remembered those girls who had competed in subservience to become her brothers’ humble wives, baking their bread, cleaning their houses, giving up the brightness of their youth to bear and care for their sons. She had seen Fawn—and all those other soft, pliant girls before her—girls who had been Sun Wolf’s slaves, whether bought with money or not.

There had been times when the Wolf had asked her to do things she did not like. But his requests had never been without a reason, and his reasons had always been honest. From being his student, she had become his friend, perhaps the closest friend he had. For all his easy camaraderie with his men, there was a part of himself that he kept hidden from them, the part of him that argued theology on long winter evenings, or arranged and rearranged rocks in a garden until they fitted his sense of stillness and perfection. To her he had shown that part of himself—to her only.

Yet this girl was his woman.

My rival,
Starhawk thought, with a tang of bitter distaste. Is that what we’ll come to, I and this woman with whom I’ve shared a dozen campfires over the mountains? My companion in danger, who split watches with me and bargained with the innkeepers? Are we going to end up hair-pulling, like a couple of village girls fighting over the affections of one of the local louts?

The thought was ugly to her, like the base and soiling memories of her older brothers’ sweethearts and their cheap subterfuges to gain dances with them at the fairs.

And, for that matter, what has Fawn taken from me? Nothing that I ever would have had. I broke my vows for Sun Wolf and broke my body to learn from him the hard skills of war. I’ll never regret doing either of those things—but from the first, he never wanted me for his woman.

Isn’t it enough to be counted as his friend?

The woman in her remembered how Fawn had rested her small hands so lightly on the broad shoulders and kissed the thin place at the top of his hair. No, it wasn’t enough.

Yet she saw also, with curious clarity, that Fawn had all the things that she herself lacked—gentleness, the capacity to receive love without distrusting the motives of its giver, the yielding softness that complemented the Wolf’s overwhelming strength, and the magic garment of her beauty that made her precious in his eyes.

It would be easier,
she reflected, if Fawnie were a spoiled, grasping little bitch. Then, at least, I would know what to feel. But then, of course, the Wolf would not have chosen her for his own. And she would certainly not have sold all that she had and left safety and comfort to seek him among the dangers of Altiokis’ Citadel.

Fawn was eighteen, wretched, and very frightened; it was this, rather than any consideration of Sun Wolf one way or the other, that finally drew the Hawk to her side, to comfort her in awkward and unaccustomed arms.

In spite of her exhaustion, Starhawk slept badly that night after her watch. Anyog’s words returned to her, again and again: You must love him better than life . . . Only another wizard can enter his Citadel . . . Only a wizard . . . His power is old; it is deep . . . An evil magic, not to be defied . . . 

Never fall in love and never mess with magic . . . 

In her dreams, she found herself stumbling through tortuous. shadow-haunted hallways, where the trunks of trees forced apart the stones of the crumbling walls and weeds trailed in the water that pooled across the slimy floors. She was seeking for someone, someone who could help her, and it was desperately important that she find him before it was too late. But she had never sought anyone’s help before this; her battles she had always fought alone—she did not know the words to call out. In the darkness, she heard Sister Wellwa’s neat little footfalls retreating from her, saw the pale gleam of Anyog’s starched, white ruff. And behind her from the vine-choked turnings of the corridors, other sounds came to her—blundering bodies and harsh, snuffling breath. She struggled to break the grip of the dream, but she was too tired; the slobbering, mewing sounds in the dark seemed to come closer.

With a great effort, she opened her eyes and saw Fawn sitting on the raised hearth, bending over to catch the words that Uncle Anyog was whispering. The redness of the sunken fire outlined her face in an edge of ruby; her lips looked taut and set. The air of the room was stuffy. Through the muzziness of half sleep, Starhawk heard Ram and Orris making their rounds elsewhere in the inn—soft, blundering noises, bickering voices. Uncle Anyog fell silent, and Fawn reached down to wipe the sweat that beaded his sunken cheeks.

Then she got to her feet and gathered her plaid cloak around her over the white shift that was all that she wore. Her unbound hair glinted with slivers of amber and carnelian in the dying fight. Starhawk asked her cloudily, “Where are you going?”

“Just to get some water,” Fawn said, putting her hand to the kitchen door.

There was a basin there, Starhawk remembered, her tired mind moving slowly. She’d seen it when she’d spoken to Ram and Orris, standing next to the monstrous darkness of the overhanging chimney . . . the chimney . . . 

Her shout of “No!” was drowned in Fawn’s scream as the door opened.

She thought, later, that she must have been on her feet and moving even as Fawn cried out. She caught up the blanket as a shield; that and the thick folds of the cloak that Fawn still clutched around her body were enough to entangle the first nuuwa and save Fawn from its ripping rush. The second and third blundered over the struggling, howling monster on the threshold. Starhawk decapitated one even as it plunged at her, then whirled to hack at the other as it ripped a mouthful of flesh from Fawn’s arm. The head went bouncing and rolling, the bloody mouth still chewing, the hands clutching at the girl as if it could devour her still.

Starhawk kicked shut the kitchen door and slammed the bolt, catching a vague glimpse of other movement, struggling and flopping, in the vicinity of the hearth.