The Barrow (65 page)

Arduin nodded his assent, but still watched with a frown as the enchanter took several long strands of Ironbound's hair and wove them into the silver chain of a matching amulet, securing it in place against the destrier's neck.

Leigh silently offered one to Stjepan, but the Athairi shook his head. “I have my own, Magister,” Stjepan said politely. “And my horse bears such a rune as a brand.”

Leigh smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Ever prepared, o bright pupil.” He picked up the box and walked to the last wagon and its horses.

Arduin eyed the amulet in his hand doubtfully. “King of Heaven forgive me; that an enchanter's talisman would be necessary against the evils of these hills!” he finally said.

Stjepan glanced up at him. “The Bale Mole is bounded to the south by the Wastes of Lost Uthedmael, and the shifting winds can bring its curse to the hills. To the north is the Vale of Barrows, the ancient valley of the dead, from which strange things have crawled since the first Queen of Daradja was buried there. And to our east is the haunted Uthed Wold, ruled over by the cannibal Azharites and their warlock captains, where even my people, woodfolk that we are, will not go except under flag of war,” he said. “Don't lose the amulet, my Lord.”

Stjepan mounted his horse and rode to the front of the caravan, and then past the lead wagon, signaling for it to follow. Then he swung out onto the hill path and started to pick up his pace.

Arduin watched him for a moment, then sighed, and slid the amulet on its silver chain over his head, tucking it under his cuirass to rest against his chest.

They only made fifteen miles into the hills their first day past Mizer, but by the time the Dusk Maiden had arisen and the sun was setting they had gone far enough to reach the ruin of what might have once been a small fortified town sitting on a barren hilltop. The road had been far worse than anything they'd encountered so far, worse even than the trails and shepherd's paths through the foothills of the Manon Mole, or Dagger Vale, or the Scented Hills, far worse than the surprisingly smooth run through the trackless Plain of Flowers. But then Erim mused that this path was probably almost never used except by mounted patrols out of Mizer and the occasional expedition of treasure-hunters, most of them smart enough not to bring heavy wagons. Of course, most of them didn't have a Lady from Aurian nobility with them, and were able to apply a different calculus when it came to gear and mobility.

“Lost Tir'gaile,” Stjepan announced as they rode up to the ruins. She was almost startled when he spoke. They'd spent most of the day in silence, as an oppressive weight had settled over the entire caravan. She'd been too busy watching every rock, crevice, dead shrub or tree, and ridge line for . . . well, she wasn't sure what for, but after only a few miles of travel into the hills she had become absolutely convinced that they were being watched.

The stone foundations of the settlement were still visible, as though someone had laid them out in plan and then forgotten to finish it all, with an occasional partial wall or in one case even a stone doorway standing in silhouette against the sky. The hill-town sat where three roads met: the one they had climbed up from Mizer, another road that came up out of the east from the Uthed Wold, and a third road that then wound west through the heart of the Bale Mole. Dead brush and hardy weeds crept amongst the stones scattered and piled everywhere, but the only living thing she could see was a single crow that perched on the bare limb of a petrified tree and observed their progress.

A southerly wind buffeted the hilltop, a howling wind from the Wastes, fetid and hot and bringing that same cold grip to her insides that she had felt on the Wall. She could hear what sounded like whispers in the wind as the expedition began to settle in amongst the ruins, setting tents and campfires. The whispers were new and different. They had started earlier in the day, about the time they'd passed through a series of large, wind-blasted and unrecognizable marble statues that had flanked their path. She hadn't been able to tell if they'd been great heroes or kings or gods once; but she was sure that over time they'd become demons, and that they now marked the true gateway into the Bale Mole.

Stjepan dismounted and walked through the ruins, his eyes searching the ground, until he was satisfied that no one else had come through there in recent days. They chose as their campsite what seemed to have once been a broad central plaza, now just a field of short dry weeds that betrayed evidence of having been used in the past by other parties moving through, perhaps as recently as a week ago.

“Who do you think they were?” Erim asked as they eyed the remains of fire pits.

“Probably the treasure-hunters that Sir Orace mentioned,” Stjepan ventured. “I don't think the Azharites would camp in the open if they were using this road in and out of the Uthed Wold. They'd have some hidden bolt hole.” That prompted Erim to glance around in worry at the stone ruins around them as Stjepan poked his boot into the fire pit. “If this lot were looking for the Three Rings of Taran, they'd have to cross the whole of the Vale of Barrows to get the vale that bears his name, but they could be on their way back by now. We'll have to keep an eye out. Of course, most treasure-hunters don't come back out of the Vale. It tends to be a one-way trip.”

Erim shuddered. “Fantastic,” she said.

While the others were setting the camp, Leigh began marking a perimeter as he had on previous nights before, pouring a wide circle of small stones and chalk dust out of his leather bag again. “
Ward this place against magic! Ward this place against ghosts and spirits! Ward this place against the Wild Hunt and the Black Hunter! They are not welcome here, where we make our mark upon the World!
” he whispered with unusual urgency, and moved on to repeat the ritual at the next rock.

Stjepan looked up from securing the tent that he and Erim were sharing to see Arduin and Malia approaching. The Danian woman curtsied. “Pardon me, Master Stjepan, but . . . Lady Annwyn requests your presence,” she said. “Something is different this time,” she added in a whisper. Stjepan finished anchoring the last tent peg into the ground, and stood and nodded. He stepped over to a small pile of bags waiting to be placed in the tent and fished out one of his saddlebags, which he slung over his shoulder.

Erim and Godewyn stood nearby, by one of the campfires, watching as Caider Ross and Too Tall set several black iron pots onto iron trivets for the evening's stews and beans. They turned to look as Arduin escorted Stjepan and Malia back to the Ladies' Tent, which was guarded by the Urwed brothers in their full harness, exposed greatswords gleaming in the light of the campfires.

“I still haven't gotten a good look at her, the Lady Annwyn. I remember hearing songs about her beauty, back when she was still in society. Nice songs, all proper-like,” said Godewyn. “And I remember hearing songs about her scandal, too. Not so proper-like. I rather liked those songs.” Erim didn't say anything. After a long moment, Godewyn turned to her. “So what're they doing in there, eh?”

Erim smirked. “The Red Hand is jealous?”

Godewyn shrugged and looked back toward the Ladies' Tent. “The hills can be a cold place,” he said. “Nice to have someplace warm and wet to rest your prick. But then what would you know about that, eh?”

Erim snorted and looked at him quickly.
So, has he figured it out then, or does he just think me young and inexperienced?
she wondered. She studied his face to see if there was some clue there, but Godewyn wasn't really laughing at her, or even paying her much attention. He was just staring at the Ladies' Tent. Finally she shrugged.

“More than you might think,” Erim replied softly.

Arduin and Stjepan stood waiting inside the Ladies' Tent. It had been hastily decorated to make it as homey as possible, and was lit by several small braziers that cast everything in a warm yellow-orange hue. A thick, heavy damask carpet decorated with eagles and griffins had been rolled out over the ground to form a floor, and several sets of folding screens were ringed to create a room within the tent. Stjepan remembered Gilgwyr telling him about the purchases they'd made. They'd bought them all from the shops and markets in Hartford when he'd been searching for the men from Gyrdiff. It looked like they had made the most of the brief opportunity.

Malia stepped out from behind the screens, curtsied to them both, and indicated that Stjepan could step within the screens. He hesitated for a moment, nodded, and moved past her.

Within the screened area, on a mound of furs and fabrics, sat Annwyn, her back to Stjepan. She had a fur coat drawn about her. Her golden hair was up in jeweled combs and bindings. A small wooden x-chair had been set up for him. Stjepan sat down and opened up his saddlebags, removing several books and his map-making kit.

“I think I have something new to show you . . .” Annwyn said.

She hesitated for a moment, then turned her head until she was in profile and she was speaking over her shoulder to him ever so slightly. She did not look toward him, but instead looked toward the ground. “I have had many days to think on it. Back at the Inn, that night in the rain, on the West King's Road . . . is that how men expect women to display themselves? To act, when in their company?”

Stjepan studied her a moment, his stare intense, wondering at her question. “Not all men. Not all women,” he said finally.

“I have been cloistered for my whole life, it seems. My family has been so . . . concerned over my wellbeing,” she said. Then she raised her voice louder. “Thank you, dear brother.”

Arduin, listening on the other side of the screen, grimaced to himself, while Malia studiously pretended to be someplace else.

“The courts of Therapoli and the Aurian Kingdoms are prim and proper places, filled with rules and decorum . . .” Annwyn said as she slowly turned toward Stjepan and began to slide her coat open, baring one shoulder and part of her flank. “But even in our capital a man can find his entertainments, yes? If he knows where to look?” She opened her coat a bit more, finally revealing images sliding over her naked hip and breast. She looked up and deliberately held his gaze with her own.

Stjepan could not look away. “Aye,” he finally replied. “Indeed, in Therapoli a man with coin and desire need not look far at all to find a woman in want of one or the other. The city is not so decadent as Palatia, or the cities of the Déskédran Coast, or our wanton neighbors in the Highlands, but it has its moments.”

“Ah, lands where temples still stand to Dieva, the Dusk Maiden, the Goddess of Pleasure, and her priestesses are still honored,” Annwyn said.

On the other side of the screen Arduin frowned and fumed. “Her temple prostitutes, you mean! Speak not of such vile things, dear sister, I beg you!” he whispered fiercely, not wanting anyone outside the tent to hear him should he raise his voice.

Stjepan broke eye contact with Annwyn and shook his head in exasperation, shooting a glance at the screens. “The Goddess of Pleasure revels in just that:
pleasure
. No more, and certainly no less, which makes Her a universal goddess, as all men and women desire pleasure of some kind or another, even if it is the pleasure of monasticism. And yet there are some who are so twisted as to find revulsion in the pleasure that others give and receive, and choose to treat as vile the pleasures that others find sacred,” he said in Arduin's direction, and looked back toward Annwyn. He found himself looking deeply into her dead, deep blue eyes, and thinking for a moment that he saw some spark of mischief there.

And it startled him.

“Heathen sacrilege!” growled Arduin. “She opens doors that should remain shut, and makes way for Perversion! And so the Sun Court rightly condemns her for her wantonness!”

“The Divine King demands for reasons of His own that women's bodies be kept a mystery,” Stjepan said slowly, staring into Annwyn's gaze. “But men with wealth and power may always find a way around the strictures of their own gods. And in the Middle Kingdoms, where all is ‘prim and proper,' what is hidden can gain power in its revelation. So it is that some men desire to look at women, and some women desire to be looked at, and perhaps find some small measure of power there, in the exchange . . .”