The Four Forges (78 page)

Lariel sent her army downhill with the Lady Tiiva, Osten ild Drebukar leading Aymaran to Larandaril, and finally laid her eyes of cobalt blue and gold and silver on her gently. “Come home with us.”

Rivergrace shook her head.

“Where will you go now?”

She dragged the tip of the sword up and pointed northward, into the Blackwinds. “The Andredia.”

Lara’s face paled even as she straightened her body. “Rivergrace, I can’t ask any more of you than you’ve already given.”

“You don’t ask it of me! I was meant for this. Sevryn knew it. He tried to tell me, and there is no reason now for me to try to stay.”

“Grace.” Nutmeg put her hand on her arm. “There’s every reason for you to stay. Sevryn meant you to live.”

Rivergrace looked down at Nutmeg, seeing her merry face streaked with blood and dirt, and a garish bruise across her jaw, her brown eyes clouded with worry. “I can cleanse the river,” she told Nutmeg. “It starts up there, and works its way down here, and all that is pure about the river is poisoned. He had forges in the mountains, Meg, pulling Demons from their most fiery hells and branding them into the steel. He used the river to tame them, quench them, make them so that he could bind them. He used Silverwing and then the sacred Andredia, and it calls to me. I was meant for this.”

Nutmeg rubbed her arm. “You’ve always answered the river’s calls. Well, if you’re going, so am I.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No. You’ve not told me everything, but this I know. We’re family, and that means all the sorrow, all the joy, woven together. You need us, and we’re here.”

Garner seconded his sister.

“I can’t take anyone with me. The sword. I don’t know how long I can hold the sword back.” Her arm shook a little and she let it fall point first, to lean upon again.

“You won’t strike any of us,” Nutmeg said confidently.

Lariel inclined her head in thought a moment. When she lifted it, she said, “The Andredia is my trust. The Way is imprinted in me, though I’ve never been there. You won’t get there without me, and, Gods help me, I will drop you, Rivergrace, before you murder those you love.”

Rivergrace looked into her eyes for a long time, then murmured, “Thank you.”

Jeredon stirred. “Lariel . . .”

She shook her head at him. “No, like Rivergrace, this is what was meant for me. Our House made this pact, and you know it stands violated now. It was a long time ago, and we didn’t know it. It happened on my watch, and I saw the signs, and I didn’t know what they meant. I can only pray it’s not too late. In the morning, I’ll know the trail there.”

He stood, standing over his sister, and put his hand on her head, ruffling her gold-and-silver hair. “Then we all go.”

“You’re the heir. You have to return.”

“I’ll return when it’s all done and finished, and not before, and we won’t be needing an heir.” He looked at the smoke staining the slope as the pyre burned, and the smoke trailed downhill from them, but they could still smell the death in it. “In the morning.”

 
 
“He sleeps. Finally.” Quendius sat on the cold ground beside Diort.

“Put him out of his misery.”

“There will come a day when he will craft another sword for me.”

“Is that how you use us all? Till there is nothing left?”

“Is that not how flesh and bone and soul are meant to be used? Molded to a destiny?”

He would argue with that, but he could not as it rather fit his own philosophy from time to time. Instead, he asked, “Why did you decide to kill Lariel Anderieon?”

“She came not to buy but to divide us. Did you not watch her actions? Did you not see her toting up our strengths and our weaknesses? And just think what a great sword Cerat would have been with her soul imbuing it.”

“Lost to us instead.”

“We will have it back. Even now, he works to return it to me. He is bonded to it, and it calls to him, if he doesn’t die of the agony of his loss first. He will be a relentless hound upon its trail. Never underestimate Narskap.”

“Then what? What of my hammer?

Quendius did not answer him immediately, then replied with a question of his own. “Tell me, Abayan, what was the last great war fought in these lands?”

Diort had been fingering the scars and tattoos on his cheek and stopped to turn his eye upon Quendius. “You know as well as I do.”

“Remind me.” Quendius crossed his ankles and returned the stare.

“The battles of the Magi that created the warlands.”

“Who won?”

“None of the Magi. The Gods came down to crush them for their powers, for the destruction brought upon the land and the people. They left the land scarred, so we’d never forget. Some say the Raymy wars were greater, or the Bolger wars, but the Gods did not cut us off because of those battles. No. The Magi created hell even as they created magic.”

“And if I start such a war, do you think the Gods will notice me?”

“Is that what you want, Quendius? The Gods to notice you? Why not pray at a shrine?”

“You mistake my ambition, Diort. I don’t want to be a tickle upon Their senses or a whispered plea in Their ear. I want Their full and undivided attention, and I will get it by defeating Them or becoming One of Them myself. I’ll have nothing less, or destroy what’s left of Their precious lands trying.” He smiled wryly. “I began with the Andredia.”

“To what end?”

“They will deal with me, or Return me,” Quendius told him.

Unsure if he dealt with a man of brilliance or insanity, Diort changed the subject. “I did not bring Bistel Hith-aryn after you.”

“No, I don’t think you did. You’re pardoned, Abayan. Your war hammer lies in the packs off the spotted gelding.” Quendius waved him off. “Go get it, and sleep on plans of vengeance.”

Diort moved away, leaving Quendius staring down the mountainside, pondering the improbable. One of Lariel’s entourage had retrieved the sword, a sword that no one but Narskap could wield, not even himself.

How?

And why.

 
 
In the night, Rivergrace woke once, to hear Jeredon and Lariel arguing, their voices pitched low, Jeredon pleading and Lariel insistent. She didn’t listen to their words, for it overrode the voice in her head, in her dreams, that was the only voice she wished to hear. She knew that soon enough, she would forget the exact sound of it. She rolled onto her side on the ground, finding it hard and unyielding and quiet. After a time the voices subsided, and she found sleep again, but without dreams, and she woke in the morning with tears dried on her face. Jeredon had fashioned a sheath and strap of sorts and left it next to her and the sword. She sheathed the sword and shouldered it, the weight heavy, the presence like a fiery brand eating through her.

 
“The Blackwinds,” said Lariel, and her face was pale in the early morning light, her hair pulled back and bound, and one hand bandaged slightly. It looked as if she had cut her left hand, for crimson stained the wrappings and when Rivergrace looked closer, she realized the little finger was gone entirely. Lariel caught her glance. Her mouth tightened, and she moved her hand upon the reins so that her bandaging couldn’t be seen well. “The Blackwinds run from here to the northeast. From the west, the high, jagged range known as Heaven’s Teeth meets and cuts through it to the east. My eyes are open now to the Way and the Andredia flows from here, up this mountain. By good fortune or by his twisted planning, we’re only a few days, at most, from the wellspring. If Sevryn was right, Quendius may well know where the river begins. We may encounter stragglers from Quendius’ troops, but the worst thing we can meet are the Blackwind runners.”

“Not all Ways created were successful. The runners were bred to be shepherds on the borders of our kingdoms, sentinels, bred from the hunting dogs we brought with us, and the Bolger fighting dog known as the Ukalla. What evolved is a large, fierce creature that will fight savagely to the death anyone not bonded to it. They ravage the high country, eating bear, deer, whatever they can find. Few exist, but we don’t want to meet one. If we do, leave it to myself or Jeredon. We’re the only ones who can form a bond.”

“What about Rivergrace?” Nutmeg’s head swung about, ponytail bouncing.

“I’m not Vaelinar in the way they are.”

“More importantly, we don’t want to leave anyone behind.” Lariel tapped her tashya mount which sprang away with a leap in the cool morning. The season had begun to turn almost without notice, summer gone, autumn creeping in.

 
They picked their way out of the foothills and straight up into the mountains, so different than the ones above the Silverwing. These were formed of hard, yet porous black rock, and pushed out of the ground violently, often in tilted stacks, as if the hillside itself had risen up and then fallen down. Lariel threaded them through it, finding dirt and grass among the rock. Rivergrace leaned from her saddle once to touch it, finding it abrasive and cruel. She wondered what made rock like that, and shoved it out of the earth itself. Black Ribbon kept her ears back, still on short rations and unhappy.

When they finally camped in late afternoon, there was little enough room on the trail for any to lie down. Nutmeg pulled Rivergrace to her, pillowing her head in her lap. She lay there reluctantly, the sword against her body from ankle to hip to rib cage, while her sister combed her hair until she wearily dropped into sleep.

She awoke in thin daylight to see Lariel standing a few feet away on the trail. She held a string in her hand and a thing dangled from it, as she turned from side to side, casting with it. At the last turn, the thing on the string swung forward as if pointing up the mountain, and Lariel let out her breath softly, then reeled the object in. Before she pocketed it, Rivergrace realized it was the queen’s missing finger. She swallowed tightly, as horror rose burning in her throat, and she turned her face away quickly before Lariel could know she’d been watching.

Lariel called softly to all of them, bringing them awake, and gestured up the side of the mountain, saying, “This way today.”

Garner looked longingly down the other side, where the black rock hardly pierced the landscape, and green grass and brush grew, with groves fringing it. “Not that way?”

“No.” She spared him a fleeting smile. “Perhaps on the way down.”

“There’s fish in that river down there,” he added.

“We’ll need a good meal going home.”

He nodded and went to round up his mount and Bumblebee just over the ridge. He came running back, shouting, even as Jeredon emptied part of a waterskin over his head to bathe. “On our asses. Troops!”

Jeredon threw the waterskin at his sister and half ran, half slid back down the trail with Garner. He came back alone.

“Where’s Garner?”

“Garner has my bow and quiver. He’s holding the pass for us. Up, up, get your horses.”

“How many?”

“A handful or so. He’s a good shot, already downed one. He’ll buy us time before he follows.”

They mounted and rode, horses clambering across the broken escarpment, hooves sending rock and pebbles tumbling. The sounds of curses and shouting followed them. Nutmeg looked back once fretfully, and then leaned low over Bumblebee’s neck, and snapped the rein end over his haunches. “Faster there, sooner back,” she shouted to Rivergrace.

The rock grew hard enough and close enough that they finally had to dismount to lead the horses. Even nimble Bumblebee had to scramble to pick his way through, and Nutmeg wished wistfully for Daisy the goat. As the bare trail split, winding about a plateau and then up to one of the craggy peaks, Lariel halted them. She put her hand in her pocket, turned away and dangled her finger from its string to find their way. Jeredon’s face grayed as she did, and Rivergrace drew him back, saying, “Give her this.”

He glanced down at her before nodding reluctantly.

To their relief, she pointed off across the plateau, giving them rest and an easy path for most of the day. Nutmeg looked back again and again as she crossed it, the horses plodding wearily, with no sight of Garner. She stifled a sniffle and rubbed her nose on her sleeve.

“He’s not dead,” Rivergrace said to her.

“I never said he was!”

Rivergrace pulled her ponytail. “But I know he isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

She paused. “I just do.” How could she tell Meg that Cerat, the sword, murmured when it looked for souls nearby, lost and wandering, for the gathering. It was best not to know how she knew.

When they reached the plateau’s edge and faced a great, double-sided crag, a deer’s trail ran along its side and upward, cutting through a steep pass. Jeredon eyed it.

“We could try coming up the back side.”

“With no way of knowing if that’s a sheer drop off or if it goes through.”

He scratched his head, hazel-green eyes showing his unease. “It’s a closed pass, Lariel.”

“I know.”

“All right, then. I’ll take the lead.” He dismounted, looping the reins over his left arm, right arm ready to pull the sword on his left hip. Sweeping a look over the mountain pressing down on them from above and towering along the sides, he stepped into the pass she’d chosen.

Nutmeg followed after, coaxing Bumblebee who put his ears flat against his skull, not liking to be away from his trailmate Ribbon. Nutmeg drummed her heels against his still substantial girth to get him to mind. He kicked once, a little half buck, and squealed as she did.

The pass echoed with it. And then a low, deep, vast
BOOM
sounded, with a growling
rakka
thundering down to them. The growling sounded again,
rrrrrakka
. Rock and dirt began to shimmy down, and the mountain seemed to shiver. Jeredon threw his head back. He swung about, grabbing Bumblebee’s bridle and slapped him on the rump. The little pony bolted past.

Lariel followed and Rivergrace’s mare lunged behind them, whinnying in sudden fear. The pass resounded and stone moaned and then it began to move, a river of dry dirt and rock, heading at Jeredon. He turned to run with no place to go but the way they’d come, as the slide came down on him.