The Sage (16 page)

Culaehra's
gaze drifted. “I am not sure that I would not be.” Then, with great reluctance,
“I cannot be sure that I would not
want
to be.”

“Then
wait until you are.”

Culaehra
looked up at him again. “You mean that it is not too late to gain the
protection of the rules, by living them.”

“There
is still time,” Illbane said, “but I must tell you that my rules are not merely
my own inventions. They are laws that govern any band of people, and there are
more of them than I have taught you. Without them all villages, all tribes,
either fall apart or kill one another off.”

“What
other laws are these?” Culaehra asked, but Illbane only shook his head,
smiling.

“You
must discover them for yourself, Culaehra. I will tell you, though, that there
are not very many of them.”

“Not
even all of yours make sense.” Culaehra scowled. “What is the purpose of ruling
that the strong should protect the weak? Does that law arise so that those who
live by it will protect me when I become weak?”

“That
is one of its effects,” Illbane said.

The
next day everyone was very quiet—oddly, Yocote most of all, marching with brows
knit, eyes downcast. Now and again he stopped to pick up something—a pebble of
unusual shape or hue, a few stalks of grass that he braided into a cord, a limber
rod that he thrust into his belt, a tubular reed—but Lua recognized an excuse
when she saw it; collecting such scraps gave him a reason for downcast eyes and
a solemn, almost grim, air. Lua's eyes filled with tears as she watched him,
but whenever she made a move toward him, Illbane caught her eye and shook his
head.

All
these weeks, they had been marching steadily northward, through land that bore
no sign of people except the charred ruins of villages and cattle roaming wild,
with pigs and dogs who had quickly reverted to the ways of nature.

When
first they came to such a village, Lua stared in shock, Yocote began to look
angry, and even Culaehra felt a chill at the postures of some of the skeletons
they found.

“What
has happened here?” Kitishane cried.

“Bolenkar's
agents have come among these villagers,” Illbane told her grimly. “They have
found cause for war between neighbors, then between hamlets, and finally
between villages. The victorious villagers then fought one another, and this
country now is stripped to a few small cities that live in an uneasy truce,
each waiting only for some advantage over the others before it strikes.”

“Is
there no remedy?”

Illbane
shrugged. “Destroy the agents of Bolenkar.”

“Then
let us do so!”

But
the sage shook his head. “We are not yet strong enough. Meanwhile, more of his
emissaries work among the cities of the south and the nomads of the steppe, and
in time both will march to conquer this land. Their armies will chew one
another to bits and strew these plains with the dead and dying.”

Even
Culaehra blanched at the thought of death on such a scale, but he said stoutly,
“They will all deserve it.”

“They
will
not
deserve it, for they would have been peaceful enough without
tempters to puff them up and tell them that each of them deserved dominion over
all the others.” Illbane glanced keenly at the outlaw. “Would you not stop it
if you could?”

Culaehra
started to answer, then bit his tongue, remembering to gauge Illbane's mood.
Carefully he said, “They are nothing to me, Illbane, and would probably cast me
out if I had been born among them. Why should I care?”

The
sage never took his gaze from the outlaw's face, only nodded and said, “You
must discover that.”

He
would not say why or how, only led them away from that village and on toward
the north. All Culaehra's pestering would not draw an answer from Illbane, and
when the outlaw perceived that the sage's mood of the day was patience, he grew
bold, even to the point of hectoring. “You seem to think that I should take another
person's troubles upon me, let them become my troubles! Why ever should I do
that?”

Illbane
stopped and gave him a long, penetrating look, his face so grim that Culaehra's
heart sank and he readied himself to fight even though he knew he would be beaten
and punished. However, Illbane merely said, “Only experience can teach you
that.” He turned away, and Culaehra followed slowly, dying to ask what he
meant, but too wary.

He
found out when they came to the cliff.

The
cliff happened at the end of their path. They were following a faint animal
trail toward a line that they took for a ridge, a trail that suddenly veered
aside to a spring that jetted from a crevice, then ran to splash off the side
of the ridge. Illbane halted and held out a hand to stop them. Glad of any
rest, Culaehra dropped the packs with a sigh, but Yocote peered through his
goggles. “Why did the animals who made this trail turn away? The stream runs to
the ridge.” Then he frowned. “Come to that, if it is a ridge, why does the
spring run over it without pooling first?”

“A
good question.” Illbane leaned on his staff, watching Yocote intently. “Seek
the answer carefully, you who are now a shaman.”

Yocote
glanced up at him, frowning, then turned to follow the animal trail, dropping
to all fours at the spring. He crawled as he followed its course.

Culaehra
snorted. “Yes, Yocote, crawl like the worm you are!”

“Do
not make your ignorance march where all can see, Culaehra!” Illbane snapped. “He
mimics the deer who made the trail so that he may take in their thoughts.”

The
outlaw glared at him. “Take in their thoughts? You mean think like them, do you
not? Oh, I do not doubt that Yocote thinks like a timid antelope!”

“He
takes in the thoughts of the animals who made the path!” Illbane strode over to
him, his voice dropping to an angry mutter. “It is shaman's work, to bring the
memories buried in the stone and the earth into his own mind, that he may know
what they know! Do not speak of what you cannot understand!”

Culaehra's
head snapped up as if he had been slapped, and within, he vowed revenge on
Yocote for Illbane's insults. The amulet at his throat chilled him, but he
shook off its spell angrily.

Yocote
stiffened, then shied away. “It is no ridge, Illbane, but a cliff's edge!”

“Is
it truly?” Illbane sounded quite interested, but Culaehra felt sure he had
known it all along, and silently cursed him for making them go through this
game. The sage strode up to the edge of the cliff and nodded. “Indeed it is,
and we can see an amazing distance from it! Come up, my companions, and look
upon your path for the next sennight—but come carefully.”

Slowly,
they came up, Yocote to one side of him, Kitishane to the other, dropping to
their knees for the last pace or two. They gasped in awe—and Lua, finally curious,
crept forward to join them.

None
stood right next to Illbane, of course; they maintained their respectful
distance—and Culaehra suddenly realized that now, even now, he could run at the
sage's back and push him off the edge. His blood quickened even as the amulet
turned so cold that he almost yelped in surprise—but it reminded him to be
cautious. For all he knew, Illbane might sprout wings and fly! And, come to
think of it, Illbane had stepped up quite close to the edge, turning his back
on him, ignoring him quite deliberately—almost as if he were inviting the
assault. Illbane was angry at him; Culaehra knew that, and he also knew the old
man must have eyes in the back of his head. He wouldn't put it past Illbane to
sense when he was rushing, and step aside at the last second, to let him go
hurtling over the edge of the cliff. Culaehra's blood chilled at the thought—or
was that only the amulet's effect running through him? No, he decided, the risk
was too great. He went forward after all, but slowly, moving up beside Yocote
and fighting down the urge to kick the little man off the precipice instead.

Then
Culaehra saw the view and forgot all thoughts of revenge or assault.

The
plain stretched away to another range of mountains far in the distance. It was
grassy, with three lines of trees winding across it. One had deep curves, even
an oxbow. He wondered why the trees grew in lines, then caught the glint of
water from the oxbow. The trees showed the courses of rivers! Was water so
scarce in this land that trees could grow only on the banks of streams?

It
would seem so, but the grass was lush green with the summer rains—summer, and
Illbane had caught him in early spring!—and the sky arched huge above all,
almost awing him with the depths of its blueness and the streams of clouds that
streaked it like rivers in the sky.

He
stood spellbound by the vista until Yocote's voice brought him out of his daze.
“How are we to climb down there?”

A
good question! He glanced at Illbane—and saw the sage watching him with a
thoughtful, weighing look, almost as if he were suspecting there might be some
good in him after all. Culaehra flushed and turned away—to find Kitishane
watching him with a look that was much the same, but held some difference in
both kind and intensity. Culaehra turned quickly back to the vista before him. “Well
asked, Illbane. How do we climb down?”

“There
is a broad ledge some twenty yards below us,” the sage answered, not even
looking. “It runs down the face of the cliff like a ramp, switching back on itself
three times.”

“I
see it!” Yocote lay on his belly, looking down over the edge.

“All
well and good, once we come to the ledge!” Culaehra replied.

“There
is a coil of rope in my pack. I shall lower you down one by one.”

Culaehra's
blood ran cold. Lua whimpered. If it hadn't been for his slender stock of
remaining pride, he would have joined her.

“You
need not carry the packs while you descend,” Illbane told him. “I shall lower
them to you.”

“To
me?”

“Of
course. You do not think I would trust you behind my back while my hands were
occupied, do you?” Illbane stepped over to take the packs from Culaehra's back.
“Besides, you are the largest. If any of the others slip, you will cushion
their fall.”

“Oh,
how very considerate of you!” Culaehra brayed. “How if
I
do not trust
you
to hold the other end of the rope from which I hang?”

Illbane
looked up from rummaging in the pack. “Why, you have no choice,” he said. “I
do.”

Culaehra
stared into his eyes and thought they were the coldest he had ever seen. He
licked lips gone suddenly dry and said, “I could flee.”

Illbane
spread an arm, bowing. “Attempt it.”

Culaehra
knew just how far he would be able to flee. True, there were no resin-laden
pines here, but he did not doubt that the sage would find some other magic trick
to bring him down.

“You
are going over that cliff, Culaehra.” Those frigid eyes held his again,
breathing the chill of glaciers into him. “With or without that rope.”

“You've
said you need me for some purpose of your own,” Culaehra croaked.

“Perhaps
it is to be a sacrifice to the goddess,” Illbane told him. “Perhaps this is the
place of sacrifice.”

Culaehra
didn't believe that for a second—but he would not have put it past the sage to
let him go through all the pains of death, then haul him back to life for his
own nefarious purposes. He spat an oath of disgust and held out a hand.

Illbane
took the rope from the pack and held it out to him, his eyes glowing—with
amusement? Or triumph? Or something else? Culaehra couldn't be sure, but
whatever it was, he hated Illbane for it. The sage told him how to arrange the
rope about him so that he could lower himself. Illbane would only need to
anchor his end of the cable.

“You
have great faith in the strength of my arm,” Culaehra grumbled, stringing the
strand.

“On
the contrary—I have great faith in the strength of the rope.” Illbane wrapped
his end around the trunk of a stunted pine that grew nearby, then took a firm
hold on the six-foot length of rope that was left. “You see? You have this tree
holding you, as well as me!”

“Aye,
provided you do not let go of your end,” Culaehra said sourly. He sat on the
edge of the cliff, took one brief glance downward—and felt his heart sink. Fear
filled him, bawling within him to run, to fight, to do anything but drop off
that mountainside—but greater fear held him still, fear of Illbane's staff and
his magic. He took a deep breath, said, “If I die, Illbane, my ghost will haunt
you,” then took another deep breath and shoved himself off the side.

Somehow,
he did not think Illbane feared ghosts.

The
rope jerked on his arm but held firm. Culaehra planted his feet against the
face of the cliff, resolutely not looking down. His heart hammered in his
chest, reverberated through his head.

He
wondered if Illbane liked him that day.

Walk
down the cliff face now,” Illbane called cheerfully. “Let the rope slip about
you as you do—but make sure you let it out, handhold by handhold.”

“Very
sure,” Culaehra assured him. He started down the cliff face, his heart
hammering like a dozen blacksmiths. Illbane's good cheer could be a good
sign—but Culaehra remembered the harsh words he had just now spoken, and
swallowed against a thick lump in his throat. He looked up resolutely, even
though all he could see was Yocote's goggled face peering over the cliffs edge,
and pure sky beyond—anything was better than looking down. He felt mildly
surprised that the gnome wasn't grinning at his discomfort—in fact, Yocote
seemed genuinely anxious. Why should that be?

“Too
fast!” Illbane called, and sure enough, the slipping rope burned his palm. How
could the old demon have known without looking? But Culaehra forced himself to
move more slowly, even though all he wanted was for this nightmarish descent to
be over.