The Sage (26 page)

Illbane
nodded, eyes glowing with approval.

King
Oramore roared in anger and charged Culaehra, huge sword windmilling. The
younger man retreated swiftly until the king ground to a halt, heaving hoarse
breaths, sweat streaming down his face, glaring, his blade wavering. Then
Culaehra leaped in, sword and dagger flickering in a dizzying dance, licking
out of their maze with death on their tips.

Malconsay
shouted a phrase and swung his staff. In mid-swing it bent, flexed, and lashed
out as a whip that wrapped about Culaehra's blade, its tip cracking against his
hand. He shouted in pain, barely managing to hold onto the hilt, and the king
cried triumph as he swung his huge sword.

But
Illbane spun his own staff, crying out words in the Ulin tongue, and the whip
became a steward's staff again, whirling back at its master. Malconsay dodged
aside, crying words that seemed to be gibberish until the name “Bolenkar!” rang
clear and the staff spun back toward Illbane.

But
Illbane shouted in plain speech, “O Ghost of Lomallin, strike down this
overweening emissary of hatred!” and swung his own staff. It cracked into
Malconsay's; fire erupted, and the steward's staff exploded into bits. One
shard shot toward Malconsay to strike his head. He toppled like a duck to a
sling-stone as Culaehra fell backward to escape the king's broadsword. He
landed on his back; the king roared in triumph and raised his sword for the
death-blow.

Culaehra
shouted and lashed out with his foot. The king stumbled over that boot; his
roar of victory changed to a cry of surprise, which cut off into a grunt as
Culaehra's other boot came up to catch him in the stomach, then propel him
tumbling past the warrior's head to somersault and slam into the earth. The
king thrashed about on the ground, struggling for breath, while Culaehra leaped
to his feet and kicked his opponent's hand. The great sword flew clear, to land
glowing on the ground.

The
soldiers shouted and started forward again, but Yocote gestured, and the snakes
rose high to hiss, even as Kitishane and Lua sent another half-dozen arrows
into their ranks. The soldiers halted.

The
king finally managed to catch a huge gasp of air and shoved himself upward—and
froze, staring at the sword tip that trembled before his eyes, as if with
eagerness to strike. Culaehra dashed sweat from his eyes, panting. “Now ...
give the .. . people back . . . their food! ... And take ... the first
fruits... to Agrapax!”

The
king gasped for breath and used it to say, “I sold the ... first fruits ...
long ago.”

“Of
course, but... this season's . . . firstlings ...”

“Them,
too ... I have . . . sold.”

“Then
take the gold you gained from them!” Culaehra commanded.

“I
dare not.. . Surely the god .. . would kill me!”

“Choose
your executioner, then,” Culaehra said, “for I will kill you if you do not go.”

The
king levered himself up on one elbow, scowling at the ground, chest still
heaving. Culaehra drew back the sword enough for that. Finally, the king seemed
to collect himself and said, “It was I who broke the promise; it is my doom.
Yes, I shall take the gold to the god.”

But
Kitishane said, “We cannot trust him so long as Malconsay stands beside him.”

The
king turned a bloodshot glare on the unconscious form of his steward. “Have no
fear. He has betrayed me by persuading me to forswear my pact with Agrapax; he
has led me bit by bit into Bolenkar's work, and into abusing my people. He
shall be my steward no longer.”

“What
do you mean to do with him?” Lua asked with trepidation.

“I
shall deal with him; that is all you need know.”

Culaehra
exchanged a glance full of doubt with Kitishane, who gave an almost
imperceptible nod. The outlaw turned back to the king. “You shall have more
than enough to deal with here, then, between disposing of Malconsay and seeing
to the needs of your people. We shall take the gold to the god for you.”

Lua
gave a cry of distress, and Yocote looked up in alarm, but Kitishane only
nodded openly, though her eyes were filled with foreboding.

“I
should thank you for that,” the king said slowly, “but how do I know you will
not take the gold and go your own way?”

“Be
sure.” Illbane's voice rang so true that the king turned to him in surprise,
and the sage looked him directly in the eye with a gaze that penetrated to his
core. “Be sure we shall bring the gold to the Ulin. Be sure.”

“I
shall be, then,” the king said, unable to tear his gaze from Illbane's. The
sage nodded and turned a little away. The king broke the stare with relief and
turned to Culaehra. “And, strange as it may seem, I thank you indeed.” He gazed
at him a moment more, frowning, then said, “You must be noble.”

He
wondered why Culaehra laughed.

As
a treasure chest it wasn't much—only a large box a little more than a foot wide
and a little less than a foot high, and perhaps nine inches deep, covered in
leather and bound with brass strips—but two soldiers grunted effort as they
brought it to set between the king and Culaehra. The outlaw stared down at it,
scandalized.
“This
is the first fruits of many years?”

“A
single piece of gold is worth all the firstlings of our fields,” the king told
him, “and another is worth all the firstlings of all the flocks and herds. You
see before you the first fruits of twenty-six years.”

Culaehra
cast a glance of disbelief at Illbane, but the sage nodded. “Gold is very
dense, Culaehra. A single coin holds much value.” He turned to the king. “But
that is only the first fruits, leaving the great bulk of all your people have
raised. You must have a vasty store of gold indeed.”

“Not
so much as you might think,” the king said. “Most of it has been transformed
into luxurious appointments within my castle, armor and arms for many soldiers,
and the court life of my wife and children.”

Culaehra
frowned. “What shall you give back, then?”

“The
grain, fruit, and meat I took from them this fall, even as you bade me—and I
shall take much less from them in the future.”

“You
shall have to bring your wife and children home from court, then,” Kitishane said,
frowning.

The
king smiled with little mirth. “Oh, there is enough gold left to keep them
there, and they have very little desire to come back here.”

Kitishane
looked into his eyes and realized that he wasn't terribly eager to have them
come back. No doubt, to those refined court-dwellers, he seemed an uncultured
bumpkin, and the life of the kingdom boring and isolated. She could sympathize
with both king and queen, and hoped Culaehra would not insist on all the gold
being given to the people.

He
did not. “So much for the food. What of their clothing, their houses?”

“We
can see to that without gold. I shall leave them most of the cloth they weave,
and when they discover that, I doubt not they shall weave more. As to their
houses, if I require fewer days of labor on my own fields and castle, they
shall have more time to repair their cottages.”

“Hovels”
would have been a better term, but Kitishane wasn't about to discourage a
worthy goal.

The
king turned to Illbane. “How shall I protect them now, though? My enchanted
armor is gone.”

“Your
people must become your armor,” the sage said sternly, “and you must work your
body back into hard readiness. As to the rest, you still have the knowledge of
strategy and tactics the Ulin gave you, and his enchanted sword. Build loyalty
from your peasants again, and you shall be still the scourge of bandits and
barbarians both, the terror of the marches.”

“There
is hope there,” the king admitted. “With Malconsay gone, there is hope.”

“And
what of the wife he chose for you?” Lua asked, her voice low.

“Aye.”
Culaehra lifted the chest—and stared, amazed at its heaviness. The two
guardsmen who had brought it stared at him in amazement considerably greater,
though, then began to eye him with fear. Culaehra shouldered it, grunting with
annoyance, and said, “Your wife will be wroth when she discovers this is gone.”

The
king gave a mirthless smile. “She will not wish to return to this provincial
kingdom when she can dwell at the court of the High King. If you come this way
again, look to see the lot of the folk much improved.”

But
when they were out on the road again, Kitishane said, “His wife will not remain
at court if Malconsay is dead or discarded.”

Illbane
looked up, eyes glittering with approval. “Truly said. How do you know it?”

“I
do not know it, I guess it,” she said tartly, “and the reason is simple: the
wife is Bolenkar's creature as much as Malconsay was, or the steward would
never have chosen her.”

Lua
gave a cry of dismay. “What will be the king's fate?”

“If
we come this way again,” Illbane said somberly, “we shall discover that he is
either a widower, or she a widow.”

“Then
let us not come this way again!”

Yocote
looked up at a sudden thought. “Might not the captains of the soldiers be
Malconsay's creatures, too?”

Illbane
nodded with a slight smile.

Yocote
whirled about, gesturing and chanting, and only just in time, for flowers of
fire blossomed in the air as the arrows fired at their backs burst into flame.

“I
thought you would never guess it,” Illbane said, and to Culaehra, “You really
should go armored in this world.”

“Yes,
I should,” Culaehra said, shaken, then to Yocote, “I thank you, friend.”

“My
pleasure,” Yocote said dryly. “Let me see, now—you have saved my life twice,
and I yours twice.”

“I
shall have to work to get ahead again,” the warrior grunted. He glanced at Lua,
then gazed at Kitishane as he said, “And I thank you, too, my friends.”

“But
we did nothing,” Kitishane protested, and Lua echoed, “Nothing.”

“No,
only held off a score of armed men long enough for Yocote to cast a spell that
stopped them,” Culaehra said. “Be sure, you strengthened me amazingly, if for
no other reason than that I knew you were there to guard my back.”

“Accept
his thanks,” Illbane advised, “for you have all done well, even better than you
knew.” He looked from one to the other, his smile broad enough to part his
beard. “Yes, you have done very well.”

Kitishane
felt her spirit glow within her at the praise, and scolded herself for letting
a man's opinion matter to her. To hide it, she said tartly, “What of you,
Illbane? Why did you do no more than speak to the king and his steward, and
counter Malconsay?”

“Because
you were quite able to do all the rest yourselves, as you proved,” Illbane told
her. “As to Malconsay, you were not yet proficient enough to deal with him—but
now that you have seen the way of it, you will be, if you let Kitishane speak
the words and Yocote work the spells.”

Kitishane
suddenly felt much less sure of herself, but Yocote said, “You have an uncommon
amount of faith in us, Illbane.”

“Why
yes,” Illbane said. “I do, do I not?” But he could not keep the pride from his
voice.

Culaehra's
breath came hard; he leaned against the straps Yocote had rigged to hold the
treasure chest, and his face was pale.

“Let
us take a turn bearing it, Culaehra,” Kitishane urged for the tenth time. “Illbane
and I can—”

“No!”
Culaehra sounded angrier than he meant; the weight was a constant irritation. “It
is my burden, and I shall bear it!”

Lua's
eyes filled with tears behind her goggles; she lifted up a hand, but Illbane
forestalled her. “He shall bear it himself no matter what we say, gnome-maid.
Do not fear, he shall not need to carry it much longer.”

“Why?”
Culaehra demanded, frowning.

“You
shall see at the crest of this hill.” Illbane strode ahead of them to forestall
any more questions. Culaehra glared at his back, at his ease of movement
unencumbered, not noticing the stiffness of his joints.

Illbane
gained the top of the hill only a few minutes ahead of them and stood waiting,
leaning on his staff. As they came to the crest, he pointed, and they looked,
then stared, for none of them had ever seen a body of water so big that they
could not see the other side.

“How
huge is that lake?” Kitishane asked, awed.

“A
thousand miles across, and its water is salty,” Illbane told her. “It is an
ocean, not a lake.”

Yocote's
nose twitched. “What is that tang to the air?”

“The
salt I spoke of, scattered to the air and borne by the breeze,” Illbane told
him. “We need not go a thousand miles, though—only across the bay that lies
before us, a journey of a hundred miles.”

“I
must carry this chest so far as that?” Culaehra cried.

“No,
Culaehra—you need only carry it down to the ship that we will board.” Illbane
pointed and, looking, they saw boats with tall masts beside a collection of
houses along the shore. “It will take us to a town behind which mountains rise.
We need only walk a dozen miles from that farther shore—but nine of those miles
are uphill, and steep.”

Culaehra
groaned at the thought, but said stoutly, “I will be glad of the rest aboard
ship.”

“We
must guard this chest closely, then,” Kitishane said, frowning.

“We
must indeed,” Illbane agreed. “Yocote, it is time you learned how to do without
sleep.”

“About
time indeed,” the gnome returned. “Culaehra had to learn months ago!”

The
big warrior gave him a whetted glance, but the gnome didn't notice—he had
already started on the downward path.

Illbane
found an inn, and left Culaehra in a private room with Kitishane and Lua while
he took Yocote out to find a ship. The big man glared blackly about him the
whole time, as if he expected the walls to erupt thieves or the door to burst
open to admit a dozen bandits. The women did the best they could to distract
him with lighthearted talk, but it was a losing battle— so, what with one thing
and another, they were very glad when Illbane and Yocote returned to summon
them aboard ship.