The Starfollowers of Coramonde (14 page)

She was
taller than her two sentinels. Like them, she wore a long hauberk, but her
helmet was a brightly polished bascinet with white, spread wings fixed to its
sides. Throwing back her billowing sky-blue cape, she uncovered a wide belt of
tooled leather with bronze filigree. From it hung a hand-and-a-half sword and
gleaming dagger sheath. Removing her helmet, she asked her guardswomen
questions while they pointed to the party from Coramonde. Her skin was a light
olive, her face open and high-cheeked. A dark birthmark spilled down from the
hairline over her right ear to her collarbone.

She gave her women
permission to dismount and rest, then came to the travelers. Her blue-black
hair was pinned in mounds to pad her bascinet, Gil saw, and as she scrutinized
them her face creased, flashing white teeth. Her brown eyes had a heavy-lidded
look, but her posture was unsparingly correct.

“What is your
business in Glyffa?” she asked.

Once more it
was Angorman to the barrier. “Our endeavor enjoys the auspices of the Crescent
Moon.”

She inspected
the brassard on his slouch hat. Her mouth pursed in thought, lips fuller than
when she’d narrowed her eyes at them. She tugged off mailed gauntlets and
leaned her elbows on the gate. Her hands were graceful, and slim. “What bona
fides do you offer?”

“May I ask to
whom I speak?”

“I am High
Constable of Region Blue, this Region. Yourself?”

A deep bow
from the Saint-Commander. “Angorman, of the Order of the Axe.”

Her eyes
widened. “I thought you might be. We have only had tales of you here. Is that
Red Pilgrim then? The original one?”

He smiled
benignly. “There is only one. But I am unused to your warm clime. If we might
continue our conversation inside—?”

She
straightened and gave a thumbs-up behind her. The gate swung away. They all
trailed her into the checkpoint building. Andre had Blazetongue, wrapped, on
his shoulder.

There was a
spare sort of mess hall there, built for more troops than used it now. She
seated herself at a bench, inviting them to do the same, keeping her dark
birthmark to the wall.

“We have
spread ourselves thinly along the border. I suppose that much is evident. Most
of my troop strength had been reassigned southward. I am going there myself,
directly.”

Gil spoke for
the first time. “Your—your guards-women said there’s been some kind of
invasion.”

She checked him
over frankly. “The men of Veganá have been thrown back over our border by
Southwastelanders. We have made common cause with Veganá, not a moment early.
Now, what errand takes you through Glyffa? I must have the tale.”

“We are on
our way,” Angorman said, “to bring this child back where she belongs.”

“And why is
she so important?”

“Because
she’s connected to this,” Gil answered, taking Blazetongue from Andre. He
unwrapped it and held it out. Andre had assured them they could trust the women
of Glyffa; they might as well find out.

She didn’t
try to take Blazetongue, but ran her fingertips down the rune-written blade,
perhaps seeing if it would burn at her touch. She whispered the sword’s name.

Gil nodded.
“They used to call it Flarecore in Coramonde. This goes home too.”

She looked
from weapon to child. “We had heard the last survivor of the Royal House of
Veganá had been spirited away months ago. A baby girl, she was. This is the
same?”

“Without
question,” Angorman stated.

“Then, there
will be jubilation in that beaten army.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “But
this transcends my authority. You cannot be turned back, and I certainly shan’t
allow you to go unaccompanied with Southwastelanders abroad. Ah, Red Pilgrim
and Blazetongue side by side, when they are most needed. What a
goddess-sending! I live to see interesting times.”

“The way to
Veganá is closed?”

“Veganá is
occupied soil. Still, the tide of battle will ebb after it carves its
sea-marks. We Sisters of the Line have withdrawn and withdrawn, beckoning the
Southwastelanders onto ground we chose. The battle will begin soon; I go there
with my contingent.”

“Do the
Southwastelanders not overextend themselves?” Angorman asked.

“We think so,
for they have moved up every man for this coming fight.”

“What about
Death’s Hold?” Gil interrupted.

She shrugged.
“What of it?”

“We heard it
was reoccupied, that Yardiff Bey was there.”

“No. Or
rather, not now. Death’s Hold had been cleared of enemies in years long gone
by. Months ago, activity began there again, but we were too busy to go in and
dig the troublemakers out. Then, less than a week ago, the Mariners landed in
strength. Our news is that they cleaned it up, dispersing the evil there.”

So, the
Mariners had made good their promise to pursue their enemies wherever they had
to. Gil wondered if that meant Dunstan had been taken somewhere else; it didn’t
sound as if Yardiff Bey had been located. The High Constable knew nothing of
his whereabouts nor had anyone sighted his demon-ship,
Cloud Ruler.

Gil pondered.
Did it mean Bey had never been in Death’s Hold? He’d hidden out with Newshield
after his flight from Earthfast, failing to find the secret he’d hoped to
uncover in his copy of
Arrivals Macabre.
Where had he gone from there,
back to Salamá? But what about the insights of the Dreamdrowse? Muddled, the
American tried to rearrange the new data to make some sense.

The High
Constable was saying, “You must continue your commission under my protection.
Whatever is left of the government of Veganá will be with my Liege, the
Trustee. Thus our two paths are one.” She stood, tucking her gauntlets through
her belt. “We leave in short order.”

Everyone
concurred, glad for escort. Gil thought about going off on his own to Death’s
Hold, but she’d sounded definite, telling him it was now empty. Besides, there
was the Faith Cup.

Andre was
watching him, knowing what he was thinking. “If Bey is hidden, should you not
look for him where his minions are most numerous? If a Southwastelander army is
assembled, his attention must bear on it somehow. Your direction still lies
with ours.”

Woodsinger
and Ferrian were puttering around the child’s rack, talking about rigging a
dustcover for her, since she’d be in the cavalry column. The High Constable
gauged the light as her troops scurried to their horses.

“We have
another three hours’ light before we must stop,” she judged. To the two
sentinels she commanded, “This border’s clear to the west; do your duty here as
best you can. Do not throw your lives away foolishly if numbers are against
you; you are a watching detail only.”

They lifted
their hilts in salute. She turned, slipping an arm through Angorman’s elbow on
one side and Woodsinger’s on the other. “By the Lady, but the men of Veganá
will be delirious with these tidings!”

The travelers
got their horses, joining her at the head of her column.

“Excuse me,”
Gil remembered to ask as they moved out, “what do we call you?”

“I am Swan,”
she threw back over her blue-caped shoulder.

The ride was punctuated
with clinking accouterments, tintinnabulation of bits, beating hooves on the
Tangent and the slap of scabbards. It was interspersed with walks to rest the
horses, and occasional stops for water. Swan had a single-minded approach to
her job.

They camped
as the sun was setting. Swan stood to one side, hands clasped behind her back,
to insure that her troops were fed and squared away to her satisfaction. The
Sisters of the Line, regular soldiery of Glyffa, were as proficient as any Gil
had seen in the Crescent Lands, but made less banter than most.

That night,
Angorman conducted a ritual of worship to the Bright Lady. Woodsinger joined
Swan and most Sisters of the Line. Against his habit, Gil lingered near,
watching along with Ferrian and Andre. The service was subdued, much given to
silent prayer and meditation, but there were sweet songs too.

It ended with
each worshiper going off to spend time alone. Gil went to check Jeb Stuart and
found Swan standing by the picket line, blue cape pulled around her. Memories
jumped up in his face of the Lady Duskwind, whom he’d met under similar
circumstances. Where he’d been about to talk to Swan, he turned away, propelled
by recollections and brooding.

Their
breakfast was hard biscuit and strips of dry, plastic-tasting jerky. Gil used a
stiff little pig-bristled brush he carried to clean his teeth, but the brackish
taste remained in his mouth. He decided not to shave; he usually let his beard
go for a few days before using the sliver of a straight razor he had. But he
never let his beard hide the powderburn on his cheek, and kept his hair trimmed
back from the scar on his forehead. Seeing them in his reflection was a regular
reminder he wished to maintain.

He knuckled
his eyes, and saddled Jeb, yawning. Rubbing the scar, he tried to estimate how
much closer he was to Yardiff Bey today than yesterday.

“Which way’s
Death’s Hold?” he asked Andre.

The wizard
pointed westward. “There, along the shore of the Outer Sea. We’ll be going away
from it soon.”

Gil gnawed
his lip. Andre added, “If Bey’s at Death’s Hold, he will be there for a time to
come. But if he is behind enemy lines, he may not be there for long. You have
set the most likely course.”

“Why should
he be with the army? Why wouldn’t he sneak through in one of his disguises or
use magic? Or even fly in, in
Cloud Ruler?”

Andre averted
his glance, muttering. “His arts are less efficacious here. Rely upon it; he
will not use his demon-ship, nor wish to employ spells.”

Swan came to
them. “We link up with my Liege in four days, but there is a stretch of ground
to cover.”

Gil watched
the sunrise. Time and distance from home, hanging over him from the service of
the preceding night, descended without warning. His parents’ faces were hard to
summon up, his brother’s impossible. Had the transition to this Reality
deadened him down inside, where his feelings lived? Or did it have to do with
his single-mindedness, hunting Bey? He fingered the chain that held the Ace,
shook the mood off and mounted.

The day’s
ride took them down through a forest of venerable old lindens that hadn’t heard
an axe in generations, then across a dry, arid plain of red earth and brown
scrub. Toward evening they came into a string of shallow valleys where narrow
streams moved quickly. They saw lumbering supply trains bound southward,
weighted with supplies for the war effort. It was odd to see a sweating
teamster cuss out her horses, and have a broken strap on Jeb’s headstall
repaired by a handy-woman quartermaster sergeant.

He drew no
conclusions about the men of Glyffa, because he met none. They were there to be
seen, usually in groups, cowled and cloaked, walking silently along the side of
the road, but they eschewed contact with anyone but themselves.

They moved
hard again, all through the next day. Terrain became drier and weather hotter.
On the third day they passed once more into lands that were well watered. They
pitched camp in a stand of pine where beds of dead brown needles muffled
hoofbeats, their mounts kicking up clots of them packed with black humus.

The American
had seen to Jeb. Passing a large boulder up-cropping in the middle of the
bivouac, he noticed a man sitting on it. Gil was sure the guy hadn’t been there
when they’d stopped, but couldn’t understand how he’d gotten through the sentry
cordons.

A young man,
the stranger sat on the rock, slightly above the American’s head, resting
buttocks on heels with hands on knees, like a judoka waiting for a match. He
wore a simple green robe and toque of weighty, twisted gold cable around his
neck. He was lean, with the olive skin and straight, coal-black hair of Glyffa,
trimmed at his shoulders. His feet were bare, used to constant walking. He was
somehow familiar, but not in a way Gil could pin down. He exuded inner calm.

Gil found the
Browning had gotten into his hand. He put it away with chagrin. Though others
had noticed the man now, there wasn’t any outcry. Presently, Swan arrived. The
visitor slipped down to speak to her. Gil figured out what that vague
familiarity had been.

“Jade,” she
said, “brother, how good in my heart to see you.”

“Sister, it
is good.”

“What brings
you here, Jade?” Swan’s brother was the first Glyffan male Gil had seen up
close, aside from Andre, who was obviously the all-around exception. He stuck
around.

“I saw your
troop as I meditated in the hills, and came down, thinking it might be you.
What has come to pass? Your aura is of battle.”

“You know
that is not for you to ask, brother. The hour for men to enter everyday affairs
is not yet.”

“Yet we may
think, Swan. What will we find?”

She answered,
“When the Mandate is done and you men have made your decision, what shall we
women discover?”

His eyes were
veiled. “The last of the old have died, or will soon. The Mandate will be
complete, and you will know our minds.”

His glance
caught the American. Gil had been puzzling over his last remark, thinking it
might have something to do with Andre; now he held himself carefully, watching
Jade.

“You move in
rarefied circles now, Swan,” her brother told her. “Here I see a restless
Seeker, who outdoes us all.” He backed away, only half talking to Gil. “You
have come a far way, and have even farther to go.” His right hand went through
a rapid, intricate Sign. Then he went to Swan, who presented her cheek for his
chaste kiss. He strode from camp.

“Odd dude,”
Gil remarked to fill the silence.