Warautumn (16 page)

In any case, much as she needed and desired it, she had no intention of bathing until she made sure that Krynneth had done the same. While he attended to that, she would keep watch, maybe wash some of the clothing she had salvaged from the Ixtians, which it had occurred to her might be useful to Krynneth, if not to herself, and generally try to figure out how best to chase down a very dangerous animal equipped with an even more dangerous weapon.

They had reached the river’s edge by then, having threaded their way through the first real undergrowth they had seen since leaving the highlands. Soon enough they found the place where, to judge by the confusion of footprints in two sizes, Inon and Ivk had bathed the day before. There were also geen prints, she noted, but only around the fringe of the scrap of sand that made a tiny beach on the outer curve of one of the river’s meanders. Rocks marked either extreme of that strand, behind which more of the knee-high underbrush showed beneath a line of low, flat-topped trees of a variety she didn’t recognize. The river itself was maybe three spans wide, tannish gray, and impossibly inviting.

But not yet.

“Kryn, come here,” she commanded, after confirming that she was between him and the remaining regalia, which she had no intention of letting out of her presence ever again until she hid it away forever.

“You need a bath,” she continued, thrusting a well-used square of Ixtian soldier-soap into one hand and a clean but nubby rag into the other, as she fumbled with his manacles. “You can take off your clothes or I can take them off for you.”

He started at that, managed a lopsided grin that both amused and alarmed her, then turned and dutifully began to strip, which quickly resulted in a pile of filthy rags of no color in particular. He paused at his drawers, however, and with them on walked calmly into the water until it was waist deep, removed them, and tossed their sodden mass to shore in what Merryn hoped he knew was a gesture of shortsighted modesty at best.

With Krynneth frolicking happily away, Merryn gathered up his clothes and made her way to the area near the beach’s northern border where she made a stab at scrubbing what remained of his hose clean, followed by his shirte. The rest could wait until later, besides which Tahlone (who of all the Ixtians had been closest to Krynneth in size) had possessed not one but two spare tunics, both of which were clean and one even of Eronese cut. They would do for now.

She had just finished the shirte and was reconsidering washing Krynneth’s tunic, when he came sloshing out of the water. He looked much cleaner, she noted with approval, while also noting the stark contrast between the tan of those areas exposed to the southern summer sun and the near white of the rest of him. But what struck her more forcefully than either was how very thin he was. Eronese men were slim by nature, especially those born to the High Clans. Most had little bulk to lose, and Krynneth had certainly lost every scrap of surplus he possessed. His ribs showed plain along his sides; his chest and belly were marked by the sketchiest lines of muscles; his joints showed as far too obvious knots. Only his famous pale blue eyes were unaltered.

But it wasn’t sickness that had wasted him; Merryn knew that much at once. It was pure neglect: his own—at first—and then more and worse from their captors.

Yet even that small scrap of knowledge was a base from
which to begin rehabilitation. He had to care about himself again, had to have something to look forward to. Food, friendship, and fire: Those were the places to start.

It would not be easy.

In the meantime, Krynneth was simply standing at the waterline looking quizzical—which jolted her from her reverie. A quick sorting through the items she had brought with her produced a towel. She tossed it to him, hoping he would know what to do with it.

Fortunately, he did, and likewise knew what to do with Tahlone’s tunic and spare hose, his own not yet being dry. Merryn surveyed the result critically.
Much better
, she thought.
Much, much better, indeed
.

Krynneth’s refurbishing accomplished, she wanted one herself, if only a hasty one, yet she did not dare leave her companion unrestrained, unpredictable as he was. Which meant, much as she hated it …

“Come here, Kryn,” she sighed, motioning him forward. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I can’t quite trust you yet.” And with that, she gently took his wrists and resecured them with soft cuffs, then added a chain that was looped around the trunk of a sturdy tree. “You look much better,” she added, smoothing his hair out of his face and seeing those eyes again. “Now stay here and be good. I’ll only be a moment. You were up early, so maybe you should take a nap.”

“Nap,” Krynneth repeated though a yawn. “Good idea.”

She regarded him narrowly, wondering how much of his atrophied speech was real, then shrugged and sat down in place to remove her boots. The rest followed, down to her drawers and singlet. Unlike Krynneth, however, she had no intention of indulging in a full immersion; rather, she contented herself with wading out to mid-thigh, then rubbing every visible surface vigorously with the soap and a second cloth. She also rinsed out her hair, gave it a light soaping, and another rinse. And had just rebelted her tunic when she heard voices from the direction of the hold.

She was on guard instantly, praying that Krynneth would do nothing to draw attention their way, even as logic dictated that the presence of water would have that effect regardless. At least she had the regalia, the gems, and her own sword.

Unfortunately, she could not
see
an Eight-cursed thing, where she crouched in the scanty undergrowth. The voices had grown marginally clearer, however: clear enough to suggest they might well belong to women—possibly, by what could be the sound of hooves, women on horseback. They seemed to have halted at the hold, too: reasonable enough, considering that she had left five burning men back there, the smoke of whose immolation was present for anyone in half a day’s ride to see. Falling onto hands and knees, she scooted forward in the undergrowth until she could observe the compound more clearly.

She was
not
prepared to see a birkit emerge from the corner of the hold opposite the one on which she had fixed her attention and come bounding over the sand in a rush of tawny gray fur.

Already on guard, her heart rate doubled instantly, even as she shot a frantic glance at Krynneth, who had obviously seen the beast as well and was simultaneously trying to free himself from his restraints and to climb the tree with them on—not that it would matter, since birkits could also climb, depending on the size of tree and beast.

Merryn wished she had brought her bow, but it was back at the hold with the rest of their recovered gear. She did have her sword, however—and the magic shield if it came to that, though she was loath to use the latter without the rest of the regalia to balance it.

And so she paused there—waiting.

The birkit paused as well, frozen in its tracks. It glanced about sharply, wrinkled its muzzle as if sniffing them out—which it probably was—then padded half a dozen paces toward them, before turning abruptly and trotting back toward the hold.

—From behind the southwest corner of which two more figures were now emerging, one on horseback and bareheaded; the other hooded, afoot, and leading two more horses while it stared intently at the ground—and all hard to see against the glare of the early-morning sunlight.

Whether the newcomers saw her, Merryn couldn’t tell, but there was no way they could have missed Krynneth, what with the commotion he was making. She tried to shush him frantically, but it was actually he who made the true connection and shouted for all he was worth,
“Strynn!”

Merryn’s heart all but froze in her breast—but by then the figures were close enough—and noisy enough—for her to see that it was true. It really
was
Strynn—on horseback. And that was
her
horse that the other figure—surely it was Div—was leading: faithful Boot, who had survived the geen attack and fled.

Abruptly, she was running: a mad pounding through undergrowth, then across open ground, while Div went on alert exactly as Merryn had done, then relaxed as quickly, and yelled, “Merryn” at precisely the same time Strynn did, while Strynn scrambled to get off her horse, and—almost—fell.

Merryn was there to catch her, and that contact merged into a hug so fierce she thought they might weld themselves together, while Div laughed aloud, Boot snorted and fumbled uncertainly, the other horses looked mutely on, and a full-grown birkit danced around them like a kitten: vicarious mental recipient of the joy they were all bound to be emanating.

“Strynn! What—?” Merryn finally dared breathlessly. Then, as realization dawned: “Why
are
you here? Is something—? That is, something
has
to be wrong, doesn’t it?”

And with that she released her hold and eased away.

Strynn’s only reply was to bite her lip and nod mutely.

Div, meanwhile, was gazing past the bond-mates to where Krynneth had grown desperate in his efforts to extricate himself and entangled himself instead. Nor did she look happy. “Krynneth,” Merryn explained quickly, in part to avoid
looking at Strynn, which would provoke more concern. “The war broke his mind. He’s well intentioned but harmless. That’s enough for now.”

Div raised a brow, then scowled in turn. “I’ll tend to him—”

Merryn shook her head and motioned toward the river. “That’s as good a place as any to straighten all this out, though I’ll tell you right up front that, in spite of appearances, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“The regalia—” Strynn began, looking relieved as her gaze found the helm and shield.

“Part of it,” Merryn corrected. “The sword, alas, has been … co-opted.”

Strynn’s face went dark again. She looked—almost—as if she were about to cry. “Stolen?”

Merryn shook her head. “Not in the usual sense, but it’s not something I can explain quickly—nor, it appears, should I try, what with you two standing there looking like death who’s been up all night and the horses looking somewhat beyond that! Now come on to the river. The horses certainly need water. And there’s Krynneth—”

“We
have
been up all night,” Strynn acknowledged wearily, as, by unspoken consent, they pushed through the undergrowth. “Most of the night, anyway. Right after we made camp last evening, good old Boot here came stumbling up all lathered, abraded, and covered with claw marks. Div knew what had caused them, and I recognized the horse—once we got her calmed and cleaned up. After that, we knew you were nearby and we knew that geens were involved. But we dared not hope. That is, we were afraid—”

“We gave Boot as much rest as we could, then rode the rest of the night,” Div put in. “And then we saw the smoke and didn’t know what to think.”

“Nor do we now,” Strynn added through a scowl. They had reached the beach by then, and Div went off to extricate Krynneth from the tree.

“Sit,” Merryn commanded, reaching for her gear and retrieving the last of the previous night’s ale. “Drink?”

Strynn took it gratefully, straight from the jug. “There are at least four stories here,” she sighed. “I don’t know where to start.”

“We know somewhat about Krynneth, though,” Div put in, ambling up again with Krynneth in tow, his face by turns showing delight, confusion and—still—a mix of resentment and fear, especially when the birkit chanced anywhere within two spans.

Merryn gnawed her lip. “Much as I hate to say it. I suppose I’d best go first. A lot of things will make more sense if I do.”

Strynn’s faced hardened, as though she weren’t at all pleased with the notion. “Very well, but please believe that we’re also on an urgent errand.”

“Which
we
can explain in transit, if we have to,” Div stressed, shooting Strynn a warning glance. “—If transit means looking for the sword. Now … what in Cold has been going on?”

Merryn took a quaff of ale, followed by a deep breath—and told them.

Only the short version, however, stripped of almost all details in order to focus on the raw facts of how she had veered west after leaving War-Hold, met Krynneth, been taken captive by him, then been captured
with
him, followed by their incarceration, the Ixtians’ fatal fight among themselves, and the geens’ attack.

Strynn’s eyes grew huge, then dark with despair, when Merryn related, in greater detail than heretofore, how the geen had appropriated the sword.

“And you think that means—?” Div wondered.

Merryn shook her head. “I don’t know
what
it means. It could mean that the thing was acting on pure instinct the entire time. Or that the sword was exerting some influence on it—which is what the geen itself implied. Or that I was. I have no idea, except that I find every option damned disturbing. It
ultimately doesn’t matter. There’s no way to get an answer here, and there may not be even if we find the thing. But whatever the case, I have to consider my quest and my vow to my King before I can ponder the ramifications of what one geen did and why. I—” She broke off, staring at the birkit.

Strynn followed her gaze. “It’s been with us since before we reached War-Hold,” she offered. “They seem to have an affinity for Div, and that one did help us find you.”

“Along with your finding stone and your horse,” Div added with a sudden scowl. “You know, that’s almost too coincidental: three separate items that pointed us here.”

“Fate,” Merryn breathed. “You think it’s Fate?”

“I don’t believe in Fate,” Div snorted. “Or didn’t. But there are so many patterns in this, so many things that helped us find you when we shouldn’t have been
able
to find you …”

“We were days behind you,” Strynn put in quickly. “And then suddenly we weren’t. As best we can tell, your party took the long way around the end of the Spine to get here: south, and then north again. We came straight through, via a pass that doesn’t seem to be on any map.”

Div indicated the birkit with a nod. “The beast apparently knew where you were—something to do with reading your presence in the rain that I don’t even pretend to understand. And when your horse arrived … Well, you know how birkits are: Sometimes you can read what they’re ‘saying’ and sometimes you can’t, but the sense I got from this fine lady here was that the horse had somehow connected with the birkit—and yes, I know they’re instinctive enemies—and the birkit guided the horse, and then the horse guided the birkit. It was … strange.”