“A cat-bred female,” she answered, a hint of fond nostalgia in her voice. “Mell was her name.” Her tone changed, and it seemed to me a door closed behind her eyes. “When I left, she fled across the Slammerkin into Ur-Dharbek. I’d not thought Mell would go to the wild ones.”
I feared, from Rekyn’s expression, from her colder tone, that I trespassed on forbidden ground. But I was to become a Storyman, and how should I pursue that following save I asked questions? “Wild ones?” I queried.
The commur-mage nodded absently, yet a little lost in some private past. “The lands of the Truemen end at the Slammerkin,” she murmured, “and beyond lay those lands given over to the wild Changed. The Lord Protector Philedon decreed it so-that the dragons have prey to hunt and need not venture south.”
I did not properly understand her reticence-she had evinced little enough on most other subjects-but I felt it sure enough. I said, in what I hoped was an easy way, “The mantis spoke somewhat to me of the dragons. He said they are dead now, or gone away into the Forgotten Country.”
I thought for a moment Rekyn had not heard me, but then she nodded again and said, “Perhaps they are. Certainly, they prey no more on Truemen; and men do not venture into Ur-Dharbek.”
“Nor the Changed-the wild Changed-come south across the Slammerkin?” I ventured.
“No,” was all the answer I got, and I set my wealth of questions aside for some later time.
But I approached the hold with better-opened eyes, surveying the folk I saw, assessing who was Trueman and who Changed. The smith, I guessed, for he possessed the massive frame of the men (I could not think of them as beasts) I had seen at the harbor, and when I watched the serving folk, I thought I discerned aspects of the feline in several of the women, canine in more than one man. Rekyn was clearly indisposed to discuss them further, and I wondered if some taboo existed; I deemed it wise to hold my tongue. Besides, we found Andyrt in the hall and he called us over, so that we were soon embroiled in conversation with jennym and soldiers, and I found myself quaffing yet more ale.
Thus we passed what little remained of the afternoon, and in a while the candles and lanterns were lit against the burgeoning dark, and servants came out to set the tables for the evening meal. The aeldor and the Lady Andolyne appeared with Sarun and Gwennet, greeting me as friendly as before. Thadwyn, I learned, was gone north to Torbryn Keep in amorous pursuit of Lydea, daughter of the aeldor Keryn. Bardan questioned me concerning my day and I, emboldened by his easy manner, expressed my wish to see the site of his father’s battle with the Kho’rabi.
He and Andolyne exchanged a glance at that, and then he tugged his beard and said quietly, “Are the woods gone from Whitefish village, then?”
“No,” I said, “but no battle was ever fought there.”
“It’s naught but trees, Daviot,” he told me, serious now. “There’s no fine monument, nor trace of the fight. Only trees.”
I suppose my disappointment showed on my face, for he chuckled then and said, “But if you must, so be it. Andyrt, do you take the time on the morrow? I’ve matters to discuss with Rekyn anyway.”
I thought the jennym’s face clouded a moment; surely his response was delayed. From the corner of my eye I saw Bardan nod, and then Andyrt favored me with a wicked smile. “We’ll ride out there, eh?” he suggested.
I voiced enthusiastic agreement, picturing myself astride one of Cambar’s great warhorses, Thorus’s gift-dagger become a sword, myself in Cambar’s plaid.
The reality, I discovered the next day, was somewhat different.
Andyrt sat proud on the warhorse whilst I was brought a pony. A pretty enough beast: a gray-dappled mare with gentle eyes and, I was assured, a no less gentle gait. An ostler I suspected was horse-bred led her out and helped me mount. I climbed astride and felt myself raised a disconcerting distance from the ground, warily clutching the reins and then the saddle as the placid animal shifted under me.
Over his shoulder Andyrt called, “Ware the cobbles, Daviot. Do you fall, they’re somewhat hard.”
Fortunately for me, his humor did not extend to leading me into a fall. He held his own mount to a walk as we circled the Wall and turned westward across the pasture land, and as we rode he instructed me in the basics of horsemanship. I was far more concerned with the simple act of staying in the saddle, but I filed his comments in my memory, albeit I could barely comprehend how the shifting of leather against the animal’s neck, or the touch of a heel to its ribs, should steer it in one direction or another did it choose to ignore those hints. A boat I could understand; this swaying, undulating beast was a mystery. Still, I did not tumble, and felt I regained some measure of dignity. One day, I thought, I should become as confident a rider as my companion.
We went on at a slow pace, past grazing sheep, a herdsman who waved a greeting, over a little brook, more grass. The wood spread before us, all green and shadowy in the early morning sun. It was a plantation of oak, the tall trees rustling in the wind off the Fend. Andyrt reined in a little distance off, my pony halting less in obedience to my urgings than in parody of his stallion, innocently threatening to dislodge me as she lowered her head to crop.
“The wood,” Andyrt said needlessly, gesturing at the timber. “There’s little enough to it.”
“Can we enter it?” I asked.
“If you wish.”
I felt he hesitated an instant, and as he swung limber from the saddle I saw him make the sign of warding. I did not, for as I strove to climb down I felt my legs and buttocks shafted with pain and become as straws, quite inadequate to the task of supporting me. I clutched at the saddle, leaning for support against the pony, which stirred, threatening to topple me. I heard Andyrt chuckle and gritted my teeth, pushing gingerly clear of my equine prop as I forced my back straight and turned on unsteady legs toward the wood.
“The first time always hurts.” Andyrt said. “Folk think you need only climb astride a horse and sit there, but there’s more to it than that. I’ll ask Garat potion a bath for you when we return.”
“My thanks,” I said, and then: “I’ve much to learn.”
Andyrt said, “Aye,” and cheered me by adding, “but I’ll wager you make a good enough horseman in time.”
I smiled and hobbled closer to the wood.
Andyrt surprised me then, setting a hand on my shoulder to halt me as he dropped to one knee, hands crossed against his chest in attitude of prayer. Confused, I waited for him to rise with a question on my lips that I bit off as I saw his face. I was not sure what expression sat there; not fear, but an emotion not entirely divorced. Awe, perhaps; and something of disquiet. I looked to the wood and wondered why.
It seemed no more than a plain oak hurst, the massy branches verdant with spring’s new growth. The closer trees were mostly young as oaks go, though toward the center I could espy vast, majestic trunks that must have been ancient when Ramach faced the Kho’rabi. I turned to Andyrt and asked him, “Were you here then?”
“No.” He shook his head, favoring me with a brief smile. “Think you I’m so old? Bardan himself was a babe in arms when this battle was fought.”
I mumbled an apology he seemed not to hear, intent on the holt. I had never set foot in a place of worship larger than the village cella, but it came to me that his must be the attitude of a man entering some sacred precinct, a cathedral … or a sepulchre. I fell silent as we walked slowly through the edge timber, moving deeper into the wood. It dawned on me that I heard no birdsong, that no squirrels chattered from the branches, nor were there the usual sounds of the small animals amongst the roots and fallen leaves. Indeed, nothing other than the oaks grew here: there was no undergrowth, nor even moss on the gnarled trunks. It was unnaturally quiet, the only sound the faint susurration of the wind-stirred leaves, as if the oaks murmured amongst themselves; as if they discussed our presence.
I felt suddenly uncomfortable. The dull aching of my thighs and buttocks was forgotten, replaced with a prickling sensation that prompted me to turn to and fro, convinced eyes watched me from hidden places.
“You feel it.” Andyrt did not ask a question, and I nodded, whispering, “Yes.”
“It was a terrible battle.” His voice was low as if he made confession. “Two full warbands met the fylie of two airboats. Steel met steel, and more-the sorcerers of Cambar and Torbryn fought with the Kho’rabi wizards. Hundreds died here-it was five years and more before the warbands regained their full strength. Ramach declared this wood should be their monument, that it be left to grow unchecked. It does, and it remembers, I think. Nothing lives here save the oaks and the spirits of the dead.”
I looked about, at a wood no longer merely that. It seemed that for an instant I saw the fight. The sunlight slanting through the latticed overlay of branches glinted on bloody swords, armored men clashed, bolts of occult power exploded. Men roared, battle-shouts and dying screams. I realized I was very cold as the momentary vision faded. I shivered, my mouth gone too dry to speak.
“Enough?” asked Andyrt.
I nodded and we turned about, our departure swifter than our entrance.
Outside the wood, the sight of the placidly cropping horses, the fields beyond, a restoration of normality, we halted and looked back. “It was the height of summer,” Andyrt said slowly. “Two days short of the Sastaine festival, it began; it ended two days after. None come near on those nights.”
I thought of my vision and asked, “It’s haunted?”
“I’ve not come to find out.” Andyrt shrugged and grinned with some small resumption of his customary good humor. “Those who’ve been in sight-shepherds, late-traveling peddlers-say they’ve heard the sounds of battle, or even seen warriors fighting amongst the trees, but none have lingered to see more. Sometimes, from the keep you can see lights … like witchfire.”
“I thought I saw …” I shook my head and grinned shamefaced.
“Some do, if they’ve the gift.” Andyrt ran absent fingers through the stallion’s mane. The big horse tossed its head and snorted. “Perhaps that talent that shall make you a Storyman grants you the sight. Now do we return?”
We rode back at funereal pace, and I am sure my face was a red-lit beacon as I was aided down and hobbled stiff-legged across the yard. Andyrt helped me climb the stairs to my room, our progress met with amiable derision by the soldiers lounging in the hall, and summoned servants to draw a bath. Promising to find Garat for me, he left me alone. I waited standing.
A Changed servant brought in the tub, and others filled it with steaming water. The herbalist came, cursing my idiocy and Andyrt’s sadism in equal measure, spilling a selection of aromatic liquids into the bath, then leaving me with instructions to apply a salve to my tender parts and the observation that for all his efforts I should likely take my next few meals on my feet and sleep on my belly. I thanked him and sank hopefully into the water.
In a while hope became gratitude, and I blessed Garat’s skill as my aches abated. I rose and dried myself, carefully applied Garat’s salve, and made my way down to the hall.
Rekyn met me there, to advise me the merchantman on which I should travel north would dock on the morrow. I asked her how she knew, and she smiled and said, “Magic, Daviot. How else? The galley comes down the coast, and we sorcerers send word from keep to keep.”
I thought I should not sleep that night, but I did, and soundly, thanks to Garat’s potions.
I was awake early the next morning, roused from dreamless sleep by anticipation. I hurried to the hall, my appetite somehow sharpened by excitement: I had consumed a full platter of cold meat and half a loaf when Rekyn and Andyrt came in. They smiled at the sight of me and wished me the day’s greetings. I asked when I should leave, at which Andyrt chuckled and drew out a chair for Rekyn, hooking one close for himself. “Two days, and already he tires of our company,” he said.