“I made excuse to stay behind,” Bryn told her a little hesitantly. “I didn’t think it wise to go so far that I would only be able to contact you with far-speech and risk being overheard by the Elders.”
“If you don’t have the skill to shield yourself, perhaps that was wise.” Aritane looked at Bryn a touch contemptuously. “But why come here? I wanted you to stay within the fold for the moment, to warn us if suspicions are aroused.”
“The Elders will have more important things to concern them,” retorted Bryn with spirit. “Cullam has asked me to relay a message to the high peaks. A scholar has come to Hachalfess, seeking old sagas and asking about ancient lore. Cullam senses he is searching for true magic and wants to know what to tell him.”
“That stupid old man?” gasped Aritane. “He must tell this fool nothing, not a word. How else will our skills baffle the enemy? Surprise is our greatest advantage!”
“So what do we do?” demanded Bryn. “I’ve not yet passed on the message but I’m already going to be rebuked for delay. I cannot hold it much longer without arousing suspicions. The bones at Solstice telling every Sheltya and every soke to follow Jeirran to war will do me no good if I’m stripped of all knowledge before you act!”
“Come with me.” Aritane hurried Bryn toward the rekin, a forceful hand behind his elbow. “We must talk to Eresken at once.”
Hachalfess,
15th of For-Summer
“What do you suppose he’s telling him?” ’Gren shifted in his chair, as he had been doing constantly all evening. “Perhaps—”
“Perhaps you should be patient?” I waited for Halcarion to drop a star on my head. Usara and Sorgrad were deep in conversation with an old man in gray but the genial hum of the room made it impossible to hear what they were saying. I was no less keen than ’Gren to be involved but Sorgrad had told us very firmly that we were not wanted. Reluctantly I had to agree that introducing Usara as a scholar with Sorgrad to translate was as much as we could risk, given the aged visitor’s obvious caution in dealing with lowlanders. The men and women of the soke were keeping very strictly to their separate roles and duties around the old man so I’d dug out skirt and bodice from the bottom of my bag.
I studied the old man covertly. About the age of Garven, small-boned and hungry-looking, his loose gray tunic and cloak looked to have been made for a bigger man. With thin white hair and watery gray eyes set deep in a wrinkled face, he sat hunched in a fine-carved chair listening intently to Sorgrad. One disregarded hand shook with a faint palsy and I’d seen the same tremor in his head earlier. There was no way such a frail and ancient man had come up the trail we’d followed, not without help or a beast of burden.
“You were going to ask Doratie about Cullam,” I reminded ’Gren. The old women had been the first to welcome him when he arrived with no pack, no water and no support beyond the prop of a staff.
“She says he’s from the eastern reaches,” ’Gren shrugged.
“The valleys leading down to the Gap?” I wanted to be quite clear on this. “Across the higher ground to the west? He got here from there since yesterday?”
’Gren nodded. “Sheltya do that kind of thing.”
Which was either a lie to impress the people of the soke, or it was the truth. What was gained by a lie? Pretense to impress bites back when the falsehood’s revealed and these things always come out. What if it were truth? Then these Sheltya, whoever they were, had the same means to shift themselves from place to place that made Elietimm such a frustrating and dangerous foe. Which meant aetheric magic. Hope warmed me more than the dancing flames of the hearth.
’Gren fidgeted again. “I could go and see if they want a drink.” We were sitting as close as we could without attracting comment, which meant we could talk as long as we didn’t mind other people overhearing. The goldsmith’s assistant and one of the younger girls were doing the same at the opposite end of the room. From the affronted glares another lass was giving me, we’d taken the place of some other couple keen to get to know each other under the benign restrictions of family and custom.
“No,” I said a trifle curtly. “So, what have you been up to today?”
“Helping dose mules for worm, playing with the children, chopping firewood, the usual. I told the children an old story about wyrms burrowing under the mountains, eating up the rocks until Misaen captured them and locked them away!” He smiled with happy recollection. “You want to learn that one.”
“And are you going to be the one getting up past midnight when the little ones are all wetting their beds with nightmares?” Damaris wasn’t going to thank him for that.
“They won’t wake up. How did you get on with these lovely ladies?” he asked with a touch of malice.
“I had a very nice time polishing the pewter.” It might have been more productive if any of the women had spoken enough Tormalin to gossip properly but at least I hadn’t lost the touch. I picked some sand and wood ash from beneath my scuffed fingernails.
“Good evening.” Merial came to sit beside me, nodding politely at ’Gren. His eyes brightened at her small tray bearing gold-rimmed goblets and a small green glass bottle of colorless liquor. “We call it mountain dew. We make it from…” she frowned a little as she poured, “varsi? I don’t know the lowlander word.”
“Rye,” supplied ’Gren with pleasure.
I sniffed at my thimbleful and rolled it around the glass, noting the sluggish lines clinging to the sides. I was pleasantly surprised by the smoothness of the spirit and the tang of herbs on my tongue.
“My mother used to flavor hers with rowan berries,” ’Gren was saying, “but I think this has more character.”
“It’s very fine,” I agreed. “Do you distill it yourself?” If I couldn’t listen in on Sorgrad’s conversation, I could at least make myself agreeable with some of my own.
Merial busied herself with her spinning basket. “If there’s grain enough to spare.”
“Every soke has its different ways of finishing and flavoring it,” volunteered ’Gren, pausing to raise an inquiring brow at Merial before reaching for the flask at her nod. “One of my uncles always said if he got storm-lost in the heights, all he had to do was find a fess, taste the dew and he’d know where he was.”
Merial laughed. “A fair few men could claim the same.” She was deftly spinning woolly animal hair into a fine, even yarn.
“I’ve never come across goats that you could pluck before,” I commented. “Lowland goats are only good for milk and hide. It’s sheep that are sheared for spinning.”
“Damaris said stripping the nannies made you sneeze?” Merial managed not to laugh.
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s obviously not a task for me.” I’d been forced to resurrect my housemaid skills in order to salvage some pride.
Merial continued her work with unconscious ease. “Sheep don’t do so well in the heights but sometimes we trade for fleeces. They’re much messier to spin.” She reached over to brush an unnoticed fragment of fluff from my sleeve. “Still, it can be worth it for the chance of colors. The goat yarn doesn’t take dye very well. We breed for different shades of coat—”
She broke off, spindle whorl slowing unheeded. The main door to the room swung open slowly, the cold draft setting lamps flickering in their niches all around the walls. Four shadowy figures stood on the steps behind the gate ward. Everyone in the room rose to their feet, me and ’Gren the same as the rest.
Taegen barked a sharp demand. Uncertainty colored the gatekeeper’s reply.
“What is it?” I mouthed at ’Gren.
“Sheltya,” he murmured between motionless lips.
I looked at Merial and saw that all the blood had drained from her face. Damaris beyond her looked fit to faint.
“Why the reaction?” I shifted half a pace closer to ’Gren, not about to risk anything louder than a voiceless whisper in the tense silence.
“Four of them—pestilence or capital crime,” he breathed.
Somewhere off toward the scullery, someone’s knees gave way. The scrape of the chair as she sat caught everyone’s attention. I used the moment to edge behind Merial, wishing fruitlessly for some way of covering my hair. This was not a good time to be a poppy in a cornfield; they get yanked out good and quick.
The gatekeeper had moved to stand behind Taegen’s shoulder. The old man was deathly pale, the ribbed scar on his cheek livid in contrast but his voice sounded calm and polite. I seethed silently with frustration. Drianon be my witness, I was going to make a Solstice vow to learn every tongue spoken from the wilds west of Solura to the eastern ocean and down to the southern archipelago.
The Sheltya entered the room, four of them, gray-cloaked, gray-hooded. The leader put back her hood, revealing a long face with deep-set, arrogant eyes and satisfied superiority curving her smile. Her cut-close hair was a blond almost white and her skin was so pale that veins showed blue at temple and neck. An ice maiden. No, that mouth was anything but frigid, and worse, those opaque eyes were lit with a dark intelligence.
She waited, perhaps a sign of respect or more likely calculating to put the onus on the aged Cullam. The old man leaned heavily on his stick, palsy shaking him. Sorgrad beside him looked apprehensive and awe-struck all at once, just like any other son or nephew of the house. Cullam spoke; his voice was firm and authoritative, for all the uncontrollable shudder in his hands. Whatever he was saying, he was displeased. The man next to the woman in charge put back his hood with reluctant hands, his tone defensive as he answered Cullam’s accusations.
The woman cut across them both, her voice sharp. I watched the figures behind her, both anonymous beneath gray cloth and thought I caught a glance in my direction, a glimpse of eyes neither blue nor brown. A faint chill fingered my shoulder blades and I fought an impulse to shudder. I slid my feet silently on the flagstones to put Merial fully between me and whoever lurked beneath that hood.
As the Sheltya raised voices on both sides, I noticed uncertain looks passing across the hearth and around the room. Taegan was frowning now, anger rising above his apprehension, keen to start asking his own questions.
“You say you are a scholar?” The woman’s clipped accents notwithstanding, her Tormalin was precise and clear. She took a few paces forward and fixed Usara with a disdainful stare.
“That is correct, my lady.” Usara bowed with exquisite courtesy. “Of Col, and I am most eager to learn the history of your mountains and of your people—”
She cut him off with a contemptuous laugh. “Why do you lie when we can see right through your pretense? You are a deceiver and a sham.”
“I assure you, my lady—forgive me, I know neither your name nor title—but—” Usara’s high cheekbones were colored with temper.
“You are a mage, a dealer of false magic.” She raised her voice to drown his soft politeness. “Tergeva!” She stabbed one long white finger at him. Whatever this meant, it was unwelcome news to these hospitable people. Everyone close to Usara took a hasty step away. Sorgrad did the same, face mirroring the shock around him, but the woman turned her accusing finger on him.
“Tergeva na tures,” she spat. “Misaen en shel tures.”
Sorgrad answered her back robustly. I missed his words as Merial turned toward ’Gren, sadness in her eyes. ’Gren nodded regretfully. I’d never seen such mortification in his face.
“You there, woodswoman! You are with them!”
I tried to look innocent, silently cursing Merial for stepping aside. “I am just traveling with them—”
“That is no excuse. Nor do I believe you. There is word of the mages of Hadrumal suborning the Folk of the Forest. I see your presence as proof of such a plot!”
Didn’t this bitch let anyone finish a sentence? I kept my face bemused as the woman spoke on in the Mountain tongue. Halcarion knows what she told them; Damaris looked utterly betrayed and Kethrain began weeping silently into a handkerchief.
Who was this arrogant shrew, coming in to play judge and jury without so much as a by your leave? That her accusations were in some sense true was beside the point. I stood expressionless under her harangue, soon as isolated as Sorgrad as everyone edged away. She was someone with enough power, both by magic and custom, to do exactly what she wanted. That made her extremely dangerous. Not that that was going to bother ’Gren. He came sauntering around the hearth to stand beside me, a mocking smile on his face as he bowed to the woman. He said something that halted her in mid-tirade and brought all her lackeys up short. Again, I caught a disquieting glimpse of that rearmost hood turned toward me.
“Don’t make them mad, ’Gren,” I warned. We needed to get something besides our necks out of this unwelcome turn of events. I began searching my mind for options.
“You will quit this place now, at once.” The bitch was back to Tormalin, her sweeping gaze encompassing us all.
She pointed dramatically to the doorway, still open to the night. “No fess will give shelter to such deceivers!” She had a flair for the dramatic to rival Niello, I thought contemptuously. She also had a fine-braided leather belt around her trim waist, a little purse, a knife and a few other oddments tied to it, hanging against her unadorned gray gown. Someone must be raising that color of goat exclusively for Sheltya use.
“Kovar en ria—” one of the younger girls spoke up without thinking, blushed scarlet and hid her face in her hands. The Sheltya woman stared incredulously around to see who had dared to voice an objection. She took a deep breath, a withering look in her eyes.
Before she could speak, Taegan stepped forward. “Kovar al tures,” he said firmly to Sorgrad. “Ilk marist en firath.” His voice cracked a little and he looked beseechingly at Cullam.
“Sikkar,” the old man confirmed. This time it was his turn to drown the woman’s protests, shouting her down with an unexpected authority. Disquiet ran rife around the room.
“What are they saying?” I demanded of ’Gren.
“The bitch wants to put us out into the night,” he said, eyes bright. “Taegan is claiming right of travel truce and old Cullam’s backing him.”
“May I say something?” Usara’s mild request was so unexpected it silenced everyone. “Please will you translate for me, Sorgrad? First, if Cullam is in any way able to vouch for the truth of my words, I would be very grateful for him to do so.” The mage folded his hands together, looking about as dangerous as a milk-fed pup but with unmistakable authority in his bearing. “It is true that I am a wizard as well as a student of history. I have the ring of a scholar of Col, though I do not wear it at present. Yes, I am a mage of Hadrumal, but I did not believe that would be an offense of itself against your customs, as long as I wielded no magic within your territory. Nor did I believe it was wrong for Sorgrad to come here. As I understood the tale, he was banished from his home, not from the whole of the mountains in perpetuity.”