‘I’ve been here in Ralarth a fair while now,’ he began, and the others stared at him. ‘There are things and people here who were in my books—whom I created, in a manner of speaking. There are people here from my own world who have somehow been translated into Minginish. And there are people, places, history in this country I’d never even guessed at, though I sometimes feel I know them anyway.’ He met their eyes steadily. Fife and Drum lifted their heads off their paws and seemed to sniff the air.
‘It is here, in Ralarth, that the thing begins—here that the main characters come from, just as they did in the book. But it doesn’t end here, and the answers will not be found here in the Dales. I’m sure of that now. Staying here, I’m just the target for further attacks, with the Rorim between me and what’s trying to kill me. But the story has to move on.’
‘The third book,’ Bicker said quietly. ‘The last one.’
‘You know how the story goes,’ Riven said. ‘A trio of heroes set out in winter to save the land in a quest to the north.’
‘To find the Dwarves of the Greshorns,’ Murtach said.
‘And Sgurr Dearg, the Staer, is in the middle of those mountains,’ Riven told them. ‘That’s where it began. That’s where it will end. I’m sure of it.’
‘Had you planned the third book?’ Bicker asked, his eyes like two black holes in his sharp face.
‘Part of the way, yes. But I couldn’t get to grips with it. I couldn’t write it.’ He remembered sitting at his desk in the bothy before Bicker arrived, trying to tear the story out of himself and filling pages with blizzards and killing. He wondered if that was what was before them, but did not say anything. Best not to know.
‘The story has to be finished, and I must be the one to finish it.’ The words were like stones in his mouth. He felt he had said them before, and thought he could sense death sniffing at his shoulder, as he had that day on the Red Mountain. But that did not matter now. There were more important things.
‘I must leave Ralarth.’
He remembered the dream where he had been riding north with Jinneth into the mountains, and he was sure that something of that figure had been Jenny. Jenny telling him what to do, perhaps.
‘It is a long way to the Greshorns,’ Guillamon said. He seemed suddenly old. ‘And through a land that is every day stepping one pace closer to anarchy. Are you sure this is where you must go?’
‘I am,’ Riven said. He knew what he was asking these people to do and he did not like it, but there was no other way.
‘A curious time you have picked to tell us of this, Michael Riven,’ Murtach said, smiling wryly. ‘You will turn Bicker grey before you are done.’
‘The northern mountains,’ Bicker said, ignoring Murtach’s comment, ‘are almost a thousand miles away. At least six weeks’ travel. And as Guillamon said, these are arduous times...’ He shook his head, doubt written all over his face.
‘I’ll go alone, if I have to,’ Riven snapped with sudden irritation. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do.’
‘But you are sure?’
He clenched back his own fears and doubts. ‘Yes. It has to be done.’
Bicker sighed, and threw back half the beer in his mug. ‘Strange times,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Indeed,’ Guillamon agreed. ‘Horses you will need, and an escort. Hearthwares we can ill afford. Supplies. A guide.’
‘I know the Greshorns, the path to the Red Mountain,’ Bicker said heavily. ‘I, for one, must go.’
‘Things here are not so settled that you can all of a sudden disappear,’ Guillamon said.
The dark man nodded. ‘First things first. We must wait until this thing with Bragad is resolved. The Rorim must be secure.’
‘What will the Warbutt say?’ Ratagan asked.
Bicker cursed. ‘His son on his wanderings again. I will not be popular, but there is no help for it.’
‘I always wanted to see what the Greshorns looked like,’ Ratagan said.
‘They are not so appealing that I relish the idea of seeing them again,’ Murtach retorted.
‘Three lords—two of them our most able captains—leaving us on such a quest.’ Guillamon was grim. ‘I don’t like this. I do not know if you can all go.’
‘Strange times,’ Bicker repeated. ‘But I agree with the Teller. Nothing is being accomplished by his remaining here. Half the Dale believes him to be some sort of wizard out of the western mountains, and folk such as Bragad will use the rumours. The clearances of thirty years ago are not forgotten. The Hidden Folk are still feared. If it is not those of Garrafad and Carnach we will soon have to face, it may be our own people. They are afraid.’
‘We’re all afraid,’ Ratagan growled. ‘Doesn’t mean we have to start the burning and the exiling again.’
‘No, but Bragad will use fear to help himself. He has our own lords turned to his way of thinking already.’
‘Then we must turn them back,’ Murtach said sharply, his blue eyes glinting. ‘A purge of our own, perhaps. There used to be such a thing as loyalty in this Dale.’
‘Maybe,’ Bicker mused. ‘Maybe.’ He looked at Riven. ‘All right. We will do it. We will aid you in your quest.’ He smiled slightly, for a second becoming entirely the quicksilver character of Riven’s stories. ‘It is, after all, what we brought you here for—to resolve our problems for us.’
And my own, also.
‘I suppose I had better go, to keep an eye on you,’ Ratagan said absently, but he was grinning. Murtach did not speak. His face was closed.
‘I also,’ a voice said, and they looked up, surprised, to see Isay by the door, his beer gripped in one knotted fist. ‘I am the Teller’s bodyguard. I must go.’
‘So you are set on it, then,’ Guillamon said heavily. ‘I suppose you are right. We are not accomplishing anything keeping the Teller here, except to fuel more rumours.’ He paused. ‘Who else do you suppose should go?’
‘Tagan is our best tracker,’ Ratagan said, ‘and he has been to the Greshorns.’
‘Luib will go,’ Isay informed them. ‘He becomes old, and would be glad for the chance to see the hills around Merkadale again before he dies.’
‘All right.’ Guillamon became brisk. ‘Later we will organise this. It is enough to know for the moment that you are going... But do you know what you will do when you get there?’
‘Find the Dwarves,’ Riven answered him.
‘They say that Birkinlig, the Father of Sorcerers, dwells still in the high mountains, perhaps with the Dwarves.’
‘They say also that the Greshorns are the end of the world,’ Murtach said shortly.
His father smiled at this. ‘My son, for someone with your heritage, you are overfond of scepticism.’ Ratagan chuckled.
‘I believe in magic,’ Riven said, meeting Murtach’s eyes. ‘Maybe that’s what I’m looking for.’
‘You may not have to look far,’ Murtach said, obscurely.
Guillamon stood up. ‘Indeed. But it is suppertime soon, and this old man needs his board, magic or no magic.’ He turned to go, but stopped. ‘Say no word of this to the household at present. We do not want the Rorim humming like a top with news like this, and Bragad here.’ Then he left, nodding to Isay as he went.
Ratagan sat back in his chair till it creaked, and blew air out through pursed lips.
‘Such tidings! My head spins. We live back in the time of fairy tales. A quest awaits us, no less, and who can say what it will bring?’
‘Or how it will end,’ said Bicker, watching Riven as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window.
T
HE NEXT MORNING
saw a sky heavy with rain hanging over the hills. Murtach and Ratagan had joined the council, and Riven was left largely to his own devices. He sat and stared out at the drizzle-veiled Circle for a while, and then buckled on his sword and left his room. The Rorim was almost subdued this morning, though from the upper storeys of the Manse he could see Hearthwares busy with horses and harnesses in the yard outside their barracks. They were packing mule yokes also. He wondered if these were preparations for the journey he had suggested last night. The day’s patrol had already left under Ord’s leadership. They would be in the hills above Ivrigar by now.
Peering farther, beyond the ramparts, he could see the two longhouses in the Circle where the ’Wares of Bragad were billeted, but they held no sign of life. Probably out riding with their lord’s wife. Bragad had brought quite a few men with him—a dozen or so, though some, of course, were Mugeary’s, if that made any difference. Riven felt momentarily uneasy thinking about them, and remembered Bicker’s question of the night before. Was Bragad killing time here? And where were Mullach and Lionan?
Wheels within wheels. Not my business.
Or was it? He felt responsible for having Bragad here. He was, after all, a facsimile of someone from Riven’s own world.
He wandered around for a while and ran into a few of the household busy with their duties. Then, afraid of meeting Madra, he decided to go outside, to where the trainee Hearthwares were at work in the practice fields. Isay followed him unquestioningly as always when he passed through the gates of the Rorim proper to the open space beyond. A large square had been beaten into the dirt there, muddy with rain. Jutting out of it were a line of tall posts, high as a man, a score of figures attacking them whilst thirty others looked on, wooden swords in their hands, and three Myrcans directing the whole group. Riven watched in fascination, for he had never seen the Myrcans more animated. They jumped about in the mud, correcting a swing here, a stance there; demonstrating how to stab with the bodyweight behind the thrust, how to parry, how to club with the pommel. Riven forgot why he had come, and stood in grudging admiration for their speed and sureness. Their pupils were covered with red mud from slips and falls, but the teachers were unmarked except for ochre spatters that streaked their mailed tunics.
When he finally stepped into the group and asked to join, there were murmurs from the trainees at the blue sash he wore. The leading Myrcan looked him up and down critically, then his gaze passed over Riven’s shoulder to Isay. He seemed to see something there, and nodded.
‘Remove your sword belt and take up a practice weapon. Join the large group there, and do as they do.’
So it was that Riven found himself attacking a wooden post with a wooden sword that was slippery with mud, and being lectured by the unsmiling Myrcans. It reminded him of Sandhurst, except that the instructors there had always bellowed their orders and called their charges by various unsanitary epithets. The Myrcans were quiet, darting here and there to adjust and correct. They never had to shout, and no one ever argued with them.
He trained on until dark, when it was just he, Isay and the three Myrcan instructors who were left on the practice field. He realised dimly that if he had volunteered to go on training all night, his teachers would not have objected. They radiated a fierce interest in their work that was at odds with their taciturn manner. And Riven was eager to learn. Even so, by the time he finally put down his wooden weapon and re buckled his sword belt, his recently healed collarbone was shouting at him and the older injuries over his body joined in. He was stiff with mud and thickheaded with tiredness as he and Isay trooped back through the gatehouse to the Manse. The first candles were being lit, and the stars were out. The night was clear, and arched up from the hills with a new moon rising over their crests.
Usually he ate with the others in the hall in the evenings, but this night he asked Isay to see Colban and have a tray brought up, and some hot water. He felt better than he had for a while, with hard work aching in his bones and the knowledge that he had decided what he must do at last.
Savour it, while you can.
The mirror showed that his face was smeared with mud, and it had stuck in his beard also. He grinned tiredly at himself, and wondered where the young officer had gone. Staring out at him were a pair of steady eyes that had lines of pain and care etched round them. There was a frown line bitten deep between the brows, and the forehead was intaglioed with scars. The mouth was harsh, downturned at one corner, though it rose when he smiled.
Sir Michael, Knight of the Isle. And now he has a quest.
He unbuckled his sword belt, then unlaced his jerkin and began to slip it over his head. There was a knock on the door, and when he grunted muffled assent it opened and someone came in. He managed to free his head, and threw the jerkin to the floor, to see Madra there with a heavy tray at the table.
Half a dozen stupid hellos passed through his mind, leaving him with nothing to say. She lit more candles without a word, and shut the tinderbox with a snap.
‘You should wash before the water gets cold.’
He stared at her for a minute, then stripped to the waist and started to scrub the clay off in the basin of steaming water. He thought she would leave, but she did not. As he blinked the drops out of his eyes, she handed him a towel. He realised, looking at her then, that the line of her jaw could be formidable, that there was stubbornness under those brows. She seemed older. He pressed the towel to his face until the lights started behind his eyelids, then pulled on a fresh shirt. His boots were still caked with mud, but they could wait. He sat down at the table and began eating without tasting the food.
‘You’re going away up north, aren’t you?’