‘Your own lords...’ Riven said softly. ‘Do people still think I’m a wizard?’
Ratagan smiled. ‘And a great warrior who stood steadfast under the attack of six Myrcans until he fell.’
‘People talk too much,’ Riven said.
‘If there had been less talk these past few weeks, then perhaps the rumours that aided Bragad’s cause would never have arisen. The household is rather more discreet, now, those that are left of them.’
‘How many did we lose?’ Riven asked.
Bicker looked away. ‘Too many. Far too many.’ He struggled to smile. ‘We have made Ygelda the new Steward, and she says it will be nothing new to her, for Gwion was always running to her for help.’
There was a silence. Madra’s fingers lingered briefly over Riven’s head.
‘It’s snowing,’ he said.
‘There is almost a foot of it out there,’ Guillamon told him, his blue eyes like ice. ‘And midsummer is hardly past. Many of our people are out in the hills, bringing in the flocks, as are the Hearthwares—those we have left. The Giants have been sighted in great numbers to the west.’
It was speeding up. Riven felt incredibly mortal, but at the same time there was a rising restlessness in him. He felt that time was slipping through his fingers. The Greshorns were calling him. And so was Sgurr Dearg. He only wished he knew why. Perhaps the Dwarves would tell him.
‘How bad is my head?’
Guillamon leaned forward and pulled down the lower lid of his eye. ‘The skull was not cracked, I think. You need to rest for a few days, but you should be all right soon enough. As Ratagan has observed, your head is hard, Michael Riven.’
Riven lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘We must leave as soon as we can. Minginish has been trying to keep me here, in the Rorim. I don’t know what we’ll find in the mountains, but I know there are answers there.’ He smiled slightly. ‘In the book, that is where the quest finds an end. With the Dwarves. And on the Red Mountain.’
‘We need time, here, to organise the Rorim,’ Bicker said. ‘That is for the captains to do. And we have to think about Carnach and Garrafad Rorim; they are leaderless and almost unreachable through the snow. With their garrisons at less than half-strength, and the Giants abroad, they are isolated and vulnerable.’
Riven sighed. ‘I know. But if you want to tackle the problem at the source, then we must be on our way soon.’
Bicker made as if to speak, but Guillamon set one hand on his arm. ‘Leave some of this with me. I can reorganise the Rorim, with Udairn and Dunan to help me. And Murtach has said he will lead a party to Carnach through the snows, once Ringill is secured.’
‘That will be no soft journey,’ said Ratagan.
‘You’ve volunteered for a harder,’ Bicker retorted. ‘Or do you think we can grow wings and fly across the Greshorns?’
Ratagan laughed and bowed. ‘I am chastened. But you are right, of course. I talked to Tagan before the battle. He knows the Greshorns, and has some pretty tales to tell of them—’
Guillamon rose. ‘They can wait. The Teller here needs rest from your voice, Ratagan, and from our arguments. We will leave him to his nurse.’ He gave a surprisingly bright smile to Madra.
They left, and Isay remained alone by the door. Riven caught his eye.
‘Thanks, Isay.’
‘I did my duty,’ the Myrcan said, ‘and reminded my people of theirs. Your life is in my care. Our world is in yours. Ward it well as I would ward you, and I shall be content.’ He went to take his usual post outside the door.
Riven lay still, his head throbbing and Madra warm beside him. He heard the wind in the rafters and watched the snow whirl outside. Madra went to build up the fire. He watched her tuck an unruly lock of hair behind her ear as she knelt at the hearth, and was pelted with a score of remembered images. A dark-haired girl with firelight on her face, the smell of turf burning on a winter night, the sound of the sea raging at the shore in a fury of storm.
Winter. It was winter back on Skye; and now that winter was here, in Minginish. The curtain which divided them was wearing thin. Memory and imagination were grappling at each other’s throats, and these people would lose if he lay here much longer. Of that he was sure.
‘R
ATAGAN AND
I will be coming with you, of course,’ said Bicker, ‘and Isay intends to watch over you. As we decided earlier, Tagan will join us, for his is the best woodcraft in the Dale; and Luib has agreed to come. He has given over the training to Druim and Unish. As Isay said, I think he wants to see the mountains around his homeland once again. I think also that three other Hearthwares shall come, in case we need to fight our way out of some tight spot. Rimir, Corrary and Darmid have volunteered. They were on the ramparts with you during the battle. That makes nine, which I reckon is enough. Don’t you?’
‘Seems fine,’ Riven answered him noncommittally, though he was fidgeting with restlessness. ‘What about mounts?’
‘We shall have the best in the Dale, and two pack mules for extra food and gear, since we want to travel swiftly. Winter gear is being readied at the moment, but it will be hard, all the same, travelling in such weather.’
Riven nodded. The fire flickered about the walls of the room, but the wind was howling outside, lashing snow against the window and darkening the afternoon. Ratagan sprawled in a chair, his long legs crossed in front of him. His eyes were lost in the fire.
Bicker nudged him. ‘You are very quiet, my hale and hearty friend.’
‘I am already in mourning,’ the big man replied. ‘For the dearth of beer which I foresee on this trip.’
Bicker chuckled. ‘Do not be so quick to grieve. There are towns and cities along our route which boast the best ale houses in the land, and whilst we cannot linger, we can, I am sure, find the time to slake a thirst or two that the ice and snow have worked up in us.’
Ratagan brightened immediately. ‘I had forgotten that, in my ignorance. What it is to be well-travelled!’ He stood up, his vast frame reaching to the ceiling. ‘I shall miss warm hearths, warm beds and willing wenches before long, I do not doubt; but to deprive a man of his beer, that is true hardship.’ He slapped Bicker on the back, staggering him, then turned to Riven. ‘The head is up to it, then?’
‘It’ll do.’ Then Riven asked the question that had been gnawing at him for the last day: ‘What about Murtach?’
Ratagan’s face clouded. ‘He stays in the Rorim, or at Carnach Rorim, where he is going after Ringill. He will not be coming with us.’
‘Do I still make him unsure of where he is putting his feet?’
‘Something like that,’ Ratagan said. ‘Murtach has always been a deep one, trusting no counsel but his own. He thinks you will find nothing in the mountains but stone and snow. He wants you sent back to your own world.’
‘And you?’
The big man looked at him. ‘I told you once before what I believe in, Michael Riven. I believe in friendship, also. If you believe that you can aid this world by standing on your head, then I will hold your ankles for you. It seems to me you have earned a little of our trust—while Murtach—’
‘Trusts you about as far as he could spit,’ Bicker finished.
‘And he has always... liked... Madra,’ Ratagan said.
Bicker got up. ‘We will leave you to get some sleep. You will need all the strength you can muster on this journey.’
When he had gone out, Ratagan lingered a moment. ‘Men do stupid things,’ he said quietly, ‘without ever considering them stupid. But often such things cannot be helped. We all fail in the end, Riven. It’s making a game of it before we go down that matters. I know. Regret is the bile of life.’ And he smiled a wrecked smile. ‘Murtach has never really failed, so he does not know such things happen.’ Then he left, wishing Riven a good night, and a better morning.
T
WO DAYS LATER
they were ready to leave, and sat on their horses in the square before the Manse. There was still a smell of burning in the air, and around them the blackened shells of buildings were stark under a covering of snow. Groups of men had been working ceaselessly since the battle to tear them down and salvage what they could of their contents. The cobbles were littered with pieces of burnt wood.
My fault, Riven thought helplessly. Everywhere he went in this land, destruction followed. Perhaps Bragad had been right. Perhaps it was he who was truly destroying this place. But Bragad was dead. He wondered if Hugh was sitting in his office, watching the traffic outside and smoking his foul little cigarettes. And had he felt anything as his twin was slain here? Best not to dwell on it.
The snow had stopped falling and the skies were clear, but a bitter wind winnowed the Dale and they pulled their thick winter garments about their faces. The horses nosed patiently at the ground as they waited.
Riven searched for Madra. He had not seen her all day and badly wanted to say goodbye, but there was no sign of her in the crowd that had gathered to see them off. The Warbutt had not come down from his tower to wish his son farewell, and Bicker was grim and silent with his cloak held up around his mouth and ice crystals forming on it where his breath froze.
Ratagan was like a great bear, and he rode something approaching a cart horse. There was rime on his beard, making him appear grizzled and old.
The other members of the party, Myrcans and Hearthwares all, were similarly dressed, bundled in layers of wool and sheepskins, wrapped in cloaks of double thickness, with large saddlebags behind them. Two of the Hearthwares, Darmid and Corrary, led the two pack mules. Somewhere in those packs were the clothes Riven had entered Minginish with, though only Bicker knew that he had brought them along.
Guillamon stepped out of the Manse; he was grey and brittle in the cold, but his eyes were flashing brighter than the hard sky. Udairn was beside him, seeming younger than his son, and his wife Ethyrra was on his arm, looking like a frostbitten starling. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the set of her mouth was as severe as that of a judge. Ratagan did not seek to meet her eyes.
Mira was there also, forlorn in the snowy courtyard as she contemplated Bicker leaving her yet again. The dark man had embraced her before he mounted, and whispered something no one else could hear. Now she stared at him as though she would never see him again.
‘Better weather,’ Guillamon was saying, eyeing the sky. He surveyed the company critically. ‘Forgotten anything?’
‘We have enough for three weeks’ travel,’ Bicker said. ‘That will take us to the cities where we can buy more. We will make it easily, if the weather is kind to us.’
Guillamon turned to Riven and offered his hand. Riven took it without speaking.
‘I hope you find peace,’ was all the grey man said, before releasing his grip and stepping back. ‘The blessings of the land be upon you. May the way be kind and journey’s end what you hope it to be. Farewell.’ He lifted one hand in salute, and the household copied him. Riven saw Colban there, smiling uncertainly; Dunan, Ord and others whose faces he knew. But Madra was not there. He kicked his horse with a small, angry sense of mourning and followed Bicker as they made their way out of the square to the gates of the Rorim; felt the wind rasp his face as they left behind the shelter of the buildings. Then they were in the Circle, and the Dale opened out before them in a vast, dazzling whiteness, powdery snow blowing in clouds off the summits of the hills. He stared at the icebound heights, remembering other mountains. He was following a shadow, but now he had an idea about where it was leading him.
Bicker was conferring with Tagan about the way to the north. They agreed over something, and Tagan rejoined his Hearthware comrades. Bicker led, and after him came Ratagan and Riven, Isay and Luib, then Tagan and Rimir and finally Darmid and Corrary leading the pack mules. The company buried their noses in their cloaks as their horses plodded through the hock-deep snow and the wind tore at their hair. They had soon left the Circle behind and were climbing steadily into the hills to the north, their horses’ hoofs turning stones underneath the snow, straining on the steeper parts. Riven looked for a path, but could discern none through the snow and the frozen boulders.
The wind grew stronger as they rode higher. The rocks began to assume a mantle of translucent ice that dripped in grey icicles from overhangs. Drifts appeared, gathered up against sheer slopes and the larger boulders, and the snow blew across the hillside like smoke, coating themselves and their mounts with white and frosting their eyebrows. Riven wriggled his toes inside his boots in an effort to keep them from going numb.
The hills levelled out as they reached the crests, and they could see a vast, rolling country expanding blindingly far northwards; a sea of white, frozen breakers, tumbling into an unknown shore under a clear sky. The wind whipped at their cloaks and the horses kept their eyes half-shut against it. Riven was already thinking of bright hearths and warm beds as they made their way along the summits, following Bicker in single file now, their mounts’ hoofs throwing up bobbles of snow that were swept away into the air as quickly as they were kicked up.
They halted for a short time near midafternoon to rest the horses. They had to break away encrusted ice from the beast’s muzzles and try to rub warmth into them in the lee of a blunt hill. They ate meat and bread that was hardened by the cold, but Bicker would not allow them to eat snow. Their water was unfrozen, hung in skins from the saddle pommels where the warmth of the horses’ bodies would keep it liquid. They could light no fire, and Ratagan prophesied gloomily that their camp that night would be cheerless. They did not remain long, for the cold soon had them hopping about, and the journey was resumed. Riven wondered if it would be like this for the next six weeks, and wiped his nose, thinking of the dark girl barefoot in the snows. But when he tried to picture her face, all he could see was Madra, and the grave eyes under the dark brows.