Dragon Death Part 8

"I do not know her name," Paia stammered. "Her . . . her clothes were so torn that they were no more than rags. Because of her boots I thought she might be of the First Wartroop, but she shrinks from the sight of even the smallest knife." She tore her eyes away from the captain's intense gaze, turned to the midwife. "She needs help, Kallye. I have approached the men of the guard, but they will not listen to me. They call me a silly woman and tell me to run along. Can you help? Will you come see her?"

Kallye read Relys's unspoken thoughts. Timbrin. "By the G.o.ds," she said, "let us go to her now."

* CHAPTER 7 *

Head down, clad in a gown that was too big for her, Timbrin sat huddled by the fire in Paia's house. She was not a large woman-in the months following her transformation by Tireas, she had come to joke about her stature-but now she seemed almost pathetically tiny. Paia's daughters had made an effort to brush her hair and tend to her cuts and bruises, but she had the air of a child who had been beaten and abandoned.

Relys entered the house and stood by the door, stricken. Kallye, though, bobbed her head at Paia's daughters and went immediately to Timbrin. "Good morning, child," she said kindly, kneeling beside her. "Paia sent me to see to you."

Timbrin's brown eyes opened wide, and she scanned the midwife anxiously, but though Kallye was no stranger to the First Wartroop, she only huddled further into her gown and lowered her head.

Relys found her voice at last. "Lieutenant."

Timbrin's eyes turned feral, frightened, and she made a frantic motion as though to flee, but Kallye took her hands. "It is all right, child. No harm will come to you." She looked at Relys sternly. "Call her by name."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Relys set aside her sword and approached. "Timbrin," she said softly. "Dear friend."

Timbrin's mouth trembled. "R-Relys?"

She barely whispered the name, and Relys's eyes were aching with suppressed tears as she went down on one knee. "How is it with you, Timbrin?"

But Timbrin's face turned pained, her brow furrowed. Mouth turned down in a grimace, she shook her head in small, rapid movements.

Kallye nodded understandingly. "Too many people?"

Timbrin nodded slowly.

' 'Are you afraid of us?''

Again the nod, but quicker.

"Do you know who you are?"

Timbrin only looked sad.

Kallye turned to Paia's girls. "Leave us alone with her," she said. They nodded and withdrew in a swish of skirts and ap.r.o.ns. Timbrin relaxed noticeably, but she had still the look of a beaten thing.

Relys's throat was dry. First Seena's children, and now this. And in both cases she was helpless. Slowly, she reached out a hand. Slowly, almost fearfully, Timbrin clasped it. "What happened, my friend?"

Timbrin fought with words. "I . . ." She looked anguished, as though speaking had become a physical pain for her.

Relys was close to tears. "Hounds?"

With a frantic whimper, Timbrin turned to Kallye and threw herself into the midwife's arms. Eyes clenched shut, mouth again set in an agonized grimace, she whined like a starving dog. But she shook her head.

"I . . . saw Helwych ..." she managed.

Relys leaned forward. As she had feared. And she had sent Timbrin to spy on the sorcerer . . . alone. "What about Helwych?"

"He . . . walking . . ."

Relys exchanged glances with Kallye. "I do not understand."

"No ... no crutch."

Stranger and stranger. Timbrin's wounds were hardly more than superficial cuts and bruises: nothing that would explain the mental damage that had been inflicted upon her. But her comments about Helwych were only growing more cryptic. "But he is ill."

Timbrin's face remained buried in Kallye's shoulder. It was obvious that speaking brought her close to screaming with pain, but she was forcing herself nonetheless. "Not ill ..."

Gradually, with frequent hesitations and backtracking, Timbrin sketched out the story. She had been watching outside Helwych's house when noises, lights, and the presence of something indefinable had made her drop her caution and open the shutters. Immediately, she had been battered senseless by powers that she could only describe in terms of light that was heard, sounds that were felt, and vague swirlings that had struck to the heart of her psyche. But before she had been so savaged, she had seen Helwych standing in the middle of the conjured potencies, erect and healthy.

Relys's eyes hardened into obsidian darkness. If Helwych's wounds were a sham, then everything that he had told Cvinthil was a lie. The story of Vaylle was a lie. The men of Gryylth and Corrin had gone off to exact revenge for . . .

...for what? Quite possibly nothing.

By the time Timbrin was done, she was a crumpled doll. Her hands clutched at Kallye's gown, and she whimpered softly, constantly, like an infant. Relys's face was damp with tears, the first she had allowed herself since the First Wartroop had been struck, and her hands were clenched into fists that she would have liked to turn instantly upon the body of the Corrinian sorcerer.

"Dear friend," she said, reaching out to touch Timbrin's cheek. "Dear, dear friend. Our thanks. Fear not; we will protect you; and, given time, you will heal. For the time, I ask that you stay here. Do not be afraid of Paia or her children, for Kallye vouches for their trustworthiness. Rest. You will be provided for."

Timbrin-shaking, gasping-nodded without looking up. Kallye called Paia's daughters, and together they helped the broken lieutenant into bed.

Later, when Timbrin had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Relys stood outside the house with Kallye. The midwife finished giving instructions to one of the girls and handed her a pouch of herbs. "Boil this in a kettle of water, and give her a cup of the infusion as often as she will take it." The girl nodded and ran off to prepare the brew.

Kallye straightened, shaking her head. "I have never seen anything like it," she told Relys. "The herbs will soothe her, but I am afraid that the body of her affliction is beyond me." She shook her head again.

"Beyond anyone, I fear," said Relys. "Save perhaps the G.o.ds. But this is not the first time that we of the First Wartroop have been deeply stricken. We survived then. Timbrin will survive now. I will see to it that Paia is given what she needs to tend her. In secrecy." She looked meaningfully at the midwife. "But I will do something else, too."

Her jaw clenched for a moment, and her hand fell to her sword.

When Alouzon's party reached Mallaen, they found it in ruins. But though the burned and blackened heap of stone and charred wood was beginning to soften with the encroachments of weeds, moss, and an occasional patch of wildflowers, summer seemed not to have come to the surrounding fields. Where crops had once grown, there was now only bare earth and the browned and dead remains of an aborted spring.

Desolation. The lake lapped at the sh.o.r.e, the wind sang in the ruins and among the dead gra.s.s. It was a place fit for ghosts.

Wykla shuddered. Manda looked equally uneasy, but she gave Wykla's hand a squeeze. "Courage, princess."

Wykla colored. "Manda. Please."

"You showed no such modesty when you called yourself a king's daughter in Broceliande."

Wykla's blush deepened. "I spoke in the urgency of the moment, and to distract the Specter.''

The maid of Corrin grinned. "As I spoke to distract you."

Karthin, who was scanning the area for signs of hounds or Gray faces, chuckled at her words; but Kyria was examining the party critically. "We will fall over unless we rest," she said. "Magic can help, but flesh and blood needs real sleep, and we have gone too long without."

Santhe rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "And Cvinthil?"

The sorceress shrugged. "If we keep pushing ourselves and collapse halfway to Lachrae, what good have we done?"

The sun had slipped behind the Cordillera some time before, sending cold fingers of shadow reaching across the land, and now dusk was coming on. Santhe debated. "The full moon is just rising. Half a night? What say you, Marrha?"

Marrha was leaning against the remains of a stone wall. She pa.s.sed a hand back through her hair, felt the frizzy remains of what had once been a precise braid. "A week, I think, would do us more good, but half a night it will have to be."

Wykla was still uncertain about the ruins. "Do we wish to camp here?" she said. "Perhaps the fields would be better.''

Kyria shook her head abruptly. "Stay out of those fields." Her face was drawn, and she was staring at the dead farmland as though a nightmare had invaded her waking hours. After a moment, she dropped her eyes, shook her head. "Chemicals," she said softly. "Defoliants. Nothing will grow in those fields for years now. If you spend much time in them, you might well become ill. Or worse."

Dindrane was outraged. "What kind of monster would do such a thing?" But she broke off and sat down heavily. She knew. She had seen it, confronted it, fought it... and learned some of its secrets. "Oh, my G.o.ddess ..."

"Go to sleep," said Kyria. Her tone was muted. "We have a few hours: let us make the best of them."

Karthin and Wykla claimed the first watch, and sleep took their comrades quickly. The wind swept the surface of the lake, and the moon, full and bright, splashed silver across the land. Karthin scanned the ruins at their backs, then turned and checked the fields. Nothing moved. Mallaen was gone. "They treated us well here, Wykla," he said softly. "Enite and Ceinen and all."

The Mullaen that Wykla remembered was alive and full of faces that had not turned away from the sight of swords and armor. It was a place where the wounded had been healed, and, more important, where she had finally ceased her struggles against womanhood. In Mullaen, she had at last embraced her new life fully, with no regrets, and acceptance and optimism had filled her heart like water.

But now the square where she had worn a gown and plaited flowers with Manda was burned and blackened, its songbirds gone. The fountain was dry, and the circle of standing stones that was as much of a temple as the Vayllens needed had been overthrown.

"Tell me of Darham, Wykla," said Karthin. "Manda said a little, but matters . . ."He shook his head as though he contemplated the failure of a crop. "... matters have kept us from lengthy talk. How is my king?"

Wykla tore her eyes from the ruins, fought to keep clear her memories of the town. "He is well, Karthin," she said. "Good-hearted and strong, though he seems at times sad."

He nodded. "As are we all at times." He leaned on his sword as he kept an eye on the fields. "He called you his daughter, I hear.''

Wykla squirmed uncomfortably. "Aye, Karthin. He did. At first I thought it but a figure of speech, or courtesy, but Manda told me that his words were in earnest.''

"They were indeed." Karthin's gaze rested for a moment on Marrha. "His wife died of illness years ago, and she had borne no children. Since then, Dar-ham has looked upon all of Corrin as his child." He nodded to Wykla. "And now you also, my princess."

Acutely embarra.s.sed by the t.i.tle, Wykla fought with her tongue. "Why?" she managed.

Karthin shrugged. "He is a deep man, Darham is. The loss of his wife and then his brother have brought him wisdom." For a moment, he paused as though listening. Silence. "I would guess that he saw an honorable woman who lacked only one thing: a family that esteemed her."

Wykla looked away. Her eyes smarted. Months now, and the wound still bled freely.

"Aye, my friend." Karthin's voice was compa.s.sionate. "I heard what happened."

"They are nonetheless my family."

"That is so. But now so is Darham. And you may believe me when I say that should you ever bring yourself to call him father, he will answer gladly."

Wykla wiped her nose with a ragged sleeve and sniffed softly, irritated that she sounded like a simpering child. "I . . ." Whenever she thought of it, Dar-ham's generous offer plunged her into a sea that seemed of equal parts happiness and grief. And so she tried not to think of it. "But I have a father already, and-"

A noise. Her head snapped up. Her tears choked off instantly.

Karthin lifted his sword. Together, they slipped towards a group of ruined buildings that stood off a little distance from the town, a straggling heap that lay like a decaying arm across a path of undefoliated land. Weeds and dust silenced their steps as they climbed through the tumbled wood and stone. Cautiously, they lifted their heads above the crest of the pile.

Even without the bright moon, Karthin and Wykla would have been able to see the three faintly glowing beasts that shambled amid the sterile fields, their eyes flickering like lamps and their teeth glinting. The hounds, though, seemed unaware that they were not alone. Rooting in the dead ground, pawing at one another, their playful jibes flaring now and again into snarling hostility, they milled and wheeled in the moonlight.

"I wonder what they ate last," said Wykla tone-lessly.

"For now," said Karthin, "I care not about what. I am more concerned with when."

"I am not sure that it matters. Shall we wake Kyria?"

"It may not be necessary. Let her sleep."

Squatting down in the ruins, they resumed their watch. A good sprint would take them back to their friends long before the hounds could arrive, and their clear view in all directions precluded a surprise attack; but aside from the movement of the hounds, the fields were still.

Wykla was still nervous. "I am not sure that we two should stay together like this."

"Agreed. One of us should . . ." Karthin squinted at the fields. "Wait. Look at that."

"What? The hounds?"

"No. To the right. Near the water."

Wykla followed his pointing linger, and in a moment she noticed something wrong with the moonlight near the lake. An odd patch had appeared, shimmering with faint light like a piece of dark cloth woven with silver threads. It flickered and pulsed in the air, and as they watched, it brightened and spread slowly until it reached the ground.

"I do not understand," she said.

"Nor do I."

"Sorcery."

"Well, yes . . ."

Dead ruins, strange apparitions. Wykla did not like it at all. "I will run and fetch Kyria," she said, but when she turned, her sleeve caught on a splintered beam and pulled it down in a clatter of gravel and dry thatch.

The hounds looked up, eyes glowing, mouths grinning.

"Curse me for a stupid girl," Wykla cried. She tugged at the sleeve, but the beam had ground down to the stone beneath it, wedging the cloth firmly between.

Grinning and yelping, the hounds were on their way. Karthin tugged at the snag, shrugged dourly, and cut it away with a knife. "Do not speak unkindly of yourself, dear lady," he said, and then he turned to the rubble and kicked a pa.s.sage clear.

They ran for the camp, hair streaming, boots thudding on the hard packed ground. "Kyria!" shouted Wykla. "Hounds!"

The camp struggled into consciousness, but the sorceress was already on her feet. "Where?"

The cries of the hounds carried clearly through the night air. "Behind us," said Karthin, pointing.

Kyria nodded and lifted her hands. Moonlight suddenly wove about her in a bright nimbus, and when the hounds rounded the heaped ruins, they were met by a wave of silver fire. Yelping and whining frantically, they tumbled to the ground as though struck by a club. For a moment they scrambled among the weeds, claws furrowing the damp earth, and then they found their feet and fled.

Kyria's voice came out of the shimmering aura that surrounded her. "Enough for a start. But I do not want them running about loose. Let us go and make an end of this."

The sounds of the beasts' retreat was loud as Kyria and the others made for the ruins, but instead of fading gradually, the whines and frantic yipes cut off of a sudden. When the party reached the ruins, they found only empty fields beyond.

Wykla strained her eyes. "Killed?"

"No ..." Kyria rubbed her eyes tiredly, and the nimbus of moonlight faded. "That was not a lethal blast. It was ..." She dropped her hands, staring. Out by the lake, the shimmer hung from sky to earth like a doorway into a realm of mist and light. ' 'What in heaven's name is that?"