The doors to the kitchen and scullery of the rekin stood open, lamplight spilling out into the slowly deepening dusk. A low wall bounded a paved yard where a sizable number of men and women sat with various degrees of patience. Most of the men bore obvious battle wounds, some with dressings tied tight around legs and feet, a couple with bandaged heads. One had the bruised eyes and dark stains behind his ears that always bode ill. The women made up for the silent men with animated conversation. Some were seeking lotions for burns from fire or sun; two others were looking for Sheltya support in some quarrel. A couple of young girls were going to and fro with bread and meat, beakers and bottles, and as we approached an elderly man emerged from the rekin, scratching his head in apparent confusion. He moved aside with a muttered apology as an agitated youth pushed past, one hand clasped tight around bloody linen swathing his remaining two fingers and thumb.
’Gren set me carefully down on the broad coping of the little wall, my face away from the revealing light. Sorgrad stepped over the notional barrier to sit facing the rekin, alert to every coming and going. I raised a cautious corner of my blanket to conceal my face and to dab away sweat that might set my bruises running.
“So what now?” ’Gren demanded.
Sorgrad leaned back so I could see his face. “No one seems overly interested in us.”
“Any guards?” I picked off bits of the gritty stuff at the corner of my eye. This was no time to find myself blinded by tears.
“Not that I can see,” murmured Sorgrad. “Plenty of people going in and out, but no one seems to be asking their business.”
“We should get hunting, while we’re sure they’re not expecting us,” I decided. “There’s no point waiting for some Sheltya to come and look inside my head and call me a liar.” I wasn’t ever going to risk aetheric magic rummaging through my memories again.
“We go in through the side door, and if anyone comes asking we’re looking for this Aritane?” ’Gren asked.
“Privies are that way,” nodded Sorgrad.
In the privacy of the fetid little outhouse, I tied up my drooping stocking and checked my belt-pouch, making sure everything I was going to need was ready. I took a moment to look down at my hands. They were steady enough in the dim light filtering through the half-moon cut in the wooden door. It was time to draw the runes and see how they lay.
Teyvasoke,
18th of Aft-Summer
Eresken turned aside from the sturdy arch of pale stone that spanned the chuckling river. Crunching across gravel, he dipped a handful of water from the dimpled surface; he spat crossly—the taint of beasts was bitter in the water. Straightening up, he knuckled the small of his back and waited for the stubborn ache in the back of his legs to ease. He’d never walked so many leagues in his life!
Scorn soured his stomach. These fools had so much land and yet they used so little of it to good effect. Properly managed, even the parched desolation of Aritane’s once beloved home would support a fertile clan breeding loyal sons eager to fight. No wonder Misaen had sent the best of his people to be refined in the howling crucible of the ocean islands.
At least these soft stay-at-homes had a proper attitude to encroachment on their territory. Eresken shook his head in renewed wonder. It was so easy to persuade these people their lands were under threat, that the loss of so much as an arm’s length out of all this bounty would leave them destitute. His father would have no reason to criticize his efforts there. The Elietimm’s spirits rose, the ache in his muscles fading.
He noted the number of fires across the river, busy cooking suppers made known on the fragrant breeze. Were these fresh fools flocking to the cause or had Jeirran arrived back before him? Exasperation darkened Eresken’s mood; he’d meant to keep a closer eye on the bumptious fool, but what with keeping his own force toeing the line and making sure Aritane had this valley under her thumb, when had he had the time? Cold striking up from the water hit him like an omen of his father’s disapproval. He’d better get some sleep, the better to take charge of this multifaceted task once more.
A hand shook him by the elbow. “What do you want?” he snapped, a vicious glare searing the man hesitating beside him.
Reflexive anger straightened the man and his face hardened in the failing light. “What’s the delay? We’ve been marching since noon without a break.”
“Of course.” Eresken managed a conciliatory tone. He held the man’s eyes for a moment, searching blunt features beneath a grubby bandage obscuring one brow. There was weariness in the man’s mind, and an ominous shadow of doubt, both in the wisdom of taking on the lowlands and in the men and women supposedly leading this campaign, all because of a few reverses when the sheepherders turned defiant and some tree dwellers bolder than the rest had loosed their pinpricks on unwary stragglers. So much for the bold and mighty Anyatimm who had driven his forefathers away. Were these fair-weather warriors to be the guardians of the ancestral lands? The sooner true heirs of Misaen claimed these peaks, the better. Let worthy men see the real secrets revealed by Solstice suns.
Eresken curbed his contempt lest it seep into the man’s unwitting perception. He reached through clouding tiredness and looming misgiving and dragged a memory of recent looting to the forefront of the man’s mind. He struck an echo from the guilty delight in such easy spoils and the relish of violence let loose. The man’s face lightened, all in no more time than it had taken Eresken to draw a long breath. The Elietimm considered thrusting deeper, but his own exhaustion and exasperation balked at further effort.
“Take the goods we recovered to the stores-master at the fess.” Eresken laid a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “When it’s all been noted, tell him you’ve my authority to take back the ale. We’ve won some mighty victories and I think we’re due a little celebration!”
“Misaen made you true gold!” The man shouted his extravagant approval to the bedraggled troops and Eresken muttered a complex chant beneath his breath. With that charm following him, the man’s renewed enthusiasm would be carried along by his words into the minds of any he spoke with. That should keep the fools from brooding on recent minor setbacks.
The long column of laden men trudged across the bridge. Most were silent, many glum, faces set and shoulders bowed. They were just tired, Eresken decided; a good night’s sleep, a few days’ rest, Jeirran’s undoubted eloquence with the whisper of Elietimm enchantment running beneath it and he would have them marching down again to grind the Forest Folk beneath an iron heel. His stomach growled low but insistent at a tempting savor of frying onion. When had he last eaten?
Men burdened with litters and supporting the ungainly struggles of walking wounded had reached the bridge now. “Go straight to the fess,” Eresken told them, face concerned. “Sheltya will tend your hurts.” And soothe away memories of pain along with disloyalty stirred by the shock of injury, Aritane’s scruples be cursed.
Grazed and bruised faces lightened with gratitude. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.” Best to get these miserable failures out of sight. Bloodied stumps and gashed limbs would only spoil the goodwill mixed from a few looted barrels and some judicious manipulation of memory.
Crossing the bridge with the first of the litters, Eresken considered the simpletons gawking by their campfires. Could he enlist Aritane’s help in turning the thoughts of the more fatigued back to the rage that had first spurred them on? Eresken warned himself against demanding too much of her too soon. Aritane’s usefulness still depended on her cherishing the illusion that, though breaking her vows and defying her elders, she was still working for the greater good of her people.