Lyrec Page 20

  Around he went, kicking through brush, peering under branches, even walking back to the center of the yard and studying the ruts. Aware that he had no idea for what he searched, by the same token he believed he would know it when he saw it.

  The search led him to the stable, presently empty. No coaches were due in this day, no company and no horses; no one going north, everyone gone west, to Atlarma. Grohd rummaged through every stall. Dimly he perceived that his actions were ridiculous and distraught. Something in the nature of the sound sped him along in search of its source. It was as if he were being called.

  He left the stable behind to explore the grounds between there and the outbuildings. He leaned around a tree.

  And there it was.

  At first he could not move to pick it up, just stared at it and released a great pent-up sigh, knowing that he’d found … whatever it was. He recognized it all right. He could even recall thinking how ineffectual a thing it appeared to be.

  How had it come to be here? After Lyrec had been escorted away, Grohd had gone into the loft and found it empty. The cat, too, had vanished. Come to think of it, though, Lyrec had not been wearing the weapon that morning when the fiends had come for him. Bastards, ganging up against a man like that who had obviously never used a sword in his life. This set Grohd to wondering exactly to what the semi-circular silver knuckle-guard was attached.

  He bent down. Some prudent instinct caused him to refrain from touching the shiny guard. He hefted the weapon by its leather scabbard instead. His hand began to tingle.

  He called out, “Lyrec?” and felt stupid for having done so. The fellow, powerful as he had been, was surely dead or worse than dead by now. Nevertheless, Grohd waited there until he was certain no one would answer him. Then he headed for the tavern.

  Inside, he sat at the first table he came to, then changed his mind and moved to the rear, near his cooking hearth.

  He used two fingers to slide the weapon delicately out. As he’d suspected, it was a broken sword; but the tip where the blade must have been snapped in two was polished into a smooth curve. The thing had never had an edge. What a useless novelty, he thought.

  At first, he thought the bell was smoothly hammered silver. But close up, he saw that it had a texture of fine indented lines running in all directions from the base of the “basket.” He passed his palm over the surface. Lifting it, he saw for a second the color had darkened where his hand had touched it. This faded so quickly that he doubted he’d seen it. Maybe the darkness had been the shadow of his hand. So he brushed it again, slowly, watching very closely now. The silver swirled beneath his fingers and spread apart, leaving darkness where he touched. Grohd looked at his fingertips. He held the hilt away. He looked up at his tavern—at the walls and kegs and tables—to re-anchor himself in the world, then considered the silver thing again.

  Holding it still by the end of the blade, he turned it up. The inside of the knuckle-guard was ribbed and, in places, studded with tiny crystalline projections. These did not appear to have any discernible pattern to their arrangement and left him debating their purpose. Did they keep the hand more firmly against the hilt? They looked as if they would hurt, though. Grohd leaned back and pulled at his nose. Whatever the thing was, it was truly a remarkable piece of craftsmanship, but, all the same, impractical. He wished Lyrec were here to tell him how it had come to be broken, who had taken off the edge and polished the tip so, and what kind of material it was made from. Recalling the tales Lyrec had told, he expected the truth to be utterly fantastic. That poor man, coming so far in his quest, overcoming so many perilous obstacles, only to perish here. If the soldiers had refrained from slaying him outright—which Grohd very much doubted—then Ladomirus himself would have tortured or killed him as a spy or under some other pretense. Grohd decided he would mount the hilt and scabbard on the wall above the bar where it would be seen by all, leading inevitably to tales of the brave traveler who had taken on six, no, ten enemy soldiers single-handedly to protect others. He imagined the battle as one brave swordsman slew others around him with such speed that they fell to the ground before their blood knew enough to flow. Yes, what a story. And there would always be the weapon to prove it. The remnant of his sword, broken by the angry Ladomantines in their hatred of all the lives it had cost them. And where was the rest of the blade? someone would ask. And (grinning as he thought out his answer) Grohd would reply: No one knew—it had disappeared. Why, the traveler was no man at all, but a god in mortal disguise, like in the old stories. Maybe even Voed himself. And then there was his unusual cat.

  *****

  So captivated was he by his story, Grohd did not notice the approach of the two men who came along the road. They had horses, but had reined in and walked the beasts the last part of their journey. The empty yard and the absence of a coach assured them that nothing stood in the way of their goal. Stealthily, they crept forward, tied their horses, and moved to the tavern door. For a time they simply stood and satisfied themselves with watching the keeper dream his tale of the man who’d bettered them. Then Fulpig nudged Abo and they stepped through the doorway. Abo slammed shut the door.

  Grohd’s head whipped around. For an instant he did not comprehend the situation. Then, recognizing the two soldiers, he became paralyzed with fear. His axe was across the room.

  Neither soldier brandished a weapon, but this hardly mattered. Fulpig’s arm was in a sling, close against his chest. His nose was mostly dark crust, making his entire face look decayed. Abo had what appeared to be the same dirty strip of linen as before tied round his wrist. He did not hold his arm as if the wound bothered him any longer. His expression seemed a trifle glazed, however, as though he were still waking up from a long nap.

  Fulpig noticed the abbreviated sword lying on the table and began to laugh. “You going to stick me with that, taverner? Think I’ll let you? Why don’t you pick it up and let me see if you can?” He gazed around the room. “Now, where’s my favorite cat?”

  “Gone.” He glanced hopefully at the bar. “Do you want drink?”

  “Soon enough. We’ll drink over your corpse, how’ll that be?” Fulpig started toward him.

  Grohd had little choice in what to do—the polished stub of a sword was all he had. He grabbed it up and jabbed out to threaten the Ladomantine off. Fulpig drew his own blade, snorting in derision, and casually tapped the shiny smooth tip of Grohd’s weapon away. He laughed: This was going to be a pleasure.

  Grohd heard the whine that had come to him in his sleep; only this time he was wide awake and the sound was inside him. His forearm began to shudder. A soft pressure applied itself against his hand. It was all he could do to point the weapon in Fulpig’s direction. Neither of the soldiers seemed to notice the whine nor found his look of terror out of place.

  The bell of the sword suddenly collapsed and flowed over his hand and wrist.

  He would have tried to shake it off, but the thing seemed magnetized by Fulpig. The soldier shoved a table out of the way—the last barrier between him and the taverner. Grohd saw sparks within the swirling darkling silver, sparks like distant lightning in a steel gray cloud. He sensed an explosion coming and opened his mouth to yell.

  The curved tip of the blade shot out a molten stream. It whirled around Fulpig like a fiery shroud, obscuring him from view. The whine that only Grohd could hear became a squeal. The plasma erupted into blinding brightness and vanished. Behind, a figure of ash hung for an instant upon the air and then collapsed in a dusty pile.

  The weapon tugged Grohd’s arm, redirecting itself at Abo, who pressed back against the door now, too horrified to flee. He angled his head away as the weapon took aim at him.

  Grohd shouted, “Don’t!” as the weapon quivered and fired again. His command produced some effect upon it: the weapon emitted a thread of blue-edged whiteness this time that strung across the room and wove a cocoon around Abo. The thread stopped abruptly; the cocoon fell away in a sprinkle.

  Abo was gone. I
n his place stood what Grohd could only think to call a shadow—a penumbral figure in the form of Abo but without features. With arms extended, like a blind beggar coated with pitch, the shadow began to move across the room, its footfalls absolutely silent. It came at Grohd. He stumbled back. The shadow of Abo went past him and straight through the wall, vanishing without a trace. Grohd ran to the window in time to see the shade slide through a tree, disappearing into the forest.

  He realized then that he still held the awful weapon and also that it had returned to its former shape, releasing his hand. He flung the thing away. It bounced off a keg and clattered on the floor. Now it was like metal again.

  The scabbard lay beside him, and he bent down to pick it up, but it suddenly came to life and scuttled across the room. Grohd whisked his hand back. The scabbard slid up beside the abandoned weapon, swung around, and fitted itself into place over the polished blade.

  Grohd stared at it another moment; then he headed for the serving bar.

  *****

  “Where are we going?” Tynec asked Cheybal.

  “You don’t want me to spoil the surprise,” the commander answered as he led the boy through Atlarma castle. “All I will tell you is that you’ve requested such a surprise before.”

  “Have I? What have I asked for? A sword—is it my own sword?”

  “Of course not. You’ll inherit your father’s sword at the coronation. I’m appalled you’ve forgotten.”

  “I didn’t forget. You could have had a special one made for me. One for carrying in battle instead of for knighting and wearing on special occasions.”

  “Are you planning on going into battle soon?” Cheybal asked innocently.

  “Why, no, of course not.… Still, what if I did? It’s my prerogative as king, isn’t it?”

  “Your prerogative?” Cheybal came to a stop in front of the door he had led them to. He placed his hand on the bolt, but paused before opening the door. “What’s happened to all you’ve been taught? You know that war is the last choice a king makes. ‘For it obliterates his subjects and savages his lands.’ I think those are your grandfather’s exact words.”

  “But grandfather wants war, too,” the boy answered haughtily.

  Cheybal was overcome again by the feeling of debating with a stranger. This side of Tynec had come out of nowhere. “Your grandfather … has the same problem you would have if you wanted to make war—namely, identifying the enemy.”

  “Whoever killed my father—”

  “Who did kill him, boy?”

  Tynec’s eyes blazed with anger for a moment. Then a sly smile bent his lips to its will, exposing that estranged inimical aspect which gnawed at Cheybal’s peace of mind. The boy knew who had killed Dekür—Cheybal saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes, before it submerged beneath his false pose of innocence.

  Cheybal looked away, lost for what to do. He had brought Tynec here in part because of these uncharacteristic displays. The witch-child, whose name was Pavra, also displayed extraordinary powers—he had only to count the shattered things in his room to prove it. Later, when he’d visited her again, she had surprised him by speaking openly of it. Watching him, she had said, “You mustn’t worry. Papa is still alive somewhere. But I am much better and I can wait. I’m sorry for what I did.” As simply as that, she had seemingly read his mind. What concerned him now were the contents of another mind.

  “Well, Tynec,” he said, “your surprise is not a sword, and it’s not for making war. It’s in here.” He opened the door. His eyes shifted between the two faces, wanting to capture any change of expression.

  Tynec leaned around the doorway. “It’s a girl,” he said as he might have identified a vermin. “That’s not the surprise, is it?”

  “Yes, boy, it is,” answered Cheybal. He glanced at the girl. She sat perfectly still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a pose that struck Cheybal as other-worldly and disturbing. “This is Pavra,” he continued, playing his part. “She’s from Ukobachia, like your mother. But she’s lost her mother and her father and has nowhere to stay, so we’ve taken her in for a time. You always did ask for a playmate. I’d have thought you would be pleased.” Tynec said nothing. “Well, I’d stay and chat, but I have too much to do, and I trust you to acquaint yourselves. Pavra was excited at the idea of meeting you. She’s never seen a castle before, either. Why don’t you show her some of it?”

  “No.”

  “Tynec, this isn’t a debate.” He gripped the boy’s arm and pulled him all the way around the door. Tynec struggled at first, but then became unnaturally calm, his expression percipient. He straightened and strode magisterially into the room.

  “Hello, Pavra,” he said and climbed up beside her. “Cheybal, you may leave us now.” He gave the commander a bold, even rakish, look. The girl had grown unsure of herself, but was holding to her stiff silence. Cheybal could not glean anything from either of them. They were both playing roles of some kind. He muttered underneath his breath and closed the door.

  Had they both read his intention? Tynec had changed tack so quickly, out-maneuvered him without giving anything away, and he didn’t understand how. The roles the two children played were for each other and not for him. He had been dismissed. Now he would agonize over having left the girl alone with this utter stranger.

  *****

  “Would you like to see the castle?” Tynec asked Pavra.

  “Are there places to hide?”

  “What? Hide from what?”

  “I don’t know. Are there ghosts or glomengues?”

  “Glomengues are outside only. We’d have to play in the yard,” he answered slyly.

  “So?”

  “Well, it’s raining,” he lied.

  “I like rain.”

  Tynec made a sour face. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll show you where I’m going to be crowned. There’s balconies we can hide on and watch everyone without being seen.”

  “All right.” She climbed off the bed.

  *****

  Pavra didn’t care for the balcony once they arrived there. Tynec forgot her while he concentrated on what transpired below. She might as well have gone back to her room.

  In the hall, people were milling about, dressed resplendently—important people whom Tynec must have known, she thought. But, when she asked him to point them out to her, he ignored her request and began to mumble to himself. Something about him was odd, she saw. What it was specifically, she couldn’t say. He had certain obvious peculiarities, and she did not even have to probe him then to sense them. He was like a mosaic of tiles—looking like one single thing from a distance, but something altogether different close up. The discrepancy was sufficient to make her want to go down among those other people. She asked him to take her somewhere else.

  “Well, where?” he replied with obvious annoyance.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you have a special place of your own, where you like to be?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “You must know somewhere that’s not so boring.”

  He dropped the edge of the curtain. The small balcony became much darker. Pavra grew nervous. Tynec said, “I know what. Have you ever seen the statue of Chagri in his temple?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll go there, then.”

  “You said it was raining.”

  “Did I? We can take a coach.” He took her hand. His fingers were hard and cold like stone. “You should meet him. He’s the most powerful of all gods.”

  “Voed’s more powerful,” she protested.

  “How would you know? Have you ever talked to Voed?” Pavra could not see his face, but his tone mocked her. “Maybe I have,” she answered. “Sometimes some of us would link hands and our thoughts would touch, and sometimes we could feel this other bigger sort of mind. I always thought it must be Voed.”

  This reminiscence seemed to make Tynec uneasy. He said, “I don’t think that was Voed. It was likely Chagri. Let’s go ask him. Come on.” He drew her towa
rd the stairwell.

  For a split second she saw a hideous shape in the darkness where Tynec walked. Most people would have fled then, but Pavra kept her wits. “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  Tynec glanced back at her. “You have to. You need guidance. Chagri’s guidance.”

  “Girls are supposed to honor Anralys.”

  He seemed to think on this for a moment, then said, “We could go there instead. She has the same gift for you. Or could be made to.”

  “No.”

  “You’re just afraid.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, you are, I can tell. You’re a witch and all the gods hate witches.” He was smiling cruelly.

  “Be quiet.”

  “I could make Chagri appear here right now, just to come and get you and take you away where all witches belong.”

  “No!” He let go of her hand, and she ran down the steps and out of sight. People crowded the hall where she emerged. Pavra burst through them, crying, deaf to their calls.

  From the balcony the boy smiled secretly as he watched her go.

  Chapter 17.

  The talons of the krykwyre cracked his skull. Lyrec heard it and tried to pull away from the imagined agony. He pushed at its arm. The sharp fingers slipped inside his skull and tore half his head away. He saw the horrible result in its fist and cried out as his vision dimmed, the world receded. Blind, he knew himself to be near death. “Elystroya,” he called, “I’ve truly lost this time.”

  He slept.

  The monster attacked him twice more before his fever broke. When he awakened for the first time without it, he heard the cracking sound of the krykwyre’s talons again almost immediately. Much louder now, it was followed shortly by a shudder in the ground beneath him. Thunder. He’d heard the crack of lightning; nothing more.

  With this realization his nightmare receded, and he knew he was alive.

  A small circular hut enclosed him. Beneath him and above him were dark furs containing a strong musky odor. He lay naked between them. Reaching over the edge of the fur, he dug his fingers into the earth. It was hard, and cold. His shoulder twinged and itched. He almost scratched it, but saw the swollen, purulent wounds just before he did and then worried that moving his arm did not hurt more. He was acutely aware of the orbits of his eyes, which felt sunken deep beneath his brows, drained of fluid and filled with sand. Very gingerly he rubbed at the eyelids and inspected his environment further.