The Song of Andiene

CHAPTER 14



Ilbran returned, an hour’s walk on the winding paths. When he looked at the golden lindel trees, he shuddered, and had to force himself to enter the clearing. But his daughter came running to meet him, wild with joy at his return. He knelt, and held her tight, and wept.

“Your mother is dead,” he said at last. She looked at him with dark uncomprehending eyes. He tried to speak gently to her, to tell her something she could understand, something that would not destroy her.

“She ate something she should not have,” he said. “Many things are not safe. You must be careful, always.”

“Will she come back, Daya?”

“No, love, never.”

His child sighed and cuddled closer to him. She did not understand, but that was best.

There was one thing that he must do, though the world shattered and fell around him. “This is your birthmonth,” he said to his daughter. “You were born when the stars were woven bright across the sky, the full of the month. You are six years old, now. Do you know what it is to be named?”

She repeated the words that he had taught her. He thought that his heart would break, with grief or laughter, as she recited, “I am a person now, not just a child. I have a name, a name of my own. I must work now, to gather food to feed myself.”

“That is correct,” Ilbran said. “You learned it well. But you are a very young person. One day you will name yourself, and then you will be true-grown. But now, love, I will name you Kare, which was my mother’s name. She was a good woman, gentle and brave and wise.”

There should have been more ceremony, since the naming of a first child was a great occasion, but he could not bear it.

What was he to do now? This place, this clearing was hateful to him, but he was still trapped. In seven years of searching he had never found a safehold. I am like a dog thrown down a well. He swims for a while, and if he is strong, he can swim for a long time, but at last he drowns, without ever having had a chance to escape.



He looked around him. It was a rich land. Even a child, if she were wise in the ways of the forest, could survive alone. His mind was made up; he pulled his daughter closer to him. “Now, Kare, love, you must be brave. Tomorrow morning I am going away. I will be gone one day, and come back to you the next day. You know what to do to be safe; you know that you must not go outside at night.”

Those were words that she could understand better than any talk of death. She shrieked and wept. She beat at his arms with her fists, kicked at him with her feet. Ilbran held her close, so she could not hurt him or herself. “I must, Kare, I must,” he said, though his heart was torn with grief for the risk he was taking, the risk of leaving her to live alone.

At last she wept herself into silence. “Remember,” he said, “do not go into the forest. Ever. If I do not come back, do not go looking for me. You know how to gather the grain and cook the food; you can take care of yourself.”

He thought of something else, a more terrible thought of the ones that ate men’s souls and wore their bodies to lure others to destruction.

“Even when I come back, do not go to meet me. Let me come to you. Even if I call you, do not go to meet me. Do you understand?”

Though she did not understand, at least she remembered. He asked her again and again, till she could repeat it glibly. “I won’t go into the forest, Daya. I’ll wait here. I’ll wait till you come.” She was an obedient child. He could do no more.

The next morning, he rose early, stood watching her as she slept, then turned away, stepping softly so he would not wake her. The sun had not yet warmed the forest; the air burned his lungs with cold as he ran along the forest paths. He had made his decision the day before. He would travel the whole day long. It was his only chance. The safe way to travel was useless to him. He had tried it many times; on all these forest paths, there was no safehold in half a day’s journey.

If he found a shelter in a whole day’s traveling, it would guard him through the perilous night. In the morning, he could bind it to him with his blood, return and fetch his child, and so begin the long journey back to the sunlight and open plains.

If he found no shelter, the forest would take him. It was a fearful risk that might leave his child alone. To his mind it was worth it. At least, while the morning was young, he believed that it was worth it.

As the sun passed midday, his fear began to grow. The forest creatures gave no kind and simple death. Still, he ran and walked and ran again, though his lungs began to burn with every breath, and his steps faltered. If he turned back now, he would die, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The sound of hoofbeats took him by surprise. The path was narrow, unbranching. There was no place to hide.

The hooves drummed louder. Ilbran thought of his sword, but he had left it behind, for it would have slowed him. Horse and rider swept around a bend in the path, coming at a brisk gait. Then they saw Ilbran. The horse shied and reared. The rider fought him down to all four feet again.

“What lies behind you?” he called out, a hard, quick-speaking voice, confident and accustomed to giving orders.

“Nothing, for three-quarters of a day’s travel,” Ilbran answered him.

The rider urged his horse closer. “What lies behind you, sir?” Ilbran asked, following the other man’s lead.

The rider hesitated, studying Ilbran. He reached back and shook his sword loose in its scabbard. Ilbran watched him warily. This one had the look of a warrior and king’s man, wearing a dented metal cap and a leather coat sewn close with iron rings.

He was twice Ilbran’s age, or a little less—hard to judge when several day’s beard half-hid a scarred face. He was of the pale-eyed ruling breed. The sight of him brought back evil memories. Still, he was a man, a mortal man, the first Ilbran had seen in seven years.

The horse stamped and edged sideways, half-turning on the narrow path. “What sent you out, so far from shelter?” Suspicion was in the stranger’s voice.

Ilbran answered the intent, not the question. “I am not of the forest kind. I am of the Rejiseja. By your voice, you are the same.”

The stranger’s hand relaxed on the sword hilt. “Till lately.”

“What lies behind you?” Ilbran repeated.

The other man looked him up and down, and seemed to come to a conclusion at last. “Nothing that you can reach before nightfall, afoot. Climb up behind me, and I’ll take you back.”

Ilbran wasted no time on suspicion, for the sun was low in the sky. He caught the other man’s hand, made a scrambling leap, too far. He started to slide off on the other side, and clutched frantically at the rider. The horse snorted in alarm and reared. Ilbran went sliding off over its tail, to land in a heap on the soft forest floor.

The rider turned in the saddle and looked down at him. “Get up and try it again. Calmly, that’s right.” Ilbran looked down, a long way down. He clutched frantically at the rider’s shirt. His fingers could get no good hold on the metal rings.

It was a long ride back to safety. Ilbran slipped and slid at every jolting step the horse took. Still, he knew that he would not have traveled far on foot before darkness came. At last, they slowed to a walk at the blessed sight of a clearing and safehold. Ilbran slid to the ground, and was greatly tempted to stay there.

The rider leaped to the ground lightly and cut his gratefulness short with a laugh and shake of his head.

“Thank me no thanks. I had to return. A passenger is no trouble for so short a distance.”

Ilbran walked unsteadily up the safehold steps. “Are you satisfied now that I am no forest spirit?”

The other man laughed again. “The instant you slid off Alonsar, I knew I had not misjudged. Waylayers cling like leeches. They do not slip and slide and clutch at the horse’s tail to try to keep their seat.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“No. I’ll tend him myself.” The rider stripped off saddle and bridle, and fastened a rope around the horse’s nose to lead him about, walking, grazing a little, drinking some water, walking again.

Ilbran sat on the steps of the safehold and watched them. He had tamed many animals, but ones of this size were outside his experience. The horse moved easily, muscles sliding under his rusty hide. It would be a joy to possess such a creature, a joy to travel easily and freely.

The stranger wrapped a cloth around his hand and rubbed the horse with it, polishing away the sweat and dirt to leave his coat shining like red-metal. Sunset was near, the danger time. He slapped the horse’s shoulder and led him toward the safehold. “Alonsar … brave Alonsar … wise Alonsar … ” he said as he tried to coax him up the safehold steps. The horse flared his nostrils and widened his eyes. Sweat broke out on his shining coat. He took a tentative step forward; his hoof clicked on the bottom step, and he flinched and jumped back.

“Alonsar … wise Alonsar … the hunters will eat you, flesh and blood and bone.” Though the words had become harsh, the stranger’s voice was the same, wheedling, soothing, coaxing. The sun was lower in the west.

“Let me try,” said Ilbran.

The other man gave him a sharp appraising look. “Don’t frighten him,” he said, but he handed the lead rope over to Ilbran and stood back to watch.

Ilbran looked at the animal’s face, huge dark eyes filled with nervous suspicion, set in a heavy head. He stroked the harsh-furred muzzle. When he spoke, the ears pricked forward, less fear in the liquid eyes now.

“Come, Alonsar,” he said, and the horse followed him, stepping carefully up the stairs. When the lead rope was dropped, he stood in the corner as though he had been tethered.

The other man gave a short laugh. “How did you do that? What magic did you use?”

“No magic,” Ilbran answered hotly. “I’ve tamed coursers, wild ones. These, though I may not have dealt with them before, they are much like any other animal.”

The stranger nodded. “There are some who have the gift. You cannot ride, that is another matter, because your experience has been from the ground, looking up, dodging the flat of a sword, or maybe the keen edge.”

He glanced at Ilbran to see his reaction, then went on. “These are merely foolish animals, not like the albanet who choose their riders. You’d find it hard to find one to bear your weight well, but if you can talk to all of them like that, there’s a place for you in any king’s stables. We set them loose in the mountains for the summer, all but the finest, and have to catch and tame them again.” He laughed. “I could have used one like you, last autumn. More days than I like to think of, tramping through the hills, whistling love-notes to an ungrateful creature just ten paces ahead of me … Sarayo … But I’ve seen a few like you who could have called and brought him to hand in a morning.”

Ilbran nodded, ill at ease. Hard to find words to speak to this man. Though he had saved his life, still he was a kingsman, and not to be trusted. The sight of the armor, and badge of purple and red—Nahil’s colors—brought back cruel memories of torture and death.

The other man seemed at ease, talking idly as if he enjoyed the sound of his voice, with his gray hunter’s eyes watching, always alert. He looked at the statue that stood in the corner, a statue of the same woman that Ilbran had seen before, naked and beautiful, adorned with garlands of thornfruit flowers and blaggorn tassels.

“Yrlaine is her name, so one told me once. Just think if she could only wake and lie warmly in your arms.”

Ilbran shuddered. He could not have imagined a more grisly thing. His thought went back to Malesa, killing her children and feeding on their life. She had lived long in such a way. How had she learned it? Had the forest taught her?

The other man glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and then was silent. Presently, he searched in his saddlebags and brought out some dried traveler’s bread. “Do you wish some food?”

“I have some of my own,” said Ilbran. Then he came to his senses. Indeed, he had been far from humankind these past seven years. “If you wish, we will share and share alike,” he said.

The stranger accepted, and seemed well pleased with his bargain, trading his tough waybread for dried thornfruit, blaggorn cakes sweetened with honey, and strongly spiced sausages. He ate greedily. When the meal was over, there was more silence, true silence, for the forest creatures hunted on far trails.

“My name is Kallan,” the stranger said suddenly.

“And mine is Ilbran.”

“I came into this forest three days ago hunted by the king’s men.”

“And so did I, in the year that Ranes and Nahil reigned. The same king?”

“Nahil still, but he rules less men each year. Some die, and some flee.”

“I see,” Ilbran said. “Will they follow you?”

Kallan shook his head. “They count us dead when we enter the forest. No pursuit goes there. I did not know where I was going. I was born in Oreja, but I have heard evil stories of that land, too … Oh, not what you think,” he added with a laugh. “I tell you, the stories of human sacrifice are always set one kingdom farther to the south than the one you are in. I meant that I have heard the king now rules with a heavy hand.”

“That would be nothing new.”

Kallan looked at him sharply. “What were you doing on these paths? You would never have won to safety, if I had taken a different path this morning. If you have lived in the forest for seven years, you should know its ways.”

Ilbran spoke vaguely. “I have a daughter, but I did not dare bring her with me. I left her alone where I have lived, and went to see if I could find a safe place.”

“You almost did not,” the other one said. “What of her mother?”

“Dead.”

Kallan looked at him steadily, but said nothing. The forest creatures set up their song in the distance. Alonsar stamped his feet nervously.

“What if you had died in the forest? What would have become of her then?”

“I prayed that if that happened, she could survive. She is past her first naming. She knows the ways of the woods. I thought—I must have been mad—that it was worth the risk. The paths are longer than when I first entered the forest. I do not see how I can reach her now, to bring her out.”

They were simple words, but the other man seemed to sense the desperation that lay behind them.

“Would she trust a stranger?”

“I do not know. She has seen none, in all her life.”

Kallan frowned. “Alonsar will not carry two, let alone three, for all that long way. Though he is willing, he was made for speed, not for strength.”

“What are you saying?”

Kallan spoke precisely. “You cannot walk back alone; it is too far, and with a child to slow you, you would certainly die. You cannot ride back; the horse would not carry you, and even if you could ride, you are too heavy for him for any great distance. So I must go back alone, and have some token from you so she will trust me, and come with me.”

Ilbran hesitated.

“You must trust someone,” Kallan said impatiently. He waited for an answer. None came. “Of all the things I have done to destroy myself, and they’ve been many, I’ve done nothing to give you a right to fear me for this.”

“Indeed, I was not thinking any shame to you,” Ilbran said.

“What then?”

“I mistrust your colors.”

Kallan tucked his chin to his chest to look down at the purple and red badge on his armor, then laughed, drew his dagger, and ripped it off. “Nahil’s man no longer!” He chuckled again. “You could get a good reward, I think, by bringing my head back to the king—but you might have trouble in taking it from my shoulders!” His pale eyes were fiercely amused.

“Why are you asking to help me?”

“Whim, maybe. This is the first time in many years that I have walked to my own bidding. Besides, in the forest, all men are brothers.”

“Did your king teach you the value of brotherhood?” Ilbran said before he thought. He saw the anger flare up and die down in the other man’s eyes. Then Kallan laughed again. “Hate binds men as close as love. Nahil has not rid himself of his brother yet, though he is seven years dead. Look. You do not trust me, and rightly so. But what other choice do you have? I’m not accustomed to having my help thrown back at my face. Do you question all your luck like this?”

“No,” Ilbran said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’d believe the bad luck with no questions at all.”

He studied the other man. Hard and fierce, but honest, he thought. “Here, I will show you how the trails go,” he said.

He drew them in the dust of the safehold pavement. “Paths branch off, here and here, but they are the lesser ways. It is a wide and fair clearing, with … with lindel trees encircling it. Tie your horse out of sight, and take off your coat of mail. Both will be strange, and might frighten her. Call her by name, Kare, and tell her that I sent you. She can show you where the food is. Gather as much as you can carry. She is wise and trusting, and she knows that forest evil does not walk in the sunlight.”

***

At daybreak, Ilbran watched as Kallan tried to coax his horse down the steps.

“No,” he said, when Ilbran would have offered his help. “I’ll lure him myself.” It was a difficult task, but he accomplished it at last.

“How do you win such an animal as that?” Ilbran asked.

“They run in the hills beyond the eastern forest. But this one I gained in a simpler way. Sarayo, my own, was shot from under me—some archer too clumsy to aim at the rider.

“This one was the speediest of my pursuers, but not trained as a war horse should be—he gave his rider no protection. The man had been a comrade of mine, I thought, but he turned hunter easily enough, once there was a price on my head. It was unlucky for him that his horse was the fastest to reach me first.”

His tone of easy unconcern sickened Ilbran. Kallan did not seem to perceive that. He patted the horse’s muzzle. “They are foolish creatures; and all men are the same to them. This one runs swifter than any I have seen, though.”

He walked back up the steps, drew out his dagger, and knelt to smear the threshold with his blood. “I lived in forest villages for some years, when I was young. They taught me this.”

“I know the custom,” Ilbran said. “I will wait for you three days, then come in search of you.”

“Do not be a fool,” Kallan said. “What if I find her sick of some childish fever, too ill to travel? What if Alonsar goes lame and I must rest him for some days? Scores of things might delay me. There is food enough for you to gather in the clearing. Wait patiently for us. It would be a pretty matter for a minstrel’s tragedy if we set out at last, only to find your body lying in our path—what was left of it—eaten flesh and soul.”

And so he left, leaving Ilbran to pace the clearing from one side to the other, to think on the past, which brought him no joy, and think on the future, which brought him little more.

He had gone into the forest, because he had no other choice. He had killed Malesa, because he had no other choice. He had trusted his child to a bloody-handed stranger, because he had no other choice.

It seemed as though, all his life, he had walked on the one road he was allowed. There had been one decision to be made—so long ago—to save Andiene or betray her—and the grizane had told him that both paths led to the same end.

He tried to think ahead. What could he do, once he and Kare were free of the forest? He could try to find his way to Carvalon. What had the grizane said? He had babbled of dragons, but little else that could be understood. The message he had been charged with was six years old and dead, even if it had ever been more than a dying man’s fantasy.

And though the thought of Carvalon had seemed a refuge once, now the memory of the grizane’s magic chilled him. Though blind, he had seen to work his charms. Ilbran thought of Kare in fear and dread. Indeed, she had half her mother’s blood in her. He would keep her far from the taste and taint of sorcery.