The Song of Andiene

CHAPTER 15



The trunks of the lindel trees showed clearly through the gaps in the forest. Kallan dismounted, spoke softly to his horse, and knotted the reins around a low-hanging branch. He glanced up at the sun; it had not quite reached the peak of the sky.

Reluctantly, he took off his metal cap. He pulled off his ring-mail still more reluctantly. Since the day that he first saw the king’s mistrust of him, he had not put off that mail, waking or sleeping. That wariness had saved his life.

His hair was wet; his tunic and trousers of felted lanara clung damply to him. Though the breeze blew lightly, it chilled him as though he stood in the northern snow. The space between his shoulder blades felt cold and naked.

He kept his sword and dagger—he would not disarm himself to seem harmless. No child was worth such risk. As he went forward, he tried to glance from side to side, to cover his back. This place had a treacherous look to it. Those white-trunked lindel trees never grew in such a seashell-curving line by their own design. Someone had worked sorcery here once, had broken the laws of the land.

It was a rich place, though. He could see the empty blaggorn stems—a fine harvest. The air was sweet with the smell of overripe thornfruit, growing too well-guarded to be picked. And the young crop had set thick on the bushes.

A grasskit yelped and scurried across the path. There would be good hunting, too. “Kare,” he called. “Kare!” The child could be hiding anywhere. Countless little trails mazed their way through the shoulder-high blaggorn. “Kare!” She would expect no stranger. She ought to come.

He saw the blaggorn stems swaying far out in the field, the movement coming closer. She had ignored the paths and nestled into the grass like a little wild animal. Then she was out and onto the path, running toward him. “Daya! Daya! I was frightened!”

She stopped and stared, realizing he was a stranger—dark eyes widening in her grimy face. Black hair and eyes—her father had not said that her mother was a southerner.

“Your father sent me,” he said, trying to speak as he would to a nervous horse. He started to squat down, to put his eyes on a level with her. At the movement, she whirled and ran, using the paths this time. There was no telltale movement of the blaggorn stems to show where she had hidden herself.

Kallan was not dismayed. He had not expected matters to be simple, not with a forest-bred child, raised on nothing more than tales of the outside world.

He studied the ground for his campaign. On the western side of the house, the grass grew shorter. He seated himself there, where he was clearly visible from anywhere in the clearing. Curiosity would draw her, he thought. He had chosen well, so that on all sides she could hide, see him and not be seen.

The waiting was pleasant. He was the hunter, as he had been so often, but this time there was no danger, no urgency. No men would die for his cleverness, or in spite of it. It was good now, to sit in the sun and wait for a child’s curiosity to overcome her.

Black bees crawled over the thornfruit flowers like little lumps of soot, and the drugging smell of the fruit filled the air. A raven flew up into the lindel tree. A grasskit yelped in the blaggorn straw, and his mate answered him.

The sun sank lower in the sky. It was slower work than he had expected. He could not wait forever; Alonsar would have to be brought in from the forest before nightfall. He thought of a trick he could try. Rising slowly, he walked back to where he had tied his horse.

“Good Alonsar, brave creature, you will have fine grazing tonight.” He led the red horse into the clearing and tied him on a long rope, where he could graze on the blaggorn hay. He thought the lindel trees would keep him safe.

Then Kallan returned to the open clearing, walking slowly. The child was close—he was sure of it. A flash of white near the house, that was good. He walked unsteadily, trying to make it obvious. Then he stumbled and fell headlong, using his arms to catch himself only at the last moment. He lay motionless, trying to breathe quickly and irregularly. It was an old trick, but it had drawn many from hiding. Few can resist coming closer to a helpless enemy.

A flash of white again in the corner of his eye. Her padding bare feet made no sound on the ground. He breathed raggedly and lay still. Fingertips touched his forehead, then were gone, as though some little flying creature had landed for an instant, then taken wing again.

More silence. He waited. Hands tugged at his shoulder. He groaned and propped himself up on one elbow. The child knelt on the ground beside him, offering him a carved wooden cup. When she held it up to his lips, he sipped it tentatively, a meadowy taste like a summer night on the plains.

“What is this?”

“To help you. I didn’t know what was wrong.”

“I thank you,” he said. “I was merely tired, very tired. I have traveled far. Your father sent me to fetch you, Kare.”

She looked at him suspiciously, ready to turn and run again. “Your father is waiting for you, Kare. He told me your name, Kare. How would I know your name, if I had not spoken to him? My name is Kallan. He told me how to find your home.”

She stood nearer to him now, not so afraid. He sipped the thick dregs of what she had given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to be harmless. “Do you have some food you could give me, some more water?”

She brought the food and water to him. Kallan talked to her, gently, repetitiously. After a while, in the interests of realism and comfort, he decided that he could stand up. Her trust once given, she gave it utterly. She took him by the hand and led him into the house, explaining everything, the sword standing in the corner, the ranks of jars arrayed on the shelves, the herbs hung drying, gathered from forest and field. It was a rich household, but heavy with the scent of unlawful magic, as the lindel clearing had been. The child did not speak of her mother, but she had not been dead for long, for there was woman’s clothing lying here and there as though one had only just laid it down.

Kallan looked at the child and wondered again what had driven her father out into the forest. There was no lack of food, no sign that the forest had made a move to overwhelm them, as it sometimes will. Kare spoke proudly, precisely, as one adult speaks to another. She served him a meal as though he were an honored guest, and she the lady of the house. From her manner, no shadow of violence or want had ever touched her. Yet her father had run out into the forest like a madman, to almost certain death.

At nightfall, the forest creatures set up their song. She was more familiar with it than he was; she did not even pause in her talking. Then something caught her attention. She broke off in mid-word, every fiber of her body intent and listening. With her tangled black mane of hair, she seemed to him even more like a wild colt of the mountains, alert at the sound of a footstep.

It was the sound of a woman’s voice. “Kare!” or was he imagining it? The child ran to the door, to push the leather flap aside, and listen to the night. “Kare!” came the call again.

Kallan came to the door and reached for the child’s wrist. “What is it?”

She twisted her arm out of his grasp, and went running out. He followed, though he did not understand.

They ran down the blaggorn paths; the stars were bright. Though the lindel trees were protection from the forest magic, still, to go adventuring through the night was madness. “Kare!” he called.

“Kare!” the woman’s voice answered, a mocking echo. Then the path straightened. He saw her, standing where the forest met the clearing.

Only one kind of creature stands at the doorway and cannot enter. The hunters of the forest were silent. “Maya!” the child cried. The woman that was no woman smiled and held out her arms.

Kallan knew that the child was swifter than he; no persuasion or command would stop her. He reached down to the side of the path—a good sized stone there—and his arm was strong. It struck her on the side of her head, where the skull curves above the ear. She crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Kallan walked forward. He did not look at the woman-creature, but he was intensely aware of her. He knew that her black hair rippled nearly to her feet, that her thin shift did not serve her either for modesty or for warmth. He knew that she needed neither.

One word from her unhuman throat, and the dark hounds would come to do her will; the hunters who can kill at a touch would come. The forest ones have many faces.

Kneeling and gathering the child into his arms, he could feel her presence, just a few paces away, her watchful eyes as dark as the shadows in a skull. Nothing stood between them but the doubtful guardianship of a lindel tree that is born of magic. She did not speak. There were no words that would draw him as she had drawn the child. If she had all the power in the world, even though she knew his name, there was no form she could take to mimic one that he loved, for there were none. It was his safety. He turned and walked back along the starlit circling path.

Kare lay unconscious all that night. He had thrown the stone harder than he needed to. He sat beside her, and counted her breaths, took her pulse, compared it to his own. He had kept this same useless vigil once beside a comrade thrown from a horse, and had watched helplessly as pulse and breathing slowed and faded to nothingness. But this time the child’s life held strong.

When she woke the next day, she walked around unsteadily, and complained of a headache; she did not ask him what had happened. When evening came, he took a rope, knotted one end of it around her wrist, the other around his own. The calling came again out of the darkness. “Kare, Kare,” a voice that knew but the one word.

The child listened intently, but did not struggle. “That is not my mother,” she said at last.

“No,” he said. “I do not think it is.”

She slept much, those next few days. Kallan had little nursing to do, but much watching and waiting. He only hoped that her father would be as patient. The calling mixed with the howling of the forest, and became so familiar that he scarcely knew when it ceased.

They might have left sooner, but he was afraid for the child to travel. A blow to the head can do strange things. Alonsar waited patiently enough, and grazed greedily in the blaggorn field. When they were ready to go at last, Kare was awestruck by the horse, and stepped warily around him.

Kallan tried to reassure her. “See,” he said as he slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth, “his teeth are big, but they are grinding teeth, not fangs to tear flesh. And he is brave and gentle, and can travel faster and longer than a man can run.”

She came a little closer, but still ready to flee.

“See, though he was trained as a war-horse, yet he will go willingly as a pack-horse.

Indeed, Alonsar was a patient creature, as he stood loaded with the other man’s sword, and bundles of food better than anything they would find as they traveled, and bundles of the child’s choosing, herbs and clothing, things she did not want to do without.

Kallan had looked into the jars she had chosen, the simple herbs, though he did not recognize them, that stood on the lower shelf. There had been some jars—high above a child’s reach—whose contents had sickened him, when he browsed idly along the shelves. Evil had dwelled here, sure enough, but when he looked into the child’s eyes, he could see no sign of it.

Kallan saw her reach out and touch the horse cautiously, almost won over. Then she turned and saw him, armored again in his mail shirt, his iron cap, and she backed away from him, not trusting his metamorphosis into a strange metal creature.

More explanations were needed. He stumbled over them. His life was nothing he was able to explain to a child that had never seen the world. “You know, the forest is not safe, even in daytime,” he said. She looked at him gravely, knowing full well that armor would be no guard against the ones that run through the woods.

But at last she let him lift her up onto the horse. She sat light as a wisp of cloud, wide-eyed and astonished. He urged Alonsar to a canter, an easy gait. She was too amazed to speak, but every now and then, she laughed. Kallan seemed to see things as she must see them, the forest swiftly floating past. It had been so long, the city seemed far away, another life, so gladly discarded.

A movement between the forest trees, a cry that no human had made. Alonsar shied, stumbled, and went down, with a agonized scream.

Kare was thrown, to lie stunned in the path beyond. The horse sprawled on the ground, awkward and ungainly, making a sobbing noise in his throat. Kallan knelt beside him, and felt his front legs. Alonsar would not walk again.

He glanced to either side. Whatever had frightened the horse was not to be seen. Places enough for it to hide and wait till night. The forests are never safe. Kare watched him, not sure of what had happened, but wise enough to recognize a disaster. “Walk on slowly,” he said, “and do not look back.”

She had the habit of obedience. Kallan rejoined her soon. He had wiped his sword clean of blood on the grass that grew by the side of the path.

“Listen, Kare,” he said. “We must play a game. Your father is waiting for you at the end of this path. Run as fast as you can, and I’ll try to catch you. Don’t go off the path. Just see how fast you can run, and how soon you can reach your father.”

She was puzzled, not quite understanding this new game.

“Do you think that I can catch you?” he asked.

“No!” and she giggled.

“Very well then, run!”

She ran forward lightly and Kallan followed. The sun had passed its crest. Fool that he was, he had not wakened her to leave at first light, thinking that he had all the time he would need. The sword swinging at his side made him clumsy, but he could not leave it behind. Some of the forest creatures, the grievers, the rardissian, were mortal, for all their magic.

The child had outdistanced him and was out of sight, far ahead, he hoped, on the winding path. He ran on, and tried not to glance up at the sky, to see how little daylight he had left. Horseback riding, sword fighting, they did not make for swift running. “Though men know the ways of the forest well, they all walk down one path too many.” Someone had said that long ago.

He saw the child far ahead, walking. “Kare, run!” he cried out. Instead, she stopped and waited for him.

“My side hurts.”

“Run anyway!” He caught her by the arm and pulled her along. “If you want to see your father again, run!”

She ran, but not so swiftly. He could keep pace with her easily, now. He could have outdistanced her. Then it was twilight, dimming quickly, and she realized the danger, child of the forest that she was, and ran willingly. “Do not speak,” he gasped. They might buy a little time, even after nightfall, if they went silently.

But the song of death already echoed in the distance.

“Run!” Kallan said, and pushed her on. The howling was very near. He turned and drew his sword, though it was a hopeless gesture. These were the dark ones, the shadow hounds that no sword could touch.

They flowed out of the shadows, running single file, so sure of their prey, so hungry for the taste of death. The leader sprang, and Kallan raised his sword in a futile reflex. In mid-air, a tongue of fire lashed past him and struck the hound. It screamed as it fell to the ground, shadow-body outlined in flames. The second one sprang and fell and burned the same. The hounds sang louder, but slowed their pace.

“Come,” Kare said. She was the leader now, pulling at Kallan’s hand, and every minute, she turned and stared, and behind them was another flash of flame and keening wail.

A bend in the path, another one—the paths of the forest have no end. The safehold was linked to Kallan by his blood, but he had ridden from it on horseback, traveling far faster than he could run. He did not know how far they had to go.

The dark ones stayed well back, but sang still louder, calling their masters to the fight.

But the safehold was ahead now, a sturdy and welcoming pile of stones. Kare saw her father standing at the foot of the steps, between the wide-spreading dragon’s paws, and summoned a sprinter’s speed to outdistance Kallan. A thought of grim irony went through his mind. If she forgot him at the sight of her father, he might be slain yet, so close to safety. But she turned, and again flame crackled through the air, and another hound screamed and was silent.

The rest hung back and were afraid. He needed no more help. When he reached the safehold, Ilbran stood on the bottom step, holding his daughter in his arms. She smiled to see Kallan, then closed her eyes, her body going limp.

Kallan reached out and touched her throat, to feel a steady pulse, then regarded her father. Nothing but bewilderment in his blue northerner’s eyes.

“Why did you not tell me that you had raised one of the wise ones?” Kallan asked.

Ilbran shook his head. “I did not know, though I feared.”

“Why fear? We would have died. Alonsar snapped a bone in his foreleg; I had to kill him. She saved her life and mine. In all my life I have seen only one other like her.”

Ilbran carried his child up the steps. Silently, he laid her down on the safehold floor. Clumsily, he tried to pick out the mats and tangles from her hair. “What troubles you so?” asked Kallan. “She is safe now. She has shown herself brave and wise beyond her years.”

Ilbran flinched at the words. “I had hoped she would have no magic in her. Her mother was one of a kind that is devoured by sorcery, eaten from the inside out till at last there is nothing left. And I did not recognize it in her, so how can I hope to recognize it in my daughter?”

The man believed it. He had the look of one consumed by dread. “Calm yourself,” Kallan said. “You walk ten leagues to pick up a pin. I can recognize witchcraft. Your home stank with it. Those lindel trees were planted by human hands alone. I tell you, there is no trace of that on your daughter.”

“Let our children be born as strangers,” Ilbran quoted wearily. He drew a deep breath and sighed, and stroked his child’s hair again. “I pray that you speak wisely. What kept you there so long?”

Kallan told him the story, telling it simply. “It was a sima, I think. Your daughter recognized it. Tell me, did you bury your wife?”

“I laid her to rest decently.” Ilbran’s voice was alive with pain and anger.

“Rules change in the forest,” Kallan said gently. “Thoughts of blasphemy must be forgotten. The forest folk can take the shape of ones … who die and are not hidden under the earth, and with the shape, they take some memories, enough to beguile people to their destruction. This one was not of flesh and blood.”

Ilbran shuddered. “I remember. There was the stranger who died. I thought I saw his face, afterwards.” He turned to the other man. “I have much to thank you for. You saved her life, over and again, and nearly lost your own.”

Outside, the hounds circled and sang their man-destroying song. Kallan stepped to the doorway and glanced out. “In truth, I’d rather be here than there!”

“You saved her life, and mine too,” Ilbran repeated. “If you wish, I will swear to your service, a life for a life.”

Kallan looked at him, amazed, half-scornful. “What were you before you came to the forest?”

“A fisherman.”

“Then where did you hear of such things as liege oath, or imagine that they might apply to you?”

Ilbran flushed. “A man may set his standards and find his honor where he will, no matter what place in life he is born to.”

“And what use do you think you would be to me? What is your sword worth?” Kallan asked. “No, do not answer.” This was a bitter reminder to him, to see someone ready, as he had been, to fling away his life for the sake of gratitude and pride.

He spoke more gently. “I had no right to scorn your offer because you were born a fisherman. Be thankful I have no purposes, no plans, no need of any servants. I will give you some advice instead. Do not offer your life so lightly. I swore an oath once, and though it is now broken, it dragged me so deep I can never rise up again. I have spent half a lifetime killing at another man’s orders. You offer too much, too carelessly.”

Ilbran stared at him in sudden recognition. “Your name is Kallan, you said. I know you. The years have changed you. ‘Lord Kallan’, they called you. You stood at the side of the room.” He held his daughter close and protectively. “At least you were not one of the ones who laughed … ”

“There were too many of you for me to remember,” Kallan said quietly. “But you are right. Bloody-handed Kallan, who was the king’s sword-arm and best servant till a price was set on his head, and he was hunted into the forest. I am glad you did not remember until now.”

They both were silent a long time, staring at opposite walls of the safehold. “You or I can travel back tomorrow to get the food, your sword, her clothes,” Kallan said. “It will not be dangerous if the trip is made at first light.” His words fell into the silence and died there.

Ilbran bent over his child and listened to her breathing, touched her forehead and her wrist.

“You are young,” Kallan said. “You will need to forgive people many times before you are old. Three are safer than two when traveling in the forest. I can teach you to use your sword. Your daughter can guard us both from the unearthly foes.”

Outside the safehold, the lords of the forest gathered, with their death-bright faces. Ilbran started to turn his head. “Do not look at them!” Kallan said sharply. He continued to talk.

“As you said, I was not one of the ones who laughed. Nahil was my liege lord; he saved my life and I swore to him. And it did not begin the way you saw it.” Kallan looked at the fisherman, desperately anxious to justify himself to someone. “In the north, he was a gentle lord.”

Ilbran spoke slowly, grudgingly. “Which way do you travel when you leave the forest?”

“I meant to go to Oreja, the fair land where I was born, to see how lightly the king’s hand lies on the land. What of you?”

“I am not accustomed to planning for the future,” Ilbran said. “This place held me in its jaws for seven years. I meant to follow where my feet led me.” He looked at Kallan curiously. “Why did the king turn against you?”

“Because I was there the day he took power. The day Andiene escaped. He grew to hate us, for we had seen his helplessness, his shame. And one by one, there were excuses, and false charges; I was loyal to him longer than I should have been. I did not realize, until there were none left but me. All the brave men, the valiant comrades, all dead, all gone … ”

Ilbran broke into his lament. “I cannot find it in my heart to grieve for them.”

Kallan saw the younger man’s eyes, as cold as ice. The fisherman was not the soft fool that he had seemed. “I am sorry,” he said. “You have your own song of grief, if you could find the heart to tell it.” He looked at Kare. “But you have raised a brave child. When she wakes, you can tell her that she is as valiant as the princess Andiene, who held us all at bay while she walked out unharmed.”

“Then the stories were true?” Ilbran asked in wonder.

“All true,” Kallan said. “It was a sight out of a minstrel’s proudest song, though it froze me with fear.”

“What became of her? Was she ever taken by your men?”

“She vanished like bubbles breaking—at a touch they disappear. There was no way to know which of the stories were true.”

“Maybe she died unknown?”

“The rightful heir still lives,” Kallan said. “Nahil knows it; the city has never answered to him. Maybe we will never know what became of her, but I think so strange a story could not begin and have no ending.”