By Ways Unseen Read online

  Haydren swallowed hard. Was the whole world fleeing to the west?

  His silence caught Geoffrey’s attention, who straightened to look at him. “Is that further than you were hoping?” he asked.

  Haydren shook his head slowly. “That is exactly where I am trying to go,” he replied quietly. “I would just never have considered asking you.”

  “Now you don’t have to,” Geoffrey said as he stooped to rummage through a chest at the foot of his bed. “I hope I still know how to use this thing,” he said, pulling a sword and scabbard from deep within it. He blew some dust off the scabbard, which was an unremarkable dark leather and muted brass item. When he pulled the sword from its sheath, Haydren thought the sword too must have been dulled over the years. But as it flashed in the light, he sucked in a gasp of breath.

  It was Follus steel, the sword of the Knights of Galessern; the same Knights who swore allegiance to the King, the same Knights who were now controlled by Lasserain.

  If Geoffrey noticed Haydren’s reaction, he did not comment on it. He sheathed the sword and laid it on his bed as he laced armor onto his torso and forearms. It was similar to Haydren’s armor, though it appeared stronger and heavier. Geoffrey, too, covered it with a light tunic, and threw a cloak around his shoulders.

  Haydren glanced to the window; stars twinkled in the west. Geoffrey’s words were so often ambiguous; otherwise, Haydren might have plied him immediately with questions. Now, he had a strange sword that should never be possessed by one Haydren could trust. But he needed desperately to trust Geoffrey, to trust anyone; this was his only hope.

  The old soldier had turned, and was looking at him. Haydren raised his eyebrows, trying to push away his thoughts lest somehow Geoffrey were able to read them on his face. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  Geoffrey nodded solemnly. “Get your bags; we’ll need them.”

  Once they reached the front door, Geoffrey paused. “I will go first, to make sure there are no soldiers about. We cannot have you getting caught by these men,” he said, and Haydren detected no insincerity. “If it is within my power, I will get you to the west. And may we both find safety there.”

  Haydren stood back from the opening as Geoffrey slipped outside. What safety did Geoffrey need? Not for the last time, Haydren wondered what sort of man he had acquired as a companion.

  A light knocking sounded against the wall, and Haydren quickly stepped outside, moving toward the noise. He met Geoffrey on the southern side of the house, and together they vaulted the low wall surrounding the town and struck off into the fields.

  “We’ll get away from the village before circling around,” Geoffrey explained. “We may be able to cross the road safely a few miles north.”

  On through the night they walked; Geoffrey remained silent, and Haydren remained lost in thought. After several hours, Haydren glanced up suddenly and found The Jewel in the sky directly ahead of them. He increased his pace and came alongside Geoffrey.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I was following you,” Geoffrey replied; Haydren could see the pale gleam of Geoffrey’s teeth in the moonlight.

  “From the front?” Haydren replied with a grin.

  “How many strands does a rope have, Haydren?” Geoffrey asked.

  Haydren shook his head. “Um, hundreds?” he replied hesitantly.

  “But they are bundled; how many bundles are there?”

  “Three, usually,” Haydren replied. “Why?”

  “Did you ever wonder why they do not use two strands, or just one?”

  “I suppose three is stronger,” Haydren said.

  “Hmm. Possibly.”

  They continued in silence for several moments. Finally, when Haydren could contain himself no longer, he blurted: “Geoffrey, where are we going? And don’t answer me about ropes again.”

  “We are only two strands, Haydren,” Geoffrey replied patiently. “We will be stronger with three. So, we go to Werine.”

  “What’s in Werine?”

  “Many things,” he said. “Have you ever heard of an archer—”

  “Pladt Grecce?” Haydren asked, stopping short as the grass brushed his legs. “Sir Cullins spoke of him when some of us ridiculed the bow: even though he’s barely older than I am, his fame spreads far and wide across Kelian Province. We all wondered why the Earl had not pulled him into his ranks. What makes you think he will come with us?”

  “I had not realized he was so famous,” Geoffrey said honestly. “I met him when I passed through the port-town almost a year ago. I would presume the Earl has not recruited him because he serves a very necessary function right where he is.”

  “Exactly,” Haydren replied, as they continued walking northward. “So why would he come with us?”

  “People can be complex, Haydren,” Geoffrey replied. “You never know what may motivate one person to do one thing and not another. Some people are the hare, others are the fox.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Geoffrey paused, realizing his words were hitting uncomfortably close to himself. “You leave because the Earl chases you, true?” he said, shifting focus. “The hare runs because the fox chases; the fox runs to pursue the hare. People move because they are either chased or they pursue something; the fox may change, but the hare is often the same.”

  And what if someone is both the fox and the hare? “I see,” he said aloud. “Interesting proverb.”

  Geoffrey glanced at him quickly, looking for something in his face Haydren couldn’t guess. “Besides,” Geoffrey said finally, his voice becoming light once more. “It cannot hurt to ask, can it?”

  Haydren’s brow furrowed as they walked. Suddenly, he asked: “Geoffrey, where did that proverb come from?”

  “The histories,” he replied simply.

  Haydren’s eyes narrowed. “Histories of what?”

  “The histories of The God of All, Haydren.”

  “I knew it.” Haydren’s hand fell to his sword and he shook his head. Geoffrey’s pace checked a moment, but quickly resumed.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” Geoffrey asked quietly.

  “Wrong with what? A supposedly all-knowing, manipulative deity who takes away the ability to choose for yourself, yet allows the orphaning of children and the death of good men? No, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Geoffrey ducked his head with a thin, wary smile. “It doesn’t exactly work like that, Haydren.”

  “Certainly not if I can help it,” Haydren muttered.

  “Haydren,” Geoffrey began slowly.

  “Forget it. Let’s just not worry about it.”

  They continued in silence: Geoffrey, because in so many Cariste lands he had become accustomed to it; Haydren, because the hope of trusting Geoffrey, of looking past the sword and thinking if only Geoffrey could help guide his decisions, and the hope of easing some of the doubt that clenched his heart, was gone. Just like Mickel and Maerie, this man trusted in something that Haydren could not; could he not gain one friend in whom he could truly confide? One friend who would not be killed by beasts, while Haydren could do nothing? Must he spend an entire journey across the breadth of Burieng with barely an acquaintance? It seemed like something the God of All would do, if he existed. Haydren set his jaw.

  The rest of their journey northward was spent in vast amounts of silence; so as Werine appeared on the horizon, Haydren did not expect – nor necessarily want – much comment from his tight-lipped companion.

  “There he is,” Geoffrey said suddenly, gesturing toward a stand of trees that pointed toward the city. Haydren squinted at the base of one of the trees, barely making out a bulge which looked vaguely like a person sitting down.

  “You have amazing sight,” Haydren commented.

  “Or prior knowledge,” Geoffrey replied. “I know Pladt comes out here, though usually at evening.” He paused, fingering his lower lip. “Something unusual brings him out here this early. Let me speak to him first.”
r />   As they left the road and angled toward the tree, the figure beneath it rose and strode toward them.

  “Geoffrey!” a voice echoed across the grasses. “I thought you weren’t coming back!”

  For the first time in Haydren’s presence, Geoffrey broke into a full-fledged smile. “And leave you here by yourself?” Geoffrey shouted back.

  Pladt laughed, and quickened his pace. Upon reaching them, Pladt went straight to Geoffrey and wrapped him in an embrace, pulling Haydren up short. He stood to one side in silence.

  “Pladt, this is Haydren Loren of Hewolucs,” Geoffrey said as they parted.

  “Hewolucs?” Pladt echoed, genuinely surprised. “And no horses?”

  “It’s a long story,” Geoffrey said.

  “Which you’re in no mood to tell, no doubt.”

  “Pladt, I’ve heard about you,” Haydren said, offering his hand. “It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

  If Kitrel had had some native Werine in him, this archer was full-blooded: he was almost a full head taller than Haydren; he was not gangly, but actually well proportioned. Sun-bleached hair sat in a slightly ragged mess atop a face neither bony nor fat, and his broad grin lit up eyes the color of a forest canopy with a strong summer sun behind it. He was, despite Haydren’s caution of strangers, instantly likable.

  Pladt cocked an eyebrow quickly. “I’ve heard of you too, Haydren,” he said. When Haydren’s eyes widened, he laughed. “From Geoffrey. Just now.” Pladt’s eyes danced, and Geoffrey grinned.

  Haydren, still shocked, didn’t reply.

  “Probably not best to make jokes like that, Pladt,” Geoffrey said gently.

  Pladt shrugged. “Sure. So what brings you back here?”

  “That’s Haydren’s prerogative,” Geoffrey replied, gesturing to him.

  “I…we are traveling to Frecksshire, in the west,” Haydren said; the request came easier each time he had to ask it. “We would like you to come with us.”

  Pladt’s grin faded, and he cleared his throat. He glanced at Geoffrey, then back at Haydren. “Come with me,” he said, abruptly turning and walking toward town.

  Haydren glanced quizzically at Geoffrey, who nodded gravely and gestured for Haydren to follow. They proceeded quickly into town, through streets now busy with merchants and vendors, finally reaching an impressive two-story building – better in Haydren’s view than even Geoffrey’s home, and the nicest house he had seen outside of Hewolucs.

  Pladt led them inside, meeting Kerrik as he was leaving for the warehouses. Pladt turned to give introductions.

  “Geoffrey, Haydren: this is Kerrik Grecce, my father,” he said respectfully. “Haydren, you may ask him what you have just asked me outside of town.”

  Haydren blinked, glanced at Geoffrey and received an encouraging nod, then turned back to Kerrik. “Sir,” Haydren said. “I am Haydren of Hewolucs. I am on a journey to Frecksshire, in the west, and was looking to…I was hoping Pladt might come along with us, to aid us.”

  Kerrik glanced quickly at Pladt, and an expression swept across his face too fast for Haydren to read. Kerrik turned back to Haydren. “He cannot,” he said. “He protects this town from hydra attacks, and is indispensable. I am sorry.”

  “You have no other protection – guards – for that?” Haydren asked in disbelief.

  “None that are effective against hydras,” Kerrik replied patiently. “Do you know what happens when a guard tries to kill a hydra, aside from the guard dying?” With barely a pause for response, he continued: “The hydra’s head grows back when it is cut off; if you wound it, it bites its head off so another can grow in its place. Pladt can loose his arrows fast enough to send a shaft into the brain of each head before the hydra has time to gnaw the wounded head off. He is the only one effective enough to do that before many houses are destroyed. As such,” he concluded, leaning forward, “he is indispensable to the safety of this town.” Kerrik rocked back, pausing for a moment. “I must get to the warehouses,” he said. “Good day.”

  After his father had gone, Pladt guided Haydren and Geoffrey back outside. “We’ll need a place to stay for the night,” Haydren said, not sure what else to say after such a long but instantly fruitless journey.

  “Naek’s Tavern has good rooms,” Pladt replied before Haydren could ask. “Geoffrey should remember the place.”

  “Wasn’t that where—?”

  “No, Geoffrey, except in your mind,” Pladt said with a grin. “Haydren, some advice: if you plan on traveling with this old man, make sure you do nothing your mother told you not to. Because he will never—”

  “Is that fair?” Geoffrey said smiling.

  “He will never let you forget it!” Pladt said over him.

  “So it did happen,” Geoffrey said with a sly grin, pointing a finger triumphantly at Pladt.

  Pladt returned the gesture, and looked at Haydren with raised eyebrows. “See? Good luck.”

  Haydren grinned weakly and nodded. Geoffrey still chuckled to himself after Pladt had shut the door, and he and Haydren walked toward the tavern.

  “Geoffrey, why under the skies did we come all the way up here?”

  “I said people can be complex. I lived here for almost a year, Haydren,” Geoffrey replied. “I got to know Pladt very early on in my stay here, and we became friends. I felt bad for him.”

  “‘Bad for him?’” Haydren echoed.

  “Despite his skill, his father fears for his safety,” Geoffrey replied. “And the safety of Werine. Pladt is very instrumental in defending the town, but hydras can arrive with little or no warning; the farther he is from town, the more likely people will die and homes will be destroyed if he can’t get back to defend it.”

  “They can’t build a wall to protect it?”

  “That would make sense, wouldn’t it,” was the cynical reply.

  “I don’t see how this helps,” Haydren said.

  “It may not.”

  They walked on in silence for several moments. Haydren supposed they would need to earn each other’s trust to make it all the way to Frecksshire, but he would have preferred taking a little more time doing it. What he had definitely learned was that Geoffrey would not give up his thoughts with more pressing.

  “How does Pladt feel about it, what’s required of him?” he asked instead.

  “He doesn’t like it,” Geoffrey replied. “But I think he understands. Duty, though necessary, is not always fun: I believe he understands that. Here it is,” Geoffrey said, pointing upward at a sign with a frothing mug in red.

  “So what were you and Pladt talking about he did something here?” Haydren asked with a grin.

  “Ask him, though he’ll deny it,” Geoffrey replied, also grinning. “He and his father should be around sometime this evening.”

  *

  As night fell, Geoffrey and Haydren sat in the tavern. Aside from a large stone fireplace, the common room transported the guests to an ancient grove: the bar, the tables, and the chairs and benches were all of a rough-hewn wood too aged to define. The oaken posts seemed to have been taken directly from the forests, with their upper branches intact and spider-webbing with gnarled knuckles across the wood-plank ceiling. Lanterns hanging from pegs on the supports gave light to dark corners, which even at the dinner hour had remained mostly vacant.

  Haydren and Geoffrey were each nursing a pint of beer after finishing a thick steak. Though Geoffrey had made perfectly acceptable meals during their journey, all from what he could hunt, Haydren missed a good cooked meal – and, he admitted, he missed Maerie’s cooking. Even at times like these, he still thought back to the last meal she had made him, just as she knew he would.

  Haydren was halfway done with his beer when Pladt entered the tavern, with his father close behind him. Pladt’s eyes brightened when he saw the two of them, and he waved in salute; but, with a glance from his father, he moved to a separate table and sat down with his drink. Faintly, over the murmur of the other, scattered patrons, Haydren heard Pladt a
sk: “Can I not say hello to Geoffrey?”

  Geoffrey, still focusing on his drink, did not seem to hear. Pladt remained seated with Kerrik. Haydren had hefted the mug to his lips once more when he heard footsteps approach and stop behind him. Instinctively, he turned and slid his chair away from the table so as to better face the man who stood gazing at him.

  “Haydren, isn’t it?” the man asked. Though his speech was slurred a little, his eyes were clear, and in his slouch he appeared ready to move quickly. Haydren, still seated, prepared to do the same.

  “I’m afraid not,” Haydren replied. “But you’re close: my name is Hayden. Drop the ‘r’,” he said with a smile.

  The man’s eyes flared, and he straightened a little before catching himself. He tried drooping his eyelids to re-affect his drunkenness, but he must have realized Haydren was not fooled.

  “Naw, you’re Haydren,” the man said with a sloppy grin. “I knew – knew your father. I have a token from him; said you’d remember him by it.”

  Caution.

  When the man reached into his cloak, Haydren kicked out with his foot, driving into the man’s stomach and causing him to stumble backward. Haydren leapt to his feet and drew his sword. He kept his eyes on the man, though he heard the patrons collectively and swiftly slide out their chairs and retreat from the tavern.

  The man’s eyes truly widened, then, as he gazed at the sword. “Th-that sword!” he cried, his hand shakily outstretched. “How did you—?”

  Haydren, though dumbstruck, maintained his balanced grip. “If you knew my father, you should know this,” he replied with more assuredness than he felt.

  The man licked his lips, and slowly straightened. “He will not be happy,” the man whispered. “The mas—” He cut off suddenly, his gaze hardening.

  “What did you say?” Haydren whispered, stepping forward. “‘The master’?”

  Something – resolve, Haydren thought – tightened the man’s features. He pulled out a dagger and held it before him.

  “You may have your victory,” the man said, his voice radically changed to one deep, and somber. “It is a small one, and one which will affect little.”