By Ways Unseen Page 19

  Haydren pursed his lips, looking at Geoffrey scornfully. “Zedar, perhaps?”

  “The God of All sees all, Haydren,” Geoffrey replied.

  “And he controls all, too?”

  “As he wishes.”

  “Sounds like a fickle deity,” Haydren replied.

  Sarah glanced between them as Geoffrey turned to face him more squarely. “The God’s will is perfect, Haydren; we cannot question it.”

  Haydren ignored Geoffrey’s gaze, peering at the rushing waters beneath the bridge. “I can,” he said quietly.

  Pladt looked skeptically at the bridge. “Hopefully his will is holding up this bridge,” he said.

  “Hopefully strong wood and nails are holding up this bridge,” Haydren retorted, testing it with his weight. It shifted, but only a little. “One at a time,” he said, stepping onto it fully. It remained steady, and Haydren crossed it quickly. Sarah followed next, then Geoffrey; Pladt, slowly and more gingerly, came last. A few paces from the bank he took one quick step and jumped; with a watery groan, the bridge fell behind him into the river with a great crash and was swiftly swept downstream. Pladt retreated quickly, swallowing hard as he watched the timber spin away in the flood.

  “Apparently there was neither strong wood nor nails,” Geoffrey said quietly. Haydren glared at him, but said nothing. He had not forgotten the questions that came to him at the Burrow Inn, questions of choice or confidence. He wanted Geoffrey’s confidence, he would freely admit: but he wanted, too, Pladt’s choices, however newfound they were for the archer.

  But his life, it seemed, followed the nature of the moors; gazing around at the broad, soaking land, he wondered what might happen if he suddenly struck north. Or south. Or back east! Would it matter, from where he stood? Did anything draw him specifically? Was there anything to be gained by continuing west? Frecksshire, of course: but he would not know that without his maps. He needed to know consequences in order to find guidance in making choices, but no one seemed able to teach him.

  “Why is there a path leading apparently nowhere?” Haydren asked suddenly. “Running east just to die out in the…what, the Low Moors, and ending at the Woods?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I would assume it used to be a road going from Frecksshire to Quaran, before the Forest got there,” she said.

  “Hey!” Pladt said brightly, playfully backhanding Haydren’s shoulder. “We did go straight through!”

  Geoffrey smiled and chuckled. Haydren shook his head with a grin, and looked at Sarah with begrudging acceptance. “I guess that makes sense,” he said.

  Sarah kept her own smile low; perhaps she could still be useful to Haydren for knowledge, she thought: he seemed to like learning, and she had a few more decades of it than he did.

  The path continued westward, and the companions followed. By lunch, the puddles were thinning; by supper, the land had risen and become dry, and the path unbroken. The grass was shorter and scrubbier, here, and capable of cutting un-booted flesh. The wind rose out of the north, bringing wispy scents of sage along their itinerant streams. By night, the sky had been swept clean, and the company fell asleep on firm, dry ground under a brilliant canopy of stars.

  Geoffrey had the morning watch, and when Haydren woke he was squatting beside an iron bowl as it sat over a crackling fire. Steam rose from it, and a scent of roasted meat filled Haydren’s nostrils.

  “Pladt, see if you can get us some water, would you?” Geoffrey asked, unaware Haydren was awake. “I saw a fold of ground not too far to the south; there might be a stream at its bottom.”

  There was a pause. “Geoffrey, remember last time…?”

  “Gremlins are plains’ creatures,” Sarah replied. “You should be fine out here.”

  “Okay.” Pladt rose to his feet and pointed. “That way?” he asked.

  Geoffrey blinked at him. “The sun rises in the east, Pladt.”

  Pladt turned and looked at the sun and squinted. He turned a little dizzily and nodded. “Right,” he said, striking off southward.

  “Sarah, can you go with him?”

  “As you wish,” she replied, rising smoothly.

  Geoffrey watched them go, shaking his head. He stirred the bowl a few times, tapped the contents off the spoon and then rang it against the side.

  “Hayd—!” Geoffrey called, turning. “Oh, you are already awake. Stew’s about ready.”

  “Is it?” he asked rhetorically, pushing himself to a sitting position. “What’s in it?”

  “Meat, spices, herbs,” Geoffrey replied with a shrug.

  “All of which you found where?”

  Geoffrey shrugged again, glancing out over the moors. “Around.”

  “Around my pack?” Haydren pressed. “You made sure you knew what was what, right?”

  Geoffrey thrust the spoon back into the bowl and gazed at Haydren. “You understand I have cooked my own meals for thirty years before you came to me, yes?”

  Haydren looked at the pot, then glanced back up at Geoffrey. “Good ones?” he asked.

  Geoffrey retrieved the spoon and pulled back as if to throw it at Haydren, who ducked, laughing.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you boys,” Sarah said, smiling as she came up behind Haydren.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching over Pladt?” Haydren asked, his laughter ending abruptly as his head snapped around to look at her.

  She chuckled. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, coming over and sitting on her bedroll by the fire. Despite the bright sun rising, a spring chill clung to the moors. “There’s nothing out here, not close and not dangerous.”

  “You know that, how?”

  “The wind knows to what it gives breath,” she replied. “A good breeze can help in many ways.”

  “Is that why you haven’t been able to cast much magic?” Haydren asked, his tone tinged at the edges with disgust.

  “I’ve told you why—”

  “And against the Cerberus?” Haydren pressed. “You nearly blinded me with water. Was the best you could do was summon a breeze?” The tinge had spread, and hardened his gaze at the sorceress.

  Sarah sat silent for several moments as the wind ruffled the stiff grasses. She could feel the breeze teasing her, heard its merriment on every eddy. She pulled a tough blade from the earth and picked at its fibers. “I’m sorry I can’t seem to do more,” she replied. “Maybe if Hyrdenark had let me in Tamecal—”

  Geoffrey muttered. “That den of witches…”

  “Oh say something different, would you?” she said, casting the knight a withering look. “Hyrdenark, maybe; but the rest are good magic-users.”

  Geoffrey smirked, but remained silent.

  “Who’s Hyrdenark?” Haydren asked.

  “Headmaster,” Sarah replied. “He decides who learns there and who doesn’t. But that kin of witches wouldn’t let his own daughter into Tamecal, even if she were to be the next Maerlyn of Gunda.”

  “Got water,” Pladt said, walking up with his arms barely containing the bulging water-skins. Geoffrey took one, drank, and began ladling out the stew.

  “Who were you talking about?” Pladt asked, receiving his bowl from Geoffrey and seating himself.

  “A few people,” she said with a smile.

  “Marrylinn?”

  “Maerlyn,” Sarah said. “A sorceress from Gunda in the Clanaso Islands and one of the most powerful magic-users ever.”

  “I saw a statue of her, in Irii on Gunda, when I came through the Clanasoes,” Geoffrey said, settling back with his own stew. “Did I pick the right spices, Haydren?”

  Haydren smiled and nodded.

  “I envy you that,” Sarah said, sitting forward with sparkling eyes. “I came through Mayta, though.”

  Geoffrey looked at her with a baffled smile. “It’s a gondola-ride away!”

  “Well I didn’t know it was there, did I?”

  “Had she gone to Tamecal?” Haydren asked.

  “No, I said she was a sorceress,�
�� Sarah replied slowly, then smiled. “Right: sorceresses and sorcerers are magic-users who haven’t gone to Tamecal; if you complete the training there, then you become a wizard. Mages, because they don’t focus on one element, don’t go to the school at all.”

  “And witches?” Haydren asked.

  “Are usually old women in cheap tents who know how to mix plants together to make smoke.” Sarah shook herself, then smiled. “Sorry; some people compare the two, when anyone can learn witches’ potions. You can’t teach an affinity to an element.”

  Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Is everyone done eating yet?” he asked, scrubbing his bowl with some moorgrass. “We may as well get moving; there are days left to reach Frecksshire and beds.”

  The others fell silent, hurriedly scooping the stew – now quite cool – into their mouths.

  *

  Their surroundings changed little, and they walked through the day with only one pause for lunch - a peccary strangely alone that Pladt managed to quickly shoot with his bow as they walked. After days of wolf meat, it was heartily welcomed into their stomachs. That night, Geoffrey had taken the middle watch, and sat beside the fire as his companions slept soundly. He gazed into the flames, remembering a similar fire many years ago, in a different country, surrounded by far different companions. He fingered the hilt of his sword – what had been a gift so long ago.

  He had been traveling with Haydren for probably over two months now, and he was far too old a hare for the things which they had gone through already. He had no idea what might come in the future. If he could find asylum in this land, free from the Cariste side of the country forever, he did not see how he could do anything but bid Haydren fare well on the remainder of his journey; a journey which, Geoffrey realized, was probably unclear even in Haydren’s mind.

  He looked up, then, and an old man stood just inside the circle of firelight. Geoffrey’s hand immediately wrapped around the grip of his sword; but, without looking, the old man held up a hand to stop him. Without knowing why, Geoffrey settled back once more.

  “Good evening, Geoffrey,” the man said.

  “You know my name?”

  The man smiled; his hand dropped back into the folds of his red robe. “Of course,” he replied. He stepped forward, leaning on a tall, gnarled staff, his gaze still bent on the fire.

  “I do not know yours,” Geoffrey said.

  “You may call me Godfrind,” the man replied.

  Geoffrey nodded. “Welcome to my fire, Godfrind; I am sorry I have no food to offer you.”

  “Is it your fire, Geoffrey?” Godfrind asked, looking at him sharply. “I thought you said this was Haydren’s journey?”

  “How do you know these things?” Geoffrey asked, leaning forward. He had meant to stand up, but something kept him seated.

  “I have been watching Haydren for many years, now,” Godfrind replied, glancing at Haydren’s sleeping form. “Long before he arrived here, in Burieng.”

  “You know who his parents are, then?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Of course,” Godfrind replied. “But he cannot get that information from me; he must discover it on his own.”

  “Tell me why I should not kill you right now!” Geoffrey thundered, still seated.

  Godfrind looked at him calmly. “Tell me why you should,” he said.

  “You have information this boy desperately seeks, yet you will not give it to him?” Geoffrey said. “Do you know what we have gone through? How important this is to him that he would risk himself entirely for it? And you tell me you could let him know right now?”

  “I just told you I cannot tell him,” Godfrind replied. “You have great concern for him, then?”

  “No one should be tormented as he is,” Geoffrey growled. “I have seen it in his eyes too many times; oh, men need to be driven: but not by things such as that.”

  “Yet you will not see that urgent need gone from his eyes?”

  Geoffrey sat back. How did this man know these things? “I have not decided,” he said sullenly. “I hoped he would find whom he sought in Frecksshire.”

  Godfrind nodded slowly, returning his gaze to the fire. “He will not,” he said quietly. “He has other choices yet to make.” Godfrind was silent for many moments. He turned from the fire, glancing at Geoffrey. “So long, old knight,” he said.

  “If I see you again, I may yet kill you,” Geoffrey growled.

  Godfrind stopped short, inspecting Geoffrey critically. “If you see me again, Geoffrey, I think you will not even remember me.”

  “What?”

  “As soon as I leave this fire, you will forget me.”

  “Then why tell me these things?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Oh, you will remember your own words,” Godfrind replied. “Though you will only think of them as your thoughts. Without my name, you will not remember me or anything I say.”

  “You gave me your name.”

  Godfrind chuckled warmly. “Geoffrey, Geoffrey,” he chided. “You of all people should recognize: words are not always what they seem.”

  As he walked toward the edge of the fire, Geoffrey’s mind raced. In sudden realization, he leapt to his feet. “You said only I ‘may call you’ Godfrind!” he shouted.

  Godfrind chuckled as he reached the edge of the firelight. The night swallowed him and his laughter.

  Geoffrey stood, sword in hand; had he heard something? He could see nothing in the night. He turned and looked at the fire, and something tugged at his mind. What had he been thinking about? He sensed, somehow, that Frecksshire would not be the end of their journey.

  “The God of All,” he whispered, lowering himself slowly back to the ground. “Give me strength for what must be done.”

  *

  The days that followed were blessedly warm and free; no creatures attacked them, and they ate their meals and walked the miles in relative ease. A slight breeze most days carried them toward Frecksshire; between Pladt’s bow and Geoffrey’s cooking, they ate well, though they still longed for a bed made of something besides earth.

  On the eighth day since exiting the forest, the clouds massed overhead once more; by evening the rains began, and after dinner it was falling in blinding sheets. They set up their makeshift shelter and settled in for the night, hoping the storm would break before morning.

  Night came on, and they were lost in darkness. Geoffrey managed a small fire, setting it close enough to the tent that the wind carried the rain beyond the toddling flames. Geoffrey and Haydren took the opportunity to oil their swords against the damp as they discussed the night’s plans.

  In an instant, the sky to the north turned brilliant orange. A large pillar of white light thrust skyward; and from its center, the silhouette of a massive dragon strode forth.

  Gripping his sword tightly, Haydren sucked in his breath. Pladt yelped and dove further into the tent; Sarah watched him go, then turned her eyes back to the black form. Geoffrey rose and faced the pillar of light; the rain slackened, then stopped.

  “Will we never be free?” Haydren said, rising to his feet.

  “Perhaps not this night,” Geoffrey replied.

  The pillar extinguished as suddenly as it appeared, and they were sunk again into the night. The clouds scudded from before the moon, giving them enough light to see the land around them: the dragon could not be seen.

  “Pladt, come out; we’re not staying here,” Haydren said. “We’re going to make for Frecksshire castle; it should not be terribly far.”

  “I thought Paolound had died,” Pladt muttered, coming out from under the tent. “Didn’t L kill him a long time ago?”

  “How do you know it’s him?” Geoffrey asked.

  “How many dragons live in Frecksshire?” Pladt responded derisively, handing Haydren his scabbard. “One,” he answered his own question, handing Geoffrey his scabbard. “One in Frecksshire, one in the Endolin Mountains.” He separated the packs and began stuffing them with their meager supplies. “That’s if L hasn’t killed K
aoleyn as well.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have killed Paolound,” Sarah replied.

  Pladt stopped packing for a moment to glower at her.

  “I’ve seen this before, usually closer to Jyunta,” she continued, taking her pack from Pladt. “Durdamon was going to look into it soon, but couldn’t find anyone able to.”

  “So exactly how many epithetic creatures are on this continent?” Geoffrey asked. “We have already defeated the Cerberus of Kalen; now we must fight the dragon of Frecksshire? I should have stayed in Andelen.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Haydren asked, shouldering his pack.

  Geoffrey ignored the question, taking his pack from the archer as well. “Let’s be off,” he said curtly.

  Haydren kicked out the fire, and they set out westward, walking swiftly and quietly. They did not make it very far.

  Flames shot out of the darkness, cutting off the path before them with a sheet of fire. They turned swiftly, Geoffrey and Haydren drawing their swords as Pladt nocked an arrow. Sarah gazed at the dragon, her lips ready but no spell coming. Up-lighted by the fire, Paolound’s crimson head loomed on his long neck above the reach of the flames. With a cry, he reared back, preparing another blast of his fatal breath.

  With a shout, Geoffrey shoved Pladt aside as he, Sarah, and Haydren ran the opposite direction. Fire spewed behind them, setting the grass ablaze. Pladt rolled to his feet, aimed, and shot; the arrow barely penetrated the dragon’s thick hide, and fell to the ground when Paolound turned to glare at the archer. Distracted by his piercing gaze, Pladt didn’t see the tail swinging out of the night. It caught him at chest-level, leveling him and knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Sarah muttered under her breath, and a keening wind blasted the dragon in the face. As he recoiled with a muffled cry, Geoffrey rushed forward with blade upraised. A blast of fire from the dragon’s mouth like a cough, and the wind ceased with a moan. Paolound regarded Geoffrey contemptuously, swiping at him with his left forepaw. Geoffrey swung angrily; settling back on his haunches, Paolound’s left hand swept harmlessly over Geoffrey’s head, and his right came from behind the knight and snatched him up into the air, gripping him tightly.