Whatever it had been, it was silent now. And though he continued to listen, the sounds were not repeated.
Sindérian had been animated all morning, but she now turned somber and introspective. Ruan would have given much to know what she was thinking. By this time he was well accustomed to her fluctuating moods, to the rise and fall of her spirits a dozen times a day; they were the inevitable result of her ardent nature. A richer blood flowed in her veins than that of any woman he had ever known; he would not alter her in that respect if he could. No, what troubled him now was a desperate resolution he saw in her eyes, as of some set purpose that remained through all her mercurial changes.
She had reached an important decision, he was all but convinced of that, and her silence on that point was a very bad sign.
“There is something I wish to tell you.” Sindérian’s offer came so suddenly, it caught him off guard. She stole a glance at the others, then pitched her voice so that only Ruan could hear. “Something I would rather not say to Prince Kivik or Lord Skerry.”
But if he expected some personal revelation, he was soon disappointed. “I have often wondered why the Furiádhin keep Winloki alive. What use could they have for her living, when her very existence is a continuing threat to their Empress-Goddess? Now I think I have found an answer, and it is not…not an encouraging one.
“We know,” she went on, “that there was a time when Ouriána meant to circumvent the prophecy by passing the crown to her son Guindeluc. He would rule Phaôrax, but she would rule him. But Guindeluc is dead these two years, and she has never shown much favor to her younger sons. Oh, there can be little doubt of her intentions when the Princess was born, but now…” Her voice trailed off.
“You think she is looking for an heir rather than a sacrifice?” It was a possibility he had never considered; he was not even certain he was prepared to consider it now. “Yet why Winloki and not Prince Cuillioc?
She may not favor him but he is her own son, while the Princess—Ah, I see. Winloki has great magical gifts; Prince Cuillioc none at all.” Now he too stole a glance at the riders up ahead. “But would she allow herself to be bent to Ouriána’s purpose?”
“Our friends, I think, would say no. But living in Skyrra all of these years, what does the Princess know of us or our wars, what does she know of Ouriána except rumor and reputation? And Ouriána would offer her an empire—she has seduced many over the years who were far older and far wiser by offering them less.
“And I,” she added, in a much lower voice, “have an idea of the temptations she might offer. I cannot say I would not have found them…beguiling, when I was Winloki’s age.”
They rode on together in a thoughtful silence until Sindérian spoke again.
“And there is something else. I have asked myself again and again: if I were Ouriána, and I meant for Winloki to come to Phaôrax already half persuaded, who, of all the Furiádhin, would I choose to bring her? Perhaps you can guess the only answer that ever made any sense.”
“Camhóinhann—perhaps Dyonas, by what one hears of him. Yes, those two before any of the others,”
said Ruan. “Although it’s difficult to see why she would choose Goezenou, if those were her intentions.”
Sindérian shrugged. “Perhaps only because he was in Mere with the others when they first set out. Or maybe to frighten the Princess, so that when she arrives in Phaôrax and finds Ouriána gracious and welcoming, she might turn to her as a kinswoman and a refuge.”
Ruan narrowed his eyes, considering what followed from that. “Then you are afraid if we don’t rescue the Princess very soon, she may not wish to be rescued, she might not choose to come with us.” It was a disturbing idea, yet one that was all too plausible. He began to understand the urgency driving Sindérian all of these weeks. Nevertheless, he did not think that she had told him everything that was on her mind.
They camped that night in the shelter of a ridge topped with wind-writhen firs. When they started out at dawn, the sky was overcast and the air smelled of snow. Unless he was much mistaken it was falling already on the peaks above. But Faolein, flying ahead by moonlight, had discovered a trail and a pass.
Speaking through Sindérian, he had assured the others they would not have to climb so high.
By érien, the midpoint of the day, the sky had cleared. And the road—curiously—had become more like a real road, as though it had seen recent and frequent use. He could see no tracks but those of bear and lynx, but the rain two nights ago would have washed away evidence of men and horses.
A sudden change in the direction of the wind brought a scent that was musky and earthy; at the same time, there was a rustling in the heather to either side of the road. He reached for his sword, but before it was free of the scabbard a dozen squat figures sprang out from the bushes, and it was all that he could do to control his horse.
Then a pair of gnarled brown hands reached up and took a firm hold of the harness. The gelding stopped in its tracks, suddenly turned so meek and compliant that Ruan could scarcely believe it was the same animal. Within seconds, the other horses were caught in a similar fashion and the entire party brought to a halt.
Sindérian looked down at the dwarves, and the dwarves stared steadily back at her. This was a meeting she could hardly have expected. The Corridon were a secretive, reclusive race. So far as she knew, they had not had contact with Men for more than two hundred years.
“Courtesy would dictate that you dismount,” said the dwarf attached to her bridle. He wore a circlet of gold in his dark hair and had an altogether lordly manner. “For we mislike craning our necks in order to speak with you.” As he spoke, some of the rocks up on the slope began to move and became more dwarves, in grey cloaks.
It seemed to Sindérian that they had no choice but to comply, for they were assuredly outnumbered. All of the dwarves carried weapons; two held crossbows cocked and aimed. And whatever influence they had exercised on the horses still seemed to hold.
“We have no quarrel with your people,” said Prince Ruan, his turquoise eyes glittering and his chin jutting out at an uncompromising angle. Nevertheless, he dismounted along with the rest. “It is to be hoped that you have no quarrel with us.”
“That remains to be seen. If you resist us you will die. If you put yourselves in our hands, it may—just possibly—be to your advantage.”
On equal footing, none of the dwarves appeared quite so small as they had from the saddle. Big boned with short thick limbs, it was not, Sindérian realized, that they were ill proportioned, their proportions were simply…different. They wore belted tunics of green, grey, or brown and high leather boots that turned over at the top in wide cuffs. Some were ferociously bearded, none were clean shaven.
Broad-shouldered and sturdy, they looked tough as old tree roots.
She spoke to the men in a low voice. “It seems we have trespassed without even knowing it. Let us try to make amends.”
Winloki walked until she saw everything through a grey haze of exhaustion, and still Camhóinhann allowed no one to rest. The cold of the tunnels had numbed her feet, but miles of walking over hard stone floors caused a dull ache to climb her legs and lodge in the small of her back. Though her world had grown dim and narrow, she could hear the men panting, their feet stumbling. She was not the only one whose strength was failing.
At last the High Priest took pity on them—or simply realized they had reached the outermost limits of their endurance. They all sat down on the floor of the passageway, some with their backs to the wall, others reclining against gear they had dropped when Camhóinhann gave the order to stop.