"It wasn't too small originally," Lynder muttered. "The rock shifted."
"I can see Lynder has plenty of experience," Kyrtian interrupted, trying not to laugh, although he also felt very sorry for the poor young man. "Haven't you told me, time and time again, that the best teacher is experience?"
"Hobie and I have been cave-exploring for three years now without a single serious mishap," Lynder said, getting his blushing under control and trying to gather the scattered shards of his shattered dignity. "And the kinds of minor injuries we've had could happen scouting through a forest or doing some heavy work on the farm." He didn't glare at Gel, who was still clearly amused, but Kyrtian sensed that he wanted to.
Gel finally took pity on the lad. "Kyrtian, I wouldn't have recommended young Lynder if I didn't think he could guard your steps as well in his world as I can in mine," he said generously, and now Lynder flushed with pleasure rather than embarrassment.
Kyrtian nodded. "In that case—Lynder, I want you to get the cave-exploring gear together for seven. Gel and I will take care of the rest of the supplies we'll need. I'd like everything ready by—" He thought, and impishly decided to tease Gel a little more. "I'd like to leave tomorrow, but—"
Gel turned white. Lynder shook his head. "Gear for seven— we'll need some special climbing equipment and we don't have anything like that here. I'll have to get straight to the blacksmith, and he and his helpers will have to work the rest of today and all tomorrow. The rest will take a bit of hunting among the stores."
"But you can have it by the day after tomorrow?" Kyrtian persisted.
"If you dare leave before this wedding folderol—" Gel growled under his breath, glowering.
Kyrtian couldn't hold back his laughter—and then he had to run, for Sargeant Gel lunged for him, and he knew that if Gel got his hands on his master, the "master" would wind up in the bathtub again, but this time fully clothed.
They couldn't get away in less than three days, after all.
On the evening of the second day, Gel and Rennati were wed at sunset in an open-air ceremony, presided over by an old man wearing a long, black robe. So incredibly dignified was this individual, and so full of solemnity, Kyrtian had a difficult time in recognizing Hobie's father Rand, the manor's chief stablehand, who always had a joke for everyone, usually ribald.
Rand first wafted smoke over the couple, then, while chanting under his breath, sprinkled them with water, waved a lighted taper around them, and blew dust at them. Then he drew a wobbly circle around all three of them with the pointed end of a staff. Still droning a chant that Kyrtian couldn't make head or tail of, he conducted a long ritual that involved an amazing amount of sprinkling of herbs and water and salt on the part of the happy couple, a great deal of walking in circles and figure-eights, and the sharing of bread and salt.
Finally, at Rand's low-voiced order, they held out their conjoined hands, and Rand bound their hands together. Then, turning to the crowd, as the last wink of the sun descended below the horizon and the first stars came out, he spread his arms wide behind them.
"Hands are bound as hearts are bound; two are one!" he shouted.
A tremendous cheer arose from the huge crowd come to see the ceremony. Then, of course, came the celebration. There was a very great deal of wine and beer available, there was dancing and willing girls to build up a thirst, and all of Kyrtian's chosen party were young men with hard heads and the usual inability of young men to remember what a hangover felt like during the time that the drink was sliding smoothly down their throats. As a consequence, none of Kyrtian's six were good for much on the following day.
However, that was not so bad, because that was the day of some of the riskier competitions—the wrestling, the hurling of large objects, the game pitting two teams against each other in competition for an inflated bladder, with no holds barred. Nursing headaches and uncertain stomachs, it was easy to persuade the six that they should be spectators, not participants.
On the morning of the third day, a day devoted to the gentler pursuits and competitions of the women-folk—footraces, target-shooting, milking, sewing, and cooking competitions— they were in fine fettle and high spirits, and quite ready to go. So was their equipment, and Kyrtian was not going to allow the temptation of another feast, dance, and drinking soiree incapacitate them all over again. By mid-morning he had them all lined up at the Portal, fully-laden, with still more of the servants equally burdened.
Lord Kyndreth had promised horses on the other side, and Kyrtian was going to hold him to that promise. He sent his party and all of the servants through first, and waited for the servants to return before passing through the Portal himself. There were no farewells this time. He had chosen a time when Lydiell was busy supervising and judging a contest, and as for Gel—well, he hadn't seen his old friend since the ceremony, and he hoped that Rennati was teaching him a few of the tricks she'd shown him. ...
He passed the dark and cold and disorientation of the Portal— and with a jolt, came out on the other side.
"Lord Kyrtian?"
He shook his head to clear it, and forced his eyes to focus. The person who had addressed him was a rare creature—an elderly Elvenlord, whose thinning, silver hair and faintly-lined face came as something of a shock. "Yes," he said, "I'm Lord Kyrtian."
The elderly gentleman bowed. "I am Lord Rathien. Lord Kyndreth directed me to supply whatever you require."
Well, that was pleasant. "I need enough horses to carry all of this lot," he said, waving at the supplies and equipment heaped on either side of the corridor leading to the Portal.
Lord Rathien eyed the piles with an experienced glance. "Seven riding-mounts and as many pack-mules," he said with authority. "You will find the mules can carry more than horses, and their tempers are steadier. When you camp in the forest, tether each horse to a mule before you stake out the line— should anything attack, the mules will run unfailingly away from danger, they will not plunge blindly into further danger, and they will stop when pursuit stops." He smiled then, with great charm. "I am very fond of mules, myself."
"So I see." Kyrtian smiled back, but Lord Rathien had already turned away, and was ordering a set of human slaves to pick up the piled goods and take them to the stables. All Kyrtian and his party had to do was to follow.
By noon, with the mules loaded, horses saddled, and a mule tethered behind each rider, they were on their way. His task completed, Lord Rathien was gone by the time they rode out of the gates; Kyrtian wondered if he was one of Lord Kyndreth's underlings, or was a legacy from Lord Dyran. He was certainly efficient—and if he treated the slaves exactly as he did the mules, well, at least he didn't treat them worse. Kyrtian's own young men had been cautioned as to how to behave once they were off the estate, so they had not done anything to arouse Rathien's suspicions. Their tension had been palpable during that time; they hadn't dared to speak, lest they say something un-slavelike, or to raise their eyes above Kyrtian's knees, lest their posture or demeanor betray them.
Once they were all on the road, however, they relaxed. "Sargeant Gel told us that we were going down in caves, m'Lord," Hobie said, urging his horse up beside Kyrtian's, as Lynder did so on the other side, and the rest of the six got in as closely as they could, the better to hear what he had to say. "Why's that?"
"Well, you know that we're chasing after Wizards that don't really exist," Kyrtian began.
"Aye sir. Better than chasing ones that do!" replied Hobie. One of the men in the rear laughed.