"They're supposedly living in an underground stronghold where we're going, so we'll be exploring caves. Now, as it happens, I think my father may have been hunting these same caves when he disappeared, and I'm hoping we'll find some sign of him there." The man who had laughed sobered immediately, and there were some sympathetic murmurs from all of them.
"You—surely don't expect to find him after all this time, do you, m'Lord?" Hobie asked hesitantly.
Kyrtian sighed. "Not after all this time, no—not alive, at any rate," he said sadly. "But, you know—my claim to the estate is clouded as long as no one knows what became of him. And until Mother and I find out what really happened ..."
He let the sentence trail off. Hobie dropped his eyes for a moment. "Well, m'Lord," Lynder said into the silence, "if there's a sign to be found, we'll find it. Hobie and I have found a great many strange things in caves."
"Such as?" Kyrtian asked, to change the subject and cheer the men up again. Touching as their sympathy was, he'd far rather have laughter around him than gloom.
It was, after all, a long ride to Lord Cheynar's estate, and there was no reason to make it under a cloud of depression!
There was quite enough that was depressing about Lord Cheynar's estate to have suited a dozen funeral processions.
The manor, surrounded by pine forest, boasted nothing in the way of magical amenities; no mage-lights to illuminate the darkness, no illusions, all work done by slaves or mechanical devices. The pines were of a variety that Kyrtian was unfamiliar with—so dark a green as to be nearly black, and inhabited by flocks of crows. Cheynar, a taciturn individual with very little magic of his own, warmed slightly to Kyrtian when the latter congratulated him on some of his mechanical devices—and when Kyrtian at darkness made cheerful use of the lanterns, rather than showing off by creating his own mage-lights.
He warmed still more over dinner, and finally came out with something entirely unexpected.
"I knew your father," Cheynar offered. "I mean, I met him— he was here just before he disappeared."
That electrified Kyrtian, and he could not conceal his shock. "What?" he exclaimed. "But—why didn't you—"
"Why didn't I say something?" Cheynar asked shrewdly. "I did, to Lord Dyran. I suppose he didn't think it important enough to pass it to your Lady Mother. But then, he wasn't at all pleased with what your father was hunting."
"The old devices the Ancestors brought with them." Kyrtian was torn between excitement and despair. If his mother had known where her husband had last been seen, would it have made a difference? Could they have found him still alive?
Cheynar nodded. "One of those—your father said—would put those of us with weak magic on a par with those who are stronger," he told Kyrtian. "I don't know if Lord Dyran knew that. Your father told me, at least in part because he saw all the mechanical devices I use around here instead of magic, but he might not have said anything to Dyran." He shrugged.
"And Lord Dyran was one of the Great Lords of the Council, anyway," Kyrtian sighed. "And my father and I—well, we're nothing like the equals of any Great Lord. I doubt that Lord Dyran even paid any heed to anything father said. You know." He half-smiled at Cheynar, hoping that Cheynar would warm a little further, and see himself in the same position as Kyrtian. "When we're useful, we're equals at the feast-table, but once they don't need us anymore ..."
Cheynar took the bait. "Probably he just thought that the man was half-crazed, if he even took time for a thought at all," Cheynar said, and with some sympathy. "But I can tell you this—"
He paused significantly.
"If you are going Wizard-hunting in those caves, you'll be walking in the steps of your father. Because the last time anyone saw him—that was where he was going, too."
27
One set of items in their packs was immediately useful the moment they entered the forest: rain gear. Kyrtian had never seen so much rain in his life; he was glad that he'd checked on the climate when arranging for the supplies. And oh, the advantage of being on equal terms with one's females in an elven household! He had not realized that silk could be made so completely waterproof. Evidently that oft-derided "women's magic" used for flower-sculpting had a great many other purposes that the women themselves knew but seldom shared. He certainly didn't blame them, the "lords of creation" that Elvenlords considered themselves to be would probably greet such innovations as trivial and women kept pent up in their bowers, disregarded and discarded as toys themselves could hardly be expected to share such knowledge voluntarily. He could well imagine several disgruntled ladies sitting around in their bower, contemplating their dripping menfolk, and saying to each other with glee, "Well, why don't they just stop the rain?"
Rain-capes, with hoods snugged in around their faces, coats with an outer water-proofed surface beneath that, meant that what could have been a miserable situation was merely interesting. Provided that one could manage somehow to see past the gloom, this was a truly unique forest.
More waterproofed sheets—which would later serve as shelters for their three tents—covered the seven packs carried by the pack mules. This meant that their supplies and belongings were dry and would stay dry; no small consideration when, at the end of the day, they were going to be able to camp dry.
Too much water was, in the long run, better than too little. This could have been a hunt in the desert, and even Kyrtian was not entirely sure that magic would be enough to ensure water for everyone. Grels were the only option in the desert for transportation, but neither he nor anyone on his estate knew anything about grels. Their main problem here—and to some extent, in the caves—would be to prevent getting wet and cold with no way to get warm and dry again.
Game was certainly available, if not precisely plentiful. One would expect large game here, and yet the only animals that made an appearance were small game. Well, the advantage of traveling with foresters was that they didn't scorn small game in a futile search for something larger. The four foresters quickly traded their heavier bows and arrows for hand cross-bows, and took careful shots without ever seeming to aim. One by one, plump little bodies accumulated, tied to the cantles and pommels of saddles.
The rain never stopped. It let up, from time to time, decreasing to a mere drizzle, which percolated down through the trees and dripped from every limb, every needle. Then, when the rain resumed, it obscured everything in the distance, far or near, reducing visibility to a few horse-lengths ahead of the lead rider.
Which was not Kyrtian. He knew very well that he was not a forester. That was why he rode in the dead middle of the string, with Lynder in front of him and Hobie behind, two of the young foresters ahead and two behind. It surprised him, a little, that an entire train of fourteen animals could make so little noise, but the track that they followed, which led in the general direction of a purported cave-entrance, was ankle-deep in a layer of pine needles. They proceeded at an ambling walk, and not just to save the horses.
Up at the head of the string, Noet rode with his head slightly cocked, listening. Behind him, Shalvan concentrated on peering through the mist and rain. At the rear of the train, Halean and Resso shared the same duties.
Beyond the omnipresent sounds of rain plopping onto their capes, into the needle-bed, trickling down trunks, and dripping onto leaves, there were other sounds of life that Kyrtian took to be good signs that nothing else was stalking them. Once the crows got used to their presence, the birds stopped making alarm-calls and went back to their crow-business with only an occasional appearance as if to take note of their progress. Unexpected showers of droplets heralded the passage of small birds through the branches, and little rustles betrayed the passage of those plump little squirrels and rabbits.