“Inaccessible?” I couldn’t restrain a chuckle.
“That’s right,” confirmed Livak, pulling up a sleeve to examine a long graze, now nicely healing. “Inaccessible and cursed narrow as well.”
We both burst out laughing but then fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the clatter of crockery and the sounds of shifting furniture on the floorboards above our heads.
“I thought I’d lost you, you know,” Livak said abruptly, a faint hint of red beneath her summer freckles as she stared blindly out of the window into the darkness.
“Not so easily done,” I said as lightly as I could manage. “I’m just glad to find you here. I wouldn’t have wanted to go all the way back to Relshaz to search for you again.”
Our eyes met for a long moment until Livak turned to lay a plate on the table. “I’ve been thinking—if the offer’s still open, I could come back to Zyoutessela with you for a while. Whatever the Solurans are doing for Halice’s leg, it’s going to take a long time, at least into Aft-Autumn, that’s what they were saying, anyway.”
“I’d like that,” I said, carefully keeping my tone even.
“I mean, I’m not making any promises and I shan’t be growing my hair just yet,” Livak continued hurriedly, “but we could see how things went, though of course, you’re still a sworn man—”
“For the moment,” I said, surprised to hear the curt note in my own voice. “I’m thinking about that. It may be time to hand back my oath fee and take charge of my own life again.” Now I had actually said it, put into words the impulse that had been growing slowly and inexorably within me.
Livak gaped. “What will you do?”
“Come to see what Vanam’s like?” I’d never been to Livak’s home city.
“What will you do for coin?” Livak was frowning now. “Don’t say you’re thinking of going for a mercenary in Lescar?” It was a feeble jest and I could see real concern in her eyes.
“Coin won’t be a problem.” I grinned at her and went to recover my kit bag. As I spread Laio Shek’s largesse on the table-top, Livak’s eyes grew as round and as bright as the emeralds in the bracelet she first picked up.
“Just what sort of services were you rendering to earn this kind of pay-off?” she giggled.
I winked at her. “I’ll show you when we’re in bed.”
Livak laughed and ran a wondering hand over some of the more choice pieces. Her eyes were keen as she looked up at me. “With what you have here we could take ship tomorrow and disappear. I know people who’d give us a good rate to turn this into sound coin and I reckon we could take a chance on the mages not finding us. I have friends who’d hide us. You don’t need to do whatever it is that Planir’s asking; you could just walk away from it all.”
“I know, and I’ve thought about doing it,” I admitted. “But then it wouldn’t be finished, would it? There would always be questions—what if, if only. No, I want to be able to walk away on my own terms, leave no one with a claim on me.”
As I spoke, I realized this had to mean letting Planir and his scholars work their ritual over my dreams of Temar D’Alsennin. The thought of aetheric magic loose inside my head, breaking down all my defenses, was a chilling one but if it was the price for getting rid of these echoes from the past or whatever they were, I’d have to pay it. I looked at the wealth spread all over the table-top and shook my head at the irony of it all.
I looked up to see Livak regarding me intently. “Do you mind?” I asked her. “I need to finish this once and for all.”
She nodded. “I knew you would,” she said simply. “That’s the kind of man you are. I suppose if I were honest I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
I drew her to me in a close embrace. “Planir has some scheme for sending me into a half-sleep, a ritual to reach these cursed dreams directly.” I shivered involuntarily. “Once that’s done we should be able to leave.”
Livak’s arms tightened around my chest. “I’ll stay, I’ll be there with you if anyone wants to mess with your mind. Anyway,” her tone brightened, “there are good pickings to be had here in Hadrumal. There are wizards here who might be able to talk to each other a thousand leagues apart but haven’t the first idea of reading the run of the runes. Give me half a season and I’ll probably be able to match your little treasure trove.”
“Planir will definitely want to get rid of us then.”
Up river, south of the settlement,
Kel Ar’Ayen,
12th of Aft-Spring,
Year Three of the Colony
“So that’s it; we’ve no hope of a breakout that’s any better than suicide.” Den Fellaemion’s tone was as cold and passionless as a winter snow field. “Is every ship sunk?”
“They were cut to pieces, all of them.” Avila’s voice shook as she rubbed her temples with trembling hands, eyes tight shut as she recovered herself from the far-seeing. “The invaders have blocked the mouth of the river completely.”
Temar could stand it no longer, shoving his stool back as he began to pace across the narrow alcove in the damp rock of the cave wall. “Why are they waiting? Why don’t they just come and finish it? We’re caught like rabbits in a warren just waiting for the ferrets.” The walls of the cave seemed to press in on him and he clasped his hands together so hard they hurt. Misaen’s truth, he hated to be confined like this.
“Why should they hurry?” Messire Den Fellaemion scrubbed a bone-thin hand across his bloodless face. “They can take their time, rest and feed their men; we’re not going anywhere, are we?” The dry note in his commander’s voice was threatening to take on the hollow ring of defeat to Temar’s ears.
“Perhaps we might. I know it’s reaching for a single rune but we should explore the caves further,” he urged, stifling his own qualms at the prospect of going still deeper under the earth. “We should start at once, widen some of the fissures and see where they take us. We know that at least one river travels through plunge pools as it comes down the gorge. If water made these caves, it must have found its way in somehow, and in some force. There could be a way right through the high ground, out to the far side, out of sight of these bastards. Then we could strike out for the new port, where the stockmen have been building these last seasons. They’ve seen no sign of the invaders, have they, Avila? You said so yourself.” Temar bit his lip in frustration and sat down again, seeing that his words were going unheeded as Den Fellaemion turned his attention to Vahil’s approach, a sheaf of crumpled parchments clutched desperately in the younger man’s hand.
“Our supplies are very limited, Messire, no more than will give short rations for a scant handful of days. We have bread enough for several meals, cheeses and the like that people managed to grab as they fled, but many came empty-handed. We managed to salvage some sacks of meal from the ships and some small store of vegetables, but no meat or wine to speak of, and there’s precious little means of cooking anything. It is far too dangerous to send people out for fuel or foraging.” Vahil’s normally robust voice was as colorless as his face. “With the attack coming at dawn like that, few were in a position to take more than themselves and their families, if they were to escape at all. A good number are still in their night-gowns or simply their linen. We have some blankets, but nowhere near enough, especially for the wounded. There are still twelve children separated from their parents,” Vahil reported bleakly and now his voice was raw with grief. “I think we have to assume they are lost, the parents that is.”
Temar closed his eyes on his own anguished remembrance, the sight of Messire Den Rannion lying in a welter of blood, guts spilled across the muddy ground, sword still clutched in the hand that had been hacked clean from his wrist as he fought frantically to protect his people. The gems of his rings had shone in the dawn light, a detail of memory that confused Temar until he realized that the invaders were too set on bloodshed to bother with looting their victims. Worse yet was the other hand Temar had seen reaching blindly for the fallen Den Rannion, that of the Maitresse, her white hair trampled bloody into the black earth, that shrewd and kindly face destroyed utterly by the pitiless boss of a shield sweeping her aside with vicious disdain, boot prints plain on the fabric of her night-gown where she had been trampled heedlessly underfoot.