Tale the Tenth

Tyat slouched on the backmost bench in the Meeting House, resisting the urge to kick the pew in front of her. Ikmos did not have a Minister whose duty it was to give the service each rest-day. In Maychoria Ministers were named, but in Tappuah one had to step forward, and none dared do that in this village. It would mean having the responsibility to speak against immorality. It would mean setting oneself up as a target.

So each seventh-day someone had to stand and give the service. Teacher Arandfel did so frequently, and sometimes one of the good-hearted farmers would expound on the truth, drawing from the few Hosridon excerpts that had reached them, or even a pithy folk-saying. Those services were usually short and to the point, and always relevant.

Often, though, the Servant or one of his bloated, pale-faced, soft-skinned town cronies would stand. Those services were pretentious, long-winded, and boring. And usually completely false, as well. Tyat and her friends hated them, and had indignant conversations afterward, out of their enemies' hearing, pulling down every falsehood with all the considerable logic and piety they commanded.

Tyat couldn't wait for this service to end so she could rip into it, with the help of Nirok, Arandfel, Ranof and the others. Servant Hyran stood at the podium this cold, gray morning, droning about the 'respect of authority' the High King called from His people. It was the Servant's favorite topic, and every last word of it was stale.

They'd already disproved every point, and the familiar counter-arguments trailed through Tyat's mind one after another. The Maker also commanded those placed in authority to keep His laws and respect those above them, particularly the King Himself, Who ruled all. The common people were called to pray for their rulers, but also to protest against unfairness, and to turn to uncorrupted officials to protect them from the evil ones. And the High King told them not to fear, because He was on the side of those walking in light, and the mouths of the wolves would be locked, the claws of the lions blunted. The talons of the Golden Eagle were far sharper.

How long? Tyat prayed with a mixture of reverence and irritation. How long will You stand by, Jah, King of All, Strength and Refuge? Help me to fight Your battles, High King, help me to protect Your people here, so oppressed by this chrak Servant and his men. Descend with all Your power and blow them away from Madra's face!

And there were so many things she'd rather be doing than sitting here listening to Hyran buzzing like a hive of sleepy bees. Rescuing Wari, for one. Finding out where Mateo had disappeared to, for another. Beating Farig Solma to a bruised and bloody pulp, for a third.

Threatening Servant Hyran on the point of her rapier wouldn't be unpleasant, either.

Tyat restrained herself. News had spread that Hyran was going to give a public announcement after the ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? yran stood again.

"Good people of Ikmos," he began, "I know that you will strive to follow the King's commands, as I have spoken of this morning."

Tyat's side of the Meeting House, full of burly countryfolk, shook with silent titters, and Tyat allowed herself a hard smile. Her half, more plainly dressed, sun-browned and wind-burned, not afraid to wear their cloaks in the building, couldn't have contrasted more with the other half. Those were soft and pale, shivering in their fashionably thin clothes, since they had left their cloaks by the door to display their finery better. The day was unseasonably cold--another worry to add to the list.

The rural dissenters had long ago perfected their ways of hiding their mockery. Hyran didn't even notice, and continued his speech.

"But you may have heard some wild rumors that have caused you to distrust those in authority over you, myself and Chief Constable Gordath and his men. Let me assure you, there is no truth to these awful stories. But terrible things did happen yesterday. I will give you the truth of these--do not be swayed to believe falsehoods.

"You may have heard that Farig Solma, Merchant Estaed's guest, attacked the Maychorian Seeker, Wari, and his young apprentice, the boy Mateo. That is not true. The three were meeting in the common green yesterday when, by a terrible misfortune, the fence on the horse-pen at the south end of the green was knocked down, and the horses stampeded. I am sorry to tell you that Seeker Wari perished. He now dwells with the High King in the golden light of Hosiotos. We . . . we will all miss him terribly. I greatly rue his loss. Let us have a moment of silence."

Tyat silently cursed the sorrow on Hyran's handsome, pliable face. He looked so sincere. An actor he had been, and an actor he still was, a magnificent one.

The crowd had grown still. Even the habitually disrespectful town boys were quiet. The faces of the countryfolk were stony, skeptical, but Tyat saw the features of the child Neuma crumple in grief. Poor child--they would have to tell her it was a lie as soon as they could get away from Hyran and his posturing.

After a moment the Servant raised his head. "Farig Solma escaped by jumping into a tree, and he pulled the boy Mateo up with him. I can only imagine what it did to the poor lad, seeing his guardian killed before his eyes. When the horses passed he fought free of Farig's grasp and ran off, distraught. We fear his mind has slipped free of its moorings. That is why he told that terrible tale about Farig turning on them. We do not know where the lad has gone now, but we must find him quickly. He will need a great deal of love and support to deal with this tragedy. Please, if you see him, bring him to myself of the Chief Constable, but disregard his ravings. The poor lad is crazed--he is to be pitied, but not believed."

Compassion and fatherly concern held tenuously to Hyran's face, but his eyes shone bright blue, as they did when he was very pleased with something. Tyat cracked a knuckle--a gesture of contempt which those outside her wild people would not understand, but which she relished.

However, his asking that the boy be brought to them meant that Mateo had not been captured. He was still free, perhaps hiding in the hills. When Doran had told Tyat that Mateo had gone to Ranof's holding, she'd feared the raiders had gotten him.

Tyat scowled and dug her thumbnail into the cherrywood finish on the pew. That was an evil thing, that raid. Joqirl did nothing, said nothing, ate only when food was placed in her hand, moved only when her father carried her. They had had to pry her loose from Hikano when they found her yesterday, and the dog had yet to leave her side.

Only Thanas and Neuma had come to the meeting today--Ranof and Vemáley had stayed with their wounded daughter. Nirok and Quimal had taken the family in until their home could be repaired. But Tyat feared that the people would not find the heart to rebuild that beleaguered holding again.

Hyran said something about the raid, and Tyat lifted her head to listen again. "The rumors you have heard about Chief Constable Gordath being responsible have absolutely no basis in fact," the Servant said. "We do not know who raided Master Hilltrodder's holding, as the sole witness is traumatized and will not speak, but Gordath is enraged. He and his men are champing at the bit to scour the hills for these unconscionable thieves. Perhaps we will find the boy Mateo while we're at it. But until we know it is safe, I am placing Ikmos and the surrounding territory under military alert."

The crowd grew absolutely still, even to the small children, who sensed something amiss in the rigidity of their parents and neighbors. Tyat herself was stunned for a moment, but that quickly gave way to choking anger and a slight, grudging respect. Brilliant stroke, that. Horribly brilliant.

"Go straight home and remain there until further notice. Those whose homes are not self-sufficient may speak to Constable Anor about having supplies sent 'round--collectors will tithe food from the self-sufficient holdings to be distributed."

The townsfolk relaxed--the countryfolk tensed even tighter. The imbalance felt almost tangible to Tyat, as if one side of the Meeting House was heavier than the other. As if it would soon tip over, spilling them all into the dirty gray outdoors, so chilly and dismal-looking through the Meeting House windows.

"Thank you, good people. I'm sure this crisis will soon be past--for now just 'hold tight to the promises,' as the Hosridon says, and remember the King's commands as I have spoken them this morning."

Servant Hyran said back down, and the rest-day service was over.

The atmosphere cranked another notch tighter. It was too tight, too highly strung. Something would snap soon, and Tyat did not know what would happen then.

She rose clumsily and almost stumbled, her feet numb from sitting slouched for so long. Tyat caught herself against the pew in front of her, murmuring under her breath as she stared down at her feet, stomping them. All around her, people were moving, getting out of the Meeting House as quickly as possible.

As Tyat raised her head she caught a glimpse of a familiar face wearing an unfamiliar expression--Constable Ingfred, looking worried. Intrigued, she tried to remember if she'd glanced at him while Hyran was making his speech. How had the confused, half-good half-bad constable reacted?

She could have sworn she remembered seeing him shake his head. And his 'new post,' as Gordath had called it, where was it? She hadn't seen Ingfred since his reassignment.

Tyat Morelo had a great many things she wanted to do, things she needed to investigate. But she added the issue of Constable Ingfred to the list.

The Elven leaf-light cast a blue-green glow over the close confines of Wari's prison. He had explored every inch of the tiny cave, from the boulder that blocked the entrance to the smooth waterfall formation that formed the rear wall. His prison was only five paces long, perhaps three wide--he felt like an eagle trapped in a hunter's nets, straining against bonds that only seemed to tighten with his struggles.

The Seeker sat against the waterfall and cupped the shining crystal in his hands, staring into its glass-like matrix at the single zadron leaf buried deep within. Zadron--the trees of the Bluewood, with black trunks and blue-green leaves that shone at night, in the forest home of the Elves. Wari's hands were cold, and he wished, for once, that the light wasn't so marvelously heatless.

A cool light, though suffused with the love and acceptance Wari had felt in his visits to the Bluewood. A light to complement the chill of his surroundings. Water trickled down the stone at his back, further wetting his already damp tunic, and Wari could not bring himself to care.

He remembered the past fifteen years, all his wanderings as a Seeker. He'd been in frequent danger--he'd been targeted, shot at, attacked; he'd endured hunger and cold and pain. He'd been wounded, though that didn't near as much as his heart so often had--he'd been ambushed, but never successfully.

Until now, he'd never been captured. He'd never been caged.

He'd never felt so utterly powerless.

One thought occupied Wari's attention now--escape. But though the walls of his prison were rough and cracked and twisted, they were as impenetrable as those of any dungeon. He'd found no cracks that would admit his entire arm, much less his body. The boulder was immovable from this side, he'd discovered quickly, and he'd finally given up his hopeless efforts to shift it.

And he'd made that vow to Constable Ingfred, too. Wari leaned his head back against the cold rock and closed his eyes with a sigh. Even if he found a way out, he couldn't take it without obtaining Ingfred's release.

Then Wari stiffened as he felt the fresh draft of air on his face. His eyes flew open, staring at the rock above him. It was brown and gray, rinsed in the blue-green radiance of the leaf-light, chiseled with crags and jagged hollows dark with shadow. Fresh air--there must be an opening up there.

Wari stood and placed the leaf-light in his mouth to explore the ceiling with both hands. One of the dark hollows, larger than the others, was alive with a cool breath brushing against his fingers. He moved directly beneath it and held the leaf-light up in one hand.

A ledge, just low enough to reach. The Seeker might be able to pull himself up on it, with a good deal of strain. And above that, a chimney-like formation, stretching upwards through the rock. How far did it go? The sides were smooth--ascent looked almost impossible.

Almost impossible. Wari allowed himself a faint smile. His mentor had always said that almost impossible were a Seeker's two favorite words.

Seeker Wari settled back on the floor to wait for Ingfred's return. He extinguished the crystal with a word and closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him.

Almost impossible, indeed.

”They’re not going for it, Hyran,” Gordath muttered.

They stood just outside the Meeting House door, Ingfred hovering anxiously to the left, obviously unsure of whether he was supposed to guarding them or not. The people milled around the yard in their usual country-town segregated groups, murmuring amongst themselves. Hyran knew what they were discussing, and by the dissatisfied expressions of the countryfolk, he could guess at the tone of it as well.

”Just seven more days,” Hyran said, keeping his voice smooth. But, for the first time, he also was worried. “We need to keep the town quiet just seven more days. Then he will be here, and the burden will be off our shoulders.”

Gordath shook his head, bluff face doubtful through the thin fog that had come from nowhere. “Do you think we can keep a Seeker captive for that long?”

The singular use of the word ‘captive’ reminded Hyran that they had only one, and he suppressed a grimace. “I still can’t believe you let the apprentice slip through your fingers. The entire point of capturing the Seeker was to keep word from getting out! The lad must not be allowed to run loose--he could go to the Princess.”

”It’s Solma’s fault,” Gordath growled. “I told him off--he’s on the boy’s trail now, and if he is who he says he is, it won’t take him long to bring the little brat back.”

”We’ll see how belligerent the Seeker is when his beloved apprentice is in our power,” Hyran said darkly. “We have to make this work. We are so close now, my friend! Soon all our plans will come to fruition. These years of occupying this poor little sheep village will be over, and we’ll move on to higher things. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Phelturn.” He could not stop the wistfulness that invaded his voice and manner. These high plans had been such a long time in ripening--seventeen interminable years.

Gordath nodded. “Aye. I hate it here, too.”

Hyran felt his face harden as he looked back over the crowd. “Time to break this up.”

Gordath nodded again, then grabbed skinny Constable Anor and went about dispersing the crowd, ordering them home. The countryfolk looked even more unhappy, but they obeyed without murmur, heading for their carts and buggies. They had learned long ago that complaint earned nothing but trouble, though Hyran didn’t doubt that they grumbled enough in private. It was too bad he couldn’t catch them at it, and make examples of the worst so the others would quiet. It was such a tiresome process, subduing this region of tough, independent people.

But, at last, he was almost done with them. Just seven more days, he reminded himself, and he could go back to his beloved Phelturn. This time he would go in triumph, as a person of power, not a skinny page-boy enduring the mistreatment of everyone stronger than he.

Just seven more days.

Overturned rocks, dark beside their shiny brothers. A white mark on gray slate, from a horseshoe. A fragrant pile of droppings.

A person had to be blind not to read these signs. And people said this kid was a master of the woods?

Obviously he didn’t do so good, out of them.

Namágol bent over the neck of his tall roan. These were fresh signs, though the shit was cold. The kid wasn’t far ahead--maybe four hours, at the most.

The Shadowhand had easily picked up the trail at Ranof Hilltrodder’s holding the day before, and it had been no harder to follow, though he’d had to stop when night fell. That was what allowed the kid to get this far ahead--he hadn’t been forced to wait for the light to know where he was going.

And where was the little prick going? The trail led definitely northward, but Namágol did not know of a place the boy would be fleeing to up here. If the kid wanted to get help, he should have headed south, to the Princess and her party still two weeks out from Ikmos, or west to Culmari to fetch some real constables, a four day journey.

Since he didn’t know where the boy was heading, Namágol couldn’t run ahead. He had to stay on the trail, it case it took a sudden turn. It frustrated him, but he read sign well enough, having learned as much as he could during his sojourn on Madra. He wasn’t the best tracker in the world, but he was a good one, and this trail was clear even through the fine mist that had risen after the night-long storm.

It wouldn’t take him long to catch up with the boy and his horse and dog. Tomorrow, perhaps. And then the Shadowhand would do as he wished.

(More coming)