Текст книги "Tides of Rythe"

Автор книги: Craig Saunders

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the morning Renir was deeply, unpleasantly, surprised to wake and find Wen’s unsightly face peering down at him.

He started and scuttled back, to find that he was sleeping on the floor. He looked around and found the others looking down at him.

“Glad you’re awake, Renir. Feel rested?”

Renir took a moment to take stock. His feet were frozen – he had taken his boots off to go to sleep. His mouth felt like someone else had vomited in it. It was not a pleasant feeling. Then his head began to pound like he had the worst hangover in the history of drinking. Spikes of pain drove into his head, and he found that he was dribbling. He groaned and lay back on the floor.

“No,” said Renir, turning his pounding head to look at the rest his friends, and the alien body on the floor by his feet, “my head feels like an arena full of blood.”

“You were drugged. This,” Wen said, kicking the body with a calloused toe, “was to be our murderer.”

“What happened?”

“I can only surmise that your drink was poisoned. I didn’t drink or eat. Luckily, I came back in time. But it is irrelevant. If the Protectorate can find us here, there is no more time to dally. We ride now.”

Renir nodded. He pushed himself to his feet. He waited for the nausea to pass, then kicked the Bear in the ribs.

After some explaining, and a few shaky starts, they packed and made their way to the bar. There were a couple of fishermen milling about, expecting their breakfast. They all looked slightly bemused, waiting for the owner to turn up.

None of the men thought to tell them he was no doubt already dead, probably dumped in his own cellar.

They strode outside, loaded up their horses, and were on their way before Dow breached the sea. When they were well clear of the village, Renir leant over Thud’s side and vomited heartily.

“I don’t suppose there’s time for breakfast?” said Bourninund with a grin. “We’ve got some green cheese left, and a hunk of greener bread…”

Renir spat the taste clear of his mouth. “I’d rather kiss you.”

“Not with that mouth, thanks,” Bourninund replied.

“I think we’ll all get along better on this journey if you two avoid the temptation to become romantically inclined,” said Drun.

Shorn and Wen laughed together.

Renir grumbled the rest of the day, but, he thought, if Wen could laugh, perhaps there was hope for him yet.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The horses thundered north for the best part of a week.

They camped only at night, and did not break for midday. There was little by the way of forage. It was mainly plains, so they ate a few rare mushrooms and even risked some mouldy bread. Renir wasn’t used to such hardships, and his stomach protested vociferously most of the next day. The others had, evidently, eaten worse before.

They all felt the urgency of their quest again. Only when the reached the Seafarer’s boats would they be safe from the Protectorate, and then, only for a brief time. Any respite from the hunt was welcome.

How the assassin had found them when Drun was there to shield them was a mystery that for the time being would have to remain unsolved. They fled as fast as they could. Each man’s horse was fresh. They made good time. Renir’s behind was even getting used to the riding. He had been sore for a couple of days, but his body could take most hardships now. It was the haunting, he knew, but apparently it didn’t protect his insides, only healed wounds. His stomach felt tender all the time.

His axe bumped against his back as he rode. Bourninund drew up beside him. He brought out a handful of seeds and, amazingly, some jerked meat.

“Want some?” he asked with a grin.

“Of course I do!” replied Renir. Then, suspicion dawning, he added, “If you had food, why did we eat that bread?”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it if I’d given you these first, would you?”

“Brindle’s goat, man, I was sick for a day afterwards!”

“Good for you, old bread,” said Bourninund with a sly smile. “Clears you out.”

He handed some seeds to Renir, who took them without thanks. “I’ll remember that next time you’re hungry.”

“Don’t be sore. We all ate the bread. It just takes some getting used to, travelling rations.”

Wen drew aside, reining in his horse.

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Never mind, though. There will be food aplenty where we’re going.”

“I hope so,” said Renir.

“I’ve had worse, anyway. Eventually, you’ll eat anything.”

“I’ll leave you two to it. Here, have some seeds.”

Wen took a handful with his thanks, and Renir geed Thud into a trot.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the two men rode side by side. Renir struggled to say something to fill the quiet. He thought Wen probably wasn’t as worried about it as he was.

Eventually, after some miles had passed, Renir gave in.

“What’s your story then?”

Wen grunted. “I sense morality within you boy, but yours is not yet…advanced enough to deal with my tale. We’ll save it for another day, eh?”

“Shorn says you smoke the Seer’s grass.”

Wen looked at Renir through a grey eyebrow. “Does he now? And what is it to you?”

“Will you smoke for the Protocrat?”

“Aye, I will. As I always do.”

Renir’s wisdom was different to the usual kind. His was more the kind that children possess.

“What happens when you smoke?”

Wen sighed. “You’re a straightforward man, at least, Renir. I’ll give you that much.”

”Well, I thank you, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Very well,” said Wen. “Whenever I kill someone, I smoke the Seer’s grass. I commune with their soul. Trust me when I say I’ve never had a good trip. My victims are never happy to see me.”

“Why would you do that?” said Renir. He thought about what to say next, but in the end just said what he wanted to anyway. “If you see dead people all the time, doesn’t that make you just a little, well, insane?”

“One day, perhaps, you can coax me back to sanity,” said Wen. Seeing Renir’s surprise at this statement, Wen laughed.

“Ah, look at you all – too frightened to say so – you all suspect my mind is ailing, but you’re all too proud,” at this he looked at Drun’s back, “he’s too polite or too wary to say so. So I’ll say it for you. I border the gates every day. But I’m not yet too far gone. I may be insane, but it’s out of choice, so I’ll ask you not to judge me for it. We all have our own brand of insanity, do we not?”

Renir decided it was time to practise ‘magnanimous’, which he had once read about in a book. “You’re right, of course. Which of us can truly say we are not a little touched? Forgive me, Wen. I have judged you harshly.”

Wen acknowledged this with a dip of his head. “You do yourself justice, Renir.”

Renir smiled a little. He felt they had achieved an understanding. The rest of his friends had probably already got there, but Renir was not a priest, or a warrior. Perhaps, for such a simple man, his trust came at a higher price.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Klan Mard blew smoke away from the fire. The smoke swirled lazily on the white air, curling branches fleeing a burning tree. The rare rock below the unnatural fire glowed harshly within the white fields of Teryithyr. Slowly, Klan reached into the fire and retrieved a burning coal, brought across the seas with his men from the mines at Kulthor. He watched in quiet fascination as his flesh charred around the coal. The light from the fire and his own bright red eyes lit the night, but Pernant Noom could see no pain on his master’s terrible face. He stood to attention still, even though the Anamnesor’s mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t unheard of for Klan Mard’s mind to be in two places at once.

The coal rose from Klan’s hand to float, gently rotating, in the air. He pulled his hand from underneath it. It stayed where it was. Noom watched with his jaw hanging open as Klan licked his burnt palm, and held it up for Noom to see. The smile of pleasure on Klan’s face was more terrible than the fact that the wound was healed.

Noom swallowed.

“The Seer’s grass, Pernant,” ordered Klan, holding out his undamaged hand.

Pernant Noom took the expensive drug from his belt pouch and passed it to Klan, who took it in his long fingers.

He placed the roll on the coal, balancing it carefully, although why he took such care Noom could not understand. Surely, if he set his remarkable mind to it, his master could balance a centrine on the point of a pin.

Thicker smoke rose from the burning roll, and Klan cupped the smoke, brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. Noom had never seen the Seer’s grass smoked before, but he imagined he saw Klan’s pupils turn upward within their sockets. It was difficult to tell – Klan’s eyes were red from pupil to whites, like orbs of blood leaking across his face. But it was not blood. It was just the light.

That a Protocrat of such power would use the Seer’s grass was a testament to its potency. Even Klan could not cross the barrier to reach the dead. Only the Seer’s grass was capable of taking the living into the underworld, past the guardians – the place Sturmen called Madal’s gates. The living had seen those gates before. But only with the Seer’s grass could one see them and return.

Noom imagined Klan’s soul travelling through space and time, but he was not an imaginative man. As far as he could understand, the Anamnesor was temporarily dead, and when the Seer’s grass wore off he would live again. Yet he did not understand why his master was still seated upright on the snow, and why, if he was dead, the burning coal had not fallen to the ground.

He remained at attention.

After a time, his hands freezing and the cold seeping through his boots, he thought he saw Klan stir. He wondered what was so important that only the dead could know. But there was much he did not understand. Klan was the Anamnesor, though, and Tenthers were not selected for their deductive powers. They were chosen because they obeyed, and they were warriors beyond compare. They were a special breed.

They were smart enough to know when to stand to attention – until told otherwise. Perhaps, Noom thought, if a day passed and Klan had not moved, he might risk relieving himself behind a rare outcropping of rock that overlooked the camp.

Fortunately, he was saved from such worries.

Klan sputtered and smoke blew from his lungs. His breath hitched in his chest, once, then he rose smoothly as if he had been aware of his surroundings all along. He was instantly alert.

“I have found out some interesting things, Pernant. Our enemies have grown in number.”

Pernant knew when he was expected to speak. He kept silent.

Klan added, talking to himself, “So the Saviour has an ally? He must be gifted. To kill my assassin…” He realised the Pernant was still before him.

“Pernant, we were expecting company. Three men, one of whom was magically gifted. It seems we are now expecting five. They have murdered one of my men and embark for this land. There are scant few places they can reach this land. There are only two – the mountains are impassable. Take your men, and another two Tens, to each place. Bring Incantors. There is no need for Particulates – there is nothing living near the coast. I will mark the spots that must be watched for a landing by sea. My orders stand. In this land there is no need for subterfuge. All five men are to be killed. Do not take them lightly. Among them more than one is gifted.”

“If I might speak, master?”

“Go on.”

“Surely humans have no magic?”

Klan smiled at the Pernant, but he took no comfort in it. “Do not doubt me again. They are gifted, and they are dangerous. Now, you are to travel across the land. They can only travel by sea, and they have left from a village called Pulhuth. Passage will take no less than one month. You have until then to reach then. Wait…”

For a moment Klan’s skin glowed as red as the fire, as if he was burning inside, then just as quickly the glow died and there was just natural light to see by.

“The journey should take but two weeks. It will do the men good to stretch their legs. Travel across the snows. You are not to use magic.”

“And the beasts?”

“If you encounter any Teryithyrians, I would be surprised, but use your discretion.”

“Use your discretion” Klan knew would be taken to mean ‘take no prisoners.’

“Do not fail me, Pernant. You have my orders. Now, go.”

Pernant Noom bowed deeply and walked away. As he left, he heard Klan muttering to himself.

“Now, how difficult can it be to find a burning mountain on an ice plain?”

Pernant minded his own business most days, but to him, this seemed passing strange.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Renir and his companions arrived within a few days. They set the horses loose when they could no longer ride.

Renir shed a tear to lose Thud. Shorn touched his shoulder, and even Bourninund did not mock him. A man bonded with his horse. He knew they would be free on the plains, where food and water were plentiful, but he didn’t think they would be happier.

Thud nuzzled Renir’s hand. It almost broke his heart to push him away.

Shorn and Harlot’s separation was somewhat easier. Harlot bit Shorn’s good hand and he thumped her on the nose.

Perhaps some riders did not bond with their horses.

They began the arduous climb to the cliff face. The cold was biting, and fingers froze in tenuous hand holds. Drun seemed to have little difficulty, despite seeming to be the frailest of the quintet, but then he had no armour or blade to carry.

Renir’s armour bore heavily on him as he dragged himself up the steep rock. His breath came in laboured gasps. Wen was well ahead of him, and Bourninund just behind. Even Shorn, with a crippled leg and arm, climbed faster.

He took a break to breath on his frozen hands and urged himself on. Each man apart from Drun carried a pack, with the bare essentials. Shorn assured them the Seafarers would trade with them, although they were boat people and Renir didn’t think fur cloaks would be in plentiful supply.

He tore a finger on a jagged rock, and was surprised to see the blood congealing almost instantly. He wasn’t sure if it was his preternatural ability to heal that he should thank, or the unreasonable temperatures. The wind seemed to grow in bluster. This close to the ocean and the mountains it was only to be expected. Both could be harsh. Together they were hellish.

Tugging his pack tighter around his shoulders (the joints complaining, freezing up) he continued his ascent. He took a moment to look up and saw that everybody else had gained the summit. Drun was not even wearing a cloak, just a shirt and mittens.

He swore and dug his toes into a crack, heaving himself higher.

Finally, he reached the top to sarcastic jeers from Bourninund. He would have swung for him, but instead he sat down heavily and tried to catch his breath.

“Don’t sit still, you’ll freeze,” said Drun. “The trick for the cold is to keep moving. The joints seize up if you don’t, then you’re in real trouble.”

“I can’t move.”

“Well, you’ll have to. The Feewar are here. Come on, Renir. You’re the youngest and the fittest. You should be leading the way. Just a little further, and besides, the rest is downhill from here.”

“I’m youngest, but you’ve all had years to earn your muscles. Mine are still inexperienced. Anyone fancy carrying me? I’ll carry your pack for you.”

Bourninund chuckled. “Don’t be daft. Come on. You can see them from here.”

Renir groaned and stood up. As he did so the wind caught him and he fell on his behind again. Shorn held out a hand for him.

“Careful. Up here the wind is stronger than a man. Keep low.”

“Right,” said Renir, and followed the others down a rocky incline, leading to a beach where he could see a strange vessel bobbing in the spiteful wash. It was built from wood, he could see, but seemingly from whole trees rather than planks. The trees still had green leaves and shoots on them. The leaves danced at the end of their branches in the wind. It was a large boat, moored against the rock-strewn shore by means of a wooden pole driven into the stone.

When he reached the bottom on the incline the boat emptied and a strange, lithe crew alighted on the shore. They drew wooden weapons and held them to their sides. The warriors, to Renir’s surprise, did nothing. They took their weapons and laid them to one side. Shorn bade Renir to do the same.

Reluctantly, he laid his axe by his feet, close enough to flick into his hand should things turn ugly.

He did not understand why Wen, Bourninund and Shorn would let themselves be disarmed. But he trusted Shorn, and Shorn knew these people.

His lips were chapped from the bitter wind, and his hand ached where he had hurt it. He tried to concentrate on what the Seafarers were saying, but could overhear nothing against the screaming wind.

It seemed to be going well. The Seafarers sheathed their wooden swords (he could not fathom why Shorn had been disarmed by a man holding a wooden sword) as one man, and one stepped forward and embraced Wen, then clasped Shorn’s good hand, forearm to forearm. He relaxed, but didn’t pick up his axe. He stayed where he was until Shorn beckoned him forward with a wave of his hand.

“Renir, this is Orosh, he will be our guide to the ship. He is an old friend, although he did not recognise me. It has been a long time.”

“Welcome to my boat, Renir Esyn, Drun Sard and Bourninund Maltern,” said Orosh with a gentle bow. His voice was softly musical, and his eyes danced within his head. Renir saw that they were a stunning blue, the colour of still seas. There was a deceptive strength in his grip, Renir noted as they shook. Even though he was a thin man he had a wiry strength, like Bourninund, and it would not pay to underestimate him.

“Thank you for your welcome. I’ll try to be a good passenger.”

Orosh smiled. “You can bring your weapons aboard. Forgive us, but we do not let our secrets pass lightly. Shorn neglected to tell us in his summons that he would be bringing companions. Alas, we do not have much call to practice hospitality on the seas. There are few, as landfarers say, knocks upon our door.”

He seemed warm and friendly, but Renir noted the way he looked warily at Drun. Although the only one of them unarmed, Orosh seemed almost afraid of Drun. For his part, Drun seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He merely smiled back at the Seafarer, nodded to his companions and waved the warriors ahead of him at Orosh’s invitation to board.

Renir nodded and returned to collect his axe. He sheathed the weapon and followed the others aboard, hoping there was some shelter on the boat, for surely he would freeze to death if he didn’t get warm soon.

Drun caught his hand as he climbed the rope to the boat.

”Watch carefully, Renir. I sense danger ahead. Shorn and Wen trust these people. You have a wise eye, though, and I trust you.”

There was no time to ask further. Renir simply nodded, and clambered over the side of the strange, living boat.

Chapter Thirty

“I will wear it if I must, but I am not happy about this,” growled Roth with its teeth bared.

Tirielle suppressed a smile behind a newly manicured hand. She knew the beast well enough to tell bluster from true ire. “It suits you, Roth. You look every inch the priest. Do you feel devout?”

“Do not mock me, lady. I have never worn clothes, and I never will again. I cannot breath.”

“Oh, Roth, do not be such a baby. You can hardly walk the streets in your fur. Not anymore.”

j’ark put the finishing touches to the giant rahken’s disguise – a pair of oversized gloves which would serve to hide the beast’s claws.

“I think it will serve well enough in the night. During the days you will have to remain within your rooms.”

“I can bear that. It’s this infernal cloth that chafes.”

Roth sat on the only bench within the room it would share with the Seer and Tirielle. The cowl of the huge robe hid its face in darkness, but its snout protruded somewhat from the shadow. The grimace on its face was plainly visible.

“I am a creature of stealth. I do not like this subterfuge.” Even the word subterfuge felt uncomfortable passing its jaws.

“With the edict against rahkens everywhere you have little choice. You must stick to the shadows and venture out only when absolutely necessary. I do not like it overly, either, Roth. I would have you by my side. But none of us can afford to draw undue attention here. We all make sacrifices.”

Roth nodded its ascent. “I will be a good mouse.”

Tirielle shook her head sadly. In some things Roth was stout and the bravest ally she could hope for, but who could have known the giant’s aversion to cloth?

j’ark touched her hand gently, and Tirielle felt the now all-too-familiar tug somewhere secret, deep within.

“Lady, we should go. Every passing day brings us closer to the red wizard. Time is pitifully short.”

“Very well,” she said with a sad smile for Roth. “Let’s go.”

Tirielle felt a moment of excitement to be setting out, with just j’ark for company. She counselled herself to caution. There was no room for girlish fantasies left in her life. She sighed loudly as they descended the windowless stairwell. J’ark turned, a question on his face, and Tirielle waved him on with mock sternness. He shrugged and pushed open the door, letting in the stale smoke-filled stairs. Typraille, who was sipping a mug of warm milk, nodded to them as they passed. They exchanged no words, but it was good to be so well protected, thought Tirielle, even if her guard of honour were without their armour. Typraille was as solid as rock, as unbending as the grand oak.

It was his duty on this, their third day in the city, to watch the door. No one would pass unbidden to their rooms without his say so.

The other members of the Sard were all without, each hunting their goal in their own way. There were many within Beheth who would aid them. It was as human a city as there was on the continent. The Protectorate still prowled the streets, but there was something in Beheth that was apparently anathema to the Protocrat’s ranks of wizards. They had no presence on the city streets, and only the Tenthers roamed. The Sard were more than capable of dealing with the Tenthers, should the need arise, but there had been no need so far. Without their armour they could easily pass for any other city dweller. They roamed the city streets largely unhindered, but Tirielle was not fooled by the apparent ease of their passage. One careless word, one action out of context – it would not take much to bring the Tenthers to their door. Such attentions they could well do without. Even among the human populous, there were those who served the Protectorate. Their otherworldly master had ruled for so long that some people did not even see them as an enemy any longer. People often saw only what they wished. Their masters had cowed them long ago, with the promise of an easy peace. It was a strange world indeed, mused Tirielle, when one wished for war that brought freedom over peace that bred mute contentment.

Tirielle watched j’ark’s back as she strode the city streets. Her gown was no more elaborate than many merchants’ wives, and she fit in well. She told any that asked that she was from the north – there was little else she could do, her accent marked her Lianthrian, even though her clothes were of a southern cut. Flowers were embroidered at the hems of her dress, the sleeves left wide. It was one of few dresses this far south with sleeves wide enough to allow her easy access to her wrist blades.

She saw a cutthroat with a bulge under his cloak move down a side alley. The bulge was undoubtedly a cudgel. Unconsciously she fingers her daggers through the thin material of her dress, moving on.

Shortly the man was forgotten. J’ark set a fair pace and she trusted him enough to take in the sights rather than wasting her energy looking for threats. She knew he would take in everything they passed without seeming to look. All that marked him as a bodyguard was ease of his walk and the looseness of his shoulders. She relaxed, and concentrated on walking. She thought she could find her way back to the inn, but j’ark was in the lead today, and she was content to let it be so.

It was a good city to lose oneself in. There were enough people there to find some who were uncomfortable with Protectorate rule to find friends. She had already made tentative contact with some allies who still remembered her from her years in the city so long ago. Too few allies, though. There was so much to do, and such responsibility could not be shared. Within a city of over thirty libraries, it was their duty to find mention of the fabled wizard, the one being with the power to thwart the return and save humanity from slavery. If rumour and legend could be believed. So much was resting on the memories of the Sard’s stone temple. There was just too much they didn’t know. What if the wizard was dead? Or worse, insane from long years of waiting for his time to come again? Could he be strong enough to take on the might of the Protectorate?

It was all so much to take on chance, and here she was, a fool for the gamble. One thing she thought the Sard were forgetting popped into her mind but she pushed it down swiftly. They were overlooking the Hierarchy, and such oversight could well prove to be their downfall, even should all the other possibilities fall into place.

Tirielle suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Perhaps they were meant to be slaves, thought Tirielle as she strode through the wide streets, but not all were slaves. She spared a thought for Sturma, her friends there she had yet to meet. It was a free country. One day, she vowed, she would make Lianthre free, too.

That still was still too far into the future to see. Unimaginable, almost, to think that they could overthrow the power of an age, their rulers for the last millennium. She did not have the gift of foresight. All she had was prophesy and legend. They needed the Seer. They needed to see the road ahead.

The strange girl, whose name Tirielle had never known, was secure at the Great Tree, their inn, insensible to the world. The Sard told her that the Seer’s boundaries had been shattered, that she was currently living in all worlds (Tirielle’s mind swam at the notion that there could be more worlds than this – the idea alone was too huge to hold. She could not dream of the torment of the Seer if her mind was truly spread so wide, as wide as all the stars in the night sky). Yet Tirielle held out hope for her. Her body was still working.

Tirielle took it upon herself to clean and feed the girl – she imagined what it would be like for the girl were she to wake when one of the golden eyed Sard was cleaning her. She would be mortified herself, and she remembered girlhood. She had been much more modest.

She had asked where she could, and been sent to various healers. It was a chance, and not the last, but there was nothing for it. She had to take what chances arose. So much of her life seemed dependent on luck these days.

Where she fumbled for the words when trying to explain the Seer’s malady. j’ark was far more adept at describing the unnatural and the magical. He had a gift for it. Tirielle was glad to have him along, in more ways than he would ever know.

“This must be it,” he said, pointing at an understated sign hanging from a crooked door. They had already tried the only hospital in Beheth, and two wise women. This was their second to last lead. Tirielle did not hold out much hope. There were no human wizards left in the cities – the Protocrats had seen to that long ago. All that remained were wise men and wise women. Perhaps some could use a degree of magic, but few were stupid enough to do it openly. If any magic remained on the continent of Lianthre it had been subdued for so long it was a mere shadow.

The street they stood in was filthy, and if it seemed strange for a healer to ply his arts among the grime and muck Tirielle would not have said so. They were desperate. Although the Seer might never know it, it was Tirielle’s promise to her to find a cure and bring her back to some semblance of a life.

She hoped this would be the one.

The sign simply stated ‘Scholar and healer, Reyland Uriwane, Beheth.U, Mar. CS’

Tirielle did not have the first idea as to what the initials stood for, but she did not have time to be fussy.She reached out, made a silent wish, and rapped on the door.

After an age the door creaked open against its warped frame, and a voice came out of the darkness, as cracked and as old as the wood.

“Who is it?” called the disembodied voice.

“We have need of a healer,” said j’ark. “We understand that you are gifted in such…arts.”

“I know of no arts, young man, just remedies and potions,” the voice told him cautiously.

“Sir, if we may come in? Such matters are best not discussed on the streets.”

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, and then the door opened wider, to reveal a man so wizened he was almost bent double. He rested on a crooked cane, his neck craned at a painful angle to look at them through red-rimmed eyes. The sunlight seeped into the dark building lighting the flitting dust disturbed from the floor by the grey man’s passage.

“And are you able to pay for such a service?” enquired the old man.

“Able and willing. We will pay you for your time, even if you are not able to heal our friend. You will be well compensated.”

“Music to my ears, my pretty lady, but I am no hedge wizard or witch. I am a physician, and you could have got as much at the hospital. Or,” he said with a glint in his eye, “could it be something…other…that you desire?”

For a moment, the old man’s meaning escaped Tirielle, but j’ark was quick enough.

“It is of a fey nature, right enough,” the paladin told him. “Are you afraid of that which you do not understand?”

Reyland grunted. “I’m too old for fear, and way past pride. If I can heal your friend I will. The Protectorate have nothing to hold over my head. Let me get my bag, then you can take me to your friend.”

“It is a fair distance from here.”

“Lady, I am not so frail that I cannot walk. But if your sir would be kind enough to carry my bag?”

“Of course,” said j’ark.

They waited for a few minutes at the open door, without being invited inside, when the old man returned, dragging behind him a pack almost half his size.