Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) Page 3

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Laine Dreamed.

  ~~~~~

  He moved through the caverns from a viewpoint that seemed a little taller than normal; he was happy and excited— and scared. He'd taken Jenorah from a life of ease and comfort, and together they were entering more than a cavern that led from one country to another. It also led them into another life, a voluntary exile.

  He held the lantern up a little higher, and felt the soft touch of Jenorah's hand on his arm.

  "Together," she said.

  Dannel stopped, then, and put the lantern on the ground, turning to face her. She was a sturdy young woman, the best of Clan Grannor. Her long black hair was tied back, and her equally black eyes glinted in the wavering light of the lantern, looking at him with such love he felt himself nearly overcome. He put his hands alongside her face and smoothed her hair back, all the impossible wisps that had come loose during their wild ride to this place through both borders and into the Barrenlands. She tilted her head back and looked at him, and wry amusement gathered in her gaze until it overflowed her eyes and came out in a laugh— and not one of those fake little court laughs, either. An infectious laugh that caught him up in its wake and played with them until they were breathless and clinging to one another.

  "We did it," Jenorah said through a contented sigh. "For all of their stupidity, we managed this. And if we can do this, what is there that we cannot do?"

  He drew her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Nothing," he whispered. "Nothing at all."

  ~~~~~

  "Nothing," someone repeated, someone else altogether. He looked not at Jenorah, but at a man. Tall, dark-haired, intensely angry, and armed with plenty of blade. "Nothing should keep me from your side, and running errands for the Upper Levels least of all."

  "Relax," he said, not feeling all that relaxed himself. He'd been about to discuss the day's plans with this man— this friend— but that would only make things worse, now. "Someone's playing games, pulling strings to prove they can. If we cut them off, we won't have a chance to follow the strings, will we, Ehren? Ehren?"

  ~~~~~

  "Ehren!" He cried the warning out of habit when the attack came, aching for the solid feel of his friend against his back, fierce and capable. The world filled with the sounds of fighting men— blades and shouts and death cries, the worst of those coming from his own throat as his body took cut after cut. Someone jerked his head back, put a blade against his throat—

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Pain. Laine was choked with it, his body stiffened and jerking with someone else's death. It burned in his belly, his arm, his throat. Death, reaching for him—

  "Laine!" Shette's annoyed voice, the not-so-gentle prod of her finger. "Wake up, Laine, you're doing it again!"

  "Huh?" He jerked upright, nearly smacking his head on the bottom of the wagon, and let himself flop back to the ground again, dazed. Laine unclenched his fist, flattened it on top of his stomach and the phantom pain there. No blood. No.

  A mule snorted on the other side of the wagon, a wet and unhappy sound. For a moment Laine stared at the darkness of the wagon slats overhead, his hand resting on his dry, whole torso, listening to the uneven patterns of gusty rain overhead.

  Shette, her voice tinged with sisterly disgust, said, "You and your dreams. Between that and the rain, I don't know how we're supposed to get any sleep."

  Laine's thoughts were far away, picking at the details of the death scene he'd just witnessed— sacred Hell, been a part of. Out loud, he merely said a mild, "At least we trenched uphill." If they'd skipped it as Shette had wanted to, they'd be on wet ground right now.

  When she spoke again, her voice had changed, grown tentative. "What do you see, Laine, in those dreams of yours? Mum and Da thought you'd outgrown them."

  "And you're to tell them no differently," he said, abruptly rolling over to face her in the darkness.

  "But what do you see?"

  He hesitated. "I see them, sometimes. I see them when they ran away together, and how frightening it must have been— and exciting, and happy. Sometimes I see them building our home, or the first time Papa found the way to the village." He wasn't sure what he'd seen this time. When Shette poked him awake like that, sometimes he lost it all.

  "Dreams," she said, sleepy again.

  No. Not like a dream at all. True Dreams, they were. "Yes," he said. "Dreams." He shifted to his back again, looking for a comfortable arrangement of his body on the subtle dips and hollows of the ground.

  "They don't sound all that bad to me," she said, pulling her blanket in close. "Not worth so much fuss and bother."

  "Sometimes they change into nightmares," Laine said shortly. "Now go to sleep. It's not me that's keeping us awake now."

  Shette murmured, "Bossy older brother," and was apparently content to leave it at that. Her breathing lapsed into light snoring, a gentle sound that he could barely hear above the rain as he stared into darkness and tried to remember just when the Dreams had changed. Whose death was he feeling, night after night? Whose eyes was he trapped behind— and would he ever get the chance to turn and face his betrayer?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Parry in fourth position, rotate wrist... riposte. Parry in first, riposte to flank; a little awkward, that move always was, so do it twice for every one of the others. Parry three, riposte, and there goes your head, sir. Quickly, easily, never the same sequence in a row, Ehren ran through the standard parry positions and their direct ripostes. With his arm relaxed, his mind relaxed, his moves fast and controlled...

  The practice dummy was doomed.

  His saber was a heavier weapon than the ones popular in the new Guards; theirs were basket-hilted creations with complex quillons and numerous counterguards, fine blades with barely enough width for a good fuller. Their movements, in practice, were just as fine; they pitted themselves against one another in bouts that were punctuated by triumphant yells and dramatic shouts of attack.

  Herib, the Guard's master, had died with Benlan. Most of the Guard who hadn't died had left the service in the year Ehren had been gone. And the remainder were like Ehren, serving the king in new ways— ways that took them from the suddenly too-familiar grounds of the palace and the ghosts that walked them. The current master came imported from Loraka, and had brought his own styles, his weapons. These young men and women— they were pretty enough, they moved well enough. And they were brash and proud, and probably as loyal as any king could ask for. But...

  Ehren remembered fights when the ground beneath his feet was uneven and slippery, sometimes with his own blood. He remembered grunts of pain, the quick panting of fear, and solid blades taking life from endless practice drills, moving quicker than thought, sliding along each other to break through guard and into flesh. Maybe he was old, and old-fashioned to boot, but he preferred to have a solid piece of metal in his hand and not some stick. And among those fighting at his back, a certain number of scars was not a bad thing.

  He realized he'd stopped killing the dummy in front of him. His sword was lowered, its tip hovering just above the floor. He looked over at the huddle of men and women who had stopped their sparring to joke around— a shove here, a nudge there. It occurred to him that Varien, whatever his scheming— and Ehren was certain there was more to it than Varien claimed— was right in one thing: Ehren didn't seem to belong here anymore.

  He closed his hand over the ring, the emerald set in vines, that barely fit over the small finger on his left hand. For reasons of his own, Varien seemed certain Dannel and his family lived over the border, in the steep ridges of the Lorakan mountains that hugged both Solvany and Therand. A long journey from Kurtane, and a place filled with old magics.

  Not anywhere Ehren wanted to be. But as his visit to Rodar earlier in the day had proven, he didn't have much choice in the matter— not if he wanted a chance to come back and continue the search for Benlan's killer that was, as far as he was concerned, sti
ll priority.

  Rodar had been in his semi-formal receiving room, making a seamstress' life Hell by gesturing freely while she tried to fit the sleeves of the colorful shirt he wore. The person on the receiving end of the gestures was a First Level minister, and not one who held Ehren in any favor. Halden, First Level Minister of Diplomacy. Ehren had disrupted more than one of his functions, implacably unmoved by Halden's protests when Ehren spotted something— or someone— he felt posed a threat to Benlan.

  Halden had glanced away from Rodar just long enough to give Ehren a cold look and a nod, though Rodar had greeted Ehren cheerfully enough. "Ehren! It's about time you paid a visit to your king, instead of skulking up and down the coast."

  Ehren held his tongue on the reminder of the reason he'd been skulking along the coast; Rodar was sincere enough in his grief for his father, but had been very good at pushing it to the back of his mind. Instead he said, "It'll be the last visit for some time, unless your majesty intervenes."

  Rodar frowned. His face was long and narrow, and the fuzz-short hairstyle he'd adopted did nothing for his features. He flapped an arm in protest— and to judge by the seamstress's alarm, narrowly avoided the stick of the needle. "What do you mean? I was counting on you to stand with me for the fete next week. Halden's managed to gather all the First and Second Level families together— no simple task, ey, Halden?"

  Halden turned a poisonous gaze on Ehren. "Indeed, quite a difficult one, requiring considerable persistence. But the effort is well worth it, to celebrate the start of your second year of rule."

  "Exactly. It's an important occasion, and I want Ehren there." Rodar's jaw set, but it only served to make him look slightly petulant instead of determined. For once his arms were still, his fists resting at his waist, but the seamstress had paused in her efforts to look at Ehren with an uncertain expression, curiosity peeking out.

  "Varien has other plans for me," Ehren said. He'd come straight from his discussion with the wizard, fully aware that he was armed in a way allowed only to the King's Guard in the king's presence. He rested his palm over the cold, smooth curve of his sword hilt; Halden's face tightened as he looked away. Ehren said, "Yours is the final say in this matter, Rodar. The Guard is yours."

  Halden shot him a quick look of anger, and suggested, "I'm sure Varien has good reason to request Ehren's services, Your Majesty."

  "What could be more important than having him at my side?" Rodar asked, in complete sincerity. "He's ranking Guard, and he was my father's most trusted protector."

  Halden contrived to look reluctant; Ehren suppressed a flash of irritation as Rodar picked up on it. "What's wrong?" the king asked. "Is there something I should know?"

  Halden said carefully, "There has been some discussion of this. While it's true Ehren was an important part of your father's court, some of the First Level have been concerned about the appearances of maintaining his presence."

  "What do you mean?" Rodar demanded. "How is it supposed to look? All of Solvany's monarchs have had their Guards beside them."

  "Exactly." Halden nodded with satisfaction, as if the conversation had taken just the spin he'd been aiming for.

  Ehren gave him a cold look, entertaining a brief fantasy of breaking the man's nose. The seamstress, a mature woman who knew well enough when to disappear, quietly moved back from Rodar's side to fiddle with some bright corded trim in her basket.

  Halden seemed oblivious to Ehren's inner seething; Ehren was certain he was not. The man said, "Ehren is your father's Guard, Sire, not yours. It might not be the wisest thing to retain him at all. In either case, celebrating the onset of your second year of rule by reminding the Levels that you have come upon your rule young and through the tragedy of your father's death cannot be a good thing."

  "My age has nothing to do with it!" Rodar said, but his voice squeaked a little in the saying of it. He gave Ehren a worried glance. "Do you really think— ?"

  "I think," Ehren said without hesitation, "that a king should weigh the advice he's given against his own judgment. And I think your father would prefer to see you as well-protected as possible, given what did happen to him."

  Halden ignored Ehren. "It's time to establish your own court, Sire, and your own Guard. All the rest of the palace shows the force of your personality; no one would mistake it for your father's." He left the conclusion dangling.

  Rodar glanced at Ehren and then quickly away, perhaps knowing the decision was already in his eyes. "I'll have to think about this, Ehren."

  And Ehren knew when there was no point in pushing a young monarch's patience. He might need it for another time. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. Halden he gave only a hard look. You, I'll remember.

  A short time later, Rodar sent Ehren a sincere but firm note validating Varien's assignment. And Ehren, exasperated and angry, went straight to the Guard practice room. If nothing else, it was time for him to check in with the new Guard master, a position that had not been filled when Ehren had left Kurtane, hot on the heels of fleeing conspirators.

  Now, his frustration eased, Ehren shoved the dummy back against the wall. When he turned around, the little group of Guards was moving his way. He recognized a few faces— at least two of them had started training before Benlan was killed. Jada and Algere were their names, and it was Jada who stopped in front of him, her broad, pleasant face troubled beneath its freckles. As he recalled, she was normally cheerful, more than a little flirtatious, and unquestioningly dedicated.

  "Ehren," she said. "You've only been back a few days, and we've heard— already you're off again?"

  "We've wanted to see you," Algere said. "We've honed our swords down to nothing, waiting for you to get back with some word of Benlan's killers."

  "Is that what happened to those weapons?" Ehren said, deadpan. "I wondered."

  It took them a minute; it was one of the young women in the back who giggled. Then Algere snorted, and nodded back at the other end of the paneled wood floor, where the Guard master was checking the practice equipment. "Varien seems to have connections in Loraka. He's been encouraging Rodar to make more open trade agreements. You should stick around, and get an idea of just how many things have changed around here."

  Yes, I should. But Ehren gave a short shake of his head. "Politics," he said. "I'm off over the border myself. Have a couple of things to check out."

  "Benlan?" Jada asked, coming alert. "Or the border gang we've been hearing about?"

  Border gang? "Neither that I know of. But I get the feeling..." Varien wanted him out of the way, all right, and Ehren was beginning to understand why. There was too much happening here, too much that needed careful watching. He didn't complete the thought out loud, but instead said, "If any of you need to get in touch with me, you can have a message sent to the border crossing. I'll get it."

  Jada and Algere exchanged a puzzled look; the younger Guards behind them didn't pretend to understand.

  "Listen," Ehren said. "Rodar is a young king. No younger, perhaps, than his father when he took the throne, but sometimes age isn't all in your years. There are plenty of people who'll see this as an opportunity. Preventing such opportunities is what the Guard is all about."

  "Ehren, if you know something, maybe you should tell us," Jada protested.

  Ehren shrugged. "If I knew something, I would."

  "Then," she said calmly, her hand on the hilt of her sword, "we'll be forced to beat it out of you." Behind her, the other young Guards stared at her in alarm, and then at Ehren, to see how he would take it.

  "Will you, now," he said, a slow smile finding its way to his face. He didn't feel like playing, not now. But this was an opening— an invitation back into the world that should have been his. He took a deliberately menacing step forward, raising his sword into second guard. The group scattered as Jada abruptly realized she'd neglected to free her weapon before she'd started this game, and she back-pedaled furiously, trying to unsheathe it before he was on her. It was a quick-paced contest; they ke
pt an open distance in unspoken regard for the fact that while Jada had on a leather practice brigandine, Ehren did not. Her moves were cat-swift and light, and he kept his the same, using wrist and fingers instead of brute strength— though she kept him on his toes with her frequent use of the sword point.

  Around them, the others shouted encouragement, and Ehren laughed when she managed an especially quick disengagement and slipped through his guard; his parry was a close thing. She was laughing, too, but her eyes widened in surprise when his riposte tagged her side. She gave a theatrical death groan, but Algere was ready to take her place, and the battle raged up and down the practice room until Ehren ended it by dramatically disarming his fifth— sixth?— opponent and saluting them all.

  "Now," he grumbled loudly, "I'll have to rest for an extra day before I leave."

  Jada was on the floor, giggling. Unrepentant. Ehren grinned down at her. But her expression suddenly faded and Ehren followed her gaze to find the Guard master coming up beside him— he didn't even know the man's name, for glory's sake— holding out one of the extra practice brigandines.

  "I would be honored," the man said, his Lorakan accent strong. "Someone should have seen to our introduction when you first returned. My name is Gerhard."

  Ehren looked at him a moment, seeing in the man's almost expressionless face a resolute duty. Of course Gerhard would feel obliged to offer himself for a bout. And in the man's expression, as well, was a glimmer of resignation, which could only mean one thing.

  Ehren could take him, and swiftly.

  Ehren gave Gerhard a sudden grin, and shook his head, blowing the drop of sweat off his upper lip. "If you'd managed to save me from them, perhaps," he said. "There's not much left of me, now."

  Gerhard lowered the brigandine; if there was relief on his face, it was well hidden behind his amiability. "Another time, perhaps."