“You are safe with me,” he said.
“I know that, lord. You are a good man.”
“No, I am not. But you can trust my words. No further harm will come to you, and I will see you safely home.”
“I do trust your words, Gray Man,” she replied. “My uncle said that words were just noises in the air. Trust deeds, he told me, not words. I will not be a burden to you. I will help with your wounds as we travel.”
“You are not a burden, Keeva,” he said softly, then heeled his horse forward.
She rode alongside him. “I told them you were coming. I told them you would kill them. But I didn’t really believe it. I just wanted them to know fear as I knew fear. Then you came. And they were terrified. It was wonderful.”
They rode for several hours, heading south and west, until they came to an old stone road leading to a secluded fishing settlement on the banks of a wide river. There were some forty houses, many of them stone built. The people there looked prosperous, thought Keeva. Even the children playing close by boasted tunics without patches or any sign of wear, and all wore shoes. The Gray Man was recognized instantly, and a crowd gathered. The village headman, a small, portly man with thinning blond hair, pushed his way through them. “Welcome, sir,” he said with a deep bow. Keeva could see fear in the man’s eyes and felt the nervous tension emanating from the small crowd. The Gray Man dismounted.
“Jonan, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Jonan,” answered the little headman, bowing once more.
“Well, be at ease, Jonan. I am merely passing through. I need some food for the rest of the journey, and my companion needs a change of clothing and a warm cloak.”
“It will be done instantly, sir. You are most welcome to wait in my home, where my wife will prepare some refreshments. Let me show you the way.” The little man bowed once more and turned toward the crowd. He gestured once at them, and they all bowed. Keeva climbed down from the tall horse and followed the two men. The Gray Man did not show any evidence of his wounds except that there was still dried blood on his ripped tunic.
Jonan’s house was of sand-fired brick, the frontage decorated with blackened timbers, the roof covered by red terracotta tiles. Jonan led them into a long living room. At the northern end was a large fireplace, also built with brick, and before it were set several deep leather chairs and a low table. The floor was of polished timber, adorned with attractive rugs beautifully crafted from Chiatze silk. The Gray Man eased himself into a chair, resting his head against the high backrest. A young blond woman entered. She smiled nervously at Keeva and curtseyed to the Gray Man.
“We have ale, sir,” she said, “or wine. Whatever pleases you.”
“Just some water, thank you,” he replied.
“We have apple juice if that would be preferable.”
He nodded. “That would be very fine.”
The small headman shifted from foot to foot. “May I sit, sir?” he asked.
“It is your house, Jonan. Of course you may sit.”
“Thank you.” He sank into the chair opposite. Keeva, unnoticed, sat down cross-legged on a rug. “It is a great pleasure and an honor to see you, sir,” continued Jonan. “Had we known you were coming, we could have prepared a feast in your honor.”
The woman returned, bringing a goblet of apple juice for the Gray Man and a tankard of ale for Jonan. As she backed away, she glanced down at Keeva and silently gestured for her to follow. Keeva rose from the floor and walked from the room, through the hall beyond, and into a long kitchen. The woman of the house was flustered, but she offered Keeva a seat at a pine table and filled a clay cup with juice. Keeva drank it.
“We did not know he was coming,” the woman said nervously, sitting down opposite Keeva. She ran her fingers through her long blond hair, pushing it back from her eyes and tying it at the nape of her neck.
“It is not an inspection,” Keeva said softly.
“No? You are sure?”
“I am sure. Some raiders attacked my village. He hunted them down and killed them.”
“Yes, he is a terrible killer,” said the woman, her hands trembling. “Has he harmed you?”
Keeva shook her head. “He rescued me from them. He is taking me home.”
“I thought my heart would stop beating when he rode in.”
“He owns this village, too?” asked Keeva.
“He owns all the lands of the Crescent. Bought them six years ago from Lord Aric, though he has been here only once in that time. We send him his taxes. In full,” she added quickly. Keeva did not respond to that. Surely no community paying full taxes could afford fine clothes, furniture, and Chiatze rugs. Nor would they be so nervous concerning inspections. But then, withholding taxes was, in her limited experience, a way of life among farmers and fishermen. Her brother had always managed to squirrel away one sack of grain in twenty to sell at the market in order to supply small luxuries to his family, such as new shoes or a better bed for himself and his wife.
“My name is Conae,” said the woman, relaxing a little.
“Keeva.”
“Did the raiders kill many in your village?”
“Five men and three women.”
“So many? How awful.”
“They came in at dusk. Some of the women managed to run, taking the children with them. The men tried to fight. It was over very quickly.” Keeva shuddered at the memory.
“Was your husband among them?”
“I am not married. I was living in Carlis with my uncle, and when he died last year, I went to work for my brother. He was killed. So was his wife. And they burned down our house.”
“You poor girl,” said Conae.
“I am alive,” said Keeva.
“Were you close to your brother?”
Keeva shook her head. “He was a hard man, and he treated me like a slave. His wife was little better.”
“You could stay here,” said Conae. “There are more young men than young girls, and a pretty creature like you could find a good husband.”
“I am not looking for a husband,” said Keeva. “Not yet,” she added, seeing the concern on Conae’s face. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a little while, then Conae smiled awkwardly and rose. “I’ll fetch you some clothes,” she said. “For your journey.”
As she left the room, Keeva leaned back in the chair. She was tired now and very hungry. Am I evil not to mourn Grava’s death? she wondered, picturing his broad face and small, cold eyes. He was a brute and you hated him, she told herself. It would be hypocrisy to pretend grief. Pushing herself to her feet, she moved across the kitchen, cutting herself a slab of bread and pouring another cup of apple juice. In the silence she could hear the conversation from the living room. Chewing on the bread, she moved closer to the wall. There was a closed wooden hatch crafted so that food could be passed from the kitchen. Putting her eye to the crack, she saw the Gray Man rise from his chair. Jonan stood also.
“There are bodies in the woods to the northeast,” said the Gray Man. “Send out some men to bury them and gather whatever weapons and coin they were carrying. Those you can keep. You will also find horses. Those will be brought to me at my house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One other thing, Jonan. Your profits from smuggling are nothing to do with me. Taxes on goods shipped in from Chiatze lands are subject to the duke’s laws, not mine. You should, however, bear in mind that the punishment for smugglers is severe indeed. I am reliably informed that the duke’s inspectors will be sent out in the next month.”
“You are mistaken, sir. We don’t …” His words trailed away as he met the Gray Man’s gaze.
“If the inspectors find you guilty, you will all be hanged. Then who will bring in the fish and pay me my taxes? Are you all blind here? You are a fishing settlement, yet your children wear clothes of the best wool, your women boast brooches of silver, and your own house has three rugs that would cost a year’s profit from a good fishing vessel. If there are any
old clothes left in this village, I suggest you find them. And when the inspectors arrive, make sure they are worn.”
“It will be as you say, sir,” Jonan said miserably.
Keeva pulled away from the hatch as Conae returned with a dress of blue wool, a pair of high-laced ankle-length shoes, and a brown woolen cloak lined with rabbit fur. Keeva put them on. The dress was a little loose, the shoes a perfect fit.
Jonan called out for the women, and they both returned to the living room. The Gray Man was on his feet. Reaching into a pouch by his side, he gave Jonan several small silver coins in payment for the clothes.
“That is not necessary, sir,” said Jonan.
Ignoring him, the Gray Man turned to Conae. “Thank you for your hospitality, lady.”
Conae curtseyed.
The horses were outside, the saddlebags bulging with food for the journey. The Gray Man helped Keeva mount, then stepped into the saddle.
Without a word of farewell he rode from the settlement, Keeva following.
2
THEY RODE IN silence for a little while, and Keeva saw that the Gray Man’s face was stern. She guessed he was angry. Even so, she noted that he studied the land as he rode, always alert and watchful. Clouds obscured the sun, and a little light rain began to fall. Keeva lifted her hood into place and drew her new fur-lined cloak about her.
The rain passed swiftly, sunlight spearing through a break in the clouds. The Gray Man angled his horse up a shallow slope and paused at the top. Keeva drew alongside.
“How are your wounds?” she asked him.
“Almost healed,” he said.
“In such a short time? I don’t think so.”
He shrugged and, satisfied that the way was clear of danger, heeled the steeldust forward.
Throughout the long afternoon they rode steadily, once more entering the forest. An hour before dusk the Gray Man found a campsite beside a stream and set a fire.
“Are you angry with the villagers for cheating you?” Keeva asked as the flames licked at the dry wood.
“No. I am angry at their stupidity.” He looked at her. “You were listening?”
She nodded. The Gray Man’s face softened. “You are a canny girl, Keeva. You remind me of my daughter.”
“Does she live with you?”
“No, she lives far away in another land. I have not seen her in several years. She is married now to an old friend of mine. They had two sons, last I heard.”
“You have grandsons.”
“In a manner of speaking. She is my adopted daughter.”
“Do you have children of your own?”
He fell silent for a moment, and in the firelight she saw a look of deep sadness touch him. “I had children, but they … died,” he said. “Let us see what food Jonan’s wife prepared for us.” Rising smoothly, he moved to the saddlebags and returned with a hunk of ham and some freshly baked bread. They ate in silence. Keeva gathered more dry wood and fed the fire. The clouds had returned, but the night was not cold. The Gray Man removed his shirt.
“Time to draw these stitches,” he said.
“The wounds cannot have healed,” she told him sternly. “The stitches should remain for at least ten days. My uncle—”
“Was a very wise man,” said the Gray Man. “But see for yourself.”
Keeva moved closer to him and examined the wounds. He was right. The skin had healed, and already scar tissue had formed. Taking his hunting knife, she carefully cut through the twine, pulling each stitch clear.
“I have never heard of anyone healing this fast,” she said as he pulled on his shirt. “Do you know magic?”
“No. But once I was healed by a monster. It changed me.”
“A monster?”
He grinned at her. “Aye, a monster. Seven feet tall with a single eye in the center of his forehead—an eye that had two pupils.”
“You are making fun of me,” she chided him.
The Gray Man shook his head. “No, I am not. His name was Kai. He was a freak of nature, a man-beast. I was dying, and he laid his hands upon me, and all my wounds closed—healed in a heartbeat. Ever since then I have known no sickness, no winter chills, no fevers, no boils. I think even time has slowed for me, for I should by now be spending my days sitting in a comfortable chair with a blanket around my knees. He was a fine man, Kai.”
“What happened to him?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps he is happy somewhere; perhaps he is dead.”
“You have lived an interesting life,” she said.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seventeen.”
“Kidnapped by raiders and taken away into the forest. There are some in years to come who will hear of this tale and say, ‘You have lived an interesting life.’ What will you say to them?”
Keeva smiled. “I shall agree, and they will envy me.”
He laughed then, the sound full of good humor. “I like you, Keeva,” he said. Then, adding wood to the fire, he stretched out and covered himself with a blanket.
“I like you, too, Gray Man,” she said.
He did not answer, and she saw that he was already asleep.
She looked at his face in the firelight. It was strong—the face of a fighter—yet she could detect no cruelty there.
Keeva slept and woke with the dawn. The Gray Man was already up. He was sitting by the stream and splashing water onto his face. Then, using his hunting knife, he shaved away the black and silver stubble from his chin and cheeks. “Did you sleep well?” he asked as he returned to the fire.
“Yes,” she told him. “No dreams. It was wonderful.” He looked so much younger without the stubble, a man perhaps in his late thirties. She wondered momentarily how old he was. Forty-five? Fifty-five? Surely not older.
“We should be at your settlement by noon,” he said.
Keeva shivered, remembering the murdered women. “There is nothing there for me. I was staying with my brother and his wife. They are both dead, the farmhouse burned.”
“What will you do?”
“Go back to Carlis and seek work.”
“Are you trained in some craft or skill?”
“No, but I can learn.”
“I can offer you employment at my home,” he said.
“I will not be your mistress, Gray Man,” she told him.
He smiled broadly. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?”
“No, but why else are you offering to take me to your palace?”
“Do you think so little of yourself?” he countered. “You are intelligent and brave. I also think you are trustworthy and would be loyal. I have one hundred thirty servants at my home, administering often to more than fifty guests. You would clean rooms, prepare beds for those guests, and help out in the kitchens. For this I will pay you two silvers a month. You will have your own room and one day a week free of all duties. Think on it.”
“I accept,” she said.
“Then let it be so.”
“Why do you have so many guests?”
“My home—my palace, as you call it—houses several libraries, an infirmary, and a museum. Scholars come from all over Kydor to study there. There is also a separate center in the south tower for students and physicians to analyze medicinal herbs and their uses, and three further halls have been set aside for the treatment of the sick.”
Keeva remained silent for a while; then she looked into his eyes. “I am sorry,” she said.
“Why would you apologize? You are an attractive young woman, and I can understand why you would fear unwelcome advances. You do not know me. Why should I be trusted?”
“I trust you,” she told him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“If you have a palace, why are your clothes so old, and why do you ride out alone to protect your lands? Think of all you could lose.”
“Lose?” he countered.
“All your wealth.”
“Wealth is a sma
ll thing, Keeva, tiny like a grain of sand. It only seems large to those who do not possess it. You talk of ‘my’ palace. It is not mine. I built it, and I live within it. Yet one day I will die and the palace will have another owner. Then he will die. And so it goes on. A man ‘owns’ nothing but his life. He holds items briefly in his hand. If they are made of metal or stone, they will surely outlive him and be owned by someone else for a short time. If they are cloth, he will—with luck—outlive them. Look around you at the trees and the hills. According to Kydor law, they are mine. You think the trees care that they are mine? Or the hills, the same hills that were bathed in sunlight when my earliest ancestors walked the earth? The same hills that will still be covered in grass when the last man turns to dust?”
“I see that,” said Keeva, “but with all your wealth you can have everything you want for the rest of your life. Every pleasure, every joy is available to you.”
“There is not enough gold in all the world to supply what I want,” he said.
“And what is that?”
“A clean conscience,” he said. “Now, do you wish to return to the settlement to see your brother buried?”
The conversation was obviously over. Keeva shook her head. “No. I don’t want to go there.”
“Then we will push on. We should reach my home by dark.”
Cresting a hill, they began the slow descent onto a wide plain. As far as the eye could see there were ruins everywhere. Keeva drew rein and stared out over the plain. In some places there were merely a few white stones; in others the shapes of buildings could still be seen. Toward the west, against a granite cliff face, there were the remains of two high towers that had crumbled at the base and crashed to the ground like felled trees.
“What was this place?” she asked.
The Gray Man gazed over the ruins. “An ancient city called Kuan Hador. No one knows who built it or why it fell. Its history is lost in the mists of time.” He looked at her and smiled. “I expect the people here once believed they owned the hills and the trees,” he said.
They rode down onto the plain. Some way to the west Keeva saw a mist rolling between the jagged ruins. “Speaking of mists,” she said, pointing it out to her companion. Waylander halted his horse and glanced to the west. Keeva rode alongside. “Why are you loading your crossbow?” she asked him as his hands slid two bolts into the grooves in the small black weapon.