“As long as the sinyi don’t find us first,” the grumbler said, undaunted. All hissed, a long malicious sibilance as chilling as wind over frozen grass.
“If the sinyi do find us,” the leader said, “if the dasksinyi or irsinyi find us, it will be because some one of you was clumsy… some one of you was hasty… some one of you could not obey my commands and thought to outwit me. Then it would be better for that one to be brought before the forest lord, than before me.” Silence followed; after a time he said, “Is that understood?”
“Yes, lord,” came the response.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Years passed, peacefully enough. Each summer a caravan came, bringing news from the eastern lands that seemed increasingly irrelevant. Late each summer they left, taking with them the copies of the Code, of commentary and history, and taking also the memory of a high red land peopled with grave, courteous folk. As time went on, a few stayed, some of mageborn parentage and some not, but all intrigued by a way of life so different from their own. Craftsmen, finding a market for superlative skill; scholars; judicars intent on pursuing fine points of law; even a few Marshals, unhappy with changes in the Fellowship.
Some disliked the stronghold and its inhabitants intensely. They claimed to sense evil; they blamed the mageborn for using their powers. Their companions laughed—in the face of that peace, that prosperity, that hive of diligent workers who quarrelled so seldom and shared so readily, such suspicions reflected on those who voiced them. Perhaps the old magelords had been evil, but not that child charming a bird to sing on his finger. Not that woman whose magery lifted the bundles from the pack animals and set them gently in a row. The suspicious never returned—and some did not survive the trip home, having angered their companions with too many arguments.
For the first ten years or so, Aris and Seri travelled often, sometimes to Fin Panir, where their adventures furnished the substance of many a fireside tale and song. Their other adventures, in distant Xhim, on the vast steppes, no one knew but themselves and the gods. Luap worried, every time, that they might not return. Later, they spent most of their time—in the end all of it— in the stronghold, for despite Seri’s warnings, the mageborn did not maintain active watchposts or keep up militia training unless she was there. They depended on the Khartazh to guard them on the west, and on the desert and mountains to protect them on the other sides.
By the time Cob died, Luap’s position as a distant, powerful, but valued ally had become secure. His version of Gird’s life, of the history of the war, spread copyist by copyist throughout the land. Power kept him young, something he concealed from each year’s visitors as well as his own folk. He lived on, and the other witnesses to Gird’s Life died, one by one, until he was the last who had fought in that army, who had known anything but the end of Gird’s life.
The Council of Marshals even invited him back to be Marshal; his refusal won him support as a moderate, modest man, although the more violent said it proved his weakness. He noticed, in reports of the gossips, that Raheli’s influence lasted beyond her own death. She was blamed for a militant and violent strain of Girdish rule that Luap was sure Gird would not have approved. He ignored the counter-arguments that she had compromised with Koris and his successor only to ensure that women retained their rights in the grange organization, that she herself, and her followers, had been moderate. Rahi’s death left him free to write Gird’s Life as it should have been—he would prove he was right, and she had been wrong. Aris and Seri still held Gird’s original dream, and something in Aris’s clear gaze kept Luap from openly admitting that he had no intention of reuniting the two peoples, not now or in the future.
The others were content to leave the eastern lands to their own affairs.
Luap’s calendars of the western lands, meticulously kept though they were, interested Aris little…
Aris climbed the last few steps to the eastern watchtower, aware that he no longer wanted to run up them. He didn’t feel older, but he was, when he thought of it, acting older. He put down the sack of food and the waterskin without speaking to Seri; she was watching something in the eastern sky, and she would speak when she knew what it was.
In the changeable light of blowing clouds, the stone walls and towers seemed alive, shifting shape like demons of a dream. Clefts and hollows in the rocks gave them faces that leered and mocked the watchers, faces that smoothed into bland obscurity when the light steadied. Far below, he could hear the moaning of the great pines; up here, the wind whistled through the watchtower openings.
He felt on edge, his teeth ready to grip something and shake it, his hands curling into fists whenever he wasn’t thinking about them. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, the senior healer with students (none too promising) under him, too old for such feelings. He glanced at Seri, then stared. He rarely looked at her; he felt her presence always, so familiar that he did not need to see her. But now: when had gray touched that wild hair, and when had those lines appeared beside her eyes, her mouth? From vague unease, he fell into panic. Seri aging? Getting old?
As always, she reacted to his change of mood before he could move or speak. “Aris. What’s wrong?” Her eyes were still the clear, mischievous eyes he had always known; her expression held the same affection. He shook his head.
“I—don’t know. Something just—”
“I’m on edge too, and I don’t think just from you.” She turned to look out again, the same direction. “Maybe it’s this weather; it’s hard to see, hard to judge distance, even for landmarks I know. I keep thinking I see shadowy things flying in the upper canyons, something moving along the walls—but of course those are the cloudshadows, blowing all over.” She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and sat down abruptly. “Whatever it is, if it’s not nonsense, can’t get here before we eat our dinner.”
Aris unwrapped the kettle. “Kesil and Barha brought back a wildcat and two stags; we have plenty of meat in this stew. And the bread is today’s baking; Zil wanted you to have this fresh. He tried something new, he said. I’m to slice it from this end.” Seri spooned out two bowlfuls of stew, while Aris sliced the narrow loaf. “Ah… I see… he filled it with jam.”
“Before baking? Let me try.” Seri took a slice and bit into it. “Good—better than spreading it on after. And perfect with this stew.”
Aris leaned back against the stone wall, noticing how its chill came through his shirt. Soon time to change to winter garb, he thought. He munched thoughtfully, carefully not thinking about how Seri looked, which was harder than it should have been. He found he was thinking of how everyone looked; how old or young everyone looked. Babies born the first few years had grown to adulthood… men and women who had been much older now looked it, white haired and wrinkled. Men and women his own age—he did not pay that much attention to, outside of sickness, and they were rarely sick. He frowned, trying to count the years and see the progress of time on some familiar face. Luap? But Luap had not aged at all. Had he?
Seri’s warm shoulder butted against his. “You’re worrying again. Tell me.”
He put down his bowl of stew, still nearly full, and saw that Seri had finished hers. Her hands, wiping the bowl with a crust of bread, were brown, weathered, the skin on the backs of them rougher than he remembered. When he looked at her face, the threads of gray in her hair were still there, really there. “You’re older,” he blurted. Seri grinned, the same old mocking grin.
“Older? Of course I am, and so are you. Did you think this magical place would hold us young forever?”
“But you—you never had children!” He had not thought of it before, but now it seemed so obvious, with all the others having children, with all the children growing up around them.
“Did you want children?” Seri asked, eyes wide.
“I never thought about it,” Aris admitted. “Not until now. I just wanted to heal people…”
“That’s what I thought,” said Seri. She nudged him again. “You had other things to do, and s
o did I.”
“But—” He could not say more. He knew what “other things” she had had to do; she had had him to look after, to care for when he pushed his healing trance too far. And she had shared in the same tasks as all the adults not busy with children: planting, harvesting, taking her turn at guard duty, drilling the younglings, working on whatever needed doing. She had many skills; she used all of them.
“Aris.” Her strong hands took his face and turned it toward hers.
“Aris, you are not like other men, and I am not like other women. We were never meant to be lovers and have a family like everyone else. We are partners; we are working on the same thing, and it’s not a family.”
“I suppose.” A cold sorrow pierced him, from whence he could not say. Was he an adult? Could an adult have gone on, heedless of time, year after year, pursuing his own interests and ignoring the changes around him? Was that not a child’s way?
“Think of Arranha,” Seri went on. “He gave his life to his service of Esea. He could never have been a father. Think of the Marshal-General.” He knew she meant Gird by that. “Did he marry and have another family? No. Or his daughter Raheli?”
Aris stirred uneasily. He had always wished Rahi would let him try to heal her, and had always been afraid to ask. Now it was too late; she had died without children, and he knew she had wanted them.
“Besides,” Seri said, chuckling. “If everyone had children, as many as they could, with your healing powers, the world would be overrun with people. Would the elves like that, or the dwarves? And where would the horsefolk wander, if farmers moved out onto the grasslands? No, Ari: it’s better as it is. You didn’t think of fatherhood; I didn’t care that much. If it makes you feel better, think that I took you as my child.”
Aris felt his ears go hot; it did not make him feel better. He cleared his throat and said the first thing that came into his head. “But Luap hasn’t aged.”
The quality of Seri’s silence made him look at her again. Eyes slitted almost shut, mouth tight, she stared past him into the wall. Then her eyes opened wide. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought. He’s older than we are; we thought he looked old when we first saw him. And he hasn’t changed. The Rosemage—”
“Some, not much.” A few strands of white in her hair, a few more lines on her face… but that wasn’t something he looked at, or thought about, much of the time.
“He’s using magery.” Seri’s tone left no doubt which “he” she meant, or that she disapproved. “I didn’t know he could do that. Will he be immortal, like the elves?”
“I… don’t know.” Aris had never considered that use of magery; he could not imagine its limitations or methods. “He must get the power somewhere—for something like that—”
“But you know I’m right,” Seri said, her eyes snapping. “You know he’s doing it—it’s the only explanation.”
“I suppose.” Other possibilities flickered through his mind, to vanish as he realized they could not be true. Long lives bred long lives, yes: but not this long with no trace of aging. The royal magery itself? No, for the tales told of kings aging normally, concerned that their heirs were too young as they grew feeble. Could he be doing it without realizing it? Hardly. Aris knew Luap to be sensitive to subtleties in those around him; he must have noticed the changes, the graying hair and wrinkling skin, and known his own did not change. “I must talk to him,” he said. “He must tell me what he’s doing, and why.”
“The why is clear enough,” Seri said. “He doesn’t want to die, that’s all.”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s more than that. You know he always has two plans nested in a third; for something like this he must have more than one reason.”
“He won’t thank you for noticing,” Seri said, taking the last bite of her bread. “Not now.”
Aris knew she was right, but felt less awe of Luap than he had for some years, now that he knew whence that unchanging calm had come. “I’ll be back,” he said, “to tell you what his reasons are.”
“If he’ll give them.” She handed him the empty pot and cloth; Aris took them and fought the wind back to the entrance shaft.
Usually he met Luap several times in an afternoon, without looking for him, as they both moved about their tasks. Now he could not find him. Aris looked in his office—empty—and in the archives—also empty. He carried the pot back to the kitchen, where Luap sometimes stopped to chat with the cooks. They took the pot without interest; Luap was not there. They didn’t know where he was… and why should they? they said, busily scraping redroots to boil. Aris looked in his own domain, where he found the others busily labelling pots of the salve they’d made that morning: the task he had given them. No Luap, and he had not stopped by while Aris was gone. Back down to the lower level, where the doorward at the lower entrance said yes, Luap had gone out some time before. He often took short, casual walks; he would be back soon, the doorward was sure.
Aris took the downward slope toward the main canyon without really thinking about it. Luap might have gone across to visit any of those who had hollowed out private homes in the fin of rock across from the entrance. He might have gone for a dip in the stream, though it was a cool day for that. But he walked most often out to the main canyon and across the arched bridge, so Aris took that route.
The main canyon, under the blowing clouds, looked as strange as it had from above. Aris paused on the arch of the bridge, and looked upstream and down. The wheat and oats had been harvested; the stubble in some terraces had already been dug under, while others looked like carding combs, all the teeth upright. Around the edges of the terraces, the redroots and onions made a green fringe against the yellow stubble. Down the canyon, he could see the tops of the cottonwoods turning yellow. Upcanyon, a few of the berry-bushes had turned dull crimson. For a moment he thought he saw a wolf slinking among them, but it was only a cloudshadow, that slid on up the canyon wall like a vast hand.
But no Luap. Aris walked on to the pine grove on the south side of the canyon, and found a child bringing goats back… the child had not seen Luap. He came back across the bridge, telling himself that he was being silly, that not seeing Luap for a few hours meant nothing. But his heart hammered; he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
“Aris—you’re needed!” Garin waved at him as he went past the storeroom where the herbal remedies were kept.
“What?” His voice sounded cross to him; he saw by Garin’s surprise that it sounded cross to others. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What is it?”
“A child of Porchai’s has fallen down the rocks—you know they’ve made that new place, the next canyon over—”
“I know it.” And he’d told them to be careful, with three young children, all active climbers.
“A badly broken leg, the word is. The runner came in just after you were here before.”
“I’ll go,” he said. “No, you stay—I’ll take one of the prentices.” He chose the one who had the sense to have a bag packed ready— Kevye, that was—and strode out. He would certainly find Luap when he got back.
The shortest route to the Porchai place lay through a tunnel cut through the fin that separated the two narrow canyons. Aris disliked the tunnel; he had argued against making it, despite the distance it saved those who lived on the far side. But convenience and speed mattered more to most people than his concerns about safety. The tunnel was cleared and lighted by magery; most of those who had need to go from one side-canyon to another used it. Aris rarely did, but could not justify leaving a patient in danger just to satisfy himself. He strode through quickly, hardly noticing the stripes of red and orange in the rocks on either side.
Irieste Porchai met him as he came out, crying so he could hardly understand her. “You said be careful of the dropoff, and we were, I swear it. He was climbing up from the creek, and slipped— turned to look at something, I think.”
“It’s all right. He’s awake? He can see?” But he could hear the child now, fretful whim
pers interrupted with screams when anyone came near or tried to move him. He moved quickly to the sound, and found a small child lying twisted on the ground, the bones of his legs sticking out through bloody wounds. He knelt beside the boy, and put his hands on the dark hair. First he must be sure nothing worse had happened.
“Lie still,” Iri Porchai said to the child. “It’s the healer, Lord Aris.” Even at the moment, he wished she had not used that title; he’d never liked it. But he’d never convinced the mageborn not to use it.
The child’s head rested on his palms now… he let his fingers feel about through sweat-matted hair. A lump there, and a wince; a small bruise. He felt nothing worse, and his hands already burned with the power he would spend. He let the child’s head down on a folded cloth someone had brought, and ran his hands lightly over the small body. The child looked pale, and was breathing rapidly: pain and fright, Aris thought. All the ribs intact, and no damage to the belly or flank. He looked more closely at the legs. Both were broken, and both breaks split the skin; on the left, one bone stuck out a thumbwidth; on the right, the child’s flailing had drawn the bone ends back inside. With all that dirt on them, Aris thought. This would not be easy, even for magery. Aligning such badly broken bones, healing the ragged tissues… he would be here until after sunfall. He looked up at his prentice. “Kev—you’ll have to steady his legs for me; we must be sure the bones are straight.”
“Don’t hurt me!” cried the boy, trying to thrash again.
“It won’t hurt,” Aris said, “if we get them straight in the first place.” He wished he had Gurith’s power of charming the pain away; this would hurt until the healing was well begun. “Come now—we’ll be quick.” He nodded to Kevre and to the adults who would help hold the boy still.