Horace picked a crumbled piece of granite from a corner of the balustrade and tossed it far out into the void below, watching it fall, seeming to curve in toward the castle walls until it was lost from view.
“I know,” he said moodily, “but I wish we could do something.”
Halt glanced up from his task. Although he hid the fact, his sense of frustration was even sharper than Horace’s. If he were on his own, Halt could escape from this castle with the greatest ease. But to do so, he would have to abandon Horace—and he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead, he found himself torn by conflicting loyalties—to Will, and to the young man who had unselfishly chosen to accompany him in search of a friend. He knew that Deparnieux would show no mercy to Horace if Halt were to escape. At the same time, every fiber of his being ached to be on the road and in pursuit of his lost apprentice. He dropped his eyes to the almost completed bow again, careful to keep any sense of his own frustration out of his voice.
“The next move is up to our host, I’m afraid,” he told Horace. “He’s not sure what to make of me. He’s not sure whether I might be useful to him. And while he’s uncertain, he’s on his guard. That makes him dangerous.”
“Then surely we might as well fight him?” Horace asked, but Halt shook his head emphatically.
“I’d rather he relaxed a little,” he said. “I’d rather he felt we were not as dangerous, or as useful, as he first assumed. I can sense he’s trying to make his mind up about me. That business with the cook was a test.”
The first drops of rain spattered onto the flagstones. Horace looked up, realizing with some surprise that the clouds, seemingly so far away only a few minutes ago, were already scudding overhead.
“A test?” he repeated.
Halt twisted his face into a grimace. “He wanted to see what I would do about it. Maybe he wanted to see what Icould do about it.”
“So you did nothing?” Horace challenged, and instantly regretted the hasty words. Halt, however, took no offense. He met the boy’s gaze steadily, saying nothing. Eventually, Horace dropped his eyes and mumbled, “Sorry, Halt.”
Halt nodded, registering the apology. “There wasn’t much I could do, Horace,” he explained gently. “Not while Deparnieux was keyed up and on his guard. That’s not the time to take action against an enemy. I’m afraid,” he added in a warning tone, “the next few weeks are going to bring us more of these tests.”
That gained Horace’s attention immediately. “What do you think he has in mind?”
“I don’t know the details,” Halt said. “But you can bet that our friend Deparnieux will perform more unpleasant acts, just to see what I do about them.” Again, the ex-Ranger grimaced. “The point is, the more I do nothing, the more he will relax, and the less careful he will be around me.”
“And that’s what you want?” Horace queried, beginning to understand. Halt nodded grimly in reply.
“That’s what I want,” he said. He glanced at the dark clouds that were whipping overhead. “Now come inside before you get soaked,” he suggested.
The rain came and went over the next hour, pelting in on the wind, driven almost horizontally through those open window spaces of the Château where the occupants had neglected to close the wooden shutters.
An hour before dark, the rain cleared as the ever-present wind drove the clouds farther south, and the low sun broke through in the west, in a spectacular display against the dispersing storm clouds.
The two prisoners were watching the sunset from their windswept terrace when they heard a commotion below them.
A lone horseman was at the main gate, hammering on the giant brass bell that hung on a post there. He was dressed as a knight, carrying sword and lance and shield. He was young, they could see—probably only a year or two older than Horace.
The newcomer stopped hammering and filled his lungs to shout. He spoke, or rather shouted, in Gallic, and Horace had no idea what he was saying, although he certainly recognized the name “Deparnieux.”
“What’s he saying?” he asked Halt, and the Ranger held up a hand to hush him as he listened to the last few words from the knight.
“He’s challenging Deparnieux,” he said, his head cocked to one side to make out the strange knight’s words more clearly. Horace made an impatient gesture.
“I gathered that!” he said with some asperity. “But why?”
Halt waved him to silence as the newcomer continued to shout. The tone was angry enough, but the words were a little difficult to make out as they ebbed and flowed on the swirling wind.
“From what I can understand,” Halt said slowly, “our friend Deparnieux murdered this fellow’s family—while he was away on a quest. They’re very big on quests here in Gallica.”
“So what happened?” Horace wanted to know. But the Ranger could only shrug in reply.
“Apparently Deparnieux wanted the family’s lands, so he got rid of the lad’s parents.” He listened further and said, “They were on the elderly side and relatively helpless.”
Horace grunted. “That sounds like what we know about Deparnieux.”
Abruptly, the stranger ceased shouting, turned his horse and trotted away from the gate to wait for a reaction. For a few minutes, there was no sign that anyone other than Halt and Horace had paid the slightest attention. Then a sally port in the massive wall crashed open and a black-armored figure on a jet-black battlehorse emerged.
Deparnieux cantered slowly to a position a hundred meters from the other knight. They faced each other while the young knight repeated his challenge. On the castle ramparts, Horace and Halt could see Deparnieux’s men eagerly taking up vantage positions to watch the coming battle.
“Vultures,” Halt muttered at the sight of them.
The black-clad knight made no reply to the stranger. He simply reached up with the edge of his shield and flicked the visor on his helmet closed. That was enough for his challenger. He slammed down his own visor and set spurs to his battlehorse. Deparnieux did the same and they charged toward each other, lances leveled.
Even at a distance, Halt and Horace could see that the young man was not very skilled. His seat was awkward and his positioning of shield and lance was clumsy. Deparnieux, by contrast, looked totally coordinated and frighteningly capable as they thundered together.
“This doesn’t look good,” Horace said in a worried tone.
They struck with a resounding crash that echoed off the walls of the castle. The young knight’s lance, badly positioned and at the wrong angle, shattered into pieces. By contrast, Deparnieux’s lance struck squarely into the other knight’s shield, sending him reeling in the saddle as they passed. Yet strangely, Deparnieux appeared to lose his grasp on his own lance. It fell away into the grass behind him as he wheeled his horse for the return pass. For a moment, Horace felt a surge of hope.
“He’s injured!” he said eagerly. “That’s a stroke of luck!”
But Halt was frowning, shaking his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “There’s something fishy going on here.”
The two armored warriors now drew their broadswords and charged again. They crashed together. Deparnieux took the other knight’s stroke on his shield. His own sword struck ringingly against his opponent’s helmet, and again the young man reeled in the saddle.
The battlehorses screamed in fury as they circled and reared now, with each rider trying to gain a winning position. The warriors struck at each other again and again as they came within reach, Deparnieux’s men cheering every time their lord landed a blow.
“What’s he doing?” Horace asked, his earlier excitement gone. “He could have finished him off after that first stroke!” His voice took on a tone of disgust as he realized the truth. “He’s playing with him!”
Below them, the ringing, slithering screech of sword on sword continued, interspersed by the duller clang as they struck each other’s shield. To experienced spectators like Halt and Horace, who had seen many tourna
ments at Castle Redmont, Deparnieux was obviously holding back. His men, however, didn’t seem to notice. They were peasants who had no real knowledge of the skills involved in a duel such as this. They continued to roar their approval with each stroke Deparnieux landed.
“He’s playing to the audience,” Halt said, indicating the men-at-arms on the ramparts below them. “He’s making the other man look better than he really is.”
Horace shook his head. Deparnieux was showing yet another side of his cruel nature by prolonging the battle like this. Far better to give the young knight a merciful end than to toy with him.
“He’s a swine,” he said in a low voice. Deparnieux’s behavior went against all the tenets of chivalry that meant so much to him. Halt nodded agreement.
“We knew that already. He’s using this lad to boost his own reputation.”
Horace threw him a puzzled look and he explained further.
“He rules by fear. His hold over his men depends on how much they respect and fear him. And he has to keep renewing that fear. He can’t let it slip. By making his opponent look better than he really is, he enhances his own reputation as a great warrior. These men”—he gestured contemptuously at the ramparts below—“don’t know any better.”
Deparnieux seemed to decide that he had prolonged matters long enough. The two Araluens detected a subtle change in the tempo and power of his blows. The young knight swayed under the onslaught and tried to give ground. But the black-armored figure urged his battlehorse after him, following him relentlessly, raining blows on sword, shield or helmet at will. Finally, there was a duller sound as Deparnieux’s sword struck a vulnerable point—the chain mail protecting his opponent’s neck.
The black knight knew it was a killing stroke. Contemptuously, he wheeled his horse toward the castle gate, without a backward glance at his opponent, who was crumpling sideways from the saddle. The ramparts resounded with cheers as the limp figure crashed onto the turf and lay, unmoving. The gate slammed shut behind the victor.
Halt stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“I think,” he said, “we might have found the key to our problem with Lord Deparnieux.”
31
IT WAS MIDMORNING WHEN EVANLYN WOKE, ALTHOUGH SHE had no way of knowing it. There was no sign of the sun. It was hidden behind the low-lying snow clouds. The light was so flat and diffused that it seemed to come from every direction and no direction. It was daylight and that was all she knew.
She eased her cramped muscles and looked around. Beside her, Will sat upright and wide-awake. He may have been that way for hours or he may have woken only minutes before her. There was no way of knowing. He simply sat, eyes wide, rocking slowly back and forward and staring straight ahead.
It tore at her heart to see him that way.
As she stirred, the horse sensed her movement and began to heave itself back upright. She moved away from the animal to give it room, taking Will’s hand and pulling him away too. The horse came to its feet and stamped once or twice, then shook itself and snorted violently, blowing a huge cloud of steam into the frigid air.
The snow had stopped during the night but not before it had obliterated all sign of their passage to the hollow under the tree. It would be a hard slog back to the path, Evanlyn realized, but at least she was rested now. She thought briefly about eating—there was a small supply of food in the pack—then she discarded the idea, in favor of moving on and putting more distance between them and Hallasholm. She had no way of knowing that the search parties had already been recalled by Borsa.
She decided that she could live for a few more hours with the empty feeling in her belly, but not with the raging thirst that had dried her mouth. Moving to a point where the snow lay thick and new, she took a handful and put it in her mouth, letting it melt there. It produced a surprisingly small amount of water, so she repeated the action several more times. She considered showing Will how to do the same but suddenly felt impatient to be on their way. If he was thirsty, she reasoned, he could work it out for himself.
She strapped the pack saddle onto the pony’s back again, tightening the girths as much as she could. The pony, canny in the way of its kind, tried to suck air and expand his belly, so he could exhale and allow the straps to loosen. But Evanlyn had been awake to that trick since she had been eleven years old. She kneed the horse firmly in the belly, forcing him to gasp the air out, then, as his body contracted, she jerked the straps tight. The pony turned a reproachful eye on her but otherwise accepted his fate philosophically.
As she led the way out from under the tree, forcing a path once more through the waist-deep snow, Will made a move to mount the pony. She stopped him, holding up a hand and saying no gently to him. They needed the pony and Will should be rested after an undisturbed night in the relative warmth of the snow hollow. Later, she might need to let him ride the horse again. She knew his reserves of strength couldn’t be very deep. But for now, he could walk and they could preserve the little horse’s strength as much as possible.
It took five minutes’ hard work to reach the relatively easy going of the path once more, and already breathing hard and wet with perspiration, she doggedly resumed her uphill path.
The horse plodded patiently behind her and Will walked half a pace to her right. His low-level, nonstop keening was beginning to set her teeth on edge, but she did her best to ignore it, knowing that he couldn’t help it. For the hundredth time since they had left Hallasholm, she found herself wishing for the day when he might have finally expelled all traces of the drug from his system.
That day was to be further postponed, unfortunately. After a couple of hours of solid, dogged plodding through the fresh fallen snow, Will was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable fit of shivering.
His teeth chattered and his body shook and trembled and heaved as he fell to the ground, rolling helplessly in the snow, his knees drawn up to his chest. One hand flailed uselessly at the snow, while the other was jammed firmly in his mouth. She watched in horror as the moaning turned to a shuddering cry, dragged deep from his soul and torn with agony. She dropped to her knees beside him, putting her arms around him and trying to soothe him with her voice. But he jerked away from her, rolling and thrashing again, and she realized that there was nothing for it but to give him a little of the warmweed Erak had put in the pack. She’d seen it already when she had searched for warm clothes and blankets. There was a small amount of the dried leaf packed in an oiled linen pouch. Jarl Erak had warned her that Will would not be able to quit the drug straightaway. Warmweed built up a physical dependence in its addicts, so that total deprivation meant actual pain.
She would have to gradually wean the boy off the drug, he had told her, by giving him ever-decreasing amounts at ever-increasing intervals until he could cope with the deprivation.
Evanlyn had hoped that Erak might be wrong. She knew that each dose of the drug extended the time of the dependence further and she had hoped that she might just be able to cut off Will’s supply straightaway and help him cope with the pain and torment. But there was no help for him as he was now and, reluctantly, she let him have a small amount of the dried leaf, shielding the pouch with her body as she took it from the pack, then again when she returned it.
Will seized the small handful of the gray, herblike substance with horrifying eagerness. For the first time, she saw a glint of expression in his normally dull gaze. But his attention was totally focused on the drug and she came to realize how completely it ruled his life and his mind these days. Silently, tears forming in her eyes, she watched the hollow shell who had once been such a vital, enthusiastic companion. She condemned Borsa and the other Skandians who had caused this to the hottest corner of whatever hell they believed in.
The apprentice Ranger crammed the small amount of leaf into his mouth, forcing it into one cheek and allowing the saliva to soak it and release the juice that would carry the narcotic through his system. Gradually, the shuddering spasms calmed down, until he knelt in t
he snow beside the path, hunched over, rocking gently backward and forward, eyes slitted, once again moaning softly to himself in whatever lonely, pain-filled world he inhabited.
The pony watched these events incuriously, from time to time pawing a hole in the snow and nibbling at the sparse strands of grass exposed there. Eventually, Evanlyn took Will’s hand and pulled him, unresisting, to his feet.
“Come on, Will,” she said in a dispirited voice. “We’ve still got a long way to go.” As she said it, she realized she was talking about a lot more than just the distance to the hunting cabin in the mountains.
Crooning softly and tunelessly to himself, Will followed her as she led the way upward yet again.
The daylight was nearly gone by the time she found the cabin.
She had gone past it twice, following the instructions that Erak had made her commit to memory: a left fork in the trail a hundred paces after a lightning-blasted pine; a narrow gully that led downward for a hundred meters, then curved back up again, and a shallow ford across a small stream.
Mentally, she ticked off the landmarks, peering this way and that through the gloom of evening as it settled over the trees. But she could see no sign of the hut—only the featureless white of the snow.
Finally she realized that, of course, the hut would not be visible as a hut. It would be virtually buried in snow itself. Once she saw that simple fact, she became aware of a large mound not ten meters away from her. Dropping the pony’s lead rein, she blundered forward, the snow catching at her legs, and made out the edge of a wall, then the slope of a roof, then the hard angle of a corner, more regular and even than any shape that nature might have concealed under the snow.
Moving around the large mound, she found the leeward side was more exposed and she could see the door and a small window, covered with a wooden shutter. She reflected that it was lucky the door had been built on the lee side of the cabin, then realized that this would have been intentional. Only a fool would place a door on the side where the prevailing north winds would pile the snow deeply.