Chapter 6
He hadn’t recognised Bruilde, wrapped up as she was in a snowy cloak and hood and shawl. Moving stiffly, she began to shed them, layer after layer. Olbeth plucked the wailing baby from the cradle and handed him to Rothir, who held him against his shoulder, a warm writhing bundle. Then she began to fuss around Bruilde, helping her to pull off her wet boots and standing her before the fire. Bruilde did not say anything at first.
“Give me a few more minutes,” she muttered after a while. “I got quite cold out there. Wiln: could you see to Hama? She needs food and stabling.”
Wiln nodded and went out. Olbeth tried to get Bruilde to sit down by the fire, but she snorted and declared,
“Coddled in a blanket? I’m not an old lady yet. Well, I am, but not that sort of old lady. Is there any of that food left, or is it just bones on the board?”
“There’s plenty of food,” Olbeth assured her.
So they all ended up sitting at the long table again, but this time there was no joking or laughter. Baby Doval squirmed and whiffled on Rothir’s shoulder. Meanwhile Bruilde did the only talking, while she ate.
On that disastrous day so many weeks ago, at her homestead of Deloran, she said between mouthfuls, she had received half an hour’s warning of the approaching stonemen from the lookout in the cedar tree. After swiftly summoning the household and leading them to what she hoped would be a place of safety, she had gone straight back to see how much of her home remained.
“It was all on fire,” she told them matter-of-factly. “Nothing to be done about it. The stonemen had already moved on, so I rode along their trail to see where they were going next. They hadn’t got far, even allowing for them being on foot. After three miles or so I saw them hurrying back down the road towards me. There were about ten of them, following two darkburns – one big, one small. I got out of the way and watched them from a distance, in the cover of the trees. I don’t know what had gone wrong; but somehow they’d lost control of the darkburns. They kept trying to get round in front of them and failing. It just seemed to have the effect of pushing the darkburns faster and further the wrong way.”
She paused to tear off a hunk of bread and dip it in the gravy. Parthenal began to say something about the stones, when Rothir stilled him with a hand on his arm. He didn’t want to break Bruilde’s flow.
“Well, they kept this up all day,” she said, “chasing their runaway darkburns, and I kept following at a distance on Hama. They weren’t looking behind them. I could have ridden right up and hit them on their stony heads before they noticed me. By evening they were arguing. Couldn’t seem to agree if the chase was worth the trouble. The two darkburns were about a hundred yards apart by this time, but running in the same direction, parallel to each other. And they didn’t stop for nightfall. It was only the rough terrain that slowed them enough for the stonemen to keep them within sight.
“As the light failed half the stonemen gave up and sat down. The other half kept following the bigger of the darkburns. So I followed the smaller darkburn, alone.”
“You followed a darkburn?” asked Calenir, wide-eyed.
“Why not?” said Bruilde. “It was easy enough to see the trails of sparks that the darkburns left behind them, to say nothing of the flares of burning grass. Lucky it was damp. I could hear the shouts of stonemen chasing the larger darkburn to my right but they never realised I was there. The shouts got further and further away as they lagged behind: before midnight I had ceased to hear them. In the morning I found myself far south of the moorlands, at the Darkburn head.”
“Near the long escarpment?” asked Rothir, now deeply interested. With the steady sound of voices baby Doval had gone back to sleep. His breath was warm and damp on Rothir’s shoulder, his small body curled on a supporting hand.
“Beyond the escarpment, close to the forest. The darkburns ran along its southern edge, heading east. I was worried that they’d plunge right into the trees; I didn’t fancy following them in there.”
“Wouldn’t they set the trees on fire?” asked Durba.
“Only if they stood still. It’s all too wet. Anyway, the darkburns didn’t go into the trees, and neither did they stand still for an instant. They went at a speed between a stroll and a gallop and stopped for nothing. I could walk Hama some of the time and still keep up, but by mid-morning she was struggling, and so was I.” Bruilde paused to drink. No-one spoke.
She set the mug down. “So I stopped and rested for a few hours, and later in the day picked up their trail again. And followed it all through the next night by the glowing embers. In the morning I galloped for three hours until I saw the darkburns ahead, still only a few hundred yards apart, still going. Then I began to see small groups of stonemen, at a distance, and had to stay amongst the trees and out of sight. Some of the stonemen tried to catch the runaway darkburns but they got away and kept heading east. I knew I couldn’t keep up with them for much longer, but I decided to head east too in any case, since I had come this far.”
“That was dangerous,” said Parthenal severely.
“Thank you, Parthenal. I never would have guessed. I spent the next week lurking, riding, hiding, nearly drowned in a ditch a couple of times. The place was criss-crossed with stoneman roads although the numbers of actual stonemen seemed quite small.
“I soon discovered why. When at last I reached the Fyleway that leads to Caervonn, marching along it was a huge company of stonemen, with tents and carts, some holding caged darkburns. I estimated six thousand men: and as they marched away west, I saw more starting to march in from the east to replace them.”
Again Parthenal began to say something. This time he stopped himself as Bruilde resumed.
“I watched them pass, and I kept heading east, against the flow, just inside the forest edge. By this time I was out of food and hungry. Tired, too. I saw a farmstead up ahead and watched it for a while. It wasn’t a stoneman place; it belonged to some of the old forest people, the farmers whose ancestors were there before the stonemen came. I saw an old man going in and out, his two sons and their wives.
“I walked up and offered them silver. Told them who I was. I was ready to run if they kicked up a fuss, but they didn’t. No love there for the stonemen, I gather; they take heavy tithes of the farmers and give them nothing in return except the threats of burning. I stayed there for two weeks, regathering my strength, and learnt a lot. Those farming people could be of use to us if their numbers were greater. But there are only a few hundred of them, scattered.”
“There are only about twelve hundred active Riders of the Vonn,” Olbeth pointed out.
“And farmers are generally tough people,” added Wiln. “Don’t discount them.”
“I don’t. But these ones were disheartened and ill-fed,” said Bruilde, “and jealous of Caervonn, which seemed to them a land of plenty. An insular, closed land. They poured out their grievances against Caervonn but I don’t think they would get involved in a fight on either side. They tolerated the stonemen, unwillingly, because they had no choice. Feared the darkburns.
“And then one night the old man spoke up. He usually sat quiet in a corner. The others seemed to think he was – not exactly an old fool – but confused by age. Someone to be humoured, but not believed. Yet I think he could be worth believing.” She stared into space.
“Why? What did he say?” asked Rothir.
“He spoke of darkburns as being something ancient, something that was part and parcel of the land, a phenomenon that had previously been extremely rare and had been contained entirely within the Darkburn forest. He said the darkburns had emerged and multiplied only in the last twenty years.”
“Twenty years? Not twelve?”
“He was vague, I’ll admit,” Bruilde said. “I asked them where in the forest the darkburns had come from. He said, from the elbow of the river: meaning the area enclosed by the bend of the Darkburn north of Caervonn. In the most secret and inaccessible part, he said, were the smoking shafts from which the darkburns crawled.”
“I haven’t heard of those,” said Parthenal.
“I think I have,” said Bruilde. “I’ve heard stories – legends, maybe – about hills of ash that rise amidst the forest, and deep chasms between them, with an intermittent pouring of smoke into the sky. I think those are the smoking shafts he was referring to. He said that when they are most active the forest is obscured in cloud.”
“That’s possible,” put in Sashel. “I’ve heard of something similar far up north, beyond the Outlands, of places where the earth’s heat rushes to the surface in fountains of boiling water. Never been there, though.”
“There’s been no reason to,” said Rothir. “But on our last journey we did try to explore the area near the elbow of the Darkburn river from the north. It wasn’t a success. Two of our company were ambushed, with results that could have been fatal.”
Bruilde looked at him. “Anyone hurt?”
“Eled.”
She sighed and shook her head.
“Later,” said Olbeth. “What else did you hear, Bruilde?”
“Many scraps of news about Caervonn. All rumour, naturally, but they are for Huldarion to hear first. I saw Caervonn itself, from a distance. It looked the same as ever.” Her face was wistful and Rothir felt an answering pang of longing.
“You went that far?”
“Further. Listen. When I left the farmers I continued east, beyond Caervonn: but I could not linger close to it because of all the enemy encampments. They reached a long way through the hinterfields to where the hunting forests used to be. They are being chopped down now.” At that, Parthenal drew his breath in sharply. “And then quite suddenly the land was clear of stonemen; I could ride far and fast and not see a soul. The only fort that I got close to appeared almost unmanned.
“This was three days past Caervonn. There was smoke over the trees, and the quantity of it made me wonder. And then I found a road, where no road used to be, cutting from the plain straight through the Darkburn forest.”
They were all still now, listening, and watching Bruilde’s gnarled finger draw a rough map on the table.
“Caervonn. The river’s crook: its elbow. And about here, I’d guess, the road. Crudely made – trees just hacked down and thrown aside as if some massive animal had plunged into the forest – but wide enough for carts to travel two abreast. I followed the road through the trees but to one side: I kept fifty yards away, even though I saw no travellers on it other than a couple of small groups of stonemen. When the undergrowth grew thick I had to leave Hama and walk on alone. I didn’t reach the river. Too far. But my guess is, that where there is a road that wide leading to a river, there must be a bridge at its far end. Otherwise why build it? Certainly the road leads to somewhere important – and protected.”
“Protected how?”
Bruilde licked her lips and then took a drink from her mug. For the first time she seemed reluctant to speak.
“By two things,” she said. “Two types of thing, rather. The first I saw after I left Hama. As I drew closer to the road, a darkburn crossed the track from left to right in front of me. It was a darkburn of a kind I have not seen before. Long, lizard-like, with low crawling legs, perhaps some rudimentary wings or stumps of what once had been wings before they became charcoal. It was not entirely black. It had fire within. A glow.”
She paused, thinking, and in the silence the baby hiccupped on Rothir’s shoulder. It was getting ready to cry.
“It’s all right,” he murmured to it, “we’re still here.”
Bruilde took a long breath and went on.
“The darkburn saw me. Detected me, I should say, for of course it had no eyes. But it raised what might have passed for a head and turned round to crawl along the road towards me. It moved so fast that I was startled. I began to back away and was becoming aware that I would have to run, and although I’m a strong walker I’m no longer good at running.
“But before I could turn tail, the darkburn… rebounded. That’s the only way I can describe it. It appeared to hit a barrier which I could not see. It was thrown back. It tried again; the same result. Then it opened its head – I can’t even say its mouth, for there was no mouth until it opened it and fire came out.”
“Fire,” said Parthenal.
“A long flame. Very long. The flame bounced off the unseen barrier too, and rebounded back upon the darkburn. At that it turned and crawled away from me down the road. Once it was out of sight I walked forward along the road’s edge, hand outstretched, until I found the barrier before me. There was nothing there to feel – yet it was a point beyond which I could not go no matter how I tried. It wasn’t age or tiredness that held me back: it was something else. That’s all that I can say.”
“So… wizardry?” asked Rothir. He did not care for wizardry as an explanation for anything, but sometimes it was the only answer that would fit. The baby snuggled into his shoulder, mewing faintly.
Bruilde nodded. “I assume so. Wizardry guarding the road and whatever bridge might lie beyond it and whatever might lie beyond the bridge. As for the darkburn – I can only say that it occurred to me that it might have been a firedrake.”
There was a silence, until Olbeth said quietly, “Another thing of legend.”
“Yes. The firedrakes of legend are lizardlike, or snakelike: creatures of flesh and blood with teeth and scales and spreading wings. The thing I saw had only rudiments of those. But it did have those rudiments. There was the fire glowing at its heart and flaming from its mouth. So, yes, I think it might have been a firedrake. Or was something related to it.”
“So the legends got it wrong,” said Gordal.
“How should I know?” snapped Bruilde. She looked very tired.
“Please go on,” said Olbeth. “And then?”
“And then I admit I’d had enough. Call it cowardice. I turned around and retraced my steps out of the forest and back past Caervonn for many weary days, all the way to my friendly farmhouse. They were pleased enough to see me once I showed them the rest of my silver. I stayed there again for a little while. Well, quite a long while. I admit it, I was weary. Couldn’t face the long ride back to Deloran to pick over the ruins. So I stayed with the farmers, and gathered as much information as I could about business in Caervonn, and tried to milk the old man for anything he knew; which wasn’t much. They were kind enough. Once I was fully recovered they gave me provisions to get back home. To a home that wasn’t there.”
Her tone was prosaic. Olbeth said gently,
“Your home is always here, Bruilde, and of course at Thield too.”
“Oh, Thield. I had a good farm of my own.” She looked around the warm, firelit hall with its dancing shadows. “I hope those stonemen never come near this place.”
“They’ve all gone north and west,” said Wiln, “by all accounts; those companies you saw, with the caged darkburns.”
“And when spring comes we’ll be going after them,” said Parthenal with relish.
“Meanwhile you can rest here, Bruilde. Regather your strength, and enjoy the winterfest.”
Bruilde nodded. She looked suddenly older now than she had while she was speaking. When the younger ones began to talk amongst themselves, Olbeth took her arm and led her to the fire.
“No blanket, I promise,” she said. “But you have to eat salops.” Bruilde half-laughed.
Rothir sat down near her with his snuffling burden and thought about firedrakes. When he was a young man on an early tour he had almost convinced himself that he had seen a firedrake. It had been above the Gyr tarn; spiralling high, the wrong shape for an eagle – the wrong shape for any bird. He had watched it until it disappeared into the clouds. But it must have been a firedrake of the imagination only, if the reality was a charcoal monster with burnt stumps for wings.
Olbeth came over to him and held out her hands for Doval. Rothir felt almost reluctant to give him back: he was so easy to protect and soothe. If only all his tasks were that simple and satisfying. As she hefted the baby onto her own shoulder, Olbeth gave him a look that he could not interpret. But she said nothing.
The hush that had fallen during the sobering story had already given way to merry-making. Back at the table, the twins and Calenir were beginning to engage in a noisy pickle-eating competition, egged on by Alburé and Naileb. Beside the fire Bruilde nibbled at a hot salop and closed her eyes.
Parthenal was watching her with a smile curving his lips. Rothir knew his friend was up to mischief even before he spoke.
“We learnt something about you, Bruilde,” said Parthenal, “while you were on your travels.”
“Don’t, Parthenal,” muttered Maeneb. “Not now. That’s not fair.”
Bruilde’s eyes reopened, sharp and interested. “So what did you learn?”
“About you and a weaver from some outlandish town up north. Your long, close friendship – is that the right word for it? – with an old man called Ilo. We met his grand-daughter.”
The elderly woman sat up straight. “Yaret? You saw her? Where did you meet her? What did she tell you?”
“She told us nothing about that particular matter,” Rothir said reluctantly. “It was in a letter that she carried.” He knew he would have to relate the story now, to stop Parthenal making too much of it.
So he outlined, as briefly as he could, the sequence of events from the finding of Eled to the reading of Ilo’s letter in the Gyr cave. He did not quote its reference to that old love affair between Bruilde and the weaver, but it was obvious that Bruilde understood. He was aware that Olbeth as well as Bruilde was watching him intently while he spoke.
“Well,” said Bruilde. “I hesitate to call Ilo a sentimental old man – but really. That was all long in the past, before Yaret was even thought of. You know our family always had the farm. We used to visit every summer from Caervonn… And so did Ilo, peddling his cloth. Good cloth.” She looked thoughtfully into the distance. “Ilo could be very charming. Still can, I imagine. It’s a few years since I saw him, and I don’t expect to see him any more. But Yaret is thriving, I hope?”
At that, all three Riders who had been there hesitated. It was Maeneb who said,
“Well, she’s alive, although we thought she wasn’t for a while.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Then Parthenal told the tale of the stonemen’s ambush and Yaret’s fall over the cliffs of the Thore, leaving her foot behind – trapped beneath the prostrate horse until a stoneman hacked it off. Rothir could not bring himself to speak even when Parthenal described their discovery of her down by the roaring river. It had seemed miraculous at the time – a reprieve sent by the stars – and yet it felt extraordinarily painful to recall it now. Olbeth was still watching him although he couldn’t think why. It wasn’t as if it was the first time she had heard this tale.
But it was Olbeth who asked, “Once she’s able, where will she go to from Farwithiel?”
“Home,” said Parthenal. “We promised her a horse; Eled’s Poda. The Wardens will see her out of Farwithiel safely.”
“She’s probably already home in Obandiro by now,” said Maeneb. “With a wooden leg. She was asking the wardens how soon she could use one.” Rothir felt himself turned to stone.
“Well,” said Bruilde, “I must say I am not surprised. A resourceful person, young Yaret.”
“Her grandfather’s letter said she had led a sheltered life,” remembered Maeneb.
“Sheltered?” Bruilde laughed and then shook her head. “That was Ilo for you. Couldn’t see further than his own nose in some respects. It was clear who was really keeping their business afloat the last few years; and it wasn’t him. But he wouldn’t want to admit that… Sheltered?” She shook her head again. “The tales she told me of her travels. Even in disguise – what did she call it? Male mode.”
“What sort of tales?” said Maeneb. “No, it’s all right. I can guess.”
“Wiser than her grandfather,” said Bruilde.
“She called me a polecat,” said Parthenal, to Rothir’s amazement.
Bruilde studied him and nodded. “Apt.”
Feeling he had better speak before his silence became conspicuous, Rothir said, “You didn’t like her, did you, Parthenal?”
“I didn’t trust her at first,” admitted Parthenal. “That assessing way she’d look at you, weighing you up, working you out. She saw too much. But I liked her well enough by the end.”
The end. Yes. But then Bruilde said,
“Well, I shall look forward to welcoming Yaret and her wooden leg next year, and hearing her account of everything.”
“Next year? You think she will still travel?” asked Rothir, amazed again.
“Of course she will. She’s not the woman to let a little thing like a missing foot stop her from doing what she wants.”
“I hope she comes peddling her wares here,” said Olbeth, her smile dancing. “I’d like to meet her.”
“At least she should be snug and safe back in Obandiro for winterfest,” said Bruilde, stretching her arms, “just as snug as we are now. My goodness, how I’m stiffening up. Did you say something about a hot drink, Olbeth?”
“Spiced wine all round,” said Olbeth, and she hurried away to fetch it. Parthenal picked up the lutine and began to strum a well-known melody. Rothir pulled up his stool to listen. In the background was the familiar buzz of his friends chatting, laughing, humming, yawning: the noise that half an hour ago had left him in a pit of loneliness had suddenly become a comfort. Whatever the reason, winter seemed to have retreated from the place for now.
Something had begun to thaw inside him. He couldn’t define what had just changed. Perhaps it was the baby’s warmth upon his shoulder. But maybe, he thought, winterfest at Olbeth’s wouldn’t be so chilly after all.