The Rebellion

  My heartbeat quickened as the two burlymen turned to stare at me.

  “Gypsy slut. Ought to round them up, too,” said one.

  This time the other was prevailed upon to grunt his assent. I felt sick. I had been so concerned about Matthew that I had forgotten to maintain my coercive enhancement of my boyish apparel. At any minute, I was sure to be recognized by the soldierguards. I inserted a sharp coercive command to the burlymen to get back to their work, and they reacted as if galvanized. They would remember me later, but in the face of everything else, this seemed a minor problem.

  Then I coerced an image of myself as a sun-browned seaman’s lad. It took a steady surge of power to hold the image, and this, along with trying to combat the sea static, was proving a frightening drain on my mental energies. Soon I would have no reserve of power.

  Yet what else could I do?

  I sent to Gahltha to slow down as we came level with the warehouse from which the slaves were being led. At the same moment, a man brought a small knot of people outside, and I slowed to let them go before me, glad of a reason to delay.

  “Elspeth!” Matthew sent.

  I stiffened, for if the farseeker could reach me, it meant he was among those who had just been brought out.

  “Matthew!” I sent gladly, urging Gahltha up beside them.

  “Ride on past fer Obernewtyn’s sake!” he sent urgently.

  Startled by the intensity of his command, I obeyed.

  As I passed around the little clutch of people, I glanced down at them casually. The farseeker was less than a handspan from me, his expression carefully blank.

  “Go slowly/be lame,” I sent, and Gahltha began to affect an exaggerated limp.

  After a few steps, I pulled him up and slid off his back, pretending to examine a hoof. With a careful eye, I measured the distance between myself and the little group of slaves. Matthew was only three or four steps away.

  “It’s no good,” the farseeker sent suddenly. “This time I’ve got myself in a fix ye can’t get me out of.”

  “What are you saying?” Fear made my mental voice strident. I pretended to pick a rock from Gahltha’s hoof.

  The man who had brought out Matthew and the others went back to close the doors, leaving the slaves standing alone. Matthew turned his head to look at me.

  “Elspeth, ye know ye mun let ’em take me,” he sent. “Ye can’t fight them all yerself.”

  “Brydda is with me, and Sallah, and there are three rebels besides.”

  “Against dozens of soldierguards and burlymen, not to mention the ship’s seamen?”

  “Then I’ll create a diversion, and you can run for it. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll ride clear on Gahltha.”

  “How? I’m shackled to these other slaves, ankle to ankle an’ wrist to wrist. There’s no time to do anythin’ about that. Right now, these slavers think I’m nothin’, an’ I’d as soon keep it that way.”

  “Then I’ll make a fuss to stop them boarding. I’ll pretend to recognize one of the others. I’ll say you’re not defectives—that’s what everyone watching thinks. Better to be taken to the Councilcourt by the soldierguards than spirited away to Lud knows where on a slave ship. And maybe then Domick …”

  “Listen to me,” Matthew sent. “Th’ soldierguards are mixed up in this somehow. I dinna think they would take us to th’ Councilcourt if you made a fuss. I think they’d just bundle us aboard, an’ then you an’ Brydda would be caught too.”

  “Matthew, they’ll take you away!”

  “I know,” he sent calmly. “An’ ye’ll let ’em, because we both know that this time we’re outnumbered. Look, I’m nowt afraid. Wherever this ship goes an’ whatever happens, there’ll be other ships. An’ I’ll be comin’ back on one of them. I swear it. Tell Daffyd I’ll keep a lookout for his Gilaine.”

  “Get a shift on, lad,” said a surly voice right behind me.

  I froze, recognizing it as the voice of the slaver Ayle. I did not dare turn around. I knew I could not coerce him, because he was mind-sensitive. I tangled clumsy fingers in Gahltha’s mane and, without turning, hauled myself onto his back.

  “Go,” I sent, and the black equine moved forward.

  Daffyd appeared right in front of me. He paled at the sight of me, but my whole mind was too tightly focused on maintaining contact with Matthew to let me communicate with him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I heard Ayle demand of Daffyd. I held my breath for his answer, slowing Gahltha.

  “Seasick …,” Daffyd muttered, passing me.

  Ayle bellowed with laughter. “Well, here’s the last lot. You can kiss the ground when yer done.” There was a little pause; then the slaver’s voice reached out to me. “You hear me, boy? Get a move on. You’ve no business here.”

  “Go!” Matthew sent.

  I heard Ayle’s purposeful tread behind me.

  “Please!”

  With a heart as heavy as a stone anvil, I signaled Gahltha, and he moved forward. After a few steps, I glanced back and saw Ayle retracing his steps, shaking his head and muttering about half-wit gypsies. At the same time, I saw Daffyd take up the leading chain of the last little group of shackled slaves and move toward the gangplank of The Calor Lady.

  “I love ye, Elspeth,” Matthew sent fiercely, meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry about Dragon an’ all …”

  His mental voice faded as he reached the gangplank and walked out over the water.

  Every instinct in my body rebelled against riding away, yet I knew Matthew was right. There was nothing I could do to help him.

  Almost at once, the gangplank was withdrawn. The seaman standing ashore threw off the ship’s mooring knots and leapt aboard. The Calor Lady drifted from the shore, borne by the swift-flowing tide that would take it to the sea, its sails snapping and fluttering as they were unfurled slightly to turn the ship.

  Matthew was no longer visible. He had been taken below like the other slaves, but I could not take my eyes off the receding vessel. I was stricken by the feeling that I had failed the Farseeker ward and would never see him again.

  I watched as a tall youth with white-blond hair and a great flapping black cloak came out on deck and leaned against the rail, staring back at the shore.

  He was extraordinarily beautiful, long boned and slender, probably younger than me by a few years, with skin so pale it seemed to gleam in the fading sunset. My eyes lingered as I mused on how uncommon that sort of fairness is in men.

  As I watched, he ran his fingers through his hair.

  My mouth fell open in shock, and I stared at the blond youth with incredulity, remembering where I had seen that languid hand drawn through fair hair before.

  The mannerism was Ariel’s.

  I had only ever thought of Ariel as a young boy, but I had not set eyes on him for years. Of course, he would be grown near to manhood now. I told myself it was impossible, that this was another blond youth. Ariel had traveled to Herder Isle to become a priest.

  But this is a Herder ship! I remembered with utter dread.

  My eyes hurt with the effort of trying to see more clearly, but the light was fading to a golden dimness, and the distance had grown too great. I could see no more than the white blob of the youth’s face turned toward the river’s mouth. But even as I watched, I saw his head turn until it seemed that he was looking straight at me.

  30

  I CONCENTRATED on walking, putting one foot in front of the other and keeping up with Brydda. It required all my energy. Listening to his words was more than I could manage.

  It was early morning and the dismal start of a chilly and miserable day. Five days had passed since Matthew had been lost to us. The streets were blurred with a light drizzle of the sort that penetrates as damply and effectively as heavy rain.

  We were making our way across the city for the long-planned meeting with the rebels at Bodera’s home. Since leaving the safe house, the rebel had offered a monologue of advice and warnings, but somehow I could no
t make myself care about the meeting enough to hear what he was saying. Matthew’s loss meant much more to me than any political alliance.

  “Malik arrived with Brocade of Sawlney and with letters of authority that allow him to represent and vote on behalf of the Saithwold and Darthnor groups. And Tardis has sent a man called Gwynedd,” Brydda was saying.

  I nodded absently. Matthew’s face seemed to float before my eyes, borne on a tide of grief and regret. My mind circled back for the hundredth time to our abortive rescue attempt. Not once had I imagined we would fail. It was useless to wish now that I had thought it out more carefully and had been less certain of outwitting the ruthless, clever Salamander.

  Since then, I had thought of a dozen perfectly good ways to get the Farseeker ward from his captors that had not occurred to me at the time, and somehow that made it all the worse.

  “Elii of Kinraide has come, too, but the real surprise is that Cassell has come on behalf of the entire western bloc. You will recall I told you of the three rebel groups that have been unable to choose a single leader?” Brydda’s eyes sought mine.

  Did I remember? Yes, I nodded.

  Reassured, Brydda brought his brown eyes back to the way ahead. “Well, then, his presence alone may mean that Cassell has gained control of the group and that it has at last been welded into a unit—in any event, it will give Malik cause for concern.”

  I pulled my cloak tighter to stop water dripping from the saturated tendrils of hair down my neck and glanced up at the heavy gray sky. Matthew had always disliked the Days of Rain, saying they drowned a man’s spirit and dragged at his soul.

  Ariel’s face came to me then, his lips tilted in a mocking smile. I imagined him exactly as he had been when I met him: sweet-mouthed, with soft white skin and a golden nimbus of fair hair floating like a halo around his head. He had been as beautiful as an angel, but the radiant exterior had concealed a heart that was rotten and black to the core. And then his image changed, aging and altering until the face that mocked me was that of the dazzling blond youth on the deck of The Calor Lady.

  I was tormented by endless imagined scenarios in which Ariel came face to face with Matthew, whom he had known when they were both orphans in the old days at Obernewtyn. What would happen when Matthew, who had wanted to kill Ariel for torturing little Cameo to death, learned he was on the same ship as his most hated foe?

  I could only pray that with so many slaves, Matthew’s face would be lost in a sea of others; in spite of the farseeker’s courage and strength, he was no match for Ariel’s vicious subtleties.

  “The biggest surprise, of course, is that Jakoby has come.…”

  The odd name slipped through my haze of despair. “Jakoby?” I said aloud. “Isn’t that one of the Sadorian tribe leaders?”

  The rebel nodded approvingly. “Jakoby came by ship. From what I can make out, the Sadorians had no intention of attending this meeting until one of their Temple guardians had some sort of significant dream, and so they decided at the last minute to send someone. There was not time enough for a land journey, so it was a ship or nothing.”

  “Because of a dream?” I asked warily.

  “Some matter of smoke shapes and feathers burning.” Brydda dismissed this with a flick of his fingers. “The sort of ritual whose outcome can be read to mean anything—I expect the Temple guardians wanted to get our measure, so they came up with a guiding dream.”

  I swallowed, my mouth dry at the thought of such dreams.

  “Anyway, Jakoby has come. Other than that, Dardelan of Sutrium will stand in for his father as I told you.…”

  My mind began to drift again. Jakoby had come by sea, and Matthew had been stolen away by the waves.

  Brydda stopped suddenly, swinging around to look into my face. I met his searching gaze with composure, but then, without the slightest warning, my eyes filled with tears. Fortunately, the street we were walking along was empty, for, within seconds, I was sobbing my heart out into the rebel’s chest.

  “Elspeth, girl,” Brydda said, patting my back with awkward gentleness and drawing me into a doorway. “I am truly sorry about Matthew, and I know his loss is a mortal blow to you,” he said.

  “You don’t understand. It’s all my fault,” I choked. “First Dragon and now this. And last time I came to the lowlands, it was Jik. I’m not fit to lead an expedition. Everyone I care about dies or is hurt terribly.”

  Brydda put me from him and looked into my face with stern sadness. “I know how it is to feel responsible for the death of a friend,” he said. “But we are their leaders as well as their friends, and leadership often means putting people we care deeply for into danger.”

  “But that’s wrong,” I said in a hoarse voice.

  “Which is more wrong? That a leader risks those he cares for or that he cares nothing for whom he risks? And those who follow us are their own people; they make a choice to follow us, and we must honor it. As we love them, we must accept that their tragedies come from their choices—not ours, else we are no more than moon-fair puppeteers, and they, sawdust dolls.”

  Involuntarily, I shivered, but Brydda seemed as oblivious to the cold as he was to the rain.

  “Matthew chose to join Rushton’s cause,” he continued. “You do him no honor to grieve and put on funeral weeds. He has powers that will stand him in good stead wherever he goes.” He gave me a slight shake. “Now dry your eyes, Elspeth, and take hold of your will. Let Daffyd discover what he can. Until then, put what has happened from you. There is work to be done, and this meeting is important to all of us. Prepare yourself for it.”

  “How?” I asked miserably.

  “The same way we all do at such times,” Brydda said harshly, the calmness suddenly drawn aside from his eyes as if it were a veil, revealing raw pain. “Do you think I have forgotten Idris already? Of course I have not. I fear some part of me will always be grieving for him. But I cannot let grief get in the way of a cause that both Idris and I believed in. So I act. I pretend. And some of the time I am able to forget that it is a pretense, and for that little period, I forget my pain.”

  “Act?” I echoed blankly.

  He shook me again. “Pretend, Elspeth. Pretend that you are clever, wise, brave, calm, courageous—in the same way that you pretend to be Elaria the gypsy.”

  A man and a woman came out of a nearby door with a child between them. The parents ignored us, but the little girl looked deeply into my eyes, seeming to search for something.

  “We are almost there,” Brydda said when they were out of earshot. “They are expecting you to be a fumbling half-wit, and I have made no attempt to question their misconceptions. Their surprise will give you an advantage. For Obernewtyn’s sake, you must show your best and most impressive face, as well as your most human one. This is not the time to be cold and withdrawn. You must give them something to warm to. Once we are in there, I cannot be seen to instruct or direct you—especially since Malik already suspects that you are my pawn.”

  I took a deep shuddering breath; then I drew on an expression of determined calmness and turned it to the big man.

  “Hmmph.” Brydda’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Well, that is not so good, but it will do to be going on with.” The rebel turned a corner into a lane that was too narrow for me to walk alongside him, and I fell behind. At once, the false smile fell from my lips and eyes. If he wanted acting, then acting he would have—but I would not pretend to myself.

  As we walked, I tried to recall Brydda’s warnings about subjects to be avoided and what I must and must not say, his advice on how to behave if this or that happened. My mind seemed to whirl with a tempest of words that would not connect.

  “We are here,” Brydda said suddenly. His tone was light, but his eyes betrayed tension. He flung his hand to indicate a tall cream wall in which was set a heavily carved wooden door. He paused, his hand poised over the gate latch, to look at me. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded resolutely, though in truth I fe
lt like sitting on the footpath and howling.

  Brydda merely nodded and pushed the gate open. Beyond it was a little lush wilderness in miniature, open to the sky. It reminded me with painful insistence of a leafy glade where, during breaks from the summertime harvest on the farms, Matthew, Cameo, Dameon, and I had often gone to sit before Rushton took over Obernewtyn. Matthew and I used to lie flat on our backs, searching the clouds for images of the future, of our hopes and our dreams. My eyes misted, but I blinked savagely as a thin boy a few years older than me came through the trees to meet us. Either he had been waiting, or the door had given him some silent warning of our approach. He had a long serious face, flyaway gingerish hair, and sad blue eyes that were unchanged by his smile.

  “Welcome, my friend,” he said in a warm, unexpectedly deep voice, clasping the rebel’s hand. Then he bowed formally to me.

  “You are Dardelan?” I guessed.

  He nodded. “I suppose it is not hard to guess. Brydda probably told you that I am by far the youngest rebel you will meet today. A fact that Malik has seen fit to mention in at least a dozen ways since his arrival,” he added ruefully to the big rebel.

  “I am Elspeth Gordie,” I said, holding my hand out to him.

  He shook it solemnly, then led the way along a little winding path to the terrace of a graceful-looking residence.

  “This is a wonderful idea,” I said, waving my hand behind us as we passed into an overheated hallway. “Much better than building up against the street. Far more private.”

  “The Beforetimers used to have many such walled gardens—one to each residence, or so my father says,” Dardelan murmured, ushering us inside. “They were very keen on privacy. I must apologize for the heating. I know it is too hot, but my father’s illness makes him very susceptible to chills.”

  “It is nice to be warm,” I said politely, though in fact I felt stifled by the hot, closed atmosphere of the house. “Brydda told me of your father’s illness,” I said on impulse, thinking of the teknoguilder Pavo. “I had a friend die of it. I am sorry.”