“Show me, Faron, look in the scrying scale and show me where she is!”
Faron’s body went rigid, then swelled with the influx of life. Michael’s corporeal form shrank away into its mummified state, its bony fingers still clinging stubbornly to the holes in Faron’s skull.
The seneschal stared down into the blue scale, the side with the clouds clearing from in front of the eye.
At first all he could see in the green water was the waves of the sea crashing against a rocky seacoast with no beachline. Then a moment later he recognized what he saw from the triangular shadow that was being cast on the sea.
It was the same promontory from which she had fallen.
With a savage twist the seneschal disengaged himself, leaving Faron bleeding and whimpering in pain. Once his body had rehydrated, he stared down at the sobbing child without the pity he had once had in his eyes.
“You had best be right this time, Faron,” he said contemptuously. “For if you have sent me off again for nothing, I will toss you into the sea; instead of feeding off eels, you will be feeding them with your own flesh. My child or no, you are of no use to me if you cannot at the very least read that scale.”
He wiped the blood on his hands onto his trousers, then climbed the ladder up onto the deck again.
Rhapsody was listening to the sea tell her the story of a pair of lovers who had communicated by seagull and messages in glass bottles when the mangled body was swept into the cave on the tide.
In fright she backed up on the ledge, trying to keep away from the waterlogged corpse, its eyes missing in a face that had been battered into shreds against the rocks just outside her tidal cave. The body was mostly nude, clad only in a shirt that looked as if it had belonged to one of Michael’s regiment.
He’s here, she thought, panic flooding through her as the current was flooding the cave. He has found me; Michael has found me.
After a few moments her calm returned.
This might have been one of Michael’s men, but he had been in the water for weeks, probably as long as she had been in the cave. The waves had given up the dead body grudgingly, and not before having their fun with it; the corpse had absorbed at least twice its weight in water, and was swollen and bruised, distended almost beyond recognition as human.
Worst of all, the body caught on a snag near the front of the cave, then slowly swirled throughout the tidal hideaway, scraping the edge of the rock on which Rhapsody now sat.
She put her head down to ward off the stench that was rising from the body; it had baked in the summer sun, absorbed the water from the sea, and now, with its penis and testicles cleanly broken off against a gouging rock formation, it was dissolving by pieces in the tidal cave, sheaves of skin and hair floating loosely, ready to separate.
Horror crept over Rhapsody as she realized the import of this event.
The body was now her companion. It would be bobbing with her when the cave flooded, bumping up against her in the wild current, trapped with her in the endless cycle of floating and resting, floating and resting.
I have to get out of here now, she thought desperately.
She looked to the tiny suspended mat of igneous stones she had bound together, plaiting strands of her long hair to serve as a rope to hold them. It’s not ready, she thought frantically. It’s still too small.
She glanced at the body again, knowing that in a few hours it would be dancing with her in her endless vigil. The thought made her shudder violently.
“I have to get out of here,” she said again aloud.
Perhaps it was her own mind filling in the space; she heard an internal voice, perhaps her own, but young-sounding.
We have to get out of here.
Right, Rhapsody agreed silently. Give me one more night to plait and bind; in the morning, when the tide flattens, we will try to make our escape.
She didn’t even have the strength to wonder whether Michael was gone yet or not.
44
TRAEG
By the time the two sovereigns had reached the seacoast, neither of them could expect to be warmly welcomed into an inn.
The journey overland had been a brutal one, with little rest and less success. In each place they stopped, they arrived too late; village after village had been burned, scorched by half or more, some reduced to ashes that smoldered in the wind. In Traeg, the northernmost of the tiny villages, the whipping wind that battered the coast had long been seen as both a friend and adversary, but with the elemental sword of air in the hand of one who was spreading dark fire, it had served only to broaden the destruction, carrying the deadly sparks throughout the boatyards, burning the docks to cinders.
It was at those docks Achmed and Ashe came to a halt one afternoon, staring at the devastation in silence.
Neither man had taken the time to shave or bathe, their outward appearances deteriorating from both the grime and soot of the road and the added toll that worry was taking on both of them. Under normal circumstances, an unkempt, hooded traveler would have gone unnoticed in a rough place like Traeg, but because of the rumors carried like sparks on the wind of pairs and trios of men who came through coastal towns, seeking a blond woman, leaving behind buildings in flames, they had dismounted at the waterfront to find themselves the objects of steely-eyed scrutiny.
“It will be harder to convince anyone to trade horses now,” Ashe remarked as they stopped in what was left of the tiny village square.
“If there are any to be had,” Achmed said.
They looked around for signs of life and found them; a tiny salt shop stood open, its walls glazed in black soot but still sound; the smithy was undamaged as well, and a large tavern with an ash-covered sign in front was apparently open for business by the look of things, men wandering in and out, calling to one another.
The two travelers walked up the cobbled path that led to the establishment, lined at one time recently with neatly tended flowers that now sat twisted and burnt. As they passed the inn’s signboard Ashe stopped suddenly. He crossed over a row of black shrubbery to stand before it for a moment, its name and symbol obscured by a layer of soot. He wiped the center of the signboard clear with his sleeve.
In the center of the board was a gaily painted rendering of a fancy headpiece surrounded with gilt words. Ashe wiped his sleeve across it again, then stood back in silence.
THE HAT AND FEATHERS, the sign decreed.
He signaled excitedly to Achmed. “This may be a portent,” he said.
“How so?”
“In Yarim we went to Manwyn’s temple, Rhapsody and I. Amid her rantings, the Seer mentioned something about a hat and feathers.”
Achmed looked over his shoulder at the three men who had gathered on the inn’s stoop and were watching them closely. “What else did she say?” he asked quietly.
Ashe glanced at the men, then turned slightly to shield his words from the wind.
“She said that Rhapsody would not die giving birth to my child,” he said haltingly. “That was why we sought her counsel.”
Achmed’s face was impassive. “Anything else?”
“Yes. She told Rhapsody to beware the Past — ‘it seeks to have you, it seeks to aid you, it seeks to destroy you.‘She also characterized the Past as ‘a relentless hunter, a stalwart protector, a vengeful adversary.’”
Achmed snorted in annoyance. “And you are only thinking to tell me this now?”
“They were rantings. She also told us the what was good on the menu of the local tavern and made recommendations on mementos to bring home to Stephen’s children.”
Achmed started for the door. “She sounds like a keeper. I may go and see if she wants to leave that godforsaken temple and come live in Ylorc.”
Ashe caught his elbow.
“Wait,” he said quickly. “There is one prophecy more.” He waited until the Bolg king had drawn close enough to hear without being overheard. “‘Long ago a promise made, long ago a name conveyed, Long ago a voice was stayed — th
ree debts to be paid.’”
“And did this mean anything to Rhapsody?” Achmed asked.
“No, but I have been pondering the words as we traveled. The only one I can make any possible sense of is the ‘promise made’; Rhapsody told me long ago she had been forced to lie against her will, had given her word to a cruel, evil bastard about something he might misinterpret in return for the safety of a child. I believe that man is the seneschal we seek, the one you called the Waste of Breath.”
Achmed said nothing, merely nodded.
“Let us make our inquiries here,” Ashe said, his eyes red from exhaustion. “This is the last of the coastal towns; if no one here has seen her, I don’t know where else to look.”
“I doubt they have, but one might surmise that they could have seen Michael,” Achmed retorted, gesturing angrily at the ruins around them.
Together they shouldered their way through the gathering of townsmen who were still observing them and went into the tavern.
A lanky man with a sailor’s manner and a beard interposed himself in the doorway. “Can I help you, mates?”
“We are seeking victuals,” Achmed replied, casting his eyes around the tavern.
“And ale,” Ashe added. “And fresh horses.”
“Canna help you with the latter,” the man said, “there are none to be had. Those few that survived belong to the barkeep here, and he keeps them for the needs of Gavin’s foresters who are fighting the fires and seeking the firestarters.” Without breaking his gaze away from them, he called to the barkeep over his shoulder.
“Hie, Barney! Customers.”
The young man on the other side of the bar looked up and motioned them nearer, signaling subtlely to the men at the door as well.
“What’ll it be, gents?”
“Food and drink,” Achmed replied. “We’re not particular, unless it’s mutton. If all you have is mutton, just give me ale and bread.”
“Bread and ale and thin cabbage soup is all I have,” the barkeep replied, setting two tankards on the board in front of them. “We have been a little — busy, as you might have noticed.”
The travelers nodded. “Did anyone come through here before the fire, asking after a woman?”
The barkeep exchanged a glance with the men at the door.
“Aye,” he said. “Three of ’em, one dressed much like you, sir.”
“Do you know where they went?”
The barkeep shook his head. “You might ask Old Barney; he may know. He’ll be here soon.”
“Old Barney? Is that your sire?”
The thin young man laughed. “I see you gentlemen don’t frequent taverns much.”
“I’ve drunk in my share,” replied Ashe, exhaustion making him testy. “Why do you say that?”
“Had you not noticed that all barkeeps are called Barney?”
Achmed shrugged. “As long as he keeps pouring my ale I’ve never thought to ask his name. Unless knowing him personally makes it cost less, I don’t care.”
The young man’s forced smile dimmed a notch. “It’s an ancient tradition, an old story. One that predates this land.”
“Oh?” Ashe asked, loosing his tentative hold on the dragon slightly to assess the man more thoroughly. His awareness noted the barkeep was not Cymrian, nor were any of the others huddled at the door, watching them intently, blades not drawn but at the ready. “Would you favor us with the telling of it?”
The barkeep exhaled. “Not much to tell. In an old land, far across the sea, long ago a barkeep named Barney overheard something that he shouldn’t have heard; ’tis an occupational hazard amongst us, for good ale makes lips loose, and there are many in the taverns to whom a friendly face behind a bar seems the best friend in the world after a few pints. But this particular Barney, now, he was unfortunate enough to be the only man in the pub when something was witnessed or said that a fellow of large influence and small conscience did not want known, or repeated, or discovered.
“So the fellow hired the best assassin of the day, told him the name of the town thirty leagues away, and the name of the victim — a barkeep named Barney — paid him a handsome sum to send him on to the Afterlife. Not being from the area, he did not know the name of the tavern, but they both reasoned it would be fairly easy to discover.
“The assassin arrived in town, and made discreet inquires — much the way you folks are doing.” The barkeep raised an eyebrow, then continued as he wiped off the tavern board. “He asked the first few men he came across where he could find a tavern with a barkeep named Barney. And he got three different answers.
“He went a little further into town, and tried again, learning not only the names of four different taverns, but the fact that barkeeps are a nomadic lot; we tend to move around quite a bit, unless we own the tavern. The nature of the business, so to speak, and a precaution for our safety. Word had apparently spread of the original Barney’s plight, and so all the barkeeps in the town decided quickly that it was better for them all to share a single identity and the name that went with it, rather than allow their friend to pay for another man’s mistake.
“So the tradition continued. It spread all across the old land, a place that now is lost to the sea, and when those who came here from that place began building alehouses — which of course is often the first order of business — they all became ‘Barney’ as well.” He smiled slightly and went back to drying his tankards.
“That’s a fine tale, and this is fine ale,” Ashe said, putting his battered tankard back on the bar. “So does Old Barney own this establishment?”
“Aye,” said the barkeep. “This one, and this one alone, though I know he had one of the same name long ago and far away. He’s a right old man, sir — mayhap not the original Barney, but he might have known him.” He laughed at his own joke.
A slight commotion rose from the door; the group of men parted as an old man with a thick head of white hair passed through, whistling merrily.
“Speaking of which — here he is,” said the barkeep.
The man pulled the hat from his head and ran his hand through his hair, spattering off the spray of the sea, then hung his hat and jacket on a peg by the door and came to the bar, a gleam in his blue eyes. He ceased his whistle in midnote.
“Just tellin’ these gents the story of our name, Barney,” the young barkeep said, putting the clean tankards under the bar. “They’ve been asking after those men who came through here three days ago.”
Old Barney nodded as he came around behind the bar; he reached for an apron beneath it and as he stood his eye caught the faces of the two travelers. He stood suddenly straighter, then leaned forward and quietly addressed them both.
“Pray come with me, sirs. I’m sure we have a better, more private table for gentlemen of your stature.” He turned and beckoned for them to follow him to the rear of the tavern.
Achmed and Ashe looked at each other in surprise. Neither was wearing any insignia or markings indicating their position; in fact, the journey had been arduous enough that their appearance had caused them to be denied entrance to a few establishments along the way. They rose from their stools and followed Old Barney to the back table he had indicated.
“You know us, Grandfather?” Ashe asked as they slipped into the rickety chairs.
“Aye, m’lord,” the tavernkeeper replied, nodding his head deferentially to each of them.
“How?” Achmed demanded.
The old man’s eyes took on a gleam.
“I am of the Island, too,” he said in Old Cymrian. “I was there at your investiture, Lord Gwydion; I fought that day in the battle against the Fallen, though I am not as spry a man as I once was. And I saw you there, standing as host of the Moot, Majesty,” he said to Achmed.
“Please speak Orlandan, Grandfather,” Ashe said quietly. “Though I understand you, my grasp of Old Cymrian is academic; my father insisted I study the language, but it was long dead ere my birth. It is important that I grasp fully everything you ha
ve to say.”
“Once again your inadequacy compromises us, Ashe,” Achmed said.
“Why do I not know you?” the Lord Cymrian asked the elderly man, studying the shining blue eyes, the wrinkled face, the thick head of hair whiter than salt. “I wore the Patriarch’s Ring of Wisdom for a time, and believed that it revealed to me the names of all those from the Island who were still alive. And yet I know you not — why?”
The tavernkeeper smiled. “Because my name is not my own, m’lord,” he said pleasantly. “It belongs to a brotherhood that predates the exodus. My fealty to that brotherhood is more elder, and more powerful, than any pledge I, like the others who fled the destruction of Serendair, made to your grandfather Gwylliam. So, with respect, you have no claim on me.” He leaned forward slightly. “But your wife does.”
“Rhapsody?” Ashe demanded, his voice rising involuntarily; Achmed stepped on his foot to bring him into a low modulation again. “You have seen her?”
The old man shook his head. “Not since the Council, m’lord.” His eyes widened as realization set in. “She — she is not the woman for whom they are searching?”
The travelers’ eyes met; after a moment Achmed nodded.
“Yes,” Ashe said, trying to keep his voice from betraying him.
Alarm flooded the old man’s features. “No, gods, no. Not again, gods, not again. What happened?”
“Again?” Achmed demanded. “Tell us how you know her.”
Old Barney looked over his shoulder for a moment and, noting that the tavern had returned to its normal business, tuned back and spoke.
“I knew her in the old world,” he said sadly. “She was a favorite patron of my wife, Dee, and mine. She used to study her music in my tavern, taking a back table, writing away on sheets of parchment, never causing a problem. We both loved her. I would not be here speaking with you now if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Why?” asked Ashe.
The barkeep’s eyes blinked in the dark tavern.
“An accident, I’m sure, m’lord. On the last day I saw her in the old world, she handed me a bit o’ music she had graphed, telling me it was my name, and that if I should ever come upon a troubadour, I should get him to play it for me. She was in a hurry at the time, on the run from a dangerous man, so I slipped the paper into my apron pocket and forgot about it. I never saw her in that world again.