Now that they had time to look, they discovered that they were indeed approaching the cliffs, though at an angle which did not aim their craft toward the dark opening looming in the rock barrier.
The dying bird still battered them with its wings, and the two other birds might return. Obern dropped the oar, drew his sword and swung it with a precision unhindered by the unsteady footing.
He struck and struck again, until the bird ceased flopping. He turned in time to see Dordan, spraddle-legged and fighting for balance as he aimed aloft at the remaining attacker. The bird Obern had clubbed with the oar floated near them, its outstretched wings bearing it up; it was slowly drifting shoreward on the waves. The angle of the ugly head told him he had, indeed, broken its neck.
Dordan swore as his arrow brought down only a broken feather. The bird wheeled off toward the cliffs in reluctant defeat. Meanwhile, one of the seamen pulled the dead bird out from under their feet. Obern stooped to help him. The creature was unexpectedly heavy. The other seaman and Dordan made ready to cast the net.
Skillfully, they entrapped the body of the second flyer and dragged it aboard as well. They set a course then as best they could, for the boat was now awkward to steer, toward the churning waters that had been their goal.
It was an awkward business, for they had drifted too close to the breaking waves at the foot of the cliffs, during their skirmish with the giant flyers. The boat tossed in the heavy chop, almost unmanageable. Nevertheless, the seamen and
Obern and Dordan used their strength and skill to bring them to the site of the feasting. There were fish in plenty, undisturbed by the battle nearby. What they devoured, strangely enough, did not sink far under that churning mass, but seemed to ride near the surface. Now and then, a chunk of it broke free and floated upward, only to immediately disappear down a fish's gullet.
What they feasted upon so greedily, the men could not fully see. It appeared to be no more than a spongelike mass in which the fish had torn great holes. Those in the boat avoided it carefully as they cast the net.
Their catch was heavy enough when they drew it in to cause Obern to wonder if they would be able to dump its contents or would have to struggle, towing it, to the ship. With muscle-wrenching labor, they managed to collect a mass of twisting, silver fish, enough to cover the bodies of the birds. They dared not make a second cast, for by now, their craft was near too heavy to remain afloat.
The waves lapped at the gunwales, and one of the seamen set to bailing lest they founder and sink.
How much of what they carried might be eaten, Obern could not guess, nor how much of what was edible might be palatable. Still, food was food. But that the birds could be formidable enemies was plain. And perhaps even more- dangerous creatures waited behind the cliffs. He eyed those stone barriers speculatively as they rowed back to the GorGull. It was just as well that they had not had to try a landing. An unknown land, the Bog—and a forbidding one.
It was silent in the high tower room, and time had passed with stifling slowness. Ysa could not afford to linger here much longer, waiting. And the roiling of small fears. Her mind flinched at that word. Fear could not be allowed a place at the gaming table when a Kingdom was at stake.
She settled on another word. Annoyances, then. They had summoned a dull pain to settle behind her eyes.
Her messenger was, according to ancient reports, impervious to most dangers, unless… she shifted in the high seat. What did anyone know of the Bog except that it was a watery trap where death openly ruled? Yet she must know the results of her seeking, and soon.
Boroth. Despite all her efforts, there was no mistaking that he was slipping every day, approaching closer to a time when he would be utterly useless. This very morning, two of his physicians had called upon her, uttering fell warnings even before she had had time to break her fast. They had stared at her hands during the interview. She knew what they wanted but dared not voice. Was it true, she could almost hear them saying, that superstition claiming that the
Rings indeed held the life of the monarch, as well as of the country? And would she not return them to the King?
Even if she wanted to, this was impossible. Without the power of the Rings to aid her, she might as well open wide the gates to all those sly lords and let them pillage to their hearts' content.
Harous. Not merely to pass the time, she had her eyes and ears focused on him.
He hunted, they said. But the direction of that hunting was a challenge in itself, and she was certain that in all his twists and turnings and backtrackings, he made sure he rode toward the broken land that bordered directly on the Bog. The Bog—Her thoughts circled back to her messenger, Visp.
She had so little time left. To remain here—when the castle, the whole city, knew of Boroth's condition—was perilous folly. Never before had this one trusted companion failed her.
She arose, stiff from inactivity. If she did not go, those from the court would come seeking her, even here, which long ago she had set aside for her privacy alone. Now she approached the southern window where that curious rainbow glimmered, shielding out the world she knew only too well. She raised her hands in welcome, but there was no answer.
At last she allowed the weight of the Rings to drop her arms to her sides. If she left the tower now, it might be long before she could once more withdraw from the sight of the court and return. Yet linger longer, she dared not. Her descent of the main stairway was much more sedate than her precipitate rush up the hidden one.
As she stepped out of the door that guarded the tower stair, Ysa all but bumped into Master Lorgan, the eldest and most assured of the physicians. However, it seemed a random meeting.
"You are needed most urgently," he said. "The warning I gave you this morning—well, we fear the King's condition has grown very grave. He lies at a crisis. Your presence is… forgive me, Majesty, but your presence is mandatory."
He bowed, and Ysa was aware that she must make a choice; perhaps a half measure would suffice for the present.
"Good physician," she said. The words came with a trace of unease, which would only be natural, and thus convincing. "How fortunate to find you. Of course I will go to the King's chamber. How could I not? Furthermore, I have been thinking on what you spoke of this morning. You have seen the King's hands." Now she held out her own as if to compare what was present to those that were in the bed. "I tried once, most earnestly, to put the Rings back on him, but failed. If the Rings cannot be forced upon him because of the swelling, perhaps they can be used in another way to his benefit. It will cause no harm to try."
She led the way once more to the King's chamber, where smoldering herbs on the hearth could not overcome the fugue of coming death. Indeed, the physician had spoken truly. There were others gathered in the shadows; some stepped aside so that she could take the step up on the dais and stand beside the massive bed.
Boroth lay on his back, his mouth open a little, drool matting his unkempt beard. His eyes were not completely closed, but Ysa doubted that he saw what was about him.
"My Lord." Conscious of how she appeared to those in the shadows, she leaned forward and reached for one of those puffed hands, closing both of hers about it so that the Rings touched his flesh. "My Lord, by Oak and Yew, Ash and Rowan, take strength! By your oath for the land, call to you what will give you—"
His eyes opened suddenly all the way. The whites were shot with blood. His lips drew together as he turned his head on the pillow to stare straight at her.
In that meeting of the eyes there shone such hatred and rage that she swayed a little. But steadying herself against the edge of the bed, she continued to hold his hand. Was he going to spit out that rage before all these listeners? She was risking a lot because she had no other choice. His bluish lips moved, but if he shaped words, he did not utter them aloud. That he cursed her from within, she had no doubt.
"Oak and Yew, Ash and Rowan," she said again, loud enough to reach at least those closest to her. "Strengthen
him—"
She was not to finish that plea. A choking gasp rumbled from Boroth as if his red anger filled his throat but could not be spewed forth. His bloated body shook and the force of the outflung hand, which he jerked from her hold, sent her spinning until she clutched at one of the bedposts to keep from being thrown sprawling onto the floor.
Though she had often been alone in the Bog, Ashen had known that she did have a hearth-place with Zazar, and that knowledge had been an assurance of security.
Now, with a pang that surprised her, she was very sure that Zazar's hearth was no longer hers. She would not see the Wysen-wyf for some time, and this strange straggle of ruins would be her only shelter. She remained where she was on the flattened stones of their landing, watching that cut into which Zazar had just poled the small craft.
Certainly the Wysen-wyf had not given her any real orders of what to do. Ashen shivered. So much had happened in so short a time. The events of the immediate past had been very different to the daily duties she had always known, and this shattered mound of what had once been did not encourage present- day inhabitants.
She felt a stout tug at her leggings, and a small trill echoed in the still air.
The creature Zazar had made known to her was demanding attention. Slowly, hoping it would not bite now that Zazar was gone, Ashen reached down and lightly stroked the small head that was turned up so its eyes could meet hers.
Weyse trilled again and gave another sharp tug. It was plain that her new companion wanted her away from the shore, back into the stone- walled maze. On impulse, and because she felt alone for the first time in her life, Ashen stooped and took Weyse into her arms. To her relief and comfort, the little one willingly allowed her this liberty. In fact, it cuddled against her and began to knead her arm with its clever little forepaws.
Carrying the bundle of fur carefully cradled, Ashen returned to the refuge Zazar had shown her and began to truly examine the place.
The first task presented itself immediately. The fire still burned, but low. She remembered the strange black rock Zazar had used for feeding the starting flame.
Putting Weyse down, she searched until she found a tightly woven basket, nearly waist-high, heaped with the chunks. She gingerly freed two of the blocks and laid them on the fire, where they caught almost at once. The warmth did help to banish that ever-biding chill and sense of dampness.
Then she began to make a slow circle of the room, leaving Weyse to squat by the fire, holding out those forepaws that seemed curiously like hands in a gesture even more curiously human. At the far end of the chamber, she discovered an improvement that she had never seen in a Bog dwelling. There was a basin set in the floor and above it, protruding from the wall, a hollow tube of the same rock as the walls, from which trickled a steady stream of water.
As a precaution, she tested it with one of Zazar's unfailing herb detectors and found it to be as clear of the dank outside water's effluent as that they had used for drinking and washing. In fact, it tasted better than any she had ever drunk. Then, searching further, she discovered shelves she had overlooked before. They had been erected from large pieces of rubble, but seemed secure enough. On them were closely woven storage baskets, firmly lidded. A random exploration of these turned up dried herbs, most of which she knew by sight.
Behind the tall pile of mats for sitting and sleeping, she found an assortment of clay plates that were not scratched, but had oddly shaped drawings and symbols embedded in their surfaces.
The girl helped herself to several of these and sought the fireplace. During the course of her investigation, she had realized, in some surprise, that there were no windows. How was it then that this chamber nevertheless had light enough to rival a gray day outside? She glanced up and saw what looked like smooth, polished pieces of bone firmly anchored in the wall crevices wherever possible.
Though they emitted a strange light of their own, they appeared to glow brighter when encouraged by light from the flames. She should have been frightened.
Certainly such as these were foreign to the Bog she knew, as was all the rest of this mass of worked stone.
But she accepted the light gratefully now. From her pack she brought out the dried briar fruit and boiled lup-per's eggs, along with a packet of trail food—nuts and dried berries mixed with small pieces of smoked lupper meat.
Weyse squeaked. Ashen glanced up to see it staring, large-eyed, at the packet.
The little creature licked its lips. Smiling, the girl poured out a handful of the mixture and laid it on one of the plates beside her.
Weyse trilled and moved to squat before the offering. Using both forepaws, the little one scooped up a portion and started eating with every sign of one presented with some dainty. Because the lupper's eggs would not keep well, Ashen ate these for her supper, at the same time examining the plates. No, she was mistaken. They were not clay, though they looked like it. Their inscribed surfaces had a different feel, one she could not identify. However, it was those symbols that held her attention now.
Zazar had trained her to understand many of the swirls, dots, and other markings to be found in the Wysen-wyf's private library. As it was with Zazar's records, many of the signs on the plates were familiar. Here and there, however, Ashen came across a line so different that though she traced it with her finger, no spark of recognition aided her memory.
These were not recipes for salves, recorded methods for treatments of various ills and injuries, the way Zazar's plates were. Instead, they seemed to be, and
Ashen was sure she was correct, the setting down of thoughts, as if the one, or ones, who had compiled them were trying to preserve knowledge of a different sort. She grew more and more fascinated while trying to work out the puzzle, unaware that Weyse had padded away after the meal, nor was she aware of anything else about her until the fire burned so low that she shivered. She raised her head to stare around, bemused as one coming out of a deep sleep.
But was the dying of the fire a warning? Suddenly alert, she got to her feet.
Those crevice-bones were all aglow, and now fingers of light streamed straight up from them to fight their way through the cracks in the remains of the roof above. Without realizing why she did, Ashen drew her knife. She had heard no bellow from without, nor felt any solid thud carrying through the pavement.
Still, there was that which was totally alien to this place, something that was in a way a threat—and it was drawing near!
She had barely accepted this as being true when a shriek sounded, so thin and so high that she could hardly hear it. It came from overhead, from outside. Quickly she reached the entrance to the chamber. What she had heard certainly could not have been any protest or warning of falling wall or roof. That had been the cry of a living thing, and one in danger and pain!
She picked up a chunk of the rubble and with that in one hand and her knife in the other, went out into the night, drawn almost against her will to answer the anguish in that cry.
She reached the great stone figure that lay facedown. The evening was already well into night's darkness, but because the stones about her produced a similar though fainter radiance to the rods within, she could see well enough to cross the rough footing.
Weyse had bounded out before her and now scurried back to pluck once more at her leggings and urge her to follow, trilling a note of anxiety. Guided by her companion, Ashen rounded the head of the fallen figure to see something lying on the ground. Its wings beat, but apparently it was unable to rise. Weyse pulled her closer.
Ashen hesitated to deal directly with any strange life-form. There were too many deadly ones within the Bog, and many looked no less dangerous than this. But this creature out of the night was certainly too small to be a strong threat, and she could feel its pain and fear in an oddly heightened sense.
Throwing her rock away and sheathing her knife, she went down on her knees. With
Weyse crouching on the other side of the injured thing, still trilling, Ashen reached o
ut. The creature slapped her hand away widi its flailing wing, but she persisted. Weyse also hunched nearer and copied Ashen's gesture with one front paw. This had the effect of quieting the creature. It stopped its useless struggle of flight and quieted as Weyse leaned even closer. Weyse's trilling was no longer summoning, but held soft reassurance and concern.
In this dull light, Ashen thought it was a bird. However, as it stilled, she was able to touch it, and felt fur. Furred, yet winged! This was another surprise of the Bog. With care, not knowing how it had been injured, she took it up. She must accept Weyse's decision that it was harmless and in need.
Small clawed paws raked at her wrists and once more she heard, and very plainly now, the wail that had brought her here. Sheltering the flyer against her, the girl started back to her refuge, Weyse scrambling ahead. But when they reached the portal of the gray ruins, Zazar's accepted companion—friend, servant?—suddenly stepped out before Ashen, blocking her way, though Weyse had not shown any such resistance before.