A piece of the puzzle dropped into place, and Gareth sprang to his feet. “Helgre … she had a garrote, Ivor. Used it sometimes on the prisoners. Very thin and strong, and the cord was braided. It left a mark like that. She’s followed us here.”
“Are you trying to tell me she tracked us all this way, killed Jandi, who never did any harm to her, and decided to have mercy on us? I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she survived the Orcsblood.”
He snorted. “Your associates have more than their share of bad luck, don’t they? Especially when it suits your purposes. I should have known, that day on the dock. I should’ve parted ways with you then.”
“That’s not fair, Ivor.”
Something moved in his hand, and he looked down to see the necklace move and contract, making itself back into the torque-shaped bracelet. It was disconcerting to see the dull metal moving like a centipede on his palm, and he had a sudden urge to drop it on the ground. Instead, he slipped it back into place on his wrist, where it moved no more.
“Fair?” said Ivor. “Talk to Jandi about justice, Gareth, if you can manage it.”
“I swear I’ve seen Helgre leave the same mark. She’s here; I know it. She tracked us down, and she killed Jandi out of spite.”
Ivor flung out his arms and tossed his head back.
“Helgre!” he bellowed. “Come on out, Helgre! Scared of taking both of us on, you murderous bitch?”
“Are you insane?” Gareth put his hand on his sword and scanned the edge of the forest, half expecting the scarred woman to appear from between the trees, bent upon revenge.
“She’s not here. You have no one to blame but yourself. No-that’s a lie. I killed her, too. I killed her by trusting you.”
Ivor grabbed Gareth’s pack from beside the fire pit and flung it at him. “Get away from me-from us. Go and gloat over your fortress, and may you have the joy of it. It’s infected by that thing.”
He looked down at Jandi’s body. “I hope you live a long time, rotting in your sanctuary, all alone.”
Gareth had caught the pack and held it against his chest, uncertain of what to do. He slung it across his back and became aware of the quail still hanging at his belt. He untied them and held the cool bodies, soft in their feathers, one in each hand.
“Ivor-come back to the Fist tonight. Blame me if you must. But it’s not safe out here.”
“I take my chance with whatever’s out here, even if it is Helgre,” spat Ivor. “I prefer the company of beasts to yours.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll bury my dead. Under the oak. She loved it. And then-I have my platinum; you have yours. You can’t say you didn’t do well in the bargain.”
Gareth laid the pair of quail on the grass, near the fire pit.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
“Get away from us.” Ivor’s voice was dangerously soft.
The donkey whickered softly. Automatically Gareth reached out to pat its side. Ivor quickly strode over and struck his arm up.
“I’m keeping the donkey. I don’t trust you with any living creature.”
Gareth backed away, his hands spread wide. “In the morning.”
Ivor turned his back on Gareth and his shoulders slumped. “In the morning I’ll be gone. Go to your folly. Jadaren’s Folly.”
Ivor laughed, a short, humorless bark. “I was righter than I knew.”
Ivor didn’t move until Gareth’s footsteps faded in the distance. When all was silent, he kneeled by Jandi’s body. The trunk of the old oak was in reach. He stretched out a hand and placed a palm on the rough surface.
In a single smooth motion, he pulled his arm back and struck the trunk with a balled fist, splitting the skin across his fingers on the bark.
Feeling nothing, he leaned on the tree as the hot tears came.
Chapter Five
SANCTUARY OF SHADRUN-OF-THE-SNOWS
1584 DR-THE YEAR OF THE SKIRLING PIPES
Atall figure stood on the flat-topped Watcher’s Rock. Below, the crook of the road led to the hollow where the Sanctuary of Shadrun-of-the-Snows provided shelter. The figure, her form obviously that of a woman, set her feet shoulder-width apart and crossed her arms, her stance relaxed but watchful. A sword was strapped diagonally across her back, the hilt just behind her left ear where she could draw it either one- or two-handed at need. Thrust crosswise through her belt was a dagger in its sheath, larger than average with a simple but well-wrought hilt. The pommel of the hilt had a single, smooth, rounded ruby. The dark leather of the sheath was decorated with an elaborate pattern of intertwined snakes. Smaller stones, wine-dark like the pommel, made their eyes.
From a distance it looked as if she wore a mask: a wide strip of pale fabric across her eyes. Closer, it was clear the stripe was part of her natural coloring. Her hair was braided in rows away from her face, and the braids that touched her mask were the same pale color.
She stood still, surveying the view of the road that switched back and forth down the mountain and met the main road in the valley below. Occasionally a plume of road dust betrayed where travelers passed, some with trade goods strapped onto animals or in wagons, and some on foot, looking for adventure or simply a place to stay. Sometimes a lone figure was silhouetted in the distance, and only then did the woman stiffen slightly and narrow her eyes, watching them closely, relaxing when she determined they weren’t those for whom she waited.
Although she faced the road, she was acutely aware of the thick woods behind her and heard every rustle that the small animals of the forest made in going about their daily business. She was aware, as well, of the two pilgrims descending the path from the sanctuary, their visit at an end. By sound alone she marked each turn they took, hearing their sandals kicking up small stones, and knew exactly when they would emerge from behind the trees and pass the Watcher’s Rock. She heard them emerge from behind the trees and hesitate when they saw her, then continue again, their voices hushed. They were the two women from Turmish, she thought, from the sound of their footfalls and the few words she caught.
As they passed in front of the rock where she stood, she saw she was right. Almost shyly the pilgrims raised their hands in greeting, and she nodded in return. One looked as if she would like to stop and talk, but the other pulled her away, and they hurried down the path to the base of the mountain.
Lakini spotted them as they emerged on the road. She hoped they had the sense to ask to accompany a caravan, or at least to join with other pilgrims. Unless they had more command of defensive spellcraft or protective rituals than she suspected, they would be vulnerable once they were out of sight of one of the devas that protected Shadrun-of-the-Snows.
Her gaze ranged the road before them and froze as she saw the lone figure that passed the pilgrims, turning onto the road that led past her sentry post. The women gave him a wide berth as they went by, although he didn’t acknowledge them.
Lakini frowned. Lusk was still too far away for her to see the expression on his face, but she knew what it looked like. The mouth grimly set, the eyes that showed no trace of pity but stared through people as if they were made of glass.
She didn’t go to greet him but waited until he came to her. He strode quickly, making little sound nevertheless on the roadway. When he saw her standing on the Watcher’s Rock, he paused, then came to its base, staring up at her with the same near-unblinking stillness she possessed.
He had left the sanctuary four tendays since, and only this morning had the rising sun told her that this day he would return.
His hand lay on his own dagger, which, like Lakini’s, was secured crosswise in his belt. The gesture wasn’t either threatening or combative, but was that of a fighter who would touch his weapons to make sure they were in place and to seek reassurance. The sheath where his dagger rested was plain, but what was visible of the hilt was inscribed with flowing scrollwork and inset with sapphire cabochons. Instead of a greatsword, he had a longbow almost as tall as himself secured across his back, and a quiver full of arrows fletched with feathers so black, they gave no answering gleam to the sun that shone bright above them, reflecting on the snow that clung to the upper slopes of Shadrun’s mountain. His mouth was indeed grim, and the stripes across his face made him look the fiercer.