"Yes," Gawain smiled grimly to himself, "It is indeed worthy of the man you last saw on the Point."
Gawain did not sleep at first, and instead lay with his eyes closed, listening to the rain and Allazar's deep breathing. For his part, the wizard slept deeply, and did not stir when rumblings of thunder late in the night rattled the panes and shook the roof. If Morloch were laughing still, the sound of it was drowned by the storm without.
Gawain considered the wizard's earlier remarks. He did not like to be thought of as cruel, nor cold, but with detachment, he recognised that they were qualities which most suited his purpose for the time being. There was still a distance between himself and Elayeen, and her use of the name 'mithroth' instead of 'Traveller' had not yet bridged that gulf. Perhaps, with the luxury of time, he might court her again, and woo her as he had in Elvendere so long ago. But there was no time for courtship, no time for gentle wooing. Now, laying on the cot listening to the storm and the wizard sleeping, he regretted telling her his true name. He did not trust the thalangard, and because Elayeen did, she might reveal his royal heritage before it could be used to its full advantage.
And he did not trust Allazar. He never would, as long as night followed day. Strange aquamire tinted his vision again. In truth, Gawain welcomed it. He had the measure of it now, now that he had conquered its constant whispering for blood. He had Elayeen to thank for that, in some part, and he was grateful that he had not slain Allazar. Yet. The strange aquamire gave him a clarity of thought that cut through his inhibitions and strengthened his resolve, like the first rush of warmth that Jurian brandy brought on a cold winter's night. But Gawain was master of it now, and with it, he remembered the shades floating in the Lens of Ramoth before his blade had shattered it.
The strange lands he had seen, places and faces he did not recognise. The Gorian Empire, perhaps, for Morloch would not ignore such a vast repository of life for his aquamire lakes, and perhaps the Barak-nor, and the nothingland to the northwest of Elvendere. Other visions too, and understanding of them. Now, with the strange aquamire swimming in his eyes, he could imagine how the promise of such vast power could persuade a wizard to break his so-called 'sacred oath' to do no harm to the races of Man. With aquamire, and enough of it, a wizard could do anything. Anything at all.
Perhaps that was indeed why Allazar refused to accompany Gawain to the Teeth. Perhaps the fear of succumbing to such temptation really was at the heart of Allazar's fear. But Gawain remembered Allazar's words, all of them, with strange aquamire clarity. "What lays between you and the Teeth is as nothing compared with what lays between the Teeth and Morloch.” Gawain had seen that terrain, through the Lens of Ramoth, riding the beam of black fire in his mind when the lens was shattered. Allazar had been right, of course. The farak gorin was as nothing compared with what lay on the northern side of the Teeth. The question was, how did Allazar know?
Gawain sighed, and shifted his pillow. Doubt was an insidious enemy, sneaking in undetected, disguised, ignoble. Just as Gawain had sneaked upon the Ramoth compounds, darkened by blackening cloths, unseen in the night, victims never seeing their assassin…
Rak, and everyone else, for that matter, doubted Gawain's words. Gawain doubted Allazar. He doubted the thalangard's motives, Elayeen's love, and her assertion that she would not hinder their journey to the Barak-nor and whatever they might find there. That she was throth, bound to him, was obvious. But that did not mean she loved him. Might a slave love her master?
Gawain was sure only of three things. Himself, his blade, and Gwyn. Even Rak, he doubted. Rak had fought with typical dwarven tenacity that night so long ago on the plains, but that night, Rak was fighting to defend his wife and unborn child. Would he fight so tenaciously for Gawain? Martan of Tellek had fought valiantly, but at the end of the day, Martan was fighting not so much for Gawain or Threlland, but for himself, for one last glorious adventure and a meaningful death before age and infirmity stole upon the old man and robbed him of his dignity. Even now, if it were true that Martan, a good friend, were digging through soft Threlland soil towards the bitchrock of the farak gorin, it was as much for himself as for Gawain or some nobler cause.
So Gawain thought, as the night wore on, doubts gnawing at his stomach like irrepressible relentless worms. He sighed, and turned on his side as thunder rumbled once more. No matter. Tomorrow's sunrise would find them all on the lowlands, travelling the narrow boundary of soft Threlland earth that lay between the Black Hills and the farak gorin. Soon, they would reach the Barak-nor, and many doubts, perhaps even Gawain's, would be answered once and for all.
31. Lessons
Allazar was still sleeping when Gawain slipped from the inn to find Gwyn. With the thalangard horses in Rak's stables, there would be no room in the stalls for the Raheen charger. And it was the thalangard, Gawain remembered, who had 'taken care of Gwyn' in the aftermath of his ire. If not in Rak's stables, and not at the stables at the inn, then where was she?
Gawain stood in the middle of the market square, and let out a long, low whistle. He felt suddenly ashamed, derelict in his duty. He should have tended Gwyn himself. Seconds later, he heard a familiar whinny, and he followed the sound down a long cobbled street. Again he whistled quietly, and again received Gwyn's answering call, closer now. Almost at the end of the street he found a humble cottage, and followed the path around its side to the gardens at the rear. Gwyn was there, in the darkness, beneath a low lean-to shelter. It was dry, and closed in on three sides, but clearly the structure had been built in haste.
Gawain spied his saddle in the gloom, and strode across the waterlogged garden, his boots squelching. When he reached down into the straw to retrieve the saddle, he suddenly started. Something moved in the straw…Lyas.
"Serre?" the boy asked, rubbing his eyes, "Serre?"
"It's all right, Lyas," Gawain said quietly. "I have come for Gwyn. Sleep, it is another hour at least until dawn."
The boy was clearly bemused, and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shapes in the gloom as Gawain saddled Gwyn.
"There was no room…" Lyas mumbled, "At the stables there was no room. I brung Gwyn home, Serre. I'm sorry if I did wrong…"
"Hush, Lyas, and sleep." Gawain whispered, feeling the gloss on Gwyn's coat, knowing how long the lad must have groomed her, just by touch. He turned, feeling shame, and guilt, and yet a strong sense of kinship with the dwarven youngster who even now desperately tried to rub sleep from his eyes.
Gawain knelt, found the threadbare blanket under which Lyas had been sleeping, and drew it up around the lad's neck. "Sleep, apprentice. It's early yet. One day, when I am able, I shall thank you royally for your kindness and duty to my horse. Until then," Gawain slipped a silver coin into the dazed boy's pocket, "Take this against that day."
"Serre?" Lyas mumbled, already half asleep.
Gawain smiled, and rose, and led Gwyn quietly from the makeshift stable, and to the street beyond. When he climbed into the saddle, he sighed, remembering a young Raheen lad praying for horses on his birthday….then he stiffened his back, and summoned the strange aquamire, and drove the memory from his mind as Gwyn clopped down the cobbles to the inn.
The stableman was as good as his word, and Allazar's horse was ready and waiting. Allazar, though, was conspicuous by his absence. More clopping hoofbeats announced the arrival of Rak and the rest of the party, and Gawain turned as they reined in behind him.