“Yes, my lord.”
Tarothin had less sleep that night than Gildas Aurhinius, but at least did not wake to dire news. His healing of Pirvan and Hawkbrother left him weak, but it was thoroughly done, and both men were fit to ride at dawn.
The Red Robe was not, however. He slept through the day, which the men he had healed put to good use.
Hawkbrother called in his men, and they refilled their waterskins using the spring in Dead Ogre Canyon and Pirvan’s sledge. The Free Riders and knights traded sour looks at first, but Pirvan and Hawkbrother were each eloquent in praising the other’s skill and honor.
“If any doubt that Pirvan and those sworn to him are friends to the Free Riders and likely to aid us in this time of troubles, let him challenge me in the matter,” was the way Hawkbrother put it.
Where others could hear, Pirvan was quite as firm. “The Free Riders are fierce but honorable. We have nothing and can have nothing to fear from them, bound as they are by Hawkbrother’s oaths.”
This, Haimya pointed out when they were alone, applied only to the Gryphon clan. The last time she had studied the matter, there were at least nine other great clans and some fifteen lesser ones among the Free Riders.
“I also do not care for the narrowness of your victory,” she said. “Gerik and Eskaia say little, but their eyes speak plainly. None of us can quite bring ourselves to say-”
“That I am too old for contending in this sort of bout?” Pirvan said. He smiled to take some of the sting from the words, not wishing to make an enemy of his lady and love after making a friend of Hawkbrother. The gods themselves would fall down laughing if that happened.
Haimya flushed. Pirvan laughed aloud and kissed her. “Well, you have heard me say it myself.”
“Yes, but-oh, how to say it? Does your heart accept your years, or must I wait for mine to break when you go into one too many battles?”
Pirvan wanted to praise her warrior’s courage by doubting that her heart would do any such thing. But her love for him-and his for her-was quite as real as their courage. He vowed not to ask her lightly to bear what he himself might not be able to endure.
In silence, they stood arm in arm until the unease passed, and the dawn breeze began to blow dust in their eyes. From the canyon came the shouts of both Free Riders and guards urging the sledge up the slope. From the vast sky came only the distant cry of some bird still hunting a meal after a night spent in vain.
“When do we ride?” Haimya asked.
“I had thought to break camp as soon as we were watered,” Pirvan said. “Anyone who has followed us is less likely to ambush us by day than by night.
“But there is Tarothin, who must have sleep and may need healing, himself. I hope the Gryphons can supply it. Also, Hawkbrother says that his friend One-Ear knows ways out of this land that none but the Free Riders know.”
“That serves well enough against the tax soldiers,” Haimya said. “What of other clans, the Hawks and their ilk?”
Pirvan shrugged. “A little in every guess, and much in some, always rests with the gods. They have so far sent us safety, water, friends, and knowledge we did not have before. I think we can trust them to keep away hostile clans-and can trust our own steel if the gods turn their attention elsewhere.”
This met with no argument from Haimya, and they returned to the camp hand in hand.
Chapter 4
As the gryphon flew, it was three days’ or four nights’ ride to the principal camp of the clan named after those fierce flying predators.
“Although in truth, I have never seen a gryphon fly half that distance in a straight line,” Hawkbrother added. “They could do it if they wished. They are strong flyers, but they must eat. Or at least they wish to eat, whenever they see something that might be food. And I tell you that a gryphon will make a meal of what would make a carrion bird spew. So they are always swooping down, gorging themselves, then sleeping off their gorging.”
“Have they no enemies to surprise them in their sleep?” Eskaia asked. She seemed insatiable in her curiosity about the life of the Free Riders and about the southern lands in general.
“None but humans, and be sure that we take advantage of this,” Hawkbrother said. “Not our clan, for the gryphon is our totem and thereafter we may not shed its blood. But others, including the bolder Silvanesti, go hunting gryphons in their sleeping lairs. Not altogether a bad thing, either, or the desert skies might be filled with gryphons and the land below be eaten bare of men and their herds alike.”
Pirvan’s company and the Free Riders had no need to stop and gorge, but they did need to avoid lands where hostile clans (the Hawks, the Ravens, the Serpents, and the Dragons) might be roaming. That was doubly true where the Istarians might have gathered, whether the regular host or the ragged mob of tax soldiers.
So they struck away from the river, which Pirvan knew by the Silvanesti name Fyrdaynis and the Free Riders called the River of the Green Moons. (It was said that from its banks, at certain times of the year, any or all of the moons in the sky appeared green. Tarothin found this of more than passing interest, and would have shown more than passing regret for leaving the river, but was not fit to argue.) They rode a twisting path that to Pirvan seemed to go in two or three directions during each night’s ride. Yet at dawn he could always tell from the sunrise that they were farther south. Even by night, he could feel the air turning cooler and see moonlit patches of grass and bushes and dwarfed trees, which did not grow farther north.
“Are we going all the way to the Silvanesti lands?” Eskaia asked as they made camp on the fifth morning of the journey.
“Would it make you uneasy if we did?” Hawkbrother asked in return.
Eskaia did not stamp her foot or slap the chief’s son, but both gestures were in her voice as she replied. “Not in the least. We wish to learn how the Silvanesti see Istar’s intrigues. Who better to ask than the Silvanesti themselves-if they will answer us with words and not arrows?”
“That is indeed the question,” Pirvan said. “And because it is the question, it is why we are going to Hawkbrother’s clan first.” He did not add the question he wished answered but could not ask yet: Would the Free Riders ally with the Silvanesti against Istar, or the opposite?
Neither choice sat well with the knight. If elves and Free Riders made common cause, Istar would invoke the city’s terms of alliance with Solamnia and summon the knights to aid them against “barbarian hordes.” Some injustice had come of this the first time, even without the hand of the kingpriest’s minions. It would be much worse this time.
If Free Riders chose to help Istar settle their old grievances against the Silvanesti (which were many, and some possibly just), the knights might not be required. But the Silvanesti would be direly beset enough without them, and elves driven to desperation had dread resources to unleash when their heartlands were threatened.
It would bring the great war closer, the war of which the kingpriests had spoken more loudly with each generation, the final confrontation of humans and “lesser breeds.” Too much closer for Pirvan’s peace of mind.
When everyone else was out of hearing, Pirvan asked Hawkbrother: “How do you keep peace with the elves?”
“With the Qualinesti, by being too far away to have dealings. Likewise with the Kagonesti.”
“You know who I mean, my friend,” Pirvan said. It had been a long night, and he recovered from hours in the saddle more slowly than he had ten years ago. He was stiff enough that he doubted sleep would come easily, but knew he must not lose patience.
“There is a stretch of the southern desert or the northern forest, call it what you will,” Hawkbrother said, after a moment’s hesitation. “We both claim it, but our fighting over the claim is more sport than war. We do not go far into the woods, where our mounts cannot move swiftly, our eyes are baffled, and an archer lurks behind every tree.