Above the waist, Rynthala wore a white silk shirt, with lace at throat, collar, and cuffs, and over it a sleeveless blue tunic, that hung in such a way as to hint of mail within. It also had pouches and pockets for weapons and war gear.
Around her tanned throat, Rynthala wore the silver chain that had been her parents’ gift to her when she was twelve. But instead of one of the other gift medallions, she now wore a plain pewter disk with the buffalo-head sigil of Kiri-Jolith.
Odd gift from a healer, Krythis thought. Then he remembered. Kiri-Jolith was the eldest son of Paladine and Mishakal. One of Mishakal’s priests would well know a warrior when he saw one.
Silence, as Rynthala’s throat worked convulsively from her struggle for words. Then she drew her sword and held it with the hilt uppermost and against the pewter disk.
“By this sword and by Kiri-Jolith, I swear not to shame any here this day.” She tossed the sword, caught it by the hilt, and sheathed it in one flowing motion.
“I will not swear to thank everyone. At least not until I’ve had something to wet my throat.”
“Then let the feasting begin!” Tulia called.
A dwarf standing ready with a mallet swung at a wedge that a kender held against the head of a barrel. The mallet thudded home, and the wedge sank into the wood. The kender pretended he’d been struck and capered around, wailing, until he suddenly flipped head over heels and landed on his “smashed” hands. Laughing, everyone scrambled to be first in the line forming by the barrel.
The united bands were not far on their journey before Pirvan realized his people were being deliberately led hither and yon about the countryside. Whether Threehands’ intent was merely to conceal the true location of the Gryphons’ main camp, or to leave Pirvan’s band lost and helpless in the face of treachery, the knight did not know.
Nor did he care. Darin, Haimya, and two of the men-at-arms who had once been rangers had a nearly magical ability to remember trails and landmarks. All were teaching it to Gerik and Eskaia, who were not backward to learn this useful art.
If Threehands meant treachery, he was merely giving warning rather than weakening his intended prey. He was also going to hear something from his sibling, if Hawkbrother’s expression was any guide. The young warrior’s face grew harsher with each pace into the tangle of hills, ravines, and scrubby trees that seemed to be Threehands’s destination.
They saw what might have been the principal Gryphon camp once, briefly, far off in the hazy heat, at the bottom of a valley. Pirvan did not dare rein in to study the scene more closely, and doubted he would learn much if he could. From this distance, it would be hard to tell if the camp had huts or tents, its own well, cookhouses or cook-fires, and if it could spew forth five hundred warriors or five thousand.
More than the first, much less than the second, was Pirvan’s guess. One clan only among the Free Riders had ever allowed themselves to be accurately counted by outsiders, the Blue Eagles. They could, by arming everyone who could bear a weapon even if he or she could not sit a saddle, put forward about two thousand fighting men and perhaps five hundred women. Not all of these would be useful except to defend camps, which no sane opponent forced Free Riders to do, for then they fought to the death.
But certainly, the Gryphons would have no difficulty swallowing Pirvan’s band so completely that none would know where their bones lay. That they would be avenged was small consolation; vengeance would mean knights consequently allied with Istar, marching against Free Riders, and from there to war with the Silvanesti.
The trail soon took them deeper into the hills, where cliffs and ridges left the riders in shadow much of the time. Above, where the sun touched the rock, it once more glowed orange, crimson, gold, and unnameable colors that the gods splattered in this land when the world was taking form.
The vegetation was also growing thicker, as if there was more water to be found here. Pirvan was not surprised when they reined in beside a pool a good fifty paces wide. Threehands signaled, one of his riders blew on a horn, and all the Free Riders began dismounting.
“From here, only three of you may come with me to face your judgment,” Threehands said.
“By what right-?” Gerik began, before his father, mother, sister, and mentor all glared him to silence.
“By chief right and seer right, for you will meet both my father, Redthorn, and our women of wisdom, Skytoucher,” Threehands said. Gerik remembered his manners enough to bow courteously in thanks.
Pirvan was looking about him, trying to find the shrine, spirit-house, or other planned meeting place, when two of Threehands’ men began pulling on a long rope of oiled leather. The knight’s eyes followed the rope out into the pool, and saw a small hide boat gliding toward them. Behind it was a narrow shelf of rock, and above that shelf the dark mouth of a cave.
With that much settled, Pirvan began considering who should go. Himself, of course, Tarothin, and either Haimya or Darin.
Haimya, he decided. It would be a courtesy to Skytoucher. Also, if there was any need to speak of woman’s mysteries (of which the Free Riders were reported to have many), Haimya would be the only one who could lawfully speak with the wise woman.
Pirvan turned to Haimya, asked with his eyes, and saw assent in hers. When he glanced toward the wizard-he saw a head shaking in firm denial.
The knight’s first urge was to shake Tarothin until the last tooth fell from his gums. Then he saw the Red Robe’s fingers dancing and twisting in complicated movements. To an uninitiated observer, he might have been casting a minor spell, or merely working cramps from his hands.
Pirvan translated as swiftly as if the wizard had been speaking: Threehands does not seem to know I am a magic worker. Easier to surprise him if I stay behind, feigning illness. Also, that cave may be bound to Skytoucher, so that no magic save hers can work within it.
Pirvan’s nod was brusque. He trusted many things about Tarothin, including both his loyalty and his acting ability. He had, after all, once fooled not only the knight and much of his company, but Istarian minions of the kingpriest and even spies of the priesthood of Zeboim, the foul Sea Mistress.
He should not have much trouble deceiving Threehands, who dripped overconfidence as an autumn hive drips honey.
Pirvan looked at his people. Darin was the obvious replacement for Tarothin, but the band needed him as a leader in the event of treachery. Also, his weight might sink the boat.
The knight swallowed. This was a moment that he had known must come, but wished could have come later or under easier circumstances.
“Gerik, you will make the third of our company. Threehands, lead onward.”
And, gods, grant Eskaia the sense to place herself under Darin’s protection if none of us come back, thought Pirvan. Few but he will protect her without demanding marriage.
Krythis did not believe in mixing his drinks. Besides dwarf spirits, there was brandy, mead, ale, and at least three kinds of wine. There was even a keg of something that had appeared so mysteriously that Krythis suspected it was a gift of the gully dwarves.
He had remained true to the ale. Between draining cups of it, he had also eaten heartily of the venison and pork sausages, smoked fish, fried mushrooms, eggs wrapped in bacon, and other solid fare that made tables groan before it was eaten and made the eaters groan afterward.
Krythis saw Tulia moving through the crowd toward him. She passed three kender, who took turns tossing one another off a table in a way that would have shattered the bones of less resilient folk. Now she was out in the open, swaying her hips as she came, in a way she would never have dared if she were wholly sober.
She reached him and leaned against him, and her warmth and Krythis’s desire were suddenly both real. She caressed him, where no one could see her hand, then whispered: