She vanished. One instant she was there; the next she was gone, and the hradani shook themselves. The gray light of dawn glimmered in the hole in the cave’s roof, and Bahzell frowned as he tried to calculate how many hours must have sped past in what had seemed so few minutes. Yet the fire still burned, the horses and mules still drowsed in their corner of the cave, and their three companions slept on, untouched by all that had happened. He should have been exhausted from a sleepless night, but he felt rested and restored, and he looked at his friend.
Brandark looked back, his eyes huge with bemused sorrow and joy. And as they looked into one another’s eyes, the Bloody Sword felt unseen fingers tug gently at his ear once more while a husky contralto voice ran around the cave like the laughter of the first day of creation.
“Remember, Brandark,” it said softly. “You may have another task, but you do have a poet’s soul, and that means a part of you will always be mine. Live your life well, Brandark Brandarkson. Take joy of it, and remember I will be with you to its end . . . and beyond.”
Chapter Eighteen
A south wind blew misty rain into Bahzell’s eyes as the gray walls of Angcar rose before him. It was two hours till gate-closing, but lanterns already glimmered from the battlements, and he blinked away water, looked back over his shoulder, and bit his lip. All of them, including those who’d slept through Chesmirsa’s visit, had felt invigorated and renewed when they left the cave. But they’d no sooner set out once more than the gray, persistent rain had returned, and flooded valleys and mud-treacherous slopes had taken toll of their mounts and slowed them badly. The rain looked like blowing itself out at last, but Tothas was hunched in the saddle, his face pinched and gray, and his harsh, rasping cough came all too often. Short of funds or no, they had to get him under a roof, Bahzell thought grimly, and increased his pace toward Carchon’s capital.
They’d fallen into the habit of letting Tothas act as their spokesman in the towns they passed, for he was less threatening than a hradani, but he was folded forward over his saddle pommel in a fresh, wracking spasm when they finally reached the gates. Bahzell stood beside his horse, one hand on the beast’s neck, hiding his anxiety as best he could while he watched the armsman cough, and Brandark trotted ahead to state their business.
The guards, already surly over pulling gate duty on such a miserable day, looked less than pleased to see a hradani, but Bahzell had little worry to spare them. The rain was far worse on Tothas than the dry cold had been. Finding the cave had been greater fortune than they had any right to expect, and what would happen to the Spearman if they met the same weather in deep wilderness frightened the Horse Stealer.
The thought touched him with strangely bitter frustration, and he stroked the neck of Tothas’ horse again while he grappled with it. He had a notion finding that cave had been something more than a stroke of simple luck, and there was a certain seductiveness to the idea of being able to call upon a god for aid. Only, if a man got into the habit of counting on some poxy god to save his neck, what did he do the day the god was busy elsewhere or got bored and decided to do something else? Besides, there was something bribe-like about the way that cave had popped up. It was like a bait, a bit of cheese enticing him into the trap.
He snorted in the rain. The dreams had stopped, as promised, but he wasn’t certain that was an improvement. He’d always believed knowing the truth was best, that it meant a man didn’t have to wonder or torment himself with hopes, but he’d learned better. Bad enough to suspect a god was after him; having it confirmed was much, much worse. This business about destinies, and tasks, and “pain beyond your dreams”-!
He watched Brandark speaking with the gate guards and shook his head stubbornly. Pain didn’t frighten him. He relished it no more than the next man, but any hradani knew pain was part of life. Yet he’d meant what he’d said. What he did, he would do because he chose to do it, not because someone or something commanded him to, and he still saw no reason any man-especially a hradani-should go about trusting gods. He couldn’t deny Chesmirsa’s impact upon him, how much he’d . . . well, liked her. But the goddess of music and bards damned well ought to be likable, charming, and all those other things! And all that talk of him and Brandark being “more” than she’d hoped-! Best be keeping your hand on your purse when you hear such from someone who’s wanting something from you, my lad, he told himself sourly.
He pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced at Zarantha, and her momentarily unguarded eyes echoed his own fears for Tothas. She felt the hradani’s gaze and looked back at him, and a spark of anger for what she was doing to her armsman burned within him, but her expression’s sick self-loathing silenced any outburst, and he looked away once more as Brandark trotted back.
The Bloody Sword was as soaked as any of them, his finery bedraggled and mud-spattered, but meeting his goddess seemed to have honed his elemental insouciance, and there was still something jaunty about the way he drew rein. “I don’t think they were glad to see a hradani, but they’ll let us in. The sergeant was even kind enough to direct me to an inn with reasonable rates-remind me to mention his name to be sure he gets his rake-off.”
“I’ll be doing that, if it’s after being decent. And if we can get Tothas into a warm bed.”
“I’m-I’m all-” Tothas broke off in another spasm of coughing, and Bahzell grunted.
“Oh, save your strength, man!” he snapped. “We’re all knowing you’ve guts enough for three men-now show you’ve the wit to go with them!”
Tothas coughed yet again, then shook himself weakly and nodded. The Horse Stealer clapped him on the shoulder and looked back to Brandark. “All right, my lad. You’re the one has the name and address, so-” He made a shooing gesture, and Brandark turned his horse with a damp grin and led the way.
The Laughing God was on the poor side of town, and its weathered walls looked none too splendid. Bahzell suspected Hirahim Lightfoot would have been less than pleased to discover he was the inn’s patron, yet it turned out to be much better than first appearances suggested.
Brandark went off to examine the stables while Bahzell accompanied Zarantha and Rekah inside, and the Horse Stealer’s eyes flitted about the taproom as they awaited their host. The miserable weather had swelled its custom, but the place was clean enough, and its patrons seemed unwontedly well behaved. Rough clothing and general shabbiness proclaimed their lack of affluence, yet there was no rowdiness, and no one gave the two overworked barmaids trouble. Which might have something to do with the stocky, powerfully built human who stood with both elbows on the bar and watched the crowd. He was two feet shorter than Bahzell, with an eagle’s-beak nose in the face of someone it would be wiser not to cross, and his eyes considered the hradani warily, then flipped to where Tothas leaned on Zarantha’s shoulder. His hard gaze softened as it rested on the armsman, then tracked back to Bahzell, and he nodded to the hradani before he returned his attention to the crowd.
One patron looked up and paled, then rose quickly, paid his shot, and departed hastily, but no one else seemed worried by Bahzell’s sudden arrival. Either that, or they had a great deal of faith in the man at the bar, and Bahzell was inclined to agree with them. That was a fighting man over there, and an unlikely character to play bouncer in a place such as this, he thought-until he saw the owner. The landlord had lost a leg at the knee somewhere, but that nose could only belong to the bouncer’s brother.
The landlord stopped short as he saw the hradani towering in his taproom, but a glance at Bahzell’s companions seemed to reassure him. His shoulders relaxed, and he wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder and stumped forward on his peg leg.