I urged my mare on and caught up with Kildas, suddenly having a dislike for riding alone.
“Harl says that Halse is sharp tongued.” she commented. “Though he does not seem to lack in proper courtesy. He resents it that he did not win a bride.”
“Perhaps his cloak was not eye-catching enough.”
She laughed. “Do not tell him that! He is one who fancies that in most companies he is the first to be noted. It is true he is very handsome—”
Handsome? To me he was the bear, danger covered with a deceptively clumsy skin.
“A fine face is not everything.”
“Yes. And I do not care much for Halse. He ever smiles and looks content, but I do think he is. Gillan, I know not what Herrel has told you, but do not speak freely—too freely—with Halse. Harl has said that there is old trouble between him and Herrel, and since the bridals it has grown worse. For Herrel obtained what he would have—”
“Me?” I laughed, startled by her speech which was so far from the truth I knew.
“Perhaps not you, but a bride. He spoke much before our coming as to what his luck would be, and then to have it dashed so, it has been as a burr within his tunic. The other Riders, they have not forgotten his boasts, and they lead him to remember them from time to time. It is odd,” she glanced at me, “before we came I thought of the Riders as all alike, gathered into a pack which thought and acted as one. Instead they are as all men, each having thoughts, faults, dreams and fears of his own.”
“Harl taught you thus?”
She smiled, a very different smile from that which curved Halse’s lips, deeply happy. “Harl has taught me many things—” She was lost in a dream again, a dream which I could not enter.
And so the long day passed and I saw naught of Herrel—though whether that was by his own design or the will of others. I did not know. We came at last to a long and narrow valley. Its entrance was masked with trees and brush, so thick that I would have believed there was no opening, yet he who was our guide wound a serpent’s route through which we filed in a long line. The wall of vegetation gave way to an open space walled with steep rock cliffs. Down one was a lace of ice marking the passage of water flowing away in an ice encased brook. Before us the defile was a slit which was half choked by rock falls from above.
There were journey tents standing—those before us in the advance guard had made good use of time. Twilight was fast falling, but green lamps winked at us and there was a fire. At that moment it all looked as welcoming to me as the safe interior of any great hall—rough though that might be.
But when we would dismount the man who came to aid me wore a wolf helm.
“Herrel?”
“The rear guard has not yet come in, my lady.” A smooth answer, aptly given.
And the truth was that I could not have honestly said that it would have lightened the burden of my fear had the cunningly wrought body of a cat over-topped the face looking up to mine.
That weariness which appeared always to hold off while one was in a Rider’s saddle, fell upon me as I made my way, stiff limbed, to the warmth of the fire. Loneliness closed me off from the others, the loneliness of knowledge. I could no longer hold off the thought that I had been left no return. A choice, made too lightly and in overconfidence had long since wiped away a bridge between present and past—the future my mind flinched from considering.
Night—sleep—but I dared not sleep! Sleep held dreams—not as Kildas and the others dreamed by day, but the other, the dark side of that shield.
“Gillan?”
I turned my head stiffly. Herrel was coming from the picket line. And in my loneliness I saw a man, a man to whom I might have some small meaning. My hands went out as I answered:
“Herrel!”
8
Power of the Pack
“It is well with you?”
“A day in the saddle is not like unto one spent in a bower.” I feared. The impulse of welcome which had made me move a step forward was a break in the wall of my fortress, imperilling me.
“We shall not drive you further, Gillan. And do not build up your defences; to yield will be more to your profit, I promise you.” His hand enfolded mine past my strength to free my fingers unless we struggled in good earnest.
And his touch built illusion. We stood not in a steep walled, dark cut, but in a place of spring time. Night was about us, yes, but a spring night. Small pale flowers gave sweet perfume to the night, blooming in a turf carpet, a thick cushion for our feet. Ripples of green and gold ran free from lamps along the edges of the tents, outlining them. There was a low table set with a multitude of plates and goblets, with mats for the diners. Those who were not partnered were gone. Only the twelve and one of us who had come out of the Dales and those of our choice remained.
Herrel drew me to the feasting table, and I went without question, as much bemused in that moment as any of the others. It was a relief to push aside reality, to plunge into the illusion, as one might dive into a pool of cooling water when one’s body was fevered with summer heat.
I ate from the plate we shared in the courtly fashion. I could not have named the food, only knew that never before in my life had I tasted such viands, so subtle of flavour, so beguiling to the senses, so satisfying of hunger. There was drink in the goblet before me. Not the amber liquid Herrel had brought me in the marriage dell, but darkly red. And from it arose an aroma like the first fruits of bounteous autumn, rich, freighted with the sunlight of summer past.
“To you, my lady.” Herrel raised that cup.
That which lay within me stirred, the lull of illusion was troubled, a ripple across the surface of a pool. Did he drink, or did it only appear so? He held out the cup to me. And I no more than wet my lips as I bowed my head in return.
“Can this then be journey’s end, my lord?” I asked as I put away the scarce tasted wine.
“In one fashion. But it is also a beginning. Tonight we feast to that. Yes, a beginning—” He looked down at the table rather than to me.
Alone were we sober in that company. Around us there was soft, fond laughter, the murmur of voices, a kind of beatitude. But that part of the illusion was not ours.
“Ahead lies the gate you must storm?”
“Storm? No, we can not force a way here. Either the path is freely open, or it remains closed. And if it is closed—” He paused so long I dared to question.
“What then?”
“Why, once more we go a-wandering—”
“By the Bargain you can not return to the waste—”
“This land is very wide, larger than you of the Dales know. There are other portions in which we may live.”
“But you hope not—”
Now he did turn to me, and what I read in his face struck all other questions from my lips. Yet when he answered, the words came evenly, as if he read them from some often conned book.
“We hope wandering is past.”
“When and how will you know?”
“When?—tomorrow. How?—that I can not tell you.”
But his “can not” was plainly “will not”.
“And if we pass this gate, what then shall we find waiting us beyond?”
Herrel drew a deep breath. Always his man face had been that of a youth with the eyes of age, but now when he looked upon me the eyes were young also. And of the beast—had I ever seen the beast?
“How can I tell you? It is far beyond the words we share. Truly life there is different; it is another world!”
“And you came from there—how long ago?”
Once more his eyes were weary with years of looking at what he must see. “I came from there—how long? I—we—do not reckon times save when we must deal with those of this world. I do not know. We were granted one favour when we came forth, that our memories would be dimmed and dulled, that we would only dream, and that infrequently—”
Dreams! I shivered. The table before me, the feast, the lights, shimmered, lost substance. I wanted no dream memories. I reached forward, lifted the goblet to my lips. I was cold—cold—Perhaps the wine would warm me. Yet when it was on my tongue I paused, again within me that warning.