Part 8 (1/2)
In mere moments Aine was mounted and riding next to Iseabal behind Iobert Claeg. They'd just cleared the gates and begun the short descent into Airdnasheen when she remembered that there were words she must have with the Claeg Chieftain. She gave her horse the heel and came level with him.
”Pardon, sir, but may I speak to you for a moment?”
The cloud-belly eyes moved to a.s.sess her. She seemed to please them, for the great man smiled at her and nodded for her to continue.
”As we prepared to leave, one of your men offered me the direst insult.”
The Claeg's glower was like the sudden a.s.sault of a gale force wind. ”What insult?”
”Well sir, he-” Now that she'd gotten this far, she was suddenly at a loss. What exactly had he said? ”First, he ridiculed the color of my hair which, as you can see, is a rather . . . forceful shade of red.”
The glower lightened and he eyed that feature respectfully; long streamers of it had escaped Aine's cowl and jigged about her head.
”Oh, aye,” he agreed. ”That it is.”
”Then, he accused me of cowardice-implying that I was going to Creiddylad to hide. Sir, I am no coward.”
The Claeg nodded, his face smoothing further. ”No. Apparently not.”
”And finally, he . . . I hardly know how to put it into words, sir. He impugned my-my maidenhood and made ribald comments about-about experience and . . . and sport.”
The storm was back. ”Sport? Who spoke to you like this? Point him out to me! By the Meri's Kiss, if we have to go through every man in this column-”
Aine turned in her saddle, peering over her left shoulder at the double rows of hors.e.m.e.n. It hadn't occurred to her that she'd have to sort through every man here. She met Iseabal's startled eyes for a moment.
What are you doing? The thought was as clear as if the other girl had spoken it.
Aine turned back round and swung her gaze over to the right. Seated on the horse flanking hers was the man with the colorless eyes. The wry grin that pa.s.sed for a smile was still smugly in place.
”Why it's him!” said Aine and pointed as dramatically as she could.
When she looked back at Iobert Claeg, his face was a-flicker with warring emotions: Fury, exasperation, resignation.
”Cailin, what you say about this fellow doesn't surprise me. He is rude, unpleasant, stubborn, impudent, vulgar and mouthy. But since he is also my nephew, I suppose I must forgive him those things. I only hope you can find it in your heart to do the same.”
Aine whirled on the elder Claeg. ”Your nephew?”
”Aye. That's Saefren Claeg, my field Marschal.”
”But he-he called me a firepot!”
Saefren Claeg's grin dug further in to Aine's ego. ”Well, Uncle did say I was mouthy. When you know me better, you'll appreciate that that's one of my better qualities.”
Aine's anger turned cold in her breast. ”I've no doubt I would, if I was to get to know you better-which I won't.” She turned her horse back and made her way several mounted pairs deep in the column, her face burning so hot even the icy wind couldn't cool it.
Iseabal joined her a moment later, eyes enormous. ”What was that all about? Did Saefren Claeg really say those terrible things to you?”
”Of course he did, Isha.” She raised her hand, baring the gytha on the palm. ”Do you imagine I'd lie? Only I can't believe The Claeg, defending him like that!”
”Now, Aine, he didn't actually defend him. He merely asked you to forgive him. Besides, look-” She nodded toward the head of the column where Iobert and Saefren Claeg rode side by side.
The Chieftain's face looked like the dark side of h.e.l.l and he was apparently giving his kinsman a severe tongue las.h.i.+ng.
Although the younger man's mouth popped open once or twice, it formed no words and finally he spurred his horse and trotted ahead.
Aine smiled.
Well, Saefren Claeg. Now you do know what it feels like to be basted.
The tiny, lightless world reeled and jigged and creaked like a boat with a drunken helmsman. Within, in a coc.o.o.n of wool and fur, Airleas rattled back and forth, up and down; rolled this way and that. Fleece tickled his nose; the tiny burrs in it itched.
A late clipping, indeed. The entire fabric of early autumn was imbedded in it. At least he was warm-too warm. The only part of him that was not over-heated by now was his sense of adventure. That had been replaced by fatigue from the constant swaying and bouncing and trying to lie still in a world that refused to be still.
How long, he wondered, must he lie here in beneath this freight of pathetic Hillwild produce before it would be safe to emerge? How far must they go before turning back became impossible? He had no way of knowing how long he'd already been here; he'd certainly have to count in something other than conventional time: five thousand b.u.mps, four hundred jostles and fifty-seven full-on bounces.
Oh, at least that long.
Of course it would be best to wait until nightfall before he took a chance on showing himself. He imagined slipping from the narrow covered wagon into scattered firelight, his soft-shod feet silent as a catamount's on the chill rock of Baenn-an-ratha, his eyes scanning the huddled groups of men hard at their eating and drinking and storytelling. He'd smell the food cooking, and hungry, would sneak along the line of horses-closer, closer to one of the firelit groups.
The group that would contain Aine and Iseabal would be the smallest, the easiest to draw close to. Few of Iobert Claeg's men would want to be near them. Those who were believers in the Osmaer would be too respectful of them to intrude, unbelievers would want to avoid close contact. Either way, who'd want to have his brains picked over by those two? They would be practically alone with Saefren and The Claeg, himself.
He pictured the place; how Aine would sit huddled and pouting and Iseabal would be gandering all about trying to see the mountains in the dark. Iobert and Saefren would be wrapped in warrior's conversation. And he'd sneak up to their fire and snag himself some supper.
His stomach uttered a pathetic whimper at that, then, when he mentally shushed it, gave forth with a solid growl of discontent.
He froze for a moment, wondering if the driver could hear it, then laughed at himself. Whatever else he was, he was also well-insulated . . . and hungry . . . and bored. Stiff. And sleepy. Very sleepy.
He tried to take a deep breath of the musky, stifling air, but found it a ch.o.r.e. His breathing would be shallower if he slept. Perhaps he should indulge his growing drowsiness. He'd all but given in to the idea when it occurred to him to wonder exactly how shallow his breathing would become in this increasingly rancid little tomb.
Tomb. Oh, he didn't like the sound of that at all.
Was it possible he was too well insulated? Was he in danger of running out of air? Suffocating?
Adrenaline careened through his veins making them icy as a sled run. He gasped, pushed against the weight of the hides and pelts and bundles of fleece that lay over and around him. Hands and feet, arms and legs, all thrashed in discordant harmony, achieving little but to wind him.
Stop it, Airleas, he told himself fiercely. You're only making things worse. Don't panic. Breathe calmly. Here, the Peaceful Duan. That's what's needed. Sing.
He called the duan to mind, letting the music float through his head-tranquil enough to soothe, spritely enough not to induce sleep. A walking rhythm, Taminy had said. A rhythm that would set pace for the blood and the spirit. His heart picked up the rhythm of the duan, his breath filed in and out in an orderly march.
Calmer now, he pushed upward against the hemming pelts with both hands. He was curled half on his side, making his efforts awkward, and something seemed to have fallen across the top of his sheltering crate. No matter how he tried, he could not lift the cargo from his body.
d.a.m.n and d.a.m.n.
He chided himself for being so stupid as to stow away in an enclosed s.p.a.ce. He hardly deserved to be Cyne of Caraid-land if he couldn't think more sharply than that. Now he was stuck and there would be no sneaking around campfires to cadge supper from the unawares. There would be no victorious moment of revelation when the caravan reached the point of no return.
Airleas tried to calculate how long it would take to reach Nairne, where they might be expected to unload the cargo. The journey up Baenn-an-ratha had taken the better part of a week; surely they'd move faster on the way down. But how fast? And once in the foothills, how long to reach Nairne? He'd starve to death or die of thirst before then.
It occurred to him, belatedly, that this entire adventure was lame-brained. He was still a boy-a child. He was only Airleas, not Bearach Spearman. Unlike his distant forebear, he'd been raised gently. His father's domain hadn't been torn by insurrection and unease. He hadn't been trained for battle or schooled in wiliness. He knew of those things only what he'd read in the histories. If he'd stayed put, he might've been taught how to fight, lead an army, regain his throne. Catahn could have taught him those things-turned him into a Cyne worthy of the t.i.tle.