Part 14 (2/2)

Santhe met Pellam's eyes with his own. He had lost men, had nearly lost his lover, and his expression was that of a man who knew what it was to be touched by violence. ”The hounds are strong,” he said, ”and they rove freely, but with enchanted weapons, a well-armed troop of warriors can defeat easily all but the largest packs. If we split our forces into wartroops and phalanxes, each group could patrol a given section of the land. They would be able to engage the packs before any villages or steadings are attacked.''

Kyria lifted an eyebrow. ”Search and destroy patrols,” she said.

Santhe's brow furrowed at her terminology, but he nodded. ”If you will, my love.”

Santhe's plan would relieve the Vayllens both of the fear of attack, and-if the hounds were destroyed far away from the villages and towns-the necessity of witnessing constant slaughter. Still, it made Kyria uneasy: these methods had not worked particularly well in Vietnam, and she could only hope that, in a more open land, and with the support and friends.h.i.+p of the inhabitants, it might succeed.

No Grayfaces had been reported, but there was always a possibility, as Marrha now pointed out, that they-or the jets-would return. ”And, as we have seen,” she said, ”swords and leather are of little use against them.”

”If there are Grayfaces or jets,” said Dindrane, speaking so suddenly that she startled the a.s.sembly, ”then do not engage them. Hide from the jets. And in the case of Grayfaces, send for Kyria . . .” She hefted her staff. It had, in Baares's hands, killed hounds. It could, both Kyria and the priestess knew, kill more. ”. . . or for me.”

Pellam blinked. He bowed his head for a moment. ”Are you sure, priestess?”

Dindrane met his eyes. ”I am. Do you wish to dismiss me from your service, my lord?”

Pellam was still and silent for a long time. Then, finally, he shook his white head. ”I do not.” He sighed. ”Perhaps, in the end, you will prove wiser than I, Dindrane. I cannot foresee your future well, though I suspect it leads along some dark roads.”

Dindrane nodded.

Pellam attempted a thin smile. ”But no darker than those which you have already traveled,” he said.

Santhe spoke up. ”Brighter, lord. Much brighter, I hope.”

Dindrane's friends echoed him, and the priestess straightened up proudly, smiling through her tears.

Relys seemed to go through the motions of life with a kind of numb acceptance. She ate when pressed, took medicine when told to, allowed the changing of the bandages on her hand without a murmur of protest.

Her pain, Kallye knew, was terrific. Herbs and salves had kept her mutilated hand from becoming infected, but the flesh along the edge had been gnawed away, as had the whole of her little finger. The tendons and muscles that traversed her palm had been severely damaged, and even if the terrible wound healed, she would probably never lift a sword again.

As gently as she could, Kallye told Relys of that possibility. The captain took the news without emotion. ”Perhaps I will learn to draw a sword with my left hand,'' she said tonelessly. She shrugged, looked down at herself. She was wearing women's clothes, the first she had ever donned. ”It perhaps does not matter any more.”

Gelyya looked up from stirring supper. Her eyes flashed. ”It matters a great deal, Relys. I wish that I could use a sword.”

Relys nodded absently. ”I will not say that it is unseemly for women to carry weapons, for that would be what Helwych wishes. But ...” She clenched her eyes suddenly and turned towards the wall. ”I fear I no longer have the heart for it.”

”Your heart will come back, child,” said Kallye.

Relys bent her head.

She remained in pain, and though Kallye could supply bandages and poultices for her hand and the physical aftereffects of the rape, the greater pain-Relys's day-to-day knowledge and memory of what had been done to her-was beyond the skills of the midwife.

Over the next two weeks, the captain's body healed enough so that she could walk without stumbling. But while Relys was regaining her mobility, Gryylth as a whole seemed increasingly restricted. Decrees and orders that confined the people to their villages flowed from Hall Kingsbury, and there were rumors that the sorcerer would soon order the inhabitants of the outlying steadings to leave their homes and relocate to towns and easily defended camps.

Helwych was popular with the Kingsbury folk after his defense of the town, but his popularity was rooted more in fear and necessity than in love, and his orders made everyone uneasy. Free steadings and farming were the foundation of the Gryylthan way of life, one that had remained unaffected both by ten years of war and Cvinthil's decrees on women's freedom. But now it was being directly threatened. That the king had taken the men away overseas was bad enough, but ma.s.s relocations would disrupt it thoroughly.

But there were reasons for Helwych's orders. Anyone who looked out from the edge of Kingsbury at night could see flashes of light and hear distant rumbles that had nothing to do with summer storms. Flecks of light raced up from the horizon, and star-bursts pocked the dark sky like puffb.a.l.l.s after a heavy rain. At night, too, there were hounds. The beasts did little more than snuffle at shuttered windows and barred doors, and now and then a chorus of howls would split the pre-dawn darkness, but their simple presence made the townsfolk very willing to heed the nightly curfews.

Nonetheless, Relys could not stay in Kingsbury forever, and now Timbrin also was in danger: if Paia and her daughters had to move into the town, Timbrin would be found out.

Kallye considered her options carefully, discussed them with Relys. The captain, confronted with a situation more of strategy than of helplessness, rallied momentarily. ”Quay,” she said after a minute's thought.

Kallye was puzzled. ”So far?”

Relys spooned soup into her mouth. ' 'With that serpent in Hall Kingsbury, better far than near. I know Hahle a little, too; and I doubt that he has given Helwych's orders a gracious reception. He is a good man ...” Her eyes seemed to see nothing for a moment. ”... and I think he would take in two broken women and . . .” Again the stare. ”... and protect them.”

”Courage, warrior,” said the midwife.

”Courage? Nay.” Relys shook her head. ”It requires no courage, only a will to survive.” She examined her bandaged right hand. ”A fox will gnaw off its leg in order to escape a trap, will it not? Perhaps it is not surprising that I must leave my hand, my heart, and my maidenhood behind in order to gain my freedom.”

A few days later, Kallye and her apprentice pa.s.sed through the gate of the town with no comment from the guards. Given the urgency and necessity of their trade, midwives were still allowed to come and go as they pleased, and if the men noticed that Gelyya wore her hood up in spite of the warmth of the afternoon, they said nothing.

Together, the two women made their way down the hill, but about halfway down, Kallye's companion staggered suddenly and sagged against her. ”A moment, please,” said Relys from within the cloak. '' Forgive my weakness.''

”You are still ill, child,” said Kallye. She caught Relys and sat her down at the base of two big rowan trees. ”And you have had no more exercise these last weeks than walking from bed to table.”

Relys pushed the hood back enough to better examine the road. It stretched off and down, switchback-ing across the slope of the hill. ”I do not know if I have the strength for this,” she whispered.

”You do.”

”Kallye-”

Kallye gave her a gentle shake. ”You do, woman.” Relys flinched, but the midwife went on. ”I have had mothers screaming in fear in the first hour of their labor, but faced with a task they must do, both for themselves and their child, they conquer their fear. They endure. They endure because they are women, and because they must. ”

Relys dropped her eyes. ”Endure.” She spoke with bitterness.

”Aye, endure. You have yourself to save, woman, and you have your lieutenant, whom I know you care for as your own child. Do not deny it: I saw the look in your eye that morning at Paia's house.” Kallye straightened, folded her arms. ”So.”

Face pale, sweating from the heat and effort, Relys seized a low branch and pulled herself to her feet. She swayed, but she stood. ”Let us continue, then.”

Relys drove herself on, but with the frequent rests that she needed, the afternoon was well along before she and Kallye reached the base of the hill. The women and boys who were tending the fields were already packing up and going home, and Kallye began to doubt that Relys could reach Paia's house before night fell and the hounds began to prowl.

But a girl in a light cart was waiting at a turning in the road. ”Mother sent me to fetch you,” she said. Her bright, unbraided hair s.h.i.+mmered in the westering sun. ”She is with Timbrin and the babies, Father is off with the king, and my brothers and sisters are at work in the fields. So I came.”

Kallye bowed to the girl. ”Our deepest thanks, Vyyka.”

”Well, after what you told Mother, she worried,” said Vyyka, bobbing her head up and down. ”And I rather liked the idea of taking the cart alone.” She grinned. ”If this is what men do every day, then I think they must have a fine time in the world!”

Relys pushed back her hood, smiling wanly. ”The G.o.ds bless you,” she said. ”But I wonder sometimes how fine a time they really have.”

Together, Kallye and Vyyka helped Relys onto the cus.h.i.+ons and blankets that padded the back of the cart, then climbed up onto the front seat. With the horse doing the work, they made good time, and dusk had not even begun to fall when Vyyka brought the cart through the gate in the embankment surrounding the steading and stopped before the house. Paia was waiting for them, and at her side was a slight figure in a blue gown. At first, Kallye thought it was one of Paia's daughters, but then she realized that it was Timbrin.

The lieutenant had mended slowly. Physically, she was almost well, but her mind still suffered from the blast of magic. She smiled and came forward to help Relys out of the cart, but she did so uncertainly, tentatively, as though a sharp word might send her fleeing back into the house.

Relys's legs had stiffened, and she swayed when her feet touched the ground. Timbrin held her tightly. ”Oh, Relys.” Her dark eyes were troubled and sad. ”They told me what happened. I am sorry. I would I had been there.”

Relys let her cheek rest against Timbrin's curly hair. ”Peace, my friend,” she said. ”Do not blame yourself. There was nothing that you could have done.” Relys's eyes were clenched again with pain. She sucked in a slow breath, let it out. ”What is left of the First Wartroop on this side of the sea is together again. Let us thank the G.o.ds for that.”

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