Journey to Aviad Page 10

  “How am I to do otherwise?” Einar challenged. “The fingers of evil reach far, and deep. I can see their workings all too readily. The dark minions call out, and they are answered and aided. Every day they grow in number and strength. Those of us who can see through the darkness, those of us who are willing to stand against it—who answers when we call out in desperation? The most righteous people I have known in my lifetime, those most devoted to the Ancients, and the Temple … where are they now? What help has come to them? They are all either dead or suffering in exile while their families are trapped on the other side of that damned city wall. I for one will not stand idle, waiting for some unknown power to save me. Whatever has become of the relic Nevon carried is of no real consequence to me. As long as I have breath, I will continue to fight, on my own terms. I believe in the power of my bow more than in the wisdom and power of the Temple or its god.

  “Let us assume for the moment that all who serve in Temple are truly innocent of corruption. How wise can they be if they are duped by such a blatant scoundrel as Braeden, even that they recommend him to the Sovereign with their highest praise, so that he was the one chosen to shape the heirs and the future of all Tyroc? How powerful can their deity be to allow one such as Braeden to defile the Temple for so many years? Once again, my lord, you are like a father to me, and I respect that we differ on this greatly. But now that Nevon is dead, and I am no longer bound by my oaths to him, I must speak my mind, at the least just this once, even should you cut out my tongue and hang me by it for doing so.”

  Elowyn listened to the long silence that followed with great anxiety. Would the other man really do such a thing? Then she heard him speak in a low voice.

  “I will not deny that to hear you speak thus fills my heart with the greatest sorrow I have ever known. Such bitterness is poison only to the soul that bears it. You are still filled with youthful rage, and given our circumstance I have no cause to blame you for that. So long as you do not destroy yourself with it, you may yet live long enough to know the folly of what you have just said. You have spoken your mind to me openly, and I know that nothing I say will change it. But I now want your oath, that you will not speak with the other men in a way that will cause dissent among them.”

  “That is an oath I gladly give. I have no desire to inflict the doubts I suffer upon my brothers. They may cling to their fantasies for as long as they wish. If things continue to go as they have, those fantasies may soon be the only comfort they have left. And now I must also ask a boon of you, my lord, if you will hear it.”

  “What sort of boon?”

  “That should you decide to send out another to recover the relic, and finish the quest Nevon began, you would consider sending me.”

  “What?” the elder said with utter astonishment. “You? After all you have just said? Why would you of all people desire to be sent on such a mission?”

  “Because I know these woods better than anyone here, and I am familiar with the patterns of the Hounds. I have no desire to see yet another brother given up to them as a sacrifice. But mostly because I can think of no better way to honor Nevon’s memory than to take up the quest he believed in enough to die for. Besides,” he added, “I know the girl Elowyn and how to find her. She may need to be questioned again in the future about what she has seen.”

  “You really are arrogant,” the other voice chuckled gruffly. “All the same, it is a noble gesture, and I know that Nevon would be deeply honored. But I am not sure that we can spare you here. It is partly your knowledge of this region that has allowed us to survive for so long against such odds.”

  “If this relic is all that you believe it to be, what difference will it make if our little band lasts another week, or another month? The Hounds draw closer each night, and we have not the strength to fight them off for long. It is more likely that we will perish at their Master’s hand than at the hand of Tyroc. The only other option we have is to abandon this place altogether, with no hope of serving justice and reclaiming what is ours. I doubt that most of these men are prepared to leave just yet. That certainly is not our way.”

  “No, it is not. I must consult with the other commanders about all of this. Your request will be seriously considered. In the meanwhile, gather the camp and make all necessary preparations to take care of Mavek. I want that sordid business finished before night falls. Are you still completely certain that you desire first rights?”

  “Aye. I have thought carefully on it and I will accept the burden. My soul will not be able to mend until the deed is finished and I may lay the visions that haunt me to rest.”

  “So shall it be then.”

  Einar and the other man parted company, leaving Elowyn to sort through everything she had just heard. Could it be that this was the renegade group everyone was talking about? Clearly they were not welcome in Tyroc. Yet they spoke of some great wrong that had been done to them—they spoke of justice, and honor, and of fighting evil. Those were not the words of common criminals, nor bloodthirsty murderers. What was the purpose Einar had spoken of? What was the quest on which his friend had perished, and what sort of mysterious package had he been carrying?

  Elowyn’s feelings about Einar in particular were rather mixed. She was shocked to hear him speak against the Temple, and most especially against Aviad. She expected such words from her mother, whose only care in life was her loom, but she did not expect it of Einar. How could anyone who knew and loved the wood as he did, not know the hand that had so lovingly made it? Most of all, she wondered what “sordid business” Einar had agreed to carry out. There was nothing for her to do but sit and wait while the camp made their preparations, and hope that she was not caught. There was no turning back now.

  Near to where the prisoner was tied, a great bonfire was being lit and torches were being staked in a circle around it. Elowyn crept slowly around the outskirts of the camp to get as close as she dared to the prisoner, so that she would be able to see, and possibly even hear what was going on, without being seen herself.

  As evening closed in, the torches were lit, and a bell began to ring. Not a cheery high-toned bell, but rather a low, mournful one. It was the kind of bell that was rung in honor of the dead. The men approached the prisoner one by one, each dropping an unseen object into a container near his feet before gathering around the fire and waiting in silence.

  Soon after came a group of men in dark robes. Among them was the man she had seen earlier with Einar, and she guessed that these were the other commanders he had spoken of. Each of them also dropped something into the container. One of the commanders then took the container and poured out its contents at the prisoner’s feet so that all could see. They were little stones, about the size that could be squeezed comfortably into your fist. All of them were dark in color except for two, which were white.

  The elder looked directly at the prisoner and said, “Your peers have judged you.”

  “These men are not my peers,” the man snarled. “My peers are now in the castle of Tyroc, making ready to either rescue me or avenge me if I am dead.”

  “You willingly joined us. You accepted our rules, lived among us as a brother, and took your oaths with us. When you found those oaths to no longer be convenient, you went behind our backs and betrayed us to our enemies. Innocent blood was spilled because of your actions, and that we cannot accept. You well know the penalty.”

  “I did my duty.”

  “And now, as much as it pains us, we must do ours.”

  The elder then turned to address the men, but Elowyn could not make out the words, as he was looking away from her. After a few moments someone emerged from the crowd dressed entirely in black, and with a hood and mask covering his face. He carried a black bow and black-feathered arrows. He received some sort of blessing from the man who had spoken, and words of acceptance from the rest.

  “Which one of you cowards has been appointed to the task?” the man provoked angrily. “Which one of you am I to curse with my last dying breat
h?”

  The man in black approached the prisoner, close enough that Elowyn could clearly hear the response, even though it was no more than a low seething hiss. “It is I, my old friend.” The voice was unmistakably Einar’s, but never had his tone seemed so frightening to her.

  “Three friends have I lost, friends that were like kin to me. One perished of his own will delivering dusty trinkets for holy men. He was slain by a horde of nameless beasts, and I have no way to truly avenge his death. But the other two … they were betrayed by you, whom they once trusted and called ‘friend’ and ‘comrade.’ I have tried to forgive, but I cannot. What you have done breaks every code of honor and decency we strive to follow. It is the worst form of treachery one man can inflict upon another. Fear not that I have been unhappily appointed to this task; I have asked for it. I desire it.” Einar’s voice trembled with emotion.

  The prisoner snarled at him. “I am not sorry for what I have done. Do what you will to me, my death will not bring them back.”

  “No, it will not. But it may allow their spirits to rest. I know it will greatly ease mine.”

  Einar kissed the first arrow, nocked it, and drew the string back tight with practiced perfection.

  “This one is for Orrin.” The arrow was released. Elowyn with thumping heart could hear it pass through the man’s chest and into the tree he was bound to. He gasped and shuddered in agony, still alive, while Einar slowly brought his next arrow to the string.

  “And this one,” he said, looking directly into the prisoner’s eyes with a cold fiery stare, “this one is for Elias.” The second arrow released and met its mark. The gasping stopped, and Elowyn hid her face into the ground, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

  “May they rest in peace,” Einar whispered, forcing the ends of his remaining arrows into the ground, and disappearing into a nearby tent.

  More than anything Elowyn wanted to run from there. But now she realized the danger she had put herself in. If she were caught spying, what would they do to her? This was nothing like the execution she had witnessed in Tyroc, where the crowds cheered mindlessly and went on with their business. The camp was so quiet that any movement at all would betray her presence. She looked at the faces of the men. They were somber, reflective. They did not hunger for this man’s demise like the crowds who merely saw death as some form of grisly entertainment. They had all voted to put this man to death, this man who was once one of their own. They took it seriously—they meant it. They were fully aware of what they were doing.

  Elowyn wished that she had never followed Einar; indeed, that she had never known him at all. He had looked that man in the eye as he drew his arrows back. It was with satisfaction that he let them fly. There had been no hesitation in his movements, no sense of remorse or sorrow in his voice. Perhaps this group was indeed no more than a bunch of murderous outlaws after all. She lay there not moving while the body was taken down and buried, while the men sat and spoke with each other in hushed tones. She lay there until the torches were snuffed out, the fire banked, and the camp made ready for sleeping, with only a few sentries on duty to keep watch. Her muscles were stiff and sore, but she held perfectly still until eventually her nerve broke.

  When she thought no one was near enough to notice, she dashed as quickly and quietly as she could into the wood. There she ran blindly through the dark as though the whole of the camp pursued her, not caring that thorns and branches clawed mercilessly at her skin all the way. When she tripped on roots or stones, she picked herself up and went on. At last when she felt that she could run no more, not even to save her own life, she sought shelter in the nearest suitable tree. She knew not where she was, and she could hear the Hounds baying to each other in the distance. Terrified and shaking, there was nothing more for her to do but sit and wait and hope for the dawn.

  A Robe for Gareth, and Alazoth’s Hounds

  At some point in the night Elowyn fell asleep in spite of herself, exhausted by the emotion of the day’s events. When she awoke, she felt completely different than she had that first morning in the ruined Temple. There was a heavy, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and her limbs and head ached. Instinctively she felt the need to go home, and after listening carefully to make sure there was no one else close by, she slid out of the tree. Though Elowyn did not know precisely where she was, she knew the general direction of Tyroc and began to slowly make her way toward it. The sun had risen high by the time she reached Tyroc’s familiar outskirts and shifted her course to the road beyond the eastern gate.

  The young apprentice had apparently made good on his promise to return, for the cottage had a new roof. Fragrant wisps of white smoke were rising from it, quickly becoming indistinguishable from the drifting clouds above. Elowyn felt as one coming home after a very long journey, knowing that things would never be quite the same as they were before.

  To Elowyn’s great relief, when she opened the cottage door she saw that their mother was not at home. Morganne was working furiously on another chemise, and not the rough woolen type that Elowyn was so accustomed to wearing all through the winter. This one was made of very finely spun linen thread that only spinners of their mother’s expertise could achieve. It flowed and rippled like silk when Morganne shifted it in her lap.

  Elowyn knew that this type of undergarment was not meant to be completely hidden the way common ones were. It was meant to be trimmed with ribbons, or lace, or embroidery, and then let to peek out just enough to show everyone how well to do was the lady who wore it. Very few could afford to wear such things, especially since the rest of the dress was likely to be extremely elaborate and expensive.

  Elowyn had tried her hand at spinning before and was a miserable failure at it. Her fingers always sifted either too much wool onto the spindle or not enough, and somehow she could never keep it turning at an even speed. Her thread came out thick and lumpy in some places, and thin and weak in others, so that the fibers pulled apart and she would have to begin again. Her mother had been doing it so well for so long, she gave it little thought, and didn’t have the patience to teach Elowyn. She could balance the distaff on her shoulder, carry her spindle, and keep it going while doing her other household tasks at the same time. Even Morganne, who could spin thread well enough to be used for more basic cloths, held a grudging respect for their mother’s spinning ability.

  When Morganne finally paused her sewing and turned to look at her, Elowyn saw that her face sported a fresh bruise. Her cheek and the side of her mouth were badly swollen and turning a sickly purple color. Elowyn winced. There was no point in asking what had happened. Apparently their mother was in one of her violent moods. Elowyn quietly asked if she wanted a poultice. Morganne declined, not wanting to stay her sewing even to tend her injury. She did not ask where Elowyn had been for so many days. Her thoughts were completely turned inward, her eyes and hands focused on the work in front of her.

  A wave of guilt swept over Elowyn. Though she knew she could not have stopped her mother, she also knew she should not have been away for so long. The cottage had not been swept; the woodpile and store of herbs were dwindling. She was almost afraid to see the state of the garden. Her chores were left unfinished and Morganne was too frantic to take care of them. And though Morganne had no doubt been working her needle by day and night until her fingers were stiff and aching, she did not scold Elowyn.

  Despite the fact that she was exhausted from lack of sleep and the emotional duress of the night before, Elowyn went to work. She brought in wood from the large pile stacked behind the cottage, and then replenished the pile with some of the dead wood that had fallen during the storm. She swept the floor, laid out fresh strewing herbs, and opened the shutters to allow fresh air and sunlight to flood out all the stale, smoky air. She bundled together the herbs she had found near the temple ruin and hung them from the ceiling. Then she went to survey her garden.

  There was a lot to be done. Spring was working its magic on the soil and the plants, as well as
on the weeds. Everything was bursting forth in a huge rush, spurred on by the heavy rain and bright sunshine that had followed it.

  Elowyn carefully pulled the weeds away from her tender young plants, giving them room to breathe and grow. She cupped the soil back around the places where the hard rain had washed it away, in some cases exposing the roots. To many, this would have seemed like hard, disagreeable work. But for Elowyn it was soothing. Her garden was full of close friends that she had not seen since the onset of winter, when they all settled silently below ground for a long sleep. The trouble of the previous day began to melt away like a bad dream in the midst of all the delicious smells of new life growing.

  For many days, Elowyn did not stray far from home. She watched from what felt like a little island of safety as the Hound tracks increased in number, moving closer to civilization, then going past toward the north woods where Einar’s camp lay. Several prints appeared just on the edge of the wood near her garden, but did not come closer. At night she could hear the Hounds calling out mournfully to each other with their bone-chilling howls. Morganne noticed the sounds and wondered at them, but she did not realize what they were. She thought they were made by migrating wolves that had roamed curiously close to town. They frightened Adelin at first, but when Morganne did not seem worried, Adelin ignored them.

  Their mother was characteristically oblivious, or at the very least, indifferent. Elowyn wondered, if her mother came face to face with one of the Hounds, would she be afraid of it, or would it be afraid of her? She could not imagine her mother being afraid of anything. Even though remaining at home was unpleasant at best, she gleaned some comfort from her mother’s total disbelief in the supernatural, and her lack of attention to anything beyond her work. Elowyn could almost believe that things were not really so bad as they seemed, and that once the Hounds had passed by there would be nothing more to threaten their tenuous existence in the little cottage beyond the eastern gate. Deep down Elowyn knew it was not so. But as long as she could lull herself into half-conscious sleep, she could go on with her daily chores and forget about the razor teeth she had once felt grazing the back of her tender neck.