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CHAPTER TWO

He was not alone, and that was the trouble. Demons chased him: ax-wielding peasants, empty-eyed children, howling wolves and banshees and armies of dead men. They stalked him, railed at him, struck at him wherever he went. They outwitted him, but only by knowing his own thoughts even as he came to them. They could hear inside his mind—or his thoughts were leaking out of his head, spilling over in the darkness like a storm that comes in the night, pushing streams over their banks. Only with the dawn would the devastation truly be known.

But he could find no dawn, no respite. Tied tightly across his back, the Demon Blade weighed a hundred times more than it should have, and it had begun to glow with a cold, unnatural light that radiated through his robes, acting like a beacon, shouting out to all and sundry where the Demon Blade was—where he was—luring them closer. He pulled at the bindings until his fingers were bloody but they would not loosen or break.

Then a moment of relative calm, the demons busy elsewhere, perhaps. But now he heard a familiar voice call to him. Imadis . . . ? He saw the other as he turned toward the sound but it was only Imadis' head after all, sailing along in the darkness like a bird adrift on the winds. He listened more closely and decided the voice did not sound like Imadis after all, not really.

He watched the head sail closer and noticed it wasn't even the entire head, only two thirds at most. The rest—well, the rest had been destroyed.

"Frost," the voice said again, chasing away shapes in the darkness and replacing them with pain, with light.

"Frost."

Frost opened his eyes and daylight stabbed into them. He winced at the brightness, tried to focus on the shapes of shadow, and finally decided Rosivok was hovering over him. He blinked, tried again, and saw that this was not the Rosivok he recollected. This one was gaunt, pale, shaking. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes surrounded by black circles. Sharryl stood just beside him, her own face like a skull covered with only the thinnest veneer of flesh. Much of their hair had fallen out. Like living dead, he thought, less than pleased.

Now Cantor came into view looking only slightly better than the two Subartans, holding one arm and bleeding from his hairline. The blood had left a trail down his left cheek, then soaked into his richly textured tunics. A different man, Frost saw. The vaunting aplomb, the wry smile familiar enough to make Frost self-conscious of his own, all of it was gone, replaced by the look of a man suddenly cut off from everything he had ever held dear. He stared fix-eyed and slack-jawed at Frost, body trembling. Silent. Well, Frost thought, there is that at least. 

He lay still for a long moment and decided he must look much the same as the others, perhaps worse. Which was indeed a pity. He had been this way before, and hadn't liked it. Not to mention the weeks it had taken to recover, the pain and effort of restoration and recuperation, the monumental inconvenience, the vulnerability. He closed his eyes and thought about what must come next with the expectations of a man who has just upset a hornet's nest. Then he took a deep breath, and tried to move.

The Greater Gods took a hammer to his body, sucked the wind from his lungs and set off a chorus of thunders in his head. His chest still hurt the most, though barely. Frost relaxed the effort and struggled to draw breath again.

"How bad?" he heard Sharryl ask him, speaking each word separately, faintly.

"I . . . live," Frost said, hearing his words come out in a hoarse, barely audible whisper. He saw Rosivok and Sharryl nod.

"Is that what you call it?" Cantor asked.

Frost managed a nod. For now, he thought, that would have to do. He sipped water from a pouch with the help of both Subartans, then he lay back and closed his eyes, and didn't try to get up again for a very long time.

* * *

Hours resting, he guessed, dozing now and again, though he did not dream through any of this. Which suited him well enough. When he finally tried once more to move it hurt precisely as much as he'd expected. Nearly as much as before. Nothing to be done about it. This time, he raised his head high enough to look about. Two emaciated Subartans moved toward him, got their arms under his and helped him to a sitting position; where he remained, resting, breathing slowly, waiting for some of the pain to subside while he carefully scrutinized his surroundings. Cantor was nowhere in sight, but there were larger problems.

He was at the bottom of the ravine, but it had changed. The rocks that had comprised the top of the ridge where he'd stood during the battle lay broken all around and underneath him. Many appeared misshapen, their edges and faces smeared as if volcanic heat had begun to melt them. Still others had been splintered like crystals, exploded from within like steam-shattered rocks left too near a fire. Off to the right lay the remains of Imadis' soldiers—pallid, dried, twisted husks that barely resembled human forms, their flesh withered until it had torn, their bones crumbled to dust, no meat or blood at all.

He raised his eyes to the next ridge. Nothing substantial enough to identify remained of Imadis, or even the ridge itself. But unlike the side where Frost had stood, nearly the entire far summit had melted, then apparently solidified once again where the rocks had run and gathered in streams and pools that shined in places like so much colored glass. Directly ahead a massive crevasse has opened in the mountain's face, wide enough at the top to pass two wagons side by side. Many more cracks, cut deep and jagged, ran down the remaining face of sloping, twisted rocks and vanished into the earth—though as he turned again, Frost noted that those same cracks raced through what remained of the rise behind him as well.

He took comfort in a part of this; after all, the desired result had been achieved. But the rest was disturbing, and would require a great deal of reflection. The Blade had become the focus of Frost's concocted vampire spells, just as it had once before, but far more had happened here. On the battlefield in Ariman the almost instantaneous result had been the deaths of thousands of soldiers, and the second had been the removal from this world of the demon prince Tyrr, but that had been his precise goal, so he had accepted the magnitude of the devastation in kind. Here, against so few ordinary men and one surely mortal sorcerer, even an exceptionally talented and clever one, he had intended nothing so . . . extensive.

He looked at himself as he tried to move his shoulders and arms. The Blade itself was still in his right hand, the hilt clutched tightly in his stiff fingers. In fact, he could not let go.

"For a time, we thought you had died," Sharryl said as she and Rosivok knelt beside him in the rubble, helping him stay upright while they leaned on him at the same time. They were quite as weak as he was. He'd nearly killed them, while nearly killing himself and destroying half the mountain on which they stood.

"For a time I thought the same," Frost answered.

"What . . . what happened?" Cantor asked, appearing once more.

Cantor clearly sensed how tender the question was, Frost gathered, as they considered each other. The merchant likely knew the answer well enough. Frost considered his response—something he expected to be doing for a very long time to come—and said, "Far too much. It is one thing to call forth a terrible storm, but another to control it."

"We were not prepared," Sharryl said.

"We thought—" Rosivok began, but he did not finish.

"I was not prepared, not truly, or I did not listen to my own doubts," Frost said. His particular prowess with aging spells had been the final key to creating the difficult and concocted means to exploit the Blade, and he had used the Blade as he believed its creators intended. But here, all his talents and experience as well as the knowledge he had gained from using the Blade against the demon Tyrr proved not nearly enough.

"What you seek will take time," Sharryl said by way of support.

"I am not so sure," Frost said wearily. "I am a blind man who attempts to understand a mountain by touching a single stone."

"Ah, yes, or a sailor who has learned to make use of the oceans but has no defense against their fury," Cantor said, sounding rather proud of himself. "It got away from you."

"Something like that," Frost replied.

"We will be rid of the Blade, one day," Rosivok said, resolute, and clearly as much for Frost's comfort as his own.

"One day," Sharryl echoed.

"Aye," Cantor said, pendulous, turning slowly in place, apparently gathering in the scene all around him as if he'd missed some part of it.

Certainly that was the plan, to determine the identity of the Blade's true heir, its Keeper, then deliver the sword to them. The last Keeper, old Ramins, had known the succeeding Keeper's name, but he had died without telling anyone and Frost could not be sure there was anyone else alive who knew. The Council of Wizards that created the Blade in concert with priests and the Greater Gods were all long dead, as were many of the demons that had nearly come to rule the world of man in that time—until the Demon Blade. Yet even when the Blade was no longer needed, it had continued to exist, as the Greater Gods required for some reason, one assumed. The Blade remained a terrible weapon, a terrible secret, closely guarded for generations. But a secret no more.

"I have reason to hope," Frost said. "There is someone who may know the true Keeper, a very old friend and more, one of those we go to Worlish to meet, but I cannot be sure what we will find."

"That is why you travel to your homeland?" Cantor asked, as he tried to get comfortable on the rocks underneath him; he wasn't having much luck.

"Yes, one of the reasons," Frost replied. He took a very deep breath, put his palms, fingers in, on his knees, and tried to rise. Sharryl and Rosivok moved to help him, then Cantor as well. Wobbling, they all succeeded. Once he was stabilized in the standing cluster Frost raised the Demon Blade, then reached back and slowly slid it into its scabbard. Rosivok helped him get his fingers loose. Sharryl found the wrappings and gathered them up. Cantor, wisely, kept his distance. In a moment the Blade was safely tucked away, strapped to Frost's once-broad, now shrunken back.

"There," he said, when they had finished, "is where the Blade must stay. I will not use it again."

"Truly?" Cantor asked, tipping his head. His look was part fascination, part consternation. Frost wondered if he should tell the man anything at all, then decided it was probably essential.

"I have come to believe that it may not be possible for one man, one mind, to comprehend the Demon Blade's full nature, or to use its powers without great risk not only to one's self, but to . . ."

Frost didn't know. Others? Realms? The world? Perhaps no one knew. But right now, this day, he felt that learning the answer might be much like learning what the afterlife was like—the knowledge could eventually be his, but the method and consequences left something to be desired.

"To whom?" Cantor asked.

He wanted Cantor to know the truth, the impossibility of it. "Never mind," Frost said. "But mind this: until I can say otherwise, we must be sure that this day is not repeated. We must be sure."

He let his voice trail off. These were not words he wanted to speak, not the thoughts he wanted to have nor the fears and possibilities he wanted to face.

And by the Greater Gods, not anything like the kind of day he'd intended to have, he told himself, mentally trying to shake off the daze he felt himself falling into. Notever, he asserted. And certainly not twice. 

"The Blade may be hard to control, it may have a mind of its own, but it obeys your will when you wish to attack," Sharryl said.

Again support, Frost knew, as he looked at her. She didn't smile, but something like that was implied in her pale expression. "I wonder at that," Frost replied, feeling weaker again, very tired.

"It is true, isn't it?" Cantor said. "We have all seen as much. What is more, when you were satisfied, you were able to make the Blade stop."

"This time," Frost replied.

"You will be the Blade's master again," Cantor said, clearly trying to sound reassuring.

"No," Frost said, pausing while a chill shook his body. They need to know, all of them, he thought. "No," he said. "I do not think so." He sank to the ground again and rested on the rocks.

Both Sharryl and Rosivok were silent after that. Even Cantor seemed to hold his breath, as if he was afraid to let it go. Frost found the silence a comfort, and made an effort not to disturb it for the remainder of the day.

* * *

Near sunset they made their way back down to the trail below. They found the mule easily enough—it hadn't wandered very far and had escaped the destruction—then they spent the night huddled under blankets and the clear, cold stars. Their packs held enough food stores to last a few more days, enough perhaps to get through the remainder of the pass and into the province known as Calienn.

In the morning all of them, shaky as new-born calves, tried to set out walking again, but it proved too much too soon for Frost. So the best part of the day was spent resting. The day after was better, and a little at a time, pausing as frequently as they dared, they slowly made their way down toward the lowlands beyond the mountains.

The third day brought hunger, deep and abiding, as the bodies of Frost and the others began to long for a thorough replenishment, but they had to make their food rations—the remaining flat bread, dried beef, fish and cheeses—last as long as possible. The Subartans were in no condition to hunt, Cantor had never hunted a day in his life, and Frost dared not try any sorcery, not even a whim, so depleted were his bodily reserves. He might kill himself before he knew what he'd done, or in his withered delirium he might well get even the smallest spell cast wrong and do more harm than good; but besides all that, it hurt. It hurt to breathe, to walk, to talk, even to think, let alone do magic. Frost was not the least fond of pain or discomfort. He'd struck the notion of magic from his mind as completely as possible.

And he walked on.

Each time they began again after resting, the struggle was evident in the others' faces, and in his own, Frost knew, but none would allow themselves to give in or falter. Even Cantor was so far proving himself to be made of sterner stuff than Frost had given him credit for.

Still, they were only human, as was he, and while sheer grit would see them through the Greater Gods' own fury, even this had limits. By the third night, Frost was all but certain they would not survive without some remarkable happenstance, some act of providence. None was forthcoming, yet somehow they managed another day, then one more, as the trail began to descend—a hopeful sign, if not too late.

After six days, their rations and strength truly gone, they managed one final rise where the trail passed between two grass-covered hillsides, and found themselves looking down into hope.

A valley filled with forests broken frequently by freshly cultivated fields met their gaze, and through it went the road ahead, straight and solid, not washed out as Frost had expected, things going as they had. Not very far, only halfway to the horizon, there were signs of a fair-sized village.

"We will go?" Rosivok asked, as guardedly as a Subartan was capable.

"Of course we will!" Cantor said, shaking his weary head; but then he turned to Frost and asked, quite pleadingly, "Won't we?"

Rosivok's question took risk into account, of course, and there was reason for concern, especially in their current and vulnerable conditions, but the chances of being accosted by Blade-hunters were less here than in the lands they had come from, or so Frost presumed. More importantly, their physical needs outweighed other factors.

Frost wasn't even certain they could trek the distance to the village. But by all the Gods that had ever been, they would try.

"We will go," Frost said in answer. The others nodded weary agreement, then Sharryl took her turn tugging the mule into motion again. She let the beast all but drag her along after that.

By day's end they were near the village, but each step had become so grievous a task that they all had taken to leaning on the mule, which slowed everything down even further. Then the mule stopped altogether, and would not budge. It has come to this, Frost lamented in silence, leaning on the backside of the mule while flies buzzed about his nose, no strength left even to cuss at the beast.

"Ho!" a voice called from behind. A young man, Frost thought as he waited a moment, gathering the strength to turn about.

"Ho there!" another voice repeated, a woman this time.

With a breath, Frost pivoted. The others turned as well and both Subartans gripped their weapons, but they did not make any threats. They were in no condition to fight anyone, though that would never have stopped them trying.

Fortunately conflict appeared unlikely. A mother and her son, Frost guessed, though the boy was nearly a man. They stood at the edge of the road where they had emerged from the woods just behind Frost and the others. Frost turned a bit further and rested what remained of his weight on his staff, then he tipped slightly to one side by way of counterbalance, and waved a limp arm over his head at them.

"Good day!" he called out, his best effort, though the words didn't seem to carry very far. The two figures came up the road all the same, each one carrying a muslin bag in front of them, heavily stained, with straps that went over their necks and shoulders. Berry picking, Frost thought, and his stomach ached.

"Wait, we would walk with you!" the woman said.

"Friendly, aren't they," Cantor observed, as the two drew nearer.

True enough, but normally strangers had a habit of approaching Subartans with particular caution. Not these two. Then the truth of it came to him. "They must have seen many travelers before. This is the only road into this part of Calienn."

"I am Taya, and this is my son, Lan," the woman said as she drew within range, a weathered but apparently fit woman, and still young enough to be of child-bearing age, Frost estimated, though not by much. The lad looked like her, dark hair and olive skin much like Frost's, rounded features, but slim, and with a good frame. He might be fifteen, Frost thought. They were both lively of step, something two Subartans, a merchant, one sorcerer and even the mule could only imagine just now.

Frost introduced himself, then Rosivok, Sharryl, and Cantor. Taya seemed to smile excessively at this last.

"You have traveled far of course," she went on, even more cheerful now. She examined Frost and the others with far greater scrutiny than her pert smile and balmy tone implied. She seemed intent on every detail, in fact.

"Yes, from the provinces beyond the mountains, perhaps as far as Kamrit or Neleva," Lan said, clearly hopeful, his own grin a fixture now. "You will have many fine stories to tell I'm sure."

"Lan dreams of adventure as all boys do, and tales well told, but I can see you are all much in need of rest and good nourishment," Taya said, frowning a bit as she considered them further, then she began to nod in advance agreement. "You will want to stay on a few days in our village, of course. There is a very fine inn, with good beds, good food, good company. All the very best hospitality will be yours if you stay there, I assure you."

"You are the innkeeper," Frost said.

"I will not deny it," she replied.

"Are you ill?" Lan asked, still looking the newcomers over as well.

"Yes, in a way, but it is nothing to concern others," Frost said.

"You were not robbed in the pass, were you?" Taya asked further.

"We are well, and sound enough to pay," Frost answered.

"Of course you are!" She chuckled, then showed her best grin to everyone. "There is nothing Lord Cantor cannot afford. Follow along, then, won't you?" Frost and his Subartans were staring at Cantor now, a bit leery. The merchant shrugged. "In Kamrit, you are well known, but in Calienn, I am well known," he said.

"Clearly," Frost said. "We will follow you," he told Taya. "But slowly. We are . . . weary from our long journey."

"As all can see," said Lan, shaking his head a bit, which earned him a scowl from Taya. Then she smiled at Frost and the others again. "Forgive him," she said.

"I have," Frost answered. She'd meant Cantor. He nodded. She nodded back, then she and the boy held their bags open and everyone sat right there in the road, feasting on the berries before they set off again.

Taya began chatting about the village as if duty bound her. Acklandar, it was named, for the lord that had owned it all before he had granted a charter, making it the only place of trade in the region and himself much richer. She told them all about the two ice storms they had suffered during the winter months, and the sickness that had taken eleven of the village's older folk, including Taya's father, which put the fear of plague in everyone before it left of its own accord. Babies had been born this spring. The weather had been cool and dry. None of this was terribly interesting or new to Frost's ears, but the listening made the walking possible, the pain and exhaustion more bearable.

"Then you run the inn yourself?" Frost inquired.

"I do, though my son is the reason I am able to."

At a bend in the road Frost stumbled on the roots of a large old maple and each Subartan grabbed one of his arms to steady him. All three nearly fell, but managed to recover in time. Cantor made a gesture as though he was about to step in, but somehow he managed not to get that far.

"Your friends say little, but they are heedful," Taya remarked.

Frost nodded.

"Aren't you supposed to say thank you?" Lan said, earning him yet another scowl from his mother.

"We must all rely on others," Frost said. "In that, some of us are indeed fortunate." He seldom gave proper thanks to Rosivok and Sharryl; they were doing what they'd been born to do and being paid well enough for it, after all. But over time he had begun to feel that bits of occasional praise were in order. He knew better than anyone how hard it was to find good protection; that they were good companions as well was all to the better.

The two Subartans said nothing for their part, Frost hadn't expected them to, but he noticed Taya glancing over her shoulder curiously at them. "They do speak," Frost assured her. "When they have something to say."

Taya nodded. For several moments after that the silence was broken only by the sounds of birds busy in the trees. Then another bend in the road revealed the low stone walls of a village of moderate size, its gates open wide, and inside a glimpse of clustered houses and buildings. This part of the valley was broader and flatter. In every direction patches of cultivated fields were all up in green, leafy sprouts.

"Home," Lan said, grinning, picking up his step and now leading the others.

Taya let him go. "Such as it is," she said, though the smile on her face meant it was well to her liking. "Tell me, what lands do all of you come from?" she asked. "You to begin with," she said, looking at Frost. "Your look is like the men from my husband's province."

Frost said nothing at first. Taya seemed to grow concerned. "He was a fine, good-looking man," she hastened to add. "Died three seasons ago from illness. Worlish was his home."

"And mine," Frost said. "You are right."

"Ahh, of course! Such a fine thing."

"As you say," Frost answered.

"How long have you been away?"

"Many, many years," Frost replied.

"We often have travelers from Worlish at the inn, especially now that the roads can be traveled."

"Soldiers sure enough, if no one else," Lan said, grumbling.

"There are always soldiers," Frost said in kind.

Sharryl and Rosivok quietly nodded.

They entered the village at last and found it only a fair walk from end to end. It consisted of a collection of the usual tradesmen's shops and clumped-together homes of mud bricks, mostly one-story buildings with wooden roofs. The small square featured a drinking well and little else, though there was room enough for market fair tables and booths, which Taya said would come in just a few weeks. The inn stood not far to the right of the main gate, the largest building in sight, larger even than the guild hall, though it was small by most standards.

"Everyone will want to meet you," Lan said.

"Not quite everyone, but many," Taya corrected.

"After . . . we have rested," Cantor said with a weak but authoritative voice. Frost nodded agreement, then he stumbled over nothing at all, his Subartans caught him, and the three of them finished in a heap on the hard-packed earthen road. Cantor's hand was out, but once again he had somehow missed making contact with anyone.

Taya and Lan helped them up. "Right," she snapped, "let's get you all inside."

* * *

The dreams were interrupted by a man whose voice was familiar, as was his name—which was given, but Frost could not make sense of it. He felt warm, wet, awful. He tried to move but the world insisted on spinning in all directions, this way, then that, and he felt the urge to vomit. He reasoned that if he'd had anything of substance in his stomach he would have done just that, but as it was, his efforts produced nothing worth noting.

Someone was there, however, he decided, as he tried to look up through the haze of his fever at the shape that hovered over him. The man was telling him to rest easy. Then the man was telling him good-bye. A man he knew, though he could not remember the name. At which Frost began to wonder which one of them was leaving. The next thing he saw was a woman's face, and things began to look much better again. Relatively.

* * *

"Your stew," Taya said, taking a rag in one hand and wiping at the deeply stained wooden surface of the table, then setting the bowl in the other hand down.

"Thank you," Frost said, thinking himself much too kind lately; he seemed to be saying such things in one manner or another at a regular pace. Yet thanks were in order. He inhaled, drawing deeply at the rich aromas. Taya was a fine cook, and she ran a proper inn. She'd raised a fine son in Lan as well, a hard worker, honest, and smart enough to know when to leave one alone, most of the time. Frost had long found this last to be a rare trait, especially among the young.

Though Lan's interest in who Frost and his companions were, in what they had done, the places they had been was surely acute. He asked constantly, and was greatly entertained by the smallest tale of battles or sorceries. Which, to one degree or another, was to be expected of such a boy in such a place. Frost had not been a boy in ages, but he remembered that much.

He gazed about the room. Though this place was smaller, it reminded him of the inn where he and Hoke and Madia had first spoken all together. Dark tables and sturdy benches cluttered the worn wooden floors, twin hearths warmed the room from either side. Just enough daylight came through the windows to see what you were eating by day, replaced by sufficient lamps at night. Best of all was the frequent presence of those most delicious smells; meaty stews and soups, cooking porridges and baking breads, and some very fine ale of a familiar recipe, made by Taya herself, an art she had apparently learned from her husband who had brought the knowledge with him from Worlish, years ago.

As the thought crossed his mind, young Lan set a tankard of ale down next to Frost's bowl of stew. Frost sipped at the stew first, savoring the hot broth, then slurped a chunk of cabbage and a few tender bits of meat into his mouth. A long pull on the ale came next. He looked up to find Sharryl and Rosivok gulping their food down at a typically frightful rate. After only two weeks spent as Taya's guests, the improvements in those two, and in himself, were quite significant. They were mending, physically and in other ways, though they were all still too thin to fill out their clothing.

Cantor had vanished after their third day here while Frost was sick with fever. He had apparently said good-bye, or it had been a dream, Frost wasn't sure. He found Cantor's departure curious at least, but whether it was cause for worry or not, he had yet to decide. In his youth he had been a very poor judge of the character of others. He had remedied that failing in the decades since, or so he believed. He saw Cantor as the type who liked to get what he wanted, but on his own terms, and he had seen Cantor's eyes that day in the pass. The merchant had not mentioned the Demon Blade since that day. Not once. Frost saw this last as a good sign, but he knew it didn't mean that Cantor was gone for good.

"More salt," Sharryl said, and the boy went to fetch the bag.

"Pie too?" Rosivok asked, with a look of rapt desire that Frost almost didn't recognize.

"Strawberry, if you don't mind the same twice," Taya said with a nod, then a grin as she saw Rosivok's reaction.

"Until they discovered your pies, I had only seen a Subartan so intense in the heat of battle," Frost chuckled.

"You eat two pieces for every one of theirs," Taya scolded him. "But I will say the three of you have appetites I have never seen the likes of."

The Subartans nodded as they emptied their bowls and belched mightily, almost in unison. They were seldom heard to give proper thanks as well as Frost, at least not in words, but they seemed to get their message of satisfaction across in every other way possible.

"We will leave in a few days, but I will pay you the week," Frost said between his last few spoonfuls. "And I will see what I can do for your friends as well."

Taya's neighbor, the smithy's wife, had been by several times complaining of a swollen jaw on the left side, a bad tooth, and the past two days it had put her in misery. Frost had no spells to raise teeth from bone, but a simple tool her husband could fashion from two gently curled strips of iron, flattened and joined in the middle with a nail, would work to grab hold of the tooth and pry it loose. The pain, well, Frost could help with that, at least for a day. He couldn't remember how many times in how many villages he'd done the same. Usually for whatever amounted to a reasonable fee in those lands, of course. He would have insisted on being paid this time as well if it were not for the way Taya had looked when she'd asked, as if agreement should follow the way summer follows spring; that, and those pies . . .

"You'll only pay me what you owe me," Taya said.

"We'll see," Frost replied. Then he asked the same question he'd asked nearly every day for more than a week now. "Has anyone new come along, perhaps from Worlish?"

"None you should bother with," Taya said. "I told you we will get them and whatever news they bring, just be patient. In the meantime I can likely tell you stories enough if you'd care to listen."

"I do," Frost said.

"You don't. Most of the time you barely hear a word I say, as if you are in some world all your own."

"My thoughts tangle sometimes," Frost said.

"That must be it, then. But tell me, why do men only seem to pay attention to a woman when she's calling him for food or love?"

Frost opened his mouth to respond, but realized he had no immediate reply to that.

"I thought so," Taya said. But she wore a grin now that Frost was fairly certain meant only one thing. It was an idea he rather fancied, in fact. He tended to have little interest in women when he was at his peak weight, a condition that made him feel less attractive to women to begin with, conscious of the possibility he might present a danger to anyone he inadvertently rolled over on; but now, recovering from his ordeal, he was at least one hundred pounds lighter than he had been only last month. He felt urges deep within, a stirring in his loins that only strengthened as Taya leaned closer to him, put her lips near his ear, and whispered, "I see I have made my point."

"Perhaps. It is a topic worth further debate, I think."

"Indeed," Taya said. "But it might be prudent to go where others won't hear."

Frost nodded, ready as could be, and finished his ale, but before he could rise he found another one being set down in its place. Lan left again but returned a moment later with butter and a fresh loaf of dark bread, which Frost and his Subartans set straight to work on.

Frost tried to think of something else, anything else. "I am curious what you meant by your answer about travelers," he said after a time. "You say there is no one I need bother with, yet anyone from the north might be . . ."

"She means the skull-wagers," Lan said, darkening.

That meant nothing to Frost. "Tell me more," he said, chewing at one last bit of bread crust then bringing his full attention to bear on his ale.

"You must know what Worlish was like, but I tell you that vassal we have on the throne of Calienn is near as bad," Taya said.

"Commlin?" Frost inquired, recalling the name of Calienn's Great Lord just then, surprising himself. Perhapsit has not been as long as I thought . . . 

"Commlin has been dead for some years," Taya said. "Killed, most say. Calienn has not been a sovereign province for as long as Lan has been alive. It is more a part of Worlish, an agreement won without a fight by way of treaty, or what some call a treaty. Commlin's young brother Torlin rules now, but only in name. He had too many vassals to count, and had divided Calienn into smaller and smaller manors until most of the lords could not live off them. So they tried to live off others, where and when they could. Even Worlish soldiers opportune our lands, and they do not respect anyone's sovereignty. But Cantor has been putting pressure on Torlin, and he has begun reforms. Worlish is under no such pressure."

"We pay taxes so often, and often to men we do not even know," Lan said.

"Skull-wagers?" Frost asked again, still curious.

"Yes," Taya said. "They are from Worlish, they wear padded gambesons dyed all in a dark color, except for a single white stripe down the front and back that grows broader at the bottom. Pear-shaped, really. But on horseback, riding away, the shape looks rather like a skull, and if the horse is at a walk, well, you see—"

"I have seen them," Frost said. "Two days past, walking their horses to the stables. Are they staying here?"

"No," Taya said, almost too quickly, perhaps nervously. Frost wasn't sure whether she was lying' she had no reason to and the boy was taking no particular notice, but if so, she wasn't very good at it. Still, he let it drop.

"These men come to collect which lord's homage?"

"Borger's or Adeler's, who are lords of nearby fiefs, or even in the name of old Acklandar, who has the only right beyond the king himself."

Frost had heard every word, but what he was hearing didn't make much sense. Worlish and Briarlea were rich lands and should have no need of what amounted to robbery in a sovereign ally's villages. "Soldiers from Worlish are doing this?" he asked, clarifying.

"Aye, now and again, and they take their share of whatever else they want for themselves," Lan said, clearly displeased with the arrangement. "Cantor is the only friend we have, and he has yet to prove much of that."

Frost nodded. It was a familiar circumstance in other lands, and usually there was nothing to be done. The local vassal was weak or lazy or both, the noble to whom he owed fealty was only slightly more attentive and had more men of arms, but no stomach for war; so the taxes from grains and ale to craftsmen's work to coins, and sometimes laborers were collected as needed wherever they might be found, especially where one manor bordered another. Here, that practice had been taken to the level of principalities. There was no recourse, other than to start a revolt, become a vassal, or take to the road . . . as Frost had done.

"When I saw these men about in the village, they seemed as interested in me and my Subartans as I in them," Frost pressed. "Tell me, why should I not speak to them?"

"Their type is quick to act and hard to predict," Taya said. "They have stayed away so far. I wish that to continue."

"I hear they killed a man and his wife in Attaus just four days past," Lan added, "and all because the poor fellow had not enough food to get them supper."

"There are always stories, people love to tell them," Frost cautioned, "and stories always grow as they travel."

"Frost is right," Taya told her son. "You'll do well always to keep that in mind. But so is Lan," she added, turning to Frost. "If they were worthy soldiers, I dare say someone in Worlish would have better use of them. Instead they wander here. Such men are best left alone."

"Then they should leave others alone," Frost said.

"That is what I say," Lan muttered, mostly under his breath.

"Lan would be a knight and save the world, bless him," Taya said with a soft smile. "But the inn will not do without him."

"For now, I will heed your advice," Frost replied, leaning back, his belly filled to satisfaction. He had no desire to start trouble or make news here. "Meanwhile, I will accept your offer," he told Taya, gazing at her, "and listen to your stories. I predict they will be most . . . delightful."

Taya made a grin that held an enticing hint of sin as Frost stood up and held out his hand. She took it, and led him out the door, then around back of the inn to the small house that joined it, using part of the inn's roof and one of its walls. It had two rooms, the smaller of them arranged with two storage chests, a small table that held a washbowl and one spindly chair, a bed made of a sturdy frame and a well-stuffed mattress, and a chamber pot. They ended in the bed almost right away, then set about pulling each other's clothes off.

Frost laid his robes and tunic on one of the nearby chests, then he unlashed the scabbard and set the Blade, still wrapped tightly in cloth, on the floor next to the bed.

"What it that for?" Taya asked, eyeing the obvious shape of the thing, and especially the hilt where it protruded from the bindings.

"Have you never heard the tales, that sorcerers cannot perform without a proper . . . aid?"

"I'll believe no such thing of you, Frost."

"No?"

"No, not that, though sometimes I do not know what to believe when it comes to you. Still, the learning is fun."

Frost hid his smile. "And why is that?"

"Because even weak and starving and ill, there is something remarkable about you. I know you are a man of magic, considered wise by many, perhaps talented, and certainly cocky as any man I've known. But I have known many men, tradesmen, warriors, a wizard or two. None were quite as you."

"No doubt," Frost said.

Taya wrinkled her brow at him and he grinned.

She grinned back, then held him. He brought his lips to hers, his hand to her breast. He had not been with a woman in nearly a year. Then it had been Sharryl, who lacked nothing with regard to mastery, strength or enthusiasm, but who was nowhere so soft as Taya was everywhere.

"You never did tell me about that sword," she whispered as if the topic were sensual somehow. "It is special in some way?"

Frost tried not to let himself fall out of his mood, which he was finding enjoyable. "Why do you ask?"

"You act as though it is quite valuable."

"Perhaps. But it does not concern you."

"Then it won't." She pressed against him, and neither one said more for nearly an hour.

When they had finished they lay in each other's arms for a time, listening to the sounds of people talking as they passed by on the street and breathing in the rich human scents of their conjugation. In a few weeks Frost would be much heavier, far less interested, and leagues from here. That didn't matter now, not to either one of them.

"What will you do when you get home?" she asked, leaning up on one elbow and looking at him. A wistful look, one Frost found curiously hard to read.

"To start, I will see what remains and what has become of the place, and of those I knew."

She sighed. "I say very little really changes."

"Yes, but as I said, I have been gone a very long while."

"Where, Frost?" Taya asked, practically getting on top of him again. "Tell me, where have you been?"

"All those lands you mentioned earlier, and many more."

"Are they the same as here?"

"Vassals argue, peasants pay, people have children, they grow old and die. And they are everywhere fond of wars."

"You see, nothing changes. Though we have had no wars in years, thank the Greater Gods," Taya said, laying her head on his chest.

"A peaceful land?"

"Mostly. Far to the north, there is the Grenarii Empire. The king is known as Kolhol. He has won or seized the lands of all the Grenarii tribes and united them, and he has built an army that worries even the Worlish king. Some say he has made threats."

Frost shrugged at this. "Kings are always making threats, they always will. Tell me, who would this Worlish king be?"

Taya paused at they reached her door. She looked at him. "Lord Andair, of course. I should think you would remember him, if all you say is true."

Frost felt his insides harden, felt the stew backing up. "Is anything wrong?" Taya asked, as she tried to put her arms around him and found his body rigid.

Frost realized what he was doing, then realized he wasn't breathing. He drew a breath and blinked his drying, staring eyes into focus. "Lord Andair?" he asked, finding it difficult even to speak the name. "The old king's banished nephew? He is not dead?"

"The same," Taya said. "And no. Do you know him?"

"I do," Frost said, feeling the full weight of this news settle upon him. "I did."

"Frost." Taya used her hand to turn his eyes to her. "Will you say what's wrong?"

It was not her fault, of course, and she had every right to be concerned. "It is Andair," he told her. Again he tasted the rancor in his mouth as the name touched his lips and tongue. "He is the reason I left."

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