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CHAPTER FIVE

He hated horses, and this gelding was no exception.

Their spirits were too strong which, short of cruelty, required constant negotiation. Stubborn and moody when they wanted to be, and not always as trustworthy as many a horse lover might have the rest of the world believe. Frost much preferred the reliability and pace of his own good two feet to being jostled and jounced, and to listening to endless equine complaints about his weight. That, and he needed the exercise. Nevertheless, right now he and his Subartans needed the speed only three good mounts could bring, and Burrel had insisted on supplying them—for a fair price.

He kept a vigorous pace, prodding the horse to a slow lope as often as he dared. His Subartans matched him without comment. Even nightfall didn't slow them at first. But ultimately, good sense and their horses' obvious fatigue combined to form a convincing argument for rest.

Once their mounts had been fed, watered and secured for the night, Frost and his Subartans ate cold provisions and made no fire, so as not to draw attention. He still did not believe Shassel dead. He had felt no sign of this as he was sure he would; and the words of a minor lord with uncertain motives, a man old enough to have slipped some of his senses, were not the sort of thing one took to heart. But there was a chance . . .

No matter. He had to learn the truth for himself.

He lay awake that night on the hard ground, wrapped in his bedroll, staring at the crescent moon and countless stars darting in and out of great dark cloud banks that passed slowly overhead. As he had on too many nights in countless places just like this one, he allowed himself to stew in the broth of his burdens until his brow began to sweat, despite the coolness of the air. He needed to face Andair once more, to find Shassel, to see his stewardship of the Demon Blade through to whatever end the Greater Gods intended; and he needed to learn what going home again held in store for him, a thing less certain than he had thought it might be when he set out on this unusual journey. Yet part of him wanted nothing to do with any of that. Part of him wanted to walk away and keep walking, just as he had so many years ago. Busy himself with whatever amused him or distracted him. Yet it wasn't that easy any more. In truth, it never had been.

All of this, he thought, not for the first time, I neverintended . . . 

He fell asleep finally, he wasn't sure when.

At first light they pushed on once more, resting only in spots. Hardly a word passed between them. Frost was in no good mood, something the others, even the horses, easily sensed. And the hardest part of the journey lay just ahead. Late in the day, as he knew it would, the road came round the forest's edge and over a low hilltop, and Frost found himself in sight of Weldhem, the most noble city in all Worlish—and within its walls, the battlements of the castle that held the Worlish throne. This was the heart of the land of Frost's father. The land of Andair's father. Now Andair's alone.

The city had overgrown the old walls and was spread out across much of the shallow valley. Fields covered up in rows of spring plantings filled the rest of the valley and gave way to stands of woods only on the higher ground to the south and east. Frost stood in the sunlight just beyond the edges of the trees. A gentle breeze from the north lapped at his robes and hair and face, carrying faint traces of gloriously blended scents from wood fires and cooking and baking all mixed with the somewhat less alluring smells of refuse and human and animal waste. Still, the smells and sights combined to bring back a flood of memories. Not all of them good.

The lands that had once belonged to Wilmar lay just to the west. Frost had no desire to see them again. His own home of many years was further east.

"It is . . . nice," Sharryl said, then she busied herself with snatching a fly out the air as it circled about her head.

"Hmmm . . ." Rosivok added, folding his arms across his chest as he surveyed the scene. "Yes, nice, but we have seen many cities like this one. It is but one more."

He meant no slight of course. He was trying, in his way, to help. Frost realized how furrowed and frowning his mouth and brow had become. He decided he must look utterly confounded, just as he felt.

"It is good to be back," Frost said, filling his lungs deeply, exhaling slowly and evenly in an effort to bring himself around. It felt good to say such a thing, at least. He let himself feel buoyed by the moment, though another side boiled just beneath the surface. In truth he wanted to rush into the city and seek out people he remembered, to visit the streets, markets and homes he had visited with his mother and aunts and uncles as a boy—and later as a young man. Most of all he wanted to storm the throne room in the castle itself and confront Andair, Lord of Lies, Lord of Pain. He wanted to exact all the justice and vengeance he could—just as he had imagined doing countless times.

But he could not. Not yet. Not while the Blade was his, and so much else remained unknown. He had waited decades, and those decades had taught him a great deal. Now, he must wait a little longer.

"One day, soon, we will pay this city a visit," Frost said, as he turned and focussed on his Subartans again. He felt a twinge of amusement looking at them; even at a glance, they presented a perfectly subdued combination of tension and boredom. It helped to further break the trance Weldhem had set.

"As you say," Rosivok replied.

Sharryl nodded. "As you say."

"First we will go east, to my family lands," Frost went on. And learn what has happened in my absence, he added in silence. "We will find a village along the way to stay in for tonight, any one of them will do. There is something else I must attend to."

* * *

They waited until dusk before descending the gently sloping hillside toward a village set beside a small wellspring, and far from the sight of Weldhem. Frost led the way slowly, making no threat, letting the peasants notice the unusual strangers entering their midst. In only a few moments nearly the entire population of the village had gathered around. Frost put them at ease with words at first, then gave everyone a copper coin.

"You will eat, and tell your best stories," one of the older men said after that. "But we have little to share. We should fetch the lord of the manor."

"No," Frost said. "We need not bother any barons this night. What you have will do well enough."

He ate lightly, just enough to stave off the hunger for tonight, then waited while everyone gathered to share his company. Frost tried to be more engaging than usual. He told his stories, careful not to choose the ones that might be too provocative just now, then he began to ask questions.

These people were poor, that was clear; Andair took all he could from the land and its people. Few of these men stood any chance of one day buying a bit of land of their own, and ultimately becoming freemen. The king had seen to that. It seemed he needed the land and what could be gotten from it to maintain the throne and keep his mercenaries. Andair had apparently seized great parcels of land in order to grant fiefs to the vassals who had come with him from other lands, and to men who swore fealty to him since them.

None of this surprised Frost in any way.

He asked about his family next. No one knew anything more. Finally he bid them all good-night, though he did not go to sleep at first.

After everyone had gone to bed, Frost went to the edge of the village and stood facing in the direction of the city of Weldhem. He closed his eyes and began reciting the words that would renew the spells he had used in the Spartooth Mountains to learn what he might of the men who followed them. Tonight he focussed on one man, the one his memories recalled so well. He needed to know better what sort of man Andair had become, needed to taste the bitter waters, and know his enemy anew. This was something he had not possessed the ability to do in his youth, a talent that might have spared so many so much.

The spells began to draw energy from him, to work as they were intended to, but when he felt a sudden presence of another mind he knew at once it was not Andair—the king for all his sin and pretext had no skills as a sorcerer, and this other did. A powerful mind, and already aware of Frost's probings, awakened by them, already looking back . . .

In frustration Frost ended the attempt. Gentaff, he thought, recalling the name the merchant Cantor had used for the sorcerer which Andair kept. A formidable opponent, perhaps, but Frost had no intention of testing him just now. There were too many variables once that road was taken, and already too many reasons he must wait. Onevictory at a time, he counseled himself. First he needed to go the rest of the way home. And soon.

Even from so brief and intangible an encounter, Gentaff would no doubt guess more than Frost needed him to know. "We must leave," he told his Subartans, waking them. "At once."

* * *

"It was him," Gentaff said, standing in the dark in the king's chambers, a voice from nowhere.

Andair sat up and dug the sleep from the corners of his eyes, then he pulled the bed curtain back. He still couldn't see a thing. His oil lamp had apparently gone out, and the fire in the hearth had faded almost to nothing. Which meant most of the night had passed.

"You could bring a fresh lamp," he said.

"I know," Gentaff's voice replied.

Andair frowned. He loved melodrama, this sorcerer, to the point of fault. But even a monarch had to make do now and then, and Gentaff had more than enough redeeming qualities to allow his eccentricities to be overlooked. Most of the time. Though Andair particularly abhorred the man's occasional habit of posing absolutely still and closing his eyes and keeping them closed when someone was talking. Even when Andair was talking. As if the topic was not interesting enough to warrant all of the great Gentaff's attentions; as if he were off, somewhere else.

He always returned, and always seemed to know where he was in the conversation, but that didn't lessen the implied aspersion. Nevertheless, this was the one man he must deal with. Especially now, with the Grenarii king and his growing army threatening Worlish's northern borders, and more immediately, with the remarkable news of his old confederate's return.

"You are sure?" Andair asked.

"Yes."

"What of him, then?" Andair prodded, pulling on bed shoes and a robe. "How should I feel?" He looked more closely at the hearth. Scarlet embers still smoldered in the heaped gray ashes. Andair got to his feet and lit the wick, then set the lamp on the table beside his bed.

"Hard to say," Gentaff replied. "I was barely aware of him, and then only for a moment—though he was aware of me, and possibly you. I have waited in meditation for hours, seeking him, but there has been nothing else."

"What does that mean?"

"He is not far, but he is very good at going unnoticed. I believe he is moving away from here, at least for now."

"Curious behavior," Andair said, fixing his gaze on the shadowy figure that appeared in the candlelight, still near the door. "Frost has come all this way, come almost to my very doorstep, yet he does not enter. For years I have considered this day and all its possibilities: Would he seek to destroy me; would he oppose me publicly in hopes of provoking an uprising? Would he fear me, and seek an arrangement? I would have thought any of those likely. But to stroll past without so much as a greeting?" Andair smiled to himself. "Perhaps he fears me more than I'd hoped."

"He protects the Blade," Gentaff said.

"I am sure," Andair answered him, frowning now. "But then why come near Weldhem Castle at all? He must know I am king. Why come home again after so long unless he intends to use the Demon Blade to complete his revenge?"

"Do you fear him?" Gentaff asked, offering nothing in his tone that might reveal his design.

Andair swallowed back his first thought. Not even Gentaff would ever be allowed that kind of currency, even if fear were shaking him to his bones. He had long known how to read the hearts and minds of others, then use what he found to his best advantage. He would not allow others the same advantage over him. "No," he said flatly.

"Then perhaps you should be," Gentaff said. "The Blade is powerful, and so is Frost. Perhaps we are no match for him."

Again no emotion showed in his voice, but Andair had come to know this wizard well enough in the past two years to guess that this was mostly a hostile statement. Gentaff believed no man and perhaps not even the Gods were truly a match for him; and for all Andair knew he was possibly correct, at least where sorcery was concerned. As to cunning, Andair was not willing to make any such concession. Gentaff was both wise and powerful, but any strength could be used against a man, as well as any weakness. Granted, this sorcerer's weaknesses were few, but Andair had discovered at least one. . . .

"If you are frightened, good wizard, you may wish to leave while it is safe to do so," Andair said.

"A generous offer," Gentaff replied, "but I will wait until I have good reason."

"When will you know?" Andair said, pressing.

Gentaff kept his demeanor, though Andair could sense the venom. No matter. Despite his age Gentaff was taller and stronger than Andair, and known to have considerable skills with weapons of every kind. Andair had not let himself go, but even without his great talents, Gentaff would prove a challenging opponent if it came to that. Which was part of the appeal of taunting him now and then, or pressing a point until it made the old wizard flinch. Gentaff needed someone like Andair with his stronghold, his army, his wealth. It was just a question of how much, a question Andair was willing to wager against again and again.

"May I speculate a little about this Frost," the wizard said, not a question. "He is not the unpracticed fool you deceived and defamed those many years ago."

"Then what is he?"

Gentaff moved closer, until the candlelight illuminated his face, stout yet angular features, a short-cropped beard still mostly dark in color but going silver in streaks, deep set eyes. He loomed over Andair. Was he taller than Andair remembered? Of course it was not possible, so he discounted it.

"I will know. There will come a time. He moves away for now, but if he comes to us again it will go differently. We will each learn a great deal, and quickly. As will you. Of course, we could go to him. Go after the Blade."

Andair balked at the notion, but he made an effort not to show it as he allowed the idea in his mind, and gave it brief audience. Chasing Frost, getting things out in the open, getting on with the inevitable and perhaps even gaining the upper hand against his old friend-turned-foe again—all this had definite appeal. The chance that they might devise a means to acquire the Demon Blade in the process was especially delicious, and especially dangerous. Perhaps too dangerous for now. "We should not be hasty."

"The Blade is the key," Gentaff said. "To everything."

Andair tried to assess the amount of melodrama in this last. For centuries men had sought the Blade, and here was Frost bringing it from halfway across the world like a gift—which was unlikely. He brings the Blade to destroy me, Andair thought, but if that was true, why hadn't he done so this very night? What if Gentaff could somehow turn things around, somehow take the Blade away from Frost and wield it as Andair required, then no realm could stand against them.

He was in no hurry. For now there were too many unknowns—not the least of which included the Blade itself.

Even Gentaff seemed to have no idea what its powers were or how to control it, let alone how to counter its powers if Frost should attempt to use it against them. Andair only assumed Gentaff had a plan in mind. Gentaff had never actually claimed any such thing.

"We should wait and see what he has in mind."

"It is caution or cunning that guides you this day?" Gentaff asked. "When he has finished his reconnoiter he may decide to journey north to Grenarii and join your enemies."

That was a more immediate worry, and one Andair had already considered. He had spent years securing his throne, building fealty and hiring soldiers, assembling an army that could challenge anyone in the world—the Grenarii in particular. Kolhol, the Grenarii king, had amassed an even larger force, and though they were reportedly ill-trained, Andair did not like the implications. Such an expensive and unwieldy tool could have only one ultimate use, as far as Andair was concerned. He had no desire to allow an alliance that might cost him half his own army or perhaps all of Worlish in the end. But nothing was ever that simple.

"If I fall, Worlish falls, and it is Frost's home as well as mine."

"If that matters to him. Has he any family left?"

That was a tender subject. "Shassel is his aunt."

"The old sorceress?"

"Yes, but she has been quiet these past few years, seldom seen. I do not bother her, and she does not bother me. She knows what is good for her I think."

"No one else?"

"There may be a few others. Some friends, perhaps." Wilmar in particular, he thought with some consternation. He didn't want Frost making amends with Wilmar, though that was most unlikely. He doubted Frost even knew Wilmar was alive and living in Worlish again. Then there were the twins. "Something that bears watching," Andair conceded. "For now, leave all of that to me and let us consider other possibilities. I hear Frost is known to appreciate a generous payment from time to time. It could well be that he has come here to sell me the Demon Blade in exchange for something—gold, his family lands and more, or a share of the throne after all. It is safe to say that I am one of the few men alive who can afford to bargain with him."

"Or he will kill you with the Blade, then take all you have and sell it back to your heirs," Gentaff said, and Andair though he saw a grin touch his face in the dim, flickering light.

Andair drew a deep breath. "Very well. I will send someone, a messenger. Whatever we learn will likely be of use to us. All we know is that Frost and the Blade have arrived in Briarlea, and have taken to cover among the trees and peasants."

"A puzzle wrapped in a mystery," Gentaff said.

A favorite saying. Another quirk that annoyed Andair. "Only for now."

"I agree. If your messenger does not return, then?"

"I will send another and another. I have many."

Gentaff turned to one side as if examining something, though there was nothing there. When he turned back he said, "You should send your messenger, and we will sit idle and wait. But be prepared to learn that this may all have been a waste of time."

The conversation was becoming a waste of time. Gentaff apparently believed himself the only truly capable one under these or any other difficult circumstances. His sort always did. It had been the demon's own job, but after several tries Andair had finally gotten rid of the last court wizard while he was out hunting—and for similar indiscretions. Of course, he hadn't told Gentaff any of that. He'd taken the head off the spike only two days before Gentaff's much heralded arrival. To be safe he had kept the dried head, hidden of course, as they were known to possess residual powers that could one day be most useful.

"No matter the Demon Blade, and no matter who and what Frost has become," Andair said, "I managed him once, and I will again. After all, I am not the same man I was then, either. You need take that into consideration."

Gentaff's shoulders formed a shrug. "I have."

"You are not impressed?"

"You have made the manipulation and exploitation of others your hobby, perhaps your life's work. To that extent I am impressed. However, there is more to this."

Andair noticed Gentaff's eyes had closed. He did it to annoy, Andair was almost certain of it. "You may go," Andair said, "to prepare for the time ahead."

"As you wish."

Andair watched the dark-robed sorcerer disappear through the chamber doors into the darkened hall beyond. The heavy wooden door seemed to follow him closed, and as the iron latch struck the catch the lamp beside Andair's bed flickered out. Melodrama, Andair scoffed, shaking his head.

He was still tired. He wanted to pull the warm covers up and go back to bed, but he knew that wouldn't do. He lit the lamp again and summoned his aides instead. In a very real sense he welcomed the end of the waiting and the exhilaration that came with it, the chance to get on with the challenges he knew would come to him one day, and with it the chance to triumph again—once and for all. That was the way to look at all of this, the only way.

* * *

In the third village Frost passed through and less than half a day's ride from the lands that had once been home to him, an old couple turned up, minstrels until their legs and fading health had forced them to give up the traveling, though they were lute players still. Everyone Frost asked said they would know of Shassel if anyone did. He paid the villagers to tend to their horses and went looking for the couple. He found them waiting outside the hut that was their home, a large enough place, but only one room and that shared with the cow on colder nights. They eagerly accepted Frost's meager payment for their time.

"We remember you and yours," the old man said. "Hard to forget such folk. No one is left to welcome you home, though, not that we know of."

"Save maybe those twins," the woman said.

Frost tipped his head. "Twins?"

"Living further east last I knew," the woman answered, looking to her husband for accord.

"Driven out?" Frost asked.

The old man paused in rapt concentration, picking at a hole where a tooth had been, then nodded. "A brother and a sister born of a cousin, one of yours, but the land did not pass to them. They might be gone by now, somewhere far."

"If you do find them, they will know of any other family about," the woman said.

"Shassel," Frost said, watching their eyes. "What do you know of her?"

"We remember her," the husband said, uncomfortable with something about her. "We don't know what might have become of her."

Frost believed them, but there was more. He decided it would serve no one to menace them into saying what it was.

"You are welcome to stay in our house tonight," the woman told him.

"A fine enough offer," Frost said, "but we must go."

He turned to do just that and drew up short, greeted by the sight of two fully armored soldiers on horseback and one young man, perhaps a troubadour of some sort, dressed in lavish, ruddy colored pleated trousers, a feathered leather bonnet, white blouse and a striking gray and black vest. The trio approached at a leisurely pace and paused finally when they were only a dozen paces away.

Sharryl and Rosivok stood ready, each exactly two paces to the front and one pace to either side of Frost, weapons up, but making no movement.

"I am Jons, at the service of his lordship, Andair, King of Worlish at Briarlea," the troubadour said, addressing Frost but examining the Subartans all the while. "If you are Frost, I have a message for you."

"Does Andair seek audience with me?" Frost asked.

The man had a narrow face that hid nothing, including his momentary disdain, though he seemed to overcome it abruptly. "No, he does not," Jons said. "Not unless it is absolutely necessary."

"I can imagine," Frost said, watching the messenger's eyes and manner. He was young and pretentious, and as sure of his sponsor as any fool could be. Andair would have many like this—all incurable.

"He bids you greetings, commends you on recovering the Demon Blade, and wishes to acquire it. What is your price?"

A familiar question, Frost thought. "Bring me his head," he answered.

The young man's brow went up, then a smile crossed his face. "Of course, a joke. I have heard you knew him once, long ago."

"I did, and I made no joke."

Jons glanced at the two men-at-arms on either side of him but got no reaction. His brow furrowed in thought, then he seemed to set those thoughts aside. "He is willing to pay you extremely well."

"I will see him pay, I assure you."

Again Jons paused. He is beginning to catch on, Frost thought, which was bound to limit what little amusement the conversation still held.

Jons adjusted himself in his saddle. "As you say. Can I tell him your terms?"

Frost rocked back on his heels. "How are you so sure I have the Blade?"

"You do. Everyone knows it."

"I may already have sold it. A very rich merchant in Calienn offered me a fortune for it."

"Gentaff says you have it. I will ask once more, what are your terms?"

Frost raised his walking stick and pointed it at the troubadour which, to Frost's satisfaction, caused the young fellow to flinch—an action followed by crossbows being raised. The soldiers intended to protect Jons from harm without question, which meant they were fairly well trained—these few at least.

"Attempt to harm me and we will defend ourselves," Jons said, lowering his voice. "If you insist, we will kill you and take the Blade from your corpse."

Sharryl and Rosivok stood calmly, unmoving, while the others focussed on them intently.

"Yes, yes, of course," Frost said, waving the stick three times. "I am sure you believe all that, but let me tell you what you must accept, like it or not."

The strange and sudden distress among Jons and his protectors was increasingly evident. They began blinking furiously, then shaking their heads, then waving hands and crossbows about as if bees were hovering. Groping, in fact. They did not cry out, though the urge to do so was evident.

Frost waved his stick about three times more. "Better?" he asked.

"I can see again!" Jons said with no small amount of relief, but that expression was quickly replaced by one filled with indignation. "Enough, wizard. Your magic has failed. If you think in your crazed little mind that—"

"You should be concerned with your own thoughts, and who controls them," Frost interrupted. "As well as your fate, you see, because I choose it. If any of you finish this day alive it is because I choose it. Andair and his sorcerer still live only because I choose it. Leave me in peace and go unharmed. Tell your king as much. I cannot promise to keep that bargain with him for long, but I will offer nothing more, other than to tell him this: The Demon Blade will never be of any use to him, or to Gentaff. Tell Gentaff it will destroy him if he attempts to prove otherwise. That is the truth. There are no terms—there is no price. Now, go."

Frost lowered his walking stick, eyes locked on Jons' eyes for just an instant. This fellow was basically sound, he was just an ardent, misdirected young herald, largely an empty vessel, easily buffeted and driven off course. Frost had known too many like him, enough to grow weary of them, of trying to teach them something of rules and strategy in a game they barely realized they were playing. He let this one go. He turned and walked away, passing between his Subartans and walking on while they remained where they had been.

"Where are you going?" Jons called after him. "Hold where you are!"

"Take his advice," Rosivok said. "Go."

"Andair will have his say!" Jons shouted.

Frost moved on, the focus of the entire village's attentions until he passed between the cottages and disappeared from Jons' line of sight. He waited just upwind, near a small shed built to shelter the village hogs. In a moment Sharryl and Rosivok joined him.

"They have gone on their way and lived," Sharryl said. "Their direction is toward the city."

They will be back, Frost thought, or others much likethem. Though the nature of their mission was bound to change. He decided there was nothing to be done about it. Not until he had completed his journey, and learned the truth.

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