Chapter 4
The sensing of another word not heard, not spoken by a voice again shocked Duncan, if perhaps not so much as the first occurrence. His hands tightened on the sword, and his head jerked up. The others obviously observed that reaction. No one spoke. The pause had grown very long before Duncan at length opened his mouth.
“Our very oldest stories, older than hero sagas or legends, tell of a time when we did not live in the Highlands; a time before we followed the White God; a time when the gods-that-were were close to us; walked among us; touched us;” he paused for a long moment, “changed us.”
“Changed you?” That from Meurig, still in that soft voice. “How?”
Duncan shrugged. “The stories—those that survived—don’t say. They simply say that we were different, and those around us drove us out. The oldest stories say we wandered for years—a lifetime—with no rest, no shelter, no friends—until we found the path up to the Highlands. It was a cruel path; treacherous. More than a few died in the taking of it. But once we gained the top, there we found very few to object to us. There we found room to live. And there we found the horses, the wild ones who became the seed of our herds.”
“And?” Fiona prompted when Duncan stopped.
“There we grew. There we became the clans. There we became who we are today. We became the clans, but because of the stories, because of that barely recalled history, our infants cut their teeth on knife hilts, all our children learn the sword and the bow from the time they can hold a practice wand, and to win the torc at the annual sword contests,” he lifted his own from where it lay around his neck with a finger, “is a matter of highest praise. Oh, we have crafters, artisans, musicians of great skill. But still, even after generations of generations, we know that we are different, and that we dare not trust anyone outside the clans completely. We are just that little bit different from Darcian, from Myddymites, from Cantreddi—from everybody. Still, we know that.”
He looked at the saints first, then at Pwyll and Blodwen where they stood against the wall. “It may be that the clans are the heirs of your missing ‘one’. If that’s the case, I have no sympathy for you. You drove them out; don’t be looking to us for absolution. If that connection does exist, you should know that the clans know how to hate; oh, indeed we do. Ask the northern raiders about how well we can hate.”
<Not them>
A third word not heard from an unspoken voice. This time Duncan just closed his eyes and sat motionless. He didn’t know how long that moment lasted, but when he opened his eyes, all four of the Cantreddi were staring at him.
Meurig’s head tilted sideways a bit. “Son of Nial, is there a problem?”
Duncan cleared his throat. “It seems that, ah, hate . . . is not to be levied against you.”
Four sets of eyes grew very round, and four sets of knees met the floor again.
“Oh, stop it!” Duncan almost snarled. “Get up. Get up! I won’t talk to people if I can’t see their faces.” No one moved. “Get! Up!” He reached into the coldness for that, much as he had when he faced Urien the perfect.
The four Cantreddi came to their feet as if jerked up. Pwyll and his sister looked discomfited; Saint Meurig’s face went blank; but Saint Fiona’s face lit up as if with an inner fire, and she gazed at Duncan in a manner that left him more than a little uncomfortable.
“You are correct,” Duncan said, much though he didn’t want to. He leaned the sword against his shoulder and held his arms out somewhat to the sides, palms up, to display his clan marks. “These are not the usual clan marks. And it’s words I’ll be having with my father and mother if I ever get back to the Highlands as to just why it is they were having these put on me.”
Duncan noticed that he had reverted back more to the Highlands’ dialect, a sure sign that he was feeling stress. And just wasn’t he, though? Nial corAnuwn had some explaining to do.
“One of them,” Duncan said, “has begun to . . . talk . . . to me.”
Now Pwyll and Blodwen’s faces went blank; Meurig’s eyebrows shot up far enough to almost hide behind her headcloth. But Fiona—Fiona’s face grew lambent, her eyes like crystal, as if the inner fire had been stoked.
<Bide>
“What do you mean, bide?” Duncan snarled, finally accepting what was happening. “I want no part of this.”
<Need>
“I do not need them, or anything they have. And I don’t care if they need me, this is not something I want any part of!”
<Need>
“No!”
<Bide>
The last unsaid word was harder, heavier, colder than any that had come before. At the same moment, the coldness within swelled up to the extent that Duncan felt as if he was about to burst like an overfilled water skin.
Duncan clutched the sword with both hands, even though the cold seemed to flow into the blade and sheath and burn his fingers. He started to tremble, and shook his head violently.
“No!”
<Bide>
The pressure in his head grew until it felt as if his eyes were about to be forced out of their sockets.
<Bide>
“Son of Nial,” came a whisper.
Duncan opened the eyes he hadn’t even realized he had closed, to see that Meurig and Fiona were on their knees again. Meurig had drawn close enough that her outstretched hand almost touched his own knee.
“We can help,” she murmured. “We can teach you how to hear the voices easier—how to bear them.”
A startled laugh escaped him in a fractured tone. “Can you?”
Meurig gave a half bow where she knelt. “It is what saints did, in the oldest days—helped prepare and looked after the spokesmen of the gods. We still know much of it.”
<Bide>
The pressure released suddenly; the cold became less intense. Duncan almost fell over as the tension released.
“All right,” Duncan muttered, capitulating he wasn’t sure who to. “All right.”
Fatigue washed over Duncan. He slumped over sideways on the bed against the bolsters that had been piled behind him.
After a moment, Pwyll and Blodwen stepped forward. With a few deft movements they helped him resume his place in the bed. Blodwen checked the bandages on his thighs, forehead, and hand, then straightened the blankets and set the sword to be cradled in his left arm and the clan knife to lie beside him as before, where his right hand could rest on it easily.
There was a moment of silence. Duncan’s strength had been worn down by the events of the last few minutes; the others seemed reluctant to speak before he did. Before they overcame that, there came a knock at the door. The saints veiled their faces immediately, while Pwyll’s expression took on thunderous fury.
“Yes?” Duncan called out.
The door opened a crack, and Barrys stuck his head in.
“I apologize for the interruption, but Merchant Guthsund is here, insisting that he be allowed to speak with Duncan corNial.”
“Let him in,” Duncan said before anyone could object.
Barrys opened the door and allowed Guthsund to enter. Duncan could see Trauth standing in the hallway, his way blocked by a sicuroi triad. Barrys followed the merchant in, and closed the door as he did so.
Duncan noticed that the saints had turned toward the wall, and both Pwyll and Blodwen had moved to stand in front of them.
“By the White God, man, you’re a sight!” Guthsund stopped just inside the door, and his exclamation was loud and obviously heartfelt. “I’ve seen fewer bandages used to wrap corpses. Why aren’t you dead?”
Duncan forgot and tried to shrug, but stopped as soon as twinges of pain shot through his body. “Faster, better, or luckier; take your pick, I suppose.”
“Well, it’s good to see you alive and able to talk, even if you do look like a piece of dog meat.”
Guthsund stepped close to the bed and looked around at the others in the room. He didn’t quite sneer, but it was obvious he wasn’t impressed.
“I’ve about wrapped up all the business I can find to conduct this trip,” the merchant said. “Do you know when you’ll be ready to travel?”
All the Cantreddi stiffened, and Pwyll opened his mouth, only to shut it again when Duncan lifted his hand for a moment.
“I’ll not be going back with you this trip,” Duncan replied. “And it’s not because of the wounds,” he continued without pausing in order to forestall the objections he could see about to come out of the merchant’s mouth. “Or at least, it’s only a little due to the wounds. Mostly it’s because I don’t think Nika is a healthy place for me to be just yet. I might not survive to grow old if I return now.” After a moment, he added, “And these good people want something from me.”
“No offense meant to anyone in this room,” Guthsund growled, “but what would prevent them or anyone else from simply knocking you on the head and taking it?”
Duncan gave a tired chuckle, then said, “Because it’s not the kind of thing you can take. It’s only the kind of thing you can give, and I’m of a mind to stay a while and talk about it with them. By the time we’re done, like as not things will have cooled down enough in Nika that I’ll be able to return. So maybe with next year’s caravan.”
Guthsund’s brow furrowed. “I don’t like leaving you on your own here among these . . . Cantreddi.” That last word had obviously been substituted for something a little less positive.
Duncan chuckled again. “To one from the Highlands, you’re all strange. Darcian, Cantreddi, no real difference.”
The merchant snorted. “Well, it’s true enough that probably is. Once you’re two days travel away from your home, all is strange.”
“Aye.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Guthsund let his voice trail off. Duncan could see that the merchant was trying to give him plenty of opportunity to change his mind.
“I am.”
Duncan made sure that his voice was full, and he looked Guthsund in the eye as he said it.
Guthsund gave him a sharp nod.
“Well enough. I’ll see to it that you receive the funds I’m holding for you in the next day or so. Will you be going back to the inn?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Duncan said. “That remains to be seen. But either way, I’ll need Swiftwing cared for.”
“True,” the merchant said. “Tell you what—I’ll pay for a full week for you at the inn when we leave. I think I owe you that much, anyway. Whether you use it will be up to you.”
With that, Guthsund stepped forward and stuck his hand out. Duncan clasped it and exchanged a hearty shake.
“A day or two,” Guthsund said as he turned for the door. “No more than three.”
“I suspect I’ll be here,” Duncan said drily.
With a final wave of a hand, Guthsund was out the door, Barrys following him. When the door closed, the saints turned around and unveiled. The four Cantreddi gathered at the foot of Duncan’s bed, and focused their united gaze on him.
“Don’t stare at me,” he said in a sour tone. “I said I’m staying, and stay I will. But you,” he lifted his right hand and pointed two fingers in a V at the saints, “will be showing me all of what you meant when you said that saints were helpers for the spokesmen of the gods.”
The saints nodded, both beaming. Blodwen’s faced was wreathed by a smile, and even Pwyll’s mouth twitched before he said, “Good. It’s time, and past time, that we had a chance to recover what we lost.”
“No promises,” Duncan warned. “And I am not and never will be your property.”
That last had some of that cold tone that had entered his voice earlier. None of the Cantreddi spoke to that.