21.

The Frightened Ones

Miriamele awakened slowly into darkness. She was moving, but not of her own power, carried by somebody or something as though she were a bundle of clothing. The cloying sweetness was still in her nose. Her thoughts were muddy and slow. slowly into darkness. She was moving, but not of her own power, carried by somebody or something as though she were a bundle of clothing. The cloying sweetness was still in her nose. Her thoughts were muddy and slow.

What happened? Binabik was fighting that terrible grinning man....

She dimly remembered being grasped and pulled back into darkness. She was a prisoner ... but of whom? Her father? Or worse ... far worse ... Pryrates?

Miriamele kicked experimentally, but her legs were firmly held, restrained by something less painful than ropes or chains, but no more yielding; her arms were also pinioned. She was helpless as a child.

"Let me go!" she cried, knowing it was useless, but unable to restrain her frustration. Her voice was m.u.f.fled: the sack, or whatever it was, still covered her face.

Whoever held her did not reply; the b.u.mpy progress did not slow. Miriamele struggled a bit longer, then gave up.

She had been drifting in a half-sleep when whoever carried her stopped. She was set down with surprising gentleness, then the sack was carefully lifted from her head.

At first the light, though dim, hurt her eyes. Dark figures stood before her, one leaning so close that at first she did not recognize the silhouetted shape as a head. As her eyes adjusted, she gasped and scrambled backward until hard stone halted her. She was surrounded by monsters.

The nearest creature flinched, startled by her sudden movement. Like its fellows, it was more or less manlike, but it had huge dark eyes with no whites, and its gaunt, lantern-jawed head bobbed on the end of a slender neck. It reached out a long-fingered hand toward her, then drew it back as though it feared she would bite. It said a few words in a tongue that sounded something like Hernystiri. Miriamele stared back in horrified incompre hension. The creature tried again, this time in halting, oddly-accented Westerling.

"Have we brought harm to you?" The spidery creature seemed genuinely worried. "Please, are you well? Is there aught we can give to you?"

Miriamele gaped and tried to slide out of the thing's reach. It did not seem inclined to hurt her-at least not yet. "Some water," she said at last. "Who are you?"

"Yis-fidri am I," the creature replied. "These others are my fellows, and that is my mate Yis-hadra."

"But what what are you?" Miriamele wondered if the seeming kindness of these creatures could be a trick of some sort. She tried to look un.o.btrusively for her knife, which was no longer sheathed at her waist; as she did so, she took in her surroundings for the first time. She was in a cavern, featureless but for the rough surface of the rock. It was dimly illuminated, all glowing pink, but she could see no source for the light. A few paces away, the packs she and Binabik had carried lay beside the cavern wall. There were things inside them she could use as a weapon if she had to.... are you?" Miriamele wondered if the seeming kindness of these creatures could be a trick of some sort. She tried to look un.o.btrusively for her knife, which was no longer sheathed at her waist; as she did so, she took in her surroundings for the first time. She was in a cavern, featureless but for the rough surface of the rock. It was dimly illuminated, all glowing pink, but she could see no source for the light. A few paces away, the packs she and Binabik had carried lay beside the cavern wall. There were things inside them she could use as a weapon if she had to....

"What are we?" The one called Yis-fidri nodded solemnly. "We are the last of our people, or at least the last who have chosen this way, the Way of Stone and Earth." The other creatures made a musical sound of regret, as though this meaningless remark had great significance. "Your people have known us as dwarrows."

"Dwarrows!" Miriamele could not have been more surprised had Yis-fidri announced they were angels. Dwarrows were creatures of folktale, goblins who lived in the earth. Still, as unbelievable as it seemed, they stood here before her. And more, there was something almost familiar in Yis-fidri's manner, as though she had known him or someone like him before. "Dwarrows," she repeated. She felt a terrified laugh bubbling inside her. "Yet another story springs to life." She sat up straighter, trying to hide her fright. "If you mean me no harm, then take me back to my friend. He is in danger."

The saucer-eyed creature looked mournful. He made a melodious sound and one of the other dwarrows stepped forward with a stone bowl. "Take of this and drink. It is water, as you asked."

Miriamele sniffed at it suspiciously for a moment, then realized that if they could bring her here so easily the dwarrows had little need to poison her. She drank, savoring the feel of the chill, clean water on her dry throat. "Will you take me back to him?" she asked again when she had finished.

The dwarrows looked nervously at each other, heads wavering like poppies in a windy field. "Please, mortal woman, ask not for that," Yis-fidri said at last. "You were in a perilous place-more perilous than you can know-and you carried something there which you should not have. The balance is exceeding delicate." The words sounded stilted and almost comical, but his reluctance was very clear.

"Perilous!?" A spark of indignation kindled. "What right do you have to s.n.a.t.c.h me away from my friend? I will decide what is perilous for me!"

He shook his head. "Not for you-or not for you only. Dreadful things are in the balance, and that place ... it is not good." He seemed very uncomfortable, and the other dwarrows swayed a little behind him, humming nervously to themselves. Despite her unhappiness, Miriamele almost laughed at the odd spectacle. "We cannot let you go there. We are deeply sorry. Some of our number will return and look for your friend."

"Why didn't you help him? Why couldn't you bring him with us if it was so important that we not be there?"

"We were sorely afraid. He did fight with an Unliving One, or so it seemed. And the balance is very delicate there."

"What does that mean?!" Miriamele stood up, for a moment more angry than fearful. "You cannot do this!" She began to edge toward a shadowy place on the cavern wall that she thought might be a tunnel mouth. Yis-fidri reached out and caught at her wrist. His thin fingers were callused and hard as stone. There was deceptive strength, great strength, in this slender dwarrow.

"Please, mortal woman. We will tell you all that we are able. Content yourself for now to stay with us. We will seek for your friend."

She struggled, but it was hopeless. She might have been pulling against the weight of the earth.

"So," she said at last. Fright was turning to hopelessness. "I have no choice. Tell me what you know, then. But if Binabik is hurt because of what you've done, I'll ... I'll find a way to punish you, whoever you are. I will."

Yis-fidri hung his great head like a dog being scolded. "It is not our wont to force others against their will. We have ourselves suffered too much at the hands of bad masters."

"If I must be your prisoner, at least call me by my name. I'm Miriamele."

"Miriamele, then." Yis-fidri let go of her arm. "Forgive us, Miriamele, or at least judge us not until all we have to say is heard."

She lifted the bowl and took another drink. "Tell me, then."

The dwarrow looked around at his fellows, at the circle of huge dark eyes, then began to talk.

"And how is Maegwin?" Isorn asked. His bandage gave him a strange, swollen-headed appearance. Icy air crept past the tent flap to ripple the flames of the small fire.

"I had thought she might be coming back to us," Eolair sighed. "Last night she began to move a little and take deeper breaths. She even spoke a few words, but they were whispered. I could make no sense of them."

"But that is good news! Why are you so long-faced?"

"The Sitha woman came to see her. She said it was like a fever-that sometimes the sufferer comes near to the surface, like a drowning man coming up for air one last time, but that does not mean ..." Eolair's voice shook. He made an effort to control himself. "The healer said that she was still just as close to death, if not closer."

"And you believe the Sitha?"

"It is not an illness of the flesh, Isorn," the count said quietly. "It is a wound to her soul, which was already damaged. You saw her in the last weeks." He twined his fingers, then untwined them. "And the Sithi know more of these things than we do. Whatever happened to Maegwin left no marks, no broken bones or bleeding cuts. Give thanks that your own injury is something that can be mended."

"I do, by my faith." The young Rimmersman frowned. "Ah, Merciful Usires, Eolair, that is more grim news, then. And is there nothing anyone can do?"

The count shrugged. "The healer says it is beyond her powers. She can work only to make Maegwin comfortable."

"A cursed fate for such a good woman. Lluth's family is haunted somehow."

"No one would have said so before this year." Eolair bit his lip before continuing. His own sorrow grew until it seemed it must escape or kill him. "But, Murhagh's Shield, Isorn, no wonder that Maegwin sought the G.o.ds! How could she not think they had deserted us? Her father killed, her brother tortured and hacked to pieces, her people driven into exile?" He fought for a breath. "My "My people! And now poor Maegwin, maddened and then left dying in the snows of Naglimund. It is more than the absence of the G.o.ds-it is as though the G.o.ds were determined to punish us." people! And now poor Maegwin, maddened and then left dying in the snows of Naglimund. It is more than the absence of the G.o.ds-it is as though the G.o.ds were determined to punish us."

Isorn made the sign of the Tree. "We can never know what Heaven plans, Eolair. Perhaps there are greater designs for Maegwin than we can understand."

"Perhaps." Eolair pushed down his anger. It was not Isorn's fault that Maegwin was slipping away, and everything he said was kind and sensible. But the Count of Nad Mullach did not want kindness and sense. He wanted to howl like a Frostmarch wolf. "Ah, Cuamh bite me, Isorn, you should see her! When she is not lying still as death, her face stretches in terror, and her hands clutch," he raised his own hands, fingers curled, "like this, as if she sought something to save her." Eolair slapped his palms against his knees in frustration. "She needs something, and I cannot give it to her. She is lost, and I cannot find her to bring her back!" He gasped raggedly.

Isorn stared at his friend. The light of understanding kindled in his eyes. "Oh, Eolair. Do you love her?"

"I don't know!" The count put his hands to his face for a moment before continuing. "I thought once I might be coming to it, but then she turned harsh and cold to me, pushing me away whenever she could. But when the madness came over her, she told me that she had loved me since she was a child. She was certain I would scorn her, and did not like to be pitied, so she kept me ever at bay so I would not discover the truth."

"Mother of Mercy," Isorn breathed. He reached out his freckled hand and grasped Eolair's. The count felt the broad strength of the contact and held on for a long moment.

"Life is already a confounding maze without wars between immortals and such. Ah, G.o.ds, Isorn, will we never have peace?"

"Someday," said the Rimmersman. "Someday we must."

Eolair gave his friend's hand a parting squeeze before he let it go. "Jiriki said the Sithi plan to leave within two days. Will you go with them, or back to Hernystir with me?"

"I am not sure. The way my head feels, I cannot ride at anything like speed."

"Then go with me," the count said as he rose. "We are in no hurry, now."

"Be well, Eolair."

"And you. If you like, I'll come back later with some of that Sithi wine. It would do you miles of good, and take the sting of that wound away."

"It will take more than that away," Isorn laughed. "My wits will go, too. But I do not care. I am going nowhere, and am expected to do nothing. Bring the wine when you can."

Eolair patted the younger man's shoulder, then pushed out through the door flap into the biting wind.

As he reached the place where Maegwin lay, he was struck again by the power of Sithi craft. Isorn's small tent was well-made and st.u.r.dy, but cold air crept in on all sides and melting snow seeped through at the base. Maegwin's tent was of Sithi make, since Jiriki had wished her to rest in as much comfort as she could, and though its glistening cloth was so thin as to be translucent, stepping across the threshold was like walking into a well-built house. The storm that gripped Naglimund could have been leagues away.

But why should that be so, Eolair wondered, when the Sithi themselves seemed almost unaware of cold or damp?

Kira'athu looked up as Eolair entered. Maegwin, stretched out on the pallet beneath a thin blanket, was moving restlessly, but her eyes were still closed and the deathlike pallor had not left her face.

"Any change?" Eolair asked, knowing the answer already.

The Sitha gave a small, sinuous shrug. "She is fighting, but I do not think she has the strength to break the grip of whatever has her." The Sitha seemed emotionless, her golden eyes unrevealing as a cat's, but the count knew how much time she spent at Maegwin's side. They were just different, these immortals; it was senseless trying to judge them by their faces and even voices. "Has she spoken any words to you?" Kira'athu asked suddenly.

Eolair watched as Maegwin's fingers clawed at the blanket, scrabbling for something that was not there. "She has spoken, yes, but I could not hear her well. And what I did hear was only babble. There were no words in it I recognized."

The Sitha raised a silvery eyebrow. "I thought I heard ..." She turned to look at her ward, whose mouth now moved soundlessly.

"Thought you heard what?"

"The speech of the Garden." Kira'athu spread her hands, curving the fingers to meet the thumbs. "What you would call Sithi speech."

"It is possible that she learned some in the time we have all traveled and fought together." Eolair moved closer. It tugged at his heart to see Maegwin's hands searching restlessly.

"It is possible," the healer agreed. "But it seemed spoken as the Zida'ya would speak it ... almost."

"What do you mean?" Eolair was confused and more than a little irritated.

Kira'athu rose. "Forgive me. I should speak to Jiriki and Likimeya about it rather than trouble you. And it matters little, in any case, I think. I am sorry, Count Eolair. I wish I could give you happier news."

He sat down on the ground at Maegwin's side. "It is not your fault. You have been very kind." He reached out his hand so Maegwin could grip it, but her cold fingers moved skittishly away. "Bagba bite me, what does she want?"

"Is there something she usually carries with her or wears about her neck?" Kira'athu asked. "Some amulet or other thing that gives her comfort?"

"I can think of nothing like that. Perhaps she needs water."

The Sitha shook her head. "I have given her to drink."

Eolair leaned down and began fumbling absently in the saddlebags that contained the strew of Maegwin's belongings. He took out a scarf of warm wool and pressed it into her hands, but Maegwin only held it a moment before pushing it away. Her hands began to search again as she murmured wordlessly in her throat.

Desperate to give Maegwin some kind of comfort, he began to pull other things out of the bags, placing them one at a time beneath her fingers-a bowl, a wooden bird that had apparently come from the Taig's Hall of Carvings, even the hilt of a sheathed knife. Eolair was not very happy to find this last. Afraid that with her mind clouded she might do herself an injury, he had forbidden her to bring it from Hernysadharc. Maegwin had apparently flouted his orders. But none of these things, nor the other small objects he gave to her, seemed to soothe her. She pushed them away, the movements of her hands angry and abrupt as a small child's, although her face was still empty.

His fingers closed on something heavy. He lifted it out and stared at the chunk of cloudy stone.

"What is that?" Kira'athu was surprisingly sharp.

"It was a gift from the dwarrows." He lifted it so she could see its face. "See, Yis-fidri carved Maegwin's name upon it-or so he told me."

Kira'athu took the stone from him and turned it in her slender fingers. "That is indeed her name. Those are the craft-runes of the Tinukeda'ya. Dwarrows, do you say?"

Eolair nodded. "I led Jiriki to their place in the earth, Mezutu'a." He took the stone back and held it, weighing it, watching the firelight become confused in its depths. "I did not know she had this with her."

Maegwin suddenly moaned, a deep sound that made the count flinch. He turned hurriedly to the bed. She made another sound which seemed to have words in it.

"Lost, " Kira'athu murmured, moving closer.

Eolair's heart clenched. "What do you mean?"

"That is what she said. She is speaking in the Garden-tongue."

The count stared at Maegwin's furrowed brow. Her mouth moved again, but no sound came but a wordless hiss; her head whipped from side to side upon the pillow. Suddenly, her hands reached out and scrabbled at Eolair's. When he released the stone to take them, she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him and pulled it against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her feverish writhing subsided and she fell silent. Her eyes were still closed, but she seemed to have fallen back into a more peaceful sleep.

Eolair watched, dumbfounded. Kira'athu bent over her and touched her brow, then smelled her breath.

"Is she well?" the count asked finally.

"She is no closer to us. But she has found a little rest for a while. I think that stone was what she sought."

"But why?"

"I do not know. I will speak to Likimeya and her son, and anyone else who might have some knowledge. But it changes nothing, Eolair. She is the same. Still, perhaps where she walks, on the Dream Road or elsewhere, she is less afraid. That is something."

She pulled the blanket up over Maegwin's hands, which now clasped the dwarrow-stone as though it were a part of her.

"You should rest yourself, Count Eolair." The Sitha moved to the doorway. "You will be no good to her if you fall ill as well."

A breath of cold air moved through the tent as the flap opened and closed.