P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

“One man, I’m told,” said Caldane, leaning back again with a smug smile. “A scholar named Index.”

Someone must have run on ahead, because Torisen and Yce were met at the gate of Gothregor by Burr, Rowan, Grimly, and a dozen other Kendar. So much for his hope to slip in unobserved.

“We’ve built up the mess hall fire,” said Burr, steadying him as he dismounted. “You can strip and bathe in front of it.”

“I thought maybe the stable would be more suitable . . .”

“No.”

Torisen submitted. He owed them that much for having given them such a scare, and the warmth of the leaping fire would be more than welcome. His fingers shook with the cold as he fumbled at clasps and laces. The black leather was slimy with mud, and it clung. With Rowan’s help, he peeled it off. Grimly hauled free a boot and regarded its ripped sole.

“Shwupp?” he asked, looking up.

“On a hillside, no less, and that damn golden willow too. It must have been hibernating under cover of the alder coppice.”

They sluiced him down with warm water, leaving a muddy mess on the floor. Burr returned with clean clothes and boots. Kindrie burst into the hall on his heels.

Torisen and his cousin hadn’t spoken since the latter had suggested that all binding might be a Shanir trait—something which Tori didn’t wish to consider. In the meantime, Kindrie had stayed out of his way, devoting himself in his own quarters to sorting through the Highlord’s long-neglected correspondence. He had a scroll in his hand now and his face was nearly as white as his hair.

Now what? Torisen wondered as he dried himself with a scrap of sheepskin.

“Speaking of the willow,” he said, turning to Rowan, “it occurs to me that it only does harm when someone is chasing it. Therefore, I’m giving it the freedom of the forest, as long as it stays on my land.”

“Well enough,” said Rowan, with her habitual lack of expression, “but who’s going to explain that restriction to a tree?”

Kindrie was virtually dancing with agitation. “Please, read this.”

“You read it. My hands are wet.”

Kindrie gulped and unrolled the scroll. “‘From Caldane, Lord Caineron, to Torisen, Lord Knorth, greetings,’” he began in a shaky voice.

“Caldane never calls you Highlord if he can help it,” remarked Rowan.

“‘Last summer you may have heard of a dispute between the Caineron and the Jaran over the ownership of a particular golden willow. The Jaran sought to prove their case with a song, and while they were singing it, the tree in question escaped. As you may recall, I have never cared for singers’ fancies. Consequently, I propose to visit Mount Alban near winter’s end to undertake some long overdue housecleaning. If I hear nothing from you before that time, I will assume that you agree with the measures that I intend to undertake.’”

“Sweet Trinity,” Torisen said, staring at his cousin. “When did this arrive?”

“A fortnight ago. He must have known that you wouldn’t get to it in time.”

A disturbance at the door caused heads to turn. In glided a Jaran lady, moving faster than seemed possible given her tight underskirt. Lenses worked into her mask swept the room, settling on Torisen.

“My lord, have you heard?”

“Just now, Matriarch. How did you . . .”

Trishien produced a tablet covered with a spiky script not her own. “Caldane has seized Mount Alban!”

“What about Valantir?” demanded Rowan. “The Jaran are closest, and the college’s natural defenders.”

“The fog is even worse to the north,” said Trishien impatiently. “The keeps there are cut off from each other, and no one closer than Gothregor can far-write.”

“We’ll have to ride fast, then,” Torisen said, belatedly grabbing his pants and struggling into them. “It’s a good hundred miles to Mount Alban. With regular changes, post-horses can make it by tonight.”

“There are only a dozen or so remounts standing ready at each station,” Rowan warned.

“My vanguard will take them, leaving one or two for emergencies. The rest of the Knorth must follow as quickly as they can. They may be able to pick up fresh horses at Falkirr, Shadow Rock, and Tentir. Call up an armed hundred-command, Rowan.”

“I’ll find a divided skirt and come with you,” said Trishien. “Don’t leave without me.” She was gone before anyone could protest.

Torisen finished dressing more slowly, thinking, as people rushed about him. How big a force had Caineron brought? What exactly did he mean to do, and how quickly could he do it? The heart of the Kencyrath lay at Mount Alban, encoded in a matrix of scrolls and songs. True enough, the last two had become confused during the flight to Rathillien, and the Lawful Lie hadn’t helped, but to lose any one of them risked unraveling the very fabric of his world.

As he buckled his belt, he thought of something else.

“Burr, go back to my quarters and fetch Kin-Slayer. Yes,” he added, seeing his servant’s startled expression. “It’s that serious.”

Kirien and Ashe hurried down stairs that jinked precipitously through the wooden heart of Mount Alban. The cliff face had been carved out and replaced by a labyrinth of chambers, hallways, and steps all at different levels. Sometimes one could look up the stair well for several erratic stories. Other times, one had to duck under low beams, all the while watching one’s feet on worn, moss-covered treads. There was a more direct stair, but they had chosen not to take it for fear of whom they might meet. Diffuse light filtered through from various outside windows, aided by candles set on banisters, weeping wax. Indistinct voices murmured about them, but the usual morning chatter of the college community was absent.

“You there. Halt.”

The command came from above them on the last landing which they had passed. A big Kendar stood there, clad in Caineron hunting leathers.

“My lord wants to see you,” he said, “and the scrollsman Index. Where is he?”

Ashe stepped in front of Kirien, her iron-shod staff raised.

“Don’t be foolish,” said the man, and drew his sword.

He had barely taken a step forward, however, when a stone crashed down on his head. As he collapsed, a ball of twine bounced on the boards beside him.

“You see?” said someone above. “The rock and the ball fell at the same speed.”

“They did not!”

A tall, gangly scholar clattered down the stairs, followed by a short, squat colleague. Both wore the college’s usual belted coats with many pockets in which to carry tools, notes, or perhaps lunch.

“The rock was clearly traveling faster than the lighter twine,” said the short man, glowering.

The tall scholar looked down his long nose at him. “You just say so because that oaf’s head got in the way.”

Ashe inspected the fallen Kendar. “Only stunned,” she muttered. “Good. Now . . . what’s going on?”

“Besides experimentation?” The short scholar bent with a grunt to retrieve his rock, which required both hands to lift. The Caineron had been very lucky not to have suffered a smashed skull. “As you may have noticed, we’ve been invaded.”

“By how many?”

“Ten around the main door. Some forty inside, hunting.”

“I can see why Caldane wants Index,” said Kirien, “but why Ashe and me?”

“You, Lordan, presumably as a hostage,” said the taller scrollsman, rewinding his ball of twine. “Ashe . . . well, the rumor is that m’lord has a former priest with him who knows the pyrrhic rune.”

Kirien ran distraught fingers through her close-cropped black hair, leaving some of it on end. “Madness! Does he want to start a war?”