Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two Read online

  Gereint set his jaw… then laughed suddenly. The argument seemed too ridiculous to keep up, when the mage continually slid sideways and left Gereint arguing alone. He said, “One day’s journey and another, and soon enough we will be looking out into the country of fire. And you’ll tell me then.”

  “I will.”

  Gereint only shook his head.

  They traded the bays for young, energetic dappled grays at the next posting house, this time with less of a pause. As promised, they reached Dachsichten before dark and passed through the bustling town without stopping. Even the grays were long past any desire to run; the driver let them fall into a steady walk. Gereint asked no questions about when they might stop.

  An hour north of Dachsichten, as dusk silvered the sky and the earliest stars glimmered into view, the carriage slowed, turned off the road, bumped gently across a grassy verge, and came to a halt beside a large pavilion of blue and ivory cloth, with orange and gold ribbons braided down its front, and more ribbons, bound to its roof, rippling in the breeze that came off the river. A fire leaped cheerfully before the pavilion; round white lanterns hung from poles on either side of its door. By their light, Gereint could make out half a dozen smaller tents around and behind the pavilion, blue and pink and flame yellow.

  Men in the royal livery came to take the tired horses; another man, this one in the mage’s own blue and ivory, appeared at the doorway of the carriage, placing a step and murmuring deferential welcome. Beguchren allowed the man to take his arm and assist him in stepping down. The mage, now that Gereint came to look at him carefully, looked drawn and weary. He turned at once toward the fire and pavilion.

  Gereint stepped down from the carriage without assistance and walked aside, working off the stiffness of travel while watching the servants whisk around. He’d been surprised the lord mage had been content to rest overnight out in the open rather than in a proper inn. Now he wondered why he hadn’t guessed what sort of arrangements had been made. Little effort had been spared; he could glimpse a low table within the pavilion and the silver glint of warming dishes.

  Beguchren went into the pavilion and settled at the table; almost immediately one of the servants came over to Gereint with a formal invitation to dine with the lord mage. He followed the man to the pavilion without a word, ducked under the graceful awning, and settled on a cushion laid on the floor in lieu of a chair. There were other cushions and bolsters laid out and screens of fine cloth to block the rear of the pavilion into private rooms.

  Gereint glanced around at the pavilion and the crowded table. “Luxurious.”

  Beguchren smiled. He took the cover off one warming dish and another, revealing plates of venison in gravy and quail in cream. Passing the quail toward Gereint, he said, “I didn’t expect this, in fact. I asked for a simple tent and a change of horses. But the Arobern knew where I intended to stop, and it pleases him to make generous gestures toward his servants.”

  Gereint could not think of anything to say to this. His only experience of the king had not led him to expect generosity. Though, then, he was not precisely one of the king’s servants. Or certainly not the way Beguchren Teshrichten was. He said at last, trying to mend his tone, “You have served the king… for a long time, I think?”

  Beguchren inclined his head. “All his life. Though… at times less well than I might have wished.”

  Gereint guessed that the cold mage was thinking now of the summer, of the griffins and the disastrous foray into Feierabiand that had surely led now to this second foray. Whatever its purpose. He might have asked again, but he knew Beguchren would not answer. He might have asked anyway, offered one little cut and another against the man’s temper… but he found, strangely, that he had no heart for that game. He asked instead, simply, “How far do you intend to go tomorrow? You’re still thinking of traveling all the way to the confluence of the two rivers, staying the night in Pamnarichtan? That must be fifty miles from here, surely, for all we pressed hard today: another long, hard day. Have you arranged for fresh horses all along the river road, then?”

  Beguchren glanced up thoughtfully, meeting Gereint’s eyes with a strange kind of appreciation that suggested he had noticed Gereint’s restraint. “I would like to get all the way to Pamnarichtan, yes. But we will not be changing horses, so I think we will likely not make it quite so far.” Also because of the earlier delay Gereint had caused, he did not say. “Likely we will stop at Raichboden.”

  They would not actually stop at Raichboden itself. The town was fifteen miles south of Pamnarichtan, but east of the river; it was the southernmost town in the province of Meridanium, for which the river was the border. But there were a few amenities surrounding the ferry landing on this side of the Teschanken, including a decent inn to serve all the overoptimistic travelers who found the road north stretching out longer than they’d hoped.

  “We should reach Pamnarichtan by midmorning the next day, I imagine,” Beguchren added. “Then I think we will go up toward Metichteran, cross the river on that impressive bridge Metichteran boasts, and then simply continue north toward Tashen. We can stop in Tashen. And from Tashen, we will simply ride north and west until we strike the edge of the desert.”

  Gereint nodded, keeping his expression bland with a slave’s hard-earned skill. Eben Amnachudran’s house was north of Tashen and east of the river. How likely were they, realistically, to stop there? Likely enough, he concluded. And if Lord Mage Beguchren Teshrichten found that Amnachudran knew Gereint and heard that story about Gereint bringing the master of the house back on a litter, how long would it take him to guess just who must have removed the geas brand? Not long, was the obvious answer. Gereint wondered whether Tehre’s letter had yet arrived at her father’s house, and what Eben Amnachudran might have made of it. He said nothing.

  “I will ask you to be patient,” the mage said quietly, mistaking Gereint’s silence. “I know you are still angry with me. But we will come to the country of fire soon. So I ask you to be patient and bear with my reticence only a little longer.”

  Gereint met his eyes and, after a calculated pause, nodded a second time. But when he went aside to his private tent, he lay awake for a long time, thinking about the road north.

  In the morning, Gereint half expected the Arobern’s servants to pack up all the finery and ride along with Beguchren’s carriage. But they only served an elaborate, if swift, breakfast while fresh horses were brought out. The horses were black mares with white feet and white stars on their foreheads and dark blue ribbons braided into their manes and tails. And, to Gereint’s surprise, this time the horses were saddled and bridled rather than harnessed to the carriage. He looked at Beguchren, raising his eyebrows as he noticed that the mage was dressed this morning in clothing that, while still expensive and fine, was much more practical for traveling. Though there was still a little lace here and there, and he still wore those sapphire rings.

  “As you said,” the mage answered that look, “the roads in the north are not as good.” He gave the carriage a look of regret and took another cheese-filled roll from the generous basket provided.

  The roads were perfectly all right until north of Pamnarichtan, but Gereint did not challenge this putative explanation. He was not surprised when Beguchren took the reins of the first horse and gestured for the man to give the other horse’s reins to Gereint; he was not surprised when not a single servant or man-at-arms mounted a horse to accompany them. He didn’t understand it, but he wasn’t surprised.

  Beguchren, Gereint noticed, rode as though he’d been suckled on mare’s milk, as the saying went. Well, perhaps that wasn’t surprising. Any nobly born boy would be taught to ride young, and this was something a small and delicate boy might do as well as his larger brothers and cousins. If he’d had brothers and cousins. It seemed likely; most noble families were large.

  He found he could, surprisingly easily, imagine the little lord as a boy. He’d learned that bland, inscrutable smile in boyhood, Gereint guesse
d, to hide what he felt when every other boy was bigger and stronger and, probably, treated their little cousin with contempt. Or worse, with casual disregard. Gereint was surprised by the strength of the sympathy he felt for that long-vanished boy.

  They rode beside the river most of the day. They seldom spoke—Gereint had nothing to say if he couldn’t ask questions, and Beguchren seemed content with the silence. The river spoke, filling what might have been an uncomfortable quiet with continuous rippling babble as it ran through reeds and across its pebbly bed. It ran low, revealing shelves of gravel and sand abandoned by the retreat of the water. Dragonflies perched on the reeds and darted like jeweled needles over the brown water; a kingfisher dove from the overhanging branch of a tree in a dash of sapphire no less pure than the stones on the mage’s rings, and broke the water into glittering spray where it struck after a minnow. The flatboats stayed far out from the banks, keeping to the middle of the channel. There were no keelboats; the water had drawn too far from the bank where the oxen would have leaned into their collars to haul the boats upriver.

  There were few other travelers on the road. Those that they passed were mostly going south, and mostly traveling in large parties. These met Beguchren and Gereint with curious stares, but drew aside to yield a respectful right-of-way; Beguchren was, despite his lack of a proper entourage, still very obviously an important lord. It occurred to Gereint that the small mage was deliberately substituting a blatant display of wealth for the physical size and strength he lacked. Once he thought of this, it seemed obvious, even inevitable. But then he caught a sardonic glint in the mage’s eyes and was no longer sure the explanation was anything so obvious, after all.

  “Pamnarichtan and Raichboden, Manich and Streitgan have all sent men to patrol the road,” one man-at-arms told them, turning away from his own company to ride beside them for a few minutes. “In fact, all the northern towns are contributing; well, except for Tashen. You know how Tashen is: They’re not personally having trouble, so what do they care? All the towns of Meridanium province, I should say, plus Pamnarichtan. We’re all agreed we’re tired of the brigands.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s been worse, the dregs of Melentser who saw opportunity in their own city’s misfortune, or the straggling refugees who put off the southward journey and made themselves into prey. Well, we’re clearing them out—pushing the stragglers on south and hanging the scum who’ve turned to brigandage—but I wouldn’t say it’s exactly safe to ride along here just yet with only one retainer.” He gave Beguchren a respectful nod. “Begging your pardon for my forwardness to say so, lord.”

  Gereint didn’t comment on the man’s taking him for Beguchren’s retainer; in too many ways it was an uncomfortably accurate assessment. He gave the mage a sidelong glance, waiting to see how he would respond.

  “I thank you for your concern,” Beguchren answered in a mild, assured tone. “I have carefully considered this risk, and I am satisfied with my decision to proceed as I am. But I am glad to know that the northern towns are undertaking a permanent solution to the problem. Tell me, if you will, has the Arobern sent assistance from the south?”

  The man-at-arms eyed the mage with sharp interest and deepening respect. “Lord, not so as I know.”

  “An oversight, I believe,” Beguchren murmured. “In these unsettled times, perhaps unsurprising. Still, the cost of dealing with these brigands clearly arises from the resettlement of the people of Melentser, and as such the governors of the northern towns are entitled to reimbursement for some portion of their expenses incurred in the effort. Whose man are you? Geiestich? Warach?”

  “Lord… my name is Gentrich Feiranlach, and I ordinarily command the southern cohort of the Raichboden patrol.”

  “Geiestich’s man, then,” said Beguchren, naming the governor of Raichboden. He produced—from the air, as far as Gereint could see—one of the intricately carved purple-dyed bone tokens that marked the authority of a king’s man. He gave this to the man-at-arms. “Take this to Geiestich and tell him I suggested he apply for proper reimbursement. If he sends this token with his request, I think it will be met with favor.”

  The man-at-arms clearly thought so too, from the depth of his bow as he accepted the token. “Lord. Thank you, lord, and I know my lord the governor will be grateful. I beg you will permit me to lend you a reasonable number of men for the remainder of your journey, lord. The north would be ashamed if harm came to a servant of the king in our lands—”

  “Thank you,” Beguchren said patiently. “But I assure you, I have considered the risk, and I am satisfied with my decision to proceed.”

  The man-at-arms hesitated for a long moment. Then he bowed once more, accepting this dismissal, and reined his horse around, lifting it into a canter to catch up with his company.

  “He thinks you’re one of the Arobern’s personal agents,” Gereint commented watching the man go.

  Beguchren gave Gereint one of his most inscrutable looks. “I am. Why else would I have that token?”

  Gereint had no answer for this. He asked instead, “Why not accept the offered escort, at least? Surely brigands would at least slow you down a little.”

  “Us,” the little mage said patiently. “Slow us down, Gereint. No, that possibility doesn’t unduly concern me. If brigands are drawn toward convenient prey, why not let them come to us? It’s easier than tracking them down, and a good deal better than letting them find truly vulnerable travelers to attack, don’t you think?”

  Gereint stared at the mage in surprise. “You’re using yourself as bait?” This hadn’t occurred to him.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” Beguchren said, nevertheless sounding a little apologetic. “Or, at least, nearly.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Gereint stared at him for a moment longer. The mage looked exactly the same: small and neat handed, fastidious and vain, weary with the day’s travel. But he had changed shape yet again in Gereint’s eyes.

  They did not make it within sight of Pamnarichtan before dusk. They had not even made it within sight of the Raichboden ferry landing, though Gereint thought they must be getting close at least to that. He thought Beguchren might turn off the road to find a campsite, but the mage did not even seem to notice the dwindling light. They rode between the river on one side and, on the other, a dense scrubby woodland that seemed to Gereint to make excellent cover for brigands. Beguchren did not, of course, seem concerned about the possibility. For all Gereint knew, the mage agreed with him about the possibility of brigands, but thought it an advantage rather than a drawback.

  The sun slid lower and lower in the sky, sinking behind the woods that crowded the riverbank. Narrow fingers of golden light pierced through the tangled branches and stretched themselves across the road. The river turned from green to opaque gold as the angle of the sun shifted, and then to dusky blue. Yet, though he allowed his horse to fall into a gentle amble, Beguchren still did not suggest they halt.

  Gereint hesitated. Then nudged his mare up beside Beguchren’s and asked at last, “We’re not stopping?”

  Beguchren didn’t even turn his head. “I do think we can at least come up to Raichboden before full dark, don’t you?”

  Indeed, no. Gereint shrugged and said instead, “All right. We’ll press on to the inn at the ferry landing: fine. Then we’ll go through Pamnarichtan by midmorning tomorrow, I suppose; reach Metichteran sometime in the afternoon, be in Tashen by supper time. Unless I decide to settle on the riverbank at Raichboden and fish instead.”

  There was a pause. Then Beguchren, turning his head at last, asked softly, “Do you think you’re likely to do that?”

  Gereint gazed at the ears of his mare. He did not look up. He didn’t want to see Beguchren’s unbreakable composure—but, if he had managed to disturb that composure, he didn’t want to see that either. “You won’t tell me what you want me to do for you until we reach the desert. But will you tell me why you won’t tell me now?”

  There was no response.

/>   “You won’t. You think if you tell me now, I’d turn this pretty black mare and ride back down the river road as fast as she can take me, though after a day as long as this, I don’t suppose that’s all that fast. I don’t know why the possibility concerns you, since you can use magecraft to hold me. Do you simply not want to put yourself to the trouble?”

  “Gereint—”

  Gereint looked over at the mage at last, a hard stare. “What will you do, my lord mage, if I fight you? You can turn the road about on me, but what if I simply sit on the riverbank and refuse to take a step? What then? Wait patiently until the season turns and the snow comes down? I hardly think so. So what would you do?”

  Begurchren checked his mare, twisted in the saddle to give Gereint his full attention, and leaned on the pommel, frowning. “Gereint… please don’t fight me.”

  “You put that as a request, but it’s a threat.” Gereint, perforce, had brought his horse to a halt as well. It mouthed the bit uncomfortably, and he found he was gripping the reins too tightly. He made his hands relax, with an effort.

  “Not at all,” Beguchren said mildly.

  “A warning, then. Or will you tell me it’s an appeal?”

  “That’s closer.”

  “Which?” But there was no response to that. Gereint shook his head. “You wanted a man ‘with a great capacity for loyalty.’ But why? It isn’t loyalty you’re after from me. You said you don’t want the forced obedience of the geas. But that’s exactly what you do want—only without the geas.”

  “No. It’s true that that’s what I have now. But it’s not what I want.”

  The urge to say Yes, all right, I’m sure it will be fine. Don’t bother yourself about it was amazingly strong. Gereint shuddered with the effort to control that urge. For half a shaved copper coin, he would have whirled his horse around and ridden away—heading anywhere. Except such an attempt would not work. And he could not even bring himself to wish it would. “Are you doing this to me? Stop it!”