17. A Very Little
17
A VERY LITTLE
The slight smoke-smell was from another expertly built campfire, and the storm had passed. Their shelter was a small cave, hollowed from a rocky prominence covered with slim grey trees and thicker, darker ones which looked like evergreens, their bark rough and cedar-spicy. The forest glistened, gemmed with swiftly drying water under the same swollen red sun.
She hadn’t seen a hill since arriving in this weird place, so it was both comforting and unnerving. The rock was black and looked at least part igneous, and Ari had to rub at her eyes because the forest now seemed old-growth. Great ferns had arisen amid glossy-leaved bushes, and there were new squat, thorny shrubs as well, their teeth exuding gummy red resin.
It was unexpectedly beautiful, especially with tracers of morning mist rising to a violet sky. No blue vault here, the sun was far too red.
Waking upon a pile of soft, freshly cut boughs in a small rock-walled chamber was one thing, peering around a craggy corner into a larger cave another. Finding Alzarien at the fire near the mouth of the outer chamber, humming slightly as he watched the fire and shifted arrows between a stack of quivers, was a relief. Ari approached tentatively. Her bootsoles sank into fine dry sand over the stone floor, and she wondered if the cavern’s walls were carved or naturally striated. Faint glittering spatters like mica were trapped under the surface, winking cheerfully.
“Ah, there she is.” The crimson-haired man grinned, fans of wrinkles creasing the corners of his dark eyes. He looked a lot fresher than he had the day before, stubble-free and downright perky. “Worry not, Jazarl and Majan are on watch outside, and the others have gone with our lord prince to collect equines. Indeed the forest is wondrous renewed, almost as before.”
Judging by his tone, this was all good news.
“Equines?” At least her mouth didn’t taste like morning. No hunger cramped Ari’s middle, and she wasn’t crusty from sleep. Yet the ghost of last night’s storm-terror lingered in her arms and legs, echoes of thunder caught in flesh.
The Golden robots were bad enough, but the lack of needing a bathroom was far more disturbing once she really thought about it. She could almost believe she was in a catheterized coma, all this a vivid dream while her body shriveled on a hospital bed.
“Far better than walking to Gesthel.” Alzarien rose, scooping up his canteen; it was the first time one of her new companions seemed, well, downright chatty. “The Grey Lady will be overjoyed, and her Fox hardly less pleased. Here.”
The water still tasted good, and faint thirst retreated under its coolness. Ari was past wondering what the hell was in it—at a certain point, some shit was just too academic to worry about. There were far bigger questions, and it looked like this was her chance to ask a few. Ari studied the slope outside the cave-mouth. “So… everything’s all right now?”
“Of a certainty. He is freed, you are returned. All that remains is the Bright King’s fall.”
So they really were a resistance movement, the chained man their leader. There was, however, a new, troubling wrinkle. “Returned?”
Alzarien’s cheerfulness faltered a bit. “Ah. Well, you see… that is, he says not to trouble you, since the manner of your leaving was…” A helpless gesture, hands spread, and the crimson-haired man accepted his canteen back with an anxious smile. “But there is no doubt. Your face is altered and your cloth passing odd, yet your silence is the same. Like speech itself.”
Never been told that before . “Oh. Thank you.” So they were mistaking her for someone else, or they had been waiting for someone from another world to show up? “Can you… can you tell me how I left?” Whoever they thought she was, it would be a valid question.
Or so she hoped. Ari eyed the hillside afresh. Two of the guys were outside, probably well camouflaged. That was good if there were more robots, very bad if she wanted to get away.
Was there anywhere safe to run to, though? She’d had a foggy plan for escaping the house on Hardison Hill just as soon as she could scrape together enough cash, but heading out into this wilderness was an entirely different proposition.
For the first time since she’d landed here, Ari was thinking clearly. Or at least, she felt clear, like the pondwater itself.
Alzarien’s smile faded. “’Tis not a pleasant subject,” he began, carefully. “Our lord prince said?—”
Come on, dude . “Please?” She tried a smile of her own, hoping she wouldn’t have to bat her eyelashes. If she could make even a single ally, maybe this entire nutso situation could be rendered at least workable.
As it was, the funny slipsliding sensation in her middle was uncomfortably akin to not knowing what the hell Mike was going to be mad about next, a sense that the eggshells she was walking on could turn to rattlesnakes at any moment.
“I should not.” All the good cheer was gone. Alzarien looked wary now, dark eyes shuttered. His lashes were tipped with bright red, the detail too bizarre and well-executed for either painting or photo. “Enough that you have returned and our lord prince is saved, is it not?”
Saved? Well, that puts a different complexion on things . Plus, the chained man was the prince. She was getting more usable information, and that was great.
Sort of.
“I just got here,” Ari persisted, in that soft, reasonable tone that sometimes worked. There was nothing to lose by trying. “And I’m confused. If I knew what happened, it would help me.” Please help me . She held eye contact, earnest and nonthreatening, her very best social judo.
Alzarien’s gaze darted to the cave mouth. “The faithless accursed killed our queen.” The softly rolling language held inexpressible sadness, or maybe it was his tone, each word slow and pained.
Oh. Is that all? “The faithless accursed?” That sounded pretty awful.
“Ternek.” The crimson-haired man’s voice dropped to a mutter, as if the word was an obscenity. He regarded her steadily, the canteen dangling from one hand. “He strangled her on the shores of the Mere during the last Conjunction, and declared himself the Bright King. Our shock was great, our mourning even greater as his Blight spread. But now you are returned.” His knuckles whitened; leather made a small creaking sound. “Do not ask me to describe it, my lady Ari. And please, in your mercy, do not tell anyone what I have said.”
Well, she could keep a secret. God knew she’d had practice. “Thank you.” Ari almost flinched, realizing she sounded prim instead of shocked. “I won’t.”
Strangled. Conjunction. Queen . Her entire list of new foreign words needed rearranging, and that would take some thought. Ari retreated from the red-sun morning, the forest, and the small campfire, which crackled merrily, without a care in the world.
Jesus Christ, what kind of fucked-up fairytale am I in?
The ‘equines’ turned out to be big horselike creatures with sharp hooves and mild dark eyes, though their teeth weren’t even close to herbivore. Chestnut, dark grey, and deep brown, half a dozen of the critters grouped behind a slightly larger pure-black one; the only thing weirder than their fangs and tassel-tufted ears was the fact that they had saddles.
And bridles, too. Where had those come from?
Not-quite-horses, just like the not-possum. Ari hung back, sticking to the cave’s mouth as the guys broke camp and moved among the mounts on the hillside, clearly pleased with this turn of events. Of course the huge black horse-thing was his , and it regarded her sidelong, ears perked and silken tail switching. Daylight flowed along the creature’s curves, glistened on its hide, and showed every single link on the chains wrapping its rider.
The chained man still wore a layer of dull black iron links, crisscrossing his armored torso, sheathing his legs over cuisses and greaves, spiraling his metal-clad arms. A few hung free, swaying as he moved, and their faint chiming was a reminder that he could be silent when he chose to. The huge broadsword rode his back; everything about the guy was a little larger than life.
How did he walk with all that metal clinging to his limbs? He should have been clattering like a cartoon, but the chains seemed almost alive, testing the air and swaying independently. Last night was a confused jumble, but she remembered them shooting out like tentacles, shearing through huge gilded robots.
Ari had to admit magic was the best explanation for all this, which opened up a whole new world of questions she didn’t feel nearly equipped to handle at the moment. Not after the morning’s revelations, still turning round and round inside her head like a dog stamping down its bedding, refusing to settle quite yet.
Plus she kept getting distracted thinking of how an artist could capture the way the chains seemed near-sentient, supple as snakes. Maybe sculpture would be up to the task, but in what material?
Her few semesters of psych electives didn’t make her qualified to judge, but she was fairly sure the distraction was a coping mechanism attempting to somehow keep her together after being dumped in the middle of a guerrilla situation on another planet, or dimension, or whatever.
The chained man looked much healthier in daylight, less haggard, rufous sunshine picking out highlights in his dark mane. Without the gloom his cheekbones weren’t as startling, though those feverish eyes were just as hot and direct.
Ari cupped her elbows, feeling distinctly underdressed. Grass stains lingered on her jeans; her hair, though clean, was probably deeply unhappy with everything about this situation. It was a distinct blessing there wasn’t a mirror around. Rumpled and unnerved, she gazed blankly at the surroundings.
This chain of events could even be grimly hilarious, if she looked at it the right way. Out of a frying pan into a forest fire. Strangled on the shore of the Mere. Conjunction. You have returned. Our lord prince.
Nuts. Bonkers. Crazy. Insane. If she started listing the synonyms aloud, how many would the invisible translator be able to handle? And the chained man kept looking at her, like he expected something. The black not-horse stretched its head over his ironclad shoulder with a very horsey snort, and a faint shadow of amusement crossed his face.
Just a flicker, there and gone. He patted the thing’s cheek and stepped away, leaving the reins fastened to the saddlehorn.
“Oh, aye, now we may ache from riding instead of running.” Darjeth was back to merry sarcasm; the sally drew a chorus of low male laughter.
“Next you will complain at sleeping in the saddle.” Jazarl patted the neck of a brown equine, its mane and tail a much darker shade. For all their ease, the guys were careful not to step within hoof-range behind the beasts, and clearly respected their teeth as well. “Now, if only we had armor…”
“Soon enough.” Sarle’s mount was a glossy chestnut; the stocky man fiddled with a stirrup, reins draped over his arm. “The rukka -bushes are growing, and there are signs of both mja -horn and pard upon the higher slopes. We shall have to be watchful.”
It sounded like there were predators in this part of the forest, another unwelcome but dismally predictable development. There was no mention of other guerrilla detachments, unless this Grey Lady was a bandit leader—the prospect sounded both intriguing and terrifying at once, since Ari was expected to… what? Impersonate a figurehead? Was she being set up to Bonnie Prince Charlie against an army of robots?
Given how the chained man went through the big shining horrors, it sounded almost doable. But he’d been tied up in the castle. What would happen if he got put out of commission again? Ari’s head hurt, attempting to sort all this out while wearing what was presumably the interested expression of someone who understood what the hell was going on.
“Easier from atop an equine.” Majan laughed, settling his hat more firmly on his platinum mane. “The Fox will want a dappled grey for his lady.”
Maybe the Fox was the main resistance leader, waiting for the rest to show up? It was a fine time to wish she’d studied more than art in history.
The chained man halted before the cave-mouth, visibly and scrupulously respecting her personal space. “My lady.” The suggestion of a bow; no wonder he was a prince. “You will ride with me.”
That’s just great . “Are you sure?” Questioning him probably wasn’t a good idea, but it was already out of her mouth and she watched carefully for any sign of irritation or displeasure, any twitch of an incipient punch or slap.
If he turned out to be like Mike, she was going to have to hit the woods no matter the other dangers involved. Nothing, no fantastical dimension or murderous fairytale landscape, would induce her to suffer that again. The prospect of running across robots, big carnivores, or worse was deeply unpleasant, but what else could she expect?
She was, after all, still alive. Perhaps that was the sin she was paying for.
The chained man regarded her levelly. “Would you prefer an equine of your own?” As if he could just pop down to the corner store for one.
Sorry, sir, my people ride Fords, Chevys, and cowboys, not thoroughbreds. She had to throttle a tide of dark, unpleasant hilarity; nobody here was interested in Ariadne Millar’s Comedy Stylings.
So she simply shook her head, trying for a conciliatory expression. “I’m sorry.” She was going to be repeating it in this new language too. The habit of apologies would follow her into the grave.
Now there was a pleasant and extremely lucky thought.
“No need,” he said, gravely. The phrase was familiar—he’d used it before, from the echoing darkness of a steel helmet, and without the reverb he sounded almost normal. “We ride to Gesthel; your most favoured companion lingers there with her Fox. There will be much joy in the reunion, she also holds summat which belongs to you. Will…” He paused, dark eyes half-lidded for a moment. “Will you at least consent to ride, my lady Ari? They say that is your name, now.”
It’s always been my name . “Ariadne.” The correction slipped out before she could stop herself; if they expected a plausible figurehead they were going to have to give her more information to work with. “But Ari is fine. Are you sure you want me to go along?” Inspiration struck. “You’ll probably go faster without, um, someone new.”
The guys were busy taking their not-horses downhill. Sarle swung into the saddle; naturally all of them would know how to perform the maneuver. Ari liked drawing horses or seeing them in paintings, but she’d never been atop one and didn’t think now was any time to start.
Not if she could help it.
The chained man took a step closer; clearly she was his problem now. Dull black metal drank the light, odd glints escaping here and there. “This place pleases you so much, then? Or is it my company you dislike?”
Oh, God . “No, it’s…” Crap . She realized, from the unsteady feeling under her breastbone, that she was pushing to see how far this man would let her resist. Her shoulder pressed against the side of the cave-mouth, rough rock against flannel sleeve.
Who made the men’s clothes, or their weapons? Where had they gotten the saddles? Was magic a good enough explanation for all this? “I just don’t want to bother anyone,” she finished. Lame, Ari. He’s not going to believe that bullshit.
But if he was going to explode, she needed to know.
His jaw set, a muscle flicking in one pallid cheek. Had he left his cloven helmet where it dropped, in the castle’s thick shadow? He studied her closely, and Ari shrank even further.
Another day, another angry man. Even magic couldn’t change that one essential fact of the universe.
“Ah.” Quietly. “You are frightened of me.”
I know what men are like. And you really are scary as fuck . “I don’t know what’s happening. One moment I’m…” Words failed her. “The next I’m here, and then there’s a road and the Keep and…”
“You remember nothing, yet you freed me.” His head tilted back, and that tiny flicker in his cheek was more pronounced as he stared at the hilltop, or the purple-tinted sky. “Too brave for my comfort, as ever.” His chin drew level once more, those dark eyes scorching afresh.
Nobody’s ever called me brave before. Except maybe Mom. Thinking about her mother was a good way to get even further distracted, and Ari needed all the wits she could scrape together for this.
Once they figured out she was just an inadvertent trespasser, what would happen? Those swords were awful sharp, and the arrows too. She was caught between a possible punishment from these people at some unspecified future date, or attempting to rough it in the wilderness while trying to stay far away from giant robots and those horrible, unseen moaning things splatting down the road last night.
Had it really been just last night? Time had come unmoored, and she was drowning.
The chained man took another step, with strangely diffident caution. He couldn’t possibly be afraid of a woman less than half his size. “Come.” Businesslike now, he held out one gauntleted hand again, palm-up. “Trust me a very little, as you trusted my knights. I will not lose you again.”
‘Again’ is doing a lot of work in that sentence, my guy . The terror of her young nightmares vied with unwilling comfort, and the silent firework of a further realization dilated inside the jumble passing for her brain. “I don’t even know your name.” She sounded like a complete dope, but she couldn’t look away. In broad—if reddish—daylight, he was a different animal.
Maybe she looked like one, too.
“It was burned out of me,” he replied gravely. “I shall be granted another when it pleases you. For now, though…” A slight, beckoning motion.
He doesn’t even have a name? Oh, this is bullshit, Ariadne. Run while you can, get the hell out of here. But she had no choice, and in any case, Ari was… curious? Was that the word?
There was only so much fear a human being could handle before she simply stopped caring. She had to try twice before she could loosen her arms, and finally laid her fingers against warm, supple leather. There was a thick iron strap crossing his palm as well, tanned animal hide and metal enclosing a hand that had killed, and killed again—assuming the robots were alive.
The gauntlet closed. Metal whispered gently, cradling instead of crushing. Sharp edges brushed her skin, refraining from puncture with exquisite control.
“I’ve never ridden an equine before,” she managed. Even with the magic pondwater, her throat was dry. Thankfully, the sensation bore little relation to Mike’s fingers digging in, or the dusty tight-lodged rock of panic when Wanda Lee hissed just you wait until my son comes home, little missy .
“You once enjoyed it,” the chained man said. “Let us see if you still do.”