A Wizard in Peace

CHAPTER 9

Ciletha stared glumly at the gateway, convinced that Orgoru had met his fate. Grief overwhelmed her, and fear of going on without him.

Something moved against the pale forms of stone. Ciletha stared. Could it be Orgoru?

More forms moved in the darkness, and torches appeared, showing light over a glowing assembly—but what a sight!

Ciletha stared, unable to believe her eyes. She thought she had never seen so many dumpy, short, and lumpen people in her life—and certainly had never seen such a hodgepodge of clothes! They were of all manner of shapes and styles, all extravagant, exaggerated. Oh, any one costume was gorgeous, of expensive, luxurious cloth and brilliant in color, but so many jewellike tones together clashed and jarred and almost hurt her eyes in their dissonance.

Then Orgoru stepped out from among them.

Ciletha stared in disbelief. He wore a doublet and hose of blue and silver with an embroidered cape of the same colors; his hair was curled over his brow, and his eyes were alive with excitement. A sob caught in her throat as she dashed to meet him. “Oh, Orgoru!”

He ran to catch her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Ciletha! Oh, it’s so wonderful! I wish you could share it!”

The word “wish” chilled her. She glanced past him at the squat, soft-looking people, outrageous in their garish costumes, prancing toward one another with glad smiles, pacing with controlled steps that seemed somehow to be parodies of the movements of magistrates and reeves, their chins tilted high, looking down their noses at one another, tittering and smirking as they glanced at her. Suddenly she understood: she could not share this life with him, because she could never want to. “I’m glad you’ve managed to find what you want, Orgoru.”

“Everything I’ve ever dreamed of! Lords and ladies, people of beauty and nobility, of refinement and culture! Look at them, Ciletha! Aren’t they magnificent?”

She looked, and shuddered. Orgoru frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s been a cold night.” She wondered how he could possibly see these clowns as being noble. But she couldn’t bring herself to disturb his waking dream; she forced a tremulous smile and said, “There are certainly none like them in all the world, Orgoru. How lucky you are!”

“Lucky indeed! So have no fear for me, Ciletha—I am where I have always wanted to be! Oh, I hope you’ll find your heart’s desire, too, just as I have!”

A tall, rawboned young woman began to move toward Orgoru, with a flirtatious glance that seemed ludicrous on her long, lantern-jawed face.

“Thank you, Orgoru.” Ciletha forced the words through lips gone suddenly stiff. “I’m so happy for you, my old friend! See, I’m crying with joy!”

“How good of you, Ciletha! How generous!” Orgoru caught one of her tears on his finger and kissed it.

The courtly gesture seemed incongruous in so earthy a man that she managed to force a smile. “Good-bye, Orgoru. May you find every happiness!”

“Good-bye, sweet playfellow.”

The “sweet” almost undid her; she turned away and stumbled off into the night, fighting back tears. She glanced back over her shoulder, but Orgoru had already turned away to rejoin his strange companions, who went mincing and laughing away, though they looked as though they should waddle.

Ciletha fled blindly into the night. When their laughter had died behind her, the tears burst forth. She stumbled through the darkened woods until she collided with a tree and leaned against its reassuring bulk, sobbing with heartbreak and finally admitting to herself that she had fallen in love with the bumbling but sweet idiot—who, of course, did not love her. She herself was scarcely beautiful, but Orgoru, once you looked past the poor grooming and clumsiness, was good-looking, at least in the face—or would be, if he weren’t so plump. No, of course he’d never noticed her as a woman—and never would have. No wonder that it was only after he was lost to her that she could admit she loved him.

When they were a mile or two from the unconscious foresters, Dirk, Gar, and Miles managed to scrape together a quick camp, cutting pine boughs for beds. Each mounted watch in turn while the others slept, but there was no sign of pursuit, no trace of a night-patrolling forester, and the breeze bore them no faint belling of hounds.

They rose with the sun and hurried on through the woods, as fast as horses could go—a fast walk, but not tiring as quickly as humans would have done. They used every device they knew to break their trail, and though the hounds might eventually find them, they would be very long in doing so.

By evening, they had come among huge old oaks and elms that towered high above them, leaving very little light for the underbrush, which stayed low and thin. There Miles slid off Gar’s horse with a grateful sigh, groaned at the pain in his legs, and told his companions, “We’ve come to the deep woods. We’ll be safer here than back near the road, but not really safe for very long.”

“Which means not at all.” Gar looked around. “Can you think of a good place to hide within the woods, Miles?”

The peasant shook his head. “There are tales of hidden caves with great treasures, whole villages of outlaws, and lost cities overgrown by the forest, sirs, but nothing that I could really believe in.”

“Not surprising—those are motifs common to folktales in many places.” Gar frowned, looking about him.

A crashing in the underbrush, feet coming closer—Gar and Dirk spun their horses to face the disturbance. Miles whirled to face it, too, aches and pains suddenly forgotten.

She burst through the wall of a thicket, running with a limping step and sobbing breaths, looking back over her shoulder in fear, and Miles stared, stiff with amazement. He had never seen a woman move with such complete and utter femininity. He was so stupefied that he didn’t even bring up his staff, and the woman slammed right into his chest. Then he did bring up his arms, but she shoved herself away, lifting her eyes to stare at him.

By itself, there was nothing remarkable about her face. Her features were regular, her mouth rather wide, a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, her chestnut hair wildly disheveled—but Miles stared again, and found himself entranced.

Then her mouth opened in a scream, and Miles had to hold his arms very loosely about her, enough to keep her from running, not enough to frighten, as he pleaded, “No, lass, don’t fear! We’re friends, we’ll protect you from whatever—”

The brush came crashing down, and “whatever” burst out—six stocky men in stained and ragged tunics and hose, encrusted with dirt and grease, four with week-old stubble, three with unkempt beards. They plowed to a halt when they saw two mounted guardsmen facing them, and a peasant thrusting their woman-quarry behind him as he brought up his staff.

“Just go your way now,” Gar said quietly, “and none of us will have anything to worry about.”

The biggest outlaw’s face split in a gloating grin. He gave a harsh laugh and cried, “They fear us, lads!”

“But they’re guardsmen!” the youngest quavered.

“We’re all dead men if we’re caught anyway! What matter the death of a guardsman? Out upon them!” He yanked out a rusty sword and charged Gar with a howl. His mates took life and charged behind him, shouting bloody murder.

Gar didn’t even draw his sword; he swung his horse aside and leaned down to hook a huge fist into the leader’s head as he went by. The leader stumbled and fell to his knees.

Two men pounced on Miles, shouting for the woman, one with a staff and one with a sword that had so many nicks it was nearly a saw. He spun his own staff up to block, then slammed the butt down on the sword. It cracked, and the outlaw stood staring foolishly at the six inches of blade left to his hilt.

One outlaw snatched his bow off his back and strung it while another charged at Dirk with a spear, shouting. The spearhead stabbed straight toward Dirk’s heart—but he leaned aside, caught the shaft, and yanked hard. The man stumbled into the horse’s side and fell. Dirk spun the spear about, shouting, “Archer!” and throwing, hard.

Another outlaw leveled his quarterstaff like a lance and ran howling at Gar. The big man caught the end of the staff, braced it against his knee, and let the butt catch the outlaw in the belly. He sat down hard, gagging, and Gar yanked the staff free.

Miles’s other attacker shouted in anger and swung his staff high. It was a beginner’s mistake, and Miles took full advantage of it, shooting his own staff end-on into the man’s belly before he could block. The outlaw folded over in pain and sat down hard as Miles danced aside, staff back up to guard, looking about him for more enemies.

The archer was just coming to his feet, bow strung and pulling an arrow from the quiver. He heard Dirk’s shout and looked up, staring, then yelped with fright and ducked aside. The spear missed him by inches.

Gar shouted, whirling the staff over his head like a windmill, his horse moving toward the leader. The man yelped in fright, scrambled to his feet, and ran for the underbrush.

Dirk shouted again as he spurred his horse, charging down on the archer. The man howled and fled back into the trees. Dirk pulled up his horse just short of the thicket and turned it back, in time to see two more outlaws running for the bracken. Two others lay unconscious.

Miles looked about him, saw no more enemies moving, and dropped his staff, turning to open his arms for the fugitive. “There now, lass, you’re safe. We won’t let them get at you.”

She stood frozen a moment, lips parted as though uncertain whether to cry out in terror or in joy. Then she sagged against Miles’s chest, whole body racked with huge sobs. Dazed, he folded his arms about her, amazed at how wonderful she felt there. He had never held a woman before. He looked up helplessly, but only saw Gar nodding in grave approval. Miles took heart and turned back to murmuring the sort of inanities his mother had used to soothe him when he was very small: “There, there, it’ll be all right now, we won’t let them get you,” and, “Hush, now, hush, there’s no need to cry, we’re all your friends here,” until finally she gulped, pushed him away a little, and wiped streaming eyes on her sleeve. She looked up at him through her tears with a tremulous smile. “Thank you, goodman! I can’t ever thank you enough.”

“You just did.” Where had that gallant phrase come from? “But it wasn’t me alone who fought for you, lass. These kind gentlemen did more than I.”

“Not this time, we didn’t.” Dirk was grinning. “You scored just as high as we did, Miles.”

“Are you Miles, then?” the woman asked, looking up wide-eyed. “I’m Ciletha.”

“I’m charmed to meet you—and by you.” The words seemed to roll off Miles’s tongue with an ease he’d never known. “Now I’m glad I had to flee from the bailiff.”

“Flee?” Ciletha drew back a little. “What for?”

“For refusing to marry the woman his master had chosen for me, and she hated the notion more than I did,” Miles told her, “though I have to admit I didn’t come right out and say no to the magistrate—I just left. But what sent you to the wildwood, poor thing?”

Ciletha lowered her gaze. “I came with a friend, who was looking for the Lost City. He found it, and chose to stay there.”

“Lost City?” Gar edged his horse closer, suddenly very intent. “That sounds like a good place to hide from the hounds and the foresters. Can you take us back there?”

“Why … I don’t know, sir.” Ciletha looked about her, confused. “I’ve been turned so much about and about while I ran from those fiends…” Privately she shuddered at the idea of going back to those strange, ugly, garishly dressed people—but the forest had proved more dangerous than the ruins, and with friends to protect her …

Somehow, she knew that Miles would protect her with every ounce of his strength. The knowledge spread through her with a warm reassurance. Why he would, she refused to think—but she knew she was safe with him. Perhaps his friends were to be trusted just as much—but had they fought to save her, or to win her? Surely they wouldn’t betray Miles, though.

“Think,” Gar urged. “Was the sun behind the city, or behind your shoulder?”

“Behind the city,” Ciletha said without hesitation, “but it was the moon, sir—I’ve been wandering for days now, I think only four of them. Who can find the moon under all these leaves, though?”

“He has an unusually good sense of direction,” Dirk informed her.

“Ciletha, these are my masters, Dirk and Gar,” Miles said. “Friends,” Dirk said quickly. “Just friends, Miss. We don’t own him. Pleased to meet you.”

“And I.” Gar inclined his head in greeting.

“They aren’t really guards,” Miles explained, “just wearing the livery as disguise. They’re from very far away, and don’t know a lot of our customs.”

“Are other counties so different?” Ciletha asked, looking at the horsemen with wide eyes.

“We’re from farther away than another county, I’m afraid,” Dirk said.

“Let’s ride while we talk,” Gar suggested. “If the moon was behind the city, it should be this way.”

“Yeah, well, that takes care of east versus west,” Dirk said as he pulled his horse around to fall in beside Gar’s, “but what do we do about north versus south?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find some sort of landmark,” Gar said easily.

Dirk shot him a calculating glare. “Yeah, I’ll just bet you will.” He turned back to Miles and Ciletha. “Coming, folks? Miles could ride with Gar, and you could ride with me, Ciletha.”

“I’d just as soon walk,” she said quickly, so of course Miles said, too, “I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself,” Dirk said. “Horses can’t go much faster than people in a nighttime wood, anyway.” He turned to face forward again, leaving the two locals to follow.

“What of this lad who brought you into the wood?” Miles asked. “What was he like?”

“Oh, no taller than you,” Ciletha said, “and pudgy, most would call him. But he had large eyes, of the most beautiful brown you could think, and a cute little nose between high cheeks, with generous lips. He’s generous within, too, is Orgoru, though most folk won’t let him show it.”

Her tone was so warm that Miles knew she must be in love with the lout, and felt a stab of jealousy that surprised him—but he realized that, though Ciletha wasn’t beautiful, there was something of elfin charm to her face, to the shape of her nose and the tilt of her eyes, and beauty in those large orbs and their long lashes. He felt his own heart move strangely, and wondered if he were himself falling in love.

A stick cracked, and Ciletha froze. The horsemen halted, too. After a moment, Gar said, “Only a badger.” He clucked to his horse and moved on.

The others followed, but Ciletha’s eyes were wide, apprehensive. “Please, lad, let’s not talk. Those bandits might hear us and come back—and bring a bigger band.”

Miles smiled. “They’ll hear the horses in any case, lass, but I’ll admit that hooves might belong to deer. Nay, as you’ll have it.”

They went on in silence, following the horses.

Miles couldn’t help sneaking covert glances at Ciletha whenever they passed through a patch of moonlight. Dirty and ragged though she was, there was some elusive quality about her that held him fascinated. His attention seemed to make Ciletha uneasy, so he whispered, “ ‘Ware, now—there’s a root ahead.”

She recovered her composure and smiled. “I see it, lad. Don’t worry yourself about me—I’ve been a poacher seven years and more.”

“You?” Miles stared, for women were rarely poachers. “Aye, me. My father was ailing all that time, and I knew he needed meat.” Her tone hardened. “No, I didn’t leave him—he left me, through the gate of death.”

Miles was startled, even shocked. “Don’t blame him for it, lass. It’s not as though he chose it.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Ciletha said, “but his going left me without protection against the magistrates, or the town boys who wanted my father’s house.”

“Ah. Well, I can see you’d be angry, then,” Miles said, “and I’ve no doubt your father is, too—angry at the death that sundered him from you.”

“What are you saying?” Ciletha stared. “You talk as though he were still alive in his grave!”

“No, but I’ve heard some folk say that the spirit lives on after the body dies,” Miles said slowly, “and it tries to move about in the world, if its business isn’t done.”

“Ghosts?” Ciletha breathed.

“Aye, the ghosts of our nursery tales. No one ever asks what happens to the spirits of those whose life’s business is done, though,” Miles said, musing. “Wouldn’t there have to be someplace for them to go and rest, some Spirits’ Home?”

“I suppose there would,” Ciletha said slowly. “It would have to be a happy place, wouldn’t it? For everyone there could have that pleasant feeling that comes from a task well-finished.”

Gar rode on, listening to the two young folk behind him reinventing religion, and smiled. Dirk caught his eye and winked.

Then, distant and so faint it might have been imagination, they heard the first elusive baying of the hounds. Miles stopped, galvanized even though the sound faded away again. Gar grinned. “They’ve followed the false trail we laid.”

“That’ll delay them a few hours,” Dirk said, “but they’ll still catch us by morning. Can’t you find this city a little faster?”

“We’re moving directly toward it,” Gar told him, “and it’s not very far away. Ciletha must have been going in circles when she left it, and certainly when the bandits chased her.” Ciletha looked up, startled, and Miles touched her hand, giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s the natural thing, lass, in a strange wood.” He turned back to the path—and saw a skeleton moving toward them in the scraps of moonlight that filtered through the trees.