The Waiting King (2018 reissue) Page 4

  “How am I supposed to remember all that mouthful, not to mention speak it without putting a kink in my tongue?”

  Maura waved away his objections. “A body can remember most anything if they repeat it enough times. Come, it is not that hard and you are a clever fellow. Think of each word as a blow to the Han.”

  Rath liked the sound of that. This twara stuff was the tongue of his ancestors, the kin to whom this land had belonged when they had been proud, free folk. And it was not completely unknown to him. During his childhood, Ganny had used a number of Old Embrian words for things. He must try to recall them.

  “Guldir quiri... shin?” He spoke the words to Maura, like an offering of sorts.

  Her radiant smile rewarded him for his first tentative effort. “Hon bith shin,” she prompted him.

  “Guldir quiri shin hon bith shin... bathlu...?” He wished he did not crave her approval so. It felt like weakness and she already rendered him weak in far too many ways.

  “Very close!” Maura’s eyes glowed with admiration. “The word is vethilu. It means thoughts, though an exact translation is ‘the whisper of the bees in your hive’.”

  Rath grinned. “That is how it feels sometimes. As though a whole crowd of bees were buzzing around inside your head.”

  “Making honey?” asked Maura.

  Only when he thought about her. “What comes after vethilu?”

  “Bithin.” Maura took no notice that he had ignored her question. “It means ‘let it be so’ or ‘may it come to pass.’”

  “Wait. I know that one. Ganny used to say it when she got cross about something. ‘Bithin... rafail...’” Oh, what was the rest? “...’thelwa shin!’”

  Maura laughed so hard, Rath was afraid she might tip over.

  “Well, what does it mean?”

  She patted her chest until she caught her breath. “It means ‘May the Beast eat you.’”

  “The Beast?” Rath pointed to the sky.

  Maura nodded. “Aye, that beast. Any other colorful sayings of Ganny’s you remember?”

  As it happened, there were. As they continued to make their way through the arid high country, Rath dredged those all-but-forgotten words from his memory, then laughed with Maura when she translated them. As they talked, the miles seemed to pass more quickly and he hardly noticed the weight of his pack.

  Before midday, they found an overhang of rock that provided some shade to wait out the hottest hours.

  “No need to build a fire now.” Rath let his pack drop to the ground, then pulled out his drink skin. “At this time of day in the Waste, nothing stirs, so we are safe to sleep.”

  Maura leaned against the sheltering rock and slowly wilted to the ground. “I will not need any dreamweed tea to put me to sleep.”

  They chewed on their strips of spiced beef and ate some of the nuts and dried fruit they had got from the trading post. But they were careful not to drink too much, since there was no place handy to refill their drink skins.

  While Maura settled herself in the shade of the rock, Rath climbed a nearby bluff to scout the terrain ahead of them. It looked as though they had reached the High Flat. For the next several days they could make better time.

  He noted a spot or two of green on the pale brown landscape ahead, reckoning the distance and direction of each one. With luck, he and Maura might reach one of those before sunset.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stumbled back down to the shaded spot where he found Maura slumbering peacefully. Tired as he was, he sat for a time brooding over her—the soft delicacy of her features, the lush fullness of her lower lip, the vibrant glory of her hair. When he had first met her, she’d cast a spell upon his body. Since then, she had cast a much more potent spell upon... his heart? Did he still have one after all these years and the life he’d led?

  It tormented him to be so close to her, yet not permitted to indulge the feelings she provoked in him. Yet that very boundary had freed him to know her as a person, not just a pretty object of desire. In that knowing, he had come to care for her in a way he had vowed never to care for anyone but himself.

  If he continued like this, he asked himself as he curled a stray strand of her hair around his finger, might there come a time when he would care more for her life than for his own?

  The notion baffled and chilled him.

  Their journey through the Waste grew easier by the third day. The land was more level and their packs grew lighter as they consumed their supplies. Rath had marked a few watering places on their route where they had stopped for the night or their midday rest.

  Though Maura still wished Rath would find a nice high cliff from which to drop that cursed copper wand, she had to admit it did a good job keeping wild animals at bay. She had seen a few flickers of eyes during her night watches, and once thought she heard a shrill growl that might have been a barren cat. But none of the creatures had ventured near enough to harm them.

  “Now that I can recite the passing ritual in twara,” said Rath as they resumed the journey after their midday rest on the fourth day, “do you not think it is time you practiced your Comtung?”

  “I know some.” Maura wrinkled her nose. “Which is already more than I care to. Vile stuff!”

  “I agree,” said Rath. “But that vile stuff could be important for your survival once we reach Westborne. Many of the younger folk there do not speak Embrian at all.”

  “Not speak their own language—that is a shame!”

  “So it is.” Rath slammed his walking staff against the hard, parched ground as if he pictured a Hanish head beneath it. “Someday, perhaps, you can do something to remedy that. But not if your quest flounders because you could not make yourself understood.”

  Strange. He spoke as if he was beginning to believe she would one day rule Embria.

  “Go on, then. What should I know?” She would rinse her mouth out well after their lesson.

  “Simple things,” said Rath. “Travelers’ phrases. How to ask directions to where you are going. How to ask the price of goods. How to tell someone you are hurt and ask for help.”

  Maura hoped she would never need to use that last one. Rath was right, though. It would be just such times she would most need to make herself understood. Besides, if her lessons in Comtung passed the hours of their march as agreeably as Rath’s lessons in twara, it would seem like no time until they reached Westborne.

  “So,” said Rath, “how would you ask what something costs?”

  “Referna... takolt... kotarst?” Maura made a face as she spoke the words.

  “Refernug,” Rath corrected her. “And I would say pranat rather that takolt... unless you are buying something alive.”

  “A foul sounding language,” grumbled Maura.

  Rath shrugged. “Better than Hanish.”

  “That is not much of a boast.”

  “Rosfin kempt!”

  “And what does that mean, pray?”

  “It means impudent wench.” Rath chuckled. “You had better learn more Comtung so you will know when you are being insulted.”

  “I expect I will know by the tone of voice, lalump. And to speak true, I would sooner not know when someone speaks ill to me.”

  “Now that is where we differ,” said Rath. “I want to know exactly what someone is calling me. So, pray, what is a lalump? Ganny sometimes called me that when I was a wee fellow, but she never would say what it meant.”

  “There are more differences than that between us, Rath Talward.” Maura felt the need to remind herself at every opportunity. “As for that word, it might mean ‘scamp’ or it might mean ‘fondheart.’”

  When he fixed her with a mock-scowl, she relented. “In truth, it is what someone calls a scamp they are fond of.”

  Rath was more than a “scamp,” Maura reminded herself. She had seen the way he’d fought those wolves. He could be a dangerous man when he chose. There was a ruthlessness about him, but a kind of honor, too. The better she got to know him, the more clearly
she saw what life had made of him—the bad and the good. Yet every mile they journeyed together, the bad seemed to fade and the good to strengthen.

  He glanced back at her, a gleam in his eyes that warned her he meant to tease. Perhaps even in a flirtatious way. Though she knew she should not encourage it, the prospect set a gentle buzz going in her heart.

  Before he could speak the words he intended, his gaze strayed to something beyond her and the muscles of his face tightened.

  “Rath? What is it?” Maura spun about. From habit, her hands moved toward the pockets of her sash.

  They were near the crest of a very gentle incline, but the land behind them was so flat, she could see for miles.

  Her alarm eased when she spotted nothing threatening. “Did you do that on purpose to throw a scare into me?”

  “Come!” Rath clutched her arm in a grip that brooked no delay.

  He pulled her the hundred yards or so to the crest of the rise, then dropped to the ground, hauling her down after him.

  “What is all this about?” She wrenched her arm from his grip. “You’d better have a very good reason to—”

  “Shush!” ordered Rath in a harsh whisper. “Look.”

  He craned his neck a little to see over the crest of the rise.

  “I already looked. There was nothing.”

  “Well, look again.”

  Maura propped herself on her elbows and peered back the way they had come. “I still do not—”

  Rath raised his hand and pointed. “Over that way.”

  Those three simple, quiet words made Maura’s whole body pucker in gooseflesh. Looking where Rath had bid her, she could make out several small shapes that appeared to be moving in their direction.

  “Slag!” Rath pounded the ground. “I should have been more watchful. Whoever they are, they’ve come down from the mountains. Nobody good ever comes down from the mountains.”

  He scuttled a ways back from the edge of the rise before standing up. “They probably spotted us hours ago. No help for it now. Come on.”

  Maura followed him in a hunched run. “Now that we are out of sight, can we not change course and try to cover our tracks?”

  The strained squint of Rath’s eyes eased a little and he flashed a fleeting rueful smile. “You have learned well, lass. I wish we could, but we are near Raynor’s Rift and there is only one way across that will not take us many, many miles longer.”

  He began walking at a brisk trot. “By luck it is not far. If we can beat them to it, we should be able to put them off our trail on the other side.”

  Maura picked up her pace. “Let us waste no time then. The Comtung lessons can resume another day.”

  “Have you got anything in that sash to lend us speed?”

  “I do!” She had forgotten about it until this moment. Now she praised the Giver for her faulty memory. “Hold a moment. It will be worth a short delay.”

  She turned her back to Rath. “Lift my pack and reach into the middle pocket halfway up.”

  The weight of her pack eased and through her clothes she felt Rath’s fingers moving.

  “A fine powder?” he asked. “With a waxy feel?”

  “That is it! Powdered stag hoof. Get out as much as you can, then take off your boots and stockings.”

  “There,” said Rath after a moment’s digging with his fingers. “I think I have it all.”

  Maura dropped to the ground, fumbling with her laces then rolling off her stockings. She wrinkled her nose. They could use a good wash the next time she and Rath found water.

  She turned to take her share of the stag hoof from Rath. He sat on the ground, struggling to untie his boot with one hand, while the other was cupped around the precious powder.

  “Here, let me help.” Clumsy with haste, she pried off Rath’s boots and removed his stockings. “Why did you not tell me you have a blister on your heel? I will make you a salve for it tonight.”

  She held out her open palm, into which Rath shook half the translucent gray powder. Just then, a gust of wind whipped from out of nowhere, sending much of the powder swirling into the air before they could close their hands.

  “Slag!” muttered Maura. “Quick, rub what is left onto the soles of your feet. It may still be enough. While you apply it, repeat after me, “Rodiri... thisbrid... kerew ethro... bithin... en fwan... gen lorfin bryd.”

  Rath recited the incantation without a single mistake and with just the right lilt. “I know some of those words.”

  “I expect you do. You seem to have a gift for languages.” Maura grabbed her stockings. “Now, let us get our boots back on and see if we can make better haste.”

  As soon as Rath was shod again, he leaped to his feet and held down a hand to hoist her up.

  “That way.” He pointed to a line of trees stretched across the horizon.

  Keeping a firm grip on her hand, Rath set off toward the trees. Not too quickly, at first, but gradually increasing his pace.

  “It is a good thing I forgot that stag-hoof until now,” said Maura, her breath coming only a bit faster than usual, though she was running at a speed greater than she had ever run in her life. “When we needed it most.”

  “Are you not going to credit your Giver for that lapse of memory?” Rath shot her a teasing grin, but she sensed he was not completely in jest.

  After that, they saved their breath and ran even faster. They would pay for it later, Maura knew. The muscles of the legs would cramp in painful spasms, just as back and arm muscles ached after bear essence wore off. She would worry about that later and tend them both with liniment and pain relieving tea. For now, they needed to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whoever was coming behind them.

  The trees loomed up before them. Maura could see a gap in the greenery that looked like a path. They seemed to be headed for it.

  She could feel the speed spell beginning to wane. Her heart pumped faster, her feet became harder to lift with every step. Clinging tight to Rath’s hand, she managed the final sprint into the wooded area.

  Once in cover, they stopped, gasping for breath. Maura sank to the ground and pulled out her drink skin. The last watering hole they stopped at had been shallow and the water brackish. Now she quaffed it as though it was mulled peach cider.

  Rath unstopped his drink skin, too, and took a quick swig. But he did not sit down. Instead, he staggered a few steps back to the edge of the trees.

  “Can you... see them yet?” asked Maura.

  “Not yet,” Rath called back, his eyes still on the trail they had run. “That is a boon. We should have time to cross the Rift without them hot on our trail.”

  “Cross the Rift?” Why did those words give her a hollow feeling in the pit of her belly? “How do we do that?”

  “Come.” Rath strode past her. “I will show you.”

  She followed him along a well-trodden path.

  After a few moments he came to an abrupt stop. “This is far enough.”

  Maura peered around him.

  A few feet beyond where Rath stood, the earth plunged away in a sharp, sheer drop, the sight of which made Maura’s whole body go rigid with terror. Between there and the far side of the rift sagged the feeblest excuse for a bridge Maura had ever seen—nothing but rope and boards.

  The hollow in Maura’s belly gaped to consume her whole body. She staggered a few steps backward from the precipice.

  “Quite a sight, is it not?” Rath asked, over his shoulder.

  When he received no reply, he turned. “Maura, what is the matter? Are you hurt?”

  “The matter?” Maura asked in a tight, shrill voice. Then she broke into wild laughter. “I am not hurt. I am alive, and mean to stay that way.”

  “That is good.” Rath nodded, but his brows knit in a look of puzzlement and concern. “So do I. Which means we had better waste no time crossing the bridge.”

  “Cross that?” Maura began to shake her head before Rath even finished speaking. “You must be ma
d!”

  “I am not.” He squatted on his haunches before her and took her hand. “I have crossed that bridge twice before and there is nothing to it. Just hold onto the side ropes, keep a steady pace and do not look down. Before you know it, you will be on the other side.”

  “Easily said!” Every time Maura thought of that sheer drop, she felt as if she were already falling. “A puff of wind, a rotten board and we could plunge to our—”

  Speaking of wind, Maura felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She gasped for breath harder than she had done when they were running. If she had known what they were running toward, she might have turned and gone in the opposite direction.

  “I know it is rather high,” said Rath, “but—”

  “Rather high?” Maura grabbed the breast of his cloak and pulled him toward her. “Until today, I have never been higher than the top of Hoghill. You could put twenty Hoghills in that... that...”

  “Rift.”

  “Rift indeed! It is deeper than the Black Beast’s maw, and just as deadly.”

  “That may be.” Rath removed his cloak from her frenzied grasp. “But we have to get across, so we might as well do it and do it quick.”

  When she opened her mouth to tell him how impossible that was, Rath charged ahead with his words just as he was apt to do with his actions. “If you think that bridge is dangerous now, imagine a bunch of Han chasing you across it.”

  “How can you be sure they are Han?” Maura demanded. “They may not even have come this way.”

  “If they came from the mountains, they are Han.” Rath spoke with the implacable authority of someone stating the most basic of proven facts. “And there is no other way to come but this.”

  “Are you certain? Could we not go...?” She pointed north.

  Rath shook his head. “That would take us up into the South Crescent. Mountains where you would find drops like that every mile, and no bridge to take you across them, either.”

  “Then...?” Maura pointed south.

  “Perhaps...” he began, sending Maura’s hopes soaring. Then his tone turned harsh. “If we had triple the supplies and you did not need to reach Everwood until Harvestide. Is there any herb in your sash that will give you courage?”