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The stranger showed no sign of flagging. Hour after hour he kept up his easy, flowing stride, as fast as the horse could trot; not once did he speak or turn round. Several times Holt made up his mind to call to him, in an attempt to break the ice, but then thought better of it.
While taken aback at first by his abruptness, Holt came on reflection to the conclusion that the manners of the Commonality, a society that conducted itself at a more than leisurely pace, were probably inappropriate here in the wilds. Still a name, he thought, would have been useful, and not too time-consuming to give. Without it, a Shean’s cardinal sin, unseemly curiosity, had him in thrall. What kind of man was this? What was he doing here? Where had he come from, where was he going? Holt was quite surprised at himself for this sudden thirst to know everything about him. Who was his rescuer? He was clad only in a short tunic and close-fitting braies of dull green, clean but somewhat travel-worn, and, apart from his weapons, carried nothing but a small flask and wallet on his belt.
Holt went over every description of the various races of Earda that he could think of, but none seemed to fit. Surely no men save the Fir Domnan were so tall, but this could scarcely be a Sentinel working his beat, on the road without pack or warm cloak and wearing only light sandals on his feet; footwear even Holt, himself wearing soft heelless moccasin-boots, considered less than adequate for the season. He might almost be from Lantis, Holt mused, with skin so creamy-white, even after exposure to sun and wind. But the legendary Wanderers were reckoned to be fair of face, not grim, their eyes deep as the ocean and their hair a multitude of shifting shades not found in mortals, rather than dusty black.
Wildfolk on the other hand, their native kindred, were, according to his cousin Riard, smaller, browner, quick as foxes and far less likely to be found on any road. Holt decided that his ally most likely was Fir Domnan, one of the King’s Folk from Loigris or Lioneis. He had only legends and Shean prejudice to go on, and the patrolling Sentinel Giloran was the first he had ever met. There must be all kinds out here beside knightly Sentinels: traders, unfortunates, rolling stones. This one plainly had a history he was not prepared to divulge to some chance-met acquaintance.
Noon came, and passed; Holt began to feel hungry, but the stranger showed no sign of stopping. He ran on, apparently tireless, his feet seeming to skim over the ground. Holt was just on the point of drawing rein and demanding a halt, when the other turned off the road into a grassy space, almost as if he had read his Shean companion’s mind. He sat down on an outcrop of rock, and took something from the leather wallet he carried. Holt fetched food from his saddlebag and sat on another rock close by. He began to eat, then noticed that the other’s meal consisted of nothing but a few small pellets, no larger than sweetmeats, pitiful morsels to the ample appetite of a Shean. He leaned across, proffering some of his own.
The stranger looked up at his question, and the hard lines of his face seemed to soften. “You are generous, Yeoman Goodfellow,” he said. “I thank you. I have heard that Westergarth herb cheese is excellent.”
“This is the best,” Holt told him. “It’s Mother Goodbody’s, with caraway and borage. Do have some more,” he added, for the stranger’s portion still seemed to him inadequate.
“It is good,” the stranger agreed. “But I will take no more of your provisions. This is abromel, of which you may have heard.” He tapped his wallet. “I have here enough to last me many weeks.”
“Abromel!” Holt exclaimed. He had indeed heard of it, supposedly magical food that restored youth to the immortals who had abandoned Lantis for Earda. This certainly looked nothing like he would have expected, nor did it appear to have done much for his grim-visaged companion. “But you’re not an Elfin, are you?” he queried.
He could have bitten out his tongue the next instant. His rescuer’s features took on a forbidding expression, though more of bleakness than of anger. Holt’s scepticism abruptly vanished beneath the crushing certainty that he truly was face-to-face with a mysterious, eldritch being, to whom he had just offered a galling insult. What he had said was more than a lapse of good manners; not only had he made an unpardonable assumption, if it were untrue, but he had used a term which, he now recalled, was likely to cause additional offence.
“I’m sorry,” he floundered. “Forgive my ignorance. I never met any El— I mean, any Lanteans before.”
“I cannot blame your doubt,” his companion replied. His voice held a roughness which had struck Holt once or twice already; now it became more strident, and grated unpleasantly on the ear. “I am of the Elfionar, Lanteans, as folk name us,” he continued. “Or at least I was, long ago. What I am now, I know not; not mortal, yet less than Ellantar; neither of Earda nor of Avallon.” His brow had darkened further, and he gazed into the distance with wintry, unseeing eyes.
Silence lengthened. In order to break it, Holt put the one question politeness permitted him. “Will you tell me your name?” he asked quietly. “I should like to know it, since I owe you my life.”
The Lantean started and looked up. “My name is Rillodan,” he said. “Called in these days the Silent. A strange name for one of my kindred, but I am little like the rest. Do not judge them by me!”
“I judge what I see,” Holt said.
“Evidently.”
Saying what he meant to this touchy individual, whose native Lantean intuition seemed non-existent, was proving less than easy. “No,” he corrected. “I mean, you helped me, and I’m grateful. I hope one day I can repay you.”
For the first time, a smile touched Rillodan’s lips, but one without any warmth. “That you may find difficult,” he said. “There is one service you might render me, but though it is a simple matter, I think you would refuse to undertake it.”
“I will, if I can,” Holt assured him. “What is it?”
“As I saved you from bondage, rescue me from mine. One blow from your sword will suffice; not even an immortal is proof against a clean stroke to the neck. Or if you prefer, to pierce the heart would serve as well. Life is my shackle; will you not release me?” This speech, at first measured, grew in vehemence, until at its end, he leapt up to stand in the midst of the grassy plot, arms spread wide, eyes wild and glittering. Holt drew back in consternation.
Rillodan laughed, a bitter, savage sound. “You see, you will not do it,” he challenged.
“I should think not,” replied Holt, suppressing a shudder. “I’d find it hard enough to kill an enemy. I could certainly never murder a friend.”
For a moment the Lantean seemed taken aback. “Did I not say you were generous, Earthman?” he cried. “First you offer me your food, now your friendship! Your bounty is misplaced, for I have need of neither.” He spoke scornfully, but beneath the brittle edge of his mockery Holt glimpsed a yawning abyss of pain and loneliness. Pity drove out both hurt and anger, prompting him to ignore the stinging rebuff.
“As you like,” he replied calmly. “I’m sorry if I can’t help you. But I won’t forget what you did.”
Rillodan passed a hand across his brow. The dire light had faded from his eyes, and suddenly he looked worn and tired. “A most persistent Shean,” he said. “Parata, what now?”
“Well, I’ve finished. We’d better get on.”
“You still wish my company?”
“You said yourself it was safer to travel together,” Holt answered. “Yes, I would like your company, if you’re willing.”
“So be it, then,” said the Lantean. “Let us go. I know a good camping place some miles from here. We may reach it before nightfall.” He waited for Holt to mount, then set off again along the road. He no longer appeared weary, as he settled down once more into his light, springy run. Gradually the shadows lengthened, as mile by mile they journeyed toward evening.
This story is from ‘The Trial of Cyrhision’ Book 1 More info
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