~ 12 ~

Anlin saw the movement from the corner of her eye. She screamed Faulk’s name, but it was too late. As he started to rise from the trough, one of the four Rennish men who had sneaked up on them swung a large piece of wood and struck Faulk in the head. He immediately crumpled, sliding back into the water.

She attempted to get out of her own trough. Her foot slipped on the wooden bottom, which turned her leap into a lurching stumble. The Rennish man closest to her grabbed her and pulled her from the trough. He laughed at her slippery wetness and pulled her back tightly against him. “Look at the little fish I caught,” he joked to the man nearest him.

Anlin feared that Faulk’s head had slipped under the water. She struggled with her captor, calling out in Rennish, “Help him! He could drown. Help him!”

The man holding her nearly dropped her in his surprise that she spoke Rennish, but, responding to her plea, one of his companions grasped Faulk by the hair and pulled his head up. “We won’t let him die, little fish. Seerin Krisla will want to see both of you.”

It took two of them to drag Faulk from the trough. They dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. He lay as if he were dead, but his chest moved as he took shallow breathes. Faulk at least lived. “I must help him,” Anlin said, struggling to get away.

The man gripped her bruisingly. “He doesn’t need your help. He’ll wake up shortly with a sore head. There’s nothing you can do for him until then.”

The closest man nudged Faulk with his foot but got no response. “Why’d you have to hit him so hard, Soren?” he asked. “He’s really heavy. How’re we going to get him on a horse?”

“That’s your problem,” said the man holding Anlin. “I’ll just take care of little fish.” Then he started to move toward the door.

“Please, let me get dressed before I see this Seerin person.” Soren, she thought. The man holding her was named Soren. And names in any culture had power. “Please, Soren.” The man carrying her paused.

“She’s right,” said the man still poking at Faulk. “I don’t think anyone will be impressed if we ride into Ridgemere with a naked female in tow. You know how the Seerin stress behaving properly before women. We don’t need to cause any extra problems. We’re going to have enough trouble trying to explain how two Fallucians got to the last guest house without our knowing.”

Soren simply grunted, but he did slowly lower her to the floor. He pushed her back until she leaned against one of the troughs. “Stay here and do not move. I’ll bring you your clothes.”

“Can’t I see if my husband is all right?” Anlin moved in that direction.

He pushed her back with a swipe of his arm. Anlin was very conscious of her nakedness. “No! I said to stay where you are.”

Anlin obeyed. With Faulk unconscious and possibly badly hurt, this wasn’t the time to anger her captors. Faulk’s total stillness worried her. Blood, oozed from the wound where he had been struck by the log and formed a sticky mass in his damp hair.

Soren dropped the pile of her clothing at her feet. “Here,” he said. “Get dressed. But you needn’t look for your knife.” He smiled smugly. “I have it.”

She instantly regretted the loss of the knife. It was the one she had used to kill Martic before her escape—the blade was so nicely sharp, slender, and flexible. Possession of the knife had made her feel more confident. It was a talisman that proved she had some control over her own destiny.

As Anlin slipped into her clothing, she tried to formulate some plan. The man said they would be taken to Ridgemere, which had been their intended destination, but she hadn’t wanted to enter as a captive. Fortunately, none of the men treated her as if she were a Rennish slave. Her nakedness didn’t excite them as it had her former owners. They seemed to see her as only some Fallucian woman. For the present, it would probably be best to assume the guise of traders and keep the search for her son to herself.

Two of the men had gone into the dormitory, intent on gathering up the belongings that Faulk had stacked there. From the excited tone of their indistinct voices, they had evidently discovered that many of the packs contained silver coins. Perhaps these men could be bribed.

With this in mind, Anlin took a careful look at her captors. All had the facial scars that indicated they were shamans, but they did not wear the normal, brown, shamanic robes. Instead, they were dressed in leather riding pants and loose, coarsely woven shirts. All were young and carried themselves in the manner of knights or men-at-arms. If there were a leader, she couldn’t distinguish which he was.

“Are you shamans?” she asked Soren.

“No, little fish,” he said. “We’re Sentinels. We guard the paths to Ridgemere and answer only to the Seerin. We like to think we are more than shamans.”

“But any shaman would tell you that we are less,” said the man who was rolling Faulk up in a sheet that had been brought in from the dormitory. “We will have to put up with a good deal of derision from the shamans in residence in Ridgemere when we admit we were unable to sense your presence and didn’t know you were here until we stumbled on your horses in the corral.”

“Then don’t admit it,” Anlin said quickly. From his bitter tone, Anlin guessed the man wrapping Faulk was dissatisfied. If all the others shared his feelings, bribery seemed a real possibility. “I’m Anlin,” she said, “and the injured man is my husband Faulk. We have come to trade with—” Sweet Cheelum, she hadn’t thought this through. If they were traders they would have to trade with someone for something “—the Seerin,” she continued, pulling the name or title from their conversation, hoping she’d guessed correctly.

“You’re traders who are coming to Ridgemere to buy something from the Seerin?” Soren looked very skeptical.

“Yes, we’ve come into Rennic to trade. We have silver with us and could let you have a quarter of it if you’d just ride on and pretend you’d never come upon us. This way I could tend to my husband and then enter Ridgemere in a more dignified manner.” Anlin tried to fill her voice with confidence.

The man bending over Faulk laughed. “We already have all your silver, little fish, so why would we want only a portion? And if this man is a trader, I’ll dress in a gown the next time the husbands come and wait to be serviced. His shoulders are muscled like a man who habitually wears mail and his hands have the calluses of someone who wields a sword. I’m sure that Gerone and Cale have found both mail and a sword in the dormitory.”

“Indeed, we did,” came a voice from the door. “There was a very nice sword and well-made mail. And packs of silver coins. I believe we’ve stumbled upon one of the Lords of High Places making an incursion into Rennic—an incursion to bribe someone to Fallucia’s advantage. That could easily explain all the silver. Am I right, milady?” The man executed a surprisingly correct bow that still somehow conveyed sarcasm.

“She said they were traders who had come here to buy goods from the Seerin,” Soren reported. The man who’d accused her of being a Fallucian agent broke into laughter that was echoed by the others.

Faulk had been completely wrapped in a sheet that had been tied tightly around him with linen strips. He looked like a corpse awaiting burial. Seeing that tightened Anlin’s stomach more than the evident hostility all the Rennish were now projecting.

“I think you’ve come to spy and to buy information. You should have come up with a more plausible reason for being here, however. Any trader who knew what he was doing would have gone to Hightor. You could not have been here unless someone had already told you something you shouldn’t know.” Anlin had been looking for the leader of the group. With this speaker, she suspected she’d found him. She wished she knew if he were Gerone or Cale.

“We were lost in the rain.” Anlin tried to stop the accusations with a partial truth. “We just came upon the track and followed it.”

The leader crossed the room with quick strides and hit her in the face, knocking her down. All the fear she’d known in Rennic came flooding back, the emotion more powerful for its having been absent for a time. Anlin sat on the bathhouse floor and tried to get her breath. She seemed to be smothering.

“Get that lying baggage on a horse,” the leader said, motioning to Anlin. “I’ll help load the man.” Then, to her horror, he walked over and kicked Faulk in his shrouded head. “That should keep him out until we get to Ridgemere. Then he can explain to Seerin Krisla just what it is he plans to buy.”

Anlin felt a sharp tug on her hair and stood to relieve the pain. Soren propelled her out into the night and the waiting horses. The men flopped Faulk over one of the packhorses like a sack of grain and tied his body to the saddle, where he hung unmoving. The forth Sentinel attempted to control an agitated Fiddian.

Fear curdled in Anlin’s stomach and before she could mount, she emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground. A return to servitude loomed before her. She had never felt so frightened and so alone.

* * *

Ridgemere was a surprise. They reached the city just as the sun broke above the mountains, and it was, indeed, a city. Compared to the squalid villages with which Anlin was familiar, Ridgemere might have existed in another country. Even Hightor, the large town everyone in Fallucia assumed was the country’s capitol, could not compare. Straight, paved streets ran between rows of identical long, whitewashed buildings. Colorful, blooming flowers graced carefully tended gardens. Everything looked prosperous and, above all, clean.

The street they rode on terminated at a large paved circle. In the middle of the circle sat a huge version of the round dormitories she and Faulk had stopped at. Anlin realized that all the streets extended from this circle like the spokes of a wheel. The arrangement of both the beds in the dormitories and the troughs in the bathhouse had echoed the same pattern.

A veiled woman wearing a brown robe similar to that of a shaman met them before the main door as they clattered up. The man who had last kicked Faulk quickly dismounted and went to one knee before the woman. “Seerin,” he said, bowing his head.

This behavior, a man subjugating himself in any way before a woman, was even more un-Rennish than Ridgemere itself was. Anlin could only stare in shock. In the ten years she had been in Rennic, other than the one Selector she’d spied, she had never seen a woman treated with anything other than disdain and contempt. Women were slaves, drudges, receptacles of lust to be used and ignored. But then, as she had told Faulk, she had never seen a wife—and Ridgemere was the home of all the wives. This was obviously a different world.

The man stood and conferred quietly with the veiled woman. Anlin was unable to make out what was being said, but the Sentinel appeared apologetic and the woman angry. With an exclamation of “Now,” the woman turned and disappeared back into the building.

The man ran his hand through his hair in frustration and faced the still mounted Sentinels. “Take the man to the cells and bring the woman into the waiting room,” he said. “I’m to report directly to Seerin Krisla.” He then followed the veiled woman into the building.

Soren dismounted and unceremoniously hauled her from her horse. She only had a brief glimpse of Faulk’s shrouded form still lying limply across the packhorse before she was dragged through the door.

A long and opulent hallway opened before her. The walls were hung with colorful tapestries depicting forest scenes. Anlin only had quick impressions of her surroundings, however, as her escort hurried her along the corridor until another hallway bisected it. This passage was narrower and lacked decoration. She was shoved into the first door they came to.

“Wait here,” the man said before spinning on his heel and departing.

The room she entered could have been found in any manor house or castle in Fallucia with the exception that it was smaller, but it was equally well appointed. Two nicely carved chairs flanked a cold fireplace. On the right, a small table held a collection of pottery resplendent with an odd, iridescent blue glaze. A large window opened into a circular courtyard surrounded by a covered walkway.

Through this window, Anlin thought she heard the laughter and happy shouts of children, but when she looked out to investigate, none were in sight. There was some movement on the far side of the courtyard, but the angle of the rising sun left that area in deep shadow, and she was only able to make out a robed form, evidently either a shaman or one of these Seerin.

Anlin felt adrift. Nothing in her surroundings seemed consistent with the Rennic she knew. She had never heard of Seerin, although the veiled form reminded her of the Selector she had once glimpsed who came to choose those who would be honored as husbands. Perhaps these Seerin were female shamans. If so, they must wield their own form of power.

She heard the door open behind her and turned to face it. A veiled woman entered. She was obviously not the one who had spoken with the Sentinels being bulkier and slower moving. The woman stopped and stared, as if imprinting Anlin’s image on her memory. Then she walked to one of the two chairs and sat down.

“Please be seated and we will talk,” the woman said, motioning to the other chair. Her voice was both calm and commanding. Almost without thought, Anlin did as she was bid.

The woman detached her veil and let it fall to one side. Her face was as round as the moon in full, her eyes Rennish dark. She was definitely not young, but it was difficult to tell her age since corpulence had smoothed out any wrinkles and added extra chins. Anlin’s first impression was of a benign grandmother or an inquisitive young babe. There was something unforgiving about the woman, however, that belied this initial supposition.

“I’m Seerin Krisla,” the woman said, “and if you will allow me to touch you, we can eliminate a number of questions and erase your need for creative lies.”

The Seerin stretched out her hand. Without Anlin willing it, her own hand joined with the Seerin’s. Anlin felt a tingle run up her arm, more irritating than painful, as if a hundred flies crawled from her wrist to her shoulder. The woman held the contact for a breathless moment and then dropped Anlin’s hand.

Seerin Krisla smiled, the look of the doting grandmother returning. “Thank you. That was an easy way to eliminate the basis of Sentinel Cale’s fantastic tale. He would have it that you and your companion were Fallucian spies come to suborn someone here in Ridgemere, preferably a shaman.”

She laughed although Anlin could not see the joke. “I sense nothing deceitful within you. I can find no unknown magical ability that would allow you to shield yourselves from the Sentinels’ questing. On the contrary, I find you totally devoid of magic, an unusual occurrence for anyone in the upper classes of Fallucian society. Cale is correct in one assessment, however; you are from the family of a lord. There is no way that you have come into Rennic for trade. What is your purpose in coming to Ridgemere?”

Anlin wished she could conjure one of the creative lies the Seerin said she would have no need of, but nothing came to mind. The truth seemed the best approach. She and Faulk had come in good faith. They had not planned to kill or steal. They truly were here for trade. But before she could begin her explanation, her greatest worry burst from her lips. “Does my husband live?”

“Yes. I don’t believe he has taken any permanent harm. The chief shaman currently interrogates him. It would be advantageous to both of you if you gave the same reasons for being here, however. Telling me the truth would be best.”

Anlin realized she had told more of the truth than she’d anticipated with her question. Her first concern had been Faulk. Not Telm. Not the son of her heart. Not the purpose of their journey. But Faulk. There was an unreality to the realization.

“I am Anlin, daughter of Lord Philip Giffard, wife of Faulk of White Ford. For ten years, I was held in Rennic as a slave. During that time, I had a son, a son who was taken from me. My husband and I came to Rennic to find this son and to redeem him with the coin we carried. We were told that he was now in Ridgemere, and we paid someone to put us on the right course. So, your Sentinel was correct in his assumption that we had indeed bribed people, but that had not been our original intent. We wanted only to find my child.”

“Your explanation brings up other questions,” Seerin Krisla said. “How did you happen to be enslaved here when you obviously belong to the family of one of the Lords of High Places? It is our habit to ransom such people.”

Anlin couldn’t keep the bitterness from entering her words and she glared at the Seerin. “No one would believe me. My sister was ransomed, and I was abandoned. I do not have fond memories of my time here in Rennic.”

Seerin Krisla dropped her eyes. “No, I would imagine your memories are not good ones.” She shrugged. “But such is the lot of those whom the Goddess does not mark as wives. All women are made in her image, but not all are given the divine spark. Without this spark of magic, these women are nothing but husks, not worthy of consideration. They are only soulless beasts, but such women understand their place in the world.

“Since you are Fallucian, you lack this understanding. Perhaps on the next turn of the wheel you will be granted the boon of the Goddess’s magical spark, but only if your life during this turn is exemplary. People are allotted a place in this life based on how they have lived previously. It is easy for us to tell which ones deserve praise and which disdain.”

Her face took on a mournful cast. “But in Fallucia this truth has been forgotten. Instead, the Lords of High Places try to keep all the magic for themselves and a few of their retainers. The common people are never allowed the possibility of bettering their next life. Fallucia has lost the Wheel of the World and looks instead to the sky god you call Cheelum.

“We long ago realized that we could not save Fallucia from error. We have not the strength of numbers to overpower you. Our magic cannot overcome the Fallucian version that has become twisted from hoarding it within select families. All we Rennish can hope for is to hold enough power to be left in peace to worship the Goddess in truth.”

“How can you say this?” Anlin asked heatedly. “Fallucia has never attacked Rennic. Instead, it is Rennic that raids along our borders. Yes, magic resides most often in the Baronial families, but I am a good example that this is not always the case.”

“Yes, and the only man your family could find to mate with you was another who is bereft of magic. Is that not true?”

“No, it is not true,” said Anlin, her anger rising. But a small voice whispered that there was truth in what the Seerin said. Anlin knew she would have not been a marital prize, that she would have married some lesser noble had she not been a captive in Rennic all those years. She often wondered if it was this lack of value that had left her to her fate instead of being ransomed or rescued.

But long ago the hurt had changed to anger. “How can you say that Fallucia is twisted when the Rennish treat half their population as ‘soulless beasts,’ when you separate husbands and wives and allow only limited visitation. This is a sickness. This is a nightmare existence.” She found herself breathless. Fury beat in her veins for all that she had endured.

Seerin Krisla gave Anlin a benign smile. It was the look an indulgent mother gave a child who was throwing a tantrum. “You think our system supports a nightmare existence? Hardly. You think you are a wife, but does your husband come to you in prayerful joy or does he just desire to rut like a beast? All men will rut. It is the nature of the male.”

“As the Rennish men I’ve known have proved,” Anlin interjected with heat.

The Seerin chose to ignore her outburst. “But to join with one’s wife, to fulfill a sacred duty to provide seed for a vessel into which a magical soul can reside, this is something far different from simple rutting. From childhood, Rennish males are trained to know the difference in these activities and to act accordingly. Men are supplied slaves to use to accommodate these base instincts and to keep their seed strong for a holy mating.”

“You are sick to condone such behavior, much less to train men to behave in this manner.” Anlin knew her anger and disgust were compelling her to give opinions she should keep to herself, but she seemed unable to control her speech.

“And now that you are a Fallucian wife, is your sexual congress so different from what you experienced in Rennic? I think not.” The Seerin made her pronouncement with complete confidence of her correctness. “All rutting will produce children, but few will produce a vessel that can hold the divine spark. Such children generally come from those who are already blessed. That is why the wives live pampered lives in Ridgemere. That is why their husbands are carefully chosen. And that is why it is doubtful that any son of yours would be in this city.”

“But I was told that he was here. I was told that he was traked and was brought to Ridgemere…” Anlin felt she was swimming against a powerful current, that her words made little impression on the Seerin.

“It is true that we bring those who have a glimmering of Fallucian magic here,” Seerin Krisla said. “We do not want the odd spark scattered in our population. If this is indeed the case, your son would have been given some menial position,” she suddenly smiled, “and if so, we would probably release him to you for the appropriate amount of money. We really don’t want him. His removal to Ridgemere was a protective measure. What is your son’s name?”

The seed of hope Anlin had long nourished began to bloom. “His name is Telm. At least I called him Telm. He was taken from me while I lived in Chirlon.”

Seerin Krisla’s complacent expression vanished to be replaced with one of surprise. “Your son is Telm? No, there must be some mistake.”

“Why?” Do you know of him?”

“Of course, I know him, or, at least, I know of a boy named Telm. But I don’t believe he is your son. He has just received his first mark. The youngest of the acolytes to do so. Callip says he is destined for much power. He cannot be yours.”

“Is he about seven years old? My Telm would be that age. He has a birthmark in the shape of an oak leaf on the inside of his thigh.” Anlin prayed to whatever god might be present, Please let it be him. Please.

The Seerin shook her head. “No, I do not think that this is possible. But I would know nothing of a birthmark. The boys are under the control of the Shamans. The Telm I know is being taught by the Chief Shaman, Callip.”

“Where is he? Can I see him? I’m sure he would still know me.”

“I can only hope that this is not the case.” Seerin Krisla said. “But such a mystery needs to be unraveled for the good of our community. Callip is currently with the man you call husband, and Telm should be with him. Come!”

With surprising grace, the heavy woman stood and walked to the door. Anlin stayed right behind her.

Joy! This feeling was joy. Telm was here. It had nothing to do with what went on between men and women, regardless of how sure the Seerin was that this was the case.