Kill the Dead(42)

Surely when they killed the girl, they had become aware she was not a ghost? Maybe that made them more dangerous. Was it her corpse over the second horse? Supposedly, any who lived at all close to such a legend as the Ghyste, would be unreasonably wary of apparitions. Myal should have thought of that, so should Ciddey.

Ciddey....

The idea of her filled him with fright. Not because of her death by the sword, suddenly, but because—because—Could it be these madmen had been correct? Perhaps the sword was holy in some way and could effect exorcism—Myal had heard, even sung, of such things. If she had been dead.... He felt himself on the verge of passing out again, and struggled to keep hold of reality.

“Where are we going?” he asked the men, those courtly riders. The question was familiar. He had asked Dro, the morning he had had the fever, also slung over a horse, the same thing. Dro had not answered. One of the men did, in his fashion.

“It’s a surprise. Excited?”

The horse bounced over a gap in the ground. Myal slid, the instrument slammed him in the spine and the animal’s withers slammed him in the face.

He cursed the instrument with hysterical relief that it was still with him.

Everything else was horrifying and Myal was helpless. He might as well pass out again, there was nothing he could do. The colourless bag swung up once more and he rolled over into it.

“No,” someone said.

Myal’s head was wrenched around. A black fiery juice trickled into his mouth. He swallowed, gagged, swallowed. The horses were static. There was an undeniable sense of arrival. Somewhere.

Myal opened his eyes.

He could not see very far, or very much, from his sideways face-down position, but they seemed to be on some kind of bridge or causeway. Beyond lay open night, towers and turrets of forest shearing away. Forward, there was light.

One of the men bent over Myal, obscuring the limited view completely.

“No, you mustn’t faint anymore.”

“Sorry,” muttered Myal.

“We want you to ride in proudly. There’s no pride for us having caught you if you snivel and swoon and sprawl all over the horse like a bundle of washing.”

“No, I can see that.”

“If you’re good, we’ll let you sit upright.”

“And when we get through the gate, you could shout and thrash about a bit,” said another, smoothly. “The notion being that you’re brave, and furious at capture. Do you see?”

“Then we’ll cuff you, beat you into submission. It’ll look fine. So will you.”

“I’d rather—” said Myal. A voice cut him short.

“I’ve a better idea,” said the voice.

He could not twist his head any farther, could not see. Then he no longer needed to.

“Well,” said the bending man, “what’s your idea, Ciddey?”

“My idea,” said the voice of Ciddey, “is that I rope him about the neck with a ribbon, and lead him in that way. You can follow.”

The men laughed. The laugh was dark and menacing.

“You’re bold, for a newcomer,” said one.

Ciddey did not laugh. She slipped from the second horse. She walked to where Myal lay, his head turned painfully to stare at her.

“What a pity, though,” she said, “I don’t seem to have a ribbon.”

Suddenly the bonds that held Myal to the horse’s neck gave way, untied or cut by one of the men. Myal lay, with his arms dangling, till one of the others pulled him upright.

“Are you bewildered, Myal Lemyal?” asked Ciddey Soban. She put her hand on his thigh. Her hand was cold as winter snow. “They didn’t kill me. It was a test. They do kill. But not—a friend.”

Then Myal looked ahead.

He saw the sloping crenellated walls, the sturdy gates, the light of lamps that overpowered the light of the stars and phantomised the moon. And far below, he made out the inner rim of a colossal water. Though from this vantage he could see only two of its starlike raying channels.

One of the men slapped him on the arm, a hard freezing slap. Myal knew it all by then. He did not need them to say to him, one by one, most courteously, “Welcome to Tulotef.”

After an interval of oblivion, Parl Dro opened his eyes.

He had told Myal to wake him after three hours, but Dro had not reckoned Myal would last so long. Dro’s inner clock roused him accordingly.

He woke silently and stilly, fully alert within seconds. Not yet moving, he let his eyes seek over the ridge. He had registered immediately that the musician was absent, but that the instrument remained, propped by a tree, trailing its sling like a frayed embroidered tail. Dro might have assumed Myal had stolen off for the usual private purpose of nature, save that, to Dro, the whole area seemed imperceptibly to sing and glow, as if some kind of mineral had fallen from the sky.