Rosvita nodded sadly. “That is hope enough for me, then. Let us pray you are right.”
5
“LI-AT-DANO.”
She woke disoriented and still blind. She hadn’t meant to doze off, knowing that something moved in the darkness with her, but the lingering effect of the poison had swallowed her.
“Li-at-dano.”
The voice was female, caustic, and familiar. It came from out of the darkness but from no particular direction.
“Why am I here?” she asked. It was difficult to speak. She was desperately thirsty.
“Accident, perhaps. The favor of the gods, perhaps. Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are. Let me go free. Let me return to your son.”
“The rock that cages you is more powerful than the sorcery that runs in your veins.”
“Where am I?”
“You lie at the Heart-of-the-Mountain-of-the-World’s-Beginning. You can burn stone, I suppose, but not quickly. It will tire you. You will not work your way free of this place easily.”
“I will be dead of thirst and hunger before then. If that’s your aim.”
“It might be more effective than the snake’s poison, now that I think on it. You will find water and food against the wall.”
“Why keep me alive at all?”
“I have a use for you.”
“Show yourself.”
“I will not.”
“I could burn you!”
“If you did, you would still be trapped. You do not know the way out. Only I do.”
Liath rose, but she hadn’t the strength to keep to her feet. She left one rock shard to mark her old position and moved as quickly as she could, hoping to creep up on her enemy. She had to crawl, despite knees and hands already abused and scraped raw. It hurt to crawl, and the ache in her thigh was worse than before.
Five hundred hand paces from her starting point, she found a cache of leather vessels where there had been none before. The water was cool, and there was enough for several days, if rationed carefully. She drank first, almost weeping as she savored the touch of liquid in her parched mouth. She felt, then tasted, wedges of salty, dried fish, nibbled to test tough rounds of flatbread, and explored the oblong shape and smooth skin of a dozen sweet fruits. The softest proved easy to peel open with the edge of her rock scraper; its moist sweetness had a flavor she had never tasted before, like ambrosia, surely—the food of the gods in ancient Arethousa. She ate and drank cautiously, not sure if she would feel nauseated again, but the worst effects of the toxin had passed.
Food and drink then, enough for a hand or so of days.
Of Kansi-a-lari, whose voice had mocked her, she heard and felt no sign.
6
IVAR had been left behind with a dozen outriders to guard the horses in case the bandits slipped away from Captain Ulric and the strike force. They waited in a clearing ringed with beech trees. Faint trails of mist spun away through the forest. He gazed downslope, where oak trees encroached and bramble flourished. Beyond, at the base of the long hill, lay a fen populated by low-growing wet birch, stands of alder, and every manner of sedge and meadow grass. The captain knew better than to ride into such ground; the soldiers had gone in at dawn on foot.
Ivar and the others listened. Because of the lay of the ground, they heard the attack as if it were the peal of distant chimes: the ring of weapons clashing; a shout; a dog barking; a silence as the wind turned; and scattered shouts and noises as the wind shifted back. He blew on his hands. Sentries prowled at the edge of his sight. Two dogs snoozed on the damp ground. Above, clouds lingered, but it seemed to him that the mist was white and the heavens whiter still, as though the sun were trying to burn through.
“You’d think it’d be warmer, or that summer would come,” muttered one of the grooms, stamping his feet.
“Hey!” shouted a sentry. “It’s Erkanwulf!”
Ivar stayed aloof as the others crowded to meet the returning hero, who had blood on his cheek and a frown on his face.