Free The Horse Lord by Peter Morwood Page B

returning to his mind—frightening. “Frightening,” he said aloud, as if hearing the word would change its meaning.
    “Who is?” asked Aldric from the door.
    He had found a clean white shirt and breeches somewhere and there was a towel in one hand. With his short, wet hair and a face freshly shaven smooth, he looked so young that Gemmel’s chosen word seemed more out of place than ever.
    “I was thinking,” the wizard said. Aldric relaxed in a chair by the fire and picked at a loose thread in the towel.
    “So was I.” He hesitated, watching unobtrusively through the lashes of half-closed, seemingly sleepy eyes. The fireglow carved deep trenches in Gemmel’s face, giving him an eldritch appearance. That strange expression had returned; echoes of recognition and regret, all mingled with a bitter memory of loss. It was enough to make Aldric sure his half-formed guess approached the truth. “You knew someone—a long time ago—who looked like me. Or I like him. And he died. A friend? Maybe a relative…” What flickered on the old enchanter’s features then had nothing to do with firelight, and with an inward wince of sick embarrassment Aldric bit his tongue before it did more hurt. “I—I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.
    The sorcerer stared at him, wishing he was more stupid or at least less forthright. More like Ernol. At least the Alban was in his own country; he could never—and Gemmel hoped would never—know what it was like to live down the long years, to walk through a crowded city, to exchange friendly words and yet be alone—always, eternally alone. And now this boy with his dead son’s face; surely it was some cruel joke perpetrated by an ironic fate. Gemmel regained his composure with an effort and twisted thin lips into a thin smile. “No matter,” he said. “I was miles—years—away.” Aldric inclined his head in polite acknowledgment that the subject was now closed.
    “You started to say something when we were at table, then decided it was best left till later,” he said, “this is ‘later.’”
    “Very well.” Gemmel leaned back and steepled his fingers, staring intently at their nails for a few seconds. “Recall your last boar-hunt—in as much detail as you can, but without speaking.” Aldric gazed into the shifting embers of the fire and let his memory work. He sat like that for some minutes, hardly seeming to breathe, then straightened and blinked several times.
    “Now what?”
    “There was a spell on that valley to keep animals out, as you know. It wasn’t to preserve the honoured dead from scavengers but to prevent anything being killed there. Blood is the catalyst for many powerful forms of magic. The wizard who cast that spell must have suspected that the spilling of blood would have some terrible consequence. As you must guess now, he was right. You can blame Duergar for that.”
    “Duergar… ? But what had he—”
    “You have shown yourself to have intelligence, boy. Use it!” That flash of irritation was a warning which Aldric judged it wise to heed. He sat up straighter and prepared to make sensible remarks. Remarks for which he wasn’t asked. “You shot a wolf. Did you really fail to notice which leg you hit—or which leg Duergar Va-thach was limping on… ? He’s wily, that one; he should really have taken the shape of a fox, it would have suited him better.”
    “You
know
that bastard?” The young
kailin’s
voice was incredulous.
    “We… met once. In a professional capacity. I didn’t like him then either. Agents of the Empire always make my skin crawl.”
    “What is an Imperial agent doing in Alba, or is that obvious too?” Aldric bit off the words, hoping Gemmel would snap at him again and give him a really good excuse to lose his temper. The boy was seething inside, as much with a feeling of helplessness as anything else. At mention of the Drusalan Empire his own hopes and aspirations began to look very small. Seek to be revenged on that