Chapter 15 – Into Canluum

felt the sharpness of new spring, when man returned to the lands where he had always known he would die. Long past the arrival of spring in more southerly lands, here trees bore the first red of new growth, and a few scattered wildflowers dotted winter-brown grass, where shadows did not cling to patches of snow, yet the pale sun offered little warmth after the south grey clouds hinted at more than rain, and a cold gusting breeze cut through his coat. Perhaps the south had softened him more than he knew. A pity, if so. He was almost home. Almost. A hundred generations had beaten the wide road nearly as hard as the stone of the surrounding hills, and little dust rose, though a steady stream of ox-carts was leaving the morning farmers' markets in Canlulam, and merchant trains of tall wagons, surrounded by mounted guards in steel caps and bits of armor, flowed toward the city's high grey walls. Here and there the chains of the Candori Merchant's Guild spanned a chest, or an artefellon wore bells in her hair, a ruby decorated this man's ear, a pearl broached this woman's breast. But for the most part the traders' clothes were as subdued as their manner. A merchant who flaunted too much profit discovered it hard to find bargains. By contrast, farmers showed off their success when they came to town. Bright embroidery decorated the striding countrymen's baggy breeches, the women's wide trousers, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. Some wore colored ribbons in their hair, or a narrow fur collar. They might have been dressed for the coming bell-time dances and feasting. Yet country folk eyed strangers as warily as any guard, eyed them and hefted spears or axes, and hurried along. Sometimes carried an edge in Kandor, maybe all along the borderlands. Bandits had sprung up like weeds this past year, and more troubles than usual out of the blight. Rumor even spoke of a man who channeled the One Power. But then rumor often did. Leading Cat Dancer toward Kanlom, Vann paid as little attention to the stairs he and his companion attracted as he did to Bukhanna's scowls and carping. For all his talk of taking a rest, the longer they had remained in the south, the grumpier Bukhanna had grown. This time his mutters were for a stone-bruised hoof that had him afoot. They did attract attention, two very tall men walking their mounts, and a pack-horse with a pair of tattered wicker hampers, their plain clothes worn and travel-stained. Their harness and weapons were well tended, though, a young man and an old, hair hanging to their shoulders and held back by a braided leather cord around the temples. The Hadori drew eyes, especially here in the Borderlands, where people had some idea what it meant. "'Fools,' Bukhanna grumbled. "'Do they think we're bandits? Do they think we mean to rob the lot of them at midday on the High Road?' He glared and shifted the sword at his hip in a way that brought considering stares from a number of merchant's guards. A stout farmer prodded his ox wide of them. Bukhanna kept silent. A certain reputation clung to Melchiore, who still wore the Hadori, though not for banditry. But reminding Bukhanna would only send him into an even blacker humor for days. His mutters shifted to the chances of a decent bed that night, of a decent meal before. Bukhanna expected little and trusted to less. Neither food nor lodging entered Land's thoughts, despite the distance they had traveled. His head kept swinging north. He remained aware of everyone around him, especially those who glanced his way more than once, aware of the jingle of harness and the creak of saddles, the clop of hooves, the snap of wagon-canvas loose on its hoops. Any sound out of place would shout at him. He remained aware, but the blight lay north. Still miles away across the hills, yet he could feel it, feel the twisted corruption. Just his imagination, but no less real for that. And it pulled at him in the south, in Kyrian and Andor, even in Tyr, almost five hundred leagues distant. Two years away from the Borderlands, his personal war abandoned for another, and every day the tug grew stronger. He should never have let Bukhanna talk him into waiting, letting the south soften him. The Aiel had helped maintain his edge. The blight meant death to most men. Death and the Shadow, in a rotting land tainted by the Dark One's breath, where anything at all could kill—an insect bite, the prick of the wrong thorn, a touch of the wrong leaf. A boat of trollocs and merdrol and worse. Two tosses of a coin had decided where to begin anew. Four nations bordered the blight, but his war covered the length of it, from the Arath Ocean to the spine of the world. One place to meet death was as good as another. He was almost home, almost back to the blight. He had been away too long. A dry moat surrounded Kanluum's wall, fifty paces wide and ten deep, spanned by five broad stone bridges with towers at either end, as tall as those that lined the wall itself. Raids out of the blight by trollocs and merdrol often struck much deeper into Kandor than Kanluum, but none had ever made it inside the city's walls. The Red Stag waved above every tower. A proud man, Lord Varyn, the High Seat of House Markasiev, Queen Atheniela did not fly so many of her own banners, even in Chachin itself. The guards at the outer towers, in helmets with Varyn's antlered crest and the Red Stag on their chests, peered into the backs of wagons before allowing them to trundle onto the bridge, or occasionally motion someone to push a hood further back. No more than a gesture was necessary. The law in every borderland forbade hiding your face inside village or town, and no one wanted to be mistaken for one of the Islas trying to sneak into the city. Hard gazes followed Len and Bukama onto the bridge. Their faces were clearly visible, and their hadore. No recognition lit any of those watching eyes, though. Two years was a long time in the Borderlands. A great many men could die in two years. Len noticed that Bukama had gone silent. Always a bad sign. Easy, Bukama. I never start trouble, the older man snapped. But he did stop fingering his sword-hilt. The guards on the wall above the open iron-plated gates and those on the bridge wore only back and breastplates for armor. Yet they were no less watchful, especially of a pair of Mokyari with their hair tied back. Bukama's mouth grew tighter at every step. A landman, Dragoran! The light preservers we heard you were dead fighting the Aiel at the Shining Walls! The exclamation came from a young guard, taller than the rest, almost as tall as Len. Young, perhaps a year or two less than he, yet the gap seemed ten years—a lifetime. The guard bowed deeply, left hand on his knee. Tyshaar Mokyr! True blood of Mokyr. I stand ready, Majesty. I am not a king, Len said quietly. Mokyr was dead. Only the war still lived—in him, at least. Bukama was not quiet. You stand ready for what, boy? The heel of his bare hand struck the guard's breastplate right over the red stag, driving the man upright and back a step. You cut your hair short and leave it unbound, Bukama spat the words. You're sworn to a Kandori lord. By what right do you claim to be Mokyr? The young man's face reddened as he floundered for answers. Other guards started toward the pair, then halted when Len let his reins fall. Only that, but they knew his name now. They eyed his bay stallion, standing still and alert behind him, almost as cautiously as they did him. A warhorse was a formidable weapon, and they could not know Catdancer was only half-trained yet. Space opened up as people already threw the gates, hurried a little distance before turning to watch, while those still on the bridge pressed back. Shouts rose in both directions from people wanting to know what was holding traffic. Bukama ignored it all, intent on the red-faced guard. He had not dropped the reins of the packhorse or his yellow-roaned gelding. There was that for a hope to walk on without blades being bared. An officer appeared from the stone guardhouse inside the gates, crested helmet under his arm, but one hand in a steel-backed gauntlet resting on his sword-hilt. A bluff, graying man with white scars on his face, Alin Seroku, had soldiered forty years along the Blight, yet his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Len. Plainly he had heard the tales of Len's death, too. The light shone upon you, Lord Bandragorn. The son of Eliana and Al'Akir, blessed be their memories, is always welcome. Seroku's eyes flickered toward Bukama, not in welcome. He planted his feet in the middle of the gateway. Five horsemen could have passed easily on either side, but he meant himself for a bar, and he was. None of the guards shifted a boot, yet every one had hand on sword-hilt. All but the young man meeting Bukama's glares with his own. —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— It was worrying. Along with regaining his own edge, he needed to find a way to sharpen Bukama's, or they might as well open their veins now.