The Lions of Al-Rassan. Guy Gavriel Kay

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СКАЧАТЬ ran the back of a muddy hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of grime. She turned again, already murmuring to the laboring mare in the stall. The birth of a colt on a Valledan ranch was not a matter that could be superseded. It was the cornerstone of their fortune and their lives, of their whole society, really. The Horsemen of Jad, they were called, and with reason. A moment later the woman said to be the most beautiful in Valledo was on her knees again in the straw, her hands on the mare’s belly, helping to bring another stallion of Belmonte’s breed into the world.

      She was distracted and worried, however. Not surprisingly. Diego was seldom wrong in his warnings, and almost never so when the vision had to do with trouble close to home. They had learned that, over the years.

      When he’d been younger, still a child, and these fore-knowings had begun it had been hard, even for him, to tell them apart from nightmares or childhood fears.

      Once, memorably, he had awakened screaming in the middle of the night, crying that his father was in terrible danger, threatened by ambush. Rodrigo had been campaigning in Ruenda that year, during the bitter War of the Brothers, and everyone in the ranch house had sat awake the rest of a long night watching a shivering, blank-eyed boy, waiting to see if any further visions were vouchsafed him. Just before dawn, Diego’s features had relaxed. “I was wrong,” he’d said, gazing at his mother. “They aren’t fighting yet. He’s all right. I guess it was a dream. Sorry.” He’d fallen fast asleep with the last apologetic word.

      That sort of incident didn’t happen any more. When Diego said he’d seen something, they tended to treat it as absolute truth. Years of living with a boy touched by the god would quell the skeptic in anyone. They had no idea how his visions came and they never spoke of them outside the family or the ranch. Neither his parents nor his brother had anything resembling this … this what? Gift or burden? Miranda had not, to this day, been able to decide.

      There were tales of such people. Ibero, the family cleric, who presided over services in the new chapel Rodrigo had put up even before he’d rebuilt and expanded the ranch house, had heard of them. Timewalkers, he called those with such a vision. He named Diego blessed of Jad, but the boy’s parents both knew that at different times and in different places, those visionaries had been burned, or nailed alive to wooden beams as sorcerers.

      Miranda tried to concentrate on the mare, but her calming words, for the next little while, consisted of repeated, eloquent, curses directed at her absent husband. She had no idea what he’d done this time to bring danger to the ranch while his company was quartered at Esteren and the best of the band were south in Al-Rassan.

      The boys can deal with trouble, his last letter had said breezily, after reporting a grim parting exchange with Count Gonzalez de Rada. Nothing about sending some of the soldiers to her for reinforcement. Of course not. Miranda, taught by Ibero in the first years of her marriage, prided herself on being able to read without assistance. She could also swear like a soldier. She had done so, reading that letter—to the messenger’s discomfiture. She was doing so now, more carefully, not to disturb the mare.

      Her boys were still boys, and their blithe, careless father and his men were far away.

      By Jad’s grace the foal was born healthy not long after that. Miranda waited to see if the mare accepted him, then she left the stall, grabbed an old spear propped in a corner of the stable, and hurried out into the rain to join the women and their half a dozen ranch hands on the wall-walk behind the wooden barricade.

      As it turned out, it was just the women, Ibero the cleric and lame old Rebeño the groom that she joined. Fernan had already taken the ranch hands with him outside the walls. For an ambush, one of the house women said, hesitantly. Miranda, with no precious horses nearby, permitted herself a stream of entirely unmitigated profanity. Then she swiped at her brow again and climbed the wet steps to the high walk along the western side of the wall, to watch and wait. Someone offered her a hat to keep the rain from her eyes.

      After a while she decided the spear was a waste of time, and exchanged it for a bow and a quiver full of arrows, taken from one of the six small guard shelters along the wall. There were no guards in the shelters. All the soldiers were in Esteren, or with Rodrigo.

      The boys can handle trouble, he had written. Blithely.

      She imagined seeing her husband riding home just then, emerging from the trees into the wide, grassy space before their walls. She imagined shooting him as he rode up.

      The land around the Belmonte ranch was level and open in all directions, save to the west and southwest where Rodrigo’s father and his grandfather before him had left a stand of oak and cedar undisturbed. Rodrigo hadn’t touched the trees, either, though for a different reason.

      There were holy associations with that wood, and with the pool in the midst of it, but young Fernan Belmonte had been taught by his father years ago, when he could first ride a proper horse, that the forest was deceptively useful for defense, as well.

      “Think about it,” he could remember his father saying. “If you wanted to attack this place unseen, which way would you approach?”

      Fernan had looked around at the exposed grassland stretching in all directions. “Have to come through the trees to get close,” he’d said. It was an easy answer.

      “So we can be almost certain any attack will come that way, because otherwise, if our outriders aren’t asleep, we’ll be able to observe anyone’s approach, won’t we?”

      “Or if Diego sees something,” Fernan had added, “even if they come through the woods.”

      “That’s true,” his father had agreed briefly, though not happily.

      In those early days his father and mother were still struggling to come to terms with what Diego could see and do. Fernan didn’t have any such problems, but he knew Diego best of all, of course.

      Years later, on a morning of soft, unseasonable summer rain he was with two of their friends and the six ranch hands in the twin gullies on either side of the natural exit from the woods. The gullies weren’t natural, of course. Rodrigo’s soldiers had hollowed them out in the grassy plain to make a place where they could lie unseen and watch anyone coming out of the trees.

      Fernan had four other boys with bows posted halfway between the ranch buildings and the southern pastures where the mares and foals were that morning. There were two messengers with these four, to bring word if anyone appeared from the south. A last horseman was alone east of the ranch, just in case.

      Diego, riding up breathlessly a few moments before, reported that he’d relayed instructions to their mother, who would be up on the wall, then, with the other women. She knew what to do. They were as ready as they could be. Fernan turned up his collar against the rain and sat in the gully under the wide brim of his hat, waiting.

      There were two possibilities. If someone was approaching Rancho Belmonte with ill intent, they might be coming for the ranch compound and the people inside the walls or, more likely, they were here for the horses. Or both, Fernan corrected himself. But that would mean quite a lot of men, and in that case they might actually be in trouble. He didn’t think that was the case. He wasn’t much worried, in fact. He was thirteen years old.

      “I have them,” he heard his brother say softly. “They just entered the trees. I know who this is,” Diego said.

      “De Rada?” Fernan asked calmly. “The younger one?”

      Diego nodded. They had both read their father’s last letter.

      Fernan СКАЧАТЬ