Taking Flight

Chapter Eighteen

“Maybe it was her mother,” Asha suggested, “or her grandmother.”

Ezdral shook his head.

“But Irith is only fifteen,” Kelder pointed out. The thought that his intended bride was not just a Tintallionese runaway who had visited Shan as a child was deeply disturbing; the idea of his own Irith roaming the Small Kingdoms with another man, before Kelder had even been born, was intolerable, and he was groping for a way to deny it.

“Oh, yes,” Ezdral agreed, “she’s always been fifteen.”

Kelder sat back and considered that, and considered Ezdral, as well.

He looked every day of his claimed sixty-two years, and then some — his hair and beard were long, white, thinning, and uncombed; his face was rough and lined, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. His lips were a pale, unhealthy color, his skin yellowish. He wore a tunic that hung loose on his sunken chest; the garment had once been brown, but was now blotched, stained, and faded, so that it was black here, grey there, and a washed-out tan elsewhere. His breeches were tanned leather, with large shiny patches on the knees — and probably, Kelder guessed, on the backside as well. They ended in tatters just below the knee, and from there down, his legs and feet were bare.

His hands were thin and bony, and stayed curled and claw-like at all times, apparently involuntarily; the nails were cracked and blackened, the hairs on the back white and wirelike. When he lifted a hand to gesture, it shook. His wrists were bone and tendon and loose skin, with no fat at all, no muscle tone. He wore no ornaments of any kind, and his garments had no trim or embroidery and were of the plainest possible cut — not only were they decrepit, they hadn’t been much to start with. His belt was a twisted strip of rawhide, with a single pouch hung on it, a drawstring bag about the size of Asha’s head.

It was very hard to imagine him as a strong young man, adventuring with Irith.

On the other hand, why would he have made up such a tale? And he spoke with an unquestionable sincerity.

But it couldn’t be the same Irith as the one Kelder meant to wed. “Her grandmother, it must have been,” he said.

Ezdral shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s magic, remember?”

“She’s only fifteen,” Kelder repeated.

Even as he said it, though, he was remembering all the puzzles and peculiarities about Irith — how she claimed to have done so much since leaving her apprenticeship, even though that couldn’t be more than a year or two; how she remembered an inn in Shan that had obviously been abandoned for years; all the other references to times and places and doings that she could scarcely have fit into fifteen years. The Tintallionese theory didn’t explain it all; in fact, it hardly explained any of it, really.

If she were actually sixty or seventy years old, her youth and beauty magically preserved, that would explain it.

But it wouldn’t explain her, Kelder thought. It wouldn’t explain the person that Irith was.

Kelder liked to think of himself as grown up, not a kid any more; compared to a few years ago, he was grown up. Realistically, though, he knew he was hardly a mature adult. It wasn’t a matter of size or strength, of gray hair or wrinkles — adults acted differently, presumably because they had learned better, had been changed by experience.

But Irith didn’t.

Irith acted like a girl of fifteen. And it wasn’t just acting, like players in the annual pageant taking the roles of ancient heroes — she was a girl of fifteen.

But how could she be?

It didn’t make sense. There was all this evidence that she was far older than she looked — her own stories about what she’d done, and everything Ezdral said, and the fact that she was known to people all along the Great Highway — and then there was an equal amount of evidence, in her appearance and behavior, that she was just what she claimed to be, a girl of fifteen.

Kelder couldn’t make the two possibilities resolve themselves.

Irith would be able to settle the matter, of course — if she ever came back, or when he found her again. He looked up at the southern sky, but could see no trace of her.

He knew he would marry her anyway, but this — this changed things, somehow.

“I guess I believe you,” Kelder said. “Maybe it is the same girl. But it doesn’t really matter, since she’s gone now.” He knew he would find her again, but there was no reason to think Ezdral or Asha would.

Ezdral looked up, and said hopefully, “She might come back, though — she likes you, I saw that she likes you.”

Kelder shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “At least, not while you’re here. She’s scared of you.”

“But I’m nothing to be afraid of!” Ezdral wailed.

Kelder shrugged.

“You do look scary,” Asha said. “Your beard goes all over, and your hands look nasty, and you’re all dirty, and you smell of wine, or oushka, or something.”

Ezdral looked down at himself.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. He looked up again, first at Kelder, then at Asha. “Are you two going to wait here for her to come back? Maybe I could get cleaned up, and then come back here and meet you?..”

“No, no,” Kelder said quickly. “We can’t stay. We’ve got a very important errand to run, back in Angarossa — we need to hold a funeral for Asha’s brother.”

“Oh,” Ezdral said.

“We should get going,” Asha suggested, with a meaningful glance at Kelder.

Kelder knew what she meant — that they should get away from this crazy old man as quickly as possible. He felt something of the same urge himself.

For one thing, he wanted Irith back, and as he had just told Ezdral, she wouldn’t be coming back while the old man was there.

“You’re right,” he said, getting to his feet and picking up his pack. “Come on.” He turned to Ezdral and said, “Have a safe journey back to Shan, and I hope you find your Irith someday.”

As long, he thought, as Ezdral’s Irith was not Kelder’s Irith.

Ezdral leaned forward on his hands, struggling to rise. “I’m not going back to Shan,” he said. “She’s not going to go to Shan again for years, after this. I’ll have to go looking for her elsewhere.”

“Oh,” Kelder said, a bit disconcerted. “Well, good luck, then.” He took Asha by the hand and started walking, southward across the trackless sands, toward the cliffs that he knew lay just below the horizon.

A moment later he realized that Ezdral was following them. He started to turn and protest, and then stopped.

What could he say? After all, the man had a right to walk on the same sand as everybody else. As long as he stayed out of reach, what harm could he do? And what could Kelder do to stop him?

“You know,” Ezdral called out, “I’d love to talk to you two about Irith. What have you done together with her? Where have you been? Do you have any idea where she might be?”

At first Kelder ignored this, but as they walked on Ezdral kept up an intermittent barrage of questions, shouted across the intervening five-yard distance.

“Come on,” Kelder told Asha, “hurry up; if we move fast enough he won’t be able to keep up, he’s a sick old man.”

Asha nodded, and hurried, but it did no good. Kelder by himself could easily have outdistanced Ezdral, but Asha was only nine, and small for her age — she didn’t have the long legs or the stamina to keep up with Kelder’s pace when he hurried.