white spring (eithne)
It was an impossible thing to describe.
The mountain rose up, angry and powerful, against the gods themselves. You could not believe that so much here could be green. Yet there was moss on the boulders that broke the goat-path. Grass, and shrubs. A smattering of evergreens here and there. Never more than a fistful. The deep lines of snow still stretched out in funnels that the spring thaws had carved over a thousand years. They would be streams, these packs of snow and ice, but today they looked like nothing if not the fingers of an otherwise-invisible god. Stretched out from the heavens to beat back the mountain's advance. That was how the story went. Eragos could almost see the wizened old man who told the story every year. Dancing atop that very mountain. As though its strength were in evidence to anyone who cared to look. He'd cackled, too, to scandalize the aunties and amuse the children.
"It's bloody cold," someone muttered.
"This is spring," Eragos laughed behind his mask.
There were three others collected behind him. Eithne, of course, as she always was - shrouded in fur and huddled against herself for warmth, glaring balefully at the entire mountain as though it owed her a month's wages. When she noticed him looking, over his shoulder, she stuck out her tongue at him. Childish. Yet she was not the speaker. There were two other ladies with them. One was a White Rider, Covas, who'd recently gained the right to not walk every-bloody-where - she was the one who saw fit to complain. The other was Lady Areinh, a cousin of the House of Beit-Sad'r. She was a well-known cousin, and she'd made much of her own wealth. In agriculture. She was the reason they were here today. And finally Vargis earned himself a kick in the calf - the Rider did not move so much as an inch, yet Eragos was certain the old man had been asleep in the saddle. Again.
On purpose.
"Some find the mountain air refreshing," Lady Areinh's voice was melodious in the extreme; silver chimes did not have so lovely a sound. "You should count yourself fortunate, Rider Covas, to be given this opportunity for convalescence. You could be riding hard after bandits this very moment."
"She might well be, if you keep flapping your lips," Vargis grunted.
"I'm sorry?" the lady replied archly.
"I said your mare seems well-trained," Vargis spoke too loudly, now.
They were here because bandits had been raiding the villages northwest of Oisea, and the army had been taking its time moving out of the North Tower. It was likely a small band that could escape halfhearted army attention for some time. Everyone knew the rumors about Lady Areinh - that she was more interested in money than in power but only a hair more. That she was as ambitious as any woman had ever been in the house of Beit-Sad'r. That she had scheduled a trip into these mountains for a purpose other than an agricultural swap-meet. All Eragos knew of the situation was that Agrippa had seemed very angry, indeed, upon giving him this assignment. Some suggested that Areinh had investments in the mountain. Some suggested that she'd put herself - a relatively well-known lady - in harm's way so that her cousin Fathi would request some sort of escort.
Apparently, that request had fallen hard on the shoulders of Conlan Agrippa.
What sort of businesss interests would compel a lady of Areinh's apparently icy reserve to put herself in harm's way? Or perhaps that was the very reason for this trip. Her icy reserve had led to a hard scolding of Vargis for his repeated inability to allow the women to bathe first on their trip. Or to allow the Lady Areinh to lead the table in prayer when the time was right. She did not require that anyone joined in, thankfully - Eragos did not want his own ears burning as his name was cursed, over and over again, in the flowery language only a born noble could produce. If it bothered Vargis, he gave no sign. He merely smiled wider at every opportunity. The antagonistic attitude was yet another thing in a list of them that Eragos had little patience for. Most of it evaporated when he considered where he was.
The mountain would have been a foothill in the range of his youth. Yet it was high enough that culturally, these villagers would be cut off from the doings of the plains-dwellers. There was a sort of honesty among men who climbed mountains in search of deer or boar. The next handhold could release you to your death. You had to be blunt and honest in such circumstances. Cowardice was rare among men such as these, and honesty far more common. Eragos was glad to see the sights of his youth returned - and the simple strength of the men with whom he was most comfortable. Vargis had laughingly asked if Eragos treasured the women so much - but a mountaineer's daughter was his most cherished loved one. Taking advantage was a good way to find yourself beaten to death with an axe-handle. Which was not the reason they'd come to this place.
He'd let Vargis discover that for himself.
"Rider Feareborne," the lady abandoned her attempt to speak with Vargis. "Surely something can be done about your companion."
"Regrettably, no, Lady Areinh," he answered quietly.
"A tragedy," she intoned.
Just the feel of the air racing through stone channels as it buffeted their persons was enough to make him feel excitement. Slipping over stone handholds with his brother close behind had been a fond memory. Shaking sticks at the tribesmen who menaced them with slings had been equally appealing - to see which of the tribesmen was bold enough to use those slings, and to see which of the young squires could avoid their projectiles. Eragos had seen his record shattered by a youth two years his senior, who'd found himself drinking half a cask of temple wine and dancing in front of the entire tribe. They'd struggled all night to hit him, and then gone home exhausted. It was, some had joked, the worst defeat the tribe had ever suffered. Eragos wished he could remember the boy's name. Nel. Nal. Something along those lines. He'd been lashed by the priests upon returning home, and not without cause.