by Ru Emerson
“Full sunlight on that pool, you'd never get near them, even if any were there.” Golsat grinned delightedly and clapped his companion on the back.
“You learn! Slowly, but you do learn! Come then—you choose the place, and we shall see! There are interesting kinds of fish in these high places, I find. Always a little different. Lady,” he added formally as Lisabetha returned to camp to drop her boots, “you might come with us. There are plenty of reeds along the banks for your satchels. Hmm?” Lisabetha looked at him in surprise. Golsat, more so than the rest of the men, seldom spoke directly to her.
“Me?”
Golsat smiled deprecatingly, shrugged. “I could use a net to carry the fish.” Brelian stood a little to the side, unmoving, scarcely breathing. Golsat, no, if she does—if she did. He could feel the color mounting his face. “Of course, if you have another thing to do—”
Lisabetha capitulated with sudden grace. “Why for not, Golsat? I won't try your game with the fish, if it is all the same.” Golsat bowed in reply, a sweeping, formal Teshmoran gesture that lacked only the plumed cap. She, Ylia and Brelian stared.
“After you, then, my Lady.”
“Nonsense! ‘My Lady’ indeed!” Lisabetha laughed. “You call her Ylia, and she's your Queen!”
“As you please, then, ‘Betha. After you.” he caught the startled Brelian by one shoulder and propelled him forward, immediately after the unsuspecting girl. That done, he turned, winked gravely, and hurried to catch up to them. The three vanished downstream. Ylia gaped after them.
A low chuckle brought her around: Malaeth had seen it all and was enjoying herself immensely. “He'll have them pledged before sundown, see if he doesn't! That man,” she laughed, “has all the wiles of a Narran card-reader!”
The sun was sliding down from midday when the fishing party returned: Golsat came first, four long, red-speckled trouts wrapped in his jerkin in place of a carry-net. Lisabetha and Brelian wandered in over an hour later, hand in hand, totally engrossed in each other.
Second day. Marhan and Levren had the good fortune to fell a deer. Having given the company a welcome change from bird and rabbit and also having assured full packs when they set out once more, they left further hunting to Golsat and Brendan and turned to repair, to cleaning and mending their few weapons, and lastly, surprisingly in Marhan's case, to working with Lisabetha and Malaeth, trying to give them at least a little self-protection. Marhan dressed the older woman a long staff that would aid her in walking; also, it could be used as a weapon and she could at least hold a single attacker at a distance, as she was willing to attempt the simple Koderran striking maneuvers he showed her.
Lisabetha had had a little bow-training from her brother and his friends when she was younger; it was, of course, not enough that she could be entrusted with Levren's few precious arrows, even if she could have bent his bow. But she showed a quickness with sword that surprised all of them. Unfortunately—again—there was only one light sword, and that was Ylia's.
But it was a thought to save for a later time, and Ylia promised herself to remember after they reached the Caves. In the meantime, Golsat gave her his long Northern dagger, set the Mathkkra knife in its place. With this weapon—the blade was nearly forearm length—Lisabetha proved astonishingly deft, at least in practice. But she had, also, other protection.
As Brelian learned when he offered, half-jokingly, to teach her Teshmoran wrestling skills, a form of fighting using kicks and throws, rather than the Koderran style involving fists and open-handed striking. He was flat on his back almost before he finished speaking, Lisabetha's knee against his throat, her hand wrapped hard in his hair. It was some time before he could stop laughing long enough to cry quarter. Lisabetha moved gravely aside, held out a hand to help him sit.
“You cannot have forgotten the last time I threw you, upon the ledges,” she said soberly, but her eyes were merry.
“So I had, but never again,” Brelian assured her. He was still laughing. “When did you learn all that?”
“I had, I thought, lost most of it. Gors taught me a few years ago; he and Galdan—you know, Erken's son.”
“Oh. I'd forgotten him. He's something older, of course. A good man, but odd, too, if he taught you wrestling.”
“If—oh. Because I'm a girl. Erken is terrible, isn't he? Worse than Marhan. ‘Maidens'—” He says the word as though it were, oh, dragons, or some other mythical being. And he has narrow ideas, to say no more, of how the nobles should be—”
“Well, from what I remember, his son certainly never—”
“Not like that. Erken isn't a snob, like he'd just earned his rank. You know that kind.” Brelian nodded. “It's the responsibilities, how the people expect their rulers to be—I express it badly.”
“No. I understand. I think. Anyway, I was enough younger I didn't have much to do with Galdan. And then when he left Teshmor—”
“I remember that well enough.” Brendan had been sitting in the shade polishing his dagger, rather owlishly watching his brother and Lisabetha. “A good fighting man, as good as I.” But when Ylia glanced at him, he winked. “Went to Yls, didn't he, Brel?”
“Don't know, brother. They said also Nar, that he was aiding the traders against the Sea-Raiders. No one knows for certain except Erken, because Galdan simply—went.”
The dagger slipped unnoticed to the grass; Brendan was studying his fingers. “At least one of them is alive.” That so quietly only Ylia heard him. She moved to his side as Brelian slipped a finger under Lisabetha's chin.
“I have it, dear Lady,” he said solemnly. “I shall disarm those we fight, and you can throw them and sit on them!” They were still laughing as they wandered back toward camp.
Ylia laid a hand on Brendan's arm; his pain and grief were suddenly so strong she could not bear it. “Brendan—Bren, my friend. Do not think on it, that way lies madness. Stop it!”
He shook his head sharply, but the brooding look was still in his eyes as he looked up. “How do you not think? My mother, my brothers. My little sister, she had only four summers.” He turned away again. “How do you stop thinking?”
“Force it away,” she urged. “Grieve, weep if you can. Shout, throw things! But do not brood that way! You cannot take their pain, Brendan; do not even try! You imagine too much; do not! You must not!” She pushed onto her knees, moved around to face him again, took his shoulders hard between her hands. “I have a loss like yours, Bren; I know what I am speaking of. Grieve, but do not imagine what pain they suffered, how they might have died. It does no good, to them or to you. And we need you, Brendan.” She sat back on her heels, let her hands fall to her lap. There was a long silence.
Brendan looked up again, then, and some of the terrible blackness was gone from his eyes. “One forgets. You lost. Lisabetha ... We all did. Family, friends, arms-mates.” He studied her face. “You know—there is more to you, Ylia of Koderra, than is readily apparent. Do you realize that?”
She shrugged, abashed by this sudden, personal turn to the conversation. Well, you invited it, speaking to him like that, didn't you? “There is more to you than meets the eye, Brendan.”
“Oh?”
“I thought of you as—well, at the first, as a swordsman. A good one, of course. But—well—” She fumbled, embarrassed, to a halt.
“Say it. Go ahead.” With another sudden change of mood, he smiled warmly, the smile crinkling his eyes. How comely he is; she flushed, turned hastily away. “A narrow-visioned and shallow fighting man,” Brendan went on, mockingly, “whose only thought revolves around his blades, the Midwinter-Fest crossings—which of course he would win—and ale with his mates. And wenching. A man without humor.” Ylia shook her head. “All true, unfortunately.”
“No,” she protested. “I mean—well—there is that to you, but there is a side you conceal, Bren. You are perceptive, though you hide it. You are a warm man. And a kind one, under your hero's armor. Capable of reason and deep thought when it is least e
xpected.”
He laughed quietly, laid a hand briefly across hers. “One might say as much of you, of course. Nedao's Lady Princess, who shocks the villages and the city matrons with her man's clothing and man's weapons. Who wields well on the practice floor but is unlikely to use her skills against enemy, whose blades are unblooded and likely to stay so. Figurehead. Not a true fighter. Ylia the Unreachable, for it is hard to speak with her, for shyness or coldness of being, who can say? An oddity. And when she becomes Queen, she will wed by the council's choosing and her sword will rust away while she provides Nedao with heirs. Which,” he added, his color suddenly high, “by the look of her, will be many.”
“Hah!” she retorted. And then, curiously: “They can't really say—all that of me?”
Brendan laughed. “Some. Not everyone, of course. But those who went to the alehouse with me, or—uh, the other places we went—”
“Manazena's house. I know of it.” He glanced at her, surprised. A king's heir, particularly female, shouldn't know about such places. Particularly, he thought in some confusion, this one.
“I—uh—well, we were young and mostly non-Koderran. Few of us had ever really spoken with you. And you were a novelty.”
“I daresay,” she said dryly.
“Well, you were,” Brendan insisted. “And, of course, it has been lifetimes since Nedao had any swordswomen at all: Leffna, of course. A few since. Not many in five hundred years.”
“You could count Hrusetta, who ran from her father's holdings outside Teshmor to join the Sea-Raiders.”
He waved the legendary Hrusetta aside. “There is more to you than that!”
“I like to think there is.” She shifted so she could pull her knees up and rest her chin on them. “Odd, how wrong a first impression can be.”
“It is. And I would—” Brendan leaned forward, his eyes warm. A call from the fire brought him around.
“Bren!” Brelian waved a demanding arm. “Lev needs you, now!”
“—well—”
“Go on. We'll—talk later.” He gripped her hand, jumped to his feet. She resisted an urge to turn and watch him; got to her own feet and walked firmly and swiftly in the opposite direction: Cresses for the evening meal, that was what was needed. Perhaps mint, if it could be found; possibly more plantain, though Malaeth had picked that over fairly well near to camp. Chickory, maybe, or yarrow. There were things to be done, no time to waste.
Nisana came in search of her a short while later, however, and the plants went ungathered. The cat was in an uneasy mood, and nothing would do but that they immediately explore Ylia's new uses of the Power, test its extent. ‘And there is much you need to relearn,’ she added sharply. ‘You have grown sloppy, you waste strength. You overspent by at least half again when you healed Brelian.’
“I was less concerned with that than saving his life,” Ylia retorted. “And you were asleep.”
'Next time there might be more than one of us badly hurt.’ Nisana regarded her with impatient green eyes. ‘It felt good, didn't it? The backlash of Power after the healing was completed? I aided your mother often enough, though I cannot heal myself. If you need to aid more than one, there is no backlash. Only the draining.’
“You know full well—”
'I do not criticise, you did well. But you must learn to hoard your strength, however much you have. Look what I wasted when I shape-changed! And how much use was I for the rest of that night?’ She became brisk, all business. ‘Now, what have you done with this, have you tried the far vision yet? And use mind-speech, please. Even that needs practice, you know that.’
'Well—’
'Well?’
'Since—no.’
'You must use it, if you have it. It is a great deal of trouble to me, and the touch works as well. And I can sense at greater distances than I can see. That holds true for most of us. But there are times when I find only the vision will do. And you are human, which makes it different. Try!’
Ylia closed her eyes obediently. Nisana's thought rumbled through her head. ‘Yes—more strength than that to start. And yes, go ahead, close your eyes if you must, if you find yourself distracted. Later, of course—however! Now. Have you a goal in mind? Then reach—no, not from there, from there, and not so much of your strength as that!’
'Less and I cannot use it at all!’ she complained. The cat butted her arm, hard.
'Have you the feel of the inner place? No, not there, either, no wonder you are so wasteful—’ And then, crossly, ‘Very well, try it that way!’
She did—and, suddenly, she had it. They sat, she and the cat, beneath the trees in a sheltered glade of aspen near the western edge of the valley, but she seemed to stand at the same moment in the midst of the camp: there, Brelian and Lisabetha scraping at the deer hide together and giggling, Marhan and Levren turning strips of meat over the fire so it would dry evenly. Brendan, toying with his dagger and looking about, rather casually, as though he had misplaced something and would prefer to find it without calling attention to himself.
'Now,’ Nisana commanded, ‘less. No, do not argue again, just try it! You see?’ Not as much of a drain, and yet it held. Less—less again. Finally the whole blurred, darkened. She opened her eyes to find Nisana glaring at her accusingly. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
'My first try—!’
'Not good enough,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Again!’
No good arguing with Nisana, particularly when she taught. She closed her eyes obediently, tried again. The sun was nearly down when the cat finally allowed her to quit, and the grove was in shadow.
'Your command of the Baelfyr is good. The healing—I think you will have no trouble, if you learn to pace yourself, to remember what else you must do that will require the strengths. Your far vision—acceptable. Possibly better than my own, since you are human.’ Grudging, but then Nisana was never free with praise.
'Bridging, now,’ she went on. ‘Have you ever tried that?’
Ylia shook her head. ‘No. Mother made me try once. I don't think I can.’
'You could not heal then, either,’ the cat reminded her tartly. ‘One last thing, then, and we will truly be finished. Try it. It is—no, not like that, bridging comes from here! I—join! Now—pay close heed, it works—like this!’ There was a nasty, falling sensation in the pit of Ylia's stomach, as though she looked from the very unprotected edge of Koderra's highest tower. In that instant, they moved from the aspen grove to the middle of the meadow, thirty or more lengths away. Almost before Ylia could realize they had moved, Nisana bridged them back again. Oh gods and Mothers, stop, I'll be ill—she fought rising sickness, swallowed rapidly. The nausea receded.
'You try it, now.’ If Nisana was aware of her reaction, she didn't show it.
'No. I can't.’
'It is not—’
'No. I cannot, please, Nisana. I—and do not tell me,’ she added fiercely, ‘how easily you can. I won't do it!’
'You are afraid.’ Nisana was deliberately contemptuous. She's seeking to goad me into trying it again, and I can't, I can't! Frightened? Yes, she was that. Bridging was worse than the worst of heights she had ever faced.
'If you—’
'All right, I'll try! But—’ She sought the inner place where the bridging came from and fixed a destination—nearer than the one Nisana had chosen—firmly in mind. Nothing. Again, harder. She fell forward, sheltering her forehead against her shins. Her brow was slick with sweat.
'No. I cannot. Look, read me if you don't believe what I tell you.’
The cat's delicate, apologetic joining brushed against her inner being. ‘Odd. I have never seen such a thing, that it makes you ill. Forebear then. But—if you can, try it now and again. You may be glad one day you did.’
'That had better not be foresight,’ Ylia replied caustically. Her stomach hurt and her hands shook. She stuffed them between her thighs, clamped them tight. Nisana rubbed against her, leaped up the ridge to hunt.
Y
lia's gaze followed, but she lost her almost immediately in the dusk. The sky already was that velvety dark blue that holds in the high places after sunset. The air was pleasantly, rather surprisingly warm; the wind had died away, at least for the moment. She leaned back, gazed across the intervening meadow to the campfire and the shadows of her friends.
One of these detached itself after a while, started across the open ground. Brendan. Brendan beyond doubt. She stood and moved out of the grove so that he might see her, for she was suddenly certain she was the object of his search.
It was Bergony who first permitted the Osneran Chosen—with their narrow, hide-bound religion—to inhabit the King's old summer dwelling within the foothills, halfway between Koderra and Teshmor, in exchange for their writing skills. For it was Bergony's fondest hope that he would be remembered in Nedao as the King who brought literacy to his common folk and who caused the oral traditions to be set down. Foolish to wonder if he would have permitted the Chosen their foothold if he had known his eldest son would wed one whom the priests term witch—and that their daughter would carry—again, for the Chosen—that same curse. Then again, the Chosen in Nedao are a small, if vocal, cult. Even among the folk of the North, where the religion is strongest, few would deny their well-loved Ylia her place.
19
“I thought I might find you here—I saw the cat leave you a short while since.” He hesitated. “I—I hope you did not remain for solitude, since I have broken it.”
“No. Nisana was helping me—giving me instruction, really. But we are long since done.”
“Instruction?” He dropped down to sit cross-legged on the turf. Near, he decided, but not near enough to be considered forward. She could see him, of course—magic, he whispered to himself and wondered a little. In all his life, he'd never seen magic, scarcely thought of it. And these past days, he'd seen little else.