by Ru Emerson
The valley was a short one, and before the air began to warm, the company was among the trees, starting up a narrow rift close to one of the streams which flowed into the lake. Over the years, it had cut through solid rock to a depth of many lengths, carving it as a sculptor works soft wood, and through this tortuous, moss-covered stony canyon the water boiled a deep, clear green, frothed with white. They stayed clear of the rock whenever possible, since it was scoured smooth at best, treacherous where spray from the depths had made it wet.
Perhaps an hour's slow, cautious climb brought them out into level forest: dusty, dead pine needles covered the ground. Here and there a low, scraggly bush, light-starved and dry looking. Mushrooms projected from tree trunks near the ground or pushed up through the mold of the forest floor. The trees towered, cutting off most of the sunlight. Fallen, rotting logs were numerous, making straight travel difficult.
Once again, they were dependent on Golsat's wonderful sense of direction, for often there was not even a ray of sun slanting through the trees to show which way they went. It was still: they could hear the creek long after they moved away from it, now and again the harsh chattering of squirrels, the distant chirp of birds from high above, the whisper of wind through the distant tree tops.
Gradually the tall, dry forest shaded into cedar; by mid-afternoon they were surrounded by the stately, red-barked trees. The ground was thick with fern and berry bushes with flat, furred leaves. Blow and again, a long branch of wildflower reared its delicate lavender head above thickets of fern; more than once a cloak snagged on thorns. Here they went straight through the undergrowth, holding to Golsat's instinct.
Throughout the day, Ylia held rearguard with Brendan. “Bren, this is between us.” She had argued with herself for days; finally, at long last, persuaded herself to speak. “There may be danger. Lisabetha has foreseen it.”
He frowned. The message took several moments to sink in. Then: “Lisabetha?” His eyes went wide.
“Lisabetha. Do not let her know I told you of it.”
“But—” He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, abandoned whatever thought he had. Thought again. “Danger. No more?”
“That there is Power in it. Be on your guard.”
“I am with Marhan,” Brendan said gloomily. “I want an honest enemy, who carries weapons like my own, and when I fight him, that is all he has to point at me. And when I slay him, he is dead and stays there!”
“I would prefer none, if I could choose,” Ylia retorted.
He laughed at that, held out a twist of jerky. She worried the end off it with her teeth, offered her water bottle. He caught at her fingers, carried them to his lips, held them against his cheek. “We are warned; at least there is that. That is more than a warrior dare ask, isn't it?”
“So it is. And we shall win out again, if we are beset.” He smiled. They stretched out their pace to catch up with the others.
They descended from the trees near the halfway point of a long lake late in the afternoon, camped near its gravelly shore and were on their way at first light.
A second night; a third. They made dry camps well after dark, stopping only when footing actually became hazardous, for Marhan was becoming impatient with their slow pace and wished to press for as much distance a day as he could. He got little argument; the company was becoming nervous with thought of the long journey still before them, increasingly uncertain of what they would find at its end. There was wind, the air was chill and the sun hid behind clouds two days running, but they slept warmly both nights: the first in a thicket, the second in a shallow cave.
Nisana kept her own counsel for the most part, making such searches as she felt necessary, though on one or two occasions she held Ylia to aiding her with the far vision so as to strengthen the swordswoman's use of it. Twice they sensed the Fear, but at a great distance. Beyond that, only those animals native to the Foessa.
'Perhaps the girl dreamed false,’ the cat grumbled. It was late in the third day, and she had been restless for most of the afternoon, twisting and moving around in her pouch.
'Do you really believe that?’
'I would rather. Then it would be that I sense nothing because there is nothing to sense! As it is—I cannot tell. Huh. Let it go at that.’
Ylia reached under her cloak to rub the thick fur. ‘So I shall, cat. Because if something is there to be sensed, you will know it, my Nisana.’
'Huh! As I knew of the Mathkkra in time to avoid them?’
'That was different.’
'It is all different here,’ she snapped.
'You,’ Ylia snapped in reply, ‘are as bad as Marhan! Do not plague me with guilt, cat! If there is anything to be found—or not found—you will know it.’
'Perhaps.’ But she was mollified and lay still for some time after that.
The fourth day out from the valley brought them once again to a place of heights and sheer drops, of great falls of rock and ledges, waterfalls and the ever-present wind. The land fell off swiftly to the west, and they could see down into tree-filled valleys, see jagged, snow-and-ice-clad peaks beyond them.
Ylia shivered, pulled her cloak close, fastened it with the bit of sharpened twig Golsat had fashioned for her two nights before. It helped some; though not enough. But they walked quickly to keep warm, and managed nearly two leagues by midday.
“Ylia?” Brendan had spent most of the day with Golsat and Brelian at rearguard. She caught at the hand he held out.
“Brendan?”
He smiled. They walked together for a while. At length he roused himself. “You know, it is just possible—I am not certain, but it is possible!—that that peak yonder, the tallest of them, is Yenassa.”
“The—”
“No, not that one.” He caught at her shoulders, turned her to face more north than east. “There. It sits just south of the village Malfor.” She squinted, finally shook her head. “It is pointed enough to be Yenassa,” he went on. “Unfortunately, I have seen it from only three angles, never this fourth. But if it is Yenassa—”
“Malfor.” Hard, really, to remember another life and the great map in Koderra's Hall that showed even the least of villages, such as Malfor, with its twenty-odd huts. “That would put us beyond the halfway point to Aresada, wouldn't it?”
“So it would.” He wrapped a would-be casual arm around her shoulder as they set out again. “If so, we could make the Caves by midsummer.”
“Certainly that. If not sooner.” She leaned against him. “Though—these past few days have been pleasant.”
“I could say as much,” he replied gravely and set a light kiss on her brow. “More pleasant for me than most, in fact.” He gazed thoughtfully across her hair. “I think I will go get my brother's opinion. But that must be Yenassa.”
“All right.”
“I won't be long.” His fingers slid across her shoulder; he dropped back. She smiled, caught at the warmth that bubbled across her inner being, the warmth that had radiated from his thought and hugged it to her.
The silence was broken only by the wind and a crow that followed them for most of the afternoon. Eventually it flew off west, dropped down into one of the hollows far below and was gone, leaving them alone with the whine of wind through rock. Slides became more frequent, often blocking whole portions of the ledge. Marhan and Levren, who had been scouting well ahead, came back to confer during one of the longer rest breaks.
“There isn't much ahead, except perhaps a stand of trees or so. It may be a cold night,” the Bowmaster said. “We couldn't see any way down off this ledge yet. Unless—” he eyed Ylia, carefully avoiding Marhan's cold scowl. “Unless there is a way you and the—and Nisana could find—”
“We can try,” Ylia replied doubtfully. When they set out again, she and Nisana led.
The land was becoming more rough by the length: flat, water-worn sheets of rock, covered with forest debris from the ledges above, alternated with huge huddles of boulders. A few wind-twisted tree
s, rooted precariously in the steep cliff face to the right, stayed the wind a little. Slides, and more slides.
Late in the afternoon they came to the widest such pile of rubble they had crossed all day; it dropped from high above, covered the ledge, straggled out to a sheer drop on the left. There was no way around, only across. Treacherous footing here: rock slid underfoot, clattered down the ledge to drop in silence to the valley a hundred lengths or more. Ylia savagely forced her thought away from this as she threaded a way across to solid ground. Nisana bounded lightly from rock to rock, waited impatiently on the other side. The rest followed, slowly.
'Ylia. Come here. Now!’ Nisana padded to the very edge. Ylia swallowed, followed unwillingly. Gods and Mothers, not an overhang, and it goes down to—no, don't think it, don't dare!
Tall, broken rock walls still lined the eastern side of the ledge, but to the west, the ground dropped away sickeningly and to a terrifying depth. A bowl-shaped, thickly forested valley lay far below. Here and there, tall, broken trees stood above the rest. There had been fire here, though a long time since.
She tore her eyes away with an effort; she was dizzy, ill with it. Horrible, horrible heights. ‘No,’ Nisana snapped. ‘Not that. Look—with your mind, do it!’
No. Her body would give way, she knew it, would pitch her over that ledge and down ... down ... She managed, somehow, to stumble back, to turn away.
Breathe, gods and Mothers, do it! A deep breath. Another. But the strangely unbalanced feeling remained. In fact, it was growing stronger by the moment. A strangeness, a threat—ambush—Mathkkra? What lies in wait for us down there? For there was something.
'Ylia/Nisana, join!’ They demanded simultaneously, driven by a sudden, dire urgency. Ylia drew on her own strengths, felt the reassuring, bolstering power of the AEldra cat strong in her mind. They probed at the land below: devoid of life, unless one counted owls and—and no. She was certain, suddenly; the last of the height dizziness, the terror that accompanied it, left her as her mind snapped around something. ‘It's not right, cat. Not what it seems!’
'No. All wrong.’
It hid something, the notion teased at her like a half-noticed fragrance, something seen from the corner of an eye. ‘Hold, cat,’ she commanded, ‘and aid me!’ She drew a deep breath, launched hard at the landscape below them with the full strength of both.
'Ah, no!’ Lisabetha was free of the slide. Her eyes were wild, her face the color of parchment; her words echoed off the rock around them. ‘Ylia, no! This—that place—!’ The sense of the words penetrated; Ylia tore free of the sending, again stumbled back from the ledge.
Too late! The emptiness behind them was shattered, and she screamed aloud in terror and pain, for suddenly they were no longer alone. Something within the valley was also upon the ledge, within her mind, pressing savagely upon her will, burning against her inner being. She braced, fought, called upon her inner strength. There was a roaring in her ears, a cry that was hers, an echo or reply that was Nisana. A surge of power. Then, a redness blared across her eyes, momentarily blinding.
Men stood there, men and Mathkkra, surrounding the others. Ylia staggered. A step, just one step. She must break free! But it was as though her legs were frozen in place. Her right hand touched her hilts, fell limply away. The roar of Power dimmed all other noises; only faintly now could she hear the sounds of battle. Lisabetha fell; Brelian.
Pain. There was only pain ... as though her body were afire, her mind being torn asunder. A whimper: Nisana. And Brendan, surrounded by enemy.
Their eyes met as his blade sliced a clear place between them, and she heard his voice above the noise of battle, the inner clamor that was threatening her sanity: “Ylia! I am coming, beloved; hold!” She moved, then, somehow—a step, a second. Brendan. My Brendan needs me, he needs my aid, I must go to him. Her fingers groped once again toward her hilts.
Then all was drowned in a waterfall of blood and death. With a strangled cry, she pitched forward into welcome darkness.
They say the dark uses of the Power are denied us who are AEldra. But there are those of us who have studied the histories of Yls, the traditions handed down from the beginning of AEldran history, and we wonder. If the Power is, if it is ours, then how should any side be denied any of us with the strength to take what we want of it? I have never myself wanted such powers as they say the Lammior bore within him—none of them. Nor have any of cat-kind. But—among the human of us—who is to say?
21
Pain. So much pain. Her mind shook with it; a high, whining hum filled her ears. She attempted the sign of healing—hold, cease, do not breathe, do not move—so little concentration, but it set her head pounding. Slowly the ache lessened, the scree died to a whisper of sound at the edge of hearing. Only then did she become aware that she lay at full length, and not upon the ground, but upon a cool, tiled floor.
Pressure against her ribs—boot? It withdrew. Light feminine laughter echoed across a vastness of chamber. “My Lord, this is not my cousin's daughter, it is not even woman, and surely not AEldra! It is disgustingly dark of skin, it wears men's clothing—and it smells.” Smells? She sniffed cautiously. An exotic perfume teased her nostrils.
“Not so, Marrita, my own.” A man's voice, this time: resonant, distant. Whose? “AEldran, nevertheless, it is. Half, at least. And kin. And woman, though I forgive your doubt on this count, at least!” He laughed. The laughter ceased suddenly. “And,” the voice was hard, “it is aware once again, are you not? Do not dissemble, not to me, Queen Ylia of Nedao.”
Nedao? I am Ylia. She forced her eyes to open. Swallowed. A sour taste filled her mouth.
Light filled the chamber, reflecting against high windows, blinding her. She blinked rapidly. Who spoke? Small feet—woman's—cased in cream-colored boots, the toes edged in deep blue, were momentarily all she could see. Then—robes of a paler blue dragged the floor, the hems edged in cloth of silver, much broidered; the velvet gemmed here and there as though precious stones had been flung carelessly across the fabric, like stars in the night sky. She who stood there neither moved nor spoke.
Ylia rubbed a hand across her brow, wiped it on her breeches. We were assailed. She remembered that—but—we? There was a blank, a terrifying blank. An effort to force it set her head pounding again. Up. Whoever they are, do not grovel before them. For whatever cause. She rolled to hands and knees, gritted her teeth, finally tottered to her feet.
AEldra tall, the woman who confronted her. Pale golden hair was piled in elaborate curls, held here and there with delicate silver clips. Dark blue stones gleamed at her ears, matching the wide cornflower blue eyes under narrow, finely arched brows. The generous, rouged mouth smiled, revealing neat little teeth; but the eyes did not smile. A face as young as Lisabetha's, as innocent of line—Lisabetha? Ah—my Lady of Chamber, she suddenly knew. But she fell, I saw that—it was gone.
She caught her breath as her eyes focused on the thing only half-seen as she stood: a ring of that rare, translucent green stone, worn on the right hand, little finger. Suspended from this, a tissue-fine kerchief, broidered in a maze of delicately, intricately couched threadwork.
She stared stupidly at the gauzy thing. Longer than wide, draped, one end fastened to the ring, the other to the wrist of the AEldran's robes. This hand, it effectively proclaimed, is too fine for common labor, for anything save decoration. But that bit of personal ornamentation could only be worn by a female member of one of the Ylsan Great Houses, and in fact was seldom worn by any but a member of the Sirdar's own family!
AEldra, beyond doubt, but unlike any Ylsan she had ever met. A gainsaying of everything she had ever known or believed of Power. Unclean! The ancient strengths can only be used for good, but somehow she has not been held to that!
Ylia met her eyes, unwillingly. The AEldran gazed back with cool amusement, as though she knew the Nedaoan's thought, allowed her own glance to wander from plaited hair to the toes of worn boots. She withdrew then, as though she
had suddenly lost interest, and Ylia lost sight of her in the glare of light coming through the windows.
Silence. The dread which had hovered behind pain plucked at her thought as new bits of memory smote. Lisabetha—she remembered suddenly, truly. Lisabetha had fallen and so had Brelian. On the ledge—where? And—were they all dead, all of them? Silence. She reached within. The Power lay intact, and she drew a ragged, relieved breath at that. But she could not reach beyond herself with it. A shielding—why for? That I think myself alone? That—she staggered as her legs threatened to give way. Do not dare be weak, this is no time for weakness!
She shook her head in a desperate attempt to clear it, blinked against the light that was making her eyes tear. How long had she lain there? And—who approached?
Slow click of boots on the tiled floor, an outline against the tall windows. The other—the man's voice—the strength’ upon the ledge. He stopped a bare arm's length away. He—man, by his shape—man's form, but who to say what dwells within?
There was a wrongness about him, radiating from him. AEldra Power; recognizable as AEldra Power, though stronger by far than any she had ever seen or heard tell of—and turned, corrupted.
And suddenly, she could see him much too clearly.
He was tall, even for AEldra, and pale skinned; his hair was a coppery gold, like his brows. Reddish freckles scattered across high cheekbones, the back of the hand that stroked his clean-shaven chin. His eyes, unexpectedly, were dark, the color of smoke, and difficult to meet. He was clad all in somber red—breeches, a close-fitting tunic, both plain and serviceable. The only ornamentation of any kind about him was a Narran short cloak of deeper red than his pants, casually tied across one shoulder and under the other arm. No visible weapons, though he had the unmistakable look of a swordsman.