To the Haunted Mountains

by Ru Emerson

  They followed the water a while, moved away from it as it bent eastward. For what seemed a long while, they walked through deep forest. A meadow, then. Moon and stars shone onto grasses so short, so groomed as to seem a lawn. The heady scent of honeysuckle and clover filled the air. There was a hum of bees.

  Ylia and Lisabetha halted within the trees. They did not belong here, and both knew it. None of humankind did. Nisana hesitated, but only a moment. The moon cast a warmth over her dark fur as she padded onto the clipped grass. The women glanced at each other uncertainly but followed.

  The cat moved into the center of the meadow, stopped, leaped to Ylia's shoulder as the swordswoman came to her side. Lisabetha clung to the edge of Ylia's cloak. The air itself seemed to tingle. “Do not fear, ‘Betha, I know this feeling. I have felt it before.” And she had; the meadow radiated that same awareness she had known when she spoke with the Guardians. Lisabetha nodded, caught her hand.

  A breath. No more than that, and they stood alone, and then not so. Moon glittered on dew, seemed to create forms of its own. They were all three beyond surprise when these forms gathered substance: the Dryads and Naiads of Nedaoan legend. Beautiful, tiny, humanlike forms wove in a dance around them, silent at first. None of them was certain when they first became aware of the music: a light, gentle, tinkling sound—reed pipes, perhaps, and bells. Perhaps, again, none of these; none of them could have said then, nor could they ever later.

  They sank to their knees, the two humans, transfixed in the moonlight as a dance of moon and starlight, a joy of movement of which they knew they could only see a little, wove around them. Lisabetha rose then, Nisana leaped into her arms, and they vanished among the dancers.

  At that same moment, one of the tiny, elfin beings detached itself from the rest.

  Ylia bowed; the courtesy was returned. Dryad! She could see it now, at least with the straight sight. But inner vision revealed true form: a bar of light, perhaps four hands high, a pulsating, flickering, eye-searing blue-white. Viewed as one purely Nedaoan might: a narrow, dark brown face, surrounded by long mosslike hair of a darker brown. Eyes the green of new leaves.

  “Ye would speak with us.” Her voice was resonant, deep. Slender, brittle fingers touched human ones; no illusion, or if illusion, one beyond her ability to break, even if she had wished. “Ye are of the Blessed, those who had the Gifts from the Guardians. And ye are those forespoken to us.”

  “We are. I am half AEldran, Nisana is truly AEldran. The girl, Lisabetha, is purely of Nedao but she bears her own gifts.”

  “They are welcome among us, as are you. I am Eya, speaker for those present tonight. It was asked of us that we give aid to you, if there was need. Your need is great, and I fear our ability is lesser. But such as we can give, it is yours.”

  “And what aid you may need of us, ever, is yours,” Ylia replied formally. “I, who am Lady to Nedao as well as AEldran, say it. But for us, for me and those with me, there is little need, for we near our goal.”

  “The Caves, where already are many of your kind.” Eya stated. “Ye have been exiled by war, as we were, on a time.” The veriest edge of a numbing sorrow cut the human's inner being: Eya's sorrow. In over a thousand years, they had not forgotten.

  “I—know of ye, a little,” Ylia said, hesitantly. “I have walked in places once yours. They yet breathe of you. And—I know why you no longer live there, of the enemy who was yours.” Soft, gentle piping reached her ears in the ensuing silence. “But as to the needs of my people, the Caves are no dwelling place for such as we. We need a place where food can be grown, beasts herded.”

  “In that, perhaps, we can aid. A place might be found, one safe from the evils dwelling in the Foessa.”

  “I know of them.” She did; knowledge, even here, made her suddenly sober. “Do they dwell so far north as this?”

  “Not of recent.” Eya's hair swayed gently around her face as she shook her head. “They have been in-gathered to the south for long. But they move ever.”

  “I know it. And they may no longer be held to an in-gathering.”

  “No. We were told this also.” Another silence. “Ye are the one who battled with that which has made itself the Lammior's heir.”

  “I slew him. Or so,” she qualified unhappily, “I think. But there is danger yet, you must keep guard.” Such as these—how could they protect against an evil as great as the Lammior's or even Lyiadd's? And yet, they had withstood the Lammior himself. Appearances, she reminded herself sternly. They deceive. Trust half of what you touch. Less of anything else.

  “We guard. Always. Our enemy was slain tens of times ago, but his armies remained. Even the Guardians could not remove them all. We protect against them. We no longer seek them out. But we know them.” She reached; Ylia glanced down in surprise as long, twiglike fingers lay across the hilts of her sword. “Ye carry the weapons of hand. As did she.”

  Her skin contracted. “She?”

  “The shipmen came to our aid at the last, when we would all have been unmade. The daughter of their Lord was Shelagn. She also carried the weapons of hand. Do ye know nothing of her?”

  “A—a little—”

  “Ye are like her. Much. The Guardians could tell you more of her tale; I know only what I saw of her.” She tossed back her head then, and uttered a low, melodious call. A drinking horn was in her hands. “Drink.” Ylia drank, gave it back. The Dryad drank in turn. “Then. So. After the fashion of your kind, we are allies.”

  “The Nasath grant there is no need for such an alliance. Save for friendship.”

  “May they so grant.” Eya was on her feet so swiftly, so gracefully, the human could not follow the motion. “But the moon is fair and there is beauty here. We speak of things sorrowful, and that is not meet.” She twirled lightly on one tiny foot, an encompassment of pure joy, and disappeared. A sense/scent/awareness of light passed across Ylia's eyes, was gone.

  She was dazzled, unable to move, and it seemed she could suddenly see far more clearly than she had: Naiads and Dryads, Nedaoan legend come to life, weaving a dance together under the moon like a stream bubbling through stately trees. Among and between these, small, upright creatures bounced, hooved and hairy below, human above, and it was they who piped. The very grass under her hands seemed to move with the delicate, heady sound.

  Movement beyond the dancers: a larger, dark shape. Awkward: a bear? Three of them. For a moment she was frightened. But they moved to join the dancers, and a squirrel darted unafraid between their feet. A clutch of raccoons tumbled across the grass, followed by a merrily piping faun.

  There was a drawing in that music—suddenly even she felt it, who had never danced of her own will. It brought her to her feet, awkwardly. Lisabetha stood not far away, in a puddle of moonlight, hands extended toward a small, pearl-colored creature that came barely to her waist. Horselike: a little, in general shape. Delicate, thin legs, a tail that would have touched the ground were it not carried so high. A wave crest of a mane. The jewel between its great eyes radiated a pure, pale-green light. Lisabetha bent slowly to kiss its nose; it pressed close to her, was gone.

  Gone! But a pressure against Ylia's side told her this was not so, even as the pang of loss struck hard. She knelt again, touched the downy cheek. Grave eyes met hers: the beauteous creature touched her cheek lightly with a soft nose. A fragrance of clover and cool spring winds washed over her. She cupped the silver-white chin, as Lisabetha had, kissed the grey forehead just below the jewel. Sank back to the ground as the Yderra vanished.

  A sudden heaviness filled her lap. A raccoon lay between her knees, all four feet up, its fat little belly exposed to the night sky, joy and delight radiating wildly in all directions. She laughed, tickled the soft underfur. It wriggled, stretched, slowly, slid to the ground, still on its back. Ylia laughed again, rubbed the hard little head as the small animal righted itself. Two more bounded across the grass and she and they were suddenly surrounded by dancers.

  She closed her
eyes perforce; they were dazzled and could not handle what they saw. Blessed ye who have danced the ancient dance with us. Did she hear that or imagine it? The wild creatures rubbed against her arm, skittered away.

  “Blessed are ye, chosen by Those Who Guard to receive the Gifts. Do ye need, send. We will answer.” Eya, beyond doubt.

  “Do ye need, send. We will aid,” Ylia whispered in reply. The music slowly faded. They were alone in the meadow: Ylia, Lisabetha, Nisana. The westering moon cast long shadows behind them. Nisana jumped into Ylia's arms; Lisabetha held them both close.

  Yderra—it is, our legends say, a four-footed wonder: the jewel-beast. The stone between its wide eyes is pale green, clear, and of an impossible depth, that a man gazing into it might be lost, did he not use care. A source of indescribable beauty—fear also, for the Yderra can use the stone to focus its Power and send death amongst its enemy. Goatlike, horselike, and yet like neither, and it is wise as the Nasath are wise. Creatures of myth? Nay—they fought beside our ancestors against the Lammior. And I have, myself, felt the touch of one. And though I live a longer span of years than any of the AEldra before me, I will never forget that night.

  They say a man's worth seldom lies in his face, but instead in those skills brought out in time of need. They might have spoken those words for Golsat, for who would have thought when Brendan first swore reluctantly with him, when the Bowmaster broke into a cold sweat at mere sight of him, how very much the company would come to rely upon him—and, in the days thereafter, how much Nedao herself would come to owe him?

  33

  A chill wind blew across the Marshes, canceling any warming effect of the clear sky and bright sun. Golsat had them all up at first light so they might cross the low ground before sundown and camp far beyond.

  “Mosquitoes and gnats and midges?” Marhan inquired dryly. Golsat shook his head.

  “Those as well. They are only inconveniences, however, Swordmaster. I have crossed wetlands before, though, and treacherous footing, sudden soakings, mists, and,” he lowered his voice cautiously, “unpleasant creatures which only come out after dark. We could, probably will, face them all. But the women would not appreciate the mosquitoes you so lightly ignore. And treacherous footing will likely prove the least of our worries.” Marhan nodded, though he was clearly unconvinced.

  The ground fell rapidly just beyond the forest, and for the first time in several days they could see many leagues. But the field of vision narrowed quickly as they moved down the slope.

  They stood, finally, before the brook they had camped by the night before. Bright green grasses flowed over low, rounded hills. The ground squelched underfoot. Golsat jumped into the water. It flowed slowly, barely rippled as it rolled past his knees.

  “It is not so cold,” he remarked as he looked up. “Such of you as are able, jump over. Otherwise wade.”

  Levren tossed bow, arrow pouch, cloak and weapons-belt over, leaped down to join Golsat. “We can hand the children across, you and I, and such of the women as wish it.” Mouse and Nold looked rebellious but offered Lev no argument. Malaeth and Pyel were also lifted across. Golsat waded to the opposite shore as Ylia jumped across the last one.

  “Well. Not bad. I warn you, though,” Golsat added darkly, “this is probably all you dare look for all day! And this may be the best of it!” With that gloomy warning, he strode forward; the company followed.

  Ylia and Nisana took in turns to search. But there was no trace of anything unusual: birds, animals, some of the stranger creatures that inhabit wetlands. No sign of those they had met under moonlight.

  “I would almost think I had dreamed it.” Lisabetha spoke from beside them, so softly even Brelian did not hear her. Ylia touched her arm.

  “No. No dream.” But the joy had not remained with her as it had with Lisabetha and Nisana; by daylight, Vess had returned and filled her thoughts with worry of what lay ahead.

  Crossings. They lost count. Reedy water, bordered by thick mud. Lisabetha would have fallen except for Brelian's firm grip on her arm. Now and again they skirted high grass where Golsat said there was shifting mud under the water. But there were no real mishaps the entire morning, for a wonder, and they took a short, late noon-meal on the bank of another deep-cut brook. The ground, at least, was dry. Golsat would not allow them to drink from the stream, however, and those who had bottles shared. The sun was warm and they rested a short while before moving out again.

  But the third hour from midday, fogs whispered across the ground, rose in purposeful tendrils from the water. The air was chill; the sun slipped briefly in and out of mists and finally retreated to shed a thin, shadowless light on suddenly greyed surroundings.

  Golsat stopped abruptly. The company gathered anxiously around him. “This is what I feared most,” he said, but his manner was still calm. “Though it is merely fog, in the Marshes that is enough.” He caught Ylia's eye; she nodded. “Fog merely.” Only one who knew him well could have told how much he relaxed at that. “But we must keep close, for here it is no joke. Ylia?”

  “We will lead,” she replied. “But we cannot see much further in this stuff than you can, and I do not know our direction. You had better stay with us, Golsat.”

  “I have a good sense of the direction,” Golsat replied, and only she heard the muttered “I hope!” which followed. She clapped a hand across his back, not at all concerned that he might really lose that phenomenal ability he had to set a trail and hold to it. They set out at once.

  For long, the fogs grew no thicker, though they rose above any body of water of any size at all and hung in thick curtains over the streams. As the sun moved west, however, the mist grew heavier, and at length they blundered through an ever-darkening, all-encompassing grey.

  'Nisana?’

  'Nothing. Do not worry it.’

  'Nothing—you are certain?’

  'Nothing that does not belong here,’ Nisana amended dryly, ‘save us.’ Ylia smiled, ruffled her fur.

  Amazingly enough, they came to the end of the Marshes before total dark set in. But the inexorable Golsat would not allow them to rest so near the foul-smelling Marshes and he pressed on, determined to bring them to a place of better shelter that he remembered. The Citadel folk were ready to drop; the men carried the youngest children and Lisabetha and Lus leaned on each other for support. Ylia wrapped an arm around Malaeth's shoulders. The rest staggered on as best they could; Golsat went ahead to set up his chosen campsite and had a pair of fires waiting for them, with plenty of room between for the less warmly clad to huddle. Also, he had set packets of jerked meat and dried fish to heat in the coals, and had made a tea as good as any of Malaeth's.

  The children were nodding where they sat, the Chosen women dozed. Grewl lay on his back, cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders; even Marhan and Levren sat with closed eyes. Golsat alone looked as though he had pushed no harder this day than any other. For a long time, the only sounds were the crackling of the fires, wind hissing over rock, Grewl's occasional gentle snore. At length Marhan stirred.

  “We reach Aresada tomorrow. I have seen this place before, years past. We sit within two leagues of the Caves, and all of it easy walking. There is a trail not far from here.” He looked around the fire. Mouse and Nold blinked, nudged Flen awake. Sata leaned forward, smothered a yawn.

  “Who we will find there—” Ylia stopped as expectant faces turned toward her. “We know some have gone there. Many must have headed straight to the Caves as sanctuary. But who, and how many, that we do not know.”

  “We will reach Aresada at noon-hour,” Marhan put in. “High hopes are quickly dashed. But I need not tell any of you that.”

  “No.” Brelian looked up. “To me, it is enough that we who are here still live.” Ylia closed her eyes briefly. Levren laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Brelian, his face pale and hollow in the firelight, leaned to whisper against Lisabetha's ear; she nodded. He pushed to his feet.

  “Companions all.” He spoke quiet
ly, but with purpose. Grewl blinked, sat up. The undercurrent of low conversation among the Chosen women died as all eyes went to Brel. “I would say a thing tonight, while we are together still. Before we reach Aresada.” He stared out into the darkness, brought his gaze—and his thought—back to the moment. “Only this last year I was taken into King Brandt's service. I am not a trained fighting man, such as these—” A wave of his hand encompassed Marhan, Levren, Golsat.

  “I have both gained and lost on this journey. My companions from Koderra know what we faced, all of us. But even at the worst of it all, I had an example. One who lost as much as any of us; one no more skilled than I in true battle. She has borne herself ever with pride of House, with courage. With strength in the face of horrors, with assurance in time of need. Though she will not have it, I owe her blood-price, that she saved my life in the face of an unclean death. Nedao has honor with such a woman, and to me, it is fit we who have journeyed with her acknowledge her now. Hail Ylia, Lady of Nedao!”

  And a ragged, heartfelt cry answered him: “Hail Ylia, Lady of Nedao!” Even Grewl joined it.

  She was blinded by tears, spoke past a tight throat. “Thank you—thank you all,” she whispered. No more words would come. Levren nudged Golsat.

  “Look—for once she is as tongue-tied as you!” Golsat snorted loudly, but the resulting laughter broke the tension. Marhan added more wood to the fires as conversation sprang up, loud and excited. Suddenly it was there where they could almost touch it: the end of the road. Less than a day.

  But a short while later, Ylia left the fire alone. Vess. Damn him. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could plan until she actually faced him. And that she anticipated with grim pleasure. But she could not let the matter lie and inaction was chewing at her as it always did.