“Jarmon, bring me a lantern,” Hector ordered.
He stepped out into the cold gray air, watching closely as the rider slid from his mount, took a wobbly step, then collapsed in the center of the roadway. As the rider dropped, the horse took several steps away from him, which Hector took to be a sign of its poor training or the rider’s lack of skill. Once he had the lantern in his hand, he signaled to Anais to wait with the boy and the woman, then beckoned to Cantha and Jarmon to follow him.
“What do you want?” he called as he approached.
“I—I seek the soldiers of—the king,” the old man wheezed again.
Hector held up the lantern to better illuminate the man in the roadway. He was human, by the look of him in the shadows, and aged, with white hair that hung around his wrinkled face like dry leaves hanging from a dormant tree.
“I am Hector Monodiere, in the service of His Majesty, Gwylliam, High King of Serendair. What do you seek from me?”
“Your assistance, sir knight,” the man croaked, waving away the water flask that Jarmon held out to him. “The Sleeping Child is awakening.”
“I well know it. What would you have me do about it?”
The old man’s eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion, held a desperate light that was visible even in the gray foredawn. “There may be a way to contain it—or at least to stem part of the flooding that is sure to come in its wake.”
The three companions exchanged a glance, then Jarmon spat on the ground.
“Madness,” he muttered as Hector reached behind the man’s shoulder and helped him rise. “You rode all the way from the northern coast to tell us this? Why did you not flee with the rest to high ground in the east, or into the High Reaches?”
In the lantern light they could better make out the man’s features. As they had seen a moment before, he was human, dark-eyed and aged, though much of that aging had clearly come from the hardship of life in the northern clime, a rough seascape of rocky beach and heavy surf where only the stoutest of heart continued to ply the rough waters near the Great River’s mouth. He was dressed in the tattered oilcloth garb of a fisherman. Rot and decay clung to his clothing and breath, much as it did to the rest of the population they had encountered after the Fleets had left; it was beginning to cling to their own clothing and breath now as well. The man’s malodor was particularly strong, coupled with the stale, fishy smell of a life on the sea that never completely washed clean of a fisherman’s hands and clothes.
“My people are old,” he said. “What you ask may seem simple, and perhaps it would be to those younger, haler of body. But we have lived at the sea’s edge for a very long time, Sir Hector. We are frail. Fleeing would be an arduous undertaking, something many of us would not survive. If the Awakening is to determine our fate, we are ready to meet it.”
“Then why have you come here?” Jarmon asked crossly. “There are others like you all across this doomed island—Liringlas, Bolg, Bengard, Gwadd, human—all who chose, for reasons of their own, to disregard the king’s vision and stay behind. We cannot help you now. You were offered passage, all of you. You refused it. You have already sealed your own fate.”
“Peace, Jarmon,” said Hector quietly. He turned to the old man whose arm he was still supporting. “Come inside and warm yourself. We have food and drink that we are happy to share with you.”
The old man shook his head. “No, no, Sir Hector. There is no time. You must help me—I—I believe—we have found a way—”
“Cantha, summon Anais,” Hector said. He waited until the Liringlas soldier was within earshot, then asked again, “What would you have me do?”
From the center of the pool of illumination cast by the lantern, Brann pointed into the darkness to the southeast where the horizon was beginning to lighten.
“Go to the castle Elysian,” he said, his voice stronger. “I know you guard the symbol of the king—his scepter, Sir Hector. I—have need of it.”
Jarmon’s arm shot out and grasped the man by the shirt, pulling him off the ground with little more resistance than the wind.
“Impudentdog ,” he snarled into the old man’s face, his fury straining the limits of its bridle. “We stand on the brink of the death of this nation; we gave up all we had to stay behind with the imbeciles and the unbelievers who chose death over the life offered you by your king, and now you actually believe we would dishonor ourselves by yielding something like that to the likes ofyou ?”
“Release him, Jarmon,” Hector commanded angrily. “Get hold of yourself.” The guard dropped the old man to the ground contemptuously. Hector crouched down next to the fisherman, who was now quivering in fright, and steadied the man by the shoulder. “What need? I ask you again, what is it you would have me do?”
For a moment the man’s eyes darted around at the faces staring down at him. Finally he focused on Hector’s, and seemed to be calmed by what he saw in it.
“From the highest point of our village, one has always been able to see across the strait that covers the grave of the Sleeping Child to the northern isles, on clear days, at any matter,” he said haltingly. His words faltered; Hector nodded silent encouragement. “The sea now boils; much of the coastline has receded as the star awakens, gathering heat and power to itself. What was once the tidal basin of Dry Cove is now sand, sir knight. And as the sea has receded for the moment, it has revealed something vast, something dating back to another age of Time.”
“What?” Anais asked.
The old man swallowed as his eyes went to the Liringlas soldier, then focused on Hector again.
“It appears to be an ancient mine, Sir Hector—silver, who knows, though in the First Age, the Day of the Gods, before the star fell to earth, there were mines of every sort delving into the crust of the world, where men of ancient races drew forth riches the way men now draw forth fish from the sea. This one’s vastness cannot be described in words, at least not in my words, except to say that we can see the ridges and depressions that define some of its edges, but not all of them, revealed now by the drawing of water away from the tidal areas of the sea as the Child prepares to awaken. Those ridges and depressions stretch for as far as the eye can see.”
Hector shrugged. “I still do not see what this has to do with me, or with the king’s scepter.”
The man named Brann spoke slowly, cautiously, his eyes nervously moving from soldier to soldier.
“It is said that in the days before the end of the First Age, much of what now rests beneath the sea was dry land. When the falling star Melita, now known as the Sleeping Child, struck Serendair from the sky, it took much of the Island with it, Sir Hector. What are now the northern isles, Balatron, Briala, and Querel, were mountaintops then; almost half of the tillable fields of the realm went into the sea in the flooding that ensued. For centuries Serendair was known as Halfland, so much of it was consumed by the ocean in the wake of the impact.
“In those days, before the first cataclysm, this mine, if that’s what it is, once it was expended was probably locked by whatever king ruled the ancient race that quarried it. A mine of that size would be a hazard because of its vastness alone, but it may have been for other reasons as well—mines that are expended run with rivers of acid, and burn with fires that can only be extinguished by time; they contain treacherous precipices, deep shafts. One this size would have been an extremely dangerous place, and so it was shut, its great doors sealed and locked, seemingly forever.” The old man’s voice, hoarse from exertion, dropped low, and he leaned forward to be certain Hector could hear him. “We believe we have found those doors, Sir Hector.”
“And you believe the king’s scepter would unlock them?”
“Yes,” said Brann, his dark eyes kindling with excitement. “In the hand of the king—or he who stands in his place. It could be the key—certainly it is the last remaining vestige of the king’s authority here, the only symbol of his dominion that he did not take with him. Those doors face the Child’s gravesite, and are bound
more by a king’s command than by a physical lock. Perhaps, as the king’s regent, you could exercise his authority to bid them open. If you can throw open the doors before the Awakening, perhaps—and only perhaps—the mine can act as a natural levee of sorts, a dam, a dike—it is a mammoth underground cave at the sea’s edge. Surely it is reasonable to think that some of the destruction may be averted if the swell of the sea is contained, or at least limited, by this great hole in the earth.” The man fell silent, watching the knights intently as they stepped away from him to confer.
“Ridiculous,” Jarmon muttered under his breath. “You can’t hold back the sea with a hole in the ground any more than you can with a teacup.”
“That’s not necessarily so,” said Anais, considering. “The fisherman is right in that what spared the Island the first time was the natural levees—mountains, reefs, low-lying areas—that ringed the larger Serendair. The sea took some of the coastline, but not all of it.”
“You sound like Sevirym,” Jarmon scoffed. “Please tell me, Anais, that the rigors of sandbag duty have not addled your brain that much.” He turned to Hector to see their leader lost in thought. “You as well, Hector. This is folly—utter nonsense.”
“What if it isn’t, Jarmon?” Hector interjected. “What if, in these final days, God, the One, the All, has provided us with an answer? Is it so hard to believe, to hope, that we might be spared, or partially spared, by His grace?”
“Do you now doubt the king’s vision?” Jarmon demanded, his voice agitated.
“Theking himself doubted it,” said Hector softly. “Had he been more assured that the cataclysm he foresaw on the day of his coronation meant the complete destruction of the Island, he would never have left us—leftme —behind to maintain his line of succession on the throne.” He looked to Cantha, whose eyes were narrow with suspicion. “Is that not correct, Cantha? I stand in the shadow of the king. I am of his line, and his regent, named so that his power over the land would hold sway. Should the Island survive the Awakening, because I remained here, in Gwylliam’s name, his line of succession will have remained unbroken. He can return and reclaim the throne without contest.”
“Aye,” Cantha said curtly.
“So if the king himself entertained the possibility that complete destruction was not inevitable, is it so far beyond reasonability that we entertain it, too?”
Anais touched Hector’s elbow. “Is it also possible that you are only now more willing to hope for it because of those who missed theStormrider ?” he asked in the Liringlas tongue.
Hector fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I no longer know my own motivations,” he said bluntly. “I am not even able to ascertain what my father would do in these circumstances, and that has always been my touchstone, my guide. Like the wind that Cantha described last night, my senses are lost in a maelstrom of confusion. I have very little clarity anymore, Anais. I can only tell you that this possibility rings with promise in my head, probably because, if nothing else, it is doingsomething . As comfortable as spending the last days supping and imbibing in the inn might be, the thought does not sit well with me. The glory is in the trying. I would rather go to my death doing something futile, trying, than miss the chance to have saved what I could.”
The other three fell silent, contemplating. Finally Anais spoke.
“Well, even in your confusion, you are still our leader, to whom we are sworn, Hector. If you wish to make the attempt, we are with you.” He glanced at Cantha and Jarmon. “Are we not?”
“We are,” Jarmon said. Cantha nodded imperceptibly.
Hector considered for a moment longer, then turned to the old man in the middle of the road.
“I will do as you ask,” he said finally. “But let us be clear—the scepter does not leave my hand.”
The man’s face crumpled in relief. “Understood. None of my people would wish it any other way. And know, sir knight, that whether or not you are successful, the people of my homeland will be eternally grateful for whatever you attempt on our behalf.”
Even Cantha, suspicious by nature, could hear the undeniable truth in the man’s words.
It was full-sun, the moment the sun had just crested the horizon completely, when the group of seven set out into the east, following the brightening morning. Mist enveloped the ground, making it seem as if they were riding a golden pathway into the clouds.
The boy, who still had not spoken his name, sat before Hector in the saddle, drinking in the fresh breeze and the autumn splendor that was beginning to claim the countryside. A child of sooty city streets, he was transfixed by the sight of meadow wildflowers dried by the first signs of frost, of rolling fields that undulated in great waves like a grassy sea, of still-green trees along the roadway or in the distance, their leaves turning the color of fire.
Elysian castle lay to the southeast, across the Great River that bisected the western end of the Island from north to south. It stood perched atop high cliff walls that overlooked the southern seacoast ten miles away. On clear days the ocean was visible from its tallest towers, rolling gently to the leeward shores, in marked contrast to the angry, billowing breakers that battered the beaches in the north from whence Brann had come.
As they came within a league of the river, Anais and Hector exchanged a glance of confusion. The river was really a tidal estuary this far south, and roared grandly along its shores, swollen with the waters from the north sea joined by the runoff of every major river and stream on both sides of it. Its deep, abiding song could be heard for miles; now it was silent, the wind carrying no sound at all save the nervous twittering of birds and its own howl.
“The river was low the last time we crossed it, but I don’t recall it being so quiet,” Anais said, drawing the woman’s arm more tightly around his waist when she tilted alarmingly to one side.
“It is all but dry now,” Brann said, his voice thin with strain. “There are places along it where there are nothing but great muddy pools in the midst of a waterless, rocky bed. I rode the eastern shore on my way to you, and when I passed the stone mill at Hope’s Landing, the wheel was still.”
“The heat of the star is drawing the seawater back into its grave,” Hector said, pointing out a circling hawk to the boy.
“The shoreline in the north has receded by more than a league, Sir Hector,” said the fisherman. “Elsewise the doors would never have been revealed.”
As soon as the words left his lips the ground rumbled.
The soldiers spurred their mounts on. Even before the exodus, the Sleeping Child had made its presence felt in this manner, loosing tremors through the earth as if stretching in slumber that was coming to an end. Those tremors were growing stronger.
They rode the rest of the way to the river in silence. The bridge at Pryce’s Crossing was the largest in the land, and loomed before them, its timbers dark against the morning sun, now halfway up the firmament of the sky.
“Did you bring any bread for the trolls, Hector?” Anais asked jokingly as they slowed to cross. Tradition had long held that a scrap of biscuit or bread be tossed into the river for good luck to assuage the legendary beasts that lived beneath the centuries-old structure.
“No,” Hector said, smiling slightly. “We should be saving every last crumb now, Anais. After all, there is no point in surviving a cataclysm only to starve to death.”
“The trolls sailed with the Second Fleet anyway,” said Jarmon. The fresh air of the open country seemed to have lifted his spirits.
“That would explain why the prelate’s wife was on your father’s ship,” said Anais.
“To call the prelate’s wife a troll is an insult to trolls,” said Jarmon.
The horses’ hooves clattered over the wooden planks that spanned the all-but-dry riverbed, drowning out the sound of their voices. As they passed out of the westlands for the last time, they looked over the edge of the Pryce’s Crossing bridge; they could see the rocky bottom, normally more than a man’s height in depth, tiny
tributaries still running defiantly through the stony bed, as if to prove that the river was not quite dead yet.
The sun had reached the pinnacle of the firmament when the towers of Elysian castle came into sight. As many times as they had seen it, the soldiers could not help but slow to a halt for a moment to take in the distant majesty of it, white marble still gleaming against the blue of the autumn sky atop the crags from which it rose like a beacon, triumphant.
Hector had been born in that palace, as had his mother before him. He watched in silence for a moment, then urged his mount forward, cantering with a speed that delighted his small passenger.
It was not long before melancholy returned. They rode through the endless apple orchards that had once surrounded the castle’s lands, now sparse and bare. The trees of the lowlands, west from Kingston across the Wide Meadows to Anais’s birthplace, Yliessan, the Enchanted Forest in the east, had been harvested quickly and brutally to provide wood for the exodus. Even the apple trees, whose flesh was useless in the actual making of ships, had been stripped and used for chests, barrels, even firewood to stoke the forges that smelted steel for fittings, arrowheads, and thousands of other uses. Those few trees that remained bore a stunted crop, but it was worthy enough to merit a pause to be collected.
Harder to bear was the ride through Earthwood, the stone forest that had once led up to the base of the cliffs on which the palace stood. The ground from which the ancient trees had sprung was said to have been Living Stone, the pure element of earth left over from the Before-Time, the era prior to the first age of history, when the world was new. The seeds of the forest’s trees had been scattered over the living earth, as the legend said, and had grown into mammoth redwoods, heveralts, and oaks, alive with magic. Those trees, their bark rich in shades of green, purple, vermilion, and gold, were as Living Stone themselves, and had never split or fallen in high wind, had never burned in fire, had never rotted with disease, but stood, stalwart and unchanging, their ancient saps coursing through their bark and leaves in an endless, mystical symphony of ages. Anais and Hector had spent their childhood in the stone forest, and so it was painful on a soul-deep level to see it razed to nothing more than broken stumps, its choice wood reaped to make hulls and masts and planks of ships that would not rot, nor burn, nor split in the high winds of a sea voyage.
Legends II (Shadows, Gods, and Demons) Page 65