by Jim Grimsley
“To get you to Arthen no matter what. Stick fast to his back, little man. I believe we’re in for a hard ride.”
He spurred his own horse to a gallop and we headed west along the hills, not directly toward the Girdle despite the talk of urgency. I wondered why till I understood Sivisal didn’t want to give the Blue Cloaks a good guess which farm or village we had come from. The black horse ran with long, powerful strides, hardly even blinking in the rain. My uncle’s sorrel was no mean horse but was clearly no match for this mount of mine; and that made Uncle Sivisal the more nervous since I was the less-practiced horseman. The country was rough and more than once I thought I had lost my seat. We covered much ground in a short time but still Uncle Sivisal seemed reluctant to turn south, where the Girdle lay, where the Blue Queen’s patrols would be riding their crisscross paths.
Finally we turned, passing a marker Uncle Sivisal read me, “You who are subject to my law, know that this is my land and I dare anyone to cross it, or to enter Arthen Forest, on pain of death.” The marker listed no author. There was no need.
At the edge of the forest we paused, hidden by scrub faris and some vine with pale flowers; in the rain and wind one could hardly get a good look at anything. The Girdle was a broad swath of land cleared many years ago by armies of laborers. In the distance loomed Arthen itself, dark and sedate like a mantle over the hills. The country between us and the Woodland was empty of Blue Cloaks. Uncle Sivisal looked at me and said, “Ride as fast as you can.”
From the moment we broke free onto the plain the storm redoubled round us, the wind so fierce it nearly took my breath, whipping through the horse’s mane and swirling through Uncle Sivisal’s cloak. Lightning scored the earth from every direction as if it knew where to seek us, and the thunder afterward would have sent many a horse into terror. But these were steady animals. Sooner than I would have thought possible we were deep into the grassland, despite the storm, and for a while it appeared that we would cross without incident.
Blue Cloak patrols appeared suddenly from both directions and the sky lightened as if to make us all the plainer. Then I knew my mother had told the truth and this storm was more magic than not. Uncle Sivisal glanced at me, grim. Over the wind and storm he said, “They intend to catch us, Jessex. Stay close to me if you’re able, but if it comes to choosing, you have a horse they’re not likely to match. Get yourself into the Woodland where they won’t follow you.”
If we’d ridden fast before it was nothing compared to now. My poor thin frame had never taken such a beating before, but I relaxed into the grasp of the horse’s rhythm and he carried me, I was never afraid of falling. The black horse reached forward with every nerve and muscle.
By my side my uncle urged his horse quietly, checking on both sides of us to locate the patrols and finally slinging the bow into position, an arrow slotted into it. He rode the horse as if he were joined to it. With the two patrols closing at an angle I could not tell if we were ahead or behind and with the wind in our faces it was hard to see the edge of the Woodland. The storm increased again as if it had only let up long enough to give the Blue Cloaks a good look at us, and the feeling of malevolence grew. I felt a strange aching on my arm and heard laughter and thought I must be going mad, but Uncle Sivisal heard it too, I saw him glance at the sky from where the sound had come. A voice called out strange words. I felt a huge weight on my shoulders dragging me down and for the first time I thought I might truly fall.
I cannot tell you where my next thought came from or why it came. But I pictured the necklace as I had seen it the night before, the raven impaled on the claw. Mother had said to get rid of the box. I touched it through my rain-soaked sleeve. Gripping the reins one-handed, I slipped the box free of my sleeve and opened it. The necklace fell into my hand and I flung the box into the grass.
The laughter died away, and for a moment even the storm abated to the point that I could see trees ahead of me — tall, dark trunks and shaggy down-hanging limbs. Blue Cloaks were closing from our left; we had only escaped one patrol, it seemed; and my uncle wheeled his horse away from the patrol that was now closer to us. My horse made this maneuver more gracefully, for which I owed him thanks, or else he might have flung me onto the wet ground. The riders behind us were closing, though, and if they had a good bowman they might bring us down. But we were closer to the forest than they were and I thought we were free, when, out of nowhere, a white figure appeared, a mounted wraith whose shape was hard to see. The white blur moved at impossible speed and cold fear filled me. Uncle Sivisal saw it and paled.
I will never forget the calm of his eyes. He said a word I did not know and raised the ruby ring again. My horse answered, adding speed to speed. Me and my horse left them all behind: my uncle, the Blue Cloaks, the running shadow and even the storm. Within moments we were crashing through underbrush, and soon cool trees closed round us.
The soldiers were still chasing my uncle, and I could see one of them had caught him in the arm with an arrow but the wound had not felled him. His sorrel rode for both their lives and knew it, but they were close to Arthen and had a chance if they could outrun the white shadow which had resolved itself to human shape, on horseback. When the white figure saw me safe inside the Woodland and my uncle closing onto safety, he or she stood up tall in the saddle and gestured, saying words that were hideous to the ear. An arm flashed from the pale cloak. Lightning crashed near my uncle and I thought the sorrel stumbled, but the brave horse recovered and kept running. The figure on horseback raised the arm for yet another try.
I gripped the necklace and sang Kimri. When the storm seemed to abate a little I touched the necklace more firmly, and sang Kimri in a loud voice, “We are in the darkness, give us a light. We who have hope have need, light in the darkness.” The white figure diminished. The storm lessened; no bolt of lightning fell. My uncle entered Arthen with the arrow in his arm.
He joined me and we stopped to look back into the outer world where the Blue Cloaks and the white-cloaked figure were milling round on horseback. They could no longer see us. The wraith adjusted the white hood and I could see she was a woman then, red-haired, wearing a kind of silver headpiece.
Uncle Sivisal grinned and looked at me. “No questions yet. We don’t want them to get a good look at you. Right now we have to get deeper in the Woodland where her birds can’t track us.”
“Just tell me one thing,” I said, almost pleading. “This horse that saved my life, what’s his name?”
He stroked the ring he had worn on his finger, and then put it away inside his cloak. “He is Prince Nixva out of Queen Mnemarra. He is a royal horse and will live forever. Pay your respects to him. His speed today saved us from disaster.”
I stroked his mane and whispered my thanks in his ear. He heard me and I think he understood. But he, like my uncle, knew that now was not the time for thanks but for riding farther. He let me turn him toward the forest interior and Arthen embraced us at last.
Chapter 2: ARTHEN
1
I performed my first soldier’s task, helping Uncle Sivisal cut out the arrow in his shoulder and dressing the wound with a poultice of theunyn leaf. Theunyn aids healing but also drinks up poison on the barb. I knew the leaf but not the use; my uncle taught me. He kept a store of the herb in his saddle-pack. Directing me in the preparation of the poultice, he leaned white-faced against a tree root, the arrow causing him to flinch in pain each time he moved.
The cutting of the arrow out of his shoulder became an ordeal for us both. My uncle wore a quilted leather tunic in which the shaft had spent most of its force, but enough arrowhead had cut into the flesh that I had some nasty work. A few barbs had taken deep hold into the muscle. Uncle Sivisal had a sharp dagger and I used it to cut the shaft of the arrow, so I could open his tunic to get at the wound. Swallowing brandy as an anesthetic, he kept still while I worked the tunic free, then, with the bleeding wound exposed to air and dripping rain, I cut out the arrowhead. He hardly made a sound but
his face remained as white as the witch’s cloak. The most vicious barbs of the arrowhead remained clear of the tender shoulder; I avoided touching them at all. Using the knife as Uncle Sivisal directed, I lay the poultice onto the wound. Theunyn leaf has the property of easing the pain of such insults, at least to a degree. “That’s my boy,” Uncle Sivisal said, grinning palely, as blood sheeted down his shoulder. “Now pour brandy over it,” he said, and handed me his flask. I did it and he made a face like his body was burning, but not a sound escaped him.
Afterward, he drank more brandy as I packed the gaping wound with clean, dry spider-web. I retrieved stuff for bandages from his saddle-pack and wrapped his shoulder tight. At first the blood quickly soaked into the wadding but after a few moments of quiet, the ground theunyn began to work and the blood flow eased. I secured the bandage. He drank more of the brandy and lay back on the ground with his eyes closed. He offered me a sip, saying I had earned it after my morning’s work. I wanted to make him a decent bed but rain dripped all around us.
The storm continued fiercely, thunder crashing north of us over the plain. Uncle Sivisal looked miserable lying on the ground in his wet cloak and I asked whether he had a tent in his pack. The question roused him. He sat up, gauged the day and said, “No, give me a minute. The brandy has me a little dazed, that’s all. We have some riding to do before we can camp tonight, wound or no wound. There are soldiers meeting us.” He noted my wonder-struck expression and nodded. “Welcome to the Woodland.”
“I like it so far.”
“Well, I have certainly liked it better.” He got to his feet slowly. He waved away my help, buckling on his sword and plucking off wet branches and leaves from his cloak. He moved gingerly, favoring the shoulder, but if he felt any pain he refused to show it.
When Uncle Sivisal whistled, his sorrel stallion came to him. Nixva went on watching me until I said his name, low. He approached me, nuzzling my hand. I mounted him with pride, my uncle watching. He said. “Don’t get too attached to Prince Nixva. He belongs to your betters and you’re not likely to ride him much in camp. You’ll get something more like my Sythu to ride, if you get a horse at all.”
Sythu shook his head at me as if to tell me he was plenty of horse, whatever I thought. Sivisal stroked the sorrel’s thick mane. When he looked at me again I could not read his face. “Did you see the white-cloaked rider in the grassland?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering her pale arms raised toward the dark clouds.
In rain-smudged light the gray of his beard became more evident. “What did you sing? ‘Light in the Darkness?’”
“Yes. A little of it. Could you hear?”
“Yes,” he gave me an odd look. “Did my mother teach it to you?”
I nodded, hoping he would tell me something but he mulled over what I had said and then declared we were ready to ride. A dozen questions died on my lips. I felt for the necklace to make sure it was still secure. Soon I must find a safer place to keep it.
We rode again, with nearly the same urgency as before. Every step jolted my uncle’s shoulder; I could see him clenching his teeth. But the bandage remained dry and the poultice did its work, bleeding stanched. The keen forest air carried different smells, a pungency of cedar and perfumes of cilidur, vesnomen and elgerath. The last abounded in vines the size of houses or barns, spilling down from the trees in vast lattices. We took no time to study anything, Sivisal being in a rush and me dumbstruck. Everything was strange, green and beautiful, vaulted and awesome, and we rode forward through high leafy caverns whose size made our progress seem miniscule.
Wonder struck me when I saw my first duraelaryn, a high broad tree, the shade of which might have dwarfed Mykinoos. Duraelaryn grow only in Arthen Forest. We rode beneath their spreading branches for a long time, till we came to a grassy road marked with stone obelisks. We headed along the road toward the interior where the storm behind us hardly moved breezes. The horses frisked in the crisp air, the eerie forest light filtering down around us, almost hazy. Under the high canopy of the duraelaryn the forest floor is open except for grass and light brush, since little else can thrive in the shade. Here and there a long bright beam of sunlight slanted to the forest floor, illuminating shaggy falls of elgerath. It was the fourth sun, the amber light. Once we paused for rest beside a clear stream and I changed the dressing on Sivisal’s shoulder, washing off the old poultice with brandy and crushing a new one from fresh leaves. The wound had puffed and swollen purple, but a clot had begun to form despite the jolting from the ride. I packed the wound tight again, poor Uncle Sivisal grimacing and biting his lips. I bound the bandage tight, as before. He thanked me for my trouble with a face the color of new milk.
The stream was remarkable, I had never tasted water so fresh. Sivisal explained with some pride that the water fell straight from the mountains round Drii. This amazed me, because I had sometimes suspected Grandmother made up Drii. “Oh no,” Sivisal said, “It’s there. And the people who live there really do have silver skin.”
I finished tending his shoulder and we mounted the horses again, riding through the long afternoon. The unfamiliar posture was making me sore but I tried to endure it since I had no choice. Near dusk we came to a place where this road merged with another. Above the trees, a large shadow loomed, split and became two shadows, two carven seated figures, a man and woman, grand in demeanor. These statues were ancient wardens of the road, one a male and one a female priest, my uncle said. We stopped at the base of these monuments to wait, letting the horses graze in the cleared ground at the base of the massive statues. We made a fire for ourselves and had our supper as if we were expecting nobody, and I laid out my uncle’s bedroll, checked the dressing on his wound. I also fetched more brandy from his pouch. He watched me do all this with a kind of amusement.
I made his bed among menumen trees, their soft leaves hanging white and silken round his dark hair and swarthy complexion. Menumen is not a hardy type of tree and does not grow many places outside of people’s gardens. These were fine big ones that had recently bloomed, white petals strewn along the ground. Uncle Sivisal said he had not smelled that fragrance in years.
Evening chill set in and I wrapped myself in the plain blanket Mother had given me. I sat near the horses at the edge of the grove of trees. From that vantage I could see the priest statues and the road running off in three directions. Last light was on us and we waited to see what stars we would have. The red moon rose but the white one did not. In the south this is called “blood-time”, and people are said to commit strange crimes during it. Grandmother had explained to me we northerners are skeptical of this power of the red moon. Though one never knows what the skies will bring, as the saying goes.
Uncle Sivisal directed me to build a fire by the statue of the woman, giving me ifnuelyn to kindle the wood. Ifnuelyn is a kind of powder which kindles fire quickly following a slight spark. I unwrapped the viis cloth that protected Uncle Sivisal’s store of the chemical, and soon enough had a good fire going. I sat watching the flames contentedly as the sun descended into the trees and beyond. We would have no lamp tonight, only the fire, but in the wild I supposed a fire would serve.
A moment later, horses stepped through the underbrush from every direction on both sides of the road. I stood, confused, my back to the fire. Most of the riders halted, but two came toward me without fear. One wore a leather jerkin and red cloak much like the one Uncle Sivisal wore, but the other was more grandly dressed, in a red cloak trimmed in black fur.
“You’re the son of Kinth,” the man said, speaking Upcountry with elegance and a peculiar lilt. “Where is your kinsman?”
“Uncle Sivisal is lying under that tree. He was wounded this morning.”
“Wounded.” The commander sat very still for a moment. He rode to the pallet where Sivisal drowsed and called out in a tongue I did not know. He dismounted and knelt to study my uncle. The people he had called hurried to him quickly, among them a physic. I heard Sivisal speaking in that
language, and I heard my name once or twice. But I stayed by the fire where the commander had found me.
Apparently it was better to await summons. A moment later the silver-eyed man sent everyone away but Sivisal and the physic and called for me, without any sign of impatience. I ran to the place where he stood over Sivisal. “There were two parties of Blue Cloaks,” Sivisal was saying, in Upcountry now, his voice strained some since the physic was probing his wound to make certain I had picked out all the arrow’s barbs. “The riders broke toward us as soon as we got onto the Girdle. They knew we were coming. The storm was blowing pretty good by then too, and I knew something was up. We slipped past one party but the other looked like it was going to catch us. I used the ring the Prince gave me and told Nixva to save the boy, but I was afraid it was no use by then, the White Cloak was coming fast.”
“A White Cloak?” The commander leaned toward him, kneeling under the soft menumen leaves. “Did you recognize which one?”
Uncle Sivisal shook his head. “Once we were inside the woods she let down her hood and we saw her face, that was all.”