by Jim Grimsley
He told me a little about life in the south as we rode the marked trail toward the encampment. Not that he was talkative by any standard. He made jaka briskly and whittled with his wrist knife and thumb blade, weapons some soldiers prefer to the ordinary hand-held dagger. He wore southern clothing for all his Jisraegen airs: a sleeved shirt, leather leggings and soft doeskin boots. I liked him but was shy to talk to him, and gave up. I had a troubling sense of being too thoroughly seen by him. He had piercing eyes; one could imagine him an eagle, scrying prey miles off.
We rode through the darkening Woodland through hills and valleys, following a cleared trail that led miraculously through swaths of vine, waterfalls of tangled branches, shadowed hillsides covered with white moonflower that thrives in the rarer light. Our second night on such a hillside, the white moon did rise though the red one did not, and the flowers really did glow, an eerie light flowing like a mist, throwing ghostly shadow against the roots and lower trunks of the twisted trees that towered out of the rock. The landscape struck me with such an aching force I wondered how I would sleep. I walked around our campsite once the moon rose, heeding Cuthru’s warning to be careful of badgers and wildcats that were known to prowl the hill country, and above all not to step on one of the moonflowers, since that could be bad luck in another way. I told him I would be careful. I felt as if I were in fairyland, walking from dark tree trunk to fall of vine, stepping between the full, glowing blossoms of the broad moonflowers, the petals shaped like the ends of torches, delicately veined, limpid. The petals were warm, one did not have to touch them to feel it, and the flower shivered as if to the beat of a gentle pulse. I was careful not to disturb a single blossom.
Sleep came easily in spite of the flowers and the vibrant light. Just after dawn, when the flowers ceased glowing, we rode again, and by midmorning we reached the encampment, atop a tall hill at the northernmost place in Nevyssan, called Nevyssan’s Point.
The encampment was nestled in a small cul-de-sac formed by rock, down which washed a narrow, shallow brook. Tents had been pitched in the available clearing, standard issue, nothing as fancy as what we were used to in camp. When we rode into the clearing, where a cook fire was burning, Thruil emerged from one of the tents, saw us and hurried forward. Without awaiting any greeting he called out, “Mordwen’s been expecting you all morning, Jessex. He’s in that tent yonder, the one with the banner over it. He may have folks with him but go in anyway to let him know you’re here.”
I hesitated only long enough to thank Cuthru for the company. He acknowledged with a curt nod and helped Thruil with the horses. I hurried through the crowded tents and trees, toward higher ground where stood the brown tent with the crimson banner hanging in the breezeless morning.
Mordwen’s voice sounded among others. A guard was posted by the tent flaps, armed to the teeth. She announced me to someone inside and I entered, stepping past two clerks who were copying out letters and Gaelex who was composing another. Mordwen was seated on cushions in the tent’s center, wearing a dagger and wrist-knife with the blade sheath in place. He had war bracelets on his upper arms, glittering birds of prey inlaid in white enamel on the beaten gold. He had a look of deep concentration on his face. He was listening to the officer in front of him, the Nivra Cothryn of Cordyssa.
Mordwen was looking more vigorous than I had seen him, holding his shoulders higher, occasionally touching the hilt of his dagger as if to reassure himself that it was still safe in its scabbard. I watched him for a while, caught his eye and nodded, and went away.
He did the Prince’s business all afternoon, while I wandered in and out of camp. I went for a ride on Nixva and had a pleasant run. Since we were close to the border of Arthen we rode to the Woods End, beyond which lies the open plain.
The Girdle was bare and empty, windswept, grass darkening in waves. With the Queen’s forts conquered or besieged, no patrols rode in this part of the world. Peaceful not to have to worry about Blue Cloak patrols. There was something uncanny in looking at that open landscape through which one could move without restriction. Here was Arthen and there was the plain. No soldiers on horseback stood between the two.
Cothryn and a few gentry were in camp that evening, as well as enough soldiers to suit Mordwen’s rank, about two hundred folks; every tent pulled its own kitchen duty, sometimes sharing a cook fire with a neighbor. At night the lights from the fires lit the hillside, smoke drifting to the stars, and one could hear music from every side, lyre, guitar and kata sticks. After dinner I sat outside till the officers finished their discussions with Mordwen regarding the layout for main camp, which would arrive in the next day or so. The sound of voices blended with the music and wind in the upper branches. Because we were on a hillside one could see the sky. Duraelaryn do not grow close to the border of Arthen, nor do they care much for rough country like Nevyssan. I watched the stars shining, naming the ones I knew, remembering nights when I was shepherding the flock through the meadows close to the Queen’s land.
When the officers were gone I found Mordwen sharing a polite glass of wine with Cothryn. The Nivra was in a courteous mood, and while I was present he followed the convention of not referring to me or speaking to me directly, until he was ready to leave, but I was conscious that he watched me. He asked if I would sing the morning song and I answered that I probably would, though there was no lamp and the cook fire would have been lit long before dawn. He expressed what he called a sincere desire to hear Velunen as he was used to hearing it since I became kyyvi. Mordwen overheard this remark and raised an eyebrow.
When he had gone, Mordwen stood in the tent opening, watching him walk away. I thought Mordwen wanted to say something. He stood thinking for a while and then asked if I had brought the suuren book.
Once he had inspected my entries and found them to be satisfactory in neatness and form, he read them with absorption. Presently he said, “I see no more of a pattern than when I was keeping the record.” In answer to the question he could already hear coming out of my mouth, he went on, “It’s nothing you’ve done. Maybe it’s a lost art.”
“Lost?”
“What we know about suuren-keeping comes from books written by the Cunuduerum priests. Not many of their writings have survived outside the city, and one does not venture to visit the libraries. Falamar broke the ranks of the Praeven but he never fathomed the magic they used to hide their secret places. Drudaen could never break those magics, either, when he was still able to enter Arthen. Some of the books that do exist mention a few of the suuren patterns that were used by the priests to foretell the future. But they were able to see a pattern where I see nothing at all.” He closed the book and gave it back to me. “Go on recording the entries yourself, as you’ve been doing.”
“Yes sir. Were all the priests magicians?”
“What priests?”
“The ones who lived in Cunuduerum. Did they all know magic?”
“What a strange question. They were magicians of a sort, primarily masters of lore. They were not originally Word-masters as were Falamar or Lord Durassa; at least at first. But they developed a language that gave them strength when they used it together, and they made magic that way. They used the kyyvi and the suuren to derive the true-names of all the trees in Arthen, and the names of all places they could reach, and all things they could think of, and used those names and words they derived in other ways to make a new kind of chant. They were Jisraegen after all and had an ear for magic. Do you know anything about Words of Power?”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. “A little.”
“Words of Power are magic words, and only magicians like Drudaen know how to use them. When the Praeven learned to make magic, the balance of the world was disturbed, and they did not seem to know what they had done. They made a song that is said to have terrified YY-Mother, because if she had let it end it would have brought about the Great Breaking then and there. So she gave Falamar a new strength and allowed him to end the song and to destroy
the Praeven, and after that he ruled Cunuduerum and Arthen himself.
“Books containing the language they made were hidden in the Library the Praeven closed when they vanished. I imagine there are folks who would like to find the books but no one has.”
I had more questions but Mordwen was clearly tired and would want to sleep soon. So I asked him about Kirith Kirin, since that was the other subject on my mind.
At first I thought he had not heard me. He wandered from the coal brazier where a teapot hung to a wooden writing table holding an ornate metal lockbox. Mordwen opened the lock and drew out a cut sheet of parchment.
Kirith Kirin had no scribe with him on his present journey, and the letter Mordwen handed me was written in the Prince’s hand. I held the letter stupidly, as if I didn’t know what to do with it. Mordwen took the suuren book to study on a cushion beside one of the lamp-stands.
The letter was dated the first day of Ikos, not long ago. At the time Kirith Kirin was in a place called Avyllaeron, a hilltop in west Arthen where Falamar once hoped to build a fortress. The name of the place was written beneath the date. “Mordwen,” the letter began, “I’m writing in some haste and urgency. The sealed packet contains letters of cachet and authority for your use in my absence. I’ll be back in Nevyssan as soon as I can verify the whereabouts of Nemort. Meantime do what you can to settle Cordyssa and above all keep the Nivri and Finru from quarreling with each other.
“This business has me worried sick. I should have been harder at the Nevyssan council. A war now is a chancy thing; and we’re already in over our heads. Athryn won’t stand for losing the whole north. We’re doing well enough against the garrisons but her patrols will be getting word to Nemort now that we’ve broken their backs, and he’ll be sending the news to Ivyssa. Even if we manage to beat him, soon one of the magicians will come. Where will our defense be then?
“I didn’t mean to brood over this so much. I suppose I’m lonely, if you can credit that. I don’t have enough friends to have you scattered to the nine winds. I look forward to a cup of wine and a warm fire when I get back. camp should beat me there. Give my greetings to the son of Kinth when he arrives.”
The last words filled me with momentary warmth, till I read the letter through again and felt the weight of his sadness. Mordwen was watching my face. “Why are you showing this to me?”
In the dim lamplight Mordwen seemed younger, and far more confused. “I wanted you to read his greeting for yourself.”
“Why is he so sad?”
“He’s set something in motion that won’t stop before a lot of blood is shed, and he wouldn’t be Kirith Kirin if he didn’t feel the weight of that.”
“But he has no choice.”
Mordwen had wandered to the tent opening. “No. That was what Ren Vael told us. The mobs would have stormed Bremn themselves sooner or later, and there would have been a lot of killing, and a lot of reprisal. One hates to think of the whole city population sold into slavery but such things have happened lately, in Turis, for example. Kirith Kirin had no choice all right, unless he could watch Cordyssans be slaughtered without feeling it.”
“But that doesn’t make things any easier. Is that what you mean?”
Nodding, stroking the embroidery on his sleeve. “This is a war we’ve fought to prevent for many years, even though every sign told us it was coming sooner or later.”
“Is Kirith Kirin afraid he can’t beat General Nemort?”
“We can handle Nemort. We can pen him up in Gnemorra anyway. But after that, once word reaches Athryn and she summons the Wizard, what will happen then?”
I began to understand. What if Drudaen marched north to rescue Nemort? The General might not like wizards but he would accept help from any place he could get it if he were besieged. “But don’t the Cordyssans understand that?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t make any difference. Even fear will only push people so far. The Fenax has had enough. Cordyssa has had more than enough. People are starving, are losing land their families have held for ages. Kirith Kirin has had enough too, I think, though he dreads the price we’ll have to pay.”
“Has he left Arthen?”
Mordwen looked shocked. “Of course not. He can’t leave. Kirith Kirin hasn’t yet broken any of the Law of Changes, and as long as he doesn’t, we’ve still got hope. Pelathayn and Imral have led the troops outside in Angoroe, and Karsten won the victory at Anrex. The Jhinuuserret are under no one’s injunction to remain in Arthen. The Law of Changes says nothing about how to behave if it ever becomes necessary to overthrow the King or Queen.”
The next thing I heard was the singing of crickets in the autumn evening, still warm like summer. I walked to Mordwen’s side, watching the cook fire outside our tent, the flickering torches, hearing the murmuring of the guards who were kneeling by the fire. Gaelex and two others. Gaelex was on her way to her own tent, and called a greeting to Mordwen.
Presently he offered me a final goblet of wine. When he said good night I spread my own pallet on the layers of carpet in the tent, trimmed down the lamp, and slept. I could hear Mordwen breathing in the next chamber, a comforting sound. I rested much easier than I had in days.
2
I sang the morning song while jaka was brewing over the cook fire, and rode suuren in the surrounding hills while the rest of camp was rousing itself to another day. Following instruction, I returned to the hills and copied an entry for the day into the suuren book. Again no summons came to Illyn Water.
Because I could write some I was employed as a scribe, and because I could be trusted Mordwen used me to copy confidential letters or writs of order he was reluctant to give to the other clerks. My day passed with this fresh discipline to occupy me, copying letters to various noblemen in Cordyssa and on the Fenax estates to call up soldiers, letters to magistrates in Cordyssa setting prices on various market items. With practice my writing improved. I copied each letter neatly, and in fact was faster than the other scribes from so much rune-writing at Illyn.
Cothryn was in the tent most of the day, since he was kin to Ren Vael and could help with management of the city. I was working close to Mordwen most of the day and Cothryn always managed to hover near. I could not name the change in his manner toward me and was uneasy, thinking myself vain and giddy. He was paying attention to me, though, and after a while I could not deny it.
Outriders from main camp reached us at dawn the next day, and the column itself arrived about midmorning. Gaelex had been up half the night getting ready, and with the help of Inryval and Vaeyr she soon managed to make some order of the site.
That was my favorite of all the places we ever set our tents, because the Woodland grew so wild there, the earth pitching and rolling from sheer hill to deep ravine. Small, tenacious trees throve in Nevyssan, and elgerath abounded, spilling down whole hillsides. Perfume from lavender blossoms floated on every breeze. The stewards pitched tents as best they could, using any near-level spot. The merchants who sold at the camp market had only a good-size clearing and did a lot of grumbling but made the best of things. As for the shrine tent, the shrine sat at an angle and had to be jacked up on wooden supports. Gaelex said nothing better could be had under the circumstances.
Axfel arrived in camp sick with some kind of fever. If I was fifteen Axfel was rising eight, and the fact of his age was not lost on me. A big dog like him does not live much longer than eight or nine years. I always kept a close eye on him and was careful to give him the proper remedy whenever he got sick — there are herbs for the healing of animals just as there are for people, and some are the same for both. Axfel had come down with a surprisingly human-sounding cough. Following lamp-lighting I nursed him most of the night, making him a bed behind the shrine-tent, building a small fire to keep him warm, wrapping him in wool blankets that had been packed in a chest since spring. We were in high country, where the summer nights can be chilly. The dog was better by evening the next day, eating a meat gruel made from supper scraps I gat
hered in the common tent. Because of my nursing duties I was sleepy during Vithilunen, however, and was distracted afterward when Cothryn spoke to me. “Is the Prince’s lieutenant working you too hard, young Jessex? I ought to speak to her about that.”
“No, sir, my dog is sick and I was up all night tending him. I’ve had no rest to speak of today, either.”
He was smiling in a way that I did not find altogether attractive. “Even when you’re tired you’re still very beautiful.”
Not really believing I had heard his actual words, I turned and walked away. I went behind the shrine to clean the lamps. Cothryn had been one of only a few celebrants at ceremony and remained after the rest were headed toward the lower camp. I had to dawdle in the workroom, finding chores to attend to, before I could be sure he had gone.
I continued my duties as scribe in Mordwen’s work tent, and more often than not Cothryn was there. With the coming of the shrine to camp I saw him at morning and evening ceremonies as well, and in that context he was more boorish. Following lamp-lighting he spoke to me publicly in spite of the fact that I was in sleeves. He complimented my singing. He complimented my looks in subtle ways. Though these attentions were troublesome, I only became alarmed when his first gift arrived.