by K. C. Julius
“And did you?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
Barav grimaced. “Folks round here will say it was Lurkers who jumped you. But of course, folks would—our kind are always blamed for whatever these rustics can’t explain.” Worry creased the å Livåri’s brow. “The only reason Jenks hired me is because my rabbit stew and black pudding draws a full house. In truth, I’d have been long shut of this place, but my people are late in coming. They promised to pass through for me on their way to our wintering grounds in Glornadoor, and should have been here two moons ago. Now I daren’t leave, not on my own.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Morgan. “The information you’ve passed on to me this summer has been of benefit to the realm. I regret if it’s put you at risk. I’d offer to have you ride with us, but we’re not heading south.”
Barav ran a hand through his dark curls. “It’s all right. The work pays a pittance, but I’ve a roof over my head for the winter. At least the food’s decent,” he added with a grin. “And who knows, maybe my people will come after all.”
“And if they don’t?”
Barav shrugged. “Then I’ll seek them in the spring. Hopefully they’ll come through the winter without trouble. There’s been flooding and wind funnels along the coast of Palmador, and Karan-Rhad’s been inundated with ceaseless rains, the seeds rotting in the soil. Where it’s been dry, the topsoil blows away in clouds of dust. Sometimes I wonder if the gods have declared war on us all.”
“Reports are concerning,” Morgan agreed. He rose slowly to his feet, fighting back a wave of nausea as his head pounded. In light of this incident, he’d have no choice but to wake Leif and set off at once, regardless of his pain. Although he’d told Barav he had no idea as to the reason for the attack, he couldn’t rule out that possibility that someone had learned of the work with which he had been charged. It would explain what Nelvorbothian soldiers were doing this far north.
“If you stay,” he said to Barav, “keep your ear to the wall, and be on your guard.” He took an unsteady step. “It appears I’ll need your assistance to return to my room.”
Barav laid a steadying hand on his arm. “Certainly. Only… first I’ve something to tell you.” He made a forked sign and muttered a strong Livårian oath.
Morgan raised his brows. “What is it?”
The cook wore a troubled expression. “You know me as Barav,” he said, “but my full name is Drabarav. It means something special in our tongue.”
The wizard drew a sharp breath. “You’re a dream reader?”
“I’m impressed that you know of this. Yes, I was born with the caul.”
Morgan sank back down again. Dream readers had all but vanished with the close of the Before. “What have you seen?”
The å Livåri covered his swarthy face with his hands, as if to compose himself. When he lowered them again, Morgan noticed the dark rings under his eyes. “What I saw,” the younger man said, “was the most powerful and ominous vision of my life. I dreamed of the Cailleach, garbed in a robe of living crows.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Eleven in all.”
The wizard swore softly under his breath. The Cailleach was a malefic å Livåri witch who dwelt in the realm of sleep, and her appearance almost always boded ill. Accompanied by one crow, the Cailleach signified bad luck. Three crows meant good fortune, and six foretold an imminent death.
But eleven…
Morgan understood now why Barav looked so haunted. Eleven crows portended disaster on a colossal scale. Dark doings indeed.
Unbidden, Lazdac came to his mind. But the lone surviving Strigori had not been seen for decades—and Morgan had been the last to see the dark wizard who had cost him so much.
“Did the Cailleach speak?” he asked, although he dreaded the answer.
Barav shook his head, his expression grim. “She did not. But she showed me—she revealed a vision… of a place so devoid of humanity…” Words seem to fail him then. He drew a ragged breath before he spoke again. “I would have taken it for the bottom of the Abyss, had I not recognized one among the living there.” He choked on his words, and swallowed hard. “My sister—I saw my twin, Kava, among the tormented souls. And I would know if she’d made the Leap.”
“Was there anything about this vision,” said Master Morgan, “that hinted at where your sister might be?”
“Nothing.” Tears spilled down Barav’s cheeks, and he struggled to master himself. “The Cailleach was silent, but Kava… she spoke to me.” He stared at the wall, as if the words were emblazoned upon it. “We are fodder and vessel,” he said in a hollow voice, “to bear their loathsome fruit.” He turned his beseeching gaze to the wizard. “What could she have meant by this?”
“I don’t know,” said Morgan, “but it’s clear its root lies in evil. I will seek to find this place of which you’ve dreamt.”
“I pray you do,” said Barav, “before it’s too late to save Kava.”
Let us hope, amended the wizard silently, before it’s too late for us all.
* * *
It took a brisk shaking to rouse Leif from his warm bed, but they were back on the road within an hour. Morgan saw no hoofprints in the snow as they rode out, nor any sign of his assailants, but he couldn’t afford to linger. Leif’s dragon incident had occurred at an inauspicious time, forcing Morgan to deal with the boy first before going after those he’d been charged with securing. He only hoped none of the other young people would suffer consequences because of it. They might already be at grave risk, but he had to weigh this against the necessity of luring Lazdac out from whatever rock he’d been brooding under.
Barav’s dream of the Cailleach’s cloak of crows could not be dismissed as coincidental. Slowly but surely, the wheels of turmoil had been set in motion, and now they were spinning toward the chaos Morgan had feared was to come.
Chapter 5
Leif
By the fifth day of their journey, Leif had grown accustomed to Holly’s rolling gait, and he could finally sit astride the pony without wincing. Their path had veered southeast over increasingly steep and narrow passes, but Leif trusted the sure-footed little horse to see them safely to their destination, wherever that might be.
Despite his worries about his gran, he held fast to his master’s promise that in his absence, she would remain safe. But he still had so many questions crowding his mind. Master Morgan had made it clear he preferred to travel in silence unless he wished to point out something instructive. So as Leif rode behind the wizard on Holly’s sturdy back, he occupied himself by making up a nonsense rhyme, in order not to forget the most intriguing of his queries. As they ambled along, he repeated it over and over in his head.
“Elvinor, giants, dragons blue
Aetheor, Helgrins, the Lost Lands, too!”
It wasn’t the best of verses, but he had it by heart. He wanted to ask about the Tribus as well, but he hadn’t thought up a way yet to include it in his poem.
The breathtaking scenery kept him entertained, as there was always some grandeur awaiting around a turn in the mountain pass. And although the wizard didn’t care for small talk, Leif was happy to discover that his master had a fine baritone voice. They passed the late afternoons singing until indigo shadows shaded their path. Leif found it surprisingly easy to recall the lyrics Master Morgan taught him, and he flushed with pleasure when his master commended him on this.
The outposts where they stopped were maintained by solitary keepers who offered meager meals and hard beds. There were few other travelers in these outlying places, but those with whom they crossed paths voiced the same concerns regarding the state of the realm: no heir named for the ailing Urlion, who seemed likely to die at any time, and fears about what would happen once he did.
The hosteler at the mountain station where they lodged on the sixth night was of a mind with the soldiers in F
indlindach. He saw the greatest threat in the Helgrins, who might view the uncertain times as a ripe opportunity to attack Drinnglennin.
“They’ll sweep o’er the land like a horde o’ locusts,” proclaimed the pallid victualer, setting down chipped bowls before them. “The weird weather in the south’s wreaked havoc on the harvests; they say even the lords have little put by. What will happen if folk need to seek refuge in their castles? A feller came through a few weeks back, tellin’ of never-endin’ rain in the south, and rivers floodin’ their banks. In winter, if ye can believe it! When the spring thaw comes…” He shook his head and cast a glance out the small window toward the snow-covered peaks. “Folk think times be hard now, but ’tis nothin’ compared to what’s t’ come.”
He leaned in closer, and Leif willed himself not to pull away from the man’s sour breath. “That feller, an odd sort ’e were, wit’ rebbity eyes, ne’er lookin’ at ye straight on like… after he’d had a fair bit o’ grog, he’d start jabberin’ about dark doings and demons…” The man leered as if he hoped he’d frightened them, and Leif turned with a shudder from his stained grimace. But the words stayed with him. Dark doings. It was the same phrase the black-bearded man had used.
Master Morgan merely lowered his eyes and lifted a large spoonful of broth to his lips. He nodded to Leif to do the same, and the disagreeable man grunted and returned to his kitchen.
After their meal, they went straight to their room, where Leif fell onto his pallet while the wizard sat opposite on his own narrow bed. Leif felt a rush of disquiet when he saw the wizard’s serious expression. “What is it, Master Morgan?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Is… is the dragon back?”
The wizard waved a dismissive hand. “No, Leif. It’s nothing to do with your dragon. I’ve promised you that you are quite safe on that score. But our host…” He glanced meaningfully at the door. “I have reason to believe he may not have the best intentions. We’ll need to be on our guard this night.”
Leif wasn’t surprised. The man had seemed an unpleasant sort, and he was a terrible cook as well.
Master Morgan kept his voice low. “He kept looking out the window while we ate, as if he was expecting someone. And did you notice the ring of keys at his belt? Among them, there’s one identical to this.” Master Morgan held up the iron key to their chamber. He rose and beckoned Leif over to the door. “Look here. You can see that the inside bolt has recently been removed. I suspect the man has thievery on his mind, and that he won’t be alone when he comes to attempt it.”
Leif felt the blood drain from his face. “What should we do, master?”
To his surprise, Master Morgan’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll just have to welcome our uninvited visitors in such a way as to dissuade them from their devilry.”
“Are you going to cast a spell on them?” asked Leif eagerly, for he had yet to witness his master perform magic.
After a slight hesitation, Master Morgan said, “There’s no need for that.”
He reached for his traveling sack and pulled out two long cloaks. Leif accepted the one thrust at him, marveling at how it shimmered in the candlelight.
“Well, put it on, boy,” said the wizard gruffly.
Leif hurried to obey. Strangely, as soon as he pulled it around his shoulders, the cloth dimmed to a dull grey.
“These are true cloaks,” said the wizard, “which means they will completely conceal us.” He drew from his sack a small jar, dipped his fingers into it, and smeared the cold and sticky stuff over both Leif’s face and his own. “Now we’ll stuff our packs under the bedclothes so it looks like we’re sound asleep.”
When this was done, Master Morgan blew out the candle.
Leif gasped. His master’s face, glowing a vivid blue, bobbed before him as though suspended in air.
“You look quite a sight yourself, my friend,” said the wizard with a chuckle. “Now come over here by the wall. We shouldn’t have long to wait.”
* * *
The door’s well-oiled hinges made no sound when the two rogues—the sour hosteler and his henchman—crept in and began pummeling the lumpy mattresses with their staves. Trembling in the shadows, Leif imagined what would have become of him and his master had the wizard been less observant.
When the attackers at last paused for breath, Master Morgan gave a low moan. Their assailants caught sight of the blue faces seemingly hanging in the air, and Leif had to stifle a nervous giggle as the rogues’ expressions shifted from glee to terror. The two scrambled for the door so suddenly, they momentarily wedged themselves in the frame, and before they burst free, their screams rent the air.
Listening to their fading footfalls, Leif began to laugh, and he kept laughing as the wizard relit their candle and preceded him down the hall to the bedchamber of their departed host.
“I think this will suit us much better,” Master Morgan said, swinging open the door to the far more comfortable room. He tossed Leif a cloth, and they wiped the blue off their faces. “Nothing like a little marshroot gleam,” said the wizard with a chuckle, “for tapping into one’s childhood fears. From the hosteler’s speech, I knew he came from Autura, where tales of the Blue Ghoul are commonly told to keep naughty children in line. I imagine those two have heard those tales many a time.”
Then the wizard threw a log on the fire and poured them each a glass of an excellent mulberry wine. Settling by the hearth, they saluted one another and spent a much warmer and merrier evening than the one their host had had in mind.
* * *
Leif was still smiling the next morning at breakfast, remembering the squeals from their would-be attackers. “I think I can still hear their howls echoing around the peaks,” he said as he helped himself to a slice of cured ham.
Master Morgan spooned a large dollop of gooseberry jam onto his thickly buttered bread. “Oh, I imagine those fellows have reached the valley by now, judging from the haste with which they beat their retreat.”
Before they left the outpost, they helped themselves to a wheel of cheese, the rest of the fresh bread and butter, and a large sack of oats for Holly. To Leif’s surprise, the wizard placed a generous pile of coins on the trestle table.
Seeing his expression, Master Morgan said, “An honorable man always pays for what he takes from another.”
Leif nodded, although he personally felt the innkeeper had forfeited any payment the moment he’d raised his stave against guests under his roof.
They set off with full stomachs and light hearts, and made good progress through the morning hours. Admiring the light glinting off the jutting peaks, Leif was just thinking what a fine adventure he was having when they rounded a sharp bend in the trail and a cry of dismay escaped him.
Spreading before them lay a vast snow-covered valley extending to the southern horizon. The deep divide separated them from the next mountain pass, and the only way forward was across a long, tenuous, hanging bridge.
The wizard reined Holly to a halt. “Ah, yes. I remember now. You and bridges. Well, my boy, would you prefer to dismount and walk over?”
Leif swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. The bridge looked terrifyingly ancient—its wooden slats were weather-warped, and dangling tendrils of unraveled rope fluttered from its handholds in the gusting wind. Just the thought of walking over the abyss on such a rickety structure made him woozy.
“N-n-n-no,” he managed to stutter. “I—I can’t—”
“We all have our demons,” said the wizard kindly. “I myself have a horror of tea cozies.” He shuddered. “I wheeze uncontrollably when I’m in the same room with one! I suggest you close your eyes and I’ll let you know when we’re across, shall I? Unless,” he added, turning to look at Leif over his shoulder, “you’d like to learn to face this particular apprehension?”
The wind pummeled Leif’s back and made the long bridge sway under its assault. He felt his
hands turn clammy inside his gloves. “I should like to learn, master,” he said, his throat constricting, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get over this fear.”
“It’s likely you won’t,” agreed the wizard, “but I never said I’d teach you to ‘get over’ your fear. I’m offering you the opportunity to face it. That’s not the same, you see.”
Leif wasn’t quite sure he did. “What do I have to do?” he asked, his voice thin to his ears.
“You’ve already taken the hardest steps,” the wizard said. He reached an arm back and Leif found himself sliding off of Holly onto the ground. Master Morgan dismounted after him, then took him firmly by the shoulders. His steady gaze held Leif’s. “You’ve admitted to the fear and decided to deal with it. Now I want you to consider what it is about bridges that most frightens you. Is it the movement under your feet? The distance above the ground?”
“Yes,” said Leif, struggling to quell his terror. “Both of those. Everything.”
“And what do you think will happen? Do you think you’ll fall off, or that the bridge will collapse?”
Leif’s mouth went dry. “Yes,” he managed to croak. “That’s what I’m most afraid of—that the bridge will break.”
The wizard nodded. “That’s not entirely unreasonable. But it is, in this case, highly unlikely. The craftsmen of Reveer, who constructed this particular bridge a millennium ago, are still regarded as the master engineers of the Known World. The bridge was used to transport Mynnyd stone down from the mountains to fortify the three most formidable strongholds in Drinnglennin: Cardenstowe, Nelvorboth, and the seat of Drinnkastel. Many have traversed this bridge over the centuries without mishap, and today, three more shall do so.”
Master Morgan’s expression softened. “Do you trust me, lad?”
Without hesitation, Leif replied, “I do, master.”
“Very well. I want you to repeat to yourself, ‘The bridge is safe. I have only to believe it.” Then I want you to see yourself safely on the other side. Can you picture this, Leif?”