“It looks as if I’ll have to, since you’re out of Weador’s restorative drink.”
The centaur led them to the riverbank. There they turned left and followed the river downstream for what seemed like several leagues. Eventually the river plunged through a rocky gorge. At first, Bram was doubtful he could scramble down the rugged slopes, but the centaur found a route that they both could follow. After much hard climbing, they reached the bottom.
There the riverbed flattened, banked by great slabs of smooth stone. Just across the river rose a rocky cliff face streaked in shades of water-weathered gray. Propped against the stone wall was the tallest ladder Bram had ever seen, and the most primitive. The unhewn trunks of hundreds of saplings were lashed horizontally to three vertical support beams. It reminded Bram of the sun-bleached spine and ribs of a cow.
His gaze followed the ladder up to an opening in the cliff face. “Opening” wasn’t the right word, he corrected himself. It looked as if the elaborate, columned entrance to a temple had been ripped away and grafted into the face of the stone wall.
“Are you just going to stand there, gaping, or are you going up to meet your mother?” the centaur demanded.
Bram jumped, startled. “I’m going.” He regarded the centaur’s horse quarters with a frown. “How are you going to climb that ladder?”
“I’m not. Your arrival here completes my service to the tuatha. Now I can return to my people after a very long year.” Aurestes turned to leave.
“That’s it?” said Bram. “You’re going just like that?”
“Did you think we’d engage in that particularly annoying human custom of hugging good-bye?”
“No! Of course not, I—” Bram paused, flustered. He straightened and composed himself. “Fare-thee-well and thank you again, Aurestes. I hope your homecoming is all you expect and more.”
Aurestes’s gaze traveled up the enormous ladder, then back to the human’s anxious eyes. “The same to you, Bram.”
Bram watched the centaur canter away and disappear in the maze of gullies that filled the land this side of the river. He continued staring until long after the sound of hooves ringing against stone had faded to nothing.
He took his first, tentative steps up the ladder, thinking as he did that the area looked deserted. That was just what he’d expect from the tuatha, who were never seen unless they wanted to be. Weador’s subjects had been helping Bram in Thonvil for years before he became aware of their existence.
With measured care, he proceeded up the ladder. At the top, he stepped through the carved archway onto a long, broad underground road.
“Hello!” he called, his voice echoing down the rocky shaft. “I have come from King Weador’s court to speak with the tuatha named Primula.” When there was no answer, he began walking. After a short way, Bram realized that he was not in a cave, as he originally thought, but a tunnel dug into the hillside. He quickened his pace until the spot of light at the far end grew into a distinct opening. Beyond it the world was once again green and inviting.
Stepping through the opening, Bram called out again. He felt foolish shouting to the trees, but he also thought it would be rude to barge into Primula’s realm uninvited and unannounced. He trusted that the tuatha were there. Over the three years that he’d knowingly worked side-by-side with the tuatha in Thonvil, he had developed a sense of their presence. The air seemed more vibrant, electric even, when they were near. He would have said he’d learned how to detect them, but now he wondered if he hadn’t inherited the latent sense.
When still no tuatha appeared, he repeated his message a third time, adding, “I mean no harm. My business with Primula is urgent.”
Slowly, very slowly, Bram detected a change in the air. One leaf, then two, then five dropped from the surrounding trees and spiraled through the crisp air, as if propelled by an unseen whirlwind. As each leaf touched the ground, a faerie appeared. These tuatha were as short as, though much thinner than, Weador’s subjects. They were pale and slight, even sickly. The men wore simple tunics and trousers, the women plain shifts in subdued shades of the forest. None wore the bright and whimsical colors favored by the tuatha Bram knew.
More leaves tumbled, more somber-faced faeries appeared, until at least thirty were present. A woman stepped forward to face Bram. He knew before she spoke that he looked into the face of his true mother. She had his same oddly flat nose, the feature that had always baffled him. Even Guerrand had long ago remarked that Bram’s nose was the one thing that kept them from looking like brothers. No ancestor’s portrait had revealed the origin of that feature. Now he knew why.
“I am Primula,” she said, stumbling slightly over the pronunciations. Her voice was of medium pitch, strong yet serene. “Please forgive my slow speech. It has been many years since I have spoken the common tongue of men.”
Bram simply stared. His mother had the same crystal-blue eyes of so many of the tuatha. Her chestnut-brown hair was drawn back tightly and gathered into a braid that was woven through with bright green ivy. Another length of ivy draped the pale collarbone above her brown shift.
“You bear a message from Weador?” she prompted.
Bram swallowed hard. “He told me I am your son.”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean nothing to you?”
“I’m sure Weador explained how we view such relationships, if he found reason to tell you of your true heritage.”
“He didn’t offer me the information; I confronted him about it.” Bram felt the press of a hundred eyes. “Is there somewhere more private we can talk?” He scanned the surroundings for signs of shelters.
“The others will hear us wherever we are.”
“Then please tell them not to listen.”
Primula summoned another of the tuatha and spoke quickly in a language Bram could not understand. This one waved his arms to the others, and they all spun about and disappeared, literally, into the tree line.
“We are alone.”
Bram looked around self-consciously for something to sit on. “Do you just live out here in the forest, with no shelter or other comforts?”
“We find the forest filled with comforts,” she said softly. “What would you have us seek shelter from? Chislev’s renewing rain? The sun that makes all things of nature grow?” She eyed his wet clothing. “For your comfort I will provide a fire and a dry seat.” Without so much as a wave of her hand, a small but warming fire and tree stump appeared to Bram’s left. Awkwardly, Bram settled himself, while Primula continued standing.
“I won’t ask you just yet why you agreed to give me birth,” he began. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that answer. Instead, I would ask why you left Weador’s realm.”
“You would find that the answers to both questions are the same. I did these things because I believed I was serving Chislev. However, I came to realize I was serving only Weador.”
Bram bristled slightly. “For more than three years King Weador and his subjects have worked tirelessly to bring back life to my village and its people. In turn, the quality of life for his own people is good.”
“You are judging accomplishments by human standards,” Primula said with great tolerance. “Our community has spiritual wealth brought about by disciplined worship to Chislev. Weador’s wealth is of a material nature.”
“He could have left Thonvil to die, but he didn’t.”
“Perhaps that was Chislev’s plan for you and your village.” Primula placed several small sticks on the fire. “There is much you do not understand about a tuatha’s service to Chislev, Bram.”
“I know nothing about it,” agreed Bram. “And I’m not sure I want to, if he asks his followers to value laziness and death over hard work and life.”
“All things of nature must die.”
“We don’t need to hasten them along toward that goal,” he returned evenly.
“The timing of such things is not for us to decide,” Primula said. “By meddling, we are imposing our wi
ll over Chislev’s. We seek to have a god’s powers.”
“So you would have had Weador just let us—let me—die.”
“Perhaps you would have accomplished the same renewal on your own.”
“What would have happened to Weador and his subjects?” Bram demanded. “It was explained to me that a tuatha’s survival is dependent upon the well-being of the human community to which it is attached.”
“Tuatha dundarael are nomadic by nature,” Primula began. “Weador should have moved his people when things began to decline in your village. Instead, he grew too comfortable in the setting and chose not to leave it.”
Primula’s gaze never left Bram’s eyes. “That is why I left Weador’s domain. Your presence here tells me that his thinking has not changed.
“I left Weador’s community,” she continued, “and many chose to join me. I recognized that he had grown too dependent upon contact with humans. I fear that when kings like Weador blur the distinction between tuatha and humans, our culture will eventually be assimilated into theirs. Or worse, that we will cease to exist. Weador’s decision to arrange a human-tuatha offspring to strengthen the DiThon family line eventually convinced me his was a dangerous folly.”
“And yet you agreed to carry me.”
“Weador was my king,” she said simply. “I wanted to believe he represented Chislev’s will. I came to realize the truth when I carried you in my womb. I left as soon afterward as was physically possible and have never regretted it.”
The silence that followed felt terribly awkward to Bram, but had no visible effect on Primula. “How is your service to Chislev here any different from Weador’s?” he asked at length.
“Our goal is to return to the traditions of our ancestors. Tuatha should never be seen by humans, but only do them small favors in return for gratuities. Our numbers here are much smaller than Weador’s, and our needs are simpler. We have never allowed ourselves to be seen by the human community we serve—a small, humble village.”
“I suppose, then, it’s pointless to tell you that Weador is concerned for your welfare,” Bram informed her. “He asked me to invite you to return to the safety and comfort of his realm.”
“There is that word again—‘comfort’.” Primula nearly gave an ironic smile, but shook her dark head instead. “No, there is no point in your asking me to return. This is how Chislev means tuatha to live.”
“Then how am I meant to live?” Bram asked.
Primula’s eyes flashed pity for a split second. “I cannot answer that. You are free to choose which philosophy you will follow.”
“I am of two cultures.” Bram said it for the first time without fear or loathing. “But I know so little of tuatha ways.… Teach me your ways,” he prompted with great feeling. “Give me the knowledge to choose wisely between the tuatha ways and the human ideals I have followed all my life. Perhaps I will even find a way to prevent your prophecy about the melding of the societies from coming true.”
“I fear what you represent for the future of the tuatha dundarael,” admitted Primula. “But it would be the ultimate hypocrisy to hold you responsible for your heritage. Besides, I can turn away no one who would follow the teachings of Chislev. But I must warn you: You are the only one of your kind. What you seek—to learn to become tuatha—has never been done by any human. The path will be long and difficult, and quite possibly deadly.”
Bram straightened with determination. “I don’t take on this quest lightly, Primula. I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed solemnly, “for however long it takes, to learn Chislev’s ways.”
Lyim sat at the blond-wood table in the hall of the Councilors, absently tracing a tapered fingernail in the thick dust overlooked behind a vase. The contingent of servants sent by Mavrus had been given only heartbeats to set right a council chamber that hadn’t been used in years. Vases of fragrant flowers helped to dispel the mustiness of sealed disuse.
“Basha,” Aniirin began, peevishly slumped at the head of the conference table. “Tell me again: why did I decide it was necessary to meet with these dwarves? I would rather be feeding my fish in the reflecting pool.”
Mavrus had managed to get the potentate into a very snug cobalt-blue ceremonial cassock. Buttons strained across his lumpy chest so that his white cotton underclothes peeked between them. Aniirin squirmed and scratched like a child in temple-day clothing.
“These sorts of trade conferences are tiresome, no doubt,” agreed Lyim. “Particularly with a race as self-important and greedy as the dwarves. Nevertheless, you felt that since they were so persistent we should listen to their grievances. If we don’t, we risk jeopardizing the trade agreement struck with them during the reign of your venerable grandfather. This would seriously affect the shipping revenues we receive for the dwarven trade barges navigating our River Torath.”
“Yes, that was it,” said Aniirin absently. His oddly shaped head snapped up. One blue eye and one green eye squinted at the doorway. “Why aren’t they here yet? Don’t they realize I’m a busy man? I have better things to do than wait for a passel of whining dwarves.”
“Of course you do, Sire,” said Lyim. “Unfortunately, the other amirs must arrive before Mavrus can show the dwarves in.” He gave the door a worried glance. “I can’t imagine what has kept them.”
Lyim knew full well what was delaying the aldermen. Salimshad had arranged to waylay the messengers sent to the amirs and made some alterations to the appointed time on their missives.
“I’m sure they will arrive shortly,” Lyim said. “They are responsible men, all. The streets were crowded, what with the festival to Sirrion being observed by the masses.”
“And yet you made it on time,” observed Aniirin.
“I am flawed with an intolerance for lateness,” confessed Lyim. “Salimshad maintains I’m obsessed with leaving ridiculously early for appointments.”
“This does not sound like a flaw to me.” Aniirin plucked a handful of green grapes from the bowl before him and popped them in his mouth all at once.
Lyim coughed uncomfortably at the praise. “I assure you, Sire, it is a policy that maddens Salimshad.” He looked toward the door again and frowned. “Perhaps I can determine what keeps the other amirs.” Lyim stood and bowed his head briefly. “If you will excuse me, Sire, I will be only a moment.”
“Instruct Mavrus to help you.” Aniirin waved a distracted hand, his attention already focused on the ticklish task of peeling a pomegranate’s leathery red skin without piercing the juicy seeds inside.
Lyim stepped quickly from the room and closed the heavy gilt door behind him. Everything was going as planned. He gave a shrill whistle, the signal to Salimshad. The elf was in the small adjoining Courtyard of the Councilors, explaining to the waiting aldermen that Basha Rhistadt was still working to persuade Aniirin of the need to meet with the dwarves from Thorbardin. The amirs would have no choice but to believe it, then would be forced to acknowledge the progress Lyim had made with the potentate. Though it would be beneficial for the city and all its aldermen, Aniirin had resisted such a trade meeting, citing tedium, before Lyim’s rise. But now the potentate trusted Lyim implicitly.
Timing was crucial. Lyim had to get the dwarves into the council chambers just seconds after the amirs arrived, so that Aniirin would have no time to ask the nobles about their lateness. He hastened to the audience antechamber, where Mavrus was entertaining the contingent of three dwarves.
“We are ready,” Lyim announced.
A little frayed around the edges, Mavrus looked relieved to see Lyim. The crisply starched collar of the man’s jacket was stretched and slightly sweat stained. Three large, empty bottles of Aniirin’s best Kharolian ale stood empty on a table. Mavrus’s hand was poised to pour the dregs of another bottle into a mug intended for a dwarf whose eyes were already red-rimmed with drink. That the dwarves were on their way to being inebriated only furthered Lyim’s plans.
The dwarves regarded the basha with irritation at having
been kept waiting. One stomped up to him, about to speak, when Lyim cut him off.
“We had best save introductions until we reach the council chamber, sir. Aniirin is a busy potentate, and I am loathe to keep him waiting.”
Lyim knew this approach was risky. He gauged the dwarves’ reactions to his words. As he’d intended, the suggestion that Aniirin’s time was more valuable than theirs fanned their anger.
Aniirin’s new heir apparent glanced at Mavrus and was further relieved. The manservant gave a slight smile of approval, having detected only concern for Aniirin’s schedule in Lyim’s words. So far, so good, thought the basha.
Walking before the contingent, Lyim could see the door to the Hall of Councilors close behind the last alderman. He hastened his steps and swung the heavy door open again before the amirs could do more than find seats.
“Potentate Aniirin, venerable amirs of Qindaras, I would introduce the representatives from Thorbardin.”
Aniirin’s mouth was ringed in red pomegranate juice. The potentate spit a seed to the table just as Mavrus hastened through the assembled group to hand him a handkerchief.
Though not known for their subtlety, the dwarves seemed able to conceal their surprise at the potentate’s appearance. Lyim could scarcely suppress a snort at the sight of his pushed-in head and childishly stained face. Lyim only hoped that the dwarves would not openly insult anyone before he had the chance to plant more poisonous seeds of discontent on both sides.
One of the dwarves stepped forward. “Therin Glous, of Clan Daewar,” he said in the heavily accented, rumbling baritone of most of the dwarves of Lyim’s acquaintance. He wore a heavy leather doublet, striped pants, and rolled boots. “Behind me is Noshor, our minister of trade, and von Eaugur, our minister of public safety.”
The potentate merely sat, blinking one green and one blue eye expectantly, so Lyim hastily introduced his fellow amirs—Vaspiros, Garaf, Calesta, Dafisbier, and Hasera, Rusinias’s replacement.
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