by Ann Marston
“Cullin suggested helpfully that it seemed to work better for you when you swore at it,” she said, and glowered at me again. “You show no respect, Kian dav Leydon. I’m surprised the sword didn’t slice off your hand for you after that.”
I grinned. “I was in no mood for its nonsense when I invoked its magic,” I said. “I take it you managed, though.”
“Finally, I had to go through my sword to yours,” she said, nodding. “But, yes. I made it work. And it led us straight out of the city.” She dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. I noticed her knuckles whiten as she knotted her fists together. “Then, the next morning,” she continued in a softer voice, “the sword just went still.” She looked at me. “Before that, I could almost sense your presence. I believe I could have even without the sword. I think it had to be the bond—”
“I know. I felt it, too,” I said.
“Then the link just seemed to fade out and die away,” she said. She glanced at Cullin, then back to me. “We thought you were dead then,” she said. “The sword could tell us nothing, either.”
“Dergus and his spell,” I said. “It was the next day Drakon told me you were both dead, and I believed him only because I couldn’t feel the link with the sword, or with Kerri, any more. It was not—” I paused, searching for the right words. “—one of my better nights,” I finished inadequately.
“I can vouch for that,” Cullin said fervently. “We had been following the sword’s lead until then. After that, we had to track by sight. Not the easiest country on the continent to track across. We had to take it verra slowly.” He looked at me, his mouth set into a grim line. “At the very least, ti’rhonai,” he said, “we were going to exact vengeance for you, and I vowed I would see you home.”
I looked at Jeriad, who had been sitting quietly, like a fascinated child listening to a bard’s tale. “You told me they were searching for me,” I said, only now realizing what he had meant. “I thought you were telling me it was the General out there, too, as well as Mendor and Drakon.”
Jeriad looked affronted. “I be telling you others be searching for ye,” he said indignantly. “Not the black sorcerer or his men. Others.” He nodded toward Kerri, then Cullin. “Others, lad. Others.”
“And he found us,” Cullin said, smiling. “We encountered a troop of three or four Maeduni mercenaries—”
“Four,” Kerri interrupted. “There were four of them.” She gave me her smug smile. “Two each.”
Cullin laughed. “We were, fortunately, less startled upon meeting them than they were at meeting us.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Kerri smiled, mildly complacent. “Their bodies might wash up somewhere around Trevellin,” she said negligently. “Or there may possibly be some well-fed fish in the Shena for the next while.”
“That was when Jeriad came bounding out of the reeds,” Cullin said. He grinned. “Like to stop my heart right there and then. Neither of us had heard him approaching.”
“I told them ye needed them, boy,” Jeriad said with quiet dignity. “I knew both great swords had power. I told them ye be in mighty need of them.”
“I heard your voice,” I said to Cullin. “In the dream. I heard your voice telling Kerri to give something to me. The sword?”
He nodded. “We couldna even tell if you were breathing when she put it into your hands.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “It must have been a terrible dream.”
“It was.” I told them about the grey and lifeless wilderness, and about the enemy who stalked me through it.
Kerri shuddered when I had finished. “I think I saw part of it,” she murmured. “When I put the sword into your hands. All dead and grey and bleak as lost hope.”
“Aye,” I said. “And when you gave me the sword, it began to change back to a living place.”
“Was it the General in the dreams, Kian?” Cullin asked. “Was it the General you fought?”
I tried to recall the face of the man I had seen both in Trevellin and in Frendor. “No,” I said slowly. “Not the General. Someone else, I think, but Maeduni, too. Like the General. He was somehow familiar, but I can’t recall ever seeing the face waking.” I looked at Jeriad and remembered something else. I took a deep breath. “Jeriad, would you please fetch my sword for me? Take it out of the scabbard and bring it to me. I have to see something.”
Kerri started to rise. “I’ll get it,” she said.
I caught her arm and shook my head slightly. Puzzled, she settled back and watched as Jeriad bounced up and scuttled across the room to where the sword hung on the wall. He pulled it free using both hands, and, holding it like a banner pole before him, brought it back to me.
“What’s on the blade, Jeriad?” I asked quietly.
He frowned and leaned back to see better. “Be markings,” he muttered. Then he grinned widely and let go of the hilt with one hand so he could reach out and touch the runes. The sword was too heavy and he nearly dropped it. Cullin reached out a quick hand and caught it deftly by the hilt before it hit the floor. Jeriad dropped into a crouch and ran one finger along the blade, tracing the markings. He chuckled. “Be a Celae Rune Blade,” he exclaimed. “Ye carry a Celae Rune Blade, boy, and ye be a Tyr. This be passing strange.”
I took the sword from Cullin, wrapping my hand around the plain leather of the hilt. I turned to look straight at Kerri. “His mother was Celae, sheyala,” I said. “He has some magic, and I believe he’s much younger than he looks.”
Kerri paled. Her hair, bound in a long braid that fell across her shoulder, snapped as she turned to stare at Jeriad. “Him?” she asked faintly.
“He sees the runes,” Cullin said softly. He raised his eyebrow at me. “Are ye sure, ti’rhonai?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m not sure at all. But I think there’s a possibility.” Jeriad still crouched on the floor beside me, his hand slowly stroking the blade, a distant expression on his oddly youthful face. “Jeriad?”
He looked up.
“Jeriad, will you tell us about your mother?”
His eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Kerri and me. Finally, he shook his head. “Tell her,” he said, pointing his chin at Kerri. “Be Celae, her. Tell her, I will.”
XXIV
Cullin sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees and fingers tented beneath his chin. We heard the quiet murmur of voices through the hide curtain across the chamber door as Kerri and Jeriad spoke together in the cave where the fire burned. Occasionally, Jeriad’s chortling laughter rose above the soft whisper of sound. I wished I could hear what they were saying.
Cullin stretched to ease the cramps of sitting motionless for a long time. “He seems a most unlikely candidate for a prince,” he said, voicing my own thoughts.
“Aye,” I said. “Most unlikely indeed.”
He grinned. “Even more unlikely than you.”
I made a sour face. “Mayhap,” I agreed reluctantly. “But I canna help feeling the sword drew me here.” I glanced toward the hide curtain. “And he knew the sword for what it was, ti’vati. That’s more than I did for all the years I carried it.”
He picked up the sword and pulled it partway out of the scabbard to examine the blade, then turned it over to look at the other side. Finally, he shook his head. “I see no runes on this blade, ti’rhonai,” he said. “I never have.”
I reached out and traced the engraved figures with my finger. “There,” I said. “It reads, Take up the Strength of Celi.”
One red-gold eyebrow rose ironically. “Celi, is it?” he said. “And you a Tyr.” He turned the sword. “And what of this side?”
Again, I traced the runes. “Here,” I said.
“And they say?”
I shook my head. “I dinna ken,” I said. “I can’t read that side.”
He glanced at me quizzically. “Yet you can read the other.”
“From the dream.”
“It’s strange dreams you have, ti’rhonai.” He thrust the blade
home in the scabbard and got to his feet to hang it back on its peg.
I was about to reply when Kerri and Jeriad came back into the chamber together. Jeriad glanced at me, his expression troubled, then turned to Kerri, watching her worriedly through the shaggy fringe of unkempt hair.
“May I tell them, Jeriad?” Kerri asked, her voice more gentle than I’d ever heard it. “Would you allow me to tell Kian and Cullin what you told me?”
“Be making us enemies, the lad and I,” Jeriad muttered.
“No,” she said. “You saved his life. He won’t be your enemy.” She looked at me. “Kian?”
I’m quick enough when I have to be. I met Jeriad’s anxious eyes. “Nothing you could say can make me your enemy,” I told him. “Even if you wished to be an enemy, I could not consider you one after what you’ve done for me.”
“Be truth?” Jeriad asked.
“Be truth,” I replied. “I swear by the Duality, and by all the seven gods and goddesses.”
“Be swearing by that sword, too?” He gestured toward the sword hanging on the wall behind me.
“By the sword, too,” I said. “What is it you didn’t want Kerri to tell us?”
Jeriad dropped his gaze and knotted his hands together. I could have sworn he looked ashamed of something. “She be telling,” he muttered. “If ye be needing me, I be out there. I be needing more snowberry root.” He ducked quickly through the hide curtain.
Kerri sighed and shook her head. “Poor, sad little man,” she said softly. “He’s quite fond of you, Kian. Like one of the sick or injured animals he treats, only moreso.”
“He told me the river often brings him gifts,” I said. I smiled. “He said it had never brought him anything quite like me before, though.”
“What is it he didna want to tell us?” Cullin asked.
Kerri sank down onto the floor beside him and crossed her legs beneath her. She raised one shoulder in an oddly resigned gesture. “He didn’t want you to know that he’s General Hakkar’s brother,” she said quietly.
“Brother?” I repeated blankly. “Hellas-birthing. Brother?”
“Half-brother, actually.” She scrubbed her hands across her cheeks and eyes wearily. “You were right, Kian,” she said. “His mother was Celae, he does have some magic, and that poor, troubled man is only thirty years old. He looks older than my father.”
“Thirty years old,” I repeated. “Not your prince, then?”
She shook her head. “No, not the prince. It would seem my search won’t end quite this easily.”
“You said he was the General’s half-brother,” Cullin said.
She nodded. “Yes. His mother’s name was Amalida. She was taken in a Saesnesi raid and sold to a Maeduni lord. General Hakkar’s father, he says. Jeriad calls him Hakkar, too. He says the father traditionally passes on his name and power to his eldest son. The General’s name was Horbad then.”
“The child Kian carried from Balkan’s manse,” Cullin said thoughtfully. He glanced at me. “His name was also Horbad.”
Kerri nodded again. “Tradition in Maeduni families if they have some magic,” she said. “Apparently they have some way of passing the magic on and each generation becomes stronger than the last. Part of the father’s magic stems from the bond he forms with his eldest son. Jeriad wasn’t very clear on how that happens, but he thinks without the son, the father’s magic is not so potent. There are very few of them, though. Jeriad says not more than ten families in all Maeduni. One such now sits on the throne in Falinor as Lord Protector.”
“And Jeriad?” I asked. “Where does he fit?”
“Hakkar the elder took Amalida to his bed,” she said. “Jeriad was born a year later. He inherited some of her magic. She had a little, Healing for instance. Jeriad has some of it. But he inherited some of his father’s magic, too. The two were thoroughly incompatible. Once both of them began to manifest themselves, it nearly drove him mad, he says.”
“What happened to his mother?” I asked. “Jeriad says she died to escape the black sorcerer.”
Kerri made a distasteful face. “This part is rather horrid,” she said. “The General was always looking for ways to make his magic stronger, Jeriad says. Then about fifteen years ago, he apparently stumbled on a way. It—it involved a lot of blood.”
“We’ve seen examples of the method,” Cullin said grimly.
I shuddered, remembering the small, black-draped chamber, the blood pouring from the disembowelled man, and the dark mist winding around the General’s arms. He had wanted to do that to Kerri.
“Yes, well,” Kerri said. “Apparently it took a fair amount of experimentation and practice before he perfected it. His first few victims were only stray hedge-wizards. Not a lot of power, but a little. Then he thought to see if he could seize Celae magic and make it work for him. Jeriad’s mother threw herself out of a tower window when the General tried to take hers.”
“Gods,” Cullin said, appalled.
Kerri had gone pale. She looked ill, but she continued. “When he lost Amalida, the General went after Jeriad.”
“His own brother?” Cullin asked, straightening up in genuine shock. “He would become a kinslayer?”
“Jeriad’s mother wasn’t Maeduni,” Kerri reminded him.
“Oh, aye,” Cullin said, and shook his head. “A mongrel then. Kin to no man. The Maeduni have always been incredibly stupid in that way. I suppose he thought that made Jeriad fair game for him.”
“Did he say how he managed to escape?” I asked. “He told me only that he tricked the General.”
“It wasn’t very clear,” Kerri said. “He said the General—he calls him the black sorcerer—took him to a small room and tried to cut his throat.” She had to swallow hard before she could continue. “In a panic, Jeriad found his Healing in time to save himself. When the two magics met, there was a tremendous explosion, he says. He regained consciousness first and ran. He told me he doesn’t remember much about anything for a long time, but when his wits returned, he was here and looked as he does now.”
“He told me the magic burned him,” I said.
“It did more than that,” Cullin said softly. “It stole his youth from him.”
“But he’s alive,” I said. “He tells me he’s grateful for that. In fact, he seemed quite gleeful about it.”
“The General obviously has perfected his technique over the years,” Cullin said. “He must have found a way to take Celae magic after all.” He gave Kerri a bleak smile. “He wanted yours, too, my lady. Not a pleasant prospect.”
Kerri shuddered and nodded. “And I have you and Kian to thank that he did not get it,” she said. “Jeriad says the Maeduni believe they have a destiny to rule the world. And the General believes it’s his destiny to rule Maedun through his brother.”
Cullin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Remember that guard officer we met who told us Hakkar wanted to put his brother on the throne? What was his name, the brother?”
“Vanizen,” I said absently, thinking about something else. “The General told us we set him back half a lifetime. Remember? When we met him in the courtyard of Balkan’s manse?”
Cullin nodded slowly. “So he did,” he said. “Then mayhap we’ve been given some time to prepare for the war coming.”
Kerri’s eyes blazed with intensity. “This makes my search all the more urgent,” she said. “Celi must be strong and united to fight the Maeduni.”
“Can you not use your magic?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You don’t understand Celae magic,” she said. “Tyadda magic, actually. It can’t be used as a weapon. It’s a gentle magic, Kian. Like Healing. It won’t let you use it to kill.”
“Not even for defence?” I asked.
She shook her head again. “No. Don’t you think if it could be, we would use it against the Saesnesi?”
“Aye,” I said. “Ye would at that, I suppose.”
“So we have to find Kyffen’s grandson,” she said, pounding he
r fist gently onto her knee. “We simply have to.” She looked up, an odd expression in her eyes. “Kian, Jeriad told me that the man in the dance told him to go down to the river the night he found you. He said he was asleep when the man in the dance told him to wake up and go to the river because there was a task there for him to do.”
“The man in the dance?” Cullin repeated. “Who—?”
“The Watcher on the Hill,” I said slowly, comprehension dawning. “The man in my dreams. Who is he, sheyala?”
“Truly, Kian, I don’t know. But I wonder if he might be Myrddin. The enchanter who worked with Wyfydd Smith.”
***
I stood on the green velvet of the grass, my sword sheathed across my back. It vibrated gently against my flesh, and its melodic murmur whispered in my mind’s ear. Before me rose the familiar gently rounded hill with its crown of stone. A soft breeze ruffled my hair, spilling a few stray strands into my eyes; I lifted a hand to brush them away. The air was soft and refreshingly cool, and suffused with serenity and peace. I raised my eyes and found the Watcher on the Hill standing amid the horseshoe of polished stones.
I began to climb the hill, once again surprised by how long it took me to reach the summit. As it happened before, I could not pass beyond the first ring of menhirs. That invisible barrier held me back. I stepped back away from it and waited patiently for the Watcher on the Hill to acknowledge my presence.
He came forward slowly. Beneath the shadow of his brows, his eyes glowed with a soft, lambent gleam. He paused between two of the standing stones and smiled.
“Your wound pains you,” he said, his voice only barely more than a whisper.
“It heals,” I said.
He reached out, his arm penetrating the barrier as easily as penetrating mere air, and touched my shoulder. All the residual ache drained away instantly. I did not have to look at it to know it was completely healed. Nothing was left but the scars, front and back. He smiled again and retreated behind the barrier.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
“I called you,” he said. “I would remind you your task is yet to be completed.”