“Humpf!” the Grandmother snorted.
Entering the house, she was not particularly surprised to find her patient’s eyes wide open.
“Don’t worry,” she said to him. She daubed his lips with water, replaced the cloth that had fallen from his forehead. “They will come. They will both come. The gods have chosen.”
“Let them come soon,” Gustav said, sighing. “For I am very tired.”
“But, Uncle, you promised!” Jessan said.
Even as he spoke the words, he knew he sounded like a whining child denied a plum and he was not surprised to see his uncle’s face darken with displeasure. He could not very well withdraw the words he had spoken. He could only try to explain himself.
“Uncle, I am the only person of my age in the village who has not taken a warrior’s name.” Jessan did not count Ranessa. No one counted Ranessa. “I had a chance to go south to Karnu with the others, but I waited for you. Family should be together, you always say, and I agree with you. Family should be together, Uncle. Take me with you to Dunkar!”
“I cannot, Jessan,” said Raven. “The gods have made their choice.”
Jessan lost his temper. “The gods! Hah! Yes, if the gods have taken the form of a dried-up old pecwae woman. A woman who has gone addled, for all we know! Uncle, I—”
Raven’s backhand caught Jessan across the mouth, knocked him to the floor. Raven had not pulled his punch. He meant the blow and the lesson it carried with it to sink in.
Jessan sat up, shaking his hurting head. He spit out a tooth, wiped blood from the corner of his split lip. He cast a brief glance at his uncle, looked quickly away. He had never seen Raven so angry.
“A warrior does not speak of the gods with disrespect,” Raven said, his fury shaking his voice. “The gods hold a warrior’s life in their hands. I am surprised that they have not closed those hands into a fist, instead of opening them to grant you a great honor. Furthermore, a warrior does not speak of his elders with disrespect. To do so is the mark of a mean and sniveling coward.”
Slowly, Jessan rose to his feet. He faced his uncle squarely, stolidly, knowing that he had done wrong and accepting of his punishment. “I am sorry, Uncle,” he said. “I spoke the words thoughtlessly.” He wiped away more blood with the back of his hand. “Please forgive me.”
“I am not the one you insulted,” Raven said grimly. “Ask the gods for forgiveness.”
“I will, Uncle,” said Jessan.
“You cannot ask the Grandmother for forgiveness for that would mean you would have to repeat what you said of her and I trust words like that will never again fall from your lips. But henceforth the least little thing she requires of you, you will do for her without fail and without protest. Thus you will make reparation.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jessan replied, subdued and saddened.
He knew then that, for some reason, his uncle did not want to take him to Dunkar. There could be no other explanation. Although a devout man, Ravenstrike could have argued his way around the gods if he had wanted to, of that, Jessan was certain. He could not imagine what he had done to offend his uncle.
Raven stood glaring at his nephew a moment more, then, relenting, he flung his arms around the young man and held him close.
“You will be venturing into strange lands, Jessan,” Raven said, pulling back to hold the young man at arm’s length. “Lands where I have never gone. Lands where none of our tribe have ever traveled. You will meet strange people, see strange customs, hear strange languages. Treat all with respect. Remember that to them, you are the stranger.”
Jessan nodded. He could not trust his voice to speak.
“I will take my leave of you now, Jessan,” said Raven. “When you return from this journey, travel on to Dunkar. I will be waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Jessan said, his voice cracking.
The moment was awkward. Both men felt it to be so.
“I didn’t think you were leaving until tomorrow, Uncle,” Jessan said, at last.
“Something has come up,” Raven replied evasively. “I’ve had news. I must return to my post.”
“Don’t forget the armor,” Jessan said.
“I won’t,” Raven replied dryly. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know what’s come over him,” Jessan told Bashae. “Raven’s been acting oddly ever since I gave him the armor. Oh, he says that he’s pleased with it, but I don’t think he means it. You know, I wish I’d done what the dwarf said and chucked that armor in the ravine. Raven says I’m not to go to Dunkar, after all. I am to go with you.”
Bashae gave a whoop of delight. Seeing his friend’s downcast face, he said contritely, “I’m sorry, Jessan. I know you really wanted to go with your uncle. What reason did he give?”
“My uncle says that this mission the gods themselves have chosen is far more important than joining the army of Dunkarga. I can always do that when I come back. I’ve been thinking it over. Maybe he is right. It will be an adventure, as you say. Traveling to the elven lands. No one from our village has ever gone that far.”
Bashae did a little dance, clapping his hands. “And I will be the first pecwae to travel so far. I’m glad you’re coming. I should have been terrified to go by myself, but if you’re along, I’m not afraid.”
Jessan sighed and shook his head. He wished he could feel the same enthusiasm, but he was too bitterly disappointed. He glanced up at the sun, which had passed noon’s zenith some time ago and was sinking toward the west. “I have to go. My uncle wants to leave soon. You go on to the knight. I’ll meet you there.”
Turning, Jessan stalked off.
“This has been without doubt the worst day of my life,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
At least, he thought, feeling a shred of cold comfort, everything that could go wrong this day had gone wrong. He couldn’t imagine anything worse that could befall him.
He had gone only a short distance when he heard feet pattering after him and a breathless voice shouting his name. He turned to find Bashae dashing up to him.
“Oh, Jessan! I’m glad I caught you. I forgot to give you the good news,” Bashae said, panting in happy excitement. “The Grandmother has decided to come with us.”
Ravenstrike was ready to depart. The village had turned out to wish him well, along with the dwarf. Wolfram stood holding the horse’s bridle, stroking the animal’s nose and speaking softly to the beast. Raven was going to ride the knight’s horse. The warrior had at first refused to accept such a princely gift, but Gustav had said, quite rightly, that he would never ride again. Gustav knew very well that if the horse was left behind in the village, the practical Trevenici would hitch the animal to the plow. Better the proud war horse should end his days on the battlefield.
Raven stood chatting with the village elders, who had all gathered around to admire the horse. The neatly rolled tarp was attached to the back of Raven’s saddle. Saddle bags held Raven’s clothes and a supply of food. He was dressed in long, fringed leather breeches and a leather shirt. He wore all his trophies.
At the sight of Jessan’s approach, the circle of people who gathered around Raven parted to allow the young man inside.
“Well, Nephew, I am ready to go,” Raven said, turning to Jessan with a smile. He clapped a hand on Jessan’s shoulder. “May the gods walk at your side on your journey, Jessan.”
“I’m going to need them,” Jessan said glumly. “The Grandmother has decided to go with us.”
The image of two proud young men going off on the adventure of their lives accompanied by their grandmother came vividly to Raven’s mind. A corner of his mouth twitched. Seeing his nephew’s unhappy face and cast-down spirits, Raven hastily swallowed his laughter.
“Then truly you have a great responsibility, Jessan,” he said gravely. “This is a solemn trust we give into your hands.”
The village elders murmured and nodded.
“I hope you will be worthy of it,”
Raven added, “and make me proud.”
Jessan raised his head. His face cleared. Raven had given him back his honor. “I will, Uncle.”
Raven embraced and kissed his nephew. He embraced the elders, exchanged the ritual kiss, then mounted his horse. Wolfram stepped back and Raven was ready to ride when Ranessa suddenly thrust her way through the crowd.
“What is this, Raven?” she demanded in her harsh voice. “No farewell kiss for your sister?”
Raven gazed down on her, his expression dark. He had spoken with the elders about her care. He had hoped to leave before she was aware of his departure.
She looked up at him through her black, disheveled hair. Slowly Raven dismounted and walked over to his sister. He came only as close as was necessary to give the dirty cheek a brushing kiss, but Ranessa seized his sleeves, digging her nails into the leather, and dragged him near.
“You take the curse from the village,” she said to him, her voice harsh and urgent. “That is good, Brother. Do not worry. You will save the people, though you yourself will be lost. Lost,” she repeated.
Raven knew Ranessa was mad, growing madder every day it seemed. Yet, at her ominous words, he felt a chill. He tried to pull away from her, but she sagged into him, rested her forehead on his broad chest. He was amazed to see the tracks of tears down the dirt-streaked face.
“You have been good to me,” she mumbled into his chest. “Better than I have deserved. I am a torment to you.” She raised her tear-stained face, her eyes were dark and shining and wild. “If it brings comfort, know that I am a greater torment to myself than to any other.”
She gave him a kiss, a kiss that was nearer a blow, for it was swift and hard, left his jaw aching. Then, turning on her heel, she walked out of the circle. Those in her path had to move swiftly aside, or she would have trampled them beneath her bare feet.
Raven stood staring after her, bemused and uneasy, rubbing his sore jaw. The next day, he would find that her kiss had actually left a bruise mark.
Everyone looked uncomfortable. All felt she had ruined an otherwise triumphant departure. Raven determined that the best he could do was leave immediately, before she took it into her head to come back. He mounted his horse, waved his hand and headed south, the direction that led to Dunkar. The people in the village shouted good wishes after him until he was out of sight. Then they left to begin the arduous task of searching for another cave in which to store the foodstuffs, as well as the village’s wealth.
The elders departed to the house of healing, to help speed another man on another journey, far longer and entering realms unknown. Different from Raven’s journey, or so they thought.
In the house of healing, Gustav grew weaker by the moment. Each breath was a hard-fought battle against a foe he had faced many times before. He had no regrets. Death was an enemy to whom he could lose with honor. Gustav longed to break his sword, sink down on one knee and proclaim himself beaten, though not defeated. He had yet to finish his business in this world. He had yet to pass on the prize for which he had spent his life searching, given his life to defend. He would give that prize to two young men. And the Grandmother.
“I’m near the end of my life and I’ve never been farther away from my tent than the river,” she said to him, after telling him her astounding decision. “I’ve never seen an elf. I would have never seen a dwarf, but that my nephew caught one. An elf would be harder to catch, so I imagine.”
“But your comforts,” Gustav argued, mildly protesting. He could not very well speak out against elderly adventurers. “The journey will be long and hard.”
“What comforts?” The Grandmother snorted. “I can’t sleep at night for the aching in my bones. I might as well not sleep on the road as not sleep in my stuffy tent. I can’t taste my food anymore so it doesn’t matter what I eat.”
“I will lie in a strange land after my death,” Gustav said. “I do not mind. I have no children to tend my grave in my homeland. But you have borne many children and grandchildren, so Bashae tells me. They all lie buried here. Do you not want to be buried with them?”
“Not particularly,” the Grandmother said, grunting. “They were a disappointment to me, all of them. Always expecting me to take care of them in this world and I’ve no doubt they expect the same in the sleep-world. All lined up with their empty food plates, waiting to be filled. Well, they’re going to go hungry. Let them look for me. Do them good.”
Gustav smiled. “Send for your nephew,” he said.
Bashae had been waiting outside the tent. He came in, moving softly and quietly, and knelt down beside the dying man.
“In this knapsack,” Gustav told Bashae, “is the token to be given into the hands of Lady Damra. You must give it to her and to no one else.”
He struggled to lift the knapsack. To his wasted arm muscles, it felt as if it were made of solid iron.
Bashae took it from him gently.
“Yes, lord,” said Bashae.
“You may open it,” said Gustav.
Bashae peered inside. “This ring?” he said, drawing out a ring made of silver, adorned with a purple stone.
“Yes, the ring,” said Gustav. “Give it to Lady Damra. Tell her that inside the knapsack is the most valuable jewel in the world and that it comes from me, who searched for such a jewel a lifetime. I give it to her, to carry to its final destination.”
Bashae cast a doubtful glance at the Grandmother. “The jewel is only an amethyst!” he said in a loud whisper.
“Perhaps they are worth more to the elves,” the Grandmother told him. “Like turquoise.”
“Of course,” said Bashae, recalling the greed in the eyes of the elf in Wild Town. “That must be the reason.”
“It is important that she receive the knapsack, as well,” Gustav said earnestly. “The Lady Damra gave me that knapsack. It is magical and it is also very valuable.”
“Magical!” exclaimed Bashae, awed and excited. “What does it do?”
“The Lady Damra will show you,” said Gustav. “I no longer have the strength. Do not tell anyone of its magic. Promise me that. If you do, they might try to take it from you and that must not happen.”
“Yes, my lord,” Bashae said solemnly, and he looked a little uneasy.
That was well, Gustav thought. He didn’t want to frighten the young man, but he hoped to impress upon him the seriousness of the mission. He trusted that the two who were taking up his quest would have a safe and uneventful journey. It was for that reason he’d given Wolfram the box which had held the Sovereign Stone. If the eyes he saw in his dreams were truly searching for the stone, perhaps they would be drawn by the residual magic left in the box. The Stone itself, hidden away in its magical pocket of time, would be very difficult to detect. With the cursed armor of the Vrykyl traveling in one direction and the box with its aura of blessed magic traveling in another, pursuit should be drawn away from the two young men. And the Grandmother.
At his bidding, the young warrior, Jessan, entered the healing house. Bashae showed him the knapsack, went over their instructions, keeping one eye on Gustav the entire time to make certain he had it right.
Gustav beckoned the young warrior near.
His expression solemn in the presence of death, Jessan knelt at the knight’s side.
“Take the Big Blue river to the Sea of Redesh,” Gustav said, his voice now nothing more than a whisper. He had to pause many times to draw breath. The simple movement was no longer reflexive, but had to be performed deliberately and with painful effort. “Travel the sea north to the city of Myanmin in the southern part of the land of Nimorea. In the city of Myanmin, go to the Street of the Kite Makers. Ask for a man named Arim. Tell him that you come in my name and that I beg, for the sake of our long friendship, that he will guide you to the house of Lady Damra.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Jessan. “The landlocked Sea of Redesh, the city of Myanmin, the Street of the Kite Makers, a man named Arim. And if I cannot find him, we will find your lad
y ourselves if we have to turn the elf nation upside-down.”
Gustav swallowed, closed his eyes. He no longer had the strength to move his head. When he spoke, Jessan had to bend over him to hear the words.
“You are…human. The Tromek will not allow you into their lands…without a go-between. The Nimoreans…are accepted…”
His voice died away. His eyes gazed intently at Jessan, who appeared to ponder this a moment, then gave an abrupt nod. “I understand, my lord. We would be prohibited from entering elven lands, but this Nimorean, Arim, can both vouch for us and guide us.”
Gustav was pleased with the answer, still more with the thought behind it. He had completed his task. The burden was his no longer. He had handed it on. He had done all he could to make certain that the Sovereign Stone arrived at its destination safely. Now he could release his grip on life and hold out his hands to Adela.
He closed his eyes. He stood on a strip of sand, shining silver in the bright sun. The wide, living, moving, breathing sea spread out before him. The sun gilded each wave with gold. The waves lapped at his feet, each one drawing closer. The gulls wheeled in the air overhead, wing-beats strong against the wind. Small brown birds hopped over the sand, wings tucked in close, skittering away from the waves each time one came too near.
A wave flooded over Gustav’s feet. When the water retreated, the wave sucked the sand out from under him. Each wave took a little more from him, a little more.
He waited there on the beach, waited for Adela to come to him and lead him out beyond the waves to calm water.
The elders of the village entered the house of healing and ranged themselves around the bed of the dying knight. They wore their finest clothes, decked themselves with all their trophies. They spoke in turn, beginning with the eldest, each telling the tale of some valiant warrior, now dead, evoking his or her spirit to come to the house of healing. They told the tale of Lone Wolf, who had remained on the battlefield with a wounded comrade, fighting and finally succumbing to overwhelming numbers rather than leave his fellow soldier to die alone. They told the tale of Silver Bow, who fired arrow after arrow at the eyes of a marauding giant, standing courageously in his path when all others had fled. These and more tales they told until soon the house of healing was crowded with dead heroes.
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