White Mage

by Jolie Jaquinta

  Chapter 27

  The Messenger

  Grania rode, in state, from her realm, up the mountain of the gods. Her wicker chariot had great millstones for wheels and was drawn by an enormous ox; head high at its shoulder. The pace was slow and stately, without chance of outdistancing the blue and white robed attendants who walked alongside, waving sheaves of wheat.

  Dressed in the same style, but with richer and more voluminous fabric, Grania sat, head aloft. Her golden hair was woven into tight braids, themselves resembling strongly wheat ears. Extending the resemblance was a subtle golden tiara also composed of wheat ears.

  The mountain itself was a symbolic analog of Mytikas in human world, the traditional home of the gods of Romitu. There were many shrines surrounding it to the gods and a great oracle where the rumbling answers to the prayers of mortals could be heard in the thunder of Sky Father. So too the top of the peak here was shrouded, hiding the court of Sky Father from others.

  On earth the mountain of Gerakovouni stood in contrast to Mytikas across a great valley said to have been carved in the wars with the giants that plagued mankind before Sky Father and the oldest gods drove them away. Grania had not arisen to godhood until afterwards. But she was very familiar with the lore as it formed the primary canon of stories and epithets.

  Gerakovouni had no analog in their realm.

  They were met at the border to Hearth Mother's domain by flocks of maidens in gaily colored dresses of woven rags. They brought jugs of chilled creamy milk and honey biscuits still warm from the hearth. Above them, drawn back from this friendly delegation, burned the fire dogs; the real defense of the realm.

  The maidens distributed their largess and all drank and nibbled. It was traditional, but also a requirement. One of the oldest laws was that anyone accepting the fruits of the hearth was bound to bring no violence to the house in which it burned. The bad ends suffered by those doing so featured highly in the cautionary tales preached by the church. Hearth Mother was opening and welcoming, but her vengeance upon those abusing her hospitality was some of the darkest in the mythic lore.

  The lands here were rolling and pastoral, and the locals engaged in thatching, weaving, and other crafts of the home. The tenor of the land was not at odds with its location on the mountainside. The constraints of earthly geography did not apply here. What they represented was more important. Distance was relative, time was fluid, and appearance mattered most.

  The palace of Hearth Mother was a sprawling edifice made of uneven blocks of different hued stone. Great arms extended to either side of a wide courtyard like the arms of a mother stretched around her flock. The escort of maidens sung out to waiting stable hands that joined them in an energetic dance as the company was welcomed. Grania dismounted while her attendants engaged in the dance. The great ox and chariot were lead away as the dance climaxed and all fell down, laughing.

  “Greetings to rich crowned Grania, blessed daughter of the hearth!” cried a loud, jovial voice. A large, stout woman stood in the palace doorway, both hands raised in welcome. “The keeper of the hearth sends warm greetings to she who bakes upon it.”

  “My thanks to my deep bosomed mother.” Grania bowed. “It is my pleasure to labor in your home and do homage to my mistress.”

  “Then I shall take you there directly!” The woman held out a thick arm and grasped Grania's hand as she came forward. Her attendants were lead away by the others to their own duties in setting up her court in the palace.

  The matron sang a low, lilting song as she led Grania through the disordered corridors of Hearth Mother's palace. The walls were of the same simple materials, the lofty roof was thatched and fresh reeds covered the floors of beaten earth. Despite its rustic nature, there was no dirt, smell, smoke, or unpleasant repercussions of its apparent homely construction. 

  They came, unexpectedly, upon the throne room, for all the passages appeared to be the same, with none of greater display than another. This room, unlike the rest, was flagged in roughhewn, but smooth, stones of large size. A great fire filled the center behind a lip. Although the size was huge, the warmth it gave off was hearty and its crackling cheery, giving a pleasant heat from all distances that warmed both body and soul. Wrought iron fire implements, stands, chairs and furniture surrounded the fire in readiness.

  The Matron, rosy cheeks glowing in the light, walked her around the rim of the fire counter clockwise. They went much further than its apparent circumference. But eventually she came to a stop and bowed low. Standing there was a woman who would have towered over any moral. She had long, long dark brown hair, in a loose braid. Her homespun gown was of dark red with a simple black belt tied in a Y with a great glowing ring. Her eyes reflected the firelight of the hearth as she pushed and prodded the logs contained in it with an iron poker nearly as long as she was tall. Her face looked mature, as though it should have lines in it. But it had none other than the shadows cast by the fire.

  “Hearth Mother,” said Grania, bowing low. The Matron receded quietly.

  “Grania,” said Hearth Mother, simply. “Welcome to my fire.”

  Reflexively Grania looked to the fire. Logs burned in all states from freshly caught to ashes. The licking flames, the glowing embers, the cracking bark presented an infinitely varied tableau that her eyes became lost in. As her focus blurred she felt for a moment she was seeing through the flame to another, more humble hearth. Many voices mingled in quiet prayers and the aroma of ablations wafted over her. She blinked as awareness returned to her and faced back upon Hearth Mother again, who had been watching her.

  “What news do you have of the world?” asked Hearth Mother.

  “What news have I?” asked Grania, a little surprised. “The wheat fields and bakers bring me much I wish to know, but, I think, little of interest to you.”

  Hearth Mother shrugged and repositioned a log. “Pauper, worker and king, all gather before their fire. They feel my heat, and I feel theirs. So I touch all. But one.”

  Grania looked confused.

  “The armies of Romitu,” said Hearth Mother derisively. “They do not use fire. They sear their food with magic, forge their weapon with magic, and I hear they are distributing magical garments to keep their very buttocks warm with magic.” She broke up a log that had burned through into smaller pieces and pushed them into new locations. Then she looked sidelong at Grania. “But you have an agent in their midst. And, if the border guards report correctly, you have just received information from her.”

  Grania swallowed and looked to the fire. “It has been long since I paced the flags of an earthy kitchen. Since my hands have worked dough that was imperfect. I remember, but distantly.” She looked back to Hearth Mother. “Before you chose me, and looked down upon me as a mortal, did it remind you of your mortal days?”

  A trace of annoyance crossed Hearth Mother's face. “You are my daughter and always were. Eternal and unchanging. We manage the affairs of mortals, we do not live them. Yet as these upstarts wish to become gods, are you longing to be mortal? What is it you have discovered?”

  Grania looked long upon her, and then turned away. “They have made some progress recently,” she said.

  “Progress?” said Hearth Mother shortly. “Of what sort? Their armies are engaged in civic works. Their power reserve gets lower by the day. The indications are all that they are moving backwards. What progress do you speak of?”

  “They have discovered a new way to fill their reserve,” said Grania. She waited, but Hearth Mother was silent. “I do not know the details. But is not a source dependent on people and is not limited in scope by people. It is something new.”

  “Have they tapped the hotspot under Gerakovouni? We've never been able to penetrate that.”

  Grania shook her head. “This is something new. Of their own ingenuity. It is apparently limitless.” Before Hearth Mother could object she continued on. “Or so they believe. They have only just discovered it; they have not yet used it. But I'm given to understan
d they are close.”

  Hearth Mother switched to a rake and worked over the coals. She shook the ashes loose and the embers flared into new life. “That is not good news,” she said. “How sure are you of this?”

  Grania shrugged. “I have it from a single, unreliable source. I cannot absolutely vouch for it.”

  Sparks flew in the updraft as Hearth Mother considered. “If we ignore it, we court disaster, if it is true. If we act on it, there is not much loss if it is false.”

  “That is true if you consider war inevitable,” said Grania.

  “The others must know this,” said Hearth Mother distractedly. She hung up the rake and took a hooked pole. She dragged the logs around the revitalized hot spot into position. “Thank you Grania,” she said. “As you are quite aware, I had considerable doubts about your leniency towards your apostate. These tidings may be the beginning of her redemption.”

  “We shall have to see how it turns out,” said Grania.