by Mark E Lacy
Longhorn saw Ki'rana shudder.
“We did learn something else. The path of the Gauntletbearer through the Weave is not the only one with interruptions. The sorcerer's path has a break in it we can't understand.
“More importantly, we See that the path of the Gauntletbearer and the path of Raethir Del sometimes cross. It's as if the two men draw one another. They will be very near each other from time to time.
“I think the best idea,” continued the elder resara, “is to close the distance between us and the Swordbearer and then try again to find the Gauntletbearer by Reading the Weave.”
“Very well,” said Longhorn. He clasped wrists with Ardemis, and then took Ki'rana's hand, and kissed it. “We leave in the morning,” he said and smiled as he caught a gleam in the young woman's eye.
Chapter 35
Visylon stood before a window, wrapped in a blanket against the chill. Rain streamed down the glass. He felt calm and strangely unafraid, considering all he'd been through and the fact that he had no idea where he was now.
Hudraii. A krylaan. Tentacled wraiths.
And Raethir Del. A sorcerer who wanted him captured. Who had helped the Draelani attack Visylon's people. Who had fought Enkinor ...
It had to be tied in somehow with his search for Enkinor. Enkinor had broken the sorcerer's spell over the Saerani and turned the odds completely around, turning the battle into a rout of the Draelani. In the process, the sentara had nearly killed the sorcerer, but Enkinor almost turned into a fish because of the encounter.
Once he recovered, he had disappeared. Visylon felt compelled to find him. Then, several strange things had happened. Enkinor had tried to find someone in Kophid and had disappeared again. A horse trader had helped Visylon escape, just ahead of a strange black mist. Hudraii and a krylaan tried to capture him. Wraiths, and the undead, had almost killed him, and then he had fallen sick and wound up here.
But where was here?
A white-robed man appeared at the door, his fair complexion a stark contrast to his dark hair. He held a steaming mug.
“You appear to be feeling much better, stranger.”
“I am,” replied Visylon. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“Ah, questions. You are indeed feeling better. My name is Hyphos. And this,” he said, with a sweeping gesture, “is a House of healing in the village of Jest.”
“A House of healing? In a village? Why here and not in some city?”
“This is temporary. We move to where we are needed. So, tell me, who are you?”
“My name is Visylon. I'm a Saerani warrior from Lake Cinnaril in the Parthulian hills.”
Hyphos sat at the foot of the bed. He motioned Visylon to join him, and he handed him the mug.
“Well, Visylon, you are at my mercy. This is my house, and we have provided you an invaluable service, namely saving your life, so I make no apologies for prying. What brings a Saerani warrior to these parts? How did you come to the steps of this house?”
Though Visylon felt uncomfortable under the healer's scrutiny, he sensed Hyphos was someone he could trust. Were their roles reversed, Visylon would be just as anxious about a stranger in their midst.
“I'm looking for a friend who went to Kophid and recently left there, perhaps in the company of a Braemyan. I believe he's in danger. I've got to find him.”
The healer studied the Saerani warrior intently. “And you've just met with danger yourself, haven't you?”
“Yes. Both natural and supernatural.”
“Ah, so you escaped, though not unscathed. Tell me about it.”
Visylon briefly outlined what happened. At the healer's request, the warrior explained how he originally set out in search of Enkinor. He wondered if the healer could sense he was holding something back.
“Is there more?” said Hyphos.
Visylon paused, thinking of the Sword of Helsinlae and the Gatekeeper. “Forgive me. I mean no disrespect, but it must remain unsaid for now. Tell me about yourself. Was it you who healed me?”
“It was. Few are trained in removing a shroud of illness like the one you had cloaked about you. You were found on our steps, and my people tried to bring you inside. No one knew about the taint, so you triggered the shields in the doorway.”
“I don't understand.”
“Shields against sorcery. You and some of our people were thrown back by a violent surge of power. We quickly lowered the shields and brought you in. Take a look at your chest.”
Visylon pulled the blanket aside and looked down. To his surprise, he found two large circular scars, one around each nipple. Each scar, though obviously new, seemed to be old, as if long-healed.
The Saerani looked up. “What did you do?”
“Ah, we both have our secrets. Let's just say it was a delicate procedure. The details cannot be shared with those outside of the holomusari. You need only know that you're now well.”
Visylon was at a loss for words.
“You've slept two days already,” said Hyphos. “It's once again night. When you rise in the morning, you should find yourself in perfect health. We're leaving, and I'd like you to come with us.”
“Come with you? Why? Where are you going?”
“The holomusari must go to Apracia. We have urgent business there. To arrive on time, we'll have to go through the Yalventa Forest. But we are not trained in fighting. As we have no weapons and no escort, I'm asking you to come along in case your swordsmanship is needed.”
Visylon put his hand to his forehead. “You've answered my questions but now raised many more. What is the Yalventa? Is it dangerous? And why?”
“No one has entered the forest in many years, and none have emerged with their lives within anyone's memory. We're not sure what the danger is, only that it's there. Neither do we know how the forest got its name. Yalventa means wolf eyes.” Hyphos paused. “We have from sunrise to sunset to cover fifteen miles. We must clear the forest by dark.”
“You want me to escort a group of people with no weapons into a forest from which none escape alive? Why is it so important that you throw your lives away?”
A pained expression flashed across the healer's face.
“A plague has begun in Apracia,” said Hyphos. “If its progress is not checked, it may spread from the Seacoast to the Mountains of Vanisar. If we delay, we may never contain it.”
Visylon thought for a few moments. “Are there no musari in Apracia?”
“Not nearly enough to tend to the needs of an entire city. Of course, you're not obligated. We can't make you go, but if you decide to help us, we’ll be assembling at dawn in a glade just outside of town, making final preparations. Just follow the road till it runs out.”
Hyphos rose and headed toward the door.
“Let me think about it,” said Visylon.
Hyphos smiled. “Thank you.”
Chapter 36
She stood with toes in the cool sand and watched the sun rise like a red bubble from the Sea. Eyes closed, arms outstretched, she smiled to herself.
Another day. Another day to make use of and appreciate.
She was tanned dark like the still waters of the jungle that lay waiting behind her. She wore only a thin, sleeveless tunic that reached just to her upper thighs. Across her shoulders fell worried tresses of sun-bleached hair.
She didn't flinch when something large rubbed against her leg. She simply opened her eyes, dropped her arms, and looked down.
“What is it, Panta?”
The jaguar turned and slid its glossy coat across her leg once more. New animal. In the water.
“What kind of animal?”
Don't know. Like you but different.
She started to ask the jaguar more, but Panta moved away, breaking contact, and padded off toward the river. She ran down the beach after him, puzzled, apprehensive.
They came to the place where the little river had made a delta as it emptied into the Sea. Panta ducked into the mangroves that lined the brackish str
eams feeding the ocean. Following the jaguar as best she could, the woman trotted along sandy trails, tracking the feline more by sound than anything else. She couldn't see the beast in the shadows, but once the jaguar emerged and leapt across a tea-colored trickle, she was able to tell more easily which way it was going.
When the sound of rustling ceased, and the last startled rabbit darted to safety, she knew Panta had stopped. It took only a minute to locate the jaguar and discover the body of a man lying half in the water, tangled up in the stilt roots of the mangroves.
She ran to him, disengaged him from the barnacle-crusted roots, and then dragged him out of the water and onto the damp sand. He was breathing, thank Eloeth, but unconscious. His tunic and trousers were torn. A broad belt held an odd pair of gauntlets.
She probed for injuries. Though finding none, something made her very uncomfortable. He frightened her a little, but she sensed that the danger that cloaked him did not come from within. Rather, it clung to him as mud would had he walked through a marsh.
“It's all right,” she told Panta. “He needs our help.”
Enkinor returned from sleep without opening his eyes. He listened carefully to the sounds around him and tried to guess where he would find himself this time, and under what circumstances.
Warm breezes tickled him with tiny caresses. Only a light cloth of some kind covered him. The air was humid. I must be far to the south.
He opened his eyes. A woman, simply garbed, watched him intently with the eyes of a person who understood suffering.
“Would you like to sit up?”
“Yes,” he said, and, failing in the effort, asked, “Do you think you could help me?”
“Certainly. Here, slowly now,” she said, raising him. “You've been lying here for three days and nights. You don't want to get up too quickly.”
Enkinor looked around. He sat barechested on a thin pallet on the floor of a straw-thatched hut. The windows and doorway framed views of a thick jungle.
Back on Tari Nar? No, surely it was destroyed.
He looked again at the woman. Enkinor remembered the caregiving of another woman, in For'tros. But this woman was blonde, with deep brown eyes, and she seemed several years older than him, though still youthful.
What do I say? Or need I worry. If what I say makes no sense, under the circumstances, then she'll just think I'm ill.
“Where am I? How did I get here?”
The woman felt his forehead and looked pleased.
“You are in my hut, in a pocket of the Enir Pont, a place I call my Gardens. You drifted in from the Sea, half-drowned.”
Enkinor closed his eyes and cupped his face in his hands for a moment. Tari Nar ... Cana Glalith and the Waryndi ... Raethir Del ...
Remembering the Gauntlets, he felt a moment's panic till he saw them lying on top of his folded tunic and trousers.
“I mended your clothes,” said the woman, following his gaze. “Tell me. Who are you, and why were you out in the Sea?”
“My name is Enkinor. My tribe is the Saerani. We live by Lake Cinnaril in the Parthulian hills. I have no idea why I was out in the Sea.” He paused, thinking. “And who are you?”
“Maeryl,” she replied. “I am the tendara, the keeper, of my Gardens.”
Enkinor lay back down on his pallet and closed his eyes. “I'm sorry, Maeryl. I'm so tired.”
A minute or two later, the tendara returned with a clam shell and knelt beside him. She lifted the Saerani's head and helped him drink the sweet fluid within the shell.
“Rest, now, Saerani. We'll talk more later.”
At the edge of a small lagoon, Maeryl stripped off her tunic. She smiled to herself as she soaked in the warm afternoon sun. The tendara ran her hands over her stomach and breasts, enjoying the pleasure of sun and breeze on her bare skin. Thoughts of a strange man cloaked by danger were banished for a moment.
She jogged down the short beach and dove like a spear into the warm water. She spent several minutes swimming gracefully, executing a series of turns and dives and strokes woven together like an aquatic tapestry. When she finished, she rested before beginning a different tapestry on the beach, with leaps and twirls and slow, liquid-like moves. By the time the water had dried on her skin, she was finished and sitting cross-legged on a warm rock. Panta trotted up and lay down next to her.
Maeryl relaxed and turned her thoughts inward. She shut out the sun and the sand, the water, the jungle. She closed her mind to everything except Enkinor the Saerani.
So hard to be patient, she thought. But he'll talk soon. Then, perhaps, she could get a glimpse behind the mysteries. Something important was taking place, and she was sure she would play some part.
I wonder, she thought some time later, could I possibly remember something I could use now?
An osprey dove into the lagoon and grasped a fish in its talons.
No, young fool, they would say. You were a sworn spellguard, not a musara. Never forget your oaths.
Enkinor woke to a soft blow to his chest. He opened his eyes to find a jaguar's paw on his chest and the beast's face only inches from his own. He stared into the jaguar's eyes and froze. If he breathed the slightest bit, there was no telling what the feline would do.
Who are you? said the jaguar.
“Panta!”
The jaguar turned his head.
“Go on, leave him be,” said Maeryl, entering the hut.
The big cat moved off, and Enkinor was able to breathe once more.
“Did he speak to you?” said Maeryl.
“Yes ... tell me I'm not hallucinating.”
Maeryl laughed. “You're not hallucinating.”
“How is this possible? An animal that talks? Tame? Is it sorcery?”
“No, no. There is no sorcery. Just a unique gift which Eloeth has chosen to bestow on this animal.” She paused for a moment in thought. “Can you get up? Why don't you get dressed and come outside?”
Maeryl left the hut, Panta at her heels, and waited under a nearby palm, amused at Enkinor's reaction to a speaking jaguar.
He's safe, said Panta, sliding against her leg before jumping to a large branch of a nearby tree.
When Enkinor emerged from the hut, he found Maeryl exercising. As he watched her movements, he wondered how long it would take to loosen up his muscles and recover his strength. When she finished, Maeryl offered him some fruit and invited him to sit down.
“Now, my Saerani guest, I would like to hear what you can remember before coming here.”
I could at least tell her what I told Syrei on Tari Nar, he thought. Maeryl was certainly not holding him captive, as the priest had. She had tended to his needs and nursed him back to health. Could he not tell her the whole story? The Dreamtunnel was a burden like no other, and a listening ear might help him carry the burden a little farther down the way.
But can I tell her about the Gauntlets? Should I? What harm could it do?
Maeryl patiently waited, reading the confusion on his face. Finally, the Saerani spoke.
“Many years ago,” Enkinor began, “my grandfather gave me these gauntlets.” The Saerani tribesman pulled them from where he'd tucked them in his belt. He showed them to her before pulling them onto his hands. “I left my tribe to learn more about them. They are capable of bestowing certain powers, or so I am told. They are called 'the Paws of the Bear.'“
The tendara listened intently, absorbed in his words.
“A sorcerer tried unsuccessfully to take the Gauntlets away from me. I escaped him, but he caught me again and placed a spell on me.”
She gave him a look of concern. Enkinor spent a few minutes describing the attack by the Draelani and how he had journeyed to Kophid where he had found the resara Strigin. He told her how the sorcerer had caught him, but was unable to take the Gauntlets by force, and how the sorcerer had finally trapped him in the Lair of Ualdrar.
“There, in a deep cave, by an underground lake, Raethir Del, who called himself Changer — but now Gate
keeper — placed the spell of the Dreamtunnel on me.”
Maeryl managed to hide her startled expression before Enkinor looked up and continued his story. From the first terrifying nightmares to the rescue of Invedra of For'tros, the haunted keep, the eruption of Tari Nar, and the journey to Cana Glalith, Enkinor spoke of his fears and struggles and desperation, of the growing reality of his dreams, and the increasing fantasy of his waking moments. He told her how he longed to find a way to escape his curse, but every day put more distance between him and freedom.
The Saerani finished, feeling weak and exhausted. He lay back, planning to rest for a moment, but soon fell fast asleep. Only then did Maeryl put her face in her hands and fight to hold back her tears.
It was not easy to bring herself to do it. Maeryl went about her work, gathering fruit, netting fish, repairing the thatched roof of her hut, and all the time thought of the Saerani. She knew she must tell him her story, but she would've given anything to avoid it. She struggled to gather her resolve, and then that evening, following a meal of fish and vegetables which Enkinor devoured but Maeryl hardly touched, she made up her mind. The tendara once again drew his attention.
“Enkinor, I must tell you part of my past. It's only fair, and right, that I return the gift of disclosure you gave me this morning.”
He looked at her, curious. “I'd be honored to learn more about you,” he said and grinned.
Maeryl smiled demurely but then looked away for some time. Just when Enkinor decided to ask if she really was going to speak, Maeryl began.
“I need to tell you a story. If only you had not come here, then I could keep this to myself. But you must be told.” She paused, wiping her eyes. “I am so sorry.”
Enkinor tipped his head, brow furrowed in question.
“Do you know of the abrasentari, the spellguards?” asked Maeryl. Enkinor shook his head, so the tendara went on. “I was once a fledgling member of the spellguards. Their purpose is two-fold. They preserve but are forbidden to use arcane knowledge, much of which can be used for good as well as evil, so that one day, some portion of this knowledge can be shared with an abramusara who will use it to accomplish good. For their own safety, the spellguards maintain strict secrecy.