by Lela Markham
Talidd was planning one of the greatest rituals ever performed and he would leave Sawyl out. That might be a blessing, but to an ambitious man, it was also a warning. Gregyn’s strength of gift made him valuable beyond measure to whomever controlled him. Sawyl could not control that. He could only wait until Talidd died and then dispatch Gregyn as soon as soon. Yet he could make himself more valuable to Talidd in other ways. Gregyn was too young to put in a position of prestige. Sawyl, however, could replace the chirgeon of Dun Llyr.
It would take some doing – forging letters of recommendation. He was by trade a herbman, but he’d studied enough to be a chirgeon. The young heir of Llyr was a bastard son with less than sophisticated views. All that was needed, now that the Umhalle was dead, was to scatter the seeds of rumor, fertilize with intrigue, and be ready for the fruit to fall off the tree.
He would have to return to Talidd with the ritual supplies, of course, but after … there would be the mourning time and the vetting. There was time.
A harlot called from a doorway as he walked by. Draped in diaphanous purple, she left little to the imagination and naught to desire. The whores were everywhere in this city and the sort he preferred were few and far between. There was a brothel in Dun Llyr that catered to his ilk, but that was an eight-night journey that he had naught time for at the moment.
Return to the island, give Talidd his supplies and then travel to Llyr. Aye, that will suit me nicely.
A dark mage sought power beyond all else, but a devious mind served him well.
Founding Year 1028
Highway to Mandorlyn
It was almost dark when Tamys rode into the caravanserie with the tuck wagon. He’d been given this honor for his willingness to raid the brigands at night. He found Padraig sitting at a bonfire while a deer roasted at another. Joy came immediately to claim her pony and Tamys knew her well enough not to argue.
“It’s almost as though that horse can talk,” Tamys muttered, dropping from the saddle. “Good caravanserie. Aren’t you worried the brigands will see these fires?”
The canyon had topped out. On the far side of the canyon, the walls remained somewhat high, but opened into an amphitheater of sorts. On this side, the mountain side fell away into a pleasant valley with a stream nearby. There were still larger mountains ahead, but for now, they camped in a mountain meadow.
“Wrong side of the canyon and I daresay they will be licking their wounds for a bit. The leader may die of his wound, though I tried to hit soft tissue. The others are more frightened. They all seemed young. Most likely wanted men, or thrown from a warband for some petty breach. They’ve naught else and they must survive by what they can get from the caravans.”
“They could try hiring themselves out like honest folk.”
“Aye,” Padraig agreed. “I got the deer on my way here. It seemed a fitting way to help. You might want to get washed up while I see to my duties.”
“And, those two?” Tamys asked, indicating Joy and Earnest.
“They’re fine. I’ll unload Earnest after a bit. There’s a stream down that way.”
Padraig found Duglas detailing guard duties for the evening.
“Ah, herbman! I was coming to thank you for saving our lives back there.”
“It’s not a problem,” Padraig assured him.
“I will pay you scrap pay for this. I suppose I should throw in wages as a guard for the day.”
“Not necessary. I’ll take the scrap pay and call it even. You say this is where you get the bowels most trips?”
“Aye. Must be foul humors this far up.”
“Mayhap,” Padraig murmured. He wasn’t about to explain to Duglas that foul humors were actually small bugs that people ate or drank. He scanned the area with his elven eyes. “I’ve a tea for the bowels. I’ll give it to the cook to distribute to the men. Make sure they understand that it will keep them from getting ill. It doesn’t taste worse than most medicinals, but I wager they won’t like the taste. Bit of honey will help, if you’ll tell the cook.”
“I’ll do that,” Duglas assured him.
Padraig excused himself at this point and went to talk to the cook, who was skeptical of teas that might treat bad humors, but agreed to make up a dose for everyone. It was truly dark by then and, after unloading Ernest, Padraig set out to find Tamys. He found his companion at the stream, naked and swimming in the cold mountain water.
“Bit cold for that, isn’t it?”
“I’m from Mulyn. Our rivers are never much warmer,” Tamys protested. He dunked his head and Padraig saw bubbles floating away on the current. Tamys came up, spitting water out and shaking his head violently. “It’s refreshing, actually. I haven’t had a bath in – well, forever. My brothers always thought me crazy, but I would swim as soon as the ice was free in the rivers and until they were iced over in the fall. Tis a cold clean, but it is a clean.”
Tamys walked naked from the water and began to scrub off with grass pulls. His well-muscled body glistened in the waxing moonlight. He started to shiver at this point and sought warmth in his breecs and siarc, followed by his cloak.
“Meal’s about ready. I’ve some tea for you to drink,” Padraig announced.
“Tea? Another of your tinctures?” Tamys asked, stamping on a boot.
“Aye. If you’ve been swallowing this water, you need to have some tea for your bowels’ sake.”
“Why?” Tamys asked. “What does the water have to do with it?” He drew on the second boot.
“Animals live in the water and defecate there. The beavers especially make one ill.”
Tamys gagged.
“I truly wish you would just talk of bad humors and not mention such to me.”
“How will you learn, lad, unless I teach you? Come. The tea will fix all and then we’ll have a spot of venison and a snooze by a true fire – on ground, not rock. Aye, it will be a well-deserved night.”
Tamys made a face at him, but didn’t say anything, covering his consternation by stamping the boot to full. As they approached the camp, Joy and Ernest came trotting up to them. Padraig scratched Joy’s ears and she and the pony disappeared toward the picket line. Tamys approached the fire where Padraig’s gear had been laid out and tossed a stick on to the flames.
“You were able to gather all this wood while hunting deer?” he noted.
“The deer came across my path while I still had my bow out. The wood was already here. I suspect Duglas plans ahead for these expeditions.”
Tamys nodded, keeping his counsel to himself. Padraig handed him the tankard of tea and excused himself to get their rations. He returned to find Tamys staring into the flames.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Tamys answered. “In places it’s almost as though you could look into another world if you stared hard enough,” he murmured, sending a shiver down Padraig’s back.
“I have experienced the same,” Padraig told him. Truth be told – and he wasn’t – he wasn’t good at scrying, but occasionally had moments of seeing beyond the flames to those near and dear. He handed Tamys a trencher of bread with venison and a stew of dried fruit. Tamys set the empty tankard aside.
“How was the tea?” Padraig asked.
“I’ve tasted worse,” Tamys replied, setting to his food. Padraig joined him. “Why are you drinking it?” he asked, nodding to the tankard Padraig set aside. “You didn’t drink the water.”
“Nay, but the cook does use it for washing the vegetables and cooking the food. Nay, it is best to treat that which is most likely to occur.”
“Why not tell him not to use the water?”
“How do I explain it, Tamys? You believe me because you know I’m not mad, but he doesn’t know me.”
“It does seem to run against good sense,” Tamys replied. “Why would bugs live in water?”
“Just trust me when I say that they do.”
Tamys shrugged and ate some more food. Padraig decided he could believe it
or not. He needn’t argue it any further.
After eating, they rose to return their trenchers to the tuck wagon. On the way back, Duglas hailed Padraig from one of the fires. The two entered the circle of warmth.
“You did some fine work with that long bow today,” Duglas acknowledged. “Mayhap you’d let me look at it sometime. I haven’t seen an elven long bow in a good age.”
“That was a pretty weapon,” Braeden agreed. “Why do they call it elfin?”
“Not elfin, elven,” Duglas corrected. “As in the elves. I’m thinking that our herbman here has spent some time among them if he knows how to use the long bow so well.”
Padraig knew he trod on shaky ground even mentioning his association with the elves, but Duglas noted his hesitation and laughed.
“I’d not be too concerned this far from the kingdom, lad. There’s no one to call you to task and most of these men are dishonored anyway.”
Padraig worded his reply carefully round the truth.
“We Denygal live closer to the elves than any other. We’ve adopted some of their ways. I studied herbs among them and picked up the bow as well.”
“The elves are a marvelous people!” Duglas announced, surprising not just Padraig in that estimation. He sounded downright enthusiastic about a people most folk thought a myth. “My father was a horse trader in Dublyn long years ago, during the time of the settlement at the Southern Confluence.”
“You mean where the elves massacred the townsfolk?” Aethyn asked, his voice awed, his accent branding him as from the east.
“Weren’t no massacre!” Duglas dismissed. “Folk told it wrong, to incite hatred of the elves, but it weren’t their doing and the ones who lived know it.”
“I heard nobody lived, the elves killed them all,” someone said.
“Only one Celdryan townsfolk died,” Duglas insisted. “You must know this story, herbman.”
“From the other side, aye. I heard the stories while I was training. I know someone who was there, but I’ve never met a Celdryan who was.”
“Aye, well, I was about 15 winters then. We’d lived there a few years. The elves have marvelous horses and at the Southern Confluence they were helping us to breed better horses for our own herds. The elves and the Celdryans lived side by side there, working together for somewhat better than what we’d had before. I think the adults hoped it would be much like Denygal, but if we didn’t intermarry the priests wouldn’t get involved.” He stared into the fire for a moment.
“So what went wrong?” Braeden asked.
“A woman,” Duglas announced. “Isn’t it always about breeding? This elven girl – ah, but she was beautiful! Utterly alien, but totally fascinating.”
“I thought the elves crop their babies’ ears. How can that be beautiful?”
“That’s not true,” Padraig told Aethyn. “I’ve attended birthings in the elven lands. The babies are born with peaked ears. And, you can’t explain the eyes on cropping.”
“Eyes?”
“Cat-slit,” Duglas explained. “Vertical pupils. Quite somewhat to see. Despite that, they are the most beautiful people you will ever see. For myself, I think this girl was more beautiful than most of her kind. And, she of course, attracted attention from men – namely, the mayor’s son.”
“If your folks were trying to avoid coupling, this wouldn’t have been good news,” Braeden noted.
“Nay, and her parents were clear that they wanted him to stay away from her. His father told him to do just that. I heard it. Then she came up pregnant. The elves are very clear about such things. They insisted the boy marry the girl and that he serve a period of penance for his error. His father was most upset with that arrangement, but was considering it when someone killed the boy.”
“What?” Padraig gasped, for he had heard another version of this story.
“Not the tale you quite heard?”
“Not quite. Elves are not pacifists. They will kill when they must, but it is uncommon for them to widow a woman carrying a child.”
“I know, but the story round the village was that the elves had killed the boy in revenge for bedding one of their women. Anyway, I don’t think anyone knew exactly what had happened and the mayor was inclined to believe that the elves were being painted as villains. But, there were others among the village who stirred up still others and they started burning the elven houses. Some died then, trapped. Others ran. As they climbed into the mountains, a garrison from the nearest dun came upon the village and attacked them with crossbows. It was then that they turned and fired with those long bows. I’d never seen a man spitted from the saddle before. Those arrows can go through mail.”
“Aye,” Padraig grunted. “That’s the story I heard, except for the murder of the mayor’s son.”
“What do the elves say?”
“That he killed himself in cowardice. He died of hanging, aye?”
“Aye,” Duglas agreed. “Funny how different people remember things differently.”
“The elves live much longer than men, so I tend to believe their memories more,” Padraig announced.
“Well, what you say may well be true,” Duglas told him.
“Then how did the town folk die?” Aethyn wanted to know.
“They didn’t. The mayor’s son died by hanging. Mayhap the elves did that, mayhap they didn’t. The mayor’s wife killed herself – slashed her wrists with a dagger. The mayor himself died shortly after the incident, my father said of a broken heart. Plenty of elves died in the fires and as they were shot down running away. I would not have thought there were more than a couple of archers in that company, but someone must have relieved them, because the arrows just flew.”
“Two archers,” Padraig told Duglas. Duglas blinked at him. “Just two.”
“They took out eight of the 15 riders who rode out from the dun,” Duglas explained. “I suppose we could say that was a massacre, but it were more like self-defense. The mountains had been acknowledged as their land. We were pursuing them into it.”
“And, since, the elves have been training to defend the mountains,” Padraig added. “They won’t countenance an attack there. They have stayed out of Celdrya – they’ve no wish to fight us – but they will not allow us to attack them again,” he explained.
“Who’d want the mountains anyway?” Braeden remarked. “Cold and desolate. How they survive up there, I’ll never know. How would anyone survive hereabouts? Same sort, I think.”
“Aye,” Padraig agreed, not mentioning that the elves lived in relative luxury because the dwarves had gifted them with their old played out mines. “They’re a hardy people, no doubt.”
“And, but for the God they serve, I thinkme they’d be a desperate people,” Duglas added. Padraig felt his heart skip a beat.
“God?” Aethyn asked. “Which of the gods is that?”
“Not one you know, lad,” Duglas said. “They call their god the One True God and they only have the one.”
“Only one?!” one of the young freeswords scoffed. “Can’t they afford more than the one?”
“They believe there is only one god,” Duglas reiterated.
“How could one god take care of all the plantings, birthings, deaths and wars?” Aethyn wanted to know.
“They seem to think He can,” Duglas said. “Padraig, do you know of this god?”
“Aye. You can’t be a member of elven society without hearing of Him,” Padraig said. “The one God is sufficient for them, Aethyn. They feel that the one God shows His power.”
“If there is only one true god,” Tamys asked. “How do they explain the others like Bel, Lugh, and Kernos?”
“They say those gods are merely what we created because we didn’t know the One True God,” Padraig replied, hoping that none noticed how truly scared he was to be speaking out so clearly here.
“Created? Like we made a pot or a table?” Aethyn asked.
“Aye,” Duglas said, nodding. “I remember how much their god meant to t
hem. They weren’t shy of telling the Celdryans at the Southern Confluence that their gods had no power. One summer there was a drought and the priests of Bel did come and pray and sacrifice, but naught for it. It remained dry as a bone and the crops were failing. Then someone asked the elves if their god would bless the crops and bring the rains. They didn’t have priests special-like as the priests of Bel, but they had men they called the Wise or the Knowing. They all stood in the center of the village praying, heads down in reverence as is their way. And, clouds did blow in and it rained that very day. My father said it was coincidence, that Bel had finally heard that we needed the world humors balanced, but I always wondered at that. Seemed convenient like, since our priests had prayed for days with nary a drop.”
Padraig hoped that he might get Duglas alone on this journey and ask him if he believed what he was speaking of. A cold wind guttered the fire and sent a cold draught up Padraig’s back.
“I’m for my blankets,” Duglas announced, tossing the remains of his tankard into the fire. “Aye, morning will dawn early enough and it gets cold up here on the heights.”
Padraig and Tamys went back to their campsite to roll in. Tamys seemed to be shooting odd glances Padraig’s way as they prepared their blankets, but he said naught and they went to sleep without discussion.
Under the Mountain
I was a child when King Gwin brought us to Daermad. We fled the Rawmaynes, who had deemed us expendable because we would not submit to slavery. As we fled to the east, mist shrouded the road through the forest. We had not time to turn about; we were driven forward as the Rawmayne armies pursued us with their chariots. I remember we were climbing into forested mountains when we entered the mist, but then cold water splashed round my knees and the air tasted of salt. As the last of our number … some 2000 … stumbled onto the shingle, the mist dissolved and we found ourselves upon a wide harbor surrounded by low land with mountains in the distance. Behind us, we heard horses screaming and looked back to see the chariots sinking in the deeper water. Some of the Rawmayne soldiers did cut their horses free and they did swim to shore. The Rawmaynes were not so fortunate. Encumbered by their breastplates and swords, most perished. The few who reached shore were near-death with cold and easily disarmed.