The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “Because it is not rightfully ours. The elves have built their communities, bred their horses and sheep and established trade routes with the Morikan, who are known as a fierce people.”

  “As a subject people, the Fey could fill your coffers rather than line their own purses.”

  “I do not wish to be a slave-trader,” Reyn remarked. “Indeed, I’ve learned you get more from merchants than from serfs,” he explained. “Come, let us walk out and make a bargain for the dun.”

  Reyn wished fervently that convention did not dictate that he take Nigyl with, but he knew naught for it. When Wrmyll had died of lung congestion last winter, Reyn had been without a steward or a foreseeable replacement. He’d sent out dispatches as soon as the roads had been traversable and had received word from Clarcom that Nigyl was available. Young, fresh from his father’s knee in a minor dun near Clarcom, he had much to learn. He’d been raised in a world where elves were scarcely more than a myth and hated beside, so it would take time to train him in the ways of Cenconyn. Reyn’s father had had little love for the elves himself, despite marrying a woman who was half of one, but he had used them to his advantage and Cenconyn had prospered. Reyn intended to be a bit more even-handed, but he expected the rigdon would not suffer for it.

  The Cenconyn horse faire – held during the traditional mid-summer gathering of the elven and dwarvish clans at the ancient crossroads where an elven citadel had been established – took place in unbelievable heat, but it was as lively as any latter faire elsewhere in the country. There were some tender crops available, but mostly goods and animals were sold during this time and lords from all over Dublyn and Galconyn came for the horses, for the elven horses – called Eastern Regals by men – were the stuff of legends. Tall and leggy with unbelievable stamina and intelligence, Regals were worth their price at any cost. Cut stock were used for a variety of purposes, but breeding stock were almost worshiped. The elves didn’t often sell breeders outright and then the price was more coin than a rich rigdon saw in several years.

  Thankfully, Reyn did not seek breeding stock. His groom had already bought the horses he wanted from this faire. Reyn’s foray into the elven camp had more to do with politics and love than things equine.

  Reyn felt encouraged as he walked through the faire grounds, hearing folk calling his name and seeing smiles upon their faces. Due to a series of unfortunate deaths among the males of his family, Reyn had become a secondary heir and folk often feared that “the second spare” would not have been trained to rule. Truly, Reyn experienced deep doubts about his ability to rule when first he inherited the rigdon, but he’d apparently passed some sort of test among the folk over the last four years. Nigyl followed him until they reached the bridge that led across the trickle of a brook that the river had become in the summertime heat.

  “I think this a poor idea, m’lord.”

  “It is a necessary journey, lad,” Reyn assured him. “Come. You’re perfectly safe with the rig of Cenconyn.”

  They crossed the bridge and came under the cooling trees along the far bank, entering an utterly alien world. The elven camp had its own order that seemed like disorder to human eyes, with tents here and there and facing all directions. The elven tents were conical, supported by a frame of poles tied in a bundle at the top. In the heat, the leather sides of the tents were rolled up to catch the non-existent breeze and folk lay upon the floor clothes, sweating freely, until they saw the two humans at the entrance to the camp. Activity hesitated for a heartbeat and then resumed. The elven way did not show rudeness, even when confronted with what made the Kin nervous. A male disengaged himself from some work nearby and approached.

  “May I inquire of your business among my Kin?” he asked in flawless Celdryan.

  Reyn answered in his worst Elvish. Truly, he didn’t speak it often enough, but much of his slowness was for Nigyl’s benefit. It wouldn’t do for the lad to know that Reyn shared more in common with elves than he did with the steward. Humans could become so testy about such subtleties as birth and blood, even among the noble born. Especially among the noble born!

  “I am Reyn, rig of Cenconyn, son of Barantha of Denygal. I wish to speak with your squire.”

  Nigyl’s eyes narrowed. Like most humans, he didn’t know Elvish, but he did know that word “squire.” An Elvish word, that, borrowed by the Denygal. Some of northern Dublyn knew the word, though they thought it a quaint word for “lord” when it meant so much more.

  The elven male’s eyes – huge with purple irises and cat-slit pupils – rested upon Reyn for a moment. He’d know that Barantha was his mother’s Elvish name – she’d been known as Andda in Celdrya – and this meant much for Reyn’s pedigree, even if this particular Kin didn’t know Reyn’s family history.

  “That would be Cai,” he said in Celdryan. “He’s in the storage floor. Come, I’ll take you there.” He looked over Nigyl. “Does that one know how to use the sword?” he asked in Elvish.

  “He is a human noble, so yes, but not as well as I do. The Kin have nothing to fear.”

  “I didn’t ask out of fear,” the Kin assured him. “Come,” he announced in Celdryan. “Cai is nearby.”

  They walked through the camp to a tent with multiple peaks built over a makeshift floor. The sides were down and a half-dozen Kin, some male and some female, guarded its entrances.

  “I’ve a visitor of the squire,” the Kin said to the guard at the main entrance. He turned to Reyn and spoke in Celdryan. “Wait here.” He ducked under the tent flap and left them waiting.

  “How rude!” Nigyl hissed to Reyn.

  “We’re on their territory now.”

  “A man of your position –“

  ”Is merely a dweller of stone tents to them,” Reyn replied. “Not to be honored or even dignified. Theirs is a society different from ours.”

  “Shameful!” Nigyl growled.

  The Kin guarding the door said naught, but Reyn was fairly certain that she understood the conversation. Elves were good with languages, most especially the females.

  “You may come in, rig of Cenconyn,” their guide stated, stepping out of the tent. Nigyl moved to follow Reyn. “You must stay out here,” he told the steward.

  “The steward is always involved in affairs of commerce,” Nigyl protested.

  “My squire wishes to deal rig to rig,” the guide said, his placid face hiding his undeniable humor over Nigyl’s discomfiture.

  “I’ll be fine, Nigyl,” Reyn assured his servitor. He stepped through the tent flap into the coolness within. Light filtered through the leather to the interior, so that he could quickly make out the two young men sitting upon a bale of cotan in the middle of the tent. He’d learned this bit in previous years. They would hold back a bale for him until the last day of the faire, when they could easily sell it to a desperate northern rig. He approached the two there. He recognized the one – a half-elf who looked human except for the peak of an ear pushing its way through his curly sand-colored hair. He had been the squire of the caravan for two summers now. His name was Cai. His companion was new to Reyn and looked even more human with curly chestnut hair and large eyes the color of jade. She was also the most beautiful half-elf he’d ever seen, excepting his wife.

  “I am Reyn, son of Barantha of Denygal,” he greeted solemnly, in Elvish.

  “I recognize you from previous summers,” Cai replied in Celdryan. He drained a stone cup of water and rose from the bale. “Do you wish to join us?” he asked, still speaking Celdryan.

  “Yes,” Reyn answered in Elvish.

  “Do you wish to speak in Celdryan or Elvish?” asked Cai’s companion in a rather dark voice that was accented with the tones of Denygal.

  “I can speak in either,” Reyn assured.

  “Then let us conduct our business in Elvish,” Cai said. “I suppose you want the bale of cotan we’re sitting on.”

  “My wife wants it, truly. I want what her weavers make with it.”

  “You have always paid
well for what we have,” Cai noted. “Do you have coin or iron?” he asked.

  “I prefer to give coin as iron is becoming short in the kingdom.”

  “We hear that the basketlands are riven with war,” the companion acknowledged.

  “Tis true, though not in Dublyn yet.”

  “Does that mean their attention will be away from the mountains?”

  “They turn westward, true enough. And, Cunyr in Clarcom may be aging. His son, an elfling, will rule once he passes.”

  The two Kin looked at one another as if communicating silently. Mayhap they were.

  “This speaks well for the Kin?” the female asked.

  “I cannot say certainly, but Bryan is a Believer who would not harm the Kin by his own design.”

  “But he might by the design of others? He has no overlords, being rig of Clarcom,” Cai noted.

  “He is not vyngretroix yet, not until his father dies.” Again there was the look between the two. “I believe that Bryan will do as well as he can to avoid conflict with the holts,” Reyn assured them. “I cannot promise that no incursion will happen.”

  “What do you think, Ry?” Cai asked his companion.

  “I believe that the humans are ever treacherous and that we should consider elflings raised among humans with skepticism.” Ry’s eyes never wavered from Reyn’s face as she said this.

  “Fair enough,” Reyn told her. Tall and strong, dressed in the garb all elves wore outside of the holts -- leather trews with a colorful tunic over -- her beauty was not lessened by the sword she wore belted at her waist. “Does either of you have the ability to read auras?”

  Ry smiled slightly with her eyes.

  “I do,” she told him. Reyn relaxed his shields to allow her to read what was there. Her touch was light as a feather and exceedingly brief, no more than a glance. Her look grew less guarded. “You are truly an elf – fully a quarter.”

  “Officially an eighth,” he explained. “My mother was from Denygal.”

  “So was our father,” he was informed. She pondered somewhat for a heartbeat before standing, proving to be quite tall. “I believe you are the nobleman I seek.”

  Ryen’s heart thumped. She’s as lovely as Lilli. Were she not a stranger ….

  “I have been given a prophesy,” she said in Celdryan. “It affects both our lands and the solution can only be found through our joint strength.”

  Reyn poured a cup of water and waited for her to continue.

  “One of our holt received a prophesy that sent him seeking the One’s True King in the basket lands,” she explained. “He had already left when I saw a vision -- I flew upon dragon back over sea and saw a navy that can strike at our northern shore in devastating numbers. The Kin could not mount a defense. Can the Celtmen?”

  “Doubtful as there is no king in High Celdrya and the ones who would be king are busy spending their vigor on killing one another.”

  Ry’s eyes were deeply sad as she gazed at him.

  “Would your father’s people join with your mother’s people if the need were great?”

  “I cannot say,” he replied, slowly, soberly. “I am the rig of a great dun, but I am not vyngretrix. I do not control the people of any but my own rigdon. I can mount a small army, but I do not command more than a few thousand. How large is this army you envisioned?”

  “Tens of thousands. It was the largest army I’ve ever seen. I do not think a dragon would visit Kin again if the need were not great.”

  “Nay, I believe you. You must understand, however, that the Celts will not. Even presented by one they think is of them, they will be skeptical.”

  Ry turned to Cai and they seemed to speak silently again, then Ry turned to Reyn and asked a final question.

  “Is there naught we can do?”

  The world seemed to stand still a moment as her words rang like bells in the tent.

  “There’s always somewhat a Believer or three may do,” Reyn assured her.

  Cai grinned and Ry breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I will find a way to make them listen,” Reyn added. “First, let us three pray to the One that I might find soft hearts and wise ears.” They linked hands to pray. As the initiator, Reyn started the prayer. “Dear God, One Who loves us all. We seek Your guidance and protection and ask that You will open eyes and soften hearts long hardened.” The image of the rulers Reyn knew flowed through his mind’s eye, interspersed with Duglas and, unexpectedly, Ry. Cai was murmuring a prayer in Elvish when Ry’s grip on Ryen’s hand grew stiff and then words began to flow from Ryen’s mouth, unbidden, in Elvish.

  “The Knowing must choose to be wise. Do not let the staff of mission pass before you. Take it up and walk in the ways of your Commander. Take My words into the world for I move to meet them wherever they may go.”

  Reyn opened his eyes and looked at his new companions. Cai stared at Ry, who stared at her feet.

  I’ll not ask, Reyn thought.

  “So be it,” Cai said and his words sounded in the tent like a temple gong.

  Ry pulled her hands from theirs and rounded on her brother.

  “No!” she said. “I do not choose to take up this cup.”

  Cai grinned like a fiend and her face darkened, then went white as parchment. For a moment, Reyn wondered if he’d need to draw his sword, but then she turned on her heel and swept out of the tent. He heard Nygil yell. He’d probably gotten in her way and she’d sent him tumbling. Cai and Reyn grinned at each other, but then both sobered. Reyn shuddered and then felt a touch on his mind, lighter than a feather. Lilli reached out to him. Mayhap this unusual touch of prophesy did not arise from him.

  “Much rides on her decision, I think,” Reyn told the squire.

  “Aye, it always does,” Cai admitted laconically. He listened to Nigel arguing with the guard. “Tell me what you can give us in coin or iron for the bale. It will be yours. Too bad cotan cannot hold back armies.”

  Reyn felt his heart contract painfully.

  “True-spoken, squire,” he said as another shovelful of snow seemed to slide down his back. Cai shuddered with him.

  “Evil’s afoot,’ Cai assured him. “Even men like us who deal in what can be seen and touched feel it.”

  A dark cloud permanently covered the sun. A good time to mourn the old world that would end, but Nigyl was demanding entrance into the tent and there was much to do before the world ended.

  Bastards Book

  Before destruction the heart of a person is proud, but humility comes before honor.

  From the 18th Song of King Daffyd of Ysrael - Recorded in Scriptos

  Founding Year 931

  Mulyn

  The servitor known as Talidd pulled the brush hide over the low mouth of the cave before channeling fire into the wick of his lantern. The resulting light illuminated the low ceiling and rough walls and the rougher wooden table toward the back of the cave.

  Talidd set the lantern on a natural stone shelf on the right hand wall and set his haversack beside the brazier to unload the contents. He spread the black cloth with its numerous sigals over the top of the table. The large bronze vessel was careful centered upon it and the two stone cups were arranged to the sides. He placed the bronze knife across the top of the right-hand cup.

  Talidd paused in the preparation and sent to the raven who sat high in a pine tree. None approached. Talidd had a moment to think before moving on in his preparations.

  The mind that he meant to contact was frighteningly powerful, so that he wanted his own mind well-ordered for his protection. Talidd had been Balyster’s apprentice and then a journeyman under him for more than half his lifetime. A lot of animosity had been earned in those years. Masters like Balyster somewhat expected hatred concealed under dogged devotion, but it never paid to allow them to see what you really thought. Thus Talidd built up his psychic shields to prevent any breaches and then built up a glamour to conceal the strength of his hiding. The raven would tell him when he needed to start the r
itual. He had time. Multiple layers of shielding might seem unnecessary to one who had not been schooled by Balyster’s ministrations, but Talidd had seen others destroyed utterly because they had been careless.

  The raven’s mind touched his. Midnight approached. Talidd took a deep breath and channeled fire into the brazier. The charcoal there caught. Talidd drew bags of herbs out of the haversack and tossed the appropriate handful of each on the coals. Smoke drifted into his face and he moved away so as not to become intoxicated.

  He unstoppered a bottle and poured the contents into the bronze bowl. The pungent odor of blood rose to his nostrils. He intoned the first spell and then stirred the blood and thought of Balyster. Because of their close affinity and long acquaintance the image built up very quickly and the old man with the mad eyes appeared in the surface.

  I’ve come for my instructions, master, Talidd began.

  Tariq al Najeb of Morikan clan Nuss, you will obey me.

  Upon hearing his true name as a beginning, all of Talidd’s careful preparations were for naught. He had protected his deepest thoughts from Balyster, but he was bound to do or answer whatever Balyster requested.

  Aye, my master.

  The gates ritual, fourth stage.

  Aye, my master, Talidd said, though his heart started beating faster. That’s a major spell. Is that why you asked me to gather items from the families?

  Aye. You know how to use them. The quarry is Donyl ap Trevellyn. I’ve sent lower strengths against him. You join a circle of power that will bring him to the God of Rusks this night.

  Aye, my master.

  The part of Talidd’s mind that was still his own wanted to panic. This ritual ranked levels above anything he’d done before. There were few who had power enough to open these gates and pass on the knowledge gained and still fewer lived beyond the ritual.

  Talidd advanced the ritual, speaking the words of power, invoking the spirits, pouring the blood and mixing the family’s hair and nail clippings at the appropriate times. Increasingly, he felt the presence of Balyster’s mind in the cave with him and then, as he cut his palm with the dagger, he felt the god come. Power like few could hold rushed into him, filled him to bursting and spilled across the link he shared with Balyster and some 10 others of near-equal strength. Bright yellow filled his inner mind as fury rushed through him like fire, searing his nerves, drowning out all sound, all concept of time, all sense of self. He tumbled in the maelstrom, seeking his way to some quiet, some stable ground. A window cleared and he saw the army below, a multitude of soldiers clad in furs and bits of leather, carrying bronze instruments. Beyond them stood a road of darkest night and then a forest of tall trees. With his mind, he commanded they go and then the yellow fire rushed back at him and he tumbled back into it, helpless to control himself.