by Lela Markham
Suddenly, Gregyn was racing at incredible speed across the breadth of the kingdom, to Llyr and the Bog and then away toward the northwest to a city he didn’t recognize.
The taste of coppers came to the back of his mouth. A powerful hand gripped him and he came awake to the feeling of power coursing through him down the link as he started to shake uncontrollably. His nerves felt as if fire coursed through him and not for the first time, he remembered what happened to mages who drew more power than they ought … and he broke the link and fell to his knees, arms and legs spasmodically flaying against the smooth stone floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop jerking, couldn’t feel Talidd in the link anymore. Fear gripped him. Is this death come for me? Abruptly, Gregyn lost consciousness.
Founding Year 1028
Dun Llyr
Randoff of Llyr rather enjoyed his life in the dun for all the complications it caused him. His brother’s strict belief that they need not forget their common beginnings had him spending a portion of every eightnight at the Golden Unicorn while maintaining a chamber in Dun Llyr. He didn’t object that much. The Golden Unicorn might have been in the Bottom, but it was a fine inn with the very best of clientele and his mother set a fine board.
There were times, however, when being his brother’s aide grated upon him. Today was one of those days. Howedd had insisted he go to the dun library and ask after Gillian of Llyr.
The library occupied a generous crescent wing along the back of the main broch. Hearths were set at regular intervals along the curving floor to keep the place warm in winter. Now, at almost Lughnasda, the windows were propped open to allow freshening breezes. Scribes worked diligently at lecterns throughout the room. Randoff would much rather have been out-of-doors enjoying the pleasant weather, but here he was amid dusty scrolls and codices seeking answers to questions that were a century old.
“My brother asks after Gillian of Llyr, who lived about a century ago,” Randodd explained to the librarian, a stuffy man with a slender face and yellow teeth.
“Hmm,” Brechsys hummed. “Well and good. I’ve a couch for you over there. I’ll return eventually.”
Randodd sighed and took a seat. He had been trained to read and write, so the library held some interest to him, but he still lacked confidence to set forth without permission. He was the rig’s brother, but he was not noble-born and he’d spent his life knowing that there were consequences for any who dared to rise too far above their station.
Nearly a watch passed before Brechsys returned with a codex which he set upon a low table just in front of the couch. Brechsys flipped open the codex, examined a leaf and then flipped another leaf. Randodd leaned forward to try and see what he was reading.
“These are the genealogies from the last century. Ah, aye, there’s a Gillian. She married to Fargyl -- Dun Loch -- and had a child in FY 929.”
“What does that mark and date mean?”
“The child died. This refers us to another book. Oh, my!”
“What?”
“It’s a book known as -- and forgive the vernacular -- the bastard’s book.”
“Why would that upset me?” Randodd replied calmly. Brechsys looked even more nervous. “Truly, it is what I am. Let us see this book.”
The bastard’s book was quite difficult to locate, so that the afternoon had faded to evening dark, heavy with the perfume of flowers, before Brechsys set it before him.
“It would seem the Umhall line was given to sexual indiscretions,” Randodd said with a laugh. Brechsys gave him a sour look. “You might want to ease up a bit, old man,” he said with a whisper. “Remember who your rig is this time.”
Brechsys swallowed audibly, but he nodded and flipped open the book.
“Here she is. Gillian nee Umhall. She had a bastard son in FY 933. Oh, my!”
“Another book?” Randodd asked, heart sinking a bit.
“Nay. Surely this cannot be. She was betrothed to Maryn of Celdrya.”
“Prince Maryn?”
“Aye. And, the birth of that child is … well, curious.”
Randodd stared at the writing himself. This book was different from the other genealogies in that it didn’t just show relationships. It included snippets of narrative, explaining the situation. Gillian’s bastard had been adopted privately by her brother, rig of Llyr. He’d been married to a younger daughter of a small dun that had needed the bride price. He’d served in Dun Llyr as a servitor. Their children had been married to other minor duns, except for one -- a girl --who had gone to the Golden Unicorn and bore another child -- this one the child of her cousin, rig of Llyr. The child, a girl, had been adopted and raised in the dun. She’d been married to a noble servitor and their children had been married out, except for one girl, who had born her cousin’s child and retired to the Golden Unicorn. Then Randodd’s mother appeared. Rhodda had born Howedd by design. Randodd sat back on the couch.
“They were keeping the line alive,” Brechsys said. “But they’ve never claimed it. I’d have seen it in the histories if they had.”
“But they maintained a genealogy,” Randodd added. “It’s a direct line through the female. I must take this to my brother, so that he may know.”
“Aye, of course, lad. I’ll get a carry sack for it. Please do treat it as important.”
“Of course,” Randodd assured him. “I think this may be the most important book in all the kingdom.”
As soon as Brechsys delivered the sack, Randoff slung over his shoulder so that no one would guess how important the item he carried might be and hurried off to his brother’s chambers to turn his view of the world upon its head.
Willow Branch
We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.
This curious statement is found in a letter by Pwl, who was a learned man from the before world. He wrote this letter to the Rwmanes, which is still a matter of deep confusion to me, as we know they were the conquerors and enslavers of the Travellyn tribe. The Believer’s religion is most curious, for it would seem that they found friendship among enemies.
From the Scriptos of the One, Letter to the Rwmanes
Recorded by Brethry, Priest of Bel, Moryn FY 933
Founding Year 931
Denygal Mountains
Donyl’s lungs burned. He felt light-headed and heavy-limbed as if he were laboring under a burden far beyond the light pack and water bottle he carried. It was as if there just wasn’t as much air here as elsewhere. Surely that could not be the truth. It was merely that he was exhausted from days of hard travel and the unaccustomed mode of his feet.
Pedyr looked as exhausted as he, with dark circles under his eyes and his face slick with sweat. Faryl seemed completely comfortable, legs eating up the vertical slope as if he might run all day … as indeed he had. To take his mind off the pain in his legs and ribs, Donyl wondered if mayhap Faryl and his horse had adapted somehow to the altitude. Kylly Mines was two ridges below this one, but with ups and downs might only be a little below in altitude. Could people mayhap adjust to living in the mountains over living in the valleys? Could the exhaustion Pedyr and Donyl labored under have somewhat to do with the altitude? He would need to ask wiser heads when he arrived in Denygal. If ….
Nay! He would not allow the possibility of failure! They’d eluded the daemon thus far. There was hope they might make the citadel at Denygal on the morrow. The thumbnail moon in the darkening solstice sky harbingered disaster, but the longer northern day meant they could travel much farther twixt sunrise and sunset.
Faryl came to a stop, chest barely heaving. Pedyr stumbled up beside him, hands on his knees, sucking air. Donyl labored up the last slope, recognizing that they were completely free of the tree line now, with only waist-high brush surrounding them. He dropped to his knees and fumbled for his water bottle.
“We’re there,” Faryl announced, pouring water into a bowl for the horse to drink. They’d encountered a small spr
ing this morning, but there was little water this high up.
Pedyr stared at him, still breathing hard. After taking a long draught of water, he straightened and looked where Faryl pointed. He signaled for Donyl to look as well, but from his position on his knees Donyl could see only brush and sky and looming mountains. He struggled to gain his feet.
Across a gorge, they could see a collection of buildings clinging to a mountaintop at a lower level. Faryl’s instinct that the path they’d taken two days before led to the citadel had been correct. Donyl and Pedyr smiled at one another.
“Good job, lad,” Donyl said to the mountain village boy.
“We’re not there yet,” Pedyr reminded. “We’ve got that gorge to cross.”
“There’s a bridge,” Faryl explained. “You trek down this path,” he indicated the cairn-marked path that Donyl had not seen before, “and it comes to a bridge. The bridge takes you to the citadel.”
“We can’t traverse it by sundown,” Pedyr told Donyl.
Donyl nodded, drinking another slug of water. His heart no longer galloped, but his throat felt wind-burned. He walked to the cairns and looked down at a narrow footpath cut into the side of the gorge. It seemed to switchback many times before it disappeared into the gloom.
“We’ve a trek of it, to be sure,” he agreed. He turned to Faryl. The lad‘s eyes were averted as if he expected the conversation … or mayhap had intended to initiate it. “The agreement with your father was that you take us to within sight of the citadel. Unless you have an overwhelming desire to see the citadel, I suggest you return home.”
“The horse …?”
“You may take him with you. There’s little left of our supplies once we give you enough to return with, so there’s no reason we can’t carry it in backpacks.”
Faryl glanced toward Pedyr. Far more than the men of the warband, he had deferred to Donyl as liege on this journey, but he recognized that Donyl often deferred to Pedyr, who now frowned and stared at the clouds for a bit.
“We’ve no cause to hold you, lad,” Pedyr agreed finally. “You’ve fulfilled your commitment and with the moon just about at dark, we need to let you go. I wish we’d been able to release you earlier, so you’d not be upon the trail at this ill-omened time.”
“I’ll be fine,” Faryl assured. “I’ve the Light of the World to guide me.”
He opened a pannier and began to lay out what few supplies they had left. Donyl and Pedyr shed their packs and took a bit of journey bread, some cheese and a bag of the sour ale the Kylly Mines folks used to cleanse their water.
“I must say this before we part,” Faryl said as he and Donyl faced each other over the goods. “I’ve the Light of the World to guide me and Pedyr does as well, but you are in darkness. Listen to his counsel and cling unto the One.”
Donyl stared at him. What little breath they’d had to spare since the stampede had been spent in speaking of the One God and how Donyl might know him. Donyl had listened respectfully and he recognized the earnestness with which they held their beliefs. That they believed the same though one had been raised in a mountain fast and the other just outside High Celdrya resonated with him somewhat. Donyl nodded soberly. Faryl rose and put his supplies in the pannier.
“I’ll be going then. I’ll pray for you now.”
He placed his hands upon each of their shoulders and lowered his head.
“My God, You know the powers and principalities that are coming against these men. I pray Your hedge about them so that no power on earth or below may come against them. In Jesu’s name.”
“So be it,” Pedyr whispered. There were tears in the man’s eyes as he embraced the mountain lad. “Fly swiftly home, lad.”
“Fair fortune to you,” Donyl added. “If we survive, I’ll remember this and the loving care of Kylly Mines to its potential king.”
Faryl nodded, gathered the horse’s reins, leapt into the saddle and rode off downslope the way they’d come. Pedyr and Donyl stood a while, quiet in the gusts of wind that swirled through the pass.
“We’d best make for that bridge now,” Pedyr decided. “We can bed down on the trail as well as here on the mountain.”
Donyl nodded, barely caring that he was exhausted beyond measure. Pedyr gestured for him to go before him down the trail. It seemed an odd path, one side sheer cliff, but the outer edge trimmed with a low rampart that rose to waist height.
“Is this a dwarves’ road?” Donyl asked. He’d read of such and this seemed to fit the description.
“Mayhap. Seems like their sort of work, true-spoken.”
The air was still thin, so that they didn’t speak much as they walked the downward trail. It grew shadowy not long after the first sharp bend in the path. After so long trudging uphill, Donyl had expected his legs to welcome the change of exertion, but it didn’t take long for them to start screaming again. Oh, how he wanted to rest.
They hurried along into the deepening gloom until they came to a wide spot off one of the bends and Pedyr called a halt. Besides the path they had come down on, there were two paths off this wide ledge -- one going down toward the bridge and the other -- well, from somewhere to the south.
“We can’t see and a torch would only be a beacon in this chasm. We’ll camp here til dawn and then push on.”
They wrapped themselves in their cloaks with blankets over those and settled with their backs against the cliff. A chill wind blew past them. Donyl thought he smelled incense at one point, but he decided he must have been wishing. Exhausted from days of running, he quickly dozed off, head drooping onto Pedyr’s shoulder. Within heartbeats, he was beyond embarrassment.
Waking from a dead sleep caught him by surprise and he sat for a moment, unsure why he was awake. Then the ground beneath him trembled and he nudged Pedyr to wakefulness.
“Hmm?” the soldier grunted.
“Do you feel somewhat?” Donyl whispered.
Pedyr cocked a head as if listening and then laid his hand upon the stone before them.
“God in Heaven, I pray this is not what I think it is,” the rider breathed. Then he stood up, dragging Donyl with him. They could see the path to the south now, lit by a long string of torches, still some distance from their bivouac. The path from above was also lit by torches. The ground trembled harder now as those two forces descended upon them.
“Run,” Pedyr ordered, drawing his sword and pushing Donyl toward the path that supposedly led to the citadel. Donyl stumbled and turned to obey. He could see something moving along the path that descended that way. The thumb nail moon had been replaced by a gibbous orb like a golden charger that made is easier to see their destruction closing in.
“I don’t think it will do any good,” he announced. Pedyr glanced the direction he indicated and growled. “What do we do?” Donyl asked, drawing his own sword.
“We die here,” Pedyr told him. “We can die well, but we will surely die.”
The thought, oddly, held no terror for Donyl. He nodded as if this were the most ordinary conversation he’d ever had. After days of fighting to stay alive, he was comfortable with death when no other options existed.
“Back to back. Keep swinging and we’ll take some hell-spawn with us.”
“Aye,” Donyl agreed. The ground truly rumbled now beneath his feet and the torches were growing close enough so that he could see the man-shapes that carried them. He drew the sword Perryn had given him, put his back to Donyl’s back and took a deep breath, letting it out just as the first daemon reached him. He heard the clang of steel on bronze from Pedyr’s sword and then he swung his own. A being fell, but another took its place. These were not men, for all their shape, but hideous creatures with distorted faces, though their swords seemed real enough. As soon as Donyl killed one, another or two or three came forward. The narrow path and the ledge meant that there was room for only that many to assail him at one time, but it was enough and soon Donyl’s whole body felt afire from the effort of defending his life. He could hear Pe
dyr breathing heavily behind him, feel his shoulders working as he cut his own assailants down. Soon it became clear that they would not win because their foes would not stop and Donyl despaired for a moment and thought.
Does Pedyr’s One God care what is happening here? A good man, a Believer of His, will die fighting evil. God, please, help us now.
A heartbeat later, an air-rending roar filled the gorge and the daemon host ducked as if expecting attack from on high. A dark winged shape glided out of the moon light and swept low. Donyl screamed as the enormous claws reached down and lifted him free of the ledge.
Founding Year 1028
Dun Wllean
The journey back through the Mandorlyn Pass was largely uneventful. There were no signs of brigands. The spring weather had turned to summer in a mere eightnight and that kept Padraig busy doctoring the wounds of the injured, preventing infection and gangrene. Tamys was the only one who didn’t have Padraig worried. He healed quickly, without sign of infection. He even stopped limping after a few days. His only complaint was that the stitches itched, which Padraig took care of on the eightnight by removing them. If it weren’t for Padraig’s growing interest in his parentage, he’d have been no concern at all.
How could I have missed what was standing right before me, God? If I’m right, he’s both human and Kin. He’s courtly and court-raised. He has an ancestral claim. He’s a warrior of mythic aspect. He doesn’t desire to rule. He’s a younger son. How much more of the prophesy does he fulfill?
The consuming thought for Padraig was how to broach this subject to Tamys. He’d always had this consideration. How did one convince someone who was the One’s True King that he was indeed the One’s True King? Padraig did not fear to face ridicule, but he could not force Tamys not to think him mad. Then, upon convincing Tamys, there would be the harder task of acquiring the throne for him. Padraig believed that the One could accomplish all things within His will, but it had yet to be clear how He intended to do this. How did an herbman and a dishonored nobleman’s son convince anyone of God’s will?