The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  Trews – form fitting pants worn by Kin and others

  Siarc – a linen shirt worn in Celdrya. The yokes are often embroidered. The nobility adorns theirs with their clan symbols.

  Dun – a fortress including the main keep and outbuildings surrounded by a wall. The city that supports a dun is often called Dun also.

  Broch – a dun tower, a round building preferably built of stone.

  Companion – another Kin term indicating a sentient non-human animal that has a psychic connection with a human.

  Lumina – a type of translucent building stone used by Kin in former times to build cities. The art of working it has been lost.

  Excerpt from

  Mirklin Wood

  Thus says the One Whose Name We Are Not to Know, hear Me, Kindred, and know that I am One God.

  The raptors fight over the aviary, but only one can rule and no bird of a feather will mount the throne. The dragon stirs and the One’s King will arise. Go you then to find him and win him free of those who would exploit him. Who shall go? One who knows both worlds and can heal both the body and the rifts of men, one whose brothers rule, yet who would walk barefoot himself, one whose Companion shines like the sun.

  And how shall you know the One’s King? He will be obscure -- near the rule, but not of it. He will be of the Kin, but not know the Kin. He will pass through tribulation. He will be plain of speech, heroic and thoughtful. The dragon will claim him.

  The raptors fight over the aviary, but all will bow before the dragon.

  Know this and hear the One speak.

  Navaransen, Sentinel, Kin Cycle 17602 Old Calendar

  Founding Year (FY) 931

  Denygal - Summer - A Century Ago

  Gravity dictates the fate of a dragon dancer. Miss a handhold and gravity wins.

  After spending all of yestermorrow climbing the ropes on a sheer cliff face, it would be ironic if a sliding bit of shale on a scree slope sent her tumbling to her death.

  Janara jerked her downslope foot off the treacherous slab, dropping to her upslope knee with a teeth-jarring thump and slapping her hands hard on the solid rock. The slab clattered off down the slope, launched into the void with an avalanche of similar stones headed to the river far below.

  Janara pretended she’d meant to do that. Settling the pack straps more comfortably on her shoulders, she reached for the water bottle at her side. The late summer sun sent trickles of sweat meandering down her back under her sleeveless linen shirt.

  Haste will kill you, girl! A dancer works with the mountain. Forget that at your peril!

  The hard blue sky arched above her, wide open to the south all the way to the green valley of Fairhaven and disappearing over the crest of the gray mountain in front of her. Not far now, truly. She’d reach the ridge by noontide. She splashed a little water in a slender, long fingered hand and wiped it across her face and the front of her braided hair. She longed to dump a bit down her back and wet her shirt, but this was not a situation for extravagance. Securing her water bottle in the pouch on the pack, she rose from her knees and began laboring upward once more.

  Put one foot in front of the other. Step, breathe in, release, step, breathe in, release, ….

  What was that? She scrambled up the last few steps of inclination to kneel panting upon the warm stone. A dark shape flew along the crest of the next highest ridge. A large bird, perhaps? A dragon?

  She’d seen a dragon flying once, a long way off. It had been a rare sighting, deemed auspicious by her parents, reason enough to train in the Dragon Corpse. She’d dreamt of dragons since, but she doubted to have the privilege of true sighting again, even as she hoped to be granted it. The Denygal rarely found Companions these days and none had Touched a dragon in half a millennia. Why would the One deny such a blessing to one who loved Him utterly? Why would He grant it, either?

  It was an eagle, she decided, riding the thermals at the edge of the ridge. There’d been an eagle in her dream, the one that had prompted her parents to send her northward at daybreak two days ago. Lowering her pack to the stone, she knelt to pull out a cloth-wrapped bundle of sharp cheese and thick bread. She took her lunch sitting tailor-fashion on the ground, looking west.

  Mam had encouraged her to trek here when she’d awakened from the dream. It did no good to ignore a Prompting. Da had wanted her to wait for her brothers, but none of them were dancers. They’d only have taken her to the base of the ropes. She’d still be alone here, contemplating the vast wilderness beyond the Milk. Janara washed down fruit leather with tepid water and considered the deep valley before her.

  The Dragon’s Milk scoured down the side of the Dragon’s Head mountain, an enormous waterfall fed by a glacier. It stopped halfway down in a churning lake, then spilled on downward, finally becoming a mighty river that carved a canyon through the Roof of the World into Denygal to the south. Few could cross the Milk this far north because there were no bridges up river of Fairhaven, but dancers like Janara had a way … if she chose to use it. She had to be sure of the Prompting because following her heart meant a long dangerous walk back. Stowing her tuck bag, she stood on the verge, looking far down at the gray-brown streak of the Milk and waited for the One’s Spirit to speak to her.

  A warm breeze brushed her face and dried her lips as she scanned the dark-green forest on the other side of the river. Something pulled at her heart, but she waited for confirmation. Never trust your heart. Wait for the One to lead.

  She prepared to step back from the verge when a rustle of feathers shuffled past her ear. The eagle paused for a moment before her astonished eyes, hovering in space as if frozen in time, and then dropped into the void. For two heartbeats it streaked downward, then opening its wings, it kited off toward the north, swooping low over the evergreen forest.

  Janara’s breath caught in her throat as she followed the eagle’s flight. Perhaps a day’s walk from the river, on a ridgeline likely formed by on of the active glaciers that came down from the roof of the world, she saw a plume of smoke. The One speaks!

  Decided, she squandered no time in pulling the faery suit from the pack and donning it. Wide bands of cloth stretched from her wrists, along her arms and sides and down her legs, then between her legs to form a kite that gave the dancers their gravity defying abilities.

  The suit does not define your courage.

  Securing everything within the pack, which she tied tightly to her body beneath the suit, she stepped once more to the verge and waited, arms half-stretched-out, feeling for the updraft. It started as a gentle feeling of being nudged, followed by a growing sense of being pushed back toward the rock. She leaned into it, stretching her arms further, feeling the fabric between her legs catching and flagging. She wanted to step back, to avoid the danger inherent in dancing. She looked toward the ridge line once more and saw the long slitherin shape leave the ground, wings flapping. Dragon? The updraft caught the suit full, her feet left the shale, and she became the eagle, headed west toward the fire on the ridge.

  Founding Year 1028

  Galornyn – The Present

  Rain fell in sheets from a sullen sky, filling the streets of Galornyn with fetid streams of mud that oozed toward the harbor in thick brown ropes like excrement loosed from a cesspit. The unnatural downpour had kept the city enthralled for three days now. Folk spoke of Hanaloran witchcraft while the merchants of the Southern Isles stood off the jetty awaiting a favorable wind for home.

  In the markets, there was news that three academics from the collegiate had died as if strangled by unseen hands the night before the storm broke. Fear was palpable in the streets and taverns where every man, woman and child saw plague and sorcery round every corner.

  Gregyn stood in the shadows of the dim interior of the temple of Bel, watching Naryna's parents mourn over their daughter, the whole of his saved wages arranged about their daughter. He’d been unable to persuade the priests to provide this time of mercy for Naryn’s parents, but the priests of Bel in Galornyn like
d coin as much as other men, though they pretended not to.

  The failure of persuasion gnawed at him. A symptom of Talidd’s murderous spell, no doubt. Gregyn had not eaten for three days and his hands shook when he didn't will them not to. His head ached and every muscle of his body throbbed as if he'd labored for days in a mine.

  His gift was as exhausted as his body. It would be some time before he could work magic again, though he could still feel its power on the edge of his awareness. He’d been fortunate. Others had not been. Naryna had died in his stead as other familiars had died in the place of their journeymen. Werglidd had explained it to him, he who had not been included in the ritual, but who recognized its aftermath.

  "I know it was you, lad," he'd said that first morning when he'd found Gregyn sliding back into the dun after taking Naryna to the town hospital to be found by her family. He'd barely been able to stand by that time and hadn't tried to protest or defend himself when Werglidd had dragged him up to his tower apartment and barred the door.

  The middle-aged sorcerer fair sparkled with excitement as Gregyn sunk exhausted onto the divan.

  "I knew Talidd was about to work a high-level ritual. My eyes-and-ears told me that Sawyl had been here purchasing supplies. And, of course, for a ritual of that magnitude, Talidd needed his strongest people. Even an apprentice would do when possessed of your power."

  Gregyn let his head fall back on the divan, allowing Werglidd's words to wash over him as the chamber spun round him.

  "Who were you linked with?" Werglidd asked. Time had passed. Gregyn sensed he'd slept. He felt worse than before. Although Gregyn normally was much stronger than Werglidd and therefore immune to his magicks, today was an exception. Gregyn felt scoured out and beyond the flows of power that had been at his fingertips for most of his life. Werglidd had ensnared him at his weakest. "Who were you linked with, lad? Lying will only cause you pain. I know you were linked, else you'd be dead. How'd you learn that trick? You're only a Level 2, so you've not been taught it. Who were you linked with?"

  "Naryna," Gregyn whispered, lips moving over their own volition.

  "A lass?! Now that's very interesting! Shouldn't have worked. You're the interesting one, now aren't you? Well and good then. I'll keep your secret and you'll keep mine, if I tell you any. Do you understand what you did?"

  "Sexual effluent," Gregyn said. "I stretched my gifts using her lust." He was slurring; his need for sleep was paramount.

  "Aye. Females have lust, but not like men. The lads are so much more powerful, you see. Somehow you've stumbled across what's been lost to the Guild for centuries. You should not have been able to use her as your familiar."

  Werglidd wanted more from Gregyn, but Gregyn's physical weakness dragged him down into the darkness and further questioning only resulted in a seizure … his first not triggered by an awen. Gregyn woke sometime in the night, covered with a blanket, still on the divan. His clothes stank of vomit and his body felt like he'd been stomped by a horse. Werglidd snored in the bed chamber. The man had not pulled off his boots or removed his sword belt. It would be so easy ... except that he had all the strength of a wrung-out washrag and doubted he could raise his sword and bring it down with sufficient power to cleave Wrgyn's chest.

  He'd left the sycophant sleeping peacefully to stumble out of the tower toward the barracks. His legs weighed stones. He wanted simply to sit down and sleep wherever he was. He crossed near the privies and nearly fell down when one of the doors swung open, revealing Taryn fresh from dumping this night's wine from his system.

  "Are you ill, lad?" Taryn asked.

  "Aye," Gregyn whispered and passed out clean then and there. He supposed Taryn had seen to his return to his bunk, but he had no memory until the next day when he'd awakened to the black rain that matched the state of his soul.

  Naryna's mam held her daughter's cold dead hand as the priest spoke the words that would commend her to the Otherworld. Gregyn knew it should be him departing this world's realm. If he'd only known, he'd ....

  What would he have done? Volunteered to die? Used his apprentice as a familiar? The alternatives were limited and unpleasant. Black mages could not afford the luxury of love or caring? Everyone was a playing piece in a massive game of hounds and hares and black mages meant always to be the hound. He'd not meant to kill Naryna, but he'd learned a valuable lesson from her death. Wrgyn would keep his secret for reasons of his own, so the power Gregyn now wielded was somewhat Talidd need not know.

  The priest placed the wreath of flowers Gregyn had provided across the chest of the dead lass. Gregyn sighed and turned, striding out into the liquid darkness that held no redemption. He’d gone three steps from the door before he saw the wild folk standing in the street, oblivious of the poisonous rain. They stared at him with sad eyes, shaking their warty heads, their mouths drawn in silent anguish at his decision.

  Intent upon the spectacle that only he could see, Gregyn ran up against a tall, thin man dressed in a sopping grey cloak. Instinctively, Gregyn reached for his shields, but the mental prowess that normally set him apart from other apprentices was lacking in his exhaustion, so that the man’s eyes touched his soul as they came face to face.

  It’s a dark path you trod, lad, the man thought to him. If I may suggest, there are better treks to choose.

  He disappeared into the crowd of huddled cloaks, leaving Gregyn gasping and quaking, staring at the wild folk who nodded their heads solemnly as if they too had heard the unheard advice and thought quite highly of it.

  Shuddering, Gregyn hurled the contents of his stomach into the gutter. The crowd bent around him. In this time of plague, no one offered to help. Gregyn hunched with water running down his neck, soaking the inside of his cloak as much as the outside. When the worst passed, leaving him cold, wet and aching, he set his face toward the dun and his black future.

  Founding Year 1028

  Wmgleadd

  Dun Wmgleadd sat under a dinner plate full moon, the streets bright as day. A caravan had arrived earlier in the day, so the night sang with the great merriment that accompanies hardworking men with coin in their purses after a long job is accomplished. Every inn of any reputation spilled over with light, laughter and frivolity, harlots plied their trade and ale flowed like water in a stream. At the Blue Goose just off the market square, the gaiety was shattered by a scream and the dull thud of a body hitting a grassy yard.

  Far from the celebrating throng, Padraig slept soundly, luxuriating in a morrow with no commitments. He’d been on the move constantly since leaving Clarcom two moons hence and a single night without concern for the morrow was a rare luxury that he meant to savor until dawn. When the dream of the eastern mountains began, he though mayhap it was a melting of the blockage he’d labored with for more than a moon, but this had the flavor of vision more than of dream.

  The majestic sunlit peaks soared behind Gly as he shouted at Padraig from a great distance. The elven master’s words shredded on an unfelt wind so that Padraig recognized only the word “sword”. Sword? What sword? Gly gestured, so that Padraig looked behind him, flinching back as lightning rent a storm-black sky. An unnatural raven unfolded enormous wings to launch itself into the storm, somewhat clenched in its talons. Just as it threatened to disappear into the clouds, the raven dropped what it carried and Padraig stared as a sword flashed past his perch to fall broadside upon the grassy yard Padraig suddenly stood upon.

  A large fat goose with blue feathers honked at him and waddled off into the darkness. A falcon lifted its beak free of the shelter of its wing in a tree in Mulyn and launched itself into the sky, pushing southward. Ryanna picked up a walking stick of honor willow. A Kin woman he knew from the holt told her elfling husband she was with child. Lydia watched Danyl as he slept. A dark and forbidden forest stretched toward unknown mountains. Gly’s voice echoed through his head.

  The broken sword has value. Arise, sleeper, and protect it.

  The dream vision dissolved as loud whispering ca
lled his name.

  “Padraig of Denygal? Where are you? Padraig?”

  Men began to curse the voice that awakened them and Padraig crawled out of the tent in only his small clothes to keep Braeden from being killed … or more like having to kill someone to keep from being killed. Braeden’s reputation was no doubt deserved.

  “Braeden, over here,” he whispered loudly, which brought complaints from the tents round his. Braeden’s tall form came toward him in the darkness, backlit by the glow from a fire across the camping ground. “What brings you here, man? Are you ill?”

  “Tamys needs you,” the captain of Wmglead’s largest caravan said. Padraig immediately reached for his boots. “Damn young fools! He’s sore hurt.” Braeden continued. Padraig handed him his scrap bag and reached for his siarc. “He was still breathing when I left, but ….”

  “What happened?” Padraig asked as they won free of the caravanserie and walked quickly toward the main gates of the city.

  “He fell from a window at this inn, you see. I didn’t see it, you understand.”

  They’d reached the city gates. The mangate stood open. Padraig supposed Duglas’ right hand could ask a great many things of the militia of Wmnglead. People certainly cleared a path as he walked, rapidly explaining events as Padraig struggled to keep up.

  “Some of the lads had gone to an inn to carouse. I joined them late because I wanted to ask Tamys to join the caravan permanent-like. “He’s the best warrior I’ve seen in twenty years,” the best swordsman in all of Celdrya said. “When I got there, Tamys had kipped off to the room with a harlot. He must have been in the cups good to fall out of a window.”

  A shovel-load of cold slid down Padraig’s back at the news. Had the True King, meant to unite Celdrya and the Kinholts just died because Padraig had failed to speak when called to do so?