Lacey shook her head in noncomprehension, and Faeril plunged on. “Look, I am not married. It’s unlikely that I will bear a child, bear a dammsel of my own, bear a firstborn dammsel of my own, before the Eye of the Hunter rides the skies. And if I bear no dammsel, no firstborn dammsel, ere the Eye of the Hunter comes, then that means I am the last of the firstborn dammsels descending in a direct line from Petal. I am, then, the Lastborn Firstborn, just as foretold by the Elfqueen’s prophecy, the rede of Rael.
“And I must leave the Bosky. You see, Lacey, I must find Riatha, to stand at her side, wherever that might be in the light of the Bear, whatever that might be…for it is my immutable destiny to do so.”
Comprehending at last, Lacey broke into tears.
* * *
The next day was Faeril’s birthday, and an age-name change as well, for on this day she turned twenty; no longer would she be called a maiden, but for the next ten years would be known as a young damman. It was a day of celebration, though now and again Faeril seemed morose, and her best friend, Lacey, was occasionally found weeping.
Yet at long last the day finally came to an end. The celebrants said good night to one another; the guests departing for their homes. And finally Faeril and her family took to their beds, Faeril giving her sire and dam and her three brothers especially tender hugs.
* * *
In the predawn hours, Faeril finished her packing. Bearing a candle, she quietly tiptoed through the wee stone cottage and out to the stables, pausing only long enough to leave a note at the kitchen table. Yet lo! at the stables she found her dam, Lorra, by lantern light saddling Faeril’s pony.
“You did not think you could leave without me saying good-bye.” Her mother’s statement was not a question.
“M-mother!” Faeril groped for words. “B-but how did you know?”
“Oh, my dammsel, I, too, have the journal. And by your behavior yesterday—nay! not just yesterday but all the yesterdays of this year, practicing extra hours with the knives, asking your sire about living off the land, seeking knowledge of Arden Vale’s whereabouts…well, it simply could be nothing else.”
Faeril flung her arms about her mother, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Hush, hush,” her mother comforted her, though Lorra, too, now wept. “I knew, and so did you, that this day would come. And you go with my blessing.”
Faeril wept all the harder.
“Shhhh, now. Weep not, child.” Faeril’s dam stroked her hair. “It was foretold.
“Oh, my dammsel. I do envy you, for did we not, each of us, every firstborn dammsel, renew the pledge? Did we not all train at knives? Did we not ail dream? Did not each of us wish that she would be the one?
“Even so, pledges and training and dreams and desires notwithstanding, Fortune chooses its own way of fulfilling prophecies.
“Ponder this: had every firstborn dammsel been birthed but a year later each, down through the generations, all thirty of them, then I would be setting forth upon this venture rather than you. Then I would be the dammsel living out the dream.
“But Fate dictated otherwise, and even though I love you with all my heart, I envy you, for you are the Lastborn Firstborn chosen to fulfill this destiny, and not me.
“Still, I am proud, for you are my firstborn, and Fate could not have chosen better,
“But there is this that you should know, too, my dammsel: the prophecy says Lastborn Firstborns. Did you hear? Firstborns…and that means more than one.”
Faeril’s weeping lessened, then stopped as the import of her dam’s words struck home. Sniffing, wiping her nose with the black of her hand, she stepped back and looked at Lorra. “More than one?”
Lorra smiled wanly, blinking away her own tears. “Aye, More than one. Lastborn Firstborns means more than one.”
Faeril’s eyes widened, and a look of disbelief, mingled with gladness, crept upon her features. “Mother, does that mean you get to come, too? Does that mean you get to fulfill your dream?”
“No, child. Would that it did, yet it is not to be, for I am not a Lastborn Firstborn, as are you.”
Faeril’s face fell. “But then—”
“There can only be two Lastborn Firstborns, my dammsel,” interjected Lorra, “male and female—bucco and dammsel.”
In a gesture of remembrance the young damman touched her temple, her dam’s words reminding her what she already knew. “Yes, Mother, I momentarily forgot.” Then she frowned. “But, the bucco—I don’t know—”
Lorra gently grasped her child by the shoulders, looking at her intently. “Now heed me: Somewhere in the Weiunwood lives a young buccan named Gwylly Fenn, or so I was told by letter some twenty or twenty-five years back when he was birthed. Lineal descendant of the firstborn buccoes back unto Small Urus and Tomlin, just as we reach back unto Little Riatha and Petal.
“Oh, by now, after all these years, after all these generations, our kinship has stretched so thin as to be no kinship at all. You could not even call him a cousin.
“Yet I deem that he is the one you must find and take with you to Arden Vale.”
Faeril returned her dam’s gaze in the amber light of the lantern. “But, Mother, if the prophecy says that the Firstborns will be at Riatha’s side, then won’t he find his own way to Arden Vale?”
Lorra genuinely smiled now. “Pish tush, child, even prophecies need help now and again.”
Faeril laughed aloud, and Lorra joined her.
Together they finished saddling Blacktail, the pony looking askance over its shoulder at the giggling dammen. Faeril tied her bedroll and knapsack behind the saddle…and suddenly it was time to go.
Once again the dammen embraced, and this time they kissed, and then Faeril mounted up and rode away.
Behind, a mother wept and watched her daughter leave, she stood silently, not calling out, for she had always known that this day would come, and she did not protest.
And as the sky brightened, shading from grey to pink and the ground mist swirled among the trees, Faeril rode onward, into the dawn, heading east, heading into destiny.
CHAPTER 4
Gwylly
Mid Summer, 5E985
[Three years Past]
Whrrr…! sounded the wings of the woodcock, veering among the trees. Zzzzz…The sling bullet sissed through the air, missing the bird altogether.
“Bother!” cried Gwylly, vexed. “How could I have missed?”
The question was purely rhetorical, for no one was there to answer it—none, that is, but Gwylly himself and his foster father’s dog, Black, now slumped dejectedly before him.
The Warrow looked at the ebony dog. “How could I have missed, Black?”
Black’s tail thumped against the ground a time or two, though his sad eyes looked accusingly up at the wee buccan, as if to say, You missed!
“I know, boyo. You were all set to retrieve this one, too. But, well, even I miss now and again. I’m not infallible, you know.”
Black’s eyes did not lose their sadness, nor their accusatory stare.
“Well, it wasn’t by much, Black.” Gwylly held up a thumb and forefinger, an inch or so apart. “This close, boyo. This close.”
Black looked away, elsewhere, peering into the great forest surrounding them.
“All right. All right. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to miss. Besides, we’ll go for another.”
Gwylly bent down and caught up a string of three woodcocks. Holding them out before the dog, he shook them to get Black’s attention. “See, dog, we have had some luck today.”
Black snorted.
“What?” asked the buccan. “Oh, not luck, you say. Instead it was your skill at sniffing them out?”
Black’s tail began to wag, and Gwylly smiled. “Perhaps you are right, boyo. Perhaps you are absolutely right.”
Black stood and looked expectantly at Gwylly.
“Go, Black. Find bird.”
With a joyful bound the black dog ranged ahead among the trees, nose altern
ately to the ground and then held high, sniffing the air.
Through the shaggy Weiunwood went buccan and dog, past hoary trees, great-girthed and ancient standing silently, their leaves faintly stirring in the summer morn. Down mossy banks and across crystal rills and up the far sides ranged the pair, Black splashing through the clear water, not stopping to drink, Gwylly leaping from stone to stone after. Through stands of ferns they brushed, the green fronds swish-swashing at their passage. And the yellow Sun shone down through the interlaced branches above, falling the high green galleries with soft shadows pierced by golden shafts.
Suddenly Black veered, shying from a wall of dark oak trees marching off to left and right to disappear beyond seeing in the depths of the forest. As the dog ran wide of the ebon marge, steering clear, Gwylly followed, also giving wide berth to the ancient trees, though he peered into the murky interior, his sight sifting among the shadows, trying to see…what? He did not know.
This was one of the dark places, a hidden place, a place closed to ordinary folk. A place where no one went. A place spoken of in rumor and whisper.
Too, there were tales of strange beings within these forbidding places, shadowy figures half seen, some gigantic and shambling, others small and quick. Some were said to be shining figures of light, while others were of the dark itself. Too, it was told that some of the dwellers within were made of the very earth, while others were beings seemingly akin to the trees and plants and greenery.
But no matter their nature, they didn’t abide strangers.
Gwylly had heard the tales, tales of those who disapeared in the interior of such places, of those who had sworn to stride through such, entering but never emerging.
Gwylly had heard other tales, too. Tales of aid given to those in need.
It was said that once all of the Weiunwood was dark. Closed. But when the Warrows came, pursued as they were, flying before an implacable foe, the ’Wood let them enter. Let them take refuge. Let them hide.
And afterward, when the foe had been defeated, the ’Wood gave them the glens and glades, and parts of the treeland as well, though it kept much of the forest unto itself, closed.
The Warrows had then settled in communities within—communities called Glades. And here groups of Warrows had lived ever since, unmolested by and large. Now and again some foe would try to conquer them, such as had Modru a millennium past, during the Winter War, though he had failed.
Sheltered by the ancient forest, the Weiunwood Warrows roamed free, though even they did not enter the closed places, with its Fox Riders and Living Mounds and Angry Trees and Groaning Stones and all the other creatures of lore and legend said to dwell within.
And as Black and Gwylly ran alongside the great margin of one of these vast, dark places, Gwylly’s eyes darted hither and yon, seeking to see…to see—
Suddenly before them a roebuck broke from cover, crashing off through the ferns. Black leapt upward, sighting the fleeing deer, the dog yelping in excitement yet not running after, waiting the command from Gwylly.
“Down, Black!” called Gwylly, his heart pounding in startlement.
Black looked at the Warrow as if in disbelief. Not chase?
“Not today, dog. Today we hunt bird.” Gwylly felt his pulse slowing. In the distance the sounds of the red buck faded…faded…then were gone, and Gwylly wondered which of the three of them—Warrow, dog, or deer—had been the most startled.
“Bird, Black. Find bird.”
Somewhat disgruntled, Black cast one last accusing look at Gwylly, then again took up ranging back and forth, searching for bird scent. And through the woods went Warrow and dog, all thought of strange forest dwellers now gone from the buccan’s mind, for although Gwylly knew of these legends, of this lore, he was not part of the Weiunwood Warrows, having been raised otherwise, elsewhere, on the fringes. And so, Gwylly and Black searched woodland, hunting birds, leaving the legends for others to dwell upon.
A quarter hour passed this way, Black veering back and forth, Gwylly cutting through the dog’s pattern in a more or less straight line. Then Black stopped, his tail straight out, his muzzle fixed and pointing. Sliding to a halt behind the quivering dog, Gwylly loaded his sling. “All right, Black,” he whispered. “Flush.”
Slowly Black crept forward, Gwylly edging softly behind, sling in hand, his eyes fixed on the place where the dog’s muzzle pointed.
Whrrr…Woodcock wings hammered through the air. Gwylly whipped his arm about and loosed a sling strap, the bullet flying to strike the bird, the slain woodcock tumbling down through the air and to the ground.
“Black, fetch!”
The dog bounded forward, disappearing through the ferny growth to reappear moments later with the bird in his mouth.
Gwylly knelt and took the game, and ruffled Black’s fur, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Ah, Black, my good comrade, you are undoubtedly the greatest bird finder and fetcher in all of the Weiunwood. Hai! In all of Mithgar!”
Gwylly looped a slipknot into the cord, preparing to tie the woodcock with the other three. “It is your nose and my sling which makes this team so very successful. You and I, Black, we are mighty hunters. And let no one deny it.”
Black sat before Gwylly, his tail thumping the ground, his brown eyes fixed upon the buccan, not knowing precisely what was being said but knowing that whatever it was, it was good. And Black was ecstatic with joy.
“Let’s go, boyo,” said Gwylly, woodcocks corded, slinging all across his shoulder, “time for home. Time to show Mom and Dad what we’ve downed for supper.”
Understanding the word home, Black set off to the east, beading for the fringe of the Weiunwood itself, for home lay some two or three miles away on the marge of a sloping plain. The plains themselves led up into the Signal Mountains, an ancient range, timeworn by wind and rain, now no more than high tors, no more than the spines and ribs of former giants, curving in a long easterly arc from Challerain Keep in the far north to Beacontor and the Dellin Downs in the south.
Toward this ridge fared Gwylly and Black, though the forest blocked out any sight of the crags and round tops and stone rises and grassy slopes of the highland ahead.
As they wended their way among the now thinning trees, the Sun rode upward in the sky, the noontide swiftly approaching, the light and warmth of summer filling the woodland. Still they passed among hoary giants, the massive, moss-laden trunks somehow protective in their silence. Past fallen timber and hollow logs fared the two, Black stopping to sniff out scents now and again, then running to catch up to Gwylly, circling about, pausing long enough for a pat before trotting on.
At last they broke from the woods and there before them rose the fertile upland, where stood the homestead of Orith and Nelda. In the distance Gwylly could see the farmhouse, smoke rising lazily from the chimney and up into the blue sky above.
They scrambled down a creek embankment and splashed across, clambering up the opposite side to come to the grassland sloping upward. Then Black took off running, racing up the long slope, the wind in his whiskers, Gwylly running behind.
Black of course was first home, racing joyously about the yard, yelping in victory, as Gwylly, laughing, ran beyond him and to the porch.
Banging in through the door, “I’m home!” called Gwylly, unnecessarily, both he and Black making for the kitchen, whence came the smell of baking. Entering the cookery, the Warrow unslung the birds from his shoulder and cast them upward to the tabletop. And turning toward him from the woodstove, his foster mother, Nelda, greeted him with a smile, the Human female pleased to see her wee buccan son.
* * *
After taking a drink from the dipper, Gwylly poured some water into a bowl for Black. “Where’s Dad?” asked Gwylly, panting, the dog lapping water and panting too.
“In the field,” answered Nelda. “His lunch is nearly ready.”
“I’ve got to dress these birds first,” said Gwylly, “but then I could take his meal to him.”
Nelda smil
ed and nodded, and Gwylly caught up the birds and stepped outside, Black following.
The Woman watched him go, her heart content. Nelda turned once more to the woodstove and began stirring the contents of a pot, her thoughts elsewhere.
Gwylly was her joy, for he had come to her some twenty-two years past, in a dark hour of despair, after she had miscarried for the third and, as it turned out, final time. She had been alone the night she had lost the baby, for Orith had gone to Stonehill nearly two weeks past to trade grain and beets and onions for needed supplies.
The next day, weeping, shovel in hand, she bad patted down the last of the earthen mound marking the tiny new grave—there by the other two now grown over with wildflowers and grass—when she heard Orith’s hail and had turned to see the mules and waggon drawing nigh.
But wonder of wonders, Orith had had with him a wounded Warrow child, a tiny thing, three or four years old, no more, an ugly gash across his head. Feverish had been the babe, and calling out for his dam, for his sire. Nelda had taken up the wee one, bearing him inside. His parents had been slain, Orith told her, Rûck raid or the like. Killed them down on the Crossland Road ’tween Beacontor and Stonehill, looting their campsite, stripping their bodies, stealing their ponies. The wee one had been left for dead amid the wreckage where Orith found him.
Orith had cleaned the dark grume from the wound and treated it with a poultice of summer julemint, perhaps saving the babe’s life, for Orith suspected that the blade which had made the cut had been poisoned. Then Orith had made straight for home, driving the mules throughout the remainders of the day and that night as well, arriving the following mom.
Nelda had replaced the poultice with another, tending the youngling day after day, sleeping at his bedside. And when the wee one’s mind had cleared and he could talk, in his tiny, piping voice he had told them of the bad ones who had come in the night and had killed his sire and dam. He did know his given name, Gwylly, but not his last. Too, he knew not the names of his parents, calling them only Mother and Father.
The Eye of the Hunter Page 4