Standing by the fires, most of the company had warmed up enough to talk. Thimeon was still quiet. Jhonna sat up and was now staring into the nearest fire, but she was still wrapped in Thimeon’s blanket. He brought her a mug of hot wine along with some bread and smoked fish.
“I’m sorry,” she said when he handed her the food. “It is my fault you had to stop. I should not have come.”
Thimeon’s mouth moved, but he couldn’t form words. He placed his hand on her shoulder for a moment. When tears welled up, he turned quickly and walked away.
41
ANCIENT TOME
His heart aching for Jhonna, and for Cathwain and the people of Gale Enebe, and for Tienna and Elynna and all his former companions, and mostly over his own impotence to help any of them, Thimeon wandered away from the fire and made his way back toward his horse and saddle bags. A warm blanket was all he could think about. All he had to offer.
Searching his pack for a blanket, his hand found the book that Borodruin had given him. Occupied by their escape from Citadel, avoiding their pursuers, concerns for his former companions and for Cathwain and the folk of Gale Enebe, and by their constant moving every waking minute, he’d not had a chance to look at the book. He had barely thought about it the last few days. The sword had seemed more important—as did the warning about the stone. Now driven by a mood he did not understand, he picked it up, along with the blanket, and walked back to the fire.
Engraved in the leather cover were the words “Songs for the All-Maker.”
A curious title, he thought. He began to read.
Outside the stream of time,
before the stars did sing,
and ’ere the sun took wing
into the skies to climb.
Before the moon was pale or blue
and shone upon the seas.
Before the grass and trees
were given shape or hue.
He came upon the storm,
breathed substance from his thought.
Sky and land he wrought
and gave the earth its form.
Thimeon stopped. There was nothing else on the page. He had expected something different. Hoped for something more—some sort of clear teaching about the Daegmons. How to fight them. Where they came from. Something more like the history he had found earlier. But not poetry. He glanced at the next few pages. More poems. Songs for the All-Maker? Is that all he had? He remembered the words of the old counselor Borodruin. “Maybe it is not what you were looking for. Yet it may be what you need.”
What I need? How could Borodruin even know? He sighed and looked more closely. The script was flowing but precise, each letter the same size, each line straight and level. It was not ornamental, like some of the other volumes he had seen, and yet it was beautiful.
And it was in the trade tongue. Many of the other books he had seen in the treasure chamber had been written in other languages, some of which he had not even recognized. Was this the original language of these poems, or had somebody translated them? And what, if anything, did it mean for the battle they now fought against the Daegmons?
He turned back to the second page and continued to read.
In love is breath, All-Maker’s gift,
and by love’s breath was life begun.
Patient love. Love that’s swift.
In love are law and freedom one.
When All-Maker from above
Shaped man, gave us boundless worth,
Formed in the image of his love
Eternal spirit, born to earth.
Born to know the Maker’s voice
Made to make and to delight.
Made for freedom, gift of choice,
By love’s breath and in Love’s light.
Haw alle Haw jah.
Illengond alle jah.
Thimeon ignored the last two lines. They were in a language he had never seen, and they didn’t fit the rhyme scheme or rhythm of the rest of the poem. He focused on the rest of the lines. Again it was not what he expected. Two voices argued within him. One spoke disappointment. This was not what he needed. Not what Gondisle needed. He didn’t have time for this. But another voice simply spoke peace. It told him to read on and not to worry. It was not a rational voice. It belied all his circumstances. And yet Thimeon chose the latter voice. He turned the page and continued to read.
The pages were filled with more poems. Poems about the creation of the world. Poems about creatures who dwelt in the seas. About trees and stars. Poems of praise to the All-Maker. Stories of the All-Maker walking the earth after creation. He read them and tried to imagine them as songs his mother might have sung in the kitchen while baking bread. Or as the musician at Midnight’s Blue Inn in Citadel might have performed them. Or as something the people of Gale Enebe might have sung at one of their festivals.
This went on for several pages. Then a short poem, or song, made him pause.
Men tilled and sowed.
The soil made life grow.
In work they did rejoice.
And on the holy mountain walked
To hear All-Maker’s voice.
All work was blessed
And led to rest
As joy filled up their days.
Their songs joined with the wind and pines
And raised All-Maker’s praise.
Who spoke with men
As man with friend,
As mother with her child.
His glory shown across the earth
Both powerful and mild.
It was the seventh poem in the book, and it brought up an unexpected memory of Thimeon’s home and the land where he had been raised. The small field his parents had tilled. The pastures where they grazed their gyurts. The pine forests on the hillside above. And on clear days the view across the meadow of Illengond, covered with snow, crowned with cloud, filling the horizon with glory. He could almost hear the sough of the wind through the pines and tried to imagine the trees singing. For a short time, all his plaguing fears faded.
And then, without warning, after several more songs of praise, came the songs of lament. Poems of sadness and pain entering the world when the All-Maker’s children turned away from him. After all the poems of praise and joy, this caught Thimeon by surprise.
In smoke and darkness Liar
spoke. He set men’s hearts on fire.
All-Maker watched and grieved,
that men choose to be deceived.
Maker could not abide
evil. Men once did stride
upon his mountain on high.
It trembled. Rose to the sky,
It’s triune peak past ken.
No more he walked there with men.
Dark fell. Another peak,
where Liar descends now to seek
men, turned from Maker’s face.
All-Maker still offers grace,
but war will rage. Hate, strife,
will henceforth govern man’s life
‘til the day— still unknown—
redemption’s seed, love-sown
in earth’s soil becomes full-grown.
Life’s redemption is bought.
Liar’s defeat shall be full-wrought.
Though the day may seem late,
counterfeit mountain of hate
no more shall mar the sky.
No more shall we ache and die.
All-Maker, upon his throne,
in love, once more claims his own.
Daughters, sons, of his will
shall once more walk on his hill.
Haw alle Haw alle
Illengond alle jah
Thimeon stopped. He set the book down on his lap. Again the questions rose. What did the poem mean? What did they all mean? Were they m
eant to be true accounts of the history of Gondisle? Had there really been a day when the Holy Mountain Illengond had been lower—when it had not reached above the clouds, and men had walked upon it, speaking with the All-Maker as a man speaks with a friend? Or like a mother with a child? It was hard to imagine.
And the other peak mentioned in the poem? Was it Entain, the mountain of fire and smoke and darkness? Then was this a poem about the Daegmon Lord?
Thimeon’s heart quickened at these thoughts. He picked up the book and read on. More poems or songs—songs that told stories. Then, again, more songs of praise and of promises. Page after page. But still no mention of the Daegmons, nor of the Daegmon Lord, unless he was the “liar” spoken of in the early poem, or one named the “consumer” or the “hater” mentioned in one poem. Yet Thimeon found himself swept along, drawn into the power of the images, as an inexplicable peace enfolded him.
The snow stopped falling sometime in the middle of the night, leaving three inches of white slush on the ground. As the clouds blew away into the west, the temperature dropped, yet Thimeon barely noticed the cold. One of the two fires still burned low. He remained awake all night studying the ancient tome—feeding and tending the flame not so much for warmth as for light. Gone was the clenched jaw he’d had since the night in Kreana when he heard Cathwain calling. His breath was slow and peaceful.
He was in that state when he came to the second to last song in the book. The first and only one naming the Daegmons or Daegmon Lord by name.
Master liar, empty eater,
Fleshless hater, mocking birth.
Lured the lesser Daegmon-spirits
Down from heaven, chained to earth.
Creatures fallen, without substance,
Took winged shape like their Daegmon Lord.
Consuming spirits, great in power,
Not overthrown by human sword.
Rebels against All-Maker’s goodness,
All creation they have spurned.
Skin and claws are but their garment.
Gift of body, to torment turned.
Yet from their shape they draw their might.
Over faithless men their power is great.
Against mere mortal flesh they triumph
With the strength of fear and hate.
When one shape fails they take new wings
In seeming victory over mankind’s race.
Yet All-Maker’s power is sufficient,
The boundless power found in grace.
For the holy mountain will stand sure
When great love triumphs, bears the cost.
In that day the Daegmon-spirit
Shape will be forever lost.
Thimeon read the song several times. It did not offer much hope. If the Daegmons could not be destroyed by mortal men—if they could simply take new form, and if their fear and hatred really would triumph—then what could he do? What could any of them do? Was that all the book had to tell of the war? What had Borodruin found important or hopeful in these ancient songs? The reasons for hope are far greater than the reasons for fear, he had said. And that may be the greatest power of the book in your hand: the power of hope.
He had read the whole book, many of the songs more than once. Only one mentioned the Daegmons, and it said nothing about weapons to defeat them, or even about the gifts of power.
And then it dawned on Thimeon. Maybe that was the point. That the book, instead of focusing on the enemy, focused on the All-Maker. For I speak the truth, Borodruin had concluded. The long war, though grievous, is one the Daegmon Lord will lose.
By dawn the sky had cleared, and the morning stars shone brightly overhead. The wet snow had frozen into hard crust. When the others emerged from their tents, Thimeon rose and threw the last pieces of wood on the fire. Then he returned the book to his pack and took from the supply packs enough food for their morning meal.
Jhonna and Corandra awoke last. They arose an hour after the others. Thimeon did not chastise them or speed them to the task. He let them warm themselves by the fire while others broke camp. Only after all the horses were packed and the fire had faded to embers did he call them to leave. As a silent Jhonna pulled herself onto her saddle, he reached up and handed her his heavy coat.
“I don’t need—” she started.
“Take it,” Thimeon said. His voice was calm, but he meant it as a command, and he was glad she did not refuse.
“What about you?” she asked as she pulled it on.
Thimeon was still attired in his jerkin and cape. The cape was thin, but the fur around his neck was warm. “I am used to the weather. It gets much colder than this in the north where I grew up.” He then turned and pulled himself astride his own mount. He looked back toward Jhonna, but she had already ridden off alongside her sister.
The air was colder that morning as they continued northward up the gap, but the wind and rain were gone, and the cold was tolerable. With blue sky overhead and a good night’s sleep behind them, Thimeon’s companions seemed to be in better spirits. The trail was in better condition also. Though there were still spots of mud here and there under the fresh snow, in most places the ground was hard. Looking up the slopes on both sides, Thimeon announced that they had already accomplished the worst of the climb. He let Jhaban and Armas set the pace and dropped back beside Prince Dhan.
Within an hour, the trail left the river and climbed partway up the slope to the right. Soon they were several hundred feet above the river, which roared through a canyon below them, and then the trail left the river altogether. At midmorning they reached the end of the notch and emerged into the low rolling hills of the southern Ceadani Mountains. A row of peaks—the southern boundary of the land—stretched out in a line east and west from where they were. Many miles ahead of them Thimeon could see the long wide valley. Beyond, higher mountains rose in the middle of the Ceadani land. Among them were the Maker’s Knuckles.
“Do we head for those?” Prince Dhan asked as the company paused for a rest.
“No,” Thimeon replied. “We will not attempt the pass. We will ride around the peaks and come to Gale Enebe from the west.”
“Can we afford the delay?”
Thimeon did not answer. Through the morning they descended down from the hills and back to the river. Before midday, they came to the end of anything resembling a road. To their left was a wide shallow ford across the Ana River. Though in the spring it was a torrent, their horses could cross it easily now. Another pair of trails just wide enough for a single horse ventured off into the valley. One cut through the brush and followed the river upstream. Another disappeared into the trees to the east. Thimeon led them across the ford and in a northwesterly direction that would keep them a few hundred feet above the marshier valley floor.
They rode on through the rest of the day, resting only briefly for lunch. The air warmed a little as they continued, but the snow did not melt. The landscape, covered in white, was beautiful though barren. Most of the Ceadani villages were further north beyond the next mountains or in the east where snow fell less deep.
At nightfall they bivouacked without bothering to light any fires. After two days awake, Thimeon fell asleep quickly as his breathing settled into the slow pace of the night.
In the morning the journey continued. Crossing another smaller east-flowing river at a shallow ford, they continued northwest, making for the western slope of the Maker’s Knuckles. For the second day in a row, Thimeon let Jhaban, Armas, and Rhaan set the pace, while he remained several horse-lengths behind them. Only once did he ride forward to confer with Rhaan about their direction.
Another time he dropped his horse back beside Jhonna. Though she had ceased shivering, she still rode with her head down. He started to speak to her, but she never looked up at him, and whatever he was going to say did not come out of his mouth.
The day
passed, leaving them still south of the mountains, though close to the western end. That night Cathwain called one more time, but Thimeon could barely hear her voice in his mind. Mingled with her call, he detected the laughing roar of the Daegmon that he had heard once before. Thimeon cringed. He sought to cling to the peace he had been feeling, to fight the urge to panic. But he was afraid.
42
INTO BATTLE
The next day the company turned northward. They crossed the last spur of the westernmost of the Knuckles. A steep climb of about a thousand feet was followed by a gradual descent. Once they crested the ridge, a majestic view of the Ceadani highlands spread out before them. Although Thimeon had traveled there just a few weeks earlier, he still found the sight breathtaking. Due north, across the Raws, the older and more timeworn line of mountains separating the Andani highlands from the Northland could be seen against the bright blue midmorning sky. And beyond that he could see all the way to Mount Illengond a hundred miles or more to the northwest.
He whispered a prayer to the one who dwelt there—the one described in the book he now carried. And he realized his heart had been praying for two days, though he’d had no words to capture his thoughts.
“You are still leading us to the village in the cliffs,” Dhan said, quietly so that the others could not hear. It was more of a statement than a question. Thimeon had been leading them there for days now.
“I am,” Thimeon said.
“The enemy is waiting there for us?”
Thimeon did not want to answer, but he had to speak the truth. He knew the prince already knew the answer anyway. He had not hidden the situation from his new companions. “The enemy is there, attacking the village. I do not know if it is waiting for us, but it will be there when we arrive. That is, if the village still stands. Gale Enebe has been besieged for days.”
“And if it is there, we will fight, though we cannot defeat it with our weapons. Not without the gifted. Not according to Borodruin or your own accounts.”
Thimeon could not answer in words. He simply nodded.
“I owe you my life, and I will go where you lead. The others have already said they will follow. But is there any hope?”
The Betrayed Page 41