Then came the fight to hold onto movement, and meaning, but he could not shut out the vile whispers. Inexorably the ice built and built, shrouding him with numbing cold until the window closed. Gone was volition, and feeling, and hearing. Gone everything but floating in the ice-bound silence, except when the whisper forced him to stand, forced him to sit, forced him to speak a stream of words whose meaning was gone as soon as the sound left his lips.
So he cherished the memory of that window, of feeling and being, again and again and again . . .
Then he felt another window. And a new voice, whispering Rajnir.
At first he let the whisper pass. Rajnir had no being, no voice, no volition. Only memory.
Rajnir, come to the window.
That was not the vile whisperer. The vile whispers took away the windows.
It took immense effort to remember how to turn. How to look. How to listen. The new voice persisted: Rajnir. Come see. Come find me. Open your eyes.
. . . to find a world within a world. He floated higher, aware of the sensation of floating, of movement. Sunbeams shot through the gray, and when he turned, there was the deep blue immensity of the sky.
Rajnir. Open your eyes.
In his dream he had self again, and opened his eyes, but he knew it was a dream, for he was in Ymar again, the tower high above the port of Jaro. Higher than the clouds, a cold wind blowing and blowing, and above the sky so brilliant and pure a blue it hurt to look, it hurt his skin to feel the wind, it hurt his body to walk . . .
. . . and he tumbled out of the dream and into a room he had never seen. He fell to his hands and knees, his body thick and heavy, his breath sobbing in his throat. His limbs trembled with the effort it took just to hold himself on hands and knees in a crawl. His eyelids burned, but he forced them open.
A small old woman with untidy gray-white hair knelt by him. He remembered her, not who she was, only that he knew her. Memory! It had become more precious than gold.
“Rajnir.” Hers was the other voice! No longer a smooth whisper inside the gray world but real, the cracked voice of an old woman, hissing through real teeth and over a real tongue. And so familiar, and so kind, calling and calling to bring him out of the ice. “Come, wake up. We must speak.”
He made a great effort and lifted his head again. Drew in a breath of his own volition! “Uuuuuhhhhn.” It was his voice! His word!
“Rajnir, I am Brit Valda. I’ve created a hole in Erkric’s spells. We are in a bubble outside of time. It will not last, the cost is so very great just for this much,” she said quickly. “Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
He shifted, sitting down abruptly. The stone floor was cold and rough under his haunch. He ran his fingers over the stones, loving the coarseness of the grit. “Where am I?” His voice, his chosen words!
“You are in Llyenthur Harbor. You are in the old palace on the hill. Erkric has frozen you inside of spells, a terrible lock and interlock of spells, and when my own bubble bursts, the spells await you again, I am desolate to admit. We got you out once before, but then Erkric locked you in again, far more securely than before. I want you to know what is happening to you, so you can take the knowledge inside when the waiting spells close around you again. And know that I am fighting Erkric, and others are as well. We will free you. I vow to you, my king. By twig and root. We will free you.”
“Spells,” he whispered. “Is that the gray?”
“I don’t know what you see. There are two sets of spells. One binds your mind away from your body. Another set binds your body to actions controlled by magical signals, leaving you only the ability to eat, drink, and use the Waste Spell. Speak what you are constrained to speak, on signal.” She touched his arm. He twitched, then stretched his arm out again. Oh, to be touched—and to choose it, and know it!
She seemed to understand, and ran her hand lightly over his shoulder, then up to his head. She stroked his hair, tender as a mother.
Rajnir’s face crumpled. His chest ached with misery.
“Come. Come. You must regain your chair. Erkric must not know you moved.”
He gasped, and strained to sit upright. Valda lent him all her spindly strength as he forced himself to rise. He could not resist swinging his arms, just to feel them swinging, and though his knees trembled with his effort to hold himself, he stomped once, twice, thrice.
Then collapsed into the chair. She flicked his hair smooth, his robe straight. Her clothes smelled musty with the thin sweat of the old. Her breath on his cheek whiffed of the spice-milk she’d drunk at dawn. He breathed deeply, gathering to him the evidence of another life, of existence, of his ability to command his own body, strange and heavy and weak as it was.
A faint blue light flickered, and the woman gasped in dismay. “Already my bubble wears! Rajnir, hear me. Erkric right now is back in Twelve Towers, stripping the old protections from your chambers and laying his Norsunder magic. But we will destroy that, too. Augh, it’s fading.”
“No,” Rajnir begged. “No. Please, don’t—”
The woman whispered, making signs, then shook her head in frustration. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The window vanished, and Rajnir tumbled back into the featureless, painless gray, then gradually lost the sense of tumbling. He floated again, in the world of ice. For a time he raged and wept, except he had no voice, no tears.
But he did have memory. And so he cherished the memory, revisiting each sight and smell and touch. Each word.
Even the ones she had whispered.
Fox: I’m on my way north.
The doors to the cabin slammed open to a whirl of frigid blizzard winds as Barend stumbled in, recognizable only by his crimson knit cap and his pointed chin. Fox sprang up and kicked the door shut.
Barend flapped his arms, shedding wet snow in clumps.
“Thank you for bringing that inside,” Fox said.
Barend was too cold, and too alarmed, to care. “There’s a fleet hull up. All across the horizon. We near to sailed into the midst of ’em.”
“Venn?” Fox asked sharply in total disbelief. Even the Venn couldn’t sail directly into the winds, especially these vicious, steady winds straight out of the east, unhindered by any continent for months of sailing.
“Hard to see, but Pilvig swears they’re Chwahir,” Barend said.
“She’d know.” Fox also knew what the Chwahir did to renegades they plucked off other ships. “She’s the mate on deck this watch, eh? I’ll come up. Relieve her.”
Barend turned away as Fox reached for his winter gear. By the time he reached the captain’s deck and looked around at the Death stripped to fighting sail, the foremost Chwahir could be made out through his glass by the ship rat shivering on lookout.
“Parley flag at the foremast!” he screeched.
Fox gestured to the mid at the signal flags. “Run up the ‘parley agreed’.”
No one moved; a faint whiff of the smolder pots whipped down from the mizzenmast from an errant gust of wind. The blizzard was breaking up.
The Chwahir spilled wind, and the flagship waited for the Death to slide up on its lee and shiver sail so that the captains could look across at the opposite ship.
The Chwahir had also stripped to fighting sail, bow teams waiting in the tops.
The Chwahir captain stood abaft those tending the wheel, his manner attentive to someone on the poop deck, in the position of supreme command. Fox turned his attention to the small, still figure dressed all in black, just like him. He recognized that childish form—
Snapped his glass to his eye. “Thog?”
Thog daughter of Pirog lifted a thin, small hand in gesture. She spoke, but the wind took away her words. But there was no mistaking that invitation.
As soon as wind, water, and surging wood would permit, Fox climbed aboard the Chwahir flagship, the first non-Chwahir to do so, as far as he was aware. A swift glance revealed a deck much like any other: wind-sc
oured, everything orderly, round-faced, black-eyed Chwahir at their posts, looking even more alike in their severely plain hooded tunic-coats.
The rounder hulls sat better in the water than Fox’s narrow-hulled racing ships. The forecastle was a true forecastle; that is, a raised structure off the main deck, as was the aft castle, the captain’s deck where the ship was conned, and a poop up behind.
Fox was conducted by silent Chwahir into a plain cabin, furnished much like any other cabin, with a bolted central table, charts spread.
Thog looked exactly the same as Fox remembered. She’d always seemed about twelve years old, though she was Fox’s age. As she came forward, the clear light of glowglobes showed tiny lines at the corners of her big, dark eyes and etched across her broad, tense forehead.
“What are you doing this far south?” Fox asked. “This armada I’m part of is—”
“I know its purpose, Fox,” she said, in the same light, timberless voice he’d heard in disturbing dreams for years. “I know you took command of the alliance between Sarendan and Khanerenth. My question to you: is it true that Inda comes back?”
“Why do you want to know?” he countered.
The brief compression of her lips might have been an attempt at a smile. “To unite against the common enemy. The Venn would love our shipyards, our cordage, and especially our sails. Our people, as laborers.”
Fox did not deny it. Instead, he ventured another question. “What happened to you? I thought your laws were definite about runaways. Called them renegades.”
“Our laws are definite about everything.” Her Dock Talk was clipped, but clear. “Including the reward for defeat of enemies such as Boruin. Majarian. And the Brotherhood of Blood. We were given place in the navy. Uslar and I are now captains—our training with Inda stood us well. The new high admiral summoned me. He appointed me commander of our defense to fight under Inda Elgar the Fox.”
Fox said, “Inda’s on his way to Bren. If you can join us right away in sailing west now, we’ll be able to touch at Jaro, talk to Ymar’s people, then start for Bren—”
Thog raised a small hand and looked down at the deck.
“What?” Fox demanded. “Are you or aren’t you joining us?”
“Yes. But not to defend Bren. My king’s orders are specific. We will unite our forces with yours, under Inda’s command, anywhere off our coast in a defensive effort. But we will not defend another kingdom.” And when Fox crossed his arms, obviously preparing for a fairly hot retort, she said, “I suspect you will find the same will be said from Everon. They will not sail up the strait to defend Bren and leave their own coast undefended.”
Fox held back a retort. Instinct insisted she was right. Further, it explained some of the hedging he’d been hearing that he’d attributed to the mushy rhetoric of diplomatic usage. “I never thought we’d have you Chwahir, but I confess I did think we’d have Everon and Ymar. Then we won’t have enough ships, not against the Venn.”
Thog’s small chin came down. “No. Everyone knows that. Despite all their talk, they are all afraid.”
“All right. I’ll consult with the others. We do still have Inda coming to command us.”
Thog smiled briefly. Then her serious gaze flicked to the chart. “Yes. And if we heard it, the Venn will have also. I hope Inda knows that.”
“So do I.” Have they, Ramis? Fox shook his head. “So do I.”
Chapter Twelve
THOSE mad or desperate enough to attempt it could make it through
Andahi Pass during the winter. Horses were useless, as snow buried the trails and a false step could plunge one to the neck in muddy slush. Runners took the mounts to Ala Larkadhe as the rest started up a trail Cama had got to know very well in all weathers.
The pass itself was filled with icy snow and impossible for anyone but small animals to traverse. Cama, Inda, and their Honor Guard toiled up the rocky footpaths, often feeling cautiously at every step for black frost. The easiest part was crossing the lakes. Goats galloped daintily over the ice, drawing sleighs every which way, or a person could pole speedily over a well-smoothed track, balanced on a sled. A couple of days’ hard rowing (or a day of nice sailing if the wind happened to be right) was reduced in winter to a brisk morning’s slide.
Because they caught a stretch of days with blue sky overhead, they made it to the top of the pass quicker than a horse journey through the pass in spring; there were times when it would take eight weeks, because of frequent stops for blizzards.
Their spirits were high. The journey had ended most days with campfire planning sessions for the defense of Bren, while Cama’s dragoons paced a watchful double perimeter.
Cama knew little about the sea, but he was willing to learn. Mindful of the fact that he might be called on one day to defend the north coast against another invasion, he pestered Inda tirelessly with questions: Why did the wind change? How could the current flow one way and the wind another? Which way did you point the boat when the big waves came at you? Inda helped him to translate maritime conditions into land equivalents.
So each night they sat on rocks by the fire, drawing with sticks in the snow as they discussed different ideas. A few of the dragoons listened in, offering heroic and dashing notions, most of which were useless, but Inda didn’t tell them that. How best to use the islands off the harbor was the main topic of debate, Inda trying to look at the problem backward: What would the Venn be expecting the defenders to do?
“Break their line through the middle,” Cama kept saying.
Inda and Cama both had heard that the Venn invariably lined up across the horizon before they invaded. “I’ve got to break it from all directions,” Inda often said, hoping that enough discussion would furnish a great idea.
Cama’s usual retort was a reminder such as, “Tough to manage when you’re stuck with line-of-sight and the damned Venn aren’t.”
Back around they’d go, talking in circles.
Inda hadn’t heard from Fox for weeks, so he was glad when he felt the tap of magic early that last morning as they were trudging up the trail (kept clear by the beacon teams) to the highest beacon house. From here it would be mostly sledding downhill.
Inda took out the scroll-case as camp was set up. His sudden, heated cursing froze everyone and startled one of the Runners into dropping the Fire Sticks into the snow.
Inda seldom swore, but he made up for it now. The dragoons resumed making camp, a few of them mentally stowing away some of that incomprehensible nautical invective for future need.
Cama appeared, slinging his pack onto a rock. “Bad news?”
“The worst.” Inda handed Fox’s note to Cama, who angled it toward the fire, frowning to bring his one eye into focus in spite of the flickering flames.
Inda, I’m on the way to get you, but it’s just me and my four fastest. There will be no defense of Bren unless King Galadrin wants to sic the half of his navy caught inside the blockade on whatever Durasnir brings over. Details when I see you. Suffice it to say, kings are afraid to leave their shores undefended. Negotiations prolonged until it was too late to reach Bren by summer. They all want to fight at The Fangs, which at least does make military sense.
“And the Venn know it,” Inda said, sighing.
“They know Bren as well, don’t they?” Cama observed.
“Yeah.” Inda dropped onto a huge flat rock. Since he’d left the royal city he’d fought against a vague sense of having finally overreached himself. Planning, being prepared, thinking about everything was supposed to banish that sense. “Better report to Evred.”
Inda worked his right arm, which ached dully, took out the tiny roll of paper and the field pen screwed into an inkwell. Laboriously he reported in as few words as possible, sent the message, then looked up. Cama was still waiting.
“Listen, Inda. Now that we’ve reached the top, and there’s no chance of any ears but the night birds, I talked to Shoofly Senegad here.” Cama clapped a tough, sturdy dragoon on one broad sho
ulder, a man in his midthirties with white-puckered sword scars on his face. “He looks enough like you. Pretty much your size. Hair more or less the same.” He flicked the unruly brown horsetail hanging down Shoofly’s back. “Got slashed fighting pirates with Hawkeye at the Nob. And he was with Hawkeye at Andahi, too, so he’s already got one earring, you see?”
Senegad yanked up his wooly cap and displayed his earring for any doubters. His mates grinned. Some saluted him in friendly mockery.
“Crossing our kingdom, I think you were safe. Up in Idayago? You know how it’s been for me. For you, we should add in Venn spies and assassins. They’ve got to know you’re coming.” Cama smacked Senegad on the shoulder. “We’ll put Shoofly in chain mail and surround him with fellows, shields at the ready. He’s gonna wear two earrings, see, and he’ll ride behind the banner. Make a lot of noise, hand out orders right and left, look like a Harskialdna.”
“I’ll take the second earring out again, soon’s it’s safe,” Senegad said modestly, though every dragoon there knew old Shoofly’d be bragging about that earlobe hole for the rest of his life. If he survived the ruse.
“It’ll be like me’n you when we covered for the gold wagons. You get into your sea gear, like you were wearing when I first saw you at Cherry-Stripe’s, before the war. No one would’ve thought you one of us. You slip on by. Fox gonna be here soon?”
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