by Диана Дуэйн
'Yes, well – but that's not what I want to be. Sorcery is an imposition on the environment, a forcing, a rape. The Power is a meshing, a cooperation, like love. You don't make it rain; you ask it to, and usually it will, if you ask it nicely. You know that. I have no desire to be just a very talented rapist, when I have the potential to be a lover, even a clumsy one. So. I'm all right as a warrior, but I don't have a sword; and I don't want to kill anyone anyway. I'm a good scholar, I know six dead Darthene dialects and four Arlene ones, I can read runes a thousand years old. But there's more to life than sitting around translating rotting manuscripts. I'm not much of a prince—'
Segnbora's eyebrows went up. 'My Goddess. You're that Hearn's son? I didn't make the connection – that's a fairly common name up north.'
Herewiss bowed slightly from the waist, smiling. 'The same.'
'And I thought my family was impressive. I'm sorry; please go on.'
'Well, there's not much to say about it, really. I don't know — I'm so many people, and no-one of them is all of me—'
Segnbora nodded. 'I know the problem.'
'There was a while when I was giving the problem a lot of thought: I said to myself, "Well, maybe the Power will follow if the Name is there." So I tried all the ways I could think of to find out. Fasting – yes, you know how that is –and a lot of time spent in meditation. Too much. Once I sat down and turned everything inward, everything, and what happened was that I got stuck inside and couldn't find my way out again. I rattled around in the dark and struck out at the walls, but they seemed to be mirrored –and I found myself thinking that if I hit the walls, I would hurt the inside of me – and there were voices in the dark, some of them seemed to belong to my parents, or to people I knew; some of them were kind, but some were ugly and twisted – I got out eventually, but I'll never go that way again. I might not be so lucky the next time.'
Segnbora stretched her arms over her head and let them drop to encircle her knees again. 'I heard it said once,' she said, so softly that Herewiss had to strain to hear her, '— oh, a long time back – that to find your Name, you have to turn the mind and heart, not inward, but outward rather; that you have to pay no attention to the voices in the dark –or, rather, accept them for what they are, but take their advice only when it pleases you, and don't allow yourself to be driven by them. Look always forward and outward, not back and in.'
'Nice,' Herewiss said. 'I understand that not at all. How can you get to know yourself by looking out? Who other than yourself can tell you what you are, or what you're going to be?'
'I don't know. I haven't found my Name, either. Maybe I never will.'
They sat there in depressed and companionable silence for a while. Then Herewiss looked up and grinned at Segnbora. 'Well,' he said. 'Maybe I can't command wind
and wave, but I can do this much—'
He cupped his hands before him, and beside him Segnbora leaned close to watch. Herewiss closed his eyes, reached down inside him, found the flicker of Flame within him, breathed softly on the little light, encouraged it, cherished it, and then willed—
It flowered there in his outstretched hands, a tiny wavering bloom
of fire that grew and bent in the wind of his will: as vividly blue as a little child's eyes, with a hot white core like a newsprung star, but gently warm in his hands—
It went out, and he folded his hands together and strove to thank the Power in him, rather than cursing at it for being so feeble. He looked at Segnbora. 'Can you?'
She smiled at him. 'Watch,' she said, and reached out before her as if to support something that Herewiss could not see, hanging in the air. It came before he was ready for it, sudden, brilliant, so bluely brilliant that it outraged his eyes and left dancing violet afterimages: a lightning flash, a starflower, a little sun, hanging in the air between her hands. For a moment there was an odd blue day in the desert, and everything had two shadows, sharp short black ones laid over long dull streaks of red-purple light and darkness. Then the light went out, and Segnbora let her hands fall. 'As you see,' she said, 'I can't maintain it. Maybe I can find work as a lighthouse beacon.'
Herewiss looked up at Dritt, who still sat on his rock, unconcerned, eating; he had spared them no more than a curious look. 'Do you do this often?' Herewiss said.
'Every now and then, in dark places. They've seen it
before, they think it's an illusion-charm. None of them
but Freelorn would know real wreaking from sorcery if it
walked up and bit them; and Freelorn never says anything
about it … And speak of the Shadow, here he comes.'
They stood up, and Herewiss wobbled for a moment, the world darkening in front of him and then brightening as the dizziness passed. He made a mental note to be careful of the backlash for the next couple of days. Four forms on horseback were approaching slowly, and the horse in the lead had a young desert deer slung over its withers.
Herewiss stood there, his hands on his hips, and watched the figure in the saddle of the lead horse. Their eyes met while the riders were still a ways off, and Herewiss watched the smile spread over Freelorn's face, and felt his own grow to match it. The horse ambled along toward the camp, and Freelorn made no attempt to hurry it. An old memory spoke up in Freelorn's voice. 'I hate long goodbyes,' it said, looking over a cup of wine drained some years before, 'but I love long hellos . . .'
(Are you going to do it now?) Sunspark asked, with interest.
(Do what?)
(Unite.)
(Spark, don't ask questions like that! It's not polite.)
The group drew rein and dismounted, and Herewiss glanced at them only briefly. They all looked about the same as they had when he had last seen them. Lang, a great golden bear of a man, slid down out of his saddle like a sack of meal, grinned and winked at Herewiss, and then went over to hug Segnbora; when the hug broke, the two of them got busy starting a fire in the lee of the boulder. Tall, skinny, cold-eyed Moris with his beaky nose swung down from his horse, nodded to Herewiss and spoke a word of greeting; but his eyes were mostly for big Dritt, still up on the rock, and for him Moris's eyes warmed as he climbed up to sit beside him. Harald, a short round sparse-bearded man, staggered past with the deer over his
shoulder. He waved a hand at Herewiss and hurried past him, puffing.
And then Freelorn eased himself out of the saddle. Herewiss went slowly and calmly to meet his friend—
—and was hugging him hard before he knew what happened, his face crunched down against Freelorn's shoulder, and much to his own surprise, tears burning hot and sudden in his eyes as Freelorn
hugged him back. Fire-in-Heaven, did I really miss him that much? I guess I did . . .
(So where are the progeny?) said someone in the background.
(Sunspark, what within the walls of the world are you talking about?) Herewiss said, prolonging the hug.
(That wasn't union? I thought you had changed your mind and decided to go ahead. You give off discharges like that just for greeting each other? Isn't that wasteful?)
(Sunspark, later.)
They held each other away, and Freelorn was laughing, and sniffling a little too. 'Goddess Mother of us all, look at you!' he said. 'You're bigger than you were. You cheat, dammit!'
'No, I don't. Lorn, your mustache is longer, you look like a Steldene.'
'That was the idea, for a while. Look at the arms on you! That's what it is. What the Shadow have you been doing?'
'I'm a swordsmith,' Herewiss said. 'I hammer a lot. If you want to look like this, you can, but it'll take you a year or so. That's how long I've been at it. Lorn, you twit, what's the use of trying to look like a Steldene if you're going to wear that around?' He nodded at Freelorn's black surcoat, charged with the Arlene arms, the white Lion passant guardant uplifting its great silver blade.
'Who's gong to see it out here?'
'That's not the point. You were wearing it in Madeil, weren't you?'
'No – my ot
her one got stolen out of my saddlebag. Let me tell you what happened—'
'I can imagine. For such an accomplished thief, you get stolen from awfully easily. How many times have I – oh, never mind, come on, sit down and tell me. Tell me everything. We haven't talked since – Goddess! – since not last Opening Night, but the one before. When you came to the Wood.'
'Yeah.' They sat down by a chair-sized boulder and put their backs on it. Herewiss slid an arm around Freelorn's shoulders. 'Let's see, let's see—' Freelorn chewed his mustache a bit. 'After we left the Wood, we went west a ways – stayed in the empty country north of Darthis until spring came. And then south. We made a big wide detour around Darthis, didn't even cross the Darst until Hiriden or so—'
'That is quite a detour. Any trouble?'
'No. That was the interesting thing, though. One Darthene patrol stopped us and I was sure they knew who I really was. I lied splendidly about everything, though, and they let us go. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'
Herewiss laughed softly. 'Oddly enough, I would. My father has been exchanging letters with Eftgan recently, and the queen is not happy with Cillmod and the cabal in Arlen. Not at all. She told Hearn in one letter that she considers the real Arlene government to be in exile. Right now she doesn't dare openly support or recognize you; she's so new to the throne, and the Four Hundred are still unsure of her. But because of the Oath of Lion and Eagle she feels obligated to do something for you. Those guards may or may not have known who you were – but if they
did, they had orders to let you pass unhindered. You're safe in Darthen, so long as you don't make yourself so visible that they have no choice but to notice you.'
'What about public opinion?'
'I think that may have influenced her a little. Most of Darthen is in outrage over Cillmod having the gall to break Oath. Especially the country around Hadremark, where a lot of people went homeless after the burning, and all the crops were ruined. But Eftgan's
hands are tied. She can't really move against Arlen, or she'd be breaking Oath herself. She's strengthened the garrisons on the Arlid border, but there are ways to sneak past those. She even went so far as to ask the human Marchwarders in Darthen to talk to the Dragons, ask their help – but the answer is pretty unlikely to be the same as usual. The Dragons won't get involved.'
'Granted.'
'So in a way, you're her best hope. The story running in Darthen seems to be that you're alive and traveling around to raise force so that you can get Arlen back. The people seem to approve. They want the Lion's child back on the throne again, as much for their own welfare as for yours.'
Freelorn nodded. '"Darthen's House and Arlen's Hall,"' he recited. ' "share their feast and share their fall—
Forlennh's and Hergotha's blade are of the same metal made, and the Oath they sealed shall bind both their dest'nies intertwined—"' Herewiss finished,
'"Till the end of countries, when Lion and Eagle come again." 'You always did like that one.'
'I recite it nightly,' Freelorn said with a somewhat sour expression, 'and hope that both our countries live through this interregnum.'
They'll manage, I think. But after you went south, what?'
'We went a little more to the west, nearly to the Arlene border—' Freelorn went on, telling of a close encounter with a large group of bandits, but Herewiss wasn't really listening. He nodded and mm– hmmed in the appropriate places, but most of his mind was too full of the sight and nearness of Freelorn – the compactness of him, the quick brilliant eyes and fiery temperament, the bright sharp voice, the ability to care about a whole country as warmly as he
could about one man.
Herewiss suddenly recalled one of those long golden afternoons in Pry don castle. He had been stretched out on Freelorn's bed, staring absently at the ceiling, and Freelorn sat by the window, picking at the strings of his lute and trying to get control of his newly changed voice. He was singing the Oath poem with a kind of quiet exultation, looking forward to the time when he would be king and help to keep it true; and the soft promising melody wound upward through the warm air. Herewiss, relaxed and drifting easily toward sleep, was deep in a daydream of his own – of a future day brightly lit by the blue sun of his own released Flame. Then suddenly he was startled awake again by a shudder of foreboding, a cold touch of prescience trailing down his spine. A brief flicker– vision of this moment, lit by a fading sunset instead of the brilliance of mid-afternoon. The same poem, but not sung; the same Freelorn, but not king; the same Herewiss, but not—
'—and left them in our dust – What's the matter? Getting cold?'
'No, Lorn, it was just a shudder. The Goddess spoke my Name, most likely.'
'Yeah. So, anyway, we left the south-east and came back this way. Stopped at Madeil, and that's where my surcoat got stolen.'
'Your good one, I suppose.'
'Yeah. I don't seem to have much luck with them, do I? They've probably sold it for the silver by now. But word of whose it was got out, and evidently the Steldenes have been feeling the weight of Cillmod's threats, since they sent all those people after us. I didn't believe it. I said to myself, when they came piling up outside that old keep, I said, "Time to call in help." Which I did. Goddess, what a display that was.'
'Thank you.'
'Are you all right? I mean, that messenger, and the fireball, and the Lion – oh, the Lion! That was beautiful. Beautiful. Just the
way He always looks to me.' 'Oh. You see Him regularly?'
'Shut up! You know what I mean. But are you all right?'
'Just a touch wobbly – it'll pass in a couple of days. I never did anything on that scale before. In fact, I didn't know I had it in me. I.guess I found out . . .'
Freelorn laughed softly. 'I dare say. But listen: what have you been doing?'
Herewiss shrugged, trying to think of some way to put a cheerful face on a year's worth of broken swords, wasted time, and pain. He couldn't, and anyway, Freelorn would have caught him at it.
'Forging swords,' he said. 'I got tired of breaking old ones. At one point Hearn offered me Fandere – he thought that since the legend says that Earn forged it, it might be a little more amenable to the Power – but I just couldn't. That sword is older than the first Woodward, and I knew I
would destroy it. It was just as dead to the touch as all the others. So finally I apprenticed myself to old Darg the blacksmith. You remember Darg—'
'I certainly do. The old one-eyed gent with the lovely daughter. I think you had ulterior motives.'
Herewiss laughed. 'No, not really. Meren got married a while after we relieved one another of the Responsibility. The twins will be coming to the Ward for fostering soon, since Mother left no love– children behind her. Goddess, I miss them – they're nine now: though Halwerd always reminds me that he's a quarter-hour older than Holmaern. He helps me with the forging sometimes, working the bellows. I put a forge together up in the north tower, and he watches me working the metal, and asks a thousand questions about tensile strength and temper and edge. He has a blacksmith's heart, that one, and he's going to have to be Lord of the Brightwood after me. I don't think he really approves.'
'The business with swords made of griffin-bone and ivory and such – I take it that didn't work.'
'No. What use is a sword of ivory? It seems that it has to be a working sword. Yet a real sword is an instrument of death – and to make it carry life—'
'You'll find a way.'
'I wish I had your faith in me.'
Freelorn stretched a little, discomfort and concern flickering across his face. 'Well, whatever – you'll keep trying. Where are you going now? Back home?'
'I'm heading east.'
'From here?'
'From here.'
'But Herewiss – listen, it was a brilliant idea to head this far east – even if they'd had their supplies intact, they wouldn't follow us this close to the Waste. But another
fifteen miles or so will take
you right up to the Stel—'
'I don't intend to stop there, Lorn. On the way down here I came by some interesting information—' Briefly he told of his encounter with the innkeeper's daughter, and what she had told him. Freelorn nodded.
'There's an Old Place like that down by Bluepeak in Arlen, just under the mountains,' he said, 'though it must not be as haunted, or whatever – the Dragons took it as a Marchward some years ago, and there are human March-warders there too. This place, though – if the Dragons won't go near it, I don't like the idea of your going there. What do you want it for, anyway?'
'There are supposed to be doors, Lorn. It could be that I could use one of them to go across into a Middle Kingdom where males have Flame, and train there. Or if there's no door that goes there already, I might be able to make one of them do it—'
'How?' Freelorn said, all skepticism. 'Worldgates are supposed to be a Flame-related manifestation, since they're partly alive, aren't they? I mean, you need wreaking to open them. When Beaneth went to Rilthor, even though it was Opening Night and a Full Moon, she still needed Fire for the Morrowfane Gate. And there's that story about the Hilarwit, and Raela Wayopener, and it's always Flame—'
Herewiss listened patiently. He had had this argument with himself more than once. 'So?'
'So! I don't think you can do it like that! You need control of Flame, and you haven't got it—'
'You could be right.'
'And-what?'
'What you're saying is true, Lorn, for as far as we know. According to the old stories, which usually have truth in them. But each instance is different. And if you're going to
quote examples, well, what about Beorgan? Despite her expertise and her power and all the information she had access to, she still couldn't have had all the facts. Why else would she have bothered trying to kill the Lover's Shadow, when He was just going to come back?'
'She was driven,' Freelorn said, 'by her desire for vengeance. It blinded her.'
'Maybe. That's not the point. The point is that I have to try. There's no telling till I do. It may be that those doors are set to turn to the use of whatever mind or power comes along. And it