by David Mason
“If you knew my age, you would be surprised,” he said, and sat up, fully awake.
In the bows, Gwynna had completed her toilet, and turned to look toward the men. She studied them a moment, then came aft, moving with surefooted grace and looking completely rested.
“I see a cooking stone, there where I was,” she said, looking from Hugon to Zamor. “And there is food to be prepared.” She smiled, cool and composed. “Surely one of you can prepare some sort of breakfast?”
Hugon looked at her thoughtfully, and rubbed his chin. Zamor looked at the sky and chuckled, deep in his throat, and Thuramon turned his head to study the stern-post with deep interest.
“My lady, there’s something you seem to forget,” Hugon said, slowly. “We are no longer aboard the galley.” He stood up and braced himself against the boat’s roll, spread-legged. His eyes fixed on her green ones, holding them. “You, now… till I find a proper buyer, you’re… should we say, in my custody? Now, I find the idea of having service done me very appealing. I’ve never been able to afford it before.”
“You unutterable…” Gwynna began, her eyes blazing.
“Ah, ah!” Hugon rifted a hand. “If it’s unutterable, don’t utter it. Now…” He smiled, benevolently. “All of us require breakfast. Knowing your lack of experience, I shall forgive small errors in your work… but not sulkiness.” He stared at her. “Breakfast, girl. Now!”
“You…” she almost stuttered in her rage. “You’d dare to order me…”
He moved a step closer, and looked into her furious face, his eyes coldly certain.
“If you refuse, girl, I’ll lay my swordbelt across your pretty rear till you’ll not sit for a week,” Hugon said without raising his voice. “Go now.”
“You wouldn’t dare…” she began, and saw his eyes.
“You… would,” she said in a low voice, and turned to move slowly forward to the cookstone.
The wind held, not a strong one, but steady. The boat forged on, and the sea was a smooth swell under her keel.
Gwynna had done very well about the breakfast, though she had worked with an expression that implied much.
“I think she’d have gladly poisoned us all,” Zamor muttered to Hugon; they sat, picking the last of the breakfast from their wooden bowls. Beside them, Thuramon was delving among the strange items of his cargo, crooning to himself; Gwynna sat, far in the bows, her back turned regally.
“Why, the girl’s got the hand of a fine cook indeed,” Hugon answered, lifting an eyebrow. “Look you, if we can’t sell her for a decent price, we’d do well to keep her by us. Why, one of us could marry her, perhaps.”
“It was yourself warned me concerning widows,” Zamor told him. “You’d not live any longer than it took that wench to find a suitable potion… unless she preferred to find some more painful way, considering how she looked at you.”
“Well, then, wed her yourself,” Hugon suggested.
“If ever I find my way back to Numori land, I’ve three good wives there already,” Zamor said. “Or I did, at any rate.” He sighed, “No Numori lass would stay unwed all the time I’ve been away. But I doubt I could get used to that queer color… no offense, brother, but in a woman… no. And she’s most unhealthily lean, too, for my taste.” He leaned on the steering oar and looked gloomy. “As long as I’ve had to do without a pair of busy thighs, though, almost anything would seem good.”
Thuramon glanced up from his business and grinned.
“We’ll land at Koremon’s port, called Drakona, a fine great town,” Thuramon said. “There are ships come there from all the world, and willing girls enough, I think.”
Zamor sighed, but said nothing. Hugon stared curiously at the objects in Thuramon’s lap, the small cylinders. The warlock held one, like an old fashioned scroll-book, unwound; but he held it upward, peering at it through the sunlight.
“A book?” Hugon asked.
“A most ancient book,” Thuramon said, still turning the roll in his fingers. “But not made to be read by men’s eyes. See how the light shines through it, thus… the letters, so small…” He sighed. “It will be difficult, very difficult.” He rolled it up again, and put it back in the pile.
“Whose eyes, then?” Hugon asked.
“The Old Ones,” Thuramon said. “An ancient race, dead before man came. There was a greater land there, in the southern sea, when they lived… and once they set up certain places where their books and other things might be kept. For the future…” He stared at the objects in his lap, darkly. “I don’t know why they did so much, to be honest. For their own kind, or for others that they thought might come… who knows? But there, on that island, is the last of their archive halls. I learned of its existence a long time ago, in another place. And of the guardians, those Moroloi, unkillable and mindless, who would slay any who came near.”
“Your staff seemed to be a perfectly sound defense, sir,” Hugon said. “It saved us, too.”
“It is a simple thing, that staff,” Thuramon told him. “And like most simple things, it took me long years to make it. And more years than that to discover that it could be made at all. I sought the clues, in one place and another… for this.” He touched the pile of small cylinders and grinned.
“Listen, young man,” Thuramon went on, leaning closer, his eyes brightly intent. “I am very old, older than you would credit if I told you. I’ll die someday, like any other man. but I’ve much to do before then, much. Once, a great evil was done, a thing so evil that it should not be spoken of… and you have no need to know it, in any case. But because of this evil thing, many worlds were shaken… not your world alone, but many.”
His eyes held Hugon’s, intently. “If you live long enough, you may understand what I say… or in another life, in time. But I can tell you as much as you need to know, now. I came to these lands, a long time ago, to work a certain task; a work that others like me do, in other places… a work that may never be finished. And I found a man who could serve that work.”
Hugon, still and quiet with his back against the rough wood of the boat’s side, listened. He felt a strange awe, a new thing in him who had always been a mocker and a skeptic. Thuramon’s eyes glowed as he spoke, and Hugon heard.
“He was… like any other man, good, bad, and middling,” Thuramon said, and smiled to himself. “Better than some, worse than others. What else can I say? He had honor, and courage… and a little wisdom. Enough wisdom not to want to be a king…”
“Now, that’s a considerable wisdom,” Hugon said.
“You understand that, do you?” Thuramon said. “Good. Well, I tricked him, in the warlock’s way. Gained his word to help me in a struggle which he never fully understood… more for my benefit than ever for his own, though the evil we fought had already touched him and his folk, to their great sorrow.”
There was a silence, broken only by the lap of waves and the creak of the rigging. High overhead, a seabird cried, and the dragonet stirred, staring upward but not moving. Zamor, listening at the oar, was as still as Hugon.
“The man I speak of was called Kavin, once prince of the lost land Dorada,” Thuramon said, slowly. “I was with him; and when he and the remnant of his people fled in the end from their destroyed valley, I was also there. And when they came to the land to the east, Koremon, which lies near the Isle of Dragons… there too. I went with Kavin, and a few companions, out of Koremon, into the great mountain, where we found a place of evil. A place that was one of the seedlings of that evil I spoke of… and we destroyed it,”
Hugon nodded. “I know the tale,” he said, “though it seems difficult to believe even a warlock can live so long as that. Old man, that story is of a time… why, you would be two hundred!”
“Well, then?” Thuramon said, and grinned again.
“I wish I knew how it is,” Hugon said, shrugging. “I’ve been able to resist the artful tales of fine charlatans in a hundred places… and here I sit, believing your wild story. I do believe
it… and I cannot understand why.” He chuckled, “But go on, then.”
“There’s so little truth in the world that it’s easy to distinguish its face in a crowd, by reason of its oddity,” Thuramon said.
“I believe him,” Zamor said suddenly, and fell silent again, watching Thuramon.
“I’ve heard the tale of Kavin,” Hugon said, resting his chin in his hand. “How he fared forth to the Black City, where three evil ones ruled; broke their power, and returned to Koremon. Ruled there, and left numerous offspring… one of whom was an ancestor of my own, founder of my clan.” Hugon chuckled. “A wild rogue, too, it’s said, who had to flee Koremon and return to the mountains of Meryon for something of the same reasons I’ve had myself, at times.”
“All true,” Thuramon said, solemnly. “But… there was a tale never told. I shall tell it to you now… for a reason.”
Beware magician’s reasons, Hugon thought, but said nothing.
“The last and greatest of those evil ones whom Kavin fought was called… Ess. He was not human. There was nothing at all of humanity in him; he came from a world no man could know. I called him evil… but he was not. He was neither evil nor good, only so much a stranger to this world that such words had no meaning. And what he was, the things he desired… no human could know. And one thing more… he could not die.”
Hugon stared. “I had heard of some such monster… but didn’t Kavin slay him, as the story goes?”
Thuramon shook his head. “Here, there lies a deep mystery. Kavin went to the place where Ess dwelled, and then…” He stopped and pulled his beard, staring at Hugon. “There are deep things here; it may be too deep for your mind. But let me try. Think now of time, the progression of days and nights as you know it… and of the world, the lands and seas and folk, known to you. Of… reality.”
In the silence, Hugon felt cold. He listened, trying to understand.
“Think now of worlds folded upon worlds, time turning upon itself like the spiral shell of a sea worm, and days that return again, the same yet changing,” the old man said. His eyes held steady, earnest. “Yesterday becomes today… and today, yesterday, and worlds spread on, through an endless time and space… and only one thing remains constant and real through the spinning mist. One thing alone.” He stared, hard, into Hugon’s eyes. “The living spark that shapes itself, into man. Or into other beasts, who live, spawn, and die… but the spark lives.”
“This I know already,” Zamor said in his deep voice. “We are taught, in our Almor lodge…”
“Were you taught this, too?” Thuramon asked. “That a man may live in two, in a hundred places and times… at once? That he may move in many worlds at once, in one as a prince, another a beggar… or that his life may fold backward upon itself, so that he meets his own form in a shadowed street?”
Zamor grunted. “Certain things were told us,” he said. “And we also learned that other things should not be told.”
“Now, there’s wisdom,” Hugon said.
Thuramon paused a moment, then went on. “Kavin… returned, as the tale has it. But Kavin… not another Kavin, understand, the same Kavin… slept, gripped in the sorcery of the creature called Ess. A third Kavin, too, had once passed through such a magic… but I will not speak of that. Then, Kavin awoke, and returned at last, to find a land grown great, and his name a legend.”
“That’s like the ballad of Ernas the Lost,” Hugon said, slowly. “How he spent a night in a magic hall, and came back to find he had been gone a hundred years…”
“And it might be that tale was true, too,” Thuramon said. “Kavin returned, as Ernas did. But, in one way, the Great Goddess gave him a gift… unearned, like most of Her gifts. That in spite of his rejection of that Goddess, thrice repeated.”
“She is known to be whimsical,” Hugon said.
“Indeed,” Thuramon said. “Whimsical. I said that Kavin came back, to a land that had forgotten him except as a tale, ruled by his distant descendants… and there was still one who waited. A curious… person. You may say a witch woman, if you like; one not at all like other women, but still… more a woman than most. She had waited for Kavin. Now his wishes are fulfilled. He did not wish to be a ruler, and he is no ruler; he desired peace, and he has it.”
Hugon stared. “You speak as if he lived… now?”
“He does,” Thuramon said. “He is horse master to a lord of Koremon… one of his own descent. He lives, contentedly, with a fine woman… who is, to all appearances, no more than a woman… beside a lake, in which he sometimes fishes.”
Hugon leaned back and blew a deep breath, eyes wide.
“Now there’s a tale,” he said, quietly.
“A tale, indeed,” Zamor said. “Lord Snake, what a tale. This Kavin, then… he’s found what he wishes, eh?”
“Certainly,” Thuramon said, and he smiled, wryly. “So, surely he will be discontented, in due time.”
“Wait, now,” Hugon said. “If that’s so… then who returned to Koremon, as the story has it? Who ruled, in Kavin’s name, spawned my own ancestor and all the rest… and who’s buried there in Kavin’s tomb? Some imposter?”
“Kavin himself,” Thuramon said. “Both are the same.”
“I don’t understand,” Hugon said, and shrugged.
“I didn’t think you would,” Thuramon told him. The warlock began to smile, slowly and disquietingly. “You too have a most curious fate, young man… and I doubt not you will find it just as hard to understand, though you struggle a lifetime’s worth.”
“Ah, now, no prophecy, please!” Hugon cried, grinning. “Look you, old sir, I’m willing to believe your tale, take my oath I do. But my blood’s been cooled enough… no more wizardry for now, I beg you. Those strange wee books you’ve got there… have they more of these mysteries in ‘em? Or maybe these Old Ones liked a comic tale, or a romance, as we common humans do… or possibly there’s a bawdy verse written there? Can you read them?”
Thuramon chuckled. “There might be anything here… even what you suggest, though I doubt it. No, I cannot read them, not with ease. A few words, here and there…” He sighed. “There’s the lengthy work before me. Somewhere, among these books, or in those other things you helped me carry, there’s a secret I require. I think I found the correct books… but it will be very long before I find that key, itself.”
“What key?” Hugon asked. “Something of magic, then?”
“Call it that,” Thuramon said. “A key… that will find a way back for me… no, I can’t say more.”
Hugon was silent for a while. The talk had disturbed him. Yet he could not understand why that should be so, and that fact also disturbed him. He leaned back, and stared at Gwynna’s straight back, in the forward end, biting his lip.
Finally, he stood up and made his way forward, to pause just behind her.
“My Lady,” he said, quietly.
“I would prefer not to speak with you,” she said, distantly.
“Will you accept my compliments, at least?” he said.
“Compliments? Her eyes blazed, as she looked back at him. “A compliment, from you? I’d prefer an insult.”
“You have a fine handed way with a meal, lady,” he said, smiling down at her. “And with a sword. Also, you held the march with us, without complaint. For all that, accept compliment.”
“Spit your damned flattery on a rusty swordblade, and go sit upon it,” she said, in a level voice.
Hugon chuckled, and returned to the after end, smiling.
“Ah, but that’s a fine lass,” he said, to Zamor. “A fine, fine lass.” And he chuckled again.
FOUR
A stiff morning breeze propelled the boat along the green coast of Lower Koremon. Ahead, the dark mass of rock lifted on the horizon; the fabled Isle of Dragons. The boat tacked, and sailed through the sound that lay between that island and the mainland of Koremon itself. On Thuramon’s advice, they kept as well away from that dark rock as possible; but even so, Hugon saw a dist
ant flying thing, high overhead, that was no bird. He watched it as he steered. It slanted down toward the island and vanished there.
Fraak perched on the prow, his triangular head lifted, his bright eyes following that distant flight with silent wonder. As he watched, his wings lifted, moving uneasily, and he sang a low deep note.
“Like me?” Fraak asked, turning his head. “Eee?”
“Like you, handsome one,” Thuramon told him. “But a great deal larger.” He scratched the dragonet’s head. “And wiser, small one. Much wiser.”
“Not as pretty?” Fraak asked.
“Well. Probably not,” Thuramon said, and chuckled quietly.
Hugon glanced at the dragonet and laughed; then, he watched the shore again, intently.
Far ahead, white sails lifted on the horizon, a ship that moved across the boat’s course, going landward. Now it was visible, a tall-prowed, round-bellied merchantman, rolling in the swell.
“That one would be going into Drakosa town,” Thuramon said. “There, you can see towers, and the outer seawall.”
Hugon steered in the merchant’s wake, watching the town grow clearer on the skyline. Now, a slim swift ship came, sliding past toward the open sea, a long pennant flying from its topmast; and on the beam, Hugon saw the masts of fishing boats in a distant convey. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying.
“Now my day of ease is over,” Hugon said, gloomily. He shifted on the seat and sighed.
“What’s your woe, brother?” Zamor, who had been lying with closed eyes on a fold of sail, sat up on one elbow, grinning at Hugon. “Ah, there’s the town! Ha!” He stretched and licked his lips. “I swear by the Snake, I’ll not set foot on any ship again if I’m not compelled to at sword’s point…”
“We’ve problems in plenty,” Hugon said. He jerked his thumb at the still-aloof Gwynna. “There’s our prime one. The warlock here’s told me much about the customs of Koremon, and it seems we’ll have to be watchful, or our bird will fly.”
Zamor looked inquiring. “Customs?”
“If she’s called a slave, we’ll have no right to bring her ashore,” Hugon said. “They’ve a law against it, being civilized folk. She’ll never keep her teeth together, damn it; the moment we’re ashore, she need only cry for the civil protection, and we’ve no merchandise left. Ah, well…” He shrugged.