by Thomas Locke
Joelle watched as the two knights rose, drained their goblets, and sauntered back into the city. The day’s entertainment was over. A silent clutch of knights and women and servants hastily followed.
The only one who remained was the crimson mage, who lifted his staff and waited as the ash swirled and blew away, though there was no wind to carry it. The mist rose from the earth and swept back up the ridge and was swallowed by the orb. Still the wizard stood there, staring out over the empty valley.
Though the cowl held such shadows that the wizard’s face remained well hidden, still Joelle knew he was looking straight at her. He lifted the staff, but at that moment she was drawn away, back, back, over forests and fields, through the crack in the wall, into her cell . . .
Joelle bolted upright. Her chest heaved with such force, each breath carried a tight moan. She never felt the fear until her return.
She forced herself to rise from the bed, the images and the sounds seared upon her brain. As she dressed and walked down the stone corridor to begin her day’s work, she wondered if it was all intended as a warning. Leave the Long Hall and face the red wizard. But even this was no longer enough to stop her.
Joelle was leaving. And soon.
6
By the time Hyam traversed the forest trail and arrived home, he found himself defeated by the truth. No amount of mental argument could rid him of the burden he carried. He had killed soldiers of the realm. And a knight. With magic.
The knight’s casual brutality rang in his mind. To remain in his home risked destruction of Hyam’s entire village. He could not take that chance. He dismounted in the cottage forecourt both heartsore and exhausted, knowing he would be wearier still before the night was done.
Hyam watered and fed the horse, then entered the cottage and stuffed a satchel with clothes, his razor, a few keepsakes from his mother, and an extra pair of boots. To this he added his five sacks of arrows. He then heated water and bathed and dressed carefully. His mother had always insisted upon wearing her finest to visit the Ashanta village. Hyam’s festival clothes bore the fragrance of the herbs in which his mother had packed them. He gave the cottage a long look, and his gaze rested upon the tapestry. In the moonlight his mother’s final artwork seemed alive, the orb’s violet globe shimmering across the stone floor and touching him where he stood. He recalled the way his mother had sung as she worked the loom, a wordless melody from a distant time. The memories added a piercing poignancy to the act of locking his front door.
He rode with his bow packed in a leather slipcover and fitted into a saddle loop probably intended to hold a lance. The satchel and extra arrows and the knight’s gear were all lashed behind the chest. Hyam had spent his winters sanding down the ash boughs and hardening the tips in the coals and sharpening the iron bolts he bought from passing tinkers. The feathers came from his own flock of geese that wintered elsewhere but returned each spring and bred their babies in malodorous nests that lined his pond’s far side. It did not seem to matter that each summer Hyam trapped a score and more of the geese for his oven. They came without fail, and each autumn he walked the frigid mud and harvested a fine crop of long wing feathers. Some arrow makers claimed feathers drawn from the same wing made for a truer aim, but Hyam discounted that, just as he did the need to sing war tunes while sharpening the heads. He wet his feathers and flattened them beneath a stone for ten days before gluing them into place. He had won enough competitions to be confident of their accuracy.
The sunset was dimming as he pulled up in front of Norvin’s home. The mayor’s house was larger than most and rimmed by a waist-high wall. The family had raised massive wolfhounds for generations beyond count. Their watchdog barked once, a sound deep as a bear’s growl, then whined as Hyam reached over the gate and allowed the beast to sniff his hand. He had always wanted a wolfhound of his own but never managed the price. A trained wolfhound cost as much as a cottage.
“Hyam?” To his surprise, it was not the mayor who approached but his niece. Irvette rounded the corner of the hard-packed yard, an infant in her arms. “What brings you here?”
“I must have a word with your uncle.”
“He and Auntie are with the elders.” Instead of the girl child he recalled, a beautiful woman stood before him, her features stained from recent loss. “They should be back any minute. I’m making supper. Have you eaten?”
“Not since daybreak.”
“Come in and keep me company.” She opened the gate, then inspected the heavily laden horse. “What are you carrying?”
“Gifts. I’m sorry for your loss, Irvette.”
“And I am grateful for your kind offer. But I can’t accept.”
His mind was overfull from an impossible day, which excused the fact that he needed a moment to realize she meant his mother’s loom. “I ask for nothing in return, Irvette.”
“Hyam, you are a fine catch and will make some woman very happy. But it will not be me.” Her grey eyes were bronzed by the dusk. “I am in love with a village lad. Neither of us expected this. But it has happened. He is waiting for the mourning to end before asking my uncle for my hand. I am betrothed in all but name.”
He followed her into the house. “Do I know him?”
“Probably. So I will not say his name. My uncle should be first to hear. He is a youngest son, which means he has no prospect for land or home.” Her smile was guileless, and even with the burden of recent sorrow she carried a maiden’s joy. “It’s good my uncle is a man of means.”
He watched her fill an earthen bowl with stew. “I’m very happy for you both.”
“Thank you, Hyam.” She set the bowl in front of him, then added a chunk of bread before asking, “Where are you going this time of night?”
“I’m leaving on an errand. Or quest. I’m not sure which.” He spoke between bites. “There is no telling when I will return. And whether I’ll be permitted to stay in the village if I do.”
She settled onto the bench beside him. “What have you done, Hyam?”
“As you say, it’s best your uncle hear first.”
“The horse you’ve left out front. It’s a warrior’s steed, isn’t it.”
“Yes, and that’s all I’ll say.” He pointed to the pot and the ladle. “May I have more?”
She served him a second bowl and sliced more bread and then seated herself and fed the infant. Midway through his second helping, the mayor of Honor pushed open the door. “Whose beast of war is that out front? Hyam?”
“We need to talk.”
The mayor’s wife mirrored his girth and utterly lacked Norvin’s good humor. She was both rotund and big-boned and greeted the world with the sharp edge of her tongue. Norvin seemed to enjoy having his mate cut and parry with his foes. This allowed the mayor to show one and all a ruddy good cheer. Hyam doubted that Irvette found it easy dwelling in that woman’s garden shed.
Norvin’s expression grew as severe as his wife’s while Hyam told of killing the knight and his retinue. Hyam did not tell them everything. He wanted to, but each time he strayed from the barest of facts, his throat clenched tight.
Even so, the mayor’s wife discerned the truth. “Nine warriors taken down by one bow.”
“Hyam is the village’s finest archer,” Norvin said doubtfully.
“A forest hunter. A farmer. Killing nine armed soldiers. Do you even hear yourself?”
“Hyam claims to have learned little magic at the Long Hall.”
“What wizard tells a mere mortal the truth?”
“I have never met one to ask.”
She snorted. “You defend him because he killed men he claims were going to harm us. But in truth his actions might spell our doom.”
Even Irvette was troubled by the exchange and cradled the infant more closely as she observed from the fireplace. Hyam found confirmation of his own decision there in their fearful expressions. He rose from the table and said, “There’s more.”
He went back outside and retrieved the chest.
He opened it on the table and showed them the bloodstained booty. “I have taken a purse full of coins for myself. The rest I give to the village.”
“What am I to do with this?” Norvin demanded.
“Protect our hamlet and the valley. Hold this against an uncertain future.”
Norvin looked at his wife, who snapped, “We certainly can’t keep it here.”
Norvin pointed out, “There’s a fortune in that chest.”
“Aye, more than enough to see the village burned about our ears.”
Hyam decided there was nothing to be gained by pointing out the knight had already vowed to do just that. “I could leave it with the Ashanta on deposit.”
Norvin brightened immensely. The Ashanta served as bankers to all the outlying regions. They took their cut and made the money available anywhere in the realm. Norvin glanced at his wife, who struggled to find something to criticize but finally shrugged her acquiescence.
“There’s not much need in asking the Ashanta to confirm what we already know,” Norvin pointed out.
“The knight said they were tasked with destroying the Ashanta settlement,” Hyam replied. “I must warn them.”
“Will you return?”
“I don’t know. Should I?” When the mayor did not respond, he added, “Will you permit it?”
“No,” his wife groused. “Harboring a mage is punishable by the razing of the entire village.”
“But if the army comes through, he could mean our deliverance,” Norvin replied.
“Or our destruction,” she countered. “A thousand times no.”
“Your wife is correct.” Hyam rose slowly, wearied by far more than the longest day of his entire life. “Thank you for the meal.”
Norvin followed him outside. “Give her time. She’ll come around. You are not just welcome, but needed.”
“What she says is right. It may be too great a risk.” He turned and called back through the open doorway. “Irvette, forgive me, but I must speak. Join us, please.” When she and Norvin’s wife both stepped forward, Hyam went on, “Norvin, your niece is in love with a village boy. She has waited to say something out of honor to your house. But there isn’t time. I want Irvette to have my cottage.”
The three were once again reduced to astonished silence.
“And the flocks,” Hyam went on. “And the pastures. But not the field in the forest. That you must not enter.”
“It’s too much,” Irvette murmured.
“It would give my heart rest to know my home remains a haven for love and new beginnings.”
“And if you return?”
He studied the three fine faces, saw the strength and the goodness and the roots sunk deep in the village earth. And knew with visceral certainty that he was closing a chapter of his life. “Let your uncle be witness that I hold no debt over you. I will accept what you wish to give me. If I return.”
“When you return,” Irvette replied softly, ignoring the swift glance her aunt cast. “When.”
It was a hopeful note upon which to take his leave, even if he did not believe it himself. “Be well, Irvette. Stay safe. Be happy. Fill my mother’s house with laughter and love and many children.”
More than firelight added a flush to her cheeks. “A sweet boy has grown into a man of honor. Be well, Hyam. And remember where your home is.”
Hyam walked down the front path. By the gate he offered the mayor his hand in farewell.
“One moment,” Norvin said. He turned and walked around his house.
Which meant Hyam was left alone with the mayor’s wife. As he lashed the chest back into place, she hissed, “You are a mage. A forbidden one. My husband in his fear of war fails to see the threat directly in front of his face.”
“I mean you and yours no harm,” Hyam replied.
“Then depart at once.” She wheeled about. “And never return.”
Norvin appeared soon after, and something in the man’s expression said that the mayor had heard every word. In fact, it could well have been that he had intended his wife to speak what he could not utter. For he refused to meet Hyam’s gaze as he said, “I’ve seen you admire my hounds. Take this one. She’s the finest of my brood.”
The young wolfhound was silver with a white streak running from between her golden eyes to the tip of her tail. She stood almost as tall as Hyam’s waist. “She’s magnificent.”
“Aye, the white streak is said to be the mark of high intelligence. She’d be destined for the king’s stables if I took her to market.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground by Hyam’s feet. The animal loped forward. “I call her Dog, like all my pups. She’ll mind you well enough. When you’re ready, give her a name that suits you both. Short and sharp works best.” He offered Hyam a strip of jerky. “Feed her a bit, let her have a good sniff.”
Hyam did as instructed. As he stroked the thick pelt, he saw she stood on paws the size of dinner plates. “She’s not yet fully grown?”
“Comes with the pale strip down the back, or so I’m told. Means she’s more wolf than dog, with a bit of snow-warg thrown in for good measure.”
He fed her the rest of the jerky, then pointed to the ground where she stood. “Stay, girl.” Even seated, the dog was taller than the house’s surrounding wall. “She’s a beauty, Norvin. Thank you.”
Norvin hesitated, then swept up the younger man in an embrace as fierce as it was brief. Then he turned and walked away.
Hyam watched the mayor shut the portal without a backward glance. Then he climbed back into the saddle and looked down to where the wolfhound watched him with unblinking golden patience. “Let’s go, girl. The road awaits.”
The journey to the Ashanta village should have taken two full days. Hyam had no idea how he remained awake through that long night. But he did. What was more, he made good time. The night was utterly still, the sky lit by a moon one sliver off full. Where the valley narrowed, the hills rose to either side like humpbacked beasts. The trail tracked along the river’s edge, two ghostly ribbons that cut through the dale.
His thoughts made for foul company. The final words hissed by the mayor’s wife scalded away any regret he might have had over giving up the only home he had ever known. The certainty that he had done the right thing, however, could not chase off the question that had plagued him since returning from the Long Hall. Hyam’s lack of knowledge regarding his own heritage was only heightened by his newfound magical prowess. The night echoed with words spoken by a Mistress who lived without deceit. Only the Milantians were said to be adept at their own tongue.
A thousand years of peace had turned the warrior race into legends meant to scare children. But Hyam had studied the remaining scrolls because he had been forced to. Milantians looked like their human kin. But their powers were immense, their destruction still evident beyond the eastern badlands. Or so Hyam had read. He had never been farther from his home than the Ashanta village up ahead. The fact that he was setting off on a journey that might last his lifetime, without either destination or a clear idea of his own past, left his chest aching.
Three hours into the journey he stopped to water the horse and search the surrounds for movement. His body was one huge bruise. Lifting himself back into the saddle was a massive chore. But as they set off, Hyam heard an owl cry, a sound like a baby’s wail. He had occasionally caught glimpses of the birds, grey as frost with wings longer than his own arm span. The destrier merely snorted and his unnamed dog kept padding along. He had yet to hear the dog make a sound. The owl’s mate cried from the valley’s other side. That was how they hunted, spooking small animals with hunting calls from a multitude of directions. The owls kept up their noisy banter until dawn, tracking Hyam down the valley. When the birds finally went silent, Hyam had the sunrise to keep him from drifting off.
The region through which he passed, where he had dwelled all his life, was known as Three Valleys. A trio of broad streams coursed along the narrow vales, joining together ten miles below the Long
Hall. Seventeen villages in all found shelter and relative prosperity within the bottom land. They were shielded from the world by forest and ridgeline. Goings-on within the realm beyond the hills was little more than fodder for idle talk. Most of the villagers liked it that way and hoped that all perilous events would long be over before the first tidings even arrived.
The name itself was misleading, as there were not three interconnected vales but four. The Ashanta name for the region was Eagle’s Claw, after the fourth talon, short and razor sharp, that jutted from the back of the bird’s foot. The Ashanta dwelled in a tight niche of flatland, encircled by forests and steep-sided cliffs. Beyond the ridgeline rose the Galwyn Range, arid and treacherous, home to mountain lions and beasts that had seldom been seen, much less named. The Ashanta were a race apart. They did not show hostility to visitors, they simply did not invite. They never traveled. In all Hyam’s life, he had never met an Ashanta outside their village. For some inhabitants of Three Valleys, this silent isolation bred suspicion and hostility. If the Ashanta cared one way or the other what people thought of them, Hyam had not heard.
The sun was almost overhead and baking hot when Hyam reached the Ashanta boundary stones. The pyramids were a uniform white, though there was no such rock or quarry anywhere in the valleys. These chest-high pyramids were planted every three paces, stretching out in steadfast rhythm all the way to the distant cliffs and forests. Each face was carved with the Ashanta symbol for treaty. Their land possessed no fences. And yet their animals did not wander or roam. Ahead and to his left, a flock of sheep bleated softly. Farther up the valley to nowhere milled a large herd of cows. Between them were the crisscrossed patterns of springtime planting. Neither group of animals made any move toward the fresh new growth or approached the boundary stones.
The trail Hyam followed had grown increasingly rugged since the last village. At the stones, the road simply ended. Hyam did as his mother had always done upon arriving at their land. He stopped and waited. There was no need to call, for there was no one to hear. But he had the distinct impression that they knew and that they appreciated the gesture.