by Thomas Locke
Forest and cliffs formed a ragged frame around the valley. Farther in the distance rose the inhospitable peaks, tight patches of snow along the highest reaches, but otherwise the faces were yellow as old teeth. A thin trickle of melt fell from the valley’s far end, the waterfall mostly mist by the time it fed the stream that ran to Hyam’s right. In another month’s time the waterfall would vanish, but the streams remained all summer long, fed by a series of underground springs that flowed from cavern mouths.
Two such rivulets formed natural boundaries for the village that came into view as he passed the first headland. The village between the streams was fashioned from the same white stone as the boundary markers and sparkled fresh and silent in the sunlight. As he had hoped, a figure was seated on the offering stone. The flat white stone, broad as the floor of his cottage’s main room, rose at the point where the two streams met. Tiny footbridges, scarcely as wide as a wagon, traversed the streams, almost fairylike in their miniature perfection.
Hyam traversed the bridge and halted before the stone. He did not raise a hand or speak a greeting, for he knew it would not be returned. The Ashanta had no word for hello or farewell.
His mother had often brought the village weavings and her own tapestries here, setting them upon the stone, waiting for a gift of oils and cloves and healing herbs. There was no negotiation with the Ashanta. Hyam had known the woman who sat waiting since childhood. Her name was Bryna, and she had been his favorite playmate. But she was a child no longer.
Bryna’s merry laughter had been replaced by the unmoving calm that dominated the Ashanta world. Her eyes had taken on the violet cast of adulthood, a color so dark and rich it could be mistaken for black. There was no white to her eyes any longer. Just the rich, deep, unreadable violet. Hyam knew from the Long Hall’s scrolls that this was the sign of Joining.
He could not stifle the groan as he eased from the saddle. Walking to the stone meant easing any number of cramps. He seated himself in gradual stages. “You’ve joined, then.”
“Since last winter.” Even Bryna’s voice had changed. Gone was any vestige of humor, any emotion save the unreachable calm. “How are you, Hyam?”
“Sore.”
“You rode all night?”
“I did. And this after the longest day of my life.”
She sat in unmoving calm as he related what he had learned. She asked no questions. He spoke no secrets. For to divulge the means by which he had killed the enemy would have required him to describe the awakening of powers he did not understand. And one thing he vividly remembered from his early lessons. The Ashanta were sworn blood enemies of the Milantians.
When he was done, she rose and said, “The village calls me.”
He gestured to the horse. “I’ve brought quivers of arrows for your hunters. I made them myself. And a coat of mail and a sword decorated with gemstones.”
She hesitated a moment, and he had the distinct impression she was discussing this with an unseen host of others. “What will you have in return?”
“Nothing. It is a gift.”
She and the unseen others examined him. “You have always been a friend to our people. You and your parents before you.”
“There’s something else.” He forced himself to his feet and walked with her to the wagon. “The chest is full of war booty. Some of it . . . well . . .”
“We understand.”
“I haven’t had a chance to clean it.”
“We can do this. You wish us to hold it in safety for your clan?”
“The mayor of Honor will come. Or another with authority to speak for the Three Valleys.”
“Very well.” She pointed to the stone. “We ask that you wait here, in case there is more that is required. Are you hungry?”
“Very.” As she accepted an armload of arrows, Hyam asked, “Bryna, is there anything left of who you used to be?”
“It’s not like that at all.” She took a few steps, then added, “And yet it is.”
“I miss my friend,” he called after her. He waited and watched, but she gave no sign she had even heard.
7
Hyam unsaddled the horse but decided not to tether it. He doubted even a strange animal would stray far in this land. Soon four silent Ashanta arrived, two carrying steaming bowls. They set the food upon the stone and took away his gifts. They did not speak. He fed the dog from his own spoon, then lay down in the shadow of the offering stone and gave in to exhausted slumber.
It seemed as though the dream began the instant he closed his eyes. Only it was unlike anything Hyam had ever known. His eyes remained shut, and yet he still saw the sky. He watched the clouds for a time, he heard the soft rustle of breeze in the grass, he felt the dog settle beside his left leg. He knew all this, just as he was aware that he slept. And then he felt the call. It was not a command, and yet the invitation was strong as a cord that bound him to the village he had never entered. He was drawn away from his slumbering form.
Hyam drifted up, up, rising from himself, his awareness clear in a very odd manner, for he only saw what he focused upon directly. Everything else was not just murky but unseen. He drifted across the pasture fronting the Ashanta village. He felt led, but not in any direct manner. Rather it seemed to him that he followed a current, strong as a river in the rainy season. He entered the village itself and saw how the lanes connecting the structures were shaped from the same white stone as the houses. As were the two squat towers at the center of the village. They were the oddest watchtowers he had ever seen, scarcely rising above the rooflines, and set to either side of the largest building of all. He came to a halt by the left-hand tower, hovering so close that he could have reached out and touched the sentry’s shoulder, if he only had a hand.
The sentry before him was a man, the other tower held a woman. Both stared out to the horizon and beyond. And Hyam understood, for the current carried awareness as well as direction. They did not stand guard with their eyes. They sought the unseen, spanning the forests, hunting the trails, searching for the army that Hyam had said was coming.
And at the same time, both sentries were connected to the clan. This bond of awareness flowed in both directions, Hyam realized. The clan could reach out and see what the sentries saw. And the sentries could follow what was happening within.
It was the simplest deed in the world to turn away from the sentry and follow his awareness. Hyam flowed into the large chamber where some stood and some sat, and from there extended out farther still, following now the stronger current of a thousand listening minds.
He traveled some great distance, and yet it was no journey at all. He arrived at a second chamber, long and narrow and high ceilinged, so huge it could have held his entire village. The vast interior shimmered with an astonishing light. The walls and the distant ceiling were decorated with circular symbols fashioned from gemstones. The giant pinwheels and mandalas sparkled and shimmered as clouds passed across windows tall as forest trees.
In the middle of the chamber was a square podium, rising twice the height of his cottage roof. Upon it stood a collection of perhaps three dozen berobed figures. Chairs and benches lined the walls. Otherwise the stone floor was unadorned. Hyam had no idea where he was, nor did he care. He was joined with an Assembly. Thousands upon thousands of Ashanta filled the chamber. Some in bodily form, most not. There was no sound. But the discussion was fierce, and piercing, and multifaceted, and fast.
Suddenly a woman shrieked, “He is here!”
“Impossible!”
“And yet it is so. The messenger is in our Assembly!”
One berobed figure leaned over the podium’s railing and glared down. Instantly Hyam’s attention shifted so as to look with a hundred thousand other eyes, over to where his childhood friend quailed beneath the leader’s glare. “You brought an infidel?”
“I-I sense nothing,” Bryna stammered.
“Not her,” the woman snapped, and Hyam knew the old woman who spoke was the Seer of Bryna’s vil
lage. She had spent years as a sentry and graduated to the ability of seeing beyond space, beyond time. To the heart of matters. “He entered upon a sentry’s bond.”
“Is that possible?”
“Before this moment, I would have said absolutely not. But my opinion changes nothing. He is among us.”
The leader demanded of Bryna, “What is this messenger’s name?”
“Hyam.”
The leader lifted his head and called through the hall, “I address the human known as Hyam. Can you hear me? If so, identify yourself and be counted.”
Hyam had no idea what to do, or how. Even so, he moved toward the podium. “I am here.”
“How are you doing this?”
“I have no idea. One moment I was asleep. The next, I came.” Hyam hesitated, then added, “I was warned that I might harbor talent as a wizard.”
“Who said this?”
“The Mistress of the Three Valleys Long Hall.” Hyam wanted to tell them what he suspected, for he longed to know his own identity. But he was checked in a most certain manner by the sudden and fleeting image of Guardians standing among the others. The Guardians were Ashanta warriors trained in arcane methods of utter destruction. The scrolls that had taught him this tongue had revealed much about the Ashanta’s thousand-year quest to destroy every vestige of the Milantian race.
The Assembly’s leader studied Hyam for a time, then asked the Seer, “Is he Ashanta?”
“I . . . I cannot see. The matter is hidden from me.”
“By this one, the interloper, the invader of our Assembly?”
“No. Of this I am certain.” Hyam felt a penetrating awareness pass around and through him. Then the Seer added, “He speaks the truth as he knows it.”
“About himself or the invading force?”
“Both.”
The leader was clearly in a quandary. He turned to Bryna and demanded, “What do you say of this one?”
“I have known him since childhood. He is as you see. He cares. He gives. He has come to warn us.”
“It is true what they say, you are fluent in our tongue?” the leader asked him.
“While I was apprenticed at Long Hall, I learned your speech and writing both.”
“Hear this, then. We have lived in peace with humans for nine hundred years and more. We allied ourselves with your race against the Milantians in the Great War. When the battle ended, we were granted these lands by treaty. Our fiefdoms are meant to exist for all time.”
Hyam had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
“Since the period before the war, we were represented among the humans by an outsider. We called this one our emissary. In the same treaty that grants us these lands, the emperor assigned our emissary the title of Knight of the Realm. The last emissary passed on over a century ago. Since then, we have seen neither need nor benefit in naming another. Until now.”
Only at this point did Hyam realize what the leader was offering. “Sire—”
“We have no such titles among our people. There are no royal lines, nor any who stand when others kneel.”
“I will address the army on your behalf. But I do not seek any title.”
“Nonetheless, if you speak for us, it must be official.”
“But . . .”
When Hyam did not continue, the leader commanded, “Speak.”
But he could not. The same warning image glared before his awareness. Of the Guardians’ automatic response to any Milantian. Death.
“I will do as you ask,” Hyam said.
The leader asked the Assembly, “Where is the uniform?”
To his astonishment, it was Bryna who answered, “With us.”
“What, at Eagle’s Claw?”
“Once a generation it is remade. I watched my mother do this task some three years back. She trained me, as she was trained by her mother.”
A ripple of astonishment swept through the chamber. The leader demanded of the Seer, “Is this a sign?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” The old woman utterly despised being uncertain about anything. “Perhaps. Yes. Perhaps.”
The leader turned back to Hyam. “You will speak for us, now and in the future?”
Though the moment was laced with the darkness of half-truths and unspoken dread, Hyam said, “I will.”
“You accept the responsibility that comes with this position?”
“Those known to me now and revealed in the future.”
“For as long as your service is required?”
He had read the scroll regarding Ashanta oaths and gave the expected answer. “Whenever you call, I will come. Whatever the task, I will do.”
“Even if the duty means your certain death?”
“What is death except another transition?” Hyam recited from memory. “What is life but another chance to serve?”
The leader showed astonishment. “Who taught you these words?”
“The Long Hall contains hundreds of your scrolls. I learned them all.” What astonished him was the fact that he remembered. He remembered everything.
This time the old woman’s response was ironclad. “This is indeed a sign.”
“Very well.” The leader stood straighter still and gave a regal gesture to the Guardians by the side wall. “It is time to show the new emissary what we are capable of. What we hoped would never be revealed again.”
8
When the army appeared four mornings later, Hyam had mostly recovered from the experience of learning how the Ashanta made war. For two days he had wandered about the fields, his head splitting in pain, trailed by Bryna and the horse and the dog. She had repeatedly told him that it was a necessary act, to show their emissary the truth. And Hyam had reluctantly agreed. Though the truth had almost killed him.
The village fed him bowls of a stew that even a toothless babe could manage. And that was how Hyam felt for those first two days. Witless and without strength. Bryna scarcely left his side. Every few hours she spooned in a foul-smelling elixir that burned going down, but it quelled all nightmares and rebuilt his mental strength. Whenever she returned to the village, he walked in solitary circles with his dog and steed for company. He never set foot beyond the boundary stones. The Ashanta might have rendered him so weak. But they also shielded him. Of that he was mortally certain.
On the fourth morning Bryna arrived with an ancient woman in tow. The Seer who had announced his arrival in the Assembly walked with one hand on Bryna’s arm and the other holding a gold-tipped staff. The pole’s tip was branded by the same sign that adorned the boundary stones, the symbol for treaty.
Hyam bowed respectfully. When the dog nudged his leg, he pushed the beast away. “I am honored by your presence, Mistress.”
She swatted the air, uninterested in his deference. “You have joined with us a second time?”
“No, Mistress.”
“He drinks the healing potion,” Bryna pointed out. “It stills all gift of vision.”
“I know that, girl. I taught you the healing arts, remember? But this one had defied our understanding of bodiless transport.” She had a slight milky cast to her violet eyes, and Hyam wondered if she was blind. Then he decided that the loss of physical sight meant less than nothing to her.
“You will tell us if it happens again?” the Seer demanded.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“We cannot have an interloper secretly entering our Assembly.”
“I understand.”
“Being named emissary makes no difference. If you come, you must announce your presence.”
“I will do as you say.”
She nodded. “You comprehend why we insisted upon your experiencing our response to attack?”
He tasted several responses, but a slight shake of Bryna’s head kept him silent.
“It is the test every emissary must endure. So that they speak with true authority.” She pointed to the forest beyond the farthest boundary stones. “The army comes. They will be here b
y midday. There is a mystery that travels with them. A dark force, one that has denied our sentries the ability to detect their approach. A hunter alerted us. If you can, try to discern how they mask themselves.”
“I will do as you say.”
“If you see anything that speaks of magery, or if you sense an unearthly charge . . .” She waved her hand again. “But you are untrained. Warn this army that they enter our lands at their peril. Return safely. It is enough.”
As she turned away, Hyam said, “Mistress, if they refuse my entreaty, if they should attack . . .”
She replied over her shoulder, “Rest assured, Emissary. You will be protected. You have my word as Seer.”
“What if . . .”
She continued to walk away. “Ask your question.”
“What if this power you fear shields them from your weapon?”
She turned back so as to face him fully. The milky violet eyes carried a charge that peeled away the flesh and seared his bones. “I fear nothing, do you hear me? Nothing! What we revealed to you is not our only weapon. The others have not been used since the dark ages. It would be a terrible day when this power is revealed. An era of annihilation would result. But know this. The Ashanta will not be overcome.”
Hyam spent the remainder of the morning watching the army assemble. He had never seen so many people at one time, not even at the harvest festival, when all seventeen villages of the Three Valleys joined together. That was a merry time, the villages competing over which could provide the finest entertainment and food. Because the farthest villagers traveled all day to arrive, the event was in truth a feast that lasted three days.
The army’s encampment held a mockery of the valley’s complacent good cheer. Colorful flags fluttered atop tall staffs. Hundreds of tents with peaked crowns flapped in the rising wind. Hyam detested the clatter of metal and the shouts of men and the cry of horses and other animals. He despised their careless manner and the way they ignored the boundary stones. Their camp began at the forest edge and extended like a disease into the green pastures. Men-at-arms walked toward the Ashanta flocks and cut down the sheep and cows where they stood. Their brassy laughter carried across the meadows. Hyam ate another meal of stew, fed the dog, then curried and saddled his horse. He missed the silence of the past days, the rustling grass, the low of contented animals, the peace.