by Thomas Locke
“Your heads are empty! Your brains have been wasted away by all the drivel you pour in them when you should have been studying!”
Even before she could make out the words, she knew it was Trace, for the acolytes laughed in response. They loved the old man as fiercely as the Doorkeeper and the Librarian loathed him, perhaps even more. Trace remained Master of the Havering Long Hall because his friends were also his allies, and his allies were the strongest group within the fractious hall. But Trace often confided to her that being Master was like trying to herd goats—simply because they were tethered did not mean the beasts would go where you wanted.
Joelle worked her way closer to the classroom, her gaze focused on the sweeping broom, her heart twisted by angry longing. She heard Trace shout in mock rage, “No, no, no! Dunderheads, the lot of you. Stop kneading the spell like it’s bread you’re making! Weave the power. Let it flow from your hands!”
Joelle busied herself outside the doorway, just in case another wizard happened by. She had traveled again at dawn, arriving at a point where the crimson mage rode alone through some great forest. The red-cloaked wizard had sensed her presence and turned. The glinting black insects had risen like a cloud from his hood, hunting, hunting. Instantly Joelle had been drawn away, returning to relative safety within the Long Hall. Even so, the dread remained.
And then there was the other problem. Joelle could not get the spell to work.
It was the first time she had been stymied, and it infuriated her. The scroll outlined a weapons spell, an implement of warcraft. It claimed to transform a blade into lightning, a hammer into a mace that could bludgeon through stone. It was what she had been hunting, the last item she required before escaping. But she could not make it work.
Joelle counted the stages as she swept, reciting them under her breath, seeking what she had missed. She knew she had done it correctly, but there was something . . .
“No, no, no! You are the worst crop of dunderheads it has ever been my misery to instruct. And you, you imbecile, you are the worst dunderhead of them all! Come over here so I can thump that great lump growing between your shoulders.”
A voice she recognized retorted, “I am doing what the scroll says to—”
“Forget the scroll. Did you not hear a single word I said?”
“I heard everything you said, Master. You said—”
“I said that when it comes to warcraft, no scroll is complete.”
Joelle froze in mid-sweep.
“One crucial element is always missing. It is intended as a safety mechanism, like the lock that requires a key. And it is intended to instruct. Because an intelligent student, which you most certainly are not, would know that in order for the spell to work upon an inanimate object, it requires . . . what? Anyone?”
The insight was so powerful, Joelle actually spoke aloud. “A binding spell.”
“Precisely! Who said that? Perhaps I was wrong, and there is at least one student here who is not a complete waste of my time. Come, come. Who spoke?”
Joelle heard footsteps farther down the hall and resumed her sweeping just as a mage rounded the corner. Trace’s voice continued to drone on behind her. But the key was now in the lock, and she would soon open the portal.
And go free.
11
Hyam’s awareness came and went in fleeting waves. He knew only brief glimpses of a world beyond his eyelids. Each hint was lanced by the agony in his head, so deep it hurt to rise to wakefulness. He departed as swiftly as he arrived.
He had no idea how often he came and then left again, for in those early days he could not think clearly enough to count. All he knew for certain was that he had seen stars and sunlight both. How many days passed, Hyam had no idea. But gradually he lingered for longer periods, and his other senses began to return. He felt his head being lifted, and he swallowed a putrid brew that burned as it went down. He had the impression of figures that drifted about him. He smelled woodsmoke at night and heard soft conversation—a man’s voice and occasionally a gentle speech in return. There was something to this second voice that touched his heart, reaching through the herbal fog and sparking a mysterious yearning for what he had never known before.
The next time he woke Hyam felt sunlight upon his face. He recalled a dream of musical chimes, but when he opened his eyes the melody became a metallic clatter. He saw pots and pans and knives strung from a rafter overhead. The world rocked gently, and there was a rhythmic creaking timed to the swaying motion. Hyam lifted his head a fraction and sensed that he was back for good.
“Ah, finally! Beloved, observe, the stranger decides to join us. Is that not wonderful? No, no, lad, don’t try to sit up on your own.” The rocking ceased, and strong hands helped him rise to a seated position. A bearded face, seamed by years and miles and hardship, smiled with astonishing tenderness. “Welcome back to the land of the living. It is not altogether a delightful place, I admit. But better than the alternative, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man was squat and rotund as a barrel with legs. He wore a tinker’s garb, simple brown homespun with a broad trader’s belt about his middle. He drew a ladle from a water barrel lashed above the wagon’s rear wheel and watched approvingly as Hyam drank. “More?”
“Please.”
“Elixir of life, this. Nice to see you drinking on your own, isn’t it. Oh my, yes. For a time, my dear one and I feared we had lost you to the world of shadows.”
Hyam finished off a second ladle, then croaked, “How long have I been out?”
“Oh, I don’t have much interest in the counting of days, young man. The forest keeps a different sort of time. Day follows night, I walk, I enter another hamlet, I sell my wares, I move on. You have been with us for a time, hasn’t he, my dear. You have been with us long enough to finish off two jugs of my sweet one’s strongest elixir. Four days? Six? Such tallies are beyond me.” The tinker pointed into the woodland bordering the trail. “There’s a creek up ahead, in case you’re ready for a wash.”
He’d been down long enough for his limbs to feel watery as he climbed from the wagon. Only when he stood on trembling legs did he realize he was stark naked. He decided it did not matter and gratefully allowed the tinker to slip beneath his arm and support much of his weight as he walked to where the creek formed a waist-deep pool. The twenty paces were enough to leave him panting. He lowered himself into the cool water, groaning from the pleasure.
The tinker brought a jar of soap and some pungent herb that he claimed would aid in the healing. Hyam mixed it with clean sand and spent more than an hour scrubbing his hair and skin. The tinker handed him a straight razor, and Hyam scraped away his beard. Being clean shaven left him feeling immensely better. The tinker made camp in a miniature clearing nearby, one that bore the shadow of a fire pit that had not been used in a long time, certainly not that season. Hyam was hugely glad his mind was returning to a state where he could notice such matters.
The tinker offered him a clean blanket with which Hyam could dry and then cloak himself. As he made his slow way back to the wagon, a shadow flitted in from the forest and bounded through the camp. The wolfhound’s appearance filled Hyam with such abrupt joy his eyes filmed over. He fell to his knees and embraced the thick neck with all the strength he could muster.
“The beast leaves you for a hunt, then returns and fits himself to your side.” The tinker stirred a metal pot, tasted, and nodded his satisfaction. “Kit yourself out and come grab a plate.”
Hyam noticed his Ashanta gear was freshly washed and draped upon the wagon’s side. He drew simpler garb from his satchel and dressed, though the effort left him exhausted. When the dog nudged his thigh, he almost toppled over. The tinker waited as he settled on a stump, then offered him a tin plate of stew. The scent left him giddy with hunger. Hyam tasted a wealth of flavors—forest roots and a meat he thought was probably quail.
“This is wonderful.”
“Aye, my dear one is a fine hand at woodland feasts.”
The tinker seated himself on a neighboring log and dug in. Otherwise the clearing was empty. “Do you want to tell me your name, lad?”
“Hyam,” he replied. “And I will tell you whatever else you want to know.”
“I’m just a simple tinker, lad.” He turned so as to inspect the purple clothes hanging from the side of his wagon. But all he said was, “Most things about this world are beyond my ken. More stew?”
“Please.” Hyam accepted the plate and said, “I don’t know the words to thank you. I doubt they exist.”
The tinker ladled himself another helping, settled comfortably, ate a few bites, then said, “There we were, making our way along a trail so empty we could claim it as our own. Heading east from the Three Valleys, we were, wondering if we would meet another soul before we crossed the forest. When the most dreadful noise rose from behind us. Banshee wails, strong enough to wake the dead.”
The recollection of what he had experienced left Hyam unable to eat another bite or even hold the plate steady. The dog sensed his distress and fitted her head between Hyam’s arm and knee. She huffed softly and licked his face, drawing him back.
If the tinker noticed, he gave no sign. “I did what anyone would do in my place, which was to quake in my boots and push on hard as my nags could manage. When all of a sudden I heard hooves bearing down upon us. Suddenly this great beast of a warhorse appeared, and beside it ran the largest wolfhound I had ever seen or heard of. And there upon the back of that steed was a man. He was completely gone from this earth, and yet he was still alive. I was certain of that by the way he kept hold of the horse’s mane. I was so astonished by the sight I froze. Your horse was smarter than me, for it slowed and halted and nudged me with its nose. And then to my astonishment this great wolf stepped forward and did the same. Pressing me to do what I could for the man they clearly loved.” The tinker’s grin shone in the firelight. “There was little else I could do but obey. My dearest one agreed. Otherwise your two companions might have trampled me to the earth and devoured me on the spot.”
Hyam glanced around the thickening gloom. His destrier was cropping grass on the clearing’s other side, along with the tinker’s two swayback mares. The dog lay beside him, panting softly and staring at the fire. Otherwise there was no life, no sound. Hyam glanced at the tinker and decided he was more than comfortable with a bit of lonely daftness.
The dog lifted her head and searched Hyam’s face with eyes that gleamed golden in the firelight. Abruptly Hyam decided it was time for the naming. And he knew what that name must be.
He stroked the fine pelt and said, “Your name is Dama.”
The word was Elven and signified a lifelong friend, and far more besides. A dama was bound by blood and bone and life’s breath. Where one went, there went the other. The Elven word for trust was drawn from the same root.
The wolfhound woofed her approval and licked his face.
Then Hyam noticed how the tinker was studying him.
A smile flitted across his features, and he asked, “You speak the forest tongue, lad?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Well then.” The tinker turned and addressed the shadows beyond the clearing. The hair on Hyam’s neck rose as he heard the tinker speak in Elven. “You hear that, my dearest one? We have a new friend. One that honors the forest ways. Come, come, my dear. There is no need for shyness. Join us in the joy of new amity.”
Hyam wondered momentarily if he had reentered the drugged dream state. And his confusion was certainly excusable. For at the clearing’s other side appeared an impossibility. The woman’s skin was the color of minty springtime leaves. Her eyes were slanted above high cheekbones and colored as golden as the dog’s. Her body was slender and supple as a young sapling, her hair woven with forest blooms.
“This can’t be,” Hyam breathed. For according to the Long Hall scrolls and valley lore both, no Elf had walked the earth for over a thousand years.
“Aye, I could not agree more, lad. How could one so beautiful love the likes of me? But she does, and I count myself the luckiest of men. And not just men either! The most fortunate being to ever have walked a forest trail.” His boundless joy sent him to his feet, where he extended his arms in grateful welcome. “Meet my Aiyana. My beloved. My Elven delight.”
12
The tinker’s name was Yagel, and he greeted Hyam each morning with the easy cheer of lifelong friends. They spoke only Elven now, which Hyam disliked but used out of courtesy. The tinker was kind as he corrected Hyam’s pronunciation and offered finer points of grammar and speech. For a tinker he was remarkably well versed, even spouting bits of Elven poetry when the mood came upon him. But when Hyam ventured to ask of his background, Yagel laughed off such questions as inconsequential. “My beginnings are so far behind me it would be like describing the flow of a forgotten river. I have trekked these forest trails so long, I know no other life.”
The Elf remained shy and silent. Occasionally Hyam heard a soft murmur as she addressed her mate, gentle as a dawn breeze, mellifluous as birdsong. He never made out the words. Aiyana never spoke to him at all. Even meeting his gaze for an instant was a trial. She was most comfortable drifting through the forest to one side of the route or the other. From time to time he felt her gaze touch him. Hyam did his best not to show he noticed. Whenever he forgot himself and glanced her way, Aiyana was already gone.
His strength returned gradually. On the third night after his awakening, he refused the elixir and Yagel did not insist. Three times that night he woke from terrible dreams, fighting ghouls he hoped could not track him on these forest trails. The third time, as he forced himself back down onto the sweat-stained pallet, he noticed Aiyana standing by a nearby tree, watching him with sympathy and sorrow. He drifted away, wondering if Elves slept at all, and if so, did they dream.
Dama adored the green woman. The wolfhound greeted her rare appearances with a glance at Hyam, clearly asking permission to sidle over. Aiyana petted the dog with feather-light strokes. It was the only time she willingly met Hyam’s gaze. Once she even smiled, and Hyam carried the memory as he would a treasure.
Twice Hyam tried to describe what had happened—the army and the assault and the Ashanta response. Both times the tinker shook himself like a dog rising from a pool. “I am not fit for such goings-on, lad. I know some tinkers trade in news like I do cutlery and mirrors. I am not one of them.”
“There are things I need to relate, and more I need to know,” Hyam replied stubbornly.
“I’m sure that’s so, lad. But such matters trouble my beloved. So I have found it best to remain blind to the outside world. Which is a good thing, since my addled head could scarcely make heads or tails of it when I was at my best. Which I most certainly am not now.”
“What about the Elves? I’d always heard they are no more.”
“My darling Aiyana does not speak of her heritage,” he replied firmly. “I am grateful that she remains beside me. My heart is full, my days peaceful, my mind content. She has her secrets, Aiyana does. And I respect that. What she wishes me to know, she will tell me.” He could see his response did not satisfy Hyam, so he added, “What you need is one of the educated folk. A person whose head is trained to hold all manner of arcane knowledge.”
Hyam felt a different sort of dread. “I was told to visit a Master Trace, head of the Long Hall in Havering.”
“There you are, then.” The tinker pointed ahead. “Five days farther on, the road forks. The northern trail borders the forest on to Mineral Springs, then Gotha, and finally the provincial capital of Calvert. The southern route passes through Melcombe town, climbs the Galwyn Ridge, and heads straight as an arrow to Havering.”
Hyam found it noteworthy how the supposedly simpleminded tinker could know their precise position. “How far from the fork to the city?”
“Three days past Melcombe, four if you take it slow. Which you should. The Galwyn Hills are steep and the terrain harsh, mostly desert ridges, shaped by wind and
time. I went there once in earlier days. Dreadful place. But to go round the hills southward is a month’s trek. Take the Galwyn Road, but slow, lad, slow.” The tinker gave a ponderous nod. “We go north along the forest route. I dislike straying more than a few paces from my Aiyana, and my Elven sprite never leaves her forest. Not for an instant nor a breath.”
Each day Hyam took long loops through the forest, walking farther and faster, pushing hard, strengthening himself. He carried his bow and had his dog for company, and he managed to bag several birds for the stew pot. But mostly he just walked and healed and reveled in the forest peace. He suspected Aiyana was never far off, even when he saddled the destrier and rode farther afield. He welcomed the company, though he suspected her presence was what kept away the larger game.
The forest here was ancient indeed. The trees towered so high that on the stillest mornings their boughs were wrapped in mist, like they had managed to trap the clouds themselves. The undergrowth was springy soft with eons of untouched mulch. The air was sweet and pungent. Several times each day Hyam stood still and silent, breathing in the air, wondering if he might ever feel the power rise from the earth and course through him again. Perhaps it had been somehow tied to his field and his valley. Or perhaps the spectral battle had left his spirit too wounded to ever know such things again. No doubt there would come a time when he would mourn the loss. For the moment, however, he was simply grateful to be alive and walking the verdant woodlands, with the sunlight sparkling through high distant leaves, and with an Elf for an unseen companion.
Four mornings later he left the destrier tied to the rear of the tinker’s wagon, though his horse snorted and pawed the trail in wordless entreaty. He carried his bow and a quiver as he set out with Dama. South of the trail, the first jagged edges of the hills encroached into the forest. The ridges rose in forested waves, though the rocky earth seemed capable of giving a mighty shrug and divesting itself of all growth. Dama moved ahead of him, startling two grouse hiding in a thicket, but otherwise finding no scent worth tracking. Hyam found himself too busy bidding the woodlands a silent farewell to shoot the birds. He walked and sought to ingest as much as he could of the stillness and healing green.