Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  “Edlyn is confident she will save all your fingers,” Trace said.

  He sighed his satisfaction and managed, “Joelle?”

  “She sleeps. She scarcely leaves your side. Either the Mistress or I must command her to eat and rest.”

  “The crimson one?”

  “Destroyed,” Trace replied with deep satisfaction. “He and his vile citadel. Flung to the four corners of his once-proud city. His passing was so violent it shook the rocks upon which Falmouth stands.”

  Hyam licked his lips, then asked the question, not because he hoped but rather because he had to put his hope to rest. “The orb?”

  “The orb.” Trace sighed with shared pain. “The orb is no more. Not yours, not his. Both shattered into fragments small as colored dust.”

  Hyam knew the mage would wait as long as was required, but no amount of time would ease what he had to say. “I’ve lost it. The magic. It’s gone.”

  “You’re healing from a grievous trial, lad. Give yourself—”

  “I drew the power of four rivers up through me. Without the orb as a conduit. Just like you warned me. It burned away my ability to do magic. I felt it happen.” He took a ragged breath. “I feel it now.”

  The mage placed a hand upon Hyam’s arm. “A word of counsel, lad. The people of Falmouth need you to be happy.”

  “Happy.”

  “The foe is defeated. But many are struggling with severe losses of their own. Their hero cannot be seen to wallow in his loss. It would rob them of hope.”

  “I am no one’s hero.”

  Trace merely looked at him.

  “And what of my loss?”

  “For the moment, it must remain our secret. Ours and Mistress Edlyn’s.”

  Despite his hollow ache, he could see the truth to Trace’s words. “What will I do?”

  Trace removed his hand and leaned back, satisfied that the message had been delivered. “I don’t know, lad. I truly don’t. Yours is a quandary no mage has faced in a thousand years.”

  The old mage’s honesty was enough for Hyam to ease back into slumber. It felt like he was gone just an instant, but when he opened his eyes, Joelle was there to greet him with a kiss and the words, “You’re back.”

  The banquet in his honor was held that night. Hyam was carried in on a padded throne. The massive high-backed chair was covered with layers of furs. Joelle walked alongside him, dressed in a pale gown, and over this a long silver mantle embroidered with emeralds. She had shown it to Hyam as they had settled him into the throne, saying it was a wedding gift from the hidden kingdom. Hyam wore a robe of softest silk so as not to rub the still-healing scars. The back of his throne held a staff, upon which was draped the remnants of his emissary outfit, the leather charred and stained, one arm burned away entirely.

  Hyam was first carried to the castle forecourt, where all those gathered in the main keep could see him, know he was indeed alive, and roar their greeting. Then it was back into the hall with its great fires and shouted acclaim and speeches and minstrels and the clamor of hundreds. Hyam dozed through most of it and ate nothing.

  When the banquet finally ended, they carried him back and eased him into bed. Joelle embraced him, and held him with those grey and violet eyes, and said with utter conviction, “You will heal, my lord.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “My lord,” she said again. “I take this as my duty. To help you become whole.”

  And for that night, her confidence and her love were enough to settle his heart and soothe him into a sleep beyond loss, beyond wounds, beyond dreams.

  52

  They built for Hyam and Joelle a house in the border region between Falmouth city and the forest. Joelle went out daily to survey the progress. She shared with him the news that their home was being surrounded by a meadow of wildflowers, and this by trees that grew impossibly fast. All of Falmouth spoke of Hyam’s glade, and how it was planted by a folk no one ever saw.

  They settled Hyam back into the fur-draped throne and made a procession of carrying him home. They were led by Bayard, Earl of Falmouth. To either side of Hyam and Joelle strode two heralds. One carried the forbidden seal of House Oberon. The other bore a new purple standard, sewn with the Ashanta emblem. Behind them walked all the mages of Falmouth. The street resonated with a song drawn from a different era, written to celebrate a victory a thousand years ago. Kept alive in a city whose very existence had been erased from the realm’s records. By a folk considered outcast. Of no account or value to anyone. The conquerors of the crimson foe.

  The home itself was very fine, with great beams of varnished elm and strong walls and windows open to the sun and the summer winds. The city’s mages sang a benediction and everyone cheered, and all the people called Hyam friend.

  Hyam grew in strength and took to walking beyond the stone boundary wall, along the path to the forest. He often stood there with Joelle on one side and Dama on the other, clasping the crystal pipe. But he always turned around without lifting it to his lips.

  When the season changed and the leaves fell and rattled about his garden, they came to him. Trace held the gate open for Mistress Edlyn, who seemed to totter a bit as she walked down their front path. They embraced Joelle in turn, accepted her offer of tea, and settled down to either side of Hyam’s padded chair. They spoke of harvests and news of the clansmen who had sworn fealty to Bayard as their rightful liege. They spoke of peace and the rebuilding of Emporis, now the northernmost city of Bayard’s domain, and the wealth of arriving caravans.

  Finally Edlyn set aside her cup and said, “Gimmit has returned from Sutton and Port Royal.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “He has a new ship,” Trace said. “And he has laid the keel for a second, to be skippered by his eldest boy. Gimmit said it was either give the lad his own command or toss him overboard in a heavy sea.”

  Edlyn went on, “He brought word of yet another unseen foe.”

  Hyam glanced at Joelle, who until now had done her utmost to keep the outside world at bay. But she only returned his gaze, saying all that was required with silence.

  “Cast back your mind to the citadel in Havering,” Trace said.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “And I would not ask, except that it is suddenly quite important.” The old mage sounded almost cheerful. “The sheriff’s son told you that someone was coming from the capital.”

  “To question me,” Hyam recalled.

  “Someone powerful enough to order an earl to keep you untouched until they arrived.”

  “So?”

  “Think, lad. The crimson mage was in Emporis. Five hundred leagues from the capital.”

  “Which means there was another,” Joelle said.

  “Perhaps,” Edlyn countered. “Perhaps merely a spokesperson.”

  Hyam tried to resist the urge, but his curiosity won out. “What did Gimmit say?”

  “Rumors of the dark force still swirl about the palace. King Ravi has not been seen since the day Emporis fell.”

  “It proves nothing,” Hyam said.

  “True. But the risk is there.”

  “What do you want from me?” Hyam lifted the hand now scarred and only partially functioning. “I have lost my power.”

  “There is no sign of its return?” Edlyn asked.

  “It was burned out of me. It is gone.”

  “The orb is known to hold a healing force,” Trace said.

  “We tried that while I was still in the castle cellar,” Hyam reminded him. “Four times. It did nothing save cause me pain.”

  “But your wisdom remains, lad. And that is what we most need.”

  “Join us in the castle keep,” Edlyn said. “Help us prepare. In case the rumors are true.”

  But though they argued and pressed and pleaded, Hyam would not agree. They finally left when he grew too exhausted to listen further.

  But as they departed, Hyam asked Trace, “Did you ever know of a
wizard named Yagel?”

  “Of course!” The old mage smiled delightedly. “Yagel was to be Master of Havering Long Hall, but he never returned from his year among the common folk. We knew him by a different name, of course. Yagel was how he was known before. He was my closest friend among the acolytes—oh my, how long ago was that! I suppose he gave up his Long Hall name when he chose to remain in the outer world. But it could only be the same man as my old friend. Not fat but wide as a beer barrel? I became Master in his stead. There are many a day when I am certain the elders made a terrible choice.”

  “He fell in love . . .” Something checked him, as though the secret was not his to share.

  “I’m glad for him, and for your telling me he’s both alive and happy.”

  “He saved my life.”

  Trace walked back over and settled a hand upon his shoulder. “For that I am gladdest of all.”

  53

  He expected Gimmit to arrive the next dawn, but it was another five days before the captain appeared. He brought with him a motley crew consisting of three sons, Gault, Adler, and Meda. It was the most people Hyam had seen at one time since the procession, and he disliked how the air felt pressed from the room. Dama must have picked up on his unease, for the dog growled at their entry, the first sound she had made in days.

  Gimmit was the only one not concerned. He pointed at Adler and told the dog, “Bite that one if you’re hungry. I wouldn’t make a decent mouthful.”

  Hyam knew they had come to discuss the rumors, but he did not give them a chance. Twice they started to speak about the realm beyond the black cliffs, and twice he steered back to safer topics.

  But as they accepted defeat and made their farewells, Gimmit was the last to rise. He stopped near the doorway and looked back at Hyam in his high-backed chair. “There will come a day when I grow too old and too feeble to captain my ship. I still manage well enough now, but I can feel the winter’s bite, and I know the day’s not far off. My boy has built a second cabin where I’ll be welcome to sail away my dotage. Which is most likely daft in many people’s eyes, and if my dear wife were still here, I’d probably feel different. But she’s been gone for years now, and I never did give a tinker’s toss for what other people thought.”

  Gimmit stumped back across the plank flooring to glower at Hyam from close range. “But here’s what I do know.” He poked Hyam with a stubby finger. “The tide shifts and flows no matter what I say or how much I moan. The only choice I have is how I decide to meet the day.”

  He nodded once, twice, then turned and started for the door. Then, from the front walk, he bellowed, “Now lift your idle bones out of that chair and get to work!”

  The next morning Hyam ventured into the village market, enduring the boisterous welcomes, insisting upon paying for what he selected. The day after, he asked for Matu to be brought up from the palace stables, and his horse arrived with a beautiful mare following behind. The dappled grey was a gift from the earl and had a snow-white mane and a pleasing disposition. He and Joelle took to riding out in the mornings, down to the market and around the sea-draped headlands that rose to join the city walls. Joelle always wore the uniform fashioned for her from Meda’s castoffs, with the Milantian sword rising behind her left shoulder. Hyam resisted the urge to tell her to change and leave the sword at home. One glance at the woman’s stern expression was enough to know such demands would go unheeded.

  Afternoons Hyam rode out with Dama for company, tracing his way along the forest, down to where the meadows met the river and from there out to where the black rock rose like the remnants of some prehistoric growth. There he would sit and watch the sea for hours. Sometimes he felt a glimmer of hope return, as though he could just glimpse a future beyond his loss, a purpose beyond magic.

  Then, on the eleventh afternoon, he returned home to find Bryna with his wife.

  The friend from his childhood was not there in person, of course. But she was present just the same, and from the way the two women stood in silent communication, Hyam had the distinct impression that her visit was neither singular nor even rare.

  He had no idea how he perceived the Ashanta’s presence at all. Or what it might signify.

  Joelle noticed him standing in the doorway and exclaimed, “You’re back!”

  He covered his confusion by easing himself down into the high-backed chair. “I am.”

  “You’re hungry and you’re tired.”

  He saw how Bryna watched this exchange, the calm Ashanta mask not quite hiding . . . what? And how did he notice this? Certainly there was nothing about her translucent form to suggest a sense of envy. And yet there was a genuine flavor to Bryna’s observation, one of lingering regret over everything she would never know. And with a soft intake of breath, Hyam realized this was part of the Sentry’s role. They forfeited the right to wed or love another and gave themselves totally to extending their senses, first out beyond the boundary stones, then as Seers beyond all human boundaries entirely.

  Hyam found himself seeing as Bryna might. Joelle bustled about the kitchen, bringing him a brew made from forest herbs. And in that instant he realized they were gifts from Elves who came when he was not home, left in silent homage, a connection forged in their quiet and secret manner. He saw the love in Joelle’s eyes and the strain that he had willfully remained blind to. How she had worries and woes of her own, but ones she kept carefully hidden away, so that all she showed him was what he needed most. Love. Support. Healing strength.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Something in the simple words caused her to look up in surprise. And she smiled, and with that smile he saw the great good fortune he had been granted through marriage to this woman. A lady who gifted him with what neither of them thought would ever be theirs to claim. A haven. A home.

  “Bryna came to visit,” Joelle said.

  “Did she?”

  “She brought news, but that can wait.” Joelle returned to the kitchen, exchanging a smile with the woman she assumed only she could see. “She sends you best wishes from all the Assembly.”

  “Thank you,” he said again, knowing the words were inadequate, but he would do better. In time.

  Bryna turned to leave. Hyam sensed a silent communication pass between the two women, one confirmed by how Joelle paused in her preparation of their evening meal to reach out. It was the casual gesture of an old friend, one returned by a woman whose race knew no word for farewell.

  And in that moment, Hyam knew both of them needed to hear his words. “I think tomorrow we should go meet with Edlyn.”

  Joelle’s arm dropped, and she turned to him. Her face revealed a deep and visceral longing. Or perhaps it had always been there, and he was only now willing to see. “I can come as well?”

  “I would not go without you,” he replied. “You need to resume your training.”

  “You don’t mind? I feared, well, it might make you sad.”

  The hollow ache did not return, for it had never left. He only noticed it more clearly. Even so, “Trace will be happy to pester you again.”

  She smiled so fiercely her eyes glazed a bit, carried by a yearning she had done her best to deny. “I won’t sleep a wink.”

  Bryna was watching him. She turned to Joelle for a moment, and his wife said, “The Ashanta wish to recognize you at an Assembly.”

  He had not actually heard the exchange, but there was a subtle resonance, as though he was learning the undertones of a silent tongue. “I think that is an excellent idea, if I can manage.”

  “If you are unable to travel, they will join you here as they did by the Elven gates. And Hyam—”

  “The Elves want me to visit their hidden realm.”

  She laughed, a melody carried on new aspirations. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t, my love.”

  Bryna turned away once more. As the Ashanta started to leave, she lifted her hand. It could not have been in farewell, for the concept was not known to her. Rather, it
was in salutation and acknowledgment. And not to Joelle. To him.

  1

  Falmouth Port was gripped by an early winter storm. The guards huddled by the iron fire-barrels, though the flames did little good, even down in the sheltered palace forecourt. Upon the battlements, the cold bit like nature’s acid. The narrow stone passage that rimmed the city wall was treacherous with fresh ice. The soldiers on duty endured the long hours and searched silent roads. The main street leading from Falmouth’s gate to the northern highway was empty, for the wind seemed determined to drive the sleet straight through anyone who dared leave their safe havens. The seasoned troops did a slow circuit of the battlement, then slipped inside the tower room for a bit of warmth and brew heated on the central fire. Which meant only one soldier noticed the solitary man that hour before dawn. At least, when the night was over and the soldier was forced to endure the earl’s harsh questions, he was fairly certain the lone traveler had been a man.

  The traveler stopped alongside the outermost inn and blacksmith stables. His back was to the distant vales and the lonely route leading to Emporis, the city at the edge of the known world. He stood motionless, as though the night was not struck by the fiercest storm any could recall that early in the winter season. His cloak shivered and rippled, but otherwise the tempest did not touch him. He seemed to study the gates and towers intensely, though the lone soldier could not be certain, for the traveler’s face remained hidden beneath a cowl.

  The soldier’s unease mounted and twice he called for his mates, but the wind clawed the words away. The guard was young and courageous and known for his artistry with blade and bow. But the longer he stood there, the more his belly was gnawed by something he could not name. He gripped his sword’s pommel and forced himself not to flee.

  Finally the cloaked figure broke off his inspection and turned down a side lane. The soldier felt his chest unlock. He watched the empty road for a time, until his best mate clapped him on the shoulder and told him to go warm himself by the fire. But the young soldier knew he was obliged to take a dreaded move.