The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers)

by Frank P. Ryan

So the Mage of Dreams learned each of their names.

  “Do you know what it all means—or why we in particular were chosen?” Kate was a little cautious in befriending the dwarf mage, yet eager to know more of what role she had to play.

  “Might I examine your crystal?”

  She hesitated a moment before passing it to him.

  Qwenqwo folded his gnarled hands around the egg-shaped stone, with its green matrix speckled with metamorphosing arabesques of gold. He closed his eyes, deep in thought for many seconds. Then he passed it back to her with a wide-eyed glance.

  “What did you see in it?”

  “A force powerful indeed, yet close to nature. Perhaps, if I judge true, yours will be the gift of healing.”

  Kate liked the idea of a gift of healing, but she wasn’t altogether convinced by the vagueness of his reply. “You’re not just being nice to me?”

  Qwenqwo inclined his head, but his eyes sparkled at her through his bushy red eyebrows. “In your crystal, as in your heart, I truly sense great mystery and even greater latency of purpose.”

  “Mystery?” Mo piped up.

  “Why certainly, Mo! What else?” Then, with a sly grin, Qwenqwo reached into his pocket, withdrew Mo’s bog-oak talisman and handed it to her. “I found it hidden in the false mage’s chamber.”

  “Oh, brilliant! I thought it was gone forever.”

  Qwenqwo turned as if to leave them. But Mo put her hand on his arm. “What about my brother, Mark? His crystal was broken.”

  Qwenqwo nodded gravely. “That was indeed unfortunate. But you must understand that runestones are merely conduits to evoke the power vested in individual spirits.”

  “Then it really is true. Each of us really does have a special role to play?”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “And Mark hasn’t lost his special role?”

  Qwenqwo looked at Mark, observing how he was shaking his head, as if disbelievingly, at all this.

  Kate interrupted the awkward silence to thump Alan on the shoulder. “I don’t know about you fools, but I have a whole sackful of questions that need answering. And I’m going to start with you, Alan Duval—Mage Lord, my eye! Like, what really happened to Mo? And would you kindly explain what really went on back there in the harbor?”

  Alan laughed. “Hey, Kate—what do you think? You think I don’t have a whole bunch of questions too?”

  She punched his shoulder again. But he just lifted her up off the deck with a big hug. He refused to take his arms from around her waist.

  “Later—okay! We’ll have a long talk about everything.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise! But right now, I have some more introducing to do.”

  He took his friends in search of Milish and Ainé, explaining along the way what little he really knew about the Shee.

  Mark appeared to have recovered a little of his sarcastic humor. “Aw, gee,” he muttered, “so now we can add pussy cats to teddy bears!”

  Only twenty feet away, through a throng of Shee and Aides, Alan caught sight of Ainé’s gigantic battle-scarred form. She whirled around, as if sensing their approach. Alan dropped his voice to whisper into Mark’s ear. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let the Kyra hear you talk about pussy cats.”

  Later, Alan spoke to Milish on the foredeck, her eyes watchful over the elements and river currents. “You still anticipate danger?”

  “We can take no comfort from the fact that the Death Legion is not visibly in our wake.”

  “But why do you look south rather than north?”

  Milish said nothing, gazing straight ahead to where far-distant mountains were faintly outlined, copper-tipped in the morning sun, above the horizon of a smoky-blue mantle of forests. Row after row of scarps and jagged peaks arose in an overlapping sequence, like the waves of a limitless ocean, as he gazed farther southward into the blue-hazed distance.

  “To my people,” she confided, “these are the foothills of the Blue Mountains. But to the Kyra they are the Mountains of Mourning. Great passions and tragedy have ravaged this land in times all too recent as well as in the distant past.” Milish turned and Alan saw tears moisten the elegant woman’s eyes. “Ossierel approaches, with all of its terrible memories. It was, until recently, not just the spiritual capital of all of Monisle, and the seat of the governing council, but also a haven of beauty and tranquility. It grieves me beyond words to witness it as it is now reduced to ruin. For proud Ossierel was also the scene of the martyrdom of the last High Architect, Ussha De Danaan.”

  “I’ve heard Kemtuk mention her, Milish. But nobody has explained what really happened.”

  “The De Danaan was herself an oraculum-bearer, gifted with immense knowledge and the power of prophecy. For these gifts she is all the more condemned throughout Monisle since few can forgive her disastrous final decision, made even while Ossierel was being overrun by a great army of the Death Legion. She dismissed the Shee, whose sworn duty it was to defend the capital. Ainé’s sister-mother was the Kyra then—and that surrender cost her her life. Perhaps now you grasp something of the anger that still rages in the Kyra herself. No explanation was given as to why the High Architect abandoned her main defense. The survivors of her council—the Council-in-Exile—have denigrated her as a traitor. Yet, though I cannot explain her decision, no more can I bring myself to see her as a traitor.”

  “Aye,” interrupted a loud and angry voice, “but what the council woman does not explain is an even more profound and terrible mystery.” Alan spun round to find the dwarf mage standing close by, his feet splayed wide and an indignant rage contorting his face. “Ossierel,” he countered, “stands on the great island of the same name in the legendary Vale of Tazan. On that island long ago, in the time of the Dark Queen, Nantosueta, warring armies faced the same enemy as we do today, and it was the queen herself who called for assistance from all of the warrior people of Monisle. Thus twice have the armies of this continent fought the forces of darkness there.”

  Milish stood erect in silence, staring into the distance, as if reluctant to discuss such sensitive matters.

  “Aye,” Qwenqwo continued, “and it is also rumored, though the council woman would no more inform you of this, that the Shee were a different race in those times: women such as any others, who knew men. But they allied themselves with the Dark Queen and it was she who changed them.”

  Milish snorted. “Now you speak nonsense.”

  The dwarf mage shook his head, and a terrible sadness transfixed his features, as if the council woman’s comment had silenced him entirely.

  But Alan wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Qwenqwo, his curiosity piqued. “Who was this queen you mentioned—Nantosueta?”

  Qwenqwo blinked for several moments and swallowed, as if struggling even to speak because of some inner grief. “Some call her the girl-queen. For a girl she was, of no more than fifteen years during that ancient and disastrous war. Rumor has it that she aligned herself with a force of darkness that still reigns over her haunted valley. Indeed it is Nantosueta who, from her ancient tower above the island fortress, still casts her dark shadow over the valley through which we must pass. There the great river narrows as it cleaves the mountains, a slow and twisting course called in the language of my people ‘Kiwa Hahn,’ which means ‘the crooked throat.’”

  Kemtuk and Siam had also come to join what now appeared to be a conference, and wishing—or so it appeared in Kemtuk’s case—to contribute some wisdom.

  “The dwarf mage is right. Many and strange are the tales that warn against entering the Vale of Tazan. After the guardians of the pass are behind us, and within the long and winding valley, the river passes through a blighted land in which an ancient and forbidden forest has long endured. The trees of this forest are strange, such as are not seen anywhere else in our world. You might laugh at such foolishness. But I have met battle-worn men who told tales as we sat around the campfires of winter—tales that speak of ghosts of human origin, warr
iors who were sacrificed for the vanity of eternity. Other legends claim that they are not ghosts of warriors but the first people, the human animals created by the Earth Mother to please Akoli after his great slumber. Fearful for their survival at the hands of their children’s children, who threatened them with fire, they took the long and wearying journey to that valley, to preserve the old ways.”

  “Who knows,” interrupted Milish, as if to divert the conversation from realms that were disturbing to her, “where truth lies in the Vale of Tazan? But great are the powers of that forest. And if I dread to speak of it, it is because death itself is said to have protected the sanctuary with accursed powers. None dare profane the Rath that stands atop the pinnacle, not even the Death Legion. Such was once the protection of Ossierel, and even today it remains the last outer defense of Carfon from the degradation we have witnessed in Isscan.”

  Siam frowned, as if coming to terms with the clash of passions aroused by mysteries recent and ancient, and his fretful gaze flickered about him and over the altered timbers, with their pearly glow. “Believe me,” he growled, “when I say that even we, the Olhyiu people—who are the most experienced mariners in all of the land—must pass through this accursed vale, we dare not delay in those strange shadows or gaze long at the ruins that straddle the slopes but keep our prows steady in the center stream.”

  Then the chief’s eyes darted aloft to where the soaring wings of an eagle appeared to be following the course of the ship. Alan stared at the eagle with a prickling sense of disquiet before he deliberately brought them back to practicalities. “Siam, how far are we from this pass?”

  “A hundred leagues, or thereabouts.”

  Alan did the calculation in his mind. A league was three miles—roughly three hundred miles! They would reach it, traveling at their present speed, the day after tomorrow.

  He thought about the Mage of Dreams, realizing how little he really knew about him. With a sudden realization, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the runestone given to him when the dwarf mage had feared his own death and the capture of the runestone by the enemy. Holding it up against the pearly sky, Alan saw deeper than the etchings over the polished surface the symbol of an emerald eye. Even as he held the stone to the light, the image of the eye fell onto the deck at his feet, as if projected through a prism. Kemtuk cursed and backed away.

  In a blur of movement, Ainé appeared from the congested deck. With her face averted from the green eye, she seized the runestone and hurled it far out over the water.

  Qwenqwo’s roar of outrage exploded high into the air in the wake of the runestone. Yet another figure moved faster still, a cruciate shape of gold and gray, mantled with white, swooping in a lightning-fast arc from sky to water, the speed of movement faster than Alan’s eyes could follow, though he caught a glimpse of the ferocious raptor’s beak and talons. He barely had time to recognize the eagle that had been monitoring their passage before, in a swoop, it had snatched the runestone as it struck the surface of the water, perhaps a hundred yards distant from the ship, and, with a piercing shriek, beat its ascent back into the air, swiveling around to swoop low over the Temple Ship and drop the precious cargo into the dwarf’s outstretched hands.

  Ainé did not so much as blink as the outraged Qwenqwo Cuatzel confronted her on the foredeck, his eyes ablaze. The runestone was aloft in his left hand. In a moment, Ainé had drawn her sword. The blade was glittering a fearsome green, and the Oraculum of the Kyra was pulsating powerfully. “It would appear that poison still arrives in small bottles!”

  “Perhaps,” hissed the dwarf, his right hand drawing his battle-axe, and stretching to his full height, at which he barely reached the Kyra’s chest, “this is a witch warrior who would prove less arrogant if her legs were reduced to the level of her knees.”

  Alan reached out and took the stone from Qwenqwo’s hand, wrapping both his own hands about it. Closing his eyes he held it in the focus of his oraculum. Though his spirit became invaded by a sense of anger and loss, he could detect no evil. Opening his eyes and gazing deeply into the dwarf’s, no more did he witness any trace of treachery there. If anything the shadow that hung behind the eyes shared a common loss with the runestone.

  Alan returned the runestone to its master, then turned to question Ainé. “Why did you throw it away?”

  Ainé refused to reply, staring over all their heads toward the distant pass in the Blue Mountains.

  The dwarf’s face flushed redder than his hair. “Ask the witch warrior to talk of mendacity and slaughter—ask her of treachery in the Undying Forest!”

  “Ainé!” Alan spoke urgently to the silent Kyra, whose sword was only now returned to its scabbard. “What has happened in the past to cause you and Qwenqwo to distrust each other?”

  Neither dwarf mage nor Shee seemed prepared to enlighten him but continued to stand apart in an irreconcilable posture and gaze.

  “Qwenqwo—what’s going on?”

  The dwarf mage bristled for several more moments, then muttered, “Oracula are not confined to the almighty Trídédana any more than they are to be found solely upon the brow. My runestone, like the crystals of our young friends, is also a portal of power. Though it was no threat to you, Mage Lord, the Kyra, with her suspicious nature, misunderstood its purpose. To some it might appear to threaten, as a doubter might question loyalty.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was deceived, as you know, by a force of darkness more powerful and malevolent than any warlock. Yet ever, throughout my captivity, I vowed that, once free and the runestone returned to me, I would place there an eye such as you saw—not for malice but as a ward that looks into the heart of any who holds it, searching there for good or evil.”

  “And did my heart pass its test?” Alan asked, with the hint of a smile.

  “Your heart would pass all tests. You saw for yourself how the eye glowed. If it had discovered evil in you, it would have closed, thus becoming a consumer of the light for the one who attempted to use the stone.”

  “Yet,” Kate pressed him, “the false mage put Mo’s face into it! That was how he drew Alan into his trap.”

  “So it might appear—but is it not possible that one other than the false Mage was calling Alan?”

  “You?”

  “Not I!” Qwenqwo inhaled and his eyebrows drew close together. “But one whose need was far greater than my own!”

  Alan looked at Mo, who had so mysteriously lost her stammer. There was more in Qwenqwo’s eyes than he was saying, and Alan wondered if he should press him more for answers. But suddenly there was a delighted cry farther back along the deck. Alan’s gaze turned to a small cluster of women gathered about the stern who were urging their men to cast their nets into the water. Everybody hurried to join them, where a shoal of silvery salmon leaped and flashed in the ship’s white wake. The fish followed them like a living cloud, glittering and sparkling, intent, it seemed, on offering themselves.

  Alan couldn’t help glancing at Mo, who was standing quietly to one side, a look of entrancement about her features as her gaze met that of the Mage of Dreams. For the moment Kemtuk hammered with his staff on the deck to attract everybody’s attention.

  “Providence has offered to feed us. We should put aside our differences and spend an hour filling up the hold.”

  Many hours later, and with every belly satisfied with the feast of fresh fish, Qwenqwo was persuaded to tell them a story that aimed to throw light on the history of the Temple Ship.

  The Ark of the Arinn

  Sharing a pipe of tobacco with Kemtuk Lapeep, the Mage of Dreams joined the shaman in sitting cross-legged on the deck, joined in their inner circle by the four friends, Milish and the tribal elders. Ainé refused to join the circle but stood apart, while making no secret of the fact that she was listening intently.

  It had been Mo’s question that had prompted Qwenqwo to tell them more about the Temple Ship. “Can you solve a mystery for me? When Mark went funny back t
here and the crystal patterns appeared in his eyes, he talked to the ship as if he were talking to a real person.”

  Qwenqwo shifted his bottom to get himself comfortable, then smiled at Mo, his eyes appearing to glow an even brighter green. “Sailors are apt to talk to ships. But even so, it reminds me of a story—and you, Mo, more than any among your company knows how loath I am to tell stories!”

  Mo’s peal of laughter drew everybody’s attention to her blushing face. But already more people were gathering around Qwenqwo, drawing up a second circle, and there was a sharing of anticipation as the dwarf mage puffed on his pipe. “But now I see that there are too many curious faces to be disappointed. So I will share a little of what I know. For I am acquainted with a legend that tells of a very ancient people, of what the Olhyiu might call First Man and First Woman. Now, if you believe the legends, this man was known as Ará and the first woman as Quorinn and these people were henceforth known as the Ará-Quorinn—so that in the telling from one fireside to another they became known simply as the Arinn.

  “Whatever the truth of such legends, all people who now live in Monisle know them in some shape or form, whether by different names or in their stories of beginnings, for these were the first people to gather the fruits of land and shore. Some stories suggest they came here from another world in a great ship, which was known as the Ark of the Arinn. For, if the legends are to be believed, their vessel had powers bequeathed to it by the Changers themselves.”

  “The Changers?” asked Mo.

  “Another name for the Arinn, my friend. You see, the Ark responded, sense for sense, with the Changers’ wishes and desires. As you might imagine, such a wonder was beyond the comprehension of ordinary senses, for it was one thing and all things to those who travelled within it. Some believed it retained the capacity to fly through the air, with great wings beating, like a black-headed swan. Others that it could transform its substance, according to the instruction of its masters, even as the creatures, whether of myth or fact I cannot pretend to tell, known as changelings.”