The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers)

by Frank P. Ryan

  “What did you do, just then?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  The sun was still above the horizon, and its bright glow pervaded the chamber. Mark sat in a bewildered panic next to Kate on the window sill and looked at the fantastic play of light and shadow that now filled the chamber. The patterns were increasing in complexity and wonder, thrilling his senses with a flickering motion of reds and indigos, leaf-greens and gold—as if threatening to become alive. He stiffened, his heart beating violently, as suddenly there was a more powerful burst of illumination—as if the sun out there in the Valley of Tazan had come out from behind a cloud.

  He turned to Kate and whispered, “How can this be happening?”

  Kate didn’t reply.

  Turning to the chamber, Mark found himself looking into a summery glade. Young saplings hung over a dappled stream. He could have reached out and touched the bluebells and forget-me-nots that grew on the banks. He could hear the burbling of the water, the faint sigh of the breeze through the leaves and the trembling lances of reeds. Then, no matter how impossible it ought to be, he heard birdsong. He saw a dark-haired girl laughing as she pirouetted among the slender trunks, as abandoned as the breeze, now dancing forward to take his hand and lead him down to the stream.

  An exquisite thrill ran through his fingers at the touch of her hand. He looked at her face, saw that it really was human—the face of a real girl and not a doll, like the succubus. She was beautiful—lovely.

  But his experience with the succubus, Siri, still filled him with dread. Dropping into the glade, he tested the pebbles through the stream’s rippling current. They felt solid, wet . . . real. He splashed the water over his face, felt the icy spray of contact, the refreshing sensation on his skin.

  He forced himself to remember Qwenqwo’s words: Look for the shade of one whose fate it is to linger there.

  What was really going on? Was it all just a dream—or some kind of hallucination? It felt too real to be either of these. He was conscious, able to question what was happening. Somehow, in spite of the fact it was completely impossible, it was real.

  “Will you share the joy of the forest with me?” The girl’s voice rang out through the wonder of the woodland scene.

  Laughing hoarsely, his happiness cutting through any lingering disbelief, Mark threw off his boots and axe to run with the girl through the soft meadow, loving the soft feel of the grass and loam under his feet. Mark knew he was looking at the girl queen, Nantosueta. But she didn’t seem evil as Qwenqwo had described her. Even her voice was girlish. Lovely! Mark thought it again, blinking several times in astonishment at himself, at his own reactions.

  How could he be imagining anything like this?

  Through an arbor of blossoming trees, he saw the great ascending spiral of stone steps rising from a mountain meadow as they must have appeared two thousand years ago, those steps above what was now the plateau of Ossierel, climbing to the great pentagonal tower on the summit of the tor. That tower, in this vision, had no figure on the pinnacle. He recalled Qwenqwo’s words: Discover what lesson, if any, is to be learned from it.

  What could he possibly make of this?

  Two thousand years ago the young queen, Nantosueta, had faced the same forces of evil that they faced today. A desperate war had been fought out in the forests and on this plateau. The enemy forces had broken through into the cloisters and cells below this very chamber. They had murdered everybody and destroyed the spiritual center of the temple complex, then battered down the doors to get to Nantosueta herself. What must have gone through the mind of the queen in those final desperate moments?

  Mark thought that he knew now what Nantosueta would have considered. One last act of defiance . . .

  The will to defeat those forces of evil would have overwhelmed everything else until, however brutal her actions now appeared, to her in that moment they became her only hope. Something terrible, something extraordinary, had been invoked by Nantosueta in those final minutes, as the enemy battered their way through that final bronze door.

  Mark emerged, blinking, from the vision. “You were always a step ahead of me, Kate.”

  Kate gazed back at him without replying as the crystal matrices metamorphosed from moment to moment in her eyes. A power was controlling Kate, one that Mark didn’t understand. Then she was directing him back into the vision, as if she had conjured up the greatest thrill of all.

  Mark was back in the summery glade once more, aware of the young woman who had danced with him only moments ago, but who now stood among the trees, silent and still, as if observing him. Her hair was a downy cataract of blue-black and she was dressed simply in a white linen gown and sandals. Her face, bare of adornment, was terrible with purpose, her left hand splayed toward the ground and her right arm raised to the sky. On her brow she bore an oraculum, an inverted triangle of the Trídédana, similar to Alan’s, but where Alan’s was a ruby, her oraculum was black.

  He didn’t dare to blink, so arresting was the realization that was now running through his mind.

  There was barely time to take in those gesturing hands—the one, as it seemed, stretched to the heavens, and the other, with its fingers and thumb extended over her beloved valley—and then she was gone.

  It was as if the sun had set over the valley. The image of the woodland scene faded at once. Mark and Kate stood in the thick dust, facing each other beside the crystal window in the empty chamber. Kate looked bewildered, but Mark was relieved to see that her eyes had returned to normal. He took her shoulders between his own trembling hands.

  “Did you see . . . ?”

  Kate nodded, tears rising into her eyes.

  Mark helped Kate to climb the final narrow spiral of steps. They stood on the platform cut from the rock of the crag, above which the gigantic statue stood sentinel over the pass. Their gazes lifted skyward to discover that the beautiful face of the girl in the glade had been replaced with a mask of fury. In her brow was the triangle, black as obsidian.

  The Fall of Ossierel

  With night already closing around them, the elders welcomed the returning Mark and Kate to an urgent gathering around an open fire on the flagged floor of the great hall. Alan, who was sitting between Qwenqwo Cuatzel and Bétaald, smiled at Kate as she joined them. But his face was pale and his eyes animated. Kate realized it could only mean one thing. It frightened her so much she chose not to sit with Alan but between Ainé and Milish, while Mark took his place next to Mo, taking the hint from the Kyra to remove his axe from his back and place it in front of him, one blade resting on his thigh. Each took a drink from a porcelain cup provided by Bétaald, a herbal tonic prepared by the Aides to refresh and clear the mind. Incense and aromatic spices were added to the flames to banish the stale odors of the old building. Qwenqwo explained Alan’s desire to explore the memories of this war-ravaged citadel. At this many eyes fell in mute reflection on the flames; Milish was the only one to look directly into Alan’s eyes, with a hint of concern for him, before her eyes also gazed into the fire.

  “I know there are those among us who will counsel against this action, yet still the Mage Lord is faced with a grave and difficult problem.” Qwenqwo spoke quietly, but could not conceal his own anxiety. “He believes that he and his three friends were brought to this world for a specific purpose through a voice of enchantment. That very purpose is the question that must be answered, and answered soon, for great danger threatens us here, where so much blood has been spilt in recent and ancient times.

  “The Mage Lord senses that the key lies with the death of Ussha De Danaan, last High Architect, within these sacred walls. Why should the De Danaan, widely renowned as the bravest and most prudent of leaders, abandon the ancient capital to the forces of the enemy, commanding the defenders to flee and thus ensuring her martyrdom, along with her council, and abandoning Monisle and its peoples to the ravages of the Death Legion?”

  Ainé spoke tersely. “Not all the defending forces abandoned the
High Architect. Many of the garrison of Shee refused her order and remained true, as, from childhood memory, I recall.”

  The dwarf mage bowed. “I am aware that the Kyra’s sister-mother, herself the Kyra at that time, remained to save what lives she could, ultimately at tragic cost to herself. Nevertheless, I must caution that this dream journey, if indeed we follow it, will be perilous. It will demand much of the heart and mind of the Mage Lord himself.”

  Alan nodded to the Mage of Dreams, a look that valued his integrity and his concern for him. He then addressed the entire circle. “You all know that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt or threaten you. But I know that the voice that called me and my friends into this world is close to us here. We all sense it among these ruins. If the voice really is that of the High Architect, Ussha De Danaan, then I need to know why she called us here. But I’m not forcing you to take any risk. If you don’t want to join in the dream journey, I’ll go there on my own. I won’t blame anybody who wants to pull out.”

  Kate felt strangely debilitated since coming down from the Rath, but she also saw how nervous Alan looked. She said, “I agree with Alan. I’m going with him.”

  “And me,” added Mo.

  “Mark?”

  Mark shrugged.

  Kate saw Alan frown at the sight of Mark’s battle-axe—he hadn’t been present when Qwenqwo had presented Mark with the weapon, though she presumed that Qwenqwo must have told him about it—and his eyebrows lifted, as if seeing Mark anew. “We need a definite answer, Mark—yes or no?”

  Mark nodded, his face slightly flushed. “I’m coming. I agree that we need explanations.”

  Alan looked at the Kyra. “What do you think, Ainé?”

  The Kyra’s large blue eyes looked directly back into his. “The course you undertake is filled with peril. The dwarf mage admits he cannot guarantee your safety.”

  Qwenqwo said, “It is true that, in normal circumstances, a dream journey would involve little risk. But the Kyra is right. These are not normal circumstances.”

  The Kyra shook her head. “And the ‘chosen’ are not normal people.”

  Alan turned to the chief. “Siam?”

  “Where the Mage Lord leads, so shall I follow.”

  Kate saw how deeply Siam’s words affected Alan. She also noticed the frown now crossing the Kyra’s features. Alan nodded, his lips pressed tight.

  Bétaald agreed with Ainé. “It cannot be prudent to go against the counsel of the Kyra. For all its defenses, this fortress may prove a fragile refuge. We are greatly outnumbered. The Legun is still within the forest and the Death Legion is armed with new malengins of war and accompanied by fearsome allies from the Wastelands. If your dream journey should fail, or if it should imperil the soul spirit of those who take part in the journey . . .”

  Murmurs of agreement arose from others among the elders around the fire.

  Qwenqwo, who had seemed lost in concentration until now, spoke out in Alan’s defense. “The Kyra questions the purpose of the Mage Lord. But what would a Shee-witch know of this young man’s valor! Has the Mage Lord not explained his reasons to you?”

  “Hark at the wisdom of a fallen mage!” Ainé countered. “Was your power not corrupted by the warlock in Isscan, where you were held in its thrall for five-and-twenty years! How do we know you still retain the power of dreams? Worse still—how do we know that what small power you may still retain has not been perverted by malign influence?”

  “Ah, so there we have it!” Qwenqwo growled. “At last we hear the suspicions that have darkened your mind since we met.”

  “Please! We must remain united,” urged Milish. “We cannot allow internal divisions to distract us from our purpose.”

  “You speak sense!” growled the dwarf mage. “However, since my power has been questioned let me assure this company that to reveal what is buried in the very rocks and bowels of a place such as this, as what is buried in the inner labyrinths of the mind, remains within my lore.” Those sparkling green eyes lifted to the vaulted roof, and his voice softened as he confessed his fears. “Yet though the power to do so still rests within the runestone, I freely admit that I cannot evoke it without help from the Mage Lord.” His eyes stared obstinately into those of the Kyra.

  Ainé barked, “All men are foolish, but a dwarf it seems has wits commensurate with his stature.”

  Qwenqwo jumped to his feet. He slammed his foot down on the flagged ground and his eyes protruded round and glistening as he pointed with a stubby left hand at Ainé, who was taller when seated than he was standing on his toes. “The honor of your house was abandoned in the vale of Gadhgorrah, where the ground is paved with skulls!”

  All four friends gazed, wide-eyed, from Qwenqwo to Ainé. Was the dwarf mage suggesting that once there might even have been war in the distant past between the Shee and the Fir Bolg?

  With a raised arm, Milish halted Ainé’s angry reply. She urged Qwenqwo to sit down. Then the diplomat spoke calmly, reassuring all around the fire. “We all share Ainé’s concern. There is none here who wants the Mage Lord to suffer risk. Yet the Mage Lord proposes to enter dreams, not reality.”

  Ainé countered, “Do not underestimate the peril of dreams.”

  “What peril is Ainé talking about?” Alan turned to the dwarf mage.

  “In entering such memories, the soul spirits of some of those who participate might manifest within the dream and thus be exposed to potential injury.”

  Ainé’s head jerked back, as if her face had been slapped. “There! It is exactly as I thought.”

  Kate’s widened eyes, as those of the entire company, were now turned to the Kyra. She dreaded to think of what Ainé was implying.

  Alan shook his head. “Ainé, I really don’t want to take any unnecessary risks. But I sense that I have to do this. I sense it here.” Alan touched the triangle in his brow. “I wish I had more of a choice, but I just can’t see any other way.”

  The Kyra gazed stonily into the flames. “I have made the Mage Lord aware of what this place, and its history, may provoke. Yet still my duty bids me stand by him in all that he ultimately decides.”

  As Qwenqwo left to gather the materials he needed, Alan walked out alone into the night, finding a refuge on the rampart that looked out over the uppermost city barrier. Gazing down onto the winding valley, shadowed under a night sky and obscured by mist and cloud, he couldn’t help but wonder at the nature of the powers that still fought to control this world. Fate! In his mind he recalled that day fishing the Suir, when the swans had attacked. He heard the homp-homp beating of their wings. He was gazing once more into those eyes, all-black with rage . . .

  “Alan, I’m here.”

  He spun around to see that Kate had come out onto the rampart to join him. He threw his arms around her, hugged her fiercely, feeling a tide of love and relief flood his body.

  “You didn’t sit by me. I kept an empty place for you.”

  “Oh Lord, I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “You know, Ainé’s probably right in her worry. That business with the Legun, it scares the hell out of me.”

  “Then stop it right here and now. Say no to this dream journey.”

  “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  She held him tighter. She kissed his throat, feeling the tension that consumed him at the thought of what he was undertaking. Cloaked and silent, the Shee were out there in the dark patrolling the walls. There would be no calls from the watch to declare that all was well.

  “Alan, I need to talk to you. It’s been such a strange day. We climbed to the top of the tower, Mark and I. You wouldn’t believe what we saw. If only you’d been there to see it!”

  “We’ll talk . . . soon. I promise.” He cupped her face with his hands. “After this is done, we’ll stay up and talk all night long.”

  He kissed her closed eyes, tasting the salt of her tears, and hugged her to him with all of his strength. He so needed Kate, with her love and her closeness, that he res
ented it when Milish appeared, calling him back to the fireside. “The dwarf mage is ready.”

  “Okay—just give us a few moments.”

  When Kate and Alan returned to the fire, they sat side by side, his arm around her waist, and they watched Qwenqwo place a small bronze vessel into the heart of the fire. They saw how something within the bronze vessel glinted and flashed with spectral potency. Qwenqwo stood erect, with his uninjured arm stretched before the flame, as if shielding his eyes from its heat and light. Then he hesitated for several seconds, gazing at Alan, as if allowing him a final chance to change his mind.

  Alan nodded.

  He felt the oraculum begin to pulsate, then flare to full power. He couldn’t suppress an involuntary shiver. “If anybody has last minute doubts, this is the time to leave the circle.” He waited until it was clear that nobody was going to leave. Then, his face set with purpose, Alan let go of Kate and focused all of the power of the oraculum onto Qwenqwo.

  The huge and sustained charge that entered the figure of the dwarf mage caused his wiry red hair to stand on end. From the bronze pot, he lifted something heavy and glowing, an object he treated with great reverence, which sparkled in the firelight a deep and perfect blue. Alan knew it was the runestone, although it was already changing in Qwenqwo’s hands, becoming a wide-rimmed goblet, pentagonal in its outer surfaces above an ornately carved base, yet a perfect half-globe in its interior. Symbols glided around the vessel walls, eliciting gasps from the people sitting around the fire.

  “Such rapture,” murmured Qwenqwo, “is it to gaze at last into the chalice of Urox Zel, grand Mage of the Fir Bolg.”

  The dwarf inhaled the aroma from the goblet’s contents, an elixir that condensed the light like quicksilver and smelled of a pungently aromatic fragrance. Then he chanted a series of incantations in which Alan caught only a single word, which sounded like the name of a deity, before Qwenqwo added a pinch of powder, sniffed again and held the goblet over the flames, mixing the elixir with a gentle rotation of his hands, until with a final sniff he was satisfied it was ready.