“Then I will grant this boon,” I agreed. “But I’m curious – you’re an Imperial goddess, but you seem to be at home in the Wilderlands. What was your . . . primal form?” I asked, wondering if that was too personal a question for a goddess.
“My first avatar?” she asked, surprised, with a girlish giggle that seemed at home on her face. “Oh, my, that was ages ago . . . but her name was Gretchen, and she held a doctorate in xenobotany from Bangor University, on Terra. Lovely woman,” she recalled, fondly. “She was brilliant with plants. She cataloged over a thousand varieties of native species in Perwyn and Merwyn, back during the first days of the colony. She vowed to keep at it until her death – and she did,” Falassa said, proudly.
“Interesting,” I murmured around my pipe stem. “Your roots go that deep? All the way back to beyond the Void?”
“They do,” Falassa agreed. “That’s how the low things survive. Deep and wide. Humble,” she added, her wrinkled eyes narrowing. “Not something most wizards are familiar with, humility,” she added, as she looked at me pointedly.
“It’s not really the sort of thing that’s professionally rewarding,” I pointed out, enjoying myself. I think she did something to the herbs in my pipe. “Far more the province of the clergy. Ego, on the other hand . . .”
“Yes, ego,” she said, with a sneer. “The coin of the magi. I see you have an abundance. Well, you’d have to, in your position,” she conceded, “else you’d collapse under the weight of your own insecurities and anxieties. Especially after learning about the great blight that comes in the future,” she said, softly, as she turned toward the window and stared at the moon. “The end of all the low things on Callidore. A man with a strong ego might find himself challenged by such a disaster.”
I swallowed; my throat suddenly dry. “When one discovers the truth—”
She interrupted me with a sudden bark of laughter. “‘The truth?’ Nay, Minalan, you have discovered but ‘a’ truth. ‘The’ truth is far, far more complex than you believe. Perhaps more complex than you can understand. Be wary that you don’t allow your ego to eclipse your ability to see it, when the time comes.”
“Well, that was cryptic,” I complained.
She shrugged, innocently. “So is the future, young man. But within that murkiness, hidden knowledge and quiet lore can be helpful. Humanity has the gods to give you the barest glimmer of light through the mist. It’s up to you to follow it . . . and be cautious not to fall off a cliff while doing so,” she added. “But that’s all we can give, Minalan. Maybe a little advice, every now and then. And it might not even be of much use, considering the dangers you face.”
“That wasn’t as hopeful and encouraging as I’d like,” I admitted, with a sigh. “I was hoping for some revelatory advice from the Goddess of Hidden Wisdom that would suddenly give me an idea to save the world. But I’m starting to get used to being disappointed by the gods.”
“If we could just hand you answers, what would the point of living be?” she challenged. “Really, young man, it’s the human experience that counts, not the divine.
“You want advice? You want wisdom? Keep things in perspective!” she urged. “And keep track of what you know. You’re sloppy,” she accused. “You have all these lovely little toys, all of these handsome warriors and subtle wizards, all of these brilliant craftsmen and devoted Alon . . . yet you’re splashing around in a pool like you’re drowning. Enemies over here, enemies over there, troubles in the sky, troubles under the sea – yet you are the center of it all. You’re tripping over your ego – learn to use it as a lever. You’re stumbling over your challenges – learn to dance upon them. You are buried under minutia – discover a means to order it and make it a useful tool. All the lore in the world isn’t any good to you if you don’t keep it all in its proper place!” she insisted.
“Agreed,” I sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue with a goddess. “And I will take that to heart.”
“Of course, you will, young man,” she said, indulgently. “I wouldn’t have bothered with a visit if I didn’t think you had it within you to do so. I know not what lies ahead through the mist, Minalan, but I do know that you would not have gotten as far as you have in as short time as you have if you weren’t . . . important,” she said, grudgingly. “The hope you seek lies within you, ironically enough. I don’t know if you can save the world, but I know you’re the best hope we have to see it done. For good or ill,” she added, because goddesses can’t just go around leaving the egos of mortals artificially inflated. People would talk.
“Then I suppose we should get to making you persistent,” I said, drawing the Alaran stone out of its hoxter pocket. When the jewel fell into my hand, I rose and gave a deep sigh. “For good or ill.”
“Oh, don’t be so damned dramatic. I’m just a batty, eccentric, harmless old goddess of herbs, roots and mushrooms,” she demurred, with a sarcastic giggle. “What could possibly go awry?”
Chapter One
The Scion of Rysh
What folk skulk about within a darkened wood?
Poachers, footpads and men up to no good.
Wilderfolk Proverb
From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh
“That’s the awustamauk,” Sandoval said, wisely, suddenly turning his face toward the west. “That’s what the Coutu tribesmen call it. ‘The first kiss of Spring.’ The first warm wind from the west,” he said, enjoying the breeze on his face for a moment before nodding. “Fondaras the Wise told me about it. He’s acquainted with the customs of all the local tribes, apparently, and a few of those fellows enlisted with the rangers, believe it or not. He wanted me to be aware. There’s some rite involving a maiden, or something, when you first feel it. I forget the details. I’m sure it’s terribly lurid. But it means the end of winter is near.”
I grunted, as we guided the horses through the recently reinhabited streets of Asgot. The snow near Spellgate, still stained dark with blood and filth from the winter’s battles, was turning into a vile slush as the hooves of our horses churned the frost and mud of the road.
“It’s two days until Briga’s Day,” I reminded him, as I waved to an infantry patrol warming their hands around a fire next to the road as we passed. “That’s traditionally when winter is considered tamed, even in the north.” I studied the homes of the village in the morning sunlight. Only a tithe of the Asgot villagers had returned to their homes after the battle – too many houses and barns in Asgot were burned out by the retreating goblins, and those that were spared were looted to the rafters. The people were snug and secure back in Vanador.
There were more soldiers here in Asgot than villagers, yet, but I knew that by the time the first green shoots began to break through the snow, the entire place would be repaired. Calvary patrols beyond the ford, and the small garrison of infantry within the village, would provide enough security for the villagers of Asgot to return. Burnt rafters would be removed and replaced, rooves would be thatched, and scorched walls would be whitewashed. By first planting, I doubted there would be much sign of the battle at all.
“It’s just hopeful, is all,” Sandy said, smiling. “After months of war and death, it’s encouraging.”
“Don’t let the Wilderlands surprise you,” I counselled. “That’s something I learned from Fondaras. It can snow here as late or later than Ishi’s Day. Local legends abound with the tales of such freak storms.”
“I was using it as a metaphor for our situation. As a hopeful symbol of peace after a period of strife,” Sandy grumbled. “You know. Poetry.”
“Oh, the weather is an apt metaphor,” I agreed. “All the more for its unpredictable nature. Having a war in the Wilderlands in the middle of winter is unusual enough – having another one follow on its heels is a bit of a freak storm,” I offered as we rode along at a brisk pace.
“We do not yet know if we really face that, yet,” Sandy objected. “I’m hoping for a warm, early spring, myself.”
“Mavone did
not summon us to secret council in the middle of the forest to discuss his love life,” I pointed out. “If he was concerned about hungry ears in Vanador, then it’s only reasonable to assume it concerns another invading army. Unless he brings word of Korbal’s unconditional surrender, we can wager that it’s going to be worrisome news.”
“I’m hoping he’ll surprise me,” Sandy frowned. “Damn it, Min! I just got married! We’re at the really enjoyable part! I don’t need another war right now!”
“Mavone has spent the last week shaking the trees with his spies in the Penumbra while you were on your honeymoon,” I reminded him. “I’m sure he has much to report. There are still two Nemovorti out there dedicated to bringing my head back to Korbal,” I said, cheerfully. “Nemovorti with armies.”
“And enough sense to wait until it’s warm enough to campaign at a decent time of year, I hope,” Sandy muttered. “Especially after what the snows did to Gaja Katar’s army. Better yet, perhaps they’ve reconsidered the entire affair. Maybe that’s what news he’s bringing.”
“Your optimism abounds,” I snorted. “The other Nemovorti are no doubt looking on us as nearly beaten, after the struggle at Spellgate.”
“They would no doubt be correct,” Sandy observed. “We were lucky, this winter, Min. Our men performed well, and we were reasonably prepared, and we faced an idiot on the field who was susceptible to treachery, but it wouldn’t take much to reduce Vanador,” he reported, gloomily.
“The men are blooded, now, and have experience,” I countered. “They are armed with the best steel in the Five Duchies. They have the most adept magical corps since the Archmagi ruled Perwyn. And they are fighting behind the greatest fortress our craft can create. Armies break on Spellgate,” I assured him, solemnly.
“One army,” Sandy corrected. “And it wasn’t a particularly good army. The steel is excellent, but there isn’t enough of it yet. The warmagi are great, but our resources are depleted. Give us a year,” he pleaded, “one year, and I can give you an army that can stand up to anyone. Even Korbal.”
“And Carmella can construct fortresses across the plateau to keep them at bay,” I nodded. “And Terleman can construct arcane defenses unheard of in the annals of magical warfare. I would be thrilled to grant you all that gift of time. The Nemovorti, sadly, are not. Nor is Korbal. It’s been more than a year since I bound him to his form. It must be getting decrepit, by now.”
We rode along in silence for a time, until we came to the ford. Mavone had instructed me, mind-to-mind, to bring Sandy along for a quiet meeting, with little more detail. He suggested we bring no more than a token guard along, and Sandy had limited our companions to six trusted officers of his own Vanador Guard. The destination, too, was obscure; Mavone would not tell me the precise location until I was well underway. Nor would he share any more detail about why such secrecy was warranted.
I did not protest. When I hired a man to run my military intelligence, I selected the sneakiest bastard I knew. I trusted Mavone’s judgement implicitly. If he wasn’t telling me things, I had to trust that they were things I didn’t need to know.
That was a difficult lesson to learn. After all, apart from Duke Anguin and King Rard, I had absolute authority and sovereignty over this land as Count Palatine. Theoretically, I had every right to demand every detail my officers learned as soon as they discovered it. But wisdom had taught me to trust the men in whom I had entrusted the security of my realm. If Mavone wanted to inconvenience his liege, I assumed he had a good reason for it.
We spent most of the day headed south along the road. It wasn’t much of a road, of course, and I cursed under my breath when the flagstones gave way to frozen mud and occasional plank not more than a mile beyond the ford. This route eventually led past Yellin, and on to Megelin Castle, and eventually to Vorone. While it was once a minor highway from the capital to the hinterlands, it was now the main thoroughfare of my realm. It irritated me that it was in such poor repair.
As poor as the roadway was, we made good time. By late afternoon we were nearing Cheerford, when Mavone contacted me mind-to-mind.
My lord, I am nearly ready, he reported. My agent is approaching. Yet I fear he has been followed. I appreciate your patience while I ensure that we may meet in safety.
I trust your judgement, Mavone, I assured him. But you’ve aroused my curiosity about this spy.
It’s your open-mindedness that I desire, Excellency, he explained. Secrecy is of paramount importance. But I can give you a clue, if you insist: my man is a scion of the Rysh, if that means anything to you, he said, meaningfully.
I nodded to myself. Of course, I agreed. I’ve heard of them. Say no more. I feel assured that this will be an important report, but I also admit that you have stirred my curiosity even more.
I consider it my duty as your gentleman, Excellency, Mavone agreed. I’ll call for you when we’re ready.
***
I was born in the Riverlands of Castal, and then got shipped to the coast to be educated in magic after my rajira awoke. Then I got shipped off to Farise to conquer and occupy the nation right after graduation. I learned a lot of legends in all three places, because I’m a wizard and learning obscure and interesting stories that might help get you laid was a large part of my self-education.
I had continued to absorb such tales and lore in my adopted land. The Wilderlands had a rich history and a robust approach to folklore. Every campfire and tavern provided endless lore about the region, its dangers, blessings, heroes, villains, and stories of note. With the wild tribes that lingered in the woodlands, and the many oddities and exotic creatures that haunted the landscape, there was plenty of grist for the millworks of legend. Tales of talking trees and shapeshifting furniture determined to devour you were standard fare, up here. The stories of the Wilderlands fascinated me as a more romantic and exciting body of legend than the pedestrian accounts of talking fish and magical goats I grew up hearing in the Riverlands.
Among the tales were many concerning the important families that ruled the Wilderlands. The Wilderlords are an egotistical lot, and while they lack their Gilmoran cousins’ sophistication in the telling of their family histories, certain lines stood out in common lore as being of especial importance to the health of the land. The Rysh family – or more simply known as the Rysh – was a prominent element in many such tales in the Wilderlands. They often showed up as advisors, agents or observers, frequently providing important if not essential guidance or assistance to the Wilderlords whose descendants told the tales.
Over the years, I had learned a bit about the clan, entirely by historic reputation. I had long come to the conclusion that the Rysh were more important to the Wilderlands than any individual legend or story might suggest. After meeting and hearing about the family’s history by a scion of Rysh, I learned more. Taken together, they painted an intriguing picture.
The Rysh had arrived in the Wilderlands a hundred and fifty years before I did. They came along with the original Narasi explorers from Gilmora who saw the grand forests and endless woodlands as a potentially valuable resource. When the Gilmoran lords first came to the untouched Wilderlands, they brought entire entourages of retainers with them to their new woodland homes. The ancestor of the Rysh family was among them, and for the next century and a half the family played an important, if understated, role in the politics of Alshar’s most northern province.
According to the family history, the first Rysh, known as Rysh the Younger, hailed from the streets of Barrowbell in its prime as an Alshari-ruled commercial center. Even within the confines of the family, no one knew who Rysh the Elder might be, but whoever that noble sire was, his son was gifted with the blessing of song. The lad’s exceptional voice was compared to the singers of the Alka Alon, and it earned him a job in a tavern, where he entertained travelers. He attracted the attention of a music-minded Cotton Lord bound for the Wilderlands who hired him as a retainer. After a few seasons entertaining at his patron’s grand Gilmoran e
states the lad accompanied his master on his expedition to the northlands as his minstrel.
Though Rysh’s master spent only a few years at his nascent estate in the Five Rivers Vale, Rysh discovered a great affection for the Wilderlands and remained after his patron returned to Gilmora. The raw beauty of nature allured the man, inspiring a body of poetic song that lingers to this day. The intrepid minstrel took employment as a cook with another adventurer who was determined to secure the famed redwoods of the land for the Duke of Alshar. The expedition soon turned desperate and the adventurer soon turned to the man’s beautiful voice for counsel when local human savages, itinerate bandits, defiant Kasari rangers and nocturnal gurvani insurgents raided his camp and demoralized his men. It turned out to be the lord’s wisest decision.
For the gods had blessed Rysh with a deep intellect as well as a canny voice. With his wise counsel, his new master managed to preserve his folk through the harsh winter. The following spring, he rewarded Rysh with a freeholding, a small vale near the Whitewater.
When the terrors of winter passed and the first crops were harvested, Rysh married the beautiful daughter of a local tribal king, allegedly on the basis of her voice, alone, which was a story in itself. He and his savage bride retired to his holding – which he called Cartrefygan – and begat a brood of children, all of whom seemed to possess their sire’s bold, beautiful voice and keen, insightful intellect.
Though he plowed the land and hunted the wood as his neighbors did to support his family, the yeoman Rysh protected his fertile vale and his growing family by hiring his voice out to entertain his neighbors. The doughty Gilmorans who remained in the north after their masters returned south had begun proudly styling themselves Wilderlords, to emphasize their differences from their weak-hearted kin. They tended to be a violent lot. Rysh took every opportunity to praise the most valiant among them in his songs and encouraged the wisest, while ridiculing the knaves and fools.
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