by M. C. Elam
Horace Runderly might be as plain as an old currycomb, but Annabelle, she knew, held claim to future sight. All the women in Balin sought her when they feared the world of tomorrows. Patient as the day was long, Annabelle never turned anyone away. Instead, she gathered them near while she filled her scrying bowl with water and gazed into it until her eyes swam with tears. Whatever she uttered in those moments, foretold the future. The only person with whom she failed, was Evangeline. She had tried often enough and ended it shaking her head. “Sorry I be, Miss Ceri, but nothing of tomorrow comes to me. Mayhap, do you be for it, we can tip you down the well for a look on your own.” Evan had refused, content to let tomorrow be and concentrate on the present. Now though, she did wonder if gazing into the water at the bottom of the well where clouds swam across the blue Ascalla sky, might have foretold today.
She had wondered why Devon and Billy stayed instead of trying to go home. Escape through the stables seemed simple enough. If Devon could get her out of the slave pens and into the comfortable little rooms at the edge of the stables, then why couldn't he just as easily get Billy away? Now she knew. All of them, all of the good people that guided her through the years had waited for her. Even Hawk, whether or not he knew it, waited for her. What of King Ian? She had overheard him that day when he brought the proclamation naming her Lady of Baline, the proclamation that granted her position and property. He had waited too, waited because he was her sprit brother. Why didn’t she know before today? Her thinking turned clear, purposeful. He knew her from that time, knew when she fell to earth into the arms of her mother. I remember, I remember, her heart called. We soared among the stars, children of the great Mother. Three, three−by the gods, we were three. The white stag holds King Ian’s spirit far from my reach. Where, is the other?
Her gaze settled upon the brightest star in the heavens. “Light of Earth, Mother of all,” she whispered. “I am your lost child, trapped in a place of ruin. Lead me into the sun. Show me my spirit brother, I beg of you.”
A wrinkle in the wall across from the barred window made the stones undulate like ripples in a quiet pool. Evan concentrated upon the fluid separation between them until the glow of a single campfire flickered in the distance. Five men sat cross-legged on the ground. She knew three of them. Father Wryth, his portly physique diminished since last she saw him. Marcus, never still, braided rawhide strips and tested their strength by tugging on the ends. Across the way, Hawk stirred the embers in the fire with a pointed stick. Sparks rose into the air above his head deepening the frown lines that creased his brow. His face looked older, tired and worn with worry. She did not recognize the other two. One of them lifted a jug to his shoulder and drank before passing it to the others. They took turns, swigging from it and grimacing. The ale, if it was ale, must have turned bitter. The last, a fair-skinned man with silver hair that reached below his shoulders faced away from her. She shifted peering closer. Some movement in the shadows behind them brought him to his feet. He turned, one hand upon the dirk sheathed at his waist. Grief, defined his expression, gave wing to a sorrow that bloomed inside her chest like an exploding sun. He was, she knew, her earth-bound spirit brother, Griffin.
The firelight dimmed until it was no more than a pinpoint in the starry heavens. Shadows swirled closer, stealing her breath. The last thing she remembered that night was the image of a rag doll stuffed with straw, its limbs tied with bits of string−a rag doll like the one she lost in the forest the day the white wolf came.
***
Evan opened her eyes to bright sunlight. She knew it had to be nearing the noon hour for the sun to have reached a place in the sky high enough that it shone through the barred opening on the east side of the tower. Unreal in the light of day she pushed the visions from the night before to the back of her mind. Lack of food, she thought. Her fingers looked like skeleton fingers and her wrist bones threatened to push through the skin. Though her stomach ached with hunger, she was otherwise strong. She wasn't starving, and if she wasn't, then the visions had to be real, not hallucinations. Sometime during the night while she lay in a stupor, Benny slipped into the dark. She wondered if he sought the old bird. Thoughts of Paddy passed the lonely hours. At first gorged with milk, her breasts had ached for want of him nursing, but in the long months locked in the cell, the ache stopped and so too, her milk.
Like some misbegotten deity, thunderous waves of thought crashed through the corridors of her brain. Leaping helter-skelter, they delivered a sea of minutia sprinkled with images of Hawk, Marcus, Granny, Paddy−small and sweet. Her stomach churned and gurgled, made her queasy and eased only to rumble again. She pressed her fist against the hollow and willed it into submission. So hungry, for what? Food. No, not food, not really. A deeper hunger cried in her empty gut. Paddy, I want my wee boy, she thought.
Where was her warder? Digney poor, half-blind old fellow, until the last couple of days, he had stood true to his word, bringing fresh water and food daily. The scant meal was of the plainest sort, barley stew and bread, but sometimes a few chunks of meat hid at the bottom of the tin pale. The bread lacked leavening, but the baker had used a fair amount of spice to make it palatable enough. The meal was more filling early in the week but dwindled to a portion that left her hungry. She began to suspect the food came from Digney's personal stores.
She knew his name was Digney, not because he told her but because whenever he unlocked the cell door, he called out, ‘old Digney be here, Miss.’ A decent sort despite the circumstance, sometimes he sat with her, telling stories of his youth. The sound of his voice was pleasant, musical, and his words tumbled forth with an effortless timbre that reminded her of Gram. How she wished she might go back to the little cottage, the time before Hawk, when she was a little girl. Everything was easy then, Marcus lumbering through the door at day's end, scooping her into his arms, offering bits of sweetbread, washing the bitters from her thumb while Gram pretended not to notice−and Chinera, Chinera scratching at the door until someone let her inside. Childhood memories brought more images of Paddy, his sweet baby cheeks, plump with health when last she held him. Her eyes brimmed with tears. If I am to die in this place, Great Mother, let my heart be at peace knowing my sweet boy finds freedom and the love of family as I once did.
The long hours of daylight crawled by without a sign of Digney. She began to worry that something terrible had happened to him, and while he kept the key to the cell door well away from her, he was considerate and often voiced the sad circumstance of her incarceration. Throughout their duty shift, the guards consumed more than their daily allotment of spirits, and if the sounds coming from below were any indication, by the time the last remnants of daylight dipped below the western horizon, drunkenness laid claim to their senses. The tower grew quiet as a tomb. Evan crept to the window and stretched on tiptoe to see the courtyard below. A light flickered at the end of an adjacent street, and a figure limped toward the tower. It had to be Digney, but something trailed behind him. He pounded on the door, calling for one of the guards to admit him.
“Humph, deep in the spirits. Drunken fools.”
A light flared, and she heard the tumblers give way as the door creaked on worn hinges. Evan's mouth went wide. Digney had a key to the outside door. Did he always have one? She didn't think so. If he had a key, why did he always call for the guards to open the door? The light, from what she assumed was his lantern, shrank.
“Push past me, would you? Ah well, I expect our lady might be hungry for the sight of you. No begging of scraps though, hear me now? She needs a good feed inside for what's coming.” The door closed with a dull thud, quashing the rest of what he said until he cleared the tunnel like entrance and came to the foot of the stairs. “Aye, such is the way with drink. What say we keep these blokes that way, old girl?”
Was it her imagination or had the peasant lilt left his speech. What was that whooshing sound? Like a whirlwind that began somewhere below, and in seconds, filled the stairwell. A misty vapor swept ben
eath the door, rose almost to the ceiling and dispersed through one of the barred openings.
The minutes crawled by while she waited for him to climb the tower steps. Something thumped against the door. The sound repeated twice more, and then Digney called to her.
“Be Digney, miss, come with victuals. Best you stand away from the door. Got a visitor with me.”
“I'm clear, Digney.”
He opened the door. Something bumped against his thigh, pushing him into the wall. Off balance, he stumbled, made a desperate effort to keep Evan's dinner pail level and dropped the water bucket.
“Wag-tailed rascal,” he admonished. “To be expected, I suppose. Go to her then.”
Chinera, wild with glee, pushed past Digney. The light that shone from Evan's eyes in that moment could have lit the world. Amid the sound of joyous wolf whimpers, she fell to her knees.
Digney, regained his footing. “Here now, let's get you off the floor.” He bent to help her and met bared teeth and warning growl. “What's this, showing fang. I'm of a fair mind to give you a clout or two.”
“Oh, Digney, no! Can't you see she doesn't mean to harm you? She thinks to protect me.”
Digney nodded and closed the door. He shot the bolt with what was for him unusual dexterity and stood a little straighter.
“As well she should and has her whole life. Come old girl, we need claim the ruse no longer.”
Her cheeks bathed in repeated licks, Evan eyed him, certain now that he was taller, and what had become of his broken speech. He turned away from the scrutiny of her gaze while his body doubled, then tripled in height. The bare head, she associated with Digney, bore a mantle of white hair that trailed down his back. A foggy vapor obscured her vision, closed around him, and that sound, the one she had heard when he came upon the drunken guards, filled the cell. Fearful, she buried her face in Chinera's thick ruff.
“Come now, my girl, surely you do not fear me.”
Comforted by Chinera's close proximity, she opened her eyes. Remnants of that engulfing vapor still swirled around the tall man who knelt beside her, and for the second time in as many days, her head swam and darkness claimed her.
***
She did not open her eyes immediately. The world she entered was much too sweet, like a dream from which she didn't want to wake. Her hand curled in Chinera's soft fur and felt her steady heartbeat. A dreamy mantra rumbled close to the place her head rested. Cool fingers stroked her forehead.
“Awaken daughter of Anutaya. Bring light to the world and gladden my heart.
Awaken, daughter
Awaken.
Awaken.”
“Gronka, Old Bird got words. Dead Ceri. Good bird. Gronka.”
She knew that sound, Benny. Slowly she opened her eyes and peered into the face of Melendarius. He sat on the floor with her cradled in his arms. A glance upward revealed Benny perched on his shoulder. They were still in the tower, still in the same dismal cell. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the dream again, but his voice turned authoritative.
“Evangeline, sweet daughter of Anutaya, your task nears completion. All of your life, you trod a single road that led here. Do not hesitate when everything you desire lies close at hand.”
“Paddy?”
“Aye, your babe has a most vigilant nurse.” He laughed, his old eyes lit with the merry twinkle she remembered. “She nearly snatched the beard from my chin not to mention the fresh crumple to the brim of my hat. She'd have none of me so much as touching the wee lad until she knew my purpose.”
Color bloomed in Evan's cheeks. “They are well?”
“The quintessential image of health radiates from both.”
She raked a hand through mussed hair and made to stand. He offered Lunarey and together they rose from the floor.
“Gronka, Old bird, old bird. Dead Ceri.”
“Ah, my feathered fellow, the deed's done.”
“Gronka, deed done.” The raven fluttered to the window, took wing and soared into the night.
“Now, dear girl, you must eat. You will need all your strength for the morrow.” He passed her the small pail and a loaf of farm sweet bread.
She pushed them away; a worried grimace creased her brow. “Where are they Melendarius, Maudie and my sweet boy?”
“Safe and sound my little love. I made the trip through the portal with the two of them and a wet nurse. When I left, Jenny held him on her lap while he played with blocks. Mustn't forget Runt. She seems to think Paddy belongs to her. Dared a growl at Maudie.”
Evan set upon the meal he had brought as though she hadn't eaten in weeks. Between mouthfuls, she questioned him about the battles, about Marcus, about Hawk. He repeated the events making vivid images of them. She fell silent, her hand clutching his as though she feared waking to find him a dream.
“Melendarius?”
Her voice startled him from meditation. “What is it, Evan?” He thought she might question him about the next day. In her place he would have and was surprised when she didn't.
“Where is Digney?”
“Fear not for that good soldier. He gave his best to you. For that, Hawk rewarded him. He'll never want for anything.”
“But his heart's desire, I know it well though he never spoke of attaining it.”
“The white film that clouds his vision?”
Evan nodded.
“Lunarey danced for him. He views the world through eyes as clear as yours.”
A smile as sweet as a tender rosebud spread across her lips. She tipped her head back against the tower wall and closed her eyes again.
“Evan,” this time Melendarius disturbed the quiet. “Don't you want to know about tomorrow?”
She gazed at him through half lidded eyes. “I need not worry about what comes on the morrow. It will take care of itself.”
37 - Vanquished
With the prison wagon ready, Klea knew he should catch a few hours sleep, but his throat cried for a pint. He swiped a hand across his mouth and swallowed, eyeing Chandler's Tavern across the compound. No harm in one tankard, he thought. Marcus might tell him to get his carcass inside, but Marcus didn't always know what was best for a man in the dark of night. So, he reversed direction ducking into Chandler's instead. The tavern did a fair amount of business most nights, but the late hour found the place quiet except for two men playing darts. Klea sidle toward Chandler, named his poison and slapped a handful of coppers on the bar. Chandler raked them off and drew a large tankard.
Before Klea had time to take his first swallow, an itch crept along his spine. Just a little worrying kind of thing, like waking in the middle of the night and remembering something that you should have done and didn't or did and wished you hadn't. He shook it off, rested one foot on the boot rail, gripped the tankard in a calloused fist and drew it to his lips. The cool swallow had traveled over his tongue and into his gut when he heard their voices.
Four men from Brenan's Elite Guard rounded the wind wall and swaggered into the main room. Pinch-headed louts the lot of them, their skulls shaved and plucked like the ass of a chicken ready for the pot. Every member of the Elite Guard had the same hairless pate. The biggest, a behemoth of a fellow, pointed to a table in the center of the room. The rest followed. One of the dart players nudged the other. They abandoned the game, sidled past Chandler and disappeared.
Klea knew the Elite Guard, could mean trouble. Hoping to go unnoticed, he inched into the shadows at the end of the bar. Under Edward Barclay's direction, they had made short work of the Owlmen holding posts in the city and replaced them with Ascalla and Glynmora men. But the Elite Guard comprised Brenan's body men. He knew each by name and recognized them at a glance. The disappearance of a single man would foil the plan for an easy takedown.
Nerves on edge, Klea shifted from foot to foot, and the once inconsequential itch crept higher. Simple mistakes, he thought. Marcus always swore it be simple mistakes what cost a body the most. Overlook just one wee thing, and no matter
how good the plan, the whole of it be tumbling around your ears like a mudslide loosed in a downpour. Fair chance they'd pay the likes of him no mind. Barclay said they didn't mix with the rank and file. True enough, conceit be writ all over them. Knotty-pated buggers didn't notice the Brendemore Owlmen, be different. He'd just stay quiet and bide his time. Still, something worked loose from that itch and went to wiggling around in his brain.
He watched the fancy little barmaid sidle over to their table, listened while she bantered back and forth with them. Smooth as cream the way she be staying just out of reach when one of them made a grab for her. They ordered ale all around, handed her a silver coin, laughed when she bit it and winked at them.
“Doubting my silver, Minerva,” the big one leered at her. She flashed a saucy smile and bounced the coin in her hand.
Coin, he thought. The itch turned nasty. That was it, his simple mistake. The silver coin the Owlman gave her carried the crest of Lawrenzia same as the coppers he had used to pay Chandler bore the crest of Ascalla. If Chandler mixed in the coinage from that silver piece with his Ascallan coppers when he made change, they'd be asking for a word sure as he drew breath. Chandler be just as keen on taking Brenan to task as they be, but changing out coins in a tavern be a common thing, and unless Chandler be one quick fella in the brain works, he'd send those coins straight into their hands.
Klea knocked his tankard against the bar top to draw Chandler's attention, but the barkeep took it to mean he wanted a refill and only nodded in his direction while he passed a handful of coppers to Minerva. When he did sidle over, Klea's tongue was dry as tinder.
“What be troubling you, boy. You be whey-faced as they come.”
“Coin,” Klea choked. He tipped his head toward the Owlmen.
Baffled, Chandler stared at him. “Coin? Just counted back coin for the silver they paid. That what you be sputtering about?”
Klea nodded. “Aye, my coppers.”