“Frayed, young Aderyn? Shredded and full of holes, more like, I’d say. It’s because of the Great Burning, of course. We lost all our books then, and along with them such niceties as tracts on the motions of the stars and long tables of ritual correspondences.”
“Burning? Did someone just burn all the magical books?”
“A bit more than the books. Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” She paused for a long moment, and grief bit deep into her face. “Maybe my broken dweomer suits us, because the People, young Aderyn, are naught but a remnant themselves. Long, long ago we lived in cities, the seven cities of the far mountains, ruled over by a council of seven kings. There were paved streets and big houses, beautiful temples and libraries filled with books that everyone was allowed to read, or so I’ve been told—I’ve never seen such things myself, mind. Old as I am, it was before my time, a good eight hundred years ago now when the Hordes came. They were demons, some say, ugly, squat, hairy creatures with fangs and big noses. I suspect they were real flesh and blood myself. Be that as it may, they came by the hundreds of thousands, fleeing south from the northern forests for some reason of their own, and as they came they burned and looted and killed. They destroyed the cities in a few short years, and all that’s left of the People is this remnant, wandering the grasslands. We’re the children of those who managed to get away in time, you see, and our families were all country people, farmers, most of them, or we never would have survived at all. Two women learned in magic managed to escape the burning of the cities and reach the grasslands, where the other refugees took them in, but they didn’t bring any books and so on with them. They were lucky to escape with their heads still on their shoulders, and they didn’t have time to pack properly, you might say, before they left.”
“Two? That’s all?”
“That’s all, out of all the grand schools and the temples. They did their best to pass on what they knew, but among us, as among you, talented sorcerers aren’t exactly as common as sheep in a fold. One of them was old, too, and died soon, worn out by the horrors she’d seen. My teacher studied with the other.”
“But these Hordes—why? Why did they just destroy everything?”
“I only wish I knew. No one does.”
“Uh, you said somewhat about these Hordes taking heads. I, er, well, wonder, er, does anyone remember what they looked like exactly?”
Nananna laughed, a bitter mutter under her breath.
“They may not have been actual demons, but they weren’t your people, young Aderyn, so rest your heart about that. All the old tales agree that they only had three fingers on each hand, for one thing, and that their faces, especially round the jaws, were all swollen and deformed, for another. Now, when I was a lass I heard one of the elders talk about those deformed faces, and he said it looked to him like they were actually covered with scar tissue in some kind of ritual pattern, maybe with some charcoal powder added in, like, to make the scars more prominent. I’ve never heard of a Deverry man doing such a thing.”
“And we all have five fingers, too. I can’t tell you how happy I am—for a moment I was sure that we were all somehow to blame.”
“Indeed? Why? Your folk’s general nature?”
“Well, that, too, but when I had my vision, I heard a voice telling me to go west. And it said, ‘Make restitution.’ So I thought, well, maybe we owed you somewhat.”
“Eldidd men owe us a great deal, but not because of the Burning, not as far as I know, anyway.” Nananna paused abruptly. “What’s all that noise out there?”
Aderyn heard urgent voices and footsteps. Just as Dallandra rose to go look, Halaberiel pushed open the tent flap.
“Wise One, my apologies for disturbing you, but Namydd the merchant is here with talk of trouble.”
When Dallandra spoke in Elvish, Nananna made an impatient wave in her direction.
“Aderyn has to understand this, too. Speak in his tongue. If you would, Banadar, bring Namydd to me.”
In a few minutes Halaberiel returned with a paunchy graying man in the checked brigga and elaborate shirt of a merchant. He was obviously exhausted, his eyes dazed, his movements stiff as he bowed to Nananna.
“My thanks for seeing me, Wise One,” Namydd said. “I’ve brought you some gifts, just tokens of my respect, but my son is still unloading our horses. We’ve ridden night and day to reach you.”
“Then sit down and rest. Dalla, fetch the poor man some mead. Banadar, stay with us. Now, what brings you here in such a hurry?”
“Great trouble, O Wise One,” Namydd said. “One of the northern lords, Dovyn of the Bear by name, is laying a formal claim to the lands by Loc Cyrtaer—the very place where we meet to trade every fall.”
“Oh, is he now?” Halaberiel broke in. “And does he think he’s going to cut the trees on our death-ground, too?”
“I know these lands are sacred to your people.” Namydd paused to take a wooden bowl of mead from Dallandra. “The merchant guild of Aberwyn is totally on your side. We tried to intervene with the prince, but all he’d say is that you’ll have to come to his court and file a legal counterclaim.”
When Halaberiel swore in Elvish, Nananna scowled him into silence.
“Then we shall do just that,” Nananna said. “I’m sure the prince will agree when he sees the justice of the thing. Now here, Namydd, has this lord chosen the death-ground itself?”
“Land that’s very close, but I think—I hope and pray—that the prince will listen to reason about such a sacred thing. Now, the guild sent me here with offers of aid. Your people can shelter with us if you come to Aberwyn. We have a man trained in our laws to act as your counsel—all at our expense, of course.”
“My thanks,” Nananna said with one of her wry smiles. “I forget sometimes how rich trading with us has made you.”
Namydd winced.
“Well, so it has. The Wise One is wise enough to know that when a man’s self-interest is at stake, he’s most trustworthy. If the banadar agrees, I think he’d be the best one to ride to Aberwyn. Our people have a great respect for those of high standing.”
“So they do,” Aderyn put in. “And even greater respect for those of royal blood. Hal, you wouldn’t happen to be descended from the kings of the seven cities, would you?” He glanced at Nananna. “There were seven, didn’t you say?”
“There were.” Halaberiel forgot himself enough to interrupt the Wise One. “Ye gods, you must have a grand sort of magic if you could see that in me! For what it’s worth, I am indeed—a pitiful sort of inheritance, but mine.”
“Then if you’ll listen to my humble council, I think you’d best travel as a prince—in the fullest sense of the word.”
Halaberiel looked briefly puzzled, then grinned.
“It might be amusing to try a bit of the pomp and mincing that pleases the Blue-eyes,” Halaberiel said. “What does the Wise One think?”
“Oh, I agree. Banadar? Take poor Namydd to your tent so he can get some sleep. Then return to me so we can plan things out. Namydd, you and your guild have my deep and heartfelt thanks.”
Namydd bowed, nearly fell from weariness, then let Halaberiel lead him away. Once they were gone, Nananna turned to Aderyn.
“Will you ride with the banadar?” Nananna said. “I’d be grateful if you would. I can give you a scrying stone so you can send me news, and I think it would be wise to have a man who understands the Light along on this little matter.”
“Gladly, Wise One.”
“But let me give you a warning. You can never truly desert your own kind, no matter how much loyalty you give to us. You must be scrupulously fair, not partisan. Do you understand? If the Lords of Light had wanted you to be an elf, you would have been born in an elven body.”
“I do understand that, O Wise One, and I’ll think well about what you say.”
Almost against his will, Aderyn glanced at Dallandra. Her storm-gray eyes were distant, cool, judging him, as if she were wondering if
he could truly live up to his fine words. Aderyn vowed to do the best he could, and all for her sake.
By morning, the news was all over the camp. Young men and women hefted weapons and swore bloody vengeance if the Round-ears so much as touched the death-ground. The older members of the group flocked round Halaberiel and offered advice, warnings, and general opinions. Every man and woman who owned horses had a right to speak out about such an important matter, but finally, by nightfall, they reached a decision. The camp went through its material goods and donated twenty-one matched golden horses, twenty-one fancy saddles and bridles, a heap of new clothes and all the jewelry they owned to make Prince Halaberiel and his escort look as rich as the Dragon Throne itself. Halaberiel himself owned a gem that impressed even Aderyn, an enormous sapphire as blue as the winter sea, set in a pendant of reddish gold some three inches across and ornamented with golden roses in bas-relief. When the warband saw him wearing it, they fell silent; Jezryaladar even held up his hands and nodded to the pendant in a sign of respect.
“It belonged to my grandfather, Ranadar of the High Mountain,” Halaberiel said to Aderyn. “For all the good it ever did him.”
As a last touch, Aderyn took the warband aside and instructed them in the courtesies that a Round-ear warband would show a man of royal blood. Finally they chose some packhorses—duns and roans, these—and a couple of young men to come along and pretend to be servants. Since Aderyn himself would be the prince’s councillor, he too got fancy clothes but a silvery-gray horse to ride.
On his last night in camp, Aderyn and Dallandra wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks and walked a little ways away through the silent grasslands. The night was clear, streaked with moonlight, and so cold that their breath puffed as they walked.
“Be careful, won’t you, Aderyn?” Dallandra said abruptly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this.”
“A dweomer warning?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it that. Just a bad feeling. I’m sorry, but I just don’t trust your people.”
“I can’t say I blame you. Ye gods, it makes me sick, thinking about how much you’ve all lost already, and now my folk come riding in trying to take away what little you’ve got left.”
“There’s plenty of land for all of us, though. That’s the sad thing. There truly is plenty for all, if the Round-ears would only see that. The grasslands stretch way far away to the west, and way up north, too, before you come to the mountains.”
“How far away were the seven cities?”
She shrugged, thinking hard.
“I have no idea. Months’ worth of riding, I guess. We never go there anymore.”
“Why not? Are the ruins haunted or suchlike?”
“Most like, but that’s not why. Wait—I heard some old tale about a plague—that’s right! At the end, it was plague that destroyed the Hordes, and the bards say that their corpses choked the gutters and paved the streets. If you want to know about all that old stuff, you should ask a bard at the winter meetings. They keep the lore alive.”
“You don’t seem to care much about it, do you?”
“Ye gods, I grew up hearing about the Burning till I was sick of it. So we lived in splendor once! Who cares? The past is dead, say I, and we’ve got to make the best of what we’ve got now.”
Yet her voice cracked with bitterness and regret.
Since Lord Dovyn and his escort left Aberwyn before the merchant guild sent its representatives to the prince, they rode back home thinking that the matter of Dovyn’s new lands was settled. Life for Cinvan and the warband settled into a drowsy autumn routine: exercising their horses in good weather, and in bad, gathering in the great hall to drink ale and keep the Carnoic tournament going, which by then was a close and heated affair. Garedd marked one of his silver pieces and kept a record of its progress through the wagers—sure enough, every time he lost it, it eventually came back to him. Cinvan took up the battle in earnest and fought his way to the front rank of contenders. He liked the cold pure strategy of the game, where a single mistake was fatal, and had put in long hours studying the various moves and tactics. Often on the long afternoons, while the wives were up doing whatever it was that women did in the women’s hall, Melaudd, Waldyn, and Dovyn would stroll over, tankards in hand, to watch the games and lay an occasional wager themselves.
When the message arrived, they were all gathered at the riders’ side of the hall. Cinvan was playing a particularly difficult game with Peddyc, who was almost his equal. He was debating whether to sacrifice one of his stones in order to jump and capture two of Peddyc’s when there was a bustle at the door. The gatekeeper came running in with an exhausted rider, his cloak pinned with the dragon brooch of Aberwyn.
“My lord Dovyn, an urgent message for you.”
Swearing under their breath, Peddyc and Cinvan stopped their game. A servant hurried off to find the scribe, who duly appeared to take the piece of parchment and read it aloud. The warband clustered round to hear.
“To Dovyn, lesser lord of the Bears, newly designated lord of Loc Cyrtaer, I, Addryc, prince of Aberwyn by the grace of his highness, Waryn, king of Eldidd, send greetings,” the scribe began. “My lord, a matter of great difficulty has been set before me by Prince Halaberiel, son of Berenaladar, son of Ranadar, a king of the Westfolk. The land on which you laid recent claim in my court is under prior claim to said Halaberiel as part of his royal hunting preserve. Certain sections of said land have also served as tribal burial ground for the ancestors of the Westfolk since time immemorial. I most urgently summon and request you to appear in my palace so that this matter may be discussed and settled in my court of law under my personal arbitration. Under my seal and mark, Addryc, prince of Aberwyn.”
“Oh, by the asses of the gods!” Dovyn burst out. “Those cursed Westfolk! The gall! Prince, is he? I’ll just wager!” He turned to his father in mute appeal.
“Whether he’s a prince or not, Addryc’s a prince for sure,” Melaudd said. “We’d best ride south and take a look at this.”
Dovyn began pacing restlessly back and forth.
“Why didn’t this cursed horse herder come forward before? The rotten gall! This is going to delay everything.”
“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” Waldyn put in. “Now calm yourself, brother. No need to draw steel and strike sparks until you see how the prince’s judgment goes.”
“Just so.” Melaudd turned to the messenger. “Did this Halaberiel ride in with an armed escort?”
“He did, my lord. Twenty men.”
“Well and good. Then we’ll take twenty of mine and leave the rest with Waldyn.”
Much to their delight, Cinvan and Garedd were chosen to be part of the escort and have another chance at the marvels of life in Aberwyn. At the meal that night, while the men who were going to be left behind grumbled, swore, and generally cursed the others for their good fortune, Cinvan and Garedd pumped the messenger for every scrap of news he had, which, as a common rider like themselves, was little enough.
“Well, here,” Garedd said at last. “Do you think this Hala what’s-it is truly a prince?”
“Well, now, I know this isn’t a friendly sort of thing to say, but I wouldn’t doubt it. I’ve never seen so many jewels on a lord! And this escort of his is always bowing and scraping around him, saying ‘my prince this’ and ‘my prince that,’ fetching him mead and bringing him cushions. You know, there’s one good thing you’ve got to say about the Westfolk—they blasted well can hold their mead. I’ve never seen a man drink the way this prince can.”
“I’m more interested in how they hold their swords,” Cinvan said.
“Now listen, lad.” The messenger shot him a sharp glance. “Naught’s going to come to bloodshed in Aberwyn’s court. A man who draws steel there gets twenty-five lashes, and if he’s still alive when they’re done with him, they throw him out of the warband onto the roads to starve.”
“I know that as well as you do,” Cinvan snapped. “I was just won
dering if things would come to a war.”
“Now here,” Garedd broke in. “That’s for the lords to decide. If Dovyn takes the judgment, then he’ll be looking for land elsewhere, that’s all. God knows, there’s enough of it, out to the west.”
Cinvan turned to look across the hall to the table of honor, where Melaudd and Dovyn were talking urgently, heads together, and Melaudd’s lady watched, shredding a piece of bread with frightened fingers.
Halaberiel and his retinue had been gone three days before Nananna heard from Aderyn. Impressively enough, he could reach her mind directly, rather than wait for a dream. One evening Dallandra was adding a few twigs and chips of wood to their tiny fire when the old woman suddenly went still and stared off into midair.
“Everything’s going smoothly so far,” Nananna said at last. “They crossed into Round-ear territory with no trouble, and now they’re about a day and half’s ride from the city itself.”
“Is Aderyn all right?”
“Of course, or he could hardly contact me, could he?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so worried, thinking they’ll be poisoned or ambushed or murdered by the Round-ears one way or another.”
“Have you had a true dream or a vision?”
“No, it’s just my fears talking to me. I even know it, but I can’t seem to stop.”
“Don’t try to stop. Let the voices talk, but ignore them.” Nananna tilted her head to one side to study her apprentice. “You’re coming to like Aderyn, aren’t you?”
“Oh, he’s nice enough.” She kept her voice casual. “For a Round-ear. No, that’s mean of me. He’s been a good friend so far, and whether or not he’s a Round-ear has nothing to do with it.”
“That’s better, yes. I like him myself, but even more to the point, he’s willing to help us beyond measure. He has knowledge that’s been lost to the People for eight hundred years, and he’s willing to share it for the asking. I call that admirable myself.”
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