“And your dream has troubled you, for it was a dream of darkness instead of light.”
“How much you women see. Yes, it was a dream of darkness—a vision. I saw . . . ,” he began, and then stopped. “No, I must not tell what I have seen just yet. I must ponder it in my heart for a time.”
“Then you may eat while you ponder. Come. Your supper will be getting cold.”
She turned and padded back into their dwelling. Yeseph watched her go, thinking how lucky he had been to find one so wise and understanding to share his old age. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving to Whist Orren for his good fortune. Then he raised himself slowly and followed her in.
As they lingered over their meal, Karyll watched her mate closely. He did not eat with his usual fresh appetite, but dawdled over his plate. In the lambent glow of the candles on the low table, Yeseph sank further into pensive reflection. Twice he brought a morsel of food to his mouth only to return it to the plate absently.
“Yeseph,” Karyll murmured gently, “you have not eaten well tonight. Your dream has upset you. If you will not tell me, perhaps you will tell the elders instead.”
“Yes, that is what I must do.” He got up from his stool at once and went to the door, where he paused and turned toward her, his form a dark silhouette against the evening sky. He seemed suddenly to come to himself once more. “I am going to call together the other elders. We will meet tonight. Do not wait for me, my love. It may be very late.”
“I do not mind. I have some work with which to occupy myself while you are gone. Now, away with you. The quicker you go, the quicker I will have my Yeseph back.”
In an inner chamber of the great Ariga temple, Yeseph waited for the elders to join him. It would not be long, for he had sent runners, three of the young men who served in the temple, to fetch the other Curatak leaders. He had merely to wait for their arrival, and the meeting could begin. Yeseph busied himself with lighting the many candles that stood on their long holders around the bare room.
In the center of the room, four straight, high-backed chairs sat in a circle facing one another. When the candles had been lit, Yeseph took his place, folding his hands in his lap in quiet meditation. In a few moments the curtains that overhung the chamber’s entrance parted and the familiar form of Jollen entered, smoothing his council robes.
“Good evening, Elder Yeseph. Your summons saved me from quite a distasteful chore—I had promised to begin translating a song for some of the children.”
“That, distasteful? Surely, you do not mean it. If you do, perhaps it were better you went back and got right to work.”
“Oh, do not misunderstand. I love the children and would give them anything. But the song they have chosen is of the old Ariga dialect. A very dreary piece about an unhappy youngster who is changed into a willow because of his complaining. I tried to persuade them to choose something happier, but their hearts were set on this one and none other.”
“You will be better for it in the end, I am sure,” laughed Yeseph. “An excursion into the old dialect will sharpen your wits.”
Jollen made a wry face. “If I did not know better, I would suspect you of having put them up to it. It would be just like you.”
The next to enter was Patur, the unofficial leader of the group. It was he who most often took it upon himself to inform the Curatak of the elders’ decisions in matters of public import. He was a most able and influential orator and often led the worship in the temple. He was well studied in the religion of the vanished Ariga.
“Greetings, my learned friends,” he said, adjusting the robe he had just donned upon entering the chamber. His eyes gleamed in anticipation of the evening’s work, for, whatever it was, it would involve him in close communion with other sharp minds, a thing he dearly loved.
“Greetings, Patur. Thank you for coming along so quickly. We only have to wait . . . ah! Here he comes now.” Yeseph nodded to the curtain, and Clemore, the most recent addition to the group upon the death of Asaph, the oldest member, entered, bowing low.
“Good evening, brothers. I pray you are well.” The others nodded, and they all took their places.
Yeseph looked from one to the other of their familiar faces. These were his most trusted friends; yes, Clemore was right: his brothers. He could tell them his dream, and they would shoulder the burden, no matter how small or great it would prove in the end. He felt better just being in their presence and wondered if any of them ever felt the same way about him. He supposed they did, as often they had sought his counsel singly or with the others. Now it was his turn to put a problem before them.
“Good Yeseph, do not keep us in suspense any longer. Tell us what disturbs you, for I see in your eyes that your spirit is distressed by something,” said Patur.
“You are right; I am troubled.” He paused as he collected his thoughts and looked at each of them in turn. “This evening I had a dream. Very brief it was, and very strange.”
“You believe it to presage something of significance?” asked Clemore.
“I do.”
“And have you an interpretation for us?”
“No, that is why I have asked you to come here tonight. I thought perhaps together we might seek understanding.”
“Very well,” said Jollen, “tell us your dream as it came to you. We will ask the Most High to enlighten us with its meaning.”
Yeseph nodded slowly and, closing his eyes, began to recite his dream.
“I had just stepped into the courtyard when a great drowsiness came over me, even though I had not eaten. I quickly fell asleep where I sat and began to dream. And the dream was this:
“I saw a river running through the land, and wherever the river touched the land, it sprang forth abundantly with green shoots and trees and food for all living things. And the water was clear and good; men came to the river’s edge to drink, and the wild creatures drank and were satisfied.
“But then a dark storm came out of the east and began to blow. The river still ran, but the water began to change, becoming the color of blood. At first just a trace of red clouded the clean water, but it deepened until the water ran black and the river became foul.
“Now no one could drink from the river and live; men who drank of it died, and animals too. And all the trees and grass and flowers which had sprung up along the river’s banks now withered and died. The land became desolate, for all things depended upon the river for their life. The winds came and blew away the dust, and dust filled the air in great clouds, covering the land, and the river dried up.”
Yeseph paused, drew breath, and continued. In the silence of the inner chamber, his words sounded like the toll of a bell.
“Darkness fell upon the land, and I heard a voice crying out. It was the voice of a terrified child, saying, ‘Where is my father? I am afraid. Where is my protector?’
“The darkness rolled up in answer to the child. It spoke with the voice of the night and said, ‘Your father’s bones are dust and scattered to the winds. Your protector’s sword is broken. You will live in darkness all your days, for now you are a child of the night.’
“I wept to hear those words. My tears fell like a mighty rain upon the earth. And the rain of tears washed over the land, which had become a bowl to catch the tears and hold them all.
“Another voice, mightier than the first, called out and said, ‘Where are my servants? What has become of those who are called by my name?’
“I answered, saying, ‘I am here, and only I—all others have perished.’ I fell on my face in my grief.
“The voice answered me and said, ‘Rise up and take the bowl and pour it out.’ I took the bowl in my hands and poured it out, and it became a sword of living light which flashed in the face of the darkness, and the darkness fled before it. ‘Take the sword!’ the voice commanded.
“I began to tremble all over, because I knew I could not take up the sword. ‘I have never touched a sword and do not know how to use it,’ I argued.
�
��Then give it to the child,’ the great voice answered. ‘He will use it, and you will guide his hand.’
“But when I looked for the child to give him the shining sword, he was gone. The night had swallowed him up, though I could hear him crying as the darkness carried him farther and farther away.”
Yeseph opened his eyes once more and looked at his brothers in their council robes. They sat unmoving as they pondered his words. Their eyes were grave, and their faces reflected the concern they all felt at hearing Yeseph’s dream.
“Brothers,” intoned Patur deeply, “this is a most unsettling dream. I hear in it a warning of some urgency. Let us now ask the Most High to guide us in our interpretation, for I believe it is given us this night to oppose the power of darkness bespoken in the dream.”
At that the elders of Dekra joined hands and began to pray.
15
The sleek black stallion seemed to flow down hills and through valleys like water. Esme had only to press with her knees or move a hand to the right or left and the horse responded, as if to her very thoughts. The animal was remarkably well trained—so much so that Esme began to fear for its welfare. Riv would run until his heart burst before slackening his pace in disobedience to his rider’s command.
The scene of the ill-fated flight lay far behind her now, and still the horse flew on, the lather streaming off his neck and shoulders in flecks whipped away by the wind. Esme saw the dark line of a creek snaking through the lowland valley ahead. Where the creek rounded the grassy base of a hill, there rose a stand of young birches, shimmering white in the morning light. That, she thought, would be a good place to rest.
“Whoa, Riv!” she called, leaning forward in the saddle. She pulled back the reins with the lightest touch, and the horse slowed to a canter and then a trot. Esme let him cool down before reaching the quiet stream, knowing that it would not be good to let him drink his fill while still hot from the chase and winded. She would need this horse to reach Askelon.
The birches ringed a shady hollow where long grasses grew, fed by the stream. It was secluded and invisible to any who might come after her. The stony feet of the hill lay exposed at one side of the hollow where the stream formed a shallow pool.
She slid from the saddle and led Riv into the shady grove, walking him slowly. The hollow was cool and silent and full of golden spatters of sunlight and green shadow. Warily, she advanced toward the running water heard spilling blithely over a rank of stones set in its course. She heard the call of a meadow bird above her on the hill and the swish of the horse’s legs moving through the grass. That was all, apart from the bubbling water. Yes, she was safe.
Esme led her mount to the edge of the pool and watched as he plunged his nose into the water. He drank deeply and pulled his head out of the stream to shake his gleaming mane in the sunlight. Glistening pearls of water were flung into the air, then splashed back into the crystal pool. She watched as the horse repeated the procedure several more times, and each time she was a little closer to forgetting that she had just barely escaped with her life.
Riv snorted and turned away from the water to stand looking at her calmly, as if to say, “You may drink—I will keep watch.” Esme knelt in the long grass, cupped her hands, and brought the clear water to her mouth. When she had finished, she led Riv to a patch of wild clover and let him eat his fill. She did not tether him, knowing that a horse as well trained as Riv would not abandon his rider to wander off.
She left the horse to crop the clover and turned her attention to the hill nearby. It presented to her the highest vantage for viewing her surroundings. Having left the fray at the ravine with little more thought than to come away with her skin, she had almost no idea where she might be. As much as possible she had tried to hold the direction whereby they had entered the ravine in the first place, her object being to regain the road they had been following. Once on the road, she would turn north and then hurry to Askelon.
Esme climbed the steep slope of the hill as it rose out of the vale and above the trees. Out of the shade, the air was warmer and alive with bees and butterflies beginning their daily chores. A fresh wind blew ruffles along the tall grass; the sky billowed bright and blue, unconcerned with the darker deeds of night and desperate men. Here she could almost forget what had passed just a few hours earlier.
But she could not forget the two gallant men who had so courageously flown to the aid of the helpless townspeople and who had, without question, offered her protection as well. As she reached the crown of the hill, she turned her eyes back toward Illem, now leagues behind her. There was nothing to be seen; not even a smudge of smoke on the horizon remained to mark the place.
For a moment she stood in indecision—should she return and try to discover what had become of her friends? Or go on, to complete her charge and deliver her message to the king?
It was an empty choice, she knew. The enemy that had overcome them in the ravine at Illem was the same that had surprised her and her companions on the road. Now the lives of two more had been added to the sum, for there was little doubt in her mind that by now Quentin and Toli were dead. And were it not for the importance of her mission, she would have stayed to share their fate.
There was nothing to be done but go on.
She gazed out over the land, her dark eyes sweeping the horizon for any recognizable landmark. Away to the south, she saw a thin slice of spangled blue that merged with the sky. The sea, she thought, I have not gone far wrong. By squinting up her eyes she could almost see the road itself as it hugged the coastal hills. She cast one look over her shoulder to see if the dark enemy had followed her, but saw nothing except the radiant sky and the hills of summer. So she turned with heavy heart to leave.
Clambering back down the side of the hill, Esme heard the excited whinny of a horse. Was it Riv, or some other? She stopped, her heart now fluttering in panic. She listened.
From beneath the leafy canopy directly below her she heard again the shrill scream of a horse in distress. In the tangle of leaves and branches, she could not see the animal, nor its assailant. As quickly and as quietly as she could, she slipped the rest of the way down the hill, careful not to show herself openly.
Once below the treetops she saw Riv, legs splayed, head down, backed against the rocks, shaking his mane and baring his teeth. But she could see nothing at all that should so upset him. All was as she had left it. Not a single intruder, man or beast, was in evidence.
Esme dropped to the ground and crouched in the grass for a moment. Hearing nothing and seeing nothing disturbing, she rose and went to the frightened animal to comfort it.
“There, Riv. Easy, boy.” She patted his sleek jaw and curled a slim arm around his neck. “Easy, now. What is it, Riv? Hmm? What has frightened my brave one?”
The horse calmed under her touch and soothing voice. He nickered softly, low in his throat, and tossed his head. But he continued to look away across the creek—at nothing Esme could see.
“There, now. See? All is well. There is nothing—”
Before Esme could finish, Riv tossed his head, eyes rolling white in terror, and broke away from her. She snatched at the dangling reins, but the horse leaped away and ran through the long grass to stand whinnying across the hollow.
“Riv!” Esme shouted impatiently. “You perverse creature! Come back here!” She stood with her hands on her hips as the horse bucked and shied, spinning in circles of fear as she watched. What had gotten into the animal? wondered Esme. She had seen nothing like it before.
“Away, foul beast!
And take your rider— Or be ye still,
And stand beside her.”
At the strange, singsong words spoken in a rasping babble of a voice, Esme whirled around. Her hand flew to the long dagger at her belt.
“Not a hangman’s knot.
Nor blade of knife
Prevail against
This sibyl’s life!”
Esme could not believe her eyes. For there, in a huddle
of rags on a rock in the middle of the creek, stood a humpbacked old woman. She held a long staff in one hand and waved the other before her as if warding off bees. As Esme watched in mute astonishment, the old woman hopped as lightly as a cricket from stone to stone and so crossed the stream without so much as wetting a single tatter.
Upon landing on the bank, the old woman shook her rags in a flurry and stamped the ground three times with her staff. Then she proceeded to hobble toward the spot where Esme stood gaping in amazement. Where had she come from?
“Who are you, old mother?” asked Esme warily. The withered creature did not answer but drew closer in her peculiar hopping gait, swinging the staff and puffing mightily. Her hair hung in a mass of tangled gray snakes bedecked with bits of leaf and twig. The shriveled face looked like a dried apple, a mass of lines and creases browned by the wind and baked by the sun. When the woman moved, Esme imagined she could hear her brittle bones rattle; she appeared as old as the rocks under the hill.
“Who are you?” Esme repeated her question.
The hag made a pass in front of her with her wavering paw. Esme saw the rough hands and blackened nails and noticed, too, the scent of smoke and filth that billowed from the old woman.
“If rock and hill
And laughing water
Be hearth and home,
I’m Orphe’s daughter.”
She turned her weathered face slyly toward Esme and grinned a leering, toothless grin. It was then that Esme saw the sunken sockets where once eyes used to be. The old woman was utterly blind.
“You live here . . . in the hollow?”
“So ye say
And speak ye truth
And I would ask
The same of you.”
“Me? I am Esme. I did not mean to disturb your home. I heard the horse . . .” She turned and noticed Riv had calmed and now stood watching and cautiously nodding his head as if spellbound. “I will trouble you no further, but will leave at once.”
The Dragon King Trilogy Page 46