by Byron Preiss
The people on the street watched in silent horror. Jondalrun entered a pool of yellow light from a lantern, stopped, and cried, “Justice for my loss! My son has been murdered!”
The cry carried throughout the town, filling it with painful echoes. Sashes were raised and shutters opened, as the inhabitants peered out. Jondalrun continued down the street, repeating the cry every few steps. Behind him, ahead of him, along the length of the street, murmurs began to grow, at first questioning, then sympathetic. A young man, fired by the scene, leaped from window to steep roof to street and marched alongside the old farmer, shouting, “Aye, justice!” He was quickly joined by several others, and what was one man’s cry had become a procession’s chant by the time they reached the Chief Elder’s house.
Jondalrun paid no heed to any of them. He continued on his way, his pace stiff and somnambulatory, stopping only to voice his lament. The townsfolk stepped aside, clearing a path for him and his followers. Jondalrun stopped before the house of Pennel, the Chief Elder. The crowd that had followed him stood watching and waiting. If ever a town held its collective breath, Tamberly Town did so then.
“Pennel!” Jondalrun shouted. “Justice for my loss! My son has been murdered!”
There was no response for a moment. Then a kitchen shutter opened a crack, and a woman with a bun of gray hair peered out. Her eyes grew wide, and she withdrew, closing the shutter quietly. Again, silence; then, the sound of footsteps within. The iron-hinged door swung open, and Pennel came out onto the step.
The Chief Elder was a thin, small man with large eyes that peered nearsightedly. He had been napping before dinner, and so his clothing and hair were rumpled. He stepped, yawning, from his door, tugging hair away from his eyes, and was confronted by the father and the dead son, both of whom he had known for years.
The crowd waited.
Jondalrun said simply, “Bring Agron. We will talk.” Then Jondalrun turned to a horse and cart that stood nearby. Tenderly he laid Johan’s body on the straw, climbed onto the bench, and picked up the reins. The man who owned the cart, standing in the crowd, made as if to protest, but Pennel gestured him to silence. Jondalrun snapped the reins, and the horse began to trot, its hooves loud against the stones.
No one moved until he had turned a corner of the winding street and the echoes of his passage faded. Then, as though released from a spell, the townsfolk broke into small groups of excited conversation. Pennel put his hands on the wooden railing before him and squeezed hard. He let his breath escape in a great sigh, blinked, and looked down at the man whose cart had been taken. “Find Agron,” he said. “Tell him to meet me at Jondalrun’s farm.”
He watched the man run down the street, filled with importance at carrying the Chief Elder’s order. He looked at his hands again. They were trembling.
He did not know what had brought murder to Tamberly Town, and he was very afraid to find out.
* * *
Agron was also a thin and small man; in fact, he was close enough in appearance to Pennel to be his brother. Their temperaments were similar as well; both were taciturn, spoke softly and to the point, and were conservative in outlook. Each thought the other overly curt and reserved. They agreed on one thing, however—their affection for the cantankerous old man who completed the trio of town Elders. When Agron learned of Jondalrun’s loss, he hurriedly saddled his horse and rode out of town along the dusty road that skirted the Toldenar Hills to the south, to Jondalrun’s farm.
In the barn, several unmilked cows lowed plaintively. Pennel and Agron hurried up the stone steps and into the house, where they found Jondalrun collapsed on the fleece rug next to his favorite chair. In the bedroom, Johan’s body lay on the bed, the quilt now stained with dark blood.
Pennel looked at Agron. “We must do it right for him,” he said. Agron nodded, and together they brought the hide cot down from Johan’s loft room. Agron stoked a fire in the fireplace, for the chill evening was drawing on, and put the bed-warming pan next to the flames for Jondalrun. While the house filled with warmth, they carried Johan to the cot, set well away from the fire, and arranged him as best they could in a position of rest. This took courage and strong stomachs, for the lad’s death had left him broken almost beyond recognition.
In the bedroom they changed the quilt and managed to get Jondalrun’s massive form onto the bed. Fatigued, they quickly completed the necessary chores outside, then retired to the fire, where they sat, side by side, watching the logs burn down to rosy embers. They spoke seldom through that night, and when they did, it was only to comment on the night’s chill, or similar things. They said nothing at all about Jondalrun or about Johan. Or about the future.
* * *
Southwest of Tamberly Town were the Warkanen Downs, a desolate reach of dark sand, scraggly grass, and thistle patches. Here and there lay rounded hillocks, just high enough to hide various monsters of the imagination. Wind-twisted trees were thinly scattered, accentuating the barrenness. In them larks and lapwings would sometimes perch, and sing with the wind about loneliness.
No birds perched and sang now, however, for it was night. The moon, nearly full, was touching the western horizon, and the wind blew in chill gusts that stirred sand and leaves. A pair of wagon ruts called Warkanen Road ran across the downs, curving about the low hills and copses. Along this road came a single traveler—a young girl, wrapped in a dark green cloak. She walked hurriedly, casting anxious glances over her shoulder at the setting moon.
Far overhead, a silent shape moved against the stars.
The girl was young, in her early teens. Her name was Analinna. She was a shepherdess on her way to a tryst with a boy from Cape Bage, a smith’s apprentice named Toben, whom she had met while bringing her father’s wool to town. His brown eyes and charming speech had captivated her, and they were to meet at the crossroads and go from there to a nearby abandoned drover’s hut. She looked anxiously behind her again; the moon was almost down, and she was late.
Above her the unseen shape grew larger, a black cloud that moved with terrifying purpose.
The road wound past a final hillock, and Analinna saw the crossroads before her. There was no sign of Toben. She paused, confused, then moved slowly toward the signpost. It was tilted at an angle, its base secured by rocks; the two cracked gray boards pointing directions were like skeletal fingers. The left indicated the way to Cape Bage, where, unknown to Analinna, Toben slept soundly in his room behind the smithy’s shop, exhausted after a hard day’s work. The other sign pointed toward the Stairs of Summer, the place of High Council for all the towns’ Elders. But she could not see which direction was which, for it was too dark now to read the signs.
As she stood uncertainly, a sudden gust of wind seemed to come from directly above her. Puffs of dust rose. Analinna stifled a sneeze and looked up. She saw nothing, but faintly heard something, a sound like the bellows Toben had used to fan the furnace in the smithy shop, only much deeper and slower.
She turned about once, twice, looking at sky and land. The moon was gone now, and high clouds were blotting out the stars. It was growing very dark, too dark even to see the road. A sudden fear, so great that she was unable to run, overcame Analinna. She stood in the middle of the crossroads, breath held, listening, waiting.
The bellows sound came again, much louder this time. An instant later, a wind like a blow from Old Man Autumn himself sent her sprawling on the ground. The crossroads sign swayed. Dust and sand filled Analinna’s eyes. She staggered to her feet and began to run.
She ran without direction, in blind terror. Something had passed over her in the darkness, something unseen and gigantic. Its presence filled the downs with a breathing horror. She ran, hopelessly, too frightened to scream, until she tripped over a rotting log and fell.
She heard the sound again, approaching. It sounded to her now like the flapping of mighty wings. Analinna knew of no creature so huge that could fly. She tried to scream, to scream for her father, in the unreasoning hope that he
could somehow come and save her. But before his name was half-formed, it was cut off by an explosion of wind, and she was lifted from the ground.
The sound of wings faded slowly, until the downs were still again. Like a dying bird, a scrap of green cloak floated to the ground, landing in the middle of the crossroads.
III
Morning came fresh and clear over the Spindeline Wood, to the west of Tamberly Town. Songbirds greeted the sun’s first rays. Within the wood, where the trees grew close against Greenmeadow Mesa, stood a large old house. Its walls were stone and wood, and its thatched roof was in disrepair. The rear end of the house was built right into the hollow trunk of one of the wood’s largest trees. A rivulet flowed alongside the house, turning a waterwheel with a comforting, regular sound.
Amsel came out of the house, carrying a barrelful of scraps to be buried in his garden patch for mulch. He sat down on a weathered wooden bench and took a deep breath, watching it frost in the early-spring air. It was his habit to listen to the flowing water and the singing birds for a short time in the morning. Amsel was a small man, small and wiry, with a great explosion of white hair under a floppy hat, and a face that could claim any age from thirty to fifty. He was dressed in loose-fitting green and brown clothes, covered with pockets. In the pockets were all manner of things: a thong-bound parchment notebook, a quill pen which carried its own ink supply (Amsel’s own invention), a lodestone, a small hammer (for chipping off interesting rock specimens), a small net of tanselweb (for capturing interesting insect specimens), and a pair of spectacles (also Amsel’s invention). He believed in preparing for any eventuality.
He lived alone in this old house, away from town and neighbor, and was aware of no lack in his life because of it. It seemed the best kind of life for a person with his insatiable curiosity about nature, and his many researches. He was well-adapted to it, although some of his habits were eccentric; he tied his clothes to the waterwheel to wash them, and he often talked to himself. This he did now. He rubbed one temple with a knuckle and mused, “Now, what was on the schedule for today?” He closed his eyes in concentration, then sighed and gave up by pulling his notebook from one of his pockets. With a nod and an “Ah-ha!” at one of his closely scribbled pages, he turned and walked around the outside of the house and down a path toward a clearing, where his experimental garden waited. There were rows of rare and unusual plants here; Amsel stopped at one and contemplated it. It was a bush covered with small knobby-skinned black pods. Amsel thoughtfully pulled one free of its stem, whereupon the pod burst, giving forth a strong, yet pleasant odor. It was almost citric, reminding him of nectarine blossoms. Amsel sniffed it in surprised pleasure, then carefully collected several pods and went back into his house.
In his workroom he examined a pod closely, then pulled his notebook from his pocket and made an entry with his pen. His workroom was spacious and well-lit, with a low beamed ceiling. Several shelves held a variety of things: almanacs, scrolls, parchment and vellum for writing and drawing, a huge collection of fossilized bones, and earthenware containers filled with herbs and liquids. There was a huge workbench with a great variety of tools on it. Other instruments, from garden equipment to an astrolabe, stood in corners or were suspended from the beams. Scrolls and experiments in progress were scattered about the room—Amsel was not the best housekeeper. He deposited the pods in his pocket for later examination, then busied himself by checking bubbling alembics and weighing proportions of various elements.
Ordinarily he was perfectly content to spend most of the day thus occupied, but today he found his interest in laboratory work gradually waning. He felt restless; his home, usually so secure and comforting to him, seemed confining. He looked out his window at the upper branches, swaying in a slight breeze, and abruptly made up his mind. Today was a day for outside. He would indulge himself in play and call it work—he would take his latest invention, his gliding Wing, out to Hightop Pass and spend the day probing the mysteries of flight.
Thus decided, Amsel went outside and around to the huge bole of the tree, where a series of steps led up into the leafy heights. He climbed quickly up to a large broad limb that lifted itself out of the foliage and into the clear sky.
This was where he kept his larger inventions. The limb extended itself out over the flat top of the mesa, and so he could step from wood to grass and use his lens tube to count the craters on the moon, or ride his pedalwheel cycle on some of the flat barren rocks that covered the center of the mesa. Amsel looked over these and several other contraptions proudly, then blinked in concern. Something was missing. He took careful mental stock and realized that his Wing glider was nowhere in sight. He looked at his notebook, to make sure that he had not put it somewhere else and forgotten about it. There was no note to indicate a change. Amsel raised bushy eyebrows.
“It appears that I’ve been robbed,” he said.
* * *
“Where is my son?”
The voice awoke Agron and Pennel, dozing in front of the cold ashes. For a moment they were both confused and disoriented, and the slam of the bedchamber door did not help them regain their composure. Before they could gain their feet, Jondalrun had crossed to the cot, where he stood staring down at Johan’s body.
Then he spun about, swiftly for all his bulk, and glared at his fellow Elders, standing by the hearth. “What happened?” he said, his voice half a growl. “I wanted to talk to you . . . tell you.”
“You collapsed, Jondalrun,” Agron said gently. “It is no reason to be ashamed.”
Jondalrun looked about as though searching for something to vent his rage upon. Pennel said, “Why don’t you tell us now—”
“By the seasons, I will!” Jondalrun shouted. “I’ll tell the town . . . the country! The Simbalese have killed my son!”
“What?” Pennel and Agron spoke in unison.
Jondalrun spoke with such passion that at times they were forced to restrain him from breaking the furniture. The treacherous warlock Amsel, whom he had long suspected to be in league with the Sim, had tempted his son Johan with sorcerous powers, and by them entranced the child so that he could fly. He had done so knowing that the boy would be easy prey for a Sim windship. Whether they had meant to capture his son or kill him, Jondalrun did not know, but the plot had resulted in Johan’s death. “It is an act of war!” Jondalrun, his face brick-red, hammered his fist on the table. “The Simbalese are toying with us,” he shouted, “and I say to you that we must show them they cannot murder our children! We must attack!”
The intensity of his words shocked Pennel and Agron—they had known Jondalrun to be belligerent and excitable, but never to such a degree. The sorrow he had felt at his son’s death had been transmuted into rage, a rage that would sustain him, that was an anchor for a life cast into turmoil.
“We must call a High Council!” Jondalrun concluded. “The Sim and that murderer Amsel must be punished!”
They tried to calm him, but he would not be calmed. “You do not believe me! What about last week’s attack on Gordain Town—”
“What you say is not impossible, Jondalrun,” Pennel said. “But we have no real proof that the Sim wish us ill. We must investigate these—”
“Proof, you say? Here is proof!” Jondalrun interrupted, pointing to his son’s body. “There will be more proof, and soon—you can be sure of that.” He turned toward the door. “Let’s return to town. I must post notice of my son’s funeral.”
In silence the three of them rode back to Tamberly Town, the two horses trudging behind the cart. The morning was bright and cheerful, as though Spring had no inkling of the cruel disaster. Jondalrun stared at the road ahead, brooding. He had never, for all his bluster, been a particularly vengeful man. But he carried his resentments within him, festering. Chief among these were the Simbalese. Like most Fandorans, Jondalrun had little real knowledge of Simbalese life-styles and customs. In common with most of his people, he believed the Simbalese to be witches and warlocks. He resented th
e tales he had heard of their luxurious lives, but he had always grudgingly admitted that Simbala had never harmed Fandora. What meager trade the Fandorans had with the nations to the south was mostly in grain and woven products—it did not conflict with the Simbalese, who traded the jewels from their mines, their crafts and rare herbs. Simbala had never taken any hostile action against Fandora—until a fortnight before, when a windship had crossed the Strait of Balomar and attacked Gordain Town. The resultant fires had destroyed part of the town, including a warehouse filled with grain. That had been disaster for many people, but to Jondalrun it was less than nothing compared with the loss of his son.
Jondalrun was convinced that the Simbalese were indulging their fancied superiority—wantonly flaunting it. Their windships and their magic made them feel invulnerable, immune to reprisal. Well, he told himself grimly, they would soon learn how vulnerable they were.
In Tamberly Town, the mood of the folk was subdued and pensive, as though they awaited a verdict that would affect them all. This tension, the Elders learned, was not due solely to last night’s sorrow. Where Jondalrun had stood before Pennel’s house the night before, there now stood a shepherd, old and grizzled, his face set in grim lines of sorrow. Clenched in one hand was a scrap of green cloth.
He did not move, but began speaking in a slow monotone as the cart stopped before him. He did not look at the Elders, but spoke as though to himself.
“She went walking last night, went walking, after I was asleep, and she didn’t come back, didn’t come back. Soon as it was light, I began to search. I didn’t search far. This“—he looked at the scrap of cloth, clenched tightly in his fist—”this I found at the crossroads on the downs. Not far from there I found her, I found her. She . . . ” He stopped, his face twisted with grief. “She’d fallen . . . a long ways. . . . ” He closed his eyes. His shoulders shook.