Magesong

by James R. Sanford

  "Take a lantern. There's no moon tonight."

  She watched them walk away into the darkness, then she edged along the circle of light to the other side of dancing ground. Aksel found her there.

  "Where have you been?" he said, laughing between heavy breaths.

  "Talking to everyone in the valley — are you winded? Don't tell me you've been dancing with the youngsters."

  "Just by myself in the shadows."

  "Well, if you have so much vigor, why don't you take your old wife for a swing. Look how tuckered the children are. Let's show 'em how the old folk dance."

  "You pick the ground, old woman, and I'll take the lead."

  Kurnt and Elge Monjor had already joined the thinning ranks of teenagers on the hard-pounded dance ground. This was the way it usually went on Summer Soon night. After the fast jigs had been played out, the rhythms slowed and everyone joined in, the couples with children sometimes bringing their young into the bright light to teach them their first steps. All seem seemed to have forgotten the evening argument.

  Aksel perspired freely in the heat of the bonfire, and swung her a little too hard, smiling nervously as way of an apology. Very much like our first dance on this same festival night over thirty years ago, Syliva thought. She remembered how he could never look long into her eyes when they met and spoke at the song fires, or in the village on market days. It wasn't until he stole his first kiss from her in the freezing dark of Winter's Eve, behind a great fir tree, that he could meet her gaze evenly. She could see it clearly, as if it had just happened, and her heart winced briefly for the time that had passed in the blink of an eye.

  "Syliva!" The scream came from the shadows behind her, in the direction of the village.

  "Syliva!" It was Kestrin, breaking through the circle of onlookers, some still clapping time to the dying music. She paused at the edge of the firelight, then came quickly forward, her arms shaking with anger.

  "What is it, child?"

  Kestrin wiped an errant tear from her cheek and cried no more, but her voice quavered as she spoke. "It's gone. A yeggman came and took it away while we were here at the dance. Gone — all of it. Stolen."

  "Stolen? What are you talking about?"

  "A thief in the night. Our cheese barrel is gone. So is our barley meal, and the last of our flatbread." Her voice rose to a fierce shriek. "All our food has been taken!"

  The fire popped and crackled in the following silence.

  "That can't be," Syliva said. "There hasn't been robbers in this valley since the Cycle of Ice."

  "Then it is one of us," Kestrin shouted, turning full circle to glare at each face in turn. The weight of her own words struck her, and she stopped, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then it is one of us."

  CHAPTER 11: The Far Kingdom

  Reyin lay ill for three days. It seemed that each time he opened his eyes, Farlo stood at his side. On the fourth night, when the nightmare of pain was finally played out, he found himself able to speak.

  "On the ship?" he asked weakly.

  Farlo nodded. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. "A few days from the port of Ava, if you believe the sailing master.”

  "Not chained below, then?"

  "No, of course not. Chained down in the hold? You've been having delirium dreams is what."

  That morning, when Reyin walked shakily out to lean on the starboard rail, he clutched the Heartleech in his fist. After a minute of watching the foam on the water, he dropped it into the ocean.

  At noon, a green and yellow haze came into sight. This was the Isle of Aessia, huge, over two hundred leagues across. Somewhere ahead on its southwest shore stood the city of Ava, birthplace of the Avic language, the center from which spread the art and philosophy of an entire hemisphere. The Cycle of Ice had reduced the beauty of that ancient civilization to mere legend, but for anyone born of the Avic culture, for all of those whose first words were in its lyrical tongue, Ava mirrored their very being.

  Tarradid wore interminably to the south in shifting winds that afternoon. But the crew's spirit was good, and someone started a chantey, with everyone joining in as the dog watches changed. Even Reime stopped speaking of Tolan's disappearance, saying, "What's it matter? He was a horse's arse, anyway." Two mornings later, as the last crescent moon of spring set beyond the Western Sea, the Captain announced that they would make their destination before noon.

  By midmorning the hills above Ava came into view, and everyone stayed on deck watching them edge closer as the minutes passed. When he could see the ivory towers of the old palace, standing tiny as toothpicks on the tallest hill inside the city, Reyin went below to fetch Farlo.

  He sat alone on an overturned bucket, stropping his razor, soap and brush in a cup beside him. He ran his hand along the dark bristle of his newly-grown hair.

  "No," Reyin said, suddenly furious. "No, you are not going to do that."

  Farlo, struck dumb with surprise, said nothing at first. Then he said, "You don't understand — "

  Reyin cut him off savagely. "Yes I do. I understand that you have been worse than useless on this voyage, that you nearly got us thrown in prison just because you had to prove you could lick that Tolan fellow. And I'm paying your way with money that I'll need later."

  Farlo started to rise, the dark look coming fast, but Reyin, too angry to stop and think, took one long stride toward him, throwing out his left hand.

  "Listen!" he commanded, unconsciously speaking the Essian tongue. Farlo did not move, and Reyin hardly paused.

  "Now. What you are going to do is: let you hair grow, trim your beard, stop picking fights, stop eyeing people with suspicion, stop attracting attention to yourself, and try to act like everyone else or I'll dump you like dirty bath-water. You have no idea what I did for you, what that did to me. I should have slipped away without you in the first place. I should have left you back in — "

  Then the vision of the fate of Lorendal came to him unbidden, Syliva looking gaunt and afraid, Kestrin lying near death, and his rage was undone. He took a breath and shuffled out into the bright sunlight, leaving Farlo in silence.

  Tarradid entered the harbor under a dying breeze, and in the end they had to warp the ship up to the quays. Reyin and Farlo stepped off the gangplank in the heat of midday, glad to have seen the last of that ship.

  It was Fireday. The market fair would be in full bustle down on the green across from The Peacock's Tale. Reyin guided Farlo through an archway close by on Herrafort Street, climbing two short flights of stairs to an unmarked door. The old man did not remember him, but he got the usual price for the room anyway.

  Reyin threw on his minstrel colors and told Farlo, "I'm going out to make some coin. Stay put and someone will bring you dinner in a little while."

  As he expected, The Peacock's Tale couldn't hold half the fair-goers seeking refreshment there, and most of them overflowed onto the front street. Reyin looked out across the green. In the open spaces between clusters of tents and stalls, the local singers, acrobats, and fakirs (dressed in mysterious garb) worked the crowd from one end to the other. Playing on the fairground among the afternoon strollers would be more pleasant, but the coin was with the drinkers. Rougher work, sure — drunks could get really ugly — you just needed quickness afoot and the will to keep smiling. He clicked his heels, pasted some merriment onto his face, and plunged right into the nose painters with a "hey nonny no."

  His performance felt stilted. He had done it too many times and it was dry. No old time thrill at being the flashing showman, shiny pennies arcing through sunlight as they fell towards his hat. He didn't even feel nostalgia for the trusty old tunes that were simple to play and guaranteed to please. A long-term weariness began to settle upon him; he was travel-worn and wanted to go home. Where would that be? Ty'kojin's cabin on the shoulder of Wind Peak, he supposed. Certainly not Kandin.

  The old discipline held him up, so he found himself making that same bawdy jest to the gentleman or blowing that practiced
not-so-chaste kiss to the lady. When a pair of constables arrived with green feathers in their caps and wooden staves in their hands, Reyin, without thinking, used the same line he had said to hundreds of policemen at dozens of fairs: "Sorry, I've already sung all the filthy songs I know, but if you want I'll do a chorus of The Old Knottin' Trail." And of course the laugh stopped the performance as it had always done, and of course the constables smiled good-naturedly, slightly self-conscious because they had interrupted everyone's good time, and of course as there was no trouble here they drifted away without causing any themselves.

  The sunset lingered, and in the lull of twilight come at last, Reyin bowed away from the street in front of The Peacock's Tale to find a quiet place on the green to count his hatful of pennies. The light failing, the coins dirty, his best guess was that he had nearly four kandar's worth. He had done really well. That was as much as he ever made in one day.

  The light in the western sky dimmed to a shimmering blue glow, and the merchants who wished to stay and hawk a few more wares to the trickle of late-comers produced lanterns and hung them from tent poles. Those artisans who had had enough bartering for the day rolled up their awnings and packed goods into lock-boxes. Quiet fell in waves across the green, and Reyin found himself looking up. The palace of the ancient kings of Ava stood on a hill only a few blocks away. A light appeared, fading quickly to darkness, in a lower window of one of the ivory towers, then surged to life in the next window up, then dark, then light again one level higher. Someone climbing the tower, thought Reyin. The palace was old and weather-worn, even dilapidated and crumbling in a few places. Certainly no one but a caretaker lived there. Artemes had told him that a great library lay in vaults deep beneath the towers of the old kings, that it contained the lore of the origins of civilization and the history of the time before the Cycle of Ice. It was there, he had said, for anyone who knew how to read, but only a few old scholars had ever done so. As he stood there in deepening silence, Reyin felt his own breast grow heavy, and he took up his strings and sang The Lament of the Knights of the Flame. Low and slow, he sang it only for himself.

  When they entered their stateroom on the galleon, Reyin tossed his duffle into the corner and slid himself into the lower bunk, propping his head up with the pillows.

  "Feather mattress," he said smugly.

  Farlo simply stared at the oak paneling, the brass fittings on the porthole, the leather-bound sea chest, the porcelain hand-bowl, and the solid bunk beds with fine down comforters.

  "I'd rather have a hammock," Farlo mumbled, "and you'll wish for the same if we hit heavy seas."

  Farlo had done as Reyin demanded, saying little and staying out of sight. He had even achieved a style of sorts with his beard, and had taken to wearing a workman's cap when he had to go out. But Reyin refused to consider another working passage. Taking the galleon was a lavish expense, leaving them little for Mira-Delvin, but this way Farlo could keep to himself and they would hopefully have an uneventful crossing to the port of Javian.

  The day of their departure from Ava proved hot and breezy, the night mild and moonlit. Reyin sat on the upper bunk plucking at his mandolin, picking out the melody of the Song of Returning. Farlo came in from an hour on deck.

  "There," Reyin said, "I've finished it."

  Farlo rolled into the lower bed. "It's about time. You've been playing that thing all day."

  "I found that I was a little out of practice back there in Ava, but no, that's not what I meant. I've finished translating the Song of Returning into Avic. I was thinking of making it into a ballad."

  "You mean to play on the street for money?"

  "Certainly not. I'd sing it only at special times for those who might understand."

  After a long silence Farlo said, "Go ahead then, sing it for me."

  Reyin strummed gently, a rhythm with the voice of the nightly fire where they had gathered, then came the whisper of the wind in the mountains. He sang:

  The day of her return is nigh.

  Though unseen by mortal sight,

  A hand turns the spinning wheel

  of the starry night sky.

  For she who heals old winter's scars,

  We await, We await.

  For she who gives us life anew,

  We await on the wheel of life.

  The springtime comes on cloud-swept wings.

  We rest like seeds deep in the earth.

  The Spirit now flows forth again

  with light, with warmth, with birth.

  For she who lives in land and sea,

  We await, We await.

  For she who gives us life anew,

  We await on the stone of time.

  Farlo cleared his throat quietly. "Not bad," he said. "I want you to understand something. I'm not the best judge of music on the ocean, but I think you're a first rate minstrel — 'bout the best I ever seen just out on the street. And I could be wrong about all this so there you are, and I have to say . . . that was a real nice tune with poetic words and all, but you should leave that song to itself. It should be sung just how you learned it."

  "I only wanted to share it with my friends," Reyin said. "I want them to understand it without having to learn Pallenor."

  "And that's my point. Your words aren't even half right because many of the Pallenor words can't be translated into Avic or any other language. It doesn't matter if they understand the words or not. The song is not for thinking. It's for feeling."

  "I didn't think my song was that bad."

  "It's not. Share it. Do what you will. Like I said, I could be wrong."

  On the eighth day of the southern crossing, they sighted the city of Javian at the far side of a wide inlet. Beyond the turrets of in-town villas and the peaked domes of temples, the palace of the Jakavian royal family rose out of a haze made by ten thousand cooking fires. The harbor was deep. The largest galleon could be brought right alongside the huge masonry quay which ran with the harbor street for a quarter of a league.

  The capital city of Jakavia was by no means the oldest. Though their civilization was near as old as the Aessians, the Jakavian people had suffered an interregnum of constant warfare while the northern states endured the Cycle of Ice. When it ended, the ancient capital of Mira-Delvin lay crumbling on the southern coast, and the new royal city had begun rising on the north shore.

  Reyin and Farlo stayed their first night in a cheap waterfront hostel, where five pennies apiece bought a bowl of soupy rice and a straw mat in room full of smelly strangers. They were rewarded the next morning with painful diarrhea.

  "We'll have to take the overland," Reyin said when there was nothing left inside him but cramps, and he could walk down the street. "It will get us to Mira-Delvin in five days."

  "Five days stuck in a crowded coach with the fat well-to-do."

  "Don't worry, they'll make you ride on top anyway."

  "How we gonna eat? The overland will cost all the monies we have."

  "More than that, actually," Reyin said with a sour look. "I'm going to sell my pistol."

  Farlo‘s mouth fell open. "You can't mean that. We'll certainly need it."

  "I'm not planning to commit robbery."

  "Well that is just what we might have to do — have you thought of that? You think someone sails a thousand leagues to find a treasure and gives it up? What are you planning on doing, just asking for it back?" Farlo almost shouted now, and Reyin led him into the shade of a narrow alley. "What are you thinking? Tell me. What are you going to do when we find it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Oh that's well done, that is."

  "I told you before we started," Reyin said evenly, "that it might not be possible to retrieve this Elemental Spirit. I told you that I may not even be able to find it. But whatever we do, we will do it without firearms and without harming anyone. Right now, I'm going to sell this damned pistol and buy two tickets for tomorrow's coach. That's what I'm going to do right now."

  As Reyin had predicted, Far
lo was politely told that he must ride atop the coach. Only a shortage of gentle passengers and his minstrel colors saved Reyin from the same fate. Perhaps the driver thought he would entertain the richly-attired matron and her nineteen-year-old son who sweated profusely in his new ensign's uniform and could hardly wear a dress sword without causing injury to himself, or perhaps the footman thought that if Reyin was spared daily exposure to sun and dust he could play for them at the inns where they stopped for the night. He did neither. Glad to be out of Farlo's sight for hours on end, he sat back, determined to watch the countryside drift by and have his mind sit easy for a few days. But the dry interior of Jakavia sent his thoughts across the sea to the dry valley of Lorendal, and he sank quickly into despair. Farlo's sharp words had reminded Reyin that he didn't know what he was doing, that this was sheer folly.

  At the end of the fourth day they climbed a low pass in a range of hills. To Reyin's surprise, the summer breeze grew chilled soon after dusk, and he did not mind so much sharing a bed with Farlo that night. The next morning was a winding, laborious descent to sea level. Shortly after noon they turned out over the last low ridge and, leagues in the distance, a gargantuan cluster of square and linear forms squatted on a desert coastline. East of the modern city, the ruins of the ancient capital lay on a sandy plain that ran down to a wide beach. The coach passed the north gate of Mira-Delvin an hour later, but they found the way to the central stables narrow and thick with ox-carts, and the sun westered before the overland journey was finally done.

  The inn across from the stables catered to the well-to-do traveller, so they took to scouring the back streets for cheap lodging. Darkness came full upon them before they found an open chamber. The matron of the house, an enormous woman (Reyin figured she could push Farlo to the ground in a shoving match), eyed them suspiciously as she took their money.

  "You're too late for supper," she told them, "so you'll have to go out and find your own. The door gets locked at half past nine and that's it. Don't come knocking later than that — I'll set the dogs on you if you do."