by Bill Fawcett
Suddenly she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a figure poised in the rafters high above them. Afraid to show she had noticed, she sat at the table and tried to continue her conversation. But Morian saw her eyes shift upward, and leaning toward the Dancer she asked, “What is it?” Sruss’s only answer was to look up without moving her head.
“We’re being watched,” she muttered at last.
Morian nodded. “Maybe,” she replied. “Or maybe he’s watching somebody else.” She looked slowly around. “This seems a place where watchers would be needed.”
Sruss smiled briefly. “That’s true,” she agreed.
Still, whoever was lurking up there bothered her. She looked around the huge room, but no one else seemed to notice the figure in the rafters. She wondered for a moment if the figure was invisible to them, magically concealed, and that thought frightened her even more. Why had she seen him? Then, too, she told herself, the watcher might be doing something good. He could have been sent by Berrilund or her father.
Whatever he was doing, it was quickly over. Sruss looked to the door and saw two mrem leaving the Rest, and when she lifted her eyes upward the figure was no longer in sight. Perhaps he had been spying on the two mrem. In any event, with his disappearance she felt a surprisingly strong sense of relief.
Suddenly she saw Berrilund. He walked into the inn and looked carefully around, then turned to his right and walked slowly in their direction. Pointing him out to Morian, she told her companion to rise and go to meet him. The villager nodded once, stood up, and walked through the smoke-filled room to Berrilund’s side.
When they returned, they sat down. Berrilund looked at Sruss strangely, but she could see he did not know who she was. For a moment he stared at them, his shoulders and whiskers moving slowly as he sat. Only when Sruss spoke was Berrilund’s body finally still.
“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly.
“Who are you?” he asked in return. “Why did you send for me? And why, especially this, why did you ask me to come here?”
Sruss lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know where else I could see you in confidence,” she whispered. “I need your help.”
He repeated, “Who are you?”
Sruss looked into his eyes. “Don’t you know me?” she asked, her voice sad and suddenly longing.
“No,” he said, “but you seem very familiar.” He paused. “But enough games. Tell me who you are, or I will leave.”
Again Sruss stared at him. Then she looked around, to make sure no one was listening, and quickly she looked up as well. Satisfied that she was private, she turned back to Berrilund and whispered, “My face is colored, but my name has not changed. I am Sruss.”
His eyes opening wide, Berrilund stared at her, speechless and breathless. “Yes,” he said at last. “Unless this is a trick of magic, your face is hers.”
“Aren’t you going to welcome me back?” Sruss said playfully.
Berrilund smiled slowly. “Not here,” he answered, and he rose from the table and left Arbunda’s Rest. The two females followed, and all eyes watched them as they left.
Outside, Berrilund waited for them. With him was a younger mrem, who stood in the moonlight licking the fur on the back of his hand. When the females approached him he jumped to a kind of attention, in so sudden a movement that Sruss almost laughed. But then his manner turned stiffer and more sober, a manner Sruss had found herself close to losing during her long tenure among the people of the villages.
She was beginning to understand why the villagers called the city-mrem “Not like mrem at all.”
Berrilund motioned for the three to follow him. For several minutes they walked, through streets behind the houses, off the main road that led from the East Gate to the Rest. Several times Berrilund opened his mouth to speak, but each time he held himself back. He seemed unwilling to disturb the silence of these streets, seemed intent on listening to the voices of those that gathered occasionally on the more traveled paths.
Finally they came to a less frightening area. The houses were better kept here, and everywhere were signs of wealth. Sruss breathed more easily as she looked around. Here was an Ar she understood.
It surprised her, then, to see Morian glancing suspiciously from side to side.
“What is it?” she whispered to her companion.
“I do not like this place,” came Morian’s answer.
“Ar?”
“No, this part of Ar.” She turned slowly to her left, then faced her head toward Sruss. “It is unholy.”
Puzzled, Sruss protested, “But this is one of Ar’s finest areas. Except for near the palace, of course.”
Morian shook her head. “It is unnatural,” was all she said.
Berrilund interrupted. “Remember where she is from,” he said to the Dancer. “In the grasslands she would know nothing like this. And she’s right. It is unnatural.”
Sruss felt herself growing angry. “The Rest isn’t, I suppose?” she said aloud. Berrilund hushed her.
“Whatever else Arbunda’s Rest might be,” the older mrem said quietly, “it is closer to natural than the high-houses or the palace. There is nothing less natural than royalty, Sruss. Despite what our legends may say.”
He raised his hand to her objections. “Not now,” he said. “There will be time enough for philosophy later.” He turned to the other male. “I’d like you to meet my student,” he said.
Pulling the younger mrem forward, he looked at the Dancer and said, “Sruss, princess of Ar, meet Mithmid, who has saved the life of your father.”
Sruss smiled at the other’s blush. “If what Berrilund says is true,” she whispered, “then I am deeply in your debt.”
Stumbling in his speech, the younger mrem took a deep breath and managed, “There is no debt, your....”
“None of that,” she said. “I want to hear ‘highness’ or ‘princess’ from none of you. You were unwise to speak so, Berrilund, here in the streets at night. May no harm come of it.”
“You’re right,” Berrilund answered. “Mithmid knows of your situation, which is why I was not afraid to bring him with me. But you are right about my lack of wisdom. Even here, where live the most loyal of all nobles of Ar, there is a strong chance of treachery.” When he told Sruss of Draldren’s death, the Dancer felt anger come into her heart.
“He would dare...” she began, but Berrilund stopped her.
“He was not at fault,” he whispered, “but I will explain later. For now, you must come with me.” He turned to Mithmid and said, “Call a gathering of the Council. Tell them we have reached a crossroads.” He smiled. “They won’t believe me, but at least they’ll come.”
“Wait,” said Sruss. “What Council is this?”
“Later,” replied Berrilund. “Where can Morian stay?”
Sruss frowned. “She must come with me,” she answered in a whisper. “It is unsafe to leave her alone. Especially at night.”
Berrilund nodded. “She cannot come,” he said. “But neither will she be left alone. Mithmid,” he said to his student, “call Jremm as well. He has recovered enough to do this small thing.”
“If my fears are true,” Sruss explained, “watching her will be no small thing.” She looked at the villager, and saw that her eyes had lost some of their sparkle. “She is being sought,” the Dancer added, “by one whose magic is powerful.”
“Quiet!” Berrilund demanded. Taking Morian’s arm, he led the two females down through Ar to the rear gate of the palace.
•
“We are met,” he announced to the Council, “because something important has arisen.”
“By definition,” a half-asleep Gaelor muttered sarcastically, “that is why the Council meets at all.”
“Silence,” hissed Lorleen. “His tone merits neither contempt nor flippancy. Only once before has Berrilund c
alled us, and that was to tell us of Draldren’s treason. After the noble’s attempt on the king, that meeting has become among the most important we have ever had. Now and forever, we will hear Berrilund out.”
Gaelor glared. “My apologies,” she spat, and she settled back into her chair.
Berrilund stood. “Raise your head,” he said to the woman beside him. “Look at them.” When she had done so, Berrilund turned to the Council-members and announced, “Members of the Council,” he said, “Andelemarian’s daughter has returned to Ar.”
Sruss looked straight ahead as Berrilund removed her hood. Before her she saw the table surrounded by people she knew, yet whose functions she had never before questioned. Cooks, cleaners, tailors, crafters: she had seen them at all these jobs, never suspecting they were part of some secret Council. She wondered if she had just turned herself over to the very persons who were trying to kill her father. But Berrilund had said this Mithmid had been the one to save him. And she really had no choice but to trust Berrilund.
All her life she had known so much. Now, suddenly, she knew nothing at all.
“Why?” asked Sorilia.
“Yes, why?” Felior cut in. “We were told that the king’s plan was to keep her away, to maintain the pretense that she was dead. Now that she has returned, that plan, along with many others,” and here she looked around, “must surely be abandoned.”
Berrilund stood up. “Do you really think, Felior, that I would bring her here without secrecy? That I would be stupid enough to risk the king’s life for any reason? What kind of fool do you think I am?”
The female rose to her feet. “I haven’t appreciated this plan of the king’s—even though it started in this Council—ever since it began. You simply can’t hide the princess of Ar forever. Sooner or later, the story will out.”
“But it hasn’t yet!” Berrilund countered, in a voice close to a shout. “She is here, and unless we were seen and recognized, no one but this Council knows it.”
“Stop!” It was Lorleen. “It is still the middle of the night, and many of us are... testy.” She chose this last word carefully. “I suggest we calm ourselves before continuing. Otherwise I will have to ask both of you to leave.”
Felior’s face reddened, and Mithmid saw her clench her hands at her side. But like Berrilund she sat down, and after several minutes of silence Eronucu rose to speak. Mithmid admired the supreme calm in that voice, which came to his ears like the softness of rain in the night.
“Berrilund has brought the daughter of Ar to us,” he announced. “It is our task to determine what we should do with her. That, at least, is what we have set for ourselves.” He stopped and looked around. Most of the Council-members stared at the floor, while Borlin, eyes closed, fiddled with the brooch at his throat. “Before we do anything, though,” the co-leader continued, “we must hear from the princess herself.”
“Sruss,” he commanded, “rise and tell us your tale. What do you wish from us?”
She did. Slowly and confidently, then more and more quickly as she recounted the story of Morian and the departure of Talwe, she told them all that had happened since leaving Ar. At some points they seemed bored, at others they nodded their heads, and at still others they looked at her with concern, even worry, reflected in their whiskers. But only once did they display a sudden fear. When she told them of Cwinyd, she saw fright in their eyes.
“Does this answer your questions, Felior?” Lorleen asked grimly. “The White Dancer has come to us from out of the mountains and the grasslands to mobilize for action a city that has long since done nothing but wait. She has seen firsthand the tiniest power of a servant of the Eastern Lords, and she fears that unless we move quickly, we will all end up with lives as horrible as that of the woman called Morian. Is that enough, Felior, or would you know more?”
Never before had Mithmid heard such scorn in a Council-leader’s voice.
Felior stood. “Yes, I would know more,” she announced. “I would know why I should believe this story.”
The din was immediate. Accusations, threats, questions: all of these thundered through the room, over the voice of Eronucu, who tried without success to bring the Council to order. When the members persisted he raised his hands high, and with a softly spoken word a light flashed and blinded them all.
“It is temporary,” he said to the suddenly quiet room. “In a few minutes you will see again. When that happens, I will need some answers. The questions are these: First, is Sruss to be trusted? Second, if she is, what do we do about it? Third, how do we tell the king? Kings rarely trust our sort, and even Mithmid cannot admit to all he knows without exposing us. Now, think, and think in silence.”
Now Sruss was sure she was at a council of wizards. As her eyes cleared and she glanced around the table, she wondered if any of these mrem was one of the fabled Three.
Subdued, the Council decided promptly. Sruss was to be guarded, and Morian was to be studied then healed. Together, the leaders of the Council would tell all to the king, using all their skills to persuade him to send an army forth to Cragsclaw. Mithmid would go as their scout, planting himself in Cragsclaw and informing the Council, through sendings, of the defense of the fortress and the actions of Crethok and Cwinyd. Beyond that, nothing was planned. More would have to be done, but for now they had planned for enough.
When the vote came, it was unanimous. Even Felior, despite some hesitation, chose to abide by the Council’s decision. It was over quickly, and the Council prepared to leave.
“Wait,” came a voice. Mithmid turned, and saw Sruss standing at her place.
“You may speak,” said Eronucu.
Sruss hesitated, then said, “I have traveled far, I have surrendered my identity, and I have brought a woman back from the clutches of a magician of the east. I have seen more devastated villages, more piled bodies, more hopeless mrem than I ever dreamed could exist. And I understand now the beauty of the Dance, and the terror of a life lived in fear. I am not who I once was. I am not the Sruss you knew. I may not have your powers, but I too will be part of this battle.”
CWINYD WAS frustrated, and his frustration made him almost incoherent. A challenging hiss began to form deep in his throat. The nobles should have been completely cowed, ready to obey his every order. For months he had carefully conditioned them, bending their minds to hate Andelemarian. Instead they had answered his summons only reluctantly. Three had not appeared at all, and the ten who had come were unwilling to act.
“Draldren was a fool and paid the price.” The noble speaking wore a pale blue robe imported from one of the southern cities. The hilt of his sword was encrusted in jewels. His belly hung, and there was a puffiness in his features that could only have been gained by rich living. Whatever cause these mrem really had to resent Andelemarian, it could not have been that he had impoverished them.
“It is time for you to strike. Now, while much of Andelemarian’s army is away from the city.” Cwynid was sure he sounded both sincere and reasonable. To make sure of their agreement he sent at them a wave of magical power. This had worked many times before, once inciting all of a clan to follow Crethok. Their reaction set his tail twitching.
“We will wait for Gerianan, not some outlander,” the noble with thick whiskers insisted in harsh tones. The others nodded in agreement, a few shifting their hands to their weapons.
“He has often spoken of the need to overthrow Andelemarian,” Cwynid insisted. While saying this he thrust into the old noble’s mind. Something slowed his effort, as if his thought had to move through tree sap or sand. Instead of cleanly pushing aside the mrem’s resistance, he could barely even shift him to a less antagonistic mood.
“Gerianan represents the cause of the nobles,” the old mrem still insisted, but his tone indicated hostility. “He speaks for us to his brother. It would not be right to act until he says all hope is lost.”
T
he other richly clad mrem murmured their agreement. Even as the eastern wizard’s mind forced itself through the thickness in an effort to sway them all, they began to leave. Before he was able to twist even one to his will, they had all departed.
The wizard staggered into a chair. He was already exhausted, and that worried him more than his recent failure to affect the nobles. That merely confirmed there were other magicians in Ar.
He should not have been tired. The Eastern Lords gave him all the power he needed. If he was weakening, whoever was interfering with his spells was also blocking his power. It took him until nearly sunset to gather enough power to even begin. The interference had diminished by then.
At first he tried to pierce the net of power woven over the city. Once he was aware of it, he could see the golden net they had formed to isolate Ar. After three unsuccessful attempts to crash through it, he turned his efforts in another direction.
He had enemies here: wizards capable enough to challenge him, maybe even the Eastern Lords themselves. The locals spoke of a “Three,” ancient magic users of unimaginable power. It would serve him well to learn more of these mrem.
Letting his awareness drift, he tried to merge with the flow of the net protecting the city. It rejected him almost instantly. But not before he was able to gather some fleeting impressions of those who had constructed it:
One mrem wore fine robes and smelled of spices.
Then there was the rich aroma of baking fishcakes.
A confused young mrem longed for love.
One female worried a claw had split.
Two faced each other and he saw one through the eyes of the other. She was old, but still beautiful.
Somehow Cwynid had expected to discover great lords. Mrem like himself, but who had already succeeded in gaining the power he sought. Whoever they were, and there seemed to be no pattern or reason to what he had seen. These were not great lords, nor three ancient wizards.