by Sean Russell
“’Tis no rumor. We left the Isle as soon as the Princecrossed the canal. The roads were choked with people fleeing. We could havesold our skiff a dozen times, but we used it ourselves, to keep safe our child.”
Hafydd cursed under his breath. He left Innes alone for afew days and what did he do? Attacked the Renne-and lost!
The eastern shore was steep and falling away, trees leaningdangerously, their roots exposed. Hafydd had the woman row south a little, forthey were north of the Isle of Battle, she said. Shortly, the bank sloped down,and there they found a patrol of men-at-arms in purple and black-men servingthe Prince of Innes.
Hafydd hailed them, and they recognized him. The woman putthe boat ashore, silent now, looking warily at the men-at-arms, then guardedlyat Hafydd. The knight stepped ashore, tossing his shirt of mail down on thegrass.
“I must bathe in the river,” he said. “And then I will takea horse. Two of you will accompany me.”
The captain of the patrol bowed his head, not arguing.
Hafydd looked back over his shoulder at the mother andchild. “And these two …” He paused. “Kill them.”
There was a second’s stunned silence, then one of the mendrew a sword and stepped forward. The woman threw herself over her son, whereshe lay sobbing as the sword was raised.
“No, let them go,” Hafydd said, unsure why. Unsure of theodd feeling in his heart. “He is only a boy. Death will find him soon enough.”
He was cast down upon cold stone in a place of fainttwilight. The creature, the servant of Death, fled into the night, its cry echoingnightmarishly. The claws of Death’s servant had poisoned him, he was certain,for he could barely move his limbs, and lay on the stone waiting for Death tocome breathe him.
To his right, gray waters lay mercury still, to his left, ashadowy cliff. To his shame Beldor sobbed, sobbed like a child now that histime had come. But he sobbed half from frustration, for he had been about tosend Toren to this very place when Samul had interfered; and then the servantof Death had swept him up into the sky. He could only hope that the foulcreatures would find Toren, too.
The stone beneath him began to tremble, and a terriblegrinding noise assaulted his ears. Above him, the cliff shook, then appearedto move.
Death’s gate!
He tried to move, to crawl away, but at the same time hecould not tear his eyes away. Here it was, life’s great mystery. What lay beyond?No one ever returned to tell. And now, he would know.
The grinding of the gate seemed to continue for hours, adark stain spreading out from its base. Beldor had managed to wiggle a fewinches, and there he stopped, exhausted, his sobs reduced to whimpering.
How vain all of his pursuits seemed at that moment, all ofhis absurd pride, his boasts, his petty triumphs. He lay there trembling infear, like every ignorant peasant, his Renne pride reduced to whimpers.
From beyond the gate he heard scuttling and muttered wordshe could not understand. For a moment he closed his eyes, suddenly unable tobear the sight of Death.
Silence. But he could feel a presence-a cold, like openingan icehouse door. When he could bear the suspense no more, he looked.
A shadow loomed over him, black as a well by night. Not evena shimmer of surface, only fathomless darkness.
“So, we meet at last, Lord Death,” Beld whispered, his mouthdry and thick as paste.
“You flatter yourself, Beldor Renne,” a voice hissed. “Deathbarely noticed your passing-nor did life. But perhaps you will yet gain achance to leave your mark. To do something to affect the larger flow of events.”The voice paused, and Beldor felt himself being regarded, weighed. He struggledand managed to gain his knees, where he gasped for breath, his head bowed becausehe had not the strength to lift it.
“You might be of some small service, yet,” the dark voicehissed. “I am the Hand of Death, and I will give you an errand, Beldor Renne.If you manage it, you will be returned to the kingdom of the living for yournatural span of years-though likely a sword will see you here much sooner. Whatsay you, Lord of the Renn? A second life is granted to few.”
“Yes, whatever you ask,” Beldor gasped, “I will do.”
“Then you will deliver this to the knight known as Eremon,councilor to the Prince of Innes.”
“Hafydd,” Beldor whispered.
“So he was once called. You will tell him that Wyrr was laidto rest beneath the Moon’s Mirror.”
An object appeared from the shadow and was thrust into Beld’shands. It was hard-edged and bound in soft leather, warm as a woman’s skin. Abook.
“H-How do I proceed from here?” Beld stammered.
“Like this,” the shadow whispered.
From above a dark form fell through the twilight, and Beldwas snatched up in the claws of Death’s servant. He closed his eyes and clungto the book as though it were a shield that protected his life.
Hafydd leaned back in his chair, staring gravely at thebook. Beldor Renne stood by, watching, glad to have the cursed book out of hispossession. Just holding it had filled him with fever and dread.
Hafydd put a hand to his temple, the other arm immobilizedin a sling. “Have you any idea what you bore into this world, Beldor Renne?”
“It is a book, Sir Eremon. I know nothing more.”
“You did not open it?”
“I did not. To be honest, I was afraid to.”
“And for good reason,” Hafydd observed, still staring downat the open pages. “You could not have read it anyway, for it is written in alanguage that has not been spoken in a thousand years. It is a long, veryelaborate spell. One that, to my knowledge, has only been performed once in allof history-to catastrophic results.” Hafydd leaned forward and with great careturned the page, for a moment taking in the text. Beld thought the knightlooked paler since he’d opened the book, as though the blood had drained fromhis face.
There was a ruckus in the hall outside, and the door wasthrown upon. In strode the Prince of Innes, followed by two of Hafydd’s blackguards.
“Tell your guards that when I wish to see you, they do notstand in my way!” the Prince demanded. He was shaking with anger.
Beldor had only ever seen the man at tournaments, but he despisedhis arrogance. Coupled with the man’s obvious dullness of mind, it was anenraging combination. The Prince glanced at him with disdain.
“What is it you want?” Hafydd asked, as though he were beingannoyed by a child.
“I want to know if Lord A’denne is a traitor. How we shallprosecute our war, now? What your spies have learned of our enemies’ intentions…” This seemed to exhaust his list of questions for the moment.
“Of course A’denne is a traitor. Have him killed-ortortured. Whichever will give you the most satisfaction.”
This took the Prince aback. “Should you not speak with himfirst?”
Hafydd went back to gazing at the dreadful book. “I don’tneed to.”
Innes tilted his head toward Beld. “And what of this one? Heis a Renne … here, where he can do great damage.”
“Lord Beldor?” Hafydd said, still engrossed in the page. “ThePrince doubts your loyalty. Take my sword out of its scabbard.”
Beld took two steps and pulled Hafydd’s sword from the scabbardthat hung from the back of a chair.
“Now kill the Prince with it,” Hafydd said.
Beld turned on the shocked nobleman, wondering if his ownpleasure showed. The Prince dodged the first cut, but Beld did not miss thesecond time, catching the nobleman at the base of the neck and cuttingdiagonally down until the blade lodged in the ribs. The Prince fell andtwitched terribly for a moment, before he lay still in a growing pool of red.
Hafydd looked up at one of the guards standing just insidethe door. “Find a retainer of the late prince and bring him up here. We’ll killhim and tell anyone who cares that he was the assassin.”
Hafydd closed the book, picked it up somewhat gingerly as herose. “Leave the sword,” he said to Beld, “and come with me.”
Th
ey walked out into a hallway and in a moment enteredHafydd’s rooms. Hafydd took a seat in a chair but left Beld standing. The bookhe laid on a small table and, from within the folds of his cloak, took out agreen gem on a gold chain. He held this up so that it sparkled in the light,like a shard of the river in sunlight.
“Tell me the message again,” Hafydd said.
Beldor closed his eyes a moment, and slipped back into thenightmare. “‘Wyrr was laid to rest beneath the Moon’s Mirror.’That isall.” He opened his eyes to the light and filled his lungs with air.
“And those were the Hand’s exact words?”
“Yes. I’m quite sure. The few moments I spent before …that place are burned into my memory. I fear I shall never forget them, wakingor sleeping.”
“No, you shall not. Call in one of my guards.”
Beld opened the door, and one of the silent guards camequietly in, his presence reminding Beld of the Death’s gate, for reasons hecould not quite explain.
“Send out word. The legless man who goes about in a barrow-Kai,he calls himself now. He must be found and brought to me immediately-unharmed.”The guard bowed and turned toward the door. “And one more thing. Find all thelocal midwives. I require the corpse of a stillborn child.” Hafydd nodded, andthe man left.
“Prepare yourself for a journey, Lord Beldor,” Hafydd said. “Ithink we shall take Lord A’denne with us as well.”
“The traitor?”
“Yes, I like to have one of my enemies in my company-like awhetstone, it keeps me sharp.”
“What of the war, Sir Eremon?”
Hafydd looked up from the gem, which spun slowly on itschain. “It is of no concern to either you or me. Let Menwyn Wills fight it ifhe wants. Let him lose. It matters not at all. We’ve made bargains with thedarkness, Beldor Renne. There is no going back.”
Three
The raft spun slowly in the current, tracing a wanderingpath down the broad river. Upon either bank lay woods of oak, pine, and beech,with poplars raising their tall flags along the shore. Dusk crept out from theshadows beneath the western bank and ran like ink over the still waters. No oneamong the somber company knew where they were, not even the well-traveledTheason. Only Cynddl and Tam remained awake, watching the shores, quiet intheir own thoughts.
“Have you ever known the Wynnd to be so … empty?” Tamasked.
Cynddl shook his head. “No, but I think we’re on the Wynndand not one of its hidden branches, all the same.” He raised a hand andpointed. Some distance to the south, smoke candled above the trees on thewestern shore. “A village,” the story finder said. “We might even reach itbefore dark.”
As they drew nearer the smoke, a small boat appeared out ofthe bank’s shadow and shaped its course directly for the raft.
“Someone has taken notice of us,” Tam said. “We best wakethe others.”
He gave Fynnol’s shoulder a shake, and the little Valemanstirred, looking around, confused. Cynddl woke the others, all of themexhausted and disreputable-looking, their clothes in ruins from their ordeal inthe Stillwater and near drowning in the tunnels. Somehow, Prince Michaelappeared the worst for his experience-perhaps because his clothes had been sovery fine to begin with. Baore sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes, thenplunged his head into the river, emerging with water running from hair andeyes, his scant beard dripping.
Theason stood and surveyed the river carefully, thenpointed. “That is the island that marks the mouth of the Westbrook,” he said,and turned to face the others. “Theason doesn’t know how he will tell yourpeople that he failed, Cynddl.” The little traveler shook his head forlornly.
The boat, containing three men, caught up with them easily,but these were not fishermen, as Tam expected. They were men-at-arms in Renneblue. Two of them held bows with arrows nocked. They were not wearingarmor-that was almost the first thing that Tam noticed-to his surprise. Butthen wearing armor in a small boat on the river would have its own dangers: small boats could overturn.
“And where might the river be taking you?” one of thearchers asked. He was a big man, with massive hands easily bending his bow.Beads of sweat streamed down shiny cheeks.
“We go to Westbrook,” Prince Michael said. “Why do you care?”
“Because there is a war, though perhaps you lot are toostupid to have noticed.”
“A war?” Michael raised both hands to his forehead as thoughhe’d been struck by a sudden pain.
“Yes, we’ve driven the Prince of Innes from the Isle ofBattle.” He gestured with his arrow. “I’ll have your names and your homevillages.” He seemed to notice Cynddl for the first time. “You … you’re Fael.”
Cynddl nodded.
“How came you to be traveling with this lot?”
“Good fortune smiled upon me,” the story finder said. “Ihave no home village, but my name is Cynddl from the Stega. You needn’t fear.My friends are all from the far north, the Wildlands, and have no side in thewars of the south.”
“Is that so?” the man wondered. “You’ve no weapons?”
Tam’s sword was lying on the raft, hidden by the bodiesstretched out.
“None,” Tam said quickly.
The man squinted at them. “And you’ve no belongings?”
“We had belongings,” Prince Michael offered, “but they werelost to the river farther north.”
The man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And have you silver?”
The occupants of the raft all looked at each other. “Thelittle we possessed went into the river,” Fynnol said.
The man laughed. “Well, at least you’ve paid for yourpassage. The river will let you go now. Pass on.”
The river sentries pulled back to the shore, and theoccupants of the raft took up the crude paddles Baore had fashioned for them,using their only substantial edged tool-Tam’s grandfather’s sword, which he hadgiven to the enterprise reluctantly.
The ungainly raft lumbered toward the shore, the fragranceof Fael cooking on the breeze and the graceful curves of their tents visiblethrough the trees. Near the low embankment, upon a round rock like the back ofa turtle, crouched a small boy. He stared into the waters and rocked gentlyback and forth. No adult seemed to be near, and the child could hardly havebeen more than four.
“He does not look like one of your people,” Tam said toCynddl.
“He’s not,” the story finder concurred.
“But we know that child!” Fynnol said. “Is that not Eber’sson-Llya?”
“He does look a bit like him,” Baore said, breaking hissilence for the first time in many hours.
Cynddl hailed the archers in the Fael tongue, and theylowered their bows, calling back to him with relief and joy. Tam could hear thecall spread back up into the camp, and though he didn’t understand the Faellanguage, the name Cynddl could not be missed.
The raft took the soft bottom and came to a stop, turningslowly, still pulled by the current. Tam and the others followed Cynddl ashore,but Prince Michael came reluctantly.
“You do not looked pleased to be here, Michael,” Tam said.
“I have been here before.” He looked at Tam oddly, a creaseappearing between his eyebrows. “I came to deliver a warning … from EliseWills. She had been aided by some young men from the north, and she feared fortheir safety. They traveled in company with a Fael named Cynddl. And here weall are together.”
“We received your warning, and we did heed it-in degree. Andlook, we’re all alive.” Tam gave a small bow. “So I thank you.”
Prince Michael bobbed his head.
The small boy, who had been perched on the rock, had fallenin beside them, almost running to keep pace. He stared up at Baore as though hewere a great wonder, making Tam smile despite his exhaustion and the events ofthe last few days.
The elder named Nann appeared, and beside her, in his longrobes, stood Eber son of Eiresit. His son ran and took hold of his father’sleg, peering out from behind the volume of robes.
“You are all safe!” Nann said w
ith feeling. Her eyes closedto creases, and a small tear appeared. “Theason! You found them!”
“Theason found them, yes,” the small man said, not meetingher eye, “but he failed you, good Nann.” He met her gaze with difficulty, hisown eyes glistening. “Alaan did not escape the Stillwa-ter with his life.”
“But Alaan lives,” Nann said. “He came out of the river justafter dawn, looking like a nagar. But rest and food have restored him.”
Theason’s eyes glittered. “Thank the river,” the little mansaid. “Thank the river.”
Four
They sat in bent-willow chairs beneath the spreadingbranches of a massive beech. Colored lanterns cast light upon the sombergathering of Fael and men. Tam still felt fatigue deep in the core of his body,a slight buzzing in his exhausted mind. They had eaten, but there had been notime for sleep before they were called to a council of elders. The lightheartedFael were somber that night: Cynddl, Nann, and several others. The outsiderswere battered and tired looking: the Vale-men, an unnaturally pale Alaan,Theason, Prince Michael-and to everyone’s surprise and relief-Rabal Crowheart,who had wandered into camp an hour before. Even the camp itself was subdued,the murmur of voices and the crackle of fires being all that was heard. Therewas no music or laughter, as though the appearance of the strangers had broughtgrief into the wanderers’ joyous world.
When everyone had settled, Nann nodded to Tuath. The visionweaver held a large, covered hoop, her white hair and skin, and pale ice-blueeyes stood out here among the dark-colored Fael, as though she were of someother race-a people that lived among the ice and snows of the distant north.
Tam thought Tuath was reluctant as she removed the cover ofher embroidery hoop, revealing her vision. Tam, and everyone else, recoiled atthe sight. The light exposed a partially completed creature, with ivory chestand belly like a snake, skin faintly scaled and somewhat blue, a serpent’stail, and, upon its four-fingered hands, dark claws. No hair could be seen uponthis thing, and its face was malevolently demonlike-though Tam would have toadmit that it was also quite human. It was muscled like an animal of the wild,lean and hard.