The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “I could,” I said, “even if your eyes, too, were closed. Your mouth is a little shorter, your eyebrows a little more arched. But I think few others would notice. Gods grant they believe your story while you still live!”

  “If they do not,” she said, “then I will die, but the world will live—a good bargain, I believe. But don't despair of me yet. I still have a few tricks in store. Now be swift.”

  I shifted the sleeper on my lap so that I could free one hand to take Hwyn the Weaver's deft one. “Gods be with you,” I whispered.

  “Gods help you; your task may be harder than mine. Go now,” she said.

  I turned away to climb the stairs, holding my Hwyn firmly in my arms. “Sir,” I called to the guard, “let us out! My lady needs air.” He peered through the grate while my heart pounded. “To see her cousin in such a place, the shock was too much for her,” I said. “For pity's sake, let her out into the air.” I tried not to sigh audibly in relief as he let us out. Another guard approached with the weaver's horse. I tied Hwyn to the saddle so she would not fall, and prepared to mount behind her when the Lady Trenara came upon us. “Here, my Lady,” I said, struggling to contain my astonishment, “will you ride with her?” She nodded and passed me something she'd had under her cloak—my pack, the one I'd left at Berall Hall. Then I held the stirrup steady as Trenara mounted. She held Hwyn as gently as you please, and I took the horse's reins to lead them away from this place of doom. Not until we were well away from the town did I dare speak: “Trenara, are you all right? Did Lord Var hurt you?”

  “He hurt Hwyn,” she said indignantly, tightening her protective clasp.

  “She'll be all right now,” I said, hoping I was right—about both Hwyns. “It was clever of you to leave just when you did. And I'm glad you remembered the pack.” Trenara smiled blissfully down at me.

  We pressed on into the woods north of Berall, north of all human settlement for all I knew. The interlacing pine branches that parted before us and sprang back behind us were as welcome to me as the sight of the town had been a few days earlier. I would not feel safe until the woods had closed around us like a merchant's fist around a coin. No doubt any huntsman could follow our trail, but I knew none of the arts of covering it, so the wisest thing I could do was to keep moving until we were farther north of town than any of the craven folk of Berall would care to pursue us.

  The setting sun drenched the woods in blood-red light and then was gone. Still I led the horse through the darkness under a meager sliver of moon, half hidden by branches. I stumbled on roots and rocks, wishing for Hwyn's night-sense to guide me, envying the surefooted horse that followed me. Finally in the depths of the night I fell, and could not convince my tired limbs to right themselves. The horse, free of my tyrant grip at last, bent to crop some grass by the roadside, then strayed farther off the path with Hwyn and Trenara still on its back. I crawled after it just a little way; then I heard the music of the brook. “Perfect!” I rasped, dry-throated. With the last of my strength, I crept to the bank, stuck my face and hands in right beside the horse, and drank. I must have walked for nearly twelve hours since my last meal, but for that moment, at least, the water satisfied me.

  I think I dozed a minute on the bank before I looked up again at the horse and its burdens. Then I staggered to my feet and reached out to grasp the stirrup. Trenara had fallen asleep in the saddle, bent over Hwyn. I shook her awake and helped her dismount. She stared about her, bewildered, for a few moments, then knelt to drink from the stream as I untied Hwyn from the saddle and laid her on the mossy bank. Remembering the weaver's last kindness, I unbuckled the saddlebags and dropped them to the ground. Then I went anxiously to Hwyn.

  She was still limp as a rag doll. At dawn, the weaver had said, the trance would end. I was not sure how far the night had advanced; it seemed I had been walking forever. Then for a while I leaned on my arm in the grass beside Hwyn, stroking her forehead, chafing her hands, looking for signs of life. But soon fatigue overpowered anxiety, and I drifted off to sleep, still holding her.

  A familiar voice and a gentle touch woke me. “Jereth,” Hwyn said, “where are we?”

  “Hmm? I don't know,” I mumbled groggily. “Nowhere.”

  She laughed a little, but hesitantly, as though still afraid. “Nowhere, indeed!”

  I blinked and came a little more awake. “Well, nowhere with a name, most likely. We're in the wilderness north of Berall. The other Hwyn saved you.”

  “I know that part,” she said. “I was awake in the trance—at least at the beginning. I saw everything until she closed my eyes, and even after that I heard a good deal until I fell asleep in earnest. I still can't believe she was willing to risk her life for me. What did I ever do for her but steal her name?”

  “Strange,” I said. “It seems you of all people should understand her: she is like you. After all, she understands you: she understands your vision. That's why she chose to save you.”

  “She understood what I need to do as well as anyone can—as well as I can understand it myself. But there was another way for her,” Hwyn said. “She might have taken my place in the quest, and not in prison. She could have borne my name, with the Eye of Night, into the North.”

  “That was not her way,” I said. “And don't forget that I still had the Eye of Night—still have it even now.” I drew the white gem from my pocket and presented it to Hwyn.

  “No—keep it,” she said. “I must go back. I cannot let another woman die for me.” She sat up abruptly.

  “Hwyn!” I seized her wrist and forcefully pressed the Eye of Night into her hand. “Which one of us needs to learn to listen to reason? Your double chose this risk. Don't waste the chance she's given you. Think! It's morning already, the morning after the festival. We are a long night's journey from Berall. By the time you can reach town, her fate will be sealed. Besides,” I added, “don't give up all hope of her escape. I left her busy devising plans, and Conor of Kelgarran busy stirring up trouble in Berall Hall.”

  “So you said. I've been wondering ever since you mentioned him: how did you get that angry old ghost into the melee?”

  “The Gift of Naming has many uses. And besides, he still remembers you with gratitude.” I doubted she'd approve of the risks I'd taken with the Eye of Night, so I left it out of the story for the time being. “I called on Conor to drive Var mad. He told me the lord is crazy as a nightmare already, if he could only be made to show it.”

  “That I'll believe,” Hwyn said. “But it will take strong proof of his madness to turn his loyal followers against him. I don't hold out much hope for brave Hwyn—the real Hwyn, I mean.”

  “She always seemed to sense your presence,” I said. “Do you have any instinct about her situation now?”

  Hwyn closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head. “I feel as though a curtain had been drawn over my senses. I don't think she wants me to know.” She settled down again full length on the moss, lying close to me, and I carefully put an arm around her.

  “I'm afraid for her too,” I said, “but still glad beyond measure to have you here, alive and free and as safe as we can expect to be while the journey lasts.” Then I brushed back a strand of pale yellow hair from her face and kissed her. Her mouth responded warmly, but with my arm I could feel her trembling. I backed away. “Do I frighten you?”

  She looked back at me in amazement. “Then I didn't just dream it—what you said to me in prison. When you said you loved me.”

  “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “Of course. Look at me!” she said.

  “Look at me,” I returned. “A scrawny weakling with dirt-brown hair already going gray. Does it matter to you? I hope not. Anyway, I am looking at you. I see a face full of scars. I see someone who's been hurt, battered, brutalized.” I shook my head. “If I could get my hands on whoever did this to you—”

  “Never mind. He must be dead by now,” Hwyn said, turning away quickly. I had touched a sore spot.

 
“Hwyn—listen,” I said. “I only wanted to say this: when I look at you, I see someone who's been hurt and learned courage, learned compassion. It's made you brave, but it hasn't made you harsh. That's why you're beautiful.”

  “Romantic fool,” she laughed, abashed. “But it's worth three days in that awful hole just to hear you say these words. If I'd never been in prison, would you never have told me?”

  “I'd have told you. But it would have taken longer,” I said. Just then a sudden sound—a crunching sound—made Hwyn look up in surprise.

  “Trenara?” Hwyn leapt to her feet, seeing the Lady Trenara sitting on the stream bank, eating an apple she must have put in her pocket at Berall Hall. “Trenara! You're safe!” The lady dropped the apple core, ran to Hwyn, and hugged her. When she could breathe again, Hwyn said, “Jereth, how did you rescue her?”

  “I didn't need to,” I said. “As I guessed, Trenara knew how to take care of herself. She left Berall Hall without warning just as we made our escape. She even brought one of the packs—we lost the nuts, but we still have the tinderbox and cooking-pot.”

  “Splendid!” Hwyn hugged Trenara back. Meanwhile, I wasted no time in opening Hwyn the Weaver's saddlebags and raiding her stores of dried fruit and salt meat to rally our strength for another long walk.

  When we took up our journey again, Hwyn walked close to me, while Trenara skipped on ahead. The horse, untethered, had run off during the night, and we plodded afoot again.

  “I wonder if they'll even dare pursue us from Berall,” mused Hwyn, “when they see that our tracks lead northward, to the land of ghosts and earthquakes.”

  “After the hospitality of the peaceable townsfolk, I say welcome, ghosts!”

  “Careful,” Hwyn said, “they may be listening for your invitation.” But just then I could think no ill of ghost-kind. I remembered my friend Conor of Kelgarran and Var's unfortunate sister, and mouthed a silent prayer that the Turning God would bring them good harvest.

  14

  THE LAND OF TROUBLES

  An old soldier that my father once hired to guard his cargo told me that most of war is waiting around for something to happen. In the same spirit, I could tell you that most of following a mystic quest is tramping tired and footsore through unchanging landscape. After the miles between us and Berall quenched our fear of pursuit, for a long time our journey was simple, a slow, monotonous trek through ankle-deep brown leaves in a silent forest.

  As the autumn nights grew colder, we took to sleeping in the milder midday, knotted together for warmth and comfort. We would wake in the chill of twilight to walk ourselves warm by moonlight or starlight or, on cloudy nights, by Hwyn's night-sense; at first the shadowy forest nights seemed full of hidden menace, but after a while they became routine. A low, broad stream flowed northward for many miles, giving us a road to follow, a bright band of silver under moonlight. The smell of moldering oak leaves made me sneeze, but for a long while nothing else happened to interrupt the long riddle game Hwyn and I played to amuse ourselves.

  “I saw a strange spectacle,” Hwyn said. “It had three eyes, six legs, and heads by the dozen. What was it?”

  “Hmm.” I pondered her words a while, turned aside to sneeze, then walked on a bit, thinking. “Heads must be a pun.”

  “That's not an answer,” she teased.

  “I know, I know. I'm coming to it. Eyes might be a pun as well.”

  I could see a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, but I wasn't sure whether it meant I was getting warmer or colder. I shuffled “eyes” and “legs” and “heads” around in my mind till I said, “I have it: a beetle on a potato atop a heap of cabbages.”

  “Oh! Do beetles have six legs?” Hwyn exclaimed.

  “That wasn't the answer?”

  “Well, I guess if they do, it fits,” she conceded.

  “What was your answer, then?” I said.

  “A one-eyed farmer leading a donkey-cart full of cabbages to market,” she said.

  “One-eyed farmer! That's not fair,” I said.

  “How is it not fair?” Hwyn challenged.

  “You know,” I fumed. It was not fair because Hwyn should know that I would never joke about being one-eyed in the presence of someone who was as good as one-eyed herself; but the same inner barrier that would have kept me from hitting on the answer forbade me to explain myself. “Oh, never mind,” I said, when it was clear that she did not understand.

  She shrugged. “I allowed your answer was as good as mine, so it hardly matters whether the question was fair or not. Your turn to ask.”

  “All right,” I said. “I'll need to think about this one. I'm running out of riddles.”

  “Take your time.”

  I sneezed, cursed the moldering leaves, and scowled ahead of me. Trenara walked before us, her hood thrown back, her dark curls tossed in the wind. I watched her movement, graceful as a sail on a distant ocean, and gathered my thoughts. Hwyn kept silent beside me, breathing deep draughts of the forest air that did not trouble her nose as it did mine, stretching her shorter legs to match my stride.

  At last I said, “I have one. Ready?”

  “Ask away.”

  I chanted,

  “I can always be found in my bed but never resting,

  “Always in motion but never traveling,

  “Never silent but never speaking,

  “Always cold at my heart but never freezing. What

  am I?”

  Hwyn was silent for just a few paces along the leafy ground before she answered: “The sea.”

  “Gods alive! I thought that was a hard one!” I burst out.

  Hwyn doubled over laughing, clutching my arm as if she could scarcely stand. “It would be, certainly, if anyone else were asking it,” she said when she could speak clearly again. “But whenever I don't know what you're talking about, it has something to do with the sea. The first rule of the riddle game is to know who's asking.”

  “This is what comes of playing too long with the same rid-dler,” I said. “We need another player.”

  “True,” Hwyn said. “Trenara, do you know any riddles?”

  Trenara turned and gave us one of her long, solemn looks full of portent.

  “She is one,” I said. “I have a riddle for us all: where are the fabled horrors of the North? I haven't seen a ghost since Berall—and I summoned that one.”

  Hwyn raised an eyebrow. “Watch what you call to yourself— you with your Gift of Naming! This is no tranquil place.”

  “Why, what do you see that I miss?”

  She unlaced the first bit of her surcoat and pulled the Eye of Night from her breast pouch, holding it up to the moonlight.

  “It's larger,” I said. When I'd first seen the stone, it had been no bigger than a robin's egg; now it was big as a hen's egg, and a large one at that.

  “Heavier, too,” Hwyn said. “I've felt it swell these last few days.”

  “I could carry it for a while,” I offered.

  “No,” she said, returning it to its place in her garments.

  “I only wanted—”

  “—to help. I know, my love,” she said. “It's not that I don't trust you.”

  “Why, then?”

  She raised an expressive hand, open, empty, a gesture of helplessness.

  “I know,” I sighed. “There are some things you can't tell me.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said, but revealed nothing else. We plodded on in silence, watching Trenara dance ahead, then twirl gracefully back, one hand on a sapling straight and slim as herself. Hwyn smiled, then. “Another riddle for us: why is Trenara so lighthearted here?”

  “She comes from the North,” I guessed. “Maybe this land seems familiar to her, comforting.”

  “Trenara,” said Hwyn, “do you remember this land?”

  “Yes,” Trenara said. “We've been here for days.”

  We looked at each other and shrugged, then fell as silent as the moonlit forest around us till I sneezed again.
r />   “The leaves are still bothering you?” Hwyn said.

  “It's still autumn, isn't it?” I grimaced. “And those are still oak leaves.”

  “I thought in time you'd get used to it and stop sneezing.”

  “Apparently not,” I said. “In time the snow will cover them. Hopefully, before then we'll come upon different sorts of trees. I didn't have this problem in the beechwood. Do you have another riddle for me?”

  “I'm ransacking my memory,” she said. “I think I'm running out.”

  “Haven't you been making them up?”

  “Some of them,” she said. “But I'm running out of ideas, too. You made up that last one, didn't you? The sea?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Not very successfully.”

  “How did it go again? I should remember it in case we meet another riddler. No one would guess it coming from me. It was a good one, really.”

  “Oh, stop pitying me!” I said, laughing. “I lost fairly.”

  “No, I'm serious. What was it again? ‘Always in my bed—’ ”

  “Look: a town,” I said, pointing ahead through the lacework of branches at the thatched roofs just visible in the valley beyond.

  Hwyn shook her head. “You know I can't see what you're pointing at. I'll take your word for it. But that's great news! I hope there's something edible left in the kitchen-gardens. The saddlebags are getting empty.”

  We hastened toward the houses ahead, eager for the brief comfort of a roof over our heads and a wall against the wind. But as I neared the clearing, I seized my two companions by the arm to pull them into the partial shelter of some brush. “Shh! I saw movement ahead.”