“Well, there it is. The death ground of my ancestors, and of yours as well. Your father’s father was set free and his ashes scattered among those trees, though I think your grandmother died too far out on the grass to be brought here.”
When they rode down to the lake, Rhodry realized that the meadow area was laid out as a proper campground: there were stone fire pits at regular intervals and small sheds, too, for keeping firewood dry and food safe from prowling animals. The alar rushed to set up their tents against the darkening sky and tether the horses securely as well, just in in case there should be thunder in the night. As the early evening was setting in, Calonderiel fetched Rhodry.
“Let’s go take a look at the firewood. The women tell me that we’d better do the ceremony tonight.”
They crossed the neatly tended boundary of the forest into the dark and spicy-scented corridors of trees. In a clearing, not ten yards in, stood a structure of dry-walled stone and rough-cut timber about thirty feet long. Inside they found it stacked with cut wood, a fortune in fuel out on the grasslands.
“Good,” Calonderiel saidbd. “Fetch the others. Let’s get this over with before the rain hits.”
But as if in sympathy witlth their loss, the rain held off. The wind rose instead, driving the clouds away and letting the stars shine through. Close to midnight the alar burned Oldana’s body to send her soul free to the gods. Rhodry stood well back toward the edge of the weeping crowd. Although he’d traveled with the Westfolk long enough to witness several cremations, still they disturbed him, used as he was to burying his kin and friends in the hidden dark of the earth with things they’d loved in life tucked round them. He found himself moving slowly backward, almost without thinking, easing himself out of the crowd, taking a step here, allowing someone to stand in front of him there, until at last he stood alone, some distance away.
The night wind lashed at the lake and howled round the trees like another mourner. Rhodry shivered with grief as much as the cold, because she had indeed been so young, and so very beautiful. Although he’d never known her well, he would miss her presence in the alar. Among the Westfolk, that last remnant of a race hovering on the edge of extinction, where the loss of any individual was a tragedy, the death of a woman who might have borne more children was an appalling blow of fate. In the center of the crowd the women howled in a burst of keening that the men answered, half a chant, half a sob. Rhodry turned and ran, plunged into the silent camp, raced through the tents and out the other side, ran and ran along the lakeshore until at last he tripped and went sprawling. For a long time he lay in the tall grass and gasped for breath. When he sat up the fire was far away, a golden flower blooming on the horizon. The wind-struck water lapped and murmured nearby.
“You coward,” he said to himself, and in Deverrian. “You’d best get back.”
The alar would expect him, the banadar’s second in command, to be present at the wake. He got up, pulling down his shirt, automatically running one hand along his belt to make sure that his sword was still there, and of course his silver dagger—which was gone. Rhodry swore and dropped to his knees to hunt for it. It must have slipped out of its sheath, he supposed, when he’d tripped and fallen flat on his face. In the starry dark his half-elven sight could make out little: the blacker shapes of crushed-down grass against the black shadows of grass still standing. On his hands and knees he crisscrossed the area, fumbling through and patting down the grass, pulling it aside, hoping for the gleam of silver, praying that the wretched thing hadn’t somehow or other slid into the lake. A gaggle of gnomes appeared to help, though he doubted if they truly understood him when he tried to explain what he was doing. Finally he gave up in disgust and sat back on his heels. In a flurry like a whirlwind the gnomes all disappeared.
“Rhodry, give me the ring, and I’ll give the dagger back.”
The voice—her voice, all soft and seductive—spoke from behind him. Swearing, he got to his feet and spun around to see her, standing some five feet away. She seemed to stand in a column of moonlight, as if the air around her were a tunnel to some other world where the moon was at her full, and she was wearing elven clothes, the embroidered tunic and leather trousers in which he’d first seen her. Her honey-colored hair, though, hung free, a cascade over her shoulders. In one hand she held his silver dagger, blade up.
“The ring, Rhodry Maelwaedd. Give me the rose ring, and you shall have your dagger back.”
“Suppose I just take it from you?”
She laughed and disappeared, suddenly and completely gone. When he swore, he heard her laugh behind him again, and spun around. There she was, and she was still holding the dagger.
“You shan’t be able to catch me, of course,” she said. “But I always keep my promises. I promise that if you give me the ring, I shall give you your dagger.”
“Well, if you want it that cursed badly . . . ”
When he started to slip the ring free, she moved forward, gliding over the grass, and it seemed that she was suddenly taller, her eyes flashing gold in the not-real moonlight that clung to her. All at once he was afraid, hesitated, stepped back with the ring still on his finger.
“Just why do you want this bit of silver so badly?”
“That’s none of your affair! Give it to me!”
She strode forward, he moved back. She stood huge now, her hair spreading out in some private wind like flames stirring, and she held the dagger up to strike.
“Stop!” It was a man’s voice. “You have no right to that ring!”
Rhodry could see no one, but she suddenly shrank down to form of a normal elven woman, and the dagger hung in a flaccid hand.
“It was his long before I carved the runes upon it. You know it was. Admit it.”
All at once a figure appeared to match the voice, a man with impossibly yellow hair and lips as red as cherries. Smiling, but it was more a wolf’s smile than a man’s, he strolled in between them. The long tunic he wore matched his unnaturally blue eyes. With a sense of utter shock Rhodry realized that he could see him so clearly because dawn was already turning the eastern sky silver, that the entire night had somehow passed during his brief conversation with the woman. She was staring at the grass now, and kicking a tuft of it like a sulky child.
“Hand it over,” the man said.
With a shriek of rage she hurled the dagger straight at Rhodry’s head. He ducked, twisting out of the way barely in time, then looked up to find them both gone. The dagger, however, lay gleaming in the rising sun. When he picked it up, he found it perfectly solid—and realized with surprise that he’d expected it to be somehow changed. Although he sheathed it, he kept his hand on the hilt as he started back to camp.
“Rhodry?”
The voice made him yelp aloud. The man with the yellow hair gave him an apologetic smile.
“If I were you,” the fellow said. “I’d leave the Westlands. She won’t follow you into the lands of men.”
He disappeared again. Rhodry ran the rest of the way back to the camp.
The wake was long over. Most of the People, in fact, were asleep after the long night of mourning. Only a pack of dogs, a few of the older boys, and Calonderiel were sitting round the newly rekindled fire in front of the banadar’s tent.
“Where were you?” Calonderiel said.
“I hardly know.” Rhodry sat down next to him on the ground.
Calonderiel considered for a moment, then waved at the boys and dogs impartially.
“Go. I don’t care where—to bed, probably. But go.”
Once they’d gone, the banadar laid a few chips and twigs onto the fire.
“I hate to let it go out,” he remarked. “What do you mean, you hardly know?”
“Just that. I thought I was but a mile from here, down by the lake, but the whole night passed like a bare moment, and I saw a woman who came and went like one of the Wildfolk.”
While Rhodry told the story, and he finally admitted
the earlier incidents as well, Calonderiel listened without a word, but the banadar grew more and more troubled.
“Guardians,” he said at last. “What you saw were two of the Guardians. I don’t exactly know what they may be, but they’re somehow linked to the People. They’re not gods, certainly, nor are they elves like you and me, nor men like your other tribe, either. No more are they Wildfolk, though they seem more like the Wildfolk than like us at times. I’ve heard a wagonload of old tales about them. Sometimes they harm those that see them, but more often they help, which is why we call them Guardians. The bards say that at the fall of Rinbaladelan, a man of the Guardians fought side by side with the royal archers, but not even his magic could hold the Hordes off in the end.”
“Do you think I should take the fellow’s advice, then?”
“Most likely. Ye gods, I wish Aderyn were here! We need a dweomerman’s counsel, we do.”
“I’m still surprised he never came to the alardan. It’s not like the old man to miss one.”
“Just so.” Calonderiel suddenly yawned with a convulsive little shudder. “Well, let’s get some sleep. It’s been a miserable night, all told. Maybe your dreams will tell you something useful.”
That afternoon, though, Rhodry dreamt of the long road, that is, the time when he’d ridden as a silver dagger into political exile. When he woke, he could remember nothing particular about the dream, and it faded fast as dreams will, but the feeling of it lingered round him, a sour sort of omen. He found himself alone in the banadar’s huge tent, with the rest of the warband gone, though he did hear whispering voices just outside. When he dressed and went out, he discovered a clot of men, all white-faced and shaking, standing round the young prince, Daralanteriel, who had his hands set on his hips and an angry toss to his head.
“What’s all this?” Rhodry was instantly awake.
“My apologies, sir,” the prince said. “The men keep talking about ghosts, and I’m trying to force some sense into their heads.”
“Good.” Rhodry turned to Jennantar, who of all the men in the warband was usually the most hard-headed. “Now, what—“
“Mock all you like, we saw her!” Jennantar said. “Oldana, standing at the edge of camp clear as clear.”
The rest nodded in stubborn agreement.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Daralanteriel snarled. “Only Round-ears believe in trash like that. Well, begging your pardon, sir.”
“Tact isn’t your strongest point, lad, is it? But apology accepted. Look at it this way: the men saw something, so the real question is, what was it?”
“I’m glad to see that someone believes our sworn word.” Jennantar shot Daralanteriel an evil glance.
“Enough of that! It’s a prince you’re looking daggers at,” Rhodry broke in and quickly. “Where did you see this thing?”
With the others trailing after, Jennantar led Rhodry out of the camp on the forest side. He pointed to a spot between two ancient pines.
“Right there. She was standing between those trees, in the shadows, yes, but we still saw her really clearly, all wrapped up in the white linen, and her hair was all white, too.”
“When you looked at her, did she seem solid, or could you see things through her, like you can through smoke?”
“Interesting.” Jennantar thought for a moment. “In the bard tales, you can always see right through a ghost, but she looked as real as you or me, and it was sunny, of course, which should have made her look even less real, but it didn’t.”
“What did you do when you saw her?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, we all yelped and jumped. She didn’t say anything, just looked at us. And Wye said, ‘Look at her hair, it’s not yellow anymore, it’s turned white.’ And she smiled at that, like, and vanished, sudden as sudden.”
“And you’re sure it was Oldana?”
“Looked exactly like her, except for that white hair.”
The other men nodded agreement. Rhodry sighed with a sharp puff of breath. Whoever or whatever that spirit who coveted his ring might be, there was no doubt that she could shape-change to perfection.
As they walked back to camp, three women came running to meet them. They ringed Rhodry round and all began talking at once: they too had seen Oldana, prowling round her family’s tent.
“I suppose she wants a look at her children, poor thing,” Annaleria said, her voice shaking with tears. “I know I would.”
“Ye gods!” Rhodry snarled. “Where are the boys?”
“With their grandmother in her tent.”
“Good. Go join her. Fill that tent with women, and for the love of every god, don’t let the apparition near those boys. If she gets her claws into one of them, he’ll be gone where none of us can get him back.”
Except, no doubt, by handing over the ring.
“Let’s go. Hurry!”
Rhodry broke into a run and raced for camp, leaving the others startled behind him. Enabrilia’s distinctive tent, painted with scenes of deer drinking at a river, stood off to one side, with nothing beyond it but the lakeshore. As Rhodry jogged up, he saw Val heading down to the water’s edge with a leather bucket in his hands. Rhodry took off after him, yelling his name. The boy stopped on the pale sand and looked back, smiling. Out on the water something was forming. It seemed a wisp of mist at first, then shimmered and began to grow thicker.
“Run!” Rhodry shrieked. “Come here, Val!”
The boy dropped the bucket and followed orders, racing to Rhodry’s open arms just as the shape took form and stepped off the water to the shore. She looked so like Oldana—and her hair was the other’s proper color now, too, a pale gold—that Rhodry swore under his breath. Val twisted in his arms.
“Malamala!” he cried out. “Let me go! It’s my mother.”
Rhodry held him tighter and swore again as the boy burst into tears. Shouting and cursing, Jennantar and half the alar came running to surround them. The apparition shook one fist in Rhodry’s direction, then vanished like smoke blowing away under a wind.
“She’s gone,” Val sobbed. “Why didn’t you let me go? Why?”
“Because she would have taken you with her to the Otherlands, and it’s not your time to go.” Rhodry said the only thing he could think of, looked round, saw Enabrilia shoving her way through the crowd. “Here’s your gramma. Go with her. I’ll come talk to you later, little one, but I don’t know if I can ever explain.”
“I wanted to go with Malamala. I hate you! I want my mother.”
When Rhodry handed the weeping child over to Enabrilia, the other women formed round her like a guard and swept them away. Rhodry looked round to find Daralanteriel and the other men standing between him and the lake.
“I’m sorry,” Dar stammered out. “Jennantar, I never should have doubted your word, and I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t think of it again.” Jennantar laid a gentle hand on the prince’s shoulder. “It’s all unbelievable enough, isn’t it? Rhodry, for the love of every god, what was that—that creature?”
“I don’t truly know.” Rhodry ran both hands through his hair and felt himself shake like a man with a fever. “But she bodes ill, whatever she is. Let’s go find the banadar.”
Rhodry could be a stubborn man when he wanted, and indeed at times when he didn’t, as well. That she would stoop so low to gain her prize made him suddenly determined that she should never have that ring, no matter what the cost to him. Risking the rest of the alar, of course, was different. When they found Calonderiel, Rhodry told him the story, then led him away from the others out to the edge of the forest, where the corridors of trees stood nodding in the rising wind.
“That Guardian I saw spoke true. I’ve got to leave, for the alar’s sake more than my own. I’m minded to ride north and look for Aderyn. No doubt she’ll follow me and the ring and leave the rest of you in peace.”
“It seems best, doesn’t it? But you can’t go alone.
Too dangerous. I’ll come with you, and we’ll take part of the warband, too.”
“You have my thanks, and from the bottom of my heart.” Rhodry caught himself—he was speaking Deverrian again. After so many years of rarely hearing it, he was surprised that he would so instinctively return to it when he was troubled. He made himself speak Elvish. “I wasn’t looking forward to being out there alone, but I’ve got to talk to Aderyn. I don’t know whether to placate her or fight her.”
“If she’s one of the Guardians, normally I’d say you should do what she wants, but I’m beginning to wonder.” Calonderiel thought for a moment, frowning out at the horizon. “I’ve never heard of a Guardian begging and wheedling a mere mortal like this. Maybe she’s some kind of evil spirit. You’re right. Aderyn’s the one who would know.”
“I wonder where the old man is?”
“North, probably, coming down to the winter camps. If he’d been south already, he would have come to the alardan.”
Calonderiel turned the leadership of his alar over to the king and his son, just until he should return. With some ten men and a couple of packhorses, Rhodry and Calonderiel rode straight north, making a good twelve miles before pitching the night’s camp. Since under the starry sky everyone could see well enough, they dispensed with a fire, merely sat close together in a ring, watching the moon rise. No one seemed to have a thing to say. Twice someone started a song; both times the music died away after a few quiet verses.
“Ye gods!” Calonderiel snarled at last. “What’s wrong with us all?”
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 23