In the Caves of Exile (Tale of the Nedao Book 2)

by Ru Emerson

  The largest chest had revealed a different trove: a short-sleeved mail shirt of rings stitched to doubled leather, a pair of soft leather boots, an osprey burned into the toes. A length of unfigured dark velvet, two leather belts and a number of hand-braided straps. All cut for a woman unnervingly near the size of Nedao's Queen.

  A bride-box, or a series of them; Lisabetha'd thought that, and Ylia tended to agree with her. A bride-box for a woman pledged but not ready to wed. A swordswoman.

  The wealth exulted her companions, but she couldn't feel it. There was nothing for her, had been nothing for her since she'd drawn the sword and taken that challenge straight on.

  Whose the challenge, and whose the sword? And whose the writing, of what kind, this stone Lisabetha carried for her? ‘Nisana.’ No response. The cat had gone off on her own a good deal since Ysian left, and was probably prowling the valley.

  They were nearly back to the occupied portion of the Caves. She must have walked a league blind and deaf. “'Betha, can you find Grewl for me? I need him. If anyone can read that thing, he can.”

  “I'll find him.” Lisabetha pushed her ball of twine and the stone page into Brelian's hands, took one of the torches and ran ahead of them.

  “That coin—” Brelian began.

  “You brought some, didn't you? I didn't think.”

  “I noticed that,” he replied dryly. “Yes, several of each. It looks like proper gold and silver, for all the cut of it's odd.”

  “So it does. It'll help. The council will like that.”

  “It's—” He hesitated. “You think it's—that we can—that it's ours?” Silence. “It's old, really old. Whoever left it there—they couldn't be still around to claim it, could they?”

  “I don't know what to think. I hope Grewl can decipher that thing. I hope it tells us what we want to know.” What I need to know. What do I have in my hands, what are they, and what have I done?

  Brelian left her at her quarters, went to find food and to alert the council to a meeting after late meal. Ylia washed down from the tepid bowl of water left from her morning bathing, and ate what Malaeth had left her, but she scarcely tasted the food. Perhaps as well, since it had been heavily herbed to conceal the gamey flavor of old buck and even the over-application of sage hadn't been wholly successful. And it was cold. The bread had gone hard, but at least there was nothing wrong with the flavor of it: the Narrans had brought leaven, salt and more grain on their last trip.

  Grewl arrived just as she finished the last of it. “I'm glad you came. I need your aid.”

  “Yours, if I can give it.” Ylia waited until he settled into his place, rearranged his writing materials to suit himself. She pushed the onyx slab across to him. Grewl's eyes lit with pleasure; he ran his hands lightly across the etched surface.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked finally.

  “Back. Well into the Caves. It wasn't alone.”

  “No, I see that, by what's written here.”

  “You can read it?”

  “By all that's blessed,” the old man breathed, “I know it. By the heart and soul of the One, I thought I'd seen the only copy of this.” He was nearly as shaken as she; his fingers trembled, slid down the stone and to his lap. “Arms and armatures, there should have been—” His voice faded away to a stunned silence as Ylia slid the sword, the shield, the horn toward him. He touched one, another. “I thought—”

  “What is it?”

  “It—ah?” He came back from a long distance, blinking hard, and finally took in her question. “This?” His hand was lovingly rubbing at the incised writing once again. Ylia swallowed impatience and nodded. “Those are Shelagn's weapons. And this is Shelagn's Will.”

  In truth, I did feel sorry for her as the old Chosen told his tale—and what she saw as its meaning came clear to her. To be used, in such a manner? For she had been used, drawn and caught off balance, caught up in matters before she could think them through. I would have felt violated, indeed I felt it for her. But there was more to Shelagn's tale than Ylia knew, more that I had had from my own long kin. For there is another tale, which tells that Shelagn had those things—sword, shield, horn—from another before her that she was drawn, coaxed to the sword, overwhelmed by desire for it, and that her choice was made in that same manner. And only then, only when she knew she must have it, it warned. And whom it took, it used. Shelagn was strong, sword-arm, shield-arm, Power all alike. Not, in the end, strong enough.

  Then, too, she had not had strength at her side such as Ylia had in me. Perhaps that smacks of vantage—but it is not so intended. I saw myself then in no special light, no part of any great prophecy, no being of greatness and perfection surpassing that of the Guardians, no. But—if Shelagn had had assistance, any at all, to her side, she might not have died on that battlefield.

  And I was to be a brace in hour of need. Though not the only.

  17

  Ylia stared at him, stunned into silence. She shook herself, then; shook her head. “No.”

  “I've seen it, Lady,” Grewl replied earnestly. One hand still stroked the roughened stone, lovingly traced the lines graven into its black surface. A copy, on parchment, that was a copy of another, older parchment. And that, they said, was copy of copy of copy.”

  “They—they?” she whispered.

  “The Ylsans. In Yslar, in the Sirdar's palace, they have a room where old writings are kept. When I first came to the Peopled Lands from my own, I brought requests from our Heirocracy, asking that I be allowed to study them. The Sirdar and his council were gracious enough to permit that. That was where I first heard the tales of the wars of a thousand years ago, and those who fought them. And where I first learned what a man might learn of Shelagn.” He took the stone gently in both hands, brought it closer to him and lit candles. “You are part Ylsan. I am certain you know those histories.”

  “I know them. How the Lammior made war against the Nasath and the Folk and drove them across the Foessa, and how the Sea-Folk came in response to their call for aid. Shelagn died there.”

  “Not at once. She brought down the Lammior, at the last, but she was wounded and even those with the Power could not save her. She lived awhile: long enough to see her folk settled, to see the Gifts conferred upon them.”

  “Long enough,” Ylia said, “to write that.” Silence. Grewl transferred his attention to the other things, picked them up one at a time; handling them with reverent hands. He drew the sword, examined it minutely, laid it sheathless on the table between them.

  “There, if you needed proof beyond this document, beyond the graven arms on the shield and what can be seen of those on the horn.” He touched the blade, let his fingers slide across the stained point. “The Lammior's blood did that.” Silence again. Ylia wrapped her hand around the hilts and brought the tip close. The metal, was cool, silk-smooth under a trembling hand. She snatched her hand back as it slipped across the marred finish: it sent a shock up her arm, white-hot and for one brief instant horrifying. Gods and Mothers.

  “The Will,” she said finally. “It—what does it say?”

  “Ah. A moment, Lady.” He rearranged the candles, bent over the stone. “'I, Shelagn, go young and unwed, heirless to the home of my ancestors, leaving behind all but my inner being, there to reap the harvest I sowed in life.

  “'I leave to my father and my folk the lands we won, my share of all the reward we gained as a result of that winning, the Gift that would have been mine.

  “'But wars such as this one do not end, though it may seem for long lives that they have. The Lammior is dead; and by my hand, but the things that fought for him have fled, and the evil that was his is not a thing that can be killed. Someday, one will rise to take his place, take his Power, and again subdue these lands. I will not be there to oppose him. I therefore give into the hands of she who is my heir my sword, my shield, the horn that brings aid, and all other things which were mine, for all of them may be of aid to her in some way.

  “
'She will know herself to be my heir, beyond all doubt, for like me, she will be a catalyst. Like me, She will be a leader of a driven people and because of her, through her, events and many folk, will come together.

  “'The sword will find her, she will wield it against evils great and small. And she will know, by these gifts; by her allies, by the Power that is hers, when the time and where the place that evil must again be confronted and destroyed.'”

  Silence. Grewl cleared his throat again and went on. “Strange words. No one in Yslar has given meaning to them, though I asked those who scribe in the Sirdar's halls and who know the tales.”

  “Mine,” Ylia whispered. “I dreamed of this blade. It was in my hand—” Her gaze went, half-unwilling, back to the sword. “But that it was hers—”

  “And now yours,” Grewl said gravely.

  “An hour of need, when it shall slay evil.” I? Why did it draw me? There are Nasath, there are the Folk who am I that I should be drawn to that ancient cache, that these things should be mine? Is the blade given to me to slay the remaining Mathkkra and Thullen in the Foessa, or will I destroy Lyiadd with it, if I did not before? And who is the man I saw in that dream, the one who fights at my side? Dread vied with joy, pulling her asunder, and she was all too aware that desire had played her, had set her hand to those hilts when commonsense would have sent her flying from that wonderful crystal wall. She was scarcely aware when the Grewl left.

  'Ylia?’ Nisana leaped to the table. Ylia blinked at her.

  'How long have you been here, cat?’

  'Long enough. I heard the old man read. I should not have left you alone. You needed me with you.

  'I—would that have helped me?’

  Nisana leaned against her shoulder. ‘To avoid these things, this blade? No. To accept what is now yours—I could have prepared you for it. You would have realized what it was and taken it in that realization.’

  'No.’

  The cat eyed her with mild irritation. ‘No? Easy to say, in your mood. You're afraid and not thinking properly.’

  'Cat, I am afraid.’ She was. Her thought shook, her hands did. She let go the hilts and stuffed her hands between her knees. ‘To be part of a prophecy, any prophecy—no. It can't be, I won't!’

  'Why?’ Nisana demanded tartly. ‘Because it has nothing to do with eating and spinning wool and planting seed and the other things of daily Nedaoan life? Because its source is a parchment copied many times from this stone, buried in the Sirdar's towers? Remember the tales of Nedao! Do you doubt that Queen Leffna was real, or Wergn her King?’ Ylia shook her head. ‘Or Merreven, who slew Mathkkra? She shook her head again. ‘Then do not doubt, merely because you are part of it.’

  “I don't, cat.” she whispered. “I don't think I do. Shelagn's sword in my hand, her bridal-box, her dowry to our need, her mail for my protection. By the feel of the blade, I should have known it, I knew, gut deep, when Grewl read that—her Will. But—to feel her hand, to hear her words, Shelagn's words, cat! Over a thousand years! And to know what they mean, what they portend for me. I'm afraid, yes. Anyone of sense would be.”

  'You—’ the cat began tartly. Ylia laid a hand on her ears.

  'Is there any alternaive? You know what they said. I went back through those rock chambers, gained a sword and lost myself.’

  'Why?’

  Ylia pushed away from the table, paced the small chamber. The sword lay in full view, in reach. Her fingers ached for it; at this moment, she dared not touch it. “Well? I wanted it, I've wanted it since the first time I dreamed it, Gods and Mothers, I still do! But was it really me that wanted it, or is another—the Guardians, Shelagn herself—playing with my thought, twisting it to their own ends! And to have taken another's burden—!”

  'No!’ Nisana interrupted her sharply. Ylia turned to stare at her. ‘Not their ends! The battle is yours, the enemy yours and these people's. No longer Shelagn's, who has been dead ten lifetimes or more! You are her heir, not her slave!’

  “Can you sift through her words to see that?”

  'Yes. I have read the ancient books, and I knew of the Will the priest read. I have seen the copy he spoke of. The words are hers, and by them, you are indeed Shelagn's heir. The things, the sword found you. They do not control you.’

  “Words, cat. You're trying to help me, I appreciate that. But—”

  'Catalyst.’

  The word dropped into her thought, brought her up short and around to lean against the table, face to face with Nisana. ‘Catalyst,’ the cat repeated. ‘Did he not tell you?’

  Bendesevorian?” she whispered. The Nasath who had given her aid against the Mathkkara such aid as he dared against Lyiadd, who had spoken with her not long after while his sister Nesrevera had communed with Nisana. “He told me many things, cat. About Lyiadd, mostly. A very little about their own kind. Nothing of a catalyst. For what? And why?”

  'She did not tell me much of these things. The sword itself, the horn, the histories I know are aiding me to piece it together.’ The cat eyed her gravely. “There are things, sometimes people, and sometimes both, which come at certain times, and because they are what or who they are, events are torn from their paths and reset in others.

  “I know what the word means, cat,” Ylia snapped as she hesitated. The cat lifted a corner of her lip in delicately phrased irritation.

  'Good. Pay attention! Because Shelagn was who she was, because she alone was able to rally folk to fight for her; because her blade was forged in a certain place and time, and with certain spells upon it; because she had the Power to use the horn and the sense of proper moment for its use; because she was a wise woman as well as a fighter and could therefore control all three things: sword, shield and horn; because she understood the uses of each and was not afraid of consequence from their use. Because of all these things, the Guardians and the Folk and the Sea-Folk who were hers won that last battle, and the Lammior was slain. Had the leader of those forces been other than that woman at that times with that blade, there would be no AEldra, there would be nothing but the Lammior's realm. Now do you understand?’

  'No.’

  'Because you don't want to, stubborn child!’

  “I don't understand! And why me? Why should I be special, why of all the folk between here and the Sea should I be singled out?” The sword was calling to her, and a faint music was touching her, raising the hair along her nape, She moved away from the table, but her eyes brooded on it.

  'You're not thinking, and you're doing it on purpose. Stop being so silly! Who else, in all the Peopled Lands, in this time when Lyiadd stands ready to fall upon us all with death, is both sorceress and swordswoman? Who else in all the lands has met with the Folk and made a pact of mutual support with them, when no other human has seen them in over five hundred years? Who was there, with the Power and a sword, to slay Kaltassa and the old shaman who spoke to them with Lyiadd's voice?’

  “You killed the old shaman, I didn't. And Lyiadd is dead.”

  'Don't be so foolish,’ the cat retorted sharply. ‘Think on what I have said. And don't keep trying to deny Shelagn's legacy. It will haunt you to no purpose, and you've already taken its burden. You did that when you first grasped the sword. Why torment yourself with thoughts of “if I had"? You didn't, and it's too late to change that!’

  “Too late,” Ylia whispered, and bowed her head. She was silent, withdrawn for some time. Finally, with a little catch in her breath, she reached for the buckle to her own scabbard slowly undid it, fastened the other in its place. She closed her eyes briefly, wrapped her hands around the hilts, slowly slid the blade home. “The Nasath grant I not fail you, long-kinswoman. Or your bequest.” And, in an even quieter voice, “My poor people! How long have we, to rebuild before evil falls upon us again?” Nisana rubbed against her arm but for that she had no answer.

  She had a handful of coin, two faceted blue stones, sitting in a bowl on the table when her council came in, and had the fun of watching each of them gape at
the loose, ancient wealth. The weapons could not go unnoted, either, and she laid them in the center of the table again. “It is ours, trust to that. That stone tablet dates it, and gives it to us who found it. The sword, the shield, the horn are mine; the coin and the jewels we will use, for the good of all.

  Corlin took up a gold piece, bit at it gingerly, examined it in the candlelight. “This is like none I've seen before. Word's out, though, that you and my daughter and Brelian found something truly ancient, back there.”

  “Someone else apparently used the Caves for storage, she said.

  “Not unlikely, I suppose. There've been folk in the Foessa long before us. This is proper gold even if the coinage is not valid. How much is there?”

  Ylia shrugged. “Upwards of two hundred pieces, gold. More of silver. But Brelian and Lisabetha had a better look at it.”

  “I didn't count,” Brelian said. “But I'd say there was much more than that; more silver than gold, too. And gems: many like those two. And there were some emerald, some darker blue. I don't know what they are. Pale smoky brown ones. Two small bags. We opened them, took out those two, we didn't pour them out, though.”

  “Gods,” Bnorn breathed.

  “Mothers,” his son whispered. “If a man had known there was such wealth in these Caves! What chance of more?”

  “We can look,” Ylia said. “This was special. It's not likely there's another like it. But we've still corn and seed to find, so there's no harm in looking.”