CHAPTER 2
Night Visitor
Early Spring, 1E9574
[Six Months Past]
In a small cottage on the outskirts of Kairn, the city on the island of Rwn, an eld Man—that is, with his white hair and beard he appeared to be an eld Man—heard a soft tap on his door. He did not look away from his instrument, but instead continued to mutter to himself while peering along the arm of the astrolabe, sighting out through the open roof trap and into the springtime spangle of the nighttime heavens above.
Again came the tapping on the door.
“Go away!”
Softly, softly, another tap sounded in the darkened room.
“I said, go away! I am busy!”
Once more came the persistent tapping.
“Oh bother!” Irritated, the eld Man gestured, and a soft blue glow sprang into being before him. “All right, all right, I’m coming!” he called out peevishly, jotting a note in a journal lying open before him on the astrolabe stand.
Snapping the journal shut and sliding from the tall stool, the elder hobbled across the room, muttering all the while—“Not enough that the hearthlights and street lanterns from the city interfere, but now some fool has to come along and…”
Flinging the door open and querulously snapping, “Well, what do you—?” the Man’s words chopped to silence, for there afoot on the threshold was a tiny person no more than twelve inches tall. Dressed in varying shades of grey, she was, and a tiny bow and a quiver of arrows were slung across her back. Her hair was mouse brown, and her eyes were cobalt blue, and behind her stood a black-footed red fox.
She looked up at the Man, his face illuminated by the blue glow, his features ghastly in the spectral light. Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders and asked, “Are you Alamar the Mage?” Though high-pitched, her voice came softly.
“Hmph! I never thought to see a Pysk on my doorstone.”
“Are you Alamar the Mage?” she repeated.
At the Man’s nod a look of relief spread over her face. “Oh, I’m so glad. My name is Jinnarin”—she gestured toward the fox—“and Rux and I have come a long way to find you. You see, Farrix is missing.”
CHAPTER 3
Herb Tea and Wild Honey
Early Spring, 1E9574
[Six Months Past]
As Jinnarin uncinched a harness strap and hefted the travelling packs from Rux’s back, Alamar rummaged about in a cupboard, grumbling, “Herb tea. Herb tea. Ha! In the back—dratted mice.”
A smile flickered across Jinnarin’s face. Farrix said that Alamar was eccentric, yet surely the Mage doesn’t believe that mice conspire against him, hiding the tea. She dropped the packs to the hearthstone and then selected twigs from the fireside wood box and added them to the faint coals.
Alamar hobbled to the fireplace. “You will be wanting some tea, too, neh?”
“Oh yes, please,” answered Jinnarin, placing small branches among the growing flames as Rux curled up before the hearth.
Alamar hooked the handle of a small copper pot on the kettle iron and swivelled it out above the fire. Without another word, the Mage returned to his seat at the astrolabe and once again sighted up through the open roof trap at the stars above. After a moment—“Blast!” He glared over his shoulder at the fire, and grumbling, jerked at a chain, the trapdoor above slamming to with a Blam! Rux leaped up and looked wildly about; Jinnarin, too, was startled.
With a gesture of dismissal, Alamar jotted a last note in his journal, mumbling, “Pox! I missed it.” and slid from his stool as Jinnarin soothed Rux, the fox eyeing the Mage suspiciously.
Alamar hobbled to a large, cluttered, rolltop desk and cast the journal down among scrolls and tomes and scattered papers, pausing long enough to jerk a parchment from a pigeonhole and scowl at it a moment, then roll it up and jam it back in.
Behind, the kettle began to whistle, the unexpected sound bringing Rux again to his feet, the fox interposing himself between Jinnarin and the Mage, hackles raised, one lip slightly curled, a sharp canine showing.
Alamar simply glared at the beast and stumped to the kettle, while once again Jinnarin soothed Rux, the hair on the animal’s back slowly settling down.
Spooning herbs into a porcelain pot. Alamar glowered at Jinnarin. “Have you got a cup?” The Mage filled the teapot with steaming water.
Fumbling through the packs that Rux had borne, she withdrew a carven acorn, a handle affixed to one side, a base attached to the bottom.
Alamar again returned to the cabinet, rattling about, extracting an earthenware cup and a small jar of honey. He peered into the cup and turned it upside down—“Dratted mice”—banging the rim against the tabletop and peering in, once again bringing Rux to his feet.
“Look here, Pysk, you ought to do something about that—that dog of yours. Why, he’s as jumpy as a wild beast.”
“Rux is a ‘wild beast,’ Alamar…and he’s not a dog! And if you wouldn’t make so much noise—”
“Tea’s ready,” interrupted Alamar, peering into the pot.
Moments later, Alamar stirred a dab of honey into the steaming amber drink, then fixed his green-eyed gaze on his visitor, Jinnarin sitting cross-legged atop the rough-hewn plank table. “All right, now, what’s all this about Farrix missing?”
Jinnarin looked at the eld Man—or was he an Elf? His eyes were somewhat tilted and his ears slightly pointed, as are the Fair Folk’s, but in each case, eyes and ears both, they were more Manlike than Elf but more Elflike than Man. Farrix had said that Mages were like that—neither Human nor Elven but something in between, and now Jinnarin could see it for herself. He was dressed in a blue robe, and on his left wrist he wore a gold bracelet set with a dull red stone.
“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me, or are you instead going to tell me about Farrix?”
Jinnarin shook her head to clear it of these vagaries and then began:
“The winter before last, Farrix thought that he saw something peculiar in the aurora—great plumes streaming away to the east. Oh, not that it happened every night, but he saw it occur several times over the month he watched—”
“Plumes? To the east?”
“Well, down from the north to the east.”
Alamar’s bushy white eyebrows cocked upward. “Hm, east of Darda Glain. How far east?”
“How far?” Jinnarin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Come, come, Pysk, was it right at hand or far away?”
Jinnarin turned up her palms. “I didn’t see any—not that I was looking—but Farrix said that it was one or two hundred miles away.”
“Ha! The other side of Rwn.” With a gesture he bade her to continue.
Jinnarin sipped from her acorn cup. “About two Moons after he had gone on his quest, Rhu, his fox, returned home, bearing a note from Farrix.” Jinnarin reached into her vest and pulled forth a tiny, tissue-thin parchment, unfolding it and passing it over to Alamar.
The eld Mage peered at the wee document, squinting his eyes. “Faugh! Too small. I can’t read this.” He thrust the paper back at Jinnarin. The Pysk took the note and smoothed it on the plank before her.
“My love,” she read…
My love,
Here I am at the edge of the isle, and the plumes continue to flow easterly. It appears, though, that they arc down to strike in the ocean nearby. I have made myself a coracle, and I plan on paddling a bit out to sea, out to where it seems they might splash, just beyond the horizon, I think.
I have told Rhu to wait awhile, a day or so. If he returns without me, you will know that I am off on another of my ventures.
I love you,
Farrix
Jinnarin refolded the paper and slipped it back into her inner vest pocket. “Rhu brought the note. Spring came, then summer, and Farrix did not return. In autumn, Rux and I followed Rhu back to where he had last seen Farrix: a headland along the southeast coast of Rwn—”
“Hmph!” grunted Alamar. “How d’ you k
now that he took you to the right place? I mean, it’s not as if they are smart and all, like Wolves. Instead, what we are talking about are foxes! So, how d’ you know he got anywhere near?”
Outrage flushed Jinnarin’s face. “They are our companions! And trustworthy! Farrix’s Rhu wouldn’t make a mistake in something as important as that.” She glanced down at Rux asleep before the fire, as if to assure herself that he had not overheard this—this slur against Foxkind. “Set aside your doubt, Alamar—Rhu led us to the right place all right.”
Alamar, too, scowled down at Rux, then turned his attention once more to the Pysk. “And…?”
“And nothing. There was no sign of Farrix.”
Again Alamar glowered at Jinnarin. “So…?”
“So I came to you. Farrix always said that should trouble come calling, we could depend on Alamar the Mage to help. After all, Farrix saved you from the boar, and—”
“So that’s who it was!” burst out Alamar. “Farrix!” A great grin spread across his face, transforming it from one of irascibility into one of discovered joy. Catching up the pot, he splashed more tea into Jinnarin’s acorn, overflowing it, the Pysk scrambling back and away from the spreading puddle. Not noticing the spill, Alamar dropped a great dollop of honey into the tiny cup, the sweet glob splashing out the rest of the tea and oozing over and down the sides. “Well, Miss—Miss…”
“Jinnarin.” She eyed her cup with some dismay.
“Ah yes, Jinnarin. Well, Miss Jinnarin, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Any friend of Farrix’s is a friend of mine.”
“How can that be, Alamar? I mean, it appears as if you didn’t even know his name.”
“I didn’t!” exclaimed the elder. “But as to him saving my life, well, it was a Pysk all right—brought that boar down with one of those tiny arrows, he did. But given the pain I was in…well, I just didn’t catch his name. He took care of me for a week or so, and when I was well enough to remain in camp alone, that’s when he fetched help. Of course, when help came, he remained hidden, and I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”
“And you never knew his name?”
Alamar shook his head. “I called him Pysk. It seemed enough at the time. Then he was gone and it was too late.…I always wondered, though, just who Pysk was—”
A look of indignation filled Jinnarin’s face. “He was Farrix! Best of the Fox Riders! And it’s a wonder that he stopped to help anyone as rude as you. Imagine, not even knowing your benefactor’s name! And you slandered his fox, too!” Jinnarin folded her arms and stiffly turned her back to the Mage.
Before Alamar could utter an astonished word—“And clean up that mess you made of my cup,” demanded Jinnarin.
Alamar glared at her rigid back for a moment, seeming on the verge of a retort, but she faced him not. Finally, gritting his teeth, the Mage took up the acorn and dutifully washed and dried it, wiping down the table as well. And just as carefully, he refilled the minuscule vessel with herb tea, dropping in a tiny bit of wild honey to sweeten it. By this time, Jinnarin not only had cooled down, but had proceeded to a state of abject embarrassment at her outburst. And she sat with her head down, refusing to look at the Magus. For his part, Alamar had gotten over his glare, realizing the truth of her words.
They sat in silence for a while, neither willing to say aught.
Alamar fiddled with the bracelet on his arm, but finally—“Ahem”—he cleared his throat. “Has Farrix disappeared like this before?”
“Oh yes,” answered Jinnarin softly. “Several times in the millennia I’ve known him.” She looked up at the Mage, and her eyes filled with joy. “Farrix is, well, he is filled with curiosity and cannot seem to let go until he has an answer to whatever it is that he wants to know.”
“Hmph. Then he’d make a good apprentice.…Be that as it may, these other times, Py—Jinnarin, these other times, was he gone long?”
“Oh yes. Seasons and seasons, in fact. Why, once he was gone for seventy-two summers.”
Alamar drew down his shaggy white brows and turned up his palms. “But then, I don’t understand, Jinnarin. He’s only been gone this time for just over a year. Why have you come to see me?”
“I told you: Farrix always said that if ever there was trouble, to come and see you.”
“And just what makes you think that there’s trouble this time?”
Jinnarin took a deep breath. “Well, Alamar, this time, you see, I’ve been having these dreams.”
CHAPTER 4
Shadowland
Early Spring, 1E9574
[Six Months Past]
Dreams?” Alamar turned his gimlet gaze upon the Pysk. “What dreams?”
Jinnarin’s eyes lost their focus as her thoughts turned inward. “Dreams of a crystal castle high above a pale green sea.”
“Hmm.” Alamar stroked his beard for a moment, then stood and shuffled past Rux, the fox opening a suspicious eye, warily regarding the Mage’s progress. Rummaging about in the wood box, Alamar cast a log on the fire, and with an iron rod he poked the coals into flame. Once more he faced the Pysk. “Dreams are at times nought but fanciful images in a shifting shadowland. What makes you think this dream is aught else?”
Jinnarin was quick to answer. “It has clarity…but even more so, it has the feel, the aura, of Farrix.”
Alamar’s eyes widened. “It is not a Death Rede, is it?”
“Death Rede?”
“Something Elves do.”
“Say on, Mage, for I know little of the world beyond the borders of my own Darda Glain.”
Alamar set aside the poker and returned to his chair, taking up the teapot and refreshing his cup. “When one of the Fair Folk dies, somehow he can send a final message—a Death Rede—to another of his Kind.”
Jinnarin shivered. “Oh me oh my, what a terrible two-edged gift! Blessing and bane both.”
Alamar nodded. “That it is, Jinnarin. That it is.…But as to this dream of yours—”
“Oh no, Alamar, my dream is not a Death Rede. We have not that gift…or curse.”
Spooning honey into his cup, Alamar glanced at the Pysk. “I had wondered. There is much alike ‘tween the Fair Folk and the Hidden Ones. Many similarities.”
Jinnarin grinned. “Height is not one of them.”
“Ha!” barked Alamar, which brought Rux scrambling to his feet. “Nay, Pysk, height is not among the likenesses, though wit is.”
Glaring at the Mage but sensing nothing amiss, Rux prepared to settle once again before the fire, though this time the disgruntled animal turned about and about for long moments, peering at the floor at his circling feet, as if pondering the wisdom of lying down once again in the presence of this loud old one.
Jinnarin swirled the tea in her acorn cup, staring deep within as if to see secrets held beyond the bounds of time and space. “But even if we had this—this gift, Alamar, my dream could not be a Death Rede, for I’ve had it many times, and it seems to me that Death Redes would come but once only, and that in a distressing time. Nay, this is no Elven rede. Instead, it is as if it were a…a message, a—”
“A sending?” interjected Alamar.
Jinnarin looked up at the Mage. “Yes. Exactly. As if Farrix were trying to tell me something.”
Alamar fiddled with the gold bracelet on his wrist, a dull red stone set in the metal, his eyes staring into space. “Something about a crystal castle above a pale green sea?”
“And a black ship,” added Jinnarin.
“Black ship?” The surprise in Alamar’s voice brought Rux’s head up, the fox settling back at a soft whistle from Jinnarin.
“Yes, Alamar, a black ship, or so I believe.”
The elder rocked his chair back, tilting it up on two legs. “Perhaps, little one, perhaps you ought to tell the whole of this dream of yours.”
The fire cracked and popped, and Rux dozed on, and Jinnarin sipped her tea, gathering her thoughts. The Mage ladled more honey into his cup and tasted the result. Satisfied
, he set the spoon aside, his habitual glare fixed on the Pysk.
“It never starts the same,” she murmured.
“Eh? Speak up.”
“I said”—Jinnarin raised her voice—“it never starts the same. But no matter where it begins, in time it becomes the echo of nights past—rather like starting out on one path and then being tugged onto a familiar way. And that’s what makes it seem like a—a sending: the bending of each new dream into the shape of the old.”
Alamar squinted an eye. “Hmm. The shadowland is a wild, boundless place, with countless tangled pathways through extravagant ’scapes without number…and to start along fancy after fancy but to arrive always at the same destination is most remarkable, portentous, suggestive of no caprice, no vagary of the mind, but of deliberate guidance instead….
“This destination—tell me of it.”
Jinnarin shrugged her shoulders. “There’s not that much to tell. No matter where my dream starts, there comes a point where I find myself flying among clouds. I know I am flying because far below I can see the waters of a pale green sea. The clouds begin seething and churning and they turn black. Above me, billows pile one atop another, and I know a terrible storm is building. Dark night falls, and I look for shelter. It begins to lightning and thunder, rain lashing down, great white bolts crashing across the ebony sky and into the brine below. And down upon the tossing surge is what I take to be a black ship under full sail, riding across the stormy waters, its masts struck time and again by the whelming strokes. Yet it is not damaged by the lightning but instead sails on, aiming for an island in the near distance, a crag jutting up from the hammering sea.
“Toward this island I fly, something or someone drawing me on—Farrix, I think. Of a sudden I find myself in a lofty crystal chamber overlooking the sea. I know—without knowing how I know—that I am in a crystal castle on that crag, while far below, down a sheer cliff, driven waves thunder into adamant stone, waves crashing into unyielding rock and being hurled back. And all the while I can see the black ship in the stormy distance, riding up over the churning crests and down through the roiling troughs, bolt after bolt of blinding lightning stroking its thrumming masts.…
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 2