Aravan turned to light a candle, and when he turned back, in its yellow glow stood a Pysk upon his writing table.
“You must be Jinnarin.”
The Pysk eyed him suspiciously. “And you are Aravan.”
“Indeed.”
“I would see the stone.”
Aravan raised an eyebrow. “Stone?”
“Tarquin’s stone.”
“Oh.” Aravan drew the leather thong over his head, the cord running through a hole in a small, rounded blue pebble. He held it out to the Pysk.
Jinnarin merely touched the amulet and nodded, satisfied. “Friend,” she said, smiling. How a mere touch could assuage her was beyond Aravan’s knowing, yet he surmised that she sensed something of the power within the small rock. Aravan slipped the loop back over his head, the stone once again resting against his bare flesh.
Jinnarin sat cross-legged on the table. “I would have words with you.”
Aravan nodded and then pulled a chair to the board, waving Alamar to another. The Mage sat opposite the Elf.
When all were comfortable, Jinnarin said, “I understand you would have me meet your crew.”
Aravan nodded but said nought.
“Humans and Dwarves, I hear.”
“And sometimes Waerlinga,” added Aravan, “though none at the moment.”
Jinnarin sighed and slowly shook her head, then said: “I would tell you a tale, Friend, and when I am finished …well, then we shall see.” She paused, gathering her thoughts.
Aravan stood and rummaged through a bureau drawer—“Hai!”—finding a new porcelain thimble. He then selected two crystal glasses. Into each of these, including the thimble, he dashed a dollop of dark Vanchan wine, Alamar eagerly reaching out for his. When Aravan was seated again, Jinnarin took a sip from the thimble, then began her tale:
“Long past, ere Men or Elves or aught others came into this world of Mithgar, the Hidden Ones were not. —Not hidden, that is. Instead, in those days we named ourselves ‘the Fey,’ and we lived in the open, free and unafraid. Fens, fields, forests, plains, prairies, deserts, mountains, oceans, it did not matter where, for we were the only Folk here, though Elwydd’s work was not yet finished. We knew that She had already set into motion Her plans for this world, a design which was well underway long before we arrived upon Mithgar ourselves. You see, prior to coming to the Middle World, we lived…elsewhere…or so legend has it—”
Jinnarin suddenly broke off and turned to the Mage. “Oh, Alamar, I don’t known why I didn’t think of this before, but it just occurred to me that mayhap my Folk come from a different Plane, just as do the Mages. Mayhap the legend, the fable, of our flight from Feyer is true.”
Alamar held up his glass and saluted the Pysk, then downed its contents and held the crystal out to Aravan for a refill, an eager smile on his face.
As the Elf replenished the Mage’s glass, Jinnarin resumed her tale:
“Millennia upon millennia we lived here on Mithgar, unmolested, content. But then Mankind came, Elwydd’s latest, and never were things the same thereafter.
“They brought with them disease, and they usurped the land and ravaged it. Why, even I can remember when much of the world was woodland. But look at it now: whole forests hewn, slain, barren devastation where they once stood, ruin left in the wake of Man.”
Aravan held up a hand. “In places, aye. Yet elsewhere, nay. Instead there be fertile farmland cleared. But thou art somewhat in the right, for Man is indeed a destroyer. Even so, there is hope, can he come to his senses in time.” Aravan paused, then turned a palm up in apology. “Jinnarin, I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt, to debate thee. Pray, continue.”
Jinnarin inclined her head, accepting Aravan’s amends. “Oh, I did not say that Mankind’s intent was evil”—Jinnarin glanced at Alamar, but the Mage was staring into his glass—“now that I have some understanding of what evil is. Instead, evil or innocent, thoughtless or deliberate, Man’s effect upon the Fey was brutal. As the land was usurped, the Fey were pushed back and back, and places where we had lived for millennia were taken by Humanity.
“And Man had little respect for the creatures of the world, for the land, for the waters—these were slain, scarred, polluted. And often, after the damage was done, Man would move on, leaving behind the wreckage of his deeds. And then he would come to where we had resettled and do it all over again.
“And there were those among Humankind who would capture my Folk and others like us, keeping us as pets, as slaves, as charms against evildoers—when it was they who were in truth the evildoers.
“Oh, they could not capture all, for many of the Fey were and are too powerful. As a consequence, Mankind—or more correctly, I should say, some Men—decided that these Fey were creatures of foulness, for they bent not to Man’s will, and so, these Men and others like them set out to exterminate those Fey who defied them”—here Jinnarin’s voice began to tremble with distress and her eyes lost their focus, as if she stared through the mirror of time at unwanted distant memories and heard the thunder of hooves and a savage baying and the blowing of dreadful horns—“and they slew Fey, cut them down just as though they were game to be hunted, hounded, cornered, butchered.” Jinnarin paused, wiping the wetness from her cheeks, regaining her composure. “Often when these wicked Men succeeded, they were hailed as heroes when villains instead they were.
“And so, the Fey withdrew completely, went into hiding, became the Hidden Ones. And we cordoned off the refuges where we had retreated to, turning them into places of dire repute, places forbidden to Man. They became haunted forests, possessed hills, ghostly swamps, deadly deserts, hexed caverns, and the like—all filled with ominous forebodings, all promising ghastly doom to Man, promises at times we kept, depending upon the Man or Men who defied our wardings and entered our forbidden domains.
“Too, there were Fey who fled to remote lands—to the western continent, to islands such as Rwn, to locales then inaccessible or unwanted by Man, though now even these places have seen his footprints.”
Jinnarin ceased speaking for a moment and, trembling, turned her thimble goblet about and about. Finally, her voice quavering with stress, she said, “And now you, Aravan, you who are named ‘Friend,’ you would have me stand before your ship’s crew, verifying to one and all that the fables and legends are true. That Fey do indeed exist, that the tales handed down through the ages from Human sire and dam to son and daughter are valid, that here are a Folk to ward away evil, to perform domestic labor, to find gold, to yield treasure, to—to—” Jinnarin burst into bitter tears, sobs racking her tiny frame.
Anguish flooded Aravan’s face and he looked to Alamar for aid, but the elder’s own eyes were tear-filled and he shook his head and muttered, “Can’t even hug her. Can’t even hug her.” Nevertheless, Aravan reached out and took her up and held her to his breast, cupping her gently in the curve of his arm, a hand lightly pressed against her, whispering “Shhh, shhh, little one,” as she clung to the cloth of his shirt and wept.
“Set me down, Aravan,” said Jinnarin at last, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “on the floor, please. Rux needs reassurance.”
Clearly upset, the fox yet paced and whined, nose in the air sniffing, seeking some clue as to Jinnarin’s weeping. Aravan lowered the Pysk to the floor, Rux right there to receive her, and Jinnarin stood and stroked the agitated animal and whispered into his ear, Rux listening and casting glances at Alamar as if to lay blame.
The Mage wiped the wetness from his cheeks with the heels of his hands. “More wine, please,” he requested, and Aravan refilled the crystal again.
A silence fell within the lounge for a while—all but the sounds of water lapping against the Eroean’s hull—but at last Jinnarin turned to Aravan and said, “Would you lift me to the desk. Rux is soothed now, and I would finish my wine.”
The Elf carefully raised Jinnarin to the board, and the Pysk sat cross-legged and took up her porcelain thimble and sipped.
Fina
lly, Aravan cleared his throat. “Jinnarin, I know thou art distressed by my request. Thou hast spent millennia hiding from Mankind as well as from others. It is not thy nature nor heritage to make thyself known unto those not of thy Kind…or those who are not named Friend. To do otherwise goes against the teachings of thy Folk.
“Yet heed, here is why I have asked thee to trust the crew of the Eroean: First, this crew is handpicked…I chose each and every one. Most are the sons of fathers who sailed with me in the past. And it has been such for nearly three thousand summers—the sons of sons of sons of sons stretching back through time. They are sworn to me and loyal beyond measure.
“They have been privy to Elven secrets and Drimmen secrets and the secrets of Mankind. And they have shared confidences with the Waerlinga as well. And never on a time have they betrayed one another, and some have died in the service of their shipmates.
“Look about thee at this marvelous ship. Who knows its secrets other than my crew? None else, I say—not a single soul who has not served on her. Yet many a merchant and sea captain would give all they own for a ship like her, but her like will ne’er again be seen on Mithgar, for her secrets are locked safely within my heart and in the hearts of my crew, and we will not yield them to any. And that is but one example of their loyalty, and the fact that I share the knowledge of this ship with them shows the regard I have for their honor.
“Yet heed, every Man, Drimm, or other who sails with me is chosen not only because of loyalty and honor and trust, but also for their wit and grit and skills. Many a time has my neck been saved by one or more members of this crew, and many a time have I in turn saved one or more of them.
“They are as my kindred, my family, my brothers in arms, and I would not put them in jeopardy brought about by the fostering of deliberate ignorance, for it would be deliberate if I had the knowledge but kept it unto myself. Likewise, I would not jeopardize thy mission by leaving them in such ignorance; for if we are to succeed, like as not it will take the brains and brawn and skills of all, and we cannot have that if they are kept in the dark. If they know not what we seek or who we seek and why, if they know not who needs aid, if they know not of you, Jinnarin, then they go into the mission fettered, lacking crucial knowledge on which to base key decisions, critical plans, and I would not have that happen—for thy sake as well as theirs.
“As I told Alamar, information is power—and the power I speak of here is the power to succeed.
“Let me turn the tables, Jinnarin: were I to come to thee and tell thee of a dire mission and ask thee for the aid of thy people, but only on the condition that thou sayest nought of who sent thee nor of who asks for aid nor of who we seek, then what wouldst thou advise? Wouldst thou counsel me to imperil my mission by such stipulations or wouldst thou instead advise me to tell all to thy honorable Kind regardless of my fears?
“And whilst thou ponder that, Jinnarin, here is my last: I will not take anyone on this mission who will not pledge it to secrecy—first to me, and then to thee.”
Aravan fell silent, and Jinnarin stared deeply into her tiny thimble goblet and swirled the wine and swirled it. Long moments passed, and sleeping Rux chased fleeing field mice in his dreams, his paws lightly scrabbling on the stateroom floor. At last Jinnarin looked up at Aravan.
“What wouldst thou have it be, Jinnarin?” softly asked the Elf.
With trepidation in her voice, she replied, “It goes against ten thousand years of practice, yet what you say bears much weight. If they will pledge to you and to me, then I agree—you must share all…for I would find Farrix.”
Alamar who had been silent throughout held up his glass. “Pour me another, Friend Aravan, this calls for a celebration.”
Aravan splashed a dollop of dark wine into each goblet. “Here’s to the success of our mission, may we find what we seek,” he said, raising his glass.
Jinnarin hoisted her thimble and added but a single word: “Farrix.”
Alamar simply gulped his drink down.
Seven days later the Eroean’s crew returned by boat from the docks, trickling in by threes and fours, an occasional loner now and then. Many were comatose from too much celebration and were carried aboard by groaning shipmates, Bokar among the oblivious, borne over Jatu’s shoulder like a half-filled sack of grain. As Aravan leaned over the railing and looked down at them, the huge black Man smiled, white teeth flashing from ear to ear as he stepped from the dinghy and clambered up the gangway ladder, Bokar limp as a rag. “Coming aboard, Captain,” Jatu announced, “bearing a gift from the ladies of the Red Slipper, though it’s worn to a frazzle, I ween.”
Aravan laughed aloud, then called back, “Aye, Jatu, that I can see, though I’ll warrant that each of thee did thy best to return the favor, neh?”
“Aye, Captain, that we did, that we did indeed…and though we failed to wear them out, wear them thin we did.”
As Jatu stepped onto the deck, Aravan said, “Well, Jatu, after thou pour him into his bunk, come see me. I have a tale to tell thee.”
Jatu glanced at Aravan and then beyond to the far stern, where he could see an eld Man leaning over the taffrail and peering down at the dock dinghies ferrying the Eroean’s crew back to the ship. The black giant raised an eyebrow at Aravan, an unspoken question on his lips, but only enigmatic blue Elven eyes looked back at him and Jatu could fathom no answer within.
The day wore on, crew haling in from Port Arbalin, Women coming down to the docks to see their sailors or warriors off, lovers exchanging tender embraces and weeping farewells, acquaintances laughing raucously and slapping their companions on the back. By sundown the last of the crew was aboard.
As darkness fell, Jatu, Frizian, Reydeau, Rico, and even Bokar were all assembled in the captain’s salon, and a meeting was held lasting into the late hours. When Tink tried to serve tea, he was met at the door by Bokar, the Dwarf looking draggled and worse for wear. He took the tray from Tink but did not let him within. Even so, the cabin boy caught a glimpse of the old Man in the blue robes, and, waugh! “…I saw a fox, too!”
“Ar, go on wi’ ye, Tink. Wot would a fox be doin’ on th’ Eroean?”
“I dunno, Tiv, but it was a fox all right. Mayhap it has something to do with the old Man in blue.”
Tivir just shook his head in disbelief, and Tink shot him a warning glance, then said, “Well, fox or not, Tiv, keep y’r mouth trap shut. What goes on in the Cap’n’s quarters is for him to say and not us.”
“‘At goes wi’out sayin’, Tink. Goes wi’out sayin’.”
And just ere mid of night in the moonless dark the Eroean slipped her mooring and sailed away from Port Arbalin.
Bright dawn found the Elvenship well away from Arbalin Isle and in the open sea, a fair wind abaft. But then Jatu had her wear around the wind until her sails luffed in the air, her headway stilled, to the puzzlement of the crew. Then all were summoned to deck, and rumors and speculation flew. And amid the murmur and rumble, Captain Aravan stepped from the aft quarters and made his way to the bo’s’ns’ cabin, where he clambered up to the roof and called for silence. A hush quickly fell till all that was heard was the plash of wave and the creak of rigging and the loose flap of Elven-silk sail.
“Sailors and Warriors, Men and Drimm, draw close, for I have something to say to ye.”
Dwarves and Men alike shuffled forward, be-ringing the cabin. When all were gathered, Aravan held up his hand and again silence fell.
“Mates, I call ye ‘round to speak of the mission I would have us fare upon.”
“What it be, Capitan,” called a hearty voice, “a lost city, treasure, a tèmpio di òro, che?”
Aravan grinned, his eye lighting upon the Man. “Vido, none of what you say. Neither lost cities nor lost treasures nor temples of gold. Instead we look for a lost person, one who has mysteriously disappeared. One who saved the life of our guest here”—Aravan turned and gestured toward the aft quarters, and a blue-robed, white-haired elder stepped forth—“Alamar the M
age.”
A gasp of indrawn air was heard, and whispers of Mage and Magic and Wonder murmured among the crew as Alamar came forward to stand where all could see him, sailors and warriors giving way to make a corridor for him to pass through.
Aravan’s voice called to them, reclaiming their attention. “As far as any know, there are no riches waiting for us at the end of this venture, except the knowledge of a task well done. We know not even where the mission will take us, nor whether the journey will be dull or sharp along the way. All we know is that Alamar’s friend is missing, but whether he is lost, captured, or wandering free, I cannot say.
“Yet if he is lost, then it’s to make him found again. If he is captured, then it’s a-rescuing we go. If he is wandering free, then perhaps we follow nought but a wild goose.”
“Ar,” shouted someone, “when did that ever stop us, Cap’n?”
A roar of laughter washed over the decks.
“Ha, Lobbie,” called out another, “ye be right: ne’re did the chasing of a wild goose e’er slow us adown.”
Aravan let the laughter run its course, then said, “Ah, but it is in the chasing itself where the venture lies.” And he was answered by a general clamor of agreement.
Now Aravan knelt on one knee. “This then is the mission: whether it be into danger, woe, or boredom we sail, our goal is to find and if necessary to rescue Alamar’s friend.”
Sailors and warriors alike looked at one another and shrugged. Finally, one—Lobbie it was—called out, “Hoy, Cap’n, why ask any o’ us? I mean, wot’s so special about this mission, other than it—no disrespect, Master Alamar—other than it bein’ a friend o’ a Mage? Let’s just get on wi’ it.” A rumble of agreement rose up from Man and Dwarf alike.
Leaping to his feet, Aravan held up his hand. “There is one thing special concerning this mission, and that is I would have ye all swear two oaths of secrecy: one to me, and the other to someone else.”
Oath? Of secrecy? ¿Que? Someone else? Wot’s all this then? voices murmured, whispers hissing ‘round the bo’s’ns’ cabin.
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 9