Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Jinnarin shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not mortal.”

  “Neither am I, Jinnarin. Nevertheless, my father’s remark has raised questions within me, bringing issues to light.”

  “Such as…?”

  Aylis gazed at the Pysk. “Do you remember what White Owl looked like in the dreamwalks?”

  Jinnarin nodded. “Yes. He was dark-haired. Slender. Strong.”

  Aylis leaned forward. “Yes. Not at all like the Ontah we first met, for in his waking life he was white-haired and frail.”

  “Rather like your father, Aylis.”

  “Yes. But I remember when my father was filled with the vigor of youth, his hair dark brown, his limbs strong, his body lean and firm.”

  Jinnarin glanced up. “Like Ontah in the dream.”

  “Yes. Still, my father will regain his youth, whereas Ontah’s was gone forever…except in his dreams.”

  Jinnarin sighed. “Do you suppose that aged mortals think of themselves as being old? I mean, in their thoughts, do they think that they are the same as they were when they were young?”

  “I don’t know, Jinnarin, but that is one of the things I wonder about. Mortals cannot but help knowing that they are getting frail, weakening, their health failing, their bodies losing the power to swiftly recover from injuries, even perhaps suffering from injuries that never heal. Still, taking account of their infirmities, in their thoughts as well as in their dreams, they must consider themselves yet vital.”

  “Does anyone ever dream of themselves as being truly old?”

  “Again, I don’t know, but if they do, then perhaps they have given up on living.”

  “Is that what it means to be old? To give up on living?”

  “Perhaps, Jinnarin, perhaps.” Aylis smiled, for the Pysk’s thoughts were tracking her own. “But if so, then how long one has lived—the number of seasons, of years they have seen—has little to do with being old. Age alone does not determine elderliness. Instead it is attitude, outlook, an interest in life, neh?”

  Jinnarin shrugged. “Perhaps.” She glanced down at her hands. “I have lived…hmm…oh, several thousand years, yet it seems to me as if I’ve always thought as I do now, that my embracing of life is the same. I wonder if it is different for mortals?”

  Aylis shook her head. “I don’t know, Jinnarin. But what you say of yourself is true for me as well: it seems as if I have always considered life as I do now. It may be the same for mortals, too…at least for some of them—all mortals are not alike. Perhaps many think of themselves as they did when they were younger. On the other hand, perhaps infirmities change one’s outlook, leading to bitterness, leading to agedness. Certainly my father is infirm…and crotchety…not at all what he will become when he regains his vitality.”

  Jinnarin steepled her fingers. “Is it the inevitability of death that ages mortals, or is it instead the ageing process that makes death inevitable?”

  Aylis shrugged. “I cannot say, for although I age—by that I mean I gradually become more elderly as I loose energy in castings—I can regain my spent youth. Hence, I cannot say what determines mortality, for I am not mortal.”

  Jinnarin scratched an eyebrow. “Neither of us are.…Perhaps we will never know.”

  A soft knock sounded on the cabin door. Aylis opened it and found Aravan standing there. The Elf saw the Pysk. “Oh, I did not mean to interrupt—”

  Jinnarin stood, stretching, yawning. “No interruption at all, Aravan. I was just saying that it was off to bed for me.”

  As Jinnarin jumped down to the chair and then to the floor, Aravan said, “In that case, Aylis, wouldst thou care to take some fresh air with me?”

  Aylis turned to fetch her cloak, and Jinnarin smiled to herself, noting that where Aravan stood, his shadow was lost in the darkness of the corridor. Indeed, I do believe that Jatu was right about the captain losing his shadow to the Lady Aylis.

  Riding at anchor, the ship slowly rose and fell as long swells passed under the hull. Aylis and Aravan strolled the length of the main deck, their way dimly lit by a single lantern astern. Overhead the sky was yet clouded and neither stars nor Moon shown down. A chill drift of air flowed over the ship, but neither Aylis nor Aravan seemed to note its passage, comforted as they were by each other’s presence. They stopped and leaned on the forward rail and peered at the dim silhouette of Rwn in the near distance looming against the dark sky. From somewhere below there drifted the sound of a concertina and Men singing, as well as the rhythmic clack of Dwarven batons striking against bucklers, measuring out the music’s gleeful beat. Laughter washed up as the song ended, but then another began.

  “You have a good crew, Aravan.”

  “Aye. Worthy in all respects.”

  Elf and seeress listened as the chorus rose up and fell back, the piping and clacking momentarily drowned out.

  Aylis turned to Aravan. “I have something to ask you.” Of a sudden her heart began thudding in her breast.

  Aravan straightened up from the railing and turned toward her, waiting.

  “When Ontah, when I—” She took a breath and began again. “When I awakened from my last dreamwalk, you called me by an Elven word—”

  “Chieran,” said Aravan, his eyes lost in shadow.

  “What does it mean?”

  Aravan took her by the hand. “It means, my love.”

  Aylis’s heart raced. “Chieran?”

  Aravan raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. “My love.” He pressed her hand against his cheek. “All my life I knew that something was missing. I did not know what it was until I saw thee.”

  With her free hand Aylis reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling him to her. “Chieran,” she whispered, then kissed him full on the mouth, gently at first but then with exploding passion. His arms went ‘round her, and he crushed her against his breast, fire flowing between them, lips burning, hearts hammering, souls soaring, her arms clasping him, their bodies pressing together.

  Slowly, gently, he pulled back, shadowed eyes gazing into shadowed eyes. Then with a shout of elation he lifted her up and spun ‘round and ‘round proclaiming “Chieran!” to the sky, Aylis laughing in unfettered joy.

  On the stern, Jatu leaned against the taffrail and peered down into the waters, a smile creasing his face.

  CHAPTER 16

  Flux

  Winter, 1E9574–75

  [The Present]

  Aylis wakened to the sound of rustling paper. The surroundings were unfamiliar, but she knew precisely where she was and she smiled. Unclothed, Aravan stood at a table, his frame lean and firm and showing no scars. Maps were scattered before him, and he intently studied a chart then cast it aside, selecting another. In silence Aylis watched entranced, as if she were observing some beautiful, enchanted creature, a creature that might fly from her were she to speak. She lay and reveled at how the light played across his body, at how his black, black hair framed his face and fell ‘round his shoulders, black hair in one other place as well. Memories flooded her, and she languorously stretched. Aravan turned at the whisper of her movement, smiling to see her awake.

  “Chieran,” he said, dropping the parchment and stepping toward her.

  “My love,” she responded, her heart quickening. And as he came to the edge of the bed, Aylis lifted her arms and pulled him to her, kissing first his hands and then his lips. His arms went ‘round her, and passion again flared. They made slow, gentle love.

  Spent, they lay side by side, Aravan on his back, his arm around Aylis, she with her cheek upon his chest, Aylis taking in the clean scent of him, of salt and leather and something elusive but undeniably masculine. After a while she raised up and gestured at the littered room. “Quite a mess you’ve made, love. Why so?”

  Aravan turned his head and looked at the scatter of maps. “I was searching for an archipelago in a green sea. I found many chains, but there is no note as to the color of the waters. Yet Jinnarin speaks of it in no other terms but that of
a pale green sea.”

  Aylis shivered, and drew down against Aravan, clasping him tightly, her thoughts returning to the nightmare sending. “Adon, but I wish that there were no hideous dream.”

  Aravan kissed the top of her head and stroked her light brown hair, wild-tossed and fine. “Ah, but were there no dream, chieran, then I would not have met thee, at least not this soon.”

  Aylis clutched him tighter.

  They lay without speaking for long moments, Aravan finally breaking the silence. “I would have thee move thy things herein, for I would not live away from thee now that we are discovered of one another.”

  Aylis raised up and looked down at him, saying nought, as if she were searching for some truth.

  “Vi chier ir, Aylis,” he said. “I love thee.”

  At last she smiled and nodded and then kissed him. “I will move in this very moment, chieran.” And growling, she slid astraddle him, but as he reached up for her, she laughed and slipped away.

  As Aylis stepped from the stateroom, Jinnarin and Alamar looked up from the game of tokko they played, the Pysk sitting at the edge of the six-sided board scribed with black and white hexagons, red and green coin-shaped pieces scattered thereon, other, taller, carven shapes ranged ‘round the edges ready to assault the center.

  Jinnarin smiled as Aylis nodded then walked toward the corridor.

  Alamar called after her. “Not that you need it, Daughter, but you have my blessing.”

  Then the eld Mage peevishly shouted, “No, no, Pysk! You can’t move an eagle that way! Here, let me show you—it’s up and over two hexes and down front left or right on the third…unless, of course, there’s a storm in between, in which case the eagle is deflected rightward or leftward two, unless there’s a storm there as well.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the storms, Alamar” came Jinnarin’s tart reply.

  Minutes later, when Aylis came back through the captain’s lounge, Jinnarin was standing in the middle of the tokko board, pieces scattered about as if she had kicked them aside; her fists were on her hips, and she glared up at the Mage. “What do you mean locusts? Where did they come from? You’re making this up as you go along, Alamar.”

  “Argh,” growled Alamar, huffily crossing his arms and turning his back to her. “You never listen, Pysk.”

  Laughing, Aylis kissed her father in passing, and bore her bundle into the stateroom. Aravan was by this time dressed, and again he stood at the table and pored over the maps, yet looking for an archipelago in a pale green sea.

  As Aylis returned on her second and final trip, Alamar and Jinnarin were intently studying the tokko board, the pieces in disarray, Jinnarin grinning wickedly, Alamar muttering, “You blew up my eagle.”

  Rux came trotting down the passageway, his tail held high, a dead rat in his mouth. He proudly looked up at Jinnarin, then dropped the rat on Alamar’s foot.

  Aylis surveyed the scene and burst out in ringing laughter, her heart free and soaring in joy. She was, after all, utterly in love.

  In late morning the overcast began to clear, faint patches of blue gradually showing through, as if the sky were carving down through the clouds from above, shaving away the vapor. Soon, long streaks of azure rived the overcast, splitting it, gaps growing. A westerly wind drove the remnants before it, and the Sun appeared, winter-low in the southern sky. When evening fell, the vault above was crystal clear.

  Jinnarin stood on the foredeck and marvelled, “It was just as Aylis said, Alamar. Her seer’s casting held true.”

  “Of course,” snapped Alamar, the Mage yet smarting from his loss at tokko. And to a rank beginner, no less! No doubt it was the rat dropped on his foot that had caused him to lose his concentration. No doubt.

  “And you can’t cast seer’s spells, you say?”

  Alamar glared at the Pysk. “I could, had I the inclination…and, of course, the training.”

  “How many different kinds of Mages are there, Alamar?”

  “Why, we’re all different.”

  “No, no. I mean, how many different types? Aylis is a seer. And you are…hmm…just what are you. Alamar?”

  Alamar glowered down at Jinnarin. “Still fishing for secrets, eh, Pysk?”

  “Well, if you don’t wish to tell me…”

  “Oh, all right. It’s no secret. I shape the elements: earth, air, fire, water, aethyr. Bend ’em to my will.”

  “How does it work, Alamar? How do strange words in a special language cause things to—to happen?”

  “Pah, Pysk. Things just don’t ‘happen.’ Instead, a Mage has to spend energy, astral fire, to bring about an effect. Look, it’s like finding a special leverage point and using a small bit of force to cause a big thing to occur. Rather like tipping over a huge balanced rock with nothing more than a slender prying pole, or causing a massive rockslide with but a small pebble.

  “The astral fire within each thing can be manipulated with an expenditure of the Mage’s own astral fire. Usually it takes but a small amount—such as for magesight. At other times it requires a great deal of astral fire to bring about the effect—for example, causing the collapse of a well-built castle would claim much .”

  “But Alamar, how do mere words bring this about?”

  “Oh, Jinnarin, the words themselves are nothing but keys to unlock the ingrained casting rituals. Depending on their nature, the castings themselves well from the heart, or the mind, or spirit, or soul. In our training we begin with very small castings, quickly discovering that different castings require different applications of for different effects. In order to master a given effect, we ritualize the specific application of the leverage fire, so that each new time is identical to the previous. Part of that ritual is to give it a key word, something that will recreate the proper conditions in the Mage’s heart, mind, spirit, or soul to reproduce the effect without undue time being spent to rediscover how it is done—rather like learning to do something without having to actually think about it. Take for example, walking, running, throwing, catching, swimming, and the like…when we first begin, these things are difficult, but with practice they become second nature. The same is true of learning how to apply in such a way as to produce a desired effect, and the resulting method is ritualized and triggered by a word—different words for different rituals, which produce different states of being, which shapes the astral fire differently, which leads to different effects. And as it is with any training, Mages start small and work their way up.

  “And that, my curious Pysk, is why I do not cast seer’s spells. I have not the training. But likewise, most seers do not cast elemental spells, for their training has taken them down a different path from mine.”

  Jinnarin slowly nodded. “I think I understand, Alamar. But tell me: how many different kinds of Mages are there?”

  Alamar pondered a bit, finally saying, “As I said, we are all different, but I suppose you could say that there are perhaps a dozen different kinds of—”

  “A dozen?”blurted out Jinnarin, her eyes wide.

  Alamar nodded. “Elementalists, seers, sorcerers, mystics, illusionists, mentalists, healers, alchemists, artifactors, and—and— Look, Pysk, just take my word for it. There are many different kinds of Mages—those who shape the elements or thoughts or emotions or vitality or growth, or those who peer into the past or future, or those who do any other number of things—all of whom manipulate the , all of whom are trained in their own, special rituals.”

  Jinnarin gestured toward the island of Rwn. “At the college in Kairn?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Why Kairn, Alamar? Why do Mages train there and not on Vadaria?”

  “Because, Pysk, the burns brighter in Mithgar than it does in Vadaria. Hence, castings come easier here, and so training is conducted here rather than on the home world.”

  “Oh. So all the Mages get their training in Kairn, eh?”

  “All but the Black Ones.”

  Jinnarin looked
up in surprise. “Black Ones? You mean black like Jatu?”

  Alamar snorted. “Bah. No, Miss Nosy Pysk, I mean the Black Mages—those who practice the forbidden ways.” Alamar held up a hand, stopping Jinnarin’s question. “Before you ask, I’ll tell you. Mages have certain powers and talents that others do not. It would be rather easy for a Mage to dominate, to subjugate, those who are without the ability to control the . Hence we have adopted a code of conduct, an ethic to prevent such domination. But some Mages do not adhere to this ethic. Do you recall our discussion about the great debate between Gyphon and Adon?”

  Jinnarin nodded. “Yes. Adon was for free will; Gyphon for domination and control.”

  Alamar smiled. “You have the pith of it, Pysk. And that is what separates most of Magekind from the Black Mages: we follow the precepts of Adon, while they follow the teachings of Gyphon. They seek dominion, control, power over others; we do not.”

  Jinnarin looked down at her hands. “Well then, Alamar, it seems that they fit my definition of evil.”

  Alamar sighed. “Yes, Jinnarin, they do. They fit my definition of evil, as well.”

  “In that case, Alamar, I hope there aren’t too many of them about.”

  Alamar canted his head in agreement then looked up at the darkening sky, stars now appearing in the firmament. “I’m off to get my rest, Pysk. There might be an aurora tonight.”

  “Yes, there might,” replied Jinnarin. “How about a game of tokko before you go?”

  Alamar glared down at the Pysk. “A challenge, eh? Well, Miss Lucky Beginner, I pick up your flung gauntlet. But no rats, you hear, no rats allowed!”

  There was no aurora that night.

  And the game ended with Jinnarin kicking the pieces off the board.

  Aravan lay in bed with his arm about Aylis. “This eve I heard thy father and Jinnarin speaking of Kairn and of Mage training. Is that where thou learned thy craft, chieran?”

  By the starlight shining in through the porthole, Aylis raised up on an elbow and peered at her Elven lover. “Yes. Kairn, the City of Bells.”