On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  The funeral was a large one, attended by almost every single person in Nedao—or so they tell me. I could not have borne it, however much comfort that ceremony gave others. I pitied Ylia and Galdan, for they had no choice but to face that ordeal squarely, and to accept the overwhelming burden of their people's sympathy and their sorrow.

  11

  “Finished,” Ylia whispered as she dropped to the edge of the bed. There was silence in the Tower and down in the street, people were still subdued after the funeral for Berdwyn and his nurse. She worked her low boots off with her toes, started as a shadow filled the door; it was Galdan. He sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. They sat like that for some time. Galdan finally stood and went into the dressing room. Ylia picked up her soft boots and followed.

  “Ysian has Sel?” It was the first thing Galdan had said all day; his voice was rough. He cleared his throat.

  “She and Bendesevorian. I—I couldn't—”

  “Shhh. Don't.” He drew a shuddering breath, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Ylia closed her eyes and leaned against him.

  “I'm all right.”

  He shook his head. “You're not all right. You don't have to be. I'm not.” She pushed away from him, nodded. Galdan finished unlacing his dark tunic, pulled it over his head. Ylia let him undo the back of her own close gown rather than send for one of her women: She knew she couldn't face one more tear-stained face just now. She reached automatically for the lightweight breeches, the loose shirt, the thin overshirt and dressed in silence, then caught up her boots and carried them back to the bed to finish. Galdan came back in, his everyday jerkin half-laced, took the comb from her and worked her hair into a plait.

  Ylia sat staring at the wall after he finished; suddenly movement was more effort than it was worth. Tired—she hadn't slept in two nights, no, three now. And—why? Why bother, what use to anything? Galdan gripped her shoulders and he drew her to her feet. She turned, held out her hands. “He'll pay, they will. I swear it by all that's sacred, Galdan, I swear it.”

  He swallowed hard, nodded. She gripped his fingers, released his hands and turned away. Deep down, mostly buried under grief and pain but not buried quite deeply enough, was her own separate anguish: Kabada. Malaeth had grimly spooned it into her, carefully measuring dosage, watching to see she took it. There could be no other son, no other child. Galdan would never hate her for that; just now, she hated herself for it.

  Galdan waited for her at the door. “There should be food down in the small dining hall.”

  “I'm not—” she began automatically.

  “You know you must eat. Strength. You'll need it.” She couldn't argue with that. In truth, she felt hungry and hated herself for it. When did I eat last? Galdan was right, though; however much she resented any inner signal that her own life was going on while her son lay dead, she needed to eat.

  Galdan was waiting for her. She caught up the sword belt, buckled the weapon low on her hip, and went to join him.

  It was a cold morning, overcast and drizzly. A wind blew steadily from northeast, straight across the harbor and the docks. There were few men about and they were subdued. A boatload of women and young children was shoved away. Herd Brit Ofrey, acting Captain of the Fury, leaned against the tiller, watching shore for the rest of his passengers and trying hard to stifle his nervousness. The crew were silent, stunned as they set about preparing for the voyage to the mouth of the Torth.

  The boatload of women and children drew alongside; Brit Ofrey barked orders, got them loaded below. Out of sight. Women aboard the Fury, gods aid us, we needed only this! At his gesture, the boat went back to the docks to await the last of the passengers.

  Lord Vess was traveling with them. Brit Ofrey found himself praying for good wind and a fast journey. Whatever followed—well, whatever did. No one had said what the Fury's fate might be, once they reached Koderra and unloaded their passengers; Vess might well have it holed and sunk, crew and acting captain all killed.

  Herd Brit Ofrey had made it very clear from the moment he assumed temporary leadership of Fury that he would not try to hold her, or to take Brit Arren's rank. Ah, Mal—! He didn't dare think of Mal, and that hurt. They'd warned him, though.

  Movement on shore drew his attention; a clutch of men coming from the towers. There, the dark red that was Most Noble Lord Lyiadd, and there his consort, Her Excellent and Gracious Lady Marrita. Before them, in somber silver-edged black, Noble Lord Vess and a dozen armsmen. Brit Ofrey threw himself down the ladder and began working his way along the deck, stopping now and then to warn the crew: “It's Mal, they're bringing him here! Remember, no speech with him, that's death for certain! Gods, don't even look at him!”

  Vess stood on the dock and gazed complacently after the rowboat carrying half his personal guard across the cove. Four other ships out there carried his armsmen and took women and children from the inner villages as surety for the continued support of these barbarous pirates. Not that Sea-Raiders would be subdued by threat to their women, of course. But their male children—they'd think carefully before chancing the loss of most of their sons.

  In two days’ time, he'd be in Koderra. Koderra! Ah, Brandt, if you knew! And cousin Ylia—but you will know, won't you?

  “It's what you want?” Lyiadd's voice interrupted pleasant thoughts. Vess nodded.

  “What I always wanted. If it's not quite the way I wanted it—well, things seldom come the way one wants them. The end result is the same. And my Ragnolers are not comfortable here, they do not mix well with these pirates, it's as well that I go, and take them with me.”

  Lyiadd gripped his hands. “Hold yourself ready.”

  “I shall.” The boat was back. Four of Vess’ personal guard moved forward, Mal Brit Arren in their midst. He was securely shackled, his gait made awkward by the overly short hobble on his ankles. Most of the men on the docks turned away, as much in shame for their fallen leader as for fear of the Three and their directives. Brit Arren's shoulders sagged, his head was down, his eyes dull. He plodded where pushed; stumbled once and nearly fell. It took them a long time to get him down the ladder and into the boat—grief and hopelessness had overborne him completely and he moved like an old man.

  “He is broken—for now.” Lyiadd followed Vess’ thought easily, responded to it. “I doubt he will remain broken. Have an eye to him.”

  “I will.” Vess didn't seem particularly concerned.

  “He thinks himself defeated; he is not, entirely. Read him, my son.” Vess considered this, nodded finally. He turned to bow over Marrita's extended hand; his lips did not, quite, touch it. He clasped hands with Lyiadd, then.

  “I—when I was a lad, in Teshmor, I wondered what sort of a man my father was.” The words came stiffly and rapidly as though Vess wanted to speak but found it hard to bare so much of himself. “My mother could not have given me a better.” Lyiadd gripped his hand, wrapped the other arm around his son and held him briefly. Vess smiled, turned and motioned his remaining armsmen to join him in the waiting boat.

  Night. There were ten sitting close together on and around the raised dais in the Reception: a small group indeed for the size of the room. A fire burned in the grate, more for the cheer of it than the warmth.

  Ylia and Galdan were side by side on the top step of the dais; Bendesevorian sat between them, a step lower. At Galdan's left, much as they'd stood for him at his wedding, were Golsat, Brelian, Erken; on Ylia's right, Nisana, Ysian, Lisabetha.

  Grewl sat a little apart, by himself, for he alone was to take no active part in the night's labors. Bendesevorian had asked his presence, and Grewl, ever willing to hear a new tale or to watch one made, had eagerly agreed. Now, under the strain of waiting, he was growing uneasy; knowing the cause was no help. The Nasath had warned him: What they sought to do was dangerous, someone might die.

  Such a foolish thing to fear, that this matter of magic might kill him! It was only death, after all. But I'm no
t yet ready to die, there's too much at stake for Nedao if I do. And I haven't seen and done so many things. He leaned forward as Bendesevorian broke the long silence.

  “Queen Ylia—”

  “Please,” Ylia interrupted him. “We're friends here, and here as friends. Just Ylia and Galdan.”

  “Ylia, then. I asked you to bring these others. Tonight we will do what we can to break the block on Galdan's Power. There will be need for each of you, Ylia, Lady Ysian—Ysian,” he amended as she stirred, “and Nisana will back me with Power. Lord Erken, you may be needed to aid your son.” Erken nodded. Galdan smiled at his father; Erken smiled back. Neither was convincing.

  Bendesevorian went on. “You all know what chanced here, a bare five-day ago, how the Three breached this house's defenses by the substitution of a gift, and wrought grievously. The Power we threw back at them may slow them a while, and it may teach them caution. It will not stop them, and it will doubtless not delay their plans long.” He half-turned to gaze up at Galdan, who stared back at him somberly. “In a war such as this, we must put aside personal wants, needs, even fears, to consider the greater need. Galdan has done this.”

  Erken shifted uncomfortably, subsided as the Nasath turned back to look at him inquiringly. Erken shook his head.

  “And so we are here,” Bendesevorian continued. “An exiled Nasath; three wielders of AEldra Power; Galdan's father and sworn brothers; one who dreams true and so holds what Nedao holds of Power. And a chronicler.” Grewl nodded faintly.

  “Exiled.” Erken caught at that. “You are exiled, sir?” Bendesevorian nodded. “Why?”

  “The whole is a longer tale than I could tell tonight. My part of it—yes, you have a right to know my part. And there is time before we can begin.

  “We are not native to the Foessa or to the Peopled Lands at all. I myself scarcely remember the other place that was ours, save for a child's memory of burning and death. I recall the night the Elders made the bridge and brought us safely over it, casting it down in the very face of pursuit. I remember those first years in the mountains, in what is now Yls—lean years, indeed, until we learned how to live in the wilderness. The Dreyz—the Folk—found us, and gave us what aid they could; we in turn gave them much of the Power they now possess. Though they were not without Power when we first met, for the Foessa have always been wild with Power.

  “Enough years passed that we came to consider the lands ours; we multiplied and prospered, and we perhaps began to think of ourselves as invincible. Of course, we were not. We learned this when the Lammior made himself a place in the Foessa and warred against us.

  “After that war, we were again few and nearly all of us were so weary of fighting that the mountains seemed an ill place. The Elders decided then to give what land was ours to the AEldra, along with the Gifts of Power, and to step away from folk and lands alike. Not so far a step as we had taken in coming to them, this time. Fortunately, for one as young and relatively unskilled as I can cross the gap without effort.

  “The Elders had decreed the Peopled Lands were barred to us forever. The humans had everything we could give them, we had balanced the scales of debt and would not tip them again.

  “So for long years, we were content. I had fought and killed for so many years I was sickened by thought of the Foessa. But eventually, I grew curious: What chanced here among our once allies? Had any human gone in search of that valley to become another Night-Serpent? My sister and I felt there could be no harm in a single visit. We could assure ourselves that nothing ill prevailed—and we agreed we would not interfere.”

  He sighed. “That we ourselves felt such a concern at the same time, that we chose the time and place we chose to return to these lands—I can only believe we were guided. We first set foot in the garden you call Hunter's Meadow. The Folk had once dwelt there, but it now reeked of evil, the whole of the mountains did. Beyond the mountains, eastward, north of the Plain, we sensed an old Tehlatt shaman gifted with his war god's dread Power urging his chief to destroy the Plainfolk. Against such Power and such a force of armed as the Tehlatt had, we two were helpless.

  “But then, out of that wrack and destruction, came a little clutch of folk, moving northward, set on a course that would take them into the Lammior's valley.” He stared down at his hands. “Even then, we dared not interfere; dared not and did not until it was nearly too late. Then—well, we had violated our law by leaving sanctuary, what did a second transgression matter? I set Ylia's AEldra Power free.

  “Later—” He shrugged. “A second time the law was broken, what did a third or a fourth matter—given the need? We revealed ourselves to Ylia, spoke to her and gave her what aid and warning we could. We told the Folk of her coming, that she and they might perhaps make alliance against this new threat.

  “When we returned home—” He went back to a contemplation of his hands. “The Elders were most displeased. Fortunately our kind does not punish as humans do, or I would likely not be alive to aid you now. They confined us for a long time. But even that is strong punishment among us. At length they chose a way to ensure neither of us would leave again: Nesrevera would be free to go where she chose so long as I remained sequestered. I was free to move about if she was confined.” Ysian had gone pale. “She's not—they won't hurt her!”

  Bendesevorian smiled at her wanly. “They will not harm her, no. That is not our way. They will hold her until I return. And if I do return, they will doubtless not allow me freedom again. But that is why I am here and why Nesrevera stayed. We planned it when they began to use us each as surety for the other. We knew one of us must return to the Peopled Lands, and of us two, I am more suited to aid you. I speak Nedaoan, Ylsan and High AEldran. I have killed before, and though it has been long years, I would kill again, in need.” He smiled briefly. “But more importantly, I am more blunt-spoken than my sister. If one of us is to persuade the Elders to reconsider our exile, or perhaps to convince the younger of us to come here, that is no task for me. It is one I know Nesrevera can accomplish.”

  Silence. He stood, cocked his head to one side as if listening. “The hour has come. Galdan—rise and come with me to the center of the room. Ylia, accompany him, Duke Erken and you other men, at Galdan's right arm. Ysian, Lisabetha, at his left. Nisana—to me, please.” Ylia moved around the silent little group, sword, shield and horn bunched in one hand. Her face, like Galdan's, was set and pale. Grewl shifted his chair so the could see and wiped damp hands down his grey-robed lap.

  It was very quiet in the Tower, so silent in the Reception that the snap and flare of torches sounded overloud. Bendesevorian closed his eyes briefly, opened them again and extended his hands. Galdan swallowed hard, reached and caught them with his own. They knelt.

  'Close your eyes, man of Nedao, and seek the innermost core of your strength.’ Galdan started as Bendesevorian's mind-speech rang through, him. He licked his lips and shut his eyes tight. Erken exchanged a brief, worried glance with Golsat, brought his gaze back to the top of his son's head. ‘Not deep enough, Galdan, search!’

  'I—can't!’

  'You can, you must!’

  'I am!’ Galdan felt sweat trickle down his ribs; his lip was salty with it. Somewhere, somewhere deep down, so deep he'd never yet found it, a core of Power—But I don't want it! an inner voice wailed.

  Ylia's mind-touch reached him. She was worried. What I might become—if she fears that—'Never!’ she reassured him passionately, and he knew that was true. But—Marhan lives because of what I did. With that block in place, I made a dead man live. If Bendesevorian removes that block, what might I become?

  'Do you fear that? Enough to block your own efforts to find the innermost core of Power in you?’ Bendesevorian's thought demanded.

  'I could work evil against my own people!’

  'Anyone can do that, if that is what they choose to do with the Power that is theirs. Power is. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  'But I know I would work evil, if it took evil to reac
h those who murdered my son!’

  'If. That against a certainty! Without use of all our resources, Nedao is lost and Lyiadd has won. And your son's death, Malaeth's death—those who died at the hands of the Tehlatt—those will be all to no purpose.’ Galdan's fingers tightened convulsively on Bendesevorian's, and the Nasath winced.

  'Beloved—’ That was Ylia; her thought was ragged with renewed grief.

  “Don't,” he whispered. “It's all right. I'm—I'm afraid.”

  “I know,” she whispered in reply. “You needn't go on. Don't.”

  “I must, Ylia. He's right, we need all our weapons. I'm—I'm one of them.” He became aware of the physical pain he was causing Bendesevorian, loosed his deathgrip on the other's hands. “I can sort the fear later. We can, together. It isn't important.” And as Erken took a step forward, “It's all right, Father. Just a last thought in the face of the inevitable.” Erken looked from one to the other of them, baffled, but returned to his place. Golsat gripped his arm, nodded faintly as Erken looked at him. It'll be all right. The dark man might have mind-spoken him, so clearly did the thought reach him.

  Galdan was still afraid of the Power itself, of what he might do with it—that it could change him so he was no longer what he knew as Galdan. What he'd said to Ylia was suddenly true, though: It didn't matter. All sense of the chamber faded as he withdrew into himself, searching with all the single-minded strength of purpose in him.

  Bendesevorian blinked. “Ylia. Grip the hilts. Give Brelian the shield, Golsat the horn. Brelian, when I let go his hands, you kneel beside him and hold the shield over his heart. Maintain it there, no matter what.”

  “I will.” Brelian cast Lisabetha a reassuring smile, took the proffered lozenge and ran his fingers across the carven edges. A shiver ran through him. Magic. My poor friend, would I be as brave in your stead? Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Golsat carefully unwinding the frayed silk banner and let it hang loose at the Nasath's direction. This Nasath—when did Ylia meet with him? Once I would have sworn nothing happened to one of us on that journey that all did not know.