by Ru Emerson
Bendesevorian sat well back in the Royal Pavilion. Her liked the music and enjoyed watching the dancing, but he would not try himself. Ylia danced often: with Alxy and Geit, with Ber'Sordes, with Galdan. She danced once early with Golsat, who danced thereafter only with Ysian, to the visible dismay of the girls who still had hopes of him—and the young men who had looked forward to escorting the beautiful Ysian across the square.
Galdan danced with Ylia and with Therea, once with Lossana and once with Lisabetha. He spent most of his evening sitting, talking with the Ambassador or with Bendesevorian. The Ylsans were never in the pavilion while there was music.
“They're doing a wonderful job of improving relations, those Ylsan lads, aren't they?” Ber'Sordes touched cups with Galdan. Ylia was dancing with Vysat at the moment and save for the Narran, the Nedaoan and the Nasath, the pavilion was empty.
“Too bad it's so little, but I'm proud of Alxy. If the Sirdar had sense, he would be, too.” Galdan peered across the crowded square as the music ended. “Who's that dancing with Levren? I've never seen—Lel'San's spindle, it's Lennet!” It was the Bowmaster's hoyden daughters unrecognizable in ivory silk, her black hair a raven wave that touched her knees. Pink rosebuds, white wildflower and pale ribbons were plaited down one side of her face—but even the face was not immediately recognizable as Lennet's. Galdan could not recall having ever seen the girl look like that: Shy and frightened, as though she wanted to bolt. Levren handed her through the formal set with a glow of pride almost visible around him. He was clearly aware of the attention they were drawing but Lennet kept her gaze fixed on her father.
“Now, I will wager,” Ber'Sordes remarked, “that the lass did all that less to please her mother than to startle the southern lads out of their sneers at her hose. And I'll further wager you she wishes right now she could turn and run.”
Galdan laughed. “No take. I've never seen Lennet so miserable because she's being watched. That's her favorite pastime, next to causing trouble, of course. You've a keen eye, haven't you?”
The Narran shrugged. “I watch a lot; it's one of the things I was trained to do. I thought at the first, this might be a most interesting Fest, and I think now this dance might prove the most fun of it all. Look there, watch.” The formal set had come to an end, the Narran minstrels were discussing the next piece. Ylia and Vysat were on their way back. It looked to Galdan as though Levren wanted to dance again, but Lennet seemed to want to leave. She glanced around nervously, and even across the crowded square Galdan could see her fingers tighten and Levren wince as Geit began making his way toward her. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Alxy brushed past him, inclined his head in the Bowmaster's direction and bowed over Lennet's fingers, Lennet gazed over his blond head in shock. Levren pinched her arm, smiled encouragingly and vanished into the crowd. Ber'Sordes leaned back against his cushions and drank wine. “Indeed. A most interesting night.”
Often I am frustrated because I do not have certain AEldra talents I need: I cannot heal, though I can aid others. When Ylia was injured after her battle with Lyiadd, it would have been so much easier if I could simply have healed her! But the One balances all things, and properly so: I do not dream as humans dream and I do not foresee. I do not have the Sight that brings visions one cannot turn aside.
15
Alxy intended to strike a wandering path back to Yslar through the northern villages, for the northern towns and farmlands were seldom in touch with events in the south. And few northern Ylsans, particularly villagers, had Power. Alxy worried for them indeed, for it was likely they knew nothing of the Three. He explained as well as he could to the War Council just before they departed. “Word always gets around Yslar, however secret my grandfer Asselman seeks to keep things. The Great Houses know eventually because they are represented in the Sirdar's Council. But the villagers—they'll have less warning than we, that is not right. So we will return home slowly and tell folk as we go.”
“No.” Erken shook his head. “Your place, Honored Sir, is in Yslar. You must expand your group. Before trouble comes.”
“Before the Three come, you mean,” Alxy said. He was as direct as Nisana, a curiosity indeed in a young man being raised to Ylsan politics.
Erken smiled faintly. “Just so. There will not be time for both things, unless we are gravely mistaken in our reading of events. We have men here who can visit your villages. They will pass on your messages and if they must, they are skilled in the art of fighting and moving in secret. If there is trouble, I would prefer Golsat and his trained men there, not you. They have experience, and you, Honored Sir, have not.”
The Ylsans finally acceded to the wisdom of this course. Alxy wrote out numerous short messages and marked them with his seal.
Bendesevorian agreed to accompany Alxy back to Yslar. Ylia worried, and woke from unpleasant dreams she could not, quite, recall. If they come to Yslar while he is there. Bendesevorian tried to set her fears to rest. “They cannot see or sense me, if I do not wish it. The Lammior could never sense the least of my kind, and their Power is his. If there is trouble, I will return at once.” Trouble. The word was beginning to haunt her.
The Ylsans decided to take horse and ride most of the way down the Aresada before branching off toward Yslar. A tragic-faced Lennet accompanied them as far as the docks and stood watching and waving until long after they were out of sight. Alxy's red and gold scarf was in her hand, his ring on her thumb—the only finger where it would stay. Alxy had been nearly as miserable at the parting, and he rode twisted around in his saddle so far down the trail, watching his lady and then watching for the least glimpse of scarf, that he ached the whole next day. They will make quite a pair, Ylia thought with amusement, provided the Sirdar doesn't have Alxy's head for trothing himself to a Nedaoan knight's daughter.
It had been difficult to convince Lennet to remain behind, even more difficult when Golsat and twenty of his hunters took Geit's maps and set out to visit Ylsan villages.
Three days past Fest end, Ylia found herself in the nursery for the first time since Berd's death, staring down into the street. Folk were still cleaning up, they would be for the rest of the five-day. The pavilion, minus its canvas top and the piled cushions, still stood against the east end of the square. The rope lines marking the fighting square had long since been removed: The judges’ bench was back down in front of the first barracks. Banners hung dusty and limp from the bridge, and the market was frankly a mess.
Berd. She swallowed hard. Berd and Malaeth were safe—safe and loved and cared for, pain and grief behind them forever. She knew; she had dreamed several times and Galdan had, once. She suspected the dream to be Bendesevorian's doing, since it was he who had once shown her King Brandt, Queen Scythia and Brendan, her first love, in the White Halls. And now her son and her old nurse were there, with her mother and father. You have no right to weep for Berd, knowing where he is, knowing he is safer than you could ever keep him, she whispered. Tears spilled down her face; she shook with them. It had been a mistake, coming in here.
Wait. She could not go among her women like this; they watched her too closely, fussed over her too much. She waited, wiped tears away and walked into the hall; she nodded to the two women who sat by the open window, but they watched her worriedly.
With Fest over, Galdan returned to his lessoning with Nisana and with Ysian. Ysian was already busy, honing her bow skills, aiding Lossana with her own considerable knowledge of dyes, sitting in on the Main Council meetings. She rode occasionally with the daytime parameter guard to keep her strength and to learn tracking. Aiding Galdan helped keep her from worrying about Golsat—at least while she was tutoring.
Galdan was finally making progress; bridging had either been the worst of it or the most difficult task because it was first. Other talents began to manifest themselves with increasing ease. He could heal, which surprised none of them. He had something similar to Ylia's Baelfyr, but it came from a different place and at a different command. It
had to be worked much differently—all of which had led to furious argument between himself and Nisana and resulted in the cat leaving him on his own for a full two days. Ylia prudently limited her assistance to a word of help only when Galdan specifically asked it.
But beyond the AEldran basics, there was not much the AEldra-trained could do to help him expand his skills. Nisana bullied him into learning to conserve his strength, as she had once done with Ylia. Galdan found it much easier to work with Ysian. She gave him support, information, and put no pressure on him; she knew he was already putting desperate pressure on himself, and grief haunted him constantly, though he concealed it well from most people. He still feared he would be unable to learn enough to use against Lyiadd—occasionally feared he would turn evil—or that Lyiadd would be able to manipulate him should they come close enough to each other.
And so, rather than drilling him in dull basics as Nisana did, Ysian taught him Scythia's trick of juggling the fragile bubbles and how to build fantastic seemings of light and color to delight the eye. They were only tricks, of course: But they were amusing and the very things he'd wanted to learn when he was a boy. He found they took his mind from that which plagued his thought, and Selverra was entranced.
It was late: Ylia knew that, and knew that she slept. She moaned faintly, turned over and sank into a black dream, a well filled with night into which she slowly fell.
At her side, Galdan stirred; he, too, dreamed, but the dream was so vivid—so unlike his usual dreams—he felt as though he lived it.
It was warm where he stood, warm and damp. He felt uneven boards under his feet; a low fog coming off the sea rose from the harbor. Cloud and fog covered the moon, lending an eerie light to the mist. Here and there a torch or a lantern made a ring of ruddy orange light against some building. He couldn't make out features, he had never stood in this place before, but suddenly, he knew where he was: Yslar.
He peered into the gloom: Even the waves were subdued. The ancient mole and the broad stone dock that led out toward open water, the curving arm of stone that enclosed the harbor were almost dry. He walked slowly, feeling his way with his feet. He could see, somehow, though he should not have been able to see in such a soup of fog. Odd, for this time of year, so much mist.
A few ships were fled near the dock's end, where there was still water; the rest were anchored in the bay. Two Narran traders were in the deep harbor.
A night watch slowly paced the long mole. He gazed at them, felt himself briefly watching the harbor through their eyes. They were both bored, the night long and muggy. One of them thought longingly of his bed, the other of a flask left with his cloak back at the head of their route.
Why am I here? Galdan wondered. There was no answer. No sense of anything beyond his sight or ears. He stood on the docks, listening to the ship nearest him creak faintly as the tide began to turn. The Ylsan guard passed him unaware: They were discussing the Sirdar's grandson Alxy and his journey to primitive Nedao for a weapons-match. Neither seemed to think it had been a good idea. They vanished in the fog, heading toward land.
Galdan knew he was dreaming. Something I ate, an inner voice said dryly. But something out to sea caught his attention and turned his blood to ice. A sound? Barely that and not yet identifiable, but it was steady and coming nearer by the moment. A gull, startled from its perch on the mole, flapped upward with a raucous cry. Even through that, though, he could hear the furtive thing that had wakened the gull. Boats. Rowboats filled with Lyiadd's sworn armed. Yslar! ‘Ware, Yslar, your doom comes! The cry stuck in his throat; he could not shout, could not move. Could only listen as the steady, whispery sound of muffled oars came nearer; could only watch in horror as men rose out of the mist and moved in silent ranks on the sleeping city.
Ylia moaned again and tossed, trying to waken, but somehow Marrita was always there, blocking her. Smoke, fog and blood filled her dream, battle that was hardly a contest. So complete and overwhelming was Lyiadd's attack that Yslar changed allegiance before the sun rose. People died; those few who tried to fight, those already marked for death by the Three.
Everywhere as the sun rose, Lyiadd's men, moving with the satisfaction of possession through streets never before conquered, and stunned AEldran watched with a growing sense of hopelessness. The mercenary invaders wore Thullen brooches that bound AEldra Power, carried swords with the ease of men who knew how to kill with them. Ylia ground her teeth in frustration. Yslar was broken, and where was Bendesevorian? Where was Alxy?
Wake! Do it! She tried; nothing worked, and Marrita's laughter sent shudders through her. The street she watched faded and the laughter grew: When she could see again, she stood in a room that must be part of the Sirdar's apartments. For surely that bent and shaken old man was Holy Lord Asselman himself. Two guards held his arms or doubtless he would have fallen. He would not look up, even when Marrita stepped before him. Father. What, no kiss of welcome, no kind words? Silence. Not even a plea for mercy? Ah, but that I can arrange. She smiled and raised one hand; Black Fire wreathed it.
“No.” Ylia writhed, but she still could not waken and could not turn away as the Sirdar died a slow, painful and utterly silent death.
Lisabetha lay still, aware she dreamed true, fearing to move and waken Brelian who would in turn waken her—for he sensed her least sleeping distress. She must not waken yet, she knew that; Ylia must know what chanced.
She became aware of dream first as sound: Battle and frightened cries and she thought it yet another Koderran nightmare; Koderra and its fall had haunted her of late. But when sight came, she saw Ylsan faces and heard Ylsan speech. Everywhere, strange and harsh men, terrifying in their certainty of victory. Red-gemmed brooches were everywhere, the Thullen clasping cloaks or banding wrists, and she sensed their purpose. Ah, Mothers, the poor folk! At least we had no such terror of loss to face when the Tehlatt came against us!
Without warning, she was in a deep cellar, one tiny opening giving onto the street and a faint musty smell in the air. There were folk there—Alxy, Geit and several of their friends. Bendesevorian squatted on his heels, his back against the wall, his eyes closed. Alxy paced nervously. They were safe because the Nasath was hiding them. For how long—Bendesevorian was confident, however frightened the others were. Geit was trying to persuade Alxy to leave with the Nasath as soon as it could be managed. Alxy didn't want to go. A terrified cry from the street startled them all and Lisabetha moaned in her sleep. She woke a moment later, Brelian's hand on her shoulder.
Ysian's fingers tightened on her blankets and her thought cried out: No more, I can't bear it! But the vision moved inexorably from street to street until it reached the Sirdar's tower. No flame had touched its walls, no rams had torn the carven gates and no hand had damaged hangings or furnishings. There was no mud on the familiar carpets. But before the doors to the Great Council Hall, there were bodies—the Sirdar's own guard had fought to the death, trying vainly to protect the terrified old man beyond the gilt doors. She passed beyond them to gaze with stunned pity upon the huddle of terrified councilors. Not all of the Council was there; Ysian knew that moment when the final member was brought would be their last.
The Sirdar was gone, dead. Old Odic and her sister were talking in frightened whispers; Marrita herself had come for him. Two of her guard had dragged him from the chamber: The Sirdar's legs would no longer support him.
Ysian moved among them, searching. There, in a corner by himself, was her brother Ardyel. He stared at the far wall, blankly; he was hugging himself, hands clamped under his arms to keep them from shaking. There was resentment in the set of his mouth, and she could almost sense his thought. She was right. Ysian—damn you, you had no business being right! She couldn't touch him, couldn't even give him the final pleasure of lashing out at her. Poor Ard. I'm sorry Ard. She woke with a cry as Nisana came awake with an ear-splitting yowl.
From one side of Nedao to the other, there was pandemonium as women long gifted with the Sight and many others w
ho discovered it for the first time woke in terror from the same dream: A silent wharf, a still City, its folk sleeping peacefully; and then doors kicked in, people torn awake and dragged from their beds. Now and again a man or his son was dragged away while helpless, frightened women watched. Other men—a very few—tried to fight and died at the feet of their women.
The Tower woke to the same wracking cries; half of Ylia's women were Sighted. Galdan—still caught in his own vision—shook Ylia. It seemed to take him forever to waken her. Ysian came stumbling and weeping from her chamber, her plait half-undone, a light cloak inadequately wrapped around bare shoulders. Nisana was right behind her, trying to find a way onto her shoulder or into her thought. But Ysian was half in and half out of the vision that had dragged her from sleep, unaware of the cat, and Nisana was fighting a stunning blow of her own. She had not dreamed, but the multi-fold terror that was Ylia's, Ysian's, Galdan's had nearly overborne her before she had been able to shield from it and wake.
Selverra and her nurse came through the crowded hall; the child was more excited than frightened by all the fuss. Therea caught Ysian as she passed, dragged the cloak around her and clipped it in place. Nisana took advantage of the moment to leap to Ysian's shoulder. Ysian instinctively held her there, but it was doubtful she noticed the cat's presence yet, more than she did Therea's.