Maddoc looks at me suddenly with interest. “Defend, conquer, glory, and spirit, eh? Nonsense! Vasska is the Dragonking of the Pir, a god incarnate of this world. The dogma and the doctrine are repeated in their Kath-Drakonis to every child old enough to understand the words. The din never stops, my friend. And when at last you die, they use the same words to sew you into your shroud and drive you into the sod. You are born, live, and die for defense, conquest, glory, and spirit, and none of you—not one—ever thinks to question it. No one wants to really know why all these men litter this field of battle or why this battle was essential in the first place. No; let us all recite defense, conquest, glory, and spirit as we march down the length of someone else’s sword and give our lives for someone else’s ideals!”
I look once more over the long rolling fields of the dead. “So this is your vision?” I ask.
Maddoc raises his head once more and smiles. “Yes . . . I suppose it is.”
I shake my head sadly at him as I speak. “What terrible thing has the world done to you?”
“The world only did me two favors,” he replies, his voice rough and shaking. “Both of them are lost to me now.”
“I spoke to her, you know, to your wife,” I say. “She believes there is a way for us to escape this place and return to . . . return to her.”
Maddoc looks down. As the moments pass, I believe that perhaps he might agree with me. “No,” he says at last, looking up at me with a deeper sadness than I have ever seen before in any man’s eyes. “She is wrong—she is dead.”
“How can you say that?” I ask. How do I convince this crazed man to help me? “I just spoke with her this evening! She is trying to help you in every way she knows how. She even has convinced the Pir she herself is mad just to be with you and care for you! If you’ll only just—”
I do not see it coming. Maddoc swings backhanded in a stinging blow across my face, knocking my head sharply to the side. When I turn back, he is pointing his finger at my face in warning.
“Do not mock me, boy!” he growls.
Mock him? What in Vasska’s name is he talking about?
Then I see her.
Up near the crest of the hilltop, she lies unceremoniously atop a heap of corpses.
Rhea stares back at me through the fogged, vacant eyes of the dead.
“I come here when I can.” Maddoc sighs. “Most days I cannot face it. Still, I hate to think of her here without me among all these strangers.”
“What is this place?” I ask urgently as I stare at the dead form of his wife. “Is this the afterlife?”
“Afterlife? That place of rest beyond the Veil of Sighs that the Pir promised all those mortal fools? No, it most certainly is not!” Maddoc answers. “It is the place of dreams, the place of the past, the place of the future—all these and none of them. It is a place of the possible, the probable, and the entirely improbable. It’s a bridge or an ocean and often both.”
“That means nothing,” I say, shaking my head.
“No? Perhaps it means everything!” Maddoc turns, walking back down the hillside toward the wide river.
I step carefully among the corpses, picking my way down as I follow in his path. The monk, seeing us coming down from the hilltop, moves quickly along his own course to intercept us.
“Sir!” the monk calls out as he approaches Maddoc. “I require a moment of your time!”
“All of life is a moment of my time,” Maddoc responds as he walks purposefully toward the river of blood. He barely acknowledges the monk as he speaks. “I don’t think I can afford giving it to you.”
The monk is caught up short. He addresses me as I pass him. “Is everyone in this place so difficult?”
I look at him and laugh. “Apparently!”
The monk glares and then falls in line behind me.
The three of us come at last to the wide, sluggish river. Ahead of us I clearly see the tower of the winged woman. The great stones are being torn down in earnest now. The terrible beasts, creatures with the bodies of horses yet the chests, shoulders, and heads of men, have by now nearly collapsed the structure. I clearly see the lust in their eyes, desires that cannot be contemplated.
“She is yours, you know,” Maddoc says as I come to stand beside him. “I have seen her often, of course, but she pays little attention to me. She is always looking for you.”
I gaze up at the winged woman.
She holds her hands cupped before her as though holding something protectively, and rays of light break out in long streaks from between her fingers. It must be a great and precious possession. The exquisite expression on her face seems to say that her own heart means less to her than the glorious treasure she holds in her hands.
Then I experience an understanding as though it were placed in my mind. It is not like hearing her voice, which I know is both beautiful and terrible. This is a communication beyond words. I understand her need—and what I can do about it.
I kneel down by the crimson river, plunging my stained hand into its depths. As with the thought of her communication, I know what is there. My hand closes around the slippery, smooth object and I pull it from the river.
The blood drips free of its surface. It is a black, polished stone about half the size of my fist. I carefully set it down on the bank of the gory river and reach once more into the dark red depths.
“What are you doing?” the monk hisses, panic or fear in his face.
“I think . . . I think this is what I came here to do,” I reply, not having any better explanation myself. Time and again I reach down into the horrible stream, pulling more stones out and setting them down next to me. When at last I feel I have enough, I stop.
A cry rends the air, shattering the dead stillness like glass breaking. I look up in fear. The winged woman has fled her tower, her wings fluttering with great speed. The creatures, howling, run after her but are too slow to catch her.
She is flying directly at me!
I stumble backward, lose my footing, and fall painfully onto the riverbank.
The winged woman approaches, drifting above the ground, and collects the black stones, a puzzled look on her face. She flies around me where I lie, dropping the stones one by one into the sand. I count them as they fall. Thirty-six stones in all now form a circle in the riverbank sand around me.
Almost without thought, I move to touch one of the stones with my bloodied hand. I hesitate, for a moment unsure. Then I reach beyond the circle of stones and grasp the hand of one of the dead. I pull it toward me. The gruesome corpse drags lightly across the ground at my touch. I lay the dead hand atop one of the stones, withdrawing my own hand at once.
The bony hand closes around the stone of its own accord.
I scramble to my feet in shock. As I watch, the corpse rises, coming to stand before me a gory visage; its broken sword still in one hand and the stone in the other.
The roar of the beasts approaches behind us.
The winged woman looks anxiously at me.
The monk stares at the revived corpse in abject terror.
I glance at Maddoc. I see him smile and nod at me.
One after another, I quickly set the hands of the dead on stones, and each then rises to stand about me. Within moments I create a circle of the horrific dead. There are thirty-three of them in all by the time I have formed a full circle, with myself in the middle.
Three stones remain.
“May I join you?” Maddoc asks.
I shiver as I nod. I reach down, pick up the three stones, and then toss one to him.
Maddoc reaches up and catches the stone, then smiles again at me. “One more . . . just for luck?”
I toss a second stone in his direction. Once more he extends his hand to catch the stone, but in flight it transforms into a sword. Maddoc grasps the handle deftly, swinging the blade in a quick arc before reversing his grip. Blade down, he presses the hilt of the sword to his chest in salute.
The pommel of his sword is fixed w
ith a large black pearl.
Suddenly, all the dead of the circle move as one. They all turn to face me—with such faces as remain—and strike the hilts of their swords against their chests. In the dark chaos all around me, I see the pommels of their sword hilts flash. Each shines with a large black pearl.
With this salute, the fields of dead behind them rise of their own accord. As a great wave, they stand radiating from me beyond the hilltops. Their grotesque visages are suddenly transformed with light and power.
They turn as one and charge across the river. The terrible beasts are challenged at the river’s edge.
The winged woman radiates with joy.
BOOK OF GALEN BRONZE CANTICLES, TOME IV, FOLIO 1, LEAVES 12-15
Once upon another time, in a land of deepest myth . . .
Dwynwyn dreamt a strange dream.
Dwynwyn stood atop the towers of Qestardis, gazing out onto the sea. While she thus stood and contemplated the future of her beloved queen and nation, the waves of the ocean pulled back from the shore. The black rocks of the sea were thus exposed and among them she dreamt of a strange creature, a wingless faery without talent, whom she had seen in her other dreams.
She drifted downward from the tower toward the man. She spoke no word. She uttered no sound. In other dreams she had harmed the giftless faery with her gentle songs and knew not the truth of it. So she approached him in silence.
He nodded toward her and extended his hand. He dared not to touch her but dropped the pearls into her outstretched hand. They were some thirty-six in number, and their beauty was powerful and caught her eye. Within them, Dwynwyn saw a new truth* that had not before been known among the Fae folk of all the kingdoms. There, within these unique pearls, was the power to protect her beloved princess.
The waves of the ocean once more closed over the shore, hiding the strange, wingless faery from her again.
Yet there below the beautiful towers of Qestardis, Dwynwyn wept openly, for the strange, wingless faery had given her the pearls but had not instructed her in the fullness of their truth. She knew within her that they held the power to protect and save her beloved princess.
But she knew not how.
FAERY TALES BRONZE CANTICLES, TOME VIII, FOLIO 2, LEAF 37
24
Bright Swords
The horns of the Temple summoned morning once again to break over the towers of Vasskhold. The morning sun had not crested the tall peaks to the east and would not do so for several more hours, yet the day would not wait. Vasskhold rose with its early supplication to the Dragonking’s benevolence. It breathed through the day to the rhythm of the Dragonking’s tasks. It would lay itself down only when the Dragonking’s glory had been satisfied.
The Elect were also summoned by those same horns but into a world that was terrible and new. Its boundaries were measured by the great walled crescent of land just east of Vasska’s Temple, which from ancient times had been known simply as the Garden. The name conjured up images of lords and ladies strolling through verdant landscapes of carefully tended lawns, trees, shrubs, and hedgerows. Any remnant of such a vision was remanded to the distant past, however, for no such glory remained in the Garden. The arch of the long enclosure was now a prison. Long rows of ill-kept barracks housed the Elect along the sweeping remnants of the ancient avenues. The ruins of an ancient cathedral to forgotten gods served as their mess hall and general gathering place. They called it “the Hall” for lack of anything grander. To the north were the practice fields. The arena stood to the south. The Pir monks watched over it all from the Eighth and Ninth Towers of the Inner Circle and from the great sweeping walls that were the boundaries of this new world.
It was back into this world that the horns also summoned Galen.
“Galen, please! Wake up!”
Rhea’s voice.
“Come on, Galen. I need you. We have to face the day.”
Galen rolled over on his thin, hard bedding. His shoulder scraped against the boards of the bed above him as he did. Face the day? he thought. He didn’t want to face the day. He didn’t want to face anything. His body ached. Stiffness gripped his joints. It was all going to begin all over again.
“Please, Galen, something’s happened to Maddoc.”
“I’m coming, Rhea,” Galen replied, his voice sluggish as he tried to form the words. He forced open his eyes. For a moment, he stared up at the rough-hewn boards just inches from his face. Then he remembered: his little stone home still waited for him somewhere. His comfortable forge existed somewhere. More than anything, he remembered that she was out there. Berkita still lived and breathed somewhere in the world. There were reasons to face the day.
He rolled out of the narrow bunk, barely avoiding a gibbering idiot who was trying to pluck apples from a nonexistent tree. His name was Otris, came from someplace called Waystead and now occupied the lower bunk directly across from Galen. Otris had grown worse over the last three days. Galen doubted he would survive two more.
Galen stretched, looking about as he tried to twist the knots out of his lower back. Rhea had long since vacated her upper bunk, the third in a stack of four. He spoke to her as he stretched. “So Maddoc had another rough night?”
Rhea was glancing up and down the rows with distraction. “He got a bit restless at one point . . .”
“Yeah, I remember.” Galen yawned.
“Oh . . . I had hoped he didn’t disturb anyone. The thing is—”
“Well, I think that pretty much ended when he started screaming about the demons climbing up his nose and tearing his heart out.” Galen shook himself, trying to wake up.
Rhea was defensive. “He doesn’t know any better, Galen.”
Galen shook his head. “It’s all right, Rhea. I don’t sleep much anyway as it is. When I do sleep . . . well, it isn’t always restful.”
“Did you dream last night?”
“Look, could we not go into that just—”
“Galen,” Rhea was insistent. “Did you see Maddoc last night in your dream?”
Galen shivered. “Yes, I saw him.”
“What happened? Where did you see him?”
Galen slid out from his bunk. The masses of the Elect were heeding the call of the trumpets to their morning feed. “Look, Rhea, can we talk about this a little later? It was not pleasant . . . I just need a little time.”
Rhea followed after him as he turned to shuffle out of the barracks. “Time? We don’t have a little time, Galen! Maddoc’s gone.”
“Gone?” Galen looked back at her. The throng was pressing them toward the door. “What do you mean he’s gone? It’s a prison, Rhea, they don’t just let you wander out for a stroll. He can’t have gone very far.”
“I know . . . but I’ve looked for him. He was gone from the bunk when I awoke this morning. I’ve been all over the Garden but—”
“You didn’t mention this to the Pir, did you?”
“No, of course not!” The press of the crowd was worse as they neared the exit door.
Galen and Rhea emerged from the barracks into the soft light bathing the wide avenue. The sun had not yet crested the Lords of Mithlan to the east although the morning was already deep. The street was packed with the Elect, all making their weary way down toward the Hall.
“Look, we’ll find him.” Galen spoke over his shoulder to Rhea as she walked behind him, his breath forming clouds in the chill morning air. It was true that Maddoc might well have disappeared for good. He would certainly not be the first to vanish from his bunk and never be seen again. But Galen saw little sense in upsetting Rhea at this point and decided that a comforting lie was better than a stark possibility. “He’s here somewhere . . . he’ll probably just turn up on his own.”
Rhea suddenly stopped. Galen looked at her quizzically for a moment before he realized that everyone else had stopped, too. They were looking at something behind Galen.
Galen turned. His jaw slacked in astonishment.
He stood at the center of a circle
that had suddenly opened in the crowd. At its perimeter stood men of the Election, each already holding a sword from the weapons racks of the arena. They stood at attention in the circle, the hilts of the swords pressed to their chests in salute. He recognized Mikal Feathrin and Thais among them from his own town of Benyn, old Haggun Harn, too, but the rest of them were unfamiliar.
They were saluting Galen.
Rhea stepped up to him, speaking quietly over the suddenly hushed crowd. “Galen? What’s happening?”
Galen turned around in the open space. “I . . . I don’t know!”
The pommel of each of the swords was shining in the morning light.
Each was a polished black stone.
“This cannot be happening!” Galen said, his breath pounding out in clouds with each beat of his racing heart. Their faces and their bodies were whole, but several of them he recognized from the dream.
He counted them.
They numbered thirty-two.
His mind raced. Can that be right? Thirty-two? He had counted thirty-six in the dream. Could the dream have been wrong? If so, then could his dreams be wrong about other things as well?
Someone suddenly pushed his way into the circle.
It was Maddoc. He, too, raised his sword in salute—another sword with a black, polished pommel stone.
Rhea ran to Maddoc, brushing aside the sword and throwing her arms around him. She buried her head against his chest, closing her eyes in relief.
“Nice to see you again, Galen!” Maddoc smiled, taking no notice of his wife.
Galen blinked. “Maddoc! What’s going on? Who are they?”
“We are all your men,” Maddoc said brightly.
Galen moved forward, grasping Maddoc’s sword hand and pushing the sword down out of sight. He spoke urgently under his breath as his eyes darted about. “But I don’t want any men!”
Maddoc shook his head, a mad smile on his face. “But you called us and we came! We are your men and we’ll serve you to the last! We are a circle of brothers forged by your will! We call ourselves ‘The Circle of Brothers Forged by Galen’s Will.’ Admittedly, it isn’t a very good name for a warrior cadre, but it will just have to do until we come up with a better name.”
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