My brother showed me the amulet he carried on his quest. How interesting its image was the same as the one on the lovely interpreter’s pendant. This symbol must give mysterious entry, said Raef.
How can you be sure? you asked.
There is no other explanation, said he.
You could think of several but said nothing. You wanted to ask the obvious but held your tongue. Was there intent to strike the settlement? You knew the answer somehow. You received it when you watched Raef ‘s eyes narrow.
We know of their treasure now. They will want to protect—or move—it, said Raef.
He looked at his father when he spoke. The King tapped his fingers together. The Council muttered among themselves. Your father asked Wyl his opinion. Wyl said that he noticed a similar design on the amulet and some of the hoard’s objects. This, to him, meant there was an undeniable connection. However curious that may be, it was not necessarily cause for alarm.
Well, then, we shall wait and see, said the King.
Raef ‘s expression collapsed into an angry pout. He looked at his father and brother, then at you.
You dared to look at him. You expected to meet him with disdain. A jolt flashed through your limbs. The darkness in his eyes you understood. You felt what he felt in that moment, although you couldn’t name it. The recognition frightened you. You closed your lids against it. When you looked at him again, he sneered and walked away. You turned to watch the other men, unnerved.
You liked the King, to tell the truth. For a man of his position, he was a pragmatic, decent fellow. You recalled what he had said when you thanked him, years before, when he ordained your apprenticeship. His reply: This is a boon for the kingdom. It is practical to train you, unusual as it may be. That you may enjoy it is a stroke of luck.
Wyl remained on the Council’s dais while Raef kept his distance. No one urged the younger prince to join the conversation.
You understood quite well, even then, that the event was rooted in something other than concern for the kingdom’s safety. There was, of course, mere greed for the riches seen and assumed. You sensed another greed, and it was Raef ‘s alone. He was constantly ignored or set aside in Wyl’s favor and opinion. Wyl was the firstborn son, in line for the throne. What else need be said? The younger prince vied for attention, for recognition, and received little. You had no affection for Raef. His meanness disturbed you. But nevertheless, you had some pity for him.
You knew that you and Burl felt protective of the people you’d met. When the steward told his story, you realized his interest was self-preservation. He wanted to protect himself, and to him, telling the story of what he had seen was a cooperative act. He wished to appease those in power. The steward had little, but even that was too much to lose.
WYL TOLD YOU SOME OF WHAT HE AND HIS BROTHER HAD SAID PRIVATELY. This was how you knew Raef intended to push for confrontation. Perhaps an invasion. There were comments about what Wyl had given up of the kingdom for you, now less territory, fewer resources. Raef understood that more land meant more wealth. That meant more men granted favor to tend, till, tax the land, more men beholden to him. It was a twisted logic, you thought. It wasn’t danger but greed and neglect that fueled Raef, his influence stirring Wyl.
You pointed out with stark plainness that a river separated the kingdom from the distant settlement. If he feared unrest, place guards along the bank. No reason to cross. It was a natural barrier, wide at parts. But Raef twisted him, twisted his goodness. He told Wyl he had children, an heir. He would have the domain over many children. Protect us, Wyl. Tell Father to protect us.
When you could see that Wyl was losing his discernment, that his goodness was about to be turned, you decided to warn the Guardians. You regretted the circumstances, but not the reason, for crossing the river again.
You knew you must travel by yourself. You required a direct route, safe shelter, and kindly hosts. You entered the castle archives, where your life’s work was kept under guard. Beneath candlelight, you reviewed the maps. You had drawn memory traces of your travels on the parchments, where you’d been fed honey cakes and savory pies and told wondrous tales. You sketched an alternate path, where no one would know how to follow.
Of course, first, you offered to serve as an envoy. Under cover comfort, in pillow talks, you suggested this to Wyl. It was reasonable to meet with them. They had an excellent interpreter. He stroked your hair, your hands. Don’t worry yourself, said he.
Then you thought to tell a ruse. Tell Wyl you had a childhood friend who lived away. She, too, had babies. You would so like to visit her. You’ll miss him. You don’t know how long you will be gone. Not long. You’ll take your nursemaid. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. This wasn’t easy to arrange. This was like planning an escape. A cart, a driver, a good horse. Maps to direct the way. Then what would you do when you reached the border?
You decided to go alone. Then you changed your mind and decided to take the twins. They were still small, breast-fed. You weren’t certain they’d accept strange milk. You couldn’t justify the risk they would go hungry.
Since they were newborns, the girl and the boy traveled well in the pouches you stitched to a cloak’s back. A trotting horse bounced them to silence. In the forest, you would leave them sleeping in a shelter under a bush. You hid them as any wild mother would hide her young. For hours you would sit, sometimes blank, sometimes in thought. Sometimes a child again watching a spider build its web. How did it know to do that? When the twins were awake, you let them roll around naked on a clean cloth. When they soiled, you rinsed them in a stream and held them at arm’s length to feel the water’s full flow.
You were attentive to their creature needs. Still you knew you didn’t love them, not as a mother should. Duty is not love. You had the strange thought it was your responsibility to bear them but not to raise them. The latter was not necessary, in fact. A nursemaid could take over their full care once they no longer required your body for nourishment. Your mother had been tended by a nursemaid from infancy through childhood. I hardly remember my mother, said your mother. Her mother, so often cautious and quiet, would babble and sing to herself when strained. Then she would be sent away on respites. Your mother was told that she and her siblings were nerve-wracking handfuls and their mother had to leave to rest.
You knew your disappearance would worry Wyl and everyone else. You intended to be quick as possible. There seemed no other way. Unfortunate that you couldn’t be direct. You believed Raef, even Wyl, would have found a way to stop you from going. Pathetic that you had to resort to lies and manipulation, but there it was. The world seemed built on lies and manipulation.
One autumn morning, you kissed Wyl awake in his bed. The twins were in their pouches on your back. He sat up, spun you around, and spoke to his babbling children. Then, as you had before, you left for the day with saddlebags filled with food. You rode like a shadow, a gray figure on a gray horse, steady as mist, fleeting as a phantom.
On the first night, you stayed with an old woman. You had met her years earlier when you were somehow turned around in the forest and lost your way. She found you, took you in. You were not lost this time. Again, she fed you, and told you a rhyme different from one she shared before. In her strange accent, said she:
What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Tender stew of the stag you slew
With bread and ale and honey cakes
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
Peace abides where all reside
Which leads to the pleasures of life
What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Hearty stew of the beans I grew
While our new babe turned on its stalk
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
Unrest in the distant west
Far from the cry of our young boy
What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Thick stew of the sweet lamb we knew
The one our ch
ild begged to be spared
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
Some discord with the threat of swords
Not near your round belly or bed
What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Plain stew of large birds that once flew
Until arrowed through by our son
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
The drum of war strikes no man numb
Though our frozen unborn are late
What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Tender stew of our son so true
Who would not be fed to others
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
The ground is red, new peace is found
Warm my blood again, now with love
A dark quiet followed her words. You thought of the traveler you had met on the quest, the tale she’d told of the orphan seer and the prince. You couldn’t deny the presence of a warning.
The next morning, the old woman prepared breakfast while you nursed the twins. Her back was turned. She adjusted her shawl. It was made of thin-spun blue wool. Blue, again and again.
Tell me, where’s the hollow tree near your hut? I didn’t bring my map to find it, you said.
You remembered no tree. You guessed she would understand. Hoped. You hoped there was a way out near the river.
A sturdy one stands like a man with wide legs where the sun doesn’t cross. She pointed north.
Alive or dead? Hollowing, or hollow through? you asked.
She faced you with a smile in her eyes. He leafs, so he lives, but appears aflame as he dies for winter. I will take you there, but the horse must stay. She cannot pass.
You trusted your steed to her care. She refused payment. She led you to the tree and wished you a safe journey. When she walked from your sight, you whispered the incantation. A mouse ran across your toes and into the gap. You followed with the twins on your back.
In moments, you were miles away. You reached the kingdom’s river border. You found Burl the oarsman. As he took you and your children over the water, you told him your secret purpose. As he helped you from the little boat on the opposite shore, he asked if he might escort you on land. His eyes were wet with more than the sting of the cold. You held the knots of his knuckles in your hands.
I must go alone, and no one can know, you said.
May I, my lady, ask for a simple story on your return? asked Burl.
Such a small reward for your confidence, you said.
Gold spent is gone. A tale can be told again, said he.
You and Burl looked up the bank and saw the line of five in blue. You and Burl raised your arms in greeting. The five returned the gesture. The third approached, not the same young man whom you had met before. You explained in plain language why you stood on that ground. You couldn’t tell if he understood your words as he watched your eyes. He told Burl to stay, sent a man ahead, and instructed the rest to keep the bank.
Come, friend, said the guardian.
You walked the same path as before. At the large rock, you watched him touch the impression in its surface. You did the same.
When you reached the honeycomb road, the same young interpreter stood in wait. Behind you, the gold glow rose with hearth smoke. Again, you walked past the dwellings and noticed many people outside in the morning sun in all manner of activity. You entered the center of the settlement, where children balanced and leapt on the tree-limb shadows.
The strange mechanism made of wheels released a sharp ping. The children rushed to surround it. Music played. You could not believe your ears. It’s the sound of bells. No, icicles. No. The twinkle of stars, you thought. The smallest children circled around the Wheels and turned wide eyes toward the top. Some twittered to each other. Some clutched their hands at their chests.
Most of them sang the melody beginning to end.
Then, in a rush of chimes, the great round wheel at its front finished its cycle and up popped a swan, crafted in copper. The children cheered.
Splendid swan! said the Interpreter. She touched the heads of the children within her reach.
Does this happen every day? you asked.
The music, yes. A smith places a new creature each morning. We never know what it’ll be.
Why is it here?
For the children’s pleasure.
You felt dozens of questions tangle in your throat. Instead of speaking, you followed the Interpreter to a guest room in the building where you had the first visit. You smelled pine. There was a clay vase filled with evergreen sprigs and dried flowers on a low table. Next to it was a wide bed on the floor. No crib was in the room. A young man and a young woman arrived with food and drink. They also took the twins. The children had been fussy most of the day. Each sighed as they lay their tiny heads on the young people’s shoulders.
The Interpreter escorted you to the same place where you’d met the elders during your first visit. Inside were nine people. Five women, four men. Two were the ones you had met before. You told them all you could. The tale of the former cook, the quest, the hoard, the scale, what Raef wished to instigate. You believed the people of the settlement meant no harm. You wanted to warn them of the misunderstanding. The danger.
They asked questions. Why do you believe this may occur? What do you think they hope to gain? What if you are mistaken? What if you are not? What might do they possess?
You answered as truthfully as you were able. They thanked you for bringing the matter to their attention. They weren’t surprised that you had gone to find the truth about the dragon and its treasure. Such curiosity is reasonable, said an elder woman. They all nodded. One man winked, one eye, then the other. You hadn’t seen the creature, but you sensed it. The shadow of doubt was not quite so long.
You were invited to share a meal that evening with the Interpreter and a family. You went to your room to feed the hungry twins. The young woman who watched them left. The Interpreter offered you rest in a deep bath. You were curious, and dirty, and accepted. She left to give word to those who tended the bath. As you finished nursing the babies, the young man you had met earlier returned. He spoke your language in fractures but made it clear he was there to watch the twins. You felt an impulse to protest. A man, alone, with infants? Then your son squawked brightly at the sight of him. The young guardian lifted the boy to his shoulder and sat next to your daughter. He smiled at you. You smiled in return, comforted. You wondered how you could so easily trust them.
The Interpreter led you to the bath. No shallow tub on the ground in the house where you were to sleep. No, this was in a separate dwelling. Outside, someone tended a fire under a huge cauldron that had a pipe connected to it. The pipe entered a wall. Inside, a huge copper trough, beautifully decorated. You were shown how to use the clever knobs that started and blocked the water’s flow. The tub filled. You stretched the length of your body with room past your toes. The luxury. You had not felt that since you were a little child.
Memory merged with the steam. You recalled your mother washing your hair as you sat curled in a Z. You were three, four. Milk and egg and your mother’s squat fingers running through your hair. The fire ahead. Mother loved to wash and brush your hair. She was gentle. You were her daughter then.
There in the bath, you were alone. A small fire blazed nearby. Large candles burned and sweetened the steamed air. Bottles of thick liquids were at your hand. You marveled at the object that absorbed water and felt soft on your skin. Later, you would ask and be told it was a sea sponge. No one hurried you. No one called or knocked. You lingered until the water began to chill. Linen cloths for drying were stacked within arm’s reach. You rubbed the water from your hair and skin. For a long while, you sat naked before the fire. A moment in your own skin. Then, from the clean garments left on a chair, you chose a fresh wool green dress. You left the shirt and leggings you’d worn for two days and nights.
You returned to the guest room rejuvenated. The young man sat on the groun
d with the twins on a thick blanket. They played with soft toys. You sat on the bed and wondered how much room a person needed to call her own. A space wide enough for your thoughts, you thought, with a few feet to spare past outstretched fingers and toes.
The mirror on the table drew your attention. Your mirrors were made of polished bronze and copper. This one was a flat black oval. Obsidian. You beheld yourself in that dark reflection as if you had seen the image before. A shadow, a dream, a memory. You didn’t know. You whispered, as if you knew what it meant, the darkness in the light.
The meal with the family was simple but delicious. Fish, bread, greens, apples. They asked questions about your kingdom and customs. The Interpreter translated for the adults and the older boy, but not for the girl who remained quiet. She looked at you with calm violet eyes. The same color as the Interpreter’s.
We don’t look alike except for our eyes, said the girl.
She spoke your language. You realized at that moment she was the child who had told your cook the tale of the dragon and hoard.
There is a reason why, said the girl.
What is it? you asked.
I’m a Voice just like she.
The girl danced a doll across her knees. She explained that they were different from most others. The Interpreter lived with them to teach her special lessons. They could understand things other people didn’t. Words and feelings. Sometimes secrets and stories.
Such as the dragon? you asked.
Her name is Egnis, said she.
The next words were in her mother tongue. You asked what was spoken.
She wanted to know why the ones born away never know that, said the Interpreter.
Why, then?
It is forgotten or disbelieved.
You shared the story the former cook claimed the girl had told him. You chose not to mention the coiled shadow and the winged cloud you saw near the mountain. Between thoughts, you remembered a storyteller at a festival when you were small. A dragon puppet with a long tail. The desire to believe in such a mythic creature was equal to the fear that it might exist.
The Mapmaker's War Page 7