by Julian May
“I swear upon the Three Moons and the Flower!” said Ralabun stoutly. “Whatever privity you entrust to me I will guard faithfully until the Lords of the Air carry me safely beyond.”
The Prince nodded somberly. “Very well then. You shall see my great treasure when I fetch it tonight from its hiding place in the mire. But if you reveal what it is to others, you may forfeit not only your own life, but also my own.”
Ralabun’s big round eyes gleamed in the dimness as he made the sign of the Black Trillium in the air with one hand. “What is this marvelous thing that we seek, Hiddenheart?”
“Something I must show you, rather than speak of,” said the Prince. And he would say no more, for all the Nyssomu’s coaxing.
After they had traveled on for another hour the drizzle ceased and a brisk wind began to blow, sending dark clouds speeding across a small patch of starry sky. On the opposite bank the torch-lamps of Ruwenda Market at the westernmost end of Citadel Knoll flickered dim, for the Mutar was now over a league wide. Then they entered the braided section of the river, where there were many wooded islands during the Dry Time. Most of these were submerged now, with the lofty gonda and kala trees that grew on them rising out of swirling black water. It would have been easy to lose the way, and several times the Prince had to correct Ralabun’s navigation. Unfortunately, the mirecraft of the old stablemaster was not nearly so expert as he pretended.
“Here is the creek,” Tolivar said at last.
“Are you sure?” Ralabun looked doubtful. “It seems to me that we must go on farther—”
“No. It is here. I am quite certain. Turn in.”
Grumbling, the Nyssomu bent to his oar. “The jungle round about here is already flooded and full of drifting debris. There’s no sign at all of a channel. I really think—”
“Be silent!” The Prince took up a stance in the bow. The few stars gave barely enough light to see by. The water soon became very shallow, with dense thickets of flag-reeds, lance-weed, and redfern between the towering trees. In the respite from the downpour, the wild creatures of the Mazy Mire gave voice. Insects chirped, clicked, buzzed, and made musical chiming sounds. Pelriks hooted, night-carolers warbled, karuwoks splashed and hissed, and a distant gulbard uttered its throaty hunting cry.
When Ralabun could no longer use the sculling oar because of the shallowing water and clogging driftwood, he cried out, “This can’t be right, Hiddenheart!”
The boy controlled his exasperation with some effort. “I will guide us while you pole the boat along. Go between those two great wilunda trees. I know the way.”
Ralabun grudgingly obeyed, and even though the channel at times seemed hopelessly blocked with brush and hanging vines, a lead of open water barely as wide as the boat stayed always ahead of them. The going was very slow, but after another hour they reached a small area of high ground. Thorn-ferns, weeping wydels, and towering kalas grew about its rocky perimeter. Tolivar pointed out a landing spot and Ralabun brought the boat in to shore.
“This is it?” he murmured in surprise. “I could have sworn we were lost.”
The Prince leapt onto a bank covered with rain-beaten saw-grass and tied the bowline to a snag. Then he took up the lantern, opened its shutter, and beckoned for the Nyssomu to accompany him along a nearly invisible path that twisted through outcropping rocks and dripping vegetation.
They came to a clearing, where there was a small hut made of hewn poles and bundled grass, roofed with heavy fodderfern.
“I built it,” the Prince said with pride. “It’s where I come to study magic.”
Ralabun’s wide mouth dropped open in amazement, displaying stubby yellow fangs. “Magic? A lad such as you? By the Triune—you are well named Hiddenheart!”
Tolivar unfastened the simple wicker door and gave an ironic bow. “Please enter my wizard’s workshop.”
Inside it was completely dry. The Prince lit a three-candle reflector lamp standing on a makeshift table. The hut had few other furnishings aside from a stool, a carboy of drinking water, and a set of hanging shelves that held a few jars and firkins of preserved food. Certainly there were no instruments, books, or any of the other occult appurtenances one might expect in a sorcerer’s lair.
Tolivar dropped to his knees, brushed aside the cut ferns and rushes that covered the dirt floor, and began to pry up a large, thin slab of stone. In the cavity beneath it lay two bags of coarse woolen cloth—one small and the other larger. Tolivar placed both on the table.
“These are the precious things we have come for,” he told Ralabun. “I did not think it wise to conceal them in the Citadel.”
The old aborigine eyed the bags with growing misgiving. “And what happens to these things when you reside in Derorguila during winter?”
“I have a safe hiding place in the ruins just outside Zotopanion Keep where nobody goes. I found it four years ago, during the Battle of Derorguila, when I had the good fortune to acquire this great treasure.” The boy opened the larger bag and slid out a slender, shallow box about the length of a man’s arm and three handspans wide. It was made of a dark glassy material, and upon its lid was embossed a silver many-rayed Star.
Ralabun cried out: “Lords of the Air! It cannot be!”
Saying nothing, Tolivar opened the smaller bag. Something flashed brilliantly silver in the lamplight—a curiously wrought coronet having six small cusps and three larger. It was ornamented with carved scrollwork, shells, and flowers, and beneath each of the three larger points was a grotesque face: one was a hideous Skritek, the second was a grimacing human, and the third was a fierce being with stylized starry locks of hair who seemed to howl in silent pain. Beneath the central visage was a tiny replica of Prince Tolivar’s royal coat of arms.
“The Three-Headed Monster,” Ralabun croaked, nearly beside himself with awe. “Queen Anigel’s magical talisman that she surrendered as ransom to the vile sorcerer Orogastus!”
“It belongs neither to my mother nor to him now,” Tolivar declared. He placed the coronet upon his own head, and suddenly his slender body and plain small face seemed transfigured. “The talisman is bonded to me by the star-box, and anyone who touches it without my leave will be burnt to ashes. I have not yet fully mastered the Three-Headed Monster’s powers, but some day I shall. And when that time comes I will become a greater wizard than Orogastus ever was.”
“Oh, Hiddenheart!” Ralabun wailed.
But before he could continue, the boy said, “Remember your oath, old friend.” Then he removed the coronet from his head and replaced it and the star-box in their bags. “Now come along. Perhaps we can get home before it begins to rain again.”
2
“Now!” Kadiya cried out. “Take them!”
The huge web woven of tanglefoot fell, the scores of ropes that had supported it cut at the same moment by the crew of Nyssomu high in the kala trees. It was deep night, but a searing bolt of lightning lit the moment of the net’s landing on the floor of the swamp forest and dimmed the orange-glowing eyes of the startled Skritek war party.
The ambush had been successful. More than forty of the monstrous Drowners, suddenly trapped in tough, gluey meshes, roared and shrieked amid the rolling thunder. They tore ineffectually at the web with their tusks and claws, lashing their tails and wallowing on the muddy ground as they became hopelessly entangled. Musk from their scaled hides arose in a noxious cloud. It did not deter their captors from driving long barbed stakes into the soggy soil, securing the net’s edges. Those Nyssomu who were not engaged in the task capered about, popping their eyes out on stalks in mockery of their ancient foe, cheering and brandishing blowpipes and spears.
“Yield to me, Roragath!” Kadiya demanded. “Your scheme of invasion and brigandage is finished. Now you must pay the penalty for violating the Truce of the Mazy Mire.”
Never! the Skritek leader retorted in the speech without words. He was a gigantic creature, nearly twice her height, and still stood upright with the sticky meshes clingin
g to his body. The Truce no longer binds us. And even if it did, we would never surrender to a puny human female. We will fight to the death rather than yield!
“So you do not recognize me, treacherous Drowner,” Kadiya murmured. She turned to a sturdy little man of the Folk who stood just behind her. “Jagun. It seems that the night sight of these addlepate truce-breakers is as weak as their wits. Let torches be brought to enlighten them.”
It had begun to rain heavily again. But at Jagun’s command several members of the Nyssomu force struck fireshells and ignited pitch-dipped bundles of reeds, which they took from their knapsacks and stuck onto long sticks. The captured Skritek warriors hissed and bellowed defiance as flame after flame sprang to life, illuminating the turbulent scene in the clearing. Then, as torchbearers converged upon Kadiya and she slipped off her hoodcape, ignoring the downpour, the monsters fell silent.
She was a woman of medium stature but seemed tall among her cohort of diminutive Nyssomu. Her hair was russet, bound into a tight crown of braids. She wore a cuirass of golden scale-mail over leathern forester garb much like that of her companions, and on her breast was the sacred Black Trillium emblem. Each petal of the Flower bore a gleaming eye—one golden like that of the Folk, one deep brown like Kadiya’s own, and one pale silvery-blue with odd glints in its dark pupil, and this last eye belonged to the Vanished Ones.
Now we know you, the chief of the Drowners admitted with reluctance. You are the Lady of the Eyes.
“And I am also Great Advocate of all Folk, including you foolish Skritek of the Southern Morass. How dare you invade and pillage these lands of the Nyssomu Folk in violation of my edict? Answer me, Roragath!”
We do not accept your authority! Besides, one greater than you has revealed the truth to us about your spurious truce. He has told us that soon the Vanished Ones will return and the Sky Trillium shine again in the heavens. Then you humans and all of your cringing Oddling slaves will be destroyed. The World of the Three Moons will be as it was in the beginning: the domain of Skritek alone.
Yes! Yes! roared the other monsters. They began to thrash about and struggle in the net even more violently than before.
“Who has told you this shocking lie?” Kadiya demanded. When the Skritek leader did not reply, she drew from her scabbard a strange dark sword with a tripartite pommel, having a dull-edged blade that lacked a point. Reversing it, she held it high, and at the sight of it all the captive swamp-fiends began to moan in fear.
“You recognize the Three-Lobed Burning Eye that I hold.” Kadiya spoke with an awful calmness. Raindrops streamed unheeded down her face and sparkled like gems on her armor. “I am the custodian of this true talisman of the Vanished Ones. It can decide in an instant whether or not you have the right to flout me. But understand this, you Drowners of the Southern Morass: If you are judged and found guilty of sedition, the Eye will engulf you in magic fire and you will perish miserably.”
The monsters were muttering among themselves now. Roragath said at last:
We believed what the Star Man said, even though he offered no proof beyond the wonders he worked to demonstrate his command of magic. Perhaps … we were mistaken.
“A Star Man—?” Jagun cried in dismay. But Kadiya hushed him with a wave of her hand.
“Falsehoods pour easily from a glib and mischievous mouth,” she said to Roragath, “and fools who are reluctant to give up their old, violent ways may be all too eager to believe liars and charlatans. I know how your people have resisted the truce. You thought that because you dwelt in a remote corner of the mire you were beyond the White Lady’s governance—and beyond my enforcement of her will. You were wrong.”
The huge Skritek gave a groan of furious despair. Kadiya of the Eyes, leave off chiding us like stupid children! Let your talisman judge us and slay us. At least that will put an end to our shame.
But Kadiya lowered the peculiar sword instead and slipped it again into its sheath. “Perhaps that will not be necessary. Thus far, Roragath, you and your band have only been guilty of scattered acts of terror and the destruction of Asamun’s village. Nyssomu Folk have been injured, but none have died—no thanks to you. Restitution can be made. If you atone for your hostile actions and pledge to return to your own territory and keep the truce, then I will spare your lives.”
The great muzzled head of the Skritek leader remained defiantly level for many heartbeats, but at last it sagged in submission and the creature fell to his knees. I promise on behalf of myself and my fellows to obey your commands, Lady of the Eyes, and this I avow by the Three Moons.
Kadiya nodded. “Cut them free,” she said to the Nyssomu band. “Then let Asamun and his counselors negotiate the reparations.” She addressed the Skritek leader once again, laying one hand upon the eyed emblem on her breast. “Do not let your heart contemplate further treachery, Roragath of the Drowners. Remember that my sister Haramis, the White Lady, Archimage of the Land, can see you wherever you go. She will tell me if you dare to break the Truce of the Mazy Mire again. If you do I will come for you, and this time requite you without mercy.”
We understand, said Roragath. Is it allowed for us to take vengeance upon the wicked one who misled us? He came to us only once and then went away westward into the mountains, out of Ruwenda and toward Zinora. But we could track him down—
“No,” said Kadiya. “It is my command that you do not pursue the troublemaker. The White Lady and I will deal with him in good time. Only warn other Skritek to give no credence to his lies.”
Picking up her discarded cape and donning it once more against the unrelenting rain, she beckoned for Jagun to bring a torch and come with her. Side by side, the Lady of the Eyes and her chief deputy set off along the broad trail leading to the Vispar River.
After Haramis, the White Lady, had learned of the rampaging monsters in the remote South and bespoke her triplet sister Kadiya, it had taken ten days to mobilize the small army of Nyssomu and set up the ambush of the Skritek war party. Now that the expedition had ended successfully, Kadiya was exceedingly tired. The Skritek leader’s words had been puzzling and disquieting, but she was in no humor to discuss them now with the Archimage.
Nor was she minded to hear a lecture from her sister, when the White Lady learned of how she had used the talisman.
Plodding through deep mud, sopping wet from head to heel and every muscle aching, the Lady of the Eyes took hold of a thin lanyard about her neck and drew forth an amulet that had been concealed in her clothing. It glowed faintly golden and was warm and comforting to the touch, a droplet of honey-amber with a fossil Black Trillium blossom in its heart.
Thank you, she prayed. Thank you, Triune God of the Flower, for letting the bluff work one more time, for giving me strength. And forgive me the implied deceit … If I knew another way, I would follow it.
With the stormwinds inaugurating the premature Wet Time roaring through the tree branches overhead, Kadiya and Jagun spoke hardly a word until they reached the backwater of the swollen river where their boats had been left. The Nyssomu Folk customarily traveled in hollowed-log punts and cumbersome flatboats that were laboriously poled or sculled along. But Kadiya’s craft was fashioned in the Wyvilo style, of thin-scraped hide stretched over a lightweight wooden frame. It was drawn up between the buttress-roots of a mighty kala tree, and as she and Jagun climbed into it and loosed it from its mooring two big sleek heads rose from the rain-pocked waters nearby and stared in expectation.
They were rimoriks, formidable water animals who shared a special relationship—one could hardly call it domestication—with the Uisgu Folk, those shy cousins of the Nyssomu who dwelt in the Goldenmire north of the River Vispar. Since Kadiya was the Advocate of all Folk, including the Uisgu, she also enjoyed the rimoriks’ favor. Numbers of the animals, eager to serve her, had left their accustomed territory to live near Kadiya’s Manor of the Eyes on the River Golobar, which lay nearly seventy leagues to the east.
The eyes of the aquatic beasts shone like
jet in the light of Jagun’s guttering torch. The rimoriks had dapple-green fur, bristling whiskers, and enormous teeth that they bared in what was, for them, an amiable expression.
Share miton with us, Lady. We have waited overlong for your return.
“Certainly, dear friends.” From her belt pouch Kadiya took a small scarlet bottle-gourd. Unstoppering it, she took a sip, let Jagun have his share, and then poured a quantity of the sacred liquid into the palm of her left hand. The animals swam close and drank, lapping gently with their horrifying tongues, whiplike appendages with sharp points that they used to spear their prey.
As the miton worked its benign magic, the four unlikely friends felt a great contentment that sharpened their senses and banished fatigue. When the communion was over, Kadiya uttered a sigh. Jagun slipped pulling harnesses onto the rimoriks. Soundlessly, the great animals submerged and the boat sped away down the wide, dark river, heading for the secret shortcut that would take them all home in less than six hours.
When they were well on their way, with Kadiya and Jagun huddled beneath the shelter of a waxwort tarpaulin and munching an austere supper of dried adop roots and journey bread, she said, “It went well, I think. Your idea of making a drop-net from tanglefoot was brilliant, Jagun, sparing us a pitched battle with the swamp-fiends.”
The old aborigine’s wide, sallow face was masklike and his glowing yellow eyes darted askance at her. It was clear that he was deeply troubled. Kadiya groaned inwardly, knowing full well why. She was able to postpone her sister Hara’s reproaches, but not those of her old friend.
For a long time Jagun did not speak. Kadiya waited, eating although she had lost her taste for food, while the rain beat about their ears and the boat hissed and vibrated with the great speed of their passage.