Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

"Could she use another hand, Gloamseeker?"

  "How do you mean, Master Kalaquinn?" Voiquan asked.

  "I mean, can I be of any help with the shipboard tasks? I've a mind not to be idle, to stretch my limbs and work up a sweat. Perhaps earn my passage."

  Voiquan grinned widely, dark shocks of hair fluttering in the breeze.

  "There's no doubt, nay. You've earned your passage and more in the saving of milady. That was right bold, the way that you turned the tables on Lysak. It's just as well that eel is dead, elsewise you'd be forever minding your back."

  "All the same, I'd like to help, if you don't mind teaching the art of sailing to a ship-ignorant landsman."

  "Aye, then, Master Kalaquinn, if you will it. We'll put you to work and make a sailor of you. The river's a fine place to start."

  The morning hours melted away in peace as the two sloops glided along the Winfarthing River. Voiquan taught Kal the ways of the Gloamseeker as much by example and gesture as by spoken word. Kal relished the simple monotony of the tasks, a gentle rhythm that soothed his worried mind.

  Once, at midmorning, when he was on the foredeck stowing cordage, his ear caught the indistinct sound of a woman's voice. He glanced up to see Bethsefra emerge into the sunshine from her cabin, shielding her eyes with her hand as they adjusted to the bright daylight. She was deep in conversation with her father, who came up behind her, only his head visible at the opening of the hatch. Kal averted his eyes and fell back to the task at hand. As he coiled the lengths of rope, apparently absorbed in his duties, he strained to hear what father and daughter were discussing, but to no avail. When the sound of the voices subsided, he ventured to glance up again and realized she had descended below deck, leaving Uferian to speak to his ship steward, who glanced repeatedly in Kal's direction, as if in earnest explanation.

  Devved returned to the deck as well, stormy-browed and taciturn, offering little more than a sullen look at one of the seaholdsmen who dared to greet him. The blacksmith's eyes met Kal's, but the big man broke his gaze and stared instead out across the river's surface. There was more pain in Devved's eyes than ire, Kal thought, and it was obvious that the man's thin veneer of surly ill temper overlaid a battleground of confusion, fear, and anxiety that plagued and rent the poor man's heart.

  Suddenly, Devved turned and looked across the deck, distracted from his worried ruminations. Galli had hailed from the other ship, and now called again, waving in greeting. The blacksmith ducked his head and retreated below deck, scuttling away like a recalcitrant badger, disturbed by the merry approach of revelers, to its den. The other river sloop was pulling up alongside. Bethsefra must have nearly collided with the blacksmith, for she now stood on deck again, dressed casually in a simple blouse and skirt. When the two vessels were grappled, Voiquan helped Bethsefra board the companion ship on a makeshift gangway that had been laid between the two vessels. Once safely aboard, Bethsefra thanked the steward and cast a glance at Kal, who nodded in return. The two ships disengaged from one another and soon resumed their separate positions on the river.

  "My lady Bethsefra's decided to spend the day aboard the Pelidore with her maid," said Voiquan with a smile as he stepped towards Kal. "Makes for a welcome change from all this rough male company." The steward chuckled as he turned back to his station on the aft deck.

  The day wore on, and Kal lost himself amid the lines and sheets, occasionally asking the advice of the sailors, but, more often than not, quietly regarding them as they went about their tasks, allowing his mind to wander in the gathering summer heat. He again considered the name of the sloop—Gloamseeker! How aptly it described him and his own daunting mission to the shadowedland hundreds of miles beyond Arvon's eastern boundaries. But first they'd have to manage getting out of Dinas Antrum in one piece. He sighed.

  By late afternoon, though still strong, the sun had slipped far from its midday height, losing much of its intensity. Once again, the other sloop swung alongside, and Bethsefra returned to the Gloamseeker. When she set foot back on deck, Uferian was there to greet her. From the corner of his eye, Kal caught her discreet searching glance as she drew away from her father's affectionate embrace. Then she bent over and whispered something in the old man's ear.

  "Ah, yes, yes, of course," Uferian said, nodding to his daughter. "Come along, Kalaquinn. Leave aside your tasks." He beckoned to the young Holdsman. "You are our guest, and it is the time for supper. A late supper, I must apologize. I don't know about you, but I'm famished. Must be the river air. Foul though it is, it still braces a man's hunger."

  "Or it may be your healthy constitution has given you a trencherman's appetite, Father," said Bethsefra, standing next to him.

  "Thanks to Kalaquinn here," Uferian said, nodding.

  "Aye, thanks to Kalaquinn, whom you're keeping from being fed. In payment for the boon of good health, you'll make a starveling out of him," Bethsefra said, a laugh in her voice, having begun to descend the stairs of the hatch ahead of Uferian.

  In the relatively tight quarters of the galley, they sat down to a simple but hearty meal of stewed beef, turnip, and onion, washed down with a rich brown ale. At Kal's bidding, Devved had joined the party and seemed in a somewhat more mollified state of mind, entering into good-natured, albeit reserved, conversation with the others. Kal ate with an air of contentment, realizing only now how hungry he had been. He watched as the company and the fare further softened Devved's demeanour.

  For her part, Bethsefra picked at the meal like a sparrow, not speaking much but glancing now and again at the others at table. Uferian, however, grew effusive and regaled them with stories of his childhood in Swanskeld, calling on help from Bethsefra or Voiquan when his memory failed him, for they had heard these same accounts many times over and knew them nearly as well as the old man did himself. Over a dessert of honeyed pastries, sipping on a glass of sweet red wine, Uferian waxed sentimental and talked poignantly of his long-dead wife, dwelling at length on her youth and her beauty. She had died, he explained, his eyes welling with tears, of a fever when Bethsefra was born, after a furious late-winter storm had lashed the Isles. While he spoke, it grew darker, the failing light of dusk on the river darkening the single window of the cramped galley. Voiquan rose to light another lantern, one which hung on a chain over their heads. It swung gently with the movement of the ship, the mellow light pooling on the table. Finally, stifling a yawn, his glass empty and himself drained of words, Uferian announced he was retiring for the night. Bethsefra, too, excused herself and offered to see her father to his cabin.

  Restless, urged by the need for open air, Kal returned above deck. So, also, did Voiquan, to check on his men and the trim of the sloop. It was twilight, and the riverbanks on either side loomed dim and indistinct in the offing. The Pelidore appeared as a ghostly presence on their port quarter, the white of her sails proof against the failing light. A gentle breeze riffled softly over the water.

  "Well, Kalaquinn, here's the moment of her contentment," said Voiquan, his hand gripping a sidestay. "She's found what she was seeking."

  "Who? What do you mean?" Kal said, startled by the unexpected remark.

  Voiquan smiled. "Gloamseeker. She's found what she's sought—the gloaming, a time between the strife and toil of the day and the unknown terrors of the night."

  "An all too brief respite, I'm afraid," Kal said as his mind drifted back to his earlier bodeful musings.

  "Aye, that may well be so. But for all the dark-edged misgivings, it can be a good time, a time for taking stock and rest." Voiquan stifled a yawn. "And speaking of rest," he resumed, "the hour has come for me to turn in as well. It's been a long day, kept more than busy by two jobs."

  "Two jobs?" Kal said.

  "Aye, one more than my usual quota—keeping Gloamseeker in trim and teaching a landsman his knots." Voiquan's amused eyes wandered to the stern of the boat, even as he let go of the sidestay and made to return to the hatch on the quarterdeck. "I see that your black-humoured blacksmith has found a
friend," he added as he left, nodding towards Devved, who had followed them on deck and was standing now by the tillerman, a lanky, clean-faced sailor, deep in conversation with him.

  After the ship steward had disappeared, Kal made his way forward past the fluttering jib to the foredeck of the boat, absorbing the stillness that had settled over the river with the onset of night. Mercifully, the rising tide of darkness now cloaked the blighted riverbanks and their burden of human misery, leaving him once again to thoughts of the future and the possibility that one day harmony might be restored to Ahn Norvys and that, beyond all the expectations of his upbringing in the remote little clanholding of Lammermorn, he was destined to play no small role in this enterprise. He sighed and lowered himself to sit, leaning against the capstan. He sat for what seemed a long time, his eyes closed, his head resting against the heavy coils of rope, lulled by the gentle rush of water cleaved by the progress of the ship's bow. At length, he roused himself, leaned forward, and pulled the Pyx of Roncador, in its case, from his night pouch. He unfastened the buckle of the case and gingerly slid the Pyx out, its delicate chain playing out between his fingers. In his hand, the half-moon face glowed softly green against the deepening murk of evening. The reassurance of its gleam recalled to Kal the time it had served him as a torch and beacon, the only hope he could cling to deep in the lightless caverns of Thyus.

  In an instant, Kal was stirred from his thoughts, aware at once of the quiet tread of footfalls on the deck behind him.

  "What have you there?" A quiet voice broke the stillness.

  Kal slipped the Pyx back into its case and stowed it in his codynnos. "Oh, nothing. You startled me, my lady," he said, clambering to his feet.

  Bethsefra stood nearby, draped against the chill of the evening in a long hooded brown cloak. "How do you mean 'nothing,' Kalaquinn?" she said. "Whatever it was you were holding, it was glowing. Strangely so . . . a soft light . . . and unnatural."

  "It's just something a friend gave me once. A special keepsake."

  "You make it sound so long ago, Kal. And yet we are of an age, you and I. The seasons' wheel has not turned that many times on us." Bethsefra took a step closer and now stood next to him beside the capstan and drew her hood back. Her face was pale in the soft radiance of starlight, and Kal could detect the look of curious inquiry, a barely perceptible glint in her eyes.

  "In truth, it seems like an age has passed," he said.

  "And what he gave you, your friend—you treasure it?"

  "That I do. He was a bard."

  "Like you?"

  "Aye, like me."

  "But, this friend, he is dead, if I guess aright?"

  "Alas, yes, he is."

  Bethsefra reached out and brushed the fingers of his hand. "I'm sorry," she said.

  Kal bent his neck back, lifting his face to the night. His eyes wandered across the star-bejeweled sky. To his mind drifted images of Wilum, the Great Glence, Wuldor's Howe, the lake-set valley, and the encompassing Radolan Mountains. Unthinking, as if by instinct, his right hand lifted to cup the pios at his throat. He laid a finger with feathered lightness across its small strings, their thrum faint and scarcely audible. "He was a good man . . . ," he said in little more than a breath, still staring into the starlit blackness.

  "Look at the Shepherd," Bethsefra said softly, her head lifted as well. The light of the summer constellations cleared the shadows from her face and served to highlight the elegant sweep of her features. "Re'm ena, look how bright, how clear he shines tonight."

  "Aye, there's no mistaking him . . . . Those other stars, they're like sheep in his fold. He's a good guide to them."

  "And to the wayfarer," Bethsefra added.

  "Not to mention the lonely farm lads. I can't tell you how many nights I would step out from our farmhouse and wander through the night, watching the stars, until I'd sit—just like now, here—musing upon the constellations caught in the dark night waters of Deepmere—" Kal faltered; his stare fell to Bethsefra as he realized suddenly the import of what he had let slip, wishing he could take the words back. "I . . . I . . . uh . . ."

  "Did you say Deepmere?" Bethsefra asked, her eyes wide and fixed on Kal's face. "You did say Deepmere . . . You're a Lammermornian! You're from the Stoneholding!" Bethsefra's voice rose with excitement.

  Kal bowed his head in mute resignation.

  "But I thought you were all massacred by the Boar," the woman said.

  "Most of us, yes. But not all."

  "How many of you survived? And how . . . With only the Wyrdlaugh Pass, and Ferabek's . . . ?"

  Kal sighed and lifted his eyes to meet Bethsefra's. For some reason, his mind felt easier, as if a burden had been lifted from it.

  "Aye, it seemed there was no escape. But in Wuldor's keeping, a way opened to us, and we fled underground. Not more than a handful of us. Thirty-four in all."

  "And Wilum the Bard?"

  "He is dead."

  "He is dead . . . ," Bethsefra echoed softly, her eyes widening in an expression of dawning comprehension. "Your friend . . . And you are a bard . . . ." Kal's heartbeat quickened as he gazed steadily into the young woman's pale face. "But you—you're more than just a bard, aren't you? Kalaquinn, you are Hordanu!"

  Kal closed his eyes and inclined his head to her. There was no point in denying it.

  Hurriedly, the young woman drew her cloak around herself and fell to her knees. "My-my lord Myghternos—"

  "No, Bethsefra, please . . . ." Kal lowered himself to a crouch, placed his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face. "You're a hard one to keep secrets from," he said.

  "So my father tells me." The hint of a smile played on Bethsefra's lips.

  "Aye, Wilum perished," Kal continued, "but not before he accomplished his last duty as Bard, which was to pass the office on to me."

  "But the Talamadh?"

  "Lost to us. Lost and in the clutches of the Boar." A sigh escaped Kal as a groan, and he sank to the deck to sit leaning once more against the capstan. "But that is not the greatest concern," he continued. "The Sacred Fire of Tramys is extinguished and must be rekindled. What you saw in my hand was the Pyx of Roncador, given me by Wilum, the only vessel that can contain the spark necessary to rekindle the Fire. Only it is not I who can get the spark, and the one who can . . . I know not where he is."

  "Kalaquinn, these are heavy burdens—"

  "Aye, they are, very heavy. But they are burdens I must bear."

  "Surely there is some way I can help you." Bethsefra's voice was soft and coloured with concern. "Is . . . is there any way I may help?"

  Kal looked at Bethsefra again and smiled. "You've already helped us, greatly, when you arranged for passage from Swanskeld, and you help us now by letting us sail down to Dinas Antrum with you and make pretense that we're your father's retainers."

  "Aye, sail into the very lair of the enemy, where they would like nothing more than to lay their blood-stained hands on you. That's a poor measure of friendship, I'd say. Surely there is more we can do. What about after Dinas Antrum? Where are you bound?"

  "To Gorfalster, that much I've told your father, but more than that I cannot tell you. Our plans and where we are headed must remain privy knowledge, both for your own safety and for mine. It would be more than dangerous for you to know. You must understand that."

  "Is there no way I can help you? Please, let me help you!" Bethsefra's voice rose in pitch, insistent, pleading.

  Kal grew silent and shook his head, his features stern.

  "No, Bethsefra," he said at length. "The best way you can help is by keeping your own counsel. Forget that you know what you've learned tonight. Or even that you know me. If you don't, you risk putting us both in peril, and far more besides."

  "What about my father? Surely I can confide this to my father?"

  "You don't understand, Bethsefra." Kal shook his head again and glanced sharply at the woman. "Nobody must know. Nobody. There's so much that hangs in the balance, so very much—everything!"


  "All the more reason for you to gain the Isles as a knowing ally in your struggle." Kal's fierce stare was mirrored in the face of Bethsefra. It was an expression he had seen her wear before—resolute, implacable, and commanding—when she had first taken him captive.

  "No, Bethsefra. This is a struggle that we will never win by matching force with force. Rather, our success depends entirely on stealth and secrecy."

  "All the same, Kalaquinn, you can't expect to accomplish your mission without the benefit of friends. Please! You can trust my father as you would me."

  Again Kal shook his head, but more slowly and less emphatically.

  "Please! I tell him everything. My heart is his heart."

  The Holdsman brought his hand up and rubbed his temples, frowning.

  "Please, Kalaquinn, if you can't trust me . . . ?"

  "All right then, if you must. But mind, Bethsefra, just him, and him alone. No one else."

  Bethsefra reached out and took his hand into hers. "Thank you, my lord Hordanu," she said and lowered her face to press her lips to his hand. "Thank you for your trust. The House of Uferian is highly honoured." She raised her eyes to meet his. "Rest easy in your mind, Kalaquinn. Uferian is still awake and reading in his cabin. I'll go speak with him now, before he retires."

  Kal got to his feet as Bethsefra stood. The woman bowed her head and turned to go below decks, leaving Kal alone. He stared up at the night sky, entranced once more by the unwavering brilliance of the Shepherd. The bright summer constellation put him in mind of Aelward, and he wondered how, for their part, he and Broq were faring. With a pang of compunction, Kal realized that he had, yet again, betrayed the man's sage counsel to guard his identity, and in so doing had squandered his most precious commodity—anonymity.

  He shook his head ruefully. "Yet hope . . . Yet hope . . . Yet hope . . . ," he heard himself mutter. And then, as if from a spring welling up from his heart, the words became a whispered song into the night.

  "Yet hope! For hope is life's bequest,

  Emboldening the meekest breast,