A Time of Exile

by Katharine Kerr

  “What? It’s going to be a forced march. She’ll get exhausted.”

  “She’s exhausted already. It’s time. She’s going to die.”

  Dallandra wept, her face running tears while her whole body shook in silent grief. When Aderyn scrambled to his feet and flung his good arm around her in a clumsy attempt to comfort her, she pulled away.

  “It’s wrong of me to weep like this. It’s her time, and that’s that.” She busied herself in wiping her face on her sleeve. “I should accept it and be done with it.”

  “Easy to say. Not so easy to do.”

  She nodded a distracted agreement.

  “Are you coming with her?” Aderyn said. “And us, I mean?”

  “Of course. Do you think I’d let her go alone?” She turned on him with an expression so fierce that he stepped back. “Oh, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m all to pieces over this.”

  “As well you might be. It’s all right. I was just worried about her.”

  “So am I. I’m bringing Enabrilia along, too, to help me tend her. She’s sending the baby and her man off with the others. I’m sorry, Ado. I meant to tell you earlier.”

  He hugged it to himself like a treasure: she’d used his nickname, just casually, as if they’d known each other a good long time.

  During the long, hard march to the lake, Aderyn traveled at the rear of the line with the two elven women. Thanks to Dallandra’s healing dweomer, his wounded hand bothered him hardly at all, but even if it had pained him, he would have ignored it in his concern for Nananna. Often he wondered if the old woman would live to reach the burial ground. In the mornings she mounted her horse easily enough, but after a few hours her energy would ebb, and she would ride hunched over, clinging to the saddle with both hands, her frail fingers like the talons of some ancient bird, gripping its perch in a desperate fear of falling. By their late camps she would be unable to dismount—Aderyn and Dallandra would lift her down from her horse and carry her like a child to her blankets. Since she could barely eat, she grew lighter every day, all bone and sheer will.

  “I’ll live long enough to see the death-ground,” she would say. “Don’t fuss over me, children.”

  In the end, she was right. Just at noon on a late autumn day, warm and hazy with false summer, Halaberiel led his army—because an army of some two hundred warriors it was by then—up a low grassy rise. Riding in the rear, Aderyn heard sudden yells. Since he couldn’t understand the words, he thought the men in the van were seeing the enemy, drawn up and ready for them.

  “Stay here with Nananna!” he yelled at Dallandra.

  He turned his horse out of line and rode hard, heading for the head of the line. As he rode, the shouts resolved themselves, then spread down the line of march: dal-en! dal-en! the lake! the lake! Just at the crest of the rise Aderyn came up to Halaberiel, who was calling for a temporary halt. Far down the green slope lay the silver lake, a long finger of water caught in a narrow valley pointing southeast to northwest. To the north a thick forest spread along the valley floor, the dark pines standing in such orderly rows that obviously they were no natural growth. Halaberiel waved his hand in their direction.

  “The death-ground. And the trees of my ancestors.”

  They set up camp that afternoon between the forest and the north shore of the lake in a grassy meadow clearly planned as a campground: there were stone fire pits at regular intervals and small sheds, too, for keeping firewood dry and food safe from prowling animals. After he helped Dallandra make camp—as best he could with his clumsy broken hand—Aderyn joined the council of war, consisting of Halaberiel and ten other elves, hastily elected squad leaders and temporary captains. For over an hour they argued strategy in Elvish while Aderyn tried to pick out the few words he knew; eventually he gave it up and drowsed. After the council disbanded, some of the men from the banadar’s personal warband joined them and, out of deference to the dweomerman, spoke in Deverrian. After more talk of arrows, Calonderiel said something so odd that it caught Aderyn’s attention.

  “How many trees should we cut, Banadar?”

  “I don’t know. A lot. Too many—ah, by the Dark Sun, far too many no matter how few it is! We need to go into the forest and see how much stacked wood’s there already, I suppose.” Halaberiel caught the puzzlement on Aderyn’s face and smiled, a painful twist of his mouth. “Come with us. There’s somewhat you need to see.”

  In the last of the afternoon sun, they left the camp and crossed the neatly tended boundary of the forest into the dark and spicy-scented corridors of trees. In a clearing, not ten yards in, stood a structure of dry-walled stone and rough-cut timber about thirty feet on a side. When Halaberiel pushed open the creaking wooden door, Aderyn could see that it was stacked about a third full with firewood. Since by then he’d grown used to the parsimonious elven fires of dried horse dung and twigs, he stared at the wood as if it were a dragon’s hoard of gold and jewels.

  “When one of the People dies,” Halaberiel said, “we take some of this seasoned wood to burn the body. Then we cut a tree to replace it and plant a new one. So, every time one of the People dies, a tree dies, too, and another is bom. Normally, it all works out. Now, though, there’s going to be a war.”

  “And you’ll need dry wood.” Aderyn felt abruptly weary. “Lots of it.”

  “Just so. But it’s going to be a problem. Even if we start cutting tomorrow, the wood’s going to be green for a long time. Ah, by the gods of both our people! If this place weren’t so sacred, I’d just withdraw and let the rotten-hearted Round-ears have the lakes.”

  “Never!” Calonderiel’s voice was a snarl. “Banadar, how could you even say it?”

  With a shrug Halaberiel shut the doors again and turned away, waving to the others to follow him. They were almost back to the camp when they saw Dallandra’s friend Enabrilia racing toward them, her long hair streaming behind her, her hands waving as she called out.

  “Aderyn, Aderyn, hurry! Nananna’s dying!”

  Aderyn was running before he quite realized it. Following Enabrilia, he dodged through the camp and came panting at last to Nananna’s tent. When he ducked through the flap, Enabrilia stayed outside. He could hear her ordering other people to stand back and keep quiet; then her voice faded away. Inside the tent, a pale dweomer light cast soft shadows. On a heap of leather cushions Nananna lay, her head cradled in Dallandra’s arms, her white hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders like a drift of snow. The old woman’s face was as pale and dry as parchment, the skin stretched tight over bone, her eyes huge and staring and dark as her cat-slit pupils strained to catch the fading light.

  “Here’s Aderyn,” Dallandra whispered. “He’ll get out his medicines and help you.”

  “There’s no need of that.” Nananna’s voice was a rasp of whisper. “Come here, child.”

  Aderyn knelt in front of her and took one withered hand in both of his.

  “Tell me, Aderyn, will you stay with us?”

  “I will. My Wyrd lies here. I know that, even though I’m not sure what it is.”

  “I know.” Her voice was faint, drawing him closer. “I’ve had one last dream. Teach my people, Aderyn. Teach them your dweomer to mend their shattered magicks. Teach them herb lore, too, to replace the physicians they lost so long ago.”

  “Gladly, Wise One. Everything I know will be theirs.”

  She smiled, a draw of bloodless lips, and rested for a long moment before she spoke again.

  “Dalla, you shall teach him how to grow a pair of wings like yours. That will be his payment, to fly where he wills.”

  “Done, then.” Dallandra’s voice was steady, but when Aderyn looked up, he saw tears streaming down her face. “Everything I know will be his.”

  “Good.” Nananna’s breath came in a long sigh. “There must be no secrets between you, none, do you hear? Only with the dweomer can our two races meet in peace, and naught must be held back.”

  “Well and good, Wise One,” Aderyn said.
“But what do you mean, grow wings?”

  “Our dweomer has a strange trick or two to show you.” Nananna managed a smile. “Dallandra and I are shape-changers. Someday you, too, will learn to take on the body and flight of a bird—an owl, I think, to judge from those big eyes of yours.”

  Aderyn caught his breath with a gasp.

  “A thousand thanks. I swear I’ll be worthy of it, and only use it to serve the Light.”

  “Good. Very well, then. I have set you both on your course. It’s time for me to depart. Child, let me lie down now.”

  Dallandra settled her on the cushions and moved aside to kneel by Aderyn. For a moment Nananna lay still, gathering her energy; then slowly, softly under her breath, she began to chant, and her voice took on a last brief flower of strength.

  “The river opens before me. I see the light upon the river. It is time to sail to the sea.”

  When Dallandra sobbed aloud, Aderyn realized that she was too distraught to fulfill the ritual, and that he would have to take her rightful place.

  “May the sun shine on you as you sail the river,” he whispered. “May the current be fast.”

  “The sun gathers around me. I step into the boat at the riverbank.”

  “I see the silver river flowing west, the dark rushes and the boat, ready for you.”

  As he spoke, Aderyn did indeed see in his mind the vision that they were building together as they went on speaking, describing the scene back and forth to each other. Wrapped in the golden light of the sun, the soul stepped into it—a pale flame of silver light, flickering at first, then towering up strong, far different from a human soul.

  “Sun and moon, shine upon her!” Aderyn cried out. “Bring her to the sea of light, love, and life.”

  The boat was drifting downriver, the silver flame glowing as she rode proudly on. He seemed to drift above it on a bird’s wings and see, in the gleaming sunset ahead, Others coming to meet them on a vast wave of light. Nananna rose free of the boat and flew to join them in a sudden blaze that left him blind. Blinking his physical eyes and shaking his head, he brought himself back to find her body lying dead on the cushions.

  “It is over,” Aderyn called out. “She has gone to her true home.”

  Like thunder came a booming hollow drumbeat in answer, three great knocks rolling over the camp. From outside he heard a shout, then voices raised in keening, a high and musical wailing for the dead. Aderyn slapped his open palm once on the ground to earth the final force. It was finished. Her trained soul had no need to hang around near its corpse for three days; she had left cleanly and gone free. Aderyn crossed the frail arms over the slender chest and closed the eyes that the soul no longer needed for seeing.

  “We should burn the body soon,” Aderyn said. “Or do your people lay out the dead to weep over them?”

  Dallandra looked at him, then threw back her head and howled. Tears ran down her face as she keened over and over, reaching up, pulling at her hair, unloosening the braids in a silvery spill of mourning, rocking herself from side to side so violently that Aderyn threw his arms around her and pulled her tight. She wept against him, sobbing like a child, her pale soft hair like a cloud over his arms, while outside the People sang in a long wail of grief.

  “Hush, hush, it was time.”

  As violently as it had come, her weeping left her. He could see her wrench her will under control as she looked up, her eyes as calm and gray as fog over sea.

  “So it was. And someday we’ll meet again in some land or another.”

  “Just so. Have faith in the Light.”

  In simple exhaustion, Dallandra leaned her head against his shoulder. As Aderyn held her, his heart pounding, he realized that he’d fallen in love.

  That night they burned Nananna and scattered her ashes under the trees of the sacred grove, in a spot where the moon fell through the branches and touched the ground with silver. On her grave Halaberiel swore an oath that never would the race of men defile this spot. All night, the People wept and sang songs of mourning, but when the sun rose, their grief was gone.

  There was nothing left but to wait and see what move the Bear clan made next.

  “Four hundred men!” Garedd said. “I never thought our lord could raise so many.”

  “I told you that the men of the north had guts, didn’t I?” Cinvan said. “We’ll shove those stinking Westfolk off Lord Dovyn’s land, sure enough.”

  They were standing on the roof of Tieryn Melaudd’s dun, ostensibly on guard duty, but they’d spent most of the afternoon leaning on the railing and watching the last preparations for the march west. In those days, four hundred men was a sizable army, and the ward below was a cram and clutter of horses, supply wagons, and men, the servants rushing back and forth loading provisions, the lords and riders standing around and talking over the campaign ahead.

  “Tomorrow,” Cinvan said. “We ride tomorrow. Cursed well about time, too.”

  “I’m just glad we didn’t draw fort guard.”

  “Cursed right. The sooner we get the fighting started, the better.”

  Garedd nodded his agreement, then went back to watching the bustle below. Cinvan walked across the tower roof and looked off to the west, where, far out of sight, the enemy lay, no doubt waiting for them. Normally, on a night before a march to battle, he would have been as eager as he was trying to act, but this time, he was troubled by thoughts that he could barely understand. As a matter of course he wanted battle glory, and he wasn’t afraid of battle pain—that wasn’t the problem. He was simply having trouble convincing himself that he hated the Westfolk as much as he should, considering that they were now his sworn lord’s enemies. No matter how hard he tried to banish the memory, he kept thinking of Prince Halaberiel, demanding and getting mercy for Lord Dovyn. And what about his sister’s man, too? What if Gaverro was part of the elven warband? Cinvan cordially hated the elf, but what about his little daughter, so far away from her mother now? What if his own niece ended up an orphan after this fight? Back and forth Cinvan prowled, struggling with an utterly unfamiliar conscience. Finally, when the sunset was turning the west a gilded pink, he reminded himself that as an oath-sworn rider there was absolutely nothing he could do about anything except follow his lord’s orders.

  “We’re off watch,” Garedd called out. “You coming? What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

  “Naught. I’m on my way.”

  Yet he paused for one last look to the west, and he shuddered, wondering for the first time in his life if he might die in a coming war. Then he shook the feeling off and clattered downstairs to the warmth and noisy cheer of the great hall.

  Three days after Nananna died, the first scouts came in. Aderyn was having dinner with Prince Halaberiel when they arrived at the camp; at the sudden gleeful shouts the banadar left his meal and hurried to meet them, with Aderyn trailing after. Although Aderyn couldn’t understand the Elvish reports, in time Calonderiel remembered his manners and translated for him.

  “The Bears are here, camping down on the strip of land that Dovyn wanted. They’ve sent out scouts of their own. Our men spotted a couple of them crashing their way through the woods and killed them. When they don’t come back, the Bears should be able to guess that we know they’re here. They let a third Round-ear live, so he could tell the Bears about the terrain. That was Halaberiel’s orders, you see, to let one live. Why, I don’t know.”

  “How many men does Melaudd have?”

  “About four hundred.”

  “Oh, ye gods.”

  “Bad odds, sure enough.” Calonderiel paused, rubbing his chin. “Well, if we die defending the death-ground, it’ll have a certain poetry to it.” He caught Aderyn’s arm and began leading him away from the others. “Will you promise me somewhat? When the battle starts, you and Dallandra will be in camp, waiting to heal the wounded, right?”

  “That’s our plan, truly.”

  “Well and good, then. If our line breaks, and we’re all slain, will you make su
re she gets to safety?”

  “I will. I promise you on the gods of my people.”

  “My humble thanks. I know she’ll never love me, but at least I can die content, knowing she’ll live.”

  “You might not die at all, dimwit.” It was Jezryaladar, strolling over to them. “The banadar has a trick planned. That was the reason they let one scout get away, as you might have known if you’d only listened more carefully.”

  “With these odds, a trick’s not going to do much good, no matter how clever it is, and don’t you call me a dimwit.”

  “My humble apologies.” Grinning, Jezryaladar sketched a bow. “And your intellect does seem to be catching fire, truly, if you realize that you’ve got no chance with Dalla.”

  Calonderiel howled and slapped him across the face so hard that he staggered back. Before he could recover or speak, Calonderiel had stalked off into the night. Jezryaladar rubbed his face and swore softly to himself.

  “Are you all right?” Aderyn said.

  “I am, and you know, I deserved that. We’re all on edge tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you think Cal’s right, and things are hopeless?”

  “I don’t, but blast me if I can tell why. I’ve just got this certainty deep in my heart that somehow or other Halaberiel’s going to get us a victory out of this, but I doubt me if the banadar believes it himself.”

  • • •

  The valley that sheltered the Lake of the Leaping Trout fell steeply to the water along its eastern side, but on the western, gentle hills rolled down, forming a strip of fairly flat ground, at least twenty yards wide, often wider, edging the entire length of the lake. When the lone scout came back with the news that the Westfolk were camped up at the far end, Melaudd and his allies automatically decided to move up on this flat ground, where they could ride three and four abreast in battle order, safe from some sudden ambush.

  “Not that there’s going to be an ambush,” Garedd remarked. “From what I hear, the Westfolk only have about eighty riders with swords.”

  “That troubles my heart,” Cinvan said, and he meant it. “I hate to fight with this kind of odds on our side. I’m an oath-sworn warrior, not a pig butcher.”