“A happy thought,” grunted Sangfugol from his seat on the turf. “S’truth, but we are a merry band of pilgrims.”
“Pilgrims on the road through hell cannot afford too much merriment,” Josua said. He strode a little way out onto the greensward to stand by himself in thought.
“Then why don’t you tell him?” There was exasperation in Geloë’s voice, but her hawk-yellow eyes betrayed little emotion. “By bough and branch, Vorzheva, you are not a young girl, you are a woman. Why do you carry on so?”
Vorzheva’s eyes were moist. “I do not know. I cannot understand him.” Geloë shook her head. “I cannot understand any of you. I have spent little of my life with human folk, and it is because of this ridiculous uncertainty—‘I want this, I do not want that.’ The animals are more sensible, it seems to me. They do what they must and do not fret over what cannot be changed.” The witch woman laid a callused hand on Vorzheva’s arm. “Why do you worry so about things that do not matter? Prince Josua obviously cares for you. Why do you not tell him the truth?”
Her companion sighed. “He thinks me a foolish wagon-girl. It makes him cold to me. If I tell him, it will only be worse…I am sorry.” She angrily wiped at her face with her tattered sleeve. “It was seeing the Feluwelt again—that is what my people call this place, where the meadow runs in the forest’s shadow. It brought many memories to my mind, and made me unhappy.
“Valada Geloë?” It was Father Strangyeard’s voice, sourceless in the mist, but quite near. “Are you there? Valada Geloë?”
A little frustration showed itself on Geloë’s stern face. “Here, Strangyeard. Is anything wrong?”
The archivist appeared, a lanky, flapping shape materializing from gray obscurity. “No, no, I just wanted to…” He stopped, staring at Vorzheva’s tear-stained face. “Oh Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. How rude of me. I will leave you.” He turned to lurch off into the mist once more.
“Don’t go!” Strangely, it was Vorzheva who spoke. “Do not leave us, Father. Walk with us.”
Strangyeard looked at her, then to Geloë. “I do not wish to intrude, Lady. I fear I was thinking only of something I found in Morgenes’ book.” Eyepatch askew, thin fringe of reddish hair curling in the damp, he looked like a startled woodpecker. He seemed about to bolt once more, but the witch woman raised a calming hand.
“Walk with us, Strangyeard, as Vorzheva said. Perhaps your need is one for which my talents are better suited.” The priest looked at her nervously. “Come. We will walk back toward the others as we talk.”
Strangyeard was still carrying the loose sheaves of Morgenes’ book in his hand, after a few silent paces he began to leaf through them. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the section,” he said, shuffling the parchments. “I thought it might be significant—it was a bit about magic—The Art, that’s what Morgenes called it. I’m amazed by the things he knew, quite amazed…I would never have dreamt…”
A triumphant smile came to his face. “Here it is.” He squinted “Wonderful way with words…”
They walked several more paces in silence. “Will you read?” Geloë asked at last.
“Oh! Of course.” Strangyeard cleared his throat.
“…In truth, articles useful to The Art seem to fall into two broad categories,” the priest began, “those whose worth is bound in themselves, and those whose worth is bound in their derivation. In contradiction to popular superstition, an herb gathered in a graveyard is not generally useful because it came from such a place, but rather because of the herb itself. Since a graveyard may be the only place that herb is found, the connection becomes established and is then almost impossible to disentangle.
The other category of useful objects are usually ‘made’ objects, and their virtue is in their shaping or their raw beginnings. The Sithi, who have long possessed secrets of crafting hidden from mortals, made many things whose creation itself was a practice of The Art—although the Sithi would not exactly term it so. Thus, the virtue of these objects is in their making. The famous arrows of Vindaomeyo are an example, carved from common wood and fletched with the feathers of ordinary birds, yet each one is a talisman of great worth.
Other objects take their power from the stuff of their making. The great swords alluded to in Nisses’ lost book are examples here. All seem to derive their worth from their materials, although the crafting of each was a mighty task. Minneyar, King Fingil’s sword, was made of the iron keel of his boat, iron brought to Osten Ard by the Rimmersman sea-raiders out of the lost west. Thorn, most recently the sword of Prester John’s noblest knight, Sir Camaris, was forged from the glowing metals of a fallen star—like Minneyar’s iron, something foreign to Osten Ard. And Sorrow, the sword that Nisses claims Ineluki of the Sithi used to slay his own father the Erl-king, was made of Sithi witchwood and iron, two elements long thought to be antithetical and unmixable. Thus, such objects derive their strength primarily, it would seem, from the unearthly origins of their substance. Stories tell, however, that powerful Spells of Making were also wound in the forging of all these three blades, so the power of the Great Swords may come from both their substance and their making.
Ti-tuno, the hunting horn crafted in fabled Mezutu’a from the tooth of the dragon Hidohebhi, is another clear example of how sometimes an object of power may be made by both the crafting and the materials crafted…”
Strangyeard broke off. “It goes on to talk of other things. It is all fascinating, of course—what a scholar that man was!—but I thought the section on the swords might be interesting.”
Geloë nodded her head slowly. “It is. I wondered about these three swords that have become the object of our hopes. Morgenes seems to make a good argument as to the reason for their value. Perhaps they will indeed be useful against Ineluki. It is good that you found that, Strangyeard.”
The priest’s pink cheeks went a deeper red. “Too kind. You’re too kind.”
Geloë cocked her head. “I hear the others. Are you composed, Vorzheva?”
Vorzheva nodded her head. “I am not such a fool as you think me,” she said quietly.
The witch woman laughed. “I do not think you a fool, particularly. I think most people are foolish—and I count myself as well, for here I am without a roof, wandering over the grasslands like a stray heifer. Sometimes obvious foolishness is the only answer to grave problems.”
“Hmmm,” said Strangyeard, baffled. “Hmmm.”
The ragged band continued out onto the fog-ridden meadowlands, heading south toward the river Ymstrecca, which meandered along the breadth of the High Thrithings. They made camp on the open plain, shivering in the rain-sodden wind, huddling close to their small fire. Geloë made a soup of herbs and roots she had gathered. It was filling and warmed the stomach, but Deornoth mourned the absence of something more toothsome.
“Tomorrow let me go farther afield, my lord,” he implored Josua as they sat by the fire. All the others but Geloë had wrapped themselves in their cloaks to sleep, bundled close together like a family of sleeping kittens. The witch woman had gone a-wandering. “I know I could find a hare or two, and the underbrush must be full of grouse, even in this cold summer. We have had no meat for several days!”
Josua permitted himself a chilly smile. “I wish I could say yes, faithful friend, but I need your strong arms and good wit close by. These people can scarcely walk another step—those who can still walk, that is. No, a brace of hares would be tasty indeed, but I must keep you here. Besides, Valada Geloë tells me that one can live years without tasting meat.”
Deornoth grimaced. “But who would want to?” He studied his prince carefully. Josua’s already slender frame had grown even thinner, the play of his bones was plain beneath the skin. With what little fat he had worn long gone, the prince’s high forehead and pale eyes made him seem a statue of some ancient philosopher-monk, his gaze fixed always upon the infinite while the busy world spun on before him, ignored.
The fire hissed, working away at the damp wood. ?
??One other question, then, my lord,” Deornoth said softly. “Are we so sure of this Stone of Farewell that we should drag these sick, wounded people across the Thrithings in search of it? I speak no ill of Geloë, who is plainly a good-hearted soul, but to go so far? The edge of Erkynland is only a few leagues to the west. Surely we could find a loyal heart in one of the towns of the Hasu Vale—even if they were too frightened of your brother the king to give us shelter, we could find food and drink and warmer clothing for our wounded, surely.”
Josua sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps, Deornoth, perhaps. Believe me, the thought has occurred to me.” He stretched his long legs before him, nudging at the edge of the coals with his boot heel. “But we cannot risk it, nor can we spare the time. Every hour we walk in the open means more time for one of Elias’ patrols to find us, or something worse to catch us unprotected. No, the only place that it seems we can go is Geloë's Stone of Farewell, so the sooner we do, the better. Erkynland is lost to us—at least for now, perhaps forever.”
The prince shook his head and fell into thought once more. Deornoth sighed and poked at the fire.
They reached the banks of the Ymstrecca in the morning of their third day on the grasslands, The wide river shone faintly beneath the gray sky, a dim streak of silver passing like a dream through the dark, damp meadows. The water’s voice was as muted as its sheen, a faint murmur like distant conversation.
Josua’s people were content to pause and rest a while on the riverbanks, enjoying the sound and sight of the first swiftly-moving waters they had seen since deep in Aldheorte Forest. When Gutrun and Vorzheva made known their plan to follow the river downstream a short distance to where they could bathe their limbs in privacy, Josua was quick to object, worried for their safety. When Geloë offered to go with them, the prince reluctantly consented. It was difficult to think of a situation beyond the witch woman’s enormous competence.
“Ah, it is somehow as if I never left,” Vorzheva said, dangling her feet in the current. They had chosen a sandy bank where a stand of birch trees in midstream widened the rivercourse, shielding them from the view of their distant fellow travelers. Her voice was careless, though her face belied her. “It is like when I was a little girl.” She frowned as she splashed water on the numerous scratches covering her legs. “But it is so cold!”
Duchess Gutrun had loosened the neck of her garment. She stood a little way out from the bank, the river eddying around her plump calves as she splashed water on her throat and scrubbed at her face. “It is not so bad,” she laughed. “The river Gratuvask that runs by our home in Elvritshalla—now that is cold water! Every year at spring the maidens of the town go down to the river to bathe—I did when I was young.” She straightened up, staring at nothing. “The men must stay inside all morning, on penalty of a beating, so the maidens can splash in the Gratuvask. And cold! The river is born from the snows of the northern mountains! You have not heard shrieking until you hear a hundred young girls plunge into a chilly river on an Avrel morning!” She laughed again. “There is a story, you know, about one young man who was determined to see the Gratuvask maidens—it is a famous tale in Rimmersland, perhaps you have heard it…?” She broke off, water sluicing from her cupped hands. “Vorzheva? Are you ill?”
The Thrithings-woman was bent over, her face pale as milk. “Just a pain,” she said harshly, straightening up. “It will go away soon. See, I am better now. Tell your story.”
Gutrun looked at her suspiciously. Before the duchess could say anything, Geloë spoke up from her seat on the bank nearby, where she had been tidying Leleth’s hair with a comb made from fishbone.
“The story must wait.” The witch woman’s tone was sharp. “See—we are not alone.”
Vorzheva and the duchess turned to follow Geloë’s pointing finger. Across the meadows, some three or four furlongs away to the south, a mounted rider stood poised on a hillock. He was much too far away for his face to be discernible, but there was little doubt he was looking in their direction. All the women stared back, even Leleth, her strange eyes wide. After several silent moments in which it seemed that no hearts beat, the solitary figure turned his horse and rode down the hillock, vanishing from sight.
“How…how frightening,” the duchess said, clutching the neck of her dress closed with a damp hand. “Who is it? Those horrible Norns?”
“I cannot say,” Geloë rasped. “But we should return to tell the others, in case Josua did not see. We must be concerned with any strangers now, be they friend or foe.”
Vorzheva shuddered. Her face was still pale. “There are no friendly strangers on these grasslands,” she said.
The women’s news was enough to convince Josua that they could dally no longer. Unhappily, the company shouldered their few possessions and set off again, following the course of the Ymstrecca east alongside the border of the now-distant forest, a thin dark strip on the misty northern horizon.
They saw no one else all afternoon.
“These seem like fertile lands,” Deornoth said as they searched for a spot to camp. “Isn’t it strange that we have seen no people beside that lone rider?”
“One rider is enough.” Josua was grim.
“My people have never liked it here, so near to the old forest,” Vorzheva said, and shivered. “There are spirits of the dead beneath the trees.”
Josua sighed. “These are things I would have laughed at a year ago. Now I have seen them, or things even worse. God save me, what a world this has become!”
Geloë looked up from where she was making a bed of grass for young Leleth. “It has always been the same world, Prince Josua,” she said. “It is only that in these troubled hours things are seen more clearly. The lamps of cities blur many shadows that are plain beneath the moon.”
Deornoth awoke in the deeps of night, his heart beating swiftly. He had been dreaming. King Elias had become a spindly thing of grasping claws and red eyes clinging to Prince Josua’s back. Josua could not see him and did not even seem to know that his brother was there. In the dream Deornoth tried to tell him, but Josua did not listen, only smiled as he walked through the streets of Erchester with the terrible Elias-thing riding his back like a deformed baby. Every time Josua bent to pat the head of a child or give a coin to a beggar, Elias reached out to undo the good work when Josua had passed, snatching the coin back or scratching the child’s face with dirty nails. Soon an angry crowd followed behind Josua, shouting for his punishment, but the prince went blithely on, unknowing, even as Deornoth screamed and pointed at the evil thing riding the prince’s shoulders.
Awake on the benighted grasslands, Deornoth shook his head, trying to pull free from the clinging sense of disquiet. Elias’ dream-face, wizened and spiteful, would not leave his mind. He sat up and looked around. All the camp was sleeping but for Valada Geloë, who sat dreaming or pondering over the last coals of the dying fire.
He lay back and tried to sleep, but could not for fear the dream would return. At last disgusted by his own weak-heartedness, he got up and quietly shook out his cloak, then walked to the fire and sat down near Geloë.
The witch woman did not look up at his approach. Her face was red-splashed by firelight, eyes staring unblinkingly into the embers as though nothing else existed. Her lips were moving but no sound came forth; Deornoth felt a chill creep up the back of his neck. What was she doing? Should he wake her?
Geloë’s mouth continued to work. Her voice rose to a whisper. “…Amerasu, where are you? Your spirit is dim…and I am weak…”
Deornoth’s hand stopped an inch from the witch woman’s rough sleeve.
“…If ever you share, let it be now…” Geloë’s voice hissed like the wind. “Oh, please…” A tear, scarlet-shot, trickled down her weathered cheek.
Her despairing whisper drove Deornoth back to his makeshift bed. He did not fall back into sleep for some time, but lay staring up at the blue-white stars.
He was awakened once more before dawn—this time by Josua. The
prince shook Deornoth’s arm, then lifted his handless right wrist to his lips, gesturing for silence. The knight looked up to see a clot of darkness to the west, thicker even than the general obscurity of night, approaching along the line of the river. The muffled sound of hoofbeats rolled toward them over the grass. Deornoth’s heart raced. He felt on the ground for his scabbard, and was soothed only a little by the feeling of his sword hilt beneath his fingers. Josua crawled away to wake the others.
“Where is the witch woman?” Deornoth whispered urgently, but the prince was too far away to hear, so he crawled over to where Strangyeard lay. The older man, sleeping lightly, was awake in a moment.
“Be still,” the knight murmured. “There are riders coming.”
“Who?” Strangyeard asked. Deornoth shook his head.
The oncoming riders, still little more than shadows, split almost noiselessly into several groups, sweeping wide around the encampment. Deornoth had to marvel at their silent horsemanship even as he cursed his party’s lack of bows and arrows. A folly, to fight with swords against mounted men—if men they were. He thought he could count two dozen attackers, although any estimate was dubious in this half-light.
Deornoth got to his feet, even as a few shadowy figures around him did the same. Josua, nearby, drew Naidel from its sheath; the sudden hiss of metal against leather seemed as loud as a shout. The surrounding figures reined up, and for a moment utter silence fell once more. Someone passing a scone’s throw away would never have suspected the presence of a single soul, let alone two forces at battle-ready.
A voice broke the stillness.
“Trespassers! You walk on the land of Clan Mehrdon! Lay down your arms.
Flint rang on steel, then a torch blossomed behind the nearest figures, throwing long shadows across the campsite. Mounted men, hooded and cloaked, surrounded Josua’s band with a ring of spears.