A Time of Omens

“I can’t make them out at all.”

  “My apologies; I forget you’re not elven. But I can just see what looks like birds, wheeling round and diving and suchlike. I’ll wager there’s a river mouth, and where there’s a river mouth there might be a harbor.”

  “True spoken. There’ll be fresh water at least, and fish and suchlike.”

  “You’ll need food, truly. Are you sure you should do this?”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I? Don’t worry, Dalla. I’ve spent many a long year alone in wild places, and I have the elementals, too, to help me if need be.”

  “Well and good, then. And I’ll be listening for you. If you call me, I’ll come. It may take me a while, but I will.”

  “You have my thanks, and so does Evandar.”

  Dallandra smiled, then turned and began walking toward the sea, heading for a place where it seemed the sun laid a road of gold across the water. She waded out into the gentle waves, seemed to step onto the golden road, and disappeared like mist vanishing in the glare of sun. She apparently knew the trick, as Evandar had called it, of traveling to the home of the three mothers of all roads.

  Jill allowed herself the luxury of a brief moment of envying her, then made herself concentrate on the job at hand. The Wildfolk were still clustering round, undines thronging all silver in the breaking waves, sylphs and sprites hovering overhead, crystal glimpses in the strong sun. At the head of a pack of warty green and purple gnomes, her faithful gray fellow was wandering around, poking at the sand with a piece of stick. When Jill called him, he trotted over, the others straggling slowly after.

  “Now look, I need your help. You know who the Elder Brothers are.”

  The gray gnome nodded and grinned, revealing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. The purple fellows were suddenly all attention.

  “Well, somewhere around here they have a city, somewhere away from the shore, most like. I need to know where it is.”

  With a scatter of sand they all disappeared, leaving her to hope they’d understood her.

  Sticking to the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, Jill headed down the beach, keeping the cliffs to her left— going south, she finally decided, once the sun had moved enough for her to judge that it was setting, not rising. It was a long time before she could see the specks wheeling and diving that Dallandra had noticed, and longer still before those specks did indeed resolve themselves into white birds. At that point she realized as well that the land was sloping ever so gently down, and that the cliffs rose lower and lower, finally petering out ahead in a last curve of broken hill. She could also see a brownish surge of water heading out from land and flowing across the ocean. So Dallandra had found her a river, indeed, and Jill was glad of it. In the blazing heat she wanted a swim in fresh water as badly as she was beginning to need the shade of the trees that bordered it.

  Unfortunately, when she reached the shallows of the estuary, she found crocodiles, piled on a tumble of gray rocks or flopped onto each other as they lazed on the mud among stands of water reeds. Although Jill started to count them, she gave up after fifty. While the creatures blinked and drowsed in the afternoon sun, little brown birds walked among and over them without the crocodiles even noticing, but Jill had no desire to try the trick herself. She got one of her water bottles out of her pack and had a long swallow—warm, tasting of leather, but at least it was wet. If, as seemed likely, the river got deeper and ran faster upstream, she’d be able to find a safer spot to drink later.

  By then the sun was sinking off in the west, and with the cooler air of evening came swarms of insects, rising like a mist from the riverbanks. Deep in the jungle ahead birds began to call back and forth. With a yawn and a grunt, a few of the crocodiles scrambled out of the pack and flopped into the river. Birds screeched a warning and flew. Jill decided that she’d be better off with a good stretch of dry land between her and them. Rather than face the night jungle she hurried back to the beach and went back the way she’d come for some hundreds of yards. Well above the current waterline she found the bleached-gray trunk of an entire tree, its roots all twisted with dead kelp, and a long scatter of smaller pieces of driftwood, plenty of bone-dry fuel for a fire. Crocodiles, she assumed, would dislike fire as much as other wild animals did. She swung her pack free of her aching shoulders, set it down in the shade of the trunk, and set about making camp.

  As she was gathering small chunks and sticks, she discovered her first concrete bit of evidence that Evandar had indeed found her the right island. Lying half-buried in the sand was a broken plank, cut and curved in such a way that it could only have come from a ship. It might, of course, have been nothing more than wrack from some Bardek merchanter, carried hundreds and hundreds of miles by the currents, but she preferred to doubt it. In the last of the day’s light she scurried round, searching for more driftwood, scrabbling like a mole in the sand, until at last, just as the twilight was growing thick and gray, she unearthed a flat panel of wood that must have once formed the side of a chest or back of a bench. It seemed to be the splintered half of a big oblong, and it was carved with designs that no Bardekian would have drawn.

  Once she got a fire going with less interesting driftwood, Jill studied her discovery by firelight streaked blue from the sea salt impregnating the wood. Although the panel was bleached and blistering, she discovered on one edge two indentations that could only have been made by hinges—so it was part of a chest, indeed. With her fingertip she could trace a long pattern of vines and flowers, looping casually, almost randomly across the entire surface rather than being contained in strict bands, such as a Bardekian craftsman would have chosen, and among the foliage were the little faces of Wildfolk. On the reverse side of the panel she found deep-graved letters, recognizably elven though somewhat different from the profuse syllabary she’d learned.

  Enough of the symbols were familiar for her to make a stab at deciphering the words, most of which seemed to have vanished with the missing piece of panel. There was the graceful hook that spelled “ba,” and here the slashed cross of “de.”

  “Tran rinbaladelan linalandal—” she said aloud, and her blood ran cold at the sound of the city name. “Rinbaladelan son of the something? Or wait! The son of Rinbaladelan, not the other way round.”

  A new city, then, founded by exiles? Quite possibly, if its name had been inscribed on this long-sunk ship to show her home port. She tossed the panel over near her gear, then got up and laid more wood on the fire. In the blue and gold flame the salamanders leapt and sported, rubbing their backs like cats on the burning sea wrack. Jill wandered away from the pool of light so that she could look up at the stars, hanging bright and clear above her, so close, seemingly, that she felt she could stretch up a hand and touch them. She wished she had a navigator’s lore, to read the stars and learn how far south she might be, but of course, for all the strange lore she did know, the book of the stars was closed to her. Far down the beach at low tide, the ocean lapped soft waves.

  What, then, was the noise? All at once she realized that for some time now she’d been hearing a distant sound that she’d been assuming, only half consciously, was surf, but here in this sheltered bend of coast, and with the tide so far out at that, no waves pounded on the shore. She went cold again, freezing motionless, straining to hear, to place, the soft but rhythmical boom, boom, boom floating through the night.

  After some long minutes she realized that the sound was growing louder, coming closer, pounding like the footsteps of an enormous animal walking at a stately pace. She hurried back to the fire, wondered if she should keep it or smother it, cursed herself for not traveling armed, decided that one sword wouldn’t have been much good, anyway, against a beast as big as this one must be, then laughed aloud at herself. She did, after all, have dweomer to fall back upon. No doubt a blaze of etheric fire would frighten away any animal, gigantic or not, if indeed a beast was what she was hearing. The sound was definitely closer now and definitely coming from the distant river. She walked a
way from the fire, peered into the dark until her eyes adjusted, then saw pinpoints of light flickering far off in the estuary. The booms grew louder still.

  Drums. Drums and torches coming along the riverbank, and she was willing to wager that whoever came marching was pounding those drums to scare the crocodiles off. All at once Wildfolk swarmed into manifestation around her, a whole army of green and purple gnomes, a flock of sprites, jumping or fluttering round in sheer excitement. Her own gray gnome appeared, jigging up and down on top of her pack.

  “The Elder Brothers, is it?”

  He nodded a yes and grinned, gape-mouthed. In a few minutes she could see the dark shapes of ten men break free of the shadows around the river and turn, torches held high, onto the beach. She could even pick out the drummer, marching at the rear of the line and banging a large, flat drum with some kind of stick. She went back to her fire, threw on more wood to make it blaze in greeting, and waited, arms crossed over her chest, as they drew nearer, stumbling a little on the soft beach sand. With the crocodiles far behind, the drummer fell silent. About ten feet away they stopped, just out of the pool of light, but she could see them clearly enough: elves, all right, with their long, delicate ears and moonbeam-pale hair. They were dressed in full tunics, belted at the waist with a glitter of gold, which came just above their knees, and each man carried a quiver of arrows at his hip and a bow slung over his back. Jill hoped that they spoke the same elven language that she knew.

  “I give you my heartfelt greetings,” she said, “and hope I might be welcome here.”

  She could just make out a rustle of surprised whispers. One man stepped from the crowd and walked a few paces in her direction. A dragon’s head, worked in gold and as big as the palm of his hand, clasped his belt. When he spoke, she could indeed understand him, but with some difficulty. His dialect was far more different from that of the Westfolk than, say, Eldidd speech is from that of Deverry proper.

  “Strangers are always less than welcome. Are you a victim of the sea’s rage?”

  It took her a moment to realize that he meant a castaway.

  “No, good sir. I came here quite deliberately, looking for you and your people, in fact.”

  Automatically he turned to glance at the cove, turned back to her with a slight frown.

  “I see no boat.”

  “Well, no.” There was nothing she could say but the truth. “I traveled by dweomer, and I come to greet you and ask your aid in the name of the Light that shines behind all the gods.”

  Jill had never seen anyone look so surprised. He turned on one heel, staring at the beach, turned back to her with a shake of his head, his mouth half-open as he fought for words. The men behind him went dead-silent for a moment, then all began talking in a gabble of surprise until their leader shouted at them to be quiet.

  “It seems discourteous in the extreme to ask you for some proof, but given the circumstances…”

  Jill smiled, flung up one hand, and called upon the Spirits of Aethyr. In a blaze and stream of bluish light they flocked to her and made her hand and arm blaze with etheric fire far brighter than a torch. All round them Wildfolk swarmed into manifestation and spread out on the beach like an army.

  “Forgive me for doubting you.” The elven leader bowed deep. “My name is Elamanderiel, and in the name of the Light, I bid you welcome.”

  When Dallandra left Jill, she followed the sun road until the gold faded and the dappled tiles gave way to daffodils blooming by a stream. Following the stream uphill led her back past the circle of stones, through the mists, and down the long road by the sea whose waves broke on every shore and none of them. At length she made her way back to the river and found the Host scattered across the meadow and dancing, as if nothing troubling had ever happened in these lands. Under the young oak tree that hid his daughter, Evandar was sitting in the grass and playing sour notes on a bone whistle, about six inches long and bleached dead-white.

  “Odd little trinket,” he remarked. “I found it lying over there, in among the bushes, as if someone had dropped it by mistake. What do you think it is, my love?”

  “Oh, ych! It looks like it was made from an elven finger.”

  “Doesn’t it? What is it? Two joints somehow glued together? No, but it’s much too long for a single joint.” He held his own hand against it in illustration. “I wondered what it would call up, you see, but so far, naught’s appeared in answer to my playing.”

  “Perhaps it’s just as well. It gives me the strangest feeling, seeing it, and a worse one to hear it call. I wish you’d just smash it.”

  “I would, except it’s a riddle, and I think me a good one at that.” He tossed it into the air, seemed to catch it, but when he opened his hand it was gone. “Now I know where it lies, but no one else does, and so I’ve covered a riddle with a riddle.”

  “I can’t imagine any of your people making such a thing.”

  “Indeed, no, and so I wonder: who dropped it here, and why were they prowling beside my river? I think me we’d best tend to our borders.”

  All at once they were no longer alone. Like flames leaping out of the ground, soldiers of the Host were gathering round him—how many, she couldn’t tell—in a glitter of coppery-colored mail and helmets, each man armed with a long bronze-tipped spear. The music drifted away and stopped as the Host swelled, spreading across the meadow. At some far distance she heard horses neighing.

  “While you were gone, Alshandra was seen again,” Evandar said to Dallandra. “With some of those from farther in.”

  “Farther in? I wish you’d explain—”

  “There are two hosts, my love, the bright court that I keep, and then the dark who live farther in. And that’s all I’ll say about it now, for look! our horses!”

  A young boy hurried forward, leading two golden horses with silvery manes and tails. As Dallandra mounted, she saw that the foot soldiers had turned into cavalry as suddenly as changes always came about in this country. In the clatter and jingle of metal-studded tack they followed Evandar as he led the way out with a whoop and a wave of his arm. Dallandra rode up next to him as the road beneath flattened out and broke free into sunlight. Yet always the mist remained, a gray and shifting wall, seeming solid at times, thin and teased to silver at others to reveal glimpses of shining cities or forested mountains. Dallandra noticed that it always hung just at their left hand, as if they were traveling deosil in a vast circle round a grassy plain.

  “The riding of the border,” Evandar called out.

  Behind him the Host roared their approval, and silver horns blew.

  On horses that never seemed to tire they rode for hours, till the day faded into a greenish twilight, and a moon hung pink and bloated just above the horizon, never rising, never setting. In that ghastly light they traveled past ruins of cities fallen to some great catastrophe and the black and twisted stumps of dead forests, blanketed with ancient ash stretching as far as Dallandra could see. The horses never stumbled, never paused, ambled on and on and on through death and night, till just as she was ready to scream from the terror of it day broke, blue and clear, to drench them all in golden light. The mist writhed one last time, then blew away on a fresh and rising wind. Just ahead in the flowered meadow stood the pavilion of cloth-of-gold. Dallandra caught her breath in a sob of relief.

  “The border lies secure!” Evandar cried out. “Go then to your music and the feast, but come again when I call.”

  Behind him the host of soldiers blew away, like dead leaves swirling in an autumn wind. He swung down from his horse, helped Dallandra dismount, then turned the reins of their horses over to the same boy, who appeared as silently as before. Dallandra watched him lead them away round the pavilion and wondered aloud if there they would disappear.

  “No, they’ll return to their pastures, from whence we stole them.” He was grinning. “Are you weary, my love? Shall we join the feast?”

  “I’d rather you explained a few things to me.”

  “If
a riddle has an answer, it’s a riddle no more.”

  Simply because she was indeed very tired, she dropped the subject and let him lead her into the pavilion. Their seats, couches on which they could semirecline, stood at the head of the hall. She sank gratefully onto the soft cushions and accepted a golden goblet of mead from a page. As always, the mead and the bread seemed real to her fingers and her taste, solid and so delicious that she realized how hungry she was after the long ride. While they ate, various members of the Host would come to Evandar and talk in low voices, reporting things they’d seen, apparently. Harpers played nearby in long, sad harmonies, while young voices sang, until at last, she slept.

  2.

  The Prince of Swords

  The Westlands,

  Autumn, 1112

  Out on the high plains the elven leader with the most authority—and the largest warband for that matter—was Calonderiel, Banadar of the Eastern Border, and yet, as Deverry men reckoned such things, his claim to power rested on an oddly weak foundation. He was descended from nobody in particular and related to no one much—just the son of a horse herder who was the son of a weaver who was the son of a prosperous farmer back in the old days when the elves lived settled lives in their own kingdom in the far west. No one had ever accused his family of having any connection whatsoever to the noble-born or the renowned. He was, of course, the best archer, the shrewdest tactician, and one of the most respected leaders of men that the high plains had ever seen, and those things, among the People, outweighed any questions of kinship. Despite that, Rhodry ap Devaberiel was continually amazed that Calonderiel would hold such easy authority without a grumble from anyone. He himself was second in command of the banadar’s warband, and since he’d sworn to serve him, he personally would never have argued with a single order or decision his leader made. It was just that, at odd moments, he puzzled about it, or even, Calonderiel being the kind of man he was, felt he could wonder about it aloud.