A Time of Omens

  “Hold your tongue!” Rhodry managed to speak with some force. “Listen to his grace. He’s right.”

  Yraen found their horses, saddled them and loaded up their gear, then brought them round to the rear of the pavilion where Rhodry was waiting for him, still under guard, but this time, Yraen supposed, the men were there to keep him away from others, as if he carried some kind of plague of the supernatural that the populace might catch. Yraen felt the injustice of it eating at him, but since he had no desire to molder in the gwerbret’s dungeon keep, he kept his mouth shut.

  At least they could travel unmolested; he doubted if Gwar’s three friends would bother to follow them, and with old Badger Snout dead, Rhodry was probably safe enough from creatures of that sort, whatever they might be. Yet, as he thought about it, Yraen no longer knew what might or might not be probable. His entire view of the universe had just gotten itself shattered like a clay cup hitting a stone floor. The calm and literate air of his father’s court, where bards and philosophers alike were always welcome, seemed farther away and stranger than the Otherlands. As they rode out of the dun, he found he had nothing to say. He could only wonder why he’d ever left the Holy City.

  Already the sun hung low, catching a few mares’ tails high in the sky and turning them gold, a promise of rain coming in a day or two. A few miles from the dun, they crested a rise and saw down below them an unmarked crossroads, one way heading roughly east and west, the other running off to the north. A rider was waiting in the cross, a tall blond man on a white horse with rusty-red ears.

  “Evandar, no doubt,” Rhodry whispered. “And me too hoarse to talk!” He tried to laugh, but all that emerged was a rusty cracking sound that made Yraen feel cold all over.

  “Just be quiet, then! I’ll try to bargain with him.”

  As they walked their horses down, Evandar waited, sitting easy in his saddle and smiling in greeting, yet as soon as they drew close, his eyes narrowed.

  “What happened to your neck?” he snapped at Rhodry.

  “This thing tried to strangle him,” Yraen broke in. “A fiend from the hells with a badger head, like, and claws. Rhodry killed it with the bronze knife that the old herb-woman gave him.”

  “Good, good.” Evandar was still looking at Rhodry. “It came for that whistle, you know. Why don’t you let me have it back? They won’t come bothering you anymore.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Yraen said with as much authority as he could summon. “We want some answers.”

  “Do you now?” Evandar paused to smile. “Well, I spoke to Dallandra, and she did mention that, but I’ve none to give you. That whistle, however, is mine by right of a treaty sealed in my own country, and I do wish to have it back. You wouldn’t want me riding to the gwerbret and accusing you of theft, would you now?”

  Rhodry made a painful gurgling noise that made Evandar frown.

  “You’ve been hurt badly, haven’t you? That aches my heart, that you’ve taken a wound over a thing of mine. I consider you under my protection, you see.” Evandar held out one slender, pale hand. “Rhodry, please?”

  Rhodry considered, then shrugged. He wrapped his reins round his saddle peak, then loosened his belt and reached inside his shirt to pull out the whistle. In the graying twilight it glimmered an unnatural white.

  “Now here,” Yraen snapped. “You can’t just give it back after all that’s happened. He should at least give us a price for it.”

  “Well put, lad, and fair enough.” Evandar raised one hand, snapped his fingers, and plucked a leather bag out of midair. “Here’s a sack of silver, given to Dallandra by that lord, but she has no use or need of it in my country.” He tossed it to Yraen. “How’s that for a price?”

  “Not enough. I’ll hand the silver back again in return for some answers.”

  “Keep the silver, for answers you shall not have until you guess them. I pose riddles, and men must find the answers. I never solve a riddle for free, lad, and it’s unwise of you to keep asking.”

  Maybe it was only the darkening light, or the cool spring wind ruffling his hair, but Yraen abruptly shuddered. When he glanced at Rhodry, he found the silver dagger grinning in his usual daft way, as if leaving this exchange to his apprentice.

  “Very well, then,” Yraen said. “We’ll take the silver.”

  When Rhodry flipped the whistle over, Evandar caught it in one hand and bowed from the saddle.

  “I’ll give you somewhat more in return, then, as thanks for your graciousness. Which way are you riding?”

  “North, I suppose, to Cerrgonney.” Yraen glanced at Rhodry, who nodded agreement. “There’s always work for a silver dagger to the north.”

  “Or east.” Rhodry cleared his throat with a rasp. “The Auddglyn, maybe.”

  “I can’t ride through Deverry to get there.”

  “And Rhodry had best stay clear of Eldidd,” Evandar broke in. “Why the Auddglyn, Rhodry?”

  “We need a smith, and I used to know one down in Dun Mannannan.”

  “Otho the dwarf!” Evandar smiled suddenly and bowed again. “Did you know that he made that ring you wear? Ah, I didn’t think you did. Well, he’s gone from Dun Mannannan, but his apprentice took over his shop, and he’s a skilled man, for a human being. Follow me.”

  When Evandar turned his horse and headed for the east-running road, Rhodry followed automatically. Yraen hesitated, knowing in some wordless way that dweomer hung all around him. At this crossroads he had reached the crux of his entire life. He could sit here and restrain his horse, let them ride off without him, and then return to his safe life in Dun Deverry. His clan would forgive him for their joy in having him back; he would put his one adventure into his memory like a jewel locked in a casket and take up again the ceremonial duties of a minor prince. Ahead neither Rhodry nor Evandar looked back, and as Yraen watched, he saw what seemed to be gray mist rising from the road, billowing up to hide them—or was it to hide him, to rescue him from the foolish choice he’d made when he left home?

  “Hold! Rhodry, wait for me!”

  Yraen kicked his horse hard and galloped into the mist. Ahead he could see the glimmer of the white horse and hear hooves, clopping on what seemed to be paving stones. All at once sunlight gleamed, and he saw Rhodry on his new chestnut gelding and Evandar on the white nearby. Sunlight? Yraen thought. Sunlight? Oh, ye gods! Yet he jogged on, falling into place beside the silver dagger, who turned in the saddle to grin at him.

  “You don’t want to lose your way round here, lad.”

  Rhodry’s voice sounded perfectly normal, and when Yraen looked, he saw that his friend’s neck bore only a few green and yellow bruises, all faded and old.

  “I can see that I don’t, truly.”

  Ahead the mist thinned to a sunny day, and Yraen could hear the sea, muttering on a graveled shore. Evandar paused his horse and waved them on past.

  “You’re a bit east of Dun Mannannan and the shop of Cardyl the silversmith,” he called out. “Farewell, silver daggers, and may your gods give you luck that’s good and horses to match it.”

  The mist sealed him over, then vanished, blowing away in a sunny spring wind, tanged with the smell of the sea. They were riding on a hard-packed dirt road that ran through fields where young grain stood maybe two feet high, nodding pale green in a morning breeze. Far off to their left stood cliffs, dropping to the ocean below. Air at once Yraen realized that he was having trouble seeing, that he was shaking and sweating all at once, that his hands simply wouldn’t hold his reins. Rhodry leaped over and took them from him, then brought both horses to a halt.

  “Go ahead and shudder,” Rhodry said. “There’s no shame in it.”

  Yraen nodded, gulping for breath and clutching at the saddle peak. Rhodry looked away, watching the swell and rise of the distant ocean while he spoke.

  “I’m glad I thought to mention silversmiths to Evandar. It’s time we got you a knife of your own. Still want it?”

  Yraen had never thought that
he would ever feel such pride, the sort that comes from knowing you’ve earned a thing yourself, and against all odds.

  “Well, call me daft for it, but I do.”

  “Good. You know, I just realized a thing that I should have seen years ago. Once the wretched dweomer’s had its hand on you, there’s no going back; there’s no use in pretending that things will ever be all quiet and peaceful and as daily as before.” He turned, glancing Yraen’s way. “You’re a silver dagger now, sure enough, as much an outcast as any of us.”

  Yraen started to make some jest, but all at once he could think of nothing to say, just from hearing the bitter truth in his friend’s words.

  By the time Dallandra reached Bardek, summer was well along in Deverry, though the journey seemed to take only a day to her. As usual, she started from the Gatelands in Evandar’s country, at a spot near the river where white water foamed and churned over black rock. When she thought of Jill, the image that rose, seemingly standing between two trees, seemed so faint and silvery that Dalla was alarmed. She hurried over just as it disappeared, called up another image, followed that, trotting faster and faster until at last the river disappeared far behind her, and she heard the ocean. In a swirl of mist upon a graveled beach, Jill’s image appeared again, a little more solid and bright this time. When she approached it, Dallandra felt the gravel underfoot turning to coarse, stunted grass, rasping round her ankles. The ocean murmur disappeared. She hesitated, looking over a brown and treeless plain, wondering if she’d made a wrong turn, but tracking the images had never failed her before.

  As she walked on, she kept expecting to find herself emerging into a jungle, but the air stayed cool and the landscape barren. It seemed that the very sunlight changed, turning pale while she picked her way through huge gray boulders along the crest of a hill. All at once she realized that the amethyst figurine was gone. She was fully back in her body, shivering in cold sunlight, breathing hard in thin air. Below her a cliff dropped down to a long parched valley gashed by a dry riverbed; far across rose mountain peaks, black and forbidding, peaked with snow. A wind blew steadily, whining through the coarse grass. The stunted slant of the few trees she saw told her that the wind rarely stopped.

  When she turned round, she saw directly behind her more of the deformed trees, scattered round a spread of low wooden buildings, long oblongs roofed with split shingles. They were covered with carvings, every inch of the walls, every window frame and door lintel, of animals, birds, flowers, words in the Elvish syllabary, all stained in subtle colors, mostly blues and reds, to pick out the designs. From round behind the complex she could hear a faint whinny of horses, and a snatch of song drifted on the swirling dust. Out in front of the nearest building a gray-haired woman sat reading on a wooden bench, a pair of big tan hounds lounging at her feet.

  “Jill! By the gods!”

  The dogs leapt up and barked, but Jill hushed them, laying a slender scroll down beside her just as Dallandra hurried over. She was much thinner, and her hair was going white round her temples, but when she shook hands, her clasp was firm and strong, and her voice steady.

  “It gladdens my heart to see you,” Jill said in Deverrian. “What brings you to me?”

  “Just concern. Evandar said you’d been ill.”

  “I have been, truly, and I’ve been told I still am, though I feel mended. I’ve had a shaking fever. I picked it up in the jungle. They have a tree there, whose bark has the virtue to cure the symptoms, but they say it gets in your blood and lies quiet for years and years, only to flare up when you get yourself cold or tired or suchlike.”

  “That’s a grave thing, then.”

  Jill merely shrugged, turning to snap at the dogs bounding round them. With little whines they lay down on the hard-packed reddish ground.

  “Where are we?” Dallandra said.

  “Outside the guest house of… well, the only word I can find for it in my own language is temple, but it’s not that. It’s a place where a few scholars of the People keep lore alive, and teach it to any who ask.”

  “I’ve heard about such places from the days of the Seven Kings. I think the People sent their children to them as a matter of course, but I’m not sure why.”

  For a moment they both turned, looking at the huddled longhouses, some hardly better than huts, that sheltered what was left of one of the finest university systems the world has ever known, then or now, not that either of them realized what such a word meant, of course. Once Dallandra saw a man of the People, dressed in a long gray tunic gathered at the waist with a rope belt, crossing from one house to another, but he never so much as looked their way.

  “It’s so lonely up here,” Dallandra remarked at last. “Why did they choose this place?”

  “See those mountains over there? Well, on the other side and down below them lies the jungle. All the clouds that come from the sea fetch up against those peaks and drop their rain. So up here, the air’s dry as a bone, and books and scrolls last a fair bit longer than they would down in the jungles. It was a long hard journey getting here, let me tell you, and of course, I had to go and get sick on the way.”

  “Oh, come now! Don’t blame yourself for that.”

  “I should have been able to turn it aside.” Jill sounded genuinely aggrieved. “Well, but it’s too late now to worry about it, I suppose. What’s done is done. I must say, I’ve come to have a lot of respect for the physicking your People know.”

  “Oh, by the gods! Forgive me, I feel like a dolt, but you know, it’s just dawned on me what all of this means.” Dallandra waved her hand round at the buildings. “It’s true, isn’t it? Refugees did reach the islands.”

  “Quite a few of them, Dalla, quite a few.” All at once she grinned, a flash of her old humor. “Here, I’ve forgotten all my courtesies! Won’t you come in?”

  Dallandra hesitated, suddenly afraid, wondering why she should be afraid rather than eager to learn this ancient lore of her people.

  “I can’t stay long. I need to get back to Elessario. She might be in danger.”

  “Ah. Forgive me. Of course, you’ve got your own work to do. Don’t worry about me. I’m as well as I need to be. And you know where to find me now.”

  “So I do. I take it you’ll be here a long while?”

  “Oh, you could spend a life here, if you had one to spare. It’s amazing, Dalla, just simply amazing! They’ve managed to preserve so much, most, I’ll wager, of what they brought with them. It’s their whole life, up here, copying things. You know, my teacher here, Meranaldan, his name is, told me that men risked their lives—gods! some actually died, saving these books when the city was falling.” She shook her head in something like sadness. “The history of your race, their songs and poems, some of their magic, though not as much of that as I’d like to see, and all sorts of odd bits of craft lore and learning—scrolls and codices, heaps of them. A true marvel it is, all of it.”

  All at once Dalla knew why she was afraid, and that she’d have to face that fear.

  “And what of the Guardians? Do they speak of them?”

  “They do, but I don’t suppose they know much about their true nature. I’d wager that you know more about Evandar’s folk than any person alive, man or woman both.”

  Dallandra smiled, glancing away to hide her stab of relief that no one but her knew just how strange her lover was, and how unnatural a love they shared.

  “Well, you know, maybe I should come in and talk awhile. Jill, the time’s coming near for the child to be born. I can feel it, deep in my heart. If I’m to succeed, then I’ve got to make my move soon.”

  “When you need me, we’ll go back to Deverry together.” She hesitated, looking across the far valley. “And we’ll pray that this rotten fever’s gone for good.”

  Yet even as she spoke, Dallandra saw a shadow cross her face, not some trick of the physical light, but a dweomer warning, as if the dark bird of Death were blessing her with a flick of its wing.

  future


  How then, you Jay, will I know when the omens are fulfilled? When all the twined strands of Time weave their final knot, you will know. If you do not know, then you have such a measly knack for magic that you should never have studied it in the first place.

  The Pseudo-Iamblicbus Scroll

  1.

  The Queen of Golds

  Arcodd,

  Summer 1116

  “Those brigga don’t fool me none. I know a pretty lass when I see one.”

  The girl looked up from her bowl of stew to find the man leaning, elbows splayed and his dirty face all drunken smile, onto the table directly across from her. Around them the tavern fell abruptly silent as the customers, all men except for one old woman sucking a pint of bitter in a corner, turned to watch. Most grinned.

  “What’s your name, wench?” His breath stank of bad teeth.

  In the uncertain firelight the tavern room seemed to shrink to a frieze of leering faces and the pounding of her heart.

  “I said, what’s your name, slut?”

  He was leaning closer, red hair and beard, greasy, dabbed with food, the stinking mouth twisting into a grin as he reached for her with broad and dirty fingers. She wanted to scream but her throat had turned stone-dry and solid.

  “Er, ah, well, I wouldn’t touch her, truly I wouldn’t.”

  The man jerked up and swirled round to face the speaker, who had come up so quietly that no one had noticed. He was old, with a pronounced stoop, his hair whitish though touched with red in places, and he had the most amazing pair of bags she’d ever seen under anyone’s eyes, but her would-be molester shrank back from him as though he’d been a young warrior.

  “Ah, now, Your Holiness, just a bit of fun.”

  “Not for her—no fun at all, I’d say. She’s quite pale, you see. Er, ah, well, I’d leave if I were you.”

  At that she noticed the two enormous dogs, half wolf from the look of them, that stood by the priest’s side with their lips drawn back over large and perfect fangs. When they growled, the man yelped and ran out the tavern door to the accompaniment of jeers and catcalls. The priest turned to look at the other customers with an infinite sadness in his blue eyes.