First Granny Kye took herself to a corner of the room, and N’Rae followed to help her lay out a pallet. Holt and Bromptotterpindosset took the boys with them to share a sleeping nook. Bardon went with the riders to check on the dragons and make their campsite secure for the night. The squire assigned shifts for night watch and took the first one himself.
During the first hour, the storm whipped itself into a crashing uproar with flashes of lightning and claps of thunder. Bardon doubted anyone huddled in their blankets had fallen asleep. The worst of the tempest moved south, and only the sounds of rain and distant rumbles disturbed the silence. On the third hour of his watch, the rain subsided to a drizzle. Bardon woke Pont to take the next shift. Before turning in, he circled the room one more time. Everyone slept.
At the back of the cavern, a tunnel reached into the depths of the mountain. He chose the wall next to this opening to roll out his blankets. Stretched out on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, he reviewed their progress.
The first day hasn’t been so bad. The riders are helpful and work well with the original party. Holt has pulled his weight and shown no signs of bothering N’Rae. I do wonder why he is with us. To court the kindia-gentler? To escape his debtors? Just to try something new?
Bromptotterpindosset is an asset. Mistress Seeno has made herself scarce. Granny Kye already seems tired. This is too much of an undertaking for one so old. But she wants to find her son. I believe this desire will carry her through. Sittiponder and Ahnek have both contributed in their own ways.
All in all, it has not been a bad first day.
After three hours of deliberate alertness, he found his body unwilling to relax. The light from the flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls but scarcely reached the ceiling. To compose himself for sleep, he quoted principles in his mind.
“Beyond what we see, our fire enlightens or destroys.” Wulder, make Your passion to be my passion so that when my actions affect those beyond my vision, the influence will be good and not bad.
“A ripple or ring. The rock or the shore. It is no more glorious to be the start or the end.” Wherever You place me, Wulder, allow me to be effective.
“A man of integrity—”
A sound from the depths of the mountain echoed through the tunnel by his head. Bardon sat up and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Critch. Critch.
He stood, concentrating on the slight scratch of a hard substance against stone.
Pont saw him and drew his own sword. He tiptoed across the cave and stood beside the squire. Bardon held up a finger to indicate he didn’t want the rider to speak.
Critch. Critch. The sound moved closer.
Pont tilted his head. His eyes locked with Bardon’s. A question clearly lit the rider’s expression.
Critch critch. Critch critch.
Bardon pulled his sword.
Pont mouthed a word, his voice not sounding the question. “Druddum?”
Bardon shook his head. The cave-dwelling mammals skittered at high speeds through caves and tunnels. This creature sounded large and slow. Druddums would be no problem. He suspected this beast to be deadly.
Critch critch. Critch critch.
Whatever made the light sound could not be more than a few feet deep into the tunnel. Bardon waved Pont to the other side. They stood waiting with their weapons ready.
Critch.
Bardon took in a breath and held it.
Critch.
He concentrated only on the dark mouth of the underground passage.
Critch critch.
Black, snakelike tentacles waved out of the opening.
Critch.
The body of a huge spiderlike creature stepped into the light.
One more step, you beast.
Critch.
Bardon plunged his sword into a soft spot directly behind the creature’s bulging, compound eye. A second later, Pont’s knife speared one of the other eyes. The creature thrashed once and collapsed.
Bardon let out the breath he’d been holding and heard Pont do the same. He looked up at the rider-warrior.
“Now, what do you suppose a Creemoor spider is doing in Wittoom?”
32
A LEGEND
Bardon sent a message by waistcoater at first light: Killed Creemoor spider in Caves of Endor. B.
Three of the riders hauled the carcass of the spider onto the flats amid the mud holes and set fire to it. It took most of the morning to burn the body to ashes so that none of the creature’s poisonous fluids remained to kill some unsuspecting animal.
Even with the late start, the flight north that day covered more ground than the previous day. Bromptotterpindosset estimated two more days before they would reach the northern foothills of the Kattabooms. The mountain range petered out one hundred miles south of the Finnicum Gulf. From there, they would veer to the east and follow the coast to the northern border. Unless they dallied along the way, they should reach their destination before a week was out.
The mapmaker and Granny Kye sat together in the evenings. She poured out all the bits and pieces of information she had gleaned over the years. He made notes and examined his maps and charts and the diary of Cadden Glas. The doneel’s crude maps compared favorably with the more-expertly drawn cartographer renditions of the Northern Reach. However, the adventuring doneel had explored areas that were blank on Bromptotterpindosset’s scrolls.
“I’m trusting Glas’s recordings to be accurate,” he told Bardon as he pointed with a stubby finger to a high mountain valley. “This is recorded in the diary but not on the official charts. Cadden Glas proves close to the mark on the places we can compare. Why should he be imprecise on the areas only he has drawn?”
Bardon examined the map in the diary. “And Granny Kye thinks that this high valley is the location of the fortress where the knights are under a spell?”
The mapmaker nodded with conviction. “It matches the snips of information—a tiny, round lake at the southern end. Two towering peaks to the west. A break in the eastern wall of mountains, as if some giant had pulled out one of the mountains in the chain like a sore tooth.”
“Is there a name for this valley?” asked Bardon.
“Cadden Glas called it Broken Cup Valley.”
The squire contemplated the peculiar markings on the small page of the diary. “Why do you suppose he chose to write his diary in an obscure language? No one that I know of converses in meech. Except perhaps those dragons of the missing sect.”
“Why are they missing?” asked Ahnek as he walked up with Sittiponder.
Bardon and Bromptotterpindosset jumped.
The tumanhofer scowled at the boys and fussed. “I thought little boys were loud, noisy, rambunctious. How is it you two are always lurking about without a squeak between you?”
Both o’rant and tumanhofer child grinned. Ahnek answered, “We’re practicing for when we’re in enemy territory.”
“I know,” said Sittiponder.
“Know what?” asked Ahnek, his forehead wrinkled.
“About the meech colony. A small group had lived in seclusion in the Kattaboom Mountains. They kept a distant friendship with the doneels, but only because the doneels were useful to them. Risto sent a force to ravage the little community and steal their eggs. The survivors fled to the north.”
“Why didn’t they fight?” asked Ahnek.
“Because they believe in a better way.”
“What better way?”
Sittiponder shrugged and then grinned. “I don’t know. It’s just called the better way.”
“Who tells you these things, son?” asked Bromptotterpindosset.
“The voices.”
The older tumanhofer adjusted his glasses higher on his round nose. “Do you hear the voices all the time?”
“Not so much since we’ve been traveling. I think I am too tired at night to listen properly. And we are too busy during the day for me to sit and listen.” He sniffed
the air. “Supper is almost ready. Fried fish. Holt caught them.”
The boys hurried off to the cooking fire. The mapmaker put away his precious book and scrolls. He and Bardon joined the others around the campfire. The squire frowned as he saw that N’Rae sat on the same log with Holt. On the ground at their feet, Jue Seeno sat at her table, which was set up on the flat lid of her basket.
Bardon got his plate, filled with fish and cooked wild ostal greens, and perched on a square parcel on the other side of the young emerlindian girl. He didn’t speak but silently said a word of thanks to Wulder.
He looked down at N’Rae’s most diligent chaperone. Mistress Seeno sipped tea from a tiny cup. His eyes roamed over the rest of their questing party. Not far away, Granny Kye sat with the boys and did not once look to see if her charge was up to mischief. Bardon cast a sideways glare at Holt and began to eat.
The marione acknowledged the squire’s presence with a brief nod. His handsome face held a look of congeniality, his eyes a sparkle of merriment. He chewed and swallowed.
“N’Rae, do the fish speak to you?”
“No.”
“But I thought you could talk with any animal, even a chicken.”
“You don’t understand. None of the animals talk. They use images to relay their thoughts, not words.”
“None of the animals use words?”
“Dogs and cats use a mixture of pictures and a limited vocabulary. Ropma do the same but possess quite a few more words to express themselves.” N’Rae stirred the grain porridge with her fork. “A lot of emotion comes through as a dog communicates. Cats are different. I think that cats actually have a much wider command of words than they let on.”
“Humph,” said Jue Seeno.
“What was that, little mistress?” asked Holt.
“Oh, don’t tease her, Holt,” scolded N’Rae. “You know she doesn’t like to be called ‘little mistress.’ And she said she doesn’t care for cats. They think too highly of themselves.”
“So dogs, cats, and ropma use words?” Holt focused his attention back on N’Rae.
Bardon watched her blush, the color clear even in the flickering light of campfire.
She nodded. A few yards from where they sat, Sittiponder leaned forward, his attention on the conversation.
“How about birds?” asked Holt.
“Pictures.”
“And other animals? Pigs?”
“Surprisingly clear images. Quite a few words.”
“Horses and kindias?”
“About the same, except horses think deliberately, and kindias’ thoughts move in rapid changes of pictures.”
“Dragons?”
“Dragons are not animals, Holt.”
“They aren’t?” He grinned. “Then what are they, fair lady?”
“They are a race from somewhere else,” Sittiponder answered abruptly. “They came through a dark hole. Many creatures swarmed at their feet, fleeing whatever was beyond that hole. But not all the smaller creatures adapted to our climate and our food.”
Holt looked up, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “I suppose the voices told you this.”
Sittiponder shrank back a little at his tone. “Yes,” he said meekly.
Jue Seeno abandoned her table and scooted up N’Rae’s leg to sit on her knee. She spoke to the girl, and Bardon almost caught the gist of what she said but was too far away to hear properly.
“Oh!” said N’Rae. “Mistress Seeno wishes me to tell you that there is a legend on the Isle of Kye that would correspond to what Sittiponder just said. She says that the minnekens came with the dragons. The meech led the way. It was the exodus.”
“Exodus from where?” asked Holt.
Jue Seeno spoke.
N’Rae repeated. “She doesn’t know.”
The tiny minneken turned and faced the blind seer. Bardon knew from the inflection of her words that she asked a question.
From across the fire, Sittiponder responded. “No, Mistress Seeno, I do not know either. The voices have not told me.”
Holt muttered, “He could not have heard from way over there. I can barely hear anything sitting right beside her.”
The minneken turned and shook her fist as she spoke to the upstart marione. Her raised voice carried distinctly to Bardon.
“Not all creatures have their own egos stuck in their ears, keeping them from hearing.”
Bardon laughed out loud. Jue Seeno had quoted a principle with her own twist to the words.
Holt looked puzzled. Ahnek smiled but did not seem to understand what was going on. The others smiled or laughed.
When Bardon could still his laughter enough to speak, he quoted the principle properly. “‘A man’s ego may interfere with his hearing the truth.’”
“Very funny,” growled Holt. “I suppose that is written in one of those Tomes of Wulder you drag around.”
Bardon nodded. “Right smack dab in the center of the second book. And since there are three Tomes, it is in the middle of Wulder’s written word. Some say it is the crux of the whole revelation.”
33
NORTH
As they traveled north, the trees showed a less mature green, reminding Bardon that spring was several weeks newer in the northern part of Amara. Cooler nights also reinforced the feeling of a different climate.
They camped one night by the sea, where waves crashed against granite cliffs. Bardon paused in his assembly of the tent N’Rae and her grandmother would sleep in to watch the silhouetted ballet of the dragons over the water. Of course, he knew they were merely fishing, gorging themselves to be exact, but the beauty of six dragons plunging into the waves and then reemerging to soar through the orange-tinted skies took his breath away.
“Oh my!” N’Rae’s exclamation at his side expressed how he felt. She turned, her eyes seeking out Granny Kye. “Look, Grandmother. Everyone, come see.”
She insisted that each member of the party stop what they were doing and gather at the top of the cliff. Huge, rough boulders served as seating.
“Play,” she ordered Bardon and the others who carried instruments with them. “Play one of those slow, haunting melodies.”
Pont pulled a piccolo from his breast pocket. “‘He Will Greet the Morning’?”
The others nodded. Captain Anton counted the tempo and raised his hand to begin their impromptu concert.
“I know the words to this one,” whispered N’Rae. She began to sing.
“He will greet the morning,
Because He will make each day.
Now He scatters the stars.
He covers the moon.
He draws the light in the blaze of the sun.
“Do not mourn the day’s end,
As the sun declines its realm.
Now He collects the stars.
He reveals the moon.
And He allows the sun to stay its course.
“He will greet the morning
And never restrain new light.
Now He governs the stars.
He directs the moon.
As He greets the morning, He orders our world.”
They repeated the entire song, then the musicians went on to other melodies. Granny Kye sat on a rock. N’Rae sat on the grass at her feet. Bromptotterpindosset, Holt, and the two boys chose to sit on smaller boulders closer to the cliff’s edge. In the distance, the dragons swooped, dove, and rose again as the sky deepened to purple.
When the dragons turned to shore and the musicians put down their instruments, Ahnek stood and watched Sittiponder get up.
“That was nice, but now we have to get everything ready in the dark,” said the practical o’rant lad.
Sittiponder grinned. “I’ll help you.”
“And I’m hungry.”
“Me too.” The blind tumanhofer turned away from the ocean’s roar. “Too bad those dragons didn’t catch us our dinner.” He scrunched his shoulders as the wind from Frost’s wingspan swept over them.
Sshpl
att!
Sittiponder giggled.
“What is that?” Ahnek took two steps forward and peered at the ground. “It’s a strange fish. It’s flat, Sittiponder, and round, as big around as a todden barrel. Can’t tell what color it is in this light.”
Bardon walked over. He poked his hand in a slanted gill and hoisted up the three-foot-wide, disk-shaped fish. “It’s a smoothergill.” The fish wriggled, and Ahnek jumped away.
“Feel the skin,” Bardon said, holding the fish out toward the young o’rant.
Ahnek backed away, waving his hands in front of him.
However, Sittiponder came forward quickly, with his arm stretched out in front of him. In his haste, he bumped his friend as he passed.
“Hey!” said Ahnek.
“Sorry.” Sittiponder touched the fish and stroked its side. “It feels like it’s been oiled. I don’t feel any scales.”
The smoothergill gave an exhausted flap of its tail.
“Good eating,” said Bromptotterpindosset. “You want to learn how to clean it?”
Ahnek shook his head. “I have chores to do for Pont.”
“Wasn’t talking to you, boy,” the tumanhofer spoke gruffly. “Sittiponder, come with me.” The mapmaker took the fish from Bardon and strolled away with the young tumanhofer following.
“Do you think he can?” asked Ahnek. He took a step to follow his new comrade, but Squire Bardon stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“I’m sure he can,” he answered.
Bardon turned back to see N’Rae still standing near the edge of the cliff and gazing toward the western horizon. He walked to her side and put an arm around her shoulders. The Wizards’ Plume marked the sky with a bright starlike blaze followed by a short tail.
“We still have time,” he whispered and turned her to the camp. “Let’s go see what a smoothergill tastes like.”
They ate an hour later. The thick white meat of the smoothergill cooked well in a pan placed on rocks at the fire’s edge.
Jue Seeno chewed rapidly, her whiskers bouncing. “I admit I thought it would be greasy, but that oil seems to have fried away. Delicious!”