The woman gazed at them for several endless seconds, then clucked her tongue gently at the lynx across her lap. The cat—it was enormous, probably close to seventy pounds—yawned and stretched, then gave itself a shake, rolled off her lap, and stood. It looked up at her, then butted her right vambrace gently and affectionately before it glanced at Leeana. It regarded her for a moment, supremely unimpressed by her or even by Gayrfressa, then gathered its haunches under it, leapt lightly away from the redhaired woman...and vanished into thin air in mid-leap.
Leeana blinked, but before she could speak or otherwise react, the woman had risen, coming to her feet as if the armor she wore was no more encumbering than a war maid’s chari and yathu. She stood gazing up at Leeana, and somehow, despite Gayrfressa’s towering height, it seemed as if Leeana was gazing up at her.
“Give you good morning, daughters,” the woman said, and a strange shiver, like a flicker of lightning touched with ice and silver, went through Leeana. She knew she would never be able to describe that voice to anyone, for the words which might have captured it had never been forged. It was woven of beauty, joy, sorrow, celebration—of tears and terror, of memories lost and dreams never forgotten. It was freighted with welcome and burnished with farewell, and wrapped about it, flowing through it, were peace and completion.
Leeana never remembered moving, but suddenly she was on her feet, standing at Gayrfressa’s shoulder, left hand raised against the mare’s warm, chestnut coat, and the woman smiled at them both.
“Lady,” Leeana heard her own voice say, and inclined her head, for she knew the woman before her now.
Isvaria Orfressa, firstborn of Orr and Kontifrio, goddess of death, completion, and memory and second only to Tomanāk himself among Orr’s children in power. A quiet terror rippled through Leeana Hanathafressa as she found herself face-to-face with the very personification of death in a quiet, sunny pine wood she knew now was somehow outside the world in which she’d always lived. Yet there was no dread in that terror, no fear, only the awareness that she gazed upon the ending which must come to every living thing.
“I haven’t come for you, Leeana,” that awesome, indescribable voice said gently. It sang in Leeana’s blood and bone, murmured from the roots of mountains and sent endless, quiet echoes rolling across the heavens. “Nor for you, Gayrfressa.” Isvaria smiled at both of them. “Not yet, not today. Someday I will, and gather you to me as I gather all my worthy dead, and, oh, but the two of you will be worthy when that day comes! I’ll know you, and I’ll come for you, and you will find a place prepared for you at my table.”
Leeana inhaled deeply, feeling the power of life racing through her with the air filling her lungs, the blood pumping through her veins, and knew that in some strange way she had never been as alive as in this moment when she stood face-to-face with death Herself and saw in Isvaria’s face not terror or despair but only...welcome.
“But that day is not today,” Isvaria told them. “No, today I’ve come for another purpose entirely.”
“Another purpose, Lady?” Leeana was astounded by the levelness of her own tone, and Isvaria shook her head, her smile broader and warmer.
“You’re very like your husband, Leeana—and you like your brother, Gayrfressa. In this universe, or in any other, all any of you will ever ask is to meet whatever comes upon your feet.”
“I don’t know about that, Lady,” Leeana replied, more aware in that moment of how young she truly was than she’d been in years.
“Perhaps not, but I do—we do,” Isvaria told her. Then her smile faded, and she reached out and touched Leeana’s cheek ever so gently. That touch was as light as spider silk, gentle as a breeze, yet Leeana felt the power to shatter worlds in the cool, smooth fingers touching her skin so lightly. “We know, just as we know you, and we’ve waited for you as long as we have for Bahzell and Walsharno.”
“I don’t understand,” Leeana said, and felt Gayrfressa with her in her mind.
“Of course you don’t.” Isvaria cocked her head, those bottomless eyes studying Leeana’s face. “And I’m sure it’s a bit overwhelming, even for someone as redoubtable as you and Gayrfressa, to encounter so many deities in such a brief period of time.” She smiled again. “Time is a mortal concept, you know—one we’ve been forced to come to know and share...and abide by, but one that would never have occurred to us, left to our own devices. In that respect, you mortals are mightier than any god or goddess. And in the end, just as you created time, you’ll transcend it, and in the transcending you’ll heal or damn us all.”
Leeana swallowed, and Isvaria shook her head quickly.
“I haven’t come to lay the burden of all eternity upon you and demand you take it up today, Leeana!”
“Then may I ask why you have come, Lady?”
“Yes, very like Bahzell,” Isvaria murmured. Then she stood back slightly, folded her arms, and looked at the two of them levelly.
“My daughters, both of you have roles to play in a struggle which began before time itself. Has Bahzell told you what my brother Tomanāk explained to him about the nature of time and the war between Light and Dark?”
“He’s...tried, Lady,” Leeana said after a moment. “He said there are many universes, each of them as real as our own yet separate. Some are very like ours, others are very different, but Light and Dark are at war in all of them. He said that everyone—all of us—exist in all those universes, or many of them at least, and that we’re the ones who determine who finally wins in each of them. And that, in the end, the final confrontation between Light and Dark will be settled by how many of those universes each side controls when the last one falls.”
“Not a bad explanation, at all,” Isvaria told her. “But not quite complete. Did he tell you not even a goddess can know exactly what future, what chain of events and decisions, any single mortal in any single one of those universes will experience?”
Leeana nodded, and Isvaria nodded back very seriously.
“That, my daughters, is where mortals’ freedom to choose—and ability to fail—enters the equation. In the end, it all depends upon you and your choices. Oh, chance can play its role, as well, but over the entire spectrum of universes, chance cancels out and choice and courage and fear and greed and love and selfishness and cruelty and mercy—all those things which make you mortals what you are—come into their own.
“Yet the great pattern, the warp and woof of reality—those we deities can see clearly. Those are what guide and draw our own efforts to protect this strand as it works its way through the loom of history, or to snip that one short. It’s there, at those moments, that our champions—and those who love them, Leeana Hanathafressa and Gayrfressa, daughter of Mathygan and Yorthandro—take their stands in the very teeth of evil to fight—and all too often to die—in defense of the Light. And no being, no mortal and no god, can know for certain whether they’ll triumph or fail before that very moment. My daughters, I know no better than you whether or not this world in which you live, this universe which is all you know, will stand or fall at the end of time. That decision rests in your hands. Not in mine, not in my brothers’ or my sisters’—in yours.”
Leeana swallowed, and Isvaria touched her face once more.
“You’re fit to carry that burden, Leeana, whether you realize it or not...and you will. In every universe, in every time, when the moment arrives, you will. And if the Dark triumphs, it will never be because you failed the Light in that moment of need. But I tell you this, as well—if the Light triumphs in this universe of yours, it will triumph through you and Bahzell.”
Leeana’s eyes went huge, and the fingers touching her face cupped her cheek gently.
“Power and possibilities, outcomes and events, swirl so thickly about you that even a goddess can see only dimly. And we can take advantage of that dimness, we deities, and...manipulate it so that our enemies are even blinder than we. Not always, not in all places. We must choose our times, pick those events where it becomes most
crucial for our enemies to guess rather than to know. Your life, and Bahzell’s, are one of those times. We can’t tell you what will happen, or even what you must do, because by the very act of telling you we would affect the outcome. But in every future I see, you come to me, Leeana. And you, Gayrfressa. You come to my table, in all your thousands of choices, and I welcome you. You come through pain, and you come through sorrow, and you come through loss, and you do not always come in triumph. But you come to me unbroken and as you are now, upon your feet and never your knees, and the light of you shines, my daughters.”
Leeana stared into the eyes of the Goddess of Death, and those eyes touched something inside her. There was a...flicker. A dancing current or a flaring candle flame. She couldn’t put a name to the sensation, not really, yet she knew it would always be there. She might lose it, from time to time, and it would be no armor against fear, uncertainty, doubt...but it would always return to her, as well, and under that fear and uncertainty and doubt there would be this assurance, this promise, from the power to which all life returned in the fullness of time.
“I know it’s a heavy weight to bear,” Isvaria told her, “but you’re fit to bear it, both of you, and love will take you to places the Dark can never come. I do not name you my champions, but I do name you the daughters I’ve called you—my daughters. Whether you come to me early, or you come to me late, I will be waiting for you, and I will gather you as my own.”
Leeana stood gazing into those eyes, feeling the iron fidelity of that promise, for an eternity. It lasted forever...and took no longer than the flicker between the beats of a hummingbird’s wings.
And then the pine woods were empty once again, except for her and Gayrfressa.
She blinked, shaking her head, feeling as if she were awakening from a dream and yet with every memory perfectly formed, and felt Gayrfressa’s matching bemusement. Perhaps it had been only a dream, she thought, but then she felt something in her hand and looked down.
It was a sprig of periwinkle, its stem wrought of silver, its tiny flowers exquisitely formed in chips of sapphire. Periwinkle, the flower of memory...and of Isvaria Orfressa, the keeper of that memory.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“So you think I should actually listen to this fool?” Arthnar Sabrehand, Fire Oar and Fleet Captain of the River Brigands, demanded.
He took another long pull from his battered tankard, adam’s apple bobbing, then smacked the tankard down on the expensive, exquisitely inlaid table—a piece of Saramanthan work worth more than most men would ever see in a lifetime which had somehow failed to make it across the Lake of Storms to its intended Sothōii purchaser some years earlier. It had been hard used over those years, but its pedigree still showed through all the casual scratches, gouges and chips, like an old and weary soldier not yet ready to quit despite wounds and too many harsh campaigns. A fresh spill of ale dribbled down the tankard’s side to make yet another ring on the tabletop, another stain on the soldier’s shield, and the Fire Oar glowered across it at the man he knew as Talthar.
“I haven’t seen any evidence the man can find his arse with both hands!” The River Brigand chieftain belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So far, Tellian and that bastard Bahnak—oh, and let’s not forget Bahzell—have pinned his ears back every time he’s crossed swords with them. And don’t even get me started on the frigging dwarf!”
Arthnar’s table manners might leave a little to be desired, Varnaythus reflected, and his shaggy mane of oily black hair and the bushy beard that went with it were an accurate hint that he wasn’t the sort of fellow you’d care to invite home as a house guest. Not unless you wanted to see your house burned to the ground, at any rate. But he did have a way of coming straight to the point. Which was probably only to be expected of the man who’d cut his way to the office of Fleet Captain, Fire Oar of the River Brigands, almost twenty years ago...and stayed on the Captain’s Thwart ever since. Becoming Fleet Captain and winning the title of Fire Oar hadn’t necessarily required much in the way of brains—ruthlessness, a ready sword, a naturally devious nature, and the ability to buy support with promises of plunder had been more than enough for that. Staying Fleet Captain, though...that took some doing.
And for all his contempt for Cassan, it’s largely his...understanding with him that’s allowed Arthnar to stay in his position, the wizard reflected. He’s actually managed to convince his council of captains that it makes more sense to charge tolls on traffic crossing the Lake of Storms than it does to raid. Cassan doesn’t care; he simply passes the cost of the toll—it would never do to call it “tribute,” after all—along to his customers and blames it on the Purple Lords and the threat of the River Brigands without ever mentioning that he’s actually paying them off. And Arthnar’s even managed to negotiate a subsidy from the Purple Lords for letting their trade pass unhindered, as well!
Of course, what neither Cassan nor the Purple Lords (nor the majority of Arthnar’s own followers) knew was that a little discreet help from Sharnā, the dog brothers, and Carnadosa—in the person of one Master Varnaythus, although Arthnar knew him as Talthar Sheafbearer—had also played their part in the Fleet Captain’s successful longevity. Unfortunately, no one could ever accuse Arthnar of an excess of piety. He was perfectly prepared to work with the Dark Gods, but it was purely business as far as he was concerned, and he’d been more careful than most about staying out of their clutches. He was willing to use them, but he never forgot for one moment that they hadn’t been so happy to help him over the years out of the goodness of their hearts. He was ready enough to help them achieve their goals as long as that helped him achieve his, yet that didn’t mean he was stupid enough to trust them, and he was adamantly opposed to allowing himself to simply be used by them.
But even the wiliest fish ends up in the boat eventually, if the hook’s been properly set, Varnaythus reminded himself. If he has no objection to using Them, then They certainly have no objection to using him. And nothing They’ve said to me suggests They’re especially concerned about whether or not this particular fish survives in the process.
Given the man’s personality, Varnaythus was privately rooting for “not,” although it would never do to suggest anything of the sort to Arthnar, of course.
“I think whether or not you should listen to him depends entirely on how happy you’ll be to see Kilthandahknarthas sailing cheerfully by your ports on the Lake of Storms and Bahnak of Hurgrum and Tellian of Balthar maintaining patrols all the way down the Hangnysti to the lake,” he said after a moment, and shrugged. “Somehow I think Tellian and Kilthan are going to be less than willing to maintain the sort of...relationship you’ve had with Cassan. House Harkanath has hired entire armies in its time to deal with bandits, and I rather doubt Kilthan’s going to regard you and your fellow captains as anything other than bandits who happen to float to work. I suppose you might be able to count on increasing your subsidy from the Purple Lords as long as they think they could use you to bottleneck the Axemen’s trade down the Spear from the lake, but how long will they realistically be able to do that before Bahnak and Tellian burn Krelik and Palan to the ground?”
“They won’t find that so easy as kicking a bunch of ghouls’ arses!” Arthnar snapped, glaring at the wizard, and Varnaythus shrugged again.
“Possibly not, but I don’t think either of them is the sort to be dissuaded just because a task looks a little difficult. Neither one of them would be where they are right now if they thought that way. And with Kilthan and the rest of Silver Cavern ready to cover their expenses and ship all the weapons, armor, and food they need through their brand-new canal, well—”
He shrugged a third time, and Arthnar gritted his teeth. Master Talthar was correct, of course, he thought sulfuriously. He knew exactly how Tellian would react to the sort of arrangement he had with Cassan. The Baron of Balthar, for all the surprising flexibility he’d displayed over the last few years, was a Sothōii of the old school where his pers
onal honor was concerned. And then there was Bahnak, as pragmatic and ruthless a hradani warlord as had ever lived, and one likely to reflect that a single sharp military campaign or two would ultimately cost him far less than years of extorted “tolls.” And none of that even considered Kilthandahknarthas, who was quite probably the most ruthless—not to mention the wealthiest—of the three and, as Talthar had just pointed out, had a short way with bandits. But still...
“From all I’ve heard and all my agents have been able to discover,” he growled after a moment, “they’ve practically finished their damned canal—and their tunnel—already!” He hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it noisily into the battered spittoon beside his chair, then glowered at his visitor with profound disgust. “So to hear you tell it, no matter how it works out, I’m screwed. That being the case, why should I risk a single pimple on my arse for that idiot Cassan?”
A reasonable question, Varnaythus conceded silently. Not that I have any intention of admitting that to you.
“Because there’s one way you might be able to not simply maintain your current arrangement but make an even better profit off of it,” he said instead.
“Aye?” Arthnar arched a skeptical eyebrow. “And how might that miracle be brought to pass?”
His tone was a bit less abrasive than it had been, and Varnaythus could almost literally see the thoughts working through the brain behind the Fire Oar’s brown eyes. Cassan might go out of his way to avoid any official knowledge of Varnaythus’ true nature, but Arthnar knew perfectly well that “Master Talthar” was a wizard. He probably didn’t know he was a Carnadosan, as well. In fact, Varnaythus had been at some pains to convince him that Talthar was actually a renegade Spearman in the service of the Purple Lords, although he frankly doubted Arthnar would’ve cared a copper kormak even if he’d known “Master Talthar” had been dispatched from Trōfrōlantha itself. On the other hand, he did know at least a little bit about the...special abilities Master Talthar could bring to the table, since he’d made use of them himself in the past.