The Magic Three of Solatia

  “Revenge exacts a harsher price on those who seek it, Rolan,” she replied. “For so my knight cautioned me. You heard the same as I.”

  “But surely you hate Blaggard and us who killed that king you wed.”

  “I sorrow. I do not hate,” she said. “For have we not all lost him?”

  And Rolan knew then that she spoke the truth and understood why he had stayed to protect her. At that moment of first seeing the black knight in his own true body he had known that there was a man beyond all others whom he could follow for no pay but the pride of doing it. And he swore then that he would find that king and his kingdom or die in the attempt. He had forced Andel and Bran to swear the same. They were gone the following year and never heard of again.

  It was when the Solatians were certain that Blaggard was gone for good—whether from fear of his life or loss of his powers they did not know or care—that they came to the button maker’s door.

  “Sianna,” they called. And the leaders cried out, “Madam.” They would have made her queen.

  “I shall not be your queen,” she answered. “For alone I do not have the wit. But with the help of four others, chosen from amongst you freely, I shall rule with what wisdom I do have.”

  So three of the old wise men freed from the king’s dungeon and an old fisherwoman named Vivianna ruled with her. They met every few days in the castle’s throne room, seated about a round table so that not one nor the other was at the head. They did not count voices as had been the custom in Solatia whenever several folk got together to decide on a plan. Nor did one person instruct the others what to do. Rather, they would talk and argue and persuade until all agreed to a single way. And if it was slow, it was fair. It was soon known through all the neighboring kingdoms as “the Solatian way” and everyone praised it, though not many tried it themselves.

  And when it came time for Sianna’s child to be born, she would not stay inside upon a bed as most women in Solatia did.

  “Let me lie on a bed of sweet moss by the sea,” she said. “For the salt air is healthy for living things.”

  And reluctantly her father agreed.

  “And let only the midwife and my father be by,” she warned her friends, for she thought in that way she might look at Sian when the child was born and so name it after her father.

  So it was that on an early morning in spring, she lay in labor by the side of the sea, her child being born to the rhythm of the waves. Suddenly a golden bird flew to her hand from one of the offshore isles.

  “It is the golden bird from Dread Mary’s isle,” said Sianna with wonder in her voice.

  “It is the Gard-lann,” said the midwife and Sian at once.

  And at that very moment the child was born.

  So he was called Lann after the bird. He was big and dark-haired like his father. But his voice was as sweet and happy and pure as any bird that sang on the Solatian strand.

  Here ends Book II

  BOOK III

  The Crystal Pool

  Book III is for Adam

  Before

  ALL ALONG THE SEA that marks the eastern border of Solatia there lies a strand. It is of sand and stone and the dust of iridescent shells. The Solatian children, tanned by the seashine of a hundred sunny days, play along the shore. Whether of fisherfolk or farmer stock, the children love the sea. It is only as they grow older that some learn to fear it.

  The sea is the great mother of Solatia, and many of the sweetest songs are sung in her honor. Not a feast day goes by that she is not serenaded. Indeed, especially at the Thrittem, the ceremony of manhood which Solatian boys all celebrate, are the old sea songs sung.

  Of all the boys who were to celebrate their Thrittem in the coming year, none had a voice for singing like Lann, the only son of Sianna. From his birth on a mossy bed by the side of the sea, young Lann had arisen singing, or so they said in Solatia.

  He was a wonder, was Lann, with his dark eyes and black hair, so black the like had never been seen in Solatia. For though the fisherfolk were dark, they were fair compared to him. And none could sing so well.

  His voice was so pure and clear that not a day passed that a helpful neighbor did not press upon his mother that he should be apprenticed to a minstrel. But she could not bear the thought of parting with the lad, for since his birth, her own father had wasted away till now he lay all day on a slat bed or sat on a bench outside the house, which overlooked the sea.

  By chance one day a wandering minstrel had come to Solatia seeking to sing for the king. But he was told that the king was gone some seven years—disappeared in fire and flame, said some. Others claimed he had drowned at sea. No one knew for sure. So the minstrel turned to leave, and walked down the iridescent strand. He saw the children playing on the shore and heard the boy Lann singing as he played. So beautiful was that untrained voice that the minstrel could not help himself, and followed the boy home.

  The boy’s voice drew him to a cottage in the village where an almost equally pure voice called out in return. The new voice, a woman’s, seemed to entwine about the boy’s. The minstrel added his own sweet voice to the two. And when they had finished the song, the three looked upon one another: the woman with golden hair but slightly faded; the boy, dark and quick like a bird; the man worn with wandering, his face a patchwork of lines. They looked upon one another, and smiled, and the minstrel stayed.

  Chando was his name. And he lived from then on near the cottage. Not quite father. Not quite husband. But more than friend to them all.

  1. The Old Spell

  IT WAS LANN’S THIRTEENTH birthday, the time of spring planting. The sun sat in the sky like a golden kite. Sianna and Chando carried her father, Sian, out into the day, for the warmth of such a sun was good for him. They set him on a painted bench in the front of the cottage, facing the sea.

  “Rest, Father, and breathe in the spring air,” said Sianna. “Presently we shall go to the chapel for Lann’s Thrittem. He is there now, making ready.”

  “That I am still alive for this day is enough,” said Sian. “I do not need to hear him sing his part.”

  “But he needs you to hear him,” said Sianna.

  “The boy draws his strength from you,” said Chando. “Surely you know that.”

  “You speak better than you know,” said Sian, and he sighed.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sianna, for she had never heard her father talk this way before, and she was worried that he no longer had the will to live. She knew that, despite her knowledge of simples and herbs, it was only his strong will that was keeping him alive.

  “Sianna, daughter, there is a secret I have kept from you all these thirteen years. But now it is time for you to know.”

  “A secret, Father?” Sianna sat down before the old man and held his hands in hers. “If it is a secret, and you have kept it so long, then perhaps you should not speak it now.”

  “Ah, but I must, for I fear I am dying at last.”

  “You are not dying, dearest Father. But if it comforts you to speak, then say on. Chando and I will listen.”

  Sian sucked in a deep drought of the fresh spring air. It seemed to give him strength to go on. “The day the young magician-king Blaggard disappeared, it is well known that no one ever saw him again.”

  “That is true, Father,” replied Sianna.

  “That is not true,” Sian said. “I saw Blaggard that day. For when he disappeared from the castle, he appeared at our door.”

  Sianna’s face grew taut. Chando put his hand on her shoulder. “For what purpose, Father?” she asked.

  With a sharp movement of his hand, Sian signaled her to be still. The effort seemed to tire him. He wanted to continue the story at his own pace. “He appeared at our door and he called to me. I did not know who it was so early in the morn. I rose to let him in. He stepped into the cottage and raised his cursed bone flute and hissed these words at me:

  ‘Your life for his life you shall give.

  One man alone in this h
ouse shall live.’

  “I did not know then what he meant. I feared later that my life had been traded for your wedded lord’s. And indeed, when you came home with no husband and no corpse, I thought that the worst. So I told you naught, fearing you might hate me for it. But when Lann was born, I began to understand what that wizard had meant. For each day that Lann became nearer a man, I became less. And because Lann was dear to you and dearer to me, I said naught, fearing you might hate the child for it.”

  “Father Sian,” broke in Chando, “know you not your own daughter well enough to see there is no hatred in her?”

  “Tush, man,” said Sianna. “There is hatred in every man if you push deep enough. And love, too.”

  Sian continued as if he had not heard them. “Today is my grandson’s birthday. This is the year he becomes a man. One year from today he will be confirmed in his manhood. And the wizard said ‘One man alone in this house shall live.’ I feel an icy clamp upon my heart. I will not last out the year.” He fell silent.

  “But what more, Father, what more?” cried Sianna.

  “Hush, do not trouble him further,” said Chando, his own short anger gentled. “Is that not revelation enough?”

  “No, dear friend,” said Sianna. “In magic there is always a chance.” She held her father’s hands tightly and said, “Father, if Blaggard cursed you, he still had to leave you with words for the cure. Say on, Father. What words?”

  The old man looked confused. He had come to the end of his recital and had exhausted himself. He had nothing more to say. “Words?”

  “What more did the foul magician say?”

  “Nonsense, Sianna. None that made sense, even now.”

  Sianna shook her father. “Tell me this nonsense. For what means naught to you may mean all to me.”

  “Something about

  ‘A living death no comfort brings

  Till bathed in a crystal pool that from

  the salt sea springs’”

  “What does it mean?” asked Chando.

  “I do not know,” Sianna replied. “But this I do. None of my balms or simples or herbs will aid my father. Unless we can unriddle this riddle, my father will be dead before the year is out.”

  They were so deep in their talk that they had not noticed Lann’s return from the chapel. And though he had not heard the first, how his every breath sucked life from his grandfather, he heard the second. And a thought was born in him that day, a pledge to be made at his Thrittem.

  2. The Thrittem

  “GRANDFATHER, MOTHER, DEAR CHANDO,” the boy called out as if he had just come upon the three. Sianna jumped up guiltily, and Chando rose to his feet with great reluctance. Only the old man seemed at ease, as if a burden he long carried had been removed from his back.

  “What is it?” asked Sianna, much more sharply than she had intended. For it was usually her habit to speak softly with her boy and instruct him with love and not pain.

  “Why, it is time for my Thrittem,” Lann replied. “And as I must, I have come to lead my family to the chapel. You know, Mother, it is ever the way.”

  Sianna smiled then, for her sharpness had been only her fear that the boy might have overheard their talk. And surely he could not have heard, with such innocence shining in his face. She gave him her hands.

  “Gladly,” she said, and added, “My man.” Then she withdrew her hands and made a seat of them with Chando. Lann helped Sian onto their arms, and they walked to the chapel door.

  As they went inside, Sian looked around. “It has been many a year since I came to this place,” he said. “It looks quite changed. I swore never to enter again when your dear mother was swept away by a wave. I see I am forsworn.”

  “I think all will be forgiven on a Thrittem day,” said Sianna. “For is it not written that Nothing is forbidden on Thrittem save a lie.”

  Sian laughed. His hand trembled on Sianna’s shoulder. “Put me down with care on one of those benches,” he said, pointing to a back row that was partially filled with neighbors.

  “Nay, Father,” said Sianna. “You know I am an elder and sit on the facing pews. So come you and sit by me, for any wit I have to be called Elder, I have got from you. And perhaps you will feel called to speak now that you have returned to the chapel.”

  “I have returned but for a day,” Sian reminded her. “I am too old and weak to change my ways. But, for you, I shall sit facing. However, I do not think I will say a word. This is Lann’s Thrittem and I should hope all would be silent this day to hear his words and his songs and his Great Pledge. At least, that was how it was done in my day. Have they changed that, too?”

  The three moved to a front row on the facing side, the side opposite the double doors of the chapel. They nodded to their friends and neighbors as they passed.

  “Nay, Father Sian,” whispered Chando, “it is the same. But upon occasion, some wise person does stand and offer the boy a word on his Manhood Year.”

  “Aha!” said Sian. “Listen to the songmaker. Six years he lives by us, and he thinks he is a Solatian.” It was an old joke between them.

  But before Chando could reply, a hush fell upon the gathered men and women and children, for Lann had come into the middle of the room. In the space there, around which the benches faced, he stood tall and unsmiling. For to smile during one’s own Thrittem, though not forbidden, was never done.

  Sianna sat next to her father, her hands clasped together. There was a serenity on her face that belied her racing heart.

  And then Lann began the traditional songs. He sang “Come Make Me Man” and chanted the old tale of the first Thrittem, when the Solatian god had come down from the sun and had grown as a Solatian child. He had made a pledge as a boy to lead the people to a new land. That new land had been by the sea, where the Solatians, who had been starving, learned to fish and to farm the ocean crops as well as sowing upon the land. And this was why the sea was called by them Great Mother. Then the Solatian god-child had talked of returning to his home, and on the last day of his thirteenth year, he dived into the sea and was drawn back up into the sun, never to return. Finally Lann sang the song called “A Year of Growing,” which was the prelude to the pledge.

  When he had finished the chanting and the songs, and only the echo of his clear, sweet voice remained in the ears of the assembly, Lann smiled. Then he said, as all boys did on their Thrittem, “This is my pledge: a year of growing, a year of going, until it is fulfilled. Great Mother, grant that it be so.”

  Sianna sat up straighter. Chando reached across Sian to hold her hand. For no one ever knew what a boy might pledge on his Thrittem. Even the priest who helped him learn the songs was not told ahead of time. And sometimes the pledges were foolish, and sometimes they were strange, and sometimes they were filled with sweet reason, but always they were honored throughout the year and fulfilled.

  “I pledge to search for the crystal pool that from the salt sea springs. For as my grandfather has been cursed, it is only thus that he shall be saved.”

  “No, Lann,” shouted Sianna, and she leaped up. Everyone stared at her, for never had a boy on his Thrittem been challenged in his pledge.

  Lann moved over to his mother and stood before her. There was love in his eyes as he said, “It is my Thrittem. It is my pledge.”

  She reached out to him and held his hands. “So be it, my child. You have your father’s strength.”

  3. Lann Prepares

  THAT AFTERNOON, THERE WAS feasting and dancing by Lann’s house, for so was the custom. But Sianna could not smile and laugh with their neighbors and friends. Yet she could not weep either, for her way was one of action, and what could not be changed must be aided. And as she was a wise woman, and a wizard as well, she sought to prepare a great gift for her son that he might be protected from the dangers of his quest.

  While the others danced and played on reed pipes and sang the old Solatian songs and drank more of the apple wine than was good for their heads, Sianna stayed alo
ne inside the cottage. She pulled out strands of her hair and braided a strong chain. When the chain was finished, she bent down and pulled up her petticoat. There, sewn on the underside, was a silver button. No one but Sianna knew of its existence. It was the most powerful magic she had.

  She ripped it from her petticoat and threaded it onto the chain. Then she knotted the chain securely and said a quick spell that it might never break.

  “Lann,” she called out the window to her son. He came to the window. “Come inside and close the door behind you,” she commanded.

  He came around the side of the cottage and in through the door quickly, though he did not know why he had been summoned. He feared his mother would try to persuade him from his quest. “Mother, I must go,” he began.

  “Indeed you must if you believe you must,” she said. “I will not hold you. For there comes a time when a boy and his mother must part, though neither may agree upon that time.”

  “Then why did you call me here?” he asked. “Away from our guests.” The singing and dancing had quite taken his mind away from the fearsome task he had set himself. He was half angry with his mother for reminding him. But in the darkened cottage, his petulance did not show and he looked far older than he was.

  He looks, thought Sianna, a lot like his father if he but had his father’s beard. Then she shook off that thought, for useless pining was not her way, and she held out her hand.

  “Come, my son, and take this quest gift from me. I have but a moment to tell you of its power. So listen with care. You know already the one most important lesson of magic—that magic has consequences. And powerful magic has more powerful consequences than you or I or any wizard could know.”

  The unhappiness and anger had faded from Lann’s eyes. It was replaced with concentration. Except for his singing, there was nothing Lann liked more than talking with his mother about magic. “This you have often told me,” he said, “when you have taught me of simples and spells.”