Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Over the years, these people and their religion spread around the Inner and Osiat seas, founding what eventually became Mycena and Skala,” Seregil went on.

  “And it was these people who brought the worship of Dalna north?”

  “That’s right. The Hierophant’s people worshiped the Sacred Four: Dalna the Maker and Astellus the Traveler, whom you know; and Illior Lightbearer and Sakor of the Flame, who never caught on up in these parts.

  “But getting back to the subject at hand, the unity of the Three Lands didn’t last. As centuries passed the different regions developed ways of their own. The Plenimarans, for instance, stayed by the great Gathwayd Ocean, a body of water larger than you’ve ever dreamed of. They’re still great sailors and explorers. It was the Plenimarans who sailed south beyond the Strait of Bal to discover the Aurënfaie—”

  “Hold on! Aurënfaie? Like the Faie up beyond Ravensfell?” Alec broke in excitedly, then felt his cheeks go warm as Seregil chuckled.

  “That’s right. Your Elder Folk, properly called the Hâzadriëlfaie, are said to be the descendants of a group of Aurënfaie who went into the northern lands before the time of the Hierophant. Aurënen lies south of the Three Lands, across the Osiat and beyond the Ashek Mountains.”

  “Then the Aurënfaie aren’t human, either?”

  “No. Faie, in their tongue, means ‘people’ or ‘belonging to,’ while Aura is their name for Illior; hence, Aurënfaie, the People of Illior. But that’s another story altogether—”

  “But they are real?” Alec persisted; this was more than Seregil had let on previously. “Have you ever seen any? What are they like?”

  Seregil smiled. “Not so different from you and me, really. No pointy ears or tails, anyway. They’re a handsome folk, for the most part. The main difference between Aurënfaie and humans is that the ’faie generally live for three or four hundred years.”

  “No!” Alec snorted, certain this time that his companion was pulling his leg.

  “Think what you like, but that’s what I’ve understood to be true. More important, however, is the fact that they were the first to possess magic. Not that they’re all wizards, of course.”

  “But priests have magic,” Alec interjected. “Especially the drysians. Long ago, when the Maker still lived among the people, Dalna came to a woman named Drysia and revealed to her all the secrets of the land and its proper use. The drysians can draw on the power of the earth and they know the secret uses of herbs and stones. Some even know the speech of beasts.”

  Seregil regarded him with that peculiar tilted grin again. “You’ve got a touch of the skald, too, I see. You’re correct about priests having magic, but it’s not the same as true wizardry. If you ever see a real wizard at work, you’ll recognize the difference.”

  “So all wizards are really Aurënfaie?”

  “Oh, nothing of the sort. But they did mix blood with the Tírfaie.”

  “Tírfaie?”

  “Sorry. A good story teller should always know his audience. Tírfaie is the Aurënfaie word for outsiders. Roughly translated, it means ‘the people of short lives.’ ”

  “I guess they’d think so, if they live as long as you say,” Alec allowed.

  “Just so. Anyway, during the years when the Aurënfaie had open commerce with the Three Lands, the peoples mingled and many of the half-blood children were born with magic. Some stories even claim that Aura—or Illior, depending on which side of the Osiat you’re from—sent a messenger in the form of a huge dragon to teach these half bloods how to use their powers.”

  “Dragons are real, too?” breathed Alec, more wide-eyed than ever.

  Seregil grinned. “Don’t get your hopes up. As far as I know, no one’s seen a dragon in Skala since then.”

  “Skala? But I thought the Plenimarans were the ones who found the Aurënfaie.”

  “And I thought you hadn’t heard this story before,” Seregil countered dryly.

  “I haven’t, but you said that the Plenimarans—”

  “They did, but the Aurënfaie got on best with the Skalans in the end. Most of those who stayed in the Three Lands settled there. But that was a very long time ago, more than eight hundred years. Eventually most of the Aurënfaie withdrew to their own land again.”

  “Why did they leave?”

  Seregil spread his hands. “As with anything, there were many reasons. But their legacy remains. Wizard children are still being born and they still go to Rhíminee for training. That’s the capital city of Skala, by the way.”

  “Rhíminee.” Alec savored the exotic sound of it. “But what about the wizards? Have you ever seen one?”

  “I know a few. We’d better get some sleep now. I suspect we’ve a hard few days ahead of us.”

  Although Seregil’s expression scarcely changed, Alec sensed once again that he’d strayed into forbidden territory.

  They settled down for the night, sharing what warmth they could beneath their blankets and cloaks as the wind wailed across the Downs.

  The following morning Alec tried the coin catches again but his cold fingers were too stiff.

  “As soon as we get to Wolde we’d better find you some gloves,” said Seregil, hovering over their meager fire. He lifted his hands to show Alec the fine leather gloves he wore. He’d had them on yesterday, too, the boy realized. “Let me look at your hands.”

  Turning Alec’s palms up, he clucked disapprovingly as he examined the cracks and calluses that covered them.

  “Too much rough living. No delicacy of touch.” Pulling off a glove, he slid his palm across Alec’s. The skin was surprisingly smooth.

  “I can tell gold from silver in the dark just by the feel of it. Looking at my hands, you’d think I’d never done a day’s work in my life. But you! We could dress you up like a gentleman dandy and your hands would give you away before you ever opened your mouth.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever have to worry about that. I like those tricks, though. Can you show me something else?”

  “All right. Watch my hand.” Without lifting his arm from where it rested across his knee, Seregil moved the fingers quickly in a smooth ripple, as if drumming briefly on an invisible tabletop.

  “What’s that?” Alec asked, mystified.

  “I just told you to have the horses ready. And this—” He raised his right index finger as if to scratch under his chin, then looked slightly to the left, drawing the finger back a little toward his ear. “That means we’re in danger from behind. Not every sign is that simple, of course, but once you learn the system you can communicate without anyone being the wiser. Say we were in a crowded room and I wanted to tell you something. I’d catch your eye, then lower my chin once just a bit, like this. Now you try it. No, that’s too much. You might as well shout! Yes, that’s better. Now the horse sign. Good!”

  “Do you use this a lot?” asked Alec, trying the danger sign with indifferent results.

  Seregil chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

  They set off at a brisk canter. Seregil still found the terrain distressingly featureless, but Alec seemed to know what he was doing. Finding the spring the previous night had been heartening evidence of Alec’s abilities as a guide and Seregil kept his doubts to himself.

  Keeping one eye on the sky, the boy scanned the horizon for landmarks Seregil could only guess at. Left to himself, Alec was rather quiet by nature. There was nothing reticent or strained about it—he simply seemed content to concentrate on the business at hand.

  This soon proved not to be the only thing on his mind, however. Reining in at another small spring just before noon, he turned to Seregil as if they’d only paused for breath in an ongoing conversation and asked, “Will you be working as a bard in Wolde?”

  “Yes. Around the Woldesoke I go by the name Aren Windover. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  Alec gave him a skeptical look. “You’re Aren Windover? I heard him sing last spring at the Fox, but I don’t recall him looking like you.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I guess I don’t look much like Rolan Silverleaf, either, just now.”

  “That’s true,” Alec admitted. “Just how many names do you go by, anyway?”

  “Oh, whatever suits. And if you won’t take my word that Aren and I are one and the same, I’ll prove it. Which of my songs did you like the best?”

  “ ‘The Lay of Araman,’ ” Alec answered at once. “The tune stuck in my head for weeks after but I could never remember all the verses.”

  “ ‘The Lay of Araman’ it is, then.” Seregil cleared his throat and launched into the song, his voice a rich, lilting tenor. After a moment Alec joined in. His voice wasn’t as fine, but he could carry a tune.

  “Across the sea sailed Araman,

  a hundred men he led.

  His ship was black as Death’s left eye,

  her sails were deep bloodred.

  They sailed to Simra’s distant shore

  to answer Honors call.

  A hundred men sailed out to sea,

  but none sailed home at all.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  and Death will be your brother.

  A soldier’s life is full of strife,

  but I swear I’d have no other!

  On the city walls stood King Mindar,

  he watched the ship draw nigh.

  Five hundred men were at his back

  and gave the battle cry.

  Then marched they to the battle plain

  to meet the seaborne foe,

  While Araman and his hundred men

  came all ashore below.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  and with your life you’ll buy it.

  But the ladies love a fighting man

  and there’s none that will deny it!

  Then Araman strode on the field

  and Mindar stepped to meet him.

  ‘Your lying tongue has brought us here!’

  cried Araman to greet him.

  ‘I see your force is greater,

  you have numbers on your side,

  But by my sword, I’ll see you dead

  ’ere the turning of the tide.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  though flesh won’t stop a sword.

  The glory of a soldier’s death

  will be your last reward!

  Then on the plain the armies met

  and sword rang out on shield.

  Helms were cloven, limbs were hacked,

  yet neither side would yield,

  Until the generals found themselves

  alone upon the plain.

  Six hundred soldiers, brave and bold,

  would never fight again.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  and well the widows know

  The worth of Honor to the lads

  now lying down below!

  Then toe to toe and blade to blade

  the two fierce warriors fought.

  To steal the heart’s blood of his foe

  was each one’s only thought.

  From their wounds the blood flowed down

  to stain the trampled sward

  And when the tide was turning

  Mindar fell to Araman’s sword.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  for churl and lord as well

  And generals often lead their men

  down to the gates of hell!

  Bold Araman, the victor now,

  lays his blade aside.

  From his wounds his life flows out

  just like the sea’s great tide.

  The price of Honor paid in full

  with blood and steel and lives,

  On an empty plain by an empty shore

  the rightful victor dies.

  For Honor’s price is blood and steel

  so harken well, my son.

  Honor’s a damned expensive thing

  if you’re dead when the battles won!”

  “Well sung!” Seregil applauded. “With a good apprenticeship, you might make a passable bard yourself.”

  “Me?” Alec said with an embarrassed grin. “I can imagine what Father would have said to that!”

  So can I, Seregil thought, having decided that the dead man must have been a pretty dour sort.

  They passed much of the afternoon ride trading songs. As soon as Seregil discovered how Alec blushed at the bawdy ones, he made a special point of including plenty of those.

  For two days they traveled hard and slept cold, but the time passed quickly. Seregil proved as fine a wayfaring companion as Alec could have hoped for, happy to fill the long hours of riding with tales, songs, and legends. The only subject he proved stubbornly reticent about was his own past, and Alec quickly learned not to press. Otherwise, however, they got on well enough. Alec was particularly intrigued by stories of life in the south.

  “You never finished telling me about why the Three Lands fight so often,” he said, hoping for another story after a particularly long silence that afternoon.

  “I do tend to get sidetracked, don’t I? What would you like to know?”

  “About that priest king and all, I guess. It used to be all one country, you said, but now they’re three. What happened?”

  “Same thing that always happens when someone thinks someone else has more land and power than they do—there was a war.

  “About a thousand years ago, the various territories got restless under Hierophantic rule. Hoping to hold his people together, the Hierophant granted them dominion, dividing them up into pretty much what are now Skala, Mycena, and Plenimar. Each had its own regent, appointed by him, of course.

  “It was a logical split, geographically speaking, but unfortunately Plenimar got the short end of the stick. Skala controlled the sheltered plains below the Nimra Range. Mycena had fertile valleys and established outposts to the north. But Plenimar, earliest settled of the three, lay on a dry peninsula with diminishing resources. To make matters worse, the first rumors of gold soon came back from the north and Mycena controlled the routes. What Plenimar did have, though, were warriors and ships, and it wasn’t long before they decided to use them. Just two centuries after the division, they attacked Mycena and started a war that lasted seventeen years.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Nearly eight hundred years. Plenimar probably would’ve won, too, if Aurënen hadn’t come into the fight in the last years.”

  “The Aurënfaie again!” Alec cried, delighted. “But why did they wait so long?”

  Seregil shrugged. “The doings of the Tírfaie were of little concern to Aurënen. It was only when the fighting neared their own waters that they officially allied themselves with Skala and Mycena.”

  Alec thought a moment. “But if the other countries had all the gold and land and everything, how come they weren’t stronger than Plenimar?”

  “They should have been. The wizards of Skala were at the height of their powers then, too. Even the drysians were enlisted to the fight and, as I’m sure you can imagine, they are a force to be reckoned with when they want to be. Some old ballads speak of Plenimaran necromancers and armies of walking dead that could be driven back only by the strongest magicks. Whether or not these tales are true, it was the most terrible war ever fought.”

  “And Plenimar didn’t win?”

  “No, but they came close. In the spring of the fifteenth year of the war, Hierophant Estmar was killed; this sundered the Three Lands forever. Luckily, the black ships of Aurënen sailed through the Straits of Bal just after this and attacked at Benshâl, while the Aurënfaie army and their wizards joined the fighting at Cirna. Whether it was by magic or simply the force of fresh troops, the power of Plenimar was finally broken. At the Battle of Isil, Krycopt, the first Plenimaran ruler to call himself Overlord, was killed by the Skalan queen, Ghërilain the First.”

  “Hold on!” Reaching into his purse, Alec brought out the silver coin. “Is this her, the woman on the co
in?”

  “No, that’s Idrilain the Second, the present queen.”

  Alec turned the coin over and pointed to the crescent and flame symbols. “And what do these mean?”

  “The crescent stands for Illior; the flame above is for Sakor. Together they form the crest of Skala.”

  Skala! thought Alec as he tucked the coin away. Well at least I know now where you’re from.

  3

  SEREGIL MAKES AN OFFER

  Their third morning on the Downs dawned clear.

  Seregil woke first. It had snowed heavily the night before. Luckily, Alec had spotted an abandoned burrow just before sunset and they’d spent the night inside. The hole still stank of its former inhabitants, but it was large enough for the two of them to stretch out in. With the pack and Seregil’s saddle jammed in the opening as a windbreak, they’d managed to keep warm for the first time since they’d come onto the Downs.

  Cramped but warm, Seregil was tempted to let Alec’s soft, even breathing lull him back to sleep. Looking down at him as he slept, he examined the planes of the boy’s face.

  Am I only seeing what I want to see? he wondered silently, feeling again the instinctual twinge of recognition. But there would be time for all that later; for now he had to concentrate on Wolde.

  Giving Alec a nudge, he wriggled out of the burrow. Golden pink light washed across the unbroken expanse of snow surrounding them, its brightness dazzling after several days of sullen weather.

  The horses were pawing at the snow in search of forage and Seregil’s belly growled sympathetically at the sight; tired as he was of tough sausage and old cheese, this morning’s scant breakfast would exhaust the last of the food.

  “Thank the Maker for a sight of the sun!” Alec exclaimed, crawling out behind him.

  “Thank Sakor, you mean,” yawned Seregil, pushing his hair back from his eyes. “Of the Four—Oh, hell, it’s too early for philosophy. Do you think we’ll make Wolde today?”

  Alec peered hard to the south, then nodded. “Before sundown, I’d say.”

  Seregil waded over to the horses and scratched his bay under the forelock. “Oats for you tonight, my friends, and a hot bath and supper for me. If our guide’s worth his silver, that is.”