The Great Alta Saga Omnibus

by Jane Yolen

  “You have come back in time,” he whispered.

  She wept and could not stop.

  He patted the bed by his side and she sat down, perching as carefully as a wren on a branch.

  “I am always in time,” she whispered.

  He smiled and for a moment looked well and young. But only for a moment. “Ich crie thee merci,” he said in a cracked voice.

  She smiled back at the memory. Those had been the very first words he had spoken to her. “I will give you merci, my love. At least what I have of it.” She took his hand. When had that hand become an old man’s? The veins were like the traceries of a map. She knew suddenly what must be done and, after a few moments of silence, told him.

  He did not argue much. It was as if he knew he walked the knife’s edge of life and too much wasted breath on one side or the other would cause him to slip off early.

  She kissed his hands, then his brow as well. “It will be a short journey, Longbow, though I cannot promise it will be an easy one.”

  He smiled again, this time at the use of his old nickname, the one the soldiers had given him in the war.

  “But you will go in as much comfort as we can supply,” she added. “And now I must make the preparations.”

  She was as blunt as the healer with the council. “He has reached the end,” she said. “A day, a week at best.” She sat with her back straight, hands folded on the table before her. If any of them knew that she had ridden all day and night, they would not read it in her demeanor.

  Scillia sat beside her, her mouth in a thin, straight line.

  Jenna gazed around the table at her oldest friends. Petra wept openly. Jareth had tears shining in his eyes that would not fall. The rest looked shocked, uncomfortable, angry. They had all known Carum was ill, but they had not let themselves know too much. Kings may die; heroes do not.

  Only Piet spoke. Standing, he walked over to the window and stared across the courtyard before starting, then said “We have had a good king and queen on the throne, Anna. If the king goes, the queen still reigns. We will follow where you lead, as we have always.”

  Jenna did not react immediately to his well-meant words. Instead she hesitated a long moment before saying what had to be said. When at last she spoke her voice was steel. “A queen on the throne will reign indeed. But that queen will be Scillia. She has been trained up to it as I never was. She has lived her entire life knowing that one day she would rule. The tutors tell me that she has been an an apt pupil and I have sat with her on councils and in sessions. She has a strong heart and a good mind. She will make a fine queen.”

  “But, Jenna—” Petra was the first to protest.

  Jenna held up her hand for silence. “I will not be parted from Carum. We are one soul. You all know I was never meant to rule, except by his side. And side by side we will go together into the grove.”

  Piet spun around and stared at her. “Do you mean to immolate yourself like some queen of the Injs? We will not let you. We need you, Anna.”

  “I mean to take Carum into the Grenna’s grove,” Jenna said softly. “I have always meant to do it. Till the world shall need us again.”

  “Pah! A fairy tale. We need you now!” Piet was near shouting.

  “The grove is no fairy tale,” Jenna said softly.

  Piet strode to the table and slammed his hand down on it, making the goblets rattle. “Do you dare tell me anyone—anyone—in this chamber believes such a story?”

  Jareth stood. His voice raspy with emotion did not break, but it was a near thing. “I was there with the Anna in the grove before, old man. Believe me, it is no tale. If Jenna is returning, there are some of us who would be willing to go with her.”

  “No one,” Jenna said, the steel once again in her voice, “no one goes with me into the grove but Carum. Great Alta said I could take but one back and he is the one I choose. And if we do not make the preparations at once, I will be going there alone.” She turned to Scillia who was still stone-faced by her side. As if the steel had finally been broken by a greater force, Jenna cried out, “Help me, daughter, I can do no more by myself.”

  The plea, so unexpected, broke Scillia’s heart. She gathered her mother to her and held her, saying over her shoulder, “Make a bed in a long cart with bedding enough for comfort. And fix a strong canopy over it to keep out sun and wind. Have the healer make a good dozen draughts of poppy liquor to soothe the king if he needs it. I want strong horses to draw the cart, and a dozen soldiers to accompany us. And …”

  Piet nodded. “It will be done.”

  But Jenna pulled away abruptly shaking her head. “No soldiers.”

  Scillia brushed a lock of hair from her mother’s brow. “Soldiers for as long as they are needed, mother. That at least you must grant. You are not the only mourner here.”

  Jenna nodded wearily.

  Standing, Petra came over, holding out a hand. “What can I do to help, my dear friend?”

  “Bring me my sons,” Jenna said. “They must be told.”

  “I will be here when you tell them, mother,” Scillia said. “Dark sister to your light.”

  “And queen to my queen,” Jenna said.

  No one in the council disagreed.

  The boys were found and brought into the chamber and then, as if by agreement—though none had been spoken—the members of the council left. Jenna and Scillia sat together at one end of the long table and Corrie perched, birdlike, on the edge of a stool he had drawn up near them. He stared at his hands, tears silently coursing down his cheeks. He did not bother to wipe the tears away, but continued to weep without sound.

  On the other hand, Jemson could not be still. He sat in one chair, stood, tried another, then stood again to pace back and forth by the window while Jenna spoke. Finally he turned his back on them all and stared out of the window east, over the water, as if he could actually see the Continent by looking hard enough.

  Jenna’s dirge-like voice rose and fell. She told them how sick Carum was, what the healer had said, and what she planned to do. As she spoke, though she did not realize it, her hands in her lap clasped one another so tightly, the fingers went as white as her hair.

  When she had finished speaking, there was a long silence in the room till Jemson turned and, nearly shouting, cried “It is not the end. It cannot be.”

  Jenna’s hands flew apart at his words. She wondered briefly if she were more shaken by his strange anger or his even stranger certainty. Forcing her hands back into her lap, she spoke more calmly than she felt. “My dears, it is.”

  Jemson strode angrily to the table, picked up one of the chairs he had recently vacated and suddenly threw it against the wall, breaking off two of its legs. He made an odd grunting sound and it took a moment for Jenna to realize that he was actually crying.

  Scillia stood abruptly and as abruptly Jenna put out a hand and pulled her back down into the chair.

  All the while Corrie continued to weep silently.

  “I will have no more of this, Jemson,” Jenna said softly. “Let the two of us go with some measure of dignity.”

  “Two of you?” Jemson shouted in a mocking voice. “Two? There are never just the two of you! A bit of moon, a shred of candlelight, a fire filled with meat drippings—and then there are three. It is unholy.”

  Jenna bit back her own anger and answered quietly, “This time there will be but two. That is the law of the grove.”

  “And what of us?” It was Corrie, his voice husky with tears. “How can you leave us alone?”

  Jenna leaned over and put her hand on his. “You are not alone, Corrie dear. There are the three of you and the council and … and the entire kingdom. Why your family is as large as this land.”

  “Three cannot rule a land together,” Jemson said bitterly, “no matter who they are.” He did not seem to realize the irony in what he had just said.

  “No, perhaps not,” Jenna replied. “Though we have tried. But one surely can. And she will.”

&nb
sp; “You cannot really still mean to have … her … be queen.” Jem had moved close to his sister, leaning menacingly toward her. “She has not the blood for it.”

  “If you mean the passion for it—that she surely has. If you mean the mettle for it—that too she has. If you mean the breeding for it—what breeding did I have?”

  “You married father and he was born to be king,” Jem-son said.

  “Father was born to be a prince. War made him a king. And only because mother won the battles for him,” Corrie reminded him. “It was a throne bought with the blood of many men.”

  “And many women,” Scillia added.

  Jenna’s voice returned to steel. “We have had enough of that kind of blood.”

  Jemson turned and went back to the window, looking out once more toward the sea.

  “The people expect Scillia to be queen,” Jenna finished, “without the necessity of blood. And queen she shall be.”

  “Blood …” Jemson muttered, implying much. But his voice was lost to them, carried out the window to the east.

  “Corrie, Scillia, you may go now. There is something that your brother and I must speak about. I know he would prefer to hear it alone.”

  At that Jemson turned around. “If it is more about blood, mother, let them stay. I would have them know my mind entirely. And my mind is bloody right now.”

  “It is about letters, Jemmie.” Jenna’s voice was hard. “Not blood. And I think you have lost what mind you once had.”

  Scillia looked puzzled and Corrie ill-at-ease. They had never heard that particular tone in their mother’s voice before, as if she had drunk a bitter tincture of wormwood and rue.

  “Go!” Jenna suddenly shouted at the two of them. “Go now! And do not listen like children at the door!”

  They bolted for the door as if they were still youngsters, propelled by a sense of foreboding, Scillia ahead of Corrie. Jenna waited until they had slammed the door behind them, then reached into the leather pocket that hung from her waist. She pulled out a handful of letters.

  “These speak treason, you know.” She pushed them across the table at Jemson.

  He reached out to touch them, then drew his hand back as if the letters had been nettles, but he did not deny the letters were his. Nor the treason. Instead he went on the attack. “How dare you, mother? How did you get those? They are my private …”

  “Private?” Her voice was once again quiet. But it was not gentle. “Did you think that a prince who has been public in his condemnation of his country has a right to any privacy? Did you think that a boy who has been raised in the house of our enemies would be fully trusted? Did you … even … think at all?

  “But those were not … They were to be … private.” He bit his lip.

  “Nothing a royal does is private,” Jenna continued. “Why do you think I run off to the woods whenever I can? Why do you think I am taking your father away now? If you want privacy, child, do not seek a throne. Surely your Garun masters taught you that.”

  “I. Am. Not. A. Child.” He glared at her and all at once Jenna felt cold. She did not recognize those eyes. They were angry, distant, mocking, sly. They were a Garun’s eyes. They did not belong to any son of hers.

  “What do you plan to do with those?” he asked, gesturing to the letters.

  “Give them back to you,” she said. “With a warning.” She held the letters toward him.

  “Blood to blood, mother?” he asked, snatching the letters up and cramming them down the neck of his shirt.

  She did not answer. She did not answer his unasked question, either. Could he possibly suppose she was the only one who knew of the letters? Could he be so stupid? So careless? So selfish? So low?

  Without another word, Jemson turned away from her and walked over to the door which he opened with such sudden violence, he surprised Scillia and Corrie who were waiting close enough to have overheard the entire exchange.

  They lost no time in crowding past Jemson into the council room, but he paid them no heed, striding on down the long hall and out of sight.

  “What did those letters say, mother?” Scillia demanded. “Were they treason indeed?”

  “He is plotting with the king across the water for your throne,” Jenna said, her voice like her face drawn and old.

  Corrie said nothing, but there was no surprise written on his face, only a lingering sadness. Jenna noted it and wondered.

  “Then why did you give him back the letters?” Scillia asked.

  “Think,” Jenna said. “Think like a queen, Scillia.”

  Scillia was silent. If she was thinking, it was not apparent. She just looked angry.

  Corrie put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “She’s made copies, of course. And shown the originals to the council.”

  “Hold your brother Corrine close, Scillia,” said Jenna. “Dark sister to your light. He has the mind of a plotter and the soul of a saint.” She stood. “I am tired. Alta alone knows how tired. But I have no time to sleep. Come with me to your father’s room and give him your farewells.”

  “With all my heart, mother,” Corrie said, bowing his head.

  “But I am going with you to the grove,” Scillia said. “Surely I can say my farewells there.”

  “Only as far as the grove, daughter. Not into it. And I have no guarantee your father will be able to speak to you there. Besides, it is not yet your time to come into the grove. This is your turning.”

  “What do you mean, mother?” Scillia asked, but she spoke to her mother’s back. She turned to Corrie. “What does she mean?”

  This time he had no answer for her.

  Their goodbyes were short for Carum, already groggy from the healer’s strong poppy decoction, could barely keep his eyes open.

  Scillia knelt by the bed and held her father’s hand. She marveled at how light it felt, as if dying were merely the loss of bone. Corrie stood at the bedfoot, his shoulders hunched, his right hand on the canopy’s tester. He was so tall and silent a presence, he almost looked like the figure of Alta’s Last Watcher that was embroidered on the main arras in the throne room: that dark-robed, vulture-headed character from the tales.

  Jenna looked at the two of them rather than at Carum and sighed. They will do! she thought. Then for a moment she worried about Jemson, off somewhere in the bowels of the castle or perhaps down at the Berick docks bribing some poor Garunian sailor to take one last message for him. That he should be such a sorry son … She stopped herself. He is what he is.

  She knew that Scillia and Corrine between them would serve the country well, and they could handle their treasonous brother with the help of the council. Jemson was sly and he was a braggart, but he had no real strength. Of that she was sure.

  “For this turning,” she whispered.

  As if he heard her, Carum moved fitfully in the great bed. His eyes flickered open and his lips formed Jenna’s name. “I need to tell …” he began. Then his eyes closed.

  “I am here, my love,” Jenna said, quickly shooing the others from the room. Before they quite got out the door, Jenna whispered, “Scillia, I count on you.” Then she closed the door behind them with a quiet snick.

  Jemson was neither in the bowels of the castle nor at the docks. He was high on the battlements, a tame dove in his hands. In a small pouch tied to the dove’s right leg was a message.

  This being a time of peace, there were no guards around to see what Jemson was about, but he moved stealthily anyway. When he was certain no one had seen him, he flung the bird into the air.

  The bird flapped once, twice to get its balance. It flew east to the water’s edge, then south along the coast, till it found its heart’s compass. Then it headed straight east again across miles of open water toward its home.

  The cart with Carum’s bed was pulled along the King’s Way by two broad Dales mares bred for placid dispositions and massive strength. The road was still broken and pocked by the long winter’s upheavals, and the cart lurched along like a dr
unkard just come from the ale house. Carum was drugged much of the time and did not notice how long or how wretched the road was.

  “Or else he would be sitting up and making lists for the repairs,” Scillia said.

  Jenna agreed, even smiling for a moment. Then she grew serious again. “Soon enough he will have to endure a harder route, and without the tincture at the end. For he must be awake to agree to the last. I will, myself, pull him through the woods to the grove. It will of course mean tying him to the sledge, but …”

  “Two to pull will make things go more smoothly, mother,” Scillia argued. “Two. Or more. We have the soldiers. Surely they can …”

  “We have been over and over this, Scillia,” Jenna said. “No one but your father and I are allowed to go all the way. Great Alta said I can bring one other into the grove.”

  “But you are already two in a single breast, mother,” Scillia pointed out. “There is Skada.”

  “If I go by night. But if I go by day there will be just Carum and me.”

  Scillia shook her head. “How can you leave your dark sister behind?”

  “As you say, she is here, within me. So in a way I do not leave her at all. The Book of Light says: two sisters, two sides. But there are no shadows in the grove. She could not come in bodily even if I wanted her to.” She put up her hand as a signal to stop and the soldiers leading the two mares eased them to a gentle halt. “Here. Here is where we stay.”

  Scillia dismounted and checked her father who still slept heavily in the cart. Then she turned to Jenna. “You cannot mean here, mother.” She pointed around them where the great trees crowded in toward the broken road. “There is nothing here but forest. You cannot mean to stop here.”

  “This is exactly where I mean to stop.” Jenna turned from her. “Take the sledge down,” she ordered.

  “Then you cannot know what you are doing,” Scillia said. “I forbid it.”

  Jenna turned to her and smoothed a lock of Scillia’s hair that had come unbound on the ride. “You cannot forbid me anything,” she said softly. “I am still queen. And your mother besides.” If she meant to be comforting, her humor missed its mark.