by Julian May
‘Nor have I.’
He went into the house, emerging later clad in stout hunting gear, with a dagger at his waist and gauntlets tucked into his belt. The Great Stone called Subtle Gateway, which was actually a very small and delicate carving of a door, now hung naked on its chain in the open neck of his wool shirt where he could grasp it easily and pronounce the incantation.
‘But where’s the Concealer?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you make yourself invisible before departing? Wouldn’t it be safer?’
‘No doubt – but using both sigils together would also prolong the period of agony and helplessness.’
‘I see.’ She was still kneeling beside the boat. Sunrise lit the sparkling canal and tropical flowers were blooming on every hand. To a native of subarctic Tarn, the scene might have been one of paradise; but Induna’s eyes were too full to see anything but his blurred features looking down on her with a doleful smile.
He embraced her as a brother might, kissing her on the forehead. Then he climbed into the beached skiff and knelt on the bottom, bracing himself. He had organized the packs so there was plenty of room in the elongated craft, and three paddles were well secured beneath the thwarts so they would not be lost.
‘Farewell, Duna,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again.’
‘I’m sure of it,’ she replied in a strange soft voice.
Taking hold of the moonstone, he pronounced the incantation and gave instructions on where he desired to go. But as he uttered the last words and the stone flared green she flung herself into the boat on top of him, clutching his neck, and they disappeared together in a soundless annihilation.
She dreamed of that crashing downpour of rain, the deeper roar of the boreal river in flood, the gale-lashed willow saplings like stinging whips flailing her face. The skiff lay at an extreme angle, trapped among rocks and tilted nearly on its side, atop a gravel bar in the midst of a foaming brown torrent. She had been thrown clear onto muddy stones among the dwarf trees; but Deveron was still in the boat, caught between the thwarts and the oil-skin-covered bundles of cargo, with his eyes closed and uttering piteous groans. The Gateway sigil on its chain blazed like an emerald star against his throat.
Bruised over half her body, hampered by sodden skirts and the spiky willow thicket, she crept toward him on her hands and knees. When she was clear of the wretched little trees at last, she pulled herself to her feet and stood swaying, buffeted by wind and rain. She was already beginning to shiver, even though the air was not very cold.
What had happened to them? How had the magical transport gone wrong? It almost seemed as though the skiff had been flung onto the gravel bar from a considerable height. Had the Lights only reluctantly provided the sorcery, because it was somehow against their best interests?
The heavily wooded banks of the river were nine or ten ells distant on each side of the islet. The water was opaque and swirling. There was no way to tell how deep it was, but the current flowed with ominous swiftness, carrying all manner of broken vegetation and floating branches. The gravel bar itself was spindle-shaped with pointed ends, perhaps four ells wide where they had landed. Most of the willows that had taken root on it were already partially submerged. She’d fallen into the last patch that stood above water.
‘Deveron!’ she cried, taking hold of the front of his jerkin and shaking him. ‘Can you hear me?’
He only moaned. A trickle of blood seeped from beneath his woolen cap. She pulled it off and found a large lump and an oozing scalp cut. Cautious probing of the skull on either side of it reassured her that the bone was yet solid and the wound superficial, for all the bloody mess. The pupils of his eyes were of the same size and he was not feverish. She hoped that he had only been stunned.
But should he remain partially conscious for much longer, the sigil’s pain-debt would overwhelm him. He would be helpless for three days or even longer…
If anything was to be done, she’d have to do it. It seemed obvious that they’d have to get off the gravel bar. It was too small and barren to be a satisfactory camping place. The predatory animals of the Green Morass would smell Deveron’s blood and not hesitate to swim out and attack. Her magic and his weapons might fend the beasts off during the daytime, but what would happen when she fell asleep? The small willow trees wouldn’t last long as firewood, even if she managed to ignite them.
No, there was no helping it. She would have to drag the skiff into the river and paddle to a safer place.
She pulled her wet skirts forward through her legs and tucked the cloth into the front of her belt, making it possible for her to move about more easily, then set about trying to tug and push the long narrow craft toward the water’s edge. But it was much too heavy, besides being securely wedged in place by several large rocks. With a sinking heart, she realized that it would have to be unloaded.
The rain was falling harder than ever and the rushing river made a great noise. She felt confused and on the verge of panic. Her bruises and facial cuts ached and an insidious chill stiffened her hands. She considered pulling Deveron out of the boat, but he was not a small man and she feared she’d be unable to get him back in again. She’d do better to remove the packs, but they were large and heavy, covered with oilskin and firmly lashed down. Poor Deveron was lying in a pool of blood-tinged water that would have to be bailed out. But what to do first?…
Despondency suddenly overwhelmed her like a crushing wave. Furious words burst from her lips as she screamed up at the sky. ‘It’s your fault, Source! You told him to use the damned Gateway sigil. It was supposed to transport him to a safe place – I heard him command it. Is this what you call safe?’
The anger invigorated her and restored her right-thinking. She set about rigging an improvised tent over the entire boat, using a large oilskin along with rawhide cord that had tied down the packs. The three paddles served as poles and heavy stones substituted for tentpegs.
Her fingers were going numb and she was shivering badly by the time she finished. She would have to find more suitable clothing quickly or risk collapsing from exposure. Deveron had packed plenty of extra things, and the third pack she opened contained what she required. She stripped to the skin and put on woolen trews that she rolled to fit her short legs, two pairs of stockings, waxed-leather buskins that were only a trifle too large, a heavy tunic, and a fleece vest. One of the smaller oilskins served as a raincape. She found knitted fingerless mitts and a long scarf to wrap around her neck, and pulled a fur cap over her ears. After covering Deveron with a blanket and wrapping his wounded head in a shirt, she rested for a while beneath the meager shelter before beginning the hard work of shifting the packs.
Even though most of her clothing was already damp, she felt much warmer. A delicious languor spread through her body. She heard the crashing river and raindrops rattling on oilskin. Through slowly closing eyes, she saw a black wall of spruce trees on the shore, undergrowth tossing in the wind, and a sudden gleam of – what?
Was there something out there?
Fear jolted her awake. She struggled to her feet, used her talent to search the dark forest, but relaxed again when she scried no living thing. She and Deveron were alone in the wilderness. Alone on a tiny river island that was empty save for a patch of stunted willows –
She stiffened as her gaze swept over the little trees. Brown water now covered the base of every thin trunk. The river was rising. Without her noticing, the gravel bar had shrunk to half of its previous length.
Source! her terrified mind shrieked on the uncanny wind. What am I to do?
There was no reply.
Working frantically, she dismantled the shelter and returned the paddles and all of the unloaded equipment to the skiff. Then she surveyed the tilted craft. What would happen when the water rose under it? Would it capsize?
Not if you get in and weight it on the high side.
She gave a great start and almost lost her footing in the slippery mud. Then she gave a shrill laugh. ‘Thank you for the reassurance
, Source! Just make certain we don’t flip in the rapids or go over a waterfall after we float free. I really don’t know how to paddle this thing.’
He does. It’s time to revive him, Induna. Do it now while there’s still time, before the Pain-Eaters begin to feed.
‘Source, do you mean –’
But she knew what was meant.
Cautiously, she levered herself into the skiff so they were lying face to face, then fastened their belts loosely together. Whatever happened would happen to both of them. She tucked translucent oilskin over their bodies to fend off the worst of the rain, enclosing them in golden gloom. It was almost cosy, she thought.
With the utmost caution she unfastened the chain of the sigil called Subtle Gateway and eased the moonstone into his wallet, which she reattached to his belt. Then she opened the front of both their shirts.
A tremendous clap of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the very earth and causing the grounded skiff to lurch.
‘So you Lights disapprove, do you? Then rage and howl and shake the stars from their courses if you can! But know that I’ll free him from you again, just as I did before. Your feast is over before it begins.’
She chanted the invocation with one hand resting between her breasts. The damp skin softened and became as yielding as bread dough. She reached through soft flesh and bone into her own beating heart and drew forth a tiny thing no larger than a finger-joint, a pearl-colored female image that was alive and moving. Her entire body shuddered and seemed on the verge of dissolution, then regained its mortal solidity. But she was diminished, deprived of a significant portion of vital energy, and she knew that this time the sacrifice would take a toll much greater than it had before.
Will I recover? she wondered. But it didn’t matter. He would.
Her eyesight was beginning to fade as she pressed the shining little homuncule into his breast. It vanished and so did his agony. He was free. She heard him crying her name on the wind.
Induna!
In her dream she was content, smiling as the dragon pulled her down and down and down, into the black abyss.
The darkness brightened. Rainbow reflections shimmered on a quicksilver mirror. She saw again the awful gaping jaws and gemlike eyes of the Morass Worm, and watched that ghastly visage melt and metamorphose into a familiar human face. His.
She woke.
He sat beside her, holding one of her hands. She lay in a warm, comfortable bed in a small room where wan sunlight shone through a leaded window of pebble-glass. Two women stood on either side of Deveron, smiling down at her. One was tall and fairhaired, dressed like a common serving wench, but with a bold and commanding bearing for all that she was still in the first blush of maidenhood. The girl’s left wrist was bound in a splinted dressing. The second woman was much older but very comely. She was a tiny person who stood less than five feet tall. Enormous green eyes dominated a sweet unlined face. Her hair, of mingled silver and gold, was done up in two long plaits.
‘The worm,’ Induna whispered. ‘The devouring worm!’
‘Nay,’ Deveron said, wiping her brow with a cool cloth. ‘It rescued us, love. Unaccountable as it may seem, the dragon somehow brought the skiff with us inside to the very destination we originally sought: Castle Morass. You are resting in a village nearby.’
‘We had been expecting you, my dear,’ the very small woman said. ‘The Source told us you would be coming.’ Her smile was mischievous. ‘I admit your manner of deliverance was unexpected. You were brought by Vaelrath, one of the few of her ferocious ilk who sometimes condescends to deal with my people.’
The tall girl said rather brusquely, ‘How do you feel, Induna? You’ve lain senseless for over a day while the healers worked on you. Your man was frantic with worry – and with good reason. Did you truly donate a portion of your soul to save his life? Great Starry Bear! Never have I heard of such a thing.’
Induna pulled herself up on the pillows, discovering that she was wearing a finely embroidered linen nightgown. ‘It is an uncommon piece of magic, rarely performed by Tarnian healers. And I now feel well recovered. But who are you two ladies, that you have familiar congress with such a dread creature as a Morass Worm?’
Deveron said, ‘Where are my manners? Let me present Her Majesty, Casabarela Mallburn, daughter of the lamented King Honigalus, and rightful Queen Regnant of Didion.’
The fairhaired wench grinned. ‘My Uncle Somarus, that murdering swine, calls me Casya Pretender. He’d pay ten thousand gold marks for me, dead or alive, but I have a temporary safe refuge here at Castle Morass, among secret friends, while my broken wrist heals.’
Deveron said, ‘And may I also present Mistress Sithalooy Cray, who is a leader among the race of Green Men…and my newly discovered great-great-grandmother.’
‘You must call me Cray.’ The little woman held a cup to Induna’s lips. ‘Drink a little of this. It will strengthen you. Then we must discuss urgent matters, for our poor world is in a state of turmoil unknown since the days of that upstart human, Bazekoy. And we have been chosen to put it right – if such can be done.’
Deveron said firmly, ‘But first, Eldmama, before we deal with such momentous things, we will talk of a wedding.’
The tall, rawboned woman dressed in a dusty black magicker’s cloak and a broad-brimmed hat approached Beorbrook Hold with her heart full of hope – and feet that hurt like blue blazes.
It had taken Rusgann Moorcock two days and two nights, walking without stopping save for brief periods of rest, to negotiate the steep downhill track that led from Lord Tinnis Catclaw’s mountain retreat to the civilized regions of northern Cathra. Her witch’s disguise, coupled with her daunting height and fierce scowl, had warned off the few shepherds and other high-country denizens she’d met along the way. They had eyed her warily and kept their distance, wanting nothing to do with what appeared to be a wandering conjure-wife of Didion.
No one seemed to be pursuing her. Thanks to the cleverness of dear Lady Maude, it was probable that none of the guards up at Gentian Fell Lodge yet realized she was not lying sick abed. The weather had stayed fair and the lopsided moon had shone bright as day as she trudged through alpine meadows and valley forests with long and tireless strides. Finally, on the morn of the third day, she approached the gates of Beorbrook Town, above which towered the enormous Cathran fortress that guarded the approach to Great Pass. It was also the home of the Earl Marshal of the Realm, the Sovereign’s most trusted general, and his adopted son Prince Dyfrig.
She was too exhausted to go much further without a long sleep and good food. But if the prince was in residence, she was determined to pass on the secret letter from his mother as soon as possible. She’d have to tread cautiously to avoid raising suspicion, however; it would never do to simply approach the barbican of Beorbrook Hold and demand an audience. Lady Maude had cautioned her that more subtle means were called for. First she must make discreet inquiries. Then, if Dyfrig was at home, she would contact him by sending a note to the earl marshal’s daughter-in-law, Countess Morilye Kyle.
Rusgann stepped aside into a copse of alders, opened her pack, and set about altering her appearance. She tied her straggling grey-blonde hair into a neat bun, exchanged her black hat and cloak for the bright red headkerchief, fancy knitted shawl, and white apron of a north-country peasant woman, and rearranged her plain features into a more amiable expression.
Keeping her gaze lowered and her manner unobtrusive, she moved among other common folk through the eastern city gate into a lower-class commercial quarter with openair market stalls purveying fresh produce, poultry, and a wide variety of other inexpensive wares. She soon came upon a likely tavern situated next door to a stable. Sitting down with two other congenial-appearing female patrons who turned out to be an elderly mother and her buxom grown daughter, she ordered a hearty meal of chicken pottage with leeks and parsnips, rye bread, apple tart topped with clotted cream, and brown ale. Even before the food arrived, she and her table-companions
were gossiping like old friends.
Rusgann pretended to be a mountain dweller from a remote steading, whose husband had recently died. Rather than endure a harsh winter alone in the highlands, she said, she’d sold off her goats and sheep to a neighbor and was on her way to join her sister’s family in a village far to the south, near Teme.
‘I’ve never visited a big city before,’ she admitted with naive enthusiasm. ‘Coming here is like a dream come true. What a wonderful market you have! A person could find anything her heart desired in such a place.’
The old woman cackled dismissively. ‘Why, this piss-poor little clutch of stalls is nothing compared to the grand market square over near Beorbrook Hold. Now that’s a market! Lords and ladies shop there for silks and jewels and fine wines from the Continent. And orn’ry bodies like us can buy real steel needles, and thread any color of the rainbow, and pastries and sweets good enough for a royal banquet.’
Rusgann’s eyes widened with simulated awe. ‘Might one see Marshal Parlian Beorbrook himself thereabouts? And his son, Prince Dyfrig?’
‘Nay,’ said the younger woman, speaking with her mouth full of meat pie. ‘They’re both up in Didion, fighting the Salka monsters with the Sovereign’s army – and so are most of Beorbrook’s warriors. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about the invasion?’
‘Invasion!’ Rusgann gasped, feigning dismay. ‘Saint Zeth preserve us! I heard nothing about this. My steading is so far up in the mountains –’
‘Now, don’t be all in a flowster, dearie,’ the oldwife said soothingly. ‘The great slimy brutes aren’t anywhere near here. Back in Thunder Moon they bogged down someplace way up north in the Green Morass. Just came to a screeching halt for reasons nobody can fathom. Good thing, too – since it gave our Sovereign time to muster troops from all over the island. There’s a whackin’ great mob of fighting men gathered up around Boarsden on the River Malle, ready to smash the red-eyed fiends if they start to move again.’
