Closer To The Stars

by Marie Brown

  Chapter 7: Mountain Crossing

  "Oh, dear gods," Kirel said, craning his neck to look up—and up—and up. "I thought they were big from the other side of the Plains! I believe you now. They're so big, there can't possibly be enough air to cover them all. And we have to cross them?"

  "Well, not over them, but at least through them. Are you ready?"

  "No, but when has that ever stopped me?" Kirel grinned. "Let's go."

  The North Road's magical surface created a broad swath of white through the foothills, offering sure footing and great ease of travel. This changed as the foothills gave way to true mountainous terrain. Steep granite cliffs bordered the road, sometimes on one side, sometimes both. The road itself narrowed and began winding a serpentine path up an increasingly steep slope.

  "Traders actually use this route?" Kirel asked, inspecting the width ahead with a dubious eye. It looked barely wide enough for two horses abreast, let alone a wagon following behind.

  "They must," Sylvan said, although he too sounded doubtful. "They get through somehow, anyway. Or else how would we ever see spiderweave?"

  "I don't know. But then, I've never personally seen spiderweave. For all I know, everybody else could be just making it up. How in the world could even a single trader, let alone a caravan, manage this nightmare of a trail?"

  The answer to that question lay about half an hour and three tight turns down their path. A small village clung determinedly to the side of the mountain. Across the road, in a wide open meadow, several large, solidly fenced structures stood behind several equally large stables.

  "Stables? What in hells—" Kirel broke off as a short, round man hurried out of a small house tucked in the lee of the closest stable.

  "Can I help you, good sirs? I am Edvin, the greatest trade facilitator in Alpengate."

  "You certainly can, good Edvin," Sylvan replied. "What is this place? Why all the stables, and the fenced yards?"

  "Welcome to Alpengate, my fine young Lord," Edvin said, with a surprisingly polished bow for such a rustic setting. "This is where traders and travellers alike make Changeover."

  "And what, pray tell, is Changeover?"

  "Changeover is the transition from ordinary horses and horse-drawn conveyances to woolies."

  "Woolies?" Kirel knew, in his role as armsman, he should keep his mouth shut. But the only woolies he knew were sheep, and the idea of switching Dapple for a sheep seemed too ludicrous to believe. "You can't mean sheep?"

  Edvin laughed. "No, no, my good man. Woolies. They're a local breed, somewhat like a combination of horse, sheep, and mountain goat. They've got a fine pack of wool on them, so we call 'em woolies. They're the most practical means of transportation over the high passes, especially now, with the magical road closed."

  "I beg your pardon?" Sylvan said, nudging Thunder closer. "Did you just say the magical road is closed?"

  "That's right, my Lord," Edvin nodded. "There was a landslide up in Veldsen Pass. Nobody can get through until it's cleared, and the men only left two days ago to work on it. I doubt it will be finished before the first snow."

  Kirel felt a chill just hearing the word snow.

  "Blast. Is there another reliable route?"

  "Indeed there is, my Lord, although it is far less travelled. The route through Wilfen will take you into the Northlands. If you go that route, though, you'd best hurry. It's difficult going, a mere dirt track over peaks much higher than the trade route. Perhaps my Lord would do better to remain in Alpengate for the winter, at one of our fine traveller's rests?"

  "No, thank you," Sylvan replied quickly. He could well imagine the cost of such a stay. Even with his musical talents to help out, the price of a winter's lodging would leave them without a copper to their names. "I'm confident we can cross before the first snow."

  "No? Then I recommend you take a look at my fine woolies. They'll get you where you're going far more safely than those horses of yours."

  Sylvan glanced at Kirel, then nodded. "All right. We'll look at your woolies, to satisfy curiosity. But you'll have a mighty hard time convincing my man to turn loose of his horse."

  "Ah, excellent!" Edvin beamed. "If my Lord will follow me?"

  Sylvan dismounted, although he surreptitiously watched Kirel for guidance. Kirel kept hold of his reins, ignoring the hitching rail in front of the stable. Sylvan did the same, and they followed Edvin, leading the horses.

  The round man moved with a short, quick stride that covered ground quickly. Sylvan heard Kirel panting as he tried to keep up, and felt his own lungs sting with the well-remembered burn of thin mountain air.

  Edvin led them through the large barn, with only a few horses in its many stalls, and out through the back, where strange beasts stood in a collection of small paddocks.

  "My woolies," Edvin said, beaming with pride. "Aren't they lovely?"

  Lovely was not the word Kirel would have chosen, although the beasts did have a certain charm. He heard Sylvan saying something to Edvin, but most of his attention was on the woolies.

  They were almost horse sized, although nowhere near the majestic height of a Great Horse. Their spindly legs were covered in short, dense wool, and ended in cloven hooves. The bodies were large, indeterminate lumps, covered in much longer wool, and looked very sheeplike. They had long necks, with heads that strongly resembled that of a goat. Their color ranged from brilliant white to a dirty cream, with all shades in between.

  "Let me ask my man," Sylvan's voice suddenly came into focus for Kirel. "Kirel? You're in charge of the animals, what do you think about trading the horses for these creatures?"

  "No, thank you," he replied, without hesitation. "I'd trust Dapple over one of these things any day."

  "Now, now, my good man, don't be hasty! The woolies are smaller than your great beast, but they're built for mountain travel. Those cloven hooves cling to the rocks that will lame your horse. Why, woolies can even climb where the bravest of men fear to tread!"

  "I'm sorry, sir," Kirel said, keeping his voice respectful. "I will not give up my Great Horse, and I will not advise my Bard to surrender his horse, either. Perhaps you'll have better luck with the next travellers."

  "Are you certain you will not travel safely?" Edvin shifted his artful entreaty to Sylvan, who shook his head.

  "I trust my man," he said, although he did not look at Kirel. "If he tells me to ride a horse, I will do so."

  "Have it your way, then," and Edvin's manner shifted from obsequious to brusque. "Be off with you, and don't hesitate to send for the rescue team when one of your precious horses goes off the trail or breaks a leg. Of course, it'll be too late to do much by then, but too bad. You've had your chance."

  "Kirel?" Sylvan looked at his lover, who favored Edvin with a disgusted glare and swung into Dapple's saddle with practiced ease.

  "The horses will bear us safely, Bard. We should waste no more time here."

  Sylvan mounted Thunder gracefully after so long on the road and followed as Kirel jogged Dapple through the barn, a violation of etiquette, but no worse than Edvin deserved for his rudeness.

  "So where do you suppose the road to Wilfen is?" Kirel asked, as they burst from the open stable door and picked up speed in the stableyard.

  "I have no clue," Sylvan said, urging Thunder faster. The horse surged forward and drew even with Dapple, although his breathing sounded strained even to the Bard. Kirel shot a sharp glance at the horse and noted the distended nostrils, the angled back ears.

  "Sorry, horse," he said, and slowed Dapple's pace down to a walk. "I forgot your lungs aren't as good as Dapple's."

  Then he looked at his Bard. "Are we close to the place where the air runs out? Thunder and I are both having a rough time breathing."

  Sylvan laughed. "No, not at all. We're still quite low. Wait until we're really high. Then you'll see what it's like to have difficulty breathing."

  "I was afraid you'd say that," Kirel sighed. "There's a villager over there, at the
well. I'll ask him where the road lies."

  Kirel rode over to the man filling water urns to ask his question, returning quickly.

  "He says it's the second branch to the left off the magic road," he reported. "And he confirmed what Edvin said. The main road is closed, and likely to remain that way for a long time."

  "Oh well," Sylvan sighed. "At least we found out now, rather than later."

  They made a brief pause at an inn to haggle for more provisions, then continued on through Alpengate, keeping a close eye on the roadside for the second branch.

  Even watching carefully, they almost missed it. A small dirt path broke away from the magical road, hardly more than a trace through the brilliant green grass of a small meadow. Sylvan spotted it first. Kirel had difficulty seeing it even after the horses started down it.

  The path led them through the meadow, into a stand of trees with pale bark and shimmering leaves, then plunged into a tight gorge. Steep granite walls rose to either side nearly close enough to touch. Thunder crowded close on Dapple's heels, snorting and uncomfortable. Dapple ignored him, oblivious to any discomfort, and continued picking his careful way along the rock-strewn path.

  Kirel felt whatever bothered Thunder as a prickling sensation in his shoulders and the back of his neck, similar to the feeling of someone staring at him. Someone unfriendly staring at him.

  "I don't really like this place," he said, twisting in his saddle to look at Sylvan. "I hope the rest of the way isn't like this."

  "There's a lot of old magic here," the Bard said, frowning. "I don't know why. And it doesn't feel friendly."

  "Anything but friendly," Kirel agreed.

  The path emerged from the gorge at last, wider and more easily seen. It led through more of the shimmering trees, some of their leaves already touched with gold in preparation for fall's glory. Kirel started riding with his bow in hand, an arrow on the string, resting it across the saddle pommel. When Sylvan questioned him, he passed it off as being ready to get a squirrel for dinner, but really, he had a feeling about this place. Something unfriendly watched them, he knew it, and he meant to be prepared if anything happened.

  Sylvan gave up trying to keep Thunder away from Dapple and let the nervous horse stick tight to his companion's side. The path climbed steeply upward through the forested mountain slopes as the sun dropped in the sky.

  "This place is very strange," he started to say, then stopped in surprise when an arrow zipped past them across the trail to embed itself, quivering, in a nearby tree.

  "Back!" Kirel snapped, bow at the ready and scanning for motion. Sylvan yanked Thunder back behind Dapple, leaving Kirel free to act.

  "That was a warning," a deep, disembodied voice said, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Lower your weapon and identify yourself."

  "Kirel, man-at-arms, in the service of Bard Sylvan." He lowered the bow a little, but did not release the tension on the string.

  "Bard? A Bard comes here?"

  Sylvan took that as his cue to say something. "Yes, I'm a Bard. Who are you?"

  "Tell your man to put down his weapon, and I will show myself."

  Sylvan looked at Kirel, one eyebrow raised. Kirel shrugged and released the tension on his string gradually, then dropped the bow to its former resting position.

  The trees rustled louder than the wind could account for, and a most amazing creature stepped forward. Half man, half horse, and all magic. . .

  "A centaur!" Kirel breathed.

  The centaur held a bow as well, with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. "Greetings, brother-in-arms," he said, with a nod of his head to Kirel. "Bard. You honor us with your presence."

  And the magical creature bowed to Sylvan, who managed to keep the astonishment off his face.

  "The honor is mine, friend centaur," Sylvan said. "Few indeed of my kind have met with yours in recent times."

  The centaur rose from his bow and nodded. "Indeed. My name is Strongbow, Bard Sylvan. On behalf of Shady Gulch Enclave, I bid you welcome and invite you to stay and play with us tonight. Is this acceptable?"

  "Kirel?"

  "I've no objection, Bard," Kirel said. "Centaurs are honorable folk. How are your fingers doing?"

  Sylvan laughed. "My fingers are fine, thank you. Very well, Strongbow, we accept your invitation with thanks."

  "Follow me, then." The centaur turned and strode through the forest, a master of his element. Kirel and Sylvan urged their horses after him.

  Strongbow led them to a secretive, well-hidden world of wonders. Tucked into the wall of the mountain, a deep gulch bloomed with cliffroses and magic.

  "This is where we live," Strongbow said.

  Rainbows danced in the spray at the foot of a waterfall, right at the deepest part of the gulch. The floor and walls of the gulch were softened by thick green moss. People emerged from cracks in the walls. And what people!

  Kirel and Sylvan both knew staring was rude, but they couldn't help it. There, coming towards them through the slanting rays of afternoon sunlight, were representatives of the other races, the ones who originally inhabited the continent of Anarill.

  Or, at least, representatives of those who survived. Even human history remembered the Great War, in which a rogue djinn laid waste to vast stretches of land and destroyed most who tried to oppose him. The final strike of that war had utterly vaporized the rogue, but at such a cost that the victors never recovered.

  "Amazing," Sylvan breathed, watching centaurs, and satyrs, and tree spirits, and even a lesser djinn approaching.

  "A Bard is among us," Strongbow announced, his voice filling the gulch. People crowded in close to the newcomers, some timid, others bold, all radiating curiosity.

  As Sylvan and Kirel soon discovered, these remnants of the Elder Days revered musical talent. The magical beings kept themselves shut away from the rest of the human-dominated world, though, and missed what they called Bardic magic. The people were close enough to immortal that many of them still remembered the Great War firsthand. However, none of them had much talent for music, nor even great creativity. Their culture and lifestyle was based on stability, security, and tradition. Humans were the great innovators of the day.

  The magical beings invited their human guests to dine with them, an experience such as Kirel and Sylvan had never imagined. For one thing, some of the magical people did not actually ingest food at all. The sprites ate by absorbing the essence of flowers, so the table was set in the midst of a garden. Nothing was cooked, and no animal flesh was served. The horses were invited to table along with their humans, made easily possible because the "table" was merely a wide cloth spread on an open, grassy area in the center of the garden. It was spread with a bewildering variety of fruits, grains, fungi, and vegetables.

  The djinn had even odder needs than the sprites. At first, Sylvan had no idea why the youngest djinn, a mere child of five hundred annums or so, followed him around with a rapturous expression on his amorphous face. Then the elder djinn caught up with his offspring.

  "Tarnak!" The exasperated bellow made both humans and the young djinn jump. Atothka, the elder djinn, floated towards them, his lower cloud pulsating ominously. "Tarnak, where are your manners? You should know better!"

  "But, honored parent—"

  "No buts! You are being unforgivably rude, and you will apologize to the Bard right now, or remove yourself from the gathering."

  The younger djinn sighed, an action which caused his cloudy, shifting shape to expand and contract. "I apologize, honored Bard, for my greedy behavior. Please allow me to remain in the gathering. I will not be so rude again."

  "I accept your apology," Sylvan said gravely. Atothka pointed his offspring to a location on the far side of the table, and the young djinn floated dejectedly away.

  "Might I ask what the young djinn did, Atothka?" Sylvan asked, as soon as the youngster left.

  The larger djinn billowed with surprise. "You did not notice? My offspring
was feeding on your essence, which is a terrible thing when done without permission."

  Sylvan's eyes opened wide. "Oh, my! Well. Um. I feel fine, so no harm done, I suppose. You people eat essences?"

  Atothka nodded, his semi-solid face cautious. "We survive on the cloud of energy which surrounds most living beings. Usually, this energy, the essence of the being, is floating freely and our use of it causes no harm to the being. My offspring was taking your essence directly from you, before it became free. He is young yet, but I thought he knew better manners than that. I will have to teach him."

  "No harm done," Sylvan repeated, this time with a smile. "He's young, and excited, and I'll wager you don't get visitors here very often."

  "You are correct, gracious Bard, and I thank you for your understanding."

  The lesser djinn bowed and drifted away to rejoin his son.

  Kirel found himself engaged in conversation with a person he didn't even have a name for at first. Shem, a man-shaped being made of living, breathing stone, eventually identified himself as a member of the species temporus, rare even during the height of the Elder Days. Shem had personally witnessed the original arrival of humans on the land of Anarill, so many years ago that no one knew for sure how long it had been. Kirel felt he could have spent years listening to the wise old being. Shem knew his homeland, as well, and remembered when the canyonlands consisted of a wide, shallow river wending its way across open plains.

  "Stone is life, little mayfly," Shem said, reaching out a graceful gray hand to caress the boulder he leaned against. "Remember that. You people make much of your histories recorded on paper, but paper is ephemeral. Stone lasts forever. You want to know something? Ask a rock. It will tell you."

  "How can I ask a rock anything, sir?"

  "If you listen carefully, the rocks will speak to you. Then you will know the truth of life."

  "I have never heard a rock speak. Is there a way to learn this trick?"

  "Trick? Poor word choice, mayfly. Rather, technique. Extend your hand."

  Kirel did so without hesitation. His hand was engulfed in Shem's stone grip, gently, so gently.

  "Listen," the temporus whispered. "Feel."

  At first, Kirel felt nothing unusual. The feast continued around them, he could feel a breeze caress his face, hear the sound of Sylvan's laughter off to the side somewhere. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. He was about to give up, to admit he felt nothing, when he remembered how ancient the temporus truly was and how little time meant to someone like that. He relaxed a bit further instead.

  That was when he felt it. A sense of age crept into his awareness, and a sensation of stillness, of vast knowledge. His eyes flew open.

  "I felt something! I did! Was that you?"

  Shem smiled, and withdrew his hand. "Now you know the technique. Remember it."

  The sound of a chord rang out from Sylvan's dulcilute, attracting the attention of all beings present. The magical folk and Kirel gathered around the bard, but the horses just snorted and returned to their grazing. Sylvan played a sprightly little tune that set heads nodding and toes (where present) tapping, then smiled around at the crowd.

  "Now that I have your attention, is there anything anyone would like to hear?"

  Shimmerfern, the centaur currently in charge of the enclave, spoke up first. "Sing us a tale of adventure."

  "Very well," and Sylvan bowed his head as his hands began skillfully coaxing the melody for "Black Knight's Ride" from his dulcilute.

  After the song ended, Shimmerfern sighed, an interesting sight with his two sets of lungs. "It is long since this place felt the touch of a Bard's magic."

  "Magic." A slight frown creased the Bard's forehead, then he smiled. "With your permission, then, I have another song to sing. I call it Dragon's Lament."

  Sylvan raised his hands over his head, looked up, and sang a wordless note. A shifting globe of mist formed over the group.

  Kirel started forward, amazed to see Sylvan working magic, real magic. Still more surprised was Shimmerfern.

  "That's dragon magic!" he gasped, leaning forward. "Bard! Where did you learn dragon magic?"

  "From a dragon," Sylvan said, surveying his globe of mist critically. Then he put his hands to his dulcilute. "Now hush."

  The misty globe formed shifting images, complimenting and accentuating the words and melody. This must be the masterwork Sylyan intended all along, not the mere beautiful music as performed by ordinary mortal musicians.

  He wondered if Sylvan had ever performed the song this way before, and doubted it. This dragon magic of his must be unusual, or why would it evoke such surprise?

  "Is this real, Bard?" Shimmerfern asked quietly into the respectful silence that followed the dispersal of music and mist.

  "The tale was true. The Old Dragon is alive, and lonely, and shut away inside the Hollow Mountains, kept prisoner there by his own apathy and despair."

  "After all these annums, to find out that the Eldest survives," Atothka, the lesser djinn, murmured, shaking his head. "Thank you, Bard."

  The magical creatures kept Sylvan playing and singing far into the night. Only when his voice grew ragged did they allow him to retire to a private, cozy chamber, carved from the cliff with magic.

  Kirel, of course, accompanied him. Once in private, he asked the Bard the question that had nagged at him most of the evening.

  "Sylvan, why didn't you tell me about your dragon magic?" Kirel felt torn between a sense of almost betrayal, a fair bit of annoyance, and pride. "I didn't know you were a real magic-user!"

  "Come now, Kirel, nearly everybody uses magic, or has, or wants to. What's to tell?"

  "Everybody uses ordinary magic, sure. You know, glowsticks and heaters and coolers and such, if they can afford them. But you. . . you even impressed the magical races, the ones who taught our ancestors in the first place! One more thing that makes you amazing."

  "All I am right now is amazingly tired. Will you leave off questioning me until tomorrow?"

  "Only if you promise to tell me about the dragon."

  "There's little to tell." Sylvan took in the mulish expression his lover wore, clearly visible in the light of the flickering torch he carried, then flashed a tired grin. "Oh, very well. I promise. Now let me sleep!"

  In the morning, sounds of excited activity roused Sylvan and Kirel. They emerged from their quarters to find all the denizens of the magical vale clustered about Shem and Strongbow.

  "Bard!" Shimmerfern called out. "Excellent. You woke in time to see our embassy off."

  "Embassy?" Sylvan responded, snapping into professional mode immediately. Kirel envied his ability to shake off the early-morning sleepies with such ease.

  "Indeed. Strongbow and Shem are our chosen emissaries to the Eldest. Will you give them guidance?"

  "I will indeed." The Bard stepped over to the two emissaries and began telling them how to reach the Old Dragon. Kirel shrugged and moved away, searching for the tack so he could prepare the horses for the day's journey.