by Ru Emerson
To the Haunted Mountains
Ru Emerson
To Doug, sweet baboo and fellow masochist, with my love, and in fond memory of the East Fork, Devil's Punchbowl, the Old Green Tent, the thin Orange Bags and thinner boots, Turner Meadow, the Great Loop, 32-pound packs, the first dose of freeze-dried food and Kendall's Mint Cake, 20 pounds of Gorp (each).... Ready again when you are.
To Mom and Dad, for my first fix of mountains.
To my sister Vicci, for the aid and abettance, for the map, and in memory—not necessarily fond—of the East Fork and skinny logs....
To Alec: Everybody knows this is Nowhere. Down to the Colorado & back in one day, but we lived to tell about it.
To Ginjer, with deep appreciation, for helping me refine the book I knew was in there.
To Mike Von Ree for the loan of the typewriter, July 1975, without, as they say, which....
And to Arwen Elanor, 1974-1982, calico lady of exceedingly tart demeanor and a magic all her own.
Prologue
The heights had blown clear of snow the past two nights; the warm winds, the AEdrith, were early, all the more welcome for it. Snow still lay in waist-deep greyed drifts in the vales and canyons, but even this was beginning to melt at the edges, forming little dripping caves. Water plopped in huge drops from winter-bent fir. The sound carried loud across the deep, bowl-shaped valley.
The tower stood as it had for hundreds of years, a blackened, torn hulk. Openings gaped where thick, opaque glass had shattered and still lay in multicolored shards beneath the snow, or where stone had been torn down, bronze and iron sills and doorframes twisted by the fury of long-burned-out fires.
It stood as it had, save for one thing: it was occupied.
Had any of the few hunters within the Foessa chosen to approach from the east, and had he survived long enough to reach the tower this particular night, he would have seen a clearing, a huddle of small, low barracks along the edge of the trees; across from them, the grand stair, the great balcony as large as many a lord's banquet hall—and, beyond the bank of windows letting onto that balcony, light.
Not the honest light of torch and lantern, no. A red, murky light, the color of a half-healed wound, the color of dried blood.
A hall ran the length of the balcony. The vaulted ceiling vanished in gloom; a polished, tile floor caught light from the smoldering firepit and reflected a sudden red on pale walls. A dais, two grand canopied chairs were barely to be seen against the windows.
Shadows scurried across the room, not-reflections of things fluttering high above, things creeping about the edge of the firepit. A horror moved with them. Fear crawled across the floor, slid from the embers and shivered into the corners.
Two other shadows flickered against the far wall but did not move beyond the motion of the low-burning fire. Man and woman: human-shaped, at least, among the horrors that surrounded them. To these, the two paid no heed. He of the two turned to face the windows and spoke.
“It is done; Chezad has spoken. Even now the old shaman passes the war god's message to Kanatan. The Tehlatt will retake the Plain within days. Nedao will fall; after that, by our hand, Yls. And Nar.”
“But my Lord—if the Lammior's power still does not rise to your bidding—”
“Oh, that.” He laid an arm across the woman's shoulders, drew her to him. “He will answer me, eventually.” Calm certainty. “In the meantime, I have drawn sufficient knowledge from this place to start down the path I have chosen—”
“We have chosen, my Lord,” she reminded him. He nodded.
“We. They will see, all of them. Fools, all.”
“All of them.” Her voice was no less eager than his. “My father—she who would have been yours—”
“Ah.” He laughed, a chill sound that sent the shadows quivering against the far walls and dampened the embers to an even duller red. “Does it bother you so much, my sweet? That Scythia was the one I chose first?”
“Why should it?” The profile, seen against the half-moon, was delicate: pale hair, near silver in the light, was piled in jewel-touched curls. “She matters to no one, she is already dead, though she does not know it yet. And I have what she was stupid enough to spurn.”
“Dead.” He laughed again. “She, the barbarian who stole her from me, their half-breed brat. All. An excellent beginning point, and a good test.” He drew the woman with him to the great double doors set in the far wall. One hand on the latch, he turned, spoke a single word. The firepit flared, sullen red flame swirled and towered toward the ceiling, disturbing a number of huge batlike darkness.
The story is mine to lay before you, by right and by knowledge: alone of those who know the tale, I, Nisana, was present from its Nedaoan beginnings to their end. More: I was party before Nedao's involvement, and the whole of the histories are known only to me of all those who walk this great valley. Though we of AEldra blood who wear cat's form are brief of speech, still I take the telling willingly upon myself, that you may know the truth of it.
1
The sky was a spring-blue bowl arched over gently rolling plains. It caught to the west at enormous white-capped, harshly jagged mountains, faded pale eastward to even flatter ground, South, the River Torth faded into distance, edged by the yellow-green grasses of the great marshes.
North: there was, on such a clear day, normally the faintest hint of purple across the horizon to mark the distant bluffs across the River Planthe. Today, there was nothing save a smoke haze.
Tehlatt. The Northern barbarians rode from their strongholds in Anasela, burning and slaying as they came.
The King's City was a broken beehive, people running wildly through the streets, flying in a disordered mass down the close-paved road that led to the harbor. The double gates were flung wide to accommodate that hysterical traffic and the King's own household, men stood at the gates, arbitrating sudden disputes, helping parents locate children—aiding the old and ill to conveyance.
The lone horseman lay across his mount's neck, hands wrapped around her, caught at each other by the wrists. His eyes were pain-narrowed, exhausted slits. The horse limped.
They went unnoted at first in the crush and panic. But then, his ancient charge and her meager bundle of possessions safely loaded onto a cart bound for the harbor. Narsid, a swordsman of one of the minor barons, turned to search out others in need of his aid. The horse staggered; Narsid called for aid and sprinted across the crowded gateway.
“There man, we've got you, you're safe.” What, in Koderra? his thought mocked. A hasty glance back out the gates and northward assured him the line of burnings had come no closer.
A swollen hand, the nails black with half-dried blood, waved feebly. The rider coughed. “I am Gors—Corlinson. I—message for—the King.”
“Gors,” the swordsman whispered to himself. Hard to tell, under all that dirt, the blood-stiffened hair, but he spoke truly. It was Lord Corry's son, but by all the Mothers at once, here? He glanced up as shadow crossed them. His baron and his captain stood there. “M'Lord Grawn, it's Lord Corwin's son, he's hurt.”
“Can see that, boy. Get him a healer!”
“He has messages for the King, sir.”
“Messages.” The wounded boy was reviving, a little. The captain knelt with water, then caught at his waist to help him up. Narsid ran ahead with word as Grawn came to the other side.
Brandt's Grand Reception was light but cold. No fires had been lit. The hall was filled nearly to capacity, crowded with nearby Lords Holder and their armsmen, a few of the household women and servants who had not yet been put aboard ships and sent downriver, and half the King's Council. The elders were already gone.
Tehlatt. The name was in every thought, if not up
on every tongue. The Tehlatt rode south, vanquishing Nedao a horse-length at a time. This was no simple spring raid, such as had plagued the farmers and herders near the Planthe, such as that which had netted the barbarians the whole province of Anasela.
But there was another name on the tongues of those in the Reception at the moment: Ylia. Brandt had just, again, publicly named his daughter and only child his heir and extracted Heir's Oath from them all. The girl—she was scarce of age and still wore her bright coppery hair plaited—had taken her vows to the King gravely; taken the oath of the Lords Holder and the Council with the same aloof gravity that was clearly as much fright as training.
Nervous whispers echoed across the chamber. It was bad, serious, if he'd swear them to his chosen heir again. As though he didn't expect to survive.
His choice; in Nedao it had always been King's choice who might be his heir. But Ylia—not all those present swore to her with good grace. Her father was Nedao's King; one had only to look at her face to see the young Brandt there. But her mother was an AEldran noblewoman, a member of their Second House. Sorceress. And while not all Nedao felt as the Chosen's new religion prated, that witches were a black evil, few of the Plainsfolk were comfortable with Scythia's Powers. Though, most admitted, she never flaunted them, and indeed used little in public save her healing.
In her favor, the girl had little of the look of her mother's kind, beyond the lighter coloring, the red-gold hair and the hazel eyes in place of the Nedaoan olive skin and brown hair. She was tall, but not as tall as the AEldra. And as to the Power, well, she had some of it, she was after all half AEldra. Fortunately, she seemed to have little skill and to take no interest in the witchery, though most of the Cityfolk were not certain her interest in weaponry was much improvement.
But if she ruled after Brandt, the first woman to do so since Leffna, 500 or more years before, she would need weaponry and battle knowledge. That was law, and had been inflexibly held to even during the Long Peace, 200 years before.
The swearing completed, most of those standing around the chill room went back to their own nervous conversations. The girl on the dais rubbed slender, capable hands down her dark robes, laid them across the King's shoulders. He then laid his own over them, smiled at her.
“Father—”
“Necessary, the swearing. You don't doubt that?”
“No.” She didn't; Brandt knew his people well, and even though she'd spent long hours at his side, she still had much to learn before she could understand and act as well as her father did. “But that wasn't what I was going to say.”
Brandt laughed briefly. “That again? We will not argue, Ylia. You are safest away from Koderra, and the only way to manage that is to put you on the Narran ship, Merman.”
“But I can be of use—”
“None to Nedao or to me if you die here.” That silenced her, briefly, though her eyes were still rebellious. “You are my only child, Ylia.” A shadow darkened his eyes momentarily: Beredan. A man's sons were meant to survive him. I cannot let this child die as foolishly as Beredan did.
“But I—”
“If I were to command you—I seldom do that, daughter. But in this matter—” He paused. “It is that important to me, Ylia. Believe me. What we do here, I will do better if I know you are safe.” His grip tightened on her hands. “Promise me.” Silence. “Promise?” She closed her eyes, sighed in resignation.
“All right, Father. I swear,” she said evenly, “to take great care, that no harm come to me, that I may have the ruling after you. A great,” she added with a smile of her own, “many years hence.”
The King wrapped an arm around her and caught her close. “I don't like the sound of that, my girl. You're too much like your mother, you trap me with words.” He sighed. “But so long as you board the Merman this afternoon—swear you will, daughter.”
“I swear,” she whispered. And debark before she leaves harbor, she added firmly to herself. Brandt, she knew, had no inner skill to hear her; the only Power of any kind he had was a sense of when her mother was near, and that was love, not AEldra. She tamped carefully at the inner voice—Scythia could hear her, and she had been as determined as Brandt that their daughter flee with the Cityfolk. And then there was Nisana. But the cat was on her own errands at the moment and unlikely to have an inner ear to her thoughts.
But it was as though a command were laid upon her, as though the Mothers had set a new pattern in her weaving, that she must stay. She must!
Conversation ceased; a pathway opened as Grawn and his captain brought the Lord of Teshmor's son slowly toward the dais. “Oh, gods,” Ylia whispered. “Father, it's Corry's son.” She caught at cushions and a thick fur robe; Brandt was at his side as they lowered the boy gently onto the soft pile. Gors opened his eyes briefly, winced and cried out faintly as someone raised him sufficiently to help him swallow a little wine.
“Sire. Father—sends word. The Tehlatt have—our walls—have them surrounded.” He frowned; hard to remember anything. He hurt, but that took no memory, that just was.
“If he asks aid—” Brandt began unhappily. Gors shook his head once, stopped abruptly as pain knifed through him, swallowed hard.
“No. No aid. Too late—and—not enough. He knows you've—no one—to spare. He said—” The boy swallowed again and was silent for so long they thought he had fainted.
“Get my Lady, find her,” Brandt hissed to those behind him. My Scythia, the boy can't be beyond your skill. It seemed moments, it seemed hours, and the only sound, torn, pained breathing, too shallow to hold for long. And then a warmth ran across his inner being: Beloved. He knew, always, when she was near.
“—he said,” Gors whispered, sharply catching at the King's attention again, “to tell you that. And—that he was sorry—” he gasped for air. Brandt brought him a little more upright. Scythia came across to the boy's other side. “—he couldn't be of—more aid.”
“Sorry,” Brandt whispered. Tears blurred his vision; he blinked them away. Boyhood friend. Corlin, how like you. But Gors—the boy sagged, closed his eyes. Scythia's pale, slender fingers stroked the hair back from his brow, baring an ugly cut that ran above his left ear, a blackened and swollen bruise over his left temple. “Rest, boy.” Concerned, near-black eyes caught at and held his wife's. Scythia shook her head faintly, shrugged. Uncertain.
“I will try. But Nisana—I've sent for her. She's—We'll try.” She glanced around the full chamber. “My Lords! I need quiet, either keep it or leave, I beg you. Lord Corlin's son is gravely injured.” A strangled outcry from near the center of the dais. Scythia caught at it, pinned down the source with her wide-set dark-blue eyes. Her mental voice stabbed into her daughter's thought. ‘Oh, no. Ylia, it's Lisabetha. By all the Nasath, why did no one think to remove her?’
'I—I didn't see her, Mother.’ But as she stood, started toward the shaking girl, Ylia's youngest honor maiden, Gors’ sister, fell senseless to the floor. The Queen's old nurse, Malaeth, dropped heavily to the girl's side. Scythia turned her full attention back to Gors.
Bad. A Nedaoan healer wouldn't waste his herbs and poultices on one so far gone; most AEldran healers wouldn't even attempt the task. The Nasath alone knew how he'd reached the City with such a blow to the head. And he'd lost blood—there were slashes through both sleeves, a deep cut in his right calf. She cast a swift, sidelong glance at her husband. His best friend's son, she couldn't let him die.
'Ylia.’ The girl stirred as the inner speech once again touched her.
'Mother?’
'He'll die if I wait for Nisana, you're the best I have. Join.’ Color burned in the girl's face; she knelt reluctantly. ‘But—Mother, I can't! Before all these people? And, you know how little aid I can be, he'll die anyway, if you—’
Scythia's mouth set in a hard line. ‘He won't die, if we can help it! This is no time for argument, there's enough in you to back me, and there's no time to move him. Join!’
Her face a hot red, Ylia c
aught at her mother's free hand, closed her eyes, joined. Silence. She tried to concentrate on the healing itself, on Gors—on anything but the anxious, curious, staring people behind her, her own sense of inadequacy. That never helped, her mother told her so, often enough.
Warmth—she could sense the warmth surrounding her mother's hand, the chill of her own fingers as Scythia drew from her. And Gors—she could sense him, too. Odd. Most times she could not feel beyond the physical contact with her mother. Oh, Mothers, pain: it knifed at her; frantically, she tried to pull her thought away. But it was fading, already fading. The room blurred around her as Scythia dragged ruthlessly at her remaining strength. The boy sagged between them. Ylia felt herself toppling over the edge of a black pit and cried out. Hands caught at her shoulders, bit into muscle, dragged her back to the moment.
'M—mother?’ Her vision was blurred. Mothers, I nearly followed him into death! Her mother's face swam before her; tears ran, unheeded, down both faces.
'Gone. I—there was nothing we could have done. We tried.’ She shook herself, willed her daughter a burst of strength. ‘No, I follow your thought—even if Nisana and my own father had been to my aid, he would have died.’ “I am sorry, beloved,” she added aloud as Brandt wrapped her fingers around a warmed wine cup. “He was beyond my reach.”
“I—it's all right.” He blinked tears away. “Ylia.”
“Father?” Up. She was exhausted beyond bearing, but she had trained her body hard; it knew how to go on when the mind denied she could. One of the King's housemen steadied her, gave her wine. She sipped gratefully, dispelling the chill that still shrouded her thought.
“Go, finish your packing. The Narrans wait only for you and your ladies.”
“I—yes. All right.” She cast an unhappy glance at the still form on the fur, his face mercifully covered over, strode from the Reception, oblivious to the still-staring nobility who parted to let her through.
