by Ru Emerson
She smiled; her face was a paleness against the shadow, the dark cloak. “I do not understand what I have, what I can do now, that I could never before. How to work the Power. Nisana is helping me to sort it through.” Silence. “Bren?”
“Ylia?”
“Does—does it bother you? My blood, my mother, Nisana —the Power itself?”
“Does it—” he considered this for some moments. “I see. Because I am Northern, you mean?” He more guessed at than saw the nod. “No. I do not follow the Chosen, I told you that. And even if I did, even a man of narrow mind would see on this journey that there are more sides to magic, to this Power, than the evil the Chosen prate. But you ... There is nothing you could ever do that would bother me, I swear it. Save not to ask my aid when you need it.”
Silence. She gazed at him, astonished. He cleared his throat, transferred his gaze from her face to his hands, to the tops of the trees that were rapidly merging with the sky. “I must tell you this.” He spoke quickly, bringing the words forth before he could change his mind or lose courage. “I—well—you must see that I—you are more to me than arms-mate,” he finished in a rush and added then, formally, “I wish to say only—only that, if it is an inconvenience to you—”
“To me?” She was glad for the dark, glad he could not see her face clearly, for it burned, and tears touched her eyes. She caught at his hands. “Brendan, are you blind? Are—do you think you are any less to me?”
He gripped her fingers tightly. “I had not thought to look upon any woman as I do you. But I do not know, not for certain, how I feel.”
“I know.” She did. “Because that is how I feel. More than arms-mate, more than friend, though you are those things to me also. But I never thought beyond duty to Nedao. If this is how Brelian loves his Lisabetha—or another thing entirely—”
“Whatever it is, we shall know in time.” Brendan pulled gently at her arm and she leaned against him. It was a while before either moved. Brendan finally stirred. “They will be calling us, we had better return to camp. Which reminds me,” he added as he helped her to her feet. “I brought you this. The first of the jerky.” He pressed a narrow, oily strip of meat into her hand. She worried a bite off one end.
“Tough. Not quite dry enough, of course. Not bad. Needs salt, though.”
“It is rather bland, isn't it? Mistress Malaeth is soaking some in one of her teas, she thought it might help.”
“Mmmm. Sage might work. Well, it will keep us alive, and it does not actually taste bad.” She laughed then. “Come, you are right, we will never hear the last of it if they must call us.” He laughed.
“I also meant to ask if you would cross swords with me in the morning,” he said as they neared the fire. “I have a new trick I think you might like.”
She nodded. “Of course.” Brendan inclined his head formally, but his eyes were warm. Brelian hailed him from the other side of the fire; Ylia went to aid Malaeth with her greens.
The morning was grey and chill and swordwork welcome, for it stirred the blood. They were far from perfectly matched, and Ylia, excellent at her own level, fought frustration, certain she could never hope to equal his casual brilliance, which owed as much to flair as it did skill. But she had an edge on him, however slight, in speed and lightness on her feet.
Frustrated or not, she learned much that morning: the quirk twist by which he had disarmed the King's two sword-sworn simultaneously at Fest the past winter; the heel-pivot-sidestep combination, which gave him greater control of a change of direction; the means he used to pull an overeager adversary off balance and onto his point. And lastly, he had shown her his new trick: a dagger throw more accurate than the common underhanded sling. This called for an across-body, back-handed movement of hand, wrist and arm that was painful if practiced for very long at a time, but it gave back such speed and accuracy as to make it well worth learning.
“You could take the coin at Fest with this,” Brendan said eagerly, and she was nearly as excited, for though she had barely passable ability with thrown knife, she had already buried the blade two fingers from the mark, twice in a row.
“It's wonderful,” she laughed, exultantly. “Has Marhan seen it?”
“Well—I hadn't shown him; not yet. I was still working on it yesterday.” He retrieved the two blades, his and hers, handed them to her. “Try again. More snap to the wrist. You really have to think the motion at first, since it is so unlike the old way. Oh, yes, that has it!” The knife was less than a finger from the mark this time; his thudded in a moment later between the mark and hers. She retrieved them both and dropped to the ground, leaned back against the tree.
“Enough. My arm feels like it will break off at the wrist if I try that once more. If I quit now, I might still have a hand in the morning.”
“Good idea.” Brendan squatted on his heels next to her. “I wasn't quite so sensible yesterday; mine still hurts.” He smiled. “You know—you're good!”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “And you're surprised, aren't you? No, don't try to hide it, everyone is. But why shouldn't I be good? Marhan made a lot of noises, but he trained me just as thoroughly as he trained any of Father's dagger-sworn, any of Corry's men.”
“Well, it is a surprise. A pleasant surprise, of course,” he added hastily.
“Of course,” Ylia mocked gently. He reached out to brush stray bits of hair from her damp face.
“I never had a chance to train with Marhan when he was in the North. I was a little too young. Most of what I know comes from Erken. And, of course, I got in what practice I could with Galdan, his son. He and I were nearly of an age, though he seemed older, and usually he was away, tending to things for the Duke. But I learned a lot from him—Galdan. More than from Erken, I think.”
“He must be quite good then.” She blotted her brow against her sleeve. “I have seen Erken, and he is one of the best Nedao ever had.”
“He is all of that. But Galdan has a flair I admit I copied shamelessly.” He drew a deep breath, and the light went out of his face.
“No. Don't, Bren. Here. Now. Nothing else.”
“I'm sorry.” He caught her fingers, held them in both his hands. “Somehow, I'm reminded—I fenced a few times with a cousin of yours.”
“Oh?”
“Nala's Curse—sorry. Vess.”
“No cause to be sorry. You do not insult me.”
He hesitated. “He's skilled. Vess. But if I may say it, a sheep louse otherwise!”
Ylia leaned back against the tree laughing. “Oh, Mothers, you could not have named him better!”
“Whenever there was trouble among our officers—we were only commons and young ones at that, Brel and I, but Father knew him all too well—whenever there was trouble, you could usually find Vess at the bottom of it. And—women—” he hesitated, glanced at her dubiously. One didn't really speak of such things among ladies. But then, Ylia was not the velvet-cased darling one thought of when one thought of ladies. She caught his eye and, apparently, also his uncertainty.
“It's all right. I've been around the creature a good deal of my life. So far as I can tell, he only began attacks on my life when the attempt on my virtue failed.” She smiled up at him. “Now you're shocked.”
“No—”
“Never mind the lie. This is me and I can tell, remember?”
“Oh.” He laughed, embarrassed. “Anyway,” he went on. “Whenever there was trouble—of that kind, involving a girl, he was in that up to his pretty, embroidered collar, too. And he nearly killed some poor tinker—the gate guard broke that up, I think, barely in time to save the old fool.”
“I heard about that one,” she said. “Poor child hadn't known how to repulse him, and when he spread the tale around her, father caught up the sword he'd hardly ever used and went for him.”
“I wonder,” Brendan said finally, “that he'd attempt closeness with you—” This time he stopped and turned red to the ears. “Not my meaning; hush, woman. He'd
have gone for Brandt's heir if she'd been pimpled and cross-eyed, to gain the throne. But with your mother, your AEldran blood—”
“I know. He always talked loudly enough about that. Nedao falling prey to a plague of witches, led, no doubt, by Mother, with me at her side and a hoard of demons on our heels. If you ask me, he babbles Chosen very nicely in Northern company, but believes less of it than I do. And he's so hungry for the King's circlet, he'd do anything to have it.”
“Oh?”
“He is, you know.”
“Is?” Brendan shook his head. “Not any more, he isn't.”
Ylia considered this gravely. “You think him dead? Really? Well, I can only hope you are right.” She lay back on the cool grass. Brendan dropped down beside her.
“What do you know that I do not?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. I cannot foresee. Just a feeling. He was not on the walls.”
“I do not recall him, but then—”
“No. I was in a position to know, and I would have seen him, if no one else.” Silence. “Not on the walls, certainly not amongst—not with the horsemen.” Pain darkened her eyes briefly; she pushed it away. “He could not have gone to Yls, the boats had left long before Father's Council was done, and he—well, I cannot picture him taking a rowboat down-River and out into the open sea. And if he returned to Teshmor, then I'm a Tehlatt!”
“He's dead, then. Has to be.”
“I hope so.” Doubt nagged at her. “But Vess is better at taking care of himself than anyone else I ever knew. I cannot imagine him dead, somehow.”
“Well—” Bren considered this gravely. “Anything is possible, I suppose.” An idea struck him. “Vess—he could not be behind these attacks on us, somehow, could he?”
Ylia stared at him blankly. “I—what?”
“It's not likely, I know that, but think on it, try!” he urged.
Silence. Her eyes glazed, stared through him. “I—there has always,” she said finally, “been something about Vess. As though Nala, his mother, lay with a Mallick and then brought forth Vess. Something beyond simply unpleasant, though he has none of the Power; he is certainly not AEldran. But there was always—” She closed her eyes, shook herself. Shook her head. “It does us no good to guess at these things, Bren. I—I would say, not likely. More likely that some—thing—already here sets things at us, don't you think?”
“Likely. Probably. But unlikelier things have happened to us already, remember that!”
“All right.” She smiled. “This will all seem like a dream, won't it?”
“When we reach Aresada? Perhaps. If we ever get so far.”
She nodded. “We will. No,” she laughed, laid a hand across his mouth as he opened it indignantly, “not foreseeing: stubbornness. We are so determined, all of us, nothing will dare impede us further!”
He laughed also. “Or face your wrath, is that it? Look you, we are wasting time here. Or so Marhan and Levren will see it if they come looking for us.”
“They,” Ylia replied firmly, “will get nothing from me until I have at least bathed my face and my poor feet. Come, help me up, I am worn out, and it is entirely your doing.”
“Oh, you are? Look at me, if you think you are tired.” He fell back flat, puffing and gasping. She giggled, jumped up and pulled him to his feet. They wandered down to the lake, splashed themselves, each other. Brendan combed his beard and hair with his fingers, kissed her fingers gravely and went in search of his brother. Ylia struggled with her boots, finally managed them off and plunged her feet and legs into the stream, above where it joined with the lake. Ahhh. Bliss beyond comparison.
“Ylia?” Not Lev or Marhan; Lisabetha had found her. “I need to speak with you. Now, please, if you will.”
“A good time. I am going nowhere until my feet feel like they are feet once again. Brendan wore them out this morning.” Lisabetha smiled, rather absently. “And how is it Brelian has left you to yourself for so long?” The smile widened, briefly warmed her eyes.
“Oh—he and Brendan had things to do. They went to cut me a staff like Malaeth's. But I think Bren wanted to talk to Brelian alone, anyway.”
Her face felt suddenly warm. Lisabetha grinned at her, suspicion confirmed. “You wanted,” Ylia said pointedly, “to speak with me.”
The smile slipped; the girl nodded. “I must. I—promise you will not laugh at me. But—I— have dreamed.”
“Dreamed,” Ylia echoed blankly.
She nodded. “I have never, ever spoken of it. But I think I can tell you; you will believe me. And not despise me for it. But—also, it concerns you.” The swordswoman's hands went cold as she began to see what Lisabetha was skirting. Mothers, the child has the Sight. She can foresee.
“All of us,” Lisabetha went on unhappily, “but you mostly. You see—” She sat abruptly on the bank. “—it is a thing I have always done, since I can remember. That I dream a thing and it happens. Not often. But sometimes. And I can tell when it is that kind, when it is only dream.” Her hands twisted in her lap.
“You can foresee.”
“I can,” she admitted. The hands tightened on each other. “Not as the Northern women do, but in dream. Last night, I could not sleep right away, for I—well, I was happy. Excited. But I knew, all of a sudden, that I was asleep for I was dreaming—one of that sort.”
“And the dream?” Ylia asked as she hesitated again.
“We were in a place; there were rocks and twisted, stunted trees. I saw you—you and Nisana—you were standing alone, a distance away from me. A redness filled the air and you were both gone.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “There was such fear, such a horror, I could not breathe. Swords, the clash of weapons. Cries. And I woke. I—dared not close my eyes again, after that.”
“Foreseeing.” Unnecessary to ask, the truth of it rang clear to her bones. “But, Lisabetha, a foreseeing need not come to pass! Any deviation from a chosen path can avert the thing foretold.” Or so they say. “Tell me what you can recall of the dream; try and remember.” Silence. Ylia touched her shoulder. “What did you see? Enough to recognize the place? And that fear—was it Mathkkra?”
Lisabetha forced a smile. “Well; at least you believe me. But I am certain of nothing. I was too frightened to retain anything but what I told you. But it happens, now and again, that a dream comes more than once, or that I remember more of it later. I might recognize the place, though it could be anywhere high within the Foessa. And it frightened me so badly! I am sorry, Ylia. Perhaps I—should not have told you.”
“No, and don't be sorry. I greatly prefer being forewarned to being surprised. Particularly the kind of surprise the Foessa hand us. But, why did you never tell me of this before?”
“You must ask?” Lisabetha fell into a bitter contemplation of her hands again. “Since childhood, all I have heard of such a thing is that it is evil, a gift of the Dark One. No good person, no true child of the One dreams. But I never wanted it!” she cried out. Ylia caught at her hands; she clung to strong fingers. “Would—would you know what I saw last? Teshmor's fall and my brother's death!”
Ylia detached her fingers gently, wrapped them around the girl's shoulders. “Lisabetha. Little sister. Listen to me. I do not wish to undermine what you believe, your Chosen religion. Truly. I have no right. But I swear to you by everything I hold sacred that your foreseeing is not evil. No more evil than the healing I used on your Brelian. You never chose it, it chose you; how could that make you evil? They misinterpreted the teachings of their One, those who told you such things. They must have!” Mothers, how could Lord Corry and the Lady Lossana ever have countenanced such teachers? Or were these Chosen that insidious, presenting a pious and humble face to the parents while they sought to turn the child?
“But it is a poor gift, Lisabetha, one I am glad I do not possess, to see that which you cannot cure. And,” she added, “it is odd indeed that you dream. That is how an AEldra would foresee, in dream. But you are not AEldra.”
Lisabetha shook her head. “No. I can trace my lineage back to the Isles; there is no Ylsan blood in Planthe.” She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I—I do not know. You have been called evil; I was taught your mother, the Queen, was evil. Because of your blood. But I do not believe it, not anymore. If you say—”
“I say,” Ylia replied firmly, as she hesitated. “Do not torture yourself for a thing you cannot alter! And you are not evil, Lisabetha, we all know that!” That brought another faint smile. “Listen, Brelian is calling you. Go on, go to him. But try to recall anything you can of this dream. And remember this: You have warned us. We have never before had that much aid since we began this journey.”
The girl ran back to camp. Ylia shivered. Foreseeing. By the Nasath, why did I never see it? I should have realized. It was no comfort at all that what Lisabetha saw paralleled her own fears: Someone in the Foessa was aware of them and sought to work to their undoing. Someone was aware of her, Ylia, personally, and wanted her death.
Those of our own AEldra kind who dream true say that any deviation in the chosen path will permit one to avoid the thing dreamed. I do not dream true; none of our cat-kind do. Nor are we generally of a fatalistic bent. But there are no set rules, no things which are always so or never so. Perhaps we were fated to the path we walked from the first day we entered the Foessa. Or perhaps—as became increasingly more likely—our path was chosen for us.
There is a Nedaoan saying: Trust nothing you cannot both see and touch. And then trust only half of that. And there is our own saying: If it is unknown, make absolutely certain fear is truly unnecessary. And so I put no trust in the child's dream, but did not fear it either. I was cautious—as I had been. It was not, unfortunately, enough.
20
The sun topping the ridges on the fifth day looked down upon a swarm of activity: Eight people gathering belongings, snuffing the fire which had become a deep, blackened pit; donning roughly patched cloaks and food pouches, which now bulged with provisions, reluctantly beginning the northward journey once again. A tortoise-shell cat wove in and out of their feet, sprinted ahead to wait on a sun-warmed outcrop of rock and wash one white forepaw.
