by Ru Emerson
“No! He is dead!” Ylia pulled against Levren's arms. Why must she belabor this? Malaeth eyed her worriedly, finally patted her arm.
“All right; you are right, you must be. We were not there, you were. You had better sleep girl, you are too pale still.”
“We will share out your watch tonight,” Levren said. “Are we safe here?”
“We have not been set upon yet. I would use caution. But I believe we are safe for tonight. Though they might bridge—no. They have not done so yet, they will not now. But I will be fine. There is no reason why I cannot take my share of the watches.”
“You,” Levren exclaimed sourly, “are the one who needs rest. Do as you are told this once! We move on in the morning and must make more distance than we did today. We cannot do so if you cannot walk, I do not intend to carry you again tomorrow, and there are more than enough of us for the watch, even without you and Brel!”
“I take my share.” Brelian stood at the edge of the firelight, his face old and grey. Levren shook his head slowly, but Brelian would have none of it. “We are one fewer, and I am uninjured. And it will keep my thought occupied, Lev.” Nor would he be dissuaded, though he finally agreed that Lisabetha share with him.
Ylia sighed, but forbore to argue any further. Levren's face was grim as she had never seen it, and she had no wish to push him to active anger. And she was tired, so tired. She took a deep swallow of Malaeth's tea, lay back close to Nisana. The cat stretched, snuggled back against her stomach and the night blurred and faded almost immediately.
There is a certain blind spot in those of us of cat kind, a thing we cannot and do not share with humans—love, such as Lisabetha and Brelian had, or such as Ylia had begun with her Brendan, is denied us. Fortunately, I think: it seems to bring more pain than the pleasure of it can be worth: though, again, I do not know and cannot say. I ached with my poor Ylia's loss, but I could not fully understand.
The next morning, Golsat found a way north and east through a low, forested valley. The footing was easy, the ground clear enough that they made five leagues before sundown. Ylia had regained much of her strength from a full night's sleep and insisted once again on her share of the watches.
It had been a quiet day, with only bits of conversation, and Brelian spoke not at all. They saw little the entire day: a squirrel, two small birds. Late in the day, a flock of geese flew over, heading north.
They stayed near the fire that night, though, and Nisana and Ylia made search where they sat. She could not, suddenly, bear to close her eyes at any distance from her friends; she was frightened, unable to do much about it save hope it would eventually pass.
The weather changed during Golsat's watch: clouds came in from south and east, and by morning it was raining fitfully, lessening now and then to a driven mist. Trees, fortunately, sheltered them from the worst of it. They made a long stop for noon-meal and built a fire, heated water for a tea to share out with their cold meat.
The long valley came to an end not far ahead, and a low, long, cloud-hung ridge blocked their way. Golsat returned with word that another long, narrow, forested valley lay beyond it, and that the climb was not as arduous as it appeared from the bottom. Cloud covered them within moments.
They stopped, mindful of what the last mists had brought. “I will go first,” Ylia said finally, inwardly cursing herself for the shrinking sensation that accompanied the words. Lisabetha moved to her side; her face was anxious.
“Is this—I mean, are there—”
“Only fog,” Ylia assured her. Her voice, fortunately, showed none of the fear she felt. “I can see a little further than you, that is all.” Golsat, a dim shape behind Lisabetha, made a warding sign. “We may come above this as we climb, or it might lift. If not, we will probably drop below it on the other side. It is not that far, in either case.” Nisana stirred, stretched in her pouch.
'What passes? Are we stopped for the night?’
'No. Fog. Nothing I cannot handle, go back to sleep. I may need you later.’
'Mmmmf.’ She resettled against the swordswoman's spine. The company started out slowly, finally holding onto one another's cloaks as the fog thickened. For perhaps an hour they struggled on, over the top, down again. The air was darkly grey, chill, and their teeth chattered. Somewhere far behind, Ylia could hear Marhan muttering to himself, Levren's amused comments.
She stopped short: No, she hadn't imagined it, there was motion among the trees to their left. Golsat dropped the corner of her cloak, set himself against her shoulder. “I saw that also. What is it?”
She stared hard into the mists. “It—I am not certain—wait a moment.” Marhan and Levren pushed past, clattered on down the rocks. Marhan peered nearsightedly into the overcast.
But she could see it now: The shape of what she watched had confused her eye, as had the fact that she could see trees and ledge through it. Two armies, many thousand strong, fought a dozen lengths away, all in silence. She squinted, switched to the second level of Sight, back again as that proved useless. Nisana pushed free of her pouch and clambered onto her shoulder.
“What are they?” Golsat demanded, in a hushed voice.
Ylia laid a hand on his arm. “They will not harm you. There is no need for quiet, either; they could not hear if you shouted. They have been dead a thousand years, these.”
“This is what Verdren spoke of.” Brelian, his arms and cloak wrapped around Lisabetha's shoulders, stared into the mist. “Remember, Lev?”
“It must be,” Levren agreed. “Look, you can see through them, Marhan; a ghost army. Two of them.” Marhan sucked his moustaches unhappily, fumbled in his pouch for his glass.
They watched as the battle waged back and forth, and though she knew the tales as well as any AEldra child, Ylia found it nearly impossible to countenance what her eyes saw: water maidens, tree maidens, the Naiads and Dryads of Ylsan legend—among them the Ydera, greenish flame spiraling from its brow; creatures that might have been butterflies of vast size, or butterfly-shaped-and-colored birds. The man-shaped among them only made these seem more wondrous.
Those they fought had woven a darker fog about them, though now and again a misshapen form manifested itself: once, they were certain, a Thullen plunged silently to earth.
The sun finally slid from behind cloud and disbursed the fogs, though mist still drifted across the ground. But the phantom armies vanished. They stared across broken rock into heavy forest. Nothing. Ylia stayed back, gestured Marhan to take the lead again.
They camped early in a hollow amid sheltering rock and built a roaring fire. One and all were wet to the skin, and they dared not sleep so, for the air was chill. Lisabetha's fingers were red; poor Malaeth fell asleep as soon as they got her properly warm. Ylia had to waken her so Nisana could hold her to eating and drinking when food was ready.
“Well, we could not hope for good weather the entire distance. Not this time of year.” Levren turned his cloak to dry the lining; he had shed mail, jerkin and shirt, sat bare-armed as near the flames as he could. Marhan gloomily tossed sticks into the fire. Golsat had drawn the next-to-last watch and had rolled into his cloak as soon as it was near dry. Lisabetha and Brelian leaned against each other, eyes closed.
“My watch first tonight,” the Bowmaster continued. “If you have no objection, Marhan. I am not really tired, and I cannot face sleep until my shirt is properly dry. I will wake you after.” Marhan nodded, dragged his cloak around his shoulders and leaned back against a broad-trunked cedar. Ylia pulled her own cloak from the rocks and snuggled into it. Warm and dry both.
'Ylia. Join.’ She was pulled from sleep with a sudden jerk, pried one eye open. Little time could have passed, for Levren sat working a bit of wood with his dagger; he had resumed his shirt, but the rest of his outer garment were still spread across the rocks near the fire. Nisana sat next to her ear, and an extremely rare uncertainty radiated from her. ‘A thing to the north and west, perhaps a league distant. Join. See?’
'Wel
l—not exactly see. Sense.’ Strange! An understatement, and then some. There was something about the place Nisana pointed out. And yet, while strange, it was not the sort of strange they one and all associated with the Foessa. No Fear, no revulsion. Simply—well, yes, strange.
'It comes to me to bridge there,’ Nisana said finally. The uncertainty was even stronger.
'Now? Cat, it is late. And cold! Are you mad?’
'No. And not now, of course. After your watch. Sleep first, if you wish.’
'I certainly do wish!’ She shivered back down into her cloak. It was damp once again, this time with dew. ‘And I would mistrust any desire I felt to bridge anywhere in these mountains!’
'Of course you would, since you fear it so much! But—do you think I feel no mistrust?’ Nisana snapped. ‘It is different, this place—can you not feel?’
'I can. That does not make it safe.’
'No. But it is safe.’
'Oh,’ Ylia responded sarcastically. ‘And you know this—how?’
'I cannot explain it.’
'Well then—’
'But it is safe. And I must go there. Alone, if you are afraid to accompany me!’ And the cat started away, tail high.
Ylia sighed, levered onto one elbow. ‘Come back here! I cannot let you go alone, and you know it! And you have my curiosity now; are you satisfied?’ Nisana returned to her side, rather smugly. ‘Golsat has the watch after mine, I will tell him where we go. You are sure this is safe?’
'I am certain of nothing anymore,’ Nisana grumbled. ‘This place is safe. I am drawn there; it is safe. That is all I know. For me, that is enough.’
'You reassure me,’ Ylia replied sourly. ‘No, all right, cat.’ She drew her knees up as she shifted to her side, tucked the worn hems of her cloak around her boots. ‘There had better be good purpose to this, though,’ she warned.
'If there were not, I would never have awakened you,’ Nisana replied shortly. ‘Go back to sleep!’
How could I have explained such a thing to her? I had never felt such an overwhelming sense of good: It was as though I had been color-blind all my life and suddenly gained that sight amid a field of summer flowers. That I must go to the source of that sensation and attempt to define it—there is not much I would not have faced, to do so.
She asked me once, long after our journey was over, if it was as difficult for me as it was for her, to be always right. And I replied, of course, that I was no such thing—it was just that she chose, so often, to not believe in a true thing, and that merely because she had neither seen nor touched the thing made it no less real.
26
Ylia's watch was uneventful, save that sometime after Marhan woke her clouds began moving in from the south, bringing ocean-damp and warmer sea air with them. Nisana, her mind for the most part shuttered, paced edgily, impatiently around the campfire. Her relief when Ylia went to rouse Golsat was palpable.
“We must be gone a while, Nisana and I. No cause for alarm,” she added as he looked up from feeding the fire. “There is a thing which may aid us. I want to view it more closely.” He eyed her briefly, shrugged and asked no questions.
“Take care,” was all he said.
“So we shall. And we will return before your watch is over.”
A brief smile crossed his face. “See that you do.”
Nisana waited her beyond the light; Ylia walked rather slowly, stiff from the day's walk and the damp. “This had better be worth a bridging,” she said pointedly as she dropped cross-legged to the wet grass and the cat climbed into her lap.
'I would never have bothered you otherwise. Join!’ And, as Ylia closed her eyes, ‘The more often you do this, the less you fear it.’
'Hah.’
Nisana's meadow was wet with a heavy dew; grasses and wildflowers were bent near double with the damp. A hypnotic hum of bees; an occasional bird's warble. They stood on high ground, a slope that fell away on three sides toward the trees far below. A ribbon of waterfall dropped downhill nearly at their feet, chuckled noisily over rock. Ylia stooped for a drink. Nisana vanished into the thick, fragrant grasses.
The cat was right: there was something. Not frightening, no: no one could be afraid here. “Nisana?” The cat appeared suddenly, leaped to a boulder. Ylia waded through the damp grass to join her. “What is it?” The cat was staring about so intently, such was her concentration, that the question startled her. “Where does it come from?”
'I cannot tell—it seems everywhere, and yet—I cannot tell!’ Her tail twitched sharply. She leaped, then, turned midair to stare back the way they had come. Ylia was at her side in the same moment, sword already in hand.
“You do not need your blade.” A low voice behind them. She turned, slowly. Two stood there, where none had been half a moment before, and there had been no sensation of a bridging at all. The moon, nearly at its full, sailed from behind cloud to turn the meadow into a jeweled cushion and shone upon those who stood before AEldra cat and half-AEldra human.
Man and woman—or so they appeared. Tall, dark of hair, pale skinned. They were not clad as any folk of the Peopled Lands, but this was proper, for they themselves resembled no folk Ylia had ever seen. Though she could not have said exactly how they were different. Her skin prickled, but not in fear. She took a cautious step toward them. A second. Nisana leaped from her place on the rock; the woman bent down to gather her close.
What is it? And then, suddenly, she knew. “You are Nasath, you are Those Who Guard.” The whisper was unsteady; she caught at rock for balance. Fear vied with a deep, new happiness, an awe so great she could not contain it. How had even she dared doubt? And yet, how could belief have encompassed such as these? She sank to one knee, and her sword slipped from nerveless fingers.
He of the two retrieved the blade, kissed the hilts gravely and held it back to her. She looked up, amazed, but took the hand he extended to raise her to her feet. And, at that touch, both fear and awe vanished.
“We are of the Nasath. I am Bendesevorian, she Nesrevera.” And as he spoke, a realization smote her.
“You. It was you who spoke to me in the Mathkkra cave!” “Myself.”
“Your Power—” she began tentatively, stopped as he shook his head.
“No. Yours, though you did not realize it. And you yourself supplied the need; without that I could have done nothing. Often it happens that those not fully AEldra have a block upon the inner strengths.” A smile warmed his face, brought deep color to hers. “Had the choice been mine, I would have chosen you a better circumstance!”
“My thanks that you could aid me at all.” She inclined her head, abashed. “But, none have seen you—Those Who Guard—for the space of many lives, or so it is said. Why then do you come now? And, why to me?”
“Because the years bring changes and new dangers with them. We gave thanks to Yls in the way we could, but we had no desire to rule that people, nor any people not our own. We certainly wished no one to depend upon us as they might have come to do, losing their own ability to deal with difficulties. Such a thing is not unknown; we decided, then, not to chance it.” He glanced at Nesrevera; she nodded, and she and Nisana moved a few paces away. “My sister speaks only a little of the AEldran tongue and no other speech of the lands. She and Nisana will talk together. We must speak also, you and I.”
“I—of Lyiadd.” Ylia forced the name between suddenly dry lips. The years brought changes, indeed. “He is no longer a threat, I killed him.” Then, for the first time, she wondered.
“We hope. We cannot search that place, the Lammior's ancient holdings. We are powerless to act there, our kind.”
She nodded. “I—I know. I think.”
“You do, enough to understand what I say. And I grieve that none of this could be prevented. But he is well placed, Lyiadd; he could not have chosen a better bolt-hole, had he deliberately chosen a place of safety from us. It is good that you were well matched in the weapons of hand.
“We thought that valley se
aled when the Lammior was slain, that it was hidden from the outside world, that none would dare approach it. We could not destroy it, not entirely; we had not the strength for such a thing. We did not foresee one such as Lyiadd, an AEldra unsatisfied with the Gifts, one coming in deliberate search of the evil there, to take it for his own. Though the Lammior's secrets are well hidden. A man could not take them in full overnight. And not without great sacrifice.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He had not found them. He spoke of them. I—” She swallowed, met his eyes. “Is he dead?”
“We do not know; we cannot see, and we dare not probe that place. It is guarded against us, and he might become aware of us, if he is still alive. But Marrita lives.”
“Marrita,” Ylia whispered. “But—”
“One of humankind will dare much for vengeance—did not you? If Marrita took up Lyiadd's quest, whether he lived or died at your hand?”
“And if either of them finds what he sought?” In spite of the warm air, she shivered.
“Then there will be war, as there was before. But we will not speak of that until we must. Unless we must. It is likely he was slain, that Marrita will not choose his path, that those who served them will scatter and the Lammior's valley will again stand empty. We will keep watch this time, as we should have before.” His face was bleak. Moved by a compassion she did not understand—who would dare pity one of the Nasath?—she laid a hand on his arm.
“Even ye who are the Guardians could not see every chance. Who can foresee and protect against all that might ever pass?” Bendesevorian smiled and she warmed.
“We will not reveal ourselves to your company. It would not be useful or of aid to you, and there is little we actually can do to be of help. Such as we can do, we will. Strength of spirit and body—you all need that. And what we can tell you: the road before you is still strewn with danger. Lyiadd may be dead, but his servants are not! More of the folk await at Aresada than you hope, but you must come there. You have allies in the mountains, however, and we shall tell them of your coming. They, also, will aid you as they can.”
