by Ru Emerson
“For that, my thanks, the thanks of all of us.” She did not clearly understand what he meant, could not. She stored the words to parcel out later. “And for the warning. It is more than we could have looked for, to be forewarned—and—” She swallowed sudden tears; Brendan's words on her lips. She could not continue.
Bendesevorian placed a light kiss upon her brow. “I sorrow for your losses. And I know words are no proper comfort.” His hand fell away from her arm as Nesrevera came to his side. “The blessing of the One upon you and guard you!” Ylia cried out; they were gone in a blaze of light. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, and saw—in that light—
“Mother. My father.” Scythia and Brandt stood in a vast hall, the light of a spring sun blinding on white garments, flowers twined in their hair. And before them, clad in the pale blue of the King's Guard, Brendan knelt. Brandt's blade touched at his shoulder. The light faded, they were gone. Tears ran down her face. The moon slipped back behind cloud.
“Nisana,” Ylia whispered. The cat leaped to her arms but stared blankly and did not speak as she bridged them back to camp. So dazed was she by what she had seen and heard, Ylia was scarcely aware of the bridging, the fear it usually brought.
Golsat glanced up, startled, as they snapped into being at the edge of the firelight, nodded as they passed. For one sleepy moment, Ylia saw him as he went to waken Brelian, but nothing thereafter, and she slept heavily.
And dreamed: fire, battle and death. A great war raged through the Foessa, and none of humankind fought it. Ranging with the Guardians were the Wood People, against them the Lammior and his created seemings, misshapen horrors of a child's nightmare brought to life.
Another battlefield, this still under the remorseless light of a full moon; dark shapes moved stealthily in the shade of trees, fluttered from the sky to fall upon the dead. Again change: flight, a few forming rearguard in a narrow cleft against dreadful odds. Until, finally, the ill-sorted army of Nasath and their allies stood hard against the Sea, waiting, watching the smoke in the mountains as it neared. Signal fires seaward, though none of those held at the shoreline believed they would be of aid.
But they were: ships, more ships anchoring in a wide bay, and a change in the tide of war, as armed men came from the ships to ally themselves with the Woodfolk and the Nasath.
And there—to the fore of the shipmen—Mothers, a woman! Shelagn, she looked upon Shelagn! Wisewoman, warrior, and a knight of the First House. Hair like a silver helmet, close-cropped to her ears, padded armor, shield upon her left arm instead of a dagger—she led a troop through the Mathkkra, crying encouragement to those behind her as they clove through the enemy, through seeming, Thullen, evils more horrible than they. And the force behind her dwindled, until she stood with scarce twenty comrades against the Lammior himself. And then even she fell.
But the thing she had opposed was brought down thereafter, his body burned, his halls torn stone from stone, closed off from the reach of men.
The dream darkened, shifted—Aresada? The entrance to the Caves, she knew it for certain, a company of village folk coming across the makeshift bridge that crossed the river gorge. A valley, then; immense and broad-floored, near treeless, and warm earth sliding between her fingers.
A high place, a rock-bound gorge. The red light of sunset glanced off her sword. They fought Mathkkra, she and another—she could see nothing but his sword. Blood dripped from his fingers to the stones below, and she knew fear for him. Not Brendan, but who?
Darkness. She turned in her sleep, fought to waken, could not. Moved, then, reluctantly, toward a light that ever receded. Light: fading, changing, turning. Wisps of smoke curled red in that faint light. She was within Lyiadd's hall, a sullen fire casting feeble, sanguineous shadows across the floor. A whisper of noise—she whirled, horror sick, but the great chairs stood empty. Another—what shared that chamber with her? She tore sword and dagger free, shouted: “Lyiadd! I killed you once, I'll kill you again! Show yourself, if you are not recreant!” Only laughter answered. She cried out in terror as it pressed against her inner being, and woke.
I have tried, more than once, to cast into words what it was to me, to speak with Nesrevera: It is not my way, however, and I think even the Ylsan poets fall short in their descriptions of such meetings. They do not tell of the light: I felt it, felt it course through her to me. It woke me to wonder and to the good I did not suspect I held within myself.
It is a seldom thing, that any such as the child Lisabetha dream true, even among the Great Houses of the AEldra. Though I have heard it said that, to an extent, those fully human can take such AEldra-like Powers for short periods of time, either because they have dealt with those of great Power, or because they dwell in lands imbued with such Power. So little is known of the Foessa, of the Guardians, even of the Lammior and his halls—but it seems to me as likely an explanation as any and better than most, for the temporary change that took hold of certain of our company.
27
She shivered as she sat up; there was barely an edge of light against the eastern peaks, but there was no sleep left in her. She left Nisana pressed hard against Malaeth's side, crawled to the fire. Brelian had the last of the watches; he started as he came back into the light. “Why are you awake?” he whispered. “There is at least another hour.”
“Bad dreams.”
He eyed her sharply, hesitated, dropped down to warm his hands. “I—I dreamed, too, last night. I—saw Bren—” he shook his head. “You will laugh.”
“No. Tell me.”
“He was clad as one of the King's Guard, and he stood at the King's right hand. But it was not Koderra I saw.”
“A fair hall, sunlit and white—” Her voice trailed away; they gazed at each other blankly. “You—you dreamed this, Brel. You saw?”
“But—you know this—”
“Because I saw it, too.” And in such circumstance.
Brelian leaned forward to feed the fire, concentrating carefully on his movements. A shaky smile caught at his lips, was gone again. “A true-seeing? I have had a true-seeing?”
She shook her head. “I cannot say, Brelian, I'm sorry. It's not an AEldra thing, true-seeing. But I think—I think yes. However it came about.” And with that, he seemed content.
The rest of the company were surprisingly easy to rouse. Even Malaeth moved about the fire vigorously, though she had been frighteningly worn and cold the night before. But he promised aid, I remember that now: strength. Aid of a most important kind. And Ylia realized suddenly she had more strength than she would have thought likely from a poor and broken night's sleep.
Nisana spent most of the day out on her own, her thought shuttered. The meeting had affected her strongly and in some way that Ylia, as human, could not understand.
Clouds moved northward across the sky throughout the morning, now and again thinning to permit a weak sunlight to dazzle the eyes, though never enough of it to properly warm. Golsat and Levren went ahead to make a trail; the rest followed down a narrow canyon, up a wet, rocky cleft to higher ground. The sun came out as they set foot on a short-turfed meadow; clouds held in a black band across the northern and western horizons, but for a while the sky overhead was a brilliantly blue bowl. The ground steamed as the air warmed, and not far ahead they could see smoke: the foreguard had chosen a noon-hour stopping place and readied it for the rest.
Lisabetha dropped back to walk rearguard with Ylia for a while after they set out again. “Brelian has told me what he dreamed last night. And that you—”
Ylia nodded. “A thing very similar.”
“Odd,” the girl said finally, breaking a long and companionable silence, “that we should dream the same thing, we three.”
“Yes.” She wasn't, she found, very surprised. More surprising had Lisabetha slept the night through undisturbed. “Was that all you dreamed last night?”
“No.” The girl frowned at the horizon, hesitated, caught Ylia's eye and took reassurance. Ylia wouldn't d
isbelieve her or ridicule her. Difficult, still, to trust after so many years. “I cannot remember all of it. War and death—because when I recalled it this morning, I thought I had dreamed that battle we saw in the fog. It was—like that.” She smiled suddenly. “It was not dream—but—well, an odd thing.” Her glance caught Malaeth and Golsat, not far ahead. “She is better today, and I feel as though I had rested several nights, not just the one. But that was not your doing, was it?”
“No.” Why does she ask that? What else had she dreamed, and what had they revealed to this Plainschild who foresaw like an AEldra?
Nisana returned about an hour before sunset. The company had not yet caught up with Marhan and Levren, though Ylia was aware of them and knew they would reach camp before full dark.
'Join,’ the cat demanded. ‘I would make search.’
'Now?’
'What better time?’
Lisabetha, three lengths ahead of them, slowed to let them catch up to her. “Search for what?”
Ylia stared at her. “I'm sorry, I thought you spoke to me.”
“You heard that?”
Nisana leaped to Ylia's shoulder. ‘Girl! You heard me?’ Lisabetha stopped cold and her eyes went round. ‘Do not be afraid, it is I. Nisana.’ Her astonished gaze went from cat to Brandt's heir, back again.
“You—” Ylia switched to mind-speech, ‘Lisabetha?’
“I—how very strange a thing!” She touched Nisana's flank. “But I could never hear you before!”
'Can you speak so?’ Nisana demanded suddenly. ‘Try!’
'Nisana!’ Ylia admonished. Bad enough the cat bully her, she was used to it. But Nisana ignored her, as she might have expected.
'Try it!’ Lisabetha twisted her face, closed her eyes hard. Shrugged finally. ‘No. Well, never mind. If you can hear, you should be able to speak. We will see to it later.’ As a grudging afterthought: ‘If you wish, of course.’
“I—well—” She considered solemnly.
“Lisabetha!”
“Coming, Brel!” She smiled, ran ahead. They stared after her.
'I can scarcely believe it, cat. And I would never have thought it possible.’
'That she hears, or that she does not think it another evil thrust upon her by whatever gave her Sight?’
'Both, I suppose.’
'She is growing sense. And why should not the touch of the Nasath release whatever Gift dwells within her? Though I fear it is a temporary thing only. Unlikely, even though she dreams, that she will grow AEldra skills; but a temporary gift such as mind-speech is not unheard of.’ Nisana nudged hard. ‘Come, wake up! You need not stand still for a simple mind-search. Begin to walk again, or someone will worry and come back for us. No, you cannot still need to close your eyes, you have been beyond that stage for days now!’ Ylia sighed, but started forward. It was difficult; worse, it was disconcerting; fortunately the ground they traveled was smooth and level. ‘I am worried,’ Nisana admitted as they searched. ‘What did he say to you of danger?’
'That it lay between us and Aresada. And—she?’
'We spoke of other things. Though danger was shown to me. Not its placing, for it moves about. The chance of it, three times.’
'That we might avoid it?’
'Even so.’
Ylia slowed, sorted again between the search and her footing; it was an odd sensation, akin to dizziness, to sense one thing and place and move in another. ‘They fear to speak straightly, don't they?’
'Rightly so. Too easy for those who do not see as clearly, who are so much shorter lived, to depend upon them for all things, thinking themselves lesser. It is not right we lose initiative.’
'I agree. And the once a straight warning could not have aided us anyway.’
'Against Lyiadd, who was determined upon our capture. You are right. West.’
Silence. Day birds had since retired to branches or nests, the night birds had not yet begun to stir forth. ‘And even such as they cannot lay the future out for us as a clear path.’
'No. But I am grateful for what they could tell us.’ For what they had shown. Whether Nisana caught that thought, she was not certain, but the cat leaned against her cheek, rubbed it with her own.
North. A troop of deer directly ahead, a young buck, his antlers still delicately velveted, in their midst, stood at a wide pool under the thick shade of trees. A quail and her young straggled into the shelter of low brush; a skunk, still thin so early in spring and not long out of hibernation, drank from a hollow in a long rock ledge. On the far side of the pool, two lengths back from it, a fire—two men gathering the wood to feed it.
East, then. Silence and cold, and then, beyond the mountains, more silence, and the feel of old death. Ylia shivered, dragged the search away.
'We knew as much.’ Nisana licked her whiskers. ‘Enough. We are safe for tonight.’
Nisana spent the evening with Lisabetha, the two of them well away from the rest so they might have quiet for concentration. But Lisabetha's mind-speech, if any, remained a question mark. She could hear both Nisana and Ylia. Could even, though it gave her a headache, hear Malaeth. She could not reply in kind. She was greatly disappointed when Nisana warned her it might all fade as the days went by. ‘But it cannot harm to use it while you have it.’
“No. And—perhaps—”
'I cannot promise. I hope for your sake, and for ours. It is always useful.’ The cat curled up in her lap. ‘And I like having others to speak with.’
The next day was much like the previous one: cool in the morning, likely to rain, but clouds drew back at midday, and it warmed. The meadow's grasses were dry, the company no longer reached camp wet to the knee.
Levren took foreguard late in the afternoon to prepare a camp, thus allowing them to walk until full dark. Nisana spent much of the day with Lisabetha and Malaeth, dropping back to rearguard with Ylia near sunset so they could make search.
'Nothing.’ Ylia fetched a sigh of relief.
'Not so.’ The cat was uneasy. ‘Eastward, a little north.’ Silence. Ylia shivered suddenly at the unwholesome, chilling silence, the familiar sensation prickling the hairs on her neck. ‘Do you have it?’
Have it? Gods and Mothers! A stealthy, foul sensation crept across her skin. Nisana severed the bond between them, sprang out and down; Ylia tore sword free as Lisabetha cried out, “Brelian, ‘ware! To your right!”
Black against the setting sun, a Thullen soared low, swerved from Brelian's two blades, bore straight for Ylia. She set her eyes to a point above and beyond it, knowing that if she met its gaze she would be unable to move. And this time—but Marhan and Golsat were already on their way to her side.
She wrapped both hands about the sword hilts, dropped to one knee and came up under the creature as it flew over. Her sword was nearly ripped from her hands, her shoulders burned with the wrenching, but the bat-creature shrieked and slammed into the ground. Ylia backed from it, turned and fled shaking into Marhan's arms.
“Mathkkra—near,” Lisabetha whispered. Her face was white. Ylia nodded, pushed away from the Swordmaster's chest.
“I sense them, too. Keep close together, everyone,” she managed aloud; her voice was more harsh whisper than true speech, “and keep moving!” Golsat pressed Malaeth between him and Brelian, started forward at the best pace the old woman could manage. Lisabetha followed, Ylia after her, Marhan at rearguard.
Twenty paces—a grove of stunted trees, there. They gave it wide berth, stayed far, too, from the rocks on the left that might hold an ambush. The last rays of evening sun were on the meadow when they came, at least thirty of the creatures, but they had no determination to match that of the humans. Some twenty fell, the rest fled. The company ran.
“Were they sent? Like the others?” Brelian demanded as they reached the safety of a belt of trees. Ylia shook her head. ‘Cat?’ ‘Nothing here that does not belong; rest.’ “You are certain of it?” Brelian pursued.
“No, not sent. They could not be, no, I
killed him—” Her voice spiraled into hysteria. Golsat's hands dug into her arms, his dark face was taut.
“Stop that!” he hissed. “We cannot carry you, and we need your sword!” He shook her so fiercely her head snapped back.
“Don't!” Lisabetha caught at his hands.
“No,” Ylia whispered. “I am fine, it is all right.” Golsat fixed her with a stern look, seemed satisfied by what he saw and moved back to Malaeth. She felt her neck, gingerly.
Lisabetha gazed at her anxiously. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” Golsat's cure had been rough but effective; she was embarrassed, nothing more. “Let us go. We are not far from camp, and we will be safe now.” She turned to Brelian. “Sorry, Brel. Their strength was their own; you could see the difference, couldn't you? They are cowards. They chose to fight only when they thought the odds greatly in their favor. Fire will protect us from the Thullen.” Marhan pushed her before him, took rearguard. They reached camp not long after.
She was limp with reaction, and it was with difficulty she held herself awake at all. She wanted only sleep, but not until she had eaten; food was strength for the next day's walking. Brelian dropped down beside her, breaking in on her wandering thought.
“I had not noticed until tonight. Your dagger. You haven't one.”
“No.” She forced a smile. “I left it with one who had more need of it.” The answering smile fell short of his eyes, too. He reached inside his jerkin, drew forth a narrow blade. A dagger: slender, beautifully balanced. On the hilts, a copper ship, inset just above the crosspiece. Brendan's dagger.
“This is yours—no,” he pressed it into her hand, closed reluctant fingers around it. “Who should have it but you? Would you offend him, to refuse it?”
She shook her head. “I—Brelian, I can't—”
“You can. You avenged him, you said that.” She nodded then; her eyes were held by the reflection of firelight on the shining thing. “It is yours by right. Take it. Please take it.” She looked up, blinked back sudden tears, aware he did the same.
