by Ru Emerson
“How indeed?” Ylia murmured. “You give me hope, cat. Unlike you.”
'No. Truth.’
'Whatever it is, I will hold to it.” She stood, gathered Nisana into her arms, moved quietly back to camp. Brelian was a darker shadow against the trees, moving slowly around the perimeter of the camp; he was the last thing she saw before sleep claimed her.
The girl had said it, a time since, to her Brendan—something about Nala's son. In light of later events, I should have known the thing was about him, exhaled on his breath, in his movements, his smile, all of him. But the thing itself was so farfetched, so unlikely, that even if I had known then, I would have thought only my own fancy and a thing completely removed from possibility.
The Nedaoans say there is no need to separate truth and legend; given time, they will separate themselves. As with all sayings, it is not entirely true—but there is a grain of truth to it.
31
It was long after sunrise before they broke camp the next morning, and Marhan held no hope for any distance at all by day's end: sheer numbers slowed them, as did the Citadel folk. still weak from lack of food. And it looked to rain before nightfall: the air was damp and noticeably cool.
They spent the night deep in the trees, sheltered from a light misting rain and infrequent, but chilling, gusts of wind.
The cloud cover broke early the next morning and moved north ahead of them to hang as a black, billowing mass, hiding the distant peaks. So much they could see from infrequent clearings and meadows: the forest was as thick as it had looked from Ylia's ledge. Now and again, a chance ray of sun found its way through the trees to warm cheeks or fingers. More often, wind tousled hair, tugged at cloaks. More clouds came from south and east, then, bringing a light rain with them. The children alone seemed not to notice or care: they were playing hiding games in the trees between the company and the foreguard.
Levren spent most of the day with them, for he missed his own large family sorely, and he genuinely enjoyed the company of children. They, in turn, accepted the Bowmaster as one of them, hung on him and took great pride in any attention he gave them.
Brelian and Lisabetha walked hand in hand. Some of his terrible grief had left him since his dream, though his face was still somber with it. But Lisabetha had plaited flowers in her hair, and a sprig of columbine rode in Brelian's cloak. Not far ahead of them, Lus and the Chosen women were carrying on earnest discussion; Marhan and Grewl were chewing over some matter of their own. Golsat had gone ahead at first light to set a way and to prepare camp.
Peaceful. It was that. A pity it will not last. Ylia scowled at her hands, pressed her right sleeve to her elbow. A long, rough, white line there, faint but clear against her dark forearm. She would have that to the end of her days. At the moment, she did not expect them to be overlong. She glanced up, pulled the sleeve quickly into place before Malaeth could catch her and berate her once again. Though the scar on her face, near invisible as it was, caused the old nurse more grief.
'What will not last? And why?’ She started as Nisana pushed her head free of the carry pouch. ‘You look like an owl,’ the cat went on accusingly. ‘So solemn, and on such a day! I had better cheer you.’ Sudden concern edged her thought.
'No.’ Ylia knew what Nisana had just remembered. ‘How would I dare grieve for Brendan, having seen what I have seen?’ But she blinked rapidly as she turned to gaze out eastward. She missed him, that truly. And would for long. But: ‘Vess weighs my spirits, cat; remove him if you can!’
'If I could,’ Nisana began vigorously, ‘I would bridge him to Osnera before we got nearer Aresada than we now stand, and leave him to wonder how he got there!’
'Halfway to Osnera,’ Ylia amended flatly. ‘There is an ocean between us and them, remember?’ Nisana snorted amusement.
'You already know you can best him. So?’
'I can. But—’ her gaze went eastward again. She went on, slowly, setting out a thought long unspoken—slowly, because she was still puzzling it out. ‘There is something about him—Vess.’
'I know. So you told Brendan; I heard you. Something—’ Nisana prompted as she fell silent.
'Something. I don't know what. He is not AEldra. We would know if his father had been AEldra. He is not of the Power at all, and yet—’ She paused again, embarrassed. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps the tales are true: Nala lay with a servant of the Lords of the Black Well, and so got Vess.’
'No,’ Nisana replied firmly, dispelling her odd thoughts, making them sound even more foolish. ‘At least, I have sensed no such thing about him. I think I would, though I never attempted to read him.’ She considered a moment. ‘However. I no longer truly dare ignore your hunches, do I?’
'Well—’
'No. I will keep the thought in mind for when we reach Aresada, Ylia. In the meantime, you have your father's skill with blades. And do not discount your arms-mates, your dagger-sworn, and the folk at Aresada, girl. Nedao loves you. Do not dare scorn your worth in the eyes of your own people!’
There was nothing she could say to that. The cat slipped back into her pouch again.
They had not gone far after noon-break when the clouds drew in closely and rain began to fall in sheets. But Golsat came back down the trail not long after to tell of a deep, dry cave he had found nearby. They crowded into the back of that, shared out a hot tea and watched heavy rain turn to enormous hailstones, then back to rain. For a wonder there was no lightning nearby, and the storm was as brief as it was fierce. The sun came out not long after, and within the hour they came to the end of the forest.
To the north, the ground sloped down, and down again. Stands of aspen and willow bunched here and there on the short, yellow-green turf. Huge, overgrown and shaggy berry brambles in full bloom beyond these, further down. A brook cut deeply into the turf not far away, wound through meadowflowers and downhill into the tussocky flats. A faint mist rose here and there, largely obscuring the Marshes and completely hiding any view of the mountains beyond.
“Wetlands,” Golsat said tersely. “We had better camp here tonight.”
“But it is early,” Levren protested. “We could make—well, not a league, but—”
“You of the Plain,” Golsat broke in good-naturedly, and rolled his eyes imploringly skyward. “As though you had never seen a marsh! As though you had never lived near water! Were you never within spitting distance of the marshes south of Koderra, Bowmaster? Mosquitoes, man! And gnats and bugs and more mosquitoes, great black clouds of them! And they are bad now, but after sunset—you wait!”
“I go no farther tonight.” Malaeth let herself down to sit with back braced against a massive birch. She folded her arms. Ylia dropped down beside her.
“You speak for me, Malaeth. If these men wish to go on, we will see them at Aresada.” Lisabetha cast a doubtful glance at Brelian, but moved silently from his side to join the other women.
Levren chuckled. “Gnats and mosquitoes, by the Mothers! As if that were the worst enemy we have faced! But I see we have open rebellion already, and I suppose it would be ignoble to be eaten alive by mosquitoes after all we have survived so far. We stay here.”
Marhan scowled, shrugged. “They do not bother me. But as you choose.”
Golsat closed the distance between them. “That is the very least of it, Swordmaster. Look you—” he pointed out across the lowlands. “Early afternoon, and already the mist is thick. Folk lose their way in such fogs and are never heard from again. Treacherous footing, foul water. At least, one should be able to see such things to avoid them, and with luck we shall. In the morning.”
“Well then.” Marhan let his cloak fall and stretched hard. “This will do as well as anywhere, I suppose.”
“It should,” Golsat agreed. He cast a practiced eye at the clouds. “It will not rain again tonight. And I know the lands beyond the Marshes very well. We have most of a day's journey to cross them, less than that distance the day after. There is water, yonder,” he added thoughtfully. “
I think I will go and see what it holds.” He took Marhan's kettle and set out.
Lisabetha looked up wearily. “Whatever it is, leave it there!” she called after him, but if he heard, he made no sign. Brelian chuckled. His expression turned to one of mock dismay and fear as she leaped to her feet: He fleeing, she chasing and both giggling like children, they dodged across the meadow and finally vanished from sight. Malaeth gazed after them, a complacent smile on her old face.
Grewl had asked to be of use and sat tending the fire. It was still sunny, but the wind was northerly and chill; Malaeth pulled her small, woven carry-bag free and began sorting through her herbs and grasses. Golsat returned with water for her, but no fish.
Ylia leaned back against the tree, settled her shoulders with a happy little sigh and watched the fire. She had nearly dozed off when she became aware of someone standing nearby. She blinked. Lus’ two eldest, Flen and his brother, Mouse, shifted uneasily, uncertain whether or not to speak.
“Is there something?” she smiled at them. Mouse nodded solemnly, went to one knee and bowed his dark, tousled head.
“My Lady.” He spoke with a child's careful formality. “My mother has told us not to bother you—but—” He tilted his head to one side, gazed at her candidly and with a kind of excited awe. “They say you have magic. That you know things by magic, things we do not.”
“Well, perhaps a thing or so,” Ylia admitted. She bit back a smile. “Is there any special thing?”
The boy glanced at his older brother, who nodded. “There is a lady in the woods,” he said finally. “We saw her, Flen and Norria and Lis and Nold and I. I think—” he added hesitantly, “that she is magic, like the tales from our village. She is not like any of us.”
Mothers. She carefully concealed the sudden unease the boy's words gave her. “Can you show me?” They nodded, slipped back into the trees. She pulled her cloak tighter, followed. Flen met his Lady's smile with a shy one of his own. “What was she like?”
“Well—we were playing hide, and she was—just there. I think,” he added, “she came from the water, because she looked wet to me. And also, she was small. Smaller than Lis, even.”
“But a lady,” Mouse put in, “not a little child like Lis. And when she saw us staring at her, she was just gone. Like magic.” He eyed Ylia sidelong, to see how she took the tale. “Lis saw her then, in another place, and was afraid, but Lis is still a baby, really. This lady would not hurt anyone, I could see that!”
Flen, not far ahead, had stopped and was looking all around. Finally he called out; his voice echoed through the silent trees: “Lis! Li-is! Norria! Nold!” No answer. He shrugged. “They think we are still playing, I guess. Hey!” he shouted. “We have the Lady Ylia with us; come now!”
Silence. A rustling in the brush then, and three children came out of cover. Ylia knelt to be on a level with them: they were one-and-all younger and smaller than the two boys.
Lis touched her face shyly. “Mouse said you would come.”
“You saw a lady, did you?” Ylia asked. The child nodded gravely. “What kind of a lady?”
“Little.” She indicated with her hands. Smaller than Lis, tiny indeed.
“Which of you saw her?” Ylia asked. They looked at each other.
“We all did,” Nold—one of the orphaned—replied. “She was little and dark. She moved very swiftly.”
“Is she still here?” Shrugs. More looks. “Well, where did you see her?”
Lis turned and pointed. “There! At the water!”
'Why?’ Nisana was suddenly with them; a gentle after-sensation from her bridging touched Ylia, faded. The children gazed at the cat astonished. ‘Who is by the water?’
'A lady, they tell me’ Ylia replied. Nisana radiated sudden worry. ‘No cause for alarm that I can tell. But I had better send the children back to Lus.’ Aloud, she added, “you all know about Nisana, don't you? That she has magic, also?” Nods. “She tells me,” she went on, “that somebody's mother is looking for him, Mouse.” Mouse groaned. “And those with him. Nisana came to let me know. Something about food, and a wash first.” The children all groaned in unison. Flen gazed up at her expectantly; she laughed.
“No! Do not look at me like that! I may be Lady of Nedao, but I would never nay-say a mother! Go on, back to the fire, all of you. Nisana and I will try to find your lady, and we will tell you what we find, I promise.”
“Promise?” Mouse said hopefully.
Ylia nodded, held out her hands to him. “Promise. By grass and wind, sky above,” she added, completing the ancient children's oath.
“By grass and wind, sky above,” Mouse replied, clearly amazed that a grown woman should know this. Reluctantly, then, they ran back to the camp.
'Lus really was wondering where they had gone, you know. Now, what is all this?’ Nisana demanded.
Ylia shrugged. ‘I have no idea. They saw a strange lady, they say, who appeared and vanished at will. Who was wet, tinier than Lis. I do not think they made it up. But—’
'It does not sound evil; children sense that readily. I doubt Marrita could make herself attractive to children. Or smaller, come to that. No, they would fear her, however she clothed herself.’
'Presuming she could be here at all—’
'Unlike you,’ Nisana remarked sourly, ‘to underestimate an enemy. Use care! However, whatever this lady is, I would like to know, the more so because we sleep here tonight.’ She trotted toward the stream. Ylia let Brendan's dagger slip down into her hand.
A shallow, narrow animal track led through the brush to the water, and they followed it, then turned to walk the bank upstream. Several lengths on, they came to a deep pond, formed by a fallen tree and the debris piled up behind it. They stood there, irresolute. Nisana caught at her companion's thought. ‘Look. Look there!’ She bounded across the pond.
On the far bank, less than a length away, were shallow prints in the wet ground. Ylia skirted the water, crouched beside them. Narrow and small, toes overlong for the length of the foot. And there were faint marks where the toes were spread on one or two of the prints: curved, connecting lines. Webs.
She sat back on her heels to keep watch as Nisana sniffed at them. The maker could be anywhere. The woods were silent with the fading of day, and gloomy; a bird flitted from one tall tree to another, the trees themselves rapidly becoming black shadows against the dark blue of the sky.
She touched the cat; Nisana started. ‘We should go.’
'I know what this is.’ Nisana was speaking more to herself than her companion. ‘It must be; it is, by all that's holy.’ Her whole furred body was practically alight. ‘I return tonight, Ylia; we do. You and I. After the moon has risen. Because this is—because it is—’
'Is what?’
'Invitation,’ she replied simply.
Ylia frowned. ‘You are not making sense, cat. How are prints invitation?’
'If they were left by one who has, in truth, no form of its own. One who—”
'Great Mothers.’ Ylia shivered suddenly. ‘Dreyzs.’
'Dreyzs.’ Nisana agreed. ‘And do not tell me they are myth!’
'No, never. Not after all we have seen on this journey. But—’
'Remember the tales. They have no form, the Dreyzs. But there are forms they take to themselves, whether favorite or most comfortable, no human knows. The tales are not specific.’
'But—’
'And if a Dreyzs materialized, if it let itself be seen, if it left prints, then it did so for purpose. Invitation.’
'You have allies in these mountains. Allies who will be told of your coming. He said as much.’ Bendesevorian's words.
'There—you see? This was foreordained, I know it. But I return tonight in any event.’ She took in the growing darkness in sudden surprise. ‘It is late; Marhan will be annoyed. And I am hungry.’
Ylia laughed. ‘"Annoyed,” she says. Who—Marhan, of all men?’
Mouse hurled himself at her as they came from th
e trees. “Did you find her?” he whispered fiercely. Ylia shook her head; he looked so crestfallen that she knelt to speak against his ear.
“We found prints, and we know what she was you saw. Can you guess? No? A water-sprite.”
Mouse's eyes went round. “Swear it?” he demanded in a thrilled whisper. Ylia nodded gravely. “It is our secret?” he added, no less fiercely. She nodded again. Mouse grinned widely and dashed back to his brother's side.
They are not like us, the Folk. Not like the AEldra, certainly unlike the Nedao—not even like the Nasath. They have their own matters important to them, their own needs and wants, and seldom do they bother with any not their own kind. Though they did so once, when they swore to the aid of the Guardians against the Lammior. And, once, many hundreds of years later, when they swore to the assistance of the young Queen of Nedao.
32
It was late, more than halfway to morning, when she woke Golsat after her watch. She spoke to him briefly, to let him know where they would go. Then she and Nisana—and Lisabetha, on whose presence Nisana had insisted—slipped away from the fire and into the woods, back toward the creek. Starlight caught an occasional ripple. A breeze whispered through the very tops of the trees, though all was still on the ground.
They pushed upstream. Halted. Silence. Nisana took a few paces to the right, back to the left, again stopped. Ylia remained where she was, as uncertain as Lisabetha how to aid the cat; uncertain, indeed, what she sought.
Light, a faint light, suddenly radiated from her. ‘By the Nasath, whose servants we are, we would speak with ye who are their children.’ The cat uttered the high AEldran words with an ease Ylia envied, almost singing them in her thought as she cast them to float on the breeze. Silence. ‘No harm do we bring, we three.’
Ylia came to stand beside her, moved by a sudden impulse. “By the grace of Bendesevorian of the Nasath we come,” she said aloud, her own AEldran halting, “who are those foretold.” Another silence. Then: coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, a breath, a song: ‘Come ye, an ye would speak.’ Ylia roused Lisabetha with a light touch.
