A Child of Great Promise: An Altearth Tale

by Ellis L. Knox

  Talysse was still arguing with herself when the steep road flattened out and the wagon ran once more on smooth road. She swung out the door and scrambled onto the roof—she was getting quite good at that, she told herself.

  Looking around, she could imagine herself transported to another world. The tough pine and oak had drawn back to reveal a narrow valley that stretched ahead for some miles. The valley lay nearly flat between enormous gray cliffs that seemed to stretch right into the sky. Her first thought, upon viewing the bare-headed mountains, was that if she could leap from the top of that cliff, she might fly across the whole world. Down here in the valley, though, she felt hemmed in.

  While the mountains were bare and steep, the valley was flat and verdant. Lush grass made a carpet from wall to wall. Once green, it was now turning brown under the warm June sun. A little stream ambled over a rocky bed, pooling into ponds before spreading out into a small lake. This water lay on one side of the vale, brilliantly green, like an emerald laid upon the breast of a gray giant.

  At the side of the lake stood a village of wood houses built atop stone pillars, a good four feet above the ground, as if the buildings had hiked up their skirts to cross a marsh. Hundreds of elves were there, but there must have been thousands of sheep, covering much of the valley with a kind of dirty, restless snow. Dogs ran among the sheep, chasing and turning to an unseen purpose. The sheep muttered and complained with thousands of voices, like some vast choir singing a song known only to themselves. The sound of it echoed from the granite cliffs, mingling until all was a continuously shifting drone, like surf on a wide beach.

  “There it is,” Gonsallo said. “Puig Balabor.”

  Detta cocked her head. “Poo-ee Ballybore?”

  “Non,” Gonsallo said without reprimand. “Pwee-ball-a-bor.”

  Detta imitated him, speaking slowly.

  “Oc,” he said, “buon.”

  Talysse edged forward. “Pwi Valador,” she ventured.

  “Puig Balabor,” Gonsallo said, enunciating. “It is not the largest marchiet in the Pirinaeus, but one of the most pleasant, or so Brasc says.”

  “It is quite pretty here,” Talysse said. She waved an arm. “Because of the mountains, obviously.”

  The lead wagons curled into a circle at the lower end of the lake. As Gonsallo maneuvered their own wagon into place, Talysse noticed a small group camped between themselves and the village.

  “Humans,” she noted with surprise. “Why are they here?”

  “They are here to trade,” Gonsallo said, “as are we.”

  “They buy sheep?”

  “No, not at all. These sheep are headed for the alto, the gran pastura further up. The grass down here will die in the summer, so the herders take the flocks high up. Whoop, whoa there.” He brought the wagon to a stop.

  “So what do the humans buy?”

  “I will answer every question, if the jovencita will take up some work,” Gonsallo said as he jumped down. “Help me with the horses.”

  “Very well.” Talysse clambered down.

  As they worked, Gonsallo explained that hunters came out of the mountains at this time as well. “You can tell them by the skins and furs they wear in place of clothes. You won’t spot any now; they avoid the sheep. You will see them at the feast. They sit apart because they do stink.” He made such a face, Talysse burst out laughing.

  “It is a sensible thing,” Gonsallo went on. “They steep themselves in animal scents so they are not detected.” Again he made the face. “Bugbears do not smell pretty.”

  “They hunt bugbears?”

  “They do, and more. The hunters are the best in the world. They go after creatures no one else dares to face—or, at least, others are well content to leave such hunting to the elves.”

  This only made Talysse long to see them: mighty hunters cloaked in the skins of beasts, with tall bows and arrows as long as her arm. Perhaps they were here even now, cleverly hidden, undetected.

  “Are these the ones who know how to find Remigius?”

  “I do not know, but the hunters roam far. If there are dwarves here, they might be asked as well.

  Here, bring water.” Gonsallo handed her two buckets.

  She fetched back as quickly as she could and set a bucket before each horse. The animals drank deeply.

  “The water in the lake is amazingly clear,” she said to Gonsallo. “I could see the bottom as plain as anything.”

  Gonsallo nodded. “Everything here is clean and fresh. I love these mountains.”

  “You were saying about the hunters,” she prompted.

  “The hunters stay in the upper mountains right through winter. Here’s a brush; wipe down Steady. I’ll do Easy.” He began to brush the roan.

  “Isn’t it terribly cold?” She only wanted to hear more.

  “It is. They have stone huts for shelter, and monstrous big dogs who hunt with them. They kill deer and rabbit and such for food, but mostly they are after beasts such as griffins, snow bears, aatxe, the gran llop—anything the counts have named for a bounty. Merchants pay them to help keep the passes safe, and the herders pay, to cut down on creatures who would attack their sheep. Hunters also will search in hidden places to find lost treasures. You never know what might turn up at a marchiet. Which is one more reason why there is always a karwan about at a rendezvous.”

  “You sound like you’ve been here before,” Talysse said.

  “A marchiet was held near my town, over on the Navarrese side,” Gonsallo said. He shrugged. “I suppose the business here is much the same. Come, let us go to our camp.”

  Talysse hoped for the feast, but she soon learned that a fête du marchiet was largely one’s own affair. Representatives from each group—villagers, hunters, herders, merchants, routiers—did meet at a common table, mainly to iron out the rules of trade. Most people sat among their own, though there was a good deal of visiting back and forth.

  Brasc and Jehan went off together almost at once. Gonsallo was preoccupied with his cittern, which he claimed might never recover from its river crossing, so Talysse and Detta wandered among the camps. She was fascinated by the variety, but she was not as touched by this place as she had been by the routiers or the gardiens, nor by the fisher elves. The shepherds were friendly enough, though so laconic she could not strike up a conversation. She did not care for the hunter elves. They were weathered—lean, hard-eyed, with dark gray hair that made them all look old. Their trade was spread out on thick blankets—skins, bones, ears, tails, even heads of creatures, some of which she could not identify. She didn’t try hard. The heads seemed to watch her.

  A group of hunter elves passed her by, dressed in buckskin and gray wool that was stained dark in spatters. They walked without sound, their third eye jarringly open and blue. Their passage was like a zephyr, but also like the edge of a knife drawn across bare skin. Talysse shivered and did not ask if they had seen the wagonmaster.

  She wanted to be gone. She was drawing closer to Remigius, going toward him—a change from running away from pursuit. More and more questions piled up inside her, though she doubted she would like any of the answers. She had to hear them, thought, or they would haunt her like ghosts.

  Detta tugged at her; she wanted to go see the dwarves. Elves had come to Saldemer from time to time, but dwarves were completely unknown and exotic. And therefore interesting.

  The dwarf camp was flanked by a long row of low tables, upon which were arranged a bewildering variety of metal tools and weapons, and a few objects that looked like they might be both. Only three dwarves were there, ranging back and forth as potential customers approached. Talysse watched for a time, listening to their oddly clipped speech. They were courteous enough, but dreadfully formal, bowing often. Talysse didn’t know what to make of them, and Detta seemed a bit intimidated, so they soon moved on.

  “They dress so strangely,” Detta said.

  “Oh?” Talysse was again thinking about leaving.

  “Like women.
”

  Talysse looked back, surprised. “They don’t look much like women to me,” she said.

  “Their aprons. Didn’t you notice? They all wear aprons.”

  Talysse chuckled. “Leather aprons, tante, to protect against sparks and heat. Like the blacksmith at your vill.”

  Detta’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said.

  When they at last returned to the wagons, the western mountains had already swallowed the sun. A high chill crept across the valley.

  Brasc was there. Standing next to him was a dwarf. He looked old, or at least his face was wrinkled. He wore trousers and a tunic, both the same dun brown color, as if someone had made a dye from dirt.

  “I have your guide,” Brasc announced as she and Detta came near. “His name is Gans and he has lived in these mountains for all of his life.”

  “Can he lead us to the Redoubt?”

  The dwarf made a sound into his beard. He stood with feet apart, hands behind his back, staring into the middle distance. Talysse disliked him at once.

  “He says he knows where it is,” Brasc said. “You can set out in the morning.”

  The dwarf bowed wordlessly and walked away. Well, Talysse thought, in the morning, then.

  The herds left at dawn, which in this deep valley meant when the sky grew light, for it would be hours yet before the sun itself climbed over the lip of the eastern cliffs. Thousands of sheep raised their voices as elves and their dogs formed the chaos into individual herds. At first, the noise was so great, all conversations were suspended and the routiers worked in silence. Gradually, the bleating choir moved further up the valley, until the sound was akin to a waterfall heard from a distance.

  The hunters had gone even before the sheep, and the dwarves left soon after. Gans appeared, like some brown phantom. He stood a little apart, a sturdy walking stick in one hand and a heavy pack on his back, unmoving and silent.

  The valley grew quiet and solemn, like a long hallway in an empty house.

  Talysse went from one task to another, preoccupied. Her mind fretted and flitted as she worked on a problem.

  She told herself she ought to have left last night, under cover of darkness. Detta would grieve, but then she could return to her vill and be safe at last. Jehan could undertake some grand quest, and Gonsallo could sing about it. Perhaps they would travel with the karwan.

  But that was foolishness. Detta would not go home; she would try to follow after. Simple gnome. Probably get herself killed, and it would be Talysse’s fault. As likely as not, Jehan would go with her. No, escaping by herself was not possible. She would have to go with the dwarf. But the others didn’t have to.

  Jehan and Gonsallo were just finishing preparations.

  “Hela, jovencita,” Gonsallo called as she approached. “See here, Brasc has acquired a pony for us.”

  A small horse with long brown and white hair stood placidly as he was loaded with packs. Detta was fussing with Talysse’s pack.

  Talysse looked from one to the other. Each face pulled at her heart.

  “I have to go,” she said, unable to be anything other than direct, “but you do not have to. This is probably your last chance to go your own way. It’s sure to be dangerous.”

  Gonsallo held his cittern and strummed a chord. “I am a trovador,” he said. “I go where the song goes.”

  “You can’t sing if you’re dead,” Talysse said. She hoped being blunt would make him reconsider.

  “A mysterious child. Rival wizards. A disgraced elf chevalier righting old wrongs. Wagoneers. If I walked away from such a song, I should be shamed from elf to dwarf and all the courts in between.” He gave her his lopsided grin. “You wouldn’t want me shamed, would you, demoiselle?”

  Talysse had to look away. His cheerfulness was worse than courage or fear. Her eyes went to Jehan.

  “Jehan…” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Geas.” The word struck like a hammer. She felt the weight of it.

  “Geas,” she echoed, hopelessly, but deep inside her a fear turned around and went back into its cave. She still had her chevalier.

  “Lyssie,” Detta said, her brown eyes wet and shining, “do you want me to leave?”

  “Gods, no!” Talysse blurted the words before she could hold them back. “But if you die, that would be leaving me forever.”

  Detta nodded. Her eyes cleared and her chin went up. “There is no place in this world better for me to die than with you.”

  Talysse tried to speak, could not, and settled for holding the gnome tight to her. She might have held her forever, but Brasc called out to them.

  “Buon, we leave at once.”

  Talysse released Detta. She nodded to the others. “Let me say goodbye to the wagonmaster.”

  She went over to the wagon, which gleamed black in the morning sun.

  “Goodbye, Brasc. Thank you for all you have done.”

  “Goodbye, Talysse of the Camargue. May Fortune make you her child.” He blanched. “My apologies. It is a customary saying.”

  She offered a forlorn smile, for the words had penetrated her defenses. “It’s all right,” she said. “If it turns out I never find my parents, perhaps Fortune will adopt me.”

  Brasc considered her for a long moment. His third eye opened and he stared for another long moment.

  “What?” she said, uncomfortable under that look.

  He closed the Eye before speaking. “Another wisdom among my folk,” he said. “Some are born lucky, and some find their luck. Then there are those who make their own.” He nodded. “I do believe you are among the latter.”

  With that, he swung up onto the lead wagon and raised the flag. Five wagons lurched into motion. Talysse watched each of them go past. She felt silly doing it, but she bowed formally to each. The final wagon, driven by Neus, flew a new flag. Sky blue, with a single gull in flight. She thought he grinned down at her as he passed, but could not be sure. There were tears in her eyes. She let them fall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Conversation with a Wizard

  The dwarf betrayed them the first night.

  He led them through a gap in the cliffs, following a furious little brook, then out into a narrow valley that wound along the feet of snow-topped mountains. The air was filled with the scent of pine. Crocus and aster adorned the ground. They marched with only brief rests, pressing forward until even the pony seemed tired. They made camp in the last shreds of daylight.

  And during the night, he disappeared, taking the pony with him.

  Jehan was furious about the supplies. Detta was furious because he had made off with Lyssie’s belongings. Gonsallo was furious at the betrayal.

  Talysse was plain furious.

  “I’ll hunt him down,” she announced. “Everyone stay here.”

  “What? No,” Detta said firmly. “You don’t even know in which direction he went.”

  “Not far,” she said. “His legs are only this long, and he has a pony with him. I can spot him from the air.”

  “Out of the question,” Jehan said. “What if you are seen?”

  Talysse glared at him. “I am done being told what to do. I am under no one’s hand.”

  “I can’t let you do this, Talysse,” Jehan said.

  “You just try to stop me,” she snarled. He reached for her, and she dodged and took off running. Gonsallo called out after her, Detta wailed in despair, and Jehan pursued her at a sprint. She couldn’t outrun him, but she could outfly him.

  She jumped, caught a current of air, and rose steeply up the mountain side.

  For some time all she could do was hang on. The winds were different from those by the sea. These were no more powerful but they were wayward, shifting suddenly or even doubling back to plunge downward. She had flown enough now that she was able to distinguish between the air currents and the magical currents that lay within them.

  She raced skyward until she reached the top of the mountain. Suddenly the earth fell away, the narrow current broa
dened, and Talysse soared. She looked down and gasped.

  Below her lay a landscape so strange to her eyes, she could scarcely believe she had come from there. The trees were a kind of dark green carpet worn away at the edges to reveal the hard earth beneath. The snow on the mountain tops shone brighter than a full moon. Between the mountains lay shadows as deep as night. She saw it all, but saw almost nothing, for she was utterly within the wind itself. Sensations coursed through her that she could barely describe, much less understand. The wind had become part of her, or she of it, and her primary sense was touch. She felt more than saw the land below, as the wind mirrored peaks and valleys. She followed the currents, swooping down and back up, filled with joy.

  Only a slight tiredness brought her back to her senses. She was looking for that traitor dwarf. Look for the pony, she told herself. It’s bigger, and he won’t have left it behind because it will carry the load as he cannot.

  Now she worked against the wind as much as with it, as she dropped closer to the ground. As her eyes searched, her other senses were on constant watch for updrafts, so she could rise and then glide again. She followed valleys, thinking he would take the lower routes as being quicker, but the valleys were heavily wooded. She climbed mountainsides to look for caves or dwarf dwellings. She had no idea what these might look like. Stone, she guessed, and was taken in by more than one pile of boulders.

  The wind was strongest next to the mountain itself. Talysse swept close, clutching at the currents, brilliant snow almost blinding her. But the wind carried her up and over, and suddenly the world spread before her as she soared and the ground dropped away. She was on the other side of the valley.

  She saw the Redoubt. There was no mistaking the fortress, a tall, severe structure built into the face of another mountain at the far end of the valley. Her heart skipped a beat or two at seeing her destination. tion, but

  Tiredness was becoming exhaustion. She was reaching her limits. Reluctantly, she circled back.

  Was she still on the same side of the line of mountains she had first climbed? She’d gone up that valley but come back again. Truly? Or had she gotten turned round?