by Jim Grimsley
here in the darkness
help is come
light is breaking
in a time of war
When he was done, it was as if a light faded, and those who were in the shrine caught their breath. Kirith Kirin spoke again, more quietly. “Return to your stations, begin to disassemble camp as you will be asked to do. By morning we’ll march out of this country, and by nightfall you’ll know where you’re going. Tell what you’ve heard to others. Tell them this is only the beginning of news.”
Signaling to the rest of us to follow, he strode through the crowd. I hesitated only until Kiril Karsten took me by the elbow. Outside the detachment of bodyguards met us, and we hurried from the shrine to Kirith Kirin’s tent. I still clutched the note that had fallen from the cloak when I put it on. On the fine-grained paper were written characters for my eyes alone. “The name for the Cloak is Fimbrel,” the note said. “When you wear it we are near you.”
I folded the paper, swallowed it and dispersed the writing into myself. Drawing the fabric close round me, I felt the rain beat down. The voice in the south had not relented. Full morning broke grayly over Arthen.
3
As we hurried through the storm, not toward Kirith Kirin’s tent but in a less familiar direction, through the confusion of camp being struck, wagons loaded, miserable wretches scurrying about in the rain, I wondered why such urgency when no destination had been announced. Where our destination might be I could not guess, but it was plain from all these preparations Kirith Kirin had not been alone in his sleeplessness.
Breakfast had been ordered for us in Prince Imral’s tent, and a guard was posted on the grounds in the interest of privacy. The chief clerk from the clerk’s tent was awaiting Kirith Kirin with packets of letters and other items of business. Kirith Kirin glanced at the letters, selecting only two documents for unsealing. When he had done this he nodded leave to the chief clerk, who bowed and exited.
Karsten passed round jaka cups, and I sipped the aromatic brew, steam to caress my face. I found a space beside Pelathayn, who had finished a first cake and was reaching for a second. The hunter was more thoughtful than usual, and when he noted me watching, he said, “Now and then it’s good to be reminded YY is still in the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“This morning. What Kirith Kirin said in the shrine. Have you ever heard the King use his voice before?”
He had called Kirith Kirin the king, so naturally. “No, not like that.”
“Well, let it be a lesson to you.” Kirith Kirin dropped the letters on the cushion beside me, seating himself on it a moment later. “There’s more than one kind of magic in the world.”
“Did anyone bother to warn you this was going to happen, Jessex, or were these louts as ill-bred as usual?” Karsten took her place beside Mordwen and Imral, who were reading letters Kirith Kirin had opened.
“Kirith Kirin told me the news would go out today.”
“Imral and I decided the announcement couldn’t wait. We were awake half the night thinking it through.” Kirith Kirin looked at me. “That’s what I came to the shrine tent to tell you, but you weren’t there.”
“I was walking in the hills,” I explained to the others.
“Making mischief, no doubt.” Mordwen had wet his mustache with jaka and dried it on a napkin. “Do we have you to thank for this storm?”
“No. This comes from Drudaen.”
A shadow passed into the chamber. Imral asked, in a somber tone, “Then he’s on his way?”
“No. He hasn’t moved. I’ve set my guard so I’ll know when he does, unless he takes a lot of trouble to hide from me. Even then there would be some change I should detect.”
But the shadow remained. Quiet settled over them. After a moment, Kirith Kirin said, as if repeating a phrase required by ceremony, “We are met in the name of YY, in council.” He turned to me.
The others in the room answered, “In the name of YY, so be it.”
Kirith Kirin said, “Welcome, Jessex. You’re part of us and part of our councils. God is good.” His glance took in every face in the room. “Well, friends. We’ve won a battle. We’ve broken a fortress and taken a General prisoner. We’ve gained a sorcerer and a new ally. At the moment we are in control of Aeryn from Arthen north to the mountains, provided we can bring the gentry in line. Our luck has turned, a little.”
“About time too,” Mordwen said, reaching for the last of the cakes.
“You’ve said we’re to move.” Pelathayn was rearranging himself more comfortably on his cushions. “Do you know where you want to take us?”
“Yes,” said Kirith Kirin. “To Inniscaudra.”
Only Imral was not surprised. Mordwen looked as if the gates of Hero’s Home were opening in front of him. “Praise the Eye, I thought I’d never see the place again.”
“Your sarcasm is well taken,” Kirith Kirin said dryly. “I don’t mind going to Inniscaudra now that there’s a reason.”
“Apparently I missed a lot last night, foolish me for sleeping,” Karsten said. “Why Inniscaudra?”
Kirith Kirin lifted his fingers one by one. “Inniscaudra has gold, arms and space to train an army. She’s three day’s march from the narrowest part of Angoroe. There are chambers for proper council and halls for audience.”
“Audience?” Pelathayn’s bushy brows rose toward his scarred forehead.
“I can’t settle the north country from a tent in Nevyssan.”
“So you’ll be King.”
He paused a long moment. “No. I’ll be Regent. At Inniscaudra we’ll convene a Council of Nivri and Finru, as soon as it can be arranged and before winter sets in. By winter I want this to be an accomplished fact. By the time the Queen marches north with Drudaen, I want the whole Fenax at my back.”
“But what if she marches before winter?” Mordwen asked, and Karsten started to second the question, but then looked at me.
“I understand,” she said.
“She won’t march because she can’t,” Kirith Kirin said. “We have our magician now. She can’t rely on a quick victory, and she won’t risk an army in the northern winter. She herself may not know this yet. But Drudaen doesn’t have the field to himself any more, and he knows.” His eyes were glittering as if with inward fire. “We have a breathing space, all unlooked for.”
“There is, of course, the possibility that Drudaen will ride north alone,” Imral said. “We shouldn’t ignore that.”
I stroked the rich drapings of the cloak. At Imral’s words the shadow had returned, and with it silence. So for the sake of my friends I found my voice. “I don’t think he’ll come, not openly.”
“Give reasons,” Kirith Kirin said.
“He’s engaged in a long work in the north Kellyxa, near the ruins of Montajhena. At Illyn we were keeping him under close watch. We couldn’t learn his purpose, but his strength is divided between that place and his stronghold at Cunevadrim. Strong as he is, he won’t divide his strength further by facing me in the Fenax, not when he has no reason for hurry and so many reasons to stay in the south.”
“Why do you say he has no reason?” Imral asked.
In imitation of Kirith Kirin I lifted my hand, enumerating reasons on my fingertips. “His pride in his power is not shaken. He can beat me as easily in the spring as now, to his way of thinking. If he waits, there’s the chance that I’ll do something foolhardy, like ride south to face him in his stronghold. He holds my mother captive; he’ll use her to entice me. He knows there’s no High Place north of Arthen, nor is there time to build one, so I can’t prepare the plains against his coming. He knows I’m young, whereas he has skills in magic gained through many battles and many lifetimes. In short, while I may have beaten Julassa Kyminax, she was the servant and he is the master. The Wizard will bide his time and move when he’s ready.”
“Queen Athryn can hardly spare him from the southern provinces at the moment,” Karsten said. “From what we hear there’s unrest ever
ywhere, and the news of our revolt will raise hopes in many places.”
“Suddenly my name is remembered as far south as Novris,” Kirith Kirin said, with obvious irony. He shivered as if at a sudden chill, though I felt none. “I see nothing good ahead for those places. The Queen will be afraid, having already lost so much, that she’ll lose more.” He turned to me, pain on his face. “She’ll need Drudaen more than ever.”
“Or she’ll have the chance to see it’s time to be rid of him once and for all,” Mordwen said. “You should consider that. She may be afraid of him herself, by now. He may be ready to move against her, too.”
“You make it sound as if this whole rebellion has been part of his plan,” I said, and, hearing my own words, fell silent.
The others were watching me. A feeling of oppression had come on me with the new thought. As if his laughter mixed in the rain. “You’re beginning to understand,” Kirith Kirin said. “Drudaen has become corrupt beyond even his father, and he has patience, and cunning, and time. Mordwen has a point, Athryn may be afraid of him herself, but I don’t think she’s finished with him. She’s broken the Law that held the world together, she’d have no refuge anywhere without her crown. So she’ll turn to Drudaen to preserve her kingdom, for a while longer, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “The northern rebellion answered Drudaen’s need. I think we all knew that, but couldn’t stop it. If the rebellion hadn’t come, he would have found some other way. Up until now, he could be like a spider, he could afford to wait. But now there’s Jessex, and everything has changed.”
4
For a time, though discussion continued, I was oblivious to words. Maybe I had never seen our predicament so clearly. Against such power, such cunning and patience, I felt small and insignificant. A boy, foolishly setting himself up against the present enemy. “Beyond even his father,” Kirith Kirin had said.
It’s not much in some cases for a son to surpass his father. But when the father was Falamar Inuygen, who brought war and ruin to the Evaenym and ended an age of peace, then the son who exceeds him is a force indeed. This was he whose voice I heard in wind and rain. This was he who would haunt me, waking and sleeping. Suddenly a magic cloak did not seem so rich a gift and all my training seemed paltry. How could I dream of taking the field against a wizard whose father was one of the first to waken long ago in the morning of humankind?
From this bleakness of spirit I was wakened by a simple question. Karsten asked me if I could do anything to stop the rain.
“Stop it?”
“Yes. We’ll have a long march from here to Inniscaudra through the mud if this keeps up.”
“It’ll be worse for the soldiers marching from Cordyssa,” Imral said. “Does the storm reach that far?”
I listened, as if the answer were in the rain itself. “It reaches that far and farther. Drudaen means for the storm to last a long time, I think. Nor is it all he has in mind, unless I miss my guess.”
“We’re close to harvest season,” Mordwen noted.
“There are other things he can do, too, without facing me directly.” I touched the cloak, the fabric trembling as if the threads coursed with life. Swallowing my doubts, I went on. “I can hinder him easily enough, but I can’t stop him from here. But I could do a lot to change that from the High Place at Inniscaudra.”
“How quickly could you lead riders there?” Imral asked me.
“How many riders?”
Imral looked a question to Kirith Kirin. “A dozen?”
“No more than that.”
“If we left at sunrise we’d reach the house by nightfall.”
Pelathayn whistled. “Kentha herself never offered better. Is this a trick you can teach?”
Everyone laughed. Kirith Kirin asked, “Mordwen, can you settle a new kyyvi into the shrine before then?”
Mordwen looked at him in surprise. “I have a Venladrii girl in mind already.”
Kirith Kirin turned to the others. “Karsten, you and I’ll spend our afternoon sending out orders to the armies to meet us at Inniscaudra. Pelathayn, you’ll arrange provisions for our ride and choose lords to ride with us. Get some of the Finru or they’ll sulk till spring. Let me know your choices before you give out any word. Imral, you and I should write a letter to your father, telling him everything that’s happened. Jessex, do whatever you can to break the spell of bad weather.”
This much in a clipped voice. To all, more mildly, “Remember, we’re moving in haste but with care. We’ll meet again in my tent tonight.” He paused, letting a smile light his face. “Aside from word of our destination, what we have said here is for our ears only. You know this, but I warn you anyway.”
5
Mordwen was in the shrine tent overseeing the dismantling of the altar, at the same time teaching the lamp ritual to a young Venladrii girl whose face was familiar. The clearing was full of folk, porters and stewards busy assembling the wooden crates into which the shrine fittings would be packed. When I hurried into the clearing, my thin coat half-drenched by rain, my hair plastered to my skull, some of the stewards drew back. My status had changed; their fear was palpable. I took deep breaths.
Mordwen appeared. “Jessex,” he called, “Can you show these stout fellows where you buried the lamp oil? I haven’t had time to take them there myself.”
I led the soldiers round to the glen where I had buried the precious stuff, then returned to Mordwen at the altar with the new kyyvi. He was demonstrating the best method for settling the ritual lamps neatly into the niche. The girl was slim and lovely, her face oval-shaped, lips full and dark. She had a high, broad forehead that overshadowed her eyes and gave her a serious look. Her hair had more brown than silver in it, tumbling thin and shining along her neck. She was not like any other Venladrii I had ever seen. When she spoke one could hear the sibilance of her voice, converting plain words to music. She spoke True Jisraegen with a slight accent, as if she were slanting the vowels. I studied her briefly, though at a moment when Mordwen could not pause to introduce me to her.
I went into my room, where nothing had been disturbed. Atop the open chest lay the bundle I had packed when I expected to be exiled from Arthen.
The leather pouch containing the necklace was in the bundle. Breathless, I retrieved it from its wrapping of linen drawers and sat on the edge of the cot, fumbling with the leather thongs. I don’t know what brought the necklace to my mind at that moment, but I held it in my palm. Brushing it with my fingertips, I studied the runes scored in the back of the silver setting.
When I touched the gem I felt only a strange murmuring from within, a far away echo of song, faint and weak.
Hearing footsteps, I quickly replaced the medallion in the pouch, concealing it in my sash, murmuring a Word that would make it very hard for anyone to find. Mordwen came to the door. “She’s a fair child, isn’t she? I have her chanting the words to Kithilunen. She already knows Velunen by heart. I thought you would be packing.”
“I don’t have time now. I have work I need to do.”
He told me the stewards would attend to it, not to concern myself. Stepping forward, he asked leave to touch the Fimbrel Cloak, and I said he could. He lifted the glimmering cloth with a sharp intake of breath as if it were cold as ice, and the folds about his hand glowed softly. “Oh, I hear singing.” He smiled a rapturous, almost pained smile, letting the fabric slip through his fingers. “Do you hear singing when you wear it?”
“Sometimes. And other things. While the Sisters wove it, they were always singing.” Pulling it over my shoulders, I went with Mordwen to the tent-flap, listening to the Venladrii girl’s clear piping voice. “What’s her name?” I asked.
“Amri. Sharp little thing, but she doesn’t say much. I guess that’s good. One wants a kyyvi to be able to hold her counsel.”
I said farewell to him and hurried into the morning where rain still fell. Axfel was waiting for me, having taken shelter under the awning. He leapt to his feet, his whole body shaking with delight,
and I let him run with me. We did not return to camp but headed south where the hills were higher, running at first at ordinary speed and then more lightly and swiftly, both of us, the cloak streaming behind me like jewels aflame.
As we ran I began my insinging and was in trance before we reached the hillside. On the summit of a high hill I climbed one of the tall oaks whose upper branches were broad and sturdy. Sitting where my view of the southern horizon was unobstructed, I deepened the trance.
The cloak shimmered and grew full, enfolding the oak with radiance.
Speaking a Word from the dual trance, I made a fire in the air, shaping it like a wheel and setting it to spinning, singing to the flame. I was aware of the tree, the rain, the wind that swayed my high seat, the smell of freshness in the air, the shifting needs of my body, balancing and rebalancing. The rain was cold, the storm bore down with fury, clouds oppressing the tree tops, coloring the light, suffusing but not overcoming the landscape. But this was Arthen, we were spared much, as I could now see. Far away the storm was of such fury it shredded the land and the rain lashed earth into rivers, raised creeks above their beds.
