by Jim Grimsley
The power that raised the storm was hidden from me, though I could feel its movement. Other powers of his or of his servants were at play, but these were localized; he was not yet reaching his arm northward with any more than ill intent. I tried for a long time to deepen beyond these veils of his, but I did not care to match him openly before I could stand on a High Place.
He was searching for me everywhere, but I was hidden within Arthen. He found nothing to satisfy him. I kept vigilance over him quietly, and then wove songs that would aid me on the coming ride.
The light deepened and darkened with afternoon. When I had done what I could I grasped the wheel of fire and bid it vanish, and descended from the oak summit. Axfel had waited for me all this time at the base of the tree, sheltered under a rock, happy to see me as always. I wrapped the cloak round myself and bent to face him, the rain streaming over my face and down my nose. “What do you think of your master now? Maybe he’ll be of some account in the world, you think?”
The question had never occurred to him, clearly. I leapt to my feet and we ran for home the way we had come, more fleet than any leaping deer.
Despite the rain I bathed in the hidden pool, saying good-bye to the ritual; though to tell the truth even now I follow that pattern of movements faithfully, only not so early. My bath done, I drew on the bath-coat and returned to the shrine, some time remaining before the Evening Song. My room had been cleared of my few belongings. Mordwen, who was still with Amri in the workroom, told me my personal effects had been taken to his tent. He was distracted, being in the midst of demonstrating the proper order for assembling the reyn, so I did not linger. The girl Amri looked very attentive but a bit overawed. I doubt she ever had much conversation with a Jhinuuserret before.
Near sunset, when folks gathered, Amri brought out the lamp.
A hush fell, and people watched for my reaction. I was calm as she was. A shadow fell across me, as Kirith Kirin stepped into place.
Silence followed, while Amri watched the muuren for the signal to light the lamp.
If she was frightened, the fear did not affect her timing; I could not have begun the ceremony any closer to the proper moment myself. The fire at the muuren-heart died and the lamp flamed into light. Across the clearing torches were lit as soon as the lamp could be seen burning steadily — the Jisraegen long ago perfected the art of making torches that can defy rain, burning brightly even in storm and wind. A heartbeat followed while the Venladrii child gathered her breath.
She sang Kithilunen in a voice the clarity of which might have given a nightingale reason for envy. I marveled that such a big sound could come from one so slight and small, her singing like a bright cloud, filling the clearing to the tops of the trees. The soldiers and officers were marveling. When the song was over one was left longing for more. Amri, flushed with her effort, withdrew from the altar as she had been instructed to do, taking her place beside the shrine. She was close to me, and eyed me curiously, her long, dark face seeming incongruously old for such a small, light body. I winked at her, and she hid a small smile by bowing her head.
6
The storm had grown stronger, and from the south an ill wind was blowing. Rain fell in ragged sheets, making the treetops tremble and sag, running in rivulets down the hillside, pooling in rocks and tree roots. In the south the master of the storm was moving a storm over the Woodland and beyond. His voice hung like a cloud.
To what end was he singing? I needed to find a hilltop and make a fire circle. So I sent for Nixva to be saddled and we went out to find a place.
Nixva grumbled about the rain, mane wet with glittering drops. I explained as best I could but warned him this was the lot of magician’s horses, and that he must take the bad with the good. He tossed his head as if to say he thought me somewhat arrogant, since he had been a royal horse all his life while I had only lately come to grandeur. I conceded the point but mounted to his back nevertheless, saying Words that lent us both night-vision and him fleetness beyond even his father’s.
I also kept him dry, much to his pleasure. While I knew the land somewhat, he knew it better, and when I asked him to find me the tallest hilltop he could think of, he did. He took me to the very edge of the Arth Hills, a longer ride than I had in mind, but in that country stands a tall rock called Vulnur, where in ancient days criminals were executed by leading them to the pinnacle and flinging them off. Like the rest of Arth country, Vulnur has the reputation of a haunted place.
I tethered Nixva at the base of the rock beneath the shelter of an overhanging stone. A sheer, narrow stair led round and up the pinnacle, and the falling rain had made the steps slippery and treacherous. But my art was proof against that hindrance, and I ran lightly up the steps as if they were dry as burned bone.
The white moon was rising far in the east, hanging below the ceiling of cloud and coloring the rolling treetops with silver. Once from a similar place, Lady Vella had told me the roof of the forest put her in mind of the sea, rolling blue and green, and I wondered that night if this were so, if I would agree when my journeys carried me as far as that.
Squatting down on the crest of Vulnur, gathering such thin starlight as I could find filtering through cloud, I plaited what is called the Starlight Ring, and let it grow, and as it grew I wrapped the cloak Fimbrel about me, the voices within it swelling, the cloak overhanging the tall rock like the shadow of drooping wings, filling the air and night.
I caused the Starlight Ring to flicker and burn, first as the ghost of fire and then as fire, burning air to feed its substance, a wind coursing up the sides of the rock chimney. The flame danced blue, green, orange, gold, blood red, licking upward higher as I sang Words to strengthen it. Within the Circle of Fire I placed my awareness out of body, wrapped and shrouded, and I chanted within the Fire and Darkness, letting my thought go up toward heaven, encircling darkness and enfolding fire. That time I focused all my thought on the outer eye, though all the while in the kei space my voice was making Words.
I could hear my enemy plainly, his voice insistent like a current of wind, prodding the storm gently, invoking with gentleness, patient like the good shepherd who does not wish to agitate the flock. The singing rang coldly, the voice had an edge, yet these things were subdued, and I understood Drudaen had tamed his anger, marshaled his wits, and was working his magic with craft and policy.
He had a purpose beyond the storm-sending, but I could not discern it. When I turned southward, there was only the gulf of blackness in which he had submerged. He was moving power, more than before, and a part of his mind was turned from his former purposes to a new work. I watched for a long time. The whole while he looked through me, nor could he find me even after I bent his storm a little, even when he knew I was moving. He could not pierce the veil over Arthen, and since he knew he could not, he wasted no strength on the effort.
For an instant his arrogance filled me with anger, and I longed to assail him directly, to set my thought against his and built devices on Vulnur that might break his storm, send it flying back to mock him. But this was my pride thinking and not my prudence. I had power but he had more. He had devices of many years making and I had none. Subtle and small as seemed the song within the rain clouds, were I to show my hand against it, Arthen could not hide me. This was cat-and-mouse he was playing, but I would not be a mouse.
Since I could not fathom his new strategy, then, I worked quietly against the old, and from the fire circle I plaited other fires, Wheel and Diamond, Rune and Curved Swan, speaking softly over them and sending them high, small devices that would float far overland, drawing wind upward with them, tearing the clouds that hung heavy over the northern fields. I sent nothing toward my enemy nor did I make any song whose sound would carry to him. What of my magic he could discern would seem but small and pitiable. Some of his anger would diminish into contempt. What did it prove that I had beaten Julassa Kyminax? She had never caused him to quail. She was a useful servant but she was not the only servant he had.
I plaited my runes and fire-shapes, and finally stood, stretching my arms upward, letting the cloak billow out and out, till the shadow laid the fire circle low. The wind dispersed in tatters and Vulnur sighed with rain. Whether I had done any good time would tell. I listened a last moment to that other singing, the magic he was making whose purpose I could not discern. Troubled, I descended the curved stairs, returning to Nixva who had awaited me patiently beneath the canopy of stone.
He greeted me with characteristic affection, resting his muzzle in the nape of my neck. I stood close to him, gathering strength before beginning the ride home through the storm, glad of his warm breath, of his comforting bulk. He invited me to his back with a toss of the head, being impatient to return to his place on the horse-lines. I obeyed and we began our quick ride beneath the trees.
But when we passed the jagged rocks at the base of Vulnur, I saw a strange sight. Over the rocks lay a soft blue glow, and within the faint light were many figures moving: translucent, fragile eidolons with voices like the faint cries of birds. These were, I guessed, the unrestful dead ones thrown from the height, maybe wakened by my magic-making or maybe following their usual routine, dancing and wailing on the foot-stones as they had done through the long ages since they died. We watched, Nixva and I, the horse inherently fearless and me guarded by my power. They took no note of our presence, which was a relief, since ghosts can be troublesome. I would have stayed longer to watch if I had not become aware of the lateness of the hour. Speaking quietly to Nixva, I turned his head and we made the journey to the Nevyssan hills, where watchfires burned like flowers on the dark hillside.
7
In camp I found commotion. Soldiers stirred among tents and wagons, polishing armor or weapons, packing or simply talking. Some who saw me bowed respectfully but withdrew from my path nevertheless.
At Mordwen’s tent I received a summons to see Kirith Kirin. A full contingent of guard was posted there, with orders to let me pass. I gave Nixva to one of the soldiers to return to the lines, warning the woman that the stallion was hungry, wet, and apt to be feisty.
Within the tent, light from many lamps flickered through fabric walls. Kirith Kirin and Lady Karsten sat on embroidered cushions illuminated by the warmly colored lights of mid-evening. Tea brewed, smelling of fragrant arrowflower, and on a low table rested a wrought silver tray of cakes. Imral Ynuuvil was reading a scroll, making notes in the margin with a bone-handled pen.
“I’m starved,” I said, reaching for a cup and drawing tea from the heated oet. The others laughed, and Karsten said, “Well, pull off your cloak and eat a waycake. It was a dreadful night to go riding, don’t you think?”
“Yes. It’s raining all the way from here to the sea.” The taste of the cake was fresh and sweet. Many rich smells drifted in the air: Karsten’s perfumed oil, the Prince’s smell of cedar, Imral’s ink and paper. “My lord Keerfax is busy, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. I’ve done what I can about the storm. We’ll see what effect it has.”
After my entry I listened to their talk a while , brooding on details and other news Kirith Kirin had learned from his scouts in Maugritaxa. Silver wolves and white wolves from the deep mountains had been seen in Pelponitur above Suvrin Sirhe, and also along Angoroe, raiding the hill-farms and howling through the night. From Drii had come word that Orloc shadows were stirring in Cundruen, wary of Drudaen’s presence south of the mountains. This was good news only to a degree. The Orloc could be expected to defend Cundruen against him, since they have been enemies with the House of Cunavastar since ancient times. But, as Kirith Kirin warned, one can never look to the Orloc for help.
Near the midnight sounding of the guard, Inryval the Marshal came to report camp ready for departure. The officers had sent the soldiers to bed. The poor fellow was caked in mud, so tired he could hardly prop himself up on his marshal’s staff. When he vanished, Imral said, “Sleep would be good for all of us, I think. We have a long day coming. I haven’t ridden in a wizard’s train in many a year.”
Kirith Kirin beckoned me to sit by him, and so I moved, judging that the audience and its attendant feeling of busy-ness were ended. “Will you sleep tonight? Or do you intend to sit by some watch-fire on a hilltop?”
“It would be good to sleep. I believe I could.”
“Mordwen’s gone home ahead of you.” Imral meant me, but he was watching Kirith Kirin. “Mordwen is one for a good night’s sleep before a ride.”
“So Mordwen has made room for Jessex?” Kirith Kirin asked. The room went quiet. Imral and Karsten were eyeing each other warily. “I was hoping no one had thought to arrange anything.” His eyes seemed very hollow. In the silence one could hear only the rain, whispering and calling from every leaf.
When Imral answered, he was cautious. “Prince Kirith, you can’t banish Cothryn for sending gifts to the boy and then turn around and do worse yourself. Jessex is six months from naming —”
“Yes, I know.” Kirith Kirin sighed.
I rose from my cushion in confusion. Holding my tongue, I said good-night to Kirith Kirin and Imral both, feeling sudden anger. “I’ll say good-night as well, Kirith Kirin,” Karsten said, rising, gathering her cloak around her shoulders. “Jessex, I’ll walk you to Mordwen’s tent. I have lamp-bearers with me, you won’t have to go in the dark.”
Imral Ynuuvil said good night without looking up, having resumed work on his parchment. Kirith Kirin said good-night and reached for the glass decanter beside him. I paused in the doorway, wishing he would call me back.
We went out into the darkness. In the rain there was not much need for talk. The storm had increased, wind pressing us from behind.
In my tent chamber I did a short meditation visualizing the watchfires, the lights in the darkness, helping them to burn strong. The storm resounded, and beyond it, the insistent murmur of voices in the south, the calls of strange birds, the sense of turmoil and veiled movement. To the north the storm was increasing, spreading toward the mountains.
I would have felt better if we were riding already. But since we weren’t, I would sleep.
But first I made a journey. Slipping on the Cloak, I spoke to it in a soothing voice, till the colors blended and flowed out like shadow, engulfing me and the room. I rode on mist out of the tent chamber, bypassing the doorway and the guard, hurrying through the forest unseen, moving between raindrop and wind. The soldiers on the night watch did not see me, the Prince’s sentries were deceived by me, his own bodyguard was oblivious to me. In the chamber where Kirith Kirin lay, I stepped out of shadow, let the cloak become cloth.
I only wanted to see him, to stand motionless over him, a moment before I slept. He lay quietly breathing, his arm looped over the coverlet, his face overlaid with care even while resting, as if tonight his dreams were full of toil. I watched, and set the mist about me again, and bent to kiss his mouth. He stirred, but I was gone before he awoke, if he ever did.
Chapter 13: INNISCAUDRA
1
In the morning we set out for Inniscaudra.
We rode, as Imral had put it, on the witch’s wind. One needs a good touch with gems to do the ithikan well, but even the Sisters, who had praised me hardly at all, had occasionally remarked that I had a talent for gems and gem-magic, and in particular for this application.
The mist was heavy on the hilltops and a thin drizzle of rain still fell, somber birdcalls resounding from the interior forest. We mounted, a company of twelve, Kirith Kirin first and the rest afterward — me last, because I had to touch the ithikan gems to each of the horses. The royal horses were not troubled by the cool diamonds, nor by my singing, but the mortal horses had no memory of a magician’s touch, and so were skittish. The Finra Brun’s mare, a lovely palomino with golden eyes, tossed her fine head when I approached her, dancing away from my hand. But I called the horse by a name in Wyyvisar, and she heard me and stood still while I rested the jewel on the bone between her eyes. Brun was watching me with deep suspicion, and I was s
truck as always by the length of her chin, which was really extraordinary, forming almost a point. “I always thought you were a solemn boy. Now at least one knows what was on your mind.”
At that moment I could not speak, and backed away from her with a bow. To my delight, she returned the bow with an amused smile.
Many folks could tell you the names of the gentry who rode in that morning’s company. The poet who wrote “Kirithmar” takes that ride as her beginning point, the perfect moment between the victories at Anrex and Gnemorra and the long war that followed. The morning was pervaded with a sense of force gathering with us as we moved. Kirith Kirin rode, and Imral Ynuuvil, Kiril Karsten, Mordwen Illythin, Pel Pelathayn, Brun of the Finru House Tulun, Vaeyr of the Nivri House Diliar, Unril of the Nivri House Chalan, Kaleric of the Nivri House Yenmar, Idhril of the House InCossons, which is neither Finru nor Nivri, and Duvettre of the Finru House Shanz. I rode at the head of the party bearing the gems. Nixva galloped on the witch’s wind as if he were black flame. I could hardly believe the feeling of rapture.
