It appeared that he had misjudged.
Or perhaps, he told himself, that rather hostile pair was a fluke, an aberration. Surely, most people would be more generous!
He turned and headed back down the road, collected his belongings, and marched on southward toward Sardiron, certain that the pair in the wagon could not be typical.
8.
The pair in the wagon had not been typical; most people either wouldn’t talk to him at all, or shouted at him to go away.
It didn’t help any that all the traffic he encountered was northbound.
By mid-afternoon he had met half a dozen such rejections, and gone a full day without food. He was debating with himself whether he should leave the road to hunt something when he glimpsed a building ahead, standing at the roadside.
He quickened his pace a little.
A moment later he spotted a second building, and a third—an entire village!
Fifteen minutes later he stood on the cobblestones of the village square, looking about in fascination.
Roads led off to north, south, and east; he had come in from the north, and to the south lay Sardiron of the Waters, but where did the eastern road go? The mountains lay to the east, and while they did not look as tall here as they did back home, surely that was just a matter of distance. Why would anyone want to go into the mountains?
The square itself amazed him. He had never seen cobblestones before; the only pavement back home was the slate floor of the smithy. Here, a broad circle, perhaps a hundred feet across, was completely cobbled. He marvelled at the work that must have gone into the job.
At the center of the circle was a fountain, and he marvelled at that, too. He wondered how they made the water spray up like that; was it magic? If it was magic, would it be safe to drink?
Houses and shops surrounded the square, and those, while less marvelous, were strange; they were built of wood, of course, but the end of each beam was carved into fantastic shapes, like flowers or ferns or faces. He recognized the smithy readily enough by its open walls and glowing forge, and the bakery was distinguished by the enticing aroma and the broad window display of breads and cakes, but some of the other shops puzzled him. The largest of all, adjoining a shed or barn of some sort, bore a signboard with no runes on it at all, but simply a picture of a lone pine tree surrounded by flames.
Curious, he took a few steps toward this peculiar establishment.
An unfamiliar animal thrust its head over the top of a pen in the adjoining shed, and suddenly something clicked into place in Wuller’s mind.
That was a horse, he realized. The shed was a stable. And the building, surely, must be an inn!
He had never seen a horse, a stable, or an inn before, but he had no doubt of his guess. An inn would give him food and a place to sleep; he marched directly toward the door.
The proprietor of the Burning Pine blinked at the sight of the peasant lad. The boy looked perhaps fifteen, and most northern peasants kept their sons at home until they were eighteen; if one was out on the road at a younger age it usually meant a runaway or an orphan.
Neither runaways nor orphans had much money, as a rule. “What do you want?” the innkeeper demanded.
Startled, Wuller turned and saw a plump old man in an apron. “Ah…dinner, to start with,” he said.
“You have the money to pay for it?”
Wuller had never used money in his life; his village made out quite well with barter, when communal sharing didn’t suffice. All the same, his uncle Regran had insisted that he bring along what few coins the village had.
Wuller dug them out and displayed them—a piece and three bits, in iron.
The proprietor snorted. “Damn peasants! Look, that’ll buy you a heel of bread and let you sleep in the stable—anything more than that costs copper.”
Old stories percolated in the back of his mind. “I could work,” Wuller offered.
“I don’t need any help, thank you,” the innkeeper said. “You take your bread, get your water from the fountain, and you be out of here first thing in the morning.”
Wuller nodded, unsure what to say. “Thank you” seemed more than the man deserved.
Then he remembered his mission. “Oh, wait!” he said, reaching back to pull out the sketch. “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen her?”
The innkeeper took the drawing and studied it, holding it up to the light.
“Pretty,” he remarked. “And nicely drawn, too. Never saw her before, though—she certainly hasn’t come through here this year.” He handed the portrait back. “What happened, boy—your girl run away?”
“No,” Wuller said, suddenly reluctant to explain. “It’s a long story.”
“Fine,” the innkeeper said, turning away. “It’s none of my business in any case.”
9.
Wuller was gone the next morning, headed south, but not before listening to the chatter in the inn’s common room and asking a few discreet questions when the opportunity arose.
He knew now that he was well inside the borders of the Baronies of Sardiron, that this inn, the Burning Pine, was the last before the border on the road north to Srigmor. Each spring and summer traders would head north, bringing the Srigmorites salt, spices, tools, and other things; each summer and fall they would come back home to Sardiron with wool, furs, and amber.
To the east lay The Passes, where a person could safely cross the mountains into the Valley of Tazmor, that fabulous realm that Wuller had never entirely believed in before.
There was little magic to be found around here, save for the usual village herbalists and a few primitive sorcerers and witches—but a mere fifteen leagues to the south was Sardiron of the Waters, where any number of magicians dwelt.
None of the people who had visited the inn had recognized the girl in the picture, or had any useful suggestions about finding her.
He also knew now that a lump of stale bread was not enough to still the growling of his stomach or stop the pinching he felt there, but that he could buy no better unless he could acquire some money—real money, copper or silver or even gold, not the cheap iron coins the peasants used among themselves.
As he left the village he sighed, and decided he needed to catch another squirrel or two—which would probably be a great deal more difficult now that he was in inhabited country.
Even as he decided this, he looked down the road ahead, past the trees on either side, and saw what looked like a very large clearing. He sighed again; squirrels preferred trees.
He watched both sides of the road carefully, but had spotted no game when he emerged into the “clearing” and realized his mistake.
This was no clearing. This was the edge of the forest.
Before him lay a vast expanse of open land, such as he had never seen before, or even imagined. Rolling hills stretched to the horizon covered with brown plowed fields and green grass, and dotted with farmhouses and barns. The highway drew a long, gentle curve across this landscape, no longer hidden by the forest gloom.
A few trees grew on the farms and hills, to be sure—shade trees sheltered some of the houses, and small groves of fruit trees or nut trees added some variety. In some places, neat lines of young trees marked boundaries between farms.
Most of the land was treeless, however, like the mountains where the sheep grazed above his home village.
He would find no squirrels here, he was sure.
Even as he came to that conclusion a rabbit leapt from concealment and dashed across the road in front of him, and he smiled. Where there was one rabbit, there would be others.
Two hours later he knocked on the door of a farmhouse by the roadside, a freshly-skinned rabbit in hand.
In exchange for half the rabbit and all of its fur, he was permitted to cook over the kitchen fire and eat sitting at the table, chatting with his hostess while two cats and three young children played underfoot. Water from the farmer’s well washed the meal down nicely.
Thus refreshed, he
set out southward again.
Not long after that he passed through a fair-sized town—to him, it seemed impossibly large and bustling, but he knew it couldn’t be any place he had ever heard of, since he was still well to the north of Sardiron of the Waters. A large stone structure stood atop a hill to the east, brooding over the town and a highway, and Wuller realized with a shock that that big ugly thing was a castle.
Having no money, Wuller marched directly through without stopping.
An hour later he encountered another village, and another one an hour or so after that, though these had no castles. They had inns—but Wuller had no money.
At sunset, he found himself on the outskirts of another town. Like the village of the Burning Pine and the town with the castle, this one had three highways leaving it, rather than just two. Unlike the other towns, here the directions weren’t north, south, and east, but north, south, and northeast; it wasn’t a crossroads, but a fork.
There were no fewer than three inns on the town square; Wuller marvelled at that.
He was tired and hungry, so he did more than marvel—he went to each in turn and asked if he could work for a meal and a bed.
The proprietor of the Broken Sword said no, but was polite. The owner of the Golden Kettle threw him out. And at the Blue Swan the innkeeper’s daughter took pity on him and let him clean the stables in exchange for bread, cheese, ale, and whatever he could pick off the bones when the paying customers were finished with their dinners.
She also found him a bed for the night—her own.
10.
No one at the Blue Swan could identify the girl in the portrait, but the innkeeper’s daughter suggested he contact Senesson the Mage when he reached Sardiron itself. Senesson was a wizard who was said to be good at this sort of work.
There were a good many magicians of various sorts in her town of Keron-Vir, but she doubted any of them could help—and certainly not for free.
Wuller hesitated over that, but in the end he took her advice. After all, Sardiron of the Waters was only one day’s walk away now, and he wanted to see the capital after coming so close. Besides, Teneria surely knew her own townspeople well enough to judge such things.
He did, however, stop in at the Golden Kettle and the Broken Sword to show the portrait around.
As he had expected, nobody knew who the girl in the picture was.
He shrugged, gathered his things, and set out.
He glimpsed the castle towers by mid-afternoon, and he could see the city walls and hear the thunder of the falls before the sun had set, but it was full dark by the time he reached the gates, with neither moon in the sky, and he made his entrance into Sardiron of the Waters by torchlight.
Even in the dark, he was impressed by the place. All the streets were paved with brick, flags, or cobbles—not a one was bare earth, anywhere inside the walls. Where the hillside was steep, the streets were built in steps, like a gigantic staircase.
The buildings were built up against each other, with no gap at all between them in many cases, while others left only a narrow alley—and even these alleys were paved.
Torches blazed at every intersection, and despite the gloom the streets were not deserted at all—people were going about their business even in the dark of night!
The sound was also amazing. The roar of the river was a constant background to everything, and fountains splashed in a dozen little squares and plazas, as well, as the city lived up to its name. A steady wind moaned endlessly around the black stone towers. On top of this were the normal sounds of a big, busy town—creaking cartwheels, lowing oxen, and a myriad of human voices chattering away.
The great castle of the Council of Barons reared up above the city, high atop the hill, looming darkly over everything.
The place was really like another world entirely, Wuller thought, as he looked about in confusion, wondering where he could eat or sleep.
A torchlit signboard caught his eye. There were no runes, but a faded painting of a dragon hatching from an egg.
That, he knew, must be an inn. And perhaps the dragon emblem was an omen, of sorts.
There was no broad window displaying ale kegs and pewter tankards, nor open door spilling light into the street, as there had been at the village inns he had seen so far—in fact, the only window here was a small one with bars on it, high above the street, and heavily curtained with black velvet. The only door was painted in four triangular sections, red at top and bottom and blue at either side, and studded with short spikes of black iron. It was tightly closed.
However, most of the city’s architecture was equally strange and forbidding. He had seen no open doors or large windows anywhere inside the gates. This had to be an inn. He gathered his courage and knocked on the heavy wooden door, between the protruding spikes.
One of the spikes twisted, then slid back into the door and vanished; startled, Wuller looked into the hole it had left and saw an eye staring back at him.
Then the spike was replaced and the door swung open.
“We’ve no beds left,” the old woman who had opened it announced, before he could say a word, “but if you’ve money for drink, we have plenty on hand.”
“I don’t have any money,” Wuller explained, “but I’d be glad to work for a drink, or a bite to eat, or to sleep in a corner—I don’t need a bed.” He looked past her, into the common room, where a crowd of people was laughing and eating at tables set around a blazing hearth.
“We don’t need any,” the old woman began.
Wuller’s gasp of astonishment interrupted her.
“Wait!” he said. “Wait!” He slid his pack off his shoulder and began digging through it.
“Young man,” the woman said, “I don’t have time for any nonsense…”
Wuller waved a hand at her. “No, wait!” he said. “Let me show you!” He pulled out the charcoal portrait and unrolled it.
“Lady, I’ve come all the way from northern Srigmor,” Wuller explained, “on an errand for my village—there’s a dragon, and…well, you don’t care about that. But look!” He showed her the picture.
She took it and held it up to the light from the commons.
“Seldis of Aldagmor,” she said. “Good likeness, too.” She glanced into the room beyond, where the young woman Wuller sought was sitting alone at a table eating dinner, then looked at the picture again, and from the portrait back to Wuller. “What do you have to do with her?”
Wuller decided quickly that this was not the time for the complete and exact truth, but for something simpler.
“I must speak with her,” he said. “The seer in our village knew her face, but not her name, and sent me to find her. I had thought I would have to search for sixnights yet, or months—but there she is in your dining hall! Please, let me come in and speak with her!”
The old woman looked at the portrait again, then turned to look at the young woman in the room beyond, sitting alone at a small table. Then she shrugged, and handed the picture back to Wuller.
“No business of mine,” she said. “You behave yourself, though—any trouble and I’ll have the guard in here.”
“No trouble, lady,” Wuller said. “I promise!”
11.
He settled into the chair opposite her, still astonished at his incredible good fortune, and astonished as well at her beauty. Neither Illuré’s charcoal sketch nor the image in the oracle had really captured it.
“Hello,” he said. “My name’s Wuller Wulran’s son.”
She looked up from her plate and stared at him, but said nothing. The face was unmistakably the one he had seen in Kirna’s oracle, the one that Illuré had drawn, with the vivid green eyes and the soft curls of dark brown hair. It was somewhat eerie to see it there in front of him as a real face, a small smudge of grease on the chin, rather than as a mere image.
The reality was more beautiful than the image, grease-spot notwithstanding.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
; She turned her attention back to her plate, where a few fried potato slices remained. Wuller glanced at them, reminded how hungry he was, then returned his gaze to the top of her head.
“No, really, I’ve come all the way from northern Srigmor looking for you. My village elders sent me.” He pulled out the portrait and unrolled it. “See?”
She raised her head, put a slice of potato in her mouth, and began chewing. She blinked. Then she put down her fork, reached out, and took the picture.
She stared at it for a moment, then looked at Wuller. “Did you do this, just now?” she asked. “It’s pretty good.”
“No,” Wuller said. “My Aunt Illuré drew it, more than a sixnight ago.”
“A sixnight ago I was home in Aldagmor,” the girl said, her gaze wary.
“I know,” Wuller said. “I mean, no, I didn’t know at all, really, but I know that Illuré didn’t see you. I mean, didn’t really see you.”
“Then how…all right, then who’s this Illuré person? How did she draw this? I don’t know anybody named Illuré that I can recall.”
“You’ve never met her. She’s my aunt, back home in Srigmor. She drew this because she’s the best artist of the people who saw your face in the oracle.”
“What oracle?”
“Kirna’s family oracle.”
“Who’s Kirna?”
“She’s one of the village elders. Her family got this sorcerer’s oracle during the Great War, and it was passed down ever since, and when the dragon came…”
“What dragon? One of…I mean, what dragon?”
“The dragon that’s captured my village.”
The girl stared at Wuller for a moment, and then sighed. “I think you’d better start at the beginning,” she said, “and explain the whole thing.”
Wuller nodded, and took a deep breath, and began.
He described the dragon, how it had arrived one day without warning. He told her how it had killed Adar the Smith and given the village an ultimatum. He explained about the meeting in Kirna’s hut, and how the oracle had shattered after showing them her face.
Tales of Ethshar Page 7
