The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  Padraig’s Denygal upbringing rankled over divorce. It was Celdryan practice for men to set aside women to starve or be dishonored. The Kin and Denygal mated for life, but mates died without witness or fell to disaster. Farenlucgilyn had walked away apparently guilty of a horrendous act. Ryanna’s petition was a formality and … yet …. Marriage was for life … unless your mate abandoned you following a horrific act of murder. When Gil sliced his braid off and left it behind, his intentions had been clear.

  “You seem troubled,” Ryanna noted.

  “It’s the clash of cultures,” he assured her. That must be it. The Denygal, hybrid race that they were, lived shorter lives than the Kin. They had taken the lesson of mating for life, but not the pragmatic understanding that sometimes this was not true. “My love for you grows daily, but I would not love you against the One’s will and miss His direction.”

  Ryanna nodded and moved to say somewhat, but a sudden gust of wind set the lanterns guttering as snow swirled through the high hall. The music stopped as the crowd turned to stare at the three men standing in the open doorway. Snow-covered and heavily cloaked, they stood amid the swirling ice of a solstice day. Goi’tan rushed to close the double set of iron doors that stood as tall as a dun’s gate as the extinguished lanterns were quickly replaced by etheric light from a dozen sources.

  The central figure of the three appeared sculpted in ice until he swept back the deep hood of his coat and focused bright purple eyes upon Padraig.

  “Navaransenmador” Ryanna whispered.

  Padraig glanced at her, confused, as Navaransenmador gazed about the chamber. His hair was silver, plaited with beads Padraig did not recognize, but his features were elven – furled ears, cat slit eyes, slender face with high cheek bones.

  “You besmirch the solstice with this celebration of your false god,” he announced in flawless Elvish. Marsamonsynglysel stepped forward as he spoke for the Wise this five-cycle.

  “You do not speak for the Kin,” he said, as if reminding. “Please, join our celebration. You are welcome at our fire to eat our bread.” He gestured toward the banquet tables.

  Navaransenmador frowned, his silver eyebrows drawing down, accentuating his purple eyes.

  “I’ve come to deliver a message, though why the One gives a message to heretics, I do not know.”

  His gaze fell upon Padraig once more. His frown deepened.

  Yes, man, I’m Denygal, Padraig thought. I am not the only one.

  Navararansenmador drew himself up and began to sing in a clear baritone that reverberated off the stone walls.

  “Thus says the One Whose Name We Are Not to Know, hear Me, Kindred, and know that I am One God.

  “An elfling shall seek the True King and find him in the aviary where no bird of a feather may rule. A chill wind from the north shall batter him before he climbs to the tower, but strong companions will lift his arms and bolster him until all bow before the dragon.

  “The raptors fight over the aviary, but only one can rule and no bird of a feather will mount the throne. The dragon stirs and the One’s King will arise. Go you then to find him and win him free of those who would exploit him. Who shall go? One who knows both worlds and can heal both the body and the rifts of men, one whose brothers rule, yet who would walk barefoot himself, one whose Companion shines like the sun.

  “And how shall you know the One’s King? He will be obscure -- near the rule, but not of it. He will be of the Kin, but not know the Kin. He will pass through tribulation. He will be plain of speech, heroic and thoughtful. The dragon will claim him.

  “The raptors fight over the aviary, but all will bow before the dragon.

  “Know this and hear the One speak.”

  When Navaransenmador was done, he sagged a bit, as if he had exhausted himself. One of his companions offered a steadying arm.

  “You speak only to this elfling,” Gly noted, indicating Padraig. “Why is that? Is this prophesy only for him?”

  “The prophesy is for all of us,” Shanara spoke from the shadows. A moment later an etheric light bloomed pale blue beside her, brighter than any other in the room. “The One’s king is born, somewhere in the basketlands. Padraig is uniquely qualified to search for him and we are to aid him however we are able.”

  “How could the One’s king be born among the Celt?” someone demanded from the crowd.

  Navaransenmador seemed no longer interested in the topic. He and his two companions had withdrawn to a banquet table.

  “Are they not God’s children also,” Barana, Gly’s wife, reasoned.

  Padraig groped for the ledge behind him, sitting down heavily, stunned. Ryanna placed a hand upon his shoulder. Many voices echoed past him, full of questions and awe, but he understood none of them. He felt the stream of history catch him up and drag him downstream, tossing and tumbling, helpless to stand against it.

  He found himself holding Ryanna’s hand as reality slowly shifted back into place. Gly was standing in the center of the hall; the Council of Wisdom stood near to him.

  “The Council will call to order after the morning meal tomorrow. Padraig, we will require your presence. Shanara as well.”

  “What of Navaransenmador. Should he not speak?” Padraig whispered. Ryanna sat beside him.

  “They’ll be gone when we awake in the morning,” she explained. “They come to chide us for violating the solstice. This is not the first time we’ve had prophesy from them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Winter people. That’s what we called them when we were children. Gly’s father, Marsamon, says they are the Sentinels.”

  “I thought the Sentinels perished in the Scouring.”

  “So did we, until we moved into Blue Iris Holt. Now they come and we listen, though often it is madness that they spout. This is the first time I’ve heard of any receiving interpretation.”

  “Shanara was not just speaking as Wise?”

  “Nay, Padraig, she’s not of the Council. The Holy Spirit does give her understanding.”

  A shudder shivered down Padraig’s spine. I’m trumpet-called. There’s naught for it but to do as commanded.

  Easier said than done, he thought soberly, sadly, glancing sideways at Ryanna.

  Would they let her go with me? Will she if they allow it?

  Founding Year 1028 –

  Southern Blyan – Spring – Present

  The raven on the roof peak slept. The ethereal tides lay still as a shimmering lake. Tariq felt no fear, no outward encroachment as he picked up his stirring stick to scry.

  Even pirates avoided the Tongue, a low pestilent peninsula east of Galornyn, where the Averblyan fanned out into the Stormor. Rumors of haunts lived among the mangroves, and pirates feared haunts more than rival pirates. That suited the inhabitants of the few islands of dry land amid mosquito ponds just fine; the folktales of murdering fogs and monsters protected their privacy without stretching their creativity. An ordinary man, possessed of an adventurous bent, would never survive the real dangers of the swamp to find Tariq’s compound on one of the larger islands.

  Thus protected, the greatest black mage in Celdrya tried to clear his mind, praying to Nudd that he might see the omens that the god of the underworld had for him. A month of ethereal fog foreshadowed anxiety in a highly trained mind that sought omens like common men seek water.

  Amid the glimmering reflections in the black surface, a window appeared. After many decades studying the arcane arts, Tariq expected the vision to clear quickly, but mist had wrapped the occult for days. This one came just clear enough for Tariq to make out a young man riding through the hilly country of the north. From the snow still clinging to the craggy hills around him, Tariq guessed this a glimpse of now, rather than a true look on the metaphysical. A war horse, bearing a dark-haired rider who wore no plaid, trod a track near a road. Why is a soldier off the road before the spring thaw? The vision collapsed.

  Muttering in consternation, Tariq stirred the ink, but no occultic w
indow came in the settling surface. Growling, Tariq lurched to his feet to limp to the other work table. His workroom, one quarter of the ground floor of the rectangular main lodge, housed a fortune in furniture – two chairs, three stools, two tables, a shelf of books, and two cupboards stuffed full of materials and tools of his dark trade.

  A quiet knock interrupted him midway across the chamber. Tariq frowned and opened the door. A journeyman stood without. Of middling height and slender, with brown hair and eyes, Sawyl looked no more interesting than a merchant, but was one of Tariq’s stronger journeyman and a whoreson bastard in the bargain.

  “Why do you disturb me at nadir of the astral tides?” Tariq demanded. Sawyl’s 25 years under Tariq’s tutelage kept him from quailing.

  “My apologies, Master Talidd,” he said calmly. “Eaddyn seized.”

  “When?” Tariq demanded.

  “We worked on the stations ritual.”

  “How is he now?”

  “It’s been a watch. He remains unconscious. His pupils are unequal.”

  Tariq nodded, expecting the news. Pity. That lad had shown great promise.

  “I will attend later, ascertain if there’s aught to be done.”

  “As you say, Master Talidd,” Sawyl assured as Tariq closed the door in his face.

  Tariq, a thin, swarthy man of middle height, had more important things to investigate than a potential apprentice who could not withstand the rituals. Only an apprentice who could loosen the ethereal blockage would be of use. Tariq leaned on a crutch, dragging a leg, to reach a stool at the second worktable, where he began to mix the tiles waiting there. When satisfied they’d been thoroughly mixed, he separated five tiles and laid his hand upon the back of them, intoning in power:

  “Nudd, god of the underworld and darkest night, hear my request. Show me the past, oh, Lord, that I might learn from it.”

  Methodically, speaking powerful words in the ancient tongue, Tariq turned over each of the five tiles.

  The first rank showed the same combination he’d drawn for more than a year. The Fool, or important personage, might mean the true king. The Chariot, representing journey or change, and the Star, suggesting renewed hope, was followed by the Sun, representing success. The World, signifying true desire, finished the rank. The message seemed clear to the mage after long hours of meditation. The true king was born, somewhere in the land.

  He considered the tiles with his highly trained mind. A constant message suggested stability. The king had to be growing somewhere in the kingdom, anywhere from a babe in arms to a young man with his first blush of beard. Omens had limits; the tiles didn’t tell Tariq where to find the nascent king. He and his journeymen had scattered the seeds, but the harvest might be a long time off. If the king were found young enough to be influenced rightly, the outcome would be more than worth the effort.

  The next rank of five depicted the near past, within the last month, most like: these tiles were not at all what Tariq expected. The Fool of Swords, the Emperor, Strength, Death, and the High Priestess. Oft you could only hope to make a story of the tiles and at this he was adept. A soldier important to the king had undergone a change or a trial and been set on a new goal. What does the High Priestess represent -- wisdom, vision? Even long thought did not bring clarity.

  A tug upon his mind drew him to the ink once more. This time when he swirled the black liquid he saw another rider in unidentifiable mountains. Although the rider had no snow right round him, the stark mountains behind him were still white with it. This window too swirled and pulled like cloud shapes, but Tariq discerned a tall young man riding a sorrel mare, leading a dapple black pony, and wearing elven clothing. The lad had that tall, slender look that might mean a man of the Denygal. Curious, Tariq sent a line of thought out through the vision. The mind at the other end responded, replying with an equal curiosity. When he prepared to delve further, the rider’s mind suddenly hardened and rebuffed him so thoroughly that the link collapsed. Growling with annoyance as he stirred the ink again, the black mage could not recall the vision. Too much effort failed, so he had decided to turn his attention to distillation, when a window unexpectedly appeared in the reflections.

  A slender hand held a sword, working it with great skill. Knowing little of swordcraft, he could still tell the hand clearly knew its way around the weapon it wielded. The vision remained stubbornly small; against all his efforts to widen it, he could see only the hand, somewhat of the arm, and the sword, naught more. An attempt to send a line of thought out to the mind of whomever held the sword was turned aside as though by an iron shield and the link dissolved, the connection snapped like sewing thread from the other end.

  Tariq shuddered in the spring warmth. Never in his long years of psychic workings had he encountered a mind that could simply repel him without even pausing in what the body was doing. Who possesses such power? Outside the open louvers, the raven shook its feathers, aware of its master’s mood as he was aware of its.

  Tariq returned to the tiles. The third rank represented the present. The Fool, the Magician, the High Priestess, the Hierophant, and, the Star. Senseless omens! What ails in the ethereal?

  The future, found in the fourth rank, remained closed to him, the tiles jumbled; he actually drew an empty one, somewhat that rarely happened as there was only one in the entire set. He set the fifth rank without any hope of spying the far-future. His expectations fulfilled, he prepared to put the tiles away when the raven cawed from the roof peak. He had seen Gregyn in the ink this morning and knew the lad neared. Heartened, he now sent his thoughts out and felt the lad’s mind near to hand. The boy didn’t respond; to become distracted in the swamp was a danger that he had trained his apprentices never to allow.

  The stew he’d begun that morning neared perfection in a meal! Tariq set the table with a wooden bowl and spoon, cheese and a basket of bread -- a rich spring meal even in the swamp, for there was a limit to what might be grown in winter. The lad rode into the compound just as his master came to the porch. A tall, narrow-hipped young man with the wide shoulders and long arms of a man-at-arms, Gregyn rode a grey warhorse. Despite the sword at his hip, the old man saw an eight-year-old lad with a shock of dark hair shading wise grey eyes set in a half-starved face. He had to remind himself that his apprentice was no child now. Gregyn possessed great skill to go with a phenomenal power. What Tariq had done to prevent the squander of that power had been necessary; if the lad ever knew the extent of his power, the mage might wish that he’d been a less harsh master.

  Gregyn, filthy, dismounted and led his mud-splattered horse to the porch.

  “Master Talidd, may I have permission to bathe and care to my horse before I attend on you?” the lad asked, using the name Tariq presented to the world. He’d grown a bit more over the winter and his voice seemed deeper. His jaw was shadowed with stubble.

  “Of course. There’ll be a meal waiting.”

  The swamp could tire one who lacked what Tariq possessed to keep him safe. Was it the bravery of youth or did Gregyn possess skills that Tariq knew little about? An apprentice of his strength could write his own lesson book and therein lay the risk to the master.

  Gregyn returned to the lodge nearly a watch later, shaved, washed and dressed. The man Gregyn knew as Talidd remembered when the lad walked the island in little more than a linen breech cloth. Now he’d donned blue linen breecs, probably left behind when he’d gone to Galornyn, and a white shirt blazoned with the dolphins of Galornyn. His feet were bare, though.

  “Eat!” Talidd encouraged. “You may report later.”

  Gregyn hesitated for only a moment before setting to. After living on flat bread and hard cheese for a half moon, he naturally warmed to real food. Talidd thought he sensed wariness. At 17 or 18 (for truly none knew Gregyn’s birth year) was a difficult age for apprentices. He’d been away at Galornyn all winter where there were many young lasses to turn a lad’s head. That could bode ill if he’d decided the rituals were distasteful. Tariq needed
his power in the rituals.

  Gregyn finished his first bowl, got up and refilled, then ate more slowly, starting to give Talidd the information for which he’d taken the journey.

  “Werglidd sends greetings,” he began, speaking of the journeyman sent to Galornyn some years ago. “The Lady Peddryna seems pleased with him and she still has no idea of his true mission at the dun.”

  “Good. And what did you think of court?”

  “From my view from the riders’ table I found it entertaining. I think riders should not envy the nobles. They live life upon a stage and everybody waits for them to trip and fall.”

  Gregyn’s intelligence and insight would serve Talidd’s plans well, the master knew.

  “Your status is appropriate for now. The day will come, though, when you will advance. Were you able to do as I asked?”

  “I was able to get to know the younger members of the household. Two of the family members have the Talent.”

  “Not surprising. Did you begin preparing them?”

  “Nay. One will not do because he’s too old and because he’s too honorable. Apparently Wergyn tried with him years ago. Tried and failed miserably.”

  “Aye, I know of that. Go on. The other?”

  “He lacks the strength of mind to study the craft.”

  “Pity. That family should be mined. There’s no reason for you to return there then.”

  “I found another,” Gregyn reported. Talidd wondered if he had spoken too quickly.

  “Tell it,” Talidd encouraged.

  “His talent isn’t as great, but he’s of a character and strength of mind to study and to – desire the power that comes with it.” Gregyn’s blue eyes twinkled for a moment. Talidd remembered the first lad he’d brought over. It truly warranted some excitement.