by Lela Markham
“May I?” one of the riders asked Padraig, indicating the bench across the table from Tamys and himself.
“Aye,” Padraig assured him. This rider was tall and broad-shouldered, though still with the leanness of youth. His hair was light brown and his eyes were a grey that looked almost silver. Two of the other riders sat with him. The fourth one, a lean fellow with piercing eyes, remained with Teddryn. The grey-eyed rider before Padraig spoke with the tones of Dun Llyr.
“I still don’t know how you knew they were there,” the youngest of the riders, a lad no more than 16, said, apparently continuing a conversation from before.
“I would like to know also, Gregyn,” said the older of the riders. They both were addressing the grey-eyed rider. “You’ve not been in the warband but a year, and you’re able to do that which much more experienced riders can’t do – spot a brigand outpost in the deep woods off the road.”
“I’ve had a bit of experience before I came to Galornyn,” Gregyn replied. “I guarded for a caravan the summer before. I learned a good deal,” he insisted.
“Not even Roprick saw that and I’ve been five years a rider and missed it totally.”
“Mayhap it’s a gift,” Gregyn said with a smile. “To read in the dust of the road what others cannot see.”
Padraig’s true interest was not on the lads across from him, but on the band leader, Teddryn, for this was to be his niece’s husband. Padraig could see somewhat of Maddw, his elder brother who was Padraig’s bosom friend, in his face and the solidness of his build, but his coloring was lighter. Also, while Maddw’s face often was set in mirth, Teddryn seemed annoyed with the world, frowning about him as if the world did not quite meet his expectations. Padraig lacked the gift of reading auras, so that he could not peek beneath the surface. As he was thinking this, he became aware of the stare of the rider Gregyn upon him.
“May I help you?” he asked, noting that the lad was not truly focused on him, but slightly askew.
“Nay. I’m sorry. I thought you looked familiar,” Gregyn remarked, looking away. “We’ve never met.”
“I think not,” Padraig assured him. Tamys wiped his mouth now and stood, taking his trencher and tankard with him. “Take your time, lad,” Padraig advised. “So, there are brigands upon the roads of Dun Maden now?”
“Not any longer,” Gregyn said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. Padraig did not need to read auras to know this lad’s heart, at least when it came to his sword’s encounter with brigands.
“I suppose we should thank you for making the roads safe for honest travelers,” Padraig told the young riders.
“Aye, well, tis the honor of the riders, you see,” the eldest said. Gregyn’s gaze slid sideways at his comment, so that Padraig wondered if he wholly agreed. He may only have been a rider for a year, but he clearly was not awestruck by the glamour of riding in the warband.
“Thank you,” Padraig repeated and finished his meal in a bite. “I’ve a bit of business. Bormyr, do you need anything at the smith’s?” he asked. “I’ll be going that way.”
“Aye, you can take these loaves over,” Bormyr said, readily handing over a sack of bread. “Are you sure you won’t like to settle here?”
“I’ve business elsewhere, but mayhap I will travel through again with a different mind. Thank you anyway.”
Across the village, he approached the forge. Tamys had taken residence on the bench outside the door, his eyes closed and his face lifted to the sun, his back against the thick grey stones, typical of every soldier Padraig had known. Padraig didn’t disturb him, but entered the forge’s warm interior. Built of thick stone blocks, the forge was doubtless cool in summer when the forge was not used, but these were the last few weeks of forging plowshares and the like, so that it was quite warm within. This morning, the forge glowed dull red, having probably not been worked that morning. The blacksmith himself was shoeing Tamys’ horse. He was bent over, positioning the shoe to a rear hoof. Like most horses, Tamys’ had a few tricks and apparently didn’t like his hooves handled. As the smith worked, the horse reached out to nip him on the upper arm, but before his teeth could close, the smith brought his elbow up into its eye. Stunned and bewildered, the horse paused to consider its next thought and the smith attached the shoe to its hoof.
“A farrier as well,” Padraig noted as the blacksmith straightened. Dark-haired with skin browned by the heat of the forge, the blacksmith looked the type – not too tall, but heavy in muscle with shoulders like an oxen.
“Aye. The last farrier in these parts left three years ago for the wars. I learned a bit from my brother before he traveled on, though.”
“I see that. That the last hoof or –.”
“Two more,” the smith told him. “You must be kin to the lad with the light eyes.”
“His traveling companion. I’ve brought bread from the tavernman. Mind if I watch? I’ve always liked watching smiths.”
“Be my guest. I’m Ganyn, as it be.”
“Padraig of Denygal. Ganyn? Like Gabanyn?”
“Nay, but my father did want a god-blessed smith for a son. Gabanyn did bless my hammer, sure enough,” Ganyn said with a glimmer of good humor. “You’re the herbman, I suppose.”
“I am,” Padraig said. He settled onto a nearby bench as Ganyn moved on to the front hooves.
Padraig had spoken truly about loving to watch a smith work. In Cenconyn, he’d often been ignored as an unneeded heir. He’d have turned his hand to some useful pursuit, but it was forbidden, so he had snuck around, seeking somewhat to entertain him. He’d come upon the forge and spent hours watching the smiths (there were three in a large dun such as Cenconyn) make iron goods and horseshoes for the demesne. One of the smiths had been an armorer and that had been fascinating to a young lad bound for the warband. Watching Ganyn work, smelling the low-burning of the forge, brought pleasant memories to the fore.
Ganyn was just finishing the fourth hoof when a rear door to the forge opened and a boy entered carrying a bucket of water. Padraig glanced at him, then stared, for the lad walked with a significant limp, dragging his leg as he came across the stone floor of the forge. The arm on the same side tucked against his chest as he walked, the hand uselessly curled into a fist. Padraig could not help himself, but opened his Sight to View the lad.
Ganyn glanced up from his work and noted the lad.
“Coryn, thanks for bringing the water. Your mam will be wanting the bread there on the table and then you can bring back some oil.”
“Aye, D-d-da,” the lad stammered. He lurched over to the table and grasped the bag in his good hand. Noting Padraig, he smiled and lurched out of the room.
Padraig held his tongue as Ganyn finished the horse and turned to wash his hands in the bucket.
“Your son,” Padraig noted. “How did he come to be injured like that?”
Ganyn looked at him. It was hard to read the face that was as muscular as the arms.
“Two years now, about this time of year. We were thatching the roof at our cottage. He climbed the ladder when he weren’t supposed to and he fell. Two days, he did not move and then he awoke unable to move his right arm and leg or speak. He lived though, and he’s grown better with time.”
The lad entered the forge just then and Padraig followed his progress with his eyes.
“Do you know of these injuries?” Ganyn asked. “I’ve heard the Denygal have elven magicks.”
Padraig wondered for a moment how he might know that Padraig was Denygal, then he supposed that his elven accent had not lessened since returning to Celdrya. Ganyn must have met other Denygal at some time.
“Nay, not magicks, but we do have elven healing lore. May I look at him?”
“The lad won’t mind,” Ganyn assured him. He came up beside his son, a boy of about nine with a shock of brown hair and pleasant blue eyes, one slightly smaller than the other. “Coryn, allow the healer to look at you. You might find the leg of some interest, healer,” Ganyn suggested.
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br /> The lad sat down on the bench and allowed Padraig to roll up his breecs for a look. His boot was held between two uprights of flat iron. Just below the knee was a cuff of leather holding the uprights, but the uprights continued up to another cuff at mid-thigh.
“When he first awoke, he didn’t even try to walk, but toward the end of the first summer, he would try. He’d stand up and fall over. I thought and thought about how to help him, and it came to me that his leg had no strength, so I fashioned that to help. Took a few tries, but eventually I figured it out.”
“Can you walk without it, lad?” Padraig asked.
“N-nay,” Varyn stuttered. “M-my knee b-b-bends and m-my f-foot d-drags.”
“Take the brace off, lad, so that the healer can see,” Ganyn encouraged.
The lad obliged and Padraig tested the limb, noting a strong desire of the foot to toe in and down. He was aware of Tamys entering behind him as he replaced the brace. He tested the arm, finding that the hand uncurled and the arm straightened if he worked down from the shoulder. Ganyn gasped.
“I’ve not seen his arm so straight since he awoke.”
Padraig asked God for permission to heal, but naught came to him.
“Can aught be done?” Ganyn asked.
“I think the time for elven herbs has passed,” Padraig told him somberly. “However, my training says to test the limbs to strengthen them. Try for part of each day to walk without the brace. Straighten his arm several times a day. You can do it thus,” Padraig explained, showing Ganyn how to ease each joint in order. “Mayhap this will cause improvement.”
“Thanks to you, herbman,” Ganyn said, obviously touched by his interest. “If you journey back this way and wish to stay, I’ve a cottage for rent. I’d be honored for you to stay for a small fee.”
“I’ll remember that if I am led back this way,” Padraig told him sincerely. “Tamys, your horse is ready. I’ll wait outside while you settle with the smith.”
“Aye,” Tamys grunted.
“Ganyn, if not for your skill and imagination, your son would be lying in bed or crawling. You’re the best medicinal he has at this time.”
“We do our best,” Ganyn said modestly.
Padraig excused himself. There were times when he could not understand why God wouldn’t allow him to heal and this was one of those times. Although he always sought God’s will, there were times when he needed a moment to reconcile his desires with that which is permissible.
He sat upon the bench when Tamys came from the forge, leading his horse.
“He wouldn’t take my coin,” Tamys announced, clearly discomfited. “Just a copper for the feed.”
“Tormyr is a twice-blessed village,” Padraig noted as they walked toward the inn. “They are decent, hard-working folk who honor the little miracles.”
Tamys raised an eyebrow at that, but said naught. They saddled the horses and pony and set out with a small bag of provisions upon the west-running road.
Kin Cycle 24578 / FY 1028
Blue Iris Holt - The Dragon’s Back
Ryanna refrained from calling fire from the council benches, but just barely. Surely, she’d never been called to task by so many idiots in all her forty-seven cycles of life. Absolute drooling imbeciles! How often did dragons appear to mortal beings in the last millennia? Yet they were debating the vision it had shared with her as if this were a common garden-variety occurrence that simply needed wise men and women to understand it. Unbelievable!
Gly sat back as Melor, the leader for this five-cycle, droned on about the known limits of the northern sea. They were all gathered in the Council of the Wise – a large, squarish room with a natural rock ceiling and a semi-circle of polished wooden benches. With spring warming the mountain air, someone had propped open one of the high shutters. There was plenty of wood and oxygen to call forth fire. All Ryanna need do was provide the spark. Gly, though physically relaxed, was staring at her. That might have been because Ryanna sat on the witness bench at center stage, or it might have been because he knew Ryanna’s temper and her capabilities.
Apparently, others felt the same way about Melor’s inane chatter, because when he paused for breath, Farana shot out of her seat to take the floor. A very tall, impossibly thin full elf with very long side braids of strawberry blond, her uncoordinated movement elicited a laugh from Gly and a couple of the other Wise who were thoroughly done with discussing the history of the situation. Farana drew herself up into some semblance of dignity, but her own pink lips twitched slightly in humor before she asked her question in a grave voice.
“Does anyone know how long it would take a huge army to march from the northern coast to the holts?” Farana asked.
Finally, someone asks a pertinent question!
Not that anyone, including Ryanna, knew the answer. The northern coast was technically dwarven territory, but the Mountain Folk avoided water like the plague. The general discussion around the council chamber was that nobody knew if anyone even used the northern coastal harbors since the arrival of the Celtmen, so how would they know how long it would take to march from it. That information had died with the last generation.
“Would your father know?” Melor asked Gly. Gly’s father was the last Kin of the Scourging generation.
“My father was a mere toddler when the Celts arrived. He may know something he overheard from his parents, but how reliable that might be …?” Gly shrugged the rest of the question. “We could scry to the emissaries and ask them,” he suggested.
Farana had not conceded the floor. She remained standing. Others were free to speak, but not to monopolize the discussion.
“Yes, we should do that,” she agreed, looking pointedly at Melor, who happened to be a cousin. Rumor had it they did not get along, but they didn’t really show that in public except for the occasional glance such as this. “There’s also a question of logistics.” Farana was a supply clerk, in charge of a portion of the holt stores. Being gifted did not mean that one got out of mundane work. Her job made her innately interested in logistics.
“The other question,” Melor said, because as a librarian, he thought logistics was a ridiculous consideration, “is why this army wouldn’t simply march through the northern pass into the basketlands as the Celtmen did. There’s no direct route through the mountains to the holts and a lot of dwarven axes to get through before they reach us, but the basketlands are vulnerable from the north.”
The chamber grew deathly quiet. Although no Kin living remembered the basketlands as home in their lifetime, they all saw it as their ancestral home. Ryanna watched and sensed their emotions. Their anger at the Celtmen softened a bit as they thought of them ravished by an unknown horde. The One True God taught forgiveness. This generation moved in that direction.
“Oh, God in heaven,” Gly whispered. “It’s the prophesy.”
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.
“Perhaps, Morynsynryanna merely dreamt this while contemplating the prophesy that sent her heart’s desire away.” It was Tavoran, back from the collegiate in Denygal. Technically, Tavoran was not a Wisdom and should not have been in this meeting, but his vast inquiries into many fields of knowledge afforded him some latitude. He was here as a resource, as far as the Wisdoms knew, but Ryanna sensed his manipulation. He’d barely been able to contain himself when Gil had disappeared. He’d been quite flirty with Ryanna as it became obvious that Gil was either dead or didn’t want to be found. He’d also been spiteful when she and Padraig had started smiling at one another. Ryanna suspected he would try to block her liberty when the time came. He might be Gly’s eldest son, but he was proof that the nut did sometimes roll a long way from the tree.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ryanna snapped. “I was wide awake and Cai can verify the dragon sight
ing. So can Overstahl and Mountain Folk are not known for their fancies.”
“Neither are you, Ryanna,” Gly said, reminding everyone in the chamber that Ryanna had an immensely practical nature while at the same time reminding Ryanna to keep her temper in check.
“Why would a dragon, if it chose to break its solitude after all this time, appear before a young caravan squire rather than to a member of the Council of Wise?” Tavoran asked.
Behind all the debate, there had always been that unspoken question. The prophesy had been given by the Winter People before the entire holt, but the dragon had come to a half-elf who, while acknowledged to have great power, had consistently chosen to separate herself from the Wise. The Wisdoms in this chamber questioned the vision because they questioned the visionary.
The door opened then to admit Shanara. Shanara had the furled ears and cat-slit eyes of a full elf, but her hair was silver and her eyes dark rimmed with ice-blue irises. Among the Kin, children were not named bastards because of odd parenting – the sins of the father were never visited socially on their children – but Ryanna wasn’t the only one who wondered at Shanara’s parentage. Besides her exotic looks, she was probably the most powerful Wisdom in a 1000 cycles, possessing gifts that no other Kin even recognized.
“Step off the girl‘s back,” Shanara said calmly yet firmly as she strode across the chamber to stand in the middle of the stage. Falana sat down without argument. “Would it mean anything more to you if I said I’d seen the dragon as well?”
The chamber rumbled with mutters.
“Where?” Gly asked, voicing the question for all those assembled.
“With my own eyes over the horse meadows this very night.”
Shanara’s strength of gifts assured they believed her. Ryanna tried not to resent it. The good Kin within her argued with the rebellious Kin.
I’m as strong as she is, but a half-elf, so they distrust me. You’ve earned their distrust. You’ve encouraged it, really.
“Tavoran, don’t you possess maps of the northern coast and the mountain passes?” Shanara asked.
