by Lela Markham
Andyr grinned as he came back in.
“There’s quite a few Believers in this area. We do what we can to help one another and to be a light to those round us in darkness.” He continued with the tea, speaking in a normal voice.
“The dragon will rise from the mountain and he will fall to the ground. The dragon will die, but be reborn. When the dragon flies he will not be alone. There is one on the other side, preparing. Go west, and hither and to. Keep the sword close even as it is broken, for swords can be mended and reforged stronger than before in the fires of refinement. Wait upon the Lord for the king will rise on dragon’s wings.”
Andyr breathed out.
“That’s it. When I received the prophesy our group prayed for interpretation, but we didn’t receive any.”
“Are you sure it is for me?”
“Oh, aye. Gly was certain of it when I scried to him. He knew you’d be coming this way.”
“You know Gly?”
“Aye, he’s my da.”
Padraig stared at Andyr, honestly confused. The apothecary laughed.
“Well, he’s the man that raised me. It’s certainly obvious that my seed-father was a Celtman, I suppose.”
“Oh, aye. Then Barana is your mother.”
“Aye, and Gly raised me as his own. He’s never been one to cast aside what the Lord has a use for.”
“Nay, he’s not. And the elves do have such a fine honor about children, even the unfathered. If I ask a painful question, please tell me to mind my own business, but I’m assuming Barana was not a willing participant in the mating that produced you.”
“She was raped,” Andyr replied coldly. “And, you’re not causing pain. A bit of anger at the wolf who would do that to another man’s wife.”
“Aye, even I feel anger for such an insult, though there must be many years since.”
“I’m forty and seven,” Andyr informed him.
Andyr looked to be a young man in his early twenties, with the usual youthful appearance of an elf or half-elf. Padraig knew by his age that his mother would have been raped during the last purge of Denygal, when the priests of Lugh had convinced Tyran ap Riordan, father of Cunyr, to scour the land free of all elven folk, a fair number of whom were living peacefully in the high valleys of Denygal, close to their children and grandchildren. Gly had mentioned spending time in Denygal, but Padraig had never thought to pin him down on an exact time frame.
“My father’s people are often wolves,” Padraig commented, trying not to sound bitter. “Tis a pity, that is certain. Andyr, may I ask you somewhat?”
“Mayhap.”
“I’ve never known an elf to whelp the unfathered, but I know of at least one half-elven child this side of the border and it occurs to me that his mother wouldn’t have put horns on her husband’s head. Would an elf ever – well?”
“I’ve never known one to rape a woman, but I know that one of my older brother exacted some sort of revenge on the Celtman for what they’d done to his mother. I’ve never known the details because he went into goi’tan. How long did you live among the Kin?”
“Four years.”
“So you know that we never hold someone’s past sins against him. Once my brother was released from his penitence, his crimes were never mentioned again.”
“I know that. I just wondered.”
“I would think that even elves are capable of baser actions if they are outside of the will of God. Certainly the histories say that we were as a nation out of that will when the Celtmen fell upon us, so mayhap there are some whose hearts are not pure.”
Padraig nodded. He could imagine his own feelings if his mother or sister had been raped. While he didn’t think himself capable of such vengeance, he knew that he might feel the desire for such.
Padraig and Andyr sat down at the table for a scant meal of tea and bread. Andyr apologized for the lean fare.
“It’s been a hard winter and there’s not much left for us to eat. I was able to win free last summer before the siege and take two deer. It sustained us and our neighbors over the winter, but we’ll be needing grain and the like soon enough.”
“Truly. Why do you remain?”
“Because so many lost remain. Someone must be salt and light here.”
“How long have you dwelt here?”
“Hmm, more than 10 years now. I was sent as a spy, more or less, when they began the program of infiltration. You know about such?”
“The half-elf Fanadargilyn’s idea? Oh, aye, I’ve heard of it. Not a bad idea on the whole. Can’t defend from what you know naught of. Do you miss your home?”
“Aye, I miss the company of elves, but the Believers here have become a family of sorts. I’m the only Kin here, mind, but we are brothers and sisters at another level.”
“True-spoken. Where did these become Believers?”
“Well, I’m not exactly certain. The story goes that there’s been a group of Believers in this city for at least two prior generations. They don’t completely believe as the elves do – or I should say – they don’t worship as we do. They believe in Jesu and they have the same basic theology, but they have different ways of expressing it.”
“Descendants of some who did not come north to Denygal, do you think?”
“Aye, that’s my thought. Came with the Celtmen, fleeing the Rhwmanes. Mayhap their grandfathers were more crafty than the ones who came to Denygal. They escaped notice by being more careful of what they said and to whom. It’s hard to know, but they are here. Only one that I’ve met so far has traveled east. He got as far as Dublyn, then felt the Lord drawing him home.”
“Curious. Well, I’m sure the city is better for your presence here.”
“You’re welcome to join us for worship if you’d like. I’ve carved out a meeting room beneath the house.”
“I doubt me that I’ll have the time. I’m seeking a caravan to take me and mayhap a friend west on an errand for the Lord.”
“Here’s a bit of news you’ll enjoy. I’ve heard there’s a westerner gathering a band for a caravan. He’s to be found at the south market gate every afternoon.”
“Truly? Do you know his name?”
“Nay, but I’ve heard he has rather conspicuous banners.”
“Thanks to you, Andyr. I’m afraid I should be off, as I must meet this caravan master.”
“I’m glad I could help. If you have time, we meet for praise and worship every night at sunset in the cellar.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Padraig let himself out the front door and hurried to the southern market square, which was a fair distance from Andyr’s apothecary shop – far enough indeed that the sun touched the walls as Padraig approached the spot. Many of the merchants and craftspeople were starting to close up their stalls and roll up their mats. Padraig hoped he wasn’t too late. Just as he thought he was, he saw a man sitting on a bench near the postern gate, a yellow banner emblazoned with the mule and prod of the muleteer and the sword for guards. Padraig approached, seeing that the man who waited was a barrel-chested fellow with a fine set of mustaches and well-made common clothes.
“Are you still seeking hires?” Padraig asked.
The man looked up at him, appraising him with sharp brown eyes.
“Aye, I’m seeking guards and muleteers,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think Padraig was either, though Padraig wore a sword.
“I’m an herbman, actually.”
“An herbman!? Now, I could use the likes of you. We always need physicks on this caravan. Do you know how to use that sword?”
“To wear a sword you don’t know how to use is to be a paper target that will be knocked over.”
“Well-spoken,” the caravan master said. “I’m Duglas of Glenconyn. Do you know where that is?”
“West and north. I’m Padraig of Denygal.”
“I’m taking a caravan into Mandorlyn. Have you heard of that?”
“Aye, that’s a true adventure. Have
you done such before?”
“Aye, many times. Why aren’t you off looking for a war?”
“Tired of war,” Padraig replied, which was true enough.
“I’d be willing to pay you two silvers for your hire, 50 coppers per week, and two silvers for each scrap.”
“Those are fine wages. Are you still seeking guards?”
“I’m always seeking guards. Do you know someone interested?”
“Aye, I’ve been traveling with a young soldier.”
“A freesword?”
“Just become.”
“Not given to incipient drink?”
“Nay, not that I’ve seen.”
“Fair enough then. I pay guards less well than herbmen, you understand. Silver for the hire, 30 coppers a week and a silver for each scrap.”
“I suspect he’ll be interested. Where do I report?”
“Dawn on the morrow, right at this gate. We’ll be traveling fast west. I’ve a schedule to keep.”
“Well and good. I’ll see you then.”
Padraig hadn’t expected Tamys to be angry over the deal he’d struck, but the lad was.
“I sold my sword to you, but I don’t recall giving you the right to sell it to another,” he snapped when Padraig told him the news.
Bewildered, Padraig watched Tamys stalk back and forth in the low-ceilinged chamber. He thought mayhap anything he said would make it worse, but he had to try – he couldn’t say why.
“The pay is excellent, it’s a guarding hire so you won’t be selling your sword – merely renting it out – and it’s going to Mandorlyn, a very rough and unsettled place, the sort of place that doesn’t ask many questions about a man’s past.”
Tamys kicked the wall by the window hard enough to crack the daub and stood staring down at the street for a while. Padraig waited.
“I know I don’t have much choice, but I don’t have to like it,” Tamys admitted.
“Nay, I should have asked, but the opportunity might have passed, so I didn’t.”
“I apologize. I’m just not happy with the dice the gods have tossed in my lap. I shouldn’t take my anger out on you.”
“I’m not holding it against you. I chose to leave page, but I remember feeling a bit angry when I realized that decision meant I wouldn’t eat. I can imagine it’s all the worse when you didn’t make the decision yourself.”
Tamys turned from the window.
“If I’ve got to sell my sword, I guess this is a better way than what I am facing. I can delay the inevitable a bit longer, aye?”
“It’s only inevitable if you think it is and you allow it to be. There are alternatives.”
“I’d have to sell my sword still to afford a prentice fee.”
Padraig didn’t truly feel it was the right time to suggest that there was a tradesman who would train him without a fee. Somewhat kept him silent, though he could not have said what. Sometimes the One said “wait”. Mayhap that was it, spoken more softly than Padraig would have liked.
“The day’s nearly ended,” Padraig said instead. “I’m for bed if we’re to wake before dawn.”
He began to undress. Tamys continued to stand by the window, staring down at the dark street below. Padraig allowed him time to think, did not intrude upon his reverie with idle chatter. That subject had been broached, what more was there to say. Just as he was about to doze off, a thought came to him.
“I didn’t pay a prentice fee,” he murmured sleepily. “There are alternatives.”
Tamys answered by blowing out the candle lantern. Padraig took that to mean the subject was closed.
Founding Year 1028
Dun Galornyn
Gregyn stared into the candle lantern, sweat stinging his skin. Everyone else was still at the evening meal and he was atop of a half-broch overlooking the kitchen garden, trying to scry in the stifling heat of a coastal spring night. From long practice, the image of Talidd in his mind quickly formed into the man’s facsimile in the flame.
Ah, it’s about time you’ve scried to me, lad! Talidd thought with a hint of irritation in his tone. What have you been about?
It had been over an eightnight since Gregyn had sought out Talidd.
Didn’t Werglidd tell you? he asked. There’s illness at the dun. Some sort of plague.
And that affects your ability to report to me in what way?
Gregyn considered pretending someone had come upon the roof and breaking the communication. He had used that excuse before. Tonight he was too tired to make the effort.
They’ve used the riders to carry away the dead and even work in the infirmary. Werglidd said not to risk scrying when people are talking of curses and the like, so I had to find a time to get away when nobody was looking.
Talidd’s face in the flame might have been irritated or thoughtful. The pain he was capable of sending down the link was absent, which Gregyn took as a good sign.
Werglidd told me of this plague. He was to show you the enchantments to keep it at bay.
Gregyn listened to voices drifting on the wind, floating up from the kitchen garden. He was four stories up, however, so not terribly worried about them hearing him.
Aye, I’ve been working them. The whole city was in chaos when we got back here from the north and then the sicknesses started sweeping through the dun. Teddryn fell ill this morning.
Talidd’s image narrowed its eyes.
I would recall you, but I continue to hope your time there at Galornyn will be fruitful.
Gregyn was tired and the scrying link was wavering. He didn’t want to risk annoying Talidd further, but he knew he should be in bed.
Some of them sicken and then get better, he thought, mouthing the words at the same time, as novices often did. Especially the babies get better, but many of the adults and older children die and some who live are left palsied.
Talidd’s image now looked annoyed, but before Gregyn could say anything more, the door to the roof slammed. He looked up to see Taryn of Galoryn, so far from the rule it wasn’t worth figuring, stumble forward, then stop and stare at Gregyn.
The link with Talidd disintegrated as Gregyn focused his mind to this problem. Pity to kill such a talented potential, but his life was worth far more than Taryn’s. Then Gregyn realized that Taryn was drunk.
“Hallo, whatcha doing here?” the young lordling asked. He was scarcely more than 14, still without a beard, tall and slender, with light brown hair and captivating blue eyes with multiple shades in the iris. His potential for mage work was strong, but the wine jar in his hand was one reason Gregyn had decided not to pursue him.
“Looking for some peace and quiet,” Gregyn replied. “I spent all day in the infirmary.”
Taryn nodded absently and then slunk around the roof to slide down a parapet to continue with his wine. Gregyn could not just leave him there. He might remember this conversation and tell folks somewhat that Gregyn didn’t want them to know. Gregyn went over to sit beside him.
“How’s Teddryn?” he asked.
“Fevered and in pain. So far he’s no weaker than a man with a fever. The chirgeon thinks he’ll recover.”
“Some have,” Gregyn said by way of agreement.
Suddenly Taryn’s eyes overflowed.
“What is it, lad?” Gregyn asked.
“My da is sick now too.”
For Gregyn’s purposes, that was a good thing. If Lord Daryn died, he’d be replaced with his eldest son, Egoran, who was much more like his mother than his father -- not an honorable man. Turmoil within the family meant a potential profit for Gregyn and his guild. He merely had to know when to exploit it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured without meaning it. Don’t smile. People with parents care what happens to them. He stared up at the stars, tracing the constellations. “Mayhap he will improve as others have.”
Taryn nodded, swallowing some wine. The drink might weaken Taryn’s defenses.
“We should get you inside, in bed. You need you
r rest so you don’t get sick also.”
“What does it matter?” Taryn slurred. “Nobody would notice if I died.”
“Your grandmother would notice,” Gregyn assured the lad. “Come on. Up you come.”
He rose from the roof and dragged Taryn to standing, leading him to the door. The winding stairs proved hazardous, but he got Taryn down them and to his room with neither of them breaking his neck. Taryn didn’t ask how a rider knew the way to his room and Gregyn hadn’t actually prepared a believable lie, but they didn’t meet anyone on the way there and Taryn fell onto the bed without protest.
“Thank you, rider Gregyn,” Taryn intoned, turning over and sitting up. You either have to kill him or make him forget.
Gregyn captured Taryn’s gaze easily enough and said “You won’t remember this in the morning. Go to sleep now and in the morning, you will have forgotten seeing me.”
He let power aplenty flow into those words. Ordinary people would turn and snuggle into their blankets and awake the next morning with no memory of meeting Gregyn on the roof. Taryn stared at him, perplexed.
“I’m not that in my cups,” he announced. “But I am tired and it’s been an exhausting day. Keep yourself clean, Gregyn. We need men like you round the dun.”
Gregyn seriously doubted that to be true, but he nodded and fled the room, because no matter how much good sense said to kill this witness, he just couldn’t waste that awesome potential, as evidenced by the fact that Gregyn could not ensorcel him under any circumstances.
Hurrying round a narrow curved path between the main broch and the servants quarters, Gregyn pulled up as a pretty young serving lass smiled at him. Her brown hair hung in a single braid down her back and her blue eyes held mysteries he would like to solve.
“Hallo, Gregyn,” she greeted. “Can I get your strong shoulders for a moment?” she asked.
“Aye,” he grunted, inexplicably feeling shy.
