She gave a sigh, resigned to the reality about her. She wasn't particularly afraid; she didn't think the drunken slob would even get to her before he fell off the narrow walkway, dropping the eight feet to the fortress's small courtyard. Somehow, bouncing against the blocks of the outer wall with each step, he got near the woman.
"Ah, me Jilly," Gofflaw slurred. "Walkin' again in the rain."
Jill shook her head and looked away.
"Why don't ye go inside and warm yer bones then, girl?" the man asked. "Quite a row this night. Go on with ye. I'll take yer watch."
Jill knew better. If she accepted his outwardly gracious offer and went inside, Gofflaw would soon follow, leaving the walls empty. Even worse, for him to be out here fetching her, there was likely a conspiracy inside. The long, low main house of Pireth Tulme was not large, only three medium-sized common rooms, each surrounded by a dozen anterooms, each barely large enough for the pair of cots and two footlockers it held. Most of the structure was underground, the main house being three identical levels but appearing as only one story from the courtyard. If Jill ventured into that tight place, if this man was out here to lure her in, she would likely find herself in grabby quarters indeed.
"I will keep my own watch, thank you," she replied politely and started away.
"And just what're ye watching for?" the soldier demanded, his tone suddenly sharp.
Jill spun on him, her blue eyes narrow and glaring. She knew the routine and even agreed that it seemed very unlikely that any enemies, or anyone at all, would approach the fortress or sail past it on their way into the Gulf of Corona. But that wasn't the point, not in Jill's estimation. If one invasion came every five hundred years the Coastpoint Guards, the elite of the elite, must be prepared for it!
"You go to your party," she said evenly, her jaw clenched. "I choose to walk to honor the uniform I wear."
Gofflaw snorted and wiped a greasy hand down the front of his own red jacket. "The better of it, ye'll learn," he said. "Just ye wait until the days become a year, and then two and three and four and-"
"I believe that she understands your reasoning, Gofflaw," came a solid, unwavering voice. Jill looked past the drunk, who turned as well, to see Warder Constantine Presso, the commander of Pireth Tulme, approaching along the wall. By all appearances, the man was impressive - tall and straight, mustache and goatee neatly trimmed, his red-trimmed blue overcoat tailored straight and proper, black leather baldric crossing right shoulder to left hip and sporting an impressive sword, a family heirloom. He was in his late twenties and had earned his position by defeating three bandits who had slipped into the house of a nobleman one evening. When she had first arrived at Pireth Tulme and had met the warder, Jill's hopes had soared with a sense of greater responsibility.
She had soon learned, though, that the ready appearance of the fortress, on that day when the Kingsmen's regional commander had taken her out to the isolated outpost, had been no more than a temporary show, and that Warder Presso, for all of his regal appearance, had long ago fallen into the same trap as the rest of her companions.
Presso eyed Jill directly - he was often doing that. "And I believe that she declines," the warder said.
"I do," Jill agreed.
Gofflaw muttered something under his breath and started past Presso, but the man stuck out his arm, blocking the way.
"But it grows late," Presso said to Jill, "or should I say early? Your watch surely is ended."
"I take the night."
"What part of the night?"
"The night," Jill snapped. "No one else will come up here. They view the setting of the sun as the end of their duties, what little duties they do bother to perform during the day."
"Calm, lass," Presso said, patting his hand in the air. Perhaps he was trying to be the levelheaded commander, but to Jill, it came off as condescending.
"I am well read in our rules of conduct and operation," Jill continued. "Our watch does not end with the setting sun. 'Ever vigilant, ever watchful,' " she finished, the motto of the once proud Coastpoint Guards.
"And for what are you watching?" Presso asked calmly.
Jill's face screwed up incredulously.
"Would you see a powrie ship, or even a raft full of goblins, if it glided past us into the gulf, barely a hundred yards from our shore?"
"I would hear them," Jill insisted.
Presso's snort fast became a full-blown chuckle. "Dawn is not so far away," he said. "Pray you go inside now and get the rain out of your bones."
Jill started to protest, but the warder cut her short. He set Gofflaw up as sentry, then took Jill by the arm and pulled her in front of him, pushing her gently toward the tower door.
They went in together, and in truth; Jill was glad to be out of the rain. At the bottom of the tower stairs, through the small hallway that led into the main house, the pair passed a partly opened door. From the sounds emanating from within, it was quite obvious what was going on in there.
Jill hurried down the hallway and entered the common room of the upper level. A dozen men were in there, along with two women, all nearly falling-down drunk. One man was up on the tables, dancing, or trying to; and removing his clothing to the jeers of his male friends and the hoots of the women.
Jill looked straight ahead as she made for the door to the stairwell that would get her down to her room. Warder Presso caught her just as she reached that door, grabbing her by the shoulder.
"Stay with us and enjoy the rest of the night," he said.
"Are you commanding me to do so?"
"Of course not," replied Presso, who was really a decent sort. "I am merely asking you to stay. Your watch is ended."
"Ever watchful," Jill replied through gritted teeth.
Presso, gave a great sigh. "How many months of boredom can you tolerate?" he asked. "We are out here alone, all alone, with nothing but time ahead of us. This is our life, and each of us must choose whether it will be pleasant or wretched."
"Perhaps we have different views of what is pleasant," Jill said, subconsciously glancing back across the room to the hallway and the partly open door.
"I give you that," Presso replied.
"May I go?"
"I could not order you to stay, though I truly wish that you would so choose."
Jill's shoulders sagged. Presso's conciliation somehow seemed to take the strength from her more than any order he might have issued. "I was put in service to the Kingsmen by a magistrate, the abbot of Palmaris," she explained.
Presso nodded; he had heard as much.
"I did not choose to enter, but once in the ranks, I came to believe," she said. "I do not know what it was - a sense of purpose, a reason for continuing."
"Continuing?"
"To live," she answered sharply. "My duty is my litany - against what, I do not know. But this-" She held her hand out to the revelry, to the half-naked dancer who, as if on cue, tumbled from the table. "This is no part of my duty nor my desire."
Presso touched her arm gently, but still she recoiled as if she had been slapped. The warder immediately raised both his hands unthreateningly.
Jill understood his concern to be both defensive and compassionate. On the very first night after her arrival, one of the men had tried to get too familiar with the fiery woman. He had limped for a week, one foot swollen, one ankle and both his knees bruised, one eye closed and a lip too fat for him to drink anything without it dribbling down the front of his shirt. Even without the very prominent evidence that she could defend herself, Jill believed that Presso would not try anything. Despite his acceptance of the behavior within Pireth Tulme, Jill recognized that he was a man of some honor. He had his way with the other women, probably all six of them, but he would not infringe where he was not invited.
"I fear that Gofflaw's reasoning was sound," the warder warned. "The months will wear on you, day after boring, lonely day."
"Indeed," remarked Jill, gesturing with her chin across the way. Presso turned to
see Gofflaw entering the room. The warder sighed audibly, then turned back to Jill and merely shrugged. He really didn't care that the walls were unmanned.
Jill swung about and left the room, but as soon as the door was closed behind her, she veered down a side corridor and back out into the rain. She moved to a ladder and climbed to the seacoast wall, then sat on its outer edge, dangling her legs over the long drop.
There she stayed for the rest of the night, watching the stars return as the storm cloud raced away into the gulf. As the day brightened, the pillar-like rocks in the wide bay came clearer, standing tall and straight like sentinels, ever vigilant, ever watchful.
CHAPTER 22
The Nightbird
"The snows will be soon in coming this year," Lady Dasslerond remarked, staring out of her high tree house at the gray clouds that loomed on the horizon just north of the enchanted valley.
"A difficult winter would be consistent," Tuntun replied, her expression even more grave than usual.
Lady Dasslerond turned back to the pair and considered the words. The raid on Dundalis, the sightings of goblins and even giants, the evidence of many earthquakes to the north of Andur'Blough Inninness - all pointed to the resurgence of the dactyl. There were even reports of a smoke cloud rising lazily over the Barbacan, streaming from a solitary mountain known as Aida.
It made sense; the dactyl could - and indeed, likely would awaken a long-dormant volcano, using the magma to strengthen its underworld magic.
"How long is he?" Lady Dasslerond asked as her gaze returned to the west and north.
"He has just passed his sixth year with us," Juraviel answered without hesitation. "He was rescued from the goblins in the harvest season of the year the humans call 816. Their reckoning shows the turn of 823 approaching."
Lady Dasslerond turned to Juraviel, her expression showing that his answer was not acceptable. "But how long is he?" she asked again.
Juraviel sighed and rested back against the wide trunk of the maple. Measuring such things was never easy for the elf, especially since he feared he viewed Elbryan with favorable eyes.
"He is ready," Tuntun unexpectedly put in. "The blood of Mather runs thick in his veins. In a half century, we will be telling our next would-be ranger that he is of the blood of Elbryan."
Juraviel couldn't suppress a small laugh, even given the gravity of this meeting. To hear Tuntun speaking so well of Elbryan seemed to him the ultimate irony. "Tuntun speaks the truth," he confirmed as soon as the shock wore off. "Elbryan has trained hard and well. He fights with grace and power, runs silent and wary, and has visited the Oracle many times, almost always with success."
"He found a kindred spirit?" asked Lady Dasslerond.
"Only that of Mather," Juraviel replied, beaming as the smile widened across his lady's fair face.
"But he is not yet ready," Juraviel added quickly. "There is more for him to learn of himself and of the woodland arts. He has a year remaining, and then, he will indeed walk as a ranger."
Lady Dasslerond was shaking her head before the elf even finished his proclamation. "The winter will be difficult," she said firmly. "And the humans have settled several communities along the edge of the Wilderlands, have even resettled that place which was, and is again, known as Dundalis. If what we fear is true, then Elbryan will be needed, before the next season of harvest."
"Even if our fears of the dactyl prove false," Tuntun added, "many of the humans are unprepared for the Wilderlands. The presence of a ranger would do them well."
"The turn of spring?" Juraviel asked.
"You will have the boy prepared for his walk," Lady Dasslerond agreed.
"And what of Joycenevial?" Juraviel asked.
"The bowyer is ready for him," Lady Dasslerond replied. "And the darkfern is tall this season."
Juraviel nodded. He knew that Joycenevial, the finest bowyer in all of Caer'alfar, in all of the world, had been cultivating a special darkfern all these six years since Elbryan had been brought to Andur'Blough Inninness. This would be Joycenevial's first human task since Mather, and, since the bowyer was aged even by elven standards, most likely his last.
This one would be special.
Elbryan thought that he knew every trail and grove in the enchanted valley, and so he was indeed confused on that day when Juraviel led him down a particularly twisting path, often branching and crisscrossing a stream more than a dozen times. Their destination must be important indeed, Elbryan realized, for this trail was even more difficult to follow than the winding ways that hid Caer'alfar itself!
Finally, after hours of backtracking, the pair came to a short descent down a steep, sandy bank. At the bottom of the ravine, past a blocking wall of low evergreen bushes, they came to a bed of ferns, bluish green in color. Most were about waist high to Elbryan, shoulder high to Juraviel. Elbryan understood immediately that this was their destination, that there was something unusual about these plants; they were growing in neat rows, evenly spaced, and the ground around them was bare. He wouldn't have expected much undergrowth, for the ferns cast shade, but this area was too clean, as if caring hands regularly weeded it.
"These are the darkfern," Juraviel said, his tone full of reverence. He led Elbryan to the nearest plant and bent low, bidding the young man to inspect the fern's stem.
The plant was thick and smooth, and the stem didn't seem to narrow at all as it came up high and spread, three-pronged, to the leafy fronds. Elbryan peered closer, and his green eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again quickly as he moved even closer to inspect the stem.
Silvery lines wove gracefully about the dark green stem; they seemed to Elbryan consistent with the fishing lines and the bowstrings the elves used.
"The darkfern is one with the metal," Juraviel explained as soon as he realized that Elbryan had found the key. "This ravine was chosen for the planting because we learned that it is rich in minerals, particularly silverel, which the plant prefers above all."
"The plant brings the metal lines up with it?" Elbryan asked. Many implications came to him then, as if the fog veiling one of the mysteries of elven life had suddenly lifted. The elves used many metal implements - shields and swords mostly - and Elbryan had sometimes wondered where they got the material, since, to his knowledge, there were no working mines in Andur'Blough Inninness. He had assumed that they traded for the metal, but then he had come to realize that elven metal was unlike anything he had seen outside the enchanted valley. He remembered his father's sword, bulky and dark, but that hardly compared to the fine elvish blades, shining bright and holding so keen an edge.
"They are as one," Juraviel confirmed. "The darkfern is the lone source of silverel."
Elbryan stared hard at the lines of gleaming metal. He felt as if he had seen this same pattern before, though where that might have been, he could not remember.
"Treated and cured properly, the stems are incredibly strong and resilient," Juraviel explained; "and pliable."
"Even after you take the metal from them?"
"We do not always take the silverel from the harvested stem," the elf replied.
Elbryan thought on that for a moment, particularly on Juraviel's last claim that the plants were pliable. Then it came to him where he had seen this same design. "Elvish bows," he breathed as the fog flew from yet another mystery. Now he knew how the elvish bows, so small and frail, could launch an arrow a hundred yards on a straight line.
He looked up from the plant to see Juraviel nodding.
"There is no composite, not bone and wood, even when blended with sinew, that is stronger," the elf said. He motioned to the man. "Come with me," he bade.
They walked carefully past the cultivated rows to the tallest fern of all, one whose broad fronds were above Elbryan's head. Unexpectedly, Juraviel handed Elbryan his sword, then motioned the young man back a few paces.
Elbryan watched, mesmerized, as the elf closed his eyes and began to chant in the elvish tongue, using many words so arcane that Elbr
yan didn't recognize them. The song came louder, faster, and Juraviel began to dance delicate, spinning circles wrapped in a larger circle that encompassed the plants. Elbryan concentrated, looking for the root sounds that made up the elf's song, but still he could not decipher many of the ancient words. He did understand that Juraviel was praising the plant and thanking it for the gift it would soon give. This did not surprise Elbryan; the elves always showed respect for other living creatures, always prayed and danced over the bodies of animals they had hunted, and sang countless songs to the fruits and berries of Andur'Blough Inninness.
The twirling elf tossed several puffs of powder upon the plant, then bent low and with some reddish gel painted a stripe around the base of the stem just an inch or two from the ground. He finished with a leaping flourish and landed pointing to the stripe. "One clean strike!" he commanded.
Elbryan rolled to one knee quickly and brought the sword flashing across, severing the plant at exactly the stripe. The darkfern landed upright and held for a moment, then slowly tumbled to the side into Juraviel's waiting hands.
"Follow quickly," the elf bade, and ran off.
Elbryan had to work hard to keep up. Juraviel ran all the way back to Caer'alfar, to the side of the glen, to a tall tree that housed only a single elf.
"Joycenevial is as old as the oldest tree in Andur'Blough Inninness," Juraviel explained as the aged elf came out of his home and slowly descended. Without saying a word, he dropped between the pair, took the cut fern from Juraviel, and held it up near Elbryan. He turned it over and nodded, apparently pleased by the fine and clean cut, then started back up his tree, fern in hand.
"No markings?" Juraviel asked.
Joycenevial only shook his head, not even bothering to look back at the pair.
Juraviel praised him once, then started away, Elbryan in tow. The young man had a million questions stirring around in his head. "The red gel?" he dared to ask, trying to start a conversation, trying to unravel this most extraordinary day.
"Without it, you would never have cut through the darkfern," Juraviel replied.
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