Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  Hyam slipped the chain around his neck. He knew his time here was ending and forced himself to ask the dreaded question. “What if I am another Milantian mage?”

  “We have discussed this and can only tell you that the answer is sealed away. Why, we do not know, but we suggest you not probe this further. Some great force hides the answer, and we suspect there is a reason as powerful as the shield that hides the truth.” When he saw that Hyam disliked the answer, Darwain added, “What if you are the Elves’ only hope? Will you squander your life and ours as well on questioning your past? What if these inquiries blind you to the future? Your challenge, human, is to grow beyond whatever yesterday held and accept the challenge of tomorrow!”

  The palace rang long after the king’s words faded, or perhaps it was just how their force echoed in Hyam’s mind. “I will.”

  “Then we thank you for your presence, and for your bond.” The ruler rose to his feet. “Your coming portends a dark time. Allies are vital. We are grateful to count you among the few and the honorable.”

  15

  Joelle required two more weeks to prepare. She needed a calm night for one thing, but spring storms ravaged the land for three long windswept days. She needed to prepare food and steal a map of the region, for she had little idea where she was or where she might find safety. And she needed to practice the pesky spell.

  There were moments when she almost gave up. The spell required growing the mage-force and then bundling it up, tighter and tighter. Finally it had to be bound to the weapon. But the energy of wizardry was not meant to be trapped. It was the force of nature, unbounded by any restrictions, surging and rampant and desperate to be free. Which was perhaps why she loved working spells as much as she did, even when they were as frustratingly difficult as this one.

  After many arduous nights she managed to bind the power to one knife, though the other remained as unrepentantly dull and metallic as ever. Her one success, however, shone with such brilliance she was almost afraid to handle it. The blade shimmered with a passionate fire, humming with a force she felt through her fingers, begging for her to release it. But she dared not, since the last thing she wanted was to demolish an interior wall and bring all the mages down on her head. So she released the spell, which was as frustrating as it was difficult, given all the work she had put into making it happen. Then she kept at it, night after night, until both blades hummed with the fierce song of her heart, impatient to fly, to wreak havoc, to break free.

  Joelle knew the Long Hall had originally required a night watch of three mages, two of whom patrolled the perimeter, with a third stationed in the central bell tower. She also knew the practice had been ended by the Master before Trace. When Trace had tried to reestablish it, he had faced a sullen mutiny.

  Perhaps Trace shared such gossip with her simply because she was not a part of his world, though intimately aware of most things. Or if indeed he was preparing her for what he knew must eventually come and, in truth, wanted her to succeed. In any case, she knew that each night, when the bell sounded the midnight hour, the portal was sealed with spells. Then the perimeter defenses were checked once more, and all the mages including the Doorkeeper retired for the night. There was nothing in Joelle’s opinion that spoke of the wizards’ smug complacency more clearly than how, every night, they treated the Long Hall as a realm apart, safe from every threat.

  The watches might be a thing of the past, but the bell continued to sound and the watchtower continued to hold the mage-force intended to repel attackers the wizards thought would never come. That night Joelle took the bell’s chime as her cue. She dressed and hefted the pack she had sewn, which contained the stolen food and map, the robe she would use as an outer cloak, and her bedroll. Her knives and the scroll were in a separate bundle that she gripped to her middle. She emerged from her chamber and tried to listen, but her heart beat so loudly she could scarcely hear her own footsteps as she hurried down the empty corridor.

  The courtyard was empty of all save moonlight. The ancient stones shone like purest silver, or perhaps it was merely her excitement that made the place beckon so. Joelle did not feel any regret over leaving such a lovely place. She had always considered her prison to be beautiful.

  She rested her pack where she had sat next to Trace for their first conversation, and used it to anchor the scroll open. She had read the words so often they felt imprinted on the back of her eyes, but she needed to get this right, and do so the very first time. Joelle had no idea whether the watchtower would sound an alarm when the portal was attacked from within. But she needed to break down the door and escape before the mages were awakened.

  She had not slept for the past two nights, and her eyes were grainy and her hands unsteady. She gripped her fists tight against her chest and clenched herself hard as she could, from toes to hairline, every muscle in her body taut and electric. Then she set her two favorite knives on the stone next to the scroll and began weaving the spell.

  Joelle had walked the perimeter wall enough to know that it ran in a virtual circle, with the secret chamber at its center. She had long wondered if the wall traced a boundary, beyond which the mage-force could not be drawn upon. In the lonely hours, especially on dawns that did not offer the momentary freedom of travel, she wondered how she would feel once she left and the magic was no longer there for her to call upon. But such internal dialogue had no place now. The same moon that turned the courtyard silver played over the world that had been denied to her for three long years. Its draw was magnetic and not to be denied.

  Joelle had practiced the spell enough for the stages to flow almost smoothly. Now she drew the force from the hidden chamber and wove the mage-heat, illuminating the plaza and burnishing the ancient stones with a forge’s glow. When she hefted her knives and cast the binding spell, their brilliance pierced the night.

  She did not hesitate, not even an instant, thus denying her fear room to disturb the spell. She wove the final words into a shriek that flew with the knives, straight at the hated portal.

  The knives struck, first one, then the other.

  There was no sound save the furious pounding of her heart.

  Instead, a spiderweb of force spread out from the two points. The portal bounced slightly, as though made from some viscous material and not wood. The overlaid webs would have been beautiful save for how they absorbed the knives’ force.

  Her weapons clattered to the stones. Dark. Unlovely. Useless.

  The portal remained intact.

  Joelle was weaving the spell again before she reached the knives. She did not chant the spell. She screamed it. Her cries carried such force that her breath became illuminated, weaving into the power that flooded the two blades. Again she hefted them. Again she flung them at the despised door.

  Again they clattered to the stones, their force depleted, the portal undisturbed.

  She was so distraught she could scarcely lift her knives, much less heft the pack from the fountain. Every step was a voluntary move back into her prison. She could not think, she could not, she could not . . .

  Then a figure shifted among the shadows on the courtyard’s other end. And as it did, Joelle spotted a faint shift in the night surrounding the watchtower. She had not noticed it before, because her attention had been focused exclusively on escape. But she realized now that the tower had been surrounded by a subtle wavy pattern, almost like summer heat. Now it was gone, as was the figure in the shadows. Which could only mean one thing. Trace had suspected she would act and had silenced the alarm bell. And then observed her attempted escape. And done nothing to halt her.

  In such a desolate hour, she found enough solace in the Master Mage’s friendship to make it back to her bed. And sleep so deeply not even her aching heart could wake her.

  16

  Hyam exited the kingdom gates and walked the beautiful but lonely path within the tunnel of trees. At its end, he found Dama and the destrier waiting for him. They seemed as glad as he to be reunited. Of the tink
er and his wife there was no sign.

  Time retook its hold upon Hyam. He camped that night and slept in a much-used clearing. The next day he arrived at the crossing and headed south. He spent one more night sheltered by the green world, and twice he awoke with the sense of being watched over by a folk who had spent ten centuries going unseen. He slept deeply and dreamed of brilliant globes that lay hidden at the joinings of fiery paths. The next morning he mounted up, well rested and ready for whatever came.

  Or so he thought.

  He arrived at Melcombe at noon on what appeared to be a festival day. Bunting was strung between the houses lining the route into town, and people crossing the main bridge addressed one another with determined good cheer. Hyam had stowed his Elven garb in the same satchel that held his violet Ashanta attire. He wore a farmer’s simple canvas shirt and trousers. His bow and sword were sheathed by his right stirrup. The folk waiting to enter the town’s stone walls gaped at him. Beneath their gaze he realized the sight he must make—dressed as a peasant, armed with bow and sword, riding a knight’s steed, with a regal beast loping by his side.

  The town was clearly wealthy, with royal banners fluttering from the six conical towers. Alert soldiers lined the high stone wall, and this was fronted by a moat fed from numerous streams. The road leading to the town’s main portal was lined by beamed houses with lead-paned windows and roofs of slate or thatch. The closer Hyam drew to the drawbridge, the more tightly the soldiers by the guardhouse focused their attention upon him.

  Hyam spied an inn on his right and pulled up. He was tempted to continue onward, for he had never seen a town and had missed his own village’s spring festival. But the soldiers kept a narrow gaze on him, and he knew this was safer. He stood by the inn’s kitchen window and waited.

  Finally a bearded bear of a man passed by, then returned to scowl at Hyam and demand, “What manner of silliness is this? And why do you perch yourself there at my window? We have no time for beggars or brigands, do you hear me? No time!”

  “Are you the innkeeper?” Hyam asked.

  “Aye, that I am. The Golden Fish has been in my family for six generations. What of it?”

  “Are you honest?”

  “Am I—” The brutish manner was punctured by a sudden burst of laughter. “Well, that depends. Do you have money?”

  “I do.” Hyam leaned over so his words could be more softly spoken. “What’s more, I have gold.”

  The man jutted his bearded jaw and spoke more softly than Hyam. “Show me.”

  Hyam opened the purse he had taken from the knight and extracted a gold florin. He let it flash once in the sunlight, then stowed it away.

  “Well, in that case, young master, I will be more honest than the next man, and certainly more than you deserve!”

  “I want a bed and a bath and a meal and a barber,” Hyam said. “And a tailor. A good one.”

  “And you shall have it, good sir. You shall have it all!” He turned and shouted into the interior for a stable hand, then said to Hyam, “Climb off that mountain of a beast and enter.”

  Hyam waited until he had bathed and eaten before explaining his state. The barber worked on his head while a wizened old man measured him for clothes.

  “I was attacked. I escaped and hid in the forest. A tinker rescued me and nurtured me back to life.”

  “A tinker!” The innkeeper was tall and burly and never still. He popped in for a few moments, delivering something or simply idling between tasks. “They’ve never been known as a kindly sort.”

  “His name was Yagel.”

  All three men smiled at that. “Then you were fortunate indeed, good sir,” the aged tailor assured him.

  The innkeeper added, “Yagel comes through here now and again. He sharpens knives, he sells what he can, I buy more than I need just because I like the look of him.”

  “He healed my wife of boils,” the barber said. “And brought back her laugh when I feared it was lost for all time.”

  “He sleeps in my stable once or twice a month,” the innkeeper went on. “I suspect him of healing my favorite horse, but he claims it was not his doing.”

  “Your wolfhound did not mind the tinker tending you?” the tailor asked.

  Hyam thought of Aiyana and said, “I suspect if he had asked, my two animals would have never left his side.”

  “So you met Yagel, and he saved your life.”

  “And he refused payment.” Hyam reached for his purse. “I want him to have your finest room and bath and meal. For as long as he keeps coming.”

  The innkeeper’s smile was as huge as the rest of him. “I’d say Yagel got the better of that deal.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are, lad. And for this more than your gold, I’ll call you welcome whenever you choose to return.”

  The tailor squatted upon a stubby-legged stool and sewed with astonishing swiftness. “Young squire has requested two sets of daytime garb.”

  Hyam resisted the urge to correct the tailor’s manner of address. “I want to walk or ride unnoticed by soldiers and commoners in any town.”

  “Just so.” The tailor timed his words to the rise and fall of his needle. “It is the practice among regal clans to wear their emblem upon their breast.”

  “Give me pen and paper and I will draw what I want.”

  “I am well versed in every seal of the realm, good sir,” the tailor replied.

  Hyam searched the three faces and decided to trust them. “I carry a charter from the House Oberon.”

  The tailor’s movements faltered. The barber might as well have been turned to stone. The innkeeper scowled and cast a hurried glance down the hallway behind him.

  “You hold a second emblem?” the tailor asked softly.

  “I do.”

  The innkeeper departed and returned swiftly with quill and parchment and ink. “None of us heard what the lad just said. Agreed?”

  “For all our lives,” the barber confirmed.

  Hyam dipped the quill, then asked, “Is there an Ashanta settlement near here?”

  The trio’s unease heightened further still. The innkeeper said, “Where do you come from?”

  “Three Valleys. Beyond the forest.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard of that. An outpost region, am I right?” He did not offer Hyam a chance to respond, merely checked the hall a second time before continuing, “Mark my words if you want to keep breathing. These names you bandy about are forbidden.”

  “We dare not think them,” the barber quavered. “Much less speak them aloud.”

  “Understood.” He bent over his parchment and drew.

  When Hyam was done, the tailor frowned over the Ashanta symbol. “This one is new to me.”

  “Does it matter?” the innkeeper demanded.

  “Certainly not.” He resumed his sewing. “Anything is better than the seal whose name I have conveniently forgotten.”

  The innkeeper’s name was Teague, and his caution kept him from approaching Hyam again until after the evening meal. When the fire burned low and the minstrel stopped his crooning, Teague brought over two fresh mugs, seated himself across from Hyam, and said, “The tailor will deliver your goods at dawn.”

  “I am grateful.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Havering by way of the Galwyn Hills.”

  The innkeeper took a long pull of his brew, swiped a sleeve across his black whiskers, and declared, “Then enjoy tomorrow’s sunrise, for it will be your last.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The road to Havering has been closed for these two years and more.”

  “By what means?”

  “No one has returned to say why. Which explains the soldiers you see guarding the battlements and the bridge.”

  “Is there another route?”

  “The merchants are taking their wares south to the port, then swinging around and coming up by way of the capital.”

  “How long does that take
?”

  “Depends upon the winds and the season. Four weeks at the minimum. Six is more likely.”

  “I don’t have that long.”

  Teague planted two muscular arms on the table. “Did you not hear what I just said? The road through the Galwyn Hills promises death.”

  “Nonetheless, that is the road I must take.” Hyam slid two gold florins across the table. “For your troubles. And your honesty.”

  “It’s too much.”

  “And for Yagel to enjoy your finest for as long as he keeps coming.”

  “I should have done that anyway.” The innkeeper pushed one coin back. “I like a man who honors his debts. If you happen to survive, know you will always be welcome here. Even if you do carry the forbidden emblem and utter names banned throughout the realm.”

  17

  The dream took hold some time after midnight, a great thunderous assault where veins of fire opened in the earth and rose up in ferocious currents to sweep him away. Hyam seemed unable to waken himself, not even when vixens appeared and lashed him to a stone. Three of them, lovely as the dawn, until they grew fangs and talons and ripped the flesh from his bones.

  It seemed as though he was kept imprisoned by the furies for eons, but it was not yet dawn when he crawled from his sweat-stained bed. He drank deep and bathed in water long gone cold. Then he heard scratchings outside his door and unsheathed his sword before unlocking the portal and discovering a parcel deposited upon the floor. He donned one set of his new clothes, fashioned from cotton and silk and supple deerskin. He slipped into the Elven boots, the one item he decided he could risk wearing.

  He ate cold lamb and bread and fresh green onions, standing by the kitchen window through which he had addressed the innkeeper. Dama ate with him, and then they drank their fill from the same ladle. He packed more supplies in a canvas carryall, filled four water skins he found hanging in the pantry, then walked to the rear of the inn and slipped a second gold florin under the door of Teague’s private quarters.