by Brian Daley
That night, Angorman conducted a ritual of worship to the Bright Lady. Woodsinger joined Swan and most Sisters of the Line. Against his habit, Gil lingered near, watching along with Ferrian and Andre. The service was subdued, much given to silent prayer and meditation, but there were sweet songs too.
It ended with each worshiper going off to spend time alone. Gil went to check Jeb Stuart and found Swan standing by the picket line, blue cape pulled around her. Memories jumped up in his face of the Lady Duskwind, whom he’d met under similar circumstances. Where he’d been about to talk to Swan, he turned away, propelled by recollections and brooding.
Their breakfast was hard biscuit and strips of dry, plastic-tasting jerky. Gil used a stiff little pig-bristled brush he carried to clean his teeth, but the brackish taste remained in his mouth. He decided not to shave; he usually let his beard go for a few days before using the sliver of a straight razor he had. But he never let his beard hide the powderburn on his cheek, and kept his hair trimmed back from the scar on his forehead. Seeing them in his reflection was a regular reminder he wished to maintain.
He knuckled his eyes, and saddled Jeb, yawning. Rubbing the scar, he tried to estimate how much closer he was to Yardiff Bey today than yesterday.
“Which way’s Death’s Hold?” he asked Andre.
The wizard pointed westward. “There, along the shore of the Outer Sea. We’ll be going away from it soon.”
Gil gnawed his lip. Andre added, “If Bey’s at Death’s Hold, he will be there for a time to come. But if he is behind enemy lines, he may not be there for long. You have set the most likely course.”
“Why should he be with the army? Why wouldn’t he sneak through in one of his disguises or use magic? Or even fly in, in Cloud Ruler?”
Andre averted his glance, muttering. “His arts are less efficacious here. Rely upon it; he will not use his demon-ship, nor wish to employ spells.”
Swan came to them. “We link up with my Liege in four days, but there is a stretch of ground to cover.”
Gil watched the sunrise. Time and distance from home, hanging over him from the service of the preceding night, descended without warning. His parents’ faces were hard to summon up, his brother’s impossible. Had the transition to this Reality deadened him down inside, where his feelings lived? Or did it have to do with his single-mindedness, hunting Bey? He fingered the chain that held the Ace, shook the mood off and mounted.
The day’s ride took them down through a forest of venerable old lindens that hadn’t heard an axe in generations, then across a dry, arid plain of red earth and brown scrub. Toward evening they came into a string of shallow valleys where narrow streams moved quickly. They saw lumbering supply trains bound southward, weighted with supplies for the war effort. It was odd to see a sweating teamster cuss out her horses, and have a broken strap on Jeb’s headstall repaired by a handy-woman quartermaster sergeant.
He drew no conclusions about the men of Glyffa, because he met none. They were there to be seen, usually in groups, cowled and cloaked, walking silently along the side of the road, but they eschewed contact with anyone but themselves.
They moved hard again, all through the next day. Terrain became drier and weather hotter. On the third day they passed once more into lands that were well watered. They pitched camp in a stand of pine where beds of dead brown needles muffled hoofbeats, their mounts kicking up clots of them packed with black humus.
The American had seen to Jeb. Passing a large boulder up-cropping in the middle of the bivouac, he noticed a man sitting on it. Gil was sure the guy hadn’t been there when they’d stopped, but couldn’t understand how he’d gotten through the sentry cordons.
A young man, the stranger sat on the rock, slightly above the American’s head, resting buttocks on heels with hands on knees, like a judoka waiting for a match. He wore a simple green robe and toque of weighty, twisted gold cable around his neck. He was lean, with the olive skin and straight, coal-black hair of Glyffa, trimmed at his shoulders. His feet were bare, used to constant walking. He was somehow familiar, but not in a way Gil could pin down. He exuded inner calm.
Gil found the Browning had gotten into his hand. He put it away with chagrin. Though others had noticed the man now, there wasn’t any outcry. Presently, Swan arrived. The visitor slipped down to speak to her. Gil figured out what that vague familiarity had been.
“Jade,” she said, “brother, how good in my heart to see you.”
“Sister, it is good.”
“What brings you here, Jade?” Swan’s brother was the first Glyffan male Gil had seen up close, aside from Andre, who was obviously the all-around exception. He stuck around.
“I saw your troop as I meditated in the hills, and came down, thinking it might be you. What has come to pass? Your aura is of battle.”
“You know that is not for you to ask, brother. The hour for men to enter everyday affairs is not yet.”
“Yet we may think, Swan. What will we find?”
She answered, “When the Mandate is done and you men have made your decision, what shall we women discover?”
His eyes were veiled. “The last of the old have died, or will soon. The Mandate will be complete, and you will know our minds.”
His glance caught the American. Gil had been puzzling over his last remark, thinking it might have something to do with Andre; now he held himself carefully, watching Jade.
“You move in rarefied circles now, Swan,” her brother told her. “Here I see a restless Seeker, who outdoes us all.” He backed away, only half talking to Gil. “You have come a far way, and have even farther to go.” His right hand went through a rapid, intricate Sign. Then he went to Swan, who presented her cheek for his chaste kiss. He strode from camp.
“Odd dude,” Gil remarked to fill the silence.
She made a sound, neither agreement nor objection. She had half-turned from him, used to keeping her birthmark from the sight of others. He moved casually to stand to her left; she relaxed perceptibly.
“Not like yourself at the very least, eh?” she replied. “We are permitted little contact with male siblings in Glyffa, but Jade searched me out from curiosity about our mother. She died birthing him, when I was young, but I remember her well. He and I have spoken, oh, five times or more now. A very close relationship, in Glyffa.” She clasped her hands behind her back, head tilted down, debating whether she wished to finish. She did.
“I brought the column by this route, some small measure from its way, because, for some reason, I wished to see him. I knew he would probably be up among the hillsides; his favorite places are there.”
“What was that hand-signal thing he did to me before he went?”
“It was a blessing of sorts, but—” She hesitated. “It means he wishes the pity of the Bright Lady for you.”
He looked to where Jade had disappeared into the gloaming. “I’d like to know what they’re coming up with, Jade and the others.”
“I, too. Whatever their decision, it is Mandated that we abide by it. We hold the country in trust, until that time comes. That is our learning Trial.” Her face shone, but Gil retained his conviction that all final solutions were suspect.
“Are they all as remote as Jade?”
“Many. Their paths lie deep within themselves. Others are not, doing what they can to aid and sustain their fellows. Some are formed in mendicant or praying orders, but many operate vast retreats where they care for anyone who is sick or injured. They set aside chambers where a woman may come and conceive a child, but she must depart when it is accomplished, and never see the man again.”
Gil chewed that one over. “The population’s down since a hundred years ago, right?”
She confirmed it. “But not dangerously so.” Mischief crept into her face. “That will change with the Reconciliation.”
Sadness retook her. Gil wanted to ask why, with a battle looming, she’d detoured to have a word with her brother. To see him a last time? He dismissed the question;
her own affair. As he often did with profundities, he changed the subject.
“We get to your boss’ camp tomorrow?”
“Aye. There may already be fighting. The Southwastelanders are in great array.”
“Who’re they anyway, these Southwastelanders?”
“How can you not know? They are enlisted of Shardishku-Salamá, a broad term for many tribes from lands south of the Central Sea. They ward the Masters against invasion, and used to make the occasional raid into Veganá. But now they aggress in hordes, mustering a mighty corps for this enterprise.”
“Wait a minute; Salamá’s mounting major campaigns in the Crescent Lands?”
“You are not the least perceptive of listeners.”
“I’m a dipstick.” He’d never thought the Masters could mass that much manpower, or why would Bey have spent decades weaseling control of Coramonde? Apparently they’d just wanted to save their best shot for the main event. Gil knew he was spitballing. His attention went back to Swan. “You, however, aren’t. You’re about a pure talent.”
She inclined her head in mocking gratitude. He colored in embarrassment. She laughed. “And what uncommon fellow are you? Old Sir Angorman, with his far-northern accent, still speaks with less novelty than you. You are altogether odder than your companions.”
He couldn’t think of a pat way to explain alternate Realities. He swiped a line from Van Duyn. “I, uh, I hail from different probabilities than you.”
She shrugged, “As you like.”
“Hey, no offense. It’s tough to run down for you. I’m outside my own place and time. Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
“Seeking what?” He didn’t get it. “Jade said it; what are you seeking, seeker?”
He thought hidden thoughts feeling the Ace against his chest. She stretched and yawned. “You are a mystery, open and yet closed. Do not speak from social grace, but I should be interested in hearing what you have to say, when you are truthing.”
She made prompt departure. He went to find his campfire. Angorman and Andre were gone; they’d been spending time off on their own in earnest conversation since they’d hit Glyffa. Woodsinger and the baby had been allocated a bigger tent, ringed by guards, close to where Swan bunked. That left Ferrian reclining by the fire. Gil eased himself down.
“We have gone from skirmish to battle,” Ferrian said, not turning from contemplation of the flames. “Shall we then go from battle to war?”
“Looks like.”
The disquiet in Ferrian was finding its way out. “When I was Champion-at-arms of the Wild Riders, always I counseled against war. I thought, If I am strongest, no man dare deride my rede; the Horseblooded will stay at peace.” He put his hand to his empty sleeve. “No man has that strength. I grow to hate the sword and spear, Gil MacDonald.”
Gil said nothing. Ferrian rolled over to sleep, but his despondency was infectious. The American pulled the chain up, held the Ace. He tilted the tarot and watched firelight lick across the sword, the firmament. It was as if a universe were burning.
Chapter Nine
I am nearer home today
Than I have ever been before…
Phoebe Gary
“Nearer Home”
“THE outlanders, your Grace.” The travelers entered the tent on cue.
When they’d arrived at the camp of the Trustee of Glyffa, spread over a high saddle of land above a broad river, Swan had been admitted immediately to the pavilion that was her Liege’s headquarters. Gil, beating dust off himself, saw many wounded around him and concluded that the Sisters of the Line had been mauled. There were about seven thousand of them, not counting however many were farther downslope in the camp of the ousted army of occupied Veganá.
The Trustee turned out to be a slender old woman with an oval face, green eyes, and gray hair shot through with white. She wore no armor, though the women clustered around her did. She was seated, dressed in flowing vestments of springtime colors, gathered at her waist by a broad yellow sash set with lapis lazuli. She held a tall shepherdess’ crook which, Swan had said, was her staff of office. It was inscribed with cursive spell-phrases and curlicued sigils.
She swept them with her gaze. It paused on Angorman and his cockaded hat, but when the Trustee rose, it was to Woodsinger she went, asking to see the baby. Her voice was reedy, but measured. After she’d looked at the child and heard her laugh, she addressed the others.
“Please pardon me. So much strife have I seen these last weeks that I had to take myself a moment to focus on life.” She looked around again. “But, did Swan not say you were five besides the infant?”
Andre wasn’t with them. He’d hung back, at the entrance. The Trustee’s glance found him, and her face lost animation. Swan was as mystified as anyone.
The wizard came slowly into the room and stood before the Trustee. “Greetings, Andre,” she said at last. There was emotional weight to it. “You could not be more desperately needed. You have my gratitude.”
His voice strained. “Phases end, lives converge. This reunion was due… Mother.”
She reached out, and he put his hand in hers. Gil saw now how closely the green of her eyes matched Gabrielle’s. He’d heard the deCourteneys’ mother was a famous enchantress, but it had never occurred to him she’d be Trustee. Chairs were brought, and Andre seated to her right. His plump, stubbled face was at peace for the first time in days.
The Trustee turned to her son’s companions. “Pardon us; we have not had one another’s company for—how long, Andre?” Her eyes fell away from his. “Since your Kasara was taken from you.” She sighed. “Foolish anger of the moment, and my fault, I acknowledge it.”
Gil was fitting in the pieces. So Andre had been Kasara’s lover, later her husband. When she’d been executed, when the Bright Lady had imposed her Mandate on Glyffa, Andre must have defied it, exempted himself. The falling-out with his mother had lasted nearly a century.
“And your sister, Andre? I have word from her only very infrequently. Is she well?”
“Quite. And happy, I believe.”
“Then I am content. I worried when she went with you from Glyffa, but knew you two would need one another.”
Angorman cleared his throat; they were all feeling uncomfortable. “The campaign has gone ill, madam?”
“Not well, say rather. Would you not all take somewhat to drink?” They accepted tots of brandy. Swan performed introductions as chairs were brought.
“Your bringing Blazetongue and the heiress is good hearing,” the Trustee declared. “The Veganán commander is due for council. I know he will find this more to his liking.”
Gil was worried about Salamá’s manpower. “How bad are you outnumbered?”
“Badly enough, though we have pruned down the odds a bit since the beginning. Many landings were made on Veganá’s southern coasts. They lost several ports, and the Masters poured in more men. They swept Veganá and hold most of it, if uneasily.”
“Which Southwastelanders are these?” Angorman inquired.
“They are of the Occhlon, once a peaceful race. The Five recruited them through Yardiff Bey; now they are truest fanatics, avid to lay down their lives for the Masters, foremost in the favor of Salamá.
“They took Veganá in four pitched battles. We have fought them twice within our borders, drawing them on. They are eager for us though; I suspect they would relish an opportunity to trounce us rowdy bitches who have emptied so many of their saddles, pour souls.” She shifted her shepherdess’ crook. “This war must be resolved; the Reconciliation is not far off, eh, Swan?”
The High Constable of Region Blue agreed. Hands clasped behind her back, she went to the pavilion’s entrance, her thoughts on her many ideas to improve life in Glyffa for all. “Your legacy will be human weal,” she said to the Trustee at length, “and fulfillment. Your name will live forever.”
Swan stepped back from the entrance, seeing someone coming. A man marched into the tent, the Commander of Veganá, Lord Blacktar
get. He was barrel-chested, with eyes ringed with proclamations of fatigue. He doffed his helmet, holding it in his left arm. His head was shaved smooth, gleaming in the light. His hand went up to touch back his long mustachios, which were waxed stiff. He wore an unusual blazonry, a red circle with a heart done in jet, like a fencing mark. His broadsword hilt was set with a carnelian-eyed basilisk, and his cloak was stained and muddy from the campaign.
The Trustee rose. “Please welcome new friends, my Lord Blacktarget. They bear best tidings to us all.” The travelers were quickly named.
“What tidings are they?” Blacktarget asked curtly. Andre took the wrappings from Blazetongue. He handed it to the astonished general.
“But—the Sword of Kings. This is past belief! I know it from old songs, but I never thought I—” His gaze caressed the blade, then suspicion showed on his face. “From whence comes it?”
“Sword and owner found their way to one another,” Andre said, “in a time of convergences.”
“Yes, but how?” Andre’s words suddenly penetrated. “Owner, did you say? The Princess has been found?”
Woodsinger came forward. In the middle of the drama the baby had fallen asleep. Blacktarget’s shock was visible. “Stolen the night her parents were killed,” he recalled, “but I have held the Princess Cynosure myself, and I know her. Note the shape of her ear. It is indisputably Cynosure. How many prayers entreated for our sovereign and our symbol of fortune at war?”
He took a seat, unsettled, even while he exulted. “These are the things I need, at the moment I need them. Now will Veganá triumph.” He jumped up again, his arms wide over Cynosure, so the shadow of Blazetongue fell across her. “Blacktarget the fool! The fates have thrown back the night, just when I despaired most!” He swung around, laughing, impetuous enough in that moment to catch up the Trustee and give her a hug; they’d had their share of disagreements during the campaign. She stopped him with a little ahem!, and he sobered.
