Over many nights now, she had been having the same dream, and with each dive into that other world, she returned with a larger fragment of the story. Before she understood the importance of the visitation, she had slipped Gloriatrix perhaps a bit more information than the Iron Queen should have. Nonetheless, she always shared a bit of what was necessary with Gloria, and she kept the juiciest morsels to herself. Such as how the dream of the Wolf and maiden ended. With a storm.
The maiden is in the woods. Hair as red as fire, clothes as white as winter. Chasing her is a wolf: a king among the lords of Pining Row. He is important, as important to this mystery as the maiden is, she feels. Has he been hunting her? Is he hunting her? She senses that the answer is yes to both questions. And he is nearly upon her. Nipping closer and closer. Trees fall as if felled by invisible axes, and in their place rises a barbed thicket as tall to the sky as the white moon itself. In the dream, she can smell the tang of metal—iron—and she understands that this is Menos. So they are racing through Menos, then; the maiden and the king.
They each slip unhindered through the great obstructions before them. Their charge cannot be stopped. Not by the dangerous burrows laid in trenches to snap their feet and paws, traps they simply skip over. Not by the broad-winged crow that swoops at them and is barked away by the Wolf. Not by the parts of the thicket that are as tangled as yarn; these, the maiden bypasses in a gust of whiteness, these the Wolf tears right through. With her otherworldly wisdom, she knows these obstacles by their names: the Broker, Sorren, and Gloria—the great web herself.
In time, the maiden and the Wolf break the thicket and are free in a clearing blessed with stars and the full, glowing grandeur of the Gray Man. Here stand timeworn stones—faintly green and dusted in blue moss—and a slab bedded in ivy. If she looks about, twists the dream as much as it can be bent at different angles, she can read names upon the stones. Thackery, Vortigern, Fionna, and more. Even her own, she sees: all written in the stick scrawlings of the oldest written tongue.
The maiden goes to the ancient table, where she lies and waits for the Wolf to climb upon her. When he does, he is a man, handsome and virile, and Elissandra watches them kiss and then grease their hardness and softness against each other for what could be forever. A magnificent forever, and as a dreamer, she wants to watch nothing else. The moon swells, the two roar their passion, and as their release comes, so sounds the peal of the storm. The land shakes, clouds coat the moon, and when the cutting sheets of rain begin, the maiden and the Wolf only kiss and resume their lovemaking. Fuking as the world is torn into whirling dirt and disaster around them.
Elissandra was always flushed after thinking of the dream and the lovers’ contortions, and now was no exception. The dream was mostly allegory, aside from the names upon the stone-pillars, which were quite clear. Without a doubt, these were the people marked by the Daughter of Fate. At her manor, she had begun compiling a list of them, and it would be best to return there to examine this mystery further. For the end of the dream was not ambiguous. Once the maiden and the Wolf met, which her Sight told her would be soon, there would be a storm: the sort to shake the world. She wanted to be home in the most fortified of all spaces—a danger room that had been built by her forefathers after the Iron Valley quake—when that occurred.
After the storm, she would see how much of her city remained and who survived to rule it. With the darkest luck, there might be eleven seats to fill on the Council of the Wise. She wasn’t opposed to being queen of Menos until night fell on Geadhain. Elissandra watched the atelier burn a little longer and tickled herself with her moody thoughts. When that no longer amused her, she ripped open a tear in reality and slipped away.
XIX
THE END OF ALL ROADS
I
Brackenmire was not as it should be. When the mouth of the Valley of Fair Winds opened, it was to a rocky plain that swept in gray steps down into a greener land populated with hanging trees, reedy patches, and shaded pools. In another age, King Magnus and Queen Lila had camped in one of those glades, and made do with nothing but the warmth of their bodies and the simplest supplies for hunting and gathering—tasks, they discovered, much to his chagrin, at which Lila was better than he. At night, they had counted the fireleaf butterflies that blazed about like comets, and he told her whatever ancient poem came to him as he caressed her naked beauty in the moonlight. Through the march, he had sharpened the edge of his hate to shining perfection, and he had done that so efficiently because somewhere, beneath the rage, these memories endured. These things remained for him to fight for and protect. And yet, as the cavalry thundered down the stone road, he began to see that like Lila, what he cherished was changing and being stripped from him faster than he could save it.
First of what he noticed was the stink. No milk thistle and willow breezes, but a sour stagnancy to the air. Soon, as the days grew hotter and hotter, the green drained from the land, and the refreshing pools clogged and dried up into muddy scabs that were picked at by buzzing insects. The grasses withered to straw. Trees turned brown: their fruits withered and ignored by the feral animals that hunted amid them. Misery had claimed the land and thrown the ecology out of balance. Come the evening campfires, the animals were vicious and bold from starvation. Not only the wildcats, but also peaceful creatures—badgers and even squirrels—charged the supply tents and had to be killed for their determination. Slaying them was a mercy, really, considering how scrawny and desperate they were.
What have you done, Brutus? King Magnus asked often as the march went on. He was at a loss, for he could think of no magik but his own that could do this. Now and again, his frustration boiled into such a storm that he himself contributed to this imbalance, and whole sections of their march were turned into muddy slogs, as rainclouds conjured by the king’s leaking Will followed the army. With the rain, the animals, and all of nature against them, it was a wretched journey. Each man started to feel the thud of his horse’s hooves like the drops of sand in his life’s chronex, and that he was, indeed, marching toward doom.
Reaching Willowholme, then, at the heart of Brackenmire, should have lifted the army’s spirits. But the willows for which Willowholme got its name were as hung and dry as an old maid; the quaint houses that nestled in the trees like a city of birds’ nests and the rope bridges that connected them were lifeless when they should have been busy with light and the famed music of the river folk; and the few people who finally stirred from their holes came shyly and without the cheer or the hospitality for which they were known. Whatever wretches were bold enough to approach the army would cry and plead for food. Mostly, the people of Willowholme watched from the roadsides with the same long pitiful stares as the animals of Brackenmire.
In any event, the army needed to pass through Willowholme to reach the bridge that crossed Lake Tesh and connected to Mor’Khul; thus, there was no way to ignore this plight. Not that the king would have anyhow; he wanted to know what evil his brother had caused these people. He called a halt to the march, and the army settled along the road. No tents were raised, for they did not intend to stay, only to delay their journey. Upon his request to meet with the ruling council, a thin beggarly woman was brought to Magnus, his hammer, and his legion masters, as they gathered in the shade of the city’s tallest and oldest trees. How sad it was for Magnus to witness these weeping, sickly giants: plants he recalled from when they stood no higher than shrubs, before Willowholme was even a thought in men’s minds. He was involved in this reminiscence when a woman bowed and greeted him.
“King Magnus.”
She tried to hide her face behind her dirty scarf, so unkempt did she feel in her rags while in the presence of this unspoiled immortal and his chosen warriors, who gleamed like men of light. She was shocked when the resplendent king himself joined her on his knees in the mud. He tilted her head and captured her brown eyes with his emerald ones. She would be as pretty as a sunny-haired, freckled barmaid, if not for the hollowness in her cheeks and
the despair and famine that had eaten her flesh. Despite this, a glimmer of determination shone in her like a flash of steel. The woman had grit still.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Tabitha Fischer,” she replied.
If memory served the king, the Fischers were among the first settlers of Willowholme: tillers with strong backs and stronger wills.
“I have heard tell of starvation and sickness, and I can see that the land has not been treating you well.” Crack! He slapped a hungry blackfly just as it pinched his neck for blood. “I asked to see the masters of this village, and you are all that has come forth. Please tell me that you are not all that remains to guide these people.”
“That I cannot do,” said Tabitha with a shiver. “I am the council of Willowholme. Or all that has chosen to stay. I could not abandon those who have deep roots and no families elsewhere, as this is my one and true home. Many of our other families fled north when the winds changed and the waters sickened.”
“Waters sickened?”
“You do not know,” said Tabitha, her face waxen. “I shall show you, King Magnus.”
The king and his legion masters strode after the woman, who hobbled ahead with praiseworthy vigor—a dash of the Fischer spirit remained, it seemed, and would not be crushed. Out of the sticky shadows of the willows and into the sweltering day, she led them. They were shortly away from the village and wandering the dry fields preceding the shores of Lake Tesh. Blowflies ruled the stagnant air, and what wind wheezed toward them was foul as a belch from a rotten mouth. As they descended a gentle hill, whisking through brittle reeds and staining their armor with mud, the smell became a permanence, and there was no mistaking its source—the lake. Once the ground leveled out, they stopped in the shoals and were up to their calves in muck. They went no farther. There was no need, for they could see the lake many strides beyond: its brown waters churning lazily as the sloppy contents of a chamberpot; the greasy film upon its skin; the upturned fish—bellies to the sun—floating upon this feast of rot like scores of maggots, fish that even the pecking gulls along the shore deigned unfit to eat. Far off into the blinding glare of the sun, the disaster stretched along this lake of endless death. Has the whole of Lake Tesh been destroyed? wondered Magnus. Unwittingly, Tabitha answered this for the king.
“We’ve taken the rowboats out, all the way south until the waters get so hot that steam and carcasses can make a man pass out.”
“Heat?” whispered the king.
“Yes, Your Highness. You could dip your hand in the water—though I’d advise that you don’t—and find it warm as a bath. Hot as a kettle the farther out you travel. It is good that you’ve come from a desert, for I imagine another awaits you on the other side of Lake Tesh. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Not for our mercy, but for business in the South.”
“We are paying a visit to the South, yes,” the king said guardedly. “When did this begin?”
Tabitha turned to the king. She was torn with sadness. “A month past. I remember. It all happened so quickly…I can think of only one force that could wither beauty so fast. Magik. Perhaps it was longer, when the first signs came, and the odd dead fish popped up. But it was in the third week of Lunasa, when things became quite serious, when the lake became a grave. Around then when folks took ill, too.”
“Ill?” questioned the king.
“From drinking from our wells,” said Tabitha. “We thought that those were safe and we could wait out this blight. But it’s all spoiled, King Magnus. Not just what you see here, but the soil beneath where we stand. The fish or some other rot crept into the streams that fed our wells. People were drinking death for days and never knew it.” Tabitha shook her head. “We don’t have the medicines or magiks here that you of the North surely do, only family-recipe poultices and remedies. Those will do for a fever, but not for a plague. We figured out boiling the water made it bearable to drink, and we traded our rods for spears and bows to hunt. If you’ve seen the wildlife, though, you’d know that it’s not enough to support all the starving bellies in Willowholme. Not when the animals are no better off than ourselves.”
“Why have you not sought aid?” asked Magnus.
Pain and anger passed over her face like a dark cloud. “Aid? Oh, but we have. From your brother himself. Two parties went to Zioch; the first with my husband and my son. I wonder what they’ve found on the other side of Lake Tesh that has kept them. Maybe you could ask your brother where they are when you see his kingship. He who we fief and fish the land for, the man who is supposed to help us in times like this. Where is he? Why is he so silent while the land cries for relief?”
She had raised a fist to him, and Magnus could sense the slick hands of his company already upon their hilts. He stood them down with a glare, and then took the shaking fist and spoke to Tabitha with a cold passion that calmed her.
“My brother will answer for this, to me. This I promise you.”
Frightened from his intensity, the cruel apathy of a snake—though not toward her—Tabitha pulled from his grasp. She wasn’t imagining it, but her wrist was rimed in frost. She dusted it off and begged his pardon.
“I spoke out of turn, and quite a bit too much. Please forgive me.”
“You said nothing that you were not right in saying,” replied the king.
With a glower, he turned to Lake Tesh again. He allowed the atrocity to consume him: the decay, the utter waste of life. None of this could be repaired without sorcery, and not until whatever magik had taken hold was banished. Brutus was to blame for this. Brutus and whatever diabolical force he had partnered with. I share everything with you, my dearest brother, he spat. Including your guilt. Restitutions for the mistakes made by the other of his blood could begin today. After the heavy stillness, he addressed his company.
“Masters.”
The warriors and the hammer jumped to military alertness.
“We shall stay the day and night and help these people in all the ways that we can. Seventh Master, your sorcerers can provide clean water for the people of Willowholme. Eighth Master, the duty falls upon you to organize and dispense as much of our provisions as we can spare. Zioch is less than a week away at a breakneck pace, which is how we shall ride on the morrow. We can worry over our stores once we have finished speaking with my brother. The rest of you masters are to help where it is needed. We have many hands and much need to fill them with tasks. If there are to be tears, let us make them tears of joy. Show Willowholme that there is no war against tyranny on the battlefield or the tyranny of suffering that cannot be won by the Watchmen of Eod.”
The nine legion masters barked their assent, saluted, and were stamping up the hill. Tabitha was stunned by the whirlwind of what had been said and done.
“Tabitha,” continued the king, who was not yet finished with his orders, “while your pride does not want to hear this, I need you to organize your people for a march.”
“King Magnus—”
“I know what you have said, and I would not lightly ask you to leave what you love and have known.” Bitterly, the king gritted his teeth, and a waft of cold came from him. He spoke with the rawest candor, and Tabitha was magnetized. “Seasons are changing. We are all to lose things that we hold dear. That is the nature of life: that it cannot exist without death. A lesson that you might think a man who lives forever does not know. But I know it all too well. I have seen more that I love pass than you or all those you know will see in your lifetimes. I know when the seasons are turning, and that time is upon us. If you stay here, a terrible summer or a terrible winter will come. And whoever remains in Willowholme may not survive it.”
The king was talking in metaphor, and while she was no poet, he was not difficult to decipher. A king did not secretly herd an army south for an exchange of peace or pleasantries. Whatever was to occur in the mountain ring of Mor’Keth would have consequences, and the king was fairly warning her of that. Stay, and there would be more loss. Go, and they migh
t have a chance to return to Willowholme one day when the seasons had calmed between the kings.
“I-I shall do as you ask,” she promised.
“I thank you,” said the king. “If you head east to the River Feordhan and follow its shores past the smaller settlements, you will reach Bainsbury. Speak to Gavin Foss, elected lord of Bainsbury, a man whose forefathers and I have a history back to when they were camping in huts. Tell him that the king of Eod has ushered you there, and he will take you in. Your people are legendary for their skill in charming a catch from the waters of Lake Tesh, waters that few can tame, for the fish swim deep and are as canny as snakes in how they hide. You will be welcome for your trades. And your music, too, which is wonderful, and I regret I shall not hear.”
“Tonight! We shall play for you and your army tonight,” pledged Tabitha. The weeks had been unbearable, and she was near to tearing up and embarrassed that she had nothing else to offer for the king’s generosity but songs. Yet he nodded, and she noticed the slightest smile, which told her that this was enough. There was much to be done, and the day’s wick was shortening, so she bowed to the king and the strange silent suit of armor that followed him, and then slogged away. King Magnus called after her with an unusual question.
“Your husband and son. What are their names?”
She paused. “Their names? Why?”
“Because if they do not return to you, then I shall ask my brother where they are to be found. In his lands, he should be aware of all who enter. If he is not, then I shall seek their fates myself. One way or another, you will have peace.”
In a day of euphoria and surprises, more of the king’s compassion was almost too much to bear for the beaten leader of Willowholme. She spoke gushingly about her family, and perhaps bent the ear of the king more than a humble woman should have, but this pale and glorious man’s compassion prodded her onward past her usual discretion.
Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) Page 52
