“Gideon, it has been some time,” she murmured. “I take it the Mother was receptive to your petitions?”
“She was,” he answered distractedly. He started to step around her, then turned back and place a hand upon her arm. “Mol. Would you answer a question for me?”
“Of course.”
“How many villages in this region, do you think, at a guess, have an oval-shaped green in their center?”
* * *
“Stones Above, boy, what’re you doing out so late?” Torvul had, it seemed, gone out for a stroll, pipe in hand, and stumbled upon Gideon walking carefully, one foot in front of the other, around the village green.
“Trying to get a reasonable measure of the circumference of the green by using my footsteps measured against the common pace.” Carefully, the boy set another foot forward.
Torvul took in that answer slowly, puffing a great cloud of smoke from his pipe. “Why in all the seven secret names of gold would you be doing that?”
The boy lifted his head to stare at the dwarf through the darkness. “The seven secret names of gold?”
Torvul waved his free hand dismissively. “Human tongues lack the nuance required for Dwarfish oaths. Pathetic, really,” he added. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“How many villages in the region have a green that is oval-shaped?”
“Cold’s that matter?”
“The altar in the Temple—the altar we raised—is also oval.”
Torvul pursed his lips around his pipe stem, shifted the fingers that cradled the huge, rune-carved bowl. “Coincidence?”
“Surely you don’t believe quite so much in coincidence, Torvul.”
“I suppose I don’t see why it matters.”
“Think symbolically Torvul. You’re the Wit, after all. We serve a Goddess, after all.”
Torvul puffed away. “Hrm?”
“A feminine principle.”
“And?”
“The Mother,” Gideon said, exasperation bleeding through his words.
“Wha…oh. OH.” Torvul lowered his pipe. “Cold, boy, that’s no coincidence. But why’s it matter now? Civilized folk are after their first sleep.”
“She told me that where matters,” Gideon replied. “Where is significant. Here, I mean. That She woke to the world here for a reason. I am trying to puzzle out what it is.”
“And measuring the green would help you do that?”
“I think it is the same proportions as the altar. I made only a rough measurement by eye, since I’ve no tapes or compass.”
“So it may be the same proportion. Let me ask, and be honest, why does that matter a whit?”
Gideon frowned and tugged at an earlobe thoughtfully with one hand. “It seemed like something to do. Analyze the information in front of me. Measure and quantify.”
“Your turn t’think symbolically. If they’re both the same symbol it’s the idea that matters, not the size o’the thing.”
“I suppose that could be true,” Gideon admitted grudgingly. “I feel as though the answer is in front of me. Tantalizingly so. The symbol inherent in the shapes. What else about this village sets it apart?”
“I’ve only lived here as long as you, and I’ve been rather too busy stopping it from being burnt or razed to have taken in much of the local folklore,” Torvul replied dryly. He joined Gideon at the edge of the green, surveyed it in the light of the stars. “Why aren’t we asking Mol?”
“I don’t think she’d answer any more than the Mother would,” Gideon said. “At times I’m not sure there’s a clear line between the two of them. I think I have to solve this, to understand something. There are links, inextricable links between this material world, and the world of the will. I think that is what She is trying to teach me. A year ago I would have doubted there is such a thing as a place of power, and yet…”
“You’re gettin’ a mite philosophical even for me, lad. But frankly I could’ve told you that places have power any time, for the askin’.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you, Torvul,” Gideon replied. “No matter how I try, sometimes I still think like a sorcerer.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“I disconnect everything. The needs of the body separate from the life of the mind. The physical facts of the world separate from how I can exert my will upon it.” He bowed his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Torvul clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We dwarfs have a saying, lad. When it’s too late t’sleep, it’s time t’drink. Let’s pop into the Inn and have a brandy. We’ll not wake anyone.”
“Having a brandy will help me sleep?”
“No,” Torvul said. “But it’ll make doing without a bit more worthwhile.”
Reluctantly, Gideon followed the dwarf into the Inn. The taproom was dark but for the small glow from the banked fire.
For all the seeming heaviness of his steps, and the considerable bulk packed into his round-shouldered frame, Torvul hardly made a sound as he slumped into bench. “You know where the bottle is,” he said. “And get a couple of cups, too. Let’s drink like civilized folk for once,” he murmured.
Gideon had no difficulty seeing in the dark. He walked around the edge of the long wooden bar and plucked the bottle from a shelf behind it. He cast his eyes around, looking for cups, saw none, so he walked around the shelves that stood behind the bar, beyond which lay more storage, and the kitchen.
Still distracted, the boy didn’t see the iron ring set into the trap door that guarded the cold well, and his foot brushed against the ring, almost tripping him.
He stopped, stared down at the wood beneath his feat.
“Torvul,” he said, straining to keep his voice quiet. “Come here, please.”
By the time the dwarf had arrived, Gideon had pried the trap door open and carefully set it back. The hinges creaked for want of grease, and he knelt at the side of it. It was dark inside, though he could see the pool of water sloshing around the keg that floated in it. The sides of it were earthen, not wide, roughly hewn.
“Would your opinion as a dwarf be that this was man made, or natural, Torvul?”
The dwarf peered over the boy’s shoulder. “Probably a bit o’both, why?”
“Cults of feminine deities worship at holy springs. And at crossroads,” the boy said, his voice suddenly rising. “I read of this. Bhimanzir made me study the trappings of faith so that it could be manipulated at need. Thornhurst has an oval green. At a crossroads. Was it a holy spring?”
He stood, closed the trap door, heedless of how loudly it shut. “Torvul. This entire village was once a temple to the Goddess.”
“How d’ya figure?”
“It’s a place that is sacred to Her. If She was going to return to the world, to wake from whatever sleep a goddess seeks, it was going to be here. There had to be a reason. It wasn’t merely Mol’s suffering, or Allystaire’s passing by—the lives of poor children are snuffed out like candles all over the world, in a thousand ways, a thousand petty cruelties or savage accidents of fate. But that it was happening in a place that had long been sacred to Her? That, She could not ignore.”
By now, the sounds of them banging the trap door about had drawn attention from the rest of the Inn. Heavy footsteps pounded on the floor and a weary but powerful voice called out.
“If you are robbers, you have picked the wrong Inn,” Allystaire said. “Step out where I can see you.”
“Think a moment, ya great daft blunderer,” Torvul rumbled, his voice pitched just loudly enough to carry a few feet. “You’ll wake the whole damned village.”
Gideon and Torvul stepped out from behind the shelves. Gideon still clutched the brandy bottle, and was too absorbed in the rush of thought to say much to Allystaire, who’d rushed down the stairs wearing only short breeches, carrying his hammer.
<
br /> “Put some clothes on, for decency’s sake,” Torvul muttered.
Allystaire lowered his hammer so that it rested on the floor, the haft pointing straight up, and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “If you two were just after a drink, there was hardly any need for such noise.” He dropped his hand and peered forward, frowning. “Unless you are drunk.”
“Not at all,” Gideon replied as he absently set the bottle down upon a table and slid onto the nearest bench. “Torvul, I think I have it.”
“Have what?” Allystaire’s question beat Torvul to a reply, but dwarf and man both sat down, the latter carefully setting his hammer down on the tabletop.
“The boy’s engaging in some theoretical speculation,” the dwarf told him. He glanced at Allystaire and then looked away, his face souring. “If not for yourself, for those about ya,” he said. “Ya ought to cover all that up,” he added, waving a hand, Gideon assumed, at the network of scars that marred Allystaire’s torso, rippled white lines and blotches of discolored skin telling the stories of a lifetime spent in battle.
Then he does see in the dark, Gideon noted to himself, thinking back on his talk with Idgen Marte. Unless he’d taken some potion.
“You have seen worse, dwarf,” Allystaire chided Torvul. He held up his left arm, pointing to a white patch of skin upon it. “Cold, without you, this one would have killed me.”
“I only managed the poison, boy, not the wound itself,” Torvul said. Then, with a sniff, he added, “Of course, that’s by far the more difficult matter. Most chirurgeons are mere tailors, after all, threaded needle in one hand, blade in the other. Not like an alchemist, an apothecary, a master of crafts.” Allystaire casually reached for the bottle Gideon had set down and slid it in front of Torvul, who instantly quieted and began tugging at the cork.
Allystaire turned to Gideon. “What is this theoretical speculation?”
The boy tilted his head. “What we spoke of earlier this night. Learning Her rules. Thinking on what I might do next.”
“And what is that?”
Gideon caught Torvul’s eye while the dwarf was lowering the brandy bottle. He slid it in front of Allystaire, who lifted it for a small sip.
“I don’t want to try and explain just yet,” Gideon said. “Not entirely. Yet, perhaps if I phrase it this way.” He bit his lower lip. “Imagine you had an enormous armory available to you.”
“I was dreaming,” Allystaire said, “of that very thing.”
“Well, imagine it was no dream. Imagine, then, that only a very few select people were ever allowed access to it. You are one of them, but most aren’t. If you were, with effort, able to change that—to distribute the weapons within freely, to all folk able to come for them, without dint of training, or even knowing if the arms would ultimately be used for good or evil—but there was a great crisis, and folk needed any chance to defend themselves against it, would you do it? Would you throw open the doors?”
“How great is this crisis? And I could I not simply collect the arms after it had passed?”
Gideon shook his head slowly. “No. This is a one-way decision. You do it or do not. Some of the weapons you distribute might end up in the hands of thieves and blackguards, and some might become forgotten relics. But some might wind up in the hands of folk who would want nothing more than the ability to defend their own. And some, even just a few, who receive the gift you give might seek to follow after you, and to use it in defense of the Goddess and Her people. Could you deny them that chance?”
Silence hung heavy in the otherwise empty room for a moment, till Gideon reached out for the brandy bottle and wetted his lips with a small belt from it. Torvul and Allystaire were quiet. Finally, the dwarf spoke.
“I couldn’t deny it t’them,” he said quietly but firmly. “That some might do evil with somethin’ dangerous doesn’t mean it ought t’be barred t’all.”
“I am not sure how more swords makes anyone safer,” Allystaire said.
“Well,” Gideon replied, “the metaphor is not perfect.”
“Can you not tell me what you mean to do, son?”
Gideon sighed and lowered his head. “Might I sleep on it? I am weary, and the dawn is coming, and I would prefer to explain it just the once, to everyone.” He stood, but kept his eyes lowered.
“Of course,” Allystaire said. “To your bed, then. You can have a reprieve from the morning exercises if you wish. I know it is taxing to speak with Her.”
Gideon quickly departed, his steps making barely a sound as he ascended the stairs.
“Do you know what he intends, Torvul?” Allystaire’s question was barely voiced above a whisper.
“Aye,” Torvul answered. “I do.”
“Is it necessary?”
“Can’t see how it’s otherwise. The chance of the good it could do, Allystaire…” Here, he trailed off, sighed. “I haven’t got the words. And that’s me sayin’ that.”
“Then I will not stand in his way.”
“Good. Not that ya could stop him—none of us could—but if ya told him, he’d not do it.”
“I know,” Allystaire said, as he stood and collected his hammer. “Faith, Torvul. In each other, as well as Her. Goddess knows the boy has shown it in me; time I returned it.”
Slowly, wearily, the paladin followed Gideon up the stairs. Torvul thumbed the cork back into the bottle of brandy and stood, wearily, and headed for the door, and the long walk back to his wagon.
“Took the boy long enough t’figure it out,” he muttered as he reached for his pipe pouch.
CHAPTER 31
Visions
Allystaire could feel the sweat steaming off of his head as he threw open the door of the Inn. His muscles glowed with the effort of the morning’s exercise, though the sun had not been long in the sky.
Weariness and fatigue were trumped by the feeling of turning men into knights once more. At least it was until Rede intercepted him just a few steps through the door.
Much of the village was only just awake. Timmar was handing out small loaves of bread to folk who’d come by for a morning meal, and Rede had one of them in his hand, whole, unbroken, uneaten. Red-rimmed eyes were huge in the man’s face, and his cheeks were pallid and lined, his upraised hand twitching with nervous energy. It was that shaking hand he laid upon the paladin’s chest, stopping him as he walked.
Unable to stop himself, Allystaire shot Rede a look, hard enough to have the man recoil away from him, lifting his shaking hand in front of his face. With a sigh, Allystaire lifted his own hand, palm out. “Rede. Calm yourself. What is the matter?”
“I have had more visions, Lord Stillbright,” he said, suddenly turning his eyes back to Allystaire. The feverish intensity in them was frightening and Allystaire found himself wondering how far, if at all, it was bounded by sanity.
“Rede,” he said, lowering his voice, and taking the man’s elbow to guide him to a table, “come, speak to me. And there is no need to call me Lord.” The former monk sat, folding his long frame and limbs awkwardly.
Allystaire seated himself, ignoring the trickling of sweat through his hair and down his back that sought to remind him of all the effort he’d just expended. “Now,” he murmured, “tell me—quietly—of these new visions.” After a moment, he added, managing not to grit his teeth, “Please.”
“I saw knights winging through the air from stone tower to stone tower,” Rede said. “The sun rising from a well. A mountain floating in the air above a mass of men, who begged and pleaded not to be destroyed by it. I saw a great serpent struck in its middle with a spear and writhing upon the ground and wreaking destruction as it died. Vines and other green growing things withering and dying. The sun that had risen from the well falling into the sea and setting it aflame.”
“What does any of it mean?”
“I cannot say,” Rede replied. “It comes
in flashes amidst so much other nonsense that I am lucky to know what I have told you.”
“What kind of nonsense?”
“Things I can barely put into words. Men and women who sing in voices made of fire. A knight who struggles for breath. A laughing corpse buried beneath a standing stone. A set of balances weighing gold against air and light.” Rede set the loaf of bread he’d clutched upon the table and wove his fingers together, both hands now shaking. “How can I know what any of it means? None of it makes any sense. I have told you the things I could pull out of the dreams that assail me. I can do little else.”
Then what Frozen good are you to me? Allystaire didn’t give voice to his immediate thought. He forced himself to take a deep and clearing breath. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “if you spoke with Torvul, or Gideon, or Mol, they might be able to help you interpret these visions. I have little head for such things. I will not discount them, but I am not the man who can tell you what they mean.” He worked hard to keep his voice even and calming. To no great effect, he thought, as the blazing fire in the other man’s eyes hadn’t dimmed even a bit.
“You’re the one that has to understand.” Rede’s hand suddenly shot across the table and seized Allystaire’s wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, his skin feverish, and Allystaire resisted the urge to do something violent with his free hand. “If these things are not to come to pass, you must be the one to stop them,” he hissed, leaning forward. “If I am going to redeem myself, I have to serve you.”
“No. If you wish to serve, you serve the Goddess, and that means serving anyone in need.”
Rede’s grip tightened. Allystaire felt untrimmed fingernails digging into his flesh, and he was preparing to use his free hand to pry the other man’s fingers away, when they suddenly slackened and let go. “You’re right,” Rede whispered, lowering his eyes and pulling his hands together in his lap. “You’re right. I…is there anything in what I said?”
“I do not know. I like the idea of knights winging their way in the sky,” he said, trying a light jest. “If I could move an army in the air, I should fear no enemy. And if I could strike from such a height? No wall would ever stop me.”
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