by Dave Smeds
"Indeed it is," Deena replied in a firm but noncomittal tone. "Tell me, what would be the best way to reach Garthmorron?"
He stepped on a wood ant and swept the insect out with the side of his boot. "Stay here, is what I'd say. We're too far from anywhere for rebels or Dragon's men to worry about. But if you must go, keep off the roads once you get to Yent."
"Many thanks."
The innkeeper shook his head and ambled toward the kitchen, frowning in the manner of a man who has no patience or love for political events. The group waited until he vanished behind the curtain before they exchanged worried glances.
"We're arriving just in time," Toren murmured. "Our host is right. If the Dragon has lost a wizard of the Ril, he'll send serious reinforcements, and soon. We'd better step up our pace."
****
The fare was simple but sustaining. After weeks of camp food, it went down with a satisfying evenness. Toren especially liked it. It was different from the cuisine of his home, but it was forest food, and for all its newness there was something familiar about it.
"Aren't you going to throw up?" Deena teased. Toren rapped her knuckles lightly with his spoon.
They resumed their trek before noon. The innkeeper muttered to himself and cautioned them not to make light of the conditions ahead. Deena thanked him.
"We'll keep to the open road," Toren announced as the inn vanished behind them. "It's faster. But we'll have to start camping out of sight."
An herb growing at the base of a giant tree caught the modhiv's eye-as did the rich, black soil in which it grew, and the unusual striations of color on the bark above it.
"Something wrong?" Deena queried.
"No," he replied. "The countryside just seems familiar." And well it should, he thought. Obo had lived in this land for almost nineteen years. The impressions reminded Toren of those he used to receive from his ancestors. In a gesture of sentimentality, he awakened his father's spirit. His sire murmured that it was good to have found forest again, but then berated him about the colorful native garb he wore. He restored the totem fragment to its niche and closed the lid.
On the second day, they encountered a squad of three armed men who glared at them but passed by without comment. From then on they kept off the main highway. On the third night after their meal at the inn, Toren's hands began to tickle, as if coated with strands of cobweb. The sensation intensified when he faced east.
"What does it mean?" Deena asked.
"Alemar and Elenya are closer than Garthmorron," Toren said.
The next day the tickle became an itch. It felt as if he were wearing something on his hands. It guided him slightly south of east, nearer to the coast. As the afternoon wore on he grew annoyed by the effect, so he dismissed it. From then on he summoned it at will, normally only when they came to forks in their path and had to choose a direction. At each such time it pulsed more strongly.
They passed a gutted estate. In the shade of the trees at the edge of a corn field they found freshly turned graves, one of them marked with a shattered sword. Unharvested corn lay knocked to the ground, stalks broken, the grain denied its chance to mature. A league farther east, as they searched for a way to cross a major stream, they found a destroyed bridge.
A middle-aged woman sat on a boulder just upstream from the broken structure, fishing. Startled, she pulled in her line and watched the travellers intently as they approached. Toren, senses keen to any premonition of ambush, felt no danger.
"How close is Yent?" he asked the woman.
"Ye stand within the province," she responded. "The town be five leagues east by northeast." Her reply fell oddly on his ears. She spoke in the local vernacular, the Low Speech of the Cilendri.
Toren thanked her and they rode on, obviously much to her relief. They soon found a ford and crossed the stream.
They detoured toward the south, avoiding the provincial capital. The deep patches of uninhabited forest vanished, replaced by groves of silk trees, corralled thickets, and even cleared fields. They saw prevalent signs of recent conflict-burned buildings, despoiled crops, and a distinct absence of normal traffic on the highways.
They concealed themselves in a brush-filled gully while a patrol of twenty armored men galloped past, the Dragon's insignia emblazoned on their jupons. Many of their helms were dented, and links had been shattered in their chain mail hauberks. Two of the soldiers wore bandages.
Toren called a halt when they found an abandoned barn. "A good place to hide for the night," he declared. The scent of goat and pig and dog still hung strongly in the air, as if the animals resided there still, but the party shared their slumber with only mice and bats.
As dawn beamed in through open knotholes in the walls, Toren let his hands feel the pull once more. He sat up in surprise. The sensation was definitely stronger than it had been when they bedded down. He roused the others.
"They're close, and they're moving. Let's go. We can eat breakfast as we ride."
The barn was not far from a thin road scarred with wagon ruts and choked with weeds. They had avoided it the evening before, but now Toren announced they would follow it.
His hands itched so furiously it was hard to hold the reins.
****
"Stop there!" cried a voice from the trees.
Toren and the others halted. The canopy of leaves above their heads glowed beneath a noonday sun. Ten archers stepped out of the thick growth on either side of the road, arrows nocked and drawn. The speaker was a tall man dressed in doeskin.
"What is your business here?" the man demanded.
The temple guards stiffened. Geim's fingers inched toward his throwing net. "Be at peace," Toren told them. He considered what he would tell the stranger. Given the intensity of the itch, the choice came easily. "We seek Alemar, Prince of Elandris, and his sister, Elenya," he said loudly.
The leader regarded them calmly. "Why?" he said finally, and Toren knew he had chosen well.
"I will share that with the prince or princess. Tell them that I come from the temple of Struth."
The tall man smoothed his hair back. "The prince has told us that a man may come from the South. He is to be asked three questions."
"Go ahead," Toren replied.
"What is the capital of Serthe?"
"Headwater."
"Where do statues speak?"
"At the Oracle of the Frog God."
"Where were you born?"
"In the village of Ten Trees, in the Land of the Fhali, in the Wood."
The tall man smiled. "'In the Wood' was sufficient. Well met," he said, and at his gesture the archers eased their bowstrings. "My name is Tregay. And you?"
Toren gave his name.
"You truly are from the Wood," Tregay mused. "I thought that was just part of the code. You've come a long way to meet my lord and lady. I am happy to announce that your journey is at an end. They're less than a quarter of a league away. I'll take you to them."
XXVIII
ALEMAR KNELT OVER OMRIL. The Dragon's sorcerer lay limp on his pallet, drooling and uttering weak, piping noises. His silk robes reeked from a month without laundering. Alemar's men had repeatedly tried to remove the soiled garments during the month since the fight in the north, but Omril clung to them with hysterical vigor. Attempting to take them was the only thing that could provoke the magician to action; otherwise he did nothing more than whisper to himself or stare at beetles and grubs on the ground. He had to be reminded to eat and take care of bodily functions.
Alemar closed the flap of the one-person tent and placed his left palm on the wizard's forehead. On his right hand, the gauntlet warbled. Omril ceased fidgeting.
"Good," the prince murmured. "Now remember where we were yesterday. You were showing me your quarters in Dragonsdeep."
Alemar probed. And cringed. The damage worsened every day. The wizard, in his confusion, was exaggerating what Alemar had begun, consuming his own sense of identity, warping his inner being in frightening and irreparab
le ways. But Omril responded to Alemar's entry. He calmed, and gradually the twisting corridors of his mind straightened. The times when the prince looked within were the wizard's only moments of respite from himself.
The memories welled up. Alemar trod down a by-now-familiar path from Omril's well-appointed room deep in the Dragon's palace, through the wing where most of the sorcerers of the Ril lived, and into the audience chamber of Gloroc himself. In this particular recollection, the wizard stood in front of the Dragon and received his orders to come to Cilendrodel and ferret out information concerning the gauntlets, which Gloroc had determined were indeed the talismans that had been taken from Setan. Alemar switched the memory to others he had explored less often, such as the locations of guard stations, secret exits from the palace, or even the nature of some of the tomes of necromancy lying in Omril's private library. The wizard was a wellspring of lore. He had been second in rank of all the Ril wizards.
Fatigue called the healer back. Satisfied that he had gleaned a few more bits of information useful to the rebel cause, Alemar sighed and lifted away his hand. A forlorn squeak escaped Omril's lips, then he fainted.
Alemar shuddered. Even enemies did not deserve such torment. But as long as Omril could provide strategic knowledge, the prince could not afford to put him to rest. Thanks to Gloroc's mind-reading powers, no spies had ever penetrated the central reaches of his palace; Omril's memories were therefore especially valuable.
The prince left the tent. The fresh forest air blessed his lungs. He wiped Omril's sweat from his palm and checked the camp. Recently wounded men lay in hammocks or still in the travois on which they had been dragged to the site. A brief look at their auras showed that they were in stable condition, except for the one who couldn't be saved. Sentries kept an alert watch, as did rythni hidden in the treetops. Wynneth approached, having seen that he had finished his session with Omril.
"The roast boar is ready," she said. "Eat before you think of something else to do."
He nodded wearily. Good advice. Since the band had come south, it seemed there was always too much to do. He slipped his arm around his wife's waist and joined the knot of twenty or thirty individuals gathered near the base of a gigantic broadleaf tree. Solint the Minstrel handed him a steaming strip of meat. The aroma stirred the ache in his stomach. How long had it been since he had eaten a real meal? He wolfed down several bites.
Suddenly his gauntlet whistled. All five of its major gems blazed. A few feet away, Elenya's did the same. The twins stared at each other. The pulse coming from the talismans resembled nothing they had ever experienced.
Rythni chirped, announcing the arrival of strangers. The rebels tensed and reached for their weapons, but Alemar gestured for calm. The rythni indicated no cause for alarm. In another few moments, the sentries confirmed the little people's report. Boughs and shrubbery parted. Tregay's patrol strode into the glade, leading seven men and a woman.
Alemar knew instantly who it was. At the head of the newcomers walked two tall, yellow-haired, golden-skinned individuals. The lead man's aura gleamed like a bonfire on Dark Night. The gauntlet tugged Alemar's wrist, as if trying to slip off his hand. A cold tingle spread goose pimples all across his chest and back.
"At last," Elenya murmured.
The stranger stared at the talismans, and at the twins, with wide-eyed, almost childlike fascination. He swallowed deeply.
Tregay led him forward. "Struth's candidate is here, my lord," the rebel announced excitedly.
"So I see," Alemar said, remembering how to speak. He introduced himself and his sister. "You are Toren?"
"Yes," the stranger said. Finally he glanced up, away from the gauntlet. He seemed to notice the glade, the camp, and the crowd around him for the first time. He gestured belatedly at his companions. "This is Geim. And that is Deena." He named the five temple guards. "All servants of Struth."
"The first two names are known to me," Alemar said. "You were on the mission to the Far South." He smiled at Geim and Deena.
The gauntlets hummed. Even those without magical talents sensed the pull between the talismans and the newcomer. "Well," Alemar said, holding up his right hand, partially closing his eyes against the glare from the gems. "I intended to offer you the hospitality of the camp, meager as that may be. As you can see, we've just been through a battle." He waved at the wounded men. "A successful one, I'm happy to say. We've driven the Dragon's garrison back into its stronghold in Yent. After today's defeat, I think they'll stay there, waiting for reinforcements from Elandris. We've earned a respite, if only a lull before the storm." He realized he was rambling, chuckled, and slid the gauntlet off his hand. "But food and rest can wait. You've come here for a reason. Let's be sure you haven't wasted your time." He thrust out the talisman.
****
Toren regarded the proffered object with a dry mouth and a flush of heat around the neck, acutely aware of the eyes upon him, particularly Deena's. The itch was gone, but bands of energy flowed from his palms to the gauntlets, creating an unbearable tug deep in the bones of his arms and shoulders. He reached forward, hand trembling, and hesitantly wrapped his fingers around Alemar's gift.
Toren inserted his right hand and pulled the finely meshed mail snug over his fingers. Suddenly the talisman grew heavy. He grunted and tensed his arm in order to keep it from plunging to the ground. The twins seemed impressed that he succeeded. Within moments the gauntlet grew light…
And the world changed.
First, and most fundamentally, he felt strong. Each breath pumped vigor into him. The weariness of the long journey dissipated. Secondly, the auras of the people around him sharpened, achieving a clarity that he had previously enjoyed only at night, away from the interference of background light. That belonging to one of the wounded men was sputtering. Toren guessed the rebel would die before nightfall. Complex and eye-pleasing filaments of energy shone around the twins, brightest of all except for the hearty glow streaming from the abdomen of the pregnant woman near Alemar.
Like the auras, sources of magic stood out like the solitary trees in the pasture lands of Irigion. In addition to the riot of tendrils blazing around the gauntlets, Toren saw the bursts coming from the amulets on the twins' chests, though the talismans were hidden beneath their collars. The throwing net draped over Geim's saddle horn flickered prominently. But far more intriguing was the forest itself. Before donning the gauntlet, he had been completely blind to a deep-seated, primal force contained in the foliage. A tiny bit radiated from each living leaf and twig, a virtually inexhaustible supply of energy should one know how to tap it. Someone could, for he sensed infinitesimal fractions of that power being drawn upon and guided in conscious ways. Of course, he thought. It's the rythni.
He laughed. He smiled at Deena. The anxious frown left her face. He turned and reached out his hand toward Elenya. "May I have the other gauntlet?"
The princess gazed at the talisman as if she had never seen it quite as she saw it then, slipped it off with a precision that betrayed a reluctance to part with it. She held it out to Toren.
"Be sure of yourself," Elenya said. "My brother and I each tried to put on the whole pair soon after we left the desert. We were both knocked unconscious. They might have killed us had we been slightly less attuned." Toren heard a hint of challenge in her tone, along with a note of concern.
Toren felt the compelling force in his right hand and said with confidence, "Struth knew what she was doing when she sent me."
The Vanihr took the second talisman and cradled it, examining the inset stones and the delicate, yet virtually indestructible gold filigree. He licked his lips, nodded, and inserted his left hand.
A ward automatically swelled around him, but other than that he felt little change. The most distinct difference was that he could sense what the rythni were doing with the forest energies he had detected earlier. They were weaving spells of concealment. Toren had only to adjust his inner vision a slight degree and the little people stood revealed
, as visible to him now as if they had stepped from shadows into full sunlight. He was reminded of the moment when Struth had dropped the illusion on her countenance, except that in this case, the rythni were still actively trying to cloak themselves. The talismans utterly nullified their attempts. He hoped they were equally effective against Gloroc's illusions.
The relatively minor improvement in his senses worried Toren. Surely this was not all. Then he remembered how Keron's belt had acted when he had first put it on. The way to test the gauntlets was to do something with them.
One of the spells that Janna had taught him came to mind. He had been unable to master it at the temple. He recalled the technique and concentrated.
Jaws dropped and eyes widened on every side of him. Deena cried out.
"Where did he go?" Tregay blurted.
Toren had not moved. Smiling, he slipped to the side just as Elenya, less disoriented than the others, reached into the spot where he had been standing. She waved her hands over the area.
A voice carried over the hubbub of the rebels. "He's invisible." It was the pregnant woman who spoke. Toren noted a certain wryness in her tone.
The modhiv continued to wend his way through the assemblage, testing his spellweaving. No one heard his footfalls, no one felt the wind of his passage. As he ducked under a frond of bracken, careful not to brush against it, he noticed a queer pattern of magic, quite powerful but chaotic, emanating from a small tent just ahead. Leaving his confused audience behind, he ventured forward and lifted the flap.
A man in dirty silk robes came into view. He drooled and spun away from the light as if stung. Toren identified the strange energy pattern, and grunted in surprise. He dropped his invisibility just as a rebel noticed the open flap. The man called out, and moments later Alemar and Elenya led the observers to the tent.
