by Bill Fawcett
Hurrying toward the palace, Jremm found he wasn’t tired anymore. This would be twice he had saved the king, twice his efforts for the H’satie and the Council had provided vital information. What he did was important, more important than baking bricks. He was valued, not just by a critical employer, but by his king.
The self-proclaimed ClanMrem had no warning the wizard was in the camp. He awoke, groggy from the wine he had drunk the night before, to see Cwynid entering his tent. Even as he struggled to his feet, Crethok resolved to punish the mrem who had failed to alert him.
“You have failed again,” Cwynid accused without even a greeting. “You could not even stop one paltry caravan.”
Crethok began to protest and then remained quiet. He allowed himself to imagine how he would deal with whichever guard had failed to stop the wizard from entering. It did not matter that even he was afraid to cross the tan mrem, it would be satisfying and he wasn’t enjoying this at all. The accursed wizard was right, he had failed. The ClanSon’s tail drooped and he sagged back into his sleeping furs.
“No matter.” Cwynid casually dismissed the disaster with a flick of his tail. “I have given orders for the rest of your mrem to follow. The call has been sung for those tribes that would follow you to assemble.”
Normally Crethok would have bristled at this outsider ordering his mrem about, but after the failed pursuit it hardly seemed to matter. He shrugged and listened.
“Sleisher’s men are divided. Some new menace has many of them skittering about the southern valleys. Your brother also has turned west and raids from the hills along the new caravan road. He is not there to stop any who will to from following you. Now is the time to strike at Cragsclaw.”
For the first time Crethok showed excitement. Cragsclaw marked the real southern boundary of the land the clansmrem called their own. It sat in the middle of the most fertile valley in the mountains and across the route of the desert caravans. Long before, it had been his ancestors’ land, and if he became the lord of Cragsclaw every clan would have to acknowledge his right to lead.
“I will meet you outside Cragsclaw’s walls in a ten-day,” Cwynid announced, turning to leave.
Before Crethok could reply, the wizard added, “Try not to lose the entire army before I arrive.” The disgust in his voice was evident.
Then he was gone. He had never agreed to go, Crethok realized. That pompous wizard had just ordered him to go where he wanted. For a moment his ruff rose, but then sagged as the highland leader accepted that he would do as Cwynid ordered. He had never failed when the mrem’s magics aided him. He would go to Cragsclaw and become its new lord.
He sagged back into his furs, trying to convince himself that he was doing what he wanted. The dull ache in his loins was hard to ignore for the rest of that night. It reminded him of his disgrace. Finally, on the renewed resolution to kill Cwynid slowly after the siege, he was able to fall into a restless sleep.
It was always an occasion when the White Dancer arrived in Ar. As the head of all Dancers, her power was second only to Andelemarian’s. The occasion for this particular visit was the Harvest Festival. It was celebrated late in Ar, at the time of the shortest day.
Once her procession had reached the palace, she sent a Senior Dancer to Oormet. The female was old. Her fur was drying and her whiskers were solid gray. Though no one was there to notice, she was very much a female image of the chamberlain himself. While relations were cordial now, the White Dancer’s authority was often in conflict with the king’s.
The dancer entered to find Oormet waiting. He dismissed a page, leaving them alone in the high-windowed chamber. The walls were decorated with colorful mosaics, and an intricately carved table and two chairs had been placed in the room’s center. Aware they represented others, both officials spoke cautiously at first, as if maneuvering in a dance-duel.
“You requested an audience, Wise One?” Oormet began respectfully.
“I thank you for the honor,” she replied with equal formality.
“I trust the journey was not too strenuous.”
“Were I younger I would still enjoy such things,” the dancer observed. “Better She had designed the world so that Harvest came while it was still warm.”
The chamberlain chuckled, then turned serious. “But you did not come here to discuss Her mistakes?” He made it a question.
The dancer smoothed her whiskers, considering before she spoke. “The White Dancer wishes an audience... a private audience with King Andelemarian.”
Normally the two symbols of authority met only during formal court sessions. Oormet’s mind raced as he considered the implications and then what arrangements would be needed. The dancer waited patiently, her expression also abstracted. She too was concerned about the request. To have such a meeting was to show favor. The dancers must always be neutral. This was the basis of their strength and their immunity.
“It might be best if the meeting were held so as to have never been,” the court official suggested discreetly. Once the dancer had nodded her agreement, he continued, “Tonight at the rise of the first moon, the king will walk in the scent garden near his quarters. The normal guard will be elsewhere.”
“That would be best.” The old dancer stood, waiting for Oormet to rise as well. The chamberlain’s mind raced as he watched the dancer rejoin her guards outside the chamber’s entrance. Whatever the White Dancer wanted, it must be of tremendous importance. Then he hastened to tell the king about the walk he would be taking that night.
•
The storeroom behind the kitchen was cleaner than normal. Someone, probably Eronucu, had cleared the worst of the debris and wiped down the ten unmatched chairs and scarred wooden table. Since there were no windows, a lone lamp in the center of the table lit the room. Sacks of flour and grain were stacked against one wall. Sorilia complimented the elderly cook on the improvement, but their leader said nothing. He appeared tired.
The cook had detected the attempt to influence Oormet several days earlier, finding signs his mind had been tampered with. Subsequently, signs of meddling had been detected in the minds of three other courtiers. It had been extremely difficult to reverse these changes and leave no trace of their efforts. The strain of protecting the palace from being subverted by the eastern wizard was beginning to show.
Eronucu called them to order by beating a serving spoon on the table. Without speaking, he nodded to the gray-haired woman who served as housekeeper to the royal suite. She rose and spoke in measured tones.
“They met last night,” Lorleen informed the other members of the Council. “When he left, his mind was on the east.”
This got a varied response around the table. When the hissing comments ended, the elderly housekeeper continued. “If so, she has done us a service.”
“If he doesn’t ignore the problems with his brother and the nobles,” Eronucu reminded them.
Lorleen ignored them. There was more she wished to say. “I made myself busy, preparing Andelemarian’s chamber. When the White Dancer finished, she had to pass me. I couldn’t read her. It was as though she wasn’t there.”
Several of the mrem at the table fingered their whiskers as they considered the implications of this. But Lorleen wasn’t finished.
“She stopped. Then she thanked me and my friends.”
Everyone began to speak at once.
“We have other problems,” Eronucu bellowed for attention. He seemed more awake now. “The presence we have sensed is now in Ar. Whoever it is, he has been busy stirring up the noble families in the hinterland. Now several lesser members of the Council have detected his presence here in the city. Though, on my orders, none have tried to approach him.”
“Or her,” Berrilund corrected.
“Or her,” Eronucu accepted the correction. “Though I suspect a male simply because most of the nobles are quite traditional and would pay mo
re attention to one.”
Berrilund wiggled his whiskers at the comment, looking more amused than annoyed, and so the cook continued. “I have asked those three who you may have noticed are missing to keep a watch, interfering with any major spells he might cast.”
“Is that safe?” Sthon worried aloud. He was the oldest active member of the Council of the Three and by far the most cautious.
“I suspect it is. Our opponent is not so powerful as many here are. It is only when he... or she,” Eronucu bowed slightly to Berrilund, “taps the power of the Eastern Lords that we even are able to detect him. If we can jumble his enchantments early enough, we can deny him any help from that source.”
“Assassins have also been hired.” There was disgust in the elderly cook’s voice. “As much as we all dislike using such methods, I felt it best to be prepared.”
Several of the other magicians nodded their agreement. While each wizard’s magical powers were great, they took a lifetime to develop fully. No senior member of the Council was skilled enough at combat to defend himself from a physical attack, much less initiate one.
“Still, if you all disagree, I will listen,” finished the heavily-built mrem, who then settled into his chair and regained his air of near-exhaustion.
With both their implied discovery by the White Dancer and the debate over how to handle the presence of the eastern wizard, this Council meeting lasted until almost dawn.
The fishcakes at breakfast the next morning were overly dry, and the bread undercooked. This was attributed to the apparent exhaustion of the royal cook. Most of the kitchen staff were worried he might be ill. Several of the apprentices decided instead that the fault must lie with the newest scullery maid, explaining why she had no time for them.
CRETHOK RUBBED the fur on the back of his neck. He knew he had to tell his mrem something, but he wasn’t sure exactly what. For three days he had waited for the magician to return, yet still he stood alone, his clansmrem impatient to be moving. This camp had lasted too long for the one thousand clansmrem that had answered his call.
“Tell me again of the formations,” he said to the other. He had recently named Warnta his second, and the tall, thin mrem had responded admirably. But Crethok was trying to stall him now, long enough for Cwinyd to return and tell him what to do. Before long, he knew, even the trusting Warnta would begin to suspect his inaction.
Cwinyd had promised to return two days ago at the latest. Now, he was nowhere to be seen. In the meantime, Crethok’s highlanders had prepared for the march on Cragsclaw. They were ready, they were anxious, and Crethok could afford to wait no longer.
For the third time in the past two days, Warnta ran through the clansmrem’s formations. Nothing had changed, of course, because nothing needed to change. Prepared for the frontal assault, the attack on the left, the charge on the right, and even for the siege of Cragsclaw itself, the army was everything Crethok wanted it to be. Warnta had done his job well.
“The mrem are ready?” Crethok asked needlessly.
“Yes,” said the other. “As they have been.” The voice held no mockery, even though Crethok knew it well could. Instead, it softened, as Warnta hesitantly asked, “Will we march soon, my lord? The mrem are more and more anxious.”
He knew what this meant, of course. Anxious meant rebellious. Already these mrem were rebels, because they followed the brother with the lesser claim to be ClanMrem. It would take only a little more indecision to persuade them to rebel even further.
They were loyal, but not forever.
“I am ready to give the command,” Crethok said, even though his words were not true. “Gather the mrem at dusk. I will tell them then. We leave in the morning.”
Warnta turned and left the tent. Exhausted and uncertain, Crethok sat heavily in the corner. Dawn gave Cwinyd over three hours to return. If the magician failed, he wondered what he would do.
Thoughts weighed him down. He liked action better. But like his brother Arklier, he knew the value of planning, even if he chose to use it far less. His brother had both saved and shamed him. Another value he was quickly learning was reliability. So often now had Cwinyd failed him, he began to curse himself for accepting his help in the first place. Without him, he would not have come as far; with him, he was frightened of the path he was forced to take.
But he was receiving help from an unexpected source. A growing force of raiders had come into the area, where the army of Keth Sleisher provided the only defense. As long as Sleisher was concerned about this new force, it had left Crethok’s warriors to lick their wounds in private. And as those wounds healed, the need for Arklier’s help disappeared. His brother had disgraced him far too often; he did not want to accept his aid again.
Still, he wondered just how good the new force was. His first guess had been these were exaggerated tales of the small force he himself had ordered to the far end of the valley, but it was clear this had to be something else. The messengers reported a dark-furred mrem of the grasslands as its leader, news that at first Crethok had scoffed at. The grasslands, he knew, were filled with hunters of bundor and tillers of the earth, not with warriors. In the grasslands, the villages depended on their poverty for defense. Even he only raided villages when they needed food or entertainment. Lately he had left the villages alone. They gave food, and they gave women, but in the end they did nothing to add to his honor.
Much more lucrative, by far, were the caravans between the cities. Greater yet was the fame he would gain from the fall of Cragsclaw. The lands of Lord Sleisher extended well to the west and north of the fortress he commanded. Along the shadow of the mountains, it controlled villages rich in mining, metalwork, and pottery.
Many a highland raid had failed in these lands. The Sleishers had for over a hundred years thwarted all attempts to pillage their lands. Crethok himself had lost more mrem than he cared to recall. Only Arklier, it seemed, could gain a success in the mountains. And his were a coward’s victories, attacking only where the enemy was weak. Then the highland leader’s thoughts turned again to the identity of the dark-furred bandit whose success threatened his own fame. In the past month, the grasslander had destroyed three towers and raided two villages. Rumor was those villages had all refused to sell him food. Crethok hissed at the idea of actually paying for the food they took. It made no sense. This dark-furred bandit and his mrem had also raided four caravans, two of which Crethok’s band had been waiting for further down the mountain trails.
Once he had tried to catch up to these new raiders, thinking either to make them join him or to destroy them. Despite all the speed they could muster, the grasslander’s raiders never came within their sight. It had hurt his prestige to be outmaneuvered by a lowlander in the mountains. Cwinyd had laughed openly. He had been forced to attack and destroy a watchtower to regain his clansmrem’s respect.
At dusk, Crethok rose and bit into a slice of salted bunda meat. Then, drinking a deep draught of cold water, he stepped from his tent and faced his warriors.
“Tomorrow at dawn,” he announced, “we march on Cragsclaw.”
His mrem shouted and jumped to their feet. “Cragsclaw!” they chanted and the chant rippled out among the thousand gathered in the valley. Crethok watched them, and his heart thudded with pride. They would follow him, these warriors, wherever he chose to lead them. Him! Not Cwynid, not Arklier. He continued for some time, telling the clansmrem how glorious their victory would be. After each new sentence they would cheer once more.
But when he returned to his tent, and the sounds of celebration died, he listened to the wind as it swirled through the mountains. In that wind he heard the snow, and suddenly he felt the pain of uncertainty. When he had spoken, his words had thrilled him. Now there was no thrill at all. He wanted a female to share his excitement. But that couldn’t be. For him there was only, in the mountains in the night, the deep, bitter pangs of embarrassment.
&nbs
p; •
Two days after entering Ar, Sruss was at last allowed to see the king. The problem was her disguise. Totally unwilling to have her real name used, she instructed Berrilund to tell the king the Dancer of the Wilds had arrived. She thought it sounded important, but the king apparently did not. All through the day she had waited, then late into the night, but no word had come from the palace of Ar. Later she learned the White Dancer had been in the city.
In the morning, the summons came in the form of a messenger. She was a spratling youth, mostly hands and feet with her whiskers only half grown. Sruss had to remind herself she was not known to be the princess and the messenger was not an insult. The King of Ar, she said, would see the Dancer of the Wilds at nightfall of that day.
“Nightfall!” Sruss had exclaimed. “But that’s another full day I have to waste.”
The messenger had simply nodded. “That is the king’s message,” she replied. “I cannot change it.”
Indignant and frustrated, Sruss said, “Tell the king....” But then she stopped. Nightfall was not too late. She knew her father, and if she antagonized him he might not see her at all. Still it irked her. Dismissing the messenger, she spent an impatient day wandering the markets of the poorer districts, where she was unlikely to be recognized.
At last night came, but even now she was not free of frustrations. When her appointed time arrived, she was admitted with Berrilund into the sitting room beside the throne room. There she sat, expectantly, until well over an hour later. Suddenly she jumped up and began to pace, afraid that the king had changed his mind. When she looked at Berrilund, the courtier was smiling.
