Rhianna looked at him uncertainly, as if he were offering a gift that was far more valuable than he knew.
“When you touched it, did it tell you its name?” Rhianna asked.
“Ael,” Fallion said.
She nodded, as if he had confirmed something. “Then it’s yours now.”
She stared at him, shaken for a long moment. The pin hadn’t really been her mother’s for long. And Rhianna felt grateful for Fallion’s help, for his strength and courage. She wanted him to have the thing.
Pain and rage had been building up in Rhianna for days.
“I hate you, Da,” she whispered fiercely.
Rhianna found herself shaking. She cried out in impotent rage, then hobbled back to the boat.
Rhianna felt her stitches pull with every breath. She wept in terror and relief. Her thoughts felt muddled. After days of fear and sleeplessness and numbing cold, Rhianna was out of words.
She found herself peering at the river. The water was swift and cold and as clear as glass, flowing inexorably past field and stone, making its way to the curling waves and the brine of the sea.
Rhianna stopped at the side of the boat, standing in icy water. She didn’t dare climb back in, for fear of injuring herself.
A shadow fell over Rhianna. “Come,” Myrrima said, stroking Rhianna’s back. The wizardess stepped into the icy cold water. Myrrima seemed not to be affected by its numbing touch at all. She walked out to her waist, wading with unnatural ease, then looked back over her shoulder, inviting.
Rhianna thought that Myrrima was the most beautiful woman that she had ever seen. Her eyes were as dark as mountain pools, and her skin as clear as the stream. She seemed at one with the water, and now she reached out a hand to Rhianna, beckoning. “Come.”
Rhianna stepped into the clear, deep flow and caught her breath at its brutal cold.
She waded in, almost blind with tears, and though the rounded stones in the river were slick and she had to search with her numbing feet for toeholds, soon she reached Myrrima, and gazed up in dull pain.
Myrrima cupped a hand, raised it, and let some icy water dribble over Rhianna’s forehead. Rhianna arched her neck, and it felt as if the water was not just pouring down upon her, but flowing into her, filling her mind and washing away the weariness and fear that she had borne for days now, for weeks.
“Be at peace,” Myrrima said. “Let your thoughts be as restful as forest pools. Let clarity fill you like a mountain stream.”
Rhianna stood, neck arched, as Myrrima dipped her hands again and again, letting water dribble on Rhianna’s forehead. It seemed not to run down her so much as through her.
Soon Rhianna was weeping again. At first she wept for the loss of her mother, and some dull corner of her mind still hoped that she might still be alive, but Rhianna’s heart knew that she was gone. She mourned the young girls who had died in the forest, girls she had known only for a few hours, for they had traded names and told one another the stories of their brief lives in those final hours after the strengi-saats took them.
Then after long minutes it seemed that the waters washed away her mourning. Still, Rhianna found little relief. Her muscles were knotted cords, and as the water rushed over her, she felt as if for years she had borne a heavy burden and now at last she could lay it down. Her fear was the burden. Now the water washing over her brought relief, unknotting the muscles in her shoulders, legs, and stomach, letting Rhianna breathe freely for the first time in days, so that she gasped for air.
And when all of her muscles were unbound, and even the dregs of fear had washed away, still Myrrima washed her, and Rhianna found herself wracked with sobs, not sobs of pain, but sobs of relief, of perfect ease.
Myrrima stopped and smiled down at her. “You’re a troubled one, and a strange one. Do me a favor. Cup your hands, as if to drink.”
Rhianna held her hands out before her in a tiny cup, and Myrrima reached down and drew a rune on the water, then took it from the river in her own hands and began pouring water into Rhianna’s palms.
Rhianna was so weary that at first she did not recognize the import of what was happening. But her uncle had taught her some rune lore as a child, and suddenly she saw the danger. Myrrima had drawn the rune of revealing; now she leaned forward to peer into Rhianna’s cupped hands.
A sudden fear took Rhianna, and she hurled the water back into the river. She demanded, “What do you hope to see within the well of my soul?”
What Myrrima had done was an invasion of privacy.
Myrrima smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile, the smile of an elder adoring a child. It was hard and calculating, the grim smile of a warrior who wonders if she has chanced upon a foe. “Where did you learn to scry runes?” Myrrima demanded.
Rhianna did not know what to say. “From…a merchant, a traveling merchant. I don’t know where he learned it.”
Rhianna should have known better than to try to lie to a wizardess. Myrrima gave her a suspicious look. “A rune caster, with no allegiance to the Powers? Some might call you a witch. And where did your mother get the cape pin?”
She waited for Rhianna to cough up the truth.
“I’m not your enemy,” Rhianna said with finality.
Myrrima held her eye for a long moment. Rhianna had obviously decided not to answer, and the fierceness in this girl’s eyes suggested that she could not be coerced.
At last Myrrima relented. “I would not let you near Fallion if I thought that you were an enemy.” She glanced back downstream a few paces where Fallion looked away guiltily and then gazed up at a small break in the clouds, the miracle of sunlight streaming across the heavens. Then Myrrima seemed to come to a decision.
“I heard what you said to Celinor just a moment ago. He was your father. I knew him once. And I knew your mother, too.”
She said these words softly. Rhianna looked around. No one else seemed to have heard.
Rhianna blushed with fear and indignation. Her mother had been running for years, hiding from Celinor Anders. Rhianna would never have betrayed her.
“Erin Connell was a friend of mine once,” Myrrima said. “She taught me the bow. I had heard that she had fled from South Crowthen, but I never knew why she ran or where she went. She just disappeared. Now, if as you say, she is dead, then I grieve with you.
“You’ve been through a lot, Rhianna. I saw how much pain washed out of you. I’ve seen battle-scarred warriors who have shouldered less. No child should have to bear so much. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I only hoped to find the pain’s source, and thus speed your healing.”
“I’ll beg you to keep your nose out of my business,” Rhianna said.
14
THE COURTS OF TIDE
A wizard’s greatest source of power lies in his ability to retain a child’s sense of wonder throughout life, and to maintain a keen interest in dozens of fields of study.
— The Wizard Binnesman
Moments later, Fallion was back in the boat, floating downriver as storm clouds drew back over the heavens and finally grew so heavy that they were forced to relinquish their water. A drenching rain drizzled warm and sweet, and Fallion found himself light of heart.
Chancellor Waggit sent some scouts downstream and dispatched others to hold the path behind, so that the boat traveled in safety. Fallion slept part of the morning, and when he woke it was late afternoon.
The Gyell had met the River Dwindell and now flowed broadly through rich farmlands. The sun shone full.
They passed villages where cottages rested along the shore and tame geese honked at the sight of boaters upon the river. The children broke into the copious supplies and had a fine meal of cheese-bread, ham, and cider.
Talon leapt off the back of the boat and splashed about in the river, grinning broadly, swimming like a seal, and invited the rest of the children to join her. None braved it. Fallion dipped his hand in the water; it was not much warmer than it had been last night.
He lay back
in the boat, watched the sun setting golden on the horizon. The sky was mottled with flecks of clouds, blue at the heart with golden edges.
So they had a pleasant trip to the Courts of Tide, where the spires of the castles rose up like spears to the sky, and the great crystalline bridges spanned from island to island, held up by ancient statues.
The Royal Palace stood upon the highest hill of the main island, and by all rights, Fallion and his family should have gone there for the night. Fallion had been born there, but had not been to the palace since he was two or three. His memories of the place were dim and wondrous.
But though Chancellor Waggit reported that the city was safe, free of any sign of assassins or marauders, Iome reminded the children that they were in hiding. “We don’t want to attract attention by walking up through the castle gates.”
Thus that evening the elders rowed the boat beneath the shadow of Fallion’s own palace, its dim lights gleaming through windows. On the east, the stately whitewashed towers seemed to rise straight up out of the water, and Fallion could see the sweeping alcoves built in at the waterline, lighted nooks with broad pools where in the past undines had swum like dolphins right up to the grand portico and held counsel with ancient kings.
Right now, there were no undines resting on the porch-only a few seals lying on the rocks while white gulls with gray backs floated upon the water nearby.
Fallion longed to row his boat into that shelter and head up the steps, but instead the boat rounded the ocean side of the island, into the deeper shadows, to the grungy dockside wharf where hundreds of fishing boats were moored. There the reek of fish guts and boiling crab mingled with salt spray.
In pitch-black, they moored up beneath a pier, and the whole family shambled through the night to an anonymous inn that Borenson assured everyone “is not as bad as it looks.”
And he was right. The outside was dingy and dark, but inside the place was more homey. The scent of savory chicken dumplings, buttery rolls, and roast apples soon had the children’s mouths watering. Rather than the nasty fishermen and whores and pirates that Fallion imagined might be in such a place, the common room was clean, and most of the patrons seemed to be decent shopkeepers who had brought their wives or friends out for a good meal.
As Borenson rented a room, Fallion looked around. A trio of minstrels played by the hearth. Beside each door and window an image of the Earth King stood-a man in green traveling robes with a deep hood, with leaves for his hair and beard.
Sage, Borenson’s three-year-old daughter, saw the decorations and shouted, “Look, it’s Hostenfest!”
Hostenfest was a month past, but the little ones had no sense of time and only wanted more presents and games.
“They put up the decorations in honor of the Earth King,” Myrrima said, and Fallion knew that she must be right. The decorations were an invitation for his father’s spirit to be welcome here.
Borenson secured a room, and just as the children were about to be whisked upstairs, the innkeeper, a fat old man, peered down at Fallion and roared, “Hey, what’s that in your pocket?”
Fallion peered up. It seemed that everyone in the room had stopped talking, had turned to stare at him.
“Your pocket, boy? What’s that squirming in your pocket?”
Fallion looked down. Humfrey was in the pocket of his tunic, rolling around. “It’s just my pet ferrin,” Fallion whispered.
“We don’t let the likes of them in here,” the innkeeper shouted, “the thieving vermin.”
“He don’t steal,” Jaz said, offering up a patent lie. All ferrins stole. It was in their nature.
“We had one that stole bad,” the innkeeper said. “Customers were losing gold and jewelry by the dozens. I sacked a couple of my girls, thinking it was them, until we caught the rascal.” He nodded to a small crack in the corner where the cobbled floor met the stairs.
They’d killed the ferrin, of course, Fallion realized. Innkeepers were notorious for hating ferrins.
“Humfrey wouldn’t steal,” Fallion offered; on a sudden inspiration he went to the corner, knelt on the ale-stained stones of the floor, and pulled Humfrey from his pocket.
The ferrin looked about, blinking his huge dark eyes. Fallion thought for a moment. Ferrins didn’t have a word for gold or jewels, not that Fallion knew of. Instead, they used a whistle that meant sunlight. So Fallion whistled and snarled, “Sunlight. Hunt sunlight.”
The ferrin stood, looking up at the crowded inn, at the angry humans peering down at him. He became more fearful by the moment, his whiskers trembling, nose twitching as he scented for danger.
Borenson must have realized what Fallion was trying to do. “Here. Show him this.” He held out a silver eagle in his palm, then let the coin glint in the air.
“Hunt sunlight,” Fallion said again, shoving the ferrin toward the crack in the wall.
Humfrey sniffed at the hole, then shrieked in delight as he realized what Fallion wanted.
He lunged into the hole.
Fallion had seen what kind of damage a ferrin could do to a building. They loved to dig their holes under rocks and trees, and thus they were a nuisance to men folk, for they would dig under the foundations of houses and buildings, and at times a ferrin’s tunnel would collapse, and a whole wall might come down.
It had happened at the cobbler’s shop at Castle Coorm just last spring. A wall had collapsed, and Fallion had gone out to see the cobbler and his neighbors digging up the foundation to expose the ferrins’ tunnels. There were a surprising number of small chambers, sometimes lined with stolen cobblestones to bolster them up. And inside them were piles of buttons and scraps of leather, old thimbles, and string and metal tacks. The cobbler was livid to see how much merchandise the ferrins had taken over the years.
“Five hundred shoe tacks!” he’d exclaimed over and over. “What would they do with so many? They don’t make boots.”
Fallion did not have to wait for more than a minute before Humfrey returned to the mouth of the den. In his mouth he carried a gold eagle, a coin that would easily pay for a week’s lodging in the hostel.
Fallion took it from Humfrey and tossed it up to the innkeeper, who bit it to see if it was real, then roared with laughter. He probably wouldn’t see a coin like that more than once a month.
He looked thoughtfully at Fallion, as if trying to decide, and said, “See what else he can find down there.”
Fallion whistled the command, and Humfrey went rushing back into the hole.
Certainly the innkeeper had to know that a few coins were hidden down there, but like the cobbler, he didn’t have any idea what it might amount to. And the cost of tearing out the walls and floors to go looking for them had probably seemed prohibitive. A ferrin might easily tunnel fifty yards in any direction, and an old warren, one that had been built up over years, might have dozens of branches.
It was several long minutes before Humfrey reappeared. This time he held an earring in his mouth, a long thing with several cheap beads dangling from it.
The innkeeper looked disappointed, but said, “Right. He can stay-if you have him do a little more poking around.”
“Okay,” Fallion agreed.
Then the whole “family” hurried upstairs, Borenson and Myrrima acting as the parents of a large brood, while Iome played the part of “grandmother.”
Fallion had never been in such cramped quarters, but soon he found a corner and lay down upon a blanket while his mother lit a fire in the small hearth.
Myrrima put her children down for the night, while Borenson went down to the common room to hear the latest gossip and drink a few mugs of ale.
Humfrey found a hole in the wall, just under the bed, and disappeared. Every few minutes he would bring back a piece of ferrin treasure-a woman’s comb, an ivory button, a tin coin. Each time he did, Fallion would give him a bit of food-a crust of bread or a dried date-as a reward.
Fallion watched the flames dance and wondered if the floor was comfortab
le enough to sleep on. He heard music rising through the floorboards, the steady beat of a drum, like a beating heart, along with shouts of laughter.
To his surprise, Rhianna, who had been lying next to Talon, picked up her blanket and pillow and came and lay down next to him.
“Can I sleep here next to the fire?” she asked. “I’m feeling cold right down to the bone.”
“Okay,” Fallion said, scooting back, so that she could catch the heat of the flames.
She settled in, leaning against him lightly, and Fallion studied her cheek, her chin. Her fierce blue eyes stared into the flames, lost in memory. Her right hand was under her pillow, and Fallion could see that her fingers clasped her dirk.
Of course, he realized. She’ll probably never sleep well again. He couldn’t quite imagine what she had been through, getting attacked by strengi-saats, lying half naked in the trees for days while the monsters waited for their babies to hatch and eat their way out.
We each have our own monsters to fight, Fallion thought, his mind going back to Asgaroth. He put his arm around Rhianna and scooted in closer, then whispered in her ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got your back.”
He wrapped his larger fist around hers, so that they held the dirk together.
Rhianna stifled a sob, nodded her thanks, and after a long while, when Rhianna was deep in slumber, somehow Fallion fell asleep.
It seemed like hours later when he woke to the creak of floorboards. It was Borenson, back from the common room. Fallion had thought that he had just stayed for the ale, but he now had a whispered conversation with Iome.
“We’re in luck,” Borenson said. “I found an outbound ship that is leaving in two days: the Leviathan. They’re taking the southern route. I managed to book us passage.”
Fallion was all ears. He had too much common sense to ask Borenson where they were going. It was a secret, and soldiers such as Borenson never revealed a secret. But that didn’t mean that Fallion couldn’t eavesdrop for clues.
“The southern route?” Iome asked. “Won’t that take longer?”
Sons of the Oak r-5 Page 13
