by Ian Irvine
Llian looked at Pender, wondering. “I think I can trust you,” he said. “Prove it and you shall have another five tars. Betray me and I will surely kill you and throw your woman and children into the river.”
The man became so abject that Llian almost began to regret his threats. “Master, master,” he wept. “Trust me. Keep your tars, only leave us be. Name is a cruel place for foreigners. Trust me, eh! You paid well. I won’t betray you.”
“Very well,” said Llian. “See that you don’t. Be off now.”
Pender disappeared into the darkness. Llian stood there for a moment, then followed. A door crashed nearby. He crept across a yard, bare save for an aged tree and a straggle of flowers beside the step. The yellow light of an oil lamp shone out through a window of little panes. Within, Llian saw a room shabbily furnished and the fat man sitting on the bed with his head hanging, while two children clung to a small woman with dark hair. He turned away, guiltily, thinking: What should I have done? Pender didn’t look as though he could be trusted. Still, if he were to meet me in daylight I doubt that he’d be so frightened.
33
* * *
MAIGRAITH’S STORY
Maigraith watched Faelamor until she disappeared in the forest, then she continued down the stream. It was mid-morning; they had been searching for more than two hours, but without success. Now it began to rain; only a misting rain at first, but enough to hinder her. It was ages since the last footmarks, and they had been far upstream. Perhaps they hadn’t followed the stream any further—they might have gone in any direction. How tired she was. Though her escape from Fiz Gorgo was over a month ago, she had still not fully recovered. How could she have, al ways hurrying, never enough sleep, afraid of what lay be hind her and what might be ahead?
She leaned against a tree, its rough bark pressing into her shoulder, while she tried to think. They were probably going to Name, but might have taken any way, and how could she find them except by chance? They were strong—they might even go openly. Better to go straight there and watch the waterfront.
Maigraith turned away from the stream and headed through the forest toward the ferry wharf. Had she delayed she would have encountered Llian as he followed the stream down toward the Garr, and the whole future of the Three Worlds might have been different, but by a bare half hour they did not meet. She was reproaching herself for rejecting Faelamor. The confrontation, so long in the making, had at first elated Maigraith, but that had passed leaving a bitter residue of duty neglected. No, wilfully cast aside, and with nothing to replace it.
Maigraith suddenly remembered the horses. She headed back to where they had been left, but the ropes had been cut and the mounts were gone. She turned around again and fought her way through the forest between the river and the path. That was a long weary trip in the rain, and it was nearly dark by the time she reached the wharf, but for once her fortune held: the ferry was still standing alongside the jetty.
When she came closer she saw the reason for the delay. One of the thick iron wheels by which the ferry tracked its cable was broken, the rim sheared completely away. This was clearly not an infrequent occurrence, for the deckhands had already unbolted it and were replacing it with another from their store. Now they struggled with levers and bars against the tension of the cable to force it over the rim of the new wheel. Many times they nearly had it, the cable balancing on the highest point of the rim, working awkwardly above their heads in the semi-darkness, rain sizzling on the hot lamps, then a lever would slip through cold fingers, the cable fly back and the workers scatter, tools clattering to the deck.
At last they forced it home, the trampers took up their positions at the spokes of the huge windlass and the ferry moved out into the flow.
The new wheel was evidently somewhat out of round, for the cable kept snagging then springing free with a thrunngg, the ferry slowing right down then starting again with a tooth-cracking jerk. As they got out into the full force of the current the upstream gunwale was forced down until it was within a hand’s breadth of the water, and just a blow from a floating log would have swamped them. Maigraith looked up at the device that held them, and though she had traveled on the ferry before, she marveled that the mechanism did not suddenly snap and fling them all beneath the water to their deaths.
The windlass creaked, the cable ground through the pulleys; the dark water hurled itself past the boat, then at last the roar of the current grew less and the main jetty of Name appeared, the street lamps shining on the wet decking. Maigraith crept off gratefully and into the town.
After some little searching she found an unobstructed vantage point, an open space at the top of a derelict ware house where she could watch both the ferry jetty and most of the waterfront, though the street lamps gave barely enough light to see by. But though she watched all night, al most fainting from weariness, she saw nothing, for the Whelm had left Pender’s boat concealed almost half a league upstream of Name, out of sight even in the daylight.
All the next day Maigraith watched but at last she could watch no more, for she had barely slept for three nights now. She closed her eyes and dozed where she sat, and did not wake until the following day. Then she rushed down, sure that she had missed them in the night, and stood at the wharf watching the passengers get off each ferry, and questioned all the hands on the waterfront, but none could tell her what she sought. She began to doubt that Karan had ever come to Name, and though the Whelm had clearly been there she could find no one to speak of them.
Another day she remained but learned no more, and suddenly fearing that Karan was far away she crossed back over the Garr on the ferry and went by the western path as far as Gilte, a day’s walk downstream, questioning everyone that she met, but not until she was returning did she find any news, and that only a puzzling scrap.
As she trudged back toward the ferry, footsore and weary of heart, she came upon a group of rustics hoeing weeds in a field near the path. She leaned over the low hedge and called one to her, a scrawny old man. His leathery arms and legs were bare and his hands coarse and cracked, the joints swollen and twisted. He peered at her from beneath his broad hat of woven reeds, and his eyes were moist but keen.
“I’m looking for a young woman,” said Maigraith, for what seemed the hundredth time. “She has curly red hair and green eyes, and she’s about this tall.”
“Can’t say I’ve seen her, miz,” said the old man, leaning on his hoe. He looked carefully into her face, then added, “Though you’re not the first to ask.”
At last, thought Maigraith. “Who else asked you?”
“Well, no one asked me, like. But a young fellow spoke to Creeny over there.”
The old man had a curious way of talking. After each sentence he paused, in a reflecting kind of way, before going on slowly, speaking clearly as though he cherished each word.
“Didn’t do him any good, of course. Creeny’s mad as a pot, and simple as well.”
Maigraith’s gaze followed his gesture. The tall, loose-limbed figure was hoeing in a desultory way.
“Good way to be, I suppose, with what’s about to come down on us. But I was walking with him, and I heard it all. Curious, it was. We was coming over on the ferry, and he running down the hill, like to break his neck. Ferry was away again by the time he got there, though he shouted foolishly at it. They never go back. Then he came and asked Creeny. We hadn’t seen her though. Let’s see now.” He pondered for a moment. “That would be six days ago, and in the early morning, for we was off the first ferry.”
Maigraith calculated. If the rustic was right, that was the very morning that Faelamor and she had reached Karan’s campsite; almost the same time, in fact. The old man carried on, answering her next question before she had time to ask it.
“A youngish man, he was. About your height or a little taller. Straight brown hair, worn long. Unusual round here. Brown eyes too. Hadn’t shaved in a while. Very anxious. Curious voice; trained in the Lore, I’d say.” Then, noticing
Maigraith’s stare, “I traveled, you know, before I came to this. I’ve heard the Histories told.”
He stood there for a while longer, reflecting, then slowly resumed his hoeing.
Maigraith gave him a wave of thanks but he did not look up, and she walked back up the road toward the ferry wharf. Who was he, who sought Karan so desperately? I saw him myself, she realized slowly. Twice I saw him in Name. It was the second morning after I came. He got off the ferry in the morning. I noticed him especially, for the people of Name, of this whole region for that matter, mostly have black hair and they wear it close-shorn. Then I saw him again that night. He was walking along the waterfront, and back again. But that was not remarkable. Did he find her?
She hurried back to Name but the trail was cold, and though she spent several days there she learned nothing. The next morning she caught the ferry again, turned along the northward path and, sometime after midday, reached the clearing where Karan had camped, many days ago now.
The site was deserted, trampled, and it was clear that people had fought and died there, for the ground was littered with arrows and there were broken weapons rusting among the leaves. On the western side of the clearing five mounds lay together, and they had been fashioned with neatness and care. Back in the forest a little way she came on two others: the stench led her to them. Mere heaps of earth they were, and the body in one was already exposed. She walked over to look at it, but she could not get near: the smell was so overpowering that she was almost sick. The corpse was partly eaten by the scavengers that slunk only a little way off as she came closer, though enough remained for it to be identifiable as Whelm.
Maigraith turned away and hurried back to the campsite. There was little to be seen there. All of Karan’s things were gone, save for the few that were broken and useless-a scrap of bloody blanket, shreds of the tent. Even the ruined boots had been taken. The clearing had a cold and mournful air and the trees all around seemed to have drawn back, as if in horror at what had been done there.
The Mirror brought them all here, she thought. Even after Karan was gone they were still here, fighting over it; dying uselessly. Whose were these other graves, so carefully made beside the forest; so unlike the shallow, careless mounds of the Whelm? But the thought of digging one up with her hands was beyond her.
Another place caught her attention, the grass trampled into mud by many feet, and walking across she saw some thing white lying among the leaves. Pieces of plaster from a cast. They were soft, slowly dissolving and crumbling in the rain. Nearby lay two hollow metal rods.
She picked up one rod, touching the delicately engraved metal. A shivery tingle ran up her arm, and a momentary vision of another embossed cylinder came to her, of her pulling the Mirror from it in Yggur’s library at Fiz Gorge. The Mirror had been here, not long ago. The cylinder was just a piece of metal, but a work of art nonetheless, and she slid it into a pouch in her cloak. The other tube seemed a dull, lifeless thing and she left it where it had been.
She went over to where Karan’s shelter had been and sat down on a log that still lay where she had pulled it up to sit before the fire. There Maigraith stayed for the rest of the afternoon, possessed by a sweet, lethargic melancholy. All her works and strivings had turned to nothing. She had failed Faelamor. The Whelm had Karan; she was lost beyond recovery. And now the Mirror was gone as well, despite all that Karan had done to prevent it. Most likely the Whelm had tortured its hiding place from her. And where was Faelamor?
Maigraith had never loved Faelamor, but still she longed for her approval, for she had no other. Her duty was to serve, but she had cast Faelamor off and now there was nothing. She had gone away from Yggur too; another part of her life ended before it had ever begun.
As the light faded a gentle rain began to fall, and then a wind sprang up, driving the rain across the clearing at her and clashing the branches of the trees together. And it was raining in her heart, the rain even colder there and more lonely, and eventually it washed her spirit away and left her barren.
It was dark now. The dark came up quickly with the rain, and though she was empty inside the cold still struck at her. Mechanically she got up and took from her pack the fine, strong oiled cloth that Faelamor had bought for her in Preddle. She unfolded it; staked and tied it to make a tiny shelter. She took herself inside and hunched there, staring out into the darkness and the rain. She took something from her food bag and ate it, not noticing what it was, and not caring.
The night passed slowly and eventually her weariness dulled her misery, her self-disgust, even her guilt, and she slipped into sleep, though it was scarcely more restful than waking. For the whole night she watched powerless as her companions were pursued by phantoms, the corpses of the Whelm, with faces and limbs eaten away, and everything she did led only to greater torment.
At last the morning came, and with it a calming, gentle sleep. Maigraith lay basking in the morning sun, warm and at peace, and in her dream a cool hand stroking her brow. She was relaxed as she had not been for months, empty, concerned about nothing, all her troubles receded. She woke smiling and the sun was warm on her face, slanting into the shelter.
She yawned, stretched, opened her eyes, and looked up—straight into the deranged black eyes of Emmant! She twisted around and leapt to her feet, the shelter falling in a heap behind her.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” she demanded, her hand upraised.
Emmant stepped back a pace, holding out open palms. The light faded from his eyes and he looked now like any other man, save that his skin was sagging and blotchy, the deep creases around his mouth hinting at the progress of his corruption. But there was nothing of that in his carefully schooled deep voice. “I did not mean to startle you,” he said politely. “My name is Flacq. I seek one called Maigraith. You are like the one I seek.”
“I am Maigraith,” she said. “What is the message?”
“I bear secret word from Faelamor. She is taken by the Aachim and held in Shazmak. She will free herself and asks you to meet her at Tolryme, in Bannador.”
Faelamor held? “Is there more?”
“Not from Faelamor.” He appeared to hesitate. “But there is another thing.”
“What is that?”
“I believe you are the Mend of Karan of Bannador. Tensor seeks her.”
“For what purpose?”
“Ah! You would not know. Karan came to Shazmak, and she and Tensor fought over the Mirror most bitterly; but she took it with her. Now Tensor wishes to make amends. They were very close.”
“That I know. She has often spoken of him. But I cannot help you. It is nine days since Faelamor and I came here; even then the Whelm had her. The Mirror is lost as well. I have sought her in Name and on both sides of the river but she is gone without trace.”
Emmant turned away. “I will go to Name; I will find her. If you see her, tell her to head for Thurkad; war is coming and nowhere else is safe now.” He disappeared into the forest.
Maigraith watched him go, then she got up mechanically and lit the fire and made a brew of tea. With the bowl warm in her hands she sat down on the log and tried to decide what to do. She wanted to find Karan, but she knew not where to look. Her own feelings called her south, but even if Yggur wanted her, not even beside him would she face the Whelm again. So, her choice was really no choice, and it all came back to duty. Her little rebellion had failed; she had no worth save how Faelamor measured it.
A good while had passed by the time Maigraith reached Tolryme, a small town in northern Bannador near Gothryme manor. She feared that Faelamor would be gone, but she was not, and Maigraith found her as soon as she entered the market square. She was sitting at a table beneath a spreading fig on the sunny side of the square, a bowl of fruit in front of her.
“You have come then,” she said as Maigraith approached. “I hoped you would. Do you have it?”
Maigraith confessed her failure. To her surprise Faelamor showed no anger, no expression at all.
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“I’ve puzzled long about Karan since you told me of her talents. Where did they come from, such talents? I was struck by a remembrance, so I searched the archives of Fyrn here. My guess was right. Long ago, a male of the Faellem did dwell here briefly. A secret union with a girl of the Fyrn family produced a girl child. The matter was a shameful one, and concealed, though it was recorded. The deed was many generations back but the name, Melluselde, has been carried down, as they do in these parts, through daughter or son, whichever is the fitter. The blending brings the talent. But it was what I learned in Shazmak that terrified me.”
She stopped then, glaring ferociously at Maigraith.
Maigraith was nonplussed. “Yes,” she said at last, her cheeks pink, “she has Aachim blood, from her grandmother. I did not tell you before because of your bitterness to her. What of it?”
Faelamor controlled herself with an effort. “That makes her triune,” she said, her lips a white line. “Descended from three human species, Three Worlds. When first I met her I saw a threat to me; now I know why.” And she mused on the irony—that she had taken such pains to create such a one, then out of the grass should spring another, fully formed but wild, unbroken, and treacherous. Perhaps it was the balance trying to restore itself. This new one had subtlety but no power. Hers was the better.
“I have come back to you,” Maigraith said, “but do not press me too far. If Karan hinders your plans you must find a way round her. Harm Karan and you will never see me again.”
“I will not harm her,” Faelamor replied, turning away to her pack. She sat up with a pair of glasses in her hand. “Wear these! They will disguise the color of your eyes.” Maigraith put them on. “Now, about the Mirror.”
“I found how she carried it,” and Maigraith showed the metal tube.
“Then where is it now?” cried Faelamor. “That cast was not in the clearing when first we went to the campsite. But when I returned, four hours later, it lay broken. Someone came, neither Aachim nor Whelm, and took the Mirror away. Ah! The one you mentioned. I heard of him in Shazmak. Her companion, Llian. He must have it. And he is Zain! This is a sorry mess. What will he do with it?
