The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “Kernan,” she said, “call a council. We have guests. Listen,” she continued, her voice rising, “they've come all the way from Kelgarran. And more—this woman told me she's the Lady Trenara of Larioneth.”

  The man's jaw dropped, and for a few seconds he could only stare blankly at Trenara. “My Lady—if this is true you are as welcome as spring will be.” Then he turned back to Syrc. “I'll take care of the horses. It's your news: you go in and tell them. I'll join you soon.”

  We followed Syrc to the back entrance of the hall. Hart carried Hwyn gently, but once we were indoors I asked him if I might take her myself. He placed her carefully in my arms, a flash of understanding in his eyes.

  They led us into an ample room with an enormous, blazing hearth and a massive table. Its walls rang with high-pitched laughter as two small children ran to catch Hart around the legs, squealing “Uncle Hart!”

  Hauvoc, casting a sardonic glance over such childish commotion, tossed another log or two onto the fire and beckoned to us to come warm ourselves. We needed no urging. When we were warm enough to notice anything of our surroundings but the fire, I saw how rich a place we'd come to. The table, carved with a pattern of leaves and acorns edged in real gold leaf, seemed to cover more ground than the whole House of the Red Oak Clan. This must have been the feasting-hall of a great lord, with plenty of room for his kinsfolk, war-band, guests, and a veritable city of servants. Some of the wealth of those days was gone—where once silver goblets must have stood I saw cups of clay, wood, and tin. But splendor remained: among the earthen cups gleamed a silver candelabra, and on the walls, intricately woven tapestries sparkled with gold thread and blazed with scarlet and purple. Our rescuers wore nothing of silk or gold, nor any emblem of rank, but they were clearly at home in this palace, tossing their wet cloaks over the richly carved backs of tall chairs to dry.

  “Rand!” Syrc called, and in ran a child older than the two we'd first seen, a serious-looking girl of about ten with Syrc's dark hair and aquiline nose. “There's news,” Syrc told her, “I need you to get people together. Do you know where Harga is?”

  “She's at Brin's house,” the girl said. “He fell on the ice and his ankel swelled up as big as his head, almost.”

  “We need her here,” Syrc said. “Find her first. If she can't come at once, tell her to send Dara; but it's herself that I want. Then ride to all the houses you can and call a meeting.” Then she pointed at us, huddled by the fire. “You see those people?” Seeing us, the girl stared wide-eyed at the first strangers she'd seen since her birth. Syrc told her, “Those are the first travelers to come to Larioneth from the South since I was a child. And one more thing—you needn't tell the others yet, but I want you to know first. That dark-haired lady,” she pointed to Trenara, “is the Returner.” Rand took in Trenara with solemn eyes. Then Syrc gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. “Now go get Harga. Wear your hood!” she called after the girl, who took off like an arrow, “I don't want you taking cold just before the festival.” She watched the girl disappear, then shouted down the hall in the other direction. “Ash! Come see!”

  “Coming!” answered a woman's voice down the hall. A big-built, auburn-haired young woman bustled in. “Hart told us. Where are the guests?”

  “There, by the fire, warming themselves,” said Syrc.

  “Standing slumped on the hearthstones? They look so uncomfortable. Where's your sense of hospitality?” She came toward us, dragging a couple of armchairs, and seated Trenara in one almost by force, saying, “I'm Ash, Syrc's sister. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Not since yesterday,” I said, helping Hwyn into the other armchair.

  “I'll get something in a minute,” she said, and on the way out complained, “Syrc, you think of everything but food. They're sitting there starving!”

  “Food's your job,” Syrc said. “I sent for the healer; one of them's ill, if not all of them after that journey. And I've called a full council. Everyone should know.”

  “That means more food,” Ash said with single-minded practicality. “I'd better get working.” She didn't even ask our names or where we'd come from until she returned with a loaded tray: mugs of hot cider, steaming barley soup, and warm, crusty bread. “I wish it was better stuff. This was all I had ready,” Ash said above the din of voices rising with the news of our coming. “It's plain food, but at least it's warm.”

  “It looks wonderful,” I said.

  Hwyn drew in a long breath full of the scents of food. “Bright Goddess! It's bread,” she said in almost the same tone Syrc had used to say, “It's the Returner.” “I haven't seen it in so long I don't know if I remember what to do with it.”

  “Well, I remember,” I said, eagerly breaking off a chunk of it. “Hwyn, how's your stomach? Can you eat?”

  “I'll certainly try,” she said. “The soup and bread should go down easily enough.”

  “If they don't, I can fix you some porridge,” Ash offered. “And I'll see about getting you some cushions and a blanket. If Syrc's determined you're to stay awake for the council, sick or well, at least you should be made comfortable.”

  I thanked Ash and told her, “You may have just saved our lives.” She grinned and hurried back into the kitchen to prepare for the coming crowd. To Ash, the food might be plain fare, but to us it was a rare feast. Hwyn ate a little, cautiously; Trenara and I ate a lot; and life returned gradually to our worn bodies and tired spirits.

  The room filled with people, noisy, curious, joyful. They were not, like the Folc, obviously one family, one stock. They were of all kinds, big-boned or delicate, ruddy or sallow, blond as Kettrans or black-haired as Magyans. Most seemed fairly young, although I saw a few gray heads among the crowd. Their hands were rough with work and weather, their clothes old but adorned here and there with embroidered vines or flowers that held a fraying cuff or hem together. And all seemed as much at ease in the great hall as the hunters who had brought us there.

  Hauvoc soon returned, shyly offering Hwyn and me a cushioned seat made for two. He took our muddy cloaks and replaced them with clean blankets, then hovered protectively around us. I thanked him and asked, “What's happening here?”

  “Legend,” he said. “One of the House of Larioneth has returned. This day was foretold to our people—though I, for one, never believed it till now.”

  I probed, “Syrc seems to be a person of power here.”

  Hauvoc grinned. “Then it's not just the little-brother's-eye view that makes her so?”

  “Is she some sort of chieftain or elder? Will she decide what's to be done with us?”

  The boy laughed. “We have no chieftain, no elder, no leader of any kind—unless, perhaps, this hunt has brought us one. We Holdouts are sworn to follow no one but the one who returns, the only one of the House of Larioneth who cares enough about the land to come back to it in the Troubles. There she sits,” he gestured grandly toward Trenara. “As for Syrc's power, how could we ignore anyone who can shout like that?”

  As though to prove his point, Syrc threw back her head and called in a ringing voice: “Listen my friends, my kinfolk! Let the council begin!”

  The rumble of conversation quieted. “Harga's not here yet,” an old man pointed out.

  “Harga's the first to know every secret in Larioneth,” a plump, florid-faced woman grumbled. “Let her catch up when she gets here. I'm bursting to know what's happened.”

  “Syrc, you haven't called us here just to show us your latest strange catch from the hunt?” a young man said.

  “I doubt it,” said the old man.

  “Not exactly,” Syrc said, flashing us a wry look.

  “Til, are you blind?” another young man said. “Don't you see those three strangers on the hearth? Who are they, Syrc, and where did you get them?”

  “We did find them in the hunt,” Syrc said. “My brothers and I were chasing a stag when we saw these three travelers near the old South Road. At first I thought they were ghosts, but they shivered
in the cold; the dead don't do that. So we stopped to speak to them, and one of them, the tall woman, gave us her name: the Lady Trenara of Larioneth!”

  Half the assembly sprang to their feet; one man fell to his knees; two people on the far side of the room jumped on top of the table to get a better look at Trenara, while others behind them chided them for blocking their view. Trenara, hearing her name, stood and accepted the attention as though she had been born for it—and it seemed she had. But one man—the one called Til— said, “How do we know it's true?”

  “Who else would brave the painful road north in this weather, all the way to Larioneth?” countered Syrc. “Who else but the Returner?”

  “Apparently, two others did,” Til said. “Who are they? Do they claim to be nobles of Larioneth as well?”

  “No,” I said, standing to be seen among the crowd.

  “These are Jereth and Hwyn,” Hauvoc said. “They come from—where did you say? Kelgarran?”

  “Not exactly. We met in Kelgarran,” I said, “but I came from Swanroad in the southeast of Swevnalond, and Hwyn from St. Fiern's Town in the west.”

  “Can you attest to this woman's claim? Is she really of the House of Larioneth? Did you know her family?” Til pressed.

  “I believe she speaks the truth,” I said, “but I have no proof of it. She had no family when I met her.”

  “If you didn't know who she was,” an older man asked, “why did you follow her?”

  “I didn't,” I said. “I followed Hwyn.” Uncertain how much to reveal, I tried to catch Hwyn's eye, looking for some signal; but she only looked sleepy, worn out with illness and travel, relaxed in the unaccustomed warmth and safety of these strangers' hearth. So I was left to my own judgment. I continued, “I met her when I had nowhere to go. She offered me friendship and a direction: north. I liked her well enough to follow her. Trenara had been traveling with her before I met them, for reasons of her own; whether she came here to claim a throne or to find her lost childhood was not my concern.”

  “What about you—Hwyn, is it?” the older man said. “Can you bear witness that this lady is truly of the House of Larioneth?”

  Hwyn roused herself languidly. “Not I,” she said. “I met her on the road north, and became her companion by accident. I've known people of every station, and I'm sure of this much: manners like hers don't thrive in a farmhouse or a tradesman's shop. She's a lady, no doubt. She seems at home in the North. More than that … ?” she turned her hands up, as if to say, “who knows?”

  “Ask the lady herself,” the red-faced woman suggested. “Lady, can you prove who you are?”

  Trenara stood silent a while; I thought she would never know how to respond. But at last she said, “This place knows me. The land knows me; it knows who I am.”

  “Of course,” said an old man, the one who'd spoken up at the beginning to point out that someone wasn't there. “The land knows its ruler. It wouldn't matter, would it, whether she were of the old line, if the land didn't know her. And if it does know her, she's our Lady no matter whose daughter she may be.”

  “What do you mean, Per?” said Til. “What if the land knows her? How can we tell?”

  Per considered his question a while. “Its ghosts would know her.”

  “What should we do, then? We can't just wait here till one comes by,” Til said.

  “I could call one,” I suggested.

  All eyes turned to me. Hwyn said sharply, “Jereth, don't you dare use your name again.”

  “I won't this time,” I said, “only the ghost's name. I wouldn't need to bind the ghost, just call to it. They're common as snow here, anyway, and not shy of being seen. It shouldn't be hard.”

  “How?” Syrc asked.

  “The Gift of Naming,” I explained.

  “Ah! A Tarvon priest?” said the one called Per.

  “Almost,” I said. “I left the Order without vows, but the Gift stayed with me. Shall I try it?”

  Per nodded. “Look for someone who loved this land, someone who loyally served the House of Larioneth.”

  “All right,” I said. “I'll need quiet.” The room stilled. I closed my eyes and let my mind slide away into ghost-dreams until it touched a name, Lancar the Horseman. His name was sacred even in my homeland; I knew him as the great, sad hero of the North who sacrificed himself for a faithless lord. Carefully, gently, I spoke the name aloud, feeling and treasuring Lancar's stubborn, misplaced love and loyalty. When I opened my eyes he was there, as strong-featured and handsome as any of the stubborn northerners gathered at council. He inclined his head to me in courtesy but not deference, then favored Hwyn with just such a slow, sad smile as may pass between fellow-sufferers of the same affliction. Then he turned to Syrc—with what expression I could not see, but it moved her visibly. Then, turning at last to Trenara, he knelt before her and kissed her slender hands. Doubt fled the room like a banished spirit. Everyone except Hwyn and me fell to their knees.

  The hoarse voice of an old woman broke the spell. “My old bones!” she said, coming in the doorway, “What's this? Syrc sent for me, and she doesn't fetch me without reason. Who's sick?”

  “Harga!” one of them chided, “the Returner has come, the Lady Trenara of Larioneth! Look at her, she—”

  “—is great with child, near her time by the look of her, and traveled through the forest on foot, if I heard rightly,” Harga cut in. “Don't just gawk at her; she needs care. And Rand said someone was sick. Let me through!” She pushed unceremoniously past Trenara's subjects, paying the ghost of Lancar little more heed than the rest. He noticed her, however: rising, he laid a spectral hand on Harga's shoulder, just such a gentle pat as Syrc had given to Rand. Then he was gone. “Which of you is ill? You?” the healer demanded of Hwyn, who nodded. “Come with me.” With that she herded us out of the stunned assembly, leaving the other Holdouts of Larioneth to digest their wonder without us.

  17

  THE HOLDOUTS OF LARIONETH

  If I'd thought Syrc the commanding voice of the Holdouts, I had not reckoned on Harga. As she led us through the hall, a broad-shouldered man followed her and put a hand on her arm as though to ask her something, but she cut him off. “Hern, I want water heated for herb baths. Three of them. Get Syrc to help you; it will break her out of this awestruck stupor. If she values these guests, she may as well make herself useful to them.”

  “Harga—” he said, a protest or a question abandoned unformed. She hurried us past him and he retreated, abashed.

  “As you've no doubt grasped by now,” she told us hurriedly, “I am the town's healer, Harga. I should have been here sooner, but I was setting a bone, and afterward, my own old bones wouldn't let me move any faster. So they had you sit on display while they held council about you, instead of letting you rest and warm yourselves.”

  “They did seat us nearest the fire,” I said, “and Ash brought us food.”

  “Ash has sense,” Harga conceded. “So does Syrc, sometimes, but not today. She's a hothead, that girl; anything her heart seizes on, she won't let go for good sense or bad.”

  “Is Syrc your daughter?” I found myself asking.

  Harga laughed abruptly, as though caught off guard. “Ha! She should be. But no, she's not.” We arrived then in a cramped, cluttered room, partitioned with an embroidered curtain that might once have adorned a queen's bed. Its walls, like those of Halred's hut, were covered with bundles of dried herbs, mingling their perfumes through the room.

  Harga set to work examining each of us in turn, all the while asking when we'd last eaten, what, and how much; how far we had traveled, how fast, and under what conditions; and on and on, until she knew more about us and our journey than anyone in Larioneth, despite missing the council. She took Hwyn behind the curtain and ordered her to undress for closer examination. Then I heard the healer say, “Will you stop clutching that pouch and let me examine your chest? I'm not going to rob you.”

  “I know that,” Hwyn said wearily. “I'm not guard
ing it against theft. I trust you. But please try to trust me when I tell you I have my reasons for needing to hold this close.”

  “Either the fever has twisted your brain,” Harga said, “or you've brought a thing of power into our house. I think it's only fair you let me see what it is that you fear to put down for even a minute.”

  “I've almost been killed for it; small wonder I'm loath to uncover it,” Hwyn said. “But I couldn't hope to stay long in this house without revealing it to someone. If it turns you against me, then that must be my fate.” I could not see but clearly imagined the white stone being unveiled. I heard Harga gasp. “The Eye of Night,” Hwyn said. “The Sky-Raven's Egg. It is alive, and it needs me to care for it, to keep it warm. I am bound to it, and it is bound to Larioneth—like the Troubles.”

  Harga let out her breath slowly, as though she'd just remembered to breathe. “Another mystery,” she said at last. “Well, hold it if you must, but hold it out of my way. You owe me an explanation, but I won't trouble you for it till you're stronger. So you'll have to recover quickly—do you hear?”

  “I'll try to oblige,” Hwyn said.

  “Now breathe deeply,” Harga ordered. “Good.”

  When she'd finished examining the three of us, the healer declared, “Why you're alive at all after a trip like that, I can't fathom. The gods must have walked by your side.”

  “If so,” I said, “then St. Ligaiya spoke true: they are no easy comrades.”

  “Did you ever doubt it?” Harga said with a knowing smile. Then she checked herself: “Ah, but what right have I to sound wise about your journey? I did not suffer through it. It must have seemed to you, starving in the snow, that the gods had cast you away. But I think you have little to fear now. You're made of strong stuff, all of you—even Trenara's baby.” She sent Trenara back to the council to be fussed over by the Holdouts, and offered Hwyn a strong-smelling drink she'd brewed over the fire. “Take this: it will make you sleep off the fever.” Hwyn hesitated, and Harga said, “Still distrustful? I promise you, I know what I'm doing. You southerners have always thought the North a land of spell-chanters and poisoners. You forget,” she said, “the great school of physic that flourished here, the greatest in all Swev-nalond. I was well trained there; I know what can heal you.”