“I know,” Hwyn said. “I have heard of your school, and I trust your knowledge. But a sleeping-draught—I don't want to die in my sleep.”
“You won't die,” Harga said.
“Is that a promise?” Hwyn smiled grimly, and at Harga's silence, she added, “Please—would you leave Jereth and me alone for a moment? I will drink then.”
Harga nodded silently and left the room. I took Hwyn's hand. “I'll be here,” I said. “I didn't come this far to leave you now.”
“I hope I can say the same,” she said. “But I am weak now.”
“You need rest,” I said.
“There is so much I haven't told you. I wish I could tell you now, but I'm afraid it's still not safe,” said Hwyn.
“Don't you trust me, even now?”
“Of course I trust you, Jereth. But as Halred once told me, knowledge can either help you or hinder you from doing what must be done. I don't want to tell you things that will stand in your way, like that scrap of prophecy that almost made me despair. But there is one thing I must tell you that I would rather not speak of, for it will hurt you. I leave you with a burden. If I die, you must take the Eye of Night from me before my body is cold.”
“Don't speak so!”
“I'm sorry,” she said, but her eyes, locked on mine, were unyielding. “I wish I didn't need to speak so grimly. I wish I could promise to live. But you must be ready to carry on in my place, if I fail.”
I bowed my head. “I will,” I told her. “I promise to keep your trust. But I don't know what must be done with the Raven's Egg, now that we have taken it to Larioneth.”
“You will know,” she said, “if the task falls to you. It will tell you. Haven't you felt its power already?”
“I have,” I said. “In Berall, it almost made me shout treason along with you. Have no fear, then. I will not fail you.”
“I know you won't,” she said a bit sadly. Then she drank the potion, and I held her until she was asleep.
After I'd watched Hwyn breathing rhythmically for some minutes, Harga came in softly. “She'll sleep all night, most likely. She needs it.”
I nodded. “It's been hard for us all, but hardest for her.”
“You could use some rest yourself,” Harga said, “though I doubt you'll want to sleep now; you'd be wide awake at night. What will you do while Hwyn sleeps—go back to the council with the lady?”
“No,” I said. “I want to stay with Hwyn.”
Harga scrutinized my face, then Hwyn's. “You're not kin, I think. Is she your wife?”
“Not yet,” I said. “She promised to marry me at the end of our journey. But now I don't know if she can keep that promise. She told me this morning that she was dying. I don't dare leave her now. I don't want to return from council to find—” The words stuck in my throat. I began again: “—to find I've lost her. What I'll—what I'd do without her, I don't know.”
“Don't lose hope,” Harga said. “She's in less desperate straits than she was this morning. You've reached a safe place, with not the worst of healers to care for her. Besides, a woman stubborn enough to make that journey in winter is too stubborn to die easily.”
“I hope so,” I said, and for a while we were silent. Harga left the room abruptly, without saying anything. When she returned, she said, “I've asked them to make up this room for the two of you. There's enough space for a trundle bed, and I'll be close enough to be there if Hwyn needs me, but not too close for privacy.”
“You're so kind to us,” I said. “I feel like an impostor. After months of vagrancy, sleeping in temple courts in the towns, or under hedges in the wild, we reach the end of the road to be treated like saviors, all because a companion neither of us sought fits into a legend.”
“Ah yes: I was hoping to ask you about just such matters,” Harga said. “To the others here, you two are the Lady Trenara's followers—but that's not what I see, and it's not how you see yourselves, I dare swear. When I interrupted the council, you two were the only ones not on your knees to her. You didn't cross the wasteland for her.”
“If you think you're speaking to the leader now,” I said, “you're mistaken. She sleeps before you.”
Harga nodded. “As I thought. And of course, those youngsters in the council paid her the least heed.”
“She wasn't saying much,” I said. “Either she was too tired or hadn't worked out whom to trust. Possibly both.”
“I'm dying to question her, of course,” Harga said, “but I had to let her sleep. I know there's greater things at work here than the return of the House of Larioneth. What brought you here? It's bound up with that stone Hwyn carries, isn't it? The Eye of Night?”
“That's Hwyn's tale to tell,” I said. “There is much that I don't understand. She keeps some secrets even from me. And besides, I don't think she understands it all herself.”
“If you don't understand it, why did you follow her?” Harga asked.
I smiled. “Do you know the Magyan legend of the Firebird?”
“I've read it,” Harga said.
“You don't ask the Firebird to explain itself when it flashes across your life,” I said. “You follow, or spend the rest of your life wondering. Following her, I have had everything the legend promised: poverty, peril, hardship, trouble, wonder, and a joy I would never have known. And no shadow of regret.”
“You talk like a book-learned man,” said Harga. “What were you before you followed her?”
“Lost,” I said. “Disillusioned. I'd been initiatied as a Tarvon priest, but left the Order without vows. Their neat solutions to every problem, their orderly scheme of life with a place for everything, didn't seem to fit the upside-down world I knew. Either the Order was wrong or the world was wrong, and I'd come to consider the Order, and all order, part of the problem.”
“So instead you followed Hwyn to Larioneth, where not even the seasons can be counted on to keep their order,” Harga said. “We had two summers last year. The year before, two winters.”
“We stepped into summer a while on the way here,” I said. “I'm not sure for how long. The sun never set, but that day seemed an age.”
“That happens here sometimes,” she said. “Once a hunting party disappeared for a month, and when they returned they swore it had only been a day. Time is not to be trusted in the North.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose, then, it matters little that the Lady Trenara can't tell me when she conceived her child.”
“She did seem to gain weight suddenly in the summer country,” I said. “When we found ourselves there, Hwyn and I hadn't even realized Trenara was pregnant. By the time we left, we couldn't have ignored it with our eyes shut.”
“I couldn't glean from her who fathered the child, either,” Harga mused. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn't have anything to do with that?”
“Certainly not!” I said. “For all I know, she was with child before I met her. It could have been—” Suddenly realizing the weight of what I'd nearly said, I clamped my mouth shut.
But it was too late. “Who?” Harga demanded “It could have been who?”
“I don't know how much you want to hear,” I said. “You have your legend, your Returner; will you accept all I may say about this icon?”
“Tell me and be done,” Harga said. “I'm an old woman; I have no icons left without cracks or stains. I like them better that way, in truth. Say on.”
“All right,” I said. “I was going to say that the father of Trenara's child could have been anyone. She is simple.”
“I know that,” Harga said impatiently.
I looked at her with new respect. “It took me longer than that to see through her fine demeanor,” I said.
“A man would be distracted,” Harga said. “Go on.”
“When I met Hwyn and Trenara they were already traveling together,” I said, “so I didn't know Trenara in her old way of life, but I can easily believe what Hwyn told me. She's at once too high-bred and too simple to work; she had no family; she h
ad no caution. What could she live on but her beauty?”
“You're saying she's a prostitute,” Harga said. “Well, that explains some things.”
“She wasn't selling herself while she traveled with us,” I qualified, “but it seemed any man that pleased could lead her where he chose. Hwyn was always trying to keep her out of trouble, but that wasn't easy.”
“I'm surprised you brought the lady along at all,” Harga said.
“We didn't. She followed us. Or rather, she followed Hwyn,” I said. “We couldn't shake her. We would have loved to leave her someplace safe, but she wouldn't stay. Hwyn had defended her once from a brute of a bawd, and the lady became attached to her. So Hwyn, being what she is, felt obliged to keep protecting her.”
“Being what she is,” Harga mused. “A protector of the weak? A would-be hero? Perhaps a hero already.”
“She is that and more,” I said. “She must recover. I am not the only one that needs her.”
“Don't lose hope,” Harga said. “Rest now. It's all you can do.”
We spent the night in the healer's room, moving Hwyn to a child's trundle bed that the others brought in; for once, her smallness made things easier. On the larger bed behind the curtain, I slept deep and long—so soundlessly that I almost wondered whether a little of that strange draught had been added to my food.
When I woke, close to midday, I hurried to Hwyn's bedside to find her sleeping peacefully, her color a little closer to what it should be, her breathing easy. Someone had left clean clothes for us that were not ours; our own travel-stained ones had been taken away. I dressed in the russet tunic and breeches they'd left for me, and ventured out quietly into the hallway, finding no one. After pausing to look out a window into the glistening white day, I returned. Someone had left jugs of water and mild apple wine, the sort given to children, with two clay cups. I mixed some for myself to drink. When I turned to Hwyn again, she was stirring.
“How do you feel?” I said, moving to take her hand.
“Hungry,” she said. “That's good, I think.”
“That's wonderful,” I said. “I was so frightened for you. But you look better now.”
“I feel better,” she said. “Journey's end has brought us to a good place. Is that fresh bread I smell down the hall?”
“I'll find out for you,” I said. I had no trouble finding the kitchen; following the warm scent of baking to its source, I could have found it with my eyes closed. After alternating fish and starvation for so long, it was like a sweet dream.
The kitchen was enormous, built to furnish food for a royal household big as a village, plus all the myriad guests of feasting-days in more prosperous times. No kings had feasted their retainers in Larioneth Hall for years, but the cavernous hearths, the formidable spits, the ponderous cauldrons showed no signs of disuse. From one end to the other, fires burned and pots bubbled. At a sturdy table in the center of the room, a red-knuckled adolescent girl sat washing vegetables and handing them to Ash to chop. Near them sat Harga, warming her hands around a mug of hot cider and talking. Before one of the fires, Rand and a slightly older girl sat side by side, each carving something out of wood. From time to time they paused to compare handiwork, talking in soft, giggling girlish voices. Two smaller children amused themselves spinning a pot-lid on the floor. And in an alcove under a window the Lady Trenara sat engrossed in conversation with a thin, white-haired man whom I remembered seeing at the council. As I stood in the door, the lady looked up at me, smiled broadly, and called, “Jereth! There you are.”
“You're awake!” Harga said as I stepped in to greet first Trenara, then all the rest. “How is Hwyn?”
“Better, I think. Hungry,” I said.
“Good,” Harga said. “I think Ash can cure that.”
“There's porridge and stewed apples,” Ash said. “The bread will be ready soon, too. Rand and Taryant, will you give him a hand? I'm up to the elbows in onions.” The two girls by the fire left their carving, fetched a broad tray, and showed me where to find bowls and spoons. They ladled out generous portions of steaming food for me and Hwyn, then insisted on carrying the tray to our room themselves. At the door they lingered shyly, half in, half out. From her bed, Hwyn peered back at them with almost the same wary expression.
The bigger girl stepped in, set down the tray on a little table and, twisting her red hair around one finger, said, “I—we—my name is Taryant, daughter of Trista. This is Rand—”
“Daughter of Syrc,” Rand added. “I was at council yesterday.”
“I remember you,” Hwyn said.
“We wanted to meet the Far-Travelers,” Taryant said.
Hwyn smiled then, seeming relieved. “We thank you for your welcome,” she said in a tone ceremonious enough to match the girls' gravity, extending her damaged hand to each in turn.
“We haven't properly met,” I said to Taryant. “I didn't see you at council. I am Jereth son of Garmund, and this is Hwyn.”
“Hwyn daughter of who?” Taryant asked, and I listened curiously to see whether Hwyn would reveal anything. But Hwyn answered, “Daughter of no one in particular,” with a wry expression.
“That's like my mother,” Rand said. Taryant looked embarrassed, and the girls retreated toward the door, shy again. We thanked them for the breakfast, and then watched as they fled back to the kitchen.
“It's terrible to be young,” Hwyn laughed. “To be cowed even by the likes of us!”
“It may not be just the children,” I said. “We're special here, creatures of legend: the Far-Travelers.”
“Well, the name fits,” Hwyn said. “We've come as far as the north edge of nowhere. Which just turns out to be a very good place to be.”
After we'd had our fill of hot food, Harga bustled in. “I see you've survived my potion,” the healer said tartly, then put a hand on Hwyn's forehead. “No fever. Good. And I take it your appetite has been restored.” She gestured at the tray emptied of food.
“Thank you a thousand times,” Hwyn said.
“Never mind that,” said Harga. “Breathe deeply now—good. All seems to be well, or at least, nothing wrong that a few days' rest won't cure. Maybe now you can begin answering some of my questions.”
But just then Rand burst in: “Harga—my mother—she's hurt.” After her came a bulky knot of people: Hart and Kernan, supporting Syrc, who leaned one arm over each man's shoulders, hobbling on one foot. A large tear in her skirt was edged with blood.
“What happened?” Harga said.
“She was gored by a boar,” Hart replied.
“It's not so bad,” Syrc panted. “You should see what I did to the boar. Hauvoc and Hern are cleaning it. Why don't you go help them, Rand?”
“I'll stay here,” the girl said stolidly.
The two men set Syrc down on a high-backed bench, and Harga crouched in front of her, folding back the huntress's skirt to reveal a messy leg wound.
“I should have known I was too close to the brute,” Syrc said. “But I got him.”
“Show-off,” Hart teased gently, “you just had to beat me to the kill again.”
As Harga cleaned the wound, Syrc flinched, and Rand looked queasy. The bandage Harga pressed to the gash turned red. Shaking her head, the healer threaded a needle to stitch the skin closed.
“Rand,” Hwyn said, “would you help me to stand? I think Harga must need this bed. Come, you look about my height; I could lean on your shoulder.”
“Go, child,” Syrc ordered, and Rand obeyed. She took hold of Hwyn hesitantly and helped her out of bed. They were indeed of a height, though oddly matched otherwise: the strong, comely child and the worn, scarred woman. As they moved clear of the bed something tumbled from Hwyn's pocket to the floor, something Hwyn would never have let slip unintentionally. Rand gasped: “Oh! What is it?” First Hart, then Kernan, then Syrc turned and stared down at it until Hwyn gently detached herself from Rand's unneeded support, picked up her treasure, and held it out for all to see. “The Eye of
Night,” she said simply, giving one of her slow, sly, crooked smiles to Rand and me, and then to the other open-mouthed Holdouts of Larioneth. Only Harga remained undistracted, intent on her task. Syrc seemed to have forgotten her pain, transfixed by the strange gem that shone with the cool glow of moonlight. “So beautiful,” breathed Syrc, as Harga poulticed her wound in silence.
“Did it fall from the stars?” Kernan gasped.
“It fell from her pocket,” Rand said almost indignantly. “I don't understand. Such a gem—you wouldn't carry it carelessly, like a shell you picked up on the beach. You wouldn't put a thing like this in a torn pocket, or forget it was in your lap, and let it fall.”
“Clever girl,” Hwyn said. “You're right, of course. I didn't drop this by chance.”
Harga finished binding Syrc's wound. “Well, traveler,” she said, “I see you've decided to give us some answers, after all.”
“That I have,” Hwyn said. “I didn't plan it quite this way, but I knew I needed to tell sooner or later, and it seemed that at the moment we needed a distraction.”
“You staged that like a master player,” I laughed.
Syrc was laughing, too. “I wanted something to distract the girl, yes. But I think I've got more than I bargained for.”
“Mother!” Rand protested.
“You were fretting, Rand. And see? It's all right, now. Dare say I'll be dancing by festival night.” Syrc tried to rise, grimaced a little, then sat again. “Far-Traveler, if we're to hear the whole story of this moonstone of yours, then I'd like my sister and Hau-voc to hear as well. Do you mind if I call them in?”
“Per should hear,” Harga cut in. “He's a scholar, wise by book-learning and by years. He may know something of use to you, or to us all in this time of portents.”
“Good. Call them together. Bring whoever should hear,” said Hwyn.
In the end we gathered in the warm kitchen, setting the two invalids, Hwyn and Syrc, in high-backed chairs at the hearth. Rand and Taryant slipped shyly in together; Hwyn beckoned them closer and they sat on the hearthstones at the foot of her chair. I sat beside them on the floor and leaned back against Hwyn's chair; she smiled down at me, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Trenara and the old scholar, Per, drew their seats closer; Hauvoc, his clothes still blood-spattered from the boar-carcass, stood by his sister; Ash and her young assistant Tresanda hovered around with warm bread and hot cider for everyone. Last of all Hart returned with a moon-faced, black-haired woman and what seemed a cloud of children. “My wife, Modya,” he explained to us as they settled themselves, each holding a child.
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