As she was gathering small chunks and sticks, she discovered her first concrete bit of evidence that Evandar had indeed found her the right island. Lying half-buried in the sand was a broken plank, cut and curved in such a way that it could only have come from a ship. It might, of course, have been nothing more than wrack from some Bardek merchanter, carried hundreds and hundreds of miles by the currents, but she preferred to doubt it. In the last of the day’s light she scurried round, searching for more driftwood, scrabbling like a mole in the sand, until at last, just as the twilight was growing thick and gray, she unearthed a flat panel of wood that must have once formed the side of a chest or back of a bench. It seemed to be the splintered half of a big oblong, and it was carved with designs that no Bardekian would have drawn.
Once she got a fire going with less interesting driftwood, Jill studied her discovery by firelight streaked blue from the sea salt impregnating the wood. Although the panel was bleached and blistering, she discovered on one edge two indentations that could only have been made by hinges—so it was part of a chest, indeed. With her fingertip she could trace a long pattern of vines and flowers, looping casually, almost randomly across the entire surface rather than being contained in strict bands, such as a Bardekian craftsman would have chosen, and among the foliage were the little faces of Wildfolk. On the reverse side of the panel she found deep-graved letters, recognizably elven though somewhat different from the profuse syllabary she’d learned.
Enough of the symbols were familiar for her to make a stab at deciphering the words, most of which seemed to have vanished with the missing piece of panel. There was the graceful hook that spelled “ba,” and here the slashed cross of “de.”
“Iran rinbaladelan linalandal—” she said aloud, and her blood ran cold at the sound of the city name. “Rinbaladelan son of the something? Or wait! The son of Rinbaladelan, not the other way round.”
A new city, then, founded by exiles? Quite possibly, if its name had been inscribed on this long-sunk ship to show her home port. She tossed the panel over near her gear, then got up and laid more wood on the fire. In the blue and gold flame the salamanders leapt and sported, rubbing their backs like cats on the burning sea wrack. Jill wandered away from the pool of light so that she could look up at the stars, hanging bright and clear above her, so close, seemingly, that she felt she could stretch up a hand and touch them. She wished she had a navigator’s lore, to read the stars and learn how far south she might be, but of course, for all the strange lore she did know, the book of the stars was closed to her. Far down the beach at low tide, the ocean lapped soft waves,
What, then, was the noise? All at once she realized that for some time now she’d been hearing a distant sound that she’d been assuming, only half consciously, was surf, but here in this sheltered bend of coast, and with the tide so far out at that, no waves pounded on the shore. She went cold again, freezing motionless, straining to hear, to place, the soft but rhythmical boom, boom, boom floating through the night.
Alter some long minutes she realized that the sound was growing louder, coming closer, pounding like the footsteps of an enormous animal walking at a stately pace. She hurried back to the fire, wondered if she should keep it or smother it, cursed herself for not traveling armed, decided that one sword wouldn’t have been much good, anyway, against a beast as big as this one must be, then laughed aloud at herself. She did, after all, have dweomer to fall back upon. No doubt a blaze of etheric fire would frighten away any animal, gigantic or not, if indeed a beast was what she was hearing. The sound was definitely closer now and definitely coming from the distant river. She walked away from the fire, peered into the dark until her eyes adjusted, then saw pinpoints of light flickering far off in the estuary. The booms grew louder still.
Drums. Drums and torches coming along the riverbank, and she was willing to wager that whoever came marching was pounding those drums to scare the crocodiles off. All at once Wildfolk swarmed into manifestation around her, a whole army of green and purple gnomes, a flock of sprites, jumping or fluttering round in sheer excitement. Her own gray gnome appeared, jigging up and down on top of her pack.
“The Elder Brothers, is it?”
He nodded a yes and grinned, gape-mouthed. In a few minutes she could see the dark shapes of ten men break free of the shadows around the river and turn, torches held high, onto the beach. She could even pick out the drummer, marching at the rear of the line and banging a large, flat drum with some kind of stick. She went back to her fire, threw on more wood to make it blaze in greeting, and waited, arms crossed over her chest, as they drew nearer, stumbling a little on the soft beach sand. With the crocodiles far behind, the drummer fell silent. About ten feet away they stopped, just out of the pool of light, but she could see them clearly enough: elves, all right, with their long, delicate ears and moonbeam-pale hair. They were dressed in full tunics, belted at the waist with a glitter of gold, which came just above their knees, and each man carried a quiver of arrows at his hip and a bow slung over his back. Jill hoped that they spoke the same elven language that she knew.
“I give you my heartfelt greetings,” she said, “and hope I might be welcome here.”
She could just make out a rustle of surprised whispers. One man stepped from the crowd and walked a few paces in her direction. A dragon’s head, worked in gold and as big as the palm of his hand, clasped his belt. When he spoke, she could indeed understand him, but with some difficulty. His dialect was far more different from that of the Westfolk than, say, Eldidd speech is from that of Deverry proper.
“Strangers are always less than welcome. Are you a victim of the sea’s rage?”
It took her a moment to realize that he meant a castaway. “No, good sir. I came here quite deliberately, looking for you and your people, in fact.”
Automatically he turned to glance at the cove, turned back to her with a slight frown.
“I see no boat.”
“Well, no.” There was nothing she could say but the truth. “I traveled by dweomer, and I come to greet you and ask your aid in the name of the Light that shines behind all the gods.”
Jill had never seen anyone look so surprised. He turned on one heel, staring at the beach, turned back to her with a shake of his head, his mouth half-open as he fought for words. The men behind him went dead-silent for a moment, then all began talking in a gabble of surprise until their leader shouted at them to be quiet.
“It seems discourteous in the extreme to ask you for some proof, but given the circumstances . . . ”
Jill smiled, flung up one hand, and called upon the Spirits of Aethyr. In a blaze and stream of bluish light they flocked to her and made her hand and arm blaze with etheric fire far brighter than a torch. All round them Wildfolk swarmed into manifestation and spread out on the beach like an army.
“Forgive me for doubting you.” The elven leader bowed deep. “My name is Elamanderiel, and in the name of the Light, I bid you welcome.”
When Dallandra left Jill, she followed the sun road until the gold faded and the dappled tiles gave way to daffodils blooming by a stream. Following the stream uphill led her back past the circle of stones, through the mists, and down the long road by the sea whose waves broke on every shore and none of them. At length she made her way back to the river and found the Host scattered across the meadow and dancing, as if nothing troubling had ever happened in these lands. Under the young oak tree that hid his daughter, Evandar was sitting in the grass and playing sour notes on a bone whistle, about six inches long and bleached dead-white.
“Odd little trinket,” he remarked. “I found it lying over there, in among the bushes, as if someone had dropped it by mistake. What do you think it is, my love?”
“Oh, ych! It looks like it was made from an elven finger.”
“Doesn’t it? What is it? Two joints somehow glued together? No, but it’s much too long for a single joint.” He held his own hand against it in illustration. “I wonde
red what it would call up, you see, but so far, naught’s appeared in answer to my playing.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well. It gives me the strangest feeling, seeing it, and a worse one to hear it call. I wish you’d just smash it.”
“I would, except it’s a riddle, and I think me a good one at that,” He tossed it into the air, seemed to catch it, but when he opened his hand it was gone. “Now I know where it lies, but no one else does, and so I’ve covered a riddle with a riddle.”
“I can’t imagine any of your people making such a thing.”
“Indeed, no, and so I wonder: who dropped it here, and why were they prowling beside my river? I think me we’d best tend to our borders.”
All at once they were no longer alone. Like flames leaping out of the ground, soldiers of the Host were gathering round him—how many, she couldn’t tell—in a glitter of coppery-colored mail and helmets, each man armed with a long bronze-tipped spear. The music drifted away and stopped as the Host swelled, spreading across the meadow. At some far distance she heard horses neighing.
“While you were gone, Alshandra was seen again,” Evandar said to Dallandra. “With some of those from farther in.”
“Farther in? I wish you’d explain—”
“There are two hosts, my love, the bright court that I keep, and then the dark who live farther in. And that’s all I’ll say about it now, for look! our horses!”
A young boy hurried forward, leading two golden horses with silvery manes and tails. As Dallandra mounted, she saw that the foot soldiers had turned into cavalry as suddenly as changes always came about in this country. In the clatter and jingle of metal-studded tack they followed Evandar as he led the way out with a whoop and a wave of his arm. Dallandra rode up next to him as the road beneath flattened out and broke free into sunlight. Yet always the mist remained, a gray and shifting wall, seeming solid at times, thin and teased to silver at others to reveal glimpses of shining cities or forested mountains. Dallandra noticed that it always hung just at their left hand, as if they were traveling deosil in a vast circle round a grassy plain.
“The riding of the border,” Evandar called out.
Behind him the Host roared their approval, and silver horns blew.
On horses that never seemed to tire they rode for hours, till the day faded into a greenish twilight, and a moon hung pink and bloated just above the horizon, never rising, never setting. In that ghastly light they traveled past ruins of cities fallen to some great catastrophe and the black and twisted stumps of dead forests, blanketed with ancient ash stretching as far as Dallandra could see. The horses never stumbled, never paused, ambled on and on and on through death and night, till just as she was ready to scream from the terror of it day broke, blue and clear, to drench them all in golden light. The mist writhed one last time, then blew away on a fresh and rising wind. Just ahead in the flowered meadow stood the pavilion of cloth-of-gold. Dallandra caught her breath in a sob of relief.
“Tne border lies secure!” Evandar cried out. “Go then to your music and the feast, but come again when I call.”
Behind him the host of soldiers blew away, like dead leaves swirling in an autumn wind. He swung down from his horse, helped Dallandra dismount, then turned the reins of their horses over to the same boy, who appeared as silently as before. Dallandra watched him lead them away round the pavilion and wondered aloud if there they would disappear.
“No” they’ll return to their pastures, from whence we stole them.” He was grinning. “Are you weary, my love? Shall we join the feast?”
“I’d rather you explained a few things to me.”
“If a riddle has an answer, it’s a riddle no more.”
Simply because she was indeed very tired, she dropped the subject and let him lead her into the pavilion. Their seats, couches on which they could semirecline, stood at the head of the hall. She sank gratefully onto the soft cushions and accepted a golden goblet of mead from a page. As always, the mead and the bread seemed real to her fingers and her taste, solid and so delicious that she realized how hungry she was after the long ride. While they ate, various members of the Host would come to Evandar and talk in low voices, reporting things they’d seen, apparently. Harpers played nearby in long, sad harmonies, while young voices sang, until at last, she slept.
2.
The Prince of Swords
The Westlands, Autumn, 1112
Out on the high plains the elven leader with the most authority—and the largest warband for that matter—was Calonderiel, Banadar of the Eastern Border, and yet, as Deverry men reckoned such things, his claim to power rested on an oddly weak foundation. He was descended from nobody in particular and related to no one much—just the son of a horse herder who was the son of a weaver who was the son of a prosperous farmer back in the old days when the elves lived settled lives in their own kingdom in the far west. No one had ever accused his family of having any connection whatsoever to the noble-born or the renowned. He was, of course, the best archer, the shrewdest tactician, and one of the most respected leaders of men that the high plains had ever seen, and those things, among the People, outweighed any questions of kinship. Despite that, Rhodry ap Devaberiel was continually amazed that Calonderiel would hold such easy authority without a grumble from anyone. He himself was second in command of the banadar’s warband, and since he’d sworn to serve him, he personally would never have argued with a single order or decision his leader made. It was just that, at odd moments, he puzzled about it, or even, Calonderiel being the kind of man he was, felt he could wonder about it aloud.
“And now this Aledeldar shows up for the autumn meeting,” Rhodry remarked. “What if he and his son decide to ride with us? Doesn’t it trouble you?”
“Why should it?” Calonderiel looked up in surprise. “Something wrong with him?”
“Not as far as I can see. It’s just that he’s the king, isn’t he? Well, the only one you people—we, I mean—have. There’s bound to be trouble over it. One wagon but two teamsters makes for a rough journey.”
Calonderiel merely laughed. It was late in the evening, and wrapped in woolen cloaks, they were sitting together in front of the banadar’s enormous tent. Among the other tents (and there were over two hundred of them), everything was dark and silent, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog or cry of a hungry baby, hushed as fast as the echo died.
“Well, it won’t be so funny when he starts countermanding your orders.”
“Rhodry, you don’t understand us still, do you? How long have you lived with us now? Thirteen, fourteen years? Well, think back over it. You’ve heard plenty of people mention Del and his son, haven’t you? And how? Exactly like they’d mention anyone else they know. You have more real power than he does, as a matter of fact. You’re my second, and the men all respect you, and so the People would take your orders long before they’d take his. Nothing can take his position away from Del, mind. He’s Halaberiel’s son, and Halaberiel was Berenaladar’s, and Berenaladar was the son of Ranadar, King of the High Mountain, and that’s that. But since the wolves and the owls and the weeds are running his kingdom these days, well, by the Dark Sun herself! He’s got no call to be giving himself airs over it.”
Baffled, Rhodry shook his head Calonderiel was right, he supposed. He didn’t understand the People, and at times like these, he doubted if he ever would.
On the morrow, with the autumn meeting or alardan as it was called in full swing, his loneliness seemed to double itself. Since it was the last festival before the long trip south to the winter camps, it was a big one. Whenever a new traveling group arrived, some ten families and their horses and sheep, everyone rushed to greet old friends, not seen since the height of summer, and to help them unpack and settle in. Time to visit was short; the herds would crop the available grazing down fast, and the meeting would disperse. Rhodry wandered through the brightly painted tents by himself, saying the occasional hello or exchanging smiles and nods wit
h someone whom he recognized. Wildfolk swarmed everywhere, grinning and gaping, dashing back and forth, pulling dogs’ tails and children’s hair, then suddenly vanishing only to stream back into manifestation a few feet away. Among the People themselves, everyone was rushing around, getting ready for the enormous feast that evening. Here and there he found groups of musicians, tuning their instruments together and squabbling over what to play; here and there cooks were drawing and dressing slaughtered lambs or pooling precious hoards of Bardek spices. Children ran to and fro, bringing twigs and scraps of bark or baskets of dried dung to the cooking fires that were, as always on the grasslands, short of fuel.
At one of the fires Rhodry found Enabrilia, sitting on a wooden chest, her two grandsons fighting at her feet over a pair of pottery horses. She looked tired, that morning, and scattered through her golden hair shone an obvious sprinkling of gray. When Rhodry hunkered down next to her, she smiled at him, then went back to peeling roots with a small knife.
“The warband’s always in the way when there’s work to be done,” she remarked, but pleasantly. “Hanging round asking when the food’s going to be cooked and distracting the girls who are supposed to be working. You’re all the same, you know.”
“Well, that’s true enough. I thought I’d come distract you.”
“Oh, get along with you! I’m old enough to be your grandmother—well, three times over, no doubt, and I feel every one of my years this morning, I tell you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Oldana’s having one of her bad turns again.” She paused with a significant look at the boys, all ears at the mention of their mother, who had been ill for months.
“Ah. I see.”
Back in Eldidd, where he’d been a great lord and one of the High King’s personal friends, Rhodry would never have given the two children, one barely out of diapers, a thought. Since he was out on the grasslands now, he held out his arms to the younger one, Faren, who toddled over and laid both of his tiny hands into one of Rhodry’s callused and weather-beaten palms.
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 21
