by Ru Emerson
She'd gone down to the Narran boat alone; allowing neither Ylia nor Nisana to see her off, lest she cry. She kept herself resolutely under the canvas shelter and dabbed at her eyes with a serviceable dark kerchief as the sturdy little boat moved to midstream and caught the current. The Caves, the horse pickets, Marhan's practice ground—gone. The last thing she saw before the river swept them around the bend was first sun touching the foot-bridge. She blinked: was someone standing there? She couldn't be certain.
Golsat leaned against the railing, high above the roar of the Aresada, and gazed down-River long after the boat vanished beyond tall fir and crumbling ledges.
One cannot know all the histories—there is too much that has gone before, even for so young a land as the Nedao of the Plains, with its 500 years. How much more difficult to know even a portion of our histories, who have dwelt against the sea for over a thousand years—or to know which of the tales we have of the Nasath are just telling and which are true histories? Even so, such knowledge as I have would have denied that either folk ever dwelt in or near the Caves of Aresada. Though, if they had, that would still not explain what we found.
16
She missed Ysian, even though she'd been there so short a time. Not that it wasn't for the best. She didn't brood; there wasn't time for that.
Her fledgling swordswomen were still painfully novice, all twenty of them. It was all she'd time and blades for at the moment, though there were at least five times that many who wanted lessoning. Mindful of the remarks among Erken's younger armed, among Marhan's second level novices, she decided to brazen the thing out and keep them in plain view, just as Marhan did his. And however much anyone could fault skill, balance or ability in any of them, they couldn't deny the women's determination. The number of onlookers halved by the second session, fell away to near none by the fourth.
And then suddenly, as such things always happened there were one or two who showed true potential. Lisabetha was one. Another was Eveya, daughter of a village mayor, who'd spent most of her eighteen years guarding her father's goats. She'd strength from that, more than others, like ‘Betha's friend Annes.
Ylia was working the girl personally, both of them sweating under the hot sun the rest gathered in tight circle to watch. Third level passes: some of them wouldn't reach that point for months, but it was good for them to see what they had to face, and Eveya was more than ready. “That was good, you've got a quick eye.” The farm girl smiled, pleased. “But did the rest of you catch the one thing she did wrong?” Silence. “All right. When you lunge, don't come so far forward. It puts you off balance, right on your enemy's sword, if he's paying attention. And what did I tell you of that?”
“He's always paying attention,” they chorused raggedly.
“Good. If I'd wanted, I'd have had her. Now,” she demonstrated, “if you take another step, then lunge—see the difference? Take two or three, if you have to, don't overstep your lunge.”
“I—extra step, then lunge;” Eveya mumbled to herself.
“Go ahead, try it.” The girl brought up her borrowed sword, sought another opening. Ylia parried wide, stepped back and blocked. “See the difference? You can pull back from there, attack again.”
“I see it.” The girl mopped her forehead. “Thank you.”
“Good work. You've got a talent. Is your father still—?”
“Displeased, Lady?” She shrugged. “Some. He'd rather I didn't, but he's made no order that I not.”
“I'll speak to him. In a group with some of the other men, so he doesn't feel singled out.”
“Thank you.”
“We need skill like yours. All right!” She turned to the rest of her group. “Change pairs, and do two sets of full pattern, then that's it for today.” A moan of disappointment swept them and she laughed. “Half of you won't be able to raise your arms above your heads tomorrow, and anyway, Marhan's waiting for those blades.” There were still disappointed looks on most of the young, faces, but they obediently moved about, settled into the formal stance of two wide-spread lines and began the formal set of crossings. Ylia walked up and down behind them. “Rialla, get that elbow in! Lisabetha, you've shifted your grip again, that won't serve in the long run, shift it back! One more time, good! All right!”
She left them to return the swords to Marhan, who was impatiently waiting with his own class—the younger and less skilled—and started back up-river. Just short of the bridge, she stopped to dip her sleeve in the chill water. She rubbed it across her forehead, held it against the back of her neck as she climbed.
Lisabetha caught up with her just within the entrance. “Still want to explore this afternoon?”
“I've the time for it, and anything's better than that sun just now. Is Brelian coming with us?”
Lisabetha grinned, shrugged. “He thought he might. Protection, or something. And he can carry more than we can—”
“I'm not Corlin, you needn't justify to me,” Ylia replied dryly, and then laughed “Glad to have him. Maybe he can suggest something we haven't tried yet.”
Brelian lost track of their direction, wasn't too pleased about it, even with the length of twine in his one hand, the torch reassuringly bright in the other. He didn't like being so far from an immediate exit to the outside, with no idea how to find one. I never feared caves before—before I went into that one after ‘Betha. How either of them takes it so well, I'll never understand. But then, ‘Betha remembers almost nothing of that night, and Ylia: even if she feared the way I do, she'd never show it, he thought. He considered that as the two women consulted over one of Lisabetha's old chalk marks. She'd do what I'm doing, she'd go straight back into Aresada, and fight the fear until it gave way. Pray the Mothers it does, and soon.
“We came through here, what, a 5-day ago?”
Lisabetha shrugged. “I think so. And one other time before, but I can't remember, it was pretty far back.” She turned slowly, gazing at the gloom-shrouded walls, at the silky looking flows of stone, like frozen, opaque waterfalls, that kept them from seeing far in this large chamber. “We never tried that way, that I recall—” She pointed off into heavy darkness.
Ylia frowned. “No. The marks would show, and besides, I think I'd remember. Brel?”
“Want my vote?” To his relief, his voice was steady. Outside, now! the inner voice urged. “Let's try it.” He stepped forward, held the torch out. “There's plenty of room here, and it opens out even more once you get through.” He stopped to let Lisabetha tie the twine off as they reached the narrow opening between two damp pillars of greenish tan stone.
He went on through, Lisabetha followed and Ylia, bearing a second lit torch and two spare unlit ones, came up at the rear.
It was a narrow opening, not tight for her, though from the sound of things, it had been snug for Brelian. Fortunately, it wasn't a long passage, and it came out into a smooth-floored area. Two blue pools covered most of it. Hundreds of delicate, clear icicles hung in clusters from the ceiling. She touched one, uncertainly. Rock. Water beaded on her fingertip.
“Well, what do you think?” Her voice echoed.
“There's a passageway here. A big one, see?” Lisabetha caught at Brelian's hand, started forward again.
It was high-arched, like a tunnel, the floor was sandy and in places strewn with rock fallen from the ceiling. It went on some distance, then opened out into another chamber. This one might have been as enormous as the Grand Temple, but with only the two torches, they couldn't tell.
“Wait.” Brelian stopped, turned back. Ylia was standing still, one hand clutching rock for balance. Her eyes were closed.
“Wait. There's—”
“Are you’ all right?”
“Fine—but, wait, let me think—” She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, took in another. Her companions watched in anxious silence. She gazed out into darkness, seeing neither of them. “There's something here.”
“Mathkkra?”
“Not like that. Not bad.
Something—I can sense it.” Without another word, she started forward. Brelian grabbed her arm, pulled her around.
“Are you really all right?”
“Ylia?” Lisabetha broke in, worried indeed. Ylia blinked, met her eyes with sudden recognition and nodded.
“It's all right. I've felt this before. Once. It's—there's something or someone here, I don't know which. I—I have to go to it. I'm sorry I can't explain better than that. I don't know anything else.”
“Well, then,” Brelian replied lightly, but he loosened his sword and let the dagger drop from its arm sheath down into his hand, “we'd better come with you, hadn't we?” If he expected argument, he got none; Ylia was too preoccupied with whatever was tugging at her inner sense to waste the time. She turned again and started toward what looked like a solid wall. Brelian eyed Lisabetha dubiously, shrugged, put her in front of him and they followed.
Ylia peered uncertainly ahead; thrust the torch into the low, narrow opening.
“What now?” Brelian whispered. “Ylia?”
“It's down there. I still can't tell what.”
“Good, though; you're certain of that.” Gods and Mothers, assure me of that, the look of you isn't reassuring at all.
“Not bad, not evil. Keep yourself aware, though.”
“I always do, now,” he replied grimly.
“Good man.” She clapped his shoulder, rather absently, went back to her study of the narrow way. “It's a chute, it drops down, comes out into a small room and there's real light beyond that. I'll go first.” And before he could more than open his mouth to protest, she crawled into the opening, sat down, pulled the torch in close and pushed off. She slid out of sight, around a corner; and was gone. They could hear her a very short moment later.
“All right, I'm here! Keep the torches low, you've room beside you but not much above! Brel, you're taller than either of us, keep your head down!”
“All right; we're coming!” He helped Lisabetha in, kissed her cheek and gave her a shove. She let out a startled gasp but he could hear her giggling as she reached Ylia. He joined them moments later. “Children's games. What next?” But he felt better already, even though the distance to the Aresada was greater than it had been, for he could see clear daylight no far off, and the air was filled with the sound of falling water.
They crossed the tiny chamber, stepped out into midday sun. “Mothers! Look at this!” Ylia breathed. They stood near the bottom of an immense chute; thick-bladed fern and bright green mosses covered the walls from top to bottom where it wasn't wet black rock. Across from them and to their right water fell in long thin streams from high above. Spray feathered about them.
“It's beautiful. But—is this what you sought?”
Ylia shook her head. “No. But it's near—there.” She pointed directly across, to a hole similar to the one where they stood, half in and half out of the opposite fall.
Brelian squatted on his heels, doused the one torch and surveyed the ground. “All right. It's damp all around here, but there's plenty of handholds.” And he stood to catch at Ylia's arm as she moved forward. ‘I'm supposed to protect you, by all the Mothers at once, and I can't do that if you go before me.” She smiled ruefully, shrugged and stepped back. He handed her the torch, stepped down onto wet greenery and caught at rock.
It was treacherously wet, but as he'd thought there were enough holds, enough places for their feet that it wasn't dangerous. They made it across, now thoroughly wet, ducked inside. “That would have felt good after practice,” Lisabetha said. “It's too cool in here for it.”
“Mmmm.” Ylia bent over to wring out her plaits. Straightened up and took two steps, stopped again. “Brelian. Give me your torch. Now.” Her voice had gone flat again.
He relit one, handed it to her. She started forward again, but slowly now, almost reluctantly. It was all around her, calling at her, picking at her, almost so near she could touch it. By all the Guardians at once; what is it, and why does it pluck at me so?
Torchlight caught at a million crystal facets, clear and amethyst, filling the chamber with a dazzling radiance. Lisabetha cried out; she and Brelian crowded forward.
Ylia swallowed. She was visited by-the intense feeling that she did not, could not, belong here. She'd had that before, too, though this had none of the feeling of the Folk about it. And Bendesevorian—she'd thought him, when she'd first sensed the drawing that had pulled her halfway across Aresada, but he wasn't here. Power filled the chamber, the far wall with its geod-like brilliance the source. It filled her, dizzying in its strength, burying the last traces of fear and uncertainty, She swallowed again, went to it.
There was an inlay in the midst of that glittering wall, a thin slab of onyx; it was covered with etched lines of fine writing. She didn't recognize the lettering, could read none of it. She ran a hand across the surface and it shifted against her hand, came away in her fingers as she caught at it to steady it.
Lisabetha came to her side. “Those aren't Nedaoan letters. I've never seen writing like that! And—Mothers, what are these?” There were three chests, almost at their feet: one the size of a wardrobe chest, the other two smaller, like jewel-boxes. They were all three plain unfigured wood, bound in figured copper bands that gleamed like mirrors: Ancient, they had to be truly ancient. But there was no greening on the copper, no rust on the iron hasps, and the wood itself was sound. “Where did they come from?”
Ylia didn't hear her. She knelt, reached for the hasp on the large chest. Her fingers rested there. Take it, it is yours. The words tolled through her. Her hand tightened, she lifted the lid before sense and awe and failing courage could prevent her. It creaked faintly. There was a shallow tray, lined in deep green silk. Centered on the silk, alone, lay a bundle of an even darker green deep-napped velvet. She touched it, starting as the Power vibrated up her arm and set her heart to thudding. She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly as both hands caught at the soft fabric.
The chamber, the crystal wall, her companions faded from her sight. Dark: night and swirling fogs surrounded the woman who stood before her. She was young, or so it seemed; her face was hidden, and she was either ill or in great pain. Take what you find here, heir of mine. I sent it across the years to you, it is yours by birth and by right. And the woman was gone, the vision was gone, the chamber again real and solid around her. Power warmed her, urged her on, left her giddy and reckless. She pressed the velvet wrap aside.
Silence, but for the sound of her own breathing. A shield, a small diamond of hardened leather: the patterning along its edges was smooth to the touch, somehow soothing. Arms had been worked into its center; around an enormous golden topaz. Her vision was too blurred with excess Power to make it out. Shield. It would cover, protect a forearm; the grips on the back were sized small—it was no man's guard.
Music teased her ears, rippled through her in a shiver. Under the shield, wrapped in its own soft suede case, was a battle-horn. She set the shield uptight against the raised lid, slid the horn free. A worn banner hung long from its lower tube: the metal was battered, it had seen hard use before it was placed in its case and then in the trunk. The banner was torn and stained with soot, what might be dried blood, smeared with mud. The device might have been a ship, the colors were near her own.
And under that—
She was shaking. She caught at the plain leather scabbard, felt blindly for the silver rope hilts. The music was gone, buried under the hurtling of her blood, the heavy thump of her heart. Take it up, take the burden that is yours. I leave it to you, but you must take it freely, and with it all else I have left you. Take up the sword, knowing nothing will remain as it was. All life brings change, and responsibility, but not always such responsibility as this single act presents you. Do you dare? Are you truly the heir I foresaw?
She cast a startled glance at her companions, but they could have heard nothing: Lisabetha knelt before one of the smaller boxes, and Brelian was staring blankly over her shoulder.
> Fear and anger: She drew her hand back, though it cost her. I am myself, Ylia! she railed silently. No heir to these riddles of yours, whoever you are, no mindless slave to foreseeing or drawing!
No answer. The box and its contents waited, as they had waited for so long. Waiting for her. She knew it, knew deep down where the Power sat, and she knew she could not walk away from that challenge, or from what was here. She gazed down at it. Silence still. She reached with a hand now steady, her fingers tightened on the hilts and she drew the sword from its sheath.
It was a slender blade, long and true-shaped, a joy of a blade. The hilts were cool and fit her small hand; the guard came up in a narrow twist of silver bands across the backs of her fingers, covering to her wrist as though it had been crafted for her alone. A pang stopped her breath as she turned the blade: it was marred, near the end, by a splotch of black, a thin line, as though it had not been properly cleaned before it was stored. But that was wrong, she knew before she touched it to rub it clear: something had touched there and wounded the blade.
Joy stabbed at her, catching the breath in an already tight throat. Her eyes blurred: the blade caught torch-light and gave it back as silver and gem-light. Mine! she exulted fiercely, and knew it for troth. “Mine,” she whispered.
The return journey was a merry one and went much more quickly than the trip in had. Ylia was still light-headed, the tri-fold Power of the things she carried filled her, temporarily at least setting aside doubt and a faint but growing realization she'd been manipulated into finding and taking the weapons. Lisabetha and Brelian were like children, and small wonder. They'd found coin: ancient, and of a kind never seen in Nedao, but honest gold and silver. And in a small carved box, deep in the same chest, cut loose gems.
The second chest held a thread-of-gold embroidered edging that had been carefully picked from someone's robes: It was stiff with pearls; a tiny brocaded box held two slender needles and more of the pearls. There was a length of pale silver gauzy stuff, a rope of the rare grey pearls from the seas south of Ragnol, an ornamental dagger, two knotted silver and opal broaches, a pair of gold ear-hoops. A short, soft leather jerkin lined the bottom. This last had a tracery of fine-work at the square cut arms, and high on the right shoulder someone had worked a crest: ship on a stormy sea, an osprey circling the mast. It matched the crest at the upper edge of the scabbard, and what could be seen of the banner hanging from the battle-horn.
