by Alison Baird
Ailia stared at him in shock. The Sacred Flame of Orendyl used to harm, to destroy . . . “I didn’t know.”
Damion gazed at the far-off peaks. “To the Elei, the Stone was the symbol of all they valued: beauty and purity and the generosity of their gods. But to the Zimbourans it would be a sign that the time has come for their nation to rise and conquer the world. Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter: they will think it is, and act accordingly. If we don’t find the Stone first, King Khalazar’s men will—and the whole world could end up being at war just because of a piece of stone.”
“How horrible!” Ailia remarked. “And how awful to think that so much depends on us!”
“We’ll just have to do what we can,” he said.
With that the conversation ceased. Jomar waded into the river, to try and catch some trout he had spied there: he fished with a bow and arrow, Mohara-fashion. Ana, Damion, and Lorelyn sat together on the bank. The horses drank from the shallows or rested near the water’s edge. Ailia sat down with her back against the trunk of a tree and stretched out her legs: their muscles still ached from gripping the horse’s sides. The circling arctic sun shed a soft slanted light like that of late afternoon. It gave to the lower reaches of the sky a dusty, aureate cast that reminded her of the dim golden backgrounds in old oil paintings. The landscape before her might have been a pastoral scene from just such a painting, and created the same sense of tranquillity. Trees, earth, river: everything the rich mellow light fell upon was subtly transformed. It beat through the young green leaves on the boughs above her head, so that their finest venous traceries, their most delicate maculations, were minutely shadowed forth; it streamed through the translucent bodies of the mayflies hovering over the water, turning them to motes of dancing fire; it turned the droplets in the reeds at the river’s edge to prisms at whose rainbow-vivid, inconstant colors she stared half-mesmerized. With the light came a languor that stole upon her like sleep, calm and easeful. Bullfrogs sounded their bass notes among the reeds, and farther up the riverbank a blue heron stood still as a sentry, watching the water. The soporific scene combined with her fatigue to lull Ailia almost into a doze, and she gave a start when the heron rose in sharp, sudden flight, flapping away along the bank.
She looked anxiously about, but saw nothing on either bank of the river. The others had not noticed the heron’s flight. Perhaps she was just feeling edgy. She settled back among the rushes again. And then she realized that the bullfrogs had all fallen silent.
She sat up a second time, glancing around her. The river flowed on, deep and lucid, its gliding surface smooth as glass. But she saw the water near the far bank ripple, bending the reflections of the overhanging trees. The river was opaque from this angle, reflecting the gold-tinted sky above; but still the impression remained of a large body moving just beneath the surface. Were there crocodiles here? she wondered. She doubted this climate was hot enough for them. But no fish could be large enough to make a ripple like that. Unless perhaps she had imagined it—
The water stirred again, an eddy foamed and swirled in the midst of the current, and something dark and glistening—like a rock, only where no rock had been before—broke the surface briefly and vanished again.
“Jomar!” she yelled.
The Mohara man lowered his bow and glared at her. “What is it? You’ll scare off all the fish, shouting like that.”
“There’s something in the river—something big!”
Jomar swung around. There could be no mistaking it now—he, too could see the undefined shape moving beneath the water, a shattered shadow like a passing figure seen through dimpled glass.
“Is it a crocodile?” asked Ailia as Jomar splashed hurriedly ashore and joined the others standing among the reeds.
“If it is,” answered the Mohara, “it’s bigger then any croc I ever—”
Foam swirled once more, and the gleaming rocklike thing reappeared. As they watched it thrust high into the air on a long sinuous neck that swung to and fro, dripping. Neck and head were covered in gray-green scales that gleamed dully in the sun. A black, cloven tongue flickered at the end of the blunt snout. The horses began to snort and pull at their tethers.
“It’s some sort of giant water snake,” declared Jomar, raising his bow.
“There’s another!” exclaimed Lorelyn as a second dark scaly head thrust up out of the water not far from the first.
“And another—over there, look,” added Damion, pointing.
The water was churning like a pot on the boil. Jomar stared, lowered his bow again. “The whole river’s swarming with them—”
“Back away from the water—slowly,” said Ana in a low voice, stooping to pick up the growling Greymalkin.
They obeyed in silence, retreating toward the nervous horses and loosing their tethers. The long, glaucous necks—there were several of them now—dipped and swung and intertwined in midcurrent, forked tongues darting in rhythm: then as one the serpents’ heads all turned toward the travelers, and sent up a manifold hiss.
“We’ve been seen,” said Ana as Damion helped her into her saddle. “Ride away—as fast as you can!” There was more urgency in her voice than they had ever heard before.
The horses were as eager as they to leave. They fled the bank and were soon riding among trees again, the river left far behind.
“So your magic animal-charming skills don’t extend to snakes, Ana?” remarked Jomar caustically when at last the companions had pulled their sweating mounts to a halt.
“Would they have attacked us?” asked Ailia.
“Not they,” said Ana, holding her still-bristling cat with one hand and patting her pony’s neck with the other. “It. There was but one body for all those heads. It was a single creature.”
They all stared at her. “What do you mean? What was it?” demanded Lorelyn.
“A hydra. They always have more than one head—sometimes as many as seven or nine.”
Jomar snorted. But Ailia recalled the large, dark body she had seen moving just below the river’s surface; remembered also the odd synchronous movements of the serpent heads, as though they were all linked by one dominating will.
“And they’re dangerous?” asked Lorelyn. “Will that one chase us?”
Ana’s face was grave. “I think not. Hydras are not swift runners. They do not need to be. They are venomous, but their poison is not in their fangs like an adder’s: they breathe it out, in the form of a deadly vapor that can travel nearly as fast and as far as an arrow. And they are very hard to kill. If you cut off one of a hydra’s heads, two more will eventually grow in its place. It is said that they are not natural creatures, but were created by servants of Valdur who released them in the countries of their foes, to poison all the rivers and lakes. The Elei’s enemies must have loosed a few when they attacked the island, and the creatures have lived and bred here ever since. Had I known that hydras dwelt here I would not have allowed any of you so near the river.”
“And we were in the water,” said Ailia, shuddering. “It’s a good thing the hydra wasn’t there when we crossed the river.”
“If the Zimbourans do follow our trail,” said Damion, “they’ll have to cross the river too. They’re riding into more danger than they know.”
“Good,” grunted Jomar.
Ana looked solemn. “Perhaps. But we have been fortunate, and they may be as well. We cannot count on their being delayed at the river. Let us ride on!”
13
The Lost Land
THEY WERE ALL ANXIOUS to make as much progress as possible before their former captors came after them. The snowcapped mountain range was at least two days’ ride away, according to Jomar’s estimate.
“This fair weather will not last, either,” said Ana. “There will be storms before we reach the mountains.” She spoke with the air of one making a definite statement of fact, though the day was perfectly clear with scarcely a cloud in the sky. Perhaps, having lived out of doors so much, she had be
come adept at reading weather signs invisible to others.
Jomar was also a very useful addition to their group. When they paused for a rest he taught them how to respond to a warning whistle, imitating a bird’s call, which he would make whenever he suspected there was danger near at hand. On hearing it, they were all to halt whatever they were doing and run for the nearest available cover. He also taught Damion some swordplay with their stolen weapons, demonstrating lunges and feints and parries in case the Zimbourans should attack them and they had to defend themselves. Lorelyn, watching this, was eager to learn swordsmanship too, but Jomar at first dismissed her pleas for a lesson.
“She ought to learn to defend herself,” said Damion, concerned. “The Zimbourans want to kill her. She’s in more danger than the rest of us,” he argued.
Ailia shivered a little at that. Before now she had never been exposed to any real danger in all her short life: her greatest adventures had all taken place within the covers of books. Quests like these were for the strong and courageous, she thought in dismay, and not timid weaklings like her. But she did not voice any of her fears to the others. For a sight of Liamar and the Star Stone, she resolved, she would risk anything. And there was the urgency of their errand as well.
Jomar grudgingly showed Lorelyn how to use a sword. The moment he placed the hilt in her hand the girl’s pale eyes glowed. She swung the long steel blade to and fro, staring at it as if fascinated. “This feels . . . right,” she murmured when the exercises were finished. “As though I’d held a sword before. Of course I haven’t, but somehow it feels almost . . . familiar. I can’t explain it.” She relinquished the blade with reluctance.
It was strange to see a girl holding a sword in her hands, especially when she was clad in rough trousers and a tunic. The men had found some Zimbouran clothing folded away among the packhorses’ supplies, and had changed into it; Lorelyn had also taken some, being tall enough to wear male attire. The other women had to make do with Lorelyn’s small supply of spare garments: but her gowns were large for Ailia, even with a rope tied about them for a belt, and they did not fit Ana at all.
The brief night fell again as they journeyed on—little more than a dim blue curtain, pierced only by the very brightest stars. There were still no sounds of pursuit in the forest behind them, and as they were all exhausted Ana suggested that they encamp for a few hours. Two flimsy canvas tents were also among the supplies on the packhorses, and Jomar and Lorelyn set them up while Ana tethered and fed the animals.
“He’s a wonderful mount,” said Damion to Ana as he stroked the palfrey’s neck. “A horse in a thousand, aren’t you, Artagon?” Ailia had named the palfrey and Jomar’s black stallion after the famous steeds of Andarion and Ingard. Kaligon was a temperamental mount and sometimes bucked, though the Mohara man was a match for him; but Artagon was always docile and well- mannered. He stood snorting gently as Damion petted him, and when Ana’s cat wandered up he dropped his head to touch her small pink nose with his.
“I’m sure Mandrake would be furious about this,” Damion remarked. “Imagine his prize palfrey ending up here in the far north!”
Ana smiled, laying her hand on the hard bone between the horse’s eyes. “Knowing Mandrake, I doubt he came by the horse honestly. And in a way, you might say Artagon has come home. The thoroughbred horses of Maurainia are all descended from three famous Elei stallions—faerie-horses, as the breed was then called—brought out of Trynisia in days long past.”
Ailia looked up with interest. “The faerie-horses turn up in a lot of the old tales. They were supposed to be one of the three kinds of animal that could see spirits: the others were faerie-hounds and cats.”
Ana smiled. “Perhaps this fellow’s ancestors were steeds of the Fairfolk in days of old, and carried ladies and lords.”
Jomar, declaring that he could not stomach another meal of ship supplies, took his bow and quiver and went off hunting. He returned in about half an hour with a brace of rabbits. Ailia and Lorelyn, gazing appalled at the furry corpses, were certain they could never eat them, but the smell of the sweet tender meat roasting over the flames weakened their resolve. Ana did not partake of the meat, but ate only some dried fruit from the saddlebags. Greymalkin was offered some by Lorelyn, but turned up her nose at the cooked flesh with catly disdain. She sauntered away through the meadow, no doubt to find another meal more to her liking.
Throughout the meal Damion wore a troubled look, his thoughts on other matters. “Ana,” he said abruptly as they finished, “what about Mandrake? He seemed a dangerous sort of man to me, and he’s still running around loose in Maurainia. Aren’t you concerned about him? Who is he, really?”
There was a pause before Ana answered. “Mandrake,” she said slowly, “is an extremely powerful and dangerous Nemerei. I first met him in the land of Zimboura, many years ago.”
“You’ve been to Zimboura?” exclaimed Ailia in amazement.
“Many years ago,” she repeated. Her face took on a faraway expression, her voice dropped nearly to a whisper: she might almost have been talking to herself and not to them at all. “Mandrake was an orphan: his mother died giving birth to him, and owing to his . . . deformity the Zimbourans thought he was the child of a demon. Some priests of Valdur cared for him a while, believing him to be a creature of their dark god. But the people of the surrounding villages attacked them, and drove out the child and flung stones at him whenever he dared to show his face. He was almost feral when I found him, cowering in a cave, terrified of other human beings. I won his trust and took him away with me, for though he was only a child I sensed his Nemerei gifts at once. I knew that, given his background of hate and persecution, there was a possibility that he would grow up to misuse those powers. And so I did what I thought best: took him to live with other Nemerei, and taught him everything I knew.” She sighed deeply. “I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing. He fell out with me and the other Nemerei, long ago, and left us. I have seen very little of him since.”
“You’re afraid of him,” said Jomar accusingly.
“No—though I am afraid of what he might do.” Ana gazed into the fire. “And I am afraid for him.”
“I don’t believe in sorcery,” Jomar stated. “Or miracles, or anything like that. You witches and sorcerers and priests, you’re all the same. Always claiming to have special powers.”
“Sorcery runs strong in your race, Jomar. The Mohara shamans are famous.” Ana turned, appeared to be appraising him. “Perhaps you have the talent—I could try a test or two—”
“Oh no you don’t.” Jomar backed away. “You’re not doing anything to me.”
Ana smiled. “But I thought you didn’t believe in sorcery?”
“How do I know what witch-tricks you’ve got up your sleeve?” Jomar returned.
Ana looked at him. “You’ve come this far with me. I do think you might trust me a little.” The Mohara man looked away. Ana’s face softened; she seemed to look right through the man before her. “Oh, Jomar—I am sorry,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment. “What do you mean? How do you know?” he whispered at last.
“You told me yourself. Your tone, your expression. It didn’t require any sorcery for me to understand. You lost someone, didn’t you—a friend, a member of your family? The shamans could do nothing, and you were angry with them . . .”
Jomar was silent, but they all saw, now, the fleeting look of pain in his eyes. He got up without a word and walked away from the fire.
Ailia stared at Ana’s firelit face. Like Jomar, she found it hard to believe the old woman was really a sorceress, but . . . Ana was uncanny. The girl recalled the disturbing session in the fortune-telling booth, how for a moment she had almost believed the woman to be a witch. She looked around her—at the sinuous limbs of the trees, at the mountains in the dusky distance. This was Trynisia, the motherland of myths. Anything, she thought, might happen here: anything at all . . . Something touched her leg, and she ju
mped with a little shriek before realizing that it was only Greymalkin.
“I think it’s time to retire,” said Ana.
“I’ll take the first watch,” said Jomar. “We’ll all take turns keeping an eye out for the Zims.”
Ailia went to the tent the women shared, followed by Lorelyn. But she found herself tossing and turning, tormented by her own unquiet mind.
“Can’t you sleep either?” asked Lorelyn presently.
“No,” Ailia said. “I keep on thinking of things—our journey, what’s ahead of us . . .”
“Why don’t you tell a story?” Lorelyn suggested.
Ailia complied. She told what she could remember of Welessan’s journey to this land, and of his vision of the Celestial Spheres: “. . . Welessan and the Sibyl stood in the presence of the Moon Goddess, who dwelt in a palace of pearl, attended by the faerie-folk of the Moon. They looked like beautiful men and women, wearing feathered mantles upon their shoulders that enabled them to fly like birds. ‘But what are these shapes of fire I see, darting about the vault of Heaven?’ asked Welessan, pointing through a high arched window at the sky. And the Holy Sibyl sighed, shaking her head. ‘Alas! It is the war of the Celestial Empire that you see. Now you know why men make strife on earth: can there be peace below when the heavens are at war? The great lords of the Spheres and their armies are even now fighting the enemy in the fields of the sky. They are led by the forces of the Queen of Night . . .’”Ailia’s voice trailed away.
“Go on,” urged Lorelyn. “What happened next?”
“I—I’m a little tired. I’ll have to finish later,” Ailia murmured.
She lay still, wondering who this girl who listened so intently to the old tale really was—wondering where the Zimbourans were—wondering what her family back in Great Island and Maurainia must be thinking, and wondering also what would become of their little group even if they did find what they sought. And when she drifted off to sleep at last, it was to dream that she and the others were being pursued by shadowy figures through a forest grown vast and dark and filled with menace.
