by Diane Duane
They reached across the length of the table to touch hands. “Truth,” Lorn said, sounding rueful, as if the speech had cost him something, “and beauty. A perfect match.”
“Flatterer.”
“Now, what about that news about the Reavers that you promised us?”
“Well, let’s take this in order. There’s more news than just of Reavers. When you left Arlen, Lorn, what was your understanding of the way things stood with the Lords-Householders, the Four Hundred, concerning your succession to the throne?”
“Mixed. There’d have been no question of the succession if I had been Initiated, taken by my father into Lionhall for the Nightwalk. But he put off the ceremony, until finally it was too late. When he died, the Four Hundred split on the issue. I had been spending a lot of time out of the country, gadding about and misbehaving, and there was some question about whether I’d be a fit ruler. The army split on the issue too, and with Arlene regulars assigned to each Household the situation quickly became volatile, as you can imagine. No one wanted a civil war, so the Householders hesitated…which gave Cillmod time to step in with his mercenaries and make the whole question moot.”
“Yes, and when he made you an outlaw, you and Herewiss and the rest fled the country.” Eftgan sat back in her chair.
Segnbora knew much of the rest of the story, and listened with only half an ear as Eftgan filled in details for Freelorn. Cillmod had done well enough for several years. He took the Throne and bore the Stave, though he didn’t go into Lionhall. Likewise, he reaffirmed the Oath with Eftgan’s father, who was still alive and ruling then. It was around the middle of his fourth year that the crop failures began. The next year the harvest was even worse, and the next year worse still. Then the failures began spreading into Darthen as well. The royal sorceries, and the Great Bindings, were wearing thin for lack of an Initiate on the Arlene throne.
Eftgan’s father had been unwilling to help Cillmod beyond the reaffirmation of the Oath. He was among those who hoped that an uprising would eventually bring Freelorn back. But by the time of Eftgan’s first crowning the situation had become untenable. “I didn’t know where you were,” Eftgan said, “so I did the only thing I could. I wrote to Cillmod and offered to try to repair Arlen’s Royal Bindings myself.”
Freelorn looked dubious. “Would that even work?”
“I thought that in such an emergency, the Goddess might be convinced to make an exception and allow the descendant of one of the two Oathmakers to intercede for a descendant of the other. It had to be tried, anyway.”
“And?”
Eftgan shook her head. “Cillmod refused.”
Segnbora looked up in surprise at that, as did the rest of Freelorn’s company.
“He said that inquiries were being made in Arlen for a surviving heir to the Lion’s Line,” Eftgan said. “He’d put it about that you had died, did you know that?”
“No!”
“Yes. Later he even came up with ‘proof’ of it — some poor mangled head that Dariw of Steldin had sent over from his torture chambers, pickled in brine.”
“Hmmm.” Freelorn felt his head absently as he reached for another piece of bread. “Must have been a mistake.”
“Must have been. Anyway, Cillmod was apparently unsuccessful in finding any other children of the Lion’s Line. Which is fortunate, since I’m sure he would have killed any that he found. Another question, Lorn: do you have any children outside of Arlen?”
Freelorn shook his head sadly. “I only fulfilled the Responsibility once,” he said. “My daughter died in infancy.”
“Well enough.” Eftgan chewed some bacon. “I ask because Cillmod’s search for an heir took some strange turns. For example, some of the searches were conducted by large groups of mercenaries who crossed the Darthene borders and went after our granaries. It was the only way Cillmod could forestall a revolt by the Four Hundred and their starving tenant-farmers. Anyway, there were also reports for some time of sorcerers and Rodmistresses visiting Prydon. More sorcerers than Rodmistresses, of course. There’s one sorcerer in particular—”
“Wait, don’t tell me,” Freelorn said. “Either somebody who claimed to be of the Lion’s Line himself, or someone who claimed he could get Cillmod into Lionhall without dying of it, and show him how to reinforce the Bindings.”
“The second, in this case. Rian, the man’s name is. What’s peculiar, though, is that as far as my spies can tell, the man never went into Lionhall at all. Neither did Cillmod. Nevertheless, starting about a year ago Rian became a fixture at what now passes for the Arlene court.” Eftgan took a drink of barley-water. “Other odd things—the Four Hundred have become very quiet recently. When you robbed the treasury at Osta, for example, it became apparent that you weren’t dead after all. Naturally there was a clamor for your return and coronation. But it died down very quickly.”
“Why?”
“I believe because the families who called loudest for your crowning were suddenly beset by Fyrd—the thinking variety.”
Mutters of distaste were heard round the table. “Rian,” Segnbora said, very quietly to herself.
The Queen nodded. “I have no doubt that we’re dealing here with a person whom the Shadow occasionally inhabits and controls. The man has a past and a family just as he should, but he’s the center of too many odd occurrences. Where his influence appears, Cillmod’s neglect usually breaks out into full-fledged malice.”
Lorn finished his porridge and set down his spoon. “So what else has friend Rian—or rather, the Shadow—been up to?”
“You know the problems the Reavers have been having with weather and crops and game…everything seeming to conjoin to force them northward? That’s the Shadow’s work. And there’s something else. Starting about six months ago, it seems that emissaries from Arlen, mostly mercenary captains, were sent over the mountains into Reaver country to strike a bargain. In return for making incursions into Darthen when ordered, some of the hardest-pressed Reaver clans were promised loot, cattle…and land in Arlen in which to settle.”
All around the table, there was silence.
“The Shadow’s purpose is apparently to keep Darthen busy with war until something special happens,” Eftgan said. “My guess is that the ‘something’ is the complete extinction of the Bindings.”
Freelorn went white, and exclamations of disbelief and alarm went around the table as his people stared at each other in shock. Only the the protection that Earn and Healhra had set around their newborn countries with their shed blood had since kept the Shadow from wreaking complete havoc on the lands and peoples of the Two Kingdoms.
Lang stared at Freelorn. “Does she mean Cillmod not only doesn’t want the Bindings renewed, he’s going to allow them to be destroyed? How could anyone do that to their own country? Can it be the idiot doesn’t understand what the failure of the Bindings would mean?”
“Could be,” Lorn said. “He’s not trained in the royal sorceries. Maybe the truth about the destruction that would follow is being hidden from him. It doesn’t matter. Any attempt to remove the Bindings must be stopped.” He glanced at Eftgan. “But one thing at a time. What are you doing about the Reavers locally?”
“Herewiss has spoken to me about the possibility of completely sealing the Chaelonde incursion route,” the Queen said. “That would cause the Reavers a great deal of trouble right away. Without it, they’d have to go as far east as Araveyn or as far west as Bluepeak itself to get into the Kingdoms. Araveyn is practically in the Waste; they wouldn’t bother. And Bluepeak is in Arlen, meaning that Cillmod would have to march Reavers all the way through his own country to attack Darthen. So, tactically, the sealing’s a good idea. The question is whether it can be done.”
“It can,” Herewiss said. “But right now the timing’s bad. I wouldn’t dare try it with Glasscastle imminent; we’ll have to wait until it passes. Which brings us to another problem— sealing off the peak of Adínë so that no sorcery of the Shadow’s, or anyone e
lse’s, can bring anything down out of Glasscastle onto our heads. That, too, I can do; and I’ll do it tonight. My only fear is that the sudden removal of access to a place where our mortal world and another world touch might cause Power imbalances. In a place as delicately balanced as Barachael, with all these centuries’ worth of warfare and piled-up negative energies, that can be dangerous.”
“I know,” Eftgan said. “But it can’t be helped. My true-dream made it plain that the next time someone passed into or out of Glasscastle, so great a disturbance would follow that the Kingdoms might not survive.”
Herewiss looked gravely at Lorn, and then back at the Queen. “I’ll do what I can, madam. I hope it’ll suffice.”
“It’s more than I could have done, that’s for sure…” Eftgan pushed her chair back from the table. “I leave the matter in your capable hands. I should be back from Orsvier tomorrow, and we can worry about sealing the pass itself then. As for you, Arlen—” She fixed Freelorn with a hard, smiling look. “No matter what some people do, I stand on the Oath. As soon as I get this unfought army off my right flank, and yours, then it’s ‘the Eagle for Arlen and the Lion at bay.’ I trust you two will be willing to deal with this flank, should it become necessary today.”
“Darthen,” Freelorn said, returning Eftgan’s look without the smile, “you know how my loved has been handling this so far. And I agree with him. I’d prefer not to shed blood, Arlene or Darthene.”
“Cillmod’s had no such compunctions,” Eftgan said. “Neither have the Reavers, and right now there are Reavers coming here, and Reavers at Orsvier. You two clear this flank; I’ll clear the other. Then we’ll have leisure to consider what to do about Arlen. When we campaign there I’ll be guided by your judgment. You know your land best.”
Freelorn nodded, looking solemn. Eftgan turned to the corner and picked up something that stood against the wall—a big old iron fireplace poker, its haft studded with rough white diamonds. It was Sarsweng, the battle-standard of the Darthenes. “Got to get off to work,” the little fair woman said. “My husband hates it when I get home late. The Lady be with you all till I get back—”
“And with you,” those at the table said. Eftgan shouldered Sarsweng and strode out, the sunlight flashing on the poker’s gemmed haft as she passed through a bar of light falling through the window by the head of the stairs.
When breakfast was finished Harald, Moris, Dritt, and Lang went off with the Darthene officers to look the place over. Herewiss sat quietly in his chair, drinking spiced wine and looking thoughtful, while Freelorn stared out the window at the Adínë massif. Something’s brewing there, Segnbora thought, getting up. Best to leave them to it.
She got up and headed to the stairs: but on the way she stopped by Freelorn, for her underhearing was increasingly prickling with his unease. “You all right?” she said. “You look green.”
Freelorn shrugged, not looking at her. “The change in altitude,” he said. “It didn’t agree with me. I had a bad night.”
He was lying, she knew. His eyes were fixed on Adínë, and on the lesser peak where a tiny glitter of silver bridgespan caught the morning Sun. Freelorn said nothing more aloud, but she caught his thought: If only my dreams weren’t so bad! And behind the thought lay the sure conviction that something he had recently seen in dream was no baseless vision, but a foreknowledge of reality. A reality he could avoid if he chose—
Freelorn swung around and leaned on the table. “Are you going to sit there drinking all day,” he said to Herewiss, “or are you going to get up and get Eftgan’s business out of the way so we can tend to our own?”
Herewiss’s glance was much like Freelorn’s—all mockery above and love below, and underneath that a breath of fear very much suppressed. “Hark to the early riser,” Herewiss said, pushing back from the table, “who pulled me back into bed twice this morning when I would have gotten up! Come on, you can help correct my scansion. This wreaking tonight is going to be difficult…”
Their easy laughter faded down the stairs behind them. When they were gone Segnbora wandered back over to the window and then sat down on the windowsill, gazing up in turn at the terrible blind walls and cruel precipices of Adínë. “Cruel,” we say. But we’re just flattering ourselves. It doesn’t care about human life one way or another… With such an audience before her, and the empty room behind, Segnbora took what was likely to be her last opportunity for a while, laid her head against the windowframe, and mourned the dead.
***
An hour or so before sunset, Herewiss and Freelorn and the rest of his people took horse at khas-Barachael gate to begin the ascent of Adínë: with one addition. While they were saddling up, Torve came out of the stables leading a little rusty Steldene gelding. “Of your courtesy,” he said to Herewiss, “perhaps you’d take me as guide. I’ve ridden this trail a number of times, and climbed to the summit.”
Herewiss looked at the young man, suppressing a smile. There was no need to read Torve’s thought, for he was staring at Khávrinen, slung over Herewiss’s shoulder, like a small child staring at what the Goddess had left him on New Year’s morning. “With all these other spectators,” Herewiss said, glancing around at Freelorn’s band, most of whom were along only for the ride, “certainly we can use one person who’ll earn his keep on the way. Come and welcome!”
They headed out over the half-bridge that reached out from Barachael, on its two-thousand-foot pier of stone, across to the spur of Adínë proper. The sorcerer-architects who built the place had carved a hundred foot gap right through the spur, so that with the drawbridge up the fortress stood unassailable, one great corner-shoulder turned to the spur.
Once across, a causey wide enough for ten horsemen abreast wound downward through several switchbacks. On both sides the road was overshadowed by cliffs, the shattered faces of which made it obvious that invaders had occasionally tried to come up that way against the defenders’ wishes, and had had large rocks dropped on them for their pains. “Oh, they’ve tried a few times to shuck this oyster,” Torve said cheerfully, “but even Reaver horses can’t charge straight up.”
At its bottom the paved road gave out onto a narrow saddle-corridor between khas-Barachael rock and Swaleback, a flattened, marshy minor spur of Adínë. Torve led them eastward and out into the valley proper, then southwestward along the skirts of the Adínë massif. Past two minor spurs they went. The ground was rocky, and every now and then the mountain, cooling from the warmth of the day, would let a little reddish scree slide down at them.
Under Adínë’s lengthening shadow they turned due westward into a long shallow rampway scoured out by an ancient glacier, and picked their way carefully among the boulders that lay scattered about. Some fifteen hundred feet up the mountain’s flank, the ascent became too steep for horses.
“We’ll leave them here,” Torve said, dismounting.
(Not all of them,) Sunspark said mildly.
Torve glanced up in great surprise from the hobbling of his gelding, and noticed that Herewiss’s mount was calmly standing a foot above the ground. “Sir,” he said, addressing Sun-spark with the slight bow due a fellow officer, “we haven’t been introduced.”
“Torve, this is Sunspark,” Herewiss said, dismounting. “Firechild, be good to him; he’s on our side. Torve, if you ever need a fortress reduced on short notice, Sunspark is the one to talk to. He eats stone for breakfast.”
Torve nodded. Now that he’d seen a man with the Fire, he looked quite ready to believe anything. “Up this way,” he said, and led them up the side of the cirque to a trail that led along its top, under the shadow of the great Adínë summit.
They rounded the east-pointing scarp, moving quietly under the great out-hanging cornice of snow that loomed a thousand feet above them, and so came to face the north side of the lesser summit ridge. The ridge stood up sheer as a wall, overhung in places, itself at least seven hundred feet high.
“Don’t worry, it’s not an expert-level climb,” Tor
ve said, looking up the walls of rock and ice with relish. “Beginners could handle it—”
Freelorn, who had done extensive climbing in the Highpeaks of Arlen as a child, made a face. “This trail is exactly as the song describes it,” Herewiss said, as he gazed up the cliff: “‘Awful.’ Torve, please don’t tell the Queen’s grace on me, but I’m no climber. Maybe we Brightwood people have been down from the mountains too long. Sunspark?”
(Who’ll go first?) Sunspark said, with an anticipatory grin. Freelorn’s people blanched and began deferring to one another.
When the discussions finally died down, the elemental took Herewiss and Freelorn and Torve first, managing the thousand-foot ascent to the summit ridge in a single leap. When Segnbora swung herself up into the saddle, Sunspark looked around at her with a naughty light in its eye. (Nervous?)
She gave it a threatening look in return and said nothing, while inside Hasai laughed at her, a deep rough hiss echoed by most of the mdeihei. (Afraid of heights! Oh, Immanence within us, whatever kind of sdaha have we come to—)
(Well enough for you to laugh. You’ve got wings…)
Hasai just kept on laughing. Segnbora did her best to ignore him and made very sure of her seat. A moment later she was glad of her care, for Sunspark shot up to the summit, trailing bright fire like a newborn comet and going at least twice as fast as it had the first time. Then it plummeted down toward the snow where Freelorn and Herewiss and Torve were waiting, landing surprisingly lightly, and with a hiss of t.
Shaky-kneed, Segnbora scrambled down. (Well, that was probably the high point of your day,) Sunspark said, genially malicious.
“Mmmnh,” Segnbora said, slapping it familiarly on the flank, and scorching herself. “Go on, the rest are waiting.” Sunspark gave her a final amused look, walked off the precipice and plunged down out of sight.
