"It is an Iron Oak!" said the astonished Ashlord. "I have not seen one since, since..." This time his words trailed away. "But they grow very slowly, and this tree looks to be several hundred years of Men."
"Yet the twig I threw landed just behind that new bench not even six months ago," Tallin nodded. "So you see, I asked no more questions, nor did I cut it down while I could have, as a young sprout only a hand-thickness wide at the trunk. Now it would take my best smithies toiling away night and day for the better part of a year to take it down. Not that I have the least intention of trying," he added, turning back into the library.
"You have had your signs, Collandoth, and I have had mine. And though I am a stubborn man, quite often not willing to see the hand before my face, I am not a fool. This morning, as I talked with Robby, the puzzle for me was solved. I cannot now say precisely what it was that enlightened me, but I knew it was he. Not at first. It only came to me in the middle of our interview. Something he said. Or, perhaps rather how he said it."
Ashlord gazed at Tallin, nodding in understanding. "So what will you do? Now that you know what may come."
Tallin looked away and shook his head.
"Do? I wonder, can anything be done? What might we do other than what we are already doing? It seems little, in the face of it all. Yet, Tallinvale must do its part, whatever it may be, with whatever hope may be had. What more may we do? Only things too terrible to contemplate."
"Yet contemplate such things you must," Ashlord stated. "And there are those who would come to your aid. Though few in numbers, and scattered into many places, they may be of assistance. The people of Hill Town, Tracians mostly, who yearn to free their country but have no means to make a difference. They know the hills and mountains as well as any, and they can act as raiders. I beg you, send a trusted envoy to Martin Makeig, their leader, putting your plan before him. Janhaven, too, holds many from Barley and Passdale who would join with the Thunder Mountain folk. They may keep your northern flank protected if they have some support. They need food and arms and only the most basic of supplies. And they, like the Hill Town folk, long to take back what is theirs. But you must be openly bold. Else they will see no purpose in joining with you."
"Yes. Bold," Tallin said softly, a painful expression on his face. He suddenly seemed preoccupied and distant as he went to the door.
"I leave you to your studies, then," he said quietly and without turning as he left the room. Ashlord saw Dargul hovering about the door with an anxious expression. He made as if to say something to Ashlord, then, thinking better of it, turned to follow Tallin.
Two hours later, Ashlord was still studying the precious manuscripts of the library, the staff having delivered to him some light wine and refreshment. Before him were maps and books strewn about, scrolls unfurled and hanging from tables, and various loose papers and folios.
"Tulith Morgair, Tulith Morgair," he mumbled, sliding papers and maps back and forth. He looked once again in the book nearest him, read over a passage. "Year 322 of the Second Age ... many stations along the western slopes of the Mountains of Thunder ... gave notice by its beacons of the coming of the desert armies ... hmm."
He shook his head, "No, not here," and dashed back over to the bookshelves, running his finger along the spines.
"No, no. Where might it be? I definitely sense some connection." His finger passed over a thin leather volume and hesitated. He pulled it down and looked to its title page.
"Poems of Starlerf of Everis," he read aloud, and he turned a few pages. It was written in the poet's own hand with a dedication to Lady Kahryna, Lord Tallin's deceased wife, Robby's grandmother.
"Ah!" he cried, putting the book back and turning swiftly to the scroll rack. He pulled down one, then another, and yet another, each time unfurling them somewhat and putting them back until at last he found what he was looking for tucked beside a portfolio. It was a small one, covered with dust, and he unrolled it carefully onto the table.
"From Danthis of Duinnor to Kahryna of Vanara, House of Fairoak, written this day, the Fourth Day of Tenthmonth in the Year 243 of this our Second Age.
"It is my greatest hope that this letter finds you well and that your family is enjoying a safe and prosperous autumn. With great pleasure I report to you the completion of Tulith Morgair, and it is my honor to say that the structure has been adorned with images of various great figures of our people, arranged in a circle to serve as the columns to support the beacon platform above. Among these is one which is carved in the likeness of your late father. As do the other figures, this one of your father stands about fifteen cubits tall. He is represented holding the staff I so often saw him carry, with his arm outstretched, his hand palm up, as he frequently did when explaining some point of custom or law. It is my hope that you will soon receive drawings of the structure that will in some way impart to you how we hold proud the memory of your father now as we did during his life, with honor and esteem.
"Should you ever come into the East, and should you desire to look upon the work, it would be my pleasure to escort you there. You would then see that, just as the wisdom and guidance of your father continues to serve his people long after his departure, this place, too, will also be of lasting service."
Ashlord leaned back in his chair, putting the letter down. Looking back at the shelf, he reached over and pulled down the portfolio. It contained several drawings of the structure described in the letter.
"That's it. But how did Robby know about Tulith Morgair?" He absently picked up and sucked on his cold pipe. Somewhere inside his head he noticed no smoke was drawing, but he was so deep in contemplation, his brows furrowed and his eyes narrow, that he paid little attention. "How did he know?"
Twice, a light tap came upon the door, but Ashlord did not react. Only when Sheila cautiously entered into his view did he stir from his thoughts and look at her.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said tentatively.
"Oh, no, no. You should have just come on in. I was taking this chance to catch up on some reading, to confirm my memory a little, and so forth."
"I was thinking of doing the same. Windard told me about the library here and asked one of the girls to show me the way. But when I saw you, I hesitated to enter. You looked rather deep in thought."
"Oh, if I was, it shouldn't keep you from anything here!" Ashlord waved his arm about, gesturing at the riches that surrounded them. "For one, you've been with me often enough to know better than to be so formal. For another, it is a wonder to me that this room isn't crowded with people. Such a glorious collection of histories, tales, letters, maps—many done in the authors' own hand, I might add—enough to keep one's noggin busy for years!"
Sheila looked around the room for a few moments.
"One hardly knows where to begin. Is there any order to any of this? It looks so confusing."
"Oh, much of the mess is my doing, I'm afraid. But, yes, there is somewhat of an order. Over there are collections of tales and legends, and next are chronicles of various kinds. Those are letters and old household documents. Over here are poems, songs, and music. There are excellent drawings in many of these works. Across from us are sundry official documents, land title records, deed exchanges, census counts of Tallinvale of the various years and so forth."
Sheila hesitated.
"One place to start might be where your present interest may be," suggested Ashlord.
"Well, we don't have much time here, and I feel I need to practice my reading of the Ancient Tongue since we go west into lands where it is more often spoken."
"Oh, yes, very well. If that is what you wish."
"But I am not sure where my interests are, exactly."
"Well, why don't you try this." Ashlord picked up two volumes. One was slightly smaller than the other, and looked older. "This is called 'Esin dur to Lumenii' and it is a collection of poems and tales from the First Age. This other volume is called "Hope of the Stars," and it is a translation of the first into the
Common Speech of our present day. Over there, on that table, is an ingenious book, within which is a list of words and letters in the Ancient Tongue and gives beside them a list of the same or similar words as they are written in the Common Speech, and in various other languages of the Realms. Start with the original and if you have trouble, turn to the other two for help. Or, you may ask me if you wish. I find that one thing often leads to another, and that connections are sometimes made in the most surprising ways between interests that may seem far different and separate. But start with these and see where they may lead you."
• • •
Meanwhile, from the great room of the guest wing came the continual plucking of light tunes produced by a mandolin and accompanied by a smooth tenor voice. Windard came gliding down the hall and, hearing it, stopped to make sure of the sound. Yes, it was coming from the great room. Though he recognized the tune, a harvest song he had not heard since he was a youngster, he could not place the voice. Just as he neared the door, Billy shot out with an exasperated expression, and the two nearly collided.
"Oh! Pardon me, sir!" Billy cried out, red-faced.
Nonplussed, Windard straightened his jacket. "I beg your pardon, Master Bosk. Is there something amiss?"
"No, no. Yes," Billy said, throwing up his hands and moving around Windard. "How's a person to nap? If I hear another bloody ballad I may as well go stark ravin' amuck! What a fierce headache! By yer leave, sir. I must retire!"
Billy managed an awkward bow and stomped off down the hall to his room. Windard returned the bow, ever-so-slightly, and turned to look into the great room. The staff were all seated around Ibin, who was giving air to aires, so to speak, and holding them in a kind of rapture. His touch on the mandolin was clean and clear, and the slight quavering of his voice gave an understated passion to the words of the melancholy song. His listeners wore expressions of deep sympathy to the haunting and lonesome lyrics. Even Windard, dismayed by the familiar conduct of his staff, was momentarily captivated, and only when Ibin drew the last note on the mandolin and it had faded, did he shake himself back from the distance of his thoughts. As the staff around the singer gave their praise, Windard floated into the room, stiff and expressionless. Seeing him, one of the boys leapt up, and instantly the others of the staff did, too, turning his way. Realizing they had been caught out, they faced Windard expectantly.
"You have an exceptional voice, Master Brinnin," he said, glancing at the dirty dishes left by Billy. The staff sprang forward to clean things away, but having so few things that the five of them struggled for a moment to determine which one of them was to take the bowl and which the saucer and which the platter, so that all could appear busy. Windard seemed to ignore them. "I have not heard that tune for many years. Pray, where did you learn it? I do not think it is of this realm."
"OhIlearnedit, Ilearnedit, Ilearneditfrom, fromlistening, fromlisteningtotheminstrelsonenight."
"I see."
"Wouldyouliketohear, Iknowanother, Iknowothersongs,too."
"I am sure that you do, and I thank you. But, alas, I must attend to my duties." This Windard said pointedly toward the embarrassed staff who had by now retaken their stations at the buffet tables, each and every one solemnly adjusting the placement of some carafe, fruit bowl, napkin, or fork.
• • •
Robby had been shown many aspects of the outer walls, the various positions of defense where men might set up the ballistas like those he had seen earlier in the armoury, stages from which archers could rain their lethal arrows upon attackers, and even the great bridge-hammers, as they were called. These were located at special casemates at the base of each wall. They were massive iron weights, each carefully designed so that its swinging fall would strike an iron pin protruding through the wall. The blow would drive the pin which would transmit its push to the connected iron rods and bars that Ullin had spoken of. They would move but just a few inches, yet so precise was their working that those few inches would make the difference between a standing bridge and a tumbling pile of rubble. Asked if they were ever tested, Weylan explained that each year, a different bridge was selected to be tested so that over the course of years, every bridge was knocked down and rebuilt. If there was a problem, it was corrected, and the test was made again.
"We have not had a bridge fail in more than fifteen years," Weylan told Robby, patting a nearby pin.
"And what are those?" Robby pointed at tall brick tanks nearby to the hammers.
"Those are our oil stores," Ullin said. "In each of them are nearly a three hundred barrels of light oil. See those small stone troughs below them? Those caps at the end of the troughs are removed so that when the tap is turned, the oil flows into those troughs and on through holes cut into them and then into the same little tunnels in which the iron rods for the bridges are laid."
"Oh. To make the iron bars slip more easily."
"No, there is no need for that. The iron bars are well-laid by themselves," explained Weylan. "No, the oil runs out from around the bars near the bridges and so into the moat and the canals. Our archers may then send flaming arrows into the canals, setting the oil ablaze."
Robby looked at Ullin blankly at first, then blinked, thinking of what it might be like to be caught in such an inferno. "Oh, my. Is that ever tested, too?"
"Aye, every late winter," Weylan nodded. "And it's a fine way to keep back the brush that may make handholds on the canal sides."
Robby looked at Ullin, who nodded a confirmation of the seriousness of the defenses.
"I think Robby and I had best be getting back to the Hall," he said to Weylan. "I regret we'll not be here long. My guess is that we'll be leaving tomorrow early. It was good to see you."
"Likewise, Ullin. Perhaps we'll see each other again before you depart."
Robby thanked Weylan for his attentions, and they wished each other well before Ullin led him back through the town and so toward Tallin Hall.
"So you and Captain Weylan are old friends?" Robby asked.
"Yes. We grew up together. Had our letters together," Ullin said. "And a fair amount of mischief, too."
It was well past mid-afternoon, and more people were out and about than when they had first arrived. Robby sensed a change in them, too, as they passed by. It was not merely that there were more soldiers, but also that they seemed extraordinarily well attired, with every piece of metal polished, every leather strap blackened, and wonderfully colored plumes affixed to their helmets. The horsemen were busy, their grooms brushing down the clean coats of the mounts while saddles were being prepared by others. There was a long line of helmets, he saw, each having its long horsehair plume brushed and combed, and everywhere along the way, outside of shops and houses, sat men with towels over their shoulders having their hair trimmed and their beards shaved. People seemed in a hurry, though they smiled, and some, taking closer notice of Robby and Ullin, bowed as they passed. Some did this modestly and others in a very showy fashion with even a flourish or two. Three ladies, who came giggling out of a house and who were wearing lavender, pale rose, and turquoise gowns with broad skirts and billowing sleeves, and bodices laced low and tight under their high bosoms, stopped short of the two men, bumbled into one another and then stood aside silently. As Robby and Ullin passed, the ladies smiled and nodded, and they curtseyed so elegantly and so precariously low, with their heads bowed, that Robby feared they might all tumble in a heap on the ground.
More people came along, and Robby had to watch where he was going, but he threw a look over his shoulder at the ladies and saw them moving off as before, one giving him a brief flirtatious glance. Tyrillick then appeared in the crowd before them, and when he saw them, he quickly turned to walk with them.
"I hope you are having a good day," he said in a friendly tone. "I was just going back to the Hall, so I'll join you if that is where you are going, too. And if you don't mind."
"Yes, it is," said Ullin.
"We'd be happy for you to join us!" said Robby.
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Several gaily-ribboned carts rolled by, filled with children with garlands of flowers in their hair and singing happily as they went.
"What is happening, Ullin?" Robby asked. "Why all the activity? Is this usual, or is there some celebration taking place?"
"No celebration that I know of," he said. "Well, maybe. In a manner of speaking."
"Word has gotten out, late this morning," said Tyrillick. "All great things come in threes, they say. First, rumor has it that the Redvests and the Damar will at last be faced, though I don't know how that rumor started or what there is to it."
"Do you mean war? And these people are excited about it?" Robby asked incredulously.
"For a long time Tallinvale has tolerated the ill treatment and raids of the Damar," Ullin said. "And long have we simpered to the threats of Tracia, it is spoken. It is said that our grandfather, Lord Tallin, has allowed insult upon his people, doing nothing while their trade is cut off and while the houses and farms to the south are taxed and made to pay Tracian tribute. They do not long for war, but they have been fed up these past many years, and they yearn to do something about it."
"Hrumph!" said Robby, much as his father might. He noted that Ullin said "we," but he knew enough of the state of things to know Tallinvale was a sideshow, at best, to the strength of Tracia.
"What about the other two things you mentioned? Coming in threes, as you said?" he asked Tyrillick just as another crowd parted before them. The plain folk bowed, and the soldiers saluted as they passed through.
"Do you not see?" the elf replied, amused at Robby. Tyrillick and Ullin exchanged a glance. Robby saw this. Ullin smiled, lowering his head in a slightly embarrassed way, but he said nothing. Robby looked back at Tyrillick and shook his head with a questioning shrug.
The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of the Year of the Red Door) Page 20
