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Dawnmaid

a Mushroom eBooks sampler

Copyright © 2008, Suzanne Francis

Suzanne Francis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

First published in United Kingdom in 2008 by Mushroom eBooks.

This Edition published in 2008 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a sampler of Dawnmaid by Suzanne Francis. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.

Contents

This book is lovingly dedicated to one of the nicest people I know...

my sister Elizabeth.

Prologue

There is only darkness in this part of the Cosmos. A warm, seething broth of darkness, alive with unseen potential. Sparks and quarks fly, as time spirals inwards, trapping itself within a maze of unpredictability.

Within this inchoateness something is waiting to be born.

It collects energy, painstakingly nudging azimity into form. Slowly, patterns appear — tenuous repetitions that almost always fly apart again. But the ones that are strong remain, gathering identity and cohesion, layer upon layer.

It grows.

The embryo has no will, except for the will to become.

Chapter One

Wanmoon + Ruber + Prox

He searches the endless Darkness for a sign. Ben’aryn carries a shard of memory, of another time, when he flew unfettered between the stars. Now the light he holds in his heart is all that keeps him going.

* * * *

Gwenn used a stick to poke the back end of the shaggy, dark brown yak, trying to move the sulky beast forward. Gunnar, cursing, pulled the halter attached to the front.

He threw down the rope in disgust. “It is no good, Faircrow, we are never going to get this useless creature up the pass. We might as well stop now and head back before it gets too dark.”

A voice, dimly echoing from the rock faces around them, weirdly selected only one of his words to repeat.

“Stop, stop, stop...”

Gunnar sat down on a rock and stared unhappily at the stubborn beast of burden. The animal looked placidly back at him.

The yak carried a mysteriously shrouded bundle, and a pannier hanging off each broad flank. Gwenn moved forward to check the contents of these two panniers now. A well-swaddled, two-month-old infant rode contentedly in each, and she carefully tucked in both blankets before she answered.

“We have to go on, Gunnar. The last village is miles back, and the boys need a warm place to sleep tonight. I don’t like the looks of that cloud bank building to the east. It could start snowing at any time. That is the last thing we need.”

She shaded her blue eyes with her hand, and looked ahead up the rutted, winding track that led to a high pass between two mountains. The village of Khalama lay somewhere on the other side and they had to reach it by nightfall. The sun would soon be dropping behind the shoulder of the rocky prominence before them, and then the temperature would sink like a stone.

She aimed a kick at the yak’s flank, and the animal gave a protesting groan, but did not move further. A snowflake drifted lazily downwards, and landed on Gunnar’s outstretched hand. Gwenn looked at him worriedly. So far he had been stoically uncomplaining throughout this very long journey; they had traveled from the windswept shores of Yr, up the wide Bresla River through the heart of Ruboralis, and then along a series of ever-narrowing water courses until they reached the foothills of the T’Shang Mountains. Now he looked worn out, exhausted by days of high altitude trekking and the constant struggle to find food and shelter in this strange land.

He shook his disheveled blond head mournfully. Again he urged, “We should go back. This fool’s errand has gone on long enough.”

Gwenn stared at the bulky object wrapped in white linen, slung across the back of the yak — the body of Arkady Svalbarad. “I said I would bring him back to T’Shang. I promised. We have to keep going.”

Gunnar stood and grasped her shoulders, then shook her roughly. “We cannot! Would you risk the lives of your children? He would not want you to do that, Gwenn.”

More snowflakes fell, sticking to the yak’s back. One of the babies woke and began to whimper. Gwenn gave a cry of frustration and grasped the yak’s halter. She threw all her considerable strength into dragging the animal, but only succeeded in getting it to move forward a few feet.

She cried, “Move, damn you! I won’t give up now. I won’t!”

Now it was her voice that rang in their ears. “Damn you, damn you, damn...”

Gunnar stepped forward and calmly started untying the ropes that held the shrouded body on the yak’s back. She stared at him, bewildered, and then asked, “What are you doing?”

“I am leaving him. We aren’t going to make it to Khalama by nightfall. Jakob and Arvid can’t survive a snowstorm. Now are you going to help me, or shall I go back alone?”

“Alone, alone, alone...” the echo added mockingly

He turned his back on her after a few seconds and went on untying the ropes. Gwenn stood still, paralyzed by indecision. Once again she was going to have to choose between the two of them — Kadya and Gunnar.

Just then the sound of bells in the distance brought her blond head up sharply. “Listen, Gunnar, someone is coming! Maybe they can help us.” She looked hopefully at him, and he sighed.

“We don’t speak the language in this country, remember? How are we going to make ourselves understood?”

But seeing the despair in her blue eyes, he took his hand away from the yak and waited for the distant figure to approach from the top of the pass. An old man, swinging a walking stick festooned with bells, made his way quickly down the slope. He wore a long robe of some bright yellow material, wrapped over one arm, and tied with a thick piece of silken cord. Long braids of iron gray hair, decorated with yarn and turquoise, poked out either side of his outlandish peaked cap. When he drew up before them he grinned madly, his almond-shaped eyes almost disappearing into a thousand wrinkles, and bowed low.

“Hello, hello, hello...” the old man said laughingly, and his voice faded away exactly like an echo.

Then, catching hold of the yak’s bridle, he gave it the gentlest of tugs, and the beast set off at a steady pace up the path the way he had come. Gwenn and Gunnar looked at each other a moment, nonplussed, then had to hurry to catch up to the old man. Though his head did not even reach Gunnar’s shoulder, he set a blistering pace.

Breathlessly, Gwenn asked him, “Khalama? We go Khalama?”

He grinned again and nodded, and she could only hope he at least understood their destination. The path grew steeper but he did not slow down, nor did he allow the yak to tarry as the snow fell even more thickly. Gunnar forced himself to concentrate solely on getting enough of the thin air into his lungs so as not to pass out. Still, after a moment, gray spots swam in his vision and he staggered to one side of the path. Gwenn, less affected by the altitude, caught his arm and dragged him forward.

“The top is just ahead, I can see it. Soon we will be headed down again, and it will get easier.”

Gunnar allowed her to pull him upwards, too tired to let this affront to his masculinity bother him much. Only his love for her kept him going now, as it had the last few weeks of their journey through this strange land of mountains and ice. On his boat, the Fire Drake, he had felt more or less happy, even as the rivers of Ruboralis carried him further and further away from his beloved ocean. Any stretch of navigable water meant freedom and high adventure to Gunnar, for he had once been a Fynära raider, the most feared denizen of the frozen northern seas.

Inevitably, the day had come when the shallow hulled vessel scraped the bottom of a narrow channel, and he had to abandon his cherished boat. That was a very hard moment for Gunnar, who had captained the Fire Drake for seven years, and been part of her crew for three before that. Gunnar knew the local population would strip and break her apart if he left her behind, so over Gwenn’s strenuous objection he had set the boat alight and watched unhappily as the dragon figurehead went up in red flame. Then he had turned away, so that his wife would not see him weep.

Gwenn could see a large cairn of loose stones ahead, surrounded by many colorful strings of flags, printed with curious pictures and symbols. They finally reached the top of the pass, and the old man paused briefly to toss a stone into the pile. Then he pointed down into a misty valley stretching away below them.

“Khalama,” he said, and broke into a fit a giggles that thoroughly discomfited Gwenn and Gunnar.

Yet they had no choice but to continue at his side as he set off down the track again, even faster than before. Soon the air warmed and thickened, and Gunnar found he could breathe again without effort. The temperature in the valley became so mild they had to remove layers of clothing as they went downwards. The old man, who wore only a thin cotton robe, seemed untroubled by the changing conditions. Now as they reached the terraced fields above the village, Gwenn saw men and women at work harvesting barley. She shivered, remembering the lateness of the season, and wondered whether they could possibly return through the mountains with winter approaching.

If not, what can we do? Stay here in this strange land?

Gwenn shook her head at this. Neither she nor Gunnar could speak T’Shanga. Nevertheless, after a few moments earnest reflection, she decided not to worry about it. They had money enough to buy food and shelter for the winter. A month ago, Eydis, Gunnar’s grandmother, had given them a goodly store of gold pieces, saying smilingly that she had no need of them. A few hours later she was dead, in a terrible fire that almost claimed Jakob and Arvid as well.

The village of Khalama fanned out in front of them, as the old man hurried down towards the muddy main street. The precipitation had turned to rain in this more hospitable valley, and Gwenn marveled at the lush greenery she saw all around her. Huge forests of rhododendrons clung to the sloping hills above the village, inexplicably in full bloom, though spring was long past. Tiny gardens grew beside each little hut, with melons and cabbage competing for space on the carefully furrowed ground. Several villagers called out cheery greetings to the old man as he passed, still leading their now utterly obedient yak. Gwenn felt sure she heard someone shout the name “Dawa.” Could this inexhaustible old man be Kadya’s old teacher, Dawa Tinley?

They stopped before a two-story square structure with a steeply pitched roof. The old man smiled and gestured for them to enter through a red door decorated with brightly painted symbols. Gwenn stood by as Dawa, if that indeed was the old man’s name, managed to untie the ropes holding Arkady’s inert form to the yak. Gunnar looked on in disbelief as he hefted the body across his shoulder and sent the yak packing with a slap on the rump. The old man appeared to handle Arkady’s considerable weight with ease.

They went inside. Gwenn and Gunnar each carried a basket containing one of the twins, Jakob and Arvid. The front room looked bright and warm, despite the rain that fell outside the window. A fire blazed in an open square hearth that filled the centre of the room. A stone chimney carried the smoke up through the ceiling and warmed the upstairs as well.

After laying Arkady’s shrouded body down on a blanket by the fire, the old man turned towards them saying, “Welcome to my humble home. You must think of it as your own.”

He spoke Dalvolk perfectly. Gunnar stammered, “Thank you, but we do not know your name, kind sir.”

The old man laughed uproariously. “I am sure you do. Dawa Tinley am I. Did you not come to find me?” He busied himself with a cast iron kettle on the fire and soon had hot water for tea.

Gwenn looked at him with interest. “How did you know we were coming? And that we needed help?”

He smiled and patted the side of his head. “The birds told me. They keep watch for Dawa, so that he knows who comes and goes through the pass. I sent them to look for you many days ago, once my friend said you were on your way.” He laughed. “Such very big people are easy to find.” Gwenn stood just over six feet, and Gunnar closer to six and a half. Both had to bend quite low to enter the house.

“Your friend,” said Gunnar, thoroughly baffled. “How did they know?”

Dawa looked surprised at this. “Hana is my friend. Why would she not know? It was because of her last instruction to Griffon that you came here, was it not?”

Now Gwenn looked baffled. “Who is Griffon?” She bent down to retrieve Jakob from his basket, and he snorted sleepily. Absently, she sat down by the fire, and put the baby to her breast.

“Arkady,” Dawa pointed to the body on the blanket and smiled. “He used to be my pupil and a very good one he was too. I gave him that nickname, for the way he consumed the teachings, just like a griffon vulture attacks a dead yak.”

Gunnar sighed at this, and turned away.

Arvid stirred in his basket and Gunnar went to pick him up. Dawa beat him to it, and cradled the baby carefully in his arms. He looked down on the tiny face and smiled. “Your boy Arvid is a fine-looking fellow. Like his brother Jakob.”

Gunnar’s eyes went wide at this casual statement. Not only did Dawa know the names of the twins, but he had been able to tell them apart, something that Gunnar did not always feel confident doing. Dawa met his eyes and said seriously, “You love them. That is very good. All sons need the love of a father.” Gunnar nodded firmly, wondering to himself if the old man before him could read his mind. He did love his sons, more than anything.

Dawa laughed. “No, no. It shows on your face.” But his words did not reassure Gunnar. Then the old man said softly, with his eyes on Arkady. “I loved that one as a son too.” Gwenn stood and brought Jakob over to Dawa, and exchanged him for Arvid, who wailed hungrily.

As Gwenn made her way back to the fireplace, she asked, “Why did Kadya need to come back here, Dawa? He begged me not to let them bury his body at Starruthe. Is he truly dead?”

Dawa nodded and Gwenn’s face fell. He said solemnly, “Griffon wanders now in the Vastness and it is beyond my power to call him back to the living world.”

Gwenn said sadly, “I thought, perhaps, you know... His heart stopped beating quite a while ago, weeks actually, but his body still looks... fresh. Are you sure?” She looked hopefully at him, and Dawa smiled and stroked Jakob’s cheek.

“If Griffon practiced Firemma,^[1] as he was taught, then there may be a way. But it would be dark and dangerous for the one who undertakes it. Hana gives only a very few fortunate ones the ability to cross the heavenly plane between the living world and the Vastness. Fewer still are allowed to return.” Dawa looked over at Gunnar, but he said nothing else.

Eagerly Gwenn said, “I will go to the Vastness and bring Kadya back. I am not afraid.”

It came from his mouth before he could bite it back. “You cannot! I won’t let you.”

She stared back across the room at him and shrugged. “What would you have me do, Strong Arm? I must help Kadya if I can, after what he did for me.” Gwenn looked down at Jakob, now sleeping with his mouth still firmly attached to her nipple.

Gunnar asked quietly, “Even if it meant that your children would lose their mother?” He would not beg her to stay for his sake, not in front of Dawa. The flash of anger made him feel suddenly very weary, and Gunnar stood and stretched. He did not wait for Gwenn to reply, because he knew her answer already. “Is there a place for us to sleep in your house?” He looked expectantly at Dawa, who nodded.

“Come upstairs. I will show you the sleeping quarters. You have had a long and wearisome journey, and there is no need to go any further this night or for many days and nights to come.” He turned to leave the room through a curtained doorway leading to the stairs.

Gunnar put Arvid back in his basket and said to Gwenn, “I am going to lie down for a while. Are you coming?”

She answered quickly. “Not yet. I want to talk to Dawa some more. I must find out everything I can about this journey to the Vastness before I undertake it.” Gunnar sighed deeply but did not argue further with her. Instead he walked over to study an intricate silk hanging on the wall, of a beautiful green-skinned woman. Dawa joined him.

“My friend,” he said softly. “She understands. When the time comes to choose, she will help you.” Gunnar had no idea what he meant, and did not feel like asking. He followed as Arkady’s teacher took the steep, uneven steps quickly, two at a time. He led Gunnar along a narrow hallway to a small side room. Romping red beasts colorfully decorated the door curtain. “They keep bad dreams at bay,” said Dawa, smiling. “Will you like to bathe before your rest?”

Gunnar nodded and fervently hoped that there would be hot water. Weeks of traveling had left him heavily bearded and filthy. He allowed himself to be led into an alcove off the bedroom. Dawa bustled in and out with steaming buckets of water, and soon the deep, blue-tiled bath was full to the brim. Gunnar undressed and settled back contentedly, only wishing Gwenn would come and join him. After soaping his skin thoroughly, he took his knife and scraped the reddish-blond bristles from his face and neck. Dawa took his clothes away and promised to have them washed by the morning. He provided a soft woolen robe for Gunnar to wear in the meantime, along with some slippers with curiously pointed toes.

Surprisingly, Gwenn appeared just a few moments later, and sighing, joined Gunnar in the tub. He looked at her with concern. She seemed very upset about something, but when he questioned her she only shrugged. After a long soak and a wash they left the bath together and dressed in identical loose-fitting robes of sky blue, which tied at the waist with silky knotted cords. In the bedroom Dawa had left a tray with two bowls of barley soup. Gwenn sat on the bed and started to eat, but still did not speak. Gunnar sat beside her and ate his own portion, wondering what Dawa had said to upset her so.

Later, as they lay together in the double bed waiting for sleep, she said unhappily, “I cannot go to the Vastness. Dawa says I do not have the ability to cross the heavenly plane. Then he told me that he doesn’t know how to cross it either. He says there might be someone who can, but we cannot ask him if he is willing. It is so unfair, Gunnar.” She began to cry quietly, and Gunnar, never able to remain annoyed with her for long, put his arms around her comfortingly.

He stared up at the low ceiling, and the ornately carved, dark beams. More than anything he wished that Gwenn could somehow let her old lover rest, and give her heart solely to him. He asked more because he knew she expected it, rather than from any real desire to know, whether Dawa knew the name of this person who had the ability to cross the heavenly plane. He felt Gwenn’s nod in the darkness.

She said vehemently, “But he will not tell me who it is! Dawa says that they must come to their own decision.”

Gunnar could think of nothing to say to this, but an uncomfortable feeling pricked at the back of his mind that he might know who Dawa meant. But that thought died as Gwenn left his arms and turned away from him, facing the wall. He stroked her back tentatively, hoping she would respond. Gunnar had been patiently waiting for many days for a chance to make love to her, but the frantic journey across the steppes of Ruboralis had given them few opportunities. Now, as the babies slept quietly in their baskets, and he and Gwenn shared this warm and comfortable bed, he wanted her very much.

But she merely shook his touch away and said, “Not tonight. I have too much on my mind. It wouldn’t be any good for either of us.”

He withdrew his hand, sighing, and rolled over. Gunnar knew it would be of no use to argue. Though the room was very quiet and dark, he thought his need would make it difficult for him to get to sleep. Nevertheless, he found himself dreaming almost right away. A beautiful green-skinned woman stood before him, smiling tenderly. She said, “The time has come for you to find yourself. Will you undertake the journey?”

Gunnar shook his head, saying, “I don’t understand. What journey?”

Hana laughed merrily, like the sound of many small bells. “To the Vastness, of course. To bring back Griffon. He is my Seed Bearer and I need him here in the living world. And you have work to do of your own.”

He stammered, “Me? How can I go there? I am but an ordinary man, Hana. Surely Gwenn should be the one to go. She knows much more about Goddesses and the uncanny.”

“You are the grandson of the Numen. She is more powerful than any Goddess. Have you not always known this in your heart?” He thought about this, and then nodded. Gunnar had lived with his grandmother Eydis until age twelve. To his young eyes, she had been a witch — benevolent and wise — practicing her gentle magics among the people of the village. Only in the last weeks of her life did Gunnar begin to glimpse the real depth of his grandmother’s power.

“I cannot cross the heavenly plane. I don’t know how.” He tried to make his voice firm but it sounded doubtful, even to his own ears.

Hana laughed again. “Why don’t you try it then? Prove me wrong, Cousin of Fyn.”

He started to ask her how to make the journey, but to his chagrin he realized that the answer was there in his mind, and had been all the long — a small step forwards and to the left would carry him across the heavenly plane. Grinning at her sheepishly, he tried, and found himself in the profound silence of the Vastness. Another step to the right brought him back again. Hana still waited at the foot of the bed, watching Gwenn as she slept. Gunnar stood beside her and asked quietly, “Why do you need him?” He pointed to Gwenn. “It has something to do with her, does it not?”

Hana nodded. “Griffon must join with her so that the Dawnmaid may be born. She will be the savior of my people, and the Guardian of the West.”

He stared at her in amazement. “Holy Lutyond, woman! Are you proposing that I risk myself to rescue that sniveling Southerner so he can father a child with the woman I love? You must be completely mad.”

She nodded sadly. “I know it is a lot to ask of you. But you must understand. Gwenn gives her heart to you both, but when the time comes for her to decide, she will choose you. Until then, can you not share her for a time with your brother Griffon? The future of the whole Yrth may depend on it.”

Gunnar growled, “He is not my brother. I tried to kill him once. Did you know that? I might do it again. I don’t like him, and he certainly doesn’t like me.”

But Hana seemed to know the story already. “Ketha convinced you to, did she not? I don’t believe you would kill him now. You owe him much, for he died to give Gwenn life again.”

He sighed. “I know that well enough, so don’t remind me. How can I ever make it up to him?” Gunnar meant this rhetorically, but Hana answered anyway.

“By showing him the way back to the living world,” she suggested gently.

Gunnar looked at her gloomily. “I don’t know if I can...”

“Think on it this night. You need not make your decision right away. Tomorrow the way may seem clearer as the sun lights the minds eye. Farewell, my Northman.” The green-skinned woman faded into the darkness and Gunnar started, wondering if he had actually been asleep at all. Turning on his side, he watched Gwenn’s chest rise and fall, her blond hair glowing softly in the moonlight.

Gunnar tucked a stray lock of hair away from her face, thinking back to the day he first met her. Sif of the golden hair, she had called herself, and Gunnar had believed her to be a Goddess. She looked too beautiful to be mortal — then or now. He loved her deeply and he could not imagine, even for a moment, sharing her with another man. But that is what Hana asked of him.

She stirred and rolled over to face him with half-open eyes, and her gaze was unfocussed and sleepy. “Gunnar? Did the babies disturb you?”

He shook his head and smiled. “A dream woke me. Jakob and Arvid are still sleeping soundly. It won’t be time for their feeding for a little while yet.” Suddenly, his need for her became desperate and in order that she might fulfill this need he spoke without thinking further. “Gwenn,” he whispered in the darkness. “I know the name of the person Dawa was talking about. The one who can cross the heavenly plane.”

She raised her head sharply, saying, “Who? Who is it? You must tell me.”

He blinked hard several times in the darkness, but she could not see the tears in his eyes. There was no going back now, though her eager response pierced like the keenest of knives. “I am the one. Hana came to me just now. She told me so.” He waited, holding his breath, wondering if she would believe him.

At first she seemed not to. “You? Gunnar, don’t be absurd. You are just a mortal man.”

A few seconds later she snapped her fingers and said, “Wait a moment! Of course — it does make sense. Because of Eydis. She has given you the power.” Then she lay back abruptly on the pillow. “But you won’t go, will you? Not for Kadya’s sake. You hate him.”

“Not for his sake, no.” Gunnar replied softly. “But for you, I would do anything, you know that. I swore as much to you on the beach, the first day we met, when you spared my life. So you have only to ask me, and I shall go, willingly.”

Her blue eyes filled with tears. “You would do that? For me?”

“Yes,” he said, solemnly. “For you.”

She gave a small cry, and threw her arms about him, pulling him close. Her kisses were grateful, at first, and then more ardent as her fingers struggled to untie the knot in the soft robe he still wore. Laughing softly, Gunnar pulled it off over his head, and then pulled hers off too, with her help. It was not long before she drew him closer still, and he entered the heat of her body with his own. Part of his mind remained somehow detached from this intimacy. It wondered coldly if this lovemaking was worth the price — the dangerous journey to the Vastness to bring back his rival. But as Gwenn cried out in her passion, and sank her nails into the dragon tattoo on his back, the incessant pulse of his own gathering climax drowned out that voice completely. When it ended, and the weeks of frustration drained away, just before sleep he thought, tiredly, that whatever trials he must face, it would be worth it, for her sake.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. After breakfast, Dawa and Gwenn looked on anxiously as Gunnar readied himself for the journey. He wore his own clothes, miraculously washed, dried and mended overnight by their host, and carried a long knife. Dawa instructed him, saying, “Griffon’s spirit will linger somewhere close to this house, for it is still attached to his body by the narrowest of threads. I do not know how much longer the thread will hold, so you will have to make haste. You must pull him back across the heavenly plane with you, close to the place his earthly form rests by the fireplace.”

Gunnar went to stand before Gwenn, who passed the babies up to him one at a time. He stared for many moments at his sons, without speaking, and Gwenn knew then he did not believe he would return from the Vastness alive. After she placed Jakob and Arvid in their baskets she put her arms around him and whispered, “Go gentle, my love. Our boys need their father to teach them to sail. I am useless with an oar, remember?” Her attempt to lighten the situation did not make him smile

He raised his eyes to meet hers and asked quietly, “And you? Do you need me, Gwenn? Or would you rather that cursed Southerner returned alone?” She hesitated only briefly, but it communicated more to Gunnar than anything she might have said afterwards. He abruptly stepped away and a little to the side. Gwenn stared sadly at the blank space remaining, cursing her indecision, and wishing that he would come back to her so she could tell him she loved him. Jakob and Arvid both began to cry, as the first flakes of snow drifted down outside the windows.

Chapter Two

Methuit Sequent

He is lost. Ben’aryn has wandered too long, and too far in that all-encompassing darkness. His mind has no more thoughts of self and substance. He drifts, dreamily, like an unmoored sailboat on a flat, black sea.

Then they come, and pull him back from the brink of dissolution.

* * * *

When Huw Adaryi first spied the familiar green caravans he raced forward with a cry of joy. His people, the Firaithi, were camped by the Sharm River, close to the ford that marked the boundary between Mardon and Secuny. Huw had been searching for them for many weeks, with his companion, the former Queen of Beaumarais, Katrione du Chesne Benet. She rode behind him, on their horse, Ajax. Katkin hung back as he approached the circle of caravans, nervously wondering how well Huw’s Kindred would receive her.

A woman, shabbily dressed, was the first to notice the approaching figures. As Huw shouted a stream of Firai, she hurried forward, drying her hands on her apron. Katkin watched as the two embraced warmly. Suddenly the caravans emptied and three dozen people, mostly women and children, surrounded Huw. A tall man stepped forward, with his arms extended, crying, “Huw! The moon gives you greeting. By the Un-Named One, you come back to us! I believed you had perished on the ship of those cursed slavers. How did you escape, my brother?”

Huw smiled broadly. “And I thought you might be dead as well, Padarn. We have many stories to tell, it seems. May we share your fire?”

“We? Who is your companion, Huw?” Padarn peered over at Katkin, who had dismounted from Ajax, but still hung back, waiting for Huw to introduce her.

Huw walked to stand beside Katkin. “You know her already. This is Katrione Benet, of the Kindred of Anandi.” Padarn stared at the petite woman before him. She had long, wavy chestnut hair and striking green eyes. Her left arm ended just below the elbow, but she wore a cunning wooden prosthesis, shaped like a hand, with jointed fingers that could be locked into any position by sliding a switch on the back of the wrist.

“The ex-Queen of Beaumarais? Can it be true she belongs to one of our Kindreds?” Padarn still used the Firai tongue, thinking that Katkin wouldn’t understand him. “She is a dangerous friend, Huw. Her son, King Tristan, has placed a high price on her head. You would be well-advised to send her on her way alone. But you, of course, will share our fire and reclaim your rightful place as our Tane,^[2] now that your father has crossed through Tsmar’enth.^[3]”

Katkin could speak Firai well, but she thought that it might not be wise to let these secretive people know she understood their language, so she merely said in Maraison, “What does he say, Huw? He doesn’t look very happy to see us.”

Huw spoke softly to Padarn in Firai. “Have a care, my brother, for I love this woman, and I would not send her away, even if the price was all the gold in Yr. If she cannot share the fire of our Kindred, then I will not stay either.”

Padarn looked very distressed at this. Suddenly, one of the women screamed, pointing at Katkin, “That is her! The mother of the one they call the Faircrow. I have seen her picture nailed up on nearly every tree. The one-armed traitor of Beaumarais. She helped that murdering Gruagá^[4] bitch escape.” Katkin knew she could not explain her actions without giving away her knowledge of Firai, so she remained silent and stared at the ground.

Now Huw stepped in front of Katkin and drew his short curved blade. Padarn raised his hand for silence, and the group of Firaithi fell back. He spoke quietly. “Huw Adaryi, do you intend to protect this enemy of the Kindreds?”

Huw nodded grimly.

Padarn sighed. “Then you leave me no choice. I must banish you from the Kindred of Chandrathi. We mourn your passing, Huw. You must leave now, or I cannot be responsible for the actions of the rest of my brothers and sisters. Go at once and never return.” Under his breath, he whispered to Huw, “Camp on the other side of that belt of trees. I will come and speak with you, after the moon rises.”

Huw and Katkin retreated into the shelter of the willows by the Sharm River ford. Huw, depressed by his unexpected banishment, set up camp in silence. Later, as Katkin stirred a pot of vegetable soup over the fire, he pulled a wooden flute from his pack and played a mournful air. She listened until the last note had died away, and then said, “That song is so beautiful. I wish I could still make music. I had an old vielle that my father taught me to play, but the Guard destroyed it when they burned down our house. Jacq said he would make me another, with a special crank I could use with my artificial hand. But he was always so busy with blacksmithing that he never did.” She sighed regretfully. “It is too late now.”

“Then I will build you one. When we find somewhere to live.” He added disappointedly, “I counted on our being able to shelter with my Kindred over the winter. Soon the weather will grow too cold for us to sleep out of doors. Perhaps we should head further South — into Spanja or perhaps to Shadion. It is always warm there, and they will not be looking for you.”

 “We should just split up.” Katkin said glumly.  “Then you could go back to your Kindred, Huw. You should not have been banished for my sake.”

A curious low whistle from within the trees interrupted Huw’s response. Huw cupped his hands over his mouth and echoed the sound several times, and then Padarn stepped into the ring of firelight. He squatted and accepted a bowl of soup while apologizing, in Maraison, for the Kindred’s quick judgment against Katkin. “If it were up to me, I would allow you to stay. Your dealings with our Kindred were always fair and respectful. But many who lost loved ones the day your daughter’s men attacked cannot forgive your actions in helping her escape. They will never allow you to join our Kindred.”

Huw asked, “Why is it you now risk their wrath to speak with us? I have been exiled.”

Padarn answered quietly, “Because Gwenn Faircrow allowed my wife and daughters to go free, rather than selling them as slaves to the Haba. For that I owe her a boon. So I came to warn you of something.” His voice filled Katkin with foreboding, and she shivered. Huw wrapped a blanket over her shoulders and she hugged it gratefully.

“Of what would you warn us, my brother? We met no danger in our travels from the coast of Danica.” In fact their passage had been exceptionally quiet, and Katkin had remarked more than once about the lack of people and traffic on the back roads they traveled.

The tall Firaithi ran his hands through his graying hair. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We who follow asparitus^[5] observe things the settled peoples do not. The travels of men and horses, the rape of the land — the Kindreds know of these things well before others learn of them. Now we see troops massing on the borders of Secuny and Spanja, secretly gathering arms and ammunition. Also food and supplies for many men — a mighty army.”

Katkin looked at him fearfully. “Who... Who leads this army?”

Padarn sighed. “Your son, King Tristan of Beaumarais. We believe he intends to conquer all of Yr, one country at a time, with this new army he is raising. He calls them the Black Guard.” Katkin gave a cry and put her hand over her mouth, then turned away in anguish. Huw looked at her before beginning to speak rapidly in a low voice to Padarn. He spoke in Firai, thinking she would not understand.

“Then the Firaithi will soon be in even greater danger, my brother. That Gruagá spawn will begin hunting down all the Kindreds ere long. He will not want us roaming free, exchanging information on his movements. We will be a threat to any plan of conquest he has undertaken.” He spat into the fire, and it hissed angrily. “Curse him to Revenna and beyond. Why can the Gruagán[6] not leave us alone?” Katkin turned back and gave Huw an unhappy look, but he did not see.

Padarn nodded. “I fear you speak the truth. The Chandrathi plan to keep moving south, mostly by night, and try to attract as little attention as possible. We will cross the border at the highest pass, where there will be few guards posted. Eventually, I hope we will be able to reach Bryn Mirain[7], and then continue even further south — into Shadion. It will not be easy. Food is growing ever scarcer. King Tristan has many men abroad. They have threatened some of the farmers in our Catena^[8] already.”

Huw said firmly in Maraison, “Katkin, Padarn says we must head south at once.”

Padarn said, “Hold on, Huw. If you intend to travel with her, then you must avoid the borders, at least for now. We have seen drawings of the former queen’s face posted in every guardhouse between here and Spanja. They are looking hard for her. You will never make it through Beaumarais.”

“What other choice do we have? We cannot stay here and freeze.”

Katkin said again, “Let me go on alone. You will be in less danger with your own people.”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “No! Do not suggest such a thing. I won’t leave you and that is final.”

Padarn said quietly, “I have an idea that might be of some use to you. You know Brunner’s place?”

Huw nodded and explained to Katkin, “Jakob Brunner is a farmer. He is one of the few people we can trust unimpeachably, because he is married to a Firaithi woman, of the Kindred of Gitasha. He has a farm about twenty leagues north of here, as the crow flies, in the bottom of a deep valley.”

Padarn continued, “We passed through there a week ago, and Brunner gave us a lot of news along with the bags of lentils and grain he had saved for us. His hired man had just gotten married and left his employ, and he begged Stephan, one of our older boys, to stay and work for him during the winter. There are very few men left in our Kindred, so Stephan refused.”

Katkin gave him an unhappy look, because she knew the reason for this — Gwenn’s raiders had slaughtered most of the men, with the exception of Huw and Padarn, when they attacked the Kindred on the coast of Secuny.

“Old Brunner needs someone, Huw. He has a lot of stock, and after the first snow falls his valley is nigh impossible to get into. Why not go to him and spend the winter quietly? You will be as safe there as anywhere else, and more snug. In the spring you can journey on, and perhaps find the Kindred of Anandi. They will also try for Bryn Mirain.”

Huw nodded enthusiastically. “I know Jakob well. He is a good man, and a good friend to the Kindreds. I will do as you suggest. Which route do you think we should take?”

Katkin listened intently as the two men slipped once more into Firai, discussing goat tracks, overhanging rock shelters, and a secret mountain pass. She felt slightly irritated Huw had not bothered to consult her before announcing they would be heading for Brunner’s. Then she shrugged, thinking they had little choice but to follow Padarn’s suggestion anyway.

Huw clasped Padarn’s hand gratefully. “Thank you for your help, my brother. I hope that we may meet again in happier times. Tsmare an fyr arterre[9].” Katkin quietly added her own thanks.

Padarn said, “Many more will pass through Tsmar’enth before then, Huw, I feel it in my bones. I think I may not see you again in this life. Farewell, my brother and sister. May the Un-Named One protect you both.” He turned and melted back into the darkness. Katkin stared for a long moment into the woods, but she could see no sign of his passing. As she raised her eyes, a shooting star lit the sky in a brief blaze of light, and she smiled.

“Look! Up in the heavens. Did you see it?”

He nodded. “The Un-Named One also sends us her blessing. If you are not too tired, I would like to journey a little farther tonight. We should try to do as much travel under the cover of darkness as we can. The four Wayfarers will light our way.”

“The Wayfarers? What are they, Huw?”

“Our people have studied the skies for many generations. We have seen the travels of the stars and the moon as they somberly tread the black velvet curtain of night. But there are four heavenly bodies whose blazing light could be said to dance across the skies — Unda, Herd, Zephur and Ruber. They are the Wayfarers. You have seen their signs on the Triske stones.”^[10]

She nodded, remembering the worn ruby-red stones that her grandmother, Neirin Mare, had shown her once, long ago, in the kitchen of Acorn cottage.

Huw continued. “They are special to the Firaithi, for they travel, just as we do.”

Katkin looked worried as she pressed a steaming cup full of soup into his hands. “Speaking of traveling, how on Yrth are we to cross twenty leagues of open country without being seen? If there are as many of these Black Guardsmen around as Padarn seemed to think, then we will be in danger every minute. And where will we find shelter?” She shivered in the chill evening as the wind stirred the flames, sending many shining sparks spiraling into the night air.

“There are many secret paths that will carry us safely to Brunner’s Valley. The Firaithi Kindreds have been traversing this country for over a thousand years on the Greater and Lesser Ambits. We have many caches of food and supplies along our routes that we can use in case of difficulties. Remember, this is not the first time the Gruagán have subjected us to persecution. He sighed. “Nor will it be the last, I expect.”

“What do you mean, Huw? How can you know that?”

“I don’t know how I know. I just do.” He sat down by the fire and sipped at his soup. Katkin handed him a hunk of hard black rye bread, and then ate her own meal in pensive silence. After a time she asked Huw, “What is Bryn Mirain? Padarn said my people would try to go there.”

“The Firaithi peoples have no homeland, but they do have Bryn Mirain. It is a hidden valley, deep in the Altas Mountains, between Beaumarais and Spanja. Our Kindreds have been gathering there for many hundreds of years. Every other summer we go to exchange news and meet with friends and relations. Many celebrations and weddings take place then.” Huw’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he seemed suddenly distressed, as though her question had reminded him of some unhappy memory.

Later, as Katkin packed up their few belongings and loaded them onto the patient Ajax, Huw kicked dirt over the fire to extinguish it. They were careful to leave no sign of their camp site behind, in case anyone should stumble upon it. The moon rode high in the sky, and she helpfully lit their way as they passed back along the silent road. Katkin took this to be a sign that Lalluna, the moon Goddess, also approved of their decision to shelter at Brunner’s farm.

A rough track went off to their left, winding up the valley and over a low saddle, and Huw directed Ajax that way. Dark pines clothed the steep face of the hills on either side. In the darkness the valley looked lonely and forbidding. He said, “We must keep to this track for several hours, until we find a patteran.^[11] It may be difficult to see at night. There will be a dry camping spot hidden a few hundred yards away, sheltered by an overhanging rock.”

Katkin spoke to his retreating back. “A patteran? What is that?”

“A sign left by another Kindred. Sometimes a small pile of stones, or a few twigs woven together. But I will know it when I see it,” he said cheerfully, and turned around to smile at her.

Katkin smiled too, feeling a little ashamed of her earlier irritation. Huw had chosen to undertake this risky journey with her rather than remain with his own Kindred, and had done so without a word of blame or complaint. She was very grateful for his company on that cold and dark evening, so she said softly, “Thank you, Huw.”

He seemed to know her thoughts without asking. “You don’t have to thank me. I would rather stay here with you, my queen.” They walked together in companionable silence, until the moon set and the darkness became thick around them. Huw slowed his pace a little, afraid he would miss the patteran, but he dared not stop altogether. An icy drizzle began to fall, and soon soaked through their woolen cloaks, chilling them both to the bone.

Katkin shivered and tried to keep her fingers from freezing by tucking her hand in her opposite armpit. Her stump ached miserably. She judged it to be well after midnight, and both she and Ajax stumbled from tiredness. Just as she was sure she could not take another step, she saw a small heap of white stones shining brightly in the deep shadow to the right of the path. She thought surely this was the patteran Huw had referred to, but to her surprise, he walked right by it. Katkin forced her leaden legs forward and stopped him, then pointed out the stones.

He squatted down before the patteran and then laughed sheepishly. “I shall speak less proudly of my journeys through Yr, henceforth. I made a mistake we teach even the youngest lathie[12] to avoid. Thinking of a dry bed and a hot drink before you find the camp is a good way to get lost in the dark. I am glad your eyes and mind are sharper than mine this foul night.” But he gave her a curious glance all the same, for the heap of stones she indicated had been all but invisible to him in the darkness.

* * * *

The worsening weather soon tested Katkin’s naturally cheerful disposition to the limit. The leaden drizzle that began on their first night march persisted, until it even soaked through their waxed canvas travel bags. Their woolen clothing kept them from freezing, but travel became thoroughly uncomfortable. On the fourth day of their journey, as they traversed a line of high hills, she begged Huw to stop for a few hours so they could build a fire and dry out their sodden garments.

He said patiently, “We cannot stop here. It would be far too dangerous. The Gruagán use these hills for hunting and a fire would draw them to us. I wouldn’t have even come this way if we did not need to make all haste possible. We must keep going until we reach the saddle over there. You can make it that far, can you not?” He pointed to a dip between two distant hills. Katkin’s heart sank. It looked another ten miles away at least. She put her head down miserably and walked past without answering him.

Huw looked at her in concern. He knew this journey was difficult for her. She hadn’t been brought up to follow Asparitus, as he had, and her long imprisonment in the Citadel had left her physically weakened. He wondered what he might do to lift her flagging spirits. Suddenly he smiled and walked forward to catch her hand. “I will tell you a tale to ease the pain of the miles we have yet to cross. A story that my Patre used to tell me when I was a lathie, and ill-tempered, as you are now.” She looked up at him, and smiled tiredly, but there were tears in her eyes. Huw squeezed her hand encouragingly.

“This story takes place in...” He paused and scratched his head. “I don’t know the word for it in your language. The Firai word is aza’thuwlas[13].”

She mentally translated the word as beyond-futures-past. Katkin, thinking this made no sense, asked him, “Is that a place — like a different country?”

Huw shook his head. “It is a time — but not a time that has been or will be on this turn of the Gyre. So, in a way, it is a different country. Certainly the men and animals were very different then.”

He caught Katkin’s interest, despite her fatigue. She asked, “How do you know about the rising Gyre?” He shot up an eyebrow and gave her a sideways glance.

“I might ask you the same thing. The Gyre forms the backbone of the knowledge and understanding passed down to the Kindreds by the Elders of the Firaithi. The endless passage of time winds around the Gyre and everything that is, or ever will be, can be found there. Perhaps your mother or grandmother told you something of it when you were a child.”

Katkin did not dispute this, although it was untrue. Tomas de Vigny had told her of the Gyre only a few weeks ago, the night he made love to her at her old home, Acorn. The same night he told her he had become one of the Amaranthine. She wondered now if there could be some connection between them and the Firaithi, but she dared not question Huw on that. He might ask too many questions of his own.

Huw continued his tale. “So in the time of aza’thuwlas, there lived a graceful bird of prey — a great-hearted warrior bird with shining feathers of silver, and talons as sharp as broken crystal. His jet black beak could tear through the sinews of the mightiest of deer, and he hunted the forests of Vangesu for them, summer and winter. With his keen eyes, no prey could escape him, and he ruled the skies year in and year out. Ben’aryn the Swift was his name, the king of all birds, and he had but one love.”

Huw paused, remembering his own father’s telling of this tale for the first time. He had been a lathie of six or seven years, trotting along beside his Patre, with his hand in his, hunger and fatigue forgotten as he was transported into the panoply of fables concerning his people — the unbroken chain of memory stretching both forwards and backwards along the Gyre.

Now, just as he had all those years ago, Katkin, her eyes shining, asked impatiently, “What did he love?”

Huw smiled. “He loved flying. It was his greatest joy. Ben’aryn spent his days among the clouds. In the balmy days of summer, they looked just like the fleecy sheep he sometimes chased for sport among the green pastures of Vangesu. The rising waves of heat from the Yrth reminded him of the gyre, for he could stretch out his mighty wings and soar ever higher, until the air became as rarefied as a distant moment in time. Then, at last, when the stars appeared in the sky, though it was still day, and the curvature of the Yrth spread out below him like a shining arc of fire and ice, he would fold his wings and plummet back down to the ground, shrieking with abandoned delight. It was for these moments he hunted deer in the forests of Vangesu and drank the waters of Lake Lisane. Nothing else mattered to him.”

Katkin listened, entranced, and forgot her aching legs. A mile passed and two, as Huw described Ben’aryn’s mighty eyrie on Mount Nindras, so high the freezing fogs of winter lived there all year round. With his far-seeing eyes he watched the forests and plains below, always searching for prey, so he might stay strong. His eyrie was far from the habitations of other birds, but Ben’aryn did not want company. For as Huw said, “He cared only for the feeling of the wind in his feathers, and he told himself it felt better than any lover’s touch.

“One winter day, when the clouds were dark and threatening snow, Ben’aryn perched high on the cliff side and watched the plains beneath. He felt hunger, for of late, game had been scarce and his last meal had been several days ago, when he chased down and caught a young mountain goat. A movement on the ground below caught his eye, so he spread his great silver wings and spiraled downwards. As he was preparing himself for his killing flight, with wings well back and talons extended, intending to break the unlucky creature’s spine, a song echoed in the rushing winds around him.

“At first he thought it just the sound of the east wind, but when he questioned her, she replied, ‘Nay, my song doesn’t pierce the soul, Ben’aryn. Beware.’

“He drew closer to the creature, and the music grew louder, and he asked the west wind if she sang the song. The west wind shook her head, saying, ‘My song will never make your heart bleed, Ben’aryn. Beware.’

“Now he drew within striking distance and beheld the creature closely.”

Huw paused and retrieved the water bottle from one of the bags slung across Ajax’s saddle. He drank deeply, wiped the mouth and passed the bottle to Katkin, who took a sip, and demanded, “Go on with the story. What happened next?”

The clouds broke up and watery sunshine filtered through to warm the late afternoon air as they began to walk again. On the path leading to the pass, Huw said, “What Ben’aryn saw surprised him so much he folded his wings and had to shear off from his attack. He came to rest on the ground not far away. This creature was like none he had ever seen before. She might have been a doe, for her skin was as sleek and delicate, but she had no fur except for a long reddish pelt growing from her head. Even more strange, she walked on two legs, instead of four, and as she walked she sang the beautiful song which had drifted up amongst the winds. She stopped singing when she saw him land beside the path, and looked a little fearful, for Ben’aryn was the mightiest of birds, and even on the ground he was an imposing figure. But the girl-child did not run away.

“Ben’aryn looked at her for a long time before he spoke. Her face was the only thing he had ever seen that made him feel as though he might want to stay close to the Yrth for a time. He asked her, ‘What are you?’

“‘I am lost and hungry,’ she replied, for she was a young child, and did not truly understand the speech of birds. Then her eyes, the color of Lake Lisane on a sunny day, filled with tears, and she wept, with her hands over her face.

“Ben’aryn, who had been hungry himself until he heard her singing, now said, ‘Wait here, and I will bring you something to eat.’ He flew off, shrieking, and soon found a fat, fleecy sheep. For the most part, he left sheep alone, for they were slow, stupid animals, and beneath his dignity. But now he was in a hurry. He caught a young one easily and flew back with it in his talons, then dropped it at the girl’s feet. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Eat.’

“To his dismay, she began to cry all the harder saying, ‘How can I eat a whole sheep? I cannot cut it without a knife.’ Then he looked at her hands and saw she had no talons or even claws, just useless flat nails. So he attacked the carcass with his strong beak, and soon shredded enough flesh to make a fine meal for her. But her tears did not stop flowing.

“‘Now what is wrong?’ he asked her, impatiently.

“She stared at the bloody hunks of flesh on the ground before her and turned away in disgust. ‘It must be cooked, with fire. I won’t eat it raw, I would rather starve!’ Ben’aryn looked at her in confusion.

“‘Fire is the red flower that eats the trees after a lightning storm?’

“The girl nodded and said plaintively, ‘Please fetch me some. I am so cold and hungry.’

“‘Will you sing for me again if I do?’

“She nodded happily, and Ben’aryn said, ‘Gather some sticks and dry wood. I will return as soon as I may.’ Then he took off again, with a great rush of wings, and flew away. He journeyed far, and at great speed, but not for the joy of it. For he knew a smoking mountain lay to the west, and when he reached it, he grasped a fallen tree in his talons and swept right down into the crater at the top. The heat and the fumes almost overcame him, but he was able to dip the top in the liquid fire that seeped from the mountain. It burst into flame, and he carried it back to the girl. When she sang her song for him again it filled his heart with joy.”

The path they traveled began climbing in earnest, as the sun sank below the level of the high hills. A cold blue shadow covered the forest but the saddle above was still bathed in golden light from the setting sun. Huw stopped his tale for a few minutes, needing his breath for the climb. Finally, they reached a level place, where the track turned before beginning another ascent. An icy rill pooled across it, before gathering speed and splashing down a stony gully. Someone had constructed a wooden bench just to the side.

“Our people,” said Huw in answer to Katkin’s question, and agreed they might rest for fifteen minutes.

Katkin sank down on to the seat gratefully, as Huw rummaged in his pack for a parchment twist of dried apples and cob nuts. As they sat together, sharing the food equably, she asked, “Did Ben’aryn and the girl become friends?”

“We are almost at the top now. You don’t need to hear the rest, do you?” He smiled at her fondly as she growled back in mock anger. “Very well, I shall finish the story. Though I should warn you now, like many tales of our people, the ending is not altogether a happy one.” He sighed, and watched the westering sun sink a little lower. Ajax strayed free, cropping the short green turf.

“The girl, whose name was Elleranne, stayed long in the forest of Vangesu, and Ben’aryn helped her build a hut. He would have preferred for her to live in his eyrie, but she could not fly, so he abandoned his high lonely place on the cliff, and settled close to her, roosting in a tree like a common fowl. No more did he care for the soaring freedom of flight. Now he protected the girl from danger, and caught her things to eat when she hungered. In return she sang for him, and sometimes stroked the soft feathers between his mighty wings, and these things gave him more joy than flying. Springs and summers passed, and the girl grew into a young woman. Ben’aryn thought her very beautiful. Now, when she touched his downy feathers, it woke in him a different sort of need, like nothing he had ever experienced, and he tried with his wing tips to touch her in return. But always she sighed, and turned away. One summer day, when he came home from hunting, he found her weeping and it troubled him greatly.

“For many nights, Ben’aryn sat in his tree, wide awake in the darkness. He tasted fear for the first time — fear she would leave him and seek her own kind — and it was as bitter as ashes on his tongue. So he rose up silently, and flew deep into the mountains, to the cave of a sorcerer, named Nys. Ben’aryn said, ‘I wish to become human. What must I do?’

“The sorcerer, a thoroughly evil man, said, ‘Give me your soul and I will grant your wish, but I must warn you, it will be very painful.’ Ben’aryn, because of his love and need for the girl, agreed. The sorcerer tied Ben’aryn down to the ground and began plucking out his beautiful silver feathers one by one. It was agonizing, but Ben’aryn did not cry out. Then the evil sorcerer took boiling wax and poured it all over the bird’s raw, naked flesh. Ben’aryn screamed and screamed as the wicked fingers of Nys molded and shaped his form into a twisted parody of a human body.

“When the wax cooled and cracked open, Ben’aryn stepped forth, and caught sight of himself in the looking glass hanging on the cave wall. He shrank back in horror at the hideous hunchbacked creature staring back at him from the mirror. ‘I am ugly!’ he cried to the sorcerer. ‘She will not love me like this.’ He shuddered and began to weep, for his body was wracked with pain.

“Nys rubbed his hands together wickedly, saying, ‘I never promised you would be handsome, Ben’aryn. Only human. But in return for half your remaining life, I will cast a spell to make you look pleasing to her eye.’ Ben’aryn once again agreed.

“Ben’aryn had to walk back to the girl’s hut, and it was a long and painful journey, for although on the outside he looked fair and broad-shouldered, inside he was still a crippled hunchback. When the girl saw him, of course she did not know it was her protector Ben’aryn. But the stranger’s handsome face and kind eyes soon won her heart.”

Katkin said, very quietly, “Ben’aryn should have stayed as he was. She would have loved him that way too. It wouldn’t have made any difference to her, whether he was handsome or not, only that he was kind.”

Huw looked at her, a bit startled by her words, then stood and stretched. “Are you ready for the final climb? Once we cross the saddle there is a snug and dry cave on the far side, where we may shelter this night. Tomorrow we will reach Brunner’s valley.” He bent and refilled the water bottle from the stream, then returned it to the saddlebag.

They started climbing again, and Huw led Ajax by her halter up the hillside. The sky above them shaded to pink, orange and deepest fiery reds. The stars shone forth, like ice-pale jewels on a mantle of blue velvet, as Huw finished his tale. “Ben’aryn and Elleranne left the forest of Vangesu together, and settled by the shores of Lake Lisane. Sometimes Ben’aryn gazed over the waters and thought on how he used to soar above them, and he felt sadness. But then Elleranne would come and kiss him tenderly, and Ben’aryn rejoiced again for he knew the things he had given up were insignificant next to her love. And yet, as he aged, the pain he carried inside him troubled him more and more, until he grew short-tempered and jealous of his wife’s beauty and happiness. He did not want to feel this way, but he could not help himself. On the day the sorcerer came to him and said his agreement must now be fulfilled, Ben’aryn felt relieved, knowing his anguish would at last come to an end. He wanted only to see Elleranne once more, so he could tell her he loved her.”

Walking well behind him, Katkin covered her mouth with her hand. Huw did not see her.

“He begged the sorcerer to break the spell, so his beloved could finally see him as he truly was. Perhaps he just wanted to prove to himself that she could have loved him, even if he had not been fair. Nys cruelly refused and laughed at his fancy. When Elleranne came home at last, Ben’aryn lay dying and could only tell her the truth — that he loved flying, but he loved her more. Always he loved her more.”

Huw reached the top of the saddle and began to descend. It might have been five minutes before he thought to look back at Katkin, to see why she had not spoken. Later, he told himself it must have been utter exhaustion that made her weep so very bitterly at the end of his tale of Ben’aryn and Elleranne.

Chapter Three

Dardisea Nowhen

Ben’aryn doesn’t know who they are — or even what they are. He cannot see their faces. But they speak reassuringly, even though their language is not his. Hands draw him onwards — back to the fringe, where the distant stars turn the darkness to burnt umber.

When he sees them for the first time, he is very afraid.

* * * *

The King of Beaumarais, Tristan Dinrhydan, could not sleep. He tossed restlessly in his bed, in a cold sweat. The whispering had begun again — a voice, low and mellifluous, echoing in his mind. It had come to him for the first time right after his father’s callous betrayal on the parade field — the day his sister Gwenn had attacked the City with her Fynäran raiders. The voice had been sympathetic then — and helpful. It had given him the idea of forcing the invading horde into the moat and then blasting a hole in the lake wall. The plan had worked spectacularly well, and the grateful Deputies had given Tristan all the credit for saving the City. Later, he was given other suggestions, including locking up his treacherous mother in solitary confinement for the rest of her life. Then there had been the creation of the Black Guard, and the stealthy accumulation of resources for the invasion of Yr. Always the Voice desired for him to consolidate his power, or increase it. After a time, Tristan did not even question whether this was right or wrong, he just did as the Voice said.

Now it told him to rise from his bed and make his way to a cell deep in the lowest level of the Citadel. Tristan sighed, and scratched his aching head. Nowadays, the Voice often brought him pain if he did not do as it “suggested” right away. It had ceased to be kind and sympathetic some time ago. He knew he must do as it asked, so he put on his robe and left his bedroom, adroitly avoiding his contingent of guardsmen. It took him many minutes to reach the lowest levels of the Citadel, where dank cells housed the longest-term prisoners. Everything was quiet now, except for the pitiful moaning from some of the more recently tortured captives. Such sounds did not bother Tristan, who regarded torture as just one of many useful weapons he needed to keep his fractious subjects in line.

He stopped outside a cell that he had recently taken for his own, for use as a laboratory. It had once housed his mother, the traitorous Queen Arkafina, who had somehow escaped from solitary confinement, though her door had still been locked. Several of her gaolers had found themselves unhappily on the wrong side of a prison cell door after this breach, and although most died in agony during prolonged bouts of torture, not one had genuinely admitted to aiding her. Her whereabouts remained a mystery.

The cell had been vacant since her escape, and Tristan kept it locked. No one but himself possessed a key. Or so he believed, until he saw the faint light coming from under the door. Suddenly the temperature seemed to plummet, and yet he felt uncomfortably sweaty. He unlocked the door with a trembling hand and pushed it open.

The rusty hinges screamed as the Voice said, “Welcome.”

It sat on the sleeping bench — a cataclysm in black — with wings that shimmered in the darkness, as though they somehow reflected the lack of light. The skin on its body was white, as white as the sightless eyes of some slimy groping creature from the depths of the abyss. Tristan stared blindly ahead, in shock and terror. This apparition thoroughly repelled him, but as he turned to run it stopped him with a languid wave of its clawed hand. The pain in his head ratcheted up to the unbearable and Tristan fell to his knees.

He said chokingly, “Make it stop. Please. I will do whatever you wish.”

The Voice laughed mockingly. “Yes, you will. Little Tristan, always so obedient...” His headache stopped abruptly, and Tristan surreptitiously wiped his eyes with his shirt. He dared not speak. It softly questioned, “What is the meaning of all this?” and gesticulated at the racks of ground glassware and stoppered bottles of chemical essences that filled the cell.

“I... I am studying the chymerical arts, to learn the powers of transmutation.” He paused and licked his lips nervously. “What is your name, O Great One? Are you... Are you my father come back to haunt me?”

The black wings stirred and a noxious reek filled Tristan’s nostrils, making him want to retch. Dead men, left long in the sun after a battle, must smell something like it, thought Tristan to himself.

“My name? You must have guessed it already, little Tristan. Perhaps I was once your father — I have little memory of my earlier lives. No matter. Now I have been reborn as the Prime God. Rejoice, for you and your people have been chosen to see my true form on Yrth.”

Tristan could not help feeling flattered, although the dark apparition still filled him with terror. The God leaned forward conspiratorially. “I will tell you something secret — I have another name, a name I will share with you, though none other of your kind knows it.” The creature fanned its leathery wings once again. “You may call me... Maggrai.”

Tristan nodded slowly and rose from his knees. “Very well, Lord Maggrai. How shall I serve you?”

Maggrai smiled. His fangs were stained yellow, like the ivory keys of an old spinet, and very moist looking. He said sharply, “I do not require your toadying. It is I who will serve you. Do you wish for power? Is that why you dabble at this chymerical nonsense?” He waved a claw and Tristan took a sudden step backwards, expecting the pain in his head to begin again. Now Maggrai laughed, and the sound was like the screeching of a great bird of prey. “You fear me. That is good, Tristan. As long as you do, you and I will get along very well. Very well indeed.”

He smiled again and patted the bench beside him, but there was menace in the gesture and implacable mastery. “Now come. Be seated and answer my questions.”

Tristan forced his trembling legs forward, and tried to breathe shallowly so the stench wouldn’t make him vomit. He sat on the bench, but as far away from Maggrai as he could.

His voice would not, at first, obey him. It cracked miserably, and he had to start again. “I found an ancient book, among the papers of the former King, Benedict. It told of secret experiments, of ways to increase life span, and turn lead to gold. I want...” Tristan stopped speaking and cut his eyes sideways to look at Maggrai. The God nodded at him to continue. “I want to live forever, and become the most feared ruler on Yrth. I have suffered, and now they will suffer. I must make them pay for what they did to me.”

Maggrai nodded. “A worthy goal. I shall very much enjoy helping you reach it. But first, those you wish to punish, your mother and half-sister, must be found. Am I right?”

Tristan nodded, in awe of Maggrai’s understanding. Never to anyone had he divulged the hatred he nursed for his surviving family, but the God knew of it. He had a sudden uncomfortable feeling that his entire mind might be laid bare before this dark force, like some vivisected animal, under the harsh glare of a laboratory gaslight. He swallowed and said, “I have my men out looking, but they have not yet located the traitors, Maggrai. But they cannot hide forever.”

“Do not worry; I will assist you even in this, little Tristan. Let me assure you, your sister is exactly where I want her at the moment. She has something I need, and soon I will take it from her. Then you may have her, to do with as you wish.” Maggrai muttered, “My father’s little pet, Katrione, has been more difficult to locate since her escape. She is hiding somewhere with the Autochthones. But once you round them up...” He turned to look at Tristan and his black eyes glittered with malice. “We will begin by improving your laboratory. You have the rudiments of something here, but you require more power to bring about the results you want. Most chymike is rubbish, of course, but there are one or two interactions that can be very useful indeed. I will bring you the power source you need, and then I may wish to perform a few little experiments of my own.”

Tristan nodded, unbelieving. Was this powerful God actually going to help him live forever? “What must I do until your return, Maggrai? Shall I continue with my research into immortality?”

Maggrai snarled and a sudden, sharp pain made Tristan’s head spin. “Fool! I just told you that was nonsense, did I not? Right now we need more space for our experiments. Much more space, and secure rooms in which to keep my... specimens. You are the king of this pathetic country — requisition the use of some buildings! Perhaps your mother’s old home. Yes, the Infirmarie will do nicely. See that it is done, and then I will return to you.” He waved a hand and the pain stopped again, as suddenly as it had begun. A black door opened in the far wall of the cell. Maggrai stepped through it without any further comment, and was gone. Tristan sat for a very long time in the pitch dark cell, wondering fearfully who and what he had just allied himself with.

The next day, Tristan addressed the Chamber of Deputies, telling them that the Infirmarie, the jewel of the City of Isle St. Valery, would be immediately emptied of patients and its great gates closed forever.

“The Infirmarie is a haven for harlots and idolaters — the nest of that worm, Lalluna. She is no longer the guiding spirit of St. Valery, for her ways are both corrupt and sinful. We now recognize the Prime God and no other as the Protector and Savior of our fair city.” He stared belligerently over the podium, and the cowed Deputies did not protest.

They were, by now, accustomed to such dictatorial maneuverings from their boy king. When he was just fifteen years old, Tristan had been made King of Beaumarais by the Prime Minister, Philip Tremayne. He was well aware that it was his youth and seeming malleability that had won him the post. Now six months had passed since Tristan’s father Jacq Benet had murdered the Prime Minister in a fit of rage and given his son complete control over the country. In that time the Chamber of Deputies had called for another election several times, but always Tristan managed to put them off with a promise of more freedoms once the “present crisis” had passed. He never divulged the nature of this crisis, and the Deputies, still reeling over the sham trial and life imprisonment of the former Queen, Katrione Arkafina, did not like to question their new king too closely, lest any of them suffer the same fate. Since Maggrai had come to him, in the guise of the Voice in his mind, Tristan had moved to seize more and more power from the Deputies. Now that he had actually seen the God, and had been assured of his assistance, Tristan felt he needed the Chamber no longer.

“It is my pleasure that you now disperse,” he said imperiously. “The Chamber of Deputies is formally dissolved as of this moment. Return to your homes and await my orders.”

There were shouts of outrage at this suggestion, but Tristan had his own Black Guard stationed throughout the chamber. After the fourth Deputy was led away, bloodied and in chains, the rest left quietly enough. Tristan lounged in his throne, above the empty chamber where his mother had once ruled in peace and prosperity, and rejoiced.

After an hour or so, a uniformed man approached the throne, and bent down on one knee. He then removed his peaked cap and held it over his chest, holding this position for some minutes before Tristan deigned to acknowledge his presence. Finally, the boy yawned cavernously and said, “Well, General Abelard. What news have you to report? Have the Black Guard managed to ferret out any more traitorous farmers indulging in trade with those stinking darkies? Speak, Uncle!”

Yannick Abelard grimaced at this familiarity, but said nothing as he climbed stiffly to his feet again. Tristan was the son of his ex-best friend, the Dinrhydan. Yannick and Jacq Benet had fallen out, before Jacq’s death, on the subject of his wife, Katrione, whom Yannick believed to be a witch. When Jacq had abandoned Tristan during the invasion of the Fynära, leaving the boy to manage the defenses of the City alone, Yannick had been at his right hand during the ensuing battle. The grateful Tristan had made him a General in his fledgling army shortly after the victory, even though Yannick had been married to the Queen’s sister Willow for years. But Yannick was a fervent believer in the Prime God, and in the purity of Beaumarais. His prejudices were a perfect match to Tristan’s rabid hatred of the former Queen, and her people, the Firaithi.

“Our men are presently combing Secuny, your Majesty. We have executed another four farmers who were rumored to be members of the Firaithi Catena, and reallocated their farms, as you ordered. Prince Dmitri and the Ruling Council did not, at first, wish to assist us with our inquiries, but after I threatened to blockade their ports on the Ariane River, they saw the wisdom of our position.”

Tristan laughed childishly and clapped his hands. “Well done, Uncle! No point in wasting valuable resources on an invasion — not yet anyway. How go the negotiations with Mardon?”

Yannick shifted uncomfortably. “Well, as you are no doubt aware, my King, the Mardonne are a stiff-necked people. They hate the Firaithi as much as anyone, but they will not give their permission for our Guard to hunt within their borders.”

Tristan’s expression darkened. “They do not recognize our suzerainty?”

“No, Sire. They still consider themselves a fully independent state.” Yannick stepped back a pace as Tristan stood and then paced back and forth upon the dais.

Tristan pounded his fist into his opposite hand. “This will not do, General! Have you spoken to Proxime Pallus personally?”

Yannick stuttered, “N... No, Your Majesty. I understood that the negotiations were to be carried out by the diplomatic corps. They...”

“Silence, simpering fool!” Tristan tried to make his voice sound thunderous, but it cracked embarrassingly in the middle of this tirade. He continued, stabbing his finger into Yannick’s chest. “I gave the order that the Mardonne were to be subdued by whatever means necessary. If they refuse to recognize our sovereign right to pursue the darkies through their miserable country then we will make them bow. Do you understand?” Yannick nodded nervously and gave the kneeling salute again. Tristan waved him off with a haughty gesture, and sighed to his retreating back. The business of managing the country was so boring...

A moment later he brightened as a Page hurried into the room, and knelt with an obsequious flourish of his pillow-like cap. The Page’s uniforms, replete with brightly colored silk hose, had been designed by the fledgling monarch, based on pictures he had seen in one of his history texts. They belonged to an earlier age, and everyone besides Tristan found them thoroughly ridiculous. But no one dared tell him so.

“A visitor has just arrived and wishes an audience with Your Highness. She says her name is Roseberry and she comes bearing a message from the Infirmarie. Shall I say His Majesty is indisposed?”

Tristan’s eyes flashed as he snarled, “For Cousin Roseberry? Certainly not! Send her in at once, jackass. Never again presume to know the will of your King or I will see to it personally that the rack reminds you of your error.”

The Page blanched and backed out of the room, still on his knees. A moment later, Roseberry strode towards the throne, wearing the simple vesture of her position as a Unity Juvenie.^[14] She, quite pointedly, did not perform the kneeling salute. Tristan cleared his throat impatiently but she remained standing, and obstinately made eye-contact with her monarch before he addressed her.

Behavior of this kind from any other of his subjects would have brought the King to a froth, but now he just blinked at Roseberry mildly, and asked, “Well, Cousin. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Roseberry twisted the ends of her fichu nervously, allowing Tristan a glimpse of her ample cleavage. He unashamedly ogled her breasts, and she sniffed in derision. “You know perfectly well why I am here, Tristan. How could you be thinking of shutting the Infirmarie? What about the patients? They need our care.”

Tristan did not even get angry now, when his cousin stubbornly refused to use his title. The first time he had rebuked her for this she had told him haughtily that she was three years older than he, and not in the habit of fawning to spotty-faced boys. He had had no good answer to this, then or now, as his complexion remained traitorous and she would always be three years his senior. So again he cleared his throat and whined, “You must call me ‘Majesty’, Berry. That is my proper title, you know.”

She only laughed. “I will when you act like one. Now what on Yrth are you doing closing the Infirmarie?” Tristan stood and approached her, and she held her ground. “If you don’t care about the patients, then what about me? I will lose my Juvenead,^[15] and the Maitress already told me I am in line to replace her one day. It isn’t fair!” She stared up at him unhappily. Though Tristan was not tall, he still stood a head higher than Roseberry, who had inherited her mother’s diminutive stature. Her hair was long and very dark, and her wide set hazel eyes bore a hint of some exotic ancestry in their almond shape. Tristan thought she was very beautiful.

He kept his voice low. “I am sorry. It is just that I need the Infirmarie facilities right now, for a far more important undertaking.”

Roseberry gave him a skeptical glance. “More important than the well-being of your subjects?”

He nodded earnestly. “Yes, Berry. And once I am finished with this duty then I will allow the Infirmarie to reopen again, I give you my word.” This was, of course, a lie, but Tristan delivered it with wide-eyed mock sincerity. In fact, he had no intention of ever allowing the Infirmarie to open its gates to the sick and injured, not as long as Lalluna, his mother’s patron Goddess, remained the focal point of worship there.

Roseberry still did not seem convinced. “But what shall I tell Maitress Rebecca? She sent me here to plead with you, in the name of Lalluna.”

Tristan said sharply, “Speak not the name of that pagan witch in here, Berry, or I shall cease to be so understanding. The Prime God is the protector of St. Valery and Beaumarais now.”

She looked momentarily taken aback. “But Tristan, where will I go if you close the Infirmarie? I don’t want to go back to Belladore and be a burden to my mother.”

He smiled at her hopefully. “Then you must stay here at the Citadel, as our guest. Your father would be pleased to have you so close, I am sure. He was here just a few moments before you came to see me.” Then, hoping to please her, he added, “General Abelard is my most trusted Commander, you know.”

Roseberry seemed indifferent. She had had little contact with her father since she had entered the Unity against his wishes. “I suppose I don’t have a lot of choice but to accept your offer. But once the Infirmarie reopens, I will want to go straight back to my Juvenead, Tristan.”

He nodded encouragingly. “Of course, Berry. Of that I have no doubt. But right now I will command one of my pages to ready a suite of rooms for you. Do you need one servant or two to help you move your things from the Juvenie hostel?”

She giggled at this. “I don’t need any, silly boy. I am used to taking care of myself. Life at the Infirmarie has no luxuries like the ones you enjoy here. We work hard and live very simply.”

Tristan said softly, “Perhaps, after you get settled, you might come and talk to me sometimes — tell me of your life at the Infirmarie or anything else you want to talk about. I should like that very much.”

Roseberry replied breezily, “Oh, I don’t know about that. You are so very stiff and solemn these days. All this ‘Your Highness’ nonsense and that ridiculous kneeling bow you introduced. It gets very tedious, Tristan. I don’t think I can be bothered, frankly.”

The king’s lip curled in anger, but he bit back his response. He could make her come, of course. It would be as simple as giving an order to the Guard. But Tristan wanted, more than anything, for Roseberry to find his company pleasing, so he said reassuringly, “You need not worry with all that. Are we not close relations, after all? I will grant you permission to address me as Tristan henceforth and excuse you from venerative gestures. All right? Please, Berry, say you will.”

Roseberry shrugged. “Why not? I won’t have anything else to do until you reopen the Infirmarie. I hope you don’t intend to keep me away from my duties for too long, Tris.”

After he had reassured her once more of his intention to allow the Infirmarie to resume business as soon as possible, she turned away and left the room, without so much as a curtsey. Tristan had to remind himself that she was well worth the insolence she displayed. The young king, although surrounded by sycophants of every order and description, was profoundly lonely. Roseberry was the only person who seemed willing to risk his wrath in order to be true to herself. Tristan made a private note to investigate, as soon as possible, the legality of marriage among first cousins in Beaumarais. Then he smiled, thinking that if the law went against his wishes it could always be repealed. There was no Chamber of Deputies to thwart him any longer. Tristan sat back down on his throne, very pleased with himself and his day’s work. He had been thinking for some time about his cousin Roseberry and found his desire for her only increased with every impertinence. The acquisition of her undivided company had been an unexpected bonus from acceding to Maggrai’s wishes. Tristan convinced himself that the Prime God had planned it all the long.

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