Verrarc wondered if his blood were freezing in his veins, he felt so cold and sick.
“And what else did she tell you, Sergeant?”
“Naught. Just somewhat about the silver light and Demet lying so still on the ground.”
“She saw no one there, lurking in the shadows or suchlike?”
“Naught that she told me about.”
“Ah. Very well.” Verrarc felt his blood begin to thaw. “Well, poor Niffa’s off with Demet’s family, attending to his last journey. I’ll not be bothering the lass today.”
As the ancient custom demanded, Demet’s family took his body out to the forest to give it back to the gods who had let him wear it a little while. Niffa and Emla washed his body and laid it on a litter, then covered him with a blanket. The menfolk carried the litter out and laid it in the sledge, drawn by two heavy horses and driven by Werda, who was dressed in white fur robes, covered from head to toe in the spirit-color. As Demet’s widow, Niffa wrapped herself in a white cloak and walked behind the sledge when they set out. Behind her in a ragged procession came his family and hers.
In the high snow the journey was a hard morning’s trudge through a world turned to glittering rime by a cold sun. Even though she kept to the ruts that the sledge made, Niffa was sweating in the heavy cloak. She welcomed the discomfort and the effort; it blocked everything out of her mind but putting one foot after the other. Ahead of them down the river valley the pine forest loomed closer and darker with each mile, as if they approached the fortress of Lord Death himself. At the forest edge Werda clucked the horses to a halt. Emla and Niffa took the long knives she gave them and cut pine boughs to cover the body. The blanket they left in the sledge. Demet would return naked to the forest.
His brothers came forward. When they lifted the bier from the sledge, his father began to weep, the long sobs of a man unused to tears.
“Why did they not take me?” Cronin said. “Ai! How I wish I’d gone instead of him.”
Emla caught his arm. She still looked dazed, like a woman awakening from a hard fall.
“Don’t go questioning the gods,” Werda said, “nor be tempting them. Let us go among the holy trees.”
Lael and Kiel took the lead to beat a path through the snow, but the drifts lay so high among the bluish shadows of the trees that they gave up after barely half a mile.
“We’ve gone far enough,” Werda said. “Lay him down.”
The pine boughs went first, laid out to make a bed of sorts for his naked body. Once they had him settled, Werda raised her hands high. The fur hood slid back from her face as she looked up to the sky through the branches.
“The gods do live in the trees and the mountains. The gods do live in the springs and the earth itself. All things be holy with the life of gods. Now does Demet’s body lie among holy things, though his soul has flown far away. Let us remember him always and speak his name, for if a man’s name should disappear, then have his kin lost him twice.” Werda clapped her hands together thrice, the sound loud in the frosty air. “So be it.”
As the procession turned to leave, Niffa stood knee-deep in snow and looked back. On his bed of boughs Demet lay as pale as the snow itself, a silver shadow among the dark shadows of the trees. It seemed to her that she could see little eyes among the dead ferns, hear little claws rustling in the drifts, ready to spring upon him as soon as the meddling humans left. She took one step toward him, her clothes dragging through the snow, then another; she heard voices behind her, but their words had turned alien and undecipherable. Someone caught her from behind. Even through her heavy cloak Niffa could feel her mother’s fingers pressing hard into her shoulder. Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear.
“That thing be not Demet no longer. Mourn him we all will, but it be needful for the Wild Ones to have their due. The man you loved is gone, lass, where they’ll never touch him.”
The pressure from her mother’s hand deepened, guiding her around to face her mother’s eyes, brimming tears. Niffa took her hand, then allowed Dera to lead her away.
The walk back in twice-broken snow, following the sledge, went easier. At the very end of the procession Niffa walked with Kiel, and her brother lent an arm for her to lean upon. Even so, she felt so exhausted that they lagged a fair bit behind.
“I do promise you this, little sister,” Kiel said at last. “Not a man among us will let this crime go without retribution. Me and the lads in the militia, I mean. We did talk all morning long about it, and Councillor Verrarc, too.”
“Verrarc?” Niffa turned her head and spat in the snow. “Oh, a fine one he is, to be finding out the truth of this!”
“What?” Kiel turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“In my heart of hearts I do know who killed my man, and it were that Raena creature. I saw her, plain as plain, in my faint. She were laughing over Demet’s body.”
“How can you see somewhat in a faint?”
“Well, I did! On the shore of the lake. Go asking your sergeant, if you’re not believing me.”
Kiel considered this for a long moment.
“The gods all know you’ve always been a fey one,” he said at last. “I do remember when you were but a baby, laughing and pointing at things none of the rest of us could see.”
For a few more paces he said nothing; then he sighed with a toss of his head.
“The sergeant did tell us all you did see things that night. Well and good. If it be Raena, then true spoken—Verrarc’s the worst hound in the pack to nose out this rat.”
Up ahead Lael turned back, calling out, waiting for them, forcing them to hurry and catch up.
That night Niffa came back home. The ferrets danced at her feet to welcome her, unmindful of her grief.
On the battle plain Evandar sat upon his golden stallion and called his brother’s name. This time Shaetano came to him, riding upon a black horse, dressed in black armor as well, though his helmet hung at the saddle peak. It seemed to Evandar that with every passing year his brother became more and more vulpine. Soft red hair grew all over his face now, though the eyes that looked out were elven, and the mouth an elven mouth. A roach of stiff red hair plumed on his head. His hands were covered in fur, and black nails tipped each finger.
“So,” Evandar said. “You came this time when I called.”
Shaetano snarled, exposing long white teeth.
“I hear you’ve killed a man, back in the world of Time,” Evandar said. “This is a grave and evil thing you’ve done.”
“Why?” Shaetano laughed, but the sound was oddly brittle. “They kill each other wantonly, men do. What’s one death more?”
“A very great deal to those who miss him. Why did you come here?”
“There’s a question I would ask you.”
“Ask it, and I may answer, though then again I may not.”
“I’d not seen a man die before, not so close.” Shaetano was studying the reins in his hand, or was it his paw? “Will we die as they do?”
“Oho! You’ve scared yourself good and proper, haven’t you?”
With a snarl Shaetano wrenched the horse’s head around, kicked it, and rode off at a gallop. Evandar started after, then halted. For a long while he stood watching the dust settle from his brother’s hasty ride.
“Run all you want, brother,” Evandar said. “I’ll find you in the end.”
EPILOGUE
In a
Far
Distant Land
SPRING
Three are the Mothers of All Roads, not four, not two, but three. If you would walk upon one, you must know all three as well as you know the path from your back door to the marketplace. For if you set out upon one, only the knowing will save you from walking all three.
—The Secret Book of
Cadwallon the Druid
At the turning of the year into spring, Lady Angmar gave birth to twin girls, and a close thing it was, bringing both babies through to life and health, when the only help she had
was her old maidservant, Lonna. Right after sunset, when the first pain came, the two women went up to Angmar’s bedchamber, where, much to the old woman’s annoyance, Angmar flung open the shutters over the window. Until the pains began coming close together, she sat in the window seat and watched the full moon, hanging gravid in the sky. At dawn it set while the birds of the island sang it to sleep like bards.
The babies came when the sun had fully risen, so close together that Lonna swore the second was clutching the foot of the first. When the old woman laid them on her breast, Angmar felt more grief than joy. Both were tiny, of course, though not as small as she’d feared with twins. A good five pound each, she thought—maybe a bit more. Would they live? Or would the gods strip her of everything that belonged to Rhodry but her memories? She held them close and listened to each tiny heart, each pair of little lungs. They were breathing cleanly, at least.
“Here comes the afterbirth,” Lonna said.
A last pain overwhelmed her, but once it passed, she could see that her daughters were still breathing, still a proper pink color.
“They’ve got some good strong blood from the Mountain People in their veins,” Lonna said. “Don’t you worry now, my lady. We’ll pull them through. I’m just thanking the gods in my heart that it’s spring and growing warm.”
Once the babies and Angmar herself were bathed, wrapped in clean clothes, and tucked up in the big bed together for the warmth, her daughters roused themselves enough to suckle a little of her false milk. Lonna pulled up a stool and sat down with a long sigh. Angmar yawned in answer. The exhaustion was taking her over, but she wanted to stay awake for a few moments more to savor her newborns.
“The true milk feels ready to let down,” Angmar remarked. “With both the others, I had milk soon and more than enough for two.”
“I remember, truly, and that’s a good omen.”
The bigger of the two infants opened her eyes, still a cloudy blue-grey, and seemed to be staring into her mother’s face. Angmar smiled; she could no more have stopped herself than she could have stopped the sun. Don’t get too fond, she told herself. They could die—twins usually do—but she was too fond already, and she knew it.
“And what shall you name them, my lady?” Lonna said. “Or will you be waiting awhile?”
“One of them already has a name. Marnmara.”
The old woman’s bony hands clutched at a fold of her skirts.
“Could it be?” Lonna was whispering. “Has she come back to us?”
“I’m as sure as I can be until she begins to remember and lets us know herself. All the omens rang true. Rori saw her, you know, saw her spirit walking around Haen Marn with her maidens. She was desperate to be reborn.”
“If you can trust what he said, one of the Westfolk he was and with their chatter, too.”
“Oh, and why would he lie about somewhat such as that? Not my Rori!”
Lonna ostentatiously started to spit on the floor and just as ostentatiously stopped herself.
“If I’m right,” Angmar went on, “she’ll remember soon. That’s what she told me when she lay dying, that I’d know the true Lady of Haen Marn easily and she’d know me early, once she’d learned to speak a little and could walk outside.”
“Very well, then. And what of the other?”
“Oh, she must be some ordinary soul, born in the normal way of things.” All at once Angmar laughed. “If any child of Haen Marn could be called an ordinary soul.”
Lonna allowed herself a few of the creaky grunting sounds that did her for laughter. With another sigh she got up, stretching her back with a yawn.
“And speaking of which, I’d best be tending Avain up in her tower. The poor mite! She’s not understood, of course, but she’ll be worrying.”
“You’re exhausted, Lonna. Send young Mic.”
The old woman considered for a moment, then nodded. “It’s a fair strange thing, how our mooncalf has taken to the boy, but he can handle her almost as well as we can, truly. I’ll have him take her porridge and tell her that you’ve come through splendidly. The babies—will she care about them?”
“I’ve no idea. One never does with my poor Avain.” Angmar hesitated as a thought struck her. “Wait a moment. Here’s a name for the other one, and it’s a good-omened word in our Dwarven tongue: Berwinna. For her father was Rhodry from Aberwyn, and Berwin’s the North Star. She’ll need something to guide her, since we’re all exiles here.”
“I like it.” Lonna smiled briefly. “But which one is which?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea.” Angmar studied the babies, sound asleep against the warmth of her body. “But we’ll need to call them something. I’ll think on it.” All at once she yawned. “I can’t eat now. I’ve got to sleep.”
With a nod Lonna started for the door, then turned.
“I’ll let the men know how you fare, too.”
“Do that.”
Angmar was asleep before the door closed after her.
“I’m not leaving this blasted island again!” Otho snarled. “And that’s that.”
“All right, then,” Mic sighed. “I’ll go alone, or see if one of the boatmen will come with me.”
“I don’t want you going, either. What if this cursed bit of rock decides to go haring off somewhere else and leaves you behind?”
“Someone’s got to go, Uncle! Here we are in this country, wherever it may be, and we’ve got to eat, don’t we? I’m just glad we’ve got those jewels to set up business with. You and Garin both have taught me a fair bit about driving bargains, and so I’ll have to see what I can do.”
Otho crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. Mic was stirring porridge in the big iron kettle that hung from a hook in the hearth. He used both hands to hold the long wooden spoon and scraped round the sides and bottom, turning the hot mush into the cool.
“Not done yet?” Otho snapped.
“Soon. You might call in the boatmen.”
Otho stomped out, leaving the door open to a warm spring morning. No matter what his uncle thought of his plans, soon, or so Mic was thinking, he’d be able to leave the island and explore the countryside around the lake. Maybe, just maybe, they’d find some clues as to where the dweomer had brought them. It was Mic’s ruling hope that they were close enough to Dwarveholt that he could walk home, no matter how long the walk might be. He glanced up and saw Lady Angmar’s maidservant.
“There you are,” old Lonna said. “My lady wants you to take Avain her breakfast.”
“As soon as I can turn this over to one of the boatmen I will. How does Angmar fare?”
“Well, and both her daughters with her.”
“Daughters?” Mic felt his face crease in a grin. “How splendid! And twins, is it? Let’s hope that’s a good omen.”
“Huh! If they live the summer, mayhap it will be.”
“True enough.” Mic wiped the smile away. “Well, I’ll pray that they’re healthy.”
With a long sigh Lonna walked over to a wooden chest and began bringing out bowls to feed the men. As soon as the boat crew came stomping in, she sent Lon, her son and the head boatmen, to take over the stirring. Mic ladled out a big serving for Avain.
“Is there any salt left?” Mic said.
“A sprinkling,” Lon said. “Here’s hoping you can barter for some. I wouldn’t mind having some butter again, either.”
“There’s not a lot of grain, either,” Lonna put in. “We’d best find some way to trade, or we’ll starve.”
“You know,” Mic said, “I have to admit that sometimes I agree with Uncle Otho’s opinion of this island. If its dweomer is so blasted mighty, why can’t it feed us as well, like you hear about in the old tales? With a magic cauldron or suchlike.”
Lonna drew herself up to full height and glared at him.
“Don’t you go questioning your betters, young Mic,” she said. “Now get that porridge up to little Avain.”
With a bowl of porridge and a pitcher of fr
esh water on a tray, Mic left the manse and walked round to the square tower. The sun lay warm on his back; the wind that sighed eternally across Haen Marn felt balmy as well. The stand of trees behind the manse were putting out pale green buds along branch and twig. Yet when he went inside the tower, it smelled of damp stone and ancient cold.
With a careful eye on his tray, Mic hurried up the spiralling iron staircase past a landing piled with empty sacks and firewood, then paused halfway up the next turn.
“Avain!” he called out. “I’ve come with your breakfast.”
From above he heard her giggle in answer. He climbed on and came up into a proper room, sunny and bright from big windows, though the walls were more of the dark stone. By the largest window stood a table and a half-round chair. Avain herself was perched dangerously on the windowsill and gazing out. She was plump in a soft and puffy way, with a big round face nodding over a round body, and a tangled mass of yellow hair curling round her face and spilling down her back. No one, not even her mother, could coax her into allowing her hair to be braided, just as no one could coax her into living in the manse instead of her tower, not even in the worst of winter, when this room had felt as cold as the snows outside.
“You’d best get out of the window now,” Mic said. “And come eat your porridge.”
“Avain will fly.” She spread her arms like wings and laughed. “Avain will fly away.”
“Oh? And where will you get porridge, then?” Mic set the tray down on the table. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it all up myself.”
Avain giggled and climbed down to the safety of the floor. She sat on her chair and picked up her wooden spoon.
“Be careful now,” Mic said. “The porridge is still very hot in the middle.”
“Avain likes hot.”
And that was certainly true, he thought. He’d seen her eat things hot enough to burn a man’s mouth, much less a lass’s. She gulped down a few spoonsful, then looked up at him. Her eyes were the strangest thing about her, dark green, slit by vertical yellow pupils like those of a cat, and nearly lidless. She lacked eyebrows, too, though she had a sharp brow ridge to mark where they should have been.