Deverry - A Time Of War Part 4

'Downhill, does it? Huh, I wonder if there's mountains ahead. Can you see any, off on the horizon?'

'I haven't yet, not even from the top of a hill. I did never hear any stories about mountains between us and the Slavers. I think that's why the ancestors could escape. They never would have survived in mountains.'

'True. Huh. Another thing I wonder. This city, where Thavrae was heading, I mean, is it northeast or southeast?'

'You don't know?' Jahdo heard his voice rise to a wail.

'I'm afraid I don't. The lore's a bit sketchy when it conies to details like that. Well, we're in the hands of the G.o.ds. In them lie our true hope and our true safety. Let us pray for guidance.'

Although he never would have dared to voice such a thought, Jahdo decided that he'd rather put his trust in a man who'd travelled there and back again. Yet, much to his surprise, not long after they did indeed receive a sign from the G.o.ds - or so Meer interpreted it.

For the next few days they travelled slowly, stopping often to let Jahdo rest his sore back. Although he soon realized that out of sheer luck he'd broken nothing, he hurt worse than he'd ever hurt in his young life. Sleeping on the ground did nothing to ease his bruises, either. At times, thinking of his warm mattress at home would make him weep. At others, he would simply wish that he had died, there in the fall, and put himself out of his misery. Yet, of course, he had no choice but to keep travelling. Going back would have hurt as much as going forward, after all, and he learned that, much to his surprise, he could endure a great deal and still cope with the work of tending animals and making camps, to say nothing of a hard walk through broken country.

On the fourth day it rained, a heavy summer storm that boiled up from the south. Although they were soaked within a few moments, they took shelter from the wind in one of the wooded valleys. Meer insisted that they unload the stock for a rest while they waited out the rain in this imperfect shelter.

'They might as well be comfortable, anyway,' Jahdo said. 'Even if we can't. I hate being wet. I do feel all cold and slimy, and my bruises from that fall, they do ache in this damp. My boots be wet inside, even.

This be miserable, hain't?'

'I take it, lad, that you've not spent much time in wild country.'

'Why would I?'

'No reason, truly. You're not Gel da'Thae. Our souls belong to the wild places of the world, you see, and deep in our souls, all of us yearn for the northern plains, the homeland, the heartland of our tribes.'

'But I thought you did live in towns, like we do.'

'Of course, so that we may better serve the G.o.ds here in the latter days of the world. But in our souls, ah, we yearn for the days when we rode free in the heartland. Our warriors make their kills to glorify its memory, and singers like me make our music in its honour.'

'Well, if you do miss it so much, why don't you go back?'

'We can't. Jahdo, listen. This is very important. When the Slavers attacked the homeland, we fled. We deserted our north country and fled south, stinking in our shame, cowards and slave-hearted, every one of us. For what is one of the thirteen worst things but to desert one's homeland in its hour of need? And in our rage and shame we fought and burned and pillaged our way through the cities of the south. Oh, woe to the Gel da'Thae! That we should desert the homeland and then destroy the cities that the G.o.ds themselves had built for their children! Woe and twice woe, that we raised our hands against those children themselves and did slay and smite them! And for that shame and that sin, we can never return.

The long meadows of the north, the fire mountains of the ancestors and the warm rivers that forbid winter their banks - all, all are lost forever. Do you understand?'

'I don't, truly. Meer, you must be awfully old, to remember all that.'

'I don't remember it, you irritating little cub. This is lore.'

'Well, I do be sorry if I were rude again, but it does seem to mean so much to you. It's like it just happened last winter.'

When Meer growled like an enormous dog, Jahdo decided to let the subject drop.

Once the horses were tended and tethered, Meer hunkered down beside the leather packs, which they'd piled up in the driest spot. Although Jahdo was expecting him to pa.s.s the time in prayer, instead he merely sat, as still and in the same way as one of the tree trunks around them, alive but utterly silent.

At times he turned his head or c.o.c.ked it, as if he were hearing important messages from every drop of rain, every scuttling squirrel. Even when the rain slacked and died, Meer sat unmoving, until Jahdo finally could stand it no longer.

'Meer? I feel so awful.'

'No doubt you do, lad. My apologies. Here, take off those wet boots. Wet boots rub wet feet raw.

What does the sky look like?'

'Clearing up pretty good. It must be twixt noon and sunset by now.'

'Huh.' Meer considered for a moment. 'And what does the land ahead look like?'

'More hills. Bigger ones, and all broken up, like.'

'We'll camp here, then. I hear a stream nearby.'

'I can just see it, truly. I thought I'd take the waterskins down. Do you want a drink?'

'I do, if you don't mind fetching me one. The lore says that one of the fifty-two contrary things is this: sitting in the rain makes a man thirsty. And as usual, the lore is right.'

Jahdo slung the pair of waterskins, joined by a thong, across his shoulders and picked his way through the trees and tangled bracken. The little stream flowed between shallow banks, all slippery with mossy rocks and tiny ferns; predictably enough, he lost his footing and slid into the water. Stones stung his bare feet, and he yelped, righting himself.

'Careful.' The voice sounded directly behind him. 'It's not deep, but it's treacherous,'

When Jahdo spun round he saw a strange man sitting on the bank and smiling at him. He was a tall fellow, slender, dressed in a long green tunic and buckskin trousers. His hair was the bright yellow of daffodils, his lips were the red of sour cherries, and his eyes were an unnatural turquoise blue, bright as gemstones. Yet the strangest thing of all were his ears, long and delicately pointed, furled tight like a fern in spring.

'That Gel da'Thae has no eyes,' he said.

'He be a bard. They get them taken out.'

'Disgusting custom, truly, but no affair of mine. You're his slave?'

'I am not!'

'Then what are you?'

Jahdo considered.

'Well, I didn't even know him a fortnight ago, but he's my friend now.'

'Very well. Give him a message. What the legends say is right enough, and east lie the Slavers, sure enough, but south, south is the way to turn. Follow this stream, and it will swell to a river. Cross at the ford marked with the stone, and head into the rising sun. Beware, beware that you go too far, or you'll reach the Slavers' towered dun. Can you remember that rhyme?'

'I can indeed, sir, but please, who are you?'

'Tell the bard that my name's Evandar.'

'I will, then. But sir, will you come back if we get lost?'

'Now that I can't promise. I have other affairs on hand.'

With that he disappeared, so suddenly and completely gone that Jahdo was sure he'd dreamt the entire thing - until he realized that he could never fall asleep standing knee-deep in cold water. He filled the skins and rushed back to the bard, who was currying the white horse.

'Meer, Meer, the strangest thing just happened! I did see this man, and then he were gone, all at once like.'

'Indeed? Suppose you start at the beginning of this peculiar tale, lad, and tell it to me slowly.'

Jahdo did, paying particular attention to the fellow's directions. For a long time Meer said nothing, merely laid his huge hands on the horse's back as if for the comfort of the touch and stared sightlessly up at the sky.

'Well, now,' he rumbled at last. 'I told your mother, didn't I, that you were marked for a great destiny?'

'Well, you said maybe I was.'

'And I was right.' Meer ignored the qualification. To have seen one of the G.o.ds is the greatest honour a man can have.'

'That were one of your G.o.ds?'

'It was. Did I not pray for guidance in our travelling? Did he not come to provide it?'

Jahdo shuddered. He felt as if snow had slipped from a roof down his back, and it took him a long time to be able to speak.

'You be sure that were a G.o.d? He didn't look like much.'

'You ill-got little cub! It's not for us to question how the G.o.ds choose to appear to us.'

'My apologies, then, but you be sure it weren't one of those demons you do talk about?'

'Not if he gave his name as Evandar the Avenger, the archer of Rinbala, G.o.ddess of the sea, he whose silver arrows could pierce the moon itself and fetch it from the sky.'

'Well, he only said Evandar, not all the rest of that stuff.'

'The rest of that stuff, as you so inelegantly put it, happen to be two of his major attributes and one of his minor ones, as attested by the holy hymns themselves. Humph. I can see that I'd best attend to your education. Besides, if he'd been a demon, he'd have tried to s.n.a.t.c.h you away, to make me fail in my quest.'

Jahdo went cold again, a bone-touching chill worse than any G.o.d-induced awe.

'I smell fear,' Meer said.

'Well, do you blame me?'

'Of course not. Lead me over to our gear, lad, and open the big grey saddlebags. I've got some very powerful amulets in there, and a feather talisman wound and blessed by the High Priestess herself, and I think me you'd best wear them from now on.'

They met on horseback and alone at the boundary of their two domains, which lay far beyond the physical world in the peculiar reaches of the ctheric plane. In this empire of images, a dead-brown moor stretched all round them to a horizon where a perennially setting sun fought through smoke, or so it seemed, to flood them with copper-coloured light. Evandar rode unarmoured, wearing only his tunic and leather trousers as he lounged on his golden stallion. Since he sat with one leg crooked round the saddle peak, a single shove of a fist or weapon would have knocked him to the ground, but he smiled as he considered his brother. Riding on a black horse, and glittering with black enamelled armour as well, the brother was more than a little vulpine. Since he carried his black-plumed helmet under one arm, you could see his pointed ears tufted with red fur and the roach of red hair that ran from his forehead over his skull and down to the back of his neck. His beady black eyes glittered above a long, sharp nose.

'You're a fool, Evandar,' the fox warrior snarled. 'Coming here alone like this.'

'Am I now? Your message said you needed my help. Was it all a trap and ambuscade?'

He grunted, slung his helmet from a strap on the saddle, and began to pull off his gauntlets. Russet fur plumed on the backs of his hands, and each finger ended in a sharp black claw rather than a nail.

'First you lose your wife, your dear darling Alshandra,' he said at last. 'And now I hear you've lost your daughter as well.'

'Alshandra's gone, true enough, and good riddance to the howling harridan, say I! My daughter? Not lost in the least.' Evandar paused for a grin. 'I know exactly where my Elessario is, though indeed she's gone from this place. Elessario lies safe in a human womb, and soon she'll be born into the world of men and elves.'

The fox warrior shrugged, indifferent to the fact now that the barb had misled its mark. He turned in his saddle and spent a long moment staring at the horizon, where the b.l.o.o.d.y-coloured light fumed and roiled.

It seemed that the smoke was stretching higher, sending long red fingers toward the horizon.

'What have you done to the Lands? Hah?' His voice at times barked like a fox's as well. 'You've done somewhat, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d swine, you sc.u.m of all the stars. We can feel it. We can see it. The Lands are shrinking and fading. My court sickens.'

'What makes you think that's my doing?'

'It's always your doing, what happens to the Lands.' He stared at the ground, grudging each word.

'You made them, you shaped them. Doesn't Time feed in your pasture as well?'

'And what does the flow of days have to do with one wretched thing?'

'Don't you see? The turning of the wheel brings decay, and Time runs like a galloping horse these days.

You're the only one who can grab its reins. Make it slow, brother, for the sake of all of us, my court as well as yours.'

For an answer Evandar merely laughed, A weapon flashed in his brother's hand, a silver sword held high and ready. Evandar unhooked his leg, leaned forward in the saddle, stared into the black, glittering eyes and stared him down. The fox warrior snarled, but the weapon swung into its sheath.

'You won't kill me, younger brother,' Evandar said, but quietly, lest a grin or a laugh be taken as mockery. 'Because you don't know what will happen to you if I die. Neither do I, for that matter, but I'll wager it would be naught good.'

The fox warrior shrugged the statement away.

'What have you done to the Lands?' he repeated. Tell me.'

'Tell me your name, and I'll tell you.'

'No! Never! Not that!'

'Then I'll say naught in return.'

For a long moment the fox warrior hesitated, his lips half-parted as if he would speak, then he snarled with a jerk of his reins, swung his horse's head round and kicked him hard. As he galloped away in a rise of dust, Evandar watched, smiling faintly.

'You stupid fool,' he said aloud. 'It should be obvious what's happening to the Lands. They're dying.'

He turned his horse and jogged off, heading for the green refuge along the last river, where his magic, the enchantments that had carved kingdoms out of the s.h.i.+fting stuff of the etheric plane, still held.

Although he most certainly wasn't the G.o.d Meer thought him, Evandar held enormous power, drawn straight from the currents of the upper astral, which shapes the etheric the way that the ctheric shapes the physical. He knew how to weave - with enormous effort - the s.h.i.+fting astral light and twine it into forms that seemed, at least, as solid as matter, though he'd also had to master the art of constantly channelling energy into those forms to keep them alive. In the thousands of years of his existence, which he'd spent trapped in a backwash, a killing eddy of the river of Time, he'd had plenty of leisure to learn.

Unthinkably long ago, in the morning light of the universe when Evandar and his people were struck, sparks from immortal fire as all souls are, they'd been meant to take up the burden of incarnation, to ride with all other souls the turning wheels of Life and Death, but somehow, in some way that not even they could remember, they had, as they put it, 'stayed behind' and never been born into physical bodies.

Without the discipline of the worlds of form, they were doomed. One by one, they would wink out and die, sparks flown too far from the fire - or so he'd been told, and so he believed, simply because he loved the woman who'd told him the tale and for no other reason of intellect or logic.

After Evandar left the dead moor behind, he came to a forest, half green trees and burgeoning ferns, half dead wood and twisted thorns. At its edge stood an enormous tree, half of which thrived in green leaf while half blazed with a fire that never consumed the branches nor did it go out - the beacon that marked the boundary proper between the lands he'd made for his brother's Dark Court and those he kept for his own, the Bright Court. Once the beacon lay behind him, he could relax his guard. As he rode, he thought of his daughter, who had chosen to leave this less than real, more than imagined place and take on flesh in a solid world, one that endured without dweomer to feed it, but one that promised pain. She would be born to a human mother soon, would Elessario, and take up the destiny that should have claimed all his folk. If she were to be safe, there was much he had to do in that other world, the only one that most sapient souls know. What happened to his glamoured lands, or the images of lands, that he had spent an aeon building up no longer much concerned him. Without his concern, they dimmed.

All the green plains, dotted with glades and streams, had turned misty, billowing as he crossed them, as if they were embroidered pictures on a coverlet that someone were shaking to lay out flat upon a bed. The distant towers and urban prospects fluttered and wavered as if they were but banners hung on a near horizon. Only one particular river and the meadows round it remained real, the gathering place for his Court, and it seemed to him that they too had shrunk into themselves, turned smaller, fainter, flames playing over a dying fire.

Yet still they were a beautiful people. Since they had no proper bodies or forms of their own, they'd taken the form of the elves that their leader loved so much, with hair pale as moonlight or bright as the sun to set off violet eyes, grey eyes, and the long delicate curled ears of that earthly race. For the most part their skin was as pale as milk, just touched with roses in the cheek, but some had seen the human beings of the far southern isles, and those who had wore a rich, dark skin like fresh-ploughed earth under a rain. They cl.u.s.tered in the golden pavilion, listened to sad songs played by indifferent bards, or sat in the pale sunlight, merely sat and talked in low voices, their dancing, it seemed, all done forever.

Whether their numbers had shrunk as well, he couldn't say. Counting the Court lay beyond him or any being, truly, because most of them were like shapes half-seen in clouds or flames, at times separate, at others merging into one another, rising into brief individuality only to fall back to a shared mind. Only a few had achieved, as he had, a true consciousness. One of these, wearing the form of a young page, ran to take his horse as he dismounted. Although the boy stared at him, hoping for a few words, Evandar merely shrugged and walked away. As he hurried through the scattered crowd, faces turned toward him, eyes came to life, hope bloomed in smiles that he would save them as he had before. He doubted that he cared enough to try.