Authors: Elaine Isaak
Morra ducked inside, carrying a leather skin full of water and the haunch of some small animal, still sizzling from an outdoor fire. She knelt at Wolfram’s side, her face downcast as she offered the food.
Wolfram caught her hand along with the meat and flashed his best smile. “Thank you, Morra,” he said, “for everything.” He gently kissed her callused hand.
Tugging away, she pressed her hands to her face and giggled, watching him curiously. She asked something of Gorn, and he grunted in return, never taking his eyes from Wolfram’s face.
“Stay,” Gorn said at last, grudgingly. “Five moons,” he held up his fingers to demonstrate, emphasizing the point in their language to his sister, who nodded eagerly. “Five moons is Spirit Moon, is gather clans for—” His words failed him, and he shook his shaggy head. “Ask spirits then, if stay longer.”
Wildly, Morra grabbed her brother’s hand, pressing the back of it to her forehead, head bowed in some ritual gesture. Gorn growled and shook her off, snatching the waterskin from Wolfram and taking a long swallow.
Between bites of meat, greedily lapping the juices from his fingers, Wolfram learned that he had been unconscious for two days. Their encampment had been about to move for the winter, and Morra had had to stay behind to care for her injured prize. Gorn, too, had remained, since she could not be left alone, but he hoped to catch up with their tribe very soon—he glowered at Wolfram as if daring him to lapse back into fever. Once they could travel, they would move west, through the foothills and up, crossing over the saddle that joined two spurs of the mountains and down to the plateau where they would make their winter camp. He used broad gestures to describe the length of the journey, the difficulty of the mountains, and the hardship of life on the plateau.
Through it all, Morra laughed and shook her head, patiently explaining to Wolfram with her mobile face and hands, that Gorn exaggerated everything. He thought she meant to say her brother was jealous, as he seemed to have no partner of his own. Finally, Gorn threw up his hands and left them.
Morra called something after him, then turned back to her new man. Wolfram studied her in the slanting light. She would be no beauty in his mother’s court, but hers seemed an open face, her features round and full where Asenith’s had been sharp and probing. Besides, hadn’t the spirits brought
him to the very place where her husband had been lost, where she had gone to pay homage to him before they broke camp? Mistress Lyssa would have seen the hand of Finistrel in that. But Mistress Lyssa wouldn’t know. His heart ached suddenly in his chest, and Morra touched his brow in concern.
He looked up into her dark eyes, noting the flecks of gold that glittered in them. Impulsively, he reached for her and kissed her.
Laughing and frowning simultaneously, she broke away, sitting back on her heels. If not kissing, how did these people express their affection? How would he convince her and her family that it was meant to be, that his only wish was to go with them, to be a part of this tribe? Cautiously, he reached out for her hand. As he had seen her do, he drew her hand close, bowing his head over it until the warmth of her skin, the knobs of her knuckles pressed against his brow.
For a moment, she did not move, then, with a tiny cry, she sprang closer to him, gathering him against her breast. He could feel hot tears dropping onto his scalp through the remnants of his hair.
Wolfram could not say what he had done, but clearly, it had been the right thing. Two days later, rested and in high spirits, he shouldered a bundle of hides and followed Gorn and Morra into the mountains, turning his back on Lochalyn, perhaps forever.
“STEADY THERE,”
Fionvar said, placing a guiding hand on Dylan’s elbow as they crossed the rough ground.
The young man nodded up at him, blue eyes visible above a swatch of bandages. Fionvar felt a twinge as he looked at him. It was too soon—the boy should still be in bed. And yet with Wolfram missing these five days, and no clues to follow, Dylan was their best chance. An awfully slim one, even then.
Gwythym led the way slowly, often glancing back with obvious concern. They worked their way through the narrow streets and down a flight of stairs toward the outer temple wall. There, a small gate led outside to the funeral ground with the broad stone slab where cremations were held. Beyond that, around the curved wall of the temple, lay the refugee camp.
As they crossed the ground, Fionvar looked off to the distant woods. A long time ago, King Rhys had burst from those trees on a borrowed warhorse, leading the charge that regained his kingdom. Rhys and his few companions—Lyssa among them—had come not for battle but to save the life of Jordan, the Wizard’s Bane who had once been Rhys’s tutor. Fionvar wished he could have seen it. If he had been there for the Charge of Miracles, as the common folk now called it, he would not have been witness to his brother Orie’s transformation from man to wizard…and madman. In using his magic to murder the Prince of Bernholt, Orie had doomed himself to madness. Rendered helpless by that same magic,
Fionvar could only watch the prince die. He dreamed of it sometimes, recalling both the horror and the wonder. From the prince’s own diary, Fionvar had learned that Wolfram of Bernholt had known the fate that awaited him, and from the expression in his face as he had died, he had not feared it. It had taken a little doing to convince Brianna to name their son for a foreign prince, but Fionvar had rarely been so serious about anything in his life. The dead prince of Bernholt was as wise and kind as the living prince of Lochalyn was not—but Fionvar still held on to his hopes. Wolfram was his son, what could he do, if not hope?
Also in those woods, Fionvar had met the Hurim—the Woodfolk, as most called them—for the first time, in the person of a man named Quinan, a shaman of his people, and friend to the prince of Bernholt. Quinan had been entrusted with that diary and had given it to Fionvar as the prince’s last friend. After Orie’s death, and their long wait in Bernholt for King Rhys to recover from his injuries, Fionvar had given the diary to Wolfram’s sister, Melisande. He had written out a copy for himself, which he flipped through when he was in need of wisdom. He imagined himself speaking to the dead prince, asking him questions, finding the answers as if by magic in the pages of the diary. It had become his oracle, and the one thing he kept private even from Brianna, his queen-lover. He wished it could tell him where to find his son.
The small party entered the makeshift courtyard of the refugees’ village. On all sides, the Hemijrani had erected tents of poles and brightly colored fabrics—many of them the veils and wrappings of their women. From the fires before these tents rose exotic scents of cloves and cinnamon, though the beasts they cooked were squirrels and rabbits. From one pot, Fionvar thought he glimpsed the tails of rats protruding, and he quickly turned back to his charge. The dark inhabitants of the camp scattered before them; the few women turned their faces away, and the men retreated, heads bowed. In this sea of dark-skinned, bowing figures one woman stood conspicuously tall, making her way back toward the gate.
“You!” Fionvar shouted. He crossed toward her in long
strides, leaving Dylan with his father. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t see that my business concerns you, Lord Protector,” Asenith answered, starting to brush by.
Fionvar caught her elbow and spun her toward him, her face looming dangerously near. He could see the age lines she sought to hide with powders and paints—she looked like an artwork in need of restoration. At least the child would be beautiful. “I am the Lord Protector, as you say, my lady,” he said, giving her a smile, “and you may be carrying the future heir to the kingdom. That makes your safety my business. What are you doing here, and where are the guards assigned to defend you?”
“Defend me?” She jerked away. “Spy on me is what you had in mind! It didn’t take much to addle them, did it? And I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me!”
“Considering your recent occupation, my lady, I can’t imagine you have much objection to being touched.” A sound beside him distracted him, and he found that Dylan had come up, his mouth curled into a frown beneath the bandages. “Sorry,” said Fionvar, “I thought Gwythym was with you.”
Bandages muffled Dylan’s voice, giving it a nasal whine. “Better things to do, I guess.”
“Fare you well, sir,” Asenith spat, gathering her skirts to sprint out of reach.
Nearly colliding with Asenith, Gwythym trotted up, hand on his sword, his face red. “Thought I’d lost you, lad. All over again.”
“Bury it,” Fionvar muttered, watching Asenith’s escape. He turned to look where she’d come from, but could see no difference between those tents and any others, except that area looked even more dirty. He recalled his sister’s remarks, linking Asenith with her old friend Faedre, a native of Hemijrai herself. Faedre had escaped justice for her attempt upon their king, and none knew where she’d gone after that. Fionvar shook off the past and studied the present. A group of men squatted outside a small, well-made pavilion, dirty
hands dangling toward their laps as if they had tried farming recently. One of them even held a small shovel. What if they had been burying their dead? Fionvar didn’t mind the refugees sheltering so close to the funeral ground; after all, the Lady’s mercy and kindness should extend to them as well, but they shouldn’t be profaning Finistrel with burials so close to Her temple. “I need to talk to these men, Gwythym, I’ll be right back.”
Fionvar started purposefully toward them, but the little group scrambled away, bowing their heads. He pursued them through the twisting lanes of tents until he came up against the curtains closing off a large area. Women’s voices could be heard within. They had built a special place for the women, protected by a row of armed and dangerous-looking men. Fionvar nodded to them, and they stared back with an insolence he found disturbing in a displaced people. Quietly, he took his leave.
When he had returned to Gwythym and his son, he found them exchanging greetings with a small, lithe Hemijrani. The clothes he wore were faded but of fine fabrics, and the tattoos on his feet formed the intricate patterns reserved to priests. He turned toward Fionvar as he approached, revealing sharp features, the flash of gold in his smile as he bowed over his hands. His long hair was piled atop his head in a style more suited to women, but held in place with slender knives. The medallion at his neck showed their god and goddess entwined in love, and Fionvar winced, averting his eyes from the heathen display. He recalled the man from one of Brianna’s recent courts.
“Greetings and greetings again, good sir,” the Hemijrani called, tucking the medallion under the crossed wrappings of his clothes. “I would be Ghiva, and would be the representative of my people here in your great country.”
“Oh, would you?” Fionvar folded his arms, gratified by the small man’s hesitation. “Then would you explain why your people have been digging here?”
Ghiva blinked, his hands still pressed together, fingers to wrists. “Digging.”
“Shovels, dirt—digging! If they have been—” Fionvar sought a way to say it that wasn’t a curse—“if they have interred any…remains, I’ll have to throw the lot of you into the dungeon, you know that.”
“I believe it is burials that you mean.”
Fionvar and Gwythym made the sign of the Lady.
“But we do not bury our dead,” he continued, apparently oblivious to their distaste. “They would be enshrouded and left for the vultures; I have seen vultures here, so this is not a problem, this ritual of ours.” He smiled again, showing his gold incisor.
Gwythym and Fionvar exchanged a look. “We don’t speak of that here.”
“You do not speak of burial.” They flinched. “Then you will please forgive me, for I sought only to soothe what I anticipated was your concern.”
“Only one of our concerns,” Gwythym growled. “We’re looking for Crown Prince Wolfram. Have any of your people seen him?”
“I have heard that he has left the city, but I do not know that any of us shall have seen him go. I have been visiting your infirmary and spoken with our wounded there, as I am sure you will recall, sir,” Ghiva said, inclining his head toward Fionvar.
“Yes, I do. We need to ask some questions, and we’d rather do so without bringing in the guard, do I make myself clear?”
Losing his smile, Ghiva nodded vigorously. “We are here only on your sufferance and the generosity of your queen, may the Two defend her. Of course I will be happy to assist you in any way. You will be needing a translator for instance, sirs.”
“Are you ready for this?” Fionvar asked Dylan, who shrugged.
“I’ve not been practicing long; you should get someone more experienced.”
Gwythym patted his shoulder. “You’ll do fine, lad. And we’re hoping the sight of you might shake loose some secrets.”
“This is Dylan DuGwythym, who was injured in the fight by the gate. He also happens to be a wizard—”
“In training!” Dylan modified quickly.
“In training,” Fionvar allowed. “Your people will need to ask him a question, to allow themselves to have a small spell cast on them. If they lie to us, Dylan will know.”
Ghiva rubbed his amulet beneath the cloth which concealed it. “I do not know if they will submit themselves in this way. Many of us are apprehensive about your magic, and I believe that this fear is justified, sir.”
“They will have your example to follow—”
“My lord,” Dylan said, tapping Fionvar’s arm.
Fionvar gave him a pointed look.
“I haven’t cast the spell—he hasn’t asked any questions.” Dylan spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“But he—” He faced the little man. “Ghiva, what do you know about our magic?”
“I am sure that I am ignorant, good sir, being a foreigner and a humble man.”
“In order to cast a spell on someone, the wizard must have an invitation, as it were. The person has to be open to receiving magic, he has to ask a question of the wizard. Since we’ve been standing here, you’ve made several inquiries without actually asking a question. That makes me suspicious, Ghiva.”
Putting up his hands, Ghiva said, “It is a habit of speech only, sirs. What would you have me ask?”
“That will do.” Fionvar raised his eyebrows at Dylan, who mumbled a few words, then nodded. “So, Ghiva, I ask you again, have you seen Prince Wolfram?”
“I have not.”
“Do you have any knowledge of his whereabouts?”
“I fear that I do not, much as I would wish to assist you directly, sir.”
“Did any of your countrymen have any part in his disappearance?”
“Not that I am aware of.” Ghiva stood carefully under their scrutiny, appearing at ease, and eager.
“Dylan?”
The young man hesitated. “He hasn’t lied to you, my lord.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“I felt something…strange, on that last answer.” He lifted his hand to rub his bandaged nose, then stopped and lowered it again.
“Have you an explanation, Ghiva, or should we invite the guards in to ask a little more forcefully?”
“No, sir, that would be most unnecessary. If my answer were doubtful, it is only that my countrymen were at the gate where the Highness was last seen. I am not aware that they had any involvement, but I was considering more carefully, that is all.”
One by one, they questioned most of the men in the camp. The few women they saw immediately turned away, or hid inside their tents until the strangers were gone. By the end of the long afternoon, Dylan began to droop, and Gwythym’s attention strayed between the matter at hand and his concern for his son. Finally, Fionvar agreed they should let it rest: these ragged people had nothing to hide. Living as they did under the scrutiny of the city watch and subject to deportation, they had every reason to cooperate.
“I’m for the barracks, then, talk to the scouts.” Gwythym paused before he left them at the gate. “I am sorry about this, Fionvar, I had hoped…”
“Me, too. I know you’re doing all that you can.”
“Aye, we’re trying. See to the lad, eh?”
Dylan rolled his eyes, but Fionvar replied, “Of course.”
Watching his father stride off, Dylan breathed a loud sigh.
“He’s just looking out for you, you know.”
“Aye, but I’m not a child anymore. I can get to the observatory on my own.”
“So it won’t hurt you to show me what you’re studying, right?” Fionvar smiled. “Not as much as your father’d hurt me if he knew I’d let you go alone.”
Dylan led the way down the corridors and up numerous
flights of stairs, his steps seeming to grow lighter as they went. At the top, he opened the door with a key that he wore on a chain around his neck. A few others manned positions in the round chamber, mostly monks in long, dark gowns, their bald heads glinting in the late-autumn sunlight. Tubes of brass and piles of small mirrors and lenses scattered the workshop tables as they worked to create new instruments based on the latest science. Tinkers and coppersmiths in the city kept busy constructing the various stands and armatures, and etching the delicate markings needed to keep accurate records. Scraps of parchment littered the floor and decorated the walls, covered with minuscule notes and calculations. A long bookcase ran down the center, bearing all the charts and diagrams these monks had copied in various other nations.
“It’s coming along more than I thought,” Fionvar remarked. “I should really keep better track of this project.”
“We’re a long way behind,” Dylan said, picking his way across the room to a ladder. “You needn’t come up.”
Fionvar followed. “Yes, but this tower has the best view in the kingdom.”
They emerged onto the flat roof, ringed by a low wall. Dylan pulled up a stool beside one of the instruments mounted on the stone. From a chest at the base of the wall, he removed a thick sheaf of parchments and flipped through them.