“You should be able to answer such questions for yourself, as I have done. All these things are tests set for us, to prove us worthy of reclaiming our lost lands and more besides. As we master one challenge, another arises, paradoxes that make no sense testing our resolve. I am the richest man on these islands, my revenues the sum of any five others you could name, yet I am a pauper against the meanest lordling of the Tormalin.” He began pacing, speaking as much to himself as to his son. “With sacrifice and discipline, we finally raise our enchantments to a pitch that allows safe crossing of the ocean currents. We find Tren Ar’Dryen is a land overrun by the feeble of body and of intellect, morally corrupt and wholly contemptible. But these dross have a strength in numbers that we cannot match, we who have been refined in the crucible of these islands, tempered in the harsh cold. How can we be stronger, yet weaker? We find these people have lost nigh on all true magic, so should be open to our attack, yet that lack has meant false magicians meddling with the visible and tangible have flourished, even reaching an arrogance that encourages them to challenge us. How can this be so?”
Eresken knew better than to answer; his role as passive audience while his father rehearsed a speech was well understood. These words would be used to turn the thoughts of the lesser folk more closely to their allegiance, loyalty focused through the prism of the stones so that the power of the men who ruled them would burn ever brighter, ever more fierce.
“So we decide to turn our attention south, to Kel Ar’Ayen, the land so nearly held yet let slip by our forefathers’ forefathers. But somehow, our interest alerts the villains of Hadrumal and they are able to snatch that prize from our open hand.” The white-haired man broke off to narrow his eyes. “For the present, at least.
“So now we must answer paradox with paradox. We fight by not fighting; we make haste to our goals with painstaking slowness. We have the enchantments to carry us over open ocean yet we keep our boats safe in harbor. We bide our time, and because of that our victory will come all the swifter and be all the more complete.”
The door slammed as he left without a backward glance. Eresken sat for a moment, looking at the disarray of parchments on his table. Sorting them methodically, he restored his original piles, each aligned precisely with the edges of the table and equally spaced from the next. The growl of his hungry belly sounded loud against the muted rustle of documents, but Eresken ignored it. A passing desire for water to freshen his stale mouth diverted him for a moment, but he thrust the idle thought hastily aside. It was many seasons since he’d had proof that his sire observed him from afar but the punishments for idleness were not something he was anxious to experience again.
There would be no respite until his father took some refreshment. As hard as Eresken was applying himself, sequestered in this lofty room, devoid of anything to distract the eye or the mind, his father was working three times as hard, thrice as long, Eresken knew that. He asked nothing of his son that he did not demand of himself in triple measure.
His sire was a great man. The whole of the great, square keep knew that, down to the lowliest scullion. The grim-faced men who paced the parapets and guarded the sanctuary of the harbor knew of their lord’s commitment to their advancement. Those wresting food and necessities from this grudging land and sheltering in their meager villages beneath the ever vigilant watchtowers knew they owed him loyalty to their last breath for his defense of their pitiful lives. Beyond, past the bleak gray ridges of rock and ice, down the length of the cold sea strands, across the inlets and boundary cairns, those who enviously watched his success knew it too and gnawed their nails as they tried to outguess and outmaneuver him.
Eresken’s duty and privilege was to support and assist his sire. That knowledge warmed and soothed him. His lips moved in soundless incantation as he ran through disciplines drilled into him through endless repetition and fear of failure. Few had the stamina, the commitment, the wit to reach his mastery of these arcane truths. He owed it to those who could not to use his strength to their ultimate advantage. The common flock owed him the unquestioning loyalty that underpinned his supremacy. Determination smoothed his face into a pitiless mask.
Eresken spun his mind into the maelstrom, violence wrought to bend the external world to his will that thrilled the blood to the edge of ecstasy. Seizing the heart of the vortex, he refined silence in the midst of fury, reveling in sublime consciousness that freed him from the tyranny of the visible and tangible. From that transcendent awareness, it was a comparatively simple task to concentrate the chilling assault, the unstoppable sweeping domination that paralyzed the lucid mind and stripped naked the innermost secrets of the unconscious. The next step was the greatest challenge, the discipline that eluded all but the most adept. Eresken did not falter. He melted ice into gossamer mist, a whisper of unobtrusive charm that warmed the chill of terror into the caress of seduction. No mind would recoil from this touch, few would even note its passing, those that did would find soothing release from cares and worries ample recompense for the knowledge unwittingly exchanged.
Eresken reached for his parchments, green eyes distant and unblinking, hardly glancing at the map beneath his hands. He ran light fingertips along the length of the road running west, his mind’s eye seeing sights unknown to the lesser people of his barren homeland. He listened to the hubbub of humdrum minds, searching this way and that. Patience was what was called for. If he had to spend days in this room, seasons, mark the cycle of one year’s sun to the next with these labors, he would find a foothold in the minds of Tren Ar’Dryen. Once he had that foothold, he would make a bridgehead. Once he had a bridgehead, the invasion would begin.
Three
As the game of the White Raven is becoming ever more popular, I have included this amusing song of the Forest Folk
Raven heard the whispering wind,
Beguiling words to snare the fool,
Seek out wisdom, it did say,
For the wisest he shall rule.
Raven flew into the wood,
And looked among the laughing trees,
They hid their lore beneath their leaves
Where no one looks, so no one sees.
Raven flew into the peaks,
And dug among the icy snows,
But wisdom lay beyond his reach,
Buried right beneath his nose.
Raven flew back to the plains
Came croaking loudly in despair
The grasses told him, “Do not weep,
Risk the rainbow if you dare.”
Raven flew into the storm,
Until the sunlight split the rain.
He crossed into the Otherworld,
Wisdom stole, flew back again.
But where had Raven’s color gone?
Where once his wings were black as night,
The rainbow claimed its due from him,
Raven now was hoary white.
Raven said to every bird,
“Now I am wisest, bow your head!”
The birds all cried, “We know you not!”
And pecked poor Raven till he bled.
Poor Raven fled their savage beaks,
And wept with long and lonely tears,
Pursued until he came to rest,
Sheltered by the Tree of Years.
Now Raven sits and holds his tongue,
Until his counsel may be sought.
That wise birds must earn their respect,
The last thing that his wisdom taught.
Meaeshale, Western Ensaimin,
12th of Aft-Spring
I appreciate this is as far as carrier’s coaches go, but do tell me we don’t have to walk all the way to Solura up to our ankles in dung?” Usara stopped to scrape a noisome lump from his boot. This early, with the cool of the night still lingering, the smell of the ordure was fortunately muted.
“No, don’t worry. This lot’s for fattening on summer grass hereabouts.” I was glad to be back on my own two feet again. Usara could grumble if he liked. I’d had more than enough of jouncing along a high road in the musty interior of some lord’s cast-off coach that was now reduced to wearing a regular rut between the little towns of western Ensaimin.
“Some will be pasturing on the edge of the wildwood.” Sorgrad had purchased a dark gray donkey the previous evening. He secured my stout leather bag to its harness with an air of satisfaction. “Let’s get ahead of any droves.”
I looked at the young stock penned with hurdles on all sides, lowing for their morning water and jostling for a taste of old hay and wormy turnips. I wouldn’t be traveling this road in the autumn, not with these droves half a year grown on good grazing, churning the road into morass as they headed back to Selerima for sale and slaughter. “Where’s ’Gren?’
Sorgrad shrugged as he settled Usara’s valise between two of his own. The donkey shuffled its neat black hooves on the hard-packed earth, grass pounded into oblivion by the countless white and russet cattle.
“There he is.” Usara pointed and I saw ’Gren coming out of the brick and flint inn looking mightily disgruntled, his own bag under one arm and one of Sorgrad’s on the other.
“Where did you get to last night?” I asked.
“Cattlemen are supposed to be good for a game of runes,” ’Gren grumbled, handing the baggage to Sorgrad and getting a reproachful look from the donkey.
“That’s when they’ve sold their stock and the coin’s wearing holes in their pockets,” Sorgrad reminded him. ‘This lot’s wealth is on the hoof.”
“You should have tried singing for your supper,” Frue appeared from somewhere, Zenela hanging on his arm. “We did well enough.” He patted the plump purse at his belt.
“Fancy throwing a few hands tonight?” ’Gren asked hopefully.
“You never know your luck,” grinned Frue. I noted Zenela looked less than pleased. Maybe she was just tired; she must have been up before dawn and the kitchen maids to heat her curling irons to make such a complicated arrangement of hair and ribbons.
Dusty-coated stockmen were busy around their kine, moving them with a slap on the rump or a shove to the shoulder, checking for injury, dull eyes or dry muzzles. Voices lifted above the lowing and joined the swelling noise of the little township setting about its morning business. Medeshale was a place of tidy houses built of cheerful ruddy brick beneath sturdy roofs of mountain slate. The scent of baking bread drifted from a bakehouse chimney reaching high above the rooftops. Children were scampering home with the morning’s loaf past women opening shutters and sweeping steps. A gang of men headed past us on their way to the clay pits and I heard one whistle a snatch of melody. It was the refrain to Frue’s song about the Elietimm. I smiled to myself. It had been a resounding success last night in the tap room and, better yet, Zenela had let slip a letter-press man had paid the minstrel a tidy sum for the right to print ha’penny sheets of the words to sell around the inns of Selerima. Frue was welcome to the coin, as long as word condemning the Elietimm was spread wide.
“Time’s wasting.” Frue looked on with amusement as Sorgrad settled his final bag onto the donkey. The animal laid its large furry ears back and startled a passing pony cart with indignant braying. Frue slung a leather strap, tied to a roll of stout blanket holding his few possessions, over his shoulder.
Zenela wore a gown more suited to taking the air in a formal garden than a day’s hard walking but at least her boots looked sturdy. I rocked on my heels and the shiny leather of my new footwear creaked. The coin for good fit and new socks had been well spent; this was no time to be crippled with blisters. Zenela clearly wanted to load her own bulky satchel on the donkey but Sorgrad made no offer, hardly surprising given the way she’d been patronizing both brothers. She was going to have to ask outright but I couldn’t see her doing that.
Shouts suggested a drove was about to set out.
“Come on,” I said hastily. “I don’t fancy picking a path through cow pats.”
Frue led the way, Zenela still hanging on his arm. ’Gren and I followed, Sorgrad and Usara behind, disputing the history of Col either side of the donkey’s head, something they’d been scoring points over for the last three days.
I’d given up trying to follow either argument. So had ’Gren. “You don’t fancy trying your chances there?” I nodded at Zenela’s fussily crimped head.
“After that song of hers?” ’Gren’s lip curled. “If she wants lovelorn suitors admiring her from afar, that’s her look-out, but I’m not playing her games.”
I chuckled. My mother had taught me the touch-me-not song, along with every other goodwife in the street keen to convince her daughter to save her maidenhood for a worthy suitor, but Zenela was the first I’d heard sing it with such obvious reference to herself. So she saw herself as the bloom whose perfume would only delight as long as it were left unplucked? I’d been a girl who’d never seen the point of keeping boys at arm’s length, finding them much more interesting close at hand.
“Where’s she from, anyway?” ’Gren was still looking at Zenela with an intensity that belied his disinterest.
“Her father is an innkeeper in Kadras,” I told him. “Frue said he’s been visiting their house for years. He knows her voice is her only hope of fortune, so he asked Frue to take her to Selerima in the hopes that someone of wealth or influence might hear her.”
“She’ll hardly find a wealthy patron warbling in the wild-wood,” ’Gren said critically.
“Nothing to do with us,” I shrugged.
On our way down the high road we passed farmwives and their maids coming to the pannier market in Medeshale’s paviored square. Some carried laden baskets; others had broad yokes across their shoulders swinging buckets stacked with covered crocks. Frue stopped to buy a round of cheese, fresh in its muslin. I did the same while ’Gren flirted with a pretty maid, her cheeks as round and freckled as the eggs she carried in a careful trug.