“Saedrin’s stones, man, why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” exclaimed Usara angrily. “Why’ve we been wasting our time here?”
“Because we were always coming to the Forest first anyway.” I took a pace forward and forced the wizard back a step. “You don’t head into the hills that early into the season and we needed to take the long route anyway to avoid trouble in the Gap.”
Usara retreated prudently. “Then let’s get back to the high road and get on our way.” He caught up the mule’s halter and set off determinedly. His scrying had at least given him his bearings.
I tried to catch Sorgrad’s eye as we followed but he avoided my gaze. I held my peace; he’d tell me what this was all about in his own good time. Then I’d tear strips off him for not telling me sooner, as soon as I could do it out of earshot of the wizard.
Five
When the Emperor granted my husband Gidestan estates in recognition of his service in the west, I first met the Men of the Mountains and learned their grave sagas. This piece, much sung at Solstice, reminds us that life in the heights can be as harsh as the climate and we should perhaps be more understanding of their brusqueness in dealings with those bred in gentler lands.
The wolves crouched on the crag
And gazed upon the slain,
The mighty in their blood,
As one with weak in death.
From those that yet stood tall,
A man of might rose up.
He set a wrathful axe
Before him in the snow.
“Bring him who wrought this wrong
From lust to rule us all.
Maewelin lend her hand
To prove our cause is just.”
They brought the evil man,
And threw him to his knees.
The war host spat their hate,
And scorned all ties of blood.
“Misaen be your judge,
And those who heed your lies.
Go north into the ice,
Return and you will die.”
The kinless ones were stripped,
And driven out with blows.
The ones not fast to flee,
Were slaughtered as they ran.
The gray and wise stood forth,
And mighty oaths they swore,
That power that they held,
Would never rule the peaks.
Their skills would serve and guide,
Their touch would heal not kill,
And those who would not yield,
Fell witless to the stones.
Returning to quenched hearths,
The host wept bitter tears.
The wolves crept from the heights
And gorged upon the dead.
Lidrasoke,
32nd of Aft-Spring
Jeirran tied his hard-ridden pony to a ring carved in a block of marble and poured water from the skin at his saddlebow into a dry hollow in the stone. He turned his back on the grasslands of the valley where new growth was vibrant with flowers turning faces to the warmth of spring. Red, yellow, blue and white, all strove to take what they could from the sun before the snows blanketed them once more. Jeirran stood motionless for a long moment before the forbidding arc of gray wall.
The stronghold rose up from a solid hillock of earth piled up to level an existing rise, claiming immediate advantage of height over any that might approach. The massive wall rose like an outcrop of living rock and the windows of the rekin within were paired like watchful eyes. The stone-crowned fess dominated the wind-scoured valley as the land swelled toward the encroaching mountains.
But this place was an empty boast. The great doors to the compound stood wedged open with rubble, the bar to defy all comers leaning impotently in the angle of the thick wall. The triangular space in the stones above the lintel, where the mighty emblem of the house had once been raised, was as empty as a blind socket. Jeirran kicked the pebbles away from the iron-banded base of the gate and hauled on it, pins in the sockets of the solid stone threshold grating on windblown dust. With a wordless exclamation, he sent the heavy barrier slamming into the carved stop of the jamb. The sharp crack echoed back from the gray cliffs rearing up to the north of the compound, stark in their snow-capped beauty.
Walking into the compound, Jeirran made a slow circuit, pausing to peer into every doorway and window of the stone-slated buildings that clung to the interior of the wall. All were empty, swept clean and tidy, every possession gone, hearths cold. The bitter scowl marking Jeirran’s face faded, gradually replaced by a sadness that mercilessly stripped away the years, betraying a wretched youth.
He looked up at the rekin. The black hollows of the windows defied the searching sun, secretive, baleful. Jeirran entered, ignored the dismantled hearth, and crossed to the stairs. Walking at first, then moving faster, soon running through the dark shadows, he finally emerged onto the flat roof. The hardness returned to his eyes as he bent to take a sight along a groove in one of the stones of the parapet. It pointed to the distant cliff face, to a fissure whose regular sides and angular edges spoke eloquently of hammer and mallet. Jeirran’s expression settled into its habitual frown. The steady breeze, ever present, lifted a stray lock hair from his forehead and dust swirled around his feet with a noise like a curious whisper.
“Are you going to ask me to go in there for the Solstice? To see what the bones of our soke say when Misaen sends the sun to illuminate the sanctuary of our blood? What questions do you want me to ask?”
Only a sharp intake of breath informed against him. Jeirran stood upright and turned slowly. “You speak of my family.” He stressed the penultimate word lightly. “What interest have you in the blood that once dwelt here?”
“For a man who wants to claim a favor on the strength of past kinship, you go about things in a very odd fashion, Jeirran,” the newcomer said critically from her seat on the wall that ran around the edge of the roof.
Jeirran dropped his eyes for a moment, scuffing at the solid slabs with the toe of his boot. “Hello, Aritane.” He smiled at her with a charm that did not reach his eyes. “You’re looking well.”
“Marriage hasn’t changed you,” she commented with an enigmatic edge to her tone. “How is Eirys?”
Jeirran waved a hand dismissively. “Well enough.”
“It’s a shame she’s not breeding yet.” Aritane smoothed her dusky gray gown over her lap, drawing softly shod feet together in an elegant gesture. The color complemented the twilight blue of her eyes, deep set and dominating a narrow face with a long nose unflattered by the way her corn-colored hair was cropped short, combed back from a high forehead. Her lips showed a full sensuality, the clearest stamp of common blood with Jeirran. “I would like to see you secure your posterity in a child, preferably a bevy of them.”
“No child of Eirys’ blood would give me a claim here,” Jeirran sighed.
“No,” agreed Aritane softly, regret naked in her eyes.
“Is it a fair exchange then?” Jeirran demanded belligerently. “Are the arts of Sheltya fitting recompense for abandoning your blood and its land to be claimed by the daughters of our foremother’s foremother’s sister? Do you wield any more power than being able to tell whether or not my wife is finally going to prove herself fertile?”
“You always were a contentious brat, even as a child, Jeirran,” replied Aritane with disdain. “I lost count of the times Father had to dump you into that water trough yonder to quench your temper.”
They both glanced at the long hollowed stone down by the main gate, dry as a wind-scoured bone, a few leaves and fragments of blown grass caught in the unstoppered hole in its base.
Jeirran hung his head for a moment before lifting a challenging face. “So tell me, sister-that-was, what of your life?”
“I travel between the sokes, I give judgment and counsel, I spread news and share appeals for aid or alliance.” There was a dry mockery in her words. “You know full well the duty of Sheltya.”
Jeirran drummed his fingers on the wall, chewing at his beard. “We all know what Sheltya do. What interests me is what Sheltya are. What of the powers whispered of in corners at Solstice and Equinox? What of those times when one lone traveler in gray will become ten or twenty Sheltya, all appearing out of nowhere and closing a fess to travelers while they deal with a pestilence, a crime against the blood, some other offense that only they can see.”
“You know full well that it is not permitted to speak of these things,” Aritane replied in a level tone. “Why do you defy that? What do you want of me?” She might have been inquiring about the weather for all the concern in her voice.
“Have you learned the secrets of their power? Just what it is that Sheltya can do?” persisted Jeirran. “How they can leave behind them empty halls whose people are vanished or scattered mindless to the charity of others? Even when they move on and leave all behind them hale and hearty, why do none have any recollection of what has been done to save or succor them?”
“This is not your concern,” said Aritane, icier now. “Such things are only the province of those of us chosen to serve.”
“Chosen?” Jeirran folded his arms and looked at his sister. “Taken, perhaps. Better yet, stolen. I was only half a season short of my ninth year, old enough to remember your tears, your screams, your anger. I remember you clinging to your bed when they came for you, begging our mother to deny them, cursing her when she did not.” He drew a slow, measured breath. “But then I suppose that proved the justice of their claim on you, didn’t it? Your curse worked well enough; Mother dead inside a year and Father and the rest of us home from a hard season in the diggings to find all we had worked for now owed to some mousy-haired chit from the far side of the heights whom none of us had even heard of before then.”
“Mother died in childbirth, a tragedy but not uncommon.” Aritane’s hands in her lap were white at the knuckles as she clasped them together.
“In childbed as she desperately labored for a daughter to replace you, to safeguard the lands she had inherited.” Jeirran shook his head. “I did hear tell that she forbade Sheltya her bedchamber, terrified they would see true magic in the future of that child as well. Had she allowed them in, they might have been able to save both her and the babe.”
Aritane stood up. “If you have only brought me here to scratch at long-healed scars, I’ll bid you farewell, Jeirran.”
“But Sheltya wouldn’t force her, would they? They won’t use their powers, whatever they might be, without consent, will they? Whatever they can do, it’s always shackled and hedged about with secrets and mysteries and never used openly. What good is strength if it’s never used?”
Aritane was at the top of the stairs now.
“What do Sheltya say of the Elietimm, An?”
Jeirran’s taunting words halted her on the topmost tread. “What did you say?”
“Is that the correct way to say it? Shouldn’t it be Alyatimm?” Jeirran took a seat on the wall now, legs outstretched before him, leaning on his hands.
Aritane turned her head slowly. “What have you heard?” There was irresistible command in her voice.
“I’m not some accused to warrant your compulsion to speak the truth.” Jeirran spat and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “I’ve just heard what half the lowlanders will be hearing in their ale-houses and taverns before the summer’s out. Songs of these Elietimm, of the powers they wield, of the dangers they pose, of the might of their fighting men. How long do you suppose it will be before some greedy burgher of Wrede decides these blond men from across the ocean are no different from those blond men over the mountains? They’ll seize on any excuse to steal more land, more wealth, to drive us back farther and farther from what was once ours. Maybe that’s what befell the Teyvasoke. You must have heard about that from your new kindred.” Jeirran laughed mirthlessly. “If they drive us back far enough, we’ll all become Men of the Ice, won’t we?”
Aritane’s face was cold, eyes like the shadows in the cracks of a glacier. “You have no idea what you are talking about. The Alyatimm sought to use the powers of Sheltya to dominate and rule without mercy or consent.”
“I know that these Elietimm, whoever they may be, use their powers to defend themselves. I know that they do not see true magic as something to be hidden and secret but a weapon to save their lands and their people from plunder and rape. I’ll wager every coin of my patrimony that their wise are not taken away from land and family, lest they are ever tempted to use what they learn for their soke’s advantage.” Jeirran got to his feet and walked slowly around the roof, looking down into the compound and over the wall to the grasslands of the valley beyond. “Wouldn’t you rather have had the chance to use your learning to benefit your blood, to take up your inheritance and make it prosper, rather than see our home left empty to shelter passing travelers now that those who claim it cannot even be bothered to dwell here half a season in the year?”
Aritane’s face was bloodless and pale as the flagstones beneath her feet. “Why do you do this, Jeirran? Why stir up the long-dead embers of old wrath and bitter sorrow? Raise a fire like that and it will burn your hands. What’s done is done and there is no way to change it.”
“But what if there were?” Jeirran said softly, crossing over to her and taking her hands between his. “You cannot tell me you are happy with your lot, Ari! If you were, you would hardly have come to meet me here. I saw you at Solstice, in the Parthfess, having to dance attendance on that stupid old man. Everyone else may have thought his ramblings were the mystical wisdom of Sheltya but you knew full well it was just senile nonsense. I could see it in your eyes. They promised you power and knowledge in return for losing your home and family. What have they given you? The role of nursemaid to some incontinent old fool who still gets more respect than you when he’s drooling gruel down the front of his night-shirt! How is it right that the powers of true magic are kept from desperate people by the fears and cowardice of the Elders?”