I put out a hand (in the moonlight the downy feathering on my skin barely showed) to touch leaf, stroke bark. “What has chanced?” I murmured, putting forth all my talent to sense, to track the source of this wrongness.
Time! Time out of kilter, awry. Time had been stopped, not once but many times, just for a fleeting second or so, but such pauses were enough to disturb the internal “clock” of plant and animal. Seconds stopped, then resumed… Who, I demanded of my inner knowledge, had such ability? Who had, merely, I was certain, as a demonstration of Power, caused this wrongness?
I concentrated, invoking Neave of the Fane, she who rules the continued order of life’s seasons, the relationships of plant to soil, mother to young, man to maid. Thus imperiously I demanded an answer and it came.
An image sprang sharp-pictured in my mind. I staggered as if that sight was a blow as I recognized Maleron! His narrow face, pointed of chin, wide of brow, topped by black hair, a face from which blazed eyes dark and hard as onyx… Maleron, in whose dominion this forest, this valley, and the walling mountains lay… Maleron, who had, this year past, denied increasingly the responsibilities of his rulership, preferring instead to shut himself within the fastness of the Keep, emerging rarely and then drained of energy, the smell of sorcery clinging heavier than his robes of state… Maleron, whom I had once loved as one closer to me than any other… Maleron—my brother.
Sobs shook me as I felt the anguish of betrayal… Born of a different mother (a brief flash of a lovely, nonhuman face filled “my” mind), having only the faintest memories of both her and our human father, my early life had nevertheless been full of love, of warmth, by grace of this half brother who had ascended the throne so young, yet still man-grown compared to me.
“Maleron…” My lips moved, I heard the faint croak of my choked voice as the forest shimmered around me. I struggled to stay—I must know. But it faded.
I awoke, tears stinging my eyes as I struggled to sit up. My movement alerted Kerovan. He was watching me closely with much of his old caring.
Hastily I averted my face, made a show of unfastening the flap of my belt-sheath and withdrawing my knife before I severed the cord binding us together. My lord had enough to weigh him without my “dream” evoking concern he could ill afford. I bit my lip, struggling for control, my dream Other’s anguish of discovery… of betrayal… still vivid.
Names… the knowledge of a True Name was oft the key in a spell. Now I had come from my “dream” with a Name—Maleron. Who—or what—was he? Did he still live? Had his careless meddling with nature caused irreparable harm to that valley I could still see if I closed my eyes?
Questions… questions only, with no possible answers—unless they came again in future sleep. I wondered again, fruitlessly, from whence came these sendings. There must lie a reason for all that was happening to me, yet—
“Are you rested, Joisan?” Kerovan extended a hand to me, drew me up seemingly without effort. His momentary concern was gone—once more his eyes were for the mountains, not for me.
“Well enough.” I made the only answer I could, though fear still threatened to choke me. “Let us ride.”
Ride we did, not halting even after the sun had descended. Around us the country changed, the flat plainsland now rolled and dipped, then steepened as we ascended into hilly country. Trees dotted the hillsides, their leaves that improbable fresh green of late spring. Hocks and boulders lay tumbled on the ground. I drew n-in to let Arren bury her nose in a swift-running stream, (lie chill of the waters reaching me even as I sat astride her. The mountains were drawing ever nearer.
In the red wash of sunset, I looked to the west. Anakue lay in that direction. Longingly I thought of a hot meal, a warm bed in Zwyie’s loft… things that, until this morning, I had learned once more to take for granted. Sighing, I urged the mare on, calling for Kerovan to wait.
We halted for the night only after I pointed out to my lord that Arren was again faltering. Nekia seemed as tireless as Kerovan, the mare picking her way unerringly among the rocks and over brush, seeming undeterred by the darkness. I remembered Obred’s comment that “Nekia” meant “night-eyes” in the Kioga language.
We halted, took food, ate silently. There was no sound save the gurgle of a not-too-distant brook on its way down the hillside, and the gentle cropping noises of our mounts. Feeling chilled, I drew a woven shawl from my pack, wrapping it closely about my shoulders. Kerovan busied himself spreading our bedrolls, his only light the waxing moon, for we had deemed it safer to go fireless. I thought of the last night we had spent together on the trail, remembering the vision of that glowing horror that had flowed down the hill toward our camp.
For some reason, even as I thought of that thing which ran the ridges in the night, I was conscious once more of the touch of that Other. Closing my eyes, I could “see” the craggy rocks of the mountainside, the grey stone of the Keep. The Keep, which stood like a wardtower between the Waste and Arvon… Maleron’s Keep, it must be. What was it called? Names… I concentrated, blanking my mind, thus opening it to any hint forthcoming from that Other.
Long moments, then I found my lips shaping a name. Car Re Dogan … A mighty fortress, surely. The home of a ruler. But then reason and knowledge asserted themselves. I had heard no mention of any such Keep, nor of any ruler named Maleron during the three years my lord and I had wandered within the bounds of this land. My visions must thus come from the past…
I sighed, stretching my weary body, too tired to worry further at the puzzle. Further enlightenment must come as part of the sendings from my Other self—nor did I doubt that she was not yet finished with her story.
After removing my boots, I once again produced a length of rawhide, without comment knotted it to my lord’s wrist. He submitted quietly, before we lay down together.
Even with the moon nearing fullness again, the stars showed, and in spite of my weariness, I watched them. Slowly I raised my free hand, rested it on my middle. No movement yet—but soon, soon. Words echoed in my mind, insistently:
My lord, I carry your child. Formal words, too formal.
Kerovan, we are going to have a child. Please be glad… Too pleading. He will be pleased, I told myself, yet doubts still surfaced. His face, when he had looked down at Ennia in my arms—twisted and withdrawn, it had been… why?
Have you ever thought that we should have children, my lord? Stupid. There was no longer any question about it, it was foolish to phrase my news as though there were…
A faint snore broke into my thoughts. Turning, I saw his face, eyes closed, weariness stamped upon it like a brand. Exhaustion had finally overcome the strength of the pull from the mountains.
I smiled wryly. Small likelihood that I could rouse him to hear my tidings now—and, as if in answer, a deeper snore followed.
Sleep took me, also. The moon was nearly down when I wakened to the clink of a shod hoof on rock. The horses? Turning my head cautiously, I saw the dark shape of Arren, then the white-spattered one of Nekia. Both animals stood head-down, hipshot, plainly dozing.
Even as I watched, the sound came again, from downhill. Someone was coming.
I tugged sharply at Kerovan’s arm. “My lord! Wake!” I spoke softly, but with such urgency that he roused immediately. Joisan?”
“Someone comes.”
I felt him fumble across me, then the cold touch of his reclaimed knife on the thong. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet, that knife in hand. Hastily I drew my own weapon from my belt-sheath, then, thinking better of it, laid hand to sword-hilt instead. The partly drawn blade glimmered blue in the moonlight.