“A changing, clear as the sudden smell of fall over the northern horizon, now comes to us.”
“And for our age, as certainly as we ask the sky each for ourselves, what will be left, and who shall care?”
“Will any tattered pennant, carried forth today with great bravery and purpose, flutter in the world to follow?”
“Will any word, or name of place, or keep of tumbled stone survive to speak of us to the ages to come?”
“This we ask, as your humble entertainers of this night. We who are but students in this land of word-masters the equals of whom do not strive in Middle-earth. Will even our august tales live on?”
“Will some quaint word, like a lost artifact lifted from the farmer’s plowed row, give birth to the story from whence it came?”
“Fools, all of us! For with this coming whirlwind there shall survive but tatters.”
“Be silent!” thundered Prince Thorn as he suddenly appeared standing on another table. A hushed silence settled on the crowd. “My troupe has set well the stage, but they do lament the final fall of a blade that may yet be turned to the side.”
The guests were rapt as he continued. “I shall now unclasp a secret book. And with your quick-conceiving discontents I shall share a matter dangerous and deep.”
Unveiling it from a robe, and undoing its brass hinge, he held forth a heavy, leather-bound book, its pages thick and warped, and its writing dark on the yellowed vellum as from a heavy hand.
“Minstrels, you despair too quickly. Yes, we are not of warlike powers. Yes, we are surrounded. But we are armed nonetheless. This is our weapon!”
The book he extended and slowly turned so that all could see.
“Its edge is subtle, yet it cuts. It stays both our enemies — the lesser and the greater. The Dark Lord, and Time.”
He knelt and placed the book solemnly on the table on which he stood. Rising, he spoke again.
“Now, I know well that among us tonight is some disguised ear, bought by the Great Evil that borders our land. Listen then, ears of friend and foe. I shall address the lesser enemy first. We raise no arms, nor hinder his armies crossing our sovereign; indeed, we tithe our share to the coffers that feed his war machine. Granted, rings have been neither offered nor accepted, and thus the unbreakable Vow of Protection does not exist between our realms. Nonetheless we sleep well, for our treaty among men stands intact. The terms of our contract of peace we honor in full to thee.”
There it is again, Cadence thought, this “vow” that was highlighted in the Wraith-poem.
Thorn’s arms were outspread.
“Champion of the Oppressed, Ringmaker, Spell-Holder over Mighty Kings, Adversary, Familiar of Evil, Eye of Menace, Bastard Spawn of all Witches,” He hesitated for a dramatic count. “Master of the Source. Supplicant of … Bind.”
His arms and his voice dropped.
“And for our contract, we enjoy the security that allows us to mock him and ridicule his many names. But mark this! Our survival is not cowardly groveling. It is not so that we may babble strong language to the wind but not to the face of our enemies. We do not mutter low-breathed in fear.
“Our weapons are the words we speak. Remember this: words are acts. They cut like sand in a windstorm. They break the rocks of untruth like the seepage of water and spread of roots into crevices. Winter and summer they break the rock. Thus did my father, the king, take pilgrimage to spread words of hope against our mighty neighbors. May the king return to us!”
He became silent. The hearth light flickered off wall and ceiling, glowed faces upturned and flashed glints of light in many eyes.
“In a moment, I shall tell you one part of a famous story, a saga crucial to remember in our time. For, of the great kings that fell before the false songs of the rings, this one, this man, this king, defied the overture of the Dark Confuser. A hero he should be, the greatest of men whose glory-song and exploits should be recounted at hearthside a thousand years from now. His should be a tale to rival brigand dragon-slayers and trove-thieves. His name should be honored in the Great Lays.
“But without our voice, and the ear and the memory it serves, his tale will pass. Few of these lays, I fear, will survive the unraveling of this age. Perchance some fragment may survive in some vault to be unearthed and seen with fresh eyes. Our greatest enemy, then, lurks not on our borders, but here. There are no curse-names for it. It is simpler. It is time.
“Against this, the greater foe, we yet have some power. For words and tales may float on its great tide. The very commerce of our kingdom is our tales. These, some of them at least, may live on.
“Now note this well. Should they ever be stilled, with their bridle cut so that none may ride them, then will the world turn to ash. That fate is not of our time, for we bequeath both well-cobbled roads and secret gates to all that may walk in the continuing story. We live here by the tales of forebears and the bonds of our stories. So long as the tale is freely told, it and we may live on.”
Cadence put the pages away and leaned back.
Her chair might as well have been an open boat with no oars. She couldn’t help feeling a rush of waters, with Ara sweeping downriver to some treacherous cataracts.
And to mix metaphors, a clock, complete with tightly coiled springs of fate, was still ticking.
Her phone rang. Damn! It was Mel.
Chapter 33
OCTOBER 30. 4:18 P.M
“The coincidence of fear is no coincidence.”
Osley was talking too loud. She shouldn’t have told him about the call with Mel. He paced in front of the usual table at the Columbia Library, ignoring his own warnings of caution.
“First your grandfather. No, first Professor Tolkien. Then you. Then me. Now even him, this Mel guy!”
Cadence was thinking, replaying the call from Mel in her head. He was no longer being the deal guy. His voice had a quiver in it, like a blade rested against his throat.
“Cadence,” he had said, “don’t hang up this time, please. Just listen. I have received another offer. It’s one you … we … all should take very seriously. I have it … written down right here. I’ll read it slowly so I won’t mis-say it. It’s like a riddle.”
“O-kaay, Mr. Agent Man.”
“Don’t fool around. I’m not kidding. Here’s what it says.” He took a breath and began:
Ara’s tale entire
Scroll, bit, branch, and twig
Barters Sharpener’s return
And taleholder’s life.
Refusal forfeits alclass="underline"
Taleholder, guildtrader, sharpener, fool.
“Is that it?” Cadence asked.
“Yeah.”
“Who sent this?”
“I don’t know. It’s on plain paper, from an agent who got his AGA card only last week. Someone I’ve never met. It’s a swap. The references to forfeiture are clear enough.”
She now turned to Osley. “That’s all he said. So now even Mel is wigging out. Someone got to him. I told him no. If you’re up for it, let’s get back to the hotel and get on with the translation. Before I do anything else I want to know what finally happened to Ara.”
As they rode together in the subway, standing and jostled like bobble-dolls, Cadence looked at their reflection in the windows. They were moving in tandem, almost identical in posture and reaction.