Suddenly Osley broke into her reverie, speaking over the subway noise, oblivious to those around them. “It is not like elves to record a story of men and halflings. Such petty, low tragedies. Why not turtles and insects? We are but a footnote to their history. But here … here they have chronicled, at least from what remnants we have, many pieces of her story. Did the endurance of her tale bear import for them?”
Cadence ignored the other strap-hangars looking and listening to them. “I hope she was important to everyone.”
“One other thing has me worried, Cadence. This ‘Vow’, the one that keeps cropping up. The Elvish phrasing is deeply laden with meaning — alternatives and nuances and depths I don’t understand. It can also mean, roughly, ‘Secret Gate’.”
She listened as the train whooshed down the tunnel, as if hurtling them blindly into some hungry maw.
They spent the rest of the day secluded at the Algonquin, blending into the dreamtime of Mirkwood. Osley was parsing the texts, consulting the key, laying pages in different orders. Once “into” a page, it might be seconds or hours before he emerged.
The events in Thornland continued as Osley, in a far distant realm, toiled and scribbled to reveal them, his eyes bleary from exhaustion:
Lamps had been relit and merriment returned to the Great Hall in Thornland. The prince continued his speech.
“If food’s to be well served, it must be accompanied by the spice of a tale, that well-munching is married with well-thinking. Eat fully then, and listen.”
Fresh platters, piled high with dripping slabs of meat, came to each table. Knives carved. Hands reached, dodging knives. Mouths chomped and slurped.
“This tale … but a remnant in our time, reminds us of the seething and loss that the span of but a few lifetimes, much less a thousand winters, lays upon our lore. Be not unsettled, for this saga is clear enough and fit for telling still in our time.
“Much of it is buried beneath the words to a children’s song. You remember, of course:
“And here is what remains of the greatest tale of our time. To begin, you must see yourself as he did. I will take you to that world through his eyes. You are from the farthest south, a king not unlike the noble lord in whose hall we relax this eve. But his hall is a flowing, great-walled tent, four spans tall. It stands this night erected in a copse of trees, an oasis. Those trees are palms, and they bear the fruit called dates. Sweeter than blossom honey. You, that king, are restless. Once on a ride in the desert, on a clear night when the stars are of such number and brilliance as to drive a man crazy with the most profound of questions, you see on the far northern horizon — a wonder. A vision distant even in legend. Never before seen in living memory. A faraway, swaying curtain of light. It flows like the walls of a great tent in a celestial breeze.
“You resolve on this very night to see this great curtain in the sky. Nay, to strip it from the heavens, and bring it back, and form your royal tent from its glowing folds!
“Your house has ruled well, and your seitch is in order. As did our lord here in Thornland, you leave your realm.
“A thousand regal warriors form your train. Horses and strange horse-headed but back-humped beasts bear northward.”
The princess turned to Ara and whispered, “I wish we still had adventures and such heroes. Perhaps some may arise, for dread times have arrived. It is surprising, as you know, who arises in such moments. The meek and small may, if necessary, carry the day beyond men who bluster wildly while they inventory their armory, but do not show so much as a shield on the field of battle.”
“Now let us journey with this questing king whose travel has endured for years,” the prince continued. “The great curtain returns at times in the northern fringe of the sky, ever uncertain, and now only in the ever-colder winters. Great seas and mountains wild you cross. You yet rule your kingdom by daily sending southward one of your men, each with the day’s orders as you see fit. Though you have received back little notice, you send forth your daily orders for your kingdom with confidence. The timing of the future date harvest, the allocation of water from each well, the comings and goings of the tradesmen.
“In time, your letters of governance have outstripped the numbers of your men, and you at last stand with but twenty stalwart warriors on a hill overlooking a deep gorge filled with the sea and there a rough village hove close to a row of long boats. Rivers of ice descend down to the water and the peaks are snow-full even in the fullness of summer. It is by your accounting night, but the sun hovers still above the horizon. You descend to parley and gain passage on to the north.
“As fall’s stealthy approach quickens, you are on the sea bearing northward. You and your men are hosted on one of the long boats of that village, piloted by men as foul of smell as they are red of hair. They know the sea through the very soles of their feet, steady on the heaving and slippery deck.
“A fog has engulfed you for weeks. It lifts. Relentless, deep, black swells menace the boat. Spume sprays high and drenches you. It freezes to your beard and face. The sun is cold and sharp. Thrydwulf, your captain, barks and points northward. At the crest of the next wave, you see what no man of your race has seen, a great blink of whiteness on the horizon. A span of ice as far as you can see, off every point of the bow.
“Here at last you have come to find the bounds of a failing world.
“And that very night, amidst the blue glow of floating mountains of ice, and crystalline shimmering on the wave crests, you see the Great Curtain unfurled full overhead and enveloping the world from end to end. A wonder of weaving so full and glorious as only to be made by gods! You covet this tapestry, but no tassel, no thread reaches down by which to grasp it.
“Now! Let us drink to this brave king, for more adventures in store has he for you as his companions in this tale.”
And to a person in that hall, they swilled all that was before them, so that servants had to be chastened to replenish their drink. This done, the tale continued.
“The weight of his three years of absence and his failed errand now press full on Baladyne’s mind. The boat is turned and haste made back to the village in the sea-gorge. Beasts of the sea hunt them daily. White bears stand on the ice and watch them pass, huge-tusked creatures gape and fall into the waters at their passing. Others run smooth, swift and happy in the waves before their bow. Thrydwulf and his crew are eager to return to their village.
“As you approach the land, the village appears empty. A lone pilgrim, tall and dark, stands on the shore.
“Standing at last on the land, Thrydwulf retires quickly to the village. He finds his people frightened at the appearance, that very morning, of this stranger.
The man is humble in clothing, with a black cloak and long black beard. By his left side heels a fearsome dog. He approaches Baladyne as a cold wind seethes along the rocky strand. He speaks, ‘Have you enough of this need-fare, great king?’
“Baladyne replies with grace, even as this beggar forthrightly addresses him. ‘Tell me, stranger, of your heritage, your state, and your needs, and I may assist you. This at least, before we speak of my business.’
“‘I am The Offer,’ the pilgrim says. ‘The hand that proposes two gifts. To you, a small ring, beautiful and of subtle craft, but less esteemed than those you now wear, to grace some finger of your noble hand. And perhaps of more interest to you, as boon to that ring-gift, a full swath of the great curtain in the sky that you seek. Its colors are changeable and your seitch it would grace through the councils of your descendents, through all of time.’