Chapter 4
After the Sundering had ripped the face of the world, and Aife the Dark, once my favorite aunt and now the murderer of my mother, had been sent into the depths of the Shadowlands, my sisters and I wandered across the face of the Sunlit Lands looking to save what we could. There was so much wreckage, so much loss, so many devastated lives, it all merges into one painful blur and I have no idea how long it took. But this memory has always stayed with me: One night we rested amongst a grove of wild apples on an island we named, unimaginatively, Ynys Afel, Apple Island.
I remember Airmed was tending to a couple we found, battered and sick with the red fever, one of the unwelcome gifts my unloving aunt had left us, and Rosmerta had her nose buried in a text she had found in a ruin on the island. I had no energy to chide her about it, or even comment. We were all exhausted by this point.
Suddenly there was a surge of bright purple light and a loud boom in the same clearing we had made camp. We dashed out of the tents to see what new magic or disaster awaited us. Brigant, spear in hand rushed out first, the warrior always, but stopped. I hurried behind her, and even Rosmerta joined us. What stopped us was what we found – a single tall woman in a cloak of raven feathers. She was leading a group of three small boys. Two of the boys clasped her hands, and the smallest rode on her shoulders.
“I bring you a gift, Sulis daughter of Fand,” the raven-cloaked one said. “These hatchlings have spent their time in the nest and it is time for them to learn to take the flight they were born for, but never could there. She nudged the boy on her right to step forward and let go of his hand. “This is Gwalch. No hawk is fiercer.” Next, she did the boy on her left. “And this is Bedwyr, strong in protection.” Finally she took the boy off of her shoulders. “Here, I present you Artur. He may be the smallest of the three, but he has the heart of a bear. Raise them well, and your blighted land will bloom even brighter than before. Perhaps there is a time when they will need to return from where they came from, but until then, I will leave them with you.”
She made a sign of blessing, and with that, she disappeared into a cloud of purple light. I have always wondered who this raven queen was who gifted us with the Birch, the Hawk and the Bear. Perhaps one day, I will find out.
Memories of a Long Life, by Sulis, Oldest of the White Circle.
Old she might be, but her steps were firm and certain. The Oldest walked a narrow trail cut into the rock as the wind-driven snow fell. The trail ran from from near the dock where she and her attendants had landed up towards the mountain that was the goal of her journey.
The wind tugged at her hood and cloak, and the snow dusted her shoulders. Even so, she moved on steadily, ignoring the wind and the white, leaving her attendants to keep up with her the best they could.
“Is she always like this?” Arriane asked her companion.
Sammisa, another member of the White Circle and one of the Oldest’s inner confidants walked beside the young woman. Both of them were dressed in heavy cloaks and fur against the wind, their heads hooded, their ice boots crunching the snow as they moved.
“You were her student, Arriane. What do you think?” A gust of wind whipped her cloak behind her.
“I think that when the Oldest knows what she wants to do, she has enough power and experience to get it done, one way or the other,” Arriane said. A gust of wind lifted up the hem of cloak. She pulled the garment around her even more tightly. “But it would have been nice if we could have come here by web, instead of boat and walking.”
“It would be, except for the no-space block on the whole area,” Sammisa said. “Berlit’s Island is special, with a lot of anti-magic overlaid on it. This is a place they have...special...talks, and blocking no-space makes it that more secure.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Arriane said bending her head a little lower as she leaned into the wind. She stepped on a snow covered piece of broken branch and almost stumbled, but her companion reached out a hand and caught her by the arm to steady her.
“If your hands can handle it, grab the railing,” Sammisa said. “That’s what it’s there for.” She pointed to the magically ice-free railing that marked the path, making it clear even through the snow.
Arriane nodded and put one mittened hand on the railing. After making sure the younger woman following the railing, Sammisa tucked her own mittened hands deeper inside of her winter wrap and trudged along side of her.
“Sadly, using the railing is too cold for me. I myself think that we Lake people were not designed for this type of weather.” She sighed. “We usually spend the winter in our underwater homes, safe from the wind, and if the lakes freeze over, that just means things get snugger.”
“How do you get out if the lake freezes over?”
Sammisa turned and gave her a small, slightly wicked smile. “It’s a secret of my people. We have our means, but don’t think we can’t get out. We’re just smart enough to know when to stay out of the weather.”
Arriane looked ahead at the figure of the Oldest fading into the snow ahead of them. “Looks like we better hurry. She’s getting way ahead of us.”
“The Oldest has walked this path too many times to lose her way, too in tune to the goal to be swayed right or left,” Sammisa said. “I’d be lost for sure sometimes if it wasn’t for the railing, like when it fogs up when we come here, but she never hesitates.”
“I wonder how many times she’s walked it?” Arriane asked.
“How long as the Bear been king?” Sammisa asked. “That’s how many years she’s come here.”
“That’s a long time,” the younger woman said.
“Yes it is.”
“So what are we really doing here today?” Arriane asked.
“Well, after the Winter Solstice, the Oldest starts to have meetings with people, people from the Court, other groups on the White Isle to decide if there’s something the White Circle should focus in on. This is where it starts,” Sammisa said, looking up at the sky, seeing the cascade of flakes heading down upon their heads. “Although it doesn’t usually snow this much. Sometimes, not at all until we’re almost top.”
“Lucky us,” Arriane muttered.
They continued walking, hurrying up to catch up with their mentor. At times they got close, but she always managed to stay a little bit ahead of them. Finally, at the edge of a line of snow-burdened pine trees, they reached a small shelter.
The Oldest was there, waiting. “So you two managed it?”
“Did you doubt us?” Sammisa asked.
“No, not really, although this is a first for you, Arriane. You did well. It is a long hike and the weather was hard. But stamina is important for a member of the White Circle. And fortitude.” She gave the younger woman a nod. “Let’s go inside,” she said. “We’ve done enough proving ourselves against the cold.” She pushed the shelter door open.
“That was well?” Arriane said. “We never did catch up to her.”
“Well, you never fell into the snow, or got lost, and never let the Oldest really get fully out of sight, even with the snowfall,” Sammisa said. “That’s more than a lot of first timers do,” she continued. “It’s a long walk on a hard path, and it’s one of the things the Oldest uses to assess people. Don’t even ask me how poorly I did the first time I made this walk. I’ve always been amazed she took me on after that. Let’s go get warm.”
They walked through the door.
Inside was a bench and a row of pegs, some already holding cloaks, and a fireplace in one corner. A heavy wooden door stood closed on the far side of the room.
“Ah, this feels good,” Sammisa, walking towards the fire. “It’s almost worth the walk here. His people must have gotten here early enough to get the chill out.”
“So we’re not the first here?” Arriane said. She removed her cloak and hung it on a peg next to a fine cloak decorated with metallic thread and good fur.
“We never are,” the Oldest said as she unfastened her cloak, revealing the white robe of her office beneath it. She hung it up next to Arriane’s. “Technically, we’re the invitees, so they make sure all is ready first.”
“And it’s always nice and warm by the time we arrive,” Sammisa said, slipping out of her snow boots.
The Oldest nodded. “Except when it’s hot outside, though we don’t meet here in the summer very often.” She too sat down on the bench and took off her snow boots.
“Why did you ask us to come, Oldest?” Arriane asked. “Are we just your ceremonial attendants, or is there some other thing I should know about.”
The Oldest smiled, then glanced over at Sammisa. “See, I told you she was a clever one. Yes, you two are my ceremonial attendants. But yes, there is more to it than just that. Pay attention. Listen. Observe. Sense everything you can. When we get back to the ship, you will write down everything you can about the meeting – whoever shows up, even if they too are only ceremonial attendants, your impressions of how they carry themselves, their ease or unease, the topics you hear. And when we return to the White Island, we’ll have a meeting and discuss that. Three minds, three sets of eyes, three pairs of ears catch more than just one.”
“They’ll try to distract us with food, and light talk, and a warm place to wait,” Sammisa said. “Don’t be too fooled, even if they offer you cheese from Whitecross or dates from Harani. And they will. But feel free to distract them as much as you can.”
Arriane arched an eyebrow. “It sounds like this is some game you play with his people.”
“Well, maybe a little,” Sammisa.
The oldest stood up. “Are we ready?”
Sammisa nodded. The three headed to the closed door. That door revealed a circular staircase heading down, a narrow spiral space of polished stone floor and rough stone walls lit by what appeared to be dragonflame lamps attached to the walls. The space was cold, in spite of the lamps, and a soft wind lifted from bottom to top. The Oldest, in her white robes of office, her hood pulled up over her head paid that no mind and headed down the steps, moving almost ghost like with each step, her feet making no noise as she moved. The other two followed quickly behind, not quite as quiet. Sammisa stubbed a toe on one step and called out, her voice echoing.
“It’s a good thing we’re expected,” the Oldest said. “You need some more work on your stealth ability, child.”
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“Alas, we Lake People are known for our beauty and grace and cattle, not our stealth,” Sammisa said. “But we have excellent memories.”
“And that is one of the reasons you are here today,” the Oldest said, nodding. “If we really needed stealth, I would have called on Ruell, but I need your memory more. Let’s continue.”
At the bottom of the stairs, the hall turned sharply left. There was one final door, a door of heavy oak, adorned with a large circle outlined in gold. It had no handle, and it tingled with a barely discernible energy. The oldest placed her hand on the circle, and it began to brighten, its light radiating out, cascading over her, revealing her brilliant blue eyes. Satisfied, the light faded and the door swung open.
“What type of lock was that?” Arriane asked.
“It’s keyed to very few people,” Sammisa said. “Neither you nor I could ever open it, and if we tried, both the door upstairs and this one would trap us in the stairwell.”
Arriane decided she didn’t like the image that brought up. “Has something like that ever happened?”
“Once,” the Oldest said. “Nobody else was here at the time. It’s a sad story.”
The young woman shuddered, but followed the other two women inside.
Immediately, they left the cold and any thoughts of entrapment behind. Beyond the door, the space they walked into was warm and inviting. The room was paneled in fine wood, with colored filigree work in silver and the colors of nature, greens, blues, reds, a scattering of tree and leaf and flower shapes decorating it, like arching spring trees.
“It looks like my home at Allynswood,” Arrianne whispered.
“Only the best for the members of the royal court, after all,” Sammisa replied.
There was a fireplace along one wall, with a cheery blaze burning, and a table drawn up before it, with a carafe of wine and a basket of breads and cheese. No sunlight penetrated this deep, but the light from hidden sources filled the room with the light of a late autumn afternoon, warm and honeyed.
“Welcome, Lady,” said a warm voice, a man’s voice.
The Oldest pulled back her hood to reveal long silver hair pulled into a severe braided bun, her hair fastened in place with a silver diadem. She stepped deeper into the room and acknowledged her welcomer with a simple nod.
He stood up from his seat near the fire. He was taller than she, by a good head, with long hair that fell in tight ringlets over his shoulders, and a neatly trimmed beard. His smile was warm, but his own eyes gave nothing away.
“Greetings, Birch,” she said.
“You made it through the snow, I see,” he said.
“As I always do.”
“And you brought the lovely Sammisa with you to remember all the details, I see,” he said, then turned to look at Arianne. “And who is this? You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Before Arriane could reply, the Oldest stepped forward and took a chair. “You may have indeed seen her before, but not recently. This is Arriane Allyns, sister to Elaine Allyns, Lady of Allynswood.”
He gave Arriane a nod of the head. “Elaine Allyns’ sister, the Allyns who married Gweir Blackthorne?”
Arriane nodded, wiggling her fingers nervously in her fists.
“I do believe we have met, at your sister’s wedding, in fact, but you were a bit younger.” The Birch looked back towards the Oldest. “A new recruit of yours?”
“Possibly, if you don’t frighten her away.” She turned towards Arriane. “Arriane, meet Bedwyr, the righthand advisor to the Bear. We call him the Birch, because the birch is the foremost tree of protection. He does work for the king similar to what the White Circle does,” she said, and then turned back to Bedwyr, “although not exactly in the same way or with the same methods that we use. Still, I start the cycle of the year speaking with him. Our foremost purpose is to guard the Sunlit Lands, his way and mine.”
“I remember you,” Arriane said. “I hid behind my father when you came to speak with my sister at her wedding. You were so tall, I didn’t know if you were Sidhe or a giant.”
The Birch chuckled. “I haven’t gotten any shorter. Am I still a giant?”
Arriane dropped her face, her cheeks pinking a little. “Maybe, maybe I grew up a bit?”
“Maybe so, child. Don’t let me terrify you any more. If the Oldest brought you here, she must think highly of you. Now you and Lady Sammisa, give me a little of the Oldest’s time. I’ll call you back soon enough where we can go over all the details you so love to report on, but for now, I need to speak to her alone.”
The two younger women looked at their leader, and she nodded.
“Good.” He motioned to a man dressed in a formal military uniform. “Rus, take these two lovely guests to the other room. Be sure the rest of the men act on their best behavior. And be sure to share some of that Whitecross cheese with them.”
Arriane smiled at Sammisa when he said that. But together, they followed the soldier out through a door to the left.
The room fell quiet as their footsteps echoed out of the door.
The Oldest turned to the Birch. “How many times now have we met this day, this place?” She stood up then walked in front of the fireplace, stretched out her hands to warm them. Her fingers were long and slender, unscarred and only lightly callused from all the various types of work she had done over her very long life. The only noteworthy mark on them was a small sigil in the form of a round circle on her right pinkie finger.
“Many,” Birch said. “Too many to count. We started this about a decade after the Bear took over your throne, my Queen.”
She shook her head. “Do not call me that. I am nobody’s queen. I am….” She sighed, trying to find the right words.
“You are?” Birch asked. He poured a small glass of wine, and handed it to her, poured another for himself.
“I am too restless and curious to ever make a queen except to hold it for a better ruler. The Bear, he does a good job, does he not?”
He nodded, and took a seat. “He was an excellent choice, Lady. Stalwart. Willing to listen. Able to delegate. Wise in his way.”
“Wise enough to keep friends like you at his side, Birch.” She joined him sitting, choosing a seat next to the fire where she could face him.
“You do me honor, Lady.” He took a sip of the wine.
“No more than it is due. I watched all of you grow up, Bear, you, Hawk, I saw to your training. You were all arrows in my quiver, all, even Hawk with his anger and focus. Day by day, I saw how you grew into your strengths. Still, in the end, I knew I was the arrow that needed to be launched to leave you to all to do the dirty work of running things.”
He reached over and put the wine glass on the table, “Did you ever regret it, Lady?” His eyes were probing, bright blue beams. Lesser beings had melted under that glance, but she merely smiled, as he expected.
“No.” She shook her head. “Well maybe I doubted, a bit, when he bound himself to White Wave, thinking that perhaps it was you who I should have laid the burden on, but even that has turned out well.”
“It has.” Birch nodded in agreement. “And I am glad for your decision. I was not cut out to be king. And she makes an excellent queen. Even after the troubles.”
She took another sip of her wine. “Yes, I had my doubts how that would turned out, but she seems loved more now than ever.”
“She has a deft hand with the Aos Darion and the other lesser folk,” he said.
“And the rest of the court?” she asked. “What is your reading?”
“I am sure you have your own sources as to how things are going.”
“Ah, but I want to see it through your eyes.” She stood up, walked over to the table. She picked up the cheese knife, and cut a slice.
“The Hawk is a hawk, swooping around the land, looking for enemies.”
“When has he not?” she asked. She reached for a slice of bread.
“True, true,” Birch picked up his wine glass. “It is his gift, your warrior arrow, so to say. But perhaps thanks to him, the barriers around the Boundary Lands hold still. The Dark Queen stays in the Shadowlands and Lady Bercha’s hunt stays where it belongs most of the time. We are certain the Dragon Web is trading weapons with them, but when have they not?”
“When indeed? Longer than any of you would remember. And no doubt the trade runs both ways. Jared Redbeard of the Bullrushes has always turned an unseeing eye there, especially if there was profit, as did his father. The Shadowlands mean gold to him. Black silk, fine steel, dream flower still the popular goods?”
“Among others. There are fashions in these things. Pots made by the Bannik are all the rage this year. Daggers from the Snake folk.”
“Poison in their bite, no doubt.”
“But of course,” Birch said. “Very popular with those young men who like to take offense too quickly.”
“And so the world goes around like it always has,” the Oldest said. “So what is this uneasiness I feel? It’s like the world is holding its breath.”
“You too, Lady?”
“You were always the most sensitive of my students.”
“Something….there are ripples of tension in the ether. There are rumors.” Birch shrugged.
“There are always rumors. You, as Master of Secrets, know that.”
He laughed. “And you, as Oldest of the White Circle, watch them develop. And prepare us.”
“There’s something the Dragons are hiding, I know that much.” The oldest reached toward the basket, took out a piece of flatbread, snapped it in half. “Something big, I think.”
Birch nodded. “People have been disappearing. Enough now to notice. And they aren’t Dragons, but all have had connections to no-space.”
“A rumor reached me yesterday, that the old King Dragon stirred in his magic sleep. You know how they react when he stirs. They believe one of their number might be trespassing their pact.”
“Is it true?” he asked?
The Oldest shrugged. “But we will know soon. You know the signs.”
“I will increase vigilance,” the Birch said.
“Soon it will be Brightening Day. Perhaps the Seer of the Well of Fate will help us learn something.”
“Perhaps.” Birch took a sip of his wine. His tone was doubtful. “I leave the deep magics to you.”
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The end of the raid was a foregone conclusion, although getting there had taken real work.
It had started with a word from Jared Redbeard himself. Evidently someone had gotten on his bad side or was cutting him out of the profits. Either way, it didn’t matter. Both Redbeard and the King’s guard felt the threat from what was being offered for trade.
Arrangements were made for the deal. The smuggler thought he was dealing with Rogan of the Shadowlands, front man for Gwri Wollfhead, a prince of the Dogheads. It was true they dealt with Rogan, but at this moment, he was more concerned about his family safe in the bosom of Redbeard’s keep and what would happen to them and his particular clan if it was found out he ever dealt again with persons not approved of by the Bullrushes. The deal was made. A location for delivery and payment was determined.
This benighted place was chosen - barren, rocky, and far away from the gates and the King’s Guard. Evidently it had been used before.
Gweir sat under the shade of one of the rare trees growing in this blighted land. The area was at the bottom of a shallow canyon, but it was enough to bring moisture to support a few growing things. He was surrounded a group of seven men, all like him dressed in the robes of Shadowlanders who could not handle sunlight and swathed themselves from head to foot in yards of a rough white cloth.
Scattered around the broken land, more of his men were waiting for him to give the signal. Three Magic Guard adepts, having shed their regular uniforms for the same robes the rest of them wore, stood in the back, already creating the no-jump field they would need to maintain for the whole operation.
Now, it was time to wait.
Ruthan, the spotter, reported. “Someone’s coming. Three animals, horses by the look of them, five persons. “Almost here.”
“Knowing this group, don’t be surprised if the animals are Kelpies or worse. They’ll turn into two armed fighters in a blink of an eye. So count’em as eight,” said the man at Gweir’s right hand.
“No doubt.” Gweir waved a bright red cloth, the first signal to his hidden men. “Bring out Rogan.”
The Shadowlander was marched out of tent at the back.
“You know what you need to do,” Gweir said.
“Yes, yes, Master,” he said. His tones were sibilant, almost a hiss, but not in anger, more with a touch of fear. He was swathed in dull green cloth. His face was concealed by a deep hood.
“Remember Master Jared’s promises – both if you succeed, and if you fail. I do not think he is a kindly man, but he is known for for following up on his promises, and his threats.”
The Shadowlander nodded. “You have a bag of the trade goods? He will want to see a sample of the goods.
Gweir lifted up a large leather bag. “Right here.”
“Then we’re ready. If your men are ready.”
Gweir’s robed men made a semi-circle as the smugglers began to file into the camp site.
The group was mixed, two Daoine from their looks, armed with sword and armored. A bogart with a heavy sword, felt hat pulled to one side half hiding his scarred left eye, a Lake Man with green hair. A Bogle woman, who looked at the camp with burning, angry eyes.
The horses, laden with bags, for the moment only looked like horses.
“You have made it, Singlas,” said Rogan. “I was about to break camp.”
“Now you wouldn’t want to do that. What would Lord Gwri say?”
“That the Daoine acted like Daoine, teasing us once again.”
The Bogle woman stepped up. “Let me take care of him, Master Singlas.”
“No, no, Briane. We were a bit late, after all,” Singlas said. His voice was oily. “Perhaps he thinks he can find these precious things in Gresholt’s Keep? Perhaps he wants to go ask Dragonkin Shulan to ship them in for him?” He laughed, but the rest of his crew merely frowned at the Twilight person.
“Show me your goods,” Rogan said.
“Right to business, is it?” Singlas said. “I like that in a customer.”
He walked over to the first horse, opened one of the saddle bags, “Enough jump stones for a company of Dogheads. Rogan walked up and took one out. It looked like a small polished slab of stone, surrounded in a metal frame.
“All these are blanks.” He nodded to the other Daoine. “Bring the key device.”
The man went to the last horse, and brought out a small box. “You put the stones in this box, activate the touchstone, and speak the name of your destination. I suggest you do half your stones with the destination and the other half with the return. It’s impossible right now to get two way stones.”
“Excellent,” Rogan said.
“Now show me our payment.”
Rogan held up his hand, and Gweir handed the bag to him. Rogan opened it with deft fingers.
“First quality dream dust,” the Shadowlander said. “Six bags. Like we agreed.”
Singlas took a very small pinch and put it on his tongue, ran his tongue into his cheek.
“Ah, first rate. Let’s trade.”
The smugglers began to unfasten the saddlebags. Suddenly, the group was surrounded by Gweir’s troops. Gweir grabbed the Shadowlander Rogan, and handed him back to someone to move to the back. Surprisingly, none of the horses transformed. They were, after all, just horses.
Three of the smugglers tried to invoke jump stones, but the no-jump field the Magic Guard people had set up held. The red-headed Daoine pulled out his sword, but the arrows aimed at him made him think twice, and he dropped his blade.
Gweir took off his robes, and walked up to Singlas. “I think Jared Redbeard wants to have a talk with you.”
“You know you can’t stop us all,” Singlas said as his hands were bound.
“I stopped you. That’s all that matters today.”