Authors: Mark Anthony
“What do you suppose that was all about?” Melia asked Falken after they had ridden for a time.
“You mean the hag Grisla?” The bard shrugged. “I doubt it was about anything other than spectacle. As far as I can tell, witches derive their chief entertainment from baffling people. But I suppose there was little harm in allowing the old crone to indulge herself for a minute or two.”
Melia nodded at his words, but whether the regal woman agreed with them or not, she did not say.
A question occurred to Travis. He nudged his gelding toward the others. “Who is Sia?”
Falken gave him a piercing look. “
What
is Sia, might be a better question. But I suppose you could say she is a goddess of sorts.”
Travis thought about this. “Like one of the gods of those mystery cults you were talking about before?”
“No,” Melia said with a sharpness that startled Travis. “Sia has nothing to do with the gods of the mystery cults, nor they with her.”
This did little to answer Travis’s question. However, given Melia’s reaction, he decided not to press the point. The horses clambered up the steep trail to the summit of the ridge that ringed the valley. Wind tangled Travis’s sandy hair—a wind like the one that sometimes rushed down from the mountains around Castle City, that carried with it an ache of longing, and a sense of infinite possibility.
Beltan cast one last wistful glance over his shoulder at the old keep below. “So much for feasts,” he said. “And I was really getting rather used to them.”
Then the horses started down the other side of the ridge, back toward the crossroads and the Queen’s Way, and the ancient Tarrasian fortress was lost from sight.
All the rest of that day they journeyed south along the grassy swath of the Queen’s Way.
The four travelers soon fell into a pattern. Beltan periodically spurred his rangy charger and galloped down the ancient highway to scout for danger. Falken and Melia rode side by side, their heads often bent together to exchange some murmured bit of conversation. Travis kept a short distance behind them and tried not to look as if he were leaning forward in an attempt to catch what they were saying. However, the wind was behind him, and any interesting items of information the bard and the lady might have uttered were blown in the wrong direction, although once, in the wake of a swirling gust, Travis did catch a snatch of one of Falken’s quietly spoken sentences.
“… that we shouldn’t dismiss the stone in the White Tower even if it is …”
The wind changed again and took the bard’s words with it. Travis’s frustration at not being paid any attention became unbearable. He urged his horse forward.
“So, how long will it take us to get to Calavere?” he asked Falken and Melia.
Falken looked up in surprise, as if he had forgotten Travis was even there. “The Queen’s Way will take us all the way, but it is a long and arduous road. Once we cross the headwaters of the River Farwander, we will be in the Dominion of Eredane proper. However, we must traverse all of Eredane and cross the highlands of Galt before we reach the northern marches of Calavan. In all, it is a journey of nearly a hundred leagues. It will take us well over a fortnight, if the weather holds.” He cast a glance at Melia. “Of course, there is also the matter of a small detour I intend to make along the way.”
“If we have time,” Melia said. “The Council of Kings is to convene in less than a month. We’re going to be slicing it rather finely as it is.”
Falken ran a hand through his gray-shot hair. “It’s not as if
I’m proposing this for the sheer fun of it, you know. It’s really rather important.”
Melia’s amber eyes flashed. “So is getting to the council before it’s over.”
“Where is it you want to go, Falken?” Travis said. “Is it a white tower?” Instantly he regretted the question, for both Falken and Melia fixed him with penetrating looks.
“Someone has sharp ears,” Melia said.
“So it seems.” Falken considered Travis for a moment. “It’s not
a
white tower, Travis. It’s
the
White Tower.”
Travis didn’t understand, but the bard offered no further explanation. Instead, he and Melia urged their mounts ahead, and thus signified this was all the information Travis was going to get. Feeling terribly sorry for himself, Travis let out a sigh. However, nobody seemed to notice, so he turned his attention to not falling out of the saddle.
The ancient Tarrasians had been engineers of great skill, for the Queen’s Way continued to cut across the rolling landscape. At times it sliced through the tops of hills and at others leaped over deep ravines, supported by stone arches that, while crumbled at the edges, still bore the weight of centuries with ease. As the travelers progressed south, the hills to their left grew into rugged mountains: the Fal Erenn. Westward, to their right, the land swept away in a sea of dun-colored waves. It was all vast and beautiful, but achingly empty as well, and only served to remind Travis that this was not his world.
The sun had sunk into a bank of bronze clouds when Beltan rode back to report he had found a place to make camp for the night. This turned out to be a flat knoll a few hundred paces east of the road. The knoll was ringed by scrub oak, which offered some protection, and a spring trickled from beneath a rock near the hill’s top. Travis climbed down from his gelding and groaned. The last time he had ridden a horse had been at a county fair, and he had been eleven years old. It felt like someone had rearranged all his muscles while he rode and wedged them into places they did not belong.
They made camp as twilight mantled the knoll. Though Melia seemed to feel no compunction in ordering the others around, she did not shirk her own share of the labor. The
dinner fashioned from Kel’s provisions was her work, and she seemed pleased by the compliment the other three paid her efforts by eating ravenously. Then again, she might have preferred it had Beltan not been
quite
so vigorous in his praise.
“And what will you be eating for the rest of the journey, Beltan?” she asked in a pleasant voice as he took his third helping of stew and bread.
Beltan swallowed hard and set the food back down. “You know, I’m really not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“I didn’t think you were, dear,” Melia said.
Travis finished his own food quietly and did not even consider asking for more.
Night deepened around them, and they spread their blankets by the fire. Beltan moved a short distance off, mail shirt jingling, to take the first watch. Travis shivered with the chill, then wrapped himself in his mistcloak and shut his eyes.
He awoke to strange stars.
They blazed against the jet sky, shards of diamond and sapphire. He thought he could see pictures in the stars, shapes far clearer than the sketchy, half-imagined constellations of Earth: feral beasts, winged maidens, warriors wielding swords of cool starlight. The murmur of conversation drifted on the air—it was this that had awakened him. His mind was turgid with sleep, but it seemed to him Melia and Falken spoke in soft voices by the embers of the fire.
The bard’s quiet words drifted on the night air. “But surely you should be able to tell if Travis comes from the same place.”
Travis struggled to sit up.
If I come from the same place as what
?
He didn’t think he even managed to ask the question aloud. However, Melia turned her amber gaze upon him. Her expression was stern, though not unkind.
Go to sleep, Travis
.
Her lips did not move, yet her voice spoke clearly in his mind. Travis tried to protest, but a wave of drowsiness crashed over him. Unable to resist the pull, he shut his eyes and sank once more into deep and starless sleep.
By the time the crimson orb of the sun rose above the horizon, it found them already riding hard down the Queen’s Way. It was midmorning, and the autumn day had turned crisp but fine when they reached a moss-covered stone bridge that arched over a narrow defile. At the bottom of the gorge rushed a small, frothy river. According to Falken, these were the headwaters of the River Farwander.
The bard spoke over the roar of the water. “It isn’t much to look at here, but this is the start of a river that stretches three hundred leagues from source to mouth. By the time it reaches the Sunfire Sea, the Farwander is over a league wide. Or so the stories say, for I know of no one alive in the Dominions who has traveled to the farthest western coast of Falengarth.”
Melia arched a single dark eyebrow. “No one? Not even a great wanderer like yourself, Falken?”
He shook his head, gazed into the distance, then spoke in a low voice that was nearly lost in the rushing of the river. “There was but one road to Eversea, to the Far West, and its beginning was in Malachor. Yet that road lay in one direction only, for those who took it never returned, and the way is lost to all of us now.”
The bard smiled, and though there was sadness in the expression, there was genuine mirth as well. “Yet that is all old history. We have our own road to journey, and to less melancholy lands.”
He spurred his mount and, hooves clattering, the dark stallion crossed the Tarrasian bridge. The others followed after.
They rode all that day with only a few short breaks to chew some bread and allow the horses to drink. Finally, as the sun dipped toward the far horizon, Beltan once again rode back to tell the others he had found a place to make camp. He seemed particularly pleased with his find.
It turned out to be a small depression no more than twenty paces from the road, ringed by a circle of gnarled trees. In the center of the circle was a spring, and around this grew a
thick patch of herbs, still green and fragrant even this late in the year. As they drew near, Falken explained this place was a
talathrin
, or a Way Circle. The Way Circles had been made by the Tarrasians when they built the road, and were intended as safe places for travelers to spend the night. They picketed the horses outside and entered the
talathrin
through an archway formed of branches that had centuries ago melded together into living, braided columns.
Falken’s breath fogged on the cool air as he spoke. “Some say there is an enchantment in the trees that ring these circles, a magic that protects those who sleep here. However, I cannot speak to the truth of that, for I know little of Tarrasian magic.”
“That’s because there is little enough to know,” Melia said. She allowed Beltan to help her step over a twisted root. “The Tarrasians were always far better engineers than sorcerers. And while there is no magic in the
talathrain
, it is equally true there is a goodness that abides yet in these places. The trees are
ithaya
, or sunleaf, which grow along high cliffs above the Summer Sea, and their bark, when brewed in a tea, is good for aches and fevers. And the plants by the spring are
alasai
, or green scepter, and can be used to flavor food, as well as to remove the taint from spoilt meat. Both are of great use to travelers.”
Melia approached the spring, drew up the hem of her gown, and knelt to part the thatch of sweet-smelling herbs with her hands. This action revealed a figurine carved of rain-worn ivory beside the spring.
“You see?” she said with a smile. “Naimi, Goddess of Travelers, keeps watch over this place, though her name has not been worshiped in this land in long centuries—not since the people of Tarras dwelled here.” Melia dipped her fingers into the spring and sprinkled a few droplets of clear water before the figurine. “I hope you don’t mind us using your Way Circle, dear one,” she murmured.
Travis couldn’t help thinking this seemed a little informal for a prayer to a goddess. However, Melia knew far more about such matters than he. Holding her dark hair behind her neck with one hand, Melia bent over the spring and used the other to bring cool water to her lips. She drank, then rose.
“We may make camp now.”
They ate their supper as night fell around the Way Circle, then readied themselves for sleep. Melia seemed to feel there was absolutely no need for one of them to keep watch, but Beltan did so all the same. He stood by the
talathrin
’s gate and gazed into the night. Falken promised to relieve him later.
Travis sat on his bedroll and used a leaf of
alasai
to clean his teeth. It wasn’t exactly a toothbrush, but Falken had shown him the trick, and it worked fairly well. He would not have minded a shave as well. The red-brown stubble on his chin and cheeks itched to become a full-fledged beard. However, the only blade he had was the Malachorian stiletto Jack had given him, and that was likely to shave him a little closer than he wished. He settled for scratching. Then he rolled up in his mistcloak and lay down.
The hard ground did nothing to ease his cramped and complaining muscles after the long day’s ride. All the same, exhaustion won out over pain, and Travis fell asleep.
On their third day out of Kelcior the clear autumn weather gave way to dreary clouds and cold drizzle. Rain slicked the road’s paving stones and made them treacherous for the horses, which in turn made the going slower. The landscape was lost in a shroud of fog, and there was little to occupy Travis’s attention. He had given up even trying to eavesdrop on Falken and Melia’s conversations—it was impossible to make out anything over the clatter of hooves and the constant patter of rain. Sometimes as they rode he spoke with Beltan, for the knight was more amenable to answering questions, but most of the time he sat in silence on the back of his horse.
More than once Travis wished it would just get cold enough to snow. Beltan and Melia had said that winter had come early to the Dominions, but that didn’t seem to be quite the case here. When he asked Melia about it, the lady only shook her head.
“It’s almost as if winter has been moved from where it should be to where it should not.”
She spoke these words to Falken rather than Travis. The bard nodded as if he understood them, but Travis didn’t, although he knew better than to ask for more explanation. He huddled in his mistcloak and stared into the drizzle.