Ethlinn’s hands danced.
“Every Autumn, the dame abides near a small village by the name of White Down Rory,” Liam translated, “near Caermelor.”
In sudden anger, Imrhien thumped her fist on the table. Wearily her head sank into her hands. Had she come all this way across the girth of Eldaraigne, only to find that she must cross back again?
Presently Sianadh spoke.
“Mayhap there be some other healer we could try in Gilvaris Tarv—a dyn-cynnil or something?”
Ethlinn’s hands said, <<No. The healer men are no use.>>
“Well then, there be nowt for it but to use our riches to organize a road-caravan to take our lass safely toward the Royal City, to see the carlin Maeve at White Down Rory. No need to worry—the cure will just take a little longer, that be all. But ’twill come—aye, that’s it! While Liam and I be upriver, loading our packhorses with king’s-biscuit and gold, Imrhien shall be journeying westward in comfort and safety. The best of conveyances shall be found, and in no time at all ye’ll reach the other side of Eldaraigne and your face shall be restored to its former beauty—I will not recognize ye when ye come back to see me living in my golden palace!”
Imrhien forced a smile.
<<Yes, I will go.>>
But the prospect of traveling without Sianadh seemed bleak.
With that settled, the Ertishman briskly turned to business.
“Now, my young nephew—how many comrades can ye muster, who be strong of arm, worthy of trust, and able to keep their mouths shut?”
The doorbell jangled. Ethlinn rose to go to the shopfront, but before she could leave the table, the leather curtain was thrust aside and a man entered the room. He was tall, dressed in a guard’s military uniform of studded leather; his brown hair was worn long, pulled back tightly into a club in the style of the Stormriders.
“By the Star,” he exclaimed, “’tis Uncle Bear!” Sianadh leaped to his feet, embracing the newcomer with bearlike hugs and matching growls. Still slapping one another on the back, they returned to the table. Liam poured another tankard of ale and set it before his elder brother.
“Imrhien,” said Sianadh, “this here be Diarmid, my other nephew.”
It hissed through the room, Diarmid’s sharp intake of breath as his eyes fell on the wrecked face. Ethlinn signed to him. He looked down at his cup, then said formally, with a quick nod, “Your servant, my lady.”
She made the greeting sign.
“Well, soldier,” Sianadh said heartily, “what brings ye here? How does the art of the mercenary suit ye?”
“It suits me well, Uncle.” The voice was grave. Diarmid’s face resembled Muirne’s with its narrow, pointed look; like his sister, he was comely. His jaw was clean-shaven, and the roots of his hair were dark red. “I make a living and have learned much.”
“Still want to join the Dainnan, eh, Boldheart?”
“Aye. More than ever, that is my goal.”
<<My son wishes to travel to the Royal Court when his training is complete.>>
“So, that be it? Learn as much as ye can of warrior skills amongst the hired muscle of Gilvaris Tarv and then leave them and head west.”
“Aye.”
“Ye’ve always been a King’s man, through and through. And the finest of the warriors of Erith would be proud to count ye amongst them.”
The front bell jangled annoyingly. Ethlinn left the room to attend to the shop, while the three men fell deep into serious conversation. When her patient had departed, Ethlinn held the leather curtain aside and beckoned to Imrhien to enter the shop. The girl now noticed that a stag’s head was embroidered in dark blue on Ethlinn’s left sleeve.
<<Let me show you something of my craft. This is the Wand of the carlin, a living thing.>> Ethlinn held up a stick of wood some two feet long, plain and smooth save for three nodes near the top, each facing in a different direction and each at a different level. She indicated the nodes.
<<Nourishment, Healing, Protection. The Wand must be planted in the soil when it is not being carried. From the ground it draws its power.>>
She slipped the Wand back into the sheath hanging from her belt.
<<I have cures for many ailments of the mortal kind—cures that are used by the Daughters of Grianan, all over Erith.>> She touched her fingers to the painted blue disk on her forehead. <<They are powerful cures, but not powerful enough for the weals you bear.>> The same fingers touched Imrhien’s face softly, with a mother’s caress, as nobody had ever touched that monstrosity.
<<The swellings on your face are an ailment of the lorraly kind, but most severe. It is possible the one-eyed carlin might be able to heal such lesions. You may well ask, what of your voice and your remembering? Sianadh told me of that. I would give you rosemary for remembrance, to keep under your pillow and waken you to your past—I would give you gentle remedies if it were of any use. But these two afflictions, the loss of speech, the loss of memory, they are not of the lorraly kind. They are eldritch, and have been brought on you by gramarye.”
A rat scuttled down Imrhien’s spine.
<<Tell me more.>>
<<I know no more. Only that you have been touched by gramarye, and that, deeply. But go not to wizards for help. Despite what most folk believe, their pretense of wielding gramarye is all an illusion. True gramarye lies only in the hands of immortals, and of a few special mortals who have been given it. Eldritch wights use it, although their powers do not compare with the great forces once wielded by the Faêran, who walk no more in Erith. The one-eyed carlin trafficks with seelie wights, more so than I, who dwell in the city. She might bring benefits to you thereby.>>
<<Is she then my only hope?>>
<<Aye. Well, perhaps there may be one other chance, to find your memory, at least …>>
The carlin’s hands slowed. For a moment her eyes went blank and she stared sightlessly at the shelves laden with bottles and jars.
<<My husband …>> Unfamiliar hand-movements followed. <<You will not know the sign for his name. In his youth he went to sea, on a merchant Seaship, sailing from port to port. But one night he spent too long singing in a Luindorn tavern—he had such a voice—and when arrived back at the docks it was too late—for his ship had sailed with the tide. He found himself work in Luindorn until the next ship should come by. Meanwhile, he taught some of the local lads how to play a game called hurling.>>
Imrhien recognized the sign for this and nodded. The carlin continued:
<<It happened that during a game, he was bowled over by an opposition player, and his head knocked hard upon the ground. When he awoke to consciousness he could remember naught, not even his own name.>>
The girl leaned forward, watching intently, hardly daring to breathe. She knotted her hands around her knees.
<<Sometimes in such cases, all it takes is for the sufferer to come upon something familiar, and then the memories slowly begin to filter back into the mind. But everything around my husband was strange to him, for he was in a foreign land. Yet he did eventually recollect the past, and can you guess what sparked off this cure?>>
The girl shook her head.
<<It was the smell of baking bread!>>
Imrhien’s hopes crashed again. There had been many times when the fragrance of new-baked loaves had floated around the stairs and galleries near the kitchens of Isse Tower. Apart from causing her mouth to water, it had had no discernible effect.
A movement at the leather curtain made them look up. Sianadh was passing through with Liam. He winked at Imrhien.
“We have business to see to.”
As they went out the clanging door, Muirne came in, her basket on her arm, and disappeared into the main room.
<<You have been through much,>> the carlin signed. <<Re
st while you are here with us, while preparations are made for your travels. These will take time—as a wealthy lady, you will need hired guards, provisions, a carriage—and you must wait for a road-caravan to set out, so that you may go with it for protection. The roads are not as safe as they used to be. Of late, unusual numbers of unseelie wights are on the move.>>
<<May I not travel by Windship?>>
<Indeed, you do not know the world! The Merchant Lines carry no passengers. Of civilians, only nobles ride the sky, in private Windships or sometimes upon eotaurs. Neither do they take passengers. The ground road is the only way, for you.
<<For myself, I do not yet know what to do with all this wealth you bring us. I have yet to foresee how it will change things. The three caskets are safe in our cellar, under the trapdoor near the hearthstone. If you wish, I will unlock it and you may go down and see them.>>
<<No. I trust.>>
A knock at the street-door; it opened peremptorily. Imrhien hurried back into the main room, beyond the view of the incoming patient. Glancing over at the table, she saw Diarmid sitting there with his long hair unbound, raining down his arms and back. Muirne was rubbing a brown paste into his scalp. Where the roots had been red, they were no longer so.
Diarmid was gone again soon after, back to his quarters at the barracks, and it was not until the evening meal had been set on the table that Sianadh and Liam returned. Then the talk was all concerning the growing militancy in Namarre, of which Sianadh had found out much during his comings and goings that day.
“I have been out of touch for too long. Smoking bones of the Chieftains, I had no idea things had got as bad as this! Unseelie wights mustering from all corners of Erith to join forces with barbarian upstarts in the Fastnesses of Namarre! They say the rebels want to overthrow the King-Emperor—what madness has gripped these sgorramas? And what wizards must they have amongst them, to call unseelie things to their command? How can it be possible?”
“Indeed, it is curious, Uncle, but I should say we have no cause for concern here in Gilvaris Tarv,” said Liam. “The Kings of Erith be loyal, and they would send their armies to fight alongside the Royal Legions and the Dainnan if needed. But I cannot see that they would be needed. Surely the Dainnan alone might quell an uprising of mere brigands and wights.”
<<I am not sure,>> his mother rejoined with furrowed brow. <<I feel there is something else behind this rebellion—something stronger than is supposed.>>
“What might that be, sister?”
She shrugged, palms upturned.
“The Dainnan ought to be out looking for pirate Windships,” said Muirne. “Did ye hear, Uncle Bear, a merchant of the Cresny-Beaulais Line was attacked and wrecked not far out of Tarv some weeks ago or more? ’Twas a terrible thing. A patrol ship found a man clinging to a treetop—Sandover was his name, he was quite the talk of the town for a while—and he told them the whereabouts of the other survivors. By then the buccaneer Windship had disappeared completely, and they were never able to trace it.”
“Aye. Terrible. But—but mayhap not all pirates be that bad, ye ken,” stuttered the big Ertishman. “Mayhap there were some just along for the ride, like.”
“What a strange thing to say, Uncle Bear. Of course they all be evil men!”
“Anyway,” deflected Sianadh, “Namarran uprising bai doch. ’Twill drain all the best talent from this city. Already rumor is rife that Caermelor will be calling for new recruits if the forces gathering in Namarre continue to swell. Eager young folk all over town be talking of leaving for Caermelor to assay for the Dainnan, or else to volunteer for the Royal Legions, if the Dainnan will not take them. The pay is meager—’tis said a man-at-arms gets a shilling a day, a mounted archer sixpence, a foot archer threepence, and a spear-man tuppence. ’Tis the glory they want, and the honor, the excitement, and mayhap vengeance. The lives of many folk have been made dark by wights.…”
Muirne said, “Why should ye care if the braves of Tarv leave this city, Uncle Bear?”
“Er … why, Liam and I want to round up some help for a small expedition we are planning. Exploration. I mean, hunting.”
Sianadh’s niece stared hard at him. Then she nodded.
“I see.”
Brazenly, Sianadh changed the subject.
“Sparrow, would ye like me to help ye with your archery practice in the courtyard tomorrow morning, just like old times?”
“Thank ye, Uncle Bear, yes. But methinks ye will find that my aim has improved since last ye tutored me. I shall outshoot ye now.”
Sianadh guffawed. “Outshoot me! I’ll lay bets on that!”
That night Imrhien retired early to bed. She could not sleep for thinking about her prospective journey to Caermelor and Sianadh’s planned expedition. She also wondered when Muirne was going to come in. Ethlinn slept downstairs so that she might be at hand if a customer called in at night on some emergency. Liam and Sianadh slept in the space beyond the upstairs partition. Last night Imrhien had been too weary to take note, but these sleeping arrangements must mean that she had been given Muirne’s bed and Muirne was expected to share. How she must hate that.
When Sianadh’s niece came in, Imrhien feigned sleep. No sheets rustled, and when she opened one eye she saw Muirne rolled in a blanket, lying on the floor. Resentment and bitterness rose like bile in her throat. She sprang out of the bed, tapped its owner on the shoulder, and indicated the bed’s emptiness, then took a blanket and lay on the floor in the opposite corner.
Muirne, obviously, was stung. Hospitality was a matter of Ertish pride.
“The bed be for ye. Ye be the guest. Please, take it.”
<<The bed belongs to you.>>
“I do not want it.”
<<Neither I.>>
“If ye sleep on the floor, my mother will be angry with me.”
<<I not tell her.>>
Muirne gave the guest the same hard stare she had given her uncle.
“If ye sleep in the bed, I will sleep there, too.”
<<Yes.>>
Muirne rolled to the farthest edge and lay like a stick of petrified wood all night, even when the shang storm came and banged open the shutters, lighting the chamomile flowers in the window-box like yellow and white stars.
Sianadh and Liam bustled constantly to and fro during the next few days, making preparations for their own journey and for Imrhien’s. Using gold from the caskets, they bought all kinds of equipment and provisions until the carlin’s house was so full that there was hardly room to move.
Ethlinn examined the spidersilk garments with great interest, drawing from the lining of Sianadh’s cloak the wilted remains of the Gailledu’s blue flower.
<<This be a thing of power.>>
Ethlinn preserved the faded flower in an egg of resin and returned it to her brother.
“A flower of souvenance,” observed Liam.
Muirne always behaved civilly toward the guest, but it was plain that she found her looks offensive. Knowing this, and not daring to venture out in public, Imrhien felt the burden of the disfigurement too heavy to bear.
Then one afternoon Sianadh spoke to her alone.
“I met with an old acquaintance today, old Tavron Caiden. Years ago we were comrades, when he was working for a master-dyer here in Tarv. Always takes a little white dog with him wherever he goes—a perky little whippet. Tavron owns a chandlery now, down on Rope Street, and he be doing right well for himself and his family, I may say, especially considering he used to be poorer than a churl and living far off on some wight-infested sea-cliff. Some say he did a good turn to a wight and was given gold for it, a change of fortune—but to get back to what I was saying, I asked him whether he knew of a cure for paradox, seeing as how I trust him, like, and he was slow in coming out with it, hesitant, rather, but he said there might be some hope with the wizard Korguth the Jackal, who be the greatest wizard in Tarv, and the one who charges the most, needless to say, but his reputation has spread far and wide, and in high places they say
he be the equal of Sargoth of the Royal Court, or greater.”
<<Indeed, a mighty wizard he must be.>>
“Aye, chehrna. The family of Korguth has long prospered in this town, ever since his father, when a lad, somehow acquired a set of strange musical pipes. The whereabouts of those pipes are no longer known—Korguth claims to possess them yet, but it is said they have returned to the true owner, whoever that may be. With those pipes, the sire of Korguth was held in fear by the whole town in bygone days, and none dared speak against him.”
At the mention of “strange musical pipes,” a shadow of fear seemed to darken the day, and a dreariness took hold of Imrhien like the ache of an old wound. Between fascination and abhorrence, she felt driven to find out more.
<<Where did the father obtain such an instrument?>>
Sianadh’s blue eyes crossed slightly as he delved into memory. Recalling the tale, he settled into storytelling mode.
“His name in those days was Jack, which is where ‘the Jackal’ comes from, ye get my meaning. The story goes that the family were poor farmers, living a few miles from the city, and Jack—the father of Korguth, that is—would go out to the hills to watch the sheep. His stepmother gave him his dinner, which he carried with him in a cloth, but the fare was wont to be sparse and stale. On one day the fare was so bad that he had no lust for it at all, so he wrapped it up and put it away. As he sat there on the hillside an old, ragged man came along begging for food. Jack obligingly gave him all his dinner, and right glad the old man seemed of it. When he had eaten, the beggar gave thanks and offered to give Jack some gift in return for his generosity. Jack was not too unwise himself, and he suspected this old man might be some wight or other. Knowing full well how many wights rewarded kindheartedness, he asked most merrily and humbly if the old man might give him a small pipe whereon he could play a tune for the entertainment of others.
“The old man gave him a curiously fashioned set of pipes, saying, ‘These have strange properties, for whosoever, save yourself, shall hear them when you play a jig must dance to the music perforce.’