The Eye of the Hunter (5 page)

All eyes turned to Riatha. “’Tis
the light of the Bear
, wee one.” At the looks of incomprehension upon faces of all the Waerlinga, Riatha explained. “There where Urus fell, deep down within the ice, there is a golden glow. Why? I know not. Yet it is there, far below—an unexplained light, calling. And this I do know, Silvereyes, and so do thy parents: Urus at times took the shape of a Bear….”

* * *

May 29–31, 4E1980: Days of joy and despair, for Riatha came…And this is what she said…

* * *

And in a glade in the Boskydells a millennium later, two dammen sat at picnic, there in the early summer Sun. And one had a secret to give the other…

“…and so it was that Riatha brought the news to my ancestors, Lacey,” said Faeril, looking up from the diary.

“After the Elfess left, Tomlin and Petal moved from the Weiunwood, coming here to the Seven Dells and bringing their brood, for Riatha had warned them that a great darkness was gathering in the north, and she would have them move to a place of safety.

“They came here to have the protection of the Thornring, surrounding the Land as it does. But little did they know that the Spindlethorn would be breached during the Winter War.

“Hai! As it turned out, the Weiunwood was the safer place to be after all. Even so, they all survived—Petal, Tomlin,
Small Urus, Little Riatha, Silvereyes, and Bear—though many others did not.

“The Winter War: that was what the Elfqueen Rael had seen as a great darkness gathering in the north, that was the threat which crashed upon the world back then: Modru sought to conquer the world, and he used the Dimmendark as his greatest weapon.”

“Tuckerby Underbank!” exclaimed Lacey, naming the great hero of the Winter War. “He saved all.” A frown came upon her face. “But what’s that got to do with anything, Faeril?”

Faeril smiled at her companion. “Just this: Years past, Tomlin and Petal made a pledge to run Stoke to earth and to slay him, foul creature that he was. That pledge was renewed by Small Urus and Little Riatha, the firstborn bucco and dammsel. And they had trained in the weapon skills of their parents: sling and bullets for the buccoes and”—Faeril hefted the bandoliers—“throwing knives for the dammsels.

“Eventually Small Urus married, and so, too, did Little Riatha. And their firstborns in turn renewed the pledge and took up the weaponry skills: slings for the buccoes of Small Urus, knives for the dammsels of Little Riatha.

“Some thirty or so generations have been born since that long-ago time, and the descendants of Tomlin and Petal are scattered to the winds, moving elsewhere, marrying, having children; each generation in turn scattering farther, marrying, having children, who in turn scattered, down through time…

“But although firstborn damman after firstborn damman has been born, still all renewed the pledge, all were trained in the skill of throwing knives…just as the firstborn buccoes of firstborn buccoes were perhaps trained in the sling.

“Too, Petal had written a journal, a record of the pursuit of Stoke. It became a tradition for the firstborns to copy that record, just as I copied the one made by my dam, and she hers, and so on back to the time of Petal herself.”

Again Faeril picked up the small booklet. “This is my copy, Lacey, made from the original journal, from Petal’s journal, now in my dam’s possession, the original that I will inherit when my own firstborn damman arrives.

“But I’ve known all along that I’ve something to accomplish
before that time comes. I knew it even before I began training in the knives, even before I renewed the pledge, even before I began making my copy of the diary. It seems as if I’ve always known that Destiny has something in store for me.”

Faeril fell silent, and in the distance a mourning dove called, and Lacey felt her heart clench with sadness. “But what’s this got to do with you leaving, Faeril…with your going away from the Bosky?”

Faeril took up the journal and flipped it open to a particular page. “Don’t you see, Lacey? Here. Petal wrote that in 4E1980 Bear ciphered that the Eye of the Hunter would come in 4E3007.”

“Bu-but, that year will never come!” responded Lacey. “I mean, it’s impossible! We didn’t even
have
a year 4E3007. It never came. It never will. For we now stand at 5E985, and the Fourth Era is past, over, done.”

Faeril smiled at Lacey’s remark. “Oh, Lacey, think a moment: Bear didn’t know about the Winter War when he cast that sum, for that was a calamity yet to come in his time, some thirty-eight and thirty-nine years later. I mean, the Winter War ended the Fourth Era. And in 4E1980 Bear couldn’t know the future, couldn’t know that the High King would declare that Modru’s defeat signalled the beginning of the Fifth Era.”

Lacey looked at Faeril blankly. “So…?”

“So, Lacey, there was nothing wrong with Bear’s reckoning. He was right. The Eye of the Hunter was indeed due in 4E3007, and that year on the old calendar is the same as 5E988 on the new. The Eye of the Hunter is coming in 5E988—three years hence.”

Lacey nodded slowly. “All right, I see that…. But, then, what’s that got to do with you, Faeril?”

“Don’t you see, Lacey, if the Eye of the Hunter will be here in three years—well, now slightly less than three years—then that means I am the lastborn of the firstborns.”

Lacey shook her head in noncomprehension, and Faeril plunged on. “Look, I am not married. It’s unlikely that I will bear a child, bear a dammsel of my own, bear a
firstborn
dammsel of my own, before the Eye of the Hunter rides the skies. And if I bear no dammsel, no firstborn dammsel, ere the Eye of the Hunter comes, then that means I am the last of the firstborn dammsels descending
in a direct line from Petal. I am, then, the
Lastborn Firstborn
, just as foretold by the Elfqueen’s prophecy, the rede of Rael.

“And I
must
leave the Bosky. You see, Lacey, I must find Riatha, to stand at her side, wherever that might be in the light of the Bear, whatever
that
might be…for it is my immutable destiny to do so.”

Comprehending at last, Lacey broke into tears.

* * *

The next day was Faeril’s birthday, and an age-name change as well, for on this day she turned twenty; no longer would she be called a maiden, but for the next ten years would be known as a young damman. It was a day of celebration, though now and again Faeril seemed morose, and her best friend, Lacey, was occasionally found weeping.

Yet at long last the day finally came to an end. The celebrants said good night to one another; the guests departing for their homes. And finally Faeril and her family took to their beds, Faeril giving her sire and dam and her three brothers especially tender hugs.

* * *

In the predawn hours, Faeril finished her packing. Bearing a candle, she quietly tiptoed through the wee stone cottage and out to the stables, pausing only long enough to leave a note at the kitchen table. Yet lo! at the stables she found her dam, Lorra, by lantern light saddling Faeril’s pony.

“You did not think you could leave without me saying good-bye.” Her mother’s statement was not a question.

“M-mother!” Faeril groped for words. “B-but how did you know?”

“Oh, my dammsel, I, too, have the journal. And by your behavior yesterday—nay! not just yesterday but all the yesterdays of this year, practicing extra hours with the knives, asking your sire about living off the land, seeking knowledge of Arden Vale’s whereabouts…well, it simply could be nothing else.”

Faeril flung her arms about her mother, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Hush, hush,” her mother comforted her, though Lorra, too, now wept. “I knew, and so did you, that this day would come. And you go with my blessing.”

Faeril wept all the harder.

“Shhhh, now. Weep not, child.” Faeril’s dam stroked her hair. “It was foretold.

“Oh, my dammsel. I
do
envy you, for did we not, each of us, every firstborn dammsel, renew the pledge? Did we not all train at knives? Did we not ail
dream
? Did not each of us wish that she would be the one?

“Even so, pledges and training and dreams and desires notwithstanding, Fortune chooses its own way of fulfilling prophecies.

“Ponder this: had every firstborn dammsel been birthed but a year later each, down through the generations, all thirty of them, then
I
would be setting forth upon this venture rather than you. Then
I
would be the dammsel living out the dream.

“But Fate dictated otherwise, and even though I love you with all my heart, I envy you, for you are the Lastborn Firstborn chosen to fulfill this destiny, and not me.

“Still, I am proud, for you are
my
firstborn, and Fate could not have chosen better,

“But there is this that you should know, too, my dammsel: the prophecy says
Lastborn Firstborns
. Did you hear?
Firstborns
…and that means more than one.”

Faeril’s weeping lessened, then stopped as the import of her dam’s words struck home. Sniffing, wiping her nose with the black of her hand, she stepped back and looked at Lorra. “More than one?”

Lorra smiled wanly, blinking away her own tears. “Aye, More than one.
Lastborn Firstborns
means more than one.”

Faeril’s eyes widened, and a look of disbelief, mingled with gladness, crept upon her features. “Mother, does that mean you get to come, too? Does that mean you get to fulfill your dream?”

“No, child. Would that it did, yet it is not to be, for I am not a Lastborn Firstborn, as are you.”

Faeril’s face fell. “But then—”

“There can only be two Lastborn Firstborns, my dammsel,” interjected Lorra, “male and female—bucco and dammsel.”

In a gesture of remembrance the young damman touched her temple, her dam’s words reminding her what she already knew. “Yes, Mother, I momentarily forgot.” Then she frowned. “But, the bucco—I don’t know—”

Lorra gently grasped her child by the shoulders, looking
at her intently. “Now heed me: Somewhere in the Weiunwood lives a young buccan named Gwylly Fenn, or so I was told by letter some twenty or twenty-five years back when he was birthed. Lineal descendant of the firstborn buccoes back unto Small Urus and Tomlin, just as we reach back unto Little Riatha and Petal.

“Oh, by now, after all these years, after all these generations, our kinship has stretched so thin as to be no kinship at all. You could not even call him a cousin.

“Yet I deem that he is the one you must find and take with you to Arden Vale.”

Faeril returned her dam’s gaze in the amber light of the lantern. “But, Mother, if the prophecy says that the Firstborns will be at Riatha’s side, then won’t he find his own way to Arden Vale?”

Lorra genuinely smiled now. “Pish tush, child, even prophecies need help now and again.”

Faeril laughed aloud, and Lorra joined her.

Together they finished saddling Blacktail, the pony looking askance over its shoulder at the giggling dammen. Faeril tied her bedroll and knapsack behind the saddle…and suddenly it was time to go.

Once again the dammen embraced, and this time they kissed, and then Faeril mounted up and rode away.

Behind, a mother wept and watched her daughter leave, she stood silently, not calling out, for she had always known that this day would come, and she did not protest.

And as the sky brightened, shading from grey to pink and the ground mist swirled among the trees, Faeril rode onward, into the dawn, heading east, heading into destiny.

Mid Summer, 5E985
[Three years Past]

W
hrrr…!
sounded the wings of the woodcock, veering among the trees.
Zzzzz
…The sling bullet sissed through the air, missing the bird altogether.

“Bother!” cried Gwylly, vexed. “How could I have missed?”

The question was purely rhetorical, for no one was there to answer it—none, that is, but Gwylly himself and his foster father’s dog, Black, now slumped dejectedly before him.

The Warrow looked at the ebony dog. “How could I have missed, Black?”

Black’s tail thumped against the ground a time or two, though his sad eyes looked accusingly up at the wee buccan, as if to say,
You missed!

“I know, boyo. You were all set to retrieve this one, too. But, well, even
I
miss now and again. I’m not infallible, you know.”

Black’s eyes did not lose their sadness, nor their accusatory stare.

“Well, it wasn’t by much, Black.” Gwylly held up a thumb and forefinger, an inch or so apart. “This close, boyo. This close.”

Black looked away, elsewhere, peering into the great forest surrounding them.

“All right. All right. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to miss. Besides, we’ll go for another.”

Gwylly bent down and caught up a string of three woodcocks.
Holding them out before the dog, he shook them to get Black’s attention. “See, dog, we
have
had
some
luck today.”

Black snorted.

“What?” asked the buccan. “Oh, not
luck
, you say. Instead it was your skill at sniffing them out?”

Black’s tail began to wag, and Gwylly smiled. “Perhaps you are right, boyo. Perhaps you are absolutely right.”

Black stood and looked expectantly at Gwylly.

“Go, Black. Find bird.”

With a joyful bound the black dog ranged ahead among the trees, nose alternately to the ground and then held high, sniffing the air.

Through the shaggy Weiunwood went buccan and dog, past hoary trees, great-girthed and ancient standing silently, their leaves faintly stirring in the summer morn. Down mossy banks and across crystal rills and up the far sides ranged the pair, Black splashing through the clear water, not stopping to drink, Gwylly leaping from stone to stone after. Through stands of ferns they brushed, the green fronds
swish-swashing
at their passage. And the yellow Sun shone down through the interlaced branches above, falling the high green galleries with soft shadows pierced by golden shafts.