The Mapmaker's War (11 page)

Though our frozen unborn are late

What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?

Tender stew of our son so true

Who would not be fed to others

What of the wider world, my man, my mate?

The ground is red, new peace is found

Warm my blood again, now with love

A dark quiet followed her words. You thought of the traveler you had met on the quest, the tale she'd told of the orphan seer and the prince. You couldn't deny the presence of a warning.

The next morning, the old woman prepared breakfast while you nursed the twins. Her back was turned. She adjusted her shawl. It was made of thin-spun blue wool. Blue, again and again.

Tell me, where's the hollow tree near your hut? I didn't bring my map to find it, you said.

You remembered no tree. You guessed she would understand. Hoped. You hoped there was a way out near the river.

A sturdy one stands like a man with wide legs where the sun doesn't cross. She pointed north.

Alive or dead? Hollowing, or hollow through? you asked.

She faced you with a smile in her eyes. He leafs, so he lives, but appears aflame as he dies for winter. I will take you there, but the horse must stay. She cannot pass.

You trusted your steed to her care. She refused payment. She led you to the tree and wished you a safe journey. When she walked from your sight, you whispered the incantation. A mouse ran across your toes and into the gap. You followed with the twins on your back.

In moments, you were miles away. You reached the kingdom's river border. You found Burl the oarsman. As he took you and your children over the water, you told him your secret purpose. As he helped you from the little boat on the opposite shore, he asked if he might escort you on land. His eyes were wet with more than the sting of the cold. You held the knots of his knuckles in your hands.

I must go alone, and no one can know, you said.

May I, my lady, ask for a simple story on your return? asked Burl.

Such a small reward for your confidence, you said.

Gold spent is gone. A tale can be told again, said he.

You and Burl looked up the bank and saw the line of five in blue. You and Burl raised your arms in greeting. The five returned the gesture. The third approached, not the same young man whom you had met before. You explained in plain language why you stood on that ground. You couldn't tell if he understood your words as he watched your eyes. He told Burl to stay, sent a man ahead, and instructed the rest to keep the bank.

Come, friend, said the guardian.

You walked the same path as before. At the large rock, you watched him touch the impression in its surface. You did the same.

When you reached the honeycomb road, the same young interpreter stood in wait. Behind you, the gold glow rose with hearth smoke. Again, you walked past the dwellings and noticed many people outside in the morning sun in all manner of activity. You entered the center of the settlement, where children balanced and leapt on the tree-limb shadows.

The strange mechanism made of wheels released a sharp ping. The children rushed to surround it. Music played. You could not believe your ears. It's the sound of bells. No, icicles. No. The twinkle of stars, you thought. The smallest children circled around the Wheels and turned wide eyes toward the top. Some twittered to each other. Some clutched their hands at their chests.

Most of them sang the melody beginning to end.
Then, in a rush of chimes, the great round wheel at its front finished its cycle and up popped a swan, crafted in copper. The children cheered.

Splendid swan! said the Interpreter. She touched the heads of the children within her reach.

Does this happen every day? you asked.

The music, yes. A smith places a new creature each morning. We never know what it'll be.

Why is it here?

For the children's pleasure.

You felt dozens of questions tangle in your throat. Instead of speaking, you followed the Interpreter to a guest room in the building where you had the first visit. You smelled pine. There was a clay vase filled with evergreen sprigs and dried flowers on a low table. Next to it was a wide bed on the floor. No crib was in the room. A young man and a young woman arrived with food and drink. They also took the twins. The children had been fussy most of the day. Each sighed as they lay their tiny heads on the young people's shoulders.

The Interpreter escorted you to the same place where you'd met the elders during your first visit. Inside were nine people. Five women, four men. Two were the ones you had met before. You told them all you could. The tale of the former cook, the quest, the hoard, the scale, what Raef wished to instigate. You believed the people of the settlement meant no harm. You wanted to warn them of the misunderstanding. The danger.

They asked questions. Why do you believe this may occur? What do you think they hope to gain? What if you are mistaken? What if you are not? What might do they possess?

You answered as truthfully as you were able. They thanked you for bringing the matter to their attention. They weren't surprised that you had gone to find the truth about the dragon and its treasure. Such curiosity is reasonable, said an elder woman. They all nodded. One man winked, one eye, then the other. You hadn't seen the creature, but you sensed it. The shadow of doubt was not quite so long.

You were invited to share a meal that evening with the Interpreter and a family. You went to your room to feed the hungry twins. The young woman who watched them left. The Interpreter offered you rest in a deep bath. You were curious, and dirty, and accepted. She left to give word to those who tended the bath. As you finished nursing the babies, the young man you had met earlier returned. He spoke your language in fractures but made it clear he was there to watch the twins. You felt an impulse to protest. A man, alone, with infants? Then your son squawked brightly at the sight of him. The young guardian lifted the boy to his shoulder and sat next to your daughter. He smiled at you. You smiled in return, comforted. You wondered how you could so easily trust them.

The Interpreter led you to the bath. No shallow tub on the ground in the house where you were to sleep. No, this was in a separate dwelling. Outside, someone tended a fire under a huge cauldron that had a pipe connected to it. The pipe entered a wall. Inside, a huge copper trough, beautifully decorated. You were shown how to use the clever knobs that started and blocked the water's flow. The tub filled. You stretched the length of your body with room past your toes. The luxury. You had not felt that since you were a little child.

Memory merged with the steam. You recalled your mother washing your hair as you sat curled in a Z. You were three, four. Milk and egg and your mother's squat fingers running through your hair. The fire ahead. Mother loved to wash and brush your hair. She was gentle. You were her daughter then.

There in the bath, you were alone. A small fire blazed nearby. Large candles burned and sweetened the steamed air. Bottles of thick liquids were at your hand. You marveled at the object that absorbed water and felt soft on your skin. Later, you would ask and be told it was a sea sponge. No one hurried you. No one called or knocked. You lingered until the water began to chill. Linen cloths for drying were stacked within arm's reach. You rubbed the water from your hair and skin. For a long while, you sat naked before the fire. A moment in your own skin. Then, from the clean garments left on a chair, you chose a fresh wool green dress. You left the shirt and leggings you'd worn for two days and nights.

You returned to the guest room rejuvenated. The young man sat on the ground with the twins on a thick blanket. They played with soft toys. You sat on the bed and wondered how much room a person needed to call her own. A space wide enough for your thoughts, you thought, with a few feet to spare past outstretched fingers and toes.

The mirror on the table drew your attention. Your mirrors were made of polished bronze and copper. This one was a flat black oval. Obsidian. You beheld yourself in that dark reflection as if you had seen the image before. A shadow, a dream, a memory. You didn't know. You whispered, as if you knew what it meant, the darkness in the light.

The meal with the family was simple but delicious. Fish, bread, greens, apples. They asked questions about your kingdom and customs. The Interpreter translated for the adults and the older boy, but not for the girl who remained quiet. She looked at you with calm violet eyes. The same color as the Interpreter's.

We don't look alike except for our eyes, said the girl.

She spoke your language. You realized at that moment she was the child who had told your cook the tale of the dragon and hoard.

There is a reason why, said the girl.

What is it? you asked.

I'm a Voice just like she.

The girl danced a doll across her knees. She explained that they were different from most others. The Interpreter lived with them to teach her special lessons. They could understand things other people didn't. Words and feelings. Sometimes secrets and stories.

Such as the dragon? you asked.

Her name is Egnis, said she.

The next words were in her mother tongue. You asked what was spoken.

She wanted to know why the ones born away never know that, said the Interpreter.

Why, then?

It is forgotten or disbelieved.

You shared the story the former cook claimed the girl had told him. You chose not to mention the coiled shadow and the winged cloud you saw near the mountain. Between thoughts, you remembered a storyteller at a festival when you were small. A dragon puppet with a long tail. The desire to believe in such a mythic creature was equal to the fear that it might exist.

The Interpreter said the girl's tale was accurate. One so young couldn't convey the subtleties, however. That required a deeper mind. She spoke to the family, who then nodded in response. They took your hands and kissed your cheeks. The older child, who didn't resemble his parents at all, and the little girl were led to bed.

So you settled on cushions near the young woman with violet eyes. The Interpreter, a Voice. You were brought your children, who suckled, then slept. She told you the myths of how the world and its witnesses came into being. Egnis the Red Dragon. Ingot the Gold Dwarf. Incant the White Wisp. Azul the Orphan, whom they'd saved.

It's quite simple, Aoife, said the Voice. The Three cared for Azul, our people came from Azul, and now we care for them. We are linked to Egnis, she who first saw the world. We protect her from forces that wish to rob, exploit, or destroy. The hoard you saw? That's a store of gifts made by the hands of many generations meant for renewal but not for use. Despite its appearance, that's not the treasure she holds and we, the Guardians, attend.

She told you the Voices are mysteries, a gift from Egnis as much as Azul. Her people believed that they tapped into the well of All That Is. As if Nature willed it, they seemed to be born when they were needed. They could speak any language of human tongues. All had highly sensitive feelings. Each had a gift for healing, some stronger than others. Nearly all of them were girls. A rare boy might be born a Voice, but his gifts were weak in comparison.

She expressed concern for the ones born away to families without knowledge of their Guardian blood. Now and then their young people moved to seek different lives in the world. Usually they returned, but sometimes they didn't. Within a few generations, the descendants of those who had left had no knowledge of their origins. Voices born in these circumstances would have no one to guide them. The children would be thought incorrigible and strange at best, deranged, perhaps evil, at worst. Patience and careful training was in order. That was why an adult Voice helped a family with their remarkable child. The Interpreter understood what the girl would endure.

Part of you felt you were in the midst of madness. Part of you knew better.

You went to bed. The twins slept all night next to you. For a moment when you awoke, you were confused about where you were. That was the first night in many you'd slept well, deeply.

You decided to leave early. You nursed the children and ate a breakfast of porridge, nuts, and fruit. Someone prepared a package of food for you. She or he couldn't have known the meal was what you had prepared for your childhood expeditions. Hard cheese, soft bread.

The Interpreter, rather the Voice, arrived to send you off. She kissed the twins cozy in the pouches. You took a drink from the well. The great Wheels, unwound, were silent. You wished you could hear the music.

The breeze changed. You heard human voices blended together. You walked to find the sound. The Voice followed. What is that?

You saw a little house surrounded by people of all ages, men and women, children, a circle of them, all singing. The door was closed but the windows were not shuttered. Beautiful enchanted sound.

What is happening? you asked.

A child is to be born. This is a song of welcome.

You burst into tears. A rupture of awe, the beauty too much to hold in your body. The Voice gently touched your shoulder. You stopped crying as quickly as you had started. You asked how to return to the river.