The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (27 page)

The cry was ripped from his lips by the spite of the wind.

Never in his life had he felt so useless. He fell onto his knees, his head bowed, his arms adrift by his side, his fists clenched.

He was so exhausted with his own fever, and the cold was so bitter, that within moments he felt exhaustion fall over him like a heavy blanket. He poured his anguish into the oraculum. It evoked an unreal, disorientating feeling, one similar to that he had experienced when he had seen those visions in the mind of the shaman on the icy lake. It seemed as if he had abandoned the snowy landscape to find himself standing in a flat wilderness that stretched to the horizon in every direction. A presence hovered before him. Though the presence assumed a human form, it remained as insubstantial as moonlight reflecting off the surface of a dancing ocean, glimmering and metamorphosing from moment to moment.

“Are you Granny Dew?”

I am not the one you call, yet I might have the answers you seek.

The voice was calm, little more than a whisper, but he heard it with the utmost clarity. He hesitated, peering into the region where eyes might be. “I’ve had it with mysteries. I need more explanation than anybody appears willing or able to give me.”

Ask then what you will.

“Where is this place?”

It is all places and all times and therefore nowhere and timeless. To some it does not exist while to others it is the only reason for existing. But take care—for those of good heart are not the only True Believers.

In exasperation he called out, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What is a True Believer?”

One who enters here.

“Why won’t you give me clear answers to my questions? I need to understand where this journey is leading me. I need to understand—
why the hell me
?”

You ask too much in this place and this time. Such understanding is surely the object of your journey.

“What’s the goddamned use!”

But no anger on his part seemed capable of fracturing the calm of that answering voice.

Be patient in your search for answers. There is great danger even in a single word, for the understanding you seek is power unlimited. In Carfon is one of the three portals that lead to the very gates of eternity.

He shook his head again in bewilderment. “What does that mean—a power unlimited?”

I must caution you again. Do not question such things in this unguarded moment. It is enough that it holds all truths, including the truth of Dromenon.

“Dromenon?”

Here you stand on its exalted plain. You are not entirely unfamiliar with it, for it was through Dromenon that you entered Tír from Earth.

“Tír?”

The ancient name for this world.

He clutched at a single important possibility. “What are you really implying? Are you saying that we can
return to Earth? My friends and I, we can use this—this Dromenon—to go back to our world?”

Your will is your blade, though you must discover through trial how best to wield it.

Alan hesitated, considering this. When he spoke again, he did so thoughtfully. “What is the importance of Dromenon to the Shee Valéra?”

She knows it as the harbor of Souls.

“Does that mean that Valéra must die? That nothing can save her?”

Silence only in answer.

Then it seemed that something in his own grief triggered the metamorphosis: The being became brilliantly incandescent so that it flooded his senses with wonder.

“Is my friend, Mo, dead?”

The one you call Mo is not dead.

What did that mean?
The one he called Mo?
“Then where is she? Is she a prisoner of the Storm Wolves?”

She is a prisoner, though not of the Storm Wolves.

“For goodness’ sake, tell me where to find her.”

There is another whose endurance will be rewarded. It is already preordained that your paths will cross.

He shook his head with bewilderment. “What does that mean? Why can’t you speak plainly?”

I will give you a guide to what you seek. All wisdom is contained within the Fáil. Yet such wisdom is perilous beyond your understanding. You must approach your purpose elliptically, not directly.

While Alan struggled to understand this communication, the being returned to human form, though the voice now sounded like a chorus of many speaking urgently within his mind.
The future is shrouded in uncertainty. The seed of chaos, long dormant, is coming into flower.

“Please—don’t confuse me with any more mysteries. If you want to help me, show me how I can save Valéra’s baby.”

In a moment the spirit of the golden-haired Shee stood before him. She appeared on the white plain, her form a shimmering transparency, barely visible in the light of the glowing luminosity of the first presence. Then, Alan noticed that what he was seeing was not a single figure but two. Before the towering shape of the Shee warrior-in-noviciate was a much smaller body, so slender and delicate as to be almost invisible, yet also standing perfectly still, no higher than midcalf. The two shapes seemed almost to mingle as if identical in spirit, as if Valéra’s spirit cradled that of her unborn child.

Alan’s voice was taut with emotion. “Valéra’s daughter is born from her alone? There is no father, only Valéra as mother?”

She is the sister-child of Valéra’s lineage. Thus do you witness the mystery of her immortality.

The full realization of Valéra’s pregnancy was clear now to Alan—and it was astonishing. A Shee was born from the cloning of her mother’s egg. Every sister-mother was replaced by her identical sister-daughter.
It
was
a form of immortality. If Valéra’s sister-daughter could be saved, Valéra would live again. But if her sister-daughter died, Valéra’s lineage was lost forever.

Shocked by this knowledge, Alan found himself back within the snowy landscape. The storm had heightened, as if the dark forces had strengthened against him. He just had to feel it, to make his way to the solution, through instinct.

Your will is your blade
.

He clenched his fists, frustrated still by this vagueness. Then he realized that there was no longer any pain in his fingers. He tried to look at his left hand but he was so blinded by the snow he found it difficult to see his hand before his eyes. But he could feel that it was healed.
My will!
He thought about that. He recalled the way the poison had so quickly invaded his fingers, how, within what appeared to be moments, it had run up his wrist and into his arm. That had to mean some kind of bloodstream spread. Yet now the poison had completely cleared. There was only one explanation he could think of. The First Power had saved him. It had made him immune to the poison.

He stood once more in front of the bower, pausing only long enough to gather his courage before returning to the side of Valéra.

“I need a sharp, clean blade.”

The Aides passed him a bone-handled knife.

Under the watchful eyes of Layheas and the two Shee, he exposed his left arm, then cut across a vein in
the crook of his elbow. He squeezed his upper arm until the blood began to flow from it, then held his arm out horizontally over Valéra’s abdomen so that his blood could pour down into the poisoned wound.

Valéra’s need was great, and Alan gave generously of his blood. His heart pumped the precious gift of immunity into her, so that, minute by minute, he weakened and her tissues strengthened. He couldn’t expect to cure her. Valéra’s condition was too far advanced for any false hope. But he was determined to do all in his power to save her sister-child. By degrees, through the progressive loss of his blood, Alan drifted into a physical stupor before Layheas removed his arm from over the wound and stopped the bleeding.

Alan would have only a vague awareness of events as they unfolded, although his memory would retain the cry of a newborn baby, more lusty and powerful than any he had heard before. He dozed off and on, lulled by the night-long litany of lamentation that accompanied the birth within that bower.

Shikarr’s Hunger

In the moonlight Snakoil Kawkaw was forced to rest in the shadow of an old lightning-struck oak whose maimed form dangled precariously out over the shallows by the bank of the great river. He was peering up at the night sky as if bemoaning the fact that, although the snow had eased up, the wind still sighed through the forests and the ground snow whirled and eddied in their faces.

Mo sighed. “I can’t go on.”

He yanked hard on the strap of leather that tethered him to her hands, causing her to totter and fall. She could tell from his face that it was all he could do to resist the temptation of kicking her. It wasn’t kindness on his part that stopped him but his own exhaustion from the bleeding stump of his arm. Leaning over her,
he cursed her softly. “Any more whining from you and I’ll throw you into the river.”

Mo trembled, climbing back onto her feet.

“What in a rat’s pelt are you?” He peered down at her now, where she sat hunched up on the riverbank. “When I kick you, I encounter no weight, nothing solid.” He shook the dizziness out of his head in an attempt to figure her out. “Stop that—do you think I can’t see that your mouth is jabbering. Who in a witch’s teat are you talking to? What tricks are you up to?”

“I’m thinking of riddles.”

“Pah! Get going!” He yanked her back to her feet by her hair, then shoved her ahead of him with his foot. “Save those pitiful eyes for looking for a boat. There must be a raft or a canoe hereabouts. Fish gutters work these waters. Sooner or later my luck will turn.”

He forced the pace for several more miles before the weariness of blood loss made him stop again. Using a dagger he had stolen from the Storm Wolves, he cut off several long strips from her sealskin coat, tying them into a longer thong and shackling her ankles with it. It was a clumsy business, using just one hand and his teeth, and it took him a long time to satisfy himself that she was secure, after which he slumped down on the bank and stared at her, as if trying to figure out what to do with her.

“How tempting,” he whispered in her ear, “merely to plunge my knife into your soft young belly! Make life a lot easier for old Snakoil Kawkaw. I could start again somewhere far from here.”

“But then,” Mo countered, “you wouldn’t be able to sell me in Isscan.”

“Don’t tempt me, brat. Here I must rest—get some sleep. If you so much as fart out of turn, I will dangle your head down into the water. You think the pit was bad, but there are hungry mouths aplenty in this river.”

In her mind, as she called for her, Mo heard the comforting voice of Granny Dew.

Hush, now! I am here.

“He terrifies me. He’s just like the thin man. He wants to kill me. I can sense it in him.”

No, little one. This man is bad, but not like the other. The other was evil for evil’s sake, but this one is driven by his own selfish reasons. You are only valuable to him while whole and healthy. He will not harm you unless he becomes angry or mindlessly desperate.

Before falling asleep Kawkaw had added a new thong and tethered her shackled ankles to him, binding her so close that there was no possibility for Mo to sleep in comfort, even if the cold would allow it. Her clothes were still soaked from her immersion in the river; she shivered and her teeth chattered with the cold. When she moved even an inch, the thong pulled on his hand, around which he had looped it three or four times. If she even tried to move he would surely waken. So the best she could hope for was to doze, half-awake.

“I can’t bear it. He will sleep again for a few hours and then we’ll have to walk again, all through the night.”

Then do something to prevent it.

“What can I do? The leather is twisted around his hand. He will wake immediately if I try to escape. He’ll do what he said. He’ll dangle me over the river for . . . for horrible things to come and eat me.”

He preys on your mind, child. He’s a cunning one, and experienced in the ways of tormenting. Yet still there is a wish granted that might enable you to help yourself.

Cautiously Mo sat up. It had stopped snowing and the bright ball of the moon peered between blankets of cloud like a lamp through net curtains. A bank of mist rose from the river, heavy and still. Trembling with fear, she inched her body around so she was kneeling on the cold damp earth within a few yards of the riverbank. She peered at Kawkaw under the moonlight. He looked sick as well as wounded, with a filthy rag wrapped around the stump of his right arm. A thick sealskin cape was pulled tightly around him, and his hair was standing up in wild tufts, so he looked half bear, half man. Mo wept while she thought again about Granny Dew’s advice.
Do something to prevent it . . .
What could she do? Why couldn’t she just ask Granny Dew to untie her and let her escape?

She stared at the loops, where they curled in and out of his paw-like fist, as if wishing them to unravel. But, of course, they didn’t.

Still there is a wish granted . . .

But what—what could she do? Then into her mind came an idea. She still weighed no more than her eyebrows. Perhaps she could use her weightlessness to help her uncurl the leather thong from around that hand without the sleeping Kawkaw noticing?

Little by little she brought her face to within inches of his hand. She took hold of the thong, very close to his hand, and began untwisting the first loop as carefully as if she were brushing a baby’s face in sleep. The first loop undone, she rested a moment to allow her heartbeat to slow down. Maybe just one more loop and it would become easier. But fear made her hand jerk and pull on the thong. His eyes sprang open. He was instantly wide awake.

“Scheming vermin! You think you can better old Snakoil Kawkaw? Well I warned you what I would do to you if you tried to escape. And now at least I’ll have my sport even if I miss the ransom you would fetch in Isscan.”

With his fist pulling her this way and that, he found the dagger and waved it in front of her eyes. She could smell his foul breath as he snarled in her face. Then, with a twirl, the blade was under her chin and pressed against her neck as he forced her over to the water’s edge. Here, struggling one-handedly, he kicked her down onto the sloping bank, and then, bathed in sweat from his exertions, he used his feet to shove her farther, until he could dangle her, head down, over the shallows.

“No—please!”

Ignoring her squirming, he shoved her far enough out so that her head entered the freezing water, and
then toyed with her, lifting her in and out, so she was coughing and choking for breath.

“Come gather ’round, hungry mouths. Come nibble this tidbit!”

Suddenly there was a loud hissing sound from nearby. With a twist of her neck, Mo managed to raise her head clear of the water. She saw Kawkaw’s narrow face above her, squinting out into the river. She heard him curse with fright. Twisting back to look at the river, she saw something monstrous rising out of the swirling mist—a serpent so huge its gaping jaws could have swallowed her whole. Its glowing eyes, faceted like a fly’s, were focused on Mo, where she dangled upside down between bank and water. Its forked tongue, blue as slate, probed the air as the great head descended to inspect her plight.

Kawkaw had fallen onto his back with terror. Now he struggled to free his hand from the thong tethering him to Mo, biting at it with his teeth while using his heels in the snow to make a slithering retreat. Mo felt the tether snap. She slithered farther down the bank until she was half-immersed in the shallow water.

“My offering,” he wheedled. “It is yours. I—I make it freely in your honor, Great One.”

“Offering accepted, mmmm! Though so little flesh we perceive on these bonesss.”

With a shriek, Kawkaw attempted to flee. With her feet now freed, Mo scrambled to climb back up the bank. She found herself ignored as a huge coil struck out of the river, cutting off Kawkaw’s escape amid a deluge of water
that almost dragged Mo back into the river. The coil closed around him, with the top reaching his shoulders, and it began to drag him closer to the lip of the bank, so he too could be inspected.

Kawkaw shrieked, “What demon from the shades are you?”

“No demon are we. Has the memory of the fish robbers become so poor that you have forgotten the true name of this river? Fair Shikarr are we, queen of the river that once bore our name. A hundred years have we slumbered only to find ourselves aroused by you. Now awake, we find ourselves hungry to excess.”

“River serpents feed on fish!”

“Fish flesh is tasssty, but cold. Man flesh isss warm, and a nice warm meal isss the delicacy we covet.”

Mo shook her fist at the great head above her. “You cannot eat us.”

“We cannot?” The head swung, the terrible eyes coming to focus again on the girl.

“Granny Dew won’t let you.”

The head rose high into the air then descended with lightning speed, hesitating only when the great fangs, longer than scimitars, gaped around Mo. The huge, forked tongue gathered her scent only inches from her face.

“Well now—what have we here? Though terror of Shikarr we read in its eyes, yet such obstinacy do we read in its spirit. Few would dare to challenge Shikarr in our hunger. Many indeed have died merely at the sight
of us. Perhaps, little one, we should do you the honor of becoming the first bite of my meal—a tasssty morsel before the main feast?”

“I’m not worth the trouble of eating, your highness,” Mo said firmly. “I will show you if you put out your tongue and lift me to the bank.”

“Oh—it sports with usss!”

Mo’s voice chattered with fear but still she played the game with the serpent. “But first only weigh me before you think of tasting me.”

The blue-black forked tongue, its individual forks as thick as Mo’s thighs, flicked delicately down through the water and lifted her clear, until her whole shivering figure stood dripping within the great coil on the bank.

“Why, you weigh no more than a fish scale.”

“I am not worth a bite.”

“Oh my—this game becomesss interesssting!”

The serpent’s head swept from side to side, as if suddenly wary. Her eyes, like glowing braziers, searched the surrounding shadows before returning to focus on Mo. “You like to play gamesss?”

“I love to play riddles.”

The serpent’s voice dropped to a sigh. “What sorcery isss this? Could it be the reason Shikarr was woken from our century-long slumber? If so, Shikarr must surely share in the mystery. But, wait—patience is called for! Could it be that the bait isss a trap?”

“I’m not a trap.”

“Hmmmm?” The hissing voice had become so loud it blew like a wind through the surrounding foliage. The head yawned close again, falling back ready to swoop. The great eyes closed, as if savoring the moment. “Oh, deliciousss morsel, we are willing to take the risssk!”

Mo’s hand closed on the bog-oak figurine still laced around her neck.

Abruptly, from the shadows behind her, a staff struck the earth and a thunderous shockwave rolled out under her feet, sending eddies out into the deep waters of the river. The serpent whirled, her eyes searching the shadows where a small triangular figure stood, as if in protection, behind the girl. The small size of the figure belied a will as adamantine as the mountains. A new voice, carried on all senses, erupted into all consciousness.

“Shikkkaaarrr the perfidious!”

The serpent reared back, her eyes glaring, the blue-black tongue probing the air around the triangular shadow.

“Isss not perfidy the fate you bequeathed to serpents such as we? We are woken from our slumbers, and sacrifice is offered, be it no more than the miserable flesh of a bear-man—and an insolent urchin!”

The triangular figure lifted its staff and made a gesture, like a summons, to the cold night air. In less than a moment, a lightning bolt struck the river only yards from the serpent, singeing its flesh and choking its nostrils with the stink of ozone.

“Isss the urchin too much to ask for? Oh, let us settle for the bear-thing then. T’isss a poor joint of meat, sickly and incomplete—though warm and tasssty.”

The triangle increased in density until it became the absence of light. An earthquake trembled through rock and water.

The serpent shrieked. But still her monstrous jaws slavered above the man and the girl. “Shikarr wantsss! Shikarr mussst feed!”

The triangle expanded until it became a great pyramid high above the ground and, like the forward-leaning shadow of a mountain at sunset, it encompassed Mo, the serpent and the quivering Snakoil Kawkaw.

“Eons have you ruled, Shikarr, Queen of the River, but immortality is not your true legacy. Even you cannot escape death, if it should be decided that your time has come.”

In the water surrounding the serpent a seething life gathered, composed of many hungry mouths and flashing teeth. In moments the water, from bank to bank, seethed, and the gnawing and snipping of teeth and claws were louder than the wind. The serpent squealed.

“Enough!
Enough
! Oh, Mother of All—you can be ssso cruel. Shikarr will not harm the urchin child. But leave usss a small mouthful. Give us the bear-man.”

The pyramidal shadow diminished in size. Its voice fell to a whisper on the wind, but it was a more threatening whisper than the thunder and lightning. “Shikarr
will feed on neither child nor man. Instead your purpose is to ferry them, safe from danger, to the city of stone.”

“But—”

“Hssst! I will brook neither confrontation nor delay!”

The fury of snapping jaws increased. The serpent shrieked and, suddenly, Mo and the bewildered Snakoil Kawkaw found themselves enclosed within the enormous coils, lifted high from bank to river, and from there borne swiftly into the center stream. A stinking cloud of serpent breath hid their presence there, as with immense undulations of her great body Shikarr bore her unwanted burden downstream.