The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (34 page)

The passionate voice of Ainé was ringing out, concentrating a deadly fire onto those commanding the great cannon. Qwenqwo was howling at the wind. Suddenly there was a cry from Mark at the wheel.

“C’mon, old girl! Time to show us what you’re made of!”

Alan whirled to look at his friend, who was embracing the wheel with his entire body. Was it Alan’s
imagination that from his friend’s outstretched body, flickering lines of force connected him to the decks, the masts, the rigging, as if the matrix within him was one with the ship?

With all of his remaining strength Alan focused even more desperately on the link that tethered them to this deadly harbor. There was a massive lurch, as if the ship itself was coming to his assistance. A great new force of energy pressed against the restraining chain as the sails cracked taut in the gathering wind. There was a shuddering jerk that almost threw Alan down onto the deck as the ship surged against its restraints, and then, with an almighty crack, the weakened chain sundered. Alan watched, blinking furiously, as the splintered edges tore apart, streaming sparks. He watched them still as the fractured links slipped out from between his stiffened legs, tumbling over the decks, hissing deep into the wind-whipped water. From above, though rapidly receding, rage-filled faces howled as they watched the great ship pull away from its moorings with sails billowing on its towering masts, the tallest complete with a crow’s nest in which Turkeya was shouting with triumph.

In a blinding conflagration of force and light the Temple Ship forced its passage through the hindering maze of other vessels in the harbor, battering a path through into clear water, and throwing up a mountainous wave of spray across its bow as it approached the pincers of the harbor mouth.

“Danger! Up ahead!” screamed Turkeya from high above. His hand was pointing to the river.

Peering out over the prow, Alan saw massive iron teeth looming out of the depths, about fifty yards downstream. A trap for the unwary, the boom spanned the entire harbor mouth.

Alan ran to the stern rail, the oraculum bursting into a brilliant red flare even before he got there. He leaned forward against the broad rail, his fists raised, his eyes glazed. He heard the screams and shouts from all around him as they approached to within twenty-five yards of the trap. Then he brought his fists down, invoking all of his power, directing the First Power deep into the turbulent water. In moments a great sea-spout whirled into the sky, raising an enormous wave that lifted the great ship high on its crest, carrying it, bucking and heaving, over the danger.

Once clear, the ship drummed in its depths and sang in its rigging, so that Kate and Mo, and every man, woman and child who had been cowering below decks, came up into the salt-drenched air to join them, sharing in their hearts the pure, sweet joy of the freed leviathan as it struck a majestic course southward, toward the Forest of the Undying in the haunted Vale of Tazan.

PART III

Ossierel

Mysteries and Silences

The thrust of wind in the sails was so perfectly balanced with the direction and purpose of the ship that the waters appeared to surge by with scarcely any resistance, so that, although the thunder of cannons still cracked and boomed behind them, they were soon out of range of the batteries on the walls. Mark still took the helm, but his posture was more relaxed now. His eyes had cleared and the lines of force had slowly melted away from his body. Alan and the other two friends had watched it happen. None of them knew if Mark simply did not remember what had happened or if he just didn’t want to talk about it, so maybe he was genuinely unaware of the changes that had taken place in him. Either that or he was deliberately avoiding having to discuss it, even with Mo. The
truth, as they acknowledged discreetly to each other, was that there appeared to be two different Marks at war with each other within the same body, and the upshot was that their friend was growing increasingly distant from them.

Within an hour or so of sailing, the mist had blown away, and no boats had been speedy enough to give chase from the harbor. No more could they see signs of organized pursuit on either bank.

But Alan was not so naïve as to imagine that they had won. He couldn’t help but recall the horror of what he had witnessed in the false Mage’s chamber. The memory so shocked and bewildered him that even now, aboard the escaping ship, a lingering fear lurked below the surface, so that he wondered how anyone, let alone himself and his friends, could possibly challenge that terrible malice. And so it was that, as all around him the happiness of liberation thrilled and excited the people crowding the deck, the lingering awareness of an unseen menace still oppressed Alan from all sides as they sailed in full majesty through a hinterland of devastated nature.

Kemtuk came to stand by him, as if sensing his mood. “When an Olhyiu fells a cedar to construct his boat, he keeps vigil for a night and a day to ask forgiveness of the spirit of the forest. Yet here you see no evidence of respect, let alone repentance, only a greed that might cause an entire forest to fall. The hearts of the people of Isscan have become as stone under the brutal overlordship of the Tyrant.”

Alan could see that the shaman spoke the truth. Although they must have traveled thirty miles or more since Isscan, not a single stand of trees had survived the destruction. In places the rape of nature had been so recent that smoke still rose from the smoldering ruins of charcoal and ash. He steeled himself for another hour or so, until the first green forests appeared, before he persuaded Mark to leave the wheel, leaving Siam to keep a steady course. The two friends collected the girls together so that Alan could take them through the decks, congested with Shee, Aides and Olhyiu, affording him the opportunity of introducing them, in a more organized way, to their new friends and fellow travelers.

He began with Qwenqwo Cuatzel, whom they found on the forward angle of the prow, his battle-axe, with its curved bronze heads, suspended from a leather harness across his back, and his enraptured face lifted up into the misty sky to inhale the fresh air of freedom. Qwenqwo insisted on embracing each of the four in turn, including the somewhat reluctant Mark. “Any friend of the oraculum-bearer is a friend of mine!”

“Oraculum-bearer?” several voices whispered among themselves.

“You must tell me about yourselves.”

So the Mage of Dreams learned each of their names.

“Do you know what it all means—or why we in particular were chosen?” Kate was a little cautious in befriending the dwarf mage, yet eager to know more of what role she had to play.

“Might I examine your crystal?”

She hesitated a moment before passing it to him.

Qwenqwo folded his gnarled hands around the egg-shaped stone, with its green matrix speckled with metamorphosing arabesques of gold. He closed his eyes, deep in thought for many seconds. Then he passed it back to her with a wide-eyed glance.

“What did you see in it?”

“A force powerful indeed, yet close to nature. Perhaps, if I judge true, yours will be the gift of healing.”

Kate liked the idea of a gift of healing, but she wasn’t altogether convinced by the vagueness of his reply. “You’re not just being nice to me?”

Qwenqwo inclined his head, but his eyes sparkled at her through his bushy red eyebrows. “In your crystal, as in your heart, I truly sense great mystery and even greater latency of purpose.”

“Mystery?” Mo piped up.

“Why certainly, Mo! What else?” Then, with a sly grin, Qwenqwo reached into his pocket, withdrew Mo’s bog-oak talisman and handed it to her. “I found it hidden in the false mage’s chamber.”

“Oh, brilliant! I thought it was gone forever.”

Qwenqwo turned as if to leave them. But Mo put her hand on his arm. “What about my brother, Mark? His crystal was broken.”

Qwenqwo nodded gravely. “That was indeed unfortunate. But you must understand that runestones are merely conduits to evoke the power vested in individual spirits.”

“Then it really is true. Each of us really does have a special role to play?”

“I do not doubt it.”

“And Mark hasn’t lost his special role?”

Qwenqwo looked at Mark, observing how he was shaking his head, as if disbelievingly, at all this.

Kate interrupted the awkward silence to thump Alan on the shoulder. “I don’t know about you fools, but I have a whole sackful of questions that need answering. And I’m going to start with you, Alan Duval—Mage Lord, my eye! Like, what really happened to Mo? And would you kindly explain what really went on back there in the harbor?”

Alan laughed. “Hey, Kate—what do you think? You think I don’t have a whole bunch of questions too?”

She punched his shoulder again. But he just lifted her up off the deck with a big hug. He refused to take his arms from around her waist.

“Later—okay! We’ll have a long talk about everything.”

“You promise?”

“I promise! But right now, I have some more introducing to do.”

He took his friends in search of Milish and Ainé, explaining along the way what little he really knew about the Shee.

Mark appeared to have recovered a little of his sarcastic humor. “Aw, gee,” he muttered, “so now we can add pussy cats to teddy bears!”

Only twenty feet away, through a throng of Shee and Aides, Alan caught sight of Ainé’s gigantic battle-scarred
form. She whirled around, as if sensing their approach. Alan dropped his voice to whisper into Mark’s ear. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let the Kyra hear you talk about pussy cats.”

Later, Alan spoke to Milish on the foredeck, her eyes watchful over the elements and river currents. “You still anticipate danger?”

“We can take no comfort from the fact that the Death Legion is not visibly in our wake.”

“But why do you look south rather than north?”

Milish said nothing, gazing straight ahead to where far-distant mountains were faintly outlined, copper-tipped in the morning sun, above the horizon of a smoky-blue mantle of forests. Row after row of scarps and jagged peaks arose in an overlapping sequence, like the waves of a limitless ocean, as he gazed farther southward into the blue-hazed distance.

“To my people,” she confided, “these are the foothills of the Blue Mountains. But to the Kyra they are the Mountains of Mourning. Great passions and tragedy have ravaged this land in times all too recent as well as in the distant past.” Milish turned and Alan saw tears moisten the elegant woman’s eyes. “Ossierel approaches, with all of its terrible memories. It was, until recently, not just the spiritual capital of all of Monisle, and the seat of the governing council, but also a haven of beauty and tranquility. It grieves me beyond
words to witness it as it is now reduced to ruin. For proud Ossierel was also the scene of the martyrdom of the last High Architect, Ussha De Danaan.”

“I’ve heard Kemtuk mention her, Milish. But nobody has explained what really happened.”

“The De Danaan was herself an oraculum-bearer, gifted with immense knowledge and the power of prophecy. For these gifts she is all the more condemned throughout Monisle since few can forgive her disastrous final decision, made even while Ossierel was being overrun by a great army of the Death Legion. She dismissed the Shee, whose sworn duty it was to defend the capital. Ainé’s sister-mother was the Kyra then—and that surrender cost her her life. Perhaps now you grasp something of the anger that still rages in the Kyra herself. No explanation was given as to why the High Architect abandoned her main defense. The survivors of her council—the Council-in-Exile—have denigrated her as a traitor. Yet, though I cannot explain her decision, no more can I bring myself to see her as a traitor.”

“Aye,” interrupted a loud and angry voice, “but what the council woman does not explain is an even more profound and terrible mystery.” Alan spun round to find the dwarf mage standing close by, his feet splayed wide and an indignant rage contorting his face. “Ossierel,” he countered, “stands on the great island of the same name in the legendary Vale of Tazan. On that island long ago, in the time of the Dark Queen, Nantosueta, warring armies faced the same enemy as we do today, and it was the
queen herself who called for assistance from all of the warrior people of Monisle. Thus twice have the armies of this continent fought the forces of darkness there.”

Milish stood erect in silence, staring into the distance, as if reluctant to discuss such sensitive matters.

“Aye,” Qwenqwo continued, “and it is also rumored, though the council woman would no more inform you of this, that the Shee were a different race in those times: women such as any others, who knew men. But they allied themselves with the Dark Queen and it was she who changed them.”

Milish snorted. “Now you speak nonsense.”

The dwarf mage shook his head, and a terrible sadness transfixed his features, as if the council woman’s comment had silenced him entirely.

But Alan wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Qwenqwo, his curiosity piqued. “Who was this queen you mentioned—Nantosueta?”

Qwenqwo blinked for several moments and swallowed, as if struggling even to speak because of some inner grief. “Some call her the girl-queen. For a girl she was, of no more than fifteen years during that ancient and disastrous war. Rumor has it that she aligned herself with a force of darkness that still reigns over her haunted valley. Indeed it is Nantosueta who, from her ancient tower above the island fortress, still casts her dark shadow over the valley through which we must pass. There the great river narrows as it cleaves the mountains, a slow and twisting course called in the language of my people ‘Kiwa Hahn,’ which means ‘the crooked throat.’”

Kemtuk and Siam had also come to join what now appeared to be a conference, and wishing—or so it appeared in Kemtuk’s case—to contribute some wisdom.

“The dwarf mage is right. Many and strange are the tales that warn against entering the Vale of Tazan. After the guardians of the pass are behind us, and within the long and winding valley, the river passes through a blighted land in which an ancient and forbidden forest has long endured. The trees of this forest are strange, such as are not seen anywhere else in our world. You might laugh at such foolishness. But I have met battle-worn men who told tales as we sat around the campfires of winter—tales that speak of ghosts of human origin, warriors who were sacrificed for the vanity of eternity. Other legends claim that they are not ghosts of warriors but the first people, the human animals created by the Earth Mother to please Akoli after his great slumber. Fearful for their survival at the hands of their children’s children, who threatened them with fire, they took the long and wearying journey to that valley, to preserve the old ways.”

“Who knows,” interrupted Milish, as if to divert the conversation from realms that were disturbing to her, “where truth lies in the Vale of Tazan? But great are the powers of that forest. And if I dread to speak of it, it is because death itself is said to have protected the sanctuary with accursed powers. None dare profane the Rath that stands atop the pinnacle, not even the Death Legion. Such was once the protection of
Ossierel, and even today it remains the last outer defense of Carfon from the degradation we have witnessed in Isscan.”

Siam frowned, as if coming to terms with the clash of passions aroused by mysteries recent and ancient, and his fretful gaze flickered about him and over the altered timbers, with their pearly glow. “Believe me,” he growled, “when I say that even we, the Olhyiu people—who are the most experienced mariners in all of the land—must pass through this accursed vale, we dare not delay in those strange shadows or gaze long at the ruins that straddle the slopes but keep our prows steady in the center stream.”

Then the chief’s eyes darted aloft to where the soaring wings of an eagle appeared to be following the course of the ship. Alan stared at the eagle with a prickling sense of disquiet before he deliberately brought them back to practicalities. “Siam, how far are we from this pass?”

“A hundred leagues, or thereabouts.”

Alan did the calculation in his mind. A league was three miles—roughly three hundred miles! They would reach it, traveling at their present speed, the day after tomorrow.

He thought about the Mage of Dreams, realizing how little he really knew about him. With a sudden realization, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the runestone given to him when the dwarf mage had feared his own death and the capture of the runestone by the enemy. Holding it up against the pearly sky, Alan saw deeper than the etchings over the polished
surface the symbol of an emerald eye. Even as he held the stone to the light, the image of the eye fell onto the deck at his feet, as if projected through a prism. Kemtuk cursed and backed away.

In a blur of movement, Ainé appeared from the congested deck. With her face averted from the green eye, she seized the runestone and hurled it far out over the water.

Qwenqwo’s roar of outrage exploded high into the air in the wake of the runestone. Yet another figure moved faster still, a cruciate shape of gold and gray, mantled with white, swooping in a lightning-fast arc from sky to water, the speed of movement faster than Alan’s eyes could follow, though he caught a glimpse of the ferocious raptor’s beak and talons. He barely had time to recognize the eagle that had been monitoring their passage before, in a swoop, it had snatched the runestone as it struck the surface of the water, perhaps a hundred yards distant from the ship, and, with a piercing shriek, beat its ascent back into the air, swiveling around to swoop low over the Temple Ship and drop the precious cargo into the dwarf’s outstretched hands.