Voyage of the Fox Rider (13 page)

At these words Jinnarin burst into tears.

In the dark of the night came a tap on the door, the soft sound not rousing Aravan. Again came the tapping, and still Aravan’s meditation remained unbroken, his Elvensleep deep, though his eyes glittered in the stateroom shadows. The latch clicked, the lock opening of itself, and inward swung the door. Silhouetted against the passageway lamps stood a figure holding a squirming burden.
“Lux”
came a soft word, a blue light springing up. And as the fox-bearing Mage wetly stepped into the chamber, Aravan snapped full awake.

Kicking the door to with his heel, Alamar set struggling
Rux down, the fox gnarling a complaint and turning in agitated circles, glaring accusingly. Ignoring the animal—“We would have a word with you, Elf,” declared the Mage, slipping his knapsack strap over his head and setting the bundle to the drop-leaf of a writing desk.

Aravan glanced from Alamar to Rux and back. “You and the fox?”

“Of course not!” querulously retorted the elder, fumbling at the knapsack buckles. “And get some light in here; I’m not a blooming lantern, you know.”

Aravan turned to light a candle, and when he turned back, in its yellow glow stood a Pysk upon his writing table.

“You must be Jinnarin.”

The Pysk eyed him suspiciously. “And you are Aravan.”

“Indeed.”

“I would see the stone.”

Aravan raised an eyebrow. “Stone?”

“Tarquin’s stone.”

“Oh.” Aravan drew the leather thong over his head, the cord running through a hole in a small, rounded blue pebble. He held it out to the Pysk.

Jinnarin merely touched the amulet and nodded, satisfied. “Friend,” she said, smiling. How a mere touch could assuage her was beyond Aravan’s knowing, yet he surmised that she sensed something of the power within the small rock. Aravan slipped the loop back over his head, the stone once again resting against his bare flesh.

Jinnarin sat cross-legged on the table. “I would have words with you.”

Aravan nodded and then pulled a chair to the board, waving Alamar to another. The Mage sat opposite the Elf.

When all were comfortable, Jinnarin said, “I understand you would have me meet your crew.”

Aravan nodded but said nought.

“Humans and Dwarves, I hear.”

“And sometimes Waerlinga,” added Aravan, “though none at the moment.”

Jinnarin sighed and slowly shook her head, then said: “I would tell you a tale, Friend, and when I am finished
…well, then we shall see.” She paused, gathering her thoughts.

Aravan stood and rummaged through a bureau drawer—“Hai!”—finding a new porcelain thimble. He then selected two crystal glasses. Into each of these, including the thimble, he dashed a dollop of dark Vanchan wine, Alamar eagerly reaching out for his. When Aravan was seated again, Jinnarin took a sip from the thimble, then began her tale:

“Long past, ere Men or Elves or aught others came into this world of Mithgar, the Hidden Ones were not. —Not hidden, that is. Instead, in those days we named ourselves ‘the Fey,’ and we lived in the open, free and unafraid. Fens, fields, forests, plains, prairies, deserts, mountains, oceans, it did not matter where, for we were the only Folk here, though Elwydd’s work was not yet finished. We knew that She had already set into motion Her plans for this world, a design which was well underway long before we arrived upon Mithgar ourselves. You see, prior to coming to the Middle World, we lived…elsewhere…or so legend has it—”

Jinnarin suddenly broke off and turned to the Mage. “Oh, Alamar, I don’t known why I didn’t think of this before, but it just occurred to me that mayhap my Folk come from a different Plane, just as do the Mages. Mayhap the legend, the fable, of our flight from Feyer is true.”

Alamar held up his glass and saluted the Pysk, then downed its contents and held the crystal out to Aravan for a refill, an eager smile on his face.

As the Elf replenished the Mage’s glass, Jinnarin resumed her tale:

“Millennia upon millennia we lived here on Mithgar, unmolested, content. But then Mankind came, Elwydd’s latest, and never were things the same thereafter.

“They brought with them disease, and they usurped the land and ravaged it. Why, even I can remember when much of the world was woodland. But look at it now: whole forests hewn, slain, barren devastation where they once stood, ruin left in the wake of Man.”

Aravan held up a hand. “In places, aye. Yet elsewhere, nay. Instead there be fertile farmland cleared. But thou art somewhat in the right, for Man is indeed
a destroyer. Even so, there is hope, can he come to his senses in time.” Aravan paused, then turned a palm up in apology. “Jinnarin, I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt, to debate thee. Pray, continue.”

Jinnarin inclined her head, accepting Aravan’s amends. “Oh, I did not say that Mankind’s intent was evil”—Jinnarin glanced at Alamar, but the Mage was staring into his glass—“now that I have some understanding of what evil is. Instead, evil or innocent, thoughtless or deliberate, Man’s effect upon the Fey was brutal. As the land was usurped, the Fey were pushed back and back, and places where we had lived for millennia were taken by Humanity.

“And Man had little respect for the creatures of the world, for the land, for the waters—these were slain, scarred, polluted. And often, after the damage was done, Man would move on, leaving behind the wreckage of his deeds. And then he would come to where we had resettled and do it all over again.

“And there were those among Humankind who would capture my Folk and others like us, keeping us as pets, as slaves, as charms against evildoers—when it was they who were in truth the evildoers.

“Oh, they could not capture all, for many of the Fey were and are too powerful. As a consequence, Mankind—or more correctly, I should say,
some
Men—decided that these Fey were creatures of foulness, for they bent not to Man’s will, and so, these Men and others like them set out to exterminate those Fey who defied them”—here Jinnarin’s voice began to tremble with distress and her eyes lost their focus, as if she stared through the mirror of time at unwanted distant memories and heard the thunder of hooves and a savage baying and the blowing of dreadful horns—“and they slew Fey, cut them down just as though they were game to be hunted, hounded, cornered, butchered.” Jinnarin paused, wiping the wetness from her cheeks, regaining her composure. “Often when these wicked Men succeeded, they were hailed as heroes when villains instead they were.

“And so, the Fey withdrew completely, went into hiding, became the Hidden Ones. And we cordoned off the refuges where we had retreated to, turning them into places of dire repute, places forbidden to Man. They
became haunted forests, possessed hills, ghostly swamps, deadly deserts, hexed caverns, and the like—all filled with ominous forebodings, all promising ghastly doom to Man, promises at times we kept, depending upon the Man or Men who defied our wardings and entered our forbidden domains.

“Too, there were Fey who fled to remote lands—to the western continent, to islands such as Rwn, to locales then inaccessible or unwanted by Man, though now even these places have seen his footprints.”

Jinnarin ceased speaking for a moment and, trembling, turned her thimble goblet about and about. Finally, her voice quavering with stress, she said, “And now you, Aravan, you who are named ‘Friend,’ you would have me stand before your ship’s crew, verifying to one and all that the fables and legends are true. That Fey do indeed exist, that the tales handed down through the ages from Human sire and dam to son and daughter are valid, that here are a Folk to ward away evil, to perform domestic labor, to find gold, to yield treasure, to—to—” Jinnarin burst into bitter tears, sobs racking her tiny frame.

Anguish flooded Aravan’s face and he looked to Alamar for aid, but the elder’s own eyes were tear-filled and he shook his head and muttered, “Can’t even hug her. Can’t even hug her.” Nevertheless, Aravan reached out and took her up and held her to his breast, cupping her gently in the curve of his arm, a hand lightly pressed against her, whispering “
Shhh, shhh
, little one,” as she clung to the cloth of his shirt and wept.

“Set me down, Aravan,” said Jinnarin at last, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “on the floor, please. Rux needs reassurance.”

Clearly upset, the fox yet paced and whined, nose in the air sniffing, seeking some clue as to Jinnarin’s weeping. Aravan lowered the Pysk to the floor, Rux right there to receive her, and Jinnarin stood and stroked the agitated animal and whispered into his ear, Rux listening and casting glances at Alamar as if to lay blame.

The Mage wiped the wetness from his cheeks with the heels of his hands. “More wine, please,” he requested, and Aravan refilled the crystal again.

A silence fell within the lounge for a while—all but the sounds of water lapping against the
Eroean
’s hull—but at last Jinnarin turned to Aravan and said, “Would you lift me to the desk. Rux is soothed now, and I would finish my wine.”

The Elf carefully raised Jinnarin to the board, and the Pysk sat cross-legged and took up her porcelain thimble and sipped.

Finally, Aravan cleared his throat. “Jinnarin, I know thou art distressed by my request. Thou hast spent millennia hiding from Mankind as well as from others. It is not thy nature nor heritage to make thyself known unto those not of thy Kind…or those who are not named Friend. To do otherwise goes against the teachings of thy Folk.

“Yet heed, here is why I have asked thee to trust the crew of the
Eroean
: First, this crew is handpicked…I chose each and every one. Most are the sons of fathers who sailed with me in the past. And it has been such for nearly three thousand summers—the sons of sons of sons of sons stretching back through time. They are sworn to me and loyal beyond measure.

“They have been privy to Elven secrets and Drimmen secrets and the secrets of Mankind. And they have shared confidences with the Waerlinga as well. And never on a time have they betrayed one another, and some have died in the service of their shipmates.

“Look about thee at this marvelous ship. Who knows its secrets other than my crew? None else, I say—not a single soul who has not served on her. Yet many a merchant and sea captain would give all they own for a ship like her, but her like will ne’er again be seen on Mithgar, for her secrets are locked safely within my heart and in the hearts of my crew, and we will not yield them to any. And that is but one example of their loyalty, and the fact that I share the knowledge of this ship with them shows the regard I have for their honor.

“Yet heed, every Man, Drimm, or other who sails with me is chosen not only because of loyalty and honor and trust, but also for their wit and grit and skills. Many a time has my neck been saved by one or more members of this crew, and many a time have I in turn saved one or more of them.

“They are as my kindred, my family, my brothers in arms, and I would not put them in jeopardy brought about by the fostering of deliberate ignorance, for it would be deliberate if I had the knowledge but kept it unto myself. Likewise, I would not jeopardize thy mission by leaving them in such ignorance; for if we are to succeed, like as not it will take the brains and brawn and skills of all, and we cannot have that if they are kept in the dark. If they know not what we seek or
who
we seek and why, if they know not who needs aid, if they know not of you, Jinnarin, then they go into the mission fettered, lacking crucial knowledge on which to base key decisions, critical plans, and I would not have that happen—for thy sake as well as theirs.

“As I told Alamar, information is power—and the power I speak of here is the power to succeed.

“Let me turn the tables, Jinnarin: were I to come to thee and tell thee of a dire mission and ask thee for the aid of thy people, but only on the condition that thou sayest nought of who sent thee nor of who asks for aid nor of who we seek, then what wouldst thou advise? Wouldst thou counsel me to imperil my mission by such stipulations or wouldst thou instead advise me to tell all to thy honorable Kind regardless of my fears?

“And whilst thou ponder that, Jinnarin, here is my last: I will not take anyone on this mission who will not pledge it to secrecy—first to me, and then to thee.”