Voyage of the Fox Rider (29 page)
Driven before the storm, late on the fifth day they sighted the island of Rwn, and southerly turned the
Eroean
, the ship cutting through the austral waters to come to the cove on the southeast coast mid of the sixth day, where she hove to and dropped anchor.
“Now shall we wait,” said Aravan as the crew clambered down from the rigging, Elven silk furled ‘round yardarms, jibs and staysails stowed.
It was the fifteenth of November, winter now gripping this northern clime.
Aylis peered at the sky. “I am afraid that we will see nothing through this overcast.”
“Clear or cast,” replied Aravan, “we may see nought regardless.”
Aylis turned and faced the island. In the near distance, dark waves lapped the rocky shore. Above, on the rising, snow-covered land, tall pines stood, and where they shone through the white mantle the laden boughs were dressed in a green so dark as to seem a shade of blue. Here and there stretched tangles of deciduous trees, stark and barren in their winter dress, gnarled, frosted limbs clawing upward at the desolate sky.
Cloak-wrapped Alamar came stumping toward the aft deck, Jinnarin at his side, Rux following after. “We are going to bed now,” called the Mage. “Got to be rested in order to stay awake throughout the night.”
Jinnarin looked up at the elder. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Nonsense, Pysk. Besides, you’ve got to sleep. Only you have the eyes to see the plumes. Of course, with my magesight I’ll be able to see them, too.”
“Wait, Father,” called Aylis, “let me do a weather casting. Unless the sky clears, no one will see anything this night regardless, plumes or no.”
“It doesn’t matter, Daughter,” growled the Mage.
“We’ve got to become accustomed to staying awake. After all, we will be the ones on watch.”
Aylis trod down the steps to the main deck. “Do not forget, Father, I have magesight as well. Even so, it is not certain that either you or I will see anything.”
“Pah!” snorted Alamar. “If a Pysk can see them, then—”
“Then that’s no guarantee that either of us will, magesight notwithstanding,” interjected Aylis. “That aside, I will forecast the weather; it will take but a moment.”
Tugging her cloak about her, Aylis walked forward to face the chill wind, the Elvenship having swung at anchor until her bow pointed into the draught. The seeress stood on the foredeck and gazed westerly over the bowsprit and intoned,
“Caelum in futura.”
She watched as ship, water, and land disappeared and only the sky remained and hours passed in mere moments—day raced past, dusk but a flicker as starless night splashed across the skies, and then dawn burst into cloudy day but a lucid blue swiftly rived the grey and swept it away—and then her vision expired.
“It will clear by this time tomorrow,” she said upon returning. “Tonight, though, the overcast remains.”
Alamar growled under his breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “I’m off to bed. From now until we see the plumes and discover where they are going, it’s down in the day and up in the night. A schedule no different from the one I use when charting the stars, see.”
He turned and trudged toward the aft-quarters door. “You coming, Pysk?” he called back over his shoulder. “Can’t have you falling asleep on watch, you know.”
“In a moment, Alamar,” answered Jinnarin, watching until he disappeared through the door. She turned to Aravan standing on the afterdeck atop the steps. “I really am not at all sleepy.”
Aravan stepped down to the main deck and squatted beside the Pysk. “Jinnarin, there is no need for thee to be on watch unless and until the boreal lights are in the skies. As to when that may be, I cannot say, for none I know commands them and they come at their own will. Thou need be awake and alert then and only then. Hence, were I thou, I would sleep as usual and waken
only at need—only when the lights are in the sky. And my crew will rouse thee when such events occur. And should the lights come several nights running, well, thou wilt adapt quickly unto a backward day.”
Jinnarin glanced at the door where Alamar had gone, then she grinned at the Elf. “We will tell Alamar in a bit, eh?”
The Pysk and fox wandered off to find Jatu, and when they were gone, Aylis turned to Aravan. “You said that none you know commands the boreal lights, and that is true. Yet if we are to believe the words of Jinnarin’s Farrix, then perhaps someone does indeed hold dominion over the aurora…or parts of it. But why, I cannot say.”
In the late afternoon, Alamar came stumping up onto the deck. Aylis stood in the starboard bow, leaning against the forward mainrail. The elder took a place at her side. “Couldn’t sleep,” he grumbled when she turned her head to look at him.
Aylis faced the island again, and the two stood and looked at the waves crashing against the shore. At last the elder bade, “A copper for your thoughts.”
Aylis sighed, then said, “Father, here we stand off the shore of Rwn, less than a day’s sail from Kairn, less than a day from your cottage. But even more importantly, less than a day from Vadaria.”
“Eh?” Alamar looked at Aylis. “What’s Vadaria got to do with anything?”
Now Aylis turned to her father, tears in her eyes. “Father, I look at you and see that your
Alamar bristled. “Pah! I am as good as—”
“No, Father, you are not!” burst out Aylis in anger, thrusting out her hand, palm forward, to stop his words. “Father, you look upon this quest as a lark, as one last fling. Yet it is anything but!”
“Bah!” snorted Alamar, his jaw jutted stubbornly.
Confronting Alamar, Aylis saw an eld Mage before
her, but saw as well the aged face of Ontah. “Father, you know the truth of what I am saying, and you must not pretend otherwise. One has already died on this mission, and I would not have the next be you.”
Huffing and grinding his teeth, Alamar turned his back to Aylis.
“Please, Father, listen to me. Were you filled with the energy of restored youth, none better could be enlisted to see the mission through. Yet you are not and we are opposed by someone of great power, and I fear for your life. For at this moment you are old and nearly spent, no match for another Mage.”
Alamar spun, his palm raised as if to strike her. She stood unflinching, weeping, her hands at her side. Of a sudden he looked at his upheld hand in wonder, and the rage left him. He pulled her to him, hugging her fiercely, or as fiercely as his frail form would permit. And she clutched his thin frame to herself and wept. At last he held her at arm’s length and growled, “Aylis. What you say is true. I am old. There, I said it: I am old. No one likes to admit that he is old. No one. But I am. Old.
“I should—I must journey to Vadaria, and soon, for I have not much
Alamar cocked an eyebrow. “And that, Daughter, is the best I can do. Does it suffice?”
Aylis studied his elderly face. At last she sighed and pulled him to her and gave him a hug. “Yes, Father, it will have to do.” Then it was she who held him at arm’s length. “But you must remember your promise—to husband your
Alamar looked long at her, but at last nodded. “You drive a hard bargain, Daughter.”
Again she embraced him, a timorous smile on her face, for deep inside she doubted that he would keep his promise.
Jinnarin sat with Aylis in the seeress’s quarters, the Pysk cross-legged on the drop-leaf of the writing desk, Aylis sitting on her bunk and leaning back against the wall, each sipping tea. Night had fallen and the cabin was lit by the soft yellow glow of lantern light. The two were alone and had been since the evening meal—Aravan and his officers were in the ship’s lounge setting the order of the watch for the days to come, and Alamar had retired to his own cabin. And so the two sat and spoke of things that had been and things that were and things that might never be.
“I learned something today, Jinnarin.”
“Oh?”
“From my father. Something he said.”
Jinnarin said nought, waiting for Aylis to continue.
“Yes, and I think that it applies to Mages and mortals alike.”
Jinnarin set her tiny cup aside. “You Mages are passing strange, I think. But then so are mortals.” Jinnarin laughed. “Perhaps so are we all.
“Regardless, what did Alamar say?”
“He told me that no one likes to admit that they are old.”
Jinnarin shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not mortal.”
“Neither am I, Jinnarin. Nevertheless, my father’s remark has raised questions within me, bringing issues to light.”
“Such as…?”
Aylis gazed at the Pysk. “Do you remember what White Owl looked like in the dreamwalks?”
Jinnarin nodded. “Yes. He was dark-haired. Slender. Strong.”
Aylis leaned forward. “Yes. Not at all like the Ontah we first met, for in his waking life he was white-haired and frail.”
“Rather like your father, Aylis.”
“Yes. But I remember when my father was filled with
the vigor of youth, his hair dark brown, his limbs strong, his body lean and firm.”
Jinnarin glanced up. “Like Ontah in the dream.”
“Yes. Still, my father will regain his youth, whereas Ontah’s was gone forever…except in his dreams.”
Jinnarin sighed. “Do you suppose that aged mortals think of themselves as being old? I mean, in their thoughts, do they think that they are the same as they were when they were young?”
“I don’t know, Jinnarin, but that is one of the things I wonder about. Mortals cannot but help knowing that they are getting frail, weakening, their health failing, their bodies losing the power to swiftly recover from injuries, even perhaps suffering from injuries that never heal. Still, taking account of their infirmities, in their thoughts as well as in their dreams, they must consider themselves yet vital.”
“Does anyone ever dream of themselves as being truly old?”
“Again, I don’t know, but if they do, then perhaps they have given up on living.”
“Is that what it means to be old? To give up on living?”
“Perhaps, Jinnarin, perhaps.” Aylis smiled, for the Pysk’s thoughts were tracking her own. “But if so, then how long one has lived—the number of seasons, of years they have seen—has little to do with being old. Age alone does not determine elderliness. Instead it is attitude, outlook, an interest in life, neh?”
Jinnarin shrugged. “Perhaps.” She glanced down at her hands. “I have lived…hmm…oh, several thousand years, yet it seems to me as if I’ve always thought as I do now, that my embracing of life is the same. I wonder if it is different for mortals?”
Aylis shook her head. “I don’t know, Jinnarin. But what you say of yourself is true for me as well: it seems as if I have always considered life as I do now. It may be the same for mortals, too…at least for some of them—all mortals are not alike. Perhaps many think of themselves as they did when they were younger. On the other hand, perhaps infirmities change one’s outlook, leading to bitterness, leading to agedness. Certainly my
father is infirm…and crotchety…not at all what he will become when he regains his vitality.”
Jinnarin steepled her fingers. “Is it the inevitability of death that ages mortals, or is it instead the ageing process that makes death inevitable?”
Aylis shrugged. “I cannot say, for although I age—by that I mean I gradually become more elderly as I loose energy in castings—I can regain my spent youth. Hence, I cannot say what determines mortality, for I am not mortal.”
