ZYGRADON (2 page)

The Lake of Ice was also the only portal through which outsiders could enter
the Stronghold. Only by walking through the Mist Gates and answering the questions
posed them could strangers gain admittance to the Stronghold. If anyone dared to
penetrate the winding passageways of the canyons surrounding the Stronghold, they
could climb the sheer cliff faces and explore caves in vain, until they died and their bones
littered the ground. And often did. The unwelcome would never find the healers,
scholars and holy Renunciates who lived there. Never see the massive rooms carved from
the heart of the rock where the Queen of Snows, her ladies and their children lived and
played.

Invaders would never see the sunshine that warmed and brightened the rooms
as if they had no roofs. Never see the plants that grew year-round, for food, healing and
sweetening the air. They would never see the crafting rooms where the ladies wove on
looms that glistened as if coated with diamond dust. Never smell the healing potions the
Queen's ladies created and sent throughout the land, freely given to anyone who
asked.

* * * *

By the age of three, Mrillis had become Le'esha's shadow, following her from
sewing room to brewing room to common room to her private office, where she met
with envoys from the tribal chieftains and the Warhawk. When he made Ceera his special
charge, the little girl learned to toddle along from the first day. Le'esha laughed when her
ladies referred to the two as her 'ducklings'. She encouraged the children to listen and
learn, and taught them to never be afraid to ask questions--and taught them discretion
not to interrupt. The children had a corner of her office set aside for them, with cushions
on the floor, hidden from visitors by a low shelf full of scrolls, urns and bowls of
ingredients for healing potions.

Mrillis learned early that Noveni came more often to the Stronghold to seek the
help of the Queen of Snows than Rey'kil did. They wanted advice for their chieftains and
nobles, hoping the Queen of Snows could look into the future for them or find out the
truth behind a disagreement. They asked for healing potions and healers trained in the
Stronghold, and hired guards from the warriors trained to serve the Stronghold.

The boy noted who came on a regular basis, who smiled when they spoke to
the Queen of Snows, and who did not. He paid attention to their tone of voice, the
tension in their eyes, the stiffness of their stance more than their words.

Le'esha paid attention when first Mrillis and then Ceera showed marked dislike
for particular visitors. Some, she banned from the Stronghold. She would meet with them
on the shores of the Lake of Ice, accompanied by her warriors, but she would not allow
them through the Mist Gates. Those who tried to penetrate the magic guarding the inner
halls of the Stronghold wandered lost for hours. Sometimes days. If they refused to heed
the warnings, they fell into tangles of magic that took them prisoner and delivered them
outside the maze of canyons and passages guarding the Lake of Ice and the Stronghold.
Some died, killed by the poison of their own evil hearts.

Few outside of Le'esha's trusted assistants realized she trained both children for
special duties. Visitors and most of the Stronghold's inhabitants only saw them as her
favorites. Some who didn't know the history of the children thought they were Le'esha's
own blood.

Ceera, with her silver hair and eyes, could have been her daughter. Mrillis had a
grace to his carriage that, with the shape of his face, led many to believe they were
mother and son. Le'esha corrected no one and the children understood that she was as
much their mother as their birth mothers had been.

In their turn, Mrillis and Ceera bound themselves to her service, with all the
fierce adoration of their young hearts. When they had treats, they shared them with her.
When she was tired or her head hurt or she had too much work, they tried to make
visitors go away or locked the door of her office so no one could disturb her.

One fall day when Mrillis was six, some Noveni visitors and their careless words
opened to him a wider view of the World. He and Ceera had spent the morning in their
sheltered corner of Le'esha's office. Though the sky was black and churned with clouds
and lightning and the sea heaved like a mad beast, sunshine and sweet air reigned
indoors. It was washing day, and those children who didn't work were expected to stay
out of trouble and amuse themselves quietly.

The two children retreated to their corner of Le'esha's office with scrolls for him
to read, beads and a tiny loom for her to play with, and enough provisions to last them
through the day. Biscuits and jam, dried apple slices and a pitcher of cider. Le'esha had
shared their cider late in the morning and then had left them alone while she tended to
an emergency in the public healing rooms. The children fell asleep, lulled by warmth and
quiet and full bellies.

Mrillis woke to the sound of unfamiliar voices. He got up on his knees and
peered out between the sealed jars and boxes of powders, salves and dried herbs sitting
on the shelves.

Three men stood by the open door of Le'esha's office. She was nowhere in
sight. The strangers were Noveni, with their tangled, golden-brown curls and brown
eyes. They didn't wear cloaks, so someone at the gates had taken their wet clothes. No
one could enter the Stronghold without passing the gatekeeper's tests, so Mrillis wasn't
worried. Someone had brought the three men to Le'esha's office, rather than making
them wait in the welcoming hall. Either that, or the three had chosen to be rude and
wander around, going where they hadn't been invited. Mrillis didn't like the way the
men scowled and looked around the room.

The one with the crest of a leaping, blue battlecat on his overtunic gestured at
the shelving. "She has enough medicine in this room alone to tend half the villages on
Moerta for a year. It just isn't right."

"What isn't right?" The man who had stood with his back to Mrillis, studying a
tapestry on the far wall, turned around.

He wore a closely trimmed beard in dark gold and his skin was the color of
freshly forged bronze. He wore the wings-spread crest of the Warhawk across the chest
of his overtunic. He couldn't be the Warhawk, high king of the Noveni; Mrillis knew
Afron Warhawk was a man in his late thirties, and this man was perhaps in his early
twenties.

"The Queen of Snows willingly shares all the Rey'kil healing powers and
knowledge with our people. All we have to do is ask. How many healers has she sent to
the sufferers on Moerta this year alone?" he continued. He walked across the room and
settled down in one of the low-backed chairs hung with thick woolen blankets, which sat
in front of Le'esha's worktable.

"We shouldn't have to ask," the first growled. "The Rey'kil
owe
the
Noveni. We shed our blood daily to fight off the warriors of the Nameless One--a rebel
Rey'kil
. He's their problem, not ours. Why should we fight for Lygroes?"

"Perhaps because the Noveni are refugees in Lygroes, and defending Rey'kil land
keeps us safe as well?" the third man asked in a lazy drawl. He sat down and put his
still-wet boots up on the edge of Le'esha's table.

Mrillis nearly darted out from behind the shelves, to knock the intruder's feet
back to the floor. The prickle of discomfort up his spine, which warned him when
Le'esha's visitors were dangerous, warned him now to keep silent. He glanced at Ceera,
asleep with her thumb in her mouth. He knew his first duty was to protect the little
girl.

Eavesdropping wasn't nice, and Le'esha frowned on it, but he sensed it would
be worse to step out now and face these intruders. If they were angry enough, they
might thrash him. What would they do to Ceera if she woke up and started crying or
attacked them for hitting him?

How much longer would Le'esha be gone from her office? When would she
come back, stop their rude talk, and send the strangers on their way again?

"And just why are the Noveni refugees? Because our land is poisoned, a little
more every year. What poisons us?" the first man snarled.

"Star-metal," the Warhawk's man said. He sounded bored and made a face at
the third man, turning his head so the first couldn't see him. Mrillis liked this man,
whoever he was.

"Exactly. Star-metal falls on Lygroes just as much as it does on Moerta, but why
aren't Rey'kil crops blighted? Why don't Rey'kil cattle fall sick? Why don't their women
miscarry and their children die young? Why aren't their springs poisoned and the wild
animals running mad?"

"The Estall loves the Rey'kil better than the Noveni?" the third man said. He
slouched in his chair and closed his eyes, to all appearances ready to fall asleep.

Mrillis grinned, admiring his attitude toward the angry man. That still didn't
excuse his feet on Le'esha's table.

"The Rey'kil have magic. That's how they keep their land clean and their homes
and farms and people healthy. Why don't they use their magic to help Moerta?" He
stomped over to the Warhawk's man and glared down at him, hands jammed into his
fists. "Why doesn't the Warhawk demand answers? I know he must have the same
thoughts, the same questions. Why don't the Rey'kil suffer the poison of the star-metal,
when it falls on their land as much as it does on Moerta?"

"My royal brother has asked." The Warhawk's man stood, with his gloved hands
clasped behind his back. Mrillis imagined his knuckles turned white from the effort not to
strike the other man. "He has asked without anger, with respect for our allies who have
made room for us. Our allies who have given up fertile farms and rich mines to our use,
who have shared their knowledge, their skills, their magic with us. The wisest minds of
my brother's court study with the leaders of the Rey'kil, seeking that very answer, and
they have not found it yet."

"They won't find it because the Rey'kil can't be trusted. They pretend to be our
friends, but they're killing us off slowly. Star-metal
isn't
poison--until the Rey'kil
change it with their magic. They want this entire world to themselves."

"That would be a little hard to manage, with the Encindi chewing on their
borders and the Nameless One using his blood magic to counter everything they do," the
third man said.

"How do we know there really is a Nameless One? What is the difference
between their so-called clean magic and his blood magic?"

"The difference between life and death," Le'esha said.

All three men turned as one, the third leaping to his feet, and they bowed to
her. She paused in the doorway, studying the three intruders, before coming into the
room. She walked past the shelves and glanced briefly through the gaps between the jars
before sitting at her table.

"High Scholar Breylon and I have a proposal for you to take back to the
Warhawk and his Council." She tipped her head to one side and waited until, one after
another, the three men sat. "We will send scholars and enchanters from the Stronghold
and from Wynystrys to settle in Moerta. They will study the places where star-metal
lands and discern the difference between the star-metal that falls on Moerta and what
falls on Lygroes.

"It could be that the difference is not in the star-metal, but in the land itself.
Something in our soil might act as amethyst in a cup of wine, to nullify the poison. When
we know what that difference is, we will try to duplicate it in Moerta and give your land
back to you."

"That is most generous, Lady," the Warhawk's brother said, standing to give her
a deep, respectful bow.

For the next hour, Le'esha conferred with the Warhawk's brother, Lyon, over
the details of the plan. Mrillis watched the first man, who stayed silent, and considered
his accusations.

When Ceera woke up, Mrillis turned most of his attention to entertaining the
little girl and keeping her quiet. Besides, the talk of numbers and provisions and
arrangements for sailing from Wynystrys to Moerta bored him. He had one question,
and asked it as soon as the visitors left and Le'esha called the children out of their hiding
place.

"Why can't they just walk to Moerta?" he asked, on the heels of Le'esha
commending the children for being so good.

"Walk?" The Queen of Snows blinked, visibly caught off balance, and sat down
in her chair. Then she laughed. "You mean the tunnels that we use to travel between the
enclaves? Oh, my dear, do you know how far it is from the shores of Lygroes to the
shores of Moerta?"

"Magic makes the distance shorter," Mrillis said. Now he was confused. He
knew that if he rode a horse, it would take him one whole moon to travel from
Wynystrys, on the western shore of Lygroes, to the Stronghold, on the far northeastern
tip of the continent. Walking the tunnel from the Stronghold to the island, however,
took less than a day. He had never gone into the tunnel, but he had stood at the barred
door of the entrance. He knew the tingling in his fingertips and the whispering in the
back of his mind was his
imbrose
, reacting to magic at work.

"Yes, magic does make the distance shorter. And only those of Rey'kil blood,
with strong
imbrose
, can use the tunnels. There is no tunnel under the sea,
reaching to Moerta."

"We could build one."

"Hmm, yes, but how much power do you think it would take to dig a tunnel,
much less keep the weight of all that water and stone from crushing it?" Le'esha sighed
and smiled and reached out her arms to the children.

Ceera, who was sleepy again, crept up into her lap. Mrillis leaned into the
warmth of her arm around him and rested his elbows on the arm of her chair.

"I don't know," he admitted, after thinking a long while.

"That is knowledge you must grow into. Just as you will grow into whatever
talent the Estall has given you." She brushed a kiss on his forehead. "Once long ago, when
all Rey'kil had magic and power flowed like water, a tunnel reached from Moerta to
Lygroes. It is long gone, vanished or destroyed, I know not. As
imbrose
waned
in the World, there was not enough strength to keep the tunnel intact. As the World is
now, there is not enough power to build another tunnel, nor maintain it. There is only
so much
imbrose
available for the use of magic."