6

Whatever may be said of the Goddess, this much is certain: She enjoys a good joke. For proof of this, examine yourself or any other member of the human race closely—and then laugh along with Her.

“I thought you said it was just another fifteen miles.”

“Well, I thought it was . . . ”

“Maybe the river changed its banks.”

“The Stel? Unlikely. Maybe I got us lost.”

“Likely.”

The eight of them rode along through country that was becoming increasingly inhospitable. The gently rolling scrub country of southern Steldin had given way to near-desert terrain. It was afternoon, and hot. A steady, maddening east wind blew dust into their eyes, and into their horses’ eyes, down their collars and up their sleeves, into their boots and even into their undertunics. Even the most casual movement would sand some part of the body raw.

Herewiss sighed. For the past two hours or so Freelorn had been straining his eyes toward the horizon, swearing at himself for having lost the river. He had been abusing himself so skillfully that Herewiss, in exasperation, had joined in and helped him for a few minutes. Now he was regretting it.

“Lorn, Lorn, the Dark with it,” he said. “You can’t lose the Stel. If you just go east far enough, you’re bound to run into it.”

“It is possible,” Freelorn said tightly, “to lose just about anything.”

“Including your mind, if you work at it hard enough. Lorn, relax. Worse things could happen.”

“Oh?”

“Certainly. A cohort of Fyrd could find us. Or the Dark Hunt. Or the Goddess could sneeze and forget to keep the world in place, and we’d all go out like candles. Don’t be so grim, Lorn. It’ll work out all right.”

Freelorn’s poor Blackmane, half-blind with the dust, sneezed mightily and then bumped sideways into Sunspark. Herewiss’ mount didn’t respond, but Blackmane danced away with a whicker of scorched surprise, nearly throwing Freelorn out of the saddle. He regained his balance and looked suspiciously at the stallion.

“None of our horses care much for that one of yours,” he said. “What happened to Darrafed?”

“She’s home.”

“Dapple?”

“He was with me partway. I sent him back.”

“Is that safe?”

Herewiss laughed. “Safe? Dapple? He’ll probably rescue a princess on the way home.”

“Where did this one come from, then?”

“I don’t know,” Herewiss said, which was certainly the truth. “I found him.”

“I know that look,” Freelorn said. “You’ve got a secret.”

Herewiss said nothing, and tried to keep from smiling.

“Sorcerers,” Freelorn said in good-natured disgust. “Well, have it your way. Where the Dark is the river?!”

“It’ll be along. Lorn, you didn’t tell me. What were you doing in Madeil?”

“Oh . . . I was meeting a man who was supposed to know a way into the Royal Treasury at Osta. He had been there as a guard some years back, but he moved to Steldin when my father died and everything was going crazy.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Oh, yes. That was what we had been at the tavern for. It was about half an hour after he left that the guards came in.”

“Why were you still there?”

Freelorn looked guilty. “Well . . . it had been so long since any of us had a chance to get really drunk.”

“So you did it there in the middle of a city, with all those people around who you didn’t know? Lorn, you know you get talky when you’re drunk . . . What if you’d spilled something?”

Freelorn said nothing for a second, said it so forcefully that Herewiss went after the unspoken thought with his underhearing to try to catch it: . . . talk about being drunk, it said in a wash of anger, . . . what about Herelaf? And then it was smashed down by a hammer of Freelorn’s guilt. How can I think things like that? . . . Wasn’t his fault . . . 

Herewiss winced away. Even Lorn, he thought. And then, Goddess, did I do that? If this is the kind of thing I’d be doing with the Power, maybe I’m better without it.

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “Lorn, really.”

“No—you’re right, I guess. But we did find out about the way into the Treasury—there’s a passage off the river that no-one knows about.”

“What about the guards who are there?”

“There aren’t many left who know about it—all the lower-level people have been replaced by mercenaries, and many of the higher levels left in a hurry when Cillmod had me outlawed. They could see the way things were going to be. At present that entrance isn’t being guarded.”

“What sort of things do they have there?”

“No treasure, no jewellery—just plain old money. My contact said that there are usually about fourteen thousand talents of silver there at any one time.”

“What are you thinking of?”

“My Goddess, you have to ask?”

“No . . . not really. Lorn, do you think you have any chance to pull this off?”

Freelorn hesitated for a long moment. “Maybe.”

Caution?! Herewiss thought. He’s being cautious? I’m in trouble.

“Are you sure those are rocks?”

“Yes. Lorn, how many people do you think you’re going to need to get into the place?”

“Oh . . . my own group will be enough.”

Ten would be better, Herewiss thought glumly, and twenty better still. More realistic, surely. “Don’t do it,” he said out loud.

“Why not? It’s the perfect chance to get enough money to finance the revolution—”

“Your father should be an example to you,” Herewiss said tiredly, “that no-one supports a dead king.”

“A what?”

Herewiss sighed. “I’d like to see your plans before you go ahead and do it,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come with and help you. But Lorn!—I don’t believe that six people are going to be enough.”

“Seven—There’s the damn river!”

“Seven,” Herewiss said softly, watching Freelorn kick Blackmane into a gallop.

(Is he always so optimistic?) Sunspark asked.

(Usually more so.)

(Will not this additional foray keep you from getting back to the work you have to do?)

(Yes, it will—)

Herewiss thought about it for a moment. The timing, he thought, until now I had always thought it was coincidental. But the timing is just a little too close—oh, Dark. What can I do?

(What?)

(I was thinking to myself. Catch up with him, will you, Spark?)

(Certainly. That is the river ahead, by the way. I can feel the water. I hope there’s a bridge there; I’m not going to ford it in what they would consider the normal fashion.)

(So jump it, Spark. They’re already sure that you’re not quite natural; a spectacular leap won’t give much away at this point.)

They drew even with Freelorn again. “Look,” he shouted over the noise of the horses’ hooves. “there’s a house up ahead—”

“Where?”

“A little to the left. See it?”

“Uh—I think so. The dust makes it hard. Who would live out here, Lorn? There’s not a town or village for miles in any direction, and this is practically the Waste!”

“Maybe whoever lives there wants some peace and quiet.”

“Quiet, maybe. Peace? With the Waste full of Fyrd?”

“Well, maybe it isn’t, really. How would anyone know? If there’s nothing much living in the Waste, there can’t be Fyrd, either. Even Fyrd have to live on something.”

“It makes sense. There are so many stories—Lorn, that’s an awfully big house. It looks more like an inn to me.”

The rest of Freelorn’s people gradually closed with the two of them. “What’s the hurry?” yelled Dritt.

Freelorn pointed ahead. “Hot food tonight, I think—”

They slowed down somewhat as they approached the river. It was running high in its banks, for the thaw was still in progress in the Highpeaks to the south. Trees lined the watercourse for almost as far as they could see, from south to north. These were not the gnarled little scrub-trees of the desert country, but huge old oaks and maples and silver birches. Though they leaned backward a little on the western bank, their growth shaped by the relentless east wind of the Waste, they still gave an impression of striving hungrily for the water. Branches bright with flowers reached across the water to tangle with others just becoming green. Somewhere in the foliage a songbird, having recovered from the sudden advent of all these people, was trying out a few experimental notes.

“Is is an inn,” Freelorn said. “There’s the sign—though I can’t make out what’s on it. Let’s go.”

“Lorn,” Herewiss said, “how has your money been holding up?”

“I am so broke,” Freelorn said cheerfully, “that—”

“Never mind, I have a little. Lorn, you’re always broke, it seems.”

“Makes life more interesting.”

Usually for other people, Herewiss thought. Oh Dark! I’m cranky today.

“—and besides, if I spend it as fast as I get it, then no-one can steal it from me.”

“That’s a point.”

Herewiss frowned with concentration as he did the math in his head. Prices will probably be higher out here—say, three-quarters of an eagle or so—and there’s seven of us . . . so that’s . . . uhh . . . damn, I hate fractions! . . . well, it can’t be more than seven. Wonderful, all I have is five. Maybe the innkeeper’ll let us do dishes . . . 

The inn was a tidy-looking place of fieldstone and mortar, with three sleeping wings jutting off in various directions from the large main building. A few of the many windows of diamond-paned glass stood open, as did the door of the stable, which was set off from the inn proper: A neat path of white stone led down from the dooryard of the inn, past the inn sign, a neatly painted board that said ferry tavern, and down to the riverbank, where it met a little fishing pier. Just to the right of the pier was the ferry, a wooden platform attached to ropes and pulleys so that it could be pulled across from one side of the river to the other whether anyone was on it or not.

The place was marvelously pleasant after the long ride through the dry empty country. They dismounted and led their horses into the dooryard, savoring the shade and the cool fragrance of the air. The inn was surrounded by huge apple trees, all in flower. The only exception was the great tree that shaded the dooryard proper, a wide-crowned blackstave with its long trembling olive-and-silver leaves. Its flowers had already fallen, and carpeted the grass and gravel like an unseasonable snowfall.

“Goddess, what a lovely place,” Freelorn said.

“I just hope we can afford it. Well, go knock on the door and find out—”

“You have the money, you do it.”

“This is your bunch of people, Lorn—”

The door opened, and a lady walked out, and stood on the slate doorstep, drying her hands on her apron. “Good day to you!” she said, smiling. “Can I help you?”

They all stood there for a second or so, just appreciating her, before any of them began considering answers to the question. She was quite tall, a little taller even than Herewiss. The plain wide-sleeved shirt and breeches and boots she wore beneath the white apron did nothing to conceal her figure, splendidly proportioned. She was radiantly beautiful, with the delicate translucent complexion of a country girl and eyes as green as grass. What lines her face had seemed all from smiling, but her eyes spoke of gravity and formidable intelligence, and her bearing of quiet strength and power. She wore her coiled and braided hair like a dark crown.

“Ahem!” Freelorn said. “Uh, yes, maybe you can. We’re interested in staying the night—”

“Just interested?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not sure?—Is it a money problem?”

“Well, lady, not really,” Herewiss began, still gazing at her with open admiration. Oh my, he was thinking, I never gave much thought to having more than one loved at a time—but I might start thinking about it now. She’s like a tree, she just radiates strength—but she’s got flowers, too—

She looked back at him, a measuring glance, a look of calm assessment, and then smiled again. It was like day breaking. “It’s been a long time since anyone was here,” she said. “Let’s take it out in trade. If you’re agreeable, let one of you share with me tonight, and we’ll call it even. You’re leaving tomorrow, I take it—”

They nodded assent.

“Then it’s settled. Go on in, make yourselves comfortable. Two tubrooms on the ground floor if anyone wants a bath—I’ll help with the water after I’ve taken care of your horses. Dinner’s two hours before sunset. Go on, then!” she said, laughing, stepping down from the doorstep and shooing them like chickens. Bemused, Freelorn and his people started going inside.

Herewiss turned to lead Sunspark toward the stable. “No, no,” said the lady innkeeper, coming up beside him and reaching across Herewiss to take the reins.

“Uh, he’s a little—I’d better—” Herewiss started to say, watching in horror as Sunspark suddenly lifted a hoof to stomp on the lady’s foot.

“It’s quite all right,” the lady said, and hit Sunspark a sharp blow on the nose with her left fist. The elemental danced back a step or so, its eyes wide with surprise.

The lady smiled brightly at Herewiss. “I love horses,” she said, and led Sunspark away.

(Be nice!) Herewiss said.

(I think I’d better,) Sunspark replied, still surprised.

Herewiss followed the others inside and found them standing in a tight group in the middle of the cool dark common room, all talking at once. “All right, all right!!” Freelorn yelled over the din. “There is no way to arbitrate this; we’ll have to choose up for the chance.”

“How about a fast game of Blade-on-the-Table?” Dritt said.

“The Dark it would be fast—it would need six elimination hands, and I want my bath now. Besides, you cheat at cards. It’ll—”

“I do not!”

“—have to be lots. Look, there’s kindling over there, and some twigs; we’ll draw sticks for it.”

“Fine,” Moris said darkly, “and who holds the sticks?”

“I’m the only one I trust not to gimmick the draw, so—”

This observation was greeted with hoots of skepticism. “What about me, Lorn?” Herewiss said. Freelorn looked at him with an expression close to dismay.

“You’re right,” he said. “Go ahead, give them to him—he’s got an honest streak.”

Herewiss received the twigs and spent a few moments snapping them to equal lengths, all but one, which he broke off shorter. He turned back to the others. “Here.”

Freelorn chose first, and made an irritated face; his was long. “The river I didn’t mind losing so much,” he said, “but this—aagh!”

Dritt chose next, and came up long also, as did Moris and Lang after him. Then Segnbora chose.

“Dammit-to-Darkness,” Freelorn said, with immense chagrin. “Well, give her our best.”

Segnbora smiled, tossed the short stick over her shoulder for luck, picked up her saddlebags from the floor, and headed up the stairs to find herself a room. “See you at dinner,” she said.

“That could have been me,” said Harald softly. “If I’d just gone ahead of her . . . ” He followed Segnbora up the stairs.

Moris and Dritt went away, muttering, to raid the kitchen.

Lang kicked a chair irritably and went outside.

“I wish it had been me,” Freelorn said quietly.

“You’re not alone,” Herewiss put an arm around him, hugging him. “But, Lorn—how long has it been since we had a bath together?”

Freelorn regarded Herewiss out of the corner of his eye. “Years,” he said, smiling mischievously. “Though of course you remember what happened the last time—”

“Gee, I’m not sure, it was so long ago—”

“C’mon,” Freelorn said, “let’s go refresh your memory.”

Everyone who had good clothes to wear, or at least clean ones, wore them to dinner that night. They sat around the big oaken table down in the common room and admired one another openly in the candlelight. Herewiss wore the Phoenix surcoat, and Freelorn beside him wore a plain black one, still grumbling softly over the loss of his good Lion surcoat with the silver on it. Lang and Harald wore plain dark shirts with the White Eagle badge over the heart, for they had been Queen’s men at the Court in Darthis before taking up with Freelorn. Dritt wore a white peasant’s shirt bright with embroidery around the sleeves and collar, a farmer’s festival wear; while Moris beside him looked dark and noble in the deep brown surcoat of the North Arlene principality. Segnbora, down at the end of the table, was wearing a long black robe belted at the waist and emblazoned on one breast with a lion and upraised sword—the differenced arms of a cadet branch of one of the Forty Noble Houses of Darthen.

The food did justice to the festive dress. Dinner was cold eggs deviled with pepper and marigold leaves, roast goose in a sour sauce of lemons and sorrel, potatoes roasted in butter, and winter apples in thickened cream. Moris made a lot of noise about the eggs and the goose, claiming that the powerful spices and sours of Steldene cooking gave him heartburn; but this did not seem to affect the speed with which he ate. There also seemed to be an endless supply of wine, which the company didn’t let go to waste.

Once the food was served, the innkeeper took off her apron, sat down at the head of the table, and ate with them. In some ways she seemed a rather private person; she still had not told them her name. This was common enough practice in the Kingdoms, and her guests respected her privacy. But when she spoke it became obvious that she was a fine conversationalist, possessed of a dry wit of which Herewiss found himself in envy. She seemed most interested in hearing her guests talk, though, and was eager for news of the Kingdoms. One by one they gave her all the news they could remember: how the new Queen was doing in Arlen, the border problem with Cillmod, the great convocation of Dragons and Marchwarders at the Éorlhowe in North Arlen, the postponement of the Opening Night feast in Britfell fields . . . 

“Opening Night,” the innkeeper said, sitting back in her chair with her winecup in hand. “Four months ago, that would have been. And the Queen would have held the feast all by herself, without any Arlene heir in attendance, as her father did while he was still alive?”

“Evidently,” Freelorn said. Herewiss glanced at Lorn, watching him take a long, long swig of wine. There was nervousness in the gesture.

“Yet they say that the Lion’s Child is still abroad somewhere,” said the lady. “It’s strange, surely, that he never came forward in all that time to partake of the Feast, even secretly. It’s one of the most important parts of the royal bindings that keep the Shadow at bay, and the Two Lands from famine.”

“I hear he did show up at the Feast once,” Freelorn said. “Three years ago, I think. He just barely got away with his life.”

Herewiss had all he could do to hold still. So that’s where he was that winter—! And that’s where he got that swordcut that took so long to heal! ‘Robbers,’ indeed—

“—Cillmod had slipped some spies in among the Darthene regulars that went south with the King,” Freelorn was saying. “The King and the Lion’s Child had just gotten to the part of the Feast where royal blood is shed, when they both almost had all their blood shed for them. The King’s bodyguards killed the attackers—but Darthen was wounded, and as for Arlen—” Freelorn shrugged. “Once burned, twice shy. No-one has seen him at a Feast since. Nor did the King ask again. Evidently, Goddess rest him, he wanted to live out the year or so left him in peace, without bringing Arlen’s assassins down on his own head. What the new Queen will do—” And Freelorn took another long drink.

“If she can’t find the Lion’s Child,” said the innkeeper, “what she’ll do is moot. Now that she’s becoming secure on her throne, he might want to send her some certain word concerning his future participation in the Feast and the other bindings. Seven years is too long for the Two Lands to go without the royal magics being properly enacted. Disaster is just over the mountain, unless something’s done.”

“She can’t do anything anyway,” Lorn said disconsolately. “Any move on her part to support the Lion’s Child could antagonize the conservative factions in the Forty Houses. Their people are in an uproar over the poor harvests lately, and all they want is to avoid war with Arlen, or anyone else. If the Queen of Darthen gives Arlen’s heir asylum or supports him in any way, war is what she’ll have. Then she’ll go out into the Palace Square on Midsummer Morning next year, to hammer out her crown, and some hireling of the conservative Houses will put an arrow through her, and that’ll be the end of it—”

“A queen, like a king, is made for fame, not for long living,” the innkeeper said quietly.

Freelorn’s head snapped up. The suspicion that had been growing in Herewiss for some minutes now flowered into fear. She knows, she knows who he is! Oh, Lorn, why can’t you keep your mouth shut—!

“It’s possible,” Lorn said, so quietly that Herewiss could hardly hear him, “that the Lion’s Child isn’t too excited about dying in an ambush, or in someone’s torture-chamber. He may be able to do more good alive, even if he’s a long way from home.”

“That is between him and the Goddess,” the innkeeper said. “But as for the other, royalty is not about comfort or safety. Painful death, torture, many a king or queen of both the Lands have known them. It’s not so many centuries since the days when any king’s lifeblood might be poured out in the furrows any autumn, to make sure that a poor harvest wouldn’t happen again, that the next year his people wouldn’t starve. But that’s the price one agrees to pay, if necessary, when one accepts kingship. Put off the choice, and the land and the people that are both part of the ruler suffer. Who knows what good might have been done for the Two Lands, and all the Kingdoms, if the Lion’s Child had somehow found the courage to go through with that Feast three years ago, instead of panicking and fleeing when it was half-finished? He might not have died of the wound he took. He might be king now.”

“Yes,” Freelorn said, looking very thoughtful.

“And as for the Queen,” the innkeeper said. “it wouldn’t matter if that was ‘the end of it’ for her, would it? Even if she died in the act of one of the royal magics, she has heirs who will carry on after her. Heirs who know that the only reason for their royalty is to serve those bindings, and the people the bindings keep safe from the Shadow. But as to other heirs to Arlen, who knows where they may be? And who knows what the Lion’s Child is thinking, or doing?”

“The Goddess, possibly,” Lorn said.

“Men may change their minds,” the innkeeper said, “and confound Her. I doubt it happens often enough. But I suspect She’s usually delighted.”

Freelorn nodded, looking bemused.

Herewiss looked over at the innkeeper. She gazed back at him, a considering look, and then turned to Segnbora and began gossiping lightly with her about one of her relatives in Darthen.

Freelorn once again became interested in the wine, and Herewiss sighed and did the same. It was real Brightwood white, of three years before, from the vineyards on the north side of the Wood. A little current of unease, though, still stirred on the surface of his thoughts. Where is she getting this stuff? he wondered. It’s a long way south from the Wood, through dangerous country. And I’ve never heard mention of this place—which is odd—

There was motion at the end of the table; the lady had risen. “It’s been a pleasure having you,” she said. “I could go on like this all night—but I have an assignation.” She smiled, and Segnbora smiled back at her, and most of Freelorn’s people chuckled. “If one or two of you will help me with the dishes—maybe you two,” and she indicated Dritt and Moris, “since you obviously liked the looks of my kitchen earlier—”

Everyone got up and started to help clear the table—all but Herewiss, who hated doing dishes or tablework of any kind. Out of guilt, or some other emotion perhaps, he did remove one object from the table—the carafe full of Brightwood white. He went up the stairs with it, into the deepening darkness of the second story, feeling happily wicked—and also feeling sure that someone saw him, and was smiling at his back.

Herewiss’ room had a little hearth built of rounded riverstones and mortar. It also had something totally unexpected, a real treasure—two fat overstuffed chairs. Both of them were old and worn; they had been upholstered in red velvet once, but the velvet was worn pale and smooth from much use, and was unraveling itself in places. Herewiss didn’t care; they were both as good as kings’ thrones to him. He had pulled one of them up close to the fire and was sitting there in happy half-drunken comfort, toasting his stocking feet. The red grimoire was open in his lap, but the light of the two candles on the table beside him wasn’t really enough to read by, and he had stopped trying.

A steady presence of light at the far corner of his vision drew his attention. He looked up, and gazing across the bare fields saw the full Moon rising over the jagged stony hills to the east. It looked at him, the dark shadows on the silver face peering over the hillcrests at him like half-lidded eyes, calm and incurious.

He stared back for a moment, and then slumped in the old chair and reached out for the wine cup.

There was a soft knock at the door.

So comfortable was Herewiss that he didn’t bother to get up, much less reach for his knife. “Come in,” he said. The door edged open, and there was the innkeeper, cloaked in black against the night chill.

At sight of her Herewiss started to get up, but she waved him back into his seat. “No, stay put,” she said. Pulling the other chair over by the hearthside, she sat down, pushing aside her cloak and facing the fire squarely.

Herewiss let himself just look at her for a moment. Beauty, maybe, was the wrong word for the aura that hung about her, though she certainly was beautiful. Even as she sat there at her ease, she radiated a feeling of power, of assurance in herself. More than that—a feeling of certainty, of inevitability; as if she knew exactly what she was for in the world. It lent her an air of regality, as might be expected of someone who seemed to rule herself so completely. A queenly woman, enthroned on a worn velvet chair that leaked its stuffing from various wounds and rents. Herewiss smiled at his own fancy.

“Would you like some wine?” he said.

“Yes, please.”

He reached for another cup and poured for her. As he handed her the cup their hands brushed, ever so briefly. A shock ran up Herewiss’ arm, a start of surprise that ran like lightning up his arm and shoulder to strike against his breastbone. It was the shock that a sensitive feels on touching a body that houses a powerful personality, and Herewiss wasn’t really surprised by it. But it was very strong—

And he was tired, and probably oversensitive. He lifted his cup and saluted the lady.

“You keep a fine cellar,” he said. “To you.”

“To you, my guest,” she said, and pledged him, and drank. He drank too, and watched her over the rim of the cup. The fire lit soft lights in her hair; unbound, it was longer than he had expected, flowing down dark and shimmering past her waist. Some of it lay in her lap, night-dark against the white linen of her shift and the green cord that belted it.

“This is lovely stuff,” Herewiss said. “How are you getting it all the way down here from the Brightwood?”

The lady smiled. “I have my sources,” she said.

She lowered her cup and held it in her lap, staring into the fire. The wine was working strongly in Herewiss now, so that his mind wandered a little and he looked out the window. The Moon was all risen above the peaks now, and the two dark eyes were joined by a mouth making an “o” of astonishment. He wondered what the Moon saw that shocked her so.

“Herewiss,” the lady said, and he turned back to look at her. The expression she wore was odd. Her face was sober, maybe a little sad, but her eyes were bright and testing, as if there was an answer she wanted from him.

“Madam?”

“Herewiss,” she said, “how many swords have you broken now?”

Alarm ran through him, but it was dulled; by the wine, and by the look on her face—not threatening, not even curious, but only weary. It looked like Freelorn’s face when he asked the same question, and the voice sounded like Freelorn’s voice. Tired, pitying, maybe a bit impatient.

“Fifty-four,” he said, “about thirty or thirty-five of my own forging. I broke the last one the day I left the Wood.”

“And the Forest Altars were no help to you.”

“None. I’ve also spoken with Rodmistresses who don’t hold with the ways of the Forest Orders or the Wardresses of the Precincts, but there was nothing they could do for me either. But, madam, how do you know about this? No-one knew except for my father, and Lorn—”

He looked at her in sudden horror. Had Lorn been so indiscreet as to mention the blue Fire—

She shook her head at him, smiling, and was silent. For a while she gazed into the fire, and then said, “And how old are you now?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said, shortly, like an unhappy child.

The lady rubbed her nose and leaned back in her chair until her pose almost matched Herewiss’. “You feel your time growing short, I take it.”

“Even if I had control of the Power right now,” Herewiss said, “it would be starting to wane. I’d have, oh, ten years to use it if I didn’t overextend myself. Which I would,” he added, smiling a little at himself. “Oh, I would.”

“How so?” She was looking at him again, a little intrigued, a little bemused.

Herewiss drained his cup and stared into the fire. “Really! If I came into my Power, there I’d be, the first male since Earn and Héalhra to bear Flame. That is, if the first use didn’t kill me. Think of the fame! Think of the fortune!” He laughed a little. “And think of the wreaking,” he said, more gently, his face softening. “Think of the storms I could still, the lives I could save, the roads I could walk. The roads . . . ”

He poured himself another cup of wine. “The roads in the sky, and past it,” he said. “The roads the Dragons know. The ways between the Stars. Ten years would be too high an estimate. Better make it seven, or five. I’d burn myself out like a levinbolt.” He drank deeply, and set the cup down again. “But what a way to go.”

The lady watched him, her head propped on her hand, considering.

“What price would you be willing to pay for your Power?” she asked.

The question sounded rhetorical, and Herewiss, dreamy with wine and warmth, treated it as such. “Price? The Moon on a silver platter! A necklace of stars! One of the Steeds of the Day—”

“No, I meant really.”

“Really. Well, right now I’m paying all my waking hours, just about; or I was, before I had to get Freelorn out of the badger-hole he got himself stuck in. What more do I have to give?”

He looked at her, and was surprised to see her face serious again. Something else he noticed; there was an oddness about the inside of her cloak. . . . He had thought it as black within as without, but it wasn’t. As he strained his eyes in the firelight, there seemed to be some kind of light in its folds, some kind of motion, but faint, faint—He blinked, and didn’t see it, and dismissed the notion; and then on his next look he saw it again. A faint light, glittering—

No—it must have been the wine. He rejected the image.

The lady’s eyes were intent on him, and he noticed how very green they were, a warm green like sunlit summer fields. “Herewiss,” she said, her voice going very low. “your Name, would you give that for your Power?”

Of all the strange things he had heard so far, that startled him badly, and the wine went out of him as if someone had poured water on the small fire it had lit. “Madam, I don’t know my Name,” he said, and wondered suddenly what he had gotten himself into, wondered what kind of woman kept an inn out here on the borders of human habitation, all alone—

He looked again at the cloak, with eyes grown wary. It was no different. In the black black depths of it something shone, tiny points of an intense silvery light, infinite in number as if the cloak had been strewn with jeweldust, or the faint innumerable stars of Héalhra’s Road. Stars—?

She looked at him, earnest, sincere; but the testing look was also in her eyes, the look that awaited an answer, and the right one. A look that dared him to dare.

“If you knew it,” she said, “would you pay that price for your Power?”

“My Name?” he said slowly. Certainly there was no higher price that he could pay. His inner Name, his own hard-won knowledge of himself, of all the things he could be—

But he didn’t know it. And even if he had, the thought of giving his inner Name to another person was frightening. It was to give your whole self, totally, unreservedly; a surrender of life, breath and soul into other hands. To tell a friend your Name, that was one thing. Friends usually had a fairly good idea of what you were to begin with, and the fact that they didn’t use it against you was earnest of their trustworthiness. But to sell your Name to a stranger—to pay it, as a price for something—the thought was awful. Once a person had your Name, they could do anything to you—bind you to their will, take that Name from you and leave you an empty thing, a shell in which blood flowed and breath moved, but no life was. Or bind you into some terrible place that was not of this world. Or, horrible thought, into another body that wasn’t yours; man or beast or Fyrd or demon, it wouldn’t much matter. Madness would follow shortly. The possibilities for the misuse of a Name were as extensive as the ingenuity of malice.

But—

—to have the Power.

To have that blue Fire flower full and bright through some kind of focus, any kind. To heal, and build, and travel about the Kingdoms being needed. To talk to the storm, and understand the thoughts of Dragons, and feel with the growing earth, and run down with the rivers to the Sea. To walk the roads between the Stars. To be trusted by all, and worthy of that trust. To be whole.

Even as he sat and thought, Herewiss could feel the Power down inside him; feeble, stunted, struggling in the empty cavern of his self like a pale tired bird of fire. It fluttered and beat itself vainly against the cage-bars of his ribs every time his heart beat. Soon it wouldn’t even be able to do that; it would drop to the center of him and lie there dead, poor pallid unborn Otherlife. Whenever he looked into himself after that, he would see nothing but death and ashes and endings. And then soon enough he would probably make an end of himself as well—

“If I knew it,” he said, and his voice sounded strange and thick to him, fear and hope fighting in it, “I would. I would pay it. But it’s useless.”

He looked at the innkeeper and was faintly pleased to see satisfaction in her eyes. “Well then,” she said, pushing herself a little straighter in the chair, “I think I have a commodity that would interest you.”

“What?” Herewiss was more interested in her cloak.

“Soulflight.”

He stared at her, amazed, and forgot about the cloak. “How—where did you get it?”

“I have my sources,” she said, with a tiny twist of smile. She was watching him intently, studying his reactions, and for the moment Herewiss didn’t care whether she was seeing what she wanted to or not.

“Are you a seeress?” he asked.

She shrugged at him. “In a way. But I don’t use the drug. It fell into my hands, and I’ve been looking for someone to whom I might responsibly give it.”

For a bare second Herewiss’ mind reeled and soared, dreaming of what he could do with a dose of the Soulflight drug. Walk the past and the future, pass through men’s minds and understand their innermost thoughts, walk between worlds, command the Powers and Potentialities and speak to the dead—

But it was a dream, and though dreams are free, real things have their price. “How much do you have?”

“A little bottle, about half a pint.”

Herewiss laughed at her. “I would have to sell you the Brightwood whole and entire with all its people for that much Soulflight,” he said. “I’m only the Lord’s son, not the Queen of Darthen, madam.”

“I’m not asking for money,” she said.

“What then? How many times do I have to sleep with you?”

She broke out laughing, and after a moment he joined her. “Now that,” she said, “is a gallant idea, but unless you have the talisman of the prince who shared himself with the thousand virgins, I doubt you could manage it. Not to mention that I’d be furrowed like the fields in March, and I wouldn’t be able to walk for a month. How would I run the place?”

Herewiss, smiling, looked again at her cloak. The fire had died down somewhat, and he could see the stars more clearly—countless brilliantly blazing fires, burning silver-cold. He also perceived more clearly that there was a tremendous depth to the cloak, endless reaches of cool darkness going back away from him forever, though the cloak plainly ended at the back of the chair where the lady leaned on it.

He looked at her, dark hair, green eyes like the shadowed places about the Forest Altars, wearing the night. He knew with certainty who She was. Awe stirred in him, and joy as well.

“What’s the price, madam?” he said, opening himself to the surges building inside him.

“I’ll give you the drug,” she said, “if you will swear to me that, when you find out your inner Name, you’ll tell it to me.”

Herewiss considered the woman stretched out in the old tattered chair. “Why do you want to know it?”

She eased herself a little downward, looking into the fire again, and smiled. After a little silence she said, “I guess you could call me a patroness of sorts. Wouldn’t it be to my everlasting glory to have helped bring the first male in all these empty years into his Power? And as all good deeds come back to the doer eventually, sooner or later, I’d reap reward for it.”

Herewiss laughed softly. “That’s not all you’re thinking of.”

“No, it’s not, I suppose,” said the innkeeper. “Look, Herewiss; power, in all its forms, is a strange thing. Most of the power that exists is bound up, trapped, and though it tries to be free, usually it can’t manage it by itself. The world is full of potential Power of all kinds, yes?”

He nodded.

“But at the same time, loss of power, the death of things, is a process that not even the Goddess can stop. Eventually even the worlds will die.”

“So they say.”

Her face was profoundly sorrowful, her eyes shadowed as if with guilt. “The death is inevitable. But we have one power, all men and beasts and creatures of other planes. We can slow down the Death, we can die hard, and help all the worlds die hard. To that purpose it behooves us to let loose all the power we can. To live with vigor, to love powerfully and without caring whether we’re loved back, to let loose building and teaching and healing and all the arts that try to slow down the great Death. Especially joy, just joy itself. A joy flares bright and goes out like the stars that fall, but the little flare it makes slows down the great Death ever so slightly. That’s a triumph, that it can be slowed down at all, and by such a simple thing.”

“And you want to let me loose.”

“Don’t you want to be loose?”

“Of course! But, madam, forgive me, I still don’t understand. What’s in it for you?”

The lady smiled ruefully, as if she had been caught in an omission, but still admired Herewiss for catching her. “If I were the Goddess,” she said, “and I am, for all of us are, whether we admit it to ourselves or not—if I were She, I would look at you as She looks at all men, who are all Her lovers at one time or another. And I would say to Myself, ‘If I raise up that Power, free the Fire in him, then when the time comes at last that we share ourselves with one another, in life or after it, I will draw that strength of his into Me, and the Worlds and I will be the greater for it.’ And certainly it would be a great thing to know the Name of the first male to come into his Power, lending power in turn to me, so that I would be so much the greater for it . . . ”

Herewiss sat and looked for a moment at the remote white fires of the stars within the cloak. They seemed to gaze back at him, unblinking, uncompromising, as relentlessly themselves as the lady seemed to be.

“How do I know that you won’t use my Name against me if I ever do find it out?” he said, still playing the game.

The lady smiled at him gently. “It’s simple enough to guard against, Herewiss,” she said. “You have only to use the drug to find out Mine.”

The look of incalculable power and utter vulnerability that dwelt in her eyes in that moment struck straight through him, inflicting both amazement and pain upon him. Tears started suddenly to his eyes, and he blinked them back with great difficulty. Full of sorrow, he reached out and took her hand.

“None of us have any protection against that last Death, have we,” he said.

“None of us,” said the innkeeper. “Not even She. Her pain is greatest; She must survive it, and watch all Her creation die.”

Herewiss held her hand in his, and shared the pain, and at last managed to smile through it.

“If I find my Name, I will tell you,” he said. “I swear life by the Altars, and by Earn my Father, and by my breath and life, I’ll pay the price.”

She smiled at him. “That’s good,” she said. “I’ll give you the drug to take with you tomorrow morning.”

A silence rested between them for a few minutes; they rested within it.

“And if I should in my travels come across your Name,” Herewiss said, “well, it’ll be my secret.”

“I never doubted it,” she said, still smiling. “Thank you.”

For a while more they sat in silence, and both of them gazed into the fire, relaxed. Finally the lady stretched a bit, arching her back against the chair. The shimmer of starlight moved with her as she did so, endless silent volumes of stars shifting with her slight motion. She looked over at Herewiss with an expression that was speculative, and a little shy. He looked back at her, almost stealing the glance, feeling terribly young and adventurous, and nervous too.

“Let’s pretend,” he said, very softly. “that you’re the Goddess—”

“—and you’re My Lover—? Why not?”

“Why not indeed? After all, You are—”

“—and You are—”

—and for a long time, They were.

Something awoke Herewiss in the middle night. He turned softly over on his side, reaching out an arm, and found only a warm place on the bed where She had been. Slowly and a little sadly he moved his face to where Hers had lain on the pillow, and breathed in the faint fragrance he found there. It was sweet and musky, woman-scent with a little sharpness to it; a subtle note of green things growing in some patterned place of running waters, sun-dappled beneath birdsong. He closed his eyes and savored the moment through his loneliness; felt the warmth beneath the covers, heard the soft pop of a cooling ember, breathed out a long tired sigh of surrender to the sweet exhaustion of having filled another with himself. And despite the empty place beneath his arm, that She in turn had filled so completely with Herself, still he smiled, and loved Her. With all the men and women in the world to love, both living and yet unborn, She could hardly spend much time in one place, or seem to.

He got up, then, moving slowly and carefully with half-closed eyes so as not to break the pleasant half-sleep, half-waking state he was experiencing. Herewiss wrapped a sheet around himself, went out of the room and padded ghost-silent down the hall to listen at the next door down. Nothing. He pushed the door gently open, went in, closed it behind him. Lorn was snoring faintly beneath the covers.

Herewiss eased into the bed behind Freelorn, snuggled up against his back, slipped an arm around his chest; Freelorn roused slightly, just enough to hug Herewiss’ arm to him, and then started snoring again.

Herewiss closed his eyes and sank very quickly into sleep, dreaming of the shadowed places in the Brightwood, and of serene eyes that watched eternally through the leaves.

When Herewiss came down to breakfast, Freelorn was there before him, putting away eggs and hot sugared apples and guzzling hot minted honey-water as if he had been up for hours. This was moderately unusual, since Freelorn almost never ate breakfast at all. More unusual, though, was the fact that he was up early, and looked cheerful—he was usually a later riser, and grumpy until lunch time.

Herewiss sat down next to him, and Freelorn grunted by way of saying hello. “Nice day,” he said a few seconds later, around a mouthful of food.

“It is that.” Herewiss looked up to see Dritt and Moris come in together. Dritt was humming through his beard, though still out of tune, and Moris, usually so noisy in the mornings, went into the kitchen silently, with a look on his face that made Herewiss think of a cat with more cream in his bowl than he could possibly finish.

Herewiss reached over to steal Freelorn’s mug, and a gulp’s worth of honey-water. “Is she making more?”

Freelorn nodded. “Be out in a minute, she said.”

Segnbora came down the stairs, pulled out the chair next to Herewiss, and sat down with a thump. She looked a little tired, but she smiled so radiantly at Herewiss that he decided not to ask her how it had been.

“Did you give her our best?” Freelorn asked, cleaning his plate.

“It was mutual, I think.”

Freelorn chuckled. “I dare say. Where are Lang and Harald?”

“They’ll be down—they were washing up a few minutes ago.”

“Good. We should get an early start—if we’re going to find this place of yours, I want to hurry up about it. And I would much rather see it in daylight.”

“Lorn, I doubt it’s any worse at night.”

“Everything is worse at night. With one exception.”

“Is that all you ever think about?”

“Well, there is something else, actually. But it’s easier to make love than it is to make kings.”

Lang came thumping down the stairs and sat down across from Segnbora. “How was it?”

“Oh please! It was fine.”

“This hold,” Lang said, “will we be seeing it tomorrow?”

“If the directions I got are right.”

(They are,) Sunspark said from the stable. (Tomorrow easily. I can feel the place from here.)

“Before nightfall?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“I wish you people wouldn’t worry so much,” Herewiss said. “It’s not haunted, as far as I can tell.”

“—which can’t be far. Nobody will go near the place! Morning, Harald.”

“Morning,” Harald sat down across from Herewiss. “How was she, then?”

Segnbora sighed at the ceiling. “She was fine. Twice more and I can stop repeating myself . . . ”

“Can you blame us for being curious? I mean, a lady like that—” But as Lang said it, the smile on his face caught Herewiss’ eye. A little reflective, that smile, and a little reminiscent, almost wistful . . . 

The kitchen door swung open, and Dritt and Moris and the innkeeper came out laden with trays; more eggs, more steaming honey-water and hot apples, with a huge bowl of wheat porridge and a pile of steamed crabs from the river. They put the things down, and as the grabbing and passing commenced, Herewiss looked over the heads of Freelorn’s people to catch the lady’s eye.

She was back in her work-day garb, the plain homespun shirt and breeches, the boots, the worn gray apron; her hair was braided again into a crown of coiled plaits. Though she was no less beautiful, she seemed to have doffed her power, and Herewiss began to wonder whether much of their night encounter mightn’t have been a dream provoked by good wine. But she returned his glance, and smiled, winking at him and patting one of her pockets, which bulged conspicuously. Then back she went into the kitchen.

Herewiss reached for a mug of honey-water, and a plate to put eggs on.

“How was it?” Dritt said to Segnbora.

Segnbora smiled grimly and put a fried egg down his shirt.

When it was time to go, they gathered outside the door that faced the ferry, and the innkeeper brought out their horses. First Lang’s and Dritt’s, then Harald’s and Moris’s, and then Segnbora’s and Freelorn’s. Herewiss watched as the lady spoke a word or two in Segnbora’s ear, and when Segnbora smiled back at her, shyly, with affection, Herewiss felt something odd run through him. A pang, a small pain under the breastbone. He laughed at himself, a breath of ruefulness and amusement. Why am I feeling this way? Am I so selfish that I can’t stand the thought of someone else sharing Her the same night I did? What silliness. After last night, I’m full in places I didn’t even know were empty. Such joy—to know that the Goddess Who made the world and everything in it is holding you and telling you that She loves you, all of you, even the parts that need changing—I should rejoice with Segnbora, for from the look on her face this morning, she has known the joy too . . . 

The lady brought out Sunspark last of all. To judge by the arch of his neck and the light grace of his walk, he was in remarkably good temper. When Herewiss took the reins, the lady bent her head close to his.

“It’s in the saddlebag,” she said. “Remember me.”

“I will.”

“I’ll remember you. You understand me—somewhat better than most.” And she smiled at him; a little reflective, that smile, a little reminiscent, almost wistful . . . 

Herewiss swung up on to Sunspark’s back; the others were already ahorse, awaiting him.

“Good luck to you all,” said the innkeeper. “and whatever your business is in the Waste, I hope you come back safe.”

They bade her farewell in a ragged but enthusiastic chorus, and rode off to the ferry. There was not much talk among them until they crossed the river; though Sunspark bespoke Herewiss smugly as they waited for the second group to make the crossing.

(The lady is likely to lose her guests’ horses, the way she keeps her stable,) it said.

(Oh?)

(She left my stall open. Did you know there are wild horses hereabouts?)

(It wouldn’t surprise me.)

(And what horses! Look.)

Herewiss closed his eyes and slipped a little way into Sunspark’s mind. It was twilight there, and the plain to the west was softly limned and shadowed by the rising Moon. And standing atop a rise like a statue of ivory and silver, motionless but for the wind in the white mane and the softly glimmering tail, there was a horse. A mare.

(How beautiful,) Herewiss said. (So?)

(It was an interesting evening.)

(I thought you didn’t understand that kind of union,) Herewiss said.

(The body has its own instincts, it would seem,) Sunspark answered, with a slow inward smile. (It will be interesting to try on a human body and see what happens . . . )

Herewiss withdrew, with just a faint touch of unease. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved in the experiment that Sunspark was proposing.

(But there was something more to it all than that,) Sunspark went on, sounding pleased and puzzled both at once. (When first I saw . . . her . . . I thought she was of my own kind, for she was fire as well. And I was afraid, for I am not yet ready for that union which ends in glory, in the dissolution of selves and the emergence of progeny. Yet . . . there was union . . . and a glory even surpassing that of which I have been told. And I am still one . . . )

(What happened to the mare?)

(Oh, she lived,) Sunspark said with a flick of its golden tail.

(By your standards or by mine?)

(Yours. Even had things not gone as they did, I would have been far too interested to have consumed her.)

(I’m glad to hear it . . . )

Herewiss opened his eyes to watch Segnbora, Dritt, and Freelorn approach, pulling on the ferry-rope. Dritt was facing back toward the opposite bank, looking at the lone figure that stood and watched them. Experimentally, Herewiss reached out with his underhearing. He caught a faint wash of sorrow from Dritt, overlaid and made bearable by an odd sheen of bright memory. Then the perception was gone.

Something was strange. When the group was assembled again and once more riding eastward into the rocky flats, Herewiss rode up to Freelorn’s side and beckoned him apart.

“A personal question, Lorn—” he said softly.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did what?”

“Sleep with her last night.” He said it a little guiltily, shooting a glance at Segnbora out of the corner of his eye. “Before she did, I guess. And let me tell you, she was—”

“Please, Lorn.”

“Listen, I didn’t—I mean—”

“Lorn, how long has it been since something like that mattered with us? You love me. I know that. I have no fears.”

“Yes, well . . . ”

“Besides,” Herewiss said, grinning wickedly. “so did I.”

Freelorn laughed. “She gets around, doesn’t she?”

“It looks that way.”

“Just out of curiosity—what time was it when you—”

“About Moonrise—yes, I remember the Moon coming up. I had a lot of wine, but that much is—Lorn, what’s wrong?”

Freelorn was shaking his head and frowning. “Couldn’t have been.”

“Couldn’t have been what?”

“Moonrise. Because she was with me at Moonrise.”

Herewiss sat there and felt it again—that odd hot thrill of excitement, of anticipation. But different, somehow sharper in the daylight than it had been in the twilight.

“Segnbora,” he called.

She reined Steelsheen back and joined them. “What, then?”

“This is a little personal, granted—”

“And I didn’t save any eggs. Oh, well.”

“No, no. I was just wondering. What time was it when you and the lady were together?”

“Now it’s funny you should mention that—”

“Oh?”

“—because I just overheard Dritt discussing that same subject with Harald. And he was saying that the lady had visited him about the time the Moon came up, and I was . . . thinking . . . ”

She looked at them for a long few seconds, and Freelorn blushed suddenly and became very interested in Blackmane’s withers. Herewiss watched Segnbora. She stared for a few seconds at the reins she held, and then looked over at him again.

“It was the Bride, then.”

He nodded.

When she spoke again, the sound of her voice startled Herewiss. Her words went gentle with awe, and Herewiss had heard women take the Oath to the Queen of Silence with less reverence, less love. “You didn’t ask,” she said, “and I will tell you. No sharing I have ever known was like last night. Oh, give as you will, there’s only so much that can be shared in one evening, or one day, before the body gives out, gets sore, gets tired. There’s always some one place left uncherished, some corner of the heart not touched, or not enough—and you shrug and say, ‘Oh, well, next time.’ And next time that one place may be caressed to satisfaction, but others are missed. You make your peace with it, eventually, and give all you can so that your own ignored places feel warmer for the giving. But last night—oh, last night. All, all of me, all the depths, the corners, the little fantasies I never dared to—the sheer delight, to open up and know that there’s no harm in the sharing anywhere, only love—” She turned her face away; Herewiss could feel her filling up with tears. “To have Her slide into bed behind me,” Segnbora said quietly, “and put Her arms around me, and hold my breasts in Her warm hands, and then slip down a little and kiss the lonely place between my shoulderblades that always wanted a kiss, and never got one. And without asking . . . ”

She smiled, and let the tears fall.

Freelorn looked up at Herewiss again, and he was smiling too. “It was like that,” he said. “Funny, though, I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”

“She never comes to share Herself when you expect Her,” Herewiss said. “That’s half the joy right there.”

Freelorn nodded.

“How She must love us,” Herewiss said. “To share with us all, to give us so very much—I can’t understand it. Just for my own part, even. What incredible thing have I done, or will I do, to earn—to deserve such, such blessing, so much love . . . ”

“You’re reason enough,” Freelorn said, very quietly. “And, besides, She cherishes what’s returned. What could we possibly give the Mother that She couldn’t make better Herself, except love? She could make us love Her—but it wouldn’t be the same.”

Herewiss reached out and took Freelorn’s hand. “I was thinking mostly in terms of you, Lorn.”

Freelorn chuckled, squeezed Herewiss’ hand hard. “And anyway,” he added after a moment, “She can afford to be generous. They say that most of the time She drives a hard bargain.”

Herewiss looked down at his front saddlebag, and at the slight bulge in it.

“That’s what I hear,” he said.