The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of The Year of the Red Door)

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 1

The Bellringer

Volume 2

The Nature of a Curse

Volume 3

A Distant Light

Volume 4

The Dreamwalker

Volume 5

To Touch a Dream

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 2

The Nature of a Curse

"For whosoever discovers the Name of the King

so shall he become King."

Copyright Page

The Nature of a Curse

Volume 2 of The Year of the Red Door

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-944320-46-1

Smashwords Distribution

Copyright © 2017

by William Timothy Murray

All Rights Reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For permissions, review copies, or other inquiries, write to:

Penflight Books

P.O Box 857

125 Avery Street

Winterville, Georgia 30683-9998

USA

[email protected]

Be sure to visit:

www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

pfbrev18/1

Publisher's Note

This electronic version of the Second Edition comes with significant enhancements over previous versions. In addition to minor corrections within the text itself, there is also included a glossary at the end of this book. Besides definitions, the glossary also contains links to maps that are also included within this book. The maps themselves have been revised and have coordinates to help you easily find items referenced in the glossary.

Depending on your particular reading device, smartphone, or reading app, you may be able to zoom or enlarge the maps included. If that is not possible with your device, links are provided to the website (www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com) where you can view the maps on your browser.

We have provided the glossary and the maps at the suggestion of our readers, all of whom we sincerely thank. And we hope that all readers, old and new, will make use of and enjoy this enhanced edition.

Penflight Books  

Preface

Welcome to The Year of the Red Door.   For those of you who are curious, I invite you to visit the accompanying web site,

www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com.

There you will find maps and other materials pertaining to the story and to the world in which the story takes place.

The road to publishing The Year of the Red Door has been an adventure, with the usual ups and downs and rough spots that any author may encounter. The bumps and jostles were considerably smoothed by the patient toil of my editors who were, I'm sure, often frustrated by a cantankerous and difficult client.   Nonetheless, I have upon occasion made use of their advice, which was sometimes delivered via bold strokes, underlines, exclamation points, and a few rather cutting remarks handwritten across the pristine pages of my manuscripts. Therefore, any errors that you encounter are due entirely to my own negligence or else a puckish disregard of good advice.

For those of you who might be a bit put off by the scope and epic length of this story, I beg your indulgence and can only offer in my defense a paraphrase of Pascal (or Twain, depending on your preference):

I did not have time to write a short story, so I wrote a long one instead.

The Author   

To

Albert and Billie

Prologue

The White Dragon

Dalvenpar Tallin, Robby and Ullin's uncle, was killed in the Dragonlands years before Ullin was even born. He died during a shoddy retreat from what proved a disastrous invasion of the desert lands. Crying Remember Tulith Attis! the attackers managed to sack and pillage the Green Citadel, one of the chief cities of the northern desert provinces. Although the invading forces would be defeated and ultimately repelled, few lessons would be learned from either side, and history would repeat itself in but a few years.

However, six weeks after the useless death of Dalvenpar Tallin and so many others, a group of seven mysterious riders moved along the final stretch of dusty track toward Kajarahn, the Free City in the northwestern desert. They were mysterious because they were dressed in black robes and coverings, such as assassins of the city sometimes wore, and they rode under no banner or standard. The guards of the city saw them while they were still far off, wavering in the heat, and they examined them carefully with their spyglasses. They were not renegades, clearly, since they rode handsome horses and were all dressed alike. No, not renegades, but it was unusual, and risky, not to ride under some banner, for without the protection of a powerful or influential house, few travelers stood much of a chance within the city, unless of course, they had plenty of gold for bribes. Indeed, soon enough, each guard held several coins of Dragonkind gold, and their captain a double amount, and the visiting riders were permitted to enter. They knew their way, and rode on through the bazaar and past the fine palace of the ruling lord of the city. They continued on beyond the gardens and baths and rode into the district of the town where merchants lived. They entered a small courtyard, and as the clatter of horse-hooves bounced from the surrounding walls, the owner of the house, seeing them from a window, hurried his wife and his young son into hiding. He then girded a sword and rushed out with many of his servants to challenge the arrivals. The son broke away from his mother, picked up his own small sword, and ran to join his father. The merchant glowered at the boy, but it was too late to send him back in, and he turned his attention to his unexpected visitors. The lead rider dismounted, approached, and bowed low.

Peace, said the dusty stranger, loosening the coverings from around his face.

I hope it is in peace that you come, said the merchant, bowing curtly. Pray, who are you? And why do you disturb my home's tranquility?

Forgive us, good sir, said the stranger, bowing again, but we come at our master's bidding. You may call me Tareef. Are you not Emal the Merchant?

I am. And is your master so low that you dare not ride with his standard? asked the merchant sharply, eyeing the stranger and the others who came with him. His keen eye did not miss much, not the bearing of the strangers before him, the make of their saddles, the cut of their robes and light armor, nor the workmanship of their sword-hilts or even the stitching on the stranger's gloved hand. He saw clearly that these were no ordinary men since, for Dragonkind soldiers, they were fine of frame and had little sign of the desert sickness. Only a powerful master could provide the darakal elixir in such amounts to make his servants so strong. He also noted that a long bundled object, perhaps seven feet long, was strapped to the side of one of the horses. Tareef sensed the merchant's assessment, and he seemed oddly at ease with it.

I assure you that we are here on peaceful business, he said to Emal, but it is such that our master must keep to himself, as much as may be possible, as you may soon understand. He, our master, says that Emal of Kajarahn is a shrewd merchant and a wise trader. Furthermore, he says that Emal is an honest man who lives not in the way of so many of this city, but is proud to have his fortunes rest with his own acumen and skill rather than upon swindles and lying.

Emal's eyes narrowed. His son stepped up.

The flattery and praise of strangers has no merit but is to soften the cheat which follows! the boy declared defiantly.

Radasa! Emal said harshly, pushing the boy back. Know your place to speak when spoken to! I beg you forgive my son's outburst. I fear he listens to the sayings of his father too much, but has not yet learned the wisdom of silence.

Tareef only grinned and looked from the boy back to the father.

I bring a commission for transport, he said as he produced a small folded parchment and offered it to Emal. Emal studied it for a long moment, then squinted back at Tareef.

What your master asks will be difficult to do without arousing many questions, he said. And it is a long way to go and will require many bribes. The only roads north are closed to our kind since the great battle of Calamandor, so I must commission trustworthy northmen to carry out this task.

My master quite understands the difficulties, said Tareef, gesturing to one of his comrades nearby. Immediately two saddlebags were brought. The stranger took one and removed from it a purse and handed it to Emal.

There is here twenty such purses to defray your costs and to yield some profit to yourself and to those you deem trustworthy to undertake this commission.

Emal nodded as he looked inside the purse. Then Tareef handed him the saddlebag.

As well, I am instructed to also give you this, he said, holding out the other, much lighter saddlebag to Emal. Emal gave Radasa the first saddlebag, so heavy that the boy had to hastily put away his sword so that he could hold the bag with both arms. Then Emal took the second saddlebag that was offered, undid the flap, and looked within. His expression went from puzzlement to surprise then to astonishment. Inside was enough refined darakal to supply his family with the precious life-saving elixir for two years at least. Emal quickly closed the flap and glanced around to be sure no one else nearby had seen its contents.

A king's ransom, he said, gesturing at the bag his son held, but meaning the one he himself still clutched. And the object to be transported and delivered?

Tareef turned and gestured to his men. They quickly untied the long object from the horse, and two of them brought it forward, handling it with great care. It appeared to be a thin carpet, rolled and tied within a sheet of heavy linen. The two men placed it gently and ceremoniously on the ground before him. Then they bowed and backed away. Emal noted that they bowed to the object and not to him.

I pray you deliver this on behalf of my master, said Tareef. And that you see to it that his note is included with it.

Emal took the note and read it.

I do not understand it, Emal said.

It is not for you to understand, said Tareef. Does my master have an accord with you for the transportation of this object to the destination that he stipulates?

Tareef held out his hand. Emal slowly reached out and took it, holding it for a long moment, making sure of the sincerity in Tareef's eyes.

It shall be the honor of my House to do so, he said at last, bowing. Rest assured, it shall not be tampered with in any way, nor shall it be examined by anyone acting on behalf of this House.

At this, Tareef bowed very low, putting his hand to his breast. He looked at the boy, at Emal, then down at the long bundle on the ground before turning and climbing back into his saddle as his men did likewise. Just as he started to rein away, Emal stepped up.

I hope, he said, not too loudly, that all is well in Almedian.

For the first time, Tareef frowned.

I do not know what you mean, sir.

Emal nodded and backed away. Tareef turned his horse around, then paused.

But, he said to Emal, should I pass that way, I shall relay your good wishes. Peace!

And with that, the secretive riders rode away, disappearing from the courtyard and down the street.

Father, asked Radasa, who were those men? And what is this thing they wish you to send northward?

Emal slung the light saddlebag over his shoulder, took the heavy one from his son, and said, Take the other end of it, son, and we shall carry it in together.

My lord, said one of the servants, stepping up, allow us to carry this thing!

No. My son and I will see to it. You may dismiss everyone back to their work.

Emal and Radasa lifted the long object and carried it into the house, up the stairs, and into Emal's bedroom. Hearing them enter, Emal's wife emerged tentatively from her closet as the two were putting the object down on the floor. With a finger held up, Emal stopped her questions and turned to Radasa.

My son, hear me. You are not to ask after this object again, nor may you ask after those men or who their master might be, Emal said.

But, Father—

Listen to me! Emal said gently. Only you and your mother are of greater worth than this object. But if any surmise what this thing is, or that you might know who this comes from, or where it is bound for, they will do cruel things to you and to your mother to make you tell all that you know. Even friends of this House would do so, I fear! By taking this commission, I place our House in great danger for the rest of its days, and all its servants likewise, long past the end of my own life. So I must keep it a secret from you and from your mother, insomuch as I can. And I will say this, too: I marked those men correctly, and I would do this for their lord merely for the asking, and I would consider my purse brimming with the pride of doing so. Count yourself blessed if ever you should have such esteem for another!

Father, said the son, I know where Almedian is. And who lives there.

Ah. Emal, distressed, glanced at his wife. I see you have been at your maps. Very well, then. Let your lips be sealed!

• • •

It was three weeks later that Emal completed the arrangements. The long object was carefully rolled into yet another carpet and sent northward in a shipment of goods bound for Vanara. Indeed, only goods from Kajarahn could make it out of the desert and into the north, unless they were goods taken as spoils of war, for Kajarahn was far from the centers of power, and its status as a Free City meant that trade could take place between its merchants and any they chose to deal with, be they Dragonkind, Man, or Elifaen, as long as payment was had and tribute was given. So it was a large, well-armed party of Men who departed Kajarahn with the long bundle that Emal sent north, Men who were paid well to defend their goods from renegades and Dragonkind soldiers alike, and who would also defend their goods from the Elifaen should they attack the train in the mountains. Their arms were put to use, too, for hardly had the train entered the foothills than they were attacked by renegades. But Emal's men were zealous in their duty and determined in the defense of their goods, and they beat back the robbers easily. An early snow made their way treacherous, so it was another month before the company made it through the mountains to Ladentree, in the western reaches of Vanara. In Ladentree, Emal's representative and long-time trading partner took charge of the goods, disposing of them according to Emal's careful and well-paid-for instructions. Thus the bundle from Emal, seemingly an ordinary carpet, was crated and sent eastward to the icy River Strayborn, and then by boat down to the River Iridelin where the crate was loaded onto a southbound barge destined for Altoria.

It remained in the Altorian port city of Draymoor for two months until it departed within the hold of the Selkie, a Glarethian merchantman. The ship made the passage to Solsorna, in Masurthia Realm, in good time, and was shortly afterwards back at sea, laden with trade goods and manned by a crew that was eager to see their families once again in far away Glareth by the Sea. Winter storms battered the Selkie, forcing it into Forlandis of Tracia Realm for almost two weeks. A few days after departure, the ship was again almost lost when it was nearly driven into the rocks of Grisland Strait by a sudden violent squall and was only saved by its quick-thinking captain, who ordered a bow anchor dropped, which spun the Selkie into the wind and permitted its crew time to reef its sails. The squall passed, the ship safely cleared those treacherous waters, and the crew made good sail with fair winds so that the heavily laden ship lumbered easily northward. Two weeks after departing Forlandis, the Selkie docked at Colleton on the coast of the Old Eastlands Realm. By now it had been over five months since the contents of the crate began its journey.

In Colleton, the crate and much of the cargo in the ship's hold were unloaded and stored in a warehouse along with many other goods to await the passing of winter and early spring rains so that the roads might be better for transport wagons. Eventually, the roads cleared of snow and ice, and spring mud dried away. So it was early summer before the crate was uncovered within the warehouse and then consigned, along with many other goods, to a wagoneer for transport overland. Thus the crate slowly bounced and jogged across the Old Eastlands countryside, passing through one town or village and the next. The wagoneer stopped at virtually each and every hamlet to barter and to trade, and the long crate at the bottom of his wagon was shifted around, shoved over, covered and uncovered by various sacks, boxes, and bundles as he went. The season passed by as he traded and negotiated his way westward, driving through broad croplands and teeming woods and camping under starlight when no inn or barn was near. At last, in early autumn, the wagoneer came to the Saerdulin River. Crossing over by way of a ferry, he made his way up the Old South Road along the river and turned west again before reaching Passdale to carry the battered and travel-bruised crate on the final leg of its journey. He thus arrived in Tallinvale almost a year to the day after its contents were delivered to Emal in Kajarahn.

The housekeeper of Tallin Hall accepted the shipment, and he had it brought into the grand foyer while a footman went to notify his lord of the arrival of the unexpected item. Lord Tallin entered the foyer as workmen waited with their tools.

What can this be? asked Lord Tallin.

Shall we open it and see, my lord? asked the housekeeper.

By all means.

Soon enough the crate's lid was removed and from it was taken a long roll of what appeared to be thin, low-quality carpet. But when they unrolled it and found yet another bundled roll of thin carpet, they were further baffled.

Perhaps these rugs are for the Hall? Lord Tallin asked.

Not any that I have ordered, said the housekeeper. They appear entirely unsuitable, if I may say so. The wagoneer said that it came from Colleton.

Meanwhile, at the housekeeper's gesture, the bindings on the second carpet were untied, and, as it was unraveled, they were all surprised when a long pole rolled out of it and across the floor, its metal caps ringing. In its wake unfurled a long green standard, hemmed in gold, with a white dragon finely embroidered upon it. Tallin stared as the servants backed away.

Gurasa, he muttered.

For years, tales of this name had filtered north out of the Dragonlands, tales of glory told on the lips of captured Dragonkind, stories breathed with fear by renegades in the badlands of the desert, and exploits related by smugglers and mercenaries. Gurasa. He who smote the rebellious Dragonkind generals that defied their Emperor. Gurasa, who swept across the fabled southern deserts like a sandstorm, scouring the land free of criminals and discontents, annihilating larger armies by dint of his cunning and bravery. It was said that no army that marched under Gurasa's banner would ever know defeat. A green banner emblazoned with a white dragon. The battle standard of Gurasa, who had once been a guest of this very Hall.

Seeing a bit of parchment wrapped around the pole's base and tied with twine, the housekeeper tentatively unfastened it and handed the curled paper to Lord Tallin. Tallin took it absently, his eyes still fixed by those of the white dragon, his mind full of the image of his eldest son, whose death had only recently been reported to him. Dalvenpar died, he had been informed, when a truce between Gurasa and the forces retreating from the Green Citadel was broken. Lord Tallin had too many questions, ones that would never be answered for him. Finally, he broke his gaze and looked at the small note. Upon it were written only five words, brushed in a careful, almost delicate hand with distinctive flourishes.

In exchange for one ring.

Part I

Chapter 1

Micerea

Not far from Janhaven, in the rustic environs of Mr. Furaman's stockade, within the meeting room of the main building, the small group of Robby's friends, along with his mother, made a decision. By doing so, though it was farthest from their intent, they made themselves traitors of the King, rebels against the ruler of Duinnor, forming a secret pact around a secret purpose. Though they agonized over their deliberations, and remained baffled by the revelations that led them on, afterwards it seemed inevitable that they should make the plan they made. It was as if it had been written somewhere long beforehand, and they were only fulfilling some prior design. And though it was outrageous in its audacity, given the circumstances as well as the facts brought to light by their discussions, there seemed little else to do.

It was resolved, then, that Robby would depart Janhaven along with his companions to seek out the hidden place called Griferis, if it still existed, and there to try himself against the tests of kingship and to be judged of his worthiness to become King of Kings, Lord over all the Realms. If possible, Duinnor would be warned of the treachery of the Tracian Redvests, of their invasions and of the alliance with the Dragonkind. And if the present King chose not to act and refused aid to the east, or if he failed to prepare for the defense of the other realms, a New King might be the remedy.

As the weight and implications of this conspiracy fell upon the group, Sheila and Billy became taciturn. Mirabella retained a pale look of fear, and Ullin was far away in thought. Robby and Ashlord merely looked at each other, sympathetic to the group and the mood that had settled over them, each unwilling to break the silence. For what seemed a long while, they abided quietly, turning over their own thoughts until Frizella Bosk arrived, and she clearly saw the strained faces. But she had her own concerns, and she explained that help was needed to distribute firewood to their people. As Ullin and Robby moved to the door, Billy told her briefly, what they had been discussing, mentioning nothing about kingship, but only that they needed to go to Duinnor for help, and he promised to tell more after they had gotten the wood delivered. Frizella, seeing that Mirabella and Ashlord had no desire to leave just yet, asked Sheila if she would help her with the sick until they could be settled somewhere. And so Ullin and Billy and Robby went to join Ibin, already at work chopping and sawing and splitting. Sheila went with Frizella to tend the sick and wounded, relieving some of the other women so that they could rest, asking everyone along the way if they had seen Raenelle, Frizella's missing daughter. But none had.

Ashlord stirred the fire, his back to the table, letting Mirabella mull through her thoughts. Sooner than he expected, she spoke, and he turned to face her.

Yesterday, Mirabella started, when you and Robigor rode out to meet the Redvest general...

She paused, looking away, as if trying to remember, though Ashlord knew that she had perfect recall and was instead looking for words.

I was loading the wagons in front of the store, she went on. There was a moment, when I looked across the river and up at the hills of Barley, where the enemy on the crest stretched across the skyline like jagged red shadows, the sharp glint of their steel in the sunrise, their war-drums like hammers upon my heart. There was a moment, when I saw you and my husband riding back to the bridge, that I knew what was about to happen. It seemed to me—I thought to myself, 'The end has come.'

Ashlord nodded, seeing her ageless concern and the dark despair of her green eyes.

So think any who see the closing of one age and the beginning of another, he said gently. All things come to an end, just as all things must have their beginnings. Some easily and without notice, and others with great turmoil. In that way beginnings and endings are not so different.

Mirabella nodded. Yes. Perhaps that is so. All my life I have feared the future. Those of my bloodline are naturally cautious, and our dreams are rarely comforting. After you and Robigor returned across the bridge, he looked at me from many yards away, where you and he and the men spoke together, and he nodded and smiled at me as he listened. I knew, then, at that moment, what was to come, and what I must do. As we looked at one another across the distance that separated us, I knew that it might well be the last time I ever looked into his eyes. I could not go to him. He could not come to me. Time was too pressing, and our duties were upon us. He smiled at me, over his shoulder, nodding as someone said something to him, her voice broke as she struggled to go on. I saw it in his eyes. He was having his last look at me.

Few loves ever touched Ashlord's heart as did that of Mirabella and her husband Robigor, for he had recently made it his business to learn their story, and he understood the transformation it had brought to Mirabella. He felt through her words and saw in the pool of her eyes their love for each other, the strength of it, and the pain of their parting so, in the confusion before battle, without even a kiss, a touch, or even a word for each other. His heart, too, broke for them.

All I wanted... He is the only man in all the world, she went on, continuing her struggle to speak, swallowing often, her voice cracking. The only one who gave me peace and taught me joy. Through him, modest man, I learned of the greatness of Men, of their true strength and power. Through him, I found serenity and humble purpose. All I wanted was to spend my days with him, to see him through until the end of his own, then, afterwards, afterwards...I could carry him in my heart until, until...

She stopped, her eyes a sea of anguish as she looked up at Ashlord. He was leaning on his stick, his shoulders slumped, old and wise and tired, his eyes a deep and dark well, and he smiled painfully. Her own watery eyes could not see the sympathetic mist in his.

I watched him take his place on the bridge. When I heard that he rode away north, I have since had a kind of peace. Or perhaps it is resignation. In spite of my fear. But now that my son is going away, my fears are greater, and my anxiety cannot be expressed in words. I do not know how I am to go on. But go on, I must.

Yes, Ashlord replied softly, you must. You must have hope, and it is up to you, now, to give it to others, just as your husband would want you to do.

I have little!

You may have very little of it, but it is more than many here possess. And, like friendship, hope is not weakened by the sharing of it.

• • •

By torchlight, Robby worked through the night, chopping and loading firewood onto a cart and driving it through the camps and distributing his loads along with blankets. He and the other men who labored with him spoke very little in the misty darkness. And though they were not sullen, they toiled with little enthusiasm. When dawn began to dimly show in the east, Robby found himself on the far side of Janhaven, having returned the cart to its owner, and it was a long walk back to the stockade. Fires burned lowly in the fields along the roadsides, and smoke hung in the motionless predawn air. He could hear the people stirring on the cold ground—a cough here and there, a baby crying in the distance—and he picked his way carefully through the campsites, trying not to trip over slumbering forms or tangling himself in the ropes of improvised tents that caught against his leg. More than once Robby stopped, recognizing a face huddled before a fire, and he asked after the folk there. In this manner, he saw the blacksmith, a bandage covering a gash on his head, lying on his side, smoking his pipe, staring into his small campfire. Later he spoke with Mr. Arbuckle, the former bridge tender, and his wife, and several others as he went along his way. He passed the Greardon nephews, too, who had labored so hard to put the mill back into operation after the terrible storm that killed their uncle. Mrs. Greardon, though, was nowhere to be seen. The heavy mill wagon, which used to haul flour and seed, was now their home, a tarpaulin thrown over the top of it as a roof. Stopping, Robby asked after Mrs. Greardon.

We don't know where she is, said one of the boys. She left Jay with us to look after, an' went back to the house for something.

We think she got taken by them Redvests, said the other.

Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure she'll be fine, or turn up soon, Robby said, trying to be encouraging. They nodded, and he continued on his way.

It was a sad lot, indeed, and Robby grew more depressed as he went. He wondered at the misery that had befallen everyone so suddenly. Over and over he asked himself whether there was something else that he could do, something other than run off on some unpredictable adventure. The idea came to him of leading an attack on Passdale, perhaps winning back their town, driving out the Redvests and returning these people to their warm homes. His mind filled with grandiose visions of a well-organized offensive, with himself at Ullin's side, sweeping down on the unsuspecting invaders. Let them have Tulith Attis, he muttered, but surely we can take back Passdale and keep it!

Out of the smoky mist ahead emerged the shape of a wagon parked near the edge of a field under some trees, and he heard a lonely pipe. It was from one of the minstrel's vans, lately belonging to Thurdun's people and given to the musicians when the boats departed. Robby paused, listening to the plaintive voice of the pipe, wavering through the melancholy air, and in the half-light of predawn he could just make out the player sitting on the back step of the wagon. His hand brushed Swyncraff about his waist, and he remembered Thurdun and the Queen. Her words came back to him.

When you do what you must, it is as it should be, and leads to the next and the next.

He knew that if he stayed here to serve his people, to help organize a resistance and to take back their homeland, many things could be possible. After all, they were a resourceful people and, as the recent floods showed, they knew how to work together. But the darkness of his heart told him that even if he did so, and had every success against the invaders, it would be folly in the end. A more formidable opponent was stirring in the world, against which no army could withstand.

• • •

It was a difficult decision for Billy Bosk, who was beginning to feel the burdens of his duties as leader of Boskland. His initial inclination, in spite of the discussion of the evening before, was to take a few men and ride in search of his sister, going around the back ways toward the southern parts of Barley. Frizella dissuaded him, saying it would be a foolhardy quest, and that as the new laird, he had a greater duty to the land.

Ain't nobody left what can speak for the House of Bosk, she told him. An' if a great war is upon us, then somebody's got to get word to Duinnor an' bear witness concernin' these things. Yer sister's got a head on her shoulders, an' we must trust that she'll use it. An' though I hate to see ye go, I'd be comforted that ye'd be goin' off with the likes of Ashlord an' Ullin to see to things. I already talked to Mira 'bout all this. Robby's goin', too. At least ye'll be with good friends what'll look after one another.

So Billy was resolved to go with Robby. He consulted with several of his kinsmen who had survived the attack and were at Janhaven, and, with his mother, he explained to them that he was called away to Duinnor, to take warning and to seek aid.

I'll not say this goes easy on me, he said to them at dawn. They had gathered together in a hut which was given over to them by a farmer who had been a childhood friend of Billy's father. Yet Bosks have sworn allegiance to Duinnor, an' it's with Duinnor that our hope lay. The fate of Barley'll be shared, an' the Redvests turned back only by might greater than we an' Glareth can muster. If I stayed, me sword an' me voice would only harry the enemy. But if I go west, I'll carry with me the full word of our need. If chance an' fortune favor, I'll return with aid, or, should the way show otherwise, I will do me utmost to wrench the enemy from these lands by other means. But the two of ye, Tonifor Bosk an' Parth Bosk, elder cousins of mine, have all to do with fightin' an' keepin' our people. If ye honor me father an' the House of Bosk, ye'll do honor to the name of Bosk by what means ye have.

Hearing Billy speak thus, with stern determination, was new to them, for they well knew his reputation for sport and jest. And the fire in his eyes was fiercer than his words. The cuts and bruises about his face, his bandaged head, and the reluctance with which he spoke of his ordeal with Bailorg only filled them with a kind of awe of his transformation. Seeing him thus, and hearing his words, softly spoken yet full of authority, they could not but be moved, even though his cousins were older by nearly a generation.

Aye, Bilaylin, they nodded vehemently, using his given name, and said, we'll see the House of Bosk restored.

Ibin sat in the corner by the meager fire, a blanket draped over his shoulders, his face unusually void of the smile that he lost somewhere on the road to Janhaven and had not yet recovered. He understood least of any the talk going on about him and repeatedly asked Billy what was the matter. Billy gave an earnest and urgent explanation, lacking only in certain details he thought best kept to himself. Ibin listened carefully, full of effort to comprehend as they made their way to the hut.

ThenIwillgo, I'llgotoo, Billy, Ibin said.

Ye'll be needed here, good friend.

But, but, butIdon't, butIdon'twanttostayhere! Ibin pleaded. Billy could not say no. Ibin had as much a right to go as anyone. Though Robby had made it clear that he wanted no one to go with him except Ashlord, Billy and Ullin insisted they would be going along, too, regardless of Robby's objections. Billy sighed and put his hand on Ibin's thick shoulder.

Well, I reckon one more'll do no harm.

Now, as Billy explained to his kinsmen that he would not be back before spring, Ibin sat silent, looking on as still as a statue. He was accustomed to being treated as if he was not present, left out of conversations, remembered as an afterthought, or smiled at with the same tolerant condescension given to children. Though it was impossible for him to articulate, Ibin felt this treatment just the same, and had done so all of his life. It did not bother him as it might have bothered someone else, owing to his good nature, and he rarely felt any sense of offense or cruelty. Though he paid intense attention, as was his way, he rarely gained much understanding about the many deep concerns and interests that those around him discussed. Thus he had come to feel that many things were simply beyond his comprehension. He had little trouble with whats and he was a master of whens, and he never forgot a name or a face or the link between the two. However, whys were often a puzzle to him, and hows he often failed to grasp. Ordinary things seemed something of a mystery to him, like why folks worked so hard, always making even more work. To them, these activities seemed a-purpose to something else, always something else. But to Ibin all activities were a joy, even if those who worked with him seemed not to find joy in the work. They acted as if chores were a distraction from having a nice time, from dining and singing, drinking and playing. To Ibin all these things were just as natural as leaf and limb, and he hardly saw the difference, though he had to admit he took particular joy from mealtimes. There were things that he recognized as ordinary and self-evident, so much so that he took them for granted, but he was seldom ever able to express those things in words, and his efforts to do so only seemed to mystify others.

These late events had upset all of his routines and all of his expectations of what each day should be like. It was hard for him to grasp the idea that his old room in Bosk Manor was forever gone. And, though he was quicker to adapt than most, due again to his affable and acquiescent personality, he knew the feelings of confusion and anxiety that he suppressed were shared by everyone, and that, at least in some small way, he was now no different than all the rest. So he sat patiently and waited for the Bosks to finish their chat.

Those gathered in the hut concluded their discussion, and Billy's kinsmen departed. Billy looked at Ibin and sighed. Ibin sensed the heaviness on Billy's sagging shoulders, and his own feelings of weariness were nothing compared to the expression on his friend's face. Billy nodded, though, and tried to smile. However, it was Ibin's smile, appearing at last, that gave the most comfort.

Iwillgo, Iwillgowithyou, BillyBosk, he said.

• • •

I must stay, Robby, said Mirabella that same hour in the hastily prepared building that would serve as a ward for the sick and wounded. Pulling her son aside to be out of the way of the men bringing in cots, she spoke in low tones. I would have you stay, or flee after your father to Glareth, except I see that your mind is made up to go. And I would go with you if I could, but the need here is so great. These are my people, too, and I will not abandon them. Not only are there women and children and hurt ones to attend to, but I think my sword will be needed again.

I understand, Mother. Robby nodded. I do not want you to go with us. I want you to be here when Daddy returns, and I want you to keep safe, if you can, and be with those that need you. The winter will be hard, I know, and the Redvests stubborn.

The winter will not be as hard nor the enemy so stubborn as we, I think. She managed to smile. When do you depart?

We meet tonight for more reckoning on that. But I think as soon as we can make ready.

Come to me as soon as you know.

• • •

Find a place an' get some sleep, dearie, Frizella ordered Sheila. It had been a long night, making and applying clean bandages, soothing the wounded, and holding the hands of the dying. Sheila cried with the survivors as eyes closed for the final time, and she cooled brows of the delirious with wet rags to somewhat ease their pain. Now, away from the wounded and the sick, her thoughts were as muddled and indistinct as the gray predawn light, and she walked without knowing which way she went. She stumbled into a small throng of lost children being tended by Mr. Broadweed. Seeing her weariness, he invited her to have some blankets and gestured at a place under a wagon where she could lie down and rest. She accepted his offer, in spite of her dislike of the schoolmaster, and curled up on the ground between the wagon wheels. Sooner than she knew, she slipped into a deep and profound sleep. She never noticed when Broadweed came and gently covered her over with several more blankets. It was Broadweed, too, who woke her midmorning to offer her a bowl of steaming-hot oatmeal.

Wake up, Sheila Pradkin, he said to her, touching her shoulder. She roused herself and saw him crouching under the wagon on his knees to reach her, two small boys peering cautiously at her from behind him. That's a decent sleep you've had, I hope. And here is a modest breakfast for you.

Sheila sat up on one elbow and took the bowl and spoon he offered.

Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Broadweed, she said.

Not at all, my dear!

She ate a couple of spoonfuls of the honey-sweetened stuff and felt life come back to her. Mr. Broadweed was clumsily backing out from under the wagon when she asked, Who are these children you have with you?

Why, I suppose they are my charges, he said, stopping to kneel next to a wagon wheel so that he could chat. Younger students at my school who are separated from their parents, or, in the case of Sam and Tom, here, those who have none. I suppose they look to me, now, for things other than letters and numbers. At least for a while, anyway.

Sheila understood something she had missed all her life. There were adults who would not abandon children, or beat them, or do other worse things. There were a few to be trusted, and there always had been. She should have known this, from her knowledge of Mr. Ribbon and Mr. Bosk. As a brat, she had revolted against Mr. Broadweed and his school. But now she realized that his school had been a shelter for his students, even if only for a few hours each day.

You have no children of your own, do you? she asked.

If I take your meaning, no. Alas, Mrs. Broadweed and I have none. he sighed. But I try to treat any child who comes to me as my own as far as I can.

I remember you, she said. I remember you and your wife coming to see my uncle. I was very little, I think. Maybe only six or seven years old. He abused you most severely, as I recall.

I came to see your uncle many times, Mr. Broadweed said. But he would not force you to attend my school, and I had no power to force you, either. Yes. He was a difficult man. I'm afraid I do not think of him with much fondness.

That's fine. I hated him. And now I hate the memory of him.

I can understand.

Oh, can you? She made no effort to keep the sarcasm from her voice even though she knew he did not deserve it.

Yes, he said with no sign of noting her tone. You see, like you, my parents died when I was too young to remember them. My uncle and my aunt kept me as a house servant until I was ten years old. That's when I ran away. A look of pain crossed Mr. Broadweed's face. I should have, well, I should have made more of an effort for you, my dear. I am so sorry! Yet, as I have heard, you have taught yourself to read and write. That is a great accomplishment! You did not need me at all. Still, I wish I could have offered you something.

Sheila was astonished.

You did all that you could do, she said. What more could you have done? I blame only my uncle and myself for my misfortunes. I should have done as you did and run away from him. If only I had. She shrugged. But I didn't. Not until it was too late. Anyway, I did not teach myself. Robby Ribbon and Ashlord taught me. I'm sorry, too, for all your wasted efforts on my behalf.

There, there. It is all done and in the past, he said as his pained face turned tender. I'm afraid we have much else to worry about, now. Well, I need to go and see to the new schoolroom being prepared for us. I hope to see you again soon!

Sheila watched him get to his feet, noting that he did not look as old as she once thought. There was something in his face, too, a certain droop of his cheeks, perhaps, or turn of his lips, that before she had taken as a kind of timidness. Now she saw him differently; his face, the same as ever it was, seemed to her framed with a quiet but powerful reserve. She suddenly remembered seeing him, the day before yesterday, loading books into the wagon along with as many children as he could muster. She had not been paying a lot of attention to him, though. The fight was beginning as the Redvests poured down the hill to the bridge. She remembered, too, during the flight from Passdale, seeing a man, sword in hand, standing over a crying child as he swung against three Redvests coming at them. She now realized that it had been Mr. Broadweed. She watched him recede, a bloody bandage tied around his left leg, trailing a gaggle of little boys and girls as he limped along, and she felt the bitter irony of coming to know these people only now that all had been lost to them. And she wondered, not for the first time, how her life might have been different if only her parents had lived a little longer. At least long enough for her to remember them.

• • •

Ullin stood at the high outcrop that overlooked the roadway, the place from which the Thunder Mountain Band made their headlong descent the day before. It was a hard climb, and he, along with Winterford and one of Billy's kinsmen, stood together, still panting with the effort. Glancing around, he quickly realized the value of this position.

Let's get some signal fires up here, ready to light, he said. And by day, some brightly polished looking-glass to signal warnings down to our points along the road and at the Narrows.

Aye, but at night it might be better to use a covered lantern, suggested Winterford. Like the kind we use. Ye can open a shade on one side and point the light. That way ye can wave all ye like and none behind ye can see it. No sense in lettin' onto the Redvests they've been spotted.

Ullin nodded and smiled. He liked the way this fellow thought.

You Thunder Mountain men have a number of things to teach, I imagine, Ullin said.

Well, we've gotten along pretty well by being careful, if that's what ye mean.

And this path, here, Ullin pointed south. Where does it go?

Back along this here ridge. 'Bout six mile er so on, it splits away west across the south road at Fox Gap an' then on up into the mountains, Winterford explained. An' the other way, along the east side of the ridge for 'bout two miles, crossin' down to the bottom of the ridge goin' on southward that way. We don't use these paths much, except for keepin' out of other folks' way. Anyway, as ye can see, ain't nobody gonna come up the paths without givin' off plenty of notice, either way.

And a fine command of the West Road below, going both ways, Ullin said turning back around. Almost within long arrow shot. This is a great place for a watch. It's bound to get icy cold up here, though.

That it will, for sure. Already pretty chilly with this breeze.

I'd say it'd be worthwhile to go ahead and start working on some kind of keep. With four men up here standing watch, a small shelter can keep them warm as they take turns.

Good idea. Maybe build it right up on the side of that rock face right over there, Winterford gestured at a flat, fairly smooth cliff just above and behind them. Plenty of stone up here to make it with.

Several hundred yards below and to the east, Mr. Furaman was pulling up a wagon to the Narrows along both sides of which his men and others from Passdale were building log walls. Their intention was to make places from where archers could command the road between the two. Here, the road cut deeply through a gap in the ridge, rising steeply to it from the east then, passing through, making a long slow descent westward toward Janhaven. The men already had both walls up and were working on scaffolding behind them for platforms where the watches would stand. A thick rope had been passed between the two walls, some forty feet above the roadbed, and a system of blocks and pulleys allowed the passage of messages and supplies from one side to the other. Mr. Furaman brought with him food, blankets, and more rope, along with casks of oil for torches. He watched with satisfaction the progress that had been made since yesterday and realized that fear increased their efforts.

• • •

Ashlord remained alone the entire night after the others had left. He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe and thinking. Every so often, he would suddenly stand from his stool and pace about the room muttering or shaking his head, only to take his seat by the fire again as it died lower and lower. Hour passed hour, and he cared not when the last flame licked out, leaving only dull coals, and was not concerned at the dense chill that soon after crept into the room. When morning came, the men of the stockade began stirring to their wagons and to their tools, coming and going through the room with their things and talk. Still Ashlord sat, seemingly oblivious to the increasing bustle. But he noticed all those things and more; he simply gave them little attention, putting his mind's ears and eyes instead to stirrings of greater subtlety and moment.

Excuse me, sir.

Ashlord turned and looked blankly at the man before him, standing with his arms full of wood for the fireplace.

Excuse me, the man repeated.

Ashlord realized that he was sitting in the way and jumped up.

Pardon me!

The man dumped the wood into the box near the hearth and dusted his hands.

Ye must be Ashlord.

I am.

I'm Durlorn, buildin' foreman. He shook hands with Ashlord.

Oh, yes.

We'll be usin' this here room for breakfast in a little bit, Mr. Ashlord, sir, if ye don't mind. Our usual place across the way is kind of crowded an' there ain't 'nough room, he explained. Mr. Furaman always has breakfast with his top foremen. Goes over accounts, gets the men ready for the day, sort of. He's already out, though, takin' stuff to the men buildin' the gate at the Narrows. But he left instructions for his foremen to gather here for breakfast anyways.

Well, I'll be moving along, then, Ashlord said, pulling on his cloak and lifting his walking stick.

Won't ye have somethin' to eat with us? Durlorn asked. We'd be honored to have ye.

Thank you very much for the offer. But I have some things I should see to.

Ashlord walked out into the chilly morning air, smoky with the many campfires that now surrounded the stockade, and made his way across the interior grounds to the far buildings. He hardly noticed when Certina landed on his shoulder, only nodding as she clucked in his ear.

Yes, yes, he mumbled as he pushed open the door to the old warehouse. Inside, folk were busy creating a makeshift hospital, and he saw Robby speaking with his mother across the room. Robby watched her go back into the main room to help make beds, and then he turned to see Ashlord in the doorway. Ashlord noted the wear in Robby's face as he neared.

How are you this morning?

I don't think I slept a wink, Robby said, looking back over his shoulder at his mother. In fact, I know I didn't.

That makes two of us, Ashlord said. Perhaps you should find a place to get some rest. The last few days have been a trial for you, I know. You will need your strength, and it will do no one any good for you to falter.

Robby followed Ashlord back outside where the sun was burning away the morning mists and blue sky was emerging.

I am tired, Robby said, pulling his coat around him against the chill. But there's so much to be done.

Yes, there is much, Ashlord nodded, looking around. Not only here, but elsewhere.

Robby looked at Ashlord blankly.

We must make our preparations to depart, Robby.

I know. It's just that I feel, well, I dunno, Robby shrugged and shook his head.

It's just that you feel torn, Ashlord said. You feel responsible, somehow, about all this. You are having doubts about last night, and you think you should stay here and help your mother and the others. I understand your feelings, Robby, believe me, I do. But it would be folly to stay and foolish to delay.

But, my friends, my home. Robby faltered for a moment thinking of his father, wondering what had become of him, and thinking of his mother doing her best to hold things together.

I know that you feel pain at the thought of leaving here. It will not go away when you depart. The things you miss are those that you love. But others may have little hope to regain what has been lost, whereas you have a chance to do so. The right thing to do is almost always the hardest thing to start. Get something to eat, then find a quiet place and sleep for a time. Go in yonder and ask for Mr. Durlorn. Tell him that you come to eat breakfast in Ashlord's stead. He'll understand, and I'll wager he'll set a hearty plate before you. Ask him if there is a place where you can sleep undisturbed. Ullin and I will meet with you this evening and work out our plans.

Have you seen Sheila? Robby asked as Ashlord turned to go.

Not since last night, Ashlord said. I believe she will want to go with us.

I think she ought to.

Why? She would be of great service here. And there will be many dangers on our road, Ashlord said. Do not mistake me. Sheila is capable of taking better care of herself than most full-grown men. I only wonder if it is best.

I don't know, Ashlord. Robby shoved his hands into his pockets. I only think I'll, well, I think I need her. I know I want her to come along. Maybe I'm mixing the two up.

It should be her choice, Ashlord said. I'll not object, if that is your fear.

Robby watched Ashlord head for the gate and then turned to find his breakfast. After introducing himself to Durlorn and giving him the message from Ashlord, a place was quickly set among the men at the table who had come in from their early morning work. At first, Robby thought them a rough group, but as he chatted with them over eggs and bacon, answering their questions about Passdale and Barley, he came to understand that they were just tired and worried, like everyone else. When they discovered that Robby was the son of Robigor Ribbon, the great man of business, they warmed to him, saying that since Ribbon opened his store, a flourishing trade had been established with Barley, giving many besides themselves good work to support their families. One foreman, on in years but bright-eyed and friendly, even went so far as to say that if it hadn't been for Mr. Ribbon, Janhaven might've dried up an' blown away years ago. This was surprising to Robby, for he had never considered what his own hometown might be like without the store.

Oh, not the store only, no, no! said the man. But the bridge, too, an' all his works. Yer father's known far an' wide, er, at least nearby, as a man of acumen. Aye! Ac-u-men!

Hear, hear! nodded a couple of the other men. Ac-u-men!

The talk turned to the Redvests and the refugees, and the group speculated on their trade routes south and north. They got around to wondering how long it would be before the Lakemen and their allies, the powerful Glarethians, fell upon the Redvests.

It'll be summer, earliest, said one brooding man. They ain't got the men like they used to.

'At's right, said another, talking with his mouth full. Them Redvests ain't stupid. They'd a never come this far north if they had any fear of Glareth by the Sea!

Naw, said another. I'll wager they'll be pourin' through afore the last frost. They's still a mighty people, them Lakemen an' their kin. An' with Passdale taken, the trade route's been blocked. Now I ask ye: how long ye think they'll stand for that?

"Well, not afore we run short here, is what I say. More an' more folk're comin' in every hour,