A Time of Omens (18 page)

Jill raised her hands palm-out and chest-high, then spoke in greeting the magical names of the Lords of Water, for she thought that this being was one of the elemental kings. Yet as the form thickened within the pillar of light, she realized that it belonged to an elven woman, familiar-looking at that, with a long mane of silvery-blond hair and steel-colored eyes.

“Dallandra! How did—” Jill was too surprised to say more.

Dressed in an elven tunic and a pair of leather trousers, Dallandra seemed almost solid as she stood hovering over the water in the basin. Jill had never seen her so clearly before. She could pick out the separate curls and masses of her hair, see the folds of cloth in her tunic, and just make out a pale shard of landscape behind her, a grassy meadow and a single tree. Round her neck Dallandra was wearing on a golden chain a single large amethyst carved into some ornamental shape—or so Jill thought of it. Yet when she spoke, Jill heard her voice only as a thought.

“Jill! What are you doing here?”

“Trying to find out the meaning of the word inside the rose ring. Do you remember it? The one Rhodry Mael-waedd has.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’ve been looking for you.” She frowned, staring down at something near her feet that Jill couldn’t see. “But I meant, why are you in Bardek?”

“You know where I am? How?”

“I can see your surroundings, and they match what I’ve been told about the islands. But please, I don’t have much time.”

“Well, it seems that some of the People may have fled south after the Great Burning, and there might be some still living far to the south of here. I’ve found a map, you see, that shows islands out beyond Anmurdio, and some histories that indicate there were once elves in Bardek. I’ve come to look for them.”

Dallandra gasped, and the surprise broke her concentration. Her form began to fade as the pillar of light changed to a thick pillar of smoke, swirling silver in the moonlight.

“Dallandra!” Without thinking Jill was on her feet and shouting. “Dalla! Wait! How did you get here?”

With one last swirl the pillar seemed to blow away, smoke on the wind, a thickening of moonlight, then gone.

For a long time Jill sat on the bench and did some hard thinking. Dallandra was a dweomermaster of great power who, some hundreds of years earlier, had linked her Wyrd to that of the strange race of beings known as the Guardians. Jill had last seen her back in the Westlands a thousand miles away and, more significantly, far across the ocean. Working dweomer across any large body of water is impossible, because the exhalations of elemental force and the astral vibrations break up an image as fast as even the greatest dweomermaster can build it. Other dweomermasters had told Jill many a time that Dallandra had long left ordinary physical existence behind, even though none of them knew exactly in what state she did exist. At best she was semicorporeal, a thing of etheric substance only, which would make her even more vulnerable to the water forces than an ordinary magically produced shape or image. Yet here she was, or at the least some clear projection of her,
coming through onto the physical plane. It was more of a puzzle than Jill could solve.

When she went back inside, she paused for a moment at the door of the common room and watched Salamander lounging at a table with a half-empty wine cup in his slender hands and smiling as he listened to the talk and jests flying like juggling clubs among the troupe of acrobats. He’s probably been lonely, Jill thought. The gods all know that I’m poor enough company when I’ve got some working at hand. Yet her annoyance lingered, that he’d distract himself from his studies this way. She had, after all, promised Nevyn that she would oversee his dweomer training and do her best to get him to work up to his potential. In her mind, any promise she’d made to Nevyn was a sacred charge.

Dallandra had come to Bardek searching for Jill, or to be precise, she’d been searching for Jill on the inner planes and traced her to a place that had turned out to be Bardek. Judging from the way that Time ran in that world in which she was experiencing Time, it had only been a few weeks since she’d left her dweomermaster of a husband, Aderyn of the Silver Wings, back in the Westlands, although she knew, of course, that it was well over two hundred years as men and elves reckoned the span. Even though she was well aware of the split between the two time flows, it was hard to keep track of small variations. It seemed to her that she’d last seen Jill the day before, when in truth it had been nearly three years. During that last meeting, Jill had asked her about the rose ring’s secret, and she’d tried to find the answer for the human dweomerwoman.

“I’d forgotten about the lapse of time,” she remarked to Evandar. “She was so surprised that I’d remember.”

“Eventually you’ll grow used to the ebb and flow, and you’ll see why we don’t concern ourselves with the affairs of that world of yours. It all speeds by, like light on a running stream.”

“So it must. How many of their years is a day here?”

“What? How would I know?”

“Haven’t you ever thought to work it out?”

“Whatever for? Besides, it changes, how fast things flow.”

“It changes? Well, there’s a bother, then. On what principle?”

“On what?”

“Well, I mean, there must be some sort of rule or regular order to the way the changes come and go.”

Evandar merely looked at her, slack-mouthed and wondering. Dallandra considered and tried again.

“What about bard lore? Would there be any old sayings about Time among your people?”

“In summer the sun runs fast as a girl through the sky,” he said and promptly. “In winter like an old woman she goes halt and slow.”

“I’ve never noticed it being winter here.”

“Oh, but it has been. You can tell by the way Time limps. Now in the heat of the summer she moves like a bird on the wing.”

“And what about spring and autumn? Are there any sayings about them?

“About spring, no, but there’s one day in the fall of the year when our time and their time coincides.”

“And that is?”

“In the land of men, it’s the day between years.”

“A day
between
years? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

He merely shrugged indifferently. They were sitting that evening—or seemed to be sitting—on a grassy hilltop, looking down into shifting mists that alternately covered, then revealed a plain crisscrossed by rivers and dotted with thickets. Far off on the horizon a moon was rising, bloated and golden.

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me what that word inside the ring means.”

“I don’t understand why myself, but I’m still not going to tell you.” He caught her hand and kissed it. “Why do you want to help this human woman, anyway?”

“Because she’s going to help us. She promised me that she’d look after the child when it’s born, and in return, it’s only common courtesy to help her find out what she needs to know.”

“But it’s a riddle, and one of my best riddles, and I’ll not tell her the answer.”

For a moment she considered him, this strange creature who was in a stranger way her lover now. Although he
looked like an elf in most ways, his hair was the yellow of daffodils, no natural blond, his lips were as red as sour cherries, and his eyes were a startling turquoise-blue, as artificial as one of the colors that elven craftsmen grind to decorate tents.

“This island to the south, now,” Evandar said in a moment. “That does interest me. Would you like to help her find it? That I will do for her, in return for her help when the child is birthed.”

“Bless you, my love. I would, indeed.”

“Splendid! You go tell her while I look for the island.”

“I will, but I think I’ll find Elessario first and take her along. She should be right nearby.”

And so, thanks to the vagaries of Time, it was some weeks in Jill’s world before Dallandra appeared to her again.

In the meantime, the troupe of traveling players, with Jill and Salamander tagging along, left Zama Mañae behind. The main island of the Orystinnian archipelago is shaped rather like an animal, with the head pointing due north and the long tail of a peninsula trailing some fifty miles off to the south. Once the troupe reached Arbarat, the city at the tail’s tip, they had a long, slow journey north with their tumble-down wagons and elderly horses to the next large city, Inderat Noa on the western coast of the animal’s body. Marka was delighted when Salamander insisted that she leave the bumpy wagon and ride on his horse, which he then led, walking nearby in the sunny road. They stopped often, of course, to perform in the smaller towns and marketplaces along the way. In every marketplace Salamander bought something for the troupe, a length of silk for a costume here, or a brand-new set of painted leather clubs for the acrobats there, out of his own always substantial earnings.

“It takes coin to earn coin,” he would say. “And between us, Vinto and I are going to make this troupe the most splendid show in all of Orystinna.”

Marka would merely smile and think that Salamander could no doubt do anything in the whole world if he set his mind to it.

With Orima left behind and gone, Marka reclaimed the
star turn on the slack rope. It was some compensation, she supposed, for losing her father, although, as the days went by, she was startled to find that she missed him very little. While Hamil had never treated her badly, he’d never treated her particularly well, either. What she did miss was the fact of having a father, a family, a place or connection in the world. From now on the troupe—or some troupe much like it—would be the only family she would have, just as their troupes were for so many of the wandering performers of the Bardekian islands. She comforted herself by thinking that at least she had Keeta and Delya, whom she’d known for six whole years, practically a lifetime in the fluid world of traveling shows.

And then, of course, there was Salamander, whom she found more than compensation enough. She would pick out a place at a safe distance to sit and watch him for hours on end, whether he was performing or practicing or merely standing by the campfire and eating his dinner. Most times she was afraid to approach him. Once though, when he was working with the silk scarves, he noticed her watching and called her over.

“Want to learn how to throw these?” he said.

“Yes, I would.” She was surprised at herself for speaking so easily. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the time to show me how.”

“Not in the least, not in the least.”

After that, she had a legitimate excuse to spend several hours a day in his company, though every now and then, she would notice Keeta or Jill giving them a less-than-approving look.

After one of their practice sessions, he told her that his real name was Ebañy, but he made her promise to keep it a secret from everyone else—which gave her a moment of cold doubt. Even though she was thoroughly besotted with him, Marka was shrewd enough to realize that he was keeping some rather strange truths to himself. Whenever he spoke of the barbarian kingdom in the north, his stories grew guarded. He never mentioned his family or a home city; he never told anyone why or how he’d become a street performer.

“Do you think he’s maybe the outcast son of one of their
nobles?” Marka remarked to Keeta one night. “Maybe he’s even a prince in disgrace.”

Keeta snorted.

“The disgrace I’d believe quick enough.”

“Oh, don’t be mean! But you know, sometimes I wonder if he’s married.”

“Marka my dear, you do have a good head on your shoulders, don’t you? But no, I asked Jill, and she said he wasn’t.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! We can trust what Jill says, can’t we?”

“There’s something about Jill, my dear, that makes me think we could trust her with our lives.” Keeta frowned, nipping her lower lip in thought. “I feel like a fool for saying it, but there you are.”

Marka barely paid attention to this last remark, but she found the news about Ebañy sweeter than the finest wine or purest honey. For days she savored it, bringing out the thought that no other woman had a claim on him. Yet, he remained distant, brotherly at the most, until she reached the bitter conclusion that he merely felt sorry for her.

The day before they reached Inderat Noa, the troupe came upon a public caravanserai beside the road. Although they could have made a few more miles before dark, and the city lay only about five miles ahead, they decided to camp early rather than risk being shut out of the gates by arriving late. Once the horses were tended and the tents raised, Marka went looking for Ebañy. Off to one side of the campground stood some scruffy holm oaks round a spring and a series of stone fountains, provided for travelers by the archons of Inderat Noa. As she walked up, Marka saw him sitting with Jill, and something about the tense set of their shoulders made her hesitate. When Ebañy saw her, he gave such a guilty start and smiled in such a nervous way that she realized they’d been talking about her. All at once she felt about eight years old; she was blushing—she was sure of it. Without a word she turned and ran for the camp, dodged into her tent, and threw herself down onto her blankets for a good cry.

“Whatever happened to the girl’s mother, anyway?” Jill said.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” Keeta said. “She
was long gone when I joined Hamil’s troupe. It was quite a large show in those days.”

They were sitting on a stone bench under some trees in Inderat Noa’s marketplace, a big and elegant open square with fountains and little cobbled walkways between the groups of stalls and booths. Afternoon heat danced and shimmered over the paving like the water mist over the fountains. Not too far away Salamander and Vinto were haggling with a pair of archon’s men about a performance permit.

“I did hear that Marka’s mother went back to Mangortinna,” Keeta went on. “I think she was born there.”

“I see. I don’t understand why she didn’t take her daughter with her.”

“How could she? She and Hamil were legally married and ail.”

“Well, what–”

“Oh, wait! You speak so well that I keep forgetting you’re a foreigner. Under our laws a child’s her father’s property. The mother has no say in anything, really, unless he gives her one.” Keeta frowned briefly. “One reason why I made my mind up never to marry.”