The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (35 page)

Ainé did not so much as blink as the outraged Qwenqwo Cuatzel confronted her on the foredeck, his eyes ablaze. The runestone was aloft in his left hand. In a moment, Ainé had drawn her sword. The blade was glittering a fearsome green, and the Oraculum of the Kyra was pulsating powerfully. “It would appear that poison still arrives in small bottles!”

“Perhaps,” hissed the dwarf, his right hand drawing his battle-axe, and stretching to his full height, at which he barely reached the Kyra’s chest, “this is a witch warrior who would prove less arrogant if her legs were reduced to the level of her knees.”

Alan reached out and took the stone from Qwenqwo’s hand, wrapping both his own hands about it. Closing his eyes he held it in the focus of his oraculum. Though his spirit became invaded by a sense of anger and loss, he could detect no evil. Opening his eyes and gazing deeply into the dwarf’s, no more did he witness any trace of treachery there. If anything the shadow that hung behind the eyes shared a common loss with the runestone.

Alan returned the runestone to its master, then turned to question Ainé. “Why did you throw it away?”

Ainé refused to reply, staring over all their heads toward the distant pass in the Blue Mountains.

The dwarf’s face flushed redder than his hair. “Ask the witch warrior to talk of mendacity and slaughter—ask her of treachery in the Undying Forest!”

“Ainé!” Alan spoke urgently to the silent Kyra, whose sword was only now returned to its scabbard. “What has happened in the past to cause you and Qwenqwo to distrust each other?”

Neither dwarf mage nor Shee seemed prepared to enlighten him but continued to stand apart in an irreconcilable posture and gaze.

“Qwenqwo—what’s going on?”

The dwarf mage bristled for several more moments, then muttered, “Oracula are not confined to the
almighty Trídédana any more than they are to be found solely upon the brow. My runestone, like the crystals of our young friends, is also a portal of power. Though it was no threat to you, Mage Lord, the Kyra, with her suspicious nature, misunderstood its purpose. To some it might appear to threaten, as a doubter might question loyalty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was deceived, as you know, by a force of darkness more powerful and malevolent than any warlock. Yet ever, throughout my captivity, I vowed that, once free and the runestone returned to me, I would place there an eye such as you saw—not for malice but as a ward that looks into the heart of any who holds it, searching there for good or evil.”

“And did my heart pass its test?” Alan asked, with the hint of a smile.

“Your heart would pass all tests. You saw for yourself how the eye glowed. If it had discovered evil in you, it would have closed, thus becoming a consumer of the light for the one who attempted to use the stone.”

“Yet,” Kate pressed him, “the false mage put Mo’s face into it! That was how he drew Alan into his trap.”

“So it might appear—but is it not possible that one other than the false Mage was calling Alan?”

“You?”

“Not I!” Qwenqwo inhaled and his eyebrows drew close together. “But one whose need was far greater than my own!”

Alan looked at Mo, who had so mysteriously lost her stammer. There was more in Qwenqwo’s eyes than he was saying, and Alan wondered if he should press him more for answers. But suddenly there was a delighted cry farther back along the deck. Alan’s gaze turned to a small cluster of women gathered about the stern who were urging their men to cast their nets into the water. Everybody hurried to join them, where a shoal of silvery salmon leaped and flashed in the ship’s white wake. The fish followed them like a living cloud, glittering and sparkling, intent, it seemed, on offering themselves.

Alan couldn’t help glancing at Mo, who was standing quietly to one side, a look of entrancement about her features as her gaze met that of the Mage of Dreams. For the moment Kemtuk hammered with his staff on the deck to attract everybody’s attention.

“Providence has offered to feed us. We should put aside our differences and spend an hour filling up the hold.”

Many hours later, and with every belly satisfied with the feast of fresh fish, Qwenqwo was persuaded to tell them a story that aimed to throw light on the history of the Temple Ship.

The Ark of the Arinn

Sharing a pipe of tobacco with Kemtuk Lapeep, the Mage of Dreams joined the shaman in sitting cross-legged on the deck, joined in their inner circle by the four friends, Milish and the tribal elders. Ainé refused to join the circle but stood apart, while making no secret of the fact that she was listening intently.

It had been Mo’s question that had prompted Qwenqwo to tell them more about the Temple Ship. “Can you solve a mystery for me? When Mark went funny back there and the crystal patterns appeared in his eyes, he talked to the ship as if he were talking to a real person.”

Qwenqwo shifted his bottom to get himself comfortable, then smiled at Mo, his eyes appearing to glow an even brighter green. “Sailors are apt to talk to ships. But even so, it reminds me of a story—and you, Mo,
more than any among your company knows how loath I am to tell stories!”

Mo’s peal of laughter drew everybody’s attention to her blushing face. But already more people were gathering around Qwenqwo, drawing up a second circle, and there was a sharing of anticipation as the dwarf mage puffed on his pipe. “But now I see that there are too many curious faces to be disappointed. So I will share a little of what I know. For I am acquainted with a legend that tells of a very ancient people, of what the Olhyiu might call First Man and First Woman. Now, if you believe the legends, this man was known as Ará and the first woman as Quorinn and these people were henceforth known as the Ará-Quorinn—so that in the telling from one fireside to another they became known simply as the Arinn.

“Whatever the truth of such legends, all people who now live in Monisle know them in some shape or form, whether by different names or in their stories of beginnings, for these were the first people to gather the fruits of land and shore. Some stories suggest they came here from another world in a great ship, which was known as the Ark of the Arinn. For, if the legends are to be believed, their vessel had powers bequeathed to it by the Changers themselves.”

“The Changers?” asked Mo.

“Another name for the Arinn, my friend. You see, the Ark responded, sense for sense, with the Changers’ wishes and desires. As you might imagine, such a wonder was beyond the comprehension of ordinary senses,
for it was one thing and all things to those who travelled within it. Some believed it retained the capacity to fly through the air, with great wings beating, like a black-headed swan. Others that it could transform its substance, according to the instruction of its masters, even as the creatures, whether of myth or fact I cannot pretend to tell, known as changelings.”

Qwenqwo’s eyes caught Mo’s fleetingly, and their sparkle of delight reminded her of their mind-games in the false Mage’s chamber.

“Stranger still are the stories of the Arinn themselves. For it appears that above all they venerated knowledge. If the oldest legends are true, so arrogant did they become that they challenged the very immortality of the gods. Such arrogance became their downfall.”

Of the many faces enraptured by the storytelling, none was more intrigued than Mark, though he made sure to conceal his interest from his friends, waiting behind until the stories were over and everybody but he had withdrawn to other tasks and interests, so that he could be alone with the dwarf mage.

“I’ve heard stories,” he spoke with a show of skepticism, “of women, with faces like dolls, who visit men in their dreams. In your tales around campfires, have you ever come across any mention of these?”

“Possibly I have, and possibly I have not.”

“You’re not really answering my question.”

“If I am reticent it is because I wonder why a young man like you would be interested in succubi?”

“Succubi?”

“Supposedly, in all manners and appearances they are deceivers and seducers, whose purpose is to ensnare the souls of men.”

“Supposedly? Does that mean you don’t believe in them? You’re just talking about legends?”

“Oh, I suspect they are real enough. Though, thank the Powers, I have never set eyes on such.”

“I don’t understand. I mean, how is it possible for these—these succubi—to control the men they prey on?”

“If legend is to be believed, they do so not merely through the seduction of the eyes but even more so through a hidden scent.”

“A scent?” Mark shook his head disbelievingly.

“A scent, in its capacity for seduction, can be a thousand times more powerful than sight or hearing. Surely it cannot be sight or sound that attracts the moth to its mate, across miles of forest, against the wildest storm and in the dark of night.”

Mark pretended to laugh. “Oh, come on—it’s just myths and fairy tales!”

The dwarf mage shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps it is a myth, also, that they serve a mistress mighty and foul, a mistress so wicked I would not wish to describe her lest I burden you with nightmares.”

“What mistress?”

“One who stands second in the powers of evil in this world, eclipsed only by the Tyrant himself. I speak of the Great Witch, known as Olc, whose domain is far from
here, in the southernmost region of the Wastelands, and whose purpose it is to harvest the souls of men.”

Mark could not hide the pallor that invaded his face. He fell back onto his haunches, blinking rapidly, while the dwarf mage inclined his head and studied the youth through the arched red hairs of his eyebrows. “Will you not speak to me, young Mark, openly and honestly?”

“Please, Qwenqwo—don’t tell the others.”

“It is foolish to conceal the truth from them.”

“Please. You have to promise me.”

“Very well! I give you my word.” The dwarf mage inspected the bowl of his pipe, which contained nothing but ash. He tapped the ash away against the rail of the ship, his face still deeply thoughtful. “You do have a friend, of a curious kind—as I have increasingly witnessed.”

“What friend?”

“Your friend is the ship—or am I altogether mistaken?”

“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps you do not sense it as I do. Yet it is true. You care deeply for her—as no doubt she cares for you.”

Mark placed his left hand on the bare oak of the deck and brushed the wood, an unconscious movement, as if stroking it. “Ships can’t hurt you. Not like . . .”

“Not like people—is that what you mean?”

“Oh, God—is there no hope? I mean, what would I have to do . . . ?”

The dwarf mage saw how Mark’s throat tightened. He saw how sweat glistened over his face. Qwenqwo’s
voice fell to a kindly whisper. “When, my friend, did the succubus seduce you?”

Mark began to tremble. He could not answer.

“Let me guess. It was before the capture of your sister?”

He nodded.

“During the river journey, then?”

He dropped his head.

“She made promises. You gave yourself to her?”

He nodded again.

“And in return? She made demands of you?”

He shook his head. He would die before he answered.

“Her price was your betrayal of your friends?”

“No—
no
! I’d . . . I would never . . . !”

“If I am to help you, Mark, you must tell me everything.”

“I . . . I just can’t talk about it.”

Qwenqwo put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Your sister talked to me a great deal while we were prisoners of the warlock. I know some of what happened. I would like to hear your explanation.”

“I . . . I was asked just to push her.”

“To push Mo on the deck of the ship at the Dragon’s Teeth?”

He shook his head. “Not Mo.”

Qwenqwo fell silent a moment, deep in thought. “Yet there were but two others with you: Mo and Kate.” He frowned, then his eyes widened. “It was Kate?”

Mark nodded. “But honestly, I fought her will—the succubus. I fought and fought. I tried to warn Kate.
Oh—if only Mo hadn’t been there. All I did . . . I put my arm around her. I tried to save Kate. I never pushed her.”

“You pushed Mo instead?”

“Not instead . . . by accident. I just pushed her out of the way. She was trying to get between us, between Kate and me. I sensed that Kate was in terrible danger. I wanted to protect her. I didn’t think . . .”

“You never realized that when the Garg saw you push Mo, it assumed the girl you pushed was the target of the succubus?”

“The Garg?”

“The bat creature that carried Mo overboard.”

“That’s the horrible memory that keeps going through my mind. That creature carrying off Mo. It’s been haunting my nightmares, over and over.”

Qwenqwo fell deeply in thought. “So it was Kate the succubus was really after?”

“It isn’t over, Qwenqwo. I can’t sleep. I daren’t. I know she’ll come again. I keep thinking maybe I should throw myself overboard.”

“Such thinking ill becomes you.”

“What else can I do? Tell me what to do.”

“You spurned the power offered to you by one who might have protected you.”

“I didn’t mean to smash the crystal . . . Oh, God—what a mess I’ve made of everything! Qwenqwo—what can I do?”

“Perhaps there is a way. Perhaps there is only one way—through asking for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?”

“The Powers, believe me, have long recognized the folly of human passions. Yet true contrition would count for much if it came from the heart—in the circumstances it surely must be from your heart alone, in honest and open repentance.”

On the second day after leaving Isscan, the wind blew from the north, and its chilly breath whipped about the decks and rigging. Winter howled about Mark’s ears as he walked the decks, and men and women passed by in his vision as dark silhouettes, bent into their fur capes against the cold. The night landscape was once again showered with snow, and the bitter squalls cleared all but the essential mariners from the deck. Yet Mark felt safer here in these harsh circumstances, where the ship’s timbers were folded around him.

Qwenqwo was right, he did love the ship. He loved her in a strange, altogether secret way—maybe like he loved music. A ship, like music, rewarded your love with what it had to give in return. Neither was capable of hurting you.

Mark’s eyes watered with the cold as he peered out through a porthole in the cabin he shared with Alan, currently busy on deck.

The succubus had not yet reappeared. The ship, somehow, had something to do with that. The ship was protecting him. Mark sensed this although he didn’t know how. He just felt it. But he knew it was only a
question of time. Her first attempt had failed. He had not pushed Kate overboard, as she had asked him to, and so, here, in this terrible valley, she would try again. He knew it, sensed it deep within him, and the dread of it made sleep impossible. In the lonely hours of darkness, prowling the decks and avoiding the company of the Shee or the Olhyiu sailors, he had overheard snatches of their conversations about Alan.

“Is the Mage Lord a demon?”

He had recognized the voice of Topgal, Siam’s brother-in-law. Topgal never seemed to speak without bitterness. It seemed that the Olhyiu alternated in thinking Alan might be a demon or a god, but never just a youth, as he was.

With morning, the land to either side of them seemed to rise in scarps, capped by plateaus, hills and valleys, all gripped in the white thrall of winter. He gazed out at the passing copses of evergreens, often in clefts of hills or rills. Great trees overhung the water, and sparks of light glittered in the green-black depths of their shadows. A deep and brooding menace was gathering in those black rocks, as if the angry landscape was showing through its sparse cover of mist and snow. The sky was massing with clouds, their edges shrouding the caps of the mountains so that they became a single dome with the shoulders of rock and the coiling mists rising from the river. Everybody saw that they were drawing closer to the jaws of the pass, through which they would enter a valley where new dangers awaited them.

Mark had never felt so frightened and alone as he felt right now. He welcomed the piercing barbs of snow that whipped his face in the bitter wind, ignoring the pain as his lips cracked and his ears became numb. He avoided his friends, even his sister, Mo—especially Mo after his confession to Qwenqwo.

The dwarf mage knew the truth. Would he keep his word? Who would he tell about it? Who had he told already?

Back in his cabin, the grief of his betrayal tormented him like an iron fist closing around his heart. And now, with another night drawing in, he peered morosely through the porthole at the wraiths of mist that ran among the great trees like hunting wolves, his growing alienation making him consider all over again whether they might all be better off without him.

Such thinking ill becomes you . . .

Inside his mind, his own voice berated him. “What . . . what can I do?
What can I do
?”

The dwarf had talked about forgiveness. Forgiveness from whom? Granny Dew, the bag lady he had ridiculed, the one into whose black eyes and wrinkled face he had shone his cell phone screen light?

Mark sneaked out to stand disconsolately before the stern rail, hearing the sigh of the water under the flanks of the great ship, watching the ripples spread out toward the wide-spaced banks, reflecting the moonlight. He took a deep breath and imagined what it would feel like, falling into the darkness, the
cold . . . an end to this torment. He recalled Granny Dew’s very words:

When the darkness is worst, child, then will you find love.

He licked his lips, bowed his head. “Granny Dew! It was a really stupid thing I did with the crystal you gave me. I know I’ve gone too far for forgiveness, but please help me at least to pay back my friends.”

No voice answered his call. Instead, he felt an intense pain flare in his left shoulder. The pain was so agonizing, he ripped off his shirt and rubbed at the skin. There was no point calling again for help. It was useless. She had abandoned him, like everybody had always abandoned him. A new stab of pain brought him to his knees on the hard oak deck. It was so agonizing his whole body began to tremble. He couldn’t help the rush of tears that came into his eyes. When he touched the skin over his shoulder, it burned.