The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (17 page)

He was interested in all manner of things, some quite arcane, others very worldly: the politics of the nobles; the history of old Ayr; languages old and new; the races that once dwelt in the wildlands. The River Wynnd held a particular fascination for him, and he had a keen interest in the ladies of the courts." Eber's list petered out. He still worried the thread in his robe.

"You say he came from a learned family," Tarn said.” We'd hoped to send word to his people so they would not be left wondering for years why he's not been seen or heard from. It seemed a small thing, considering what he did for us."The old man shook his head, the long beard and hair swaying.” I'm afraid it's of no use. You'll not find any of Alaan's people. Not now." Eber rose stiffly and went to the railing, staring down into the darkness. He was silent for a long time, but then Tarn saw his shoulders sag a little.

Fynnol, who sat favoring his injured side, gestured to the old man and rolled his eyes. Clearly he had spent too long in this lonely house, listening to his river, musing over what he believed to be his terrible transgression.

"Imagine a life without language," Eber said softly, still staring down into the river.” I might teach my son to read and certainly that is language, but not a spoken tongue. What beauty can there be to it without sound: the play of tone and syllable, assonance, rhythm, rhyme? I cannot think what a loss this would be. Imagine poetry without sound— meaning but no music." He shook his head.” It is a silent world I have consigned Llya to. Devoid of laughter, no song to touch the heart, no echo, no river's secret speech. Even his name he has never heard." He bowed his head, staring down at the flowing river. For a moment there was no speech but that of the water.

He looked up at them, surprised and embarrassed, as though he had been caught musing to himself. He turned so that he leaned against the rail.” I will tell you this one thing I learned of Alaan," Eber said.” He had the knack of hiding himself from others. Oh, you might think you knew all there was to know of Alaan, and I dare say there were some that did believe this, but they did not know the half of him. Alaan was secretive—like his bird—secretive and wary. But this was all hidden beneath a facade of immense charm. And yet he was not unaffected by the difficulties of others. He once brought me a gift, brought it to me out of story. I'll show you." Eber walked stiffly inside and returned bearing a small box, long and narrow. He slid it open, for it fit together in two parts, and from inside removed a flute, once white but now yellowed with age.” Alaan hoped I might read what is written on this, but it is too old a script for my meager knowledge—if it is a script at all. It is said to be an enchanted pipe, if you are inclined to believe such things. A pipe even the deaf might hear, but either it was only a story or I could not find the secret of it." He passed the pipe to Cynddl.” Have you ever seen its like?" Cynddl took it gently, holding it up in the moonlight.” I haven't, but it's ancient, I think. I can't even say what it's made of. Is it bone?" "It is the horn of a mystical beast—a whale-fish it is said—at least that was Alaan's story. The pipe is to have belonged to a minstrel: Ruadan, by name." "I've heard of him!" Cynddl said, looking up quickly.” There are songs. A minstrel who won the heart of a princess with an enchanted flute." Eber nodded.” Yes, though when the pipe was stolen the spell was broken, and the Princess had her father kill poor Ruadan for bespelling her and stealing her love unwarranted. But it was said that the deaf could hear his pipe, and Alaan brought me this, not certain it was the flute of Ruadan, but hoping. He was fascinated by ancient things—artifacts and antiquities." The old man looked up at Cynddl, measuring him, it seemed.

"Alaan asked me to keep this here, safe, and tell no one of it. But now that he is gone . . . Perhaps there is someone—someone whom Alaan knew." Eber said this somewhat reluctantly.” Gilbert A'brgail is the man's name. Would you carry the flute to him? He should have it, I think. Ask for him at tournaments near the borders of the old kingdom. He was a friend of Alaan. The only one I know." The old man shook his head sadly.” The only one but me.""My people range all across the land between the mountains," Cynddl said.” I'll send out word and we'll find Gilbert A'brgail and deliver your flute.""But you must not...!" Eber's gaze darted about the terrace without settling on anyone.” It is a valuable object which many might want—because of the story attached to it. You should not go about the lands telling everyone what you carry. I tell you this for your own good."Cynddl bobbed his head.” Then I'll say nothing of your pipe but ask only after Alaan's friend," he promised, and then raised the pipe to his mouth, sending a trill of notes into the night. Eber's son looked up suddenly from where he played, but then went back to his amusement, only attracted by the sudden movement of Cynddl's hands. The story finder played again but the boy did not hear.

"I've never heard a flute with such a sound," Cynddl said, holding the instrument out again to look at it.

"Nor has anyone, I think," Eber said softly.” But it grows late. You may stay the night in the house of Gwyar, if you wish. We have beds enough if you will consent to share rooms. Here we sleep by day and are alive by night so that I might study the stars, but you must be tired from your traveling."They looked quickly at one another and then CynddJ said, "We have our camp on the tip of your island and our boat to watch. It's a kind offer, Eber, and we thank you, but our bed will be the riverbank tonight."The old man nodded, perhaps a little relieved.” If you will lie by the river, then listen when it speaks. It has a secret, I tell you, for the man who can hear." Tarn made his bed in a place less rocky, and lay listening to the river murmur as it passed Speaking Stone. The entire meeting with Eber had been so unexpected and so peculiar that he almost wondered if it had happened at all. Perhaps he had been dreaming and just now awoke? The shadow of Alaan seemed to follow them. From Telanon Bridge, where they had escaped with their lives, down to the ford at Wil-lowwand, where they had barely avoided disaster again. And now they nearly wrecked their boat upon this rocky island and what do they find? A half-mad old man and his poor son; and this man, too, knows Alaan. A rogue he called him, though not without some affection in his voice—more affection than Delgert Gallon had, that is certain. But now they had another name: A'brgail. Alaan's other friend, Eber said. How could a man of such charm have only two friends? Tarn lifted his head suddenly. What was that he heard? Almost a sigh, but a sigh that contained vowels and harder sounds—rocks shifting in the river, no doubt. Now the old man was infecting even him with his madness and obsession. Tam lay back, closed his eyes, and felt sleep drift over him like a dark, heavy mist. He fell into a dream. He walked in the wood, seeking the path to Eber's house but wandering among the trees, lost. Finally he found a steep, twisting way and on it was Eber's son, standing in the shadows, still and silent in his dark velvet clothes. Llya beckoned to Tam and, taking his hand, drew him down so that Tam knelt upon one knee. The boy put his mouth close to Tarn's ear but instead of speech he blew out through his moving lips, and manipulating his tongue, made a sound like the river murmuring among stones.

16

FIRST LIGHT FOUND THEM ON THE RIVER AGAIN. THEY EASILY NEgotiated the rapids that surrounded Speaking Stone, for in daylight the waters weren't so formidable. Passing the island, Tarn looked up to catch a last glimpse of the home of Gwyar, but no sign of it could be discerned. Only swaying trees and towering stone. Men who came down the river would never realize the house was there, their attention on the hazards of the river—but not its voice.

Overhead the sky remained thinly overcast; and a fine mist seemed to hang among the trees on the hillsides, reducing them to silhouettes, only Cynddl able to name them by such vague shapes.

It was at Speaking Stone that the landscape changed and they found themselves among steep, rugged hills, the river flowing swiftly between. It wound its way, sometimes tortuously, through the outcroppings of stone, and the occupants of the boat were ever on the alert for rapids and rocks.

The land seemed drier, the bare bones of it tearing through the covering of green, .thrusting up to heights, cliff faces broken and sheer. Tarn thought it looked an ancient land, sculpted and battered by the ages; but even so it was beautiful in an eerie way, for not only was.it empty of the signs of men but one had the feeling that if men had ever dwelt here it had been a long age ago.

The haunting sorrow that pervaded the Greensprings still touched Tarn at times, but he was wise to it now and when it welled up he knew immediately that it was not his own. This made it easier to bear, somehow. High overhead the hunting eagles soared, banking and gliding, their golden feathers flashing in the weak sunlight. The ancient eagle perched, white headed, in trees along the river, watching for unwary fish; while on the shallow banks, cranes and herons stalked, staring down into the waters with meditative concentration. Late in the morning, Fynnol pointed out two black swans swimming in the shadow of the bank. Cynddl sat up and begged Tarn to row near. As they did so, the swans moved down the bank, twisting their elegant necks to keep the strangers in view. With their wings arched up and their feathers dark as a raven's they were a beautiful sight, Tarn thought.” We never see such swans in the Vale," Baore said.” Such birds are not to be seen anywhere," Cynddl whispered, "or so I would have said. The black swan was more than rare when my people first set foot on the shore of the land between the mountains. Only a few years later their race was gone altogether, hunted by men who prized their feathers—or so we believed. But here are two, swimming out of story, it would seem. And look. See how they draw us downriver? I'll wager there is a nest hidden away, back among that stand of waterwillow. That's a good sign." Cynddl waved them on, though he sat and watched the swans until the river carried them out of sight. Twice they passed islands formed like Speaking Stone and Tam wondered if there were hidden dwellings on these as well—the homes of alleged sorcerers or half-mad old men— but they didn't stop to find out. The companions traveled in silence, watching the land slip by, heartened by fiber's assurance that no horseman could race them to the bridge. Fynnol stood in the boat suddenly.” Tam!" he said. A billowing cloud of fog washed up the river toward them, tumbling in a slow, toppling wave. Tam rose, trying for a moment to judge the speed of the advancing bank, but its edge was so nebulous it seemed to flow up the river and out from the banks all at once. The sun drowned in the sky, and before they could turn toward the shore, the wave broke over them, silent and cool. Suddenly it was neither day nor night, but some nether time with neither sun nor stars but only a diffuse gray—shadowless and featureless. Cynddl found a cloak in his pack and pulled it on and the others did the same. It was suddenly clammy and chill, water beading and dripping in dull diamonds on the planks and frames.

Baore shipped a pair of oars which thudded dully into place.” Shall we try to make the shore at least," he said, whispering for some reason.” Even if we don't find a place to land properly we might tie to the bank and wait." He began to row in the direction of the bank. After a moment he stopped, twisting around and staring into the gray.” Am I turned around already? Certainly the river isn't so broad.""I can barely see Fynnol," Tarn said from the stern.” We could be rowing along the bank and not know."Cynddl stood, tugging his dark-red cloak close. He turned slowly, gazing into the fog. The sounds of birds carried to them, but muffled and distant.” Row more to your left," the story finder said.

After ten minutes of this Baore stopped, staring over the side.” Which way does the current flow? I can no longer tell." Fynnol spat over the side to see if they moved in relation to the waters, but the gray light and mist hid even this.

Cynddl dropped back into his seat.” I would say we were in a lake, but the river meets no lakes this far north."Fynnol called out and his voice trailed off and faded into the fog.” When the banks are stone there's almost always a little echo," he said, turning where he sat and looking quickly in all directions.” Can the mist muffle that?" No one knew. Baore bent to his oars again, choosing a new direction,but still no embankment was found. They sat in silence, watching the slow swirl of mist, listening to the small lapping of water on wood.” It's as though we've taken some turn in the river that we didn't see," Fynnol said.” And now where are we?" He waved a hand at the mist.” I have this terrible feeling that the fog will lift and there'll be no land in sight, only watery horizon in all directions." The boat knocked against stone, causing them all to jump, and then a scraping sound came from below. Everyone bent over the side, heeling the boat until it almost tipped.” Do you see anything?" Baore asked, the words coming out in a rush. He took up an oar and plunged the blade straight down, but found no bottom. Cynddl hung over the side, staring down. Very hesitantly he reached out and touched the water, bringing his dripping hand up to his lips. Tarn wondered if the story finder half expected it to taste of salt. As though they could have been washed out of the mouth of the river into the open sea.” This isn't our river," Cynddl said. Tarn dipped his hand into the water and put it to his lips. It tasted the way rainwater would when it sat for a time in a stone basin. Drinking it left you with a dry, acrid taste—like sour wine and chalk.” The taste of the Wynnd has changed as we've traveled away from the mountains," Tarn said, "but you're right, Cynddl; it's never been like this." "Rocks!" Baore cried. Tarn spun on the thwart, wet now from the fog, and saw a great column of stone looming up out of the mist. Fynnol fended off with his hands.” But look at this, Tarn!"Fynnol said.” I've never seen such rock. It looks like roots." Fynnol bent back and gazed up.” And this looks like the trunk of an enormous tree." As the rock passed Tarn reached out a hand to touch it—cold and coarse, like granite. And surely it did look like a tangle of thick roots, as though the earth had been washed away around them. He stared up. The rock was striated and irregular, like bark, and trunklike, its girth that of a smalJ shed. It slipped into the fog astern and another loomed up before them, and then another.