Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [131]
“Menw, lead the men home, and take our horses,” Evandar said, “I must have a word with my dear brother.”
Shaetano winced and swore, but he dismounted upon an order and tossed his reins up to the lieutenant. Evandar did the same. Once the Host had trotted off, they walked over to the river and stood looking down at the water, slow among the rushes.
“I’ll be hunting Alshandra on my own,” Evandar said. “While I’m gone, I don’t want you working malice behind me.”
“Shall I come with you then, brother dear? Or will you kill me here?”
“Neither.” Evandar smiled gently. “I shall leave you to flourish.”
A puzzled Shaetano seemed on the edge of speaking, but Evandar threw both hands into the air and clutched the astral light—or so it seemed to him, this working, that he could gather handfuls of light from the sky and pull them down. With a yelp, Shaetano tried to jump away, only to find himself rooted, shivering and screaming at the sight of his brother’s hands gushing silver. Evandar tossed this captured light over his brother’s vulpine form, and as it fell, it seemed to thin out to a fabric, a shroud wrapping Shaetano so quickly that he was trapped. Bark wound him round and stilled his shivering. Leaves sprouted from the branches of his upraised arms, roots burrowed into the earth from his booted feet. With an anguished howl, he peered out of the cleft of the trunk for one brief moment; then bark and sprouting twigs covered his face.
“You’ll be perfectly safe, you know,” Evandar said to the oak. “You shall flourish beside the river till I lift the enchantment. Though you’d best hope, brother of mine, that I win this little battle with Alshandra. Otherwise, you’ll stay a tree forever. So wish me the best of luck when you happen to think of me.”
The branches shook and rustled in rage, then stilled as the soul within took on the nature of the tree without and abandoned rage and motion both. Evandar laughed and danced, so well-pleased with his jest that he never noticed the raven, flying by high above him as she passed through his country on an errand of her own.
PRESENT FALLING
Cengarn, 1116
TRISTITIA
An evil omen, some say the most evil of all those that can possibly fall into any of the lands of our map. And yet, such is the nature of Nature, that no thing be unmitigatedly evil nor immaculately good, if certain peculiar configurations of omens do occur, then this figure does bode well for two most disparate matters, fortifications and debauchery.
—The Omenbook of Gwarn,
Loremaster
IN THE PARK LAND below the gates of Lin Serr, a muster was proceeding. Three abreast, dwarven warriors lined up behind the red and gold standards of their companies, while at the rear, two-wheeled carts, each pulled by a pair of dwarves, formed into a marching order—seven hundred fifty fighting men instead of the five hundred promised. The news of the slaughter at the farms had produced too many insistent volunteers to deny them all. Although the men wore leather caps and carried their axes, their armor rode on the carts. With the dragon gliding overhead to scout, they didn’t need to worry about being taken by surprise. What counted now was speed.
Up at the head of the line, Garin stood talking with Rhodry, while Arzosah lounged nearby, yawning hugely in the brightening dawn.
“We can march faster without mules,” Garin said. “And with the farms gone anyway—”
“Just so,” Rhodry said. “When we get near Cengarn, I’ll fly on ahead and see if I can find the relieving army. It’s got to be assembling by now. Cadmar’s allies are honorable men, and they won’t be leaving him to rot.”
“I hope so. Well, there’s Brel, getting ready to give the signal. I’d best go take my place in line.”
As Garin joined the axmen, he glanced up and saw birds wheeling, black specks against the high sky. He couldn’t help wondering if one of them was the raven