The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [62]
“To this place,” Evandar said, “did Dallandra bring me and Elessario, when it was her time to go down to the world of Time and be born. Now it’s the gate through which you must pass. You must wade through the river and walk into that mist.”
“I see, my lord.” Menw’s voice trembled.
When Evandar looked at him, he found his lieutenant standing naked, his slender body as white as alabaster and as translucent. The rest of the souls who followed him had become the same: pale, shimmering, and stripped of the false features he had given them. His brother’s pack had lost their fur and fangs, transformed their snouts and paws; they stood straight and laughed in joy at the new images of themselves. The old herald—a stately and white-haired envoy now, came forward to speak for them all.
“Our thanks! You have given us what you promised us, so long ago.”
But Evandar knew that he himself had done nothing. He felt the wind pick up, a cold wind that slapped at him in a flood and surge of raw power. Through the meadow beings were coming, all clothed in golden light, huge and towering above the mists and death-pale flowers. Were they human? He could not tell in the glow of their coming. One raised a hand; they had no need of words.
“To the river!” Evandar called to his people. “Into the river and beyond!”
For the last time the Hosts obeyed him. It seemed they flew, rising above the flowers and swirling like dead leaves caught in the rising wind. The Great Ones flew with them in a huge waft of golden light that washed over them, swirled them around one last time, and carried them into the mist on the far side of the white river. Three enormous knocks like thunder boomed over the meadow. Without thinking Evandar sank to his knees and flung up his arms.
For a moment the river mist shone in a burst of gold; then slowly the color faded away. The white river ran once more under the white mist. The white flowers trembled once, then held still. Evandar rose and turned to see one last figure walking toward him: a human being with dark skin and curly white hair, dressed in a coarse brown robe and carrying an apple in one hand and a knife in the other.
“You’re here?” Evandar said to him.
“I am.” The old man paused to cut off a slice of apple. “I turn up in the most cursed strange places, don’t I?” He handed Evandar the slice. “You’ve done splendidly.”
“Have I?” Evandar put the slice in his mouth and found it tasted wonderfully sweet, far better even than the mead from his own stores.
“Just so: splendidly well. What about you, now?”
Evandar merely looked at him.
“A while back we traded questions,” the old man said. “And I laid up a few in store. You owe me some answers.”
“So I do, good sir. Well then, here’s one of them. I have too much work afoot in the world of Time to follow my people.”
“Work can always be jobbed out. Do you want to go across?”
“I don’t! Never shall I be born in the world of slime and blood and decay! Better to fade away than that!”
“Ah.” The old man considered him for a moment. “You know, I wonder if you could be born, even if you wanted to. I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a man of great power. Look at you, still whole and dressed all fancy, even here in this place.”
Evandar glanced down to see his familiar green tunic and buckskin leggings.
“The mists usually dissolve such things clean away,” the old man went on. “You’re a marvel, you are, but I’ll wager there’s one thing you’re too weak to do. No doubt you could never strip yourself of enough power to cross that river.”
“Indeed?” Evandar heard his voice snarl. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I don’t want to, isn’t it now?”
“It is at that.” The old man was smiling at him. “But if you’re ever of a mind to, we could meet here and lay a wager on it.”
“If I ever have time to, we could at that. Not, of course, that I want to do any such thing. Be born, I mean.”
“Of course.”
For a moment they