Dawnmaid

Chapter two-2

“The Wayfarers? What are they, Huw?”

“Our people have studied the skies for many generations. We have seen the travels of the stars and the moon as they somberly tread the black velvet curtain of night. But there are four heavenly bodies whose blazing light could be said to dance across the skies — Unda, Herd, Zephur and Ruber. They are the Wayfarers. You have seen their signs on the Triske stones.”[10]

She nodded, remembering the worn ruby-red stones that her grandmother, Neirin Mare, had shown her once, long ago, in the kitchen of Acorn cottage.

Huw continued. “They are special to the Firaithi, for they travel, just as we do.”

Katkin looked worried as she pressed a steaming cup full of soup into his hands. “Speaking of traveling, how on Yrth are we to cross twenty leagues of open country without being seen? If there are as many of these Black Guardsmen around as Padarn seemed to think, then we will be in danger every minute. And where will we find shelter?” She shivered in the chill evening as the wind stirred the flames, sending many shining sparks spiraling into the night air.

“There are many secret paths that will carry us safely to Brunner’s Valley. The Firaithi Kindreds have been traversing this country for over a thousand years on the Greater and Lesser Ambits. We have many caches of food and supplies along our routes that we can use in case of difficulties. Remember, this is not the first time the Gruagán have subjected us to persecution. He sighed. “Nor will it be the last, I expect.”

“What do you mean, Huw? How can you know that?”

“I don’t know how I know. I just do.” He sat down by the fire and sipped at his soup. Katkin handed him a hunk of hard black rye bread, and then ate her own meal in pensive silence. After a time she asked Huw, “What is Bryn Mirain? Padarn said my people would try to go there.”

“The Firaithi peoples have no homeland, but they do have Bryn Mirain. It is a hidden valley, deep in the Altas Mountains, between Beaumarais and Spanja. Our Kindreds have been gathering there for many hundreds of years. Every other summer we go to exchange news and meet with friends and relations. Many celebrations and weddings take place then.” Huw’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he seemed suddenly distressed, as though her question had reminded him of some unhappy memory.

Later, as Katkin packed up their few belongings and loaded them onto the patient Ajax, Huw kicked dirt over the fire to extinguish it. They were careful to leave no sign of their camp site behind, in case anyone should stumble upon it. The moon rode high in the sky, and she helpfully lit their way as they passed back along the silent road. Katkin took this to be a sign that Lalluna, the moon Goddess, also approved of their decision to shelter at Brunner’s farm.

A rough track went off to their left, winding up the valley and over a low saddle, and Huw directed Ajax that way. Dark pines clothed the steep face of the hills on either side. In the darkness the valley looked lonely and forbidding. He said, “We must keep to this track for several hours, until we find a patteran.[11] It may be difficult to see at night. There will be a dry camping spot hidden a few hundred yards away, sheltered by an overhanging rock.”

Katkin spoke to his retreating back. “A patteran? What is that?”

“A sign left by another Kindred. Sometimes a small pile of stones, or a few twigs woven together. But I will know it when I see it,” he said cheerfully, and turned around to smile at her.

Katkin smiled too, feeling a little ashamed of her earlier irritation. Huw had chosen to undertake this risky journey with her rather than remain with his own Kindred, and had done so without a word of blame or complaint. She was very grateful for his company on that cold and dark evening, so she said softly, “Thank you, Huw.”

He seemed to know her thoughts without asking. “You don’t have to thank me. I would rather stay here with you, my queen.” They walked together in companionable silence, until the moon set and the darkness became thick around them. Huw slowed his pace a little, afraid he would miss the patteran, but he dared not stop altogether. An icy drizzle began to fall, and soon soaked through their woolen cloaks, chilling them both to the bone.

Katkin shivered and tried to keep her fingers from freezing by tucking her hand in her opposite armpit. Her stump ached miserably. She judged it to be well after midnight, and both she and Ajax stumbled from tiredness. Just as she was sure she could not take another step, she saw a small heap of white stones shining brightly in the deep shadow to the right of the path. She thought surely this was the patteran Huw had referred to, but to her surprise, he walked right by it. Katkin forced her leaden legs forward and stopped him, then pointed out the stones.

He squatted down before the patteran and then laughed sheepishly. “I shall speak less proudly of my journeys through Yr, henceforth. I made a mistake we teach even the youngest lathie[12]to avoid. Thinking of a dry bed and a hot drink before you find the camp is a good way to get lost in the dark. I am glad your eyes and mind are sharper than mine this foul night.” But he gave her a curious glance all the same, for the heap of stones she indicated had been all but invisible to him in the darkness.

* * * *

The worsening weather soon tested Katkin’s naturally cheerful disposition to the limit. The leaden drizzle that began on their first night march persisted, until it even soaked through their waxed canvas travel bags. Their woolen clothing kept them from freezing, but travel became thoroughly uncomfortable. On the fourth day of their journey, as they traversed a line of high hills, she begged Huw to stop for a few hours so they could build a fire and dry out their sodden garments.

He said patiently, “We cannot stop here. It would be far too dangerous. The Gruagán use these hills for hunting and a fire would draw them to us. I wouldn’t have even come this way if we did not need to make all haste possible. We must keep going until we reach the saddle over there. You can make it that far, can you not?” He pointed to a dip between two distant hills. Katkin’s heart sank. It looked another ten miles away at least. She put her head down miserably and walked past without answering him.

Huw looked at her in concern. He knew this journey was difficult for her. She hadn’t been brought up to follow Asparitus, as he had, and her long imprisonment in the Citadel had left her physically weakened. He wondered what he might do to lift her flagging spirits. Suddenly he smiled and walked forward to catch her hand. “I will tell you a tale to ease the pain of the miles we have yet to cross. A story that my Patre used to tell me when I was a lathie, and ill-tempered, as you are now.” She looked up at him, and smiled tiredly, but there were tears in her eyes. Huw squeezed her hand encouragingly.

“This story takes place in...” He paused and scratched his head. “I don’t know the word for it in your language. The Firai word is aza’thuwlas[13].”

She mentally translated the word as beyond-futures-past. Katkin, thinking this made no sense, asked him, “Is that a place — like a different country?”

Huw shook his head. “It is a time — but not a time that has been or will be on this turn of the Gyre. So, in a way, it is a different country. Certainly the men and animals were very different then.”

He caught Katkin’s interest, despite her fatigue. She asked, “How do you know about the rising Gyre?” He shot up an eyebrow and gave her a sideways glance.

“I might ask you the same thing. The Gyre forms the backbone of the knowledge and understanding passed down to the Kindreds by the Elders of the Firaithi. The endless passage of time winds around the Gyre and everything that is, or ever will be, can be found there. Perhaps your mother or grandmother told you something of it when you were a child.”

Katkin did not dispute this, although it was untrue. Tomas de Vigny had told her of the Gyre only a few weeks ago, the night he made love to her at her old home, Acorn. The same night he told her he had become one of the Amaranthine. She wondered now if there could be some connection between them and the Firaithi, but she dared not question Huw on that. He might ask too many questions of his own.

Huw continued his tale. “So in the time of aza’thuwlas, there lived a graceful bird of prey — a great-hearted warrior bird with shining feathers of silver, and talons as sharp as broken crystal. His jet black beak could tear through the sinews of the mightiest of deer, and he hunted the forests of Vangesu for them, summer and winter. With his keen eyes, no prey could escape him, and he ruled the skies year in and year out. Ben’aryn the Swift was his name, the king of all birds, and he had but one love.”

Huw paused, remembering his own father’s telling of this tale for the first time. He had been a lathie of six or seven years, trotting along beside his Patre, with his hand in his, hunger and fatigue forgotten as he was transported into the panoply of fables concerning his people — the unbroken chain of memory stretching both forwards and backwards along the Gyre.

Now, just as he had all those years ago, Katkin, her eyes shining, asked impatiently, “What did he love?”

Huw smiled. “He loved flying. It was his greatest joy. Ben’aryn spent his days among the clouds. In the balmy days of summer, they looked just like the fleecy sheep he sometimes chased for sport among the green pastures of Vangesu. The rising waves of heat from the Yrth reminded him of the gyre, for he could stretch out his mighty wings and soar ever higher, until the air became as rarefied as a distant moment in time. Then, at last, when the stars appeared in the sky, though it was still day, and the curvature of the Yrth spread out below him like a shining arc of fire and ice, he would fold his wings and plummet back down to the ground, shrieking with abandoned delight. It was for these moments he hunted deer in the forests of Vangesu and drank the waters of Lake Lisane. Nothing else mattered to him.”

Katkin listened, entranced, and forgot her aching legs. A mile passed and two, as Huw described Ben’aryn’s mighty eyrie on Mount Nindras, so high the freezing fogs of winter lived there all year round. With his far-seeing eyes he watched the forests and plains below, always searching for prey, so he might stay strong. His eyrie was far from the habitations of other birds, but Ben’aryn did not want company. For as Huw said, “He cared only for the feeling of the wind in his feathers, and he told himself it felt better than any lover’s touch.

“One winter day, when the clouds were dark and threatening snow, Ben’aryn perched high on the cliff side and watched the plains beneath. He felt hunger, for of late, game had been scarce and his last meal had been several days ago, when he chased down and caught a young mountain goat. A movement on the ground below caught his eye, so he spread his great silver wings and spiraled downwards. As he was preparing himself for his killing flight, with wings well back and talons extended, intending to break the unlucky creature’s spine, a song echoed in the rushing winds around him.