The Dancer at the Feast

Chapter 5

2 IlissosIN THE GLITTERING FRESHNESS of the afternoon, a horseman left the homestead which had sheltered him from the storm and took the narrow southern road through the storm-scourged moors where his host’s sheep grazed. The land behind him lifted to a series of rough hills and sweeping vales of bracken and yellow grass. He had sent his horse speeding through their coarse pelt with the racing black clouds in pursuit, but now they moved at a slower pace through pasture and belts of tilled or wooded land. The colours of the moorland stretched around him, fresh and hard, washed by the rain for nature’s festival and decked with glinting, shimmering moisture.

The rider halted. To his left the ground rose over a mile or so to a jagged line of pines that made a dark border against the sky. On the right, marshy, broken ground led his eye to a sweep of hills that marched in line with the road. Behind them, as they diminished, was the sharp crown of a solitary mountain, and beyond the blue of slopes farther still. There would lie the long valley the shepherd had described to him, carrying the river and the broad road from the city. The horseman smiled a little. He had been right to miss that road. The extra miles of the detour over the high farmland had been worth it. His reward had been the stillness of the early mist, the light like drifting pearl. Budding trees and the lichen of the rocks had flared up for him as great swathes of yellow light fell across the land from the rising sun. Birdsong thrilled away every thought of the clamour of the broad highway.

At the tail end of the morning he had found himself in a wild place of rock, stubby heather, and gnarled hills above long, grey scree slopes. There, as he looked around with delight, the storm had come upon him. Looking back to see how the sunlight lay on a vast cascade of a hill, he had seen the grim, roiling cloud rushing towards him. Blizzard and dark rain trailed after, throwing before it a single lightning shaft as a challenge. The horseman had stared transfixed; he felt like a man menaced by a host so terrible and magnificent he could not flee for the thrill of it. When the storm was almost upon him, he had turned his horse and begun, like another that day, an exhilarated race for shelter. Now he carefully relived the experience in his thoughts. He must remember it exactly, not only what he had seen but what it had felt like to find the awesome thing bearing down upon him. Neither he nor anyone in his warm homeland had encountered anything like it before, and, in his land, poets and storytellers had a high standing. He wanted his traveller’s tales to outshine the best.

Now he wondered what the glorious darkness meant. Everyone knew when the elements of the world convulsed they pointed to something beyond themselves. It was the poets’ task, and those gifted to see beyond things, to find out what. He pulled off his cap, ran his fingers through his dark curls and let his head fall back, moving his neck in slow circles to ease his muscles. He drew the sharp air into his body and felt his mind clear.

“Ah, Northland,” he sighed. “Ke’vald-na, who would not love you, wild beauty? Who could tame you, strong creature?” He smiled to himself as he realised he had inadvertently begun a song. He would make one before the day was out. It might follow the trajectory of the storm’s significance, or at least buy him a few meals here in the Northland.

The traveller sent his horse forward. He had taken his time on this lofty road, savouring its miles and letting the stillness refresh him while he shaped words and music. Perhaps the newness of the surrounding lands would put something fresh into his songs. One reason he had fallen in love with Ke’vald-na—the Northland—was its unfamiliarity and otherness. It was harder, harsher, and wilder than his home. Deep foreign green of pine forests climbing the piled-up, jagged mountains. Rivers racing on the huge, brown plains to the broad valleys slung between the hills. Ragged coasts that held back the vast western sea. The traveller drew in a sharp, cold breath and rubbed his face. The olive tint of his skin placed him from the warmer south and his worn travel clothes had an uncommon look, except for the heavy fur-trimmed cloak he had bought for winter and still wore against the chill of a northern spring. He let the cloak fall back from his body so he could know the bite of the wind. It whipped about him like a lash, searing his face with a caress of needles, stinging his soul awake. See, see, it sang, your mother’s beauty, the queen’s majesty, with beauty she brings forth all, with glory she is crowned, and of glory she sings. The wind’s song swirled up from the moors and swept down from the mountains. The voice of the whole earth telling him he was part of all that is made and brother to all things. He was a gift for them as they were for him.

The young man gently drew up his horse. He looked about him, suddenly astonished. The beauty was intense: the colours, the light, the deep, deep sky. A longing rushed up in him and seemed to burst out and draw him with it so that, rising beyond himself, he could delightedly look back and see himself. He longed for the mountains and for the massive beauty in them. He ached for the trees and for what made them what they were, reaching in his mind for branch and intricate leaf full of unending colours, more able to shine and glow against the eternal light. He longed with a beautiful pain, though he could not call it that, for the spring of life, for glory, for the brilliance that kindled the sun….

There was a pause, and the earth seemed poised in light. The traveller knew he was on a horse, on a moor, but everything around him seemed to have become more than a mere place. He felt it, not as an area but as an essence. A gateway to what it truly was, to the source and definition of its existence and to a bright, clear, happy being who was behind and beneath it all; but it was still itself, and more so for being experienced thus, rock and tree more hard and sharply real than ever.

A curtain was drawn quietly in his mind, and the brilliance from the casement behind shone through but softly to the shadowed chamber as things settled back to their soft, everyday realness. So, he thought, it has happened again. I never thought it would. I thought when this came upon me on the hill above the world at Agoras such a thing could enter a life and divide it in two only once. I have never known how to speak of it. Now these northern firs, the moors, the hills are as lovely as before, but though I think I am content with them I am not. The longing remains.

For a while he watched a bird wheeling about its endless heaven and thought of his home, Syrga—Northmen called it the Green Jewel—the little land of the green hills and the cypress trees sitting by the sea’s edge. There was beauty there too: wild in its way, but softer, kindlier, and it would grow as the spring advanced. But he had reached out to beauty and found himself grasping for he knew not what. He knew no more of the definition of his experiences than he did of the meaning of the storm. He had promised himself he would seek for it, but that quest hardly seemed to matter at this moment. A quietness had come to him and though there was no understanding in his mind, he was aware that his heart grasped the knowledge, held the truth. The words, the understanding of the mind, would come later. Whatever had happened, he would try to rest in it and let it rest in him. Gently he flicked the reins and the horse moved off.

He had not gone far before he had company on the road. Horsemen were cantering towards him, coming up from the valley with the sun behind them; they had the bearing of soldiers. As the column came up to the Syrgan a shout and raised hand brought the riders to a halt. The traveller found himself under the tired, dutiful stare of the captain. The quietness in him persisted, so he smiled and said nothing. The men were relaxed, showing a friendly interest in the foreigner.

“Blessings of day to you, master,” said the captain in the tired but dutiful voice of a man who would rather be at home. “You’re a stranger here,” he added, smiling a little at his own unnecessary statement, and was rewarded with a broad grin.

“A stranger, yes, and happy I am here.”

The soldier allowed himself an affable little nod in return: this fellow wasn’t edgy like they usually were. “Tharval’s my name,” he continued, speaking slowly for the foreigner’s benefit, “I’m captain of this troop. Leader: I command.”

“Yes, yes, this I see.”

“Right. Well, I serve the Valgraav, the emperor—em-per-or—in his guard, his soldiers at the city. The big city on the island. Valderthaan.” The other’s face lit up. “You know that, eh? Now, I’ve got to ask you why you’re on this road, master. There’s been bad men in these parts, you see, and we’ve got to know who uses the lonely roads.”

This made the foreigner very serious. “Ah, yes, yes, I have heard of your troubles. You think perhaps I am a Harrach—”

“Harrak? Aye, bad lot, we’ve got some here.”

“Harrach, yes. But no, I am Ilissos of Syrga, and my city is Agoras on the Seventh Hill, and I wear the amulet of Cynathé—see?” He displayed the bronze design bound to his left wrist. “She is goddess in Syrga, and that is her sign, trees by the river, but you should see this, I think.” He delved into a saddlebag and brought out a folded parchment. “This they gave me to let me cross the great bridge to Val—valt—”

“Valderthaan,” said Tharval helpfully. “You been there, then?”

“Yes, forgive me, a hard city to say. But look, we have the same mark!” Ilissos pointed to Tharval’s helmet and the bronze image of the rayed sun. The same sign, over the figure of a lion, was on the parchment’s seal. “Your king’s mark, I think. You will trust me now?”

“I might,” said Tharval. He scanned the parchment. “You came up to the city from the east, through the pass at Mardokhal.” He looked a little more serious.

“Does it say that?” asked Ilissos. “I did not try to read it. Yes, I was very far in the east, beyond the plain, but I kept to the south where there are the towns and soldiers, and I did not cross it. Even in the Far Lands they talk about the Harrach who seek gold and blood on your Plain. They will not have mine! And people say Harrach hate your king, and would kill him if they could and they say a sorcerer lives on the Plain in Arc....”

“Archraad.”

“Arcrad, yes. It is very bad. I am sorry you must live with men like this.”

Tharval, about to return the parchment, drew back his hand. “Where’d you hear about Harrak, exactly?”

“Why, everywhere. Even on the road and in the city too where the king is.”

“How do you live, master Ilissos? For interest’s sake, I mean.”

Ilissos missed the intention of the question entirely. He gestured widely. “Oh, it is not too hard. I buy something, perhaps, and sell it again. I work, I hunt. There are many ways.” He patted the saddlebags with a broad smile. “In Agoras I am a trader. You have a lady in the city? I have perfumes in my bag, and spices. Shall I show you? Herbs and scented oils she cannot find in the north. Or there is eye salve—”

“Go on, Captain,” called a soldier. “I wouldn’t mind my Gildta smellin’ a bit better.”

“Don’t bother getting the eye salve,” returned Tharval. “Then at least you won’t have to look at her.” He turned to face Ilissos again, “No, sorry, master Ilissos, but there’re matters as won’t wait, and we’ve got prisoners, so no sales.”

Ilissos gave an understanding nod. “It will be beautiful in Syrga when I return,” he said. “The light, the green! You must come to my land in the spring.”

Tharval folded the parchment and returned it. “I might at that. I like the sound of Syrga. Everybody does up here. But that’s the Bridge Seal from Valderthaan on your parchment, Master Ilissos, so you can go freely in the north. It’ll speak for you if ever you can’t say enough for yourself, though I doubt it’ll ever come to that. Safe journey and Arna shine on you.”