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Eighteen

A light shone kind and radiant, piercing the numbness of his senses. An extraordinary light, broidered with unearthly softness, like the quintessence of birdsong captured at the fountain of some fresh eternal dawn. Kal supposed he had died, and that his soul had been ferried across the Birdless Lake, beyond which he had found himself entering the courts of deep heaven itself.

He coughed and sputtered, searching for breath, and felt water trickle out over his mouth and chin, then realized that the breath of life was being blown back into him. Another's mouth was cupped over his own, engaging and disengaging with it in a rhythmic cadence, like a bellows stoking a faltering hearthfire.

Little by little, the cloudy film of unconsciousness left his eyes. The shuttered windows of his soul began to reopen, and he became sensible of a chatter of voices, speaking in a buzz of strange evocative accents. He coughed again and slowly came to his senses. Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked, looking with openmouthed wonder at the knot of grave-faced folk who crowded around him. Clearly, they were no less astonished at the sight that met their eyes than was Kal himself, busy as they were whispering to each other, with here and there a discreet gesture in his direction.

One of them, a young man, stood closer than the rest. Kal thought he must be the person who had revived him. Kneeling on one knee beside Kal, he now offered the dazed highlander his hand. Kal took it and stumbled to his feet. He was drenched, soaked to the skin, and the fingers of his right hand were gripped tight on the smooth half-round of the Pyx of Roncador. At the recollection of how close he had come to losing it, he clutched it tighter still. Somehow he was still alive. Or was he? Were these the fabled courts of deep heaven or another eerie world that he had entered? He would have pinched himself to test his own reality, had not his clammy and uncomfortable wetness seemed to him proof enough.

"Ah, splendid, strangely come anuas! You have recovered well from your dousing and have suffered no damage on your sodden journey. But I must not be so rude a host as not to present myself to you." The small man paused solemnly, alert to Kal's befuddled state. Kal struggled to follow the words, recognizable to him now as the old language. How very odd and even humorous, to hear the venerable language of Hedric's Master Legendary and the orrthon spoken colloquially in this way, as if it were language of the commonest coinage.

"Wh-who are you?" stuttered Kal in his thickest highland brogue.

"I am sorry. I do not understand what you mean. Your dialect perplexes me," said the man in the same archaic tongue with which he had greeted him. "We be folk of the hammer, who speak our first-conceived earth-begotten mother tongue and none other do we speak, for there's a well-oiled unguent shiftiness in knowing aught other tongue. Many tongues for roving feckless vagabonds that care not to mind the fires of their own forges. But not for us hammerfolk of Nua Cearta plying in peace our smithy's craft." The little man broke from his long explanation, turning his eyes again on Kal. "By Vali's Hammer, though, how is it now that your face does wax more and more familiar to me? Where can I, who have never before set eyes on anuas, have seen you?" The man twisted his face in thought and scratched his head.

"What is your name? Where am I? How came I to be here?" Kal's words tumbled out in stiff hastily framed questions cobbled together in his mind from the clumsily remembered stock of Old Arvonian.

"I am Prince Alcesidas." The young man bowed deeply before Kal. "Magan Hammermaster, my sire, rules o'er our people in this our underground place of fosterment, this our Radolan Mountain kingdom, which is hight Nua Cearta, after our ancestral Burren Mountain forgelands of the Coolcower Alps, the most beautiful grottoes in all of Ahn Norvys, from which we were driven. It is here that our forebears did fix anew their smithies and founded again the scuttled royal seat of my father's fathers. You do find yourself in the royal audience chamber in the deep roots of the mountain you may call Thyus, but we Folamh. Here we plucked you from yon swan pool beside the royal dais more dead than alive, so choked with water in your gills that I did not think my breathful assays would work your release from the grappling hooks of Dark Lord Death, who does haunt the margins of our home with a bolder and more puissant insolence."

"I am deeply obliged to you, Prince Alcesidas, for the saving of my life. Indeed, I am forever in your debt," returned Kal, his tongue tuning to the shape of Old Arvonian, as he looked around himself at greater ease. His immediate fears were now somewhat allayed, although he found himself astounded by the quality of the light in this stately cavern where Magan Hammermaster held court. He glanced to see from where it came, even as Alcesidas pressed him for his own name and origins.

"I am Kalaquinn Wright. I am a Holdsman, from the Highland Clanholding of Lammermorn, the eldest son of Marina Wright and her man Frysan," he explained with a half-abstracted air, as his eyes wandered upwards to the branches of the mighty tree which rose in the centre of King Magan's audience chamber. From this extraordinary tree there hung countless luminous orbs shaped like apples, but apples so radiant with an indescribably mellow incandescence that they seemed as tiny fragments of the sun itself. Indeed, if it were possible, they were even more brilliant than the sun, more habited with life somehow, shedding gaiety and brightness on the scene like a shower of molten goodness.

Suddenly, there was a commotion of redirected attention, as Alcesidas and the others turned to see who was entering the audience hall through the large bronze doors that swung open at the farther end of the expansive subterranean chamber. It was not King Magan who entered, as Kal had anticipated, as also had the gathered hammerfolk, judging from the astonished gasps erupting through the small assembly. Rather, there entered two men dressed in light coats of mail. Their helms, strapped to their bearded chins by leather thongs, were each inset with one of the apple-like fruits of the kind that hung from the overspreading tree in the hall. Their shortswords drawn, they used them to goad a familiar limping figure.

"Gwyn! Gwyn, here, I'm here," Kal called out in blithe surprise, as if the red-haired mute boy were not suffering the duress of two sharp sword points. The armed guards made no attempt to stop their charge from loping towards Kal. His face lit up. "Dear wayward Mommick! Am I glad to see you alive and well and all in one piece! Though I can't say that you didn't keep me guessing. A fine time I've had trying to find you." Kal hugged a bewildered Gwyn to himself.

Alcesidas was busy speaking to the two guards who had escorted Gwyn into the hall. The rest of the hammerfolk appeared to be torn between listening to Alcesidas's keen interrogation and gazing spellbound at the strange-looking anuasoi who had come into their realm with such suddenness. They, in their turn, were no less wondrous a sight for the two Holdsmen, who had never with their eyes beheld the small folk of the hammer, although the legends and lore of Arvon were filled with references to them.

Especially intriguing were the women, all of light complexion, with rosy cheeks. Fair to look on, each of them. They wore low headdresses crimped with intricate patterns of sparkling beadwork, while their flowing white linen dresses were no less delicately ornate with inset jewels. The men of the hammerfolk, on the other hand, were far more plainly clothed, save for the jewelled belts which girded their rust-coloured tunics. Their faces, while equally fair to those of their women, were solemn, and many were thickly bearded. Both men and women had narrow feet, wrapped in footwear made of a strange diaphanous material that accentuated every bone and vein.

At length, Alcesidas ended his insistent examination of the two guards. He returned his attention to Kal. His features had turned severe. "You know each other, I see. But the trouble is that I do not know you. Two anuasoi who have wandered into Nua Cearta in the space of one watch, while in all the cycles of the seasons that my people have lived in exile here not one, nay, not one anuas has ever been graced by the golden light of our caverns. You must explain yourself, Kalaquinn Wright. How do you come to be on Mount Folamh, you and your lame and speechless friend, who did so meekly follow the helm lamp of one of our guards. There is too much that is out of joint, too many dim and shadowy forces and even the very substance of evil withal that are pressing on our forgelands which only now, after four centuries of Candlefeisath, begin to have the feel of home." Alcesidas frowned darkly and stroked his thinly bearded chin. "Excuse me if I put not too fine a point on it, but I am fearful lest you be spies in Shadahr's munificent and devious employ. That would be darksome and ill-fitting. Not good at all. No, not at all good. But ah, here comes my sire, the king, and with him Meriones, who will doubtless proffer wise words of counsel."

Alcesidas wheeled around and stepped forward to greet his father, who had entered the audience hall, accompanied by a gaunt-faced man. The latter was dressed in a long robe of rich earthen brown fixed tightly to his waist with a knotted cord. He was a bard, for over his shoulders hung a cloak of the same brown tone, fixed at the throat by a sparkling pios. King Magan cut an impressive figure with his regal bearing, a golden diadem wreathing his head, and a finely woven white tunic hemmed with an array of gems illumined in the queer light of the chamber.

The whole company made obeisance in deep bows and curtsies as the king approached. All other conversations ceased, while the king, still flanked by the other man, spoke to his son and nodded once in the direction of Kal and Gwyn. Then the king moved on past his subjects to a raised marble dais at the far end of the hall, where he took his seat on a cushioned leather chair with a high back, framed in fretted oak and flanked by smaller chairs. As the king sat himself down, all the assembly moved as a body past the wonderful light-bearing tree towards the dais, where they waited, silent and attentive.

Passing close by the central tree, Kal ventured to look up and was almost blinded. The tree, alive and in full leaf, stood in the middle of the great room and rose up from a gently sloping mound, which was mantled with a neatly manicured lawn of the most vivid green. Elsewhere, flower beds bursting in brilliant geometric displays of colour lined broad ochreous walks of flagstone that interlocked in almost seamless joins.

Alcesidas remained with Kal and Gwyn, while the bard seated himself on a chair to the immediate right of the king. He had a severe sallow face with sunken eyes that sorted ill with the broad open faces worn by all the other hammerfolk. It seemed that he was a trusted counsellor of the king. The sharp-set bard conferred in animated whispers with him, making deferential nods and smiles. Skirting the left side of the dais, to the right of King Magan, was a large pool of water on which two swans of dazzling white plumage floated with a majesty scarcely less regal than that of Magan himself. A plashing fountain that rose in concentric circular tiers adorned the middle of the pool, which was fenced in on its near side by a low stone wall. Its outer rim, on the other hand, met the jagged irregularity of the rough rocky walls that ascended into the dim recesses of the cavernous ceiling, which was draped in darkness, impervious to the light-filled globes hanging from the tree.

King Magan had a mellow, kindly, open demeanour. Kal warmed to the man as he straightened out his flowing beard and fussed with a fur-fringed purple cape, a kind of robe of state that he evidently donned whenever he mounted the throne chair. When the king had finally performed all his adjustments, he beckoned to his son, who left the two Holdsmen and approached the dais. "Come, tell us, Prince Alcesidas, what you have learned of these anuasoi who have come unexpected to our domain."

"The dark-haired one, who is hight Kalaquinn Wright, we fished from between the swans here more dead than alive, swept down, no doubt, from higher pools," he explained with a gesture. "While the other, who is mute, or so pretends, was found in one of the galleries within the heights of Folamh. He followed Hodur like a heedless puppy, gawping at his helmlamp, as if it were your jewelled crown he was beholding. Hodur relates a strange state of affairs, for he says that there are many anuasoi in the Hordanu's cave and that he saw the Hordanu himself lying dead on a rough-made bier with this mute boy in attendance on him. There was fear in the air, Hodur said, as palpable to nose and eye as the smoke and steam that shroud our forges. He could almost touch it, he said, filling the air, together with the scent of gathgour. Except for this boy. He was as cheerful and frolicsome as a new-born lamb in the high tide of spring. Hodur says that the gathgours have left their customary lairs and lurk boldly in the rocky shadows of Folamh. He himself grappled with one a scant few hours before he happened on the Hordanu and this boy."

"What means this, Meriones?" asked King Magan of the severe bard at his side.

"Perhaps you should rather ask this young man, sire, for, unless mine eyes mislead me, he did follow the meaning, at least, of the Prince Alcesidas's words. Did you not, Kalaquinn Wright, if such be truly your name?"

Kal nodded his assent to this soft questioning voice, which had a wonderful sweetness, like dripping honey, gentle but not cloying.

"Mayhap you could explain in addition how you came by the pios you wear and that vessel which you hold?" Meriones pointed to the Pyx of Roncador in Kal's hand.

"It-it is . . ." Kal fumbled. "It is a story which is full of treachery and deeply sad tidings and I doubt me that I could in my limping accents render it as it is fitting to render."

"You speak the Old Tongue passably well . . . passably well. Indeed, more ably than your humility, whether false or true, does lead you to suppose. Does he not, Meriones?"

"Indeed sire, I daresay too well by a half. You might bid him carry on. Let him explain who he is and how he came hither."

"Well then, Kalaquinn Wright, tell us your story. You shall find us an indulgent lot here in Nua Cearta, not hard to please, but more wary than was our wont, none more so than my trusty Meriones, and that not without reason, as my son, the Prince Alcesidas, has recently learned and you shall learn as well."

"If he does assuage our fears, sire, which I have much hope he may, for he has an honest open face that wins me in my despite," added Meriones with grudging magnanimity.

"In the first place, before I start, I thank you, Alcesidas, for to you I owe my life. I call you brother now, more dear to me than my own life," began Kal, surprising himself by the reasonable fluency with which he was speaking the language of ancient epic and song. There was a deep hush now that fell on the hammerfolk. Still deeper grew the silence when he explained in his next breath that the Talamadh, the golden harp that bound together the heavens and the earth, had been stolen and that he, himself, was sole Hordanu by Right of Appointment, now that Wilum was dead. A ripple of shock and incredulity passed through the assembled folk.

"Tell us, Master Kalaquinn, how this came to pass," said King Magan, as Kal paused to take stock of where he might best launch into his narrative. Now it dawned on him, though still dazed from his near drowning and the wonder of his awakening, that it was desperately urgent for him to win over these people together with their king and bard. Somewhere above this tranquil audience chamber, in the Cave of the Hourglass, his father and mother and Bren might even now be awash in blood. At this point his clear-mindedness made him more anxious, causing him to trip ungracefully over his hard-sought hoard of Old Arvonian words, as he requested the aid of the hammerfolk in saving the remnant folk of the Stoneholding from the impending danger of a final assault on the Hordanu's Enclosure. He asked that his people be harboured in Nua Cearta for refuge.

This was followed by more prompting questions from Meriones, who maintained a haughty and abstracted air of scepticism. Kal pieced together the story of Ferabek's surprise attack on those who dwelled in the Holding and how only a handful of them had survived to follow the Skell up to the Hordanu's Enclosure. He described the treachery of Enbarr and Kenulf, as well as the murderous betrayal suffered by them at the hands of Relzor, the cobbler, who bludgeoned to death the Hordanu.

"And even now they mass at the Stairs of Tarn Cromar, preparing to finish the awful work they have begun, Ferabek and his Black Scorpion Dragoons, while Enbarr, mounted on the night drake, keeps vigil over us in the 'windswept spaces of the great night sky,' " concluded Kal with a stock phrase from "The Lay of the Velinthian Bridge" that just happened to match the thought he was struggling to express. His ability in Old Arvonian was proving, it seemed, more than adequate, for the king and Meriones, not to mention the whole company, were clearly held fascinated by his story.

"But what token do we have, sire," asked Meriones, breaking the short interval of silence which came over them after Kal had finished his account, "that he does utter truth and is not a fair-speaking Burren Mountain weasel sent to spy on us by our ill-shapen cousin Shadahr."

"But Meriones, he came to us half-drowned," Alcesidas said. "How came it that this was planned beforehand? It does surpass the reach of even Shadahr's guile to raise from the watery dead his simpering lackeys."

"That part may truly have happened to him by his own misadventure, seeing that outside of our own people nobody knows all the winding ways of Nua Cearta," countered the bard.

"You seem to speak truth, Meriones, and I am sore perplexed. But if this anuas speak truth as well, we must needs help him and his people, for they are a chosen folk, the anuasoi of the Clanholding of Lammermorn, the stock from which the keeper of the Talamadh has for century upon century unfailingly come."

"If he speak truth," Meriones said, holding Kal in a steady gaze. "Oftentimes it is the most bare-faced, the most astounding lie that sways and seduces the unsuspecting heart—"

"But if you are wrong . . ." King Magan said with knitted brow.

"My lord," said the Prince, stepping forward, "is there not a way that we might test the temper of these anuasoi, one by which our fathers always tried doubtful messengers? It was you that taught me it, Meriones, when you did sternly bid me learn the legends of our folk. For even the great but treacherous Vali, when he returned with outward semblance of contrite heart to our ancestors, his own Burren clan, did submit to this ancient trial of his trustworthiness."

"Which he failed, nimble as his mind was, so that he was expelled as being a liar and a traitor, and made his way back to the enchanter Conna-gwyhn, leaving behind the mighty Talamadh, wherewith Ardiel did reharmonize the heavens and the earth," added Meriones.

"You do refer, Prince Alcesidas, to the Test of the Riddle Scrolls?" asked Magan.

"Indeed, sire, seeing as our forefathers were able, in their flight from the malice of Sör, to bring these with them, a small portion though they be of the original inheritance. Behold, as never in the past hundred years, a perfect chance to put them to use."

"The Prince does proffer a fine suggestion, sire. The Riddle Scrolls are with good cause named the Scrolls of Truth, since the one who has evil or treachery in his heart could never, as age-old custom has it, supply the correct answer to any of their hoary perplexities. May I counsel, sire, that they be brought forth to us, so that we may see whether anuas is as anuas says," said Meriones.

"If he is, we shall welcome him and his own with joy and feasting," the King said, then turned to fix Kal with a level stare. "If not, we shall feed him to the gathgour."

"What is this talk about riddles? What is this trial you mean to put me through? I am not a fluent speaker of your language and would fare ill by any wordplay. Are my words not believed?"

King Magan held Kal in his gaze, unflinching, for a long moment before turning aside to issue quickly worded orders to two men in livery. All the hammerfolk, both men and women, began to eye Kal more suspiciously than ever, except for Alcesidas, who made reassuring noises, muttering, "Do not worry, friend. I know you for what you are. Do not fear!"

This did nothing at all to mollify the Holdsman, who felt the anger rise in his gorge at the silly obstinacy of these posturing little people who were so close and so suspicious. By the cloak of Tobar, it was clear enough to anyone with even a modicum of unclouded judgement that he and Gwyn were simple honest souls. Especially Gwyn. And they in desperate need. This was ludicrous! "But I am Hordanu. My story is true, I tell you, and my people are in danger. Where is your welcome to guests and strangers?"

"Hush, Kalaquinn, hush," urged Alcesidas. "You do your cause precious little good by your insolent behaviour. As hosts to those discovered to be friends you shall find the folk of the hammer outdone by none of the peoples that in Ahn Norvys do make their dwelling-place. Quiet your tongue now, Kalaquinn. The Riddle Scrolls are brought."

The two manservants had returned to the dais. One of them carried a bronze stand with three legs, while the other bore a plain pinewood casket that seemed to have suffered the wear and tear of ages. The casket, charred black in places, was set on the stand, and King Magan bade Meriones open it and choose a scroll. Meriones undid the rough-fitting clasps and riffled through the stiff dry scrolls that filled the inside of it, unrolling one and then another to scan their contents with a quick eye.

"If I know Meriones at all," whispered Alcesidas, "he will pick something quite obscure, so that there will be no doubt but that the guidance of deepest heaven has put you in mind of the answers."

Kal's spirits plunged at this suggestion of a test. At that moment he wished that he were back at the Cave of the Hourglass or better still at the Stairs of Tarn Cromar with Father and the others, making a last brave stand. At least that way he would be there for his own folk, providing them with another set of strong arms to help stave off or stem, at least, the fury of the Boar. The way things stood now he seemed trapped in what would no doubt prove a fruitless game, in which he was bound by his ignorance to be defeated.

"Behold, sire," said Meriones at long last, brandishing one of the scrolls that he had unravelled with a pleased grin on his face. "These three pretty little riddles shall test the mettle of our Hordanu, as he claims he is."

"Begin then, Meriones," said Magan with a wide sweep of his arm.

"Do you, Kalaquinn Wright, stand ready to give answer and so be judged by these, the Scrolls of Truth?" asked Meriones, turning to the Holdsman with a question that smacked of ritual formality.

"If my knowledge of your language does equal the import of your word puzzles," said Kal with a cool eloquence that belied his feelings.

"I see no problem on that account. Your finely honed understanding of our tongue has betrayed itself to us ere now."

Kal's skin prickled with the sharpness of anxious excitement. But all the same, a part of him remained curiously peaceful. He found his mind clinging as its last resort to the sublime jewel-like words of the orrthon's Great Doxology with a wild tenacity, like a shipwrecked sailor gripping with blood-drained knuckles at a buoyant spar shaft. He knew he rested now at the mercy of these incredulous folk, who were set to dismiss him as a liar or worse, if such were his doom. Another less resigned part of him was so daunted that he felt his wits turning to unresponsive treacle.

"Let us begin. The first riddle reads so. Heed the question well, young and subtle anuas!" Meriones's gaze fell from Kal to the scroll he held open before himself with both hands. " 'What is that which is reborn after its birth?' " he intoned.

Kal's wits felt paralysed still, devoid of their reasoning powers. The question seemed to him just so many random sounds without any patterned order, although he recognized every word of its quaint Old Arvonian phrasing. How could he answer? What did this riddle mean? "Thou, Wuldor, art great . . ." he reiterated again in his mind, as if the Great Doxology was the sole reassuring scaffolding for coherent thought, a key with which he might unlock the door of this impenetrable enigma. The silence that surrounded him was terrifying and oppressive, the weight of eager scepticism and distrust almost suffocating. How long would they abide the numbing of his wits, before they cast him and Gwyn again into the darkness of Nua Cearta's outer wards—to the gathgours, as they said?

He was halfway through yet another recitation of the Great Doxology when he felt a lightening of his spirit, a lifting of anxiety, as if his being were entering into a fresh and unearthly region of transparent clarity, where other presences stood close at hand, felt but unseen. It was as if he was overpowered by a wisdom beyond his own, and in that instant he said:

 
" 'Day's eye burns with Wuldor's might,
Gifting blessed life and light;
And in day's shadow, silver-bright,
Fair Ruah's lantern guards the night . . .' "
 

Meriones glanced up sharply at the young Holdsman.

"The moon!" Kal said. "It is the moon, which going all around takes birth anew! That is it which is reborn after its birth."

"By stroke of luck you do hit the mark," commented Meriones. His tone sounded almost disappointed. The bard leaned toward Magan and whispered something in the king's ear, then recovered himself and gave his attention once more to Kal.

"Now let us betake ourselves to the second riddle of our threesome," Meriones said and lifted the scroll in both hands before his eyes. " 'What,' Kalaquinn Wright, 'is fleeter than the wind?' "

Again, Kal felt possessed by a knowing, a certitude not of his own power, and without hesitation spoke lines that were only vaguely familiar to him.

 
" 'In parting, divers ways we wend,
And distant though we brothers be,
E're time and travail make amend,
Restoring this friend-fast company,
Know ne'er are we too far apart
To be in song, in thought, in heart—'
 

"The mind! The mind is fleeter than the wind," answered Kal without breaking stride, as if to underscore the aptness of this answer to the second riddle.

"Truly, chance attends you," snorted the jaundiced Meriones, his slender nose wrinkled in disdain. The appearance of aloof suspicion that the bard was trying hard to maintain, however, was belied by a nervous wonder that filled his eyes. Again he leaned toward Magan and whispered.

"What?" the king said, pulling away from his bard and looking at him. "Ardiel's what?"

" 'Ardiel's Leave-taking,' sire," Meriones said, his head still bent toward the king. "He quotes from the final speech of Ardiel to the Seven Champions of Ruah."

"But what does that mean, Meriones?"

" I know not, my lord." The bard shook his head. "To answer correctly is one thing, but to recite lines from the most ancient and obscure texts, and not just once, but twice now . . . Well, I—" Meriones glanced again at Kal, as if he had forgotten that the Holdsman stood there listening. Meriones drew himself up. "Now," he continued, and lifted his head to look down the length of his nose at Kal, "the third to complete the three. 'What is that which swells with its own impetus?' "

 
" 'The loveliest of rivers this,
This ribbon-tide of sun-flecked waters
Adorned by lark-exalted woods
And lush and limb-burdened orchards,
Clinging to verdured pasturelands.
There is none that I love more than this,
The loveliest of rivers.'
 

"It is a river that does swell with the affluxion of its own impetus," replied Kal summarily, as if he were a clever schoolboy being drilled on simple questions of reckoning.

All affectation of scorn and distrust now disappeared from the bard's face, transformed into a brightness of awed acceptance, the severe cast of his features melting like the limp rags of a morning mist uncloaked by the sun's emerging fingers.

"You cite from Ardiel's 'Song of the Dinastor' . . . Truly, these bull's-eyes are more than merest chance does strike. Truly, by my hammer and the light of the avalynn, you are who you say you are. I should not have thought it so by my own reckoning. I bid you welcome, my lord Hordanu, and I beg your forgiveness for my distrust. With such honour have we never been graced in the centuries of years that have seen us here in these forgelands of our exile, nor even in those many more lived by our people past, dwelling in our Burren Mountain homeland. What a blessing indeed that is wrought us in our heart-longing exile—"

"Pray, excuse our doubtful estimation of your story, Master Hordanu," said King Magan, interrupting the effusive bard, "but these days, as you shall hear, even the home of our migration, Nua Cearta of the Radolans, is overborne with sinister uncertainties."

"I do not blame you, sire." Kal himself scarcely believed that he had survived the ordeal of the Riddle Scrolls. He bowed to the King. "Your prudence and that of your trusty counsellor do win my esteem and my respect, for they show forth the depth and breadth of your wisdom. But now, sire, that I have won your trust, I beg your aid for those who are on death's dark shore. Please help my folk."

"Well and truly spoken, Master Kalaquinn. We shall talk more anon. Now first things first. Alcesidas, take half a score of our well-armed warriors at once and with Master Kalaquinn guide back to our illumined caverns his people, the beleaguered anuasoi of the Clanholding of Lammermorn."

"Come, Master Kalaquinn, and you, too, my limping friend. You may blithely unfurrow the ample creases of your brows, which speak your anxiety more eloquently than ever artful mouth could frame," said Alcesidas, grinning from ear to ear. "We'd best not linger overlong, lest Ferabek burst through your fragile forward post at the Stairs of Tarn Cromar and overwhelm your folk ere we've had half a chance to lead them all to safety here in Nua Cearta."

Prompted by a discreet whisper from Alcesidas, Kal bowed deeply to King Magan, as did Gwyn, whose tousled red hair flew from the nape of his neck like a ragged sheet of bunting. Meriones smiled benignly at the sight, and Alcesidas left the chamber with the two Holdsmen in tow, even as King Magan received a full report on some newly planted avalynn saplings.

 

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