The Eye of the Hunter (26 page)

Still she fell endlessly, down and down within, glittering hexagonal panes turning about her as crystalline chimes chinged and linked in the nonexistent wind…in the blowing aethyr
.

And even though falling, she felt no fright, her spirit steady, her soul filled with chimes and light and wonder
.

In the glittering crystal surfaces where glowed her own reflection, beyond the golden light, beyond the multiple windows of sparkling crystal, she could discern images, some vague and unformed, as if unfocused, others sharp and
strange. They flashed past rapidly as she fell down among the scintillant panes—shadowy armies marching, a field of roses red, a murky black pool rippling, a great bear, enormous pillars looming, stars glittering, water whirling, grey mist swirling, and more, much more, images vague and distant, others near and sharp, and all fleeting, all nought but glimmers and glances
.

Of a sudden she glimpsed an Elfess—Riatha?—she could not say, and standing behind was a huge Man. Next came a rider—Man or Elf?—on horse, a falcon on the rider’s shoulder, something glittering in his hands
.

And Faeril felt words echoing from her mouth as she called out something. What? She did not know, even though the words were in Twyll, for she could not hear them, and she knew not what she said—the words were not her own
.

And onward she fell, endlessly, down and down, the images of Elfess and Man and rider and falcon left far behind, Faeril twisting and turning among a myriad of golden reflections of her soul as crystal panes tumbled past, shapes and forms and figures glimpsed beyond
.

But then there came a voiceless cry, someone inaudibly weeping, and she listened, knowing that somehow it was important, and somehow familiar, this mute voice calling noiselessly, this unheard grieving, this silent—

—Even as Faeril opened her eyes she could hear Gwylly weeping and whispering her name. And he was holding her hand and stroking her fingers. His visage swam into view and steadied. “Don’t cry, beloved,” she murmured.

Gwylly started, clutching her hand tightly. “Faeril, oh Faeril, you’re awake.” He kissed her and clutched her other hand.

She was in a bed, not her own, but a stranger’s instead. Her throat was dry. But before she could say anything, Riatha moved into view. Aravan, too. The Elfess held a chalice to Faeril’s lips, and a minty aroma wafted up from the cool water. Eagerly she drank, easing her terrible thirst.
Riatha gave her another cup, and then another; this last the damman took in her own hands and sipped.

“Where?” she whispered, setting the chalice aside.

Gwylly answered. “You are in the healers’ quarters, love. We brought you here three days ago.”

Faeril’s eyes widened. “Three days?”

Riatha nodded. “Thou wert as if fevered, though no fever had thee. Thy consciousness was fled from thee. Gwylly found thee so, on thy doorstep, three evenings apast.”

“Oh, Riatha, I was in the crystal”—her voice gained strength—“it was beautiful.”

Gwylly squeezed her hand. “Oh, love, I thought…well. I didn’t know what to think. But you are back, and that’s all that counts. You’ve returned.”

“In the crystal?” Riatha looked at Aravan. The Elf shook his head, for he had not heard of such in all his years.

“Yes, Riatha. In the crystal:” She pulled Gwylly’s hand to her lips and kissed his fingers. “Oh Gwylly, I tried to see what the future held for us. But I failed, my buccaran, for though images glittered past, no vision of the future did I see.”

Gwylly stroked her fingers again. “Perhaps not, but you
did
call out something.”

“I did?”

“Aye. In Twyll.”

“What did I say? Did you understand it?”

“Oh, yes, I understood the words, though I don’t understand their meaning. It was as Riatha first examined you You opened your eyes and looked straight at her and said;

“If my Twyll is correct, it means:

Faeril looked at Riatha, hoping for an explanation. Riatha slowly shook her head. “I know not, wee one. It would
indeed require an impossible rider to travel among the three Planes. The ways are sundered for those not of the blood and pattern, and none has the blood of all three Planes.”

Aravan fell into deep thought but said nothing, keeping his counsel unto himself.

* * *

The next morn, Riatha came alone to speak to Faeril. Heed me, wee one: I know not how to counsel thee true, yet this do 1 say: What seemed but moments to thee in the crystal was three days of time without. The journey thou didst take was mayhap a most dangerous one, and though thou didst safely return, I would ask thee to refrain from stepping along those pathways again without a learned guide…one who knows the ways of crystals and seeings, else thou might get lost within and not return at all.”

Long was the damman silent, reflecting, remembering the beauty of the crystal, the feeling of peace and well-being, the golden images of her soul and the visions beyond, remembering as well the look of anguish upon her buccaran’s face. Sighing, at last she agreed.

* * *

Faeril rapidly recovered from her days of entrancement, seeming no worse for the experience. The damman was eager to take up the crystal again; even so, still she resolved to heed Riatha’s warning, intending to wait until she could find someone experienced in the ways of a seer. But though she resolved to wait for a teacher, her thoughts were ever and again drawn unto the glittering, shifting luminous panes and to the tinkle and ting of wind chimes.

Summer came with the solstice, and the days waxed toward the harvest and then waned toward fall. In the month that summer began, word came to Aravan that a ship would be awaiting them at Ander to sail on the autumnal equinox and bear them to Innuk. And in the waning weeks of summer, some thirty-five days ere the first of autumn, they took their leave of Arden Vale to begin their journey to Aleut.

On the day they prepared to go, as they saddled their mounts and bundled their goods on a pair of packhorses as well as their steeds, Inarion sought them out. And he gave unto Gwylly a leather bag of silver bullets for his sling, the shot crafted by Inarion’s own hand, saying, “I deem thou might need such, whither thou art bound.”

Gwylly accepted the bullets and bowed to the Elf and said in Sylva,
“Vi danva ana, vo Alor.”

Inarion then gave over to Faeril a silver dagger in a tooled black leather sheath, these too made by his own hand. “This will give thee a blade somewhat like unto the one the Dwarves made for thy ancestor Petal, long past.”

Faeril smiled and with a curtsy accepted the knife, saying in Sylva,
“Alor Inarion, vi eallswa danva ana.”
Faeril then hefted the dagger and compared it to the ancient blade of the Dwarven smiths. Although the new was not identical to the old, still they were a fine pair: even so, she slipped the dagger and sheath onto the belt at her waist, leaving the one scabbard empty upon her crossing bandoliers.

Inarion then addressed both. “Heed, ye will always be welcome in Arden Vale, be it for an hour, a day, or a thousand years.”.

The Warder of the Northern Regions of Rell then knelt and embraced each Waerling. And with a nod to Aravan and Riatha, he stepped back.

As they rode up and out of Arden Vale, packhorses trailing behind, following the path up the west wall of the gorge and through the tunnel, they heard the horns of Elves sounding in farewell. And when they emerged, all was silent, and the vast stretch of Drearwood lay before them.

* * *

They fared across the Land of Rhone, following along the northern fringes of Drearwood, passing over the River Caire at Drear Ford. Then northerly they swung, up into Rian, riding up the plains lying between the river in the distance to the east and the far Signal Mountains to the west.

The golden time of summer lay upon the land, and long, lazy days and pleasant nights accompanied them on their way. On the fourteenth day of travel it rained, and as the chill drizzle fell, they passed through the Argent Hills, the high-mounded tors running from the Dalara Plains in the west to the Rigga Mountains in the east. There in the Argent Hills they came to the trade road between Challerain Keep lying southeasterly and the Dwarvenholt of Blackstone to the north, and they set the hooves of their mounts along this way.

And as they rode, Riatha mentioned that Blackstone had been besieged by one of Modru’s Hordes during the Winter
War, yet the Drimma—the Dwarves—had held out to the end, when the Dimmendark collapsed.

Faeril then began telling Gwylly the various legends of Sir. Tuckerby Underbank, the Bearer of the Red Quarrel. And thus they whiled away their time as they fared toward the Boreal Sea.

Two weeks and four days after leaving Arden, they came to where the trade road swung sharply east, running straight for Blackstone in the Rigga Mountains, and there the foursome left its track, continuing on northerly across the Realm of Rian.

There were few settlements along their journey, though now and again they passed through a hamlet. When they could, they stayed in an inn, luxuriating in whatever beds it offered, taking hot baths as well. At other times they put up at farmsteads, usually sleeping in byres, where their beds were made of hay. And always the innkeepers and farmers would goggle at these fey folk, at the Warrows and the Elves, for seldom did they get even ordinary visitors, much less travellers such as these.

But for the most part they camped—in thickets or coppices or stands of forest trees, though now and again they slept in the open, while hoping it would not rain.

And slowly they wended north, covering some twenty to twenty-five miles a day, some seven or eight leagues ’tween sunrise and sunset by Elven measure.

Twenty-six days had passed in all in the waning summer when the Boreal Sea came into view, the waters seeming and and grey in the distance. Even so, Gwylly and Faeril were stunned by the sight of water reaching unto the very horizon and beyond.

Down they rode toward a small port town in a sheltered harbor along the shores of the sea; they had come to the town of Ander, where Aravan’s messenger had arranged for a ship to meet them. And there was yet a week and a day ere the autumnal equinox would come.

* * *

The ship they sailed on was a round-bellied
knorr
, a cargo vessel of the Fjordsmen making its last run of the season, for soon the Boreal Sea would rage with winter storms. Even in the best of times the Boreal was fickle, but in the worst she was brutal.

The day they sailed was pleasant enough, with a brisk
westerly wind. Still the waters were chill, and the air scudding across the waves blew cold, and rope and canvas and timbers creaked and snapped and groaned in response.

Faeril and Gwylly stood at the rail and watched the land recede, while Riatha and Aravan spoke with Captain Am.

“I hated to leave Blacktail behind,” said Faeril. “Dapper, too. But I suppose the place where we go is too cold for horse or pony.”

Gwylly put his arm about the damman. “Worry not, my dammia, for they will be waiting for us at Arden Vale when we return.”

Faeril nodded, saying nothing, for she knew that Aravan bad arranged for a rider to take the horses and ponies to Challerain Keep and deliver them to an Elven caravan master to be taken to Arden Vale. Even so, she had tended to Blacktail since the filly’s birth and did not wish to part from her.

* * *

Northeasterly they sailed, the ship wallowing and groaning, faring along the coastal waters of Rian and then Gron. They turned northerly after a full day to pass around the Seabane Islands and avoid the suck of the Great Maelstrom, there where the Gronfang Mountains plunged into the sea. Throughout this second day it rained, and the bosom of the sea rose and fell. Below decks neither Gwylly nor Faeril felt well, a dull nausea rising in their throats, and they ate and drank most sparingly. For two more days they felt thus, though walking about the deck and breathing in the brisk salt air helped. The following day their appetites returned with a vengeance and stayed with them thereafter. Their course had hewed northerly and then easterly, along the coast of the Steppes of Jord and toward distant Fjordland.

During this time the crew of the
knorr—Hvalsbuk
was her name—looked upon the Warrows and Elves with wide eyes, for these were Folk seldom seen. It was Faeril who broke the ice, however, by asking what
Hvalsbuk
meant.

A crewman scratched his head, searching his mind for the Common tongue words, then replied, “
Whale’s Belly
, miss, that be her name.
Whale’s Belly
.”

Faeril doubled over laughing, as the
Hvalsbuk
wallowed and creaked and groaned and bore her cargo easterly.

In late afternoon of the eleventh day, they docked at last in Vidfjord, sailing round the curve of the wide-mouthed bight
and into the high-walled fjord, travelling some six miles in all to come to the fjordside town.

* * *

The very next morning again they set sail, this time in a swift Dragonship, the
Bølgeløper
, which Faeril discovered meant
Waverunner
. Eighty feet long and open-hulled she was, with twenty oarlocks down each side. Her sail was square and could be angled to catch the wind by a long whisker pole, called a
beitass
by the captain. Crewed by forty, they rowed down to the sea, then set sail east-northeast for a day or so, then easterly for another.

Fleet was this ship running o’er the waves, like a Wolf loping o’er the snow. Yet no Wolf this, for she never grew weary and ran as long as the wind blew. Aptly was she named, for running day and night, in just over two days she crossed some four hundred miles of water, to swiftly come to the shores of Aleut.