Yesterday's Kings (29 page)

“It’s a strange world, no?”

Eben interrupted his marveling and he nodded silent agreement.

“The Durrym own a different kind of magic to Kandar’s,” Eben advised him. “They created all this.”

“Like a menagerie?” Cullyn had heard rumors of exotic gardens, populated with exotic creatures. But he could not imagine any like this.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Eben replied. “It amuses them—to shape nature to their will.”

“But surely no one can—”

“The Durrym can. Humans—the Church—cannot. Their magic is all belligerent.” He chuckled, a sour sound. “Like the priest with his paltry fireball, eh?” He gestured at the landscape. “Two schools of thought—the one would live with the land and garner its magic; the other would seek only to control, and find ways to overcome those who deny them that control. That’s sad and paltry magic.”

Cullyn thought of the dead and wounded. “Not so paltry.”

“But still he was driven off by the unicorns.”

“So why did he not send his fire against them?”

“I think it was because his magic works only against his own kind,” Eben replied. “I think that perhaps it does not work so well here in Coim’na Drhu.”

Cullyn pondered a while. “If the Durrym can do all this”—he gestured around—“why do they not extend their domain? Why do they not set their magic against Kandar?”

“Excellent questions!” Eben chuckled. “I wonder if you don’t begin to learn.”

“Learn what?” Cullyn asked.

“That the way to knowledge is through observation and asking,” Eben replied. “So, listen: folk depend on different things for their survival. The Durrym own no steel, like Kandarians do. The Durrym live with the land; Kandarians look to conquer it. Look about you—do you see any metal here?”

Cullyn glanced around. It occurred to him that he’d noticed the approach of Per Fendur’s troop because sunlight glinted off lance points and helmets and armor, and then he’d heard the tinkling of the metal through the trees. Yet none of the Durrym wore armor, neither did their lance heads shine in the sun, nor the trappings of their mounts rattle with any sound other than that of
wood and leather. He realized that their lances were wooden-tipped, or bone, and that all their accoutrements—saddle gear and bridles, belts and quivers—were of the same natural materials. He turned, frowning, to Eben.

Who said, “Aye, no metal. But metal cuts wood—so Kandarian blades were stronger than what the Durrym had. And there were more Kandar folk than Durrym, so the fey ones withdrew—they had little other choice than to be slaughtered by steel. But …” He laughed. “When they were forced from their homeland, forced across the Alagordar, they crossed a kind of line. What do you call the river?”

“The Alagordar,” Cullyn said. “Or the Barrier.”

“Indeed: the Barrier. I think the world changes along that river. Do you know what Mys’enh means?”

Cullyn shook his head.

“The Place of Changing.” Eben studied the trees a while and sighed. “As I’ve told you, time changes here. The seasons shift and strange beasts develop; trees grow together where they should not. I believe the Alagordar divides two worlds—that it’s a line between the mundane and the fantastic. The fey country, if you like. And it made the Durrym fey.”

“Which does not answer my question,” Cullyn said. “About conquest.”

“I’d thought you understood.” Eben glanced at him. “The Durrym came to a new land, where Kandar could not find them. They settled here, and built their keeps and castles. They war amongst themselves, yes, but they’ve no great wish to invade: they’d sooner be left alone to pursue their own concerns.”

“Then why did Lofantyl take Abra?”

“Perhaps,” Eben said, “they simply fell in love. The gods know wars have started for lesser reasons. Or peace.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think on it,” Eben suggested. “Does this girl truly love Lofantyl, then perhaps a treaty might be forged through their marriage. Who knows, perhaps we might even unseat the priest?”

“But we only came to bring her back,” Cullyn said.

“And met Lyandra, who’s Dur’em Zheit—in contest with Lofantyl’s Shahn. Why do you think that happened?”

Cullyn shrugged.

“Because fate hinges on you, boy.”

He pulled his mule away to fall alongside Laurens, who rode heavy in his saddle, a hand pressed to his wounded side.

Cullyn rode a while confused, pondering Eben’s words. Why, he thought, could his life not have remained simple? He had been happy in the forest with his animals—happier to buy Fey—and content to remain there. Yet now he chased Abra and was taken captive by Lyandra and the Dur’em Zheit, who were at war with Lofantyl’s Shahn.

His head slumped. He wished he had never met Lofantyl or Abra or Laurens or Eben. And then Lyandra slowed her horse to come up alongside.

“What ails you, my savior?”

“Savior?” he returned. “You had no need of saving.”

“But you didn’t know that, and still looked to rescue me. That counts, Cullyn of Kandar.”

“Cullyn of Kandar?” He shook his head, embarrassed even as he felt flattered. “That makes me sound like some olden hero, which I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” she asked.

“Confused. I’m a simple forester, taken from my life by things I do not properly understand.”

“But Eben says you’re syn’qui.”

Cullyn looked at her and laughed because she was so beautiful. “I’m some focus of destiny? Some hero? I think not!”

“We’ll find out,” she said. “My father will decide.”

“Or decide to slay us.”

“There’s that, too,” she answered cheerfully. “But you’ll have at least one advocate.”

Her smile told him who that would be. And Cullyn wondered at his fate as Lyandra urged her mount forward and he was left alone in a strange world.

T
HEY CAMPED THAT NIGHT
in a glade where great trees spread their branches over a smoothly grassed clearing, as if grown to accommodate the visitors. A little way off was a stream that gurgled over stones and filled up into such pools as were convenient for bathing, each one private for the willows and alders that spread out their overhanging branches. The fey folk set up fires and produced food from their saddlebags. Eben moved amongst the wounded, tending them, and Cullyn sat with Laurens.

“What have we come to?” he asked. “And what shall happen to us here?”

Laurens hesitated before answering, pressing a hand to his wounded side. “I don’t know. They’ll slay us or enslave us, or send us back.”

“To face Per Fendur?”

“Perhaps.” The soldier shrugged and winced at the movement. “But we’ve little other choice, eh?”

“You hurt,” a voice interrupted.

Lyandra stood before them. Laurens nodded. “I do. I took one of your shafts.”

“They can be painful,” she said casually. “Usually they kill.”

“I’m hard to slay,” Laurens returned.

“I believe that.” She smiled at him. “Has Eben not tended you?”

“As best he could.”

“But even so?”

“I’ve a hole through my gut, lady. Forgive me my crudity, but I piss blood, and I wonder if I shall reach your hall.”

“We’ve healers there,” she said, “who can cure you. It’s no more than another day’s ride. Can you last that long?”

“Do you promise me healing,” Laurens said, “then yes. I’d not leave this youngling alone. I doubt he can fend for himself.”

Lyandra chuckled. “I think he can,” she said. “I think that Eben is right—he’s syn’qui.”

“Which is why we live?”

She smiled and ducked her blond head in agreement, then walked away.

Laurens stared at Cullyn. “Is this curse or blessing?” he asked.

And Cullyn answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

T
HEY CANTERED
through a thicket of oaks and ash and hazel and came to a ridge that was filled with long grass where deer grazed. The meadow was scattered with trees, spreading down the walls of the ridge to a small lake that was held like a blue jewel in the green cup of the encircling land. Lyandra paused there, staring down as if at some remembered treasure.

Cullyn could understand why.

He had traversed a wondrous land—such a place as defied imagination, all filled with impossibilities, as if every dreamed-of landscape or creature that might be encompassed by imagination existed. And now he looked upon a lake that was a perfect circle of pristine blue, reflecting back the late afternoon sun and the billows of white cloud that scudded overhead. It was an exact circle, and at its center, like a jewel in the blue ring, there
rose an islet as impossible as anything else in this strange land.

Sheer cliffs of black granite rose from the lake’s calm waters, shining like jewels exposed to the sun. They clambered from the mere to meet such walls as no natural force could have constructed. High they were, ringing the islet, and beyond them lay a profusion of fantastical towers, some squat and blunt, others like great needles rising to meet the sky. Some rose up smooth and featureless, others were decked with balconies and walkways. Some glittered as glassed windows shone back the sun’s rays; others were dull. But all were multicolored, so that from the center of the lake the islet sparkled all blue and green and white and crimson, purple and scarlet, silver and yellow. Cullyn thought of a field of flowers, or a god’s handful of gems scattered over the rock to grow as they would.

“It’s beautiful, no?”

He turned to Lyandra and ducked his head in agreement.

“My home,” she said, “Ky’atha Hall. Now let us meet my parents.”

She smiled and urged her mount down the slope. Cullyn followed her, looking back to Eben and Laurens. They rode together, seeming less eager than he to examine the wonders of this magical place. So he reined Fey to their stride and glanced a question at Eben.

The wizard grinned sourly. “Pyris might not welcome Isydrian’s son. But”—he shrugged—“Laurens needs better healing than I can give him. So we have no choice, eh?”

“They’ve offered us no harm yet,” Cullyn said. He studied Laurens, thinking that the soldier was very pale. He sagged in his saddle, a hand pressed constantly to his side. “And Lyandra promised healing.”

Eben chuckled. “There are conditions to Durrym promises.”

“What do you mean?” Cullyn asked. “Surely a promise is a promise?”

Eben shook his head. “So young, so foolish.”

Cullyn opened his mouth, but Lyandra went down the slope at a gallop before he could speak, and her followers gathered in the captives and herded them down to the lake’s edge.

Two great trees whose nature Cullyn could not define grew on either side of a jetty that seemed a combination of woods. The platform extended a dozen feet into the water, set with lesser growths from which hung silvery chains. Lyandra reined in at the edge, took a horn from her saddle, and blew a shrill call.

From across the mere there came a response as wide gates swung ponderously open in the rock face of the islet. Cullyn could not understand; he could see no jointure—only the cavern between and the boats that came sailing out.

He gasped aloud, wondering if these things were natural or Durrym constructions. They were shaped like swans, with proudly vaunting heads and great spread tails. He saw no oarsmen, but only billowing wings and a disturbance in the water behind them, as if great webbed feet paddled across the mere.

“My father created them,” Lyandra said. “Are they not splendid?”

All Cullyn could do was nod and gape.

Each one was large enough to carry five horses and their riders. Fey fretted as Cullyn led him onto the deck. Eben’s mule bucked, protesting this unusual transportation. Laurens led his bay on board with a Durrym holding him upright.

They were all on board save Eben and his mule,
which snorted and continued to buck in protest at the prospective journey.

“Quiet, quiet.” The wizard stroked the mule’s head, and ducked an apology to those who waited. “He’s not accustomed to boats. A moment, eh?”

He spoke in a soft whisper to the mule, dragging its ear close to his mouth, and the beast calmed, allowing Eben to lead it onto the swan-boat.

“He’s a mind of his own,” Eben said. “Best not stand behind him.”