AllFreeNovel
Share Us
O sing of Nithraen, the many caves,
Of the mirrored water before its gate…
O, sing of Aerith’s kingdom, for it is gone,
And never shall its like be seen again.
—Lament of the Uncrowned
The Ford of Nithlas was indeed close, but the hours to reach it were a miserable eternity. More snow whirled down, branches overhead unable to stifle the flood, and the wind returned. At first, the breeze was almost playful, but it quickly lost interest in restraint. The horses trudged wearily, and even Aeredh’s singing grew fainter, with short gaps between some phrases. Once he coughed, and Eol silently urged his tired horse forward, offering the glassy black flask without word. The Elder took a swallow ofsitheviel, nodded his thanks, and returned to his song.
Seidhrhad hold of me, the veil of the physical world drawn aside as cold, hunger, and fear mounted in my limbs. I could almost-see how words and cadence infused strength into faltering legs, warming the beasts we rode. But I also saw strange things in the whirling flakes. Some fantastical shapes were fair enough, merely curious, but others smoked with ill intent. The latter fled before strange subtle forms bearing the faintest hint of chill blue light, and I heard voices without the help of my ears. Even though Arn pressed the meadskinupon me twice more I was only half awake when the snow thinned, drawing back in a curtain as hooves rang unmuffled on small splashing stones.
At that time the Nith had never frozen save once, and the tale of that winter—told to me long afterward—is terrible indeed.
The ford is always crossed in stages, for there the Nith runs shallow over many gravel-beds before it gathers two tributaries, Shaerith the Cold and Eleth-mir the always musical. With their aid it becomes much mightier than our river at home, turning southward with a vengeance to come, after long wandering, to the sea. On the far side of the Ford’s broad shoals forested hills rose, their foliage oddly tinted, and the air was not nearly so frozen. Falling snow vanished, though the sun’s light still filtered through endless heavy cloud.
I was glad to be out of the whirling ice-feathers, not to mention those strangeseidhr-shapes. The stone road broke through a thinning white carpet, breaching to leap like a fish. Beyond a short rise, the forest bore more paleness upon its shoulders and hood, but not below the canopy. Crisp cleanness shone between pillar-trunks, as if we were high upon a mountainside again, the air thin and crystalline.
Our horses lifted their heads, snowmelt dropping from hocks, withers, and tails. The Northerners exchanged relieved glances, but Arn urged her mount closer to mine. She was deadly pale, her freckles glaring like the blue stripe on the left side of her face, and her knuckles were bloodless as she gripped her spear, apparently not trusting the saddle’s bucket to hold it.
If her nape was crawling like mine, if the fine hairs all over her were rising, if she was suddenly sweating under her mantle—while still chilly, it was appreciably warmer than upon the other side of the river—I did not blame her. I felt the weirding as well, though I was too exhausted to do more than wonder.
There is a word for an animal made so placid by fear or tiredness it simply ambles, head down, toward the burden-release of the knife, and now I know its depths.
Hills rose in great pleats, the trees so old and large not much undergrowth gathered between them. They had to be evergreens since they bore their finery even in new winter, but their leaves weredeciduous-shaped and tinged with gold at the edges. Great greygreen boles lightly touched with lacework lichen made hallways in every direction, and in summer the sward would be verdant.
It was beautiful, and the tree-leaves familiar, since I had seen them wrapped around the Northerners’ strange melting waybread. But the unnatural blunting of winter’s chill and the loveliness of the groves were both… disturbing.
There is no other word for the feeling, though I racked my porridge-impersonating skull-meat to think of one.
We rode for some while upon the newly freed road, its surface innocent of fallen leaf or branch, moss or stray pebble. Aeredh’s song dropped into a hum, echoing the inaudible ringing from the runestones at now-regular intervals. Passing from one stone-singing tone to the next produced a strange thrill along my back and upper arms; Farsight’s ears were pricked so far they almost seemed ready to slip free and go galloping themselves.
Arneior pulled her mount to a sharp halt; it took a moment for me to convince Farsight to stop though Soren had her reins. It also hurt, vaguely, to use the savagely overstretched willpower-muscle inside my aching head and chest, but if my shieldmaid would go no further, I would follow suit.
Besides, the idea of sliding from the horse’s back, taking a few staggering steps into the woods, and sinking down upon the banks of yellowed grass with only the thinnest thread of green at each blade’s center was incredibly appealing.
“Hold,” Soren said, pleasantly enough. “Does the lady require—”
“We are being followed, again.” Arn turned as far as she could in her saddle, looking behind us, her spear almost quivering. “And there are voices. Sol?”
“I hear them.” My whisper was a singsong; I clutched at the pommel and tried to focus through the swimming before me. Even Farsight’s neck was undulating. “I do not think they mean us ill.”
“But do they mean us well?” Arn shook her coppery head, leather-wrapped braids vigorously brushing her shoulders. “They may show themselves, or I shall not allow my Solveig another step. There is weirding here, and Ido not like it.”
It was Eol who answered. “We are in the lands of our lord Aeredh’s kin.” His cloak dripped and his hair was wildly unhappy at the battle we had just suffered; the rest of him probably felt the same. “Nothing here will harm you or Gwendelint’s daughter, lady shieldmaid. We are very close to shelter.”
Arn gazed at me, but I could say nothing. I felt the watchers as well, their interest sharp but not unwholesome. Still, if my shieldmaid was cautious, I would not move.
I trusted my Arn. The rest of them? Perhaps, to a degree.
And perhaps not.
So there I remained, with Arn at my side and the Northerners passing whispered arguments, until there was a slight sound within the trees. Riders on slim-legged white horses like our own appeared, melding from the spaces between greygreen trunks, their cloaks woven in greengold-grey and their hoods pulled high. For all that, their gazes were bright in the shadows underneath, and skilled hands held bows when they did not rest upon fluidly shaped hilts chased with gems or stark with plain loveliness.
Thus it was we were introduced to the folk of Nithraen. I heard little of what was said, but we set off again, Arn’s mouth pulled tight and her mare matching Farsight stride for stride. The hills rose but the road was laid to be very gentle to both foot and hoof, and by the time we passed over the Great Causeway above the lapping mirror of Nith-an-Gaelas—a naturally, partially dammed branch of the river itself—I was all but insensible. I did not see the Gate carved with runes of strength, bound with flowing hammered metal and seamless once closed. I did not see the shadows part under the great hill, nor did I hear the silvery trumpets echoing deep in the halls where the Elder lived, sang, and wrought their wonders.
It was enough that we eventually stopped, I plummeted from the saddle into Arn’s waiting arms, and we were taken to a place of resting.
