Shadows of Myth

“No!” she said, half turning away.

He paused for a moment, then lifted the cowl from his head to reveal hard, care-worn features beneath raven-black hair. The faintest hint of a smile creased his cold eyes.

“Leh-oon rah-tie,” he said softly, in a voice that seemed to echo within him before making its way out into the world. He reached for the child again. “Leh-oon.”

Conflicting emotions warred within her. His tone, his face and his gesture seemed to convey “Please,” as if he were offering to help the girl. But she knew the girl was beyond help. And this was a man who, mere moments before, had held a sword to her throat. And the girl was…hers.

Apparently seeing her hesitation, he repeated the word, more softly this time. “Leh-oon.”

Reluctantly she let him lift the girl from her arms. He took her gently, supporting her head with one hand, and seemed to study her for a moment. His eyes flicked up to her, cold and hard.

“Trey-sah.”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Trey-sah,” he said again, motioning toward the girl with his head. “Tah-ill loh trey-sah.”

She compressed her lips, studying his eyes. Then it clicked, and she slowly nodded. “Yes. She’s dead. Trey-sah. Last night.”

The man nodded, and for an instant sorrow softened his icy-gray eyes. He handed the girl back to her, then pointed back down the road. “Yah-see. Roh-eem trey-sah.”

“Yes. They’re all dead. I…” It struck her that even if she had known his language, she could not have explained what had happened last night. She stopped and simply angled her head toward the road. “Yes. Trey-sah. This girl wasn’t. She no trey-sah. I tried to help her, but I couldn’t. She died last night, in my arms.”

The taller of the two black men, behind her to her left, muttered quietly. The cloaked man looked at him, then at her, and nodded. “Pah-roh. Ee-esh.”

Slender black fingers closed around her upper arms, gently but insistently. Whoever these men were, they were taking her with them. There was little point and less hope in fighting. Helpless to argue, she let them take her, her heart full of dread.

Young Tom Downey should have been asleep. He’d been up most of the night, opening the gate for the trappers who straggled in by ones and twos, not wanting to spend another night out on the ground in a fur sleep sack when they could walk a few more miles and have a pint of ale, a hot meal and a comfortable bed at the Deepwell Inn. By all rights he should have been exhausted and snug in his bed, catching up on his rest so he could enjoy the festival tonight.

But then there was Sara. He’d promised to help her set up tables and torches in the inn’s courtyard, not so much because she wanted or needed his help—she came from big-boned, Whitewater stock and was strong as most men—but because it was a good excuse to spend a day with her. The opportunity to look into her deep blue eyes, to see the broad smile break out on her oval face, to hear the flowing music in her idle humming. Faced with that, well, sleep came in at a far-distant second place.

The sun was well past high, and they had almost finished hanging the lanterns and decorations that crisscrossed the courtyard. Next they would build the firepit and, while the flames burned down, begin to carry out the long serving tables and stack the pewter flagons, bowls and spoons. By the time they had finished those tasks, the coals should be ready for them to heft the soup cauldron and bring it out from the kitchen. Another two or three hours.

Another two or three hours of Sara’s almost sole attention, a rare treat indeed. She was usually too busy taking care of patrons at the inn for him to get more than a few words in edgewise, and that only when he wasn’t busy with his mother’s garden, or minding the gate for his father. In truth, he lived for a day like this.

“A bit tighter,” Sara said, as he pulled the last line of lanterns over a tree limb. “There. Perfect.”

He tied off the line and looked up at their work. Gaily painted pinecones and lanterns formed a canopy over the courtyard. Tonight, with the fires lit and the stars winking overhead, the place would seem almost magical.

“Looks great,” Young Tom said. “It will be beautiful tonight.” Then, after a momentary pause, he added, “And I can’t wait for your mutton stew.”

She nodded, her features darkened by a passing thought. “I just hope people will come.”

Yes, they’d lost some crops this year to the cold. Yes, the trap lines were lean, and the river trout had moved downstream to warmer waters earlier than usual. But this was still the harvest festival, a last chance to celebrate the warmth of summer and growing things before ice crusted the river, and the fields and trees and gardens and roofs donned a white blanket of snow. And Young Tom was determined to enjoy it, if for no other reason than that it was one of the few times of the year when he felt any sense of wonder, of adventure.

After dinner, while the children scattered across the commons and around the town in search of the harvest lamb, while mothers clucked and tsked at their charges and gossiped about their husbands, the men would gather in the public room and swap stories. For the townsfolk, the tales were largely embellishments of mundane activities. For in Whitewater, and especially at harvest festival, it was unmannerly to simply state that one’s tomatoes had grown well this summer.

Instead the tilling and seeding, the watering, weeding, nurturing and, finally, picking, became an epic, often comic, battle of man against nature, where the storyteller was both conquering hero and court jester. He would be spurred on by the interjections and objections of those listening, until the tale dissolved in gales of laughter. Sometimes the stories would loop back to others told in past years—Young Tom’s first attempt to milk a goat was by now the stuff of legend, first told by his father and repeated countless times since, to his endless embarrassment—and the whole became the living history of Whitewater, high points and low, to be carried on in the years to come.

But as amusing as those tales could be, for Young Tom the highlight of the evening would come when a trapper or, better yet, a trader would take his place by the roaring fire. Eyes alight with excitement and tongue loosened by Bandylegs’ ale, he would talk of strange lands and faraway cities. There were stories of noblemen and guild masters, of fortunes won and lost on a hand of tiles, of street thieves skulking in alleys, of merchant sailors and pirates. And always, always, of the shimmering white streets of Bozandar, where anything that one could want—and much that one ought not to have—could be bought and sold in the markets and streets and on the docks.

It was these stories that held Young Tom rapt. Stories of places that didn’t smell like sheep and drying pelts, places where a man could make his mark on the larger world. Places Young Tom would never see.

He would never see them, quite simply, because he could never imagine taking himself away from Sara. Sure, he dreamed of carving his life on the stone of the world, preserved forever for all to see. But the truth was that he was a simple Whitewater lad, madly in love with a simple Whitewater lass. Someday, if the gods could instill courage in him, he would find the words to tell her that. He would ask her to marry him. She would say yes. And he would spend the rest of his days here, with her. With not a single regret for the places he did not see and the things he did not do.

“You are dreaming again, Young Tom Downey,” Sara said, looking over at him with that playful smile that almost dared him to disagree or, worse, tell her of his dreams.

He stammered for the right words and instead resigned himself to a clumsy nod. After a moment, he added, “I’ll just get another stack of bowls,” as if by focusing on the task at hand he could slow the beat of his heart or will the quiver from his hands.

She laughed. Oh, her laugh!

“You just do that,” she said with a wink. “And I’ll just be for setting out what you’ve already brought.”

She doubtless knew, of course. His mother said a blind man could see the way he looked at her. His friends had long since given up on teasing him about it. She knew, and that made it all the harder. In his mind, she loved him, too, and had imagined a thousand ways he might finally speak his heart, imagined words that soared like an eagle to its mountain eyrie or sparkled like the morning dew. There was simply no way he could ever match the words she had imagined, and thus whatever he said would surely be a disappointment.

That daunting prospect held him back, knotted his tongue and kept the dream of holding her at bay, forever just one act of courage away.

Archer had heard that a mother can identify her own baby’s cry in a room full of crying babies. He was sure he could tell his horse from Ratha’s or Giri’s simply by the roll of its gait and the way its flanks felt between his legs. All of that seemed very ordinary and believable. And none of it explained what he felt as he held the woman against him.

They’d spent the day riding higher into the hills and deeper into the forest, farther from the butchered remains of the caravan they’d come upon that morning. He’d chosen this course not because he sought to avoid the band that had ambushed the traders, but simply because he didn’t want to confront them while saddled with this strange woman and the dead child she refused to relinquish. She needed shelter. And he would need all his limbs and attention free when that confrontation happened. The nearest shelter was the town of Whitewater, another few hours’ ride upstream. So there they would go, and there he would leave her, before coming back to deal with the bandits.

The woman had slept for most of the day. Whatever had happened last night, however she had escaped unharmed from the carnage, she was exhausted. Somehow, even in sleep, she kept her arms around the girl. What she could not do while sleeping was keep herself in the saddle.

So he kept an arm around her, steadying her, as he and his companions rode along in a silence broken only rarely and briefly. The occasional whispered warning was all that passed between them. And that left Archer alone with his thoughts, which was becoming a distinctly uncomfortable state of affairs.

If he were not so certain they were being followed and likely overheard, and if he were not concerned about keeping their purpose from their followers, they might have engaged in the kind of traveling banter that usually passed among them. Ratha in particular had a biting sense of humor that, coupled with his Anari gift of observation, might have had them alternately groaning and guffawing all day. But today there was no such relief. Today there was only the sound of their horses’ hooves, the occasional rustle of underbrush despite their pursuers’ stealth, and the woman’s slow, even breathing.

And the feel of her in his arms.

There was no reason this woman should feel familiar. Her language was certainly not one he’d ever heard before, though at least they’d been able to work out a minimal shared vocabulary by which to exchange the most basic information: stop, hungry, thirsty, cold and the like. She was attractive enough that he was sure he would have remembered meeting her. And he was sure he hadn’t.

Still, from the moment he’d looped an arm around her and pulled her against him in the saddle, he’d felt it. And that feeling grew stronger when he saw the mark of a white rose on her ankle, etched into the skin. As if his body remembered something his mind would not. It was not the sort of thought he enjoyed. He’d spent year upon year layering on a sense of who and what he was, as an Esegi hunter might use sticks and dried leaves to cover the void of a tiger pit. In fact, there was a sleeping tiger in his mental pit, and he had no desire to rouse it. His sense of self was probably no more authentic than the cover of that trap, but at least it had grown to be a bit more stable. He could walk on it. He could live on it. As long as none of the connecting tendrils was disturbed.

The mere act of holding this woman against him was disturbing those tendrils, and the specter of the tiger beneath hovered in the back of his mind like the sound of his pursuers, not yet ready to expose itself, waiting for the most opportune moment to spring free of the trap. He had no desire to face that again. For that reason, if for no other, he had to get this woman to shelter, to be rid of her and the disturbing, half-formed memories her presence evoked.

In truth, there wasn’t much that frightened him. He had stared down an angry bear protecting her cubs and walked away without so much as a scratch. He had hunted sawtooth boar in the dense underbrush of the Aktakna hills, where a moment’s inattention could leave a flowing gash in an arm or leg or belly. He had faced down petty thieves in the alleys of Sedestano, young men with more courage than sense who thought quick reflexes and a sharp dagger were an adequate substitute for actual fighting experience. He had slain the slaver who had intended to auction off Ratha and Giri, and parted a swath through the mob of angry men who saw no evil in buying and selling human beings.

He’d faced whatever dangers the world had thrown his way with an almost eerie calm that unsettled friend and foe alike. But this woman—and that tiger—scared him.

The sun was sinking behind the distant mountains as they finally emerged from the forest into the now barren fields that surrounded Whitewater. As they crested a knoll, he could see a faint glow over the wall, in the heart of the town, and the sound of clapping and singing made its way on the wind.

“Their harvest festival,” Giri said, his voice barely audible. “I’d forgotten.”

“Not much to celebrate,” Ratha answered, looking at the freeze-blackened fields.

Archer pondered that for a moment. “We celebrate what we can. That’s all life offers us.”

And we try to forget the rest, he thought.

He debated whether to rouse the woman and decided against it. There would be plenty of time to rouse her after they passed through the gate, when he could offer her a hot meal at Bandylegs’ inn. In the meantime, he would let her sleep.

And try not to think of the fog-shrouded memories.

3

The gatekeeper, Jem Downey, was not at the harvest festival. Oh, no. Not for him the revelry, food and storytelling, not that there would be much to miss this year. But as the gatekeeper, one whose son was stapled to the innkeeper’s daughter’s petticoats, Jem had no choice but to stay at his post.

At least until the sun had been set a while longer. With these cold days and nights, there might be other trappers and travelers seeking shelter, and Jem wasn’t one to let them freeze outside the city walls, much as he might grumble about missing all the fun.

Nor could he leave the gate open, as had been the custom during festivals in years past, to welcome any who might care to join the carousing. Not this year. Not with the rumors of fell things in the woods, of terrible events in the cities to the south.

This year a man couldn’t feel safe except behind the sealed stone walls of the town.

Not that Jem was unduly worried. He’d seen too many years not to have learned that rumors were usually far worse than fact.

So he sat in the kitchen with his wife, Bridey, sipping the lentil soup she had flavored with a piece of hamhock from a neighbor’s smokehouse. Everyone in town gave something to the gatekeeper from time to time. It was his pay. And this winter it might make him either the most fortunate man in town or the least. There was no way to predict how people’s hearts would face a rugged winter that boded to be the worst in memory.

But even that Jem didn’t truly fear, because he knew that come the worst, there would always be a meal for him at the Whitewater Inn. Bandylegs always managed to pull something out of his hat and was always ready to feed the Downeys.

The lentil soup was good and filling, though Bridey had made little enough of it, trying to save both hamhock and lentils for another supper.

Satisfied, Jem took out his pipe and indulged the pleasure of filling it just so with what little leaf he still had from the south. He couldn’t often indulge, but tonight, being a festival and all, he decided he could afford just this one bowlful.

He lit it with a taper from the fire—wood at least was plentiful—and told Bridey to leave the washing up and go join the festival. “You’ve worked hard enough today, my dear,” he told her fondly. “I’ll do the cleaning up.”

She smiled almost like the girl she had once been and gave him a kiss that brought a blush to his cheeks.

“You be coming along soon,” she told him.

“Aye. Soon as I’m sure there are no other poor souls out this night.”

As his wife departed the tower, Jem heard the keening of the wind. Aye, it was going to be a bad night. The outdoor festivities were probably already moving into the warmth of the inn’s public rooms. Not everyone could fit there, of course, but most of those with wee ones would be looking for their own beds soon, anyway.

Puffing on his pipe, he poured hot water from the kettle that always hung near the fire into the wooden pan, and washed the dinner bowls and spoons. There was still soup left in the big pot that hung to one side of the fire, and he decided to leave it where it was. ’Twas a cold night, and he might be wanting that bit of victual before he crawled into his bed.

He was just puffing the last of his pipe when the gate bell rang, a tinny but loud clang that was supposed to wake him even when he was soundly asleep.

Muttering just because he felt like muttering, he stomped across the room and pulled his thickest cloak off the peg. Wrapping it tightly around himself, he went down the circular stone stairway until he reached the tower’s exterior door. There he picked up a lantern that was never allowed to go out and stepped out into the night’s bitter cold.

The bell clanged insistently once again. Jem shook his head. Could he help it that he was no longer a boy who could run up and down the stairs? He was lucky he could still swing the gates open.

He opened the port in the gate and peered out.

Three mounted men, faces invisible beneath hoods pulled low. One of the men held what appeared to be a dead woman in front of him.

“What business?” he demanded gruffly, already thinking he might let these strangers freeze out there. He didn’t like the look of this at all.

“Open the gate, Jem Downey,” said a familiar voice. “This woman is hurt and needs attention.”

Jem peered out again, and as the nearest horse sidled, he recognized the cloaked figure. “Why, Master Archer!” he exclaimed. “’Tis a long time since you darkened this gate.”

“Too long, Jem. Are you going to let us in?”

Of course he was going to let Master Archer in. There was always a gold or silver coin in it for Jem, and the man had caused nary a whisker of trouble any of the times he had passed through town.

He quickly closed the porthole, then threw his back into lifting the heavy wood beam that barred the gate. He might have arthritis in every joint, did Jem, but he still had the strength in his back and arms.

The bar moved backward, out of the way, and Jem pushed open one side of the gate.

As the three riders started to enter single file, Master Archer, still concealed within his cloak, tossed Jem a gold piece.

“Mark me, Jem Downey,” Archer said. “There are fell things abroad. Do not open this gate again tonight. Not for anyone.”

“No, sir.” Jem bobbed his head. “Not for anyone.”

Then he stood, gold piece in hand, watching the three ride down the cobbled street toward the inn and the harvest celebration.

“Fell things, hmm?” he murmured to himself. When Master Archer said it, Jem believed it. All of a sudden he realized he was still standing outside the wall with one side of the gate open.

Unexpected fear speared him, and he looked quickly around. Snow was falling lightly, but the barren fields were empty as far as he could see.

Still…He hurried to close and bar the gate. As he locked it, an eddy of wind washed around him, chilling him to the bone.

Maybe he wouldn’t go to the harvest festival at all. Someone ought to keep a weather eye out.

The public room at the inn was crowded to the point that no person could stand or sit without being pressed tight against another. Good fellowship prevailed, however, so none minded the continual jostling.

Nanue Manoison, the most recent and probably last of the traders to come up the Whitewater River this year, held the attention of everyone in the room. One of the butter-colored people of the west, Nanue came every year to buy Bill Bent-back’s scrimshaw, and wheat from the harvest for the more crowded western climes. This year he would get scrimshaw, but no wheat.

He held the entire room rapt as he spoke of his trip east and the strangenesses he had beheld. Strangeness that ensured he would not be back this year, even if the weather took a turn for the better.

“It was like nothing I had ever seen,” he was telling the crowd. “My captain wanted to turn us around, he became so afraid. But I reminded him that we were five stout men and had little to fear on the river.”

Heads nodded around the room. Leaf smoke hung in the air.

“But,” Nanue said. “But. I tell you, my friends, it is not just the early winter. The farther we came down the pass, the eerier became the riverbank. First the deer disappeared. Never have I sailed a day on that river without seeing at least one or two deer come to drink or watch us from the shore. Then I realized that we barely heard any birdsong. None. All of you know that even in deepest winter there are birds.

“I know not where they have flown or why. But if the birds have gone, some evil is afoot, you mark my words. Some true evil. The last three days of our journey, I saw nothing living at all. And every league of the way, I felt we were being watched.”

The room became hushed. Then there was a mumbling, and finally a voice called out, “I felt it, too, Nanue Manoison. In my fields these past two weeks, trying to save what I could. It was as if I was being watched from the woods.”

“Aye,” others said, nodding.

“And the fish are gone,” someone else said. “We can fish even through the ice in winter, but there are no fish. It’s as if the river is poisoned.”

Someone else harrumphed. “Now don’t you be saying such things, Tyne. We drink the water safe enough. If ’twere poisoned, we’d be as gone as the fish.”

“It’s just an early winter,” said a grizzled voice from the farthest side of the room. “Early winter. Me granddad spoke of such in his time. It happened, he said, the year that Earth’s Root blew smoke to the sky for months, and ash rained from the heaven for many days. Maybe ’tis Earth’s Root again.”

Tom, who was standing as near Sara as he could, listened with wide-open ears. Just then, the front door of the inn flew open.

Startled, Tom turned and saw a cloaked man entering with a bundled woman in his arms. Behind him came two even taller men, faces invisible within their hoods.

“Why, Master Archer,” said Bandylegs, hurrying to greet the newcomers. “Oh my, what trouble have we here?”

“The woman is ill,” said Master Archer. “The child with her is dead. We need your best rooms, Master Deepwell. One for the woman, and one for my friends and myself.”

“Well, don’t you know, it’s as if I’ve been saving them for you,” Bandylegs said, heading for the stairway. “Two rooms with a parlor between. It’s dear, though, Master Archer.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Fine then, fine,” said Bandylegs hurrying up the stairs with the men behind him. “Sara?”

“Aye, Dad?”

“Hot water and towels. This poor ill woman will be needing some warmth.”

“Aye, Dad.”