Chetwin's Space: Recent Episodes
Grace Chetwin
How like Urolf (Feyrwarl) looked, except that his face had been used in quite a different way, thought Wycan, noting the laughter lines around his eyes. Feyrwarl wasn’t smiling now.
“You rejected your own son, you presumably caused his death … You split our clan and wrecked these woods in a fit of pique. You are not fit to rule.”
Everyone snapped to.
Wycan looked around. A fight was coming.
His hand went to his belt.
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Looking down, Wycan couldn’t even see the ground on which he stood. On a thought, he bent to touch it, and felt … nothing.
“The ground’s gone too,” he went on slowly. “I am standing in the middle of … nothing.”
A clap of thunder cracked the silence.
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You broke up the Yul Kinta clan, you destroyed this realm. Would that you had never been!
Wycan whirled about to see two figures there: Thrulvar and the other.
Wycan looked into that face and knew. Did he not look into one just like it every day?
“Father.”
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Leana’s face was white and anxious. “Gom?”
“He’s headed for the Concourse.”
“Then so are we. Elder Hanselor?”
Hanselor raised his arm. “Forward with all speed. Young Althlafor’s in danger of his life!”
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“As for one race being better than the other: my lady, like it or not, you are part Yul Kinta now—with your son.”
For a moment, it looked as if she would strike him. Then she simply stood and strode away.
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His mother slipped, scraped off the cliff wall, then rebounded off towards the falling water. Wycan grabbed at her arm but to his horror his hand passed right through it! Reaching her, the nearer figure caught her by the mantle. The mantle gave, fully revealing the burden beneath, A baby, bound to her chest with a shimmering gray shawl. That glimpse was all he had before woman and child vanished through the falling water.
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(Gom): “When will (Leana) waken, do you think?”
“By this night’s end, we should know.”
“Know?” Gom’s throat was dry. . . .
“After living in our woods, Leana may now be part-Yul Kinta. . . . If she is unchanged - if she’s still fully human - the moment she awakens, she will die.”
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*You would have me meet with Vala?
You must, if you’d awaken.
Mage, the spell that binds me lies beyond her powers. Is there an Elder with them?*
I don’t know. Gom barely hid his dismay. After all the effort and sacrifice, Leana might still die?
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(Wycan) opened his pack and pulled a bite. But he didn’t settle down to sleep. Every slightest sound brought him to his feet, empty-handed, defenseless against tooth and claw, until he almost wished for Gom to come again. . . .
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’Tis my own first knife that I got when I had learned to throw. I long outgrew its heft … may it serve you well. . . .
Wycan slid the knife back in its sheath.
If you find your father, remember me.
For long, Wycan sat staring out into the dark, almost until morning.
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As Keke rose to dive again, Wycan reached out and touched her thought. Not mad, not mad at all. Only deeply anxious to the point of panic. About what? Danger! Beware! Danger! Wycan closed his eyes, caught a flash of boiling waters broken by jagged points.
Keke’s voice narrated by Anya Eleni.
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[Keke]: “That . . . boy you took up with. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Wycan? . . .
“You’ve seen him? He’s down?”
“Down and gone! Too far for you to catch.”
Keke’s voice narrated by Anya Eleni.
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Before (Wycan), the track curved towards the right. There, to his left, the smaller one trailed off into mist. One last look he took up the slope behind him, then headed down towards the Dunderfosse.
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Heat rushed up, breaking into sweat across his brow. Up under the peak, the song he’d heard coming from her bed: mothers sang it to soothe their newborn into sleep. . . . The strange and lovely shawl with which she’d bound him to her: a baby shawl! They’d taken it from her, just as they had taken him.
“You’ve guessed, I think,” said Ythac.
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Maybe passing under [the entrance grille] had somehow dislodged the iron housing. If so, he was well and truly stuck, why he could die down there, except— His eye went to the torch. Those things did not last forever. Someone had set that flame up there, and not so very long ago. A shadow rounded the corner, slid into the light.
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Ystrid’s scowl deepened. . . . “Explain yourself.”
Wycan gazed back at her, unflinching. The fire was still there, undiminished—but overlaid with something else. . . . Reaching out, he nudged her mind’s edge: Fear. Wycan watched her beat it down, watched her pride take over.
“Lock him up.”
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(Ystrid) broke off in mid-cry, a look of blank astonishment upon her face.
Wycan half-turned to see what she was staring at.
“Wycan?”
Too late, Wycan realized that she was gazing right at him
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Gom) pulled a light, sent it bobbing up above his head, and gazed around on utter devastation. Only the bed remained intact. On it lay a small gray-green bird, eyes closed, unmoving
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“You know—” Ystrid paused. “My father never let us up here. I would see her now.”
“Highness.” Ythac climbed onto the dais and drew aside the curtain, but even as Ystrid moved to join him, he let the curtain drop and whirled about. “She’s gone!”
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“Oh, I see you now,” (Leana) said. “He’s called Wycan, you say? And a young man? I cannot believe it.”
“Here. Take my hand, we’ll go up so you can see for yourself.”
Leana reached out, grasped his fingers. The instant she did so, Gom cried out, his life force streaming out—and down.
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Gom couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Was it a waking dream, coming upon him as they used to up on Windy Mountain? Out of nowhere, born of some urgent need, to warn him of some danger, or show him something hidden from his normal sight?
“Gom, what is it?”
Wycan’s faraway voice faded into echo.
Then everything went dark.
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The massive gate ground inwards, just wide enough to let men through in single file. A fresh squad moved out smartly, the returning crew went in. The gate groaned shut. The bars screeched back into place. Gom and Wycan were inside.
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“We must move out, heal wounds, repair the damage between the lake folk and us. Take chances, offer what we have for mortal folk out here. Share our knowledge, put our gifts at their service.”
"Yul Kinta? Helping mortals? Hah! It is not in our nature.”
“Yet I once heard that you would turn aside to save a stranded minnow.”
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“You mean you can hear what someone’s thinking?” Gom didn’t sound so friendly any more.
“Not words,” Wycan explained quickly. “More like a feeling or mood. I’m not very good at it yet. I only just found that I can do it.” “Oh, really.” Gom was looking positively hostile.
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Gom pulled the stopper and dripped its fulsome contents onto Wycan’s tongue. . . .
Wycan swayed, grabbed for the table, and held on . . .
Gom watched him anxiously. . . . “Are you alright?”
Wycan looked up, glassy-eyed. . . . “I’m fine. . . . What is that muck?”
“I can’t say. At least, not exactly, you see—” Gom broke off. The spell had worked.
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In frustration, Wycan reached inside his shirt, pulled out the tag and chain. Cupping the chain in his palm, he pointed to the woman’s clasped hands. Gom stared down in dismay. Whatever Kyr meant, the woman who had held that chain was certainly Leana up in that mountain. Alive—or dead?
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Going out the door, he paused. When Wycan was done bathing, there were questions to be asked—and answered. But how? Gom ran to the back of the workshop, fetched out chalk and slate, then ran downstairs.
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Wycan was waiting. But what could Gom say? That he now knew to call him Althlafor? . . Leana had scored it through. . . . .Gom turned the tag over. Three words he found there, two together with a single one beneath. Ëalfgren, halfling, the first two words read. Under them, a short and simple name oft-used in the common tongue. Hal.
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The helmet pressed against his chest, Wycan eyed Gom over the top of it.
“Well?”
Gom stared back. “Oh my,” he whispered.
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At first glance, he didn’t seem so old, maybe a year or so younger than Wycan, but a second look at those eyes and he was not so sure. Frowning, the youth opened his mouth and let out a series of piercing shrieks. Wycan started, goosebumps popping out all over. Here was the second bird!
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Here begins book 8 of the series, following directly on from the end of book 7, The Foundling of Snawbyr Crygg.
One hour to dawn, they mustered: Feyrwarl, Vala, Hanselor, and two dozen fellow-pilgrims. Yul Kinta journeying back to the ruins of their old home. Their baggage stowed, they mounted their horses and rode swiftly like fleeting shadows from their fastness by the High Vargue’s edge, heading west.
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Chorl in the mountain! And not through the Main Gate. There was only one other way in and that was by the flood gate down in the roots of the mountain that had not been opened in an age. How? And why? Wycan saw and groaned aloud.
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The barracks passages swarmed with guards in full fighting gear. While some were racing up to man the upper levels, more were streaming down. Keeping close to the wall, Wycan watched and listened, and understood at last:
Chorl!
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Wycan looked around warily, scanning for signs of deeper shadows moving over the mountain face. “Are we safe now?” he said, as they passed the first rock shelf.
“Well, chorl have never come this high.”
There’s always a first time, thought Wycan uneasily.
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Wait, Ythac had told him. Wait, wait by the fox and I’ll find you.
He would wait, all right. So would the fox. But the captain would never find either!
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The captain . . . laughed. "You youngsters. You know it all. Or . . . you think you do. What have you heard about chorl?”
Wycan told him of the tales passed around the dormitory after lights out. “They say chorl overran the mountain, but, well, I see that can’t be true, not with that gate.
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(Wycan) breathed in the smell of rich moist loam. He never wanted to go back up into that mountain, never. In fact— . . . He didn’t have to. Thanks to Ythac, he would make his break that very day—maybe within the hour!
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-ii Some way farther down, the track split into two. . . . another, narrower ridge curved off eastwards . . .
"Where does that lead?” . . .
“Nowhere we want to go.” . . .
“I don’t understand.” "Ythac sighed heavily. “There’s an old forest . . . we do not speak of it. . . . Now come.”
Wycan allowed himself to be led on. But glancing back along that trail he couldn’t help but wonder. . . .
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A pace or two beyond the gate, Wycan stopped. Before him was blind, black space. To either side, ragged torch flames fluttered in the wind. Behind them, the gate ground shut and its bars clanked into place.
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When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed she was smiling down on him—her hair blew freely in the wind, he felt it brush his face—while above her, deep blue sky peeked through a dome of rich green leaves. . . .
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Could that figure on the bed be the dead queen? No, for she was not Cryggmoren. Then who? And why was she so secret? He fell asleep still searching for an answer.
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. . the main tunnel came to a sudden end—not against natural rock . . . but a wall of chiseled stones fit so tightly together there was not a crevice anywhere, not even for a spider. In the middle of that wall was a door sheathed in iron plate with three great hinges on the left side, and three massive bolts on the other rammed deep into its rock frame. Wycan eyed that gate intently. His way out at last?
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He remembered now how . . . he’d resolved to leave the mountain and find his folk, or at least, find out what had happened to them. . . . In that moment he resolved to . . . set out on his true quest, which was to find the place where he belonged.
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Wycan gazed down at the dagger, at a loss. That Ythac should give his own first knife to him! . . . It was not until much later that it came to him: You surprised us all, Ythac had said, when the contest was over. Yet that knife had been right there in his bag!
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He (Wycan) put this reed to his lips and blew until his cheeks ached but all that came out was a rush of air.
“How? How would you do that?” he called out, quite forgetting to raise his hand
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"They (Edsyr and Bomac) want to catch you out in something they can take to Morok. . . . They want you locked away for good. Be careful: as I said, they’ll be watching you." For a moment, (Ystrid) stayed looking down on him, then, without warning, she bent, kissed his cheek, and hurried out.
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Bomac pushed up, and thrusting Wycan down onto the mat stomped hard upon his ribs. There came four short, sharp cracks setting everyone a-gasp. Wycan cried out as pain shot through and dark closed in like a drawstring bag pulled tight.
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When at last the guard unlocked the door and let him go, Wycan looked suitably penitent. But inwardly, he was a hawk about to fly!
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Reaching the cavern entrance, Gyral leaned out, craning up and down the passage. “Wycan? Wycan!” No reply. Gyral frowned. “Now where did he go so fast?” he muttered. Children, Gyral was looking straight at Wycan, standing so close they could have shaken hands, but the man didn’t see him.
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Why do folk make their homes in such places, when they could live in comfort and plenty in a comfortable village like ours? I can’t tell you, yet they do. I suppose that home is where you were born and what you’re used to, and where you’re not kept standing on the mat.
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The Dunderfosse’s western edge was bounded by a mountain range so high its icy caps were lost in cloud year-round. Gom’s spur led up the grandest peak of all, called Snawbyr Crygg. On gazing up at it you’d certainly be awestruck. You’d never dream, though, as even Gom did not, that it was hollow, and that people dwelt therein. . . .
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It was night now, the sky was clear, and they could see the stars. By their light, they saw a mist rising from what had been the forest floor. Shouldering the precious sacks, (they) paused to take a long look back towards the basin. Then moved on to find their people.
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A youth was struggling up the pine-strewn slope. His face was streaked with blood, his hair was wild, his eyes dark with shock. At the sight of Feyrwarl poised upon the brink, he reached out and cried again: “Don’t go down there!”
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Steeling her nerve, (Vala) filled the bowl with water, and, cupping her palms, lowered them into the bowl. The water swirled, went cloudy. . . . But instead of clearing, (it) darkened, then turned black.
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No more Aelyth-Kintalyn, he’d told them. And no Án Telfahn, either. When he left, he must make sure of it—and he knew how! He strode to his desk, picked up a quill, and began to write.
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Time to go, (Urolf) told himself. Aelyth-Kintalyn is quite used up. But if he simply left, that would leave the place wide open for the exiles to come sneaking back. . . . He couldn’t have that. No more Aelyth-Kintalyn, he’d told them. And no Án Telfahn either. When he left, he must make sure of it—and he knew how! He strode to his desk, picked up a quill, and began to write.
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Mortals have such short lifespans, and even shorter memories. Now, let’s head off trouble at the gate—and work on our story as we go.
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“Well, now hear my words: You shall this very day leave our domain and never set foot in it again on pain of death. Take him off.”
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The water swirled, and glowed, and slowly an image formed. Leana floated on her back, eyes closed, her hair uplifted, waving like lake weed in the currents. Her face was bone-white, her lips were black, and ripples played across her face.
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The lake lord would never treat any woman as Urolf treated Leana. But the lords of Aelyth-Kintalyn have ever been thus. Proud—no: arrogant. Ruling purely at their own pleasure, acting only to gratify themselves, whatever the cost to others.
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One glimpse she had of a pale face, mouth open on a shout. Then she, baby, harness and all were engulfed in a thunderous wall of water.
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One glimpse she had of a pale face, mouth open on a shout. Then she, baby, harness and all were engulfed in a thunderous wall of water.
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Leana gazed around at all the gear laid out, ready. And thought of all the endless days stretching before them. “I have to go, I must,” she murmured. A short while later, she was out the door and slipping down the Concourse toward the trail.
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Leana knelt by the cradle. “If Urolf makes you his heir, I’ll stay for your sake,” she whispered. “But if not . . . ”
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“Oh, my dear. I am so sorry.” (Vala) sighed. “You couldn’t have guessed just how hard it would be, leaving home to live with strangers.”
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“My lord Urolf bears the news well. But there’s ill-feeling among the clan, and he knows it. Whatever some say in public, they won’t accept an heir of mortal blood.”
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Vala smiled. . . . “It speaks to all who live in this place: Yul Kinta, human, and any in between.”
Leana’s color came and went. “What do you mean?”
“Come, I think you know full well. You are with child.”
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“We reach An Telfahn through a portal deep in these woods—”
“Portal? You mean a door?”
“Not—exactly.”
“Oh, I see. It’s invisible, like the boundary gates.”
“Not at all. In fact”—a hint of mischief touched his face–“I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”
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Turning from her casement, Leana went to her harp and played sad songs of love gone wrong, the plaintive notes drifting out over the treetops and up towards the stars. . . .
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Vala sighed. “You dismissed your ladies.”
Leana shrugged . . . “They hate me.”
“They resent you.”
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At the far end of the Concourse, sunlight marked an open space. Leana glimpsed bright colors: the clansfolk gathered there to greet her. Her heart began to hop and blood rushed to her face. Then there they were.
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“I do not speak of titles and agreements, my lord, but of Leana’s heart.” Her head came up, her eyes hardened. “Hear me now and hear me well: if you should ever cause her grief, you’ll answer to me. Good day, my lord.” Nasidda bowed her head in formal courtesy and strode away.
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Leochtor nodded briskly. “ . . . If we move with all speed, a marriage might take place—”
“When?”
A pause. “Two years.”
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With 'Gerrad's Quest', the narrative shifts from Gom's viewpoint to that of Hester, an old village woman, telling some of the tales about the wizard Gom to enthralled children gathered at her hearth. With this sixth book, we go back to the time right after the Battle of Sundor, the year Gerrad is born. Urolf, lord of Aelyth-Kintalyn, is bringing his bride, Leana, into his secret domain far to the west....
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The next morning, Pioter was gone from the citadel and though Gerrad and Carrick searched hard and long, he was nowhere to be found.
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“My wife and son wish me to let you speak before you go below. Have you anything to say?”
“Since you ask, milord. I have.”
“Well, then, speak,” Leochtor said. “But I warn you that nothing you say can change the outcome.”
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Pioter pointed to Crooker, his high voice ringing through the hall: “That man killed my father!”
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“So shall you go home now?” Gerrad said quickly, clinging to the moment.
“No. . . .”
“So when shall we meet? What’s the surprise?”
“Wait and see.” Gom’s small shape sparkled, then vanished.
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“We did it, Dregg.” As Gerrad said that, four men burst from the tunnel, coughing and hawking in full cry. “You certainly did,” cried one. “And we gets our ransom after all!”
Crooker.
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Crooker burst in, seized Dregg by the shoulder and shook him roughly. “Hey—wake up. Gremla’s badly hurt and out for blood.”
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Now Leth pulled his knife and ran at the woman, striking her in the arm. As the blade pierced her flesh, she let forth a loud cry and hurling herself against the window pane, shattered the glass. Then before Nasidda’s astonished eyes she turned to mist and streamed out through the gap.
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“ . . . Gremla’s the one I watch out for. She told me to thrash you, and thrash you I will, and when I’ve done, you’ll wish that you were dead!”
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Gerrad heard a scuffle, a crack of bone on rock, then boots receding rapidly. Dregg’s great pudgy face hung over him. “Up, boy. Gremla wants to see you. Now.”
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[Essie] was gone but a moment before she came scurrying back upstairs red-faced and flustered. “As if things aren’t bad enough there are redcoats coming. Lord Lugen’s just received a ransom note and there’s a warrant out for Leth!”
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“Listen: I’m going after Master Gerrad . . . Tell Essie to get you four good men and bring them to the old smokehouses, they’ll know the way. Come quick and quiet, for Master Gerrad’s sake,” Carrick warned, then raced away. Comments on Gerrad’s Quest from a Young Reader.
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For a moment, he was falling, chill air fanning his face. Then with a shock that snatched his breath and numbed his thought, he hit the icy waters of the lake.
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“. . . .My hat off to him for breaking free of that place and coming here on his own. But we both know that right now the Quarter is a dangerous place for anyone, let alone Leochtor’s son and heir.”
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In the doorway stood a woman: tall, masses of black hair, thin red mouth unsmiling, deep-shadowed eyes. Gerrad went cold. She was looking right at him.
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Then, as the man seized Pioter and swung him around, Gerrad called out again at the top of his voice: “Hey! Let go! Let go of him I say!”
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"The brat’s not here." . . . .
Now came the scrape of boxes being dragged aside. Then a triumphant bellow.
“Not here? Not here, you say, Dregg? Well just you come and lookee here!”
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Maybe, he thought drowsily, he’d take the boy some food and clothing. The idea of going back, of meeting the boy again pleased and excited him. Another grand adventure, yes! “Whatever Leth says, I’ll find a way.”
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. . . Gerrad staggered back against a stack of crates and the thief reared over him, something silver flashing in his hand. A knife, and aimed at Gerrad’s chest!
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This book bridges the two halves of the 9-book series and provides our first outside view of Gom.
Ten years after the Battle of Sundor, Gom is long out of sight, holed up in Harga's house, learning magic.
For his tenth birthday, Leochtor's son, Gerrad, wants to meet his legendary hero....
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Suddenly, a tall youth burst through from behind and snatched the purse from the man’s hands. . . .
“Help, my purse!” the man cried. . . .
Gerrad glanced back. The thief was getting away. He ought to follow him but what about Leth? Oh! Oh! What to do?
What would Gom do? Gerrad took off pell-mell down the cobbled slope.
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This book bridges the two halves of the 9-book series and provides our first outside view of Gom.
Ten years after the Battle of Sundor, Gom is long out of sight, holed up in Harga's house, learning magic.
For his tenth birthday, Leochtor's son, Gerrad, wants to meet his legendary hero....
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Anja's voice read by Anya Eleni.
“You don’t understand,” he cried. “You cannot practise magery without the Hierarchy’s consent. Without their official scroll I’ll be hounded from one end of Ulm to the other!”
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Keke and Anja voices read by Anya Eleni.
Gom knelt, looking down at the still, warlike figure, recalling how he had cupped its image in his hands, this figure and all it represented. His life’s companion. . . . This grim, gruff warrior had saved him . . . had it cost the man his life? Gom grasped the helmet with its pale green crest and carefully lifted it off.
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Keke’s & Anja’s voices narrated by Anya Eleni.
“Well!” Katak smiled. “Here I scratch for pebbles—while you hold the one true key.”
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Keke’s voice narrated by Anya Eleni.
He stood gratefully, feeling the strength of the man’s arm. . . .
“How,” Gom began.
"Oh, shall we sit in the mud and have a reckoning?" The warrior’s plumes bobbed in the wind. "Look behind you!"
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni. Gom rammed in his staff as far as it would go, and pushed upwards. The Bung shifted—not much, but perhaps enough. Gom slung his staff again, and, seizing the Bung with both hands once more, he pulled.
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An image came into his mind, faint and far, but growing sharper and clearer with every breath. Katak! Gom teetered on the edge, lost his balance, and fell out, over the abyss.
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"If only someone could get down there and pull the plug before the battle—there might not be one after all.” . . .
"Gom the risk is so great. I could not let you.” . . .
“Sounds simple enough.”
“Simple—and impossible.”
“Yet I would try,” he said.
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Captives? One dying? Poor, miserable wretch! Gom crept to the door and peeped through. The four were seated around a table, deep in talk. The Seal must wait. He crept across the room, and out.
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
Stormfleet reared his head. “Remember what happened the last time you took a ride in someone else’s food cart?”
“Why, yes.” Gom looked back, grinning. “I bumped into a horse!”
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni. “Gom: Harga must go at once to Sundor, find the Seal and bring it out. If she doesn’t, the blood of the Lakes will stain that stinking fen but there’ll be no victory.
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
“Kurnyn.” He said the name aloud. Then he set his feet, and clasped his hands, of a sudden, ardent mind to call this Kurnyn out.
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Keke’s voice narrated by Anya Eleni.
So long ago his vision had tried to warn him: the sealstone was still lit, and the kundalara watched by Katak’s flooded cave—but the Spohr was no longer there!
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
Gom stepped forward. “Harga’s son greets you on this fine autumn day. I would go to my mother’s house, if you’d lead me, and my three good friends.” Slowly, carefully, he turned the ring three times sunwise. For a while, nothing seemed to happen, then, with a soft rustle, the vine curtain parted slightly, revealing a dark and narrow path beyond.
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*Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
. . . and I’ll bet that’s how magic was made in the beginning; through things bumping together by chance. And I’ll bet it happens in my mother’s workshop all the time. That’s why she’s the greatest wizard in all Ulm and Folgan is not . . .*
His private journal: Folgan had pulled it out and read it from cover to cover
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
“No good comes for those who fear.” Vala held him out at arm’s length. “But it might not signify as ill as you think, Master Gom. The bowl works in subtle ways.”
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.The image vanished, and, released, Gom snatched his hands from the bowl . . . Reggia had been right! . . . Long as he lived—as clearly as it was meant to be—his only love would ever be a battlefield and war!
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Reggia looked him in the eye. “The truth of what I see is this: for as long as you live, and you may live long, you’ll never love a mortal maid of Ulm.”
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni.
He was just drifting off, when someone poked him in the ribs.
“Are you Folgan’s apprentice?”
Gom came bolt upright on his cot. “I am.”
The servant jerked his thumb. “He’s hollerin for you, and by the looks on his face, I’d say you’d best get goin', quick!”
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Keke's voice read by Anya Eleni.
Then the warrior stood before him, pale green plume waving in some distant wind....Jastra says you are not ready, but you are. You have to be . . .
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Keke's voice read by Anya Eleni. Gom lifted her between his hands. She felt limp and heavy as death. “Keke?” On her right leg something glistened. . . . It was a band, a silver band, and on it was inscribed a human skull.
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Keke’s voice read by Anya Eleni. “Take my advice, Gom, and keep your own counsel. Stop making it look so easy, or you’ve an enemy there.”
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“Because,” Folgan frowned, “while a wizard makes magic with things, he works it with his mind. A strong mind. You don’t climb stairs with flabby legs, do you?”
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Folgan turned the pipe about, examining it minutely. “Your father was a woodcutter, you said. Good trade that, for a young man.”
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In his mind’s eye, he saw Ulm, itself a small, bright star in the sky. And he saw himself racing to catch it before it fell into the reach of Katak’s grasp.
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Gom stared in disbelief. “Where’s Maister Riffik? I can explain.”
“I doubt it,” Junco said. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Aye, ten minutes since. With your friend."
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Now. Gom gazed around the room, then went for a last look through the casement. Perelion was just clear, and moving out. He took his staff, hoisted his pack, and went down the attic stair
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No baggage. That spoke of interview. . . . In just a few hours, he’d have his new master! After that, he’d need his baggage for sure!
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“The winds of change are blowing,” he muttered, and looked up startled. He’d said the invocation, quite without meaning to. He scanned the room, but nobody seemed to be paying him any mind.
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Gom foraged about, broke a piece of Essie’s stiff salt cheese, then threw open the door to toss the tidbit out—and found himself face to face with a man.
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“The Fourth Realm boils with hate and blood feud among the ruling houses. If we can’t stop them, then Karlvod will have the gate, and move one closer to Bayon.”
“And Ulm.”
“Yes.”
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“I ran the moment I saw them.” She glanced back through the crowds towards the inn street.
“Yul Kinta?”
Essie nodded vigorously. “Four, and Leochtor’s soldiers with them. We’ve got to get you away—and quick!”
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"But that’s the beauty of the song—nobody exactly knows. Only that Hershel went out into the mist and came back all changed.”
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“So. The rat comes to ground. I thought if I waited long enough I’d have you.” The hand shook him savagely, rattling Gom’s teeth. “Well? Have you nothing to say?” Jofor!
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"They’ve ever been, and remain a fierce folk, quick to take offense . . . What else? Their powers are great . . . they see things the ordinary man cannot, their gift of prophecy is legendary, and beware of one who can look into your heart."
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“Sorry, Gom Gobblechuck.” Thrulvar was laughing openly. “You’re coming with us.”
“Where!” Gom cried, “and why!” As if he hadn’t guessed.
Thrulvar gestured to the company, who as one bowed gravely from the waist.
“To the camp where our leader sits. You see, we’re Yul Kinta, and our chief is Lord Urolf.”
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Gom raised the pouch’s flap, thrust his fingers inside and drew out a small crystal on a stout silver chain.
“ ’Tis your new talisman, to make up for the rune.”
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“. . . as all of us cίtos are promised to that folk.”
“. . . Why is that?”
“Because the Yul Kinta, like Stormfleet, are well-nigh immortal.”
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“The winds of change are blowing,” Gom repeated bleakly. Cold winds, stripping away the last shreds of his old familiar world.
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“. . . should an enemy break those seals and breach the crystal stair, then the gate will self-destruct—and shatter all Ulm with it!”
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"Do not be so anxious, Gom. . . . Go back to Harga. . . . She’ll find you a mentor. Take him, study well, and remember that your world, my world, nay all the Seven Realms may one day depend on the part that we each play.”
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“ 'If all goes well, and the child succeeds in bringing me my rune, then I shall teach that child all I know . . .' And here you are. My little tool to save the world: tested, tempered, proven by the water and the fire.”
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“Tell me,” she said. “I want to know about your brothers and sisters. . . .
Gom looked at her, surprised. “You don’t know?”
“How can I, with me here and them there, Gom? Wizards are only people. We can’t be everywhere, see everything.”
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Gom pictured her returning to this lonely place. . . She must have felt such a loss to have done that. . . .
He seized up his staff and held it out. “Father made this just before he died. Take it.”
Harga . . . ran her thin brown fingers over it . . . “Keep it,” she said. “It will make a fine wizard’s staff one day.”
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The sun was just up when Gom awoke, his dream strong upon him. “Mother,” he said drowsily. “At last I know.”
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“The whip snicked past his ear, but he never felt it, for in same moment the horsemen, the wide dawn sky and the waving plains vanished like smoke, and he with the cίto were engulfed in a whirl of sound and light.”
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Jofor smiled coldly. “You like to dance, Gom Gobblechuck of Windy Mountain? Then you shall dance for us."
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A huge colt moved up through the cluster. Gom gazed at it in awe. It was totally black save for a gleaming silver ringmark on the brow, and stood a full hand above the others.
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A refugee, a short-term stowaway in the solahinn’s caravan: that’s all he’d meant to be, but now, without intending it, he was their prisoner.
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A figure moved out from the back wall, a burly shape dressed in black shirt and bright green britches. Zamul!
Gom turned to run back through the door, but the figure darted forward and caught him by the arm.
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That bird was huge, with wings bigger than any raven’s. It couldn’t be, Gom told himself, slowly sitting up, but even as he tried to get to his feet, it came at him—the skull bird!
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It was just like her,” Gom murmured brokenly.
“No, it wasn’t,” Ganascz answered. . . . “You think your mother would treat you thus?
Young one, just you wait. When at last you meet with Harga, you will know the difference.”
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“If Katak is after magic, why does he want your treasure?”
“Because . . . from precious gold and silver and priceless gemstones is much magic made.”
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As Gom lay there on his back, water running from him, the huge beast leaned down his long neck and peered closely into Gom’s face.
“Harga?” he said
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Gom pictured the bone-white skull hovering in the darkness, above whatever hideousness it possessed for a physical body, its dark eye sockets staring toward the tunnel, waiting for him to emerge.
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Gom blinked to accustom himself to the darkness, and looked about. With a cry, he ran the length of that short space and back again. The cleft was empty. Zamul was gone!
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The death’s-head stared in on him, two dark eye sockets set in a bone-white skull. As Gom stared back at it, the skull grew brighter, and brighter, exploding into silver light, filling him with terror.
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“Them eggs, Gom,” she said. “What shall I do about them?”
“It’s like this: for every one you take, leave one.” Gom’s voice caught. “That’s all.”
“It is? Well, I never!”
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. . . He took off the rune and flung it into the darkness. . . . For a moment he lay rigid, feeling guilty, and not a little afraid, half-expecting something bad to happen. But nothing did. With a defiant shrug, he turned over and went to sleep.
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. . . Gom began to struggle, twisting in the man’s grasp, and as he did so the sun caught the silver bracelet on the man’s upraised arm: a plain wide band . . . except that on its center was embossed the unmistakable shape of the death’s-head.
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“Wanderer?” Mudge repeated. “What kind of no-good occupation is that to make a woman leave her boy with neither mother nor father now to tend him?”
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From Air and Earth comes seed;
By Fire and Water is tempered:
In Wood is kernel’s secret essence known,
And purpose comes to light.
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“Suddenly a cold came upon him, colder than the chill of the winter plain. Icy hands touched him, as though exploring his shape . . .”
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“If Father’s dead, you must stay with Hilsa or me until the thaw. . . . You’re woodcutter now. You promised Father.”
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“ . . . for all your smartness you’re still but a simple mountain boy and ignorant of the great wide world out there. Gom: promise me you’ll stay here and lead a sensible life and be a credit to yourself and me, then I’ll rest happy.”
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Fool! Mandrik cried . . . This is what she would have you learn: bury a thing of great price and you deserve to lose it! Out there in the wide world, gold buys not cabbages, but kings!
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Setting down the lamp, he reached out and touched what he sought. . . . It was light and smooth, hard and curved, grooved, and hollow as death.
The skull.
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"When Father’s gone, Clack’ll need another wood cutter–and that’s you, just as when Maister Craw’s gone, I’m to be greengrocer in his place. It’s our duty, you see.”
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“Well, look who’s here!” Gaffer Gudgeon said, as Gom followed Stig into the inn parlor. “If it isn’t the wizard himself and in person!” Around him, his cronies laughed.
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Far from being hailed as a hero as his father fondly thought, he had an uncomfortable feeling that some angry and disillusioned people might just be waiting to run him out of town after all!
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Skeller, his clothes still wet, was standing over him now, his eyes dark sockets in the wavering firelight. “Too bad your plan didn’t work, little man,” he said, and raised the knife to strike.
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There came a loud rumble, then a cry, a full, long, roaring cry, that thinned away, down, and down, . . . and down. Then there was silence. “Father?” Gom whispered. There was no sound.
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Gom’s panic increased. His father had fallen down the crevasse. How far? “Father! Father!” His voice echoed off the tunnel walls.
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He thought of Stig up above in the warm sunlight. How grieved his father would be, when Gom didn’t come home. Oh, Father. His hand closed about the rune.
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“Tell me—how much more of this lovely gold is back through there?” Skeller put the edge of the blade to Gom’s throat. “Speak the truth,” he added, “or it will go the worse for you.”
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Wings fluttered suddenly overhead . . . The mockingbird was back. “You’ve a tall, tall, tall, tall shadow,” it called. “A tall, tall . . . tall . . . ” It flew off again.
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“Son: quick and clever is your mind, and marvelous strange. But too quick, and too clever it is at times, and lacking in proper thought for others.”
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Far Away. It did sound exciting. But scary. A body could get lost Far Away, Gom was sure, for hadn’t he seen that bodies going far away grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared?
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Chapter introduction by Caidren Adrianne, a young reader. . . . Gom turned his attention to the old men sitting . . . on the alehouse bench. All they did was perch out there, day after day in the sun, gossiping. What a life, he told himself. What a dull, dull life, living in a place where there were no surprises, where nothing ever happened.
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“Aha! I don’t make the same mistake twice! . . . One two three, Fiddle-dee-dee; Bust your knee But you won’t catch me!”
“But I will!” came a soft voice behind him, and before Gom could say bread-and-cheese, he was seized from behind and hoisted into the air.
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“ . . . I’m sure that any common brown sparrow would envy a finch. . . . And why couldn’t (she) fly away?”
“Because . . . (she) was in a cage. . . . But nobody wants the plain old brown sparrow. Which leaves her free to fly wherever she wants.”
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“Drat the boy, I said, not meaning it, mind. That nose of his will get him into a right pickle some day.”
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Horvin let out a howl of rage. . . . “Dwarf dwarf evil dwarf!” he yelled. “It’s all because of you that our mother left us!”
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At this, as though he had understood, the new baby chuckled loudly. “Gom,” he gurgled, and landed a tiny bony fist right in his father’s eye. “Gom, Gom, Gom.”
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Stig lifted the cover aside. Its skin was yellow-brown and wrinkled as the skin of an old chestnut, and its head was covered in dark brown hair. There it lay, squirming and kicking by the hearth . . . looking up at him with eyes that were quick and black as little buttons.
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Quote from Chapter:
“I’m getting wed today” he said. “And this is Wife.” He reached for the woman’s hand and drew her forward from around the cart to stand before the townsfolk
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After four days, the woman is still there. Stig has now found her such great company with her cooking and her tales of Faraway that he does not want her to leave....
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Stig goes home to find a strange woman in his cabin. She has cleaned up and made delicious supper. Mysterious as she is, he finds her comfortable company. Next morning, he is sad to think of her gone....
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A young reader, Anya Eleni, reads her own introduction to the book.
Stig, woodcutter, lives high on Windy Mountain. Too high. No one will marry him. Does he care? Not really. Until ...
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I explain what you'll find in this space - most of my books and maybe a video or two. Music: Zenic by Yosua Wisnu
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