Voyage of the Fox Rider (27 page)

“In Darda Glain, Brightwing.”

“On Rwn? I have never seen this place.”

“It is closed to outsiders.”

Aylis nodded in understanding.

Ontah stood, pointing to the wavering of the clouds in the distance. “We must go now, Brightwing.”

“Oh, please stay.” Jinnarin yawned. “I don’t want you to go.” Her eyes were heavy-lidded and losing their focus.

Aylis squeezed the Pysk’s shoulders. “We have no choice.”

As Aylis turned to Ontah, he said, “You make the way, Brightwing.”

A tunnel mouth appeared in the air next to Aylis. “Good,” grunted Ontah, and they stepped inward.

“How many dreams?”

“Five,” answered Aylis.

“But I don’t remember any, and I did so wish that I would.”

It was the afternoon of the next day, Aylis and Ontah having awakened but a short while ago.

Jinnarin sighed. “Again, no nightmare.”

Ontah smiled and said something to Aylis. “He says that you are remarkably healthy, Jinnarin.”

“In my dreams, you mean, neh?”

Aylis translated this to Ontah. Again the old Man smiled at the Pysk, and then tapped his head and
pointed at her, speaking to Aylis. “Healthy of mind, of spirit, of soul, he says.”

Bearing his knapsack, Aravan came striding into the lodge site. He squatted by the outside fire, withdrawing oatcakes from the pack, saying, [“I have been to see your people. They send food.”]

Ontah smiled. [“I am glad. It takes much food to walk among dreams.”]

Without comment, Aylis agreed, for she felt drained of energy.

They flew above the roiling dark clouds, the storm gathering about them. Now Jinnarin swooped downward, Aylis and Ontah following. Below, a pale green sea churned with high-tossed waves, and a black galleon under full sail hurtled across the face of the heaving waters, lightning stroking the masts in the howling wind.

Aylis peered through the ebony night, and in the distance she could see a craggy isle, but other shapes, too, could dimly be seen scattered across the surface of the thundering sea…yet what they were, she could not tell.

Of a sudden the three stood in a crystal castle and looked out over the rage. How they could see through the solid walls, Aylis did not know, but see they could, and the black ship hove across the hammering waves and toward the isle, toward them.

And a thrum of fear whelmed at Aylis, taking her breath from her.

Even so, she stood with her arms about Jinnarin, the tiny Pysk trembling in terror. What caused this mauling dread, she did not know.

“Beware, Brightwing, there is an evil spirit nearby,” White Owl called out above the crack of lightning and roar of thunder and rolling boom of wave.

Aylis turned and looked at Ontah, the coppery young Man stepping to her side. “Remain with Sparrow and ward her. Flee at need. I will search.”

As White Owl moved away, Aylis felt herself drawn, as if into another dream, yet she did not move from where she stood. All about her the walls of the castle shifted, changed. “Hold on, Jinnarin!” she cried. “A moment more.”

The glittering chamber lost its smoothness, became irregular and sharp-edged and jagged, as if—

A wave of terror whelmed at her, and in the distance, the black ship altered.

Jinnarin moaned, sweat beading on her brow.

“No, Jinnarin!” cried Aylis, her own heart running away in her breast. “Do not flee, not yet.”

And suddenly the dark ship became a giant black spider running toward them across an undulant grass-green sea. And hideous dread hammered into Aylis, terror exploding throughout her entire being, shattering fear erupting up and out. And howls burst forth from her throat, horror-driven endless screams.

Jinnarin shrieked and shrieked—

And from somewhere, nowhere, White Owl cried, “Get out, Brightwing!”

—and the walls began to judder and fade, racing toward oblivion.

A tunnel flashed into existence. “Run!”

Aylis scrambled inward, panic driving her, hoarse screams tearing from a throat raw with dread. And a wall of blackness engulfed her, sucking at her, dragging her down—

—and her wild shrieks filled the lodge as Aravan held her tightly, Aylis thrashing about, her eyes wide in unseeing madness, Jinnarin’s shrills lost in the din.

Of a sudden Aylis collapsed.

But Jinnarin was awake and crying—“Oh. Oh. Oh…”—sobbing in remembered dread.

Reaching over, Aravan gently drew the Pysk to him, and she clambered up into the crook of his arm and pressed against him and clung tightly, seeking comfort, her gaze wide but unfocused, terror crowding vision aside. And Aravan held both Aylis and Jinnarin and rocked gently, for he knew nought else to do. Of a sudden, Aylis’s eyes snapped open and she drew in a great breath as if to scream.
“Shh, shh,”
shushed Aravan. “You are safe,
chieran
. You are safe.”

She looked at him, her gaze no longer insane. “Ontah,” she gasped, struggling to free herself, “is he all right?”

Aravan loosed Aylis, Jinnarin climbing down, and together they turned to the old Man.

He lay on his back, not moving, not breathing, arms and legs akimbo, as if he were a broken doll. Aylis flung herself to his breast, placing an ear to his chest, listening, listening, and then moaning, “Oh no, no, no…”

Tears in her eyes, she raised up, and kneeling, rocked back on her heels. “He is dead. White Owl is dead.”

Ontah lay sprawled before her, his eyes wide in terror, his mouth stretched in a silent shriek of dread, the old Man slain by a dream.

Tides

Autumn, 1E9574

[The Present]

A
chill wind swirled as Aylis and Aravan walked among the silent cortege of forest dwellers passing through the sacred ground in the high grove of silver birch. All about them stood lofty platforms on tall corner poles. On the scaffolds lay the enwrapped remains of those who had died, their bindings tattered and bleached by wind and rain and Sun; in places the cerements were completely gone and yellowed bones jutted through. At last the procession came to a new-built flet, and, swathed from head to toe in ceremonial wrappings, Ontah’s body was lifted high onto the stand atop the uprights. From Ontah’s funeral jar the chieftain took four tufts of owl feather-down, placed there long ago by Ontah himself against this very day. And while the clan softly chanted, the chieftain and three others lay the downy strands loosely upon the top of each corner pole, for the forest dwellers knew that each person’s soul is borne into the afterworld by totem spirits—in Ontah’s case, owls would take him to the Land Above—and when they came, the wind of their passage would blow the feathery down away, and Ontah’s spirit would be carried into the sky.

And even as they placed the tufts onto the poles and freed them, the chill swirling breeze spun the strands up and away, the forest dwellers releasing a glad muted sigh, though here and there among them tears flowed
from dark brown eyes, wetting coppery faces—Aylis’s own quiet tears shed as well.

Once more in utter silence, away from the funeral ground they trod, taking care not to disturb the dead, for who knows what havoc might result should a corpse rise up whose spirit is gone. And so they walked in stillness away from Ontah’s bier, none looking back, their eyes deliberately downcast so that none of the dead would follow them home…hence none saw the shadow-wrapped foxes slipping inward among the trees.

From a somber sky a light snow fell as Aylis, Aravan, Jinnarin and Rux, Tarquin and Ris, and Falain and Nix stood at the edge of the pine tree forest, a pall of sadness dragging upon them, weighing down their spirits. Too, remnants of dread lingered deep in the eyes of Aylis and Jinnarin, though neither as yet had had the courage to relive aloud those dire moments of Jinnarin’s dream, and so they had not yet spoken of what had befallen within. In the distance at the edge of the cliff they could see the campsite of Bokar and Jatu and the Dwarven warriors, a small fire burning as evening drew over the land.

“None we spoke to has seen the plumes,” said Tarquin, breaking the dismal silence. “Of course, we did not speak to all, for you have been here but six days. Even so, in that time, all those we could reach said nay.”

Falain glanced over at Jinnarin. “Nevertheless, it does not prove that your Farrix was chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, for no one was especially looking for streamers in the sky.”

Aravan squatted down. “I did not deem that we were certain to find answers or even confirmation…though I was hoping we might.”

“What will you do now?” asked Tarquin.

“Sail to the seas nigh Rwn,” replied the Elf, looking up at the snow falling through the gathering darkness. “Take up station and wait. Mayhap more plumes will flow, given that now is the season for the return of the aurora to that realm.”

Tarquin dismounted and stepped to Aravan. Touching a tiny hand to Aravan’s palm, the Pysk said, “Though I believe that you step toward evil, go in safety, Friend.”

“I thank thee for thy aid, Friend,” answered Aravan. “Would that we could stay yet awhile, but we cannot. Fare thee well, Tarquin. Fare thee well, Falain. May Adon cup ye two in the palm of His hand.”

Now Jinnarin and Falain dismounted, the Pysks hugging one another, Falain whispering, “I wish you well, Jinnarin, and pray that you find your Farrix, for I know how I would feel were it my Tarquin instead.”

Jinnarin said nought as she embraced Falain and then Tarquin.

Aylis knelt, Tarquin and Falain each touching her hand in farewell. “As Aravan says, may Adon watch over you both,” said the seeress.

And then the twain leapt upon Ris and Nix and with a final wave turned and sped away, silver fox and black disappearing among the dark pines.

Wearily, Aravan and Aylis stood, and with Jinnarin and Rux stepped forth from the woods, setting out through the falling snow and toward the distant camp.

“Dead?”
Alamar’s eyes flew wide. “Ontah dead? What happened, Daughter?”

Aylis, Aravan, Jinnarin and Rux, and Alamar stood in the captain’s lounge.

Aylis took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know, Father. All I know is that he was slain while walking Jinnarin’s dream.”