P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

He pulled out another message and scanned it, frowning. “Here’s one from Adric himself. Huh. Still matchmaking.”

I would be less than a friend if I did not warn you, the note went on to say, and this part Tori did not read aloud to his friends. Your sister is a powerful Shanir. Others will be drawn to her, especially those Kendar whom you choose to bind so lightly, as though they would thank you for it. She may seduce them away despite themselves unless someone takes her firmly in hand. Now, my son Dari . . .

Torisen put the rest of the letter aside.

“The Knorth blood is old and strong,” Grimly had just said.

Did that apply to Jame too? But she was just a girl, and Adric was an old man, starting at shadows.

Still, the hair at the nape of his neck stirred.

“Father says it’s dangerous to teach you anything,” he had once told her. “Will the things you learn always hurt people?”

She had considered this. “As long as I learn, does it matter?”

“It does to me. I’m always the one who gets hurt. Father says you’re dangerous. He says you’ll destroy me.”

“That’s silly. I love you.”

“Father says destruction begins with love.”

Enough of that.

He drew out another note, broke the seal, and opened it.

“The Coman complain about the Edirr poaching on their side of the river. Sweet Trinity, can’t they manage their own territory?”

Marc cleared his throat. “It’s a bit more serious than that. I hear that sometimes one of the Lords Edirr leads a raid himself, for the sheer devilment of it.”

Torisen looked up sharply. “That’s dangerous. If Essien or Essiar should meet with an accident on Coman land, there’ll be Perimal to pay.”

Burr fumbled with the scrolls, then held out one. “This has the Danior seal.”

Torisen took it and read. “Cousin Holly reports sighting a yackcarn. Odd, that, so out of season. Also he killed a large, white wolf.”

“With blue eyes?” Grimly asked sharply.

“He doesn’t say. Surely he would if that were the case. Anyway, why to the north of us rather than to the south? It’s probably just a dire wolf from the hills.”

“Or it could be the Gnasher.”

They both looked at Yce, who was energetically scratching an ear. Grimly had come north to warn Torisen that the pup’s father—the King of the Deep Weald, formerly known in Kothifir as the Gnasher—had sworn that no heir of his would live and had been hunting Yce since the previous year.

“Be careful,” said Grimly. “That brute is a soul-stalker as well as hellishly strong and vicious.”

“Believe me, I remember.”

He took another scroll with a Jaran seal and raised an eyebrow. Usually he heard from that house through its lordan, Kirien, who in turn tended to communicate by far-writing with the Jaran Matriarch Trishien currently in residence in Gothregor’s Women’s Halls. He broke the seal, unrolled it, read, and laughed. “Listen to this:

“‘From Jedrak, temporary lord of the Jaran, to Torisen, Lord Knorth and Highlord of the Kencyrath, greetings.

“‘An event occurred recently that may amuse you. Or not. Word reached us that a certain golden willow had been sighted on the border between Falkirr and Restormir. Why it should still be rampant in midsummer, long after the season for arboreal drift, I cannot say, unless said tree has developed a taste for rambling. Willows are sometimes like that.

“‘At any rate, we tracked it down and were securing it—with much risk to life and limb, I might add—when up rode a party of Caineron, also on its trail. They protested that we were on Caineron land.’”

“Another poaching story,” said Grimly, “one way or the other.”

“Hush. ‘Luckily we had a singer with us who remembered an old song. Your revered great-grandfather once hunted this land while a guest of the Jaran. He had just killed a fat buck when up rode Caldane’s grandfather to claim that his arrow had struck it first. That may well have been, but the beast died on Jaran land, or so your great-grandfather decreed, conveniently close to a certain riverside cliff that serves as a notable landmark to this day. We were currently on top of it. “The Hunting of the Many-Tined Stag” is a lengthy song, full of witty flourishes poking fun at the Caineron, and the singer insisted that everyone listen to the end, even to join in on the choruses. Meanwhile, the willow snapped our bonds, churned its way across the Silver, and disappeared into the no-man’s-land on the other side between Wilden and Tentir. No one has seen it since.’”

“Good,” said the wolver as Torisen let the scroll roll up. “I’ve gotten rather fond of that tree galumphing around the landscape.”

“Not so good for the Caineron, though. Caldane is going to be furious. He already has a grudge against ‘singers’ fancies.’”

Grimly scratched his shaggy head. “I’m confused. For one thing, since when have Highlords been able to determine boundaries? You couldn’t between the Randir and the Danior.”

“I haven’t the authority that my great-grandfather had. Besides, east and west, domains are established by the Silver. North and south, however, boundaries depend more on the strength of the nearest houses. As you can imagine, the Caineron tend to push.”

“I think you could match any of your forebearers if you put it to the test. Anyway, how could a song stop anyone, much less a Caineron?”

“That,” said Torisen, “is part of the Kencyrath’s tangled legacy. I’ve told you how much knowledge we lost when we fled to this world. What we had left was largely oral, preserved by singers, with a few rare exceptions such as Anthrobar’s Scroll and Priam’s Codex, both since lost. Some of that has since been written down from memory, but much still exists only in songs and stories. You see the possibility for confusion. Once, we knew what was law and what was merely custom. Now that’s become muddled.”

“So the Jaran used a song as a legal precedent, and made the Caineron sit through the singing of it.”

“Exactly. They properly rubbed Caldane’s nose in his ignorance. Things get even more confusing when you consider the singer’s prerogative of the Lawful Lie. Take Ashe for example. I believe that she is true to the truth as she sees it, but how much of it is to be taken literally?”

“I see what you mean. We wolvers are singers too, and true to our songs, but one betrayed lover can speak for many, or many for one.”

“Just as Ashe makes one corpse speak for a company of the slain.”

“Aye, that’s certain,” said Marc. “That song of hers about the battle at the Cataracts . . . I never liked killing. Now I like it considerably less. Then too, she’s a haunt, neither quite alive nor quite dead. Her point of view is probably unique in our entire history. What are the odds, though, that several generations hence what she says now will be believed implicitly, especially if someone writes it down?”

“For people compelled to tell the truth,” said the wolver, “you’re in a fair mess, aren’t you?”

Burr gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “Tell us about it. M’lord, I haven’t mentioned it yet, but you have a visitor waiting below.”

“Only now you tell me?”

The Kendar shrugged. “I hoped that the Jaran scroll would explain him, but maybe there’s no need. He’s your new scribe, fresh from Mount Alban.”

Torisen sighed. “Then I had better greet him.”

He went down the northwest spiral stair, past the low-ceilinged hall that Marc now used to store coal to feed the fires of his two tower kilns. His steps slowed as he approached the ground-level death banner hall. Beyond a doubt, he needed help with his correspondences. As commander of the Southern Host he had trusted Harn Grip-hard—no, face it: hardly anyone could make out Harn’s writing but him. But Harn was Harn. This would be a stranger. A possible spy. He could now see the legs of someone wearing a blue robe, narrow back turned. The scribe was examining the death banners, specifically that of Kinzi, the last Knorth matriarch. Another step down, and Torisen saw that his hair was a wild shock of white.