daily orders for your kingdom with confidence. The timing of the future date harvest, the allocation of water from each well, the comings and goings of the tradesmen.
“In time, your letters of governance have outstripped the numbers of your men, and you at last stand with but twenty stalwart warriors on a hill overlooking a deep gorge filled with the sea and there a rough village hove close to a row of long boats. Rivers of ice descend down to the water and the peaks are snow-full even in the fullness of summer. It is by your accounting night, but the sun hovers still above the horizon. You descend to parley and gain passage on to the north.
“As fall’s stealthy approach quickens, you are on the sea bearing northward. You and your men are hosted on one of the long boats of that village, piloted by men as foul of smell as they are red of hair. They know the sea through the very soles of their feet, steady on the heaving and slippery deck.
“A fog has engulfed you for weeks. It lifts. Relentless, deep, black swells menace the boat. Spume sprays high and drenches you. It freezes to your beard and face. The sun is cold and sharp. Thrydwulf, your captain, barks and points northward. At the crest of the next wave, you see what no man of your race has seen, a great blink of whiteness on the horizon. A span of ice as far as you can see, off every point of the bow.
“Here at last you have come to find the bounds of a failing world.
“And that very night, amidst the blue glow of floating mountains of ice, and crystalline shimmering on the wave crests, you see the Great Curtain unfurled full overhead and enveloping the world from end to end. A wonder of weaving so full and glorious as only to be made by gods! You covet this tapestry, but no tassel, no thread reaches down by which to grasp it.
“Now! Let us drink to this brave king, for more adventures in store has he for you as his companions in this tale.”
And to a person in that hall, they swilled all that was before them, so that servants had to be chastened to replenish their drink. This done, the tale continued.
“The weight of his three years of absence and his failed errand now press full on Baladyne’s mind. The boat is turned and haste made back to the village in the sea-gorge. Beasts of the sea hunt them daily. White bears stand on the ice and watch them pass, huge-tusked creatures gape and fall into the waters at their passing. Others run smooth, swift and happy in the waves before their bow. Thrydwulf and his crew are eager to return to their village.
“As you approach the land, the village appears empty. A lone pilgrim, tall and dark, stands on the shore.
“Standing at last on the land, Thrydwulf retires quickly to the village. He finds his people frightened at the appearance, that very morning, of this stranger.
The man is humble in clothing, with a black cloak and long black beard. By his left side heels a fearsome dog. He approaches Baladyne as a cold wind seethes along the rocky strand. He speaks, ‘Have you enough of this need-fare, great king?’
“Baladyne replies with grace, even as this beggar forthrightly addresses him. ‘Tell me, stranger, of your heritage, your state, and your needs, and I may assist you. This at least, before we speak of my business.’
“‘I am The Offer,’ the pilgrim says. ‘The hand that proposes two gifts. To you, a small ring, beautiful and of subtle craft, but less esteemed than those you now wear, to grace some finger of your noble hand. And perhaps of more interest to you, as boon to that ring-gift, a full swath of the great curtain in the sky that you seek. Its colors are changeable and your seitch it would grace through the councils of your descendents, through all of time.’
“‘You speak of an offer, but not the offerer,’ says Baladyne. ‘By whose leave do you speak?’
“‘By a king also of the southern realms, yet not so far as your liege lands. A monarch who values his relations with other great leaders, one who seeks to unite in common discourse all the tribes of men. These he favors over the races of elves and the pointless grubbings of dwarves.’
“‘Of the elves and dwarves I know not. Of the other tribes of men I have learned much. Their common discourse is a good I would not bet my horses on.’
‘“Perhaps if their kings had the kinship of common rings. Each equal in power, prestige, and none beholden to any. Accept and wear this token, great King of the South, and be part of the League of the Fourth Age. Accept also this sample of the celestial cloth.’
“And with that, the stranger unwrapped from an oilskin a bolt of multi-hued cloth. He handed it forth and Baladyne held it. In the fading grey light of this desolate beach, it shone of its own light and promised a wonder of colors.
“He then handed it back. ‘Give your lord my thanks. I must say no. If not offered by the sky, which formed it, then the cloth must be reserved for the tents of powers greater than I. This yard is wondrous, but of its provenance I cannot be sure unless I pull its thread from the heavens by my own hand. The ring, likewise, is a token that I must not accept. Nothing in my land is freely given, save hospitality. And you are an itinerant on this desolate shore no less than I, for I see no roof or meal in your wares.’
“The stranger looked angry but hid it behind a smile. ‘Perhaps, my lord, I can mitigate your just concerns.’
“Baladyne nodded to the pilgrim. ‘I wish your liege well in his quest of fellowship with the many tribes of men.’
“Now,” Thorn continued, “the dramatic turn of this tale. I speak of Baladynes’s betrayal, capture and imprisonment. Of his refusal to wear the ring. Of his mighty words and his escape. These we will tell once again, waiting only one more course of droughts and meaty slabs to be consumed.”
A train of torch-bearers entered to further lighten the room for food and merriment. Bustling and talk began, laughter peeled forth, and then a noise and great tumult.
A herald entered the hall, sweaty and stained from travel, and shouted forth, “Lord, the truce is broken! The Black Army spills forth across our borders. A column bent on war approaches not three leagues from here!”
Cadence thought that the abrupt ending of Baladyne’s story, including the wonder of a piece of the very fabric of the Aurora Borealis, would probably remain forever untold. She picked up another page Osley had placed next to his own scrawls. It was a companion piece written in English:
The arts of Thornland were not altogether thespian in character, for their absent King had also collected an impressive treasure of crystals and perfumes. These were stored in a vault room deep beneath the castle. In that vault fell the first stroke of the failure of policy that caused this realm to vanish completely.
There was rumor, repeated but unheeded, that the Dark Lord was at displeasure with Prince Thorn.
Even as the feast was at its merriest in the Great Hall above, there came a servant warning of intrusion into the sealed vault. No matter whether the intruder be some lost animal or thieves, the personal guard of Prince Thorn was dispatched in train to oust the invader.
The storeroom was festooned with delicate hangings, exquisite crystalline urns and vases filled with a thousand carefully collected and preserved scents that were organized in a warren of intricate wooden shelves.
The first guard, girded in armor and advancing into the darkened room, discovered a waiting array of orcs. Lancalan it was that raised his small torch and beheld the fell insignia of the Source.
More guards crowded into the vault and the flickering light of their torches soon discovered the two bands— men and orcs — nigh a span apart and staring each unto the other. Stillness held sway as the pine smoke from the torches drifted upwards and they paid each other the quiet regard of mortal enemies. The air played a subtle mixture of scents, some disturbingly clear, the work of many years of the king’s collecting.
An orc captain turned to grunt a command and was skewered by a well-thrown pike. The room exploded with a confused and fragrant violence. Men and orcs hacked and cut, shelves tipped like great oaks and came crashing in eruptions of broken vases and strange liquids. Men screamed. Orcs howled in rage.
And around them swirled the many scents of death.
Cadence looked at the centuries-old paper, redolent with mustiness. She put her nose to its surface and inhaled deeply, searching for the exotic, faintly fabulous perfume of ancient truth.
Chapter 34
OCTOBER 30. 10:15 P.M
