Darkness Descending

“That is indeed what we have done,” Hajjaj said. He looked toward the east, the direction from which the Algarvians were advancing. Then he looked toward the south, the direction in which the Unkerlanters were retreating. He sighed, “The most we can hope for is that we have made the right choice.”

When the ley-line caravan in which Fernao was traveling reached the border between Lagoas and Kuusamo, it glided to a halt. Kuusaman customs agents swarmed aboard to inspect all the passengers and all their belongings. “What’s this in aid of?” Fernao asked when his turn came, which did not take long.

“A precaution,” the flat-faced little inspector answered, which was more polite than None of your cursed business but no more informative. “Please open all your bags.” That, too, was more polite than a barked order, but left the Lagoan sorcerer no more room to disobey. When the Kuusaman customs agent came upon the letter of introduction from Grandmaster Pinhiero to Siuntio, he stiffened.

“Something wrong?” Fernao asked with an inward groan; he’d hoped the letter would save him trouble, not cause it.

“I don’t know,” the Kuusaman answered. He raised his voice: “Over here, Louhikko! I’ve got a mage.”

Louhikko proved to be a mage himself: probably, if Fernao was any judge, of the second rank. The spells he used to examine Fernao’s baggage, though, had been devised by sorcerers more potent than he. He spoke to the inspector in their own language, then nodded to Fernao and left.

“He says you have nothing untoward,” the customs agent told Fernao. He sounded reluctant to admit it and demanded, “Why do you come to see one of our mages? Answer at once; don’t pause to make up lies.”

Fernao stared at him. “Is this Kuusamo or Unkerlant?” he asked, not altogether in jest: such sharp questions were most unlike the usually easygoing Kuusamans. “I’ve come to consult with your illustrious mage on matters of professional interest to both of us.”

“There is a war on,” the Kuusaman snapped.

“True, but Kuusamo and Lagoas are not enemies,” Fernao said.

“Neither are we allies,” the customs agent said, which was also true. He glowered at Fernao, who made a point of staying in his seat: a lot of Kuusamans did not care to be reminded that they ran half a head shorter than Lagoans. Muttering something in his own language under his breath, the Kuusaman went on to search the belongings of the woman in the seat behind Fernao.

The inspection held up the caravan for three hours. One luckless fellow in Fernao’s car got thrown off. The Kuusamans paid no attention to his howls of protest. Only after they got him out of the car and onto the ground did one of them say, “Be thankful we didn’t take you on to Yliharma. You’d like that a lot less, believe me.” The ousted man shut up with a snap.

At last, the ley-line caravan got moving again. It glided across the snow-covered landscape. The forests and hills and fields of Kuusamo were very little different from those of Lagoas. Nor should they have been, not when the kingdom and the land of the Seven Princes shared the same island. The towns in which the caravan stopped might for the most part have been Lagoan towns as readily as Kuusaman. For the past hundred years and more, public buildings and places of business had looked much alike in the two realms.

But when the caravan slid past villages and most of all when it slid past farms, Fernao was conscious of no longer traveling through his own kingdom. Even the haystacks were different. The Kuusamans topped theirs with cloths they sometimes embroidered, so the stacks looked like old, stooped grannies with scarves on their heads.

And the farmhouses, or some of them, struck Fernao as odd. Before the soldiers and settlers of the Kaunian Empire crossed the Strait of Valmiera, the Kuusamans had been nomads, herders. They’d learned farming fast, but to this day, more than fifteen hundred years later, some of their buildings, though made from wood and stone, were still in the shape of the tents in which they had once dwelt.

The day was dying when the ley-line caravan pulled into the capital of Kuusamo. As Fernao used a little wooden staircase to descend from the floating car to the floor of the Yliharma depot, he looked around in the hope that Siuntio would meet him and greet him; he’d written ahead to let the famous theoretical sorcerer know he was coming. But he did not see Siuntio. After a moment, though, he did spot another mage he recognized from sorcerous conclaves on the island and in the east of Derlavai.

He waved. “Master Ilmarinen!” he called.

Ilmarinen, he knew, spoke fluent and frequently profane Lagoan. Here this evening, though, the theoretical sorcerer chose to address him in classical Kaunian, the language of magecraft and scholarship: “You have come a long way to accomplish little, Master Fernao.” He did not sound sorry to say that. He sounded wryly amused.

Ignoring his tone, Fernao asked, “And why