thrall.”
She sounded so certain, so right. And with her touch, the runes of air had broken.
“Are you sure?” Fallion begged.
“Asgaroth only wants to frighten you,” Myrrima assured him. “That is how he wields his powers. You saw that.”
Iome cut in. “You showed him that you don’t fear him, so he wants you to fear yourself, fear the evil that you might do.”
“She’s right,” Myrrima said. “Because you are both brave and decent, you do not fear evil in others as much as you fear it in yourself. Asgaroth knows that you will fight him, so he tried to instill within you a fear of battle. There is nothing more to it. Rest easy.”
But Fallion couldn’t rest easy. He imagined himself leading vast armies to war, armies of men drunk on the blood of slaughter, butchers who reveled in murder, and the vision seemed too alarming to lay aside.
Myrrima reached up. With a wet finger, she drew a rune upon Fallion’s forehead, and all of his worries, all of his fears, seemed to lift from him like a heavy mantle. So powerful was the sense of release that he tried to recall what it was that had concerned him, but his mind could not seem to hold the memory for the moment.
Asgaroth. Something about Asgaroth?
Iome reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver cape pin. It was an owl with golden eyes, wings outstretched in flight, as if it were winging toward him. Fallion had never seen anything so marvelous. Inscribed upon the silver wings were tiny feathers so realistic that the owl looked almost alive. To heighten this, its golden eyes had amber pupils that seemed to fix upon Fallion. It was elegant, simple and beautiful, marvelous to behold.
“You should have this,” his mother said, “a trophy of your first battle.”
Fallion recognized the piece. Asgaroth had worn it when he came against the castle gates. Fallion was hesitant to touch anything that Asgaroth had worn. Yet there was something odd about the pin. The workmanship was finer than anything that Fallion had ever seen. Even the ancient duskins, with their cunning hands and love for silver, had never made anything so fine in detail. Instinctively Fallion suspected that this was some charm crafted in the netherworld. It was too beautiful to have been formed by human hands.
“Take it,” Myrrima said. “No harm can come of it. Can’t you feel that? Even Asgaroth’s touch could not sully its power. It was made by bright Ones. And I’m sure that that is why Asgaroth took it. They would have loathed for him to have it.”
Fallion reached out for it. As he clasped it, an image came to his mind, an enormous gray owl with a wingspan much wider than a man is tall, flapping toward him. Fallion stood upon a low hill where the wheat grew nearly over his head, and there was a bright moon shining down, and monolithic oak trees on the distant hills.
The image struck him with such force that Fallion felt as if he had literally been carried away and all of his life had been a dream, for the world that he saw was more substantial, more earthy, than the one that he lived in.
The owl gave a querying call, and Fallion answered, “Ael.”
Then the dream ended, and he was standing with his mother and Myrrima.
“What did you say?” Myrrima asked.
“Ael,” Fallion answered. “I think that it was the name of the bright One who owned this cape pin.”
His mother said, “You’re probably right. The bright Ones often leave such visions on their items to identify the owner, much as we would write our name upon them.”
Fallion smiled sadly. He suspected that Asgaroth had taken this pin as a trophy. He’d killed a bright One of the netherworld, perhaps one who had come to fight him.
Now the pin had fallen into Fallion’s hands. He decided to treasure it, as a thing to be revered.
Yet even as he took it, he was loath to pin it on. Trinkets from the netherworld were not meant as toys; he suspected that this pin might have powers that he didn’t understand. Fallion could see runes engraved into the back of it; the rune lore of the bright Ones was unsurpassed.
It wasn’t a thing to be worn casually. It would attract the attention of the greedy and unscrupulous. Unsure what to do, he just stood holding the pin.
Myrrima turned away, strolling toward the boat. Humfrey had hopped off and was marching on the shore, holding his weapon forlornly as he searched for snails or dead fish, or something else appropriately nasty to eat.
Fallion suddenly realized that his pet ferrin had gone conspicuously absent during the battle. Probably hiding among the packs. Apparently, battling wizards and strengi-saats was not to Humfrey’s taste.
Rhianna was wading in the shallows, and she suddenly called the ferrin, bent into the water, and tossed something up on shore. A huge red crayfish landed at Humfrey’s feet. It immediately raised its claws in the air defensively and began to back away.
Humfrey shrieked in terror and hefted his makeshift spear. After several whistles-calls of “Monster! Monster!” and much leaping about, he managed to impale the crayfish. In moments he was tearing off claws and pulling out white meat with his sharp teeth, grunting from the effort and smacking his lips in delight.
Sir Borenson sat on the boat, wheezing and still in shock, looking at his own hands as if he were amazed to have survived.
Talon and the other children had all gone to the battlefield, and Fallion could see Jaz up there, hunting for treasures among the dead.
Iome followed his gaze, frowned severely, and shouted, “Jaz, get away from there,” then added, “I’ve got a ring for you.” She pulled out the black iron signet ring. It was a great treasure. Anyone who wanted to lay claim to South Crowthen would need it.
But Fallion much preferred his cape pin. He held it, squinted as a ray of stray sunshine struck it.
Rhianna came struggling up out of the boat, leaning heavily on a staff. She stared at the pin in dismay, eyes filling with tears. “Mother’s pin. Where did you get it?”
“From him,” Iome said, nodding toward the head.
“Now I know she’s dead for sure,” Rhianna whispered. “She would never have parted with it.”
“You can have it,” Fallion said, holding out the pin.
Rhianna looked at him uncertainly, as if he were offering a gift that was far more valuable than he knew.
“When you touched it, did it tell you its name?” Rhianna asked.
“Ael,” Fallion said.
She nodded, as if he had confirmed something. “Then it’s yours now.”
She stared at him, shaken for a long moment. The pin hadn’t really been her mother’s for long. And Rhianna felt grateful for Fallion’s help, for his strength and courage. She wanted him to have the thing.
Pain and rage had been building up in Rhianna for days.
“I hate you, Da,” she whispered fiercely.
Rhianna found herself shaking. She cried out in impotent rage, then hobbled back to the boat.
Rhianna felt her stitches pull with every breath. She wept in terror and relief. Her thoughts felt muddled. After days of fear and sleeplessness and numbing cold, Rhianna was out of words.
She found herself peering at the river. The water was swift and cold and as clear as glass, flowing inexorably past field and stone, making its way to the curling waves and the brine of the sea.
Rhianna stopped at the side of the boat, standing in icy water. She didn’t dare climb back in, for fear of injuring herself.
A shadow fell over Rhianna. “Come,” Myrrima said, stroking Rhianna’s back. The wizardess stepped into the icy cold water. Myrrima seemed not to be affected by its numbing touch at all. She walked out to her waist, wading with unnatural ease, then looked back over her shoulder, inviting.
Rhianna thought that Myrrima was the most beautiful woman that she had ever seen. Her eyes were as dark as mountain pools, and her skin as clear as the stream. She seemed at one with the water, and now she reached out a hand to Rhianna, beckoning. “Come.”
Rhianna stepped into the clear, deep flow and caught her breath at its brutal cold.
She waded in, almost blind with tears, and though the rounded stones in the river were slick and she had to search with her numbing feet for toeholds, soon she reached Myrrima, and gazed up in dull pain.
Myrrima cupped a hand, raised it, and let some icy water dribble over Rhianna’s forehead. Rhianna arched
