Geal Ros
Geal
Ros
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
Of modern morals…
Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Epipsychidion"
Prologue
To the reader of this work, I say this:
This is not a story for the faint of heart, nor is it for one who expects their heroes to succeed. This, like most true stories, is fraught with the ugliness and beauty that only life can bring. I do not expect that most who discover this work (if there be any at all who do) will enjoy, understand or even believe the course my life has taken. To those who read and do not believe, I say that things happened as I have written them.
I saw it. I lived it. I was there.
Lady Salah Dubsgothian
The Road to Lindaryon
My story begins with my first journey to the Eldest City, the city of Lindaryon.
Of course, I was not born on the road, nor was I found in a gutter beside it. However, my life to that point was irrelevant, and in any event no different than any other young woman from a rustic noble House. Suffice it to say, I was born to House Lyndros, new made nobles in the dark times of the Long Struggle. I grew up loved by my mother, doted on by my father, and raised by their servants; neither truly had the time or the inclination to parenting. They spent their days together when they had the time, often excluding me entirely for the sake of time alone. I cannot blame them for this, for children are a trial, and at the time I confess I scarce noticed their absence. I instead spent my childhood learning the arts of magic. Since I could first open my inner eyes, I had been fascinated by the arcane arts. It was a vast and ever changing body of learning where I never grew bored and anyhow, what young mage could ever tire of calling storms and lighting candles with their mind alone? My tutor in such arts was an old man, well preserved in the manner of elfkind, with long iron-gray hair and a soft smile. He was always surprised by my thirst for knowledge, and was hard-pressed to keep me busy as I devoured book after book.
However, it was not my mastery of magic that would earn me my moniker, but my face and form. I was born slim and well formed, with clean limbs and pale skin without flaw or blemish. My hair fell in a cascade of silver waves, and my eyes were the color of pale blue ice, gleaming in spring's first light…at least, so I had been told. Of all the gifts the gods saw fit to grant me, beauty was the one I least cared about.
It was the month of March in the year 1623 when we began the journey, and Avalon was a nation gripped in war. The Long Struggle, the singers had called it; an altogether apt name for the century-long period of conflict. It had become a beast that devoured the young men of Avalon by the hundreds. It was in that war that my father had won his lordship, defending the crown prince Alaric with shield and blade while he lay bleeding in a Gaulian clearing. A grateful king had awarded my father a small tract of land, a castle that overlooked the Wandering Strait, and a title in the bargain.
I can remember the day we set out from Lyndros Castle, the keep in which I had spent my childhood; it was a balmy spring morning, and my father had decreed that I could ride with the column instead of being shut in the carriage with my mother and her attendants. Even then I already found my mother's shallow vapidity trying at best, and was in any event more taken with the surrounding countryside than talk of a Court I would soon see. My father's only stricture on the matter was that I was not to leave the road, and was not to ride past the standard-bearer at the front of the column. I chafed at these restrictions, as the young are wont to do, but I held to them.
Winter still had the land gripped, but its grasp was fading in the face of spring's bounty; birds sang and insects hummed as we rode, and everywhere there were things green and growing and full of life. Conflict had reached Avalon only in the deaths it caused; Gaulia lay across the stretch of sea men called the Channel, and no Gaulish warriors had ever dared to make the crossing, too busy were they defending their homes and fields.
I, who had never been more than a stone's throw from the castle, was fascinated by each new hillock and crossroads town we encountered. My father's guards were hard pressed to keep me from riding too far ahead as we traveled. Often I dismounted to examine some flower or plant, though I confess that I was mainly interested in their magical properties than in the beauty of such things. Looking back, I am certain that I caused the force of castle guardsmen and would-be knights no end of grief.
One of them seemed to enjoy my presence, standing out to me even then. His name was Arwinias Sunbourne, and the others called him Arwin. He was tall and well built, with the stamp of the Highland Reachmen plain on his pale skin and eyes of hazel-green. The eyes in particular caught me; intense without being brooding, and revealing a sensitive nature without being too soft. His hair was a thick profusion of waves, falling about his shoulders in a cascade of spun gold and ripening wheat. He smiled slightly every time he reproved me for riding too far in his lilting Reachman's accent, and my stomach fluttered to see that smile. At nineteen, I was still too inexperienced to fully understand what desire felt like.
Of the other would-be guards, the less said, the better. They were all tyros, the young sons of rich and powerful nobles looking to be Mage Knights, and they were fools. Their armor seemed designed more for appearance than function, all enameled in bright shades of crimson and jade and sky-blue, decked with jewels, the steel bright and fresh from the forge. They spent the entire trip engaging my mother in flirtations and precious little time watching out for bandits, which was supposedly why they were included in the column. Only Arwin watched the road incessantly, and when we stopped would check every door and window in the inns and rooming houses we stayed in. I may not have known how to name my desire, but Father knew dedication when he saw it, and promised to put in a good word for him at Court. I do not know if this pleased him, but it certainly made his better-born companions jealous.
I still remember the day when his precautions bore fruit.
It was a chill morning, one of winter's last days, covering the land in hovering mist. I felt as if I were praying in a temple, it was that silent; only the noises of the column reached my ears. We moved slowly down the winding road, all eyes on the fog-shrouded forest that surrounded us. The stillness had even the talkative tyros quiet and apprehensive.
The road bent and turned back on itself like a snake in the throes of agony, to avoid the ancient oaks that dotted the landscape. Between this and the thick shroud of fog I found myself losing sight of the men in front of me, their jewel-bright armor fading in and out.
"Maybe you should stay closer, good sir…we could get lost in this fog easily." Though I had spoken quietly, my voice still sounded loud in the pregnant silence.
I saw the young would-be knight turn and give me the sort of smile one gives a precocious youngster that has overstepped her bounds. "Milady, no one is going to get lost with the road to follow, I promise you that." He was broadly built for his age, with a shock of raven hair and a stubborn lantern jaw. His cheeks were still full and round with youth; he could not have been much older than I was. "However, if it would make the lady feel safer, my companion and I will ride closer to you." He tried to affect a dashing grin, but his eyes gave it a patronizing twist that made me grind my teeth and scowl.
"I would appreciate it," I replied, trying to keep from snarling. To argue with the boy would have been pointless; young men, I had learned already, did not welcome the advice of women.
He did ride closer to me, carmine-colored armor clinking softly against his saddle as he swayed gently with the movement of his steed. "Beastly weather, this fog…you would not believe how much mail itches in this damp…"
I nodded noncommittally, which he seemed to take as interest; he launched into a stream of banal small talk that I did my best to ignore. My attention began wandering to the forest around me, and it was then that I saw it.
Just a shape, a shadow, flitting between two trees; I blinked, all the childhood legends of tree-nymphs coming back to me as I tried to pick out what it was. I noticed my companion had taken no notice of the occurrence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught it again; a hulking shape this time, ducking behind the gnarled trunk of some ancient tree. I snapped my head around, but once again saw nothing.
"Milady? Is something amiss?" my companion finally took note of my unease and reined up, looking at me questioningly.
"I saw something out there…past those trees." I pointed.
He gave the woods a cursory glance, then gave a careless shrug. "Just a wisp of fog, no doubt."
"Tell me, good sir…is fog in the habit of darting between trees?" I tried and failed to keep the acid from my speech.
He gave a nervous little chuckle, and I could tell that he was only constrained from telling me off by the chains of chivalry and politeness. "Oh, come now, milady…we can barely see our hands in front of our faces in this muck. How could someone be spying on us? They wouldn't be able to see anything either."
His logic made about as much sense to me as the chirpings of a sparrow, but there was nothing I could do save keep my own wits about me as he called forward to his comrade in arms.
"Rikor! You see anything up there?" His voice broke silence like a hammer, and I winced.
"Only fog, old trees and a few armlengths of road, Garlon." Up ahead, the other young tyro was but a spectral shape in the swirling mists. "Oh, and some moss here and there." His cracking adolescent's voice sounded amused.
"Well, keep a sharp eye out…the young lady is nervous, and I don't want her fretting too much." He turned back to me and grinned, shaking dew-dampened hair out of his eyes.
I ignored him, glancing back over my shoulder; I could no longer make out the creaking of my mother's wheelhouse, nor could I spot any of the rest of the column. Sweat broke out all along my back as I realized that I and the two young tyros were for all intents and purposes quite alone on the road.
To make matters worse, I heard a rustling noise, off to my left.
I am not and have never been a coward, but the mind fears an unknown noise far more than the most hideous monster. I squeaked like a child, and spurred my horse in the direction of the young men, who by this time had all but left me behind. Having had enough of their careless and patronizing behavior, I opened my mouth to tell them so-
-And found myself in shock as a tree trunk came flying out of the mist.
"Look out!" I screamed, but it was far too late as young Rikor's horse took the log across the flank. The young knight screamed in agony as his leg was shattered by the blow, the sound mingling with a horse's frightened whinny as both horse and rider went down in a tangle of steel and flesh. My own mount let out a cry of its own, and I was hard pressed to keep the saddle as another log came flying out of the forest.
Garlon may have been cocky, but he was far from being a total idiot; he wrenched his mount into a savage turn to avoid the flying mass of wood. It missed him by only a handspan, but he clawed his sword from its scabbard and placed himself between me and the forest.
Already, hulking shapes were sliding out of the fog, brutish figures clad in greasy furs, each standing as tall as a mounted knight. Their skin was dark and banded like mountain stones, and their arms hung almost to their knees, each as thick as a horse's neck. Jotun, they were called; the feared rock-people of the north. I watched as the first knocked young Garlon from his saddle with a single contemptuous swipe of his scythe, bellowing a wordless warcry that shook me to my bones.
The young tyro may have fancied himself strong, but he was no match for his mountainous opponent. The huge bandit batted aside his frantic sword strikes and drove him into the damp earth with another blow from his scythe, laughing. Sparks flew, blood spouted forth in a hot arc, and Garlon lay still.
In a panic, I tried to turn my horse, but the fur-clad warrior clamped one meaty hand on my reins and stopped my horse cold. The spirited little mare scented blood and reared, whinnying. My world tipped up and back as I too was spilled from the saddle, then vanished in a flash of white as my head hit the unforgiving ground. I tried to stand, seeing stars and tasting blood on my tongue, only to feel the sharp point of a weapon to my throat. I blinked up into the eyes of my tormentor. His mouth was a slash of pink in his granite face, rotting teeth protruding over cracked lips in a grimace. Under his furs his massive body was shriveled by starvation's cruel hand, and his eyes spoke of desperation and madness. He reached for me with one knobbly hand. I flinched away from his touch, skittering crablike backwards and filling my lungs to scream…
Then Arwin joined the fray.
He gave no battle cry to sound his approach; the sudden thunder of hooves and the flash of a drawn blade were his only herald. The bandit before me rumbled a curse and brought his scythe around in a wild parry, but he was not fast enough. The bright arc of Arwin's steel passed through the bandit's arm, and his rumbled curse became a shout of agony.
Perhaps it was the sudden change of fortune, or the hot spray of blood across my face, but I was snapped out of my fearful paralysis and into decisive action. Arwin's horse thundered past me in a rush, but I was already on my feet, calling the magic at my command.
My mage-trained eyes showed me the power of this place, clinging like morning dew to the trees and bushes, begging to be used. With a thought and a gesture I gathered it around me, taming it to my hand, giving it form and purpose.
The spellcaster's art is much like the smith's, or the carpenter's; taking the raw material of the natural world and giving it a shape useful to the craftsman. The only tools I needed were my mind and my will, and I bent them to the ancient energies of the forest, feeling the power fill me. I opened my eyes, and looked for a target.
The woods were alive with the sound of clashing steel and shouted curses, shot through with the screams of the wounded. Arwin, I saw, was holding his own against the remaining three bandits, taking the blows on his sword and returning them as best as he was able. Though armed and mounted, he was wearing the lightest of jerkins and he had not had time to don his helm. As I watched, Arwin shattered the wooden shield of one of his opponents, dented the pothelm of another with a vicious overhand cut. The shieldman was clearly outmatched, but the other was a different matter; he wielded a massive rusted greatsword as easily as I might have handled an eating knife, and Arwin was clearly in trouble. The third bandit fell back, pulling a wicked looking javelin from a sheath on his back. Arwin, pressed in as he was by a pair of opponents, could not possibly have seen it.
But I did.
The energies flowing about me, the ephemera I had called, suddenly had a purpose. I borrowed the chill from the cold spring breeze, mixing it with my own will and power. The mana at my command became a cutting gale, a gout of frosty wind that ripped from my fingertips straight towards the unaware bandit. My spell struck the javelin square, sending it in a flat spin away from its target. The missile buried itself in the damp earth, bits of frost still clinging to the rusty steel. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding, feeling the energies leave me all in a rush at the successful casting. Arwin took the opportunity to bury his sword into the neck of the shieldman, who gave a bubbly howl and collapsed.
Already, I began weaving a second spell, hands moving in almost unconscious patterns as my mind performed the contortions of thought necessary to shape energy. Arwin wheeled his horse to stand at my side, sword still held at the ready. His hair was askew, clothes crusted with gore, but for all that he looked ready to face a small army if needs be.
He needn't have worried; a new set of hoofbeats and shouts heralded the approach of my father's guardsmen. Arrows seemed to sprout from the chest of the spear-thrower as the soldiers let fly with their longbows; he sank to his knees as one found his eye, dying without a sound.
In a trice, my father's men had the sole survivor surrounded. A gaunt mountain of flesh clad in ragged bearskins, he stood straight and proud, glaring at the soldiers with flint-colored eyes. Now that I had time to look, I noticed his thick arms were covered in crude tattoos, all shot through with scars old and new.
"In the name of the King, surrender your steel!" A tow-headed guardsman shouted from behind his long pike, glaring at the bandit. Others behind the pikeman drew back bows, leveling them at the jotun. Despite the reinforcements Arwin kept himself between the prisoner and me, sword held at the ready. One of the footmen prodded the huge creature with the point of his spear, glaring in his anger. "Surrender, or die!"
For an eternal moment, no one moved. I watched as a queer sort of calm came over the recalcitrant bandit's face, a rapturous emptiness. He rumbled something in a language I did not know, let his greatsword fall to the ground…
…and with a bellow like an enraged beast, charged the circle of guardsmen.
I never saw clearly what happened in that moment, for it all unfolded far too fast. Arwin's sword was just there, slicing aross the bandit's right arm in a bright arc, coming round to bury itself in his brow. His charge became a stumble, and he fell mere armlengths in front of me. A cold north wind that had nothing to do with my magic ruffled my hair, and I shivered as I stared, wide-eyed, at the corpse. I heard someone behind me utter an oath, but no one else spoke.
Arwin slid off his horse and prodded the body with his sword, swaying slightly from exertion. Doubtless he was checking for signs of life, but he needn't have bothered; Arwin's sword cut had landed between the jotun's horns to slice his head almost in two.
"By the gods…" someone muttered behind me, voice hushed.
Arwin looked up. "Not your gods, friend." With the point of his sword, Arwin flicked open the dead bandit's bearskin cloak, and pointed at a crude scar on his broad chest. "His gods."
I felt that same cold wind slice through the forest, and I wrapped my arms about myself. There was magic in that wind, I could feel it, and it was not of my making. "What did he say, before he…charged?" I heard myself say.
Arwin's face looked almost sad. "It is a good day to die, my lady." He turned to look at me. "He was one of the bersjark."
I had heard legends of the rabid warrior-priests of the Vyksland jotun; it was said they could work themselves into such a fervor that neither blade nor arrow could slow them, and that they wore no armor and felt no pain. Around me, I saw the soldiers draw back in fear. I merely stared at the corpse, wondering what cruel twists of fate had led such a brave man to knavery.
"Salah!" My father's anguished shout broke the reverent silence, and I turned to see him shoving men aside to get to me. I went to him as quickly as I was able, feeling unsteady on my feet as the ...