The Stone of Wyrdnafal

[lochinvar]

He rode through the half-light, holding Stardreamer to a relaxed but ground-eating canter.

That was the only thing relaxed about this place, however; for hours now a growing sense of unease had been gnawing at the corners of his mind, all the more unnerving for having neither form nor focus.

The big gray felt it too, swiveling his ears back and forth, starting occaisionally and rolling his eyes; Loch was having an increasingly difficult time keeping him from bolting, and was himself becoming ever more inclined to give the horse its head.

The countryside had grown increasingly wild as made his way westward. After leaving the search party, he had soon passed out from under the trees and found himself moving through a pleasant landscape of meadows and rolling hills. The sun had been bright, the day clear, and his shadow had slowly moved from leading to pacing alongside to following as hours passed uneventfully. Small copses and woodlots broke up the view, providing focal points by which to reckon his progress.

Somewhere about midday the terrain had changed again, growing steeper and rockier as he passed close to the foothills of the Blue Mountains, which according to his map dipped southward here before bending back in a long arc to the north and west. Trees became more prominent and numerous, gradually closing in until he was riding through a lush forest of second-growth maples, oaks, and poplars.

As the afternoon wore on, the hardwoods were replaced by evergreens, growing taller and more densly spaced. Now he was moving through a wooded landscape of tall green giants, older and more massive than any trees he had ever seen. Huge spreading limbs met high overhead, filtering the sunlight down to a dappled gloom that allowed only sparse undergrowth here about the base of the trunks. Windrows of dead needles carpeted the ground to a depth of many inches, muffling Stardreamer’s hoofbeats in a way that seemed to suggest that sound, though tolerated, was not really welcomed here.

He had long since left all traces of humanity behind, and had not seen even so much as a chipmunk or hare for the last hour or so. Unable to see the sun, he was uncertain even about which way he was going, merely trusting a faint sense of ‘rightness’ when he faced in his present direction.

Evening was drawing on, accelerated in the shadow beneath the great trees; soon the gathering darkness would force him to stop and camp, though he was loathe to do so here. He seemed to hear voices that whispered just outside his range of hearing, the words too soft to distinguish, and he thought back on what Dr. Abernathy had said about the Whispering Wood. If any forest fit his description of that haunted land, it would be this menacing place.

Suddenly he drew back on Stardreamer’s rein, causing him to shy and rear. He didn’t know where the slight figure before him had appeared from, but he had almost run it down. He had been scanning all about with a borderman’s skills, trying to determine the cause of his restlessness; he would swear that the person had not been there a moment ago.

The person in question didn’t move, seemingly oblivious to and unconcerned with the heavy hooves of the warhorse that flailed the air scant feet from it.

When he had wrestled control back over the panicing horse, he turned to the form and shouted angrily, “What in the name of Craig do you think you’re doing, popping out like that?! You could have died, just now!”

Silence met this outburst, accompanied by a disquietingly solemn gaze from eyes that seemed too large for the small face in which they were set. Then a girl’s voice drifted back to him through the thickening dark, calm and jarringly at odds with her message.

“Come. Hurry. It’s not safe here after sunset."

She turned and swiftly ran forward between the dark boles, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

[lochinvar]

In the failing light he could barely see her spare shape as she ducked around thick trunks and over roots. For long minutes he followed, a growing sense of sourceless hostility curdling around him, threatening to drag him down. The indistinct voices at the edge of hearing grew angry and menacing, seeming to increase in volume and number while remaining just below the threshold of audibility.

Finally he broke through a last fringe of trees into a wide clearing. Here the light was unshadowed, and he was surprised to see that the sun, though it hung low in the sky, had not yet set. Turning in his saddle, he noted that the last ring of trees had shapes and designs carved into their trunks; the scars were old, and overgrown, but clearly visible.

His diminutive guide stood waiting in the center of the clearing before a small but neatly finished hut built of dark planks. A faint curl of smoke issued from a stout stone chimney at one end; a stack of split wood stood neatly beside the door.

“You’ll be safe here. They never follow past the sentinel trees.”

He reined the skittish gray to a halt, studying his amorphous savior. Short and slight, she stood no higher than his shoulder, though she would overtop the diminutive Friar Laurence by an inch or so. Her hair was a neutral brown, cut shoulder length; the shirt and breeches were clean and neat but nondescript, of some indeterminate earth color between brown and gray. Overlarge dark eyes regarded him steadily from a face both unlined and unconcerned.

He schooled his voice to calm. “Who are ‘they’? And why were they chasing us?”

She seemed to consider the question for a moment, then gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know who they are. And they were chasing us because they don’t like people.”

He waited, but she had evidently exhausted her opinions in the matter. He tried again, hesitant to push forward in the face of her disquieting serenity. “Who are you, then? And what is this place?”

Again she paused before answering. “I am Ariel, Ariel Anjoli. These are the Whispering Woods. The Lady wants to see you,” she continued, seemingly dismissing all preceding topics. “You should get ready, now.”

Unsettled, he dismounted. For the first time since arriving, he noted that the foreboding and fear that had pressed him in the forest was gone; thinking back, he realized it had disappeared as soon as he had crossed into the clearing. He did not ask which Lady she referred to; he was certain that he already knew.

“Take off your sword,” Ariel instructed, “and your mail, and your belt buckle, and the broach of your cloak. Anything made of steel or iron must be left here. Nothing made of iron must come near the Stone.”

“Why not?” he asked warily. The idea of walking unarmed through this wood did not appeal to him at all.

“It will kill you, or drive you mad,” she responded simply, “like the others. She sent me to tell you, so you could come safely within the circle.”

Reluctantly, he complied, piling his sword, mail shirt, and all other things he could think of that contained iron or steel in a pile on the ground. When he had finished, he turned to the girl.

“Your boots,” she said pointing. He glanced down at his feet, then up at her questioning. “The hobnails,” she said by way of explanation. He sighed, and sat on the ground to pull off his footwear and resignedly add it to the small stack of his possessions. “Wear these,” Ariel said, producing a pair of soft leather slippers from somewhere about her clothing.

He donned the slippers, then stood again waiting patiently. She looked him over carefully, finally nodding in acceptance. “This way,” she indicated, then turned and headed towards the forest again on the far side of the clearing from the marked trees.

“Wait,” he called after her without moving. "What about my horse?"

She stopped and half-turned to look over her shoulder at him. "The horse will be safe here. He will not wander. We must go now." She waited, expectant.

On sudden impulse he bent to untie the yellow ribbon from the hilt of his sword, knotting the satin band one-handedly about his left wrist where it lay in soft contrast alongside the dark braid already there.

Silently he moved forward, following the mysterious girl as she turned into the gloom beneath the branches, leading him for the second time today towards an unknown destination.

[ 01-30-2002: Message edited by: lochinvar ]</p>

[lochinvar]

Through the curdling dusk they walked, man and girl.

He kept glancing about tensely at first, nerves on edge. He had not yet fully shaken free of the disembodied sense of danger that had enveloped him on the way to the hut’s clearing, and he felt totally naked and vulnerable without his weapons.

But as time passed and no threat materialized, he finally began to relax. Certainly the girl seemed unconcerned, moving briskly and surely among the trees over the carpet of needles, taking no particular pains for stealth or silence.

Eventually the trees thinned, the light increased, and they emerged from the forest at the edge of a grassy expanse. On either side of them the treeline marched away into the middle distance, curving as it went and leaving the impression that the two halves met again somewhere, forming a large circle. Before him, grass stretched away several hundred yards to the base of three hills, close-set together in a rough triangle. Steep sided and hidden by the grass that grew over their slopes even to the peaks, they were spotted here and there across their sides with the occasional hardwood of indeterminate age.

It was the place he had seen in his dream. He stood for a moment looking out over the expanse of green, now tinged pink in the light of sunset, and then turned to Ariel expectantly. “You must go alone from here,” she said to his surprise. “I will wait.”

She lowered herself to the ground cross-legged and watched him, waiting; when she gave no indication of saying anything more, he turned back to the three massive eminencies and started forward.

He approached through the saddle between two of the hills. The grass was knee-high—lush, green, and fresh; it rippled in bright waves like water where the wind passed. As he came closer to the hills and whatever awaited him in the hollow beyond, the light changed. The directional light of the setting sun was replaced by a soft but bright diffuse glow. It seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere, like mist, as though a property of the air and not an independent entity. It seemed almost solid, and Loch had the strange conviction that, if he tried, he could actually touch it. For his own sanity’s sake, he did not try.

As he rounded the base of the nearer hill and started through the dip between it and the next, he saw the stone.

It was just as it had been shown to him: the carvings, the truncated top, cradled in the depression formed by the three hills, giving every impression of an old man reading in the middle of a playground—vaguely aware of the children moving around him, but totally disinterested in what they are doing. And standing next to the stone was the lady, again just as she had appeared to him the previous night. The only things missing were the mist, the man dressed in gray, and the raven.

She watched impassively as he approached. At last he stopped a scant few feet from her and the stone. For a second they traded appraising glances, then an enigmatic smile drew slowly and sensuously across her face, and in a firm voice that sounded nonetheless like smoky velvet she spoke.

“Welcome, Sir Lochinvar, to the Stone of Wyrdnafal.”

[ 01-30-2002: Message edited by: lochinvar ]</p>

[lochinvar]

“Lady Marthwyn,” he acknowledged, bowing slightly but respectfully.

He studied her in the enfolding light. She seemed more substantial, more real than she had in his dream, but he would expect that. The white hair lifted playfully in the soft breeze, and the lush curves of her body would provide material for hundreds of lusty tavern legends—if not for her eyes. They were just as unnerving as they had been in his dream, and no man in his right mind would make a play for this woman…if she even was a woman.

“Thank you for coming,” she continued gracefully. “We have much to discuss, and this is one of the few places where we can meet in the flesh. We can take our time, now, and I can answer all of your questions. I’m sure you have some.” She smiled, not unkindly.

“How is that possible?” he asked first, to his own surprise. It was not the most pressing question he had. “I thought you said that you were limited to morning and evening twilight.”

“The stone makes it possible,” she replied, indicating the dark dolmen with a gesture. “It is always twilight, here within its influence. Surely you have noticed?”

He turned to look at the dark piece of stone. The carvings that covered it were so…intricate. Captivating. Intriguing. Peering closer, he had the feeling that he could almost make out their meaning. A revelation of unimaginable depth and breadth lay just out of reach, teasing, tantalizing…if he could just…His raised hand moved to touch the surface.

“I would not!” her voice carried to him, a clarion note of warning overlaying the smooth texture beneath. He shook himself and looked around bewildered at her, several yards away. How had he moved over here, next to the stone? Hadn’t he been standing right beside her a moment ago? He didn’t remember moving. He retreated in confusion and a little fear back to where she stood.

“It has a way of drawing animal life to itself,” she said in a simple, explanatory tone. “It…subsumes it, let us say. The higher the consciousness, the more easily trapped. Men are easier than, say, ground squirrels or rabbits—though I’ve never noticed any small game here, so perhaps it takes them, too.”

“It’s a…” He paused, groping for a word. “…a vampire?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied pensively. “At least, not intentionally. A bucket of tar placed in the sun doesn’t intend to accumulate insects, but they collect nonetheless.”

“In any case,” she smiled, turning away from the stone and gazing out over the grassy hollow, “the range of its influence is limited, so farther away from it there is no danger. And now that you are aware of the trap, it’s a simple matter to avoid it. Just don’t stare at it for any length of time.

He watched her thoughfully for a moment. “Did you make it?” he asked finally. “I mean, your people?”

“What, the stones?” she answered, turning to look at him. Stones. There were more of them. “No. We do not know who or what made them, or when they were made, or for what purpose they were put here. They are far older than anything we know, perhaps as old as the world itself.”

“We only use them, take advantage of certain conditions peculiar to them. Any knowledge or understanding we have of them has been gained over time, through trial and error—sometimes to our sorrow.” She waited, expectantly.

“Where is the other one?” he asked next. “The man in gray? There were two of you in my dream.”

“Silmarin? He is elsewhere, doing things that need doing,” she answered enigmaticaly. She moved away from him towards some flat boulders scattered in the grass that he hadn’t noticed in his approach. Seating herself, she arranged her gown about her and then gestured to another of the stones nearby. “Will you sit?” she invited politely. “I tire, standing for long periods.”

He took the seat offered. “Is he your servant?” he asked her, though other questions unasked crowded behind the words: Is he your companion? Your husband? Your lord? Your lover?

“He is…useful to me,” she answered without answering, smiling. Humor danced in her dark eyes, and he felt mildly foolish. “Come…there must be other, more important questions you wish to ask…”

He simply stared at her for a moment more, then quietly asked what had been chasing through his mind since he’d awakened this morning.

“Who are you, Lady, and why did you summon me here? What do you want from me?”

[lochinvar]

“I have told you who I am,” she answered softly. “I am Marthwyn. My family and lineage would mean nothing to you, nor would the position I hold among my people. You have nothing that coresponds to it. If, on the other hand, you are asking who my people are…” Here she trailed off. Her eyes grew distant; Loch had the impression that she was searching for words.

“I believe we are known among the hill people where you grew up as the People Under the Hill—though I don’t know why, since we don’t have any particular connection to hills. Or any other landscape feature, for that matter.

“In any event, since you know who the Morrigu is, that name should have some meaning for you. We go by other names in other places—I’m rather partial to Shining Ones, myself,” she said with a small, self-deprecating smile, “but perhaps that’s a bit pretentious of me.”

“As for why I summoned you here, that’s a question with many parts. I shall answer them all, though not necessarily in order.

“Why did I summon you here? Because I was the one who could. The talent or ability that allows some to move between planes is not evenly distributed among us, any more than it is in your world. Some have it, some do not; some have more, some less. I am the only one at the moment among my people who can cross physically between the planes, and I can only do so in places where the edges of reality are uncertain, places such as this one.

“Why did I summon you here? To be precise, I did not. I requested that you come, but you were free to ignore me. Had you traveled on, we would not have spoken again; the only reason I could appear to you at all was because you bear the talisman that you do and because you were within range of the stone. Had you passed farther away, we would never have spoken.

“Why did I summon you here? For reasons I explained before, and for one I haven’t spoken of: it was the only place we could meet face-to-face, and the only one where I was not constrained by arbitrary time limits. And there is much to say. Time, you will find, runs differently here than it does in the outer world. What seems like days to us will pass as a mere moment there. When you leave, you will be surprised that it is the same hour and moment that it was when you arrived.

“Why did I summon you here? For two reasons: To give a warning, and to ask for help.”

“And, finally: Why did I summon you here?” She paused, considering him. “Now that, perhaps, is the most interesting question of all. Not on its surface, of course—the short answer is because you were near enough and had the right talisman. In other words, you were convenient. Sorry if it bruises your ego, but you weren’t selected because of any particular merit on your part. You just happened to be “in the neighborhood”, so to speak, when I went looking.

“However, there is a greater question beneath yours, and it is this: Why were you the one who happened to be passing by?” Her frank appraisal made him squirm. “I’ll be honest; you are not the one I would have chosen, were I the one choosing. But there is an ordering to these things that is beyond my understanding, so I will not question."

She fell silent at last, and he realized after a moment that he missed the low, sultry voice already. It carried undertones of carnal promise, yet was simultaneously as soothing as a mother’s lullaby. He felt he could happily have listened to it forever. The stone is not the only thing here, he thought, that could draw men to a willing self-destruction.

He understood now the fearful stories he had heard whispered in his childhood, of mortal men held captive in enchantment by Faerie women, blythely uncaring as numberless decades passed. He gathered his thoughts with effort. “You mentioned a warning, and a request for help. Very well; deliver the warning, and make your request.”

“Ah…well, they are somewhat related,” she answered...

[ 02-02-2002: Message edited by: lochinvar ]</p>

[Zelda]

Geez Loch, leaving a gal hanging would ya!

[lochinvar]

“First, the warning: The Russic Empire is stirring. As we speak they are gathering their armies and building a large fleet, with the intention of invading these lands and subjugating them.”

Loch just looked at her for a moment, confused. The Russic Empire? They were far away, over the sea. He had heard stories of them from time to time—a numerous but rough people, laboring under the iron domination of their all-pervasive church. The Russ had enough intrigues and internecine conflicts in their own country to keep them fully occupied, and had played no part in this region of the world. Most of the information that came to this side of the water consisted of rumors of wars and dynastic conflicts, involving names unfamiliar and customs strange.

Few knew anything tangible about that hazy, distant country, and fewer still cared. The knowledge simply didn’t have any application in people’s lives, here.

“Why?” he finally asked, at a loss to think of any cause that made sense. She seemed amused by his question.

“Why? A naïve question for a man of war, don’t you think?

“I could tell you that it’s for the usual reasons—they want more: more land, more money, more power. Or I could tell you they’ve grown bored with killing each other and wish to kill some new, different people for a while. Mortals never seem to run out of real or imaginary reasons for making war on each other; surely your own life tells you this.

“But,” she continued, growing serious, “there is another, more substantial reason for them casting a covetous eye in this direction, and it bears directly on my request for help. But it also requires some background.

“Long centuries ago, long before we or you came here, there was a…conflict of some sort. We don’t know if it could be characterized as a war—the lore that treats of that time is sketchy. It doesn’t indicate anything quite so organized, or who the various actors in the conflict were. It may have been the conflict in which the stone behind you was damaged, or it could have been some other dispute. We don’t really know.

“What we do know is that there were three objects of power that were created in that distant time, objects that were used in that conflict. These things, named the Three Keys in the lore, still exist somewhere in this plane of reality. We know almost nothing about them, other than they are powerful tools of destruction and they are now scattered and hidden.

“The Russic Church has in their possession certain bits of legend and knowledge that they call ‘prophecies’; some of those prophecies refer to these Keys. The Church hierarchy has long desired them, thinking they would prove wondrous tools for the spreading of theocratic rule over the entire world. However, since they have no clues as to the whereabouts of these Keys, they have never seriously pursued finding them. Even the Russic Church acknowledges that it would be impracticable and ruinously expensive to search the entire known world for things one wouldn’t recognize even if one found them.

“I should say, that was true until recently. Within the past year information has surfaced that a map or device exists that pinpoints the locations of the Keys’ hiding places. This ‘map’, known simply as the Shield of Varst, lies somewhere in these lands.”

“And that is why the Empire—or the Church, to be more precise—is coming here. They are coming with fire and sword to convert the heathen, punish the wicked, and ‘pacify’ the populace…or so they will say. Ultimately, however, their true purpose is to find the Shield, and with it find the Keys.

“Once in possession of the Keys, they will be able to enforce total subjugation not only on all who now live, but also on all who ever will live—an everlasting night of ruthless oppression, with the Church holding all power and control.”

She fell silent, allowing Loch some time to assimilate what she had said. For his part his head was reeling with this sudden flood of information—Russic Church…Keys…Shield of Varst…it was a lot to absorb. He sat staring at his feet, mulling things around. She did not hurry him, only sat watching, gauging his reaction.

[Swordsman]

Yes, yes...very good... I am interested to find out what these Keys actually are.

[lochinvar]

[Ed. note: We may never know just exactly what the Keys are, as that is not essential to the story. All we really need to know about is the 'map'--without that, the nature of the Keys is moot, because they will never be found.

I may describe the Keys at another time, in another story... ]

[lochinvar]

“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” he said finally, looking up to meet her eyes.

“Simply this,” she answered. “As I’ve explained, my people cannot operate directly on this plane. We need an agent, someone here in this world to act on our behalf.”

Her words slowly sank in, and comprehension blossomed. “You want me to find this Shield, or whatever it is, don’t you? That was the request you were going to make.”

“Yes,” she nodded solemnly. “We need your help in finding this ‘map’ and destroying it. Without the map, the Keys will not be found, and the triumph of the Russic Church will be forestalled. The future of your people, your world, depends on it."

More silence followed. Then Loch looked up, as a sudden question struck him. “I don’t mean to presume, Lady, but tell me this: Why should you care what happens in mortal realms? Is it your habit to intervene, or is there something special about this event?”

She smiled. Was that a trace of amused satisfaction in her eyes? He suddenly felt like a faithful dog who had just performed a particularly clever trick; he wasn’t at all sure he liked the feeling.

“You are right, of course,” she said. “We hardly ever interfere in the doings of men. There was a time when we were more concerned, and tried to aid and influence some while opposing others.

“But your people have a disturbing habit: One generation will crawl upward towards the light, only to have the next slide back down into ignorance and darkness. After one watches the cycle twenty or thirty times…well, one grows discouraged, if not to say fatalistic. We collectively decided long ago that, for the most part, you were better left to your own devices. Now we merely observe, usually.

“But the Keys are a different matter,” she said, fixing him with an earnest look. “If they are like the stones—and they date from the same dim past, so who can say that they are not?—then they could very well be able to operate equally well in either plane, or perhaps even create a bridge between realities.

“In short, if the Keys fall into the hands of the Russ, it could quite possibly end with the enslavement of my world, as well as your own. That is why we require, and request, your help. The Shield exists here, and here is where it must be found, and destroyed.”

“But what is to say, Lady, that I would not simply use this map to find the Keys myself, and become a tyrant in my own right?”

The smile that followed was both genuine and warm. “You are not a man who seeks glory and power, Sir Lochinvar. Perhaps…perhaps that is why it was you that chance put in our way. For though it was chance, who can say that chance does not follow a higher purpose?

“You are a good man, with an honest heart. Your good wife knew it; that is why she chose you. I think I can trust her judgement; after all, she had the Sight.”

“And much good it did for her!” he blurted suddenly, leaping to his feet. The sound of his own voice, the ragged pain and anger in it, shocked even himself. Instantly remorse and shame filled him, but the words had been said. He could not unsay them. He stood mute before her, hands clenched into fists at his side.

She did not move, seemingly unalarmed at his outburst. But her eyes took on an unreadable aspect, and her response when it came was soft, and gentle.

“You are bitter. Perhaps I would be also, were I standing where you stand. But there are things you do not know about your wife’s death, things I feel you should know. So listen now, and you will learn a greater truth.

“The Sight, when it deals with events yet to come, is probabilistic, not deterministic. One cannot know for certain what will be; one can only know what is likely to be. Until a thing has come to pass, it may still be changed. Chance and choice both play a part, and if something is 90% certain to happen, that doesn’t mean that it cannot be influenced by some outside event to shift the final outcome to a less probable one.

“Ellen knew that she would most likely die in childbirth. How could she not know? The Sight was strong in her, if untutored. But the outcome was not a certainty; there was a slight chance that all would be well.

“She chose to take that chance, because she wanted to bear your child more than she wanted anything else in this world.. She risked her life to give you the greatest gift she could think to give you, in the same way and for the same reasons that you risked your life to carry her away from her father’s hall, granting her thereby the greatest gift you could give her, which was to join your lives and loves together for always.

“You are free to feel as you will; I will not and cannot judge, for it is not my life. But please do not lessen the memory of her death by casting scorn and disdain upon her choice. She loved you deeply--if, perhaps, not always wisely.”

[lochinvar]

He stood still before her, stunned. One hand groped blindly behind him for the stone before he collapsed back to sit on it, nerveless. Both the anger and the repentence of a moment before were gone, washed away by a stupified numbness. He was disoriented; everything he had known to be true was changed. Everything familiar was suddenly alien and strange.

It was as if he had awakend to find that the Sun now rose in the north and set in the south.

She sat waiting quietly for long moments as he simply stared at her, stupidly. Finally she nudged him, verbally. “Sir Lochinvar?” she asked gently. “I must ask for your answer.”

“What?” He heard, but did not comprehend. He couldn’t think. Something was wrong with his mind. It was stuck; it kept going back over the same thought again and again.

“The Russ. The invasion. The Keys. The Shield of Varst,” she offered patiently. “I need to know if you will help us.”

The Keys! The Shield! He siezed upon them like a drowning man siezes a thrown line. Yes. He would think about them. He would think about something. Anything but Ellen, her death, and its meaning.

“I’m…l’m sorry, my Lady. I…was thinking about something else. Forgive me.” He shook himself, like a dog newly come from the water. The world returned to a semblence of normalcy, at least for the moment. He stowed what he had heard in a safe place, to be brought out and examined later.

“Why don’t you ask me to bring you this ‘map’, my Lady? Why destroy it?”

“A good question, sir,” she replied, arching her white, white eyebrows. “The short answer is that we do not trust ourselves. We are quite capable of becoming tyrants; the difference between us and mortals is that we acknowledge the fact. ‘Power corrupts’ may be a cliché, but that doesn’t make it less true.

“No. It is safer for us all if no one ever finds the Keys again. Such power is too dangerous to wield, no matter how right or just the cause.”

He sat looking down at the ground between his feet, unspeaking, as he contemplated her request.

“You are free to decline,” she added. “No harm will come to you for it—at least, no more harm than will come to the rest of your folk. I know it is a difficult thing I ask. If you refuse, there may be another whom chance will put in our path, another weapon we may grasp. But time grows short, and so far you are the only one who has appeared in the time that I have been watching. I do not think there will be another…or, if there is, I fear he or she will come too late.”

“And if I agree to do this thing,” he said looking up, “it will stop the Russ from coming?”

“Ah, no. I am afraid not,” she answered. “The Russ will come, whether you do this or not. They want the map; if they find you are looking for it also, they will simply redouble their efforts. Even if you find it and destroy it, they will never believe that it is gone. Power mad themselves, they cannot conceive that any man would pass up such power if once it came within his grasp.

“You cannot spare your land from this war; you can only spare this generation and all future generations from a life of eternal slavery and degradation. But that is no small thing,” she said with a little smile, “when you look at it.

“Come, sir: What is your answer?”

“I am already on a quest,” he said, obliquely. “I am searching for my king, or his remains. I must find him; I have given my word.”

“Yes, I know of your quest to find you friend.” She straightened where she sat. “I understand that you would need to finish that task, first. But I can tell you this: Your search will neither be as long nor as hopeless as you fear.

“Your friend is alive. He is somewhere to the north and east of here, far from this place, across water. I can tell you no more than that,” she said quickly, forestalling his eager questioning, “but I can assure you that he lives.”

This news was like food to a starving man. Arcon lived! He had survived the fall and the dangers, against all of Loch’s expectations. This was nothing short of miraculous. “Like Moon,” he said out loud.

Marthwyn’s head tilted to one side. “Yes, like Princess Buffy, who also survived. But then, the Lady Moon is…not herself, these days.” Loch was puzzled somewhat by the look of secret amusement on her face, but before he could ask about it, she went on.

“Something else I will tell you, also: I see two kings, one that is lost and one that is hidden. The king that is lost will be found, but will remain lost even after being found; the king that is hidden will be revealed, but will remain hidden even after being revealed.”

He waited for her to continue, but she fell silent. Frustrated, he clenched his folded hands. “You speak in riddles, Lady! Please, tell me plainly what these things mean.”

“Nay, sir,” she demurred, though not unkindly. “that I will not, but not because I simply wish to confound you. It has to do, rather, with those ‘probabilities’ we spoke of earlier.

“I have in the past attempted to influence events, nudging them towards a desired outcome or away from an unwanted one. As often as not, I found later that the influence I exerted had the opposite effect, making certain that the very thing I didn’t want to happen would happen. I have since learned that it is never wise to play too much with the probabilities.

“So I will reveal no more of what I know or suspect; such revelations might unintentionally shift the course of the future onto a path that I will not like at all.

“And now, Sir Lochinvar,” she said finally, looking him directly in the eyes, “I must ask again: What is your answer? Will you help us?”

[lochinvar]

“A few moments please, Lady. I will give you my answer shortly.”

He rose from the stone and began walking slowly, head bowed. He made his way in a wide circle around the stone to the left, pausing every few minutes to look out at the hills, the trees dotting them, the tall grass impossibly green in the misty light.

He closed his eyes at times, drawing long slow breaths deep into his lungs as if savoring a heady aroma. A whisper of wind set the grass-waves to rolling, rippling and undulating like snakes into the distance where the dark ring of the treeline could just be seen, here and there a taller member thrusting above its fellows like a watchtower set in encircling battlements.

Long minutes passed as he made the slow circuit; finally he stood again before the white-haired Faerie-woman. He looked down where she sat serenely, drew in a final deep breath, and then released it with a sigh. “Yes, Lady,” he stated simply and quietly. “I will help you.”

She arose from her seat soberly, matching his solemn mood, and proffered her right hand. “Take my hand, Sir Lochinvar. Let us seal the bargain.”

Reluctantly, he reached to clasp her hand. He didn’t know just what he expected—a flash of lightning, a rush of heat, a sudden seizure, some profound insight—but nothing in particular happened. Her hand felt like any other lady’s: just an ordinary hand, smallish, smooth, and warm. They stood for a moment longer, hands joined, holding each other’s gaze. Then she moved, withdrawing her hand and breaking contact.

“I make you a gift,” she said, withdrawing a long dagger made of a whitish metal from within the midnight folds of her gown. “It has a certain power, and is connected in some way to the Shield—though I’m not sure exactly how. Keep it with you at all times; I feel it will help guide you to the thing you seek, somehow.”

Loch did not take the knife immediately. “I thought that weapons were prohibited in the presence of the stone,” he inquired, slightly suspicious.

“This is made of bronze,” she said, gesturing with it. “Only iron is problematic here. Please, take it. It will not harm you.”

He took the dagger from her hand and drew it, studying it curiously. The cross-quillions were plain, curving slightly in a graceful sweep away from the hilt to end in small under-turning curls. Double-edged, the longish blade bore a twining pattern of abstract curves engraved on both sides from hilt to point. The handle itself was carved from some dark, polished wood, cut in a single rounding spiral from end to end. It fit his hand perfectly. The pommel was a roundel with flat sides like a thick coin; set in the center on either side was a single fire-yellow stone that twinkled as if lit from within by some small, secret flame.

For all the decoration it was utilitarian, beautiful with an understated elegance and perfectly balanced. The sheath was of hardened dark red leather, tooled in a simple pattern of tiny stars and set with three small bronze lozenges around its throat. Sheathing the blade again, he thanked her for it and made mental note to examine it more closely at a later time.

“I have taken the liberty of asking Ariel to accompany you; she has consented. She and Silmarin have a…bond, of sorts, which allows them at times to communicate without words—a valuable trait, since Silmarin does not speak any of the tongues of men, and human voices cannot form the sounds of his own. They have shared the ability ever since he found her as an infant amid the wreckage of one of the foredoomed expeditions which periodically come here seeking buried treasure, or some such nonsense.”

“In any event, we may be able to communicate through her in some fashion, although I think it will be patchy at best. Still it’s the best we have, and she has other talents besides which might come in handy—not least of which is that she, too, has the Sight to some degree.”

“And now,” she stated briskly, “it is time for us both to be about our business. Good bye, and good luck, Sir Lochinvar. I hope to hear good news of you in the days to come.” He bowed to her; she acknowledged it, and began moving away through the unchanging twilight as he watched.

She had only gone a short distance before she stopped and turned. Something approaching pity crossed her face, and then she smiled with what seemed genuine fondness.

“I will leave you with this parting advice,” she called, “for I see in you a greatly troubled heart.

“Remember that life is a circle, and that endings are only beginnings unrecognized. You bear two doves on your arm, and though one leaves, another stoops to light. Do not dwell overmuch on the past, my friend; a mortal’s days are short, and nightfall certain—laugh and take comfort in the light while you can.”

With that she turned again and walked steadily away into the misty light. As her form faded from view, a coal black raven took wing from one of the isolated trees, flew to her, and perched on her shoulder. Then she was gone, and he was left to make his way alone back to the sunlight and the everyday world he had always known.

And although it would all be familiar and workday ordinary, he knew that it would never look the same to him again.

[lochinvar]

He sat sharpening and oiling his blade by the light of the campfire, his silent companion watching.

He had returned from the eternal twilight of the stone to find only minutes had passed in the outer world, even though his conversation with Marthwyn had taken what seemed hours. Ariel had risen without a word to guide him back through the waning daylight to the clearing with the small hut. There she had retrieved a small but sturdy pony, already loaded for a journey; as he had retrieved his war gear and boots, she had gone about the simple tasks of closing up the house.

Once that task was finished, they had set out immediately. He had only spoken to her once, asking her if she knew how to ride. "Yes," she had responded simply. "Grayman taught me."

At a momentary loss as to who this Grayman was that she referred to, he had eventually realizes that she was speaking of the mysterious companion he had first seen with Marthwyn in his dreams-the one she had named Silmarin. He had been on the verge of asking about him, but something in the girl's manner made him forbear. Without further ado they had embarked through the gathering night.

The girl had made a good if quiet traveling companion, leading him surely eastward through the thick forest, never hesitating over the path they should take. Unfamiliar himself with the surrounding land, he had placed his trust in her ability; so far, she had fuflilled his every expectation.

They had made good time, passing over Tristan's Gap without incident and entering the long sloping land that lay between the mountains and the sea. Travelling uneventfully through the gently rolling green countryside, they had bypassed the few towns they encountered in favor of camping in the open. Tomorrow they should reach Paugatauny Bay, where he hoped to catch up the rest of the search party.

Suddenly she spoke. "Grayman has a sword. He calls it Mist. Does your sword have a name?"

Surprised, he looked up from where he sat, his back against a large rock. "No, it doesn't," he answered. "My father gave it to me; it's the only thing of his I posess. He never mentioned a name, however."

On a sudden whim, he cocked his head. "Would you like to give it a name?" he asked.

For a moment she merely regarded him unblinkingly. Then she mutely held out her hand. Curious, he laid the hilt in her palm.

It was an simple, functional weapon, well-forged in a style no longer quite fashionable. The straight double edged blade tapered from a base almost three inches wide to a thrusting point some forty inches from the hilt. Pattern welded waves ran the length of a deep fuller. A single heavy bar served as guard above a leather-wrapped wooden handle riveted to a full tang. The whole was finished with a nut-shaped pommel. Cross guard and pommel were engraved with simple but finely executed twining scrollwork. It was altogether a working man's tool, well balanced and heavy enough to cleave through tough leather but light enough to allow quick strokes.

She stared at the blade for long moments, then handed it back to him with finality. "Seeker," she said, uttering the word as if it explained everything there was to know.

"What?" he asked. "Seeker," she repeated. "Its name is 'Seeker'."

"Oh. And how do you know that?" he asked, somewhat bemused.

"It told me," she answered simply, as if the answer was plain for any to see. Then she turned away and, wrapping herself in her blankets, curled up to sleep by the fire.

For a moment he just looked at her back, then he quietly put away his stone and oil, sheathed the blade, and followed her example.

[Ed. note: This thread is ended; Loch and Ariel will now rejoin the ongoing story in "Quest for the King".]