THE LETTERSEEKER

CHAPTER THREE

            “But the Mistress has forbidden speech with thee,” the guard whispered, backing slightly. He had placed the plate of food on the stone floor between them. The torchlight in the little chamber shone dimly on bread and vegetables, and a mug of water.

            Gretta Hunterchief smiled. With a seductive motion she raised her hand to the blanket where it cowled her head and drew it off to her shoulders, shaking free her hair. The chamber flared with passion as the torchglow found its match in her red-brown locks. The guard hardly suppressed a gasp of desire.

            “I said nothing of speech,” she said softly, “of favors only. You see that I have coin to pay.”

            Tralm was a mercenary from the far south where the warriors have a weakness for northern women. He had seen Gretta's beauty when Maegeth and the bears brought her as a captive to the Valley of Caves. He bribed one man and slipped enough poison to another to make him ill, just to get the job of her food-bearer.

            Tralm licked his lips. “You want better food, you say?”

            “Meat, and wine. I am a huntress. Such women as I must have meat—and men.”

            “What more?” said Tralm. He was shaking and stroking himself beneath his cloak.

            “A message. You will take a message to my father, Mindilfir Hunterchief, in the Narrow Woods.”

            “You'll have to pay me now.” 

            “Now, and again later if you like. Come closer.”

            Gretta moved toward the mattress in the chamber, where she had slept but one night after being brought to the recesses of the Great Cave of Grimdale. Here in Grimdale Maegeth had brought an army and Gretta feared for her people, the hunters, who did not know that the Dark Maiden had returned to the Narrow Woods. Gretta intended to escape with that information, but not through the payment Tralm was after.

            Tralm advanced, throwing back his cloak.

            Gretta moved into his embrace, pressing her body firmly against his, raising her head to receive his kiss. Tralm's lips touched hers. It was the last thing he ever did. Gretta slipped the dagger from his belt, and in a single movement pierced upward through the ribs to his heart. Tralm fell like a stone. The torchlight flickered.

            Gretta the Proud, daughter of Mindilfir-King, was an expert with bow and blade, a match for many men. She wiped the foul kiss off her lips with the back of her hand, stooped, took the cloak off Tralm, and drew it about her own shoulders. Then she removed the torch from the wall where Tralm had placed it and turned toward the door, torch in one hand, dagger in the other.

            She hesitated and turned back. Replacing the torch and putting down the dagger momentarily, she raised Tralm's inert head off the floor by the hair, slid the plate of cold vegetables beneath it, and let Tralm's face drop into them. Then she took up the torch and dagger again and slipped out the half-opened iron door into the dark passage beyond.

* * *

            Stalkworth shed the blanket and bathed while Garufel returned to the cottage; but when he rose from the pool Garufel was beside him again with a towel in one hand, Stalkworth's boots in the other, and his clothes, folded and cleaned, gripped beneath an elbow. Stalkworth took the towel and dried, then dressed.

            “Come,” said Garufel, leading the way back to the cottage. “There is much to be said and learned. I've been asked to advise you as seems fit, by The O'Kuern himself—a command, you might say, which I'll follow gladly. But my business includes more than showing you your way about the woods.”

            “Your business, Garufel?”

            “Wizard's business, no more and no less. But here we are.”

            Wizard! Then they were at the cottage door and Garufel ushered Stalkworth into the central room.

            A brisk fire burned in the stone firepit, the smoke curling upward through an opening in the roof. Wisps of steam came from the metal pot hung on hooks over the flame. Beyond the fire were two wicker chairs, deep and comfortable, with a small round table between them that bore a plate of bread and two dark brown pottery mugs. Garufel measured small amounts of powdered herbs from a wooden mortar and placed some in each mug, then added hot water. A spicy aroma filled the room.

            “This tea is special.” Garufel said as he sat down across from Stalkworth, who had already taken a place in one of the chairs. “In small amounts it will sharpen your attention and help you forget your wound. More of it will speed your healing. But take only a little at a time until you are used to it.” He raised his cup to his lips and barely touched the rim. Stalkworth did the same. The flavor was tangy, not bitter, with a hint of mustiness about it that reminded him of the deep woods and secret, shaded ponds.

            “Have some cakes, too.” Garufel gestured toward the bread on the table. Stalkworth took a round of bread from the plate and began to eat. “As I told you before,” said Garufel, “I knew someone was coming through the M- gate but I didn't know who. Tell me now who you are and what brought you to the gate.”

            “Oh, I haven't even told you my name, have I? It's Stalkworth — Stanley Stalkworth. But my friends call me Stan.”

            “Ho, ho! Your pardon, I laugh a lot. It's my nature. But by the Bodla, Stan-Lea, I think you've already given away your Secret.” Garufel cast a glance past Stalkworth's shoulder toward the window.

            “Secret?” Stalkworth followed his gaze. Through the window he could see blue sky. The morning mist was fading.

            “Aye, a secret I think. Here we are in my cottage; and the cottage is located in a certain kind of place. What kind of place is that?”

            “An open place. A meadow.”

            “Right. A meadow. Or a glade.”

            Never had a word sounded as beautiful to Stalkworth's ears. Garufel's glade was 'glade' all right, but something more: it was almost gold. And as Garufel spoke the word a yellow light seemed to gather about him and spread into the room.

            “Glade,” Stalkworth repeated.

            Garufel looked sharply back at Stalkworth. “Or maybe glad, eh? What about glad?”

            The tea had cleared Stalkworth's mind and he was on familiar ground. “Well, let's see—most people think glad means happy,” he said, “but originally it meant bright, like the glade.”

            “Aye, and before that it meant smooth, level, and open,” said Garufel. “What's glade is always glad. A glade is a bright gap, as some call it: goleufwlch, where

                        The wood, open to the golden light,

                        Gilds its flowers in delight.”

            “Goleufwlch!” The word sprang from Stalkworth's lips.

            Goleufwlch. Yes. He seemed to remember: The Flame on the Meadow, the Meadowgold.

            Now Garufel was peering intently at Stalkworth. “You've a knack for these things, I see.”

            “Words are my business, Garufel. But you spoke of a secret. Tell me, what is the secret of the Meadowgold?”

            “By the gods,” Garufel exclaimed. “You know the word, but not yourself? I was talking about your name, the last part to be exact. Lea, meadow, same as goleu. Stone Meadow, that's your name, and isn't that where you've been?

             “So there's your secret, or some of it at least: your name's got growing pains, Stone-Goleu! I shall call you Stoneglow, Seeker of Letters. Where your name will grow from there, I cannot say. Now tell me how you met The O'Kuern, and what songs you heard from the stones.”

            Over bread and tea, Stalkworth spoke of his meetings with O'Kuern; of Milligan, Milliken, and Mulligan, Pompay, the alder stick, the flicker in the universe, up to the moment of his dash through the woods.

            “I lost the alder stick,” he concluded. “It slipped from my belt as I ran. Garufel, can you take me back to the dell?”

            “Aye, if there be a need. These are the Narrow Woods of the Narrow Lands, where there are few sticks or stones I don't know by name.”

            Stalkworth shook his head. “I don't understand. What are the Narrow Lands? How could the M- gate bring me here?”

            “The M- gate merely responded, as it is built to do.”

            “Responded to what?”

            “The web of coincidence. You understand that: you saw it building up all around you. Such things have a great deal of power. As for the Narrow Lands, they are the first of the three realms of Erta. You came here from the second realm, the Midlands. The third realm is the Broad Lands, but it is difficult to achieve. Few reach there— fewer still return.”

            “Realms? Then this is another world than mine? But the stars here are the same as those of earth. So is the moon.”

            “Ah, the stars and moon, aye. You are a man who takes account of his bearings. You'll appreciate then that the stars are far away, Elihhm 'sa Elihhm, as we say, and seldom do the stars nod to our swift-changing moods. Travel between the realms of Erta is not travel through space, nothing to change the stars and moon. The same heavens shine upon the Narrow Lands as upon the Midlands and the Broad.”

            Stalkworth nodded.. “So I've traveled between realms, but not through space. And whatever direction I go from here, I'll be no closer to returning. There's no way back?”

            “Direction is not only movement in space.” Garufel shifted his huge frame and took a sip from his mug. “In all direction there is also desire. It was a path of desire that opened the M- gate for you, Letterseeker. Aye, a great path for a great desire.”

            “Then I was right. I'm here because of Gretta. She's been haunting my dreams, and when I woke that first morning by the stones I knew she was real and near.”

            “Perhaps, but it's not desire for Woman alone that brought you to the gate. You asked about 'milk' in the way of the stones, and the stones replied. Milk's a woman-thing but a realm-thing too. You desire the answer not to Woman only, but to the Question of the Realms. Perhaps no one less than Vrrjhri the Wise, Daughter of the Dark Mirror, may give you the answers you seek.”

            “Well, I suppose I was framing a question, when I said milk to the stone—but I'm not sure what it was.”

            “Had you been sure what you were asking, you would have no need for travel or conversations with a wizard,” said Garufel.

            Stalkworth smiled. “Then it seems that you, wizard, know my question better than I.”

            “I know how the stones responded to you. You have told me that. You stroked the M-gate. You were stroked by Maegeth's bear. By the gods, that was a stroke worth remembering!”

            Stalkworth raised a hand to his cheek. “I'd rather forget it.”

            “But you cannot. It has already altered your glede and many other gledes as well, if I am not mistaken—including my own.”

            “Gledes?” Stalkworth probed his memory for a moment. “A glede is a spark.”

            “The stroke brings forth the milk, Letterseeker. Every stroke releases streams of desire, streams that are woven into beings and realms of beings by means of Erta—what you call Time. Thus the realms are formed. Usually the streams are hidden by Erta's weaving; but when one's experience of Time is deepened they become visible as brilliant sparks. Those sparks we call gledes.”

            The wizard raised his arm, reaching up into the radiance that had gathered about him and become a golden mist. Everything was gilded. The unlit candles on the table looked like polished brass, and the fire burned golden twigs. Even their mugs were yellow as marigold.

            Then Garufel brought his arm down in a swift, chopping movement.

            Along the path of the stroke, like the ripple made when a stick breaks the surface of a stream, a line of reddish swirls began to form. As Garufel rose from his chair the swirls, gathering momentum, spun out ahead of him through the golden air toward the doorway. He glanced down at Stalkworth's cup.

            “Good! You've chosen to drink it all. Come with me. It's time to see the gledes.”

* * *

            Gretta slew two of them with the knife before they knocked it from her hand. Another got her torch in his face; but they were under orders not to kill her, so they fought her down until she was held by four pairs of hands and ringed by a dozen lances. Then she gave up. She had blundered into an open chamber of the labyrinth and been caught there. This time they were not courteous. She was stripped and thrown naked back into her cell, with four guards in war gear watching her nurse her bruises.

            Namon the captain brought the news of Gretta's recapture to his Queen, the Dark Maiden, Maegeth, Mistress of the Great Obsidian Tower of Dunclose in the Northern Sea.

            “Barbarian bitch!” Maegeth spat. “But a good catch. The Hunterchief will pay for a daughter like that, Namon. You've sent him my command?”

            Namon bowed. He was tall and graceful, a powerful presence in his black cloak, and his voice sneered every syllable: “We demand the Bodla for the life of the girl, Mistress.”

            “It is here in the woods—I feel it!”

            Maegeth's eyes gleamed with a fire of ambition that sought not only the Narrow Woods, but all the Narrow Lands, and the Bodla would buy that power for her in accordance with the pact she had made in ancient times. For she was an immortal, like the Golden Wizard; yet she served not Berainn Son of Elihh as he did, but the Mirror of Darkness, Asli-Trrgja—She who dwells in the Shadow of Arem in the Empty Lands.

            Namon frowned. “I am thoughtful, Queen, of the alien slain by Urku in the woods. He may have had knowledge of the Bodla. I would you had taken his body!”

            “I did not take it,” said Maegeth, “because the Redbeard was coming, the magician, and I did not want him to see that I had caught the Hunterchief's bitch-daughter. But the creature had no Bodla, Namon. He was small and dirty like a wood-troll and he fell without a struggle. I think Urku took his head off, sweet Urku!”

            Maegeth paced about as she spoke, possessed by energy of deadly purpose. Her leotard of black leather was skin-tight from neck to ankles. She wore silver anklets and her sword was belted in a silver scabbard with a line of onyx cabochons upon it. The stones caught the torchlight as she turned: a chain of red stars flashing upon her slim, muscular thigh.

            She commanded: “Send out more search parties. If the hunters have it not, we may yet find the Bodla ourselves.”

            “Is it wise to send away more men?” Namon drew up his cloak. “What if Mindilfir comes here and attacks?”

            “That is what I wish! I'll have those wolf-kin this time! This valley will be the Hunterchief's trap.” Maegeth drew close to her captain's ear. “Know this, Namon, but tell no others: Ferenth Seamaster makes now with three ships and two hundred men from Dunclose to Rivermouth where the Mim meets the sea.”

            “Say you so?” Namon did not mask his surprise.

            “Aye, I say so. While you and I busy the Hunterchief with negotiations for his daughter, the men Ferenth brings from the sea will march here to Barallas and fall upon his rear. Then we will attack from the caves.”

            Namon's lips curled. “I see. And you have only now decided to tell me this plan?”

            “I make and change my plans as I will. See that you carry them out also as I will, without error. Now you may leave.”

            “I obey, Immortal Maiden.” His face dark with anger, Namon turned to go.

            “And, Namon—” Namon stopped, still facing the door, his back to her. “You may punish the girl as you please—just as long as you do her no permanent damage. Do you understand?”

            Namon came upon Gretta sleeping naked, but she woke as he seized her. He held her breasts, but she wrenched free and hit him in the nose with the heel of her hand. Namon reeled at the pain and Gretta darted toward the door. Namon had left it open, but the guards there had their blades raised. She hesitated. The thought of throwing herself on the points did not enter her mind. She would not spoil the guards by such entertainment, and besides she had to live long enough to warn her father.

            Then Namon caught her with his arm around her neck, dragging her back. She kicked, and as he threw her down upon the mattress, she twisted about and slashed with her nails, drawing blood from his forearm. So he hit her with his fist on the side of her head, knocking her out. He took her while she lay senseless. He did not even bother to close the door.

* * *

            To see the gledes, Garufel had said. And as he stepped from the door of the cottage the first thing Stalkworth saw was a sky of gledes. He saw the sky, not as a neutral background, but as a pattern of swirling sparks, windwhipped streams of gold-dust. And the sun!

            It was an orifice, a nipple in the flesh of space, out of which celestial milk sprang forth into the churn of time!

            As the sun gave, so he took: each of Stalkworth's pores was a tiny mouth that sucked in the lightmilk. He stood against the cottage wall while Garufel went on ahead. Then he yielded to the vision. His gaze lowered and he sank with it into a sea of green waters beneath the golden sky, past a surf that shot emerald flares aloft to mix with the gild-rain. Lower, lower...until he came to rest upon a floor of diamonds and of topaz; for the flowers of the sward were filled with answering fires in homage to the great star above.

            Up to his knees in this sea of gledes stood the Golden Wizard, his bare arms and legs shining like beaten copper. The silver bands of the hunting horn flashed green and yellow as he raised it above his head and motioned Stalkworth forward.

            Ahead of Stalkworth a path seemed to open. It was his path, the path of his desires, tenuous and shimmering, made visible more by the way those other streams danced around it than by its own light. Tentatively Stalkworth began to follow the path toward the wizard. He had come half the distance when Garufel shouted:

            “Ho, ho, ho!”

            The sound was like drum-beats.

            “This glad glade is full of golden gledes!”

            The wizard spread his arms. Sparks from the sky showered over his skin until he seemed a glede himself, a golden swirl among the lesser lights. His leg muscles tensed as if he meant to spring from the earth and fly. He brought the horn to his lips, took a great breath, and blew.

            With the horncall came a mighty turbulence. Red swirls flew up like smoky embers, and in the air above the wizard Stalkworth saw the wordstream form. From stroke to realm out of the light of stars it spun a web of Meadowgold.

            The sound of the horn rose and fell. When it ended Stalkworth heard an answering call, not as rich in melody, but unmistakably a reply.

            “Huntsmen,” Garufel said, “coming from the east, the way Maegeth fled.”

            Stalkworth looked in the direction of the woods. His shimmering path led toward the horncall into the shadows of the trees.

            “Could they have news of Gretta—of Maegeth's captive?”

            “Aye, that's my guess. I must go to meet them.”

            “Lead the way, Garufel,” said Stalkworth. He followed the wizard across the meadow through the grass and flowers until they came to the glade edge. Then the forest loomed about them, thick with green light.

            There was a trail of sorts: Sometimes clear, sometimes visible only because there was no other way through the brush. Even then it was revealed to Stalkworth by the glowing channel. I could find my way at night if I had this light to guide me!

            A rocky area sloped sharply up beneath the trees. They climbed back and forth among jagged boulders, pulling themselves up at times by seizing lowhanging limbs. At the top a broader trail ran north for a while, then northeast. Here Garufel slowed, giving Stalkworth a chance to rest. He was grateful for it, but surprised at the strength he had shown in climbing. It was an effect of the tea, he guessed, and he hoped there would not be a corresponding let-down.

            The trees were very tall, crowding above until the light was filtered to a watery gloom. The sun broke through at times in tiny patches that flickered against the dark trunks. It was like walking on an ocean floor, watching yellow coins drop slowly to the bottom, catching the light and oscillating in the current.

            Here the path of Stalkworth's vision calmed and spread, until it was scarcely visible as light at all. It was more of a rightness among the shadows, telling him where it would be wrong to turn aside.

            In the deep afternoon, when the shining doubloons turned from gold to copper as they fell, Stalkworth's enhanced vision faded as the effect of the tea waned and Garufel became his guide again. Yet Stalkworth showed no ill effects from the powerful draught. Then they came to the edge of the trees at the forest's eastern limit. Here the land opened and fell very gently to a narrow grassy vale. On the far side was a line of hills. Down the middle of the vale, north to south, ran a wide stream. 

            There was a peal of horns.

            Garufel took the curl of bronze and silver from his shoulder, put it to his lips, and played until the valley rang. With the last notes a line of figures emerged from the saddle of one of the hills. The hunters moved across an open space, then were hidden again behind a nearer rise.

            Garufel strode rapidly along the path. As they neared the stream Stalkworth looked behind.

            Above the many-tiered forest ridge rose the crest of a high bare hill, almost a small mountain. Just then the sun dropped behind it. With the last rays there was a flash atop the hill.

            “On the side of that hill above the ridge,” Stalkworth called out to the wizard, “a gleam like water or ice. Is that the hill of springs, the one I slid down?”

            “It is,” said the wizard, looking back. “Gladheel it is called, 'bright slope.' It overlooks all the M-downs. A good view of it may be had from the hilltops ahead.”

            The dusk, descending from Gladheel's shadow, caught up with them, but the tops of the eastern hills were yet alight. Across the stream Stalkworth saw a group of fires kindled by the hunters as they made camp.

            At the stream there was a small bridge of roughcut stone. On the other side were three men, darkhaired and tall, dressed in leather and coarse cloth. Their weapons were spears, and two of them carried longbows at their backs. The man without a bow was older than the others by a few years. He had a sheathed sword at his belt. His face was broad-nosed and unhandsome, but he bore a friendly expression.

            “Well-met, Loremaster Sunface!” he called out from across the stream. His speech was like the wizard's but more thickly accented. “We heard your playing this afternoon and guessed it was for us. Welcome again to the Narrow Woods.”

            “Well-met, Erek,” cried Garufel, waving his hand and laughing as he sprang out upon the bridge. Stalkworth followed the wizard, and in a moment they were across. Garufel gripped the hand of the one called Erek.

            “May your brothers prosper in the hunt, may your table be filled!” said the wizard. “What news have you for travelers?”

            “We will give you both news and meat, and each may concern you,” said Erek, smiling. “But who is this scarred outlander?”

            “A friend,” said Garufel, clasping Stalkworth's shoulder. “This is Stoneglow, a seeker of letters and a Bearmaster; for he has felt the touch of a beast of Maegeth and yet he lives.”

     Erek and his two companions looked at Stalkworth in amazement. Then Erek bowed deeply, saying: “Forgive me, Lord Stoneglow! Welcome to the Narrow Woods. These are my brothers, Shalley and Dock. We serve Mindilfir Hunterchief and are friends of the Dark Maiden's enemies.”

            “I am not a lord, Erek,” Stalkworth replied. “I'm a traveler and guesser with no knowledge of the laws of this land. I found Maegeth's bears by foolhardiness, and I escaped death by luck.”

            Shalley spoke then, his voice higher in pitch than Erek's. “He knows little of our laws indeed, who reckons his fortune luck.”

            Erek laughed. “Shalley speaks blunt but true. We have a saying that there is no luck in the Narrow Lands. Here one's fortune is his own, and he must reckon with pride or shame as may be.”

            “Well, we'll be proud to have eaten from your table, and shamed if we don't do it sooner,” laughed Garufel. At this, they turned together and began to walk toward the fires.

            “Walk beside me, Stoneglow Threescar,” Erek invited, and Stalkworth fell in between Erek and Garufel, with Shalley ahead and Dock behind. As they walked, Stalkworth raised his hand to his cheek and began stroking it gently.