The Letterseeker: Chapter Twelve

Coil (1) (koil), n. [<coil, v. to twist or wind spirally: as a serpent coils itself to strike.] 1. A ring or series of rings into which a pliant body, as a rope, is wound; such a form in a body which is not pliant, as a steel spring.

Coil (2) (koil), n. [Prob. Celtic: <Gael. and Ir. guill, war, fight, Gael. goil, boiling, fume, battle, rage, fury; coileid, stir, movement, noise; <Gael. goil, Ir. goil-aim, boil, rage.] 1. Stir; disturbance; tumult; bustle; turmoil; trouble.

I am not worth this coil that's made for me. (Shak., K. John, ii, 1.)

Liesa gasped happily, exhilarated by the climb. The sheer physical excitement of it was medicinal to her winter-weary mood. Indeed, it was her only medicine for the increasing boredom of her life: cooking, cleaning, mending, in a grey endless circle, while her two brothers and her father spent all the hours of each day preparing the boats and gear for the coming season.

This was her private path. Lieth, her twin brother, and her elder brother Trask knew nothing of it. She had kept it secret since discovering it in childhood. Now at seventeen she could still slip her slim body through the narrow gap in the rocks at the back of the sea-cave.

It was not so much a path, really. It was a way. Each step and handhold up the hidden crack—the “chimney” as she liked to call it—had been individually found by careful, delicate searching or made by painstaking enhancement of a natural flaw or knob. It had taken months to complete, and to every point of contact she had given a private name: frog's nose, where the projecting rock reminded her of that; king's brow, where a sloping ledge scarcely wide enough to stand on afforded a balance point, enabling her (just barely) to seize the rockslit above it—the antporch.

As she went up, keeping her eyes on the slash of daylight above where the chimney emerged at the top of the high promontory, she hummed the name of each one as she touched it—a chant learned long ago by heart. A slip could send her plunging down the nearly vertical tunnel. But she knew the way with the perfect confidence of youth, and could go up and down the narrow passageway in the dark, or with her eyes shut.

A cool morning breeze greeted her as she scrambled out the top, pushing aside the scrub brush that grew there. Quickly she stepped to the rock seat, a sheltered place where stone had fallen over stone, making a kind of arch over a smooth, chair shaped depression. She sat there and unbound her hair. Yellow as summer straw, it tumbled about her shoulders as she felt in the little cloth bag at her waist for the comb. Then, singing an old sea-song quietly to herself, she began patiently working out the tangles.

Here high above the beach the surf supported her chantey with a whispered drone. Far below and east along the strand at the far side of the cove, she could see the lights gleaming in the windows of their house, where the men and her invalid mother were finishing the breakfast she had prepared for them before slipping away, “for a walk,” as she always said.

The sun had risen, but it was a dark morning and the overcast was moving west with a change of wind. Liesa guessed she would see blue sky before long. Gulls drifted by, paying her no heed. She began to daydream as she combed. Often she thought of herself as the Ice-Woman, sitting upon her holy chair by the shores of Anash. Closely she watched the forms of the waves then, absorbed yet waiting—waiting for Berainn the Beautiful to come and open her heart to love.

Now, though, she thought of Esti the great city with its bustling waterfront, towers of stone, and palaces; of wizards and princes—especially princes, who dwelt there, she supposed, by the dozens; of one prince in particular, blond like Lieth, tall like Trask, and strong like her father, daring and skilled.

She had never met such a prince, but she had thought of him so often that he seemed almost real to her. And perhaps indeed he had been among the fine people of the city who were now only a blurred memory to her. Once only, as a tiny child, she had been there. It had been a journey laden with fears, for her mother had been injured and they had sailed east three days against a rising sea to take her to the healer.

She remembered Quastid the healer, wrinkled and bearded, with shining blue eyes. He had picked her up, looking at her closely, an examination—peering into her ears and down her throat, touching her in one place and then another; all with a great gentleness, and she had felt no fear. Even her father had never held her with such care. Then, after seven days of waiting, back through crowded streets to the quays, with her mother in a litter; for her mother had lived—but she had never walked again.

Liesa put away her comb and stood up, stepping out a little from the shelter of the stones. The day was growing brighter. The great expanse of sea spread out before her view, silver green, unbroken by other land to the utmost horizon. There, too, was a mystery that thrilled her heart. No one knew what lay to the far south beyond the edge of everything. Her father had sung them all the tales and legends—of Artil the Courageous who had taken ship three hundred years ago and in a great storm had passed Karrath. But if it were anything more than a tale, nowadays no one knew the truth of it.

One day, she dreamed, one day, my prince and I will take a golden boat and venture south beyond the rim of knowing—

Suddenly Liesa's fantasy evaporated like foam on dry sand, as she turned her gaze down upon the west beach. A real boat was there, a strange vessel, strangely shaped, resting high beyond the tide. It was not made of gold, but it glowed yellow-grey in the rising morning light. Near it a long thin thread of smoke rose skyward from a tiny fire, whose flame she could see as a flickering spark. And beside the fire huddled a small dark-haired figure.

The promontory formed a barrier between the two beaches, jutting into the sea amid a tumble of broken rust-colored stones. Liesa's chimney path began on the east side, so it was no use to her now. She ran back along the ridge and down the trail, little used, that would take her ultimately to the ragged windswept hillocks below. A brook made a little valley among them, twisting southwest, striking the beach about halfway to the spot where the strange boat rested.

The path was steep and dotted with fallen stones, making speed dangerous. Twice she fell, the second time bloodying her knee, so at last she calmed herself enough to allow a slow limping trot. Then she came to the cleft where the brook originated, and she had to climb carefully downward beside the plunging rill. It was more than half an hour before she reached its bottom and started to run again, threading her way among boulders, brush, and an occasional clump of stunted trees.

Strangers! she thought as she ran. What were they like? —or perhaps there was just the one. That seemed unlikely. It was not a large boat, but few people would dare this coast single-handed. There had been no mast or sail, and a rowing boat of that size would require a crew. But the sail and rigging may have been carried away by a storm. Yet even with a sail, surely it couldn't be that a single—

“Oh!” she gasped. Still a good mile from the beach, she rounded a tall boulder and almost collided with a man—the strangest man she had ever seen.

He was not much taller than her twin brother Lieth. His hair and short, untrimmed beard were a rich dark brown. There was a youthful air about him, but he was older than her brother Trask— not as old as her father, though.

The man carried a small bundle of firewood. At his side, protruding from behind the wood, she could see the tip of a short scabbard. He wore a dark green shirt with long sleeves that were rolled back above the elbows. His arms and shoulders looked strong and tanned. At his neck a gold clasp bound a rich blue cloak, thrown back over one shoulder. The material was exceedingly fine; a weave to be found in a noble's wardrobe.

The strangest thing about him was his face. First there were the scars, three of them on his left cheek, parallel, as if some clawed beast had struck a near-killing blow. Then there were his eyes— surely nowhere in the land could one find eyes such as those! They spoke to her of pain and disappointment, of hopes and resolve—or rather, of something yet unresolved. For a fleeting moment Liesa thought they resembled her mother's eyes; but the moment passed. His were blue-green, not brown like her mother's, and they were in a man's face.

There was a brief pause as they looked at one another. Then a slow smile crossed the man's countenance, oddly rippling the scars. He made an awkward gesture with the bundle of wood. “What have you done to your knee? You're bleeding.”

Liesa relaxed. It was a friendly tone. He meant her no harm. He gave the words a certain liquid turn. It was a dialect of her own tongue, certainly, and not a foreign tongue to him. Where can he have come from?

“Do you live here? What's your name? —Here, I have a cloth. You should clean those scratches.” He put down the wood and reached into his pocket as he spoke, drawing out a small square of white linen and holding it out to her.

“I am Liesa,” she said, looking from the cloth to her knee and back again. She couldn't refuse, so she reached out and took the cloth from him. For an instant their fingers touched. A brief thrill of excitement brought a blush to her face. Trying to hide it, she waded a few steps into the stream and wet the rag.

The man sat down nearby on a stone as she wiped the blood and dirt from her knee. “Liesa,” he said. “It's a pretty name. I am called something less attractive: Threescar—you see my cheek.”

Liesa rinsed the cloth and handed it back to him, sitting on the grass a few feet away. “But that must be a second-name,” she said, “since it is just one of those names that tell how you look; like the one my father Dohan gave me, Summercurls. Surely you've another?”

The man laughed aloud, a friendly chuckle. “Oh, yes, Liesa Summercurls,” he said, “and more than one other. Letterseeker I am also called, and Lord of the Gladheel Downs. But indeed the name you ask for, my first-name, is Stoneglow.”

Liesa stared, fascinated, at the stranger-lord. Not a prince, but a lord at least! “I knew you were a noble, Lord Stoneglow,” she said. “Fisherfolk do not wear cloaks such as yours. Oh, how excited my brothers will be when they see you!”

“Hold on,” said Stoneglow, “I said I was called 'Lord of the Gladheel Downs,' not that I am a lord. I'm not—not by birth, certainly. I was given the title only as a gesture of friendship by a generous king—Mindilfir Hunterchief of the Narrow Woods. But you should call me Stoneglow Threescar.”

“Oh!” Liesa clapped both hands to her cheeks. “The Narrow Woods? What can that mean? Lord Stoneglow—Stoneglow Threescar, I mean—can it be that you have come from the Narrow Lands?”

“From the Narrow Lands?” said Stoneglow with a puzzled look. “I was blown north by a storm across the sea. My boat lies on the beach not far from here. Where in the Narrow Lands am I? I must return to Rivermouth, to the Mim beneath Barallas. I have friends there.”

Liesa was trembling. She forced herself to speak: “Oh, Stoneglow—these are not the Narrow Lands, these are the Broad Lands. Here we know nothing of `Gladheel Downs' or your Hunterchief, and I do not know how you can return. There is nothing to the south. If you truly came from there, then you have passed Karrath!”

“Passed Karrath? What do you mean?” Now he leaped up and bent over Liesa, seizing her shoulders, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Karrath, the Marker: a rock, tall and black, that comes out of the sea. None in our memory have seen it—only Artil of legend. The tales say that it appears only to those who sail from world to world, at the moment of change. The worthy are allowed to pass; the unworthy are dashed against it and killed.”

Stoneglow let go of her shoulders and drew back, pulling his mouth into a hard line. “Yes, I have seen it; but for me, it was named differently. Koronthos, the Boundary Stone. Yet not only the worthy may pass it, Liesa, for I do not count myself worthy, and I have passed it. Why? Why?”

She laughed then, breaking the tension. “It is often the worthy who doubt their worth,” she said, tossing her yellow curls.

“I will not dispute that,” he said courteously, “nor the wisdom of My Lady Summercurls.”

“Why, the one who came with you,” she explained. I saw her on the beach, near your boat by a fire. The lady with long dark hair—” Liesa drew back in dismay. The stranger's features were transformed. He looked for a moment like a hunted animal, then a warrior deep in the fury of battle.

Without warning he dropped the bundle of wood and drew his sword. “Maegeth!” he hissed, and the word struck Liesa like a whip. Then he shouted: “Maegeth!” and with no other word than that, the mysterious lord from the Narrow Lands, he who had passed Karrath, turned and ran full tilt back toward the beach.

Mad thoughts, like withered leaves scattered in a sudden wind, blew helter-skelter through his mind. Maegeth! Or her ghost? How could she be alive? She had been swept into the sea near Koronthos. Her sword was broken, her power gone. By all the gods, how could she have survived those terrible breakers? The chant he had heard from Garufel's lips came back to plague him:

A chill, colder than the cold morning, groped for Stoneglow's spine. He knew that chill: she was near, near! With the knowledge came a firm resolve. The Bodla! He had thought it lost forever in the sea. A surge of anger came over him. If she had it, he would take it from her—whatever the cost.

There was the Pride ahead, resting safely beyond the surf. Not far from the boat, the fire he had kindled at dawn still burned; and seated by it upon the sand was the Dark Maiden. She was wrapped in the blanket he had left to dry there. Her chin rested upon her drawn-up knees.

So she as well as I passed Karrath, thought Stoneglow. But only the worthy may do so. What, then, is the measure of worth, that a stark black stone may judge?

She looked up and got to her feet. He stopped his rush. Only the fire was between them. She faced him across the flamelicks, chin thrust forward, smiling cruelly, ignoring the threat of his blade. Then he saw the Bodla case a few feet away to his right, tossed carelessly as if discarded. He went to it and stooped, picking it up. The top was untied. The case was empty. He turned back to the Dark Maiden.

“What business is that of yours? She who has it, owns it. Have you brought another mistress? Is this your child bride?”

He followed her glance, whirled. Behind him was the girl, standing uncertainly near the Pride, her gaze fixed upon the Dark Maiden. Her yellow hair, disarrayed by running, fell in long waves about her shoulders. Innocent, her brown eyes showed no sign of fear. Rather she seemed hypnotized, gazing for the first time into that dark mirror where shadows come alive.

“Ah, ha, ha,” Maegeth laughed, “danger, he says. O yes, indeed danger now. I have seen to that. It's gone, the Nail, the curséd Nail. Now the dark will rise again: Ungrateful Dark, to quench the flame that has released it. You have lost, Scarface— you, and your wizard, and your women!”

She was intoxicated, delirious perhaps. Yet just then there was a crackle, a puff of dark smoke from the fire. Her eyes flicked down, then up again—too late. Stoneglow saw something in them— something...

He sprang forward, striking the blazing twigs with his sword tip, scattering sparks and ashes. Then he saw it: the Bodla, burning!

“AI, AI!” he snatched it up, scorching his fingers. He plunged the smouldering end in the sand, keeping Maegeth away with his sword. But she made no move. She watched expectantly, the smirk of victory still upon her face.

Then Stoneglow almost fell. The sand beneath his feet shifted sickeningly. It was tilting, tilting toward Maegeth. With an effort Stoneglow wrenched the blackened alder stick from the sand. It was burned half away.

The sand tilted again. Particles began rushing past him, a minor avalanche. Now Maegeth was lower than he, for the ground was sinking toward the place she stood. He drew away against the flow, struggling back toward the Pride and Liesa. The girl's back was pressed against the hull, her arms outspread and her hands clutching the reeds.

The depression in the sand became a hollow; the hollow, a steep funnel. It opened at the bottom. The remnants of the fire tumbled into the opening. It became a maw.

A gasp escaped Liesa's lips. As the pit stabilized, Maegeth cast away the blanket and stood naked but for the delicate chain at her throat. She faced the hole in the sand, arms extended down and forward, palms turned down.

What was there, underground, waiting behind an awful door? Unable to resist, Stoneglow and Liesa both gazed within.

Not words of normal tongue, those. Nor of the dronesong. Nor yet Mother of the Drone. Grandmother, maybe. Instinctively the Letterseeker strove after them, sought their meaning, even as he shrank from them. Compelling, subtler than voice—not evil! Urgings from a void emptier than anything malign. Ah, Stoneglow! Ought any living man come so near those tones of uttermost desire? For it was an utterance of Woman Beyond Woman that reached his open heart and wounded thrice; and thrice he writhed, each time torn by hatred lost 'midst worship!

Stoneglow's mind reeled. There was a fluttering overhead, but he could not look up to see what made it. Upon his inner hearing now a stream of words burst forth more terrifying than any that had come before.