"Good day," called Silme a bit too loudly, as if the dream-reader's failing vision might affect her ears as well.
"Good morning, Lady Silme." The dream-reader bobbed her head once at the sorceress and again for Gaelinar. "Kensei." She waited patiently for Silme's introduction of the strangers.
"Lord Allerum and Brendor the:"
"Apprentice," Brendor interrupted in an excited squeak. "Silme's going to teach me my shave spell!"
Unable to discern expressions from her patrons' blurred faces, the dream-reader watched Silme's life aura for clues to her disposition. Now, the edges tinged pink with annoyance. Beside high rank Dragonschool, the reader's own aura seemed faded as the old cloak across her shoulders. "Have you come to visit an aging woman or for business?" asked the dream-reader, hoping for the latter. It was common knowledge Silme consorted with gods. Only desperation would drive Dragon-rank to the lowly magics of a dream-reader. And desperation had its price.
"Business." Silme stroked the shaft of her staff thoughtfully. "Lord Allerum has a dream for your interpretation."
The dream-reader took one step forward and peered at Larson through slitted eyes. Closer, she recognized the small frame and angularity of an elf. But his long fingers balled nervously against the side of his breeches in a gesture uncharacteristic for a creature of faery. "I should gladly serve you, mistress." The dream-reader stepped around Larson. "In exchange, surely you have the power to cure an old woman's affliction." She pressed forward, giving Silme the full effect of her clouded stare.
Multi-hued light flickered briefly through Silme's aura. "Forgive me, lady. The spell you seek is within my power but not part of my repertoire. I can't help you."
Fearing to lose a chance at sight, the dream-reader persisted. "A mage of your rank has disciples. Surely one of them:" She trailed to silence, awaiting the sorceress' reply.
Silme's life aura shimmered and swelled as she weighed alternatives. "The cost of spells for conju -ration and exchange would exceed that necessary to heal you. They would weaken me."
The dream-reader said nothing, aware Silme's need for her services could bargain better than words.
"Even then," continued Silme, "I couldn't be certain the contacted wizard would agree to help you."
"I ask only that you try." The dream-reader tried to sound humble. "Nothing more."
"All right then," Silme responded in a hoarse whisper. She walked away from her companions and crouched on the frozen soil. Her life aura blazed like wind-stoked fire, then folded around her in a glimmering shield. Gaelinar strode forward and positioned himself before her, eyes watchful, hands tensed at his sides.
A slight smile shivered across the dream-reader's lips as she turned her attention to Larson. She shifted her shriveled hands to his shoulders. Sweat soaked through the fresh cloth of his tunic. He trembled slightly as a rising breeze flicked soft, pale hair and the folds of his newly-purchased silk cape against the reader's wrists. "Concentrate on your dream, so I can locate it," she informed him gently. "And try to lower your defenses."
The dream-reader knew her final suggestion was ineffectual routine. Only men accustomed to mental searches could withdraw defenses with any success. Thought invasion induced reflexive closure of the mind and its secrets. Anticipating a long session of relaxation techniques, the dream-reader thrust her consciousness toward the elf.
To her surprise, she met no resistance. Her mental probe passed effortlessly into Larson's mind, and his thought processes spread before her like the workings of a clock. It was not an elven mind; it lacked the wire-thin pathways and array of colors. It was a human mind and badly flawed. Passages looped in blind circles or linked with unrelated thoughtways in random binds and breaks. The effect seemed not unlike the looping chaos of stuffing from a torn doll. Though curious, the dream-reader avoided the strange conglomeration and focused on the faintly-glowing configuration which indicated Larson's present abstraction. Exploring other avenues of thought would betray the trust of her client.
The dream assumed the clarity of a play. The dream-reader saw the trees as Larson's link with the forest of his then current reality. The trunks muted to rivers, and Larson's memory of their names highlighted their importance to his vision. The titles which seemed foreign to Larson rolled through her mind like old friends: Svol the cool and Gunnthra the defiant, Fjorm and loud-bubbling Fimbulthul, Slidr the fearsome river of daggers and swords, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, and Vid the broad, Leipt which streaks like lightning, and frozen Gjoll. These were the eleven rivers which cascaded through Midgard straight to Hel and the roaring cauldron of the spring, Hvergelmir.
The dream-reader of Forste -Mar saw the glowing form of the sword, Valvitnir, as the dream-Larson tossed it into the tumult of the Helspring. Hungrily, Hvergelmir swallowed the offering, and the dream-reader felt the relief inspired by the powerful being who had invaded Larson's thoughts and fashioned his vision. She found the misstep which caused the dream weaver to trigger unbidden memories of Vietnam and the misplaced circuits which amplified them to pain and awakened
Larson screaming. Gently, the dream-reader withdrew. She stepped away from her subject to face Silme and Gaelinar.
Silme waited expectantly, her life aura dulled by effort. "Within the week, expect a visit from an aged wizard of amber rank. He has agreed to lift your curse of nature."
Excitement plied the dream-reader like a faery dance, but she resisted response for the sake of dignity. "Bless you, mistress," she managed at length. "And the elf's dream is clear. Some divine being bid him on a quest to fling his sword into the spring of Hel at the tip of the deepest root of the World Tree."
In the silence which followed her explanation, the dream-reader continued. "You must realize, I can only interpret the dream. I can't guess who inspired it, nor the motive behind the quest. Loki's realm is unfit for any but the dead, and a journey even to its borders unsafe for man or elf or god. Legend says any object which falls into Hvergelmir is utterly destroyed. Unless the sword contains the essence of a most unholy creature, I can't fathom why the gods would send the elf on such a task."
Larson seemed about to speak, then went still. "How do we find this Helspring?" asked Silme softly.
The dream-reader tugged her hood against the wind. "North of town find the river Svip. Followed seven days it widens to Sylg which will bring you, in several more days, to the valleys of darkness which lead to the underworld. Eleven rivers coalesce before the golden bridge the dead must cross to enter Hel. They join at Hvergelmir." Pity rose for the four companions saddled with a quest envied by no man. "Something strikes me odd about pure gods sending minions to Loki's realm. If you'll forgive the advice of an elderly woman who has experienced more than most, the oracle of Hargatyr lies less than a day trip off your course. She can tell you whether destroying the sword will serve Midgard well or ill."
Silme's life aura guttered like an aging candle flame. "We thank you lady, for both direction and advice."
The men muttered gracious words. Then the four companions turned and made their way northward along the main track of Forste -Mar. The dream-reader watched until they passed beyond sight of her diseased eyes, and still she waited several minutes longer. Tipping back her hood, she let the breeze swirl her curled gray locks like sea foam. She loosed a single scream of joy and skipped toward her cottage for the first time since childhood:
At the base of the spring, Hvergelmir, Loki paced before Bramin, his golden hair streaming like the mane of a lion. "We must stop them, Hatespawn."