Weador's clothing looked far richer than the serviceable wool garments of his servants. His mantle, draping him to the thighs, was made of carefully stitched mouse pelts, decorated with the subtle under- feathers of a pheasant, and was held closed with a shiny gold brooch. Fine-spun spider-silk garments dyed in the muted tones of the earth completed his stately appearance.
Every one of Weador's ten fingers, short, thick, and fringed with downy white hairs, carried a ring of a natural substance: several of carved, creamy scrimshaw, ivory, stone, and wood. In his right hand was the scepter he had used as a walking stick. Its tip was a bleached-white turtle skull. The eye sockets had been replaced with pure, shining gold.
Cbe CDe usa plague
Guerrand noticed all these things and was properly impressed. Yet the feature that caught his attention and held it was the king's frosty blue eyes. King Weador's eyes were the saddest Guerrand had ever seen.
"Rise." In that one word, the king's voice was like the sound of fog rolling over the Strait of Ergoth, like wind through willow leaves, like raindrops on a thatch roof, like all of the sounds defined by words. "I apologize for my methods, but the sleep spell seemed the gentlest way to keep you here when you seemed determined to leave.
"I must also apologize for my delay," King Weador continued, lowering himself upon a throne that grew before their eyes from a small toadstool. "I have not traveled with a destination in mind recently and did not properly gauge the time needed in human terms."
All manner of responses came to mind at once, but none came to Guerrand's lips.
"I will waste no more time," continued King Weador, "since there will be little left for us here unless we three reach some manner of understanding. I feel compelled to seek it before commanding an exodus."
"With all due respect," Guerrand began, "why should we listen to you after the way we've been treated? Honorable wizards who seek the cooperation of strangers don't usually get it by casting spells upon those strangers."
The king bowed his head with good grace. "Forgive me, but I could not risk your leaving before we spoke. The presence of my people-and yours-in Northern Ergoth depends upon it."
Guerrand was intrigued, as Weador had intended. "Go on," he said softly.
Weador's blue eyes blinked. "Though most of you are unaware of our existence," he began, "humans and tuatha have a symbiotic relationship. That is, when the humans thrive, we tuatha thrive, and vice versa. We secretly clean your houses, tend your gardens and fields, turn your mills, and perform myriad other daily tasks that make humans happy and fruitful. In turn, we flourish, both from the increased production and the positive energy stimulated by all aspects of a thriving economy.
"We have been in Ergoth since the beginning of time, since the construction of the magical pillars at Stone- cliff. We survived the Cataclysm here, when Ergoth was divided into two islands, and the subsequent droughts, floods, and famines. But never, in all that time, has the decay here been as severe as it is now. This plague has affected even the tuatha, as young Bram noticed in our Thistledown's face."
"But the plague is over," Bram exclaimed. "Guerrand made the moon two-dimensional so-"
"I am aware of what occurred," the king cut in gently. "But you are shortsighted if you think curing the cause of the plague will instantly erase all of its aftereffects."
"What do you mean?" Bram asked.
"Most of the animals have been slaughtered," the king explained. "Crops have yet to be planted, nor are they likely to be, since tuatha scouts report that many of the grain stores were destroyed by Thonvil's hay- ward in the hysteria over the source of the plague. With the seed stores gone, how will the already low food supply be replenished?"
"I have some seeds at Castle DiThon," said Bram. "If they aren't enough, I'll buy or beg what I can from villages that weren't affected by the plague."
The king's snow-white head shook imperceptibly. "I hope that will be enough, for we tuatha can only augment what exists. If little or nothing exists to embellish, then we are forced to move on to survive."
"And if you move on," prompted Guerrand, catching the king's direction at last, "then Thonvil, in its already fragile state, will very likely perish."
The king snapped his thick fingers. "Exactly."
"So what are you telling us to do?" asked Bram.
"Humans are not subject to my rulership," the king reminded him placidly. "I'm merely suggesting options. If you care about the survival of the village or the presence of the tuatha, then you must work immediately to restore the lands."
"You know, of course," began Bram, "that I've been trying to do just that for many years. The tuatha have been helping me."
"That might have been enough," conceded the tuatha king, "if not for this plague. However, time is critical now. The village will survive only if someone provides direction and leadership that has long been lacking here."
Bram fidgeted. "Thonvil already has a lord in my father."
"Yes, I know." The pause that followed spoke volumes about the king's opinion of Cormac DiThon. "A little more than two of your decades ago, I predicted this decline and took what steps I could to stave it off. We increased intervention in your fields and homes," the king continued. "I daresay our efforts made the difference, in the last decade, between eating and not for many of your villagers. I know it did for us tuatha."
"You're suggesting I seize my father's authority," said Bram.
Guerrand had no love for Cormac. There was no doubt his brother should have relinquished his authority to Bram years ago. "Haven't you all but done that anyway?" he asked his nephew.
"I had hoped to spare my father some measure of dignity," conceded Bram, "though he has done nothing
toward that himself."
"We," said the king, speaking royally, "have taken other, more severe, measures to prevent Thonvil from perishing." His intense blue eyes held Guerrand's meaningfully before settling upon Bram. "But they have yet to yield fruit. I am not without hope; however, I don't think Thonvil can wait."
Guerrand felt a precognitive shiver run through his body.
"Let us assume, for the sake of argument," said Bram, "that I'm willing to oust my lord and father. Just how am I supposed to lead the people to salvation?"
"You are a human of high intellect and moral character," the king remarked, "not unlike the previous lord, Rejik DiThon. He was a strong and virtuous leader."
"I was very young when my grandfather died," reflected Bram. "I'm afraid I remember precious little about him, and certainly not enough to emulate his behavior."
"But your uncle does." Though his words were directed at Bram, the king's frosty eyes held Guerrand's. "Can you envision what your father could have accomplished during his reign if he'd had an able mage at his side?"
The question strummed a sharp memory chord, and Guerrand nodded vaguely. Even his small magics had brought new life to the small village of Harrowdown- on-the-Schallsea.
"Then imagine how Bram's compassionate rule and your magic could restore this land," prompted the long.
Guerrand recalled, too well, a discussion with Cormac on the very subject. He'd tried to convince his brother to conquer his fear of magic and see the good it could do in Thonvil. But, of course, Cormac had flatly refused to consider that magic was anything but evil.