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‘Spring rains and autumn mists,

            Spring rains and autumn mists.

            Mothers, guard your babes’ sleep.

            When the Lake-god beckons,

            The Sentries weaken,

            And mothers...mothers weep.’

 

 

                                                            ---from the ballad ‘Spring Rains and Autumn Mists’

 

 

 

‘Kiss your babe adieu.  Kiss your babe adieu,

            No more will ye hear your infant’s cries,

            Once the Lake-god claims his ties.

Kiss your babe adieu.  Kiss your babe adieu,

            Once the Lake-god claims his due,

            That is the lesser gods’ cue.

            No ’mount of tears will be of use,

            No curses to the gods will do.

            Mothers, hide your infants well,

            Lest this be your tale.’

 

                                               

                                                            ---from the ballad ‘The Lake-god claims his due’

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Corryn jolted awake. The echoes of his shout faded into unnatural silence before the sounds of the surrounding woods reasserted themselves. He swore and wiped a sleeve across his face. Autumn had come again, and with it the misty nights that gave his dreams almost-substance. Yet this autumn was drawing to an end and it was as though what had happened a year before had been but a dream. No young helmed lord riding on a beautiful sorrel mare had returned for him.

The night-owl hooted. Little Palemoon, almost hidden by a trail of clouds, winked at him through the forest canopy high above. He was about to lie down again when something sounded-something that struck a discord in the buzz of the nighttime forest. He reached for the bow that lay ready by his side.

Wishful thinking, or not?

It sounded again, the unmistakable ring of metal against metal, coming from the direction of Lake Silvermist. Corryn tossed aside his blanket. Pausing only to snatch up his bow and quiver, he stumbled out of his hiding place at the edge of the lakeside woods and began to run. He ran all the way to the rush-steeped banks, batted away the dangling willow branches to get right up to the water's edge. Above it hung a curtain of mist. He stood, heart pounding, peering into the haze as if determination alone would grant him his wish.

And perhaps it did.

For as he gazed, the mist parted to reveal a figure upon the lake. The figure was cloaked, and his cloak fluttered in the slight night breeze. His head shone in the faint light of Palemoon-the consequence of a helm, highly burnished. He held a sword in one hand, its blade throwing off glints into the night. In the crook of one arm rested a small bundle. The young lord of the year before stood upon Silvermist as if its waters had frozen to ice in the warmest autumn Corryn had ever known.

Light flashed from the middle of the Lake--the young lord had flourished his sword; light from bashful Palemoon glinted off the silver blade. One move, one graceful flourish, and the young lord took up another stance.

Mist dissolved into tendrils in the wake of the swordstroke, and more of the lake was revealed. The young lord faced an opponent. This taller figure was robed and cowled like a priest, and held a broadsword in one hand. They began to circle. The mist-steeped air shimmered as the broadsword plunged forward, cleaving its way to the silver sword. Blades clashed; sparks flew where steel met steel, scattering the last wisps of mist. The agility and uncanny balance of the young lord kept him out of the broadsword's reach, yet he seemed unable to force an end to the match.

Perhaps the little bundle was in the way.

A thin wraith-like wail echoed across the water. The young lord fell back a distance and looked down at his bundle. Pale stumps waved as the wailing rose and fell Some small treachery spun across the air and dug into the young lord's leg. He faltered a step. His opponent lost no time to best his advantage-the broadsword lunged forward. The young lord parried with a wild swing of the silver sword. He backed, almost slipped, twirled hard to regain his balance. The priest, wielding the broadsword in both hands, forced him back some more. Corryn had strung his bow against a handy rock. Now he nocked an arrow, drew it back and sighted down the shaft. He had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

He cursed as he lost aim amid the shifting wreaths of mist. Seeking a better vantage, he scrambled to his feet and ran along the shore. The mist shifted again, and a new sight met his eyes: the young lord on one knee, cradling the bundle in the crook of one arm, lifting his head-oh, so slowly it seemed a dream-and turning to face the broadsword intended for his heart.

Corryn let loose his arrow. Before he knew whether it found its mark, he stepped forward and crashed into the rush-steeped waters, tripped by a trailing willow frond. He thrashed around in terror, the old folktales of his childhood coming back to haunt him. He was in shallow water, but all he could think of was that it was dark and the lake-god held sway. Gulping air as he could, he flailed his arms for some small anchor and found it, the goddess be thanked, after an eternity. He hauled himself out, shaken more from sheer terror than any injury. His bow and quiver lay dry upon the grass, dropped as he fell. Mist hung across the lake, but the clanging of metal upon metal gave him fresh hope. Shivering in the damp and cold, he nocked another arrow.

The mist shifted yet again, revealing a sight that transfixed him. A trail of sparks raced towards the young lord across the surface of the lake. He stumbled back several paces and tossed the bundle aloft. It hovered high in the mist-steeped air. The trail of sparks slammed into him and crept up to envelop his body. The priest leapt for the bundle and snatched it from the air. Corryn's arrows he batted away as if they were bothersome flies. Sparks flew as the air was shot through with gold; the young lord broke free of the magery. He rallied, surging through the shower of gold, silver sword to the fore.

His opponent had one simple manoeuvre for answer-he twisted the bundle around to lie as shield across his chest. The young lord wrenched back his sword. The priest hurled the bundle into the air. As the young lord leapt for it, his opponent struck. Blood flew in an arc. The young lord fell. He rolled to face the falling bundle, reached out and gestured. The bundle drifted down, light as a feather, and skimmed across the surface of Silvermist.

One arrow sped true. The priest yowled, spun round and peered through the floating tendrils of mist. The next arrow swerved round him and came hurtling back. Corryn ran for cover, slid behind a rock and dared a look over the top. The priest's attention was now fully taken with the young lord who, lying on his stomach, had one arm stretched towards the bundle. The priest slammed his hand upon the water, and the young lord, a distance away, jolted once. The bundle slid towards the priest. The young lord again reached towards it.

"Look out!" Corryn shouted, standing, mindless of exposing himself to the goddess knew what. The silver sword deflected another throwing-knife, but barely. Corryn despaired. Just as the young lord was running out of steam, he was running out of arrows. He unleashed the last ones, not hoping for a hit now, merely trying for distraction. As the young lord rolled to his feet, his opponent slammed his hand down again. The young lord dropped to one knee. In the time it took him to straighten, the priest had claimed the bundle.

The young lord fair flew across the expanse of the lake. He leapt--not far enough, not high enough. His fingers snagged on a piece of cloth as his opponent twisted away, the cowl falling back to reveal a shaven head. The priest disappeared in a wreath of autumn mist. The surface of the lake shimmered and shattered into myriad pieces, from the center all the way to the reed-strewn shallows at Corryn's feet, dissolving into mere lapping of waters. When Corryn looked up again to where the fight had taken place, there was nothing left to be seen.

He found a mud-churned, blood-flecked trail leading away from the lake, but it was dreadful unclear in the uncertain light of the lesser moon. The horses attracted his attention in the end. He saw the sorrel first, which he recognized with a leap of his heart, and then a shaggy piebald. And there, lying against a tree trunk, was the slight figure of the young lord. He still wore his helm, and the lattice visor hid his face as before.

"Lost…" he murmured, clutching a small piece of cloth in one hand. "May the goddess forgive me. No one else will, not now. Lost, by all that's unholy. Lost…"

Corryn crept closer. Blood seeped through the young lord's breeches. The fine cloak, wrapped haphazardly around the wound, would doubtless be ruined. He ripped apart the cloth binding his quiver, all his own clothes being wet, and reached towards the bloodstained cloak. The young lord flinched away, his hand tightening around the sword lying oh-so-carelessly by his side.

"Nay. Leave be."

"It's Corryn, young milord. We met here by the lake a year past." Eyes flashed behind the latticed visor-a gleam of recognition perhaps. Suddenly minded of his own unusual appearance, Corryn ducked his head.

"You were in a hurry to leave, but I said I'd wait here for you, young milord."

"One never bade thee wait! Thou…" The young lord swore, Corryn was certain of it, though not in a tongue with which he was familiar.

"Thou didst wait a year?" The young lord groaned. "One did think thee courageous but foolhardy. Now one thinks thee a fool."

Corryn bristled. "I…am late of the Sands." He lowered his eyes at mention of his birthplace, though the young lord must have noted them long before now. He contemplated the sword, the fine filigree scabbard, the guard fashioned in delicate whorls of silver. "Young lord," he blurted, "if you prove human after all I've seen this night and that night a year past, I…I would learn from you. I have skills with bow and arrow. I could squire for you." "Squire?"

Corryn flushed. He had been presumptuous. Most squires were highborn, after all. "I would be your liegeman, then. Take me on and I will serve you, that I will."

"Nay, youngling," he replied, and anger rose within Corryn at the words, for surely there were not so many years between them. "The sham-priest will not return in a hurry, one assures thee. All the same, a bit of advice. Leave this place. It is not a sanctuary for such as thyself."

Corryn's face burned, he was that certain the young lord read fugitive in his looks. "I do not fear being left here," he said. "I would merely prefer to leave with you, in your service."

Within the helm, the eyes closed. "Lad, leave be."

Corryn took a breath and considered. The young lord was injured and needed tending. If he could show himself capable of tending to the injuries, the young lord might prove more amenable to taking on a liegeman. He set hands to the cloak again.

"Nay!" The tone was sharp this time. "Poison…" The young lord took up a small vial by his side and poured its contents on his wound under cover of his cloak. A flask he withdrew, turned slight away to lift his visor and took a long draught. He wiped his lips with a cross of his sleeve before letting the visor ring down again. "Touch not the wound, lad," he said then, not unkindly. "The poison is dangerous to thee."

"But you are grievous hurt. And need tending."

"Youngling, I charge thee, upon thine honor. Leave be."

Corryn bided, impatience gnawing at his heart. At length, the young lord's head drooped. Corryn essayed a hand near, brushed the matted cloak with his fingers. Not a stir. He was sorely tempted to disobey the young lord's command, but he stopped to consider. What if the young lord meant to test his obedience? Would he lose out by acting out of compassion? He crouched there, heart and mind pulling him two ways, until he decided the young lord had set him a test. All the same, there was no reason not to make the young lord more comfortable. The command had been not to touch the wound, that was all.

So, he tried to remove the burnished helm. The fine metal lattice covering the entire face proved difficult to maneuver until he found two small latches at the bottom, which when pressed released the lattice visor upwards into a hidden channel within the helm. This he then removed, cradling the young lord's head in one hand. A warrior's braid, no less than he had expected, appeared. He felt for its beginnings-high, very high up the back of the head.

Corryn smiled. The degree of honor awarded to a warrior was reflected in the origin of one's braid. In his childhood, Corryn had seen little more than braids starting no higher than the napes of a few strutting lordlings. Something glinted. A strand of gold was braided into the young lord's hair to show noble descent. When the light improved, he would see the colors of the other strands. One would show the House, and ofttimes there would be a third to show the Allegiance. Dawn light began to filter through the leafy canopy high above.

Corryn looked up at the whinny of horses from the other end of the clearing. "Aye, aye," he cajoled them from a distance. "I'll be seeing to you after I finish tending to your master." He turned back to the young lord. His heart missed a long beat. He blinked and wiped a sleeve across his eyes. It was a night deprived of sleep did that to a man-that and the unreal happenings of the night. But as dawn grew to illuminate the woods, Corryn's heart picked up speed. With growing alarm, he backed away from the figure lying at his feet. It could not be. Surely, it could not be.

But the light of dawn could not lie. It lit up the youthful face, brow smooth in sleep, eyes closed, cheeks pale from loss of blood, unmarred by stubble. Corryn felt his own cheeks, still untouched by the razor, a sore point with him at his age. It meant nothing, surely. Though…though what of the shape, the contours, the soft, curving planes of the face? What, goddess above, of those features?

He crouched with his back against a tree, hugging himself, all his daydreams fit to shatter on this one technicality. His eyes traveled down to the chest, so well-hidden by the fine-linked mail tunic, down to the injured leg which he had been commanded not to touch. One hand-slim, long-fingered-gripped the silver sword. The other rose to dash sweat off a fevered brow. The sleeper shifted restlessly and gasped in pain. Corryn could bear it no more. He edged closer, lifted one edge of the cloak and grimaced as fresh blood oozed from the clotted mess beneath. He breathed an apology and set to work.

Corryn sat back on his heels. It had taken him some time to cleanse the deep wound. He had sniffed at and tasted the contents of the flask and judged it to be medicinal wine, quite appropriate for cleansing. He had then bathed and bound the wound as best he could, using strips of cloth torn from a spare shirt found in the piebald's saddlebag. He had left the tunic of fine-linked chainmail alone, lifting the hem only enough to get to the wound. Neither belt nor sword had been in his way, so he had not had to move them, but now that his job was done, his eyes strayed to the raised patterns embossed upon the sheath of the silver sword. He reached out, meaning no more than to run his fingers over the patterns, when a fey, uncanny force struck his hand away. He leapt to his feet, backed off so fast he fell against a tree-bole at the opposite end of the clearing. He sat there nursing his throbbing fingers, numbness spreading up his arm. Heart pounding, he cursed long and low.

What, in the goddess's name, was that all about?

Four seasons he had waited; four seasons he had dreamed. One day, he had told himself, one day the young lord would return for him and he would have a liege-lord to follow. He would be able to leave these woods behind and rejoin the world of men. And though the helmed figure had, indeed, returned, there was so much more Corryn had not bargained for. He cast the sword another glance, taking care to stay a respectful distance away. Full silver it was-hilt, guard and sheath. Inlaid in the silver pommel was a gemstone, round, faceted and completely devoid of color. It glinted and shone at him, bright as nothing he had seen in this world.

To calm himself, and to stop his head spinning with all the folktales of his childhood, he turned to deal with the two horses. The mare was loose but did not protest when he made an attempt to tether her, not too close to the piebald gelding. The latter was saddled and tethered as if in some haste. The sorrel, too, was saddled, though her stirrups were raised high and secured.

As soon as he had finished with the beautiful, well-behaved sorrel and the shaggy, somewhat ill-tempered piebald, he walked back and crouched down, taking care to give the sword wide berth. He reached out one hand and lifted the warrior braid. Twined partly around the strand of gold, nestled deep within the chestnut hair, was a glinting strand of silver. Corryn swallowed. He checked several times, but there was no other strand, and the silver was silver and not a trick of the light. It was silver, and that could only mean one thing.

'What…?'

Corryn released the braid at once and stumbled back several paces. A gasp sounded as pain ripped through a body patently not recovered from the rigors of the night. One hand reached out to the bandaged wound, then up to the unprotected face which then paled even more.

"Lady, please! I can explain." Corryn's eyes were on the sword, against which he stood not a chance. "You were bleeding so. I had to tend to you." Her eyes flashed, and her grip on the sword tightened so her knuckles showed deathly white.

"One did charge thee," she said, her voice constricted by rage, "upon thine honor. Hath thou none?"

"You were bleeding fit to die!" he said then, angry at the situation, at her, at himself for stupidly waiting all this past year. More than all that, fury heated him at her questioning a Sandsman's honor. It did not occur to him then that he no longer had any claim to the Sands.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity; then her hand dropped from the hilt of her sword. She winced as she moved her leg. Another long moment passed while she laid hands to the bandage he had tied. She did not pull it apart.

"Corryn," she said then, glancing up at him, "late of the Sands."

He nodded, relieved and more than halfway pleased she remembered. "Aye."

"Thou art far from home."

He shrugged.

"Art thou homeward bound?"

Reason told him it could end right here, right now. She was working up to dismissing him. He could cut his losses and run. A year he had wasted, but he was young, and he might well happen upon other warriors and liege-lords, ones not averse to taking on liegemen. And, please the goddess, he meant to follow a liege-lord, not some lady, least of all one with silver twined within her hair.

He was thinking of an answer that would not offend her or make himself look bad when she muttered something in a tongue all fey and strange. She was looking in the direction of the lake, her brow furrowed, and biting her lip. She looked very young, and deathly pale, and he wondered how she would fare by herself, injured and far from home.

She glanced across at him with a frown. "Well, art thou homeward bound?"

He took a breath. "Not unless you plan to go that way."

She blinked. "One's plans are one's own."

"Lady, I waited for you. Four seasons I waited."

She picked up her helm, pulled herself up by a limb of the tree and tried her balance. "Thou didst wait, one is willing to wager, but not for me." She made her way to the two horses at the other end of the clearing. Her face betrayed no emotion as she saw both sorrel and piebald unsaddled and freshly groomed.

"Thou didst wait for some paladin, some knight-errant." She was already saddling the sorrel, struggling with the girth. Her hands faltered and she swore-he was certain of it, though the words, in a tongue unknown to him, sounded soft and fair. "Thou didst wait by a Silver Lake." Slowly, she turned around and stared at him. "Goddess help thee, thou didst wait for a Sentry."

He could not deny what she had so shrewdly surmised. For was it not sung in ballads of old that Sentries kept watch by the accursed Silver Lakes? A Sentry of a Lake. A knight among knights. Their squires the envy of all, for legend had it that some with humble origins went on to become Sentries in their own right. Certain fodder for the imagination of a country lad, to be sure.

Corryn heaved a long sigh. "I waited for the helmed warrior who fought on water." That, leastways, was true, but she shook her head and laughed. It sounded hollow and bitter, which was how he felt. "Lady," he said then, as if he needed the confirmation, "with all due respect, you are no Sentry."

She looked right at him and shook her head. A small piece of cloth fluttered from her sleeve. She caught it in one hand and stood staring at it, as if the events of the past night had only just then returned to haunt her. She toppled back a step, would have fallen had he not grasped her by the elbow.

"Have care," he chided. "You are still mortal weak."

"Lost…" she cried, but softly-so softly it smote him to the heart to hear the grief in her voice. She murmured something then, in her own tongue, all strange and fair. She shook free of his hand and clung to the saddle, perhaps working up the strength to mount.

He despaired, not being able to lay hands to help or hinder her. "Bide a little while. You are not fit to ride, not for any distance." She elbowed him out of the way, flung herself to saddle and sat up straight, face pinched with pain at the effort. He hung to the reins.

"You owe me, Lady," he said, trying a different tack.

Let her take it as she would, whatever did not dishonor her, as the tending of her wound undoubtedly did in her mind. He had shot arrows aplenty the previous night. He had tended to her horses and near enough gotten a shod hoof in his leg for his troubles. He did not flatter himself to think he had saved her life by refashioning a bandage, but he had done what he could to make her comfortable.

She looked down into his face as if seeing him for the first time. That he could hardly bear, though perhaps it meant her thoughts were recalled from the bundle from which she had tugged loose the piece of cloth. The clearing of her eyes was gift enough to him that moment, a welcome sanity from the chaos of all that had gone before.

"Aye. One owes thee, and one must pay one's dues." She gestured towards the shaggy-maned piebald. "Dost thou ride?"

He would have said aye to anything, and the fact he was no great horseman did not keep him from the evil-tempered gelding. He gave the piebald a stern and steady look and mounted full carefully.

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