Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening
Chapter 3

The tavern was more thronged and the audience far more rowdy and

boisterous than usual; the fishing fleet had arrived safely back in their home port that very day, and by evening time the initial relief had become a drunken celebration. The crowds surged along the streets, which were narrow enough to begin with, squashed as they were between the sea and the cliffs which reared behind the town, and in and out of the many taverns, all of which were already packed to the doors with cheerful patrons.

There was a frenetic edge to their enthusiasm, as if the revellers were aware of the uncertainties of the future and were trying to lay up some good memories against the even harder times that were sure to come. The catch had been not been particularly good, and fish stocks had now been very low for longer than anyone could remember, but at the moment that was not the main concern of the townspeople. The men had come home in safety from the arms of the old grey widowmaker, and surely that was reason enough for anyone to be glad.

In their excitement they scarcely noticed the musicians playing in the corner. Targon and Kitti were not used to such offhand treatment; the combination of the quality of their music plus their judiciously applied controlling magic was usually enough to guarantee an attentive and generous crowd. But on this particular evening even their best efforts and their most popular songs and reels seemed to drift by largely unappreciated amid the crush and the bustle. As Kitti’s frequent and progressively fierce calls for quiet were utterly ignored, she became more and more annoyed.

Targon was much more understanding and sanguine.

“Don’t get so upset,” he said equably, “they have good reasons to be in such high spirits. The storms have been so intense, and the tides so fickle, any boat that returns is a victory, and every family in the town would have had someone on those fishing-boats.”

“Still, even a goody-goody like you will be upset when the takings are down and we can’t afford to eat. What are we going to live on? Your good humour?” said Kitti, her voice unusually hoarse, as much from shouting at the crowd to be quiet as from the evening’s singing, and becoming even more irritated by her companion’s equanimity as they gathered their instruments together at the end of the set.

“Maybe we should learn some new tunes - something to suit ill-mannered fools,” she continued, “Or, even better, some repetitive mantras to pack them all off to sleep; maybe then we could check their pockets, at least then we’d be sure of adequate recompense for their evening’s diversion.”

“Don’t worry; I don’t think our profits will be too badly affected,” said Targon, setting the lute in it’s cushioned case and snapping the buttons to close it with his usual extreme care. Next to Kitti, his lute was by far the most precious thing in his life. Kitti, despite her bad temper, was every bit as careful with her fiddle and flute, and both of them reckoned their music to be a gift rather than just a means to a livelihood.

“Even if they were too excited to be quiet they at least felt receptive to my occasional suggestion of generosity,” Targon continued, “Their high spirits will also have helped us in that way; a happy and contented crowd is a more benevolent crowd, as you well know, little one.”

Then his tone changed, becoming more serious.

“But there was another thing I could feel - something more,” he said.

“Something more?” said Kitti suspiciously, “what do you mean by that?”

“I sensed a deep interest in us from one section of the room, and not only that, whoever it was became aware of my mind-searching. Probably just one individual, but I could not single him, or her, out; there were too many people coming and going. I would suspect, though, that whoever it was will soon make themselves known to us; I could sense a great curiosity and urgency.”

“Did this interest seem hostile?” inquired Kitti with a worried frown, looking around the room warily.

“No,” said Targon, “But it felt very strong, very formidable. Whoever it is, whoever comes to meet us, they will be worth reckoning with, I’m sure.”

“Why would anyone be looking for us?” said Kitti, “We haven’t done anything wrong; well, not for a while anyway.”

They made their way with some difficulty through the crowds to the bar of the tavern and ordered bread, cheese, ale and soup, which as usual had been included as part of their performance fee. They had no trouble replaceing a quiet space to eat; even in the midst of such good-humoured crowds the mark of the Mfecane was on them, a sign of fear and dread to all in the Free Nations, and they were treated with

caution and circumspection. As they approached a bench, the incumbent patrons made way for them in silence, their high spirits quenched for the moment.

Kitti received a pleasant surprise when she counted the takings. As Targon had predicted, they were as substantial as could have been expected during such hard times and might be sufficient to see them comfortably off for the next few weeks.

With this more congenial prospect ahead she was eating more contentedly when Targon nudged her.

“He comes,” he said.

The man approaching them was unremarkable; wiry, medium height, cropped black hair going grey at the temples, weathered skin, dark shirt and cloak.

“I believe you have been waiting for me,” he said.

Targon rose and bowed graciously in greeting, his deformity becoming even more apparent during this movement. A few bystanders started in surprise, and stared inadvertently at him before being cowed by Kitti’s fierce glare and looking away in embarrassment.

Targon gestured to the empty bench beside him.

“I sensed you tonight for the first time, but now I wonder if you have in truth been following us for a while, and only permitted me to locate you tonight.”

“You are correct,” confessed the stranger, “I know of the mind-search and of how to disguise against it. But it was difficult, much more difficult than I had expected, to hide from you. Your talent is very vital, and that is one of the reasons I have a great need to speak to you.”

Kitti was much less welcoming.

“You two are really getting on well; like old friends already, aren’t you? But what I want to know is; have you been following us or not?” she demanded, “I don’t like the idea of somebody shadowing us. And what do you mean by “reasons” for speaking to us? What reasons? Where did you come from? Who sent you? And who are you anyway?”

The man held up a hand in mock protest, and Targon could see that his palms were rutted and calloused, although otherwise his hands and nails were clean and well cared for. Not the hands of a stranger to hard work, he thought.

“Questions, question, so many questions,” said the man.

Then he leaned into the table and beckoned them closer.

“But I know who you are, Kitti and Targon,” he whispered, his tone at once becoming intense and fierce, “And I know all about you; victims of the Mfecane, minstrels and vagabonds and practitioners of the magic arts. I will tell you who I am, and why I am here, but it will take a long time, and there may be many inquisitive and unfriendly ears listening to us even now.”

“So I suggest we save our discussion for a later, more discreet time. Besides,” he continued, sitting back, lifting his legs up wearily and propping them on a stool, and speaking more loudly and casually again, “I have been travelling all day. I am tired and hungry and I could eat a horse.”

“And horse is probably just what you’ll get in this place,” grumbled Kitti.

Her warning did not affect the old man’s appetite, and she was forced to sit restlessly while he ordered and ate his meal with evident and deliberate relish. At last he sat back, patting his stomach with an expression of deep satisfaction.

“That,” he said, “was a most satisfying repast, even if it probably was horse-meat. I am strongly tempted to wash it down with some of the fine strong ales which this goodly tavern offers, but I feel we should quench Kitti’s curiosity before I enjoy myself any further. I will take you to my home, if you agree; it is not far.”

“Why should we trust you?” said Kitti, “You could be bringing us anywhere, leading us into a trap. We can defend ourselves, I warn you.”

“Kitti”, said Targon, “Remember, I have mind-searched him. I sensed no evil intent there; we will be quite safe.”

“You and your precious mind-search,” she said, “If he was good enough to hide from you for so long he might be good enough to deceive you as well.”

The sun glimmered low on the western horizon as they stood looking out over the cliffs at a choppy grey sea. A green lawn, closely cropped by rabbits and sure-footed sheep, led down to the cliff’s edge.

“Don’t tell me that this is it!” demanded Kitti, pointing an accusing finger at their guide, “This is your home? You live up here? We walk for three hours to get to this? This is where you want us to have our talk? Pretty draughty and uncomfortable, I should think. It‘s discreet alright, I’ll give you that, there must not be another person for miles. And the sheep won’t talk.”

“No, no, no, no, and if my count is right, no again,” he said.

He lead them right to the edge of the cliff, which was overhung with scutch grass and bracken, and made them swing over the lip and drop blindly for a few feet, where they were glad to replace a cleverly hidden path leading down the wind-scored face. At the bottom the path opened onto a very narrow shingle beach, completely concealed from above by the overhang. Their guide walked to the edge of the beach, the shingle crunching beneath his boots, and stood looking out expectantly over the sea for some moments, as if he was waiting for something to happen. The tide was sweeping in, eager for the shore, and they could already feel the spray of the breakers, although the wind was not particularly strong.

“Whatever you are going to do, do it quickly,” said Kitti. The swell was formidable and the currents around the shores of the Western Sea were known to be unrelenting.

Their guide looked round at them.

“Do not be afraid,“ he said, “The Silkies come.”

“Silkies? What are they?” said Kitti.

“See for yourself,” said the old man, and as he spoke three slender figures rose gracefully from the waves and stepped onto the rocks which flanked the beach.

They were framed against the setting sun, but to Kitti they seemed to shimmer and twist in the air for a moment, before coming closer, their hands held out in greeting. They were tall and slim, with pale alabaster skin, and they wore long blue robes. There were two men and a woman, and it was the woman who spoke first. Her hair, in contrast to shaven heads of the men who accompanied her, was of the deepest blue, and was long and flowing, almost down to her waist. She also wore a single green jewel in the centre of her forehead, which glowed with a soft light. Apart from that they were unadorned.

“Keeper,” said the woman, warmly embracing the old man, and the others followed her example in turn, “The Seas are glad for your safe return to us.”

“It’s where I feel safe and whole again, my dear friends. I miss my little hideaway so very much,” he replied.

The newcomers turned to Targon and Kitti.

“I am Qiri,” said the woman, looking at them appraisingly, “we had been advised of your coming, and the Keeper has spoken for your good behaviour. We also know of your suffering at the hands of the Mfecane. You are accordingly honoured - you are only the second and third humans in many centuries to have met with the Silkies.”

She made a warding motion with her hand; “And please, Targon, no mind-searching without telling us first”.

“I mean no offence,” said Targon, “It was just a little test; too many strange things have happened to us today, and over many years we have learned to be suspicious.”

The woman smiled.

“And no offence shall be taken,” she replied courteously, “We shall consider it as only a discreet enquiry among friends. These are my brothers, although of course you know this by now, Targon; they are called Rekiri and Septiri.” The two men nodded in greeting.

Qiri turned to the old man.

“Are you ready for the journey, Keeper?” she asked.

“As soon as you can,” he replied, “The tide is racing in, and you know how I hate getting wet.”

“Targon and Kitti,” he continued, turning to them, “We are going on a little trip, which at first will seem a trifle unusual. But believe me, you are very privileged that the Silkies have agreed to transport you. Line up behind Rekiri and Septiri - and Kitti, this time, trust me, and please, no more stupid questions.”

Kitti looked at Targon, and her protest died in her throat as he smiled reassuringly and took up his own position behind Rekiri. The three pairs walked to the edge of the rocks.

“Apart from the Keeper, no human has witnessed what you are about to see for years beyond count,” said Qiri, and then the three Silkies leapt like arrows into the water. Even in the air they began to change, their robes peeling away to nothing and by the time they hit the water the metamorphosis was complete.

“The mer-people,” breathed Targon in delight, understanding at once. The Keeper made a quick gesture with both hands; the air immediately over the Silkies seemed to thicken and grow dark.

“And now, my friends,” commanded the Keeper, “Let us step out upon the waters. My spell, plus our companions’ strength and the earthpower itself, will provide us with as safe and comfortable a passage as we could wish for; and dry, of course.”

Gulping nervously, Kitti placed a wary foot out onto what still seemed to be thin air. But instead of emptiness her sole encountered a firm surface, and encouraged, she stepped out more confidently. Looking below in wonder she could see Septiri, with apparently nothing but air and water in between them. From the chest up he appeared like an ordinary human, floating comfortably in the restless water; but below that, instead of legs, he had a muscular, elegant fish’s tail, with glowing

emerald scales. Septiri smiled up at her, not at all offended by her curiosity. By now Targon and the Keeper, who was in the middle, had joined her on their strange raft.

The Keeper produced three little cushions from his pack.

“I like to be prepared for anything, particularly when it comes to putting myself at ease; any fool can be uncomfortable”, he said, and they sat down.

“We are ready, Qiri,” called the Keeper, and they began to move from under the shadow of the cliffs and out to sea, slowly at first, then faster and faster till they were speeding over the waves more quickly than any ship. Kitti glanced behind, her hair streaming out in the wind of their passage; they were leaving no visible wake which might have attracted unfriendly attention. Instead they were just a speck on the wide ocean, and would be very difficult to spot from the cliffs, even by the most watchful eyes. The Keeper turned to her.

“This is quite my favourite way to travel; quick, discrete, and we are high enough off the surface to never get wet.”

“How do you do it?” asked Kitti, starting to enjoy the trip, despite her initial misgivings; she could see Targon smiling at the change in her mood and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“I, as you say, don’t do it,” he corrected her, “We are travelling along one of the lines of power which run beneath the earth and the sea. The Silkies have their own innate magical powers, and they can act, if they so desire, as a living conduit of this power; so we can use the earthpower to push us ahead and also, just as important to me, to keep us dry. If it is stormy we can even erect a shield around us to keep us safe, and, as you have seen, Kitti, the best thing of all is that we leave no mark of our passage behind us. That is because we use the earthpower; it does not offend the waters and so leaves no trace nor stain.”

A shadow swooped and dived above them; even as they twisted to look up, a stormy petrel had settled on the invisible raft beside them, it’s fine smokey-grey feathers fluttering and rippling even in the mild breeze.

Kitti smiled, and the Keeper laughed in pleasure.

“However discreet, I see our conveyance is not invisible to the sharp eyes of the Storm-Prince, and for that I am glad,” he said.

Targon’s eyes brightened; kneeling low, he began to croon softly to the petrel, which turned slowly to face him, as awkward on the floor of the raft as it was matchlessly graceful in the sky. The others watched in fascination as the mind meld commenced. It continued for a long time, longer than usual; Kitti could see how Targon’s expression was suffused with pleasure and she was reluctant to drag him away from such happiness, wherever it had brought him to. Eventually the Keeper touched her on the sleeve.

“You must recall him now,” he warned her, though his tone was gentle with understanding, “the pleasure will be soon too great. If you leave him much longer he will be unable to return and will remain for ever in the dream of the petrel.”

Kitti nodded sadly, knowing from past experience that what he said was true. She went over to her entranced friend and whispered softly in his ear. With a shudder, he came slowly out of the trance, and Kitti, with tears welling, saw yet again the look of loss in his eyes and the sadness of the recognition of the crippled body he was returning to. She hugged him tightly, and slowly his expression eased and he smiled as if at some private memory.

“I suspect that was the first time you have melded with a petrel,” said the Keeper, “For they are like angels of the sea. So small, so shy, so seemingly frail and weak, yet the wind is their friend and the storm their playground. But they do not often come so close to land,” he finished, frowning, as if something worrying had just occurred to him.

“What was it like Targon? Can you tell us yet?” asked Kitti, still anxious.

Targon’s speech was slow at first, as if he was still not fully alert.

“Most of the dream was of joy, of towering seas and scudding clouds and the happiness of swooping and soaring on the wings of the storm, but there was an undercurrent of uneasiness,” said Targon, “The storms have been wilder than ever, which is of no account to the petrels, but the rest of the sea creatures will be in grave danger if it continues.”

“Even out on the ocean, the power of the Inquisitors is growing”, said the Keeper gravely.