The Door Into Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

old when all this happened. Béorgan made the decision early to avenge her mother, and determined that she would meet the Shadow on His own ground and destroy Him. She trained, and grew great in Power—and also in obsession—waiting and preparing for Nineteen-Years’ Night, that night when it is both Opening Night and full Moon. All the Kingdoms know how the story ends—how Béorgan went down to the Morrowfane on that night, being then twenty-four years of age, and opened the Morrowfane Gate beneath the waters of Lake Rilthor, and passed through into the Otherworlds. There she met the Shadow, and there she slew Him, on one of the only nights this may be done, when the Goddess’s power conjoins with the returning Sun past midnight. Béorgan’s triumph was shortlived, though, and so was she. She had never planned her life past that night, and in a short time wasted away and died. Even her victory was hollow, for however bright the Lover may be, still he casts the Shadow: seven years after He died, He was back again, leading the Hunting as always.
    Freelorn had always loved the story, and some years back had composed a verse form of it, and a musical setting that Herewiss had liked. At the time, though, Freelorn’s voice had been changing, and Herewiss had had to restrain himself from laughing as his loved sang that greatest of tragedies in a voice that cracked crazily every verse or so. He had even refrained from singing it himself for the longest while, for the sound of his pure, clear, already-changed tenor had made Freelorn twice as self-conscious as he usually was.
    He sang the setting now, letting his voice go as he would have liked to all those years ago, pausing between verses to insert the last dialogue between Béaneth and Astrin, and later the farewell of Béorgan to her husband Ánmod, who later became King of both Arlen and Darthen because of her death. Herewiss forgot about the hot, smoky room, forgot about time and pain and the systematic destruction of swords, and just sang, feeling very young again for the first time in ever so long.
    At the end of it he received tremendous applause, and he bowed shyly and handed the lute to someone else, going back to his table and his ale. There Herewiss sat for a few minutes, recovering. Someone began singing something else almost immediately, but the farmers started talking quietly among themselves. The contrast between the sung verses of terrible tragedy beyond the boundaries of the world and the homely talk of the farmers was abrupt, but pleasant; they had slow, musical voices, and Herewiss dawdled over his ale, listening alternately to the words and the sound of them. One of the farmers started telling a long, drawn-out story of a loved of his who had gone traveling. “All the way to Dra’Mincarrath she went,” he said in a drawl, “aye, all that way south, and then east again into the Waste she went, not knowing where she was going. North she went, but ‘twas the wrong way; no way out of the Waste Unclaimed from there. And she came in sight of that hold in the Waste, indeed, and—”
    “Ssh!” said several of the other farmers, looking upset. “She came out again,” said one of them, seemingly the eldest. “Count her lucky; that place is bad to talk of, even here. Leave it for now. Where did she go afterwards?…”
    Herewiss sat nursing his ale, curious at the sudden and vehement response. Hold in the Waste—? What could that be? No one lives out there—
    His thought was broken by the underheard feeling that someone was looking at him with unkindly intent. He glanced up and saw the innkeeper’s daughter. She was across the room, serving someone else, but he could feel her eyes on him. Herewiss looked down at his ale again quickly, not particularly wanting to see her bend over again.
    There was a sudden motion to his right. He looked, and saw the cat, a big gray tabby with blue eyes, balancing itself on the table edge after its leap. It lay down,