Nothing but sickness and death," Belster O'Comely said with disgust, waving his hands and his bar rag about dramatically. He wasn't playing to any grand audience, though, for he and Pony were the only two in Fellowship Way at this early hour. "What's in yer head, then?" Pony looked at him, her face masked in the perfect expression of calm. "It is my place now," she replied.
"Yer place?" Belster echoed. "Didn't ye spend all yer breath in pullin' me up here? "
"And I did need to come up here," Pony tried to explain, though she knew that the journey she had walked to get to this point was something quite beyond her pragmatic friend. "And we have carved a good life out of Dundalis."
"Then why leave?" Belster asked simply.
"I am needed in the south," Pony said, for about the tenth time that morning.
Belster put on a contemplative expression and pose. "So-just so I'm sortin' it out right-ye're wanting to come north when all the world's bright in the south, and now ye're wantin' to go south, when the darkness of the plague has swallowed the whole of it? " The portly man shook his head and snorted. "Chasin' darkness, are ye, girl?"
Pony started to reply, but stopped, realizing that she had little to say against that interpretation other actions. From Bolster's point of view, from the point of view of anyone who had not walked her recent spiritual path, it seemed that she was doing exactly that-chasing misery and darkness.
"Ye're goin' to get yerself sick and dead, is all," Belster finished, and he wiped the rag hard across the bar.
Pony grabbed his arm and stared up at him, forcing him to look her directly in the eye. "I might do just that," she said in all seriousness. "And I might go down there and do no good at all for anybody. But-can you not understand?-I have to try. I have been given this gift with the gemstones, a gift that the Abellican brothers claim is a direct calling from God. Am I to deny that? Am I to huddle with the hoarded gemstones while people around me suffer and die? "
"That's what them monks do," Belster reminded.
"And they are wrong," Pony insisted.
"The gemstones won't fix the rosy plague," Bolster said. "Ye did try, with Colleen and with others when ye were in Palmaris. Have ye forgotten that already? "
"I will never forget," Pony grimly replied.
"Then why're ye pretendin' that ye don't know better?" Belster demanded. "Ye fought the plague and it beat ye. Ye fought it again and it beat ye again-and ye're not the first to wage this battle. Them monks, they know the truth of it, and they admit the truth of it, and that's why they stay behind their walls."
"No!" Pony interrupted. "They hide because they are afraid."
"Because they're smart."
"Afraid," Pony said again, firmly. "They hide because they have found no answer and fear the consequences of trying. If Avelyn thought along those same lines, would he have ever gone to Mount Aida after the demon dactyl? If Nightbird thought along those same lines, would he have joined me in my fight against Markwart? "
Belster started to respond, but Pony knew what was coming and cut him short. "Yes, they are both dead," she said before he could. "But think of what might have happened if they had not tried, if they had not gone against their fears and won a battle that none believed they possibly could."
Belster gave a great sigh of surrender.
The door to Fellowship Way banged open then, for the first time that morning, and a young man, Harley Oleman, crashed in, obviously agitated.
"It's here! It's here!" he cried. "The rosy plague's found us!"
Pony looked at Belster.
"Jonno Drinks," Harley Oleman explained. "Jonno Drinks' got the rings!"
"Ye wanted yer fight," Belster said quietly to Pony. "Seems like it found ye here."
Pony dropped her hand into her gem pouch and produced the deep gray hematite, the soul stone, holding it up before Belster. "A fight that I am more than ready to wage," she said determinedly. She headed for the door, motioning for Harley Oleman to follow her.
"He should be put right out," Harley started to say, turning to plead with Belster as he did, for it was perfectly obvious that Pony wouldn't be seeing things quite that way.
Pony knew Jonno Drinks, though not well, but even if she didn't know him at all, it wouldn't have been hard for her to figure out which cottage belonged to him. A crowd had gathered outside the small shack, many cursing and demanding that the man walk out of the house and out of their town.
They quieted considerably when Pony came through their ranks, casting stern glances at each and every one. "Compassion is salvation," she reminded them. "Woe to you if you get the plague and die, but all the more woe to you if that happens after you have shown such cruelty to your fellows."
And after the woman they held up as a great hero put them in their place, Pony stunned them even more by striding right up to Jonno Drinks' door, and after a sharp rap to let the sick man know she was coming, right into the house.
She heard them before she closed the door behind her, some whispering that she, too, would have to be forced out of town.
She ignored them. Her fight lay before her, not behind-with the rosy plague and not with her fellow townsfolk.
She found Jonno Drinks in bed, feverish and with those same hollow, pleading eyes that had faced her in Palmaris. She was surprised at how advanced the plague already seemed in the man, and wondered if he had been hiding it for a while-and feared the consequences to the rest of Dundalis if that was the case.
"One battle at a time," she reminded herself, and she clutched the soul stone tightly, bringing forth its magic to free her from her corporeal form, and then spiritually diving right at the man.
An hour later, Pony sat on the floor beside Jonno Drinks' bed, thoroughly exhausted and sometimes slapping at her arms as if the little plague creatures were all about her. For all of her determination and all of her strength, she had done little to push back the plague in the man, she knew, and had once again nearly been overwhelmed.
The worst part was that she had believed she was making some progress at first, pushing through the green soup that was the plague, but then it had come at her, and viciously, and only her great power with the soul stone had kept the tiny demons at bay. A lesser gem user would have likely been overwhelmed byJonno's disease.
And so she believed that she had survived another encounter, but for Pony, that was hardly a victory.
She fell asleep right there, beside Jonno Drinks' bed.
She awoke many hours later, when the sun was low in the west. She felt somewhat refreshed and turned back to Jonno, soul stone in hand, thinking to do battle one more time.
She found the man resting comfortably, though, and decided against the course. Let him sleep and let her gather even more strength before the next fight. She must be better prepared for that fight, she realized; should find some answers between now and then. Pony pulled open the gemstone pouch and considered the myriad stones in there, searching for a combination, searching for some answer that would not come.
But then she thought of Elbryan and of Avelyn, of those heroes who had gone before, and she thought she knew where she might get some answers.
She came out of the house swiftly, wanting to get to Oracle before nightfall. The crowd was still there-nearly all the town now-waiting, waiting, like the specter of death itself.
"He dead?" one man asked.
Pony shook her head. "We are fighting," she replied, and she noted that every one of them fell back at her approach.
"He should be put out of town," another man, farther in back, remarked.
Pony stopped and glared in his direction. "Hear me well," she said, her tone deathly cold. "If you, if any of you, think to harm Jonno Drinks, or think to put him out of town, then I will hunt you down."
"Easy, girl," said Belster, coming forward through the mob and reaching out to take Pony's arm.
But she pulled away from him forcefully. "I mean every word," she warned. "Leave him be, in his house. Surround the place with flowers, if that will bring you some measure of comfort, but do not harm him in any way." The manner in which she spoke the words, so calmly, so determined, combined with that prominent gem pouch and that marvelous sword strapped on her hip, caused many a face to blanch. These people knew Jilseponie and knew her well-well enough to fear her should they provoke her wrath.
To heighten the effect, a moment later, powerful Symphony thundered into town, galloping down the road.
Pony looked at the horse with awe-it was as if he had read her mind, yet again, and had come rushing to her aid. She had to wonder how great the connection between her and Symphony had become, how powerful the magic of the turquoise set in the horse's breast truly might be.
Those were questions for another day. She grabbed Symphony by the mane and leaped up, rolling into position atop him.
And off they went. Pony didn't even have to guide the horse, for hf seemed to know her destination well. Before the sun went down, she wa;
at the grove, at the little hollow at the base of the elm, settling in to talk witi the spirits.
She called to Elbryan, she called to Avelyn, but what she found instead whether in her mind or in that other dimension she believed existed behim the mirror, was an image of the world before the human kingdoms, preternatural world of great beasts and exotic plants, of ragged clans c men living under pine boughs or in caves: a world before the Abellica Church, before civilization itself. Before human civilization, for there were races far older than Man.
And there was something else, Pony realized as she examined that strange sensation of times long past: the rosy plague. It was older than the kingdoms, older than the Church, older than mankind.
Perhaps the answer lay in the past, in those whose memories were longer than the records of mankind.
Another image came to Pony then, but surely in her head, in her fairly recent memories, when she and Elbryan had camped on the side of a mountain in the west, staring down at an opaque veil of fog, with Andur'Blough Inninness, the valley of the Touel'alfar, hidden beyond it.
Later that night, back in her room at Fellowship Way in Dundalis, Pony went into the soul stone again, with all her strength-not to attack Jonno's plague this time, but to fly out across the miles, to the west, to the elves.
In mere minutes, she came to mountain passes she had walked once before, with Elbryan. Had she been walking now, she realized, she never would have found the specific trails to the well-hidden elven valley, but in her spiritual form, she was able to soar up past the peaks, getting a wide view of mountains majestic. Still, it took Pony a long, long time to sort out that maze of mountains, to find, nestled in one wide vale, a familiar opaque blanket of magical fog.
She went down to the mountain slope above that blanket and paused. She knew that the elves had set an enchantment upon the place to prevent unwanted visitors-and anyone who was n'Touel'alfar was considered an unwanted visitor!-but she had no idea if their magical wards extended into the realm of the spirit. She spent a long time studying that veil, and she did indeed sense danger there, even for her in this form.
Perhaps she could flow through the mountain, she thought, down through cracks in the stone that would bring her into the elven valley underneath the poisoned carpet of fog. She studied the rock beneath her, picking her path. Then she stopped abruptly, shifting her attention; for there, rising out of the fog, was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, an elven woman with golden eyes and golden hair, with features angular yet soft, and perfectly symmetrical. She was dressed in flowing robes of the palest green, trimmed with golden lace, and a crown of thorns adorned her forehead. Pony knew before a word was spoken that this was Lady Dasslerond standing before her.
The elf held up her hand, and Pony saw the sparkle of a green gem within, and then she felt the waves of magic rolling over her spirit and body, as if the miles themselves were somehow contracting to bring her wholly to this place.
Pony knew that she could resist that magic, could fight back, and her instincts almost led her to do just that. But she held back and trusted in the fair Lady of Caer'alfar. A strange sensation washed over Pony, and she felt as if she were corporeal again-corporeal and standing on the slope just above the elven valley, hundreds of miles from Dundalis.
"I would have been disappointed it you did not seek us out," Lady Dasslerond remarked. "And I have been disappointed in you before, JilseponieWyndon."
The words caught Pony off guard, and she looked at the elf curiously.
"Your actions in Palmaris were not unknown to me," Dasslerond went on. "I am not fond of assassins."
Pony knew then that the elf had to be talking about her attempt on Markwart's life, a shot with the lodestone from a rooftop far away.
"Better for all the world if I had succeeded, then," Pony replied without hesitation.
"But better for Jilseponie? "
"Better for Nightbird!" Pony retorted, and that seemed to set Dasslerond back on her pretty little heels a bit.
The elf paused, then nodded. "I expect much from one who has learned bi'nelle dasada," she said.
"I understand my responsibilities," Pony replied. "The sword dance will not be shared with anyone."
"So Belli'mar Juraviel has told me, and so I believe," Dasslerond said.
"But I did not come to you to speak of the sword dance," Pony went on, feeling the tug of her magic and fearing that exhaustion would overtake her and send her careening back to Dundalis-if that's where her physical form remained. "Our lands are thick with a disease, the rosy plague."
"This is known to me."
"You and your people have battled this disease before," Pony reasoned, "or at least, you have watched the humans battle against it."
Dasslerond nodded.
"Then tell me how to fight it," Pony pleaded hopefully. "Show me the wisdom of the ages, that I might bring some hope to a world grown dark!"
Dasslerond's expression dropped, and with it, Pony's hopes. "That wisdom is already known to the Abellican brothers and to your King," she explained.
"To hide?"
"Indeed."
"As you and your people will hide? "
"Indeed," said the lady of Caer'alfar. "This plague is the affair of humans, and we intend to keep it that way." Pony's expression hardened into a sneer, but Dasslerond continued undeterred. "We are not numer ous," she explained, "nor do we procreate quickly. If the rosy plague tounc us in our home, it could destroy all that is left of the Touel'alfar. I canno take that chance, whatever the cost to the humans."
Pony bit her lip-and felt the physical sensation as it she were indee corporeal. "This I will give you, and only this," Dasslerond went on, and she reached her other hand out from within her robes, showing a parchment to Pony. She let go of the parchment and gave a gentle puff, and it floated across the expanse on magical winds into Pony's waiting hands.
"A poultice and a syrup," the lady of Caer'alfar explained. "They will not cure the plague-nothing that I know of in all the world will do that-but they will bring some relief to, and extend the life of, those afflicted."
Pony glanced down at the parchment, recognizing some names of herbs and other plants. "Why were these mixtures not known before? " she asked.
"They were," Dasslerond replied, "in the time of the last plague. The memory of Man is not long, I fear."
Pony glanced down at the parchment again, not knowing if it would return with her to Dundalis and wanting to remember well the recipes.
"That is all I can do," Lady Dasslerond said suddenly, drawing Pony's attention back. "You must now leave from this place. Perhaps we will survive this time, and if so, then perhaps we will meet again. Farewell, Jilseponie Wyndon." And she held up her hand and that sparkling emerald gemstone.
Pony held up her hand, as well, trying to make the lady pause long enough for her to commit the recipes to memory; but then, suddenly, she felt the waves of emerald magic and she was flying, flying, across the miles, soaring faster than the wind out of the mountains, away from Lady Dasslerond's secret domain and back to her own room in Fellowship Way in Dundalis.
She was there for just a moment, in body and in spirit, and then, overwhelmed by magical exhaustion, as if Dasslerond had somehow tapped into her own energies to bring about the more complete physical teleportation, she collapsed into unconsciousness.
Belli'mar Juraviel was waiting for Lady Dasslerond just beneath the opaque veil of mist. He nodded his approval and his thanks, for in truth, he had little idea of how sternly Dasslerond would treat their uninvited guest.
"You wanted to tell her," he remarked slyly.
Dasslerond fixed him with a puzzled expression.
"About her child," Juraviel said with a hopeful smile.
But that grin could not survive Dasslerond's ensuing glower. "Not at all," the lady said determinedly, and Juraviel knew that his hopes and his guess were misplaced.
"She has no child," Lady Dasslerond added; and she walked past, back down to the world of the Touel'alfar.
Belli'mar Juraviel stood on the mountain slope for a long, long while, wounded by the unyielding coldness of his lady. He had thought that he had found a chink in her armor, a weak link in her great coat woven of duty; but he knew now that he was wrong. He thought of the young ranger in training, Aydrian, and wondered if the boy would ever know the truth of his mother or that she was still very much alive.
"Aydrian," Juraviel said aloud, an elvish title that meant "lord of the skies," or "eagle." Lady Dasslerond had allowed Juraviel finally to name the boy, and had approved of his lofty choice wholeheartedly-yet another signal to Juraviel that Lady Dasslerond thought this young lad could aspire to the epitome of the profession, could become the perfect ranger. Only one other ranger in the history of the training had been given the title Aydrian, the very first ranger ever trained in Andur'Blough Inninness.
That ranger had gone on to live a long, though fairly uneventful, life; and since that time, no one had ever presumed to give the name to another young trainee.
But this one was different. Very different and very special.
Juraviel just wished that Dasslerond would involve Jilseponie with the lad, for her sake and, more important, for the sake of the child.
When Pony awoke, she found, to her relief, that it had not all been a dream; for in her hand she held the parchment given her by Lad;
Dasslerond. She didn't understand the magic that had worked the physica transportation of her corporeal body-or at least some of it-and then o the parchment.
But that was a question for another day, for a day when the rosy plagu was beaten. She still had no solution, no cure, but at least she had a weapo;
now. She looked down at the parchment and nodded her relief to find ths neither the poultice nor the syrup required any ingredients that could nc be readily found. It also struck her that many of the ingredients wei flowers, including many of those commonly found in the monks' tussti mussie beds. Perhaps there was something to those old tales of posies ar the like.
Armed with her parchment, Pony rushed downstairs, to find that it w morning again, and late morning at that.
"I thought ye'd sleep the whole of the day away," Belster remarked, ai the grim edge to his voice told Pony of his deeper fears: that this time, t rosy plague had caught her.
"Gather your friends," Pony said, scampering over to the bar and placi the parchment before the startled innkeeper. "We need to collect all th< things and put them together quickly."
"Where'dyegetthis?"
"From a friend," Pony replied, "one who visited me in the night, and ( we can trust."
Belster looked down at the beautiful script on the page, and, though could barely read, the delicate lines of calligraphy certainly gave him sc indication of who that nighttime visitor might have been. "Will it work? "he asked.
"It will help," Pony answered. "Now be off and be quick. And find one who can scribe copies, that we might send them to the south!"
Later that same afternoon, Pony knelt beside the bed of Jonno Drinks. She had lathered his emaciated, racked body with the poultice and had spooned several large doses of the syrup into him. And now she had her soul stone in hand, ready to go in and do battle with her newest allies beside her.
She found the plague waiting for her, like some crouched demon, wounded by the elven medicines. But that wound only seemed to make the tiny plague demons even more vicious in their counterattack, and Pony soon found herself slouched on the floor, overwhelmed and exhausted.
Jonno Drinks was resting more comfortably, it seemed, but Pony knew that she had done little to defeat the plague, that she and her elven-made allies might have bought the poor man a little comfort and a little time, but nothing more.
Still, she went at the plague again the next day, and the next after that, fighting with all her strength, again trying various gemstone combinations.
Jonno Drinks was dead within the week, leaving Pony frustrated and feeling very small indeed.