Chapter Three The Shard Of Irionite -2

By the time I had completed the message, sanded the ink dry, rolled it

into a tube, and sealed it with my overly-gaudy-but-impressively-mysticallooking seal, Tyndal had returned with a boy of about nine in tow.

"Horses are saddled and ready, Master, your bags have been packed.

This is Ulne. He will bear your message to the castle."

I handed it to him gravely. "Do not show this to anyone," I said,

seriously, "and defend it with your life against goblins, do you hear, lad?

Make certain that it finds its way into the hands of Sire Koucey, or one of

his trusted ministers. Fail me, and I shall turn you into a chicken!"

The boy's eyes became a big as dinner plates as I fixed him with my

best serious stare. He nodded vigorously, took the tube and the penny I

offered him, and ran off like demons were chasing him. As soon as he was

out of earshot I had to laugh.

"Was it really that serious a message, Master?"

"No, Tyndal, or I would never have trusted it to a boy of his age. But if

he thinks it's that serious, he will make certain that it finds its way there.

Now, while you load our baggage I'm going to get my some other items we

might need."

"Yes, Master. May I ask where we are going?"

I considered. My own masters, back at the Academy, would have

scornfully reproved any apprentice who had the temerity to ask such a

question.

I liked Tyndal's native curiosity, however – it made for a good mage –

and I never was much for pointless discipline, anyway. Pretending to be

infallible just wasn't my style. "I can't figure this thing out, so we're going

to ask for help from the Alka Alon."

"The Tree Folk?" he asked in an excited whisper.

"The very same. Now move quickly and we can camp on the other side

of the Ro tonight."

With a grin so wide it nearly split his head, he complied.

* * *

Let me tell you about where I lived. Boval Vale sits just behind the first

ridge of the Great Minden Range, which runs north to south along the

western edge of the Five Duchies.

It is a smallish valley, only fourteen miles long, north to south, and six

miles wide at its widest point, but it is deep and sheltered and

abundantlyfertile. The Ro River runs like a spine through its center, fed by

innumerable mountain streams, and it eventually empties at the north end of

the valley through the Mor Pass and into the Morifal River.

The sheltered nature of the place kept the vicious Minden winters from

being prohibitive, and the fact it was so easily defensible from aggressive

neighbors kept everyone secure and happy. Boval is a valley of beautiful

green meadows and heaths, of pleasant groves and beautiful streamlets.

And it has lots of cows.

That's where it got its name. Boval means "Valley of Cows" in the

ancient tongue of the pre-Duchy wild men of Alshar. The sweet grass, the

altitude, and the particular mixture of molds in the air up here allow the

Bovali to produce a very tasty and delicate cheese that is in high demand in

the east. That's the Valley's chief export.

There were six villages or estates worthy of the name dotting the valley.

Minden's Hall is the second largest, next only to the small town of Hymas.

The vale's only real municipality sat on the shore of the small lake of the

same name that the Ro turns into before it continues its northern journey.

Sire Koucey's castle lies three miles from Minden Hall and four miles

from Hymas, at the southern end of the valley. To the far south is the estate

of Widakur, and to the north there was another smaller, older fortress called

Brandmount (Sire Koucey's family's ancestral home) which protected and

was served by the village of Malin. A tower guarding the Mor Pass called,

of course, the Mor Tower.

Duke Joris II of Alshar granted his family the valley over a century ago

as a reward for the Brandmounts' service in his wars with the Duchy of

Castal (where I'm from) and the Goblin Wars. Since that time, the

Brandmounts have been virtual kings of this secluded little land, enjoying

more power over their folk than most lowland barons do. Indeed, the Boval

Vale was at least twice as large as most lowland domains, even if it didn't

have near the population. All told, there were only about six or seven

thousand people making their living farming, hunting, fishing, and making

cheese here.

Of course, they weren't the first inhabitants of the Vale.

At the extreme northwest end of the valley, up a little hollow ringed on

three sides by steep mountain cliffs, is a forest grove that is the home to a

reclusive clan of Alka Alon, the Tree Folk. The Bovali had little interaction

with this remnant of that once-great race – they settled in the more fertile

cattle country in the southern end of the vale – but it was known to happen.

The diminutive arboreal race was nearly legendary to the local

peasantry. Occasionally one or two would venture out of their forest enclave

and wander across the fields, playing their tiny flutes or singing with voices

like crystal bells as they hunted birds and small animals. It was considered a

sign of extreme good fortune to spot one in your fields, and some farmers

even went so far as to leave little offerings of milk (which I knew the Tree

Folk did not drink) or cakes or such to lure them.

They seem so childlike, standing just above waist high on a grown man;

yet their large eyes and pale skin make them seem wise beyond the abilities

of mortal men. Legends about them interacting with humans eye-to-eye

seem to be misplaced, because I'd never seen one over four-foot-ten. No

doubt they were crafted by those so enamored of the species that they

wished to grant them a larger stature.

The Alka Alon also have forgotten more about magic than any human

ever will know. Including irionite.

To children they were granters of wishes and playful spirits. Tyndal,

little more than a child himself, was eager to meet them for the first time.

He asked me a hundred questions before dusk about my few brief

encounters with them, and he dragged out of me every scrap of information

I knew about their habits – which wasn't a lot.

We know that the Alka Alon are related distantly to some of the other

nonhumans: Mountain Folk (Gurvani), River Folk (Hoylbimi), and Iron

Folk (Q'zahrai), Stone Folk (Karshaki) and others are all probably kin, but

probably not the Sea Folk or the human-enough-looking-but-damnedstrange Valley People. Yet apart from stature and build they resemble the

other races very little.

They are purported, however unlikely, to be immortal extremely. They

are certainly extremely long lived, by human standards. Their long, nimble

fingers seem out of proportion to the rest of their bodies, and their greenishblack hair and slightly mottled skin makes them able to fade into the foliage

and virtually disappear.

They are beings of innate mystery and wonder, their very presence

inspiring a religious-like awe in most people. Magi are even more

entranced, since the simplest Alka magics are elegant compared to the

Imperial method of doing things. The Alkan enclave in the northernmost

reaches of this valley was one of the things that initially attracted me to

Boval.