“It is you who should tell her that.”
He stood silent. Then he walked out of the room without a word.
He passed close by Tenar, and though he did not look at her he saw her clearly. She looked old and strained, and her hands trembled. He was sorry for her, ashamed of his rudeness to her, relieved that no one else had witnessed the scene; but these feelings were mere sparks in the huge darkness of his anger at her, at the princess, at everyone and everything that laid this false obligation, this grotesque duty on him. As he went out of the room he tugged open the collar of his shirt as if it were choking him.
His majordomo, a slow and steady man called Thoroughgood, was not expecting him to return so soon or through that door and jumped up, staring and startled. Lebannen returned his stare icily and said, “Send for the High Princess to attend me here in the afternoon.”
“The High Princess?”
“Is there more than one of them? Are you unaware that the High King’s daughter is our guest?”
Amazed, Thoroughgood stammered an apology, which Lebannen interrupted: “I shall go to the River House myself.” And he strode on out, pursued, impeded, and gradually controlled by the majordomo’s attempts to slow him down long enough for a suitable retinue to be gathered, horses to be brought from the stables, the petitioners waiting for audience in the Long Room to be put off till afternoon, and so on. All his obligations, all his duties, all the trappery and trammel, rites and hypocrisies that made him king pulled at him, sucking and tugging him down like quicksand into suffocation.
When his horse was brought across the stable yard to him, he swung up into the saddle so abruptly that the horse caught his mood and backed and reared, driving back the hostlers and attendants. To see the circle widen out around him gave Lebannen a harsh satisfaction. He set the horse straight for the gateway without waiting for the men in his retinue to mount. He led them at a sharp trot through the streets of the city, far ahead of them, aware of the dilemma of the young officer who was supposed to precede him calling, “Way for the king!” but who had been left behind him and now did not dare ride past him.
It was near noon; the streets and squares of Havnor were hot and bright and mostly deserted. Hearing the clatter of hooves, people hurried to the doorways of little dark shops to stare and recognise and salute the king. Women sitting in their windows fanning themselves and gossiping across the way looked down and waved, and one of them threw a flower down at him. His horse’s hooves rang on the bricks of a broad, sunbaked square that lay empty except for a curly-tailed dog trotting away on three legs, unconcerned with royalty. Out of the square the king took a narrow passage that led to the paved way beside the Serrenen, and followed it in the shadow of the willows under the old city wall to River House.
The ride had changed his temper somewhat. The heat and silence and beauty of the city, the sense of multitudinous life behind walls and shutters, the smile of the woman who had tossed a flower, the petty satisfaction of keeping ahead of all his guardians and pomp makers, then finally the scent and coolness of the river ride and the shady courtyard of the house where he had known days and nights of peace and pleasure, all took him a little distance from his anger. He felt estranged from himself, no longer possessed but emptied.
The first riders of his retinue were just coming into the courtyard as he swung off his horse, which was glad to stand in the shade. He went into the house, dropping among dozing footmen like a stone into a glassy pond, causing quick-widening circles of dismay and panic. He said, “Tell the princess that I am here.”
Lady Opal of the Old Demesne of Ilien, currently in charge of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting, appeared promptly, greeted him graciously, offered him refreshment, behaved quite as if his visit were no surprise at all. This suavity half placated, half irritated him. Endless hypocrisy! But what was Lady Opal to do—gawp like a stranded fish (as a very young lady-in-waiting was doing) because the king had finally and unexpectedly come to see the princess?
“I’m so sorry Mistress Tenar isn’t here at present,” she said. “It’s so much easier to converse with the princess with her help. But the princess is making admirable progress in the language.”
Lebannen had forgotten the problem of language. He accepted the cool drink offered him and said nothing. Lady Opal made small talk with the assistance of the other ladies, getting very little from the king. He had begun to realise that he would probably be expected to speak with the princess in the company of all her ladies, as was only proper. Whatever he had intended to say to her, it had become impossible to say anything. He was just about to get up and excuse himself, when a woman whose head and shoulders were hidden by a red circular veil appeared in the doorway, fell plop on her knees, and said, “Please? King? Princess? Please?”
“The princess will receive you in her chambers, sire,” Lady Opal interpreted. She waved to a footman, who escorted him upstairs, along a hall, through an anteroom, through a large, dark room that seemed to be crammed absolutely full of women in red veils, and out onto a balcony over the river. There stood the figure he remembered: the immobile cylinder of red and gold.
The breeze from the water made the veils tremble and shimmer, so that the figure did not appear solid but delicate, moving, shivering, like the willow foliage. It seemed to shrink, to shorten. She was making her courtesy to him. He bowed to her. They both straightened up and stood in silence.
“Princess,” Lebannen said, with a feeling of unreality, hearing his own voice, “I am here to ask you to come with us to Roke Island.”
She said nothing. He saw the fine red veils part in an oval as she spread them with her hands. Long-fingered, golden-skinned hands, held apart to reveal her face in the red shadow. He could not see her features clearly. She was nearly as tall as he, and her eyes looked straight at him.
“My friend Tenar,” she said, “say: king to see king, face and face. I say: yes. I will.”
Half understanding, Lebannen bowed again. “You honor me, my lady.”
“Yes,” she said. “I honor you.”
He hesitated. This was a different ground entirely. Her ground.
She stood there straight and still, the gold edging of her veils shivering, her eyes looking at him out of the shadow.
“Tenar, and Tehanu, and Orm Irian, agree that it would be well if the Princess of the Kargad Lands were with us on Roke Island. So I ask you to come with us.”
“To come.”
“To Roke Island.”
“On ship,” she said, and suddenly made a little moaning plaintive noise. Then she said, “I will. I will to come.”
He did not know what to say. He said, “Thank you, my lady.”
She nodded once, equal to equal.
He bowed. He left her as he had been taught to leave the presence of his father the prince at formal occasions in the court of Enlad, not turning his back but stepping backwards.
She stood facing him, still holding her veil parted till he reached the doorway. Then she dropped her hands, and the veils closed, and he heard her gasp and breathe out hard as if in release from an act of will sustained almost past endurance.
Courageous, Tenar had called her. He did not understand, but he knew that he been in the presence of courage. All the anger that had filled him, brought him here, was gone, vanished. He had not been sucked down and suffocated, but brought up short in front of a rock, a high place in clear air, a truth.
He went out through the room full of murmuring, perfumed, veiled women who shrank back from him into the darkness. Downstairs, he chatted a little with Lady Opal and the others, and had a kind word for the gawping twelve-year-old lady-in-waiting. He spoke pleasantly to the men of his retinue waiting for him in the courtyard. He quietly mounted his tall grey horse. He rode quietly, thoughtfully, back to the Palace of Maharion.
Alder heard with fatalistic acceptance that he was to sail back to Roke. His waking life had become so strange to him, more dreamlike than his dreams, that he had little will to question or pr
otest. If he was fated to sail from island to island the rest of his life, so be it; he knew there was no such thing as going home for him now. At least he would be in the company of the ladies Tenar and Tehanu, who put his heart at ease. And the wizard Onyx had also shown him kindness.
Alder was a shy man and Onyx a deeply reserved one, and there was all the difference of their knowledge and status to be bridged; but Onyx had come to him several times simply to talk as one man of the art to another, showing a respect for Alder’s opinion that puzzled his modesty. But Alder could not withhold his trust; and so when the time to depart was near at hand, he took to Onyx the question that had been worrying him.
“It’s the little cat,” he said with embarrassment. “I don’t feel right about taking him. Keeping him cooped up so long. It’s unnatural for a young creature. And I think, what would become of him?”
Onyx did not ask what he meant. He asked only, “He still helps you keep from the wall of stones?”
“Well, often he does.”
Onyx pondered. “You need some protection, till we get to Roke. I have thought… Have you spoken with the wizard Seppel here?”
“The man from Paln,” Alder said, with a slight unease in his voice.
Paln, the greatest island west of Havnor, had the reputation of being an uncanny place. The Pelnish spoke Hardic with a peculiar accent, using many words of their own. Their lords had in ancient times refused fealty to the kings of Enlad and Havnor. Their wizards did not go to Roke for their training. The Pelnish Lore, which called upon the Old Powers of the Earth, was widely believed to be dangerous if not sinister. Long ago the Grey Mage of Paln had brought ruin on his island by summoning the souls of the dead to advise him and his lords, and that tale was part of the education of every sorcerer: “The living should not take counsel of the dead.” There had been more than one duel in wizardry between a man of Roke and a man of Paln; in one such combat two centuries ago a plague had been loosed on the people of Paln and Semel that had left half the towns and farmlands desolate. And fifteen years ago, when the wizard Cob had used the Pelnish Lore to cross between life and death, the Archmage Sparrowhawk had spent all his own power to defeat him and heal the evil he had done.
Alder, like almost everyone else at court and in the King’s Council, had politely avoided the wizard Seppel.
“I’ve asked the king to bring him with us to Roke,” said Onyx.
Alder blinked.
“They know more than we do about these matters,” Onyx said. “Most of our art of Summoning comes from the Pelnish Lore. Thorion was a master of it… The Summoner of Roke now, Brand of Venway, won’t use any part of his craft that draws from that lore. Misused, it has brought only harm. But it may be only our ignorance that’s led us to use it wrongly. It goes back to very ancient times; there may be knowledge in it we’ve lost. Seppel is a wise man and mage. I think he should be with us. And I think he might help you, if you can trust him.”
“If he has your trust,” Alder said, “he has mine.”
When Alder spoke with the silver tongue of Taon, Onyx was likely to smile a little drily. “Your judgment’s as good as mine, Alder, in this business,” he said. “Or better. I hope you use it. But I’ll take you to him.”
So they went down into the city together. Seppel’s lodging was in an old part of town near the shipyards, just off Boatwright Street; there was a little colony of Pelnish folk there, brought in to work in the king’s yards, for they were great shipbuilders. The houses were ancient, crowded close, with the bridges between roof and roof that gave Havnor Great Port a second, airy web of streets high above its paved ones.
Seppel’s rooms, up three flights of stairs, were dark and close in the heat of this late summer. He took them up one more steep flight onto the roof. It was joined to other roofs by a bridge on each side, so that there was a regular crossroads and thoroughfare across it. Awnings were set up by the low parapets, and the breeze from the harbor cooled the shaded air. There they sat on striped canvas mats in the corner that was Seppel’s bit of the roof, and he gave them a cool, slightly bitter tea to drink.
He was a short man of about fifty, round-bodied, with small hands and feet, hair that was a little curly and unruly, and what was rare among men of the Archipelago, a beard, clipped short, on his dark cheeks and jaw. His manners were pleasant. He spoke in a clipped, singing accent, softly.
He and Onyx talked, and Alder listened for a good while to them. His mind drifted when they spoke about people and matters of which he knew nothing. He looked out over the roofs and awnings, the roof gardens and the arched and carven bridges, northward to Mount Onn, a great pale-grey dome above the hazy hills of summer. He came back to himself hearing the Pelnish wizard say, “It may be that even the Archmage could not wholly heal the wound in the world.”
The wound in the world, Alder thought: yes. He looked more intently at Seppel, and Seppel glanced at him. For all the soft look of the man his eyes were sharp.
“Maybe it’s not only our desire to live forever that has kept the wound open,” Seppel said, “but the desire of the dead to die.”
Again Alder heard the strange words and felt that he recognised them without understanding them. Again Seppel glanced at him as if seeking a response.
Alder said nothing, nor did Onyx speak. Seppel said at last, “When you stand at the bourne, Master Alder, what is it they ask of you?”
“To be free,” Alder replied, his voice only a whisper.
“Free,” Onyx murmured.
Silence again. Two girls and a boy ran past across the roofway, laughing and calling, “Down at the next!”—playing one of the endless games of chase children made with their city’s maze of streets and canals and stairs and bridges.
“Maybe it was a bad bargain from the beginning,” Seppel said, and when Onyx looked a question at him he said, “Verio nadan.”
Alder knew the words were in the Old Speech, but he did not know their meaning.
He looked at Onyx, whose face was very grave. Onyx said only, “Well, I hope we can come to the truth of these things, and soon.”
“On the hill where truth is,” Seppel said.
“I’m glad you’ll be with us there. Meanwhile, here is Alder summoned to the bourne night after night and seeking some reprieve. I said that you might know a way to help him.”
“And you would accept the touch of the wizardry of Paln?” Seppel asked Alder. His tone was softly ironic. His eyes were bright and hard as jet.
Alder’s lips were dry. “Master,” he said, “we say on my island, the man drowning doesn’t ask what the rope cost. If you can keep me from that place even for a night, you’ll have my heart’s thanks, little as that is worth in return for such a gift.”
Onyx looked at him with a slight, amused, unreproving smile.
Seppel did not smile at all. “Thanks are rare, in my trade,” he said. “I would do a good deal for them. I think I can help you, Master Alder. But I have to tell you the rope is a costly one.”
Alder bowed his head.
“You come to the bourne in dream, not by your own will, that is so?”
“So I believe.”
“Wisely said.” Seppel’s keen glance approved him. “Who knows his own will clearly? But if it is in dream you go there, I can keep you from that dream—for a while. And at a cost, as I said.”
Alder looked his question.
“Your power.”
Alder did not understand him at first. Then he said, “My gift, you mean? My art?”
Seppel nodded.
“I’m only a mender,” Alder said after a little time. “It’s not a great power to give up.”
Onyx made as if to protest, but looked at Alder’s face and said nothing.
“It is your living,” Seppel said.
“It was my life, once. But that’s gone.”
“Maybe your gift will come back to you, when what must happen has happened. I cannot promise that. I will try to restore what I can of what I take
from you. But we’re all walking in the night, now, on ground we don’t know. When the day comes we may know where we are, or we may not. Now, if I spare you your dream, at that price, will you thank me?”
“I will,” Alder said. “What’s the little good of my gift, against the great evil my ignorance could do? If you spare me the fear I live in now, the fear that I may do that evil, I’ll thank you till the end of my life.”
Seppel drew a deep breath. “I’ve always heard that the harps of Taon play true,” he said. He looked at Onyx. “And Roke has no objection?” he asked, with a return to his mild ironic tone.
Onyx shook his head, but he now looked very grave.
“Then we will go to the cave at Aurun. Tonight if you like.”
“Why there?” Onyx asked.
“Because it’s not I but the Earth that will help Alder. Aurun is a sacred place, full of power. Although the people of Havnor have forgotten that, and use it only to defile it.”
Onyx managed to have a private word with Alder before they followed Seppel downstairs. “You need not go through with this, Alder,” he said. “I thought I trusted Seppel, but I don’t know, now.”
“I’ll trust him,” Alder said. He understood Onyx’s doubts, but he had meant what he said, that he would do anything to be free of the fear of doing some dreadful wrong. Each time he had been drawn back in dream to that wall of stones, he felt that something was trying to come into the world through him, that it would do so if he listened to the dead calling to him, and each time he heard them, he was weaker and it was harder to resist their call.
The three men went a long way through the city streets in the heat of the late afternoon. They came out into the countryside south of the city, where rough ridgy hills ran down to the bay, a poor bit of country for this rich island: swampy lowland between the ridges, a little arable land on their rocky backs. The wall of the city here was very old, built of great unmortared rocks taken from the hills, and beyond it were no suburbs and few farms.
They walked along a rough road that zigzagged up the first ridge and followed its crest eastward towards the higher hills. Up there, where they could see all the city lying in a golden haze northward, to their left, the road widened out into a maze of footpaths. Going straight forward they came suddenly to a great crack in the ground, a black gap twenty feet wide or more, right across their way.
The Other Wind Page 14