Summer King, Winter Fool

by Lisa Goldstein

  “They killed Talenor for his masque, didn’t they? Poor man—he was never very clever, for all his learning.” Narrion brushed his black hair out of his eyes and handed the book he had been reading to Val. “Taja got this for me from the library,” he said.

  Invocations to Callabrion and Scathiel, Val read. “Callabrion and Scathiel!” he said. “What have you to do with the gods?” he asked.

  “I’m a member of the Society of Fools,” Narrion said. “I thought you knew.”

  Val nodded. Most people thought of the Fools as little more than jesters; they forgot that the Society was bound to Scathiel in the same way the astronomer-priests were bound to Callabrion.

  Despite his mistrust of Narrion Val smiled a little, remembering last year’s Feast on the longest day of the year. The sun had shone brightly; it had seemed impossible to believe that Scathiel had ascended and the days would grow shorter again.

  The Society of Fools danced and capered through the city. They wore masks shaped like skulls and clothing painted like skeletons; they were there to remind the revelers of the death that lay beneath life, the misrule beneath apparent rule, the coming winter threatening the beautiful summer day.

  For one day they had taken over the offices of king and priest, councilor and commander of the army. Riot was let loose in the streets as the Shadow King, the Fool acting in Gobro’s place, issued one ludicrous proclamation after another. Val saw a Fool march a battalion of soldiers backward, heard another Fool disguised as a professor give a lecture in praise of mince pies. Long lines had formed in front of the bakeries and wineshops; the Shadow King had decreed that all pastries and wine were free.

  The masks of the Fools covered their faces completely but Val thought he saw Narrion at least once in the streets that day. He listened, fascinated, as the man sang the traditional songs, “Bones Brown as Ale” and “The Lord of All Misrule.” Like all the male fools he had a dark and melodious voice.

  When he had finished singing the Fool picked up a small child and tossed her to another skeleton-clad man. The girl screamed, but with excitement more than fear. The second man put the child down, gave her a sweet and twirled gracefully away.

  “Callabrion hasn’t ascended this year,” Narrion said now. “Surely you must know that, or guess.”

  Val nodded.

  “I want to restore him to the heavens,” Narrion said.

  “Restore Callabrion?” Val asked. “Why? That hardly seems a fit occupation for a queen’s councilor.”

  “I’m barely a councilor any longer. Mariel and Callia used me to get the poison and then left me to my own devices. I have no support at all on the council.”

  “So you were a pawn as well, just as I was. Not a very pleasant feeling, is it, Narrion?”

  Narrion shrugged. “Mariel is a prisoner, and Callia is dead. The council is gone. But even if they still ruled in Etrara they would soon cease to matter. If Callabrion does not ascend the days will grow darker and darker, and finally the sun itself will go out.”

  “And you think you can persuade Callabrion to return? With that book?”

  “If not with this one then another. I’ve spent hours in the library—it’s amazing what’s hidden there. People have no idea.”

  That’s true, they don’t, Val thought, remembering the birth records Taja had found. Was that what his cousin had been searching for? It was difficult to believe that Narrion was concerned with Callabrion. Had he somehow found the records, learned the truth about Val’s birth?

  He had to get away from the cottage, Val thought, had to get outside and clear his head. Narrion seemed to be telling the truth, but he had sounded as sincere when he had led Val into exile. Surely if Narrion wanted to betray him, to turn him over to the Shai, he would not admit to it. “Good fortune, Narrion,” he said.

  Heavy rain was falling when Val stepped outside. He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and walked toward Pebr’s cottage. Had Narrion been truthful for once? He couldn’t know; he was no poet-mage, able to understand everything in a man’s heart. If Narrion was honest then Val could stay in Tobol An. But if the other man had lied then Val’s life was in danger.

  Val hurried down the path. Could he afford to trust Narrion, to wager his life on nothing but his cousin’s promises? If the past was any guide Narrion was treacherous indeed; Val would be open to attack from the Shai every day that he stayed in Tobol An.

  No, there was only one way left to him now, the way Taja had shown him when she had come to the palace so long ago. It was time to return to Etrara and claim the kingship, to seek out Andosto and free the city from the tyranny of the Shai.

  He was running now. He reached the cottage, but neither Taja nor Pebr was home.

  Panic seemed to grip him; the tap of a branch against the window made him start as if the Shai were already in Tobol An. He could not wait for Taja to tell her his plans. He packed his few belongings quickly, putting the heavy Shai sword in with the rest of his things, and left the cottage to hire a horse.

  He felt his amulet through the cloth of his tunic. Whatever his shortcomings he was certain he would prove a better ruler than Gobro, or Callia, or the Shai. And if he took the throne he would finally be safe, would no longer have to fear Narrion’s treachery or danger from the Shai.

  He paid a sovereign for a horse, and rode off into the Forest of Thole. The next face to be minted on a sovereign, he vowed, would be his own.

  Taja took a book from the pile in front of her and opened it, then dipped her pen in the inkwell to record the title. It was getting late; she should finish these books and then go home. Pebr worried if she stayed out too long.

  Something caused her to look up. A noise? No, she could hear nothing. She glanced around but no one had come into the catalogue room, not villager or soldier or ghost.

  The strange feeling returned. It was almost as if she had grown another organ like eyes or ears, something that helped her perceive whatever it was that had happened. She shivered.

  She had had this sensation before, but never so strongly. She rested her head on the table helplessly, waiting for the visitation to end.

  Val had told her about the Maegrim in Etrara. She had listened entranced, wondering what it would be like to see first six women and then seven, all the while hoping or fearing that her fortune would change. But now, as wave after wave of the unearthly feeling washed over her, the Maegrim did not seem nearly so quaint. Now she felt certain that they were calling her.

  She shivered again. She did not want to be one of the Maegrim, did not want to stop her work or leave her family whenever she heard their summons. It was dangerous now, very dangerous, to put on the hood of badger skin and cast people’s fortunes. Val said that Callia had demanded the names of all the Maegrim, and the women probably fared even worse under the Shai.

  The sending stopped. Taja raised her head and took several deep breaths. Then she put on her cloak and went to find Mathary.

  “The Maegrim?” Mathary said. “No, I don’t think it’s the Maegrim.”

  They sat before the fire in Mathary’s cottage. Although the old woman had placed lamps and candles on the tables and mantelpiece these did not seem able to penetrate the gloom Taja remembered from her other visits. Shadows gathered in the corners, parting when the fire danced high to reveal shelves and shelves of stoppered ceramic jars. Even in winter Mathary’s house smelled of wild growing things, of tangled roots and loamy soil.

  “What is it then?” Taja asked.

  “Someone is using magic.”

  “Someone—here? In the village?”

  “Aye.”

  “But who?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t recognize it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Do?” Even in the candlelight Taja could see the web of cataracts covering Mathary’s eye. “I’ll do nothing, child. He’ll reveal himself, whoever he is.”

  “He?”

  Mathary nodded. “It’s a man’s magic, I can
tell that much. You’ll learn the difference soon enough.”

  What did the old woman mean? Taja did not want to learn the old magic; Pebr had warned her about it often enough. “What—”

  “I had a dream the night you were born,” Mathary said. “It was cold that day, but Callabrion ruled in the heavens—we knew that the days would grow warmer soon. In my dream the wind blew the door open and it seemed that spring had come into the room—I could smell the scent of roses and fresh grasses. My cat walked through the door, the cat that had died, oh, ten years before. And she said to me, ‘Take care of this one. She’s Sbona’s child.’”

  Taja shook her head impatiently. She did not want to hear Mathary’s dreams; she had come on a far more pressing errand. “But what if the man’s dangerous?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you—”

  “The knight in the forest hasn’t warned us of any danger. The best thing we can do now is wait.”

  Taja nodded, dissatisfied. Did Mathary know what was best for Tobol An, or had she lost her wits, as Pebr thought? Her mind seemed to wander more and more these days; Taja thought she might be too frail to be entrusted with the care of the entire village.

  She bid good fortune to the other woman and began to leave. As she put on her cloak Mathary said, “Don’t say anything about this to your uncle, child. You know how he feels about wizardry.”

  The sending returned the next day, while Taja was in the library. She had been sitting with her pen poised over the catalogue, thinking about Val. He had not returned to the cottage the night before, and someone in the village had said he had seen him ride north, toward Etrara.

  Val was free to come and go as he liked, of course. Still she could not help but wonder if he had gone to claim the kingship. And if he had, why hadn’t he waited for her? She knew that his protestations of love for her were part of a courtly game, nothing more, but she thought that he might at least have told her of his plans.

  The sending came again. She forced herself to stand and go outside, and then to follow its source down to the cliffs.

  Narrion and the acting troupe stood by the arch of Sleeping Koregath. Taja understood immediately that they had chosen the ruin because it remained from the time of the wizards; they thought that it might still hold magic within it.

  “Great king,” one of the women said. “Our sovereign and ruler, lord of summer, god of the waxing year …”

  As she listened, horrified, Taja sensed the presence of magic all around her. The currents were not focused, as she somehow knew they should be, but wild, undisciplined. She felt the invocation as a terrible wrongness, a sickness that invaded her soul.

  Narrion began to speak, reciting an invocation to Callabrion. Was he a poet-mage? She had heard that wizards’ verses had no power if they were not composed at the very moment of their sending, though of course the mages all used the same ritual names and phrases. But Narrion seemed to have memorized his poem beforehand, and he had anchored his spell badly; he had used an inappropriate ritual verse at the beginning and an ill-chosen word as his keystone.

  Magic gusted around them, discordant and fierce as wind. The waves beneath them crashed to shore. Narrion continued, speaking with difficulty, reciting a poem about leaving the pleasures of earth and returning to heaven. What in Sbona’s name was he trying to do?

  One of the actors cried out in terror. For a moment Taja saw two ruins on the cliffside where there had been one before; the actors were turning to stone like the giant Sleeping Koregath. Her lips began to move, whispering poetry.

  Nothing changed. She spoke louder, chanting an opening ritual verse. She chose her keystone, understanding only as she delivered the words how the poem had to be constructed, how to use her meter and alliteration. The poem required another keystone; she found one almost without thinking and hurried on.

  Narrion continued to speak. She felt the force of his will, strong as the magic he had called up. The actors were immobile now, caught in stone, but still Narrion refused to stop. Finally she heard his voice slow, saw his hand freeze as he lifted it. He had turned to stone like the others, captured by the magic he had raised.

  Suddenly she knew the words she had to speak, saw them as clearly as if they had been written in one of the books of magic in the library. She chanted her verses more easily now, unhampered by Narrion. The wind of magic lessened; the dreadful torrents subsided. The actors began to move slowly, as if waking.

  The arch moved too; she had gone too far, had roused the giant. There was the terrible sound of boulders breaking. She spoke her final verse quickly, using both her keystones, and Koregath drifted back into his deep slumber.

  Narrion came toward her. She had never seen him look so pale, so uncertain. His long hair had knotted in the wind. “I thank you,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “What—what were you doing?” she asked.

  Narrion looked around. She followed his gaze and saw a crowd of old people and children, everyone who hadn’t set out to sea that day.

  “I tried to summon Callabrion. He hasn’t ascended this year—the days grow no lighter, and the trees are bare. I thought to—to convince him to return to the heavens. The book you found for me in the library had some invocations, and I thought—” He moved his arms behind his back and stretched in one supple gesture, as if trying to convince himself that he hadn’t turned to stone. “I didn’t know you were a poet-mage.”

  “I’m not,” she said abruptly, and turned to go.

  She made her way toward her cottage, seeing almost nothing around her. She opened the door cautiously, but Pebr was not at home. He had been among the crowd of people at the arch; she thought that he must be horrified at what she had done. She sat in a chair by the hearth and put her head in her hands.

  Not the Maegrim, no. She was something worse than that, far worse: a poet-mage. How else had she known how to speak the invocation, to use the keystones?

  Even the soldiers from Etrara had known who she was; the man who had tortured her on the ladder had called her “wizard’s get.” She remembered a saying Pebr was fond of: “Even a dog might speak a prophecy.” Had everyone known, everyone but her?

  She shuddered. Pebr had told her that poet-mages never lived long; their enemies feared their power and found ways to kill them. Someone had killed King Tariel’s wizards, and once, long ago, a storm of magic had been loosed in Tobol An. She did not want such terrifying power.

  She looked up. Well, then, she would renounce it. There was no call for a poet-mage in Tobol An; Mathary nursed the sick, delivered the babies, made up charms for love or fertility or good fortune. She would assure Pebr that she would never recite another invocation, and convince the villagers that they had not heard her speak a word at the arch. Mathary would know, of course, but Mathary could be trusted to say nothing.

  A memory came to her then. She was riding hard through the falling snow in the still forest of Thole; she was hurrying to deliver her message to Val in Etrara. How would he receive the news that he was the true king? What would he think when everything he had ever known proved to be false?

  She knew now how he felt; the same thing had happened to her. Only she had learned that she was something far more dangerous: a poet-mage.

  Val had gone on to Etrara, she thought now. And suddenly she saw to Val’s heart, understood everything that had happened since Val had visited Narrion. He thinks Narrion is his enemy, she thought. He thinks he’ll betray him to the Shai. But Narrion had only been trying to summon Callabrion, to return warmth and light to the land. The “great king” had not been a king of the Shai but the summer god.

  It was time for her to claim her birthright, whether she wanted to or not. She had to help Val, had go after him and warn him.

  Her heart lifted; it would be good to see him again. It seemed to her that he had changed during the war; he had gained in wisdom, become more thoughtful. His innate courtesy had grown to include her, and all the people of Tobol An.

  And it would be good
to help him claim the throne of Etrara, she thought, remembering all the books filled with heroic deeds that she had read in the library. She put on her cloak and hurried from the room.

  The daylight faded almost as soon as Taja entered the forest. She rode hard for several hours more, hoping to reduce the distance between her and Val. Finally the light disappeared altogether, and she knew that if she caught up with him she would pass him all unknowing in the dark. She dismounted and spread her cloak on the ground.

  The soft earth, covered with leaves and twigs, felt very cold. She turned and wrapped herself in her cloak, trying to get comfortable. No wonder Narrion wanted to summon Callabrion, she thought, cursing the early darkness. But who would have guessed that he would be so religious? Val had told her that Narrion might be a member of the Society of Fools and sworn to Scathiel—what business did he have with Callabrion? But she was not versed in the mysteries of the Society; misrule needed rule, apparently, as winter needed summer.

  She thought of Val, of Narrion and Tamra and the quarrelsome, treacherous royal family of Etrara. And then somehow she was in the city, drifting silently through the streets like one of its famous ghosts. She saw the burned ruins of houses and knew that the Shai had set them on fire to punish the inhabitants for some disobedience or other. She saw soldiers returned from the wars; some had turned to thievery after they had gone through their meager wages, and others, maimed in battle, sat near the fountains and statues with their beggar’s bowls in front of them. The sky was edged with smoke and the streets were eerie, silent; other than the soldiers and caged criminals few people ventured out-of-doors.

  She was in the palace now, moving through the marble corridors. It was darker than she remembered; the Shai had hung heavy tapestries over the windows and the only light came from iron lamps. She went to the royal apartments, passed the rooms where she had delivered her message to Val. Someone moved through the gloom reciting verses; she thought he must be one of the pet poets Val had mentioned.

  At the end of the corridor Taja saw the woman the Shai had called Duchess Mariel. “I told you—I don’t know where Riel is,” Mariel was saying. “Is Callia there with you? Will she torment me next?”