Summer King, Winter Fool

by Lisa Goldstein

  Sorth seemed to see where Narrion’s questions would lead. He shrank back against the bookshelves, looking from Sbarra to Narrion.

  “You might be killed if you were masterless,” Narrion said. “Poets have the power to kill, is that what you believe? A power like that of the poet-mages. And if you have this power—”

  “No,” Sorth said. “No, I won’t do it.”

  He seemed terrified. Probably few people understood the dangers of wizardry as well as the poets; they liked to dabble in spells and invocations but they lacked much of the innate power of the true mages. Narrion had never known a kept poet who was not in some way a failed wizard.

  “Quiet,” Narrion said. “If you have this power, you can surely speak an invocation or two. A few verses.”

  “Help!” Sorth said loudly. “Guards! Help! Treachery!”

  No sun lit the streets of Etrara, but the bells rang out to signify morning. Noddo climbed the steps to Narrion’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Tamra asked.

  “Noddo.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought—I thought you might be Narrion. Come in, please.”

  The door opened and he went inside. “Is Narrion back?” he asked.

  “No,” Tamra said. She sounded worried.

  “Did he say when he would return?”

  “No.”

  “He’ll be back. I’ve never known him to fail—he’s always done whatever he set his mind to.”

  He had meant to reassure her. But she drew a little away from him, and he wondered if he had done just the opposite, if he had reminded her of how little she knew her husband. He and Narrion shared a past of which she knew nothing.

  Did she love Narrion, then? Noddo had heard that their marriage was one of convenience, a joining of her family’s old wealth with Narrion’s newly gained riches. To put her at her ease he said, “Did Narrion ever tell you how he came to join the Society?”

  She shook her head.

  “You know that some children born in summer are given names that end in ‘ion,’” he said. “Like Callabrion. And those born in winter have names ending in ‘iel.’ All the members of the Society of Fools are supposed to be winter-children, did you know that?”

  “But—but then Narrion—”

  “Narrion.” Noddo smiled a little, enjoying the memory. “He was a boy when he came up to me at the Feast of the Descending God and said he wanted to learn how to dance like a skeleton. I asked him his name, and when he told me I said, as gently as I could, that we did not accept summer-children into the Society. He didn’t cry, I remember that. He just turned away, as though he were thinking of something.”

  “I’ve seen that,” Tamra said.

  “He asked me about the Society every year. Somehow he could tell me apart from all the other skeletons, even though he was only a child. And I had to disappoint him every year. He was a summer-child, I said, and we could make no exceptions. I thought he would outgrow his desire.”

  “But how did he—”

  “Years passed. He went to the university. He told me at the feast that year that he was studying very hard, and he smiled that smile he has, as though he knows something you don’t. And in the library at the university he discovered a book about the founding of the Society of Fools, and the book said nothing about whether the members had to be winter-children or summer-children. So we let him in. What choice did we have?”

  Tamra laughed.

  “Aye, it’s an amusing story,” Noddo said. “But I told it to you for a reason. There’s a darkness in his soul that won’t go away, something that drew him so powerfully to the Society that we made our first exception in nearly five hundred years. He knew this even as a child, when he asked me if he could join the Society. No matter what his day of birth he belongs to Scathiel, flesh and bones and soul.”

  “Guards!” Sorth said again.

  Andosto moved behind Sorth quickly. He clapped a hand over the poet’s mouth; his other arm tightened around Sorth’s windpipe. Narrion raised his sword casually; it seemed almost an accident that the sword was pointed at the poet’s stomach.

  “What—what will you do with him?” Sbarra said. “It’ll mean your death if you kill a poet, you know that.”

  “Quiet,” Narrion said roughly, listening for the guards Sorth had called. No one came. “Death if you kill a poet,” he said scornfully. “That’s another story they tell, to make themselves as important as the wizards. Do you truly think the other court poets will band together and write me out of existence? Kill me with their dreadful meter? Slay me with bad similes?”

  No one spoke.

  “Mariel might be upset for a while,” Narrion said. “Her honor is at stake—she’s his patron, after all. But Mariel’s lost any power she might once have had—I have nothing to fear from her.”

  “Let him go,” Sbarra said.

  Narrion said nothing. Sorth squirmed in Andosto’s grasp. “Promise him you won’t take him with you,” Sbarra said. “He’ll be silent—he wants no more than to be left alone.”

  Andosto let go of his prisoner. “Don’t—” Narrion said. Sorth raised his voice over Narrion’s. “Help!” he said. “Murder!”

  Narrion thrust his sword forward. Sorth sagged against Andosto, who pushed him away. The poet fell to the floor. Blood welled from his mouth; it looked golden in the light from the lamps.

  Now they could all hear the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Narrion hurried away from the library and ran quickly down the corridor, then out into the main hallway. He had once seen a servants’ staircase but could not now remember where it was. Andosto followed him.

  They came to the end of the royal apartments. There had been a door here, he was certain of it. He pulled aside one of the hanging tapestries and saw only a wall, pushed against another and felt something give way on the other side. He moved the tapestry aside thankfully. A door stood behind it, half-open.

  They hurried down the stairwell. It was dark here; no lamps had been spared for this part of the palace. Despite the gloom he took the stairs two and three at a time, going forward mainly on instinct. Behind him he heard Andosto blunder into a wall and continue on. He opened the door at the foot of the stairs, felt a cold wind on his face.

  Once outside the palace they ran through a darkness barely lighter than that of the stairwell. Despite that, he knew somehow that it was morning. The watch would change soon, and the dead guards would be discovered.

  He ran faster, turning once to look back at the palace. The noise they had made had roused the sleeping guard, he saw; the guard stood stupidly as the others came out of the palace. That would stop them for a minute, Narrion thought, and a minute might be all they needed to get free.

  As they ran the darkness lightened a little, becoming a dirty gray. Narrion led Andosto through crooked roads and back alleys, the hidden streets he knew that appeared on no map. The book hit his leg as he ran, a welcome weight.

  Finally they reached the Darra River and the inn at the sign of the Dolphin. He hurried up the stairs, ignoring the innkeeper’s shouts, and opened the door. Andosto ran after him.

  Tamra and Noddo turned toward him. “Come quickly,” he said. “We have to leave.”

  “Leave?” Tamra said. “Why?”

  Narrion looked at Noddo. “Can we go to your house?”

  “I—I suppose so,” Noddo said. “But—”

  “We have to hurry,” Narrion said. “I’ve killed two people—three, but the Shai won’t count a court poet. And the innkeeper saw me come in this morning. Do you think that when the Shai start asking questions he’ll pretend he saw nothing? Can we trust him to keep silent, especially when the Shai will offer a reward?”

  Tamra began to collect a few things. “There’s no time for that,” Narrion said.

  They went down the stairs. “We’ll go on to Noddo’s,” Narrion said to Tamra. “Settle the bill with the innkeeper and meet us there.” He hurried out into the streets with
out waiting for an answer.

  Noddo and Andosto followed him. Somewhere a guard called, and another answered. They ran quickly past the theater and turned down the crooked way that led to Noddo’s house.

  Once inside Narrion took out the book he had gotten. “Sbarra gave me this,” he said, showing it to Noddo. He opened it; there on the first page was an invocation to the god Callabrion. It seemed a good omen. “Great king,” he said. “Our sovereign and ruler—”

  “Are you going to begin now?” Noddo said.

  “Of course,” Narrion said. “Why not?”

  “Because—because you know nothing of magic. Study the book first, and decide which verses you’ll need. Don’t be so impatient.”

  “Noddo,” Narrion said, as carefully as he could. The excitement that gripped him was strong, too strong to allow him to stop now. “The Shai might have seen which street we took. If they did they’ll question your neighbors, and it will be only a matter of time before they are led to us. We might have only a few hours. Forgive me, my teacher, but I think that in this matter we cannot afford patience.”

  “Then we’ll go somewhere else—” Noddo said.

  Narrion ignored him. He began the invocation to Callabrion again. As he spoke he felt certainty rise within him; this time he would succeed, this time the summer god would yield to his will. And he would not need Sorth, that pale, puling imitation of a wizard, to help him.

  The currents of magic began to move around him. Understanding was nearly within his grasp; soon he would be able to control the magic, to shape it to his purpose. He paged quickly through the book, looking for a poem with an appropriate keystone.

  The correct verse eluded him. He sensed the magic begin to slip away; the power around him grew stronger, wilder. He turned the pages rapidly. Noddo called out to him but he could not hear what he said over the gusts of magic.

  He glanced down a page, saw a poem with its keystone—“fire”—printed in red. What better word to use to summon Callabrion? He read the verse quickly, hoping to finish before he lost control of the spell completely.

  The room around him, chilly like all the rooms in Etrara, began to grow warm. He turned the page and continued to recite, certain now that he had chosen the correct verse. As he neared the end of the poem he saw, too late, that the second keystone was the word “ember.”

  The room grew warmer. The heat was pleasant, lulling him nearly to sleep. It would be dangerous to stop the spell in the middle, he knew, and so he read on, reciting the words without really seeing them, until he came to the end.

  His eyelids closed. At that moment he understood the extent of his folly, saw clearly that he had spoken a sleeping-spell. Soon he would sleep, perhaps forever. He struggled against the spell but the very words he had spoken worked against him, calmed him, smoothed the currents of his fear.

  He opened his eyes. He tried to turn the page, to find a counterspell. His hand grew heavy; he could barely lift it.

  Someone whispered something. Noddo? He tried to raise his head. No, Noddo was asleep.

  The whisper came again. He shook his head, trying to come awake. The voice sounded familiar; he thought that he had once known and trusted this person. He was in the presence of a strong poet-mage. Who could it be? He listened intently.

  The mage spoke louder. Narrion heard the words of a poem and struggled to repeat them, understanding that they were the counterspell he had sought. As he recited the verses he saw with admiration how the poet-mage was constructing the poem, choosing keystones and alliteration and meter almost effortlessly.

  The warmth left the room. Andosto woke, gasping. “Narrion!” Noddo said, urgently. “Narrion, stop!”

  But Narrion could not stop. The voice continued, giving him the verses he needed to summon Callabrion. He spoke them with joy, seeing with the poet-mage where they would lead, almost able to anticipate the rhymes. The two keystones joined brilliantly. The poet spoke a final invocation and then was gone.

  A fourth man stood within the room.

  The man wore patched breeches and a faded tunic; his hair was white and streaked with dirt. “Who—” Narrion said.

  The man said nothing. He stood blinking in the center of the room as if he were witless.

  “I know you,” Narrion said finally. “I’ve seen you in Sbarra’s rooms, at her gatherings. But you—Who are you?”

  “Who?” the man asked, a mournful echo.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name?”

  “I summoned the god Callabrion,” Narrion said, feeling the exaltation of the last few moments fade. Surely this man could not be Callabrion; Narrion saw no trace of the immanence of the gods, the radiant light he had heard others speak of.

  “Callabrion,” the man said slowly. Narrion sighed impatiently. His first guess had been correct; the man had lost his wits. “Callabrion. I could be … Yes. Yes, I think I might be Callabrion.”

  Narrion looked at the others in the room. Andosto frowned; Narrion remembered that he was rumored to be Callabrion’s grandson.

  “Callabrion—yes, that’s who I am.” Before Narrion could stop him he sat on a chair and took off one of his boots. The big toe on his right foot was missing.

  Narrion forced himself to say nothing. He felt tricked; he thought that there might be dozens of men in Etrara who had lost a toe. And yet he remembered the story, how Sbona had searched over the earth for the remnants of her murdered children, how when she had gathered them together she had seen that Callabrion had lost his right toe and Scathiel his left. He shivered despite himself. Could the man’s claim possibly be true?

  The man seemed to see Andosto for the first time. He stood hesitantly, still holding his boot. “My son?” he asked. His voice was that of an old man, trembling, querulous.

  Andosto nodded.

  The man who claimed to be Callabrion went toward Andosto and embraced him. Andosto held him awkwardly. Now Narrion thought he could see light emanating from the man, but it was thin, uncertain. They released each other; Callabrion returned to the chair and sat slowly.

  Narrion shivered again. If this man was truly Callabrion then he was in the presence of something ancient, holy. He had not expected the feeling of deep awe that rose from somewhere within him. This man was Sbona’s child, Scathiel’s brother. The god of summer.

  “Why—why didn’t you return to the heavens this year?” Narrion asked.

  “The heavens,” Callabrion said. He hesitated. “Yes, I was supposed to ascend to the heavens.”

  “Why didn’t you go?” Narrion’s voice was almost gentle. “Your bride Sbona waits for you.”

  “I—I don’t know. I fell in love.”

  “In love? With who?”

  Callabrion looked around him, as if hoping to find the answer with him in the room. “I don’t know,” he said again. “With—with the earth.”

  “With—”

  “Yes.” Callabrion stood; he spoke more forcefully now. The light that shone from him grew stronger. He seemed to become younger before their eyes; his thick white hair radiated out from his face like the rays of the sun. “With sun and stone, wood and water. She created well, my mother.”

  “But you—you’ve lived with us on earth before. Every year, for thousands of years.”

  Callabrion nodded. “And I never saw it before. Never truly saw it, until now. The earth holds more beauty than heaven does.”

  “You must return to the heavens, my lord. You must wed Sbona, or the sun will fail. The earth you love so much will die.”

  “No,” Callabrion said. His voice was deep, commanding. The light of his face was nearly blinding now; Narrion was forced to look away. “No, I will not.”

  No one spoke. What could they say to him, to this god? His eyes shone like suns; his hair was like a crown of white gold. His legs were as strong and powerful as the trunks of trees.

  The door opened, and Tamra stepped inside. She stopped a moment, her eyes blinking in the blazing light. She
looked from Narrion to Callabrion. Then, as her husband and the others watched, she bent to the god Callabrion in a deep curtsy. “My liege,” she said.

  Twelve

  THE DAY AFTER THE OUTLAWS HAD CAPTURED Taja and Val they changed direction, heading west toward the city Taja had seen. Taja thought that Rugath probably hoped to give them to the priests there. And what would happen to them then? They might be sacrificed, as Rugath had said; surely people who killed their kings would not balk at murdering two strangers.

  The closer they came to the city the quieter the men became, as if to match the seriousness of their errand. As they approached the city both men and women stopped and muffled themselves in layers of cloaks and scarves and headdresses. Taja dismounted awkwardly; the Shai had left her hands bound.

  One of the women slipped a bulky red and gold cloak over Taja’s shoulders. She nearly shrugged it off, thinking that she and Val might be able to attract the attention of some other clan traveling east. But any other clan would give them to the priests as well; they were the enemy, from Etrara. She kept the cloak on. It smelled of sweat and strange spices.

  They met few people traveling toward the huge city; Taja thought that most folks had returned to their homes after the ceremony. The clan rode in silence until they came to the dead vineyards. “Perhaps it’s witchcraft that’s blasted these vines,” Rugath said. “We’ve conquered Etrara, but they can command the very forces of nature. They hope to kill our crops in the ground, to starve us out of Etrara.”

  “Is that true?” Cor asked quietly. Taja had not even noticed him come up and join them. “Are you witches?”

  “No, of course not,” Taja said. “We’re merchants—I—”

  “Aye, we’re witches,” Val said, speaking over her. “We’ve spent the night on Wizard’s Hill.”

  Cor paled. “Have you indeed?” he said, nearly whispering.

  “Aye,” Val said. “Do you know what happens to those who kill a poet-mage? First their flesh rots off their bones. Then their bones dissolve—”

  Cor made a noise deep in his throat and urged his horse on ahead. Val laughed softly.