He said as Morgon blinked up at him, “Who are you? Can you speak now?”
Morgon opened his mouth. Like a small wave receding, something he had once known slipped quietly, silently away from him. The breath exploded out of him suddenly, violently; he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Be careful.” The man pulled his hands from his face. “It looks as though you hit your head on something; blood and sand are caked over your eye.” He washed it gently. “So you can’t remember your name. Did you fall off a ship in that storm last night? Are you of Ymris? Of Anuin? Of Isig? Are you a trader? Are you of Hed? Of Lungold? Are you a fisher from Loor?” He shook his head in puzzlement at Morgon’s silence. “You are mute and inexplicable as the hollow gold balls I dig up on Wind Plain. Can you see now?” Morgon nodded, and the man sat back on his haunches, frowning down at Morgon’s face as though it held a name in it somewhere. His frown deepened suddenly; he reached out and brushed at the hair plastered dry with salt against Morgon’s forehead. His voice caught. “Three stars.”
Morgon lifted his hand to touch them. The man said softly, incredulously, “You don’t remember even that. You came out of the sea with three stars on your face, with no name and no voice, like a portent out of the past…” He stopped as Morgon’s hand fell to his wrist, gripped it, and Morgon made the grunt of a question. “Oh. I am Astrin Ymris.” Then he added formally, almost bitterly, “I am the brother and land-heir of Heureu, King of Ymris.” He slid an arm under Morgon’s shoulders. “If you’ll sit, I’ll give you some dry clothes.”
He pulled the torn, wet tunic off Morgon, washed the drying sand from his body, and helped him into a long, hooded robe of rich dark cloth. He fetched wood, stirred up the embers under a cauldron of soup; by the time it had heated, Morgon had fallen asleep.
He woke at dusk. The tiny house was empty; he sat up, looking around him. It had little furniture: a bench, a large table cluttered with odd objects, a high stool, the pallet Morgon had slept on. Tools leaned against the doorway: a pick, a hammer, a chisel, a brush; dirt clung to them. Morgon rose, went to the open door. Across the threshold a great, wind-blown plain swept westward as far as he could see. Not far from the house, dark, shapeless stoneworks rose, blurred in the fading light. To the south lay, like a boundary line between lands, the dark line of a vast forest. The wind, running in from the sea, spoke a hollow, restless language. It smelled of salt and night, and for a moment, listening to it, some memory reeled into his mind of darkness, water, cold, wild wind, and he gripped the door posts to keep from falling. But it passed, and he found no word for it.
He turned. Strange things lay on Astrin’s broad table. He touched them curiously. There were pieces of broken, beautifully dyed glass, of gold, shards of finely painted pottery, a few links of heavy copper chain, a broken flute of wood and gold. A color caught his eye; he reached for it. It was a cut jewel the size of his palm, and through it flowed, as he turned it, all the colors of the sea.
He heard a step and looked up. Astrin, Xel at his side, came in, dropped a heavy, stained bag by the hearth.
He said, stirring the fire. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it. I found that at the foot of Wind Tower. No trader I showed it to could give me the name for that stone, so I took it to Isig, to Danan Isig himself. He said that never in his mountain had he seen such a jewel, nor did he know anyone beside himself and his son, who could have cut it so flawlessly. He gave me Xel out of friendship. I had nothing to give him, but he said I had given him a mystery, which is sometimes a precious thing.” He checked the pot above the flames, then reached for the bag and a knife hanging by the fire. “Xel caught two hare; I’ll cook them for supper…” He looked up as Morgon touched his arm. He let Morgon take the knife from him. “Can you skin them?” Morgon nodded. “You know you can do that. Can you remember anything else about yourself? Think. Try to—” He stopped at the helpless, tormented expression on Morgon’s face, gripped Morgon’s arm briefly. “Never mind. It will come back to you.”
They ate supper by firelight, the door closed against a sudden drenching rain. Astrin ate quietly, the white huntress Xel curled at his feet; he seemed to have settled back into a habit of silence, his thoughts indrawn, until he finished. Then he opened the door a moment to the driving rain, closed it, and the cat lifted its head with a yowl. Astrin’s movements became restless as he touched books and did not open them, set shards of glass together that did not fit and dropped them, his face expressionless as though he were listening to something beyond the rain. Morgon, seated at the hearth, his head aching and the cut over his eye pressed against cool stones, watched him. Astrin’s prowling brought him finally in front of Morgon; he gazed down at Morgon out of his white, secret eyes until Morgon looked away.
Astrin sat down with a sigh beside him. He said abruptly, “You are as secret as Wind Tower. I’ve been here five years in exile from Caerweddin. I speak to Xel, to an old man I buy fish from in Loor, to occasional traders, and to Rork, High Lord of Umber, who visits me every few months. By day I go digging out of curiosity in the great ruined city of the Earth-Masters on Wind Plain. By night, I dig in other directions, sometimes in books of wizardry I’ve learned to open, sometimes out there in the darkness above Loor, by the sea. I take Xel with me, and we watch something that is building on the shores of Ymris under night cover, something for which there is no name… But I can’t go tonight; the tide will be rough in this wind, and Xel hates the rain.” He paused a moment. “Your eyes look at me as though you understand everything I’m saying. I wish I knew your name. I wish…” His voice trailed away; his eyes stayed, speculative, on Morgon’s face.
He rose as suddenly as he had sat down, and took from his shelves a heavy book with a name on it stamped in gold: Aloil. It was locked with two apparently seamless bindings of iron. He touched them, murmuring a word, and they opened. Morgon went to his side; he looked up. “Do you know who Aloil was?” Morgon shook his head. Then his eyes widened a little as he remembered, but Astrin continued, “Most people have forgotten. He was the wizard in service to the Kings of Ymris for nine hundred years before he went to Lungold, then vanished along with the entire school of wizards seven hundred years ago. I bought the book from a trader; it took me two years to learn the word to open it. Part of the poetry Aloil wrote was to the wizard Nun, in service to Hel. I tried her name to open the book, but that didn’t work. Then I remembered the name of her favorite pig out of all the pig herds of Hel: the speaking pig, Hegdis-Noon—and that name opened the book.” He set the heavy book on the table, pored over it.
“Somewhere in here is the spell that made the stone talk on King’s Mouth Plain. Do you know that tale? Aloil was furious with Galil Ymris because the king refused to follow Aloil’s advice during a seige of Caerweddin, and as a result Aloil’s tower was burned. So Aloil made a stone in the plain above Caerweddin speak for eight days and nights in such a loud voice that men as far as Umber and Meremont heard it, and the stone recited all Galil’s secret, very bad attempts at writing poetry. From that the plain got its name.” He glanced up to see Morgon’s smile. He straightened. “I haven’t talked so much in a month. Xel can’t laugh. You make me remember I’m human. I forget that sometimes, except when Rork Umber is here, and then I remember, all too well, who I am.” He looked down, turned a page. “Here it is. Now if I can read his handwriting…” He was silent a few moments, while Morgon read over his shoulder and the candlelight spattered over the page. Astrin turned to him finally. He held Morgon gently by the arms and said slowly, “I think if this spell can make a stone speak, it may make you speak. I haven’t done much mind-work; I’ve gone into Xel’s mind, and once into Rork’s, with his permission. If you are afraid, I won’t do this. But perhaps if I go deep enough, I can find your name. Do you want me to try?”
Morgon’s hands touched his mouth. He nodded, his eyes holding Astrin’s, and Astrin drew a breath. “All right. Sit down. Sit quietly. The first step is to become as the stone…”
> Morgon sat down on the stool. Astrin, standing across from him, grew still, a dark shape in the flickering light. Morgon felt an odd shifting in the room, as if another vision of the same room had superimposed itself over his own, and refocused slightly. Odd pieces of thought rose in his mind: the plain he had looked at, Xel’s face, the skins he had hung to dry. Then there was nothing but a long darkness and a withdrawal.
Astrin moved, the fire reflected strangely in his eyes. He whispered, “There was nothing. It is as though you have no name. I couldn’t reach the place where you have your name and your past hidden from yourself. It’s deep, deep…” He stopped as Morgon rose. His hands closed tight on Astrin’s arms; he shook Astrin a little, imperatively, and Astrin said, “I’ll try. But I’ve never met a man so hidden from himself. There must be other spells; I’ll look. But I don’t know why you care so much. It must be the essence of peace, having no name, no memory… All right. I’ll keep looking. Be patient.”
Morgon heard him stirring at sunrise the next day and got up. The rain had stopped; the clouds hung broken above Wind Plain. They ate a breakfast of cold hare, wine and bread, then, carrying Astrin’s tools, Xel following, they walked across the plain to the ancient, ruined city.
It was a maze of broken columns, fallen walls, rooms without roofs, steps leading nowhere, arches shaken to the ground, all built of smooth, massive squares of brilliant stone all shades of red, green, gold, blue, grey, black, streaked and glittering with other colors melting through them. A wide street of gold-white stone, grass thrusting up between its sections, began at the eastern edge of the city, parted it, and stopped at the foot of the one whole building in the city: a tower whose levels spiraled upward from a sprawling black base to a small, round, deep-blue chamber high at the top. Morgon, walking down the center street at Astrin’s side, stopped abruptly to stare at it.
Astrin said, “Wind Tower. No man has ever been to the top of it—no wizard either. Aloil tried; he walked up its stairs for seven days and seven nights and never reached the end of them. I’ve tried, many times. I think at the top of that tower there must lie the answer to questions so old we’ve forgotten to ask them. Who were the Earth-Masters? What terrible thing happened to them that destroyed them and their cities? I play like a child among the bones of it, finding a fine stone here, a broken plate there, hoping that one day find a key to the mystery of it, the beginning of an answer… I took a chip off these great stones also to Danan Isig; he said he knew of no place in the High One’s realm where they quarried such stone.” He touched Morgon briefly, to get his eyes. “I’ll be there, in that chamber without a roof. Join me when you wish.”
Morgon, left to his own in the hollow, singing city, wandered through the roofless halls and wall-less chambers, between piles of broken stones rooted deep to the earth by long grass. The winds sped past like wild horses, pouring through empty rooms, thundering down the street to spiral the tower and moan through its secret chamber. Morgon, following them, drawn to the huge, bright structure, put one hand flat on its blue-black wall, one foot on its first step. The gold steps curved away from him; the winds pushed at him like children, tumbled past him. He turned away after a moment, went to find Astrin.
He worked all day at Astrin’s side, digging quietly in a little room whose floor was sunk beneath the earth, crumbling the earth in his hands, searching it for bits of metal, glass, pottery. Once, his hands full of the moist black earth, he caught the strong, good smell of it, and something leaped in him, longing, responding. He made a sound without knowing it. Astrin looked up.
“What is it? Did you find something?”
He dropped the earth and shook his head, feeling tears behind his throat and not knowing why.
Walking home at dusk, their finds carefully wrapped in old cloth, Astrin said to him, “You are so patient here. Perhaps you belong here, working among these forgotten things, in silence. And you accept my strange ways so unquestioningly, as though you can’t remember how men do live with one another…” He paused a moment, then went on slowly, as if remembering himself, “I haven’t always been alone. I grew up in Caerweddin, with Heureu, and the sons of our father’s High Lords, in the beautiful, noisey house Galil Ymris made out of the Earth-Master’s stones. Heureu and I were close then, like shadows of each other. That was before we quarrelled.” He shrugged the words away as Morgon looked at him. “It makes no difference here. I’ll never go back to Caerweddin, and Heureu will never come here. I had just forgotten that once I wasn’t alone. You forget easily.”
He left Morgon that night after supper. Morgon, brushing dirt off pieces of pottery they had found, waited patiently. The wind rose hours after sunset; he grew uneasy, feeling them pull at the joints of the small house, heave at it as if to uproot it. He opened the door aimlessly once to look for Astrin; the wind tore it from his grip, sent it crashing back and fought with him, face-to-face, as he edged it closed.
When the wind died finally, a silence dropped like thin fingers of moonlight across Wind Plain. The tower rose out of broken stone, whole and solitary, yielding nothing to the moon’s eye. Morgon added wood to the fire, made a torch of an oak branch, and went outside. He heard heavy breathing suddenly from the side of the house, an odd, dragging step. He turned and saw Astrin hunched against the wall of the house.
He said, as Morgon put out his torch underfoot and went to help him, “I’m all right.” His face was mist-colored in the light from the window; he flung an arm around Morgon heavily, and together they stumbled across the threshold, Astrin sat down on the pallet. His hands were scratched raw; his hair was tangled with sea spray. He held his right hand against his side and would not move it, until Morgon, watching the dark stain bloom under his fingers, made a harsh noise of protest. Astrin’s head dropped back on the pallet; his hand slid down. He whispered as Morgon ripped a seam open, “Don’t. I’m short of clothes. He saw me first, but I killed him. Then he fell in the sea, and I had to dive for him among the rocks and tide, or they would have found him. I buried him in the sand. They won’t find him there. He was made… He was shaped out of seaweed and foam and wet pearl, and the sword was of darkness and silver water. It bit me and flew away like a bird. If Xel hadn’t warned me, I would be dead. If I hadn’t turned…” He flinched as Morgon touched his side with a wet cloth. Then he was silent, his teeth locked, his eyes closed, while Morgon washed the shallow wound gently, closed it and bound it with strips from his dry robe. He heated wine; Astrin drank it and his shivering stopped. He lay back again. “Thank you. Xel—thank you. If Xel comes back, let her in.”
He slept motionlessly, exhausted, waking only once near dawn, when Xel came whining to the door, and Morgon sleepless by the fire, rose to open it for the wet, bedraggled huntress.
Astrin said little of the incident the next day. He moved stiffly, with a tight, sour expression that eased only when his eyes fell on Morgon’s mute, worried face. They spent the day indoors, Astrin prowling through wizards’ books like an animal scenting, and Morgon trying to wash and mend Astrin’s robe while questions he could not ask struggled like trapped birds in the back of his throat.
Astrin came out of his grim thoughts, finally, near sunset. He closed a book with a sigh, its iron bonds locking automatically, and said, staring out at the plain, “I should tell Heureu.” Then his hand snapped down flat on the book and closed. He whispered, “No. Let him see with his own eyes. The land is his business. Let him put his own name to this. He drove me out of Caerweddin five years ago for speaking the truth; why should I go back?”
Morgon, watching from the hearth as he struggled with needle and seam, made a questioning sound. Astrin, a hand to his side, turned to add wood to the fire for their evening meal. He paused a moment, to drop one hand on Morgon’s shoulder. “I am glad you were here last night. If there is anything I can possibly do for you, I will do it.”
He did not go out again at night for a while. Morgon worked at his side during the days, digging in the city; in the lo
ng, quiet evenings he would try to piece together shards of pottery, of glass, while Astrin searched through his books. Sometimes they hunted with Xel in the wild oak forest just south of them, which stretched from the sea far west beyond the limits of Ymris.
Once Astrin said, as they walked through the gentle, constant fall of dead oak leaves, “I should take you to Caithnard. It’s just a day’s journey south of these woods. Perhaps someone knows you there.” But Morgon only looked at him blankly, as if Caithnard lay in some strange land at the bottom of the sea, and Astrin did not mention it again.
Morgon found a few days later a cache of lovely red and purple glass in a corner of the chamber they were working in. He took the fragments to Astrin’s house, brushed off the dirt and puzzled over them. It rained heavily the next day; they could not go out. The small house smelled damp, and the fire smoked. Xel prowled restlessly, wailing complaints every now and then to Astrin, who sat murmuring over a spell-book he could not open. Morgon, some rough paste Astrin had made in front of him, began to fit together, piece by piece, the shards of glass.
He looked up as Astrin said irritably, “Xel, be quiet. I’ve run out of words. Yrth was the most powerful of the wizards after the Founder, and he locked his books too well.”
Morgon opened his mouth, made a small sound, a puzzled look on his face. He turned abruptly, found a half-burned twig in the fire and blew it out. He wrote on the tabletop in ash, “You need his harp.”
Astrin, watching, slid rather abruptly off the stool. He stood looking over Morgon’s shoulder. “I need his what? Your handwriting is as difficult as Aloil’s. Oh. Harp.” His hand closed on Morgon’s shoulder. “Yes. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he did lock the book with a series of notes from the harp he made—or with the one low string that is said to shatter weapons. But where would I find it? Do you know where it is?”
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