Riddle-Master Trilogy

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “But, Raederle—”

  She pitched a sliver of mortar across the tail feathers of a passing crow, causing it to veer with a squawk. “But what?” she said darkly.

  “I can’t… I can’t walk into your father’s land, trouble the dead as I have, nearly commit murder his hall, then take you away with me to wander through the realm without even marrying you. What in Hel’s name will your father think of me?”

  “When he finally meets you, he’ll let you know. What I think, which is more to the point, is that my father has meddled enough with my life. He may have foreseen our meeting, and maybe even our loving, but I don’t think he should have his own way in everything. I’m not going to marry you just because he maybe foresaw that, too, in some dream.”

  “Do you think it was that, behind his strange vow about Peven’s Tower?” he asked curiously. “Foreknowledge?”

  “You are changing the subject.”

  He eyed her a moment, considering the subject and her flushed face. “Well,” he said softly, casting their future to the winds over the dizzying face of the tower, “if you refuse to marry me, I don’t see what I can do about it. And if you choose to come with me—if that is what you really want—I am not going to stop you. I want you too much. But I’m terrified. I think we would have more hope of survival falling head first off this tower. And at least, doing that, we’d know where we were going.”

  Her hand lay on the stones between them. She lifted it, touched his face. “You have a name and a destiny. I can only believe that sooner or later you will stumble across some hope.”

  “I haven’t seen any so far. Only you. Will you marry me in Hed?”

  “No.”

  He was silent a little, holding her eyes. “Why?”

  She looked away from him quickly; he sensed a sudden, strange turmoil in her. “For many reasons.”

  “Raederle—”

  “No. And don’t ask me again. And stop looking at me like that.”

  “All right,” he said after a moment. He added, “I don’t remember that you were so stubborn.”

  “Pig-headed.”

  “Pig-headed.”

  She looked at him again. Her mouth crooked into a reluctant smile. She shifted close to him, put her arm around his shoulders, and swung her feet over the sheer edge of nothingness. “I love you, Morgon of Hed. When we finally leave this house, where will we go first? Hed?”

  “Yes. Hed…” The name touched his heart suddenly, like the word of a spell. “I have no business going home. I simply want to. For a few hours, at night… that might be safe.” He thought of the sea, between them and his home, and his heart chilled. “I can’t take you across the sea.”

  “In Hel’s name, why not?” she said.

  “It’s far too dangerous.”

  “That makes no sense. Lungold is dangerous, and I’m going with you there.”

  “That’s different. For one thing, no one I loved ever died in Lungold. Yet. For another thing—”

  “Morgon, I am not going to die in the sea. I can probably shape water as well as fire.”

  “You don’t know that. Do you?” The thought of her caught in the water as it heaved itself into faces and wet, gleaming forms made his voice rough. “You wouldn’t even have time to learn.”

  “Morgon—”

  “Raederle, I have been on a ship breaking apart in the sea. I don’t want to risk your life that way.”

  “It’s not your risk. It’s mine. For another thing, I have been on ships from Caithnard to Kyrth and back looking for you and nothing ever happened to me.”

  “You could stay at Caithnard. For only a few—”

  “I am not going to stay at Caithnard,” she said tersely. “I am going with you to Hed. I want to see the land you love. If you had your way, I would be sitting in a farmhouse in Hed shelling beans and waiting for you, just as I have waited for nearly two years.”

  “You don’t shell beans.”

  “I don’t. Not unless you are beside me helping.”

  He saw himself, a lean, shaggy-haired man with a worn, spare face, a great sword at his side and a starred harp at his back, sitting on the porch at Akren with a bowl of beans on his knees. He laughed suddenly. She smiled again, watching him, her argument forgotten.

  “You haven’t done that in seven days.”

  “No.” He was still, his arm around her, and the smile died slowly in his eyes. He thought of Hed, gripped so defenselessly in the heart of the sea, with not even the illusion of the High One to protect it. He whispered, “I wish I could ring Hed with power, so that nothing of the turmoil of the mainland could touch it and it could stay innocent of fear.”

  “Ask Duac. He’ll give you an army.”

  “I don’t dare bring an army to Hed. That would be asking for disaster.”

  “Take a few wraiths,” she suggested. “Duac would love to be rid of them.”

  “Wraiths.” He lifted his eyes from the distant forests to stare at her. “In Hed.”

  “They’re invisible. No one would see them to attack them.” Then she shook her head a little at her own words. “What am I thinking? They would upset all the fanners in Hed.”

  “Not if the farmers didn’t know they were there.” His hands felt chilled, suddenly, linked around hers. He breathed, “What am I thinking?”

  She drew back, searching his eyes. “Are you taking me seriously?”

  “I think… I think so.” He did not see her face then, but the faces of the dead, with all their frustrated power. “I could bind them. I understand them… their anger, their desire for revenge, their land-love. They can take that love to Hed and all their longing for war… But your father… how can I wrest something out of the history of An and lead it to danger in Hed? I can’t tamper with the land-law of An like that“

  “Duac gave you permission. And for all my father is interested in land-law, he might as well be a wraith himself. But Morgon, what about Eliard?”

  “Eliard?”

  “I don’t know him, but wouldn’t he… wouldn’t it disturb him maybe a little if you brought an army of the dead to Hed?”

  He thought of the land-ruler of Hed, his brother, whose face he barely remembered. “A little,” he said softly. “He must be used to being disturbed by me, even in his sleep, by now. I would bury my own heart under his feet if that would keep him and Hed safe. I would even face an argument with him over this—”

  “What will he say?”

  “I don’t know… I don’t even know him any more.” The thought pained him, touching unhealed places within him. But he did not let her see that; he only moved reluctantly from their high place. “Come with me. I want to talk to Duac.”

  “Take them,” Duac said. “all of them.”

  They had found him in the great hall, listening to complaints from farmers and messengers from Lords of An whose lands and lives were in turmoil over the restlessness and bickerings of the dead. When the hall finally cleared and Morgon could speak with him, he listened incredulously.

  “You actually want them? But Morgon, they’ll destroy the peace of Hed.”

  “No, they won’t. I’ll explain to them why they are there—”

  “How? How do you explain anything to dead men who are fighting a centuries-old war in cow pastures and village market places?”

  “I’ll simply offer them what they want. Someone to fight. But, Duac, how will I explain to your father?”

  “My father?” Duac glanced around the hall, then up at the rafters, and at each of the four corners. “I don’t see him. Anywhere. And when I do see him, he will be so busy explaining himself to the living, he won’t have time to count the heads of the dead. How many do you want?”

  “As many as I can bind, of the kings and warriors who had some touch of compassion in them. They’ll need that, to understand Hed. Rood would be able to help me—” He stopped suddenly and an unaccountable flush stained Duac’s face. “Where is Rood? I haven’t seen him for days.”
<
br />   “He hasn’t been here for days.” Duac cleared his throat. “You weren’t noticing. So I waited until you asked. I sent him to find Deth.”

  Morgon was silent. The name flung him back seven days, as though he stood in the same pool of sunlight, his shadow splayed before him on the cracked stone floor. “Deth,” he whispered, and the ambiguity of the name haunted him.

  “I gave him instructions to bring the harpist back here; I sent fourteen armed men with him. You let him go, but he still has much to answer for to the land-rulers of the realm. I thought to imprison him here until the Masters at Caithnard could question him. That’s not something I would attempt to do.” He touched Morgon hesitantly. “You would never have known he was here. I’m only surprised Rood has not returned before this.”

  The color stirred back into Morgon’s face. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be in Rood’s boots, trying to bring Deth back to Anuin. That harpist makes his own choices.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Rood will never bring him back here. You sent him into the chaos of the Three Portions for nothing.”

  “Well,” Duac said resignedly, “you know the harpist better than I do. And Rood would have gone after him with or without my asking. He wanted answers too.”

  “You don’t question that riddler with a sword. Rood should have known that.” He heard the harsh edge that had crept into his voice then. He turned a little abruptly, out of the light, and sat down at one of the tables.

  Duac said helplessly, “I’m sorry. This was something you didn’t need to know.”

  “I do need to know. I just didn’t want to think. Not yet.” He spread his hands on the rich gold grain of oak and thought again of Akren, with its sunlit oak walls. “I’m going home.” The words opened his heart, filed him with a sharp, sweet urgency. “Home… Duac, I need ships. Trade-ships.”

  “You’re going to take the dead by water?” Raederle said amazedly. “Will they go?”

  “How else can they get to Hed?” he asked reasonably. Then he thought a little, staring back at his vague reflection in the polished wood. “I don’t dare take you on the same ship with them. So… we’ll ride together to Caithnard and meet them there. All right?”

  “You want to ride back through Hel?”

  “We could fly instead,” he suggested, but she shook her head quickly.

  “No. I’ll ride.”

  He eyed her, struck by an odd note in her voice. “It would be simple for you to take the crow-shape.”

  “One crow in the family is enough,” she said darkly, “Morgon, Bri Corbett could find ships for you. And men to sail them.”

  “It will cost a small fortune to persuade them,” Morgon said, but Duac only shrugged.

  “The dead have already cost a great fortune in the destruction of crops and animals. Morgon, how in Hel’s name will you control them in Hed?”

  “They will not want to fight me,” he said simply, and Duac was silent, gazing at him out of clear, sea-colored eyes.

  “I wonder,” he said slowly, “what you are. Man of Hed, who can control the dead of An… Star-Bearer.”

  Morgon looked at him with a curious gratitude. “I might have hated my own name in this hall, but for you.” He stood up, mulling over the problem at hand. “Duac, I need to know names. I could spend days searching the cairns with my mind, but I won’t know who I am rousing. I know many of the names of the Kings of the Three Portions, but I don’t know the lesser dead.”

  “I don’t either,” Duac said.

  “Well, I know where you can find out,” Raederle sighed. “The place I almost lived in when I was a child. Our father’s library.”

  She and Morgon spent the rest of the day and the evening there, among ancient books and dusty parchments, while Duac sent to the docks for Bri Corbett. By midnight, Morgon had tamped down in the deep of his mind endless names of warrior-lords, their sons and far-flung families, and legends of love, blood feuds and land wars that spanned the history of An. He left the house then, walked alone through the still summer night into the fields behind the king’s house, which were the charnel house for the many who had died battling over Anuin. There he began his calling.

  He spoke name after name, with the fragments of legend or poetry that he could remember, with his voice and his mind. The dead roused to their names, came out of the orchards and woods, out of the earth itself. Some rode at him with wild, eerie cries, their armor aflame with moonlight over bare bones. Others came silently: dark, grim figures revealing terrible death wounds. They sought to frighten him, but he only watched them out of eyes that had already seen all he needed to fear. They tried to fight him, but he opened his own mind to them, showed them glimpses of his power. He held them through all their challenging, until they stood ranged before him across an entire field, their awe and curiosity forcing them out of their memories to glimpse something of the world they had been loosed into.

  Then he explained what he wanted. He did not expect them to understand Hed, but they understood him, his anger and despair and his land-love. They gave him fealty in a ritual as old as An, their moldering blades flashing greyly in the moonlight. Then they seeped slowly back into the night, into the earth, until he summoned them again.

  He stood once again in a quiet field, his eyes on one still, dark figure who did not leave. He watched it curiously; then, when it did not move, he touched its mind. His thoughts were filled instantly with the living land-law of An.

  His heart pounded sharply against his ribs. The King of An walked slowly toward him, a tall man robed and cowled like a master or a wraith. As he neared, Morgon could see him dimly in the moonlight, his dark brows slashing a tired, bitter face over eyes that were like Rood’s hauntingly familiar. The king stopped in front of him, stood silently surveying him.

  He smiled unexpectedly, the bitterness in his eyes yielding to a strange wonder. “I’ve seen you,” he said, “in my dreams. Star-Bearer.”

  “Mathom.” His throat was very dry. He bent his head to the king he had summoned out of the night of An. “You must… you must be wondering what I’m doing.”

  “No. You made that very clear, as you explained it to the army you raised. You do astounding things so quietly in my land.”

  “I asked Duac’s permission.”

  “I’m sure Duac was grateful for the suggestion. You’re going to sail with them to Hed? Is that what I heard?”

  “I don’t… I was thinking of riding with Raederle to Caithnard and meeting the ships there, but I think perhaps I should sail with the dead. It would make the living men on the ships feel easier, if I am with them.”

  “You’re taking Raederle to Hed?”

  “She won’t… she won’t listen to reason.”

  The king grunted. “Strange woman.” His eyes were as sharp and curious as birds’ eyes, searching beneath Morgon’s words.

  Morgon asked him suddenly, “What have you seen of me, in your dreams?”

  “Pieces. Fragments. Little that will help you, and much more than is good for me. Long ago, I dreamed that you came out of a tower with a crown in your hand and three stars on your face… but no name. I saw you with a beautiful young woman, whom I knew was my daughter, but still, I never knew who you were. I saw…” He shook his head a little, drawing his gaze back out of some perplexing, dangerous vision.

  “What?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Mathom.” He felt cold suddenly in the warm summer night. “Be careful. There are things in your mind that could cost you your life.”

  “Or my land-law?” His lean hand closed on Morgon’s shoulder. “Perhaps. That is why I rarely explain my thoughts. Come to the house. There will be a minor tempest when I reappear, but if you can sit patiently through that, we will have time to talk afterward.” He took a step, but Morgon did not move. “What is it?”

  He swallowed. “There is something I have to tell you. Before I walk into your hall with you. Seven days ago, I walked in
to it to kill a harpist.”

  He heard the king draw a swift breath. “Deth came here.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Somehow I am not surprised.” His voice sounded husky, like a voice out of a barrow. He drew Morgon forward toward the great moonlit house. “Tell me.”

  Morgon told him much more than that before they reached the hall. He found himself talking a little about even the past seven days, which were so precious to him he wondered if they had even existed. Mathom said little, only making a faint noise deep in his throat now and then, like a blackbird’s mutter. As they entered the inner courtyard, they saw horses, trembling and sweating, being led to the stables. Their saddlecloths were purple and blue, the colors of the kings household guard. Mathom cursed mildly.

  “Rood must be back. Empty-handed, furious, wraithridden, and unwashed.” They entered the hall, which was a blaze of torchlight, and Rood, slumped over a cup of wine, stared at his father. Duac and Raederle were beside him, their heads turning, but he got to his feet first, drowning their voices.

  “Where in Hel’s name have you been?”

  “Don’t shout at me,” the king said testily. “If you had no more sense than to roam through this chaos searching for that harpist, I have no pity for you.” He switched his gaze to Duac, as Rood, his mouth still open, dropped back into his chair. Duac eyed the king coldly, but his voice was controlled.

  “Well. What brought you home? Dropping out of the sky like a bad spell. Surely not distress over the shambles you have made of your land-rule.”

  “No,” Mathom said imperturbably, pouring wine. “You and Rood have done very well without me.”

  “We have done what very well without you?” Rood asked between his teeth. “Do you realize we are on the verge of war?”

  “Yes. And An has armed itself for it in a remarkably short time. Even you have turned, in less than three months, from a scholar into a warrior.”

  Rood drew an audible breath to answer. Duac’s hand clamped suddenly down on his wrist, silencing him. “War.” His face had lost color. “With whom?”

  “Who else is armed?”

  “Ymris?” He repeated it incredulously, “Ymris?”