The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  He opened his eyes, dazed, as though he were coming out of a dream. “What?”

  “Coren, how did you know Rommalb’s name?” He gazed at her, his hands limp on her shoulders, his face drawn, white. She moved his hands, held them tightly as she sat with him on the floor. He said finally, “I know it.”

  “But, Coren, how?”

  “How do I know anything?” He leaned back against the stones, closing his eyes.

  “But how?”

  “I had to know.” His words lay strengthless a moment between them. “I would have died on your hearth,” he whispered. “I have been in one great battle, I have fought unexpectedly at night, alone, but I have never—I have never before seen death come at me so certainly as at your hearth. It was the color of night, and I could not breathe because it was airless, and I knew—I knew if I could find a name, put a name to it, it could not harm me. All my thoughts shouted of death—flew in circles like frightened birds—but I knew it could not be death, in your house, at your hearth. So a part of me searched for a name among all the ancient names I have known. Then I knew what it was. It was not death but fear. Rommalb. The fear men die of.” He opened his eyes, looked at her from some nameless place. “Sybel, I could not let myself die for something that could not harm me.”

  “Men have,” she whispered. “Countless men, through countless years.”

  “I could not. I had—I had a thing I wanted to stay alive for.”

  “Drede?”

  He shook his head, said nothing for a long while, his eyes closed, until she thought he was sleeping. And then he straightened, leaned forward and kissed her. She drew back, her eyes wide, bewildered. “I have never heard of anyone like you. I expected to see you mad or dead in my house, and then find your five brothers at my gates demanding to know why. Instead, you gave Rommalb back his name, and you turn away from death to come back and kiss me on my floor.”

  “It seemed a better thing to do,” he said, smiling, and then the terror of a memory froze the smile on his face, and his eyes emptied, chill as lost stars. He shook it away from him, and rose stiffly. Sybel helped him, her brows quirked worriedly.

  “You have such terrible welcomes to my house. I will make Ogam’s bed for you. And then I will make Cyrin into sausages.”

  “No—Sybel, he asked me a riddle, and I asked him for the answer to it. So he gave it to me.”

  “He tricked me into giving it. And there was no reason for him to treat you this way, a guest in my house, who came out of kindness.”

  He sat down, then reached after a moment to pick up the pieces of broken bowl. “If you cannot find a reason, I suppose there was none.”

  “I cannot. Leave that, Coren; I will clean it, after you go to bed.”

  “No. I will not sleep tonight in darkness. Let me sit here beside your fire. Sybel—”

  “What?”

  He looked up at her. “Are you afraid of nothing? What are you that Rommalb itself comes obedient to your call?”

  “I am afraid of some things. I was afraid for you, then. I am afraid for Tam. But I never thought to be afraid of Rommalb.” She knelt to clean the spilled soup, and he watched the firelight pass glittering among the white strands of her hair until they blurred together and he fell asleep.

  She found him in the morning still sitting beside the fire, with Gules Lyon at his feet. The snow had stopped; the world was moon-colored beyond the ice-barred windows. A loaf of bread sat half-eaten on the table; the wine was gone. He smiled at her, his eyes red-rimmed, and she said gently,

  “You did not sleep well?”

  “I woke, and you had gone, so I did not sleep. Cyrin talked with me awhile; he told me tales.”

  “I hope that is all he told you.”

  “He told me of Prince Lud, who could have had any flower in the world he wanted, but he wanted only the flaming rose that grew on the Black Peak of Fyrbolg. And he got what he wanted and was content. So I still hope.”

  Color rose about her eyes. “I do not think any of this is Cyrin’s business. Besides, you said yourself I am no flaming rose, but an ice flower, growing in a lifeless world. You belong in the world of the living, and there, I think, you will find your rose.”

  He sighed. “And you said, sometimes I am a fool. I think I am the one who has been living until now in a lifeless world. Sybel... last night I dreamed of Norrel. Always—always before, when I dreamed of him, I never saw him as he was alive, but only as he lay dying, alone, feeling the death wound in him, seeing Drede turn away from him, trying to call, with no voice to call, no one to hear him—I see him call me in my dreams, and he does not see me, and I cannot come to him. But last night, I fell asleep watching you clean the floor, and I dreamed of Norrel as he was alive, when we would talk together late at night. He was talking to me of Rianna, of his love for her. And I was smiling, listening, nodding, because I understood how he felt, what he was saying. I woke, still hearing his voice, and in the moment of my waking, I thought of Drede and I felt pity for him, because he could not have what Norrel had... Sybel, he is only an old, frightened man, with no one to love him but Tamlorn. And I thought he was like Rommalb, a death giver..”

  “Do you still want him dead?”

  “I think—I am tired of thinking about him.” He rose, came to her, stood before her without touching her. “I love you. When you need me again I will come.”

  “No, Coren,” she said helplessly, and found she had reached out to touch him. “I am not good at loving. In all my life, I have only loved Maelga, Tam and Ogam, even though he was not very good at loving either. Stay in Sirle, where there are women who—who can give you what you require. I belong here.”

  “I require you,” he said simply. He turned to get his cloak. “When the Prince Rurin pursued the witch Glower for turning all his servants into pigs, she—”

  “I know. She thrust a great mountain of glass in his path that he could neither ride over or around. So he returned, defeated.”

  “So,” Coren said, and bent to kiss her unresponsive face farewell. “What is the difference between glass and ice?”

  “Oh, go home,” she said crossly, then laughed in spite of herself. She went to the gates with him to let him out. She stood shivering in the soundless morning, watching him ride down the mountain. The Boar Cyrin came to stand beside her, his warm breath blossoming in and out of the air. She looked down at him.

  “That was a great chance you took,” she said soberly. The silver-bristled Boar grunted his private note of laughter. He used with her, for the first time, his bell-sweet voice.

  “One wise fool knows another.”

  Tam came to visit her a few days later. She looked up from her reading to hear Ter’s voice and see him circling her domed roof. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and hurried out, and he came to rest on her shoulder, just as Tam rode up to her gates with five men behind him. He slipped off his horse and shouted to her, and she saw his heavy, fur-lined cloak trimmed with gold thread and his soft boots and gloves with cuffs of fur. She opened the gates and he flung himself at her, laughing.

  “Sybel, Sybel, Sybel—” He hugged her tightly, then whirled away. “Look at my horse. My father chose him for me—storm-gray, velvet-gray—his name is Drede. He was afraid to let me come, but I begged and begged—I cannot stay long, though—”

  “Oh, my Tam, I am glad to see you— Come in.” She looked into Ter’s glittering eyes and asked, Is he well?

  The King is kind to him.

  Tam walked beside her, his footsteps deep in the snow, his face bright. “Sybel, I am so happy to see you. Drede’s palace is so big—there are people everywhere— Sybel, they are so courteous to me, because I am Drede’s son. And I have such rich clothes. But I miss Gules Lyon and Nyl.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “Of course. I am his protection against the Sirle Lords.”

  She glanced at him, startled. He smiled, his eyes clear.

  “You have grown a little, I think,” sh
e said.

  “Drede says I am like you. But Sybel, he is very kind to me, and I am happy; when we are alone together, sometimes, doing simple things—then sometimes he laughs.” He opened the door. Moriah came to meet him, purring. He knelt down and rubbed his chilled face along her fur, then reached for Gules Lyon’s mane and stared into the golden eyes. “Gules,” he whispered, “Gules,” and the deep throat rumbled. “Do you know what I miss, too, Sybel? Your green fire. It is so beautiful.” He shook snow from his cloak. She touched his pale, wet hair.

  “You are growing,” she said wonderingly, and he laughed, his voice deepening.

  “I know. Sybel, he wanted me to bring you back with me, but I said I would only ask you—I would not beg. I have asked you, and now we can talk about other things. Are the animals well?”

  A smile trembled in her eyes. “Very well,” she said, and went to sit with him beside the hearth. “Tell me now what you do every day.”

  “Oh—Sybel, I have never dreamed of so many people! We rode through the city on market day, and the people shouted my father’s name—and Sybel, they shouted mine, too—Tamlorn—and I was so surprised that my father laughed at me. I like to see him laugh.”

  She let his voice run over her in a pleasant stream, soothing, comforting; she sat back, watching him, smiling, half listening. His face, bones forming, firming beneath it, lit and changed as he spoke, laughing, sobering, smiling again a clear, curious smile with a hint of secrecy behind it. Her thoughts melted apart; she let them lay strengthless as she had not done for days, and rested content in the warm green fire, and the white walls, and Tam beside her, long-boned, scratching the space between Moriah’s black ears as he talked. Then something rippled, minute, distant, unbidden in the deep part of her mind. Tam touched her and she started.

  “You are not listening. Sybel, I brought you a gift—a cloak of white wool with blue flowers woven on it. Drede had some women make it for you.” He paused a moment. “What is the matter?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I am a little tired. A cloak? Tam, thank him for me. Is Ter behaving? I was afraid he might eat someone.”

  “Oh, no. We go hunting on still days. He is very polite with Drede’s falcons, but he will let only me take him. Sybel—”

  She did not answer him, feeling again the movement in her mind, faint and swift as the movement of a star through the midnight sky. Her hands tightened slowly on the arms of her chair.

  “Sybel,” Tam said. His brows flicked together. “Do you hurt somewhere? You should talk to Maelga.”

  “I will.” Her fingers loosened, stretched taut. Her eyes sought the fire, wide, black. “I will,” she whispered. Then a knocking sounded at the door and Tam’s face changed.

  “So soon? But I just came.”

  She turned swiftly. “Oh, my Tam—not yet, surely—”

  “I told you I could not stay long.” He stood up, sighing. “Sybel, when times are not so troubled, I will stay longer. I have your cloak in my saddlebag.” The knocking sounded again; he raised his voice. “I am coming! Sybel, talk to Maelga about what hurts you. She can cure everything.”

  “Prince Tamlorn—”

  “Coming!” He put his arm around her as they walked across the yard, the guard following after them silently. Ter Falcon came to land again on Tam’s shoulder. “Sybel, I will stay longer next time. It—I wish you would come to see me.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “Please come.” He unbuckled his saddlebag, and took out a soft, ivory cloak wound with whorls of blue thread. “This is for you.”

  She touched it. “Oh, Tam, it is beautiful, so soft—”

  “It is lined with ermine.” He put it in her arms. Then he kissed her quickly. “Please come. And talk to Maelga.”

  She smiled. “I will, my Tam. Now, may I say one word to Ter?” Tam stood still a moment, and she looked from his gray, smiling eyes to Ter’s blue, piercing gaze.

  Ter.

  What is it, Ogam’s daughter? You are troubled.

  Tam watched her, saw her face go still a moment, her eyes black, lightless, piercing back at Ter’s.

  There is someone calling me to him. Stop him.

  FIVE

  * * *

  She went to see Maelga that afternoon. The white doves roosted on Maelga’s rafters, and the raven came in and out through an open corner of window. The little house was thick with strange scents; Maelga bent murmuring over her cauldron, the steam of it loosening her white curls, plastering them glistening against her cheekbones. She did not look up as Sybel came in, so Sybel did not speak. She moved restlessly, opening and closing Maelga’s books, peering at her jars of nameless things, pacing back and forth in the middle of the room, frowning, until Maelga’s murmurings stopped abruptly, and she turned her head.

  “My child,” she said in wonderment. “I am losing count of Things.”

  “I am sorry,” Sybel said. Something she held, worrying with her fingers, snapped; she stared down at it, unseeing. Maelga dropped her spoon in the cauldron.

  “My bone—”

  “What bone?”

  “The forefinger of a wizard’s right hand. It took me so many years to find one.”

  Sybel blinked at the broken pieces in her hand. Then she said, “I will bring you bones, if you wish. I will bring you a grinning skull, if I can find the brain beheath it.”

  Maelga’s eyes focused, sharp beneath her untidy curls. “What is it?”

  She put the bone down, and her fingers closed tight on her arms. “I am being called. I do not know who is calling me, but I cannot close my mind to him. I am being searched and called surely and skillfully as I would call an animal. I am angry, but so is a fish angry, caught on a line, and so helpless.”

  Maelga’s hands clasped, her rings sparkling. She sat down slowly in her rocking chair. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew you would get into trouble stealing those books.”

  Sybel stopped midpace. “Do you think it is only that?” she said hopefully. Then she shook her head. “No. There is a more powerful mind than mine at work. That frightens me. If he knows I have his books, he does not have to trouble me so for them. Maelga, I do not know what to do. There is no place to hide. If anyone came to do me harm, my animals would fight for me, but there is no one to fight this.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maelga said. “Oh, my dear.” She rocked a little, one hand straying through her curls. Then she stopped. “I can do one thing for you. I will send a raven with his black, searching eyes to peer into wizards’ windows.”

  Sybel nodded. “I have sent Ter looking, too.” Then she sighed, covering her eyes with her open hands. “I am a fool. If he can call me, he can call Ter, too—”

  “If he knows to call him.”

  “Yes. He may not know Ter. But who? Who is it! I have seen little wizards in their cold towers with straw pallets and dusty books; I have seen greater ones in lords’ courts growing fat and pompous with riches. But I have seen no one that I ever thought to fear. I do not know why I am being called.” She stared helplessly at Maelga. “What possible reason could there be? I can do nothing for anyone that strong.”

  “Is he so strong? Perhaps if you do not answer he will yield.”

  “Perhaps... But Maelga, he has broken into my silence, and I cannot follow his call. I cannot find him anywhere, to put a name to him.” She resumed her restless pacing, arms folded, her hair drifting behind her like a white cloak. “I am so angry... but anger is of no use, and neither is fear. I do not know what to do—I can only hope he is not so strong he can take my name from me.”

  “Is there a place you can go away to for a while?”

  “Where? I could go beyond the borders of Eldwold, and he could still seek me out, bring me to him.” She sat down finally, despairingly, beside the fire. “Oh, Maelga,” she whispered, “I do not know what to do. If I only had the Liralen... I could fly away to the end of the world... to the edge of the stars...”

  “Do not cry,” Maelga said
anxiously. “You frighten me when you cry.”

  “I am not crying. Tears are of no use. There is nothing for me but waiting.” She turned her head. “Maelga, if—if one day you cannot find me, and no one knows where I am, will you watch over my animals?”

  Maelga rose, her hands splayed in her hair. “Oh, Sybel, it cannot come to that. My raven will find him. Ter will find him, and then I will make him such a thing that will dissolve the bones within his skin.”

  “No, you must keep his finger bone...” She rested her cheek against the stones of the fireplace and stared into the flames, seeing nothing as they danced beneath the black cauldron. She sighed. “I will go and let you work. There is nothing you can do for me, and little I can do for myself. Perhaps Ter will find him before he finds me, and perhaps then I can do something.” She rose. Maelga watched her, the lines of her face puckering into worry.

  “My white one, be careful,” she whispered.

  “I will. I hope the one who is calling me has such a friend to give him that warning.”

  She woke that night to the nudge in her mind, gentle as a fingertip stirring water. She sat straight in her bed, her eyes wide to the darkness, while above her the stars flung their icy patterns across the crystal dome. The nudge came again, an unbidden, formless thought, and she heard like a whisper in a motionless night, the faint, breathed call of her name.

  Sybel.

  A small cry broke from her in the darkness. She heard a movement by her bed; Gules’ golden eyes sparkled like cut stones.

  What is it you fear, Ogam’s child?

  I had a dream...

  And the voice came again, a toneless murmur: Sybel.

  She spent a day and a night in the domed room, neither eating nor sleeping, searching ancient books for the name of such a powerful wizard, but she found no hint of it. At dawn, she let the book fall limp in her hands and stared out at the clearing sky. A line of rose traced the rim of the world; white clouds, silver-rimmed, blazing, caught the sun’s rays, broke and scattered them over Fallow Field, over the Plain of Terbrec, across the walled city of Mondor, where they warmed the chill, dark walls and towers. She thought hopelessly of the Liralen with its bright, white wings, and called it a little, sending the call toward the white dawn world. The animals began to stir in the house. Then she heard Maelga’s voice, calling at her door.