The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “Sybel.”

  She drew her mind back from regions farther than she had ever gone, and looked at him silently, blinking a moment.

  “Coren. I am sorry—I did not hear you come in. I was calling the Liralen. I am looking in places so far they have no names, and yet I think it must be closer; I think sometimes it must have answered, but I did not hear it.”

  “Sybel—” He paused, his brows drawn in a rare frown. She reached out, traced the lines of it on his face.

  “What is it?”

  He took her hand, folded her fingers in his. “Sybel, my brothers are babbling of war. Rok has sent messengers to our border farmers to mend their armor and shoe their war-horses, and he is sending Bor and Eorth to the lesser lords of Eldwold who are pledged through lands and favors to Sirle. I have asked Rok why, and why again, and he laughs and says that Drede is afraid of us or they would have killed me that day on Eld Mountain. I have asked him what hope of support he has, why he would risk our lives and lands for a battle that will be only another Terbrec, and he says that he will dangle the bait of power in front of Lord Horst, who is kin to both you and Tamlorn. He told me he did not expect me to fight against Drede, the father of the boy my wife reared and loved, but I cannot—I cannot sit quietly while they go to their deaths. So—I have come to you, to see what look is in your eyes when I tell you I will fight.”

  She drew a deep breath, her eyes wide on his face. “It is sudden, this war.”

  “Too sudden. Rok says Drede will be weakened by the unexpectedness of it, but I think that bitter man is prepared to fight every day of his life, and that the Lion of Sirle is moving in a dreamworld. Sybel, are you angry with me? You know I want no war against Drede and Tam, especially not such a futile, hopeless thing as this. But if I stay here safe within these walls, and if my brothers die in battle, I will see their faces, hear their voices calling to me in my dreams until I die. Can you forgive me? Or can you give me a reason, one I can cling to even through my brothers’ deaths, not to fight?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Only that all my joy will be gone from the earth if you are killed in this war. Coren, perhaps the Lion is not dreaming. Perhaps Rok is right and Sirle will defeat Drede, and no one will be killed.”

  He shook his head, his face pained, hopeless. “Sybel, men will die; perhaps not my brothers, but men of Sirle. At Terbrec, I heard their broken, weary voices weeping of their wounds while I fought, until I did not know anymore, in the dust, heat and blinding leap of metal, if they were truly men’s voices, or the broken, crying voices of my own thoughts that could never again be coherent. It will be the same thing all over again, now. Rok is mad. I told him so, but he simply told me I did not have to fight. But he knows I will.”

  “He does not seem mad,” she said gently. “Perhaps he knows something you do not know.”

  “I hope so, for all our sakes.” He lifted a hand, traced the line of her hair. “You are not angry. I thought you would be. I thought you might leave me, go back to Eld.”

  “And what would there be for me at Eld but an empty house? Coren, I knew when I married you that one day, sooner or later, I would have to watch you leave me, I would have to wait here quietly within these stones like Rok’s wife and Eorth’s wife, and not know if I would ever see you again. I just did not expect it now, so soon.”

  “I did not dream Rok would ever do this; I thought we would live peacefully for years before anything such as this would happen.”

  “I know. But things—things have simply woven together into a pattern, and now I cannot tell anymore where the thread of events began. So you must do what you must, and I—what I must.”

  “I am sorry,” he whispered helplessly.

  “No. The only thing you will have to be sorry for is if you die, and then beware because I will follow you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I will not let you wander among the stars alone.”

  He smiled a little, swallowing. He touched her lips, then kissed them gently. Then he held her tightly, crushed against him, gathering her hair in his hands, and she listened to the slow life beat of his heart. They sat silent, motionless in the fall of sunlight, until Coren’s hold loosened. He stood up, helped her up. Then he said, looking over her shoulder out the window,

  “Sybel, Cyrin is coming across the fields. We should go down and open the gate for him.”

  The silver Boar met them at the postern, his tusks shining in the hot noon. He stood a moment, panting at Sybel’s feet, looking at her out of his red eyes, and then he spoke to her in his flute-smooth voice,

  “The giant Grof was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind and he died of what he saw there.”

  Sybel stiffened. Coren stared incredulously at the great Boar. His head turned, flashing, toward Sybel, and she saw the startled question in his eyes. She found answer for neither of them, so she simply held open the gate, and Cyrin passed through into her garden.

  TEN

  * * *

  She moved the Lords of Niccon and Hilt like chess pieces across Eldwold, from their heartlands to the house of the Lord of Sirle, until they stood blinking as at a dream while the smiling Rok welcomed them into his house. Rok’s hall began to fill at noon and evenings with men who sat at their meals in shirts of leather and steel, with knives at their belts, and who spoke with their mouths full of battles they had seen and the scars they had taken as remembrances. The outer yards rang with the constant hollow beat of hammer as swords were forged, shields repaired, spear points welded to lengths of pale, straight ash, carts built, harness and gear of the great-hooved war-horses mended. All this the Lord Horst of Hilt, and in his turn, Lord Derth of Niccon, a fiery-haired young man who had sworn life and family to Drede’s service, saw and looked within themselves to find good. Derth of Niccon, arriving a week after the Lord of Hilt, said rather plaintively at Rok’s hearth, with a cup of wine in his hand,

  “I did not realize you had so many followers, or I would not have pledged everything to Drede. But I did that because of Terbrec.”

  “I do not intend a second Terbrec,” Rok said, his eyes calm, gleaming faintly below the gold mane of hair. A little away from them, an ivory-haired woman sat quietly, needlework in her hands, her black eyes never moving from Derth’s face, and to him she was little more than a shadow that did not impress itself into his memory. Derth sighed, tapping his cup with a fingernail.

  “I can give you five hundred mounted men and three or four times as many on foot.”

  “The Lord of Hilt offered me less.”

  “His lands are divided—part of them Carn of Hilt captured during the seventy-day siege of Mondor, and the men on them are claiming their old allegiance to the King.”

  “So? No doubt we can deal with them. Horst is too old for these games. I pity him.”

  Derth snorted into his cup. “Pity Drede, if you must. I have heard Horst was pledged to Drede, too, first, before he turned to you.”

  Rok’s brows rose in polite surprise; he refrained from comment.

  Coren, weaving his way through the benches of men at their noon meal, caught sight of the red-haired lord and stood still midstep. Ceneth, with a faint smile, turned from his food and pushed a full cup into Coren’s hand. Coren stared down at him.

  “Do you see who that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Derth of Niccon. Ceneth, how did Rok get him here? Drede gave his father lands and gold for the work he did at Terbrec. What is Derth doing sitting at our hearth?”

  Ceneth shrugged. “Doubtless he heard the Lord of Hilt had turned to Sirle’s side and discovered he would rather fight with Hilt than against it.”

  “But, Ceneth—” He groped for words, found them inaccessible for once, and drank instead. Then he saw Sybel and went to her.

  “I have been looking for you everywhere.”

  She blinked up at him, startled, the thread of her call broken. “Coven—” Beside Rok, the Lord of Ni
ccon rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

  “I feel very confused,” he commented. Rok refilled his cup.

  “You are tired from your ride.” He turned, tugged Coren away from Sybel. “Eorth was looking for you; it seemed important.”

  “I want to take Sybel riding. She is not used to all this babble and din.” He paused a moment, then asked slowly, “What are you doing here with Rok and Lord Derth?”

  “Oh, she said vaguely, her thoughts rushing like birds ahead of her. “I wanted to talk to Rok.”

  Rok added smoothly, “She was worried. Eorth is talking about riding Gyld into battle.”

  “What!”

  “She could not talk him out of it. Perhaps you can.” The Lord of Niccon leaned across Rok to stare at Sybel. “Are you Sybel? I have heard about you...”

  She smiled at him sweetly, holding his eyes, and he sank back in his chair. Coren said grimly,

  “Perhaps if I tie him to his horse he will understand. Sybel, wait for me—”

  He turned and made his way back into the crowd. Rok sighed softly and turned to the subdued Lord of Niccon.

  “Now. The siege of my grandfather failed because he did not have the men to deal with supplies coming down the Slinoon River into Mondor. This time, I want men of Sirle and Niccon attacking by water, sailing through to the heart of the city and attacking within. We will need boats. Niccon is in the lake country of Eldwold. Can you build boats for three hundred men, and gather men to sail them?”

  The Lord of Niccon stared at him like a man asleep with his eyes open and nodded. “Yes.”

  “I will bear the cost for them.”

  “When do you want them?”

  Rok smiled a little. “Soon, but there is no great hurry. I am sure Drede will wait for us.”

  He put the Lord of Niccon into Lynette’s care when he had done with him, and she took him, puzzled, half-drunk, but enthused, to the same chamber where the Lord of Hilt had slept a week before. Sybel rose and paced a little through the empty hall; Rok watched her. “What are you thinking?”

  “If I bring the animals into the battlefield, will Coren see them?”

  “He can hardly avoid seeing Gyld. But the others... In the crush of men, the close flash and thrust of battle, he will probably notice nothing he does not expect to see. Why would you risk them, though? There is no need.”

  A little, tight smile played about her mouth. She said softly, “The Prince Ilf went one day with fifty men to capture the lovely daughter of Mak, Lord of Macon; on the way Ilf saw a black mountain Cat with fur that gleamed like a polished jewel. The Cat looked at him out of her green eyes, and Ilf gave chase and no one saw him or his fifty men on earth again. The three strong sons of King Pwill went with their friends hunting one day, and saw a silver-bristled Boar with great tusks white as the breasts of their highborn wives, and Pwill waited for them to come home, waited seven days and seven nights, and of those fifteen young men only his youngest son ever returned from that hunt. And he returned half-mad.”

  Rok stared at her. “So will Drede be, seeing parts of his army vanish before his eyes. Will they do this for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even the Boar? You said he did not approve.”

  She traced a meaningless design on an oaken tables with her forefinger. “He will do this if I command him to. The Swan I will send to Tam, to fly with him to Eld Mountain if at any moment his life is in danger. And Ter Falcon will guard Tam.”

  “And Gyld?”

  Her eyes narrowed in a slow smile. “Gyld will bring Drede to me.”

  Rok’s head moved once from side to side. “Now,” he said softly, “I am beginning to pity Drede.”

  There was a step without. They turned to see Coren, his hair bright in the summer light, pause at the open doors, one hand on the stones. He looked at Rok and asked softly,

  “Why did you lie to me about Eorth?”

  Rok sighed. “Because I was telling lies to the Lord of Niccon, and I did not want you embarrassing me with the truth.”

  “You are lying to me now.” He stepped forward into the quiet, sun-streaked hall, came to stand so close to Rok there was scarcely a hand’s breadth between them.

  “Why did you need my wife beside you while you told lies to Derth of Niccon, who could barely recognize truth if it leaped like a salmon from the bottom of his wine cup?”

  “Coren,” Sybel said, but his eyes did not move from Roles face.

  “There are things I do not understand about this war you plot. There are things I am not sure, now, that I want to understand. How you persuaded that old man, Horst of Hilt to your side, when last winter you sent me to him and I found him terrified of Drede, wanting only to live out his days in peace, to forget his unfortunate daughter and the chaos she made of Drede’s love. Why Derth of Niccon, whose older brother you killed at Terbrec, would come and sit beside you, drink your wine and plan a war with you? Why you planned this war before you even spoke to them? And why, if there are simple reasons for all these things, you did not have the courtesy or the regard for me to tell me before I had to ask?”

  Rok was silent. He drew a long breath, his eyes hidden in his still face, and Coren’s hands closed at his sides.

  “Do not lie to me again,” he whispered.

  “Coren,” Sybel said. His eyes moved slowly from Rok’s face to hers, and she saw in them the dark, reluctant blooming of his doubt. For a long moment they stood motionless, their eyes locked, still as the sunlight falling against the crushed summer flowers on the hall floor. Then Coren moved away from Rok, went out of the hall, down the steps to the yard. Rok watched his head gleam in and out of the shadows. Then he heard the sharp catch of Sybel’s breath and turned.

  “What did you do?” he breathed incredulously.

  “I did not mean to—” Her hands rose, covering her mouth. “I did not mean to— Not to Coren—not Coren. It was— I did not know what to say to him—and it was so easy—”

  “But what did you do?”

  “I made him forget what he saw today, what he asked you. I am sorry.” She began to tremble suddenly, and tears slid glittering between her fingers. “I am so sorry. It was so—easy.”

  “Sybel—”

  “’I am frightened.”

  “Sybel.” He went to her, held her gently by the shoulders. “It was no worse than lying to him.”

  “It was! It was! I took things from his mind—as—Mithran would have taken them from mine—it was a thing no one should do, in either love or hate—”

  “Sh. Sybel, you are tired from the work this morning, and you forgot what you were doing. There is no great harm done. It is better for him this way, and you will never do it again.”

  “I am afraid.”

  “Hush, you did little harm, little more than lying—you will not do it again.”

  ’No. “

  “Then do not worry.”

  Her eyes, staring wide out of the empty doorway, came back to his face. “You do not understand. He—he thinks I am honest. And I have lied to him since the day I married him.” She looked down suddenly at his hands, as though realizing for the first time that he was holding her. She pulled away from him, ran to the door.

  She saw Coren walking out the main gate toward the open fields and ran after him through the yard, past the billowing smoke of the smithy, the pound of hammers from the carpenter’s shop, the startled faces of farmers and warriors, moving aside so she could pass. Coren heard her call finally and stopped on the dusty road. He waited for her, the smile on his face fading as she neared him. He lifted his hands, caught her, and she crept close to him, her head against his shoulder.

  “Hold me, Coren,” she whispered, and his arms formed a circle of peace about her. He felt her trembling.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just hold me.”

  “You have been crying.”

  “I know.”

  “What has made you cry?”

  Her eyes opened, dark, to
the hot fields and the shimmering sky. She felt his hold tighten. “I was thinking,” she whispered, and the words burned through her throat, “of myself without you... and how I could not bear it.”

  “Sybel, what can I say to comfort you? There will be no comfort in this war until it is over. But you were right somehow: Rok is not mad and there is, through some magic I do not understand, a chance for Sirle. So perhaps it will be brief—though that cannot comfort you much either, where Tam is concerned. But I am so glad that you still care enough to cry about me in spite of this.”

  “I care. I care.” She stirred finally and his arms dropped. He glanced around puzzledly at the green fields.

  “I forgot why I came out here. You frightened me, running toward me with your hair like a silver wake and tears on your face.”

  “Yes. I made you forget,” she whispered. “I am sorry.”

  He put his arm around her, and they walked back together to the house, black crows fluttering upward from the fields around them as they passed.

  She spoke to her animals that evening. She had called Ter Falcon from Mondor; he came in the twilight, shooting like a star from the blue-black sky. He perched among the rich green leaves of the summer trees, and she said to him,

  Ter. Tell me of Drede.

  He is a man afraid to the core and the bone, said the glittering-eyed Falcon. He shouts in his sleep at night, and a torch burns always in his room. He is afraid of the night shadows. A fear beyond the fear of battle grows behind his eyes like thick, winter ice. There are whispers that he is going mad, but he contains himself, saying little.

  And Tam?

  Tam watches. He takes me with him everywhere; he talks to me late at night and falls asleep sometimes still talking. He wants you to help Drede. He told me to ask you. He is desperate.

  And you?

  I am ready.

  Listen then for any words that may help Rok. When the moment comes, I want you at Tam’s side, protecting him. She lifted her head, called the Swan to Gules came to lie at her feet, and Moriah beside her and she woke Gyld in his cave with a touch of mind. Cyrin Boar came to her between the trees, glowing in the darkness. For a long moment that tested strength and sinew of her mind, straining concentration to its limits, she held the six proud, restless minds at once.