The Black Beast

by Nancy Springer

  “I felt certain you would afford me welcome,” he answered sullenly. Sethym was a peculiar fellow; he shaved his head as well as his beard, and he moved in jerks. He saw Frain’s torque and glanced about the room jealously, trying to swallow his wrath.

  “You hold the keys to the doors,” Shamarra said, “but Prince Frain needed my hand at the locks to let him in. Your maidens dreamed of him and stirred in their sleep. Who is welcome here, lord?”

  Sethym snapped his mouth shut and fingered his sword hilt. Gulping, I decided I had better also enter the strange, red-hung bower. I pushed open the heavy door and bumbled in, drawing the stares of the excited maidens. “Why, hallo, Sethym!” I exclaimed with all the heartiness I could muster.

  “Hallo, Fabron, old fellow!” He was glad of the diversion. “I was going to visit you tomorrow, after you’d had a chance to mend a bit. What are you doing out in the night?”

  “It’s weary work, all this lying in bed,” I said, shrugging. “And after riding with these princes, I have become accustomed to strange hours.”

  “Though I think I have never seen you in a stranger place,” came an ironic voice. Tirell stumped in, swinging his bandaged hand. “Well, well, here we are all together,” he remarked with heavy mockery. “Together in the underground garden of Gyotte.”

  Shamarra shrugged and went back to her couch, lying down with tantalizing indifference. The other maidens stood in a frightened cluster.

  “I suppose we could go to my audience chamber,” Sethym muttered, embarrassed.

  “At this time of night?” Tirell laughed. “No, indeed. These two sufferers need their rest! Lord Fabron is swaying where he stands! Frain, can you help him back to that room of yours?”

  We went without a word. I must admit that Tirell was right. I was still very weak, and in pain. Frain saw me into my bed without speaking and then flopped on his own. I must have slept then; I remember nothing until dawn. When I looked over he was still there, staring at the ceiling with a jaw like iron. I did not try to speak to him.

  Tirell slammed in a bit later. He did not look tired, although he had probably been up all night; he never looked tired. He went directly to Frain and stood staring down at him like the carved panthers on the vaults above. “What ails you?” he asked, evenly enough.

  Frain stirred restively and parried the question with another. “When can we be gone from here?”

  “When you two are strong enough to ride! Which you will not become by roaming the night! And when I have obtained Sethym’s promise of arms and aid! Speak him fan, brother. Has he done you any wrong that you are so knee-deep in wrath?”

  “No,” Frain retorted grimly, “no wrong. He has taken nothing that is mine.”

  “Including your head,” Tirell remarked pointedly, “which you forfeited by entering his little bower of flesh.”

  Frain made no reply.

  “For this matter of Shamarra,” Tirell continued, although no one had mentioned Shamarra, “I do not think Sethym will be so bold as to go to her again. He seemed very weary when he left her, and not from pleasure, either. I think he will sleep tonight.”

  “And if he does not?” Fraia cried, half lifting himself from his sickbed. “Sethym has muscle in his fool’s body, and he has the keys.”

  Tirell smiled mirthlessly. “By blood, I’d pit that hellion Shamarra against a troop of such as him any day or night. But for the matter of that, I’ll skulk about. She will be guarded. I give you my word. Now will you keep to your chamber tonight and rest?”

  “You couldn’t drag me away,” Frain replied bitterly.

  Tirell left without another word, banging the door behind him. Frain lay back on his bed. His mind and heart were as sore as his body, I judged, and we spoke little that day. I slept lightly that night, but I might have known he would not stir from his bed; he had given his word. Tirell came early the next morning, for all the world like a soldier on watch, to make his curt report. And I felt very strange, because I had been incensed that he showed no love for my son, and now I was jealous that in his own angry way he showed love of the truest kind.

  Within a week we were rested and halfway healed and making ready to leave. Sethym gave us a troop of retainers and plenty of advice.

  “The bridge of Serriade is held against you, my scouts say,” he informed us. “About fifty or sixty Boda are camped there. But my men of the motherhood will win you through, never fear! They are sons of earth, every one. I see to it that they know no women and eat only meat and raw roots.… The Boda lost the blessing of the goddess, I believe, when they ceased to bathe their initiates in real human blood. These days they are cowards—they use juice of bulls instead. But even in their depravity, how can they turn their swords against sons of the Sacred King! Surely the goddess will punish them in a glorious battle on the plains of Melior.”

  “Melior has no plains,” Tirell rejoined with barest shreds of patience. “And if we are ever to reach it at all, we had better hope that Raz will permit us to cross his domain in force. Assuming that we win through to Nisroch, do you think he will give us welcome?”

  Sethym rolled his protuberant eyes. “I scarcely know! You might mention my name. One of his daughters was my second wife, you know. A nice girl, but I had to slay her. I have had bad luck with women. Five I have taken to my bosom, and not an heir yet—”

  “About Raz,” I reminded him hastily. Shamarra looked ready to attack.

  “Well, as for Raz, I have not seen him for years. You know I seldom go out, my life is so girded about with portents and forebodings. I have many enemies, many who wish me ill, and they bring witchcraft against me—”

  “What do your advisers say?” Tirell interrupted stonily.

  “Hah? Oh, they say little; they are of no use. But as for Raz, when I knew him we were friendly, of course, but it seemed to me that he was arrogant, lacking in respect for the goddess and in allegiance for Melior. He struck me as a vain man, always encrusted in jewels.” Sethym ogled us, then sank his voice to a sepulchral whisper. “And these days, men tell, he has gone from bad to worse. Folk say he couples with serpents!” Sethym paused, evidently expecting shock and consternation. But we were all jaded by days of his excesses and merely favored him with our mild surprise.

  “He even worships the enemies of Eala!” Sethym protested more loudly. “He has raised altars in honor of serpents and ram-headed serpents and dragons with horns. And he keeps serpents in his bailey, and he feeds the ugly things with human flesh. Can you imagine! All men know that human blood belongs to the goddess. It is heresy to offer it to crawling vipers—”

  “As long as he does not feed them his guests,” Tirell put in morosely, “we might yet come to terms. Sethym, my thanks for your help and hospitality. It is time we were going.”

  But leave-taking is never as simple as that, of course, and it was another hour before we were actually on our way. Sethym’s final courtesies expanded almost beyond endurance. I blessed whatever powers prevail that his fear of the multitudinous rabbit kept him from riding out with us.

  We got through the gates at last with two troops of men, spare horses, and, of course, the black beast and the lady Shamarra. The beast had been housed in an enclosure within the walls, and no one had dared to come near it. Tirell had been obliged to care for it himself. What with that, and standing guard for Shamarra, and checking on Frain, and having to be civil to Sethym, it is small wonder that Tirell was eager to leave Gyotte.

  We headed north, toward the Chardri and the bridge of Serriade that would take us across into Tiela. Once more Shamarra and her white mare and the beast frolicked at their whim, and once more Frain watched, as the other men watched—who could help it? But there was a different quality to Frain’s gaze those days. I do not think his devotion to her had lessened, and his anger had long since abated, for he was not one to hold onto wrath. But he seemed older, with a guarded, waiting air that was new. I doubt if Tirell noticed. Sometimes I wondered if he saw Frain, or Shamarra, or
even the road before us very clearly.

  It is useless to speak much of that journey, for it lasted only three days. On the morning of the fourth day we awoke to find ourselves consigned to our own familiar company. Sethym’s men had deserted us during the night. They had taken nothing that was not theirs; they had simply made shift to quietly depart. I could not blame them too severely. The Serriade was manned with twice their force, if report ran true.

  “That’s what comes of meat and roots and no women,” Tirell grumbled. “Well, let us turn around.”

  “Back to Gyotte?” I inquired with sinking heart.

  “Aftalun, no! I don’t want to see Sethym again for as many moons as I can possibly avoid him. But we cannot cross the Chardri, it seems, so we shall have to go around it, beyond the Coire Adalis. We must take to the mountains.” His eyes sparkled as if he had said we must take to the skies. And indeed, to my way of thinking, the one was as outlandish as the other.

  “Can you be serious?” I squeaked.

  “Surely,” Tirell remarked in mild rebuke. “I’ll warrant you the Boda will not follow us there.”

  Chapter Five

  I had to admit that the Boda were our greatest fear for the time. We mounted in haste to be away before they found us. We left the main road and took to the countryside, riding as quickly and furtively as we could. None of us was in condition to fight even a few Boda. So once more we fled, riding late into the night and the night after and the night after that. More than once Tirell led us on a queer sort of dogleg without saying why. I could only conclude that he was seeing red shirts swim before his visionary eyes, as before.

  We skirted Gyotte to the east, hoping our enemies would be searching for us more toward Melior, and rode on through parching heat. That summer’s drought was the worst yet. I scanned the distant Perin Tyr constantly for a sign of rain, but not a wisp of cloud appeared on that horizon. The sky was always blue, a bright, hard blue one learned to curse. The land seemed made of ashes and old bones. The dust always found its way to our mouths and eyes, even when we rode abreast. By the time we finally reached the mountains I was too weary to be very much afraid of them anymore, especially since we found pools of water hidden in the hollows of their flanks.

  The Lorc Tutosel were not much like the hulks of Acheron I had first approached with Frain. But they were just as deadly in their way—death and danger are in all the mountains that encircle Vale, but such lovely peril in those southern mountains! Slender trees sprang up all around their feet, swaying like dancing maidens in lacy, fluttering clothing of green and gold jeweled here and there by bright, bold-throated birds. There were no birds in Acheron, but I was not much comforted by the ones I heard in Lorc Tutosel. I wondered which of them might be the night bird of the song.

  The night bird sings

  Of asphodel;

  The day bird wakes

  And flaps his wings

  And cannot fly

  And lifts the cry

  O Tutosel, Ai Tutosel!

  The night bird sings

  Of Vieyra’s spell,

  Of Aftalun’s

  Sweet hydromel

  And dark chimes of

  The wild bluebell

  In reaches of high Tutosel.

  The dawn bird wakes

  And lifts his wings

  And cannot fly

  And sadly sings

  O Philomel,

  O mortal’s knell,

  O Tutosel, Ai Tutosel!

  All very mysterious and rather melancholy. The ringing of a bluebell signifies death. I took some surreptitious and superstitious comfort in the fact that it was not the season for those flowers. I sensed even then that the Lorc Tutosel were as seductive and treacherous as that strange bird of their name. Still, we rode gently on their cool, tree-shaded slopes; we slept soundly in their heather—and even though they cozened me to my death, years later, I look back on them with longing and delight.

  We made our way eastward toward the Coire Adalis, the Deep of Adalis, where the river Chardri plunged back to the flood beneath. The mountains grew wilder and steeper by the day, and we edged upward on their slopes, for we hoped to pass well above the horrible chasm at the foot of Aftalun, tallest peak in all the encircling ranges of Vale. Frain looked daily for Aftalun, and he longed to climb to the very top of Lorc Tutosel to see what lay beyond. But we never came near those awesome heights. We traveled just above the tree line, scrambling along crazily tilted slopes of shale between thickets and patches of heather, leading the horses most of the time. Cliffs soared above us, and sometimes a nasty drop yawned below as well. Tirell nearly came to grief on such terrain.

  We were all walking separately because we were nearly out of food and each of us was on the lookout for game. Frain was down among the trees, hunting rabbits or whatever came his way, and I had an arrow at the ready for grouse. Where Shamarra was, perhaps Eala knows. She wandered off every day and returned to us at night with nothing to show for it, calm and aloof, seemingly quite careless of our company. Even the black beast was friendlier. It slept curled close to Tirell each night, except when Tirell was wakeful and skulking about, when it would nestle next to Frain. It never came to me for comfort, or to the lady.

  But on this day, as I was saying, a grouse went up with a sudden clap of wings, as they always do, and I shot my arrow and missed. I watched the bird go, muttering. Just as it reached a cliff far above me I saw it falter in the air, and a stone rattled down. The bird flopped and fluttered at the edge of the cliff, and Tirell ran toward it with reckless speed, stooping for another stone. He must have been very hungry, or else lusting for the kill. As he reached his prey he slipped and sped neatly over the edge of the cliff, sending the shale flying, shouting hoarsely. He caught hold of the treacherous rock with both hands, and there he hung.

  I don’t know how long it took me to get to him. It seemed forever, and I know I climbed as I had never climbed before. I was gasping for breath and streaming sweat when I reached him at last, and his straining face looked white as death. He had not cried out after that first scream.

  I got him by one wrist and hauled him up until he could lie on his gut with his long legs flailing the air. He rolled and wriggled his way to safety, and we both lay panting.

  “Where is that accursed bird?” he wheezed.

  It was gone, of course, and I never found my arrow either. I gave no reply. I was too old to find my wind so quickly.

  After a little while Tirell sat up and looked at me with no expression at all on his pale, handsome face. I lay back and met his stare, still puffing, hoping for thanks but not really expecting as much—not from him.

  “So, Fabron,” he said slowly, “you no longer entirely hate me.”

  I had almost forgotten by then how I had hated him at first, when my wife was newly dead and my son newly found and dreams of revenge and glory floated like a mist at the back of my mind. His perception startled me, since I had not judged that he knew, he who seemed to go through his days in his own haze of dreams. Shock and guilt stabbed me, but I did not bother to turn away from his gaze. Let him see.

  “No, I no longer hate you,” I replied equably. “Though Eala alone knows why not. You are cold and bitter enough to turn spring back to winter, Tirell.” He had not titled me, and I returned him no title.

  He grunted in reply, got to his feet, and reached down to help me to mine. I took his hand gladly. It was not thanks, but it was a gesture of friendship such as I had never known from him, and well worth the sore back I suffered for days afterward. We took a while to catch our horses and then went on our way. But we had no supper that night. Frain had lost arrows too.

  “Such cunning hunters,” Shamarra remarked cattily.

  We went hungry the next day also. But the third day, when still nothing had seen fit to blunder into our clutches, she met us at dusk and gave us marvelous fruits to eat. Each was as round as a sun, ruddy as a westward sun, firm and filling as bread but juicy and sweet.

&n
bsp; “Red fruits! The food of the gods!” Frain exclaimed, only half joking. He ate greedily, and I did the same, ecstatically gulping as many as I could hold. But I noticed that Tirell ate only a few, and those grudgingly. I wondered what ailed him.

  For the next several days when we bagged no birds or rabbits we had fruit, which was better anyway, to my way of thinking. Even the horses and the beast had some, for we were finding no water on these high slopes. Within a few days we left the trees and even the thickets far below us. We could look out over them to where the Chardri made a great silver flow and a green corridor across the sere land, where slaves worked hard pouring water from the river on the crops. No freeman would set foot in the river for fear of death, but slaves could be driven.… We sighted Aftalun at last, a great peak, and we could see where the Chardri roared into a gaping blackness below sheer cliffs.

  “Aftalun has two faces,” Frain said, studying the mountain.

  It did indeed. A rugged line divided two vast stony surfaces, one in light and one in shadow. The peak resembled the jutting edge of a blunt and massive axe.

  “They both frown,” Tirell complained. “We can see water, even hear water, and yet we can get none.”

  We listened. It was true; we could hear the distant thunder of the deep.

  “It is a strange world,” said Tirell. “Well, let us go on.”

  It was rough going. We walked along ledges or slopes scarcely level enough for footing, leading the horses, and often we had to twist and turn and retrace our steps to find a way forward. After a few days of this, Shamarra had no more fruit to give us. We were all plagued by hunger and thirst. But the worst trial, I think, was not the thirst or even the fear of falling, but the Luoni. Like great, dirty-colored birds they clung to the rocks with their wrinkled claws, turning toward us the heads of emaciated women. Long, drab hair streamed down around their stubby wings. Wherever we went they sat above our path and watched us with their rolling, sunken eyes. They did not threaten us; they did not even cry out or speak. They only watched us, but I have never felt so tormented. Once I came upon one clinging to a rock scarcely a spear’s length away, staring at me sideways out of her craterous face. I stared back defiantly because I was afraid, and I longed to kill the foul thing, but her human head prevented me.