The Throme of the Erril of Sherill

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  Wake up and listen, Cnite

  Wake and listen to me

  Or you will taste of sorrow

  Beneath that Gringold tree…

  “I have heard,” said Gringold, “of the King’s Damsen. All she does is weep.”

  “Some ladies,” said the jingler, “have a heart to weep from.”

  “A true love,” said Gringold, “would not send a Cnite on such an impossible quest from which he will never return. Perhaps, fair Cnite, she does not want you to return.”

  “Some women,” said the jingler, “know what it is to be faithful.”

  “She will have to wait a very long time. Perhaps even now the image of her moon-haired Cnite is fading, and there is some brown-haired, berry-eyed Cnite who caught her fading fancy as he passed beneath her window.” The sweet voice of the Lady Gringold purred like the wind among the tiny flowers. “Perhaps she is no longer weeping. Perhaps she already has learned to laugh from a Cnite who is there beside her, not riding down a road with no end, searching for a Throme that is an old man’s dream, a wicked King’s wanting…”

  Caerles drew a sigh from the wind’s breath. He whispered, “There is a place in my heart you have hurt…”

  “Some women,” said the jingler, “can touch a thing without hurting it.”

  “All jinglers,” said the Lady Gringold, “are tearless and faithless and cruel.” She took her eyes suddenly away from Caerles’ face and the world came back to him, golden and drowsing in the afternoon sun. The jingler’s smiling had gone from his eyes and his voice.

  “I made a song of you, more beautiful than any song, and you laughed at it,” he said. “I loved you and you mocked me, under your norange tree. And now you are holding this Cnite’s hands, and talking to him in a voice sweeter than norange-juice.” He turned away abruptly and folded his arms and stared across at the World’s End.

  “I waited for you,” said Gringold, “one afternoon beneath this tree, and you did not come. And I like this Cnite and I will help him if I choose.”

  “I would not trust you,” the jingler said to the sky, “if I were that Cnite. I did come, that afternoon, and you were not there.”

  “I was there!”

  “You were not!”

  The Lady Gringold folded her lips tightly. The jingler leaned back against the tree and began to pick at his harp, and watch the wind go by.

  Fair lady

  False lady

  There is no other kind

  Green norange

  Golden norange

  No other can you find.

  “Damsen is both fair and true,” Caerles said slowly. “There is no berry-eyed Cnite. That is a dream woven of empty words.”

  “So is the Throme woven,” said the jingler above his harp-strings. “And so is the Floral Wold.”

  “Then where shall I look?” Caerles mourned, and the dagon lifted its great head and whined in sympathy.

  “Stop looking, and go back.”

  “No. The King’s wanting will still be there. I will find it.”

  The Lady Gringold loosed his hands and sighed. “Cnite, you are steadfast. There was a song I heard long ago, when my tree was a slender, stirring thing, of a Throme haunting the dark, dank, Dolorous House of a dead Doleman. Go there, and you may find it.”

  The jingler laughed. “What woman is worth the price of the step across that threshold?”

  The Lady Gringold stood up slowly. She grew taller as she rose, so that her shadow touched the edge of the norange tree’s shadow and flowed beyond it. “Jingler.” she said gently, “it is not wise to mock too much the lady of a norange tree.”

  The jingler rose, too, and flung away his harp. His bells jingled wildly at his own sudden growing. “Nor is it wise,” he said bitterly, “to keep a Noak-lord waiting beneath your tree.”

  “You are not a Noak-lord! You are only a silly jingler with a capful of bad rhymes.”

  “Can a jingler do this?” said the jingler, and he whirled a circle until he vanished and in his place a great, red bird bigger than the norange tree sucked the wind into its wings. The dagon rose and howled at it. The Lady Gringold laughed a spiteful note, and her hair streamed like threads of honey in the wind.

  “I would rather have this moon-haired Cnite who can do nothing but dream. I will fly away with him to the World’s End and leave a Noak-lord beating at my closed gates—” And her streaming hair whirled about her, spinning into a green-gold bird with ice-green eyes that swooped, open-clawed, at the Cnite Caerles. The dagon hissed its breath of flame and the wide wings beat flame back at it. Caerles lifted his shield against the fall of the lady-bird and the golden talons closed about it, lifted him out of the shadow of the norange tree, lifted him above its branches, lifted him into the great blue of sky with the red bird blazing in pursuit.

  And suddenly he dropped…

  He woke to twilight beneath the norange tree, and the quiet-eyed dagon licked his face. The sun had gone from between the grass-blades. The wind lay at rest beyond the blue hills. The noranges hung winking like jewels in the still trees. He looked at them and smiled.

  “I had a foolish dream,” he murmured, remembering. The dagon’s tail thumped at his voice. The Cnite rose, yawning, the star-wand shining softly at his side, and reached for his shield. It was gone. And in the place where it had been there lay a gold-stringed harp.

  And so the Cnite Caerles rode to find the Dolorous House of the dead Doleman, the star-wand ice-white at his side, the gold harp gleaming at his back. And as he rode through the days, the winds hummed a deep, dark Throme without words of storm and purple cloud and sharp, cold rain. The storm came at last, like a black-cloaked king with a fanfare of thunder. Rain slid beneath Caerles’ shirt of mail and ran across his face like tears. The dagon’s eyes glittered in the flashing lightning. He howled at the wild winds, and they screamed back, sweeping away across the wet world. Caerles stopped finally beneath a barren tree, blinking away the silver rain misting the coming night.

  “Oh, dagon,” he sighed, “any house will do for us tonight, a house of the living or of the dead…” He moved away from the black-limbed tree and lightning split it from top to root. In the sudden, blazing light he saw a cottage white-walled against a hill, with a single window watching the night like an eye.

  The dagon’s paws sank deep into the wet road in its running, and its violet eyes were the only stars in the world. It whimpered as it reached the cottage door and the hearth-flame melted warm across the window. The door opened slowly; a single eye looked out at them through a crack.

  “Who is there?”

  “I am the Cnite Caerles,” said Caerles through the rain in his mouth. “I am cold and wet, and I beg shelter from the storm.”

  The voice was silent a moment. “If you are a Cnite, where is your sword and your shield? And why are you riding that—that—”

  “Dagon.”

  “Dagon. My mother said I should never speak to swordless Cnites riding dagons.”

  “I am looking for the Throme of the Erril of Sherill,” said Caerles. “Child—”

  “I am not a child,” said the voice haughtily. “I am a young damsel. My name is Ferly. Your dagon has beautiful eyes. What is that star at your side?”

  “Young damsel,” said the Cnite, “I am searching for the Dolorous House of the dead Doleman, in which I may find the Throme. A child would let a Cnite drown in rain beneath the night sky while she chattered, but a true lady, such as the Damsen I love, would open her door and lead him graciously to her hearth fire.”

  The door opened farther, to Ferly’s face. “Oh,” she said slowly, and her long fingers clasped together. “Do you love the King’s Damsen? Is she beautiful? Does she weep with love for you—is that why she cries? Are you questing for love of her? Why, you are all wet. Come in.” She opened the door wide and smiled graciously. The wild wind pounced like a cat across the threshold and set the hearth-flames fleeing. Caerles dismounted wearily and stepped into the house, leaving
wet footprints on the stone floor. The damsel was lean and long-haired, her face flickering like an eager flame, her fingers and elbows jointed like smooth twigs. She pulled a bench in front of the fire for Caerles to sit on, and then she led the dagon into a shed beside the house. Then she sat down in front of the fire and looked at Caerles out of her quick, bright eyes.

  “I know where the Dolorous House is,” she said. Caerles, lulled by the warm, dancing fire, blinked awake.

  “Where is it?”

  “Ride down the road on your dagon, and the road will twist and turn three times, and on the third twist there is a hill, and on the hill is the black, crumbling, rotting House of the dead Doleman. It has great towers without doors, and walls like broken teeth, and when the moon is round, then strange, colored lights shine above the House, and strange shoutings come from beyond the walls. My mother says I must never go there, or one day I will vanish and no one will hear of me, ever again. They will only hear my voice crying from the dark towers when the moon is full.” She shivered, and smiled up at the Cnite, her eyes cups of firelight. “It is very frightening. But I know a secret protection.”

  “What is that?”

  She paused, thinking, her head tilted like a listening bird. “It is magic,” she said softly. “And I would only give it to someone—someone on a pure quest for a wondrous love. You will have to tell me everything about your quest. And then perhaps I will help you.”

  So Caerles told her of the King’s deep wanting, and of Damsen’s weeping, and of the dagon and the child Elfwyth of the Erie Merle, and of the Boy and the borebel pit, and the Lady Gringold and her norange tree. And the damsel Ferly listened closely, her mouth opened in her listening, her hands clasped upon her knees. She gave a slow, deep sigh when he had done.

  “Oh, it is a marvellous quest, falling into borebel pits and being flown away by Lady-birds, all for the love of a weeping Damsen.” Her hand crept gently upon Caerles’ arm and her eyes were suddenly still and shy. “I will tell you a secret,” she said. “There is a shepherd boy across the meadow who left a flower on a stone for me…”

  The Cnite smiled. “That is a marvellous thing, too,” he said, and she smiled back.

  “Yes.” She jumped up then, and wrapped a long, patched cloak about her. “And now, I will give you your protection, since you are a true Cnite. I found it one day beneath the walls of the Dolorous House. Wait.”

  She opened the door and vanished suddenly into the singing, weeping winds. The Cnite Caerles rose and watched for her out of the open door. Things moved and howled beyond his eyesight, and great, invisible trees shivered and chattered like ghosts. Far away, above a black hill, tiny specks of strange-colored light flickered like the rich wings of butterflies.

  Ferly returned finally, breathless, her hair knotted and wet, her hands overflowing with an old sack. She knelt on the stone floor and opened the sack. A great cloak tumbled out, made of leaves of all colors, all shapes, sewn together with a thread of vine-stem. She held it out to him.

  “It will protect you from all danger. And it will make you invisible.”

  Caerles took it slowly. “That is not possible.”

  “It is. Everything is possible. You will go in and out of the Dolorous House and not one evil eye will see you. Put it on!”

  Caerles swung it about his shoulders. It settled, rustling softly, brushing the floor. He put the cloak over his head and looked at her. Ferly giggled suddenly behind her hands.

  “Oh, it is marvellous. But that silvery shirt—you must take it off, because it will not disappear and it looks funny.”

  “But I will have no protection against blows from knife or sword,” Caerles protested.

  “You will not need it, because no one with a knife or sword will see you. Take it off.”

  Caerles pulled off his shirt of mail reluctantly, and stood unprotected in his dark doublet with three moons floating on it. He put the cloak of leaves back on and the damsel Ferly clasped her hands.

  “Oh, yes! It is truly magic. Everything is magic on a quest for love. You will find your Throme. My bones feel it. And then you will go home and marry your Damsen because of my cloak of many leaves. Now you must go.”

  “But it is raining,” Caerles said.

  Ferly danced to the door and opened it to the starless night. Her voice hushed. “Adventure comes on nights like this, when the whole world is whispering magic. A true Cnite would not complain of a little rain.”

  “That is more than a little rain,” Caerles argued, looking at it. Ferly turned to get his harp and his star-wand. She pushed them into his hands, and her eyes were dark and solemn.

  “You must go now. My bones feel it. Think how wet your Damsen must be after all her weeping. You must go for her wet sake. I saw the strange lights, tonight, and I know this is the night to slip secretly into a Doleman’s House and steal his Throme.”

  Caerles sighed a dreary sigh. Then he said, “Thank you most deeply for your hearth and your help. If there is one thing I may do for you—”

  “Oh please,” said Ferly, and her hands were folded in petition. “Please, there is a thing. May I—may I have your beautiful silver shirt? May I leave it for a shepherd boy, on a stone?”

  Caerles smiled. “Oh yes,” he said reluctantly.

  The dagon mourned as it sped over the muddy road, turned through its twistings, while the trees arched across it, raging with the wind of their passing. At the third turning dark walls of stone rose on a hill against the smokey clouds, and strange wheels of color swirled above it. The road ran through the mouth of its gate.

  The dagon lit a great door with the glow of its mouth. Caerles went to it softly and opened it. It cried at the opening like a wailing beast. A great hall stood silent behind it, black but for a half-eaten log on a hearth.

  A candle winked suddenly on Caerles’ face. An old, hunched man with hollow eyes stared at him.

  “Who are you?” His voice quivered like a loose harp-string. “What are you beneath that strange cloak?”

  Caerles was still a moment. Then he pushed the hood back from his face and rubbed his eyes. “What house is this?”

  “It is the House of the Lady Welman. Do you want shelter? Why did you not knock? You frightened my old heart.”

  “I am the Cnite Caerles in quest of the Throme of the Erril of Sherill. I was told this is the Dolorous House of the dead Doleman.”

  The old man shook his head. “I have heard tales of that House. It was said to stand here once. Some say they can still see it, and its strange lights, on nights like this, but I have never seen it…Are you hungry? Come with me, and I will give you supper and a warm fire.” He turned, and led Caerles through the still hall. “Now, the Throme I have heard of, too. I think you will find it at the Western Wellsprings, beneath the setting sun. They say that is where Sherill is.”

  “They said also,” Caerles said, “that it is in the Mirk-Well of Morg, at the Floral Wold, and in the Dolorous House of the dead Doleman.”

  The old man shook his head once. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. It is at the Western Wellsprings. That is where the Erril wrote it.”

  Caerles sighed.

  And so the leaf-cloaked Cnite, the star-wand at his side and the harp at his back, rode the dagon with the morning winds to find the Throme at the Western Wellsprings. The storm had wept its fill and gone. Trees glittered with jewels of rain and clear puddles mirrored the moving sun. The Cnite rode slowly through the wet world, and tiny birds swooped in the air above his head and splashed in pools on the meadow-grasses. He made, in the morning world, a song for his Damsen and plucked it from the gold harp. The dagon howled with his singing, and tiny animals scurried, startled under hidden leaves. A river wound out of nowhere and danced beside him, following. It widened as it moved, and its singing voice deepened as it tumbled over the heads of mossy rocks and shimmered into spinning pools. And suddenly it swept across his path, and the Cnite halted at its bank.

&nb
sp; “Oh, Dracoberus,” he murmured to the dagon, whose flaming tongue was lapping water, “I do not like swimming wet rivers.” And he looked up and down the bank for a shallow place to cross, but the river was wide and deep and slow. Across the river a green wood grew of round, plump trees, tall trees like closed fans, and great old trees with strong, broad limbs swooping low over the green water, and high into the clear sky. Flowers gathered at their roots, red and bright sun yellow and purple as the dagon’s eyes. And the wind, nestling among them, blew a sound across the water like sweet golden bells, and above the rippling water, high voices laughed in secret. The faint wind smelled of growing things. A thought opened like a flower in the Cnite’s heart and he smiled slowly.

  “Is it there?” he whispered. “Is it there the Erril’s Throme of loveliness was written?” And he nudged the dagon forward, but it whimpered at the wide water’s edge and danced away. “Oh, dagon,” sighed the Cnite, “you have taken me this far. Can you not go a little farther, for my sake and my sweet Damsen’s?”

  The dagon barked at the river, and fire hissed and spattered in it. Far across the river, flowers jangled like soft bells, and the noon sun flickered in the green grass. The dagon barked again, but the water would not go away. Then a voice said beside them,

  “I will take you across the river, Tree-Man, but there will be a price.”

  Caerles looked down. A man stood beside him with a pole, his shoulders broad, knotted like tree roots. His eyes were wide and cautious. Caerles said,

  “I am a Cnite. Why do you call me a Tree-Man?”

  “I have never seen so many living leaves without a tree,” the young man said. “And I have never seen a Cnite without a sword or shield. And I have never seen a Cnite ride a Thing like you are riding. I will take you but I will not take That, because it will burn my boat and that is all I own.”