Song for the Basilisk

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  It took forever, it seemed to Caladrius, moving in the dark with a knife at his throat and an arrow at his eye, before he sensed a change in the air. It was stagnant now, and echoing with past. He felt the quarrel leave his eye, heard the soft drag of wood across earth. He recognized the sound, the closing door. Despair caught in his throat, tried to turn into words. The knife bit at him, warning. Brio backed him to the wall, guiding him with the quarrel tip; odd shapes of chains and leather hanging against the stones shifted and clanked behind Caladrius.

  Brio gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  “You’ll stay here while I deal with the others. A fire among those old racks and barrels…There is only one door; I will be waiting for them there. The one with the red hair, I’ll keep alive for the prince. There must be something here for your hands…But first…You’re too strong…”

  The dark exploded. Caladrius, gasping, fell into metal and stone, and then earth struck him. Waves of color broke over him, tried to drag him away into a vast ocean of darkness. Brio caught one of his arms; Caladrius heard him scrabbling among the chains. Cold metal wound around his wrist. He closed his eyes, fighting the merciless undertow of pain, the promise of peace beyond it, and pulled the fire-bone pipe out of his shirt.

  He glimpsed an enormous eye smoldering with fire in the utter dark as he began to play.

  He woke sometime later, falling piecemeal into pain, and then darkness, and then memory. He pushed himself up, felt the chain coiled around his wrist slide away. Trying to rise, he stumbled, fell against something. His hands shaped cloth, a face. Brio, memory reminded him; the fire-bone pipe. Brio did not seem to be breathing. Caladrius pushed the pipe back into his shirt, and fumbled through eerie shapes of leather, and wood, and metal before he finally found the door. He followed the wall until it turned from rough-hewn stone to marble. He saw nothing, and realized that his eyes were still closed. He opened them, still saw nothing but dark ahead of him. He stood in the silence, listening for breath, movement, thought. His eyes closed again. He caught himself trying to imagine what Brio had seen, what had killed him. Then, shocked into clarity, he realized that the tale had told the truth: he had played death with his music. The pipe, still warm, alive against his skin, would kill the Basilisk.

  He made his way out of earth and stone back into the world, which was black with the last, chilly hour before dawn. The streets were as still as if the whole of Berylon had glimpsed what he had summoned. Even the moon had fled. Shivering and bloody, he walked the maze of side streets and quiet alleys to elude the watch, and managed, reaching the tavern at last, to elude even dawn.

  He found Hollis, like a gift from the unpredictable night, waiting in his room.

  Twelve

  Giulia sat at the spinet in the music room at Pellior Palace, playing Damiet’s costumes, one after another, in a final lesson before she put the rehearsals at the school, and the scenery, and Damiet together for the first time in the Hall of Mirrors. Damiet had learned Hexel’s words and music to a degree that would make them at least recognizable to the composer. She kept time fairly well; occasionally she even wandered into tune. That day, however, she could not summon enthusiasm. Her usual vigorous tones were pallid; she forgot words. Giulia, listening absently, sorting details in her head as she played, was startled when Damiet stopped dead in the middle of her rose-and-silver love aria.

  “Magister Dulcet.”

  Giulia’s hands slid from the keys; she looked up to find Damiet’s frosty displeasure aimed at the cabinets on the other side of the room. “Lady Damiet?”

  “Where is Master Caladrius?”

  Giulia turned, found an unusual lack of a librarian among the manuscripts. “I don’t know. He’s late today.”

  “Where is Veris Legere? Master Caladrius must be summoned. How can I sing these songs without him? And there is my picochet lesson—”

  “Perhaps he is ill,” Giulia suggested temperately.

  “He was not ill yesterday.”

  “Then he will come, I’m sure. Something must have delayed him. Shall we start from the beginning?”

  Damiet, her lips thin, gazed at the cabinets as if a door might open under her eyes to reveal the missing librarian. Her foot tapped. Giulia played a chord, coaxing. Slowly Damiet’s fingers loosened, her arms dropped, as nothing stirred among the cases.

  “Perhaps, if I sing, he will come.” She drew breath and began precipitously, leaving Giulia to plunge after her a half beat behind.

  The door opened. The quality of the note Damiet sang changed perceptibly, becoming full and remarkably in tune. Veris Legere entered; the note flattened itself again. No one followed him. Damiet interrupted herself after a phrase or two.

  “Master Legere,” she said peremptorily. “Where is Master Caladrius? He is not here to listen to me sing.”

  “Master Caladrius may not be with us for a day or two, my lady,” Veris said temperately. “He sent word that he has fallen somewhat ill.”

  Color swept again into Damiet’s face; she took an impulsive step. “Then my father’s physician must be sent to him. At once.”

  “It is not that serious, my lady; he says he needs only rest. He may return tomorrow.”

  Damiet considered. Giulia watched her motionlessly, wondering herself what ailed Master Caladrius, and what more Damiet might inflict upon him. Even Veris waited silently. Damiet’s face cleared finally; she said, composed once more, “Then I will wear my autumn silk tomorrow.”

  “You will be rehearsing tomorrow in the Hall of Mirrors,” Giulia reminded her.

  “I will wear it for my picochet lesson,” Damiet answered, and began, in the middle of the word and somewhere around the note where she had stopped.

  They were nearing the end of the mauve song when Giulia became aware of someone near them, listening. She finished the song grimly, wondering if Hexel would be driven into seclusion, or if he could survive the force of Damiet’s transmutations of his inspiration. She looked up into Luna’s smile.

  She rose hastily, and curtsied, feeling oddly that the Basilisk himself looked out of his older daughter’s eyes. Luna moved to the spinet, studied Hexel’s music.

  “How lovely,” she commented. “And how apt.”

  “It is my mauve song,” Damiet said with dignity.

  “Did you choose the color? So clever of you. Please sit, Magister Dulcet; go on with the lesson. I only came to listen.”

  “We have only the white song left,” Damiet said. “The final song, where the lovers are united forever and sing their happiness to each other. After that, everyone else must sing, but we have nothing more to say. Magister Dulcet, of course Master Caladrius will be there, will he not? If he is ill that long, my father’s physician will attend to him. He must be there. I will wear white with pink rosebuds,” she added to Luna.

  “You will look like a birthday cake,” Luna answered. “Everyone will feast their eyes on you.” She turned over a page of music. “Is Master Caladrius ill?”

  “He didn’t come today,” Damiet complained. “He told Veris that he needed to rest.”

  “Did he?” She turned another page, her bright eyes moving across the notes, Giulia noticed, without seeing them. They lifted, abruptly, to Giulia’s face. “Magister Dulcet, is it serious?”

  “I don’t know, my lady,” Giulia said. “I hardly know him. He was here yesterday; beyond that I can’t guess.”

  “It was sudden, then, this illness.”

  “Apparently, my lady.”

  “Veris says he might be back as soon as tomorrow,” Damiet said, “to give me my picochet lesson. If he is not—”

  “If he is not, of course you will be patient,” Luna said, shedding her radiant, random smile at her sister. “Things you want come sooner when they come in their own time. Like mice out of holes. Or love.”

  “I am not watching for a mouse,” Damiet said disdainfully,

  “No, of course not. You are waiting for the librarian who was unexpectedly taken ill and c
annot come. At least you know what happened to him.” She pressed a key, so softly it did not sound. “At least you know.” She loosed the key and looked at them, her green eyes wide, still smiling, and, in their fashion, not smiling at all. “Perhaps I won’t stay to listen. I will let you surprise me, Damiet. You do it so well.”

  Giulia curtsied deeply, relieved. Damiet waited until the door closed behind her sister before she spoke. “I think my sister is in love with Master Caladrius,” she said calmly. “But she would not suit him at all. She is not very musical. We have one song left, Magister Dulcet, and then I must practice the picochet.”

  Returning to the school, Giulia found an unaccountable number of singers suddenly inspired to join the opera chorus. She set some students frantically copying music for them, bade them learn it overnight for the rehearsal, and sent them to be measured for robes. That accomplished, she approved a leafy bower, half paint, half potted ivy, within which the lovers were to sing, and sent it on its way to Pellior Palace. Walking briskly down the hall to listen to the enraged father practice his aria with Hexel, she found herself walking out the door instead, across the street with ribbons fluttering from every post, and into the tavern where Justin stopped sometimes, at that hour, to eat.

  She stood in a crush of students and strangers, not seeing him, but still looking, as if wishing would call him there. In that moment she admitted the perplexing anxiety that, unable to get her attention in the school, had finally driven her out of it. Something had changed in Justin. He saw her only vaguely, through whatever compelled his own attention those days. He had made no attempts recently to find her at the school, and forgot to ask her to meet him, even in his bed. Her own constant work might have overwhelmed him, but he had retreated without a struggle, leaving her to wonder how far he had gone.

  She was standing, she realized, in the wrong tavern. He would be at the Griffin’s Egg later. She would find him there, even if she had to rehearse singers until midnight. She moved out of the path of a harried boy holding a tray of mugs over her head and turned to see the bard Hollis coming down from the rooms upstairs with a bowl in his hand.

  He had not seen her. His brows were drawn above his eyes; a dark midnight blue, they looked in the shadows almost black. The expression on his face, grim and still, seemed familiar, but not, she thought suddenly, on his face. He wore it like a reflection of something he had seen, and in that moment he looked very like Caladrius.

  Her brows rose. He noticed her then; she watched him assume a more appropriate expression, like a mask. It did not succeed very well, but she allowed him his privacy.

  “Magister Dulcet,” he said, dropping the bowl onto a passing tray. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a friend,” she said tersely, and offered him secret for secret. “I have not seen him for days. I’m wondering if I have inadvertently sacrificed him to the prince’s festival.”

  His face hardened, but he answered gently, “I doubt that.”

  “Have you been visiting Master Caladrius?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he very ill? Veris Legere said he only needed rest for a day or two.”

  “It’s not too serious.”

  “What shall I tell Damiet? She expects him tomorrow for a lesson.”

  He shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know.” He hesitated; she waited. “He became faint with a sudden fever, coming home last night in the dark. He fell down some stone steps. The fever is lessening, but he hit his head.”

  “Does he need a physician?”

  “Just rest.” Again he paused. “I can watch him.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said, keeping the curiosity out of her voice so well that he looked at her closely.

  “Magister Dulcet—”

  “Giulia. Here, I am Giulia, looking for Justin. And finding you instead, taking care of Master Caladrius. He’s fortunate to have such a friend.”

  He seemed on the verge of explaining, giving her the truth, or a more plausible lie. He said only, “Giulia. I’ll tell you tomorrow if he will be able to return to Pellior Palace.”

  “Thank you.”

  She went back to the school, forced herself to concentrate so completely on her work, that when she left the rehearsal hall to find Hexel so that he could resolve a troublesome note for the tenor, she did not recognize Justin until she nearly walked into him.

  She gathered her thoughts hastily out of painted stars and feverish duets and caught his wrist before he could escape. She pulled him into the nearest lesson room and shut the door. The room was empty but for a harpsichord, an enormous urn of flowers in a niche, and a man’s head carved in white marble in another niche, his face angled curiously toward them. Justin pulled her against him as the door closed, held her tightly. She closed her eyes; her hands slid over skin and muscle beneath his shirt; she smelled a tavern weave of smoke and stew in his clothes, and his own familiar smell of sweat and cedar.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded sorry; his voice shook.

  “I thought you thought I had forgotten you. And so you forgot me.”

  “No. It’s just—” He shrugged, not explaining just what. “Things.”

  “Things.”

  “Happening.” She felt him draw breath; he became articulate again. “Family matters. Nicol keeps me occupied. He pretends I have nothing better to do. I’ve missed you. So has the Griffin’s Egg.”

  “I’ve been too busy to miss anything but you. I looked for you, today, across the street.”

  “You did.” He drew a hand down her hair, snagging pins; she heard them drop onto the marble. She pulled his head down, kissed him. Behind her, someone opened the door, closed it quickly. She opened her eyes, pulling back, but reluctant to let go of him.

  “I have to—”

  “I know,” he said. “So do I. Giulia—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  “I just—”

  “What?”

  “I’m just sorry. That’s all.”

  “For what?” She frowned, searching his eyes, which met hers, then flicked away, then returned. “Justin,” she said incredulously. “Did you take another lover? Is that it?”

  “No,” he said, astonished.

  “Then why do you look so stricken? As if you’ve hurt me and I don’t know it?”

  He was silent; she gazed at the bust behind him, which told her nothing either. Justin said finally, slowly, “I’m sorry we have so little time these days. I see you so much in memory, so little in life.”

  “This will be over very soon,” she said, perplexed. “A few more days.”

  “Come with me tonight.” They both shook their heads, then; she felt his exasperated sigh. “I have to help Nicol after I play.”

  “All night?” she asked, marveling at the prim, soft-spoken magister. “What is he doing?”

  “Moving things,” he said vaguely. “He has no time during the day. Do you know where Master Caladrius lives?”

  She consulted the bust again, at the unexpected question. “Across the street. Why?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “About what?” She took a handful of his hair, pulled his head down lightly to see his eyes. “Don’t tell me ‘things.’”

  “Nicol asked me to. Ask him something.” She raised her brows, at a loss to guess. Justin added inadequately, “Something about birds.”

  She pushed her head against him, bewildered. “Justin. You’re making very little sense. Nicol will have to wait. Master Caladrius is ill.”

  “Ill?”

  “A fever. It’s passing, according to the bard Hollis, who for some secret reason is taking care of him. You are all getting mystifying. But I only have room for one plot in my head at a time, and Hexel’s must take precedence.”

  “A fever?”

  “He fell and hit his head. So Hollis says. He must rest.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, sometime. Damiet is—” She felt his body stiffen and p
aused. “Justin,” she said slowly. “What is going on that you aren’t saying? What do you and Nicol and Master Caladrius and Hollis all have to do with one another?”

  “I don’t know Hollis,” Justin said, eluding the question so promptly that she stared, wide-eyed, back at the marble head.

  It began to change itself under her eyes. Then Justin came between them, distracting her from mysteries. Flushed, hair disheveled, she clung to him long past time for them to part.

  “Be careful,” she begged, not knowing exactly what she meant. He seemed to know.

  “I will.” He kissed her one last time, and left her standing there, gazing thoughtlessly at the head, which became, feature by feature, familiar: the broad, high bones, the lean wolf’s jaw, the slanted brows, the clearly defined mouth. Even its white eyes held something of his direct, unflinching gaze upon the world.

  It was the face of the stranger who had played her picochet in the tavern beside the Tormalyne Bridge. She moved finally, as in a dream, to read the name carved into the base of the bust, though she knew it; she had known it since she had first been given lessons in that room.

  “Auber Tormalyne.”

  She shivered suddenly, chilled to the heart, glimpsing beyond Hexel’s sweet and trifling opera a darker, unpredictable drama. She whirled abruptly, flung the door open, and then the outer doors across the hall. She ran down the steps, looking for Justin. But he had disappeared into the night, and behind her a chorus of voices had begun to call her name.