Quillifer

by Walter Jon Williams

  She returned my every volley, the most enticing tennis player I had ever met. I tried again. “You have looked at me, I think.”

  “I look at many things.” She played a low trill on her instrument, four strings singing as one. I found the sound strangely melancholy for an instrument celebrated for its joyous voice.

  “Are you sad, mistress?” I asked. In answer, she began to sing.

  Ah me! as thus I look before me

  Along the course of time

  Steals tides of pensive musing o’er me

  Like sound of sad knell chime

  Now many a gentle flower, its race

  All run, its sweet breath sped

  Its beauty wasted, hides its face

  And slumbers with the dead.

  The dead of many generations

  Of its own frail kindred

  The countless dead of tribes and nations

  Who once with open lid

  Like it looked on the morning’s grace

  And saw the noontide glory

  And drank life’s joy, but went apace

  Ah me! the endless story.

  The last chord died away; the grove was still. Orlanda gazed at me in pensive silence. I wondered how old she was, and decided she was a few years older than I.

  “A song for autumn,” I said. “But see, we are young, and can kindle summer in our hearts.”

  “Do you offer up my heart for kindling?” she asked. “As if it were straw, or twigs?” She gave me a doubtful look. “I hope you don’t mistake me for lightwood.”

  “I offer to fill your heart with fire. A fire like that in my own.” I reached for her hand. She struck a dissonant chord on her mandola, and I drew the hand back. She offered an approving smile, and a soft melody rang from the instrument.

  “Many summers were kindled in this place,” she said. “And yet all ended. Many were the hopes engendered in the town that was builded here, but all hopes failed when failed the silver.”

  “Silver?” I was surprised.

  “There was a mine—” Orlanda glanced up at the cliffs, but the limbs and leaves of the trees kept me from seeing where her gaze lighted. “The mine was why the town was built, and the castle. There was a great wooden gallery that carried the ore down to the valley.”

  Her fingers drew forth the melody, and somehow the strings sounded like coins ringing. “The silver pennies of the Morcants were famous, and they paid for the war that drove out the Sea-Kings. But the silver ran out centuries ago, and the Morcants faded, and it was the sons of the Sea-Kings who united Fornland, not the Morcants. When the silver failed, local lords remained in the castle, great oppressors of the people, till they too died out.”

  The dynasty of the Morcants, I thought, had been eleven hundred years before, great warriors and poets and builders. According to all the histories, they had been rich, and now I know why.

  “Is the mine still there?”

  “Dark tunnels half-collapsed—no silver.”

  “I had thought I might hide there, until the bandits ceased to hunt me.”

  Orlanda looked at me for a long moment, and the melody died on the strings. “You wish to flee.”

  I looked at her. “I wish to flee with you. We can go to the capital. I have an urgent message to carry to the Queen—my city was plundered and blockaded and is in sore need of aid. I must urge the court to send relief. And once in Selford, I can take up the law, I can make my way in the world. Become a judge, or a courtier, or a Member of the Burgesses. I’ll put my mark on the world! My ambition is enough for the both of us.”

  Sorrow touched her face. Her fingers drew out a little refrain: Ah me! The endless story.

  “The mine is no refuge, nor the court,” she said, and turned away for a moment. “Speak of fire again,” she said. “The day grows chill.”

  “I would set a fire in every part of you,” I said. I reached for her hand again, and this time she allowed me to take it. “The fingers so clever,” I said, “coaxing melody from wood and ivory,” and kissed them, and then I turned the hand over and kissed the palm. I leaned close and brushed the hair back from her face. I slipped the shawl to her shoulders, and inhaled the scent of her hair, rich and earthy as a spring glade. “Your hair,” I said, “on fire already. Your cheeks”—kissing—“smooth as cream.” She looked at me, and I could feel her warmth on my skin. “Your eyes,” I said, “so like—”

  “Smaragds?” she said. “Or is that too poetastical?”

  I stared at her, words frozen in my throat.

  “Do you like ‘poetastical’?” she said. “I just made it up.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. “You overheard!” I said in joy.

  Answering delight danced in her emerald eyes.

  I stared at her. “You saw me naked!” I said.

  “I saw nothing,” she said demurely. “I pretended I wasn’t there.”

  I laughed again, and pressed her hand. “Mistress, we must flee this place together! Nothing can stop us, an we are together! The world will lie vanquished before us, and offer us sweet wine and Orient pearls.”

  “I should want such trifles?” Orlanda asked. “I am caprice and privilege, remember. What is Selford, or the world, to me?”

  “A setting for your beauty. A choice audience for your wit. A playground for your caprice. And besides, mistress, will you stay here? In this camp, till Sir Basil chooses to move his band to some other desolate country?”

  A cloud crossed her face. “I was content,” she said, “till you came.”

  I raised her hand and kissed it. “Content is valued only by those who have already grappled with life, and earned their victory. Content is for old men with their mulled wine, and old women with their grandchildren, and old fat dogs who lie before the fire. Content is not for the young and dauntless, those who wish to brand the world with their mark. Fly with me! You know the country; you must know a way to evade pursuit.”

  “You paint a persuasive picture,” Orlanda said.

  I kissed her cheek. “Let me entice you further.” I kissed again, and she turned to me, and was about to kiss again, but the horn blew in the camp, and she put two fingers on my lips and gently pushed me away.

  “You’re called to supper,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow? So I can collect my kiss?”

  A smile crossed her lips. “I promise that I will see you.”

  I laughed. “We’ll meet at the fountain of the little goddess. Perhaps we can bathe, and to preserve our modesty each can pretend the other isn’t there.”

  I dropped to the ground, picked up my overcoat, and walked with a light heart along the stream, turning every so often to wave, until she disappeared behind the golden screen of the osiers. Dorinda growled at me for my tardy arrival, and beat me thoroughly with her ladle as I served stew to the bandits, and then cut up the lords’ meat and handed it to the outlaw wife who carried the platter to the Oak House. I barely felt the blows.

  After my own hurried meal, and the cleaning of the bowls and spoons, I shuffled down into the dungeon with the rest, and made a pillow of my overcoat. The rich scent of her hair still floated in my memory.

  Smaragds, I thought ridiculously, and was soon asleep.

  I awoke to the fragrance of her hair, and a soft kiss on my lips.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  y gasp of surprise was smothered by another kiss. I stared up to see Orlanda gazing down at me, her face softly glowing in the light of a small horn lantern. She bent close to my ear.

  “Come now, and quietly. I can’t set all these people free, only you.”

  I came to my feet swiftly, my overcoat in my hands, suddenly awake and half delirious with joy. She put a finger to her lips to signal silence, and then took my hand and led me through the room toward the stair.

  Around me men snored, the rumbling filling the air. Though some stirred uneasily, none woke as I passed. I wondered if I was still dreaming, if
this were all some midnight phantasie.

  Orlanda went silently up the steep stairs and I followed, and then we were out of the noisome pit and into the realm of cool, fresh air, heavy with dew. The thick cellar door hung open, and Orlanda turned to hand me the lantern and push the door once again into place. I heard the heavy wooden bar nestle into its home, and then Orlanda took the little lantern and led me out of the castle, toward the camp.

  “Where are the guards?” I whispered.

  “In their beds. Once the prisoners are locked in, there is nothing to guard.”

  “We’re going to the camp? Why?” I pointed to where the stream emptied into the valley below. “Why not to the vale?”

  Again Orlanda put a finger to her lips, and I fell silent as we padded among the rough dwellings at the foot of the cliff. To my surprise, the dogs of the camp were silent. My heart gave a leap as she paused at the wicker gate to the bandits’ treasury.

  “Nay,” I whispered. “The wyverns will tear you to pieces!”

  She ignored me and pushed the gate open, and I readied myself to fight murderous animals trained to tear and roast human flesh. But Orlanda passed into the enclosure unmolested and walked onto the portico of the old temple. I followed, saw the monsters lying together in a corner of the yard, and decided Orlanda must have poisoned them.

  I didn’t see what Orlanda did to the lock, but I heard it clack open, and then Orlanda pushed into the temple itself. I followed, and in the dim light of the little lantern saw chests and bags set on tables.

  Orlanda shoved a leather rucksack into my arms. “Hurry!” she said.

  I opened chests and saw silver crowns neatly and lovingly stacked. I found a small coffer with gold royals, and another coffer that held miscellaneous jewelry, among which I recognized the gold chains of Ethlebight’s aldermen. I first emptied the gold royals into the rucksack, then a chest filled with crowns. Overspilling, silver crowns rang off the stone floor.

  “No noise!” Orlanda hissed. I took more care with the next coffer, and shook the contents carefully into the rucksack until it was nearly full. Then I poured the jewelry on top and tied down the rucksack’s flap with its leather cords.

  “A pity to leave so much behind,” I said.

  “Come.” Orlanda led me out of the old temple, and as I shrugged into the rucksack, she turned to lock the door.

  The rucksack was heavy, but I knew it held my fortune, and felt willing to bear it to the ends of the earth. While I was adjusting the straps, I heard one of the wyverns give a kind of snort. There was a brief flash of flame, and I almost leaped out of my boots.

  Not dead, then, but sleeping. Drugged, presumably, but not to death.

  I still felt as if possessed by a dream, as if freedom and fortune were a fantasy that would vanish with the dawn. Orlanda and I left the enclosure, and Orlanda fastened the gate and led me between the treasury and Sir Basil’s house. I walked with care and held my breath, and I did not hear the outlaw stir. We came to the base of the cliff that surrounded the corrie.

  “This path goes up to the rim,” Orlanda whispered. Her light played over the stones, and I saw a narrow path I hadn’t noticed on my previous investigations of the scarp.

  “There are no guards on top of the cliffs?” I asked.

  “Nay,” she said. “Why would there be?”

  I followed her and the bobbing light up the trail. The route would have been easy enough in daylight, but at night it was challenging, the path having to twist around large columnar rocks that stood like sentinels over the valley, and which sometimes had to be climbed directly. Pioneers long in the grave had cut hand- and footholds in the rock, and Orlanda was careful to shine the lantern on the hollows that would help me set my hands and feet. There was only one moment when I nearly fell, as the weight of the rucksack threatened to topple me backward while I edged around a column of basalt. One arm flailed, and vertigo clutched me by the throat as I realized I was about to fall, but Orlanda seized my arm and steadied me, and I recovered and, after a moment to catch my breath, continued the climb.

  By the time I reached the top of the cliff, any sense that I inhabited a dream had vanished. My chest heaved, and I gasped in cold air scented with the pines that rimmed the corrie. My legs felt like water, held upright only by a fierce act of will. Orlanda waited, a little impatiently, for me to get my breathing in order, and then led me along the ridge that walled the corrie until she found a trail. Our footsteps were muffled by pine needles, and a gentle wind whispered through the spreading boughs overhead. Ahead of them, a grazing hind raised her head in surprise, then bounded away.

  “The moon will rise soon, and we will better see our course,” Orlanda said.

  “Let us tarry a while,” I said, and caught her hand.

  She turned. “Are you still fatigued?” Starlight glittered in her eyes.

  “No, mistress,” I said, and took her in my arms. “I desire only to kiss you, and to thank you for my liberty.”

  I kissed her gently, then with greater ardor. Her body warmed mine. Her breath had a bright, fresh taste, like juniper berries, and the earthy scent of her hair swam in my senses.

  She gave a gasp, then drew away. “Come.” Taking my hand. “We have a long way to go, and Sir Basil will pursue you to hell itself for the sake of the silver on your back.”

  We walked along the ridge above a valley, then down into the vale and across a stream. The moon rose and limned the path ahead with delicate traceries of silver, and Orlanda blew out her little lamp. Night birds called, and deer drifted through the night until they were aware of the humans among them, and then fled, bounding. Agile foxes and grumbling badgers crossed our path.

  The path went up, down, left, right. At times, I could have sworn that we were doubling back on ourselves. Yet the chill night was beautiful, and peaceful, and I felt an effervescence filling my veins. I carried my burden lightly, walked with ease on the moonlit path, and viewed the world with unfolding delight.

  Hours were spent on the winding route, and as the path dropped from a ridge into a pine-strewn valley, I thought I heard a waft of melody on the air, perhaps a figure played on a viol. “Listen!” I said, and we paused as my ears strained the night.

  The sound was difficult to hear over the sough of wind in the pines, but at last I heard it clearly: a viol, tambour, and a fipple flute, all playing a coranto.

  “Hear you?” I said. “There are folk ahead.”

  “You need not fear musicians,” Orlanda said.

  “Musicians are as other men,” I said, “and as greedy for silver. We may not be safe.”

  “Perhaps we will join them.”

  “In that case, I am heartily sorry that you abandoned your mandola on my account. I will buy you a new one, and a better.”

  We continued through the trees, and the sounds of music grew clearer. Other instruments joined the ensemble as the coranto was followed by a galliard, and the galliard by a canario. I fancied I heard laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses.

  “For the revels to last so long, they must be celebrating a wedding,” I said. “The charivari runs late.”

  Orlanda looked at me over her shoulder. “A wedding indeed.”

  She took my hand and drew me forward, and we advanced together. A shimmering, indistinct light flittered ahead, like a bonfire eclipsed by tossing trees. We crossed a small stream, almost dancing along the stepping-stones, and then continued until the forest died away, and I saw before us a steep, bare round hill. The hill seemed to cast off a shimmer, like an aurora, that silhouetted it against shifting spears of white light.

  Every detail, every blade of grass, was perfectly visible. The hill itself was crowned by an ancient earthen rampart, and on its summit was a ruined tower of black stone, like a broken fang. The music rang on, like tuned bells tumbling joyously down the slope.

  Doors thundered open in my mind, and in a moment of staggering revelation I realized who I was dealing with. I knew why the guards and monster
s had slept, and why the temple doors had opened to she for whom the temple was built.

  Perhaps I had been a cretinous fool, but I had not till this minute realized that I had walked out of the world and into a song.

  I turned to Orlanda in astonishment. She gazed at me expectantly, her eyes dark in the shadow beneath her tranquil brows.

  “My lady,” I ventured. “Whose home is this?”

  “Mine,” she said, “and you are welcome to abide in it this night.”

  “And whose wedding,” I asked, “do those musicians celebrate?”

  Her hand tightened on mine. “Ours,” she said, “should you prove willing.”

  “O my lady of the fountain,” I said, “you have been toying with me.”

  The goddess then put on her full beauty, her perfect face a luminous glory, her hair a flame, her simple clothing now a silken gown sewn with pearls, the skirt embroidered with figures of animals and birds. A diamond necklace cascaded down her breast like a sparkling fountain, and a vaunting ruff framed her head like a halo. A coronet shone gold in her hair.

  The radiance of her figure struck me with such weight that it bore me to my knees. For a moment, she imitated the pose of the nymphaeum’s marble statue, one hand lifted to her cheek, her smile a promise of mischief, and then she dropped the pose.

  “I am caprice, am I not?” she said. “Yet my deceptions have done you no harm.”

  “You have done me nothing but service,” I said. “I owe you my liberty.”

  “Shall we go then to our wedding feast?” She helped me to my feet, and began to lead me toward the hill. Yet I found myself reluctant to follow; and as I began to drag my feet, she turned.

  “My lady,” I said, “is it true, as the stories have it, that this wedding feast may last an hundred years, and that I will come staggering from my marriage bed into the land, bewildered by a world no longer my own?”

  “You need never leave,” she said.

  “That,” I dared to point out, “is not quite an answer to my question. Should I desire to visit my friends, my city, the world at large . . . will I find the world I know, or some other, stranger land?”