The Rose of the World

by Jude Fisher

  ‘It has been mere minutes, my lord. Aaah—!’

  Smarting from the well-aimed kick, Virelai almost dropped the baby himself.

  ‘Indeed, that drumming sound they are making sounds most warlike. Defiant; provocative. Well, I cannot have them doubting my word.’

  As if comprehending the threat to it, the child began to cry and twist in Virelai’s hands. He held on grimly, but it struggled harder. Its wail rose in volume. The next thing he knew, he had lost his hold on it and the Lord of Cantara was dangling it over the parapet.

  ‘My lord, you cannot—’

  The baby’s cry was suddenly distant and waning; then it ceased altogether.

  Ravn Asharson sank to his knees in the mud.

  ‘Ulf,’ he whispered. ‘My god, my son . . .’

  He stared at the spot, several hundred yards away, where the tiny body had fallen.

  Behind him, the drumming faltered. Then outrage seared the air.

  Thirty-seven

  Deceptions

  The Eyran troops withdrew. They sailed around the bend in the river, drew up their ships and pitched their tents on the bank, gathered what little brushwood they could find, set up cookfires and dug latrines under the orders of those two old campaigners, the earls of Stormway and Shepsey. That night the camp was muted. Men huddled together, talking quietly, remembering their families at home, or those taken by the Istrians. Others knotted memento strings.

  Bard Rolfson’s string read thus:

  The leader sailed his sea-cold ship

  Into Cera’s clean stream

  Came before the castle calling

  The strong, silver-giving king

  For his queen, cruelly captured

  By Istria’s evil ill-doer

  That lying lord hiding in his lair

  Gave out grim threats:

  Ulf flew, fairest of offspring

  Brave walls will be broken down;

  The fierce raven-feeder

  Will vaunt his victory.

  But the fierce raven-feeder sat apart from the rest of the men and said a word to no one. All night he honed his sword, and his thoughts were dark.

  At first light the next morning, a prisoner was brought into the camp, a slight figure wrapped in a cloak, seen slipping from the castle’s postern gate by Jarn Filason and another of the scouts. It was a woman, carrying a swaddled bundle in her arms.

  When her hood was drawn back, there was a gasp. ‘Leta! Leta Gullwing!’

  ‘My lord!’

  The girl stumbled, would have fallen had Jarn not caught her arm.

  ‘I . . . I cannot believe you are alive! They said you were, but oh, I saw you die.’

  Ravn frowned. ‘Not I.’

  ‘On the deck of my father’s ship.’

  ‘As you can see, I am hale.’

  ‘How can it be?’ Her soft dark eyes searched his face in wonder. ‘It is a marvel.’

  But Ravn’s eyes had slipped to the object in her arms. He took in the shape and size of it, the way she cradled it, and his heart lurched. ‘Is it—?’

  ‘It is Ulf, but he was not your son, my lord,’ she said softly. ‘Nor am I Leta Gullwing.’ And when he started to contradict her, she went on quickly, before she lost the courage to speak the truth to this man for whom she yearned, now miraculously restored to her, ‘My name is Selen Issian. I am the daughter of the man who stole your wife and who now commands Cera’s castle. How I came to Halbo is too long a story to tell now; but you must take my word for it. The baby you believed to be your own was in fact mine, got upon me by a vile rape and taken from me by the woman known by some as Rose of the World; and by the seither at your court. By sorcery they made it appear she bore your child, and I was rendered complicit in that deceit, for which I am now most ashamed.’ She raised her eyes to his for a brief moment, saw the hurt and puzzlement there, and returned her gaze to the muddy ground. ‘Ulf was killed yesterday: but not by being dropped from the castle wall. Instead, my . . .’ she faltered, ‘my . . . father . . . killed him . . . declaring he wanted no . . . bastards dogging his steps . . . I came to bury him in a better place than Cera.’ And now she tenderly pushed back the swaddling around the baby’s face, and all could see for themselves that the child they had known as the king’s heir was truly dead.

  ‘And the baby dropped from the walls?’ Egg Forstson enquired, his voice steady, though tears stood in his eyes.

  ‘The undercook’s child,’ Selen sobbed. ‘Taken from her by force.’

  There was a long silence. Then: ‘Why have you come to me?’ Ravn asked softly.

  Selen Issian drew herself up. ‘I came to see if it was really you. And, if it was, to tell you the truth, so that you may leave with honour and nothing lost,’ she declared.

  ‘But my wife—’

  ‘The Rose of the World has shed not a single tear for you. She has not mourned your parting, has spoken not a word of sorrow; and since she was brought to Cera, she has spent her time cloistered, naked and compliant, in my father’s quarters. He says they will marry and she will bear him many sons. But he too will be deceived, for she has told me she is a barren creature who can bear no children.’

  Ravn Asharson stared at her in horror. At last, he said: ‘You are mad.’

  ‘Sire.’

  A tall, haggard-looking, dark-haired man had appeared at the King’s shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar. Ravn waved at him impatiently. ‘What?’

  ‘I have heard some of this woman’s story before.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘I am Aran Aranson. My daughter Katla was accused at the Allfair last year of being involved in some violent offence against this very woman. You, sire, stood by and watched her condemned to the pyres.’

  ‘I did?’ Ravn seemed amazed. ‘Your daughter, you say?’

  Aran nodded. ‘Katla Aransen of Rockfall. It did seem you were not in your right mind at the time—’

  Now he had the King’s attention. Ravn mulled this over.

  ‘Rockfall. Ah, yes. I summonsed you to the muster. You did not come, or send ships.’

  ‘I was . . . otherwise engaged. And when I returned to Rockfall, my home had been burned, my family taken by raiders.’

  Ravn smiled bleakly. ‘Well, on that score at least it seems we are quits, my friend.’

  Aran bowed his head.

  ‘And what of this woman’s story?’ the King prompted.

  ‘The name she has given to you is the name she gave to my daughter Katla and her cousin Erno Hamson when they found her bruised and bleeding, fleeing her attacker at the Allfair. Selen Issian. The daughter of the Lord of Cantara.’ He turned to the Istrian girl. ‘Katla would be happy, I am sure, to know that you have survived. Is Erno inside the castle?’

  Selen shook her head. ‘I have not seen him for many months.’ She gave Aran Aranson an unsteady smile.‘If it had not been for the actions of your brave daughter, sir, I am sure I would have died. But did she survive the pyres? Erno was sure she’d died.’

  ‘Yes,’ Aran said grimly. ‘Yes, she survived that ordeal. But where she is now, I have no idea.’

  During this conversation, Ravn Asharson’s expression had taken on the lean, hard, calculating look of his father, the Grey Wolf.

  ‘I cannot claim to understand this web of lies; but if one part of it is true, then it seems that Fate may have delivered a most fortunate gift to us.’ He turned to Jarn Filason. ‘Bring one of the ravens,’ he ordered. ‘I think we need to let the Istrian lord know that we now hold his daughter captive as he holds my wife.’

  Selen Issian gasped in horror. ‘I came to you for sanctuary, not to be held as a hostage!’ she cried. ‘And because I thought you cared for me, in some small way.’ She scanned his face, expectant of some response, but it remained hard, impassive. Now, with dawning realisation, she felt herself a fool; worse, a heartsick fool. ‘I thought you would want to know the truth,’ she groaned. ‘But it seems you do not care for it at all, just as you do not
care for me. I had expected better of you – and Eyran – but you are just like my father. You use women when it suits you, but we are no more to you than possessions to be treasured or traded, just pieces on a game board—’

  Ravn shrugged, untouched by this accusation. ‘When I first knew you I thought you a good companion to my wife, and a good nurse to my child; but it seems you are either mad or Istrian, and since my child is dead, I have no further use for you. Though my warriors may . . .’ He gave her the wolfish grin which had always previously turned her knees to water but now chilled her to the bone; then he looked aside. ‘The raven, Jarn, hurry!’

  ‘A bird has arrived, my lord.’

  ‘From Forent, or Ixta?’

  ‘It is . . . a raven, my lord.’

  ‘A raven? Since when did Forent use ravens to carry their messages?’

  ‘I believe it has come from the enemy force, my lord.’

  ‘But they have withdrawn.’ There was a pause as the Lord of Cantara crossed to the window and looked out. When he turned back, his expression was grim. ‘Give me the message.’

  The guard handed over the curl of parchment and stood well back.

  ‘To the Lord of Cantara from Ravn Asharson, King of Eyra,’ he read aloud. He scanned the rest, then waved the guard away. When the door was safely closed, he continued: ‘You have shown your mettle against babes in arms; now I challenge you to try your metal against me. Single combat, the hour after dawn tomorrow, on the sward outside your keep. If I win, you will cede me the castle and my wife. If you win, I will give you back your daughter, Selen, and my army will withdraw. Dawn tomorrow, wife-stealer, or we will take the city down stone by stone!’

  Virelai gazed at him with limpid eyes. ‘Will you do it?’

  Tycho Issian laughed. ‘Hardly. The man’s a warrior, trained in the arts of battle since he could walk. Whereas I—’ He shrugged. ‘No, my dear Virelai: you will be going in my place.’

  ‘I?’ The sorcerer was aghast. ‘I can barely lift a sword, let alone wield one. Besides, there is a geas upon me—’

  ‘Geas? I don’t give a whore’s toss for your geas. What’s the point of you if you cannot kill a man with magic?’

  Virelai’s eyes filled with bitter salt. ‘Can you not just send back a message refusing his challenge?’

  ‘And be branded a coward?’

  ‘But if I lose—’

  ‘How can you lose? You are a sorcerer, while he – he is just a man.’

  ‘A very strong and angry man.’

  ‘But a man, nonetheless. I will find you something of mine to wear. Maybe the crimson: it cuts a dash. The semblance I know you can manage. He will only need to see your face once: then you can don a helm and use all your skills to disable him.’

  Virelai turned away, his face drawn, his chin quivering.

  ‘Oh, and Virelai?’

  Keeping the tears barely in check, Virelai looked back. ‘My lord?’

  ‘I want him dead. The barbarian king. Stone dead. Do you hear me? Merely wounded won’t do. They’re tough, these Eyrans. Amputated limbs, lost eyes, sword in the guts – somehow they manage to survive, and we can’t have that. No: stone dead. Make it look good and I will reward you well. Very well indeed. Why’ – his black eyes glittered with malice – ‘I think I may well give you my daughter Selen. Have you seen my daughter? Come, look there: see – standing by the barbarian standard-bearer? How they came to capture her, the Lady only knows. Still, there she is, and quite comely, though I say so myself. Ruined as she is, I can hardly marry her to another lord; so why not keep a sorcerer in the family? How would you like that, eh? It is very fitting, I think: like a chevalier knight, you will save my daughter from the savage horde, and in exchange win her hand and a castle in the desert. Perfect. They would make songs of it – if they knew the truth!’

  Virelai fled down the corridor. If only, he thought, my magical skills were more advanced, I would turn myself into a bird as the Master did and flee this terrible place for ever.

  It was a red sun which slipped over the hills the next morning, and many men on both sides of the keep’s walls made superstitious signs, each taking it as a portent of ill omen. Ravn Asharson donned his armour with great care and deliberation, checking each strap, each buckle, testing the links in his mail. He whistled as he did this, an old folk song: ‘The Maid of Kurnow’. The older warriors looked from one to another: it had been one of Ashar Stenson’s favourites, too.

  ‘Blood will out,’ the Earl of Stormway observed to Egg Forstson, who merely shrugged and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘I don’t like this, Bran. Not at all.’

  ‘I don’t trust them either: but other than station our archers among the trees, there is no more we can do to safeguard him.’

  ‘Impetuous whelp!’

  ‘He’s not the cub you think him any more, Egg. Remember how he won the swordplay at the Allfair.’

  ‘Aye, swordplay. And he nearly lost an eye then. This is to the death, and he’s our king: lose him and there will be mayhem back in Eyra. With Bardson gone, there’s not even a clear successor.’

  Stormway hung his head. ‘You’re right, of course. But what choice do we have?’

  The Earl of Shepsey leaned in close. ‘Talk to the mage,’ he whispered dramatically. ‘See what he can do.’

  His companion looked appalled. ‘Egg! Where’s your honour?’

  ‘Honour stole from me long ago all I ever cared about.’

  ‘But Ravn would be furious.’

  ‘Furious, but still alive.’

  As the sun rose, Cera’s great iron-bound gates swung open. Two heralds rode out onto the rickety bridge, their great banners all in scarlet and silver fluttering bravely on the breeze. Behind them, looking curiously unstable on a magnificent bay stallion, came the Lord of Cantara, his crimson cloak billowing. Behind him, a pair of page boys carried a gleaming helm of silver and a greatsword sheathed in red leather. Reaching the sward on the other side of the lake, he swung down from the horse, which bucked and danced away, its eyes rolling. When he took the sword from the page he fumbled and almost dropped it on the ground as if he had misjudged the weight of it.

  The earls of Shepsey and Stormway exchanged bewildered glances.

  ‘We may not need the sorcerer’s aid after all,’ whispered Egg with a grin.

  ‘Or he may be cleverer than he looks,’ Bran replied warningly.

  ‘All style and no substance,’ averred one of the oarsmen behind them, and his colleagues muttered their approval of this judgement.

  ‘Fancy gear doesn’t make a warrior,’ jeered the navigator of the Axe.

  ‘True: but the crimson may hide the blood our Stallion will shed!’ returned the captain of the She-Bear, and the men all roared their laughter.

  Tight-lipped and without a word, Tycho Issian saluted the Eyran king with a fist to the chest, and with hawk nose and jutting chin lifted proudly, donned the helmet. The sun’s first rays struck the polished silver with such force it hurt the eyes to look at him.

  Ravn scowled. ‘I am little surprised you have no words for me, deceiver,’ he said. ‘You had better pray to your bitch-goddess that your sword will speak for you more eloquently!’

  And then, hefting his great weapon, he charged the Istrian lord, who lifted his sword awkwardly and parried the first blow so that the blades rang in the still morning air and the sound reverberated off the city’s walls like the clanging of a death-knell.

  Virelai trembled and shifted his grip on his sword. His arm was numbed and weak from that first blow, his fingers barely able to clutch the hilt, yet already the northern king was coming at him again, and there was no time for spell-craft. His mind felt blank: even though he had abandoned the spell of seeming which had so occupied his efforts all this while, no useful stratagem came to mind. He concentrated on stepping out of Ravn’s way, ducking inelegantly and swinging his sword around in some semblance of a stroke; but the onlooking Eyrans catcalled. So that had hardly
looked convincing.

  Sweat ran down inside the bright clothing. The straps on the breastplate chafed his skin; the helmet pinched his ears, trapping him inside it. He was aware of even the tiniest discomfort: a ridiculous matter, since the next discomfort he was likely to know was that of an arm, a leg or even his head being lopped off by Ravn Asharson’s fearsome blade.

  Again the northern king came at him, and again Virelai danced away.

  ‘At least put up some sort of fight!’ Ravn snarled. ‘Or next time I will not be playing with you, Wife-stealer and Childkiller. Next time I shall carve the flesh from your bones as neatly as from a roasted fowl. Aye, and draw your organs out through your back so men can see the lily of your liver.’

  The mouthguard of the helmet muffled Virelai’s whimper. O Great Lady, he prayed, do not let me die like this. Please save me from this wild man who is your husband. Help me, please, O my Goddess. I should have been stronger: I should have saved you in Halbo, but I did not know how, I was weak and afraid. But never as afraid as I am now!

  He realised suddenly that he was mouthing the words inanely, a pathetic mantra to a goddess who would – if she would deign to return her consciousness to the world – surely smile upon his much-deserved death, a death which would see her back in the arms of the man she had chosen. The prayer seemed hollow even to himself.

  I deserve to die. I know it, he wailed silently. But not like this, not as I have truly begun to live. O my Lady, hear me!

  The next blow fell upon his hopelessly inadequate and largely ornamental shield, which promptly split in two and fell from his hand. He staggered backwards, weeping, almost falling on his arse, and the Eyrans cheered.

  But suddenly there were words on his lips, recalled out of thin air as it seemed, and then his sword arm came up as if of its own accord and swept Ravn Asharson’s killing blow away as if it had been made with a willow stick. Ravn, wearing no helm, looked momentarily surprised at this abrupt change of competence in an opponent he had written off as a fool. He firmed his jaw.

  The next encounter set the northern king off balance as his attack was parried with a fierceness which turned defence to offence. The blade in Virelai’s hand shimmered with a sudden access of power and he realised that from somewhere deep in his unconscious mind he must have dredged up a suitable enchantment. He did not think it would kill the Eyran, but it might at least save his own skin while he tried to think of a more decisive strategy.