She sat quiet before continuing: “Suppose, first, I invite her and you two Sisters to dine. We can invent an occasion. We’ll not force matters, we’ll simply offer her comfort, after this latest ghastliness between her father and a friend. Comfort and, aye, gentle merriment. It may be we’ll thaw her fears. In due course she may open her heart to us.”
Tambilis brightened. Forsquilis went expressionless.
A knock resounded. “What the pox?” Gratillonius growled.
The knocking came again, and again, hard, a male hand behind it. Tambilis half rose, uncertainty on her face. Gratillonius waved her back and went to open the door.
Cynan stood outside, in the armor of guard duty. At his back was a tall blond man in Roman traveling garb.
The legionary saluted. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “You told us you shouldn’t be disturbed. But this courier has a letter from the praetorian prefect in Augusta Treverorum. We decided I’d better bring him straight to you.”
The newcomer made a civilian’s gesture of respect. “Quintus Flavius Sigo, sir, at your service,” he announced in the same Latin. “Allow me to deliver a summons.”
Gratillonius took the seal parchment proffered him. “I am called to Treverorum?” he asked slowly.
“You are, sir. Effective at once. Details in the letter. Allow me to hope you will not be unduly inconvenienced.”
“I’ll need a day or two to make ready.”
“Sir—”
“I am prefect and King in Ys. I have my responsibilities. Cynan, take Sigo to the majordomo, who’s to see that he gets proper quarters and whatever else he needs.”
Gratillonius turned back to his wives. “I’m sorry,” he said in Ysan. “But you knew I was expecting this, albeit not quite so soon.”
Recently he had gotten a communication from Rufinus. The Gaul had reached Mediolanum and set about becoming a familiar at court. That took time, but he had won as far as being granted a brief audience with Stilicho, besides making himself a crony of numerous lesser officials. He reported that Stilicho was at present preoccupied with obtaining consulship and with preparations against Alaric the Visigothic King, whose behavior grew ever more ominous. Nonetheless the half-Vandal Roman had appeared sympathetic to Rufinus’s petition on behalf of Gratillonius, an impression that was reinforced by conversations with the underlings. Probably Stilicho was going to send orders north that the case be settled with dispatch, once for all.
Evidently Stilicho had done it.
Rufinus had expressed the hope—it shone through the sardonicism of his language—that the directive would require Gratillonius receive the benefit of any doubts. Gratillonius’s own hopes were at the back of his mind, as he shifted the parchment around in his hands.
His immediate thought was that he’d be gone for more than a month, and investigation of Dahut must await his return. Good. Maybe the miserable business would resolve itself meanwhile. If not, well, in his absence no further evil could happen.
3
Guilvilis had Vigil on Sena. Gratillonius found that oddly saddening, in spite of his having sought her house the evening before. She had not ventured to offer him more than a kiss. It was shy and salt.
The rest of the Queens were here today, in the basilica of the Council. He had given the Suffete magnates much the same short speech as in the past when he was about to journey off: Necessity called him; nothing urgent was on the horizon; they should carry on the governance of Ys according to established law and usage; he ought to be back in ample time to take any initiatives that might be required. Thereafter he requested them to depart but the Gallicenae to remain. Soren surprised him by responding, “We all wish you well, O King. May the Gods fare with you,” before his heavy form disappeared out the door.
Now Gratillonius stood on the dais before those Gods and his guards, looking down at the eight women on the first tier of seats. This morning was again lucent; light brimmed the great chamber. It made the white headdresses shine and the blue gowns glow.
One by one he regarded them. Tambilis; Bodilis; Forsquilis. Lanarvilis wrapped in aloofness. Innilis gazing wistfully from her place close to stern Vindilis. Maldunilis throwing him a smile that he knew was an invitation, come his return. Dahut—Dahut sat three or four feet beyond, alone. She likewise wore blue, which gave back the depths of her eyes, but—to cry out that she was not truly a high priestess—she was bareheaded. Her hair billowed loose past the face that was like her mother’s. He thought he saw yearning upon her, as if she wished to spring into her father’s arms but had not yet discovered how.
“I wanted privacy for us to say our farewells,” he told them awkwardly.
“What is there to say, other than that word?” retorted Lanarvilis.
“Nay, Sister,” Bodilis chided her, “we are more than Gratillonius’s Queens. We are his wives, and his daughter. Let us send him off with our love.”
“Oh, come home soon,” Tambilis called low.
“Aye,” said Vindilis grudgingly, “we must wish you success among the Romans.”
“You’ll win,” Maldunilis insisted. “You will.”
He barely heard Innilis: “And then can there be a healing?”
“I know this much,” Forsquilis said, “that for better or worse, ’twill never again be as it was between us.”
Gratillonius’s gaze sought Dahut. Her lips moved the least bit, soundlessly, before she shook her head.
“Well,” he said around a thickness in his throat, “abide in peace, my dears.”
He took the Hammer from Adminius and led his soldiers out past the women. His last sight of the chamber showed him the eidolons of the Gods looming over it, and Dahut’s head a blaze of gold beneath.
Folk hailed but did not accost him on his way through the streets to the palace. There he changed his robes for his centurion’s outfit and left the Key in its coffer. Favonius awaited him, impatient, at the rear. He vaulted onto the stallion’s back. Already mounted, by special permission, was the courier Sigo. They rode down to Lir Way and between the walls and images that lined it, among the people who thronged it, to High Gate. The twenty-three legionaries tramped after. They had made their own goodbyes.
Pack animals stood ready outside. The men took them over, assumed route formation, fell into the cadence of the road. Gratillonius led them toward Redonian Way. That was quicker than going through city traffic to Northbridge.
“Isn’t this a rather late start, sir?” asked Sigo. “The days are still short. Julius Caesar never wasted daylight.” He was a Treverian, his family long civilized, himself very given to showing off his Romanness in these times when barbarian Germani were everywhere on the move.
“We’ll camp at a farm I know,” Gratillonius snapped. “The next good site is a hard march beyond.”
Briefly he wished he’d been less curt. Sigo was polite enough. No matter. He, Gratillonius, had too much else on his mind, in his breast. For no sound reason, he was glad to have shed the Key.
They crossed the canal and passed the turn off of Processional Way. The Wood of the King lay yonder. Against the snow it was as dark as clotted blood. They left it behind and came out on Point Vanis.
There Gratillonius drew rein. He and his men saluted the grave of Eppillus. The courier was startled but refrained from questions.
A moment longer Gratillonius lingered, to look back. The sea reached calm, like a steel mirror, save where it broke white across the reefs. In this clarity he could make out Sena afar, even the tower upon its lowness. The road swept down to where Ys stood athwart the cliffs of Cape Rach. The wall formed a ruddy ring from which the towers leaped agleam. Gulls flew around them, among them, hundreds of wings over Ys.
Keep Dahut safe, he told them. Guard her with your beauty.
Favonius snorted and pranced. Gratillonius curbed him, then loosened reins and rode on.
4
The cold spell ended. Snow began to melt. The canal gurgled engorged. Wind whooped, clashed breakers against
rocks, shook trees, hounded cloud shadows across the land.
Soon trade would reawaken, as dirt roads grew passable. Occasional travelers were already arriving on the paved highways. For the most part they brought lumber, charcoal, furs, leather—winter produce. A few had come farther, pleasure seekers, negotiants, adventurers.
Mules drew three carts from the direction of Gesocribate, down to Aquilonian Way and there west. On the first of these a man sat atop its bales, strummed a harp and sang. The song was on an alien scale and in foreign words, but rollicked so that his companions listened with enjoyment. The sentinels above High Gate noticed and gave him special heed. They felt no misgivings. Ys stood open day and night to any peaceful person, and outlanders got an eager welcome. It was only that he was such a big, fine-looking man.
“Who goes there?” called a marine.
“You know me,” the leader of the merchant party cried back from his horse, through the salt wind. “Audrenius the fuel dealer.”
“I meant him with you.”
“A Scotian who joined us on our journey. He’s a good fellow.”
“Niall is my name,” shouted the stranger in accented but fluent Ysan. “I’m for seeing the wonders of your city.”
The guard beckoned genially with his pike. Niall entered.
XVII
1
Rain mingled with sleet dashed down the streets of Ys. Wind clamored, Ocean roared. This had become a stormy year.
The taproom of the inn called Epona’s Horse was a snug cave. A hypocaust beneath the tile floor warmed it. Though tallow candles and blubber lamps were rank to smell, their abundance brought forth vividly murals of beasts real and fabulous. Furniture was plain, heavy, well made. The landlord and his wife offered ample choice of drink and set a goodly table. Their four large sons maintained order and debarred thieves. Not a place for visiting dignitaries, who generally received Suffete hospitality, this was a favorite of modestly prosperous foreigners and Ysan commoners. Niall had taken a room.
He sat hunched over ale. Across the board was a fisher captain, apparently of some consequence, named Maeloch. They had struck up a conversation when the latter, idled by today’s weather, had come in for a stoup or three. A courtesan nearby, in thin sheer gown but well enough endowed to stay comfortable, sat with provocative posture and glances. The men were too engrossed to pay any immediate heed. At another table, a sailor and four artisans diced. Kitchen odors sweetened the flame-stench. The gale rattled shutters and hooted beneath eaves.
“What for d’ye concern yourself?” Maeloch growled. “Ye’ll find more doings in town than a lifetime can hold. Why root about in filthy rumors?”
Niall shrugged. “I could not help but hear, could I, now?” he replied mildly. “My two days have passed in a bees’ nest abuzz. And what else do you await, when the King’s fought for his life thrice in four months, and is newly off to defend himself against charges the Romans have brought, the which seems to be on account of his saving Ys from a gang of Fomóri? Folk seek me out to gab of it. Mine’s a new ear for them to unload their worries into. Some tell me one thing, some another. How shall I be knowing what to believe? ’Tis hoping I was that you might help. You look like a sensible lad.”
Maeloch grinned ruefully and ran fingers through his grizzled black beard. “Me a lad?” His mouth tightened. “The yarn be long and fouled.”
“And laying it out all neatly coiled will be thirsty work, I wager. Let me quench you, and myself too. Hoy-ah!” Niall called in the voice that had carried through battle and tempest. “A jug of this, with bread and cheese!”
“Thanks,” said Maeloch. “Understand, I be nay in the councils of the high. But I ha’ seen more and stranger things than most. Also, ’tis been my luck to be friends with Princess Dahut, her mother afore her and afterward the girl through her whole life. A humble friend, aye, nay what ye’d call close; still, I pride myself to say ‘friend.’ I’ll try to set ye straight about such matters as I ken.”
Niall did not quite hide the alertness that came over him. “Ah, the Queen who has no King.”
Maeloch stiffened. His fist crashed down on the table. “Belay that! Watch your tongue, Scotian.”
Niall reached for the sword he wasn’t wearing. He stopped the motion and controlled his temper. “Let us not quarrel. I’ll own to being ignorant. But do you be remembering I am a King.”
Maeloch nodded, mollified. “I thought as much, the way ye bear yourself. Touchy of your honor, eh? Well, remember ye that I’ll mean no offense, if none be given me. What tribe, and where?” He was taking for granted that Niall was the chief of some tuath.
“In Mide. I think ye’d not be recognizing any further names, mayhap not even this.”
“Oh, I know about the Fifths of Élriu, at least, and more than that about Mumu. Man and boy, I’ve fought and traded with your folk, and can’t reckon whether they gave us a harder time when we shattered their fleet these many years agone, or when since they’ve drove their bargains with us.”
Niall coughed. It enabled him to turn his head and cover his face until he had regained color.
“Swallow down the wrong strait?” asked Maeloch. “Quick, drain your cup. Here comes what ye ordered.”
Peace being restored, Niall said, “’Tis clear that you’re in the half of the people who’ll hear no ill of the lady Dahut.”
Maeloch glowered. “They’d better be more than half.” His tone softened. “That sweet, sore-beset lass. And yet I can’t find blame in my heart for her father. We can but hope the Gods will somehow go easy, though I’ve scant belief that that’s in Their nature.”
“Tell me about her, then. The whole truth, everything you know.”
Maeloch peered through the wavery flame-glow. “Why this curiosity, mate?”
Niall drew breath. “A feeling of mine. I’ve told how I’m in search of markets as well as marvels. Now I am a King, who trades in no lowly wares. Gold and the finest smithwork are mine, such as only your wealthy could buy. From what little I’ve heard of her, the lady Dahut is fond of splendor, or was till trouble fell upon her.” He lifted a palm at Maeloch’s parting lips. “Listen. I’m not the sort to hawk my goods, least of all before a royal person. My thought is that she might accept a gift or two of me. I’ve gold dust in my purse, but in my baggage things worthy of a Queen. If they please her, she may be so gracious as to bring me before other lofty folk. Also… a well-wrought bit of ornament might cheer her just a little in her distress.”
Warmth stole into the rough countenance opposite him.
“But of course I must be knowing something about her first, right?” Niall went on. “Else I could make terrible mistakes. Why, I know not how to approach so grand a person.”
“Oh, that be easy,” Maeloch told him. “She’s ever been gleeful to meet outlanders. Get a public scribe to write ye a letter asking for audience, and a public messenger to bring it her. I’ll lay it ye’ll have your invitation within the day.”
“How then shall I behave?” Niall replied. “This is why I wish you’d be telling me more about her.”
“Well spoken,” gusted Maeloch. “Barbarian or nay, I’ve a notion ye may be exactly what she needs.”
2
In a close-fitted dress of white silk, Dahut stood encompassed by the vermilion atrium of her house like a taper amidst a winter sunset, which lighted would deny the night that was to come. A necklace of amber smoldered around her throat, at its center a sea-green emerald resting between her breasts. From a chaplet of leaves in silver, her hair fell over shoulders bare almost to the arms. A vein showed blue, thistledown fine, through the fairness under her jaw.
She must not enthrall me, Niall thought. I will not let it happen.
He walked across the seals and dolphins that swam in the mosaic floor. Marmoreal pillars and ceiling with gilt trim seemed to stream their brightness down on her. Beneath a line of black spirals, inset panels bore pictures of the Gods. He made out stag-horned Cernunnos, Epona the Ri
der, the fearsome She of the Teeth Below. Others he was unsure of. There were some lovely nude maidens and youths among them, as well as cloaked and veiled women, beings part human and part beast, sacred animals. Unmistakable after what he had learned, Taranis of the Hammer and Belisama of the Evenstar flanked the inner door, while above its lintel brooded a many-armed sea monster that must stand for Lir.
It was as if the magnificence were meant to dwarf him, though not her. Likewise, sumptuous furnishings and a hint of incense proclaimed him a mere wild man. Yet her finely carven features had come to life as the maidservant let him in, and the eyes first widened, then grew intent as he neared.
Niall well knew how to show kingliness before men, and women. He moved neither shyly nor brashly, he neither minced nor swaggered; his pace flowed deliberate, the gait of a lynx in its forest. His head borne high, he smiled with mouth closed. The lightning blue of his gaze rested steady on the lapis lazuli of hers.
She saw a man of about her father’s age. He might be several years older, but that showed mainly in the creases and crinkles of the weathered face. He was inches taller than Gratillonius, slenderer save in the upper torso, lithe as a boy. A straight nose led from broad brow to narrow chin. The primrose yellow of long hair, curling mustaches, pointed short beard had not greatly faded with age. He was clad in unabashed Scotic gaudiness: woolen cloak worked with roundels in seven colors, saffron tunic, green kilt that left bare the long muscular legs, kidskin shoes on surprisingly small feet, all trimmed with embroideries and furs, augmented with silver and bronze and chased leather. So might the veritable Taranis have advanced on her.
In his hands rested a tray covered by a fine cloth. He balanced it on his left fingers when he stopped and touched his brow to her, the reverential salute. The distance he kept between them was proper too. Still, he towered, she must look up.
“You are Niall of Hivernia?” she asked, needlessly and less than evenly.
He bowed his head. “I am that, and at the command of my lady Dahut, for whose kindness in bidding me hither I offer my highest thanks.” His voice was deep, with a lilt in it like music.
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