Mythangelus

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘If you will first tell me the price this time.’

  For a moment, the shivery being glided from bale to bale, appearing to be seriously contemplating the matter. ‘Mmm,’ it murmured at length. ‘I predict that, should I complete this task for you, the king will make you a celebrity of the court...’

  ‘This much has been promised me, yes,’ Jadrin interrupted, somewhat impatiently.

  ‘After a while,’ the spirit continued, unperturbed, ‘Ashalan shall actually let himself see you. He is not a great lover of women. Perhaps this was why your father sent you here instead of your sister.’

  ‘She is too young,’ Jadrin said, wondering at the same time how the spirit knew so much of his circumstances.

  The spirit shook its head. ‘You are wrong. Where the lusts of the powerful are concerned, no creature is too young!’

  Jadrin could sense in the spirit’s words its great scorn of humankind, Ashalankind in particular.

  ‘What is your price then ?’ he asked irritably.

  ‘The king will come to desire you,’ it answered. ‘I expect he will fight it for he is afraid of love and mistrusts beautiful things, but my price is that should do your best to encourage him and, when the time comes, submit to his desires. On the night that you go to his bed, you will allow me to enter your soul...’

  ‘For what purpose?’ Jadrin cried, aghast at all he had heard.

  ‘That is not your concern.’

  ‘But what will happen to me?’

  ‘You will not be harmed. You will remember nothing. Agree now: yes or no? I can hear my brethren calling me from the starshine. I have little time to linger here!’

  ‘One thing you must tell me,’ Jadrin said quickly, half standing up. ‘Do you intend to do the king harm?’

  The spirit glowed a bright, aching white, intense as the heart of a star. ‘And what do you care of that?’ it asked.

  Jadrin shrugged. ‘I don’t feel I can be part of a plot to harm anyone. It is wrong.’

  The spirit spat out a stream of green sparks that made the air smell of sulphur. ‘Jadrin, he will have you and use you, as he does with all whom he desires. You are nothing to him. He would kill you as soon as look at you if you displease him. My purpose is not your concern and you must put it from your mind. I dare say, when the time comes, you’ll welcome what will happen. If you are afraid that I will kill him, then fear no more. I will not, but there are things that must be done and you will help me do them.’

  Then the spinning-wheel began to turn, throwing off sparks of a hundred colours, like fireworks, and thundering like a galloping horse.

  ‘Yes or no, miller’s son?’ asked the spirit. ‘In the morning, if there is no more gold, you risk Ashalan taking your life to sate his monstrous greed. His moods change like clouds. He is mad and you are at risk.’ The wheel spun and sang. ‘Yes or no?’

  Jadrin hung his head. His eyes felt hot with shame. ‘Yes,’ he said, and, looking up, added, ‘Do it! Make the gold. I will do as you ask.’

  In the morning, the great heavy door to the room was flung wide and golden coins spilled out around Ashalan’s feet as he stood at the threshold. Golden light suffused his face, his long, braided hair and Jadrin, sitting on his bed, considered that there was a certain innocence playing around the king’s features. He is like a child presented with a new toy, Jadrin thought.

  ‘Boy, you are a true magician!’ Ashalan exclaimed. He ordered that all the gold should be taken to his treasury, which lay deep beneath the palace. As for Jadrin, he was led bewildered into the sunlit courtyard where all the colourful ladies and gentlemen of the court cheered him and threw down petals to land on his hair and clothes. Jadrin held the piece of quartz tightly in its velvet bag and could not speak. He could only think of the bargain he had made and when it must come to fruition.

  Jadrin was given rooms with marble floors where curtains of heavy silk fell to the floor before the windows, and beyond them, terraces of patterned tiles overlooked the gardens and lake. He was given servants of his own to tend him, who quietly awoke him in the morning and led him to a cool bathroom to douse his skin with fragrant water, spiced with cleansing herbs. A large bird with feathers the colour of green metal lived in a cage hanging from the ceiling of his living-room and sang to him in a lilting, almost human voice.

  For the first week, Jadrin was utterly dazed by all this. The food his servants brought him was richer than anything he’d ever tasted but he could not eat. One mouthful of wine sent his senses reeling, so he lived for that time on iced mineral water flavoured with fruit juice, taking a small glass of warmed ewe’s milk at bedtime. He did not leave his suite of rooms at all. However, this only served to aggravate the curiosity of the court so that Jadrin was visited daily by the arrogant and elegant, the softly-spoken and seductive, all seeking to court his favour, to add him to their list of satellites. Shining people with shining names who brought him presents, who squeezed his limbs with sharp fingers and calculating eyes, praising his talent and beauty. Of Ashalan and his immediate staff, Jadrin saw nothing. People spoke of the king, dropping his name to impress, speaking of the soirees and musical evenings in Ashalan’s apartments to which only the most fashionable could hope for an invitation. Silent and in awe, Jadrin could only watch these tall, affected beings strut or lounge around his rooms, feeling that he could never hope to emulate their sophistication. It seemed to him that the spirit’s price would never have to be paid. He would never be drawn into the elite, exclusive circle of King Ashalan’s intimate companions.

  Eventually, thinking Jadrin a true adept, several ladies of the court came to ask him whether he would weave spells for them. They spoke behind concealing hands of ineffable slimness and languor, complaining of lovesickness or being the victims of envy. Some gentlemen came also, begging Jadrin to scry their futures, worried about their incomes, their wives, lovers and rivals. But, if Jadrin knew magic at all, he knew only the magic of the earth, the water, the forest. The kinds of troubles his visitors spoke of meant little to him and he knew no spells to deal with them. However, willing to help in whatever way he could, Jadrin sat and listened, making soothing noises, and at the end of it, offered the only advice he knew. It was something that had always worked for him and which he considered ample medicine for any injured soul. He spoke of the quietness of the forest, where all mundane problems lose their sting, even their form.

  ‘Go into the trees,’ he said, ‘And take off your finery. Crawl down amongst the great roots and smell the earth there. Lie down beside the forest pools. Forget the city, forget who you are and breathe in the freshness. In the peace that follows, the solution to your problems may come to you.’

  The palace folk were usually somewhat taken aback by this advice, but those of them who were not too lazy to take heed of it, did as he told them. Unfortunately, the forest is a dangerous place for pampered souls who are not used to it; dangerous to the body and the mind. Of the ten people who sought Jadrin’s advice, three came back to talk to him again, eager to share their enlightenment, five came back to the city angry and bedraggled, having experienced nothing except discomfort, and in one case a severe chill, whilst two, a particularly dizzy pair of ladies, never came back at all. It all caused rather a controversy.

  Inevitably, because of this, Jadrin acquired a staunch following of supporters on the one hand and a bitterly venomous gang of opposers on the other. Rumours sprang up like fire. Jadrin was a necromancer. Jadrin was a devil. Jadrin was a saint. It could all have got ridiculously out of hand. Jadrin himself knew nothing of these rumours, locked as he was without friend or confidante in his rooms. Eventually, Ashalan himself was forced to investigate the matter.

  Jadrin was summoned to the king’s apartments. He went there dressed in black and bound up his hair so as to appear courtly and civilised. There was a painful, fearful beat in his chest as he followed Ashalan’s servant into a small salon, where the king received visitors every morning. He sat down as he was bidden at
the king’s feet and Ashalan said to him, ‘You must not do these things, boy.’

  ‘Do what, sire?’ Jadrin asked, in total innocence, confused as to how he’d misbehaved.

  The king sighed thoughtfully. ‘The people here are not like you, Jadrin. What is right for you can actually harm them because they do not have your strength. I know that some have sought your advice, and from what I have heard, the advice you gave them was straightforward enough, and little to do with magic, but they cannot understand it, you see. And what they cannot understand will never help them. What they desire is for you to speak a few words of mumbo-jumbo over a burning censer that will make everything right for them.’

  ‘I cannot do that, sire,’ Jadrin said, with lowered eyes and lowered voice.

  The king leaned forward and lifted the boy’s chin with his hands. ‘I can see that,’ he said gently.

  Jadrin thought, He is wiser than I imagined. He smiled gratefully and, from that moment, victim of one of the most intense magicks known on Earth, Ashalan the king lost his heart to him.

  ‘Let us speak together,’ Ashalan said. ‘I have troubles of my own. Is your advice to me to lie down naked in the wild forest? Shall I find myself there, perhaps?’

  Jadrin detected a note of good-humoured mockery. ‘I would have thought, my lord, that you would find yourself best in the presence of all your gold,’ he said boldly.

  The king laughed. ‘Maybe!’ he said. ‘After all, gold can be trusted. Its beauty never fades, neither can it become fickle...’

  ‘But it is cold,’ Jadrin said.

  ‘True,’ Ashalan agreed, ‘but at least it is an obvious cold and far less chilling than the coldness that may be hidden within a human frame.’

  ‘Then go to the forest. Take your gold with you. All of it. Lie down there with all the shining cold treasures. Eventually, you shall die, but if gold is all that you desire from life, then at least you shall die happy.’

  Ashalan still found this boldness amusing. ‘I have heard that true magic is nothing but pure and naked truth,’ he said. ‘Your words convince me further. You are an artless child and yet a creature versed in wisdom. I think I shall seek your advice more often, boy!’ Laughing, he called in his secretary and ordered that refreshment be brought to them, wine and sherbets. ‘Tell me of the forest,’ he said and Jadrin sat at his feet and told him.

  ‘Your words must be saved for me alone,’ Ashalan instructed, ‘You do not have to advise any of the pampered hens around here anymore. That is my word and you must obey it.’

  Wary in the soft but strengthening grip of a new feeling, Jadrin gave his word that he would.

  Perhaps more subtle in the ways of love than those of accruing treasures, Ashalan courted Jadrin discretely. So discretely that the boy hardly even noticed it was happening. The occasional brush of fingers, the glances that lingered just a second too long; all of this the gentle but compelling language of desire.

  Most days, Ashalan would summon Jadrin to his apartments in the late afternoon when they would sip cordials and speak together of many different things. Perhaps the king was surprised by Jadrin’s lack of knowledge in so many subjects, perhaps delighted by his innocence.

  Jadrin would listen, spellbound, as Ashalan spoke of far-flung corners of his kingdom. He learned about the Hell Mountains of Gash, those heartless crags inimical to humanity that smoked incessantly and vomited caustic showers of black ash. Reptiles with poisonous skin dwelt among the rocks, and basked in the steaming waters of the Lake of Insidious Sleep, whose toxic shores were forever wreathed in yellow fog. Jadrin, familiar only with the benign forests and hills of his childhood was thrilled to learn of these dangerous and exotic places. And there was more. Ashalan told him about the white waters of the Fleercut further north, a treacherous torrent far removed from the lazy, feminine flow that divided the fields of Cos. In the wilder places, naked barbarians lurked beneath the spray, leaping out onto unwary travellers along the banks. Then there were the secretive desert people of Mewt, who moved their black tents with the winds. They might sell a horse to you if the offer was right; fiery, temperamental beasts who were cousins of the winds themselves. But there was always the whisper of deviltry around those people, so only the foolhardy and reckless ever approached them.

  Four evenings a week, Jadrin was dismissed at sundown, whilst on the other three Ashalan would bid Jadrin accompany him down to the Great Hall, where he would sit on a great, black marble throne. Dancers and musicians would come to entertain, sometimes gypsy fortune-tellers and most nights, gentlefolk would bow to seek an audience with the king himself.

  Haughtily, Jadrin would sit at the king’s feet, his dark hair curled and perfumed, his ears, his throat, hung with black jewels, his body adorned with splendid clothes of dark, rich colours, and he would think himself content. He was not exactly sure what his role was, for he did not like to ask, but it was easy to forget about the three days he had spent in the dismal, turret room and the deal he had made with a certain spiteful spirit. Ashalan was very kind to him, and gradually the boy came to realise that the king was not the greedy, lustful fool he had once thought him to be. He was a lonely, frightened man, surrounded by sycophantic idiots, half of whom probably conspired against him.

  Slowly Ashalan began to trust the boy. ‘You have brought a little peace to my life,’ he said.

  One evening, when the warmth of the day was being gently nudged east by a frivolous breeze, Jadrin and Ashalan walked together along the high tiled terrace that overlooked the gardens. Urns against the wall sprouted riotous haloes of yellow flowers, ivy swung in the breeze. It was an idyllic time marred only by the sound of revelry coming from the Main Hall below them, the high spiteful laughter of women, the responding drunken, male guffaws. Jadrin sensed Ashalan wince and he thought, In some ways you are a very weak man, and felt sorry for him.

  ‘I do not think I was meant to be a king,’ Ashalan said.

  ‘Mmm,’ Jadrin replied, non-committally.

  They had come to the wide bowl of a fountain; the water was turned off. Ashalan sat down on the brim of the pool, shredding an ivy leaf he had picked along the way. ‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘My father died when I was too young to understand what power meant. He thought I would be fit to follow him. I was his only son after all. There was no-one else. For years he had been trying to groom me for the role. He had me instructed in hunting and fighting and reasoning. My brain was filled with the words of kings from great times; their heroic lifetimes filled me with dread. “You must have a wife,” my father said. I did not want to marry. My father ignored my protests. He procured a young wife and a set of noble, upright young men as friends. It was not enough.’

  Jadrin had never heard of the young wife before, neither was she in evidence about the court. He made a carefully worded enquiry. Ashalan sighed.

  ‘Poor girl,’ he said. ‘It was no secret that she had harboured a kind of obsession for me for some time. We had virtually grown up together, for she was my second cousin. It was a liaison doomed to tragedy, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry Jadrin, but I have no wish to speak of it further.’

  The king looked so forlorn that Jadrin went and put his arms around him, not caring whether it was a disrespectful thing to do or not. At that moment, he would have dearly loved to have taken Ashalan far from the palace, far from the city, back to the quiet mill-pool and the high, stone house; a place of dark and healing. It was the first time they had embraced.

  ‘Jadrin, I love you,’ Ashalan said, a whispered confession. Even as he savoured these words and wondered, in fact, what they meant to him, Jadrin felt the piece of quartz, still carried about his neck in its little bag, jump and grow quickly hot. The king bent to kiss him and he backed away, eyes wide.

  Ashalan looked mortified. ‘I have offended you. Forgive me,’ he said.

  Jadrin shook his head. ‘No, no you haven’t. It wasn’t that.’ His hand strayed to the pouch at his throat and he found that it wa
s no longer warmer than usual; there was no hint of movement. Perhaps he had imagined it. Could the spirit have forgotten about their agreement? It seemed so long ago that it was made. He sat down beside the king, confused and perhaps a little afraid. He reached up with shy fingers to trace the smile on Ashalan’s mouth, and then he kissed it, absorbed it, examining the rush of pleasure this new contact initiated. In its bag around his neck, the quartz remained still and cool. Jadrin sighed and smiled.

  ‘What is it?’ Ashalan asked him and the boy shook his head.

  ‘Nothing. It is nothing.’

  They continued their walk in silence, going down the sweeping, white steps at the end of the terrace and into the shadowed, rustling gardens. ‘I am twenty-six years old,’ Ashalan said, ‘I am ten years older than you, Jadrin. Perhaps I am wrong to want to love you.’

  ‘Go down to the forest,’ Jadrin said lightly. ‘Lie down naked in the damp leaves and perhaps the answer to your troubles shall come to you.’

  Ashalan laughed sadly. ‘You are oblique and rude. Only your loveliness allows you to get away with the things you say to people.’

  ‘I am sixteen years old,’ Jadrin replied. ‘I am ten years younger than you, and perhaps it is wrong for me to want to love you, Ashalan, but in all frankness I do not care about what other people think is right. Most of them are fools whose behaviour would make a demon blush. Why should we consider their opinions?’

  Ashalan smiled. He shrugged. Together, they returned to the palace.

  Jadrin sat on a stool in the ante-chamber to the king’s bedroom and combed out his hair. He could see himself shining like pearl and jet in the mirror before him. His flesh tingled with the presentiment of a delicious fear. His nervousness tasted like wine. Then, interrupting his private reverie, something cold touched his shoulder. It cast no reflection in the mirror before him. He gasped and turned round quickly on the stool. There, behind him, hovered the spirit from the turret room, malicious glee scrawled across its indistinct features. ‘Now!’ it hissed. ‘Now! Let me in! Let me into your soul!’