Mythangelus

by Constantine, Storm

  Ashalan slept on his back in the huge, canopied bed. Jadrin paused to regard him, filled as he always was with gratitude that such a magnificent creature could belong to him.

  ‘Ashalan,’ Jadrin called softly, a voice of the new, horned crown itself, ‘look, my love, to the window, the moon.’

  Ashalan stirred, woken more by the invisible reverberations of the unseen blood-harp than Jadrin’s words. What he saw was the willow pale, willow slim form of the witch-boy, robed now in black, whose hair was an indigo smoke, whose eyes were black as the shadows of his hair.

  ‘It is late, where have you been?’ asked the King, who could not see the dark smear upon Jadrin’s breast.

  ‘Bathing,’ Jadrin replied in a strange, distant voice. He stared for a moment at the sky beyond the window. When he turned his gaze once more upon Ashalan, the king was almost afraid. Almost. His heart beat faster and Jadrin slipped between the sheets, cold and salty, feverish and hungry.

  If Ashalan thought it odd that his lover should whisper strange words throughout their pleasure, the heat of the moment put it from his mind. Not even when Jadrin speared himself on Ashalan’s lap and screamed and screamed a hundred arcane words, his body arched and tense, his hands clawing air, did Ashalan suspect that anything was different from usual. He knew Jadrin to be a bizarre and magical creature and after three years of his acquaintance knew better than to anticipate his moods and caprices. Spent and exhausted, he fell quickly into a contented sleep, where his dreams were innocent.

  Jadrin did not sleep. He waited, lying motionless on his back, until Ashalan’s breathing proclaimed him unconscious. It took only a moment then to reach down for the knife that was concealed in his discarded robe. Ashalan murmured as Jadrin drew out his arm and winced as the sliver of steel licked into the soft flesh above the wrist, but he did not wake. Into the cup, to mingle with the caking ichor already within it, Ashalan’s blood dripped down. One spot fell upon the sheet. Jadrin stilled his shaking hands. No mistakes in this - no. He carefully placed the chalice on the floor, away from the heavy, swaying curtains that moved in the early morning breeze. Morning was coming through the window; there was little time. Jadrin sealed the wound on Ashalan’s arm with his own saliva. Into the dressing-room then, where a small, silver dish waited beside the mirror. Jadrin smeared the surface of the dish with Ashalan’s seed that he held in his body, blended it with a powder of his own essence. Blood and seed, dried over a flame, laced with wine, thickened and perfumed by the gums of karaya, tragacanth and myrrh, blended with a little warm milk; this was the basis of Jadrin’s elixir. Whatever else he cast into it, has not been recorded, but, by the time the sky outside was shedding its night robe for the pearl of dawning, Jadrin was slipping and darting down into the gardens once again, past the drowsing peacocks, the hanging terraces, the silent statues, to the rose garden. Here, in the yellow-rose light of dawn, he scrabbled with his bare fingers in the earth and buried the thing he had made, the blood-seed icon of desire, the egg of the dream-child. If anyone should have seen him working there, his hair and eyes all wild, they would have hidden themselves from his sight, for Jadrin in a frenzy of need was a fearsome and dangerous object to behold.

  In the morning, Ashalan’s servants were intrigued by the stripes of blood upon the bathroom floor, the bloody handprint upon the doorframe. Ashalan himself was somewhat disturbed to find he had cut himself in the night and that he had bled upon the sheets. Jadrin walked through the day in a daze, but there was evidence of a smile upon his face.

  Months passed, the Wheel of Life turned, seasons changed. Every day, Jadrin strolled in the rose garden, trying not to peer at the rich soil in an obvious manner. He never quite stopped believing in the spell, but as time went on and the soil remained undisturbed, the daily visits became more of a habit than an eagerness. Other matters took precedence in his life.

  In the east of the country, near the border of Candeleen, there lived a warrior king. His tribe was small, admittedly, but he had grand designs on the territory of Cos, and his swift, cunning warriors had become adept at worrying the skirts of the eastern duchies. Flustered and irritated, the dukes had approached Ashalan together, demanding that he employ Ashbrilim’s forces to quell the nuisance. Therefore, in the late Summer, Ashalan led his army away from the city to do battle.

  Jadrin stood with the court on the battlements of the highest tower and watched the shining, prancing steeds kick dust from the highway, carrying the jewels of Ashbrilim’s manhood towards the east. Jadrin was not overly concerned about Ashalan’s safety, having worked a number of protective spells to ensure it, but he had no way of knowing how long the king would be absent, and that caused him grief.

  One crisp morning when the smell of Autumn surged across the palace gardens for the first time that year, the head gardener came hurrying to Jadrin’s quarters himself, begging the servants for an interview.

  ‘Go away,’ Jadrin’s valet said, haughtily, ‘Lord Jadrin may not be disturbed by trifles. Take your business to the Chamberlain.’

  ‘The Chamberlain be damned!’ the gardener insisted. ‘I wait here until Lord Jadrin comes himself; this matter is too grave for the ears of anyone else.’

  Sniffing derisively, the valet retreated and was consequently surprised by Jadrin’s animated reaction to the gardener’s request.

  Maybe it was the turning of the season, the crescent of the new moon, but Jadrin knew that, at last, his spell had borne fruit. The gardener told, with wonder and amazement, how one of his underlings had been passing through the rose garden that very morning. A strange, mewing sound had attracted the boy’s attention and there, beneath the trained branches of the grandest bush, he had seen a pale-skinned baby writhing in the dirt.

  ‘Bring the child to me,’ Jadrin commanded and the gardener hurried away, to pluck the babe from the arms of the maids in the kitchen, where they were trying to tempt it with warmed milk.

  Many grisly suppositions were whispered around the palace of how some cruel wench must have buried the child, perhaps because it was illegitimate. Perhaps she’d thought it dead. Wiser women pronounced the child a changeling, too pale, its eyes too knowing to be wholly human. Jadrin, keeping secret the occult origin of the baby, made it known that he intended to adopt it. ‘The king and I shall never have an heir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is this babe’s good fortune to be found upon our land.’

  Some secretly questioned Jadrin’s judgement in this respect while others praised his charity.

  The priests said, ‘Dedicate the child to the Goddess quickly. If it is evil perhaps the consecration will dispel all negative aspects. The boy must have a name.’

  Jadrin merely shook his head. ‘The ritual must not be performed until Ashalan returns,’ he said. ‘It would not be right to do otherwise, however pressing it might seem. Let the king himself choose a name for his adopted son.’

  The most cynical members of the court wondered how Ashalan would greet the news that Jadrin had adopted a child found buried in the rose garden as the heir to the kingdom, but they complied with his wishes and kept their suppositions amongst themselves.

  A year passed and still Ashalan had not returned from the east. The boy who had no name blossomed and filled out in the arms of his wet-nurse and beneath the dark, smoky gaze of his adopted parent. True, he did not seem an ordinary child. Occasionally, the women were frightened by the intensity, the ironic humour, of his gaze and yet, physically, he appeared normal if perhaps a little slight in build.

  ‘Whose soul are you?’ Jadrin asked the child and in response the tiny fingers would grip air, the petal mouth smile and sigh. He had no name, and the servants, his only company, jokingly referred to him as Nothing, because it was impossible for them not to address him in some way. ‘Where is Nothing?’

  ‘Asleep on the terrace.’

  ‘Nothing never cries.’

  ‘Nothing has the bright eyes of a bird - a very old bird!’

  Jadrin watched his magical son
grow and in his heart warmed the secret of his birth, forever silent.

  Ashalan and his army had a hard time of it in the east. They had ridden out to battle light-hearted and confident, unprepared for the astute organisation of the warrior king and his tribe. It was like trying to dispel a mist; swords and lances were of very little use. Here and there the ragged warriors ran, under cover of cloud and branch; shadows themselves in the night, pricking Ashalan’s soldiers as they slept, loosing their horses, spoiling their water, stealing their food. Morale slumped; it was a slow business driving the enemy back, though by sheer weight of numbers it was considered inevitable by all that, eventually, Cos would have to succeed and carry the banner of victory back to Ashbrilim.

  One evening, as Ashalan and his elite guard returned to their camp through a thick forest, a storm came up from the south, suddenly and fiercely. Trees above them shook leaves and sharp twigs onto the heads and shoulders of the men, rain sluiced them cruelly, wind tore their sight from them. Ashalan’s stallion took a fright, being more spirited than the rest, and plunged recklessly off the path, tearing madly through dense undergrowth. All Ashalan could do was lean forward and close his eyes, trusting that the animal would quickly spend his strength and not fall. The frantic calls of his men faded behind him and he gave himself up to a nightmare of lashing branches and furious galloping. Eventually the horse burst from the trees on the banks of a raging torrent. The storm had passed but the river was swollen. On the other side, unbelievably, Ashalan could see the lamps of his camp twinkling through the dark. How could he reach it? His body ached, his clothes were torn, he was drenched and tired. As for the stallion, it was unlikely he retained enough strength to brave the fast-moving water. The camp glowed, welcoming and secure. Savoury smells of cooking meat and fresh bread drifted across to him. Ashalan tried to urge his horse forward, but he dug in his heels and wheeled about, making noises of distress.

  ‘Either you cross the river, or we perish from cold and fatigue!’ Ashalan said wearily.

  The stallion would have none of it, which was more good sense than stubbornness.

  Ashalan dismounted and stared miserably at the water, at the trunks of trees mashed carelessly in its foaming ribbons, the rocks that moved sluggishly downstream that had not moved for a hundred years. Human flesh would be shredded like old lace in that torrent. He sighed, hugging himself, preparing to spend the rest of the night out in the open. In the morning, he might be able to find his way back through the forest. Wistfully, Ashalan let his thoughts linger on Ashbrilim and the warm mystery of his beloved consort. Would he ever see them again.

  ‘Why so glum, my lord?’

  Ashalan turned quickly at the sound. Behind him stood a figure concealed in a hooded robe. He could not quite see the face.

  ‘As you see, I am stranded. This damned beast took a flight through the forest. I lost my company and can’t see how I can cross the river. There’s no sign of a bridge.’ It did occur to him that the stranger might be some creature of the warrior king, his enemy, and his hand strayed nervously to the pommel of his sword.

  ‘No need for alarm,’ the figure said, noticing his move. ‘Allow me to assist you. I am a builder of bridges.’

  Ashalan laughed. ‘And can you build me a bridge before my fingers freeze off?’

  The stranger did not laugh. ‘My lord king, I can build you a bridge before you blink your eyes.’

  ‘How did you know who I...’ But Ashalan never finished the question. Even as he blinked, he beheld a shadowy shape spanning the foam, high and arched, that had not been there before. ‘You are a magician, then,’ he said.

  The stranger shrugged. ‘Of sorts. The bridge is yours, King of Ashbrilim. Why not cross it?’

  Ashalan fixed the black, lustreless bridge with a narrow stare. Perhaps this man was an enemy and the bridge would dissolve to nothing when he was halfway across it, leaving him and his horse to drop helplessly into the furious swell beneath.

  ‘Oh, do not doubt me,’ said the stranger in a low, cajoling voice. ‘I am no foeman of yours.’

  ‘You are generous, my friend, but tell me the extent of your generosity. What payment do you require for this service?’

  ‘Why nothing, king Ashalan,’ the stranger replied. ‘I want nothing from you. Let us just say that I have your interests at heart. What do you say to that?’

  ‘If you want nothing then take nothing and I shall cross the bridge. I thank you sir.’ Ashalan remounted his horse and with a further grateful wave to the stranger urged the animal into a canter across the sombre planks. Around them the pitchy wood groaned and creaked, below them the river tossed and snarled. Behind them, the river bank was empty and it was without incident that they crossed to the other side.

  On a day of great celebration, Ashalan led his men home once more, along the wide, yellow highway from the east, to the great, gilded gates of Ashbrilim. The air was full of petals as the maidens of the city thronged the balconies, tossing handfuls of bright blooms into the air to be crushed beneath the feet of the snorting horses. Two long years had passed since the army had left the city. In the end, it had happened that the warrior king had been bought off rather than routed. Now everybody in the east seemed satisfied - at least on the surface. Ashbrilim gave the returning soldiers its best, shining with the last of the summer sun, giving off a heady aroma of shaded flowers and rubbed ferns.

  Jadrin, with the elite of the court around him, waited on the steps of the palace, dressed in deepest blue that was the blue of midnight, with heavy, waxy blooms fixed in his hair. Behind him stood a woman holding the changeling child. Ashalan could have wept when he beheld his household. There was Jadrin, more lovely than he had remembered in his loneliest hour. There was Jadrin who came running down the steps, courtly aloofness forgotten, to reach up for his hands and say, ‘My lord, you are home.’ Ah, the homecoming was sweet.

  Long and riotous was the feasting in the palace that day. Ashalan felt as if he was being swept along on an intoxicating wave of exotic perfume. His body was tired but it was carried high on the euphoria of his return. The fact that Jadrin carefully placed a young boy-child in his arms and, equally carefully, informed him that he now had an heir, seemed only another heady facet of the glorious day. He raised the child on high and laughed, and the court laughed with him, spilling wine onto the marble floor, singing his praises. ‘You are home, my lord.’ Yes.

  In the evening Jadrin led Ashalan into the gardens, saying, ‘The boy was found here, among the roses...’

  ‘How cruel! He seems wise for his years, such knowing eyes...’

  ‘Yes. We thought that too.’ A silence fell. They sat upon the grass, beneath the boughs of a drooping salix tree.

  Ashalan began to speak of some of his experiences in the east. When he came to the tale of the strange bridge-builder, Jadrin’s gaze became more intense, his expression fixed and wondering. Ashalan laughed at the end of the telling but Jadrin was silent. He stood up, his back to the king, and stared hard into the trees behind them.

  ‘What is it?’ Ashalan asked.

  Jadrin raised an impatient hand. ‘I... don’t know. Only this. I should have thought. I should have realised. It may not be important, I don’t know.’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘The child. I refused to have him named until you returned.’

  ‘So? I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘Don’t you see... the servants, they call him “Nothing”! You promised nothing. Your son is nothing. Don’t you see?’

  Ashalan was quite stupefied by Jadrin’s outburst. He uttered a small but nervous laugh. ‘Jadrin, what you’re saying is ridiculous! How could that stranger have known about your... adoption... when not even I knew myself!’

  ‘There is more to it than you know, or could even guess.’ Jadrin punched the air in frustration. ‘Goddess, I should have realised!’

  ‘This means nothing to me!’ Ashalan said coldly. ‘Perhaps you’d better expl
ain.’

  Jadrin opened his mouth to say, ‘I can’t’ but a sudden and bitter wind swept the words from his lips. His hair blew across his eyes and he heard Ashalan swear in surprise. All the trees rustled furiously around them. The air smelt of acrid smoke and stale flowers. ‘No,’ Jadrin said.

  ‘Such a welcome!’ said a ringing hollow voice.

  Ashalan turned to follow the direction of Jadrin’s gaze and beheld the same cloaked figure who he had encountered on the banks of the river back east.

  ‘Lord Jadrin,’ the figure said in a silky voice, ‘would you give me any less welcome than you gave the king when he returned? After all, I granted you your heart’s desire.’

  ‘Who is this?’ Ashalan demanded, cold on the inside with a sick dread.

  ‘Tell him, Jadrin,’ said the angel.

  ‘It is Lailahel, prince of conception,’ Jadrin replied.

  ‘I have come for my payment,’ said the angel.

  ‘You asked for none.’

  ‘I asked for nothing.’

  Jadrin sighed deeply. ‘It is plain to me what you really want. You tricked me.’

  Lailahel laughed. ‘Nothing is a magical child, Jadrin. More my son than yours. Both of you promised him to me; you can’t deny that. He does not belong with you and your kind.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jadrin took a deep breath. ‘Tomorrow. Give us until tomorrow.’

  ‘As the cock crows. No more.’ And without further manifestation of any kind, the angel vanished.

  Ashalan had no more than looked on in horrified disbelief; now he demanded an explanation. Feeling he no longer owed the angel anything, including silence, Jadrin told him the whole story. At the end of it, he stood back, expecting Ashalan’s rage, but the king merely shook his head and held out his arms. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘you are a dreaming romantic boy.’

  Jadrin’s body stiffened in affront. ‘I am no longer a boy and there was nothing romantic about what I did. When Lailahel returns tomorrow another child shall be in Nothing’s place. Nothing shall be in the temple being consecrated to the Goddess!’