by Mike Allen
In consternation and excitement, Jandur watched the girl, to see what her reaction to the goblet might be.
For a moment she only stood quite still, and gazed at it. She was not more than thirteen years, and next she turned away, rather as a child would who has found out a secret. Jandur though saw she smiled, and her face blushed like one of the tints in the glass.
Jandur went to her and softly said, “What is it you feel?”
“Oh,” said the girl, without either shyness or boldness, “only that one day I shall be in love.”
“You must give me the cup,” said Jandur. “It is mine.”
Without any hesitation the girl did so, but the smile did not leave her, just as Tesh was yet affectionate, and his wife yet sang to him.
When Jandur took the cup he braced himself, thinking all manner of insanities or ecstasies might overwhelm him, and that despite them he must not let it fall and break. But all he felt was a speechless fear, the very same which had already visited him on the goblet’s account.
He walked out into the little garden of the house. The moon was rising over the wall, where a mulberry tree grew, its leaves tarnished by exhalations of the makery. Jandur raised the glass, and the moon shone through it, grey and silent, telling nothing.
What shall I do with you? Jandur thought. You may work miracles or do much harm. I will take you with me because it seems I must, and in the first city I will sell you, if such is possible. If I am wrong in that, forgive me, spirit of sand and glass. I have no other notion what is to be done.
Then the wind blew through the mulberry leaves, and the wind said Yes, as sometimes, they reported, it did. Yes, said the wind among the leaves. So Jandur wrapped the goblet carefully and placed it in a box. A handful of time later he bore it to the city, where Prince Razved was King-in-waiting, and the Prince bought the goblet at the price of all the other broken glass. And after that Jandur took his own way through the world again, in prosperity or misfortune, as each man must.
3. The First Fragment
That very night, years before, the King of another country was to enter the town of Marah.
In the south, on the coast of the Great Purple Sea, there had been a war and much skirmishing, and this King, whose own city lay north of the desert, had brought his troops to assist a southern ally. The battles done, and victory secured, now the young King was returning home. The bulk of his army had marched ahead of him, but he himself stopped here and there on his route. That he should honour Marah was a source to the town of pride and pandemonium. Most of the townspeople too were knife-keen to view the King. He was said to have that rare combination, pronounced beauty of person, intelligence of mind, and goodness of heart.
Marah however, was not then as it would come to be in the time of Jandur’s maturity—which time was yet some two decades in its future. Preparations were frantic and extreme.
Came the night, the young northern King rode through the main avenue of the town. In the glare of many hundred torches, it was seen that while his black horse was caparisoned in silk from the Purple Coast, which burned sapphire in shade but like ruby in the light, the King was dressed well but plainly, and his only jewel was the ring that signified his kingship. In himself though, he was jewel enough. His hair was like darkly gilded bronze, his face and figure were so handsome he might have been some wonderful statue come to life.
All about exclamations rose, and sighs, and after these dumbness. How lucky was that northern city, to be ruled by such a paragon. How lucky his young wife, who had already borne him a son. How lucky his son, in such a father. How lucky the very sky there, and the air itself, to be seen by him, and breathed into his lungs.
* * *
Her name was Qirisn. She was by trade a musician, adopted and trained by an ancient school of the town, for her parents had died when she was only an infant. Marah, and the desert beyond, were all Qirisn knew, or supposedly. Since also she knew music, and knew it flawlessly, for she possessed great natural talent both as a player of stringed instruments, and as a singer. Music had, it seemed, taught her that incredible elements lay beyond the mere facts of existence, and far outside the scope of human law and rational thought. A fine and feral inner landscape existed within the brain and spirit of Qirisn, and something of it showed in the night-blue of her eyes, though few noticed her until she sang. Her voice was of an almost supernal quality, very flexible and silken, and superlative from its lowest to its highest notes. “So stars must sing,” her last tutor had remarked of her, although not in her hearing. But she did not need to be made either modest or vain. She knew her worth and where it lay; it made her happy, and others happy also: there are few greater gifts than such genius.
It had been arranged that the best musicians of Marah should entertain the northern King, but they would do so, as was the custom then in the town, behind a screen. That being so, they went out on a little terrace above the street to watch, with various others, the monarch’s arrival at the hall of banqueting.
Among these witnesses there was no change of opinion from that of all the rest who had glimpsed him.
“How fair he is!” they said. “Better than sunrise.”
Only Qirisn did not say a word.
She was not, certainly, the only one to look upon the King and love him instantly, but with her the blow sank much deeper. Not simply had she never experienced the lightning strike of physical love before, she had, conversely, when involved in making or listening to music, experienced the phenomenon over and over, never then having a point of reference. It had seemed to her always until this moment, that the passion of her inner sight was impossible to realize in the outer world. Now she found otherwise. Panes like ice shattered before her. Her heart itself seemed to break like a mirror. To her, love was the most familiar and least known of any emotion. She went in to play and sing, moving in a trance, aware solely that he would hear her music. As of course he must, since now he would be the cause of it, and even in the past, before ever she looked at him, he had been so. It was plain to her, if in the most dreamlike way, she had known him elsewhere, in some other life perhaps, or on the outer fringes of this one. Or else, she had known him forever. And yet, in her current sphere, they would never meet.
The banquet began, the lamps burned bright, flowers and incenses released their perfumes. The diners were regaled by performances of magic and mystery. Doves burst from bottles and flew away, lions spoke riddles and could not be answered, diamond rain fell dry, and cool as the moon’s kisses.
The musicians played and sang too. If they were noticed above the general hubbub, who could be sure. Yet, when Qirisn sang, and tonight it seemed she sang more exquisitely than ever before, some did fall quiet to listen. And the King? It was noted he turned his head a fraction, and for a second he frowned. But he was not unkind, not capricious, not heartless. Perhaps only he did not much care for music?
* * *
On the following day the King resumed his journey, which, having once left Marah, must take him out over the boiled shield of the Vast Harsh.
He had, naturally, no concern for robbers, his retinue of servants and soldiers were more than enough to make cautious the most vulpine robber band. Nevertheless, he himself led forays among those bandit strongholds which were sighted, wiping many felons from the desert’s face with efficient economy.
Otherwise, the King seemed somewhat preoccupied. He had trouble sleeping, and restlessly walked about the nightly encampments, chatting with the guards. Or he might write a letter to his wife—a foolish exercise since he would see her in a pair more months.
A sunset happened which was the colour of a damson. The King stood watching it, and then he turned to one of his officers, a man who had been close to him during the recent campaign.
“Did you hear ever, Nassib, was there much witchcraft in that last town?”
“In Marah, my lord? No, rather the opposite. Some of them talked of a witch who will shape-change to a vulture, but she is a desert hag an
d who knows, may only be a vulture and nothing more, save in a story.”
“Quite so.”
“Why do you ask, sir?”
“Oh, a little matter.” The King watched the last of the sun’s disc as it hid itself in some slot of the horizon. He added rather slowly, “I heard a girl sing at Marah, one of the musicians at the dinner. She had a lovely voice. But it is more than that.”
“You fancied her, my lord? Surely you might have had her brought to you?”
“Well, but I never saw her even. And I do not wish to force any woman.”
The officer laughed, between approval and envy, for very few women would not desire the King.
Returning to his tent, the King however wrote on the paper he had left ready for another letter, only these words: In Marah, at the desert’s brink, I heard a girl sweetly sing. And ever since that night, her voice has stayed with me, I do not know why. It seems I have been much disturbed by her song.
* * *
The crossing of the desert, what with the forays upon bandits, and the King’s mood, lasted longer than it might have otherwise.
But they lay over at a small oasis when the King called Nassib to him.
“Listen, my friend, I have a task for you if you will accept it.” Nassib declared he would willingly do so. “Wait first to hear the commission. If you wish to refuse I will find another to undertake it. You know I have been wed these past three years, and my wife has given me a healthy son.” Nassib agreed he did know this. “Custom allows me to take other women, and also to wed them, but I have never thought either act necessary since my marriage. Now I am in love. I am in love with a voice and—oh, Nassib, you will think me insane—with a vision I see of her in sleep, or awake, when sunlight fails a certain way, or a cloud scarfs the stars. Am I bewitched? I do not know, nor any longer care. Go back if you will to Marah, and seek out there the woman with the voice of silk and crystal. Though never having seen her, I can tell you how she is. Little and slender, with light hair, and eyes like blue midnight. If you doubt, ask her to sing a single note. Then you may be sure. Give her this ring with a crimson stone. Tell her, you will bring her to me, if she will go with you. I think she will. Her soul calls out to mine, Nassib, as mine to hers. Long ago, on some other earth, we have been lovers. More, we have been two halves of a solitary whole, and so remain. Tell her she shall be my second queen. Tell her,” and here the King’s face assumed such a look of bliss, his words rang strangely with it, “tell her I am dead without her, and wish to come alive.” Nassib stood bereft of speech. He was shocked beyond calculation at his own response. For it was as if all this while he had known the King uttered only the truth, and there could be no other choice. But “My regrets, Nassib,” said the King, taking his hand. “No, I do not think I am mad. I am at the sanest moment of my life. If you will trust me, do what I ask. If not, remain my friend, and I will send another. For she must be brought with some subterfuge to the city. There will be many obstacles to overcome, both of courtesy and faction. There may be dangers.”
“My lord,” said Nassib humbly, “I believe the gods have taken you and she into their hand. I cannot gainsay the gods. I will do everything you ask as best I am able.”
Before moonrise Nassib, accompanied by eight hand-picked men, was racing back across the Harsh to Marah.
* * *
She had dreamed of him every night, as he had of her.
Awake, in changes of light she had seen him, in the faces of others or the faces of statues, or in the pouring of water, or the dazzle of sun on the strings of an instrument.
Qirisn grieved yet, seeing him so often, still she did not lose her quite unfounded hope. She could be nothing to him—yet surely she was. They could never meet—yet surely they would.
Some months after the night of the banquet, a young man, garbed like a desert wanderer, sought her in the court of the musicians’ school.
He asked her if her name was Qirisn, and if she had sung in the hall when the King of the northern city dined there. He looked intently at her soft hair and small frame, and long into her eyes.
He asked she sing him one single note. She sang it. “I am Qirisn,” she replied.
“Yes, so you are,” said he. Then he gave a savage laugh. Then he begged her pardon for it. “When he was here in Marah, did you see the King?” Qirisn assented. She was very calm, long trained in means of control, as the musician must be, but pale, so her eyes seemed black rather than blue. Nassib took a breath, and asked her, “Would you see the King again?” To which Qirisn quietly answered, “I would give my life to do so.”
Then the rest of the message was detailed, and the ring of rose-red topaz pressed into her hand. And she carried it to her lips and kissed it. Nassib next told her how they would leave the town before sunset, and start out over the desert, he and his eight men her escort. She nodded but asked nothing at all, only the colour of her eyes came back and filled Nassib’s mind with a kind of blank serenity, and after this all was easy to do.
How easy indeed it was, as it had been easy to say to him, as she had, she would give her life to see the King once more.
And thus, while Qirisn and Nassib were crossing the waste, at long last the King reached his city.
Near to evening he entered the palace, and his wife the Queen came to meet him, her look radiant, her glorious hair twined with hyacinthine zircons. He greeted her publically with great affection, and then they went away into their private apartments, and here, after a slight interval, during which the radiance faded from her, the young King spoke of his love and respect for her, but then told his wife what had befallen him, and what presently must come to be.
She paid close attention. When he had finished, she raised her face, now like a paper never written on.
“What of your son, the Prince?”
“He shall continue as my heir. I will love him always—love does not cast out love, only increases it. He shall reign as King long after me.”
“And I,” she said.
“You will ever be my first wife, First Queen, and I will hold you dear. You need be afraid of nothing.”
“Need I not,” she said. And then, “Well, my lord. I wish you every felicity in your life with this second queen, who is your highest love, your spiritual mate through time. After the aeons you have waited to regain her, how marvellous will be your reunion.” And rising she bowed to him and went away.
The Queen paced slowly to her own rooms, and there she drew off her body every rich thing which she had gained through her marriage. She called in the nurse, and gazed at her son, less than one year of age. “Be blessed, my darling,” she said to her child, and gave the nurse seven zircons from her hair. Alone again, the Queen went into her compartment of bathing, and there she lay down on the marble floor and cut the vein of her left arm. Some while she watched the white stone alter to topaz red. She said to it, “He has not broken my heart, he has broken my soul.” But then she fell asleep, and soon thereafter she died.
Such was the rejoicing at the King’s return, no one discovered what had gone on until that night had passed. The King himself did not receive the news until noon of the next day. When he did, he wept. It was proper that he should, and his court and subjects revered him for his tender sorrow. The Queen meanwhile they reviled for a madwoman. Even those who knew the truth avowed he had not meant to hurt her, she was unreasonable. And of course he had not meant to, for no man wants, unless an utter monster or fool, to saddle himself with such a dreadful scourge of guilt. Yet through the anguish of his tears and remorse, his love for Qirisn stayed like a pearl within contaminated water. The days of mourning would be long and scrupulously he would attend and mark each one. Beyond them, heaven-upon-earth awaited him. He could endure till then.
* * *
A storm was coming to the desert, it blew from the north. Lightning flared through the clouds, littering them with thin fissures of grey-gold. The thunder drummed on the sky’s skin, as if to break through and plummet
to the ground below in heavy chunks like granite, and each larger than a city. No rain fell. The dunes lit white, then brass, flickered to black, seemed to vanish underfoot.
To begin with they rode on, the escort of nine men on their horses, the girl in the little open carriage, she and its driver protected only by a canopy. But in another hour a strong wind gusted from the mouth of the storm, smelling of metal and salt. Soon enough it had the horses staggering, and snapped the posts so the canopy flew up to join the roiling cumulous above.
Nassib came to the carriage.
“There are tall rocks there. We must shelter, Qirisn-to-be-queen. No other way can we keep you safe.”
They sought the rocks then, a narrow mesa like one segment of the backbone of a dead dragon.
Lightning carved about them still, and the thunder rolled. Men and animals waited, stark or trembling, and only Qirisn was composed, afraid of nothing since her fate had found her, and she had trusted it.
Eventually another sound grew audible. It was that of men, unlike all others. Around the rocky hill came a cavalcade of sorts. They had lighted lamps too, and they were jolly, smiling and calling out invitingly to those who took shelter at the mesa’s foot.
One of Nassib’s men spoke in a voice of death.
“In number there are at least thirty of them. They are bandits. This is their stronghold. The gods have abandoned us.”
Nassib drew his sword. It made a rasping, jeering noise, as if it mocked them. “While we may, we fight. Do not let them take you living.” He had seemingly forgotten the girl. If he had remembered, he would have turned and offered to slay her at once. He could see his men had no chance, and nor would she have any, since these felons were everywhere noted for their profligate viciousness.
After this the bandits sprang from their donkeys, and rushing up they killed every other man that was there, Nassib too, the bandits grabbing and their leader beheading him at one blow. They recalled Nassib from the King’s forays on their kind, but tonight they lost none of their own.