“You are free to go, of course,” he said, sadly. He had begun to like this new Moag, as well as need him. But the wizard was slipping back to his old resentful self. “You are welcome to stay. You will always be honored by my people for what you have done.”
The rest of the short tour of the snowcastles was conducted with less enthusiasm on Moag’s part, but the joy continued to grow in Greylock.
Before he had left there had been no assurance that Mara forgave him, much less loved him. But Greylock was suddenly certain that the love between them had not vanished, but had only been hidden by his refusal to give the old wizard his freedom. He had been a fool!
Only Moag’s decision to leave dampened his happiness. Despite everything, he had hoped the wizard would stay. And there was the old man’s threat to take Mara with him.
Surely Mara would not give in to the wizard’s obstinacy!
“Help me back to Castle Guardian,” Moag said gruffly, interrupting his thoughts. “These old legs cannot fight the snows as they once could.”
They began to move slowly down the mountains, both lost in thought.
“You do not look well, Greylock,” the old man said suddenly.
The Tyrant was surprised that he had noticed. “I have not been sleeping well, that is all.”
Despite his promise to the Wyrrs, the dreams of the demons had kept him tossing night after night, until he preferred not to sleep at all. He was hollow-eyed and pale, and it was becoming difficult to concentrate.
“It’s the Wyrrs, isn’t it?” the wizard said, suddenly. When Greylock looked at him in surprise, he continued. “I owe you, no favor, but I would advise you if I may. My advice is this; it must be done. You cannot put it off any longer. They will not leave you alone until you have freed them of their curse.”
“But what can I do?” He wondered how the wizard had known of his absorption with the Wyrrs.
“I am not the one to ask such a question. I do not know your legends, your religion. If I were you, I would go to the Gatekeepers.”
Despite his distaste for the priests, Greylock had to admit that the old man was right. He had known it all along, even if he had not liked it. Once he had even set out for Castle Priest, and in the back of his mind had been the questions about the Wyrrs. Then had come the battle, and he had been relieved to forget their plight, if only for a little while.
The two had reached Castle Guardian again at last, and Greylock let go of the old man’s arm when they reached the warm stones of the courtyard. He hesitated before leaving. It was Mara’s home as well, but he was not sure he could venture any further into the snowcastle without invitation.
The old man continued up the walk without looking back, and Greylock feared that it would be the last time he would see the wizard. But at the last moment, the old man turned and motioned for him.
Greylock smiled hopefully, and hurried toward him.
“I wish to return your knife,” the old man growled. “1 won’t need it anymore.”
The wizard produced the glyden-hilted knife, the price of his services to the Tyrant, and handed it back to Greylock. As soon as Greylock had taken it, reluctantly, the old man pulled out a single nugget of glyden. “Now I will be able to wield my magic for myself!”
“You can have more than that, Moag!” Greylock offered. “You can have all you want!”
The wizard smiled and rubbed the nugget in his fingers. “This is all I need.” He paused. “My granddaughter wished me to ask you to have dinner with us tonight, Greylock. Will you come?”
“Of course I will come!” Greylock exclaimed.
The wizard nodded unhappily, and turned to climb up the steep steps of the snowcastle. The massive doors shut behind him without a sound.
Greylock walked back to Castle Tyrant with a spring in his step. Despite the old man’s gruff ness, Greylock knew that Mara still loved him. And now that he had made up his mind to see the Gatekeepers about the Wyrrs, he knew that the nightmares would leave him. The High Plateau seemed at peace.
Greylock arrived at Castle Guardian that night without guards and over the snows, an unheard of honor and risk for the Tyrant of the High Plateau. But he did not feel that anyone could threaten him with danger on such an evening. With his suddenly revived spirit, he felt ready to confront any danger.
Mara greeted him with a smile, and Greylock felt himself relax. He had told himself it did not matter what she said. He dared not hope. Now, despite himself, his hopes soared.
He was enthralled at the sight of her. She was radiant in a gown the red of snowflowers, and the vivid colors of her eyes and dress contrasted with the shimmering shades Silverfrost had always chosen. In their year of separation she had blossomed into a beautiful and mature woman. The frown lines between her eyebrows, formed by a natural skepticism, now made her look thoughtful. Her unruly blond hair flowed freely down her back. Greylock knew that he had not been wrong to love her, though it had seemed foolish until this night.
Moag was still frowning, his mottled face seemingly unchanged from that afternoon. He did not rise. The meal passed without any serious discussion, and later Greylock could not remember what had been said, or what he had eaten—if he had eaten.
Mara broached the subject of Moag’s leaving first, and the Tyrant saw that the wizard was as anxious for her decision as he was.
“Have you truly released my grandfather, Greylock?” she asked.
“He is free now,” Greylock said, holding his breath. “He has already returned my knife of glyden. I have asked him to stay, but…”
She turned to the wizard.
“Are you determined to leave the High Plateau?”
Moag nodded. Greylock felt his heart sink at the question, certain that the matter had been decided against him.
“I will not be going with you, Moag,” she announced softly, and Greylock cried out in relief. The old man sank back with a sigh.
“I know I should still be angry at Greylock,” she said. “I know that he has broken the laws of magic by holding you against your will. But I love him, Moag! I have loved him from the first moment I saw him, descending from the clouds like a god, his lock of silver hair catching the sun.”
“I had once thought that we could serve each other,” Moag said in a resigned voice, and to Greylock it seemed as if both of them had forgotten his presence. “That is why I searched so long and hard for glyden, Mara. Not for the wealth it would have brought us, but because it was needed to free our powers. We needed glyden to be free. So I reasoned—”
“Grandfather, please!”
“No, I can see that I was a fool. You are too much like your mother, Mara. You never did like my wanderings, and a wizard must wander. Stay, Mara. I understand.
“But do not expect me to forgive him!” he pointed a long finger at Greylock. “I trusted him and he twisted that trust to his purposes. I warned him once that when he became Tyrant he would find his power difficult to deny. He had broken the edicts of the gods, though he lives at their feet and at their mercy. He will be punished, Mara!”
She did not answer, but stared back at him with an unblinking sorrow.
Moag rose from his chair. “I will be leaving in the morning.”
“Please, Moag,” Greylock stopped him, grabbing his arm. “Stay until the wedding.”
“No,” the old man shrugged off his arm. “I have been here too long already.”
The wizard left the room slowly, bent almost to the floor. For the first time since Greylock had known him, Moag seemed to act his years.
Mara and Greylock were left alone at last, but they could only look at each other in sadness. She came to him, but it was not as he had envisioned. The old wizard had managed to cast a pall over their love. Greylock hoped angrily that the wizard would leave soon.
The procession worked its way slowly over the unblemished snows of the High Plateau. As they neared the slippery and jumbled iceblocks below Castle Priest, the Gatekeeper’s careful steps gave an a
ir of stateliness to the wedding party. Leading the procession was Keyholder, enrobed in ceremonial blue regalia, which despite the festive occasion, still managed to seem solemn, severe. Following him, surrounded by the other priests in the subdued accouterments of their calling, came Greylock, marching stiffly alone, and just behind him, Mara, accompanied by Ardra.
Mara wore the same dress she had worn to welcome Greylock back from the Underworld, and its scarlet hue and embroidered blue seemed even more colorful on the white snows, amid the drab, brown robes of the Gatekeepers. Her unruly blond hair was staying in place for once, held by a tiara of glyden. In contrast, Greylock had chosen to wear his customary black, with fittings of silver and red.
As the procession passed each of the snowcastles, the inhabitants joined at a respectful distance. Jostling among themselves for a place just behind the Tyrant were the members of the royal families, bedecked in their finest clothing. In an even more disorderly mass came the common citizens of the High Plateau, dressed in their cleanest and most colorful robes. None wished to miss the wedding of their Tyrant, and especially the feast that would follow.
In the courtyard of Castle Priest, Greylock and Mara were joined in marriage. The day was clear and warm. The whole of the High Plateau was revealed to those in the courtyard. The vista was breathtaking, but the Tyrant’s eyes were drawn to the swirling mists far above, and Mara’s eyes seemed fixed to the chanting figure of Keyholder.
When it was done, the celebrants quickly removed their ceremonial robes and donned festive trappings. The courtyard was given way to the feast, and music and dancing. The wine of the Underworld flowed, and the solemn priests retreated from the sight.
But Mara and Greylock did not eat, did not join in the dancing. They sat on twin thrones, holding hands slightly, and smiling. To observers the royal couple appeared unaccountably solemn. When the music suddenly stopped, and the dancers parted to reveal the form of a Wyrr, they did not seem surprised.
There was no doubt this time that the Wyrr was real. The demon’s demeanor was unusually confident and vigorous. His wan, pale face was twisted into a grimace, what Greylock realized was meant to be a smile. The Wyrr was making no attempt to wield his magic to make his form attractive, and the celebrants drew away instinctively. When he spoke, all could understand his words, though few understood their meaning.
“It is time, Deliverer!”
“You must wait!” Greylock answered, knowing it was hopeless. “I do not know how to lift the curse! There is nothing I can do.” His voice trailed off as he realized that he was trying to delay the inevitable. “You must wait,” he finished as firmly as he could.
“You hesitate to do what you have promised?”
Greylock felt ashamed at the despair in the Wyrr’s voice. “I must ask the Gatekeepers,” he said simply. “If they do not know the answer, I cannot help you.”
“You must not wait longer!” the Wyrr cried, and his commanding tone shocked the celebrants. “Godshome awakes!”
At his words a small tremor passed through the mountain, and Greylock realized that he had begun to ignore the insistent quakes. The Wyrr reminded him of the danger.
“I will come,” he sighed, and beside him, Mara gasped. He dared not turn to look at her, afraid that her eyes would weaken his resolve.
The Wyrr nodded, satisfied, and turned away. But a young man stepped from the crowd and into his path. Greylock recognized the thin, elegant figure of Kalwyn, the young man who had tried to kill him.
“What does this being want of you?” the young nobleman demanded.
“Let him go, Kalwyn,” Greylock commanded. “This is none of your concern. I have made a pact with his people that must not be broken.”
Reluctantly, Kalwyn stepped from the Wyrr’s path, and all eyes watched the emaciated figure march from the courtyard.
The Tyrant smiled, relieved. He had been uncertain until now who to name as the new steward. Kalwyn was the pampered son of one of the royal families. Greylock had no reason to trust or distrust him. Indeed, he hardly knew him. But Slimspear had thought him an able young man, he remembered, and Kalwyn was prohibited by custom from trying to assassinate him again. And he had just proven his reliability.
The Tyrant turned to the puzzled crowd. “All is well!” he cried. “Begin the music! Go back to your dancing!”
The music began again at his orders, though at first the musicians played without enthusiasm. But, inevitably, the music and wine blurred the memory of the Wyrr’s visit, and dancing was soon at a pitch that drowned out even his worried thoughts.
Chapter Eight
Greylock maneuvered his way between the giant blocks of ice below Castle Priest that were still left over from the avalanche. They had not yet been able to clear away all the snow, or to rebuild the terraces. There had been more important constructions to complete first. After the snowcastles and icetowers there had been the fortifications to build, frost fortresses Moag had called them. They were set across the Gateway, which was now once again closed to the Underworld. Greylock knew he should be paying more attention to the problems of King Kasid, and the threat he posed to the High Plateau, but the Wyrrs would not leave him alone. Unfortunately, Moag was no longer there to help him; as threatened, the wizard had left shortly before the wedding.
On the Tyrant’s wedding night he had had the nightmare of the Wyrrs, as he had every night since his return from the Twilight Dells. The silent cries seemed to be growing stronger and more disturbing with each visitation. The message was always the same, a soundless, wordless pleading with him to come to them. Greylock hardly dared close his eyes for fear of the terrifying visions.
Castle Priest towered over the choppy expanse of white rubble, the oldest and grandest of snowcastles. The dark ice rimmed the top of the glacier like a fringe of blue hair.
One of the younger priests greeted him solemnly as he neared the top of the jumbled slope. They must have observed him struggling against the snows from their icetower, Greylock thought. He wondered if they had been expecting him. All had heard his words to the Wyrr at the wedding feast.
The Gatekeeper guided him through the hidden trails behind what was left of the barriers, and they reached the snowcastle without further delay.
Keyholder met him in a small room that Greylock remembered well from his brief days as a student. The library was furnished with a single long table, lined with chairs. Along the walls were every book and manuscript that still existed on the High Plateau, the wisdoms of centuries past, all that was important enough to be committed to the sparse parchment.
The old priest watched his former student walk about the room with an amused glint in his sharp blue eyes. He sat at the head of the table passively, and waited for the Tyrant to announce the purpose of his visit. Greylock paced down each of the four walls once, his eyes running over the piled books, until he had circled the table.
“Welcome to Castle Priest, Tyrant Greylock,” the priest said finally, when it seemed that his former student was reluctant to speak. “Have you finally come back to learn?”
Greylock knew that he had been one of Keyholder’s worst students, for he had refused to listen to the Gatekeeper’s dogma. Yet, though he did not know it, his inquiring mind had also made him one of the old priest’s favorite students. Keyholder had tried subtly to encourage his freedom of thought.
“Tell me of the Wyrrs,” Greylock said suddenly.
“The Wyrrs?” The lined forehead of the priest wrinkled even more in puzzlement. “You would know more of the Wyrrs than I.”
“You know what I mean,” Greylock said, impatiently. “Tell me what the books say about the demons.”
“Ah, the demons,” Keyholder sighed. The old Gatekeeper seemed deeply satisfied by the question, as though it was what he had expected to hear, the fulfillment of some private prophecy.
“We have been expecting you to come to us for some time, Greylock,” he said. “Even before the Wyrr came to the feast. All that we hav
e been able to learn from the books concerning the demons has been collected and is ready for you. Now, if you will just cease pacing and sit down beside me …”
Greylock hesitated, and then plopped restlessly on the narrow chair.
The young Gatekeeper who had brought him to the library had been waiting quietly by the door. Now he came forward at Keyholder’s motion and laid a tall stack of parchment on the table before Greylock, who was astounded by the amount of new parchment the stingy priests has apparently invested in this research.
“Remember, Greylock,” Keyholder said, smiling, when the Tyrant seemed hesitant to dig into the pile. “We are believers in the old legends. We have not questioned the religion of our forebears, unlike some of our more headstrong students. Our beliefs told us that no one could descend to the Underworld and return as mortal unless he be a demon. Yet you were undeniably mortal and unchanged. Finally, we remembered the one prophecy, which would account for this paradox. The one story that deals with a mortal’s obligation to the demons …”
“The prophecy of the Deliverer,” Greylock finished for him in a whisper. “So the Wyrrs have called me, but I dared not tell you, for I was certain that you would accuse me of blasphemy.”
“On the contrary, only the idea that you are the Deliverer could answer all the puzzles,” Keyholder said. “And yet, we were still unsure until the Wyrr came to you on your wedding day and demanded his freedom. This convinced the last of us. You are the Deliverer!”
“The Wyrrs think so anyway,” Greylock said, unhappily.
“Yes, we have seen how you stop and stare into space, as though you are communicating with someone no one else can see. I must admit, I did not expect the demons to be such as the Wyrrs, and yet they call to you. And they do indeed seem to be imprisoned in their own land, not quite dead, but not quite alive either.”
“But I do not know what is wrong with them, Keyholder! I do now know what causes the sickness in their land. Why do they not just leave it? What can I do?”
Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 19