Everran's Bane

by Kelso, Sylvia

  Healthy, he would have laughed and admitted defeat. As it was, he lay back and said in that strained whisper, “You cursed woman. You should have been a general. Thank the Four you’re not.”

  An hour later he had sent a mirror-signal for the Treasurer’s inventory and was waving his tablets at me, saying, “Here, Harran, you’re a wordsmith. Draft this.”

  I asked, “What is it, lord?” And he tossed me the stylus. “Proclamation. All the Confederacy. Champions. Anyone who can stick the dragon, I’ll give them... give them...”

  “It’s usual to offer a daughter,” I said flippantly, and then could have bitten off my tongue.

  He did wince, but then it brought his first real laugh. “Better than that.” He held his ribs. “Offer them—Maerdrigg’s maerian.”

  I dropped the stylus. He said, “Heirloom, priceless, the luck of the house.” Shrugged, and winced again. “Everran comes first.”

  He was still in great pain: the physician talked of extracting splinters when he was strong enough, but after three weeks not even Thassal could feed him yeldtar juice. “Saw it in Hazghend. A drug.” So I would play for him, in the night watches where I had now been promoted as nurse.

  I still see that little stone wedge of room, the pallet bed overhung by a goose-feather mattress Stavan commandeered the Four know where, the rough iron door, the archer’s slit full of frostily starlit black, the tiny lamp flame on his strained, haggard face. I would play the little, simple airs of Everran’s work and play: songs for all seasons from every Resh, the folk catches that outlast lore. When that failed, we would talk. One learns a great deal, talking at night. Sellithar must have been the only subject on which we never spoke.

  After seven days Hawge had flown north-east amid a wave of frantic orders for the border garrisons to shelter the people and let the dragon be, and was now dormant after feeding heavily on a tardy cattle herd in the Coesterne hills. The field at Coed Wrock had been salved. The king had already commissioned a cairn, but that no one had found Inyx’s body was his deepest grief.

  “He was right,” he said wistfully during another night conversation. “I shouldn’t have tried it. I threw them—and him—away.”

  “I do not think so,” was the best I could do. When he spoke in that quiet remorse so utterly unakin to self-pity was when I pitied him most. “It had to be attempted. They would say the same.”

  He shifted his head on the pillow. “All the same... I’d like to have begged his pardon. Told him he was right.”

  “He,” I rejoined blandly, “would enjoy that.”

  We both chuckled. Then it was time for another of the bed-ridden’s indignities: the sponging, the bed-pan, the food you cannot cut for yourself. Coming back, I beat up the pillows, which as usual were everywhere, and asked, as usual, “Is that better, lord?”

  He smiled rather wearily as he lay back. Then he looked up. Whatever wreckage lay under the bandages, his eyes remained beautiful: long-lashed, vivid green almonds, full of impish light.

  “Beryx,” he said. “I can’t expect to be ‘lord’ when I ask you to do things like that.”

  I murmured some demurral. He said, “That’s an order,” and then began laughing. “Oh, Four! I mean, that’s an order—please.” As he held his side, I thought, No wonder they died for you. If you command, you can also charm.

  * * * * *

  Like Thassal, Stavan had been invaluable: while I played Regent he wrought with Gerrar’s household, materialized food and physic and sick-room furniture from thin air, excluded hysterical visitors, even managed to achieve quiet in the nearest streets. Later he provided for counselors, engineers, physicians, armorers, and all the king’s other whimsies as well as me. When I asked why he stayed, he shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”

  That next night I was supping in Gerrar’s former record room when he came in to announce, “Someone wanting you.” With a mental groan I said, “Send him in,” and looked up at a ghost.

  He was propped on crutches in the doorway, wearing leg bandages, a soldier’s under-tunic, and something like a leather corset over it: squat, black, gnarled as an old hethel tree, his calling in his face.

  Quite deranged, I said when my breath returned, “We did look for you. I swear it. I am sorry. If you only tell me where you lie—”

  At which he shot me a sharp black glance and growled, “For the Lords’ sake uncross your eyes, harper. Pinch me if you like.”

  “Crawled away,” he said, disposed in my chair. “After dark. Harper, spare us, don’t cry in m’wine.” Stiffly, he flexed a leg. “That’s just burns.” Just. “Tail hit me high. I’ve the father and mother of all belly-aches, and I spat blood for days, but I can get around in this.” He touched the leather strapping. “Farmer made it. Hauled me into bed when I crawled there. I’ve just broken out. How’s the king?”

  I told him. He nodded. Then, with a quick glance under his brows, “Heard what you did.”

  “But not for you.” It still kept me awake. “I told the dragon, just one. I didn’t dare—”

  “I didn’t matter,” he spoke brusquely, meaning it. “What matters is him.”

  * * * * *

  “Lord,” I said as I opened the tower door, striving not to grin from ear to ear and spoil the surprise, “lord, look what I picked up.”

  Inyx hopped past me. Beryx’s head rocketed up. For one instant his face was all incredible, incredulous delight, he plunged up in bed, grabbed instinctively at his side, forgot it to throw out his arms—then in a flash radiance became the most desperate grief.

  “Don’t you start,” Inyx growled. “Harper’s already pinched me black and blue.”

  Beryx stuttered. Choked. Choked again. Tried to wrench his back to us. Inyx’s very shape changed. With a violent effort, Beryx faced round and lifted his head.

  “No,” it came almost on a sob. “You old fool—not that!”

  He got control of himself. Very clearly, looking Inyx full in the face, making it an indictment, an explanation, his utmost recompense, he said, “You were right.”

  Inyx shoved away a cup-stand with a crutch and hopped over to the bed. “Lemme get off these things,” he grunted. “Stand over.”

  Beryx moved his legs. Suddenly tears ran down his cheeks and as I closed the door I heard Inyx say in a voice I never believed could hold so much gentleness, “Si’sta... si’sta... That’s a leader’s price.”

  Inyx eased life greatly: a close friend, a fellow soldier, competent with things Beryx would delegate to no one else, which slowed him down and mended him faster. Inyx could also curb Beryx’s worst fantasias. If Inyx went, “Mphh!” instead of, “Ah,” the king would grin ruefully and drop the project, saving much wear and tear on messengers, Stavan, and assorted experts’ self-esteem. Inyx also harmonized with Thassal, and to the physician’s disgust thoroughly approved her doctoring, and he had tended enough campaign wounds to offer valid advice. But he was anxious to move the king.

  “Too close,” he told me. “And kingdom’s like soldiers. What they can’t see they don’t believe.” When Sarras, who gathered news as wool gathers burrs, told him that rumors of the king’s death were already unsettling Tirs, he actually managed to tune Thassal and the physician on the need for an early splinter-probe.

  Beryx wanted to go south first. Thassal told him sternly, “You can’t act till you’re moved. You can’t move till they’re out. If one worked down to an inner vein we could not stop you bleeding to death.” At that he yielded, and the physician set to work.

  Afterward he looked worse than on the battlefield: flat on his back, so thin he barely raised the bedclothes, so white I thought he had already bled to death. Helping change the bandages, I saw the pits they had left, and understood why. However, he recovered quickly, and mended faster for it, sleeping better, putting on flesh. Presently Thassal left his head unbandaged, merely rubbing hethel oil into the scar.

  When I first saw that it took my breath. As I stood in the door, fighting to school
my face, he glanced up and showed me I had failed.

  “No,” he said wryly, “I doubt they’ll call me handsome again.”

  The scar began where the corselet-collar had met his jaw line, caught the corner of his mouth and swept up past his nostril, mercifully missing the eye, then reached right back to his ear: a rag-edged triangular purple welt fit to terrorize a child. I felt ridiculous tears prickle, and hurriedly burlesqued a triumphant-hero march on my harp. Thank the Sky-lords, he laughed.

  But a couple of nights later I found him trying to lift his right arm, immobilized till then to help the wound in his side. As I came in he glanced up with a small worried frown, saying, “Come and rub this for me, Harran. I can’t make the fool thing move.”

  The skin was icy, and the muscles had shrunk. Only natural, I told myself. But I told Thassal too, and next day came with her to look.

  She freed the arm from the sling and laid it on the coverlet. Prodded. Poked. Felt his shoulder. Two lines rose between her brows, and she said to me, “Fetch the general.”

  Inyx hopped in, listened, looked, felt in turn. Said, “Ah.” Then sat on the bed and spoke very softly to the king.

  “Remember that lad Kirth? In Hazghend? Took a catapult graze just under the shoulder point?”

  Beryx looked up at him. His face was stiff, and rather white about the mouth.

  Holding his eyes, steady as a phalanx charge, Inyx said, “Ah.”

  Beryx’s eyes turned to the arm. The room was very quiet.

  “It barely broke the skin.” His voice was careful. “But he couldn’t use the arm. We... sent him home.”

  Under his breath, Inyx said again, “Ah.”

  Beryx was still looking down. From the left his face was unmarred, springing nose and clean mouth, winged brow and long-lashed green eye, the strength and decision that go beyond handsomeness. But the steady grief in it tore my heart.

  “Well, well,” he said at last. Then he smiled at Inyx, a smile of cold steel courage, and said, “Here’s one Berheage will be leading from behind.”

  Going out, Inyx spat in the stair-well and said to Thassal, “Four grant I never have to tell another thing like that.”

  She replied as she once had to me. “He’s a fighter. He’ll fight.”

  * * * * *

  Only he did not. Like that inner vein cut by a splinter, it slowly bled his spirit away before our eyes. I do not know which was worse to watch: the decay, or his effort to conceal it. “Four send the dragon,” prayed Inyx blasphemously. “Or a mutiny, or an invasion. Anything to wake him up.”

  I did not try myself: having gratefully abandoned all pretences of Regency, I had retired to my harp. I had a song to make, a battle-song, the most delicate jugglery a bard ever attempted, for I was determined to tell the truth, flatter the dragon, and yet leave honor with the losers at the end. It was in my mind that one day Hawge might recall that song. I was wrestling a tricky modulation in my parchment-lair when an explosion carried clear from the tower.

  I flew upstairs. A dusty, spurry messenger was bobbing in the doorway, trying to fit in a wail. As a leonine roar fired him past me I shot inside to find Beryx half out of bed, strewn with parchments and spitting fire like Hawge itself.

  “My uncle!” he bellowed, hurling missives broadcast. “My beloved uncle! Doesn’t think I’m fit to deal with this! Doesn’t think at all! The ninny! The nincompoop! The— Inyx! Inyx! Rot it, where are you? Where’s Stavan? Call Gerrar—get a horse-litter—take this thing off me! By the Sky-lords’ faces, I’ll disembowel him when I get back south!”

  Thassal fairly bounced in with Inyx bursting after her, purple in the face. Beryx flung his sling at them left-handed, kicked back the quilts, shot to his feet, and promptly collapsed. Inyx shed crutches to arrive in time and pinned him down with a hand in the chest.

  Beryx roared, “Get your paws off me!”

  Inyx panted, “Can’t.”

  The king thundered, “What!”

  And Inyx gasped, “Can’t. Over... balanced m’self.”

  There was a frightful hush. Then Beryx unwound, and began, albeit painfully, to laugh.

  As Inyx levered himself upright, Thassal and I retrieved parchments. I recognized the Quarred ram-horns on one huge red seal.

  The king, eyes very bright and dangerous, said, “Do you know what they say? Quarred: ‘Where the doughty warriors of Everran failed, our shepherds can hardly hope to succeed.’ With a five thousand strong standing army and ‘shepherds’ who raid my Reshx every year! Holym: Most unusually concise. ‘Branding cattle. Can’t come.’ Hazghend: ‘Love and best wishes, Ragnor, I have pirates off Osgarien and Estar’s hired my ships.’ Estar: Oh, this is the pearl. ‘We have a current fluidity problem. Our assembly has voted to censure the dragon at the next Confederate Council, and will apply trade sanctions on your behalf.’ Trade sanctions! Shepherds! Branding! I fought for Hazghend, my grandfather saved Estar. Loyalty! Not to mention foresight! Let a dragon ruin your neighbor so you’ll have to fight it yourself!”

  Inyx was studying the Hazghend parchment. His brows knit. He said slowly, “This is a month old.”

  “My uncle the royal incubator!” Beryx erupted all over again. “He’s sat on those for a month! The—the—incompetent!” It was the worst insult in his vocabulary. He hove himself up the bed. “Find me a horse-litter, Inyx. I can’t rot here any longer, Four knows what else he’s done. No, woman, blight your splinters. I’m going home!”

  Over his head Inyx caught my eye, and very nearly achieved a wink.

  * * * * *

  Characteristically, the turmoil of departure did not make Beryx forget his debts. While I was packing my harp, Stavan came in, perched on the table, and presently remarked, “King sent for me.”

  I cocked an eye.

  “Offered me a stewardship. Said, ‘If you ran this mess, you’ll run the palace in your sleep.’ I said, I belong in Stiriand. He said, ‘Then Gerrar shall rebuild the house at Coed Wrock.’” He shook his head. “Dictated the order there and then.”

  “You deserve it.” I thought how I would miss him, how we had met. “Twice over.”

  He shrugged. Fingered my harp. Hesitated. Then, with a palpable jerk, he plunged.

  “Harper... what do you know about aedryx?” he said.

  “Aedryx?” I was puzzled. “I never heard of it.”

  “Them.”

  He was watching me oddly. “Who are they?” I asked, wondering what obscure branch of Stiriann folklore I had missed.

  He looked down, growing still more reluctant. At last he said, “Wizards.” A pause. “In the old days.” Another pause. “There are songs.”

  “I’ve never heard them.” I was professionally piqued.

  He shot me another fleeting glance. Then he brought the words out as if loading a fireball catapult.

  “They say... Lossian was one. And... he had green eyes.”

  Then he was off the table and gone before I could assemble a question to chase, let alone catch, the hint.

  Thassal was yet more tantalizing. She saw Beryx to his horse-litter, and as she stood by it in the steep stony street I now knew so well, he held out his left hand. “Thank you,” he said, “general. Now where?—ah.” He hauled his right arm forward. “Here, pull this off.”

  She looked down at the great seal ring in her palm. It was a finghend, green and vivid as his eyes, worth a fortune. When Beryx gave, he did it with both hands.

  “I doubt,” she said, “Coed Wrock’s enough.”

  “Coed Wrock’s for Stavan. This is for you. Rot it, woman, how low should I value my life?”

  His mock ferocity raised a faint flush on her cheek. Then, with Stavan’s air of reaching a hard decision, she looked up.

  “King,” she said, “I’ll give you a gift to match. If you need to know about aedryx—come to Coed Wrock.”

  Beryx started so violently he upset the horses. “Aedryx! How do you know?—what do you?—here, Thassal, listen—come back! Oh... let h
er go.” He lay watching her gray skirt flick from sight, but all the way to Kelflase he was unnaturally silent. And what I found still odder was that he never, then or later, mentioned the incident to any of us.

  After Kelflase a paven road replaced the half-finished horse-track, another sick-bed project, but it was still not fast enough for the king. Counselors might nurse their saddle-galls, the physician might bleat of convalescence, Inyx might cock an anxious eye. Beryx disembarked each night white and sweating worse than the horses, and climbed in next morning saying, “For the Four’s sake, let’s get on!”

  With summer waxing, Saeverran’s grass had hayed off, Saphar’s vines were blowsy, heavy-laden, and the humid mornings beckoned to days of laziness. Earth-day had left every road thick with saplings which the refugees watered, as they harvested hay and weeded vines and filled every other occupation ingenuity could suggest. More and more often as we moved south Beryx was met by anxious local governors asking if the Treasury could finance a new well or renovated market for refugee work, by deme leaders swamped with Stiriand folk and fowls and stallions and worried it was permanent, by garrison commanders enquiring about strategy and wine-lords nervy about the market. Or simply by wives whose men had been levied and who asked, “When will he be back?” Small wonder he reached Saphar as thin and haggard and hectic as before Inyx arrived.

  When we descended to Azilien it was afternoon, and the riverbanks were thick with small white and gold ahltaros flowers turned to the westering sun. The air had lost its springtime clarity. The city and the Helkent themselves looked vaguely smudged. As we clattered on to the bridge I saw Beryx thrust open the litter curtains with a hunger in his gaunt face. Then it changed.

  Over the bridge breast appeared a floral archway, banners, a horde of bobbing heads, and the tall figure of the Regent, splendid in official robes.

  Inyx’s litter shot out a volley of soldier’s oaths that closed on, “Unconquering heroes—eccch!” Four, I thought, as those determinedly gay smiles curdled my own stomach: you could have spared him this!