Everran's Bane

by Kelso, Sylvia

  As he strode back on to the verandah her eyes twinkled and she said, “We need to ‘calm thee down.’” It was Thassal’s very intonation. “And harper’s lost his harp. Well—” she went inside, and brought out a long bundle of what had been ornate brocade, gray shot with smoke-like patterns and wonderful watery lights. “See what canst do with that.”

  It had a globular sounding drum and two necks long as my arm, seven strings above and seven beneath. The wood was rosewood, dark as polished blood: the frets were plum-red, blue-shot hazians.

  “Aivrifel,” she said, when I finally dared to touch, and a whisper of wind-music breathed under my hand, like Asterne’s silver bells transposed for strings. “Seven honeys. Aedric music. That was—” she broke off. “Drat it! I forgot. That was Darrhan’s own. We’d have Maerdrigg plaguing us all night.”

  Then her frown cleared. “Sing,” she said, with an impish girl’s grin. “I’ll be tha harp.”

  One would hardly ask Fengthira if she could keep in tune. Nor could I bring to mind a song that would not prove delicate, to say the least. In the end I birthed a new one, hardly formed yet, a catch for the saeveryr over Eskan Helken’s spring.

  When I finished the verse she whistled a reprise for interlude, sweet and true and what was in my very mind for a harp. “Go on,” she ordered grinning, as my mouth fell open, and accompanied me for the rest. At the end she said, “Ah.” And I felt all Hazghend’s armrings poor against that one small word.

  Later she sang with me, playing with her voice as she had with her whistling, round and over and through the melody, harmonizing, improvising, plaiting it all into a master’s whole. When we finished she smiled to herself, and understanding that joy in skill and gift I smiled back, feeling a kinship with her at last.

  * * * * *

  Though Maerdrigg did not trouble us, at breakfast Fengthira wore an abstracted frown. She eyed Beryx, on edge to begin. Then she said, “Everran, tha canst wash up. Come, harper. I’ve a thing to show.”

  We walked down hill into Eskan Helken’s crisp new sunlight, that turned a spider’s web to glittering silver lace. “Havos,” she said absently. “Spider. My line.” Her mouth was wry. “Si’sta. Sights tha canst learn alone, but what comes next is Commands. And for that he needs—a mind.”

  “I can’t do it,” she went on, rather roughly. “Canst not be teacher and lesson both. Hast given a harp to this. Canst give something more?”

  My breath dried. To live with a wizard was bad enough, to watch Beryx become one was growing worse. But I had not thought to make his prentice work.

  Fengthira pressed me no more than Beryx himself had when the Hethox wanted my harp. All that pressed me was Everran—and myself.

  “Good,” she said, before I spoke. Then, cryptically, ironically, “Hast won more than tha knowst. And now, si’sta. The first command is Scarthe. Reading thoughts.”

  “Ah,” she said as I backed away. “I know very well there’s that in tha mind he should never know. And that tha’d hide it to spare him as well as thaself. Needst not blush. T’is one reason I like horses better than men. Their morals are simpler. Hast a mare, tha holds her. Canst not, someone takes her away. No blame either side. No need to hackle either. I know tha canst help it no more than the stallion that wants the mare.” She chuckled. “Hurt tha dignity, have I? Well, I can give thee a command, bid thee forget her for—seven days. Should be enough. He’ll not learn Phare from me.”

  I was still seething, but what was there to say? I looked up, and that silent gray world enveloped me.

  “No, tha’ll not feel it.” She moved me up the hill. “And nor will he.” Under her breath she added, “I hope.”

  Inside the house Beryx was pacing to and fro. “Sit.” she said. “Art worse than a corn-fed colt. And tha.” I sat, feeling as if it were to face the surgeon’s knife. “Scarthe,” she told Beryx. “Look in his eyes.”

  Beryx looked at her instead, and came to his feet with a bound, breaking out fiercely,

  “Spare me,” she said wearily. “I know tha knowst the way of Scarthe and tha scruples of eavesdropping and what it will do to him—and thee. Harper has done tha squirming for thee. And agreed to it.”

  Beryx began half a dozen protests and fell back on a violent,

  “Then go back to Everran,” Fengthira snapped, “and watch tha people’s ruin. T’will save thee plaguing me.”

  Beryx went fire-red and struggled for words. Fengthira’s eyes were bleak and pitiless. She said, “Take tha choice.”

  Their eyes clashed. Then he spun round, biting his lip, his eyes full of rage and shame, and I looked up into his gaze.

  How does it feel? I remember thinking. There should be some sensation, surely? Then the first intuition of another’s presence, that wild beast instinct that warns when we are approached by stealth. Then a sudden recollection of Fengthira describing Phare, and then panic, because the one thing you cannot do outside sleep or skill is to stop your speaking thoughts. Then it began to hurt.

  Beryx was yelling at the top of his voice.

  He became incoherent in the mental equivalent of choking rage. Fengthira’s voice sliced into it. “If tha’dst be an aedr, must pay the price. I told thee, tha didst not know what tha asked.”

  He whipped round for the door. She said, no louder but cutting as a razor, “Shalt not throw tha tantrums with me.” He spun as if jerked round by the shoulder, raging now on his own behalf. She said, “Wilt go back on the rope?”

  He very nearly flew at her. He was on tiptoe, teetering for the charge. Fengthira assumed that deadly stillness of an aedr poised to strike.

  “Art a king,” she said, “and wast never gainsaid in tha life. More’s the pity. Hot-headed. A forked stick for a mouth. Run over them that council thee for tha own good, and if tha must heed it, fly off like a brat in the sulks.” It was deliberate provocation now, a flogging rather than a single lash. “Kick the pricker out of the yard and not just kick against the pricks. But if I come to break thee, by the sands of Deve Saldryx Korven,” her eyes were alight now too, cold and perilous, “tha’lt answer to the bridle, whether tha wilt or not.”

  Beryx had his eyes shut, jammed tight. He was white as he had been red, shaking from head to foot, and I knew it was neither fear nor rage nor pain. It was a battle for control.

  Fengthira paused a moment, still coiled. Then she said in a neutral tone, “Come back here.”

  He opened his eyes and walked unsteadily to his chair. With startling kindness she said, “Good lad.”

  Beryx suddenly began to laugh. I doubt he too was thinking of his phalanxmen, whom he had called good lads.

  When he broke off, hiccupping, Fengthira nodded. “I said tha’dst get tha temper up. Well, hast it down now. And hast made an almighty bungle of tha first Command. Do it again.”

  Beryx looked at her in wordless despair. I wanted to protest too, but you might as well try to bend a mountain of adamant.

  Either Beryx improved or I grew inured, for it was easier after that, even if we took all morning to satisfy Fengthira. After a time she made me bring wood, boil tea, occupy my mind while he worked, which in some ways was worse than before. Finally she sat back and shook her head.

  “Hast a touch,” she said, “like a brick-maker stitching silk. But there’s no helping that. Art too strong, and needst more practice. Other minds.” Beryx had been sitting with his hand over his eyes. At that he gave her a mute look of appeal, and she shook her head. “We’ll let it be.”

  * * * * *

  They banished me to the verandah with the aivrifel and spent the afternoon practicing the Sights. When Fengthira’s quietly commanding, recalled me, Beryx’s eyes were black-smudged and he looked fine-drawn and taut.

  “I’ll teach thee Letharthir too,” said Fengthira, “for the skill, though I doubt there’ll be need of it.” She gave a small chuckle. “Not with Hawge. Sit down, harper.
Over there.” She stood behind Beryx, a hand on his neck, face assuming that intent workman’s look.

  “Now,” she said brusquely, “don’t fight me. Dost hear?”

  We were both rigid already. At that Beryx shut his eyes. She gave him a shake. “Open thine eyes. And tha, harper, look at him.”

  His eyes were normal, green and cool. Then they dilated. The pupils flared. Something violent was going on behind them, a struggle, or a struggle suppressed. A form of Phare, I think. Whatever it was, it passed. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, and then the irises seemed to expand instead, but they were no longer cool and dark. They were luminous with a hot, living light, shot with white facet-stars, crystalline, enormous, all-engulfing, the mesmeric stare of a hunting feline, of a dragon itself—

  My own yell reverberated in my ears. Beryx was kneeling over me, holding me on the floor one-handed with a face of frantic concern and bitter remorse, crying,

  His face was human, his eyes were dark green almonds rimmed in long black lash, not lidless, facetted, crystalline... I felt myself relax. Fengthira’s face appeared above me, past crisis ousted by professional interest.

  “Didst not tell me,” she remarked, “Hawge had looked at thee. Else I would not have put thee to that.”

  Beryx glanced up blankly. “Ah,” she said. “Dragons use a kind of Letharthir. And,” her voice lost all expression, “their eyes are green.” She shrugged. “No Letharthir. And enough for tonight.”

  But as we watched the sunset she clapped a hand to her head, exclaimed, “Thor’stang! Clot!” And darted inside. “Everran,” she called, “find me sixteen small stones. About the same size.”

  Not daring to laugh, we scratched about like small boys in the dirt. Inside she had lit the lamp and drawn with a knife on the table, a big square divided into sixty-four smaller ones.

  “Sit, Everran,” she commanded, rapidly ranking stones on the outermost squares. “This is Thor’stang. Kings’-war. Canst move on any untaken square in any direction as far as tha likes. Takest an enemy’s piece by jumping over it. First to lose all loses the war.”

  A flicker of interest lightened Beryx’s fatigue. He sat down, his face assuming a soldier’s cast: I knew he was a devotee of chess. With a glance under her lashes, Fengthira added softly, “The rest tha’lt learn... as tha goest.”

  Five minutes later she was chuckling, while Beryx leant back with a look of patent unbelief. “This one,” she said, “tha plays in the mind. Canst use Scarthe. And Letharthir. And Fengthir. If tha canst.”

  Beryx was wide awake now. He gave her a calculating glance. She looked limpidly back. His eyes narrowed. Hers opened, gray and depthless; he made a wild movement like a man overbalancing off a cliff and she chuckled again. “No, if tha tries Scarthe outright I’ll take thee with Letharthir and tha’lt give me the rest of the game.”

  Beryx looked down at the board. he asked.

  “Scarthe,” she replied, “with commands mixed into what tha reads. Then withdraw, without any of it known.”

  His eyes gleamed. Such subterfuges appealed to his soldier’s mind. Fengthira gave him another limpid look and said, “With masters, they tossed up a pebble and whoever caught it with axynbr’arve took first move. But I’ll give thee first hold.”

  There was a long pause. Then, still holding her eyes, Beryx reached out for a stone.

  he yelled.

  “Ah,” she retorted, laughing. “And thy Scarthe was clear as a flag in a bramble-bush, so tha readst a lie. Try again.”

  When I went to bed the game had gone three-quarters of an hour without a piece being moved. When I woke later they were still at it. I caught Beryx’s profile: alert, a pucker in the mouth-corner, a glint in the eye. As Fengthira glanced up, the same imp laughed back. At sunrise they were asleep, but a heap of pebbles was piled on the table, and atop it, a triumph banner, lay a scrap of faded gray rag.

  * * * * *

  “Shalt have tha revenge tonight,” said Fengthira at breakfast, and as my stomach sank she gave me a smile. “Comfort thee, harper. Wilt not have to stand like an ox this time.”

  “Calke,” she told Beryx. “The hammer, not the needle. Should suit thee, th’art ever Through, not Round. Give harper a Command.”

  Beryx said to me, I obeyed.

  He looked at Fengthira. “Next time,” she told me, “refuse.”

  I sat tight. Beryx’s eyes opened, the green growing hot and starred. Something niggled in my mind. I shut it out. His eyes kindled, began to weave in sheets of translucent green light...

  “No,” said Fengthira flatly. “Canst not use Letharthir. Or Fengthir. This is outright command. Again.”

  This time it came with a drillman’s crack, And sheer surprise shot me out of my chair. But Fengthira shook her head. “Wilt fright a lydyr off a corn-patch. Not stop a charging bull. Again.”

  Ready now, I knotted my muscles, and though the command was a firm push I defeated it. Beryx’s eyes grew hotter, not faltering before Fengthira said, “Again.” And this time I was hauled bodily, irresistibly to my feet.

  Beryx wiped his face, drawing deep breaths, his forearms trembling. I sat down. Fengthira said, “Again. Wilt have to get tha temper up, I see.” He turned, and as I braced myself she leant over and gave him a smart clip on the ear.

  I should think my boots rose a good foot off the ground. As I landed with a bump Beryx let out a furious, and jerked his head away, and Fengthira laughed outright. “I have thy measure now, Everran,” she said, grinning. “T’is hit or miss, with thee. Again.”

  He gave her a choleric look, and this time I shot straight to my feet.

  “Better,” she conceded. “Walk away, harper. Stop him, Everran.” I managed five steps and was dragged to a halt. “Bring him back.”

  If Beryx had his temper up, mine was rising too. On the way back I resisted in earnest. As I stood panting by the table Fengthira said, “Let him go, Everran.” She nodded to me. “Now hit him. With tha fist.”

  My fist doubled fiercely, and relaxed. Beryx’s eyes changed. As we stared at each other in dismay, Fengthira snapped, “Art such a mouse as that?”

  That did it. I rushed him. I have not come to fisticuffs since childhood, and Beryx had a soldier’s reflexes of defense, but there was more bile in me than I knew. I swung a haymaker and kicked him in the shins as he ducked and next moment we were at it in earnest, clinched together, butting, kicking, rolling over and over like a pair of farmyard dogs.

  It was shameful as well as stupid: my king, my friend, with one arm to my two and no savor for the fight. But all sorts of buried grudges surface in such a fracas. Not only two days’ humiliation rankled in me but three years’ envy and frustration, and I daresay my two arms had cost him bitter jealousy, if he never admitted it even to himself. They also gave me the advantage. I was sitting on his chest before he remembered what he was.

  My hands flew in the air, something kicked me head over heels and he was on his feet before I could get up. His eyes shot a sharp green flare. I was pinned in my tracks. And as I fought to escape, those twisting sheets of emerald fire altered: for the first time I saw malice, a cruel, gloating exultation, look out of Beryx’s eyes.

  Next moment the constraint broke. I sat down plump against the wall while Beryx stood panting, the malice gone, eyeing me in something like bewilderment. But I was aware that in his mind a residue of that moment remained.

  “Now tha understandst Calke,” said Fengthira. She sounded remote, impersonal, and quite terrifying. “Look here.”

  Beryx looked round. Then he cried out and tried to jerk a hand to his eyes. Failed. His head went back, his spine arched, he turned a somersault and rolled thrashing and kicking, “Still!” hissed Fengthira and my leap was pinned to the floor. But her eyes, white-hot and frightful, s
tayed on him.

  Then I was released. Beryx collapsed, face down, twitching. In her normal voice Fengthira said, “Get up.”

  He rolled over, and tried. He was shaking too badly. He looked up at her, and to my horrified amazement, he was in naked fear.

  “Ah,” said Fengthira quietly. “T’was unjust. And unkind. And not what tha expected. Hark’ee, Everran. That Command has undone better men than thee. T’is what shows aedryx their true nature. And teaches them that nature’s vice. Not the power, or the use of it. The pleasure in its abuse. Didst taste it? Ah.” For he had bent his head. “None of us are proof. T’is why I live in Eskan Helken, out of temptation’s way. But tha canst not play hermit, and I’ll not have it happen to thee. So I gave thee a lesson to last. ‘Mind the fire,’ twenty times over can’t match one good singe.”

  He sat silent, head bowed. She glanced at me, and I too ducked my eyes in shame, but there was amusement in her voice.

  “And now y’ave both blown off the steam, maybe ye’ll be fit for making tea.”

  She was right. When she had made mint-tea, and Beryx was revived, and she said, “Try a bout, then,” we began timidly, but grew warm without enmity. Beryx’s power became a challenge to me, a compensation to him. Once he grunted in amusement as he stopped my fist an inch from his nose, once I laughed aloud as I passed his guard and heel-tapped him on his back. Even when I realized those hot green eyes full of fighter’s merriment were reading not only my eyes but my thoughts, it seemed just one more tactic, to be foiled if I could. When Fengthira said, “Whoa,” we grinned at each other as we broke apart.

  * * * * *

  Fengthira sighed, leant back in her chair, and closed her eyes. “Art out of the smelter, Everran.” She looked weary for the first time. “Now must forge the steel. The higher arts.”

  Beryx looked daunted. She opened her eyes.

  “Wryve-lan’x first. Comes easiest. And t’will be most important to thee.” She clicked her tongue, and the lydel, which had been most affectionate since Maerdrigg’s visit, dropped chittering on her shoulder. She dipped a finger in the honey jar, and as it clutched with its paws like a child she shot him a warning glance. “Take care with this. Th’art heavy-handed enough with a man, and I’m fond of it. Use Scarthe first.”