Reave the Just and Other Tales

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “We are as you see us—as we have always been. Along the Gentle we know little of change. Surely the other folk of the Rift have said the same?

  “However, it is of no great moment,” he went on more quickly. “You are road-weary, no doubt thirsty and hungry as well. I must not ask you to remain standing in the sun while I inquire in what way your Prince believes we might have changed. Will you accept the hospitality of my alehouse?” He gestured toward it with an open palm. “Your horse will be cared for. We have no horses here, as you surely know, but the merchanters have taught us how to care for their beasts.”

  At once Wall stepped forward to place a hand on the reins of the Roadman’s mount. “I have a stall to spare in my barn.” During the visits of the merchanters, he often profited in a small way by tending their horses.

  Smiling with less cheer and more skepticism, Destrier bowed and answered, “My thanks.” To Yoel he added, “Aleman, I will gladly accept a flagon and a meal. I do not mean to overstay my welcome, but if you will house and feed me until the morrow, you will earn Prince Chorl’s gratitude.”

  “In plain words,” Jessup muttered softly to the farmwife standing near him, “the Prince’s Roadman does not propose to pay for his fare. Let Yoel have his custom—and my gratitude as well.”

  If Destrier heard this remark, he did not acknowledge it. Instead he followed Yoel to the alehouse.

  In turn, a good half of the villagers—Jessup among them—followed the Roadman. They desired to hear the tales he would tell of the wide world. And his talk of “change” had made them apprehensive; they wished to know what would come of it. The rest of Sarendel’s folk herded their children away and returned to their chores.

  While these events transpired, Fern and Titus knew nothing about them. Together they had roamed farther than usual, and they came home late for her midday dose of herbs. However, during the afternoon some of the smaller children made their way to her hovel with the tidings.

  The pig responded as though he had been wasp-stung. Fern saw flashes of anger and fear in the air as he turned his one blind eye and his marred one commandingly on the children. Unfortunately, they were too young to give a cogent account of what had happened. Strangers and strangeness caught their attention more than names or words. One child remembered “Roadman.” Another babbled of “Prince Chorl.” But none of them could say what brought a Roadman to Sarendel, or what Prince Chorl had to do with the matter.

  Fools, Titus snorted bitterly. Guttersnipes. Children. Why has that meddling Prince invented Roadmen? And what damnable mischance has brought this pigsty to his attention?

  Curse them, I am not ready. I need more time.

  In a voice so harsh that Fern was shocked by it, he cried, I need more time!

  “Yes,” she murmured incoherently, trying to console him. “Yes, Titus.”

  The pig turned on her. Thin silver ran like a cut into her brain.

  For an instant she saw an image of herself approaching Yoel’s alehouse, entering it to witness what was said and done. She saw herself hearing voices and remembering what they said, remembering words—But before it was complete the image frayed away, tattered by despair.

  You will understand nothing, he groaned. And they will not allow a pig to enter.

  I must— I must—

  He did not say what he must.

  But when he had fretted Fern to distraction through the afternoon and evening, his fortunes improved. Late enough to find her yawning uncontrollably and barely able to keep wood on the fire, more children came to her hovel and nudged the curtain to announce themselves. When they entered, she recognized two of the older boys, one Yoel’s tallest son, the other Wall and Meglan’s boy, who was nearly of a size to begin working in his father’s fields. She knew without knowing how she knew that their names were Levit and Lessom.

  Titus jumped up to face them. With the familiarity of frequent visits, they dropped to the dirt beside the fire. Fatigue and excitement burned on their faces; their eyes were on a level with his. As if they no longer noticed the oddness of what they did, they spoke to the pig rather than to the woman.

  “They told us not to go,” Lessom panted, out of breath from running. “We are too young for ale, and we had no business there. But we sneaked into the cellar—Levit knew the way—and found a crack in the floorboards where we could hear. Cor, my legs hurt. We stood for hours and hours.

  “Do all grown men talk so, of everything and nothing in the middle of the day, as if they had no work—?”

  Titus stopped the rush of words with a flash of his eyes. Slowly, Fern heard. Be complete. I must know everything. Begin at the beginning. Who is he? Where does he come from? What does he want?

  Every line and muscle of the pig’s body was tight with strain, as though he were about to flee.

  “He is Destrier,” Levit offered, “Prince Chorl’s Roadman. He said Prince Chorl commissioned the Roadmen to carry news everywhere in Andovale. He said he wants to hear the news from all the villages in the Rift. And he told tales—”

  “Cor, the tales!” Lessom breathed. “Better than the merchanters tell. Is it true that there are wars—that warlocks and princes fight each other for power beyond the Rift?”

  No! Titus grunted. Warlocks do not fight princes. The ruling of lands requires too much time and attention. Any warlock who neglects his arts for such things becomes weak. Warlocks reserve their struggles for each other.

  What “news” does this Roadman want?

  “Change.” Levit’s eyes were as round and solemn as a cow’s. “He said he wants news of change. Any change. For Prince Chorl.”

  Impelled by the pig’s tension, Fern added more wood to the fire.

  Titus held the boys with his gaze. Now pay attention, he insisted. Make no mistake. My life depends on this. What did they tell him? Your fathers—all those self-satisfied clodhoppers who talk of everything and nothing when there is work to be done—what did they tell him?

  Did they betray me? Have I been betrayed?

  Levit glanced sidelong at Lessom. “Your father talked about the weather. I’ve never heard so many words about wind and sun. The weather! I thought I would die of impatience. I wanted to hear what the Roadman would say.”

  “Yes.” Lessom was too excited to take offense. “And your father repeated everything everyone has ever known about brewing ale.”

  Levit nodded. “And then Karay mentioned every birth or death in, cor, it must have been ten years. My knees were trembling before the Roadman so much as began his tales.”

  Continue.

  “But the tales were worth it,” Lessom said, “were they not?”

  Again Levit nodded.

  “You say that warlocks do not fight princes,” Lessom continued, “but the Roadman said otherwise. He spoke of a time when the enemies of Andovale mustered a great army of soldiers and warlocks to march against Prince—”

  “Prince Chrys,” Lessom put in.

  “—Prince Chrys, and were defeated by—”

  Titus stopped him. Old news. Ancient history. That war is why warlocks no longer meddle in the affairs of princes. Preparing for war, the warlocks of Carcin and Sargo neglected their true arts. They made themselves weak, and so were defeated by the warlocks of Andovale. In magic, those who do not grow must decline.

  Hearing another connection, Fern thought softly, Yes.

  But, Think! the pig was saying. This Roadman did not ride the length of the Rift to relate old news. He must have spoken of more recent matters—events which have transpired since the last visit of the merchanters. Tell me that tale!

  Titus’ vehemence disconcerted Levit. “He spoke of a war among warlocks,” the boy began. “But Prince Chorl was also involved—” He broke off as though he feared to displease the pig.

  That one, Titus demanded.

  “He was called Suriman,”
Lessom began abruptly. The small cut of silver in the pig’s gaze seemed to take hold of him. His body tightened in ways which distressed Fern. From the corners of his mind he brought out the Roadman’s tale just as Destrier had told it. “That was his title—men do not speak his name. He was a prince among warlocks, ancient in magic as well as years. That he was called Suriman shows the respect in which he was held by all his brother warlocks. When the masters of magic gathered in council, he was often the first to speak. When Prince Chorl or the other lords of Andovale needed either the help or the counsel of a warlock, they often approached Suriman first. Indeed, it was Suriman himself who devised the means by which the warlocks of Sargo and Carcin were defeated.

  “Yet there were some in Andovale, warlocks as well as ordinary men, who spoke ill of Suriman behind his back. They were thought jealous or petty when they hinted that he practiced his arts in ways which the masters of magic in council had proscribed many generations ago. They said—though they were not believed—that he had violated the foremost commandment of the councils, which is that the study and practice of magic is the responsibility of warlocks and must not be imposed on ordinary men against their will. If a warlock requires a man for experimentation or study, he must perform his researches upon himself, or upon some other warlock, not on men who can neither gauge nor accept—and certainly cannot prevent—the consequences.

  “Those who spoke ill against Suriman said that he had performed his studies upon ordinary men, making some less than they were and others more, but always depriving his victims of choice in his researches. By so doing, he had gained for himself powers unheard of among warlocks for many generations. Thus his might, his stature, and his very title were founded upon evil.”

  Titus snorted in disgust, but did not interrupt.

  “At first, those who spoke ill against Suriman were ignored. Then they were criticized and scorned. From time to time, one or another of them died, perhaps because they erred in their own experimentation, perhaps because they were punished for their indiscretions, perhaps because Suriman himself took action against them. Such deaths belonged to the province of warlocks, however, not to the jurisprudence of princes, and the masters of magic found Suriman faultless in them.

  “But Prince Chorl had a daughter. Her name was Florice, and she was renowned throughout Andovale for her beauty and her sweetness—and her simplicity. In truth, she was not merely simple. She was a child of perhaps eight or nine years in a woman’s body, unfit for a woman’s life. For some time this was a cause of great grief to Prince Chorl. But when his grief was done, he cherished her for her beauty, for her sweet nature, and also for her simplicity. Therefore she was unwed—and unavailable. The Prince kept her as a child in his household, both protecting and loving her for what she was.”

  Abruptly, Fern found that she could see Prince Chorl’s daughter—a woman clad in white as pure as samite, with silken hair, eyes like sunshine, and a form which Titus might have called lovely. Her image in Fern’s mind was as precise as presence. Yet Fern knew more of her through the colors of the image than from the image itself. They were the hues of a complex and insatiable hunger.

  “So she would have remained,” Lessom related in Destrier’s tones, “until old age claimed her, if she had not caught Suriman’s eye. To Prince Chorl’s amazement, and all Andovale’s astonishment, Suriman asked to wed Florice.

  “‘No,’ said the Prince in his surprise.

  “‘Why not?’ Suriman countered calmly. ‘Do you fear that I will not cherish her as you do? I swear by my arts that her sweetness and happiness are as precious to me as my life, and I will find great joy in her.’

  “Dumbfounded, Prince Chorl seemed unable to think calmly. ‘It is absurd,’ he protested. ‘You do not know what you are asking. You—’ Because he was not thinking calmly, he turned to his daughter. ‘Florice, do you wish to wed this man?’

  “Florice gazed at Suriman and smiled her sweetest smile. ‘No, Father,’ she said. ‘He is bad.’

  “Neither the Prince nor Suriman knew how to respond to such a remark. However, the warlock was less disconcerted than his Prince. Laughing gently, he said, ‘Really, my lord, I am too old to be a jilted suitor. I have lost my appetite for appearing foolish. Please permit me to remain as your guest for a season. Permit me to speak to your daughter for a few minutes each day—in your presence, of course. If you see nothing ill in my comportment toward her, perhaps you will not believe that I am “bad.” And if at the end of the season she does not desire me, I will accept my folly and depart the wiser.’

  “This proposal Prince Chorl accepted. He is not to be blamed for his mistake—although he blames himself mightily. Suriman was held in high esteem throughout Andovale. And those who spoke ill against him could prove nothing.”

  The colors in Fern’s mind were ones of hope and possession, of a grasped opportunity. She could not image why Titus showed them to her: they were simply a fact, as all his images were facts—or became facts. Perhaps they came from him involuntarily or unconsciously while he heard Destrier’s tale in Lessom’s mouth.

  “Yet if the Prince erred, he did not err blindly. He made certain that Suriman had no contact with Florice outside his own presence. And he watched her closely while Suriman spoke with her, studying her dear face for understanding. Before a fortnight passed, he saw that her face had changed.

  “Tightness pulled at the corners of her mouth, straining her smiles. Her eyes lost their forthright sweetness and turned aside from her father’s gaze. She asked questions which the Prince had never heard from her before. ‘Father, why do men and women marry?’ ‘Father, why do you treat me like a child?’ By these signs, he understood that his beloved daughter was in peril.”

  The image Fern saw conveyed satisfaction and excitement, whetted desire. Nevertheless, unbidden, she made a connection which did not come to her either from the image or through its colors. Rather it came from her own emotions—and from her growing sense of time.

  Yes, she thought, not in acceptance, but in dismay. What she saw on the face of the Prince’s daughter was violation.

  Florice was not willing.

  Perhaps Titus wished her to understand this, so that she would understand what followed.

  “Yet Suriman was Suriman, respected everywhere. Prince Chorl felt that he could not send the warlock from his house. Instead, he took other precautions. In secret he summoned one of the warlocks—a man named Titus”—again the pig snorted—“who was known to think ill of Suriman, and he told Titus of his fears. He gave Titus the freedom of his house, and charged Titus to find proof that Suriman wrought evil against Florice.

  “With Prince Chorl’s support and assistance, Titus did as he was charged. Before another fortnight was ended, Florice announced to her father her settled intention to wed the warlock who courted her—and Titus announced his accusation that Suriman had flouted the most urgent commandment of the councils, that he had betrayed Florice by using his arts to alter her to his will.

  “Consternation! In an instant, the peace of Andovale became chaos and distress. Flinging defiance at her father, Florice sought to flee the house with Suriman.” Fern saw a hunger on her face which echoed the hunger of the colors surrounding her—a hunger she had not chosen and could not refuse. “Prince Chorl countered by imprisoning her, his daughter whom he cherished. Suriman attacked her prison, wreaking havoc in the Prince’s house, and was only prevented from freeing Florice by the foresight of Titus, who had prepared defenses against the greater warlock—and had also demanded the attention of the council in what he did. The masters of magic gave Titus their aid until they could learn the truth of his accusations, and so Suriman’s onslaught was beaten back. Even as the masters of magic met in council to examine Titus’ proofs, Suriman ran.

  “Inspired by his loathing of the crimes he attributed to Suriman, Titus had found sure proof. With gossamer incantations and webs of magic, h
e had followed Suriman’s movements throughout the Prince’s house. He had traced Suriman daily to the kitchens, where the delicacies which Florice most loved were prepared. And in the foods she was given to eat he found the herbs and simples, the poisons and potions, which Suriman would need to make Florice something other than she was against her will.

  “Outraged, the council declared anathema on Suriman and went to war against him.

  “He was mighty—oh, he was mighty! He could stand alone against any half dozen of his peers. And the dark tower where he studied his arts was mightily protected. But all the masters of magic in Andovale moved against him. They brought out fire from the air to crack his tower and drive him forth. Then he fled, and they gave chase. He took refuge in castles and towns. They scorched the very walls around him until he fled again. He hid himself in forests and villages. They shook the stones under his feet, so that he could not stand, but only run. And at last, on one of the farms at the end of the Gentle’s Rift, they brought him to bay.

  “The masters of magic do not speak of the final battle, but it was prodigious. In desperation, Suriman wove every power and trick at his vast command. Warlocks fell that day, and some never rose again. When the fire and passion had ended, however, Suriman lay dead among the wreckage of the farm. The beasts had scattered, and the fields were blasted, but the council had triumphed.

  “That is to say, the masters of magic believed that they had triumphed. Suriman’s corpse lay before them. Only Titus insisted that the evil was not done—Titus and Florice. Crying in wild hunger, the Prince’s daughter claimed that the warlocks were too little to kill a man of Suriman’s greatness. And Titus, whom loathing for Suriman had made cunning, spoke of texts and apparatus in Suriman’s tower which pertained to the transfer of intelligences from one body to another. He told all who would hear him that Suriman could have escaped the last battle cloaked inside another man, or even concealed within a beast. If what he said were true, then Suriman might well remain alive—and might return.