Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong

by Greg Hamerton

  “I was a Vortex of Ravenscroft, second only to the Darkmaster, you little worm! You apologise for what you called me, or it will end right here, right now! I don’t care about the quest! I will not be called a slut! I choose who shall please me. I name the price. The pleasure is mine and not the other way around!”

  He struggled against her grip. She was using this confrontation to make a point to all of the men present. He thrashed his legs, but could find no purchase. Then he saw the effect the Kingsrim had upon her, a shift in her eyes, one he recognised from the Penitent’s pass. Even though it lay on the floor, it was close enough to affect her. His mistake had been to try to command her from across the room. He ripped at the back of her shirt, and she did not fight back. He clawed at her chest, pulling the shirt open to fully expose her breasts. Her face was a frenzy of anger and dismay. She slapped him, half-heartedly, but did not close the shirt. He panted from the panic and the rush of delirious excitement at what he could see. Her eyes were dark. He was between her legs. Her scratched breasts rose and fell above him, the nipples wide and protruding.

  “Apologise,” she said, in a quivering voice.

  She was just a woman; she should pay for his humiliation. He was king!

  “What’s the difference?” he croaked belligerently. “You’re either a slut or a whore.”

  He reached for the Kingsrim, but his crown, as if betraying him, rolled slightly farther away on the floor, and Gabrielle suddenly caught his right hand, and drew one of her knifes from the sheath on her hip. The blade was cold and sharp against the inside of his wrist.

  “I will twist it once it’s in. You will bleed to death slowly.” Her words were as hard and certain as the blade. He looked into those dark eyes. She really was going to run the blade into him. He suddenly didn’t want to fight her anymore. He knew that if he didn’t plead with Gabrielle, right now, he was going to see his own blood. What had he been thinking? He didn’t want to bleed.

  “I’m sorry ... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, you’re not a whore, I was just teasing, I’ve had too much to drink, I didn’t think I’m sorry all right, I’m sorry!” He squealed as she gripped tighter with her legs. Something popped in his head, and he feared she was going to squeeze his neck right off. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe!

  She stepped away suddenly, and he fell on his back beside the toppled log.

  “Don’t you ever think to scorn me, or use me,” she threatened. “It will cost you too much.” She gathered her shirt across her bosom, and strode from the room. He almost puked, he was so relieved, humiliated and angry all at once. He just stared at the floor as the blood pounded in his head. When he stood at last, he tried to feign an indifferent air. He collected his crown from the floor, but his hands were shaking. Bevn righted his seat, but he was too hasty and the stump toppled over the other way. He left it and made for the exit.

  “Ahey youngerly!” shouted a forester, “ye pickerwrong the night. She not inner vein fer randy.”

  The jest produced howls of laughter from the men.

  “He gotterwhat he yen, didnatee? Kadam! right ’tween legs an lillies!” joked a scrawny grizzled fellow.

  “Hayha, betruth! He gotterwhat he yen!”

  Bevn tried to face them down with a glare, but that just produced more laughter.

  He didn’t have to take this from commoners! “Good night and good riddance,” he said, but it was he who left the room. The laughter followed Bevn out of the door. He walked away, into the rain.

  Cursed tent-dwellers, cursed tents. Compared to Willower, even Fendwarrow was a centre of high culture. These people only knew how to hunt creatures in the forest. They were primitive barbarians. What did he care what they thought of him? He didn’t care. They were commoners. Hang them all! His cheeks cooled slowly in the wet gloom. He walked for a while without noticing anything, just seeing it all playing over and over in his mind.

  He should have drawn that knife himself, the one in her belt—pushed it into her kidneys, sliced her belly, or found the softness of her loins. He’d reacted too slowly, because of the heartwoodbrew. Gabrielle should be crying now. She should be begging for his mercy, not laughing at his impotence. He would make her sorry she’d scorned him.

  Bevn strode onward through the gentling rain. The humiliation followed him like a damp shadow.

  The Kingsrim wasn’t working the way he’d expected. He’d wanted a powerful domination of the kind the ’stones had offered the Darkmaster, but something had gone wrong. It seemed he couldn’t just wear a talisman and have power automatically. He still lacked the kind of mightiness his father had, a presence that made people do things just because they’d been asked to serve the King. Maybe he had to act more boldly, more violently, to earn her fear then her respect. Maybe he had to be more of a man. Then the Kingsrim would work properly. He spat into the drizzle, like they used to in Ravenscroft after eating jurrum. He wished he was stronger. He wished he was older. He wished he was a Sorcerer already.

  Life was so unfair.

  He trudged on through the drizzle.

  Voices came to him, voices out in the dark forest. Bevn slowed. The drizzle stopped, but water dripped off everything, making a random pitter-patter upon the leaves of the forest floor. The air was still thick with moisture and threads of mist, full of softness, which muffled the words. He strained to hear. He had to get closer. He sidled to the nearest great tree.

  What would drive people to meet outside in such foul weather? Only secrets, or dark deeds.

  He edged past the spreading roots. The voices came from beyond a cluster of moss-covered boulders, where a light flickered against a lopsided tree-trunk. Bevn moved as silently as a mouse to the closest cover. Then he recognised one of the voices, rumbling and deep, powerful despite being hushed. Black Saladon was back! He would tell the wizard what Gabrielle had done to him. No, the wizard would just laugh at him.

  He listened. The second voice was weird and textured, almost gristly.

  “I am b-busy w-with the G-Goddess, shhhe will sing for me s-s-soon.”

  It wasn’t a nervous stutter. It was unsettling in a shivery way.

  “Comrade, you shall have no interference,” answered Saladon. “The Gyre is without the knowledge it needs. I have covered all the places where the book might be. The lore is destroyed.”

  “D-d-don’t be too sure of yourself, that’s open t-to failure, like all ordered th-things.”

  The stranger Saladon was speaking to wasn’t a Hunter, because he didn’t speak in slithery-blithery dialect. He pressed himself close to the boulders. The light thrown against the trees changed, bright then pale, grey then green then dirty yellow. Little patterns danced upon the bark, faint moving images. He wanted to look over the boulders, but he was scared Black Saladon could sense the Kingsrim. That was how he had found Bevn in Ravenscroft. He supposed Saladon might even sense him behind the boulders—he wouldn’t be able to hide near the wizard for long. His curiosity burned like hot rum within his belly.

  “They are caught flat-footed right now, the Writhe took their strength.”

  “You are s-so certain that the crown shall b-be their unwinding.”

  “It has a trace of each of their souls, yes. It is the symbol of their hope.”

  “But y-you must bring it to Turmodin, or it remains that w-way. I w-want to work with that boy b-before they know that anything has happened.”

  Was ‘the boy’ him? Was it the crown of Eyri they talked about? He was suddenly breathless. He had to know. Who Saladon was talking to? He eased slowly up to see over the mossy barrier. In the angled hollow beneath the lopsided tree was a sphere of watery silver light. Black Saladon stood between the light and Bevn, the sharp cut of his mantle raised across his broad shoulders, his single plait falling from his shaven scalp and his battleaxe tilted to one side. Saladon steamed as if he had made his body hot to dry himself from the rain.

  The light swelled, dancing over the leaves and roots, delicate, searc
hing. Bevn couldn’t see all the way around Black Saladon, but there was a shape there, formed within the watery light, part of a face, many times too big—a hideous face, pasty white, pinched beyond ugliness. The single eye was greatly distorted, as if it was pressed against a glass ball, and the eye was unsteady, quivering yet intent. There was a horrible sensation, as if his body had been rippled by a passing wave in the air. Bevn’s knees went weak; he slipped down behind the boulders.

  Bad things had leaked out from that wobbling gaze, very bad things.

  Whoever it was, wasn’t actually there. Saladon was talking to him through a spell.

  “How close is the moment of the invocation?” Black Saladon asked.

  “Soon, soon. The bird shall s-s-sing, to be done with her m-misery; her b-bloodbath has reached her knees, and she has b-begun to understand what it is for. When the Goddess c-c-cracks, the fires shall be lit.”

  “Have the clerics from Qirrh built the pyre?”

  “They have d-done up to the arms of the w-wicker man. A few days m-more.”

  “Still they do not understand?”

  “Understanding is n-not everything. They will be g-g-grateful to perform the final ceremony, to f-f-find peace. Where are the other w-w-wizards?”

  “I watched them today. Three are in the Sanctuary, three are still recuperating in infinity, and the Riddler is abroad. I suspect he is following the trail of the book. He knows how important that missing knowledge is to the Gyre. He went to Qirrh, but I lost his trace after that.”

  “H-he m-may have returned to his student in Eyri.”

  “I don’t think so. He believes her to be safe there. He does not know about the crown yet, or he would be here in Willower.”

  “You are c-c-confident you can h-handle him if he comes?”

  “The Riddler?” Saladon snorted. “I can handle him. That was the plan.”

  “You believe too s-s-strongly in plans.”

  “This one is infallible.”

  “Then tell me about the young man who rides in the sky.”

  “Who?”

  “Something t-t-triggered the wildfire, s-something near to you in the m-midlands, maybe the w-w-wastes.”

  “I guessed that from the clouds. I can’t say what set the web off. I wasn’t here at the time. It might have been any one of the wizards. It might have been nothing. What man?”

  “He was y-y-young, he r-rode through my cloud on a w-winged creature. He shouted at me. At me!”

  “So what? Many things you have touched take to the air before they die. He was probably the spawn of the wildfire strike.”

  “Yes, but what tripped the wildfire? Someone was using magic! Are you sure it was n-n-not your little thief from Eyri?”

  He’s talking about me. I’m not a thief! The crown is mine! My father set it down.

  “He has no mage skills yet,” answered Black Saladon. “So far he is just proving to be an idiot.”

  Bevn almost jumped up to challenge that. How dare he? I’m not an idiot! Who is he to call me an idiot?

  “Stupid is b-better than b-bright, then he won’t get c-c-clever ideas of his own.”

  “He’s not stupid,” Saladon disagreed. “He’s idiotic, wilful. He behaves like a child.”

  Bevn did jump up this time. “I’m not a child!” he shouted at Saladon’s back. He leapt over the boulders and ran down to the wizard. He slapped Saladon’s mantle aside. He didn’t have quite enough courage to actually hit the wizard himself. “Take that back! I’m not a child!”

  Saladon stiffened. In front of him, the white-faced apparition looked up in surprise, then horror. The silvery light turned golden, shrieked like hot metal being suddenly cooled, and was gone.

  Saladon’s backhanded blow lifted Bevn out of his boots. An impossible weight in his head swung him away. The thunder of the blow shook his body like a rag. He hit the ground and skidded into the mossy boulders.

  “Bloody imbecile!” Saladon shouted, moving closer, towering over him. “You pissing ignorant prawn!”

  Bevn could taste blood in his mouth. Some of his teeth were loose, and his lips trembled. A horrible unstoppable wail welled up from inside him. He’s hit my teeth out! He’s hit my teeth out! He’s hit my teeth out, Bevn thought in a screaming panic.

  “What are you doing spying on me?” demanded Saladon. “Do you know how rare an audience with the Sorcerer is? Do you know how difficult it is to set up a link to Turmodin from here? You blasted faecal idiot!”

  That was the Sorcerer? That hideous pasty-faced stuttering creature? The freak appeared to have only one eye. Bevn gulped down a breath and tried to deny the second sob. “But that couldn’t be Ametheus. He was as ugly as a boiled bullfrog!”

  Bam! Saladon rapped his head on the ground, again and again.

  “Don’t say his name! Don’t say his name. Don’t. Say. His name.”

  Bevn burst into tears, shameful hot, weakling tears, but Saladon carried on beating him. Ametheus is an ugly freaking bastard, Bevn thought, as his tears burned down his cheeks. Ugly, ugly, ugly, and Saladon is a stinking mean bully who doesn’t have any friends. He cried and cried until Saladon finally dropped him in the mud.

  The wizard left him. As he passed the boulders, he threw Bevn a parting comment. “I’ll make you look far worse than him if you don’t follow my orders. Don’t ever spy on me again.”

  Bevn pressed himself to the ground, expecting a final blow, but the wizard’s footfalls faded into the dripping sounds of the misty forest.

  He spat out a tooth with a mouthful of his own blood, and cried some more at the horror of it. The ground was wet, and his tooth glistened in the muck like a ghostly root. He was changed forever now; he’d never get that tooth back in his head. He was disfigured! The forest was dark, now that the strange sorcerous light had gone. He wanted to puke. Was he going to die, with all the blood that was coming out of him? He had had enough of this adventure, altogether enough. He just wanted to go home. He’d even give the stupid Kingsrim back, if he could. Just to be home. Life was too strange in Oldenworld.

  22. THE MUSIC, THE RHYTHM

  “Love leads a dance to a secret end

  and you cannot see around the bend.”—Zarost

  The Lûk took them to the border town, a woven and wonderful down known as Rôgspar. It was like stepping into a festival in a rabbit hole. The gaiety in the spicy underground air seemed at odds with the weapons stacked against the walls. The warriors expected to confront the Hunters from Bradach after only a day’s march, but here, for a brief precious night, they could relieve the tension of the impending battle.

  They were celebrating, yet their expressions remained stony. The Lûk’s features were difficult for Tabitha to read. There was so much about the Lûk and their world that was strange—the sensuous flex of their fabrics, the curling aromas of sharp herbs, the patterns which covered everything in sight from the carpeted floor to the clay-fired cups to their curved eating utensils. The Lûk women had colour painted around their eyes, a twisting stripe banded with gold. Their faces seemed even more elongated than those of the men. In profile they looked like crescent moons, and the light glinted in their eyes like little stars. Even the radiant purple mishkr criss-crossing the roof had been smeared in lazy loops and spirals instead of straight lines. Firefly tubes sputtered on the woven walls and along the radiating passageways. The central chamber was warm with bodies, the air close with the bearable stink of warriors, incense and spice. Sounds were softened by the curving walls and layered mats.

  Lûk musicians played pipes, chanted and beat upon paper drums. Their music was lilting, arrhythmic and discordant; mournful, yet enchanting. Passion wove through the air.

  Tabitha took a sip of her mulled wine. Some of her strength had returned. They had given her one of their daft knotted headscarves to wear, the bong, except that hers was a plain earthy tone, with no patterning but for a small twist of orange on the hem. Sihkran had assured her that the lack of pattern on the bong was a
sign of courtesy not of disrespect. They couldn’t write her story upon it because they didn’t know her yet and couldn’t tell what pattern she represented or where her pattern might lead. It was a gift; it had fresh herbs in the knots. Sihkran had insisted that she cover her hair in the central chamber; Mulrano and Garyll had been obliged to do the same. Hair was considered to be an item of great value, and to expose one’s hair in company was considered rude among the Lûk, especially for one with such a wealthy head of hair as Tabitha. The warriors, she discovered, were all shaven-headed beneath their ochre bongs.

  Sihkran extracted a scroll from the wall. He laid it open on the table, revealing intricate artwork which glistened in the light—the villages and towns rendered in fine detail, the graphic landmarks, the winding rivers and trails.

  “This came with a runner from Koom today. It is a great gift. It is one drawn in this time, it has things… Jhanmestikan! Look for this! It has the line of the dorrabalaan.”

  The tall warrior beside Sihkran peered over his shoulder, his eyes poking at the map like a man searching for a fish with a spear.

  “I do not know this picture.”

  “Yes, Jhan, it is new! See, the Sorcerer’s…worm…through from here to here ate.”

  “Ai-oi!” the warrior exclaimed. He began to quiver with excitement, looking from the map to Sihkran and back again. He clasped his shaking hands quickly behind his back and thrust his nose at the vellum, closer than he needed to be, dragging his eyes across the page.

  “I do not know it!”

  He was horrified by it, not excited, Tabitha realised.

  “Have you forgotten?” Sihkran asked in a soft voice. “Jhan, have you the skill lost?”

  “I…”

  The two Lûk shared a long moment.