by Anne Perry
He reminded himself over and over of Marilla, to whom he owed an undivided loyalty, not only in act, but in thought.
Too much was not as he had foreseen. Disappointment was sharp that Ceawlin was not the sixth warrior but, far more profound than that, raced in Kor-Assh’s mind his host’s words about him being a priest. What did Ceawlin see in him that he himself did not know? In what way was he a priest, that was not true of all men?
He stood at the window and stared into the darkness, hearing only the roar of the surf and the long, indrawn gurgle as the tide withdrew, and then the crash over the rocks as it came in again.
At last he turned away and kneeled down.
“Father, tell me who I am!” he prayed. “I need to know! Help me to understand. What is it You want of me and how can I be equal to it?”
There was no answer but the salt breath of the sea, but he rose with a trust that he would not be left without a light, even if it showed only a fraction at a time. Perhaps that too was necessary, in case the whole was more than he dared face or his soul could grasp.
Tathea and Kor-Assh left in the morning and turned their horses west again and back on the path to Tyrn Vawr.
“Tell me more of Ardesir and Sardriel,” Kor-Assh asked as they rode side by side along the sand. “And Ythiel and the other Knights of the Western Shore. Everyone knows of those who fought in the beginning, but what of the Eleven now?”
“What would you like to know?” She looked at him briefly, raising her voice a little above the surf and the cry of the gulls.
“How have they prepared for the war to come? It must require far more than military skill,” he assumed. “Every age has its brilliant soldiers. Surely Asmodeus has powers that outweigh every weapon ever invented by man? But more than that, his goal is not the death of the body, but of the spirit. We must be armoured against terror, corruption, delusion or despair. What have they learned that will defend them? What sword can injure the creatures of hell?”
“It is not a hereditary calling,” Tathea answered. “As each dies his successor is chosen by inspiration. They are warriors of the sword, of course, but far more than that, they are students of as much of the Book as I wrote for them from my memory. They are masters of the knowledge of good and evil, and they will not be deceived. The Island must stand, even when all the rest of the world falls. The Knights will hold our shores with courage and justice. They will guard against not only the invader who comes with armies, but those who come simply by night, with the words and the gifts of corruption.”
“And us?” Kor-Assh pressed. “We who can read the staff—will we carry the war to the Enemy? What weapons have we?”
She spoke hesitantly, as if reaching for the answer herself. “Ardesir has extraordinary faith.” She smiled as if at some memory. “He has a love of good and nothing can bribe or coerce or frighten him into denying that belief, not in word, which is easier, but in act or price, regardless of what it is.”
He smiled at her generosity of judgement. “And has he weaknesses?”
“Of course!” she said with a little movement of her shoulders. “He is afraid because his intelligence and his imagination can see darkness that most of us cannot. But it is also his strength, because that same fear forearms him, and he wants above all to be brave.”
They rode in silence for a little distance along the wild, low, sea-bleached shore. Kor-Assh stared at the blue and gold of it. The brilliance dazzled his eyes and his ears were loud with the falling waves and the cry of birds riding the bright wind.
“And Sardriel?” he said at last.
“He has weaknesses as well. But his love of truth is absolute, and no terror or pain has ever been too much to pay, either to seek truth or to serve it. I don’t think anything ever would be.”
Kor-Assh’s soul ached to be part of the great battle, worthy of standing equal with such men, of having a mission, as sublime, and as terrible. He wanted to be as Tathea was, and he did not know if he had the strength or the purity of spirit to do it. To succeed would be to grasp heaven; to fail, worse than he dared conceive, surely the true meaning of hell, the loss of what could have been his.
The salt wind roared around him, the surf beat in his ears, the sun blinded him, and he said nothing.
As they left the shore and went inland over the heather, Tathea deliberately rode ahead so she would not watch Kor-Assh. All her life’s hunger was directed towards her love for Ishrafeli which some tiny point of light in her remembered. To lose it would be an endless night she could not endure.
Perhaps she should never have doubted the God Who had promised her that her name was graven on the palms of His hands and He would never either forget her or leave her alone. But she was weak, and human, and just now both the brilliance of the light and the horror of the darkness were too big.
So she turned to the other grief which wounded her. She thought of Sadokhar, and in her mind she prayed for him, not knowing what to ask.
As she rode she saw not the beautiful, wind-scoured shore with its ever-changing patterns of light on water, but an arid land without bird or beast, where the flat light cast no shadows and nothing lived. Then she saw Sadokhar standing on a cliff edge above a sea of formless dust, a mockery of the wild, life-giving beauty of water.
Her heart constricted watching him as he climbed down slowly, catching himself on the rock and seeming not to feel it, as if even sensation were dying in this stifling place, to which there seemed no end.
She poured out her spirit in prayer. Her words were simple, no promises, no arguments, only the plea—help him! Help him!
As they rode down into Tyrn Vawr and through the gates to the castle, Ythiel came out on foot towards them. He looked first at Tathea, then at Kor-Assh, and Tathea’s heart knotted. Her mind flew first to Sadokhar, but there was nothing worse that could happen to him than already had.
“Sardriel? Ardesir?” She gasped out the words.
Ythiel shook his head, then looked up at Kor-Assh, avoiding Tathea’s eyes. “My lord, I grieve to tell you, things go hard in Lantrif.”
Kor-Assh dismounted, holding his horse’s rein in his hand. “There is a messenger? I must speak with him and learn what it is.”
Ythiel stood barring his way. “The Lady Marilla is here, my lord.”
Kor-Assh’s face changed, a subtle tightening of the muscles so small one could not have said precisely what it was, but he had retreated into himself. Part of him was already with whatever troubles disturbed his own people.
“I see,” he said simply. “I’ll go to her.”
“She is not well, my lord. The journey has exhausted her, the—” Ythiel began.
But Kor-Assh walked past him, only once glancing back at Tathea, and that too briefly for her to read his face.
Ythiel offered her his arm and she took it as she dismounted also, glad of his strength to steady her. The ground seemed hard, jarring as if she were barely ready for it. She waited a moment, unsteadily. Kor-Assh’s wife was here in Tyrn Vawr. In an hour or less she would meet her and have to speak, welcome her, offer her comfort and help as she would any other guest. How could she govern her feelings enough to hide them?
Ythiel was looking at her, his face creased in anxiety.
“I’m only tired,” she said, her voice very nearly in control. Then he looked at her more closely. “We hoped to find the sixth warrior. We didn’t.” Perhaps he would believe that was the cause of her grief, the iron band that was holding her heart, tightening with every step towards the doorway already held wide for her.
It was her duty in Sadokhar’s absence to welcome Marilla of Lantrif to Tyrn Vawr. No emotions of her own, no physical exhaustion were excuse. She might allow herself time to wash and change from her travel clothes, but no longer. She never had in the past given in to such weakness, and no one would expect it of her now.
She went up the stairs alone, dismissing an offer of assistance, and closed the door of her chambers. She needed every moment al
one that the circumstances allowed. She realised as she took off her outer garments, then her tabard and lastly the cotton next to her skin, how she had permitted her dreams to take hold of her on the Eastern Shore. She had forgotten for these few days the reality of Lantrif, that Kor-Assh was committed to someone else, not only his bond but surely his heart. But whether it was his heart or not, honour would never allow such a promise to be broken. The day she even considered such a thing, allowed herself to dwell on it, to hope, to wish, then she forfeited that part of herself which could ever be worthy of it.
She poured water into the bowl and washed herself, then dressed in clean linen and a long tabard of blazing red. She would go down as if into battle, even if she herself were both victim and foe. She would offer Marilla all that Tyrn Vawr had to give, and she would do it as if it pleased her, or at least as if it were no different from any other guest who was hereditary lady of her people.
She found Marilla lying on a couch with servants around her and Kor-Assh looking white-faced and stiff. He held a goblet in his hand and as Tathea came in he was in the act of offering it to his wife.
She was reaching for it, her ashen, pale face accentuated by an aureole of hair with the vividness of flame. She was beautiful in a fragile, blazing feminine way Tathea would never be. Her huge eyes were limpid green and her white hands seemed almost boneless, so soft were they. She wore a travelling gown of soft apple green which robbed the slight blush from her cheeks, but oddly made her look a thing of nature, an exquisitely delicate flower sprung from a frozen earth.
She turned and looked at Tathea. And smiled.
“I’m so sorry, my lady,” she apologised. “I grieve to be an additional burden to you, when you have so high a command, and to take from you a man who could offer the Island so much.” Her eyes did not waver, but her voice trembled. “Had I the strength to govern Lantrif alone I swear I would, but as you see, my health fails me, and my people are a troublesome race. Our contentions stretch back a long way into our history, and it requires a strong hand to prevent our quarrels from rending us apart.”
There was nothing Tathea could say except to imply her sympathy without condescension. She struggled for words, so conscious of Kor-Assh listening that his presence seemed to fill the room.
“I understand,” she said through stiff lips.
Marilla relaxed as if immeasurably relieved, and sank a little further back into the cushions behind her, gasping for breath. For several moments she was racked with coughing. “I am so grateful,” she sighed at last. She looked up at Kor-Assh with a wan smile. “They fear him in a way they do not me. I am stricken with a wasting illness, and I am afraid my strength fails me.”
Kor-Assh remained silent. Tathea could see in his eyes his shame at being torn in two directions, and a situation among his own people which threatened to run out of control. But he would not make excuses.
“I understand,” Tathea repeated. “We had war in the Island for many years. It does not end easily unless you crush people, and one cannot do that to one’s own.”
Marilla did not turn to her this time, and her voice was very soft and breathless, as if her power to speak was almost exhausted. “How wise you are, my lady, and how compassionate. But I knew you would be. Your fame has spread far, although I would have come, even had you been less, for the sake of the victims of war, should we not prevent it. But I am profoundly grateful.” A tiny smile touched her lips. “I shall not impose on your generosity for long, only until the worst of my illness passes ... a day or two perhaps. But Kor-Assh will leave immediately, so he may return the sooner.” She let her hand fall as if she could no longer hold it up.
There was no argument to make. War in Lantrif, on their own western border, was something Tyrn Vawr could not afford, and when the main attack came, they would need Kor-Assh’s armies with them.
“Of course,” Tathea said, forcing the words. “We shall be glad for you to remain as long as it requires for you to be able to travel with safety and more comfort.”
But Marilla did not reply. She seemed to have slipped into a faint, and lay ashen-faced on the pillows, her shimmering hair spread around her like a sea of copper on the light.
Holding her head very high, rigidly and blind with tears she dare not shed, Tathea turned and walked away. She did not look at Kor-Assh, and she did no more than acknowledge the servants waiting to minister to Marilla. She hoped it looked to them as if she had withdrawn to respect their privacy, and the sick woman’s need for help.
Out in the wide passage she walked quickly, and was startled to hear footsteps running behind her. At another time she would have waited. Now she did not care, and she needed the small comfort of being alone.
But the steps overtook her and she was confronted by a young woman with wild brown hair and flushed cheeks. She was a servant come recently to Tyrn Vawr, and she was well aware that she presumed in speaking so forcefully and yet there was no hesitation in her.
“My lady, my name is Nioba. I am from the Flamen people west of the forest, and I have seen great illnesses like this before.” She stood squarely in front of Tathea. “There is a spring in one of the groves which has healing water. My lady of Lantrif might regain her strength if she would bathe herself in its waters.”
Tathea felt her heart tighten until she could barely breathe. The last thing on earth she wanted was for this beautiful woman to regain her health, her vitality and laughter and passion of body as well as of mind.
But it was not the last thing. The truly last thing was the alternative—to have had the gift of healing in her knowledge, and to have withheld it for her own ends.
She breathed in deeply, her throat aching. “Thank you,” she accepted. “We shall offer it to Lord Kor-Assh.”
“Yes, my lady. It is very powerful.”
“Thank you ... tomorrow.” The desire to escape and be alone was almost overpowering.
She would do it, she would offer healing to Kor-Assh’s wife, but not yet. Tonight she needed to be by herself, to gather her strength, above all to pour out her pain and confusion in prayer and seek a peace that was beyond her to find alone.
Marilla was doubtful. She had lived so long with her frailty and her pain she found it too hard to believe it could be cured. “The hope ... I have had so many remedies offered ...” she said weakly. “I could not bear another disappointment, not only for me ...” She glanced at Kor-Assh.
“You must try,” he said. “I know it takes courage, but we can’t turn down any chance. It may be the one that will work.”
Reluctance was so plain in her eyes, the shrinking of her body, that it was as if Tathea had heard the words of refusal.
It was the young woman from the forest who spoke, again not waiting until she was asked.
“It will work, my lady. There is health and wholeness in its waters. When you arise from it you will be truly yourself, as you were meant to be, before affliction or injury came to you.”
There was a moment’s silence in the room. Everyone, Kor-Assh, Tathea, Nioba, Manila’s own servants and two of the men who had ridden with her and now awaited her orders, all were watching her, hope and encouragement in their faces.
There was no reason for her to refuse, except fear, selfish fear which would deny the very motives she said compelled her.
“Of course I will come,” she said huskily. “I thank you for your concern and your love for me.” Again she looked at Kor-Assh.
Tathea tried to stand a little straighter, but even in this unusually warm room with the late summer sun streaming through the closed windows, she felt as cold as if it were a winter night, and she were locked in a room of stone. Old and terrible memories half stirred.
They set out next morning early, Nioba guiding them. She did not speak again, but went ahead with calm confidence out of Tyrn Vawr and through the hot, golden fields of the Heartlands towards the dark edge of the forest on the horizon.
They rode all day, each absorbed in his or her own t
houghts, Kor-Assh beside Marilla, supporting her and offering her comfort and hope. Tathea rode alone, insisting Ythiel remain at the head of the company with Nioba.
It was shortly before sunset when they came to the forest clearing, a steep-sided place of shadows, damp-smelling earth, mosses crowding brilliant as velvet over the stones and in between the roots of the giant trees. The pool itself seemed like any other, springing from the forest and falling over a ledge of shining rocks to splash thirty feet into a pool barely an arm’s length across, but so green it was impossible to guess the depth.
An ancient man greeted them, asking nothing, as if he already knew. He glanced at Nioba, then at the others in the company. Perhaps it would have been apparent to anyone that it was Marilla who needed his help. He went to her, his face gentle with compassion.
“Come, lady,” he offered her his hand. “Let the waters divide the evil from you, then you will rest tonight, and in the sunrise your life wall be whole and complete.”
He took her weight as she dismounted with an effort so intense every man sat forward in his saddle as if ready to help. Kor-Assh dismounted hastily, but he was still not swift enough. The old man bore Marilla across to the green water, smiling at her, murmuring words of assistance.
The others left their horses and followed, Tathea looking only at Marilla, meeting no one else’s eyes.
The fading sun was gold, shifting and glittering as it fell through the leaves. There was no sound but the falling water into the pool, not even birdsong.
“It must cover you completely,” the old man warned. “But it will be only for a moment. Hold your breath.” And very gently he lowered Marilla into the green water until there was none of her, not even her blazing hair, left above the jade-smooth, opaque surface.
Tathea could feel her heart beating. Even the wind ceased to move in the leaves above.
The old man took his hands away.
Around the place where Marilla had disappeared, the water turned dark and viscous like oil, spreading rapidly to the banks and even up the cascade until it hung suspended, too slimed and clotted to fall.