"But she mentioned them specifically, Count Val Torska. Are you sure there are no legends, no stories, even?"
"Your Highness, do they appear as more than dogs to you?"
Heratinn extended a hand, which the hounds politely sniffed. However, when he moved to pet them, the animals deftly eluded his touch. He did not press his attentions. "Sometimes appearances are deceptive."
"Indeed. But, I would remind you that deception is the tool of those who walk on two legs,” said the count, “not four."
o0o
Eyes still red, she smiled warmly at him over the blackened instrument as he lifted the ineffectual polishing cloth from her work-cramped hand. Expression intent, almost feral in its hunger, Elzin laid the Saireflute on the bed. She wished to tell him she had so long dreamed his face that the memory had been nearly worn from her consciousness. She wanted to say what it had been to walk so long, so far to reach him, an infinity of miles and ages that made her doubt her own existence as well as his. How it felt, to see him standing there.
But, she could not speak of it. Instead she stood and put her arms around him.
There was neither chair nor interfering daughter between them this time. He held her very close, and when at last he let her go, he smiled down at her conspiratorially.
"I must say, Saire Elzin, that you know how to get into more mischief than any woman I have ever met."
"I do it to keep myself interesting to men," Elzin retorted with a wicked grin. "It must be working. Already today I've been bathed by a lord, hugged by a superior, and interviewed by a prince." From the rough table at the end of the shabby bed she took two chunks of cheese and offered them to the count's dogs. "There you are, my friends. I was saving this for you."
"Elzin, Dagger and Arrow have never taken --"
The coursers daintily lifted their treats from the Saire's hand. Two chunks of cheese vanished; two pink tongues whisked the crumbs from two black, narrow muzzles.
"-- anything but pleasure at making an ass out of their so-called master," he continued drily.
The dogs sat, and the blond brushed her hands on her robes. "I helped too, you know."
"A conspiracy, then? Against a woman's wiles and two treacherous dogs, what chance could any man have?" He rubbed the dogs' heads affectionately.
"Have you seen?" Elzin asked as she slipped the Saireflute between the folds of velvet meant to cradle it from damage. "Nothing gets this black stuff off."
"It appears deeply scorched."
Elzin winced and shut the instrument from sight. "We'll leave tomorrow, won't we? I don't want to stay here any longer."
"If you think you are strong enough, certainly."
Her fingertips explored the soft velvet of the case. "I'm strong enough," she said quietly. "But, I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid I'll dream of it. I know you can't stay--with me--I understand but, maybe, do you think… ?" She sighed. "No, never mind. I shouldn't ask. You do too much for me already."
"Elzin, I would do more; surely you know that. Tell me what it is you want."
"I wouldn't ask, only--" Her lower lip trembled; she swallowed hard and made herself meet his eyes. "What I want--that is to say, do you think that maybe--just for tonight--your dogs could stay with me?"
o0o
He barely hesitated. Against its frame of golden curls, her upturned face wordlessly implored. What else could he say except: "Of course."
"Thank you, Caldan." In her relief she looked vulnerable and even more vastly out of place than usual in her somber robes. But, she spoke and his mind must not wander. "There's something else, though," she said, "something I want you to see. I didn't have this with me when I was--when I played last Saire." She rooted through the pack beside her bed. "I took it out today though, just to make sure it was still there. It's strange. The coin has changed."
Elzin straightened; the medallion glinted, twisting as it dangled on its familiar chain. Changed? To be sure, and in far more than appearance. No light blazed from her flesh; the walls did not tremble when she insisted he take the coin from her hand to examine it more closely. "Gold?" he wondered aloud. Castandra had told him the stuff was anathema to things magic. But, no, the weight was wrong, although in color and texture it was indistinguishable from the precious metal. No longer did the image of King Sheldwinn glare regally from the coin's face, instead, each side now bore a nightmare spawn of serpent and cat. Shiath.
He smiled to conceal his surprise. "Her Majesty would approve."
Elzin looked at him quizzically. "What?"
He put his mouth to her ear conspiratorially. "There is something more ugly than she," he whispered, folding her hand over the necklace.
Laughing, she snared him in her arms.
"Oh, no, none of that," he said. "Preparation is required to move an army, and your entourage has grown to number a small one. If you wish to leave in the morning, I must leave now. I commend you to the capable, albeit fickle, hands—paws--of your fellow conspirators."
Once in the hall, the Kyr reached into his pocket. He found what he sought immediately--the assassin's soul disk. The coin on the necklace was an exact duplicate in every detail.
The necklace, tool of the Saireflute. What did the Flute try to tell him?
He almost laughed aloud. The Flute--help him--ambitious Kyr and direct descendant of the Red King? Oh, yes, brilliant assumption. Still, Elzin had never understood any of the clues the necklace offered, clues that seemed clear as rainwater to him. Could it be?
In the serving area of the inn, Superior Gage greeted him enthusiastically, obviously grateful to be rescued from his latest interrogation at the hands of the Court Historian.
"How is she?" asked Heratinn.
"Well enough. She insists we resume our journey tomorrow morning."
"Superior Twentysails will need to know," said Shagril. "If you'll excuse me, Your Highness, My Lord?"
Left behind with the count, the prince blotted fingers and notes and directed his words to the table. "You tried to warn me."
"I did."
"Is she angry?"
"The Great Lady? No; she is the most forgiving of creatures."
Heratinn sighed, but raised his chin. "Sometimes it happens. Sometimes, history, the records, become more real to me than living people. Do you know how little we have learned of Saires, how closely guarded the priestesses must teach them to keep their secrets? But Elzin wasn't priestess-trained; she was never intended as a Candidate. She's a wonderful opportunity to learn what really happens, what it means to play the Flute.
"And yet she's more than that. She's history in the present, someone more than Fethzann, I suspect -- perhaps as powerful as Saire herself. She has Played things into existence, made them become real. And not just real for the space of a Playing, but real after the music has ended, real after she has gone. Who knows where that tower of fire took her last Saire? Perhaps, as some are saying, she has even mastered death with her magic. Who can imagine what she will mean to Lhant a hundred years from now, or even a thousand? All she does, all she is, must be preserved correctly, without bias or exaggeration."
"Your Highness has no need to threaten me with the sharp nib of his pen; I quite agree."
Heratinn stared at his writing instrument, pointed as it was somewhat to the left of the Tarskan's heart. "There I go again," he said, laying the pen on the table as if the former were of lead and the latter spun glass. "I never meant to hurt her. I suppose I didn't understand how serious your warning was. Next time I'll pay heed."
"No, Highness, you will weigh your options, as you always do. That is not a fault, only, at times, a pity."
o0o
On the narrow porch of the inn, Castandra waited for her father to return from the makeshift barracks and a meeting with the prince and the officers of the elite. She had earlier explained to him her dream of the mist, and the terror that she felt of it and for him. To her relief, he had not been angry with her, except on Olkor's behalf. Instead, he was di
stracted, contemplative. He seemed about to ask her something, then changed his mind. She had never seen him like that--her father, indecisive. Finally, he kissed her forehead and sent her to apologize to Olkor.
She stood when he approached, with the brisk, confident stride she knew so well. For a moment, all her fears were dispelled. And then she noticed that his coursers were not at his side. Alarmed, she ran to meet him.
"Where are Dagger and Arrow?"
"The Saire has asked for their company tonight," he replied.
Furious, fearful of the words that first sprang to her lips, Castandra spun on her heel and fled to her room.
Her father let her go. That alone was punishment enough.
o0o
She was, as the count said, forgiving. In fact, it was at her invitation that Prince Heratinn rode beside the Saire this morning.
"My guards tell me you came to see me last night. They should have had Kezwann wake me up. It's not every day that a miller's daughter gets a visit from a handsome prince," she said.
"I didn't want to disturb you. I came to apologize. It was inconsiderate to question you so soon after an ordeal like yours, and I am deeply sorry. Can you forgive me?"
The prince had an endearing way of speaking to the back of his pretty horse's gleaming neck. He was shy with her, like a young boy gathering courage to dare a kiss. He spoke so seriously too, as though her forgiveness was the most important thing in the world. Elzin considered teasing him for a moment, pretending to withhold her favor, but she sensed he would not understand. Instead, she told the truth. "I think it's nice that you're telling me you're sorry, but it's not your fault. If anyone's to blame, it's me, for tampering with something I didn't--and still don't--understand. I know that everybody's probably wondering about what happened. If I were someone else, I'd be curious, too. I'm sorry that I can't explain where I was—or—or--what it was like…"
Her hands began to creep up along her cheeks. Desperate to distract her from a repeat of yesterday's disaster, Heratinn blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"Saire Elzin! I have a gift for you!"
Elzin started, hands finding the pommel of her saddle and the reins she had dropped there. "A gift?"
Now what? thought Heratinn. What could he give to her? Besides clothing and necessities, he had few possessions with him, just his books; his pens; his horse. He stammered his swift decision. "My horse. Saire Elzin, I would like you to have my horse. She is well-trained and gentle, and I believe that you would find her nearly as pleasant as old Tutor." He noted her mystified expression and continued to explain. "With such beautiful saddlery, you should have a handsome mount as well."
Elzin laughed. "Prince Heratinn! What a lovely thought! But I can't take your horse. She's beautiful, of course, and I thank you for the offer, but I'm happy riding this old fellow." She patted Tutor's brown neck.
"I have other horses. It would be my honor, truly, for you to have her," said Heratinn. He was surprised to find he meant it. He liked her, this miller's daughter become Saire.
Elzin shook her head and with one hand swept back her hair. "Thank you, Prince Heratinn, but it would be too much. If you really want to give me something useful, a mirror would be just the thing. You know, I can't imagine what the women in these parts ever do without them."
o0o
Elzin was impressed. No prince had ever offered her a horse before. She chatted with the Heratinn all morning. He seemed so interested in what she had to say. She decided that she liked men who were good listeners even more than men who were good lovers. She paused and reconsidered. Perhaps the two qualities were equal. Were she not with child, she might be tempted to find out if Heratinn was both.
Or would she? How strange to have the idea, but not the desire. Whatever had changed her? She smiled thoughtfully at the count, loping his horse at the head of her "small army". Not whatever, but whoever, she reminded herself.
Fidelity. For the first time, the thought intrigued her. She imagined herself turning down other men, saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm being true to my beloved." It sounded mature and virtuous. She hoped she would have the opportunity to say it often.
Chapter Fifteen
Beside the goddess walks a lion,
Beside the lion walks a child,
Those she favors gain the gentle,
Those she curses meet the wild.
-- invocation to Telriss
Wriggle and squirm though she might, not one inch of her bottom gave her peace. By the hallowed amber moon--had someone replaced her padded leather saddle with one made of iron? She pulled off one glove and pressed her thumb into the seat just where her legs forked. No, still cushioned. "How can it be so soft here and hurt so much back there," Elzin grumbled. Experimentally, she pushed her weight against the stirrup, lifting herself just a little. The cold air swept beneath her like a balm; she moaned with pleasure and, still rising, screwed her eyes shut. Ahhhh! Relief! It was--it was--
It was too much for her underdeveloped sense of balance. With a yelp she swayed and grabbed for the pommel. Leather and rear collided with a painful smack that whooshed the air from her lungs like a bellows. Tutor grunted and flicked a tolerant ear, his bucket-sized hooves clopping steadily on.
If I were Queen I'd make all the men of the council ride across Lhant on one of these, thought Elzin crossly as she recovered her reins, which, after her first day of riding, Caldan had thoughtfully sewn together so that they would fall no farther than Tutor's brown neck when dropped. I'll bet sidesaddles would be outlawed within a fortnight. Riding astride, though, didn't look much better. It was hard enough to keep track of one stirrup; gods alone knew how she would ever manage two.
Perhaps she would be less miserable if she had anything other than varied aches and pains for company. Instead of the familiar chiming of the castle clock, she marked the hours here with new discomforts: chafed hands, chapped lips, runny eyes, numb toes. She tried to be brave and concentrate on something else, but her thoughts were ground to mud by Tutor's endless, aching, rocking. She had no respite from the mind-numbing motion; the sway of his gait intruded even on her dreams as she shivered in both her own and the gift of Caldan's thick bedrolls.
This far north, there were no inns, no friendly crowds or winter wheat-fields. The land turned all wrong, all grey and jutting angles, like the naked hips of half-starved crones. Tangled thickets of grey-green thorn crouched in cold shadow beneath brittle leaves and stark, bare branches.
It felt eerie, too lonely, too desolate. She longed to hear the sounds of children playing, to hear the song of a goodwife washing clothes and the good-natured swearing of sailors restless with too long a visit to the family hearth. The vast, trackless silence brought to mind the stories of her sea-faring cousins, trapped for weeks by empty sails on the windless surface of a lifeless sea.
Elzin's reverie was broken by wild, exuberant cries -- the coursers at the hunt. Caldan and his daughter, gone to chase some animal to fill the party's cookpots.
At first, she had thrilled to the eerie baying of the hounds, and the grace of the highlanders as they rode off in pursuit. But later, when they returned with their lifeless victim slung behind Thunder's saddle, she changed her mind. The dead had been a doe, her brown eyes filmed with dust and her tongue protruding obscenely from her dainty muzzle. Her throat had been cut, and the wound gaped at Elzin like the pleading red mouth of a toothless simpleton.
Though cold to the bone and hollow as a teakettle, she could not eat the hot stew that night. She said nothing, but from then on Caldan brought only the meat, butchered and anonymous, back from his hunting expeditions.
o0o
Filled and warmed by a dark, rich soup, Elzin dozed in the thin afternoon sunlight as Tutor plodded forward once again. She felt indolent and pampered since Caldan had granted the party a rare boon, the opportunity to stop and heat a meal in the early afternoon. Thick, grey clouds to the north promised yet another chill rain, or perhaps even snow, h
e had predicted. It would be best to take their comforts while they might.
Now, she lounged on a sun-drenched riverbank, all green and lush with thick moon rushes. No need to wear so many heavy cloaks here, so she shed them one by one. And who needed all these clothes, on a clear, late summer's afternoon? Stretching out luxuriously across a bed of fresh-cut rushes, she smiled to herself and awaited her companion's return from his swim.
The water he splashed startled her; it was so much colder than she expected. Rolling away from the onslaught, she joined his laughter, but the shower didn't stop. Instead, the water grew colder, more insistent, more…
With a start, she woke and miserably pulled her cloaks around her to keep out the freezing rain. Ahead, Heratinn and Castandra rode abreast, talking companionably. Gods. The two wouldn't notice if they were soaked in ice water.
It had to be the most boring romance in all the history of Lhant. They never touched, never even rode their horses closer than was proper for their discussion. And what conversations! Whenever the breeze cast a fragment of a sentence, she had at first, out of boredom, strained to listen, but now, she didn't bother. Why would she, after overhearing Castandra and Heratinn comparing theories on the revitalization, whatever that meant, of Lhant during the post-civil war era? And then there were those exciting snatches of their chat regarding the relations of some unpronounceable kingdoms over in Egia or somewhere.
And yet, despite the boring conversations and the oh-so-very-proper behavior, she would bet her thickest cloak that something far more interesting than politics had crossed the minds of a certain lady and a prince, Elzin decided as she shivered in the saddle. A certainly non-political gleam rose to Heratinn's eye as he jogged his horse to catch up with the sorceress. And behind Castandra's decorous smile of welcome, the Saire imagined she spied an eagerness that had nothing to do with debate over ancient sumptuary something-or-others. She grimaced. The image of Castandra popping four hundred buttons and an odd assortment of hairpins in an explosion of pent-up lust was too much even for Elzin's well-exercised imagination. Pulling her outer wrap around her tightly, Elzin smiled at Caldan. She had a more important romance to mind.
The Night Holds the Moon Page 18