by L. M. Roth
Through the garden the dancers cavorted, lifting their voices in song and raising their arms in abandon. Heedless of the glory of the garden or the dazzle of the dawn, they now danced in drunken revelry, oblivious to the beauty around them.
Marcus surrendered himself to the freshness of the sunrise, even as he followed the others. Surely they must realize what a spectacle they were making in their merriment, he mused to himself. How appalling that even Felix could so forget the dignity of his rank as to join in the carousing. But the wine was too rich, the night too intoxicating…
In the garden grew a grapevine, supported by a trellis made of wood. The luscious vines rippled over the wooden trellis in abundant profusion, draping either side in a curtain of green leaves. The aroma of the grapes was appetizing, inviting one to pick, to taste of their richness.
Beyond the garden and into the surrounding wood the company danced. Some were now out of breath, and fell laughing to the ground. Fanchon, however, seemed tireless as she led them on to further celebration in the heart of the forest, by the side of a stream.
The morning sun dappled the forest in a bath of green-gold glory. The sunlight reflected on the droplets of water in the stream that rippled over the rocks. The flickering light dazzled Marcus’ eyes, making him blink. Accustomed to the luminosity of jewels of every description, he decided that nothing was lovelier than the shimmer of sunlight on water.
A butterfly flitted around his head, then arced in a circle over Fanchon. Here and there it joyfully alighted, on this flower or that branch. Marcus delighted in the brilliance of its colors, the grace of its flight. But the sobering truth was that the butterfly was doomed. The first frost of the year would kill it. Knowing this gave its frivolous gaiety a tinge of poignancy…
The floor of the wood sloped gently down the hillside and opened into a clearing. Here in a glen dappled with sunlight grew clumps of wildflowers; shy wood violets hugging the ground, bluebells raising their saucy heads, modest daisies spreading their pleated skirts, wild roses preening their pastel glory. The stream flowed freely as it whispered over the rocks, its song seemed to join in their revelry. An old wooden bridge spanned the current. They danced across it, not heeding how flimsy the structure, how fragile the ebb and flow of life.
Marcus did not join the dancers on the other side. For he lingered in the fragrance of the flowers, the song of the stream. He allowed their gentle spell to be cast upon him, as they lured him into the abandonment of a peaceful sleep.
Chapter XVIII
Lothair and the Legend
They lingered long in Gaudereaux. Why, Marcus really could not say. Perhaps it was the lush beauty of the countryside that enticed them to stay. Perhaps it was the warm hospitality of Governor Urbanus, who urged them every time they spoke of leaving, to stay but a fortnight more. Or perhaps it was the blossoming romance between Dag and Fanchon that put off their departure from one day to the next.
For it soon became obvious to Marcus and Felix that their friend was smitten. Why, again, Marcus really could not say. True, the lady was lovely, but her constant prattle and habit of leaping from one subject to another in mid-sentence was wearying to Marcus. He could no more follow her conversation as he could follow the flight of the butterfly, ever erratic in its course.
The other side of the question presented itself: why was Fanchon enamored of Dag? Marcus was accustomed to exciting the interest of young ladies, yet Fanchon seemed oblivious to his own handsome looks and immune to Felix’s witty charm, and instead returned Dag’s fascination. She seemed to genuinely admire him, but what did a man like Dag have to offer to a lady of her class and culture?
True, Dag was brave and strong and noble of heart. And it was probable that his imposing physical appearance attracted one as fragile looking as Fanchon: to merely look at him was to feel that he could protect one from all dangers. Yet the man could not even read or write.
Suppose this attachment grew serious and they wed. How and where would they live? In Gaudereaux? Dag would find no work except that of a laborer; surely that would be beneath the family of Fanchon, who owned one of the finest villas in the country, with rich vines that kept them prosperous.
In Trekur Lende? Fanchon would die of boredom if the cold did not kill her first. One of her nature craved excitement and she would find none in Trekur Lende, save an occasional encounter with a bear or a boar.
Young Cort appeared forlorn at the sudden desertion of his friend. For Dag was ever in the company of Fanchon, and seemed to have little time to spare for his small admirer. Cort moped about Gaudereaux like a stray pup who had become separated from its master. Felix, Marcus noted, attempted to spend some time with Cort. But it was clear to all but Dag that the boy missed the attention of his hero.
Marcus began to fret at the delay. They had been here more than a month, one day very like another with its late start to the mornings, lazy afternoons, and lively evening banquets. For enjoying life was what the people of Gaudereaux believed in, if they believed in anything at all. Never had Marcus seen such a lighthearted people, determined to live every day to the fullest, and never giving heed to tomorrow.
Yet each day that passed meant another day in prison for his parents. He resolved to tell the others that tomorrow he must leave, with or without them, but leave he must.
A knock tapped on his chamber door.
“Come in,” he invited.
Felix bounded into the room, closing the door behind him.
“News, I have news, my friend!” he exulted with glowing eyes.
“Do you remember the Bard, Lothair? Well, I encountered him in the market this afternoon. We fell into conversation, and it seems that he is a well-traveled man. The thought occurred to me that he may have heard of this Pearl that you seek. He may know where we can find it. Shall we call on him together tomorrow?”
Marcus pondered. He had been sworn to secrecy by the Empress. Yet how could he learn more of the Pearl if he never spoke of it? Once he had approached the subject with Urbanus, but remembered that he reported back to Aurora of any unusual occurrences. It would not be wise to bring up the matter with him, who might very well ask the Empress why his young guest was interested in a particular jewel.
But if the Bard might know of the legend…
“Very well, Felix,” Marcus nodded his head decisively. “Let us pay him a visit this afternoon.”
“The Pearl? Yes, yes, I have heard of the Pearl.”
Lothair lived in a modest house a short distance from the city. He disliked the bustle of town life, and craved a quiet place where he could sing his songs. Marcus found the small dwelling fascinating.
For Lothair was indeed a well-traveled man. A tapestry of fine silk from lands to the East adorned one wall. It depicted a battle between an armed soldier and a frightful creature with four legs, scaly wings, pointed teeth and protruding claws called a dragon, according to Lothair. The beast was both dreaded and worshiped in that land. An exquisite jar of white alabaster from the Isles of Solone adorned a corner table. And on the table at which Lothair sat was a heavy black iron candlestick with an intricately carved base that came from Valerium.
Lothair appeared to gaze at the tapestry on the opposite wall, then spoke softly as though oblivious to the two young men.
“All may seek, and all may buy, the great Pearl of price so rare,
But it costs all you possess, so let the buyer beware!”
Marcus puzzled anew on this riddle, but waited for Lothair to explain. After pondering a moment longer, he turned to Marcus.
“What is your interest in the Pearl, young man? One of your years should be more concerned with young ladies than jewels.”
Lothair eyed Marcus warily, his hooded eyes boring into his.
“I merely heard of the legend and wanted to know more. That is all.”
“You wanted to know more? Such as…”
“Such as where it can be located. Why is it so precious? And how can it cost so much, yet a
ny can possess it? That surely cannot be, for some may not be able to buy it at all!”
“The Pearl will cost all that one has. That is why it is so costly,” Lothair said gently. “Perhaps some would fare better if they never find this Pearl.”
“Oh, but I must find it! I must…”
Marcus caught himself and stopped, cursing his tongue and its betrayal. He laughed shakily as Lothair stared at him.
“I mean, I love a mystery, and I simply must solve it. Now that I have heard of this Pearl of great price, I will not rest until I find it. And solve the riddle of why it is so costly.”
Marcus hoped his reply deceived Lothair. The Bard stared at his young guest, then his gaze shifted to the small fire that burned in the brazier, for the evenings were still somewhat cool. He sat staring into the flames for some time in deep thought, as if searching for words. Then he appeared to decide.
“I, too, have searched for that which you seek. In Valerium I looked, in Gaudereaux I roamed, and in Hyalenium I hunted. But it was all in vain.”
“You did not find the Pearl?”
“No, I did not. I was ever told to search here, to look there, but I never found what I sought. After many years I abandoned my quest. If such a jewel exists, let others find it, but not me. For I am too old to continue the hunt.”
Lothair paused. Then his attention was caught by the tapestry that hung on the wall opposite him.
“And yet…I have sometimes wondered if the answer might not lie in Koohyaram.”
“Koohyaram? What place is that?” Marcus inquired, as a frown of puzzlement creased his forehead.
“Koohyaram, young man, is a fabulous, truly a fabled city. It is ancient and splendid, a city of great wealth. To be sure, it is said that the very walls are made of pure gold.”
“Indeed!” Felix exclaimed, with a grin. “Well, let us set out for it at once with all speed!”
“Do not mock, my young friend!” Lothair warned. “Koohyaram is not part of the Valeriun Empire. If you offend the Ashkani you will find no protection from the Empress. She has no power there. You will be at the mercy of the ruler.”
“What manner of people are they, then? Are they fierce warriors?” Marcus wanted to know, his curiosity stirred by news of a people of whom he had never heard.
“Fierce? Yes, when they need to be. But their manner is most courteous, almost too much so. My advice to you is to be most polite to everyone you meet. But never turn your back on anyone. For their curved daggers can enter your back and pierce your heart with a speed amazing to behold.”
There was a deep silence at the pronouncement of these words. Then Felix broke it after careful deliberation.
“Perhaps we should reconsider going there. Or at least, leave Dag behind. For he will be sure to offend someone before he even finishes his salutations!”
“Felix! This is no laughing matter,” Marcus chided his friend. “And, of course, Dag goes with us if he so chooses. And I expect that he will.”
“Ah, that remains to be seen, considering this new interest which has caught his fancy. Think you he will leave his new lady love so easily?” Felix asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“This is not the time nor the place to discuss a matter of such an intimate nature. Where are your manners, Felix?”
Felix tightened his lips, and his brown eyes darkened and flashed at Marcus. Lothair put a hand between them.
“Enough! You must decide what your next step will be and not stoop to petty bickering!”
Marcus sighed, and threw back his patrician head and shook himself, the nostrils of his aquiline nose flaring. To Lothair, he looked remarkably like a young war horse that shakes off the grass in which he has just rolled preparatory to re-entering a battle.
“He is right,” Marcus relented. “I am sorry, Felix. We must decide, and plan the next step of the journey.”
Felix swallowed hard, and averted his eyes from Marcus. He frowned at the floor, then nodded his head, albeit a trifle sullenly.
Marcus turned back to Lothair.
“Where is Koohyaram? How far is the journey, and what is the lay of the land through which we must travel?”
For answer, Lothair rose and went to a small cabinet carved of mahogany. He hunted among several scrolls lying on one of the shelves, and selected one which he brought back to the table. It was a map, one such as soldiers use to plot campaigns. It showed place names, as well as sketches of the terrain. On it were drawn mountain ranges, rivers, forests, and plains.
“Here,” Lothair stabbed a finger, “is Gaudereaux. See how green indicates the lush forests. But directly south the land turns brown and gold. You must journey south into harsh desert lands before you come to Koohyaram. There you will see the city rise from the desolate landscape like some mythical city of old. But before you arrive there, you will pass through many miles of barren waste. You must carry plenty of water and provisions. The journey should take about five days if you travel steadily without any mishap.”
Lothair rolled up the scroll and presented it to Marcus.
“Take this map with you. For I will never travel so far again. I do not know what your errand is, nor why you seek the Pearl of legend. But may you succeed in your quest, where others have failed.”
Chapter XIX
The Desert of Dubar
To say it was hot was inadequate as far as Marcus was concerned. The blazing sun hit the sand with the scorching effect of fire on dry leaves in the autumn. His very skin felt as if it were on fire, and would steam if water were poured over him.
To hit the barren desert after dwelling in the verdure of Gaudereaux was to feel the sensation of walking into an oven after a refreshing walk in the woods. Marcus felt the pores of his skin expand; his eyes felt dry and he struggled to breathe. His very lungs seemed to sear in the intense heat. And the nights were as cold as the days were hot. The coming of nightfall brought a chill to the sand that was scorching by day. The cold was so intense that it seemed to Marcus he could never get warm.
And they were thirsty, always thirsty, careful not to use up their precious supply of water, taking only enough to get them through the next march of their trek across the desert. A five day journey, Lothair stated. How could anyone survive five days in this hostile environment?
On the endless horizon it stretched before them, a landscape of yellow-white sand interspersed with occasional dunes and rocky outcrops. Were it not for the dunes and the rocks, the monotony of the sand would have been unbearable, only adding to the sense of dull dreariness as they viewed their course.
Indeed, Lothair had warned them of the dangers of the desert. The intense heat of the day could dry one out if there was a shortage of water. The bitter cold of night could freeze the blood in one’s veins if one was not careful to provide enough covering. And many of the creatures that lurked in wait for an unwary traveler were venomous: one bite was sufficient to bring death, and a quick and painful one it was, too.
He glanced at the others to see how they fared. Felix plodded on, his head bent down, putting one foot carefully before the other. Small Cort trudged bravely, but finally succumbed and had to be carried by Dag. The stalwart man alone seemed unaffected by the heat. He marched as erectly now as when they started crossing the desert two days ago. The man must be made of iron, Marcus thought with admiration. Or else he wanted to impress Fanchon and therefore kept any complaints to himself.
For Fanchon had accompanied them, much to the astonishment of Felix and the annoyance of Marcus. When the time came to leave Gaudereaux, she and Dag could not be parted. Their ardor was too intense, and Fanchon begged her parents to allow her to journey on with Dag. They not only permitted it, incredible though it seemed to the young Valerian aristocrats, but gave their consent and their blessing to the betrothal of the giddy girl to the primitive Trekur Lender.
They reasoned that Fanchon was bored in Gaudereaux and with the men who made it their home, and that Dag was unusual enough to keep the interest of t
heir flighty daughter. And they genuinely respected Dag for his courage, honesty, and strength. As for practical matters such as where and how to live upon the occasion of the marriage, that would also be decided at the time, said her father, Pascal. Matters have a way of resolving themselves, added her mother, Gaelle.
Pascal reasoned that Fanchon traveling with the young men as Dag’s betrothed would satisfy the conventions. It would do his daughter good to see a bit of the world and might calm her restless spirit. Gaudereaux and its inhabitants had long ceased to be of any interest to her, and she filled her idle time with frivolous pursuits, Gaelle chimed in. A change of scene might be the very thing she needed at this time, they agreed as one voice.
All of this Marcus reflected on as they made their way across the hot, arid landscape. And he had to confess that Fanchon was doing far better than he anticipated. He had expected such a fragile creature to wilt in the heat. But the dainty girl actually seemed to enjoy the novelty. Indeed, she never ceased talking about it.
“Can you believe this heat? I have never felt such heat in Gaudereaux! It is like an oven when they fire the brick, no? Now that I mention oven, is anyone hungry? I am! Grapes would be more than welcome at the moment! And grapes remind me of wine. We have not had any of that since we left Gaudereaux, no? I suppose we will have to settle for water to quench our thirst. Do we have any? Water, that is, I know we have no wine.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. Would this girl never stop her inane babbling? Her habit of tacking “no” onto the end of a question that already returned a negative answer was almost as exasperating as Dag’s “yah” when giving an affirmative reply. Between the two of them they had a response for any question that might be put to them. Perhaps it was a perfect match after all. Fanchon could do all of the talking in a conversation. All that would be required of Dag was to listen adoringly and say yah.