People will come here from time to time now, she said, but only seers and healers may approach the Tree.
“But the other one,” I stammered, meaning the griffin in the passageway.
He is long gone. You gave him his freedom, Lonn D’Aerie. I could hear her amusement. As was his due, she added.
“But—” I stopped. I wanted no more of this “lord” business, and no teasing either.
You are a swan lord, she said gently. An immortal. Fly away, Frain.
“Farewell, Maeve,” I whispered.
Farewell. Dair—tend him well.
You know I always do, Dair growled.
I faced the west, blinking, and let my thoughts take wing within me. To fly, to soar over that sea of forest, over the white mountain wall and away—somewhere out there, beyond, lay Vale—
I felt my body bend, my arms extend and russet feathers grow, flowerlike but far faster, petals tilted to the wind. No pain, but it was hard not to panic at the strangeness, even so—I had to call on an inner strength to let the change happen, as I would to let healing happen. This was much like healing in a way. I felt my vision sharpen, my body turn hard, immense muscles encasing my chest, taut pinions—I was a red hawk, and I felt all the keen windlust of the raptor.
A gray falcon stood beside me, the fern stalk held in his beak.
GIVE YOURSELF TO THE SKY, Dair said.
I gave myself to the sky as I had to desert and lake and sea. Ai, the feel of air through feathers, the whistling sound.… We flew. Once around the World Tree we circled—at last I could see the leaves; they were translucent jewels, aureate but oval of shape and pointed, like the gibbous moon, sun and moon in one. We did not dare aspire to the top of it—some things should remain forever hidden. We circled once and spiraled upward, red hawk and gray falcon, and then away, through the mist, and left the Source behind us.
INTERLUDE III
from The Book of Suns
Now you have known frightened men to say that the final days will come in wrath and a rain of fire and a dark abyss and the tramplings of fierce horses. But I tell you, dear children, that shame speaks in those words, and there is no need of shame and fear within the working of the pattern to its fullness. I tell you that the days of strife are now, and they will end in the sweet scent of flowers and a great peace passing into eternity and the tide of time quieting into deep ocean with scarcely a ripple. And some of you may yet live to see those days, People of Peace, and surely your descendants will.
How will it happen, that the unicorn days will come again and the song be sung once more? All that is necessary is that the magic should come back from the reaches, that the fern seed should be spread. When that passing comes the world will be filled with brightness and singing and understanding, mindful and heartfelt—birds, bears, men and wolves and quail and celandine, wind and sea, whatever is, they all will speak and understand. And no creature will need to kill or eat anymore, even so much as grass, and whatever gives of itself will do so willingly. When the panther and the deer lie down together on the heather, the heather will rejoice. And then that rejoicing will fill me and I will sing.
And then the unicorn will stand on the shore of Elwestrand. I will sing the song of the unicorn, the fair white shy one of shining horn, and when he lifts his forefoot and strikes it to that shore all the mountains of earth will dissolve and slide into the sea, softly, gently, with sunset cloud and rainbow spray, and all who watch that union will smile. And then I will sing the second song of the unicorn, and the unicorn will stand on the soft hills of Isle, and when he touches his horn to those hills the sky will come down and embrace the sea-washed earth. And I will sing the final song of the unicorn, and the white winged unicorn will spring up and fly above the land of Vale, and sun will wed with moon in a blaze of love. And day and night will once again be One, and seasons, and elements, and life and death; all who lived in the sunlit lands will be at One with unity and the infinite. And the spinning of time will stop, and the great wheel will no longer turn, the stars will swim at will in the sea and the shuttle lie still on the loom. And the pattern will be done.
What is the sign? When the Swan Lord comes to the Source and plucks the fern flower that is water and fire, those days will be on the horizon of time. And when the scion of Isle has spread the seed, those days will be at hand.
Now I have told you the tales of the Sun Kings of Isle. But who is this Swan Lord, you ask me, that we should await him? Elder Folk, he will be one who has suffered much and has earned his rest, this most blessed and consummate rest.
DAIR REPRISE
I am Dair, who flew to Vale with Frain, side by side, wingtip to wingtip—I remember the silent bond between us. I wanted that time to last, but it went quickly. The passage did not take long, flying—only a few days. We scarcely stopped even to eat or rest. The trees did not appeal to us. They looked tiny, puny, stunted to us, and their leaves were that dull, unmagical green. In Vale the land looked bright as blood but wounded. There were great ruts and scarrings where armies had been. Summer is the season of war.
I am too late, said Frain, dismayed.
THE GODDESS SAID YOU ARE NO PART OF THIS PATTERN, I told him, mindspeaking. I could not talk even in my wolfish manner with the fern stalk clutched in my beak. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DO? I asked.
I—don’t know. I just always hoped—something. To help Tirell somehow, and Shamarra.
TIRELL IS VERY KINO. PERHAPS HE HAS BEEN ABLE TO HELP HIMSELF. PERHAPS HE IS ALL RIGHT.
I knew better. There was justice to be attended to. I knew that. Frain said nothing.
We followed the marks, skimming above the red soil of Vale. They led us to the court city of Melior, Frain’s childhood home, all awash in water, the river gone mad, but it was still standing, shining and beautiful—Tirell must have had strong magic of his own. Frain could not speak, I could tell; his breastfeathers quivered with the force of his heartbeat. I have never fully understood childhood, myself, though I know it is a strong tug in humans.… Melior was a fair place. There were young fruit trees in the courtyard, all in bloom, though their time was long past. An owl flew from the topmost tower, abroad in daylight, in strong sunlight, even.
Auguries, said Frain tightly.
There were few folk about. Tirell must have met Raz’s invading army on the other side of the flooded river, and it seemed he had managed to push it back. Back, back, the trail of torn earth led, over the great central plain of Vale. We followed, and in a few moments we sighted tumult of battle on the horizon, a mass of struggling men, and those ugly Luoni swarming around it like flies around an ulcer. We dove through them—
Tirell! Frain cried. He darted downward.
I admit I had never believed all of what Frain had said about Tirell. But I believed it then, with my first look at him. I caught my breath in awe at the very sight of him. He was half a head taller than any man I had ever seen, regal and fearsome, with raven black hair and flashing eyes, godlike in beauty—it must have been hard, very hard, for Frain to have stood all those years in his shadow. Enemies swarmed about him on all sides, trying to pull him down, and he was fighting them all off, fighting like ten men, lithe and furious as a great cat. Even so, I did not see how he could prevail. And as they dragged at his arms a bald and leering king confronted him, bronze sword raised—
Frain stooped with a hawk’s scream, raking the man across the shoulders with sharp talons, startling him so that he threw up his shield arm. The next moment he lost his life to Tirell’s blow. Frain took human form and stood beside his brother.
“So much for Sethym,” he remarked.
He spoke in the language of Vale, and I understood him. Could it be that I understood all such tongues now since the fern flower, all things? I in wolf form—I stood four-footed beside Frain, snarling, and the attackers who had hounded Tirell fell back for a moment, unnerved by my unaccountable appearance or Frain’s. Tirell did not notice me. He was standing like a shaft of marble, mot
ionless, his fair, pale face gone white as stone.
“Frain!” he gasped, sudden tears starting down his cheeks. “But how—flying in—are you a spirit?”
“Touch me and see,” Frain invited, grinning even as the tears started from his own eyes.
In an instant they had joined in a tight embrace, hugging and pummeling each other, laughing and sobbing. I don’t think they could have stayed away from each other, and such a gesture seemed to suit them, their history, that they should embrace in the midst of a battlefield. Already enemies approached them. I menaced, sending some back a step, and Frain broke away from his brother and parried a blow that had been aimed at Tirell’s shoulder, picking up a dead man’s dropped sword.
“Confound it, brother, don’t expect me to do everything for you!” he shouted gaily, still laughing through tears. “Defend yourself! There is a row going on here.”
Tirell cleared a space around himself with a single mighty swipe of his long blade. But the press of battle was hard, and a struggling, trampling mass of men came between him and Frain. And then Frain started fighting in earnest.
I had heard once of a long-ago folk who had done battle naked, without even helms, hair flying free, glorying in the strength and skill of their exposed bodies, with only a bare sword for protection—Frain fought that way, magnificent. Amidst all the shining bronze he gleamed splendid with his own sheen, sweat sheen—or was it something more, glow of power? Wholeness, unity of self and purpose had given him great power, unicorn power. He could do nothing wrong, no harm could come to him, his sword moved as if guided by magic, faultlessly, faster than the eye could follow, as he opened a way for himself, cut a path straight as the unicorn’s horn through the clash of armies to his brother’s side, and I followed in his wake, skulking.
Tirell had taken a cut on the forehead. But those who attacked him dropped back as we drew near, and he paused a moment in his labors of war to look at us.
“Like a god,” he marveled softly. “Mighty shoulders and two strong arms.… What is that furry thing sheltering at your feet?”
“A friend.” Frain turned to stand at Tirell’s side. “Come on, brother,” he invited, his tone fierce and joyous. “We will take them together.”
They touched hands briefly in warbond.
“Where’s that Raz?”
“Up ahead,” Tirell said.
We formed line of battle, the three of us. Tirell roared at his men to follow and we pressed forward, Frain flanking Tirell to the left and I to the right, bristling hugely and hoping no warrior would come near me, for this sort of combat was new and strange and terrible to me, all smiting and cries and straining legs, far too many and too much—I might have been killed several times over, but I walked under the protection of Tirell’s long sword. He fought splendidly, and Frain with all the golden force of his lordship, and they overcame or overawed all whom they met, True King and Swan Lord. We made our way steadily forward.
“There, a bit left,” Tirell said grimly at last. “By the snakes.”
My hackle hairs rose unbidden. Great serpents reared their vicious, flat and pointed heads above the battlefield, each one twice the height of a man. In their midst, and flanked by a bodyguard of bronze-helmed footsoldiers as well, rode Raz the renegade canton king. His mount stood seventeen hands and massive, giving him a borrowed stature—he had none of his own. Even at the distance, all gilded and jeweled and lapped in armor and wrapped in fine robes, he showed for what he was—short, fat, and, by his posture, arrogant.
“I am not looking forward to taking on the snakes,” Tirell added. “I have heard that they spit.”
Venom, he meant. I tried not to cringe.
“No need,” said Frain. “Let us just make a little space here.”
Tirell set to work without hesitation, clearing away enemies, and Frain stood still, gazing ahead intently toward where the serpents loomed.
“Laifrita thae, arledas!” he called, a high, carrying shout that sped the distance as if on wings. “Sweet peace to thee, earth-brothers!” It was the creature tongue I knew from my earliest days and loved, the Old Language. Just hearing it, I felt blessed.
“Primal folk, leave that worthless king and go back to your own ways. The mountain caverns are calling to you, earthcreepers!”
Of one accord the great heads of the snakes swiveled around to look at him, while Raz also stared, startled.
Who speaks? one serpent challenged.
“I, Lonn D’Aeric. I bid you go.”
The serpents turned and slid away. Frain spoke again, and the steed that bore Raz sprang forward through the ranks of his startled guards. It carried him up to us in spite of all his shouting and sawing at the reins, and Tirell’s army cheered and surged forward, surrounding us. Tirell reached up and pulled the stout king off. He fell with a thump on the ground. Raz was no fighter—he never even drew the sword he wore.
“Mercy, my liege king,” he begged, his voice oily even in his despair.
I glanced at Tirell and saw that he was not without thoughts of mercy. Bellflower blue shadow in his eyes showed that. Then they hardened to the color of blue ice—he was True King, and a king who allows revolt is no king.
“I have a wife,” he told Raz almost quietly, “the most loving and faithful of wives, your daughter, and you tried to lure her away from me by the most vile slanders. And when that failed, you sent ruffians to steal our son. Now at last you have found nerve to make open battle on me. No, Raz. I have no mercy to offer you.”
“Mer—” the man started again, but before he could finish his head was gone. A more vindictive monarch would have killed him at greater length, but Tirell made the slaying swift. A roar of victory went up from his army as they hoisted the head on a spear for proof, and a groan from the others. Losing heart, they started to fall back, and Tirell’s followers cheered, pressing after. Tirell stood still, leaning on his sword, looking tired and more than a little sickened, letting the battle leave him.
“It is over,” he murmured.
“Not yet, brother.” Frain looked tired as well, but keen of glance. “You have not yet met your real enemy.”
“Myself?” Tirell straightened, smiling broadly. “I thought I had.”
“Son of Aftalun, Tirell, I know you have!” Frain sounded both amused and annoyed. “I mean Shamarra.”
“She. Shamarra.” Tirell’s smile faded, and the same keen look came into his eyes. “For years I feared her, until I came to believe she had left Vale for good.”
“She is here. She is a shape changer, so she could be anything, anywhere. A beetle in the earth, one of those Luoni—” Frain lifted his sword briefly toward the ugly birdwomen who swooped overhead. “Even that horse, I thought, until it obeyed me.”
“Shamarra,” Tirell breathed. “She whom I wronged. I should have known—” He lifted his sword, taking the wary stance of a warrior. “What is going on now?”
The sun was going dark. All in a moment it seemed to be blotted out in the midst of the cloudless sky. The clash of weapons abruptly stopped.
“Men of Melior to me!” Tirell shouted.
Either they did not hear him or they were too stricken to obey. Warriors of both armies started scattering and straggling in all directions, running, terrified of the unnatural dusk. The battle lines faded away until only a great heap and strewing of bodies remained. The day seemed much too quiet then, horribly so, with no sound except for the groaning of wounded men and the greedy squawks of the Luoni. Frain and Tirell stood alone on the bloodied plain with a whining wolf, myself.
“What is it?” Frain asked softly, expecting no reply. For my own part I was crouching and bristling in fear. Then a streak of fire shot through the gloom, and I understood. More portents. Comets fly when great men die.
“Surely this pother cannot be all for Raz,” said Tirell uncertainly.
“There,” Frain whispered, pointing his blade.
A stirring amid a pile of corpses, stench, glimmer of fungus-
white flesh, a sluggish heave and we saw it—a monstrous maggot, as daunting as death, its stubby tip standing man-high and wriggling hideously. But there was not time to stare or flee, it had taken a greenish change, it was a serpent as vast as the others and more fearsome, for just at its neck sprouted feathered wings.
“Ai!” Frain shouted, an incoherent cry of alarm, and it flew at us.
“The black beast,” Tirell said, very low.
I do not know what he meant by that. But in the moment he spoke the thing was indeed a beast, an unnatural creature made all of flux, the pale deathly deer, horned catamount fleet as a deer, goblin horse, snarling antlered hound of hell. Like a whirlwind it sped toward us, all a blur of fear and confusion, and Tirell stood rock steady, waiting for it. But Frain sprang forward and ran to meet it.
“Shamarra, no!” he shouted. “You shall not have him!” She veered to slip past him, but he blocked her way swiftly with his sword, and she came to a halt just before him, shimmering eerily from one form to the next.
And who are you to say I must not have my game, Swan Lord? she asked. The cool voice was familiar, yet with none of the former condescension in it. I thought you loved me, she added, and there was something of real feeling in the words despite her horrifying formless form.
“I do! You know I am fated to do so. But I love my brother as well, and for more reason. Am I to let one of you slay the other, then?” Frain raised his sword in threat as, a horned and ram-headed serpent, she oozed forward.
You will not kill me.
“Perhaps not. But I am your equal now; beware.”
The White Hart Page 109