The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “No, not Alcorel,” I said. “I doubt he'd even look my way now. I mean a friend of yours. Conor.”

  “Conor?” She started away from me. When she could speak again, she whispered, “Good gods, Jereth, what have you given him?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I think he loves you almost as much as I do.”

  I left at twilight, after the hunting horns had announced the beginning of the evening rites. As casually as possible I walked past the scullery door to look for Trenara, then faded back a bit into the trees, facing the footpath behind the building to avoid the appearance that I was watching the hall. No one appeared. With my cloak over my face, I went up to the scullery door and begged bread from a servant, but glimpsed no familiar face behind the door. At last I heard a voice at my ear, Conor's voice. “Don't turn to see me: I'm not visible. Just walk to some secluded spot and I'll tell you what I know.” So I slipped down alleys and cow-paths till I reached the hedge where I'd slept the night before.

  “Haven't you the sense to come in from the cold?” Conor demanded. “There's a disused shed not far down the lane. You'll turn blue out here.”

  “I didn't last night,” I said, but followed his directions to the shed. Inside it I saw Conor sitting on the dirt floor at the ghostly semblance of a fire, which gave off no heat but at least lent the shack light and some meager portion of cheer.

  “I spoke to the Lady Trenara, but she wouldn't come,” Conor said.

  “Perhaps she couldn't hear you,” I said.

  “Oh, I'm sure she did. She fastened her eyes on me the whole time, but when I'd finished speaking she just smiled and shook her head.”

  “There's no understanding her,” I said.

  “Why?” objected Conor. “You of all people should understand. Hwyn is in Berall Hall, or at least under it. Trenara follows Hwyn, and so as long as Hwyn remains there, so does Trenara, come peril or peace. There's nothing she can do for her, but the demands of loyalty have little to do with practicalities— for Trenara or for you, Jereth.”

  “Then Hwyn had it backwards,” I said. “The only thing I can do for Trenara is to save Hwyn: if that succeeds, Trenara may depart on her own with a gracious farewell, as she did in Kreyn. But I fear that rescue may be a long way from success. If anything had happened to Var, some news would surely have leaked out during the day.”

  “I'm afraid you're right,” Conor said. “The work's not prospering. What good is it to haunt Var? He's already haunted. His chamber is lousy with ghosts. How can I drive him mad? He is already mad; what more can I accomplish?”

  “How do you know he's mad?”

  “It is well accepted that a man who speaks to ghosts where none exist is mad. Even so, a man is also mad who sees ghosts and never speaks to them.”

  “Are you sure he sees you?”

  “He sees all of us. His eyes follow us—a physical response too instinctive to suppress—but otherwise he ignores us.”

  “Does that make him mad? Some would say that makes him sane.”

  “Would you? Imagine yourself in his position. Imagine that I and my brothers thronged round your bed at night, plus a few deceased members of your own family and some gruesome specters who charged you with their death, every wound visible, each of us warning or cursing you by turns or in chorus. How long could you avoid responding? Wouldn't you try to seek some means of either satisfying our demands or banishing us? If you were determined not to answer our accusations, would you not at least cover your eyes to shut out the grisly sight? Var does nothing. He is mad, I tell you, as mad as a man would be who, surrounded by living folk, never spoke to a one of them.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but he's sane in the eyes of the world, never betraying himself with a word or gesture. All the same, I can hardly believe what you tell me. If Va r is, as you say, lousy with ghosts, a veritable lodestone for the spirit world, how can he condemn Hwyn and dozens of harmless lunatics for attracting ghosts to Berall? What ruler would issue an edict against himself? It makes no sense.”

  Conor scowled. “Here we see the defect in the education of Tarvon priests: you're trained to expect too much logic in the world. It's neither just nor logical for a haunted man to condemn the haunted. And what of it? I remember King Elion of Kettra, Elion the Stern. A fierce moralist, Elion: he decried adultery as an offense against law and nature. Not only must adulterers die, but the hapless offspring of their unions he also doomed to death. Dozens of bastards and accused bastards died in his lands before some benefactor to the realm lodged an arrow-point in the king's throat. Among Elion's possessions was found a letter written by his mother on her deathbed, confessing to twenty years' intimacy with a horse-breaker who was Elion's true father. Elion had kept that letter all through the years when he called bastard children born traitors, unnatural monsters, the spawn of darkness.

  “Var is another Elion. He must kill ghost-seers and lunatics to prove that he is not what he knows he is. He cannot retract this sentence of doom, for to admit the smallest whisper of self-doubt is to lose all: his lordship, his life, and the icon he thinks is himself. To admit doubt is to admit guilt: first and last, the blood-guilt of his elder sister Ruva, the heir to the rule by Berallian custom, who showed signs of madness even in childhood, and died in what was called a riding accident. No more can his faithful followers afford to doubt him: they would then face the guilt of having bound up his prisoners and built his gallows. The lie of Var's wisdom will not shatter easily: too many need to believe it true.”

  “There's not much hope, then,” I said. “Maybe I should call on his sister?”

  “What for? If she could do any more than she's already done to shake Var out of his senses, she would do it without the urging of a passing vagabond. But there's one among the living you'd best see,” Conor said, “someone who's shown interest in Hwyn. Could Hwyn have a sister?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “She doesn't like to speak of her past. For all I know of her family, she could have hatched from an egg.”

  “This woman is enough like Hwyn to be her sister. She hasn't asked about her outright, but skulks about the castle listening for news. I followed her through town to the north square by the temple, where she sells fine cloth and lace from a cart. I didn't catch her name. She seems to be a stranger here and wary of the townsfolk. You can probably find her in the morning.”

  “What two strangers can do against the whole town I don't know,” I said. “But where else can I turn? I'll look for her tomorrow.”

  “And I'll return to Var,” Conor said. “Sleep now.”

  13

  THE BOND OF A NAME

  I could not sleep much, too filled with forebodings to rest. I had only a day left to save Hwyn or take up her quest without her. I knew I was no warrior, to kill the tyrant who imprisoned her; no fire-tongued leader, to rouse the populace against him; no master thief, to cheat the bars that bound her. Together, we might overpower one guard at the prison door if luck favored us, but there was never just one; against the whole company of guards, we could do no more than die with some travesty of honor against the company of guards. And if Hwyn and I both died, who would complete this crazy errand of hers?

  At dawn I rose, sore and befuddled with fatigue, to seek the north square of town. With the festival nearing its close, the merchants did not scramble so early in the day for places in the square; most of their best wares were sold, and most of the townspeople had lost interest in what remained. I saw wagonloads of vegetables and carved wooden toys, a shoemaker and a blind beggar setting up shop, but no seller of fine cloth and lace. Later, perhaps, I might have more luck. Passing the time, I strolled to the temple grounds, where a girl was sweeping fallen leaves off the Turning Dancers' platform. There was not much to do here. There had been a dawn service marking the festival's last day, but it seemed I was too late for it; already people were leaving the temple. Scanning the little knot of temple-goers, I saw a familiar figure in a gray hooded cloak stride past, head down, as though she d
id not want anyone to meet her eyes. I darted after her, breathless. Only when I was close enough to lay a hand on her shoulder did I dare whisper, “Hwyn? Can it be you?”

  She looked up in astonishment and I realized my mistake. The eyes that met mine were bright blue, and normal; Hwyn's were dark gray and crossed.

  “So sorry!” I exclaimed. “I took you for a friend. Of course you're not Hwyn.”

  “But I am,” protested a voice somewhat deeper than my friend's. “Who are you?” This, then, was the woman Conor had promised I'd find. A sister to Hwyn? Maybe; but then again, perhaps only a sister in misfortune. Like my Hwyn, this woman was most distinguished by a stunted body and crooked face, a face broken at nose and jaw and badly mended.

  “My name is Jereth,” I said. “I thought you were my friend Hwyn, a traveling player like myself; but it was foolish hope that made me think so, for she is in prison.”

  “Yes, I've heard of this double of mine,” the woman said. “I would like to meet her. Indeed, I may have some idea who she is. Come with me to my lodging, and we'll talk. My name, as I said, is also Hwyn: Hwyn the Weaver.” I fell into step beside her. When we reached the inn where she was staying, I adopted her habit of ducking my head to avoid recognition, lest I be spotted as the man thrown out of Lord Var's hall. No sense causing trouble for my new acquaintance before I heard what she had to say. We reached a back chamber where she'd stashed her wares: fine, gauzy fabrics for ladies' veils, intricate lace, embroidered linens. “Is this all your handiwork?” I asked.

  “Much of it is,” she said. “I used to have a partner. Pity I'm not trained to a homelier craft; there's little call for such airy finery in the shadow of winter, in a cold land, in the Troubles. But that's beside the point; you didn't come to buy linen. If you'll help me set up my shop this morning, I'll answer your questions—and give you some breakfast. You look like you need some.”

  Knowing no other source of help, I nodded my assent. As she unwrapped a parcel of bread and cheese and divided it in two, I asked, “What do you know of my friend?”

  “I know a story Deor told me—that's my husband, dead and lost now. We were parted for a while when I accompanied my lady into exile, and Deor came looking for me all across the land. He says he had false hope thrust upon him once in the town of Gwilth: there he saw a woman who looked marvelously like me—only worse, from his description—another runt of the litter, like me, with blond hair and a damaged face. He ran toward her, calling my name; when he realized his mistake, she told him she'd be Hwyn if it would make him feel better. In fact she liked the name so much, she said she'd keep it. That's your friend, isn't it? The cross-eyed one?”

  “Yes. In fact, I've heard that story too,” I said. “She remembered him fondly, that man who first called her Hwyn. She'd wanted him to come with her, but he wouldn't. I guess he found the real Hwyn in the end. Strange chance that the two of you should come to Berall at once.”

  “More than chance,” she said. “The name is a bond. I've been looking for her. I know more about your friend and your journey than I care to speak of here, in a common inn where all the world may pass by listening. I may know enough to be of some use to you.” By this time we'd each had our share of bread, cheese, and water, all slightly stale. Hwyn the Weaver rose and shouldered a parcel of cloth bolts. “Now if you'll help me about my business in the morning, I'll go about your business in the afternoon.”

  “We don't have much time. She won't live beyond tomorrow unless someone can save her.”

  “I know,” said the weaver. “But I haven't decided yet what's best to do. If you have a better plan, go off and set to it. But if not, then come with me. Sell my wares for just a few hours while I weave and think.”

  I had no choice but to trust her. I helped her pack a cart with wares, harness a horse to it, and drive into the square. There I set about work I had not done in years: haggling with customers while keeping an eye trained for thieves among the buyers. Strange that the weaver could think in peace while a stranger sold her wares, one whose honesty and good sense were both unknown quantities to her. Funny, too, that she'd happen to pick a merchant's son for the task. I'd never liked it, but I was about as good at it as a man can be while worrying whether all that he lives for will last another day. When I stole a glance at the weaver, her face looked solemn, lost in thought, while her hands darted to and fro on a small hand-loom.

  At midday the dancing began in the temple court. “I've decided,” Hwyn the Weaver said simply, so we closed up shop and drifted off as though to watch the dancing, but instead went back to her inn. We left the packed wagon at the inn, but the weaver saddled the horse, climbed a stile to mount, and rode from there while I walked alongside. “When we reach Berall Hall,” she told me, “I am your friend's cousin, and I have just learned of her plight.”

  “What do you mean to do?” I said.

  The weaver shook her head. “I can't tell you that. Trust me: you have no one else.”

  “Gods,” I said, “you are like her. Why are you so much like her?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe blind chance. Or maybe the strange plan of the gods that I should play a part in these mysteries you are caught up in. I was born with the first rumors of the Troubles, thirty years ago; maybe I was born for this. And then again, maybe even the gods had no notion of what we would do with the fates—and the faces—they gave us. It matters little now: all we can do is make the best use we can of what we are.” She gestured with her head toward the gate of Berall Hall looming just ahead of us. “Hush, now. The time has come for deeds, not words. Do as I bid, and I will not fail you.”

  At the stronghold gate I discovered that arriving on horseback wins some respect even for the kin of a prisoner. It helped, too, that beneath her rough traveling cloak, the weaver was nobly dressed, no doubt in clothes of her own making: a moon-white shift covered by a full-skirted surcoat, deeply dyed with indigo and artfully embroidered with curling vines and clusters of red grapes. As a well-to-do artisan visiting some disgraced poor relation, she was helped off her horse and assured of its safety by one of the guards. They even seemed to shut the dungeon door behind us without the customary self-satisfied clang.

  As we descended into the gloom, I discovered another subtle difference between this Hwyn and the one I knew. Unlike my Hwyn, half blind and accustomed to compensating with sound and touch, Hwyn the Weaver stumbled in the dark prison, needing my hand to steady her on the stairs. But by the time we reached the bottom, her eyes had adjusted enough to recognize her double. “Look at you,” the weaver marveled, “no wonder Deor took you for me. No wonder he called you by my name.”

  “So you're Hwyn,” my Hwyn said, then asked, “Deor—is he in Berall, too?”

  “No,” Hwyn the Weaver said softly, “killed in battle a year ago.”

  “I'm sorry,” Hwyn said. “He was a good man.”

  The weaver nodded. “He died as he lived. We supported Maethaldor of Troeth against her uncle's usurpation, and lost. He died defending her, and I've been in exile ever since.”

  “The world outside Troeth is wide, and most of it more comfortable than Berall. What brings you here, Hwyn the first?”

  “You, of course,” said the weaver in a hoarse whisper. “Did you imagine you could take my name and give nothing in return? At the time you met Deor, I was a paltry fortune-teller, able to tell lovers whether their sweethearts were faithful and such stuff—divining little more than a sensitive ear and a taste for gossip could uncover without magic. I wove weak love-charms into handkerchiefs and veils to sell to eager maids and neglected wives. After you took my name, I felt myself flooded with your power, your knowledge. I became a seer of real gifts, a treasured counselor to my lady.”

  “Surely you haven't come all this way to thank me,” my friend said, “or to gloat over the reversal of our fortunes.”

  “No,” said Hwyn the Weaver, “I have come to repay you. Do not be afraid.” She bent and whispered in Hwyn's ear, and I saw my frien
d's face go as still as death, her eyes vacant, her un-speaking mouth half open.

  I had been standing aside to let the two Hwyns have their say, but now I came between them, catching my friend as she slumped earthward, then seizing the other one's sleeve with my free hand. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing! I'm trying to save her,” she hissed, “if you'll allow me. Listen! She's not hurt, only entranced. I've ordered her by her name—her true name, which I learned when she took mine—to let go control of her body until dawn.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she'd never let me do what I'm going to do,” the weaver said. “I know her. I know her quest, too, and all that depends upon it. She must not be stopped here by a narrow-minded lordling and a herd of frightened burghers. Or by her own talent for self-sacrifice. I must take her place.” The weaver threw off her cloak and began undoing the lacing of her surcoat. “I'll need to trade clothes with her—at least the outer layers. Could you loosen her gown? Hurry: there's no time for modesty. If the guard looks in we'll all be lost.”

  “But what will become of you?” I said.

  “I'll tell them Hwyn bewitched me and took my clothes, and then you stole my horse and helped her escape,” she said. “The innkeeper will back my story. By that time I'll expect you two to be far away. I only ask that you let my horse go free after the first day's journey, so he can find his way back here. There's food in my saddlebags; you'd better keep those. I can get more at the inn.”

  “What if they don't believe you?” I said. “I don't like to think I'm sacrificing one of you for the other.”

  “You are sacrificing nobody,” Hwyn the Weaver said. “You have no choice whatsoever in this matter. You men can never seem to understand it when you're not in charge.” I thought this unfair, since all my life I'd done little but follow, but this was no time for petty arguments. She continued: “You can't stand in for your companion, as I can. You can't break this prison down. If you know a better way, speak now.” I had nothing to say. I helped undress and redress the limp, doll-like body. Finally she wrapped my Hwyn in her cloak. “Say she fainted,” blue-eyed Hwyn suggested. Gently she pressed Hwyn's dark-gray eyes closed. I shuddered—it looked like what you do to a corpse— but when she handed the unconscious woman into my arms, I could just barely feel a stirring of breath from the passive body. “Now, who could tell us apart?” gloated the weaver.