“Not till you tell me your true name,” I said, stopping her mouth for a while. At last I asked, “What about you? Whom did you love?”
“With my face, can you doubt you're the first?” she said.
“But you must have liked someone,” I turned her own protest on her.
“All right then,” she said. “But it was ridiculous. I spent two years pining for Mavan, the second son of King Evan Tyrnos.”
“You knew Mavan of Tyrnos?” A book of Mavan's poems had found its way to the Abbey of St. Tarvi a couple of years before.
“I was King Evan's court fool,” she said. “His court was a dazzling place, strange enough to impress even someone from St. Fiern's Town. There were never less than a dozen bards there, not just skilled harpists but wisdom-drinkers and riddle-spouters of the old school; Mavan was learning their sublime lunacy, and it made him—interesting.” She smiled crookedly on that word, then said, “Was there ever anything sillier than a deformed jester composing love songs to a prince? Of course it wasn't funny to me then; I saw my situation as hopelessly tragic, relished the feeling, and put it into verses, like yours, of more than usual aw-fulness. I was young enough to think sitting at his feet would be enough for me. I'd hoped, at least, that he'd keep me in his service after the old king died, but neither of the brothers did. So I took my broken heart to St. Fiern's Town and washed pots in a pilgrims' inn, searching the travelers for some sorcerer that could change my face—until gradually I began to forget what made Mavan so desirable other than his utter untouchability.” She laughed, then. “Suppose I'd had my wish, become beautiful by sorcery, and caught the prince's eye: what would I be now? A cast-off mistress, I guess: too lowborn for a bride, and too old at thirty to distract him anymore. Some wishes are better left un-granted.”
“I can't see you standing for such treatment,” I said. “Let's say you found a sorcerer, sold all your possessions for a spell, and became more beautiful than Trenara. You'd have gone back to the court of Tyrnos, unrecognized but well noticed. I could see Mavan coming by stages to admire first your beauty, then your wit, and lastly your heart; and I could see you enjoying his attention—for a while. Then you would remember how easily he could ignore both wit and heart when your face didn't match. In the end, you'd have refused him.”
“I'd like to think you're right,” Hwyn said. “That's what I'd do now. But I was scarcely more than a child, then, and I scarcely knew myself except as a lonely girl trapped behind a monstrous face. I didn't know my strengths yet. It's terrible to be young. People forget that.”
“I remember,” I said. “And like you, I'm glad not to have the life I would have chosen then. Had I married the shipbuilder's daughter, I wouldn't be where I am now—”
“In a leaky house in a snowy wasteland, on the road to the heart of the Troubles?” Hwyn said.
“That's right,” I said. “Don't you know that this is the best time of my life?”
“Is it?” she said. “Gods, Jereth, what a strange man you are!” But she said it smiling.
“Hwyn,” I said, “marry me. I meant what I said in the dungeon of Berall Hall: I was never whole till I met you. It is as if I had always been searching for you, without knowing what I sought. I have followed you from summer into winter, and for all we have suffered, I have never been so happy before. I could never be so alive with anyone else as with you. Let me belong to you, heart and body. Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. Let this be our wedding night.”
“You really mean it!” Hwyn exclaimed softly.
“Why do you always find it so hard to believe what I say? I love you. And I have ached to touch you, Hwyn. I want to know all of you. I want to caress you in every place someone has hurt you. Let me begin tonight. Our time may be brief: on the road, we may freeze to death in a matter of days or starve in a matter of weeks. Why should we wait? Let's exchange promises before the gods right now, and proclaim them publicly when we reach a town with a temple—if we live so long. What do you say, my love, my life? Will you marry me?”
“There's nothing I'd rather do,” she said, too slowly, too sadly for me to think it meant yes. “But not now; not until we reach the end of the road. I love you with all my heart, and though I can scarcely believe even you could love my body, I have longed for your touch as well. But the journey ahead will be too hard for me to risk traveling pregnant, and I wouldn't know how to avoid it if we started living as wife and husband. Trenara miscarried on an easier journey—and she's younger and healthier than I am. But I promise you, beloved, if we finish this journey alive, I will certainly not refuse you.”
“You'd better mean what you say,” I said. “I'll hold you to your promise if I have to crawl from the grave to do it.”
On the fourth morning the sun broke through. The snow still spread over the land, great wet clumps of it sliding off the tree branches at intervals to drench anything below, but otherwise it was as fair a day as any we could hope for between there and Larioneth. When I awoke, Hwyn was already sitting at the window, its shutters thrown open, staring out at the brilliant white land under the sun, her hand pressed against the pouch over her heart where she kept the Eye of Night. Wordlessly I slipped my arm around her shoulders; she turned from the window to me. “Look,” she said, “has it ever been so bright?”
“It almost hurts the eyes,” I said.
“I wish it were spring,” she said, “instead of a little teasing lull before winter. Still, we should enjoy this while we can.” But she didn't look as though she were enjoying it.
I thought of asking her whether we were staying or going, but decided instead to wait for her to say the dreadful words, we must go. But for that day, at least, they remained unsaid. We spent the day laying aside provisions: roots from the gardens, some mushrooms that had grown in the partial shelter of a half-wrecked wooden house. I tried to preserve some fish by smoking it. Hwyn said little, but looked uneasy. From time to time she touched the burden near her heart, and I felt my own heart sink. For the next night and day, I felt something building like a wave against a dam, ready to break.
In the night she woke screaming. I reached out, only half conscious, to calm her with a touch, but instead her panic flowed into me, waking me fully.
“I dreamed I was filled with fire,” she said, “burning from inside, until there was nothing left. Even my name was burned. And when I had been consumed, I looked down at the world from somewhere outside my body, and saw only a scorched wasteland.”
I stroked her hair, waiting for the sentence of doom that I knew would follow.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't know how to tell you, but—”
“I know,” I said. “It's time to move on.”
“I'm sorry. You didn't see your brother again. And I'm sorrier that we have to move on at all: we could have spent a fine winter here. But it won't let me rest.” Through the fabric of her clothing, her fingers closed about the round stone.
“I know,” I repeated. “It's all right. The Eye of Night drives us; I accepted that when I chose to follow you. Besides, my brother never told me to wait for him.”
The day dawned clear and bright. We cooked a small breakfast over the fireplace, woke Trenara, and tried to savor the pleasure of eating indoors once more before leaving all shelter behind. Then we packed our bundles, with the fire-pot and other things we'd salvaged from the empty houses, and set out toward the river again. There was small need to regard the trees I'd carefully notched: we could follow my footprints in the snow where I'd gone down to fish the day before. But before we'd covered half the trail to the water's edge I heard it again—the ghostly music.
“There!” I said, pointing ahead and to the left, where I heard the playing.
“What?” said Hwyn. But I ran toward the sound without stopping to explain myself, aware only by the footsteps and hard breathing behind me that my companions were following. I thought I glimpsed a splash of color through the trees like my brother's crimson cloak, and I dashed af
ter it before it could disappear—but to no avail.
There was a sound like sharp thunder, and the sky split open as the ground beneath me gave way. Then I was falling, falling, unable to touch anything solid or see anything that made sense. Trees upside-down, trees sideways bewildered my eyes. No longer desperate to reach my brother, I tried with all my powers to find my two companions. At last my flailing hand met another and gripped for dear life. For a moment that grasp was all I knew for certain in the world. Then I found myself still and wet and cold, lying in the snow holding tight to the Lady Trenara's hand while her other arm enfolded Hwyn.
“I nearly lost you both, chasing the ghost through the woods,” I said. “It was foolish. I'm sorry.”
“You're all right,” Trenara kept saying in a soothing tone, whether to calm me, Hwyn, or herself, I was uncertain.
Hwyn, half hidden by Trenara's cloak, lifted her head grog-gily and said, “Yes, I think we're all right. We've survived our first earthquake.”
“Not my first,” I said. “I was in Iskarron once when the mountains shook; it destroyed most of the fine glass we'd been hoping to sell. But this was different.” Releasing Trenara's hand, I rose to my knees, then cautiously stood, brushing snow off the front of my clothes, breathing deeply, enjoying the way the earth stood still. Then looking about me, I was astonished. “Wait! This was no earthquake.”
“What do you mean?” Hwyn demanded, as she and Trenara disentangled themselves to stand.
“Look around you,” I said. “What can you see but snow? There's no rocks or earth dislodged on top of it anywhere. And the snow's lying as evenly as before—not piled high anywhere, not shaken out of place. This land didn't shake: only we felt the tremors.”
“Like the Entrails of the Mountains,” Hwyn mused, picking snow and pine needles off her clothing—and paused, noticing suddenly what she was doing. “Look—Jereth, you're right. Look at this,” she said, holding up a spring of pine. “While I was falling, I clutched at the branches—pine branches. But we're in a birch grove now.”
I nodded. “Not a pine tree in sight.”
“Where have we fallen to?” Hwyn said. I shook my head, unable to venture a guess.
“I caught you when you fell,” Trenara said softly. “Were you afraid?”
“Yes, I was afraid,” Hwyn answered her. “Were you?”
“Not I!” laughed Trenara, and she started forward. We wandered in amazement among trees that bore none of my knife-marks, in land that held none of our footsteps. We could not find the stream.
“What can we do?” I said.
“Keep going north,” answered Hwyn, looking around a tree-trunk for the mossy north side. We walked through a seemingly endless day, quenching our thirst with snow when we needed it, until the snow melted and our boots sank into mud. Toward evening we found a few whiteberries growing in the underbrush and ate them, as much for thirst as for hunger. By the time we collapsed from weariness in a half-dry, shallow cave, we had still found no stream.
The cold had abated while we slept. As we walked under brilliant sunlight, we slipped off our winter cloaks and carried them over our arms. We found a stream at last, not flowing north like the one we'd followed, but good enough for our thirst. As I filled the water-skin, I heard Hwyn gasp: “Gods! I can't believe it.” I looked up sharply and followed her gaze to the Lady Trenara, basking on the stream bank in her shift, which stretched over a distinctly rounded belly.
“Trenara,” Hwyn said, “are you with child?”
Trenara looked up perplexed, saying nothing, but the answer was evident.
“Trenara,” Hwyn tried again. “You look as though you're going to have a baby.”
The lady smiled, patted her abdomen, and said, “I know.”
“Is it Var's?” I wondered aloud. Trenara shrugged. But Hwyn said, “Unlikely. It would hardly be so visible by now. It could be almost anyone's—Ethwin, Lok, that young Kettran that was killed in Kelgarran Hall, any of a hundred and one men that looked longingly at her anywhere on the journey. But that hardly matters. What are we to do? She should be taken somewhere safe.”
“Where?” I said, “To Berall, where we could all be killed? And how? We don't know how we got here, never mind how to get back. Till spring there may be no safe place for any of us. But I wouldn't lose hope for Trenara. She seems to have a knack for surviving.”
“She does,” Hwyn said. “Like my mother.”
The other mysterious fool. Of course. “Like your mother,” I agreed. “But she's not your mother; nor is she your child. You can't protect her. She won't let you. And you have enough to guard, carrying the Eye of Night.”
“You're right, of course,” Hwyn said. “There's nothing I can do. Well, it had better be true that fools are the gods' favorite children, because I don't know who else can possibly take care of her.”
Trenara's condition worried me, too, but I had already had too much experience worrying about what couldn't be helped; I refused to let this new difficulty preoccupy me. At least now the traveling was easier, mostly downhill, and the weather strangely mild, out of keeping with the season. But for some reason we could not fathom, we were worn out with traveling before the sun had even passed noon. Finally we gave in to lethargy and settled on a mossy bank to rest. “It must be the unaccustomed heat,” I murmured as I drifted to sleep.
I woke to a strange sensation, a sweet smell at once familiar and unfamiliar, echoing a memory I could not place. I felt refreshed as though I'd slept for hours, but it was still midday. Hwyn and Trenara were still asleep, so I let them lie there, taking the time to explore our surroundings. Venturing into the trees, I was careful to mark my trail, lest I lose my companions in this strange land. When I returned, Hwyn was staring around her in puzzlement, while Trenara toyed with something in the grass. “Ah, there you are,” Hwyn said. “I feel so strange here. I suppose I shouldn't complain when winter's given us a respite, but the heat's almost addled my brain. It feels like summer.”
“It is summer,” I said, and showed her the wild raspberries I'd gathered in the hood of my cloak while she slept.
“What is this place?” she whispered. “Have we fallen out of winter?”
The afternoon's travel, once again, seemed endless. The warmth that had seemed such a gift that morning began to feel burdensome. We took off layers of clothing and carried them over our shoulders, sweating where the parcels touched us. “I feel as though we've walked farther today than in all the days since we left Berall,” I told Hwyn.
“Maybe we have,” she said. “How long have we been here?”
“Less than a day,” I said.
“And how long was that day?”
I stopped in my tracks. “Forever,” I said finally. “One day. How can you measure a day except by itself?” I smiled: “A riddle: how long have we known each other?”
“Five or six months,” she said. “I've lost count.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe forever, since it includes this endless day. Or maybe not ever, since I don't know your true name.”
“You know it, but you know it not,” she said, “and I want desperately to tell you, but would die sooner than tell you now, though you already know it and have spoken it; and those are my riddles for you.” So I was left once again unanswered—intrigued, frustrated, annoyed at her for holding back on me, afraid I had prodded a wound in her by asking for her name yet again, afraid of what it was she dared not tell me.
We lacked nothing but answers in that untimely summer country. Everything grew there: blackberries, strawberries, mayapples, mushrooms. The ponds and streams teemed with fish. Even we seemed infused with life: Hwyn's ragged blond hair grew abundant, my beard almost too thick to trim with my old knife. And Trenara's pregnancy seemed to burgeon out of season, like the mayapples. The abundant life here was welcome relief from the deadness of winter—but it felt unstable, uneasy. The heat became oppressive, like midsummer, and the day wore on as we walked and slept and woke and walked ag
ain under the untiring sun.
Watching Hwyn walk in the sunlight, her face half hidden by shining hair, I wondered if this fertile country might have power to restore to her the vitality a harsh life had denied her: could her body, like her hair, grow unseasonably here? Could the soft air hold any healing ointment for her scars? How would she look without them? How might she have grown up if she'd had enough food and care? What would the lines of her face have been without the marks of her grandfather's fists? Her eyes, without the violent blow that had disturbed their orbits, would look solemn instead of demented. And her face—without its distracting lopsidedness, would it be dominated by those serious eyes, or by the mobile, humorous mouth? Would I even recognize her, healed? I tried to picture it in vain. It was no use wondering: these marks of ill-use she would carry till death, and it was well that I had grown used to them. I should know from my own experience that some wounds never heal.
When at last the sun slunk down near the horizon, we saw the walls of a town glow red in the slanting light. “You know,” Hwyn said to me as we approached the gate, “since we left Berall we've found human houses only twice, and both times ghosts were nearby. Maybe we'll see them here.”
“Maybe,” I said, fighting to keep my hopes in check. The gate of the town was unguarded, and beyond it no one was to be seen. But the moment we passed through I could hear, faint as the memory of a dream, the music echoing off the stone walls. I turned to Hwyn to tell her, but to my surprise she spoke first: “Jereth, is that the music you've been hearing?” Trenara seemed to hear it too: she said nothing, but had begun to dance in time to the melody.
“Yes,” I said. “He's here. Why can you hear him now, when you couldn't before?”
“It may be we're in his country now,” Hwyn said. “You fell here following him; maybe you need to see him here, on his own ground. You lead the way.”
The town began to change before my eyes to a coastal town, not my hometown of Swanroad but one of the many ports I used to know, whose names and features had long since blurred together in my mind. I turned toward the sea by instinct, part of my mind knowing that we were miles inland, part knowing that, in this land of ghosts, that fact was no more stable than a cloud passing over the sun. Soon I heard voices: sailors calling to one another to time their movements as they hauled at a rope; and from another part of the pier, rough unpracticed voices shouting out an old seafaring song to the sounds of a Magyan flute and a gittern. Turning a corner, I found them: my brother sitting on a coil of rope, the gitternist on a barrel, amusing the sailors. Saeverth looked younger than he had when I last saw him—per-haps twelve. I pushed boldly into the knot of listeners; as in the ghost-town where I'd seen my parents, no one noticed me but the one who knew me. His eyes met mine, and he raised his eyebrows as though to let me know he saw me. I glanced back at Hwyn and Trenara, who still hung back at the edge of the crowd. Hwyn nodded to me. “Go on. We'll stay close.”
The Eye of Night Page 38