Yorath the Wolf

by Wilder, Cherry;

  Zelline spread her hands.

  “And you, Lady Zelline?” I asked.

  “I have been married too, since that journey to Krail,” she said. “I have two sons, my two dear boys, but poor old Fernan, my Duke of Chantry, is dead. I am a widow. I am, believe it or not, a Dowager Duchess . . .”

  She looked at me with a gleam in her eye.

  “Do you suppose Rosmer means us to marry?”

  “Lady,” I said, “you are a wonderful match . . . but what am I?”

  “Rosmer would hold no one in Swangard who was not highborn.” Zelline smiled.

  I took the opportunity to kiss her hand, her smooth shoulder.

  “Who knows if we are suited?” I whispered.

  “One more song . . .” said Zelline.

  She sang a ballad that was sad and sweet: “The Three Swans of Lien.” It woke strange echoes in my reeling brain.

  “It is no song for this tower,” said Zelline. “Queen Aravel is the last swan of Lien.”

  “Once I had a silver swan, an amulet,” I said. “I wonder what has become of it?”

  The fire was dying; we could hear the wind howl about the white tower and see flurries of snow blown against the mullioned window panes.

  “Oh my lord,” said Zelline, “we are alive and warm, even in this melancholy place. I have been sent to cheer you.”

  So the fair Zelline became my lover. We clung together while the storms of winter raged around the tower. There were consequences of this attachment. I lost the sympathy of the Brother Harbinger completely, and I began to see the new religion that Rosmer himself was spreading throughout Lien for a narrow and twisted dogma. I understood that the Marsh-Hag was an insulting name for the Goddess, the benign spirit of the natural world. On a less exalted plane the love—even if it was a fleeting love—that Zelline and I felt for one another renewed my strength. I knew that Zelline, my splendid lover, was a creature as unfree as myself; the Duchess of Chantry was another vassal in the continual game of Battle Rosmer played with living men and women. Far from being content to stay in the tower at Swangard, I knew now that with or without my memory I must escape and throw myself upon the mercy of the world again.

  Rosmer visited me several times; he was interested, he said, in my sad case. We walked upon the battlements of the tower with the guards, and he pointed into Balbank and spoke quite openly of his grand design for the expansion of Lien. Even now I cannot tell what plans he had for me: whether he could have restored my memory by his craft, whether he would ever have attempted to reveal my parentage or bring me forward as the heir of Lien.

  We sat in my bower and gazed into a small silvered mirror mounted upon a stand. Rosmer would tap upon the glass or place a token—a coin, a leaf, a twist of wool—on the table before the mirror. Then faces would appear in the glass; living faces, although some of those we saw were long dead. It was a demonstration of magical craft to equal any that I ever saw, but he set little store by it. It was simply a test of my memory or a game he played for interest and amusement. I saw a handsome man, hawk-faced, richly dressed, and another, somewhat older, with ruddy curls and a beard. The first was a stranger, the second I believed I knew. I had the sensation of discomfort, of yearning in my head that suggested a hidden memory.

  “Kelen,” said Rosmer, “the Markgraf. And Valko of Val’Nur, your liege lord.”

  He rewarded me with scraps of information, even with tales from the past told from his own peculiar perspective.

  “Now see, now see . . .” he whispered.

  A golden locket lay open before the mirror: it was filled with fine curls of hair, children’s hair. Three young girls were shown in the mirror; they were taking turns to brush each other’s hair. They were all beautiful, the youngest was hardly more than a child.

  “The swans,” said Rosmer. “The swans themselves. Hedris, Aravel and Elvédegran. Their lives were pure misfortune. They were ill-starred, endowed with beauty and rank and not much else. Perhaps, who knows, Elvédegran might have shown . . . Ah, it is too late. See, here is the Old Pen, the Mother Swan: Guenna of Lien.”

  The woman in the glass was darker than her daughters and, like them, very beautiful.

  “A proud spirit,” said Rosmer, “humbled at last. The most intelligent woman I ever knew, but she knew her worth far too late. Ungovernable. See here . . .”

  A coin lay before the mirror. A strange man appeared; he had a piercing dark glance, blunt features, fair hair streaked with grey.

  “I do not know him,” I said.

  “A magician,” said Rosmer shortly. “A good healer as well. Once he cut me for the stone, eased my agony. Now behold: a face from Mel’Nir!”

  An old man glared from the mirror; he had a terrible face, bloated and cruel, with hooded eyelids, down-curving lips. I gasped aloud.

  “I know him!” I said. “I have seen him in a glass or a scrying stone, seated upon his throne. It is the old King, the Great King, Ghanor of Mel’Nir.”

  “Dead at last,” said Rosmer. “It was long prophesied that he would die at the hands of his own kin, the Duarings.”

  “And was the prophecy fulfilled?”

  “Who can tell?” asked Rosmer with his sideways look. “He was brought home to his Palace Fortress sorely wounded after the Second Battle of Balbank. He lay dying for more than a year.”

  “Who is the new king?” I asked. “Is he called Gol.”

  “You have that from the books,” said Rosmer, “not from your memory.”

  He sorted through the pile of leather bound books that he had provided: a history of Lien and its neighbors, tales of Eildon, books on horsemanship, dancing, gardens, a book of strange beasts, a book of verses. He laid it before the mirror.

  “Hazard,” he said. “Robillan Hazard, one of our poets. He and his fellows are part of the glory of Lien. But he came to grief . . .”

  The poet had a wise, whimsical face. His hair, his brown moustaches, even his eyebrows all turned upward, but his wide grey-green eyes were melancholy.

  “For all his masques and revels and tales of magic,” said Rosmer, “he was a great purveyor of discontent. What was it that he said: ‘the world’s a prison. . . .’ No, I remember.”

  He recited softly:

  “I brave the streets, the marketplace, the fair,

  Or seek some wilderness, the world forsaking,

  In company I feel I am alone,

  Alone, in solitude, I am not free.

  My sternest jailer is my own despair,

  The darkest prison of my own making.”

  I could not hold back; I laughed and groaned, impatient at the foolish poet.

  “Oh you may protest,” said Rosmer, “here in this fine . . . hospital. Hazard has come to understand captivity very well.”

  “He is in prison?”

  “No longer,” said Rosmer. “He had a taste of the wells as they are called, the dungeons of the Blackwater Keep, in the riverside district of Balufir. But now he is free and gone into Athron, so I am told.”

  He brought it out in a very matter of fact tone, but I thought it likely that the poet had been one of Rosmer’s victims.

  The vizier took more wine and bade me stoke up the fire. Then he sighed and murmured and tapped on the glass impatiently. A woman appeared, sweet-faced, with long blonde braids.

  “Who knows this lady now?” he said. “It is Ishbéla, for whom this tower is named, the mother of Holy Matten.”

  “I cannot love the Lame God,” I said warily. “I do not know what to make of the brothers and their religion.”

  “Most men and women lack virtue,” said Rosmer. “A priesthood is an excellent thing. It will spread over the land and promote order. The Druda, the priests, of Eildon wield great power.”

  Then, having settled Lien under the yoke of the Brotherhood, he revealed another terrible thing. He showed yet another beautiful woman in the glass; he summoned her up with a red rose petal.

  “Fair Zaramund,” he said. “I have be
en very patient, but now the day is done, the time of roses is at an end. There . . . I am quoting Hazard again. A poem for the old Markgrafin, Guenna. They come and go, these women, like roses, like field flowers . . .”

  Zaramund’s image wavered and dissolved and was replaced by the image of a young girl. She was fresh-faced rather than beautiful, with light blue eyes and smooth brown tresses.

  “A field flower,” said Rosmer. “A daisy or a cornflower. Fideth of Wirth, daughter of a bumpkin knight with some distant connection to the Markgraf’s own family. A country cousin.”

  I asked no questions, but it was easy to read some sinister significance into all the dry utterances of this man. My loss of memory, the cloud that lay over my mind, made me the prey of strange imaginings. I was uneasy in Rosmer’s presence because of my plans and my hidden thoughts.

  The task I had set myself, of escaping from Swangard, was a formidable one. I was still well guarded, and I saw that this was because of my size and strength. I played the gentle giant; I affected a limp and clung to my ash staff. I was smiling, docile, stupid with my jailers. In secret I exercised and trained my muscles, slackening with inactivity.

  I looked out undaunted from the top of the tower at the garden, the high inner wall, the courtyard of Swangard and the four drawbridges. The northern bridge was never raised, it was rusted into place and used as an ordinary bridge leading to a crossroads. Just where this bridge gave onto the courtyard, there stood the forge and the stables; I must either have a charger that could bear my weight or a two horse cart. I planned to go some way westward along the bank of the Bal then abandon my stolen horse or cart, swim over the wide river and regain the land of Mel’Nir.

  I watched covertly but eagerly as the spring came to the garden of the tower: sooner or later I would be taken down and allowed a walk in that untended patch of green with its ruined flowerbeds and untrimmed fruit trees. In the north there was one tree I thought might bear my weight half way up the wall. It was an old apple tree, once trained against the wall but now gnarled and drooping.

  The choice of a time was more difficult. Rosmer of Lien must be far away, that was certain. I feared his magic more than I did the guards and the brothers. I stared at the courtyard and the northern gateway and observed the traffic that passed in and out on different days. Firstday, Fastday and Thirdwatch were too quiet and Midweek was too busy, for it was market day. Fiveday and the Longwatch, the two days that ended the week, at least in the Mel’Nir reckoning, were better for my purpose.

  As time wore on into the Willowmoon, the courtyard around the northern gate lost its wintery aspect. Beggars came and sat in the sun; the brothers cast off their gaiters for sandals; carts with spring vegetables arrived. Travellers went about again, and sometimes stayed at the Hermitage. I became aware of two new men at the forge, helping the aged Brother Smith and his two callants. One was a thin brown-skinned man who sometimes stood for a long time watching the tower. Once as I strolled upon the roof with my blooming and beautiful duchess, I believed he raised a hand in salute. The other farrier was a massive fellow who drove a cart with two fine large horses, both large enough to bear me comfortably. Still I watched and became used to seeing these two men and a certain lame beggar, horribly twisted, who sat minding a little hand cart full of clothesline props and wicker baskets.

  I walked in the garden at last with my four guards, stalwart men of Lien; all went well and I was never more quiet. I managed to show that I was relieved to return to my bower and tired by the effort of walking so far.

  The brothers who came to bring me food and act as my servants changed from week to week. A certain Brother Lee stood before me one morning; he was thin-faced, dark and very nervous.

  “Steady, Brother,” I said as he spilled my morning milk.

  “Lord Y-Yorath?”

  He fixed his eyes upon me with a beseeching look, and as I stared back at him he lowered his eyes sadly.

  From Zelline I learned that the court would go on a progress to Nesbath, a town on the Inland Sea, the Dannermere, so that the Markgrafin Zaramund might take the waters. Rosmer, of course, would go with them. Zelline herself planned to go on this spring journey, but the poor madwoman, Queen Aravel, became ill and the duchess stayed to attend her. It was a duty she never shirked, although the poor woman was a violent and difficult patient.

  On the first day of the Longwatch that ended the Willowmoon, Brother Lee brought my food at midday. He said, “You will walk in the garden today, Lord Yorath.”

  I made no reply. The frightened fellow became even more bold.

  “You have friends,” he whispered. “You might . . . go far . . .”

  “Brother,” I said, “I cannot tell friend from foe.”

  We were interrupted by Zelline, Duchess of Chantry, billowing into the room in her new spring mantle. The brother at once fell silent and averted his eyes while Zelline kissed my cheek.

  “I travel to Nesbath to join the court,” she said. “The poor lady is recovering, and she has others by her.”

  She bustled to and fro in both rooms snatching up her lute, a book of music, a box of sweetmeats, a scarf. I saw a feather fan that she had let fall beside a chair and carried it after her into the bedchamber. Zelline was searching for a brooch. The fastening had broken during a roof-top walk, and she had slipped it for safekeeping into the pocket of one of my cloaks.

  “There, your silver swan,” she said. “These pockets are a treasure trove.”

  She flung the swan medallion onto the quilted bedcover. I picked it up and stared at it before slipping it over my head. Why did I have a swan of Lien?

  “Come, what a boy you are Yorath,” said Zelline, laughing. “An apple in your pocket!”

  She threw it across the room, and I caught it. It was a fine golden green apple; I could not remember putting it into my pocket. Zelline gave a glad cry; she had found her pearl brooch. I bit into the apple.

  My memory returned; I filled up with the memory of my whole life as a cup is filled at a spring. No time had passed but I remembered all my life to that time. I remembered all my training, my soldiering, how I had served Strett of Cloudhill and Valko of Val’Nur. I remembered how I led the Wolves and the Westerlings and became a great man, a general, and how I was struck down by Knaar, my friend, on the cliffs at Selkray. I remembered my lost love, the Owlwife. I remembered Hagnild and Caco and Arn, my boyhood friend. I remembered who I was by birth: the Heir of Prince Gol of Mel’Nir; the Heir of Lien.

  I bit the apple again for good measure and remembered still more. I remembered all that had passed on Liran’s Isle as my memory faded, all that the Alraune had said.

  “Goodbye, my dear!!” cried Zelline. “I must fly away!”

  I took her in my arms and kissed her.

  “Good-bye, dear Zelline!”

  Perhaps a crumb of apple remained upon my lips.

  “Take care,” she whispered, fingering the silver swan that hung around my neck.

  Zelline swept out of my chambers, and I heard the guard at the head of the stairs lift up the beam of the door for her. I stood at the window of my bedchamber in Swangard, that royal prison, and looked at the north gate. I saw the brawny smith, the dark man, the crooked man. I called softly:

  “Brother Less . . .”

  He stood in the doorway staring at me.

  “Brother Less,” I said, “the spell is broken. I am myself again.”

  “Praise the Lord of Light, he whispered. “Lord Yorath . . . Prince . . . we have not much time . . .”

  We heard voices beyond the barred outer door: the second guard had come up the stairs. In a few moments they would come and fetch me for my walk.

  “The signal!” said Brother Less. “If I give the signal from the window, Lord, then a ladder will come over the wall by the bent tree yonder.”

  “Give the signal!”

  “The guards?”

  I picked up my ash staff with a sigh.

  “I will take care of them.”
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  He came past me, drew out a red scarf and waved it through the bars before the window. I slung on my old army cloak and went to the table in my bower. I had half of my apple left. I cut away the core and slipped it into my pocket. I divided the rest into a smaller and a larger portion and wrapped them in a napkin of linen. When Brother Less came to stand nervously beside me, I placed them in his trembling hands.

  “Brother Less,” I said, “I have no idea why you should do all this to save me. I hope you come to no harm.”

  “Lord,” he said, “it is for the records, for the truth. I saw . . . I heard what was done at Selkray. I was a witness.”

  “Then for the truth do one more good deed,” I said. “Here is the magic fruit, the apple from Liran’s Isle that has restored my memory. I charge you to bring this larger piece to Aravel of Lien, the poor madwoman who is pent up in this tower, my mother’s elder sister. And the smaller piece is for you, for your enlightenment.”

  He took the napkin and folded it into the sleeve of his robe. We heard the beam lifted.

  “Stand in the doorway of the bedchamber!” I ordered.

  I might have ordered the poor man to look afraid, but he did this anyway. I stood against the hangings on the left of my doorway. The young guard came in calling my name, seeing only Brother Less with a look of terror on his face. When he was in, I tripped him and caught him behind the ear with the ash staff. The second guard was unable to draw back; I struck him, and he fell in a heap across his companion.

  I ran out and through the door at the top of the stairs and let the beam fall to lock it behind me. The staircase was dark. The lower door was ajar, and I could see the uniform of a third guard waiting on the threshold. I went very swiftly down the staircase clinging to the wall where I could not be seen. Then I limped painfully on my staff to the door and came out into the spring sunshine.

  “There we are, Lord Yorath,” said the third guard cheerily. “Where’s your escort then?”

  I stood aside to let him peer into the building, then whirled about, kicked him firmly on his broad rump and sent him sprawling through the door. I had the door shut and barred and I rushed at the fourth guard with upraised staff. He was standing half turned aside on the path. He swung up his pike with a look of fear; I struck it aside and felled him with a blow to the wind and a blow to the neck.