“Who knows all this?” I asked.
“Very few. Even I did not know it until I had served Queen Aidris for several years. King Sharn has had some encounter with his grandmother.”
“But the members of this household . . . the servants?”
“There are only two living servants,” said Jalmar Raiz with a grim smile, “the old man and his wife. The markgrafin is also attended by wraiths . . . by her own conjurings.”
“She has risked discovery on my account,” I said.
“You are the Prince of Mel’Nir,” he said. “You are the only grandchild that this poor lady has seen in the flesh for some years and a child long believed dead, the child of her beloved youngest daughter. And more than all these things, Yorath, you are the Heir of Lien.”
A silver trumpet sounded, and the old steward, Master Bowyer, begged leave to show me to my chamber. Jalmar Raiz accompanied me and found that in spite of my “assassination,” my sojourn on Liran’s Isle, and my imprisonment in Swangard, I was indeed perfectly fit. The Brother Harbinger had done good work. Jalmar Raiz questioned me shrewdly as he poked and prodded as if to make sure that my wits were sound.
So there began for me and for my friends a marvellous strange time in Erinhall. We dined to the sound of music; we were surrounded by the sights and sounds of a great house. The hooded wraith servants were all about us, and there were other wraiths. One might see children playing upon the lawns, peacocks in the orangery, even hunters riding home. In the great hall there were sometimes lords and ladies dancing in fantastic costumes and gilded masks. When I appeared, silver trumpets sounded, and the dancers bowed to me. I lived the life of a prince in exile, a prince of shadows.
I sat with Guenna of Lien in a kind of indoor garden, and she questioned me very closely about my imprisonment in Swangard and my conversations with Rosmer. I found it more difficult to answer than I expected; we were too far apart, in age and in the kind of lives we had led. I told her of Rosmer’s words when he showed the image of the Markgrafin Zaramund, and then the image of the young girl, Fideth of Wirth, a distant connection of the house of Lien.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “I did not mark his words much at the time, but since I regained my memory . . .”
My grandmother was tense and excited.
“He will put her aside at last,” she said. “My son’s wife is barren, poor creature. I remember when she was a tiny girl, five years younger than your mother, Elvédegran. She has been markgrafin, the flower of the court, for twenty years, and now she will be put aside for the young girl, Fideth of Wirth.”
“Why now?” I asked. “Is there a reason?”
“I can guess,” said my grandmother, smiling. “Perhaps it is more apparent to a woman. Fideth is pregnant by the Markgraf Kelen, and she is a young and unspoiled girl of good family. Kelen . . . and Rosmer . . . are sure that she will bear Kelen’s child.”
“What will become of Zaramund?” I asked.
“She will be proclaimed ‘barren and unfit for marriage’ by the Royal Council,” said Guenna. “It is a brutal proceeding, but there are worse things. It makes no reflection on her virtue. Kelen might have done this long ago, but he loved his wife and he feared her family, the Lord Merl of Grays and his sons.”
“Grandmother,” I said, “Rosmer would do nothing . . . worse?”
“So you have learned to fear him?” she said. “I do not believe that he would do the lady harm after so long.”
She rose up distracted and walked among the dwarf trees in their tubs, touching the leaves, then went up to her tower room where she kept her scrying stones and worked her magic.
There were more common occupations for us at Erinhall: Arn and I did handwork, repairs about the house; Forbian did his copying and illuminating; Ibrim caught fish in the stream. My grandmother, when she summoned me every day, spoke of the land of Lien. She was patient when I spoke of Mel’Nir and of my life, but I wondered if it truly interested her. She would beg me to explain a certain military action, to play out a battle for her on a tabletop in one of the lower chambers with scores of battle pieces: king, queen, vizier, rider, tower, soldiers. She followed very well, but the true details of even a small encounter sickened her.
One day I took up the figure of a vizier and said, “In Mel’Nir he is called a general, except in the Chyrian lands where he is a druda or priest.”
“So it is in Eildon,” she said. “And in the Chameln lands he is a shaman, and in Athron the magician.”
“Grandmother,” I said. “What of Rosmer?”
She did not look at me, but took up another vizier from our little plan, a black piece.
“He was my husband’s advisor,” she said, “and mine too when I was left a widow with four young children. I would not be ruled by him. I saw the danger too late; I thought it was a matter of mere intrigue. Rosmer stole away the heart and mind of my son; he forced me to leave my throne; he sent away my youngest child to the Palace Fortress of Mel’Nir, where she died. He is suspected of complicity in the murder of my elder daughter and her husband, the King and Queen of the Firn, and he sent assassins to kill their daughter Aidris. He has driven my daughter Aravel mad. One day, if he does not find me out before that time, I will cause him to be killed.”
We heard the sound of music, the voices of children playing, the splash of falling water. Guenna gestured impatiently, and all was still. She rose up, and her sleeve swept aside the pieces in our battle plan on the tabletop.
“I am tired of the second battle of Balbank . . .”
When she had gone, Jalmar Raiz stepped out of the shadows.
“Perhaps the markgrafin should have an interest in such an important battle,” he said softly.
“Master Raiz,” I said, “I have told you what I know of Rosmer’s grand design for the expansion of Lien. I wonder about my grandmother’s design. I hope she has no plans to bring me forward as Heir of Lien.”
“I am not privy to the markgrafin’s designs, Highness,” said Jalmar Raiz, “but if I had to stage your restoration, it would begin with your recognition by your father, King Gol. Hagnild would bring you to him. The Palace Fortress is already a happier place, although the old king’s death was announced but three moons ago. If Gol were to acknowledge you as his heir, all else would follow. You might, if you chose, denounce your murderous friend Knaar of Val’Nur and spread dissension among his armies. A number of your old comrades in arms would return to your wolf banner; you would have at least an escort, at most a small army. At this point Rosmer would begin to make overtures to you again . . .”
“After my escape from prison?”
“He saved your life, Prince Yorath. He has a respect for the blood royal. He is dazzled by the prospect of a common heir for Mel’Nir and for Lien.”
“There will be a new markgrafin and a new heir, a true heir of Lien!”
Jalmar Raiz laughed and flicked his fingers; a wraith appeared with wine and glasses.
“If life were as certain as that,” he said. “Children, infants, are as frail as snowflakes. You are a healthy young man. Rosmer would suggest a meeting, as I said, and you would agree, relying upon a heavy magical protection woven by Hagnild, the Markgrafin Guenna and myself . . .”
“Is he then so dangerous?”
“Do you doubt it? I think you know of his special talent. He is indeed the eater of souls. He works upon the mind, the desires, the hidden fears of his victims. He is very smooth and modest. You yourself find it difficult, Prince Yorath, to bring all his images together: the sorcerer in his blue robe, the kindly gentleman in black velvet, the intriguer who might imprison and torture men and women at his will . . .”
“That is true,” I said. “But if I did come to a meeting with Rosmer?”
“You would kill him,” said Jalmar. “At once and with the combined working of at least two gifted magicians. You would puncture his hide with a silver knife, stick him with alder stakes, cut him to pieces, burn his divided corpse to ashes and scatter them in
to the sea.”
I laughed aloud and took a gulp of the wine.
“Do you hear yourself, Master Raiz?” I said angrily. “Three magicians who can people the world with their wraiths, turn the weather, sour the milk, bring plagues of boils, speak over hundreds of leagues—and I must kill this man! I must stab him treacherously to death as Huarik and his men served the rift lords at the Bloody Banquet of Silverlode, as Knaar of Val’Nur served the late General Yorath at Selkray!”
“You do not understand,” said Jalmar Raiz.
“No, I don’t,” I said, past caring. “I will have this out at once.”
I raised my voice and shouted, “Grandmother!”
Jalmar Raiz was very angry; he frowned and started up from his chair. The markgrafin swept back into the chamber to the sound of silver trumpets. She wore a long pale robe that trailed along the floor and a tall silver coronet. The shadowy room gradually filled with light, with globes of light that clustered about the walls.
“Master Raiz,” she said coldly, “you are too much of a mountebank. No wonder Yorath shrinks from your Masque of the Death of Rosmer!”
“Grandmother,” I demanded, “what are your plans for me? Are they so different?”
“Let Raiz finish,” she said harshly. “There is a point you do not understand.”
“As the Heir of Lien and of Mel’Nir,” said Jalmar Raiz, still pale with anger, “you possess the blood of the Duarings and of the Vauguens of Lien; you also have the Eildon blood, through the markgrafin’s late husband, Prince Edgar Pendark. There is a touch of light in your dark and mortal blood, as there is in Rosmer himself. You might become the chosen instrument of the sacrifice of Rosmer. You would perform a just punishment.”
“No,” I said heavily. “No, I cannot . . .”
“Yes!” cried Guenna of Lien.
She raised up her hands, and all the light surrounded her; she was a creature woven of silver fire. She began to chant, to call upon the powers of earth and air, upon the Goddess herself, in her avatars as the Spring Maiden and the Dark Huntress. She gave thanks for her powers and for my coming, the chosen instrument, the Heir of Lien, the heir of her pain and the healer of her sorrow. Part of her fiery aura came to me and shone about me.
“As the fire lies about you, Yorath,” intoned Guenna, “so does your destiny. You cannot escape the duty of the blood. You know, deep in your heart, that you must rule. You have been a natural leader all your life . . .”
I rose to my feet and let out a parade ground roar, “Stop this!”
The magic light flowed away from me. I saw dark shadows upon the pale wall: an enormous man, a giant, stood over two figures who cringed away from him, one of them a woman. I sat down again, striving to control my god-rage. I stared at the dusty floor of the chamber.
“Grandmother,” I said, “I beg you to think of my life in Mel’Nir. You see me, what I am: a soldier, a ‘giant warrior.’ I have led the life of a soldier, I have killed men and horses; I have waded through blood. Now the killing must have an end. I have cast away my sword; I will fight no more. Do not tell me my duty. I will not rule, neither in Lien, nor in Mel’Nir, which is my own country. I will hear no more talk of destiny, of royal blood, of blood sacrifice of the chosen instrument. I have already performed such a deed, and when I think of it my soul revolts . . .”
“What deed?” demanded Guenna. “Yorath, dear child, what is this wild talk?”
I could not look at her.
“After the Second Battle of Balbank,” I said, “I led my horse around the side of a little hill. A party of fugitives were making their escape along the same path. A tall man in a cloak ran at me; I struck him with the flat of my sword, tumbled him down upon the rocks. Then his hood fell back, and I saw that it was an old man, his silver hair all dabbled with blood . . .”
Jalmar Raiz gave a cry.
“Yes!” I said. “You knew it, Master Raiz. A few moments ago you taunted me with the importance of this battle.”
“No,” he said. “No, I swear it! I meant only that the battle was important for Val’Nur: it won the civil war for the Westmark.”
“An old man!” whispered Guenna.
“So destiny was fulfilled,” I said. “I blamed myself for striking down an old man, and I blame myself now even more, whatever his deeds. This was Ghanor of Mel’Nir, the so-called Great King. This was my grandfather.”
Again there was a silence. Jalmar Raiz said at last: “What will you do, Prince Yorath? You will find it hard to escape your destiny.”
“I will return to Mel’Nir, to Hagnild,” I said, “and I will speak to my father, King Gol. I will ask that the truce be extended into a lasting peace. Then I will travel into the Chameln lands to Achamar and visit my cousins, the Daindru, Aidris and Sharn, if they will receive me. I will go further into that wild country and find out some place far from the haunts of men and live there simply as I did in Nightwood as a boy.”
It sounded as simple and foolish as a boy’s plan, Guenna put in softly.
“I make no empty promises,” she said. “If you decided to make yourself known in Lien, to go to the court and support my interests there, then I could summon a companion for you. I can bring back your love again, the Owlwife, Gundril Chawn.”
Her face was like a mask. She spoke a little grudgingly, and I knew the reason. The Owlwife was not a princess or a lady of high estate; she was no suitable mate for the Heir of Lien.
“No!” I said sharply. “Grandmother, I beg you not to summon her. She can find me out if she will.”
The markgrafin turned away with a sigh and drew herself up as if she would sweep proudly from the room. Yet when she had gone a few paces, she uttered a loud cry and pressed her hands to her heart. Jalmar Raiz was at her side before I was, he supported her and gave her a sip of wine. Guenna’s eyes were wild; she said in a hoarse whisper, “Zaramund!”
Then, clutching at my arm, “The tower room! At once!”
I lifted her up at my side with an arm about her waist and ran up the staircase with Jalmar Raiz pounding after me. I glanced back and saw my companions, Ibrim, Arn and Forbian and the two old servants crowded at the foot of the stairs.
We came into the tower room, which I had never entered; and at first I saw no more than a hundred lights of different colors—red, gold, green, blue—gleaming like eyes. Then Guenna, with a gesture, sent the hanging on the windows flying back so that the room was lit by the afternoon sun. I saw that the lights came from scrying stones and mirrors ranged everywhere about the room.
The markgrafin went at once to a group of stones upon a covered table with a green cloth and spring flowers before the stones. She gazed into a stone, and Jalmar Raiz was bold to go to her side while I hung back by the door of the workroom. They stared and whispered together, then Guenna sank into a chair, clasped the arms with her ringed hands and stared into nothingness.
Jalmar Raiz said, “There has been an accident at Nesbath. A pleasure boat sank in a sudden wind squall upon the Dannermere. The Markgrafin Zaramund is drowned, along with her father, the Lord of Grays and his two elder sons, Dermat, the Heir of Grays, and Tammis.”
“Zelline?” I asked, suddenly afraid. “The Duchess of Chantry . . .?”
“She was not aboard,” said Jalmar Raiz.
He went about to certain other stones and watching places in the room; the tragic accident was known in Erinhall long before the news spread over the land of Lien. The markgrafin and her father and brothers had gone down to their death in full view of the Markgraf Kelen and his court, including of course the vizier Rosmer. I felt a choking pang of fear and sorrow for all those in that pleasure boat, drawn under by their fine clothes, struggling in the dark water.
There was no doubt in Erinhall that Rosmer had killed Zaramund and her kinsmen by magic and by treachery: a squall of wind and a disabled boat. At least one other person shared this belief from the first. Garvis of Grays, a courtier, youngest son of his unhappy line, saw his father, his bro
thers and his sister, the Markgrafin, sink to their death. He trusted those about him so little that he left at once, and secretly went into hiding. He was now the Lord of Grays, his father’s only surviving son.
In her tower room Guenna sat motionless in her chair, and suddenly she looked very old. I went and knelt by her side and took her hand.
“Grandmother . . .”
“Zaramund!” she said, very low. “He loved her. As long as she lived, I felt there was still some hope for him. Now he is lost utterly. That my son Kelen, my dear son, my first-born should lend himself to such a deed . . .”
“Are you sure?”
“He is lost,” she said. “He is Rosmer’s creature.”
She leaned against my shoulder and drew herself up from the chair. Approaching the altar table with the scrying stones, she reached for a vase of wild roses, simple flowers from a hedgerow.
“The time of roses is at an end . . .” said Guenna of Lien.
She held the roses aloft with a cry, and the room became dark except for snapping tongues of flame. She cried out loudly in a strange tongue, not Chyrian but the Old Speech of the north. I could not understand her words, but it seemed to me that she uttered a curse.
From that hour, following the death of Zaramund, a curious bane spread over all the land of Lien. Every rose and every rose tree sickened and died. The rose gardens of the palace at Balufir became a blackened waste; the Wilderness, that lovely park, became a wilderness indeed. The fields of roses grown for their attar were lost, together with every solitary bush, every rambling rose, and every wayside briar. This blight fell heavily upon the folk of Lien and brought the death of their markgrafin into every house. It was rumored from the first that Kelen and his vizier, Rosmer, had had a hand in the death of Zaramund and the Lords of Grays. Rosmer had overreached himself at last. When, in six moons, the Markgraf Kelen wed Fideth of Wirth, with little pomp, shortly before the birth of her son, the folk of Balufir pelted the poor bride in her litter with blackened rose leaves.
Now Guenna, who had uttered the curse, took to her bed in Erinhall and would not be comforted. The house was still; all the wraiths had faded away, all the noise and bustle of a great house had been hushed. I gave word to my friends, and we prepared to depart.
Yorath the Wolf Page 18