A Tapestry of Magics

by Brian Daley

  Combard of Tarrant considered his sons, his eyes grave and intent beneath bushy brows. Age had changed his red hair with an even mixture of gray, and the thick beard and brows had followed suit. Though Combard’s shoulders had begun to stoop and his midsection to expand, fine garments and martial bearing hid most of that. His fists were on his hips as he regarded them. On his finger was the lord’s ring of House Tarrant. Like the heir’s ring, it re-created the Circle of Onn, but in stone rather than in some precious metal. Combard’s sword’s worn, jewel-capped hilt protruded from his long cloak.

  Next to him was Teerse, Lord of House Comullo. Of an age with Combard, lifelong friend and neighbor to him, Teerse was slight, nearly skinny, but erect and dignified in an open, warm way. Most of his hair was gone; mustache and beard were trimmed down to narrow, carefully kept rows. Teerse’s eyes were, as always, pouched with care despite his easy smile. He was of a gentler nature than his doughty neighbor and friend, a much-consulted counselor of the King. His trousers and cape, still elegant, had seen some mending. As Combard’s hereditary powers were bound up in the land, Teerse’s were embodied in the Tapestry that the heirs of his family had been weaving over the generations, forming slowly under the Jade Dome at House Comullo, reflecting events in the Singularity.

  At Teerse’s elbow was his daughter Willow, sole heir to his name and the duties of the weaver, promised in marriage to Sandur at her birth. Crassmor had spent considerable time trying to isolate just what made her so attractive. Certainly the brown-green eyes, wide and direct, contributed. Her brows and lashes were fair, though, and Willow took no pains to darken or alter them, as other women might. Her hair was glossy and soft but usually, as now, pulled back into a smooth brown cap and wound into a tight braid, and so not conspicuous. Her nose, now; a bit too long, a perfectionist might have said, with a hint of ridge at the middle, yet Crassmor thought it fine. Her mouth was wide; an engratiating portraitist had once tried to alter it in his rendering. Willow had put her foot down, making him paint her as she was.

  She was so slender that she appeared taller than she was—chin-high to Sandur. The planes of her face, while not startling or arresting, were prominent and pleasant to the eye. She was no lady from a poem; nevertheless, Crassmor knew few people who didn’t relish Willow’s company and wit and prize her friendship highly. She wore a long gown of pearly macramé and a thick, blue-white fur pulled around her against the morning chill.

  Behind those three stood Ironwicca. His features, set and calm, still betrayed the elemental power of the man. A long-fingered hand clenched the railing of the egret-head balcony, the musculature along the forearm in high relief. It occurred to Crassmor with some surprise, as it always did, that the King hadn’t changed since Crassmor had first seen him as a boy. Ironwicca still looked like a man in his robust forties, his face formed in intent, high-cheek-boned lines, black hair tumbling in thick ringlets around his shoulders, dark brown eyes showing glints of gold. Those eyes were keen and penetrating, prone to miss nothing, with a gaze that was difficult to meet for long. The King’s cheek was seamed by an ancient scar; his lips were full, his mouth broad, his forehead high but heavy-browed. His nose was a hawk’s bill. Dense curls of beard sprang from a square jaw. Ironwicca’s body, even within ceremonial vestments, implied might and speed; no jungle cat demonstrated more lethal grace in repose. His brown skin had been made even darker by the sun.

  Ironwicca had been King of the Singularity for a time outreaching the memory of anyone else alive, or anyone who’d spoken to a living soul. It had been Ironwicca who, wandering in from the Beyonds as so many had before and after him, had championed the Singularity out of constant warfare and strife, forging a kingdom. Some of that he’d done with statecraft, but the majority with sword law. His origins were unknown; prying into his past was best left uncontemplated. No one knew the secret of his long life. He’d proved himself a canny ruler, utterly ferocious, devoted to his subjects, a man of elaborate guile and animal patience.

  The brothers saw that the four people on the egret balcony were unsmiling; both wondered how bad the news was. Ironwicca leaned forward, brushing the back of a sinewy hand up through the black rings of his beard, thumb and forefinger parting to pass around his wide jaw as he studied his Cup Bearer. Crassmor held his sallet nervously in the crook of his left arm, staying behind and to the right of his brother.

  Sandur took a step nearer the egret’s head. Without qualifier, he reported, “I failed.”

  Combard’s face went from shock to outrage. He burst out, “Your Majesty!” to deny this admission from the son of his heart. Crassmor too had it on the tip of his tongue to cry out No! in violation of every polite form. He was subdued by the presence of the King.

  Ironwicca held up an open palm without taking his eyes from the Outrider; the others all held their peace. He touched some control and a panel in the egret’s head swung away, a small ladder unfolding. Sandur took it as tacit invitation, mounting the marvelous bird tower. The King beckoned with a finger; Crassmor, who’d been in a dither as to what was expected of him, hurried after.

  There was ample room for all. Combard gave Sandur the traditional welcoming embrace, pressing him close. Crassmor he took into his arms too. Crassmor moved to Willow’s side, in part because he’d always enjoyed her company, but in greater part to make himself less conspicuous. Ironwicca turned aside and spoke some word none of them quite heard. The ladder refolded itself and the panel swung shut; the egret began straightening once more, lifting its head high. Crassmor gripped a golden, intricately wrought handrail as firmly and unobtrusively as he could. The huge construct moved smoothly, though. In moments it was again upright.

  They gazed out over the Anvil, Dreambourn, and the surrounding countryside. Crassmor found that he could see House Tarrant itself and beyond. It made him dizzy. Off in the other direction, the River Deal flowed toward the Sea of Endeavor, also called the Sea of Strife, which glistened and twinkled. He thought he could spy the island, out to sea, where the Storm Priestess contended with the powers of weather, stirring that great Singularity treasure, the cauldron of the winds. The air up in this high place was chilly, stinging more than that below. Crassmor understood, though, why the egret tower was one of the King’s favorite places. Ironwicca spent much time up here, meditating upon and looking out over his realm.

  Sandur had been gazing about as well. He cried, “See!” and pointed. Crassmor followed the pointing finger and saw that a long winding column of people on horses and people afoot was joining with the stream bound for Dreambourn’s main gates. As he watched, other traffic was moved aside to give the column way. It could only be a military corps, Ironwicca’s expeditionary force. Crassmor could discern many different elements in it. The column moved slowly, with many stragglers and in poor order, a bad sign.

  “Yes,” Teerse said as they watched the first of the troops reach the gates. “We’ve had some few dispatches from them already; the word is not good.” He sounded tired unto death; Willow looked at her father’s tragic eyes and turned away. Crassmor realized that he and Sandur, arriving from another direction, had just missed meeting up with the expeditionary force at the gates.

  The King tore his gaze away from his troops, his expression a question to Sandur, who answered. “I turned the barbarians against the broken-cross soldiers, but the lizard riders slaughtered them all and are still in numbers uncountable.” He looked down to the gates of Dreambourn, through which troops now poured, then back to the King. “They’ll be there, at the gates, as soon as they can re-form.”

  Crassmor dared a look aside to see how Willow took this. For once, her face was closed; Teerse was as noncommittal. Combard was only barely restraining himself.

  The King’s response was pitched low, holding amusement and rebuke. “I’d thought better of the Outrider’s grasp of strategy.”

  That put surprise on Sandur’s face. Ironwicca went on. “Turning aside the barbarians for a time, that was no achievement? Reducin
g their numbers by the thousands upon thousands, at no cost to our own ranks, that was not an accomplishment? Eliminating the broken-cross soldiers was failure?”

  The King’s mouth tugged now, but not in a smile. “You have decided, have you, Sandur, that even partial success is all failure?” His tone was edged like a razor. “Save this roundabout pride for others! It wins you no esteem from me!”

  The tension hanging in the air in the wake of that was difficult for Crassmor to bear. Combard seemed about to explode. Sandur’s jaw muscles jumped; Crassmor thought for a moment that his headstrong brother was about to have hard words with the King, a dangerous—if not fatal—undertaking.

  Ironwicca smiled through his black beard first. “But your deeds do. Perhaps I shall put you in your place with some reward, punish you with accolades.”

  Sandur’s expression nearly formed for laughter then; Crassmor silently let his breath out. The King fell serious again, but not as perilously so as before. “That will have to await another day, though. Now, tell me all, in detail.”

  Crassmor saw that his father’s mien had softened. Combard was nodding to himself; the old man’s world was right again, with this bit of moral instruction. Sandur obeyed, telling of the mission into the Beyonds but, Crassmor noticed, omitting the insults and challenges hurled across the chasm at him by Ravager. Those had plainly burned hot against his pride and were, in his estimate, matters of no consequence otherwise. Something in the recounting, though, or in the King’s knowledge of men, set Ironwicca to gazing at Sandur with doubt. “And you fled from the chasm and the Warlord instanter, to carry word to me? With no backward glance?”

  “That was my duty,” Sandur parried without inflection. Crassmor thought his brother dangerously close to dissembling, but it never occurred to him to comment, not in this company.

  Combard, thinking he’d heard some criticism of his son, was quick to defend. “So it was, and well carried out! Your Majesty, I shall be candid: it is no easier for Sandur to fly before the enemy than it is, with profound respect, for you yourself. Where is the man who doubts your Cup Bearer’s sword arm? He has struck down mightier men than this lizard lord!”

  The King saw that the conversation had turned from its intended course with Combard’s misunderstanding that courage, and not accuracy was in question there. Ironwicca left the subject of the Warlord for the time being and bade the report continue. Sandur finished the little that remained, mentioning the news he’d had of the Singularity’s arms riding forth by way of a question, looking aside again at the returning troops.

  The King was inclined to respond. “Did you think I had all my plans a-dangle from one hook? I had other scouts out while you were playing trick-and-slip with the barbarians. That Warlord had sufficient strength to send a probe around the zone of battle with the broken-cross soldiers for a feeling-out of our mettle.”

  He turned and spoke that low word again, or another much like it. The egret began to descend once more. “It may be that we were fated to meet these invaders squarely from the first.”

  Crassmor, drinking in the last of the scene below, watching the ragged expeditionary force’s return, with a mind’s eye view of the limitless encampment of the lizard riders, found himself blurting, “But they are without number!” before he recalled his whereabouts.

  Aghast, he saw the King glancing at him strangely. Sandur and Teerse and Willow pretended not to have noticed. Combard glared wrathfully at his younger son. He thinks it’s the whine of a craven, Crassmor saw. But it’s truth!

  “They have a number,” Ironwicca replied with equanimity. Crassmor heaved an inner sigh, that he’d been spared a royal reprimand. The egret came to a halt, the panel opening once more. The Singularity’s monarch went on as he stepped down the short ladder. “If it is too much in excess of our own, we shall find some other method of dealing with them than straightforward battle.”

  Another figure appeared on the roof of the palace, a man flanked by distressed servitors who were tensed to catch him should he fall. He limped with pain and walked unsteadily but gave no sign of wanting assistance. The servitors, knowing the reputation of the Red Branch knights, kept their hands to themselves.

  The knight’s scarlet cloak was torn; pendants were missing from it, as was its brooch. Blood stained his white tunic. His kilt and greaves were spattered with mud. Though his helmet was gone, he held his notched sword in his hand.

  Ironwicca waited impassively. The newcomer stopped before the King, swaying slightly. His long blond hair fell across his face, the circlet having been lost from his brow. He knew the King cared nothing for protocol when serious matters were at hand. He spoke with a flourish of his sword.

  “The lizard riders broke our formations and drove us back off the Heights of Meridion,” he told Ironwicca. “We held them through six attacks, having the better position. Their leader has no concern for the squandering of lives.”

  Crassmor heard a little intake of breath from Willow and saw Sandur’s mouth tighten. The Red Branch knight drew a hand across his face and went on.

  “How many of them we killed I cannot say, but it was many, your Majesty; many. The lizard riders now hold the Heights and control the plains of Ruall as well. Our commanders organized rearguard—a number of the men and women of the Sodality of the Sword, men of the Red Branch, some of Oishi Kuranosuke’s stern fighters…”

  He winced in anguish, clutching his side, and began to fall. The King crossed the space to him in a single leap, caught him, and bellowed for a litter. Teerse, practiced in arts of healing, knelt to examine the wounded man, whose eyes fluttered open. “It will not be many days before they reach Dreambourn, Highness.”

  When the Red Branch knight had been taken away to the attentions of Ironwicca’s personal healers, the King resumed the long walk to see his visitors off. “The barbarians’ first probing force,” he mused, “a vanguard.” Yet they’d managed to throw back some of the best warriors in the Singularity. Though the King’s voice was controlled, something in him that usually smoldered was now close to flame. “They care nothing for their losses, Sandur?”

  Sandur considered that as their steps resounded in the halls. “They come of a dying world, Majesty, where death is common, a world exhausted. The lizard riders are an elite, each supported by the labors and hardship of a score of wretched serfs. They are born to die in war. This Warlord has united them as no one has ever done in their fractious history. What he commands, they will do. They’ve nothing to lose, and must conquer new domains or see their way of life pass away. That, or perish.”

  The King was silent until they came to the great entrance doors, then said, “So first strategies have been unsuccessful. This is not the end of it.” He felt of his beard. “What numbers they must have! Yet not infinite, eh, young Crassmor?” Combard’s younger son swallowed hard. “No, Highness.”

  Ironwicca growled a laugh. “This takes more thought, however. Teerse, remain behind, if you will. You others have my thanks for your aid, thoughts, and deeds.”

  Willow, Combard, and the two brothers descended the long flight of steps to the courtyard. Pressed by his father for details, Sandur made much of Crassmor’s steadfastness in staying near the barbarian camp despite adversity and danger. Combard admitted gruffly that Crassmor had acquitted himself well; the aspirant knight embraced it as high praise, trying not to think how close he’d come to failing.

  A group of Tarrant armsmen, Combard’s escort, were awaiting their liege. They were all known to the brothers; they waved swords and clashed shields in greeting. With them was Bint, Crassmor and Sandur’s matrilineal cousin, two years younger than Crassmor and also in knightly training. Bint, orphaned years before, was a member of the Tarrant household and had come to regard his cousins and uncle highly. Sandur was Bint’s idol, though; today the boy spared little attention for anyone else. When the Outrider greeted him and clasped hands, Bint’s face appeared to shine from within.

  Another Tarrant hurried up, Combar
d’s younger brother Furd, abbot of the Klybesian monks. Overfleshed, over-hearty, sanctimonious Furd had always made life rather trying for Crassmor. Furd and Combard embraced warmly—they’d come through a difficult childhood together—and Furd made signs of the Klybesian benediction for one and all. He wore a red kirtle worked with some of the many mystic symbols important to the Klybesians, his stout belly wound in a sash of black velvet, a square-brimmed, high-crowned, gray silken hat on his balding head.

  “I heard this grievous news of defeat,” Furd explained, heavy jowls flopping as he shook his head. “I rushed here to offer prayers of consolation with the King.”

  Sandur told him, “I doubt the King is inclined to prayer just now, uncle. He’s trying to divine new ways of killing lizard riders before they kill us.”

  Furd drew himself up. “Times of peril are not times to ignore religion, m’boy!”

  “Nor the sword,” the Outrider pointed out.

  Furd shrugged with what Crassmor thought to be ill humor. “No doubt, no doubt. Still, your safe return is joyous news indeed.” He waggled a finger at Crassmor. “As is yours, youngster. A new leaf for the wastrel, eh? It’s gratifying to see that your old uncle’s preaching is finally taking root!”

  Crassmor found himself thinking about the time when Furd—it could only have been by following Crassmor—had discovered his fondness for sneaking off to watch the lusty sports of the centaurs. The abbot had boxed the ear of the eight-year-old boy and hauled him away, though the centaurs themselves had protested that they had no objections to Crassmor’s presence. Furd had told Combard, of course, just one of many impieties that Furd had considered himself duty-bound to report.

  Sandur was about to reply to Furd, angry at the abbot for trying to take a share of Crassmor’s merit, but the Klybesian was hurrying on his errand. The horses had been brought. Willow and the Tarrants rode forth from the Anvil together with the armsmen behind. As they came onto Fey Passage they saw a sad procession.