A Tapestry of Magics

by Brian Daley

  The King went on. “I have just made my decision. You are denied haven here in the Singularity. Get you back on board your hellship, that Demeter, and begone. Not tomorrow; this moment.”

  Bint swallowed hard, squeezing Arananth’s hand when she looked to him for explanation. He’d never seen the King so stern. It would be to risk punishment to speak or otherwise distract Ironwicca now.

  The count had drawn himself up, a count unlike di Cagliostro, a stranger who gathered his cape around him in a black swirl as he might have wings. Bint and Arananth were reminded of the changes Saynday had performed for them. No shape-shifting took place, though, and for a moment the count looked shocked.

  “Not here,” the King decreed, shaking his head. His brow looked as if lightning might burst forth from it. “Get you gone. I know what sort of a creature you are now. Mark you: work none of your harm in my realm. None! You will taste no drop of blood of any subject of Ironwicca’s! I have the means of dealing with you.”

  This time that feral impatience prevailed. The count reached out, dagger-nailed. The King’s great brown fist closed around the pale hand instantly, containing it. White fingers struggled and wormed around the dark hand. The men’s gazes tightened, and their hands. Wills and strengths seemed at first an even match. The count’s fingers sought to exert power; the King’s loose, green satin sleeve fell back as thick bundles of muscle swelled in his forearm. The pale man’s eyes bulged with exertion and hatred and disbelief.

  “And if it comes to that,” Ironwicca promised with no sign of strain, “we shall see how we match, fang for fang, claw for claw, you and I.” His eyes were lustrous, furious gemstones.

  The count yielded his grip, and the King let the hands part. The count backed away a step or two, nursing his cold, white hand. Then he pivoted and fled down the dais past Bint and Arananth, opera cape snapping, leaving behind him a smell so foul that she coughed and the knight blinked. They’d seen fear mixed with the wrath and blood-lust on the pale face. The count raced out a side door, eager to leave the Singularity behind.

  Ironwicca came a few steps down the dais to meet them, lithe and proud. Arananth dropped into a flustered curtsy once more; Bint bowed and presented her. The King drew her up and led them both back toward the throne. “I am sorry for that scene; I needed to know what the count’s reaction would be to a beautiful woman.” He smiled at Arananth. “Will you forgive me?”

  She managed a nod. “He is a loathsome thing.”

  “He is something worse than that,” the King answered, “but he is gone now.” Ironwicca turned to Bint. “And I do want to hear what happened in the Beyonds when you went out. There are strange reports coming to me.”

  He glanced aside and spoke an order. One of his trusted advisors appeared, a friendly-faced man in a toga, in his middle years. “Would you be good enough to show this lady about my court and make introductions? I have Sir Bint’s counsel to take.”

  The man took Arananth’s hand with delight. Ironwicca grinned. “She is a little too perfect in her beauty for you, is she not?” He winked at Bint. “Ovid dislikes perfect beauty and thinks everything needs a flaw.”

  Arananth shot Bint a quick, warm smile, but her hand stayed where it was. Ovid led her away, speaking fair words. Bint remembered his duty after some difficulty and turned back to his King. He noticed that the King’s new Cup Bearer, the man who’d been selected to replace Sandur, was not present tonight. The new Outrider was Singularity-born, of course, and a member of one of the Elder Houses, as was usually the case. Bint knew him slightly, Dickon of Rotha, a likable and able fighter, though not a member of the Order. Still, since the death of Sandur, Ironwicca had done little ceremonial drinking, and Dickon had had no occasion to act as champion in combat.

  The King commanded, “Tell me the things that have happened to you lately, Sir Bint. Mind you, leave out none of the things you know about that other count, di Cagliostro.”

  Chapter 17

  FALLEN

  The gathering of the Knights of the Order of the Circle of Onn found Crassmor morose. He wasn’t in the spirit of the coming-together, where at another time he’d have been making jubilee over simply having come into that hall once more.

  Every man there knew that some new threat to the Singularity was to be detailed to them by their Grand Master, but the chance to enjoy their rare assembly could not be wasted. Danger and evil signs were nothing new to Knights of the Circle.

  One of the ancient treasures of the Singularity had been brought to Gateshield for the occasion by its custodian, Leonidas of House Bannor. It was the famed cornucopia, a wickerwork horn of plenty so large that three men had been required to lift it into its place on a trestle table near the altar of the Circle. From the cornucopia there issued a profusion of fruits, meats, breads, and other provender, a slow glacier of food that moved only as fast as it was consumed. The cornucopia was, like the great torch of House Lyle or the Storm Priestess’ cauldron of the winds, an object that had come into the Singularity by means of the Circle itself, along with the original settlers. It had sustained them at first, but that need had diminished in time. Now it was used only ceremonially, since the sustenance pouring from it might mean privation in some Reality.

  The Grand Master, Jaan-Marl, let his men vent their spirits and kick up their heels a bit. Many of them, particularly the Lost Boys, had been in no position to do so in this style for a long time. Crassmor sat quietly among the ne’er-do-wells now. He was a conspicuous figure in that, as wearer of the heir’s ring of House Tarrant—which Combard had returned to him—he’d fallen farthest of any of the Lost Boys. Across the hall and down the long dining board sat Combard, with a number of the other senior knights, nearly all of them lords of the Elder Houses. Some of these shot occasional reproving glances at the madcap Lost Boys. Among the lords sat the abbot Furd, who was something of a chaplain to the Order.

  Bint wasn’t too far away, lost in thought, looking no less gloomy than his cousin. He’d given a single humorless twist of the mouth when, before the gathering had begun, Crassmor had whispered Mooncollar’s fate to him. Crassmor thought that Bint’s mood could only have to do with Arananth, but was too preoccupied with his own problems to inquire. Besides, Bint didn’t appear to want either conversation or commiseration.

  Crassmor was nursing a horn of very thin beer when Crane and Pony-Keg happened by, bearing opposite ends of a platter laden with most of a side of beef. The servitors were overworked tonight, as on any occasion when all the Order was together, and so the two had pitched in with a will. The more staid and respected knights might consider it beneath them to do so, but the Lost Boys were known to go to extreme lengths to keep a party going.

  Off in the corner that had been appropriated by the scoundrels for their own, Hoowar Roisterer did a surprisingly nimble dance to the music of a tin whistle, while most of the others diced, condemning or exalting each toss. Handsome Griffin was singing the song to which Hoowar was dancing, his voice deep and clear. The most notable absence was that of Tarafon Quickhand, who hadn’t appeared at the rendezvous, and whom no one had been able to locate in the Beyonds.

  Crassmor had little heart to share the merrymaking; he was worried over a number of things, but primarily for Willow. He’d cleared up what damage he could at the hunting lodge and left the rest for Hamdor, sure that the old man would maintain silence, then had turned Mooncollar’s horse loose to find its own way home. Examination of the script dropped by the Klybesian had yielded only two items of interest. One was a medallion, heavily cast from a strange alloy, bearing the symbol of an eye in a pyramid. The other was a note:

  Mooncollar,

  For surety’s sake, it were best you obtain the services of some several more bravoes and have them at the crossroads beyond Cronequarters at dawn of the second day from this. Be certain that each wears the eye so that his guide will know him; you know what sort of man we need. Too, they will be convoying our very special agent and his cargo; choose well.
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  The note bore the signet-seal of the abbot Furd.

  But the Klybesian’s name did not appear in his own hand. It was an instrument typical of the abbot; too vague to be incriminating in any way. It might even be alleged to be forgery; Furd had powerful protection, not the least of which was Combard’s, and no one, not even Crassmor, could accuse him lightly. And accuse him of what? the knight asked himself over and over. The date of the note meant that the rendezvous beyond Cronequarters would take place tomorrow. And Cronequarters was not far from House Comullo.

  Directly from the lodge, Crassmor had ridden for the Jade Dome, pushing his horse mercilessly. Arriving there to warn Willow of some nebulous plot against her home, he’d found himself barred from House Comullo. He’d considered forcing his way past her guards, but thought better of it when they’d blocked his way with weapons whose blades had glittered under the night sky and with light of their own as well.

  Strange, but there had been many more guards around the place than he’d recalled House Comullo’s having. Also, the guardsmen were bigger, more alert, and better armed and armored than he’d remembered, with an eager, ferocious aspect. None had been the elderly retainers he’d thought them to be, though he knew them to be the same men—or some of them, at any rate. He’d felt that he was seeing their true nature for the first time. Crassmor had found himself thinking about what Bint had said, that di Cagliostro had shown fear of Willow’s guardsmen. The count’s powers, it seemed, included seeing certain things in their true aspect.

  The guardsmen had left no doubt that Crassmor was not to be admitted. The guard commander, Fordall Urth, still soft-spoken but massive and daunting to look upon now, had handed Crassmor another message.

  Dearest Crassmor,

  I have always loved you, only you, and nothing of that has changed. But there is only danger for you if you are near me now; do not ask how I know, but believe this. We cannot share our love or be together again until I send you word. Guard yourself. Do not doubt that you are forever in the heart of

  Willow

  He’d been torn by indecision, but had seen in the end that he had little choice. Too, given Mooncollar’s attempts to draw him into the plot, Willow was probably safe for the immediate present, or why would Crassmor be needed? The knight had compromised on a hastily scratched message of his own, detailing what little he knew, and had entrusted it to Fordall Urth. The guard commander, no longer stout or sleepy, had vowed to see it delivered at once. Something unswerving in his tone had convinced Crassmor that he would.

  Then Crassmor had returned to House Tarrant. The Count di Cagliostro had been nowhere in evidence. Combard had returned the heir’s ring without comment, but Crassmor had seen no sign of success in contacting Sandur in the old man’s demeanor. Crassmor had retired for much-needed rest, against the convocation of the Order.

  Now a horn was winded through the hall. The knight looked up from his brooding, giving over both the pondering of the danger to House Comullo—he had his suspicions about that—and whether or not he should mention it to Combard or the Grand Master. He hesitated to tell about the things he knew, if only because his own credibility was low, while di Cagliostro’s rode high, and the Klybesians’ was practically unassailable. The knight’s only real witness had been carried off by the monster serpent.

  Game and song and banter melted away, even among the Lost Boys. Knights cleared from the middle of the hall, booting from their way the hounds that sprawled there and finding seats. The Grand Master had been lenient, knowing that his men served hard and deserved their diversions. Still, it was never wise to provoke Jaan-Marl by moving too slowly.

  The Grand Master was in the middle of the hall, armored, as they all were, his sword belted on. His hands were on his hips, and his brows beetled as he awaited complete silence. When he had it, he said, “We are not in our saddles tonight. Our swords are scabbarded; no lance point is aloft.” His voice reached to all corners of the place as he paced down the middle of the room. “But henceforth we are on alert, by direction of the King.”

  The knights looked at one another; the Order had just been put on a wartime footing. “Each of you knows what is expected of him, and has lived up to it before,” Jaan-Marl went on. “Two of every three of us will sleep here in Gateshield tonight, next to our weapons. The rest may go and attend whatever affairs they must. That roster changes tomorrow, and the next day, for each man will have those things to which he must see. Thereafter, all will remain at Gateshield except by my command.”

  Hard-eyed, he looked them over. “The details of this alarum I cannot disclose. But there is this: there loom before the Singularity great threats. An end to us all is not beyond the possibilities. The future holds seeds of destruction; it may well fall to the Knights of the Order to keep them from blossoming.”

  Crassmor was upright in his seat now, though the Grand Master had finished, turning to leave. Murmurs rose among the men. Crassmor, stunned, was thinking, Words from Jaan-Marl so similar to Willow’s! From her, and the Tapestry, Crassmor suddenly knew, had come the warning that had prompted the King and the Grand Master to act. So intent was Crassmor on that realization that he almost missed the recitation of the names of those selected to go off duty first. His own wasn’t among them.

  But Hoowar Roisterer’s was. The portly knight, belly tightening the chain mail around his middle, was back to hoisting cups now that Jaan-Marl had exited. Crassmor vaulted the table and raced for him, nearly bowling over a servitor and scattering a pair of wolfhounds who’d been snoozing, well stuffed, near the dining board.

  Hoowar looked up, bleary-eyed, as Crassmor elbowed through to him. “Hoowar, good friend, you must change places with me on the roster!” Crassmor tapped a knuckle against the rotund knight’s flagon. “You have business which keeps you here, while I have that which calls me away most urgently.”

  “Ha, humph,” Roisterer commenced, wiping foam from his drooping mustache with the back of his hand. “Crassmor, m’boy, you ask much. What is it? Romance? I like ye well, understand, but—” He gave the other a cagey look, rubbing thumb and forefinger together. “Perhaps for some appropriate compensation.”

  “What of the time I got you out of that Alhambra?” Crassmor demanded. “And the occasion when I rescued you from the guild of collectors? Not to mention the night I spirited you from that trial-by-combat paternity suit?”

  His voice had risen in desperation to a near-yell. He reached out and seized Hoowar’s arm. Roisterer looked up, eyes focusing, angered. Crassmor let go at once; aroused, the old walrus was quite capable of breaking him in two.

  Hoowar saw Crassmor’s hard breathing, though, and the pleading on his face. “Mind you, let the duty officers know ere you leave,” Hoowar relented, settling back into his chair and gulping at his flagon.

  Crassmor, feet flying, was already-halfway to the door. All at once a high stridence filled his ears. Every man’s eyes went to the hall’s main doors; Crassmor halted in mid-dash.

  A bizarre procession filed into the hall, two columns of small, chubby creatures that, though rather human in shape, were furred in gray, black, and brown, reminding Crassmor of rodents. Their teeth were protuberant and their pointy snouts whiskered. They wore armlets, collars, and belts of flower garlands. Both files trudged under the burden of a litter woven of saplings and piled with fresh flowers of many kinds. On it lay the corpse of Tarafon Quickhand. His armor was rent in several places but polished; his notched sword—a plain one, Tarafon’s best being in the keeping of a usurer somewhere—was locked in dead hands. Crassmor wondered absently what method these creatures had used to preserve the body; they’d plainly brought it a long way, from somewhere in the Beyonds. The creatures continued their shrill dirge as Jaan-Marl reappeared to stand before them.

  Then they halted, and one of them stepped forward. The height of the Grand Master’s waist, it stopped before him and bowed, then chirped, “We seek the home of the hero we bear.”

  Jaan-Marl nod
ded stoically. Everyone there knew how he agonized over the loss of any Knight of the Order. “You have found it; we are his brothers-in-arms.”

  Crassmor saw Hoowar Roisterer, suddenly sober, and Griffin and other Lost Boys coming forward slowly.

  The creature went on. “This sword-kinsman of yours answered our plea when we begged his aid. He slew a Thing, a Being that preyed on us and devoured our young, against which we had no defense. But Ta-ra-fon was himself wounded in the battle and died. So now we bring him home in honor, to sing his praise and do him homage.” It bowed once more.

  Swords came out now. Lost Boys fell in on either side of the little pallbearers without awaiting Jaan-Marl’s selection; the Grand Master didn’t question their right to serve as honor guard. He pointed to the altar and the Circle of Onn. The procession moved forward, the Lost Boys holding their pace down to that of the little creatures with awkwardly slow steps.

  Crassmor remembered how Tarafon’s nimble fingers had snatched the heir’s ring from his hand and passed it to Willow. He started to join his friends, then remembered the urgency of his mission to the Jade Dome. The Tapestry was far more important than he’d thought; danger could find its way into House Comullo at any time, whether Crassmor had been recruited or not.

  Turning once more for the doors, he met Combard’s gaze. Both had been reminded how dangerous service in the Beyonds could be. But now, when Crassmor might have spoken to his father, who might even have relented and been receptive to a plea that his son’s duty be changed, Crassmor rushed past him, fearful for Willow’s safety.

  The Lord of House Tarrant stared after him a moment, then fell in with the other Knights of the Order for the death rites.

  It all made so much sense, Crassmor thought as he galloped toward House Comullo, that he’d been a fool not to have seen it before. When he considered it in retrospect, he saw that the main thing that had kept him from believing rumors of the Tapestry’s foretelling powers had been the fact that neither Willow nor Sandur had ever admitted them to him.