Beyond the ten square miles of gardens and ornate villas surrounding the Citadel, there were miles and miles of little clay houses and an infinity of small temples and crazy leaning ziggurats, each with its own mummified deity: a cat or a crocodile, a river horse, a two-headed calf, or a rat with seven tails.
After a time, Xanthipei began to have a strange effect on Cuillioc. There was something in the convoluted patterns of the city, in the teeming life of the slums, in the fantastical architecture of the Citadel, which—when he was under the influence of too much wine or other intoxicants—suggested immensities of time and space, power and possibility, hitherto uncontemplated. At other times, times of greater lucidity, it was simply a place of great squalor and disorder, grotesquely mixed up with luxury and debauchery, like the spiders and winged insects inside their sweetmeats.
Oddly and disturbingly, in both states he was often irresistibly reminded of things he had seen in the cluttered attic of the mad astrologer in Apharos: Maelor’s curious arrangements of bones and potsherds; the symbols he had drawn in ochre and chalk and charcoal. Had the old man ever visited this city? Had his eyes been opened here to Mirazhite mysteries and labyrinthine secrecies he was still pursuing?
Or was it simply that all madmen dreamed alike? In sober truth, his entire sojourn in Xanthipei had many of the qualities of a fever dream.
Of Maelor’s warnings he remained ever mindful. The danger of poisoning or drugging was ever-present, the opportunities endless. But against the stealthy assault, the knife-wielding assassin, the betrayal that came in the form of a smothering pillow, a fall from a balcony, a slip at the top of the stairs—against such perils as those, Cuillioc was always on his guard. If he distrusted the Mirazhites, still less did he trust the majority of his Pharaxion nobles. Though dazed by splendor, giddy with so many new experiences, he was well aware of the plots and whisperings, the secret meetings, all taking place inside the Citadel.
Accordingly, he was not to be seduced by the dubious pleasures of the wine shops, hashish dens, and brothels. He confined himself solely to those diversions he might more safely enjoy in his chambers at the palace, surrounded by a handful of trusted friends.
So it came about that he was lying passed out on his own bed, with one of the palace concubines under him and strong sunlight shining in through his bedchamber window, when his little spy came into the room with an urgent message. Only half awakened by the urchin’s frantic shaking, Cuillioc rolled over, opened a bloodshot eye, and mumbled a barely audible obscenity.
But he was suddenly awake and alert, and on his feet within moments, when he realized what the boy was trying to tell him. “When? Where?” he asked grimly, reaching for his clothes.
The page’s answer convinced him to cast those garments aside, catch up a rich brocade covering from the bed, wrap it around him, and stalk out of the room, bawling out for his attendants as he did so.
On a wide balcony overlooking one of the courtyards, he met with Iobhar. The priest stood gazing down with his white, impassive face at a scene of unbridled carnage and bloodshed. But he turned at hearing Cuillioc’s footstep behind him, and regarded the Prince with an enigmatic look.
“It is too late, Great Prince. There is nothing that we can do; the hostages have already been executed. It would appear that the noble lords of your household did their best to prevent it, but they were overwhelmed and placed under bodily restraint.”
Cuillioc glared at him. “By whose order? If by yours, or with your connivance, my good Iobhar, do not imagine that those scarlet robes of yours will offer you any protection!”
Sliding his hands into his wide sleeves, the furiádh made a deep obeisance. “Not by my order, Great Prince, I assure you. I suggest you direct your questions—and your threats—to Lords Armael and Cado.
“You may see them down in the courtyard now,” he added with a grimace—more for the barbaric crudity of it all than for the violence, Cuillioc assumed, “no doubt admiring their revolting handiwork.”
Sick, shaken, torn between anger and revulsion, the Prince went back to his room, where he dressed and armed himself. Then he marched down to the courtyard.
He arrived just as the last of the hacked and mutilated bodies were being removed, to find his attendants—their freedom and their weapons but recently restored to them—burning with indignation at the rough and humiliating treatment to which they had been subjected, eager to assure him they were in no way at fault. Lords Cado and Armael had already departed.
Cuillioc took only so long as it required to determine that the lords in question had in truth ordered and supervised the executions, before leading his grim-faced followers in search of them.
He had no trouble running them to earth as they refreshed themselves after their morning’s labors with a light repast under a quince tree in one of the gardens.
At the sight of their smug faces, their air of being totally unconscious of having done anything wrong, a sudden mist rose before his eyes, and the blood roared in his ears. Then his sword was hissing out of the scabbard and flashing through the air.
Cado died almost before he knew what was happening, but Armael had scrambled up from his seat and was halfway across the garden before the Prince caught up to him and struck off his head.
Spattered in the blood of his victims, dizzy and shaking with reaction, Cuillioc stood gazing down on Armael’s body. His knees nearly gave out at the thought that he—he! who aspired to chivalry and honor at all times and in all his dealings—had actually executed these men out of hand.
And yet they had impugned his honor, undermined his mission here in other ways, too. He tried to convince himself that he was well rid of them, however it came about.
Could it possibly be over: the plotting, the treachery? Have I convinced the others I am not to be trifled with?
Could anything in his life ever be that simple?
Then he glanced up and caught Iobhar unaware, surprising on the priest’s ghostly face a look of unmistakable satisfaction, almost gloating.
Because he thinks my mother will be pleased? Or because he knows I have made some irredeemable error?
22
Sindérian climbed down from her dangerous perch, stepping carefully from one rocky ledge to the next. She was flushed with triumph, fairly blazing with excitement, vivid and passionate as Prince Ruan had not seen her since Saer. As soon as she reached the foot of the path, he and his guards swept forward to meet her, showering her with questions, unable to contain their wonder and curiosity.
“And is this indeed Faolein?” asked Ruan, scarcely able to believe his eyes. “You told me he was dead!”
Tears sparkled on her eyelashes; her lips trembled. “Had the hand that pulled the bow been steadier, if the shaft had pierced his heart instead of his side, that spell would have melted him like a wax candle. Even as it was, to make a new shape for himself—you can’t imagine the strength of mind and will—and then to follow after us all of this time, in pain and confusion—” The words caught in her throat, and she could not go on.
“He came back for you,” said Jago, with a perfect air of conviction—Jago who had sons and daughters of his own. “It was a father’s love that kept him alive, that brought him so far. That was how it was.”
And seeing how her face lit up, how her fine eyes glowed, Ruan wished that he had been the one to speak those words.
She turned somber again examining the falcon’s injuries. Even the Prince could see that the bird was in a bad way, reduced to little more than bones and dirty feathers. The place under one wing where the crystal shaft still protruded was particularly nasty. He thought he could see maggots moving beneath the skin, and there was a strong odor of rotting meat or mortifying flesh.
Sindérian sat down cross-legged in the grass, cradling the falcon in her lap. “There are medicines in my saddlebags. If someone could get them—?”
Aell immediately went back to the campsite, where Gilrain had prudently stayed with the hors
es, and returned a minute later with the leather saddlebags slung over one shoulder.
She spent a long time gently removing the arrow, then cleaning out the wound, applying a poultice of herbs, cobwebs, and honey, reciting charms of healing. By the time it was over, she was white with exhaustion, but her eyes were bright, and her hands remained steady and sure throughout.
As she worked, a series of silent messages seemed to pass between father and daughter. “He has been many things since we parted at Saer,” she told the others. “An eagle, a gyrfalcon, a hawk, a wyvaerun. He’s changed shape again and again, but it doesn’t seem possible for him to go back to being Faolein.”
“But can you change him back?” asked the Prince, kneeling on the ground beside Sindérian. Like the two men-at-arms, he had gained considerable respect for her abilities during the course of the journey.
“Undo a spell that defeats even Faolein?” She sounded incredulous. “I have done all I can; all that I know how to do.
“It’s possible, I suppose, that one of the other Masters on Leal can help him,” she added wistfully. “But until we come home, we’re not likely to see my father as we knew him again.”
They came down from the mountains and into a land of rolling hills and springy green turf, of flocks and cultivated fields. For a long time, Sindérian was simply content to ride rejoicing in the warm sunlight, with a fresh color in her face, her dark hair blowing in the light breeze, and the falcon perched on her saddlebow.
Her first transports over Faolein’s return had subsided, replaced by a more quiet joy. One she had loved and believed lost was miraculously restored to her (albeit in altered form), and it was more than present happiness, it was healing for past hurts, and armor against future pain.
Jago’s words continued to echo in her mind. For her sake Faolein had come back; a father’s love had sustained him through unimaginable suffering and confusion; and her love for him had proved not a curse but a reason to return.
As for the dreams that had haunted her all through the mountains? Faolein’s return had banished them entirely. She felt redeemed, strengthened. As she had saved him, he had saved her.
Only one thing shadowed their reunion: the wizard had set limits, their communion was imperfect. There were dark places in his mind where he would not let her go, experiences he did not wish to recall or share.
Yet time must dull the pain of memory, she told herself. Surely as the horror of what he had been through began to fade he would finally be ready to confide in her—as she, eventually, would be able to confide in him. It was easy for her to be glad and to believe good things on such a glorious day.
But a little of her brightness faded when Gilrain surprised everyone by announcing that it was time to part company. They had all grown so used to having him with them, no one had remembered he was not to go along for the whole way. No one, that is, but Gilrain himself.
“I have seen you safely through the Cadmin Aernan, as I promised. Now I need to go home and attend to unfinished business.”
“But where will you go? What will you do? You can hardly go back to Saer,” Sindérian exclaimed.
“Oh, but I will return to Saer, later if not sooner. I still have questions about Lord Goslin’s death, and I don’t intend to be put off with half-truths forever…or denied my revenge, if what I suspect should turn out to be true,” he added, with a sudden fierce smile.
An odd, unreadable look passed between him and the Prince. It almost, almost seemed as though they came to some better understanding there at the end.
Still, Ruan said nothing. He watched Gilrain exchange a rough embrace with Aell, another with Jago, and merely raised a gloved hand in silent salute as the Ni-Ferys wheeled his black mare and headed back toward the mountains.
No one spoke for several minutes, listening to the sound of hoofbeats on the road receding in the distance. Perhaps even the Prince felt a little bereft. They were in Arkenfell now, a country far removed from the lands they knew, a place of strange customs. The High King’s Ward and Law did not exist there, and whatever knowledge Gilrain had of the people and the land, it was no longer available to them.
“We’ve come among heathen folk,” said Aell, under his breath. “Do they even speak our language?”
“More or less,” answered Sindérian. “We may find the accents and the dialects of the north a little difficult at first, but on the whole we should be able to understand them, and they us.”
Yet even as she spoke, she wondered if it were true. History, religion, culture: they were as much a part of language as the words themselves. Misunderstandings were practically inevitable; she could only hope that none of them proved fatal.
That they were in a foreign country and unwelcome there soon became woefully evident. At every farm, in every little settlement where they stopped to ask directions or to buy supplies, it was the same: dogs barked at them, geese hissed, farmwives shooed them away.
In the late afternoon, when they stopped by one of the turf-roofed farmhouses and asked to fill their waterskins at the well, a stout old man with a forked white beard waved them away. And when Prince Ruan offered a piece of ivory for a loaf of the bread they could smell baking, the old man threatened to set his dog on them.
“I don’t understand it,” said Sindérian, as they jogged back to the road, with the great villainous-looking hound following close behind and rumbling in its chest. “I’ve always been told that the men of the north remembered the Old Alliance fondly, that they were friendly to travelers from the west.”
“Perhaps they’ve turned unfriendly to strangers generally,” the Prince replied. “Hard times breed hard hearts, so it’s said, and these people of Arkenfell strike me as frightened more than anything else.”
“Frightened of what?” asked Jago.
It was what they all wanted to know. Though sunlight still shone in the sky, evening shadows gathered in the folds of the hills, and the air was growing chill. No one liked to think of spending the night out-of-doors in unfamiliar country, without the guide who had seen them safely through the mountains, with unknown dangers, maybe, lurking in the shadows.
In the fading light, they followed a beaten path through a cleft in the hills, filled their bottles and waterskins by a shallow stream, and continued north, down a road rutted and broken by the passage of many carts and wagons.
At a place where two roads met, they found a gruesome answer to Jago’s question.
There was a gibbet at the crossroads, and the body of some malefactor hung in chains swung gently back and forth in the dusky air. As they drew closer, they saw that the gallows bore even more grisly fruit: all along the oak crossbeam someone had nailed up seven naked skulls in a row, human from the eyes up but with long wolfish jaws and fierce yellow teeth. Beyond the gibbet there stretched a field of corn crushed and trampled into the earth.
“Werewolves,” said Sindérian in a tight voice, taking in the bestial heads, the broken cornstalks. “There must have been a skirmish between men and beast-men right here. No wonder the people have grown unfriendly. In their eyes, anyone they don’t know could be a skinchanger.”
The chains creaked in the slight breeze, drawing her attention back to the dangling corpse. She felt a sudden queasy sensation.
Most of the flesh had been pecked away by hungry birds, but there were still some ragged scraps of dark woolen cloth clinging to the bones, and the scanty locks of straw-colored hair on the withered head were tied up in intricate charm knots. “Or anyone who uses magic a black sorcerer.”
Weave no spells, make no signs on the air, said Faolein’s voice in her head. Not even a simple ward or healing. If the people here fear charms and bewitchments, we don’t wish to rouse the entire countryside against us.
23
Though Sindérian could not know it, a thousand miles away the powerful, malicious mind of the Empress Ouriána was intent on her, and danger of a particularly malignant and personal nature was brewing where she least expected it
.
For weeks after dispatching the nightmare, Ouriána had often amused herself by spying on the young wizard’s journey across the mountains. In the secret conjuring room and alchemical laboratory where she performed all her most dreadful spells, the Empress had fashioned a crude figure, six inches high: out of tallow and salt and ash, three woolen threads rusty with blood, and other materials far more sinister and arcane.
At that point it was nothing more than a misshapen lump of animal fat and other matter. But when Ouriána worked her spells, the mite took on Sindérian’s likeness—perfect to the smudged face and windblown hair, the ragged gown and cloak, and scuffed boots. And whatever Sindérian did, the doll did also: eat, sleep, walk, cry, laugh—though there was little enough of that, as time went on.
It was pleasant for the Empress to watch the tiny counterfeit move about the cluttered table where she first set it down, to see it try to negotiate pathways through the green glass bottles and silver flasks, between the ancient parchments in gilded scroll-cases, or to scale great stacks of books, as though they were in fact the mighty chain of mountains it had to cross.
And it was pleasanter still, as the days and weeks passed, to see the homunculus lose its color, bite its lip, hide behind a curtain of tangled dark hair as if avoiding the too-familiar, too-solicitous gaze of unseen traveling companions, or to sit down at the end of a long bitter day, burying its tiny head in its miniscule hands as one overcome by weariness, dread, and remorse.
But most gratifying of all were the unmistakable physical signs of mental and moral decay: the hollow cheek, the haggard eye, the increasingly listless manner. The poison injected by the imp was doing its work so well, Ouriána was convinced that sooner or later, probably sooner, Sindérian must either destroy herself in a fit of despair or else repudiate the teachings of the Scholia, renounce her allegiance to Thäerie and Leal, and no longer count herself among the enemies of Phaôrax.
The Hidden Stars Page 30