The Birthgrave

by Tanith Lee

  Mazlek came up the stairs soon after. I saw his eyes take in the silver mask, and then discard the thought which had come to him, as it had to me.

  “What is happening, Mazlek?”

  “A man has been sent to the City to inform the Javhovor that Vazkor is here.”

  “Vazkor’s Javhovor,” I said softly.

  “Yes, goddess. Vazkor’s men expect immediate loyal help from that quarter—honored welcome into Eshkorek Arnor, a war council, fresh troops—but things are not so simple, goddess, I think.”

  “Why?”

  “This man, the Warden—he is very uneasy; I don’t think Vazkor is a welcome guest either to himself or his master.”

  I remembered Vazkor’s words on the road, harsh, affirmative. Yet he could do nothing without the support of the Cities of the desert. If he had lost it, what would become of him?

  “Where is Vazkor?” I asked Mazlek.

  “A room on the east side of the tower. One man keeps guard outside the door, and no one has seen him since last night.”

  “Mazlek,” I said, abruptly anxious to put Vazkor from my mind, and attack my fears of this fortress instead, “there is something in this place—something I must find.”

  “Goddess.”

  He was quite ready to follow me, to protect me, yet he did not understand. I think I had half hoped he might have sensed also the secret feeling of the tower. A sort of mental intimacy had seemed to grow between us during the flight from Belhannor; we had spoken little, yet things had been clear enough. I was reminded of Slor suddenly, and the blind offering of his life for mine, and thrust the thought away.

  “I have explained badly,” I said. “I do not know what troubles me here, even if anything exists to trouble me. But I have to search until I find it or fail to find it.” I discovered I had locked my hands together tensely. “Something hidden,” I said.

  He went after me, down the flights of stairs, to the oval dark hall, needing candles even in daylight, and stood ready behind me as I spoke to one of the three gray soldiers lounging there. I noted they did not leap to instant attention at my entrance, as they would for the golden cat goddess of Ezlann, and I learned a lot from that.

  “Where is the Warden? I should like to speak to him.”

  “The lord Warden hasn’t yet risen, lady.”

  Even the title—miserly enough—was delivered with a certain sneering slur. He found it easy to forget who I was—who I had been?

  “Soldier,” I said, “I am Uastis of Ezlann. Reincarnate of the Old Race, wife to Vazkor Javhovor, Overlord of White Desert. I am addressed as ‘goddess’ by men who are standing on their feet, and have bowed their heads to me first.”

  There was an uneasy shuffling from the table as the soldier’s two companions got up from their chairs, and stood awkwardly, in positions of uncertain respect. The man I had spoken to, however, seemed unimpressed, and my words tempted him into insolence.

  “I have heard of a goddess,” he said, “in Ezlann. And then, lady, you wore a plain mask when you came here, and a plain robe, too. Those things . . . well, they’re the Warden’s bounty, if I recall correctly.”

  I did not feel angry, only knew I dared not let my authority fall out of appreciation, here, of all places, where I sensed so much danger.

  “Soldier,” I said, and I walked close to him, and stared at his eyes behind the bronze mask, eyes slippery, and unwilling to be caught. “Men do not insult me twice. Since you need proof of me, I am afraid I must give it. You will not forget who I am. Lift your hand.” He whimpered, and I knew I had him then. “My touch is fire, the brand to you.”

  I laid one finger on his naked palm, and he screamed.

  “Go free!” I hissed, and the trance broke from him. He ran back, nursing his blisters, sobbing with shock and fright. “Now,” I said, “you say the Warden has not yet risen. Go and tell him to rise. I shall expect to see him here before that candle stub has burned out.”

  This time, I was obeyed.

  I glanced at Mazlek, and his eyes had narrowed behind the mask in a malicious grin, proud of me and my ferocious powers. I sat down to wait, and watched the door across the yellow velvet hump of my belly.

  In fact, the Warden was not long in coming, masked and ringed, yet still in his bedrobe. He took off the mask, bowed, and put it on again. I wondered if he had heard anything of the scene in the hall. I could see he wanted to draw nearer to the hearth where a fire was eating a breakfast of logs. He shivered meaningfully, but I sat where I was and left him to suffer. I was not certain how I should begin my interrogation, or even if I had been wise to start with him, and any advantage was a comfort.

  “Good morning, Warden. I find I must thank you for my wardrobe.”

  “Nothing.” He bowed again.

  “Your hospitality is most welcome to the Lord Vazkor and myself.”

  “I-I trust the Javhovor is in better health today—some illness on the journey, I believe.”

  I noted that he had called Vazkor “Javhovor” only, not “overlord.”

  “No illness,” I said carefully, “merely fatigue. But Eshkorek will provide him with rest.” My host gave a little nervous laugh. “Tell me,” I said, “this is surely a fortress; why is there no garrison?”

  “Oh, but there has been no garrison for many, many years. A remote spot, and very little to capture, even if an army should cross the mountains from Purple Valley.”

  “As it well may,” I said. He started. “You surely know of the havoc we left behind us, Warden? It would be advisable for the Cities of White Desert to hold together under this threat.” Again a little start, as if I had probed into a bad tooth. Certainly there was trouble then, for Vazkor, and so perhaps for myself, but I set it aside. “I am curious, Warden,” I said. “I am curious because, if there is no garrison, why is there a holding here at all?”

  “A—matter of policy,” he said, very stiffly, and I could tell I had touched a nerve once more, but a different decay this time, possibly more rotten than the first.

  “Then your soldiers are guarding nothing?”

  “No, indeed—except, in theory, the tower.”

  Liar.

  I nodded, and, after a minute’s polite talk, sent him graciously away. I went to my room, and asked Mazlek to follow me.

  “What do you know of the structural plan of the tower?” I asked him.

  “Very little,” he said. “Stores and armories, private chambers above, below—kitchens, bathhouse, barracks—empty now.”

  “And below that?”

  “Cellars probably.”

  Until that I had not been sure where my frenzied mental quest was taking me, drawing on my instincts only. But now I felt a rush of coldness through my body, knew I had grasped a piece of darkness, unseen, but vital.

  “Cellars,” I repeated, “and under those—dungeons, Mazlek?”

  I saw him check, as I had done.

  “Yes,” he said, and stared at me.

  Neither of us spoke of the sense of discovery which had come so abruptly. It was incredible, unthinkable. And yet, this tower: “My gift from the last Javhovor of Eshkorek Arnor,” Vazkor had said. And so, Vazkor’s possession, Vazkor’s fortress, defense, prison.

  “Mazlek,” I said. “After dark. The first hour. It should be quiet then.”

  And he nodded, so that I needed to say no more.

  2

  I did not mean to sleep at all that night, but tiredness made me lie on the curtained bed, and I dozed and woke up again in terrible starts. Dreams—faces, white with open eyes, staring, the stone bowl and its jumping fire . . . Mazlek’s scratch on the door. I sat up and pulled myself from the bed. I felt afraid, heavy with fear. I opened the door, and he stood there, a low burning lamp in one hand, drawn knife in the other.

  “Goddess,” he said, “I asked one of Vazkor’s
men how to get to the wine cellars. Not as low as we’ll need to go, but near it, I thought. About an hour later I went there and searched them thoroughly. There seemed to be no way to get farther down, but there was luck with me. The old woman came into the cellars by the stairs from the kitchen.”

  “Did she see you, Mazlek?”

  “No. I hid myself, but little need. I think her sight is weak, and her mind is worse. There is a moving panel, and steps beyond.”

  “Does it open only to her?”

  “No, goddess. When she had come back, and was gone again, I tried the place—a harlot of a wall, open to anyone.” For a moment he paused, the light flickering softly on his mask. Then he said, “She carried food of a kind, slops in a bowl. When she came back, she did not bring it with her.”

  “Mazlek,” I said. My heartbeat was a fiery pain under my breast.

  “If you would prefer to remain here, goddess, I will go there alone.”

  “No,” I said.

  He nodded, and turned away down the stairway, and I followed him.

  I did not believe it, even then—could not let myself believe it. Yet I knew, with desperate certainty. Each step downward made me more impatient for the next, but, at the same moment, I was terrified.

  It was a long way. Abruptly we reached the black vaulted place where they kept their wine and oil, and almost mesmerized by the endless winding stairs, I stumbled. Mazlek steadied me and I clutched his arm.

  “Mazlek,” I said hoarsely, “do you believe the prisoner here is who I believe it to be—or am I mad?”

  “Asren, Phoenix, Javhovor of Ezlann,” he said, as hoarsely as I.

  I let out my breath in a stifled sigh.

  “Yes, Mazlek. Yes.”

  His hand settled on half invisible notchings in the wall. I thought it would not open, and almost screamed, but there came a soft grinding sound, and an area of dark stone slid sideways. Beyond, the light tripped itself on the worn treads of thirty steps, which I counted irresistibly as we descended, insanely struggling to keep my hysteria in check. Mazlek, too, was unsteady. The light flicked and slipped on the walls, and I heard his breathing, harsh and uneven.

  There was a smell of death—the smell of a tomb.

  We reached a stone floor; on either side walls pressed close—a narrow passage. At the end of the passage, a wooden door, simply bolted on the outside.

  We stopped, staring at the door. Impossible that in that moment of finding we stood there petrified. Then I ran toward the door, breaking my nails as I scrabbled at bolts, and Mazlek was there too in a second, reaching for others.

  The door jerked, and we pulled it open.

  The shuddering lamplight jumped on a tiny oblong room, windowless, and carpeted by reeking sacking. A figure sat facing us, cross-legged, covered in the rags and dirt of its imprisonment. Young, male, silent. Fair hair, streaked and matted, lay on the shoulders in tangled coils. Slowly the face was raised, catching a little of the light. Black-blue eyes looked into mine. Under the filth, a delicacy, chiseled too fine perhaps, beauty, yet not feminine in the least. . . .

  “My lord,” I whispered, “Asren—”

  I took a step forward, but Mazlek’s hand fell brutal and burning on my shoulder.

  “No, goddess.” His voice was tight, bruising as his fingers.

  “Why . . . ? Why, Mazlek? Let me go.”

  But I knew already. Neither he nor I could hold me back from a brink I had already fallen into.

  The boy in the oblong room gave a little gurgling groan, and pulled himself away from the light of the lamp into one corner, where he curled himself into the protection of the fetal position.

  I stood very still in the doorway, Mazlek behind, no longer any goal ahead of us, for we had found what we sought—Asren, Phoenix, Javhovor: but behind the eyes—nothing; behind the face—nothing. A brainless, helpless, whimpering thing, trapped in a body we remembered.

  * * *

  “Where is he?” I asked Vazkor.

  “Who?”

  “The Javhovor, my husband. He was with me before Oparr came.”

  “The Javhovor is gone, goddess; he need trouble you no more.”

  I remembered many things as I stood in the doorway. I remembered that never once had Vazkor spoken of him as if he were dead. I remembered Vazkor’s story that I had been sick because Asren had tried to poison me—a story I did not believe even then. I remembered the underground room with its draperies and littered floor, and, at the center, gold and precious stuff—the fantastic tomb-case—the empty tomb-case. I remembered the Council at Za where the dead man who had been Eshkorek’s High-Lord screeched at me, “Vazkor’s witch-whore!” And the words took on a new meaning, for he must have known what had been sent to rot in his tower fortress—his propitiatory gift to the usurper. I remembered the lost word in the jeweled book of beasts. I remembered—

  “Goddess,” Mazlek said.

  “Yes,” I said, “yes. I know.”

  I stared into the cell again. The creature which had been Asren had uncurled itself, and lay with its back to us on the sacks. My whole body was one throbbing wound of pity, and of disgust—I could not help it, I could not help it.

  “Mazlek,” I whispered, “what now? We cannot leave him here—”

  “No, goddess. But he—is like a child. And afraid. If I take him by force he’ll scream, wake the Warden’s guards and Vazkor’s jackals.”

  “Like a child,” I said.

  I dreamed I was with Asren, a strange dream, for, though I knew it to be him, he seemed little more than a child. . . .

  He had turned now, was facing me. The vacant black-blue eyes followed the swinging movement of the yellow silks hanging over my hair. I took Mazlek’s knife and cut one of the strings. I shuddered as I entered the stinking room, but thrust my revulsion down. It was so unimportant. If I had loved, then I must love still . . . I held out the yellow silk, the amber marigold shimmering at its end. He gazed at it, and did not flinch from me when I kneeled down beside him. One hand reached up, patted at the shiny toy. There was a little spark of interest in the wide-open eyes. I put it into his hand.

  “Come, Asren,” I said softly. I stroked the matted filthy hair from his face, and took his free hand. He let me draw him to his feet. At the door Mazlek took his other arm.

  “Come, my lord,” he said.

  I could not see him weeping because of the mask, but the tears were falling under it across his breast in dark streaks.

  We left the dungeon, went through the cellars, and up the endless stairs to my chamber. Asren did not make a sound; fascinated by the piece of amber, he did not seem to notice anything else.

  3

  I went to Vazkor in the morning.

  There was a man at his door, as Mazlek had said, but it was easy for me to get by him. It was early, but Vazkor was up, fully dressed though unmasked, seated at a table by the open window, reading from papers stretched before him. I had thought he might still be weak or ill, but he seemed neither. Perhaps my own distress gave his looks, for me, a visual edge, making him invulnerable, cruel and strong.

  He rose, and stood looking at me, and at my borrowed clothes.

  “Good morning, goddess. I must ask Eshkorek for a golden mask for you.”

  “Vazkor,” I said, “I have found Asren.”

  His face altered, a slight shifting of the dark planes. Impassively he said, “Really? It must have been unpleasant for you.”

  “There is more to it than my displeasure. I have found him, and now I have him in my room. He is under my protection. What you have done to him is unspeakable—unforgiveable—I shall not let you do anything further.”

  He regarded me a moment or so longer, then he turned away, and shuffled the papers together on the table.

  “If you wish to act as his nursemaid, that is your own affair, goddess
. You will have to feed and clothe him, bathe him, help him to achieve his human functions, and cleanse him afterward. Hardly a task I would have designated to your care. However, if it will ease your mind. I would only ask you not to overtax your own strength. You will have a child of your own shortly.”

  “A child?” I said softly, feeling I would choke. “A child! Your seed, Vazkor. A thing which will carry, no doubt, the likeness of its sire. Why did you not kill him? Why did you kill only the brain?”

  “He may still be of use to me. In his present state I can control him when and how I wish.”

  “No,” I said.

  “For the present, no,” he amended. “I am glad you have rescued him, goddess. You have perhaps anticipated events in a very fortunate manner.”

  “You will not hurt him anymore,” I said.

  “You forget, goddess, you also have destroyed men without reason. Your Mazlek will recall, I think, the wagoners you killed, simply to prove they were yours. Perhaps that will be your answer to me—to kill Asren when I come for him.”

  I left him, and returning to my room, I thought of how I had kneeled by him in the cave, and wept because of him, and I felt I should go mad.

  Yet, I had Asren safe for a while. For a while the black shadow would not trouble us.

  * * *

  He did not seem properly aware of his new surroundings. I could not tell if he were any happier or not. It was not I, after all, but the limping girl who attended to his bodily needs; she had seen to it before, and it did not appear to upset her. I hated myself then because I could not do these things for him, gave myself no peace, and yet, they were so alien to my own needs. . . . Perhaps I could have learned in time. But when he was clean, she would bring him in to me and I would dress him and feed him, like a small child. I do not recall there was any pleasure in this for me, any oblique maternal gratification. I remember I often cried as I did it, quietly, so as not to confuse him with my tears. He was easily confused, or scared, as a little child would have been. Rain beyond the window, some noise lower in the tower, the door of my room opened suddenly—any of these could shock him into hiding behind the nearest piece of furniture.