“Jahiran was born on a warm Western day.
The babe looked at his father, and then he did say:
Father, why is the way of the world the way?
Why does the hen, not the rooster, lay,
While our men, not our women, enter the fray?
And why do the gods rule us all?”
Reoriented, the elder plucked his instrument from its rest, its lines and curves defining acoustics the most skilled craftsmen might envy with the same hot intensity that enveloped Darris at the sight. He had coveted nothing in his life but Griff’s marriage to Matrinka, yet now he cavorted with the emotion as if it had served as a longtime companion. He continued to sing as the old man added not only voice, but music, to a song that had earned its place as one of Darris’ least favorite:
“Jahiran turned ten on a spring day so cold,
And vowed to learn all by the time he grew old.
That night he learned every use for mined gold
Why the wisule is timid, the aristiri bold.
But he understood naught of laws Wizards uphold.
And why the gods rule us all.”
The gentle braid of harmonics added a lyrical quality the melody had lacked through the ages. Darris knew he would no longer despise the song, though it would leave him longing for this placid interweave of sound he might never find again. For now, he blessed the final seven verses, wishing for twice as many.
“When Jahiran turned twenty, he had to know why
The stars took the patterns they did in the sky.
Why aristiri hawks sing as well as fly,
Why the fox slinks from brush to rock on the sly,
The messages hidden in a baby’s cry,
And why the gods rule us all.
At thirty, he knocked on the West Sorceress’ door
Said ‘Natalia, please,’ and he knelt to implore.
‘There’s a fire inside me that burns to my core
It feeds, not on air, but on knowledge and lore.
I will die if some power won’t help me learn more.
And I must know why gods rule us all.
Natalia fixed him with an ancient’s knowing eye.
‘You cannot learn all, and you shouldn’t even try.
There is danger in knowledge,’ and her look went wry.
‘Understanding cost even the All Father an eye.’
But the pain on his face almost made her cry,
Though she knew why the gods rule us all.
So Natalia, she gave him aristiri’s shape,
And he saw things that men and gods usually drape;
Saw the passion of love and the violence of rape,
Saw upstanding men fall prey to wine’s grape,
Saw Thor coit with a mortal, and that made him gape,
But he still knew not why gods reign over all.
The first bard learned much of the gods and their rule,
But facts don’t bring wisdom unto a fool.
Jahiran used singing hawk form as a tool,
And he crooned to Thor’s wife of his tryst by a pool.
Though Jahiran’s purpose was stupid, not cruel,
Thor showed him why gods rule us all.
Odin stepped in before Jahiran was flayed.
‘I realize your need, but this can’t go unpaid.’
Then the One-Eyed One grasped the hawk by its head
And cut out half its tongue with a razor sharp blade.
Then, where once perched a hawk, now a wounded man lay
Who wished he knew less of the gods.
Then Odin spoke, and his voice it did ring,
‘You can no longer speak, but you can still sing,
And your fingers will keep the grace of hawk’s wings;
They will dance across any instrument’s strings.
Yet your quest to know all will continue to sting.
Mortal life is too short to know gods.’
The last mordant line rang from mandolin and lute while the others stood like statues, straining for the final notes as if loath to lose even the last, dying vibration. Darris shared their yearning, wishing the ensemble would never end. He had played duets with his mother, the previous bard, the only one he met who dared try to match his talent. She had exceeded him, as the man who had called himself Jahiran would put even her abilities to shame. Yet, no matter the old man’s talent, he could not be Jahiran.
Not for the first time, Darris despised the curse that forced him to impart knowledge only in song. Swiftly, he composed, the precision of the previous piece making his impromptu creation sound even more awkward:
“Natalia passed 2500 years before
History was set to zero.
If you’re Jahiran, you must be
A 2800-year-old hero.”
The elder strummed his ornate lute and sang his answer in a voice as clear and competent as Darris’ own. Yet, though he also rhymed, he put forth his points with a competence that made it seem more concept than words. By the time they reached Darris’ ears, he could not have recreated the constructs. Like khohlar, only the ideas remained: [I am no hero. But I am Jahiran.]
Darris glanced at his companions. They stood waiting but did not interfere. He alone had the old man speaking coherently, if not wholly sensibly. Tae had, once again, disappeared:
“Please tell me how such can be
It makes no sense at all.
You’ve got your life, your tongue and speech,
After such an enormous fall.”
The elder responded with the same smoothness, and Darris found himself, once again, ensconced in awed jealousy: [When I neared the end of my life, the gods took pity on me and my line. They offered me a wish. I’m afraid I proved no wiser than before. I asked for all the knowledge of the universe.] He lowered his head, thin white locks falling like water to his shoulders. Guilt radiated from him like a mantle.
Darris stared, the enormity of meeting an ancestor stunning him beyond the ability to comfort:
“Please, forefather, no need for shame.
No bardic heir could find you to blame.”
Darris shook his head. None of us would have done any differently.
[I had the chance to save my son and my descendants through eternity, but I chose selfishly. I’ve suffered for my wish. The gods decreed I will not die until I’ve learned what I requested.]
The knowledge of the universe. Just the thought sent Darris’ heart into excited pounding. No wonder so much of what he said made sense. A thought nearly staggered him. All of it. What doesn’t concur is my misconception, not his.
Oblivious to Darris’ thoughts, Jahiran continued. [When the Wizards died and magic left man’s world, Odin took pity and returned my tongue. He removed the curse from my line.]
Or maybe not my misconception, Darris amended. Only now, he noticed the massive scar that split the old man’s tongue. He cleared his throat and played again:
“The curse remains on Jahiran’s line
Believe me, I’ve suffered it in my time.”
[By your choice, hundredth grandson. From the time of my restoration, your predecessors and yourself may speak freely, as I can.]
Darris stared, wondering if Jahiran had any clue how he sounded when he spoke.
[And, when the day comes that I know all, it’ll also free my line of the infernal quest for understanding.]
Hope flared, instantly replaced by realization. Still the fool, Jahiran. Darris heaved an enormous sigh. So long as the world has a future, you’ll never know all. And, by then, the curse will have no meaning. Despite that, Darris could only begin to imagine the information Jahiran could impart, whether singing or through his chaotic ramblings. “Teach me,” he said.
Jahiran studied Darris several moments in silence. Then, suddenly, he loosed a series of sounds from the lute strings that exactly simulated laughter. [Do you have 2800 years to spare, youngling?]
Images of Matrinka and Marisole filled Darris’ mind’s eye. Griff
would see that they wanted for nothing, yet there was one thing Griff could never supply. Matrinka needs me. Yet the idea of learning from the master of all knowledge, of spending his years in endless duet with a musician of unmatched skill enticed with a bonfire of need. He glanced toward his companions again. Ra-khir wore a look of impatience. The whole thing seemed ludicrous to him. Kevral turned Darris a wide-eyed, bemused expression. She understood as few others could. She would follow Colbey Calistinsson to her death and revel in the opportunity; nothing and no one could stand in the way of her learning should he agree to teach.
Darris gritted his teeth. I’m not a Renshai or a fool. “No,” he admitted. “No, I haven’t.”
[What did you come for?] Jahiran sang with a secret smile that he did not explain, nor did he need to. [If it is in my possession, you may have it.]
Kevral spoke for the first time since the singing started. “A shard from a broken sapphire.”
Jahiran granted the Renshai a single nod. He set the lute on his knee, reaching into the case toward the glint of brass Darris had noticed when the ancient had first opened it. His face lapsed further into wrinkles.
Tae emerged from the far side of the porch. “It’s in your back pocket.”
Jahiran’s lips pursed in clear doubt, but his hand went to the indicated place, as much from instinct as any belief he would find it there. He made a sudden noise of discovery, drawing key and Pica shard from his britches together. He smiled, passing the sapphire chip to Darris and tossing the key back into the case.
Darris gave Tae a withering look, but the Easterner dodged it with a sudden, intense interest in studying the further horizon.
Jahiran placed his lute back into its case even as Darris requested one more song.
“Song,” Jahiran repeated. “Why I once knew lots of songs. Did you know that there’s a tribe of barbarians in the southwest that worships music as a god? And speaking of gods . . .”
Kevral seized Darris’ hand and led him toward the woodlands.
My life and loyalties belong to my world, not my curse. Darris could not help looking back, even as Jahiran returned to his chair and his pipe. It was a lesson the first bard had learned too late.
CHAPTER 7
Return of the Father
The difference between a blood-sire and a father is the difference between having the flesh to hold a sword and learning the competence to wield it. I may be the Child of Thunder you name me. I may carry the blood of Thor; but I am always first Calistin’s son.
—Colbey Calistinsson
A whiff of grease from the kitchen twined beneath the study room door in Pudar Castle, strange contrast to the flower-petal incense. Wide-open shutters emitted afternoon sunlight that sheened from off-white walls, striped the bare wood floor, and glared from parchments on the tabletop. King Cymion pinned one of these with a thick, callused hand, auburn hair flecked with gray curling across his forehead. He indicated a passage scrawled on the paper with a brisk tap of one meaty finger. “See there. History never lies.”
Prince Leondis nodded with an abstraction that seemed more politeness than interest. Dark brown locks bobbed around his shoulders, and he glanced at his father with the king’s own blue eyes.
With a sigh, Cymion let his hand flop to the page. Severin would have devoured this. He banished the thought before the tears could rise. Longer than a year had passed since the death of the elder prince, but Leondis’ every failing still raised memories of his favorite.
A firm knock on the door wrenched the king from somber thoughts. “Who is it?” he demanded gruffly.
No answer followed. The thick panel muffled sound, and the other could not have heard him.
Leondis rose with a swift grace that suggested he appreciated the interruption, though he said nothing to confirm the impression. He trotted to the door.
Cymion judged the prince’s every movement. There, he admitted grudgingly, Leondis bested his late brother. What Leondis lacked in wisdom, judgment, and political savvy, he gained in grace and strength. Expecting to become a military officer in his brother’s employ, he had trained to war from an early age. Honed muscles, pleasant features, and charming manners had made him the favorite of Pudar’s females, if not of his father. At least, his recent marriage to one of New Loven’s princesses seemed to have curtailed his appetite for women.
The new train of thought wrenched another sigh from King Cymion. He had long hoped to bypass the need for Leondis to rule Pudar by holding the crown until age addled him, then passing it to the prince’s child. Yet, despite Leondis’ well-known indiscretions, he had never sired offspring, even before the sterility plague. Except once.
As Cymion’s considerations turned bitterly toward Kevral, the door eased open to reveal Javonzir, his most trusted adviser. Executing a flourishing bow, he kept his hazel eyes low, nearly hidden beneath straight, dark bangs.
“Get in here, Javon,” Cymion fairly growled. The dense propriety was unnecessary. Cousins, they had played together as children, and Javonzir only became this rigid about protocol when he disapproved of something the king had said or done. The formality had grown aggravatingly thick in the last several months.
Leondis stepped aside, and Javonzir complied. The door clicked shut behind him.
Cymion pursed his lips, and they disappeared into his beard. “What have I done this time?”
Leondis placed a hand over his own mouth, but his eyes betrayed the smile he hid. He could not help finding amusement in the rarity of his leonine father’s defensiveness.
“Done?” Javonzir repeated, shaking his head. “Many wonderful things, Your Majesty. At a time of crisis, you’ve kept the populace content, especially with your policies, Sire.”
“But. . .?” Cymion inserted.
Leondis reclaimed his seat, watching but graciously keeping his inspection moderate and nonjudgmental.
“But nothing, Sire. You’ve done nothing that concerns me.” Javonzir bowed once more before stepping closer. “I only came to bring you this.” He held out a thin scroll of parchment tied with a ribbon and secured with a wax imprint of Béarn’s bear. “A messenger brought it moments ago.”
Cymion studied his adviser’s familiar eyes, a muddled mix of green and brown with unusually thick folds at the inner corners. Although Javonzir had not unrolled the parchment, he surely worried for the contents, which made little sense. Béarn and Pudar had been comfortably allied for centuries. Taking the tube, he assembled the logical pieces of information. “The messenger told you its contents.”
Javonzir gave no reply. In his stodgy moods, he responded only to the king’s questions.
Cymion did not press. He held the answers in his hand. Snapping the seal, he slid the ribbon off one end and opened the message, reading:
To: His Highness, King Cymion of Pudar
From: Griff, High King of the West in Béarn
Your Majesty,
This note is to inform you that the lysalf have discovered a method likely to lift the sterility plague, and we have embarked on the course posthaste. It requires the time and effort of eight heroes who have volunteered for a mission that might prove dangerous or even fatal. We do not know for certain if they will meet with success, but we hope your best wishes attend them as well as our own . . .
Excitement wound through Cymion’s chest, and a grin twitched across his thin lips. He continued reading:
. . . Acknowledging the multicultural nature of this problem, we have assembled: two elves, Béarn’s own bard, a Knight of Erythane, a Northern warrior, a Renshai, and a Pudarian healer. The East’s only prince has honored us with his presence as well. I regret that time did not permit us to consult you prior to the selection process, but we believed it best for all to start, and thus complete, this business as swiftly as possible. We hope we have not offended you or any other with this method and that you are as excited as us by the prospect of forcing this damnable plague to its conclusion.
With all best wishes of the
High Kingdom
I remain your ally and friend:
King Griff
Cymion’s mouth parted, enhancing his smile. He let out an undignified whoop of joy, passing the parchment to Leondis so the prince could share his enthusiasm. “At last, a cure. At last, peace and an end to the worry that mankind as a whole might perish. At last . . .” He broke off, realizing that Javonzir remained still, expression unrevealing when he should have been grinning and dancing like a fool. “Damn it, what am I missing, Javon?” He tensed for an evasive answer that would only fuel his anger. Javonzir knew him too well to misunderstand the question, no matter how vague.
The adviser knew when not to enrage his king. He ran slender fingers through hair that did not need the combing. Oil and sticky perfume held the pole-straight locks in perfect order. “Sire, the specifics of those chosen for the task.”
Cymion jerked the parchment from the prince’s hand. He had focused in on the one Pudarian, an unknown healer, likely not the one he would have selected. But he understood, even appreciated, Béarn’s expediency. He glanced over the list again. The elves only made sense; Béarn would need them to work the magic. He considered the others: the bard, a knight, a Northman, a Renshai, and the Eastern prince. Memory descended on Cymion, accompanied by a dark rush of discomfort. Kindhearted Severin, a prince of the people, had died attempting to rescue a grimy Eastern street thief getting pounded by more of his own. Every witness had fingered the victim’s wild slashes as the cause of Severin’s death. Tae.
Hatred flared, as hot as the white center of a fire. Cymion had captured the weaselly Easterner, but Tae had escaped the impossible, taking the worst of Pudar’s criminals with him. The guards had killed all but Tae and a locksmith turned thief. A legal technicality spared Tae from the slow, agonizing drawing-and-quartering he deserved, but not from King Cymion’s unremitting hatred. Even the letter he had received from Tae’s father, who had claimed the throne of the East’s high kingdom, asserting Tae’s innocence and presenting the “real” murderer in his place, scarcely dented Cymion’s rage. Surely, Weile Kahn had coerced the confession; Cymion would have done the same for Severin, even for Leondis. He would tolerate the East’s prince and remain allied with the East for the good of the West and Pudar, but no one could make him like Tae Kahn.
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