The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

of Zoroaster

  where the nightshade

  and the oleaster

  bloom.

  Hawkmoon hardly heard the words, but the rhythms seemed to have a peculiar effect on him. At first he thought it was the wine, but then he realized that at certain points in the recitation his mind would seem to shudder and forgotten sensations would well up in his breast. He swayed in his chair.

  Bowgentle looked hard at Hawkmoon as he continued his poem, gesticulating in an exaggerated way.

  The poet laureate in laurel

  and orange brocade

  chased with topaz

  and opal

  and lucent jade,

  fragrant of pomander,

  redolent to myrrh

  and lavender,

  the treasure

  of Samarcand and Thrace,

  fell prostrate

  in the marketplace,

  "Are you well, my lord?" asked Yisselda, leaning toward Hawkmoon and speaking with concern.

  Hawkmoon shook his head. "I am well enough, thanks."

  He was wondering if in some way he had offended the lords of Granbretan and they were even now giving the Black Jewel its full life. His head was swimming.

  insensate,

  and while choral

  anthems told

  his glory,

  the Emperor,

  majestical,

  in slippers of gold

  and ivory,

  upon him trod

  and throngs applaud

  the mortal god.

  Now all Hawkmoon saw was the figure and face of Bowgentle, heard nothing but the rhythms and the vowel rhymes, and wondered about enchantment. And if Bowgentle were seeking to enchant him, what was his reason?

  From windows and towers

  gaily arrayed

  with garlands of flowers

  and fresh bouquets

  the children sprayed

  showers

  of meadow-rue

  roses and nosegays

  of hyacinth into

  the crossways

  where Glaucoma passed.

  Down to the causeways

  from steeples and parapets

  children threw

  violets,

  plum blossoms, lilies

  and peonies,

  and, last,

  themselves

  when Glaucoma passed.

  Hawkmoon took a long draft of wine and breathed deeply, staring at Bowgentle as the poet continued with his verse.

  The moon

  shone dim,

  the hot sun swayed

  and still delayed

  the noon,

  the stars bestrewn

  with seraphim

  upraised

  a hymn,

  for soon

  the Emperor

  would stand before the sacred ruin

  sublime

  and lay his hand upon that door

  unknown to time

  that he alone

  of mortal man may countermand.

  Hawkmoon gasped as a man might when plunged into icy water. Yisselda's hand was on his sweat-wet brow, and her sweet eyes were troubled. "My lord . . . ?"

  Hawkmoon stared at Bowgentle as the poet went relentlessly on.

  Glaucoma passed

  with eyes downcast

  the grave ancestral portal

  inlaid with precious stone

  and pearl and bone

  and ruby. He passed

  the portal and the colonnade while trombone sounds and trumpets blast

  and earth trembles

  and above

  a host assembles

  and the scent of ambergris is

  burning in the air.

  Dimly, Hawkmoon glimpsed Yisselda's hand touching his face, but he did not hear what she said. His eyes were fixed on Bowgentle, his ears were concentrated on listening to the verse. A goblet had fallen from his hand. He was plainly ill, but Count Brass made no move to help. Count Brass, instead, looked from Hawkmoon to Bowgentle, his face half-hidden behind his wine-cup, an ironic expression in his eyes.

  Now the Emperor releases

  a snow-white dove!

  O, a dove

  as fair

  as peace is,

  so rare

  that love increases

  everywhere.

  Hawkmoon groaned. At the far end of the table von Villach banged his wine-cup on the table. "I'd agree with that. Why not 'The Mountain Bloodletting'? It's a good—"

  The Emperor released

  that snow-white dove

  and it flew

  till none could sight

  it, flew through the bright

  air, flew through fire,

  flew still higher,

  still flew higher,

  right

  into the sun

  to die for

  the Emperor Glaucoma

  Hawkmoon staggered to his feet, tried to speak to Bowgentle, fell across the table, spilling wine in all directions.

  "Is he drunk?" von Villach asked in a tone of disgust.

  "He is ill!" called Yisselda. "Oh, he is ill!"

  "He is not drunk, I think," Count Brass said, leaning over Hawkmoon's body and raising an eyelid. "But he is certainly insensible." He looked up at Bowgentle and smiled. Bowgentle smiled back and then shrugged.

  "I hope you are sure of that, Count Brass," he said.

  Hawkmoon lay all night in a deep coma and awoke the next morning to find Bowgentle, who acted as physician to the castle, bending over him. Whether what had happened had been caused by drink, the Black Jewel, or Bowgentle, he still could not be sure. Now he felt hot and weak.

  "A fever, my lord Duke," Bowgentle said softly. "But we shall cure you, never fear."

  Then Yisselda was there, seating herself beside his bed. She smiled at him. "Bowgentle says it is not serious," she told him.

  "I will nurse you. Soon you will be in good health again."

  Hawkmoon looked into her face and felt a great flood of emotion fill him. "Lady Yisselda . . ."

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "I ... thank you. ..."

  He looked about the room in bewilderment. From behind him he heard a voice speak urgently. It was Count Brass's voice. "Say nothing more. Rest. Control your thoughts. Sleep if you can."

  Hawkmoon had not realized Count Brass was in the room.

  Now Yisselda put a glass to his lips. He drank the cool liquid and was soon asleep again.

  The next day the fever was gone, and rather than an absence of emotion, Dorian Hawkmoon felt as if he were numbed physically and spiritually. He wondered if he had been drugged.

  Yisselda came to him as he was finishing breakfast and asked if he were ready to accompany her on a walk through the gardens, since the day was fine for the season.

  He rubbed his head, feeling the strange warmth of the Black Jewel beneath his hand. With some alarm, he dropped his hand.

  "Do you still feel ill, my lord?" asked Yisselda.

  "No ... I ..." Hawkmoon sighed. "I don't know.

  I feel odd - it's unfamiliar. . . ."

  "Some fresh air, perhaps, will clear your head."

  Passively, Hawkmoon got up to go with her into the gardens. The gardens were scented with all kinds of pleasant smells, and the sun was bright, making the shrubs and trees stand out sharply in the clear winter air.

  The touch of Yisselda's arm linked in his stirred Hawkmoon's feelings further. It was a pleasant sensation, as was the bite of the wind in his face and the sight of the terraced gardens and the houses below. As well as these, he felt fear and distrust - fear of the Black Jewel, for he was sure that it would destroy him if he betrayed any sign of what he was now going through; and distrust of Count Brass and the rest, for he felt that they were in some way deceiving him and had more than an inkling of his purpose in coming to Castle Brass. He could seize the girl now, steal a horse, and perhaps stand a good chance of escaping. He looked at her suddenly.


  Sweetly, she smiled up at him. "Has the air made you feel better, my lord Duke?"

  He stared down into her face while many emotions conflicted within him. "Better?" he said hoarsely. "Better? I am not sure. . . ."

  "Are you tired?"

  "No." His head had begun to ache, and again he felt afraid of the Black Jewel. He reached out and grasped the girl.

  Thinking that he was falling from weakness, she took his arms and tried to support him. His hands went limp and he could do nothing. "Yon are very kind," he said.

  "You are a strange man," she replied, half to herself.

  "You are an unhappy man."

  "Aye . . ."He pulled away from her and began to walk over the turf to the edge of the terrace. Could the Lords of Granbretan know what was going on within him? It was unlikely. It was likely, on the other hand, that they were sus-picious and might give the Black Jewel its life at any moment.

  He took a deep breath of the cold air and straightened his shoulders, remembering the voice of Count Brass from the night before. "Control your thoughts," he had said.

  The pain in his head was increasing. He turned. "I think we had better return to the castle," he told Yisselda. She nodded and took his arm again, and they walked back the way they had come.

  In the main hall, Count Brass met them. His expression was one of kindly concern, and there was nothing in his face to confirm the urgency of tone Hawkmoon had heard last night. Hawkmoon wondered if he had dreamed that or if Count Brass had guessed the nature of the Black Jewel and was acting to deceive it and the Dark Lords who even now watched this scene from the palace laboratories in Londra.

  "The Duke von Koln is feeling unwell," Yisselda said.

  "I am distressed to hear it," Count Brass answered. "Is there anything you need, my lord?"

  "No," Hawkmoon replied thickly. "No -I thank you."

  He walked as steadily as he could toward the stairs. Yisselda went with him, supporting one arm, until they reached his rooms. At the door he paused and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and full of sympathy; she lifted a soft hand to touch his cheek for an instant. The touch sent a shudder through him and he gasped. Then she had turned and half-run down the passage.

  Hawkmoon entered the room and flung himself on his bed, his breathing shallow, his body tense, desperately trying to understand what was happening to him and what was the source of the pain in his head. At length he slept again.

  He awoke in the afternoon, feeling weak. The pain had nearly gone, and Bowgentle was beside the bed, placing a bowl of fruit on a nearby table. "I was mistaken in believing the fever had left you," he said.

  "What is happening to me?" Hawkmoon murmured.

  "As far as I can tell, a mild fever brought about by the hardships you have suffered and, I am afraid, by our hospitality. Doubtless it was too soon for you to eat rich food and drink so much wine. We should have realized that. You will be well enough in a short time, however, my lord."

  Privately, Hawkmoon knew this diagnosis to be wrong, but he said nothing. He heard a cough to his left and turned his head but saw only the open door leading to the dressing room. Someone was within that room. He looked questioningly back at Bowgentle, but the man's face was blank as he pretended an interest in Hawkmoon's pulse.

  "You must not fear," said the voice from the next room.

  "We wish to help you." The voice was Count Brass's. "We understand the nature of the jewel in your forehead. When you feel rested, rise and go to the main hall, where Bowgentle will engage you in some sort of trivial conversation. Do not be surprised if his actions seem a little strange."

  Bowgentle pursed his lips and straightened up. "You will soon be fit again, my lord. I take my leave of you now."

  Hawkmoon watched him leave the room and heard another door close also - Count Brass leaving. How could they have discovered the truth? And how would it affect him? Even now the Dark Lords must be wondering about the odd turn of events and suspecting something. They might release the full life of the Black Jewel at any moment. For some reason, this knowledge disturbed him much more than it had.

  Hawkmoon decided that there was nothing he could do but obey Count Brass's command, though it was just as likely that the Count, if he had discovered the purpose of Hawkmoon's presence here, would be as vengeful as the Lords of Granbretan. Hawkmoon's situation was an un-pleasant one in all its possibilities.

  When the room darkened and evening came, Hawkmoon got up and walked down to the main hall. It was empty. He looked around him in the flickering firelight, wondering if he had not been induced to enter some sort of trap.

  Then Bowgentle came through the far door and smiled at him. He saw Bowgentle's lips move, but no sound came from them. Bowgentle then pretended to pause as if listening to Hawkmoon's reply, and Hawkmoon realized then that this was a deception for the benefit of those who watched through the power of the Black Jewel.

  When he heard a footfall behind him, he did not turn, but instead pretended to reply to Bowgentle's conversation.

  Then Count Brass spoke from behind him. "We know what the Black Jewel is, my lord Duke. We understand that you were induced by those of Granbretan to come here, and we believe we know the purpose of your visit. I will explain...."

  Hawkmoon was struck by the oddness of the situation as Bowgentle mimed speech and the Count's deep voice came as if from nowhere.

  "When you first arrived here at Castle Brass," Count Brass continued, "I realized that the Black Jewel was something more than you said it was - even if you did not yourself realize it. I am afraid that those of the Dark Empire do me little credit, for I have studied quite as much sorcery and science as they, and 1 have a grimoire in which the machine of the Black Jewel is described. However, I did not know whether you were a knowing or unknowing victim of the Jewel, and I had to discover this without the Granbretanians realizing it.

  "Thus on the night of the banquet I asked Sir Bowgentle there to disguise a rune as a pretty set of verses. The purpose of this rune would be to rob you of consciousness - and thus rob the Jewel also - so that we could study you without the Lords of the Dark Empire realizing it. We hoped that they would think you drunk and not connect Bowgentle's pretty rhymes with your own sudden infirmity.

  "The rune speaking began, with its special rhythms and cadences designed for your ears. It served its purpose, and you passed into a deep coma. While you slept, Bowgentle and I managed to reach through to your inner mind, which was buried deeply - like a frightened animal that digs a bur-row so far underground that it begins to stifle to death.

  Already certain events had brought your inner mind a little closer to the surface than it had been in Granbretan, and we were able to question it. We discovered most of what had happened to you in Londra, and when I learned of your mission here I almost dispatched you. But then I realized that there was a conflict in you - which even you were scarcely aware of. If this conflict had not been evident, I would have killed you myself or let the Black Jewel do its work."

  Hawkmoon, pretending to reply to Bowgentle's nonexistent conversation, shuddered in spite of himself.

  "However," Count Brass went on, "I realized that you were not to blame for what had occurred and that in killing you I might destroy a potentially powerful enemy of Granbretan. Though I remain neutral, Granbretan has done too much to offend me for me to let such a man die. Thus, we worked out this scheme in order to inform you of what we know and also to say that there is hope. I have the means of temporarily nullifying the power of the Black Jewel. When I have finished, you will accompany Bowgentle down to my chambers, where I will do what must be done. We have little time before the Lords of Granbretan lose patience and release the Jewel's full life into your skull. . . ."

  Hawkmoon heard Count Brass's footfalls leave the hall, and then Bowgentle smiled and said aloud, "So if you would care to accompany me, my lord, I will show you some parts of the castle you have not as yet visited. Few guests have seen Count Brass's private chambers."
/>   Hawkmoon realized that these words were spoken for the benefit of the watchers in Granbretan. Doubtless Bowgentle was hoping to whet their curiosity and thus gain time.

  Bowgentle led the way out of the main hall and into a passage that ended at what appeared to be a solid wall hung with tapestries. Pushing the tapestries aside, Bowgentle touched a small stud set in the stone of the wall, and immediately a section of it began to glow brightly and then faded, to reveal a portal through which, by stooping, a man could pass. Hawkmoon went through, followed by Bowgentle, and found himself in a small room, the walls hung with old charts and diagrams. This room was left and another entered, larger than the first. It contained a great mass of alchemical apparatus and was lined with bookshelves full of huge old volumes of chemistry, sorcery, and philosophy.

  "This way," murmured Bowgentle, drawing aside a curtain to reveal a dark passage.

  Hawkmoon's eyes strained as he tried to peer through the darkness, but it was impossible. He stepped cautiously along the passage, and then it was suddenly alive with blinding white light.

  Revealed in silhouette was the looming figure of Count Brass, a strangely wrought weapon in his hands pointed at Hawkmoon's head.

  Hawkmoon gasped and tried to leap aside, but the passage was too narrow. There was a crack that seemed to burst his eardrums, a weird, melodious humming sound, and he fell back, losing consciousness.

  Awakening in golden half light, Hawkmoon had a sense of astonishing physical well-being. His whole mind and body felt alive as if it had never been alive before. He smiled and stretched. He was lying on a metal bench, alone. He reached up and touched his forehead. The Black Jewel was still there, but its texture had changed. No longer did it feel like flesh; no longer did it possess an unnatural warmth. Instead it felt like any ordinary jewel, hard and smooth and cold.

  A door opened, and Count Brass entered, looking down at him with an expression of satisfaction.

  "I am sorry if I alarmed you yesterday evening," he said,

  "but I had to work rapidly, paralyzing the Black Jewel and capturing the life force in it. I now possess that life force, imprisoned by means both physical and sorcerous, but I cannot hold it forever. It is too strong. At some time it will escape and flow back into the jewel in your forehead, no matter where you are."

  "So I am reprieved but not saved," Hawkmoon said. "How long does the reprieve last?"