by Julian May
"With an added feature." Culluket the Interrogator smiled coldly within the shadow of his hooded burgundy cloak. "Observe the fine line of sight through that northwestern notch between here and the high turrets of the Castle of Glass back in Goriah ... Do you perceive it Lady Morna?"
"Very clever," said the farsensing dame. "No rock formations to block your surveillance of the Foe. I'm glad to see some evidence of prudence amid this frantic ostentation."
Aiken grinned indomitably in the face of her disapproval. "It's all for prudence's sweet sake, Lady Morna, don't you see?"
"Perhaps I do," she admitted grudgingly.
"Let's see how the main amphitheatre is shaping up!" Mercy suggested. And she was off and galloping.
The company followed the tanbarked avenue inland. Ancient plane trees with mottled trunks, some more than four meters in diameter, stood sentinel on either side of the arrow-straight traditional Tanu ley that extended off into the mist. On either side of the allée ramas worked on flowerbeds, or pruned shrubs, or scraped moss off the benches of the soon-to-be-refurbished bowers. More litde apes clambered over the roofs of the many vinehung pergolas, removing wasp nests, killing bird-hunting spiders, and driving off the colonies of bats that had made free with the Grove of May since last year's Grand Loving.
They rode on more slowly, and finally the focal point of the pleasance loomed ahead. "A new maypole!" exclaimed Eadnar delightedly. "And so tall!" She went dashing off to examine it followed after a moment's hesitation by her laughing sister, Tirone. They ignored the rain that pelted them as they left the shelter of Aiken's PK bubble. Casually, he expanded the mental force-field's radius to nearly half a kilometer.
"Tana's mercy!" cried Lady Morna in spite of herself. "You surpass the powers of Kuhal and Fian of the Host, when they used to roof over the sports arena in Muriah!"
"You don't say?" chirped Aiken. He cocked his head at distant Eadnar, who had now stopped, together with Tirone, to accept a bouquet of daffodils from one of the silver-torc landscape architects. "Nice to see the little widow acting more cheery. Perhaps she's looking forward to May."
He gave Alberonn Mindeater a playful mental jab, to which the hybrid responded with decently veiled emotions.
Morna said, "My daughter-in-law is young—scarcely seventy-three—and bears up under our tragic loss more readily than I." Morna studied a goldfinch with a bright red face that sat on a budding bush, singing sweetly. "But life must go on."
"Especially in spring," said Aiken.
Mercy, riding sedately at his side, had her thoughts enclosed in bright opacity. A secret smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
They rode into an open area that had been a mere meadow before Mercy's imagination got to work on it. Now it was transformed into a smaragdine bowl, a gently sloping amphitheatre that swept down to a flat dancing ground. Flocks of sheep cropped the lawn. Beyond was a turfed earthwork stage framed in evergreens; and in back of this, jutting from a truncated knoll, rose the towering maypole. The tip of the bare wooden spar was lost in low-hanging nimbostratus. Some 30 meters to the left of the pole waited a heavy-duty cart with a crew of grays.
"Now for my biggest surprise!" said Aiken. He winked at Mercy. "I had this up my sleeve, etiquette or no etiquette!"
Eadnar and Tirone now rejoined the party. "It's a splendid maypole," said Tirone. "I wonder you could find a slender tree of such imposing height."
"We couldn't," Aiken admitted laconically. "It's an artifact. Reinforced. But that's just for starters, Creative Sister. Here comes the real scouseroo!" He called out in farspeech: You guys all set?
The teamsters chorused: Ready boss!
The jester made a mesmeric pass in the air. Tarpaulins whipped from the cart, revealing squat wooden crates. Another pass, and lids flew off, to pile into a clattering heap. Aiken frowned, pushed back his hat, unbuttoned the cuffs of his golden suit, and shoved up his sleeves.
"Stand back!" he bellowed. Every sinew tensed as he gathered his psychokinesis. "Shazoom!"
From the open boxes flew hundreds of thin metallic sheets that fluttered in the misty air like golden leaves. A directorial gesture from Aiken made them rise and fall, dancing in a butterfly swarm. The gold foil formed a stream, split, twined, braided, and writhed. Like glittering fluid the sheets circled the pole; then those nearest the base spun faster, seeming to melt onto the wood. More swiftly than the eye could follow, the rest of the gold blended into place, gilding the tall spar from butt to tip in a seamless sheath of yellow brilliance. The psychocreative welding job having been accomplished, the maypole stood steaming in the rain while the workmen cheered.
"There has never been such a splendid maypole," breathed Eadnar. "You know its symbolism, do you not, Shining One?"
Aiken nodded solemnly. "Oh, yes. That's why I worked so hard. It's got to be extra glorious if it's to represent Mine."
"And how much of Goriah's treasury was expended in this quest for verisimilitude?" inquired Lady Morna archly.
Aiken was polite. "Not so much ... that we won't replace it twenty times over with what I'm going to take away from the Firvulag. And not by plunder, either! Fair and square—almost—provided I can con Sharn and Ayfa into agreeing to my modification of the Grand Combat come next October."
"Another human novelty?" Morna was almost resigned.
"I'm just loaded with 'em," Aiken told her warmly. "You'll get the complete scoop at the Loving."
Mercy said, "This is why the festival this year must be the most magnificent in all the history of the Tanu exile on Earth—to lift the spirits of our people and to impress the Firvulag. To force them all to take our new regime seriously. We'll have three days of nonstop celebration."
"And at the grand finale," said Culluket the Interrogator, "all of the guests—Tanu and Firvulag and human—will witness the coronation of Lord Aiken-Lugonn and Lady Mercy-Rosmar as King and Queen of the Many-Colored Land."
The minds of the hybrids, their ladies, and the dowager of Rocilan were frozen in astonishment. Nobody noticed that the PK shelter had evaporated with Aiken's pole-gilding ploy and the rain was softly falling on them once again.
"Too soon!" cried Bleyn. "Eventually, yes. But the fullblooded Tanu aren't ready to accept a human king, Aiken! It was more than sixty years before Alberonn and I were admitted to the High Table—and Katlinel only last year—because of our human genes."
"The High Table admitted Gomnol," Aiken said. "He was human."
"He forced acceptance—and was hated for it," Morna snapped.
"Mercy's human," Aiken said.
"Is she?" the Interrogator murmured, smiling. "My late brother, the Battlemaster, thought not"
This was news to Aiken. On the intimate mode he bespoke hen Say what?
Telepathic mirth. Nodonn had GregDonnet do my geneticassay. Olddear claimed I more Tanugenes than human. PoorGreggy mad ofcourse.
Later I winkle this Lady Wildfire!
Aloud, Mercy said, "There are only twenty-five hundred or so pureblooded Tanu left alive—and most of those are minor powers. Nearly twice as many hybrids survived because of their greater physical endurance. My Lord and I have estimated that he will have a clear advantage in petty-nobility acclamation."
"Celadeyr of Afaliah and his traditionalists might fight rather than acquiesce," said Lady Morna grimly. "And I can well understand their feeling. Celo and I are both First Comers—and you, Young Battlemaster, flout the very religious principles that drove us to this exile in the first place!"
Tirone, who had secretly been a member of the Peace Faction, now interjected a thought that was soft but clear: That old battle-religion must pass away now dearest Kinsmother. Brede herself said it. And many of us see Lord Aiken-Lugonn as the agent of this change.
Morna's consternation flared. "You'll see what battle means, my girl, if this human youth tries to seize the throne without High Table consensus!"
Eadnar's objections were practical. "Even if you count a majority of the Hi
gh Table electors on your side, Shining One, the obduracy of Celadeyr may provoke a fatal division in our cities' chivalry. The Firvulag would take advantage of any infighting—and perhaps finish what the Flood began."
Bleyn said, "All we ask, Aiken, is that you act prudently! Don't declare yourself until you're sure that the city-lords will follow you and not Celo. If you seize the crown and the dissidents ignore your proclamations and commands, you'll look like a fool."
Morna said, "The entire Tanu power structure is based on unanimous loyalty to the sovereign. He's not a mere ruler, elected in the way the Little People choose their vulgar democratic monarchs. Our king is a father to us all!"
Aiken was still grinning, but contempt burned behind his black eyes. Softly he said, "There are more than eighty thousand Firvulag waiting to pounce on our asses, friends. Do you want a king and battlemaster? Or would you prefer a daddy to tuck you in while the demons howl outside the window? Someone to wipe your little twats when your bowels gush the fear of death?"
"We want you," the Interrogator stated. His probing ultrasense flicked over the others like an icy beacon. "Only you have the fullness of aggressive power and the ability to develop the metapsychic concert that we must have to defeat our enemies." He paused. "And the Firvulag are not the only Foe."
The scathing mental face of the trickster underwent a lightning transformation. Now his loyalty, his willingness to defend them if they would only accept and love him shone incontrovertible. For an instant he let them glimpse his vast metapsychic strength before veiling it with an acid drape of self-mockery. And then he conjured up memories for them to ponder, and wooed them with that lilting mental eloquence that so rarely carried over into his spoken words:
Away with your doubts and fears, my friends! Remember the Kingmaker's prophecy about me. She never lost confidence in the man of her choice. Remember how I killed Delbaeth the Shape of Fire, and the Firvulag Battlemaster Pallol One-Eye! And if you hesitate because I conquered them by trickery, then recall how I triumphed on the field of the Grand Combat, and how the great captains and the petty lords flocked to my impudent banner. Tagan Lord of Swords hailed me! And Bunone Warteacher, greatest of the fighting tacticians! And you, Alberonn—and you, Bleyn! Remember how the commons and nobles alike loved me for my audacity and daring? Remember the mysterious way that the Spear of Lugonn came to my hands? (And even though that sacred Spear is lost for the moment, I know where it must be and I'll have it back—never fear!)
Remember how my right to challenge Nordonn was acknowledged by the whole battle-company? And by Brede! I would have won the Duel of Battlemasters if Tana hadn't had her own ideas about sweeping the chessboard clean and setting up a new game.
You still hesitate?...Have you no religion, then? Consider, my friends: Aiken Drum is alive and well, lord of the Castle of Glass and rider of Goriah by manifest usurpation, suzerain over Rocilan and Sasaran and Amalizan and sundry other settlements about Bordeaux and Armorica! And where is the one who once held all that? Drowned.
(Mercy could not help the mind-cry, and Aiken heard: Nodonn! My Nodonn!)
Oh, friends. You know the Tanu must have a king—and if it's not me, then who? Do you want Celadeyr of Afaliah? He says he doesn't aspire to the throne, and I believe him. My sources have told me that the poor old boy is convinced that the Flood presages the end of the Many-Colored Land! He's training his litde army for something called the Nightfall War—and as I understand it, that's a kind of Ragnarok or Armageddon that'll ring down the curtain on both the Tanu and Firvulag. And it's balderdash! Sharn and Ayfa aren't anticipating any apocalypse. They're out to win and stomp our necks!
(And they had to respond: It's true. No fatalism in the Little People. They're scuttling the traditions that held them back. The Flood was a Goddessgift to them.)
Listen to me! If we stand on our hind legs and fight them, we must have a leader. You High Tablers know that I'm stronger than you. Then who...? Minanonn the Heretic? I understand he was a real ripper when he was Battlemaster. But he's a pacifist now—no more suitable to defend you from the Firvulag than Dionket the Healer! The only other High Tablers eligible are Katlinel the Darkeyed and Aluteyn Craftsmaster—if you want to forgive her treason in marrying the Lord of the Howlers, and his deposition by Mercy.
(And once again they had to say: No. None of those could lead us against the Firvulag.)
Aiken Drum sat his big black chaliko. A single drop of water clung comically to the tip of his long, well-shaped nose. The mouth that could tense in an instant to a malignant slot now smiled as he mind-embraced them all, letting his power shine forth.
Aloud, Aiken said, "You see how things stand. In the king sweepstakes, I'm the only candidate who hasn't been scratched. Those who object to a human ruler on principle may kick and scream and cuss—but in the end, they'll be forced to accept me. Hell—even old Celo might come to his senses if he thinks we have a real chance to lick the Foe."
Culluket said, "My redactive knowledge of the Lord of Afaliah affirms the last comment of the Shining One. Celadeyr is stubborn, and he has been incredibly stupid to expel his human technicians. But he is by no means insane. Nor suicidal."
But Bleyn was still inclined to cavil. "The trouble is, the reactionaries just don't know you as well as we do, Aiken. That's why they're balking. Why—eight cities have yet to reply to your Grand Loving invitation, and Celo's turned you down flat. If you announce a May coronation, you're laying yourself open to a fiasco."
"Somehow," Alberonn said, "we must force the hand of the fence-strad-dlers and win as many of the diehards as possible."
Aiken's brow screwed and his visage glowed with intense cogitation. Then his eyes began to dance and he turned to his affianced bride. "Merce, lovie, d'you remember when we were noodling all this, and you told me some of the canny things the old English monarchs did to keep their vacillating vassals in hand? Henry VIII and Good Queen Bess especially. How they traveled around the realm, stopping at one city after another, putting the arm on the wishy-washy and exerting the royal charm and even rattling a sword or two?"
Mercy saw Aiken's drift at once. "Royal progresses, they were called. A grand political tool!" And again there came to her that strange feeling of déjà vu, the tantalizing certainty that she had seen Aiken's crafty and triumphant face before. Italy! The portrait in the palace in Firenze.
"I'll do my royal progress before the coronation—not after," he was saying. "I'll visit each city in turn and explain just how things are in this Many-Colored Land, using my own brand of friendly persuasion and sweet reason. And a few surprises I've been cooking up!"
"And who could deny you to your face, my devious Shining One?" A current passed between Aiken and Mercy. Was the old wariness weakening against her better judgment? But he was a rare one!
"This maneuver could work," Culluket said. "It has just the right mix of humble pie and regal condescension and blatant gall. You go to the cities first, as an aspirant should, and then the city-lords may come confidently to you in recognition of your power."
Alberonn nodded to the Interrogator. "And we three to provide High Table prestige as we accompany Aiken. The Lady Creator's absence will be understandable."
"I like it," said Bleyn tersely. "We have enough Tanu and human gold recruits now in Goriah to mount a respectable show of strength."
Aiken refastened his cuffs and straightened his hat. With an offhand PK chicane, he banished the moisture from all their garments and reerected the metapsychic umbrella. "We'll sneak up the Garonne Valley very quietly, and ooze over into Spain. And the first place we hit ... is Afaliah!"
Lady Morna was speechless. Eadnar and Tirone radiated strong anxiety.
"There's not that much danger," Aiken reassured them. "Celo's gang of mind-benders are strictly second-rate, and I can easily put the clamp on the old gaffer himself. We'll put a fine face on it. Pretend that we don't know how he's been undermining me. I mean—he's never come right out with any blatant provocati
on. Even his refusal of the Loving invitation was medium-polite, and I can say we never received his letter."
Culluket said, "If Celo cracks, the others should fall into your lap like ripe oranges."
"Ready for juicing," the jester agreed. "Well, how about it? What say we get back to Goriah and start polishing up the fancy armor!"
He launched them and their animals into the air, still fending off the rain, saying to Mercy, "I hope old Peliet and his sages are right about the rainy season being almost over. I'm still a litde green at levitating big groups. And there aren't any computerized flight vectors to help a guy fly through soupy mountain passes in this Pliocene Exile."
Mercy laughed gally. "You'll manage somehow, my tricksy one." You nonborn kingling from far Dalriada six million years hence! And had some fine Italian genes migrated to stern Scotland? And had they gone on, frozen in vitro, to burgeon again in an obstetric lab on a Milieu planet, engendering this strange young man who was determined to make her his queen?
Whose portrait had worn Aiken's face?
The train of riders sped through the sky toward Goriah, where glass turrets shone against a widening patch of blue. The obsessive question gnawed at Mercy and spilled over into an inadvertently projected thought.
Aiken's mind was elsewhere; but the Interrogator responded with flawless courtesy, on her intimate mode:
May I assist your recollection with my special talent Lady Creator?
If you would Redactive Brother. This maddening image! If you could sort out my memories and let me put a label to it.
A matter of utmost simplicity for a redactive specialist...
Oh!
I'm glad the revelation amuses you Lady. I must agree that the resemblance is remarkable. What a dangerous-looking fellow that Florentine politician seems to be! Some day you must tell me all about him.
11
THE FARSEEING RAVEN ranged above the Maghreb shore. The rains had brought grass and drifts of pink and yellow flowers to the slopes, and all the gullies were turned into slim oases that seemed to point in astonishment toward the new blue sea. The bird rejoiced in the many-colored landscape. Natural beauty, more than anything else, helped her to keep the terrors at bay. Aloft in spring sunlight, climbing the wind above this world she had helped to create, there was sanity and forgetfulness.