“True spoken,” Nevyn said. “My thanks.”
“And we need you to settle a quarrel,” Maddyn went on. “About those red stones the princess gave our smith here. I say he should return them to the prince.”
“And why should I?” Otho snapped. “Her wretched swine of a husband doesn't deserve fine stones like that.”
“It's not a matter of deserving,” Maddyn said. “It's a matter of rightfully owning.”
“He's right,” Nevyn broke in. “They belong to her children now.”
Otho glowered but said nothing.
“Give them over.” Nevyn held out his hand.
Otho made a sound like a dog's growl, but he untied the pouch at his belt, fished in it with two fingers, and handed at last the two small rubies, square cut, over to Nevyn.
“You wretched meddler!” Otho snarled at Maddyn. “Bad cess to you!”
“Come now,” Nevyn said. “Is it truly the rubies that are vexing you so badly?”
“Well.” Otho paused, considering. “It's them, somewhat, but truly, if this slime-hearted silver dagger had stayed away from our lady, she'd be alive now.”
Maddyn winced and turned dead-white. Nevyn got up, ready to intervene.
“And I warn you somewhat, Maddo lad,” Otho went on. “No one hates as well as the Mountain Folk. I don't care how long it may be till we meet again. I'll recognize you and I'll remember.”
“Otho!” Nevyn snapped. “For the love of the gods, think what you're saying! Think what you're doing to yourself!”
“What, my lord? Binding one of your cursed chains of Wyrd?”
“Just that, and ye gods, you could at least be putting the blame where it belongs.”
“Indeed, my lord? On our prince?”
Nevyn said nothing. Otho tore his dagger gaze away from Maddyn.
“You're right enough, Lord Nevyn,” the dwarf said. “And I'll just be leaving his court. There's naught to keep me here a day longer.”
When he left the chamber Otho slammed the door so hard that the candlesticks on the table bounced in a scatter of scorching wax. Nevyn caught them just in time to prevent the half-finished letter from going up in flames. His arms crossed tight over his chest, Maddyn watched him.
“Do you blame me?” Maddyn said at last.
“What for? Loving a woman honorably and from your distance?”
“I never should have taken her gifts.”
“Why not? Royalty shower trinkets upon their favorites all the time. Her feelings would have been hurt had you turned them down.”
Maddyn nodded, then strode to the window to slap his palms against the sill and lean out into the rain.
“I used to be the prince's man heart and soul, but no more.” He seemed to be talking to the rising moon as much as to Nevyn. “I can't stand it, the thought of her—”
“No more can I. I'll be leaving court myself as soon as I can, though I'll take a more gracious leave than Otho's. Ride with me if you like. In the spring, Maryn will have to ride west to do battle with the king of Eldidd. We'll accompany him, and then just slip away from the army.”
Maddyn turned back into the room, then perched on the window sill to consider Nevyn for a long moment.
“Slip away?” Maddyn said at last. “And where shall we go then?”
“Ever have a fancy to see Bardek? I've come to realize that their physicians know a great deal more than ours, or certainly more than I do. Besides—” Nevyn heard his own voice tremble and forced it steady. “Besides, I need to get far far away, where Maryn won't hear of me and my doings.”
“The prince was like a son to you. This all must burn like poison.”
“It does. And the worst part is thinking that I should have done somewhat to prevent it.”
“Ah by the hells, Nevyn! You're only a dweomermas-ter, not a god!”
Nevyn stared, then suddenly laughed, a bitter creaky noise.
“True spoken, bard. Well, then. Shall we ride west together in the spring?”
“We shall. Here's somewhat I never thought I'd ever say: I'll be cursed glad to leave the king and his court behind me once and for all.”
Nevyn nodded in sad agreement, but he knew a thing he could never tell Maddyn. While they could ride away from Maryn and his court in this life, neither of them would be so easily free of the souls involved in this tragedy, not for many a long lifetime ahead.
In 863, King Maryn died. The chirurgeons, who wanted his legend to end with a worthy death, stated that an old wound, never properly healed, had burst open. The tale baffled those who knew him, because thanks to his dweomer luck Maryn had never received a wound in all his long years of battle. But over time these witnesses died themselves, of course, leaving the bards free to put the lie into their songs and the priests to copy it into their chronicles.
In truth, a consumption of the lungs killed Maryn. All unwittingly Lilli had poisoned him when they'd lain in each other's arms—her disease the instrument of her mother's curse fulfilled.
PART TWO
SUMMER 1118
The North Country
The priests say that studying magic drives men mad, but they lie to guard their privileged position. How can they pretend to stand between their people and their gods if other men can work miracles as well or better than they? On the other hand, dabbling in sorcery without plan or principle will expose every fault and weakness in any mans mind. If some break along those hidden cracks, is it the fault of sorcery?
—The Pseudo-Iamblichos Scroll
In far-off Bardek, where Maddyn the bard had met his death some two centuries before, winter turned into spring by degrees. The rains came less frequently; the sun stayed above the horizon longer each day; muddy tracks dried out and turned once again into roads. Merchants and travelling shows alike began to consider their first long journey of the new season. For their winter camp, Marka and Keeta had chosen the public caravanserai near Myleton. Normally Marka's husband, Ebañy, would have made this decision, but over the winter his madness had burgeoned like the grass, turned green and lush by the rains.
“I can't tell you how glad I am that spring's here,” Marka said. “Maybe Ebañy will be more his old self once we're on the road. He always did love to travel.”
“That's true,” Keeta said. “It's been a long hard winter for you.”
“It was the way he kept hearing the voices. It seemed like every time it rained, he'd find some new ones.”
“It broke my heart, listening to him babble about water spirits.”
“It was worse when he answered them.”
They were perched together on the tailgate of an empty wagon, where they could watch the camp around them. The various performers bustled about, whitewashing another wagon, mending horse gear, or practicing their juggling and tumbling out in the bright sun. Marka's oldest son, Kwinto, was leading their elephant, Nila, to the watering trough on the far side of the caravanserai. From the way she curled her trunk and trumpeted, she seemed to be welcoming the spring herself. Dressed in a tunic and a floppy leather hat, Ebañy stood talking to Vinto, the leader of the troop of acrobats—not that Vinto did much performing himself these days. His hair had turned solid grey over the winter, Marka noticed.
“Vinto's so patient with him,” Marka said. “I'm so grateful.”
“We all cursed well should be patient,” Keeta said. “Come now, Marka—your husband has made us all rich. Before we met him, what was our idea of a show? To stand up and do our turns, one after the other with no thought for what went before or came after. Ebañy taught us how to order them, to put a quiet routine before a noisy one, to bring on the best last—to make a real show. I'll be forever grateful for that, and as I said, we all should be.” She paused, shaking her head. “And when he talks about the show, he's still almost sane. Maybe that's the saddest thing of all.”
From inside one of the tents came a high-pitched squeal of fury. Marka climbed down from the wagon fast.
“That's Zandro,”
she said. “Something's wrong again.”
With Keeta right behind Marka trotted over to the big round tent she shared with Ebañy and their children. Before she reached the tent flap Zandro darted out of it, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was a pretty child, with pale brown skin and pale brown hair that hung in tight curls around his face, but at the moment his dark eyes were screwed up tight and his face had turned an ominous purple color. Right behind him came his oldest sister, Kivva, a lithe, dark girl on the edge of womanhood. Marka scooped him up and held him tightly while he howled and twisted in her grasp. When she nearly dropped him, Keeta grabbed him and clasped him in her arms, as long and heavily muscled as a blacksmith's. In but a moment he stopped struggling, and in a moment more he fell silent. At a nod from Marka, Keeta took him back inside the tent.
“Mama, I tried,” Kivva burst out. “But he kept trying to choke Delya, I mean he'd put his hands on her neck, and she'd yell at him, and he wouldn't stop, so I carried him into the tent, and then he had one of his fits.”
“It's not your fault, love,” Marka said. “It's just the way he is.”
Kivva nodded, staring at the ground.
“Are you frightened?” Marka went on, softly.
“Yes.” She looked up, her lips trembling, her eyes full of tears. “He's mad like Papa, isn't he? Is Papa going to get like him, screaming and hitting people?”
“No, of course he's not!” Marka made her voice as strong as she could. “And don't you worry. This summer, when we're going from town to town, we're going to ask everywhere about healers. We'll find someone who can cure them both.”
“There wasn't anyone in Myleton.” Kivva wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her linen tunic. “The priests all tried and they never drove out any demons or anything.”
“We'll find better priests. Or maybe a hermit. Up in the hills they have holy women who live in the woods and know every herb in the world. One of them will help us if the priests can't.”
At that Kivva managed a smile, but Marka felt like the worst liar in all of Bardek. In her heart she feared that no one ever would be able to help Ebañy and the little son who had inherited his diseased mind.
And yet, that evening, hope of a sort did arrive. When a cool twilight turned the sky opalescent, and the wind made the plane trees and the palms nod and rustle, she left the children and their father both in the care of the rest of the troupe and went to the edge of the caravanserai for a moment's peace. She walked along the grassy top of the white cliff and looked down at the ocean far below, murmuring on the graveled beach.
“Good evening,” a voice said. “May I join you?”
With a yelp of surprise Marka spun around and found herself facing the man she knew as Evandar. Tall, with green eyes and the same pale skin as her husband, he wore a green tunic over narrow trousers made of leather and a leather hat, pulled down over his ears—a costume that, she assumed, came from the barbarian land of Deverry.
“I must have been lost in thought,” Marka said, smiling. “I didn't even hear you come up.”
“No doubt.” Evandar glanced away, back to the camp. “Now tell me, how is Ebañy? Still suffering from madness?”
“Yes, I'm afraid so. If anything, he's got worse since we saw you last. For a while he kept trying to run away to live naked in the hills like a wild man. My thanks to the Star Goddesses, though, because he got over that.”
Evandar winced. “Very bad indeed. Well, I haven't forgotten my promise to help you.”
“I can't tell you how grateful I am.”
“I'm not so sure I can bring the healer I had in mind to Bardek, is the problem. She's rather deeply involved in— well, let's just say in some grave matters in her homeland. But I may well be able to bring you and your man to the healer. I'll warn you, it will be a long journey.”
“Oh, my good sir!” Marka said with a little laugh. “We spend most of the year travelling. That won't be a hardship.”
“Indeed?” He considered her for a long moment. “Well, I'll hope it won't be when the time comes. If it comes—I warn you, I can't promise anything.”
“I understand. I'm grateful just for the hope you've brought us.”
“Very well, then. Now I'd best be off, to see what I can do.”
Evandar turned and walked briskly away. He'd travelled some ten paces when she realized that she couldn't see him anymore. He was gone, like a pattern in smoke caught by a gust of wind. Marka felt her skin turn cold. Gooseflesh rose all along her arms and neck. With a little gasp she turned and ran back to the camp, where firelight and human warmth beckoned.
When he left Marka, Evandar returned to his own country, which lay far beyond the physical world in those fluid reaches of the universe that dweomermasters term the astral plane. Some thousands of years past, as men and elves reckon time, he had made the image of a country for the wandering souls of his people, just as he had created images of bodies for them to wear. To please them he had created green meadows and rolling hills, beautiful gardens and the images of cities. For thousands of years they had lived in their image of paradise, safe from Time, free from the round of death and birth. But now his people had chosen to be born in the physical world. Without them, the land mourned.
On the brown lawn the tatters of a golden pavilion lay strewn. The dead grass stretched down to a river that oozed with silvery mud. Like rusty sword blades water reeds lay clotted in the shallows. Once Evandar had been able to come to this river to hear omens whispering in the reeds and see glimpses of the future in its clear-flowing water. Now—nothing. The images no longer bubbled to the surface, the voices spoke no more. The dead river oozed like a wound down to a sea turned russet, streaked with black masses of contagion.
With a shudder Evandar turned away from the river. He stretched out his arms, ran a few paces, then leapt into the air. As he leapt he changed, soaring on sudden wings. He called out in the harsh voice of a red hawk and flew, flapping hard to gain height. From his berth high on the wind he could see green meadows beyond his dead country, scattered with streams, dotted with trees. Beyond them, far on the horizon, lay a bank of roiling grey clouds. As he flew toward the mists, it seemed they rose up to meet him, blotting out the illusion of blue sky.
Evandar flew straight into the clouds, then laid back his wings and dove. Cool mist surrounded him as he plunged down. Suddenly, just below, he saw through the remnant of cloud a long stretch of grey stone. Just in time he pulled up and levelled off, flapping hard. Directly ahead stood a tree, green and in full leaf. Sitting under it, his back against the trunk, sat an old man with dark skin; he wore a shapeless robe of some coarse brown cloth. He was slicing an apple with an old knife, but as fast as he cut, the apple grew whole again. Evandar landed nearby and took back his elven form. The old man looked up and smiled.
“Back again, are you?” the old man said.
“I am, good sir. I have a question, if I may ask one.”
“You may, indeed, though I may not answer.”
“Fair enough.” Evandar sat down in front of him. “The last time we met was at the white river.”
“True spoken, when your people crossed it to be born into the world of Time.”
“And you said to me that I'd not be able to be born. Why?”
“Now that's a question I'll be glad to answer.” The old man laid his knife down and considered the apple. “You're a spirit of great power. On the riverbank most souls revert to their true form, you see, but you kept your illusions around you: body, clothes, the whole lot. Could you cast those off if you wanted to?”
“I've never tried. I can change from one thing to another. That I do know.”
“Ah. So could you change to your own true form?”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you because I don't know.” The old man picked up the knife again. “If you don't know, you won't be able to change into it. And if you can't let go your power, well, then, you'll be stuck on this side of the white river.”
“She's doubtless right, which is a sad thing.”
“Twice as sad for me as for you, good sir.”
“I'll not argue that.” The old man cut a slice off the apple and ate it. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I've got no idea.” Evandar stood up. “Mayhap I'll think of somewhat.”
Evandar turned, took a few steps, then broke into a run. As he ran he leapt, and finally, with one last leap and a flutter of new-grown wings, he changed once again into the hawk.
This time Evandar flew toward the forest that lay beyond his lands at the juncture of more worlds than one. As he travelled he often paused and hovered on the wind while his sharp hawk's eyes searched the wild meadows below. Whenever he came this way, whether he flew or walked the mothers of all roads, he hunted for his brother, who had chosen to work mischief in the lands of men. So far, Shaetano had eluded him.
On this occasion, with his mind full of Salamander's problems, Evandar made only the most desultory of searches. The healer he had in mind, the elven dweomer-master Dallandra, lived at the moment in the north country of Deverry, hundreds of miles from Bardek. Normally Evandar could have taken Salamander and his family directly there on the magical roads that he knew so well, but circumstances were forcing him to postpone the journey. Even if Dallandra could cure Salamander eventually—and she'd warned Evandar that this was no sure thing—at the moment she was hauling a wagonload of other burdens. Bring him in the summer, she'd told Evandar, not before.
Evandar had never told her of his fears that his death lay close at hand, that perhaps it would strike him down long before the summer came. He needed to set in motion some current of events that would, eventually, sweep Ebañy home. As he flew, his mind turned to his fears, just as a man will repeatedly touch a boil upon his neck to make sure that it still torments him. Let his death come, if it must. But first he would keep his promises, to Ebañy's wife, to Dallandra, and especially his promise to Shaetano, his brother, that he would destroy him before he worked further harm.
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