Everran's Bane (24 page)

“Calke,” she told Beryx. “The hammer, not the needle. Should suit thee, th'art ever Through, not Round. Give harper a Command.”

Beryx said to me, I obeyed.

He looked at Fengthira. “Next time,” she told me, “refuse.”

I sat tight. Beryx's eyes opened, the green growing hot and starred. Something niggled in my mind. I shut it out. His eyes kindled, began to weave in sheets of translucent green light...

“No,” said Fengthira flatly. “Canst not use Letharthir. Or Fengthir. This is outright command. Again.”

This time it came with a drillman's crack, And sheer surprise shot me out of my chair. But Fengthira shook her head. “Wilt fright a lydyr off a corn-patch. Not stop a charging bull. Again.”

Ready now, I knotted my muscles, and though the command was a firm push I defeated it. Beryx's eyes grew hotter, not faltering before Fengthira said, “Again.” And this time I was hauled bodily, irresistibly to my feet.

Beryx wiped his face, drawing deep breaths, his forearms trembling. I sat down. Fengthira said, “Again. Wilt have to get tha temper up, I see.” He turned, and as I braced myself she leant over and gave him a smart clip on the ear.

I should think my boots rose a good foot off the ground. As I landed with a bump Beryx let out a furious, and jerked his head away, and Fengthira laughed outright. “I have thy measure now, Everran,” she said, grinning. “T'is hit or miss, with thee. Again.”

He gave her a choleric look, and this time I shot straight to my feet.

“Better,” she conceded. “Walk away, harper. Stop him, Everran.” I managed five steps and was dragged to a halt. “Bring him back.”

If Beryx had his temper up, mine was rising too. On the way back I resisted in earnest. As I stood panting by the table Fengthira said, “Let him go, Everran.” She nodded to me. “Now hit him. With tha fist.”

My fist doubled fiercely, and relaxed. Beryx's eyes changed. As we stared at each other in dismay, Fengthira snapped, “Art such a mouse as that?”

That did it. I rushed him. I have not come to fisticuffs since childhood, and Beryx had a soldier's reflexes of defense, but there was more bile in me than I knew. I swung a haymaker and kicked him in the shins as he ducked and next moment we were at it in earnest, clinched together, butting, kicking, rolling over and over like a pair of farmyard dogs.

It was shameful as well as stupid: my king, my friend, with one arm to my two and no savor for the fight. But all sorts of buried grudges surface in such a fracas. Not only two days' humiliation rankled in me but three years' envy and frustration, and I daresay my two arms had cost him bitter jealousy, if he never admitted it even to himself. They also gave me the advantage. I was sitting on his chest before he remembered what he was.

My hands flew in the air, something kicked me head over heels and he was on his feet before I could get up. His eyes shot a sharp green flare. I was pinned in my tracks. And as I fought to escape, those twisting sheets of emerald fire altered: for the first time I saw malice, a cruel, gloating exultation, look out of Beryx's eyes.

Next moment the constraint broke. I sat down plump against the wall while Beryx stood panting, the malice gone, eyeing me in something like bewilderment. But I was aware that in his mind a residue of that moment remained.

“Now tha understandst Calke,” said Fengthira. She sounded remote, impersonal, and quite terrifying. “Look here.”

Beryx looked round. Then he cried out and tried to jerk a hand to his eyes. Failed. His head went back, his spine arched, he turned a somersault and rolled thrashing and kicking, “Still!” hissed Fengthira and my leap was pinned to the floor. But her eyes, white-hot and frightful, stayed on him.

Then I was released. Beryx collapsed, face down, twitching. In her normal voice Fengthira said, “Get up.”

He rolled over, and tried. He was shaking too badly. He looked up at her, and to my horrified amazement, he was in naked fear.

“Ah,” said Fengthira quietly. “T'was unjust. And unkind. And not what tha expected. Hark'ee, Everran. That Command has undone better men than thee. T'is what shows aedryx their true nature. And teaches them that nature's vice. Not the power, or the use of it. The pleasure in its abuse. Didst taste it? Ah.” For he had bent his head. “None of us are proof. T'is why I live in Eskan Helken, out of temptation's way. But tha canst not play hermit, and I'll not have it happen to thee. So I gave thee a lesson to last. ‘Mind the fire,' twenty times over can't match one good singe.”

He sat silent, head bowed. She glanced at me, and I too ducked my eyes in shame, but there was amusement in her voice.

“And now y'ave both blown off the steam, maybe ye'll be fit for making tea.”

She was right. When she had made mint-tea, and Beryx was revived, and she said, “Try a bout, then,” we began timidly, but grew warm without enmity. Beryx's power became a challenge to me, a compensation to him. Once he grunted in amusement as he stopped my fist an inch from his nose, once I laughed aloud as I passed his guard and heel-tapped him on his back. Even when I realized those hot green eyes full of fighter's merriment were reading not only my eyes but my thoughts, it seemed just one more tactic, to be foiled if I could. When Fengthira said, “Whoa,” we grinned at each other as we broke apart.

* * * * *

Fengthira sighed, leant back in her chair, and closed her eyes. “Art out of the smelter, Everran.” She looked weary for the first time. “Now must forge the steel. The higher arts.”

Beryx looked daunted. She opened her eyes.

“Wryve-lan'x first. Comes easiest. And t'will be most important to thee.” She clicked her tongue, and the lydel, which had been most affectionate since Maerdrigg's visit, dropped chittering on her shoulder. She dipped a finger in the honey jar, and as it clutched with its paws like a child she shot him a warning glance. “Take care with this. Th'art heavy-handed enough with a man, and I'm fond of it. Use Scarthe first.”

Beryx's mouth opened: and shut. He eyed the lydel, with more trepidation, I should imagine, than he had his first boy's spear.

It seemed a long time he studied it. His eyes did not take fire, but stilled, and deepened, and presently I realized with shock that it was a good five minutes since he had blinked. Then at last he relaxed with a long sigh, while the lydel, ignoring him, composedly cleaned its paws.

“The best tha hast done,” said Fengthira, and cocked her head.

He looked at the lydel in wonder. He glanced at me and chuckled.

As I broke into a laugh, Fengthira, smiling too, said, “Good. Now bring it to thee.”

Then his eyes began to dance.

Fengthira snorted, but with a quirk in her lips. “Th'art true Heagian. Unquenchable. And askst, How, with the whole battery of Ruanbr'arx in tha armory? Find out.”

Beryx pondered a very long moment. His eyes darkened, then, very slowly, showed a soft fire, and died. The lydel paid no heed at all.

he said ruefully, and began again.

This time the fire was hotter. The lydel chittered and wrinkled its nose: then it scurried across the table, to bounce from his knee onto the chairback and up into the roof, and he glanced at Fengthira with laughter that was a shade unsure.

“No cells,” she said. “It did not like thy smell, and tha letst it go. Well enough. We'll try the horses now.”

A horse's perception so fascinated Beryx that it was some time before he could be brought to use a command at all. Next they tried the saeveryr over the well. Then Fengthira said, “Now stretch thaself. Find a wild lydyr out there and bring it to me.”

It took so long I had lost track of Beryx's slow, wide-spaced breaths and begun to watch the clouds pattern, trying to find a rhythm that would take their dreamy changes without sending an audience to sleep. But then came a scutter in the cleft.

The lydyr hopped out, leisurely as if on its own affairs, a little furry melon with paws and tail and pink blurry eyes which were oddly fixed. It stopped, sat up, rubbed a paw up its face, then suddenly jerked its head up and was off down the cleft as fast as jumps would carry it, while Beryx and Fengthira laughed.

“Men first, “she said, “to learn the Commands, and give thee practice and—later—the strength. Because a mind without words is harder than one like tha own. And easier than something with no mind at all.” Beryx looked uneasy. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Wilt need tha sleep.”

* * * * *

After breakfast she came with me to the garden, while Beryx washed up. When we finished she glanced round at me and said, “Yes, mayst watch if tha wants.”

We went back inside. She sat Beryx down at the table, put a hand on his neck, and said, “Move that honey-jar.”

After a moment it slid along the wood. Fengthira removed her hand and said, “Alone.”

Beryx eyed the jar apprehensively, and set his teeth.

His eyes kindled, wove into sheets of light, wove brighter, faster, until they dissolved in a blur of white-hot green like a wheel spun against the sun, his breaths became huge heaving gasps, the sweat trickled down his face. And the jar did not move.

Without comment Fengthira said, “Again.”

After the fourth attempt she said, “Let be.” And he dropped back, utterly spent.

“Axynbr'arve is hard,” she said. “Must use another level of power. Mostly, the only way there is to jump.” She went over to the tool-heap and unearthed her rope.

Beryx looked at her beseechingly. She merely clicked her tongue. He stood up and put his hands behind his back. She tied them, backed him to the kingpost, and ran the rope round and round him all the way to his feet. Then she went to the table and took up a stone.

He had gone white, and was gritting his teeth. She grinned. “Dost not like to play the fairground shy, ah? Then get tha temper up.” And she under-armed the pebble straight at his face.

Beryx ducked with a soldier's quick economic grace. Fengthira nodded and aimed the next one at his chest. That did not miss.

He winced. His eyes began to glow. As her arm went back for the next throw, they shot one brief green flash and her hand stopped in mid-air.

“Tck, tck,” she said. “Axynbr'arve is with things, not minds.” She frowned. “Must be a Command, then. Look here.”

I first realized when it seemed to take far too long. Then I heard Fengthira begin to breathe. I looked at her hands, and they were clenched, saw her back was arched, snatched a glance at her eyes and hastily averted mine before that molten white focus burnt them clean away.

Beryx was panting too, eyes white-hot as hers. The air strained like fabric being pulled in two, there was a ringing in my ears, and I covered them, so I only saw Beryx's convulsive gasp before he went limp in the ropes, while Fengthira, breath whooping, leant hard on the back of her chair.

“Art growing,” she said between lungfuls, “difficult—Everran.” His look was not defiance but apology. “I know—couldst not help thaself. We all face up sometime. Good practice, too. But tha'll stand now.” She turned for another pebble, swung, and threw.

It took him right between the eyes and it came far harder than the others, flung by mind rather than muscle, I suspect. He had tried to dodge it, and failed. He stood lowering, while a point of blood slowly welled, broke and trickled down his nose, and I wished I dared protest, and Fengthira weighed the next stone.

“Temper,” she said, “is like Yxphare. Double-edged. Canst use it for... or against.” The pebble took him fairly on the center of his right collarbone and he yelled with the rage of pain.

Fengthira merely took another stone. As she cupped it in her hand, he struggled with mind and muscle, eyes boiling now. She flicked it at his face. His eyes sparked savagely: the pebble shot up and over and took her with still greater impetus right in the middle of the chest.

“All... right,” she croaked, hunched on the floor while I fluttered in panic, not least that she would leave me with a royal wizard helpless in bonds I could not loose. Beryx was shouting, just as panicky if from a somewhat nobler cause.

she responded, rubbing gingerly at her chest. It had struck just below the hollow of the collarbones, on the breastbone itself. she commented, deliberately mimicking him.

She got up heavily, while he seethed with anxiety and remorse and his own impotence. Her lip twitched. “Art not an aedr-slayer yet. Or a master's-butcher: though t'has been known. Or even a woman killer. W'are tougher than tha thinks.” Tenderly, she moved to the table, leant on the chair, and took another stone.