Lord of the Isles (11 page)

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Authors: David Drake

BOOK: Lord of the Isles
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“
G
ood morning, Mistress Tenoctris,” Ilna said as she joined Garric and the castaway at the shearing corral. “I still have your robe, you know. The dyes are excellent to have stood salt water and direct sunlight that way.”
Tenoctris looked up; she'd been tracing carvings with her
index finger and discussing them with or reading them to Garric. He turned also and smiled when he saw Ilna.
The corral north of the hamlet was a waist-high structure built from a mixture of fieldstones and building fragments, some of them very old. The stone Tenoctris was viewing was a slate only an inch thick. The edges had been squared, then carved with the cursive characters Ilna knew to call Old Script.
She couldn't read Old Script. She couldn't even read the blockier modern writing derived from it; her childhood hadn't had time for luxuries like schooling.
“It doesn't look like I'll have much use for silk robes, does it?” Tenoctris said. Her smile swept from Ilna to Garric. “Do you suppose the Count of Haft wants a court magician? A not very powerful court magician, I'm afraid.”
Garric looked embarrassed; Tenoctris might as well have asked him what lay on the other side of the world. “I don't know, mistress,” he said. “Maybe my father would. He knew Lascarg before he became count, he says.”
Ilna didn't care what happened about the robe; it was a unique garment and doubtless quite valuable to the right buyer, but she still found its touch disquieting. The garment was merely her immediate excuse for joining Garric. She'd seen almost nothing of him since the ship arrived and brought her the profitable responsibility of catering for five soldiers.
Tenoctris might have noticed that her question had made Garric uncomfortable, because she said, “Garric's been showing me carved stones reused in present-day structures. This one was a grave marker.” Her finger again traced the band of writing on the stone's edge.
“From your own time?” Ilna said. She'd heard rumors that the castaway was from the distant past, but she wanted to hear confirmation from the woman's own mouth.
“Much more recent than that,” Tenoctris said. “This isn't much older than the inn. They must have retained the Old Script for formal uses like graves long after it ceased to be the normal style of writing.”
“How do you tell?” Ilna said, her eyes narrowing at the flaw in the logic. “If you were really from the past, the dates on that stone wouldn't mean anything to you.”
The feel of Tenoctris' robe told Ilna that the castaway was from somewhere unimaginably distant, but she'd prefer to believe that the feeling was false. That sort of knowledge didn't belong in the world which Ilna understood.
“This on the edge is just a plea that the Shepherd protect the soul of the departed,” Tenoctris said with a smile of faint approval. “Perhaps there's a date on the face where we can't see it. I was judging the stone's age from the forces that infused it when it was put over a grave.”
“Ah,” Ilna said. She was blushing fiercely. “Mistress, I'm sorry.”
“That was a good question,” Tenoctris said with no hint of sarcasm or patronizing. She glanced at Garric, then focused on his right hand clasping something against his chest through the tunic's fabric. “Garric, what is it you're wearing there? That's the reason you're … different, I think. Isn't it?”
Garric pulled a loop of silk the pale blue of a winter sky from around his neck. He handed it and the suspended gold disk to Tenoctris. Ilna had never seen the ornament before.
“It's a coin my father gave me yesterday,” he said apologetically. Consciously or not, he'd touched the object to call it to the wizard's attention. “He won't say anything about it except that it's mine.”
Tenoctris held the object in her palm. Her thumb clamped the cord so that it couldn't slip while she peered at both sides in turn. The worn profile of a man showed on one; the other seemed to have writing, though Ilna couldn't be sure.
“Now this is from my time,” Tenoctris said, looking up at Garric. “It's not a drilled coin, you know: it's a medallion. See how the boss for stringing it was formed in the die?”
She handed it back to Garric. “It's a medallion of Carus,” she said. “It was struck on the day of his coronation as King of the Isles.”
Shaking her head in faint amusement, Tenoctris went on,
“I can remember most things from before, you know. It's only there at the end when all the memories are jumbled like a fresco painting when the plaster flakes off the. wall. When I see the Old Script and touch things of my own day, some of it comes back; but it's still confused.”
“Tenoctris?” Garric said carefully. “Did you ever see King Carus?”
Tenoctris shook her head. All her movements were slight and precise. Ilna thought the old woman would be ignored in almost any company, but that would be a mistake. Tenoctris wasn't flashy, but there was an edge to her that could cut glass.
“I was never on Haft before,” she explained. She smiled and added, “I suppose if the royal fleet hadn't been sunk, I might have seen him on Yole.”
A pair of chipmunks chased each other across the top of the wall, chittering furiously. When they noticed the three humans they stopped dead, stared in rigid silence, and then went racing back the way they'd come.
“Have you ever seen a man in a black robe with a black hood covering his face, even his eyes?” Garric said. He was looking down at his feet. “I don't know how to describe him better because—”
Tenoctris reached out slowly and touched Garric's chin to bring his eyes to meet hers. “Where did you meet the Hooded One?” she asked in a soft, wondering tone.
“It wasn't real,” Garric said. He hung the medallion's loop over his head to have an excuse for breaking eye contact again. The business made him uncomfortable, just as the feel of the wizard's robe had Ilna. “It was only a dream.”
“Dream perhaps,” Tenoctris said, lowering her hand again. “But don't doubt that it was quite real.”
She shook her head again as if to settle her shattered memories. “I don't know who he really was or where he came from, though he was the most powerful wizard I ever thought to see. He claimed to be Malkar, but that was a boastful lie.”
“He claimed to be
evil?”
Ilna said in amazement. Malkar
was a bogey to frighten children, not a god like the Lady and her consort the Shepherd, or even the Sister who ruled the Underworld, No one worshipped Malkar. It would have been like worshipping a cesspool.
“Malkar isn't—” Tenoctris began. She looked from Ilna to Garric, assessing how they'd react to the phrasing she'd been about to use. She nodded and said, “Ah. Let me put that another way.”
Before Tenoctris resumed, she seated herself on the wall. She had to rise up on tiptoes because the corral was otherwise a little high for her. The whole borough used the corral during the spring shearing and at the fall Sheep Fair, when buyers of mutton on the hoof came from Carcosa and more distant cities.
“To a wizard;” Tenoctris said, “the sun is an ultimate source of power and Malkar is an ultimate source of power. But no one can reach an ultimate source directly. The forces that a wizard works with aren't pure, any more than the water you drink is pure.”
“You're saying that Malkar isn't evil?” Garric said with a frown that Ilna hadn't seen often. Because he usually wore a boyish smile, it was easy to forget how tall and strong Garric or-Reise really was. “That you serve Malkar?”
“No,” Tenoctris said, tapping her finger on the wall beside her with sharp emphasis. She was seated on a squared block of white limestone, an ashlar from an ancient temple. “No one serves Malkar. And as for using the forces that stem largely from Malkar, I don't drink seawater either. There are differences of degree.”
Ilna turned her head to watch the waves dancing in the sunlight. Near shore the water was dark, almost purple, but beyond that and as far as her eye could reach the Inner Sea had a pale green translucence like that of the finest jade. It was much more beautiful than the colorless fluid brought up from a well; but of course no human could drink seawater … .
“The Hooded One was very powerful,” Tenoctris went on musingly. “He had the power to sink the seabed beneath Carus'
fleet. The power to sink Yole as well, though unintentionally … . That's quite amazing, nothing any wizard would have believed possible until it happened. But the forces the Hooded One worked with, the forces that
all
wizards work with, had increased a hundredfold in less than a year. There was something more than human influence involved.”
“Was it Malkar that caused the increase?” Ilna asked. Talking of magic made her feel warm but oddly queasy. It was like imagining that she was swimming out into the shimmering, lovely sea.
Tenoctris shook her head, frustrated at her inability to explain. “That's like asking if winter wills it to be cold,” she said. “There are cycles, there are forces. They act whether we understand them or not. Malkar waxes and wanes. But they don't—”
She paused and looked at the two younger people in the bright sunlight. “I don't think the sun and Malkar have wills of their own. But I don't really know, do I?”
She smiled engagingly. Though Tenoctris wouldn't have been beautiful even in her youth, her face was as attractive as a sheet of fine vellum. “What I do know,” she said, “is that the forces are building in the same way that they did in my day; the forces that sank Yole and flung me here to Haft. Perhaps that's a coincidence.”
Garric grimaced. He touched the medallion with an index finger, realized what he was doing, and shook his head ruefully. “I don't know what to think,” he said. “I guess I don't need to. Barca's Hamlet isn't going to change much no matter what happens.”
Ilna looked at Garric and saw the lie in the tenseness of his facial muscles. The planes of his cheeks were as hard as oak boards.
“I remember at the end,” Tenoctris said, “that the Hooded One sat on his black throne. He claimed it was the Throne of Malkar, literally the seat of power. But it shattered in the first shock.”
“But Malkar is real?” Ilna said, her face calm, her mind
filled with an intensity as cold as the depths of the sea.
Tenoctris looked at her with an expression that became appraising during seconds of silence. “Oh, yes,” the wizard said. “Malkar is real, just as the sun is real; and is just as eternal. And I'm afraid that the Hooded One may be part of present reality also if Garric sees him in dreams.”
Ilna shivered as though a cloud had drifted over the sun. The sky above was a fine clear blue all the way to the eastern horizon, and the green sea danced beneath it.
T
here were hundreds of people on the shore and seawall, more ever than the hamlet had seen at the busiest Sheep Fair. The trireme's arrival had been a surprise, but its launching was scheduled and had drawn the whole borough to watch it.
Sharina had never felt so completely alone.
“I apologize that there's so little space on the ship,” Meder chattered happily, “but really, Sharina, none of the clothing available in this backwater was worthy of you. When we reach Valles the king will outfit you like the great lady you are.”
Sailors were carrying the last of the supplies across the gangplank and down into the bowels of the ship. At Asera's order, one of them had taken aboard the wicker hamper holding Sharina's blanket and an extra shift. It was a clear, sunny day, but she huddled within her cape because she felt cold nonetheless.
“You're lucky that we found you in time,” Meder said. “The queen's agents are looking for you too, you know. They'd have killed you without hesitation if they'd found you first.”
Sharina had avoided Meder ever since the summoning ceremony, but now that they were to be together on the ship she had no choice. He was a good-looking young man; wealthy, noble, and a powerful wizard besides. He just made her feel uncomfortable.
“Why would the queen want to kill me?” Sharina asked with a frown. The warning puzzled rather than frightened her; it simply had no place in her world. “Why would
anyone
want to kill me?”
Asera sat nearby on a folding stool, writing with a stylus on a tablet made by laying wax over thin wooden boards. Noble officials would normally have an entourage of servants, secretaries included. These must have traveled on the other triremes, the pair the sea had swallowed.
None of Sharina's friends from Barca's Hamlet came up to her. Even her family stood a few paces away: Lora was crying, Reise stood stone-faced; even Garric held himself stiff with his hands crossed at the small of his back, and the smiles he offered when Sharina's eyes brushed him were forced. It was as though she'd already died.
“Oh, the queen's evil, utter evil, Sharina,” Meder explained in a tone of surprise. “I suppose growing up out here you don't see that as much as we do on Ornifal, but there's no depth to which she and her minions wouldn't stoop to destroy the old royal line of Haft. She's not from Ornifal, you know. And she's a wizard herself who bewitched the king into marrying her.”
“We don't see
anything
of the queen or the king in Barca's Hamlet,” Sharina said with a touch of irritation. Did Meder think his artificial world of politics and treachery was the way everyone lived? Maybe he did think that; probably he did. “We don't see anything of Carcosa except tax collectors. And once a year the priests parade their images and collect portions for the Lady and the Shepherd.”
Most of the crew was gathered to either side of the trireme's stern, preparing to shove her off the beach. The waves were already lapping their ankles; the tide was near full. A
few oarsmen were aboard to steady the vessel when it began to float.
The Blood Eagles formed a gleaming circle around the nobles and Sharina. Their black presence was at least part of the reason no villagers approached Sharina now, though she supposed people could have gotten through if they'd been willing to try.
“Well, trust me,” Meder said. “The queen would stop at nothing to destroy you. She knows that you'll provide legitimacy for King Valence. All but the most depraved people will join his party.”
Sharina
didn't
trust Meder. She didn't think the wizard would lie to her—he seemed to like her, to respect her even—but his view of the world was so different from hers that she couldn't assume any of his assessments would be the same as she would make.
“I don't see how my being in Valles legitimizes the king,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“What?” Meder said. For an instant he looked surprised; then his face closed in fright or embarrassment. Drawing back a little, he resumed, “Of course, I'm only the king's agent. What he … . what his plans—”
The procurator looked up from her notebook with a grim expression. “Meder,” she said. “Your business is to carry out the duties I assign you. Yammering like a monkey is not one of those duties. Do you understand?”
The younger noble's face clouded with a furious scowl. “How dare—” he began.
His voice choked off as he saw, really saw, the look Asera was giving him. The troops' commander, Wainer, tapped the shoulders of the three men nearest him. The soldiers turned around, watching the folk within their circle. Meder was a noble in his own right, but the detachment of Blood Eagles guarded the king's procurator—from any threat.
Meder grimaced and bowed. “Sorry,” he said in a tone of honest apology. “You're right, of course.” He was a young
man, perhaps too young for the power he wielded, but decent enough underneath the arrogance.
The trireme's captain walked toward them from the base of the gangplank and halted just outside the line of soldiers. “Mistress?” he called. “The tide's full. We need to be under way before it turns or we'll be here till dark.”
“Yes, all right, Lichnau,” the procurator said. She folded the leather hinges of her notebook closed and stood up. “Come along, girl,” she said to Sharina as she strode toward the gangplank.
A soldier caught Captain Lichnau by the arm and muttered something. Lichnau looked startled and angry, but he picked up the stool Asera had left and carried it after her. The troops followed.
Sharina ran to Garric and hugged him. He patted her back awkwardly. They'd gotten on the way siblings do—badly; but now that she was leaving, her heart ached at the thought of not seeing him at supper tonight.
“Remember, you're all anybody in Valles sees of Barca's Hamlet, sis,” he muttered. “Make us proud of you.”
Garric stepped away. Reise offered her his hand to shake. She took it, then stepped closer and hugged him as well. “Stay well, Father,” she said.
Reise's smile was as slight and cold as his smiles always were. “Stay well, Sharina,” he said. “I'll aid you as circumstances permit.”
“Come along, girl!” Asera repeated from the gangplank. Meder hovered nearby, wringing his hands but unwilling to pull Sharina away from her family.
“Mother?” Sharina said.
Lora glared at her with tear-wet eyes. “Oh, you don't have to pretend I'm your mother!” she said. “I treated you like my own daughter, but now that you're going off to the king's palace you can just leave me behind. I'm only the maid, after all!”
Sharina opened her mouth to plead; then closed it again. The only way she could make Lora happy was to bring her
along to Valles. Sharina wasn't willing to do that, even if Asera would have permitted it to happen.
She squeezed Lora's arm and said, “Stay well, Mother.”
She turned toward the gangplank. Behind her Lora wept with rising hysteria, an, act that was taking on as much reality as emotion ever has.
The crowd nearest the gangplank parted. Nonnus stepped through, carrying his spear reversed on his shoulder. A bindle of personal effects dangled from its butt end. His big knife hung on the rope belt.
Two soldiers stepped to block him, shoulder to shoulder. Nonnus stopped short of them. His posture changed in a way Sharina couldn't have specified, but her instincts screamed a warning to her.
“He's with me!” she cried, running a few steps to the hermit's side. “You have to let him on!”
The procurator was already aboard the vessel. “Don't be absurd!” she called from the stern.
The soldiers stiffened. Nonnus smiled faintly; one of the soldiers touched his sword hilt, then took his hand away.
“Nonnus goes or I stay!” Sharina said in a voice that rang like steel. “I mean it! You've no one with you who can catch me if I run!”
“I've known her longer than you have, mistress,” Nonnus said, speaking easily over the crowd noise. “I'd take her word for it.”
Asera gripped the rail. It was a replacement piece. Sun and salt spray hadn't yet bleached the wood gray-white. “All right, get aboard!” she ordered. “Now!”
Sharina trotted up the gangplank, her arm stretched behind her gripping a fold of the hermit's sleeve. Meder and the two Blood Eagles, the last of the ship's passengers still on shore, followed.
“What a bizarre outfit!” she heard the wizard say. “Where do you come from, peasant?”
And she heard Nonnus answer, “From many different places, friend. And if you're lucky, you won't have to visit any of them yourself.”

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