The Forgotten Beasts of Eld (10 page)

“I am being called.”

He stared at her, over the rim of his cup. Then he put it down sharply, and the wine splashed over his forgers. “Who?”

“If I could put a name to him, I could fight him, perhaps. I have looked everywhere for a name to put to him; I have surprised wizards beyond Eldwold with the whisper of my voice in their minds, and their own fear and wonder have told me they do not know me. So now—I do not know what to do. He has taken Ter Falcon; I sent Ter to look for him, and he stole Ter’s name from me, and I could not hold Ter against his power. He is very strong. I think he is stronger than anyone I have ever heard of. So, I think, I will have to yield to him.”

He was silent, his brows twisted. “I do not think,” he said finally, “that I will yield you to him.”

She shifted uneasily. “Coren, that is not what I called you for. You cannot help me.”

“I could try. I could not—I could not help Norrel, but I will help you. I will stay here with you, and when he comes for you, or when you go to him, I will be there beside you, and he will answer to me.”

“Coren, what good would that do? I would only have to watch you die, or watch your mind being twisted against itself so that you could never speak my name again. Rommalb was terrible, but not evil. Rommalb was fear, and you survived that, but this wizard, for you, would be death.”

“Then what shall I do?” he demanded helplessly. “Do you think I could sit here, or in Sirle, meek as a child while you are taken by some danger without a name?”

“Well, I will not watch you die in front of me.” “Well, I would rather do that than lie awake at night with your troubled mind tugging at me, and not know where you are, why you are troubled.”

“I never asked you to come uncalled when I was troubled. I never asked you to listen for my voice.”

“I know: You never asked me to love you. Well, I do love you, and I am troubled, and I will stay with you no matter how much you argue. It is easy to call a man into your house, but not so easy to have him leave.”

“You are a true child of Sirle, to think every danger can be frightened away by an unsheathed sword. I thought you were wise, but you are stupid. Did you go to battle at Terbrec against Drede with a spell book in your hands? Well, then what good will it do you to meet a wizard in battle with a sword than can be turned against you with one word? When that wizard melts your sword into a pool at your feet, what will you do next?”

He was wordless, his mouth tight. Then suddenly, he shrugged. “I am stupid to argue with you. Unless you can pick me up and throw me out, Sybel, here I stay. You may ignore me and walk over my feet, and refuse to feed me, but when you go I will follow you, and I will do my best to kill anything that harms you.”

She rose. She looked down at him, her black eyes distant, quiet, and as he met her eyes, he heard the faint stirrings about him of waking beasts. “There is a way,” she said, “to send you back to Sirle reluctant, but alive.”

Gules Lyon, yawning, its eyes of luminous gold, moved soundless as a shadow from the domed room, milled a circle around Coren, brushing restlessly against him. In the kitchen, Moriah, wakened, murmured a deep-throated song that had no words, melted leisurely toward them. Coren, his eyes on the still black eyes, saw them go momentarily lightless, and heard, in the soundless night, the slow pulse of great winds sucking against the air. He straightened, reached out to Sybel, his hand warm on her wrist, and her thoughts came back to him. He met her gaze, held it while the soft snort of Boar and suck of Dragon wing wove a frail web of sound burst by the Cat’s sudden, full-throated scream of warning. Then he tugged at her a little, as though shaking her out of a dream.

“Sybel. Are you trying to make me afraid? Why do you not just go into my mind, as you went into Drede’s mind, and send me quietly without my knowledge, back to Sirle? I could not argue with that.”

She stared at him a moment without answering. Then her face twisted, and she broke away from him. He rose quickly, caught her, and she dropped her face into her hands. “I cannot,” she whispered. “I want to, but I cannot.”

“Then what? If you set these animals at me, I will fight them, and they will be hurt, and so will I. And then we will both be angry with each other for letting such a thing happen. Sybel, it would be better for both of us, you and I, if you simply let me care about you. Let me keep my foolish watch here—care enough for me to let me do that. It is the only thing I can do. Please. You owe me some kindness.”

She dropped her hands. The long fall of her hair hid her face; he could not see it in her silence. Then she shook it back, looked up at him, her eyes quiet, weary with waiting.

“I want you to go. For your sake I would tie you to Gyld and send you to Sirle, to Rok’s doorstep. But for my sake, there is no place I want you but here. Will you go?”

“Of course not.” He drew her close to him until her head dropped forward onto his breast, and he smiled vaguely at Gules Lyon, his lips brushing the top of her hair. She whispered against him,

“I am selfish. But Coren, this one thing I know, and I will tell you now: where I am going, in the end, I will go alone.”

She lay awake that night with Gules Lyon at the foot of her bed, and Moriah at her doorway, and the great, cold worlds of fire splayed silent above her head. She felt the steady pulse of the call in her mind, rippling through the silence, through the opened doors and corridors of it, moving downward, steadily, strongly, to the deep places where she kept the clear, cold knowledge of herself in her ground mind. The call moved inevitably toward that place, while her own powers ebbed away, her thoughts lay useless, unformed in her mind. Finally, there was nothing in her but that call, numbing her will, turning the white still house unfamiliar to her until it seemed the shadow of a dream. The deep, secret places of her mind lay open, unprotected; her power was measured, her name taken, all that her name meant: all experience, all instinct, all thought and power was measured and learned.

She rose at a command that was scarcely more than a word, and dressed so softly that cloth barely whispered against cloth. A great, gold Lyon lay sleeping in the moonlight; a black Cat, nameless, stretched like a shadow across the threshold. She looked at them, found no names in her mind to wake them, for their names lay like jewels in a deep mountain, hidden from her mind’s eye. She stepped over the sleeping Cat so gently its eyes did not flicker. In the room beyond, a red-haired man sat before a green flame, his eyes closed, his hands open, limp. She moved past him silent as a breath in the still room, past the silver-bristled Boar asleep at his feet.

The door clicked softly, closing, and Coren started awake. He looked around, blinking. A twig snapped in the fire and he leaned back again, watching the dark room where Sybel slept guarded by Gules and Moriah. And as he watched, Sybel led his horse silently through the snow, out of her gates. She mounted and rode it bareback down the long, fire-white mountain path, past Maelga’s sleeping house, down toward the dark, towered city of Mondor.

SIX

She climbed the winding steps of a high tower on the north wall of the city. They spiraled into shadow above her, below her; her own shadow, shaped by torchlight, loomed before her up the worn stones. At the end a light limned a closed door. She gripped the heavy iron ring of its latch and opened it.

“Come in, Sybel.”

She walked into a round room. A canopy of woven stars glittered brilliant, motionless above her head; white wool and linen etched with ancient tales in rich threads hung from the walls, breathed gently over the high, thin windows. She stepped on soft sheepskin, ankle-deep, that lay the length of the room. A warm fire glowed in the middle of the room. Before it stood a tall man in a robe of black velvet with a silver belt of linked moons at his hips. He stood silently, watching her. His face was lean, hawk-lined, with no hint of feeling but for a single brief line curving faint beside a corner of his mouth. His eyes were cool, deep-shadowed green.

“Give me your name.”

“Sybel.”

At the word the invisible thread of the call that had shadowed her mind broke, and she stood free, blinking in the room. She shivered a little, her eyes moving dark over the walls. The green eyes watched her, unmoved.

“Come to the fire. You have had a cold journey in the snow.” He held out his hand, lean-boned, long-fingered, with a single jeweled ring on his forefinger the color of his eyes. “Come,” he said again, insistently, and she moved to the firebed slowly, unclasped her wet cloak.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“My name now is Mithran. I have called myself many things through the years. I have served princes in outlandish courts in many worlds; I serve them quietly and well—if they are powerful. If they are not, I use them for my own purposes.”

Her eyes moved, black, to his face. “Who do you serve now?” she whispered. The line trembled, gossamer-faint, at the corner of his mouth.

“Until this moment I have been in service. But now, I think I might serve myself.”

“Whose service?”

“A man who at once fears you and wants you.”

Her lips parted. The breath hissed through them, startled. “Drede?”

“You are surprised. Why? You called him twice from his house, so skillfully he did not know what impulse moved him. He is fighting for his power in Eldwold, and the only weapon he has is his young son against the six sons of Sirle.

“I told him I would not meddle in their affairs! Why does he think I would go against him, the father of Tam?”

“Why not, when a red-haired Sirle lordling courts you with his sweet words? You have raised Tamlorn, but you have your own life to lead. You are powerful and—beautiful as a rich line of poetry from an ancient, jewel-bound book. How can Drede be sure that an impulse will not move you to Coren?”

“Coren—” She covered her eyes with her fingers, feeling them cold. “I told Drede—”

“You are not made of stone.”

“No. I am made of ice.” She whirled away from the fire, stopped beside a gleaming table, her hands splayed on it. “You know my mind. You know it better than any man alive. I have made difficult choices, but always my own freedom to use my power serving my own desires, harming no one, has been my first choice. Why can he not see that?”

“You loved Tam. Why can you not love Coren of Sirle? You are capable of love. It is a dangerous quality.”

“I do not love Coren!”

He stepped away from the fire toward her, his eyes unblinking, unreadable on her face. “And Drede? Do you love him? He would make a queen of you.”

Blood rose in her face. She stared unseeing at goblets of moon-colored silver on the table. “I was drawn to him a little... But I will not sit meekly beside him, dispensing my power as he sees fit, drawing Sirle to its doom—I will not!”

The calm, sinewy voice pursued her, inflexible. “I am paid to render you to him so meek.”

Her hands slipped from the wood. She turned to him, the blood slipping from her face, her eyes narrowed as though she were listening to words of a strange spell. “Drede—wants—”

“He wants you obedient to him. He wants you to know he can love you, trust you without question, as he can trust no one else in the world. He knows you somewhat. And he thinks there is but one way to achieve this. He hired me to do it.”

A fear such as she had never known began to stir deep in her, send chill, thin roots through her blood, her mind. “How?” she breathed, and felt tears run swift across her face.

“You know, I think. Sybel. How much that name means to you—memory, knowledge, experience. There is not one possession more truly, irrevocably yours. Drede has hired me to take that name from you for a while, then give it back to another woman, who will smile and accept it, and then give to Drede, without question, forever, what he asks.”

A sound came out of her, so sharp and grating she did not recognize her voice. It came again; she slid to her knees on the skins, the hot tears catching between her fingers. She groped for breath, words wrenching from her, “Help me—I am torn out of myself—”

“Have you never wept so before? You are fortunate. It will pass.”

She caught the sobbing between her clenched teeth, her hands clenched on the wool. She turned her head, looked up at him, her face glittering in the firelight.

“Let me see him. I will—I will do whatever he wants. Only do not take my will from me. I will marry him. I will walk meekly beside him—only let me choose to do so!”

The green eyes gazed down at her, inscrutable. The wizard moved after a moment, stooped beside her. He touched her face; tears winked like stars on his fingertips.

“I wept so once...” he whispered. “Many years ago, even with the ashes of years of loving and hating cold in my heart. I wept at the flight of the Liralen and the knowledge that though I might have power over all the earth that one thing of flawless beauty was lost to me... I never thought another thing of such white beauty would fall into my keeping. The King requires that it pass from my hands to his... And he such a small man to tame such freedom...”

“Will you let me talk to him?”

“How could he trust you? He trusted Rianna once, and she betrayed him in secret. He wants no betrayal this time. He is afraid of you and jealous of Coren. Yet your face burned once under his hand, and the young prince loves you. So he would take you to him—not powerless, but controlled.

“What is he paying you?”

The still eyes lined faintly in a smile. “All this—riches, leisurely hours in luxurious privacy, your animals, if I break the power of the Sirle family forever. I have not yet decided to do that.”

“Why is he not afraid of you?” she whispered. “I am.”

“Because when he first spoke to me, he had nothing else I wanted. Now, I am not sure of that.”

“What else do you want?”

“Do you seek to buy your freedom from me?”

“I cannot buy it from you! You must give it freely, if at all, out of pity.”

He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I have no pity. I have only awe of you... You have a powerful mind, lonely in its knowledge, for the experience of the mind is secret, unsharable. I have been in wastelands beneath the moon’s eye, in rich lords’ courts with the sound of pipe and heartbeat of drum... I have been in high mountains, in hot, small witches’ huts watching their mad eyes and fire-burned faces; I have spoken with the owl and the snow-white falcon and the black crow; I have spoken to the fools that dwell by thousands in crowded cities, men and women; I have spoken to cool-voiced queens. But never in all my wanderings did I dream there existed one such as you...” His hand lifted, the ringed finger touching a strand of her hair. She drew back a little, her eyes wide on his face.

“Please. Let me talk to Drede.”

“Perhaps...” He rose, stepped away from her. “Get up. Take your wet cloak off and warm yourself. I have hot food and wine. There is a bed for you with rich hangings behind that curtain and something else that belongs to you.”

She got up slowly, and drew back the white curtain. Ter Falcon perched on a stand of gold; his glittering eyes stared at her indifferently. She groped for his mind, speaking his name silently, but nothing of him answered her, and he did not move. She turned wearily.

“You are strong, Mithran... It is strange that I should be here at your mercy because I chose to love a helpless baby twelve years ago. I am afraid of you and Drede, but fear will not save me, and I do not think anything might save me except you.”

The black-robed wizard poured her wine. At the windows, the curtains were growing pale with morning. “I told you, I have no pity. Eat. Then rest awhile, and I will bring Drede to you. Perhaps he has some pity left in him, but a man afraid in the core of his mind has little room for compassion.”

Drede came at noon. The draw of the bolt on the door woke Sybel; she heard his low voice.

“Is it done?”

“No.”

“I told you I did not wish to speak to her until it was done!”

The wizard’s voice came, cold. “I have never done this before. It goes against me. You will flaw her beyond repair; she will be beautiful, docile, powerful only at your command.”

“You told her that—”

“Yes. It is nothing. She will forget. But she wished to speak to you—beg you—”

“I will not listen!”

“I have told you: I have turned against myself to do this thing. If I must bear the guilt for it, so must you, or I will not do it.”

Drede was silent. Sybel rose and drew back the curtain. The King’s eyes leaped to her face; she saw shame in them, torment, and beneath them the icy glaze of fear. She stood still a moment, her hand on the curtain. Then she went to him and knelt at his feet.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please. I will do whatever you ask. I will marry you. I will put the Sirle Lords under your power. I will raise Tam, and I will bear you sons. I will never argue with you; I will obey you without question. But do not let him take my will from me. Do not let him change my mind. It is a terrible thing, more terrible than if you killed me here, now. I would rather you do that. There is a part of me, like a white-winged falcon, free, proud, wild, a soaring thing that goes its own way seeking the bright stars and the sun. If you kill that white bird, I will be earthbound, bound in the patterns of men, with no words of my own, no actions of my own. I will take that bird for you, cage it. Only let it live.”

Drede lifted one hand, covered his eyes. Then he knelt before Sybel and took her hands in his hands, holding them tightly. “Sybel, I am helpless in this matter. I want you, but I am afraid of you—afraid of that white bird.”

“I promise—I promise—”

“No, listen to me. I have been—I have lived afraid always of those I hold in power. I have been threatened by my lords, betrayed by those I loved, until there is no one I can speak the truth to without being afraid. My own people, the ones I should trust, I look into their eyes, their secret, expressionless eyes, and I suspect them, I fear their treachery. I am alone. Tamlorn is the one thing in this world I trust and love. You, I could love, and perhaps trust, but I must be certain of you, Sybel.”

She said, her mouth dry, “You—cannot ever be certain of those you love—that they will not hurt you, even loving you. But to make me certain to love you, will be to take away any love I might give you freely. That white bird’s name is Sybel. If you kill it, I will die and a ghost will look out of my eyes. Trust me. Let me live, and trust me.”

His eyes closed, tightening. “I cannot—I trusted Rianna, and she betrayed me, smiling. She smiled at me, and kissed my palm, and betrayed me for a blue-eyed Sirle lordling. And you—you would marry me, and turn to Coren—”

“No!”

“But how could I be sure? How? One day he would walk smiling into your garden, and you would smile back, and all your promises to me would scatter like leaves on the wind.”

“No— You are talking of Rianna, not me—I have nothing to do with Rianna and Norrel! Let me go! Please let me go! I will go back to my white hall, and this wizard can put a wall around it that I will never cross. I will leave Eldwold! I will do anything—anything—”