The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (5 page)

There were, among the flocks in the field, a number of sheep she had communicated with in the past, and she sensed their general satisfaction at grazing in this field which would lie fallow for the next year. Three of the ewes were already pregnant, and would deliver at the end of the Thirteenth Month at the tag-end of winter’s heart, the very first of the coming year’s lambs. Their general contentment struck Ninianee with a wistful reminder that she would celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday on the next First Day. Being born on Last Day or First Day was said to be a good omen, but Ninianee thought it hadn’t been so for her, at least not thus far. If only she might – She stopped herself imagining so unfruitfully. Leaping over the wooden fence, she dashed across the open slope toward the outer wall, a stout structure of logs and stones. With a rush, she cleared the broad top of the wall, and slid on the loose gravel on the far side of it. She scrabbled to her feet and made for the line of trees, some seven or eight rods away.

“Hey!” came the shout from the watchtower as she sprinted by. “Deer!”

“Get a bow!” yelled another.

“It’‘ll be gone before you can fetch a bow,” said a third guard. “Look at him run.”

“Her run,” the first corrected. “No horns. Doe.”

Then Ninianee was in the trees, the dappled moonlight turning everything unusual. She slowed to a walk and made for the heart of the forest, all the while watching the sky through the branches as the first of the rain-clouds blew across the face of the moon; she would have to rely on the color of the eastern horizon to be back at Vildecaz Castle before dawn. She was getting the feel of this new body and found it supple and strong; she planned to enjoy the night.

* * *

Erianthee checked her reflection one last time before going from her apartments to the Great Hall. She had put on her jeweled bracelets that helped her to confine the Spirits of the Outer Air during her Shadowshows, and now she took a moment to straighten her hair, then hurried back to the Great Hall, putting her thoughts to how she would entertain the company tonight. She remembered the old story of Womotomaj’s Courtship of Svalen-Tu, and thought that such a tale of duplicity might suit the evening very well – it was just indirect enough to allow her to needle Yulko Bihn on her father’s behalf without the risk of offending the Magsto. Beyond that, she would need to conjure only five Spirits of the Outer Air in order to present the legend, and that would let her husband her energy for the following night’s more ambitious entertainments. As she made her way down the Grand Staircase, she began the soft chanting that would summon the Spirits of the Outer Air to do her bidding.

“Erianthee,” Nimuar greeted his daughter’s return with a slight respect. “We are looking forward to your Shadowshow.”

Erianthee smiled. “I hope it will be to your satisfaction.” Her smile was practiced, learned during her previous stays at the Emperor’s Court, and almost perfected while entertaining the various guests they had had.

Nimuar frowned a little. “Is your sister well? I must assume you looked in on her.”

“Yes. She is fine. She
is already preparing to sleep. I made sure she was cared for,” said Erianthee, coming back to the place she had occupied at the table. “You are having the cordial, I see, and most of the candied flowers are gone.” They were, but for a pair of rose-petals.

“Yes. Would you want any?” asked General Rocazin from her seat. “I will send for more.”

“I think not, thank you, neither the flowers nor the cordial. I have to keep my head clear,” she said, the smile continuing as if of its own volition.

“As you wish,” said General Rocazin, and drank down the last of the opalescent liquid in her small cup. With an approving smile, she asked Erianthee, “Do you want to perform on the dais?” It was at right angles to this table, where the High Table was put up for great feasts.

“It would suit me very well,” said Erianthee, and glanced toward the open hearth at the other end of the room, pretending to be struck with a thought as she caught sight of the carving hanging above it. “I haven’t done one of the Womotomaj fables in a while.”

“They’re always interesting,” said Heijot Merinex, a bit too eagerly.

“Would that suit you, Papa?” Erianthee asked, hoping that her father would not be inclined to suggest a different story.

“Which were you thinking of?” Nimaur asked, savoring the last of his cordial.

“The Courtship of Svalen-Tu.” Erianthee managed to make this sound as if it were the inspiration of the moment. “It is a pleasing tale, don’t you think?”

Nimuar’s eyes glittered for an instant, then he nodded his head benignly. “That would be most satisfactory for this evening.”

Only Dinvee made a moue of discontent. “A story for children.”

“You will have grander saga tomorrow night,” Erianthee promised. “It struck me that this would be a diverting entertainment that would allow me to save my greatest efforts for our welcoming banquet.”

General Rocazin tapped the table with her empty tankard. “I believe the story is suitable and will not tax you too greatly.”

“It
is
short notice for a Shadowshow, even for so talented a woman as Erianthee is,” Bihn conceded. “Let’s have the fable, then, and the grander performance tomorrow.”

Erianthee respected him, thinking that if he liked the idea so well, she ought to suggest something else. “Very well.” She went over to the dais and summoned one of the footmen to approach her. “Bring the low table and set it up near the front. Place my screen immediately behind it and then set the two large standing candelabra at either end of the dais, so that the table is well-lit.”

“You mean, make it the way we usually do, but smaller,” said the footman Yrich, a youth of fifteen who had worked in the castle since he was eleven and considered himself a veteran of grand occasions.

“Exactly. I will use only five Spirits tonight.” Erianthee smiled widely.

“It will take a quarter hour to be ready,” he said.

“That is satisfactory,” said Erianthee. “Make sure the spell-hounds are – ”

“Out in their kennels, so they won’t bay when you begin,” Yrich finished for her. “Of course, Duzna.”

She could tell his feathers were ruffled, so she said, “I know I may rely on you completely. I’m a bit nervous tonight, and so I worry about every possibility.”

Yrich grinned. “You just let us take care of it, Duzna.”

“Thank you; I will.” She turned around and went back toward the dining table, resisting the urge to remind Yrich to set up the chairs for the audience. She noticed her father was waving her to his side. “Yes, Papa.”

“I am looking forward to your creations tonight, Erianthee.” He all but shone with pride. “Your fables are always a joy for all of us.”

“Do you think the story is appropriate?” She rubbed her palms together, preparing to manipulate the Spirits.

The glint in his eye vanished before she was certain it was there. “What could be inappropriate about a story every child over the age of two knows, from the farthest northern island of the Drowned World to the southernmost regions of Fah? They tell it in Pomig with a happier ending, and in Ymiljesai it has vengeance at the finish of the whole. In Haverartbow and Pomig, they have accounts that make it seem as if it happened immediately after the Cataclysm, the rest tell it as we do – in the thousand years after it, during the long Recovery. We talk of the love, and on Ymiljesai they speak of honor, but it is the same story. All of the Great World has variations on this tale; everybody knows one of them, or several. It is one of the Great Myths of the Great World. They probably told it in the Lost Times at the start of the Recovery, or so my studies suggest.”

Knowing her father well, Erianthee realized he discerned what she was up to, and approved of it. She managed a slight respect and glanced at General Rocazin. “Is it satisfactory to you?”

General Rocazin considered carefully. “I suppose you intend to do the version most known here in the Second World?”

“There are variations throughout Theninzalk, General, as well as throughout the Great World,” said Nimuar.

Erianthee was now certain that her father knew her plan; she said, “I will use the one most often told in Otsinmohr, Vildecaz, Cazboarth, Rocaz, Eltsigaranth, and Mindicaz.” Her list of duzkies, principalities, and Porzalk fiefdoms comprised the entire Boarthine Peninsula in the northwest portion of the Theninzalk continent. By choosing such a popular variation on the myth, she doubted her intention would be too obvious. “The version is the simplest: it has Womotomaj and Svalen-Tu, of course; the palace-master, Ihntof; the Kuyumai Aodil; and – “

”And Dojlan ae-Tsomso, the poor guard from Harro-ae,” Dinvee finished for her; she, too, was from Harro-ae, and spoke with as much pride as slyness. “I’d be a most ungracious guest not to want to see a story in which another Harro-aen is hero. How good of you to think of it.”

The scrape of chairs being dragged into place across the stone floor distracted the diners briefly, during which time, Erianthee framed her response. When the noise ended, she said, “A tribute, then, for a new guest.”

Bihn took Dinvee’s hand and finished the last of his cordial. “Nice of you to choose the story,” he said, ever so slightly slurring his words. “That was excellent.”

“Thank you,” said Dochanee Rocazin. “If you would like more, you have only to tell me.”

“Very good, General Rocazin; perhaps when the Shadowshow is over.” Nimuar got to his feet and nodded toward the chairs facing the dais. “I believe they are ready for us.”

“So it would seem,” murmured Dinvee, and looked directly at Hoftstan again; his evident discomfort amused her as she accepted Bihn’s hand to get up from her chair.

“It’s a pity Duzna Ninianee can’t be here,” said the castle-magician, Heijot Merinex as he came up to Nimuar.

“She has seen her sister’s Shadowshows many times,” said Nimuar. “It is better she should recover.”

“Of course.” Merinex agreed hastily. “Should the healing-magician be sent for? One of the footmen might be spared to fetch him.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to take Zenoch Mai away from his hearth tonight; no doubt we can deal with this here. If my daughter is no better tomorrow, then I will have him come to her.” Nimuar put a hand to his eyes. “I hope the Shadowshow is very bright.”

Merinex knew he was being graciously dismissed.

This being an informal meeting, the guests were free to select where they preferred to sit, and did so, Nimuar being the last to choose a place; he took a chair in the second row of six chairs, the one farthest from the warmth of the larger fire place, an empty chair between him and Dochanee Rocazin. In the first row, Yulko Bihn had the center seat, Dinvee on his left, Hoftstan Ruch on his right, and Merinex at the end of the row, an empty chair between him and Ruch. Once they had settled down, Erianthee spoke from behind the screen: “Womotomaj’s Courtship of Svalen-Tu.”

“We know,” Dinvee whispered loudly enough to be heard clearly.

Unfazed by this deprecating interruption, Erianthee continued as a figure about two feet tall materialized on the table, coalescing out of nothing, and taking form gradually. “Svalen-Tu of Tirin-Dzur was the most beautiful woman in the Drowned World, sung and celebrated everywhere as beyond compare; yet more than her loveliness and grace distinguished her – she was a weaver of wool and canvas, whose cloth was always without slub or weakness, and of a beauty unequaled by others, so she was sought out by merchants and nobles, by sailors and shipwrights.” The figure changed, forming a hauntingly lovely young woman with masses of long, soft-brown hair and a lovely face in the style of six centuries ago. She sat at a tall loom, and the speed of the shuttle was a blur, so rapidly did she weave. “This was in the ancient days, some centuries after the Lost Times, when many of the gods were still mortals, and the world was recovering from the Cataclysm. In those long-vanished days, the gods had children to send as mortals to aid mankind in the restoration of the Great World, and Womotomaj was among the first to undertake his mother’s command.”

A second figure formed, more quickly and clearly than the first, a strong man with the face of the figure carved over the main fireplace, a face that was at once charming and sinister. “In this time, Womotomaj, the son of Hyneimoj, like his two brothers and three sisters, was proving himself on earth, following the instruction of his mother, and the guidance of his father, Ondirpich, The Influential, who drew his children about the world even as he draws the tides. In his travels, Womotomaj discovered much about the Great World as he taught building in many forms, some of which harkened back to the Lost Times. In many places he heard of this radiant woman who wove flawless cloth, and he determined to voyage to Tirin-Dzur in the Drowned world, to see for himself if she was as accomplished as had been said. So, just after the Crocus Moon, after he had paid homage to Takzei, The Luminous, god-and-goddess of the Moon, twin of Tahmei, the Refulgent, god-and-goddess of the Sun, he set out in the new warmth of the Second Month, as ice was releasing its hold on the rivers and lakes.”

The figure stepped into a newly-formed boat of antique design, and the two sailed the length of the table, then swung around and headed toward the weaver, where they stopped, and the young man strode out of the boat, which became less than a shadow as Womotomaj left it.