The Wide World's End (11 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

The Last Station

Fleeing from a nightmare, Morlock awoke entangled in the limbs of his glorious, darkly golden wife. He had, for one moment, the cruel comfort of believing that all of it was a nightmare: the dying sun, the cruel war with the Khnauronts, the deaths of so many of his friends, the dreadful murder of Earno.

But, as he lay still to avoid waking Aloê, he looked out the window at the cool silver-blue sky of spring and sorted the darkness of his dream from the darkness in the waking world. They were not dissimilar. He hoped that didn't mean they were true dreams.

Aloê was dreaming, too, and from the expression on her sleeping face the dreams were as unpleasant as his. He was moved to wake her when she whispered, “Don't go! You'll never come back! You'll never come back!”

He wondered if she were in rapture, adrift in the chill winds from the future. “I have gone before,” he said quietly, “and I always came back.”

“This is different,” she sighed. She seemed to stop breathing entirely and he was moved to alarm. But before he could act, she opened her golden eyes and looked straight into his.

“Bad dream?” he asked.

“‘Good morning, beloved,'” is the usual greeting,” she remarked, “but I suppose when a couple is entering their second century of marriage—”

“Good morning, beloved. Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yes, sweetheart. And you, too?”

“Yes.”

“Yours first.”

“Can't remember much. My leg hurt. I was sick and—I was sick or something—”

“Don't get coy on me now, Vocate.”

“I was vomiting. It was dark and . . . and you weren't there. You were never going to be there.”

She was silent for a long time. “In mine,” she said, “I saw you going away in the dark. The further you went, the older you got. You were all twisted and horrible. Yes! Yes! Even more than you are now! I couldn't stop you. I don't know why.”

“In the dream, were you all right?”

“What do you mean? Alive, healthy, or what?”

“All that.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. “Yes, I think so. I was sorry to lose you, but I was alive.”

He sighed in relief.

She looked at him quizzically. “Is my death the worst thing you can imagine?”

“The very worst.”

She smiled gently and said, “Beloved.” But he wasn't surprised when she didn't say,
I feel the same way
, because he knew she didn't. She did say, finally, “We've lost so much. We mustn't lose each other.”

He held her close. They lay together in silence for a while until they heard Deor shouting somewhere in the stairway, “I don't suppose anyone will want to GET SOME BREAKFAST BEFORE THEY GO TO STATION?”

The hardy Westhold steeds that they had ridden south were still enjoying the meager comforts of Tower Ambrose's stables, but they decided to walk to Station rather than ride there. Deor accompanied them, as their thain-attendant, but he would not be allowed to speak at Station: that was a right for full members of the Graith, which Deor never intended to be.

Aloê and Morlock had broached the subject to him only last night. There were vacancies among the vocates, after the defeat of the Khnauronts, and no one among the thains was as well-respected as Deor. But he laughed at their offer of promotion. “Look,
harvenen
,” he said. “I am here, at the behest of the Elder of Theorn clan, to serve your interests and keep out of his beard (may it never grow thin). How could I do either of those things as a vocate? No, shut your faces. When the time comes that I can no longer be a Guardian, I will go home and raise children under Thrymhaiam, as God Creator intended.”

The day was not warm, although summer was approaching. No one felt like discussing the weather, though, so they walked mostly in silence down the winding elm-lined streets until they ran into Vocate Jordel and his brother Baran, accompanied by a gray-caped cloud of thains. No silence could long withstand Jordel's relentless assault and they were soon talking about everything under the sun, except the state of the sun.

Where the River Road joined Shortmarket Street, they came across a company of thains armed with long spears. At their head strode bitter white Vocate Noreê. In the midst walked a dirty ragged figure, manacles on his arms and legs.

Morlock felt, and felt strongly, that anger was a weakness. But he felt its red fire infecting his eyes. He stepped in front of the troupe and said to Noreê, “Who is this?”

Stiffly she replied, “The invader I captured at Big Rock. He is a stranger in the land and here for no good purpose.”

“How do you know?”

“I know things you will never understand!”

“Everybody does. Everybody knows something that someone else does not, and never will.” He turned away from her and said to the thain nearest him, “Stand aside.”

He was prepared to draw Tyrfing and fight if need be, but there was no need. Noreê was shouting behind him, and the hapless thain glanced in terror back and forth between Noreê and Morlock. Morlock simply waited, and in the end the thain stood aside.

“Stranger,” he said to the chained man, “what's your name?”

“Kelat,” said the stranger vaguely. “I think. I think that's part of it, anyway.”

“You must go before the Graith and account for yourself.”

“So the vocate tells me. I will, if I can.”

“My name is Morlock.”

“I've heard that name, I think.”

“Eh. Show me those.” Morlock pointed at the manacles.

Kelat lifted his arms and Morlock looked keenly at the fastenings. It would be easy enough to pick the locks, but. . . . He took the locks on each of the manacles between thumb and forefinger and twisted them until they broke.

“You may be king in the North,” Noreê shouted behind him, “but you are not king here!”

Morlock ignored her blasphemy. He crouched down and broke the locks on Kelat's legs as well. As he rose to his feet, Kelat shook off his chains and said, “Thanks.”

“It's nothing,” Morlock replied. “Jordel,” he said, over his lower shoulder, “where is the nearest bathhouse? Zelion's isn't it?”

“How would I know? Why ask me?”

“You have lived in this city for three hundred years, and your house doesn't have a rain room.”

“I keep meaning to have one put in. . . . I see your point. Yes, Zelion's, and he's open in the mornings.”

“Then.” Morlock closed his eyes. “Deortheorn. You will take Kelat here to Zelion's bathhouse. See that he's cleaned up—” there was a smear of dried blood on his temple “—and his wounds tended to. Get him some clean clothes to wear and get him breakfast. Then bring him to the Chamber of the Graith.”

“
Akhram hav, rokhlan
,” Deor replied. It was an act of significant discourtesy, according to dwarvish standards, to speak in a language not shared by all present. But Deor always claimed that courtesy was overrated, and this was one occasion when Morlock agreed with him.

“I forbid this,” Noreê said. Morlock turned to meet her ice-blue eyes.

“It doesn't matter that you do,” Morlock said. “But if you choose to send one or more of your spearmen to keep watch on the prisoner, I won't object.”

“No,” said Noreê thoughtfully. “Let it be on your head when the Graith calls for him and he is not found.”

Morlock grunted and gestured at Deor.

“Come along, you dangerous monster,” Deor said cheerily. “Let's get you fixed up. I'm Deor syr Theorn, by the way.”

“I'm Kelat. At least . . . I think I am. . . .”

The dwarf led the mystified stranger away up Shortmarket Street. Morlock looked again at Noreê and strode through the spear-thains as if they were not there. He and the others walked on to the Chamber of the Graith while Noreê and her thains lagged a little behind.

“That was well done,” Jordel said in an unwontedly low tone of voice (for him). “I knew she was keeping this fellow prisoner, but I never thought to ask how they were treating him, I'm ashamed to say.”

“We all share that shame,” Morlock said.

“Was kind of hoping for a fight,” Baran admitted grudgingly. Morlock punched his massive arm and said, “Another time.”

“I wish you hadn't knelt before him,” Aloê said, after a brief silence, and Jordel laughed as if this were a joke. But Morlock was pretty sure it was not. She cared much for appearances; they'd had many bitter conversations about such things.

They came at last to the city's red, ruined wall, half as old as time. The Chamber of the Graith was there because in ancient days it had been a voluntary order to defend the city against its enemies. Now the city had better defenses than mere walls, but they remained as ruined monuments of those dark days.

The Chamber itself had its back up against the edge of a bluff over the River Ruleijn, the river that does not run into the sea.

A flight of twenty-two stone steps rose from the street to the Chamber entrance; on either side the stairs were flanked by bluestone plinths bearing granite statues of gryphons. Today, sitting beside or upon the gryphons, there were many figures cloaked in red or gray. It was the time of Station, when the Graith stood in council, and the war in the north was over. For many of the Guardians here, these were occasions for celebration. Morlock thought of the bloody mouth that had opened in Earno's throat, and did not feel like celebrating.

Some friends of Aloê's greeted her: Callion the Proud and Styrth Anvri, each with a single thain-attendant. Morlock exchanged polite words for a while, then clasped Aloê's forearm and walked away. He was not in the mood for small talk. He rarely was.

He mounted the steps and entered the antechamber. Thain Maijarra was there, blocking the way to the domed inner chamber. It had been her place of honor since before Morlock was born.

“Vocate Morlock,” she said, and lifted her spear to let him pass. He nodded and entered.

The two remaining summoners, Lernaion and Bleys, were standing over by a window, conferring. Lernaion, dark-skinned, gray-haired, and lean, towered over the bent, hairless, turtle-like Bleys. They both looked over at Morlock and, apart from their snowy white mantles, the thing most alike about them was the displeasure stamped on both their faces.

“If you will pardon us, King of the North,” Bleys said in his warmest, most ironic tone, “my colleague and I would confer in private.”

Again Morlock felt the heat of anger mastering his strength. He was about to stride forward and do—something, he didn't know what—when a hand firmly gripped his shoulder.

“Summoner Bleys,” said Naevros syr Tol, “this is the council chamber of the Graith of Guardians—that is to say, the vocates. The Summoner of the City may be here to convene us, but you are merely here by sufferance. Be a civil guest, or leave.”

Bleys smiled quietly and turned away, as if from a conversation of no consequence. No doubt he thought himself the victor, and Morlock, as he cooled, had to admit that the old man had drawn blood. But first blood was not last blood; he was an experienced enough duelist to know it.

“Thanks,” he muttered to his friend.

“It's nothing,” said Naevros, and let him go.

The domed chamber began to fill with Guardians, red-cloaked vocates, and their attendant thains. Morlock and Naevros climbed the stairs of the dais and stood at the oval table, where only vocates and the Summoner of the City had a right to stand. They were joined presently by Aloê and her friends, and Illion the Wise soon followed.

“I met Noreê coming in,” he said to Morlock. “I'm afraid she is no longer your friend.”

Morlock smiled slightly, but did not feel amused. These bitter gray ancients and their undying hate for him. What had he ever done to earn it, except be the son of his
ruthen
father? But he was not like Merlin. He would never be. He had shown them and he
would
show them.

Summoner Lernaion mounted the steps and strode to the near end of the oval table. In a stand there rested the silver Staff of Exile. Opposite him stood the Witness Stone, and around the long empty oval stood the red-cloaked vocates.

The summoner lifted the Staff of Exile and pounded on the dais with the blunt end, calling the Station to order. The Guardians all fell silent and a few laggard vocates took up places at the long table.

As the room grew quiet, Morlock felt his spirit grow quiet. This was his place. He belonged here; he had earned it, in spite of Merlin and in spite of all the people who had hated him because of Merlin.

Lernaion said, “I summon you to stand and speak, for the safety of the land and the good of the Guarded. Maintain the Guard!”

“Maintain the Guard!” replied all the Guardians under the dome.

“The war in the north is over,” said Lernaion, “but the struggle to maintain the Guard goes on. We are met for at least three purposes today. We must decide the fate of the Khnauronts who survive: shall we kill them out of hand or expel them from our land, or is there some third choice? Then: one of our own order is dead, certainly murdered. We must chart a course of vengeance for this crime. And lastly we must investigate this stranger who came walking into the land under cover of the Khnauront's invasion. Speak, vocates: what shall we settle first? Or is there some other more pressing matter for the Graith to consider?”