Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (20 page)

Jadrin did not
sleep. He waited, lying motionless on his back, until Ashalan’s
breathing proclaimed him unconscious. It took only a moment then to
reach down for the knife that was concealed in his discarded robe.
Ashalan murmured as Jadrin drew out his arm and winced as the
sliver of steel licked into the soft flesh above the wrist, but he
did not wake.Into the cup, to mingle with the caking ichor already
within it, Ashalan’s blood dripped down. One spot fell upon the
sheet. Jadrin stilled his shaking hands. No mistakes in this - no.
He carefully placed the chalice on the floor, away from the heavy,
swaying curtains that moved in the early morning breeze. Morning
was coming through the window; there was little time. Jadrin sealed
the wound on Ashalan’s arm with his own saliva. Into the
dressing-room then, where a small, silver dish waited beside the
mirror. Jadrin smeared the surface of the dish with Ashalan’s seed
that he held in his body, blended it with a powder of his own
essence. Blood and seed, dried over a flame, laced with wine,
thickened and perfumed by the gums of karaya, tragacanth and myrrh,
blended with a little warm milk; this was the basis of Jadrin’s
elixir. Whatever else he cast into it, has not been recorded, but,
by the time the sky outside was shedding its night robe for the
pearl of dawning, Jadrin was slipping and darting down into the
gardens once again, past the drowsing peacocks, the hanging
terraces, the silent statues, to the rose garden. Here, in the
yellow-rose light of dawn, he scrabbled with his bare fingers in
the earth and buried the thing he had made, the blood-seed icon of
desire, the egg of the dream-child. If anyone should have seen him
working there, his hair and eyes all wild, they would have hidden
themselves from his sight, for Jadrin in a frenzy of need was a
fearsome and dangerous object to behold.

In the
morning, Ashalan’s servants were intrigued by the stripes of blood
upon the bathroom floor, the bloody handprint upon the doorframe.
Ashalan himself was somewhat disturbed to find he had cut himself
in the night and that he had bled upon the sheets. Jadrin walked
through the day in a daze, but there was evidence of a smile upon
his face.

Months passed,
the Wheel of Life turned, seasons changed. Every day, Jadrin
strolled in the rose garden, trying not to peer at the rich soil in
an obvious manner. He never quite stopped believing in the spell,
but as time went on and the soil remained undisturbed, the daily
visits became more of a habit than an eagerness. Other matters took
precedence in his life. In the east of the country, near the border
of Candeleen, there lived a warrior king. His tribe was small,
admittedly, but he had grand designs on the territory of Cos, and
his swift, cunning warriors had become adept at worrying the skirts
of the eastern duchies. Flustered and irritated, the dukes had
approached Ashalan together, demanding that he employ Ashbrilim’s
forces to quell the nuisance. Therefore, in the late Summer,
Ashalan led his army away from the city to do battle.

Jadrin stood
with the court on the battlements of the highest tower and watched
the shining, prancing steeds kick dust from the highway, carrying
the jewels of Ashbrilim’s manhood towards the east. Jadrin was not
overly concerned about Ashalan’s safety, having worked a number of
protective spells to ensure it, but he had no way of knowing how
long the king would be absent, and that caused him grief.

One crisp
morning when the smell of Autumn surged across the palace gardens
for the first time that year, the head gardener came hurrying to
Jadrin’s quarters himself, begging the servants for an interview.
‘Go away,’ Jadrin’s valet said, haughtily, ‘Lord Jadrin may not be
disturbed by trifles. Take your business to the Chamberlain.’

‘
The
Chamberlain be damned!’ the gardener insisted. ‘I wait here until
Lord Jadrin comes himself; this matter is too grave for the ears of
anyone else.’

Sniffing
derisively, the valet retreated and was consequently surprised by
Jadrin’s animated reaction to the gardener’s request.

Maybe it was
the turning of the season, the crescent of the new moon, but Jadrin
knew that, at last, his spell had borne fruit. The gardener told,
with wonder and amazement, how one of his underlings had been
passing through the rose garden that very morning. A strange,
mewing sound had attracted the boy’s attention and there, beneath
the trained branches of the grandest bush, he had seen a
pale-skinned baby writhing in the dirt.

‘
Bring
the child to me,’ Jadrin commanded and the gardener hurried away,
to pluck the babe from the arms of the maids in the kitchen, where
they were trying to tempt it with warmed milk.

Many grisly
suppositions were whispered around the palace of how some cruel
wench must have buried the child, perhaps because it was
illegitimate. Perhaps she’d thought it dead. Wiser women pronounced
the child a changeling, too pale, its eyes too knowing to be wholly
human. Jadrin, keeping secret the occult origin of the baby, made
it known that he intended to adopt it. ‘The king and I shall never
have an heir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is this babe’s good fortune to
be found upon our land.’

Some secretly
questioned Jadrin’s judgement in this respect while others praised
his charity.

The priests
said, ‘Dedicate the child to the Goddess quickly. If it is evil
perhaps the consecration will dispel all negative aspects. The boy
must have a name.’

Jadrin merely
shook his head. ‘The ritual must not be performed until Ashalan
returns,’ he said. ‘It would not be right to do otherwise, however
pressing it might seem. Let the king himself choose a name for his
adopted son.’

The most
cynical members of the court wondered how Ashalan would greet the
news that Jadrin had adopted a child found buried in the rose
garden as the heir to the kingdom, but they complied with his
wishes and kept their suppositions amongst themselves.

A year passed
and still Ashalan had not returned from the east.The boy who had no
name blossomed and filled out in the arms of his wet-nurse and
beneath the dark, smoky gaze of his adopted parent. True, he did
not seem an ordinary child. Occasionally, the women were frightened
by the intensity, the ironic humour, of his gaze and yet,
physically, he appeared normal if perhaps a little slight in
build.

‘
Whose
soul are you?’ Jadrin asked the child and in response the tiny
fingers would grip air, the petal mouth smile and sigh. He had no
name, and the servants, his only company, jokingly referred to him
as Nothing, because it was impossible for them not to address him
in some way. ‘Where is Nothing?’

‘
Asleep
on the terrace.’

‘
Nothing
never cries.’

‘
Nothing
has the bright eyes of a bird - a very old bird!’

Jadrin watched
his magical son grow and in his heart warmed the secret of his
birth, forever silent.

Ashalan and
his army had a hard time of it in the east. They had ridden out to
battle light-hearted and confident, unprepared for the astute
organisation of the warrior king and his tribe. It was like trying
to dispel a mist; swords and lances were of very little use. Here
and there the ragged warriors ran, under cover of cloud and branch;
shadows themselves in the night, pricking Ashalan’s soldiers as
they slept, loosing their horses, spoiling their water, stealing
their food. Morale slumped; it was a slow business driving the
enemy back, though by sheer weight of numbers it was considered
inevitable by all that, eventually, Cos would have to succeed and
carry the banner of victory back to Ashbrilim.

One evening,
as Ashalan and his elite guard returned to their camp through a
thick forest, a storm came up from the south, suddenly and
fiercely. Trees above them shook leaves and sharp twigs onto the
heads and shoulders of the men, rain sluiced them cruelly, wind
tore their sight from them. Ashalan’s stallion took a fright, being
more spirited than the rest, and plunged recklessly off the path,
tearing madly through dense undergrowth. All Ashalan could do was
lean forward and close his eyes, trusting that the animal would
quickly spend his strength and not fall. The frantic calls of his
men faded behind him and he gave himself up to a nightmare of
lashing branches and furious galloping. Eventually the horse burst
from the trees on the banks of a raging torrent. The storm had
passed but the river was swollen. On the other side, unbelievably,
Ashalan could see the lamps of his camp twinkling through the dark.
How could he reach it? His body ached, his clothes were torn, he
was drenched and tired. As for the stallion, it was unlikely he
retained enough strength to brave the fast-moving water. The camp
glowed, welcoming and secure. Savoury smells of cooking meat and
fresh bread drifted across to him. Ashalan tried to urge his horse
forward, but he dug in his heels and wheeled about, making noises
of distress.

‘
Either
you cross the river, or we perish from cold and fatigue!’ Ashalan
said wearily.

The stallion
would have none of it, which was more good sense than
stubbornness.

Ashalan
dismounted and stared miserably at the water, at the trunks of
trees mashed carelessly in its foaming ribbons, the rocks that
moved sluggishly downstream that had not moved for a hundred years.
Human flesh would be shredded like old lace in that torrent. He
sighed, hugging himself, preparing to spend the rest of the night
out in the open. In the morning, he might be able to find his way
back through the forest. Wistfully, Ashalan let his thoughts linger
on Ashbrilim and the warm mystery of his beloved consort. Would he
ever see them again.

‘
Why so
glum, my lord?’

Ashalan turned
quickly at the sound. Behind him stood a figure concealed in a
hooded robe. He could not quite see the face.

‘
As you
see, I am stranded. This damned beast took a flight through the
forest. I lost my company and can’t see how I can cross the river.
There’s no sign of a bridge.’ It did occur to him that the stranger
might be some creature of the warrior king, his enemy, and his hand
strayed nervously to the pommel of his sword.

‘
No need
for alarm,’ the figure said, noticing his move. ‘Allow me to assist
you. I am a builder of bridges.’

Ashalan
laughed. ‘And can you build me a bridge before my fingers freeze
off?’

The stranger
did not laugh. ‘My lord king, I can build you a bridge before you
blink your eyes.’

‘
How did
you know who I...’ But Ashalan never finished the question. Even as
he blinked, he beheld a shadowy shape spanning the foam, high and
arched, that had not been there before. ‘You are a magician, then,’
he said.

The stranger
shrugged. ‘Of sorts. The bridge is yours, King of Ashbrilim. Why
not cross it?’

Ashalan fixed
the black, lustreless bridge with a narrow stare. Perhaps this man
was an enemy and the bridge would dissolve to nothing when he was
halfway across it, leaving him and his horse to drop helplessly
into the furious swell beneath.

‘
Oh, do
not doubt me,’ said the stranger in a low, cajoling voice. ‘I am no
foeman of yours.’

‘
You are
generous, my friend, but tell me the extent of your generosity.
What payment do you require for this service.’

‘
Why
nothing, king Ashalan,’ the stranger replied. ‘I want nothing from
you. Let us just say that I have your interests at heart. What do
you say to that?’

‘
If you
want nothing then take nothing and I shall cross the bridge. I
thank you sir.’ Ashalan remounted his horse and with a further
grateful wave to the stranger urged the animal into a canter across
the sombre planks. Around them the pitchy wood groaned and creaked,
below them the river tossed and snarled. Behind them, the river
bank was empty and it was without incident that they crossed to the
other side.

On a day of
great celebration, Ashalan led his men home once more, along the
wide, yellow highway from the east, to the great, gilded gates of
Ashbrilim. The air was full of petals as the maidens of the city
thronged the balconies, tossing handsful of bright blooms into the
air to be crushed beneath the feet of the snorting horses. Two long
years had passed since the army had left the city. In the end, it
had happened that the warrior king had been bought off rather than
routed. Now everybody in the east seemed satisfied - at least on
the surface. Ashbrilim gave the returning soldiers its best,
shining with the last of the summer sun, giving off a heady aroma
of shaded flowers and rubbed ferns.

Jadrin, with
the elite of the court around him, waited on the steps of the
palace, dressed in deepest blue that was the blue of midnight, with
heavy, waxy blooms fixed in his hair. Behind him stood a woman
holding the changeling child.Ashalan could have wept when he beheld
his household. There was Jadrin, more lovely than he had remembered
in his loneliest hour.There was Jadrin who came running down the
steps, courtly aloofness forgotten, to reach up for his hands and
say, ‘My lord, you are home.’ Ah, the homecoming was sweet.

Long and
riotous was the feasting in the palace that day. Ashalan felt as if
he was being swept along on an intoxicating wave of exotic perfume.
His body was tired but it was carried high on the euphoria of his
return. The fact that Jadrin carefully placed a young boy-child in
his arms and, equally carefully, informed him that he now had an
heir seemed only another heady facet of the glorious day. He raised
the child on high and laughed, and the court laughed with him,
spilling wine onto the marble floor, singing his praises. ‘You are
home, my lord.’ Yes.