Hart's Hope

19

The Queen's Companions

How Orem came to be called the Little King and met those who would most kindly, most cruelly use him.

The Love of Beauty

Who can blame Orem Scanthips for awaking in wonder, surprised at joy? For the first time in his life the truth was better than the dream, and more improbable. For that first hour he thought he had found name and place and poem, all in one, and that all were happy. Sunlight danced from a thousand mirrors. And more:

I believe that if Beauty had been kind to him, he would have loved her, and so we and the gods would have been undone.

Yet if Beauty had been able to be kind, it would not have taken her death to release us all from bondage.

So we go in circles. And here is the cruelest circle of all, Palicrovol: I believe that, by the end of her life, Beauty loved Orem Scanthips as much in her way as the Flower Princess loved her King. Though Orem was born when Beauty had already passed three centuries of life in power, still the girl Asineth had found her lover—a dreamer, a good man, a kind man who cared less for his plan than for the people in it. That is how he was unlike you, Palicrovol, and that is why she loved him.

Poor Beauty. May I not pity her, of all people? She loved him, but she had only learned one way to show her love—through cruelty and abuse. After all, whom did she love most in all the world? Those who had dwelt at her right and left hand for fifteen score years: Weasel Sootmouth, Urubugala, and Craven. That was what she knew of love. No wonder Orem never recognized her love when she gave it to him. Even now, if he knew that she had loved him, it would break his heart.

But he did not know, and does not know, because this is how she served him from the first day of their life as husband and wife:

The Naming of the Little King In the morning they dressed him in brocades and velvet, clothes so heavy that at first they bowed him and made him look a bit ridiculous. He did not know how to wear the robes of a King—that is not born in a man, as you know. Then they led him through the palace, whispering to him the names of the rooms so he could ask for them again, though he did not yet know what to do with the Chamber of Stars or the Hall of Asps, the Porch of Keening or the Room of the Dancing Bulls.

"Are you blind?" Orem asked softly. Surely he could not see without an aperture for vision; yet didn't the eyes look up at him?

"To light I am blind," whispered the old man, not taking his gaze from Orem's face.

Where had he seen such eyes? "Who are you?" Orem asked.

"I am God," said the old man. He smiled, and his mouth had neither tongue nor teeth nor anything at all—just blackness behind the lips. Then he bent again to his work, and the servants gently insisted Orem up the stairs.

Who but the Little King would have spoken to an aged, naked servant oiling the wooden stairs? This is sure: only one who carried with him an invisible hole in Queen Beauty's Searching Eye could have heard the answer that Orem heard. He did not understand; he did not forget, either, despite all he learned of Queen Beauty before the hour was up.

Who but Queen Beauty could be noticed in the Moon Chamber, with its great discs of silver lit by a thousand candles? She used it as her private court. The servants led Orem to the edge of that huge circle of glass called now the Round Table and called then Beauty's Moon. He faced the Queen, who sat on her ivory throne.

When the servants had left, the Queen arose and stepped forward, offering him her hand. Orem took it and started to bow to her, unsure of protocol, thinking only of the night before and marveling that this woman now was his wife. But the Queen stopped him, and did not let him bow. Instead she bowed her head to him. The gasp from behind him was the first he noticed that someone else was in the room.

"Beauty has taken a wife," intoned a high-pitched voice with an edge of madness, "to last her all his life. Has she taken him to bed with poison in his head?"

The Queen lifted her head and faced the others in the room; Orem also turned. In the middle of the table sat a black man, a small man, nearly naked, with a headdress of cow's horns on his head and an immense false phallus hanging from his belt. He had not been there when Orem entered. It was he who had recited the rhyme, and now he spoke again.

What a pretty little king, With a pretty little thing,

When he finds he has no sting?

"Shut up," the Queen said beautifully. The dwarf turned a somersault and landed, laughing, at Beauty's feet.

"Ah, beat me, beat me, Beauty!" cried the black man, and then he wept piteously. In a moment he started tasting the tears, then retreated to a corner of the room, dabbing at his eyes with the stuffed phallus that dangled longer than his legs.

"As you see," said the Queen, "I have taken a husband. He is a common criminal from the filthiest part of the city. He is as attractive to me as a leprous hog. But he was given to me in a dream from the Sweet Sisters, and it amused me to follow their advice."

Orem could not sort out the difference between her sweet, musical voice and the harsh words she was saying. He smiled stupidly, vaguely aware that he was being abused, but unable to be angry at the song from Queen Beauty's lips.

"As you see, he is also quite stupid. He once had a name, but in this court he will be called Little King. Also, despite the fact that he has the sexual prowess of a dung beetle, we conceived a child last night."

Orem was not surprised that Queen Beauty already knew. Other women might have to wait until the moon didn't rise for them, but not her. With Beauty such things were not left to chance.

"You will speak of my child to the others, my Gossips. Spread it as a rumor through all the world. Dear Palicrovol will know what it means, even if the rest do not, and he will come to knock at my gates. I miss the man. I want to see him weep again."

Each in turn the Queen's Companions came to her, and she received them gravely.

The old soldier's step was slow and unsteady; he lurched under the weight of the armor. His voice was hollow and soft, full of air. He spoke to Orem first.

"Little King, I see you wear your ring wisely. Look at it often and follow its advice." Then he turned to the Queen and looked in her eyes. Orem was surprised by the force of his gaze—when the old man looked at him his eyes had been gentle and soft, but now they were full of fire. Hatred? This man had power despite his weak body and the large armor that made a joke of it. "Beauty, dear Beauty," said the old soldier, "I give your child a blessing. May your son have my strength."

Orem looked at the Queen in alarm. Surely she would be angry that the old man had cursed her unborn child so. Orem knew well the power of wishes on the unborn—many a dullwit and cripple had been the result of an ill-thought jest. But the Queen only nodded and smiled as if the old man had given her a great gift.

And then the woman. Her walk was canted a bit, so that one step was long, the next short. Her hands were gnarled and twisted, and when she touched Orem's cheek it felt as though her fingers were scaled like fish. She smiled, and Orem realized that the dirt on her lip was a scraggly moustache; her hair was also thin and wispy, and she was bald in a few patches, which had not been granted even the mercy of a wig. "Little King," she said in a voice that grated like the cry of a rutting hen, "be lonely, love no one, and live long." Then she, too, turned to the Queen. "I also give your child a blessing. May your son have my beauty."

The short man waddled up to take his turn, grinning idiotically. He stopped in front of Orem and pulled down his loincloth to reveal that he had only one testicle in his scrotum, and a penis so small it could hardly be seen. "I'm half what I should be," said the fool, "but twice the man you are." Then he giggled, pulled his loincloth back in place, and darted forward to part Orem's robe and lift his shirt and peer under it. Orem tried to back away, but the dwarf was quick and saw what he wanted to see. "Little King!" he crowed as he emerged from Orem's clothing. "Little King!" Then, suddenly, he was somber. "The Queen sees all, except that which she sees not that she sees not. Remember it, Little King!"

In the moment before the black dwarf turned away, he winked, and Orem found himself inexplicably sure that this fool knew something that Orem needed very much to learn.

"Beauty, dear Beauty," sang the little black man to the Queen,

I bless your little unborn child

On whom all gods but four have smiled:

Though all his life the lad hear lies,

He'll be as wise as I am wise.

Then, laughing uproariously, the fool somersaulted backward and sprawled under the table.

Orem was horrified at the bitter gifts they had given the Queen's child—his child, for that matter, though he was far from having much parental feeling for a creature he could not even imagine yet. All Orem knew was that a great discourtesy had been done, and he fumblingly tried to put it right. He knew no blessings for the unborn except the common one used in Banningside and the farm country, the blessing Halfpriest Dobbick had invariably used. Orem turned to the Queen and said, "Queen Beauty, I'd like to bless the child."

She half-smiled at him; he thought it was assent, not amusement. He blurted out his gift in words that in themselves had little meaning to him, only that they were a proper blessing: "May the child live to serve God."

Orem had meant it as a kindness; the Queen took it as a curse. She slapped his face with such force that he fell to the floor. His cheek was cut open by her ring. What had he said? From his place on the floor he watched as she looked imperiously at the others and said, in a voice dripping with hate, "My Little King's gift has no more power than his pud." Then she turned to her boy-husband. "Command and bless as you like, my Little King; you will only be obeyed by those who laugh at you." Then the Queen turned and started toward the door. She stopped at the threshold. "Urubugala," she said firmly. The black fool suddenly scrambled from under the table, and Orem knew it was his name.

"Come here," the Queen said. Urubugala kept crawling, whining about his sad lot in life. He passed close to Orem, who instinctively retreated from the strange man. Suddenly the fool's black hand snaked out and grabbed Orem viciously by the arm and pulled him close. Orem lost his balance, and in the struggle to get up he found the fool's lips against his ear. "I know you, Orem," came the almost soundless whisper. "I have waited long for you."

A shudder went through Orem, violent as if the floor itself had shaken. Orem ap Avonap, Scanthips, Banningside, Little King—of all the names he was given, only Hart's Hope was given him with the Passage of Names. His priestword would have been given him that way, had he taken oaths.

And perhaps the floor had shaken, for the fool was writhing on the ground, screaming in agony, clutching his head. Is it a show, part of his game of idiocy, or is the pain real?

"His name is Little King, and he will have no other," said the Queen from the door.

She left. Urubugala immediately stopped screaming. He lay panting on the floor a moment, then arose and walked out of the room, following the Queen.

Orem also stood. His cheek hurt, and so did his elbow where he had hit the floor. He was confused; he understood nothing. He turned to the others, the ugly woman and the weak old soldier. They regarded him with pitying eyes. He did not really understand their pity, either.

"What do I do now?" he asked.

They glanced at each other. "You're the Little King," said the soldier. "You can do what you like."

"King." Orem didn't know what to make of it. "I saw Palicrovol once."

"Did you," said the woman. She did not sound interested. "He covers his eyes with golden hemispheres, so the Queen can't use his eyes to see."

The woman chuckled. "Then he does it in vain, doesn't he? For the Queen sees everything."

Except where I go and take away her sight, Orem thought but did not say.

"She sees everything, like an orchestra of visions in the back of her mind. She watches always." The woman laughed. "She sees us now. And she is laughing, I'm sure."

It made Orem afraid, then. How much did she see? She had given him no sign she knew of his tampering with her powers. Yet if she knew nothing of his gift, why had she chosen him? Not love, that much was plain now, and he knew enough to be ashamed in front of these companions of the Queen, ashamed of being so weak and helpless and pathetic. His very shame overcame fear. If she was going to discover his power or somehow limit it, let her do it now. He let his net slip from him, just enough to fill the room, to clear the room of that sickening sweet overlay of Beauty's Searching Eye. When Beauty could not see, he spoke: "What is the boar allowed to do once the sow is serviced?"

Their eyes widened, and for a moment they said nothing, waiting, he supposed, for Queen Beauty to strike him down. Either she had heard and did not care or, as Orem hoped, she had not heard. Had not heard, and so he might have some small pathetic power here, enough that he need not be ashamed.

"Apparently," said the woman, "whatever you want."

The grave rumble of the old man's voice added: "You command everyone. You're the husband

of the Queen. Little King is who you are, and they must obey."

It was a heady thought, and Orem distrusted it. "Tell me your names, then."

"I beg your pardon," said the ugly woman. "We spoke in error. You command everyone but

Urubugala and us."

"And why not you?"

"Because we do not laugh at you."

The implication was obvious. "Then all others will laugh."

They glanced at each other again, and the woman whispered, "It is Beauty's will. And what can

stop Beauty from being obeyed?"

It was not an empty question, not entirely. She was asking him if indeed he knew something that they did not know. But he dared not answer, dared not explain to them just what he was, even if he had known for sure himself. What can stop Beauty from being obeyed? Beauty sees all—except that which she sees not that she sees not. Does she not see me? And does she not see that she sees me

not? Riddles, riddles. I cannot answer them because I do not know.

"The less you command," said the soldier, "the less they will laugh."

"Don't tell him that, Craven," said the ugly woman. "Little King, command all you like. Your life

will be easier if they all laugh. Keep them laughing. The Queen, too, will laugh."

"If the Queen laughs, then will I command her, too?"

Again the moment of startlement at his impudence; again nothing happened. And this time the

ugly woman smiled and the old soldier wheezed. "Who can say?" whispered the soldier.

"Craven. Is that your name?"

The soldier immediately soured. "It is the name the Queen gave to me."

"And you," Orem said to the old woman. "What may I call you?"

"I am called Weasel, surnamed Sootmouth. It is the name the Queen gave me." "I had a name before she named me," said Orem. "Did you?"

"But you must. My name is really—"

But she put a rough and scaly hand to his mouth. "You can't say it. And if you could, it would cost you dearly. Don't try to remember."

And then he made plain to them that he was not the slim-hipped boy he seemed to be. He reached out with his subtle inward tongue and tasted them gently, where their sparks so brightly glowed. In the momentary tasting he could feel how they were bound so cold and grey, their lights smothered under a thousand spells. He did not undo all the spells, only the small spell of forgetfulness there, a common, an easy thing to do; hadn't he done it for Gallowglass?

No sooner done than regretted, however. For they looked at him with widened eyes, eyes that did not see him: they were turned inward, to see what had been lost so long from memory and now had been returned. And they wept. The old soldier Craven with his cold grey tears silently streaking his cheeks, remembering his strength; ugly Weasel Sootmouth with her face contorted more than ever, hideous with grief, remembering her husband.

Then they winced in pain and looked toward the door, and there was the Queen.

Queen Beauty, but now not haughty and imperious: now raging, with her eyes dancing as if aflame. They were afire, Orem saw, for flames licked outward, throwing light that danced in the silver discs and dazzled on the table. "How have you remembered what I took from you?" Her voice shook the room.

Weasel and Craven said nothing.

The Queen shouted and the discs banged on the wall. Weasel and Craven fell to the floor. Frightened as he was, Orem thought to wonder if he should pretend to be affected by whatever magic she was using. Before he could act, however, Urubugala took matters out of Orem's hands. He rolled out in front of the Queen and unfolded himself to lie supine before her, his face almost at her feet.

"You can't make Urubugala forget," he said. "What Urubugala once was, Urubugala always is."

All was still. The Queen looked down at the dwarf and smiled beautifully. It was the smile of impending cruelty; we all knew it well by then, except Orem.

"Are you?" she asked. "And what did you hope to accomplish? You couldn't stop me before; do you think some petty little spells of unmaking would terrify me?" She took hold of his hair and pulled him up as if he were no heavier than a dog. "Urubugala, my little fool, don't you know that your little unmakings caused all this? Oh, yes, Urubugala, your little try at resisting me, at helping the old cock escape me—I realized then that it was nearly time, nearly time to renew myself, Urubugala, and so the Little King is here, I called upon the Sisters for a dream and they obliged me, and sent me Little King and the infant in my womb. Do you think you can stop me?"

"No," said Urubugala, grinning. "Or did you merely hope that I would let you die?"

Her smile broadened, and the flames leapt from her eyes and ignited Urubugala's clothing. The dwarf screamed. As if his scream were the power of flight he rose into the air, high above the table, and there burned and burned, screaming. Orem was nauseated, stabbed with guilt. The dwarf had taken blame for all his acts, all his acts, and now was dying for it.

But not dying, after all. For as suddenly as the flames began, they stopped, and the dwarf was lowered, panting and whimpering, to the table. Queen Beauty walked near to him, reached out and took him by the ears, pulled him until she bent directly over his face, looked directly into his eyes.

"Did you block me at the cod's camp? Let me in, Urubugala, or I'll set you burning forever."

"In in in," he whispered. "All you like, see it all—" and he gasped a great rush of air and convulsed on the table. His head rose up, eyes locked on Beauty's eyes, until their faces touched, upside down to each other, mistress and slave, mother and child, Urubugala's head suspended by nothing but the force of Beauty's gaze.

She was finished. Urubugala's head dropped with a loud crack on the table. "The truth, the truth, name of the Sisters it's the truth. I was so sure it was you."

"Oh well," whispered the dwarf.

"Do you think I'm not a match for it, whatever it is? I won't be threatened by a petty wizard who has learned your unmaking spells, Urubugala."

"Oh well."

"Don't try me, Urubugala. I won't let you have even such a victory as that." And then she touched his forehead and he suddenly relaxed. Slept. Orem saw that his skin was unmarked by the flames. The Queen addressed Craven and Weasel. "And yet, why should I remake the mercies he removed? It pleases me that you should again remember all, think of all. Will you hate me? Hate me all you like. You will watch as I am made again, and hate me as you watch, and still you will do nothing, you can do nothing, don't you see? Urubugala may give you back your memories, but I think you'll wish for the old forgetfulness again. Don't bother asking me. Ask him." She pointed at the sleeping dwarf. "See what he can do."

The Queen was gone. Craven and Weasel watched her go, then turned and stared at Orem. He opened his mouth to speak, but Weasel put her hand to her mouth and shook her head. What then? They only waited, watched him. Until he realized that they were waiting for him to make it safe for them to speak. So again he timidly let out his net and cleared the room.

Urubugala instantly sat up in the middle of the table. "Never again," he said to Orem. "Touch whatever you like, do whatever you like, but not to us. We three, the Queen's Companions, we are her ornaments and she'll not have us altered."

Plainly Urubugala knew what he was, and as plainly believed that the Queen did not overhear them. What could Orem do but trust him? "I'm sorry," he said.

"Why am I here?" Orem asked.

Perhaps Weasel would have told him; she made as if to speak. But Urubugala raised his hand. "It's not for us to guess what the gods are doing. You're guided by wiser eyes than ours and we'll tell you nothing more. Only this: Seek not, and you will find; ask not, and it will be given you; do not knock, and the doors will open for you."

Then Urubugala rolled from the table and dropped to the ground at Orem's feet. Orem looked down and met his upward turning gaze.

"Even Beauty does not know why you are here."

And the black man waddled out the door, his phallus dragging between his legs; no longer funny, not to Orem, for he had seen him endure agony and speak again as if it were nothing.

The dwarf had preserved him, and borne his punishment, and kept him free. Craven and Weasel had kept their silence for his sake. If this was not friendship, Orem did not understand the word. They had his loyalty forever. Yet in truth they did not want it. They were loyal to you, Palicrovol, not to Orem, and he never understood that until the end, too late for him, and only just in time for you.