The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

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—”

His words came whispered through his teeth. “Sybel, I dream of you at nights, and I wake alone and weep. It will be done swiftly, and then you will be with Tamlorn—”

“No—”

He loosed her, rising, his hands clenched. “It will be done!”

“So,” she whispered, trembling, her eyes dry, unseeing. “I am never to love again. That is harsh, considering that I am the first of three wizards to learn how. I would like to kill myself, but I will not be permitted to make even that small choice. I hope you pay this wizard well, because this deed is without price and without parallel.”

He stood a moment wordless before her. Then he turned, and she heard the whisper of his steps across the sheepskin, and then the beat of them down stone steps. The door closed, the bolt shot, and at the sound she gave a frightened, hopeless cry.

“Get up, Sybel.”

She rose unsteadily. Mithran went to the table, poured wine. He gave her a cup and sat down, sipping, watching her across the rim of his goblet.

“Sit down.”

She sat. She whispered into the cup, “Give me a few minutes of freedom.”

“To take yourself out of this world forever? No, you are too valuable.”

“Leave one small place for freedom in my mind.”

“To love?”

She lifted her eyes. “To hate,” she whispered. Her fingers circled the cup, kneading the wrought silver. “In that one small corner I could breed such a hate that would tear Eldwold apart stone by stone, and leave a wasteland for the Sirle Lords to bicker over for centuries. I would bring that King to his knees as he brought me to mine.”

The green eyes watched her, unwavering. “And what of me? Do you hate me?”

Her eyes moved lifeless to his face. “You are beneath hatred.”

He leaned forward, the ring on his finger flashing darkly. His mouth tightened suddenly. “He is a fool, that King. More so than most men. Did you know that you stole a book from me once?”

She blinked. “No. I would remember you.”

“The spell book of the wizard Firnan. You thought the room was empty. A lonely, cold room in a small lord’s court near Fyrbolg. I was there. I watched you enter, silently, as though the air had formed you. You looked through my books, took that one, and left so silently… and I watched that place in midair for hours after you went. I did not know your name. I did not know even if you belonged to Eldwold. I only knew that you came before me like the answer to a dream that I had not even dared dream… So I began to listen, to ask a question here and there, and I began to learn of you…”

She stared at him wonderingly. “But why did you call me for Drede?”

“It is he who told me at last who to call. You see, I am no fool. If I had come to you in your mountain house, you could have said yes to me as easily as no. Today, though, I think there is only one answer you will give me. I want you. If I must take you by force, I will, though with such a choice that you face today, I doubt that you will argue. I am powerful; my knowledge is inexhaustible. I have both loved and hated, but for years I have found nothing worth either loving or hating until I saw you. I can share thoughts, experiences with you as I can with no one else. I loved a woman once for her beauty. I never thought I might want to again. It is as though—as though you were made for me.”

She stared at him numbly. She began to tremble again; she held herself, her fingers tight, cold on her arms. He said,

“Drink.”

She drank wine. She leaned forward, dropped her head on her arms. Mithran watched her, motionless.

“Well?”

“This is my fault, a little,” she whispered. “Maelga warned me.”

“Look at me.”

She raised her head, her eyes wide, mute on his face. His thin brows flickered a little, drawing together. “Does it require such thought?”

“I am not even thinking. There is only emptiness.”

“Sybel. Choose.”

“I do not care. I do not care! You choose! If you want me, then keep me—if not, give me to Drede. What do you want me to do? Thank you for giving me a place in the wasteland of your heart? Drede at least I understand, but you—you are colder than I am.”

“Am I so?” he breathed. He checked himself, his thin mouth tightening again at the corners. “White bird, you know I will never give you to that King. Nor will I break your mind to suit either him or me.”

“You have already broken it!” she cried. “White bird—white falcon on a silver thread, to come when you call—I would fear you until I died, you have such power over my slightest thought. So I do not care now what you do to me. Do you want me to beg you to save me from Drede? I will go down on my knees to you for that, but I can never give you thanks for it if I am shackled to you.”

“You could not—try to love me?”

“I love no one! I will never love anyone! So Drede will have me helpless and smiling, or you will have me helpless and afraid—which do you prefer?”

He sat silently a moment, a finger moving up and down his cup, while she watched him, her hands tight on the arms of her chair. He said softly, his words measured to the slow movement of his hand, “You will not always fear me, Sybel. I will show you ancient arts and spells even you have never dreamed of learning. I will give you wondrous things: the purple jewel the shape of an eye made by the witch woman Catha that sees into locked doors and boxes; the cloak made of the skins of the blue mountain cats of Lomar, soft as the whisper of breath, warm as the touch of a mouth…I will give you the locked, bound books of the wizard Erden, never opened since his death three centuries ago, and I will tell you how to open them…” His words formed like dreams in her mind; she felt herself lulled, her mind eased, darkened. “I will capture for you the winged gazelle of the Southern Deserts, with eyes like the luminous night… You will sleep in white wool and purple silk, and wear jewels the color of stars with red and blue fire in their midst…” As from far away she saw him rise slowly, shadow-silent, come toward her, his voice low, weaving visions for her that formed and rested in her numbed mind. She felt his fingers straying through her hair. “I will give you the silver-stringed harp of the Lord Thrace of Tol, that plays at command, sings lost tales of dead, glorious kings…” His breath whispered against her face. A cry rose in her somewhere, faint as a child’s cry in the night that faded, lost. She felt his hands at her throat, saw the silver circle of her brooch wink and tremble in the light. “I will give you the Cup of Fortune that was thrown by the Prince Verne into the Lost Lake because it foretold his death by water…” She felt cloth gathered, tense, in his fingers, heard the hiss of it, torn. She heard the breath shake, faintly between his lips. “I will give you all the treasures of the world, and all its secrets… Sybel, my white bird…” His head dropped. His lips touched her throat, brushed downward. And then she felt that in his quickening lust for one brief moment he lost her, and she whispered one word without hope, almost without thought.

His head jerked upward, his eyes blazing into hers. He whirled away from her abruptly, and found as he turned the crystal-eyed Blammor behind him. He screamed once, and then the Blammor overwhelmed him like a mist that held him upright an instant, his arms outspread, fingers taut. Then he dropped. The Blammor said to Sybel,

Is there more?

She stared, trembling, at the wizard. Her hands fumbled at her robe, drawing the torn cloth together. No, she said. No more. And it faded. Beside the bed the Falcon Ter gave a fierce cry of rage. The wizard Mithran lay on his back, the bones crushed and broken in his face, his hands, his throat. Ter swooped downward, clung to the broken head, his talons piercing the open eyes.

“Ter,” Sybel breathed, and he came to her, perched on her chair. She stood, still trembling, and drew on her cloak. Ter’s voice floated into her mind; she felt him in his hot rage.

And Drede.

No.

Drede.

No. She went to the door, pulled the bolt with shaking hands. Drede is mine.