The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

SEVEN

She rode home slowly through the snow, the Falcon circling above her head, sometimes soaring to heights where he looked to her like a faint dark star in the day sky, then dropping down to her, lightning swift. She spoke to no one, her eyes black, blind, and no one she passed stopped her. She reached the mountain path at twilight. Evening lay silvery against the snow; stars began their slow ascent over the great, dark head of Eld Mountain. The trees were motionless around her, stars caught in their snowy branches. Maelga’s house smoked small in the trees, its windows fire-bright. She rode to the yard. As she dismounted Maelga opened the door, stars flaming from her ringed fingers.

“Sybel,” she whispered. Sybel stared at her. Maelga came to her, sharp eyes peering, probing. She touched the still, white face. “Is it you?”

“The wizard is dead.”

“Dead! How? How, child? I never thought to see you again.”

“Rommalb“

Maelga’s hand went to her mouth. “You have taken that one, too?”

“Yes. And now the wizard Mithran lies crushed on the floor of his tower, and I think—I think not even his finger bone is whole.”

“Sybel—”

She shuddered suddenly, violently. “Let me come in. I need a place—a place to rest awhile.”

Maelga’s arm closed about her, drew her inside the warm house. Sybel sank down beside the fire, her eyes closing in weariness. She felt hands at the throat of her cloak and started.

“No—”

Maelga’s hands checked. She drew a slow breath. Then her fingers brushed lightly down Sybel’s cheek and she rose. Sybel untied her cloak, pushed it away from her.

“He tore my dress. Is Coren still at my house?”

“I will mend it for you. Coren is there. He came to me when he found you gone. He blamed himself for sleeping.”

“I am so glad he was asleep.” She was silent for a long time, staring into the fire. Maelga watched her, rocking silently while the night darkened around the house, and Sybel’s face grew shadowed beside the fire. Then Maelga said softly,

“Sybel, what are you thinking? What dark things?”

Sybel stirred. “Night dark,” she whispered. Then they heard footsteps in the yard, and the whinny of Coren’s horse. Sybel rose, the cloth parting over her white breasts. She opened the door, and Coren, one hand on the back of his horse, looked up to see her framed in the light. He went to her, drew her beneath his cloak, held her, his face hidden against her hair until she felt his tears against her cheek.

“I cried, too,” she whispered. “It hurt.”

“Sybel, you went from me like a dream, so silently, so irrevocably—I could not bear it, I could not bear it—”

“I am safe.”

“But how, Sybel? Who was it?”

“Come in. I will tell you.”

He sat with her beside Maelga’s fire, his fingers linked hard in hers as though he would never let her go. Maelga, moving softly as she heated a stew for them, cut bread, listened to Sybel’s quiet telling.

“It was the wizard Mithran. Have you heard his name?” she asked Coren, and he shook his head. “He saw me once long ago, when I stole a book from him. He—wanted me. He gave me no choice. I asked him for pity, but he had none. He had a very great mind, but it was without challenge, wearied with boredom, bitter deeds. I would have gone with him. I could never have fought him. I would always have been afraid of him. But he made a mistake. He forgot Rommalb. And that was the one name I remembered, when he lost control of himself and me. So he died there.”

“I am glad.”

“I am, too, except… he carried such great knowledge. I wish—I wish we had not met under such circumstances. He was more powerful even than Heald, and he might have taught me things.”

Coren stirred beside her. “You do not need such great power to keep your animals. What would you use it for?”

“Power breeds itself. I cannot stop wanting to know, to learn. But I could never have wanted to go with him. He—he did not love me.”

“It matters to you, then?”

“Yes.” She turned her head to meet his eyes. “It matters.”

She heard the long, shuddering draw of his breath. “I wanted to come to you, but I did not know where,” he whispered. “Even the snow had fallen to cover your path. I woke, and the fire was dead, and you were gone.”

“Coren, there is nothing you could have done for me. He would have had no mercy for you—he had none for me—and I would have had to watch. Then, there would have been no one to hold me when I returned.”

“Sybel—” He paused, choosing words. “You have my love. I would have given you my life. And now, I will give up for you another thing: all the weary years of my bitterness toward Drede. If you come with me to Sirle, no one will ever ask anything of you that you do not want to give. I never again want to feel your need of me and not know how to find you. I never want to wake again and find you gone.”

She was silent, looking at him, and for a moment he saw in her eyes a shadow of aloofness, of secrecy. Then it passed, and she lifted his hand to her mouth. “And I,” she whispered, “do not want to watch you ride to Sirle again without me.”

She left Eld Mountain with him the next morning to marry him in his family’s house. The long winter was melting to an end: they rode fur-cloaked beneath a sky brilliant with sunlight against the white snow. The Falcon Ter flew above them, black-winged against the sun. They rode past Mondor, across the wide Plain of Terbrec, and then through the forest lands of Sirle, where they spent one night in an outlying farm that was half fortress, the vanguard of Sirle. On the second morning they came to the heartlands of Sirle, the fields, the curve of the Slinoon River, and saw far away the walls and gray stone towers of the home of the Sirle Lords, smoke drifting from its chimneys. They stopped awhile to rest, dismounting. Coren took Sybel’s face between his gloved hands, looked into her black eyes.

“Are you happy?” he asked, and his joy bloomed like a flower to her smile. He kissed her eyes closed, murmuring, “Blacker than the fire-white jewel of King Pwill: the eye in the pommel of his sword that turned black at his death—”

“Coren!”

He loosed her, laughing. The fiery snow winked to the edge of the world; nothing moved in it but the breaths of their horses and the slow smoke of the far Sirle house. Sybel gazed at it, her eyes narrowed a little against the light.

“That will be my home… It will be strange, living on flat land, and among people. I am not used to people. It is such a great, gray house. What are in the towers along the wall?”

“Guardrooms, supplies, weapons in case of attack, siege. The Sirle family has never lived quietly among its neighbors. But we were humbled at Terbrec, and now we talk a good deal and do little.”

“What are your brothers like? Are they all like you?”

“How, like me?”

“Gentle, kind, wise..:’

“Am I those things?” he said wonderingly. “I have killed, I have hated, I have lain awake at nights dreaming bitter dreams…”

“I have seen great evil, and there is none of it in you.” She smiled up at him, but the words shook, in spite of herself, on her mouth. He touched her hair beneath her hood, smoothing it.

“Behind the ancient, thick walls of Rok’s house not even a king could find you against your will. Come. My brothers are rough-voiced, battle-scarred, impulsive and foolish, like me, but there is joy in their houses, and they will welcome you simply because I love you.”

They rode slowly through the hard, dormant fields, where patches of black, plowed earth thrust upward against the melting snow. They followed a road that wound along the Slinoon River, leading to the threshold of the Lord of Sirle. A young boy with a bow in the empty fields saw them coming: he shouted something that hung in a flash of white breath in the air. And then he ran before them toward the house, the hood bouncing back from his black hair.

“That was Arn,” Coren said. “Ceneth’s son.”

“Are there many children?”

He nodded. “Ceneth has two small daughters, too. Rok’s oldest son, Don, is fifteen, a bloodthirsty boy, restless for his first battle. Rok has four younger children. Eorth’s wife just had their first son, Eorthling. Herne and Bor have their homes and families in the northern parts of Sirle. And we will have children, you and I, little wizardlings to fill that house.”

She nodded absently. Ahead of them, through the open gates, she saw people moving across the snow-patched ground. Water from the Slinoon, trained out of its course, flowed in front of the gates, out toward the fields. In the yard beyond, horses stood saddled, waiting; fire from a smithy within the walls billowed suddenly, died. Am ran across the drawbridge, vanished within the walls. A few minutes later a man followed him out, stood watching them come.

“Rok.”

They joined him at the bridge. He caught Coren’s reins, looking up at Sybel, and Coren dismounted. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with a mane of pale gold hair and a line-scarred face imperturbable as his eyes. His voice, coming out of the deep well of his chest, was unexpectedly mild.

“I expected you home from Hilt four days ago. I was beginning to worry. But now, I see I did not have to.” He moved to Sybel’s side, took her hand. “You are Sybel.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we fought at Terbrec for a woman with a face like yours. You are very welcome to Sirle.”

She smiled, looking down into his eyes, seeing in them despite their calmness a faint, hot edge of triumph. “And you, as Coren says, are the Lion of Sirle. I am grateful for your kind welcome, since I have come so unexpectedly.”

“I have learned to expect unexpected things from Coren.”

“Rok,” Coren said quietly. “We have come to be married here. Sybel has come here as my wife.” Rok’s eyes fell, hidden a moment, then lifted again, gold-brown, smiling. “I see. How did you talk her into that?”

“It was not very easy. But I had to do it.” He lifted his arms, swung Sybel to the ground. Arn returned to take their horses, staring curiously at Sybel. A tall, red-haired woman followed him out, her thick braids twined among the rich green-and-gold folds of her dress. Coren said, “Lynette, this is—”

“I know, I know.” She hugged him, laughing. “Do you think I do not recognize that ivory hair or those eyes? This is Sybel, and you are going to be married. So this is what you have been plotting while we were worrying.”

“I do not know why you were worrying. Sybel, this is Rok’s wife, Lynette.”

“Going off to some place to daydream is one thing,” Lynette said, dropping a kiss on Sybel’s cheek. “But going to Hilt and not coming back is quite another. Sybel, you look very tired. It must be hard journeying in this cold.”

Coren slipped an arm around her. She leaned against him, thoughtless a moment, the fur on his cloak cold, smooth against her face, while he said, “She has been troubled, these past days. Is there a quiet corner in this house where she can rest?”

Sybel straightened. “No, Coren, it is good to hear so many pleasant voices. And I have not met all your brothers or the children.”

Lynette laughed. “You will. Come. You can rest in my room, while chambers are prepared for you and Coren.”

They crossed the bridge, Arn following behind with the horses, and the bustle in the outer yard stopped while they passed. A smaller gateway led to the inner yard, a square court with trees standing leafless, etching a fretwork of shadows on the snow. A man opened the double doors of the hall, came down the steps to them. His hair was vivid black against the sky; his eyes laughed at Coren, green as stones.

“Arn came babbling of your return, so I thought perhaps you had disturbed some mysterious wizard in your wanderings who sent you home with two heads.”

“See how they laugh at me,” Coren said to Sybel. “No, Ceneth. The wizard herself came home with me. Now you will have some respect for my comings and goings.”

“So. You are the wizard woman of Eld Mountain.” His bright eyes appraised her, smiling, speculative, like Rok’s. “We have heard much of you from Coren. He has not stopped talking about you since he came home scarred from battle with your dragon.”

“If it had not been for Gyld, she would never have let me across her threshold,” Coren said. “Where is Eorth? Are Herne and Bor here?”

“They are hunting,” Rok said. “They should be back soon.” He started at a rush of air above his head, and the Falcon Ter came to rest on Coren’s shoulder, surveying them with aloof, brilliant eyes. “Whose is that? It is not one of our hawks—it is huge.”

“It is Ter,” Coren murmured, turning his head. “He killed seven men… What is he thinking, Sybel? I want to know.”

“Seven—” Ceneth stared, incredulous, at Sybel. “Is he yours?”

She nodded. “My father, Ogam, called him.”

“Is he free?”

“I gave him to Tam, but he still answers to my call when I need him.” She was silent, opening her mind to the Falcon, and Rok and Ceneth watched her, motionless. Her eyes came back to Coren.

“He brought me some news of Tam. He is well. I will have to write and tell him where I am. It will be hard for him to understand. I think a part of him still believes Eld Mountain is his true home.”

“I doubt if you will have to write,” Rok said. “News travels very quickly in Eldwold.”

“Does it? It traveled very slowly to me, in my white house. I will write to Tam, anyway; he should hear this from me.”

“He will be all right,” Coren said gently. “I hope so.”

Ter fluttered off Coren’s shoulder, perched to wait on one of the bare trees, and they moved indoors, into Rok’s great hall, with skins and pine boughs on the cold stones, ancient tapestry flung across the walls, and a vast hearth where children were playing, rolling on the floor with a hound. Sybel untied her cloak, shook her long hair free, and the children, checked, watched it settle, glistening silver. She found Coren’s eyes on her, stranger’s eyes, seeing her as though for the first time. She looked away from him, and the blood leaped suddenly through her. Lynette took their cloaks. Coren touched her face briefly.

“Go with Lynette. I will join you soon.”

She followed Lynette up a stone stairway beyond the hall, into a wide, bright room. A warm fire snapped on the hearth; two little girls with Lynette’s hair lay in front of it, chattering. A baby wailed in a cradle; Lynette caught it up in one arm, and flung aside the hangings around a bed.

“Lara, Marnya, go and play outside. Sh, little Byrd. Sybel, lie down, if you want to. I will send for food and wine.”

Sybel sat down on the bed. “Thank you. I am tired.” She rose again a moment later, restlessly, and went to a window. In the distance, beyond the Sirle Forests, she could see the blue-white peak of Eld Mountain glistening against the sky, and knew that far cape of snow curled about a white hall with strange, wondrous animals. Lynette said behind her,

“I know. I felt sad, too, so long ago, leaving my own home in South Hilt. I hope you will be content here. I am glad, for Coren’s sake, you came, though I never expected it, not when you gave Tam to Drede.”

“I had to. He wanted his father.”

“I understand. People like Eorth and Herne have thick heads—they could never understand how you could give a child given to you by Sirle to Drede. To them the whole world is divided by those two names.” She propped the quieting baby on her shoulder. Then she smiled at something in Sybel’s eyes. “Do you want to hold her? She is my youngest.”

Sybel smiled. “You knew my wanting before I did. Coren does that, too.” She took the baby, sat down in a chair beside the fire. Gold-brown eyes stared up at her, wary. “Tam was so tiny once… And I was so ignorant. Coren says there will be a ceremony, a witnessing, today. What will I have to do?”

“Nothing. Just appear beautiful and ready before the Lord of Sirle, his brothers and their wives and children; Rok will join you, and we will have a feast afterward to celebrate. Did you bring something to marry in?”

“No. I have so few things. I never wanted anything special before.”

Lynette eyed her curiously. “You live so simply. Are you going to write to Lord Horst of Hilt to tell him you are marrying Coren?”

“Why?”

“He is your grandfather,” Lynette said patiently. “You and Rianna were kin; his daughter was your mother.”

Sybel’s brows rose thoughtfully. “So. But I doubt if he would care for my kinship, since Ogam called my mother to him the same way he called Ter of Gules. But that is something to remember.” She caught Lynette’s startled look and smiled. “I did not have a gentle upbringing, like Rianna. If I say anything that disturbs you, tell me. I have known very few people. I did not expect to enjoy them so much as I have today.”

Lynette nodded. “I will,” she promised. “When I first saw you, I thought of Rianna, and I felt a wrench at my heart, remembering Norrel. But now I think you are something quite different from Rianna. Her eyes were shy and sweet, and yours are…” She stared vaguely into them, searching for a word. Sybel shifted. “Coren says they are black as Drede’s heart.”

Lynette blinked. “Coren says such things? Why do you marry him, then?”

“I do not know. Perhaps because I could not think of anything else I would rather do.”

Lynette nodded, her eyes smiling. She took Byrd, laid her back down in the cradle. “I will go down and see that your things are brought up.”

She left. Sybel rose after a moment in the silence, poured herself wine. She leaned over the cradle, touched Byrd’s cheek with one finger. Then she turned, pacing restlessly, listening for Coren’s step. She heard voices in the yard below, boys’ voices, shouting, echoing off the stones in some part of the house. She wandered into the hall, cup in hand and heard, from somewhere within the silent stones, Coren’s voice saying,

“No.”

She went toward it. Down the corridor, a door stood open; she heard the murmur of men’s voices. She stopped at the doorway, her eyes brushing over the long room, searching for Coren. She found him near the fire at the other end. Then slowly, as they spoke, she put names to the five men around him.

“Coren, she is here. Why else would you have brought her here, if not for this?” A slow-voiced man, taller than them all, his hair bright gold, his eyes green as Gyld’s wings, asked plaintively. Coren, his voice edged slightly, yet patient, said,

“Eorth, because I love her. Think of her as any other woman here—”

“But she is not as any other woman here,” Ceneth said. “Do you think she would be content being treated as such? She has powers; she must use them. Why not for us?”

“Against Drede? I have told you. And I have told you. She wants no war against Tamlorn.”

“So? We can put Tamlorn on the throne of Eldwold as easily as Drede can.”

“With that woman,” a square, weathered man with taut silver hair said, “we can gain support from Hilt—even from Niccon. No one would dare oppose us.”

“Bor. No.”

“Coren,” Rok said, “you went there in autumn for this very thing; to persuade her to come here. You have done it—”

“Not for this! Rok, two days ago, I almost lost her; she was called, harassed by some powerful wizard, and I thought I would never see her again. When she came back, I swore that if she came here, no one would trouble her, try to use her against her will.”

“Coren, no one wants to use her against her will. We do not want to make her unhappy here,” Bor said. “But surely you can speak to her—not right away, but eventually, when you are easy with each other, settled—”

“I thought that was what you wanted most in life.” A small, wiry man looked back at Coren out of his own blue, glittering eyes. “Revenge for Norrel’s death.”

There was a short silence. Coren, his face taut under his blazing hair, said, “I thought so, too. But now I would rather spend the energy of my thoughts on the living. I gave up everything for her—including my hate. I had to. I cannot explain that to you. Many strange things have happened to me in that white house of hers, and the strangest is that now I would rather think about Sybel than Norrel. If you must war against Drede, you will have to do it without Sybel. This I promised her. If you cannot do it, then you will drive us both out of this house.”

There was a murmur of dissent. Rok’s hand dropped briefly on Coren’s shoulder. “Do not think so little of us. We are all restless, hungry lions—if you toss us a scrap of hope, we will tear it apart with talking. We will not trouble Sybel, if that is how she feels, though you must know how great the temptation is.”

“I know. I know.”

Ceneth added, “And she will serve great purpose, if only to brighten our house and alarm Drede.”

Coren nodded. He glanced around at the silent ring of faces. “I should not trust any of you. But I do. I must. Wait until you see her, Eorth, Herne—you will understand how I could promise such a thing.”

“I never will,” Eorth said simply. “But if you say she will not help us, then she will not. I can understand that much.”

“The wonder of it is that she agreed to marry you at all,” Ceneth said, “since she feels that way about Tamlorn and Drede. She must have great courage—or great love—to come into this lions’ den with no one but you to protect her.”

Coren smiled wryly. “She is very capable of taking care of herself. You have seen Ter Falcon.”

“If she can call a Falcon who killed seven men,” Eorth said, “surely she can call Drede. Then we could—”

“Eorth,” Bor grunted. “Be quiet.”

Sybel turned away softly. She went back to Lynette’s room, where she found Lynette, her clothes, a tray of food, and five children to watch her eat.

Rok married them that evening in the hall lit with candles held by the children of the sons of Sirle. In the semidarkness the fire billowed and crackled, the only sound in the great room besides Rok’s deep, polished voice. Sybel, dressed in flame-red, her hair coiled and braided into a crown of silver by Lynette, stood beside Coren, watching the firelight catch in the strands of gold in Rok’s hair, twine through the gold chain on his breast. Rok’s voice mingled like a deep forest wind with the breath of the fire; and as he spoke, Sybel’s thoughts melted backward to Maelga’s house where she had stood in front of Maelga’s fire two nights before, her hand in Coren’s, in the great heart of the mountain’s silence, listening to an ancient binding Maelga spoke, her ringed hands on their hands:

“This bond I draw between you: that though you are parted in mind or in body, there will be a call in the core of you, one to the other, that nothing, no one else will answer to. By the secrets of earth and water, this bond is woven, unbreakable, irrevocable; by the law that created fire and wind this call is set in you, in life and beyond life…”

And later that night, before they had left for Sirle, she had lain beside Coren watching the scattering of stars burn beyond the domed roof, listening to Coren’s breathing. And curved against him, she had felt the day’s darkness drain out of her, felt the weariness deep in her bones flow away. Finally she had slept, deeply, dreamlessly.

“Now,” Rok said. “Give your names to each other.” “Coren.”

She looked up at him and saw in the red-gold wash that lit his face a deep flame of laughter that had not been there before in his eyes. She smiled slowly, though she were accepting the challenge of it.

“Sybel.”