by Kage Baker
Lord Ermenwyr eyed him sourly. “That hasn’t happened to your Grandpapa, has it?”
“No,” the child agreed, “But he’s twice as big as you.” He brightened, remembering the other thing he had heard about his father. “And Grandmama says you’re so smart, it’s such a shame you don’t do something with your life!”
Lord Ermenwyr sighed, and pulled out his jade tube. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?” he asked Balnshik.
“I certainly do,” she replied, mildly but with a hint of bared fangs.
“Pity. Well, here, son of mine; here’s my favorite ring for your very own.” He removed a great red cabochon set in silver, and presented it to the child. “The top is hinged like a tiny box, see the clever spring? You can hide sleeping powders in it to play tricks on other little boys. I emptied out the poison, for heaven’s sake,” he added indignantly, seeing that the hint of bared fangs was now an open suggestion.
“Thank you, Father,” piped the child.
***
Disconsolate, Lord Ermenwyr wandered the black halls.
He paused at a window that looked westward, and regarded the splendid isolation of the Greenlands. Nothing to be seen for miles but wave upon wave of lesser mountains, forested green as the sea, descending to the plain. Far away, far down, the toy cities behind their walls were invisible for distance, and when night fell their sparkling lights would glimmer in vain, like lost constellations, shrouded from his hopeful eye.
Even now, he told himself, even now down there the taverns would be opening. The smoky dark places would be lighting their lanterns, and motherly barmaids would serve forth wine so raw it took the paint off tables. The elegant expensive places would be firing up the various patent devices that glared in artificial brilliance, and the barmaids there were all thin, and young, and interestingly depraved-looking. What they served forth could induce visions, or convulsions and death if carelessly indulged in.
How he longed, this minute, for a glass of dubious green liqueur from the Gilded Clock! Or to loll with his head in the lap of an anonymous beauty who couldn’t care less whether he did something worthwhile with his life. What had he been thinking, to desert the cities of the plain? They had everything his heart could desire. Theaters. Clubs. Ballrooms. Possibilities. Danger. Fun…
Having made his decision to depart before the first light of dawn, Lord Ermenwyr hurried off to see that his trunks were packed with new-laundered clothes. He whistled a cheery little tune as he went.
***
The Master and the Saint sat at their game.
They were not Good and Evil personified, nor Life and Death; certainly not Order and Chaos, nor even Yin and Yang. Yet most of the world’s population believed that they were. Their marriage, therefore, had done rather more than raise eyebrows everywhere.
The Master of the Mountain scowled down at the game board. It bore the simplest of designs, concentric circles roughly graven in slate, and the playing pieces were mere pebbles of black marble or white quartz. The strategy was fantastically involved, however. So subtle were the machinations necessary to win that this particular game had been going on for thirty years, and a decisive conquest might never materialize.
“What are we going to do about the boy?” he said.
The Saint of the World sighed in commiseration, but was undistracted. She slid a white stone to a certain position on the board.
High above them, three white egrets peered down from the ledge that ran below the great vaulted dome of the chamber. Noting the lady’s move, they looked sidelong at the three ravens that perched opposite, and stalked purposefully along the ledge until the ravens were obliged to sidle back a pace or two.
“To which of your sons do you refer, my lord?” the Saint inquired.
“The one with the five-inch heels to his damned boots,” said the Master of the Mountain, and set a black stone down, click, between a particular pair of circles. “Have you seen them?”
One of the ravens bobbed its head derisively, spread its coal-black wings and soared across the dome to the opposite ledge.
“Yes, I have,” admitted the Saint.
“They cost me a fortune, and they’re purple,” said the Master of the Mountain, leaning back to study the board.
“And when you were his age, you’d never owned a pair of boots,” said the Saint serenely, sliding two white stones adjacent to the black one.
Above, one egret turned, retraced its way along the ledge, and the one raven cocked an eye to watch it. Three white stars shone out with sudden and unearthly light, in the night heavens figured on the surface of the arching dome.
“When I was his age, I wore chains. I never had to worry about paying my tailor; only about living long enough to avenge myself,” said the Master of the Mountain. “I wouldn’t want a son of mine educated so. But we’ve spoiled the boy!”
He moved three black stones, lining them up on successive rings. The two ravens flew to join their brother. Black clouds swirled under the dome, advanced on the floating globe of the white moon.
“He needs direction,” said the Saint.
“He needs a challenge,” said the Master. “Pitch him out naked on the mountainside, and let him survive by his wits for a few years!”
“He would,” pointed out the Saint. “Do we want to take responsibility for what would happen to the innocent world?”
“I suppose not,” said the Master with a sigh, watching as his lady moved four white stones in a neat line. The white egrets advanced on the ravens again. The white moon outshone the clouds.
“But he does need a challenge,” said the Saint. “He needs to put that mind of his to good use. He needs work.”
“Damned right he does,” said the Master of the Mountain. He considered the board again. “Rolling up his sleeves. Laboring with his hands. Building up a callus or two.”
“Something that will make him employ his considerable talent,” said the Saint.
There was a thoughtful silence. Their eyes met over the board. They smiled. Under the vaulted dome, all the birds took flight and circled in patterns, white wings and black.
“I’d better catch him early, or he’ll be down the mountain again before cockcrow,” said the Master of the Mountain. “To bed, madam?”
***
Lord Ermenwyr rose sprightly by candlelight, congratulating himself on the self-reliance learned in Deliantiba: for now he could dress himself without a valet. Having donned apparel suitable for travel, he went to his door to rouse the bearers, that they might shoulder his new-laden trunks down the gorge to the red road far below.
Upon opening the door, he said:
“Sergeant, kindly fetch—Ack!”
“Good morning, my son,” said the Master of the Mountain. “So eager for saber drill? Commendable.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Actually, I thought I’d just get in some practice lifting weights, first.”
“Not this morning,” said his father. “I have a job for you, boy. Walk with me.”
Gritting his teeth, Lord Ermenwyr walked beside his father, obliged to take two steps for every one the Master of the Mountain took. He was panting by the time they emerged on a high rampart, under faint stars, where the wall’s guard were putting out the watch-fires of the night.
“Look down there, son,” said the Master of the Mountain, pointing to three acres’ space of waste and shattered rock, hard against the house wall.
“Goodness, is that a bit of snow still lying in the crevices?” said Lord Ermenwyr, watching his breath settle in powdered frost. “So late in the year, too. What unseasonably chilly weather we’ve had, don’t you think?”
“Do you recognize the windows?” asked his father, and Lord Ermenwyr squinted down at the arrowslits far below. “You ought to.”
“Oh! Is that the nursery, behind that wall?” Lord Ermenwyr said. “Well, what do you know? I was there only yesterday. Visiting my bastards, as a
matter of fact. My, my, doesn’t i
t look small from up here?”
“Yes,” said the Master of the Mountain. “It does. You must have noticed how crowded it is, these days. Balnshik is of the opinion, and your mother and I concur with her, that the children need more room. A place to play when the weather is fine, perhaps. This would prevent them from growing up into stunted, pasty-faced little creatures with no stamina.”
“What a splendid idea,” said Lord Ermenwyr, smiling with all his sharp teeth. “Go to it, old man! Knock out a few walls and expand the place. Perhaps Eyrdway would be willing to give up a few rooms of his suite, eh?”
“No,” said the Master of the Mountain placidly. “Balnshik wants an outdoor play area. A garden, just there under the windows. With lawns and a water feature, perhaps.”
He leaned on the battlement and watched emotions conflict in his son’s face. Lord Ermenwyr’s eyes protruded slightly as the point of the conversation became evident to him, and he tugged at his beard, stammering:
“No, no, she can’t be serious! What about household security? What about your enemies? Can’t put the little ones’ lives in danger, after all. Mustn’t have them out where they might be carried off by, er, eagles or efrits, can we? Nursie means well, of course, but—”
“It’s an interesting problem,” said the Master of the Mountain. “I’m sure you’ll think of a solution. You’re such a clever fellow, after all.”
“But—!”
“Krasp has been instructed to let you have all the tools and materials you need,” said the Master of the Mountain. “I do hope you’ll have it finished before high summer. Little Druvendyl’s rash might clear up if he were able to sunbathe.”
“Who the hell is Druvendyl?” cried Lord Ermenwyr.
“Your infant son,” the Master of the Mountain informed him. “I expect full-color renderings in my study within three days, boy. Don’t dawdle.”
***
Bright day without, but within Lord Ermenwyr’s parlor it might have been midnight, so close had he drawn his drapes. He paced awhile in deep thought, glancing now and then at three flat stones he had set out on his hearth-rug. On one, a fistful of earth was mounded; on another, a small heap of coals glowed and faded. The third stone held a little water in a shallow depression.
To one side he had placed a table and chair.
Having worked up his nerve as far as was possible, he went at last to a chest at the foot of his bed and rummaged there. He drew out a long silver shape that winked in the light from the few coals. It was a flute. He seated himself in the chair and, raising the flute to his lips, began to play softly.
Summoning music floated forth, cajoling, enticing, music to catch the attention. The melody rose a little and was imperious, beckoned impatiently, wheedled and just hinted at threatening; then was coy, beseeched from a distance.
Lord Ermenwyr played with his eyes closed at first, putting his very soul into the music. When he heard a faint commotion from his hearth, though, he opened one eye and peered along the silver barrel as he played.
A flame had risen from the coals. Brightly it lit the other two stones, so he had a clear view of the water, which was bubbling upward as from a concealed fountain, and of the earth, which was mounding up too, for all the world like a molehill.
Lord Ermenwyr smiled in his heart and played on, and if the melody had promised before, it gave open-handed now; it was all delight, all ravishment. The water leaped higher, clouding, and the flame rose and spread out, dimming, and the earth bulged in its mound and began to lump into shape, as though under the hand of a sculptor.
A little more music, calling like birds in the forest, brightening like the sun rising over a plain, galloping like the herds there in the morning! And now the flame had assumed substance, and the water had firmed beside it. Now it appeared that three naked children sat on Lord Ermenwyr’s hearth, their arms clasped about their drawn-up knees, their mouths slightly open as they watched him play. They were, all three, the phantom color of clouds, a shifting glassy hue suggesting rainbows. But about the shoulders of the little girl ran rills of bright flame, and one boy’s hair swirled silver, and the other boy had perhaps less of the soap bubble about him, and more of wet clay.
Lord Ermenwyr raised his mouth from the pipe, grinned craftily at his guests, and set the pipe aside.
“No!” said the girl. “You must keep playing.”
“Oh, but I’m tired, my dears,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “I’m all out of breath.”
“You have to play,” the silvery boy insisted. “Play right now!”
But Lord Ermenwyr folded his arms. The children got to their feet, anger in their little faces, and they grew up before his eyes. The boys’ chests deepened, their limbs lengthened, they overtopped the girl; but she became a woman shapely as any he’d ever beheld, with flames writhing from her brow.
“Play, or we’ll kill you,” said the three. “Burn you. Drown you. Bury you.”
“Oh, no, that won’t do,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Look here, shall we play a game? If I lose, I’ll play for you again. If I win, you’ll do as I bid you. What do you say to that?”
The three exchanged uncertain glances.
“We will play,” they said. “But one at a time.”
“Ah, now, is that fair?” cried Lord Ermenwyr. “When that gives you three chances to win against my one? I see you’re too clever for me. So be it.” He picked up the little table and set it before him. Opening a drawer, he brought out three cards.
“See here? Three portraits. Look closely: this handsome fellow is clearly me. This blackavised brigand is my father. And this lovely lady—” he held the card up before their eyes, “is my own saintly mother. Think you’d recognize her again? Of course you would. Now, we’ll turn the cards face down. Can I find the lady? Of course I can; turn her up and here she is. That’s no game at all! But if you find the lady, you’ll win. So, who’ll go first? Who’ll find the lady?”
He took up the cards and looked at his guests expectantly. They nudged one another, and finally the earthborn said: “I will.”
“Good for you!” Lord Ermenwyr said. “Watch, now, as I shuffle.” He looked into the earthborn’s face. “You’re searching for the lady, understand?”
“Yes,” said the earthborn, meeting his look of inquiry. “I understand.”
“Good! So, here she is, and now here, and now here, and now—where?” Lord Ermenwyr fanned out his empty hands above the cards, in a gesture inviting choice.
Certain he knew where the lady was, the earthborn turned a card over.
“Whoops! Not the lady, is it? So sorry, friend. Who’s for another try? Just three cards! It ought to be easy,” sang Lord Ermenwyr, shuffling them again. The earthborn scowled in astonishment, as the others laughed gaily, and the waterborn stepped up to the table.
***
“Stop complaining,” said Lord Ermenwyr, dipping his pen in ink. “You lost fairly, didn’t you?”
“We never had a chance,” said the earthborn bitterly. “That big man on the card, the one that’s bigger than you. He’s the Soul of the Black Rock, isn’t he?”
“I believe he’s known by that title in certain circles, yes,” said Lord Ermenwyr, sketching in a pergola leading to a reflecting pool. “Mostly circles chalked on black marble floors.”
“He’s supposed to be a good master,” said the waterborn. “How did he have a son like you?”
“You’ll find me a good master, poppets,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “I’ll free you when you’ve done my will, and you’ve my word as my father’s son on that. You’re far too expensive to keep for long,” he added, with a severe look at the fireborn, who was boredly nibbling on a footstool.
“I hunger,” she complained.
“Not long to wait now,” Lord Ermenwyr promised. “No more than an hour to go before the setting of the moon. And look at the pretty picture I’ve made!” He held up his drawing. The three regarded it, and their glum faces brightened.
When the moon was well
down, he led them out, and they followed gladly when they saw that he carried his silver flute.
The guards challenged him on the high rampart, but once they recognized him they bent in low obeisance. “Little master,” they growled, and he tapped each lightly on the helmet with his flute, and each grim giant nodded its head between its boots and slept.
“Down there,” he said, pointing through the starlight, and the three that served him looked down on that stony desolation and wondered. All doubt fled, though, when he set the flute to his lips once more.
Now they knew what to do! And gleeful they sprang to their work, dancing under the wide starry heaven, and the cold void warmed and quickened under their feet, and the leaping silver music carried them along. Earth and Fire and Water played, and united in interesting ways.
***
Lord Ermenwyr was secure in bed, burrowed down under blankets and snoring, by the time bright morning lit the black mountain. But he did not need to see the first rays of the sun glitter on the great arched vault below the wall, where each glass pane was still hot from the fire that had passionately shaped it, and the iron frame too cooled slowly.
Nor did he need to see the warm sleepy earth under the vault, lying smooth in paths and emerald lawns, or the great trees that had rooted in it with magical speed. Neither did he need to hear the fountain bubbling languidly. He knew, already, what the children would find when they straggled from the dormitory, like a file of little ghosts in their white nightgowns.
He knew they would rub their eyes and run out through the new doorway, heedless of Balnshik’s orders to remain, and knew they’d rush to pull down fruit from the pergola, and spit seeds at the red fish in the green lily-pool, or climb boldly to the backs of the stone wyverns, or run on the soft grass, or vie to see how hard they could bounce balls against the glass without breaking it. Had he not planned all this, to the last detail?
***
The Master of the Mountain and the Saint of the World came to see, when the uneasy servants roused them before breakfast.
“Too clever by half,” said the Master of the Mountain, raising his eyes to the high vault, where the squares of bubbled and sea-clear glass let in an underwater sort of light. “Impenetrable. Designed to break up perception and confuse. And…what’s he done to the time? Do you feel that?”
