The Prince of Morning Bells

by Nancy Kress

  “It’s a good thing neither of us suffers from hay fever,” Chessie observed as they trotted one blue and gold afternoon past meadows riotous with wildflowers.

  “”Mmm,” Kirila said, squinting into the distance.

  “Actually, I have no allergies at all. I sometimes wonder if that’s due to that damned Wizard, a sort of sarcastic parting gift, supposed compensation for being enchanted. It would be like him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t even seem to get the usual dog diseases.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Mange and worms and so forth.”

  “Mm.”

  “Unless of course you count the fact that I’ve picked up rabies somewhere and am about to go howlingly insane and tear into your horse with my foaming mouth.”

  “Chessie,” she said abruptly, “there’s something odd coming down the road ahead.”

  He leaped into the air, trying to equal her height on horseback, but couldn’t quite make it.

  “I can’t see it. Odd how?”

  “I’m not sure. It seems to be a sort of moving hill.”

  “Hills don’t move.”

  “This one is. A small, moving hill covered with dead flowers, with a flag on the top.” She squinted deeply, shading her eyes with one sun-browned hand. “The flag is green, and there’s a design on it, I think.”

  “Actually, you happen to be looking at a ranking amateur vexillologist,” Chessie said modestly. “Describe the design.”

  “I can’t make it out clearly yet.”

  “Well, when you can.” He waited, then added, “Don’t you want to know what a vexillologist is?”

  “I assume it’s a flag studier.”

  Chessie looked sulky and said nothing. They waited while the hill came closer, and eventually the flag could be seen above the sunflowers. It was a washed-out green, the color of sea water left too long in a corked bottle in the hot sun, and embroidered on it was an empty pedestal, the kind made to look like an Ionic column. The base of the column was cracked.

  “That’s a Renkin!” Chessie exclaimed. The hill could now be seen clearly; it was a mound of dehydrated daisies, withered violets, and brown hawksweed, all still rooted in the ground in which they had apparently grown, and all several seasons dead. The hill itself—it was the size of a canopied bed—rested on a broad, low wagon pulled by six patient sheep with dirty wool.

  “What’s a Renkin?” Kirila asked.

  “They’re the work of the Great Renki, damn him, and they practice Impotent Magic. But I had no idea there were any of them left! Come on!”

  “What’s Impotent—” she began, but Chessie was already gone, bounding eagerly toward the hill. Kirila followed more slowly, her eyes pinching at the corners. She never chewed on her hair any more; the habit had been lost in Rhuor, when the red hair had been worn in a tight inaccessible bun.

  When she caught up with Chessie, he was sitting on the road behind the lumbering wagon. It moved very slowly, partly because of its heavy burden, and partly because the sheep, each of which was hitched to the wagon tongue by a long frayed rope attached to a leather harness, often pulled in different directions—not contentiously, but with a sort of placid confusion. Whenever three or more sheep happened to achieve vectors that didn’t cancel each other out, the wagon would lurch forward a little, the hill swaying precariously from side to side. It stopped completely when the sheep found a good grazing patch.

  The back of the hill was covered with the most ancient piece of cloth Kirila had ever seen. It might once have been a tapestry, but the colors and design had long since become a mottled brown. Various patches looked sunbleached, rain-soaked, mildewed, salt-cured, damp-rotted or eaten by moths.

  Kirila dismounted and stood by Chessie. “Where’s the Renkin?”

  “Inside. It’s undoubtedly his dormant period; we’ll have to wait till he’s conscious. Then he’ll come out, if he wants to. All the Renkin are very ill-tempered, I should warn you. Try not to make him angrier than he’ll already be.”

  She looked dubiously at the stalled wagon. Three of the sheep were trying to eat the same daisy. “Do we want him to come out?”

  “Kirila, the Renkin are enchanted. They were put under the last spell ever performed by the greatest of the original Dark Wizards, Renki. It was a permanent and unalterable spell. You didn’t get back as far as the Dark Wizards in your research at the Holds—maybe records don’t even go back that far. And even if they did, come to think of it, you can be sure that the origins and works of the Dark Wizards wouldn’t be recorded anywhere. That research the Quirks are doing only illuminates a very little corner of the world, you know. Anyway, the Dark Wizards are a shadowy lot, and except for the enchantment of the Renkin, which only happened four or five hundred years ago, they’ve been gone for ages.” He got up, followed the wobbling wagon for a few yards until he’d caught up with it, and sat down again.

  Then he added, reluctantly, “No one knows where they’ve gone—you can’t even pick up rumours. But they come from the time of the Old Ones, the Lielthien.”

  Kirila stood very still, then involuntarily glanced upward. She knew she was going to look up a second before she did it, and her whole body tensed to abort the gesture, but she couldn’t help herself. The sky was empty. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and asked determinedly, “What’s Impotent Magic?”

  “The kind that can’t do anything, only talk about things. Sybils, clairvoyants, prophets, seers, astrologists, that sort of thing. Your Wizard never told you much about his profession, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Overprotective. Anyway, I’m hoping the Renkin can tell us something about the way to the Tents of Omnium. Save us hacking around up north trying to stumble across it ourselves. He might even—” Abruptly he fell silent, his burnt-sugar eyes widening in sudden surmise. The wagon lurched forward, creaking.

  “He might even,” Chessie continued slowly, “be able to divine something about my past.”

  Kirila looked from the dog, his every muscle suddenly tense in hard ridges under the purple fur, to the shambling dirty hill. Her face was doubtful. “You said it—he—was in a dormant period. What’s that?”

  “They only are conscious for three hours every month; the rest of the time they’re rigid, inanimate. It’s part of the spell. A masterly job, really—you have to admire the workmanship of those Dark Wizards, if not the intent.”

  “But, Chessie, a month! If he just recently had a...an undormant period, then we might have to wait a whole month! Is there some way to tell if—”

  “No,” Chessie said impatiently. He never took his eyes off the wagon. “It could be weeks. You’d better pry another jewel, maybe two, out of your dagger. Renkin don’t sell cheap.” He moved ahead a few yards. Kirila opened her mouth to protest, considered Chessie’s intent face, and began to work on a ruby set in the dagger’s left quillon.

  They followed the dead hill for two days, back along the route they had come, sleeping in shifts so as not to miss the undormant three hours. On the third day, just after sunset when the fading golds and pinks and lavenders seemed to be leaking off the painted horizon and seeping through the rest of the thick, pollen-heavy air, the tapestry at the back of the hill trembled, billowed stiffly, and collapsed inward. For a moment there was a confusion of bagging cloth and muttered “Get off me, damn it!” and then the tapestry was flung aside and the Renkin hopped out of the hill.

  He looked like a statue. Made of what appeared to be white plaster, he stood just over three feet high, the bottom two-thirds of which was an ill-proportioned Ionic column. The column was topped with the bust, arms, and head of a famous ancient philosopher, whose name was known even to people who would not have considered reading his books, or anyone else’s. The philosopher’s broad, contemplative brow, however, was drawn into a fierce wrinkled scowl, and the plaster eyeballs glowed with monumental bad temper as he glared at Kirila and Chessie.

  “So co
me on, let’s have it, don’t keep me waiting,” he growled. At that moment two sheep got their ropes crossed, tried to pull in opposite directions, and fell down into a bleating tangle. The Renkin hopped on his pedestal around to the front of the wagon, shouting obscenities and jumping frantically up and down. The sheep ignored him, languidly drifting into various positions until they happened to become untangled.

  “A statue that acts like a being!” Kirila exclaimed.

  “No,” Chessie explained, “he’s not a statue that acts like a being—he’s a being that is forced to usually act like a statue. There’s a big difference.”

  “He looks like the philos—”

  “Don’t ever call him that! It’s not the Renkin’s name; the Renkin’s only enchanted into looking like him, and it’s an outrage to be called by his name. A question of identity. I can,” Chessie said with an odd dignity, “sympathize with that.”

  “But the phil...the original was supposed to be calm and sort of genial. He was supposed to be well, philosophic. Why does the Renkin face have those twisted lines in the plaster?”

  “He’s smudged.”

  “Smudged?” The statue looked clean enough to her, especially considering his dwelling.

  “The statue was a late-century copy of an early-century marble work based on a Rendellian interpretation of a First Period Lakite bust, which the Laks made after they conquered Rejan and imitated the Rejan style, which was a popular rococo version of the actual wax death masks used in the philosopher’s day. Successive copies of anything tend to smudge the concept. Even personalities.”

  “Oh,” Kirila said faintly.

  The Renkin finished screeching at the oblivious sheep, hopped back to the rear of the wagon, and jumped into his hill of dead flowers.

  “Thought they’d make it that time, the little devils!” He spat out the door. Kirila jumped; she hadn’t expected a statue to be able to spit. “So what is it you want? Come on, come on, my time is limited!”

  Chessie said firmly, “First, we want to know the route to the Tents of Omnium.” After a moment he added, “The shortest route.”

  “For what, for what? It better be good, it’s a seller’s market.”

  Kirila held out her palm, not getting too close to the Renkin. A square-cut ruby flamed in the light of the setting sun. The Renkin licked his plaster lips, and his white eye sockets turned shiny red.

  “Not enough,” he said promptly.

  “That’s it,” Chessie said, and his eyes locked with the Renkin’s. They held for a long moment, burnt-sugar brown and shiny red, and then the Renkin broke free, muttering curses. Kirila hoped Chessie had been right about the Impotent part.

  Snatching the ruby from Kirila’s palm—his touch was dry and powdery, like talcum—the Renkin stuffed it in his mouth, whirled around three times, nearly tripping on the last turn, and spat the ruby into his hill. A harsh click like the snapping of jaws came from its depths, and the brown mare, tethered to a nearby tree, danced skittishly backwards.

  “Now, then,” Chessie said.

  The Renkin closed his eyes and began to rattle in a fast, slurred voice, the same voice children use to chant “Nyaah nyaah on you!”

  “Not over, not under, the mountains of old;

  Across where the ancient was lost;

  And then in the forest none can be in;

  “Ere the final proved rampart is crossed.”

  “No fair!” Kirila cried. “That was too fast!”

  “Never mind, I got it,” Chessie said. His eyes were speculative. “Ambiguous, but not as bad as some. But why ‘proved’ rampart, I wonder? Some sort of test, or just convenient for the meter?”

  “Now,” said Kirila to the Renkin with elaborate casualness, “I think I’d like to have my past read.”

  “Your past?” the statue said, startled despite himself. “Don’t you mean your future, sister? Tall dark strangers, long journeys, all the usual sentimental sludge?”

  “No, my past.” She grinned impudently at the Renkin. “Maybe I’m testing you, to see if you actually have any power at all.”

  The Renkin puffed and swelled with rage to the point where Kirila was half afraid he would crack, plaster not being very elastic, and cursed at her in a language that sounded like grinding ice, hopping up and down on his pedestal.

  “Well, then,” she said, “if you’re not interested—”

  He calmed down with a visible effort. “Another ruby!”

  “Too much.”

  “Reading the past isn’t easy, you know!”

  “But I won’t be hearing anything I don’t already know, so it’s not worth that much to me. Actually, there’s probably no point in doing it all...”

  They haggled noisily, and Kirila finally agreed, with a great show of reluctance, to another ruby if the Renkin would throw in a reading of her dog’s past as well, with payment after both readings. She was very proud of herself.

  “I’ll need something you both use, that can hold water. Come on, come on, I haven’t got all day, you know.” He glanced with dread at the sky, lighted by a huge full moon and the promise of stars.

  She gave him a pewter cup and he retreated into his hill. There was another snapping sound, a great deal of mumbling and a muted thump, and the Renkin returned, the cup full of clear, curiously thick liquid that shimmered and tried to crawl up the cup’s side. He struck the side hard and the liquid oozed back to the bottom, roiling in agitation. Kirila shuddered.

  “All right, her first,” the scowling statue told the liquid. “Get started!”

  There was a long silence, during which the Renkin stared intently at the cup. An owl hooted in a nearby tree. Overhead the first of the bright summer stars appeared. A rabbit darted by, rustling the grass.

  “When does it begin?” Kirila asked.

  “Begin? It’s already up to your tenth birthday!”

  “Well, what does it say?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened to you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said angrily. “Lots of things happened to me!”

  The Renkin shrugged. “Nothing worth commenting on, apparently. Look, it only does notable highlights, sister—you want a complete story about what you eat for breakfast and who’s your favorite poet, hire a biographer.”

  Kirila started to retort but he cut her off. “Wait, I’m getting something now—just a personality wash. A streaky green. That’s usually for boys—girls are a syrupy lemon—but it happens. Hardly worth noticing, but it’s probably desperate.” He shrugged again, a ripple of plaster shoulders. Some of the plaster flaked off onto the dewy grass.

  A few more stars appeared, faint in the lingering, moonlit twilight. The owl gave another hoot, followed by the rushing of wings and a single, high-pitched squeak. Two of the sheep lay down to sleep.

  “Where are you now?” Kirila demanded.

  “Seventeen years. Boy, you led a dull life, sister – how did you stand it? No, wait—here’s something, in this last year. A tree growing roots, but only shallowly, in the topsoil. Now it’s falling...no, only half-way. It’s staying half-way toppled over; I’ll be damned. Now there’s another picture, it’s a—” He stopped and stared at Kirila, mouth open, his high white forehead wiped smooth of scowl lines by a comical surprise.

  “A feather,” he whispered. “A white falcon feather.”

  For just a second the summer night faded to gray, and a dark rushing filled Kirila’s ears. She shook her head so violently that her hair lashed her face and ordered, “Go on!”

  The Renkin stared at her a moment longer in surprise, irritation, and the beginnings of resentful fear. Hastily he glanced back at the cup and muttered, “A drop of blood, shaped like a skull. It’s going—didn’t stay long, not too important, that’s all!” Flinging down the cup, he hopped into the hill and began to clumsily nail up the tapestry with a hammer. The handle had been chewed in deep, fang-marked grooves.

  “Wait a minute! You promised to do Chessie, too!”

>   The Renkin kept on nailing, and hit his thumb.

  “If you don’t, you won’t get your ruby!”

  Grimacing horribly, the statue hopped back out of the hill. Kirila picked up the cup and handed it to him. The thick liquid had fallen out and was crawling away into the bushes in a spittled glob, humping like an inchworm. The Renkin clapped the cup over it, shouting, “Gotcha!”

  The tips of Chessie’s ears quivered, and Kirila put her hand on his neck. It was hard as knotted stone.

  “It started,” the Renkin said, peering into the cup, “with the St. John’s dog. There was some inbreeding with both setters and spaniels, some of it selective and some—”

  “Not the past of his body!” Kirila cried. “He’s not a dog! His own past!”

  The Renkin grinned slyly. “Didn’t promise that. You said ‘the dog’s past.’ That’s what you said, that’s what you paid for, that’s what you get.”

  Chessie snarled and crouched low, but before he could spring, Kirila stepped in front of him. She looked directly at the Renkin and, not hesitating at all, said stonily, “His own past. Go on, you heard me. L’aarthen ka ruatha!”

  As soon as she pronounced the ancient command, the dark rushing filled her head and the forest blanched to grey—and then kept on fading. The separate gray objects, trees and flowers and the grotesque statue holding his seething cup, wavered and slid together into a quivering choking blur that felt mushy under her feet. Frantically she stabbed about for the image of the Tents of Omnium, and could find nothing but the alien grayness. She cried out, and then suddenly saw the tents, as if from a long distance away, seen through a cloud of gray gelatin that gradually chilled, set, and crystallized into hard, rainbow-colored forest objects with the blessed precision of separateness. Kirila was trembling, and the armpits of her wool tunic were soaked with sweat. She bowed her head in silent acknowledgement to the unseen; that would be the last time she could invoke that much closeness and still withdraw, and she knew it.

  The Renkin had sunk to what would have been his knees if he had any, bent at approximately half-way up the Ionic column. He was peering desperately into the pewter cup. “It’s trying, my Lady,” he whined. “It’s trying. But it’s hard to read an enchanted past, it’s terrible hard. Just give us a minute, there, we’ll have it in a minute, my Lady—” And to the cup he hissed, “Come on, you, or I’ll dissolve you in a sweet-water brook, I will!”