The sun seemed to stain the crystal buildings with blood as it set, and Hawkmoon, too weary to ride on, was forced to find the inn Meliadus had told him of and there sleep for the best part of a night and a day before resuming his journey to Castle Brass. There was still more than half of that journey to finish.
Beyond the city of Lyon, the Empire of Granbretan had so far been checked in its conquests, but the road to Lyon was a bleak road, lined with gibbets and wooden crosses on which hung men and women, young and old, girls and boys, and even, perhaps as an insane jest, domestic pets such as cats, dogs, and tame rabbits. Whole families rotted there; entire households, from the youngest baby to the oldest servant, were nailed in attitudes of agony to the crosses.
The stench of decay inflamed Hawkmoon's nostrils as he let his horse plod miserably down the Lyon Road, and the stink of death clogged his throat. Fire had blackened fields and forests, razed towns and villages, turned the very air gray and heavy. All who lived had become beggars, whatever their former station, save those women who had become whores to the Empire's soldiery, or those men who had sworn groveling allegiance to the King-Emperor.
As curiosity had touched him earlier, now disgust stirred faintly in Hawkmoon's breast, but he hardly noticed it. Wolf-masked, he rode on toward Lyon. None stopped him; none questioned him, for those who served the Order of the Wolf were, in the main, fighting in the north, and thus Hawkmoon was safe from any Wolf addressing him in the secret language of the Order.
Beyond Lyon, Hawkmoon took to the fields, for the roads were patrolled by Granbretanian warriors. He stuffed his wolf-mask into one of his now empty panniers and rode swiftly into the free territory where the air was still sweet but where terror still blossomed, save that this was a terror of the future rather than of the present.
In the town of Valence, where warriors prepared to meet the attack of the Dark Empire when it came - discussing hopeless stratagems, building inadequate war engines-Hawkmoon told his story first.
"I am Dorian Hawkmoon von Koto," he told the captain to whom the soldiers took him.
The captain, one thigh-booted foot on a bench in the crowded inn, stared at him carefully. "The Duke von Koln must be dead by now - he was captured by Granbretan," he said. "I think you are a spy."
Hawkmoon did not protest but told the story Meliadus had given him. Speaking expressionlessly, he described his capture and his method of escape, and his strange tone convinced the captain more than the story itself. Then a swordsman in battered mail pushed through the crowd shouting Hawkmoon's name. Turning, Hawkmoon recognized the insignia on the man's coat as his own, the arms of Koln. The man was one of the few who had fled the Koln battlefield somehow.
He spoke to the captain and the crowd, describing the Duke's bravery and ingenuity. Then Dorian Hawkmoon was heralded as a hero in Valence.
That night, while his coming was celebrated, Hawkmoon told the captain that he was bound for the Kamarg to try to recruit the help of Count Brass in the war against Granbretan.
The captain shook his head. "Count Brass takes no sides," he said. "But it is likely he will listen to you rather than anyone else. I hope you are successful, my lord Duke."
Next morning, Hawkmoon rode away from Valence, rode down the trail to the south, while grim-faced men passed him riding north to join forces with those preparing to withstand the Dark Empire.
The wind blew harder and harder as Hawkmoon neared his destination and saw, at length, the flat marshlands of the Kamarg, the lagoons shining in the distance, the reeds bent beneath the mistral's force - a lonely, lovely land. When he passed close to one of the tall old towers and saw the heliograph begin to flash, he knew that his coming would be newsed to Castle Brass before he arrived there.
Cold-faced, Hawkmoon sat his horse stiffly as it picked its way along the winding marsh road where shrubs swayed and water rippled and a few birds floated through the sad old skies.
Shortly before nightfall, Castle Brass came in sight, its terraced hill and delicate towers a black-and-gray silhouette against the evening light.
Chapter Five - THE AWAKENING OF HAWKMOON
COUNT BRASS passed Dorian Hawkmoon a fresh cup of wine and murmured, "Please continue, my lord Duke," as Hawkmoon told his story for the second time. In the hall of Castle Brass sat Yisselda, in all her beauty, Bowgentle, thoughtful of countenance, and von Villach, who stroked his mustache and stared at the fire.
Hawkmoon finished the tale. "And so I sought help in the Kamarg, Count Brass, knowing that only this land is secure from the power of the Dark Empire."
"You are welcome here," Count Brass said, frowning. "If refuge is all you seek."
"That is all."
"You do not come to ask us take arms against Granbretan?" It was Bowgentle who spoke, half-hopefully.
"I have suffered enough from doing so myself-for the time being - and would not wish to encourage others to risk meeting a fate I only narrowly missed myself," replied Hawkmoon.
Yisselda looked almost disappointed. It was plain that all in the room, save wise Count Brass, wanted war with Granbretan. For different reasons, perhaps - Yisselda to revenge herself against Meliadus, Bowgentle because he believed such evil must be countered, von Villach simply because he wished to exercise his sword again.
"Good," said Count Brass, "for I'm tired of resisting arguments that I should help this faction or that. Now - you seem exhausted, my lord Duke. Indeed, I have rarely seen a man so tired. We have kept you up too long. I will personally show you to your chambers."
Hawkmoon felt no triumph in having accomplished his deception. He told the lies because he had agreed with Meliadus that he would tell such lies. When the time came for kidnapping Yisselda, he would pursue the task in the same spirit.
Count Brass showed him into a suite consisting of bedchamber, washing room, and a small study. "I hope it is to your taste, my lord Duke?"
"Completely," Hawkmoon replied.
Count Brass paused by the door. "The jewel," he said, "the one in your forehead-you say that Meliadus was unsuccessful in his experiment?"
"That is so, Count."
"Aha . . ." Count Brass looked at the floor, then, after a moment, glanced up again. "For I might know some sorcery that could remove it, if it troubles you. . . ."
"It does not trouble me," said Hawkmoon.
"Aha," said the Count again, and left the room.
That night, Hawkmoon awoke suddenly, as he had awakened in the inn a few nights since, and thought he saw a figure in the room - an armored man in jet and gold. His heavy lids fell shut for a moment or two, and when he opened them again the figure was gone.
A conflict was beginning to develop in Hawkmoon's breast - perhaps a conflict between humanity and the lack of it, perhaps a conflict between conscience and the lack of conscience, if such conflicts were possible.
Whatever the exact nature of the conflict, there was no doubt that Hawkmoon's character was changing for a second time. It was not the character he had had on the battlefield at Kohl, nor the strange apathetic mood into which he had fallen since the battle, but a new character altogether, as if Hawkmoon were being born again in a thoroughly different mold.
But the indications of this birth were still faint, and a catalyst was needed, as well as a climate in which the birth would be possible.
Meanwhile, Hawkmoon woke up in the morning thinking how he might most speedily accomplish the capture of Yisselda and return to Granbretan to be rid of the Black Jewel and sent back to the land of his youth.
Bowgentle met him as he left his chambers.
The philosopher-poet took his arm. "Ah, my lord Duke, perhaps you could tell me something of Londra. I was never there, though I traveled a great deal when I was younger."
Hawkmoon turned to look at Bowgentle, knowing that the face he saw would be the same as the nobles of Granbretan would see by means of the Black Jewel. There was an expression of frank interest in Bowgentle's eyes, and Hawkmoon decided that the man did not su
spect him.
"It is vast and high and dark," Hawkmoon replied. "The architecture is involved, and the decoration complex and various."
"And its spirit? What is the spirit of Londra - what was your impression?"
"Power," said Hawkmoon. "Confidence . . ."
"Insanity?"
"I am incapable of knowing what is sane and what is not, Sir Bowgentle. You find me a strange man, perhaps? My manner is awkward? My attitudes unlike those of other men?"
Surprised by this turn of the conversation, Bowgentle looked carefully at Hawkmoon. "Why, yes . . . but what is your reason for asking?"
"Because I find your questions all but meaningless. I say that without - without wishing to insult . . ." Hawkmoon rubbed his chin. " I find them meaningless, you see."
They began to descend the steps toward the main hall, where breakfast had been laid and where old von Villach was already serving himself to a large steak from a salver held by a servant.
"Meaning," murmured Bowgentle. "You wonder what insanity is -I wonder what meaning is."
"I do not know," Hawkmoon answered. "I only know what I do."
"Your ordeal has driven you into yourself - abolished morality and conscience?" Bowgentle said with sympathy. "It is not an unfamiliar circumstance. Reading ancient texts, one learns of many who under duress lost the same senses. Good food and affectionate company should restore them to you.
It was lucky you should come to Castle Brass. Perhaps an inner voice sent you to us."
Hawkmoon listened without interest, watching Yisselda descend the opposite staircase and smile at himself and Bowgentle across the hall.
"Are you well rested, my lord Duke?" she asked.
Before Hawkmoon could reply, Bowgentle said, "He has suffered more than we guessed. It will take our guest a week or two, I should think, before he is fully recovered."
"Perhaps you would like to accompany me this morning, my lord?" Yisselda suggested graciously. "I will show you our gardens. Even in winter they are beautiful."
"Yes," replied Hawkmoon, "I should like to see them."
Bowgentle smiled, realizing that Yisselda's warm heart had been touched by Hawkmoon's plight. There could be no one better, he thought, than the girl to restore the Duke's injured spirit.
They walked through the terraces of the castle gardens.
Here were evergreens, there winter-blooming flowers and vegetables. The sky was clear and the sun shone down, and they did not suffer much discomfort from the wind, muffled as they were in heavy cloaks. They looked down on the roofs of the town, and all was at peace. Yisselda's arm was linked in Hawkmoon's, and she conversed lightly, expecting no reply from the sad-faced man at her side. The Black Jewel in his forehead had disturbed her a little at first, until she had decided that it was scarcely different from a jeweled circlet such as she sometimes wore to keep her long hair from her eyes.
She had much warmth and affection in her young heart.
It was this affection that had turned to passion for Baron Meliadus, for it needed as many outlets as it could have. She was content to offer it to this strange, stiff hero of Koln and hope that it might heal the wounds of his spirit.
She soon noticed that the only time that a hint of expression came into his eyes was when she mentioned his homeland.
"Tell me of Koln," she said. "Not as it is now, but as it was - as one day it might be again."
Her words reminded Hawkmoon of Meliadus's promise to restore his lands. He looked away from the girl and up at the wind-blown sky, folding his arms across his chest.
"Koln," she said softly. "Was it like the Kamarg?"
"No ..." He turned to stare down at the rooftops far below. "No ... for the Kamarg is wild and as it has always been since the beginning of time. Koln bore the mark of Man everywhere - in its hedged fields and its straight watercourses - its little winding roads and its farms and villages. It was only a small province, with fat cows and well-fed sheep, with hayricks and meadows of soft grass that sheltered rabbits and fieldmice. It had yellow fences and cool woods, and the smoke from a chimney was never far from sight. Its people were simple and friendly and kind to small children. Its buildings were old and quaint and as simple as the people who lived in them. There was nothing dark in Koln till Granbretan came, a flood of harsh metal and fierce fire from across the Rhine. And Granbretan also put the mark of Man upon the countryside . . . the mark of the sword and the torch. . . ."
He sighed, an increasing trace of emotion entering his tone.
"The mark of the sword and the torch, replacing the mark of the plow and the harrow . . ." He turned to look at her.
"And the cross and gibbet were made from the timber of the yellow fences, and the carcasses of the cows and sheep clogged the watercourses and poisoned the land, and the stones of the farmhouses became ammunition for the catapults, and the people became corpses or soldiers - there was no other choice."
She put her soft hand on his leathern arm. "You speak as if the memory were very distant," she said.
The expression faded from his eyes, and they became cold again. "So it is, so it is - like an old dream. It means little to me now."
But Yisselda looked at him thoughtfully as she led him through the gardens, thinking that she had found a way to reach him and help him.
For his part, Hawkmoon had been reminded of what he would lose if he did not carry the girl to the Dark Lords, and he welcomed her attention for reasons other than she guessed.
Count Brass met them in the courtyard. He was inspecting a large old warhorse and talking to a groom. "Put him out to graze," Count Brass said. "His service is over." Then he came toward Hawkmoon and his daughter. "Sir Bowgentle tells me you are wearier than we thought," he said to Hawkmoon.
"But you are welcome to stay at Castle Brass for as long as you like. I hope Yisselda is not tiring you with her conversation."
"No. I find it . . . restful. . . ."
"Good! Tonight we have an entertainment. I have asked Bowgentle to read to us from his latest work. He's promised to give us something light and witty. I hope you will enjoy it."
Hawkmoon noticed that Count Brass's eyes looked at him acutely, though his manner was hearty enough. Could Count Brass suspect his mission? The Count was renowned for his wisdom and judgment of character. But surely if his character had baffled Baron Kalan, then it must also confuse the Count.
Hawkmoon decided that there was nothing to fear. He allowed Yisselda to lead him into the castle.
That night there was a banquet, with all Castle Brass's best laid out on the large board. Around the table sat several leading citizens of the Kamarg, several bull breeders of repute, and several bullfighters, including the now-recovered Mahtan Just, whose life Count Brass had saved a year before. Fish and fowl, red meat and white, vegetables of every kind, wine of a dozen varieties, ale, and many delicious sauces and garnishes were heaped upon the long table. On Count Brass's right sat Dorian Hawkmoon, and on his left sat Mahtan Just, who had become that season's champion. Just plainly adored the Count and treated him with a respect that the Count seemed to find a trifle uncomfortable. Beside Hawkmoon sat Yisselda, and opposite her, Bowgentle. At the other end of the table was seated old Zhonzhac Ekare, greatest of the famous bull breeders, clad in heavy furs and with his face hidden by his huge beard and thick head of hair, laughing often and eating mightily. Beside him sat von Villach, and the two men seemed to enjoy each other's company a great deal.
When the feast was almost complete and pastries and sweetmeats and rich Kamarg cheese had been cleared, each guest had placed before him three flagons of wine of different kinds, a short barrel of ale, and a great drinking cup. Yisselda, alone, was given a single bottle and a smaller cup, though she had matched the men for drinking earlier and it seemed to be her choice, rather than the form, to drink less.
The wine had clouded Hawkmoon's mind a little and given him what was perhaps a spurious appearance of normal humanity. He smiled once or twice, and if he did
not answer his companions jest for jest, at least he did not offend them with a sour expression.
Bowgentle's name was roared by Count Brass. "Bowgentle!
The ballad you promised us!"
Bowgentle rose smiling, his face flushed, like the others', with the wine and the good food.
"I call this ballad "The Emperor Glaucoma' and hope it will amuse you," he said, and began to speak the words.
The Emperor Glaucoma
passed the formal
guardsmen at the far arcade
and entered the bazaar
where the ornamental
remnants of the last war,
Knights Templar
and the Ottoman,
hosts of Alcazar
and mighty Khan,
lay in the shade
of temple palms
and called for alms.
But the Emperor Glaucoma
passed the lazar
undismayed
while pipes and tabor
played
in honor
of the Emperor's parade.
Count Brass was looking carefully at Bowgentle's grave face, a wry smile on his own lips. Meanwhile the poet spoke with wit and many graceful flourishes the complex rhyme.
Hawkmoon looked about the board and saw some smiling, some looking puzzled, fuddled as they were by the drink.
Hawkmoon neither smiled nor frowned. Yisselda bent toward him and murmured something, but he did not hear it.
The regatta
in the harbor
set off a cannonade
when the Emperor
displayed
stigmata
to the Vatican Ambassador
"What does he speak of?" grumbled von Villach.
"Ancient things," nodded old Zhonzhac Ekare, "before the Tragic Millennium."
"I'd rather hear a battle song."
Zhonzhac Ekare put a finger to his bearded lips and silenced his friend while Bowgentle continued.
who made
gifts of alabaster,
Damascus-blade,
and Paris plaster
from the tomb
Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull Page 8
