Two acolytes arrived and spread a great cloth over the altar. It was green on the right side and black and white on the left. A third acolyte arrived with the Book of Beginnings. He wondered if the book on the altar was modeled after the Great Book that Olen had sent them out to find, or the other way around, and wondered what the priests would say if he asked them such a question. He wondered if any of the runes inside it were the same, if they had the power of creation that the Great Book did. Perhaps the scroll they sought was the origin, the inspiration, for the book of Time and Nature. Since he was on vigil, no one was supposed to speak to him. He had all the time in the world with his own thoughts.
Magpie had always thought it was a trifle odd that he never felt as if he belonged anywhere within the kingdom or anywhere else that he rode. The fault was not in any of the places; it was in himself. That was the true answer. One piece of irony pleased him greatly: in his black-and-white robe he was finally dressed like his chosen namesake, the magpie. He had always liked shiny things, and talking, and his brothers had tried to tell him not to sing because he had no more voice than the strutting bird. It was not true, of course, and in the days that the court lutenist still had an ear and a voice, he had taught Magpie to play the jitar in its many modes—plaintive, martial, merry, moody, teaching—and been glad of the pupil. When he had gone to his father to offer to gather information during the war it had been with this persona in mind, and since it was all over he’d found other uses for the traveling minstrel, preferring it to his dull and unloved persona of the unwanted third prince. No, that wasn’t true; his mother loved all of her children. His father dutifully cared for Bena, his heir, and you could not help but like big, blustery, friendly Ganidur, but difficult Eremilandur, with his friends among the poachers, the craftsmen, and the herb women, who said what he liked, was more likely to be dismissed as lacking in dignity and consigned to scorn. Soliandur would not admit he would be glad to have the boy out from under his feet, but Magpie could tell he was.
Magpie knew a legend; he’d sung it often enough—that humanity had arisen in the land that now comprised the three noble kingdoms. The other races had, too.
In the beginning, there was supposedly only that one island of land, and that other lands rose up around it, and in so pressing against it, created the mountains that now ringed the kingdoms, until the rest of the world was made. Now, this sounded like a pretty conceit, as far as Magpie could tell, but it made good telling. At the north the humans arose. At the south the elves. At the east and west were the centaurs and dwarves. Somewhere in between the werewolves and smallfolk made their homes. The plains and the rivers within the circle were meant for them to divide and live in harmony. But of course, in the telling of the tale, relationships among the races deteriorated more and more, until only the human beings were left. And the elves moved into the forests. The dwarves moved underground. The undines slipped into the rivers, lakes, and oceans. And the smallfolk moved away entirely. And the centaurs merely tolerated human beings. And usually after a rousing rendition of this legend, he could count on a big horn of ale or good wine, and a gold coin to go away with.
Personally, he thought the notion that the elves had made humans as a joke remarkably funny, but he’d surely be shown the door of a pub instead of getting rewarded for telling the tale. What a pity.
Ahead of him, the green woolly mountains, the Old Man’s Shoulders—though properly it should have been Old Men, for the hunched, rounded, knobbly peaks were numerous—were the near ones, probably the oldest, and the most worn down. He had to admit it did look like a concatenation of elders having a natter about the uselessness of the younger generation. Behind them, and a considerable way across a fern-filled valley rose the volcanic mountains, which were the product of the continent butting up against the old piece of land, if the legend had any basis in truth at all. The Scapes sent high tors reaching up to protect the ancient volcanic cones in their midst.
On the other side was another range, but that one could not be seen. Those were known as the Necklace. If anything had been meddled with by the Makers, it was the Necklace Mountains, for they were just too regular, like pearls on a string, to be natural. But that was questioning the forces of nature, and he must not do that, not here in the center of their worship. Behind those were the Combs, the narrow peaks that had been raddled by the endless falls of rain until they were thin ridges. Many avalanches occurred in that area. But it was the nearest two ranges that held the history of his people. In between the volcanoes and the woolly hills were the mountains where the first human fastness, the first kingdom, or at least the first capital of Orontae had been founded.
The temple itself had been oriented in the direction of Oron Castle, and the new castle had been fixed to align with both of the older buildings. On a very clear day like this one you could just see the faint gleam from the remains of a flagpole that had been placed on the peak a hundred years ago by an ancestor of his who thought he would restore the old capital. But it proved to be too far from where the center of modern life ran. It was hundreds of miles distant, but with the trick of the light in the clear air and, as his philosopher-tutor had informed him, the lens of hot air rising from the volcanic cracks, it looked as though it was much closer. He had often thought of going back and putting a flag at the top of that flagpole, perhaps one of bright red. Then he’d come back to the temple and see how it looked from where he stood now. One day he would do it. He and Inbecca could go. It would be an adventure for her, and a chance for her to see his family’s ancient holding.
Out in the distance, the volcanoes behind the two rows of mountains began to tremble, their movement visible even at this distance, a little imperceptively. The clouds of steam started to rise. How marvelous! There was going to be an eruption in honor of his betrothal. It seemed appropriate somehow. He wondered what symbolism the priests and Inbecca’s unspeakable aunt would glean from the phenomenon.
A fourth acolyte gave him a shy smile as he passed, carrying a gold-trimmed tray upon which reposed the tokens of the elements: a crystal bowl of water rimmed with gold and silver; a crystal box containing nothing at all, which was meant to represent air; and a very beautiful porcelain bowl that held a miniature garden, the semblance of earth; a sand painting on the top a special effort for the bride and groom. He caught a glimpse of the design as it went by, and approved of it. The image of tiger lilies was quite beautiful. No expense had been spared for the service or the celebration that would follow. The flask that represented spirit was of precious blue glass. The urn that produced fire—he had no idea how it worked. He assumed there was a trick to it. It was entirely possible that it did work by magic, though the priests surely called it something else. He had never managed to get one of the priests to tell him. He assumed that it was a secret protected by oath.
The priests arrived and began to set the objects on the altar to suit themselves. The female priest was an amply built woman of about forty with long, dark hair worn unbound under a wreath of holly. She had several children, two of whom were acolytes. Magpie wasn’t sure which of the large cadre they were. The old priest gave him a look with one raised eyebrow that was half-reproof. He and the priestess were clad in simple white robes, belted with braided sashes of white, black, and green silk. They also wore necklaces, his of gold, the imperishable symbol of the Father, and hers of silver, to show the evolving nature of the Mother.
Magpie’s foot went to sleep. He shifted to the other for a while.
If only the things that Olen had said about the book were true, and that centaurs were the product of humans meddling with horses, and that smallfolk were the product of humans and he could not guess what—shrubs, or rabbits, some other species that would make them as little as Tildi, and with those ears. Werewolves were obvious, as were mermaids and Tritons. And dwarves might be the product of human beings and stone, he assumed. Then were the beasts of legend something to do with those Makers? Did they use the great powers at their disposa
l to make them?
He knew there were symbols that were represented on the banners and badges of kingdoms and noble households that showed such things as griffins, gryphons who were half lion, half eagle; Pegasi; hippocampi; and all other manner of combined beasts that did not exist as far as he knew. He had never seen one, in all his many travels, and he knew no one else who had seen one, either, yet all the human combinations still existed. All he could assume was that the beasts who had been mutated and perverted either warred with themselves, unable to reconcile their dual identities, fought with other creatures and destroyed themselves, or merely realized that they were abominations and destroyed themselves or let themselves die out. They had more sense than the human combinations. He could tell from what Rin said that the centaurs considered the alteration to have been an abomination.
Right here, now, in front of the altar of Nature, he apologized on behalf of his species. Humans had a great sense of self-preservation. No matter what shape they took, they didn’t want to sacrifice their own existence. That tendency must have rubbed off on the animals with whom the Creators blended their own kind. He wondered if it was an improvement or not.
Were there other human combinations that unaltered humans never saw, such as a half-human, half-mole, who lived deep underground, even below the mountain fortresses of the dwarves? Did they have sleepy, light-sensitive eyes and huge digging hands? Smallfolk were curious enough. He wiggled his numb foot inside his shoe and wondered what it would be like to be without toes. The smallfolk delegation arrived and came up to bow to him. He bowed back, pleased. They all looked like Tildi’s kin, with curly hair and big brown eyes, as if they were solemn children. He thought of asking them technical questions about how they walked, then decided not to. They might take offense, and of all days he wished to please his father, not annoy him. He smiled, and got more grave bows. Were all smallfolk so humorless except for Tildi? He guessed that she was the exception to many rules. He had to think about it for a moment. He’d been in the Quarters several times over the last few years. Perhaps they were, perhaps they were not. They had a great sense of occasion, much more than he did, and were sober when they were supposed to be.
The acolytes were taking a long time to get everything ready. Two of the youngest, charged with filling the lamps that stood at the end of each aisle, seemed to be having trouble with the jar of oil. A trifle bored, Magpie fixed his eyes upon the mountains in the distance. The day was beautiful, a tribute to Inbecca’s beauty. He started to compose a poem on the subject that he might set to music.
“Mmm, nipped out for a minute, did he?” a voice inquired. Magpie slid his eyes sideways. King Halcot, dressed in a velvet tunic of red and white, sidled up to stand beside Magpie.
Magpie turned to him, and was rewarded with an indulgent smile. Halcot had taken Hawarti’s news very well. He didn’t seem to be angry or disappointed in Magpie. What a relief! He offered the visitor a comradely grin. “Welcome, my lord. Who nipped out?”
“Well, the prince, of course,” Halcot said. “Don’t be a mountebank here in the temple. Show some respect for the forces of Creation.”
“Of course, my lord,” Magpie said, and straightened his back.
“I mean, you must be keeping his spot warm while he went off for a glass of resolve-stiffener, eh?” Halcot pantomimed taking a drink. “Or are you dressed up like that as a joke to surprise him?” He turned to glance around the vast chamber. “What’s he look like? I’ll tell you if he’s coming.”
Magpie’s heart slid out of his chest and down into his ornate shoes. Hawarti must have missed speaking with Halcot. He didn’t know. There was no avoiding the subject now. Magpie had to handle the matter by himself, without fuss. He hoped that he could. From the depths of his soul he drew a calm demeanor.
“Did you … did you stop at the castle this morning, my lord?”
“No, curse it,” Halcot said, brushing at his sleeves. “We had trouble above the ford. The track was muddy—too much rain. The wettest summer I can recall in all my years. We were going to be late, so I directed the train to come directly here to the temple. My grooms are delivering our luggage to the steward at the palace. What business is it of yours?”
“My business is as your host, my lord,” Magpie said very carefully. “I’m dressed up this way, as you noted, for the very good reason that I am the affianced awaiting my bride. I’m not holding anyone’s place but my own.”
Halcot frowned, engaged in mental calculus. “But your name is Magpie.”
“It’s not my real name, sir. I’m Eremilandur, third son of Soliandur. I welcome you here in the name of my father.”
The equation resolved itself in a lightning flash of enlightenment. Halcot’s eyes blazed with anger.
“What? This is an outrage!”
Magpie sighed and bowed his head. “It was not meant to be, sir. My father’s minister was meant to speak to you about me when you arrived today.”
“To let me get all the way here to Orontae, then discover that the minstrel that I allowed into my confidence for the last five years was the son of my enemy? Surely I was owed an explanation long ago!”
“Indeed you were, my lord, but was there ever a good time to bring up such a matter?” Magpie asked. “If I had come to you to make such a confession, you might not have believed me—or I might have ended up in your dungeons for what remained of my life.”
“It would have been short and painful,” Halcot said through his teeth. “Why was this secret kept so long?”
Magpie glanced at the other guests milling about the echoing chamber, and kept his voice low. “My lord, my involvement in the war effort was known to only three others, my father, the prime minister, and the royal wizard. My father wanted to forget about all the matters concerning the war as quickly as possible once it was over, and the matter was pushed aside, but it can be ignored no longer. This event is an affair of state. You must, of course, be invited to the betrothal of a royal prince, and you must, of course, attend. I knew it would be too grave a shock for you to arrive here without being given the full particulars. Lord Hawarti was supposed to inform you before you saw me here, and answer any questions you had. As you might recall, I did not attend the signing of the documents of surrender two years ago. My presence, and the ensuing explanations, might have opened the hostilities all over again.”
“I doubt it,” Halcot spat out. “It was all over, and we were the victors.”
“Funny,” Magpie said, raising his eyebrows. “I was under the apprehension that we were. After all, you are the one paying my father tribute.”
“Hah! I’m paying less in tribute a year than I would pay for a month’s worth of keeping my men under arms. But you,” Halcot said, studying him intently. “You’re a puzzle. Perhaps I should demand your head as a condition of continuing to send your father his tribute.”
Magpie contrived to look bored. “As you will. My father would probably be glad to send it to you.”
Halcot’s whisper was harsh with hatred. “You traitor! You pretended to be friendly. All those songs you sang for me, the counsel you gave. All a charade while you spied upon me!”
“No. The songs were a genuine tribute to a king I felt was doing his best for his country and his people, and I never gave you bad advice,” Magpie said. He felt a pain in his ribs. He looked down. Halcot had drawn his dagger and held it among the folds of Magpie’s elaborate clothes. Halcot leaned a trifle closer, and a hot drop of blood ran down Magpie’s belly. The king was going to kill him. He was surely justified. But the war was over. He met the glaring blue eyes straightforwardly. “You may not believe me, sir, but it’s true. I had respect for you, and I still do. To disrupt your effort was not my job. I was there to gather information, and I did. I served my father, my king, and my country. I will never be sorry for that. I am not a traitor to you. I gave you comfort when I thought you needed it. I hope it helped.”
Halcot’s face turned red. “You abused my hospitality, whe
lp. Why should I not push this blade into your heart and leave you for your bride-to-be to find?”
“I did, but consider: you won. We both know it. You won the war in all but name. Everything that I did was to no moment. I apologize for eating your bread and salt under false pretenses, but it was war.”
“I should kill you.”
Magpie felt the point dig deeper, and tried not to wince. “Go ahead. My father would thank you if you went ahead. Inbecca will get over me. She is worthy of better.”
Halcot looked down at the concealed knife as if surprised it was there, and the pressure eased. “I do believe that you’re telling me the truth. Soliandur would rather see you die?”
The truth hurt him more than the blade. “Oh, I am, my lord. Punish me if you will, in the name of your dignity. I do not care, but spare my father the reason, will you? Tell him you did it because I annoyed you. That’s true, isn’t it? He’s suffered enough.”
“Damn it, I know that!” Halcot snarled. “What I wouldn’t give to go back … but it cannot be done.”
The king walked a pace away, spun on his heel, and looked at him. “You don’t lack courage, I’ll give you that. No one who walked where you did could be a coward. By Death himself, I believe you would have let the knife slip in and died without uttering a sound, wouldn’t you?”
It was then he noticed Magpie’s pained expression, and glanced down at the silk robe, which was matted and stained. The king was immediately contrite.
“Have I injured you?”
“Far less than I’ve deserved at your hand, my lord,” Magpie said flippantly. “Luckily it is in the black section of the robe. No one will see.”
An Unexpected Apprentice Page 39
