Home was south, under a burning sky, in a city of stone ringed by water. Home was a place where his name could not be spoken. Home was a reflection in the Basilisk's eye, into which he must move without being seen. Beneath the summer sun of the hinterlands, he felt his heart take the griffin's shape, cry the eagle's challenge. But he must return to Luly for Hollis; he could not vanish out of his own son's life. And Griffin, with his dangerous secrets and deadly name, filled him with sharp apprehension. Luly was not far enough from the Basilisk to speak that name. Death itself was not far enough… His fierce desire to find Luly grew more compelling by the day. He walked the sun's path from morning to night, and still daylight left him in an endless wood, or beside a nameless river, among people who gave him shelter, and taught him tales so old he scarcely recognized the language. In the morning, they pointed toward the sea and told him he would smell it by day's end. At day's end, he would smell the smoke of another village, and hear, not the boom of the waves and the echo of the whale's song, but another instrument he did not recognize, another song.
Finally, when it seemed he had played every instru ment made since the beginning of the world, and had begun to learn tales from the birds, he walked out of a wood one afternoon, up a hill, and found himself at the top of the rocky slope where he had found his future.
He stared at it bewilderedly, then turned to look back at the trees, wondering if all the woods had been hidden within that wood, if all his days had been the same day. He found the shallow stream spilling out from beneath the stones, and followed it down the hill. Midway, he saw, beneath a stunted tree, the glint of copper, and a streak of white, windblown hair.
He came to her without surprise, looked at her silently, his face hollowed and gaunt now, with the memories and the sorrow that burned within, eating at him.
She smiled, showing her three teeth. The way the world smiles, he thought wearily. Showing teeth.
He said, "Can you tell me the way back to the sea?"
"You'll find it," she answered, slanting her bowl to catch the water.
"I've been lost for weeks. I can't find my way out."
"You found the dead."
"Yes."
"You played for them. I heard."
"Yes," he said again, his face tightening. She heard everything, he guessed. Every spoken word, every word left unspoken.
"I have a message for you," she said. "Bard." She lifted the bowl out of the water, and he felt his breath catch.
"Is it my son?" he asked, moving closer to her. "Did he come here?"
She only answered, "You'll find your way now."
She struck the bowl with her copper hammer. The note melted into him, sweet and pure, not dying but growing in force until he felt it in the stones underfoot, until the twisted tree shook with it.
The water in the bowl burst into flame.
He stared at it. And then terror raked a claw across his heart, before he could find a word for what he feared. He shouted, "Hollis!"
Turning blindly, he smelled the wind from the sea.
He walked out of the forest accompanied by the croaking of ravens, telling him of fire, of death. In the long summer dusk, the school on the rock seemed to have turned itself back into rock. He could see no light in the windows, no smoke from the kitchens, no movement anywhere. On the shore, boats lay scattered like shells; footprints in the sand fled north, south, into the shadows of the forest. He heaved a boat over, found oars, pulled it grimly into the waves. Tide flowed with him to Luly. As he neared it he saw the thick windows shattered, the stone beneath them streaked black with fire.
There were no boats at the dock. They had escaped. Or they had been trapped. He refused to let himself think. He tied his boat, his hands trembling, and cursed the hundred stone steps that he could not outrun. He smelled the dead before he saw them.
They had been asleep, he found; the fire had caught them at night. He moved through the charred rooms noiselessly, as if he, too, were dead. Fire had left the school hollow as an old bone, had transformed blood and song into ash. He did not let himself feel, or name, or weep for any of them, until he found Griffin Tor-malyne's blackened, broken harp beneath the open window of his room. Looking out, he saw the bright-haired, tide-washed body on the rocks.
He slid to the floor, sat with his back to the wall, his eyes as black as the acrid stones behind him, and as tearless. He shaped a pipe in his heart made of bone and fire, and played it for the dead. For the boy who had taken his name, he played the stringless harp on the floor beside him. For Hollis, he played nothing: the thought of him dead might make it true.
As the moon rose in the empty window above his head, he heard a step in the hall. Frail wings of firelight brushed through the dark. He lifted his head, feeling the movement of his bones heavy, unwieldy, as if he were slowly turning into stone. He heard more steps, quiet, tentative. The fire burned more brightly along the stones, limned the charred doorway. He pushed himself up, shaken back to life.
He heard Hollis's voice: "Where are you?"
He tried to speak; a raven spoke. He heard Hollis again, an inarticulate sound, and then the fire found him.
He held his son while Hollis wept, saying brokenly against his shoulder, "I saw the boat from the shore--I didn't know--I hoped it was you. I saw your picochet when I moored--"
"How many--"
"Over half got out. Some died on the rocks--jumping from the windows, or thrown back onto them by the waves." He lifted his head, watching them again; Rook saw the horror frozen in his eyes. "Some never woke."
"I saw. When did it happen?"
"Four nights ago. The bards that were left took the students to the provinces. I waited for you. I couldn't let you come back alone. Not to this."
"Who did it?"
Hollis blinked. He pulled back a little to see Rook's face. His hands closed on Rook's arms. "It was an accident. What makes you think--" He stopped, his eyes locked on the raven's eyes. His fingers dug into Rook, feeling for bone. "No one would--" He stopped again; Rook saw him shudder. "Someone," he whispered, "said he dreamed fire moving across the water early in the morning. Before the moon set."
"He dreamed it?"
"He--we said he must have dreamed it."
"No."
"How do you--who--" His voice rose. "What do you know? What did you find in the hinterlands?"
"I know my name."
Hollis stared at him. Blood flushed into his face; he shouted incredulously, shaking Rook, "Who are you?"
"My name is Caladrius." He pulled Hollis to him again, quickly, tightly. "You are still alive," he breathed, amazed. "And so am I." He turned then, to pick upthe blackened harp beneath the window. He gazed a moment at the dark, moon-laced swirl of tide below, trying to free the stranded dead. "We'll bury them," he said, "before we leave."
"Why?" Hollis whispered. "Why this? Why the bards? It's like--setting fire to birds."
"They took in Griffin Tormalyne. And now he is dead again."
Hollis, quieter now, gazed at Rook silently. He opened his mouth, drew a breath, but did not ask the question that was dawning in his eyes. He said instead, "He never told us his true name."
"It was in his father's letter. I remember it. I want you to go to the provinces. Your mother will hear of this; let her know we both survived. Stay there. You'll be safer, there."
"I know." His face, still struggling with grief and shock, was easing into more familiar lines as he began to think. "So will you."
"I'm going south."
"Yes. I know what Caladrius means. I want to hear you sing in Berylon."
He began to hear the song then, wordless yet, formless and powerful as the wind and waves that, grain by grain, had sculpted Luly. "You will," he breathed, and held Hollis's shoulders, held his eyes. "I'll send for you when it's safe."
"Safe! You can't even whisper your name here, to me, among the dead—you can't even tell me—"
"I can't," he said tightly. "Not yet. Please. I need to go al
one. The bards were right about the hinterlands; the tales are true. You do not take the same path back out of them, nor do you find the world you knew. I crossed the sea again to Luly, but I have not left the hinterlands. They have become the world."
"I don't understand," Hollis said. He was silent a moment. Rook saw his eyes widen suddenly, as if he had glimpsed his own heritage, his own name. He added reluctantly, "I'll go to the provinces. For now. Be careful."
"I'll be safe. No one knows my name."
They gave the dead to the waves and the gardens of Luly. As they rowed from rock to land the bard Caladrius heard the singing of the whales accompany them across the sea.
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PART TWO
Griffin's Aria
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Chapter One
« ^ »
In the noisome tavern on Tanner's Street, Giulia Dulcet lifted her picochet bow and began a ballad just as Caladrius walked out of the forest at the edge of the Tormalyne Bridge.
The sky was smoky blue with twilight. The moon hung in it like a misshapen pearl. Beneath the moon, two griffins of jade and yellow marble crouched and glared across the massive lintel of the gate that opened, at the end of the bridge, into Berylon. As Caladrius caught sight of them other memories took wing: the griffin on a seal ring, on a gold banner, white griffins guarding a fireplace. His eyes filled with wings; his steps slowed. Between him and the griffin gate, a fat, overladen trapper's wagon lumbered, pulled by oxen. The creak of wheel and idle crack of the trapper's whip were muted by the boom and echo of water raging far beneath them. Caladrius, on the threshold of Berylon, heard the word of warning in the water. Something moved be tween the griffins; fire swarmed suddenly across the gate. He saw the basilisks then, coiling black, with flat, smoldering eyes, on the tunics of the guards on the balustrade between the griffins. The wagon, at a snail's pace, swayed toward one wall of the bridge, then the other. Caladrius, following patiently, watched a gold-haired boy wearing the basilisk run down the bridge to light other torches along the low walls. He slid like a minnow between wall and wagon to reach torches on both sides, making for Caladrius, unnoticed behind the wagon, a bridge of fire into Berylon.
He had brought nothing with him from Luly. He had walked alone out of the north, down the long road through the forest, where the birds sang of gentler seasons, warmer light. Dressed in rough homespun and cracked boots, carrying a leather pack, he might have come from the provinces to look for work, having failed, with the picochet he had left behind, to inspire life in his fields.
He took another slow step on the span of marble stained and runneled by centuries. Stone flowers twined in and out of the graceful pattern of arches along the bridge walls. Some had been crushed or snapped off, as if under the weight of hurtled objects. What he remembered of the city's history was passionate and tumultuous. Roses and lilies bloomed, he guessed, green with moss among bones at the bottom of the river.
The wagon shuddered oddly. The trapper cursed, snapping his whip. A back wheel had begun to wobble. Behind Caladrius, the forest spoke. A raven called his name, disturbed. The guards on the balustrade turned their backs abruptly, alerted by something happening within the walls. Caladrius glanced behind him. The great, dark trees were motionless. An owl swiveled its head to look at him from a high branch. Silent as moonlight and as white, it spread its wings and floated into shadow.
He heard then, what the forest heard above the lion roar of water: voices among the trees, a slow but steady march of hooves following night to the Tormalyne Bridge.
In the Griffin's Egg, Giulia, sweating in stagnant summer heat, her hair collecting smells of stew and smoke from the tavern kitchen, scarcely heard the picochet wailing and yearning under her hands. Her thoughts veered erratically back through the day, lighting in a room full of students baffled by her desire for them to invent a musical instrument. Anything, she had assured them. Teacups. Plumbing pipes. Paper. Then she saw the messenger from Pellior House coming toward her down the hall. Tomorrow, the note had said. Pellior Palace. To speak of the autumn festival. Veris Legere's signature, in dove-gray ink, above the basilisk's seal. She saw the sun-gold face of the Prince of Berylon, his lizard's eyes smiling down at her.
He wants my music, she thought, amazed. She wondered how those eyes would look if they saw her with her frilly skirts hiked above her knees, her fingers stiff with heat, laboring up and down the picochet string like a handful of sausages.
She ended the ballad with a tooth-stabbing shriek; a burly docker inhaled beer and choked. A few northerners pounded on tables with their mugs. Everyone else ignored them.
"Thank you," Iona said sweetly into the din. "My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. Without your support they would have to pay astonishing fees to the Tormalyne School of Music, which you are all helping me to escape. This brass bowl accepts gold, silver, copper, jeweled buttons, anything you can spare in gratitude for our efforts. Look closely at our picochet player. She is a genuine magister, freed from captivity for the evening. But not dangerous, unless you trifle with her picochet. If you drop a coin into the bowl, she will smile for you. Next I will sing—when Justin gets the spit out of his pipe—my own rendering of the old, sweet ballad The Brawl on the Tormalyne Bridge.'"
Yacinthe patted a roll of hoofbeats out of her drums. Giulia raised her bow.
A horseman rode out of the trees, the basilisk on the banner he carried crying its cock's crow challenge to the night.
Caladrius, his face taut, looked away from it quickly. He felt its baleful stare boring into his back as he followed the plodding oxen. Their pace had grown suddenly exasperating. More riders came out of the forest; he heard hooves strike marble, horses snorting at the scents of oxen and furs, their harness jangling as they jostled one another, crowding onto the bridge, and were sharply reined. A guard shouted at the trapper; he shouted back. Water roared over their words, swept them away. The voices behind Caladrius came more clearly.
"What's in it?"
"Skins, by the smell."
"What is it?" another voice demanded, sharp, querulous. "What's that on the bridge?"
"A trapper's wagon, my lord."
"Why is it going so slowly? Have it make way!"
"The only way it can make, my lord, is down."
"Then we'll ride to the Pellior Bridge."
"Patience, my lord. The wagon will be across before we get ourselves turned around."
"Patience! Where exactly do you think I have any left to spare? I've just spent six weeks smelling barns and eating sheep and listening to something that makes my teeth ache, and the last days blinding myself with dust and interminable trees. Either get that wagon out of my way, or I will ride alone to the Pellior Bridge!"
Caladrius slipped to one side of the bridge, found a shadow between two torches. He paused a step to look back. Riders still spilled out of the trees, adding more basilisks, more brightly colored silks, more weary, annoyed faces to the backwash at the bridge. They were pressing closer to him, easing around the balking rider, who seemed willing to toss the trapper's wagon into the gorge with his hands. He had a fretful, imperious face, dark, thinning hair, eyes that saw little beyond his own desire. They did not see the man in the shadows, only the wagon. One of the guards had better eyesight.
"You!" he called to Caladrius. "Are you traveling with this wagon?"
"No," Caladrius said, and added, "your lordship. I just walked down myself. From the north."
"Another mutton eater," the fuming rider muttered. He pulled abruptly at his reins, trying to turn his horse in the crush. "I'm crossing the Pellior Bridge. Make way!"
"Go with him," the standard-bearer ordered swiftly, to the guards nearest them.
"Might as well all go," one grunted. "That wheel is about to cross without the wagon."
It fell off as he spoke, wandered away, and
crashed into the wall beside Caladrius. The dark-haired lord paused, blinking at the wagon. One corner sagged, as if under the weight of their stares, slumping lower and lower. The trapper, bewildered, shouted at the oxen. The end lurched suddenly, boards parted, and an entire hillock of furs, not entirely cleaned, reeled onto the bridge. The wagon lurched again as the oxen, goaded by the whip, pulled forward.
Swords spilled in a silver cascade onto the furs.
"You're inspired tonight," Justin said to Giulia, wandering over at the end of the ballad to help her tune. He blew a note. "You sound like all the wildlife in Berylon in spring."
McKillip, Patricia A. - Song for the Basilisk Page 8
