Aeriel let another moment go by before she spoke. "What is her name?" she ventured at last.
"And how would I know that?" replied the vampyre, affronted. "Great personages such as she do not hand out their names so freely."
"But you are her son," insisted Aeriel, softly.
The vampyre looked suddenly away, and for the first time his cool assurance flagged.
"She will tell me...," he began. "She has promised to tell me—when I come of age."
"And is she... like you?" asked Aeriel, wondering what sort of being mothered vampyres.
His hesitation had surprised her.
"You mean a winged icarus?" he asked, regaining himself, and flexing his coal-dark feathers. They rustled like fine, stiff silk. "No, she prefers water to air. She is a lorelei."
"And she keeps dragons."
"Yes." A moment's silence followed as the darkangel settled his wings. When next he spoke, it was with no trace of his former faltering. "But hers do not eat maidens. They eat ships." He laughed again, that same cruel and careless laugh. "Ah, me, that was a silly tale you told, but amusing enough. Tell me another."
His tone had taken on a keen edge at the last. "My lord," Aeriel stammered, "I am hungry and tired. I have just spent many hours spinning and weaving for... for your wives"—she had to catch herself lest she, in his presence, say "the wraiths"—"and I..."
He held up his hand, suddenly tolerant again. "Ah, yes. I sometimes forget you mortal creatures need inordinate amounts of food and sleep, /need only a little and a little." He gave her a dismissive nod. "Very well, go have your food and rest, and then come to me in the audience hall, where you shall tell me more of these tales."
5. Prince Irrylath
So Aeriel told the darkangel tales, and fed his gargoyles, and spun and wove for his wives, and fished with the duarough in the quiet cave pools, and the day-months passed.
She told him all the tales she could remember ever hearing from Bomba, or Eoduin, or anyone else she had ever known. The vampyre seemed to listen with only half an ear, remarking now and again on some improbability in the tale, but he did listen, and Aeriel found no more broken bats or maimed lizards in the garden.
But she found herself now at the last (as she began work on the last of the wraiths'
garments) running short of tales, so she asked the duarough for tales, and he told her those he could remember from his nursery days in the caves of Aiderlan, a dozen thousand day-months past. And she told these to the vampyre in the deserted reception hall of the castle, and he listened seemingly with no more attention than before.
Then came the day she told him the tale of the chieftain's son who had lived in a great palace called Tour-of-Kings. It was a tale Dirna had told her, for Dirna had been of the plains folk before she was taken for a slave—told Aeriel the tale while combing out her fine, yellow-tinged hair. It was late, late afternoon, almost dusk in the vam-pyre's castle.
The white sunlight streamed like water over the black slate floor. Aeriel sat on the floor in the warmth of the sunlight, while the ica-rus stood by the window and picked a flower to pieces as she spoke.
Aeriel said, "This is a tale that Dirna once told me, and it is the last tale that I know. She told it to me one fortnight when we were quite alone, to frighten me, and I do not know if it is true. This is the tale: there was once a woman who was handmaiden to a great chieftain of the plains. And this woman, Dirna, had a child of a day-month old when the chieftain's queen bore him a son. But the queen fell ill, and so Dirna's child was taken from her that she might nurse the chieftain's son.
"But Dirna mourned the loss of her child and grew to hate the child she nursed. Although she was but a serving-woman, she vowed vengeance against the chieftain, and bided her time. Now it became clear in a few seasons that the fever that had befallen the queen at the birth of her child had left her barren. So when the child had reached his fifth year of age, the queen and her train undertook a pilgrimage across the desert to consult the priestesses of Lonwury about her barrenness.
"So the pilgrimage was made to the shrines of Lonwury across the dry desert, and the queen remained in the sacred city for a year, and her son with her. When all the prayers and the rituals and anointings were completed, the queen gathered her train and started back across the desert. They had journeyed about three-quarters of their way over the waste of dunes when a great wind sprang up that raised the sand in clouds so thick they hid the stars.
"The caravan made camp at once to wait out the storm, but it blew all day-month and on into the shade of night. At last their water ran so low they had to break camp and try to reach the next oasis. The wind drove them then, and they wandered far off their course, till it was day again and the storm abated. They found themselves in a rocky place at desert's edge, amid a maze of canyons, on the shores of a great shallow lake.
"But something was amiss; the queen saw this at once, for nothing grew along the banks of this mere, or in it. A lonely howling, as of jackals, could be heard faintly from the canyons, though not a living creature was to be seen. And when the desert wind blew, not a ripple marred the dark water's surface: it lay still as a mirror, and barren. Those camels that had been allowed to drink sickened and died. The queen ordered at once that no waterskins be filled at this waterhole, and no one was to drink. They would move on.
"They wandered many hours in the gorges and the canyons—and found themselves at the lake again. A second time they went into the rocks, and, after much meandering, found themselves emerging on the lake. Once more they entered the maze, and when this time they again emerged onto the mere, there were mutterings among the people, and talk of witchcraft.
"Camp was made and council held to determine what was to be done. Truly, it seemed the gods were displeased. The queen's priests began to cast the oracle bones to divine the cause. It was a lengthy process and lasted many hours—for the lots were confounded and there was no magic in the counters. The water was all gone by now, the animals dying, but no one dared drink the water of the wide, still lake.
"No one drank, that is, but Dirna. Her thirst became so great that at last it overcame her fear and she crept down to the water in the dark of the night. And while in the distance the unseen jackals sang, she lay down on the sandy bank and cupped her hands to the water. It was cold, colder than shadow, but she drank—drank a handful and was just reaching for another when she saw something in the water.
"It was a small creature, no bigger than a hen, with smooth, translucent skin that seemed purple in the starlight. At first she thought it must be a huge salamander, or a toad. But then it spoke to her in a deep, gravel voice and said, 'What are you doing, trespassing on my mistress's land?'
" 'What are you,' cried Dirna, 'and what do you want?'
" 'I am a mudlick,' said the hideous creature, 'and I want to know why you are trespassing here.'
" 'I was thirsty,' Dirna said. 'We are lost.'
" 'We?' the mudlick said. 'Are there more of you?'
" 'Yes,' Dirna told him. 'There is the queen's whole train. Have you not seen them?'
" 'No,' said the mudlick. 'I can see only those things that drink the water. You have drunk, and thus can see me. You told me you came to slake your thirst. What of the others?'
" 'We wish to leave.'
" 'That is not possible,' said the mudlick. 'You have chosen to trespass here, so here you must remain.'
" 'We did not choose. A windstorm drove us here.'
" 'That was not my doing.'
" 'But you must let us go,' said Dirna. 'You must.'
" 'That I will not,' said the mudlick, and turned as if to swim away.
" 'But we will die,' cried Dirna.
" 'I expect you will,' replied the mudlick.
" 'Our water is all gone.'
" 'I do not care.' And with that the mudlick began to depart.
" 'Oh, please,' Dirna besought him. 'I shall do anything you ask, only let us escape.'
" 'No, there
is nothing any of you could do for me. I do not need anything from you.'
" 'Don't go; don't go,' Dirna exclaimed. 'Is there nothing to be done to make you save us?'
"The mudlick wagged his head and started to dive under the dark, glassy surface, when abruptly he stopped. He folded his hands across his slimy chest and trod water for a moment, as if listening to the far-off jackal's song. Then he turned around.
" 'There is one thing, perhaps,' he said. " 'What is it?' begged Dirna. 'Tell me.' 11 'Well,'
said the mudlick, 'my mistress is fond of young boys. Have you any in your train?' "
'One,' said Dirna. 'There is one.' " 'How old is he?' inquired the mudlick. " 'He is six,' the nurse replied. " 'Hm,' mused the mudlick. 'She likes them younger—babes in arms if possible—but I suppose he will do. Who has charge of him?'
" 'Very well, bring him down to the water and drown him. Then I shall let you go.'
"Dirna drew back from the creature a little. 'His mother will never consent. She is the queen.'
"The mudlick shrugged. 'As you please,' he said. 'I only thought to do you a kindness. I suppose he really is too old for my mistress's liking....'
" 'I shall do it in secret,' Dirna said. 'I shall tell her the thirst fever took him and he went to the lake and fell in.'
" 'Tell her the water witch took him,' said the mudlick. 'Then she will think you have the fever, too, and no one will blame you.'
"Then the mudlick swam off and Dirna returned to camp. She slipped into the prince's tent where the boy lay sleeping. There she roused him from his cushions and told him to come out to the lake, that there was something great and wonderful to see, but they must make no noise, so as not to wake the others. The young prince went with her willingly enough, for though she had never been very kind to him, she had never given him reason to distrust her. So, while the distant jackals cried and keened, the two stole out of camp and down to the lake where the mudlick waited.
" 'See?' said Dirna, pointing. 'There it is.'
" 'There is what?' said the prince. 'I see nothing.'
" 'Lean closer,' Dirna urged him. 'Now do you see?'
" 'No,' said the prince. 'What must I look for?'
" 'You must lean closer still, then,' Dirna told him. 'You will know it when you see it.'
" 'But I see nothing,' said the prince, leaning so far forward his face almost touched the water.
" 'Closer,' said Dirna, and this time when he leaned craning to see what she was pointing at, the nurse shoved him hard, so that he fell from the bank and into the lake without so much as a cry. The jackals called. Dirna stood watching to see if he would come to the surface, but the water closed over him with hardly a ripple.
"Then Dirna ran back to camp as quickly as she could and burst into the queen's tent staring wildly and clutching her throat as though she could not breathe. They were a long time getting any sound from her, and for a while that was only shrieks and wails, but finally between much tearing of the hair and tearing her cheeks with her nails, she began to babble and rave.
"And half the time she told them the prince had slipped at the lake's edge and the other half she swore a water witch had caught him by the hair and pulled him in. Finally, she fell into a faint at the queen's feet and could not be roused.
"Whether the queen believed one or the other of the tales, I do not know, but most of the people believed the one of the witch. Many said that the witch had claimed her tribute and would let them go now. Camp was hurriedly struck and the camels loaded for travel.
But the queen saw none of this, for she had gone to the lakeshore to weep for her son.
"Then when she returned and saw the caravan ready awaiting, she said, 'Let us depart; this is an evil place.'
"And this time they found their way out of the canyons, and into the desert once more.
They soon came upon clear water, and eventually found their way home. Great was the grief of the king when he found his son was dead. The pilgrimage proved fruitless, for the queen was still barren, and at last her husband was obliged to put her aside, and she removed across the Sea-of-Dust to Ester-nesse.
"The chieftain twice remarried, young daughters of neighboring rulers, but both died very soon, and neither conceived. Blight came to the land, killing the cattle and crops. People began to say the house of the king was accursed, and drifted away. The king grew old before his time, and at last died without heir in a plague year that struck down most of the remaining people.
"Those who were left fled. There was no one to succeed the king, and no one left to rule over. The servants took what goods they might from the palace and departed. The palace guard rounded up those who were left to sell for slaves. Dirna was one of these. She had begun to go blind. Ever since she had drunk the chill waters of that still, dark lake, her sight had worsened, until now both eyes were covered with a white film and she saw nothing anymore of the things of this world.
"She was sold to the satrap of the steeps of Terrain, who gave her along with others who could weave and spin as a gift to his half-sister when she wed the syndic of my village. It is from Dirna that I got this tale. I think perhaps she told it just to frighten me. I do not know if it is true."
Aeriel fell silent and sat in the sun on the black slate floor, waiting for some word from the vampyre, but no word came. She looked up and saw him staring off across the room, a slight frown marring the unearthly handsome features of his face.
"Did you not like the story, my lord?" she asked at last.
No expression came into his blank eyes, but his frown deepened a little. "When did this story take place?" he said. His voice was oddly strained.
"Years ago," said Aeriel. "Before I was born."
"And where was the kingdom that the chieftain ruled?" the icarus asked.
"Far away from my tiny village. Far over the white plain of Avaric."
"In what quarter?" the darkangel demanded, his voice so tight Aeriel was startled.
"In the west," she answered. "In the north and west, I think."
The vampyre began to pace suddenly, round and about before the window. His shadow glided back and forth over Aeriel as she sat in the light of the setting Solstar.
"What was the name, the name of this chieftain?" said the icarus, pacing and not looking at her. His one hand was a fist, while the other gripped and wrung his wrist, as though trying, but vainly, to work some shackle free.
Aeriel hesitated. "I do not know," she said. "I cannot remember."
"Then you do not remember the tale very well, do you?" the darkangel snapped.
"Forgive me, lord," said Aeriel. "I tell the tale as best I can."
"The queen," cried the vampyre. "What was the name of the queen?"
Aeriel had to think a moment, long. "Syllva," she said finally. "I think it was Syllva."
"No," said the icarus, his voice suddenly harsh and loud. "You are not remembering it rightly. It was... something else. It was not Syllva."
Aeriel said nothing. The vampyre's voice had fallen to a mutter at the last. He whirled on her abruptly, toying with his necklace now as if it encircled him too tightly, and his shadow hid the light.
"Why are you sitting there so silent?" he cried with sudden suspicion. "Answer me. Say it was not Syllva."
"As my lord commands," said Aeriel, so softly she was afraid he had not heard; the dull clinking of the leaden vials seemed louder. She held her breath.
But the darkangel nodded and half-turned away. He dropped his hand from his throat and leaned against the windowsill. "The boy," he said. "Tell me the prince's name."
Aeriel was at once afraid to answer him and afraid to remain silent. She said, "I cannot remember," and her whisper trembled.
But the icarus seemed hardly to hear. He was staring down the length of the chamber's windowed wall. Aeriel stood up.
"You say his nurse pushed him in?" the vam-pyre said. Aeriel nodded, doubting that he saw.
"And his mother went down to the bank and wept
for him?"
"Wept tears of blood," said Aeriel.
The icarus said nothing, and his frown was very deep and dark. His anger was pain to her.
"Irrylath," said Aeriel. "I remember now; the prince's name was Irrylath."
The vampyre shuddered and shook his head. "You are mistaken," he told her. There was terrible quietness to his voice.
Beyond him, through the window, Solstar shone in white glory. Already half-hidden by the mountains, in another hour it would be gone. Dark fortnight would descend, leaving only pale stars and waxing Oceanus for light. Aeriel stood waiting.
"Leave me," the darkangel said, not looking at her. The stillness of his voice frightened her. "Do not come again."
Aeriel said nothing—she did not know what to say—and left him.
6. The Riddling Rime
"You must kill the vampire, said the wraiths, one of them, one who could still stand. She paced back and forth along the wall near where Aeriel sat on a low stool, spinning. The golden spindle flashed deep yellow in the white lamplight. There were no garments left to make. She merely spun to pass the time.
"What do you mean?" said Aeriel spinning, spinning a fine golden thread.
Though her duties to them were done, she would sit with the wraiths for hours on end now, talking to them, encouraging them to remember themselves and their pasts, or humming a quiet tune to herself. Whenever she sang, the wraiths grew still to listen. But they were pacing now, those that could stand, or rocking, or writhing, or uttering little moans. "What makes you think I could kill the vam-pyre?" she asked presently, looking down at her hands. Her words were very soft. "I have already tried and failed."
"You looked into his eyes," said one of the wraiths.
"A grave mistake," said another.
"Now he has you in thrall."
"I cannot kill him," said Aeriel.
"But he is evil!" cried the wraiths, and the others echoed: "Evil, evil."
Aeriel stopped spinning and laid the spindle in her lap. She felt her heart grow troubled.
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