“I’m certain it won’t be long. I have friends at court, as you do—I’m certain Gobro can be persuaded that we killed Damath in our own defense.”
“You killed Damath,” Val said. “I did nothing.”
They walked in silence for a while. Val touched the charm at his throat, a silver heron. He had spent his entire life in Etrara, the center of the world, the crowded, exciting, treacherous, ghost-ridden city. When would he be able to return?
The Maegrim had come for him after all. Three summer casts in a winter month—an ill omen indeed. He had thought that he could fall no lower on the ladder, but he had been wrong. He had had a long way to fall, a long way indeed. “Where are we going?” he asked again.
“Tobol An,” Narrion said. He had moved ahead on the path; Val could barely hear him.
“Where?”
Narrion said nothing. Tobol An. What had he heard about the place? “Is that where the library is?”
Narrion turned. His teeth shone in the moonlight as he grinned. “It is indeed,” he said.
A few paces later he stopped. Val saw that they had come to the beginning of the forest; dark trees stood before them, tangled together, a few stars shining through their bare branches. “We’ll spend the night here,” Narrion said. “We can continue on in the morning.”
They took off their cloaks and spread them on the path. The air before them seemed stale, like an attic long unvisited, and no sounds came from the forest. Val stretched out on the dirt path and fell asleep.
It seemed only a few moments later when he felt the sun through his closed eyelids. Narrion stirred beside him. “Time to go,” his cousin said, standing in a single movement. “Carrow must have brought word to the king by now. Come—we have to hurry.”
Val stood. His back had cramped in the night and he stretched to ease it. The ranked trees of the forest stood silently before them, casting long shadows. He remembered their hurried flight from Etrara, remembered too Narrion’s decision to go into exile. He turned and looked back the way they had come, toward Etrara and the Gate of Stones. “What if I choose not to go with you?” he asked.
“What?” Narrion said.
“I’m innocent—I had no part in your plans. I told you that last night. Suppose Carrow tells the king you killed Damath but says nothing about me. You would have to go into exile, yes, but I could stay in Etrara.”
Narrion studied him a moment. For the first time Val thought he saw doubt in his cousin’s eyes. “Can you afford to take that chance?” Narrion asked softly. The doubt was gone; it might have been a trick of the pale light. “Gobro could have you put to death, you know. Or have you caged, and all your property confiscated. Come—it will only be for a little while, as I told you yesterday.”
Narrion turned and began to walk. Val stood for a moment and then followed him down the path and into the forest. As the sun rose its light began to filter through the branches, too thin and cold to warm them. A thick fall of leaves lay on the ground.
He had a lesson with his fencing master in the morning, Val remembered, and later in the day he was to meet with his gardener to plan an herb garden. When would they begin to miss him? When would they realize that he was not coming back?
It was true, as Narrion had said, that King Gobro had the power to sentence him in his absence, to confiscate his property and goods. His friends might never learn the truth, that he had killed no one, had never even raised his sword. But surely Narrion was right, surely their allies at court would convince the king to be lenient.
He sighed. When they were children Narrion had been able to make him agree to almost any scheme; they had climbed the clock tower together, stolen a priest’s robe, been chased by the watch. It seemed that he had spent his life following his cousin in one adventure or another.
They walked on. The place felt unnatural, haunted by something more than the harmless ghosts of Etrara. But the forest was not hostile; it seemed to be entirely indifferent to the two figures entering at its gates, as if they were no more than the beetles scurrying over the forest floor.
Val remembered the banquet the night before, and the herald calling out King Gobro’s titles—King of Etrara and the Southern Marches. Were these the southern marches? He had never thought of them as an actual place before; they had seemed just another piece of ritual surrounding the king. Did Gobro rule in these parts too, then? He would wager all his wealth that the king had never been here. How strange to rule over a place and a people you had never seen.
But were there people in this wood? Val could see nothing ahead of him but the path pillared by the great trees. The sun had climbed higher in the sky and cast a strange hazy light through the wood. A dry leaf fell before him, rustling like paper.
The silence felt oppressive. Val whistled a few notes; they sounded thin and off-key. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. “When will we get there?” he asked.
Narrion did not turn around. “It’s a while yet,” he said.
Val thought of the poet Cosro, who had been sent away from Etrara for writing sharp satires against King Tariel I. Perhaps he too could use his time in exile to write poetry; perhaps he could write sonnets to Tamra.
Tamra. He hadn’t thought of her since they had started on their journey. He found, to his surprise, that he missed her. What would she think when she heard of his exile? Would she believe the proclamations King Gobro would surely issue, telling all Etrara of his supposed crime?
Did he love her, then? Would future generations sing songs of the love he felt for her, lost in his exile? Or was he simply adopting another courtly pose, the distant lover longing for his mistress?
Past midday the path turned east and they followed it, walking in silence for a long time. Slowly the forest around them grew dark; Val turned and saw streaks of the red and copper sunset through the trees behind them. They stopped and made camp for the night. The trees stood silent around them.
Another day of walking took them to the outskirts of the forest. The trees here grew farther apart; Val saw light ahead of them. “Look,” his cousin said, pointing.
A knight on horseback blocked their path. A standard Val had never seen before was planted in the earth in front of him, and a trumpet lay across the knight’s lap. As Val watched he noticed motes of sunlight drifting through the man and his horse, and he realized that they were ghosts.
“Legend says he’s sworn to protect Tobol An from her enemies,” Narrion said.
“What enemies?” Val said, thinking that the knight must not have stirred for centuries. Who would want to attack a place as insignificant as Tobol An?
They continued on. The knight made no move to stop them, though his standard fluttered a little in a wind long gone. We’re not enemies, then, Val thought. He certainly intended no harm to the people of Tobol An, but he could not speak for his cousin. Narrion had killed someone he barely knew and had no quarrel with; Val was starting to think he didn’t know the other man at all.
The knight apparently marked the border of Tobol An. The trees thinned out, and Val could see the village beyond. His heart sank. The place was nothing but a few stone cottages clustered together in the middle of a windy plain. A large white building, shaped a little like a chambered shell, stood in the distance. A thin rain fell. How long would he and Narrion have to spend in this forsaken place?
“Come,” Narrion said. “Let’s find lodgings.”
They went forward into the village. Narrion knocked at one of the cottages, and an old man opened the door. The man frowned when he saw them; probably the people of Tobol An didn’t see many strangers.
“Yes?” he said.
“I was wondering if you have a room to let,” Narrion said. “My cousin needs a place to stay.”
Val looked at Narrion sharply. Wasn’t Narrion going to stay here as well? His cousin shook his head; something in his eyes warned Val to say nothing.
The old man watched them carefully. Val had an idea that little escaped him. “Yes, I hav
e a room,” he said slowly. “But I’ll need to know who you two fine gentlemen are before I rent it out.”
“Who is it, Uncle?”
The man turned. A young woman came up behind him. “Did I hear you say you wanted a room?” she asked Narrion.
“I do, my lady. Not for myself but for my cousin here.”
Val saw that Narrion was paying court to this simple country woman, treating her as if she stood high in the king’s favor. He had to admit that, as always, Narrion’s eye was good; the woman, dressed in a dark blue skirt and loose white blouse, both homespun, was not unattractive. She was small, fine-boned, with closely cropped black hair. Her eyes held Narrion’s in a forthright gaze. She seemed so different from the women of the court that Val thought she might almost be a foreigner, someone from Shai or a barbarian from beyond the seas.
“Ah,” she said. “And why would your cousin want a room?”
“Let me take care of this, Taja,” her uncle said.
“I want to get away from court for a while, my lady,” Val said to the young woman. No woman, however lowborn, would have cause to say that he was less courteous than his cousin.
“Why?” the old man asked.
“I need a place to write poetry,” Val said. Taja was looking at him with interest, and he went on. “I want to put the distractions of the court behind me, to find a quiet place where the goddess Sbona might speak to me more clearly.”
“A poet,” the old man said. “And did the king send you into exile, as King Tariel sent Cosro?”
Confronted with erudition in a place where he had expected only backwardness, Val could think of nothing to say. For once, he saw, his cousin Narrion was speechless as well. “No,” Val said finally. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
The old man grinned at their discomfiture. “Well, come in, then, come in. I’ll show you the room. As long as you’re sure the king isn’t displeased with you. We’re fond of our life here—we wouldn’t want to see the peace of Tobol An destroyed.”
Could the old man have guessed something? But no, he would not have allowed them into his house if he had.
The man and Taja led them to a small room at the back of the cottage. The place was obviously used for storage; Val saw tightly stoppered pottery jars, a broom made of straw and twigs, wool blankets, a purple fishing net, a broken butter churn. “We’ll put a bed in,” the old man said. “And we can sweep it out a bit. As for rent, well—I suppose I can let you have it for a sovereign.”
“A sovereign a month?” Val asked, surprised.
“A sovereign a year,” the old man said. He grinned again. “You’ll find that things are less expensive here than they are in the city. It’ll be a good place to work.”
Val opened his purse. How much money had he brought with him? He remembered throwing down the gold sovereign in the gaming house—could that have been his last coin? No—he had several more sovereigns, most stamped with the head of King Tariel III; only two or three were the debased coins from Gobro’s reign.
“I hope so,” Val said. “I’ll take it.”
“That’s settled then,” Narrion said. “Come see me off, Val.”
They went outside and stood a little away from the old man and his niece. “I don’t think we should send letters for a while,” Narrion said softly. “At least not until we know—”
“I thought you were going to stay here with me,” Val said.
“I can’t,” Narrion said. “We have to split up. That way if the king finds one of us he won’t find the other. Trust me—this is the best way.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll write you when it’s safe.”
Val looked around him. After the noise and crowds of Etrara the silence of the village seemed oppressive. Two or three faces had appeared at the windows of the other cottages, studying them with open curiosity. Wind blew, bending down the knotted grasses growing along the path, turning the thin rain into small gusts. “What in Callabrion’s name am I to do here?” he asked.
Narrion turned to go. “I thought you said you’d write poetry,” he said.
Narrion went south, walking slowly until he was certain that Val had gone inside the house. Then he stopped at the last cottage on the road and knocked at the door.
Another villager came to answer it. “I’m here for the horse,” Narrion said.
“Of course, my lord,” the man said. They walked together to the back of the cottage; the man went into the stable and returned with a chestnut gelding. It seemed a little too magnificent for its surroundings, a duke’s horse at the very least.
Narrion thanked the man and mounted, throwing him a purse of coins as he left. Then he turned back and rode into Thole Forest, making the long journey north to Etrara alone.
As soon as he came to the city he rode to the palace, gave his horse to a stablehand and knocked on the palace’s outer door. The porter had orders to admit him, and he was brought to the king’s Presence Chamber immediately.
Gobro paced the chamber, stopping every so often to look out the window. Narrion would wager his place on the ladder that the king saw nothing of the city spread out below him.
“Good fortune, my lord,” Narrion said to Gobro’s back. “I brought Val safely to Tobol An, as we agreed.”
The king turned. “Why in the name of the Wandering God did you kill Damath?” he said. He was as close to anger as Narrion had ever seen him.
“Your orders were to bring Val to Tobol An. I did that. You didn’t mention how I was to get him there. Do you really think that a courtier of Etrara would willingly give up his place here to go off to the ends of the earth? I needed something dramatic, something that would convince him to go into exile.”
“It was certainly dramatic. If I didn’t need you and Val I would have had you both executed—yes, executed on the same day. What a show that would have been!”
“Val is innocent, my lord. He did nothing.”
The king walked the length of the Presence Chamber, turned and came back. “It’s my ill luck that my fortune is tied to yours at the moment. But by Callabrion’s big toe, why Damath? Do you have any idea how badly I need Lord Carrow’s favor? With his friend dead I can forget about seeing any money from the treasury at all.”
“I thought you didn’t need Carrow. I thought he was out of favor. You sat him at the opposite end of the hall the night of the banquet.”
“I did, yes. I was angry with him and I wanted him to know it.” The king began to pace again. “And all the while I should have been currying favor with him. I’m so deeply in debt I have no idea how to get out of it.”
“Replace him.”
“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? I can’t—everyone loves him. He hasn’t raised taxes since I ascended to the throne.” Gobro looked directly at the other man. “What made you kill Damath? He was one of my strongest supporters, especially after I made him a lord. I don’t trust you, Narrion. You had some reason—”
“I didn’t like the man. I owed him a gaming debt.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“Why did you want Val sent to Tobol An?”
“Are you questioning my orders now?”
Narrion had never heard that note in the king’s voice before. Gobro sounded authoritative, used to obedience. What had the king learned to make him send Val away?
“Leave me,” Gobro said.
It was a dismissal; Narrion would get no more information today. He bowed and left the chamber.
How much did Gobro know, or guess? Had someone overheard Narrion and Mariel and Callia whispering together a week before the banquet? Narrion went over his conversation with Gobro carefully, studying each phrase for hidden meanings, looking for clues.
He began to hurry through the halls of the palace, searching for Mariel. There were too many plots here, he thought; the threads might come unraveled before the whole thing was done.
Val woke the next day to the smell of h
ot oatcakes and tea. He left his room and sat with Taja and the old man, whose name he discovered was Pebr, and they ate in comfortable silence. After Taja cleared the breakfast things away she returned to her place opposite him at the white oak table. “How do you write poetry?” she asked.
Val looked up at her, remembering only then his deception of the day before.
“Do you plan the entire poem in your head and then write it down?” Taja asked.
“No. No, I don’t do it that way.”
“Would the library have some of your poetry?”
“I doubt it. I’ve never published any.”
“Never—Why not?”
“A gentleman doesn’t write for publication.” He saw the looks of disbelief on the other faces and smiled wryly. Much of his life at court, he saw, was going to be incomprehensible here.
“Well, then, what does he write for?” Taja asked.
“Other gentlemen, I suppose. But that’s not why I write. Poetry is the voice of Sbona. It’s a way to ascend, to become like a god. And sometimes—sometimes you write a poem to a lady, and she reads it.”
“Ah. And is there a lady who reads your poems?”
“One or two. The subject of a poem must be beautiful, of course—as beautiful as you, my lady.”
Taja looked startled. What had he done? He was so used to the conventions of the court, to empty flattery, that he had not considered the effect his words might have in such a simple place.
Pebr was frowning. Val cast around for another topic and remembered the question he had asked Narrion the day before. “Why is there a library here in this”—he nearly said “forsaken,” caught himself in time—“place?”
“Tobol An was once a great city, a place that rivaled Etrara itself,” Pebr said, taking a sip of his tea. “More poet-mages lived in the two cities than walk Sbona’s earth today. But the wizards of Tobol An quarreled with the king in Etrara, and he sent his sorcerers against them. Tobol An was ruined, all but the library, but the victory went to us—all the poet-mages of Etrara died. The survivors in Tobol An caused the forest of Thole to grow up between here and Etrara, as a message and a warning to the king—they would not be subject to his command any longer.”
Summer King, Winter Fool Page 3
