Summer King, Winter Fool

by Lisa Goldstein

  Val nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He felt for his purse, intending to give the young man a coin for his trouble, and then changed his mind. It would be better to keep the other man uncertain of his identity, unsure even whether he was noble or not. Far too many people knew he had come to the festival as it was. He had behaved foolishly, very foolishly.

  “Do you want to call the watch?” the young man asked.

  The last thing he wanted was to come to the attention of the law. “No. I’m sure the watch has better things to do tonight.”

  He turned to go. The crowd was thinning out; parents were calling for their children and preparing to go home. He barely saw them. Callia had recognized him, and so, apparently, had the nobleman who had attacked him. And who else?

  As if guessing his thoughts Taja said, “Do you have any enemies?”

  He laughed harshly. All he had, it seemed, were enemies. Even the king was his enemy. But the king would not have done this, not with the entire body of the law behind him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes again and realized that without his mask he was still in danger. “Lend me your mask,” he said.

  She looked at him appraisingly. He could see the questions in her eyes, the realization that he might be different from what he seemed. Finally she took off her mask and handed it to him wordlessly.

  They spent the night at the inn and rode through the forest of Thole the next day, saying little. Val wondered if Taja would tell her uncle about the attack. But when they came to Tobol An and Pebr’s house the next day she said nothing about it. He was grateful for her silence; he did not want Pebr’s shrewd eyes measuring him, guessing his secrets.

  A week after Callabrion ascended, Val went with Taja and Pebr to the house of one of the villagers. All the village, it seemed, had crowded into the small stone cottage to hear the elders read from the Book of Sbona. Only three or four people had been able to find seats, and the place smelled strongly of fish.

  Val thought of his aunt and uncle, Narrion’s parents, who would even now be getting together with others from his house to read from the same book. All over the mapped world, in Etrara and the provinces, in the barbaric country of Shai, people were telling the story of the goddess Sbona. Even in the colonies across the seas, in Udriel and Astrion, they would light candles against the vast loneliness around them and read to each other about the creation of the world.

  “Sbona ruled alone in heaven,” one of the villagers read. “Then she gave birth to the twins Callabrion and Scathiel, and she created the world we live in and she gave it to them. But the two sons quarreled over who was to have her favor, and they carried their fight to the newly created world, using it as a battleground. For hundreds of years they fought each other, and their struggles made the hills and valleys and mountains, and in the end each killed the other.”

  The villager passed the Book of Sbona to Pebr. But Pebr did not consult the book at all as he continued the story, reciting solely from memory.

  “Sbona wept for her sons in heaven, and her tears fell to earth and created the seas,” Pebr said. “She descended to the world she had made and searched for their scattered limbs, and she created men and women to help her in her quest. Finally she gathered together the bodies of her two sons, and she breathed life into them. But Callabrion had lost forever his right toe, and Scathiel his left, and for their disobedience Sbona sent each of them into exile for six months out of the year.”

  Pebr handed the book to the next villager, Dochno, the man Val had saved from the sea. “Every year in winter Callabrion ascends to heaven, and so things grow, and become strong. And every year in summer Callabrion comes back to earth and his brother Scathiel ascends to heaven, and so things are reaped, and they die. Each is brother to the other, as summer is brother to winter, as life is brother to death. Every year the seasons change, but from year to year the seasons remain the same.”

  Dochno closed the book. In Etrara at this time Val would spend the evening with Narrion’s family, his closest relatives since his parents died. Narrion’s father would bring out the golden goblets used only twice a year, and his mother would pour the good Shai wine they had saved for this occasion. Val hoped … And there, to his delight, he saw their host setting out clay mugs and pouring ale. He reached for a cup and then, seeing Mathary come up next to him, he gave it to her and turned back for another. She drank it down gratefully.

  The villagers settled in for stories. All around the room they went, telling the legends of Callabrion and Scathiel on earth, their lovers, their quarrels, the disguises each had used and how they were unmasked, the gifts they had given and the justice they had dispensed.

  When his turn came Val repeated a story he had heard in Etrara about Andosto, said to be the grandson of the god Callabrion, and how he had routed the Shai during the reign of King Tariel III. The villagers listened quietly, rapt, but when Val said that he knew Andosto, that he had spoken to him, they roared with disbelief. The more he protested the more they laughed, until finally one of them slapped Val on the back and claimed he was the finest storyteller of all.

  Since they were still laughing, the next speaker, an old woman, began a humorous tale of Scathiel in disguise, of mistaken identity and misunderstanding. The night grew older; everyone vowed to stay awake, to encourage Callabrion by their example to make the days longer and longer. Then the parents with small children went home, and the old people. Val leaned against the wall and fell asleep in the middle of the famous tale of how Callabrion had taken his leave of Queen Ellara the Good.

  Someone shook his shoulder. Val opened his eyes, surprised to find himself in a small dim room reeking of coal-smoke and fish. “Narrion?” he said. What had his cousin gotten him into this time?

  “Pebr,” the old man said. His eyes were bright and alert despite the late hour. “It’s time to go home.”

  “Oh.” Someone opened the door and a blast of cold air blew in, chilling Val to the bone. He rubbed his eyes. He had missed the story that was always saved for last, how the goddess Sbona came to earth and gave birth to the ancestor of the ruling family of Etrara. “Good fortune, Pebr,” Val said.

  “Good fortune to you, my lord,” Pebr said, his tone more kindly than usual, and he and Val and Taja set off under the black night sky for home.

  The days returned to what they had been before the feast. Taja went to work in the library, and Val sat alone in his room or went for walks by the cliffs. The weather stayed bitterly cold, the sky so dull and overcast that on some days the sun could not be seen. Some folks wondered if Callabrion had ascended after all.

  A month after he had come back from Etrara Val sat at his desk, studying the clutter of papers around him. He was no poet; he had learned that much from his stay in Tobol An, if nothing else.

  His candles guttered. A sudden movement made him look up. Taja came into the room, carrying a lamp in her hand like Sbona bringing light to the heavens. “I’ve made dinner,” she said.

  For a moment he could not say anything, overcome by the strange sight, a goddess dwelling in a humble stone cottage. Then he shook his head, dismissing his fancies, and followed her.

  Evening had fallen while he had sat dreaming at his desk; the sky through the windows was black, with no star to light the darkness. Taja lit candles and built up the fire while her uncle brought their supper to the table. Fish again, Val saw. He was starting to long for the oversweet food of the court, for anything that hadn’t come out of the sea.

  In the past few weeks he had started to tell Taja and Pebr about his life in Etrara. Taking a bite of his fish he began to describe King Gobro’s great banquets, and the gatherings that took place afterward in Duchess Sbarra’s apartments. “All the court meets there in the evenings,” he said. “The lady, and her husband the Duke Talenor, and her poet—”

  “Her poet? Why does she have a poet?” Taja asked.

  “Why?” Val said. He had never realized how strange his life
at court must seem to an outsider. “Everyone high on the ladder has a poet. If someone’s poet writes a satire about you then your poet has to respond.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “I can’t think of one that didn’t. If your poet doesn’t respond then I suppose you lose the respect of other noblemen. You lose your standing at court.”

  Pebr scowled. He disapproved of the court, though Val didn’t know why. “You would think people would have better things to do,” he said. “Dancing and hawking and music and poetry—not one of you has ever done anything important.”

  “Of course not,” Val said. “It’s important to seem frivolous, to appear to occupy yourself with the games and fashions of court. But at the same time most courtiers spend their time scheming, plotting ways to rise on the ladder.”

  “Bah,” Pebr said. “That’s even worse. Hypocrites, all of them. Do you do this? Are you as cunning as the rest?”

  “I suppose not. Life at King Gobro’s court suits me. I have to admit I’m as frivolous as everyone thinks I am.”

  Pebr scowled again. A horse whinnied outside the cottage, and a few moments later someone knocked loudly at the door.

  Pebr went to the door. A man stood there, shivering in the cold. He handed Pebr a letter. “For my lord Valemar,” he said.

  Val took the letter from Pebr as he returned to the table. It was sealed with a willow tree, the crest of his house. A message from Narrion, at last. He broke it open and began to read.

  “My dear Cousin,” the letter said. “Our exile is at an end. The reign of King Gobro is over, and we have achieved everything we have hoped for. Come to Etrara.”

  He read it again to make certain there was no mistake. Then he looked up; the other two were watching him closely. “Good news?” Taja asked.

  “The best,” Val said. “I’m going home.”

  “Ah,” Pebr said. His shrewd eyes did not leave Val’s face, and Val remembered that Pebr thought he had come to Tobol An voluntarily. It didn’t matter; he would never see these people again. Nothing mattered, nothing but the fact that he would be gone soon, traveling through the haunted forest and then home.

  The next morning at dawn he bought a horse with the remainder of his money and bade farewell to Pebr and Taja. His premonition on the night of the feast had been a true one. His fortune had changed; he had ascended with Callabrion.

  As he entered the forest he began to think about Narrion’s letter. How had Gobro’s reign ended? Gobro must have died, of course, but how had it happened? Who ruled in Etrara now? And what did Narrion mean when he said they had achieved everything they had hoped for? Val hadn’t hoped for anything but a return to Etrara. What plot did Narrion spin now?

  The shadows of the trees began to lengthen around him. His apprehension grew. Would he be safe in Etrara? The last time he had returned to the city someone had tried to kill him. Narrion’s letter no longer had the power to cheer him; his cousin’s news might be a two-sided coin.

  When the sun set he stopped to eat the bread and cheese Taja had given him, then spread his cloak a little ways off the path. He stretched out on the ground and watched as the first stars appeared among the trees.

  Moments later he heard horses’ hooves, and the chiming of bridles. “Ho!” a man’s voice said. “How much longer before we make camp?”

  Val sat up in the darkness. Who were they? Should he greet them?

  “We’ll go a ways yet,” another voice said. “Our orders are to get there as soon as possible.”

  “Are you frightened of the wood?” said a third.

  “Not at all,” the first man said. “Only tired.”

  The second man said something Val could not hear, and then they were gone. Who had they been? They had been wrong not to fear the wood; Val had learned that much at least about wizardry. He was glad he had not hailed them.

  He reached the Gate of Stones by midmorning the next day. As he rode through the lower city he was surprised at how little had changed in his absence. The ladders he had seen before were gone, burned in the great bonfires on the Feast of the Ascending God, but already several new ladders had been raised to commemorate one piece of good fortune or another. He urged his horse through the Street of Stones.

  He saw no one he recognized in the lower city. He crossed the Darra River, passed the crowded marketplace where the Street of Stones and the Street of Roses met. He hurried on; he wanted to know what folks said about him before he took part in the idle gossip and political discussions of the marketplace.

  The street widened. Statues of the Seven Virtues and Seven Vices stood to either side of him. The whitewashed houses with their timbered roofs became taller, two and even three stories high. On his left he saw the theater and the university, the tall clock tower capped with gold. Bells rang out eleven times as he passed.

  The street grew steeper as he neared the hill and his house. His apprehension returned. What would he find when he returned? Had Gobro confiscated all his wealth?

  As he reached the hill he saw an old friend from the university. “Dorio!” he called.

  Dorio turned. He was wearing the green and gold of Callabrion; after graduation he had apprenticed himself to the astronomer-priests. Val had not seen him often since then; the priests were not allowed to leave the observatory except on business. “Val!” he said. “Good fortune!”

  Val dismounted, and they embraced. “I hear the king was angry with you,” Dorio said.

  “Aye,” Val said warily. How much had Dorio learned, cloistered within the observatory?

  “But Narrion told me he’d taken you to a safe place,” Dorio said.

  “Narrion? Is Narrion back already?”

  “What do you mean? He never left.”

  Never left. Val rubbed his eyes; he was tired from the long journey through the forest, and tired of treachery as well. “What did Narrion tell you about me?” he asked carefully.

  “He said that you had done something to anger Gobro, but that you were safe and out of the king’s reach. That he was working hard to bring you back.”

  “Did he tell you what I was supposed to have done?”

  “No. He assured me it was not treason, and I know you would not have done anything to harm the royal house—What was it?”

  “Nothing,” Val said. His weariness gave way to anger. Narrion had used him, had played with his life as casually as a man might throw down a conjuring stick. “I’ve done nothing. Narrion killed a favorite of the king and told me I was in danger. He convinced me to go into exile. And now you tell me that he never even left the city.”

  “Damath,” Dorio said. “Narrion killed Damath. But he convinced the king that it was self-defense. Gobro never punished him for it at all. Val? Is there something wrong?”

  “Something, yes. I have a few things to say to Narrion when I see him next.” He thought quickly. He had been right to be careful; he was not yet out of danger. “Who rules Etrara now?”

  “Queen Callia.”

  “Callia?” Val said, surprised. Any one of Gobro’s half-brothers or half-sisters would be more suited to rule.

  “Duchess Mariel supported her, and she convinced Duke Arion to join them. I suppose Arion thinks Callia will be easy to overthrow, just as Gobro was. Only Duke Talenor opposed them.”

  “What happened to Gobro?”

  “He was poisoned.”

  “Who—”

  “No one knows. Everyone suspects Mariel, of course.”

  “Mariel? Not Callia?”

  “Mariel’s the real ruler. Callia does what her sister tells her. But you’ll see it all for yourself soon enough—I hear the Duchess Sbarra still holds gatherings in her apartments.”

  Good, Val thought. He could confront Narrion then. He would be interested in hearing the man’s excuses.

  He sighed. He had become unused to intrigue in the quiet months he had spent in Tobol An. Suddenly he longed for the peace of the fishing village, the nights by the fire talking with Taja
and her uncle. But no—he had forgotten how tedious that life was. He wondered what sort of place he was suited for, if he would ever be happy anywhere.

  “How is Tamra?” he asked.

  “Oh, aye,” Dorio said. “That’s an interesting thing. She and Narrion got married.”

  Four

  TAJA WAS WALKING TO THE LIBRARY WHEN the trumpet sounded. At first she didn’t know what it was: she had never heard the trumpet of Thole. Then she saw people leave their houses and hurry down the path, and she realized that the ghost of the forest had been roused. Someone threatened the peace of Tobol An.

  The trumpet blew again. Taja joined a group of people heading toward the forest. She saw Pebr ahead of her, and Mathary, and she realized that the crowd consisted of old men and women and children. Everyone else would be out on the fishing boats. She laughed a little to hide her fear. What could this sad little band hope to accomplish against—against what?

  The ghost-knight had blocked the forest path with his standard. Three riders dressed in the gold livery of the royal family stood before him, each mounted on a horse with gold trappings. The trumpet sounded again.

  The crowd pushed forward as far as the standard. Their brown, lined faces showed little but stubbornness, but here and there a few had given way, almost against their wills, to wonderment. No one living could remember a delegation from Etrara.

  Taja felt a great love for them, for their stolid, hopeless determination to protect Tobol An against these armed and armored men. She sought out and found Pebr near the front of the crowd. If trouble came she could at least see to it that he was safe.

  “We bring greetings from Queen Callia,” one of the mounted men said.

  A few in the crowd murmured. Taja had known that things had changed in Etrara; something had called Val away from their village and back to court. But word of a new queen had not yet reached as far as Tobol An. Why should it have, after all? The kings and queens of Etrara had ignored Tobol An since the wizards’ war.