Summer King, Winter Fool

by Lisa Goldstein

  They took her into another room. Everything had happened so quickly that she had had no time to feel fear. Now, seeing the strange ladder against the wall, its rungs spaced only an inch or so apart, she understood what the gods had chosen for her. She said a brief prayer to the goddess Sbona, mother of all.

  The soldiers tied her feet to the ladder’s rungs, then stretched her arms above her head. “Where are the records?” the commander asked. The soldiers tied her hands to the ladder.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I can raise you even higher on the ladder,” he said. The soldiers moved out behind him, and the one with the mustache grinned. “Or you can tell me what I want to know. Where are the records?”

  “I told you—”

  “Well,” the commander said. “I’ll leave you here for a few hours. When I come back I’ll want to know where those records are. And if you don’t tell me I’ll tie you a few rungs higher. Think about that while I’m gone.”

  He and the two other men left the room. After only a few minutes she felt the weight of her body pull against her arms. Her joints seemed on fire. What would it feel like to be tied higher on the ladder? They would have to untie her first, and she would have a few moments where she wouldn’t feel stretched like a god between earth and sky. But perhaps she would have grown used to the pain by then; perhaps it would hurt even more to be untied.

  Rain fell heavily outside. Her hands felt numb. What if she told them what they wanted to know? Val said he hadn’t wanted to be king; she wouldn’t really betray him if she told the commander where she had hidden the records. And then the soldiers would leave Tobol An, and the cages would come down.…

  Footsteps sounded in the front room and she tensed, thinking that the commander was about to return and stretch her higher on the ladder. The pain in her joints, which she had managed to ignore for a while, returned stronger than before. She closed her eyes. Why should the entire village suffer for one callow, foolish courtier?

  She opened her eyes. Mathary stood in front of her. “How—” she asked.

  “Hush, child,” Mathary said. “You must not tell the commander where the records are. You must save Val, so that Val may save Tobol An.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hush.”

  “Val won’t save Tobol An. Val has never thought of anyone besides himself in his life. How can he—”

  But Mathary had gone. Probably the old woman had never been there, Taja thought; probably the pain had caused her to see visions.

  The commander came into the room. “What were you saying?” he asked. “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling light-headed from the vision. Her gift for finding things led her to the heart of this man, laid his life and thoughts bare before her. “You don’t want to be here. You fear that Callia sent you to this backwater as punishment, that she won’t allow you to go with the troops to Shai and so win honor in battle. And you fear the traces of magic left—the poet-wizards haunt your dreams—”

  “Quiet! How dare—how dare you—”

  “You think we’ll never surrender—”

  The commander moved toward the ladder, but at that moment she heard hoofbeats on the path outside. The commander turned. A messenger hurried into the room.

  “I bring you a message from the queen,” the man said. “You and your men are to leave Tobol An at once and return to Etrara.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I wasn’t told that. There are rumors that the fighting in Shai is going badly for us.”

  The commander turned toward Taja, a look of great satisfaction on his face. “So much for your prophecies, wizard’s get,” he said. “You can hang here until I get back.”

  She must have fainted. When she woke she saw Mathary’s face close beside her, and she realized that the other woman had climbed the ladder in order to reach her bonds. Mathary helped her lower her hands.

  “Why did you—What did you mean when you said that Val—” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Hush,” Mathary said. “You must not speak of that.”

  “Were you really here? Or was it a vision?”

  “Shake your hands to get the blood back in them. Do you feel well enough to stand? I’m going to untie your feet next.”

  “But what—what happened?”

  “Great things, child. Great things.”

  Eight

  VAL STOOD AND WALKED THE CONFINES of his tiny cell. He stopped once to stare from the small window set into the side of his room, but he could see nothing except other featureless buildings, other cells, he thought. He turned and began to pace again.

  Light came from lamps of twisted iron hanging from the ceiling. A faded rug covered the floor, red with an intricate pattern of twined gold and blue.

  How had it come to this? How had the great army of Etrara lost the battle, and perhaps the war as well? What would happen to him, and to Queen Callia, and the rest of the royal family? We were overconfident, Arion had said. Val laughed harshly.

  A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. The guard, bringing him his meals. Like all the Shai Val had seen the man was tall and flaxen-haired. The guard had said nothing when they had marched him and Andosto and the other captive soldiers to their cells, and had not spoken since.

  The guard set Val’s tray down on the wooden table. A brown spider scuttled across the table, and the guard made a fist and killed it before Val could speak.

  “Why did you do that?” Val asked, startled.

  “Why not?” the guard said in his strange accent.

  So the man had a tongue after all, Val thought. He longed for conversation, even with one of the barbaric Shai. “Why? Because spiders are holy. They ascend to heaven like the gods. It brings ill fortune if you kill one.”

  To Val’s surprise the guard sat and studied him across the table for a long moment. Finally he said, “We don’t believe in that.”

  “Don’t believe in the gods?” Val asked.

  “We don’t believe that men should rise and fall like the gods. Men should know their place and stick to it. My father was a soldier, and my grandfather, and my son will be a soldier after me. That’s my place on the ladder—that’s what the gods ordained for me. You men of Etrara are far too ambitious.”

  “But it’s good to be ambitious. You might almost call ambition one of the Seven Virtues. If it hadn’t been for ambition we would never have sailed for Astrion and Udriel, the lands beyond the seas.”

  Was he truly discussing philosophy with an unlettered man of the Shai? Did he miss the court that much? But he felt pleased when the guard answered.

  “You discovered those lands because your country lies on the sea. If we’d had the ports and our priests had told us to sail west we would have done so, even if we fell off the edge of the earth.”

  “But—”

  “And we’ll have your ports soon, and Astrion and Udriel as well.” The other man grinned. “We fight border wars with our neighbors to the east—we’ve learned a great deal about warfare while fat Gobro ate sweets and lean Tariel dallied with his mistresses. It was your ambition that convinced you you could win a war with us. Your ambition will be your downfall.”

  “Do you truly think you’ll win this war? Soldiers with ambition fight harder, and in my country a common soldier can rise to be a knight or a great lord.”

  “In our country a common man can become a king, and wed a queen. But only for six months, and then he is put to death. That’s what happens to men who try to rise on the ladder.”

  Val said nothing. So it was true, then, that the Shai killed their kings. And what of the magic that was loosed by the shedding of the kings’ blood? Were those rumors true as well?

  No, that was folly. Folks said magic was so common in Shai that the people spoke in poetry. But this man before him was no poet-mage.

  Still, he could not help but wonder about the Shai sorcerers, about the man he had seen riding at the
head of the army, chanting his verses as he came. The wizards of Shai seemed to have knowledge that those of Etrara did not. Something had been lost since King Tariel’s time.

  “Your poet-mage—” Val said cautiously.

  “Kotheg,” the guard said. “The greatest mage of our time, or perhaps of any time. It’s no wonder that your troops could not stand against him.”

  “But what gives him his power?”

  For the first time the guard showed surprise, almost astonishment. “You mean you don’t know? Ah, but then your people would have no reason to sing the praises of our poet-mage. Kotheg has spent the night on Wizard’s Hill.”

  “What’s that?”

  The guard shook his head. “Truly your people are ignorant, very ignorant. If a man wants to be a sorcerer he spends the night on Wizard’s Hill. And in the morning he is either dead, or mad, or a poet.”

  “But our wizard, Penriel—”

  “Aye, he has some ability, it’s true. And ability counts for something. But to be a true poet-mage a man must risk everything.”

  “Must be ambitious, then.”

  “The rules are different for the wizards, you know that. They ascend to heaven by their poetry. Your people had a poet, a famous poet, who went to Wizard’s Hill. Coshro.”

  At first Val could not understand the guard’s barbarous accent. Then, “Cosro?” he said. “I never heard that.”

  “Aye. And when he came back to Etrara he was unable to lie, and so your king sent him into exile.”

  “But what happened to them there? What did Kotheg see, and Cosro?”

  “I don’t know. And by all the gods I hope I never find out. I would not on my life go to Wizard’s Hill.”

  The guard left shortly after that. Val sat and ate his dinner in thoughtful silence. He had to agree with the man; although he had long wished he could write like Cosro he did not think he would risk his life for the sake of a sonnet, however beautiful.

  Narrion went up Palace Hill toward the observatory. The weak sun glinted from one of the observatory’s four towers, a green copper dome. He hurried on.

  All the news he heard was bad, very bad. Etrara had lost the battle, and perhaps the war. The Shai had more men and more horses, and their poet-mage, Kotheg, had spread terror among the soldiers of Etrara.

  He knocked at the door to the observatory. The porter recognized him, and led him without speaking to Dorio’s room.

  Dorio looked up from his studies. “Did you talk to your priests?” Narrion asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say? Will they help us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What? How long will they pretend that nothing has changed? Why won’t they help?”

  “They said they are certain Callabrion will return to the heavens in his own time. And that they do not think it is our place to meddle in the affairs of the gods.”

  “By Scathiel’s big toe! Whose business is it, then, if not the disciples of the gods?”

  Dorio shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Narrion was silent a moment. “You’ll have to help me on your own, then,” he said.

  “I? What can I do?”

  “Your library has certain books I’ll need. Invocations, verses of magic …”

  “Magic? I can’t help you with magic. I’m no sorcerer.”

  “I didn’t say you were. I asked for books, nothing more.”

  “I can’t take books from the library without permission. We’re not like your lawless Society.”

  Narrion said nothing. He had heard rumors that the astronomer-priests had come to an agreement with the Shai: they would give the enemy their support in exchange for safety, sanctuary within the observatory. If that was true then he could look for no further help from Dorio.

  “You’ll be safe here, for a while,” Narrion said softly. “You can cower behind the walls of your observatory, and so avoid the Shai altogether. But the days continue to grow shorter. What will you do when the sun goes out forever, leaving us in eternal darkness?”

  He turned and left without waiting for Dorio’s answer. In a very short time, he thought, the Shai would be at the Gate of Roses. He had to get himself and Tamra to safety, had to find the books he needed to continue his work. Otherwise what he had told Dorio would become a reality: the sun would disappear forever. And even if, by some miracle, Etrara stood, all he had gained would be worth nothing.

  The troops sent from Tobol An were too few and too late. A week after Val had been captured the Shai won a decisive victory, and they marched over the Teeth of Tura toward Etrara. No apparition stopped them, and they reached the city wall and the Gate of Roses a week later.

  The Shai saw no one as they rode their horses down the Street of Roses. The commander, Rakera, looked around him uneasily, remembering the stories he had heard about Etrara. Ghosts haunted the city, they said, and there were fortunetellers who could blight a life with a single glance.

  A figure moved out of the shadows. Rakera stopped and put his hand to his sword. “My lord,” the figure said, kneeling.

  “Rise,” Rakera said, startled. It was true, then—these decadent people had no honor. He smiled. A traitor in the city would make his task much simpler. “Who are you?”

  “One who wishes only to serve,” the man said. Light glinted from the glass before his eyes, and Rakera, who had never seen spectacles before, looked at him in amazement. “Here—I have prepared a small pageant in your honor.”

  “Your name,” Rakera said harshly. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Talenor, my lord,” the man said.

  Duke Talenor, Rakera thought, no longer surprised at the extent of these people’s treachery. The traitor waved his hand. Others came forward out of the shadows. Someone played a flute, and a woman began to recite a poem welcoming the Shai to Etrara. As she spoke she motioned him forward, toward a black cloth stretched across the street.

  Rakera’s hand had never left the hilt of his sword. Now he looked back at the soldiers massed behind him, searching for his poet-mage. Kotheg spurred his horse forward until he was nearly even with his commander, and together they rode toward the cloth. Rakera motioned his men forward.

  Two men of Etrara parted the cloth. Rakera almost laughed. The traitors had built a triumphal arch to honor their conquerors. A woman came through the arch, made him a curtsy, and began to speak in praise of valor.

  When she had finished another woman joined her, this one reciting verses about honor. Rakera listened, puzzled. Why did these people speak of valor and honor when they had none? “The Seven Virtues, my lord,” Talenor said near him.

  Rakera nodded. He had heard about these, the frivolous court games of Etrara. He tried not to show his impatience.

  Finally all seven Virtues had spoken, and an eighth woman came through the arch. She repeated the names of the Virtues and recited a short poem praising Rakera; the Shai commander, she said, combined all seven Virtues in his person. All the women curtsied once more, and then the eighth woman invited the Shai to the palace, where more entertainment awaited them.

  Rakera motioned the troops forward again. Talenor moved to Rakera’s side. “Any of these women would be pleased to share your bed,” the traitor said.

  “Where is the queen?” Rakera asked.

  Talenor frowned, as if it pained him to hear questions asked so openly. “She’s fled, my lord. Queen Callia and her court went to the countryside. Only a few remain in the palace.”

  “Where in the countryside?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. My sister the Duchess Mariel also stayed behind—perhaps you could ask her.” They passed through the triumphal arch. “What do you think of this arch, my lord? Is it not fine?”

  Rakera glanced around him. Every inch of the stone had been carved. The commander shrugged; he had never liked the overelaborate art of Etrara.

  A short while later they reached the Street of Stones, and Rakera motioned the troo
ps toward Palace Hill. At the courtyard the commander sent Kotheg and some of his men into the palace to make certain that they were not walking into a trap. But even here the people of Etrara proved themselves cowards; the soldiers returned to say that the palace was almost deserted.

  Rakera dismounted and sent his horse to the stables. Talenor walked before him and knocked at the outer door. A porter opened the door to them, bowing deeply.

  Talenor led Rakera and his men through the entrance room and into the banquet hall. The traitor waved his hand. The tables in the banquet hall were set with linen and crystal and silver. Candles burned at every table, and more shone in sconces on the walls. Talenor clapped his hands. “We will have more entertainment here, and then a banquet. Does that please you, my lord?”

  “If you will taste every dish first,” Rakera said.

  Talenor looked pained again, then smiled grimly. “Certainly, my lord,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Rakera’s men began to find seats at the tables. Talenor led the commander to the dais and turned their chairs around so that they faced the stage. They sat. The traitor clapped his hands again, and gestured in front of them.

  Women danced to the stage. “A play, my lord,” Talenor said. He smiled again. “The Comedy of Hendo and Hendist.”

  A woman stepped to the front of the stage and began to speak the Prologue. Rakera frowned. Of all the things he had seen so far in Etrara the strangest was this, that these women should display themselves so openly in front of men. He himself was not as strict as some in the matter of women; he even let his own wife come with him to the major festivals. But he felt with conviction that here the people of Etrara had gone too far. Disgust and displeasure rose so strongly within him that he missed the sense of the Prologue.

  The actor who had recited the Prologue left the stage. Two women dressed as men came out. They spoke slowly and with broad gestures; Rakera understood that their speeches were intended to be humorous, but he could not follow them any more than he had understood the Prologue. For the first time he wondered if this entertainment was a jest at his expense, if he had underestimated the subtlety of these people.