Summer King, Winter Fool

by Lisa Goldstein

  Now Taja could make out the ghost in the corridor with Mariel. His irises shone silver, and his jewels sparkled in the sooty darkness. She had seen his face before, stamped on coins: King Gobro.

  “This is why I stayed, isn’t it?” Mariel said. “Callia wanted me to go with her, but I knew I had to stay here. To beg your forgiveness.”

  “She told me she would be here,” Gobro said. “But I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed you. Everything’s gone wrong since we gave you the poison. You were right—it would have been better to make peace with the Shai. You were always right—we never saw what a good ruler you were. We never knew.”

  The ghost said nothing.

  “Is it better where you are?” Mariel asked. “Is it simpler? All the complexities of your life, reduced to one foolish riddle: Where is Riel? And what will my question be, I wonder? Where is Gobro?”

  “She’s never been late before.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mariel said. A dreadful note had come into her voice, a cry of terror and longing and fear. “I’m sorry I killed you—I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  Taja struggled to come awake. The dream was ending, Callabrion be thanked; if she could only open her eyes she would be out of the dreadful city Etrara had become. She saw a jagged hill, and two figures, small against its bulk, struggling to the top. She woke.

  For a moment she did not know where she was. Then she felt the cold around her, saw the cobwebs of fog still clinging to the trees. She was in the haunted Forest of Thole, and she was searching for Val.

  She stood and mounted quickly, trying to forget the painful lonely sound of Mariel’s screams. She knew beyond any doubt that her dream had shown her what Etrara had become, that the understanding she had gained let her see things as they truly were. And if the city had changed so greatly then the sooner Val ascended to the throne the better.

  Val woke from a confused dream of Etrara, of the hot sun striking the green copper dome of the observatory and the golden turrets of the palace. He sat up in the near darkness and rummaged through his traveling bag, finally finding one of the slices of Taja’s oatmeal bread he had packed the day before.

  As he ate, and later as he mounted his horse and rode through the forest, he struggled to remember his dream. But he saw only the cold white fog and bare outlines of the trees around him, and the last remnants of the dream vanished.

  The fog grew thicker; he could barely see the trees in front of him. His horse moved to the left and he let the animal go, trusting in its ability to find the path.

  The cold matched his mood; he felt cold within as well. Had Narrion been about to sell him to the Shai? He was alone, in the forest as in the world, with no one but himself to protect him against treachery. He drove his horse forward.

  A few moments later the horse moved to the left again, and he looked around him. Hadn’t he seen this path before, those three trees together and the bare one near it? The bare tree’s limbs splayed outward; he could imagine them as cage supports, or as an anchor for a hangman’s noose.

  The horse turned left again. There could no longer be any doubt; he remembered this clump of mushrooms growing by the side of the path. He reined in his horse and looked around him.

  Fog still shrouded the forest. He dismounted, intending to study the path, and as he did so he knocked his traveling bag from the saddle.

  The bag felt light to him, too light. He looked through it and saw to his horror that he had no food left; he had eaten all the bread and hard winter apples he had packed. How long had he been wandering through the forest? It had seemed like a day, a day and a night, but now he thought, terrified, that it might have been longer.

  Who had raised this magic? It could have been Narrion or Mariel or the poet-mage of the Shai; he had no shortage of enemies. As he stood, holding the pack in his hands like a witless man, he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the path.

  He turned, straining to hear them. In the dense fog the sound seemed to come from every direction. How many horses? He moved off the path quickly.

  The fog parted. Taja rode toward him, her eyes finding him unerringly. “Val!” she said, dismounting quickly. “Thank the gods I’ve found you!”

  “Taja?” he said. “Were you behind this magic?”

  “Magic?” She studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Oh, I see. You were lost in the forest. No, I think the forest itself did that. It wanted me to find you.”

  “The forest? Why?”

  “Because I have things to tell you. Listen—Narrion tried to use magic yesterday.”

  He nodded. What mischief had Narrion done now?

  “He recited a spell by the arch of Sleeping Koregath,” she said. “He was trying to return Callabrion to the heavens. You thought he wanted to betray you, but he didn’t.”

  “He told me something of this,” Val said slowly. “But I didn’t believe him. I don’t think I believe you either. How can I, after all Narrion’s done to me?”

  “Because I understand him. And I understand you as well. I—I think I’m a poet-mage. Narrion’s magic failed, and I spoke the verses to counter it. I knew exactly which words to use, and how to use them, how to find a keystone … and I know other things as well. I know why you’re returning to Etrara, why you want to claim the kingship.”

  Once again she seemed to find his heart, to understand him effortlessly. “Do you mean Narrion was telling the truth?” he asked slowly.

  Taja nodded. “He would never harm you,” she said. “He would send you into exile, yes, and use you for his own purposes. But even when he brought you to Tobol An he knew you would be safe.”

  Relief overcame him; his legs nearly gave way under the weight of it. He had thought himself alone, had not understood the strength of Taja’s concern for him. “He told the truth,” Val said, grinning. He hugged Taja, spun her around on the path. “He told the truth! He broke his long habit of silence and told me everything. And I—I was so used to treachery I could not believe him.”

  “Do you still want to return to Etrara?” Taja asked. “Or did you only want the throne to revenge yourself against Narrion?”

  He thought of Gobro’s vast expenses, of Callia’s disastrous war. Whatever happened he knew he could rule Etrara better than his half-brother and sister. “I hope my reasons are better than that,” he said slowly. He took a deep breath. “I would like to see Etrara free of the Shai. And I would like to return home.”

  “Well, then,” she said. “You’ll need a poet-mage.”

  “You’ll come with me?” he asked, surprised.

  “Something brought us together, a king and a poet-mage. Narrion may have sent you to Tobol An for King Gobro’s sake, but I think that we were meant to meet.”

  Val nodded slowly. “You may be right,” he said. “There are more things working here than even Narrion could know.” He thought for a moment. “I learned something while I was a prisoner that might help us. But it’s dangerous—It’s—No, I won’t tell you.”

  “What do you mean? Is it something that might save Etrara?”

  He nodded reluctantly.

  “Come, Val—if it can help us—”

  “A man in Shai, my jailer—he talked to me about their poet-mage, Kotheg. He said that Kotheg had spent the night on Wizard’s Hill in Shai, that to gain power a man—or a woman—must spend the night there. And that by the end of the night they would be either dead, or mad, or a poet.”

  “That was my dream!” she said. “I dreamt I went up a mountain. And Val, you were there with me. It was a true dream, then, a dream of the future.”

  “No,” Val said. “No, I have no right to ask this of you. You can’t know what will happen. Dead, or mad—”

  “I know what you’re hiding from me, Val. I know that Callia’s mage Penriel did not go to Wizard’s Hill, and neither did Anthiel. But Kotheg did, and he was able to overcome them both.”

  Taja hesitated a moment. “Something tells me to go
with you,” she said. “I think that I will not be whole, will not be a true poet-mage, until I spend the night on Wizard’s Hill. I want to claim my birthright, just as you do.”

  He turned to her. Only an hour ago he had been alone, fleeing Tobol An in fear of Narrion’s treachery; now his fear was gone and he had a companion, a poet-mage, at his side. The outcome was still uncertain; it was probably folly to think that they could walk unseen into the enemy’s country. But his heart was strangely light. “Well, then,” he said. “I thank you.”

  Val and Taja returned to Tobol An, intending to look for maps of Shai in the library. They decided to tell no one but Pebr about their decision; the Shai might return, Val said, and it would be best if as few people as possible knew where they had gone.

  “No,” Pebr said. “This is lunacy—I won’t let you go.”

  “We’re going anyway, Uncle,” Taja said. “We just wanted to tell you first.”

  “No, you’re not. Think about what you’re doing—going off into the enemy’s country, for one thing, and that isn’t even the worst of it. You could be dead at the end of it, isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Nothing will happen to us.”

  “You can’t promise me that. If you survive this you’ll be a—a mage, and mages never live long.”

  “I have to go, Uncle.”

  Pebr sighed. He looked frail, defeated, his arms thin as bare branches. “I would have spared you this if I could,” she said softly.

  “You’re the only family I have,” he said.

  “I know. But I’ll come back to you, I promise.”

  “Your father said the same thing,” Pebr said.

  “What did Pebr mean?” Val asked Taja. They had spent a few hours in the library but had not found a good map of Shai. Now they were heading back, hurrying toward Pebr’s cottage before the light failed. “You promised you’d come back, and he said that your father had said the same thing.”

  “I don’t know,” Taja said. “My parents were fisher-folk—they lived in a village to the south, in Mirro An. They drowned in a storm when I was very young, and Pebr brought me here. I suppose my father told Pebr he’d always come back from the sea.”

  “That’s strange,” Val said.

  “What?”

  “Look. Over there. Your uncle’s talking to Mathary.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Near the cliffs.”

  “By all the gods,” Taja said slowly. “I wonder what they found to talk about.”

  Ten

  A WEEK AFTER VAL AND TAJA LEFT TOBOL An, Narrion and Tamra rode into the Forest of Thole. The sun had not yet risen, and the trees were blacker shapes against the darkness. As they picked their way carefully along the path a strange gloomy light, like the light seen through stained glass at the palace, began to filter through the trees, and they could see flakes of snow, small as jewels, fall from the sky. Their breath ghosted white in the air.

  As they rode Narrion thought of his failure. He had spoken the wrong verses, used the wrong ritual. Doubtless the library at Tobol An had the invocation he needed, but he could not find it without Taja; he had no idea how to search through all the books on his own. And Taja had made it clear she would not help him. He had to go back to Etrara, had to talk to others at the observatory and in the Society of Fools.

  He had explained his decision to the troupe of actors the night before, but all but Tamra had refused to follow him. It would be dangerous to return to Etrara, they had said, and even more dangerous to try to work magic. They still remembered the terrifying moment by the arch when they had almost turned to stone.

  They came to the city by midafternoon. The Gate of Stones was closed and guarded by two men in the golden armor of the Shai. Narrion dismounted. He and Tamra wore the homespun clothing of Tobol An, but his tunic concealed some of the jewels he had taken when he fled Etrara. It would be dangerous if the guards stopped them.

  “What is your business in Etrara?” one of the guards asked.

  “I’m here to see some of the merchants in the city,” Narrion said. “I have messages from Tobol An.”

  “Messages? What sort of messages?” the first guard said, but the second guard was already opening the gate and motioning them through.

  Narrion mounted and followed Tamra through the gate, his face impassive. He had invented a story about fish merchants and trade but he could not be certain that the guards would believe him.

  Most of the houses on either side of the Street of Stones had burned to the ground. Men and women lay sprawled in the street with their begging bowls in front of them, and more people squatted in cages above them. The air smelled of smoke. “Please, master,” one of the beggars said. “The Shai burned my home—”

  Narrion urged his horse past him. Another man came up to him. “Scathiel will reward your charity,” he said, looking up at Narrion slyly.

  It was the manner of beggars in Etrara to imply that they were whatever god had descended to earth, Scathiel in summer and Callabrion in winter. Any storyteller could tell a tale of generosity rewarded a thousandfold by the gods, of people whose casual gift of alms had caused them to rise high on the ladder. But Narrion knew that this man could not possibly be Scathiel; Scathiel still ruled in heaven.

  Tamra slowed in front of him. “It’s—it’s terrible,” she said. “Look—that’s where the gaming house was.”

  He nodded. But he could do nothing against the Shai, he knew that. His own concerns were far more desperate than who ruled Etrara: if Callabrion did not ascend to heaven the harvests would fail.

  They came to the Darra River and crossed the bridge, then continued up toward Palace Hill. Even here, in the upper city, Narrion could see beggars and burned houses. Pale winter grass grew up between the cobblestones on the streets. Soldiers marched two and three abreast, and the few people who had ventured out-of-doors fell silent as they passed.

  The marketplace at the crossroads was closed, the stalls shuttered and locked, the colorful banners furled. The university was deserted save for a few Shai guards, and one of its buildings had been laid bare by fire. As they passed, the bells from the clock tower rang out. Narrion looked up in surprise. He would have expected the Shai to silence them, along with everything else.

  He had hoped to see Val in Etrara; Pebr, when asked, had said that Val had returned to the city. Narrion suspected Pebr of not telling the truth; like Val, the old man was a poor liar. But he could not think of anywhere else Val might have gone. Now, though, studying the streets before him, he saw how vain it had been to expect to meet anyone in this desolate place.

  He turned down a crooked way near the theater and halted before one of the houses. Then he dismounted and knocked at the door. No one answered. He knocked again. After a long moment he heard footsteps. The door opened a little, then was flung wide as the man inside saw who stood on his doorstep. “Narrion!” the man said, obviously delighted.

  “Good fortune, Noddo,” Narrion said.

  Noddo laughed. “No one wishes anyone good fortune anymore,” he said. “There’s so little of it around, after all. But come in, come in. There’s a stable at the back.”

  After they had seen to the horses Noddo led them into the house. He was a small man, with tufts of brown hair growing at the sides and back of his head. He had a way of walking on the balls of his feet that made children laugh, even when he was clothed in the skeleton of the Society of Fools. “It’s good to see you,” Noddo said. “You hear all sorts of rumors, you know. Some folks said that you’d died.”

  “No, I’m alive—very much alive. Do you know my wife Tamra?”

  Noddo made her an elaborate bow. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing her act,” he said. “Sit, please.” He motioned them to high-backed wooden chairs. “Where have you been?”

  “A fishing village called Tobol An. We fled Etrara when the Shai invaded.”

  “Would you like some tea, or some ale?” Noddo asked. “We can’t go to a tavern, you know—it’
s no longer possible to talk where you can be overheard. And I have the idea that what you want to say is dangerous. You were never one to sit safe at home.”

  “Dangerous? Everyone knows that Callabrion has not ascended this year, but is it dangerous to say so?”

  “It is, yes. The Shai are fearful that the people will panic at the slightest sign. Tell the citizens of Etrara that their crops will fail this year, that they’ll have to go hungry as well as homeless, and they’re likely to revolt.”

  “But the days continue to grow shorter. Surely that can’t be kept a secret.”

  Noddo shrugged. “People see what they want to see. If you can be caged for saying the sky is dark rather than light you’ll keep your observations to yourself. And who knows?—the sky may even start to look lighter to you.”

  “Well,” Narrion said. He leaned back in his chair and told Noddo what had happened when he had tried to summon Callabrion.

  “And you did all this—alone?” Noddo asked when he had finished.

  “With the actors’ help, yes.”

  Noddo’s slightly foolish expression had vanished; his brown eyes were hooded and he looked serious, almost worried. “I can’t say that I can help you, or that any of the Society can help you. Our business is with the rituals of the Descending God, after all. If Callabrion has not ascended it’s a matter for the astronomer-priests—or would be, if the priests had not made a treaty with the Shai.”

  “I’ve heard rumors of that,” Narrion said. “But this is our concern as much as theirs. Scathiel needs Callabrion, as misrule needs rule. You taught me that.”

  Noddo laughed a little. “Aye. But this is a far cry from my experience as a Fool. If the songs and dances of the Feast of the Descending God could help you I would be the first to offer my services. But I couldn’t imagine how you would summon Callabrion.”

  “I thought the Society might have books, or know of rituals—”

  “No—none of our books deals with the summer god. What about the library at the university?”