“Good fortune,” the man said.
“Val?” Tamra said.
“Val, yes. And Taja, who has spent the night on Wizard’s Hill, and is now a poet-mage.”
“You—you were the mage I heard,” Narrion said to Taja. “The wizard who helped me summon Callabrion.”
Taja nodded. “Yes. You must not meddle in magic again, Narrion—it is too subtle for your understanding.” She turned to Callabrion and bent in a slight curtsy. “My lord,” she said, and then looked back at Narrion. “You have your wish—you’ve summoned a god. What do you intend to do with him?”
“I thought to ask him to return to the heavens,” Narrion said. “The days grow dim and cold, the crops begin to fail throughout Etrara.… Perhaps you could help me.”
Taja shrugged. “Over the gods I have no power,” she said. “We’ve come to free Etrara from the Shai.”
Andosto looked up sharply at that. “To free—” he said. His face bore a strange expression, a mixture of exaltation and purpose.
Before they could respond the god Callabrion spoke. “I know you,” he said, his green eyes lighting on Val.
“Yes, my lord,” Val said. “You argued in defense of love at one of Lady Sbarra’s gatherings. And I agreed with you.”
“Yes. I remember that. But I think that I’ve always known you, that you are a kinsman of mine. A child of Sbona. A son of Sbona, yes, and the rightful king of Etrara.”
“King—” Narrion said. He looked at the man he had thought was his cousin, astonished beyond words.
“King, yes,” Val said. “The son of King Tariel III and Queen Marea. There are records in the library at Tobol An, if any doubt me.” He looked at each of them in turn. No one spoke. “I’ve come to claim my birthright.”
King Valemar, Narrion thought. His legs seemed unable to hold him; he sat down at the table next to Tamra. How had he miscalculated so badly?
But the day was to hold one final surprise. Andosto drew his sword from its scabbard and sank to his knees. “My king,” he said. “Will you accept my sword?”
“I will,” Val said. “I would be pleased to command a man who fought so bravely against the Shai. Rise, my friend.”
Andosto stood slowly. “What do you intend to do?”
“I have some ideas,” Val said. He looked around him. “And in this room I see a god, a king, a poet-mage, a warrior and two Fools. Surely together we can make some plan that will stand against the Shai.”
Val looked around the table. For just a moment he wondered how he was to lead this band of people; he did not have a fraction of their experience. Then he put his doubts aside and concentrated on the task before him; he would have to learn a great deal in a very short time if he was to be a king.
“I think we should begin with small raids on the palace,” Andosto said. “Skirmishes with the watch.”
Val made a note on a piece of paper in front of him, and nodded at Andosto to continue. “I’ve done it before,” Andosto said. “It’s a way to gain support among the people. More and more of them will come to join us.”
“They say the Shai execute ten people for every man of theirs killed,” Taja said.
“We’ll never free ourselves without bloodshed,” Andosto said.
“Is that true?” Taja said. “We could use sorcery.”
“The Shai have a poet-mage,” Andosto said.
“Kotheg,” Val said thoughtfully. “I saw him in the mountains.”
“They might have more than one,” Narrion said. “You said yourself that Wizard’s Hill is in Shai.”
“Even with one wizard, a battle of sorcery is always dangerous,” Noddo said. “We might lose more soldiers than with Andosto’s skirmishes.”
“And we might not,” Taja said forcefully. “Why not let me try it?”
“You might be killed,” Andosto said.
“So might you—”
“Quiet,” Val said. Everyone turned to him, expectant. “We’ll try Andosto’s plan at first,” he said. “We’re not strong enough for anything else right now—we need to win more followers among the people. And we need to learn more about the Shai, to discover how strong they are and if Kotheg is with them. Then we’ll fight them with magic. Will you be ready, Taja?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Good,” Val said. “I’ll lead a raid tonight.”
“My lord,” Andosto said. “You must not risk your life on a raid. I have friends who feel as I do about the Shai—I’ll go.”
“A king must protect his people.”
“You protect them best by keeping yourself safe.”
Val said nothing. Noddo had taught him the dreadful counting rhyme the Shai sang, and he had heard it once himself on the streets: “One is for Gobro …” Four was for Callia, he remembered; would five be for Valemar?
He sat back, defeated. “Very well,” he said. “May all the gods go with you, Andosto.”
That night Andosto went out into the streets of Etrara and called upon his friends, the men who had gone with him on his other skirmishes against the Shai. They were reluctant to fight, unwilling to call death down on themselves and their neighbors. But he told them about the new king, and as he spoke he watched them grow eager, excited at the news.
When he had collected his men they headed east down the Street of Roses. They passed under the triumphal arch the traitor Talenor had built; a few of them spat on it as they went. Then they reached the gate that opened east, to Shai: the Gate of Roses. They concealed themselves near the wall inside the city.
Wheels and horses’ hooves sounded in the distance, and Andosto looked out carefully through the gate. A convoy was headed toward them, one of the caravans that came nightly from Shai, bringing the food that was becoming rarer and rarer as the days declined and the crops rotted in the ground. Andosto saw two men in bulky robes riding horses at the head, and then half a dozen carts and wagons. He frowned. They had added guards to their convoys since his last raids; the two men in front could not be anything else.
One of his men stepped out of hiding and stood in the road, blocking the convoy. The guards were forced to pull up on their reins, and the rest of the convoy came to a halt. “Have you seen my wife?” the man said. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
“A ghost,” one of the guards said to the other. “Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” the other guard said, but Andosto heard the shiver of fear in the man’s voice. Taja had said that all the ghosts in Shai were bound in some way to Wizard’s Hill, and he believed it; no country where ghosts were common would kill their kings as recklessly as the Shai did.
“She told me she would meet me here, at the Gate of Roses,” Andosto’s man said, sounding plaintive. “Have you seen her?”
“Move aside,” the first guard said. He touched his reins and the horse danced a little, unable or unwilling to move on.
“What’s happening here?” someone from the convoy asked.
“There’s a ghost in the road,” the second guard said.
“A ghost?”
The sound of muffled conversation came from the convoy, and then Andosto heard the creaking of wheels as men climbed down off their carts and wagons. Probably they had been raised on stories of the ghosts of Etrara, just as he had been told the people of Shai drank their king’s blood. They crowded forward, fearful and eager.
Andosto moved back toward the carts. His men followed. One man had remained to guard the convoy; he had risen in his seat and was craning his neck to peer past the crowd. Andosto’s men came up behind him and pulled him down, binding his hands and mouth. It was done so silently and skillfully that no one from the convoy turned to look.
Andosto signaled to his men to wait. He climbed up to the bench behind the driver and looked out at the Shai, watching as they moved farther and farther down the Street of Roses. If all went according to plan the man who acted the ghost would lead them as far from the convoy as he could, speaking of enchantment
s and the strange knowledge acquired after death.
Andosto motioned to his men again. A few of them climbed onto the carts and quickly tossed down wooden boxes and clay jars to the men waiting below. Others hurried to store the provisions in an abandoned well; the cover would be dragged back over the well at the raid’s end and the provisions retrieved later.
A man rolled a cask of what smelled like wine to the edge of the cart. It slipped and hit another cask. The man cursed softly.
One of the men from Shai turned, called out. Andosto and the others jumped from the cart and ran down one of the narrow alleys inside the city wall. He heard running footsteps, too many of them to be his men; the Shai were following them. At a junction of three streets he and his men split up. Someone cried out; someone else screamed.
He hurried on toward the agreed-upon meeting place. The sounds of pursuit were far behind now.
The next morning Val sat at the table and studied the crude map of Etrara he had drawn. The lines of the map—the city walls and gates, Palace Hill, Darra River—began to blur and he forced himself to pay attention. Andosto had left the night before and hadn’t come back.
A noise from outside roused him. He went to the window and then dropped back as he saw several Shai soldiers leading a group of citizens of Etrara. A herald for the Shai began to call out in a loud voice, but Val understood what had happened long before he heard the man’s explanation. Andosto’s raid had been successful: these unfortunate men and women would be killed in retaliation.
Val sat back at the table and put his head in his hands. He had hoped he would not have to face this when he had asked the others to fight the Shai. How could he deal with a people who had no honor? And they had called him decadent!
Had he been wrong to order the raids? Had people died because of his mistakes?
Someone sat next to him. Val raised his head and saw Narrion. What did the other man want? “This is what happens in war,” Narrion said.
“Not in any war I was ever in,” Val said. “This is—It’s dishonest, and cowardly.…”
Narrion shrugged. “All wars are the same. One side has something, and the other side tries to take it from them by force.”
“But some causes are more honorable than others. We’re trying to free what is ours, not take something from the Shai.”
“Oh, the reasons for war differ. But the result is always the same—pain and sorrow, confusion and death. “War belongs to Scathiel, whatever the others might say.”
“And you believe that this is a good thing? You and the Society of Fools?”
“We say that it exists. That’s all.”
“But how can I—” Someone screamed in the street. Val stood, as if driven from his seat by the scream, and began to pace the small room. “How can I stand by and let this—this horror continue?”
Narrion turned to watch him. “I don’t know,” he said. “The followers of Scathiel only ask questions—we’re not used to answering them.”
“And who provides the answers? Callabrion?” He looked over to where Callabrion sat with Tamra, their heads bent over a game of chess. He lowered his voice. “It’s been a long time since Callabrion answered anything.”
“Sometimes it’s just enough to ask the question,” Narrion said.
Andosto unlocked the door and came in. Val turned quickly. “What happened?” he asked.
“You saw the Shai,” Andosto said, motioning toward the street outside the room. “We took some provisions for Etrara, but we had to kill a guard.”
Val nodded. He took a deep breath, forced himself to put his doubts aside. “How many soldiers were there?” he asked. “Did you see Kotheg? Come—sit here and tell me all about it.”
The skirmishes continued. So did the retaliations, ten citizens dead for every Shai killed. Twice Val thought to give the order to stop the raids; he thought that nothing could be worth so many deaths, not even the freedom of Etrara.
But the amount of information Andosto and Narrion brought back with them grew: soldiers and troop movements and times of the watch. And more and more people joined them each night; excitement ran through the city like a river.
A week after they had begun the raids Narrion and Andosto went out and did not return. Val spent the morning pacing the room impatiently. “Sit, Val,” Noddo said. “Your worry won’t help them.”
Val glanced around him. Noddo sat with Val’s map of Etrara in his lap; Tamra and Callabrion were studying the chessboard on the table. The god could not toss the conjuring sticks without casting his own face, the face of the summer god; he had quickly abandoned the sticks and played game after game of chess with Tamra instead. He had resisted every attempt to draw him out; he would not talk about his place in the heavens at all.
Val wondered if Narrion had been wrong about Callabrion. Perhaps he did not return to Sbona’s court because he had forgotten his life there. Perhaps he had wrapped himself so completely in the beauty of the world, had lost himself so fully in his mother’s earth, that he did not remember the way back to her. If that was true then all Narrion’s arguments would not change things; the god needed something more.
Val shook his head. Now was not the time to worry about Narrion’s schemes. “My worry won’t help them, no,” he said. “But I might rescue them.”
“And get yourself killed as well?”
“It’s time to do something,” Val said. “The others are risking their lives while I sit here in safety. And I’ll have Taja with me, a poet-mage.”
“What about Kotheg?” Noddo asked. “Is he in Etrara? Does Taja know enough to stand against him?”
“I don’t know,” Taja said. “But I won’t learn more by staying here.”
“Let’s go,” Val said. He opened the door and looked out. A gust of icy wind blew past him down the deserted street.
He shivered and pulled his cloak closer around him. As he glanced down he saw the shimmering colors of the cloak fade back toward somber black and gray; Taja was renewing her spell.
“Wait,” Noddo said. “Take me with you.”
Val shrugged. He didn’t think the older man could help in any way, but he could not prevent him from coming along. He turned to look at him. If I could have anyone in this room, he thought, I’d take Callabrion. Who could stand against us if we had a god on our side?
But Callabrion was still playing chess with Tamra. His hand, nearly as big as a dinner plate, moved out over the board; it hovered over a knight, then lifted his astronomer-priest. He did not glance up as they set out.
“Do you know where they are?” he asked Taja.
She nodded. “I think I can find them for you,” she said.
The streets were silent. Darkness lay upon them like thick soot. Lamps and candles shone from the houses as they walked by, but the light seemed unable to penetrate the gloom.
“The Shai issued an edict,” Noddo said. His voice sounded muffled in the layers of shadows. “Ever since the days started getting darker like this. Every house has to keep a light burning.”
They came to the Street of Stones and headed toward Palace Hill. Almost immediately Taja stopped. Val followed her gaze. Andosto hung in an iron cage above them.
“Andosto!” Val said, not daring to speak above a whisper.
The man in the cage above them stirred. For a dreadful moment Val thought that they had made a mistake, that this person could not possibly be Andosto. He looked weary, defeated. “I am called Borno,” the caged man said. “I know no one named Andosto. Do you have any food?”
“Sorcery,” Taja said. She was whispering as well. “I’ve never seen anything like this. They’ve made him forget who he is.”
“Andosto,” Val said again. “Wait for us—we’ll find a way to get you down.”
“My name is Borno,” Andosto said. “Go away—please go away. If I’m seen with rebels I’ll be killed—they told me so.”
Val looked up and down the street, remembering the information Andosto and Narrion had br
ought him. The watch might come upon them at any moment. Then he looked back at the cage. He could not believe that anyone could be so changed; they had taken not only Andosto’s name but his sense of who he was. “Can you do something?” he asked Taja.
“I’ll try,” she said. She began the words of an invocation, chose a keystone.
“My lord,” Noddo said. His voice was urgent.
A troop of men came toward them down the street; in the gloom Val could not see how many there were. Their swords caught the light from the houses and shone silver in the darkness. Taja finished her verse quickly, quieting the currents of magic she had raised. They stared at the men as they came, uncertain whether to flee or fight.
The man in front went down on his knees and offered Val the hilt of his sword. “My king,” the man said.
“Rise,” Val said.
“My name is Oldo, my lord,” the man said, getting to his feet. “We’ve heard about you from Andosto.”
The word “king” was a kind of keystone, Val thought. It changed things as if by magic; it bound together people who would not normally have anything to do with each other. This man will follow any command I choose to give him, Val thought, and follow it without question. For the first time he felt shaken with the extent of his power. Suddenly he understood Gobro’s lovers, Callia’s cruelty.
“They’ve ensorcelled him,” Oldo said, indicating Andosto. “We hid and watched their poet-mage. A man named Kotheg, with a face like a stone.”
“Kotheg,” Val said.
“He was mad,” Oldo said. “He mumbled his verses, and then screamed them aloud. In the village where I grew up they say that all poet-mages are mad.”
Val looked around him into the gloom. “The watch will come soon,” he said. “We have no time for spells. Do you know where Narrion is?”
“Narrion?” Oldo said. “I don’t know.”
“Go away!” Andosto said loudly. He began to rock the cage back and forth in his terror. “I told you—I won’t have anything to do with you. I’m not a rebel.”
“Narrion’s near the palace, my lord,” Taja said.
“Is he caged? Ensorcelled?” Val asked.
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Summer King, Winter Fool Page 24
