The Tale of Oriel

by Cynthia Voigt

  He wished to understand what he had done wrong, that he might do right. In his confusion—in his longing for Merlis—in his need of her advice, he sent for Beryl. But she was nowhere to be found in the city, and even Griff didn’t know where she might be.

  The ladies of the court counseled him instead. Some thought he should find a landed lady who would know the luck she had in such a suitor. Some thought he should pretend to think another more desirable, and then, they said, Merlis would seek him out. Others maintained that a woman spoke most sharply to the man she most desired, as if a woman feared to give a man her heart and therefore tried to drive him away before he could see the danger she was in. “Merlis doesn’t know her own heart,” they all agreed. “If you win her, she will be glad,” they promised him. “If you persist.”

  Oriel persisted. The desire he had to be in her company, if he couldn’t have her smiles, for the sight of her if he couldn’t hear her voice—unless she was nearby, he had no peace, and when she avoided him all around the hall his longing burned like a flame in him. When—and it happened thrice; on three occasions that shone like bonfires on a dark plain it happened so—during an evening of dance and song, the lady looked around to meet his eyes and summon him to her with a smile, and speak fair to him—then he was dazed, dazzled, and filled with hope. He was unsurprised that Merlis at last had chosen him. He was no less joyful, and his longing did not abate, but he was unsurprised. Unsurprised, but as glad as the land itself must be, to feel the warm spring sunlight falling at last upon it after the cold of winter, and to feel its own richness stirring within it, to feel the grass and flower swelling out, tree and herb and grain, all growing things.

  Thrice after such occasions, his sword was like a bird in its quickness and flight, and no man could stand against him. Joy was a more potent weapon to him than grief or anger. Joy made him invulnerable. After such occasions, he would go eagerly to the next meeting with Merlis—and she would turn coldly away, scorning him.

  Gwilliane was worried. “Merlis is not the woman to play so coyly with you. There is some deep feeling there.”

  Oriel could not speak, for the hope that the deep feeling was for him.

  “We have deemed her ill,” Gwilliane said. “We have measured her in her own lands, never in herself.”

  Oriel could make it all up to her, in the devotion of his heart that would never weaken.

  “Poor child,” Gwilliane said, and Oriel understood that it was the lady Merlis whom she pitied.

  “Tell me,” he said, because he wished to know all that he might of the lady, and because to be talking of her both eased and fueled his longing.

  “Merlis was raised to great pride, and in the bitterness of the inheritance she could never have. And what have we done for her? I think, Oriel, that no woman should believe that a man might think death a fair exchange for the chance of her hand.”

  When Oriel saw the lady thus, in herself and removed from his desire for her, he knew what her perfect lover would do:

  Her perfect lover would win the prize, and then lay it at the lady’s feet. He would give to her the governance of her lands, and of her own heart. He would give it freely, knowing the chance that she might not give her heart, and hand, and lands, to him, even though he was the most worthy. Even though he had proved his worth in the battles of the Tourney, and then again in the gift, she might prefer another. But even knowing this, the perfect lover would serve his lady rightly.

  Oriel understood this, but he knew his longing for Merlis was too strong. If he could win her, he would take her, willing or no. He wished her willing but if she could not be, then she could not. He would keep her, willing or no, in the castle he had won away from her, in his bed. If he could just win her, he would not let her go.

  But he longed to find her willing, since she must come to him through the blood of men he admired, at the price of their lives, since she must come only at risk of his own life, since she was so beautiful and proud and had his heart.

  AT LAST, BUT IT WAS only the ninth day after he had first seen the lady, the day of the Tourney arrived. By the end of that day there would be an Earl over the south. That man would be wed, and would then have the task of bringing order back to his lands. The day that dawned pink and gold would end in blood for many, and Oriel greeted it with relief.

  For soon the game would be played out. He would have death or the lady, but he thought he would likely have the lady. He had measured his opponents—had he not taught them how to give themselves to the water, and seen which part of them fear touched first? and how each reacted? He knew their hearts, every one.

  He knew his own heart, and his own desires. In what he had been, he saw what he might be. He dressed himself in green—shirt and trousers—over which the light armor would gleam silver. He pulled on high boots and strapped on his sword. He thought of the lady, and then drove her from his mind and heart, until the day should be done.

  Only Griff was with him. Haldern had gone on ahead to stand with Rafella among the royal party at the Tourney. Oriel felt gratitude, that morning, for Haldern, and for Griff, and even for Rulgh and before him the Saltweller and the men of Selby. He thought that it might be said to be the sixth Damall who had started him along the path that led him to this day—and he laughed aloud.

  The morning air was crisp, winy. It seemed to Oriel that with every step, every time his foot went down on the earth, his strength increased. It seemed that with every breath he drew in, he became more clever, and perhaps wise, too. He stepped out, glad, and Griff was beside him.

  THE TOURNEY HAD THREE STAGES. For the first, the contenders would present themselves to the King and the lady Merlis, to argue their suits. For the second, they would ride against one another, to unseat with lances and—if lucky—bruise one another or—if very lucky—break another’s bones, which would lessen the opposition in the third and final stage of the Tourney, duel with swords to the death.

  Oriel was ready for the risks. He was trained for them, trained against them, and he welcomed the contest. He and Griff walked up the winding streets. The sun rose up into the sky. At the Tourney field, warm sunlight fell down over everything, and the leaves shone on the trees as bright as the jewels of the lords and ladies.

  An open tent had been set up to shade the dais where the King sat with his Queen, and the lady Merlis with them. The long greensward, edged by ancient trees, spread out before the dais. Grooms held horses, which nudged and nuzzled at one another, unknowing that they must soon thunder down upon one another like enemies. Lances stood propped together, all holding all the others erect, like brothers. The contestants stood together, each with his attendant.

  Oriel approached and saw immediately how the day’s work—even before it had been begun—isolated each man, each one away from every other. Each man’s face was a mask, and Oriel felt the mask that was his own face. He turned it to the masks of the men who had—until this day—been his comrades. For there were only six left now in the contest.

  He went up to the dais and bowed before the King, the Queen, and the lady Merlis.

  That morning was one on which the lady smiled at him. To see her smile—at him—his heart rose, leaped, tumbled over. His legs nearly trembled. None, to look at him, would have seen this; but Oriel knew it.

  He turned to the other suitors and it hit him like a glove in the face:

  He must kill each man, to win the prize.

  He almost wheeled around on his heels to challenge the King, or to beg the King to once again change the rules of contest. Lilos, who was the gentlest of men, was the King’s own son, and did a King care less for his sons than other men did? Tseler also had a son to lose here, dignified and astute and an honor to his father. All but Oriel had fathers to give them up. And these sons, did these sons care less for their lives than other men? Oriel did not.

  Must the Earl come to his title at the price of such men?

  Oriel stood among the silent suitors as the thoughts rose up in hi
s mind, like trees pushing their way full grown up out of the generous earth.

  Must Oriel come to the title at such a price?

  Beautiful as the lady was, and proud, and as needful of happiness to ease her sad heart, and rich as the lands were, and wide: Was there no other way to make an Earl?

  He wished he had time to talk to Griff on the question. For there surged up into his mind a way to try that would not soak the earth in blood. But he would risk all in trying it.

  Aye, and even if he won the Earldom, if he won in this manner he would have lost too much in the winning. Better to risk all than to lose such men, wasn’t it?

  If he risked so, and won, he might even give the lady back her own hand. He well might. He didn’t have to. He ought to, he hoped he would, he hoped he could when the time came.

  Looking around at the mask faces, Oriel said to them, “I ask the privilege to be the first to speak to the lady.”

  None protested, for each had privately decided, as Oriel had, that the man who spoke first must of necessity be in the weakest position. The others, following him, could mimic and echo his words and ideas, should they be fine enough, or they could avoid the errors of thought and voice they saw him make. Moreover, the present event was most vivid, and thus the most recent speaker would seem most convincing. The last man to speak, therefore, had the strongest position.

  Although, Oriel had thought without saying it, and thought that each suitor had had the same thought, since it came to blood anyway, it mattered little when or how well you spoke or thought. Since a dancing bear—if he but stood living at the end of the day—would have the lady, and be the Earl.

  When the trumpets blew into the air, and the suitors stood in a line on the green grass before the King’s pavilion, Oriel drank in the winy air and stepped forward. He bowed to the King, and to the Queen. He went onto one knee before Merlis. “Lady,” he said.

  Her grey eyes were cold on him. Her hair shone pale gold.

  Oriel stood, to speak. “You of my heart.”

  She did not smile, or show that she heard his voice.

  “I have sailed in the dangerous night across the sea to come before you,” Oriel said. “I have climbed the stony sides of impassable mountains, to stand here. I have endured servitude and slaughter, cruelty and cold, to come to you. Always, I have left the place I held to come to you.”

  The lady Merlis was not impressed by such things, her face said.

  “Lady, I would assay a dragon at your behest,” he said. “I would go without food or sleep until I had called the moon down from the sky, to please you. I would make walls with stones dug out of the earth with my bare hands, to keep you safe. I would spend every waking hour of my entire life waiting for you to smile upon me.”

  This pleased her more. Given time, Oriel knew, he could have won her, without an Earldom in the offing, without anything more than his willing heart, he could have won her. But he had not been given time.

  “For you are the bright gemstone of the world, lady. I give you my heart, and gladly, and my service, gladly, and I would gladly give you my life.”

  He waited briefly, for her to be sure how much he would give for her before he added, “But I will not give the lives of these men.”

  He had puzzled her, and the King stirred forward in his throne. The Queen placed a restraining hand on her lord’s shoulder. He could guess the words Gwilliane spoke into her lord’s ear: “Give him a little time to speak, sire. For my son, if for no better cause.”

  Oriel turned to the men. “So I ask you, suitors. I ask if you will give over to me your claims. If you will do so, all of you, then I will take the lady’s hand and count myself the most fortunate of men. If you would choose another, and all agree, then I will bend my knee to him, and count him the most fortunate. I would do much to win the hand and lands of the lady, I have done much and will do more; but I will not reach out to her, or to her people, a hand stained with the blood of so many good men.”

  The masks were still over their faces and he couldn’t read their minds. “What do you answer me?” he asked. His question was for the five, but Griff’s face told him that whatever came of this chance, Oriel had acted rightly. Always he had heart-trusted Griff, and now their eyes met again in understanding.

  There was a long silent time, while the wind rustled and the King’s party grew impatient, and the horses stamped their great hooves upon the soft ground. Then Lilos stepped forward. He looked Oriel in the eye and went onto one knee before him, offering Oriel his sword. He didn’t offer the sword as if in surrender but as if it were a gift. Verilan came to kneel beside him, then Wardel and Garder, leaving only Tintage indecisive.

  Lilos turned around, with the privilege of princehood. “Don’t be a fool, Tintage.”

  Wardel looked over his shoulder to add, “You know he’ll deal fairly with you. And you know he is the best of us.”

  Tintage’s hands moved nervously. There was a stillness in his eyes. Oriel wondered, if only Tintage refused, would it be enough to fight only Tintage? To kill one was much less than to kill many. But he wished to kill none.

  He would not have the title, if he must kill for it. He knew that now. He waited Tintage’s decision.

  At last, Tintage came forward, and went down on one knee, and held out his sword. On the dais, someone broke off a cry.

  Oriel had all their swords in his hands. He lifted the handful of swords up over his head, and turned to show them to the King and Queen, and the lady, and then he gave them back, one by one, to the kneeling men, asking the men, one by one, to stand. Then he turned again to face the King.

  The King rose, in his robe and crown. His face looked sternly down at Oriel. This was the last danger. Oriel knelt to present his own sword to the King. “Sire, I ask you to name me,” he said, “and I ask you to accept my most solemn fealty. For under the law, I am the final contender.” Griff had taught him how to argue the law, and Oriel hoped that the King—whom he now forced to act without his advisors at his ear—would choose, again, the deathless way.

  “Then I do name you,” the King spoke. “And I give unto you in token the sword of the Earls Sutherland, with the falcon’s wings outspread at the hilt. I place on your finger the ring of the Earls Sutherland, that your sealed orders may carry the weight of law across the land. I give into your hand this beryl, carved with the falcon, ancient sign of the wealth of the Earls Sutherland.”

  Oriel felt as if he stood taller at each gift. He awaited the final one, the best of them.

  “And I give into your hand,” the King said, reaching out to bring Merlis forward, “the lady Merlis, who carries the ancient blood of the Earls Sutherland.”

  The lady put her hand into his, and her mouth opened wordlessly—like a woman who looks upon her fate with Wolfers.

  He was the Earl now, Oriel knew. He had been named by the King, and the title belonged to him as surely and as absolutely as if he had been born to it. So he must let her go.

  Because to see in her such fear and anger and despair, and at his cause, was more than he could bear for her. He opened his mouth to say so to her, reaching out his other hand to her, to give her life into her own holding.

  “Tintage!” she cried, as if there were danger. “Tintage!”

  There was a movement behind him, and a thrusting coldness at the back, but when he turned to see what it was the thick cold was sucked out of him and he saw only Tintage’s eyes, brown as moleskin, and fearful.

  Voices, alarms, shrieks rose into the air and his knees buckled and he saw that Merlis had run to Tintage, and hung at his neck with her arms around him, and she looked back over her shoulder at Oriel and Griff held him erect, on his feet, without his knees. Oriel leaned against Griff, to find his breath.

  Tintage was surrounded by men, and soldiers. Even Lilos had a dagger drawn against Tintage, who stood with Merlis hanging from his neck.

  Oriel’s ears rang. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand, even with Griff’s h
elp, and for the land there was a voice in him that must speak now—before he could measure the danger of the wound Tintage had delivered to him. It didn’t pain him, and he thought that must be good. There was no pain, but his back was hot with blood and he didn’t think he could have stood without Griff to lean upon.

  “This man,” he heard himself say, and was glad to hear that his voice rang out as rich as the soil of the southern lands. “This man, Griff, I name my heir. I ask all—Lilos, Wardel, Garder, Verilan—I ask. Your fealty for Griff. As for me.” He saw their faces and his knees collapsed under him, and he thought his head was floating away, and he thought, cradling up against the warmth of the breast, of Beryl.

  He had treated her unkindly, he thought. He thought, she had given her heart bravely but he had given his as a coward does, only for the equal return. Until the last, he thought. At the last he would have done bravely.

  He was dying. How he knew it, he didn’t know. Blood bubbled up from his throat into his mouth, and it was bitter to the taste, and his hands were as cold as if they had been trapped in ice. Oriel wept then. He turned his face into the green shirt that covered Griff’s chest, and wept hot tears.

  He was afraid to die, and unwilling, and he was going to where Griff couldn’t come with him. Into such darkness. He would never know what fortune came to his lands.

  In the warmth of Griff’s chest, Oriel wept for the heart of the lady who wished him dead, and he wept because he had given his heart away to someone who despised it. He was a fool, he wept. He wept for his child, and he could never tell Beryl now how much he understood, and how much he cherished her—even if he could never give her his heart. There was pain now, burning through him.

  He had won everything, and lost it all, and he was ashamed of himself to be weeping.

  Griff’s face was near his own, and Griff’s face was wet, and he was sorry to lose Griff but there was something urgent. “Put her under your care,” he said. “I ask you.”