by Kage Baker
“Is that so?” The duke set down his wine. “Be seated, then, madam. Sir.” When they had taken seats across from him, the duke’s guards moved unobtrusively to stand one behind each, knives in hand.
The veiled woman rested gloved hands on the table. “My understanding is that you’re a man of vision. You seek a great state under one banner, rather than little scattered cities who won’t cooperate with one another. You know it will take a great deal of money, and patience, and cunning, to bring this about.
“But, alas! There is a certain thief who steals your money, and tries your patience, and exceeds your cunning. Is there not?”
“There is,” said the duke.
“The Master of the Mountain, I’ve heard him called,” said the woman’s companion, with a sneer. “But we knew him when this Master was no more than a slave. A greenie freak, trained up as an arena fighter.”
“Really,” said the duke, sitting up straight.
“He belonged to my family,” said the woman. “Most unwisely, we gave him certain liberties. He used them against us. I will not trouble you with the sad details, but many of my kinsmen died. He has since come forth to this land, as I hear, and has set himself up as a brigand chieftain and preys upon your caravans. Now, wouldn’t you like to eat his liver?”
The duke looked askance at her. “I’d like to cut it out, at any rate. I’m bleeding money to the bastard. I can see looting a gold shipment now and then, or wine, or silks, but he takes everything. Pig iron. Olives. Lumber. Paint and sewer pipes! What’s a damned bandit going to do with fifteen crates of sewer pipes?”
“It’s an outrage,” said the woman. “I’m sure there’s a good reason why you haven’t taken your army and dealt with him.”
The duke laughed sourly. “I’m sure you haven’t seen where he’s set himself up. He’s fortified a mountaintop. He has a demon army up there. Horrible black castle with skulls all over it and armed demons leering down from every guard post. Even when he ventures out of it, we can’t catch him—the lower slopes of that mountain are a maze of trees, and higher up there’s a maze of obsidian, boulders with edges sharp as knives.”
“Then it would take magecraft to get inside,” said the woman. “And an army to destroy him, once you’d broken his walls down. Now, sir, I have deep magic that will melt his high wall like so much sugar, and I have the just and holy hatred of blood debt against him. I require only an army.
“You have an army. Were I to make you a present of my craft, would you lead your army to his mountain and take his head for my sake?”
“I might, if I had any proof you weren’t a charlatan.”
The woman laughed merrily. She drew off her gloves and raised her veil.
The duke spilled his wine. “Gods!”
“You see? I am, in truth, at the far end of the world. Dear Quickfire is merely escorting this simulacrum of me.” The thing batted its eyelashes, with a noise like a tin butterfly opening and shutting its wings.
“She’s telling you the truth,” said Quickfire grimly. “She is Lady Pirihine Porlilon, the Narcissus of the Void. All her family were mages of deadly puissance, and she is deadlier still.”
“Oh, what a flatterer you are,” said Lady Pirihine. “Poor dear Duke Salting, your wine is all gone. Let’s have another jar! And what is there to eat here? Quickfire, order me something nice.”
For the next hour the duke watched, horrified and fascinated, as Lady Pirihine devoured a trayful of little meatballs in sweet sauce and drank most of a jar of wine. He kept expecting the wine to splatter forth from the bottom of the mask, or the meatballs to roll down on the cloth; he could see that there was no tongue, no mouth beyond the golden lips, and yet the food vanished somewhere. He went so far as to lift a corner of the cloth surreptitiously, expecting to find a puddle of chewed supper under her chair. He saw nothing but a trim pair of ankles, with a half inch of lamplight between them and the legs to which they should have been attached.
None of which kept him from hearing her story, for she chattered as she ate and drank. By the time she came to outline her plan for Gard’s downfall, the duke had gotten over his shock at her appearance and was listening intently.
I did not enter this world to provide an object of reverence for you, as though I were one of the goddesses of the Children of the Sun. I came, as the Star came, solely for the good of our people.
The duty of the Beloved was to sustain them through the long time of their sorrow, and to educate them that they might be able to live in the greater world once they were free. To this end he taught you the Songs, that you might help him.
My duty was to free our people from their prison and guide them to this land where they now reside in peace. This I did; and, when a new danger arose to threaten them, I gave over my own peace and all that I knew to reside with a stranger, that they might be spared. This I did not merely for duty’s sake but in obedience to the rule of Compassion for others, which ought to govern us all above any other motive.
Having noted with sorrow the dissension among you now, I know it is my further duty to resolve these matters—insofar as you will still accept my authority.
I will list the errors I have observed.
Some among you have exulted in your wisdom and so proven yourselves fools. The object of learning the Songs was not to make you more powerful, or more spiritually advanced, or even wiser. The purpose of the Songs was, and is, only to help those in need.
Some among you have taken up arms
The Saint set her pen down, hearing the clash and salute out in the hall. The door burst open and Gard entered the room, carrying little Eyrdway. Gard was dressed in his most barbaric splendor. The baby was wrapped in embroidered silk.
“Look, Eyrdway, here’s Mama! Tell Mama how you were presented to the army, and how they cheered, and cheered, and cheered. Tell Mama how they made you a general.” Gard tossed the baby into the air. Eyrdway crowed and gurgled.
“Oh, they didn’t,” said the Saint, holding out her arms. Gard plucked the baby out of midair and gave him to her.
“They did. And then Eyrdway sat down in the officers’ mess and got drunk, just like a big man!”
“He didn’t.” Then the Saint smelled the wine and saw it dribbled on the front of the baby’s nightgown. She turned to Gard, outraged. “You gave the child wine?”
“Just a little,” said Gard, sobering quickly. “He liked it. We rubbed it on his poor little gums and he smacked his lips.”
“And—is this blood?”
“The lads hunted down and sacrificed a ram in his honor. It’s traditional. For demons. Then we broiled it over coals and everyone had some. I just gave him a little blood in a spoon. It didn’t hurt him.”
Appalled, the Saint held up Eyrdway and examined him. He hung there kicking, apparently happily, drooling and regarding her with bright blank eyes. Wondering again whether he was an imbecile, the Saint felt the sting of tears. She held them back. Then—
“What’s he got in his mouth?”
“Nothing,” said Gard, but leaned down to stare. Instantly he pulled off his gauntlet and thrust a finger into Eyrdway’s mouth. “Spit that out! Spit it out right away!”
“How did he get—” She was drowned out by Eyrdway’s muffled screams of rage.
“Here it is,” said Gard, fishing out a small object. “Oh!”
The object in his palm was a black pearl, glistening with baby spit. Gard lowered his head, trying to see the place where it had been on his fancy breastplate. He looked so big and handsome and stupid, the Saint’s heart broke.
“How’d he get it off? I wasn’t holding him up there more than a minute or two—”
“You’ve been drinking. And smoking that intoxicant again. You wouldn’t have noticed. He might have choked on it. Please, in future, don’t play with our child when you’re in that condition.”
“Demons get drunk. It’s what they do!” said Gard. “And anyway it was a party in his honor. And anyway, how th
e hell could he have gotten it off? It must have been loose in the setting.”
“If you hadn’t been drunk, perhaps you’d have noticed that.”
“Maybe. Look, he didn’t come to any harm after all! But I’ll leave him with you, now, since you don’t trust me with him.”
He strode out, slamming the door behind him. She managed to put Eyrdway in his basket and give him his teething toy—a wooden wolf-puppy, painstakingly carved for him by Thrang—before turning away and bursting into tears. She out her head down on her writing table and sobbed.
Let it all drain out with the tears. When you’ve wept your heart empty, get up and wash your face and go on with your work. After following her own advice, she sat down and picked up her pen once more.
Some among you have taken up arms and gloried in your power to harm others. I see here nothing to distinguish you from Cursed Gard as he was, and he at least
Something made a noise, at the periphery of her attention. It was not Eyrdway gurgling, or banging his toy against the side of the basket. Something was yipping softly. Something gave a tiny growl.
The Saint turned and put her hands to her face in horror.
Two fat wolf cubs were in the baby’s basket. One was made of wood. One was flesh, worrying the nose of the wooden one. No sign of Eyrdway, other than the tiny pearl-trimmed nightgown lying empty in the bottom of the basket.
“My baby has turned into a wolf,” she said aloud, in an attempt to anchor the moment in reality. She picked up the little animal gently. It wriggled and tried to lick her face. She looked into its eyes.
She saw a soul, for the first time, something absurd and bright-colored. A little mad star, spinning in its cosmos with a sound like starlings chattering.
The Saint took her child in her arms and walked, as in a dream, through the black halls. The guards saluted and did double takes as she passed them. She went to Gard’s study and found him sitting there, still in his fancy armor, scowling over a volume of travel essays.
He looked up at her, still scowling. Noting the cub, his scowl deepened. “Where’d you get that? You think it’s safe, raising a wolf around our baby?”
The cub, squirming, thrust its nose inside her robe and found her breast. Gard’s scowl faded, he stared in astonishment. She bit her lip at the touch of needly little teeth. Gard jumped to his feet, shouting with laughter like a thunderclap.
The cub started and cowered in fright; its whimper became a scream, as its shape ran and melted in the Saint’s arms. Then she was holding a naked screaming baby. Eyrdway roared, he flailed with his fists, and big fat tears of terror rolled down his cheeks.
“That’s Daddy’s boy!” Gard came from behind his desk so fast he nearly knocked it over, and flung his arms around the Saint and kissed her, hard, and kissed the top of Eyrdway’s head. “That’s Daddy’s clever boy! Don’t cry, boy, you mustn’t cry, this is wonderful!”
“He did it after I gave him his teething toy,” said the Saint. “He’s a demon, isn’t he?”
“He’s—er. No, he couldn’t be a demon. Not all the way. I’m only half-demon and you’re not at all, so … at least I assume …” Gard gave her an odd look. “Hm. Well, maybe it has something to do with the way we, er—”
“The circumstances of his begetting?”
“Right, because of all the … spells and everything.” Gard lifted Eyrdway up to look at him. “Ssh, ssh, Daddy’s sorry he scared you. Daddy was just so happy to know what you are, at last.”
“You’ve been afraid of something too,” the Saint said, feeling faint with relief at having it finally said. “Because he isn’t at all like little Bero, or Bisha.”
Gard was silent a moment. Eyrdway, distracted from his tears by proximity to Gard’s breastplate, poked at the remaining black pearls. “I think he takes after my mother,” said Gard at last.
“After Teliva—,” said the Saint, then bit her tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I met my real mother, you see.” Gard’s voice was steady. “Our boy may take a while to grow up, but he’ll be clever enough in his way.” He retrieved a pearl, prizing it gently from Eyrdway’s fingers. Eyrdway screamed in temper. “Hush, Son. Come here! Daddy and Mama want you to play a game with us.” He strode to his desk and set the baby down. Eyrdway immediately reached for the inkwell, but the Saint caught his hands as Gard pulled down a book and opened it. He held it up. It was an engraving of a forest bird, painted in colors.
“See the birdie? Can you be the birdie?”
Eyrdway looked up from trying to pull his hands free. He stared uncertainly, drooling, as Gard pointed at the engraving. Eyrdway leaned forward and reached for the page, but the Saint tugged him back.
“Be the birdie, Eyrdway,” said Gard. Suddenly something changed in the little face: interest? Comprehension? He stared hard at the picture, his eyes crossed in his concentration, and then—
It was rather dreadful to watch, as feather quills erupted all over his skin, and his nose and mouth ran together and protruded into a beak. When it was done, though, a living image of the picture stood fluttering its little wings on the desk.
“That’s Daddy’s good boy,” said Gard shakily. “Well, now we know he isn’t just a werewolf.”
“Come back to Mama,” said the Saint, sweeping him into her arms, for she was afraid he would fly. He lifted up his head and crowed defiantly, but when she bared her breast for him, he changed back at once and snuggled into her bosom.
… And as for the requests that I come down and meet with you, I must ask your forbearance; for I have a young son I cannot leave and, moreover, have discovered I am now to bear another child. I am sad to know that this news would be greeted with congratulation, were I any other woman.
Nonetheless, I see you will not be satisfied until we may meet face-to-face. I cannot travel. Therefore I bid you come to me.
I would have all the trevanion travel to this mountain, with any of their students they choose to bring, that all may see I am well and under no constraint. Having been seen, I will present to you a letter I have prepared, for general circulation among our people. I will explain it to you in person, that there may be no misunderstanding, and you will then carry copies to every community and village, that all may read my will without gloss or misinterpretation.
I appoint the first full moon of summer as the day of our meeting. The disciples bearing these letters will provide you with directions. Do not fail to come as you have been bid.
“No,” said Gard, incredulous. “No, no, no. I’m not having those people in my house!”
“It’s my house too,” said the Saint firmly. “I am your wife. Or am I only your prisoner, and the bearer of your sons?” They were on their way to the nursery, for a bedtime visit.
Gard gnashed his teeth. “Of course it’s your house too. But there is the little matter of all those daggers I left in the villages, with the invitation that anyone who dared was welcome to stab me with one of them.”
“Then that was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“I used to do a lot of stupid things. How was I to know I’d meet you and we’d get married and have babies? You do see, though, that it presents a certain danger?”
“I have not invited the Mowers. And if I remember correctly, they were the objects of your scorn, and not my disciples.”
“Don’t you think for a minute your trevanion wouldn’t love to see me dead and rotting too,” said Gard irritably.
“I know that. But when they have seen me at last, when I send them down with my letter, they will have no choice but to accept my will. Which is to stay with you.”
“And when did all this disapproval of coupling happen, anyway? The Star used to roll girls amongst the flowers two and three at a time.” Gard blushed as she turned to glare at him. “Well, he did! How did the yendri change to the point where you were expected to stay a virgin your whole life?”
“It’s an accretion. The opinions of a few trevanion taking
on the force of law. It was no part of the Star’s teaching, and I mean to stop it. This is one of the things I address in my letter. This is why it’s important.”
“I suppose,” said Gard. “I still don’t want them inside my walls. They’re a security risk. I have other enemies, you know. You can have your council down the mountain, maybe. Good evening,” he said to Balnshik, for they had come to the nursery door.
“My Lord. My Lady,” said Balnshik, saluting. She lowered her blade and stepped aside. “The Heir to the Black Halls has had his bath and eagerly awaits his dinner.”
“Thank you,” said the Saint. Gard opened the door for her and followed her across the threshold.
Bero and Bisha came toddling to them at once. Bisha, the silver-eyed girl, turned her little face up to them. “Baby ball,” she said in urgent tones. “You come see. Baby ball.” She caught hold of the Saint’s hand and pulled her toward the crib.
“Where’s Dnuill?” said Gard, looking around.
A voice floated from the next room. “I’m folding the laundry, sir. He spilled juice all over his—”
What else she said Gard did not hear, for he collided with the Saint, who had frozen in her tracks and was staring, speechless, at two identical painted wooden balls in the crib. An empty nightgown and a pearl anklet lay on the blanket. She put out a distracted hand, found Gard’s wrist, and gripped it tight. “Do something,” she said.
The balls were yellow, painted with blue and red stars. They were motionless, as unliving things tend to be. Gard felt his heart pounding loud in the silence.
Not knowing what else to do, he pulled down the shoulder of the Saint’s gown. He picked up the balls and held them, one after the other, to her bared breast.
He felt the second one shift its center of gravity in his hand; a moment later little arms and legs uncurled, like a crab emerging from its shell, and expanded. The painted stars faded and Eyrdway chortled, settling in for his dinner. The Saint caught him in her arms.
