There was something false in this telling, but she would not challenge it. She sought to pique his interest, perhaps to arouse enthusiasm which would override his careful talk. “The road south of Pfarb Durim that has Monuments on it – I saw them dance, once. The shadowpeople made them do it.”
“So Himaggery said! You were there then? I would like to have seen that…”
“My point, Wizard, is that we were not harmed. Some are said to have been driven mad by the Monuments, though I don’t know the truth of that, but I have never heard that any were killed. Yet you told Himaggery it was risky? Dangerous?”
“So I believed.” He poured half a glass of wine, suddenly less confiding, almost reticent, as though they had approached a subject he had not planned for.
“Come now. You must tell me more than that. You know something more than that. Or believe you do.”
“You are persistent,” he said in a tone less friendly, lips tight. “Uncomfortably persistent.”
Mavin held out her open hands, palms up, as though she juggled weights, put on her most ingenuous face. “Am I to risk my own life, perhaps Himaggery’s as well, rather than be discourteous? If it is something which touches you close to the bone, forgive me, Wizard. But I must ask!”
“Very well.” He thought it over for a time, hiding his hesitation by moving to the window, opening it to lean out. There he seemed to find inspiration, for he returned with his mouth full of words once more. “There are many stories about the old road, Mavin. Tales, myths – who knows. Well, I had a…brother, considerably younger than I. He was adventurous, loved digging into old things like your friend Himaggery. I was away from the Demesne when he decided to seek out the mysteries of the old road. I did not even know he had gone until much later, and my own search for him was futile.”
“Ah,” said Mavin, examining him closely, still keeping her voice light and unchallenging. “So, if the truth were told, Wizard, perhaps you did not warn Himaggery so much as you might? Perhaps, respecting him as you did, you thought he might find your brother for you?”
“Perhaps,” he said with easy apology. “Perhaps that is it. I have searched my mind on that subject more times than I care to remember. But I do remember warning him, not once but many times. And I do remember cautioning him, not once but often. And so I put myself to rest, only to doubt again on the morning. I believe I did warn him sufficiently, Shape-shifter. But he chose to go.”
She rose in her turn to investigate the open window. It looked out upon the valley, moonlit now, and peaceful. A cool wind moved the budding trees. Scents of spring rose around her, and she sighed as she closed the casement against the cool and turned back into the firelight. “Your Harpy questioned three of the Faces, Wizard. One was an old woman who spoke of a bell. What does it mean. ’The daylight bell hangs in the last tower’?”
He gestured to say how unimportant a question it was. “I told you Himaggery brought two old story-tellers with him from Betand. I took a Face from one of them – her name was Rose-love – shortly before she died. It was her Face you heard in the lake, saying words from a children’s story. Old Rose-love told stories to the children of Betand during a very long life, stories of talking foxes and flying fish and of Weetzie and the daylight bell.”
“Weetzie?” She laughed, an amused chirrup of sound.
He barked an echoing laugh, watching her closely the while. “Weetzie. And the daylight bell, not an ordinary bell, but something very ancient. Himaggery had heard of it, and of another one. He called it ‘the bell of the dark,’ the ‘cloud bell,’ the ‘bell of the shadows.’ Have you heard of that?” His voice was friendly, yet she felt something sinister in the question, and she mocked herself for feeling so, here in this quiet room with the fire dancing on the hearth. The man had said nothing, done nothing to threaten her. Why this feeling? She forced herself to shake her head, smilingly. No, she had not heard of it.
He went on, “Nor had I. Well, he had found out something about these mysterious bells from old Rose. I question her Face once or twice a year to see how long it will continue to reply. It says only the one thing. First a little verse, then ‘The daylight bell hangs in the last tower.’ ”
“The Blue Star is on the horns of Zanbee.”
“It is not,” he said. “That time is just past and will not return for many seasons yet.” His voice was harsh as he demanded, “Where did you hear that?”
She remained nonchalant. “It was something Himaggery said once. The night the Monuments danced on the Ancient Road south of Pfarb Durim. They danced when the Blue Star was on the horns of Zanbee – the crescent moon. Now we have, ‘The bell is in the last tower.’ They both sound mysterious, like Wizardly things.”
He relaxed. “I suppose they are Wizardly things, in a sense. Certainly your friend Himaggery thought so. My … brother, too.”
“What was his name?” asked Mavin, suddenly curious about this unnamed brother. “Was he a Wizard?”
“Ah … no. No, he was not a Wizard. He was … a Timereacher. Very much a Timereacher.” He smiled, something meant to be a kindly smile, at which Mavin shuddered, speaking quickly to hide it.
“His name?”
“Arkhur. He was … ah … quite young.”
“And so, Wizard.” She rose, smiling at him, letting the smile turn into a yawn to show how little concerned she was with what she said or what he replied. “You can tell me only that there is a road northwest of this place. That there is a bell somewhere, called variously, which Himaggery talked of. That Himaggery’s Face says only what I heard it say. That your brother Arkhur is gone since his youth. That all of this, you think, is connected with ancient things, old things, things beyond memory. You think. You believe.”
“And that it is risky, Mavin. Dangerous…”
“Everywhere I have gone they have told me that. ‘It is risky, Mavin. Dangerous.’ I have sought Eesties and battled gray oozers and plotted with Stickies and crept through Blourbast’s halls in the guise of a snake. All of it was risky, Wizard. I wish you could tell me something more. It is little enough to go on.”
“If you had not interrupted me, I would have gone on to say there are others seeking the road you seek.” He seemed to wait for her comment or question, to be dissatisfied by her silence. “Also, the other old woman brought here by Himaggery still lives, still chatters, still tells her stories. It is too late to disturb her old bones tonight, but if you will wait until morning, she will tell you one of her stories, no doubt. Perhaps there is something in her story which will enlighten you.”
You mean, she thought, that perhaps it will convince me of your friendship, Chamferton, and make me talk more freely. Well, little enough I know, old fox, but I will not tell you more than I need.
She nodded acceptance of the invitation to hear the storyteller, weary to her own bones. The night before had not been restful, and since she had drunk those last few sips of wine she had been weighted down with sleep. She bowed, an ordinary gesture of respect. He patted her on her shoulder, seeming not to feel her flesh flinch away from him, and then tugged the bell near his hand.
Chamferton’s servants took her to a room with a bed far softer than her bed of moss had been. There was a tub full of hot water on a towel before the fire. She did not linger in it. The shutters were open at the high window, letting the night air flood the room to chill her wet skin, and she shut them, fumbling with the latch to be sure it would not blow open again. She remembered only fleetingly that Chamferton had spoken of someone else on the trail she followed, thinking that curiosity over this might keep her awake. It did not. She did not even dry herself completely before falling asleep between the sheets, as though drugged.
CHAPTER THREE
Very early in the morning, just before dawn, she woke thinking she had heard some sound – a scratching, prying sound. She sat up abruptly, calling out some question or threat. The shutters were open, a curtain waving between them like a beckoning hand, and she rose, only half
awake, to look outside. Around the window were thick vine branches, one of which was pulled away from the wall, as though something heavy had tried to perch upon it. She saw it without seeing it, for in the yard at the base of the stairs a group of horsemen was preparing to depart. Even with her eyes Shifted, she could not make out their faces in the dim light, but there was something familiar about one of them – something in the stance. Chamferton she could identify by his tall hat, and he stood intimately close to the familiar figure, their two heads together in conspiratorial talk. Mavin widened her ears, heard only scattered phrases. “…While she is here … easy enough to get rid of…”
Then the horses walked away, not hurrying their pace until they had gone well down the valley, and Mavin knew it was for quiet’s sake, so that she would not hear. “Shifter ears, Wizard,” she yawned. “Never try to fool Shifter’s ears.”
After watching the men ride out of sight, she closed the shutters firmly once more, then returned to bed to sleep until the sun was well up.
In the morning she found Chamferton on a pleasant terrace behind the plinth on which the castle stood. There she ate melons grown under glass, the Wizard said, so they ripened even in the cold season. He was all smiling solicitude this morning, and Mavin might have accepted it from one who did not employ Harpies as servants. They were creatures of such malice, she could not believe good of one who kept them, though she asked him whether the injured Harpy lived, trying to sound as though she cared.
“Foulitter is recovering,” he told her. “She bears you much malice. Or perhaps me, for not punishing you. I told her her former plots against me earned her whatever damage you had done to her, and to hush and do my bidding.” He smiled at Mavin, showing his teeth, which were stained and crooked. It was not a nice smile, and she did not find it reassuring.
“I would not like to have her behind me when I go,” said Mavin, cursing herself silently for having said so the moment the words left her mouth.
“I will see she does not leave the aerie for some time,” he promised with that same smile. “She is fully under my control. I am less worried about her than about some others who seek the same road you do.”
Mavin put down her spoon with a ringing sound which hung upon the air. “You mentioned that last night. I was so weary, I could not even think to ask who it would be.”
“Did you ever meet King Prionde’s eldest heir? Valdon Duymit, son of the King Prionde?” His voice was deceptively casual, as it had been the night before.
Valdon! Of course. That had been the familiar stance she had recognized. So. Valdon had been the Wizard’s guest until the predawn hours – and he had left surreptitiously. She deducted another portion from Chamferton’s reputation for truth. Do not say too much, Mavin, she instructed herself. But do not lie, for he may know part of the truth already. “I have,” she admitted. “I was there when he and Himaggery came almost to Game duel between them. They did not like one another.”
“So much I guessed,” he said. “Nonetheless, he came here, so he said, in search of Himaggery.”
“Did he say why?” She spooned up melon, trying not to seem interested in the answer to this question.
“Oh, he gave me some reason or other. He lied. However, I encourage my servants to gossip. Sometimes it is the only way to get at the truth. My servants told me he fancied himself wronged for some reason connected with the school set up by Prionde. Do you know anything about that?”
“I know of the school, yes.” She spoke of it as anyone might who knew nothing beyond its location and that Prionde had sponsored it, thinking meantime that it was undoubtedly the Harpy whom he counted upon to gossip among the guests. In her own shape, she was probably not uncomely.
“So I had some knowledge of the school,” she concluded, “though I am told it is not a large one. That is all I know.”
“You are succinct. Would that more of my informants were so terse. Well, I gathered that Valdon has some unfinished anger which moves him. He desires Himaggery’s embarrassment, perhaps even his destruction. I knew that. I could read it in his voice; I did not need a Face from him to learn it.” An expression of annoyance crossed the Wizard’s face, was wiped away in an instant as though he became aware of it and did not want the world to see it.
“How long ago was Valdon here?”
“Oh, a year or two. No. Little more than a year. I tell you so you may be warned.” He turned toward the stairs while Mavin made note he had told her yet another lie.
“Ah. Look over there to the steps. See the old woman, the very old woman being carried up in the chair? She is two hundred years old, that woman. So she says, and so I do believe. Old as rocks, as the country people say. That is Lily-sweet, sister to Rose-love, whose Face you saw in my lake. I have had her carried up here in the sun, which she much enjoys, and promised her all the melon she can eat if she will tell you a story. She and her sister told stories in Betand for all their long lives, stories learned from their great grandmas, who also, if the stories about them be true, lived to be very old. If she were still young and strong, she could talk about Weetzie for several days, for Weetzie had more adventures than a thousand years would have given him time for. Somewhere in all that mass of story-telling is a little verse which says something about there being a road, and on the road a tower, and in the tower a bell, which cannot ring alone. That verse much intrigued your friend Himaggery. You may choose to ask for the story of Weetzie and the daylight bell. She will say she is too old to remember, too tired, that it is only a children’s story, a country tale. You must persist.” He was playing with her now, Mavin knew. All this was so much flummery, to keep her occupied.
“This is the story you mentioned last night.”
“Yes. If you seek Himaggery, you may find something in it. He pretended to do so. If you are to get her to to tell you anything you must say her name in full, caressingly, and do not laugh.” Chamferton went back to his melon, waving her away.
She rose almost unwillingly, strongly tempted to challenge his lies and his foisting nonsense upon her in the guise of information, and yet unwilling to pass by anything in which Himaggery had been interested. That much, at least, might be true and she, Mavin, might find help in it that Chamferton did not intend. So she strolled across the high terrace to the chair where the old woman sat wrapped in knitted shawls against the slight chill of the morning. She was so old her face and arms were wrinkled like the shell of a nut, like the fine wavelets of a sea barely brushed by wind. Thin flesh hung from her arms and neck. Wisps of white hair fringed the edge of her cap. Her eyes were bird-bright though she pretended not to see Mavin’s approach. “Well then,” thought Mavin, “we will lure her as the Birder does the shy fowl of the air”.
“Lily-sweet,” she begged, “the High Wizard Chamferton says that you know a tale known to none other in all the lands. The tale of Weetzie and the daylight bell.”
The old woman stroked her throat, made a pitiful shrug and shook her head wistfully. “Ah, girl, but one’s throat is too dry and old for telling tales.”
Mavin rose without a word and went to Chamferton’s table. “I need to borrow a teacup,” she told him, returning with it to the old woman.
“Wet your gullet, Lily-sweet. This is the High Wizard’s own tea, and while it is not good enough for softening the throat of a true story-teller, still, it is the best we have.”
“You are a well spoken child, for all your outlandish appearance. In my day the women wore full trews and vests to show their bosoms. None of this tight man-breeching and loose shirts.” Lily-sweet tugged at Mavin’s shirt, and inside that tug, Mavin twitched. The shirt was herself.
“So my own grandmama has said, Lily-sweet. And much we regret that those days are past.” She sighed. “If we dressed now as true women did in the days of your youth, chance is I would have a … companion of my own.”
“You’d have a husband, child, and thankful for it. Ah, and well, and sorry the day. What was it you wanted to know of
again?”
“The story of Weetzie and the daylight bell?”
“Ah. A children’s story, was it? I’m not sure I remember that one.”
“Oh, it would be a tragedy if you did not, Lily-sweet, for none but you can be found to tell it rightly. Oh, there are those in Betand who pretend to know the story, but the mockery they make of it is quite…”
“None know that story save me!” The voice was suddenly more definite, and the old hands quivered upon the arms of the chair. “Since sister Rose died, none but me.”
“I know,” Mavin soothed. “So says the Wizard Chamferton. He says the women in Betand are liars and scrape-easies, that you are the only one who has the truth of it.”
“And so I do,” said the old woman. “And so shall you be the judge of it.” She took a deep breath.
“One time,” she quavered, gesturing with a claw to indicate a time long past, “one time a time ago, was a young star named Weetzie, and he went out and about, up and down, wet and dry, come day come night till he got to the sea. And there was a d’bor wife, grodgeling about in the surf, slither on slither.
“And Weetzie spoke polite to her, saying ‘Good morn to you, d’bor wife. And why do you slither here near the shore when the deep waves are your home?’
“And the d’bor wife, she struck at him once, twice, three times with her boaty flappers, flap, flap, flap on the sand, but Weetzie jumped this way and that way, and all that flapping was for nothing. So, seeing she could not get Weetzie that way, the d’bor wife began to sing in her lure voice, ‘Oh, I grodgel here in the surf to find the daylight bell where the shadows hid it.’
“And Weetzie was greatly taken with this idea, so he came close to the d’bor wife and began to help her grodgel. And whup, the d’bor wife wrapped Weetzie up in her short reachers and laughed like a whoop-owl, ‘Oh, little star, but I have you now, I have you now.’
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