by Jude Fisher
He did not add that this single occasion had been twenty years before when taken prisoner by King Ashar Stenson himself, only to be released when – to avoid the fate of the other lord and their sons (that of being quartered and flung to the four winds by the Eyran king’s infernal machine) – he had ignobly claimed to be a common seaman pressed into service with the Istrian navy, and set free on one of the few surviving ships to carry a message to the southern empire.
‘And I by one means or another extracted from the Lord of Broadfell certain intelligence on the subject of the secret ways into the northern capital. Further duplication of such labour and effort would be pointless indeed; besides, I am not entirely sure you are pretty enough to persuade his lordship to divulge his hard-won information to you.
‘But I promise I shall hand the Rose of the World into your care as soon as ever I can. I have no interest in her myself. None at all.’
‘You swear you will not lay a finger on her?’
‘I swear.’
‘By all that is holy? By the Lady Falla herself.’
‘By Falla’s fiery cunt, I swear it.’
Tycho Issian regarded him furiously. ‘Take that back, blasphemer!’
Rui Finco raised an eyebrow. ‘The entire oath?’
Gritting his teeth, the Lord of Cantara flung himself upright and bundled his way out of the tent with such violence it seemed he would take the whole structure with him.
‘Given my antipathy for sorcerers, you may wonder why I insisted on your presence aboard this vessel.’
Desperately nauseated, Virelai dared not open his mouth to answer the Lord of Forent for fear of what might spew out of it if he did. Instead, he bobbed an assent and tried hard to look as if he was interested in what the man had to say.
Rui Finco stuck his head swiftly out of the doorflap, satisfied himself that the crew were otherwise occupied, then ducked back in and secured the fastening. He turned up the wick on the lamp. Instantly, it seemed, the air inside the tent became close and warm. Virelai’s head swam.
‘I gather from the Lord of Cantara’s reports that your skills have improved considerably since our last encounter.’
Virelai looked even more uncomfortable, if that were possible.
Rui Finco watched him closely, his black eyes narrow with calculation. ‘I have heard that you have perfected your ability to . . . change the nature of things . . . even people.’ Head on one side, he waited for the sorcerer’s response.
Virelai gulped, wiped a hand across his clammy forehead. What had Alisha done to him with that thing? He had never felt so bad in all his life. The ship hit a larger swell, pitched and rolled, sending him staggering forward. The Lord of Forent stopped his progress with an outstretched hand, pushing him down onto the makeshift bed.
‘Put your head between your knees, man, and take some deep breaths,’ he said, almost kindly. Virelai did as he was told. When he felt able to, he sat back up again. Rui Finco handed him a goblet. ‘Drink that.’
Virelai sniffed at it suspiciously, but it was only water. He drank it down, watching the Lord of Forent over its brim. Rui poured out another measure from the flask and his hand reached out for it instinctively, but the lord held it back from him.
‘Change that into wine,’ he said.
Virelai stared at him. He didn’t even want to smell wine in his current state, but he knew what happened if you refused this man anything he demanded. Summoning the most specific memory he could muster, he took the goblet from Rui Finco’s hands, closed his eyes and focused his thoughts away from his nausea. Turning water to wine was one thing; but turning it to vomit would never do . . .
Twenty-six
King of the North
‘No one has seen Erol Bardson these several weeks, sire.’
Ravn Asharson sighed heavily. If there was one subject which he did not wish to reopen, it was this preoccupation the Earl of Stormway had with his unpleasant cousin and the elaborate conspiracy the man was supposed to be embroiled in.
‘He’s probably licking his wounds in his northern stronghold, keeping his head down, if he’s any sense at all.’
‘He’s not in Broadfell.’
Ravn swivelled to regard his ancient retainer with a glimmer of curiosity. ‘How do you know this, Bran? Have you been there?’
Stormway mumbled something into his beard.
‘What?’
‘Spies, your highness.’
‘Spies?’ Ravn sat bolt upright, amazed. ‘You have your own spies?’
‘Actually, they’re your spies, Ravn. Or your late father’s, anyway. If you did but take a little more interest in affairs of state, or the chancellery, you would know such things.’
Ravn Asharson rolled his eyes. In his head was an image of broken-down, grizzled men, survivors of the past regime, crawling arthritically through sodden undergrowth, failing to scale walls, listening at doors with half-deaf ears, misreporting what they thought they’d heard. He grinned broadly.
‘And what do my spies tell you, then, Bran?’
‘That he is not to be found in any of his usual haunts. That no one on the mainland has seen hide nor hair of him since he made his escape. That no ship returning from the Fair Isles or the Westman Isles has word of him. That even his ward has no idea where he is—’
‘You would trust that little minx’s word?’ She was a sly one, Erol’s niece with her pretty, foxy face and her limber body. He’d never taken her to bed, though he’d had more than half a mind to in earlier years; but even his under developed political sense had warned him off such intimacy.
‘We . . . questioned her, sire.’ Stormway looked carefully past Ravn’s shoulder and would not meet his eye. The girl had been defiant, at first, then had wept and railed at her treatment, cursed the King, his witch-wife, troll-child and all. They’d tried not to hurt her too much, though her will was strong. In the end, she’d passed out, and he hadn’t had the heart to continue. ‘She knew nothing. But someone in Halbo, someone with sufficient knowledge of the secret ways around the castle, and the funds to have the dungeon master disposed of, helped him escape. That says to me money, power and a conspiracy, lord.’
‘And are you sure it was not the dungeon master himself who took Erol’s bribe and made a run with him?’
‘We found his remains this morning, sire. Washed up on one of the skerries up the coast. Carried there by the prevailing currents flowing west out of the harbour. From the state of him, he’d been in the water for weeks.’
Ravn wrinkled his nose. Then he shrugged. ‘He wasn’t much use, old Flinn. More wine sack than soldier nowadays, is what I’d heard.’
Stormway raised an eyebrow. There were times when his king took him by surprise. He might seem naive and callow, concerned only with tupping girls and having the sort of fun that came with unlimited access to the royal coffers and cellars, but every so often Ravn let slip an observation like this which made him realise there might be more to this young man than was immediately apparent.
‘I know perfectly well who helped Bardson escape.’
Bran sat down as if his knees had suddenly given way. ‘You do?’
‘I do.’
Stormway waited, but all Ravn did was to swill the golden liquid in his goblet and hold it up to the candlelight. ‘I like these glass things, Bran: you can see whether it’s horse piss or decent ale you’re drinking. Was it Cera donated them, or Jetra?’
The Earl waved this away as the nonsense it was. ‘Well, who was it, then? I’ve spent weeks trying to discover this treachery, and you say you’ve known all along? Tell me, man, for Sur’s sake!’
Ravn smiled. ‘When the time’s right, Bran, I will.’ He paused, taking in evidence of his old retainer’s growing temper. ‘The man’s too cunning to have taken ship from Halbo. I don’t suppose you’ve checked with the harbourmaster’s records at Fairwater on the night Erol escaped, seen if any boats left unexpectedly from there?’
The Earl huffed, then shook his h
ead.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Have one of your geriatric spies slung over a horse and send him off to find out. Now leave me to my beer and come back when you’ve something more interesting to talk about.’
He watched Stormway stomp out of the door and sat back, considering. He had his own information network; and he had his own faculties, too. It had been a shame when little Ana had gone missing; and rather too much of a coincidence. An aged codger like Stormway was less likely to notice the disappearance of such a luscious little plum, but Ravn had had his eye on his bitter old mother’s pretty maid for a while.
‘I swear that baby winked at me when the dressmaker was adjusting the bodice of my new gown yesterday.’
‘Don’t be silly, Herga, it probably had something in its eye.’
‘But have you seen its eyes? They are passing strange. I’ve never seen a colour quite like it on any other child. Heather-purple, violet even.’
‘Why, Herga, you are becoming most poetic in your old age.’
‘I have not yet turned thirty! Mind your tongue, Firi Edelsen. But surely you have noticed something about the creature – I hesitate to call it a baby.’
The other woman became thoughtful. ‘Ah . . . he is most well grown for his age. A very strapping child: but then, you would expect that of the Stallion’s babe. But none of mine were ever quite so alert at such an early stage, I think. His gaze does follow you most attentively . . .’
‘It is unnerving.’ She glanced nervously around. ‘But, you know, although ’tis treason to say it, I do believe it looks nothing like either its mother or its father!’
‘Herga—’
‘Shhh – keep your noise down, Firi, or you’ll surely land the witch’s curse upon us. But no, think about it: she so pale and willowy, her eyes as cold as sea-ice; he so like his father – that great jaw and jutting chin. Yet the babe has a different shape to its nose, and no chin to speak of at all. And it is as big as a twelve-month child already, which is surely not natural.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘In some of the outer isles, I have heard, a woman who has difficulty conceiving may go up into the hills at full moon, trap herself a buck rabbit, open it up with a sharp knife, and fill it with whatever she may of her husband – bits of hair and nail clippings, and his seed, of course. And then,’ she put her hand to her mouth as if to mask what came next, which was not at all polite, ‘she must rub it against herself, down there, till she . . . you know . . .’ She shifted uncomfortably, watching the repulsion on the other’s face, a woman who would not know the difference between a buck and a doe, let alone how to catch or kill one, had probably seen rabbits only neatly skinned and dressed in Halbo Market and wouldn’t dream of . . . well . . . ‘And then,’ she continued briskly, ‘she must wrap it up in swaddlings, take it home and sing it to life all night while everyone else is asleep. And the next thing you know, her belly is all swelled up like a three-month pregnancy, and six months later there’s a great big baby boy.’ Here, she paused for effect, enjoying the fact that Firi’s eyes had gone round with anticipation. ‘Except it’s no ordinary baby: for when the moon is full, it grows a coat of fur and runs off across the hills . . .’
It was this last detail which made Firi burst into gales of laughter. ‘Are you telling me the Queen’s child will grow a white scut and long ears and go kicking up his heels when the moon next waxes large?’
Herga clicked her tongue angrily. ‘There’s no need to take a folktale quite so literally! But some kind of magic is at work here, mark my words. And the Rose of the World and that thing she calls her child are surely at the centre of it.’
The Rose of the World had escaped the confines of the castle.
She had also – for a few moments, at least – escaped the confines of the identity which had been thrust upon her.
Standing on the edge of a cliff above Halbo with the wind in her face and the winter sun crowning her with pale fire, she looked out upon her world and knew it for her own.
The sea spread itself below, stretching in apparently limitless abandon, a vast mirror to the sky. Soon both would be hers for the taking: she could feel it in her bones. So too the gulls which planed overhead, their mournful cries drifting like lost souls through the frosty air, and the plants which survived in this precipitous place: the cushions of thrift, sea campion, tormentil and lacefoot, the springy turf in which they grew, the thin, acid soil beneath, and the worms and centipedes and millipedes, the tiny colonies of life labouring away in that dark kingdom, hidden from the human eye. So too the very bedrock of this continent, with its pulsing heart of feldspar and mica, its veins and chambers of crystal and quartz; veins which flowed down through the cliff on which she stood, plunged far below the waters of the Northern Ocean and out into the lands beyond. Hers: all hers.
She was Falla; she was Feya; she was the Rosa Eldi.
But more than any of these, she was the Soul of the World.
A great calm had come over her as she acknowledged this fact; but the calm was shortlived. For a soul is but one aspect of any being, be it human or divine, and she was divided from those two who made her complete: the Man and the Beast. Without them she drifted like an unmoored boat: she might have volition and some little power, but for the time being she was at the mercy of others, up here in this rocky little kingdom, a world away from the rest of herself. Yet despite the distance which separated them, she sensed that the other two were alive: she could feel them both just as a spider may sit at the centre of the gossamer world it has woven and feel the brush of a butterfly’s wing at the farthest extent of the web it has made.
They would come together: for a brief moment a great strength flowed into her. They would reunite and the world would be made whole. I will find you! This wordless cry spiralled down through the core of her, through her legs, braced against the cutting wind, through the soles of her feet, pressed down into the granite on which she stood. She felt the message leave her like a sheet of flame, felt it course into the rock.
With her eyes closed, she followed its route, down through the quartz and into the rock strata below the ocean’s choppy waves. Away it fled like a trail of wildfire, down into the heart of the world, and as it did so, a surge of power discharged itself in her, radiating through every bone in her slight frame to set her body singing with life.
The baby in her arms squirmed suddenly, and beat his little fists against her chest as if to quell this disquieting change; and suddenly she was goddess no more, but a thin, weak woman standing on a clifftop with a squalling child (not her own) in her aching arms and a gaggle of complaining attendants all going on about their sore feet and the cold and the rough path and the early hour and how it just wasn’t seemly behaviour for a queen to be traipsing around in the wilds like this, without the least preparation, without a cloak and at such an ungodly hour, with the poor wee starving thing mewling at her empty breasts? No wonder her husband was with her less and less: the novelty had worn off, and not before time.
This last comment jolted the Rosa Eldi back into a rather less divine aspect.
‘I can hear you!’
She turned to confront the moaners, and an unearthly hush fell. She had not spoken loudly; but she had used the Voice, and now they all stood there, trembling, unsure as to why they felt suddenly afraid and beset.
It was true, she realised. Ravn was away from her increasingly often with the wrights at the shipyard, with his weapons master and his generals. And she, in turn, had been distracted by the child, which disturbed her in a way she could not define; and by the thousands of voices which whispered in her skull, calling on her in anguish and ecstasy, in conversation and in meditation. All snagged at her attention. And so the enchantment which bound her husband to her had loosened its ties. If she was not careful, she would lose him altogether.
A shiver ran through her at that thought. She must go back, now.
Walking towards the gathered retainers, she handed the child to the wet-nurse and summoned wha
t power she could harness.
‘It is cold, I grant you. And probably best that we return to the castle. But is it not the most beautiful day?’
And when she said this they realised what she said was true. It was the most beautiful day, even though snow was falling, thick as rose petals shed from a sullen sky. And as this understanding reached them, so their aches melted away, their chilblains stopped throbbing, warm blood suffused even their extremities and the air seemed clearer and brighter, and the hardy winter blossoms and berries they passed on the winding track down to the city were arrayed in splendour. Every one of them was smiling and chattering as they made their way back into the castle’s west gate.
All except for little Ulf, who turned his violet-black eyes on the woman who was responsible for this minor miracle and bellowed with all his might.
‘What ails you, my rose?’
Several nights later, Ravn Asharson, Stallion of the North, knelt beside his wife and brushed the silk curtain of her hair away from her brow, which was uncharacteristically wrinkled in concentration. He had never seen her look like this before; always she was serene, indifferent to the world and what took place in it. Even in the throes of passion she seemed strangely at peace, a creature sublimely at home in her element, gliding effortlessly through an ocean in which others would be wrecked and drowned. It occurred to him with a sudden revelatory start that at some time in the recent weeks a change had taken place in this woman he called his wife, and that he had not been privy to it.
She looked full at him then and he felt his heart contract and his blood beat hard, as it always did when he was in her thrall. Those eyes, he found himself thinking, for the thousandth time, a man could lose himself forever in those eyes . . .
‘There are many men praying tonight, Ravn. I hear them sending their thoughts out into the world. They fill my head like bees; but their words are not honeyed . . .’
He looked at her then, bemused. She did not often initiate conversation, but she did have a strange propensity to make statements such as these: large, oblique, bewildering. At first he had thought such pronouncements reflected her ineptitude with language, that she was grasping after concepts she could not adequately frame, and so he would nod and smile encouragingly, and change the subject to firmer ground. Sometimes her words seemed nonsensical, meaningless; then he wondered whether she was in her right mind. In the beginning it had not concerned him overmuch, for all it took to dispel any doubts as to the wisdom of his choice of wife was a single glance from her sea-green eyes, the touch of a single fingertip upon his cheek. Thereafter he would be lost to hot desire, and coherent thought would become an irrelevance, mere jetsam cast up on passion’s tide.
