Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Gratillonius formally requested what would not be denied, leave to stay in a meadow. When he thereafter asked the name of the community, the headman grunted, “Maedraeacum.”

  Memory jarred Gratillonius. Why, this must be—must have been—the latifundium that vengeful Rufinus and his Bacaudae destroyed… thirteen years ago, was it? He inquired about the family of—Sicorus, had that been the patrician’s name?—but learned little. These people were too isolated. Their crops harvested, they brought to Redonum that large portion which was rent and taxes. From time to time bailiffs came to inspect the property. Occasionally men were conscripted for work on the roads or whatever else the masters they never saw wanted done. That was what they knew of the outside universe.

  Obviously there had been no attempt to rebuild the manor house. Gratillonius wasn’t sure whether that was because of fear, because it wouldn’t have paid in these times of dwindled commerce and population, or because the heirs of Sicorus didn’t care for rural life. A senator wasn’t bound hand and foot to a trade or a place.

  The headman pointed at a long, low mound in the offing. “Where the big house was,” he said. Gratillonius went over but found no lesser trace. Tiles, glass, undestroyed goods and tools, everything of any use had been taken away. Doubtless the Duke’s soldiers helped themselves first out of the ruins, then the new owner’s agents removed whatever they wanted, then the serfs picked over the remnants, year after year. Even damaged furniture or scorched books would do for fuel.

  The sun was on the horizon when Gratillonius got back to camp. A half moon stood wan overhead. Heaven was clear, air quiet and cold. He led his Mithraists in prayer. Those rejoined their fellows, who, with tents erected, stood around the fire waiting for the lentils and bacon to cook. Weary but cheerful, they cracked jokes which they had made a hundred times already. Gratillonius could have been there too. After close to twenty years, he could unbend among these men without undermining discipline. He found he wasn’t in the mood, and wandered off.

  Twilight deepened. The moon was barely enough to make the land ashy-dark; woods and hills were masses of blackness. Stars began to twinkle forth. Again he remembered his first journey toward Ys, when he was young and Dahilis awaited him, both of them unknowing. An eagle owl had passed above….

  Forsquilis said the witchcraft had left her, the magical power was gone from all the Nine. Could that be true? Was the world itself growing old?

  No, surely life remained, and would come winging to him out of the sky. He saw it yonder, low in the north, pale but brightening against the violet dusk.

  He stopped.

  The vision grew more clear minute by minute, as other light died away. It was a star in a silvery haze of its own glow. Easterly upward from it across a wide arc streamed a tail, vaporous white fire which at the end clove into three tongues.

  The cries of his men reached Gratillonius as if from a vast distance, as if they were as far behind him as the comet was ahead, he alone in hollow space. He laid hold on his fear before it could take him. Better run back and calm the soldiers. Somebody among the serfs must have seen too and called the rest out, for he heard them howl in terror.

  “You’ve spied a comet or two before,” he’d tell his followers. “Didn’t hurt you, did it? Brace up and carry on!” They would. But what prophecy was in those three tongues?

  7

  Foul weather returned, and worsened. Wind came mightily out of the west, scourging a ragged wrack of clouds before it, brawling and shrilling. Waves ran high. Spume blew bitter off their crests. Where they shocked upon rocks and reefs, fountains spouted.

  Osprey plowed forward under oars, wallowed, shuddered, groaned in her timbers. Often a sheet of water burst over the prow, blinding the eyes painted there. They rose anew, streaming tears, and stared toward the streak that was Sena. Mainland lay as murky and vague aft; the towers of Ys had vanished into cloud and spindrift.

  Bodilis huddled on a bench fixed below the mast, for what slight shelter it afforded. “Nay,” she said, “the Council reached no decision, though it met a full four days, longer than ever in living memory. How could it—we—as divided as we are against ourselves? In the end, all we could do was swear together that we will die ere we yield our freedom up to Rome.” The wind tattered her words.

  “And meanwhile this storm got under way,” Maeloch growled beside her. He had, in reverent wise, thrown a blanket over them both. They sat close, sharing warmth. “Why do ye go out? When the crossing be too dangerous for your barge of state, surely the Gods don’t mean for ye to. That hairy star could be Their very warning.”

  “So my Sisters urged. But I think ’tis a last hope,” Bodilis sighed. “I had a feeling, rightly or wrongly, there in the Council chamber when we took our oath—it felt to me as if They paid us no heed. Almost as if They had disowned us.”

  Maeloch tensed. “I’m sorry,” Bodilis said, catching his glance and offering him a smile. “I spoke badly.” She paused. “Yet truthfully. Well, mayhap if one of the Gallicenae goes forth to serve Them as of old, They will listen to her.”

  The skipper cast dread from him. “They’ll have time enough,” he said grimly. “Ye’ll be weatherbound for days, unless I’ve mislaid my knowledge. By tomorrow I myself wouldn’t dare try to fetch ye. How long? Who can foresee? Could be as much as a sennight. Lir brews a terrible brew this now, off in mid-Ocean.”

  Her calm was unbroken. “I can abide. You saw how I brought ample supplies.” She smiled. “And writing materials, and my best loved books.”

  The lookout in the bows yelled. Maeloch excused himself, left her the blanket, went forward to peer. Water churned and roared. “Aye, Grampus Rock,” he said. “We’ve drifted south off course.” He hastened aft and took the steering oar from Usun.

  Time passed. Rowing into the heavy seas, men were exhausted when they reached Sena, slipped in through the last treacheries, and made fast at the dock. Nonetheless they unloaded Queen Bodilis’s baggage for her.

  “I wish I could carry it up to the house, my lady,” Maeloch said.

  “You’re sweet,” she replied. “But ’tis only permitted me.” Neither spoke of the night when Gratillonius went ashore in search of Dahilis, and cut Dahut free of her dead mother.

  “Well, have a care,” he rumbled awkwardly. His look sought the small, foursquare building of dry-laid stone, and its turret. “Stay inside if the wind rises much more. Remember, gales ha’ been known to drive waves clear across this isle.”

  Anxiety touched her. “’Tis you and your friends who’ll be imperilled. Should you really not go home at once, and wait till ’tis safe to leave for Hivernia?” She was among the few to whom Vindilis had confided the plan.

  He shook his wool-draped head. “Nay. After this blows itself out, belike the waters ’ull be too roiled for days, amongst our reefs, for setting forth from Ys. I’ll give the lads an hour or two of rest here, then well snake free of the skerry ground and hoist sail. Once weVe proper sea room, we can ride out whatever Lir may whistle up, and be on our way as soon as we can make any northing at all.”

  “You speak overboldly.”

  “No disrespect. Lir be Lir. But I be a man. He knows it.”

  “You are very brave, though, to hasten thus on your mission.” He seemed abashed. “’Tis important,” he mumbled. “For Ys and, and your Sister, little Dahut.”

  “Go you, then, to learn what you can, for her sake,” Bodilis said as quietly as the noise allowed. “And I will be praying for her.”

  He looked beyond, to the desolation of stone, harsh grass, distorted bushes, flung coils of kelp that stretched away at her back. “’Tis ye be the brave one,” he said, “alone in the sea with the hairy star.” Bodilis gave him her hand. “Farewell, Maeloch.”

  “Fare ye ever well, my lady.” He turned and stumped back to his vessel. Bodilis carried her things piecemeal to the house and unpacked them. By the time she was through, Osprey had cast off. She stood watching the hull toil away northward unti
l it was lost to sight.

  XIX

  1

  Gratillonius drew rein at the grave of Eppillus, saluted, and looked ahead, down the long slope of Point Vanis to Ys.

  It stood against the mass of Cape Rach like a dream. A haze of wind-blown spume and low-flying cloud grayed the wall, blurred roofs, made towertops shimmer and flicker as if they would be the pharos flame which could not burn tonight. Ocean raged, almost white save in the abyssal wave-troughs, crests so high that they did not break over most of the reefs, for it had buried them. It erupted against the mainland in bursts that climbed the cliffs, with shocks that Gratillonius thought he could feel through the earth. Wind was an elemental force out of the west. It thrust and clawed; to keep the saddle was a wrestling. The cry and the cold of it filled his bones.

  This would be a night to house at home. His men were lucky to have arrived when they did. The blast had been strengthening throughout this day. Soon they would have had no choice but to take what shelter they could find and wait it out.

  Gratillonius’s gaze travelled left into the vale. The Wood of the King surged under the storm, a black lake foamed with early green. He supposed that was where he would be. This was the first of those three days when the moon was reckoned full. Having missed his last Watch, and afterward the equinoctial Council, he’d likely be wise to observe immediately the law by which he reigned.

  No, first he had other, more real duties. He signalled the command that his legionaries could not have heard if he voiced it, and proceeded along Redonian Way. Wearily but happily, they took formation and followed him on the double. Their pack beasts lurched behind. Favonius snorted, curvetted, shied and then plunged, made wild by the weather. Barely could Gratillonius restrain him. What a grand animal he was!

  It would have been quickest to enter at Northbridge, but spray was driving over it. Also, the King’s first errand was to the palace, which lay nearer High Gate. Swinging around the eastern side, the travelers entered the lee of the city wall. Strong and ruddy it stood; Caesar’s builder’s had wrought well for Brennilis. But on the far side the old Gods, the angry Gods came riding from the sea.

  Guards at the battlements had seen the party approach. Trumpets defied the wind. Men spilled out of barracks. The King of Ys entered between swords, pikes, and shouts uplifted in his honor.

  It was quieter here, possible to talk without yelling, though air brawled and skirled while surf sent a deep drum-roll underneath. Gratillonius halted, brought the stallion around, signed to his legionaries. They clustered close, at ease, yet still bearing themselves in Roman wise. He smiled.

  “Boys,” he said, “we’ve had a tough trek, and I thank you for every mile. You are now relieved of duty. Take off your armor, go to your homes, and greet your families from me.” He paused. “Your furlough will be permanent. You are overdue for discharge. I’ve been remiss about that, but your services were invaluable. In large part because of you, Ys is at peace, while prepared to deal with any future foes. Take your honorable retirement. Besides the usual veterans’ benefits, we’ll arrange a worthwhile bonus.”

  He was surprised to see Adminius, Cynan, several others stricken. “Sir, we don’t want to quit,” the deputy protested. “We’d sooner march with our centurion till our feet wear out.”

  Gratillonius’s eyes stung. He swallowed. “You, you shouldn’t nudge me like that,” he said. “Let me think about this. At the very least, oh, those who want can continue in the honor guard on state occasions. I’ll be proud of that. But you see, there’s no longer any call for more. I don’t think I’ll be leading you away ever again.”

  He wheeled the horse and clattered off. At his back he heard, “Hail, centurion! Hail, centurion!” over and over.

  The cheers died in the wind. Broken by walls, it whirled and leaped through streets, lanes, the crooked little alleys of Ys. Higher up, it streamed snarling around the towers. Air tasted of salt from the scud it bore along off the sea. The battering waves resounded louder as Gratillonius rode west.

  Most folk had sought beneath their roofs. Nevertheless, Lir Way was not deserted. A fair number of people trudged toward the Forum, men, women, children. They were roughly though seldom poorly clad. Many carried bundles, some pushed barrows laden with simple goods. Gratillonius recognized certain among them. They were workers from the shops outside, countryfolk off the heights beyond, fishers out of Scot’s Landing, and their households. They knew him in their turn, stared at the man with the white-shot auburn beard atop his tall steed, sometimes waved and shouted. “The King, the King, the King’s come home!”

  Gratillonius lifted an arm in acknowledgment. This was good to see. If the storm got much worse, they would have been in danger. The cottages under Cape Rach might actually be washed away. It had happened in the past. Somebody had had the foresight to organize evacuation of such persons into the city, and they were going to spread their pallets in public buildings. Who had the someone been? Bodilis—no, she’d have thought of the need, but lacked skill in leadership. Lanarvilis, likeliest, quite possibly assisted by Soren. If so, he must thank them. Could that, the concern for Ys they shared with him, begin a healing of the breach?

  He left the avenue. As he climbed, the wind grabbed fiercer. His cloak flapped crazily, though he gripped it close. The city revealed itself as pinnacles in a cauldron of blown mist. Behind reddening, ragged clouds, the sun slipped close to worldedge. Its light glimmered off furious whiteness. Sena was hidden.

  No guards stood at the palace gate. Well, it would have been useless cruelty to post them. Gratillonius dismounted, worked the bolt, led Favonius through and tethered the stallion to a tree. Its topiary was mangled. The garden lay a ruin, flowerbeds drowned, shrubbery twisted or flattened, shell scattered off paths. Gilt was stripped from the eagle on the dome. Gratillonius couldn’t be sure in the waning light, but he thought a bronze wing had been wrenched out of shape.

  Windows were shuttered. However, the staff must be inside. Gratillonius mounted the steps and banged the great knocker. Again and again and again… like a challenger at the Wood who did not know that the King lay dead…. They heard at last. The door opened. Light poured out into the wind.

  “My lord!” exclaimed the majordomo. “’Tis you! Come in, sir, do. Welcome home.” He forgot the dignity of his position and whooped: “The King is back!”

  Gratillonius passed through. As the door shut, he found himself swaddled in warmth and brightness. The racket outside became an undertone. “I’m here to fetch the Key,” he said, “then I go onward.”

  “But, my lord,” the majordomo wailed, “you’ve had such a long journey, and my lady has been anxious—”

  Gratillonius brushed past. The atrium spread before him, pillars and panels agleam in a star-field of candles. Across the charioteers in the floor sped Tambilis.

  He could only stand and await her. She ran heavily, burdened with the unborn child. Her gown was plain gray wool, her feet merely slippered. The brown hair tumbled from a fillet of carved ivory which had more color than her face. She fell into his arms and wept.

  He held her and murmured. “Be at ease, darling, at ease, I’m back safe and sound, everything went well, better than we hoped—” She clutched him painfully hard and shuddered.

  After a while, under his strokings, she regained some control. Head still nestled in the curve of his left shoulder, she mumbled through sobs, “I’ve been so frightened… for you, Grallon. I had to w-w-warn you. Mother would have, but she’s… on the island… praying for us all.”

  Alarm jangled through him. “What’s this?” he snapped. “Why are you here?”

  She disengaged herself. Her hands groped after his until he took them. Blinking, sniffling, she said in a small voice, “I moved hither a few days ago. I knew you’d seek the palace first, so belike I could tell you, put you on your guard, ere something bad happened. If n-n-naught else, while I was here, no more horrible feasts would be. What if you’d come home to one?”

 
His tone was flat in his hearing. “Well, tell me.”

  She gathered her will and cast the news forth: “A Scotic warrior dwells with Dahut. She gave a celebration in his honor, in this your house. They say ’twas as wild a revel as ever Ys has known. She and the man go freely about together. But she’ll speak to none of us, her Sisters, nor does she seek the Temple or any of her duties. We know not what they intend, those two. Thus far he has kept from the Wood. They have claimed he’s a chieftain who’s searching out our markets, for trade. Or Dahut has. Niall japes and tells stories and sings songs but says never a meaningful thing. And he lives in her home.”

  Gratillonius had seen men smitten in combat stand moveless a while, trying to comprehend what had happened to them. Likewise did he respond: “Nay, this cannot be. Dahut could not defile herself. She is daughter to Dahilis.”

  “Oh, she’s declared the Scotian has a room of his own. Her servants are silent. ’Tis plain to see they’re terrified. She’s taken lodgings for those that used to live in, and sends everybody off at the end of each day’s work. Grallon, I have seen the looks she gives him.”

  Momentarily and vaguely, he thought that this was to be expected, that it might even be the answer for which he had yearned. Let the girl be happy with a man she loved. Her father the King could protect them, steer them between the reefs of the law, win her freedom from the Sign of Belisama.

  He saw how impossible that was, realized Dahut must know this just as well, and remembered Tommaltach, Carsa, and Budic—Budic.

  “What is this fellow like?” he asked in the same dull fashion.

  “Tall, strong, beautiful,” Tambilis replied. Steadiness was rising in her. “I think, though, he’s older than you by some years.”

  “So if he challenges me, I might well take him? That would not end the trouble, my dear. Only if he took me.”