Lyonesse

by Jack Vance

Carfilhiot's routines were even. He tended to rise early, often at sun-up, then take a breakfast of fruit, sweet-cakes, raisins and perhaps a few pickled oysters. Always he breakfasted alone. At this time of day the sight and sound of other human beings offended him, and adversely affected the rest of the day.

  Summer was changing to autumn; haze blurred the airy spaces over Vale Evander. Carfilhiot felt restless and uneasy, for reasons he could not define. Tintzin Fyral served many of his purposes very well; still it was a place remote: something of a backwater, and he had no command over that motility which other magicians, perhaps of higher order—Carfilhiot thought of himself as a magician—used daily as a matter of course. His fancies, escapades, novelties and caprices—perhaps they were no more than illusions. Time passed and despite his apparent activity, he had proceeded not a whit along the way to his goals. Had his enemies—or his friends—arranged to keep him isolated and ineffectual? Carfilhiot gave a petulant grunt. It could not be, but if so, such folk played dangerous games.

  A year previously Tamurello had conveyed him to Faroli, that odd structure of wood and colored glass, deep within the forest. After three days of erotic play the two sat listening to the rain and watching the fire on the hearth. The time was midnight. Carfilhiot, whose mercurial mind never went quiet, said: "Truly, it is time that you taught me magical arts. Do I not deserve at least this from vou?"

  Tamurello spoke with a sigh. "What a strange and unfamiliar world if everyone were treated according to his deserts!"

  Carfilhiot found the remark over-flippant. "So you mock me, he said sadly. "You think me too clumsy and foolish for the sleight."

  Tamurello, a massive man whose veins were charged with the dark rank blood of a bull, laughed indulgently. He had heard the plaint before, and he made the same answer he had made before. "To become a sorcerer you must undergo many trials, and work at many dismal exercises. A number of these are profoundly uncomfortable, and perhaps calculated to dissuade those of small motivation."

  "That philosophy is narrow and mean," said Carfilhiot.

  "If and when you become a master sorcerer, you will guard the prerogatives as jealously as any," said Tamurello.

  "Well, instruct me! I am ready to learn! I am strong of will!"

  Once more Tamurello laughed. "My dear friend, you are too volatile. Your will may be like iron, but your patience is something less than invincible."

  Carfilhiot made an extravagant gesture. "Are there no shortcuts? Certainly I can use magical apparatus without so many tiresome exercises."

  "You already have apparatus."

  "Shimrod's stuff? It is useless to me."

  Tamurello was becoming bored with the discussion. "Most such apparatus is specialized and specific."

  "My needs are specific," said Carfilhiot. "My enemies are like wild bees, which can never be conquered. They know where I am; when I set out in pursuit, they dissolve into shadows along the moor."

  "Here I may be able to assist you," said Tamurello, "though without, I admit, any great enthusiasm."

  On the following day he displayed a large map of the Elder Isles. "Here, as you will notice, is Vale Evander, here Ys, here Tintzin Fyral." He produced a number of manikins carved from blackthorn roots. "Name these little homologues with names, and place them on the map, and they will scuttle to position. Watch!" He took up one of the manikins and spat in its face. "I name you Casmir. Go to Casmir's place!" He put the manikin on the map; it seemed to scamper across the map to Lyonesse Town.

  Carfilhiot counted the manikins. "Only twenty?" he cried. "I could use a hundred! I am at war with every petty baron of South Ulfland!"

  "Name their names," said Tamurello. "We shall see how many you need."

  Grudgingly Carfilhiot named names and Tamurello put the names to the manikins and placed them on the board.

  "Still there are more!" protested Carfilhiot. "Is it not understandable that I would wish to know where and when you fare from Faroli? And Melancthe? Her movements are of importance! And what of the magicians: Murgen, Faloury, Myolander and Baibalides? I am interested in their activities."

  "You may not learn of the magicians," said Tamurello. "That is not appropriate. Granice, Audry? Well, why not? Melancthe?"

  "Melancthe in especial!"

  "Very well. Melancthe."

  "Then there are Ska chieftains and the notables of Dahaut!"

  "Moderation, in the name of Fafhadiste and his three-legged blue goat! The manikins will crowd each other from the map!"

  In the end Carfilhiot came away with the map and fifty-nine homologues.

  One late summer morning a year later, Carfilhiot went up to his workroom and there inspected the map. Casmir kept to his summer palace at Sarris. At Domreis in Troicinet a glowing white bail on the manikin's head indicated that King Granice had died; his ailing brother Ospero would now be king. At Ys Melancthe wandered the echoing halls of her seaside palace. At Oaldes, north along the coast, Quilcy, the idiot child-king of South Ulfland, played daily at sand-castles on the beach... Carfilhiot looked once more to Ys. Melancthe, haughty Melancthe! He saw her seldom; she held herself aloof.

  Carfilhiot's gaze ranged the map. With a quickening of the spirit he noticed a displacement: Sir Cadwal of Kaber Keep, had ventured six miles southwest across Dunton Fells. He would seem to be proceeding toward Dravenshaw Forest.

  Carfilhiot stood rapt in reflection. Sir Cadwal was one of his most arrogant enemies, despite poverty and an absence of powerful connections. Kaber Keep, a dour fortress above the dreariest sweep of the moors, lacked all cheer, save only security. With only a dozen clansmen at his command Sir Cadwal had long defied Carfilhiot. Ordinarily he hunted in the hills above his keep, where Carfilhiot could not easily attack; today he had ventured down upon the moors: reckless indeed, thought Carfilhiot, most unwise! The keep could not be left undefended, so it would seem that Sir Cadwal rode with only five or six men at his back, and two of these might be his stripling sons.

  Malaise forgotten, Carfilhiot sent urgent orders down to the wardroom. Half an hour later, wearing light armor, he descended to the parade ground below his castle. Twenty mounted warriors, his elite of elites, awaited him.

  Carfilhiot inspected the troop and could find no fault. They wore polished iron helmets with tall crests, chain cuirasses and jupons of violet velvet embroidered in black. Each carried a lance from which fluttered a lavender and black banneret. From each saddle hung an axe, a bow and arrows to the side; each carried sword and dagger.

  Carfilhiot mounted his horse and gave the signal to ride. Two abreast, the troop galloped west, past the reeking poles of penance, beside the drowning-cages along the riverbank and their accessory derricks and down the road toward the village Bloddywen. For reasons of policy Carfilhiot never made demands upon the folk of Bloddywen, nor in any way molested them; still, at his approach children were snatched within, doors and windows were slammed shut, and Carfilhiot rode through empty streets, to his cold amusement.

  Above, on the ridge, a watcher noted the cavalcade. He retreated over the brow of the hill and flourished a white flag. A moment later, from the highest portion of a fell a mile to the north a flutter of white acknowledged his signal. Half an hour later, had Carfilhiot been able to observe his magic map, he might have seen the blackthorn manikins designating his most hated adversaries departing their keeps and mountain forts to move down the moors toward the Dravenshaw.

  Carfilhiot and his troop clattered through Bloddywen, then turned away from the river and rode up to the moors. Gaining the ridge, Carfilhiot halted his troop, ranged them in a line and addressed them: "Today we hunt Cadwal of Kaber Keep; he is our quarry. We will meet him by the Dravenshaw. So as not to startle his vigilance, we will approach him around the side of Dinkin Tor. Listen now! Take Sir Cadwal alive, and any of his blood who may ride with him. Sir Cadwal must repent the harms he has done me in full measure: Later we will take Kaber Keep; we will drink his wine, bed his women and make free of his bounty. But today w
e ride to take Sir Cadwal!"

  He swung his horse up and around in a fine caracole and galloped away across the moors.

  On Hackberry Tor an observer, noting Carfilhiot's movements, ducked behind a crag and there signaled with a white flag until, from two quarters, his signals were acknowledged.

  Carfilhiot and his troop rode confidently into the northwest. At Dinkin Tor they halted. One of the number dismounted and climbed to the top of a rock. He called down to Carfilhiot: "Riders, perhaps five or six, at most seven! They approach the Dravenshaw!"

  "Quick then," called Carfilhiot, "we'll take them at the forest's edge!"

  The column rode west, keeping to the cover of Dewny Swale; at an old road they swung to the north and galloped at full speed for the Dravenshaw.

  The road skirted the tumbled stones of a prehistoric fane, then turned directly down toward the Dravenshaw. Across the moor the roan horses ridden by Sir Cadwal's troop glimmered like raw copper in the sunlight. Carfilhiot signaled his men. "Quietly now! A volley of arrows, if necessary, but take Cadwal alive!"

  The troop rode beside a stream fringed with willow. Clicks and snaps! A sibilant whir! Arrows across space at flat trajectory! Needle points thrust through chain-mail. There were groans of surprise, cries of pain. Six of Carfilhiot's men sagged to the ground in silence; three others took arrows in leg or shoulder. Carfilhiot's horse, with arrows in its neck and haunches, reared, screamed and fell. No one had aimed directly at Carfilhiot: an act of forbearance, alarming rather than reassuring.

  Carfilhiot ran crouching to a riderless horse, mounted, kicked home his spurs and bending low to the mane, pounded away, followed by the survivors of his troop.

  At a safe distance Carfilhiot called a halt and turned to assess the situation. To his dismay a mounted troop of a dozen men burst from the shadows of Dravenshaw. They rode bay horses and wore Kaber orange.

  Carfilhiot hissed in frustration. At least six archers would be leaving the ambush to join the enemy troop: he was outnumbered. "Away!" cried Carfilhiot and put his horse once more to flight: up past the ruined fane, with the Kaber warriors barely a hundred yards behind. Carfilhiot's horses were stronger than the Kaber bays, but Carfilhiot had ridden harder and his heavy horses had not been bred for stamina.

  Carfilhiot turned off the road into Dewny Swale, only to find another company of mounted men charging upon him from up-slope with leveled lances. They were ten or a dozen, in the blue and dark blue of Nulness Castle. Carfilhiot yelled orders and veered away to the south. Five of Carfilhiot's men took lances in the chest, neck or head and lay in the road. Three tried to defend themselves with sword and axe; they were quickly cut down. Four managed to win to the brow of the swale along with Carfilhiot, and there paused to rest their winded horses.

  But only for a moment. The Nulness company, with relatively fresh horses, already had almost gained the high ground. The Kaber troop would be circling west along the old road to intercept him before he could gain Vale Evander.

  A copse of dark fir trees rose ahead, where perhaps he could take temporary cover. He spurred the flagging horse into motion. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed bright red. He screamed: "Down! Away!" Over and down into a gulch he plunged, while archers in the crimson of Castle Turgis jumped up from the gorse and shot two volleys. Two of Carfilhiot's four were struck; once again chain-mail was penetrated. The horse of the third was struck in the belly; it reared over backward and fell on its rider who was crushed but managed to stagger, wild and disoriented, to his feet. Six arrows killed him. The single remaining warrior rode pell-mell down into the swale, where the Kaber warriors cut off first his legs, then his arms, then rolled him into the ditch to ponder the sad estate to which his life had come. Carfilhiot rode alone through the forest of firs, to come out on a wasteland of stone. A sheepherder's trail led through the rocks. Ahead towered the crags known as the Eleven Sisters.

  Carfilhiot looked over his shoulder, then spurred his horse to its ultimate effort, through the Eleven Sisters and down the slope beyond into a dim gully choked with alders, where he drew his horse under a ledge and out of sight from above. His pursuers searched the rocks, calling and hallooing in frustration that Carfilhiot had escaped their trap. Time and time again they looked into the gully, but Carfilhiot, only fifteen feet below, was not seen. Around and around in Carfilhiot's head went an obsessive question: how had the trap been established without his knowledge? The map had shown only Sir Cadwal riding abroad; yet surely Sir Cleone of Nulness Castle, Sir Dexter of Turgis had gone out with their troops! The simple strategy of the signal system never occurred to him.

  Carfilhiot waited an hour until his horse ceased to tremble and heave; then cautiously he remounted and rode down the gully, keeping to such shelter as was offered by alders and willows, and presently he emerged into Vale Evander, a mile above Ys.

  The time still was early afternoon. Carfilhiot rode on into Ys. On terraces to either side of the river the factors lived quietly in their white palaces, shaded under pencil cypress, yew, olive, flat-topped pines. Carfilhiot rode up the beach of white sand to Melancthe's palace. A yard-boy came to meet him. Carfilhiot slid off the horse with a groan of relief. He climbed three marble steps, crossed the terrace and entered a dim foyer, where a chamberlain silently helped him from his helmet, his jupon and his chain cuirass. A maid-servant appeared: a strange silver-skinned creature, perhaps half-falloy.* She brought Carfilhiot a white linen shirt and a cup of warm white wine. "Sir, Lady Melancthe will see you in due course. Meanwhile, please command me for your needs."

  *Falloy: A slender halfling akin to fairies, but larger, less antic and lacking deft control of magic; creatures ever more rare in the Elder Isles.

  "Thank you: I need nothing." Carfilhiot went out on the terrace and lowered himself into a cushioned chair and sat looking out over the sea. The air was mild, the sky cloudless. Swells slid up the sand to become a low surf, which created a somnolent rhythmic sound. Carfilhiot's eyes became heavy; he dozed.

  He awoke to find that the sun had moved down the sky. Melancthe, wearing a sleeveless gown of soft white faniche,* stood leaning against the balustrade, oblivious to his presence.

  *A fairy fabric woven from dandelion silk.

  Carfilhiot sat up in his chair, vexed for reasons indefinable. Melancthe turned to look at him, then a moment later gave her attention back to the sea... Carfilhiot watched her under half-closed eyelids. Her self- possession—so it occurred to him—if sufficiently protracted, might well tend to scrape upon one's patience... Melancthe glanced at him over her shoulder, the corners of her mouth drooping, apparently with nothing to say: neither welcome nor wonder at his presence unattended, nor curiosity as to the course of his life.

  Carfilhiot chose to break the silence. "Life here at Ys seems placid enough."

  "Sufficiently so."

  "1 have had a dangerous day. I evaded death by almost no margin whatever."

  "You must have been frightened."

  Carfilhiot considered. "'Fright'? That is not quite the word. I was alarmed, certainly. I grieve to lose my troops."

  "I have heard rumors of your warriors."

  Carfilhiot smiled. "What would you have? The land is in turmoil. Everyone resists authority. Would you not prefer a country at peace?"

  "As an abstract proposition, yes."

  "I need your help."

  Melancthe laughed in surprise. "It will not be forthcoming. I helped you once, to my regret."

  "Truly? My gratitude should have soothed all your qualms. After all, you and I are one."

  Melancthe turned and looked off over the wide blue sea. "I am I and you are you."

  "So you will not help me."

  "I will give you advice, if you agree to act by it."

  "At least I will listen."

  "Change utterly."

  Carfilhiot made a polite gesture. "That is like saying: ‘Turn yourself inside-out.'"

  "I know." The two words rang with a fateful sound.


  Carfilhiot grimaced. "Do you truly hate me so?"

  Melancthe inspected him from head to toe. "I often wonder at my feelings. You fascinate the attention; you cannot be ignored. Perhaps it is a kind of narcissism. If I were male, I might be like you."

  "True. We are one."

  Melancthe shook her head. "I am not tainted. You breathed the green fume."

  "But you tasted it."

  "I spat it out."

  "Still, you know its flavor."

  "And so I see deep into your soul."

  "Evidently without admiration."

  Melancthe again turned to look across the sea. Carfilhiot came to join her beside the balustrade. "Does it mean nothing that I am in danger? Half of my elite company is gone. I no longer trust my magic."

  "You know no magic."

  Carfilhiot ignored her. "My enemies have joined and plan terrible acts upon me. Today they might have killed me, but tried rather to take me alive."

  "Consult your darling Tamurello; perhaps he will fear for his loved one."

  Carfilhiot laughed sadly. "I am not even sure of Tamurello. In any event he is very temperate in his generosity, even somewhat grudging."

  "Then find a more lavish lover. What of King Casmir?"

  "We have few interests in common."

  "Then Tamurello would seem to be your best hope."

  Carfilhiot glanced sidewise and searched the delicate lines of her profile. "Has Tamurello never offered his attentions to you?"

  "Certainly. But my price was too high."

  "What was your price?"

  "His life."

  "That is inordinate. What price would you demand of me?"

  Melancthe's eyebrows raised; her mouth went wryly crooked. "You would pay a notable price."

  "My life?"

  "The topic lacks all relevance, and disturbs me." She turned away. "I am going inside."

  "What of me?"

  "Do as you please. Sleep in the sun, if you are so of a mind. Or start back to Tintzin Fyral."

  Carfilhiot said reproachfully: "For one who is closer than a sister, you are most acrid."

  "To the contrary; I am absolutely detached."