by Brian Daley
He rose and stumbled through blackness. Red light flickering from the window didn’t help much, but at least the guardian evinced no interest in coming after him. Wading blindly through shrubs and flower beds, he found a wall and groped along until he came to a door. Inside, he trotted slowly, pistols out, and picked up his bearings. He raced to the juncture of corridors where the search teams had divided.
There he found Andre, Swan and some of the Sages along with Sisters of the Line. He gasped his story; they had to chase Bey at once. But Andre rapped, “The guardian must be stopped first, and the fires. They will destroy lives, and Ladentree.” He pounded away, Swan and some of the Glyffans at his back, over Gil’s violent protests.
Ferrian was reclining against a wall, leg bandaged. “One of the teams was set upon by more Occhlon,” he informed the American, “and a skirmish was fought. The Southwastelanders killed and injured many.”
“If we don’t nab Bey right now there’ll be lots worse than that. He’s got what he came for.” His eye fell on the Sages. He grabbed one, a slender old man with a carefully trimmed beard and high, smooth forehead.
“Take me through this damn maze, to the rear gates.” The Sage drew himself up.
“Remove your hand,” he ordered, his expression saying he meant it, even though fighting was prohibited to him. Gil complied. The Sage turned to his fellows. “Go, help the Sisters of the Line in any way you may.” He immediately set off down the main corridor. In time, through twisting hallways and wide passages, he guided Gil to a final door. The American edged past, drew both guns and eased it open. Horseshoes battered the earth.
He got to the open gates and fired at shadows from frustration, but heard the hoofbeats dying away into the night. Maggie’s drawers, he chided himself; I missed. There was no other horse there. The Mauser was empty. He dashed back the way he’d come.
It wasn’t hard to find Swan and Andre; smoke and commotion drew him to them. The wizard had used a Dismissal on the guardian, but the fires had taken hold, endangering the library. Swan directed the Sisters in fighting the blaze, the Sages working side by side with them, using sand, water and their own robes. Gil got the High Constable’s attention, relating what had happened.
“We cannot hie after him now,” she said, wiping her smudged cheek with a blistered hand. Her blue cape was scorched.
He grated, “We can’t do anything else. We can only collar him if we start now.”
She blew up. “I have casualties to think about! My brother’s dead, and if Ladentree is consumed Glyffa loses half its heritage. So go, chase him yourself if you must; I have no time to waste beating the bushes in the night. Now leave me be!” She pushed past him.
He went to the wizard. “It’s you and me. We have to take Bey ourselves.”
Andre shook his head regretfully. “He has more Southwastelanders with him, and we know not where he is gone. He trapped you once tonight; would you make it twice?”
Gil was disbelieving. “What’s wrong with you?”
Andre’s tone was hard. “I have been against Bey for longer years than you can imagine. This is not the closest I have come to him, only to lose him.” Andre, too, went back to fighting the fire.
Gil, ready to take up the chase by himself, was stopped by common sense. He hadn’t the vaguest idea which way the sorcerer had gone, and he’d never even tracked anybody by day, much less pitch darkness. He’d made one dumb move that night, he admitted; a second one wouldn’t cancel that. Tearing off his steel cap, he hurled it at the floor; it rebounded with a belling sound.
Swan was commanding Sisters of the Line to tote more ancient codices and folios out of danger. Gil fell in with them. “You’re right,” he conceded gruffly. Now it was her turn to stare in surprise.
They fought the fire under control by phases. Gil tried to imagine what special advantage the Hand of Salamá had carried into the night.
Chapter Twelve
Although it fall and die that night—
It was the plant and flower of light…
Ben Jonson
“It Is Not Growing Like a Tree”
WHEN they were sure no last spark remained, Gil trudged off tiredly through the smoke with the others. No one could calculate how much irreplaceable knowledge had been incinerated.
Andre went off to see how Ferrian was. Gil found space at a bench where two Sisters of the Line and a few Sages sat numbly. Someone had left food on the table, dark bread and jars of cold well water, sliced fresh fruit from the library’s orchards and slabs of cheese. He helped himself mechanically, and asked where Swan was.
A cavalrywoman told him, “She has gone to the chapel, to do prayer for her brother. We are billeted for the night; our casualties are being attended by Sages of Healing and the Trustee’s son, deCourteney. The High Constable commanded that your baggage be set there, by the door. Your horse has been seen to.”
Dirge was among the things they’d brought. He faced the Sages. One of them was the man who’d led him to the rear gates.
“Hey, any of you know anything about swords?”
They stopped talking and looked among themselves. The Sage Gil knew stood. “I am Silverquill, chief savant here. I have some familiarity with metal working and the various master smiths.”
Gil got Dirge, unscabbarded it and threw it onto the polished wood. It landed on the table with a gong that hung in the air. There was a sinister glitter to the black, runcinate blade, as if its sawing teeth waited to bite flesh. Sages and cavalrywomen alike examined it. None tried to touch.
Silverquill leaned over it, yellowed nail tracing one glyph, a flaming mandala. “This mark and the stamp of the weapon wrights of Death’s Hold, I know, are inscribed in implements of dark renown. This is Dirge, is it not?” Gil confirmed it. “Then take great care; this hanger will do nothing but harm, wounds that only its dreaded owner may heal. Dirge seldom cuts but that it kills, by its edge and its runes of death. Yardiff Bey is said in the texts to hold it in highest merit.”
Gil sat staring at the blade, speculating how he might use that. The others became uncomfortable. One by one they drifted away to stand guard duty, rest, or just leave Dirge and the morose outlander. Presently, he was alone in the small sphere of light from the candelabrum.
He touched the mandala glyph cautiously, feeling its cool fire. Then he slammed Dirge back into its scabbard, roused himself and began digging through his saddlebags.
Finding the oily rag and cleaning kit he carried, he took down the Browning and cleaned it, his mind elsewhere. When the Hi-Power was reloaded and returned to the shoulder rig, he stripped the Mauser, working proficiently. There were three rounds left for it, two for the Browning. They were both nine-millimeter weapons, but their ammo wasn’t interchangeable. He was nearly done with the Mauser when he realized he wasn’t alone. Replacing the magazine base plate, he saw Swan standing at the edge of the light.
She’d shed her armor, washed and combed out the straight, glossy black hair until its ends floated around her waist. She’d found a robe somewhere, simple black muslin, caught around her hips with an antique belt of beaten silver plaques. He was startled to see how young she looked, standing with the right half of her face in shadow. He finished quickly and holstered the pistol.
“I’m sorry about Jade,” he faltered, “truly sorry.”
She took a seat across from him. Her long brown fingers interlocked. “He was so close,” she told him softly. “Jade lived for the Reconciliation; to make it work. The Trustee knew his name, thought him an important thought-shaper among the men. Do you know how many times we spoke? I have reckoned it. Today, finding him dying there in the corridor, was seven. Precisely seven times.”
Her cheek gave a tug. “Why should death find Jade on the eve of Reconciliation?”
He wondered if he should leave, but it came to him that if she’d wanted solitude, Ladentree was full of it. He was accosted by his own griefs and regrets, evoked by hers. To deny them, he got up and took her han
d and the candelabrum. She came to her feet. Taking the light from him, she led the way to the room she’d chosen in the secluded upper reaches of Ladentree, over the Sixth Hall of Antiquities.
When they stood together, he tilted her chin to see her full face in the glow. She resisted, catching his hands with a tight grip. He moved closer, brushed her hair away and kissed the hot curve of her throat. She had some second thought, or misplaced spasm of propriety in mourning. He stopped her when she might have pushed him away, drawing her arms around his neck. She locked her mouth to his.
There was little sense of transition. They left clothes behind and matched themselves along each other on the short, narrow bed. Its mean confines were an environment severed from any other. Both had worried about their own awkwardness. But uncertainties fell away; hesitations hadn’t followed them. They made trusting, unhurried exploration, through levels of excitement. In their vergency he heard a victorious sound low in her throat.
They were left with a fragile tenderness. He went to brush the hair back from her birth-badge; she ducked away. He laid her fingertips to the powderburn tattoo on his cheek. She shook back black tresses, defiantly. He pretended to examine it closely, then nipped her nose. She throbbed with laughter.
After a while, she said, “It is some time that you have not been with a woman.” She felt his nod against her cheek. “Nor I with a man. Once, I thought to put aside my duties and bear a child. But it was not to be; as it came out, I have contributed more to Glyffa this way.”
She stretched up for a kiss. “But you, outlander, exemption, I am glad you came here.” He was sorry he hadn’t said it first, but seconding her now would sound lame. Instead, he reciprocated the kiss, and caressed the angry red wash of flesh on her neck.
“When I was young,” she confided, “the other girls made sport of it. So, when we practiced at swords, I would tie back my hair and make a face at them, so.” She showed him, the coal-gleaming mane gripped back in her left hand, imaginary rapier in her right. She grimaced savagely, eyes bulging. He laughed, then she did. “But it was effective, yes. I was ever the attacker, the winner. They ceased japing.” She became reflective. “Then the Trustee saw me, and said, ‘Little one with your warrior-mark, we have enough of lasses handy with a sword. Let us see if there is in you a leader.’”
Conversation slackened soon; desire took hold again.
At length, they held one another, warm and lazy. Gil’s last thought was that he would least have thought that this particular day would bring him peace, however ephemeral.
He was awakened by a hand on his mouth. It would normally have sent his hand burrowing for the pistol under his pillow, but the love-pax had survived the discontinuity of sleep. Swan pulled him up to come with her. Goosefleshing, they went to the window. Dawn just touched the horizon. He knew unhappily that he’d have to leave soon.
Some of the little white birds he’d seen terrorized the day before were in the courtyard below, trilling a haunting song.
“What are they?”
“Those are the Birds of Accord. Once, ages ago, they nested and bred in the branches of the Lifetree itself. When it was destroyed, they fled here to Ladentree, sensing its tranquility. They live out their long lives, but when they die it will be the end of their kind. The Birds of Accord mated only among the branches of the Life-tree.”
The floor under his bare feet sent him looking for his clothes. She wrapped herself in a blanket and sat on the bed, hugging her knees, watching him. As he sat lacing his shirt, she spoke suddenly.
“Did you leave her, or she you? Or did she die, or did you argue? Or are you going back to her?”
He stopped. “Her name was Duskwind. She died; I did too, a little. Bey’s fault. I’m going to kill him for it, and free a friend of mine he’s holding.”
“You mentioned your friend second.” There was coolness in her voice. “Is revenge more important?”
“I—” He went back to the lacings. “I don’t know. I can’t separate them.” She saw the Ace of Swords as he slipped it around his neck.
There was a blast of trumpets. She sprang to her feet. Her persona was now High Constable; she was into her armor, white-wing-helmeted, before he finished dressing.
Downstairs, they found Andre greeting the Trustee, Angorman and two squadrons of cavalry. The Trustee demanded, “All is secured?”
Swan answered, “There is more to matters than that, but yes.”
“Then,” said the old woman, “let us go rest from all this whooping about. It is always a treat to visit Ladentree.”
They went to an inner garden of the library. Silverquill appeared, and welcomed the Trustee with a deep bow. She returned it equally. “Please be comfortable,” the Sage invited, “but I ask you to put weapons aside. There have been enough tools of war brandished here in Ladentree.”
Swan and Andre laid aside their swords and Gil put down his guns. Angorman looked stubborn; he was thinking of his last separation from Red Pilgrim, at Dulcet’s. “Come, Saint-Commander,” beckoned the Trustee, “lay your axe against the rose trellis. It will not be alone.” She leaned her rune-carved Crook of Office next to it. They all found places on benches of agate centuries old.
Swan told what had happened in crisp, accurate style.
“This misfortune is less than it could have been,” the ruler of Glyffa decided. “Bey’s information was faulty; he lost much time in his hunting. Since he came himself, trusting no subordinate, a major advantage must have been at stake. I would give a pretty to ken what he won last night.”
Swan asked, “How stand things with the Southwastelanders?”
“The Occhlon withdrew, but regrouped, positioned at a certain disadvantage, inviting us to close with them.” The old woman shook her head in wry humor. “I can recognize a pig in the parlor when I see one there, or a worm on a hook. They wanted to engage us, thus I sought elsewhere for their real motive. Setting my Lord Blacktarget to keep surveillance, I came here to find it, but not in time to strive against Yardiff Bey.”
She drew on memories for a moment, then decided they were something the others there should hear. “I remember the Hand of Salamá in his youth, ere his foul affiliations were known, an avaricious boy, hungry for power. I was foremost among the Adepts then, having earned my Crook. Where Salamá stands now, the center of the Unity was then. The Lifetree bloomed nearby, its upper branches in the clouds, its roots delving to the earth’s core, holding all spheres in its grand equilibrium. Gift of the Bright Lady, it was the demonstration of the Unity’s office. Sojourners from every earthly quarter saw it; it is in most religions still. We held high hopes for the human race in those days.”
“And the sorcerer?” prodded Angorman.
“Bey, yes; a willful one, even then. But of course, it was the demon Amon who seduced the Five. While the rest of us sat in the shade of the Lifetree, complacent or preoccupied with higher knowledge, Amon stole among the Lords Paramount of the Unity. Even Dorodor, central figure of the Unity, more demigod than man, failed to detect it.
“First of the demon’s levers was Skaranx, whose high honor was to warder the Lifetree, but who destroyed it. Then there was Temopon, trusted Seer, who delivered false counsel. So too fell Vorwoda, taken with Amon’s promises, betraying her husband Dorodor; she had been his mainstay. She lusted for Kaytaynor, Dorodor’s closest friend, who slew him for envy of his wife and took her. Lastly was Dorodeen, the Flawed Hero who, failing to win the loftiest seat in the Unity, would take no second place, and set about to bring it low.
“Together, the Five compacted to annihilate the Life-tree and slay the Unity’s most puissant overlords. They would throw open the Infernal Plane, unleashing the hordes of the lower regions. In those first two aspirations they succeeded; the flower of the Unity perished, and the Lifetree with them. But in the final days of the Masters’ plan, their Great Blow, remnants of us gathered to rob them of total victory. A portent appeared in the sky, the Trailingsword, to call together all per
sons of good intent. We won our resistance, but the world was tottered and changed forever.
“There are omens showing themselves,” the Trustee finished, “which are products of those bygone days. I cannot share my every datum with you; proof will be forthcoming.”
“We worry not,” Angorman said in confidence; “chip by chip is the oak hewn.”
As the Trustee was about to respond, Birds of Accord flocked down through the garden in a soft-winged cloud. Gil was nervous, remembering the aerial attack on the Tangent, but these Birds only lilted their song. Many hopped through the trellis, flitting from it to Red Pilgrim, then the Trustee’s Crook and back again. One perched on the old woman’s extended finger, singing as if telling her something, but she didn’t have its language.
“Here is a good omen, surely,” Angorman remarked.
“Aye,” she answered, “they bode good luck.”
“How lucky can they be?” Gil injected. “They’re dying out.”
The Trustee told him, “You may yet learn. It is sometimes the inoffensive, the forgotten creatures who set the gears of fate turning.”
Gil felt squirmy. “What about Yardiff Bey?”
“He did not come back south, or I would have known it. Among his own kind I could not single him out, but if he were abroad near me in these lands of the Bright Lady, I could not have failed to. Thus, he meant me to stay occupied with battle.”
“We have a two-edged problem,” Andre declared. “Yardiff Bey must be found, but it is as important that Blazetongue and Cynosure be taken to Veganá.”
“You cannot ignore the sorcerer,” Swan objected.
“We will not,” the Trustee proclaimed. “Here, his magic is small. Force of arms will net him. You will supply that, High Constable. Where we mean to take Cynosure and Blazetongue there will be magic in plenty; Andre, the Saint Commander and I will all be needed. You take to Bey’s spoor with half this force I brought; run him to ground if you can. He may be in Glyffa still, but I cannot permit that to divert me. What’s more, I do not have full confidence in my Lord Blacktarget. He already has his harpers composing odes to his own bravery yesterday. I fear his vainglory may lead him to folly.”
