“Tirell!” He ignored me, concentrating all of his attention on his heir, as usual. I did not realize then how lucky I was. Tirell answered him only with a steady glance.
“You have been in the dirt! You are covered with dirt, black—” Abas had recoiled from his son in loathing. It is hard to describe his horror. I do not think he was concerned with the retribution of the Mother or of any god—he had never showed great reverence for Adalis or Chardri. I did not understand at the time, but I think now that the dirt meant far more than dirt to him—that he was afraid, as he feared the night, that he looked at our grime and saw something far worse.
“Rolling in it, rolling in filth! Wallowing—”
“We were digging,” Tirell said with childlike appeal and adolescent dignity. Digging was forbidden, as I have said, but I suppose Tirell preferred that crime to the sort of vague perversity Abas seemed to be spinning. Abas cried out in shock and his horror turned to anger.
“So, digging like beasts, deep, deep, and do you not know what lies beneath?” He moved closer to Tirell, threatening, his long fingers wildly addressing the air. “Below, dark, black, beneath, within, do you not know? The grip, the dark, the close clutch, the boneless grasp where the water runs—the thing will take you, draw you down, dark, black. You innocent, stay far from digging.…” He was quivering all over, his hands palpitating the air nearer and nearer to Tirell’s face, and suddenly they shot forward as if they would gouge out his eyes. I winced in terror, myself, but Tirell stood firm, and Abas crowed in an ecstasy of rage. Then he dropped to his knees before his son, his shaking stilled. I think that disconcerted Tirell more than anything that had happened. He kept his face still, but tears made white tracks through the grime.
“My son,” Abas whispered, “my son, keep far from that darkness.” He reached for him as if to kiss him, but Tirell bolted, and I ran after him. Behind us we heard yells of incoherent rage.
“I hate him,” Tirell panted, still weeping. “I hate him! He is the dark thing, he himself!”
Who could have borne the burden of that mad love? But Abas saw truly, in his way. That darkness was in Tirell.
He was too much like his father for anyone’s comfort. No one was afraid of me, a plain sort of person with freckles and rusty hair, but everyone feared and adored Tirell. When he found Mylitta he was twenty, handsome, extravagant—everyone worshipped him. People would line the dirt streets to see him dashing by in his chariot with his cloak flying and his neck gold-torqued and his lash urging the white steeds to yet greater speed. All the young courtiers imitated his clothing and his walk. Tirell had midnight-black hair and icy blue eyes, and he moved like a leashed leopard; I think people would have turned their heads to look at him even if he had not been prince. His face was flawless, as if it had been carved out of white alabaster. He had the legendary tall good looks and coloring of the Sacred Kings, and he had many admirers. But no friends.
And now he had Mylitta, and what was to become of them? I fell asleep finally at dawn, without a hint of hope; I was used to that.
Tirell had no trouble, some hours later, distracting the armorers while I stole a coil of rope from the supplies and stowed it under my cloak. The cloak was an accursed nuisance now that the springtime weather was warming, but like the torque it was a symbol of rank. And for pranks like this it could be useful.
We took the rope to our bedchamber and hid it under the straw mattress. “All right,” Tirell said. “Now what?”
It looked as if he would do whatever I wanted. He was still feeling bad about my hurt head, though he would never admit it. “I would like a look at this girl Mylitta for whose sake I am risking my skin,” I ventured.
“Not right now, brother mine,” he answered moodily. “Think of something else.”
“Let us go to see Grandfather, then.” Our mother’s father was the wisest and gentlest man in all of Vale. If anyone could help us, I thought, he could. Though, of course, I would not tell Tirell that I was casting about for help.
Grandfather lived way out beyond the Hill of Vision, beyond the White Rock and the huts of the priestesses, over two hours of riding away. Often we had raced the distance, yelling and lashing the steeds, in far less time. But on that day Tirell was in a quiet mood, and we rode gently. He was on a white, as always; it was the sacred color of the goddess who would someday be his bride. I rode a big, hard-mouthed chestnut. We passed through the cottages: and shops huddled beneath the castle walls, then the pastureland and farmland beyond, the fertile valley between the two paps of Adalis. Beyond the farms everything was given over to the priestesses. We cantered up through their grove of sacred trees that ringed the Hill of Vision like a brooch. Once above the trees we stopped, as we always did, to look back the way we had come.
The castle stood on the summit of the other pap of Melior-y-Adalis, the bosom of Adalis. From its walls the land sloped steeply to the enclosing curve of the river Chardri that rounded it on three sides. Melior’s towers were built of a rich white stone veined in crimson; in the sunlight they sparkled like blood. The twin bridges over the Chardri, Balliew and Gerriew by name, were built of the same stone. One arched to the north and the other to the south. Without them there would have been no passage to Melior. The Chardri flowed great and steady, even in the drought, fed by springs and by the snowcaps of the mountains to the north.
The Hill of Vision rose no higher than the castle summit that faced it, and the wide curve of the river embraced both. But on the Hill were no dwellings of stone, no grazing sheep—nothing except the huts of the priestesses. On the grassy height stood the great altar, the White Rock of Eala, where the blood of Sacred Kings was shed. It was made of three odd, chalk-white stones, like no other rock in Vale, two supporting the third. This was the very high altar of the goddess. A woman could sleep there without fear. The priestesses of the shrine slept there commonly, and barren women went there for cure. Also, Kings of Melior could sleep there with their brides. In fact, they had to. But if a man slept alone beneath that rock, the morning would find him either inspired, insane, or dead.
Tirell and I rode up and around it. We did not care to go under it, somehow, though it would have cleared the horses easily. The priestesses watched us sullenly. Common folk did not come to that place without an offering, hut we came and went as we pleased.
As soon as we passed the altar we faced, almost against our will, the great mountains beyond the Hill. No one ever went to any mountains, but especially not to the huge, dark mountains in the west. At the western foot of the Hill, spanning the reaches of Melior from river curve to river curve and closing the gap in the penannular grove, stood the Wall. It was twice man high and built of rugged brown rock without beauty; it loomed almost as darkly as the mountains. Beyond it lay wilderness. There was no gate.
Our grandfather, the seer Daymon Cein, lived at the very Wall, alone except for a few sheep and some chickens. In his youth he had slept beneath the Rock, and the goddess had given him power. The priestesses half feared him, because of his own greatness and because he was the queen’s father. Poor folk would come, make sacrifice on the Hill in order to pass, and hurry on to Daymon. He would receive them gladly and help them however he could. But only the desperate came, for no one liked to venture near the Wall.
Grandfather greeted us with smiles and warm hands, as always. I noticed that he had changed to sandals for spring. His gray beard flowed down over a robe somewhat less than fashionable—less than clean, even. I suppose we princes looked out of place beside him, we in our golden torques and our deep-dyed cloaks and our tall, soft leather boots. But I believe we felt more at home with Daymon than anywhere else except our own tower chamber.
“And how is my daughter today?” Grandfather asked.
“Well enough,” Tirell said, which perhaps was not a lie, though we had not been to see our mother. We often stayed away from her for days at a time, until she sent for us. On this day in particular we had taken care to avoid her, because she mig
ht have spied something of the secret named Mylitta with her visionary azure eyes. Her father Daymon was looking at us and saw all this pass through our thoughts, but we did not mind too much. He watched us with detachment, almost with amusement, so that we did not fear his meddling. And yet we felt his love.
“So!” he said, when we had settled beneath a solitary yew tree and exchanged some talk. “What shall we speak of today?”
“Tell us about Aftalun!” I said quickly, for I wanted to hear about the beginnings. Tirell did not object.
“All right,” said Grandfather, “but think on it a moment, before I begin.”
I thought of the ancient void. But though Grandfather and Tirell and Mother were visionaries, I was none. Grass and bickering chickens remained, to my sight. Presently, when the tale was manifest to him, Grandfather spoke.
“Before there was Vale, there was only light and water, and no life except the being of the dragon. There was water to the farthest reaches of the void, and in the midst of it the dragon. In him were all colors that the water had not, and he was beautiful in the light. He lay on the water and slept.
“Adalis saw this, the great goddess whom men call by many names, she being Vieyra and Suevi and Morrghu the deadly. And she said to Aftalun, he who wooed her, ‘If we are to wed, I need a bed on which to lie. Speak to that dragon, that I may also lie on the water.’
“So Aftalun spoke to the dragon, who awoke with a roar and a spray of golden fire that scorched the dome of the heavens and burned it away and let in the dark. In that darkness Aftalun fought the dragon, wrestling him into the water to put out his flames. And the dragon threw great coils around Aftalun, pressing him and feeling for him with sharp claws, while Aftalun tightened his grip on the dragon’s snapping jaws. Water rose up in great plumes and fountains and leaped like a living thing.
“Then the goddess grew afraid for Aftalun, and she became Epona, the great white horse, and struck at the dragon with her silver hooves; but the water clung to her. So she became Rae, the swift red deer, and struck at the dragon with her pointed horns; but still the water pulled at her. So she became Morrghu, the fearsome black raven, and flew and struck at the dragon with her fierce beak; but the leaping water dragged at her wings. Then she became Eala, the great white swan, and swam on the surface of the water and struck at the dragon with her hard heavy bill until his blood spurted forth and splattered her widespread wings.
“Then the dragon turned from Aftalun and made a circle of himself around Eala, with his tail in his white-fanged mouth, and he began to bring forth young. For his being was not like our life, where male and female must meet, but his tail met his mouth and young sprang forth. Tiny dragons scattered forth, flying dragons and swimming dragons and crawling dragons, of every color and shimmer of brightness, fiery dragons and dragons cold as the ancient waters. But as the dragon spawned, Aftalun climbed upon him and bent his head beneath the water and broke his neck. Then the dragon grew still, and Eala the swan who floated within the circle of his body changed once again to the form of the maiden goddess.
“‘Now,’ she said, lying at ease, ‘I have my bed.’ And Aftalun came to her there.
“Then she who is Vieyra and Adalis and Suevi and many more took one more form and became Vale. She lies upon the water and mothers forth life from her body, as the dragon did. It is on her bosom that we dwell. The waters rise from her headlands, from the many springs of Eidden Lei in the north, and the waters traverse her, growing ever greater, until they return once more to the flood that is under the land. Through the Deep of Adalis far to the south they tumble. The waters roar down into the earth beyond sight or fathoming, and the mountains loom above.
“For the dragon still surrounds Vale. His jagged backbone circles our land. To the north folk call it Lorc Dahak, the Dragon Mountains, for it is rumored that the spawn of the great worm live there yet. And to the south men say Lorc Tutosel, the mountains of the night bird. To the east, where the thunderheads grow, the mountains are called the Perin Tyr, the King’s Range. And to the west they are called Lorc Acheron, and what that means folk will not say.” Grandfather paused, and we all looked up at the sharp, dark forms that cut into the sky far above.
“The goddess mothered forth many things in those beginning days,” he went on, “creatures and plants in all colors of the dragon and the deep. But it was Aftalun who set them in order upon the surface of Vale. He put the sky back in place and constrained the sun to move with the days and seasons. When the goddess brought forth men of male and female kinds, Aftalun became one with us and gave us fire, and grain, and the mastership of cattle and horses, and showed us the workings of forge and loom. He formed us into the five kingdoms of Vale that stand to this day, taking form from the fivefold lotus of Vieyra, with Melior as the jewel at its heart, the throne richest and highest in esteem. Four cantons surround it, spreading like the petals of the flower. To the north lies Eidden, where Oorossy now rules, and to the south Selt, where Sethym holds sway, and to the east Tiela, the holding of Raz, and to the west Vaire, where Fabron is called king.”
“He who was our father’s smith?” I interrupted. I always wanted to hear more about this man, and I felt sure that Daymon could tell me some secret if only he would. Smiths were important persons, and theirs was a magical craft of great renown. Sometimes smiths sat at a king’s right hand. But that a smith should become a king himself was a marvel.
“Yes, to be sure,” said Daymon, with merely a glance at Tirell. “Aftalun raised the castle upon the bosom of Adalis with rock white as swan’s down, red as blood of dragons. And finally, when all was set in place, the goddess came to him in the form of a bride of mortal kind, as she comes to the Sacred Kings even now. And Aftalun wed her once more, and she bore him a son. And he sat on the throne of Melior and ruled Vale. For years he ruled, and the seasons passed smoothly, until his children were grown and discontent began to gnaw at him.
“‘You are still immortal, for you take many forms, and this is only one of them,’ Aftalun complained to his queen. ‘But I am only myself, a mortal now, and I must die when my time comes. It is not fair.’
“‘You do not wish to fly and cry with the north wind?’ the goddess teased.
“‘Indeed I do not,’ said Aftalun. ‘Not as moth or dove, hawk, or even an eagle. Even if those punishing Luoni of yours keep their claws away from me, as they ought, since all my life I have labored for the well-being of Vale.’
“‘Be a griffin, and fly with them,’ she suggested with a hard smile.
“‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘only a swan will I be, to fly with the flocks of Ascalonia. I have known immortality, and I want it back.’
“‘You must secure it by your death,’ she said, and she detailed to him the sacrifice of blood she demanded. Listening to her, he filled up with cold rage, to the brim of reason and far beyond.
“‘You are heartless!’ he breathed when she had finished.
“‘If you do that,’ she told him coolly, ‘you will regain your godhead.’
“He could not deny the dare in her eyes, even though he knew he doomed his own sons to follow the precedent. ‘All right, I will!’ he cried, and rose to face her with flashing eyes. ‘But I tell you this, woman: in times to come my sons will bring your daughters to die on that same altar, and not by the knives of your harpies—but by their own fair, white hands.’
“‘Nonsense,’ she said frostily. ‘The goddess weds and remains. It is only men who come and go like mayflies.’
“‘The wheel turns,’ said Aftalun with a look locked on rage. Then he went to prepare his doom. With his own great hands he raised the altar upon this Hill of Vision, chiseled the stones from the dragon’s teeth, folk say. Now twenty men could not move one of the slabs. How the Sacred Kings have dwindled since those days.”
Tirell and I glanced at each other, smiling, for we knew that Grandfather was baiting us. But he went on without a sign that he had noticed.
“He lay down and let himsel
f be tied to the altar and died under the knives of the priestesses, lay there a night with his blood drying on the stones. Then he stirred, burst his bonds, rose and left the altar in one great leap. He stalked off to the mountains in the east, the King’s Range, thus called in his honor. The Luoni made way for him, folk say, and some claim that he lives there yet. He was never seen again, but to this day the tallest mountain, that towers over Coire Adalis, is called Aftalun, the Hero, in his name.”
“A peculiar sort of hero,” Tirell growled, “who left a bloody altar as his legacy.” True enough, but he had never said so before. Somehow, listening to the story, I found that even the altar seemed beautiful.
“Perhaps he thought you could all bounce off it as he did,” Daymon remarked. “Kings earned their immortality at a great rate in the early days, if lore tells true. The Sacred King was needed only long enough to lie with the goddess and get her with child; he was slain on his wedding night. But the observance soon eased. The span of kingship was lengthened to a year, and later to seven years, and still later to an even twenty years. Wives follow their husbands to that grim end now, as Aftalun foretold, for custom decrees that they should slay themselves in sorrow. And folk complain that, so gentle have the priestesses become, the souls of the Kings fly away, these days, as mere hawks.”
The Sable Moon Page 27
