by Dave Freer
“I wish I could have seen that. I didn’t like him much. He had egg in his beard.”
Neve snickered. “My father says men with beards should only eat boiled eggs. Or have a wife to watch them.”
Someone knocked on the door. A sort of perfunctory knock . . . and pushed it. And then knocked harder. “Lady Anghared. Lady Anghared, are you within?” By the look of terror on Neve’s face it could only be the chatelaine. What was her name? Cardun. She was nearly enough to frighten Meb, and best on the far side of the door.
“Who is it?” said Meb, grabbing Neve’s arm as the girl wanted to run to the door.
“It is I. Lady Cardun,” said a chilly, haughty voice from outside.
“I am busy with my ablutions,” said Meb, very proud of that word. She’d heard it on their journeying, and had to ask Finn what it meant. And then she realized . . . it wasn’t the same word by shape or sound, coming out of her mouth. It was not the language she had spoken all her life. Neither was the rest of what she’d said. And in this language, Díleas actually meant “faithful.” How . . . how had she learned another language? Learned it as if she had spoken it all her life.
There was a moment’s silence from outside the door. “Do you need any assistance? A message has come that we are to take you to Mage Aberinn’s tower.”
Meb looked at the window. It was far too narrow. She touched her throat, and the hidden dragon that hung there, and courage came to her. “Thank you. But no. I have my tirewoman to attend to me. I shall be out when I am finished,” she said, doing her best to sound like a spoiled alvar princess.
It must have worked. Cardun sounded slightly chastened. “The girl is new. Is she satisfactory? I could send some of my women . . .”
“She is exactly what I want, thank you. A perfect choice. I would like her to continue to attend to me,” said Meb, trying not to laugh at Neve’s expression. “And now, I will need to finish washing and robing, if you do not mind.”
“Oh. Yes, my apologies,” said Cardun from outside the door, sounding as if the words would choke her.
It was a good, thick door. Meb was at it, listening. No footsteps. Huh. She motioned Neve—who looked like she might just burst—to silence. She tiptoed back to the bed and poured water from the ewer into the basin. “Next time,” she said loudly, with a wink to Neve, “see the water is hotter.”
“Yes, m’lady,” said Neve. “Do you want me to fetch more?”
“No. Just remember in future,” said Meb, in what she hoped was a suitably long-suffering manner for a noblewoman, putting up with inferior service.
Meb washed, and went to see what clothes she had. And then she was truly glad of Neve, because she had absolutely no idea of how to put the garment on. The woolen cloth was fine-woven, and while, as far as she was concerned, gleeman colors were her colors, not this pale blue, and breeches were more practical than skirts, and anything was more practical than this dangly robe thing, it was still rather nice to have fine new cloth against her skin.
Neve brushed her hair. “How would you like it put up, m’lady?” she asked, nervously.
Meb had absolutely no idea. She had a feeling her fisherfolk plait and pin would not do. Anyway, she’d lost the wooden pin to the sea, before the merrow took her hair. And she was willing to bet Neve was not much of a hand at it either. She needed something like that combination of comb and hair clip the alvar women had used at the Alba soiree she and Finn had walked through disguised as elegant alvar butterflies. It was something that could look beautiful and keep the hair out of your eyes. She’d truly envied one. She recreated the filigree curlicues of it in her mind, thinking of the details.
It would appear she could summons small items to her; she marveled, looking at the intricate, ornate piece of silver in her hand. She hoped the alvar that had owned it would forgive her. She also hoped she wasn’t unbalancing things too much, as Finn said her magic did. She’d never understood that aspect of the black dragon’s work. She handed the pin-comb to the startled Neve. “It’s worn at an angle.” She shook her combed hair forward. “Slide it from the front, to pull the hair away from my face, and then slide the pin in, once the back corner is past my ear.”
Neve did. “Oh, it’s beautiful, m’lady,” she said, holding a mirror so that Meb could see. “But . . . but it’s not how it is done here.”
Meb looked closely at the reflection. Of course she’d remembered it perfectly, capturing the details in her mind’s eye. But she’d not really realized that it was filigree dragons—very Tasmarin alvar. The silver of them showed bright against her dark hair. Looking at Neve’s tight braids, here at least she was no longer the wavy-haired brunette among the straight yellow thatch heads of the fisherfolk of Cliff Cove or Tarport. “I am not from here. I don’t think I could pretend to be.”
She stood up, and Neve held the mirror. She wasn’t sure she recognized the stranger in it. “Well. That will just have to do. What do we have for footwear, because I don’t think my water diviner’s boots will do, will they? They’re the best boots I’ve ever owned.”
Neve looked at them, critically. “They’re good boots. But, well, they look like, well . . . men’s wear. Lady Vivien—she sent the clothes and the combs with me, sent some lachet boots for you. They’re good boots.”
Meb tried them. “They’ll do. But they’re too narrow. I have wide feet. Finn said it was from going barefoot. He had to get the cordwainer to change his lasts to make them for me.”
Neve looked impressed. “Specially made just for you? This Finn, he was your father?”
“My master,” said Meb quietly. “I love him very much. But . . .”
Neve nodded understandingly, although Meb was absolutely sure she did not even start to understand. But Meb wasn’t going to try to explain. Instead she walked to the door. “Do you think I get to break my fast before going to see the mage? Or does he feed me on the bones of dead men?”
Neve shuddered. “I don’t know, m’lady. No one goes to his tower. I told you. I don’t know what is in there.”
Meb took a deep breath. “Time to find out, I suppose. Can you show me where I have to go?”
“Well, there’s an inner door, but it’s locked. I’ll have to take you into the courtyard.”
Meb let Neve lead her down the flagged passages and up the stone stairwell, onto the battlements and up the stair to the door of the mage’s tower. It faced the narrow causeway of land that linked the almost island of Dun Tagoll to the rest of the lands beyond. Meb looked out at those, across fields and forests toward the distant high fells tinged purple with blooming heather.
The door swung open abruptly, before she’d even gathered herself to knock. Neve squeaked and retreated behind Meb as Mage Aberinn loomed out at them. His beard, in daylight, was longer and less clean than she’d realized the night before. “I didn’t know I had sent for two of you,” he said curtly.
Meb knew she ought to be afraid, but instead, his manner just made her angry. “My mother told me not to go alone into strange towers with men I did not know,” she said coolly. Actually, Hallgerd had not ever quite said that, but variants of the same usually involving bushes, huts or fishing boats. And she hadn’t been too concerned about whether Meb knew the men or not. But it would do.
Aberinn raised his eyebrows. “Your mother. And who was your mother? Do you remember her?” he seemed to find that very important.
Meb remembered what Neve had said about not being able to lie to him. She thought . . . well, she should try it. “I ought to. I lived with her for seventeen years,” she said.
It seemed to take the wind out the mage’s sails a little. “Ah. Well, I suppose your reputation should be considered. Yes, bring her along.”
Neve looked as if she might faint in pure terror. “Me? I was just showing m’lady the way.” she squeaked.
“Just think what stories you’ll have to tell the others,” said Meb, smiling an unspoken “please” at her.
“Of course, she’ll
do as she’s told,” said the mage, an edge coming back to his voice.
The fisherman’s daughter took a deep breath. “For you, m’lady.”
The first interior room of the tower, reached after climbing a short stair was rather a disappointment after all that. It was a large and comfortable room, with a fireplace, and a number of tables, and book- and equipment-filled shelves lining the walls. It was, unlike the magician’s beard, very tidy and ordered. No spider webs, no dust, no disorder. The tables were full of various items being worked on, but even the tools were set out in very precise neat rows, and components tended to be set out in what almost seemed geometric patterns. There were no dead men’s bones. In fact, Meb couldn’t even see a thing made of anything that was not metal, let alone human remains. The nearest to “human” anything was a model—a very precise and carefully made model—of part of the castle. It was opened so she could see into the rooms, with every item in them exact. It looked like a child’s—a very rich child’s—dream dollhouse.
That was not to say that the room looked like anything but a magician’s workshop, because it didn’t. The objects being worked on were strange. Some glowed with their own inner light. Odd clicking noises came from somewhere. And some things looked as if they might almost be alive. There was a bird in a gilded cage. A crow. Only it too was gilded, and appeared to be made entirely of metal.
Meb had seen dvergar artifice, and that was finer. But the magician was better than most humans at mechanical contrivance. She identified the source of least some of the clicking—a device with a series of globes suspended from thin brass rods. As it clicked, the globes moved. “What is it?”
“An orrery. It allows me to predict the positioning of certain celestial forces for my work,” said Aberinn. “It is essential for the Changer. Unfortunately I have found certain inaccuracies in the movement. There may be factors outside of my knowledge operating on the spheres.”
“How . . . how does it move?” Part of her was impelled by the peasant fisherman fear of the unknown, to not want to know, to fear the worst, to believe it demonic and evil. The other part of her mind was already imagining small imps on treadmills, or perhaps magical recitations of spells that would command it to move . . .
“Springs, counterweights, and various cogwheels. My magic is confined to working on things of a higher order,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But I asked you to come here to establish some of your own history.”
Which, thought Meb, I don’t think is a good idea to tell you too much about. But she smiled. “I will be glad to answer the questions of the High Mage of Lyonesse.” She wondered how much of alvar life in Tasmarin she could get him to swallow. Finn, gleemen and fishing villages seemed good subjects to avoid.
Oddly, she didn’t need to. His questions seemed designed to catch her out. To betray a knowledge of Dun Tagoll or the people and politics of Lyonesse. He asked about the view from home and the plants there. Meb was happy to describe the cliffs of Cliff Cove in loving detail. He asked about the rulers of Tasmarin. Meb didn’t think it necessary to point out that the dead Lord Zuamar and Prince Gywndar were a dragon and an alvar princeling. Or even that they were both now dead. And then someone came knocking on the door. In obvious irritation Aberinn went to open it. “What is it?” he asked the wide-eyed page.
“A message from Prince Medraut, high mage. The prisoner . . . Earl Alois, has escaped. Magic, the prince believes. And the woman has vanished from her chambers!”
Aberinn sighed. Shook his head. “The young lady—and her maid—are right here. And it was obvious Alois must have had some accomplices to get so close. This is not magic. It is treachery.” He sighed again. “Tell the prince I am coming. Send messages to the other Duns. He won’t get far on foot.”
Chapter 5
Fionn and Díleas walked on down the hexagonally paved “causeway.” Now out of sight of the travelers, Fionn stuck to being a dragon. While it was fun to tempt the creatures of smokeless flame into folly, they tended to see too clearly to be easily fooled. Besides, he had other things to do.
It was inevitably hot. Fionn began wondering if he should have relieved the travelers of some water as well as some of their gold. The smoky air was still and thick, and Fionn traced more flows of energy rushing through it. It felt like a thunderstorm—not just dry lightning, but a real cloudburst of rain—was coming. It even looked like it, with black thunderhead clouds forming. The creatures of smokeless flame would not like that! They’d be exerting all their power to stop it. Things were definitely in a state of flux here, although the causeway itself did not seem to be a problem. The weather could always be a side effect of Tasmarin rejoining the great planar ring of worlds. That would have an effect on all the planes and all the sub-rings that spun off those. Had others of his kind kept the energy of the planes balanced, while he was trapped in Tasmarin? Would Tasmarin itself remain truly stable without him? That could be awkward, as his hoard was hidden there. The few pieces of gold he had with him were a poor replacement for that.
Just when Fionn thought he’d have to carry the drooping dog, who was still determinedly pushing onwards, two things happened: firstly, it began to rain, in thick hot drops; and secondly, they came to a large stone trilith set over the causeway, which had narrowed down and become stones in the dust here. The trilith—made by hauling a huge megalith onto the top of two other upright megaliths—was big enough to have required several giants to move the vast, shaped stones. There was considerable magic about it, but yet it did not disrupt the flow of energy. Either the builders had consulted another planomancer or this was a relic of the First.
The dog wasn’t waiting to examine it. He found the energy to scamper towards it.
And did not emerge onto the causeway beyond. Fionn could see that. It was singly devoid of dog.
So he lengthened his stride to walk though himself.
On the other side there was still a trilith. It was just much lower and entirely surrounded by forest. And darkness.
It was also cold, and wet. Fionn’s dragonish eyes saw further into the various spectra, and also rather well in the dark. He could spot the white patches on Díleas. The dog was sitting there, looking back at the trilith. Waiting. Plainly not with much patience, by the way he stood up. There was obviously a time difference here. That happened in transitions between the planes. It was usually more gradual though.
“I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” said Fionn. It occurred to him the dog probably did not understand irony, even if he understood entirely too much speech, by the way Díleas butted his hand with his nose, and started to walk down the rough track. The dog seemed to know where he was going, and there wasn’t much to keep Fionn here, even if he might be tempted to have a closer look at that trilith. Human worlds had once abutted those of the demondim, so that was not that surprising, but to find a path he did not know . . . worried him.
Also, he was sure, just by the feel of the place, that this was not the cool damp of night in fair Annvn, but the cold terror damp of night in Brocéliande. Mind you, in the dark it was hard to tell. If they were attacked by monstrous beasts or wolves it would be the vast primal forest of Brocéliande. If it was mere bandits, it was probably Annvn. The beasts or bandits were more likely to attack a human, and Fionn had nothing against helping himself to their booty, so he altered his form accordingly. If it turned out to be Brocéliande, he’d probably regret that. It was, either way, one of the Celtic cycle. His Scrap’s true name suggested she might have come from one of those.
They walked on, the wood even darker than the cloudy night sky, with trailing branches drooping over the track. A sliver of watery moonlight peeked out from the cloud as they came to a stream with a shallow ford. Díleas ran forward to drink as if there was no other water ever to be found.
Fionn was beginning to wonder whether he had been wrong, and this was somewhere else entirely, or that times had changed for the bandits or wolves or monsters. He was also thinking about the trilith-
gated road, and wondering about the mathematics of joining planes thus, and how it could be that the outcome was uncertain. He was so deep in thought he almost didn’t see the afanc slithering closer to the dog. He barely had time to yell and leap as the crocodilian jaws clashed shut . . .
. . . On Fionn’s cloak and the arm rolled in it, giving Díleas a chance to utter a startled yelp as he leapt back and pulled his head aside. Without Fionn’s yell the monster would have had the dog, and even with it, the afanc would have had Díleas by his nose, except Fionn had stopped the jaw closing on the dog with his arm.
The downside of this was that the water monster had Fionn instead. And while dragon skin is tougher than human skin by several orders of magnitude, and the thick woolen cloak would have stopped a knife thrust, the afanc still had a truly viselike grip, and it was using all of the strength of its massive legs and beaverlike paddle tail to haul its prey back into deep dark water to drown him.
Dragons are not easy to drown, and the afanc would need more than just patience to manage that. But no one told Díleas that. The crazy dog latched itself onto the afanc’s nose, burying his sharp teeth inside the sensitive nostril.
The afanc was now trying to get away, shake off the agony attached its nose, and deal with Fionn. And Fionn knew that he wouldn’t drown, but there was no such guarantee for that obstinate dog.
So he stuck the fingers of his free hand into the afanc’s eye, and at the same time hauled with all the strength of his legs.
And got wet. Fell over and got showered. The afanc did not like having its eye poked out. It loosed its grip briefly and, with a ripping of cloth, Fionn pulled the arm and cloak free, and dealt the afanc a wallop alongside the head that would make the monster regard anything bigger than a field mouse as hard chewing on that side for a month. As Fionn fell backwards he grabbed Díleas by the scruff of the neck and flung him back up the bank, before scrambling that way himself.
