The iron bars rang like a gong then there was silence.
Ashley climbed the stairs.
7. THE EDGE OF REASON
“A hat is there to steer the rain,
it keeps the water off the brain;
A crown has a royal reason—
a target for all acts of treason.”—Zarost
“Well, what did you expect?” said Gabrielle. “Why did you ever think you were going to breach the pass? You, of all people?”
Bevn pouted. She was such a witch—she always assumed that young meant foolish instead of brave. “Black Saladon said so, and he wasn’t the only one. There’s a prophecy too, I’ve read it! For the one who bears the crown of Eyri, shall the way to power be open.”
“A prophecy?” Gabrielle laughed. “And I suppose you are the Chosen One?”
“You wouldn’t know about the Revelations,” Bevn retorted. “It’s only shown to members of the royal family.”
Gabrielle gave him an empty smile. “Things are not working as the prophecy foretold.”
“It’s because you’re with me,” he retorted. “If I was by myself, I’d be through by now!”
She didn’t respond; she didn’t need to. He had crawled away from the pass first. A hint of amusement crossed her lips. “Maybe the way is not open because you don’t bear the crown as your right. You stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it! I claimed it! My father surrendered his crown to Cabal, and Cabal was killed. So it passes to me, by royal suss-sess-succession. It is mine!”
“If you are the rightful owner, then why don’t you wear it, bring it out for the world to see?”
“That’s stupid. The Swords will recognise me at once.”
“There’s nobody up here but you and me.”
“I-I must wait until I’m ready,” he said.
“Hah! Stripling! I thought as much. You know you’re too young to be a king. So why do you pretend this sorcerer can make you into one?”
“That’s not true!” Bevn shouted. “I’ll be fourteen in four months’ time! And the first king of Eyri was my age!” He wished he had the courage to strike her for her cheek. “The Kingsrim has a special power. My father told me that the people are sworn to serve the bearer of the crown, they can’t refuse the bond—it’s an even stronger spell than the old Master had with the Darkstones. If I wear it, everyone must obey me!”
She would have to obey him as well.
“I can wear it any time I want to!” he warned.
She ignored him. She stretched back against the slanted edge of the ancient cairn of rocks she was standing beside and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe Black Saladon needs you in his plans. You’re such a stupid little prick.” She knuckled her forehead.
Bitch! Her eyes were still closed, so he watched the rise and fall of her covered breasts with sullen fascination. She had come too close to the truth. He was afraid to wear the crown, but not because he was too young. What if the strange magic of the Kingsrim rejected him? He knew all about that terrible death which came upon false kings. His father had told him the tales. If Cabal had actually worn the crown for any length of time, wouldn’t he have gone mad too? Had his father really surrendered the crown, or had it been a clever trick to sabotage the invaders? Glavenor hadn’t needed to skewer the Darkmaster—the crown would have done it to his mind.
Bevn wondered about that as he clutched his bag close to his chest. The treasure was still there, jagged and circular, his inheritance, his prize. The weight of the whole kingdom pressed upon your head when you wore the crown, his father had told him, but that was just nonsense. It was because his father tried to be fair all the time that the crown had been a burden for him. He was King, for Fynn’s sake, he could do anything. Why be fair if it meant it would cost you? When he wore the crown, it would be light; it would make him feel strong.
But the more he contemplated the crown, the more intimidated he became.
It was this place, he decided. This lonely, windy passage between the high rocks and bittergrass. It had a depressing mood that made him feel small, but he knew he couldn’t really blame the scenery. They had failed.
The Shield of Eyri had beaten them. He hated it. He had so badly wanted to be through the Penitent’s pass, into the legendary lands beyond, on his way to finding the great Sorcerer Ametheus. There was no future for him if he turned back but they had already tried the pass ahead and the pain hadn’t faded yet. Neither had the shame. The Shield was daunting, up close.
They had entered the Penitent’s pass as the last shreds of morning mist blew down to meet them beneath a pallid sun. The slopes on either side met in a shallow defile choked with talus and smothered with green moss. The pass had an eerie feel to it, even the biting wind sounded hollow. When they passed the crumbled cairn Bevn noticed a weathered skull in the bittergrass, its empty sockets looking through him. He felt a twinge between his shoulder blades and a weight upon his head but said nothing about it. When they reached the last lonely pine, Bevn began to feel a horrible ache in his bones. The lone pine seemed to feel it too, for it had grown gnarled and hunched over, as if yearning to be farther downslope.
Gabrielle led him on and Bevn couldn’t let her know of his mounting panic for she wasn’t showing any signs of suffering under the eerie burden that crushed him. Bevn’s breath began to catch in his throat—his chest was too tight. Then his knees felt as if they would burst and buckle. His skin felt as heavy as lead. He was terrified that his blood was boiling, and it felt as if beetles crawled everywhere under his flesh. His headache was crushing, and his traitorous eyes streamed with tears.
Gabrielle moved on. He couldn’t call her back. She would know he was a weakling.
At the place where the scraggly moss finally gave way to bare rock, Gabrielle stopped. She nodded, as if recognising a familiarity to the atmosphere.
“You might be feeling the first hint of discomfort here,” she said over her shoulder. “From here on it will double for every step you take. If this pass is anything like the Icerind Gap above Ravenscroft, then you’ll make a little headway, but eventually you will go blind from pain. You will still be able to hear and feel. Don’t go past where you lose feeling, because only hearing remains and that shall be the only means to find your way back to safety. Listen to the sound of the wind over your ears, so that you may crawl away from it, downslope.
“If you go farther than that, you will hear an endless ringing—there is only madness to be found there, madness and death.”
She turned then to see if Bevn had understood her warnings.
He was cowering at her feet. He tried to tell her that he couldn’t go on, but his words came out as a horrible pleading whine. He knew he was crying. He didn’t look up. The pain trampled him like a hundred angry bears. How much worse could it get? He crawled away from her feet, downhill, like a beaten dog.
She went on, farther into that wall of pain, and he suspected that it was only to prove to him that she could. He waited for her far down the slope, beyond the pine tree, in the shelter of the cairn, where the pressure was so faint it was bearable. He dried his tears, but the bitter taste of shame remained. She was a woman! She shouldn’t be able to make such a fool of him.
He had been relieved to see her return. Her drawn expression had told him everything. She had failed to breach the pass as well. How much pain had she taken on before she had reached her limit?
Bevn brought his mind back to the present. He was tired of watching her covered breasts as she rested against the boulder. He was tired of being afraid of the treasure he carried. He was tired of being prevented from following his ambition.
Now, while her eyes were closed, he should try the Kingsrim on. If it rejected him, then at least that would be his secret alone. He fumbled with his bag’s straps. His fingers were cold, he told himself. That was why they were shaking.
He slipped the crown from the bag. The Kingsrim glinted when he held it up. It was a beauty, the spidery inscriptions so fine, the gold s
o pure, the jewels placed in perfect symmetry within the curling patterns of the bands of rare metals. He turned the crown until the uneven border of the crest matched the rim of Eyri. There was the distant profile of the Zunskar, Fynn’s Tooth to his right and the gap of River’s End to the left. That was how his father always wore it, with the single misty ruby facing forward.
Terrible death came upon false kings, terrible death.
He held his breath. He lowered the crown, but sank to his knees at the same time so the crown came no closer to his head. He screwed his eyes closed, but then he could escape the moment no longer. He pulled the crown down. Cool metal pressed against his temples. His breath came in, went out. The wind continued to blow past overhead. Beyond that, a great silence had descended on the world.
He opened one eye. Gabrielle was still there, languishing in the sun, regaining her strength.
He stood.
It was staying on his head!
The crown rested firmly in place. The gentle grip on his skull made him want to stand even straighter. The court, the nobles, the villagers and vassals, all would be his to command. His thoughts came together. He would travel the realm in his royal carriage, and the best Swords would be his escort. Wherever he went, they would bow and kneel before him, grant him favours, obey his wishes. He could tax them as he pleased, trade with whoever he liked, terrify everyone else.
King!
He stood there for a long time, with the sun in his eyes, feeling tall. The crown of Eyri had accepted him! He could be King Bevn, he who had dared to be brave and claim his rulership at such a young age. He would be King Bevn. He would rule for years and years.
His father had been wrong about the weight of the crown. Bevn felt elated, glorious, mighty. King!
With a start he realised why it was so quiet. The grinding presence of the Shield was gone, or at least, he couldn’t feel it. His heart leapt again—maybe Black Saladon had been right, after all. For the bearer of the Kingsrim shall the pass be open. His mistake had been to carry it in his bag, instead of to wear it.
“Open your eyes, and behold your king!” he called out. He liked that tone of royal command, very much.
Her dark eyes flew open. She appeared surprised for a moment, as if she wanted to say something, but then didn’t.
“I am King Bevn, fifteenth Mellar of Eyri, and by my crown I prove my royal right to rule.”
“So, you are not entirely without balls,” she said. “The crown seems to suit you well.”
He took encouragement from the lack of mockery in her voice. She actually meant it.
“Then kneel and pay homage to me,” he commanded. “I am the King of Eyri.”
She seemed puzzled and approached him slowly, and her eyes became downcast.
Bevn was amazed and delighted.
Gabrielle drew one leg back in a manly bow. He wasn’t surprised—a woman like Gabrielle would not curtsy, but she looked up suddenly, with a glare that warned him something was coming. Her boot found his groin quicker than he could defend against it.
He hunched over clutching his gonads. There was no pain yet, only numbness, but he knew it was coming, like a charging bull.
“I’ve owed you that for some time now,” said Gabrielle. “Don’t you dare try to lord over me. I wouldn’t care if you were the king, I won’t be made a slave by anyone again. I am my own!”
He couldn’t answer her. The sickening tide hit him. He dropped to the ground.
“—greater opinion of himself than the Darkmaster,” Gabrielle muttered as she stalked away. “Little bugger.”
Bevn squirmed on his back. He didn’t understand. How could she rebel against her king like that? Maybe the magic of the Kingsrim hadn’t worked upon either of them for long enough. He kicked his heels against the ground, which they said helped to ease the pain, but his heels got sore and his nuts still felt like they wanted to come out of his throat. No one had ever done that to him before. No one.
He retched upon the bittergrass.
She wouldn’t have been so angry if the Kingsrim hadn’t affected her. She would have just cuffed him, or laughed. Yes, it did something to her. He felt shaky, but he staggered to his feet. He would show her; there was something he’d discovered about the crown she didn’t know about.
He retrieved his bag, closed it roughly, and shouldered the weight. She was sitting on a rock a short way off, watching him. He ignored her, and set off up the trail. He passed the lone sentinel pine, and quickened his pace. His groin still burned, but that was all—the pressure of the Shield was gone altogether. The magic dispersed ahead of his crown like smoke before the wind.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Gabrielle had left her rock and was loping behind him. Good. She thought he was trying to prove how tough he was. Let her taste the limits of her endurance and beyond—he doubted his crown afforded her any protection, unless she was very close. She would buckle under the growing torture of the shield. Let her go blind with pain. Then he would talk to her. She had told him that hearing was the last sense to go. He had many things he wished to say to her, once she was down.
She wasn’t stupid—she was trying to catch up to him. Bevn ran.
The way ahead was clear, the ground rose to a saddle, beyond which a watery light beckoned. The incline was steeper than it looked, and he was puffing by the time he neared the crest, but all the way he was free from pain, apart from the fire in his groin. The air shimmered ahead of him, in a great wall which arched upward and inward, high overhead. He paused there, not wanting to go on alone, but not wanting to help the woman either.
It took some time for Gabrielle to reach him. She came hunched over, using her knees for support. Her breath rasped as if she had been fighting for her life all day. Her face was red and bloated. Some blood ran from her nose! She hung on his arm as if she was drowning, and she made strange little sounds in her throat.
Bevn was disappointed that she had caught him so soon. He shook himself free.
“Don’t you feel anything here?” he asked her. “Don’t you still feel some pain and pressure?”
When she had regained some of her breath, she looked his way
“Now, when I’m near you, the pain is less.” Oh, and how she hated that, he could see. “I felt it when you passed me,” she added. “It’s that crown, isn’t it? Catching up to you was—taxing. Don’t do that again.”
Bevn smiled at her. She really did look haggard. “Say please.”
Her expression darkened—she was recovering her temper quicker than her strength. “Piss off.”
She needed to be reminded.
Bevn jumped away and she tried to grab him but he weaved sideways and ran out of her range.
Gabrielle screamed as the sudden return of pressure hit her, falling to her knees on the bare rocks. She screwed her face up against the pain and shook. Bevn backed away as she crawled towards him. She raised her hand.
“Please!” she cried. “Please come back, damn you!”
Bevn rejoiced. “Walk beside your King, if you must,” he offered.
He sauntered over to her. She didn’t meet his gaze this time.
“Come,” he said, and led the way towards the pass’s crest.
The air ahead shimmered like a mirror with an imperfect image held upon its surface, but when Bevn pushed against it, the Shield seemed to have no substance at all. He walked through the swirling air, with Gabrielle holding onto his arm.
A strange sensation passed over him, as if the air had been taken away and replaced again in the same instant. The Shield was behind them. They had entered the lands beyond Eyri.
8. GOOD GRACIOUS ME
“Some pasts are a present,
but some presents belong to the past.”—Zarost
Tabitha fell ill after the death of the soldier. The fever burned in her chest and made her limbs tremble. She couldn’t forget that horrible vision—the Goddess Ethea in that place of noise and heat and blood, and the birds, circling, so fra
ntic and forlorn. Her heartbeat stabbed in her heart, reminding her that every moment she lay in her bed was another moment Ethea could not afford. But what could she do? She was weak from the fever, she was scared of what she had seen, and she didn’t know where to begin. She tossed and turned among the heavy sheets.
A place where buildings grew upon buildings, into the air, where it was so hot men walked bare-chested, where the air smelled of salt and fire. She had never seen such a place. It was not in Eyri; nothing about the people had been familiar, the carved pit and the red sky above it were strange. And yet, where could it be if it was not in Eyri?
The three brothers ... Ethea had spoken of the three brothers, but never named them.
Oh, Ethea, who would torture you so?
Fear consumed Tabitha. If the Goddess lost the struggle against her tormentors, Tabitha was sure the Lifesong would be lost. She had sensed that Ethea was the source of the power beyond the music, the essence of beauty, the essence of song. Without that power, Tabitha’s talents were useless. She would be an empty voice singing only a lament. She supposed everyone would lose their spirit—their vital sound. She couldn’t guess if the World would die, but now that she knew the song was in everything, she couldn’t imagine a world without it. Yet that would come to pass, if she did nothing.
She shivered at night. Garyll lay beside her and warmed her in his arms. She loved him for that, for his silence. When she cried, he held her. When she hungered, he fed her soup and barley cakes. She wished she was well enough to enjoy the intimacy. The nights crawled by.
The dawns brought no relief, but Tabitha knew an avalanche of duty awaited her outside.
She had allowed a man to die. More died while she lay in bed.
She tried to rise, but Garyll would not allow her to. Tabitha could not fight him in her weakened state. She did not want to fight him—he took her responsibility away, if only for a precious few hours, which meant there was no need for guilt, because she could not answer the call to duty. Her own bed held her prisoner
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