Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong

by Greg Hamerton

  She fell back into sleep at last; heavy, heart-sore. Strange things grew in scorched earth, shapes formed of dust and cruel fantasy. Dreams became darkness, and time passed slowly by.

  A beating of drums. Discordant horns, blown out of time.

  Or were they? They sounded again, in tune, a clear call, like the trumpets of Stormhaven.

  Tabitha awoke. The sunlight on the bedroom wall told her that it was morning again. Many hours has passed. It was probably the following day, for her body ached, and she was hungry and weak. A whole day had been lost!

  Garyll lay beside her, a protective arm looped around her waist. He was snoring softly into his pillow, face down. She slipped herself carefully out of her keeper’s grasp and went in search of food.

  Before she had reached the kitchen, someone knocked on the front door. Two men argued outside.

  “Give the wizard time to respond. Hold, Swords!”

  “It’s high morning! We’re being denied!”

  “You didn’t knock loudly enough!”

  “I said hold!”

  Tabitha rushed to the door, and looked through the peephole. Two wardens stood close outside, and down in the street more wardens were clustered around a group of uniformed soldiers. Swords!

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oi! Stop your rumpus!” the nearest warden shouted to the others. “The wizard speaks!” He turned his face to the door. “Royal messenger, your grace.”

  “Messenger? Can’t he just leave the message with you?”

  “Uhh, it’s an envoy, your grace, here in person, with an escort.”

  An envoy of the king? What did the king want from her?

  “Give me a minute!” she said. “Give me a minute!”

  She hurried to her wardrobe, and pulled on a simple skirt and boots. There was no time to be fussy with her appearance. She fumbled with the buttons of her flared blouse. Silly goose! She was still so weak.

  The king isn’t here as well, is he?

  She splashed some water on her face and quickly bound her hair with a cord, certain she appeared a right mess.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Garyll in a sleepy voice. a sleepy voice challenged her.

  “There’s an envoy outside.”

  She heard his feet hit the floor, but she got to the door before him. He wouldn’t forestall her, not for this. How could she deny a royal envoy? Her wardens shouldn’t be blocking their approach either. Tabitha opened the door and tottered outside.

  As she emerged upon her terrace the trumpets pealed. Tabitha clapped her hands to her ears. They might be in tune, but by the blazing sun! They were too close to be played with such zeal. The sun was bright. The Swords stood to attention in formation. Their chainmail gleamed. The blue standard with the King’s crossed circle flapped calmly at the head of the formation, over a stately man in elegant robes. Tabitha’s loyal wardens had stopped the procession at the edge of the circle where they held back the crowds. Hundreds of people crammed the streets, standing in flowerbeds or on carts, hanging from windows. Some urchins were even up on the roofs. When they saw Tabitha at her door, the mass cheered.

  What was she to do? She didn’t deserve this reverence. She raised her hand uncertainly, to silence the commotion, but the crowds cheered louder and waved back.

  The great Wizard of Eyri. Magnificence. Grace. Holiness. How did it ever come to this? “Let the escort come through, please,” she called out in the loudest voice she could manage.

  She shouldn’t have to issue such an order. Her wardens’ role was to control the crowd in her healing hall. They were volunteers in her service. They did not outrank a royal envoy, and should never defy uniformed Swords. What had they been thinking? Her wardens parted reluctantly then flanked the procession itself as it approached Tabitha, as if the newcomers might pose a threat to the Wizard, a threat they would counter. They went too far in their devotion.

  The envoy assembled at the bottom of her stairs, and the stately man spoke up. “Good morning, Wizard Serannon. I am Kingsman Rood, King Mellar’s new advisor. I wish to deliver a letter from the king to you, if I may.”

  “Please, come up, Kingsman Rood.” She was not going to lord over them from the small terrace above, but her legs were still too unsteady to trust going down the stairs. The elderly statesman came up, and bowed politely when he reached her level. He bore himself proudly, in his azure robes and starched white clothing. She made a point of bowing lower than him.

  “I am sorry you were stopped,” she said at once, loud enough to carry. “You are on the king’s business, and should be allowed everywhere. I am subject to the king’s rule, as are we all.”

  The envoy nodded. He had a kind smile. “You wear your power lightly, your grace. As kingsman, I have been entrusted to bring you this and see it delivered in person.” He offered a scroll to her.

  How could she reprimand him without seeming impolite? If Kingsman Rood thought it was appropriate to call her grace, it was not for her to correct him.

  It was a fresh parchment, and the delicate traceries inscribed on it appeared to be drawn in gold—real gold. She pressed down on the wax at the edge of the scroll, and the crossed circle split under her fingernail.

  May it please the most honourable and serene Wizard Serannon to receive this missive from the imperial majesty King Mellar, fourteenth ruler of Eyri and monarch of Stormhaven. The King hereby invites the benevolent Wizard Serannon to an interlocution concerning affairs of the crown at her earliest convenience, and further wishes to honour the Wizard for her services to Eyri and his person. It would therefore greatly please his Highness King Mellar this evening if the Wizard Serannon were to join him at Repast in her honour, notwithstanding her current engagements.

  There were some flowery squiggles at the bottom of the page, some important looking seals, and another design of gold. The scroll was more valuably embellished than a ceremonial certificate of wedding.

  Tabitha read it again.

  “An interlo-cution?” she asked Kingsman Rood.

  “It is an audience, your eminence.”

  An audience? Concerning matters of the crown? Why did the king need her advice?

  “Repast?”

  “A banquet.”

  “Oh, Kingsman Rood, this day finds me in no shape for enjoying such pleasures.” Seeing his obvious disappointment she quickly added, “But I cannot refuse the king’s command, can I? I must go.”

  “Not exactly, your grace. The King has invited you, he stressed that it was important for this to be your choice, but you should know his need for you is urgent.”

  A banquet, in her honour.

  “We are to await your decision, and escort you to Stormhaven should you wish.”

  Should I wish? It is the King’s wish, not mine. How can I refuse an invitation written in royal gold? How can the kingsman be obliged to await my response, and so be bound upon my whim? Being a wizard was affecting the world in strange ways.

  Shouts went up from the people in the street. The wardens to her right had linked arms to restrain the crowd but were losing ground toward her. Tabitha considered her answer. If she accepted the king’s invitation, she would be abandoning her people to their suffering. Nobody could do what she was doing for them. But if she refused the invitation, she would be declaring her time to be more important than that of the king. She realised that as she grew in stature, so did the consequences of her decisions and the meaning people would read into everything she did. Maybe the king could advise her on how to deal with such fame. He had lived with the reins of power in his hands for years. She would go to Stormhaven.

  “I shall be pleased to accept the invitation,” she said to Rood. “Please allow me an hour to prepare for the journey.”

  Rood looked much relieved. “Certainly, your grace. The king will be most pleased to receive you in his palace tonight.”

  _____

  When Tabitha had packed for Stormhaven, someone knocked sharply on her door. A doze
n of her wardens stood outside in a huddle, as if braced for something.

  “Your holiness, we must warn you that everything is not as it seems!” the senior warden announced. He was a round-faced man with clear eyes and a scent of tobacco. He pulled on his short beard, and looked around at his fellows. “There’s a stone in the pie and a lump in the custard, they say, and we can’t ever judge men by the faces they wear.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Me an’ these eleven, we wish to ride with you as honour guard.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need guarding now,” Tabitha replied. “The king’s Swords will escort me!”

  “There’s still the danger, your eminence.”

  “Who would threaten me?” Tabitha asked. “The king? You know how foolish that sounds!”

  The warden looked at his feet, and shifted about. Some of the other men glanced from time to time into the cottage behind her. She still couldn’t understand why they thought she needed guarding. “The king is a kind man.”

  “Not the king, your eminence, not him.”

  Who then, she wondered. The crowds? “I am not in danger from my own people!” she said. “And I’ll not be healing among the crowds in Stormhaven. The Swords shall be enough. Besides, I shall take Bastion at my side.”

  The warden drew himself up. “With respect, your holiness, he is the problem. We all know who he is. He hides in your protection. We came to warn you, and to insist you take a guard against the old Swordmaster.”

  Tabitha was stunned.

  She had expected that some of the men would know Bastion was Garyll, but then they knew also what he had done to save lives after the Darkmaster’s hold on his mind had been broken. Their attitude toward him was outrageous. “Don’t you dare suspect him! I would choose him to protect me over anyone.”

  The senior warden seemed desperately embarrassed. The others looked as if they expected Garyll to burst from the depths of the cottage behind Tabitha at any moment, but there was a grim determination upon their faces. They must have talked it over before coming to Tabitha, and decided that the risk of a fight was one worth taking.

  “How can you be sure his allegiance will not turn?” muttered the senior warden.

  Tabitha wanted to shake the warden until some sense entered his empty head.

  Garyll had endured so much. He didn’t deserve suspicion and should be allowed to find peace. Strangely enough, Garyll did not emerge from within the cottage, though he’d been near enough when she had answered the door. He must be close enough to hear what was being said.

  She faced the warden. “Would you have fared better in his position? There isn’t a man alive who is as true as Garyll Glavenor.”

  “Then why does he hide, your eminence? A true man doesn’t need to hide.”

  “He does not wish for a confrontation. He does not want another battle, with words or weapons.”

  “If he isn’t going to confront anyone, then what use is he at your side? You have need of protection, your holiness.”

  She glared at him. “The day I need protection from Garyll is the day that is not worth living.”

  The senior warden held her eye bravely then he bowed his head. “As you wish, yor’mnence.”

  “My honour is my own to guard,” Tabitha declared. “Go and keep the crowds at bay, if you wish to be useful. Go! All of you. Go!”

  When she emerged from the cottage with Garyll to join Kingsman Rood and his escort, the crowds surged inward. A wail arose from all around. People were calling, crying, pleading, for the news that she was leaving had spread like a spark in dry leaves. Her wardens strained to hold them back, but lost ground.

  “Most esteemed wizard! I have a dying son!”

  “My wife suffers! Her pulse is weak—”

  “I am blind! I am blind! Heal me before you go!”

  Garyll kept Tabitha close, and she used his strong arm for support. They walked down to the two great horses and the pale coach. The trumpeters sounded their alarum once more, and the flanking Swords stood to stiff attention.

  Tabitha paused on the running board of the coach and held up her hand. The people cheered, cried and called all together. She had hoped to address them, to tell them to abandon their devotion and to get on with their lives, but there was no chance to speak over the clamour. She gave a final wave and slipped inside.

  The coach had elegant curves of light woods, oval windows, dark brown seats. Kingsman Rood and a retainer travelled with them.

  “They fear you will be offered a grander life in Stormhaven, where they cannot follow,” Rood said. “One man even offered me a great portion of his wealth if I would let you stay in Levin, where he can come to your hall each day.”

  Tabitha shook her head, and Rood looked at her in a way that told her he understood. The world was becoming strange; change was upon them all. The coach gathered speed and the crowd fell away.

  “You shall be fairly treated, Sir Glavenor. You have no need to hide.”

  Garyll threw back his hood. His dark brows were troubled, and his strong jaw held a shadow of stubble. “Forgive my disguise, kingsman, but my name works against me these days.”

  “The wardens came to warn me before we left,” Rood explained. “I told them we would be doubly honoured by your presence, and that they were fools to consider you a threat. I trust that my judgement shall prove correct?”

  “They have bitter memories,” Garyll answered. “They need a target for their anger, but the Darkmaster is dead. I remain the only focus for their blame.”

  Tabitha noticed how he reached for where his sword ought to be on his left hip, but checked himself almost at once.

  He looked out of the window. “Maybe that is right.”

  Tabitha caught his hand. “If you do not forgive yourself, the people will not be able to believe you are to be trusted. You only add fuel to the rumours by doubting.”

  Garyll was silent for a moment, his troubled eyes dancing upon her face. “Aye, I heard them speak at our door,” he said at last. “I understand that I have done little to dispel the suspicions, but I do not wish to pretend to be a hero either.”

  “There is no need to pretend anything!” Tabitha declared.

  “Ah Tabitha, how do you emerge from every challenge with your innocence intact? I know you want to believe the best of me. I agreed to stay to protect you, and yet it is you who protects me from others who wish to take my place.”

  “No, Garyll, you are my strength.”

  “What you see and what I see are different. I suspect that I drain your strength and you do not realise it.”

  “No, Garyll, that is unfair.”

  “You change the world,” he said gently. “I am glad for it, but I belong to the simpler life, the one without magic.” He turned aside abruptly and gazed out of the window again, reminding Tabitha that they were speaking before strangers. She squeezed Garyll’s hand, to let him know she loved him. A man like Garyll needed a purpose, something definite, like a steel blade. Maybe the king could give him that.

  Despite the horses’ steady pace, they were accompanied by a crowd all the way to the Kingsbridge. People who had been awaiting healing ran to keep pace with the coach as if their ailments had disappeared on the breeze of the Wizard’s passage. The swiftest runners ranged ahead to claim the honour of being the last to see her escort pass.

  Tabitha could offer the crowds no more attention. She turned her mind toward Stormhaven.

  “Kingsman, do you know the reason for the urgency?”

  “A…private matter, your grace. I don’t understand questions of magic. Best for the likes of you and the king to discuss such things…ahem…best for you and the king.”

  _____

  As silent as a snake he was, the child who watched the hunters from the darkness. His one eye struggled to follow their movements, for the image of the forest was disturbed by other images, vivid scenes of flame and fire and terrible wrath; things that came before, things that came
after.

  He had survived the years of starvation. He had endured those terrible first months of abandonment, once because of the stubborn attentions of a goat. She had dragged him wailing from his mother’s corpse and into the depths of the forest. He had suckled the bitter milk from her hairy nipples, but had needed ever more. When he was strong enough to cling to the fur of her belly, she had wandered with him, farther west, away from the smells of the industry of Moral kingdom.

  Years had passed, and he had survived unsheltered storms, and thirst, and disease, yet this hunting of him in the dark forest was the worst peril he had faced, for they knew of him now, and they would not stop seeking him out. Him, not the dear goat he had known as Nå, whom the callous children had slain in the wild orchards in Orenland. Him, not the outcast goatherd Gadd, who had protected him for five years, only to be condemned. Gadd had been set upon by the wizards until he screamed out the name the child had come to know as his own, calling to him over and over to come and save him from the pain. The child had not gone to him. He could not, for Gadd had named him three times, and each name belonged to him in a different way—Amyar, the scar-faced dissident who saw only into the past; Ethan, witnessing the present with his single dreaded eye; and Seus, the seer. Amyar, Ethan and Seus, and when they were spoken together, he heard all three, as Am-eth-eus. It was not his name, it was all of his names fighting together to be heard. Gadd had known that. Gadd had saved him by keeping him paralysed, and they had killed the good shepherd for his kindness and charity, while the child had watched.

  Ametheus, the child that was too ugly to be loved, the one misshapen, the one touched by evil, the one who should be feared and who should be killed before he grew. They hunted him now, with dogs, weapons and bands of rude men. He had learnt to change, not because he wanted to but because he didn’t want to die. He stepped backward and appeared in the place he had been before. If they reached him there, he stepped forward, to the place he would come to be in. They could never move as fast as he could move through his thoughts, passing himself from brother to brother.

  He had learnt quickly because he had three minds to learn with and they shared their learning in that time, before they began to argue and fight for precious supremacy, and yet all learning was clouded by the rage, for the poisons and the magic inflicted upon him as a foetus had cursed him to a life of division. He was split ever more from his brothers as they developed their own desires. He was cursed to live a life of anger, of conflict—of Chaos. So he would make it his own.