The dark forest had been his home for a year; he knew every briar-choked stream, deep-boughed tree and covered tunnel. The hunters were learning of each hideaway too and they would not leave until they had found their quarry. He could not convince them to go away for he was not yet strong enough to fight. He could only hide. Ametheus watched the hunters from the darkness and wondered if he should run.
Then the hunters began to call out that terrible name, his name, and he was bonded to the present, paralysed by his own complexity. All he could do was remain still and hope they would miss him.
Subtle threads of light came off some of the men, filaments of charge which they commanded, searching with tentacles through the trees. Wizards! Ametheus shrank down among the roots of a giant oak. Feet crunched through the dry undergrowth. Someone called out. The hounds bayed in response to the excitement. Torches began to converge on the giant oak where he cowered. The dreaded men of magic gathered their power; he could see it collect about them like pools of liquid clarity.
That clarity brought tears to his eyes. He didn’t want to use the ability he had been cursed with; he didn’t want to touch that power. It was magic, it was what they used. He hated magic yet they forced him to use it. The hunters loosed their hounds; they rushed toward him in a race for his blood, paws tearing at the dirt, jagged jaws agape. A marksman aimed his lightning-rod. Three wizards raised their hands, but they had forgotten to continue chanting his name.
Ametheus focused his awareness in the brother who could see what would come to be—he became brother Seus. He reached into a time beyond that dark forest, centuries ahead, when he would have the abilities he had yet to learn. It was a shortcut to power, and in pushing his brother to reach so far into the future, he worsened the rift in his mind.
He called out a single word. The dogs whipped back as if tied to a cord. Disturbed leaves slapped down into their original places. The men retraced the steps they had already taken, moving backward in a mad rush. Sounds altered in the forest, the barking reversed into the calls and cries of the men, a sudden babble of confusion, tumbling away from him. The gathered essence that surrounded the wizards became white-hot, then ignited.
Time flowed forward again.
Flames leapt upon the wizards. The dogs ran at Ametheus, rushing toward him in a race for his blood, paws tearing at the dirt, jagged jaws agape, but the fire swept across the forest floor and caught them from behind, washing over them even as they leapt for the child, searing them with intense heat, so their bodies became ash, and only their blackened skulls fell out of the flames to land at the infant’s feet.
He stepped backward, into the brother who knew of what had been before. Amyar remembered, he always remembered. He found himself a fair distance away. Somehow, the fire roared behind him, eating through old trees and undergrowth alike, so fierce it even drew the air inward to feed its hot yellow breath.
He waded into the first stream and followed its cold course away into the night. He cried, for had not wanted to burn down so much of his forest. The fire would kill the small things too—he knew that—it had happened before. Stoats and weasels, squirrels and hares, and hogs and deer, many of them would be trapped. They were the only friends he knew.
He added their deaths to the debt the wizards of Oldenworld owed him.
_____
Stormhaven was bustling with excitement. Trumpeters heralded their arrival from the battlements as they swept through the grand city gates. Despite the crowds in the streets welcoming the Wizard, the coach moved quickly, for ranks of bright-armoured Swords joined the procession and kept the way clear.
At Kingsman Rood’s suggestion, Tabitha opened her door and waved to the people. She was met with a surge of applause and shouting. A rain of petals and grass seeds showered upon her from the high windows. Men and women threw colourful flowers over the heads of the Swords. Roses, goldenbell and even daisies soon littered the cobbles. How many poor flowerbeds had been raided for the welcome?
The coach climbed through the Merchant’s Quarter, through the houses and greens of the Upper District toward the forecourt in front of the great King’s Palace. The crowds followed the coach, but their applause became more restrained. Here the Darkmaster had forced the King to surrender his crown; here the Morgloth had swept down upon the defenceless people. The blood had been washed away but the stones held its memory.
The coach halted. The trumpets pealed again. Kingsman Rood stepped out then offered his hand to her. A deep blue carpet lay upon the cobbles, leading through the gold-tipped spears of the palace gates.
Garyll was right, the world had changed around her. When she had first come to Stormhaven, they had almost refused her entrance to the city.
Now the King laid a carpet out for her.
So many eyes watched how she walked, so many faces turned to follow her movement. Tabitha was positioned near the head of the escort. Garyll walked beside her in his long green hooded cloak. The crowds cheered and clapped, but were prevented from following beyond the perimeter of the palace grounds, where they stood with faces pressed to the grill bars, watching.
Tabitha ascended the grand stairway and passed through the arched pillars into the cool privacy of the palace beyond. A dozen nobles waited in the first reception hall, the lords with medallion-chains, the ladies with fine circlets in their hair. They rose at once from their places and joined the procession, behind her.
At last they arrived at the King’s dining hall. The doors were thrown wide upon their approach. Two pageboys bowed like a mirror-image, one on either side of the doors. A gong sounded and the hammered note reverberated through the silence. They entered the hall.
“King Mellar!” Rood called proudly, “might I present—Tabitha Serannon, our Wizard of Eyri!”
Tabitha bowed. She was relieved to see that the king remained seated at the head of the long table. It would have been difficult to accept the king offering obeisance to her, and by not even standing to receive her he reinforced his authority in the hall. A large woman in a mauve dress stood at his side—Maybelle Westerbrook, the Lady of Ceremony. Maybelle smiled at Tabitha then looked quickly down at the king.
King Mellar faced Tabitha but his focus was upon the air between them. His hands were clenched into fists upon the marble tabletop. Tabitha grew alarmed. Had she offended him in some way? Kingsman Rood seemed for a moment unsure of what to do as well—he waited for the king’s response, as did they all.
May slipped her hand gently onto the king’s shoulder.
“Welcome, Miss Serannon,” said King Mellar in a tight voice.
Then, as if his anger suddenly abandoned him, his scowl was replaced with a determined smile that made his copper beard jut out toward her. “Yes, indeed, you are welcome in my hall! Come, have a seat beside me, and let us call out your name in the first toast of the banquet. We have all waited anxiously for your arrival, especially Lord Bolingar, whose belly I am sure has long since marked the passing of noon!”
Relieved laughter spread among the nobles. Lord Bolingar was probably the large man who laughed the loudest. The king’s expression was warm and welcoming. She went to the offered seat beside him and bowed again in his presence.
“Your highness, thank you for the invitation, I am most honoured by all you have done for me.”
“Contrary, contrary! It is you who have done so much for us all.”
“Hear-hear!” came a chorus from among the nobles. Tabitha blushed. She didn’t know what to say.
“Come, my Rood, introduce all of our noble friends to the table so that they can be seated.”
Kingsman Rood named all the lords and ladies present, ending with the green-cloaked figure beside Tabitha. “And Glavenor, of course.” Garyll pushed his cowl back. He should have lifted his cowl at the door, to be proper. His face was unreadable. He bowed deeply.
“Glavenor, yes, it is good that you are here as well, my old Swordmaster. We must not forget Garyll Glavenor, or what he did for us.”
The words echoed with tension, despite King Mellar’s smile. Tabitha told herself it was nothing. Her ears collected too much detail sometimes. Nonetheless, a knot of uncertainty formed in her stomach. Did the king distrust Garyll? Surely not. Garyll had proven his allegiance by slaying the Darkmaster and by fighting off the Morgloth, but had Garyll truly redeemed himself in Mellar’s eyes?
“Let it be said that I was saddened by the need to replace you. You served us well for so many years.”
“And in exchange for that service, I am grateful to have my life, your highness.”
The two men maintained eye contact. Tabitha realised with a start that Garyll was making an appeal. She had never considered that he might be punished for his actions. It must have seemed a real possibility to Garyll, for him to be watching the king so intently.
“That you have, and few know how precious life really is,” the king answered.
“Precious.” Garyll looked aside and mumbled, “But the way we lead it can make it worthless.”
The king’s expression grew hard. Tabitha caught a fleeting sense of violent thoughts that turned like a phantom in the space between the two men. “You would know more about that than I!” declared King Mellar.
Garyll said nothing.
“Do not try to cast your shadows and guilt upon me! I will not have them!” Mellar hammered upon the table with a clenched fist.
Garyll threw a surprised glance at Tabitha.
“Have we all forgotten our toast?” Lady Westerbrook asked quickly, touching the king’s shoulder again. “We should take our glasses, so that the banquet might begin in honour.”
King Mellar tensed but then looked at May and smiled—a broad smile which lit up his face. When he turned to Tabitha, she felt welcomed, loved and reassured. Had she imagined his anger?
“Yes, the Wizard Serannon, who blesses us all with her presence. I forget myself. Draw near with the wine, my servants. I must wet my tongue to find sweeter words for the praise she deserves.”
A small man offered her a tray of drinks, and Tabitha gathered a glass of what looked to be honeydew. The criss-crossed light from the high windows danced in the fluid like a golden haze of sprites.
“Our honoured Tabitha Serannon!” the king began. “She hid her talents in the quiet of Meadowmoor. If that fearsome Shadowcaster had not roused her from her humble life, to flee to us and then to fight for us, we might be living in dark times indeed.” He turned his head quickly to one side. “No! We owe nothing to that Shadowcaster.” He lifted his chin proudly. “Tabitha alone conquered her challenges and gathered her power. The tale of her tragedies and triumphs I shall leave to the bards, who have a more adequate language to describe such monumental events. Nonetheless, we have all witnessed the miracles she has shared with so many. We owe this woman our lives! We drink with you, to your health, Wizard Serannon.”
The king lifted his glass toward her and the nobles followed his example. Tabitha had never been toasted. She suspected that they waited for her to drink and raised her glass, taking a nervous sip. The wine was sweet but delicate; the refined flavour of blossoms was present like the taste of a summer’s breeze. It was infinitely better than the vintages she had served in First Light. The wine’s lightness rose through her like sunshine and she relaxed as the guests sipped and smiled at her. Lord Bolingar tilted his head back and drained his entire glass.
“So, let us enjoy the meal at your side, dear wizard. Be seated, all of you. I am sure Miss Serannon has much to tell us, and we all have much to ask. Take your time, and please, be at ease.”
Three harpers played gently in an alcove, following an inconspicuous melody that filtered softly through the air. Servants hurried flagons of wine to the table. Baskets of warm breads and cheeses nestled among the fruit and cream already there. A small plate was placed before Tabitha beside her silverware. A sprinkle of herbs rested upon a rich, savoury paste piled upon strips of crisp pastry. It was extraordinary—the spices punctuated the smooth textures with mouth-watering delight.
As more food arrived upon the table, the conversation began. Higgenhed, Lord of Ways, asked her about her healing work in Levin, and the other nobles nearby kept up a lively competition for her attention after that. The king continued to smile, and Maybelle Westerbrook offered friendly comments from time to time. Despite the warm atmosphere and wonderful food on array, Tabitha found it impossible to eat, for everyone wanted to talk to her. Her mother had always insisted that a woman who spoke through her food deserved to be stabled with the pigs and horses. She took the occasional nibble from her plate, but the many courses came and were whisked away from her before she could sample much of any one. She resigned herself to enjoying the wonderful scents which drifted off the table. It was a sensual torture. Her fever and the hurried departure of the morning had left her weak and ravenous, but she couldn’t let it show in front of such noble company.
The worst were the lords and ladies seated at the far end of the table, because they seemed overeager to assert their right to converse with the Wizard, as if by their placing they might be considered less worthy than their peers. They hung on Tabitha’s every word then asked new questions which showed no consideration of her answers at all. She found herself making weak jests all the time; it was the easiest way to answer questions without answering them, to skim past the issue. No one seemed to care; they just wanted her to talk, or rather, to be seen to be talking with them.
At last the king clinked a knife against his glass, and Tabitha had brief respite from the attention. The king stood to make his announcement. “We pondered for a long time on how best to honour our wizard, for I know that with her gracious nature she takes little pleasure from lavish awards. Those of you who have tried to bestow great gifts upon her at her healing hall in Levin might know how soon those gifts were converted to items for charity.” This raised a few knowing chuckles. “But she has served us all by deeds too great and selfless to ignore, and for that service to Eyri I would award her something fair.”
Tabitha considered her plate as her mind churned. An award? She didn’t need an award for anything. She wished only to be able to pop one of the steaming gravy-soaked potatoes into her mouth.
“No person has ever fought so hard against a threat to Eyri’s peace. No one has ever dedicated so much to bring healing and hope to our land as Tabitha Serannon.”
The nobles applauded loudly.
Tabitha had fought for her own life; she had healed the people because it was her responsibility. She had been showered with gifts already—she didn’t need any further awards. But she couldn’t refuse the king’s decree. He was looking directly at her, and Maybelle Westerbrook stood beside the king, holding something which glinted in her hands.
“Tabitha Serannon! I hereby pronounce you Lady Tabitha, and award you a life retainer, and the title to your ancestral farm of Phantom Acres. The lands have been repurchased from Lord Winterborn. They belong to you now.”
Tabitha felt suddenly heavy in her chair. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. She had been made a Lady? A noble? Was that allowed? The air felt thin, as if everyone had drawn breath at once and not left enough over for her to breathe. They waited for her.
“Come forward, Lady Tabitha, and receive your new title.”
Garyll squeezed her hand under the table then pushed her away. She stood on unsteady legs. The nobles all thundered with applause, some clanking the bases of silver goblets upon the table as well, adding to the joyous clamour. She was only a few steps away from the king, but those steps seemed to take forever. The king offered her his best bristly smile, but suddenly some anger boiled in his eyes. Tabitha couldn’t understand him. He seemed so changeable, so full of conflicting moods. She couldn’t think why he would be cross with her. He said something but she couldn’t distinguish the words from the applause, so she curtsied hurriedly, whereupon he jerked his head, stepped closer and said, “I owe you more,” in a voice that would not have been heard by anyone el
se.
King Mellar glared at her over his smile, and she began to kneel, thinking she had not offered adequate respect, but he exclaimed “No!” and caught her hands, guiding her up. She had misread him again. Maybe the anger wasn’t meant for her, after all. Maybe it was anger at himself, for something she had no part of. He turned her to face the Lady of Ceremony.
Maybelle held up a delicate tiara, a beautiful work of intricate silverwork with suspended indigo stones. “You were always a lady, Tabitha. This merely announces it to all.” She lowered the symbolic circlet of nobility over Tabitha’s head. The tiara pressed so lightly upon her hair, it seemed to weigh nothing at all.
King Mellar handed her two gilded scroll-cases: the retainer and the title deeds to her land. Her land! Her parents had been tenants on Phantom Acres all of their lives. She owned a piece of Eyri.
“So you will always have something to return to,” explained King Mellar.
“Thank you,” she said, but Mellar waved her thanks aside.
“This is our moment to thank you!” he announced loudly. “Lords and ladies, we now welcome among our ranks our wizard of Eyri, Lady Serannon!”
She looked down the length of the table, and they greeted her with continued applause. The lords and ladies seemed pleased with themselves, as if they had acquired a great prize. Not knowing quite what to do, Tabitha returned to her place beside Garyll. His expression was worth more than a hundred noble titles, his eyes holding a spark she had not seen in weeks. If only for that moment, he was happy, and immensely proud. He grinned foolishly and hugged her to his chest. She thought her heart would burst.
Lady Westerbrook was the first to speak into the silence of the fading applause. “You may have escaped your speech, but would you honour us with a song instead, Lady Serannon?” The request brought an instant hush through the dining hall.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 10
