“What are you saying? Is there some problem?”
“No, no. That is to say, there is a problem, in a way. I mean—” Desperately Saibh looked around for some source of inspiration and confidence, but found none. The shrilling of the canaries drilled thin holes in the air.
“You are not intending to complain to me about Uabhar, I hope,” said the dowager queen.
“Oh!” The younger woman started. A blush of shame and confusion heated her pretty features. “Not at all. Never!”
“I have always deemed you were not fit to be his wife.”
Aghast, Saibh stared at her for one moment, before hastening away.
The old queen popped the grape into her mouth and bit down on it.
Canaries shrieked. Handmaidens fluttered.
The next visitor was Secundus Adiuvo Constanto Clementer, his arrival announced by the queen’s private secretary. The druid was clad chiefly in white, and his barren head shone like a polished ball of rosewood. A few wisps of hair fringed the lower edges of his scalp. He bowed before the mother of the king.
“You are come at last, Adiuvo,” she said. “I have been waiting.”
“At your service, Your Majesty.”
“Tell me your opinion of my appearance.”
“You look well in yellow, Your Majesty,” he answered smoothly.
“Adiuvo, I live on summer squash and lemons, butter, egg yolks and honey, cheeses and mustard pickles, the flesh of yellow plums, the skin of yellow apples, and saffron cakes. How should I be well?”
“It sounds a reasonable diet to me, madam.”
“No, no, no, Adiuvo, not this time around. I have been yellow on too many occasions. I wish to change, yet what color is left to me? I have tried all the colors. Sometimes I find myself on the verge of feeling I might like to try more than one color at a time. I am sick and tired of eating this way. I feel ill. I long for a variety of foods, a range of choices. But, Adiuvo, I am afraid to risk it.”
Gently, he said, “Why?”
The dowager queen’s face crumpled, as though she might cry. “I admit—I am frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
“Of breaking them.”
“Breaking what?”
“The rules.”
“They are your rules,” the druid said perceptively. “You can change them.”
“ ’Tis not that easy.”
Secundus Clementer clasped his hands behind his back and paced the floor. After nine steps a notion apparently struck him. He paused, took a deep breath, and raised his index finger instructively.
“Madam, what makes you happy?”
She said, “My three beautiful sons. They bring the only gladness in my life.”
“In that case,” he said, “think on them. It may be that in your source of happiness lies your answer.”
“Very well. I shall consider this. Now go away, Adiuvo. I feel my palpitations coming on. Leave me!”
Having performed another bow, the druid obeyed.
Queen Saibh ignored the patter of satin slippers that betrayed the fact that her ladies-in-waiting were faithfully following her along the palace corridors. She made her way to the nursery, and entered swiftly. Her little son toddled toward her, and she stooped to gather him in her arms. Closely she held him, burying her face in his soft curls, murmuring, “My joy, my darling child, my sweet one.”
Meanwhile in the East Wing Salon, Saibh’s husband dismissed the messenger from High Darioneth and ordered his page to summon the Druid Imperius. His Majesty was restless. As the druid Clementer had done a few moments earlier, he strode up and down, but his demeanor was impatient rather than reflective. Draughts caused by his pacing stirred the extravagant tapestries adorning the walls and curtaining the doorways. The borders of his heavy velvet cloak brushed against one of the oaken tables, setting aquiver silver-gilt goblets and chalices, the wine-jug, the gold-mounted dishes of polished tiger’s eye and agate.
A blaze thundered in the fireplace. Late afternoon light angled in spear-shafts from the diamond panes of a tall casement, triple-arched, garlanded with carven imageries of fruits and flowers. It showed the King of Slievmordhu to be a man of middle height with solidly thewed, sloping shoulders. The once clear-cut bone-structure of his square face was beginning to be blurred by superfluous flesh. His mass of dark brown hair, carefully tended and gleaming, was combed back and bound at the back of the neck with a ribbon of crimson satin.
His household staff fidgeted uneasily. Their master was in a ferment. It was likely to mean trouble for them. They were relieved when Uabhar dismissed them from the chamber.
As usual, the Druid Imperius was clothed in robes of virginal baudekyn, appliquéd with expensive samite. Small of stature, wizened and stooped, he did not seem to have the bearing of an influential man. His fleams of eyes, however, betrayed the shrewd and calculating machinery housed in his skull. No sooner had the Master of the Sanctorum entered than Uabhar, without much preamble, began to speak.
“We have received word from High Darioneth. It seems the weathermasters have under their protection some girl who is a scion of the Sorcerer of Strang.”
The eyes of Primoris Asper Virosus flamed like twin pyres. He was chilly of spirit; rarely were his emotions excited. This was one of those uncommon moments.
“A scion of Strang? Why then, we must demand that they hand her over at once!”
“You are too hasty,” said Uabhar. “The Storm Lord has written that this chit has already, without our knowledge, opened the Dome and entered it. He professes she took no treasure out of the fortress, and left the gates standing wide open.”
“By the axe of Míchinniúint!” swore Virosus. “How dare the puddle-makers steal into the Dome behind our backs!”
“The Storm Lord testifies this girl undertook the venture without his support.”
“A likely tale. They have undermined us!”
“Primoris, surely you must be aware that Maelstronnar considers himself too honorable to propagate an outright lie. We must take him at his word. All the same, we shall send troops to the Dome this very hour.”
“I am surprised you have not already ordered their dispatch.”
Uabhar distended his mouth in a smile that some might privately have considered ingratiating or otherwise insincere. “Hardly would I have done so without consulting the Tongue of the Fates.”
The druid acknowledged the comment with a rudimentary nod. “As for the sorcerer’s get,” he declared, “she is, it would appear, of no value to us.”
“Nevertheless,” rejoined his sovereign, “we shall have an appointment with her.”
“Oh yes,” agreed the druid. “Most certainly.” A clapping and creaking of fast-beating wings drew his attention to the casement. Like a sudden flurry of ruffled petticoats, a flock of pigeons was flying past the palace on their way to the lofts at the Sanctorum.
A blizzard of shadows on golden radiance crossed the book that lay open before Secundus Adiuvo Constanto Clementer. Seated in the Sanctorum’s scriptorium, the druid glanced up from his writing as the bevy of birds rattled by the window. Replacing his quill-pen in the ink-well, he leaned on his white-sleeved elbow and sighed.
A look of concern puckered his assistant’s round face. He was anxious about his mentor’s welfare, worried that he might have taken too much work upon himself. In addition to attending to his druids’ duties and composing a treatise on ideology, Clementer was writing a book about the famous Iron Tree and the jewel that had once been trapped therein.
“What is it, master?” he inquired, approaching the Secundus. “Pardon my boldness, sir, but it seems to me you have been somewhat troubled, these past weeks, or maybe months.”
“You are not mistaken, Almus.” Clementer continued to gaze through the panes. He watched as the pigeons circled the lofts three times before swooping to alight. “I persevere with A Treatise on the Iron Tree; however, I find myself unable to focus. Last week,” he expounded, “word came
to me that Marquis Feighcullen won an enormous sum at the gaming tables of the Earl of Drum Criach. As you know, Almus, Drum Criach is an honorable gentleman who is benevolent toward his vassals and generous to the poor. Feighcullen, on the other hand, is a miser who is forever beating his servants, and would not so much as give the time of day to his own grandmother. Yet luck was on the side of the worse man. Where is the rightness in that?”
“Too lofty for the comprehension of mortalkind are the motives of the Fates,” Almus Agnellus murmured formulaically.
“Another question perplexes me also,” said Clementer, without turning around. “As you know, I like to pursue many branches of inquiry simultaneously. My recent study of longevity and happiness among the populace appears to be producing evidence that, contrary to what we have been taught, it is the manner in which people live and the way they view their circumstances that largely influences their life spans and their fortunes.”
“Master,” mumbled Agnellus, more agitated by the moment, “I am sure you are right, but when all is said and done it is the Four Fates who decide such matters.”
“Do not be anxious,” said Clementer, looking about and bestowing a preoccupied smile on his assistant. “I am not foolish enough to bring trouble upon us by confiding my doubts to others.”
Secundus and his assistant subsided into a quiet, companionable reverie. Voices drifted faintly on the breeze from some distant cell of the Sanctorum, two Druids’ Scribes’ Hands deep in earnest debate. “But we need something new,” insisted the first. “Too often have we prated about white stags and white horses. People are beginning to question the authenticity of our prophecies.”
“What about a white unicorn?” the second voice suggested. “The white unicorn shall—ehrm—shall bleed into the silver dish.”
“No, no!” the first shouted irritably. “Not the silver dish again!”
“The silver chalice?”
“An improvement.” After a pause, “And not blood. We always mention blood. It’s becoming tedious.”
“The white unicorn shall spit into the silver chalice? Cough hair-balls?”
“If you cannot talk sense don’t talk at all,” the first voice snapped.
“But what is the matter with—”
“The white unicorn shall drink from the silver chalice,” the first interrupted, “and . . . and . . .”
“And the sword of the sun shall fall into darkness in the tomb beneath the mountain!” the second voice announced enthusiastically.
“For Ádh’s sake! Can you not conjecture anything original? Swords, suns, darkness, tombs, mountains—the same old symbols, over and over again.”
“All right, what about—ehrm—spoons and stars? Cradles and valleys?”
“Not bad. The silver—no, rather the crimson star shall shine upon the cradle in the valley—”
The second voice interrupted, as if struck with sudden inspiration, “And we always say virgins. What if we say instead whores? That would make the assemblage wake up and listen. . . .”
The wind changed and the voices faded, blown away.
Persisting in his study of the sunset beyond the walls of the scriptorium, Clementer said, “And yesterday I was told that the wife of Neilus O’Breacáin passed from this life, and she having been so ill for such a long while. And Neilus with six little children to feed, and him with not a coin of his savings left, on account of having given all his money to the Sanctorum to get intercession so that the Fates might permit his wife to live. Where is the rightness in that, Almus?”
His assistant admitted defeat. “There seems no rightness in it, master,” he mumbled, hanging his head despondently.
“And these disturbances they are having at Carrickmore,” said Clementer, “these druids giving themselves the title the ‘Sandals of Doom.’ They delude others, but what’s worse, they delude themselves. Surely it is clear to any man of sound judgment that by claiming that Lord Doom allots them special preference, they are seeking to elevate their status, to gain more power over others, to try to undermine the Sanctorum.”
“The Primoris certainly sees it that way,” said Agnellus. “As you know, sir, he has proclaimed this splinter group disloyal to the Fates and therefore subject to their wrath. He declares the Fates decree that they must be punished.”
“Well I, for one, question the judgment of the Fates,” said Clementer.
“Master!” The moon of Agnellus’s face broadened in alarm. “Speak softly, prithee, lest you are overheard!”
“Thank you for your concern, brother.” The Secundus turned away from the window. He appeared to become truly aware of his assistant’s presence for the first time, and smiled sadly. “I trust you,” he said, “even while knowing my trust must be a terrible burden to you. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I am honored by your confidence.”
Clementer sat for a few moments with his head in his hands, then resumed his monologue. “A belief system imprisoned within the man-made trappings of hierarchies, punishments, rituals, and so forth, which are created solely for the purpose of giving certain people power over others—that is what I call a political institution. ’Tis wrong to manipulate people’s beliefs as a way of making them do one’s will.”
“Sir, I caution you!” Agnellus darted a glance over his shoulder. “If anyone should hear—”
“I am discreet, Almus, but that is exactly my point! Am I not to be permitted to speak my own mind? Are my very thoughts to be censored?”
A lone feather drifted in at the window.
“The pigeons,” said Clementer, capturing the airborne plume and twirling it between thumb and forefinger.
“Your pardon, sir, I do not follow you.”
“The pigeons. Your pigeons, Almus, the birds you care for. Remember the bird-feeder?”
“Sir, shall I fetch you a cool drink?”
“No. If you are nervous that I am losing my wits, rest assured, my head is clearer than it has ever been. Listen; you built that first bird-feeder so that whenever the pigeons pecked a lever, a grain of corn rolled down a chute into their feed-tray. Thus, if a pigeon pecked seven times, for example, it received seven grains.”
“Yes, sir. And then I experimented, building a device that dispensed food when the pigeons pecked first one lever, then another, in sequence. They learned quickly. Very clever, my pigeons!”
“Naturally you recall what happened when the lazy pigeon-keeper took over your job and, in his idleness, allowed the feeders to jam and become erratic, dispensing grains at random?”
“I do, for I saw the results myself when next I visited the farm. My pigeons had no idea how they should behave in order to be fed. They were nodding their heads, spinning about, hopping from one foot to the other, pecking hither and thither, and acting like muddle-heads. They were trying to direct the feeding mechanism. If the grain popped out they thought it must have done so because of some action they had, by chance, performed just prior to the appearance of the food, so they repeated the action. When this failed to produce consistent results, and when grains appeared seemingly in response to some different form of behavior, they added more performances to their repertoires until they were waddling and pecking and cooing as if mad.”
“They were performing rituals,” said Clementer. “Rituals to influence a machine that distributed bounty at random, and with-held largesse for no reason whatsoever. Rituals to make the irrational appear rational, to make the uncertain seem to have a purpose. Rituals invented by the birds in sheer desperation, believing they could influence their own haphazard destiny.”
Agnellus cleared his throat. “Ah—we are talking about pigeons, sir, are we not?”
“Oh yes, Almus, of course. Pigeons. Birds who have become superstitious as a way of comprehending the incomprehensible.” Clementer let the feather fall from his fingers. “Brother, I am shattered,” he whispered. “My life’s work has been without meaning.”
Agnellus was at a loss for words
.
“I am considering leaving the Sanctorum,” said the Secundus. “Perhaps I ought to go out into the wide world, to make a proper search for meaning.”
His assistant fell to his knees, as if his limbs would no longer support him. His face was now as pale as the moon it resembled, and his hands trembled. “If you leave,” he said, “prithee do not tell them why. For the sake of your life, compose some pretense; otherwise they will call you a traitor to the Sanctorum, and you know—you know the punishments for that!”
“I know,” said Clementer, calmly. “I know.”
He turned back to the window again and stared out at the turrets of the royal residence. Bathed by the red light of sunfall, pennants and banners were fluttering merrily from all the masts. Hothouse-forced daffodils blossomed in window-boxes on the queen’s balconies.
Arran had foretold accurately; he scarcely slept during the sunless hours. His fervent desire to offer Jewel the ultimate gift—the chance of immortality—inflamed him, gnawed at him, goaded him to restless agitation. Any consideration for the rights of others to this supreme prize had long since been burned to vapor by the blaze of his ardor. Daylight, when at last it filtered through the clammy fogs of dawn, illuminated his face; still comely, although drained of color, save for two purplish crescents underscoring his eyes. Over a quick bite of breakfast, he and his companions negotiated a plan.
“We must work in pairs,” he said, “as a precaution.”
They all agreed.
Bliant said, “Arran, you and I shall explore these surroundings, seeking a way to reach this island. I suggest that you, Rivalen, might look after the campsite and Wanderpath, with Gahariet’s help.”
“No,” said the older weathermage. “There is no reason for anyone to remain here watching the balloon. No mortal men dwell in these parts and our aircraft is effectively protected from eldritch meddlers. You yourself know; a myriad wight-deterrents are built into it! The walls of the cars are interwoven with thin iron wires and rowan twigs, studded with amber and bedecked with bells. As for the envelopes—spidersilk has the strength of steel, many times over! As added reassurance, the Druid Imperius has interceded with Ádh, begging for his goodwill to follow all our voyages—for what that is worth.”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 46
