“Was it not lovely, Dylan?” murmured Amelia of Trent, turning her face up to him adoringly, and fluttering her eyelids provocatively. It was an unfortunate gesture, for her eyes were slightly crossed. “It makes me long for my own wedding day.” She sighed deeply and exhaled an herby breath that barely disguised her rotting teeth.
“A pretty ceremony, I suppose, if one cares to spend a fine April day in a packed cathedral. Hot, isn’t it?”
Eleanor turned at the sound of Dylan’s voice and smiled. She was past forty, and her dark hair was slashed at the temples by two streaks of silver, but her skin was smooth as a girl’s and her teeth unblemished. She looked more like a sister to her daughters than a mother. Doyle regarded his wife with undisguised affection, and slipped a large hand around her curving hips. Eleanor gave the hand a playful slap, softened by a blush upon her fair cheeks.
“Not in church, Doyle!”
“Why not? We are married, after all. God won’t mind.”
He brushed her forehead with a kiss, and Eleanor bent her head against his great chest for a second, then slipped away.
She reached up and pushed the black curls on Dylan’s brow aside with cool fingers. “Did you comb it?” she asked.
“Perhaps. I cannot recall. I woke rather late, and this new tunic that Rowena made me seems a little small in the shoulders. Very difficult to reach my head, you see,” he added, lifting his arms.
Rowena, who was proud of her needlework, eyed it critically. “You have filled out some more since I finished it. Yes, your shoulders and neck are bigger.” She shook her head. “Are you ever going to stop growing? You are half a head taller than father now.”
“I think I have stopped going up and am spreading sidewise, instead,” he answered.
“It is all that swordwork he does,” Eleanor added, frowning a little. “I wish you had more talent for books and less for chivalry.”
“Mother, I would be a wretched cleric and a worse lawyer. I leave the books to you and Beatrice.”
“You are so much like your father.” She sighed.
“And who else should he be like, my pretty?” Doyle answered, planting a smart slap on his wife’s bottom and so scandalizing Amelia of Trent that she took herself off in search of her formidable mother. ‘ ‘That young woman has her eye on you, my son, and if she catches you, I hope you will not bring her to visit often at Avebury. I cannot abide a woman who will not look me in the eye.”
“She cannot help that, Doyle,” Eleanor replied, “but I must admit she is not a woman I want in the family.” “And who would you have me wed, Mother?” Dylan asked.
“At the moment, I cannot think of one, though that red-headed child of Count de Wyvem seems bright and spirited enough for you.”
“Mother! She’s barely twelve!” And hipless and breastless as a boy, he added mentally.
“Your father is much older than I am.”
Dylan shifted from foot to foot, uneasy as always at the mention of those qualities of legend that gave minstrels stuff to sing about. Doyle counted his years upon the earth more than four hundred, if Dylan believed the stories. But it was too like the serpentine grandmother, difficult to swallow. He was never absolutely certain that portions of the tale were not pure invention. His father never spoke of it at all, except to say his life had begun when he first looked in Eleanor’s grey eyes. Dylan wondered if he would ever meet a woman who would make him feel that way. Certainly it was no Amelia of Trent or Jacqueline de Wyvem.
The crowd had left the cathedral, except for a few little pages, their heads bent together in some plot or game, and two priests clearing the altar. A faint breeze stirred the incense-ripe air, carrying the faint smell of water and willows as well. Dylan sniffed it curiously and looked around for the source.
There was a small chapel on one side of the cathedral, one of several, dedicated to the Virgin of Sorrows. The altar within it pulsed with pale green light, coalesced into the shimmering figure of a woman.
“Saille,” said Eleanor and Dylan with one voice. His mother looked at him with narrowed eyes, though whether it was jealousy or fear or both he could not guess, and Rowena gave a little cry of delight and smiled.
Doyle bowed gravely at the vision. “So, we finally meet after all these years.”
“You have been avoiding me, Daughter, and I am greatly displeased. And inconvenienced—to have to seek you here. It is time for Dylan to begin his work, to find his life without you!”
Eleanor d’Avebury was pale as the white of her shift, except for two burning spots on her cheeks. “No! I will not have it. He is only a boy!”
“He is a man, no matter how you pretend. And he must go to Franconia.”
“No! It is not fair. I did enough, more than enough. Find someone else to do your dirty work, and leave my family alone!” Eleanor trembled with rage and her rich voice was full of anguish.
“And what of me, good Grandmother?” asked Rowena, as if her mother had not spoken.
“Not yet, child, not yet. Patience. You still have much to learn.”
“You!” Eleanor rounded upon her oldest daughter, seeking a target for her fury. “What have you to do with Sal?” “I am not some miser’s treasure to be held in one heart only, Daughter,” admonished the Lady of the Willows. “Long have I known each of your children, and loved them. Little Eleanor gave me all her dolls when she felt herself too old for them, and Beatrice has wiled away many afternoons with grave philosophizing. Dylan used to sweeten my days with boyish kisses, and Rowena has shared the secrets of her heart, as you once did.”
“What must I do?” Dylan interrupted, ignoring his mother’s further protests until she boxed him soundly on one ear. He caught both her wrists easily in his large hand, then thrust her at his father. Doyle accepted a kicking Eleanor and swung her up over one shoulder like a bag of grain, so her fists fell harmlessly on his broad back.
He planted a resounding smack on her bottom as the two priests and the pages gawked. “Stop yowling, woman, or I’ll give you a proper beating!”
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she almost screamed. “Of course you will, macushla. You are very kind-hearted. Oof!” One of Eleanor’s knees caught him in the chest.
“Go to Franconia and find the Sword of Earth. Bring it forth from darkness, and the maiden who holds it. Find your life, Dylan.” The Lady of Willows began to fade, and for a moment another woman appeared, a fair-haired female who seemed almost familiar. A green gem hung at her throat, and a sword dangled from it between firm breasts. Her hands moved slowly, and her eyes sparkled almost angrily.
The chapel returned to its accustomed dimness and Doyle held a sobbing Eleanor against his chest.
“I cannot bear it! No, no, no. Oh, Doyle, why? Why? I did enough.”
“Shh, shh, beloved,” Doyle answered, stroking her netted hair. He raised his eyes and met Dylan’s with a hint of a smile. “Everything will be all right.”
“Nothing will ever be right again,” she answered as Dylan turned and left the cathedral, free and purposeful and heartsick at the same time. The sun seemed blinding as he walked across the cobblestones, pacing back and forth nervously, until his family rejoined him, and his stomach announced that Franconia would have to wait until after the wedding feast was eaten. Perhaps a bit longer, if the sullen expression on his mother’s face was any omen. It occurred to him she might use her influence with the King to prevent his adventure, and unless he turned into a fish and swam the sea, Franconia might as well be the moon.
Doyle clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Let me handle your mother, son.”
“Gladly. I only wish it did not hurt her so much.” “You are her favorite, and she has always wanted to keep you from harm. Do not bother your head overmuch. Women are more sensible than men, in the end. Otherwise the race would have perished long ago.”
Dylan was elated and depressed simultaneously. He was favored by the goddess with a task, not condemned to a humdrum existence, and he won
dered if he were able enough. His mother’s endless store of tales was not without its share of tragedies and failed quests. And who was the fair maid who wore a sword between her breasts? He tried to banish the memory of his mother’s face in the church, the,fury and despair combined, and he wondered if perhaps she knew his future, knew that he might perish in some distant place. It seemed unlikely in the warm sunlight. Then he shrugged the disturbing thoughts aside and followed his family to the wedding feast where Prince Geoffrey sulked over his beef and his plump bride consumed an astonishing amount, and drowned his doubts in wine that seemed to have lost its savor.
III
Aenor heard the jingling bells of her pursuers before they came into view. Above it, she could hear the steady chant of several light tenor voices, and by the song she could identify them as the Sapphire Guard, the Queen’s own men. Out of the Queen’s presence they always chorused this particular song. She bit her lip a moment, feeling frustrated, then looped the braided cord back around her neck, so the jewel hung once more against her throat, though somewhat lower because of the weight of the sword; the weapon lay against her body, the hilt between her small breasts. There was no place to go, for the armory cavern was a dead end, and she had gained nothing by her adventure except the memory of bread and ovens.
“Aenor-child,” said a hesitant voice she recognized as Hamar, the chief of the guard.
“Do not call me that. I am a woman, not a child, and 1 should have had a fat babe or two at my breast by now!” Her words surprised her, and she realized she had remembered more than swords and bread. It was all muddled, like the weapons around her, but she knew that she was different from what she had been a short time before. The White Folk never spoke of children, except those curious bastard breedings with mortals or monsters.
Hamar entered the cavern and cringed. He was tall and slender, pale haired and light eyed, and he shivered in his bright blue tunic and moved his sandaled feet uneasily. “Come away from this dreadful place. How did you get in?”
Aenor felt a smile tremble on her lips as she remembered her sudden command of the ancient spell that had sealed the chamber—or her jewel’s command, she reminded herself, raising a hand to touch its well-known facets. “The door opened,” she said.
“Opened? Impossible! The spell . . Hamar trailed off, frowning. “I must tell the Queen. Come along, girl. There is nothing here for you.”
“No, there isn’t. I found what I came for, I think.” She had not turned when he entered, so she stood in profile to him, and he could not see the sword which lay upon her flat belly. “But I rather like the smell. It makes me remember much I had forgotten.”
“Remember? What?”
“Oh, just words, like iron and leather and bread and ovens, things I knew once. And will know again.”
One of the guards behind Hamar hissed.
“Nonsense,” Hamar replied stoutly. “Those are but phantasms. You remember nothing except what the Queen wills.”
Aenor bent forward and scooped up a long strip of leather, then turned to face him, amused by his consternation and the expressions of horror on the faces of those behind him. “This is a belt, and once it graced the body of a cow, an animal which makes both milk and meat. A very stupid beast but useful, more useful than you are.” She wished she could remember the name of the other beast, the one that ran so swiftly, but it remained just out of her mind’s grasp.
“Where did you get that?” Hamar answered, pointing at the sword and ignoring her lecture on cows and her insults as well.
“This sword? I found it here.”
The guards clutched their long spears with white knuckles and muttered to one another.
‘‘She is coming unbound.”
“The spells are not holding.”
“The Queen’s power weakens.”
“Silence, you babbling fools!” roared Hamar, his voice cracking. “Elpha is as strong as ever. Or do you want to go to the King’s forges and carry coals like a dwarf?” “You are a fool, Hamar. We all know how this door was sealed, and if those spells are fading, what hope have we? Elpha’s desire to reclaim the . . .”
“Silence! Sing, and speak no treason.”
The six guards exchanged glances that boded no affection for their captain, shrugged, and took up the “Sapphire Way.” The light within the cavern increased as they chanted, casting great shadows on the walls and the piles of discarded arms. Hamar, grim faced, gestured her to follow him.
Aenor did, accustomed as she was to obeying their commands and bemused by a sudden insight which had always eluded her previously: Song and illumination were intertwined like the green and blue enamelled serpents that graced the hilt between her breasts. When she had sung the tones which opened the cavern, she had become less blind. And her jewel—which she had clung to with sheer stubbomess despite the entreaties, threats, and promises of the White Folk, had a song in it. She could “hear” fragments of it, but she could not grasp the whole. Aenor paced along behind Hamar, the guards following her, and found their chant drowned out the music that thrummed within her. She could not think straight.
Aenor reached for her jewel, stumbled over a pebble, and caught the blade of the sword instead. The cool metal bit into the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, and she lifted her hand to her mouth and tasted warm, salty blood for a moment before the cut healed itself. For an instant she knew who she was, and more, and then it was gone in the ceaseless chorus of the guard. She would have commanded them to silence except she knew they would not heed it, and for a second she felt she might turn and slay them with the sword, just to still the cursed chant. Then the power was gone again, and she followed Hamar numbly through the unending corridors.
The Queen’s court was aglow with Elpha’s light as the second singers, the Lapis Choir, toned out the “Pure Crystal Chant,” counterpointed by the beat of several glass drums with Rock Folk skin heads, and the lesser stone harps playing a descant. The music crawled across her skin like biting insects, and Aenor struggled to retain her hard-won memories. The huge lamps which hung from the ceiling of the chamber shifted colors—now rose, now a pale blue, then golden, until she felt battered and dull.
Elpha, seated upon a throne of rosy quartz, lifted a hand, and the chant diminished, shifted, altered, and became something else. The Queen smiled graciously, then saw the sword on Aenor’s chest. A faint frown creased the smooth brow, and her silvery eyes widened a little. Her major spell singers—Margold of the Amethysts, her sister Angold of Opals, and Garnet Alilian—moved restlessly beside her, their pleated draperies fluttered around their crystal-shod feet, and the glassy bells across their breasts jangling discordantly. The web weavers, who alone of the White Folk showed any hint of age, thrust long fingers into their spidery cloaks and mouthed silently.
“Why did you leave us, Aenor-child. You know how it distresses me to have you out of my sight. You are dear to me and—”
“I could not bear your wretched crowing,” Aenor answered, her mind somewhat clearer. “You sound like a . . . croaking of frogs.” She wasn’t quite sure what a frog was, but the words came easily. The spell singers glared at her.
“We know you cannot comprehend true beauty, child, but that is no reason to be ill-mannered,” the Queen
admonished gently. “We have treated you kindly, and you pay us back with insults.”
“Kindly!” Aenor narrowed her eyes and felt her heart jump with anger. “You took my memory, my mind, my will—and call it kind. Your heart is as hard as the silly jewels you make. What a poor exchange you made—gems for children—until you get so hungry for life within your loins you will lie with any comely mortal, or even the Rock Folk. Cave rats squeak fairer than your song, Oh Great Queen of Nothing!”
Elpha gave a single tone from her slender throat, and Aenor’s tongue felt leaden and useless. “Such foolishness. We have kept you ageless here, and ask nothing but the return of our jewel which you wear about your throat. Come, give it to me.
It is too great a burden for you. Feel how it hangs against your chest like stone. Give it over, and you will walk our storied halls in joy and serenity.” Aenor could barely breathe. It felt as if the braided cord of hair around her throat was strangling her. Her flesh felt lifeless. With a great effort she moved her hand and cut her fingers on the blade of the sword. It burned like flame, and she flicked the welling blood in a spatter across the Queen’s feet as she remembered scuffed elbows and kneecaps from long gone sun-drenched days. The pain gave her power, a fragment of her jewel’s song even against the faint, constant choir of the Lapis Singers. It almost faded before she could capture it, so she stubbed her toes against the cold floor of the chamber.
“Come and take it. I shall like to watch you turn to dust. ’ ’
Elpha leaned back against her throne, pale and fragile. Angold reached a hand out and touched the Queen’s arm. “Your Majesty, we cannot have her here any longer. She begins to know.''
“I can see that!” the Queen answered angrily, pushing aside the comforting hand. “Her blood bums. How could the gods be so unjust, so cruel to the fairest folk they ever made? How could they favor these Clay People, these mortals who know nothing of beauty, nothing but sweaty lust and endless wars? Why do they have the trees?” It was a cry of anguish.
Aenor barely heard in her excitement. Trees. The word opened mental vistas and a tumble of names for objects and creatures. Nuts and squirrels danced in her mind; she was not sure which was which, but was glad to possess even this much memory. Her jewel flared, flashing green against the rose of the lanterns.
“Bind her again,” urged Margold.
“I do not know if I can, now the stone is rejoined with that . . . that thing. How did she get it? It was spell hidden—well, I thought—and yet she wears it. All I wished was to restore our former glory, to walk again under the chiming crystal to Jers. Who would have thought a miserable mortal could be so difficult?”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02] Page 3
