Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02]

by The Crystal Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  “We cannot keep her here any longer. She will learn things; she has already. I warned you not—”

  “Rebuke me not, Amethyst Singer. It is long past time for that.”

  “Send her to the King’s court. They sing not, there, so she will not learn our secrets, and a few seasonless years in his realm should make her eager to surrender the jewel. ” Alilian spoke calmly. “She, like all her kind, fears the darkness. The cave rats will gnaw her toes and chew away at her face, and she will beg to come back. You never should have let her stay in the court to begin with, Your Majesty. You know her bloodlines.” The Garnet Singer gave Aenor a spiteful glance as she started to hum.

  Aenor was terrified and angry. Her dwarf servant, Letis, had told her nightmare tales of the endless forge-lit night of the King’s court, the ceaseless clatter of hammers on anvils and the stink of constant burning. She struggled against the spell the singers were creating, groping blindly for the bit of song within her jewel. Her mouth and throat seemed parched and frozen.

  She stamped her feet and felt the jolt rattle her spine. Aenor touched her jewel and ached to release the words that lay upon a dry and lifeless tongue. Green light pulsed against her sweating palms, and she lifted her hands around a-glowing orb of energy. A hot tear ran down her cheek, burning like molten silver.

  The globe of light flickered, then flared, and she felt the song well from her heart, sweet and almost wild, until she was a vessel for it. It swelled and bubbled in her throat, then flowed into her mouth like all the waters of the world unleashed:

  “Weep, O Queen Broken thy song Fracted thy jewels Dust at thy feet Dust in thy hands In silence, go!”

  The lesser harp of stone gave a moan like a dying creature; its silver strings snapped; and its jeweled and carven upright exploded, sending fragments of rock across the chamber. Elpha gave a terrible cry as the Lapis Choir and the Sapphire Chorus added their voices to the spell singers, muffling Aenor’s tiny, weak song. She lifted a hand to touch the tears she cried and knew nothing except the binding of her mind once more.

  IV

  Dylan d’Avebury turned his back towards Albion. The white cliffs glittered in the morning sun, and he was certain there was no more magnificent natural feature in all the world. He could almost hear his mother’s chuckle in his mind. “Don’t be provincial, son,” she would have said. “You have not seen the Grand Canyon or the Muir Woods.” He had never been quite certain which of his mother’s tales were real and which were not. She said there was a continent far to the west beyond Hibernia, where the folk had skin of bronze and lived in skin houses, where there were trees taller than the tallest yew, and a great ditch over a mile deep, running over the length of several counties. But she also spoke of a great wolf named Fenris and frost giants and other wonders.

  This was his first experience with the sea, for he had never left Albion before. The pitch of the little Flemish sailing vessel made him feel slightly queasy, and he was aware of a faint tension in his body not unlike the first time he had ever jousted with a living man. It was both fear and pleasure, and he liked it in a restless kind of way. The sea was a splendid greenish blue, fluffed with curls of white as the prow cut through the waves; and the sun shone clear and golden. The breeze had a clean smell like nothing he had known before. By the time the west wind reached Avebury from the sea, its scent was always heavy with the green smells of earth, and the odor of the Thames in London was full of human waste.

  Dylan left the place amidship where he had been standing and worked his way forward to the prow, clinging awkwardly to the railing and avoiding coils of rope and other stumbling blocks. The crew, a dour lot of silent Flems, ignored him.

  Dylan grasped the prow and leaned into the point of it. The wind ruffled his black hair and he felt a strange thrill as he stared into the waters of the Channel, white cliffs and Albion forgotten. A sleek head emerged from the waters, and a dark eye regarded him thoughtfully. It gave a strange bark, then vanished below the waves to reappear a moment later in an upward leap that revealed a long body and great flippers that clapped and waved at him. Other heads appeared, and the boat was surrounded by a herd of laughing, honking creatures, arcing in and out of the water like leaping trout.

  A shout from one of the crew made him turn. The Flems were grinning to split their faces. One, a bit younger than the rest, came up to him.

  “Fortune smiles on you, my lord.”

  “Does it?” Dylan had trouble understanding the man’s thick accent.

  “Aye. These is dolphins, the good beasts of the Virgin. ”

  “Ah, dolphins. They seem to be having a party.” He could also hear his mother’s voice. “The dolphin is sacred to the god Apollo, and to the goddess Aphrodite. It is not a fish but a warm-blooded beast which nurses its young as I nursed you. They are very intelligent, smarter than some humans, though we do not speak their tongue—yet. Well, Doyle might. You were born to the sea, my son, though you have never seen it. Your father and I spent a godawful bit of time dashing about in it before you were bom. Like Jonah, you have been some time in the belly of a whale.” Eleanor had smiled and held her husband’s hand tightly, as if the memory both pleased and disturbed her.

  “Always a party for them, my lord. And when they play, a sailor has naught to fear.” The crewman looked to the east, towards Franconia, where the sunshine seemed less bright somehow, and shook his head. “Better you should stay here than go where you are going.”

  “What is it like?”

  “Dark, my lord, as is all places of the Shadow. There’s foul things abroad in the land, and if the captain did not owe his soul to the moneylenders, we would not be taking you to the other side.”

  Dylan nodded. It had taken weeks, for his mother had refused her consent and put every obstacle in his way she could manage. She had gone to the King and used her enormous influence to prevent Dylan’s quest, and she would have succeeded had Arthur’s awe of the goddess not been greater than his respect for Eleanor. There had been a rather heated scene that he was glad to have missed, for Dylan found he had little taste for the vociferous brangles the rest of the family seemed to revel in.

  Once the King had determined that Dylan might indeed leave Albion for Franconia, there was the difficulty of finding a ship, for the Flems avoided the Franconian coast whenever possible, and Arthur had stepped in to help, an act which Dylan resented as much as anything. Then he found he must carry letters of introduction to the Albionese ambassador, Giles de Cambridge, and to the King of Franconia, whoever he might be presently, so that spring faded and summer was well begun before the parchments were completed in a fine chancery hand, sealed and rubricked to the satisfaction of all but himself. Dylan had no intention of going to Paris, though he had no clear idea what he would do instead. He had been confessed and vigiled and blessed until his head throbbed, and clung to by his anxious mother until his temper was frayed to bits.

  The days had passed in endless conferences, the nights in dreams of Sal pointing a white finger to the darkling east, and of the fair woman with the sparkling eyes. Now he wore a good sword, heavy with clerical beatitudes— half the Bishops of Albion had laid their hands upon it—and a breastful of the terrors of those who loved him. The sword was by far the lighter burden.

  The light seemed to fade as he remembered his parting from his parents. Eleanor had been dry-eyed, though suspiciously reddened around the lids, quiet and bearing a calm that Dylan was sure was a stillness between two storms. She had kissed him and whispered, “Be safe, beloved,” before she turned away.

  Doyle had embraced him in a great bear hug. “There were so many things I meant to tell you.”

  “Please . . . any more advice and I will go mad.”

  The great black beard had split with a grin. “Go mad! Why, boy, you’re Irish. We are born mad. Just be careful of folk who will not look you in the eye, and do not believe everything you hear. ’ ’

  “And don’t get my feet wet, or go to sleep without say
ing my prayers and—”

  “Pah! Since that meddling willow witch has sent you on this venture, prayers will not avail thee. And she quite glories in the occasional wet foot. Just be the good, true man I know you can be, and all will be right.”

  Dylan was roused from his reverie by a spatter of cold sea water. A great dolphin leapt up almost in his face, squeaking noisily. Dylan reached out a hand and brushed the sleek hide. It cried one last unintelligible greeting, then arched away into the waves.

  “Farewell,” he called, as the herd sped north upon its business. “Good fishing.” A glimpse of the sharp teeth in the dolphin’s mouth had left him in no doubt that this beast was a predator.

  The sunlight dimmed, and the crew seemed to hunch down to their tasks. After a few minutes, he could see a dark line at the horizon. It grew and became land, a rocky shore. The crew lowered a tiny boat and tossed his gear into it, as if eager to be done with the job.

  Dylan entered the boat gingerly, his sword an awkward impediment, and a huge muscled crewman joined him, plying the oars like a devil. After a time, they beached the boat, and unloaded his packs. The crewman pushed the boat away from shore and was gone without comment, leaving Dylan alone on a sandy shore, the waves gunneling between his boots.

  “So much for keeping my feet dry,” he told the uncaring sea, and shouldered his burdens.

  Dylan walked along the shore, heading north, for a while reluctant to leave the mysterious waters which lapped beside him, recalling his mother’s tales without trying to decide which were fact and which were fable. But finally he turned inland, his feet squishing damply across the strand.

  It was a warm day, but the sky was grey and the sun seemed a distant, watery blob. He had never known Albion when it dwelt under the Shadow, for by the time he was ten, Arthur had scoured the land free of that dark curse, and the sun shone clear and golden. Still, Eleanor had described the leaden sky of her early joumeyings to him often enough that he knew why the sky was no longer blue. It depressed him vaguely, and he hummed a tune under his breath as he crossed the rocky boundary where the kingdom of the sea ceased and the domain of the true land began.

  There were trees now, dispirited things with droopy leaves. An ancient apple stood knee-deep in half-rotten fruit. He shook his head and walked on. A coney darted out of a bush, escaping some unseen enemy, and vanished into another.

  After an hour, he passed the first farmhouse, a low building falling into wrack and ruin. Its roof had tumbled down and its heavy door stood ajar like a gaping mouth. A large rat sauntered out and eyed him insolently.

  The land had sparse stands of trees, and from time to time he crossed what he recognized as fields, their dividing hedges untrimmed and the weeds rank in the shallow furrows. He passed two more deserted houses, one lightning struck, and finally came upon the remains of a village. Only the stone church was fairly intact. The rest of the structures were burnt and twisted.

  Dylan stepped into the church. It was dark and quiet, and the faint smell of incense seemed to linger even after many years. The dust upon the flagstones was thick and it curled up under his feet like mist. The altar was empty of tabernacle and candlesticks, but a side niche revealed a Lady altar. The little statue of the Virgin smiled benignly into the dimness, one hand clasping the stylized heart across her breast, the other lifted in benediction. She seemed to smile at him, and he smiled back. Her unbound hair was dark beneath a circlet of silver with the crescent moon in its center, and she reminded him of his mother and the Lady of the Willows. He knelt in the dust for several minutes, trying to form a prayer, but none came to him.

  He retreated from the church into the leaden light of late afternoon. He was tired and his shoulders ached from the two packs he was carrying. Dylan wondered if he should spend the night inside the abandoned church, but decided to go on instead. He decided a night in a fallow field was preferable to a night in a ghost-ridden village.

  An hour’s march later he heard voices and crashing from a copse of trees beside the remains of the road he had followed out of the nameless hamlet. There were angry shouts and a scream. Then a great animal leapt through the trees, pursued by a motley gaggle of half-starved men and women. For a second he thought it was a horse. Then he saw the wicked horn which coiled out of the beast’s brow, and knew it for a licome.

  It spun on its hooves to face its attackers, rearing and plunging. The mob, armed with sticks, scattered and regrouped, leaving one fallen beneath the flailing legs and another clutching a gash that ran from chest to shoulder

  where the horn had rent tattered cloth and flesh with equal ease. The wounded man screamed terribly, and his body seemed to shimmer with a strange blue light.

  , The licome paused for a moment. It was black as night, with a silver tail and a short stiff ruff of the same pale hair along the ridge of the great neck. It was more stag than horse, and it was cut along both flanks by sticks and stones. It gazed at the howling folk, then looked at Dylan. Its eyes were pale, almost argent, and it shivered all across its skin. Then it gave a cry, a bellow of challenge, and charged the mob.

  Dylan dropped his two packs with a thump and pulled out his sword. Without consideration of the chivalry involved, he hacked down a white-faced man as he brought a stick down on the licome’s right flank. As if finally aware of his presence, three of the mob turned to face him. They gabbled unintelligible words, and he cut off a hand as a stone missed his head by inches. He cursed himself for not wearing his helm, and cleaved a hapless peasant through the shoulder. Oddly, no blood spurted out. The fellow just collapsed and tripped the man beside him.

  The licorne gutted a woman and trampled a man, and it was over. The beast gave a trump of triumph and stepped daintily away from his victims. Dylan watched in horror as the bodies of the slain flared briefly with blue light, then began to decompose before his eyes. A charnel stench filled the air and he gagged and backed away hastily. He had seen his first Shadow Folk and they were much more terrible than he had ever imagined. His mother’s stories had never given him a true sense of how dreadful the soulless folk of the Dark were.

  A soft nose nudged him between the shoulder blades, and he turned to face the beast. It stared at him with silver eyes and blew a greeting or a thanks from its mouth, displaying large, dangerous teeth. Something sticky dripped from its hom and a thin line of blood rilled down across the left shoulder, but it seemed serenely beyond the concerns of mere flesh.

  Dylan felt awed. It was the most magnificent beast he had ever seen. Slowly, tentatively, he lifted a hand to stroke the great neck. The licorne suffered his touch graciously. It was more than sixteen hands high, bigger than most horses, and he saw that its head was more like a stag than an equine. The horn in its forehead was a spiral of black and white, and it recurved slightly at the end. It was a creature fit for moonlight and starlight, not for the grim, grey day of Shadowed Franconia.

  Dylan tore some dry grass from the ground and wiped his sword, then put it in its scabbard. He tossed the stuff aside, and took a fresh handful. Reaching up his full height, he daubed at the stuff on the horn. The beast lowered its head and made a warm, low noise. Dylan wiped away as much of the mess as he could.

  “We should go find a pool or stream to wash off in, you know.”

  The licorne blew its lips and turned and trotted a few steps away. It looked back at Dylan and tossed its head. With a shrug, he picked up his packs and prepared to follow the animal. “My mother met a wolf once,” he told it conversationally, “but you are much prettier. I had heard there were licomes in the forests of Franconia, but I am afraid I did not believe the tales. They tell me my grandmother is a snake, and I do not really believe that either.” The beast gave a soft grunt and led him away.

  As he walked beside Ehe licorne, Dylan’s thoughts ran to his parent’s tale, caught first in bits and pieces as conversation, and intermixed, inextricably interwoven with his mother’s unceasing ocean of stories. How many times had she sat nursing one of his s
isters and told him of Heracles and Arthur—not the King he knew, but an earlier one, a legendary man whom many in Albion believe had returned in their monarch—and Charlemagne and Paul Bunyan. He recalled the first time he had heard the Lay of Eleanor and

  Doyle, the King himself singing the words he had written for her years before, accompanying himself on a small harp, not the magic harp which rested on the altar at Westminster, but an ordinary instrument. He had heard his father’s death on the tusks of a great boar while the man sat beside him, grave and untouched by his own demise. Dylan had never been sure how much to believe. Perhaps belief was unnecessary'. Certainly beside this great, strange beast it seemed needless.

  They entered a proper forest, the earth deep in the rotting mulch of seasons of leaves. Here was oak and birch and wild apple, all familiar and yet different. It was a still, silent place, with no birdcall or squirrel chatter, but only the rustle of boot and hoof amongst the debris. He felt he was alone at the start of time, the only man alive pursuing a dream woman . If only he were in one of those tales with the talking beasts, he might ask his companion where they were going. It was hard, he discovered, to follow blindly into the unknown with only the white finger of the Lady of the Willows to guide him. His mother’s bravery in similar circumstances seemed an astonishing thing, but she had had a magic sword and a cloak, gifts of the capricious and impatient goddess Bridget.

  Dylan chuckled to himself. He had, he realized, marched into his adventure with some unnoticed expectations that it would be both more exciting and tidier somehow. Slashing up Shadowbound peasants and getting his feet wet had not come into his calculations somehow, and he wondered if such minor discomforts and disappointments were somehow swept aside by the storyteller’s art. Probably they were, for only great events were of any interest to the listener.

  The woods grew thicker and he followed close to the licome’s great flanks, smelling the blood and warmth of them. If the forest had a heart, he thought they must be close to it. A sudden opening in the trees almost startled him.