I turned to the king of Vaire, shaking and, for once in my life, earnest. “Fabron,” I cried, “if I had known this I would never have let him go, I swear it! I thought there was no one in that castle who would harm him.”
He didn’t speak to me. Perhaps he couldn’t speak. He stood looking away toward the blood-red towers of Melior, and the black beast went and nuzzled his hand.
“What is happening to Frain, Grandfather?” I demanded. “Can you not see?”
Tears on his thin cheeks; his mind was with his daughter. “They’ve taken him now,” he said. “I can see nothing more.” He spoke gently. He has always been gentle with me when I find myself most clearly in the wrong.
I stared away at the glistening towers in my turn. “Why, then,” I heard myself say, “I will have to go in after him.”
Chapter Six
Within the hour I rode over the Gerriew under flag of trace. I took with me a small retinue, for show, and I had dressed myself to the last detail in the best clothing I could muster—all black, of course. I carried my iron sword and iron shield, again for show. Fabron wanted to come with me, but I persuaded him to stay behind. I believed his presence would only enrage Abas, and the other kings agreed with me. They stayed in camp for the same reason, and so did Grandfather, and the beast with him. Grandfather saw me off without even a word of advice. All advice seemed futile when dealing with Abas.
I went to Melior with some harebrained notion of having Frain released by offering myself in his place. All very noble and impractical—if Abas had taken Frain prisoner, what was to prevent him from taking me as well? But I knew well enough, paint him as black as I liked, that he would not harm me unless I drove him to it. And I knew, chillingly, that he regarded Frain in quite a different way. He would not hesitate to harm Frain if the mood took him. And that made my errand imperative.
It was an eerie homecoming, or at least I felt it as such. I wondered how Frain had felt, passing those hostile, familiar gates. I left the horses standing in the courtyard with my men to guard them and I strode alone into the keep. No servant dared to speak to me, and I was too proud anyway to ask my way to the King—to beg for an audience, forsooth, with my own father! But I found him soon enough. He was sitting alone on the dais in the great, gloomy main hall, hunched over a cup of something, some liquor. He was probably drunk, though he did not show it; he never did. He stared at me sourly as I entered, seeming completely unsurprised.
“You’ve been taking your bloody time getting home!” he snapped.
I strode across to him in silence, walked up to him and looked down where he sat, unable to believe that he had no other reaction for me. I was expecting wrath, rage, love, sorrow, guilt—anything except his ill-tempered acceptance. I believe I could have moved back into my old room, pretended nothing had happened, and he would have fallen in with the farce. He did not seem to mind my standing and staring at him; he simply attended to his cup. He had aged since I had left, but the process had made him leaner and tougher than ever.
“Out nattering with an old man,” he grumbled after a while. “Say hello to your mother, boy—she’s dead.” With a casual movement he indicated something beyond the table. One of those awful carved coffins lay there with the pale, blind eyes staring up at the rafters. I winced at the sight of it, and for a moment I could not move. Then I walked over—I passed right behind my father’s indifferent back—and I opened the casket lid. Mother faced me, already embalmed, loking very fair, even fairer than I had remembered. She had been dressed in rich, fine robes, laid on silk pillows, with no marks of any abuse on her that I could see. Her pale face seemed to float amid a ruff of ermine. Looking at her, I felt helplessness melt me down to a stump. I might as well have been a tiny boy again, no higher than her knee.
“She died to spite me,” Abas remarked sullenly, still turning his back. “She died of spleen. I never, touched her.”
Mother’s cloak of ermine and purple was gathered with a pin I recognized, Frain’s brooch. The dog, symbol of fidelity.… I unfastened it and held it up for Abas to see.
“My brother,” I said quietly. “Where is he?”
“You’re a fool if you think he is your brother.” Abas did not even look at me.
I circled the table to stand in front of him. “Where is Frain?” I asked again.
“In a dungeon.” He met my eyes absently. “Get to your chamber, boy.”
The arrogant—how could he think I would come back to him, after what he had done? And what mad whim had made him put Frain’s pin in a coffin? Perhaps Frain was dead too. The thought made me forget resentment. “I would like to see Frain,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
“Damn Frain,” he answered in dull anger. I had never heard such dead and heavy anger in him; it chilled me worse than any wind of his rage. “I am tired of Frain. Suevi loves Frain, Tirell loves Frain, everyone loves Frain. Let him stay in his kennel for a while. The damn puppy, I believe he would even love me if I gave him the chance.” He spoke with loathing—of himself? Ai, how very much I was like him.
“Sire,” I said softly, trying not to threaten, “you may have noticed that there is an army outside.”
He straightened and faced me, eyes glittering blue—poison blue. He did not speak a word, but I knew that I had gained his full and most dangerous attention.
“For a year and more I have planned revenge against you.” I kept my voice as dispassionate as possible; I had to be careful, very careful. “But if it will see Frain freed, I offer to lay down my arms.”
“So it was the pup that drew you in here.” That same deathly tone. “Well, let him keep you here. I’ll put a lock on him and a leash on you.” The leash of love; the same power he had always held over me.
I considered, skirting his words. “What are the conditions of Frain’s release?” I asked.
“None. There will be no release.”
I could have gone to my room, waited my chance to steal a word with Frain, plotted our escape. And Abas could have kept me waiting, hoping and despairing, for months, even years. Suddenly I was no longer too proud to beg. Trembling, I offered him my most precious possessions—my selfhood, my dreams—never thinking that my dreams might be his nightmare. I did not think at all; I only felt. I unbuckled my long iron sword, placed it with the shield on my outstretched hands.
“Sire,” I began, “for Frain’s sake…” My voice quavered. I had probably never spoken to him so ardently, or not since I was six or thereabouts—but he did not hear me. His adder eyes caught on the shield and sword and he lunged up with a shout that sent the doves whistling off the turrets. He screamed like Morrghu, like blinding, screaming wind. I believe that until then he had scarcely noticed my gear, but he saw it now, by Eala! He stood pulled back like a strung bow, and spume started down from the corners of his mouth. I stood stunned, a bird before the snake.
All powers be thanked for what the dragons had taught me. Somehow I found strength to turn and flee. I could not have stayed alive in his presence more than a moment longer; I am sure of it. Looking at him I had looked into the face of death. Stupid, stupid of me to have showed him dark iron of Aftalun, the likeness of the beast! I heard him gibbering after me, something about rutting in the night. Striding away, I heard guards running toward me, and I carried my sword unsheathed to fend them off. But none of them dared to attack me. They were all in confusion, and Abas was too convulsed with fury and terror to speak. I reached the courtyard, swung onto my black, and cantered away with my men after me. They looked parchment white, and so did the Boda we passed. I believe Abas’s cry must have been heard as far as the bridges.
Back in camp, I reported to Fabron as if he were my superior. He sat with Oorossy and the others in his tent, waiting.
“We had better attack at once if we are to find Frain alive,” he said shakily when he had heard my tale.
“With what?” Oorossy demanded. “Where the hell is Raz?” He was right, of course; we did not have sufficient force
to take the castle. But I only shrugged at him.
“Forthwith,” I promised Fabron. I ordered the necessary preparations.
Things could not have been much worse, or so I thought. But before we could move, scouts brought news that sent the outlook even deeper into dread. The King’s forces from Vaire were approaching. That would have been all right if we could have fought them on our own terms, but we had to try to take Melior. Abas held the advantage for a certainty. Muttering curses, I ordered my army into action.
We had no plan and almost no hope.
We took the bridges. They were fortified, of course, and the few Boda who held them took many of my men away. But in the end they also left for the regions of Vieyra. I set troops of picked men to guarding the bloody spans against the enemy approaching from southward. Then I mounted my black charger, and with the black beast at my side I led the rest of my diminished force up the hill to assault Melior.
“We will be put to rout almost before they have had time to mock us,” Fabron said hollowly.
I knew that, but we had to try. I could not leave Frain without even a try.… Abas’s defenders greeted us with jeers and a shower of arrows. No wonder they laughed. We had no proper equipment, no siege towers, no shelter of any kind, no sappers—only a tree trunk we had cut by way of a battering ram and a few scaling ladders, which were quickly knocked to bits. We swarmed and pounded at the gates and walls while they dropped things on us. If they had not been too amused to properly defend themselves, I doubt if any of us would have survived. And Fabron was right; within the hour I was forced to lift the assault and march to the aid of my men at the bridges. Abas’s army had arrived. After a few more hours we had been pushed back beyond the summit of Melior to the valley between the paps. There we stuck, fighting for our lives.
“If we can hold out till Wayte comes—” Fabron panted beside me. I had kept my mount, but he had lost his. He fought afoot by my forequarter and I defended his back with my long iron sword. Wings sounded overhead, those ugly Luoni, flapping about and staring as they loved to do, waiting for my soul to stoop on. I ground my teeth in despair. The vicious things—
Then larger wings, brighter wings—the dragons! Down from the north they soared, half a dozen of them, with golden light flashing from their scales. My mouth hung speechless, but Fabron had the good sense to cheer, and my men took it up, glad to know that the apparitions were on their side. Over the ranks of the enemy the dragons raked, puffing flame—mostly at air, I must admit. They do not like to scorch living things. But the assault threw the men of Melior into a panic, and we surged forward.
“Courage,” said a quiet voice. The brown man of Eidden Lei took his place by Fabron’s side, swinging a great mace, and not a warrior in the field would face him.
“Now look who comes,” he added.
I rose on my steed to scan the distance. Flash of metal by Melior stone.… I knelt there quite silent while the battle shouted below me.
“What is it?” Fabron questioned eagerly. “Wayte? Raz?”
“No,” I said. “Abas.”
Chariot after chariot wheeled through the gates of the castle and down the hill. These were the great golden chariots of Melior with slashing knives on their hubs! Streams of footmen followed them under a glittering forest of lancetips. Abas drove his own chariot. I singled him out even at that distance and sat my black in a trance of admiration and—and hatred, of course; was it not hatred that I felt for him? Had I not come all this way to fight him? Odd.… He led the rest, set apart from them by his chalk-white lotus helm, the black and white fur that dripped from his blood-red tunic, the moon glow of his brooch. He stood at his full height and lashed his horses madly, sending them surging ahead of his warriors.
“He has been eating the red mushroom of Morrghu.” It was Sethym, speaking to me in a tight voice. The king of Selt had fought well and bravely, facing rabbits or whatever came his way, but he evidently did not like the look of those villainous chariots. Oorossy came up beside me as well.
“I have closed my line,” he told me, “but those damned reaping machines will make mincemeat of us.”
Before I could reply, a nightmare blot appeared. A deathly, inky, goblin-grotesque thing bore down on Abas with a rattling shriek. I watched, feeling the rage, feeling that shriek rip my own throat; it was the beast. I waited, gloating, for Abas to cringe. I knew his terror and loathing of the beast, for I had felt it myself. But he must indeed have been eating the fungus that gave men mad valor in battle, as Sethym had said. He turned headlong to meet the rearing menace that towered over him, raised his sword, and stabbed as the beast crashed down on him and splintered his chariot to ruins. Black wings lay beating, fluttering amid the shards.
Like a storm wind rage tore out of me, hurtled me out of my trance, found voice in a shout that must still echo somewhere, a madman’s roar of sorrow. By blood, if he had slain the beast now—Heedless of the army in my way, I spurred toward vengeance, toward Abas the killer, he who had slain my love, imprisoned my love, spurned my love! Men, mine and his, scattered before me.
He crawled from the wreckage of his chariot and ran to meet me, waving his dripping sword. I sprang down from my horse, scorning to fight my standing enemy from horseback, scorning to take any advantage. Let him have the run on me! Come hither, Father, come to your death.… I held the dark sword of Aftalun and waited for him, feeling years of hatred rise to a peak. My time for revenge had come at last.
He bore down on me, panting and glaring like an animal, without even a flicker of comprehension in his crazed blue eyes. He would not even know that it was his son who killed him, or why, or remember what he had done to earn it. He had fed to satiety on Morrghu’s food and his own poisonous hatred; how I loathed him for what he had made me! And I knew quite suddenly, as clearly as if his sword already pierced my vitals, that I could not kill him. I hated him too dearly. Slay my own beloved anger? I might as well slay a part of myself. My mountain peak of rage crashed down all in a moment and trapped me in the rubble. I could not move. I had never felt so helpless, not by my dead mother’s side, not even when Mylitta fell. Abas faced me scarcely a yard away. I watched without stirring as he raised his sword to strike. Battle frenzy had turned his face to a pulsating flame. Fire and blue, blue ice.… There could be no doubt of my death beneath that blow.
I watched. And from beside me another sword flashed, lifted, and struck Abas squarely in the throat. He gurgled and fell, splattering me with his blood, shuddering and squirming a moment before he lay still. In that moment I knew how much I had loved him, how much and how hopelessly I had wanted him to love me. I screamed a long, wailing shriek like no sound I had ever known was in me, like the cry of harried souls that ride the wind. All of life had betrayed me by the hand of the one who stood, swaying and panting, by my side. I turned on him in blind, maniacal fury and lunged at him, still screaming; he had killed my father! My iron sword struck through flesh and crunched deep into bone. I tugged it free for another blow, and then skies and towers and all the ramparts of earth fell down upon me. It was Frain, my beloved brother, whom I had struck.
His eyes met mine with something more than pain—I could only call it love. He had not raised a hand against me. If there had been time I think I would have killed myself then and there. But there was no time; I had to catch him before he fell. Chariots and trampling horses and desperate men churned all around us.
I held him to my chest with one arm, felt his face resting against my own. I slashed my way out of the battle, struggling along, hating myself, swinging my sword and roaring and caterwauling while tears streamed down my face so that I could hardly tell friend from foe. Fabron joined me, hurrying along at my side, shouting anxious questions. I did not answer him. I carried Frain to the sacred grove. The goddess was good for something after all; no one would fight there if they could help it. The goddess preferred innocent blood of sacrifice, which was very nearly what I was bringing her.
I laid Frain down. H
e could not speak, but he touched my hand. Then he faulted. I ripped the tunic open and found the wound. It was his left shoulder I had struck, through flesh and bone, a terrible wound, a crippling wound, but it appeared no vitals were hurt—I tried to bind it up, but my hands shook, I could do nothing right. Fabron pushed me aside.
“Sit there,” he told me.
How could he speak to me, how could he not kill me? Surely he did not understand. “I gave Frain that wound!” I shouted at him. “I, the great Prince of Melior! Oh, Fabron, I am a wretched, hateful thing.…” My voice broke. I sobbed, and he reached over to pat me absently.
“I know,” he said, humoring me.
I wept—it seemed like hours that I wept. I hope no one ever has to weep like that again. I wept until I could scarcely breathe, until I thought I would die. Fabron tended to Frain, then put his arms around me; I shall always love him for that. But no one could help me much. Years of weeping were in me, for Mylitta, for Mother, for Abas whom I had loved, for Frain though he was still living, for myself.… I felt adrift in fate, floating in wells of sorrow, spun and eddied by a stream I could not direct, dark water—the world was dark; even the sky had gone dark while I wept. Great storm clouds had moved in from the Perin Tyr, and the battle clanged beneath them.
And Frain moaned and stirred by my side. And the brown man walked toward me. He came slowly into the grove with the beast following him as he led and urged and encouraged it toward me. It left a trail of red all the way, red running down from slashes on its shoulders; its wings hung limp and tattered and one leg dragged the ground, nearly severed. It fell at my feet and lay in silent agony. The brown man stood watching me weep.
“Accursed, the Whole line of Melior is accursed,” Frain cried aloud. “I might as well be dead.”
They would die, they would all die and leave me living and in such misery—
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