One guard watched, impassive. The other frowned, pried the jug from my hand, held it to my mouth, tilted.
I drank of life.
After a time I had to stop for breath. Then greedily I sought again the stoneware teat. When the bottle was drained I nodded my thanks. They left me in dark.
I gnawed my dinner, pausing from time to time to lick the ooze from my wrists. My fingers began to sting; perhaps it was a hopeful sign.
After, I pounded on the door to attract a guard. None came. Unable to wait, I relieved myself in the farthest corner. Mother, Rustin ... stay with me, take my hand. Tell me tales of yore.
I unhooked my bedraggled cloak, decided I needed it more as a blanket than an undersheet. The straw reeked almost beyond bearing.
Two days passed.
I no longer smelled the stench of the corner I used for a midden. Guards bearing meals were a welcome diversion. As always they left meat and bread, but waited while I drank from the jug.
I babbled incessantly. I told myself stories of Mother’s grandfather Varon of the Steppe. Of the fabled Norland raids. Of a stunt horse I’d seen at a fair.
On the third day the guards reappeared, with Uncle Mar. He wrinkled his nose. “You always were a dirty boy.”
I strove for dignity. “Why keep me here?”
“For amusement. You have no other worth.”
“When you tire of your pastime, return the Vessels you stole from Stryx.”
“Good heavens, you still think yourself King?”
I shrugged. No reason to reply.
“Shall I teach you manners, child?”
It stung me. “Could you?”
He punched me in the stomach, threw me to the stone floor, dropped atop me. He unsheathed his dagger. “Yes, nephew, I believe I could.” He took my face in his hands and carved a long jagged slice, ear to chin.
My anguished shrieks echoed from the cell walls. I thrashed on the cobbles, blinded with blood. In my frenzy I rolled onto my bed, found my cloak, crushed it against my wound.
“Mother of Nature imps and demons RUSTIN!! No, oh, no!” I thrashed like a babe denied a sweet. “Make it stop!” Had he taken my eye? I didn’t dare pull loose the cloak.
After a time I sensed I was alone. My throat was raw; how long had I been wailing? Each move brought agony; I forced myself to lie still. I would be no coward. I’d sworn not to let fear—I’d be no coward. A sob caught me, and the stretch of my mouth stirred the coals of pain. I howled. I was coward, and didn’t care who knew.
In morn, I thought I’d had a frightful dream, until I tried to move.
When the guards came, I used half my water to soak my cloak so I could peel it from my face. After, I couldn’t eat, from the hurt. That night—perhaps by chance—they brought mush in a bowl, and if I took great care I could swallow without greatly moving my mouth.
Days passed, and the pile of ordure in the corner grew. My face was hot to the touch. I was infested with mites, and some of my scratches bled.
Uncle Mar came to visit, with the usual guards.
“Well, boy, have you manners?”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
“Elryc is dead, by the way. From poison. No one knows his assassin.”
I made an awful sound.
“I thought you’d like to know. Thank me for telling you.”
I couldn’t. Not for life itself.
“Hold him.” Uncle Mar sauntered to where I stood, pulled out his blade. He cut the rope to my breeches, and they fell. I could do nothing. With one tug he split the seam of my loincloth. He reversed the dagger, prodded my shrinking testicles with the icy hilt.
I squealed, unable to loosen the guards’ grip.
“Dear Roddy, in about a month I’m going to castrate you. I’ll do it this moment unless you’re exceedingly polite.”
“Yes, Uncle. I’m sorry, sire. I’ll be polite now. Thank you for telling me about Elryc!” Could I bite off my tongue and end my gibbering surrender?
No. I was coward. “Thank you so much, sir!”
“Much better, Roddy.” He ruffled my hair, as if with affection. “Let him go.” He strolled out.
As days passed, Uncle’s visits became more frequent. He had me agree I was a fool, a dolt, a stinking peasant, a lover of sheep. Once, when I failed to please him, he seized my left hand and, ignoring my screams, bent back two fingers until they snapped. That night, whimpering, I fashioned a makeshift bandage from my shirt, hoping they’d heal straight.
Next visit, Mar had me dance like a drunken vagabond around a campfire. At his urging, I thanked him for the instruction.
My face began to knit.
With the lessening of pain came the beginning of resolve. There was no hook from which to hang myself, but I began to seek to die.
One day, apparently, the stench of my cell was too much for Duke Mar. He sent guards with a barrow, a fresh bundle of straw, and instructions to have me washed. When afterward I was led back to my cell, the pile of filth was gone, and a chipped chamber pot sat in the corner. I was so grateful I almost wept. I sat rubbing the scab on my cheek, appalled at the station to which I’d sunk.
As before, they let me have no water, save what I could consume in their presence. Knowing I could only drink twice a day, I drained the jug, and as always, was beset an hour later with desperate need to piss.
Another day, another visit from Uncle. He asked nothing of me, but played with his dagger, a small smile flitting about his lips as his eyes roved my body. When he left I was drenched with sweat.
Yes, it was time to die.
Mumbling to myself, I measured the cell. Could I throw myself against the wall hard enough to snap my neck? I’d only get one chance.
I took off the belt I’d reknotted. Could I wrap it round my throat tight enough so my frantic efforts couldn’t untie it?
In the end, I decided on the chamber pot. Smashed, it would yield jagged pieces. At least one would serve to slice my throat. With an imagined shard I practiced the motion. One firm slash, too quick to allow pain.
The day I’d chosen to be my last, after breakfast and my jug of water, I sat on the straw. “I was King,” I told the dank cell. Only for a while, but the dream had been accomplished. “Sorry, Mother. I wasn’t very good at it.”
She made no answer.
“And I never used the Still.” I giggled. “I held myself virgin for naught.” I might as well have bedded Tresa. Or even Chela, that wicked day in the clearing.
No, not Chela. She was beneath me. But Tresa, now ... I recalled our embraces. She was a good woman, and kind. And her breasts were inviting and warm. Despite myself, I grew hard, and didn’t stop recalling her until my loincloth hung sticky about my waist. I looked down, ashamed. “Well, Mother, that’s a virgin’s way.” I grimaced. Even Rust’s attentions were preferable.
It was time. Resolutely I stood, hefted the chamber pot.
No, by Lord of Nature, it wasn’t yet time. If I could play at Tresa, I could play at being King. With my good fingers I shook out my ragged cloak, pinned it about my shoulders. I paced the cell, adopting the stride of a monarch. I set a weave of straw on my head, for a diadem.
All I lacked was our Power.
Once, before I died, I would practice the Rite.
For that I needed the Vessels, but they were stolen. I wanted stillsilver. I needed ...
Was my diadem gold, or straw? It was make-believe, much as Elryc and Pytor and I had built toy kingdoms in happier days. I set my hands in front of me to summon the Still, recalling Mother’s tutelage.
It didn’t feel right. I needed the bejeweled Chalice. I needed the Ewer.
Well, there was the chamber pot if I wanted to abase myself. I shrugged. Why not? No one would know, and after a short while even I would cease to care.
I opened the pot, wrinkled my nose at the reek of warm urine, placed my palms over the bowl. As solemnly as if I were in the vault with Mother, I whispered the words of encant.
Lord of Nature, what a fool I made. What if Mar appeared? He’d have great fun, making me reenact my play. “Yes, Uncle. Thank you for watching. I’m a good boy.”
Faugh.
I closed my eyes, whispered the remembered words. Close to the pisspot, my hands grew warm.
The cell wavered.
The granite wall seemed to dim. Was it a cave I saw, beyond the stones? Who were those figures watching so intently? I squeezed shut my eyes and whispered over and again the words of encant.
Is this how you felt, Mother? Did this mummery bring you the strength to weld Caledon? Or was Mar speaking true, when he called it a pale deceit?
“Open your eyes!”
Mother, please, let me dream.
“Roddy, for the sake of—come to us!” Her tone was testy.
I peered into dark. “Where am I?”
A man’s voice growled, “In a cell at Verein, you twit.”
“Father, please!” Mother sounded exasperated.
“That is Josip’s spawn? Pah!”
“He’s confused.”
“He’s a dunce.”
From the far corner, a deep rumble. “Let him be, Tryon.”
Part of me knew of a frightened boy huddled over a bowl of urine, but the image faded. I blinked. “Mother? I can’t see you in shadow.”
“It’s the piss. Use stillsilver. Even pure water, in a pinch. There’s better bond.”
“Are you alive?”
“Of course not, Roddy; have some sense. Grandfather Varon has no patience for fools.”
“Or anyone else,” remarked Tryon.
Mother said, “Don’t goad Grandfather, we need his advice.”
“Like a bride needs a wart.” But Tryon’s grumble subsided into silence.
“This is ...” I hesitated. “The Still?”
“Aye, we are.” A small waspish voice, from the dark. “Not impressed? You’d prefer a light show, like Raeth of Cumber? Or shall we stir the winds?”
Mother’s tone had a bite, as when she was about to send me to Willem. “Enough. He’s troubled. It’s hard sorting us out at first.” To me, “Why didn’t you try water? You came so close in Cumber. I called to you. ‘Do the unexpected ... ’”
“That was you!” I marveled. “I had no Vessels—you never told me any liquid would suffice.”
“You could have tried.” Her tone was acid.
“Oh, Mother.” My voice was near breaking. “Would that I’d listened, paid you more respect. I’m so sorry for the son I’ve been!”
A shocked silence, and her tone was soothing. “Well, you have changed.” She cleared her throat. “Don’t berate yourself, Roddy.”
“I’ve been a dolt. I quarreled with Rustin, with all my lords in turn. Tantroth fell upon us, and Uncle Mar. I lost—”
“Yes, you have a headstrong nature. If Tantroth attacked, no doubt you’ve been mired in Eiber’s Cleave. That’s excuse.”
Absently, I rubbed my scar. “That’s ... I never pondered how it worked.”
“No, you wouldn’t think of it when it was on you. It’s Eiber’s Power. Tantroth cleaves his enemies with petty quarrels. None can ally effectively against him. Now you’ve found us, we’ll help set it aside.”
It was the Cleave, then. My foul words to Rustin, my constant offense to Anavar ... all the times I belittled Elryc.
No, much of that was my doing. I lifted my head, proud in my humility. “I dug the pit. Tantroth but widened it.”
From the rear of the cave, a grunt of approval. “I might learn to like him.”
Mother said, “Time you were introduced. Roddy, meet your grandfather, Tryon King of Caledon.”
“Grandsir?” Sitting with hands over still bowl, I stood, walked deeper into the cave. “So much I’ve heard of you.” I gave the bow of deep respect, of lesser to better.
“You ofttimes vexed your mother.”
“Yes, sire.” I hesitated. “I was no more stupid than now. Yet I’d not do it again.”
A grunt. “She said you had no manners, but you do. Elena, bring us to nexus, else he’ll be dead and among us too soon.”
My eyes widened. “When I’m dead, will I—”
Mother hushed me like a toddler. A wave of her hand, and a dull light glowed. They gathered around it: Mother, Tryon, Varon of the Steppe whom I recognized from a portrait, old and dozing. Younger men, a child, a form with great brooding potency and no clear shape, whose name I dared not ask.
Looking about I whispered eagerly, “Is Father here?”
“He never wore the crown.”
“He lives not?” My tone was forlorn.
Varon opened one eye. “All men die,” he rumbled. “Why be troubled?”
“I hoped ... to say farewell.” In his sleep he’d left me, with no premonition.
“That’s why the Rites,” said Tryon. He turned to the glowing light. “Be silent, young King.”
I did as I was told.
I woke from deep sleep, near a fulsome bowl of urine. Groggily, I replaced the lid, sat and rubbed my eyes, careful of my broken fingers. Our conversation in the cave was an especially clear dream. But I recalled no end, no resolution.
I felt too lethargic to try again. Besides, what would it accomplish? And in any event, my stomach told me that the usual dinner hour was near.
In a while the guards came with meat and drink. They brought a fresh chamber pot, so I took especial care to drink well.
Later in the quiet of the evening, the bars grated again. From the doorway Uncle Mar waited, arms folded.
Hastily I stood.
“Amuse me,” he said, setting a torch in the sconce.
I licked my lips. “How, sir?” Would I ever be free of his dread?
He brought in a stool, sat upon it. “Kneel.”
Obediently, I dropped before him.
“As I promised, I’ll geld you in a week or so. But I want you to enjoy the waiting.” His eyes held mine, with no expression. “It was a merry chase you led me through the hills. Without Tantroth I’d not have caught you.”
“What did you pay him?” For a moment, I forgot I was no longer a king.
“Lick the toe of my boot.”
Abruptly my time had come. I measured the span to his throat.
“No, Roddy!” Mother’s voice, sharp in my ear. I startled. “Obey him. At once!”
I’d never defied Mother, and couldn’t now. Despising myself, I stretched out my tongue, stroked the muck from Uncle’s boot.
“There’s a good boy,” said Margenthar, Duke of Stryx. He patted the grimy curls of my hair, raised me to my knees. “Actually, I paid him naught.” He reflected. “I reminded him that he couldn’t take Cumber without sitting out the winter, and perhaps not then. He decided you were better in my hands than in your own.”
“So he withdrew his troops, leaving you free to charge along the wall, while his own safe-conduct was inviolate.” My tone was courteous. “Thank you, sir.”
“I brought you a present.” He clapped his hands, and the guard at the door advanced, handed him a burnished silver plate. He held it as a mirror to reflect my face.
After a moment I realized the gasp I’d heard was mine.
The scar was far worse than I’d imagined. A clear blue eye stared past the ruins of my face: a hideous jagged line that blotched red from ear to chin. I turned; my right profile was undamaged, providing horrid contrast.
“As foul as your character, isn’t it?”
My fists clenched.
To the guard, “Drop his breeches!”
“Yes, Uncle, it’s foul. I’m foul. It’s disgusting, sir, as I ought to look. Thank you for showing my face.” Lord of Nature knew what else I babbled.
Uncle held up a hand. “Leave him.” He stood. “You’re turning into quite a pleasant young lad.” Taking his mirror and stool, he left me cowering on my knees. The door slammed shut.
I paced the cell, prattled gibberish, threw myself on the straw, jumped up again. At last, knowing no ot
her consolation, I turned to Tresa and the frenzy of my loins.
When I was done I took deep shuddering breaths, and sought resolve.
After a time I went to piss.
“I came to say good-bye.”
They gathered in the mouth of the cave. I peered, wishing there were a torch, or sun.
“I don’t know if I’ll be with you after. I haven’t been much of a king.”
“Roddy—”
“And I won’t ever be one, Mother, even if Mar freed me this moment. Could you see me cower? Can you smell the terror-sweat still on me?” My voice caught. “Look at my ruined face.” I held up my damaged hand. “And this.”
“He hurt you, yes.”
“I swore once I wouldn’t bow to fear. I was a dunce. I’ll lick Uncle’s boots, kiss his hand, crawl through manure, he has me terrified so. Any day now he’ll—” My voice cracked. “He’ll deball me like a meat calf. Only by dying will I be free.”
“Now, Elena,” Varon’s deep rumble.
The light glowed, and they gathered near. A hand tugged at mine, and I found myself within the circle, sniffling. A chant throbbed, low and staccato as a drumbeat.
“Dear Roddy.” Her voice was so gentle I wanted to bury myself in her bosom.
The chant boomed.
Time passed.
“Mother, why am I naked?” I cupped my hands to cover myself.
“Because you feel so.” Her voice was soothing.
“Tantroth was right; I know not how to be a man.”
“Nonsense.” I recognized Tryon’s gruff tone. “You showed your manhood in battle. Margenthar’s torture would unnerve Lord of Nature himself. He’s my child, as is Elena, but I’m not proud.”
“Grandsir, I have no valor.” I wiped my eyes.
“Young fool.” I might have sworn his voice held no contempt. “Of course you’ll cry and gibber when Mar threatens to unman you. What do you ask of yourself? He has a terror within him, that comes as a blast of icy wind. How could you face it alone?”
“Sir, I—”
“You have us, now.”
“Only in my dreams!” I no longer cared if I wept. “The same fantasies that bring me Tresa, and soil my underclothes. Reality is my cell, and the cut of the Duke’s knife.”
The Still Page 59
