"Michael?" he asked, extending his hand. "Michael Perrin."
Michael took hold of the hand and shook it firmly, feeling, as always, awkward over such ritual.
"Very pleased to meet you. I'm Clarkham. David Clarkham. Welcome to Xanadu - or has Mora welcomed you already? Of course. She's a marvel. I'd have a hell of a time running this place without her. I trust you had an interesting journey?"
Michael was at a loss for words. He nodded.
Clarkham offered his hand to Nikolai. "Mr. Kuprin. I've admired your daring for years now. We met briefly once, though you may not remember. When I visited Emma in Inyas Trai. I was quite heavily disguised."
Nikolai frowned.
"Yes," Clarkham said, smiling. "Successfully disguised. It's getting toward upper, and I've laid out quite a feed to celebrate your arrival. I'm sure you're hungry. Food in the Realm is such a chancy thing. Come with me and I'll show you your rooms, let you wash up. I have another guest here, someone you know, I believe - a Sidhe. He'll be joining us for supper. There's so much to discuss, yes indeed!"
Supper was more of a feast. It was served as the muted sunlight filtering through the silken dome began to wane. A table was arranged on the patio, near Mora's glowing roses, and she brought out bowl after covered bowl of baked vegetables, spiced grains, fresh fruit salads and compotes and green salads. Bread came wrapped in linen in wicker baskets, hot and fresh-baked, and was served with spiced vegetable butter, the milk of Sidhe horses not being suitable for regular butter.
Michael and Nikolai sat on one side of the table, Clarkham at the head next to Michael. When Mora was through serving, she sat opposite Nikolai. It was then that Bin strolled onto the patio from the house. He smiled cryptically at Michael and sat beside Mora.
"Fine!" Clarkham said, passing the first bowl of food, "We're all here. Mora has done her usual magic"- he winked at Michael-"in the kitchen. What a fine evening this will be."
Michael was less enthusiastic. He ate - he was very hungry - and listened, but he said little. Most of the talk was from Clarkham; domestic pleasantries, the state of the garden, the quality of the weather around Xanadu, what the coming spring might portend for the grounds.
Michael tried not to stare at Bin. Above all else, he wanted to ask two simple questions - why the Sidhe was on such familiar terms with Clarkham, and what Bin's purpose had been in meeting Michael in the canyon.
Biri volunteered nothing, in fact seldom spoke directly to the newly arrived guests. When the meal was done, Clarkham suggested they go inside. Night had fallen and the interior of the pleasure dome had grown somber. Biri stood and passed his hand behind each of a string of paper lanterns hung across the patio just above head level. They began to glow with a guttering yellow light.
The scent of roses was noticeable even inside the house. Michael glanced curiously at the electric lights - the first he had seen in the Realm. The illumination seemed harsher and more grating on his eyes. With that final touch, the house might as well have been on Earth, for all the sensation of normality and comfort - Earth in the 1940's, perhaps, considering the furnishings. Michael was not comforted, however. He had been lulled by appearances too often before.
Clarkham brought out brandy in a crystal decanter and poured snifters for himself, Nikolai and Michael. "The Sidhe love human liquor entirely too much," he explained. "Mora never touches it - says it spoils her heritage. Biri, I suspect, has never touched a drop in his life. The Maln wouldn't approve, would they?"
Biri shook his head half-sadly. "Alas, no."
"I, however, can drink, and I hope my guests are willing, too." He caught Michael's eye and passed out the glasses. "Master Michael wishes to know what sort of being I am."
"A sensible question," Mora said. They sat in the living room on comfortably overstuffed chairs and a couch, all upholstered in fabric prints of jungle leaves and exotic birds. A fire had been laid and crackled warmly in the fireplace.
'"What is he?'" Clarkham mimicked. "A question asked often, young man, for the past few hundred years, at least. Much less time has passed here, of course."
"You're not a Sidhe," Michael said, deciding to participate in whatever game was being played. "You're not a Spryggla."
"Heaven's no!" Clarkham exclaimed, laughing.
"Arno Waltiri thought you were human," Michael went on.
"No, you have that wrong, young man. I thought Waltiri was human. I doubt very much if Arno was at all deluded by my masque."
Michael was taken aback. Clarkham noticed his surprise. "My dear fellow, the game is very complex, and everybody has a stake in it. One can't rectify sixty million years of misery and injustice overnight, or without some turns in the maze."
"Waltiri's dead," Michael ventured, no conviction in his voice.
"Let's say I have my doubts," Clarkham said. "He is a very capable and crafty individual."
Michael couldn't bring himself to ask what Clarkham thought Waltiri was, but Clarkham's tone irritated him. Everything seemed to irritate him now - the light, the company, even Nikolai - as if he were filled with hornets.
"I was born on Earth," Clarkham continued. "In fourteen hundred and ninety-nine. My mother had come over from England some centuries earlier, where she had served as cubicularia to Queen Maeve herself, before the Queen took to an oak in the Old Forest and her retinue scattered to the islands to escape the charcoal burners. They eventually downed the queen's oak, by the way. Perhaps some of Maeve's venerable smoke resides in the glass windows of a fine English cathedral. But she is no more, and my mother is long dead, too, though she was not mortal. My father was mortal, Michael. I am a Breed, if you have not guessed - fifty-fifty. From my mother I learned Sidhe magic, and from my father - well, my father gave me a form which does not unduly reveal my fay ancestry. That is what I am." He waved his hand at Michael. The hornets hummed softly within.
"And you, sir. Question answered one for one."
Michael spoke without hesitation. "I believe I am supposed to be a poet."
"Oh. And are you?"
"Yes."
"Just what I've been waiting for," Clarkham said, exhibiting his satisfaction around the room with a contemplative rub of his chin. "We never have enough poetry."
"To my regret, I have none of my poems with me," Michael said. "And my book was stolen."
"Which book?"
"The book Arno gave me."
"Indeed, indeed," Clarkham mused. "Arno was always quite generous, when he needed something done. Did he give any advice with the book?" Clarkham asked.
"He suggested I shouldn't be afraid to take risks."
'To come here, that is."
"I suppose."
Mora broke in. "I'd love to hear some of your poetry."
"I'll have to write some new," Michael said.
"Splendid," Clarkham said. "Bin's been telling us a little about your journey. Quite remarkable. I'm saddened to hear what happened in the Pact Lands. I understand Alyons paid dearly for his excesses."
"Your trap killed him," Michael said. Mora gave a tiny, barely noticeable shudder.
"And he thought you were responsible," Clarkham said. "Poor fool. Never did know which way the wind blew. Not all Sidhe are brilliant, Michael; take that as a lesson."
"I'd thought you might be disappointed to hear I haven't brought the book."
Nikolai glanced between them, bewildered and uneasy.
"Heavens no!" Clarkham said. "What use would I have for it?"
"I don't have the first part of the Song of Power."
"Which one? I've dealt with so many in my time."
"The poem. Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan.' I don't even remember it."
"Then perhaps you'd care to read it again? I have it, right here." He stood and went to a bookshelf, pulling out a book from between two heavy leatherbound volumes. He handed it to Michael with his finger deftly insinuated between the appropriate pages.
Michael glanced at the poem. It was the same text - including the intr
oduction - as in the book Waltiri had given him.
"You thought perhaps the Maln was trying to prevent you from bringing this to me?" Clarkham chuckled. "I've had it for decades. I once told a crazy old Spryggla that I needed it, but only after the fool tried to ensorcel me. For all I know, he spread the word, though his range seemed quite limited."
"He's dead," Michael said. "Or at least, turned to stone."
"And who was responsible for that?"
"Indirectly, I was."
Clarkham took a deep breath. "You are very influential, Michael. You eliminate age-old traditions right and left, break tabus, pioneer new ground. No, it isn't the old material I'm interested in. You have arrived here with potential. The potential is in your poetry. You are in the same position as poor Mr. Coleridge."
Michael turned to Bin. "You've gone over to him, haven't you? You really did want me to come here."
Bin nodded. "Adonna has no influence here. I am free of him"
"Ah, fine old Adonna," Clarkham reflected. "Biri tells me you survived even the Irall. I've never been there, myself. I likely would not have survived. I have been a thorn in Tarax's side for many years. Adonna, I suppose, made you forget the meeting. Typical. He's a very old, very weary mage, and he assumes too much responsibility. Valiant in his way, however."
Michael suddenly recovered a memory of Adonna - Tonn - in his kilt and tabard, holding a staff.
"Seeing more clearly now?" Clarkham inquired.
"Seeing what?" Nikolai asked, sotto voce.
"I'm remembering some things," Michael explained. Nikolai was obviously not competent to be anything but a spectator in this game. Who else was playing?
"May I ask who, or what, Adonna really is?" Nikolai looked around the circle. Mora took pity on him.
"At one time, he was the Mage of the Sidhe. He made the Realm - a masterpiece, nobody denies that - but he was overly ambitious. He has always opposed the Isomage."
"I never could muster up enough hubris to call myself a true mage," Clarkham said. "Others may have, but not I. The mages have earned their positions, their esteem. I simply hope to accomplish what they set out to do, long ago."
"Quite humble," Nikolai whispered.
Michael leaned forward in his chair. "You brought me here for a reason. Your wife - one of them - cleared the way for me. The other allowed me to escape, when perhaps she could have added me to her collection."
Clarkham kept a perfect poker-face, revealing nothing.
"Please tell me why I am here."
"This evening? I was willing to let you rest."
"Now is as good a time as any."
Clarkham held up his hand and looked at Mora and Biri. "Very well. You are here to finish the final Song of Power. That much must be obvious to you."
It was far from obvious, but Michael nodded.
"I, in turn, will use the Song of Power to gain control of the Realm, and restore liberty to humans and Breeds."
"You'll use it for nothing else?"
Clarkham tilted his head to the right and tapped his forefinger on the endtable, then his middle finger. "You've met Tarax. You know what the Maln is capable of."
"And you've helped me remember Adonna. He doesn't seem such a fiend."
Clarkham's face reddened. "Tonn appears to you as he wishes. Sidhe of his age and accomplishment are very little less than gods, Michael, and enormously devious. I have worked for centuries to simply be able to resist him, and I have succeeded - but I cannot overcome him. It isn't because he is a nice fellow that I wish to conquer him." The muscles of Clark-ham's cheek worked visibly and his eyes narrowed. Then, with obvious effort, he brought himself again under control. The ingratiating smile returned. "It isn't an issue I can always be calm about. Tonn is not quite the monster Tarax would have him be, no. But Tonn knows his Sidhe. He designed the Realm for them, and he rules them with a severity which he relaxes only for the Ban of Hours. Can you guess why?"
Michael shook his head.
"Because she was the daughter who stuck by him when Elme defied him. Even though he turned their mother into an abomination, in a fit of. I'm not sure what you would call it. Horrid anger. When Elme married a human, it was Tonn who orchestrated her banishment, and devised all her fell tortures. When he couldn't break her to his will, and when the Council of Eleu supported her, then and only then did he put all his power into creating the Realm. He hated humans desperately, Michael."
"Perhaps he's changed his mind."
Clarkham looked surprised, then laughed shortly and sharply. "Obviously he's exercised some influence over you, and without revealing his true nature. For that reason, I suppose I should be a little wary of you."
In the ensuing silence, Nikolai regarded the occupants of the room with growing discomfort. "Michael is for the humans and the Breeds," he spoke up finally. "Michael is a good fellow."
Mora smiled and Bin grinned. Clarkham laughed heartily and without malice. "Of course. He has struggled long and hard to get here, to help his people and mine. We will work together, and all our goals will be achieved. For now, after such a long journey and an excellent dinner, it's best we retire to our rooms and enjoy a comfortable night's sleep. Mora will show you where everything is." He stood and stretched casually. "Good evening, gentlemen."
She led Nikolai and Michael upstairs and showed them the bathroom, their bedrooms and places where linen could be procured. She left a scent of roses in her wake. Michael was distracted from his jumbled thoughts by her black, shining hair and teak-colored skin.
There was a fine king-sized bed in his room, the sheets folded back neatly and the white cover pulled down to reveal warm woolen blankets. On the valet near the oak dresser hung a complete change of clothing - slacks, shirt and sweater with new-looking brown shoes made of very supple leather. When he put them on in the morning, he would be better dressed than he had usually been on Earth.
The bedroom walls were decorated with soothing abstract pastel patterns of brown and gray and blue. In one corner sat a tiny rosebush in a brass pot, and beside that, a writing desk with an inlaid leather pad. A goose-neck reading lamp cast a soft glow over the bedstead. A bookshelf near the door was filled with interesting volumes - Gerald Manley Hopkins, Yeats, Keats and Shelley, as well as novels old and new.
He shut the door and sat on the bed. With all the comforts of Earth arrayed before him, he should have felt touched, even despite his caution. But there was no room in him for sentiment. He removed his clothes and put on a terrycloth robe. Then he went into the hall, chose a towel from the linen closet, and entered the bathroom.
Hot water, soap, white enamel basin and tub and marble countertop, fern-leafed wallpaper, tiled shower stall. He showered for a long time, until his exhaustion was unavoidable, and dried himself with his eyes closed.
When Michael returned to his room, he found Clarkham standing beside his bed. Clarkham held a box of paper in one hand, his thumb clamping down a fine black fountain-pen with gold banding and a clip. "For your convenience," he said, placing the items on the desk. His expression was almost beseeching as he took a step toward Michael. Clearly, he was interested in being friendly, but something came between them, a so-far muted antagonism that might break from its cover at any moment.
"Sorry," Clarkham said after the moment passed. He walked around Michael and stood in the doorway. "I'm still having difficulty deciding what you are."
Michael shook his head. "I'm not a sorcerer, if that's what you mean."
Clarkham smiled grimly. "Unaware sorcerers are the most formidable, sometimes. But take no heed of my prattling." He made an offhand gesture at the desk. "Exercise your talents whenever you feel the urge. We will all be a receptive audience."
Clarkham left, closing the door behind.
Michael doffed his robe, put on flannel pajamas laid near the bed and crawled under the covers. He reached up to turn off the light. Every gesture was so alien, so familiar.
He slept. And this evening, he dreamed.
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Chapter Forty-Three
The rose had turned to glass. It lay on the dresser, perfect in every detail, and rang softly when Michael touched it. He picked it up by the stem and inserted it into the lapel of his shirt. It poked from the sweater, still sweetly scented.
As he came down the stairs, three sheets of paper in one hand and the gold-banded fountain pen in the other, he realized that all that had gone before had been trivial.
In bed, he had written five short poems on one sheet. They were more exercises than finished works; tests of his skill. They showed that his ability had not withered. If anything, even while not in constant use, it had grown.
Greg Bear - Songs of Earth 1 - Infinity Concerto Page 37
