‘You mean, I might be struck by lightning, or fall ill of the plague, and Medlo would inherit,’ interrupted the lady restlessly.
‘Not to put too fine a point on it…’
‘That’s what you mean, really. You object to Medlo inheriting. Though why should you, rich as you are? Our father settled enough on you to found a kingdom….’
‘It isn’t the money, Lady. Not the money, the lands, the keeps, the fields. Damn it, woman, it’s the name!’
‘ “Lord Methyl-Drossy, Earl of Rhees”?’
‘What other name is at issue?’
The lady laughed, a tinkling laugh of no humour. ‘It would seem your own lack of issue is at issue. Had you a son of your own, we would not now be so overwrought upon the stem and leaves and petals of poor Medlo. I say, with laughter, had you a son of your own …’
Pellon scornfully waved her silent. ‘Since I have been unable to get a child on any woman else, Lady, it is unlikely I got that one upon you, long though you have accused me of it. You would know better than I what nameless soldier or courtier or gardener’s boy fathered him. Do not lay that one at my door. And do not waste the name of Rhees upon it.’
‘What would you suggest? A bit of midnight murder? Poison in his porridge?’
‘Unnatural woman. No more a mother than a snake which leaves its eggs in the dungheap.’
The lady waved his bluster away, reclined more comfortably into the long, cushioned chair in which she lay, drew her brocades and furs more gently around her rounded and perfumed person. ‘I presume you have something in mind?’
‘I do. A quest. In his present state the boy is not fit to inherit the glory-gifted name of Rhees, not fit to keep the black-robed Gahlians at bay, not fit to fend their acolytes and minions off the Marches. A quest would mold him, change him, harden him, grow him into manhood has he manhood in him. And, if not…’
‘Yes, my lord.’ she purred. ‘If not?’
‘Well then, he would fall seeking glory and power.’
‘And the name and house of Rhees?’
‘Might then fall to another, born or adopted into the house …’
‘Who would presumably be less floral?’
‘I think we might make certain of it’ The Lord Pellon laughed harshly, kicking at the base of an ornamental pillar which swayed dangerously under this attack. ‘With your first-born away, a certain strong man known to me might show his interest in the Lady Rhees. If, that is, he felt a son of his own might inherit….’
‘Ah, Pellon. I have been used by you before. Still, Lord Hardel of the Marches is not – distasteful to me.’
‘I am grateful for that, Lady. Be that as may, your son is distasteful to the great lord. Might we say that a quest for Medlo might become a bequest for his mother?’
‘You have a quest in mind?’
‘I have consulted the virgins. I have paid for a night’s dreaming.’
‘Lovely.’ The lady laughed, slivers of crystal which fell from a high, cold place onto a pave of stone. ‘And what have the virgins dreamed?’
‘They have dreamed a quest for the Sword of Sud-Akwith.’
The lady shivered as though a chill draft had crossed her delicate flesh, but made a mocking mouth. ‘Which is?’
‘We had the same tutors, Lady. You know what it is.’
‘One pays more attention to some things than to others. Remind me what it is I have forgotten.’
‘When Sud-Akwith, Lord of die Northkingdom, sought to reopen the ancient city of the Thiene, my lady, the city called Tharliezalor, he was beset by creatures of darkness from beneath that city – beset, driven back, nigh on defeated. ‘Twas then he dreamed of a Sword, sought it and found it, and drove the ghastly serim back into the chasms beneath Tharliezalor. Do you recall?’
‘You tell stories so well, Pellon. Go on.’
‘Tashas,’ he cursed at her, ‘so I will tell you what you know well. He grew old, Sud-Akwith, and proud and arrogant, like one we knew well, Lady, you and I…’
‘Speak kindly of our father, Pellon. He made us rich.’
‘He would have made us richer had he died sooner. I say on. Sud-Akwith grew proud, and when reproached by his flower-minded son, he cast the Sword into the Abyss of Souls rather than share the honour of his victory at Tharliezalor … if victory it was.’
‘And he fell down dead,’ purred the Lady Mellisa. ‘Dead. And the Sword went into the Abyss – where you would send poor Medlo in search of it. Is it still there?’
‘Mayhap there, Lady.’ He bowed. ‘Mayhap elsewhere. Mayhap beyond the Gate.’
‘Such a pity to throw it away, all in a fit of pique. He should have kept it. Let me recall… what was it the tutors told me he shouted when he found it? In the fire-lands, it was, where the very mountains burn.’
Pellon admired himself in a strip of mirror-bright steel as he answered. ‘He called out, “What wiliest Thou, Lord of the Fire?’“
‘Oh, yes. And a voice answered him, didn’t it? “Strike where fire burns as thy need burns, O king.” Is that what you are doing, Pellon? Striking where thy need burns?’
‘My need, yes, Lady-my-sister. And thine. Let us not forget thine.’
Medlo, when informed of the quest, was unwontedly silent. It was noted by some that he stopped either sulking or fluttering for the space of several days, a new self-possession which Pellon watched with narrowed eyes. On the third day, Medlo was escorted almost forcibly to the High Temple of Rhees and into the great enclosure where the virgins chanted at him a message notable for its length. He was given a transcript of the chant (a document ready suspiciously promptly) by a temple clerk, blessed by a high priestess, given an amulet by another temple clerk, and escorted home once more. He spent the next several days locked in his suite, ‘thinking of the great honour awaiting him,’ according to his lady mother.
Meanwhile, Pellon proceeded with selecting the horses, putting together an appropriate equipage, and seeking out an escort from among those who, while not overscrupulous, were not known as outright ruffians. While it was not his intention that Medlo should return, he did intend that there should be no speculative talk.
Much was his surprise, therefore, and that of the lady, when on the morning of the third day they unlocked Medlo’s door to find him gone. They had foreseen almost everything except that Medlo would act. Medlo, however, had listened outside the door while Pellon had been instructing the hired escort, had read over the chant of the virgins several times, and had overheard one lengthy and explicit conversation between Pellon and his mother. He had, after a time of sickened shock, realized that while the quest chanted by the virgins led to a search which might occupy his life, the quest planned by his uncle and assented to by his mother would soon leave him no life to occupy. He wrote twenty angry, bitter and heartbroken letters and burned them all. What he left, at last, was a laconic note saying that he was honoured to be going on such a quest, that all quests should be solitary ones, and that he had taken the necessary supplies.
What he took included a seven-stringed jangle and an embroidered sash to sling it from, both gifts from a great aunt, a woman with a passion for antiques and rarities; some sausages from the smokehouse; changes of clothing; a spare pair of boots; needles and thread; a few medicines that he Knew and trusted; the transcript of the chant and the amulet from the Temple. He left in the dark hours before dawn and was well away on the northern road before either Mellisa or Pellon knew he was gone.
When, several days later, they decided in a fit of sudden disquiet to send searchers after him, his cloak was grey with dust and he was lost among the byways of Rhees-march on his way to the meadows of Sisedge and the coast of the Sorgian Sea.
SELECTIONS FROM THE CHANT OF THE VIRGINS OF RHEES
Sud-Akwith, Lord of the Northlands
Lord of wide plains and great mountains,
King of the people of Lazen
from the far sea to the deserts,
Prince of the people of
fire…
Sud-Akwith, with his battalions,
Sud-Akwith, pride overweening,
seeking to bring to its glory
ancient Tharliezalor.
Hearing no word of the warning
minding no archivist’s caution,
marching on into the city,
ancient Tharliezalor…
Sud-Akwith, leader in battle,
challenged by legions of horror,
serim from under the city,
those who do battle in silence,
creatures of coldness and stone…
Sud-Akwith, Lord of the Northlands,
faced with defeat, all despairing,
praying to Firelord the Master,
dreamed he should rise from his night-rest,
ride from his camp in the dark-hour,
ride to the place of fire-leaping,
hearing the voices of demons
tempting him with silky voices,
‘Halt here, receive wealth and honour.’
‘Stay here, receive love of women.’
‘Wait, and receive life forever.’
Sud-Akwith saying in answer,
‘What wiliest thou, Lord of the Fire?’
Firelord, in answer, heard calling,
‘Strike where stone burns as thy need burns,
strike where the flame burns most hotly.
Sud-Akwith, striking with spearpoint,
deep into fire-rock still flowing,
splashing his face with the fire-rock,
branding his face with the fire-mark,
Seeing the fire-rock fall open,
there a sword lying, hand-ready,
hearing the call of the Firelord,
‘Carry this blade in my honour
that for such time you prevail…’
Sud-Akwith, Lord of the Northlands,
conquering all who oppose him,
coming to power and glory,
coming to old-years and pride …
Then, comes the son of Sud-Akwith,
kneeling before his old father,
beautiful Widon the Golden,
praying the Lord be more humble,
praying the King speak of Firelord,
saying his father had conquered
all by the aid of the Firelord,
not by the King’s strength alone…
Then see Sud-Akwith in anger
striking his son down before him,
saying his own arm had conquered,
calling his courtiers to him,
going with men and with horses,
far to that chasm of darkness
men call the Abyss of Souls …
standing in pride at the chasm,
flinging the sword into darkness,
swearing he would rule without it,
only to fall as it fell,
all at once, cold as though long-dead,
gone from his forehead the fire sign,
gone from his body the fire …
Gone, also, Widon the Golden,
into the north with his people,
gone the wide realm of Sud-Akwith,
faded and scattered by time.
Gone are the towers and treasures,
vanished his line and his glory,
into the chasm of darkness,
into the Abyss of Souls …
Yet, from that chasm, long after,
one came out bearing the fire-sword,
bringing the sword of Sud-Akwith
into the world once again …
Does not a time come upon us
when the great Firelord may call us
up once again to his service?
Once more to conquer? To battle?
Once more to honour his name?
So, he who searches may find it.
So, he who finds it may hold it.
So, he who holds it may conquer.
Hear, as we heard in our dreaming,
Medlo, the scion of Rhees.
CHAPTER FOUR
JAER
Years 1158-1163
As for Jaer, the boy went on growing – the girl went on growing. Both of them, at once and interchangeably. The only good thing that could be said for it was that there were no other children around to confuse the issue or complicate Jaer’s perception of things. Insofar as Jaer was concerned, the world was like this, with bodies that were one way one day and another way another day, puckered first inward and then outward in a particular place, otherwise not much different, changing for no known reason at no foreseeable interval, though always while Jaer slept.
Ephraim and Nathan watched this growing with carefully concealed wonder. There were long night hours during which they would sit before the fire with the wind howling around the tower ledges saying to one another, ‘Do you think perhaps …’ or ‘Maybe the reason is …, or ‘Let us consider the implications of… By the time Jaer had weathered ten years, all the implications had been considered down to the last possible inference and reason had been piled upon reason to no avail. They understood no-more than they had understood in the beginning, and their lack of understanding was complicated by an approaching need to explain to Jaer that he/she was not, indeed, the norm in a world which would have expelled him, her at once if it had had the least opportunity.
‘If Jaer could only control it,’ Ephraim complained for the thousandth time. ‘If Jaer could determine when it would happen. What will he do, going to bed as a man, a hostler, a member of a caravan, only to wake in the body of a dancing girl? The dangers? The problems? The explanations?’
‘There could be no explanations. Who would believe it? Who would accept it? In this world of Gahlians, Separation, Gates and Seals, who would not reach at once for a knife or bludgeon …’
‘But,’ Ephraim continued, ‘there is still some world outside the Separated world. Just because you and I have spent much of our old lives inside it doesn’t mean that there isn’t something of the other world still there. If Jaer can get out, past the Seal Bearers and the black-robed minions, and the Temples, and the Separated villages, and the enclaves…’
‘If Jaer could get down the canyon, past the falls, by all the guard towers and the patrols with their wagons, and past every barrier between here and Orena (assuming that Orena is still there), Jaer would still be Jaer and have the same problem.’
‘Our people would accept him, Nathan. You know they would.’
Nathan harumphed. ‘Better he stays here. With us.’
Ephraim shook his head sadly. They had spoken of this so many times before. ‘We’re old, Nathan. We’re so old that the winds of age echo along our ribs and pick at our eye sockets. We could be gone tomorrow. A chill, say, or a little slip on the cliff side. I feel as fragile as a dried flower. I rattle a little in the moving air, but I’m only coherent dust-a shape of what once was. My essence is going.’
‘You’ve been saying that your essence was going for the last twenty years.’
‘Well, my fragrance has gone. I’m redolent of decay.’
‘I’ve heard that before, too.’
‘The point is,’ said Ephraim with some asperity, ‘that Jaer can’t stay here once we’re gone. Not for the love of thee or of me or the memory of his mother or the hope of a patrimony from some unknown source. Jaer could not stay forever alone. Jaer will go. We must be able to feel that we have helped him to survive when that happens. That’s all.’
So, for the moment, they stopped discussing it and began to plan ways in which Jaer might survive. They began by matter-of-factly telling Jaer that he/she was unique, a freak, a strangeness. They went on to explain that the world would try to destroy Jaer, and that it was Jaer’s business to figure out ways the world could be foiled in that attempt. They made up the rules as they went along, since no rules ever made before would have helped them.
‘It’s really fortunate for you that all travellers have to wear orbansin,’ said Nathan.
‘Why?’ This was a w
ord of which Jaer was excessively fond.
‘Because He From Gahl did not pass away,’ muttered Ephraim.
Nathan went on without noticing the interruption. ‘About nine hundred years ago, in about 210 TC, a man came from Obnor Gahl and started the Separation. That is, so far as we now know, he was a man, and it is said that he came from Obnor Gahl, an old city on the ancient Rochagamian road, north of Orena near the badlands. He had no name. He was called “He from Gahl,” or sometimes Just “Gahl.” It was a bad time. The reign of the Axe King had ended just a few years before, and there was disorder and ruin. He from Gahl preached Separation as a way of gaining security and peace, each group to Separate from all others so that they might live only like with like.’
‘He came first to Soolenter,’ murmured Ephraim. ‘Up in the Savus Mountains …’
Nathan went on. ‘It seemed to make sense to people weary of the confusion and violence. That first city began to split up on the basis of – what was it? – skin colour, I think. Then, later it split again on the basis of something else, accent, or eye colour, or food habits, or anything at all. Each section walled itself off from the others into an enclave. Some groups moved out of the city entirely to set up small communities by themselves.’
‘The first Separated villages,’ nodded Epraim. ‘The very first ones.’
‘He From Gahl, had… followers, I guess. Minions. Acolytes? No, not acolytes. That has a religious meaning to it, and Gahl wasn’t preaching a religion… exactly. The minions came from this place and that, all different, but they became all the same. They built a “Temple of Separation” in Soolenter. Again, we shouldn’t call it a temple. No worship is done there, so far as we know. But that’s what the Gahlians called it. Perhaps that’s the only word they had. They might-have said “armoury” or “redoubt” and have made more sense….’ Nathan’s thoughts seemed to carry him away into a painful silence, and Jaer did not say ‘why’ or ‘what happened then’ for several minutes. At last Nathan sighed and went on.
The Revenants Page 3
