3 x T

by Harry Turtledove

  Her words fell on deaf ears, for as she spoke she was loosing the stays of her gown and letting it fall to the floor. Rupen had imagined how she might be. Now he saw what a poor, paltry, niggling thing his imagination was. Then he touched her, and that was past all imagining.

  * * *

  Afterward, riding back to Etchmiadzin, he wished he had asked for a year. On the other hand, half an hour might have served as well, or as poorly. Anything less than forever was not enough.

  He returned by the road he had taken into Faerie, but somehow he did not enter the fields we know where he had left them. Yet he was still in Armenia, only a few days' journey from his principality. He had half looked for a greater vengeance.

  Then he found his border closed against him, and his onetime vizier holding the throne of his ancestors. "If a prince go haring into Faerie rather than look after his own land, he does not deserve to rule," the usurper had told the nobles, and most said aye and swore him allegiance.

  But not all. Prince Rupen soon mustered a band of warriors and undertook to regain by force what had once been his by right. Fighting and siege and murder engulfed the land of Etchmiadzin that had been so fair. By his own hand Rupen slew a cousin who had been a dear friend. He watched comrades of old die in his service, or live on maimed.

  And in the end it did not avail. Etchmiadzin remained lost. By the time he admitted that in his heart, Rupen had lived the soldier's life so long that he found any other savorless. From a nest high in the hills?to its sorrow, Armenia has many of them?he and his swooped down into the valleys to seize what they might.

  Sometimes Rupen was nearly as rich as a bandit chief as he had been in the castle of Etchmiadzin. More often he went hungry. There were white scars on his arms, and along his ribs, and a great gash on his cheek and forehead that was only partly hidden by the leather patch covering the ruin of his left eye-socket.

  He seldom thought of Faerie. Few even of the hard-bitten crew who rode with him had the nerve to bring up his journey to the castle of the sparrowhawk. After a while, most of those who had known of it were dead.

  Then one day, as the lady Olissa had decreed, full memory came flooding back, and he knew in astonishment that a decade had passed. He thought of the tiny space of time he had spent in her arms, of his life as a prince before, and the long years of misfortune that came after. He thought of what he had become: ladder-ribbed, huddled close to a tiny fire in a drafty hut, drinking sour wine.

  He thought of Olissa again. Not even the folk of Faerie see all the future, exactly as it will be. "I'd do it over again, just the same way," he said out loud.

  One or two of his men looked up. The rest kept on with what they were doing.

  THE SUMMER GARDEN

  A couple of things came together in "The Summer Garden." One is its model?it springs from a tale in Boccaccio's Decameron. The other was my falling in love, just about the time when I wrote the piece, with a woman who did not fall in love with me. These things happen. One of the advantages of being a writer is having the chance to work them out on paper.

  A different version of this story appeared in the February 1982 Fantasy Book as "The Summer's Garden." The editor liked the idea but did not approve of its high, almost Dunsanian style and demanded a complete rewrite. He also introduced sundry other changes, most of them, I think, gratuitous. For better or worse, this is the way I think "The Summer Garden" ought to read.

  In the Empire of Kar V'Shem, in the town of Sennar, through which flow the laughing waters of the River Veprel, there lived the merchant Ansovald. A warm, good-hearted man, he had grown nearly rich from his trade in the furs and honey that the River Veprel brought down from the fabled North, and his home was in the finest quarter of the city, not too far from the marketplace but not too close to the church. With him dwelt his wife Dianora, the delight of his life. Her skin was fairer than the whitest linen, her eyes more green than the verdant jade which now and then appeared from out of the trackless East, her hair the blue-black of the midnight sky, and her nature… ah, with her nature we press close to the heart of the matter, for she was of that rare breed who can bear to give hurt to no living creature.

  Being such as one, it is only natural that Dianora shared with her dear husband some years of wedded bliss. Nor should it surprise us to learn that her beauty and warmth attracted the notice of others in the town of Sennar beside the merchant Ansovald. Toward these she was, as was her way, unfailingly kind, but, as she truly loved her husband, unfailingly unavailable. One by one, some sooner, some later, they came to understand this and troubled her no more. All save Rand.

  Now Rand was a belted knight, a veteran of wars and sanguinary single conflicts, yet withal a poet and dreamer as well. The experiences of his life had forged in him a singleness of purpose not easily matched in all the Empire of Kar V'Shem, let alone the sleepy town of Sennar. Thus when his sonnets fell on deaf ears and his gifts were discreetly returned, he did not grow downhearted?as had so many before him?but paid court to Dianora with greater vigor than before, reckoning the prize he sought all the more valuable for its difficulty of attainment.

  The lady was unwilling simply to tell him to be gone; she did not wish to wound his feelings, recognizing his manly qualities even if they tempted her not. Instead, through a maidservant she sent him a message, as follows: "Know that to prove your deep love for me, you must produce in dead of winter a garden full of summer's fruits and flowers. Then I shall be yours to command, but until and unless this be done, you must cease importuning me." Confidently expecting that Rand would find the assigned task as difficult as she deemed it, she banished the knight from her thoughts, glad she had found a way to dismiss him without harshness and certain he would not pester her again.

  But no sooner had her servant delivered the note and departed than Rand struck scarred fist against strong palm and spoke. "I shall do it," he vowed, though there was none to hear him. The arduousness of the task did not daunt him as the lady Dianora had hoped; in his wanderings he had seen more marvels than she had ever imagined, she who had never strayed more than a mile or two beyond the sheltering walls of the town of Sennar.

  Undaunted Rand may have been, but also uncertain as to how to proceed, for he himself had no notion of how such a wonder as that required of him might be produced. How could one call into being the fragrance and beauty of a summer garden in a world all drear with cold and ice? All the savants and sages to whom he put the question owned themselves baffled. And so for a year and more he remained thwarted, until the mage Portolis took it in his mind to visit Sennar.

  When he learned of the arrival of so famous a thaumaturge as Portolis, Rand wasted no time in making his acquaintance and setting forth the problem which had so long tormented him. After he had spoken, Portolis scanned his face. Rand would sooner have faced some men's swords than the wizard's eyes, for they were gray and hard as the granite ramparts of the mountains of Rincia, behind which the sun god sought his bed each day. But it ill-behooved a belted knight to show any trace of fear, and so Rand sat unflinching.

  At length the wizard nodded slowly. "I can do this thing," he said, "yet the price of its success may be more than you would willingly pay."

  Quoth Rand, "For the love of my lady Dianora no price could be too great."

  The knight thought he saw a glint of irony kindle for a moment in the terrible eyes of Portolis, but it faded so quickly he could not be sure. "Are you certain of this?" the wizard asked. Rand had been gripped by his obsession for long and long, and could do nothing else but nod. "Be it so, then," Portolis said. "My fee?which must be paid in advance, as the components of this spell are quite costly?is seven thousand seven hundred seven and seventy kraybecks of gold."

  Rand blanched, for after paying so great a sum he would be left in poverty. But his resolve was firm and his voice steady as he answered, "I shall deliver it to you on the morrow."

  "Next week will suffice," the wizard said idly. "It is still some time before Midwinter D
ay, at which time, the gods willing, I shall do as you have requested."

  As events transpired, the knight was glad Portolis had not required payment on the following day: to meet the magician's price he was compelled to mortgage both mansion and lands. He dismissed servant after servant, no longer able to afford their keep, until at last he was left with but one retainer, a stolid old fellow named Fant. Together they dwelt miserably in one small room of Rand's palatial home, for the knight lacked the wherewithal to heat the entire building. Rand bore his self-inflicted pauperhood proudly, for his heart, if not his body, was warmed by visions of Dianora in his arms; what, if anything, Fant did for like sustenance, it never occurred to Rand to inquire.

  Unmoved by the slide of his client into penury, the wizard's preparations for his spell proceeded apace. More than once he left the town of Sennar for some days, arousing fear in the heart of Rand that he was being deluded by some traveling mountebank. But he always returned, and he expressed grave satisfaction whenever the knight queried his progress.

  Midwinter Day, when at length it came, dawned clear and cold, the pale sun seeming wan and weak in a steel-blue sky. The entire surround of the town of Sennar was white and still. Even the laughing River Veprel, whose scurrying waters had long defied the icy hand of winter, lay prisoned under a palm-thick sheet of ice. An unsmiling 'prentice of the mage Portolis called upon Rand and Fant to repair to a certain spot by the banks of the river, where, he said, all was ready for the effort, saving only their presence.

  Seen from without, the walls of Sennar lost for Rand the aspect of comfort and reassurance they had always before possessed. A warrior born, he had misread Dianora's relegation as challenge, and to his infatuate mind the fortifications formed the perfect metaphor for her heart. In this belief he was most sincere and, poor soul, most mistaken, for the woman's only thought had been to spare him pain.

  Vermilion ribbon delineated the area in which the conjuration was to take place. Inside, pentacles had been scribed in snow. Marching around them in intricate geometric patterns, half a dozen chanting acolytes swung thuribles, charging the frosty air with pungent incenses.

  Alone and still in the center of this stir stood Portolis. The north wind frisked playfully through gray tendrils of his beard, but there was nothing of play in his proud hawk face as he greeted Rand. "I ask you once more, sir knight," said he, "if you wish me to proceed?"

  "Did I not, would I have beggared myself for you?" Rand demanded harshly. The mage looked him full in the face, then curtly bowed. So loud was Rand's heart pounding in his breast, he was surprised Portolis made no remark on it.

  The wizard raised his arms. The acolytes froze, silent in their places, as if seized of a sudden by winter. Through the thunder in his veins Rand heard the wind's thin whisper die, as if the very universe held its breath. His voice ringing like a deep-toned bronzen bell, Portolis began the spell over which he had labored long, his pale fingers flying through its intricate passes like things independently alive.

  Rand had never thought on what it might be like to be in the midst of an unfolding miracle. A glow like the distillation of a thousand sunrises suffused the air, conjoined with a scent like that of attar of roses but a thousand times more sweet, a thousand times more delicate, a scent to penetrate to the root of the heart and set it winging free. Portolis's voice was the perfect backdrop to the bedazzlement of Rand's senses, for though he knew not the tongue in which the wizard sang, he felt tears of joy course down his cheeks and fall hot and steaming in the snow.

  Snow? As the mists of the enchantment faded, Rand looked down to find his boots no longer coated with rime but cushioned by a carpet of greenest grass. He cried out in wonder and delight: within Portolis's scarlet-lined square, summer reigned. Looking spent and drawn, the wizard leaned against a veritable apple tree full of ruddy fruit. A blue butterfly wheeled round his head; startled perhaps by a blink, perhaps by nothing at all, it darted away, out beyond the confines of his magic, and fell, an azure icicle, to the snow.

  The knight all but thought himself still bemused, for hard by the apple tree was one laden with plump pears, next to that a fragrant-leafed orange tree, and beside it bearers of peaches, apricots, and purple figs, soft and deliciously ripe. The perfumes of fruit and trees mingled with those of the flowers clustering round them: roses red as maidens' lips (and Rand's heart throbbed, to think of Dianora), others yellow as the sun, tulips like bells of flame, lilies of every size, shape, and hue, and wild tropic blooms that the knight, traveled though he was, could never have hoped to name.

  Filled with awe, Rand touched the smooth, gray-brown bark of the fig and stroked a parchmentlike leaf. He nipped off a tiny piece between thumb and forefinger and watched, entranced, as beads of white sap formed to seal off the injury he had worked. He questioned his senses no longer. Everything round him was too real, too detailed, to be a mere vision, even one produced by so gifted a warlock as Portolis.

  Forethoughtfully having brought along a wicker basket, the knight now filled it with the choicest products of the wondrous summer garden. He handed it to his servant, bidding him repair to the town of Sennar, present it to the lady Dianora as token of the knight's true love, and lead her back to the paradise whose creation Rand had caused.

  So intent was Rand on watching his servant near the gates of Sennar that he failed to hear Portolis come up beside him. "So," the wizard said, his voice a tattered ghost of itself, "you have your garden and soon shall have your woman, if that be your desire. Will you then be content?"

  "Again and again you ask me this, as if to say it will not be so," Rand cried angrily. "Why do you hound me? I have spent all my substance to gain my lady's submission and love. Once achieved, how could they not fill me with delight?"

  The wizard did not reply.

  * * *

  As Fant came up to the gates, their guardsmen, in recognition of the marvel of which he was a part, grounded their spears, doffed conical helms, and bowed low in salute until he was past. "Well, well," he said to himself. "This consorting with magicians is not such a bad thing, no matter what I may have thought in the past. When has a poor servant ever before been greeted like a baron? No, like a prince or better!" And with a fine indolent wave to its warders, he entered the town of Sennar.

  When he reached the home of Ansovald the merchant, Fant was greeted with some surprise by the maidservant who had delivered Dianora's message to his master. Recognizing him at once, she said, "You've not come this way in some time. What can I do for you now?" Before an answer could cross his lips, she went on, "Don't stand there and let all the warm out; it's rare cold today. Come in and toast your bones by the fire."

  "I'm glad to do that," he replied, and spent the next several minutes savoring the delicious heat. Then, recalling his mission, he handed the maid his basket, saying, "My master bids me deliver this token to your lady and escort her back to the spot where he awaits her."

  "Does he indeed?" she said with a toss of her head. "The cheek of the man!" Now, as it happened, she was altogether ignorant of the content of the message she had delivered to Rand so long ago, though she could scarcely have been unaware of his feelings toward her mistress. She commented, "It will take more than a hamper of fruit to change my lady's mind about your knight, I warrant."

  Fant shrugged. "That's not for me to say, nor you either," he answered. "Could I ask for a mug of hot wine? I'm chilled clean to the marrow."

  "You're as bad as your master." The maid sniffed, but she put some over the fire to heat. While Fant waited with ill-concealed eagerness, she took up the basket and carried it upstairs to the lady Dianora.

  The lady had been weaving, and was not sorry to be interrupted. "What have you there for me?" she asked, seeing the basket but not yet understanding what it contained. Her maid repeated Fant's message, punctuated with condemnations of Rand's arrogance and his servant's insolence, and departed, leaving Dianora alone to struggle with her conscience.

  She was flattered a
nd complimented beyond all measure by Rand's devotion to the cause of winning her, and she knew full well what his adherence to that cause had cost him, for his sudden and inexplicable slide into poverty had for weeks been one of the paramount topics of conversation in the town of Sennar. But despite his evident adoration, her heart was in her husband's keeping only, and she no more desired to lie with the knight in love than she had when she made her rash promise so long ago. Yet that promise had been freely given, extorted or coerced from her in no way, and how with honor could she now refuse to keep it? To do so would work far more grievous hurt on Rand than even the coldest and most summary rejection a year and a half ago. Bitterly she repented of her imprudent words, but that repentance no more effaced them than a sparrow's shadow made to disappear the Rincian granite whereon it fell.

  When her servant returned to take her reply to Fant, she found she had none to give.

  It was not much later that the merchant Ansovald, according to his custom, returned from the marketplace to lunch with his wife. Though she did what she could to conceal her distress, Ansovald soon noticed it and asked what troubled her. With a great show of indignation, she denied that anything was wrong. This deceived the merchant not at all but alarmed him no little, for if in their years of marriage he had come to rely upon anything, it was his wife's candor.

  Therefore he persisted, and ere long had the entire story from her, though toward its end she was in tears. When he had heard everything, he was silent for a long time. His fingers curled his beard into ringlets, as was his unconscious custom while deep in thought. He had long known Dianora had admirers other than himself, and the notion did not much upset him; indeed, in his secret heart he was rather proud of it, as reflecting favorably upon his own manhood. Whether or not she occasionally succumbed to temptation mattered less to him than it might to other men, for he was fully assured of both her love and her discretion, and was sure she would do no injury to himself or to their union. Furthermore, he knew her pledge to Rand had been made not in expectation of its eventual fulfillment, but in the hope that it would, without wounding the knight, make him realize that his attentions were superfluous.