The Rebellion

by Isobelle Carmody

  The twins bowed again, and Angina withdrew to one side to sit on a small stool set against the barn wall. He was joined by several other empath musicians, and some moments passed while they set themselves up with stools and tuned their various instruments. Then there was complete silence.

  Still standing, Miky nodded her head slightly. Nothing happened, or so it seemed, but one of the musicians had begun to play very, very softly. The other musicians joined in, swelling the sound, and at last Miky sang.

  The strength and purity of her tone caught my breath, and then I sensed Angina begin to empathise his sister’s music, enhancing and projecting the emotional tones in her voice so that they thrummed in your heart as well as your ears. I was so entranced that I scarcely noticed three black-clad coercers slip from the barn to stand behind Miky.

  The twins had written the song based on Dameon’s retelling of a Beforetime story, but it had been much developed and elaborated since the last time I had heard it. I was trying to pick out the initial tune from the rest when all at once, a beautiful young woman clad in a lavish white dress, all sewn over with tiny pearls, appeared on the grassy stretch between Miky and the audience.

  There was a loud gasp, for of course she was a coerced illusion. Ordinarily, I disliked any sort of tampering with my perceptions, and I could easily have blocked the vision, but I was riveted. With her mass of fiery red hair all wound through with pearls and roses and hanging to her slender waist, and her bright blue eyes, the woman reminded me inescapably of Dragon as she might grow to look in womanhood.

  “Incredible!” Alad muttered beside me.

  The emotions being empathised became more complex, and I realized that I was feeling the princess’s boredom with the privilege and selfishness of court life. I experienced in song and empathy her concern for all the poor of the kingdom who would never have a full belly, let alone a pearl-encrusted gown.

  Next I felt the young woman’s fear as a wicked Beforetime scientist appeared, boasting to the court of his machines and abilities. Everyone laughed and praised him except the princess, who feared what would come of his dark manipulations. Inevitably, the Beforetime scientist went too far. Driven mad by his lust for power and angered by her reproaches, he ended up cursing the princess to sleep forever. As she fell, the court wailed in horror. But a woman with shining silver hair rose up and announced herself to be a futureteller. She promised that the princess would not sleep forever, but only until one came who knew the secret of healing her.

  Weeping servants lay the princess on a carved golden bed studded with jewels, and surrounded by a bed of roses. As years passed, the roses grew up over her in a bower, and then a room, and then a castle of flowers with thick thorns, as dark as claws.

  Then the story shifted to a prince, and I cried out in delight, for whose face should the prince wear but Dameon’s! Blind Prince Dameon sat on his balcony, listening to a bard sing all we had just heard of a princess asleep these hundred years.

  That night, the prince dreamed that the sleeping beauty was calling to him, singing in a beautiful voice. The sweetness in it caught his soul and bound it. In the morning, he set out, determined the sleeping princess would be his bondmate. With him was his faithful companion, a horse that would be his eyes.

  He heard more of the story from innkeepers and jacks as they traveled toward the dark forest of thorns. Numerous princes had tried over the years to reach the princess, but neither they alone, nor the entire armies some of them mustered, had succeeded in hacking their way through the forest to the princess. Many died painfully, for the thorns were poisonous and sharper than daggers. One king had tried to set the thorns ablaze in a rage, though he might well have burned the princess, too. But the forest only smoldered, giving off a poisonous smoke that had killed the king and his men at arms.

  Prince Dameon was disheartened, for the more he heard, the more he wondered how one blind man could go where an army could not. When he reached the impenetrable thorn forest, he fell silent, for though he could not see it, he felt the heaviness of its shadow looming over him, and he understood that it had its own sentient life. He took out his dagger but did not wield it.

  He sat beneath the thorns to think, using the knife to peel an apple. His horse trembled beside him, begging him to come away, but Prince Dameon bade the horse wait for him at a stream they had passed. The prince loved his companion too dearly to risk him as well.

  When he was alone, he stood and turned to address the brooding presence of the thorn forest. “Are you not there to protect her from all the wrong princes who came before?”

  The forest did not answer, but he felt it listening.

  “If so, then how did you know they were wrong for her?” Miky sang blind Prince Dameon’s words to the forest. “The stories tell that they came with swords and knives and tried to fight their way through you to her. They saw you as a barrier to their desire, and they were ready to destroy you to get what they wanted. They did not try to understand you.”

  The forest was still silent, but it seemed to the prince that its suppressed fury had quieted.

  “You are here to protect her,” the prince repeated, “but maybe you are part of her as well. For are not the thorns as natural to the bush as is the lovely rose? Maybe you must be courted, forest, just as she would be, and maybe you must be allowed to say no to me, for does your princess’s heart not have a choice to wake or no?”

  All at once, a bird sang a long peal of music.

  The prince realized this was the same tune sung by the princess in his dream. He took a simple reed pipe from his vest and played back the tune. Then he embroidered it, adding his own depth and dimensions. Beneath and above the loveliness of the princess’s melody, he wove the song of his own yearnings. There was a great rustling as if the entire forest sighed, then utter stillness.

  The prince ceased to play and stood wondering. Then a scent arose about him sweeter than a thousand blossoms. Slowly, he walked forward, without even lifting his hands to defend his face from the thorns. But rather than thorns, blossoms caressed his cheeks and hair. He felt the forest sigh again, and he lifted the pipe to his lips and began to play. The scent of roses became so powerful as to make him drunk, yet he played and walked slowly, allowing the forest to lead him this way and that, into its deepest heart.

  Only when he stepped into the open did he cease to play. Almost he ceased to breathe, for he sensed that he was near to the princess of his dreams. He walked forward, now with his hands outstretched so that he should not strike her bed. As he touched the edge of it, smothered in roses, he heard her soft breath, and it brought him to her face. Laying aside the pipe, he touched her hair and cheeks, her eyelashes and lips, marveling at their delicate beauty and softness, and at the sweetness that flowed from her as surely as the scent from the roses.

  Then, because he could not help himself, he kissed her.

  The princess opened her blue eyes and spoke to him. “This gentle tune I dreamed of all through my long sleep,” she whispered. “Play on, my love.”

  The vision of Prince Dameon bending over the red-haired princess faded, and I realized I was weeping. I was not alone. Even Bruna and the other Sadorians were scrubbing at their cheeks.

  “By the goddess, how to render a song worthy of such a performance!” Jakoby exclaimed huskily over the applause.

  “That was beautiful, truly,” Bruna said. “But it is just a story. The thorns of the real world would not be turned aside by a song.”

  “Not th’ song of one man, mebbe, even if he were a prince. But mebbe a song sung by many in harmony could blunt th’ thorns if that were its desire,” Maryon said. “Unfortunately, most of th’ world sings a song of hatred an’ violence.” She rose and walked away into the orchard.

  “What is the matter with her?” Bruna demanded.

  “Those who see visions are not as others,” Harad said respectfully.

  Bruna shrugged in dismissal and turned back to finish her tart.

  G
radually, people began to rise and move about. Cramped from sitting so long, I rose, too, and strolled over to where the various competitive guild games were beginning. Organized and judged by my own guild, they were the farseekers’ contribution to the day. Ceirwan was too busy to do more than wave. I watched for a time, noting with approval that the emphasis of the games was on the demonstration of hard-won skills rather than competition. These were followed by a series of games designed to amuse and entertain. They were successful, judging by the laughter of the watchers, but the empaths’ performance had left my emotions oddly raw, and before long, I drifted away.

  In the center of a ring of blossom-laden trees in the orchard, each guild had set up a display of the handicrafts they had amassed during the wintertime. Of course, everything was bartered rather than exchanged for coin. Any item left over at the end of the day would be sold by the magi when they were on tour, and this would allow us to increase Obernewtyn’s supply of coin. I noticed Rosamunde and Valda, who were standing on the other side of the stalls talking earnestly. I turned away to give them privacy and found myself looking at Freya and Ceirwan, who walked by holding hands, entirely absorbed in each other.

  Jak had come to stand beside me, and he chuckled at my expression. “It would be interesting to do a survey on the number of relationships that are formed on moon-fair days.”

  “My own parents met at a moon fair in Berrioc,” I said.

  “You must be wishin’ Rushton would hurry up and arrive,” the guilden said. “I bet he feels no less impatient to get here, but he’s sure to arrive soon.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I muttered. I had managed not to worry about Rushton for a time, but Jak had brought my suppressed anxieties to the surface. Where was he?

  Suddenly, Miryum shrieked for me in such a panic-stricken mental summons that I was compelled to go to her at once, leaving Jak openmouthed behind me.

  14

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” I demanded, staring down in dismay at Straaka. He lay motionless and unconscious at the Coercer guilden’s feet.

  Miryum lifted her hands helplessly. “I had to knock him out or he would have killed himself. He came up and asked if I meant to honor my vow to him. I couldn’t not answer. I had to tell him the truth,” she said defiantly, seeing the look on my face. “I told him I had taken the horses as a gift without understanding what it meant, and in all honor, he could not hold me to an agreement made without understanding.”

  “What did he say to that?” I asked, cursing myself for failing to speak to her sooner.

  “He told me he understood, but by his people’s customs, he had no choice but to kill himself. Then he took out his knife!” Her voice rose on a note of horror. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  I sighed. “Miryum, do as I tell you now. Drag him inside the barn and put him into Alad’s spare bed. Take his knife away.”

  “That won’t stop him,” Miryum said.

  “Look, you have to—”

  “It’s too late now for any plan!” she cried.

  “Not if you erase his memory of your conversation with him,” I said firmly.

  She stared at me in shock. “But that is—”

  “Unless you want him to die,” I continued ruthlessly, “you will erase his memory. When he wakes, tell him only that he fainted before you could exchange a word. If you have to, coerce him to believe you.”

  “But he will simply ask me the same thing again.”

  “He will,” I said calmly. “And you will hear him out. But this time, you will tell him that you have every intention of keeping the oath you made in Sador.”

  “No! It is not true,” Miryum cried. “I will not lie.”

  “Then speak and watch your precious truth kill him.”

  She gulped. “Elspeth … I can’t bond with him!”

  “I didn’t say you must,” I snapped. “But he needs to believe you will. Once you have agreed in principle to come with him, you explain that you must first honor a prior oath to Rushton and Obernewtyn. Tell him you swore to serve Rushton until Misfits are safe in the Land. Tell him that you are not free to come until that oath is fulfilled. Say that he has the right to withdraw his offer. With luck he will do so.”

  “If he does not?”

  “Tell him to return to Sador to wait for you. If he threatens to kill himself over the delay, you might just as well fight fire with fire and tell him that if he does, you will have to do the same.”

  “Wha-at!”

  “He is besotted with you,” I said sharply. “Do you think he would want you dead?”

  She shook her head. “What if he agrees to wait?”

  “Then he will spend his life in Sador waiting for his heart’s desire. There could be worse fates. It is more likely that he will change his mind after some time, though, and we can come up with some Land ‘custom’ that will allow him to withdraw after a period with no hurt to your honor.”

  “It hurts my honor to lie to him,” she said sullenly, and added that it seemed she was being punished by my solution. “It is not as if I set this matter in motion.”

  “Didn’t you? If you had listened courteously to his offer in Sador and answered him in the same way, rather than hitting him, you would not be in this predicament now.” I pulled the shawl about my shoulders, goaded to fury by her endless talk of honor. “Now, I am going to rejoin the festivities. You can make your own decision whether you do as I have suggested or find your own way of dealing with all of this.”

  I turned on my heel and headed back to the orchard, where everyone was now sitting in a semicircle facing a dazzlingly elaborate gypsy wagon I had not seen before. The magi performance was about to begin. The sun hung low in the sky, and the air had grown so misty that when torches were lit about the wagon, the whole scene took on a mystical air. The show began with a roll on the coercers’ own favored instrument, a flat, round, one-sided drum like a tambourine, played with a two-ended club and a wrist-rolling movement. Three empath musicians were seated in a cluster beside the wagon, playing a soft fanfare underneath the rolling grumble of the drums that gradually grew louder, as with thunder approaching.

  At their roaring peak, Gevan stepped onto a small platform jutting out from the edge of the wagon and hinged so that it could be swung up when the conveyance was in motion. The Coercer guildmaster wore a smooth black mask now, the eyes and mouth exaggerated with red, demonic strokes. He bowed elaborately, then began to juggle woven balls of flowers that he seemed to pluck alternately from thick wax candles on either end of the stage. Empath musicians played a popular tune in time to his movements, skillfully embellishing it with all manner of amusing loops and beats. After a time, Gevan switched to juggling hoops and ribbons of silk and finally to balls of fire. He finished by tossing them into the air and apparently swallowing them, belching a cloud of multicolored smoke at those seated nearest.

  I smiled, wondering how the Teknoguild had felt to be asked to produce chemicals for such a use. Of course, Gevan could have coerced the fireballs, but the aim was to use as little true coercivity as possible. As far as I could see, they had succeeded. So far, the performance was no more than a sophisticated jongleur might provide at a city moon fair and cleverly fell short enough of brilliance to be unthreatening.

  Some of the younger coercers appeared out of the wagon black-clad but for colored, dragonish masks. They performed a tumbling acrobatic dance, again to a familiar tune, while Gevan orchestrated them as if they were music.

  The tumblers turned away, baring black-clad backs so that they seemed to be swallowed up by the growing shadows. Gevan stepped through them, now wearing a hideously beaming mask, and gave a flamboyant and nonsensical speech about the known and unknown mysteries of nature; he asked how people behaved when they did not understand a thing.

  “Like chickens with no heads! Like clover-drunk sheep! Like fools!” he answered himself.

  He began doing more tricks, simple, obvious things one saw at every moon fair and festival. He
asked his audience to spot the trick, and before long, he was revealing pockets in his gown and vials of powder and black strings attached to silk scarves. He began taking an astonishing number of objects from an inner pocket. When he brought out a chair, everyone howled with laughter, for the person passing it to him from behind the cloak pretended clumsiness and was clearly visible.

  Gevan berated the assistant, who explained in a tremulous voice that she was afraid the tricks were making use of the black arts. The assistant spoke in such a silly, cowardly way that I had to laugh. It was hard to believe the clowning pair were really the formidable Coercer guildmaster and his guilder Merret.

  I glanced about to discover everyone laughing except for Miryum’s coercer-knights. They had drawn apart and were standing together watching without expression as, on the wagon stage, Gevan loomed over his cringing assistant.

  “Only when fear is suppressed can we truly see what we see,” he announced.

  There was a blaze of fireworks, and he twisted so the cloak covered him and he seemed to vanish. Though the trick was quite obvious, Merret gave a credulous squawk of terror and pretended to faint. Two black-clad coercers dragged her back into the wagon, and her place was taken by three older knife-throwing coercers, who used a trickle of Talent to ensure their knives did not slice off someone’s ear or nose.

  As each trick dissolved seamlessly into the next, Gevan appeared here and there, mocking blind ignorance and praising those who stopped their screams long enough to notice the trickery. I could see quite clearly the shape of the lesson evolving, about fear making people foolish.

  The show ended in a burst of applause and shouts for more, but Gevan merely made a short speech outside of his flamboyant role, thanking us all for our attention. Soon he was in the thick of an excited press of performers and admirers all chattering and laughing. Waiting for them to disperse, I walked about the wagon. Truly it was worthy of awe. Almost every stretch of board had been lovingly and minutely carved and smoothed and polished or painted in intricate patterns. Who would have thought that silent Grufyyd would have such a lavish talent? It was funny what could be hidden inside people until some circumstance arose to let it out. Katlyn had said that before this task, her bondmate had merely liked a bit of whittling.