On an impulse, neither moving first, but simultaneously, they drew their daggers. Allart smiled, laid the hilt of his to the blade of Donal’s; then slid Donal’s into his own sheath. It was a very old pledge; it meant that neither would ever draw steel against the other in any cause whatever. Donal sheathed Allart’s dagger. They embraced briefly, then, arms linked, went down to Dom Mikhail.
Allart, comforted by the gesture, felt a moment’s hesitation.
Perhaps I was wrong. I must be careful what alliances I make, do nothing it would embarrass me to retract should I one day sit on the throne. … He broke off the thought impatiently.
Already, he thought with a flare of self-hatred, I am thinking in terms of what is expedient, like a politician—like my brother!
As they came into the courtyard and began to cross it, one of the servants suddenly pointed upward.
“There—there! What is that?”
“It is only a bird,” someone said, but the man cried out, “No, that is no bird!”
Shading his eyes, Allart looking up into the sun, seeing something there, wheeling, slowly spiraling down, a slow and ominous descent. Fear and agony clutched at him. This is some work of Damon-Rafael’s, an arrow launched by Damon-Rafael at my heart, he thought, almost paralyzed. In a spasm of dread he realized, Damon-Rafael has the pattern of my matrix, of my soul. He could aim one of Coryn’s fearful weapons at me, without fear it will kill any other.
In that moment he felt Cassandra’s thoughts entangled in his own; then there was a blaze of lightning in the clear sky, a cry of pain and triumph, and the broken thing that was not a bird fell, like a stone, arrested in midair, splattering fire from which the servants edged back in terror. A woman’s dress had been caught in the terrible stuff. One of the stablemen grabbed her and shoved her bodily into one of the washing-tubs that stood at the end of the court. She screamed with pain and outrage, but the fire sizzled and went out. Allart looked at the fire and the broken bird still squirming with dreadful pseudo-life as he came near.
“Bring water, and douse it wholly,” he ordered.
When the contents of two or three laundry-tubs had been flung on it and the fire was wholly out, he looked at the faintly squirming thing with terrible repugnance. The woman who had been pushed into the first laundry-tub had hauled herself out, dripping.
“You were fortunate,” Donal said before she could protest. “A drop of clingfire splattered on you, my good woman. It would have burned up your dress and burned through your flesh to your bones and gone on burning until the burned flesh was cut away.”
Allart stamped on the broken thing of metal coils and wheels and pseudo-flesh, again and again, until it lay in shattered fragments which were still, faintly, moving. “Take this,” he directed one of the stablemen. “Pick it up on your shovels. Do not touch it with your bare hands, and bury it deep in the earth.”
One of the guardsmen came and looked, shaking his head.
“Gods above! Is that what we must face in this war? What devilry sent that against us?”
“The lord Elhalyn, who would be king over this land,” said Donal, his face like stone. “If it were not for my sister’s command of the lightning, my friend and my brother would now lie here burning!” He turned, sensing Dorilys running down the inner stairs, Cassandra following more slowly, with all the haste her lamed leg would allow. Dorilys ran to Donal and caught him close in her arms.
“I felt it! I felt it hovering over us. I have struck it down,” she cried. “It did not strike at you or Allart! I saved you, I saved you both!”
“Indeed you did,” Donal said, holding the girl in his arms. “We are grateful to you, my child, we are grateful! Truly you are what Kyril called you that day at the fire station—queen of storms!”
The girl clung to him, her face lighted with such joy that Allart felt sudden fear. It seemed to him that lightnings played all over Castle Aldaran, though the sky was wholly clear again, and that the air was heavy with fire.
Was this what lay ahead in this war? Cassandra came to him, holding him, and he felt her fear like his own, and remembered that she had known the pain of a clingfire burn.
“Don’t cry, my love. Dorilys saved me,” he said. “She struck down Damon-Rafael’s evil contrivance before it reached me. I suppose he would not believe I could escape this one, so it is not likely he will send another such thing against me.”
But even as he comforted her, he was still afraid. This war would not be ordinary mountain warfare, but something quite new and terrible.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
« ^ »
If there had ever been room for doubt in Allart’s mind about the coming war, there was none now. On every road leading to the peak of Aldaran, armies were gathering. Donal, massing the defenses, had stationed armed men ringing the lower slopes, so that for the first time in Donal’s memory Castle Aldaran was actually the armed fortress it had been built to be.
A messenger had come into the castle under truce-flag. Allart stood in Aldaran’s presence-chamber, looking at Mikhail of Aldaran on his high seat, calm, impassive, menacing. Dorilys sat beside him, with Donal standing at her side. Even Allart knew that Dorilys’s presence was no more than the excuse for Donal’s.
“My lord,” the messenger said, and bowed, “hear the words of Rakhal of Scathfell, demanding certain observances and concessions from Mikhail of Aldaran.”
Aldaran’s voice was surprisingly mild. “I am not accustomed to receive demands. My brother of Scathfell may legitimately require of me whatever is customary from overlord to vassal. Say therefore to Lord Scathfell that I am dismayed that he should demand of me anything which he has only to request on the proper terms.”
“It shall be so spoken,” said the messenger. Allart, knowing that the messenger was a Voice, or trained speaker who would be able to relay up to two or three hours of such speech and counter-speech without the slightest variation in phrasing or emphasis, was certain the message wold be relayed to Scathfell in Aldaran’s very intonation.
“With that reservation, my lord Aldaran; hear the words of Rakhal of Scathfell to his brother of Aldaran.” The stance and the very vocal timbre of the messenger altered slightly, and although he was a small man, and his voice light in texture, the illusion was eerie; it was as if Scathfell himself stood in the hall. Donal could almost hear the good-humored bullying voice of Lord Rakhal of Scathfell as the messenger spoke.
“Since you, brother, have made of late certain unlawful and scandalous dispositions regarding the heritage of Aldaran, therefore I, Rakhal of Scathfell, warden and lawful heir to the Domain of Aldaran, and pledged to support and uphold the Domain should your illness, infirmity, or old age make you unfit to do so, declare you senile, infirm, and unfit to make any further decisions regarding the Domain. Therefore I, Rakhal of Scathfell, am prepared to assume wardenship of the Domain in your name. Therefore I demand”— Lord Aldaran’s fists clenched at his side at that repeated word, demand—“that you deliver up to me at once possession of Castle Aldaran, and the person of your nedestro daughter Dorilys of Rockraven, in order that I may suitably bestow her in marriage for the ultimate good of the realm. As for the traitor Donal of Rockraven, called Delleray, who has unlawfully influenced your sick mind to do malice and scandal to this realm, I, warden of Aldaran, am disposed to offer amnesty, provided that he leaves Castle Aldaran before sunrise and goes where he will, never to return or to step within the borders of the realm of Aldaran, or his life shall be forfeit and he shall be slain like an animal by any man’s hand.”
Donal stiffened, but his mouth took on a hard, determined line.
He wants Aldaran, Allart thought. Perhaps at first he was willing to step aside for Aldaran’s kinsmen. But now it was obvious that Donal had become accustomed to thinking of himself as his foster-father’s lawful successor and heir.
The Voice went on, and his voice altered faintly, his very posture changing somewhat. Although Allart had see
n the technique before, it was now as if a quite different man stood before him, even the lines of his face changing. But what they had in common was arrogance.
“Furthermore, I, Damon-Rafael of Elhalyn, rightful king of the Domains, demand of Mikhail of Aldaran that he shall at once deliver to me the person of the traitor Allart Hastur of Elhalyn and his wife Cassandra Aillard, that they may be duly charged with plotting against the crown; and that you, Mikhail of Aldaran, present yourself before me to discuss what tribute shall be paid from Aldaran to Thendara that you may continue during my realm to enjoy your Domain in peace.”
Still again the messenger’s voice and bearing altered, and again it was as if Rakhal of Scathfell stood before them.
“And should you, my brother of Aldaran, refuse any of these demands, I shall feel empowered to enforce them upon your stronghold and yourself by force of arms if I must.”
The messenger bowed a fourth time and remained silent.
“An insolent message,” Aldaran said at last, “and if justice were done, he who spoke it should be hanged from the highest battlement of this castle, since in serving my brother you are also pledged to serve his overlord, and I am he. Why, then should I not treat you as a traitor, fellow?”
The messenger paled, but his face betrayed no twitch of personal reaction, as he said, “The words are not mine, Lord, but those of your brother of Scathfell and His Highness Elhalyn. If the words offend you, sir, I beg of you to punish their originators, not the messenger who repeats them upon command.”
“Why, you are right,” Aldaran said mildly. “Why beat the puppy when the old dog annoys me with barking? Bear this message, then, to my brother of Scathfell. Say to him that I, Mikhail of Aldaran, am in full enjoyment of my wits, and that I am his overlord by oath and custom. Say to him that if justice were done, I should dispossess him of Scathfell, which he holds by my favor, and proclaim him outlaw in this realm as he has presumed to do with the chosen husband of my daughter. Say further to my brother that as for my daughter Dorilys, she is already wedded by the catenas, and he need not trouble himself to find a husband for her elsewhere. As for the lord Damon-Rafael of Elhalyn, say to him that I neither know nor care who reigns within the Lowlands across the Kadarin, since within this realm I acknowledge no reign save my own, but that if he who would be king in Thendara should invite me as his equal to witness his crowning, we will then discuss the exchange of diplomatic courtesies. As for my kinsman and guest Allart Hastur, he is welcome at my household and he may make to Lord Elhalyn such answer as he chooses, or none at all.”
Allart wet his lips, too late realizing that even this gesture would be faithfully reproduced by the messenger standing before him, and wished he had not betrayed that small weakness. At last he said, “Say to my brother Damon-Rafael that I came here to Aldaran as his obedient subject and that I have faithfully performed all that he asked of me. My mission completed, I claim the right to domicile myself where I choose without consulting him.” A poor answer, he thought, and cast about for the best way to continue. “Say further that the climate of Hali did not agree with my wife’s health and that I removed her from Hali Tower for her health and safety.” Let Damon-Rafael chew on that!
“Say at last,” he added, “that, far from plotting against the crown, I am a faithful subject of Felix, son of the late king, Regis. If Felix, lawful king of Thendara, bids me at any time to come and defend his crown against any who would conspire to seize it, I am at his command. Meanwhile I remain here at Aldaran lest the lawful king Felix accuse me of conspiring to seize his rightful throne.”
Now, he thought, it is done and irrevocable. I could have sent a message of submission to my brother, and pleaded that as Aldaran’s guest I could raise no hand against him. Instead, I have declared myself his foe.
Allart resisted the temptation to look ahead and see, with his laran, what might befall when Damon-Rafael and Lord Scathfell received that message. He might foresee a hundred things, but only one could come to pass, and there was no sense in troubling his mind with the other ninety and nine.
There was silence in the presence-chamber while the trained Voice digested the message. Then he said, “My lords, those who dispatched me foresaw some answer such as this and bade me say thus: ”To Donal of Rockraven, called Delleray, that he is declared outlaw in this realm and that any man who slays him shall do so from this day forth without penalty. To Allart Hastur, traitor, we offer nothing save the mercy of his brother should he come and make submission to him before sundown of this day. And to Mikhail of Aldaran, that he shall surrender Castle Aldaran, and all those within it, to the last woman and child, forthwith, or we shall come and take it.”
There was another of those long silences. At last Aldaran said, “I do not plan to visit my Domain in the near future. If my brother of Scathfell has nothing better to do with his seed-time and harvest than sit like a dog outside my gates, he may stay there as long as it pleases him. However, should he injure man or woman, child or animal lawfully under my protection, or should he step beyond the line of my armed men so much as the width of my smallest finger, then I shall hold that as reason to annihilate him and his armies, and declare his holding of Scathfell forfeit. As for him, if I take him here I shall certainly hang him.”
Silence. When it was obvious that he had no more to say, the messenger bowed.
“My lord, the message shall be delivered faithfully as spoken,” he said. Then, the truce-flag before him, he withdrew from the room. Even before he had reached the door, Allart knew that there was no mistaking what the future would be.
It was war.
But then, he had never been in any doubt of that.
It was not long in coming. Within an hour of the departure of the Voice, a flight of fire-arrows winged up from below. Most of them fell harmlessly on stone, but a few landed on wooden roofs or on bales of fodder stacked within the courtyard for the animals, and the laundry-tubs of water were again put into play for extinguishing them before the fire could spread.
After the fires had been put out, silence again. This time it was an ominous silence, the difference, Donal thought, between warfare impending and warfare begun. Donal ordered all the remaining fodder doused down heavily with water from the inside wells. But the fire-arrows had only been the formal answer to the challenge, “… should he step beyond the line of my armed men so much as the width of my smallest finger…”
Inside the courtyard, all were ready to repel a siege. Armed men were stationed at the head of every small path leading upward, in case anyone should break through the outer ring of men around the entire mountain. Food and fodder had been stockpiled long since, and there were several wells within the enclosure of the castle, living springs in the rock of the mountain. There was nothing to do but wait…
The waiting continued for three days. Guards stationed in the watchtower, and those in the line around the lower peaks, reported no activity in the camp below. Then, one morning, Donal heard cries of consternation in the courtyard and hurried out to see what had happened.
The guardsmen were cooking their breakfast around fires kindled within hearthstones laid at the far end, but the cooks, and those who were carrying water to the animals, stared in fear at the water flowing from the pipes: thick, red, and sluggish, with the color, the consistency, and even the smell of freshly spilled blood. Allart, coming to see, looked at the frightened faces of the guardsmen and soldiers, and knew that this was serious. The success in outlasting a siege depended almost entirely on the water supply. If Scathfell had somehow managed to contaminate the springs which watered the castle, they could not hold out more than a day or two. Before sunset some of the animals would begin to die; then the children. There was nothing but surrender before them.
He looked at the stuff flowing from the pipes. “Is it only this spring? Or is the other one, which runs into the castle, contaminated also?” he asked.
One of the men spoke up. “I went into the kitchens, Dom Allart, and it’s jus
t like this.”
Dom Mikhail, hastily summoned, bent over the stuff, let it run into his hand, grimacing at the thick texture and the smell; then experimentally lifted his hand to his mouth to taste. After a moment he shrugged, spit it out.
“How did they get at the wells, I wonder? The answer to that is that they could not; and therefore they did not.” He touched the matrix about his neck. He took another mouthful and when he spit it out the water ran clear from his lips.
“Illusion,” he said. “A remarkably realistic and disgusting illusion, but illusion nevertheless. The water is clean and wholesome; they have only set a spell on it so that it looks, and tastes, and worst of all smells like blood.”
Allart bent to sip the stuff, feeling the surge of nausea because to all appearances he was drinking a stream of fresh blood… but it was water to the texture and feel, despite the sickening smell and taste.
“Is this to be witch-war, then?” the guard demanded, shaking his head in consternation. “Nobody can drink that stuff.”
“I tell you, it’s water, and perfectly good water,” Aldaran said impatiently. “They’ve just made it look like blood.”
“Aye, Lord, and smell and taste,” said the cook. “I tell you—none will drink of it.”
“You’ll drink of it or go dry,” Donal said impatiently. “It’s all in your mind, man; your throat will feel it as water, whatever the look of it.”
“But the beasts will not drink of it, either,” said one of the men, and indeed they could hear the noises of restless animals from inside the barns and stables, some of them kicking and rearing.
Allart thought, Yes, this is serious. All beasts fear the blood-smell. Furthermore, the men here are afraid, so we must show them quickly that they need not fear such things.
Aldaran said, sighing, “Well, well, I had hoped we could simply ignore it, let them think their spell had no effect.” But while they might at last coax or persuade the men to ignore the look and taste of the water, the effort of this would sap their morale. And the animals could not be persuaded by reason to ignore it. To them, smell and taste were the reality of the water, and they might easily die of thirst within reach of all the water they could drink, rather than violate their instincts by drinking what their senses told them was freshly spilled blood.
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