"Are you alone?" he shouted over the noise of the resuming storm, speaking in the Common Tongue. "Is anyone else with you?"
"Wolves," Robby stammered, his head spinning again, and he pointed feebly at the dark. "Soldiers," he said, pointing the other way.
"I told you he came alone," spoke Ashlord's companion, who rushed to kneel at Robby's side to steady him. Robby tried to turn toward him, but Ashlord put his face close to Robby and shook him. Robby, dazed, stared back at Ashlord blankly.
"This is important!" he persisted. "Did you meet anyone? Did anyone help you?"
"No," Robby said weakly. "Nobody."
Robby felt his face go hot, but his whole body shivered with cold. Ashlord's face dimmed, and everything turned sideways as Robby slumped over.
"Oh, oh!" he heard Ashlord's companion say as if from a great distance.
Then all was silent.
Chapter 4
A Fair and Fatal Glimpse
Months before Ullin departed from the west, while winter still blocked the high passes of the Carthane Mountains, another messenger rode out from Duinnor. His horse trudged through snow and ice bearing him along the mountains southward and westward, about as far west as one could go before entering the shadowed realm of Shatuum. After a long journey of some weeks, he came to a small village called Averstone. The people there greeted him suspiciously and were even more unhappy when he asked how far it was to his destination. They told him it was only a league or two away, and since there was more than an hour of light left in the day, he decided to press on. The trail from Averstone passed through twisting defiles filled with slippery ice so that he often had to dismount and lead his horse, slowly climbing and descending. He had hardly gone a league before dusk settled over the wilderness, and he considered turning back. But as he came over a ridge, he saw, perhaps another league away, the dim outline of the lake that marked his destination. Relieved, he rode down from the pass, taking care to let his mount pick the way. By the time he reached the bottom of the ridge, the sky had lost any glimmer of sunset, and a moonless night was settling heavy and cold onto the mountains.
The lake was as still and unmoving as glass beneath the winter stars, crowded on every side by the steep shoulders of silent black mountains. The messenger shivered, and so did his horse. Rising up from the center of the lake was a towered castle, and so well did its dimly lit windows blend with the reflected stars on the water's surface that the horseman did not at first see it, though he knew it was there. Rounding a bend, and seeing two low-burning lamps at the shoreline, he continued more cautiously, his horse's steps echoing dully from the looming slopes. The ferryman rose from his stool and picked up a long staff to lean on, waiting for the stranger to dismount and approach. When the old man judged the distance was close enough, he swung the staff hard at the messenger who caught it in his gloved hand before it struck his head. Although it was a hardy swing, and the messenger was surprised at the gesture, he immediately saw that there was no malice to it and, somewhat confused, he let go his grip on the staff.
"Then ye have sight," said the ferryman, leaning again on his staff.
"How else may a person find their way here?"
"An' what brings ye here?"
"I have dispatches for Lady Esildre."
"I'll take 'em an' see to it she receives 'em."
"I must deliver them in person."
"She don't take kindly to visitors."
"That can't be helped."
The ferryman hesitated, then turned and rummaged through a box near his stool.
"Then ye must wear this hood, an' keep it on 'til yer once again on this shore."
"No. I am to deliver a message to none but Esildre, and I will not be duped into passing it to any other person."
"I cannot refuse ye," said the ferryman, shrugging and stuffing the hood into his vest. "But I take more over than ever come back."
"I have been warned already not to look upon her face and not to let her eyes meet mine. If my master thought it not in my power to obey his instruction, he would have sent another."
"Very well. Tie up yer horse at yonder post an' come aboard."
He was soon on the barge, and the ferryman began pulling his lines, sliding the boat across the black surface with soft creaks and gurgles as they moved. The passenger watched the undulating wake distort the star-speckled water, and then looked ahead at the castle growing taller as they approached. He saw the peculiar way in which the ferryman handled the ropes, getting his grip and pulling as he walked a few steps toward the stern, then letting his thumb and forefinger circle around the rope as he returned to the prow, repeating each pull.
"You are blind," observed the passenger.
"Aye, since the war. It was a Dragonkind fireball what took me sight an' mangled me face, making me unfit to look upon."
"You do not have much call to pull across the lake, I imagine."
"No, not much. Besides servants of the lady, yer the first in nearly a year. From Duinnor, I reckon? By yer manner of speech."
"Yes."
"A Kingsman?"
"I am."
"Then it's a long way ye come."
"Four weeks and some days."
"Hm. The last feller I pulled across was from Glareth."
"Oh?"
"Aye. Only one way. Never came back. If he ain't still with her, then the fishes got thar food, for I'm the only ferryman on this lake. Year 'round, the water's too cold for swimming."
The messenger shrugged, a gesture lost on the ferryman.
"Are ye one of the Elifaen folk, Kingsman?"
"No, not I."
"Well, good. At least yer torment'll end, sooner er later. As will mine."
"You're as glum as the night."
"This ain't no joyful place, sir."
By the time the barge gently bumped against the landing, someone was standing there with a candle. It was a servant of the house, a fair maid with the same distant look that told the messenger that she, too, was without sight.
"Not too late," said the ferryman, once again holding out the hood.
"No. I go without it."
"Sir," said the maid, "my mistress knows of your coming and awaits you."
He followed her up the stairs and into a damp hallway, lit only by his guide's candle.
"Are all her servants without sight?"
"Yes, it is for our protection. None are immune to her curse, neither man nor woman."
"I see."
"I am sorry that you do."
They came to another flight of stairs as a long whimpering moan floated through the passage sending chills down the visitor's spine. Sensing his discomfort, the maid hesitated.
"A guest," she said, "who came some many years ago and will not leave. Or cannot."
Eventually, after trudging through long wide halls, darkened passages, and up numerous flights of stairs, going higher and higher into the forlorn place, the maid opened a door and they entered a large well-lit room. It seemed out of place, even gay, with brightly colored pillows and drapes, warm blazing hearths on either side, silver-stemmed candelabras, bowls of fruits and flasks of wine, and vases of flowers all around.
"Please make yourself comfortable. Partake of food and drink as you may desire," he was instructed. "Lady Esildre will be with you shortly."
"Thank you."
Left alone, he took off his cloak and gloves and put them and his shoulder bag on a table and went to warm himself by the nearest fireplace. He thought he heard the faint strums of a harp—from an adjoining room, perhaps—barely audible over the pop and hiss of the fire. For many moments he listened, until his hands were no longer numb with cold. Going to the ornate sideboard, he took a goblet and poured wine, drank it quickly, and was pouring another when the strumming stopped. Only the crackle of the fireplaces remained as he looked around the room at the fine tapestries, the likes he had never seen before. Touching one of the flowers floating in a bowl of icy water, he wondered how they could be so
fresh in the dead of winter. Wondering at that marvel, he turned the latch on the window, and, letting cold air in, he looked out at the night, surmising that he was in the highest tower of the place. Finishing off the goblet, he closed the window and turned back for more. A gauze-covered figure stood in the middle of the room, and the sight of the apparition sent his hand to his sword.
"Raynor sent you, did he not?"
The messenger stepped forward cautiously, and he saw that it was a woman's figure beneath the gauze.
"Pardon me, Lady," the messenger bowed. "You startled me. Yes, Raynor sent me to seek you out and to bring to you some messages."
"Are you not very young to be traveling alone this long way from Duinnor?"
"I am five and twenty, in the reckoning of Men. And I have served against the Dragonkind for three years."
"Yes. I see. You are most capable, I am sure. Raynor would not have sent you otherwise. But it is a great danger to you. Surely you know of the curse upon this place? Upon me?"
"I have been told. Yet, I do not know that I believe it."
"Oh?"
"Before I am to deliver the message," he stated, "I am to be sure of you."
"And I must be sure of you. Do you not find my figure attractive?"
"I most assuredly do. And if you would be so kind as to turn around and reveal your back to me, I will have the first of my proofs of you."
"That is most impertinent!"
"Even so, I'll have a look at you!"
The messenger jerked away the gauze and the lady's hands went instinctively to her eyes.
"Do not look upon my eyes!" she cried.
"I look upon the rest of you!" he returned, spinning her around roughly.
"How dare you!"
He looked at her bare back, at the two scars each running from shoulder to hip.
"As I thought!" he cried, pulling the gauze from around her head and face so that he could look at her. "You are not Esildre! You are the maidservant who showed me in!"
The poor girl, now trembling with fear, tried her best to recover, clutching the insignificant cloth against her chest with both fists, looking with blank eyes straight ahead.
"Indeed she is."
The messenger turned and just across the room stood Lady Esildre, covered with a dark blue robe from head to foot, the hood draped over her face so that only her nose and mouth could be seen.
"You may go, my dear," she said to the servant who hurried away. Turning to the messenger, she said, "Few know the pattern of my Scathing."
She turned away and lowered her robe so that he could see her bare back and how the two scars turned inward just above her waist and then back outward to just above her hips, an unusual pattern, known only to one Elifaen House.
"I have been instructed in their pattern, and was ordered to touch them," he said, "to be sure they are not put on by some trickery of paint."
She had her doubts, wondering why Raynor would order such a thing. But she conceded.
"Then you may do so."
He did, putting his hands on her skin, feeling the run of her scars, and the curve of her body. He detected only a slight tremble. Her light brown hair hung straight down her back, and, as he pushed it away to examine the full length of her marks of Scathing, he felt a stirring within himself.
"Your hands are warm," she said. "Is that all that you require as proof of my identity?"
"That is all, my lady, and I apologize for the impertinence," he said, bowing and stepping away. She turned back to him, her robes still hanging down from around her arms. "But I am required to test you."
"And I must test you, too," she said, her voice trembling. "No man has touched me for a long time."
"That is not my purpose here, only it was required of me. I have important messages from Duinnor."
He struggled to keep his eyes downward, allowing himself only to look upon her legs.
"I am not an ogre," she said.
He ventured a glimpse, no more, and turned away. Only a glance, but, as if from steel and flint, it sent a spark into tender, alighting an ember that rapidly grew.
"Do you wish to have the messages I have brought?"
"I wish for much," she smiled, pulling her robe up, satisfied that he was true, and relieved to avoid torment.
"This is the first: I am to say this to you: ' The star of the west sinketh away, and that of the east rises.' "
"Is that all?"
"Yes, Lady. It is the key to a water cipher." He produced a small wooden box from his shoulder bag on the table and held it to her. "Here are the cipher potions."
He opened the box and showed her the three small vials within, one of red crystal, one of green, and the other of blue.
"First the red, then the green. I am to abide until after the ciphers have been revealed to you. There is a third vial, here," he held up a small blue vial. "I do not know its purpose."
"Very well."
As he held out the box to her, he made as if to drop it. Instantly, she responded to catch the delicate vials, but he grasped it away. Without thinking, she shot a look of surprise at him. So quickly had he changed his mind! So easily had he connived to make her look fully at him! And so readily did she fall for the old trick!
But it was too late for either to resist. His eyes sunk into hers, and hers drilled into his. Tears came as she felt his loneliness, the longing for his faraway love, and the terrible pain of separation upon one so young. More pain came when she realized that his absent lover was dead, and that, in some manner, he was to blame. For his part, he cried out with pain and madness, the darkness of her past swallowing him, burning out of his chest and loins as her insatiable desires entered him and took hold of his will. Then she transformed. Indeed, Esildre was no longer there at all. Instead, impossibly, his own true love stood before him, urging him, as if from the grave, in a way she had never done in life. Yet—so overwhelmed by longing was he, and pleased at her presence—no urging was needed.
"You have always resisted me before," he said, drawing her to the couch. "But I will give myself to thee and comfort thee."
"I must give myself to thee!" his lost lover replied.
• • •
Afterwards, Esildre lay alone on the floor, gazing across the room at the window through which the young man had flung himself. She wept bitterly, reaching out to the blowing drapes as if to clutch at him, to hold him back from it. Wailing, she beat her fists upon the floor, scratching herself with her clawing nails, her face and her chest—wounds that bled profusely but quickly healed and left no blemish—cursing herself and her existence, pleading to Beras for release, cursing Secundur to free her soul. The noise of her agony drew forth attendants from their chambers, and they gathered outside her door, weeping, too, at what they knew had happened, yet none dared to enter until bidden to do so. Elsewhere, deep within the castle, came another voice, the voice of a man imprisoned in her anguished domain. It was a voice full of jealousy and madness, and he laughed at her, believing she surely would now return to him and relieve his terrible desires—the insatiable desires that she had kindled. But the truth of his own madness, telling through his nervous and fading mirth that descended into weeping, was that she never again would lay her eyes upon him.
• • •
Around noon the next day, as new falling snow blew through the window and settled on the bare skin of her back and shoulders and onto the floor all around her, she stirred and saw the little box of vials upon the table beside the young man's bag. Rising, she pulled on her robe and sat for another day upon a chair, looking across the room at the potions, one red, one green, the other blue, glistening in their crystal vials.
Three days later, she still sat. Her servants, gathering their bravery, had entered to tend the fire, to close the window, and to ask of her needs. But she did not reply to them. She continued to sit and stare at the vials, as if in a trance, her face expressionless.
Many times had Raynor sent letters to her, but never befo
re in cipher. And never before had he sent a man to deliver them directly to her. Why this time? Why were they not delivered to the ferryman? She turned to stare at a writing desk on the far side of the room, near the other fireplace, and looked for a long time at the pile of letters near her inkwell and quills. A blank sheet lay there, too. She never answered any of his letters. She was always tempted, for he had been a good friend to her and to her brother, and his missives were kind and ever full of concern for her. He never scolded her, never questioned her reasons for not answering, and never mentioned her depraved existence at the gloomy castle. And, unlike nearly everyone else she had once cared for, he was never mortified by her debauched history with her former captor. Raynor knew Secundur's power, and the power of the curse upon her.
She had not seen Raynor since some years after her escape. Not since her self-imposed exile. She did not like remembering those years of new-found freedom, or any of the years that went before. A hundred years since her escape? No, closer to three hundred. For another week, she sat, contemplating the mystic, her old tutor.
But why use a cipher now? Her thoughts abruptly came back to the messenger. And why, oh why did the young man insist on delivering them in person?
At last, stirring from her chair, she called for her servant and ordered a fresh washbasin be brought to her with full pitchers of water. She bathed away the dried blood from her now-invisible wounds, her tears mingling with the rosy water that ran onto the cold stone floor.
Later, she ordered the basin taken away, and for several new basins to be brought, along with another pitcher of water. When that was done, she bade her servants go away, and she bolted the door after them, turning to the vials.
First the red vial. She knew the process, and untied the packet of letters. The first letter, sealed with red wax, she opened and unfolded. It was a single sheet and appeared to be blank. She placed it into a basin and poured water over it, then she added the clear contents of the red vial and swirled the liquid into the water. Almost instantly, writing appeared, in cipher. Mentally using the quote as a key, she read Raynor's instructions, written with a mix of numbers and runes:
The Bellringer Page 10
