Reave the Just and Other Tales (37 page)

Throughout the day she labored under his guidance, trying to do several things at once. As she heated her new cookpot until the iron shone red, she also ground rueweed and fennel and sloewort and garlic and vert and silver flakes to fine powder; at the same time, she gripped the lump of ambergris between her thighs to soften it. While she warmed lard to liquid in one of her mixing bowls, she also kneaded the ambergris until it became as workable as beeswax. And when her hands were too tired for kneading, she busied herself dividing her powders into ever more meticulous quantities and combining them with pinches of dried dyes.

Children came to scratch at her curtain, but she sent them away without caring whether she was brusque. She would have sent all Sarendel away. Horrik the tanner came as well; he seemed to want nothing more than an opportunity to sit and look at her. But she told him “No,” calling the word past Karay’s heavy curtain without raising her head from her work. “If you meant to speak to me, you should have done so long ago.” She hardly heard herself add, “I am too far beyond you now.”

Morning lapsed to afternoon; afternoon became evening. Still she worked. Now her hands were raw and her arms quivered, and sweat splashed from her cheeks to the dirt. Fire and red iron filled the hovel with heat until even the slats of the walls appeared to sweat. The smells of powders and dyes in strange combinations made her head wobble on her neck. But Titus did not relent. His instructions were unending, and she labored with all her willingness to obey them.

At last he let her pause. While she rested, panting, he surveyed her handiwork, squinting blind and silver at what she had done.

Now,
he announced distinctly.
Now or never.

With the hem of her robe, she mopped sweat from her face. Fatigue blurred her sight, so that she could no longer see the pig clearly.

“Have they come yet?” she asked in a whisper. “Are they here?”

I cannot tell,
he responded.
Even a pig’s senses cannot distinguish between those scents and what we do.

But it does not matter. Whether they are poised around us or miles away, we must do what we can.

Fern, are you ready?

Because all his fear was hers, she countered, “Are you?”

To her surprise, he filled her mind with laughter.
No,
he admitted,
not ready at all.
Then he repeated,
But it does not matter. For us there is only now or never.

“Then,” she repeated in her turn, “tell me what to do.”

Now his instructions were simple. She obeyed them one at a time, as carefully as she could.

The lump of ambergris she divided in two parts, each of which she molded with her fingers until it was shaped like a bowl. Into these bowls she apportioned the powders she had prepared, the mixtures of herbs and dyes and metal. Using Horrik’s knife, she pricked at the veins in her forearm until enough blood flowed to moisten the powders. Then quickly, so that nothing spilled, she cupped one bowl over the other to form a ball. With water warmed in a pan at the edge of the fire, she stroked the seam of the ball until the ambergris edges were smeared together and sealed.

Good.
Titus studied her hands while she worked as though he were rapt. His breathing had become a hoarse wheeze, and sweat glistened among the bristles on his hide.
The ball. The lard. My water dish. And some means to remove that cookpot from the fire.

Fern flinched at the thought. The fatal glow of the iron seemed to thrust her back. She was not sure that she could go near enough to the pot to take hold of it.

A shaft of anger and fear broke through Titus’ calm; he grunted a curse. But then, grimly, he stilled himself. Reverting to images, he made her see herself taking two brands from her dwindling woodpile and bracing them under the handles of the cookpot to lift it out.

She picked up the brands, set them in front of her beside the half-full water dish, the lard, and the ambergris ball.

The pig stood facing her as though nothing else existed—as though all the world had shrunk down to one lone woman. He had told her more than once to hurry, but now he gave her no instructions, and did not move himself.

Fear crowded her throat. “Titus,” she breathed, “why do you delay?”

Like you
,
he told her,
I am afraid.

After a moment, he added,
Do you remember your first name for me? It was Mythanks. At the time, I was not amused. But now I consider it a better name than Titus.

So swiftly that she could not distinguish them, images rang through her head. In one motion, she rose to her feet and dropped the ball into the cookpot.

Ambergris hit the red iron with a scream of scalding wax. But before the ball melted entirely away, she snatched up the lard and poured it also into the pot.

Instantly the smoke and stench of burning fat filled the hovel. The walls seemed to vanish. Tears burst from Fern’s eyes. She could no longer see Titus.

She could see his images still, however. They guided her hands to the brands, guided the brands to the cookpot; they made her strong and sure as she lifted out the pot and tilted it to decant its searing contents into the dish.

Gouts of steam spat and blew through the reeking smoke. Nevertheless Titus did not hesitate now. The potion would lose its efficacy as it cooled.

Plunging his snout into the fiery dish, he drank until he could no longer endure the agony. Then he threw back his head and screamed.

Fern cried out at the same instant, wailed, “Titus!” She had never heard such a scream. The pain of cattle was eloquent enough. And pigs could squeal like slaughtered children. But this was worse, far worse. It was the pure anguish of a pig and the utter torment of a man in one, and it seemed to shake the hovel. The walls bowed outward; smoke and stink filled the air with hurt.

And the scream did not stop. Shrill with agony and protest, it splashed like oil into the fire, so that flames blazed to the ceiling. The smoke itself caught fire and began roaring like the core of the sun. Conflagration limned each slat of the walls and roof, etched every scrap and leaf of her pallet against the black dirt. The scream became fire itself. Flames ate at Fern’s robe, her face, her hair. In another instant it would devour her, and she would fall to ashes—

But it did not. Instead it seemed to coalesce in front of her. Flames left the walls to flow through the air; flames drained off her and were swept up into the center of the hovel. The fire she had made lost heat. Her pallet ceased burning. Every burst and blaze came together to engulf Titus.

At the same time, another fire burned in Fern’s head, as though she, too, were being consumed.

Outside her, beyond her, he stood in the middle of the floor, motionless. Like wax, he melted in the flames. And like wax, he fed the flames, so that they mounted higher while he was consumed. From his pig’s body they grew to a pillar which nearly touched the roof. Then the pillar changed shape until it writhed and roiled like a tortured man.

Abruptly he stopped screaming.

The fire went out.

A deep dark closed over Fern. The smoke and stench blinded her with tears; echoes of flame dazzled her. She could see nothing until he took hold of her arms and lifted her to her feet.

Lit by the last embers of her fire, a man stood in the hovel with her. Clad only in a faint red glow and shadows, he released her arms and stepped back so that she could see him more clearly.

He was tall and strong. Not young—she saw many years in the lines of his face and the color of his beard. Prominent cheekbones hid his eyes in caves of shadow. Beneath a nose like the blade of a hatchet, his mouth was harsh.

Looking at him, she was hardly able to breathe. She knew him without question—he was Titus, the pig who had chosen her, the one she loved—and the sight of him struck her dumb, as though he had stepped out of her dreams to meet her. Was he handsome? To her, he was so handsome that she quailed in front of him.

“Fern,” he murmured softly, “oh, my Fern, we have done it.” His voice was the voice she had heard in her mind, the voice which had taught her words—the voice which had changed her life. “We have
done
it.”

Before she could fall to her knees in hope and love and astonishment, another voice answered him. As hard as the clang of iron, it called out,
“But not in time!”

“Damnation!” A snarl leaped across Titus’ face; embers and silver flashed from his hidden eyes. His strong hands reached out and snatched Fern to him as though he meant to protect her.

In that instant, a bolt like lightning shattered the hovel. Argent power tore the air apart. A concussion too loud for hearing knocked the walls to shards and splinters, and swept them away. Embers and rags scattered as though they had been scoured from the dirt. Fern was only kept on her feet amid the blast by Titus’ grasp. She clung to him helplessly while her home ceased to exist.

Then they found themselves with their arms around each other under the open sky at the edge of the village. This was the spot where her hovel had stood, but no sign of it remained: even her iron cookpot had been stricken from the place. Dimmed by glaring coruscation, a few stars winked coldly out of the black heavens.

A circle of fire the color of ice surrounded her and Titus. It blazed and spat from the ground as though it marked the rim of a pit which would open under their feet. At first it was so bright that her abused eyes could not see past it. But gradually she made out figures beyond the white, crystal fire. On the other side of the ring, she and Titus were also surrounded by men and women on horseback, as well as by the people of Sarendel-on-Gentle.

She saw Jessup and Yoel there, Veil and Nell and Meglan, Horrik and Karay, all the folk she had known throughout her life. Only the children were absent, no doubt commanded to their homes with the best authority their parents could muster. The strange, chill light seemed to leech the familiar faces of color; they were as pallid as ghosts. Their eyes were haunted and abashed, full of shame or fear.

Among them towered the riders. These figures also were spectral in the icy glow. Nevertheless they masked their fear and betrayed no shame. Their eyes and mouths showed only anger and determination, an un-remitting outrage matched by resolve.

Fern had never seen such men and women before. Their armor and cloaks and caps, their weapons and apparatus, were outlandish, at once regal and incomprehensible. Yet she seemed to recognize them as soon as she caught sight of them. There was Prince Chorl—there, with the blunt forehead, the circlet in his curling hair, and the beard like a breastplate. He was accompanied by his lords and minions, as well as by his daughter Florice—her plain riding habit, wild hair, and undefended visage made her unmistakable. And among the others were Andovale’s masters of magic, come to carry out the judgment of the council against one of their own.

All of them had ridden here for no reason except that the people of Sarendel had squirmed when Destrier had asked them about change. And those people had squirmed because they had known of a change which they had not wished to name. Out of loyalty or pity, they had declined to mention that she, Fern, had been adopted by a pig none of them had ever seen before. And yet their very desire to protect Fern had betrayed the man who now held her in his arms. He was snared in this circle by his enemies because of her.

She did not ask how she knew such things. She knew a great deal which had been vague to her before: the fire which had transformed Titus had altered her in some way as well. Or perhaps in his desperation for her help he had altered her more than he intended. She made connections easily, as though the pathways of new understanding had been burned clear in her brain.

One among the riders was fiercer than the others; his rage shone more hotly. He lacked the sorrow which moderated Prince Chorl’s anger. Alone of the warlocks—the men who bore apparatus and periapts instead of arms were surely warlocks—he rode at his Prince’s side, opposite Florice. He appeared to command the ring of riders as much as the Prince did.

“So, Suriman,” this warlock barked across the fire, “you are caught again—and damned as much for new crimes as for old. How you escaped us to work your evil here, I do not fully understand. But we are prepared to be certain that you do not escape again.”

Suriman? Fern thought. Suriman?

The man in her arms loosened his embrace so that he could bow. If he felt any dismay at his nakedness, he did not deign to show it. His lips grinned sardonically over his teeth, and silver glinted like a threat in his eye. “My lord Prince.” His voice was as clear and harsh as the night. “My lady. Titus. You are fortunate to catch me. In another hour I would have been beyond the worst that you can do.”

Fern felt a pang around her heart. “Titus?” she asked aloud. Connections twisted through her, as ghostly and fatal as the riders. “You said
your
name was Titus.”

“He is called Suriman because we do not speak his name,” the warlock barked. “I am Titus. If he told you his name is mine, that is only one lie among many.”

“Titus?” Fern asked again. Surrounded by cold fire, she sounded small and lost. Ignoring the warlock, she faced the man who had been her pig. Unprotected from the cold, he had begun to shiver slightly. “Titus?”

He did not look at her; his gaze held the Prince and the warlock. When he spoke, his voice cut like a whip. “Her name is Fern, Titus. You will address her as ‘my lady.’ Regardless of your contempt for me, you will show her courtesy.”

Fern flung a glance at this unfamiliar Titus in time to see him flinch involuntarily. All the power here was his—and still he feared his enemy.

Prince Chorl lifted his head. His eyes were as deep as the night. “Show her courtesy yourself, Suriman. Answer her.”

For a moment, the man hesitated. But then, slowly, he turned in Fern’s grasp so that he could face her. Again his eyes were hidden away in shadows. Yet he seemed abashed by her needy stare, as if he were more vulnerable to her than to any of the circled riders.