Sorcerer's Son (8 page)

He did not.

She lay sprawled upon the velvet-covered bed for a long while, staring up at the high, dark ceiling, and at last the thought came to her that she needed something new to take her mind off her son. She needed to see a new face, alive, not just in the webs. Castle Spinweb needed a guest. She stretched both hands out, and all around her, concentric rings of spider silk began to glow softly, their patterns blurring to grayness, to windows upon other climes. And all about Delivev the Weaver, people played out some moments of their lives, never knowing that she was picking and choosing among them.

The process took considerable thought and was diverting enough in itself that she hardly noticed how much time passed while she sought an appropriate selection. She weighed men against women, old against young, rich against poor. She rejected this one for being too ugly, this one for talking too much, this one because too many small children required her presence, this one because he had just married a passionate young wife. In the end, her choice narrowed to three footloose younger sons and a handful of troubadours; no one else was free to go wherever he wished without being missed by someone, and Delivev had no desire to cause another person the pain of loss that she herself knew so well, even if it was only for a short time. Of the younger sons, one was a fool, one had disgusting table manners, and one resembled Cray too closely for Delivev’s peace of mind. The troubadours seemed equally witty, talented, and charming; it was their business to be so. Delivev chose the nearest one.

He was a man of middling years, tall and lean, his face craggy and weather-beaten by much outdoor living. His voice was low and full, his fingers nimble upon the strings of his lute, and he wore gold rings and bracelets when he stayed in places where they would not likely be stolen, gifts of wealthy patrons. At the moment Delivev selected him, he was reclining beside a garden pond, watching a king’s young daughters play hide-and-seek. Occasionally, he tore crumbs from a loaf of stale bread and tossed them into the pond, and watched the fish glide to the surface to nibble.

The garden was full of spiders. A person who was not looking for them would scarcely see them, except perhaps for the black speck in the large web where two walls met. Delivev saw the garden from there, but there were other webs, small ones, scattered among the flowers, in the trees, and webless spiders as well, though Delivev had far less control over them. She prodded a small brown spider, and it came out of its hiding place between two stones and began to spin on a bush beside the pond. The troubadour’s eyes had swept past that very bush a hundred times, but never before had he seen a message there, crude letters of spider silk, and the spider still spinning on the last of them:

He stared long at those words, so long that Delivev began to wonder if he knew how to read, despite the movement of his eyes.

A second spider joined the first and added its share while he watched:

He jumped to his feet, staring down at the two spiders. Then he called out hoarsely the names of all the king’s daughters, and he called again and again until, reluctantly, they gave over their game and joined him at the bush. By that time, though, the spiders had been joined by others of their kind that pulled the strands of web loose and pushed them together into a formless tangle. The king’s daughters were annoyed that their game had been interrupted by a few spiders, and they did not forgive the troubadour for the rest of the afternoon.

Delivev watched through the evening as the troubadour sang for the king and his court, and she thought he sang more poorly than usual, as if he were preoccupied. The king sensed something amiss, too, and asked if the troubadour were feeling ill, but the man denied it. He sang another song and then he sat by the fire with his lute, quite near the spiderweb at the corner of the mantelpiece; he sat hunched over, his eyes on the floor, or on some inner scene. At last, quite late, when the king was about to retire to his chambers, the troubadour approached him and sank to one knee.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I have a need for air, for the free moonlight and the open road. I would go out tonight, perhaps for a day or two; I have certain matters to think on.”

“I had not expected you to leave us for a fortnight yet,” said the king. “What makes you change your mind so suddenly?”

“Majesty, if you command me to speak of it, I would but it is a personal matter.”

Delivev smiled. It was a wise man, she thought, that kept the evidence of magic, or of the tricks of his own mind, to himself.

The king waved a hand. “No, I would not press you. Go, if you wish, but I pray you, do not stay away so long this time as last.”

The troubadour bowed low. “I shall not, Majesty.”

Wrapped in a billowing cloak, lute slung over his shoulder, he crossed the drawbridge and bade the sleepy sentries goodnight. The north road was deserted, the travelers that used it during the day bedded down, perhaps even dreaming of the next day’s journey already. The troubadour did not see, as he walked, the webs that hung in the trees on either side of the road, nor did he know of the spiders that hid in the folds of his cloak, but before the castle had slipped full out of sight, he became aware of other spiders and other webs. Where the road curved, a curtain of gossamer strands enveloped him—a net, light as air, strung from one tree to another, across the road. It clung to his flesh and clothing a moment, and then he brushed it away. Another moment passed before he resumed his stride, and in that moment, something stepped into his path.

By moonlight, it had the form of a war horse, standing still, blocking the road with its great body. It dipped its head toward him. It bore no saddle, only fringed reins hanging loose. He moved closer slowly.

“I am Lorien the troubadour,” he said softly. “Is it you that I seek on the north road?”

The creature dipped its head again and closed the distance between them with one stride of its long legs. Now he could see that though it had a horse’s shape, it was made of vines so tightly interlaced that they formed a solid mass; the reins were plaited leaves. Hesitantly, he touched the creature’s neck with one hand, and the tendrils that immediately curled about his fingers made him jerk back as if he had thrust his arm into a fire.

“What power has sent this thing to me?” he asked loudly.

In answer, the creature knelt before him and bent its head to the ground at his feet.

“I am not afraid of you,” he said, and he climbed onto its back. Tendrils clasped his hips and thighs, his knees, his ankles, held them close to the creature’s body as it rose to its feet. He laid a hand on its neck, then pulled his fingers free of the clinging tendrils; his legs came free as well, with a sharp tug, but as soon as they touched the creature’s sides again, they were claimed. He sat stiff at first, but when nothing further happened, he slumped and kicked impatiently with one foot. “Well?” he said. “Will you take me somewhere or not?”

The creature tossed its head and, turning, began to move northward along the moonlit road. It had a smooth and sinuous gait, not like a real horse at all, and it rustled as it went, like wind soughing through a hedge. It sped like the wind as well, as fast as a real horse could gallop, untiring through the night, its rider secured without benefit of saddle. The moon set, and first light dimmed the stars. Just after dawn the creature slowed, left the path to slide among the trees until it found a sunny, dew-decked glen, where it sank to the earth and fell apart, and he was left kneeling astride a pile of vines. He stood awkwardly and looked around, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with both hands. After a brief circuit of the open space, in which he saw no sign of human habitation, he eased his lute to the grass and himself after it, wrapping his body in his cloak as in a blanket. His eyelids sagged, though he had only a stone for a pillow, and then they parted abruptly, wide, as he saw the vines take root in the grassy soil and slim, pointed wands nose out from among the stalks, unrolling themselves into leaves that spread, broad and green, in the morning sunlight. The troubadour slipped one hand under his cheek and waited, and when nothing further happened, he finally fell asleep.

He woke late in the afternoon, found a brook in a dip at the far side of the glen, drank deep and splashed cold water on his face and neck. Then he paced a circle about the vines, which sprawled across the ground beneath their coat of leaves like any innocent plant, and he spoke to them: “Is this the end of the journey?” They rustled in answer, lifted toward him briefly, as if blown by a gust of air that he could not feel, and he stepped back hastily. He sat down then, some distance from the vines, and drew from the pouch at his belt a chunk of hard cheese; he sliced a piece off with his dagger and began to chew it.

Another rustling sound, much nearer than the vines, made him turn sharply to his left. Seeing the source of the noise, he froze in place, knife still poised over the cheese. A large snake approached him, sliding through rank grass and over stones, its body almost the thickness of his wrist. A loop of its heavy tail encircled a limp rabbit, which it dragged along the ground. The snake came to rest beside the troubadour’s knee, and it lifted its head till its darting tongue was level with his throat. Still, he did not move, only stared back into the lidless eyes, and at last the snake swayed, dipped to the ground, and slithered away. It left the rabbit behind.

Lorien waited until spiders had gathered about the rabbit and spun a web on the grass, with one word upon it in many thicknesses of silk:

He built a fire and cooked and ate.

At sunset, the vines began to move. Their leaves rolled themselves into thin cylinders and dived beneath the stalks, which humped up and formed a familiar shape. The vine-horse tossed its head and knelt that the troubadour might mount. He did so, and they returned to the road and the ride.

Days passed in this manner—the vines a steed by night and a cluster of plants by day, snakes bearing small game for Lorien’s meals each afternoon. Soon he was moving through lands he had never seen before, and one night, when the moon was on the wane, the road curved but the vine-horse did not. Into the trackless forest it galloped, and its rider was forced to duck low upon its back to avoid being swept off by hanging branches. The wide road had been faintly lit by moon and starlight, but the depths of the forest were dark, even the trees less individual shadows than a continuous gloom, yet the vine-steed galloped a sure course among them. In the morning, instead of stopping, it sped on, and before the sun had reached the zenith, it stood before Castle Spinweb.

The vines slumped below Lorien, and as he watched they slithered across the ground to the green-clad castle wall, rooted, unfurled their leaves, and blended among the other vines clinging there so perfectly that no one could have picked them out as having led a mobile, magical life.

Lorien knocked boldly at the castle gate, and the third time his fists struck the carven panel, it swung smoothly open. Sunlight streamed past him, washing out the radiance of many flambeaux within, illuminating a tapestry-hung room with floor of polished stone. He entered, and the door closed silently behind him. Turning about, he found himself facing a figure so cloaked and deeply hooded that no trace of human flesh showed anywhere upon it. Lorien inclined his head.

“You may tell your master that Lorien the troubadour is here.”

The figure made no reply, only glided silently past him, moving as bonelessly as if it slid across an ice-covered pond, and it beckoned with one gloved hand that he should follow. He did so. Some distance down the curving corridor from the gateroom was a stairway, which they climbed. At the top, the figure paused at the first of two doors, opened it, and gestured for the troubadour to enter. Inside was a pleasant room, lit by the sun shining through tall windows. Tapestries covered two of the walls, and a third bore the windows, a cold fireplace between them. In one corner was a velvet-draped bed, in another a heavy table and two chairs; the table was set with wine flask and cup, saltcellar, and a platter bearing a whole roasted fowl.

“My dinner?” asked Lorien.

The cloaked figure bowed.

“I see two chairs. Will your master be joining me?”

For answer, the figure glided through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind it. Lorien strode to the door, found it unlocked, and pulled it ajar. Then, tossing his lute to the bed and seating himself in the chair that faced the entrance, he consumed his meal. He had scarcely finished when the cloaked figure returned with a tray and bore away the scraps and tableware.

After it had gone, he went to the window and looked out upon the forest. His eyes were level with the tops of the shortest trees. Leaning out, he could see that he was in one of the castle’s towers; above was another pair of windows, and beyond them a parapet. Below, too far to leap without breaking a leg, was the banquette, the narrow walkway just behind the outer wall.

He faced the room once more. “Am I a prisoner here?” he asked of tapestries red and gold and brown. They did not reply. One by one he turned them back, but he found nothing behind them save blank stone walls and cobwebs. He walked out the door then, and down a few steps; there was no sound from below, nor did he see any motion. The upper staircase was silent as well. On the landing once more, he hesitated a moment and reached for the handle of the second door.

He found himself in a room of mock weapons, wooden sword and shield, wooden mace and axe—they hung on the walls like hunting trophies. Beneath them stood chests, table, chair, all covered with a fine layer of dust. He opened one of the chests and found a boy’s clothing laid neatly away, shirts and trews too small for a grown man, and tucked among them a stuffed animal so bedraggled that its identity was impossible to determine. He shut the chest, tried another, and found clothing more suitable to a man. He shut that, too, and having exhausted the room’s secrets, he went out.

He yawned. “If no one objects,” he said loudly, “I shall try the bed.”