Sorcerer's Son (9 page)

He slept soundly beneath the velvet cover.

The cloaked figure woke him. He had slept through the night, and morning light upon the tapestries made the room seem warm. Warm, too, was the glow of a small fire upon the hearth grate, and the room was filled with the rich scent of eggs frying in butter. The figure slipped away from the bed and bent to remove a pan from the flames. The table had already been set with bread and milk. Lorien pulled on his boots and shirt and sat down to eat.

“Your master is very generous,” he said to the figure. “The bed is soft, the food is excellent. Shall I meet my host this day?” When the figure remained silent, he caught at its sleeve. “Can’t you speak?” he asked.

The figure bowed to him and tried to pull the sleeve away, but his grip was too firm.

“Look at me!” he said sharply.

The hood turned to him, its rim hanging so low that it touched the front of the cloak.

“How can you see with that hood?” he asked, and with a swift movement of his free hand, he threw it back.

Beneath, the figure’s head was a swaddle of cloth, lumpy, misshapen. There were no slits for eyes or nose or mouth.

Lorien stared, and his fingers loosened their hold on the sleeve and the figure pulled away, but not completely, not before he grasped at its gloved hand. The glove came off in his fist, revealing that the figure had no hand. The glove, which had picked a pan out of the fire and set it upon a trivet on the table, had been empty. He dropped the glove, now quite limp, as if it were a severed hand. The figure retrieved it with its other gloved hand, and in a moment it had two, as mobile as before. It used both to pull its hood up. Then it bowed and left Lorien to his breakfast. He ate slowly, his eyes upon the door, but no one entered as long as he was at the table.

Afterward, he sat on the bed, the lute cradled in his lap, and he plucked aimlessly at the strings. “You called me here,” he said at last, no more loudly than if he were speaking to a person in the very same room. “Won’t you show yourself?”

Long moments passed, and when no one came he began to relax, to stroke runs of melody from the lute, to hum with them. He was looking down at the strings when he heard the voice.

“Good morning. Welcome to Castle Spinweb.” His head jerked up, and he saw a woman standing in the doorway, a brown-haired woman in a long dress made of white feathers. He tossed the lute aside and scrambled to his feet. He bowed. “You are the lady of the castle?” he inquired.

“Spinweb is mine,” Delivev said, smiling. “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.”

“It was excellent, my lady, most excellent.”

“I trust your journey was not too arduous?”

“It was most interesting. I have never ridden such a steed before.”

She laughed lightly. “I suspect that no one has. I hadn’t thought of making one before.” She half-turned, lifting one hand toward him. “Come see the garden, Master Lorien.” He moved to obey, and she added, “And bring your lute, of course. What is a troubadour without his music?”

“Yes, yes, my lady. On the instant.” He clutched the instrument by its short neck and followed her down the stairs. “I think you must be a mighty wizard,” he said as they descended.

“I am.” She glanced at him over one shoulder. “But I mean you no harm.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Have you never visited a sorcerer’s castle, Master Lorien?”

“Never. I understood that they care little for music.”

“Who told you that?”

“Why

I don’t know. It’s common knowledge, isn’t it?”

“Common knowledge among ignorant folk, perhaps. We like music as well as ordinary mortals do.”

“You have no other purpose in bringing me here

than to listen to my music?”

“What other purpose do you think I might have?”

He hesitated, lagging a little behind her. “I am only a troubadour,” he said. “My imagination does not stretch so far.”

She laughed again. “Oh, come along, don’t be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” he said staunchly, “else I would never have heeded your call.”

On the ground floor they crossed the main corridor, passed through a series of arching portals, and stepped into the garden. Early sunlight splashed one corner of the open area; the rest was still shaded by the surrounding castle walls, cool and dew-decked. Delivev went to a pair of pale stone benches set in the sunshine, and she seated herself on one of them, gesturing him to the other.

“Play something for me,” she said.

He laid the lute upon his lap. “Have you some preference?”

“Do you have a song of travel to far lands? Of eternal wandering? Of impossible quests?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, something of the sort, my lady.”

“I will listen.”

He strummed a chord, and then he smiled a little. “This seems so strange

I am not accustomed to playing for an audience of one, unless that audience were myself alone.”

“There are others listening,” she said.

He looked around. “I see no one. Do you mean behind those windows?” He pointed to slits in the masonry of the keep.

“There are birds,” she said, and a small blue one landed on her shoulder and pecked gently at her earlobe. “And one of my dearest friends will be pleased to listen.” The quick sound of horseshoes on the flagstones made Lorien turn about as a shaggy pony ambled from an open doorway on the shaded side of the garden and went straight to Delivev, nuzzling at her neck and displacing the bird, which jumped down to the bench beside her. She caressed the pony’s face with one hand. “Do you like this audience better?” she asked.

“Is there no one in this castle but you and these animals

and that

servant who let me in yesterday?”

“Spinweb is full of life,” she said, “of various kinds. You shall meet them all if you stay long.”

“How long, fair lady, were you planning on having me here?”

She shrugged. “How long would you stay at any castle?”

“As long as the master let me.”

“And at a wizard’s castle? Not quite so long, yes? Not quite?”

“I don’t know. This is a new experience for me, my lady.”

The pony started toward Lorien and snorted, stretching its neck to reach the troubadour, to nose past the lute to a pouch at his belt. Lorien edged away, down the length of the bench, and the pony followed.

“Are you afraid of a pony?” Delivev asked, smiling at his discomfiture.

“What does he want?”

“An apple, I think, or a carrot. My son always kept something for him in a pouch on his belt. Come, Graylegs, come!” She slapped the pony’s rump, and it lifted its head and looked back at her a moment, then turned about and walked slowly to her. She circled its neck with one arm. “We’ll find you a tasty morsel, my darling, don’t worry,” she murmured. “Just stay here by me and leave the troubadour alone.” To Lorien, she said, “He’s an ordinary pony, I promise you. There’s no magic in him at all. I merely caused the gate of his stall to unlatch, and so he came to me.”

Lorien grinned sheepishly. “I don’t know what to expect in this castle

after this morning’s meal.”

“Oh? Was something wrong with it?”

“No, no, it was excellent. But the servant who brought it

was rather peculiar.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Her face

was all covered with cloths. I can’t guess how she was able to see or even to breathe. And her hand

” His voice faded away as his gaze, which had been concentrating on Delivev, shifted to a spot beyond her shoulder.

A snake was slithering across the flags, bearing in its open jaws a large, rosy apple. It presented this apple to Delivev, rising to knee level to drop it in her lap. The pony did not startle at this apparition but rather dipped its head to take the fruit before Delivev could lay a finger on it.

“Greedy creature,” she whispered as it crunched the apple loudly, and she stroked its shaggy mane. When the chewing noises had subsided, she said, “Play, Master Lorien. Play.” She glanced sidelong at him, then down toward her knee, the direction of his gaze. The snake was still there, swaying slightly, looking up at her. “Does she disturb you?” she asked. “She isn’t venomous. Ah, but she’s quite deaf, so there’s little for her to gain by staying. Be off with you, my pet.” The snake’s head dropped to the ground, and the animal slipped into the bushes. “I promise you,” Delivev said to Lorien, “none of my creatures shall harm you as long as you conduct yourself as a proper guest.”

“I am grateful for that promise, fair lady, but can you be certain

?”

“I control them completely, I assure you. There is nothing in this castle that lies beyond my will. Except perhaps the pony.” She smiled at it. “And you, of course, Master Lorien.”

He inclined his head. “I, too, am yours to command.”

“Then ply your trade, troubadour. Sing!”

He sang the tale of an endless quest through summer heat and winter frost, from one end of the world to the other. She had heard the song before, at a distant hearth, though not by him. She had heard it, she thought, before he was born. She sat in the sunlight and she listened, and she could almost imagine that he sang from a web spun in the garden, save that he looked at her as the music flowed from his lips.

When he was finished, she said, “Yes, I have always thought you sang quite well.”

He laid the lute on the bench beside him. “Your pardon, lady

but we have never met before.”

“No, we have not, but I have heard you.”

“Ah

magic.”

“Sing again.”

“My lady

I would know for whom it is that I sing. You have a name, surely?”

“Surely. I am Delivev Ormoru, sometimes called the Weaver. Have you heard that name?”

He shook his head.

She smiled. “I have some local reputation. All undeserved. After you leave Spinweb, you may hear some people speak of me with fear. I hope the impression you carry with you will give you cause to discount their views.”

“You have been only too kind to me, my lady, so far.” He rubbed with two fingers at the varnished surface of his lute. “And I am reassured when I hear you refer to experiences I might have after leaving your castle. In truth, I was not sure that you intended for me to leave.”

“I have no spells that require a troubadour’s entrails, Master Lorien. I deal in quite a different sort of sorcery. Sing again; it’s a beautiful day for singing, is it not?”

“It is a beautiful day,” said Lorien, and he sang.

Outside the castle walls, the gray squirrel heard music rising from the garden. Gildrum had not seen the arrival of the vine-steed and its rider, and now the demon wondered if Delivev’s spiders had spun a web in the garden instead of the web chamber, for her to view some distant scene. It wished it had a bird’s form, to fly with seeming innocence close above the castle. But Rezhyk had never given it wings, and it could only fly in its true form. It looked up at the sky; a few clouds floated near the sun, but none across. The squirrel vanished as Gildrum passed from the human to the demon world, its normal mode of travel over long distances; it re-emerged as a flame against the sun, a bright spot invisible in the glow of that brilliant disk. It hung above the castle, far higher than the tallest trees, and below it Spinweb was laid out like a child’s toy fortress. It could see Delivev, a doll-figure seated on a garden bench, and Cray’s old pony stood close beside her. On another bench was a man, a lute cradled in his lap; from this height the music of both voice and strings was lost.

A man.

Gildrum perceived he was an ordinary mortal with an ordinary aura, no sorcerer. The flame that was Gildrum grew hotter, whiter even than the sun, and some moments slipped by before it recognized the emotion it was feeling.

Jealousy.

Gildrum returned to Ringforge, to the tower room that was its own, to the form of the girl with blond braids. She threw herself on the cold stone floor and wept hot, human tears.

What right have I to deny her a human lover? she asked herself. None. None.

Still, she wept. Gildrum had never wept before.

Ť ^ ť

The ochre beeswax had all run out of the clay mold, which was now ready to receive molten metal. Rezhyk drew the long-handled cup from its small oven and tilted it carefully above the clay; liquid gold spilled in a thin, steady stream from the spout, filling the channels that led to the ring form. The air above the flow shimmered with its heat.

“This will be a fine one,” said Rezhyk. “I can feel it in the smoothness of the pour.”

“You have a steady hand,” said Gildrum. She sat on the high stool by the brazier, holding the cloth with which he would wipe his sweating face when he was finished. “Have there been any but fine ones in the last dozen years?”

“There was the one we did the night of the storm.”

“I don’t count that one. Even I was startled by that clap of thunder.”

“I count it,” said Rezhyk, setting the spoon on a trivet and reaching for the cloth. “Many a good hour of spell-casting was wasted on that monstrosity.”

“You could have used it still. You could have trimmed and polished it and set the stone in it. Only |your own desire for perfection made you destroy it.”

Rezhyk shook his head. “Even with your great experience, my Gildrum, you don’t know everything. Nor do I, I confess it. I could not take the chance that the slave might use the imperfection to break free and do me some mischief. Not with that one. He was too powerful. And too angry at being caught.”

“We are all angry at first,” said Gildrum. “It fades.”

“Does it? Well, perhaps with some. You, my Gildrum—you are not angry with me any more, are you?”

“You know the answer to that, my lord, or you would not care to keep me by your side.”

“Not even a little?”

Her clear blue eyes gazed straight into his. “I bear you no grudge for summoning me. You have given me an interesting life in the human world, and I have learned much from it and from you.”

Rezhyk turned his back to her. “Yet, when first I summoned you—how you raged! You would have liked to burn me to a cinder on the spot.”