The Forgotten Beasts of Eld (15 page)

“Are you sure?”

She held his eyes. “It will be done.”

He drew a soft breath and loosed it. “I think it will be done with Sirle.”

The building of the gardens for the animals began with the softening of the earth in spring and progressed into the long summer. One by one Sybel called the animals to Sirle: first the Black Swan to take its place in a small, glass-clear lake filled with smooth stones and fire-bright fish. She went to meet it as it descended slowly over the garden, and came to glide without a ripple, night-black and regal, over the still waters. Its voice ran smooth, melodious through her thoughts.

It is small, but pleasing.

Rok
, said Sybel,
is going to have a white fountain put in the middle.

The shape, Sybel?

Two swans in flight, soaring upward, with their beaks touching.

Yes. And that matter concerning you?

It will be settled. Soon.

I am in readiness, when you have need of me.

She called Gyld from his corner in the dark, damp wine cellar and he fell asleep again in a grotto shaded by trees, cooled by a vein of the Slinoon trained beneath the wall that danced past his cave into the Swan’s lake. Jewels, cups and gold pieces past value winked dully in the shadows around him, for he had given Sybel the path to his mountain cave, and Rok had sent Eorth, Bor and Herne secretly to bring his gold. They had returned, three days after he sent them, exhausted, overladen and awestricken.

“We could not bring it all,” Bor said to Rok and Sybel. He rubbed his weary eyes as though at a vision for which there were no words. “Rok, we waded ankle-deep in places through silver pieces. There were the bones of three dead men, and one wore a king’s crown. And that is the beast we put so blithely into our wine cellar.”

“You have nothing to fear from him,” Sybel said. “He is old, and he wants nothing now but his dreams, and his gold securely about him. He is pleased with his cave.”

“You could buy a kingdom with that gold,” Herne said, his blue eyes gleaming in his arched, restless face. A corner of Rok’s mouth lifted faintly.

“Yes.”

She called the Lyon and the great, green-eyed Cat next, and they came by night, gleaming, velvet beneath the moonlight across the Sirle fields. Sybel met them at the gate, opened it for them, and they passed through softly into the garden, the grass whispering beneath them, the blossoming trees white and still against the night sky.

By winter there will be a warm place built for you, she said. I will miss you wandering in and out of my rooms. Perhaps by winter they will learn not to fear you. This place is small, but it is private and no one should disturb you.

Gules Lyon lay down in the long grass at her feet. Moriah prowled soft as a shadow through the night, while the Black Swan drifted drowsing through moon-shot waters.

The Lord of Sirle has done much for you, White One
, said Gules.
Have you spoken to him yet?

Yes. I offered him Eldwold. He accepted.

Gules gave a rumble, deep in his throat.
Good.

Coren came to see them the next morning. He brought his brothers; they stood together silently, watching Gules tear open the haunch of a deer Coren had shot for him. Ceneth sucked breath between his teeth.

“You control that?”

Sybel nodded. “In the mountains, most of the time they do their own hunting, since the gardens were wide. But here, there are so many things—farmers, horses, cattle—that would be frightened by their comings and goings.”

“I will assign men to hunt for them,” Rok said, and her face cleared.

“Thank you. Now I will give them your names.”

She called the two Cats to her, and the Black Swan; and the men were still beneath the still gazes of the three, while Sybel moved among them, one by one, naming each.

Rok. Bor. Eorth. Herne. Ceneth. Remember them. Guard them.

“Where is Cyrin?” Coren said. “Have you called him?”

“No.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Surely the place is ready for him. Call him now, Sybel. He must be lonely by himself. He will think you do not want him.”

She drew a breath. “I hope he will be happy here.” She lifted her face toward the wind and sent the final call across the land, and felt Cyrin, beneath a tree, rise in answer.

“Cyrin,” Eorth said to Herne. “The Boar. Coren says he talks.”

“I believe it,” Herne said simply. “After what we have seen these past days, I am willing to believe anything.”

Sybel spoke with Rok again that night, in private when the household lay asleep around them and the dogs stretched dreaming at their feet. The scent of early summer rose from the crushed blossoms and new rushes on the stone floor, from the fields lying night-damp, with seedlings breaking the earth.

“I have told Ceneth and Bor that you will help us against Drede,” Rok said. “Eorth and Herne know only that we plot a war: they will not question how or why, but Ceneth and Bor have wits and use them. They know Sirle might overthrow the King alone, but not the combined forces of the King and the Lords of Niccon and Hilt. So they asked me, of course, where we would get the strength. I explained. They approved.” He paused a moment, sipping wine. “We were reared to battle, Sybel. Our grandfather laid the seventy-day siege of Mondor, and our father, not much older than Tamlorn, then, fought beside him. Since Norrel’s death at Terbrec we have wanted revenge, but Niccon sided with Drede at that battle, and Horst of Hilt threw up his hands in despair and waited for the outcome of the war over his dead daughter. So we have not been sure of support.”

“Would Horst of Hilt fight, do you think, for the wrong Drede has done Laran’s daughter; or would he fight for Rianna’s child, Drede’s son?”

Rok shook his head. “I would not like to make a choice like that myself. Coren is right, I suspect: he will fight for the man he thinks will win. In this case: Drede.”

“So. I will persuade him otherwise.” She lifted her eyes to Rok’s face. “And the Lord of Niccon. When shall I bring them to you?”

“Let me begin gathering men. Drede will turn to Hilt and Niccon, ask for support, and they will no doubt give it to him. Then, Sybel, you may call them, and Drede will watch his support drain like water through his fingers... I think he will know then who is behind the Sirle war.”

She nodded. “And Coren. Does he know what you are planning?”

“He will, when Herne and Eorth begin to babble. No doubt he will think I am mad, until he sees Derth of Niccon ride into our courtyard.”

“He must not know where the money comes from.”

“No.”

She stirred a little. “I am afraid.”

“Of Coren?”

“Yes. I am afraid of the look in his eyes the day he finds out what game I am playing with Sirle.”

“It is our game as much as yours. You gave us a choice, and we took it. Besides, do you think if you told him what Drede had done to you he would not want revenge of his own? Why will you not tell him?”

“No.”

“But why? He is your husband—he would surely support your revenge. He has no love for Drede.”

Her mouth tightened. “I will not draw Coren into the whirlpool of my anger and hatred. No revenge of his making could satisfy me, and it is purposeless involving him in mine. I want—I want to keep him free of hate. He—the night we flew the Dragon, we dropped downward suddenly, rushing toward darkness as though toward the endless deep of the night, blind, helpless, as you are when there is nothing left of you but the unhidden center of yourself—and from the core of him came a living, joyous laughter. Lost in his own hate for Drede, he could not have laughed like that. He may fight in this war simply because if he refused to fight for my sake and you died at battle, he would never forgive himself for not being with you. But I will give him no great cause to fight for. I will not drag him through his grief and bitterness again. He has given me so much love. At least I can give him that one protection.”

Rok looked at her silently a moment, his lips parted “I doubt if it is possible,” he said at last, gently. “But I love you for trying.”

She went the next afternoon to the room high in the house that Rok had given her and sat for a while in the silence, stilling her thoughts, searching in far and secret places for the elusive Liralen. Her books stood on shelves against the walls, the metal and jewels on their backs searched by fingers of light that came from windows facing three directions. Lost to Sirle, sending thread after thread of a call that drifted always idly, unattached, unanswered, she did not see Coren until he knelt before her where she sat on cushions, and spoke her name.

“Sybel.”

She drew her mind back from regions farther than she had ever gone, and looked at him silently, blinking a moment.

“Coren. I am sorry—I did not hear you come in. I was calling the Liralen. I am looking in places so far they have no names, and yet I think it must be closer; I think sometimes it must have answered, but I did not hear it.”

“Sybel—” He paused, his brows drawn in a rare frown. She reached out, traced the lines of it on his face.

“What is it?”

He took her hand, folded her fingers in his. “Sybel, my brothers are babbling of war. Rok has sent messengers to our border farmers to mend their armor and shoe their war-horses, and he is sending Bor and Eorth to the lesser lords of Eldwold who are pledged through lands and favors to Sirle. I have asked Rok why, and why again, and he laughs and says that Drede is afraid of us or they would have killed me that day on Eld Mountain. I have asked him what hope of support he has, why he would risk our lives and lands for a battle that will be only another Terbrec, and he says that he will dangle the bait of power in front of Lord Horst, who is kin to both you and Tamlorn. He told me he did not expect me to fight against Drede, the father of the boy my wife reared and loved, but I cannot—I cannot sit quietly while they go to their deaths. So—I have come to you, to see what look is in your eyes when I tell you I will fight.”

She drew a deep breath, her eyes wide on his face. “It is sudden, this war.”

“Too sudden. Rok says Drede will be weakened by the unexpectedness of it, but I think that bitter man is prepared to fight every day of his life, and that the Lion of Sirle is moving in a dreamworld. Sybel, are you angry with me? You know I want no war against Drede and Tam, especially not such a futile, hopeless thing as this. But if I stay here safe within these walls, and if my brothers die in battle, I will see their faces, hear their voices calling to me in my dreams until I die. Can you forgive me? Or can you give me a reason, one I can cling to even through my brothers’ deaths, not to fight?”

“No,” she whispered. “Only that all my joy will be gone from the earth if you are killed in this war. Coren, perhaps the Lion is not dreaming. Perhaps Rok is right and Sirle will defeat Drede, and no one will be killed.”

He shook his head, his face pained, hopeless. “Sybel, men will die; perhaps not my brothers, but men of Sirle. At Terbrec, I heard their broken, weary voices weeping of their wounds while I fought, until I did not know anymore, in the dust, heat and blinding leap of metal, if they were truly men’s voices, or the broken, crying voices of my own thoughts that could never again be coherent. It will be the same thing all over again, now. Rok is mad. I told him so, but he simply told me I did not have to fight. But he knows I will.”

“He does not seem mad,” she said gently. “Perhaps he knows something you do not know.”

“I hope so, for all our sakes.” He lifted a hand, traced the line of her hair. “You are not angry. I thought you would be. I thought you might leave me, go back to Eld.”

“And what would there be for me at Eld but an empty house? Coren, I knew when I married you that one day, sooner or later, I would have to watch you leave me, I would have to wait here quietly within these stones like Rok’s wife and Eorth’s wife, and not know if I would ever see you again. I just did not expect it now, so soon.”

“I did not dream Rok would ever do this; I thought we would live peacefully for years before anything such as this would happen.”