The Forgotten Beasts of Eld (17 page)

Ter. Tell me of Drede.

He is a man afraid to the core and the bone
, said the glittering-eyed Falcon.
He shouts in his sleep at night, and a torch burns always in his room. He is afraid of the night shadows. A fear beyond the fear of battle grows behind his eyes like thick, winter ice. There are whispers that he is going mad, but he contains himself, saying little.

And Tam?

Tam watches. He takes me with him everywhere; he talks to me late at night and falls asleep sometimes still talking. He wants you to help Drede. He told me to ask you. He is desperate.

And you?

I am ready.

Listen then for any words that may help Rok. When the moment comes, I want you at Tam’s side, protecting him.
She lifted her head, called the Swan to Gules came to lie at her feet, and Moriah beside her and she woke Gyld in his cave with a touch of mind. Cyrin Boar came to her between the trees, glowing in the darkness. For a long moment that tested strength and sinew of her mind, straining concentration to its limits, she held the six proud, restless minds at once.

Listen to me. When the Lord of Sirle and his brothers ride out of Sirle to battle, Ter and the Swan of Tirlith will fly then to Mondor, to Tam. The Swan will be ready at any moment to fly him to Eld Mountain, if there is danger to him. Ter, I want you to keep Tam safe. Moriah, Gules and Cyrin, you will appear to Drede’s army, before the battle, during the battle, luring men away with the magic of your eyes, the beauty of you. Gyld, I will keep with me until Drede is finished, and then Gyld will bring the King to me at the wizard’s tower in Mondor.

At all times keep yourselves discreetly out of sight until you see fit to move. Stay away from Rok’s men. Put yourself into no unnecessary danger, except for Tam’s sake and—if you choose—for Coren’s sake. Ter, stay away from Drede. Unless he is killed in battle, I want him brought to me alive.

The wind sighed briefly in the quiet night. She paused a moment, weary, then trained her mind once more into theirs.

The legends told of you are countless, but all of them old. What you do in this battle, harpists will sing of for years, touching their silver strings with wonder, and your proud, ancient names will echo again within the stone walls of men’s courts, fine-sounding as new-polished gold, honored and revered.

She paused again, feeling in one moment the swift, pulsing beat of Ter’s thoughts, the jewels of the hidden memories in Gules’ mind, Moriah’s mind, the serene acquiescence of the Black Swan’s moonlit mind, the twists of Gyld’s fiery brain, the constant play of riddle upon riddle in Cyrin’s mind, woven out of the unending threads of his thoughts. She loosed them, spent, and as they waited quietly around her, she rested a moment. Then she took their questions.

Do you want Drede’s men destroyed?
Moriah asked.
Or returned after a suitable time?

I do not want their lives. Run them in circles a while, then let them go.

Why will you not let me fight?
Gyld asked.
I could scatter Drede’s army with a single flight through it.

No. You would frighten Rok’s men, too. Wait patiently with me.

There may be men guarding Eld Mountain
, the Swan said. W
here then, Sybel?

Then bring him to Sirle. But take him first to the mountain and wait for me, if there is no danger.

What will you do with Drede?
Ter asked.

Nothing. I want only to look into his eyes when I am done with him, when he has nothing-neither power, nor rank, nor even Tam to comfort him. Mithran was fortunate compared to him. By then, he may be mad.

And what will you do with yourself afterward?
Cyrin asked.

Sybel, looking into his red eyes, was silent. The leaves rustled in the wind above her as at a sudden breath, then stilled. She whispered at last to herself,

“I do not know.”

There came a few days later to Rok’s hall a slender, long-nosed woman with rich rings on her fingers and her white hair in a thousand untidy curls. She passed into it so quietly that she reached Rok’s elbow unnoticed as he sat at his meal, with Lynette on one side of him and Bor at the other, and she tugged at his sleeve. He turned, startled, to meet the iron-gray eyes.

“Where is Sybel?”

“Sybel?” He sent a glance down the table. “She left, I think, with Coren. Perhaps they are— Old woman, who are you? Will you sit with us? I did not hear you come in.”

Her wandering eyes came back to him. “Oh, I am the sharp-eyed old crow of Eld Mountain. And you—you I think are the Lion of Sirle. Such a lovely family you have, such peach-colored children and lordly brothers. I have had such a walk from Eld Mountain.”

“You walked!” Rok exclaimed. Beside him, Bor rose courteously.

“Sit down, Lady. Eat with us.”

She smiled at him, her hands fluttering to touch her hair. “So kind...” she murmured and sat. “Oh, my feet. I am Maelga, Sybel’s mother.” At her right hand, Ceneth coughed over his wine and she turned to him. “I am the only mother she ever had. You may not think a mountain witch would make a very good mother.”

“I am sure you were better than nothing,” Ceneth said weakly. Rok caught his eye, and he reddened.

“I am not so sure of that,” Maelga said candidly, searching through a plate of sugared fruits and nuts. “Otherwise, I would not have had to walk all the way from Eld Mountain to Sirle to find out why Cyrin Boar came snorting to me with such a tale I could not believe...” She caught Rok’s swift glance from side to side over the rows of preoccupied faces. “Oh, is it a secret?”

“Old woman, what do you want?” Rok said softly and she sighed.

“Dried, sweetened apricots... I am a child with sweet things. You see, Rok, I have done—oh, things by twilight, dim things by candlelight that are spoken of best by hushed voices. I am an old woman with a weakness for meddling, and people give me rings and soft furs and bright ribbons. I weave on a small loom with threads of simple colors. But Sybel—now there is a weave, her weave, with a loom the size of Eldwold and threads of living scarlet.”

“It is her choice.”

“Yes, but it frightens me in my old heart. It frightens Cyrin, too, and he such a wise old Boar. Rok, when you look at her you see a beautiful, strong-willed woman whose power is the star of fortune over Sirle. And I see a child with a festering hurt that eventually will be the death of her.”

Rok set his cup softly on the table. Maelga looked at him, her white brows arched over her sharp eyes, her chin resting on her ringed forgers. He was silent a moment, his fingers tapping the silver.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice low in the noise, “she is weaving a living tapestry with herself and us in it as well as the King and the Lords of Eldwold. She has gone too far to stop, and so have I. She is no child: she has plotted this thing with me step by step and has kept it secret even from Coren. I am playing for power; it is a game my ancestors taught me, and I will play it until I die of it. Sybel is playing her own game of power, not for gain, or even for fame, but for a kind of dark triumph over Drede and even over Mithran. When she has had her triumph, she will come back to live quietly, contentedly with her animals and with Coren. It is not enough for me to know Sirle can defeat Drede—I must act in the knowledge, and keep acting afterward to protect my great power. But Sybel is more fortunate. She can achieve great power and then let it go and rest content in the knowledge of what she could do if she willed. If this were not true, I would be as frightened of her as Drede is. But there is love in her for Coren, for the children, for simple, quiet things. I think you taught her this, Maelga, when you loved her. Do not be worried. She will take her revenge and be satisfied.”

Maelga watched him silently over her flickering jewels until he finished. Then she dropped her hands. “I could never talk to lions—I cannot growl. Where is she?”

“She may be with her animals. I will send for her.”

“No.” She rose. “Tell me how to find them. I will go there alone.”

“I will take you and then leave you with her.” He pushed his chair back, led her past the tables. “But if Coren is with her, talk of the weather, of star patterns, of how you ate nothing at the table of the Lord of Sirle. He is innocent of this; she values that.”

They found her with Coren in the gardens, laughing together beside the lake while the Black Swan took bread pieces from Coren’s fingers. The Cats lay lazily beneath the warm sun; Cyrin Boar nosed at something idly through the grass as he stood in the shade. Sybel turned as the gate closed behind Maelga. The smile on her face melted to astonishment.

“Maelga!”

Coren turned, tossed the rest of the bread into the water and followed Sybel, smiling as she flung her arms around Maelga.

“I am glad to see you.”

“My white child, you have grown so—so bright! Let me look at you.” She held Sybel at arm’s length. “You did not stop to see me when you came to the Mountain last.”

“How did you know—”

“Cyrin Boar told me. He told me many things“

Sybel’s eyes grew still. She glanced at Coren, and he touched her cheek.

“I will go and let you talk.”

She smiled. “Please, Coren. It is only women’s talk.”

“When one is a witch and the other a wizard, I doubt that.” He left them. They looked at one another a moment, quietly. Then Maelga’s fingers folded against one another and she brought them to her mouth.

“My child, what are you doing?”

Sybel sighed. “Sit down. How did you get here?”

“On my own feet.”

“Oh, Maelga, you should have taken a horse.”

“I was afraid whom I might steal from...” She got down beside Sybel, under a strong-limbed apple tree. “Cyrin told me a tale Ter had told him of a King and a white bird in a tower...”

Sybel glanced at the silver Boar. “Wisdom never learned silence, and it is most annoying when least wanted.”

“Why did you not tell me what Drede did to you?”

Her mouth tightened. “Because it hurt too much. Because I was angry to my heart’s core and there were no words for it. That little King would have—” She brushed her hand across the grass impatiently. “There are no words in either you or Cyrin to stop me.”

“Sybel, I do not know what you are doing—I only know that Tam came to me two days ago—”

“Tam?”

“Afraid. He said war was murmuring all over Eldwold against his father, and the King blamed you. He said lords who had pledged to help his father suddenly turned to Sirle without reason. He said the King walks like a man of stone. Sybel, he sat at my hearth with his eyes wide, unblinking, while he told me this, and his hands gripping his arms as if he were cold. There were no tears left in him.”

Sybel picked a single grass-blade, stared down at it

without seeing it. She shivered a little. “My poor Tam... It will only be a little while longer.”

“And then what?”

“`Then Drede will lose his throne. Perhaps his mind. Perhaps his life.”

“And Tam?”

“Rok will make a king of him. In a suitable time he will marry Herne’s daughter Vivet, and her sons will begin the Sirle line of Kings in Eldwold.”

“And Coren? I have heard he knows nothing of this.”

“Maelga, as I will do what I must to destroy Drede, I will do what I must to keep Coren from knowing what I am doing—”

“How? Will you destroy a thought or two in his mind?”

Her face twisted. She dropped her head on her bent knees, hidden from the searching gray eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I will not do that. I did that once. Once. I will not do it again. I will lose him first. Maelga, I have taken a step in the dark, and I will not turn back for any word in Eldwold. I am glad to see you, but I think now you are not so glad to see me. I have been hurt, and now I will hurt in my own turn. It is that simple. I am sorry for Tam. But that is the only thing I am sorry for.”

“You do not see,” Maelga whispered. “Child, Tam loves that King. Drede is the one in the world who can look into Tam’s eyes and give Tam his pride. And he is being driven mad before Tam’s eyes.”