“Did the old Seer speak nastily to my dear brother?” the woman beside him drawled. “Did the little Wizard make him unhappy?”
“Be still, girl. There are things I could do to you which would not affect the child, so do not count too much upon my forbearance. Hush. What is that?”
The sound was of many drums throughout the hills near the road, drum heads roaring to the tumbling thump of a thousand little hands, like soft thunder far among mountains. Flutes came then, softly, a dawn birdsong of flutes, then gentle bells, music to wake one who had slept a long sleep.
The fire beneath the cauldron blazed up, and they could see the tiny shadows which crossed before it, black against the amber light, some dragging more wood to the fire, others tossing their burdens into the cauldron. Steam rose from the cauldron to join the smoke of the fire, and this moist, woodsy mist waved back and forth across the road, wreathing the bases of the Monuments, seeming to soak into the crystalline material of which they were made, making them appear soft and porous. One could almost see the mists sucked up into them, the softness moving upward on each arch, out of the firelight into the high darkness.
The smell of the mist reached them at the same time the voices began to sing, taking up the bell song and repeating it, close, far, close again, first the highest voices and then the deeper, again and again. A lone trumpet began to ride high upon the song, higher yet, impossibly treble above the singing, while some bass horn or some great stone windpipe blew notes almost below their hearing so that the ground trembled with it.
The earth trembled, trembled, then moaned.
Beside them the base of the Strange Monument shivered in the earth. The pedestal beneath it shifted, groaned, and then was still.
Mavin created eyes in the top of her log shape and looked up. The arch was glowing green: diagonally across the width of it a dark line appeared, deeper with each moment. Then the sound of breaking glass cracked through the music and the top of the arch split in two lengthwise, each part coiling upward like a serpent to stand high above its base, each arch becoming two tapered pillars which waved in the music like reeds in wind.
The watchers shivered. The Monuments danced, reaching toward one another across the road, beside the road, bowing and touching their tips, two great rows of tapered towers, dancing green in the night as the drums went on and on and the mists from the cauldron rose more thickly upon the shifting wind.
“Keep your eyes on that cauldron,” hissed the Ghoul. “Move to capture it as soon as I strike the amulet.” The men behind him murmured assent even as they shifted uneasily, feeling the earth teeter beneath them.
Now the contents of the cauldron began to glow, a pillar of ruby light rising out of the vessel toward the zenith. The singers had moved closer to the road, their voices rising now in an almost unbearable crescendo. Mavin held herself rigid, though she wanted to weep, faint, curl up where she lay into as tiny a space as she could. She heard the voice of Himaggery calling from the sidelines. “Be ready, Blourbast.”
Then all that had gone before faded in a hurricane of sound, a storm of music, a shattering climax in which there were sounds of organs and trumpets and bells so huge that the world shivered. “Now, Blourbast!” came Himaggery’s voice, barely audible over the tumult, and the Ghoul held up the amulet and struck it with his dagger.
One sound.
One sound, piercing sweet in silence.
Tumult over, singing over, all the terrible riot of drum and trumpet over, and only that one sound singing on and on and on into the quiet of night. The cauldron blazed up in response, the red light pouring out to spread like an ointment across the sky, into every face, onto every surface, high and low, hidden or visible, like water which could run everywhere, over the drawn battle lines of the armies, over the walls of Pfarb Durim, onto every roof, down every chimney, into every window and door, closed or open, through every wall. Only Mavin heard the whip, whip, whip as of great wings and only Mavin saw the huge, cloudy wheel flick through their midst in an instant, taking Ganver’s Bone with it and leaving the Ghoul standing, his mouth open, his hands empty except for the dagger he had used to strike that note.
And Mavin knew why the Eesty had taken its Bone back again. It would not have done to leave that note in the hands of Gamesmen. Among the shadowpeople, perhaps, for they were attempting to be holy, though they failed from time to time, but not among the Gamesmen.
In the silent flicker of the distant fire, they saw the shadowpeople tip the cauldron over and let it empty itself on the roadway.
The Ghoul roared, spitting curses. From the roadside, Himaggery said, “You need not threaten and bluster, Ghoul. The bargain was kept. You are cured.”
And Huld’s voice, hissing with a scarce concealed fury, “And are those in Pfarb Durim cured as well?”
“All,” said Himaggery. “All within reach of the light, and it spread as far as my eyes could see.”
Huld turned on the Ghoul, dagger flicking in his hand, “Then you have not kept your promise, thalan. You have undone what you promised me.”
“But, but…” blustered the Ghoul, the only words he had time to say, for the dagger stood full in his throat and the blood rushed behind it in a flood, soaking his chest and belly, spurting upon those who sat near him so that they recoiled, Mavin recoiled, becoming herself near the place that Himaggery stood, both to stand with shocked eyes while Huld drew his dagger out again and turned toward Himaggery with madness in his eyes.
“Your fault, Wizard. You tempted him with this cure. Pfarb Durim would have been mine except for you.” And he came rushing toward Himaggery, dagger high, and Himaggery with no protection at all.
Save Mavin, before him, furious, suddenly taking the shape of another Gamesman, without thinking, without planning, so it was Blourbast stood before Huld’s onrush and roared into his face like some mighty beast with such ferocious aspect and horrible, bleeding gash of throat that Huld stopped, eyes glazed, screamed, and turned to stumble away into the night. The others, also, Pantiquod and Huldra and the guardsmen, frantic, overwrought, driven half mad by the music and then fully mad to see Blourbast’s body stand before them again.
The shape dropped away. Mavin found herself standing bare in the roadway, covered with Blourbast’s blood, too weary to shift a covering for herself. She felt Himaggery’s cloak swing around her, his arms draw her close. A quivering voice asked, “Is it all right to change now?” and Himaggery replied,
“Yes, Plandybast. It’s all over. You can unlog yourself.”
“I’m glad there wasn’t any real violence,” said Plandybast. “I’ve never been able to handle violence.”
“I’m glad, too,” said Himaggery, lifting her up and carrying her away to the comfortable shelter of the trees.
“Is she all right?” asked the Agirul.
“She’s covered with blood,” said Himaggery. “See if you can get someone to bring water.” Then he sat beneath the tree, cuddling her close in his arms. She could not remember being so held, not ever, not even by Handbright in the long ago. She sighed, a sigh very like the Eesty’s sigh, and let all of it fade away into dark.
CHAPTER TEN
When morning came, they went into Pfarb Durim. The armies of King Frogmott were no barrier. The sickness had been spreading among the besiegers, and the cure was as evident to them as it was to those in the city. Indeed, when Mavin and Himaggery passed, they were already taking down the tents and putting out the fires, preparatory to the long march back to the marshes of the upper Graywater, to the northeast.
They found Mertyn still in the room in which they had left him, Windlow still by his side, though both were sound asleep on the same bed, and Himaggery forbore to wake them. Instead, he ordered a room for Mavin, and a bathtub, and various wares from clothiers and makers of unguents. By the time Mertyn wakened, she was more mistress of herself than she had ever been in Danderbat keep or since.
All of this had gone to make her a little shy, not least by
the fact that she knew things the others did not, and could not tell them. She had been unable to speak of them even to the Agirul when she had wakened beneath his tree that morning. She had tried, and the Agirul had opened one slitlike eye to peer at her as though it had never seen her before and would not see her again.
“Many of us,” it said at last, “remember things that cannot be shared. Sometimes we remember things that did not really happen. Does that make them less true? An interesting philosophical point which you may enjoy thinking about at odd times.” Then it had gone back to sleep, and she had given up. She did not for one moment believe that she remembered a thing which had not happened, but she was realist enough to know that it would be her own story, her own memory, and only that.
Now she sat at Mertyn’s side in her luxurious room – he had been moved as soon as he woke – looking out across the cliff edge to the far west. “Schlaizy Noithn is there,” she said to him. “South-west, there beyond the fire hills. Perhaps Handbright is there.”
“There was more to her leaving Danderbat keep than you told me, wasn’t there?” He was still pale and weak from not having eaten for some days, but his eyes were alert and sparkling. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Perhaps someday,” she said. “Not now.”
“That Wizard is in love with you,” he said. “I can tell. Besides, he was talking to Windlow about it.”
She didn’t answer, merely sat looking at the horizon. The sea was there, beyond the fire hills. She wondered if she could find her way back to Ganver’s Grave. She wondered if Ganver’s Grave had not been moved elsewhere.
“He’ll probably ask you to go with them.”
“Where are they going?”
“Windlow has a school at the High Demesne, near the Lakes of Tarnoch. That’s far to the south, west of Lake Yost.”
“That’s right,” she mused. “Valdon is the King’s son. And Boldery. Windlow is to educate them both.”
“Not Valdon,” Mertyn went on, a little cocky, as though he had had something to do with it. “Valdon and that Huld got along so well that Windlow had words with Valdon about it, and that made Valdon mad, so he took the servants and went riding out at dawn. He says Windlow may school Boldery all he likes, but Valdon will have none of it.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “If he follows Huld, it will be the death of him.” She turned to find the boy’s eyes fixed on her in wonder.
“That’s what Windlow says. He had a vision about it,” he said.
“It doesn’t take a vision. Anyone would know. Huld is walking death to anyone who comes near him. Well, he’s gone, for a time at least.”
“And the plague is cured. And Windlow says so long as no one eats shadowpeople – yech, I wouldn’t – no one will ever get the plague again. You don’t think anyone ever will, do you?”
She shrugged. “Many strange things happen, Mertyn, brother boy.”
There was a light knock on the door. She opened it to let Windlow and the Fon come in, Boldery close behind them bearing a wrapped gift.
“I brought it for Mertyn,” he said. “Really, it’s for us both.” Then, “It’s a game,” he announced proudly to Mertyn. “I came to play it with you.”
“The Seer and I thought – that is, we felt the boys might like to play together for a time while we have a meal downstairs.” The Fon held out his hand to her, but she only smiled at him, using her own hands to gather her skirts. They had not been much for skirts at Danderbat keep. She rather liked the feel, the luxurious sway of the heavy material at her ankles and the warmth around her legs, but they still took a bit of managing.
“I’d like that.” She smiled at them both, going out the door and preceding them down the stairs. There was a table set for them on a paved terrace beside a fountain, and the servants of the Mont were busy in attendance. There was fruit and wine already on the table. She sat and stared at it, smiling faintly, not seeing it.
“Mavin.” She did not reply. “Mavin, what are you thinking about? Are, you troubled by the Ghoul’s death?” She looked up to find Windlow’s eyes fixed on her, his face full of concern.
Briskly she shook her head, clearing it, giving up the dreamy fog she had moved in since waking. “I’m sorry, Seer,” she said. “Today has been … today has been like a dream. It is hard to wake up.”
“It’s the first time in days you have not had to do something outrageous,” he replied, spooning thrilp slices into his mouth. “Quite frankly, it’s the first such day for me, too, in a very long while. Prince Valdon was not an easy traveling companion. Huld was worse, of course, but not by much. I understand he made off into the woods?”
“No doubt he is back in Poffle by now,” she said. “His sister is pregnant. By him, he says. Their mother the Harpy is with them. I would say Huld is master in Hell’s Maw now.”
“I had hoped the place was empty.”
“Not now, not soon,” she said. “Though it is bound to come, one day.”
“Aha,” he laughed. “So now you are a Seer.”
“No.” She frowned. “Now I am beginning to learn to use my brain.” She laughed in return. “It is like Seeing in one way. It, also, can be wrong from time to time.”
The Fon sat while they talked, watching her hungrily, eating little. When the waiters had brought fresh bread and bits of grilled sausage, he said, “Mavin, will you be going to Battlefox keep, now that you have been there once and seen the people?”
“No. No, our thalan, Plandybast, is a good fellow, as you yourself said, Fon. But that is not what I want for Mertyn. Mertyn has Talent, you know. Beguilement. He has had it since he was a fifteen-season child. It is a large Talent, and he must learn to manage it. They could do nothing for him in Battlefox save savage him and make him vicious with it. No. He must have a good teacher.” She was looking at Windlow as she said it, half smiling. “I spoke with him about it, and he told me what teacher he would prefer. Of course, I cannot pay much in the way of fees.”
“I will pay the fees,” choked the Fon. “In return for saving my life, Mavin. Huld would have killed me.”
“He would have tried. I think you might have stopped him quite successfully.”
“And you, Mavin?” asked Windlow, quietly, softly, like a child trying to capture a wild bunwit without scaring it. “You?”
“Will you come with Mertyn?” The Fon, less wary, too eager.
“No,” she said.
“No? Never?”
She shook her head, biting her lip over an expression which might have been part smile. “I did not say never. I only said no, I will not come with Mertyn.” She folded her napkin as she had seen other diners do, reached out to take their hands, one on each side.
“I am Mavin of Danderbat keep? What is a Mavin of Danderbat keep? What shape is it? What color is it? What does it feel and know in its bones? Does it fly? Crawl? Does it grow feathers or fur?
“What places has it seen? What Assemblies has it attended? You who are not Shifters do not know what an Assembly is, and neither really does a Shifter girl who has not left her keep to go into the wide world.
“What is in Schlaizy Noithn? For me?
“No, Fon. I will not come with Mertyn now. Though I may, some day. Some day.”
And she would not let them try to dissuade her, nor would she let the Fon be near her with the two of them alone, for she knew what her blood would do and how little her head could manage it. Instead, a day or two later, she stood beside the parapet with him, with Boldery and Mertyn playing at wands and rings nearby, and told him farewell.
“My sister is out there somewhere. I would like to find her, see if I can help her. She may need my help. As for you, Fon, you do not need my help, not now.”
“Do not call me Fon. You named me before. I am the Wizard Himaggery, and I will be that Wizard until you name me else.”
“The Fon is dead.” She laughed shakily. “Long live the Himaggery.”
“So be it.” He was not laughing at
all. “Will you make a bargain with me, Mavin?”
“What sort of bargain?”
“If you go out into the world, and if the world is exciting, and you forget me, and time spins as time does, and the world passes as the world does, will you return to this place twenty years from now and meet me here if you have not seen me before then?”
“Twenty years? So long? Do you think I will not seek my friends out long before that?”
“Well, and if you do, better yet. But will you promise me, Mavin?”
“I’ll be old, wrinkled.”
“It will not matter. Will you promise me?”
“Oh, that I’ll promise!” She laughed up into his unlaughing face.
“On your honor?”
“On my honor. On my Talent. On my word.”
“Twenty years?”
“Twenty years.” She turned away, biting her lip, afraid that her calm might break and the tears spill over. “Now. I am going west, my friend. I have made my farewells to Mertyn.” She reached out to stroke his face as he had done so many times to hers, then turned down the stairs and away down the street of the city, without looking back.
Windlow came to him where he stood, looking after her. “Did she make the promise?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know it was a Seeing of mine?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“Does she know she will not see you again until then?”
“I didn’t tell her,” he said. “I could not bear to say it. I can not bear to think of it now.”
The road south of Pfarb Durim is arched by great, strange monuments. Mavin Manyshaped walked that way, seeing the arches with new eyes. She felt eyes from the branches of the trees watching her pass. On the hills, voices added to a song, spinning it into a lazy chant which made small echoes off the Strange Monuments, almost like an answer.
As for her, her eyes were fixed on the horizon where Schlaizy Noithn lay, and the Western Sea. There was something in her mind of wings. And something of places no other eyes than hers had ever seen. “I am the servant of the Wizard Himaggery,” she sang, quoting the Mavin of a younger time. “Perhaps,” she sang, making a joyful shout at the sky. “But not yet!”