Thus she tended Boroth with her own hands, trying to instill in him a measure of her strength, of her determination. It was as if by trying very hard, she could will him, if not back into health, at least into a condition that did not smack so much of decrepitude.
She felt as if she were holding her own, but then a fire-mountain erupted just a few leagues distant where there had been none before. It shook the city so severely that the bells rang in all the church towers. The upheaval threw Boroth into a fit, and she hurried to tend him.
"Have courage, husband," she said. "The city is sound and whole, for all the commotion, and you have nothing to fear."
"Wine," the King said. "Bring it to me now."
Of course his reaction would be to drink himself into a stupor. Nevertheless,
Ysa gestured to Rugen, the King's body-servant, to obey his master's wishes. The man had no sooner placed the tray on the table beside the King's bed than another tremor, the greatest yet, nearly upset the wine flask.
"The land is dying!" Boroth exclaimed. "And with it, I die as well!"
He fell back on the pillows in a swoon. Ysa quickly filled a cup of the neat wine and held it to his lips, but Boroth did not react. She poured a little into her palm and began to chafe the King's hands with it, trying to revive him.
Then something happened that she was still trying to understand completely. With that contact, the four great Rings on the King's hands—the mysterious Rings that he had worn so long on thumbs and forefingers that the circles of metal seemed to be a part of his very flesh— transferred themselves from his hands to hers.
Impossibly, mysteriously, they slipped past the swollen flesh on the King's fingers and passed over the two rings that she had been wearing—one on the forefinger of her right hand, the other on the thumb of her left.
Nor would the Rings be removed. Shocked, she had immediately begun trying to twist them off, to return them to their rightful place. To no avail—the Rings refused to yield.
After a few moments, the King roused enough to drink the contents of the wine flask. Shortly thereafter, he fell into a slumber that was more stupor than natural sleep.
Ysa arose from Boroth's bedside. Rugen still stood nearby, his expression carefully neutral. If he had noticed the amazing movement of the Rings, she knew he would keep this knowledge to himself. Undoubtedly he had held much greater secrets during the past years.
"Bring the King as much wine as he desires," she told the servant. "Keep him comfortable. Let him sleep."
Indeed, as she gazed back on Boroth, it seemed that he had settled into a real sleep. Could that have been by her own strong desire?
Once the door of the King's chamber had closed behind her, Ysa had time and privacy to study the Rings that now, apparently of their own volition, had come to her. She pulled off her own circlets, over which they had passed, slipping these onto other ringers.
The Rings were unlike ordinary gemmed trifles. Rather, they were massive, heavy, and plain, with no lighting of gem-fire. Each was formed of a broad band of a metal so rare that its like had never since been found in this country. In color, each had a touch of green shimmering across gold here, while there a hint of red flickered against light traces of blue and purple. In place of a gem-setting, each Ring bore an inlaid band of wood, each band on each Ring distinctly different. The only ornamentation the Rings bore was a small golden leaf, each representative of the wood, the tree, the badge of the House.
Oak. Ysa murmured the word and folded the forefinger of her right hand against her palm. Yew. Now thumb in turn moved under that forefinger, hiding its burden.
Ash. The forefinger on her left hand quivered, but it did not fold under.
The Queen tensed, staring at the finger that had not obeyed her. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Rowan—the last command. Her thumb jerked, not entirely because of her will, but it did not disappear.
This would bear thinking on. And study. It was true then, what she had learned by hidden burrowing in the old records. The Rings chose the one to carry them.
Suddenly she was aware that she felt lighter, less burdened, than she had in weeks. All her senses seemed heightened. She could almost, she thought, if she tried, reach out tendrils of thought into every section of the palace—perhaps into the city, yes, perhaps even into the entire country— and know what any given inhabitant was thinking and feeling.
A surge of energy filled her. Now, she thought. Now I can complete the summoning! The King was safe enough for the moment, and she was all impatience to try out the hint of growing power and learn if indeed the Rings would be a help to her in her undertaking.
She hurried in the direction of the tower room, her refuge, where all of her magic paraphernalia was kept. Her route took her by the door to Prince Florian's apartment. Now she did discover that her heightened senses were not a product of overheated imagination. There was no need to open the door a crack and peer in; hearing sufficed. Two bare bodies rolled and panted together like common beasts.
Florian, Crown Prince, was engaged in his favored occupation. The harlot who shared that embrace this night was one of the castle maids. A bubble of laughter rose to Ysa's lips, as quickly stifled at die thought that these women didn't have to do without, not as long as a male of Boroth's line lived.
Well, at least it wasn't that girl whose name she hadn't caught, the house daughter to Jaddeen, a petty border Baron with only tenuous ties to any of the ruling Houses. He had obviously brought her to the city with an eye to setting her about just this sort of activity, thinking mat some advantage might come his way because of it.
How fortunate, she thought, that Florian's tastes ran much in the same direction as his father's. And that he had sense enough not to dare entanglement with someone of another rank whom he would not, or could not, marry.
She climbed the stairs to the tower room, entered, and locked the door behind her. Four great windows looking east, west, north, and south were covered with a transparent stuff across which flickered now and then a faint sheen of rainbow when a stray breeze caused the curtains to move.
In the center of that round chamber stood a single massive chair, carved from a precious wood that was not only the color of blood, but of such density that to work it had required unusual tools and great strength. Beside it, on a small table fashioned of the same wood, lay the book of magic, still open to the page with the summoning-spell, as she had left it.
Off to one side were another, smaller table and another chair, much less ornate; there she sat to take off her coif and remove her mask of cosmetics. She lit a candle and set it beside her mirror. Her hair, still barely touched by the ravages that showed on her features, was of a ruddiness to rival the hue of the wood of the great chair. It tumbled down her back when she took the pins out, a glorious riot of color.
Then she donned a simple robe of red velvet, one that had a hood because of the chill of the season. She pulled this protection up over her head, moved to the great chair, picked up the book, and began the ritual.
With an ease she had never known before, the words rolled out, reverberating from the stone walls and creating a nexus of energy that hung in the air. Before her eyes, it coalesced into a creature that, startled, seemed to forget that it was winged. Lest it fall, she reached out, took it from the air, and set it on her lap.
Savoring the moment—and reluctant to witness in her mirror what this latest foray into magic might have done to her features—she stroked the creature until it stopped trembling. It gripped the fabric of her robe with its tiny paws, but did not look at her.
She took the little body by the nape of the neck. It struggled in her hands, kicking and flapping its leathery wings, but she held it up on a level with her eyes, imposing her will upon it, dominating it.
The creature's mouth opened, revealing sharp teeth. Its tongue was purplish red, and curved up at the tip. It chit-tered and then uttered a thin, high shriek of protest. Ysa continued to hold it until she
was certain it had become entirely hers.
"Go, and seek," she said. Then she tossed it up and out into the air. Its wings spread and beat as it headed toward the window directly facing its mistress. As it went, its outlines seemed to grow hazy, and then it vanished abruptly.
Ysa's mouth turned down at the corners as she stared intently at where the flyer had been seen last. Then she clasped both hands quietly on her lap, waiting.
While she waited, she allowed herself the luxury of remembering.
More than sixteen years had passed since her powers had been tried successfully.
That had brought a full victory. Oh, the wretched woman had hidden her shameful condition long enough, thanks to the fashion—snug bodice ending just under the bosom, with a full-flowing skirt. There were those who had not known Alditha was carrying until she was practically in labor. But the slut had been found out eventually. She, together with that ill-planted seed she carried, had died.
Bog-death was merciless. And there had been no wergild death-claim for her, for the Ashenkin would not air their disgrace.
She laughed aloud, to her ears a sound like the cackle of a vorse hen, and as deadly as that alarm could be.
In the great bed of the high chamber below lay—what? A man? To others it might seem so, but she knew it was a husk that lived only because it had not yet stopped breathing. The task of keeping him alive would be lighter now that the unthinkable had happened.
She stared again at the Rings—her Rings—their weight still new enough that they felt foreign on her hands. But that, she knew, would pass quickly.
After all, she had ruled for years, long before he had taken to his bed permanently. She had worked hard, sacrificing her youth and her fresh beauty to maintain the illusion that the King was whole and well. So it must remain, at least for a time.
With the Rings on her hands, she would know if there was any meddling in the direction of the King's life. With the Rings on her hands, she had successfully summoned the flying creature, and done it easily, after the disastrous attempts before. With the Rings on her hands, she could feel her power growing.
Boroth and Florian both rested snug under her command, and had done so long before the Rings had transferred themselves to her. They would be even more dominated by her now. She wondered only why the Rings had waited so long to recognize what was fact. Dismissing husband and son from her concern, she mentally listed those who might be a future danger.
Ashenhold was empty, half of its territory vanished, drowned in the Bale-Bog, the name one to spit upon. Of affiliated Families, there were Vacaster, Mimon,
Lerkand, perhaps others of whom she was not sure. But she had her own ways of keeping in touch with their comings and goings; hired eyes ever watched them.
Trouble in the north—yes, there had been reports of such, verified by that foreign noble, Count Bjauden, who had visited recently and then departed, never to be seen again. However, a war against invaders, well handled, would unite even feud-foes to fight under the same banner. She felt secure in the north.
The messenger she had sent forth this night would assure her of what chanced beyond the northern border. Still, that sense of unease did not lighten; there were things she could do if it came to strict need, but such acts would suck energy from her in turn, and she was cautious. If she had not been ever on her guard, she would not have had the leisure to sit here this night, able to watch and plan.
It occurred to her that her messenger would not return for many hours. She got up, surprisingly unwearied, and went to the table against the wall. With a certain amount of dread, she picked up the hand mirror to survey the damage this time. To her astonishment, she discovered that far from her haggard appearance previously, now her complexion had assumed a touch of the bloom of youth. Her mouth was plumper, fuller, the silver strands in her eyebrows had vanished, and the deep wrinkles at brow and mouth were definitely lessened.
"Yes," she said. "Oh, yes." Now, in a blinding flash, she realized the situation fully. It had been the Rings all along—not her will, not her efforts—that had kept Boroth propped up, functional. Now, when he failed nonetheless, they had chosen to come to her. Well, even though Boroth had become an empty husk, she had the resources to maintain him for as long as necessary. And not suffer because of it.
With an effort of will, she finished renewing her lost beauty, removing age lines and restoring the bloom to her skin, until she was even more dazzling than she had been on the day she had married the King. In love with what the mirror showed her, she stared into it, singing softly to herself.
And, in rhythm to her song and almost unaware of what she was doing, she began to stroke the Rings.
Void burned, as had the cities of Shater, Dosa, and Juptue earlier. From the packed decks of ships, children wailed, and there was also the brokenhearted sobbing of women who had seen their world fall into ruin under the onslaught of the armies of the far north. Though the Sea-Rovers still held to their courage, seamanship being their way of life, it did not take the boldness of omens to let even the most slow- witted of those milling about the deck here to understand that they must head out with what speed they could summon.
Snolli Sea-Rover of Void was not slow of wit. A trickle of blood still oozing from his mail-coated arm, his face a set mask forbidding emotion, he planted his kin sword point-down into a plank before him, gazing sternward to that fire in the night.
Whatever else of note they might be able to accomplish, the Sea- Rovers knew best the building of ships. As a result, a world of many shores and countless lands had become as familiar to them as their own homecoming halls. Had been—but this was a world gone awry. There was near chaos on the mid-deck of the sturdy wave-splitter. Despite Snolli's defiance, behind them a crimson and yellow glow smeared a stain across the inland sky.
Those whose task it was to guide the GorGull to sea were busy at their work, but around Snolli stood his sworn war-band—those who were not too maimed to drag themselves to this saying of farewell. His son Obern, flanked by the wave-reader
Harvas, joined the group. Both held large skin bags. The ship Harvas once served was no more, and he was still searching for some way to be useful until he could attach himself to another ship and again take up what he had been born to do.
The three survivors among the women who had fought beside the warriors, their bows punishing the enemy in these past days of defeat, stood nearby as well.
Harvas gave each of the men and women one of the Farewell Horns from the bag he hugged close to his side. Then Obern poured a measure into each horn.
His task done, Obern took his battle place as back-guard to his father. The clamor from the deck did not lessen and yet it was easy for all who stood there to hear Snolli's words—words as old as their people.
"Stand by, your steel steady." There was no catch in Snolli's voice, no hesitation in repeating the ancient injunction. "What the kin could do, we have done. All hail to those dead already." He raised his horn in the salute of a toast. "Here's honor to the next to die!"
He emptied his horn in a single gulp and hurled the empty vessel out over the stern. Those in his war-band followed his gesture. With the Farewell Horns went the signal to Wind and Wave that they foresaw their fate, but to it they would not easily yield.
Obern had to control himself to keep from ruining the moment by spitting out his mouthful. The wine had a sour taste, for it was not a brew intended for feasting. Rather, it signified the bitterness of farewell, its dour meaning known as soon as it met the tongue. Determinedly, Obern swallowed. He wanted to spew it out; inwardly, he raged against the portent of that he had nearly choked upon.
They had fought, oh yes, how they had fought! Near three years of battles, of doomed skirmishes, of dogged standing up to defeat after defeat lay behind this night. They were not the first of the kin to make this choice, to labor in a frenzy of determination to lade the six ships that had already been shifted out of port for safety, to bring the last people who
had retreated from the buildings behind. Rear guard they were, and there was little hope that Wind and
Wave would come to their aid now.
Where had they come from, these invaders led by sinister riders mounted on beasts out of nightmares, armed with rods blasting the mist that burned out a man's lungs? None of Snolli's spies had been able to learn what had dragged this horror out of the northern ice regions to stamp a way into the fair land that the Sea-Rovers had held for time out of mind. The enemy could be killed, yes, but any captured seemed to die by will alone before information could be extracted from them. And they took no prisoners; man, woman, and child coughed under the cloud of poison mist and quickly died.
Now the enemy had taken the last of the defense keeps, or the fire- wrapped ruins of it. And only the open sea was left to those aboard this unwieldy, overloaded fleet.
The band on the stern deck stood still together, watching the fire reflected against the clouds behind.