Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (28 page)

 
          
Wynett
frowned and Eyrik was instantly attentive, leaning forward, his elbows on the
table, his eyes fixed on hers. “What may seem a long time to you may be no time
at all in the outside world.
Or vice versa.
It may be
that Kedryn comes tomorrow, though that may be long weeks for him; or his
tomorrow may be your year—I cannot tell.”

 
          
“Can
you not return me?” she asked, as calmly as she was able.

 
          
Eyrik
went on smiling as he shook his head.
“That I may not do.
I am not omnipotent.”

 
          
Wynett
found a napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “What are you then?” she wondered.

 
          
“Not
so different from you,” he
said,
a hint of melancholy
impinging on his smile. “You might call me another lost soul.”

           
“That does not answer my question.”

           
“No.” He shook his head, his
expression serious again. “It does not, but it is an honest answer. Once I was
much as you, but ... fate . . . decreed that I should come to this place, and
that I should not leave it. So here I remain, alone.”

 
          
He
sighed as if describing a destiny regretted, then brightened again, adding,
“But let us speak of more cheerful matters. Your chambers are to your liking?”

 
          
“They
are are magnificent,” Wynett told him, “
though
I
cannot understand them.”

 
          
Eyrik
chuckled, and as his head tilted back she saw that flecks of gold danced in the
brown of his eyes, tiny motes of brilliance. “You will grow accustomed to
them,” he assured her. “At first they are a mite bewildering,
but—remember—different laws apply here. Now, if you are replete, shall we
explore a little? It would give me great pleasure to show you something of my
domain.”

 
          
Without
awaiting a reply he stood up. Wynett saw that he was taller than Kedryn, and
although she could not put a precise age on his unlined features, she guessed
that he was older. He extended a hand and she found herself, unthinking,
accepting it,
allowing
him to bring her to her feet.
Still holding her hand, he set it on his arm, gallant as any courtier as he led
her out from the arbor to the center of the courtyard. He paused beside the
fountain and she saw that fishes swam in the surrounding bowl, sleek shapes of
gold and red and blue, circling endlessly in the translucent liquid that
spilled from the upper ornamentation, the sound like faraway cymbals carried on
the breeze. Designs were carved in the basalt, but she could not make them out,
the combination of shallow indentations and sunlight defeating her scrutiny.
Eyrik
dabbled
a casual hand in the water and the
fishes scattered.

 
          
“Poor,
timid things,” he murmured. “Come.”

 
          
Wynett
found further questions rise to her lips, but something about Eyrik’s manner
forestalled them. He seemed so excited at the prospect of escorting her about
his
palace,
which was, she decided,
the only word, that they died stillborn in the face of his enthusiasm and the
fabulous place was sufficient in itself to dazzle her senses so that she
remained mute as he thrust open a door that appeared to be carved from a single
slab of green-veined marble and ushered her into the hall beyond.

 
          
Windows
filled three walls, high, narrow bays terminating in pointed arches, the glass
in each of a different color so that the room was filled with rainbow light.
The floor was of the same reseda marble as the door, and like the portal
appeared to consist of a single vast slab. A walled fire-pit stood at the
center, above it a silver chimney cone suspended on fragile silver chains from
a roof arched with sweeping beams of dark wood. Circular tables inlaid with
mosaic patterns stood about the chamber, three high-backed golden chairs placed
about each one. Wynett stared at the windows and said softly, “It cannot be.”

 
          
“But
it is,” said Eyrik. “Here
anything
can be.”

 
          
Wynett
dragged her gaze from the fantastic hall to study his face, framing a question,
but he smiled and took her across the floor, the pavonine light transforming
him to a thing of pure color, as if the rainbow iridescence took form and
walked,
the multihued brilliance become substance. It
assaulted her senses, dizzying her, for it seemed she walked not on material
stuff but on air, moving as did the fishes in the basalt pool of the fountain,
and she found herself clinging to his supportive arm, needing that contact lest
she float away, or fell, and be trapped forever in that whirling, mind-numbing
spectrum.

 
          
His
arm was strong, hard-tendoned beneath the fine material of his shirt, and he
strode across the floor as though the cataclysmic aurora had no effect upon
him. Wynett was grateful when he
thrust open
a second
door and brought her into a quieter room, pausing again so that she might
survey it. She realized she was breathing hard, as though the mad patterning of
the rainbow hall leeched air from her lungs, and she staggered.

 
          
“I
am sorry.” He was solicitous again, his arm encircling her. “I forget how
dazzling that hall can be.”

 
          
Wynett
leaned against him, imposing calm on her disordered senses, barely aware that
he held her, or that she rested against his tall frame. When that realization
dawned upon her she straightened, finding her own feet, and his arm fell from
her shoulders.

 
          
“Mayhap
this is more to your liking?”

 
          
She
nodded silently. The room was smaller, the floor tiled in blue, the walls
white, a simple hearth set to one side, a long settle before it. There was a
plain oaken table and twelve high chairs at the center, as though the chamber
were a dining room in some rural hold or rustic ostlery, that impression
heightened by the unadorned benches that sat against the walls. Though not by
the windows, for while they were of plain design, simple casements set within
rectangular embrasures, they existed where no windows could, again on three
walls that, physically, must be interior because Eyrik led her through the
chamber to another door, of solid oak like the furniture, and into yet another
room.

 
          
Now
she found herself staring at a vast, high-vaulted chamber that looked to be
carved from living rock. The floor was blue-black stone, smooth and curved
upward into the walls as if the whole space had been scooped from a
mountainside. There were no windows, the only illumination coming from long
lines of dull golden sconces set in serried ranks along the cavernous
abutments, each one containing a thick yellow candle that burned with a clear,
bright flame that was reflected back from the rock so that fulvous light filled
the place. She could not see the roof, for the upper part of the chamber was
lost in shadow, though it occurred to her that it must be higher than the
stairway she had descended from the balcony, and that each of the rooms was
higher than those she had occupied and so must
—should
—extend beyond the upper levels. The concept defied logical
explanation, the dimensions of this unreal place seeming ungovemed by physical
limitations, and she felt her head reel afresh, assailed by the sheer
impossibilities she experienced.

 
          
She
felt Eyrik’s hand upon her elbow, urging her forward, and allowed him to steer
her into the weird, candle-lit sanctum.

 
          
It
was empty of any furniture save a single massy seat, more throne than
chair, that
bulked from the floor toward the farther end.
Like the walls, it appeared to be one fabric with the cavernous chamber, raised
on three broad steps, seamless, the back high, the arms ponderous. Unlike the
walls and floor, however, it seemed to reflect no light, for while it was of
that same blue-black stone it appeared to sit in a darkness of its own, ominous
in its huge solidity. Eyrik paused before it, but when Wynett offered no
comment, nor made any move toward it,
he led
her on,
past, to a door cut so artfully into the rock that it was invisible until he
swung it open.

 
          
Wynett
looked through to sunlight, seeing the lawns spread before her, and wondered
why none of that light entered the chamber. Eyrik bowed, beckoning her on and
she passed thankfully into the open air, relieved to find
herself
once more surrounded by comprehensible sights, the apparent normality of the
vista reassuring.

 
          
The
grass was springy beneath her feet, the sun warm on her face, a breeze
refreshing as it rustled her hair. She heard birds singing and the brook she
had seen babbling, she could smell apple blossom and when she looked up the sky
was a perfect blue, great swells of white cloud spread majestically along the
horizon.

 
          
“Shall
we walk?” Eyrik asked. “A little of this place can, I know, be daunting.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Wynett agreed, answering both his question and his statement.

 
          
“You
will grow accustomed to it,” he smiled.
Then added quickly,
“Until Kedryn comes.”

 
          
“Are
you?” she inquired, confidence returning a little now that she stood in
surroundings she could understand.

 
          
“Oh,
I have had ample time to grow familiar with all this strangeness,” he said
cheerfully, offering his arm again.

 
          
Wynett
ignored it, which seemed not to offend him, for he simply proceeded across the
lawns toward the stream, smiling broadly.

 
          
“How
long have you been here?” she asked.

 
          
“I
forget,” he said, shrugging.
“Mayhap forever.'
Time
has little meaning here, remember. It is no more important than space, and you
have seen how limitless that is.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Wynett nodded, thinking of the rooms. “Are you alone?”

 
          
“Not
now.” He moved in front of her, his smile wide and white, laughter in his eyes
as he exaggerated a bow. “Now that you are here I have all the company a man
could want.”

 
          
His
smile, his manner, something in his look, rendered logical thought difficult.
Wynett experienced a sensation similar to that feeling of helpless
floating,
her concentration evaporating. She steeled herself
to retain the thread of her thoughts.
“Are
you a man?” she wondered.

 
          
“What
else do you think me?” he rejoined, something of his earlier bantering manner
returning.

 
          
“I
am not sure,” she said honestly.

 
          
“Observe
me,” he urged. “Do I not speak as a man? Walk as a man? Do I not have arms and
legs, a head, a torso?
Other parts?
Would you prick me
to see if red blood flows in my veins?”

 
          
“I
do not wish to see your blood,” she said, somewhat nervously.

 
          
Eyrik
laughed, shaking his head, and took her hand, drawing her toward the stream.
“Wynett, Wynett, you must learn to trust me. Did I not save you from the
leviathan? Have I not promised to do my utmost to reunite you with Kedryn?”

 
          
“You
have so promised,” she allowed.

 
          
“Then
believe me,” he said earnestly. “And believe
in
me. All will become clear as time passes.”

 
          
Wynett
would have spoken more but they had reached the stream and Eyrik indicated the
stepping stones that spanned the burbling freshet, saying, “Be careful, the
water is deeper than it seems.”

 
          
She
looked down, seeing
what appeared no more than a pleasant
brook, the bottom sandy, streamed with green weeds, the flitting silver shapes
of fishes coursing the race
.