The Forgotten Beasts of Eld (7 page)

“There will always be a place for you with us if you choose it. And if you do not, there is one place in my heart where your name will be, in silence.” He held her hand a moment against his mouth. Then he turned the dark horse onto the mountain path, and Sybel watched until Tam’s face, turned always toward her, was lost among the trees.

She turned, shivering a little, and went back into the garden. The snow began to fall, light, silent, endless. Gules Lyon appeared silently beside her; she trailed her hand absently through his mane. She went into the quiet, darkening house and sat down before the fire. Moriah came to rest at her feet. She sat there while the fire crept into embers and pulsed within them secretly, and while they burned themselves to blackness, and the night fell, cold, around her, and the snow fell across her threshold, blotted the last footprints of Tam, and the crescents of the prints of the King’s horse. That night, the next day, and the next night she sat there, hands motionless on the arms of her chair, her eyes unwavering, as if she could still see the dancing green flame, and the white hall was cold and silent about her.

She stirred finally, blinking. She saw her animals about her, even the fiery mass of Gyld, curled silent on be stones, and the beautiful, secret-eyed Swan watching her from the doorway of the domed room. She turned and found Cyrin’s red eyes behind her. She smiled a little, her mouth stiff in the cold.

“I am here. Are you hungry?”

Her voice faded, unanswered, among the stones. Then Gules Lyon pushed beneath her hand.

Get up
, he said.
Tend the fire. Eat.

She rose, sighing, and knelt before the hearth. Then her hands checked, wood-filled, over the grate. She turned, feeling the nameless Thing with her among the animals. She searched for it, her eyes narrowed, in be shadowed comers, behind the folds of tapestry. It stood just beyond her eyesight, just beyond the circle of her mind, formless, nameless. A thought, the sudden pulse of a memory, flicked through her head. She put the wood down and went into the domed room. She unlocked a huge, gold-leafed book, one of Ogam’s, with parchment pages of ancient writings, the collections of forgotten tales as old as the reign of the third King of Eldwold. She leafed through the pages, searching for a few brief lines, and found them finally. She sat down on the floor, the heavy book on her lap, and read silently:

And there is that fearsome monster, which awaits men around dark corners, through dark doorways, in the blackest hours of the night. Only the fearless survive looking upon it. It is called Rommalb, when spoken of, for to speak its name truly is to summon it.

She smiled slowly. “Rommalb,” she said aloud, and turned the name around on her tongue. “Blammor.” And looking up, she saw it finally.

FOUR

It was a shadow in the shadows, a black mist taller than she, with eyes like circles of sightless, gleaming ice. She closed the book and slowly rose to face it. She touched its mind and found it as still, as dark.

Give me your name.

Its mind-voice was a rustle of dried leaf.
Blammor.

Why have you come to me so freely? Most struggle to hide their names. But you came uncalled.

I was not uncalled. And you have a strange power, that draws me and that is to see me as I am truly. Therefore I came to you, and I will serve you, as one day you will serve that one who sees you truly.

Do I see you truly now? A black mist with fire-white eyes, sightless yet seeing?

That is part of me.

You fascinate me, she said.
Do all men see you this way? There are tales of your terribleness.

Men see what they are most afraid of.

What do you require of me?

Nothing
, it said,
but your fearlessness. I will go now. I have night work.

It faded into the shadows. They trembled a, moment at its passing.

She turned, rubbing her chilled arms, a little smile crooking her mouth. She went to the hearth again and lit a taper from the green flame burning steadily on the mantel. The fire danced in a few moments from the hearth, and she lit candles from it, and torches, moving softly to place them in the chilled room, while the half-lit forms of Swan, Boar and Lyon watched her silently. Then, faint through the singing winter winds, she heard a shouting at her gates.

Her white brows knit a little, puzzled. She called Ter, then remembered he had gone, so she took Cyrin out with her, and a fiery torch that set the deep snow ablaze about her. The flakes fell in huge, great wheels of intricate crystal that vanished in the torch flame. A man stood cloaked, hooded at the gates, his horse behind him. She moved the torch to light his face behind the bars and beneath the hood his hair flamed.

She sighed. “Oh.” She unlocked the gates, and he stepped into the yard. “Take your horse to the shed on the side of the house; I will keep the others out.”

“Thank you,” he said, the words blowing white in the wind. His shoulders were cloaked with snow that melted in dark trails down his back as he took the torch from her.

He joined her a few moments later in the house. He nodded courteously to Gules as he passed, and to Moriah, curled like a shadow. Sybel took his sodden cloak, hung it to dry beside the fire, and he stood at the hearth, drinking the flame, shuddering.

“That was a long, cold ride from Sirle. Sybel, your house is chilled. Have you been away?”

“No. I have been... I do not know where I have been, but I do not think I have come back yet.” She sat down again, spread her hands to the fire. “Why have you come? You must know by now that Tam is with Drede.”

“I know,” he said. “I came because you called.”

She stared up at him in amazement. He smiled, his chilled face taking color from the warmth, his lean hands cupping the blaze.

“I did not.”

“I heard you. Sometimes, in silence, at night, I hear the voices of things beyond eyesight, like echoes of ancient songs. I heard your voice, lonely in my dreams—it woke me, so I came. You see, I know how it is when you speak a name into an empty room with no one on earth to answer to it.”

She was silent, her mouth open, wordless. He sat down beside her. Moriah rose leisurely, came to lie at their feet and stare at him out of green, inscrutable eyes. Sybel drew a breath and closed her mouth.

“I have never heard of such a thing. What are you? You are a fool in some ways, and yet you know other things that amaze me.”

He nodded, the smile tugging deeper at his mouth. “The seventh son of Lord Steth of Sirle, my grandfather, had seven sons, and I am his youngest. Perhaps that is why I hear things the trees tell as their leaves whisper at moonrise, or the growing corn tells, or the birds at twilight. I have good ears. I heard the silence of your white walls even in the noisy halls at Sirle.”

She looked away from him to the fire. “I see,” she said softly. I did need someone but I did not know it until now. Are you hungry?”

“Yes. But sit still a while, and when I get warm, I will cook something.”

“Can you cook?”

“Of course. I have been alone many times in lonely places with only the cry of a marsh bird or a hawk to answer me when I talked.”

“You have five brothers. Why would you need to go alone?”

“Oh, they hunt with me. But when I need to travel to some forest or lake spoken of in an old tale, to listen to that secret place—they cannot get excited about such things. Once I went to Mirkon Forest, the great black forest north of Sirle, with trees like black stone, and roots dark and swollen above the earth, and I listened to one single falling leaf and I heard the whisper of Prince Arn’s name as it fell.”

A corner of her mouth went upward in her tired face. “So Maelga used to tell Tam such tales at night, when he was little and troubled.”

“Sybel, Rok mocks me when I tell him such things. And Eorth, who is a great, witless dragon, grins at me and hugs me until my bones crack. But I did not think you would laugh at me.”

Her dark eyes slid, hesitant, curious, to his face. “I am not laughing at you. But it crossed my mind that you might have come, that your brother might have sent you, to see if I were pledged to help Drede, since I gave Tam to him. Drede—Drede was a little afraid of me, because I called him here—”

“You called him?”

“Yes, but only to give Tam to him, nothing more. I did an unwise thing: I told him you had come here, too. So he is unsure of me, as now I think your brother Rok must be, too.”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled wryly, but his red brows were knit. “Where was Cyrin or Gules to give you advice? You are wise in things beyond men’s knowledge, but it was not wise to call a king insecure in his power, and draw him to you without his knowledge.”

“I told him he had nothing to fear from me.”

“And that reassured him, I suppose.”

“I doubt it.” Then she shook her head. “Oh, but why should it matter to me what he thinks of me, or what the Lord of Sirle thinks. Did Rok have anything to do with your coming?”

“I told you why I came.” His smile had gone, but his light eyes were steady on her face. She made a little, restless gesture.

“Yes. But how you would hear my lonely voice above all the voices in Eldwold, I do not know.”

“I know,” he said. “I love you.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but found suddenly she was wordless. Coren watched, a touch of color on the high bones of his face; when she laughed finally, his face flamed.

“Well. Drede offered to make me Queen of Eldwold—what have you to offer me?” She folded her hands on her lap and looked up at him, and found his eyes shocked, ice-blue.

“Drede,” he whispered. “Drede.” His clenched hands opened, closed on his knees. He drew a deep, soundless breath.

“Did you laugh like that at him?”

“No,” she said, surprised, and he rose abruptly. She heard the circle of his restless steps on the stones behind her. Then they came back to her.

“I thought of you with your hair silver as snow all through that cold, slow journey from Sirle,” he whispered. “I felt you troubled, deep within me, and there was no other place in the world where I would rather have been than in the cold night, riding to you. When you opened your gates to me, I was home. I did not know you would hurt me so.”

Her lips parted as she heard the echo of her own words. Then she looked down at her taut, folded hands. “I am sorry. But, Coren, I cannot—I cannot trust you.”

“I see.”

“I— When I look at you, I see the shadow of your hatred, the shadows of your brothers behind you, wanting me, wanting to use me. You must—surely you must understand that.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes flickered up to him. He stood motionless beside her chair, his face still, colorless. She shifted a little, uncertainly. Then she touched his arm.

“Sit down. We are both tired and hungry. I have not slept since Tam left, and I am tired of arguing.”

“Sybel—” He stopped. He sat, not looking at her. He said after a moment, “If I swore—if I swore by my love for Norrel that I would never try to use you, or let anyone else use you against your will—if I swore that, would you begin to trust me a little?”

“Could you swear that?”

He met her eyes and nodded. “Yes. I will think of a way to kill Drede without involving anyone.”

“You will not!”

“But, Sybel, what am I to do?”

“You have five other brothers—be content with them.”

“I will not! I cannot—Sybel, Norrel—when I was younger, and so unsure of myself, of my strange knowledge—Norrel of all of them never laughed at me. I could tell him that in the Fyrbolg marshes I had seen the ghosts of men who died chasing the White Stag that the wizard Tarn had shaped out of smoke, and he would believe me. He would not understand, but he would believe me. He taught me how to ride, how to fight, how to hunt with a hawk. When he fell in love with Rianna, I fell in love with her, too, wanting her for him. When Drede killed him at Terbrec, I saw him fall. I could not—I could not reach him in time, so he died with no one beside him at a battle that was fought for him. That is what I cannot forgive Drede: that Norrel died alone, without help, without comfort.” His voice faded. A branch snapped in the fire; the wind murmured restlessly beyond the walls, moving in the darkness around her house like a beast seeking entrance. She said finally, haltingly,

“I am sorry. But Tam loves Drede. So—I do not want Drede killed.”

She heard his slow, indrawn breath. “So. Ice-white Lady, what shall I do? I cannot stop either my loving or my hating.”

“I do not know what you should do. I know nothing of hating, and only a little of loving. I wish—I wish I could ease your sorrow, but I cannot.”

“You could. I think you could.”

“No.”

He sighed. Then his fingers dropped, curled gently over her folded hands, and she raised her head.

“It took a great love to give Tam to Drede. I hope he is happy with Drede, for his sake, and yours, though I cannot understand how Tam would prefer Drede to you.”

She smiled, the green light gleaming in her hair, on her weary face. “Tam is drawn to people who need him.” She paused. “Surely—surely there is some woman of your own world who has such a need of you. You are gifted, and kind, and—very—and pleasant to look at.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Why is that so hard for you to say? It is so easy for me to say that you are wise, magical, honest, very beautiful to look at, and I love you.” He touched a strand of her ivory hair. Then he shook his head quickly at her restless movement. “I will not—I will not trouble you with things you do not want to hear from me now. But if—if you could give me something of friendship, it would ease me.”

She looked at him, her face opening a little to him. “You came tonight, when I needed some kindness. For that, I am in your debt.”

“Good.” He rose, put more wood on the fire, the flame dancing pale over his face. “Sybel, your fire is the color of young trees... I will cook some supper now— No, stay here. Trust me in your kitchen. Sleep a little, if you can.”

He left her quietly, and as quietly, Cyrin Boar rose from the shadows and followed him into the kitchen. Investigating, Coren discovered her knives, and pots, the loops of sausages on her rafters, new-made bread, and chilled vegetables from her garden. He stripped a carrot at the cutting board, and began slicing it. The great Boar remarked behind him in its golden voice,

“The trained falcon returns to its master’s hand eventually.”

Coren’s knife slipped, struck hard at the cutting board. He turned. “I had forgotten that the Lord of Wisdom had a voice to speak with.”

The small red eyes regarded him, unblinking. “What would you give me for all the wisdom of the world?”