The Squire's Quest (18 page)

In front of all the court, Karl had no choice but to stand and award the prize to the red knight. He gave a brief, sullen speech, then produced a roll of parchment and handed it to the winner.

"That's the decree granting a fiefdom to the winner," Dinadan explained. "I wonder what Cligés will do with lands in Gotha. Build a vacation home,
maybe? Now Karl's asking for the red knight's name. Pity Cligés doesn't speak German."

There was a hush as people stopped whispering amongst themselves to listen. Evidently Terence and Dinadan hadn't been the only ones speculating on the red knight's identity. But the red knight only took the roll of parchment and walked his horse a few steps to the emperor's right, until he was in front of Alis and Fenice. Then, with a courtly bow, he extended the deed toward them. Fenice sighed deeply and placed her hands on her heart, and while she was posing in this affecting attitude, Alis dazedly took the deed. He stared at it for a moment. Then as if it were red hot, handed it quickly back to the emperor.

"None of this was supposed to happen, right?" Dinadan asked.

"I don't think so," Terence said. "But I got lost a while back."

"And what does the emperor do now?"

"No idea," Terence replied. "We need Acoriondes to explain it to us. I'm no good at intrigue."

"That's probably why I like you," commented Dinadan.

"All I know for certain is that Cligés has played hob with another one of the emperor's plans, and poor hapless Alis is caught in the middle."

At this moment, the Duke of Saxony, supported by two of his knights, limped over to the imperial box, his face white with rage, and began a furious tirade. Dinadan listened briefly, then said, "He's accusing Karl of having planned all this."

The emperor turned red, then replied with equal anger, and the two men screamed at each other for several minutes while their knights and entire courts listened in speechless horror. The red knight who had caused all the furor quietly trotted away and disappeared.

"Cligés is gone," Terence whispered. "We'd better go, too."

"So soon?" asked Dinadan. "But I'm learning some splendid new German words. You wouldn't think that emperors and dukes would know such language, but really their vocabulary is quite—"

"Now," Terence said firmly, taking Dinadan by the arm and leading him away.

It was the second evening after the tournament, and the Greek party's second night on the road. Once Terence and Dinadan had explained to Acoriondes what had transpired at the tournament, the sage counselor had sprung into action, ordering the entire Greek contingent to be ready to leave within the hour. And, true to his word, the Greeks left an hour later. Anything that wasn't packed by that time was simply left behind. A few of the Greek knights expressed worry about leaving with Cligés still so ill, but then to their surprise and gratification Cligés appeared himself looking not only completely well but cheerful and pleased with himself. They traveled nearly all the first night, rested for a few hours, then set out again, continuing all day, until an hour after dark. Only then did Acoriondes allow the caravan to stop and the exhausted Greeks to eat a weary supper and go to sleep.

Terence and Dinadan ate at the regent's fire, with Acoriondes, Cligés, Fenice, and the nurse, Thessala, who evidently came with Fenice. Everyone was too tired to speak, except for Alis, who cooed affectionate blandishments toward his indifferent bride. Neither Terence nor Dinadan asked Acoriondes for a translation. At last, after eating, Alis rose and with a besotted smile indicated to Fenice that it was time for them to return to their wagon. Fenice glanced at Thessala, who leaped to her feet and bustled away, returning a moment later with a small glass holding a finger or two of liquid in it, which she presented to Alis. Then the regent and his bride walked away. Acoriondes wore what Dinadan called his "stuffed frog" expression, but Terence noticed that Cligés didn't seem jealous at all. If anything, he looked amused.

Thessala tottered away toward her own wagon, and rising silently Terence followed her, unseen. From the dark, he watched her arrange her things and lay out her blankets for bed. Just before she began to undress, Terence slipped behind her and said softly, "Nurse Thessala?"

The elderly lady squawked and leaped several inches into the air. "Who? Squire Terence! How did you? I never heard—"

"I was just passing by, my lady," Terence began, "and thought I would ask you something I've been curious about."

"Oh! But you frightened me so! How could you—?"

"What exactly did you give the regent this evening before bed?"

"Oh, that! Why, it's a tonic! It ... it gives him ... vigor and helps him to sleep!"

"Both at once?"

Thessala looked flustered for a moment, but as at the wedding ball, her pride in her own magical skills overcame her reluctance to speak. "Well, if you must know, that was the Elixer of Good Dreams that I told you about. The regent drinks it every night before bed, and while he sleeps he dreams that he is embraced by his adoring wife."

"But he isn't."

"Oh, no. But the regent believes it, and it keeps him happy, as you've seen." Thessala allowed herself a little titter. "He says that Fenice holds him
exactly
as his former wife used to. Isn't that sweet?"

"And that's what you call happiness?"

"Of course. Because, if you must know, Fenice doesn't really like him very much. If he knew the truth, he would be so miserable! It's best this way, for everyone."

"Best for Alis?" Terence demanded, incredulous. "Best that he doesn't know that his wife loves Cligés?"

Thessala nodded eagerly. "Exactly! It's perfect, don't you think? Everyone has what they want!"

"Or believes that they do," Terence said.

"It's the same thing," Thessala responded, smiling. "If you
think
you're happy, then you are!"

Terence shook his head slowly but didn't reply. Instead he faded silently into the shadows and began moving back toward his own blankets. After some fifty yards, he heard someone in deep conversation among the trees and recognized the voices of Cligés and Fenice. He glanced involuntarily toward the camp, where he could make out the shape of the regent's wagon in the flickering firelight. He supposed Alis was inside dreaming that Fenice was beside him. He returned to his own gear and found Dinadan already stretched out there.

"Where've you been?" Dinadan asked.

"Talking with that nurse," Terence said wearily. "I'll tell you about it later."

"All right," Dinadan replied. "But I thought I'd tell you the news."

"News?"

"Just after you slipped away, a horseman came down the path, riding hard away from Mainz."

"Yes?"

"He says that the emperor and duke are in all-out war now, that they've already begun attacking each other's serfs and towns. Maybe a thousand peasants killed so far."

Terence raised his eyes and looked back into the black shadows of the woods where Cligés and Fenice were huddled together, blissfully absorbed in their world of young love, and there was nothing to say and no words with which to say it.

By the time the caravan crossed back into lands held by the empire, the imperial court had lost its fascination with the peculiar nature of Alis and Fenice's marriage. When Alis began extolling the virtues of his loving bride—as he continued to do—the Greek courtiers no longer showed any discomfort, or interest. When Cligés and Fenice spoke endearingly to each other or gazed soulfully into each other's eyes or went off alone for more intimate expressions of love, those who witnessed the two lovers would, at most, roll their eyes and shake their heads.

Only Terence tried to resist this accepting attitude. "The thing is," he said to Dinadan and Acoriondes, "it's still wrong! It doesn't matter that everyone's taking it for granted now; Cligés is betraying his kinsman, and Fenice is betraying her wedding vows. And don't you think it's wrong for Alis to go on living a lie?"

Acoriondes shook his head and smiled affectionately at Terence. "My friend, you amaze me. In many ways you are wiser than anyone I have met, and yet you know so little about falsehood."

"Thank you, I think," Terence replied.

"Do you imagine that there is anyone who does not live a lie? Pretend to be what he is not? I have no doubt that you yourself live so."

"I can't think of anything that I pretend—"

"But that is my point," Acoriondes interrupted. "We are none of us aware of our own lies. Lies only appear false when they are new. Old and time-honored lies are simply the way things are. We grow accustomed to them, learn to honor and cherish them, and in the end fight with all our might to defend them."

"From what?"

"From the truth, of course."

Terence pondered this doubtfully. Did he really live with lies that he wasn't even aware of? In the silence, Dinadan yawned and said, "Come now, Terence. Surely this isn't new to you. Lies are the stones that we build kingdoms from. Look at old Karl and the Duke of Saxony—making up lies about honor and loyalty when all they really wanted was wealth and power. But in the end, they started believing their own lies and now are fighting a war to defend honor that they never had, destroying each other in grand gestures, because if they didn't they'd have to admit their own littleness."

Acoriondes nodded approvingly at Dinadan. "You surprise me, Sir Dinadan. I did not think you very wise when I first met you, but you see the world more clearly than I thought."

Dinadan shrugged. "I'm a poet," he said shortly. "Poets are allowed to speak the truth because no one takes them seriously."

Acoriondes's smile deepened. "There is something in what you say. Perhaps poets are actually prophets."

"Lord, don't let that idea get around," Dinadan said hastily. "Prophets get crucified."

After a pensive moment, Acoriondes commented, "There used to be one prophet who did not—in ancient Greece, and not very far out of our path. You know, before this German wedding business came up, I said I wanted to show you the wonders of Greece. Why should we not begin at Delphi?"

"What is Delphi?" Terence asked.

"It was an ancient oracle to the pagan god Apollo," Acoriondes explained. "There are still magnificent ruins there. It is on Mount Parnassus, which we will pass in a day or two. Shall we leave the rest of the group and visit it?"

"I've heard of Delphi," Dinadan said. "There was a priestess there, right?"

"The Pythia, yes."

"And she would inquire of Apollo at some sort of cave, which was supposed to be a gateway between worlds."

"Something of the sort was said," Acoriondes agreed. "But really, the ruins of the temple and the theater are what you should see."

Terence cared little for ruins, but the phrase
gateway between worlds
had not escaped him. "Let's go," he said.

It was already dusk when the three friends arrived at the deserted site of the Delphic oracle. For the past hour, Terence had felt an uncanny excitement growing in him. In England he had occasionally come upon gateways between worlds, places where the boundaries of the World of Men and the World of the Faeries overlapped, but never had he felt the breath of another world so powerfully. Just at sunset, they climbed a ledge and beheld the ruined temple of Apollo. Thick stone pillars supporting nothing pointed toward heaven like accusing fingers, black against the orange sky. Tumbledown stones overgrown with gray shrubs seemed to be everywhere. "Where is that cave?" Terence asked.

"The oracle itself?" Acoriondes asked. "No one knows for certain. It could have been any hole in the ground, really." His voice sounded weary. Terence realized that in his growing eagerness he had led his friends up the mountain at a punishing pace. Because they would be climbing, they had come on foot, leaving their horses in the care of Acoriondes's squire Bernard. Terence still felt full of energy himself, but the others had to be exhausted.

"Let's make camp and rest," he said at once. "We can explore the ruins tomorrow, in the light." They found a slab of flat stone on which to build a fire, then stretched out around it to stare into the flames and talk, if they wished to, or simply to be silent. Having that choice had been the nicest part of going off alone, Terence reflected. In a crowd, there was always pressure to make conversation, for fear of seeming rude, but with real friends, silence is also acceptable. Terence allowed himself to relax, feeling the light and warmth of the fire on his face and the cool emptiness of darkness behind him, and enjoying both at the same time. Dinadan took out his rebec, tuned it, then began playing a quiet air in the darkness.

"You are a strange man, Sir Dinadan," murmured Acoriondes sleepily. "You are a knight, yet you have more skill in music than any minstrel I have ever known."

Dinadan evidently felt that this observation required no answer and merely continued playing. Acoriondes lay back on his blankets, but Terence remained wakeful. The air of Delphi smelled of life and excitement and mystery, and Dinadan's quavering melody seemed to stir the space into dancing, unfamiliar patterns. Terence closed his eyes to sharpen his sense of hearing.

"What is that melody, Dinadan?" Terence asked. "I've never heard it before, have I?"

"I call it 'Song for Rhiannon,'" Dinadan replied softly. "I composed it many years ago, for an unhappy young bride."

"I've never heard its like," Terence said. "It's like a call to a deeper place."

Dinadan didn't reply, but continued playing for several more minutes. Involuntary shivers convulsed Terence's spine, and he allowed himself to relax and know the hair-prickling sensation of the presence of genius. The trees began to rustle and whistle breathily, though Terence felt no wind on his face and none disturbed the fire. Then Dinadan stopped playing and cocked his head to listen. For a long moment there was no sound but a faint snore from the prone figure of Acoriondes; then the wind began again with an eerie whistle that sounded oddly similar to the notes that Dinadan had just played. Dinadan smiled broadly.