Wings of Flame (13 page)

“Do not blame yourself,” Kyrem said abruptly and with unnecessary heat.

“I am not,” Auron answered mildly. “I am of Vashti as it is of me; how can anyone place blame? But I can see what is happening. Before long it will be only the river that sustains us.”

Kyren had no answer. His mind was in an uproar, whirling like the yellow dust devils that scorched over Deva.

“Does it trouble you,” Auron asked gently, “that I am … what I have said I am?” And Kyrem looked at him and smiled suddenly, all uproar calmed.

“I shall grow used to it, I am sure.”

“Well, it is, I suppose better than being a fop. No reproach intended,” Auron added, not allowing Kyrem time for embarrassment. “Hearing thoughts makes one prize truth.” He leaned back judiciously where he sat, and in a moment his eyes grew focusless and heavy-lidded, looking past Kyrem.

The prince sat for a considerable time, reluctant to disturb him. Finally he rose to tiptoe out, but his chair scraped. At the noise Auron came back to life with a start and looked at him.

“I am sorry,” he exclaimed. “Do sit down.”

Kyrem took his seat again.

“It has become habitual,” Auron said apologetically. “Powers of mind are all I have, so when this dumpling of a body comes to rest, I tend to use them.”

“You are a seer,” the prince breathed, awestruck, and Auron almost laughed but thought better of it. Kyrem was not ready to be laughed at, or at least not by him.

“Not really. My visions know nothing of past or future.”

“But of the present … you … see everything?”

“No, no!” Auron spoke hastily in reassurance. “Surprisingly little, really. It is as if I were a bird flying through the skies of Vashti, a swallow, or an animal on the hilltops, a hare—something swift, not soft and lumpy. But I cannot see into parlors as people seem to think I can, and I cannot be more than one place at a time, and sometimes I cannot even control where I am. I see bits of this and that, all across Vashti. It comes and goes.” Auron gave a rueful grimace. “Often it seems that I find out everything and anything except what I truly need to know.” He paused for a moment. “I cannot see the mountains at all, ever,” he added softly. “And though I looked long and hard, I did not see you coming until you were quite close to Avedon.”

Kyrem nodded wordlessly, remembering the king's concern for him that day, remembering his own curt responses with discomfort.

“I have never had the consummate control of thoughts such as my forebears possessed, not even when I was young,” Auron said. “And as I grow older, I can focus them less and less.”

So the king of Vashti conceived of himself as less than illustrious. Kyrem smiled, feeling a surge of warm affection for the man—no, for the androgyne, the oddity. No matter. They were not so much unlike.

“So, no wonder you never leave the palace,” he said, his tone light, nearly teasing. “You never have to.”

“I am scarcely allowed to,” Auron retorted. “Even for war. I can see and comprehend the clash of armies, but I have never set foot on a battlefield.”

“By what power did you defeat my father?”

He would not have been able to ask that question so easily a month earlier. Auron glanced at him in some small merriment.

“You underestimate your father,” he said. “I did not defeat him.”

“No? Then why am I here? I am his hostage to peace, am I not?”

“Let me start at the beginning.” Auron took pause to think. “The curse started it all,” he said at last.

Kyrem only stared.

“Have you not been aware of the curse? A deadly curse on the lands of Suth, on Vashti and Deva both. It has been so for several years. Have you not felt it? I feel it plainly, no very happy sensation. It is a curse of war. I do not know the name of the enemy who pronounced it, but I know the ways of curses; they go where they will be best received. This one goes whispering into the hearts of those who dream of glory.…” Auron hesitated. “Your father is a good man, Kyrem, but it took some small hold on him.”

The prince stirred restively, not wanting to believe any of this but not knowing how to disbelieve. Auron would not lie, he felt sure.

“It prickled at me also,” Auron added. “I searched and searched my kingdom and tried to venture to the Kansban, seeking a hidden enemy who opposed me with a will as strong as my own. For years I did that, and by the time your father came with his army, I was exhausted and not thinking clearly. I tried to fight him.”

Kyrem looked up in bewilderment.

“I should have been fighting the true enemy,” Auron explained. “Instead, I raised a force of callow youths, exhorted them to mighty deeds and sent them into battle. Your father's horsemen slaughtered them. The blood, it was my own … the pain brought me to my senses. The enemy had bested me after all.”

Still, Kyrem realized, Auron did not speak of Kyrillos as his enemy. He listened in growing amazement.

“I threw all my remaining strength into the conflict and grappled with the nameless one. And in my desperation I was able to withhold that enemy a while from your father's mind, and he looked around him and wondered what he was doing. He came here to talk with me, to make peace. So you see, Kyrem, there has been no defeat, no victory.”

“The report,” said Kyrem cautiously, “is that your people resisted valiantly.”

“Why, I suppose we did. There was a standoff of sorts. But the real enemy remains to be defeated. Your father knows that, and he sent you here as surety for both of us.”

He got up and poured wine from a cruet, handing a cupful to Kyrem and taking one himself.

“My men saw one of those black horse-birds of which you spoke,” he said, sitting down again. “The sight of it frightened them half to death, but it did not speak to them.”

“Let them count their blessings then,” Kyrem said wryly.

“Yes. You say the things—birds, demons, what you will—troubled you less as you neared the lowlands?”

“Aye. A few at a time they left us and flapped back toward Kimiel.”

Auron stiffened at the name of the holy mountain and peered at Kyrem. “You really think they came from there?” he asked softly.

“I do not know. Our path lay close by that mountain. It sometimes seemed that they did, but we were never sure. Why?”

“Well, if the focus of this curse is there, then I am the more confounded, that is all. Kyrem, do you in Deva tell the tale of the mountaintop Suth?”

When Kyrem shook his head, Auron leaned back, and turning his wine cup in his hand, settled himself to relate it.

It was in the primal days. There had sprung up on the flanks of the Mare Mother a race of beings called men. They saw the beauty of Suth and his seven winged sons; they painted images of the steeds on the walls of their homes; they laid the seven colors on their bodies and their possessions, but they could not fly on the wind. And whenever they saw Suth, the varicolored stallion of the pattern that is or is not, they cried, Why? until it seemed to Suth that of all creatures, men were the most clever and the most to be pitied. And they could not understand him when he spoke, for his fearsome voice made them fall to earth and hide their heads with their hands. So he said, I will take that form of men and go teach them.

Therefore he became a man and went and lived on Mount Kimiel, sending wisdom among men by the mouths of the birds that can be taught to speak, the sooty starlings and blackbirds and ravens. He did this until he was old, but men grew no wiser and no more content. He lived and labored until he was so old that his hair had gone bone white and his eyes blind and white, but still he sent forth his birds from the mountaintop. Then the princes of Deva and Vashti went to him and demanded, Who are you that lived when our great-grandfathers were but youths?

And he answered, I am Suth.

Some fell down in supplication, and some shouted in anger. Prove it, they cried, and he replied, You have seen proof.

Give us wings, some pleaded, or let us fly on the wings of the wind. But Suth said, All my wishing or commanding will not give you even the wings of a gnat, for the pattern is set.

Then they became angry and some shouted Fraud, and others grumbled Come away, he is of no use. For there is nothing man likes less than the pattern that is or is not. Blasphemy, one strong voice shouted. He blasphemes the name of Suth. And all their angers joined into one.

You have said you are Suth, they roared; therefore let you be used as a horse. You will make a fine mount for us. And they forced the old seer onto all fours and sat on him and lashed at him with sticks. Be a horse then, and trot! they shouted. For the times were hard and they waxed bitter at the god even as they upheld his name.

But the seer truly was very old and frail and could not withstand such ill usage. And before long, he slumped over dead. Then they all stood and were ashamed, muttering Bury him and No, let him lie. Before they could decide, a fog and a chill wind moved across the mountain. And the dead body stirred and rose, but it was no man that stood there. An immense horse faced them, splattered with red as of blood, white of head and staring eyes, and the jewel between those eyes flared like flame, and of blood-red flame were the wings that rose from its mottled shoulders. And though Suth did not move, they all scattered and ran. Some ran until their hearts burst and they died; some ran over precipices, and some reached home insane and died soon after.

Only one man ultimately lived to tell the tale, and he became king of Vashti, the first Rabiron, a legendary king and the best that country had ever known. And he pledged that Suth should never again be ridden there in form of horse or man. Therefore horses were not ridden in Vashti but were cherished tenderly and suckled with human milk, and after they were weaned, they were let to run wild and at freedom for a year on the slopes of Mount Kimiel.

“Are you saying,” Kyrem demanded, “that Suth is my enemy?”

“Whatever enemy there is, is mine as much as yours. No, I do not say that it is Suth. What have we done to deserve the anger of Suth? But there are similarities, parallels.… Perhaps a sort of dark Suth, or a parody of Suth. Those demons you describe seem to be mockeries of his greatness.”

Kyrem sat shaking his head.

“I must send another patrol, I suppose, by a different route,” Auron muttered. “I cannot see what else to do. The focus of my mind is much weakened from this long conflict, and it avails me nothing.”

“I do not believe in this enemy,” said Kyrem levelly. “I am scarcely able to believe anything that you have told me.” He sounded tired.

“Why, what will you believe then?” Auron asked.

“I … I don't know.” His confused thoughts included a half-formed affection toward his peculiar host, and his admission of unbelief hurt him. It was the pain that put an edge of arrogance in his voice.

He went to his bed early that night and slept restlessly, dreaming of the odd androgyne king and a great white-headed horse with staring eyes and of black birds with the grotesque heads of horses.

And in his deep cave atop the mountain, the Old One dreamed yet more twisted dreams: visions of things he had never seen, but still the knowledge of them flowed to him through his ancestry. Of yellow horses on yellow wind-sculpted plains, dun tarpans, their buff-edged manes stiff and erect and the black eel stripe running down mane and neck, withers and back and rump to the broomlike tail. Heavy-headed, mealy-muzzled, the tarpans galloped through the seasons of his dreams, white in winter, the black stripes still on their backs until they writhed up and twisted and became black serpents, sprouted wings and flew up and clustered, sucking, on the sun. Let the ravens croak as they would. Lion of Deva and silly sacred horse of Vashti would both know that black wrath of the dun folk, the Old Ones. Mare Mother was a tarpan, black bristling mane of thorn trees, black, but men forgot. Black wings in black trees. Souls went up as birds. The Old One dreamed then of the simurgh, huge bareheaded bird like a vulture, feeder of the sun, feeder also with its beak of the chieftain who lay beneath the mountain. Was he that one? He thought not. Only starlings brought him food. But it might be that he was that revenant of power, that uprising avenger, for as far as he knew, he was the very last of the Old Ones, and all the generations of his people's longings formed a sharp peak of vengeance within him.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning when Kyrem went to the stable, Nasr Yamut strode toward him with a broad smile of greeting.

“Prince Kyrem! We missed you yesterday. Were you ill, that you did not come out?”

Kyrem did not answer the smile. “I was talking with King Auron, that I did not come out,” he said grimly. “And you are no friend of mine, priest.”

Nasr Yamut arched his brows in well-bred surprise. “You think there is something amiss between us?” he asked after a moment. “But what has King Auron told you? Perhaps—” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps I can tell you better truth.”

“You would accuse your own liege king of lying?” Kyrem's shout rang throughout the stable courtyard, and Nasr Yamut winced, for many priests turned to stare. Nor did Kyrem trouble to lower his voice as he went on.

“Nasr Yamut, you are beneath contempt. Nor can you tell me that my ears lie, for I stood less than a stone's throw from you as you spoke yesterday beneath the dome. So you abhor me! That is why you meet me wreathed in smiles.” His tone turned yet darker. “Get away from me, priest.”

Nasr Yamut had heard Kyrem's words in shock, seeing himself fairly exposed to all who listened—but truth and honor were not of paramount concern to him. Power was. He abandoned his friendly stance and assumed the crouch of one who fights on the defensive, gathering to himself the powers of his priesthood. “Speak me more fair, Prince,” he said in a voice low and dangerous, “or I will blight all of the poor life that is left to you.”