Everran's Bane (23 page)

said Beryx, crestfallen. Then his eyes narrowed. In some amusement, she answered his thought.

“Ah. There's a sight for the future. Yxphare. But tha'll not play with that. It's no art, it's a gift, and a double-edged gift. And yes, I can do it. T'is bred in my line. But it comes to me, I don't seek for it. And yes, it told me tha wast coming. And no, it did not say I should teach thee, which is why I tried thee first. All I saw was a picture in the well there: Eskan Helken, and the two of you riding up.” She climbed to her feet. “Now shalt stretch tha muscles. I need flour to feed you two great gowks.”

* * * * *

So we took turns grinding her small desert grain on a saddle quern until supper. When we finished, Beryx was still on the dance, so Fengthira made him wash up.

As he strode back on to the verandah her eyes twinkled and she said, “We need to ‘calm thee down.'” It was Thassal's very intonation. “And harper's lost his harp. Well—” she went inside, and brought out a long bundle of what had been ornate brocade, gray shot with smoke-like patterns and wonderful watery lights. “See what canst do with that.”

It had a globular sounding drum and two necks long as my arm, seven strings above and seven beneath. The wood was rosewood, dark as polished blood: the frets were plum-red, blue-shot hazians.

“Aivrifel,” she said, when I finally dared to touch, and a whisper of wind-music breathed under my hand, like Asterne's silver bells transposed for strings. “Seven honeys. Aedric music. That was—” she broke off. “Drat it! I forgot. That was Darrhan's own. We'd have Maerdrigg plaguing us all night.”

Then her frown cleared. “Sing,” she said, with an impish girl's grin. “I'll be tha harp.”

One would hardly ask Fengthira if she could keep in tune. Nor could I bring to mind a song that would not prove delicate, to say the least. In the end I birthed a new one, hardly formed yet, a catch for the saeveryr over Eskan Helken's spring.

When I finished the verse she whistled a reprise for interlude, sweet and true and what was in my very mind for a harp. “Go on,” she ordered grinning, as my mouth fell open, and accompanied me for the rest. At the end she said, “Ah.” And I felt all Hazghend's armrings poor against that one small word.

Later she sang with me, playing with her voice as she had with her whistling, round and over and through the melody, harmonizing, improvising, plaiting it all into a master's whole. When we finished she smiled to herself, and understanding that joy in skill and gift I smiled back, feeling a kinship with her at last.

* * * * *

Though Maerdrigg did not trouble us, at breakfast Fengthira wore an abstracted frown. She eyed Beryx, on edge to begin. Then she said, “Everran, tha canst wash up. Come, harper. I've a thing to show.”

We walked down hill into Eskan Helken's crisp new sunlight, that turned a spider's web to glittering silver lace. “Havos,” she said absently. “Spider. My line.” Her mouth was wry. “Si'sta. Sights tha canst learn alone, but what comes next is Commands. And for that he needs—a mind.”

“I can't do it,” she went on, rather roughly. “Canst not be teacher and lesson both. Hast given a harp to this. Canst give something more?”

My breath dried. To live with a wizard was bad enough, to watch Beryx become one was growing worse. But I had not thought to make his prentice work.

Fengthira pressed me no more than Beryx himself had when the Hethox wanted my harp. All that pressed me was Everran—and myself.

“Good,” she said, before I spoke. Then, cryptically, ironically, “Hast won more than tha knowst. And now, si'sta. The first command is Scarthe. Reading thoughts.”

“Ah,” she said as I backed away. “I know very well there's that in tha mind he should never know. And that tha'd hide it to spare him as well as thaself. Needst not blush. T'is one reason I like horses better than men. Their morals are simpler. Hast a mare, tha holds her. Canst not, someone takes her away. No blame either side. No need to hackle either. I know tha canst help it no more than the stallion that wants the mare.” She chuckled. “Hurt tha dignity, have I? Well, I can give thee a command, bid thee forget her for—seven days. Should be enough. He'll not learn Phare from me.”

I was still seething, but what was there to say? I looked up, and that silent gray world enveloped me.

“No, tha'll not feel it.” She moved me up the hill. “And nor will he.” Under her breath she added, “I hope.”

Inside the house Beryx was pacing to and fro. “Sit.” she said. “Art worse than a corn-fed colt. And tha.” I sat, feeling as if it were to face the surgeon's knife. “Scarthe,” she told Beryx. “Look in his eyes.”

Beryx looked at her instead, and came to his feet with a bound, breaking out fiercely,

“Spare me,” she said wearily. “I know tha knowst the way of Scarthe and tha scruples of eavesdropping and what it will do to him—and thee. Harper has done tha squirming for thee. And agreed to it.”

Beryx began half a dozen protests and fell back on a violent,

“Then go back to Everran,” Fengthira snapped, “and watch tha people's ruin. T'will save thee plaguing me.”

Beryx went fire-red and struggled for words. Fengthira's eyes were bleak and pitiless. She said, “Take tha choice.”

Their eyes clashed. Then he spun round, biting his lip, his eyes full of rage and shame, and I looked up into his gaze.

How does it feel? I remember thinking. There should be some sensation, surely? Then the first intuition of another's presence, that wild beast instinct that warns when we are approached by stealth. Then a sudden recollection of Fengthira describing Phare, and then panic, because the one thing you cannot do outside sleep or skill is to stop your speaking thoughts. Then it began to hurt.

Beryx was yelling at the top of his voice.

He became incoherent in the mental equivalent of choking rage. Fengthira's voice sliced into it. “If tha'dst be an aedr, must pay the price. I told thee, tha didst not know what tha asked.”

He whipped round for the door. She said, no louder but cutting as a razor, “Shalt not throw tha tantrums with me.” He spun as if jerked round by the shoulder, raging now on his own behalf. She said, “Wilt go back on the rope?”

He very nearly flew at her. He was on tiptoe, teetering for the charge. Fengthira assumed that deadly stillness of an aedr poised to strike.

“Art a king,” she said, “and wast never gainsaid in tha life. More's the pity. Hot-headed. A forked stick for a mouth. Run over them that council thee for tha own good, and if tha must heed it, fly off like a brat in the sulks.” It was deliberate provocation now, a flogging rather than a single lash. “Kick the pricker out of the yard and not just kick against the pricks. But if I come to break thee, by the sands of Deve Saldryx Korven,” her eyes were alight now too, cold and perilous, “tha'lt answer to the bridle, whether tha wilt or not.”

Beryx had his eyes shut, jammed tight. He was white as he had been red, shaking from head to foot, and I knew it was neither fear nor rage nor pain. It was a battle for control.

Fengthira paused a moment, still coiled. Then she said in a neutral tone, “Come back here.”

He opened his eyes and walked unsteadily to his chair. With startling kindness she said, “Good lad.”

Beryx suddenly began to laugh. I doubt he too was thinking of his phalanxmen, whom he had called good lads.

When he broke off, hiccupping, Fengthira nodded. “I said tha'dst get tha temper up. Well, hast it down now. And hast made an almighty bungle of tha first Command. Do it again.”

Beryx looked at her in wordless despair. I wanted to protest too, but you might as well try to bend a mountain of adamant.

Either Beryx improved or I grew inured, for it was easier after that, even if we took all morning to satisfy Fengthira. After a time she made me bring wood, boil tea, occupy my mind while he worked, which in some ways was worse than before. Finally she sat back and shook her head.

“Hast a touch,” she said, “like a brick-maker stitching silk. But there's no helping that. Art too strong, and needst more practice. Other minds.” Beryx had been sitting with his hand over his eyes. At that he gave her a mute look of appeal, and she shook her head. “We'll let it be.”

* * * * *

They banished me to the verandah with the aivrifel and spent the afternoon practicing the Sights. When Fengthira's quietly commanding, recalled me, Beryx's eyes were black-smudged and he looked fine-drawn and taut.

“I'll teach thee Letharthir too,” said Fengthira, “for the skill, though I doubt there'll be need of it.” She gave a small chuckle. “Not with Hawge. Sit down, harper. Over there.” She stood behind Beryx, a hand on his neck, face assuming that intent workman's look.

“Now,” she said brusquely, “don't fight me. Dost hear?”

We were both rigid already. At that Beryx shut his eyes. She gave him a shake. “Open thine eyes. And tha, harper, look at him.”

His eyes were normal, green and cool. Then they dilated. The pupils flared. Something violent was going on behind them, a struggle, or a struggle suppressed. A form of Phare, I think. Whatever it was, it passed. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, and then the irises seemed to expand instead, but they were no longer cool and dark. They were luminous with a hot, living light, shot with white facet-stars, crystalline, enormous, all-engulfing, the mesmeric stare of a hunting feline, of a dragon itself—

My own yell reverberated in my ears. Beryx was kneeling over me, holding me on the floor one-handed with a face of frantic concern and bitter remorse, crying,

His face was human, his eyes were dark green almonds rimmed in long black lash, not lidless, facetted, crystalline... I felt myself relax. Fengthira's face appeared above me, past crisis ousted by professional interest.

“Didst not tell me,” she remarked, “Hawge had looked at thee. Else I would not have put thee to that.”

Beryx glanced up blankly. “Ah,” she said. “Dragons use a kind of Letharthir. And,” her voice lost all expression, “their eyes are green.” She shrugged. “No Letharthir. And enough for tonight.”

But as we watched the sunset she clapped a hand to her head, exclaimed, “Thor'stang! Clot!” And darted inside. “Everran,” she called, “find me sixteen small stones. About the same size.”

Not daring to laugh, we scratched about like small boys in the dirt. Inside she had lit the lamp and drawn with a knife on the table, a big square divided into sixty-four smaller ones.

“Sit, Everran,” she commanded, rapidly ranking stones on the outermost squares. “This is Thor'stang. Kings'-war. Canst move on any untaken square in any direction as far as tha likes. Takest an enemy's piece by jumping over it. First to lose all loses the war.”

A flicker of interest lightened Beryx's fatigue. He sat down, his face assuming a soldier's cast: I knew he was a devotee of chess. With a glance under her lashes, Fengthira added softly, “The rest tha'lt learn... as tha goest.”

Five minutes later she was chuckling, while Beryx leant back with a look of patent unbelief. “This one,” she said, “tha plays in the mind. Canst use Scarthe. And Letharthir. And Fengthir. If tha canst.”

Beryx was wide awake now. He gave her a calculating glance. She looked limpidly back. His eyes narrowed. Hers opened, gray and depthless; he made a wild movement like a man overbalancing off a cliff and she chuckled again. “No, if tha tries Scarthe outright I'll take thee with Letharthir and tha'lt give me the rest of the game.”

Beryx looked down at the board. he asked.

“Scarthe,” she replied, “with commands mixed into what tha reads. Then withdraw, without any of it known.”

His eyes gleamed. Such subterfuges appealed to his soldier's mind. Fengthira gave him another limpid look and said, “With masters, they tossed up a pebble and whoever caught it with axynbr'arve took first move. But I'll give thee first hold.”

There was a long pause. Then, still holding her eyes, Beryx reached out for a stone.

he yelled.

“Ah,” she retorted, laughing. “And thy Scarthe was clear as a flag in a bramble-bush, so tha readst a lie. Try again.”

When I went to bed the game had gone three-quarters of an hour without a piece being moved. When I woke later they were still at it. I caught Beryx's profile: alert, a pucker in the mouth-corner, a glint in the eye. As Fengthira glanced up, the same imp laughed back. At sunrise they were asleep, but a heap of pebbles was piled on the table, and atop it, a triumph banner, lay a scrap of faded gray rag.

* * * * *

“Shalt have tha revenge tonight,” said Fengthira at breakfast, and as my stomach sank she gave me a smile. “Comfort thee, harper. Wilt not have to stand like an ox this time.”