Kingfisher (11 page)

“‘In his weakness, in his dire distress, the river god took his human aspect and prayed for water as it left his veins.

“‘She came then, in answer to his call. Though he had overwhelmed her, carried her to the sea over and over without thought or shame, she came to him. She raised his head up from the dead mosses and reeds and held her healing vessel to his lips. He drank. He drank.

“‘His veins filled. His waters quickened. He drank. He
opened his eyes and saw her face between his face and the sun, shading him like a cloud.

“‘The sky remembered how to fashion cloud; cloud covered the sun everywhere across the land, and everywhere from dawn to night and again to dawn the hard, sweet rains began to fall.'”

“You see?” Mystes Halliwell said in bitter triumph to the princess and the queen. “Calluna and her cup. Her power. Not Severen's. She saved his life.”

“Surely Lord Skelton knows the tale,” the queen said.

“He does, my lady. He says that since the only written version of that tale is less than four centuries old, and he has never seen an older reference to the tale, it is too recent to be of interest.”

“Is that where you got the book? From Sylvester?” Morrig asked.

“No, of course not. He wouldn't lend me the time of day. The book belongs to us. I found it in the sanctum library. I've been searching the archives for anything that pertains to this tale. Anything that Lord Skelton didn't find first, that is. I wouldn't put it past him to have a few things hidden on his shelves that could point toward the truth of the matter.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” the queen said quickly. “He is too much a scholar.”

“And another thing,” Holly said, with great indignation. “Dame Cecily Thorpe, who was one of my acolytes before she decided to train for knighthood, told me that some of the knights, who are speculating wildly over nothing but rumor at this point, are planning to search Calluna's cave for the mysterious object of power. They can't just go
barging through the sacred shrine, wading down the water, and shining headlamps on everything. The idea is outrageous. First they bury the cave and forget it completely; now they want to excavate it.” She kicked at the water angrily, sent it splashing, dowsing candles in its wake. She blinked as the queen wiped her face. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I'm frothing, and it's all Sylvester Skelton's fault.”

Perdita got up to relight the candles, tipping flames to smoking wicks along the pool. “We have to find an earlier version of Calluna's tale,” she said. “Lord Skelton may be obsessed by his version, but he's not at all devious. If we could prove the cup belongs to Calluna, he could be persuaded out of his certainty.”

“Or we could just find the cup,” the queen said.

Perdita, lighting a final wick, found the queen's eyes on her above the flame. She was looking, her daughter realized, for a reason.

“We,” she echoed. “You mean me.”

“Why not? Nothing in the stars says that only knights should go on this quest. People are used to seeing you in Calluna's cave. Nobody would question your presence there. You could look for the artifact anytime you want. Tomorrow morning. Before the cave opens to the public.”

Mystes Halliwell lifted her feet, splashed again with excitement. “Yes. That's the perfect idea, Your Majesty.”

“I've been trained to give tours of the cave,” Perdita reminded them. “I've seen all the images, and I know what the scholars say about them.”

“Scholars,” Morrig said, stirring the water with her fingertips. “Always getting us into trouble, putting up walls,
naming things. You must look beyond those walls, Perdita. Beyond the designated path. Trespass into the past.”

Perdita sat down again. She contemplated the reflection of the goddess in the water, and the wild, wide-eyed face in the pool seemed to come alive, her expressions changing at every flare of candle fire, every riffle of water.

“If the artifact is Calluna's, it wouldn't be metal,” she mused. “There would not be a jewel on it. A river stone, maybe, hollowed to hold water. A wooden bowl. A clay cup. She might have carried the water in a leaf.” She paused, thinking again, while the walls of the cave formed in her mind, images covering them, symbols, the silent language of tales telling and retelling themselves. “I've never looked at the images in the context of that story. That gesture of the goddess. What would she have used to carry water to a dying god?” She looked up, aware of but hardly seeing the watching faces of women, flickering with light and shadow, like the goddess's reflection. “If anyone asks, I'll say that I'm studying the cave as a form of worship. If I don't find anything, I'll try Sylvester's library again.”

“Be careful around Sylvester,” the mystes warned. “He reads minds.”

“He won't pay any attention,” the queen said dryly, “if it's only about Calluna.”

—

P
erdita drove to Calluna's cave early the next morning. She brought a set of keys to the outer and inner doors, and a pair of bodyguards, who stationed themselves at the
cave entrance, one watching the stairs, the other the steamy, murmuring pool. Nobody else was there at that hour. The constant darkness edging the frail lights around the pool made true time vanish; it might have been any hour of any lost century Perdita stepped into as she followed the water flowing away from the pool. She had turned on every light; most illumined the visitors' path along the narrow river and the images carved and painted on the walls. Those—handprints, trees, and flowers dedicated to the goddess, toads, dragonflies, deer, strange, huge-eyed faces—she knew well; they were in every souvenir guidebook.

What she did not know so well lay in the dark beyond the path, beyond the reach of light.

The bodyguards had given her an assortment of lights, tools, flares, even a weapon. She carried them to the little bridge across the river that marked the boundary of familiar tourist territory. She left everything on the bridge but the candles and matches she carried in her pockets. The oldest images had been made under the earliest form of light; they would speak, she guessed, more clearly in the flickering uncertainty of fire than in the glare of a flashlight.

She carried several tapers together, enough to illumine the shallow water, to draw an image on the stone walls out of the dark, then let it melt back into black. Most repeated the patterns of the early ones in the sacred cave. But as she wandered farther from the pool, now and then something would surprise her: the goddess's face, with its stark, powerful gaze, its wreath of hair, attached to a human body, or that same face with light, or water, or power streaming from
its eyes. The Calluna itself quickened under that gaze; the water's voice changed, became stronger, cleaner, as its waters gained depth on its journey to the sea.

The paintings came to an end where all the books Perdita had seen on the subject ended: the goddess's face on one side of the river's wall, on the other a pair of hands, cupped, angled down, spilling drops of water shaped like tadpoles or tears. Beyond them, two massive wedges of stone leaned against one another across the river. The water pushed through the narrow opening between them, carving more deeply into its bed, its voice grown assured, imperative, echoing against the walls as it ran on, clamoring for the world and light.

The dark beyond the huge stones, Perdita knew, was caused by the human hands that had shaped the tunnel above the Calluna River to support the busy street named for the goddess. In an earlier century, the river had unearthed itself, glittered with sunlight, expanded in the luxury of meadows and fields for a brief, innocent moment of freedom before it met the Severen and was swept into the embrace of the god.

There, at that point of collision, a god dying of thirst, a mighty river drying up, might well have drunk gratefully and ceaselessly from the stream of water whose birthplace was buried underground, its source untouched by the light that had burned with such ruthless destruction across the whole of the land from the wyvern-riddled mountains to the sea.

Here, where the princess stood, was the goddess's face on one wall. There, on the opposite side, were her hands, water flowing out of them. In this form of the early tale, the
sacred, powerful, life-carrying vessel took the simplest shape of all: the open hand.

Perdita, gazing perplexedly at the goddess's face, at her hands, wondered if they had ever truly taken any other shape.

Then she thought: The story isn't finished. Where is the god in distress?

On impulse she stooped, held her bouquet of flames above the dark water rushing between the slabs of stone. She tried to see beneath the surface to the river stones and what they might reveal if, perhaps, they had once been part of the ceiling or the walls. They might have spoken, continued the story long before the monstrous machines of a later era had shaken them down into the water.

A face formed in her light.

Her own reflection, she thought at first, seeing only the suggestion of a human in the coiling, rippling flow. Slowly it took on color, dimension. Her lips parted. She sucked air, felt the quickening, terrifying touch of the goddess on the nape of her neck. She knew that face like she knew her own. She stretched her hand toward it, her mouth opening soundlessly; her fingertips touched the water, and the face, the reflection in the goddess's eye, misted away.

Daimon.

P
ierce drove through a cleft in a dry, golden hill and found himself on a six-lane span across the astonishing breadth of Severluna Bay. The city sprawled at the end of the bridge, a tidal wave of civilization spilling so completely over land bordered on three sides by water that the land itself had vanished under it.

Pierce's hands grew damp, locked on the steering wheel. He was surrounded by more vehicles than he had seen in a lifetime; it took every nerve he possessed not to stop the Metro in the middle of the bridge so that he could get out and slink back into the hills. The Metro kept moving; the city grew. Streets appeared, going everywhere at once. Signs gave him choices, all unfamiliar. Since he would probably die, chewed up by the monsters snorting on all sides of him before he got safely off the bridge, choices seemed moot. He was slowed, at the end of the bridge where waves roiled and
broke far under him, by traffic bottlenecking toward a tollbooth. The bill he proffered in trembling fingers was snatched away by the wind. The toll-taker eyed him implacably as he rummaged through his wallet. Finally, he did something right; a light turned green; the man waved him on, nodding, even smiling a little, while sounds of Severluna—horns, wind, engine growls, gulls, tide—poured through the open window like some kind of maniacal welcome.

He drove. Signs queried him constantly. Me? they asked him. Do you want me? He was frozen again, unable to say yes or no, right or left; he could only stop when everyone stopped and move forward when everyone else did.

He had no idea where to go.

Finally, catching sight of a quiet street, he reeled onto it, scarcely seeing the great stone houses along it as he drove, just relieved to be able to slow a little. He had a city map somewhere in the car but not a clue anywhere why he should go one direction instead of another. He drove aimlessly a bit, peering at street signs, smelling an oddly pungent scent of leaves from a park running along one side of the street. A broad road, lined with trees and very quiet, veered unexpectedly into the park. Pierce followed it eagerly, wanting only to find a place to park the car in the sudden peace and sit until he stopped trembling. Then he would look for his map and pretend he knew what he was doing.

He had followed the road's long curves deeper into the park, looking for a place to pull over, when he passed a little hut with heraldic devices painted on all four sides of it. Someone without a face popped instantly into his rearview mirror. A line of metal teeth rose out of the tarmac,
pointed, with lethal intent, at the Metro's tires. He shouted wildly, shaking again, and braked hard; the car slewed to a stop inches from the teeth.

A loud metallic voice said, “Step out of the vehicle.” He managed to find the latch, tried to get out; his seat belt pulled him back. He cursed, heard the eerie voice again, and finally fumbled himself loose. He pushed himself upright, wondering wearily what he had done wrong, what ruthless laws he had broken just trying to find a place to sit among the huge old trees.

Two humanoids in black leather and full-facial visors that made them resemble giant, eyeless ants walked briskly to either side of the Metro. They each held something that lit up a strand of air between them and hummed. They passed the line of light fore and aft over the car, let it hover for a moment across the pack in the backseat. They reached the front bumper; the light vanished. Dark head consulted head, soundlessly to Pierce's ears. Then one walked back toward the little hut, and the other raised his visor, revealing a young, tanned, expressionless face.

“You have a knife in your baggage.”

“I do?” Pierce said, and then remembered. “Oh. I do. The kitchen knife.”

The guard murmured something into his chin, listened a moment. Behind him, the malevolent teeth slowly sank into the tarmac. The young man looked at Pierce again.

“You need to continue on, take the next right, then the immediate left. You took the wrong entrance.”

“Oh.”

“After you go left, the entrance will be on your right.”

“Ah—”

The guard held up a hand, listened. “They're expecting you.”

“Could I—like—just turn around?” Pierce pleaded.

“No. This really is the shortest way from here. You can drive on now.”

Wordless, Pierce slid into the driver's seat, started the engine. “Right, then left, then right again,” the guard reminded him as he crawled over the hidden teeth. Pierce saw him watching, visor down again, from the middle of the road. He swallowed, his mouth dust dry, and gave up any thought of peace in that demented city.

He followed directions carefully to avoid another yawning gape of vicious road teeth. An entrance of some sort into something loomed beyond another tiny guardhouse. As he took the second right turn, he saw the guard watching him, commenting to someone invisible about Pierce's passing. The end of that brief drive was a parking lot filled with vehicles of every kind. Pierce pulled in among them, not knowing what else to do. He wondered what would happen if he just took his pack and snuck into the trees surrounding the parking lot. Then he saw the vast stone wall running endlessly behind the trees.

There was a thump on the Metro roof; he started, expecting the insect-men to reappear. A girl in a black tunic and trousers, her hair bundled into a net, peered at him. She gave him a crooked, cheerful smile as he rolled down the window.

“At least I'm not the only one who's late. Walk in with me?” She added, as he stepped mutely out of the car, “Don't forget your stuff.”

“Ah,” he said tentatively. “I'm not sure— Is this the right—?”

“The royal kitchens, back entrance. They needed so many extras for the king's Assembly that you'll probably meet everyone you know here. Come on.”

Dumbfounded, he grabbed his pack and hurried after her.

He caught up with her as she pulled open a door into what looked like an enormous cave filled with dimly moving figures. A cloud of steam smelling of bread, chocolate, onions, roasting meat blew around them and out.

“You're late,” a voice grumbled amid the cloud. A lean, black-haired man carrying a clipboard took shape, scanned their faces and his list. “Marcia Holmes. You know your station.”

“Yes,” she said, vanishing into what looked like rows of counters half a mile long, cooks lined at them, vigorously chopping, clanging pot lids, whirring machinery, shouting for this or that.

“And you—” the man said. “I'm not seeing you. Who are you?”

“Pierce Oliver.”

“You're not—” He flung up his hands, his list taking flight, settling again. “Never mind. What have you got in there?” Pierce pulled the knife out of his pack. The broad blade picked up light from somewhere, flashed silver. The man stared at it, his harried face suddenly slack with wonder, as though he recognized it though he could not remember why or from where. He pulled his thoughts back together abruptly. “All right. We have seven hundred and forty-nine knights to feed in seven hours, including the king and his knighted children. And, of course, everyone else in the
palace not invited to the formal dinner must be fed as well. There are extra uniforms and aprons on that rack, and an empty station at the third counter. Get dressed, get over there, and start chopping.”

Pierce threw on black trousers and a tunic, found his place, and began to feed the knife whatever anyone put within his reach. He had no time to think, except to marvel that he had somehow muddled his way under the king's roof. The knife melted through anything it was given. It minced garlic, chopped onions, sliced tomatoes, diced potatoes. The wicked edge, neatly balanced, rocked its way across walnuts or celery as easily as it cleaved slabs of raw beef into fine ribbons, and fresh chives and parsley into airy flakes. He had no idea what he was making, only that the thinnest rounds of unpeeled lemon were involved, endless narrow strips of red pepper, vast quantities of apple wedges and butterflied prawns.

After an hour or three, Pierce felt he had merged, melted into the kitchen. Its relentless heat, its endless alphabet of smells, its clatters, whirs, bangs, whacks, and sizzles had become his skin. His hand had grown a knife at the end of it; his feet existed in some other universe. He could toss a lime and part it six different ways before the wedges landed on his board. He could pare an avocado and catch the falling pieces. He could notch the green end of an onion in three strokes as it flew. He could julienne a carrot in midair.

He wondered if his father would be among those he would help feed.

He hardly noticed the chaos he was creating around him. Odd strands of light caught and swirled around the blade,
then flashed across the counters, snagging themselves in metal and steel, in bowls and whisks, in other blades. Things groaned, smoked, clattered to the floor. Equipment froze or overheated; squalls of black smoke, hot, oily steam, collided with shouts and curses from the cooks. Pierce, oblivious, tossed yet another of a seemingly endless supply of oranges to peel it in one spiraling stroke when he realized abruptly that the knife was no longer in his hand.

The orange thumped down on his cutting board and bounced off. A woman wearing the king's crest on her hat and apron caught it with one hand. With the other, she laid the knife across the board, where, for the first time in hours, it was still.

She said succinctly, holding Pierce's eyes in her dark, furious gaze, “This is not working. I don't know you, I don't know what that knife is, but you are creating havoc every time you move. Whatever purpose that knife has, it does not belong in my kitchen. And neither do you. Remove it and yourself so we can at least try to function again.” Pierce opened his mouth; she pointed her finger. “Out!”

“I'm sorry—”

“Just go away before something else breaks.”

Pierce tucked the knife into his pack and, following the rigid finger that seemed to him to point the wrong direction, he slunk out of the kitchen.

He got lost before he could find his way.

He roamed through empty classrooms, dorms, a staff room, and a dining hall before he found a door around a corner beyond the hangar-sized bathrooms. He pushed it open and heard the world cheer, as though he had done something of
magnificent import. The cheering died away. A voice spoke loudly, incoherently. He walked outside, found himself in a small, walled garden with a couple of benches, shadowed by huge trees with narrow, silvery leaves. A statue stood among the shadows, its face broken and blurred, its eyes blind with mold. Its head was angled toward the invisible crowd cheering again somewhere beyond the old stone wall.

Pierce walked across the yard, slung his pack straps over one shoulder, and hoisted himself into a tree beside the statue.

The wall dropped dizzyingly on the other side into a vast bowl shored up by brickwork and concrete and ringed with tier upon tier of seats. Groups of dark figures lounged here and there watching what was going on across the field below. From that high place, he could see, across the bowl, what seemed a miniature city of graceful buildings and towers, the past and present of Wyvernhold history, the lacework of stone ruins among high, colorful, modern designs, all surrounded by enormous, sprawling walls. Beyond them, he saw the busy span of the bridge he had driven across, so long ago it seemed impossible to him that it had been only that morning.

He took his eyes off the restless, mesmerizing roil and glitter of sea, and looked down at the movement below.

There seemed a number of things going on at once, some of which he recognized from programs that the antiquated television in the only sports bar in Desolation Point pulled out of the turbulent air around the cape. He had seen the ancient jousting games: riders and horses arrayed in colorful swaths of cloth galloping headlong toward a wooden figure that spun if it were struck by the long pole in the rider's hand. It hit the rider with its own straw-stuffed cudgel if
the rider missed. The scattered watchers seemed to be rooting for the wooden knight: they clapped and whistled vigorously whenever a rider got walloped by the cudgel.

They were knights, Pierce realized: the darkly clad among the audience in the seats, and the contenders on the field. They jousted; they raced; they shot arrows that spanned the millennium between longbows and tech bows. They fought with broadswords, with rapiers; they fought without weapons in a dozen different styles, none of which Pierce could name. On a far end of the field, behind which the seats were empty, they shot weapons that spat blood-red streaks of lightning; the most accurate of them caused their small, flying targets to mist into oblivion.

Pierce couldn't see faces; language from the microphone came to him garbled with echoes. He moved impulsively, drawn by the knights, wanting to be among them. He slid off the tree branch onto the top of the wall, then rolled to hang by his hands before he dropped to the platform behind the last row of seats. He rose cautiously, not wanting to attract the attention of any of the wicked weapons on the field. He still wore the black kitchen uniform; at a distance, he might be unremarkable. He found an aisle between the tiers of seats, walked down the steep slope, and finally understood the announcer's voice.

“Sir Val Duresse has won the Dragon Claw match. Dame Maggie Leighton's team has scored highest in the jousting so far. Second place in jousting is still held by Sir Block of Wood and Straw. Team Sir Jeffry Holmes places third. Next team of challengers led by Dame Rachel Thistledon please get your mounts to the lists. Good luck to you against Sir Cudgel. Sir
Alexander Beamus has won Section Three of the longbow tournament. Whoever it was that just dropped over the wall from the kitchen yard, please proceed down the aisle and onto the field, where you will be allowed to prove your right to be among us. Good luck, Sir Kitchen Knight.”

Pierce, one foot suspended, nearly lost his balance and bounced down the aisle onto the field. He righted himself, arms flailing, pack bouncing, and heard laughter, applause. If he turned then and there, he could make it back without anyone likely to recognize him later. But scrambling back over the wall using the backs of seats and dangling tree limbs would become an event in itself, to be won or lost by the red-haired chopper whose long black apron was luffing like a sail in the wind. It made no difference, he realized, whether he humiliated himself up a tree or on the field; one or the other was inevitable.