Reave the Just and Other Tales (35 page)

“Consternation! In an instant, the peace of Andovale became chaos and distress. Flinging defiance at her father, Florice sought to flee the house with Suriman.” Fern saw a hunger on her face which echoed the hunger of the colors surrounding her—a hunger she had not chosen and could not refuse. “Prince Chorl countered by imprisoning her, his daughter whom he cherished. Suriman attacked her prison, wreaking havoc in the Prince’s house, and was only prevented from freeing Florice by the foresight of Titus, who had prepared defenses against the greater warlock—and had also demanded the attention of the council in what he did. The masters of magic gave Titus their aid until they could learn the truth of his accusations, and so Suriman’s onslaught was beaten back. Even as the masters of magic met in council to examine Titus’ proofs, Suriman ran.

“Inspired by his loathing of the crimes he attributed to Suriman, Titus had found sure proof. With gossamer incantations and webs of magic, he had followed Suriman’s movements throughout the Prince’s house. He had traced Suriman daily to the kitchens, where the delicacies which Florice most loved were prepared. And in the foods she was given to eat he found the herbs and simples, the poisons and potions, which Suriman would need to make Florice something other than she was against her will.

“Outraged, the council declared anathema on Suriman and went to war against him.

“He was mighty—oh, he was mighty! He could stand alone against any half dozen of his peers. And the dark tower where he studied his arts was mightily protected. But all the masters of magic in Andovale moved against him. They brought out fire from the air to crack his tower and drive him forth. Then he fled, and they gave chase. He took refuge in castles and towns. They scorched the very walls around him until he fled again. He hid himself in forests and villages. They shook the stones under his feet, so that he could not stand, but only run. And at last, on one of the farms at the end of the Gentle’s Rift, they brought him to bay.

“The masters of magic do not speak of the final battle, but it was prodigious. In desperation, Suriman wove every power and trick at his vast command. Warlocks fell that day, and some never rose again. When the fire and passion had ended, however, Suriman lay dead among the wreckage of the farm. The beasts had scattered, and the fields were blasted, but the council had triumphed.

“That is to say, the masters of magic believed that they had triumphed. Suriman’s corpse lay before them. Only Titus insisted that the evil was not done—Titus and Florice. Crying in wild hunger, the Prince’s daughter claimed that the warlocks were too little to kill a man of Suriman’s greatness. And Titus, whom loathing for Suriman had made cunning, spoke of texts and apparatus in Suriman’s tower which pertained to the transfer of intelligences from one body to another. He told all who would hear him that Suriman could have escaped the last battle cloaked inside another man, or even concealed within a beast. If what he said were true, then Suriman might well remain alive—and might return.

“So the council watches for Suriman constantly, seeking any sign that the most evil of warlocks yet lives. And Prince Chorl watches also. His daughter is little better than a madwoman now, sorrowing over the loss of the man who changed her, and because the Prince blames himself his anger cannot be assuaged.

“All considered,” the Roadman concluded his tale in Lessom’s voice, “it has been a tumultuous time. Surely you have felt it here? Magic and battles on such a scale have repercussions. Has nothing changed at all—nothing out of the ordinary? Do not the cows talk, or the pigs sprout wings? Has no thing occurred which you might call strange? Is everything truly just as it has always been?”

With a gasp, Lessom sagged as the pig’s gaze released him. Titus turned his eyes on Levit.

Now think!
he demanded.
Make no mistake. What answer was this Roadman given?

Yoel’s son appeared to search his memory. “They were silent,” he said slowly. “I could not see them, but I heard their boots on the floor, and the benches shifting. Then Horrik said, ‘You came. That was strange. We have never seen a Roadman before.’

“Everyone laughed, and the Roadman with them. After that my father took Destrier to a room for the night, and people left the alehouse. I heard nothing else.”

Think,
Titus grunted urgently.
Nothing was said of me? Of Fern? Did not that clod-brain Jessup speak against me?

Levit glanced at Lessom. “Nothing.”

Lessom nodded and echoed, “Nothing.”

For a time, the pig did not speak. Both boys slumped on the dirt, wearied by Titus’ coercion. Beside them Fern tended the fire uncomfortably; she wanted sleep, but she was full of a fear she could not name. Images of Florice seemed to resonate for her like wind past a hollow in a wall, as though they might convey another connection; yet the connection eluded her. Such things were matters of time, and her grasp on them remained imprecise.

Then Titus snuffled,
Ah, but they squirmed. I can see it. They dropped their eyes and twisted in their seats. And this Destrier noticed it. He was sent to notice such things.

Hell’s blood! I must have time!

Like Titus, Lessom and Levit needed time. Their parents would not speak kindly to them for staying out so late. Yawning and shuffling, they left the hovel.

But Titus continued to fret. He paced the floor as though his hooves were afire. Fern tried to rest, but she could not be still when the pig she loved was in distress. “Yes?” she murmured to him, “yes?” hoping that the sound of her concern would comfort him.

No,
he retorted harshly.
You do not know what you are saying. It is not enough.

As though he had judged and dismissed her, he did not speak again that night.

The next morning, however, he ventured out early to watch Prince Chorl’s Roadman ride away from Sarendel-on-Gentle. And when he returned to the hovel, he was full of grim bustle.
I must take action,
he informed her.
Any delay or hindrance now will be fatal.
And he showed her an image which instructed her to prepare a double—no, a treble—portion of the herbs and paste with which he fed her thrice daily.

She obeyed willingly, because he instructed her. When his concoctions were done, she bathed thoroughly; she combed out her hair and let the sun dry it until it shone. Then, guided by images, she draped her limbs with her scantest, most inadequate rags.

Cold, she thought when she saw how ill she was covered. A moment later, she thought another word, which might have been, Shame.

Shame?
The pig’s disgust was as bright as fire.
Shame will not kill you. My need is extreme. Extreme measures are required.
Nevertheless he allowed her to remain concealed in her hovel while he roamed the village; when he returned, they remained there together until the sun had set.

By that time, Sarendel had newer, more personal news to replace Destrier’s unexpected visit. Meglan’s husband, Wall, had fallen ill. According to the children who brought the tale, he writhed on his bed like a snake, vomiting gouts of bile and blood, and his skin burned as though his bones were ablaze. Meglan and her children were beside themselves, fearing his death at any moment.

Meglan? Fern had little impression of Wall, but Meglan farmwife was vivid to her. Meglan’s kindnesses, of which Fern had known many, came to her through veils of time—carrots and shawls, cabbages and sandals and smiles. She felt tugging at her the same concern, the same impulse to respond, which she had often felt for Sarendel’s pigs.

Good,
Titus said.
Such concern looks well.

And he showed her an image in which she went alone to Meglan’s home, bearing small portions of her broth and paste. Alone she knocked at the door until she was answered. Alone she repeated Meglan’s name until Meglan was brought to her. Then, still alone, she spoke to Meglan. In words, she explained how the broth and paste should be administered to save Wall.

Alone?

Spoke? In words?

Explained—?

Fern flinched against the wall of the hovel as though Titus had threatened to strike her.

I will teach you,
Titus replied patiently.
If you are willing, you will be able to do it.

“No,” she protested in fright.

Come now, Fern,
Titus went on, filling her mind with the colors of calm.
You will be able to do it. I have made you able. Did you not hear yourself speak just now? That was a word. You know both “yes” and “no.” And you know names. Each new word will be a smaller step than the one before—and you will not need many to save Wall.

Alone? she cried fearfully.

If you love me, you will do this. Meglan will have no tolerance for pigs at such a time.

Fern did not know how she understood him; yet she comprehended that he needed her—and that his need was greater than she could imagine. With her crumbling resistance, she gestured toward the rags she wore.

You will feel no shame,
he promised her.
There can be none for you, when you do my bidding.

There: another connection. Through her fright and distress, an involuntary excitement struck her. She had always contrived to cover herself better than this; but now she did not because Titus had instructed her. His bidding— She acted according to his wishes, not her own.

Other connections trembled at the edges of her mind, other links between what he wished and what people did. However, his urgency and his steady promises distracted her. While she readied her small portions of herbs and paste, he taught her the words she would need.

When she left the hovel, she went in a daze of fear and shame and excitement. No, not shame—
There can be none for you, when you do my bidding.
What she felt was the strange, uneasy eagerness of comprehension, the unfamiliar potential of language. Ignoring how her breasts and legs showed when she walked, she crossed the village and did as Titus had instructed her.

She was almost able to recognize what she gained by wearing her worst rags. They caught the attention of the farmer who opened the door, a friend of Wall’s; they trapped him in pity, embarrassment, and interest, so that he was not able to send her away unheard. Instead, he went to fetch Meglan, thinking that Meglan would be able to dismiss Fern more kindly.

And when Meglan came to the door, Fern astonished her with words.

“I know herbs,” said Fern, slurring each sound, and yet speaking with her utmost care, because of her love for Titus. “These can heal Wall. A spoonful of the broth. A touch of the paste on his tongue. Four times during the night. His illness will break at dawn.”

Meglan stared as though the sounds were gibberish. All Sarendel knew Fern did not speak; she could not. Then how could these sounds be words?

But Titus had taught her one more: “Please.”

“‘Please’?” Meglan cried, on the verge of sobs. “My husband whom I love dies here, and you say, ‘Please’?”

Fern could not withhold her own tears. Meglan’s grief and the burden of words were too great for her to bear. Helpless to comfort the good farmwife—and helpless to refuse her pig—she could only begin again at the beginning.

“I know herbs. These can heal—”

Another woman appeared at Meglan’s shoulder, a neighbor. “Is that Fern?” she asked in surprise. “Did I hear her speak?”

Grief twisted Meglan’s face. If Fern could speak, the farmwife could not. Taking both broth and paste, she turned her back in silence and closed the door.

Fern went weeping back to her hovel.

Titus had no patience for her nameless sorrows. When she entered the hovel and stumbled to the scraps and leaves which she used as a pallet, he fixed her with his eyes, compelling her with silver and blindness until he had seen what was in her mind.

After that, however, his manner softened.
It was hard, I grant,
he told her.
But you have done a great thing
, though you do not know it. The next steps will be less arduous. That is a better promise than the one I gave you earlier.

Then he nuzzled and comforted her, and filled her head with solace, until at last she was able to stop crying and sleep.

While she slept, new connections swam and blurred, seeking clarity. She had gone to Meglan because Titus bade her. She had bathed her body and combed her hair and donned her worst rags on his instructions. She had prepared new stores of broth and paste at his behest. Were all these things connected in the same way? One thing will lead to another because it must. Had the pig foreseen Wall’s illness? Was time no barrier to him, neither the past nor the future?

For a moment, as if time were no barrier to her as well, she seemed to see through the veils of the past. She saw that the ease and comfort and companionship of her life were new—that her life itself had changed. How did it come about that all her needs were supplied by children who had taken no notice of her until Titus adopted her?

What had he done? He had filled her with images. And she had done his bidding. One thing will lead to another— Did the children also find images in their minds, new images which instructed them in Titus’ wishes?

These connections were like the surface of the Gentle. They caught the sun and sparkled, gems cast by the water, but they were too full of ripples and currents to be seen clearly.

And they vanished when the pig awakened her.
It is morning,
he informed her intently.
You must be prepared to speak again soon.
His concentration was acute; his eyes seemed to focus all of him on her.
Hear the sounds. They are words. When I have given them to you, they will be yours. At first, they will be difficult to remember. Nevertheless they will belong to you, and you will be able to call on them at need.

Words? she thought. More words? But he left her no opportunity for protest. When she tried to say, “No,” he brushed that word aside.
It will become easier, I tell you,
he snapped.
And I have no time for subtlety.