Shadow of All Night Falling (16 page)

These thoughts, and a thousand as grim, stalked his soul as he awaited the woman. Settled in that fireside chair, engrossed in worry, he remained unaware of her entry till she spoke. He glanced up. “Hello.”

Her face was colorless. She was suffering her own worries. He almost relented. But the hardness grew within him. It would permit no further vacillation. There must be resolution. A beginning or ending.

“Nepanthe,” he said, voice edged with a steeliness previously unshown. “We are going where? Same nowheres? Or would you grow up?”

His hardness and obvious tension so startled Nepanthe that she could stammer only, “I... well...”

His determination hardened further. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “You must make big decision in day. By supper tomorrow. A set wedding day, or no. If no, despairing self is going over wall. Cannot endure off-again, on-again love. Ravenkrak falls before end of month.”

“What?”

“Set wedding day, or no. Is ultimatum. No more games. Answer by tomorrow.” He strode out, dark and angry.

“Wait! You’ve got to give me time!”

“Am!” He slammed the door behind him.

Nepanthe stared at it as if it were a dragon astride her road to freedom. Everything was falling apart. She couldn’t marry! Couldn’t he understand? She loved him, yes, but the truth was, she wasn’t ready to accept him as more than someone to lean on when things got rough. She didn’t want him to be a someone she owed a responsibility. Biting her lip, she turned toward her bedchamber.

Anina blocked the door. “Tough, ain’t it?”

Nepanthe stared, surprised again.

“Ah, well.” Anina laughed weakly. “You’ll give him the gate now.” She returned to the bedroom, came out shortly. She carried a bag.

“Where’re you going?” Nepanthe demanded. “I need help dressing for supper.”

“Find somebody else. My man doesn’t want me around you anymore.” That man was Rolf, maneuvering in Mocker’s favor. Nepanthe was crushed. Even Rolf, her faithful commander and aide since those first days in Iwa Skolovda...

For the second time in minutes, her door slammed in her face. Another in her mind opened, releasing fears. She threw herself on her bed, wept and thought. She didn’t go to supper. Nor did she sleep that night.

As dawn arrived grayly through falling snow, she stood at a window staring toward Haroun’s camp, seeing nothing. Her eyes looked inward on rage at the world and people pushing her. What right had they?...

She began pacing. Slowly, as her anger grew, her face reddened. Long-forgotten tears dribbled from the corners of her eyes. “Damn-damn-damn! Why won’t they leave me alone? I don’t want anybody. I want to be myself!” And a little voice, mocking back in a corner of her mind which seldom allowed its denizens free of shadow, chuckled wickedly, You’re a liar! “I don’t want to be chained!” Ha! What’re your dreams, if not chains that bind? What’re the people and things with which you surround yourself, if not walls that keep you in? Run, and all life ahead will be a wasteland as desolate as the past. What’ll you do when your bright tomorrows have all become the skeletons of yesterdays? Weep? Why? You won’t know what you’ve missed, only that you were never complete.

It was a night worse than any from those nightmare-haunted years before Saltimbanco’s coming. She wept till tears would come no more, destroyed things, screamed, raged-and could discover no escaping a decision.

Strange, that. She didn’t worry the goods and bads of the decision Saltimbanco had thrust upon her, but whether or not it should be made. Decisions were anathema. Each became another brick in the wall of the cell of reality. Each committed her.

Next noon hunger finally drew Saltimbanco to the Great Hall. There he found Turran, Valther, and Brock, directing soldiers who were dismantling the plank-and-trestle tables. He seized a half-loaf and some wine before it could be spirited away, wandered over to the Storm Kings. “Self, am wondering what is happening.” All the excitement and anguish of the news of Ridyeh’s death seemed banished. He was glad, but wondered why.

“You don’t know?” Turran countered. “I guess not. That’s her style. Well, I’ll never tell.”

Brock, usually undemonstrative, gave Saltimbanco a friendly punch on the shoulder, but also refused enlightenment.

Anxious to remain as anonymous as possible these last few days, Saltimbanco left the Great Hall. He intended to stroll to the fortress rear to check the canyon, but found himself straying toward the Bell Tower instead. He surrendered to the impulse.

How haggard Nepanthe appeared when she answered his knock! In silence she let him in. He saw she had been mending her damaged embroidery. Once comfortable in the overstuffed chair, he leaned back, closed his eyes, acted his usual self, waited. Nepanthe had too many woes to worry Ridyeh’s death. Here he was safe.

She, biting her lip again (she had developed a sore from doing it so frequently), stared at him a long time. She was pale and more frightened than ever. Her decision troubled her deeply, tormenting the roots of her fear. But she was determined to stand by it.

She slowly moved toward his chair. Shaking. He pretended snores, through cracked eyelids watched anger cross her face. With that to impel her, it seemed she feared less.

He opened his eyes, looked up as she slipped her hand into his. Still biting her swollen lip, she gently tugged. He rose, followed her to her bedroom.

Drums echoed through Ravenkrak’s shadowed halls. Trumpets proclaimed the occasion. Bright silk banners flew from every tower. The garrison was out in full dress. The Storm Kings had clothed themselves richly, in contrast to their usual spartan dress. Saltimbanco, no longer of remarkable girth, wore formal clothing borrowed from Brock: a black cape edged with silver, scarlet tunic and hose, and the polished weapons of a Lord. Bathed and combed and dressed, he seemed not at all the clown.

Following Turran’s directions-the Storm King was as magnificent as any southern King-Saltimbanco positioned himself beside a dais a-head the Great Hall. The folk of Ravenkrak sat on benches athwart the hall, an ocean of restless white and brown and black faces. Suddenly he was terrified. As it was for Nepanthe, this was no day he had ever desired. Yet he needed her, had to be tied to her.

The drums took a new cadence. The trumpets sounded their final call. The bride had abandoned her tower. She would return alone nevermore.

Turran mounted the dais. His was the task of binding. Orange and gold, scarlet and purple, motionless, he loomed like a fire demon.

From the Bell Tower, proceeding along a dark, cleared aisle between banks of snow, though the continuing blizzard, the bride’s party started toward the hall. Six women, clad in dark green embroidered with thread-of-gold, carried Nepanthe’s train. Liveried pikemen marched at either hand. All moved with a slow, measured step despite the cold. Ravenkrak’s weddings were performed with regal pomp and deliberation.

The bride’s party reached the Great Hall. Valther and Jerrad drew their swords and assumed Nepanthe’s guardianship. They advanced on the dais slowly.

Saltimbanco experienced eternity during that approach. He stared, marveling anew at Nepanthe’s beauty, her dark eyes and hair, her soft skin and delicate features. She seemed beatific this evening, unworldly, under some ecstatic enchantment. Her brothers, too, were under the spell. Briefly, he forgot his fears, hoped this would amply distract them. For the moment they might have thought Ridyeh still living.

Nepanthe reached the dais. The drums fell silent. The ceremony began...

As if bounced through time, Saltimbanco realized it was over, done. Was it true? Yes. The people were leaving for the parties. Where had time gone?

Nepanthe finally looked into his eyes. He took her hand, squeezing gently. At that moment, in that place, she showed neither fear nor doubt.

It was too late for either. She had become committed. She would fight for the commitment as bitterly as she had resisted it.

TWELVE: They Drink the Wine of Violence

Saltimbanco yawned and stretched, reaching the last leg of a long and lazy approach to wakefulness. He stretched again. He was as relaxed as a cat. His extended left arm came down on something soft and warm and swathed in a mass of silken hair. He yawned again, rolled so he could look into the smiling face of his new wife. He reached slowly, stalking a wisp of dark hair peeping from fold of coverlet, caught it between thumb and forefinger, curled and twirled it while watching her sleep. Then he drew a fingertip lightly over one soft, rosy cheek, following the line of her jaw, ended by tickling the dimple on her chin. The caress excited something at the corner of her mouth, a something seldom seen before last evening, a happy, demonic something that had spent years in hiding, a something now out and winking merrily. Her smile so lightly grew, drawing with its warmth. Those ruby cushions for his kiss parted slightly, permitting the flight of a sigh. She extended a small, delicate hand to cover his own, pressed it to her cheek. Slowly, so as not to disturb her slumber, he leaned and kissed that taunting quirk at the corner of her mouth.

“Uhm,” she sighed, eyes still closed.

“Self, have something to confess.”

She opened one sleepy eye.

“Self, am not Saltimbanco. Am not simple, wandering fool...”

“Shhh. I know.”

“Hai! How? Am still breathing.”

“Deduction. Valther’s lists. You were the only one who could’ve gotten to them and have communicated with bin Yousif. In Iwa Skolovda.”

Fear smote deeply. “Ridyeh?” he gasped, unable to articulate his question.

“I hated you then. But it wasn’t your fault, really. I... uh... Why talk about it? It’s over. Don’t make me remember. I don’t want to. Kiss me. Touch me. Love me. Don’t talk. Just make me forget.”

“No hate? Ravenkrak will die, and self, in one guise, am prime killer.”

“Ravenkrak’s dead. Only Ravenkrak hasn’t heard.”

“You change so.”

They were interrupted by a knock. Neither moved. It grew insistent. “You’d better go,” Nepanthe said. “Probably one of my brothers.”

It was. Valther eyed the gown of Nepanthe’s Saltimbanco had donned, chuckled, said, “Turran wants Nepanthe in the Lower Armories. Luxos just got home. We got him through the gates three steps ahead of bin Yousif’s men.”

“Self, am dismayed by lack of respect...”

“My own thought exactly,” Valther replied, cutting him short. “But Turran wants her, and what he wants, he gets. Got to run.” He chucked Mocker under the chin. “The robe becomes you.” Laughing, he ducked a spiritless punch and hurried away.

Mocker found Nepanthe dressing when he returned. Her face clouded. She was still afraid.

“Was Valther. Meeting in Lower Armories. Luxos came back.”

“I heard. Will you help me?” She quavered when he touched her. A moment later, in a tremulous whisper, she asked, “What do your friends call you?”

“Many names. Hai! Not good for lady’s ears, most. But mostly Mocker.”

“Mocker, we have to leave.”

“Why?”

“My brothers might find out. We should get out first.”

“To where? How to live? Moneys from speechifying in Iwa Skolovda repose in secret place in Tower of Moon-lost forever!” This was a wail.

“I don’t care where. And I’ve got lots of valuable things.”

“How to escape?”

“There’re ways. But you know bin Yousif, don’t you?” There was no accusation in her voice.

“Long time.”

“You’re friends?”

“When gold is right.”

“Anyone else?” She smiled, easing his tension. He understood.

“Red beard.”

“What?” She was startled.

“Rendel Grimnason. True name is Bragi Ragnarson.”

“And Astrid?”

“Name is Elana. And Blackfang, Kildragon, Rolf, also. And guess where loyalty of troops lies.”

“Oh! Poor Turran. Surrounded by enemies. Even his sister, now. When’s it supposed to end?”

Mocker shook his head. “Employer, closed-lip man of first class, tells nothing. Not even name. But we find out. Is magical Machiavelli.”

“A magician?”

“Yes. Question still is, why so interested in Raven-krak?”

“What’s his name?”

“Is Varthlokkur...”

“Varthlokkur!” She dropped to the bed. “I told Turran, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Her reaction startled Mocker. “What is trouble?”

“You know what he wants from Ravenkrak? Me! For years he’s been after me to marry him. Probably for my power. Not the Werewind, but the power within. Storm King blood is strong with it. Our ancestors were nobles of Ilkazar. Matched, little could resist us. Controlling weather would be child’s play. Which is why I always turned him down.” She flushed. He knew that wasn’t her primary reason. “I was afraid Ravenkrak would be first to feel his new strength. I guess he’ll destroy us anyway. Sooner or later, destruction overtakes all the children of the Empire. Be ready to leave when I get back. See if your friends will go with us.”

She settled her dress more comfortably, gave him a small kiss. “I love you.” She struggled with words, but they came. “I’ll be back soon.”

As Nepanthe left the tower, shawl tightened about her neck and head against the worsening snow, she examined, and marveled at, the changed state of her mind. Though she still feared, her being, like a magnet being drawn, was orienting itself toward one lodestone. Saltimbanco. No, Mocker. But what was the difference? A rose is a rose. Funny. She could almost feel her fears evaporating. She wanted to sing. It was icy cold. A wind had begun driving the already fallen snow (escaping be a grim, miserable undertaking), but she didn’t feel it, didn’t care. Her sexual fears had already begun to appear foolish-it hadn’t been bad at all-yet thoughts of future encounters still disturbed her.

Nepanthe was last to reach the Lower Armories. She found her brothers waiting impatiently. No one criticized her lateness. After offering belated well-wishes for her marriage, Luxos demanded everyone’s attention.

“These are Ridyeh’s things. What I could recover,” he said, indicating a clutter on the table. “A gold coin bin Yousif spent after a meeting with an old man at an Itaskian tavern. Given him by that old man. The mercenaries outside are being paid in the same mintage. Turran?”