The Black Beast (11 page)

“He is mad, you have said,” I remarked dryly.

“Ay, so he is. Though perhaps”—Frain cocked a clear eye at me—“not in that regard.”

“How is he mad, then?”

Frain sighed, thinking, and for the first time I saw real pain in his fine brown eyes; he had kept away from emotion before. “He has taken his love and grief,” Frain said slowly, “and turned it all to hard hate and vengeance with a cutting edge. If he could weep it would be the greatest of blessings, I think, but he hardly moves or speaks except for vengeance. There is no human warmth in him these days, not toward any being of human kind. When he eats I think he does not taste the food; he tastes only vengeance. And I cannot say what he sees before his eyes.”

“But he fends for himself well enough day to day?” I asked.

“All too well,” he wryly agreed.

“And you, Prince Frain—” How I yearned to call him Frain, my son. But I would not do that. Long silence is not lightly to be broken.

“You need not call me prince,” he put in. “I have never been ‘princed' much. Tirell is the prince in Melior.”

“And you, Frain,” I said softly. “Do you accord with Prince Tirell in this bid for the throne?”

“I have followed him since I was old enough to walk.”

“And now that you are old enough to think,” I returned sharply, “will you follow a madman?”

“Thinking is the least of it,” Frain replied slowly. “To be sure, he is brave, and comely, and honorable in his way, and there is vision in him, perhaps even some wisdom. But I believe I would follow him even if he were a wretch. Because of something in me—I don't know what.”

I could not say a word.

“As for the throne,” he continued, “what else can we do but try to take it? Abas will pursue us until either he or Tirell lies dead.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “He is a father. Perhaps he seeks Tirell only to make peace.”

Frain shook his head doubtfully. But before he could reply a long, anguished moan filled the room. Mela had awakened from one of her brief sleeps. I hastily crossed the room to be at her side, taking her dry hand between my own. But she looked through me and past me, as always, seeing nothing to help her. Frain stood beside me, and I caught my breath; her vague gray eyes flickered onto his face. But then she turned away her thin face and tossed her head to and fro in a sort of weak, distracted protest against her own misery. Her red hair lay snarled on the pillow, angry and unkempt. I placed a hand on her brow to still her.

“I could try to heal her,” Frain whispered. The words seemed dragged from him. “Tirell says there is healing in me.”

“Prince Tirell may speak truth,” I said roughly, trying to hide my sudden hope. “Though I know more of healing than he is ever likely to learn.”

“I know you were a smith.” Frain turned to me with his steady, questioning gaze, and I could scarcely meet his eyes. “Can no one, then, heal those who are dearest to them?”

“Maybe not, Frain,” I said quietly, for that was truth. “But I lost my gift for healing years ago, when I grew too fond of wealth—wealth and power.”

“My baby!” Mela whispered, and her frail hands moved on the bed sheets.

“Try, Frain,” I told him. “But do not take it too hard if you fail. She is far gone.”

“But what should I do?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I asked in turn.

“There is something to do with metal,” Frain said slowly. “I used a knife last time. But I hate to touch her with such an ugly thing.”

“A knife can cut away blight from the stem,” I said. “Clean pain can heal. Use it.”

He did not tell me that he had hardly eaten for days, nor that he had ridden far, in haste, and with little rest. I learned that later, much later, when we were at Melior. He stood by Mela's bed with his back straight and his head bowed, like a hostage for her, and laid a hand on her hot brow. She stirred beneath his touch and whispered again. He curled his fingers around the iron knife blade and moved it over her heart, over her hands and head. He trembled, and I knew what he was feeling, remembered it well. The power moves in you and through you from depths beyond knowing or from some place beyond being—I never understood which. It carries you out of self and you shrink in fear. But I don't think Frain was afraid. He stood with Mela in her own dark place, bent over her, embracing her, struggling to lift her, to free her. His whole body trembled and strained with the effort, though he had not actually moved. Every sinew of his spirit was taut. For the space of countless heartbeats he fought for her, with her, against her—

And for an instant I thought he had succeeded. Her bleary eyes met his and cleared. “My baby!” she breathed. Then an awful tumult of feeling surged into her eyes, love and rage—and the rage snapped her away from him. I saw it happen. Frain swayed as if he had been struck. His knife clattered to the floor, and he clutched at a bedpost for support. He clung to the heartless wooden thing and sobbed.

I went and put my arms around him. He let go of the bed and cried against my shoulder, cried like the child I had never known. “Easy, lad,” I murmured, swallowing, patting him clumsily. “Stop your shaking, now …”

He raised his wet face. “She is trapped in a tangle of rage and despair,” he said wildly, “roots and strength-sucking vines, anger—I tugged and tugged—”

“I know,” I told him.

“The knife would not cut her free. Knives are like water in that place. I—I was a drifting thing, I didn't know who I was, I couldn't remember my name.” He gulped for breath. “I—there was something—if I had only known …”

If you had known she is your mother, I thought with a pang, it would only have increased your heartache. He had given everything, down to the last dram of his strength; he could scarcely stand. I had never seen such courage. I knew that such had not been my courage, in my day.

Mela lay quite still. “Is she—dead?” whispered Frain.

I reached out and touched the pulse of her neck. “No, but she is beyond knowledge or pain, and I am glad of it. She will die soon.” I guided Frain toward the door. “Come.”

He was still trembling. “I am sorry…”

“I told you she was far gone,” I said more gently than I had ever heard myself speak. “You did no harm, and more good than you know. Come.” I took him down the corridor, half supporting him. The guards watched us pass in barely concealed astonishment. I led him into my own bedchamber and laid him down, took off his boots, and covered him and pulled the curtains around him. “Sleep,” I ordered, and left him there.

My wife died two nights later. I did not see Frain in the interim, though I often thought of him. I ordered the servants to extend to him the fullest hospitality: bath, clothing, food, whatever he needed. I knew he would feel weak and drowsy for a few days, after what he had done for Mela, so I was not really expecting him as I sat with her. In fact, I suppose, he avoided the sickroom, for he was still very young. Death makes grim company. But it came easily enough for Mela. She slipped away without a movement or a word to me. I wept a bit, and then I slept for a good while. By the sun, it was past noon of the next day when I awoke.

I immediately went hunting for Frain. He was not in his chamber—my chamber, really. I prowled about and found him readily enough, though the servants were avoiding me. He and Wayte were at the center of a crowd of guards and grooms and the like in the courtyard. They were fighting—with wooden swords, I was glad to see.

I wondered if I ought to intervene. Frain could not possibly be at his full strength, not after the effort he had expended for the sake of my dead queen. But Wayte was no fool; he would not let anything tragic happen. I could not believe that he bore the lad any real ill will. And as it turned out, I was right. He and Frain had become well acquainted over the past two days. Wayte had been curious about the youth, and curiosity had already turned to regard. But he had to keep the respect of his men; hence the mock combat in process.

I walked up to the back of the crowd, waiting to see what happened. The lackeys around me gaped and, at my glare, had the good sense to keep silence. Frain was fighting well but not flashily, sweating a bit but holding his own. He was quick with his defense.

“Good!” Wayte exclaimed, teacherlike.

Frain began to warm to the fight. The guards were yelling, goading and cheering Wayte, thinking they would see revenge. But I knew by then that they were more likely to see friendship. Frain began to press his attack, and Wayte's smile broadened with every stroke. He gave Frain a blow to the head that sent him spinning; the lad was down in the dirt and springing up again before I could shout. He was lithe and young, but Wayte, twenty years older, was breathing hard. Frain lunged at him and sent him circling backward around the clearing.

“Time!” Wayte gasped.

They breathed, then fought again. They were well heated now, battling furiously at close quarters, neither one gaining. But Wayte tired first. His footwork slowed, and he got off balance and fell heavily to one knee. He put up his wooden sword for defense, and Frain struck it so hard that it broke. I sighed in relief; the fight was won. Frain tossed away his own sword.

“Hand to hand now?” he asked Wayte cheerfully.

“Confound it, Frain, that's enough!” I shouted in exasperation. “Don't you do anything halfway?”

The crowd of watchers gasped and opened before me. Frain bowed to me collectedly enough as I approached him. He was wearing a fine linen tunic that hung almost to his knees and a sort of useless blue capelet. The tunic was soiled with sweat and dirt, and the cape was torn. Blood was dripping down onto it from a welt on his head. “A pretty prince you look,” I growled.

“He is a marvelous fighter, my lord,” Wayte said, getting to his feet.

“And you are marvelously courteous,” Frain returned. “Certainly you owe me no great favor.… My lord, I have repaid your hospitality by ruining my borrowed finery. I pray you are not angry.”

In fact, I had to smile at his diplomacy. “Are you two friends?” I asked.

“I think so,” Frain said quietly, and Wayte nodded.

“Then join hands for all to see.”

They gripped hands before the gawking crowd, and then Frain buckled on a bronze sword and came with me. The sword was a fine piece of work, curiously wrought. I glanced at it as we walked silently side by side. “It is odd for a healer to be a warrior,” I said at last.

He did not reply, but his face moved. I had reminded him of something he wanted to forget “I am sorry about Queen Mela, my lord,” he said in a moment. “I was no healer for her.”

“There are some who cling to their ills,” I replied. I felt calm, almost dreamy, but he had started me crying again even so; I could feel the tears on my face. I let them run. Sorrow turns to poison if it is kept inside.

It was a long way to the tower stronghold I wanted to show him. We went through the great hall and the audience hall and the council chamber and the passageway beyond to the narrow twisting stair, and so up. Few were allowed to come this way besides myself. I opened the heavily barred and bolted door. Every king has his treasure room, and I felt sure that Frain had seen gold before, but not such gold as mine. He stood thunderstruck. I watched with bittersweet pleasure, knowing that he, himself, was the price I had paid for all that was mine.

“You must be a smith fit for the gods!” he exclaimed.

“Look your fill,” I said.

I knew every piece as he came to it, remembered the labor and the feel of the metal beneath my tools. A brooch in shape of a leaping panther with tiny gemstones for eyes and swirling muscles of combed gold. A mirror with inlaid birds on the back, their tails soaring into patterned curves. A sword with two dragons chasing each other around the hilt and a tiny rabbit crouching on the end. A cauldron with a kingly procession riding around, men and horses and maidens and well-bred hounds. There were far too many to name, but I knew them all. A pitcher with ducks floating across the lid and a hawk stooping on the handle. Belt buckles, drinking cups, scabbards and shields and greaves and helms and clasps. Many bore the lotus device, emblem of Melior and indeed of all the Vale. There were harness rings too splendid for any horse that I had ever seen. There were fine chains and jeweled necklaces that Mela had worn on occasions of state. There were useless things—toys, in fact, for the child we never had. Tiny, snorting steeds pulling a gold chariot with wheels that really turned. Hunters chasing a leaping stag. Metal soldiers. A silver top that never spun quite right.

“It was the dream of my life,” I explained to Frain, “to make marvelous things, not for some loutish patron but for myself, to hold and cherish.… I think you can see I have treasures such as no other king in Vale can boast.”

“Truly you do,” he agreed, touching and turning the objects with careful fingers.

And the greatest treasure lost, I thought. “Choose a gift for yourself,” I said.

He looked up, startled, questioning. Already he knew how precious those lifeless things were to me.

Sometimes I had made frightening and beautiful creatures such as men seldom see. The dragon, each shimmering scale a single jewel. The flying serpent with head of a ram. The Luoni, the winged women who sit and stare down at travelers from high rocks, knowing they will have their chance at us after we die. The brown man of the Eidden wealds, with his shaggy goat's head. Frain froze with a silver brooch in his hand: a winged unicorn caught in graceful flight, its shining horn raised. I knew it well, the delicate thing.

“Is that for you?” I asked.

“For Tirell, I think.”

“Very well. Then what will you have for yourself? I am sorry I have no torques. I have never made them since I left Melior.”

Frain shook his head dazedly. “You choose. Something small. I am not used to such splendor.”