The Forgotten Beasts of Eld (18 page)

“What is that to me?” She rose abruptly, facing the afternoon wind so that it blew her hair tangled, restless behind her. “He must find his own pride. Maelga—” She lifted her hands suddenly to her face and found tears slipping between her cold fingers. She covered her eyes with her fingers. “I cannot forgive him,” she whispered. “My heart aches for Tam, but I can not. I will not. And I will not cry for myself... only a little for Tam. Did he blame me himself?”

“He suspects that Drede did something to make you angry. But he does not believe—he does not want to believe that you could terrify Drede so, because you know he loves Drede. Oh, he sees things in his heart and he closes his heart’s eye to them, a child closing his eyes to the dark. When he is forced to open his eyes, Sybel, what will you tell him? What comfort will you give him? His heart will shrink like a wounded thing from any touch.”

“It is Drede’s fault.” She shook her head abruptly. “No. It is my doing, too. But Drede should never have tried to ruin me.”

“He is doing it now.”

Sybel turned, looked down at her, dark eyed. “That may be, but now it is my choice. Drede was a fool and so was Mithran, for underestimating that white-haired woman they caught. And neither of them will ever make that mistake again.” She paused a moment, then said more gently. “I am hard and stubborn these days. There is no moving me. Maelga, let us talk of other things now, little things. I am sorry we did not stop to see you that night, but Drede’s men found us there with Tam and it seemed wiser to leave without speaking to you, in case we were watched.”

Maelga’s hands moved in the long grass. Lines puckered her brow above her sharp eyes but she said only, “Are you happy, then, with the wise one of Sirle?”

“Yes. I want no one else, ever. I want to bear him children, if—if he wants them of me when this is done.”

“You expect none yet?”

“No.” She sat down again in the grass. “But perhaps it is better for the moment. I am happy here, Maelga. The people are good to me, and the children and women seem so bright, so contented among the gray stones. I miss the deep, roaring winds, the clear streams and the quiet places of Eld Mountain; the animals miss them, too, sometimes, but we are all content enough here among men. Rok made a room for me, high in the house with windows facing north, east and south, and he put my books there. I read there, and call. I miss you, too. I cannot run to you for comfort, though there is no one, these days, to give me comfort.”

Maelga touched a strand of the white hair that brushed across her hand. “I miss you, too. But now I see the Lion was right: you are no longer a child. You have grown a queen among men. You no longer would be happy among the stones and trees of the Mountain. But I see the ghost of you sometimes, slipping barefoot through the great red pillars with a round-eyed child running at your side. And the shadows of you make me stop and smile. And then I remember they are only shadows, that my children have grown away from me, gone their ways...” She sighed, her lean hands fluttering. “But I was so fortunate to have you.”

Sybel’s fingers closed gently around Maelga’s parchment-colored, ringed hand. “And I was that fortunate to have you,” she said softly. “I was as wild and proud as any of my animals that day I walked through your door. Whatever gentleness I have, you and Tam taught me, and later, Coren. But I am still wild, proud as my father and my grandfather were, deep in me where the white bird lives free that no man can capture. It is that pride in me crying out for revenge—the pride in my knowledge and power. That same pride drove Myk away from men to the isolation of Eld Mountain to build his white hall and capture perfection. But because of you and Tam, I learned to love something beyond pure knowledge. And Coren taught me greatly of joy... I may not be so good at loving, Maelga, but it is my own fault—I have been rich in teachers.”

“My white one,” Maelga whispered, “when you disappeared that night from your hall, I knew I would never see you again, and there was such a sorrow in my withered heart. And today, again, there is that sorrow... you will step again into the night and when I see you again I will look into a stranger’s eyes.”

“Strange to you, but Maelga, I think I have never been less strange to myself as now. It is a terrible thing to say, but there is a triumph in me that I do not even have the sense to fear. It is as though in my thoughts I am Gyld, flying high, high in the night sky, huge, powerful, irresistible, with pride in all the memories of battles, of slayings, of stealings, of songs where my name is a beat of awe and fear. There is no one in all the world to check my night flight of triumph. When it is done, that thing in me will find a place to coil and sleep and I can forget it.”

“But will you forget? Rok will ask more of you, and more— I saw that in his Lion’s eyes. And Tam—you may teach Tam to ask of you—”

“No. Tam is good. And Rok will spare me for Coren’s sake.”

“Will he? Will you even care by then for Coren’s love?”

“I will care. I care now.”

“But you fly alone, away from him— I wonder, will you want to come back earthward after that flight?”

Sybel sighed. She loosed Maelga’s hand and touched her eyes with her fingers. “I am tired of the ceaseless weave to and fro of questioning, wondering, thinking. I will set Eldwold aflame and then find out if I am trapped within the ring of fire, or safe outside it... Maelga, you must be tired, too, after your long walk. Let me take you to my chamber, where you can eat, and wash and rest.”

“I will not rest in this house“

“Well. Then if you will not stay here with me, let Rok send someone with you to Herne’s house, or Bor’s house.”

Maelga patted Sybel’s hand. She rose a little unsteadily and brushed the grass off her skirt. “No. I will rest here a while, with your animals. I will go and sit with the Black Swan. Such a lovely swan fountain, there. I never cared much for men’s houses—you cannot get in and out of them easily.”

Sybel smiled a little. “No.” She put her arm around Maelga, walked with her to the lake. The Black Swan glided to meet them. “I will bring you food and wine. If you want to sleep out here tonight, I will stay with you.”

Maelga sank down at the lake’s edge. “Oh, my bones. The sun is so kind in summer to an old woman. And you are kind, still, to powerless things. It is comforting.”

“I will be back soon,” Sybel said.

“There is no hurry, my white one. I will take a little nap.” She closed her eyes. Sybel went quietly to the gate, closed it softly behind her as she left. Then she looked up to see Coren standing before her, and she blinked, startled.

“Oh—”

He lifted his hands slowly, gripped her arms. His eyes moved back and forth across her face, narrowed, bewildered, as though he were reading ancient words he could not understand. Then he drew a breath and shouted,

“Sybel, what are you doing?”

ELEVEN

Her heart grew withered and chill within her, slowing the startled leap of her blood. She lifted a finger to her lips, feeling the beat of her heart in her mouth, her throat dry as powdered earth. “Be quiet, Coren. Maelga is sleeping.”

“Sybel!”

“Let me go. I will not lie to you“

His hands loosened slowly, fell clenched to his sides. He stared down at her, sun streaking his eyes, the blood high beneath his skin. He said slowly, distinctly,

“I went—”

“Sh—”

“I have been still too long! I went to the stables, and Ceneth and Bor were there, and Bor was saddling his horse to ride back to his house; I heard your name on their lips, and your name again—they laughed, saying how you drew the old Lord of Hilt like a child to Rok’s hall. I stood there as they laughed, and I felt as though—as though they had struck me and laughed—there was a sickness in me, and—then they saw me, because—a sound had come out of me, and the laughter left them like flame blown out.”

“Coren—” she whispered.

“Sybel, why? Why? Why am I the first man to know every outward part of you and the last of all men to know your inward mind? Why did Rok, Ceneth and Bor know, and not me? Why did you not tell me what you are doing? Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I did not want you to look at me the way you are looking now—”

“Sybel, that is no kind of reason!”

“Stop shouting at me!” she flared suddenly. She caught her breath and pressed her cold hands briefly against her eyes. She felt his nearness, his taut stillness, heard in the moment’s darkness the deep beat of his breathing.

“All right,” he whispered. “I will not shout. You healed me once when I might have died, and now you had better do it again because there is a thing in me that is hurt and sick. I am beginning to wonder, Sybel, why you chose to marry me at all, and so suddenly at that, after your dark night away, and what great anger you have against Drede that you would stir Sirle against him. Sybel, my thoughts are pounding against my brain—I cannot still them. Do not lie to me anymore.”

Her hands slipped from her eyes, and they were dusted with a bloom of weariness. “Drede paid Mithran to capture me and destroy my mind.”

A sound came inarticulate from him. “Drede? Drede?”

She nodded. “Drede wanted to marry me and use me without fear. Rommalb killed Mithran, crushing him. And I will crush Drede with his own fears, take his power from him through Sirle. I used our marriage to frighten Drede; I planned from the beginning to use my powers for Sirle against him. I did not tell you all this because my revenge is my own affair, not yours, and I did not want to hurt you with the knowledge that I had used you. Now you know and you are hurt, and I do not think this time I can heal your wounds.”

He stared at her. His head turned a little, as though he were trying to catch a faint sound lost in the wind. His words came finally in a hollow whisper, “I do not know, either—Ice-white Lady, I think I hold you in my hands and then you melt and slip cold through my fingers... How could you hurt me like this? How could you?”

Her face crumpled. Hot tears gathered in his eyes and he wavered, glittering before her. “I tried so to keep you from knowing—to keep you from being hurt—”

“Did you really care? Or am I just one more in your collection of strange, wondrous beasts to be used at your need, to be put aside while you go about your business?”

“Corers—”

“I could kill Rok for this, and Ceneth and Bor, but if I blasted all of Eldwold from the earth there would still be that blind fool in me who will mock me until I die. I love you. I love you so much. I would have torn Drede apart for you with my hands, if only you had told me he had hurt you. Why did you not tell me? I would have plotted a war for you such as Eldwold has never seen.”

“Coren—I could not tell you— I could not drag you into my hate and rage— I did not want you to know how—how cold and terrible I can be—”

“Or how little you need me?”

“I need you—”

“You need Rok and Ceneth more than you need me. Sybel, I do not understand this game you are playing. Do you think if I know you, I will fear you? Cease to love you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “As you are doing now.”

He gripped her suddenly, shook her, hurting her. “That is not true! What do you think love is—a thing to startle from the heart like a bird at every shout or blow? You can fly from me, high as you choose into your darkness, but you will see me always beneath you, no matter how far away, with my face turned to you. My heart is in your heart. I gave it to you with my name that night and you are its guardian, to treasure it, or let it wither and die. I do not understand you. I am angry with you. I am hurt and helpless, but nothing would fill the ache of the hollowness in me where your name would echo if I lost you.” He loosed her. She watched him, wide-eyed, her hair drifting across her face. He turned away from her suddenly. She reached out to him.

“Where are you going?”

“To find the Lion of Sirle.”

She went with him, hurrying to keep up with his swift, furious strides. They found Rok at a table in the empty hall, with Ceneth sitting hunched beside him, a cup in his hand. Rok watched Coren, his eyes brilliant, chill-blue in his flushed face, come toward him unmoved; when Coren’s fists pounded sharply on the wood in front of him, and Ceneth jumped, Rok said simply,

“I know.”

“If you know, then why? Then why?”

“You must know why.” He paused a moment. A weariness loosened his smooth voice. “A woman came to me and offered me money and power for the destruction of the man who killed Norrel, who sent Sirle to its knees at Terbrec. I did not think of her; I did not think of you. I simply accepted what I have wanted, day and night, for thirteen years. I have done what I have done. What will you do now? You, too, have wanted this war.”

“Not this way!”

“War is war. What is it you want, Coren? To let Drede go unpunished for the wrong he has done your wife?”

Coren’s fists shifted, taut, shaking, on the table. “I would have gone to Mondor alone, unarmed, to kill him with my bare hands if she had told me then. But she went to you. And now I stand a man outside a circle of secrecy, looking into it for the first time, not knowing how to name what I see. Where are your eyes, Rok of Sirle? Could you not see that step by step, moment by moment, you were watching my wife destroy herself in lies, in bitterness, in hatred? And you watched her with your calm eyes and said nothing! Nothing! You used her as she used you; now what is left in either of you? I know that endless road she has taken—you know it, too. Yet you did not lift a hand to stop her, did not drop one word to me so I could!”

Rok lifted a hand, drew his fingers wearily across his eyes. Ceneth, hunched over his wine, lifted his head.

“What are you going to do, Coren? You could kill us all—except Herne and Eorth; they knew nothing. Or you could refuse to fight. Or you could try to forget that your pride is hurt, accept what is inevitable—”

“Is it inevitable?” He straightened, turned so suddenly that Sybel started. He looked at her out of stranger’s eyes. “Is it?”

Her shoulders slumped wearily. “Coren. I love you. But I cannot stop this thing.”

He gripped her. Sybel,” he whispered. “Once—I gave up for you something like this—gave up a dream of revenge, a nightmare of grief that was like a long sickness. Now I will ask you. Give this thing up. If not for me, then for Tam.”

She looked at him. “Please,” she whispered. His hands slid slowly away from her, dropped.

“You want it that badly. So. You have learned what you were afraid Tam would learn—the taste of power. Well, I will give you your war. But I do not know what you will have left when it is over.”

He turned and left them. Sybel watched him move away from her wordlessly. When she could not see him, she moved to the table, sat down abruptly. The two men watched her, waited for her to cry. When she simply sat unmoving, Ceneth poured wine, pushed the cup to her. She touched it without drinking, her eyes empty. At last she took a sip that stirred a faint color in her face. Ceneth ran his hands through his black hair.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. To babble it all in the stable like a pair of children—I have seen a man wounded with that look on his face, but never a man standing healthy on his two feet. What woman alive does not scheme a little behind her husband’s back?”

“So I am like any other woman. That is comforting, but Coren is not like any other man.” She pressed her cold fingers a moment against her eyes. “I do not want to talk of it. Please. Let us make a swift end to all this. When will Derth of Niccon be ready with his boats?”

“In a week perhaps. He needs time to gather his men.”

She drew a breath, loosed it. “Well. Then I will have to learn to look into Coren’s eyes. I suppose I should be thankful I do not have to look into Tam’s.”

Rok reached across the table, held her hand. “We could finish without you, now that we have Hilt and Niccon.”

“No.” She smiled a little, her eyes black, mirthless. “No. I still have a King to catch. We are going to suffer together, Drede and I... and afterward—I do not know.” Her head bowed, dropped onto her outstretched arm. “I do not know,” she whispered.

“Sybel. He will forgive you. He will realize how terribly you were used, and he will forgive you.”

“The only thing he has to forgive her for,” Ceneth said, “is not allowing him to be angry with Drede himself, to revenge his own wife.”

She made a sudden, impatient gesture. “I did not marry him because he had a swift temper and a restless sword.”

“But, Sybel, if he loves you, he expects to know these things. You hurt his pride badly.”

“I hurt deeper than that. He thinks I do not love him. Which may be so. I do not know. I do not know anymore what love is. I am merciless to those two I love most, Tam and Coren, and I cannot stop this thing for their sakes... it must drag on and on, heavy and wearisome, until it comes to an irreversible end.”

“He loves you deeply,” Rok said gently, “and you will have long years afterward to learn to live with one another.”

“Or without.” She stirred restlessly. “I came for some food for Maelga. She will not come in the house, but she is resting in the gardens.” She rose. She stood a moment in silence, her face colorless, her hand taut on the table as though she could not move. Rok touched her, and she looked down at him as though she had forgotten him.

“You are not terrible,” he said softly, “and I think you do love him, or you would not be so grieved. Be patient. It will soon be over.”

“Soon is such a long word,” she whispered.

She went down to the kitchens, took soft bread, fresh cheeses, fruit, meat and wine for Maelga, and carried them to the garden. She stopped before the open gate, looked through the trees, but saw only the great Cats playing a silent, sinuous game, and Cyrin Boar sleeping in the sunlight. She caught the mind of the Black Swan.

Where is Maelga?

Sybel, the witch woke and left
, the Swan answered.
She said the world was too large for her.

Sybel’s brows tugged together anxiously. She went to Cyrin, woke him.

Did Maelga say why she left?

No
, said the Boar.
But when the Lord of Dorn entered the dark house of the Riddle Master, he—

“I know, I know.” She finished wearily, “He ate neither food nor wine, nor did he sleep through the night—Cyrin, Rok’s food is quite harmless.” She stared down at the food until it seemed like something unfamiliar, of another world. Then, wielding the tray with both hands, she wheeled and flung it through the trees, so that grape, meat and bread fell through the leaves in a soft shower, and the heavy silver tray traced an arc of slow-turning circles in the air and fell ringing on its side beside the Cats. They stared at her, surprised motionless at their play. She stared back at them moment, almost as startled. Then she whirled and left.

Sybel sat at her window, embroidering a battle design on Coren’s cloak, watching the slow gathering of night above the Sirle forests. She saw Coren at last, riding across the fields, dark beneath the blue-black sky; heard, in the quiet air, his faint shout to the gatehouse, and the boom of the lowered bridge. Later, she heard his steps in the hall. Her hands stilled, dropped in her lap; her face turned toward the closed door. He opened it, paused a little when he saw her. Then he came in, closed the door.