The Raven Warrior (27 page)

“Well, we just have to be better at it than they are. So far . . .” Albe crossed her fingers “. . . we are.”

We stopped talking then, because the climb had become onerous, and we labored to reach the top of the ridge. When we did, we stopped and took a breather. And I forgot my sore muscles and cramping legs because we saw the city in all its splendor, illuminated by the rays of the slanting sun. The mountains beyond the city were even higher than the one that held the city. They towered snow-clad over the closest peak to the shore. A watercourse tumbled down this final high spire of rocks. Probably, I thought, fed by snowmelt from the heights.

The city was built along the river, both to contain and protect it. Its buildings lined the rift created by the river and spread out on either side of it.

“You didn’t build that,” I said accusingly to Cateyrin as I pointed to the city.

“No. No.” She shook her head. “We found it here when we came.”

The river tumbled down from the heights through successive waterfalls, each centered in a green mountain meadow, thick with trees and grass. The city’s towers were set well back from the green meadows created by the rush of the falls, and the towers of the city looked to be grown from the rock itself. Near the bottom, they were almost black, sprung from the ancient dark rock that ribs the earth.

Then this dark rock shaded into an iron-rich red. The towers, as though conjured from the stone, were scarlet; but here and there, black, as though the ore in the red rock congealed under the hands of its builders and sprang up like the rusted heap of a smith’s secret iron hoard. I had seen my friend Gray’s hoard when a child, and the twisted rise of metal vines reminded me of the woven wire of a sword ready to be forged.

Above the towers was a honeycomb of folded sandstone filled with quartz, laced with geodes that flashed the fire of their multicolored contents with splotches of scarlet, violet, blue, purple, and fine-grained quartz. Above the layer of limestone, the mountain turned to granite, dull gray, then fractured into lighter-colored, grainless marble.

The river flowed through it, though, I thought, so high up the grass must be sparse, low, and frost-covered in the deep night’s cold. But the meadows were green and glowed gold-green in the slanted sunlight.

The towers there, drawn from white, grainless marble, flashed in the sun as though coated with fine, tiny crystals, as indeed perhaps this fine, hard stone was. The whiteness, as much that of stone as frost, threw back the light so brightly into my eyes that at first I didn’t realize someone—a small figure—toiled across a platform at the very top, which jutted out over the valley and the city.

The platform looked small from where we stood, but I realized it must have been very big, because it obscured the pinnacle of the mountain, and the human standing on it was dwarfed by its breadth and width. The human figure ceased moving and something glinted at his back.

Once when I was no more than eight or nine, Maeniel, Mother, Black Leg, and I went night fishing. It was spring, and at dawn I lay warmed by my wolf companions. At first light, I opened my eyes and saw a butterfly pupa on a grass stem nearby, and the crease-winged, drab insect emerged. I lay, too warm to stir, and watched it climb to the top of the long grass stem, and among the pearls of dew, watched the wings drop down, the stiffening veins harden as it became a thing of splendor, dressed in mottled brown, violet, purple, and, at last, gold. Then, opening and closing its wings in the new sun, it unrolled the long proboscis, drank from a pimpernel flower, and flew away into sunrise.

This is the closest I can get to telling you about what I saw then on the platform at the mountaintop. These wings were gold, and they spread out on either side of the figure I saw on the platform. Little by little, section by section, expanding on either side of the figure standing alone on the mountaintop. So bright was the reflection of the sun on those wings that I was near blinded. They were the color of molten gold, and before they were fully expanded, they were larger in proportion to the human figure than the butterfly’s wings were in proportion to the insect.

And they glowed with such a dazzle that for moments they seemed to obscure the sun, to drink the very light itself. I found out later that, indeed, they did.

Then the human figure ran forward and leaped from the end of the platform into space. My heart was hammering with fear as though I rode those wings myself as they glided down over the city, and it seemed the winged creature would come to a nasty end in the deserts of the sea bottom. But then, as a hawk when it drops from its cliff nest, the rising warm air currents lifted the broad wings higher and higher, until it circled the city below, then soared away toward the southwest over the lost, forsaken, empty sea.

I pressed my hand against my heart, which was hammering so hard beneath my left ribs that the thudding was almost pain, and asked, “Meth, was that a human being with wings? A man or woman? And what magic could be used to grow such appendages?”

He laughed at me. “No magic, but a sun cape. There aren’t many left, and hellish dangerous things to use, they are. But only with sun capes can we reach the other cities. He will be setting out from the Fursa clan for Falas to bring them the mariglobes and receive the fire stones in return. We’re going to need them this winter.”

“God,” I whispered. “I wish I could ride one of those things.”

God,
I prayed,
let me someday ride one of those things.
This prayer was silent and to myself. I will ride one of those things, because the need to spread those wings out on either side of me and fly is greater than my desire for my king, for power, or even for life itself. And one day I will have those wings or die in the attempt to get and use them.

I will march steadfast to whatever dark fate shadows me, but . . . oh, God! Let me fly.

                  CHAPTER FOUR

The unspeaking Saxon guards conveyed Uther to a cell somewhere deep within the confines of the villa. The villa was a gigantic place, much larger than the king had thought looking at it from the road. He completely lost track of where he was as he marched through one courtyard and into another, then along an impressive colonnade, down from there into a vast kitchen garden, and past a line of stables. Finally they reached what looked like it had been a storehouse for legumes and cereal crops but had now been turned into a very ugly prison.

The long corridor that ran down the center of the building was lined with doors to the cells. The one he was shown into—his guards may have been quiet but they were extremely courteous—was simply a stone room, obviously intended to keep sacks of wheat or dried beans from damp mold or the depredations of rodents. The only air and light in the room were furnished by a narrow slit window, high up on one wall, blocked by both bars and wire mesh. The door was solid oak, the planks in it mortised and tendoned to form a tight fit. It was held closed by an iron bar bolt on the outside.

He was left there. The door slammed shut and he heard the clatter as the iron bolt shot into an opening in the stone wall. The room was cold, the chill icy. The bars and wire in the window above did nothing to block the north wind, and the king was glad of his heavy woolen mantle. But he wondered if its warmth would be sufficient come nightfall.

He also wondered if he should have been more obsequious in his dealings with the nobleman. Then he gave a soft snort of derision when he thought about the certainly ambitious and probably sadistic young man. The nasty peacock deserved that and probably much worse at someone’s hands. Too bad he wouldn’t be the one to mete out the punishment the “count” had most likely already earned.

He’d once had to deal with a small group of deserters from one of his own war bands. They were not only deserters but also murderous thieves and rapists, who left a ten-mile-long path of grief and destruction behind them. The Viper Society priestess had chosen the punishment. The drunken young fools were bundled into pitch-soaked brush and faggots, then thrown onto the bone fire of their victims, one by one.

“It contents the dead,” Morgana told him. “They are assured of vengeance.”

Oddly, once caught, bound, and sentenced, the culprits died like men. There were few screams from the pyre, and then only in the last extremity. This particular “Count” of Dung would, in a similar situation, screech like a stuck hog.

A man bears his ills, deserved or not. His pride bought him this one. Bear it!

The king circled the room. Walls tight, Roman stonework. One couldn’t insert a fingernail between one stone and another. The window was too high for a man his age to jump up to. That’s all he’d need now, a sprained or broken ankle.

Some things are simple. The tomb had been simple. A few jars of wine, a platter of bread for the journey into the next world if the inhabitant cared to depart hence. A lamp left burning so that the spirit of the dead man could warm itself at a last light, and then eternal silence and darkness. But oh, yes, there was the harp leaning against the wall in the last flickering light of the last lamp he would ever see.

The king was very weary. He hadn’t slept well between his efforts with the harp and his meeting with Merlin. He was exhausted. He lay down on the hard floor in what he felt was the least drafty corner of the chill cell. He pillowed his head on the harp case. It was boiled, waxed leather reinforced with wood, and the weight of his head could not damage the instrument within.

For a long time he slept without dreams, but when he woke, it was seemingly pitch-black in the cell. It reminded him too much of the tomb for a moment, then his hands found the harp case under his head.

That is music. It blooms against the darkness of death the way a flower blooms against a black backdrop or the misty dull green distance of a great city. Blooms and gathers the light into its shape and form, glows and infuses meaning into the darkness or the even more daunting jumble of the rain-drenched city caught in the shadows of growing gloom. Form in emptiness, light and color in darkness. Beauty glowing against the gloomy green darkness of the rain-swept cityscape. Sound in silence.

When he woke again, he knew it must be sometime in the day. There was more light in the room. He shifted his feet to drive the cold from his toes. The walls, floor, and what bit of the sky he could see from the window were gray. As gray as his mind, his hair, and even his soul.

I am old,
he thought.
I am old.

He knew this with an assurance he had never felt before.

His eyes closed.
It will not hurt to sleep a little now before I sleep forever,
he thought as he drifted off again.

Again, it was dark. But this time the sky was clear and the stars filled the window from edge to edge, and he was overjoyed by them because he had never quite realized how beautiful they were or how many.

When he slept again, he dreamed of his son, the Summer King. When he looked up at the boy standing over him, he was again filled with a very simple joy and felt the tears on his cheeks.

The boy seemed concerned about him and bent down. “Father, you’re cold in this place, and must be hungry and thirsty, too.”

The king smiled and lifted himself up on one elbow; and the boy Arthur, who seemed to walk in his own light, thrust a cup into his hand. Uther drank gratefully for what seemed a long time, until his thirst was completely quenched, but found he couldn’t finish the cup. When he looked up to hand the cup back, the boy was gone. There was a plate on the floor with bread, butter, and bacon on it, warm as though it had just come from the fire.

He ate gratefully, then went to sleep again, warmed by water, milk, mead, and then wine, because the cup seemed to hold all three. And his stomach was filled by bread, butter, and bacon, on which he generally breakfasted of a morning. That was how he knew it must be a dream. Whoever heard of such?

When he awoke again, the cell was filled with pale morning light and the bolt of the cell door was being drawn. Count Severius entered the cell, accompanied by the young man who had captained the detachment of mercenaries who locked him in. The plate and cup were at Uther’s elbow.

He sat up, rested his back against the wall, and spoke politely to the count. “Your pardon, my lord. As you see, I am trying to rise to greet you, but you must allow me a moment to get to my feet, since I am old and more than a little bit stiff.”

The count caught sight of the plate and cup. His eyes widened in outrage.

“Who dared . . . who dared give him food and water? When?”

Uther climbed to his feet. The count’s companion turned and strutted down the hall. In a few moments, the room was filled with soldiers.

“I gave strict orders he was to be locked up and left alone until I gave further orders to the contrary.” The rage in the nobleman’s face and voice cracked like a whip over his people, and indeed they were on their knees, already crying for mercy.

The young officer stepped away from his lord and the groveling guards. He looked down at the harp case.

“My lord!” he said crisply. Silence fell. “I cannot think you were disobeyed. None would have the temerity to flout your orders. He breakfasted at the inn and no doubt had the food with him when he was locked away.”

“Think so, Aife?” the count asked.

Uther felt the world lurch and come down in a different configuration. The handsome Saxon boy was indeed a woman, and a woman was the captain of his guard. Her beautiful blue eyes met the king’s, a stony sort of contempt in them.

“His kind are as much about mystery as they are about music.”

“And what would you know of my kind?” Uther whispered.

Something quivered between them for a second, fragile as a cobweb’s grip on the two trees that support it, but something Uther hadn’t felt in years; something that can only exist between a man and woman. Then it vanished, invisible as a cobweb when the dew dries, but it remained.

She turned away. Her eyes swept the groveling men at arms.

“None would dare flout your orders, as I said, my lord. If any did, I would cut out his heart while he lived.”

“Out! All of you!” the count snapped.

They looked glad to leave.

“You didn’t search him, my perfect one?”

“No, my exalted one,” she replied. “You didn’t order it. And while I never do less than you command, I never do more either.”

Severius turned to Uther. “Strip.”

Uther removed his clothing, piece by piece, thinking as he did that he probably looked ridiculous. In fact, he didn’t look at all bad. He was thickly furred, hair on his chest, arms, and stomach, and even his back. He had always been stocky. Now he had a bit of a paunch, but only a small one; and it, like the rest of him, was rock hard.

“Jesus!” Severius exclaimed. “Look at his scars.”

Ah, yes, the scars. He had a lot of them, each with a story attached. But then he had more or less—mostly more—spent his life fighting.

When he got to his linen drawers, he paused. He was hoping they wouldn’t make him pull them off, also.

Severius kicked the cup and plate aside. None of them noticed that, though they struck the wall with a satisfactory crash, neither of them broke or even so much as chipped.

The count bent down to pick up the harp case.

“I wouldn’t do that, brother mine,” Aife admonished.

“Why not?” Severius jeered. Then, motioning toward Uther, asked, “What can he do?”

“You’re right,” Uther said. “I’m only an old man, rather scantily clad at the moment. But things like that harp have a way of defending themselves.”

She took her knife and carefully raised the lid of the harp case. A serpent lifted its head from among the strings. She snatched the blade back and let the lid fall.

“Christ!” Severius exclaimed.

“Get that thing out of there!” She drew her sword and pointed it at Uther’s throat.

He moved the tip aside very carefully with one finger. Then he knelt next to the harp case and lifted the lid.

The harp rested in its velvet and brocade wrappings. He reached in and lifted it out carefully, and placed it gently on the floor. There was nothing about it that would conceal a snake. It had no sound box, but was made of one piece of oak. It bore a double set of strings.

Then he eased the scarlet brocade and velvet cloth out. He unfolded it and then shook it out. Nothing! He turned the case upside down. Shook it.

Both Severius and Aife examined the cloth and case. She was still holding her sword.

“Let him go,” she told the count. “Send him on his way.”

“No! My God, no!” the count snapped. “The stories the people told about him—those that heard him play in the tavern—they were simply amazing. I didn’t believe them, but there must be a grain of truth there. Think, Aife. Think what he might be able to do for us.”

“Do for us? Do to us, you mean!”

“You. Old man, are you bribable?” the count continued. “You can’t love dressing in castoffs and tramping the roads.”

“Castoffs?” Uther said, glancing at the heap of clothing on the floor.

“Yes. Some patron or other of yours obviously treated you well once, but . . .” The count kicked at the warm but ragged-edged mantle and worn tunic and trousers. “These have seen a lot of hard service since.”

“Yes,” Uther admitted. “That’s true.”

“And so have you. Christ and his saints! Look at the scars on you.”

“That’s also true,” Uther admitted. “My life has not been easy.”

“Well, if even a part of what my singularly superstitious tenants believe about you is at all possible, you are set for a soft life here for . . .” The count hesitated and smiled. “As long as you live.”

Uther returned the smile with a suitably ironic one of his own. “That being exactly as long as I honor your wishes as I would a god’s and fulfill them.”

The smile vanished from the count’s face and an ugly, blunt, cold look replaced it. And Uther knew, as when they first met on the road, he had laid bare an unpleasant dark place in the man’s soul.

But then, to the king’s astonishment, Alex and Alexia appeared at the door of the cell. Alexia was wearing a bright-red dress of some material so soft that when she moved, she might almost as well have been naked, so thin and clinging was the cloth. Alex wore skintight, very soft tanned leather. In the clear light of day, Uther realized how small and fragile his companions were. Compared to the hulking guards who accompanied them, they seemed children.

The count spun around and studied the pair.

“They came looking for him.” The guard pointed at Uther. “He is called Simon the Singer.”

The count laughed. “How diverting. Tumblers, unless I miss my guess.”

“Yes,” Alexia said. “And very good ones.”

Alex back-flipped into a catching position and Alexia cartwheeled onto his shoulders. She stood, steadying herself with her fingertips against the ceiling.

The count laughed and clapped his hands. “How wonderfully diverting. Can you do that naked?” he asked almost innocently.