The Rose of the World (60 page)

‘Clothe? What need I of coverings?’

Tycho felt the blood come to his face. ‘All women must be covered: they are temptation incarnate. No man can be trusted not to act upon his impulses.’

The Rosa Eldi gazed upon him. ‘Are you so weak that you cannot curb your desires?’ And she smiled, her eyes full of knowledge, and power.

The Lord of Cantara stormed across the room to the ermine robe. ‘Allowing women free congress among men is the root of every evil and catastrophe!’

He threw the cloak at her. ‘Put this on while I find you a veil.’

She stepped backwards and the cloak fell to the floor.

She looked at its fur mournfully.

‘Dead things,’ she said. ‘All around you is death.’

Tycho frowned. ‘Just put it on.’

But all she did was to stare at the cloak, then lift troubled eyes to him. ‘You killed the child.’

Tycho shivered. ‘I did not mean to,’ he lied. He looked down to see whether it was a splash of blood that had betrayed him; but his hands were clean and the tunic was all of crimson velvet and if the baby’s blood was on it, it did not show. The vomit, however, did. ‘Damn the bastard!’ He tried to rub the milk stain away, but it was sticky and revolting on his hand.

He grabbed the lilies out of a nearby vase and strewed them on the floor, then upended the contents over his tunic and scraped fretfully at the fabric with the underside of one of the great-cat skins draped over the couch.

She watched him curiously, this man for whom appearances meant so much more than truth. When he brought her the sabatka from the adjoining chamber, she allowed him to hang it upon her, shrugging elegantly away from him, till there was silk between them and she need not fear his touch. The veil hid him from her, which was a blessing.

‘The nomads say the woman the Lord Issian has up in our poor duke’s castle is the Lady Falla returned to us in our time of need.’

‘I thought she was the barbarian queen, captured during the raid.’

‘The folk I passed on their way here earlier seemed convinced of her divinity.’

A laugh. ‘She has performed miracles for them, has she?’

‘I know nothing of miracles. But they say she is wondrous fair.’

‘Worth a look, then, miracles or no.’

‘My child is sick, let me through.’

‘If your boy is ill, you should take him home and tend to him, not drag him out on this cold day.’

‘If the Lady touches him, he will be well.’

‘If the lady touches him, she’ll catch whatever he ails from, more like!’

‘It is the falling sickness he has, not the fever.’

‘Why should some pale whore have the power to cure the falling sickness?’

‘Hush your mouth: she’s no whore, she’s Falla the Merciful. Everyone is saying so.’

‘My brother was at the Gathering when the northern king chose her above the Swan: she’s a nomad whore, no more nor less, and anyone who claims otherwise is a fool.’

‘Call me a fool, then, Rivo Santero: I shall not see you on the blessed side of the Lady’s fires.’

‘She touched me and I saw the wickedness of my life.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be giving away all your worldly goods, then, Caro?’

‘I have done so already. I am with the Wandering Folk now.’

‘With the Footloose? Did you give your wits away also? They’ll burn you, you idiot.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, who did you give your things to? Why did you not come and find me?’

‘I have seen the wickedness of your life, too, friend.’

‘I like my wicked life, it suits me well.’

‘Let her touch you, and you’ll see what I mean.’

‘There’s a particularly wicked part of me I’d love her to touch.’

‘You are a profane man, Gero: there’s no hope for you.’

‘Where’s your veil, Ferutia? Have you no modesty?’

‘I shan’t wear it any more.’

‘If you do not put your veil on, I shall drag you home and lock you in the cellar until you’re pleading to put the damn thing on again.’

‘None of the other girls are wearing theirs.’

‘Then they’re likely to take a beating, too.’

‘If you lay one finger on me, Uncle, I shall join the Footloose.’

‘Then you’ll be damned to the fires, and good riddance to you. I’ll put the torch to the pyre myself.’

‘By heaven, there’s my wife!’

‘How can you recognise her in this great crowd, man? Be sensible!’

‘She’s not wearing her sabatka: her face is bare, the hussy! She told me she was going to the market with her sister – by the Lady, just wait till I get her home . . .’

‘By Elda, you’re right, it’s Allicia, so it is!’

Silence. Then:

‘How in Falla’s name do you know what my wife looks like?’

‘There she is!’

‘Where?’

‘See: at the gate.’

‘I can’t see very well, there are too many people. Hold me up, Mica. Ah, yes, now I see: ah – she’s removed her veil. She is very lovely . . . oh . . . But who is that ugly man in the red robe beside her?’

‘Shh. It’s Tycho Issian, the Lord of Cantara.’

‘Aiee, let me down, before he lays eyes on me! He burned Celesta Moonrise’s father and sister! We should leave now, while we can—’

‘Hush now, little Wren. We can’t leave, the throng is too dense. Besides, I must see her: she will protect us: I know it.’

‘But if she cannot protect herself, how can she protect us?’

‘Protect herself?’

‘They say he took her prisoner and brought her south to ravish her.’

‘There is a pattern in all things, Wren. Only the Lady knows the pattern.’

‘Why has she been away so long? Does she not care about her people?’

‘Sshh now, Wren, come down now and let’s see if we can get a better view over there.’

‘Stay back!’

‘Sergeant, move those people back!’

‘Don’t push!’

‘I can’t help it, everyone’s moving forward—’

‘Ah, no, the soldiers are pushing from the front . . .’

‘Help me, my sister—!’

‘I’ve lost my little boy. Kano, where are you? Aiee!’

‘I’m falling . . .’

The Rose of the World gazed out into the crowd in anguish. She turned to the man at her side. ‘Help them.’

Tycho Issian stared at the chaos where the crowd were being crushed between the advance of the soldiery and the walls of the city. ‘What more can I do? They are a mob – they must be controlled.’

‘What you call control is murder.’

‘If the guards cannot hold them back, they’ll storm the tower.’

‘Let them.’

‘Let them? Are you mad? Come, let me escort you back inside, to safety.’

She turned her piercing gaze upon him and he quailed even as his balls burned and throbbed. ‘Help them.’

‘You have taken off your veil!’ he said angrily.

‘It lay between me and my people.’

He could make nothing of this. ‘I cannot help them,’ he said instead. ‘The soldiery will deal with them.’

‘If you will not help them then I must.’

Closing her eyes, she summoned deep awareness of her surroundings. The wall, the great city wall: if she could just make a hole in it through which the people might escape, it should suffice. But how? Living things were hers to command; not the hewn, dead stone of these fortifications. Beneath the stone of the courtyard and the walls beyond her thought ranged, down through the granite flags and the rubble of the old city they had used as foundations, down through the topsoil. She found roots and worms and centipedes; ancient seeds and pods, and a deep aquifer fed by three thin streams off the inland hills.

Lady Falla, save me!

Delicacy was crucial. She bent all her will on it, and the water moved to her intent, slipping gently between bedding planes, into air pockets in the hardcore, pressing up beneath the stones, taking every line of least resistance; but still there was not enough to serve her purpose.

Goddess, save my child!

More: she needed more. Her mind fled out across the floodplain, summoning back the river, draining irrigation ditches, emptying wells.

Help me, Lady!

She had never channelled such a mass: it was demanding, exhausting. To force her will upon it occupied her utterly, though the screams and prayers and invocations snatched at her attention. Up it came, the water, up and up beneath the flags, beneath the old walls. She let it wash against the foundations, helped it move some of the sand and grit away, loosening the structures.

Delicately she worked now, drawing up the water, undermining the stonework so that part of the wall began to tremble and bow—

‘Come with me now!’ Someone cupped her face, shaking her, skin to skin . . .

And suddenly her mind was invaded. Death, a terrible fear of death, gripped her, mazing all her thoughts. In panic, she stepped backwards to sever that vile connection. For a moment she was free; then a hand gripped her bare arm beneath the sabatka. Somewhere, she stood in a howling black desert while some monster mauled at her naked body; somewhere else, a mass of water crashed out of her control.

She cried out and opened her eyes.

Tycho Issian’s face swam before her in horrific detail. But over his shoulder the view was worse by far.

Far from creating an escape, she had created a disaster. Where the ancient wall – a wall which had been constructed in the time of the Emperor Tagus and withstood a thousand years of sieges, bombardments and fire – had stood, now there was nothing but a roiling cloud of dust, gouts of violent water, and the screams of the dead and dying. Instead of making a small gap through which the people could escape, the water had demolished the entire length of the wall; and the massive stonework, instead of falling outward into empty space, had toppled inward, crushing the very folk she had been trying to save. Water – released from her gentle, guiding spirit – now gushed and roared gleefully, busting up through the flagstones, hurling masonry high into the air to crash down again on the defenceless crowd and the soldiery of Cera.

The Rosa Eldi sank to her knees and howled like a dog; but such elemental forces answered to no man, woman or goddess: there was nothing she could do to reverse the devastation.

Thirty-six

Messages

Nearly seven hundred people – men and women of Istria; children, nomads, hillsfolk, soldiers and slaves – perished that day, either drowned by the raging floodwaters or dashed to death against the broken walls. Many of them died with the name of the Goddess on their lips or in their hearts; and the Rose of the World felt each death as a wound.

She lay in a swoon on the great bed, entirely unaware that the Lord of Cantara had removed her robe and gazed like a famished man upon her naked flesh.

But no matter how he desired the woman who lay in a fever before him, Tycho Issian could not bring himself to mount her while she was unconscious. There might be pleasure in the act for its own sake, but not the quality of pleasure he desired, for the connection was what he craved: to gaze into those sea-green eyes even as he penetrated to the heart of her. Nothing else would suffice.

And so he sat and he watched as she writhed and wept, and sometimes he drank the best wine from the Duke of Cera’s cellars as he watched, and sometimes he undressed himself and lay down beside her and ran his hands across her silken hips; and sometimes he moved her this way and that like a doll or a puppetmaster’s mannequin, and gazed and gazed; and even when he touched her she knew him not, for her mind was a wasteland, and nothing mattered beyond the catastrophe she had caused.

Two days later, there came a great knocking at the door of the chamber.

‘My lord, my lord!’

He was disinclined to answer such an urgent cry: it could only mean bad news. But the hammering and the shouting carried on, so he gave a weary sigh, slung a robe around his shoulders and went to the door.

‘What is it?’ he demanded through the crack.

‘The Eyrans are coming, lord: their sails line the horizon!’

Tycho Issian swore violently. The northerners had evidently not had the sense to stay at home and lick their wounds after all. He should have known, he chided himself, as he clothed himself once more and looked regretfully upon the prone white body on the snowy bed. If the Rose of the World should afflict him so, who had done nothing but gaze upon her, how much more crazed with longing and vengeance must be the man who had taken her to wife?

Downstairs in the staterooms, there was hubbub. Having ascertained that there was nothing to be seen from the castle – since the citadel was half a mile inland and a series of deeply incised hills lay between it and the coast – with ill-disguised bad grace the Lord of Cantara rode out with the Ceran Guard to survey the enemy.

The sails of the Eyran fleet were dense against the lowering sky and the whole great expanse of sea was covered by their hulls. The sight of them sent a chill through the heart of every Istrian ranged along the low cliffs that day.

‘By the Lady,’ one man murmured, ‘there must be a thousand ships coming against us.’

It was an overestimate by a frightened man, but Tycho Issian turned to the captain of the guards and his expression was anguished. ‘Is Cera’s castle the strongest fortification in the area?’

The captain looked back at him as if he was mad, but knowing the Cantaran lord’s reputation decided to mince his words. ‘It was, my lord. Upon a time. Until the flood took the great wall down.’

No one could fathom how the city walls could have succumbed so swiftly to the sudden access of water, nor whence the destroying force had come. There had been little rain; the rivers had been running low for some weeks: they had even had to irrigate the winter crops. The captain – a grizzled veteran of the last war who had languished cheerfully in the lower ranks of the local guard until his rapid promotion following the loss of his superior – had spent the last two days retrieving bodies from the water which surrounded the castle and giving them over to city officials for identification and burial. It had not been a pleasant task, made worse by the fact that several of his militiamen had lost friends and relatives in the flood. Finding your wife or mother bloated and swollen with riverwater, her head caved in by rocks, was enough to rob a man of his hope, his future, his wits. It was rumoured that some soldiers had deserted, even gone to join the Footloose; though given the paucity of organisation following the demise of the Duke of Cera, it had proved impossible to ascertain whether death or the urge for a new kind of life had overtaken those who were missing from their posts.