Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (16 page)

He was given
rooms with marble floors, where curtains of heavy silk fell to the
floor before the windows, and beyond them, terraces of patterned
tiles overlooked the gardens and lake. He was given servants of his
own to tend him, who quietly awoke him in the morning and led him
to a cool bathroom to douse his skin with fragrant water, spiced
with cleansing herbs. A large bird with feathers the colour of
green metal lived in a cage hanging from the ceiling of his
living-room and sang to him in a lilting, almost human voice.

For the first
week, Jadrin was utterly dazed by all this. The food his servants
brought him was richer than anything he’d ever tasted, but he could
not eat. One mouthful of wine sent his senses reeling, so he lived
for that time on mineral water flavoured with fruit juice, taking a
small glass of warmed ewe’s milk at bedtime. He did not leave his
suite of rooms at all. However, this only served to aggravate the
curiosity of the court, so that Jadrin was visited daily by the
arrogant and elegant, the softly-spoken and seductive, all seeking
to court his favour, to add him to their list of satellites.
Shining people with shining names, who brought him presents, who
squeezed his limbs with sharp fingers and calculating eyes,
praising his talent and beauty. Of Ashalan and his immediate staff,
Jadrin saw nothing. People spoke of the king, dropping his name to
impress, speaking of the soirees and musical evenings in Ashalan’s
apartments to which only the most fashionable could hope for an
invitation. Silent and in awe, Jadrin could only watch these tall,
affected beings strut or lounge around his rooms, feeling that he
could never hope to emulate their sophistication. It seemed to him
that the spirit’s price would never have to be paid. He would never
be drawn into the elite, exclusive circle of King Ashalan’s
intimate companions.

Eventually,
thinking Jadrin a true adept, several ladies of the court came to
ask him whether he would weave spells for them. They spoke behind
concealing hands of ineffable slimness and languor, complaining of
lovesickness or being the victims of envy. Some gentlemen came
also, begging Jadrin to scry their futures, worried about their
incomes, their wives, lovers and rivals. But, if Jadrin knew magic
at all, he knew only the magic of the earth, the water, the forest.
The courtiers’ troubles meant little to him and he knew no spells
to deal with them. However, willing to help in whatever way he
could, Jadrin sat and listened, made soothing noises, and at the
end of it, offered the only advice he knew. Something that had
always worked for him and which he considered ample medicine for
any injured soul. He spoke of the quietness of the forest, where
all mundane problems lose their sting, even their form. ‘Go into
the trees,’ he said, ‘And take off your finery. Crawl down amongst
the great roots and smell the earth there. Lie down beside the
forest pools. Forget the city, forget who you are and breathe in
the freshness. In the peace that follows, the solution to your
problems may come to you.’

The palace
folk were usually somewhat taken aback by this advice, but those of
them who were not too lazy to take heed of it, did as he told them.
Unfortunately, the forest is a dangerous place for pampered souls
who are not used to it: dangerous to the body and the mind. Of the
ten people who sought Jadrin’s advice, three came back to talk to
him again, eager to share their enlightenment, five came back to
the city angry and bedraggled, having experienced nothing except
discomfort, and in one case a severe chill, whilst two, a
particularly dizzy pair of ladies, never came back at all. It all
caused rather a controversy. Inevitably, because of this, Jadrin
acquired a staunch following of supporters on the one hand and a
bitterly venomous gang of enemies on the other. Rumours sprang up
like fire. Jadrin was a necromancer. Jadrin was a devil. Jadrin was
a saint. It could all have got ridiculously out of hand. Jadrin
himself knew nothing of these rumours, locked as he was without
friend or confidante in his rooms. Eventually, Ashalan himself was
forced to investigate the matter.

Jadrin was
summoned to the king’s apartments. He went there dressed in black
and bound up his hair so as to appear courtly and civilised. There
was a painful, fearful beat in his chest as he followed Ashalan’s
servant into a small salon, where the king received visitors every
morning. He sat down as he was bidden at the king’s feet and
Ashalan said to him, ‘You must not do these things, boy.’

‘
Do
what, sire?’ he asked, in total innocence, confused as to how he’d
misbehaved.

The king
sighed thoughtfully. ‘The people here are not like you, Jadrin.
What is right for you can actually harm them, because they do not
have your strength. I know that some have sought your advice, and
from what I have heard, the advice you gave them was
straightforward enough, and little to do with magic, but they
cannot understand it, you see. And what they cannot understand will
never help them. What they desire is for you to speak a few words
of mumbo-jumbo over a burning censer that will make everything
right for them.’

‘
I
cannot do that, sire,’ Jadrin said, with lowered eyes and lowered
voice.

The king
leaned forward and lifted Jadrin’s chin with his hands. ‘I can see
that,’ he said gently.

Jadrin
thought: he is wiser than I imagined. He smiled gratefully and,
from that moment, victim of one of the most intense magicks known
on Earth, Ashalan the king lost his heart to him.

‘
Let us
speak together,’ Ashalan said. ‘I have troubles of my own. Is your
advice to me to lie down naked in the wild forest? Shall I find
myself there, perhaps?’

Jadrin
detected a note of good-humoured mockery. ‘I would have thought, my
lord, that you would find yourself best in the presence of all your
gold,’ he said boldly.

The king
laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘After all, gold can be trusted. Its
beauty never fades, neither can it become fickle...’

‘
But it
is cold,’ Jadrin said.

‘
True,’
Ashalan agreed, ‘but at least it is an obvious cold and far less
chilling than the coldness that may be hidden within a human
frame.’

‘
Then go
to the forest. Take your gold with you. All of it. Lie down there
with all the shining cold treasures. Eventually, you shall die, but
if gold is all that you desire from life, then at least you shall
die happy.’

Ashalan
clearly still found this boldness amusing. ‘I have heard that true
magic is nothing but pure and naked truth,’ he said. ‘Your words
convince me further. You are an artless child and yet a creature
versed in wisdom. I think I shall seek your advice more often.’
Laughing, he called in his secretary and ordered that refreshment
be brought to them, wine and sherbets. ‘Tell me of the forest,’ he
said and Jadrin sat at his feet and told him. ‘Your words must be
saved for me alone,’ Ashalan instructed, ‘You do not have to advise
any of the pampered hens around here any more. That is my word and
you must obey it.’

Wary in the
soft but strengthening grip of a new feeling, Jadrin gave his word
that he would.

Perhaps more
subtle in the ways of love than those of accruing treasures,
Ashalan courted Jadrin discretely. So discretely that Jadrin hardly
even noticed it was happening. The occasional brush of fingers, the
glances that lingered just a second too long: all of this the
gentle but compelling language of desire. Most days, Ashalan would
summon Jadrin to his apartments in the late afternoon when they
would sip cordials and speak together of countless different
things. Maybe the king was surprised by Jadrin’s lack of knowledge
in so many subjects, perhaps delighted by his innocence. Jadrin
would listen, spellbound, as Ashalan spoke of far-flung corners of
his kingdom. He learned about the Hell Mountains of Gashalore,
those heartless crags inimical to humanity that smoked incessantly
and vomited caustic showers of black ash. Reptiles with poisonous
skin dwelt among the rocks, and basked in the steaming waters of
the Lake of Insidious Sleep, whose toxic shores were forever
wreathed in yellow fog. Jadrin, familiar only with the benign
forests and hills of his childhood, was thrilled to learn of these
dangerous and exotic places. And there was more. Ashalan told him
about the white waters of the Fleercut further north, a treacherous
torrent far removed from the lazy, feminine flow that divided the
fields of Cos. In the wilder places, naked barbarians lurked
beneath the spray, leaping out onto unwary travellers along the
banks. Then there were the secretive desert people of Mewt, who
moved their black tents with the winds. They might sell a horse to
you if the offer was right, fiery, temperamental beasts that were
cousins of the winds themselves, but there was always the whisper
of deviltry around those people, so only the foolhardy and reckless
ever approached them.

Four evenings
a week, Jadrin was dismissed at sundown, whilst on the other three,
Ashalan would bid Jadrin accompany him down to the Great Hall,
where he would sit on a black marble throne. Dancers and musicians
would come to entertain, sometimes gypsy fortune-tellers and most
nights, gentlefolk would bow to seek an audience with the king
himself. Haughtily, Jadrin would sit at the king’s feet, his dark
hair curled and perfumed, his ears, his throat, hung with black
jewels, his body adorned with splendid clothes of dark, rich
colours, and he would think himself content. He was not exactly
sure what his role was, for he did not like to ask, but it was easy
to forget about the three days he had spent in the dismal, turret
room and the deal he had made with a certain spiteful spirit.
Ashalan was very kind to him, and gradually the boy came to realise
that the king was not the greedy, lustful fool he had once thought
him to be. He was a lonely, frightened man, surrounded by
sycophantic idiots, half of whom probably conspired against him.
Slowly Ashalan began to trust Jadrin. ‘You have brought a little
peace to my life,’ he said.

One evening,
when the warmth of the day was being gently nudged east by a
frivolous breeze, Jadrin and Ashalan walked together along the high
tiled terrace that overlooked the gardens. Urns against the wall
sprouted riotous haloes of yellow flowers, ivy swung in the breeze.
It was an idyllic time marred only by the sound of revelry coming
from the Great Hall below them, the high spiteful laughter of
women, the responding drunken, male guffaws. Jadrin sensed Ashalan
wince and he thought, ‘In some ways you are a very weak man’, and
felt sorry for him.

‘
I do
not think I was meant to be a king,’ Ashalan said.

‘
Mmm,’
Jadrin replied, non-committally.

They had come
to the wide bowl of a fountain; the water was turned off. Ashalan
sat down on the brim of the pool, shredding an ivy leaf he had
picked along the way. ‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘My father died
when I was too young to understand what power meant. He thought I
would be fit to follow him. I was his only son after all. There was
no one else. For years, he had been trying to groom me for the
role. He had me instructed in hunting and fighting and reasoning.
My brain was filled with the words of kings from great times; their
heroic lifetimes filled me with dread. “You must have a wife,” my
father said. I did not want to marry. My father ignored my
protests. He procured a young wife and a set of noble, upright
young men as friends. It was not enough.’

Jadrin had
never heard of the young wife before, neither was she in evidence
about the court. He made a carefully worded enquiry.

Ashalan
sighed. ‘Poor girl,’ he said. ‘It was no secret that she had
harboured a kind of obsession for me for some time. We had
virtually grown up together, for she was my second cousin. It was a
liaison doomed to tragedy, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m
sorry Jadrin, but I have no wish to speak of it further.’

The king
looked so forlorn that Jadrin went and put his arms around him, not
caring whether it was a disrespectful thing to do or not. At that
moment, he would have dearly loved to have taken Ashalan far from
the palace, far from the city, back to the quiet mill-pool and the
high, stone house; a place of dark and healing. It was the first
time they had embraced.

‘
Jadrin,
I love you,’ Ashalan said, a whispered confession.

Even as he
savoured these words and wondered, in fact, what they meant to him,
Jadrin felt the piece of quartz, still carried about his neck in
its little bag, jump and grow quickly hot. The king bent to kiss
him and he backed away, eyes wide.

Ashalan looked
mortified. ‘I have offended you. Forgive me,’ he said.

Jadrin shook
his head. ‘No, no you haven’t. It wasn’t that.’ His hand strayed to
the pouch at his throat and he found that it was no longer warmer
than usual; there was no hint of movement. Perhaps he had imagined
it. Could the spirit have forgotten about their agreement? It
seemed so long ago that it was made. He sat down beside the king,
confused and perhaps a little afraid. He reached up with shy
fingers to trace the smile on Ashalan’s mouth, and then he kissed
it, absorbed it, examining the rush of pleasure this new contact
initiated. In its bag around his neck, the quartz remained still
and cool. Jadrin sighed and smiled.

‘
What is
it?’ Ashalan asked him and Jadrin shook his head.

‘
Nothing. It is nothing.’

They continued
their walk in silence, going down the sweeping, white steps at the
end of the terrace and into the shadowed, rustling gardens. ‘I am
twenty-six years old,’ Ashalan said, ‘I am ten years older than
you, Jadrin. Perhaps I am wrong to want to love you.’