Veiled Rose (33 page)

So Lionheart, wearing borrowed linens, stood along the wall, ready to wait at table. He’d stashed the Fool away in a nearby corridor, figuring that the poor man was as prepared as he could be for the night’s performance. It bothered him as he stood at his post to think how unhappy the idiot was. But what could one expect from so deep-rooted a madness?

Strange, Lionheart thought. The Fool had not aged a day in the many years since he had visited Southlands.

The duke arrived, along with his guest, and settled comfortably into his chair. The duke was an enormous man with face and hands like a bear’s, lacking only the teeth and claws. His clothing, though rich, was dirty and ill fitting, stretched tightly across his great frame. He treated his apparel with an abandon only the very rich can afford.

After seeing the duke drop food down his front and do nothing to clean it, Lionheart averted his eyes. An utter barbarian and, as far as Lionheart could discern, stupid to boot. Shippening was once a fine land with a fine history, the most powerful trade center on the Continent, governed by a Master of the Six Towers. One found it difficult to recall those glory days when observing its current master.

The eastern merchant was far more interesting, a stern and handsome man richly clad in silks (of which he took great care), with hair blacker than Lionheart’s own, though his skin was pale. Lionheart guessed that he came from the Noorhitam Empire, though he might hail from Aja or any one of the kingdoms of the East. Watching him, Lionheart felt a sudden sorrow, recalling a boyhood declaration:

“When I’m a jester, I’m going to write my own songs. Better ones than Sir Eanrin’s. Just wait. And I’ll sing them for all the kings of the Continent.”

“All of ’em?”

“And the emperors of the East!”

So much for that dream.

Lionheart deduced that this fine easterner thought little of the slovenly duke. The way he watched Shippening’s master gave Lionheart the shivers . . . as though he were measuring him out for meat. Yet there was also a certain fear in the merchant’s eyes, and with it, respect. This puzzled Lionheart. Though he worked for the man, he had yet to discover anything respectable about the Duke of Shippening.

“So,” said Shippening, turning to his guest with his mouth full, “what do you think of our neighbors these days?”

“How means your lordship?” inquired the merchant. His accent was perfect, better than the duke’s.

“Occupied, they say,” the duke replied. “Enslaved by—get this—a
dragon.
Hence the smoke, see?”

Lionheart went cold.

The merchant nodded. “Do you doubt this tale?”

“I’ve no cause to doubt it. We ain’t heard two words from our brown brothers these many months, and the smoke don’t dissipate, now, does it? Seems farfetched, I’ll grant you that . . . but who among us wants to venture in and verify the truth of the matter?”

It was all Lionheart could do to sit there and listen to the duke’s laughter. His grip on his assigned amphora of wine tightened. But when the duke finished chuckling to himself, he said to the merchant, “I suppose you believe it all, don’t you? Don’t your people worship a dragon? Or some firebird or something?”

The merchant’s face was a mask. “My land is vast and its people varied, stemming from many cultures. There are those who worship the Lady and her Dark Brother, and yes, one of his incarnations is that of a dragon.”

The Lady. This distracted Lionheart momentarily from his thoughts of murdering the duke with a well-aimed swipe of an amphora. The Fool had mentioned a Lady too. Was she the same one the merchant spoke of now? Was she somehow associated with the Dragon?

For the Dragon was unbearably real. Perhaps this Lady was as well.

Half memories tugged at Lionheart’s brain: memories of sleepless nights when bedroom drapes resembled a long-haired woman; memories of a voice and white eyes. But these were stranger even than the reality of the Dragon . . . or the much more pressing reality of the duke’s objectionable existence.

“Where’s my Fool?” the duke bellowed abruptly, slamming the table repeatedly with his fist. “Where is he?”

There was some scuffle. Lionheart wondered if he should abandon his post and fetch the poor madman himself, uncertain if anyone else knew where he was hiding. But a moment later, the albino in his brilliant costume stepped into the middle of the room.

He always wore a melancholy face while performing, but before, Lionheart had seen it as part of his act. This time, as he observed the Fool, he realized that the poor man was dying by inches. He could not laugh, even had he wished to.

“There you are!” the duke cried. “Sing us a song, will you? A good one for our eastern friend here. Perhaps something about dragons, since his folk are so fond of them.”

“Your lordship,” said the merchant, his voice sharp, “who is this person?”

“My idiot, of course,” the duke replied. “Who’d you think? Sing for us, Fool!”

“Do you . . . how can you . . . ?” The merchant stared at the Fool, aghast, unable to finish his question. A new understanding seemed to settle in his brain, and the glances he now shot the duke’s way were still more disgusted, yet more respectful as well.

The Fool opened his mouth and began to sing. But it wasn’t the jolly, manic song of a jester. It was a song Lionheart had never heard before, melancholy and, he thought, old.

“I saw her standing on a hill,

Her feet in swarthy shadows shod.

The wind did wisp her hair

And play its fingers there

While the trees did bend their boughs,

Did moan and bend their boughs.

“She stood upon the shadowed hill

And downward turned her glist’ning eye.

She looked on Aiven great,

Upon the closed gate,

But saw the Final Water flow,

The darkened water flow.

“I saw her watching from the hill,

Fair Aiven, burnt so red and sore

Before the bleeding sun.

So strong the spells were spun!

The clouds could never stem the blood,

Not catch nor stem the blood!

“As she stood upon the hill,

I saw within her searching eye,

There formed a single tear.

I tremble now in fear!

It fell upon her silver sword,

The pommel of her sword.

“A light upon that shadowed hill

Shone brightly from the deep’ning shade.

I knew me then the sword,

The fearsome Fireword.

The blade did shiver in her hand;

It trembled in her hand.

“She stood unmoving on the hill,

But whispers in her ear she heard.

Sweet voices called her name

And spoke no more of blame.

I would that she would answer them!

Will she not answer them?

“Yet as she stood upon the hill,

Unheeding all the whispered pleas,

A new voice spoke her name.

I know not whence it came.

She turned her face from burning Aiven,

Looked no more on Aiven.

“The trees alone stand on the hill,

For she has passed along her way.

The veil is o’er my eyes:

Who speaks of truth or lies?

For Fireword has gone from Aiven,

Borne away from Aiven.”

Lionheart stood transfixed by the lunatic’s voice. His mind filled with images of a land he had never seen but which appeared in his imagination as vividly as memories of Southlands. He saw a woman standing as described upon a hill above a burning estate. He saw her weeping, tears of sorrow, not remorse. Strangely, the image of her made him think of Rose Red. It was the first he’d thought of her in some time. The woman in his mind was not the little imp he knew and yet . . . and yet something about her brought Rose Red powerfully to mind.

Then he saw the sword, and it drove all other thoughts from him. He thought,
That is the sword that will slay dragons.

The song ended.

Lionheart’s head was light and reeling in the wake of the jester’s voice. He gasped and nearly lost his grip on the amphora in his hand. But the duke spoke, and his growl brought Lionheart’s swimming eyes back into focus.

“How dare you sing of such things in my house?”

The jester gazed at his master, his mouth open as though the last note of his song still lingered on his lips. Then he said, “You asked for a song.”

The duke rose to his feet; his fingers closed threateningly about his carving knife. “You sing of cursed things, poison in my ears.
Fireword!
” He spat, and his eyes were bloodshot with fury. “You ghoul, you unholy monster!”

At a sign from their master, armed men strode from different corners of the room. The first one struck the Fool, and he dropped, howling in pain, though the blow had not been great. Each man wielded an iron rod, and when these struck the madman, he cried out as though branded.

Lionheart felt ill. The images of the song swirled in his mind, mingling with the duke’s roar and the pathetic cries of the poor madman. No one moved to his aid. Everyone stared, horrified, either at the beating or at their own hands. Who dared cross the duke?

It was too much.

Lionheart leapt forward. He swung his amphora, and it struck one of the guards on the side of the face; then he swung back and hit another. Wine sloshed across the scene, spattering like red blood. Then Lionheart dropped his pitcher and wrested one of the iron bars from the first man. He was trained in swordplay, as these thugs apparently were not. He parried a blow, then jabbed his elbow deep into a man’s stomach before striking another on top of the head. The duke shouted in the background, but Lionheart heard nothing in the frenzy of the moment.

He turned to the Fool, who was curled up in a ball of pain on the floor. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Lionheart knelt down and unsnapped the iron ring from about his neck.

What happened next was like a dream.

Suddenly there was no albino curled up on the floor . . . there was a towering giant, white and billowy, with streaming hair and eyes and fingers as long as zephyrs. It roared a great booming laugh and swept its horrible gaze across the screaming assembly. Its eyes locked with the duke’s, and for a moment the white wind turned red.

The moment passed.

Two arms encircled Lionheart. He could not scream; he could not think. He was borne away through the door in a thunderous gale, his arms wrapped about his head and his eyes squeezed shut. This must be a nightmare; it could not be real!

He dared not open his eyes until the rush of wind and the pounding in his head stopped. He seemed to be standing on solid ground, so he carefully opened first one eye, then the other.

The eastern docks of Capaneus City spread about him. Nearby, sailors and dock crews were busily loading and unloading merchandise and readying sails and tack for lengthy voyages, but this portion of the quayside was quiet. Lionheart turned his head to gaze across the Chiara Bay. Haze lined the horizon where the mountains of Southlands should be visible. It was as though his kingdom had fallen off the edge of the world.

“I am free.”

Lionheart turned back to stare at the one who had spoken. It was difficult to see that strange, fey creature, simultaneously visible and invisible, but huge no matter what.

“You set me free.”

Its voice was that of the duke’s Fool, yet also that of a rolling wind.

“Um,” said Lionheart. “You’re welcome.”

“I will grant you a wish, if I may.”

It was a sylph; the realization hit Lionheart like a thunderclap. A sylph—one of those airy creatures of which he’d heard stories as a child but had believed only existed in the metaphysical sense . . . like dragons. He swallowed, trying to maintain eye contact with the wafting thing so like and so different from the Fool bound by the duke.

“You are in danger now,” said the sylph. “The duke will not forget what you have done in liberating me. Do you wish for safety?”

“Well,” Lionheart said, struggling to speak, “I don’t think so. I mean, I can manage the duke.”

“So you believe.”

“I’ll leave Capaneus somehow. I’ll get work. As a sailor.”