The Still (73 page)

It was time. Resolutely I stood, hefted the chamber pot.

No, by Lord of Nature, it wasn’t yet time. If I could play at Tresa, I could play at being King. With my good fingers I shook out my ragged cloak, pinned it about my shoulders. I paced the cell, adopting the stride of a monarch. I set a weave of straw on my head, for a diadem.

All I lacked was our Power.

Once, before I died, I would practice the Rite.

For that I needed the Vessels, but they were stolen. I wanted stillsilver. I needed ...

Was my diadem gold, or straw? It was make-believe, much as Elryc and Pytor and I had built toy kingdoms in happier days. I set my hands in front of me to summon the Still, recalling Mother’s tutelage.

It didn’t feel right. I needed the bejeweled Chalice. I needed the Ewer.

Well, there was the chamber pot if I wanted to abase myself. I shrugged. Why not? No one would know, and after a short while even I would cease to care.

I opened the pot, wrinkled my nose at the reek of warm urine, placed my palms over the bowl. As solemnly as if I were in the vault with Mother, I whispered the words of encant.

Lord of Nature, what a fool I made. What if Mar appeared? He’d have great fun, making me reenact my play. “Yes, Uncle. Thank you for watching. I’m a good boy.”

Faugh.

I closed my eyes, whispered the remembered words. Close to the pisspot, my hands grew warm.

The cell wavered.

The granite wall seemed to dim. Was it a cave I saw, beyond the stones? Who were those figures watching so intently? I squeezed shut my eyes and whispered over and again the words of encant.

Is this how you felt, Mother? Did this mummery bring you the strength to weld Caledon? Or was Mar speaking true, when he called it a pale deceit?

“Open your eyes!”

Mother, please, let me dream.

“Roddy, for the sake of—come to us!” Her tone was testy.

I peered into dark. “Where am I?”

A man’s voice growled, “In a cell at Verein, you twit.”

“Father, please!” Mother sounded exasperated.

“That is Josip’s spawn? Pah!”

“He’s confused.”

“He’s a dunce.”

From the far corner, a deep rumble. “Let him be, Tryon.”

Part of me knew of a frightened boy huddled over a bowl of urine, but the image faded. I blinked. “Mother? I can’t see you in shadow.”

“It’s the piss. Use stillsilver. Even pure water, in a pinch. There’s better bond.”

“Are you alive?”

“Of course not, Roddy; have some sense. Grandfather Varon has no patience for fools.”

“Or anyone else,” remarked Tryon.

Mother said, “Don’t goad Grandfather, we need his advice.”

“Like a bride needs a wart.” But Tryon’s grumble subsided into silence.

“This is ...” I hesitated. “The Still?”

“Aye, we are.” A small waspish voice, from the dark. “Not impressed? You’d prefer a light show, like Raeth of Cumber? Or shall we stir the winds?”

Mother’s tone had a bite, as when she was about to send me to Willem. “Enough. He’s troubled. It’s hard sorting us out at first.” To me, “Why didn’t you try water? You came so close in Cumber. I called to you. ‘Do the unexpected ... ’”

“That
was
you!” I marveled. “I had no Vessels—you never told me any liquid would suffice.”

“You could have tried.” Her tone was acid.

“Oh, Mother.” My voice was near breaking. “Would that I’d listened, paid you more respect. I’m so sorry for the son I’ve been!”

A shocked silence, and her tone was soothing. “Well, you
have
changed.” She cleared her throat. “Don’t berate yourself, Roddy.”

“I’ve been a dolt. I quarreled with Rustin, with all my lords in turn. Tantroth fell upon us, and Uncle Mar. I lost—”

“Yes, you have a headstrong nature. If Tantroth attacked, no doubt you’ve been mired in Eiber’s Cleave. That’s excuse.”

Absently, I rubbed my scar. “That’s ... I never pondered how it worked.”

“No, you wouldn’t think of it when it was on you. It’s Eiber’s Power. Tantroth cleaves his enemies with petty quarrels. None can ally effectively against him. Now you’ve found us, we’ll help set it aside.”

It was the Cleave, then. My foul words to Rustin, my constant offense to Anavar ... all the times I belittled Elryc.

No, much of that was my doing. I lifted my head, proud in my humility. “I dug the pit. Tantroth but widened it.”

From the rear of the cave, a grunt of approval. “I might learn to like him.”

Mother said, “Time you were introduced. Roddy, meet your grandfather, Tryon King of Caledon.”

“Grandsir?” Sitting with hands over still bowl, I stood, walked deeper into the cave. “So much I’ve heard of you.” I gave the bow of deep respect, of lesser to better.

“You ofttimes vexed your mother.”

“Yes, sire.” I hesitated. “I was no more stupid than now. Yet I’d not do it again.”

A grunt. “She said you had no manners, but you do. Elena, bring us to nexus, else he’ll be dead and among us too soon.”

My eyes widened. “When I’m dead, will I—”

Mother hushed me like a toddler. A wave of her hand, and a dull light glowed. They gathered around it: Mother, Tryon, Varon of the Steppe whom I recognized from a portrait, old and dozing. Younger men, a child, a form with great brooding potency and no clear shape, whose name I dared not ask.

Looking about I whispered eagerly, “Is Father here?”

“He never wore the crown.”

“He lives not?” My tone was forlorn.

Varon opened one eye. “All men die,” he rumbled. “Why be troubled?”

“I hoped ... to say farewell.” In his sleep he’d left me, with no premonition.

“That’s why the Rites,” said Tryon. He turned to the glowing light. “Be silent, young King.”

I did as I was told.

I woke from deep sleep, near a fulsome bowl of urine. Groggily, I replaced the lid, sat and rubbed my eyes, careful of my broken fingers. Our conversation in the cave was an especially clear dream. But I recalled no end, no resolution.

I felt too lethargic to try again. Besides, what would it accomplish? And in any event, my stomach told me that the usual dinner hour was near.

In a while the guards came with meat and drink. They brought a fresh chamber pot, so I took especial care to drink well.

Later in the quiet of the evening, the bars grated again. From the doorway Uncle Mar waited, arms folded.

Hastily I stood.

“Amuse me,” he said, setting a torch in the sconce.

I licked my lips. “How, sir?” Would I ever be free of his dread?

He brought in a stool, sat upon it. “Kneel.”

Obediently, I dropped before him.

“As I promised, I’ll geld you in a week or so. But I want you to enjoy the waiting.” His eyes held mine, with no expression. “It was a merry chase you led me through the hills. Without Tantroth I’d not have caught you.”

“What did you pay him?” For a moment, I forgot I was no longer a king.

“Lick the toe of my boot.”

Abruptly my time had come. I measured the span to his throat.

“No, Roddy!” Mother’s voice, sharp in my ear. I startled. “Obey him.
At once!”

I’d never defied Mother, and couldn’t now. Despising myself, I stretched out my tongue, stroked the muck from Uncle’s boot.

“There’s a good boy,” said Margenthar, Duke of Stryx. He patted the grimy curls of my hair, raised me to my knees. “Actually, I paid him naught.” He reflected. “I reminded him that he couldn’t take Cumber without sitting out the winter, and perhaps not then. He decided you were better in my hands than in your own.”

“So he withdrew his troops, leaving you free to charge along the wall, while his own safe-conduct was inviolate.” My tone was courteous. “Thank you, sir.”

“I brought you a present.” He clapped his hands, and the guard at the door advanced, handed him a burnished silver plate. He held it as a mirror to reflect my face.

After a moment I realized the gasp I’d heard was mine.

The scar was far worse than I’d imagined. A clear blue eye stared past the ruins of my face: a hideous jagged line that blotched red from ear to chin. I turned; my right profile was undamaged, providing horrid contrast.

“As foul as your character, isn’t it?”

My fists clenched.

To the guard, “Drop his breeches!”

“Yes, Uncle, it’s foul. I’m foul. It’s disgusting, sir, as I ought to look. Thank you for showing my face.” Lord of Nature knew what else I babbled.

Uncle held up a hand. “Leave him.” He stood. “You’re turning into quite a pleasant young lad.” Taking his mirror and stool, he left me cowering on my knees. The door slammed shut.

I paced the cell, prattled gibberish, threw myself on the straw, jumped up again. At last, knowing no other consolation, I turned to Tresa and the frenzy of my loins.

When I was done I took deep shuddering breaths, and sought resolve.

After a time I went to piss.

“I came to say good-bye.”

They gathered in the mouth of the cave. I peered, wishing there were a torch, or sun.

“I don’t know if I’ll be with you after. I haven’t been much of a king.”

“Roddy—”

“And I won’t ever be one, Mother, even if Mar freed me this moment. Could you see me cower? Can you smell the terror-sweat still on me?” My voice caught. “Look at my ruined face.” I held up my damaged hand. “And this.”

“He hurt you, yes.”

“I swore once I wouldn’t bow to fear. I was a dunce. I’ll lick Uncle’s boots, kiss his hand, crawl through manure, he has me terrified so. Any day now he’ll—” My voice cracked. “He’ll deball me like a meat calf. Only by dying will I be free.”

“Now, Elena,” Varon’s deep rumble.

The light glowed, and they gathered near. A hand tugged at mine, and I found myself within the circle, sniffling. A chant throbbed, low and staccato as a drumbeat.

“Dear Roddy.” Her voice was so gentle I wanted to bury myself in her bosom.

The chant boomed.

Time passed.

“Mother, why am I naked?” I cupped my hands to cover myself.

“Because you feel so.” Her voice was soothing.

“Tantroth was right; I know not how to be a man.”

“Nonsense.” I recognized Tryon’s gruff tone. “You showed your manhood in battle. Margenthar’s torture would unnerve Lord of Nature himself. He’s my child, as is Elena, but I’m not proud.”

“Grandsir, I have no valor.” I wiped my eyes.

“Young fool.” I might have sworn his voice held no contempt. “Of course you’ll cry and gibber when Mar threatens to unman you. What do you ask of yourself? He has a terror within him, that comes as a blast of icy wind. How could you face it alone?”

“Sir, I—”

“You have us, now.”

“Only in my dreams!” I no longer cared if I wept. “The same fantasies that bring me Tresa, and soil my underclothes. Reality is my cell, and the cut of the Duke’s knife.”

From across the cave, a harsh sound, as if the night were clearing its throat. “Hear them, child.” I waited, but the voice said no more.

I whispered, “Who was that?”

“One who lived before names.”

Tryon said, “Father, are you awake?” A silence. “Varon?”

A rumble of annoyance. “What, whelp?”

“Show him what he’s faced without aid.”

A gnarled hand tapped at my skull and split it wide. Images drifted. Mar’s malevolence. The touch of Eiber, with its insistent disunity. Cumber’s lust that unsettled us all. The distant, silky terror of the Norlanders. The hate of the uninhabited land. Groenfil’s raging wind, Soushire’s howling dogs ... I clutched my ruined face, trying to block out the vision.

It was as if a portcullis crashed down, shielding me from the onslaught. I gaped.

“You have us, now,” said Tryon again. It seemed a loincloth was about me, and a jerkin covered my breast. A cape settled about my shoulders. I wore trousers, strong leather boots.

I took a shuddering breath, and stood straight. “You’ll be with me?”

Mother said, “All kings face danger, even when no Powers beset them. But we’ll shield you from forces that pry at your mind. From the nameless terror, and the follies that follow.”

“Are you stronger than they?”

“Often. Unequal, at times. On the whole we balance, so mettle decides.”

“It’s not that I’m ungrateful—” I hesitated. “Is
that
all there is to the Still? Speech with you in a cave?”

“We’ll guide your thoughts. Give you ours. What more would you ask?”

“Can you get me out of the cell?”

Tryon stepped forward. His eyes were red coals. “Can
you?”

I
AWOKE ON MY
straw without my fine clothes. when I stirred, Mother’s ephemeral hand flitted across my shoulder.

I yawned. Apparently the Still took something out of one. Absently I scratched my scar, and stretched. I hoped they’d let me wash again soon. The cell’s odor and my own were one.

My eye roved about the dismal cell. No iron links hanging from the wall, no bars I could reach. Nothing to seize upon, no projections, except the sconce used for torches. A mere nub of iron, hammered into the joint of the stone wall.

I paced my narrow confines, working hard to nourish hope.

Breakfast came. I sat on the pot, and until it was emptied, I couldn’t dream of using it to summon the Still. Agitated, I paced anew.

In midafternoon the door scraped, and two guards made way for Uncle Mar.

I jumped to my feet. “Good day, sir.” Best that he see no difference in my outlook. I wasn’t quite sure there was one.

He seemed preoccupied. “I may leave you for a few days.” Then he smiled. “I’ll have Stire take good care.” Despite myself, I blanched.

“Look at me, Roddy.”

I saw a burly, bearded man with a sullen mien, who studied me, watching my reaction. “Yes, Uncle?”

He slapped me hard, and smiled as I rubbed my cheek. “You have no idea what satisfaction that gives me.”

“Thank you, sir!” He was right. It gave him great satisfaction. Abruptly all I felt was contempt. A petty man, full of paltry hate. Is that you, Mother, who makes me see him so? “I wish you wouldn’t leave me,” I said humbly.

“So do I,” he answered, and I knew he’d spoken before thought. But he glanced at the sturdy cell and smiled anew. “Fear not, nephew, we’ll have long to play.” He stood.