The Wine of Dreams (31 page)

“As you make your choices in the days to come, ask yourself only this: what,
in life, is truly worth having? Has time any value of its own, or is it the
quality of each moment rather than the quantity of all that provides the better
measure of happiness?”

Reinmar might have fashioned a reply to this speech had his throat and mouth
not been frozen, but he lacked the power to move his jaw or exercise his vocal
cords. He knew, however, that no reply was required or desired. When the oration
had concluded, the moths began to crowd about Reinmar more closely, their
flight-paths spiralling inwards towards him. He could no more brace himself against the anticipated collisions than he could
speak, so he simply waited for the impacts—but he felt none. It seemed that
the moths entered his body as easily as they might have flown from shadow into
starlight, meeting no resistance whatsoever.

Alas, whatever kind of light it was that attracted them to him was far from
kindly, and as soon as they were inside him they burst into flame. He felt each
one flare up, as if it were an element of a galaxy of tiny suns illuminating his
breast and his belly, his skull and his groin. He felt not the slightest hint of
agony in the process of annihilation, for the flash in which each tiny form was
consumed was a blaze of pure pleasure, an eruption of incandescent ecstasy. The
bliss of it was so extreme that although he could not close his eyes he ceased
to see, blinding himself by the exercise of his will.

It was not until the entire company of moths had been obliterated that
Reinmar accepted sight again and looked down.

Now he saw fire of a more brutal kind, flooding the town of Eilhart with a
keen hunger for consumption, avidly embracing every beam of wood and every bolt
of cloth, reducing every carriage and every boat to ash. He heard the agonised
screams of the fire’s victims, but he could not feel the heat of the flames nor
smell the billowing smoke. Nor could he make out with any significant clarity
the kinds of shadows that danced in the flames, joyously wielding claws and
blades to deadly effect. It all seemed to him to be no more than play: a great
game of pleasure and pain, which had begun long before he was born or the Empire
founded, and would endure not merely long after he was dead but long after the
Empire had been forgotten by history and legend alike.

And then he woke up, to find himself being shaken more roughly than could
possibly have been necessary.

When he condescended to open his eyes, he found that daylight was shining
strongly behind the curtain obscuring his window, but he was still convinced
that the hour was unreasonably early. He would have asked what time it was, but
he was still being shaken so insistently that his teeth would only have rattled
in his mouth.

He was astonished to find that the man who was shaking him was his
grandfather, Luther, who should not have had strength enough in his arms to lift
a bowl of gruel. The old man was kneeling by the bed, as if he had crawled there on his hands and knees—as he would surely have been forced to do unless some miracle had restored his
strength—but his arms were possessed by a fury that could not have been
entirely his.

“Reinmar!” the old man whispered, plaintively. “Do you have the wine? Did you
bring the wine?”

Reinmar did not have to ask what wine the old man meant. Nor did he doubt
that the measure that was in his possession really was, as the dream voice had
assured him, far more powerful than its volume suggested.

“Stop it, grandfather!” Reinmar complained, fending off the furious hands.
“I’m awake.”

“I need the wine,” Luther said, hoarsely. “Far more than Albrecht or his
whelp. If you only knew what dreams I have had! I need the wine, Reinmar, for
pity’s sake. I am soon a dead man, and must have it now or never. I must have it
now, or I cannot face my death. If you brought some from the source, you must
give it to me and not to any other. You owe me that, child, for I have been a
far better friend and father to you than any man alive.”

Reinmar finally succeeded in gripping the old man’s hands in his own and
forcing them to be still. “What dreams?” he asked, roughly “What dreams?”

“They’re coming, Reinmar,” Luther whispered, his huge eyes staring madly into
Reinmar’s own. “They do not love violence for its own sake, but when they turn
to it they are terrible. The monsters are coming, Reinmar, and Eilhart is
doomed. As soon as they are fully gathered they will come, and I must have the
wine. You must give me what you brought, even if it’s but a single flask. I must
have it. I must.”

It was confusion rather than cruelty that made Reinmar continue his stubborn
refusal. Even if he had acted immediately, though, he would not have been able
to bring the phial from its hiding-place in the wall in time to let Luther drink
from it, because his father and Godrich had already come into the room,
searching for the old man.

“He brought nothing,” Gottfried said, as he descended upon the old man in
order to tear him away from his grandson’s bedside. “He was not such a fool, for
he knows the value of sanity. He did everything in his power to make sure that
no dark wine would come out of that place for a long time to come, because I have taught him the ways of the world far better than you ever taught them
to me. Whatever monsters come, the men of Eilhart will stand against them with
no wines but mine to slake their thirst and fortify their courage.”

While he was speaking, Gottfried had lifted his father up like a sack of
flour. As soon as he had finished he handed the old man over to Godrich as if he
were, indeed, an item of household provision. Godrich held Luther a little more
tenderly, but moved quickly enough to carry the old man out of the room and back
to his own bed.

“I’m sorry for that, son,” Gottfried said. “I’d have let you sleep longer if
I could, but it might be best that you’re awake. Marguerite is with the gypsy,
but she seems to be doing no good.”

“Marguerite?” Reinmar repeated. “What is Marguerite doing with Marcilla?”

“The gypsy girl has a high fever, and there’s not a doctor left in town
except for those who’ve been commandeered by the officers to help make their men
battle-fit. Marguerite’s hardly a wise woman, but she has patience and a tender
touch, and she offered to sit by the sick-bed.”

Reinmar suspected that it was neither patience nor tenderness that had led
Marguerite to volunteer such charity, but rather jealous curiosity about the
girl that he had brought out of the hills. He did not say so. Instead, he asked
his father to leave him while he used the chamber pot and got dressed, promising
to look in on Marguerite and Marcilla before he came down to breakfast.

Although he put on the same bloodstained belt that he had worn throughout his
adventure in the hills Reinmar was careful to find a new pouch. He left the
phial where it was, glad to be free of its ominous presence for a little while
longer. He followed his father’s advice, and made sure that the scabbard of his
sword was securely bound to his belt.

Ulick was with Marguerite by Marcilla’s bedside, and it was he who reacted
first to Reinmar’s appearance. “She is dying, sir!” he said, in obvious anguish.
“She has refused the call, and her senses have fled.”

Reinmar picked up Marcilla’s arm from where it lay on the coverlet. Even the
wrist was hot, and the pulse within was racing. Her lovely face was flushed deep
red, and her lips were moving silently, as if she were reciting some secret spell.

It’s only a common fever,” Reinmar said, although he doubted it. “It was
brought on by over-exertion and exposure to the rain.”

“She has demanded wine,” Marguerite said. “We have given her water, but it
only made her demands more clamorous. In the end, I let her have a little hock,
but she spat it out. She’s incoherent now, but whenever she says anything aloud,
she asks for wine. I don’t know what wine she means, but if you have any you
might have to let her have it. I don’t know whether it will save her, but I fear
that nothing else will.”

“She does not know what she needs,” Reinmar insisted. “She has never known
what is good for her. The fever will pass, in time.” If Marcilla was to have
what she craved, she would have to wait until he and she were alone; he dared
not trust Ulick or Marguerite with the knowledge that he had the phial.

Marguerite stood up, and placed herself squarely in front of the man who had
been her likely husband since the day she was born. “Why did you bring her here,
Reinmar?” she demanded.

He knew that he could put her off with a lie. He could have said that
Sergeant Vaedecker had recognised her value, and the boy’s too, as an invaluable
means of locating the hidden valley. He could have said that Machar von
Spurzheim had ordered him to keep her safe. He could even have said that taking
her in was a simple act of kindness and mercy. Instead, he told the truth.
“Because I love her,” he said, bluntly. “I have saved her from a terrible fate,
and I am determined to keep her safe forever, if I can. I have defended her
against monsters, and I will continue to do so, no matter what monsters may come
against me in future.”

Marguerite flinched twice as Reinmar set out his statement, but by the time
he had finished she had done flinching.

“Everyone says that the monsters in the hills are massing for an attack,” she
murmured. “Everyone says that there will be a battle, and that the witch hunter
has already delayed too long in waiting for reinforcements. I saw families
arriving in carts from the farmlands when I stepped out into the street this
morning, and others packing carts in order to go to the docks. Were there not so
many barges arriving laden with soldiers and their weapons there would be none to bear those who want to flee downriver,
but the traffic is steady in both directions. The superstitious see omens in the
moths that cluster about the lanterns, swearing that they are not moths at all
but spirits sent to spy on us, that the attackers might lay their plans in
careful detail. The whole world is turning upside-down, Reinmar—but I did not
think that you would turn with it. I see that you have put on your sword, even
though you are at home. I always thought when I watched you at practice that you
might one day fight for your father, or for your shop, or for Eilhart, or even
for me, but I had never thought that you would ever fight for a gypsy whore who
is already confirmed in the worship of evil.”

“She is a girl like any other,” Reinmar said, stiffly, although the speech
had cut him deeply. “It is her beauty alone that makes you jealous, and jealousy
alone that makes you insult her. If you are not here to help her then I wish
that you would go. I can look after her myself “You cannot and shall not,”
Marguerite contradicted him. “Von Spurzheim has
already sent word to your father asking for you. You are his darling of the
moment, it seems. You’d best beware—however good a man he is, he’s dangerous
company. Almost as dangerous, I dare say, as your grandfather the repentant
sorcerer.”

“Grandfather was never a sorcerer,” Reinmar told her. “Nor was my Great-Uncle
Albrecht, who was at least a scholar. I think Ulick can be trusted to give his
sister as much care as she needs until I return, so you may still go.”

Marguerite had been looking into his eyes all the while, but now she looked
down at her feet. “I’ll stay,” she said.

“To help?” Reinmar asked.

“To help,” she answered, stoutly. “If there is anything I can do to save her,
I shall not fail.”

As if in answer to that promise, the gypsy girl’s soundless muttering
suddenly became audible, and Marguerite knelt beside her, raising her head a
little from the sweat-drenched pillow on which it lay. “Wine!” Marcilla
demanded, hoarsely. “I need dark wine! Please! If I have not wine I shall never
rest.”

Reinmar could not help but wonder whether the proximity of the phial of
nectar was sufficient in itself to excite Marcilla and Luther alike, but he put
the thought from his mind. However strong their cravings became, he thought,
answering their demands would neither be helpful nor moral. The darkness of the wine
was malice and destruction, no matter how its sweetness might amplify the
appetites of its victims.

“I must go,” he said, brusquely. “I need bread to stock my stomach before I
go to see von Spurzheim.”

“You need more than bread to stock your stomach,” Marguerite replied. “You
need sense to stock your head. You need eyes to see what is good and what is
not, instead of delusions born of glamour.”

“I shall return when I can,” Reinmar said, dutifully ignoring the insults and
speaking as much to Ulick as to Marguerite. “Keep her safe, I beg you, until the
fever fades. Give her as much water as she can take, and food if she is able to
eat.”

Having said that, he turned on his heel and left the room, hurrying down to
take his breakfast and face his father. He half-expected that all his father’s
dourness and critical exactitude would have returned by now, but there was no
sign of it. Gottfried managed to be perfectly civil as he told his son that he
would man the counter while Reinmar went to see von Spurzheim, and positively
tender when he insisted that Reinmar should eat his breakfast first.

As soon as he had eaten a hurried meal, Reinmar set off for the burgomaster’s
house in search of Machar von Spurzheim. He had only to step outside the door of
his father’s shop to understand what Marguerite meant about the carts that were
bringing farmers’ families and their possessions into town while the local
inhabitants were packing up to leave.

The exchange was not as nonsensical as logic might suggest. A town full of
soldiers was a far safer place than a hamlet, if there really were an army
massing in the surrounding hills, but that army was bound to need provisions and
if the worst rumours were true, its officers were not the kind to pay their way
or to hold back their troops from looting. From the viewpoint of a farmer who
had already harvested and sold his crop, Eilhart would appear to be a haven
simply because it offered the meagre safely of numbers; the townspeople, on the
other hand, would be thinking in different terms. Many of them would have
relatives or trading-partners in Holthusen, and the larger town must seem to
them a very desirable haven by comparison with one that had no protective wall
or local garrison and was likely to be stripped of the greater part of its
wealth. Eilhart would have to be defended, if the need arose, by soldiers who had no local relatives or property to shape their priorities,
who would undoubtedly become more desperate as time went by in their
requisitioning of food, weapons and manpower.