A Time of Omens Page 12
“Your Highness, I beg a boon—a word alone with you.”
“Of course.” She turned to her women and dismissed them with a gracious wave of one hand. “You may rejoin us in a bit, and we can all have a nice goblet of wine or suchlike.”
Smiling and curtsying, they all withdrew, and he could hear them chattering down the hall on their way to round up a servant to fetch the refreshments. Without waiting to be asked Nevyn sat down next to her and launched into his story, though he did omit telling her about the dismembered baby, just to spare her feelings. As she listened her wide eyes grew even wider, and she became all still attention.
“Will you take this thing and hide it, Your Highness?”
“I will, but I do wish you hadn’t told me what it was. If this casket’s got a secret compartment, you could just have shoved it in and sealed it up.”
“You have to know what you’re guarding, Your Majesty, and besides, never would I leave such an evil thing in someone’s presence without their consent.”
“Well, you’re right, of course. Very well, I shall gush over the casket itself, and be very casual about what I put in it, as if it doesn’t really matter much. And if ever anyone asks me for it, I’ll refuse because to give it away would break poor stunted Otho’s heart.”
“Splendid, Your Highness! The exact right thing to say.”
Yet even as he spoke, he felt a cold line of dread coil round his heart, wondering if he’d just given danger for a gift. Oh, don’t be a dolt, he told himself irritably—the wretched thing can’t have that much power, or you’d know! And sure enough, once it was bound inside the dwarven silver and sealed with his spells, he could no longer sense the slightest trace of evil leaking from either tablet or casket. On the morrow morning he and Otho together presented the casket to the queen, who in a fine show of being ever so surprised and pleased gave the dwarf a kiss, which made him blush and stammer and curse publicly—but from then on, Otho was the queen’s man, heart and soul.
And together at the head of an army, Nevyn and Maryn set out on the long ride that later historians call the Rousing of the River Valley, the summer that would eventually bring lord after lord and warband after warband round to the new king’s side and turn the hope of victory from an impotent dream to a sound gamble. Since he could foresee neither success nor failure that bright morning as they left the towering stone rings of Dun Cerrmor behind, Nevyn could only hope that he’d made the right decisions in more than the matter of the curse-tablet. Although the dweomer and the priesthoods had schemed and plotted and planned for many a long year, the matter was now far beyond their control. With the High King rode not their politicking, but his Wyrd.
The Wmmglaedd copy of the chronicle broke off in the middle of a page. Jill suddenly realized that gray morning light had overwhelmed her candle flame, and that her back was aching and stiff from her long night’s trance. With a grunt of pain she turned from the lectern and found the fire dead in the hearth. Annoying though it was to lose the rest of the story, she didn’t really need it, she supposed, because she could now remember the detail she needed. Otho the dwarf had made the rose ring for the queen to give to Maddyn the bard, years later, just as a token of thanks for some little favor he’d done her. In the closed and cloistered atmosphere of that court, where all the women were as confined and guarded as a treasury, there were those who had chosen to misunderstand the token, just—or so Jill suspected, looking back—to give themselves something to do. Whatever the reason, envy had come of it, and whispering rumor. What came of it she didn’t know, though she could guess that the story had ended badly. In fact, as she thought about it, her ignorance was so complete that she could assume that Branoic had died shortly after the ring was made and given—in some battle, most like.
Those battles were long gone, their stories told by a thousand bards and chroniclers, but their repercussions still echoed, though it was two hundred years and more ago. And what of the other people involved? The young queen, for instance—would in time her soul reappear to add another knot to this puzzle piece? Jill felt that in its own way, the dweomer owed Bellyra a great deal to make up for that ancient tragedy. And what about those women who had helped move the tragedy along? They too had a debt to pay, perhaps, to the rose ring and its bearer. Otho the dwarf, of course, was still alive, though getting on in years even for one of the Mountain People. Did he still have some tie or bond with the ring he’d created so long ago? And then, of course, there was the soul once known as Maddyn—Rhodry of Aberwyn now—who’d been reunited with the rose ring and who wore it still … or again. With Nevyn gone, these problems were all hers to solve, these people hers to guard and guide. It was time she set about it.
Yawning and stretching, a servant came into the hut with a bowl of milk and bread and a fresh pitcher of wash water.
“Good morning, my lady. His holiness was wondering, by the bye, how long you were planning on staying with us? He’s in no hurry for you to leave, mind. Just a-wondering.”
“Tell him I’ll be on my way this afternoon. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”
“Ah. Going to Aberwyn?”
“A bit farther than that. Bardek.”
“Fancy that! A long, long journey indeed! Not going there alone, are you now?”
“I am. I suppose.” She paused, considering. “Well, you know, there does happen to be someone I could ask to go with me, and it might be a good idea, at that. He knows the islands a fair bit better than I do. Hum. I’ll have to think about this.”
present
Consider the roots of a dimple and mundane action, for instance, buying bread for your breakfast. A farmer had grown the grain in a field carved from wilderness by his ancestors; in the ancient city a miller has ground the flour and a baker prepared the loaf; the vendor has transported it to your house in a cart built by a cartwright and his apprenticed. Even the donkey that draws the cart, what stories could she not tell if you could decipher her braying? And then you yourself hand over a coin of copper dug from the very heart of the earth, you who have risen from a bed of dreams and darkness to stand in the light of the vast and terrifying dun. Are there not a thousand strands woven together into this tapestry of a morning meal? How then can you expect that the omens of great events should be easy to unravel?
The Pseudo-Iamblichus Scroll
1.
The Knave of Flowers
Bardek,
1098
Down in the public square Luvilae’s market spread out, a lake of brightly colored sunshades and little stalls. Acrobats performed on improvised platforms; minstrels sat in the shade of trees and played for coppers. Wearing bronze helmets topped with red plumes, the archon’s men strolled through in pairs to keep order. A warm breeze carried the scents of incense and roast pork, flowered perfumes and spiced vegetables. Off to one side, behind a line of stalls that sold blue and purple pottery, a fortune-teller was doing a reading for a client. In the midst of striped and faded blue sunshades and curtains, the two women haggled over the price from either side of a low table. Draped in black as befitted her trade in omens, the elderly one sank onto her cushions with a moist sigh. Dressed like a boy in a linen tunic and sandals, the young woman knelt on a pounded bark mat and ran both hands through her mop of frizzy black hair before she settled back on her heels. Wheezing a little in the heat, Akantha took an ebony box from under the table and slid out the ninety-six tiles of polished bone. Most fell facedown, a good omen, but as Akantha turned the few wayward tiles over, one slid to the ground. With a frown she snatched it back.
“Help me mix them up, little one. Bring them over to the right side of the table—my right, that is.”
Marka laid both hands flat on the layer of tiles and mixed with a sound like thunder.
“Enough,” Akantha said at last. “Draw five to start with.”
The old woman turned the chosen tiles faceup to form a square. The two of spears and the four of golds appeared, followed by three different tiles fro
m the suit of flowers: the knave, the six, and finally the princess, which Akantha laid in the center of the square.
“Is that me?” Marka asked.
“It might be, it might be—or else, you will someday serve the princess. Not sure which yet. But I don’t much like the look of this knave. Hum. A lover, maybe; he’s the same suit, but he’s no prince, is he? Watch out for him, girl. I do like the look of this six. Good fortune, girl, very good fortune indeed, though not without some trouble.” She laid a long and bony forefinger on the two of spears. “But nothing your wits won’t be able to get you out of, I’d say. Three flowers in the first draw is very lucky, very lucky. Now draw me four groups of three.”
Each group formed a triangle. For a long time Akantha sucked her teeth in silence while she studied the layout; once or twice she started to speak, then merely shook her head. Marka knew just enough about the tiles to understand that the expanded reading simply wasn’t coalescing into a whole. Omens of splendid good luck lay right next to signifiers of the grimmest bad fortune, while the minor, numbered tiles contradicted all the important trumps around them. The first was the three of flowers.
“Well, then, the reading should be a good one. Here’s a flower coming up from the Earth. Now, we’ve got the nine of swords for Air, so you’re in for a bit of rough sailing, sure enough. And now for Water we’ve got the queen of birds, which is not the kind of location I’d like to see for that tile. No, water and birds aren’t a happy marriage, girl, not at all. But well, look at this! For Fire here’s the ten of golds! Very good luck, the best there is. And finally, for the Ether, we have the… the prince of Swords? Oh, by the Star Goddesses themselves! This isn’t making sense again. Listen, young Marka, sometimes the gods just don’t want us to know the future. That’s all there is to it. Don’t you pay one bit of attention to anything I’ve said this morning, and as for your money, come back after dark and I’ll try again for free. Sometimes letting the sun set on a reading changes things.”
“Thank you, but I can’t. We’ll be putting on our show once it’s dark.”
“Ah. You’re one of that bunch from Main Island, then?”
“Yes. I do the slack wire. I mean, I used to.” She stopped herself just in time from venting all her bitterness on this sympathetic if hired ear. “I juggle now.”
As she hurried away, Marka tried to leave the reading behind, but its bad aura hung round her like a wet cloak. Nothing, it seemed, was going right these days, not even a simple thing like getting her fortune told. Although Luvilae was the capital of Zama Mañae, the southernmost island in the Orystinnian archipelago, at a mere twenty thousand inhabitants it was not the sort of place where a wandering troupe of acrobats could make its fortune. Marka wondered why her father had brought them there, but then, these days her father did a lot of things that made no sense. She felt a constant dread, a line of ice down her back, a knowledge that she refused to face. He promised, she would think, it couldn’t be that again.
She forced her mind away from old memories with a wrench of will. She’d been sent into town, after all, for more important reasons than just hearing her fortune. She bought a chunk of roast pork on a stick and wandered round, nibbling her meal and looking over the other street performers at the fair. The only jugglers she saw were clumsy; there were no slackrope walkers at all. Although she found a band of tumblers, they couldn’t compete with the complex routines that the men in her troupe performed. Most of the solitaires were musicians. Overall, the best show she saw in that first look round featured trained monkeys and apes.
As she was buying herself a piece of sugared cake, she noticed a small crowd gathering off to one side in the shade of a big plane tree. The cake seller gestured with snow-white fingers, all sticky from her wares.
“If that’s the barbarian, you should take a look at him. Puts on a good show, though I swear the man’s demented!”
Marka went over, paying as much attention to the cake as anything, since it was impossible to eat without getting sugar all over her chin. She found a spot off to one side, but at first she could only see scarves flying into the air above the heads of the crowd and hear the fellow’s patter, a running mix of topical jokes and sheer nonsense, all delivered in a musical voice without any foreign accent whatsoever. She assumed that his barbarism was nothing more than a good costume until she wormed her way closer to the front.
For a moment she could only gawk openmouthed. Never in her life had she seen anyone so pale, as if he’d been bleached like a strip of linen soaked in lemon juice and left in the summer sun. His skin was a light pinky-beige, and his hair, as fine and straight as silk thread, was the silvery color of moonbeams with just the barest hint of yellow in it by contrast with his steel-gray eyes. He was wearing a strange sort of tunic, with long, full sleeves, and gathered into a yoke at the shoulders and belted over a peculiar garment that encased his legs in baggy tubes of blue cloth. So he was indeed one of those fabled barbarians from the savage kingdoms far to the north! It took Marka a few moments to recover from his appearance before she could appreciate his skill.
And skill he had. In his long, slender hands the silk scarves seemed to come alive, whisking through the air, floating up only to plummet down, circling round and round or weaving in and out while he kept up his stream of jokes and snatches of song. Watching him, she was bitterly aware of what a beginner she was at juggling and how clumsy she was going to look when her turn came to perform. When he paused, looking significantly at the crowd, a rain of coins flew his way. Laughing and bowing, he flicked the scarves into his sleeves, then hunkered down to pick up the coins, making them fly round his head in a little stream before they all disappeared into his clothes.
“The Great Krysello is pleased!” he announced. “Allow him to delight your noble selves with his humble tricks for a little while longer.”
When he bowed again, three eggs seemed to appear out of nowhere and settle into his hands. Before he began this new routine, he happened to glance Marka’s way. His eyes widened; he broke into a smile of pure delight; then he wiped the smile away and turned firm attention to his performance. Marka felt utterly flabbergasted. Although she knew that she was a pretty girl, she’d never had a man look at her that way before, as if the very sight of her had made him happy beyond dreaming. Her second thought was that there was powdered sugar all over her face. Blushing furiously, she elbowed her way through the crowd and fled the Great Krysello and his smiles.
She found the public fountain and washed the sugar off, then headed for the city-owned caravanserai at the edge of town. The troupe had four tents and two wagons of its own, set up in a circle under some palm trees at the edge of the campground. It was better to stay away from other travelers, always quick to accuse wandering showmen of being thieves. The five acrobats were practicing their tumbling turns behind the tents, while their leader, Vinto, watched and commented. Out in the middle of the tent circle a big cooking fire was burning. Marka’s stepmother, Orima, along with the two other women in the troupe, Delya and Keeta, were stewing spiced vegetables in a hanging pot and slapping rounds of thin bread onto an enormous iron griddle. They fell silent when Marka came up.
“What’s wrong, Rimi?”
“Nothing. What makes you say that?”
Marka hesitated on the edge of forcing a confrontation. Orima’s dark eyes turned narrow. In the silence Marka could hear the sea booming on the nearby shore and the men chanting out practice cadences.
“Where’s Father?”
“Sleeping.” She turned away, frowning into the pot. “He’s resting before the show tonight.”
Before Marka could say anything more, Keeta came up behind her, grabbed her elbow, and steered her away from the campfire. Arguing with enormously tall Keeta, who was as strong as two average men, was a waste of time.
“If you’re going to learn how to catch a flaming torch,” she said, and firmly, “you’ve got to start practicing.”
They walked to the edge of the s
ea cliff and stood for a while, looking down at the waves rising higher and higher on the graveled beach. Far off at the horizon the sea made a line like a stretched wire, perfectly flat and landless. Sail far enough to the south, or so Marka had always been told, and you’d come to an enormous waterfall, pouring down into the fiery underworld where the sea boiled off. The water rose again as clouds of steam to make the rain and start the cycle all over again.
“You don’t really want to give me a lesson now, do you?” Marka said at last.
“Well, yes, actually I do.” Keeta grinned, a flash of white teeth in her dark face. “But I also happen to be sick of hearing you fight with your mother.”
“That woman is not my mother, thank you very much.”
Keeta sighed sharply.
“Well, how much older than me is she, anyway? Four years, five? How do you expect me to—”
“I don’t expect you to do anything.” Keeta held one huge hand up for silence. “Except to try not to make things worse. Listen, I know she lords it over you. She lords it over everyone, doesn’t she? But we’re in a very bad position, stuck here at the edge of nowhere. Your father won’t even talk about money. I’m willing to bet that there’s not a lot left to talk about.”
All at once Marka felt sick to her stomach. She sat down in the scruffy grass and stared fixedly out to sea. After a few minutes Keeta hunkered down next to her with a dramatic sigh.
“You’re old enough to know these things now. If the audience gives you special tips, keep them hidden, will you? Don’t turn them over to your father. I’m doing the same. We might all need a few extra coins if we’re ever going to see Main Island again.”