A Guile of Dragons (42 page)

“No,” said Illion, returning to him. “I was very concerned at first. But most of them responded to the dragonspell by going into a trance of Withdrawal. This has protected their minds and kept the poison from working into their flesh. The trance is very deep by now, and it will take time to draw them from it. But there is no danger.”

As he was speaking he tore three strips from his red cape and soaked them in the black tarry liquid Deor had brought back. Then he drew a knife from his belt and nicked a vein on Tyr's neck and one on each wrist. Then he bound the soaked strips of cloth around the Eldest's neck and wrists. Tyr's eyes were open, but he watched the acts without apparent comprehension.

“The blood will draw the venom out,” Illion explained, when he had finished. Then he picked up the cup and inspected its contents. “There is enough,” he said, cryptically. “Come.”

He stood and led the way back down the row of Guardians. Deor followed more slowly, wondering if he should stand by the Eldest—until he saw the figure at the end of the row.

“Morlock!”

“Yes,” Illion said. “You see he has been drawn up here after the others?” He indicated a trail of ashes and venom smeared on the floor of the corridor. “My idea is that Tyr drew him up; exhaustion in the wake of a dragonspell can bring about that empty state the Eldest is in. However, he himself will be able to tell us soon enough.”

Deor hardly heard Illion, taking in the awful sight of his
harven
kin. Morlock's clothes, except for the gray cloak, were burned rags. His skin was covered with bruises and wounds. His eyes were open and glaring at nothing, his teeth bared in the fearful grin of rigor. His spine was arched; his arms and legs, even his feet were bending inward as the muscles tightened against the bone; his twisted shoulders were bent like a bow. Beside him on the corridor floor lay the shield of Ambrose, battered and blackened by fire and venom. The falcon and thorns glittered bright blue in the light of Deor's coldlamp.

“Poison has worked deep into his flesh,” Illion remarked.

“Then there is no hope?”

“No bones have been broken,” Illion observed, “and the skin is more or less whole. By Noreê's teaching, these mean his life may yet be saved.”

“Then the poison hasn't reached his heart?” Deor asked.

Illion might have explained that Morlock's mortal danger would be from wounds caused by flesh contracting on a framework of broken bones. He might have explained that the venom was no real danger to Morlock's heart, which could expand and contract without taking harm. He might have explained that the heart is just a muscle.

But none of that, he guessed, was what Deor really wanted to know. “His heart is sound,” said Illion the Wise, and wondered if it was true.

EPILOGUE

C
YMBALS

Just now it seemed to me I stood
between the worlds of life
and death and everywhere about me
the fires were burning.

—The Waking of Angantyr

O
n the last day of the year, Nimue walked into the little house in the Lost Woods after a long absence. Here Merlin and their daughters lived, in what the wizard called his last redoubt, though it was really just a cottage with a remarkable number of basements. Although Nimue loved her daughters she was rarely in the house these days; her marriage with Merlin was wearing thin.

“Mama is home!” shrieked Hope Nimuelle, and went to hide under a couch. Her mother frightened her a little: Nimue read that clearly. Her father frightened her a little also. Her sister frightened her most of all. Hope thought of herself as a timid child, but Nimue knew the truth was that the girl spent most of her life surrounded by frightening people.

Merlin emerged from his study, accompanied by a cloud of sorcerous purple smoke.

“Good evening, my dear,” the uxorious wizard greeted his witch-wife. “Where the devil are you coming from, if you don't mind my asking?”

“From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it,” Nimue replied.

“Oh, I've read that one,” Merlin said, after a moment's thought. “Rather flattering, the role you assign me by implication. I take it you were mindsharing with strangers again.”

“With unicorns, mostly. It's an exhilarating experience. You should try it.”

“I have. I gained no useful knowledge.”

“Knowledge!” Nimue said scornfully. “Experience is the only knowledge that matters.”

“You didn't used to talk that way,” Merlin remarked ruefully.

“I know, I know. Whatever happened to the girl you married, eh?”

“She went swimming in the Sea of Worlds, so I'm told. Are you hungry, my dear? I believe the kitchen is working on something.”

“As long as it's not those squeaky mushrooms you're so fond of. They give me the creeps.”

“You can always pluck them out of the salad if you don't like them. It's good to have you back, my dear.”

She knew that he really felt that way, even though he was thinking about killing her if she tried to harm one of the girls, as she had last time. (She loved the girls with a true, mad love. But the thoughts in her mind weren't always her own.) Yes, it was good to be home, as near to a home as she would ever have again. She would have told him so, but she saw in his mind that he already knew it.

Morlock awoke to see the last sunlight of the year on the sill of the open window of his room. From where he lay in bed he could see nothing but cloudless blue outside. From the moment he woke he knew he was in Thrymhaiam.

It was pleasant to breathe clean cold air, but he felt feverish and had no desire to move. So he didn't. He lay in bed and watched the light fade from the window.

He became aware that someone else was in the room, sitting against the wall opposite the window. When the sun had fully set she stood and, striking fire, lit an old-fashioned lamp that hung from the ceiling. Her shoulder-length hair was a dark gold; her skin was darker yet. She wore the gray cape of a thain. He had seen her before. He had seen her many times before. Each time it had seemed to him that she was the most beautiful woman alive, but he had never found occasion to tell her so. He sat up in bed.

She turned and met his eye. Her eyes were large and their irises golden, brighter than her hair. He saw on her neck the flaw-line of gills, the mark of a true southerner. It seemed to him, again, that she was the most beautiful woman alive.

“Morlock,” she said, “I am Aloê Oaij. We've never met, exactly, but we've seen each other from time to time. Do you remember?”

“More or less,” said Morlock thickly. “In A Thousand Towers.” He wondered how long it had been since he last spoke. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Please stand, Morlock.”

He looked on her sourly. He had no intention of getting up. He didn't like her voice, either; souther accents irritated him. Not until he felt his bare feet hit the floor did he realize just how much they irritated him.

Fortunately she was unfurling a long cloak. But as soon as he saw it he began to wave it away. It was a vivid red, cut to resemble a vocate's cloak. In fact . . . His mind finally focused on the words she was speaking.

“Morlock Ambrosius, called syr Theorn,” she said, following the form of a ritual that had been old when his father was born, “I bring you this token at the command of your peers, who stand among the Guardians. If you accept it, they will call for your counsel and comradeship.”

There was no formally prescribed response. Astonished, Morlock said, “I accept it from them—and from you.”

“All right. Stand still and stop twitching, then.”

He stood still. Aloê came to him and put the cloak across his shoulders. The fresh warm scent of her hair mixed disturbingly with the wintry draft from the window. Her eyes met his again as she stepped back.

“It looks well,” she said. “I borrowed it from Naevros, and I wasn't sure . . . well, if it would fit.”

This was an oblique reference to his shoulders, Morlock supposed. The appraising look in her eyes bothered him; he was achingly conscious of his bare legs, exposed beneath the hem of his shirt. “It fits,” he confirmed brusquely. “Thanks,” he added, as her appraisal turned to surprise.

“You might need to grow into it, after all,” she said, laughing. “You should see to that. Good fortune, Vocate Morlock. Maybe we'll meet again in A Thousand Towers, or elsewhere.”

“It seems likely,” he said to her back, and “Good fortune,” to the closing door. He was sure she had meant something by that last remark, but he was unsure what it was.

“Why, you sorry piece of northern fungus,” said Deor, when he and Tyr looked in a few moments later, trays of food and drink in their hands, “are you telling me you don't know what she meant?”

Morlock, who had just told him exactly that, lifted his crooked shoulders in a shrug.

“That was probably her last task as a thain. At the next Station of your Graith, she'll be a vocate, too—in the regular way. I take it there's some special procedure for hopeless cases like yourself.”

“Stop barking at him, Deor. He's been unconscious for four days. And, Morlock, go back to bed before you fall down!”

In fact, Morlock did feel unsteady. He carefully took off his red cloak and climbed into bed. His
harven
kin came and sat at his bedside, and they talked for a long while as Morlock slowly but steadily ate and drank everything his kin had brought with them.

The two dwarves had been changed by their separate ordeals, Morlock noticed. Tyr looked a little withered, frailer than he had been. But Deor was one of the
rokhleni
and a companion of legends, as Morlock now heard.

After each of them had told his story, they exchanged general news. Tyr had been seated again in the Eldest's Chair, but he would not displace Vetr from authority. “It was long overdue that he take up the task. I have much to teach him, but there is more he must learn by himself. And—it will be good to have a rest.”

And Deor was to join the Guardians. He announced this rather diffidently, when they were discussing Tyr's adventures. The Eldest had taken the gray cape as a formality when he followed Earno into Haukrull (it being a violation of the First Decree for Guardians to have authority over the Guarded). Morlock assumed that Tyr had been released from the obligation after returning from Haukrull, but then was told that Deor had assumed it instead.

“It was a way to solve certain problems,” said Deor, looking wryly at Tyr, though speaking to Morlock. “As the Eldest is so gently reminding us, he won't live forever. And, although Vetr is a good fellow, no one can say we ever saw eye to eye.”

“That passed,” said Tyrtheorn, quoting the proverb, “and so may this.”

“Wolves may eat onions,” said Deor, quoting another.

Morlock was pleased to hear that Trua and her people had safely arrived at Thrymhaiam.

“She arrived yesterday,” Deor said, “with that very strange vocate they call Jordel. Your friends, the thains of Northtower, were with them. Just think! Now you can give them orders.”