Authors: L. M. Roth
The pale pearl
light of dawn stole across the sky, sending the ebony blackness scurrying into
hiding. Here and there black clouds dotted the sky as it loath to surrender the
night. They were chased by veils of gauzy white that seemed bent on claiming
the day. The pastel softness of the sunrise diffused the lingering shadows as
the day glowed into life.
Through the
garden the dancers cavorted, lifting their voices in song and raising their
arms in abandon. Heedless of the glory of the garden or the dazzle of the dawn,
they now danced in drunken revelry, oblivious to the beauty around them.
Marcus
surrendered himself to the freshness of the sunrise, even as he followed the
others. Surely they must realize what a spectacle they were making in their
merriment, he mused to himself. How appalling that even Felix could so forget
the dignity of his rank as to join in the carousing. But the wine was too rich,
the night too intoxicating…
In the garden
grew a grapevine, supported by a trellis made of wood. The luscious vines
rippled over the wooden trellis in abundant profusion, draping either side in a
curtain of green leaves. The aroma of the grapes was appetizing, inviting one
to pick, to taste of their richness.
Beyond the
garden and into the surrounding wood the company danced. Some were now out of
breath, and fell laughing to the ground. Fanchon, however, seemed tireless as
she led them on to further celebration in the heart of the forest, by the side
of a stream.
The morning
sun dappled the forest in a bath of green-gold glory. The sunlight reflected on
the droplets of water in the stream that rippled over the rocks. The flickering
light dazzled Marcus’ eyes, making him blink. Accustomed to the luminosity of
jewels of every description, he decided that nothing was lovelier than the
shimmer of sunlight on water.
A butterfly
flitted around his head, then arced in a circle over Fanchon. Here and there it
joyfully alighted, on this flower or that branch. Marcus delighted in the
brilliance of its colors, the grace of its flight. But the sobering truth was
that the butterfly was doomed. The first frost of the year would kill it.
Knowing this gave its frivolous gaiety a tinge of poignancy…
The floor of
the wood sloped gently down the hillside and opened into a clearing. Here in a
glen dappled with sunlight grew clumps of wildflowers; shy wood violets hugging
the ground, bluebells raising their saucy heads, modest daisies spreading their
pleated skirts, wild roses preening their pastel glory. The stream flowed
freely as it whispered over the rocks, its song seemed to join in their
revelry. An old wooden bridge spanned the current. They danced across it, not
heeding how flimsy the structure, how fragile the ebb and flow of life.
Marcus did not
join the dancers on the other side. For he lingered in the fragrance of the
flowers, the song of the stream. He allowed their gentle spell to be cast upon
him, as they lured him into the abandonment of a peaceful sleep.
They lingered
long in Gaudereaux. Why, Marcus really could not say. Perhaps it was the lush
beauty of the countryside that enticed them to stay. Perhaps it was the warm
hospitality of Governor Urbanus, who urged them every time they spoke of
leaving, to stay but a fortnight more. Or perhaps it was the blossoming romance
between Dag and Fanchon that put off their departure from one day to the next.
For it soon
became obvious to Marcus and Felix that their friend was smitten. Why, again,
Marcus really could not say. True, the lady was lovely, but her constant
prattle and habit of leaping from one subject to another in mid-sentence was
wearying to Marcus. He could no more follow her conversation as he could follow
the flight of the butterfly, ever erratic in its course.
The other side
of the question presented itself: why was Fanchon enamored of Dag? Marcus was
accustomed to exciting the interest of young ladies, yet Fanchon seemed
oblivious to his own handsome looks and immune to Felix’s witty charm, and
instead returned Dag’s fascination. She seemed to genuinely admire him, but
what did a man like Dag have to offer to a lady of her class and culture?
True, Dag was
brave and strong and noble of heart. And it was probable that his imposing
physical appearance attracted one as fragile looking as Fanchon: to merely look
at him was to feel that he could protect one from all dangers. Yet the man
could not even read or write.
Suppose this
attachment grew serious and they wed. How and where would they live? In
Gaudereaux? Dag would find no work except that of a laborer; surely that would
be beneath the family of Fanchon, who owned one of the finest villas in the
country, with rich vines that kept them prosperous.
In Trekur
Lende? Fanchon would die of boredom if the cold did not kill her first. One of
her nature craved excitement and she would find none in Trekur Lende, save an
occasional encounter with a bear or a boar.
Young Cort
appeared forlorn at the sudden desertion of his friend. For Dag was ever in the
company of Fanchon, and seemed to have little time to spare for his small
admirer. Cort moped about Gaudereaux like a stray pup who had become separated
from its master. Felix, Marcus noted, attempted to spend some time with Cort.
But it was clear to all but Dag that the boy missed the attention of his hero.
Marcus began
to fret at the delay. They had been here more than a month, one day very like
another with its late start to the mornings, lazy afternoons, and lively
evening banquets. For enjoying life was what the people of Gaudereaux believed
in, if they believed in anything at all. Never had Marcus seen such a
lighthearted people, determined to live every day to the fullest, and never
giving heed to tomorrow.
Yet each day
that passed meant another day in prison for his parents. He resolved to tell
the others that tomorrow he must leave, with or without them, but leave he
must.
A knock tapped
on his chamber door.
“Come in,” he
invited.
Felix bounded
into the room, closing the door behind him.
“News, I have
news, my friend!” he exulted with glowing eyes.
“Do you
remember the Bard, Lothair? Well, I encountered him in the market this
afternoon. We fell into conversation, and it seems that he is a well-traveled
man. The thought occurred to me that he may have heard of this Pearl that you
seek. He may know where we can find it. Shall we call on him together
tomorrow?”
Marcus
pondered. He had been sworn to secrecy by the Empress. Yet how could he learn
more of the Pearl if he never spoke of it? Once he had approached the subject
with Urbanus, but remembered that he reported back to Aurora of any unusual
occurrences. It would not be wise to bring up the matter with him, who might
very well ask the Empress why his young guest was interested in a particular
jewel.
But if the
Bard might know of the legend…
“Very well,
Felix,” Marcus nodded his head decisively. “Let us pay him a visit this
afternoon.”
“The Pearl?
Yes, yes, I have heard of the Pearl.”
Lothair lived
in a modest house a short distance from the city. He disliked the bustle of
town life, and craved a quiet place where he could sing his songs. Marcus found
the small dwelling fascinating.
For Lothair
was indeed a well-traveled man. A tapestry of fine silk from lands to the East
adorned one wall. It depicted a battle between an armed soldier and a frightful
creature with four legs, scaly wings, pointed teeth and protruding claws called
a dragon, according to Lothair. The beast was both dreaded and worshiped in
that land. An exquisite jar of white alabaster from the Isles of Solone adorned
a corner table. And on the table at which Lothair sat was a heavy black iron
candlestick with an intricately carved base that came from Valerium.
Lothair
appeared to gaze at the tapestry on the opposite wall, then spoke softly as
though oblivious to the two young men.
“All may seek,
and all may buy, the great Pearl of price so rare,
But it costs
all you possess, so let the buyer beware!”
Marcus puzzled
anew on this riddle, but waited for Lothair to explain. After pondering a
moment longer, he turned to Marcus.
“What is your
interest in the Pearl, young man? One of your years should be more concerned
with young ladies than jewels.”
Lothair eyed
Marcus warily, his hooded eyes boring into his.
“I merely
heard of the legend and wanted to know more. That is all.”
“You wanted to
know more? Such as…”
“Such as where
it can be located. Why is it so precious? And how can it cost so much, yet any
can possess it? That surely cannot be, for some may not be able to buy it at
all!”
“The Pearl
will cost all that one has. That is why it is so costly,” Lothair said gently.
“Perhaps some would fare better if they never find this Pearl.”
“Oh, but I
must
find it! I must…”
Marcus caught
himself and stopped, cursing his tongue and its betrayal. He laughed shakily as
Lothair stared at him.
“I mean, I
love a mystery, and I simply must solve it. Now that I have heard of this Pearl
of great price, I will not rest until I find it. And solve the riddle of why it
is so costly.”
Marcus hoped
his reply deceived Lothair. The Bard stared at his young guest, then his gaze
shifted to the small fire that burned in the brazier, for the evenings were
still somewhat cool. He sat staring into the flames for some time in deep
thought, as if searching for words. Then he appeared to decide.
“I, too, have
searched for that which you seek. In Valerium I looked, in Gaudereaux I roamed,
and in Hyalenium I hunted. But it was all in vain.”
“You did not
find the Pearl?”
“No, I did
not. I was ever told to search here, to look there, but I never found what I
sought. After many years I abandoned my quest. If such a jewel exists, let
others find it, but not me. For I am too old to continue the hunt.”
Lothair
paused. Then his attention was caught by the tapestry that hung on the wall
opposite him.
“And yet…I
have sometimes wondered if the answer might not lie in Koohyaram.”
“Koohyaram?
What place is that?” Marcus inquired, as a frown of puzzlement creased his
forehead.
“Koohyaram,
young man, is a fabulous, truly a fabled city. It is ancient and splendid, a
city of great wealth. To be sure, it is said that the very walls are made of
pure gold.”
“Indeed!”
Felix exclaimed, with a grin. “Well, let us set out for it at once with all
speed!”
“Do not mock,
my young friend!” Lothair warned. “Koohyaram is not part of the Valeriun
Empire. If you offend the Ashkani you will find no protection from the Empress.
She has no power there. You will be at the mercy of the ruler.”
“What manner
of people are they, then? Are they fierce warriors?” Marcus wanted to know, his
curiosity stirred by news of a people of whom he had never heard.
“Fierce? Yes,
when they need to be. But their manner is most courteous, almost
too
much so. My advice to you is to be most polite to everyone you meet. But never
turn your back on anyone. For their curved daggers can enter your back and
pierce your heart with a speed amazing to behold.”
There was a
deep silence at the pronouncement of these words. Then Felix broke it after
careful deliberation.
“Perhaps we
should reconsider going there. Or at least, leave Dag behind. For he will be
sure to offend someone before he even finishes his salutations!”
“Felix! This
is no laughing matter,” Marcus chided his friend. “And, of course, Dag goes
with us if he so chooses. And I expect that he will.”
“Ah, that
remains to be seen, considering this new interest which has caught his fancy.
Think you he will leave his new lady love so easily?” Felix asked with a
twinkle in his eye.
“This is not
the time nor the place to discuss a matter of such an intimate nature. Where
are your manners, Felix?”
Felix
tightened his lips, and his brown eyes darkened and flashed at Marcus. Lothair
put a hand between them.
“Enough! You
must decide what your next step will be and not stoop to petty bickering!”
Marcus sighed,
and threw back his patrician head and shook himself, the nostrils of his aquiline
nose flaring. To Lothair, he looked remarkably like a young war horse that
shakes off the grass in which he has just rolled preparatory to re-entering a
battle.
“He is right,”
Marcus relented. “I am sorry, Felix. We must decide, and plan the next step of
the journey.”
Felix
swallowed hard, and averted his eyes from Marcus. He frowned at the floor, then
nodded his head, albeit a trifle sullenly.
Marcus turned
back to Lothair.
“Where is
Koohyaram? How far is the journey, and what is the lay of the land through
which we must travel?”
For answer,
Lothair rose and went to a small cabinet carved of mahogany. He hunted among
several scrolls lying on one of the shelves, and selected one which he brought
back to the table. It was a map, one such as soldiers use to plot campaigns. It
showed place names, as well as sketches of the terrain. On it were drawn
mountain ranges, rivers, forests, and plains.
“Here,”
Lothair stabbed a finger, “is Gaudereaux. See how green indicates the lush
forests. But directly south the land turns brown and gold. You must journey
south into harsh desert lands before you come to Koohyaram. There you will see
the city rise from the desolate landscape like some mythical city of old. But
before you arrive there, you will pass through many miles of barren waste. You
must carry plenty of water and provisions. The journey should take about five
days if you travel steadily without any mishap.”
Lothair rolled
up the scroll and presented it to Marcus.
“Take this map
with you. For I will never travel so far again. I do not know what your errand
is, nor why you seek the Pearl of legend. But may you succeed in your quest,
where others have failed.”