The Birthgrave (44 page)

Our small supplies were low. I could see, from the tail of my eye, Mazlek drawing rein and dismounting.

Suddenly the squatting man called out: “Don't let her near me! Don't you let her!”

“Forgive him, goddess,” Mazlek said, sounding irritated. “Only a mad old man—a woman-hater no doubt. He means nothing.”

He went up through the field, and the birds scattered with what looked an almost melodramatic act of fright, except for the group on the scarecrow, however, which remained unruffled.

Mazlek spoke to the man. He shook his head frenziedly, and waved sticklike arms.

“No—nothing left—those others took it—thieves!”

“Others?” Mazlek's voice came sharp and clear now.

“Ten men and horses—black riders—skull masks—except for him, the dark one—the wolf—”

Mazlek turned and looked back at me. My hands were tight on the reins, and my heart thudded in intermittent, painful, nervous beats. Mazlek left the man and came back to the road.

“Vazkor,” he said unnecessarily. “Still alive?”

“Oh, yes. I never thought him dead.”

“Making for Eshkorek—as we are,” Mazlek said. He mounted swiftly. “We should hurry, goddess; perhaps we can catch them, now that we're on the same road.”

“No,” I said.

The old man shouted hoarsely at us, without words.

“Wise to ride with him,” Mazlek said. “Twelve men can protect you better than one.”

He was anxious for my safety. It was useless to protest. We urged the horses forward, and left the old man standing in the field, beside the pigeon-heavy scarecrow he had put up to keep the birds away.

* * *

Darkness thickened around us. Stars burned blue-white between the distant crag-crests.

“We do not know how long ago they passed,” I said. “We may be days behind.”

“I don't think so,” Mazlek said. “That one would have had a short memory, yet he remembered them very well.”

“I must rest soon,” I said.

He nodded through the gloom.

“I will find a safe place, then ride ahead to them. He'll wait, or return with me.”

“Will he? I wonder, Mazlek, if he will.”

But he would, of course. I carried what was his.

Not long after, the road began to drop downward. Across rock thrusts came a new light, faintly red.

“A fire,” Mazlek muttered.

We saw the dip a minute later, a trickle of path and scrub bushes clinging around it, and, at the bottom, a hollow full of firelight. It seemed blatant, careless even. I saw horses moving beyond the flames, shapes sitting against the rock. Abruptly two men leaped from the scrub, one for each of our bridles. A third stood a little behind, a couple of knives very ready. Not so careless, after all, for he had posted sentries. Mazlek's ambusher prodded at him.

“Who are you?”

Mazlek said calmly, “I am Mazlek, Commander of the Goddess Uastis' Guard. I have conducted her to her husband.”

The skull faces turned to me. There was nothing about me recognizable, no golden cat mask or rich robe. Even the pregnancy had not shown itself when they saw me last.

“Well,” I said, “go and ask your Lord. He will remember me, I think.”

A little hesitation, then they pulled our horses aside, and led them down the path into their camp, the knife man coming last.

It was warm in the hollow, and smoky. One of our guides strode off around the fire into a cave beyond it. I began to feel stifled, the smoke catching in my throat and eyes. I wanted to run away, and cursed Mazlek unfairly for bringing me here. Damn Vazkor, I did not want his venomous weight on my freedom again.

The man ducked out of the cave, and another man followed him, tall, spare, dark; under the silver strings of the wolf's head, his own black hair hanging in long, raw silks. He came around the fire, and stood looking at me.

“Welcome, goddess,” he said.

When he spoke, the race of my fear stumbled. I looked back at him bewildered. Not Vazkor's voice, a stranger's voice, dry and old, and empty.

Mazlek was at my stirrup, offering his arm to help me down. I dismounted.

“Make the goddess comfortable,” the unknown voice finished. He nodded and turned back into the cave, and was gone.

“So, even he understands defeat,” Mazlek said softly. “It is finished for him, and he knows it.” There was a bitter pleasure in his tone I might have shared if he had said it on the road.

I took my hand from Mazlek's arm, walked around the blaze, and followed Vazkor into the black mouth of the cave. Far back there was a leather curtain hung up for privacy, and beyond it the slight glow of a wick in oil. I let the flap fall to, and stood staring at the bed, made of one folded blanket, on which he lay. He was very still. The mask gone now, his face showed sick pale under the gray-olive skin, and the shadows of his face seemed bruised deeper. Except for his open eyes, which turned slowly to look at me, he might have been dead. His mouth stretched a little.

“Our positions are finally reversed, you see,” he said.

“You are ill,” I said softly, not quite believing it.

“Yes. I am ill. But I will be better soon. I'm sorry to disappoint you, goddess.” His eyes shifted a little to my belly. “Well,” he said, but even that could not anger me. The walls of hate I had built against him had crumbled instantly, of course. His vulnerability stirred me almost into an agony of compassion I could not help. I went to him and kneeled down.

“What can I do for you? Shall I fetch you anything . . . ?”

I reached out and touched his face with my fingertips, and, as if it were a signal to my body, I began at once to weep, the silent scalding tears of our separate loneliness. He too had lost what was dear to him, however perverse his desires and hopes had been. Lost. He could not even express any pain he felt. He lay like ice under my touch, Darak turned to jade at the bottom of the tomb-shaft because I could not weep for him.

“Let's put an end to this,” he said after a moment, quite gently. “This is no use for either of us.”

I got to my feet, and he shut his eyes, closing that last door into himself with the finality of stone.

* * *

There was another cave place they had found for me, and here I lay, Mazlek across the mouth of it, but his body defenseless in worn-out sleep. It was I who watched that night.

Dawn, ice-chill in the mountains, stippled rock flanks with incandescent red.

There was a beaker of the wine-drink for me that morning. Mazlek, like a child, stretching, rubbing at his eyes, glancing guiltily in at me because he had not stood guard all night.

Vazkor came from the cave as they were saddling and loading the horses. He saw to his own mount, slowly and carefully. The mask hid his face. After a while he mounted, and sat with an unusual stiffness, as if it took much effort to keep himself there. They waited for his signal, and followed after him up the road.

It came to me: I have done this. The storm I turned from Belhannor was the beginning of it. I have smashed the soul of Vazkor. Yet I could not quite believe it. Where, after all, was my triumph in the act?

Mazlek and I were some way behind. After a while Vazkor motioned another man into the lead, and waited on the road until we reached him. He turned to Mazlek, and Mazlek dropped back until out of earshot. Vazkor's black gelding dwarfed the horse I rode.

“I have seen that man before,” Vazkor said after a while. His voice was slightly husky from the fever, yet different from when I had heard it last; how, I was not sure. “Your—commander. One of Asren's men who rode with me for a time, I think. In Ezlann.”

I said nothing, could think of nothing to say, since the words I needed to speak he had locked inside me forever.

“You think,” he said, after another little silence, “things are finished with me.”

Hooves bit sharp on the road.

“Well, goddess, the castle fell at the river An, but I can build it again, on its own ruins, out of its own bricks. This is not defeat, goddess, it is delay. We are headed for a mountain fortress that will keep us very safe until the time is right for me. Tower-Eshkorek—my gift from the last Javhovor of Eshkorek Arnor. I hope you will find it comfortable. Our child will probably be born there now.”

1

W
HERE THE MOUNTAINS
reach toward the City, leveling, they take on the tinge of lions. The great tower-fortress, like Eshkorek herself, was built of this same fulvous rock. Not beautiful, but ugly, it threw its indomitable phallic shadow black across the sunset mesas and the sloping crags. Not beautiful, but very strong, very secure. Yet not to keep things out, but to keep things in. A prison. At once I had the sensation that if I entered I could never again get free, but I thrust it off.

Nearer, I saw how the place was ringed by a huge oval crater, filled to a third of its height by stagnant water, black and impenetrable, a sightless eye. Over this moat there seemed to be no way, except by swimming. Weed lay on the surface in glinting nets, clotted at the base of the tower.

One of Vazkor's men shouted. The rocks took his voice and split it into many voices, and hurled them at us from every side. A pause then, but as the silence crept back, another sound came in answer, and the silence ran like a hunted man. Grinding, grating, a narrow door was being forced in the tower, and from that mouth a long stone tongue began to thrust toward us. Over the moat the thing angled itself, to vanish with a rasping screech in some slot beneath the crater's lip: a bridge. It was ten feet wide, at least, but to a man they rode single file, exactly at its center, and led by instinct only I did the same. Riding over the water, my stomach seemed turned to ice. Against my will, I glanced down into the depths, saw nothing, yet looked away swiftly.

Beyond the narrow doorway, a roofed-over courtyard, stables on either side, a dark, primitive, cheerless place. Three men in gray liveries slashed with yellow stood like statues. Another man, fat under his long tunic of furs, bowed deeply.

“Warden,” Vazkor said.

“My lord, your messenger reached me only a day ago. We are not as ready as we might be.” Behind the silver eagle mask little eyes glinted. Yet no eagle this, but the mythological demon-toad, well-fed and venomous. Oparr, yet not Oparr, for this stream ran deeper and blacker.

For some reason I had not expected anyone to be here, yet, I supposed now, as a fortress it would be garrisoned to some extent. So I came to look for many men and servants, and, as we climbed the stone flights, toiled through the large oval hall, past storerooms and armories, for the efficiency and crowding of a barracks, and I did not find it. Few people lived here after all, a scattering of the gray-clad soldiers—the Warden's men—an old woman and a young, both apparently witless from the brief glances I had of them. It seemed a peculiar arrangement, but I was too tired to question it; we had been on the road together long days—I had lost count of how many. Vazkor, for all the last traces of the fever which still hung on him, appeared less exhausted than I—but then there was presumably some purpose for him here; for me, nothing.

I followed the thin, slightly limping servant girl to a small room near the head of the tower, and when she had gone, I sank down on the curtained bed and buried myself in sleep.

* * *

I woke again in darkness, tinglingly alert, listening. There was nothing to be heard, only the silent strength of the tower humming to itself. I went to the narrow slit of window, pulled aside the shutter, looked out over bleached crags, black sky, white-eyed stars. I was very tense and did not know why.

Standing there, I suddenly realized what it was my mind had been searching out since Mazlek had brought me to the mountains—that half-unconscious quest, without a known goal. I had been trying to remember the word which Asren had written in the book, the beautiful book I had meant to bring with me from Belhannor, and had left behind because there had been no time to plan. And now I realized that oddly I had examined the letters, the character in the formation of that word so closely that I had not seen what the word was in itself. Whatever importance it had had for him or for myself, was lost. A trivial thing, perhaps, but it troubled me. The last, the only, item I had had of him had slipped from my possession and my memory forever.

A movement caught my eye, unexpected in this place, where sky and mountains seemed locked in ancient immobility.

I looked across the rock shapes, then lifted my eyes, and incredibly found the answer in the black drift overhead. Between the fixed scatter of stars, three other stars, larger and very bright, sailing in the form of an arrowhead, southward. Ankurum, and the street, so late or early, and the moving silver light I had watched with Darak, the light Asutoo had watched also, and taken as a god-chariot, an omen to betray. The three glittering things slid over the tower, out of my sight.

I was afraid, more than that primitive fear because I could not understand the lights in the sky. I turned and faced the room as if an enemy waited for me. There was in this place—
something
—something I feared yet must find, deep in the bones of the tower. I had sensed it from the beginning, but the silver star chariots of Asutoo's gods had peeled away the last layers of my blindness.

* * *

In the morning the limping girl brought a pitcher of water, a silver cup of the wine drink, and a little later returned with a selection of silk and velvet clothes, and a silver mask—a curious shape which seemed to be the head of a lynx. Apparently the tower Warden had sent these things, and I wondered to whom they had belonged. Perhaps to an absent wife or lady, for he appeared to keep neither here at present. They were all shades and tones of Eshkorek yellow and rather full, but that seemed suited to my condition. The mask presented a subtle problem. The Warden's rank would not entitle him to wear the gold, and therefore he could not provide a golden mask for me, and yet, if only by chance, I was demoted by going in silver now. Yellow strings hung from the lynx head over my hair, each one ending in an exquisite marigold carved from yellow amber.

Mazlek came up the stairs soon after. I saw his eyes take in the silver mask, and then discard the thought which had come to him, as it had to me.

“What is happening, Mazlek?”

“A man has been sent to the City to inform the Javhovor that Vazkor is here.”

“Vazkor's Javhovor,” I said softly.

“Yes, goddess. Vazkor's men expect immediate loyal help from that quarter—honored welcome into Eshkorek Arnor, a war council, fresh troops—but things are not so simple, goddess, I think.”

“Why?”

“This man, the Warden—he is very uneasy; I don't think Vazkor is a welcome guest either to himself or his master.”

I remembered Vazkor's words on the road, harsh, affirmative. Yet he could do nothing without the support of the Cities of the desert. If he had lost it, what would become of him?

“Where is Vazkor?” I asked Mazlek.

“A room on the east side of the tower. One man keeps guard outside the door, and no one has seen him since last night.”

“Mazlek,” I said, abruptly anxious to put Vazkor from my mind, and attack my fears of this fortress instead, “there is something in this place—something I must find.”

“Goddess.”

He was quite ready to follow me, to protect me, yet he did not understand. I think I had half hoped he might have sensed also the secret feeling of the tower. A sort of mental intimacy had seemed to grow between us during the flight from Belhannor; we had spoken little, yet things had been clear enough. I was reminded of Slor suddenly, and the blind offering of his life for mine, and thrust the thought away.

“I have explained badly,” I said. “I do not know what troubles me here, even if anything exists to trouble me. But I have to search until I find it or fail to find it.” I discovered I had locked my hands together tensely. “Something hidden,” I said.

He went after me, down the flights of stairs, to the oval dark hall, needing candles even in daylight, and stood ready behind me as I spoke to one of the three gray soldiers lounging there. I noted they did not leap to instant attention at my entrance, as they would for the golden cat goddess of Ezlann, and I learned a lot from that.

“Where is the Warden? I should like to speak to him.”

“The lord Warden hasn't yet risen, lady.”

Even the title—miserly enough—was delivered with a certain sneering slur. He found it easy to forget who I was—who I
had
been?

“Soldier,” I said, “I am Uastis of Ezlann. Reincarnate of the Old Race, wife to Vazkor Javhovor, Overlord of White Desert. I am addressed as ‘goddess' by men who are standing on their feet, and have bowed their heads to me first.”

There was an uneasy shuffling from the table as the soldier's two companions got up from their chairs, and stood awkwardly, in positions of uncertain respect. The man I had spoken to, however, seemed unimpressed, and my words tempted him into insolence.

“I have heard of a goddess,” he said,
“in Ezlann.
And then,
lady,
you wore a plain mask when you came here, and a plain robe, too. Those things . . . well, they're the Warden's bounty, if I recall correctly.”

I did not feel angry, only knew I dared not let my authority fall out of appreciation, here, of all places, where I sensed so much danger.

“Soldier,” I said, and I walked close to him, and stared at his eyes behind the bronze mask, eyes slippery, and unwilling to be caught. “Men do not insult me twice. Since you need proof of me, I am afraid I must give it. You will not forget who I am. Lift your hand.” He whimpered, and I knew I had him then. “My touch is fire, the brand to you.”

I laid one finger on his naked palm, and he screamed.

“Go free!” I hissed, and the trance broke from him. He ran back, nursing his blisters, sobbing with shock and fright. “Now,” I said, “you say the Warden has not yet risen. Go and tell him to rise. I shall expect to see him here before that candle stub has burned out.”

This time, I was obeyed.

I glanced at Mazlek, and his eyes had narrowed behind the mask in a malicious grin, proud of me and my ferocious powers. I sat down to wait, and watched the door across the yellow velvet hump of my belly.

In fact, the Warden was not long in coming, masked and ringed, yet still in his bedrobe. He took off the mask, bowed, and put it on again. I wondered if he had heard anything of the scene in the hall. I could see he wanted to draw nearer to the hearth where a fire was eating a breakfast of logs. He shivered meaningfully, but I sat where I was and left him to suffer. I was not certain how I should begin my interrogation, or even if I had been wise to start with him, and any advantage was a comfort.

“Good morning, Warden. I find I must thank you for my wardrobe.”

“Nothing.” He bowed again.

“Your hospitality is most welcome to the Lord Vazkor and myself.”

“I-I trust the Javhovor is in better health today—some illness on the journey, I believe.”

I noted that he had called Vazkor “Javhovor” only, not “overlord.”

“No illness,” I said carefully, “merely fatigue. But Eshkorek will provide him with rest.” My host gave a little nervous laugh. “Tell me,” I said, “this is surely a fortress; why is there no garrison?”

“Oh, but there has been no garrison for many, many years. A remote spot, and very little to capture, even if an army should cross the mountains from Purple Valley.”

“As it well may,” I said. He started. “You surely know of the havoc we left behind us, Warden? It would be advisable for the Cities of White Desert to hold together under this threat.” Again a little start, as if I had probed into a bad tooth. Certainly there was trouble then, for Vazkor, and so perhaps for myself, but I set it aside. “I am curious, Warden,” I said. “I am curious because, if there is no garrison, why is there a holding here at all?”

“A—matter of policy,” he said, very stiffly, and I could tell I had touched a nerve once more, but a different decay this time, possibly more rotten than the first.

“Then your soldiers are guarding nothing?”

“No, indeed—except, in theory, the tower.”

Liar.

I nodded, and, after a minute's polite talk, sent him graciously away. I went to my room, and asked Mazlek to follow me.

“What do you know of the structural plan of the tower?” I asked him.

“Very little,” he said. “Stores and armories, private chambers above, below—kitchens, bathhouse, barracks—empty now.”

“And below that?”

“Cellars probably.”

Until that I had not been sure where my frenzied mental quest was taking me, drawing on my instincts only. But now I felt a rush of coldness through my body, knew I had grasped a piece of darkness, unseen, but vital.

“Cellars,” I repeated, “and under those—dungeons, Mazlek?”

I saw him check, as I had done.

“Yes,” he said, and stared at me.

Neither of us spoke of the sense of discovery which had come so abruptly. It was incredible, unthinkable. And yet, this tower: “My gift from the last Javhovor of Eshkorek Arnor,” Vazkor had said. And so, Vazkor's possession, Vazkor's fortress, defense,
prison.

“Mazlek,” I said. “After dark. The first hour. It should be quiet then.”

And he nodded, so that I needed to say no more.

2

I did not mean to sleep at all that night, but tiredness made me lie on the curtained bed, and I dozed and woke up again in terrible starts. Dreams—faces, white with open eyes, staring, the stone bowl and its jumping fire . . . Mazlek's scratch on the door. I sat up and pulled myself from the bed. I felt afraid, heavy with fear. I opened the door, and he stood there, a low burning lamp in one hand, drawn knife in the other.

“Goddess,” he said, “I asked one of Vazkor's men how to get to the wine cellars. Not as low as we'll need to go, but near it, I thought. About an hour later I went there and searched them thoroughly. There seemed to be no way to get farther down, but there was luck with me. The old woman came into the cellars by the stairs from the kitchen.”