The Wizard

Chapter 33. Under Thortower

Uns had been stabbed; the wound sucked air until we bandaged it, and he seemed weak. “I’se awright, sar. I’se awright.” That was all he said before his eyes closed. I could not heal him without betraying the Valfather, for I had pledged myself to do no such thing. Still I was sore tempted, and crouched by Uns and laid my hand on his head; and it may be that a little healing went out from me. I hope so.

We carried him back to the inn and left Pouk there to nurse him while Wistan and I made ready to dine with Arnthor and Gaynor, washing ourselves in water we heated on our fire and putting on our best clothes.

Wistan spent a long time examining his new sword, whose blade he wiped again and oiled, and whose jeweled pommel he held to every light, first to the declining sun and afterward to the fire and candles. When we were in the saddle, clean and sweet-smelling, he said, “When I’m a knight, I’ll tell my squire how I fought the dead in the Great Bailey.”

I nodded, and urged Cloud to trot.

“And how I fought the Angrborn in Jotunland in company with Aelf, and gained much wealth thereby.”

“With more by betting,” I said. “Those who ran today will be back tomorrow, and you can collect your bets.”

He nodded absently.

“Pouk will collect for Uns, I suppose, as soon as Uns is well enough to leave alone for a few hours.”

“I’ll tell him about all this, and he’ll think I’m the greatest liar under Skai.” Wistan laughed.

“He’ll soon grow older and wiser. How old are you?”

“Nearly eighteen. I’ll be a knight soon, or hope I will.”

“You’re a knight now. It’s only that no one calls you so, Sir Wistan.”

“You said something like that to Toug.”

“I did. Toug is a knight, though he doesn’t want to be. It’s not really a matter of choice.”

Wistan nodded, but did not speak.

“I didn’t understand that when I was younger. I wanted to be a knight, and I became one—not because I chose to be one, but because of the things I did and the way I thought. Good and evil are decided by thoughts and choices, too.”

“Like the princess?”

I had not considered that. “Unlike the princess,” I said. “She’s chosen good, but it seems evil has chosen her.”

We spoke more, before the bridge was lowered for us and after; but the only thing of note was said by Gylf as we were shown into the hall: “Ears up!”

He was right, of course; if ever there was a time to be watchful that was it; what was at least equally important was that he had chosen to speak in Wistan’s presence. It was not that I had called Wistan a knight, or merely that they had fought side by side, but a combination of those things with something more. Gylf was a sound judge of character.

I had been in Gilling’s hall in Utgard; Arnthor’s seemed small in comparison; but it was better furnished, with chairs and benches with backs for his guests instead of stools. The walls were hung with shields, those of proven knights having the arms colored, those of less proven knights with the arms outlined but not painted in, and those of unproven knights blank. I had followed this custom when I chose a blank green shield, although I had not been aware of it.

Arnthor and Gaynor were to sit at a raised table, he with the queen to his right. I was to sit at Arnthor’s left, as the page who guided us confided, with Morcaine to my left. This was made clear by the quality of the chairs, Arnthor’s being gilt all over and set with gems, Gaynor’s smaller and delicate, and the princess’s gilt only at the top, although beautifully carved and furnished with a velvet cushion. Mine was plainer than these, but by no means contemptible, being large and boasting a well-carved Nykr on its back. Wistan was directed to a lower table, but Gylf sat by my chair.

“The trumpets will sound for His Majesty,” the page murmured. “Everyone stands until he says you may sit. As soon as he makes the motion, sit down.” I said I wished he could advise me as I ate.

“I will. Everyone at this table will have a page. I’ll be behind you. Crook your finger if you need to talk to me. I’ll help with the food or run with a message, if you want.”

Other guests were entering as we spoke, I suppose about a hundred in all. I asked how I ought to conduct myself.

“Don’t speak ‘til they speak to you—not to anybody royal. His Majesty will be served first, then Her Majesty, then Her Highness, then you. Don’t eat too much and don’t drink too much. Don’t laugh unless His Majesty does.”

Then I wished that the Earl Marshal was nearer; I wanted to ask why Morcaine ranked behind the queen when she could claim the crown if the king died. Although he had taken a seat at the lower table, two diners separated us.

The nearer of these, thinking that I was looking at him, congratulated me on my victory.

I thanked him, calling him “My Lord,” at which my page whispered urgently, “Your Grace!”

The duke in question ignored the page and my mistake, saying, “I’d like to know, Sir Able, how Her Majesty found a knight bold enough to stand against those you faced.”

I replied, “There must be many in Celidon, Your Grace.”

“I’m surprised she could find one. We’ll have need of you when the Caan attacks.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You expect war, Your Grace?”

“Yes, it’s how one acquires the reputation for prophecy. Look wise, predict war, and you’ll always be right. You’re one of Marder’s?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I have that honor.”

“I’ll ask about you when I see him. I’ll be—”

The trumpets sounded. We rose, and those not facing the entrance turned to it. Arnthor came first, tall, erect, and walking fast, while the pursuivant who had assisted the Nykr King of Arms announced his name and titles: “His Most Royal Majesty King Arnthor, Defender of the West,” and so on. Gaynor followed. She was of course much smaller, but lovely in a white velvet gown and a crown of diamonds and red gold. Two pages bore her train.

“Her Most Royal Majesty Queen Gaynor, Duchess of Daunte, Countess of Chaus, Countess of...” A place I have forgotten, with a dozen baronies.

After Gaynor’s lush beauty, Morcaine seemed mannish, as tall as her brother and richly dressed in black and scarlet, with a single page to carry her train.

“Her Royal Highness Princess Morcaine, Daughter of Uthor, Duchess of Ringwood...”

She smiled at me, the only one who did; I smiled in return, although I could not be sure she meant well.

And all this time I searched my mind for the message I had been given. Arnthor had spoken to me in the bailey, but no message had come. Here in his hall, I saw his face and he mine, but no message filled me. I searched, but found only the loving thoughts of Cloud, who waited patiently in the stables and assured me she was royally cared for and the object of much admiring attention from the king’s grooms.

Arnthor took his place, sitting at once. Gaynor stood on his right; I thought her nervous and anxious. To my left, redolent of brandy, Morcaine came to the table as one who owned not only Thortower but all Mythgarthr, and stood there swaying, smiling as if she expected her brother’s guests to cheer. He was indeed a king; but Morcaine was of the blood of kings. That thought was soon followed by another—that if she, more than he, showed the blood of their royal parent, then the blood he showed was that of a dragon of Muspel.

Garsecg, the brother of both, had been royal in manner, yet a dragon still. If there was anyone in Arnthor’s hall who might breathe fire, it was surely Arnthor himself.

For a minute and more we remained standing. At last Arnthor made a trifling gesture, and we sat.

Food was brought at once, so quickly that it was clear the servingmen had been waiting at the lesser entrances. A chef put a great roast swan on our table, and at a signal from Arnthor split it with a knife not much smaller than a sword. Split, it could be seen that a goose had had been stuffed into the swan to be roasted with it, a plover into the goose, a duck into the plover, and three lesser birds into the duck, all these save the swan having been boned.

The chef indicated the two smallest (I would imagine a quail and a thrush) to Arnthor, who nodded. The chef swiftly cut a bit from each, which he ate. Arnthor nodded again, and the birds were served him.

Gaynor was next, the chef indicating the lesser bird in the duck. She shook her head, and received the duck’s breast instead. Morcaine declined all. I indicated the one Gaynor had declined, wishing to see what it was and wishing also to show that although she might fear poison, I was willing to run the risk for her sake. My bird proved to be a partridge, delicious and wholly innocent.

The chef having gone, Arnthor severed a leg of the swan with his own dagger, and held it up. “Here it is our custom to dine with our dogs in attendance,” he said to me. “You know this, plainly, since you brought your own.”

I nodded. “I was told that I might do so without offense, Your Majesty. I hope I was not misinformed.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “You’ll have seen my hounds.”

“I did, Your Majesty. They’re noble animals.”

“They are.” He whistled, and half a dozen boarhounds came to his chair, bristling and growling at Gylf. “Noble not just in appearance, but in conduct. I hunt boars, Sir Able, and greater prey, when I can get it. Those who hang back are drowned at my order.”

I said, “The chase is the noblest sport, Your Majesty.”

“I’d have said war, and many here the melee. But it’s a topic on which each man is entitled to his opinion.”

Gaynor, who had looked frightened the whole time, had gone white. I would very much have liked to know whether Morcaine was still smiling, but dared not turn my head.

“Does your dog hunger, Sir Able?”

“I suppose he does, Your Majesty. He’s usually hungry, in my experience.”

Again, Arnthor held up the swan’s leg. “You would not object if I were to present him with this? Some men, I know, do not like for others to feed their dogs.”

“It would be an honor for him, and for me.”

“As you say.” Smiling, Arnthor tossed the swan’s leg to Gylf, who caught it expertly in his mouth. The boarhounds swarmed him, snarling and snapping. He dropped it, set his forepaw on it, and roared to shake the hangings. Arnthor’s boarhounds turned tail and ran. In the following silence, there was no sound save the breaking of the swan’s bones.

I ate, and had half finished my partridge when Morcaine laughed. “They breed them tough in Jotunland, don’t they?” At her words the king’s guests began to eat and talk.

I said, “Perhaps they do, Your Highness.”

“Didn’t you get him there?”

“No, Your Highness. In the forests of our own Celidon. He was a gift from the Bodachan.”

Her face became that of her brother, I cannot say how. I was not conscious of having turned, yet it was to him I spoke. “You see, I bear tidings from Queen Disiri of the Moss Aelf, King Ycer of the Ice Aelf, and King Brunman of the Bodachan. So it was that the Bodachan gave me a companion to help me in my errand.”

“I’ve heard of no message until now,” Arnthor said.

“Still I have one, Your Majesty. One that has occupied me most of my life, though it has been not so many years in Mythgarthr. I was to reach you, and not that alone, but to come as one to whom you would give ear. Seven worlds there are, Your Majesty, and so arranged that the highest, where the Most High God reigns and where no impure thing is, is larger than all the rest together. The world beneath that—”

“What? Have you come to lecture me in metaphysic?”

“Is less, yet greater than the sum of those remaining. The winged beings there are not perfect in purity, but so near it they are permitted to serve the Most High God as the nobles of your realm serve you.”

“Better, I hope.”

“Below is the one we name Skai. We of Mythgarthr, who think this realm spacious, think it unutterably vast, for its extent is greater than that of the four below it laid side by side. It contains many things and many peoples, but its lawful possessors are the Overcyns—the Valfather and his queen, their sons and their daughters, and their families. To them our hearts are given. It is them we reverence when we reverence rightly.”

“I had a mind to question you concerning your victory today,” Arnthor told me.

“Beneath them is our human realm. We are its legitimate inhabitants. Beneath us is the lesser realm of Aelfrice, smaller than our own yet beautiful. There dwell Queen Disiri and the kings whom I named, the monarchs whose messenger I am. In their realm the Most High God placed a numerous folk called Kulili. As we reverence the Overcyns, so Kulili was to reverence us, and did, and was revered by the dragons of Muspel. Kulili sought nearer subjects, and patterned them after us, the objects of her reverence, that she might be loved by the image she loved. She made them, and asked their gratitude. They refused it, and drove her into the sea.”

By this time the whole royal hall had fallen silent to listen. Only Arnthor seemed of a mind to interrupt.

“In this way they became the folk of Aelfrice, holding it by right of conquest. The wisest among them revere us, knowing it to be the wish of Him Who Made Seven Worlds, the Most High God. The foolish, seeing our vanity, our avarice, and our cruelty, have turned from us to reverence dragons, by which much harm has come, for even the best of them are insatiable of power.”

“You bear a dragon upon your shield,” Arnthor remarked. “Have you forgotten that my genealogy bears another?”

“No, Your Majesty. Neither have I forgotten that your boyhood was spent among Sea Aelf, nor that you took the Nykr to honor them. Nor have the kings and queen I mentioned forgotten those things, which embolden them to speak to you as they do, imploring you to reshape our people. Kulili formed them, Your Majesty. They know that you might reform us, making us strong but merciful, and though merciful, just. May I speak for myself, Your Majesty?”

He nodded. “After what has preceded it, I welcome it.”

“I lived in the northern forests, Your Majesty, not far from Irringsmouth. It is a city of ruins.”

He nodded again.

“Outlaws calling themselves Free Companies rove those forests. They are as cruel and rapacious as the dragons; yet many cheer them because they rob your tax gatherers and try at times to protect the people from the Angrborn. Let those people have companies that are truly free, Your Majesty, and not outlaws. Teach them to arm themselves and choose knights from their number. Your tax gatherers come seldom; but when they come, they take all, for your people there are poor and few. Let them pay a fixed tribute instead, one not ruinous. Help and protect them, and you will find them richer and more numerous each year, and strong friends to your throne. Queen Disiri, and the kings who send me—”

“Have no claim upon your allegiance,” Arnthor said. “I do. Are betrayal and sedition the reforms you would have me encourage?”

“No, never.” His eyes told me I had failed, but I made a last effort. “The King of Skai rules as a father, Your Majesty, and because he does we name him the Valfather and count it honor to serve him even when defeat is sure. The Aelf ask that of you.”

Arnthor held out his hand. “Take off your sword belt, Sir Able. Surrender belt, sword, and all to your king.”

I heard Gaynor gasp but did as I had been told.

“Your spurs you may keep.” He called two knights, and told them where they were to take me. Although they guarded me with drawn swords, they had no need of them.

“No royal banquet here,” said the first of the knights who had escorted me to the dungeon. He sheathed his sword and offered me his hand. “I’m Sir Manasen.” The other gave me his hand as well.

A gaoler came up as we were talking, and Manasen told him he had to put me in a cell at the king’s order but that he was not to mistreat me, adding that he would send a servant with food, blankets, and clean straw.

After that I was locked in a cell with walls of living rock, reeking, narrow, and very dark; and left alone there, I suppose, for eight hours. I entertained myself during that time by repeating those parts of my message I had succeeded in delivering, considering those that I had not, and trying to imagine how I might have spoken more skillfully.

Mercifully I was interrupted by the arrival of Manasen’s servingman, with food, a great bundle of clean straw, and a jug of wine. After he delivered them, he argued with the gaoler, demanding that I be given a cell with a window. This the gaoler adamantly refused, insisting that such cells were reserved for prisoners of noble birth.

I heard them with little attention, although with enough to resolve that I would obtain such a cell for myself as soon as I could. I had not eaten much at the king’s table, and by that time was ravenous. The food Manasen had sent to me was simple—roast beef, bread, a slab of cheese, and an apple—but it was good and plentiful, and I devoured every scrap.

I was gnawing the core of the apple when the servingman left and the gaoler came in. He was a burly man armed with an iron key not much shorter than my shin, but I knew I could overpower him if I wanted. He sat without being invited, put his key and his lantern on the floor beside him, and asked if he could have some wine. I poured him a good round tumbler.

“They think pretty well of you up there.”

“Sir Manasen and Sir Erac spoke kindly to me, at least.”

“It’s good to have friends when you’re down here.” This was said with heavy significance.

I nodded. “It’s good to have friends everywhere. I had many good friends in Jotunland and a good many more in Skai.”

He passed over Skai without a thought. “The ice lands? Was you really there?”

“This winter. Believe me, I was glad to get out.”

“Is everything big up there? Big cows and all?”

“No,” I said, “only the people, and not all of them, because the Angrborn have human slaves. There’s a dungeon under Utgard. I was never a prisoner there, but I went to look at it. I don’t know how big your dungeon is here, but I’d assume it was bigger, since the prisoners were Angrborn. It was certainly worse than this has been up ‘til now.”

He gulped my wine. “I’d like to see it.”

“Perhaps someday you will. It was a terrible place, as I said, but there were few prisoners in it. I was told that King Gilling had generally executed those who opposed him.”

The gaoler shook his head. “Not like that with us, only we’re not full up, neither.”

“Some of your cells have windows. I’d like one.”

His manner stiffened at once. “We can’t do that, sir. Just noble prisoners.”

“I’m a knight.”

“I know. It ain’t enough.”

“I would be willing to pay a modest rent.”

“We was goin’ to talk about that, soon as I’d finished this wine.” He did, emptying the tumbler.

I poured what remained in the jug into it.

“You see, some’s treated one way, some another. You take my meaning, I know. Now you, you got friends. When he come with straw and what you et, I never made no objection, you’ll notice. I let him in nice as could be, didn’t I?”

“Certainly, and I appreciate it.”

“I knew you would. You’re a knight and a gentleman, as anybody can see. Only I didn’t have to. I coulda kept him out. I coulda said you get a order from the Earl Marshal, and we’ll see. His master might have got such in a day or two, but if he’d told his lackey to, it’d been never.”

I nodded.

“I’m a kindly man, but a poor man too. A poor man, sir, can’t be kindly for free.”

His lantern, as I ought to have said earlier, shone out through my door, which stood open behind him, casting yellow light on the wall opposite. For an instant something large, dark, and very quiet obscured that wall and was gone.

I asked how much his kindness cost.

“Only one scield a month, sir. That’s not much, now is it, sir? For one scield—silver, mind—at the full of the moon, you’d find me kind, and helpful too, sir. Only I can’t give you one with a window. Not for that nor more, sir. It’s the Earl Marshal. He won’t allow it.”

“Yes he will. Does he come down here often?”

“Every fortnight, sir, and makes sure all’s right.”

“That should be sufficient. The moon is full now, isn’t it? I believe I noticed a full moon the other night.”

The gaoler licked his lips. “Yes, sir. It is.”

“Then my first month’s payment must be due.”

“Yes, sir. Always, sir. Or I count from the dark of it, sir, or the quarter-full, or whatever.”

“I understand.” I nodded. “There’s twenty-four scields in a scepter, I believe?”

“Course there are.” He licked his lips again.

“Are you a man of your word? A man of honor?”

“Yes, sir. I try to be, sir.”

“That’s all any of us can say. I’m Sir Able—you know that. May I ask your own name?”

“Fiach, sir. At your service.”

I got out one of the big gold coins of Jotunland. “This holds more gold than a scepter. Since I don’t know how much, I’m going to call it twenty-four scields. Will you agree?”

“Not ‘til I see it, sir.”

I handed it to him. He polished it on his sleeve, held it so his lantern made the gold glow, bit it, and gave it back. “Seems right enough, sir. I’ll try and get ’em.”

I shook my head. “I’m going to offer you a bargain. You sell kindness at a scield a month, so this would buy two years’ worth. More, but we’ve agreed on two years. I’ll give you this for your kindness as long as I’m in here. For three years or five. But if I’m released in a week, you’ll owe me nothing. The gold will be yours and we’ll part as friends.”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“We don’t do like that.”

I suppose I sighed. “You and the other gaolers?”

He rose, picking up his key and his lantern. “You don’t understand how it is. You give me a scield.”

“I haven’t got one. I left small payments to my squire. He’ll give you one if you’ll let him in to see me.”

He grunted, started to leave, and turned again. “Give me that, an’ I’ll fetch you the scields, like I said.”

I shook my head.

“You think your friends’ll stand by you. I know how that is. They’ll come awhile. Then they won’t come no more and we’ll have it all.” With his big iron key, he pointed to the burse at my belt.

I was tempted to say I would escape before any such thing happened. Perhaps I should have.

“You lick those dishes, sir, ’cause that’s the last good food you’re goin’ to see for years.”

I said nothing.

“You give me that, and I’ll take it to a moneymonger. If he says it’s good, you’ll get twenty back. And kindness.”

He paused, but I did not speak; and at length he said, “It’ll be ours before the year’s out, and I won’t waste any more breath on you.”

The door of bars crashed shut behind him, and I watched him twist his big key in the lock. I was of half a mind to call out to Org to spare him, and of half a mind to call out that he might have him; in the end, I did neither.

I heard Fiach walk away, six steps maybe, or seven; after those, the cracking of his bones.

When I judged Org’s meal over, I got him to unlock my door and hide the key and went out to explore my dungeon.