Cyrion, page 34
“Tell me,” Roilant said, “tell me truly, what you have got from this affair?”
Cyrion smiled his angelic smile.
“The delight of aiding you, my dear. Plus whatever delirious fee you mean to press into my outstretched hand.”
“A fee you have never attempted to discuss with me.”
“Have I not? A sad lapse.”
“Which implies you do not care what you are paid, or if you are paid. Which in turn implies—”
“The thrill of the chase is its own reward?” Cyrion was fastidious. “How disastrously inane.”
Roilant came to his feet.
“I am due to see the governor. Valia’s body has been—is ready for traveling, I understand. I shall probably press on directly to Heruzala afterwards. There seems little point in dawdling here. I shall be sending letters to Eliset, of course, and money. The full allowance she has long been entitled to.”
“Should you not,” said Cyrion, “tell her this yourself?”
“I think I have done enough. I told her Mevary was dead in the cavern, and that Valia—Eliset has shut herself away. She will have nothing but scorn for me. Hatred perhaps. I could have had her as my wife. Everything she said was the truth. Yes, I am aware she has had lovers. Damn them. What do I care. But then. I am—or I was—contracted to a lady in Heruzala, who will tally with me far better, having—”
“Having convinced yourself your worth is so negligible only a plain and undemanding woman will tolerate you,” supplied Cyrion mercilessly.
Roilant gave way to an unusual violence.
“Be silent!” he shouted. “Confound you, what are you? A daisy crossed with a razor—some kind of hybrid of Heaven and the Pit? You have done my work. This is no longer your concern.”
“Actually—”
“Silent!” roared Roilant again. And picking up the wine jar, he flung it at Cyrion. Who leisurely ducked. Meeting one of the five intact pavilion doors, the jar smashed through it, and took it tidily off its hinges. With a bang, the door fell out on to the roof and ivory splattered.
Roilant, without another word, stalked through the new doorway he had made, thus giving it all a purpose. At the edge of the roof he said, “your remuneration will be sent to you.”
“Oh?” said Cyrion, “and where will you send it?”
“To the Olive Tree Inn. So you had better get back there.”
Ten minutes later Roilant, trailed by his guard, was riding toward Cassireia in one of the most explicable and least common foul tempers of his life.
Untouched by all these things, the decadent landscape of Flor burgeoned through the morning, stilled and drowsed into the depth of afternoon. Inside the thick green walls of the orchard, the orchestrated insects buzzed, glutted and fell dizzily down; the fruit smoldered on the boughs and in the grass, sending up its winey smokes.
Eliset, no longer shut in her chamber, but shut instead within this viridian sun-cellar of propagation and rottenness, stood like a white statue green-jeweled by light through leaves, breathing, being, gazing, as if she had opened her eyes on it from a hundred years of sleep.
Green-gold her hair, too, gilt where the sun directly hit it, and the wakened eyes dark with their awareness. Her dress was the shabby dress in which Cyrion had first seen her, stained now across the hem with the liquors of the broken fruits. If she was joyful, or if she was serene, or if she grieved, these things were not written anywhere about her. She merely was; a matched facet of the place and the hour.
And when Cyrion, without a sound, stepped through a break in the crowded trees ahead of her, she made no move toward him or away, or anywhere.
“You create,” he said quietly, “a most captivating picture. It needs now only a pagan god to come out and startle you to make the tableau complete.”
“A pagan god,” she mused. “Surely, one has.”
He said, “Roilant has gone to Cassireia.”
“I know. It seems I must presently effect mourning, after all. Mevary and Valia. A show, nothing else. I do not mourn. The business will, in any case, be hushed up.”
“Without a doubt. I gather even Harmul has been bribed and sent away. Zimir and Dassin one predicts would fare likewise, if unearthed.”
“And so I shall be unencumbered at last, to pursue my life, alone—in this ruin. You see, I have had to face the truth. I love Flor, but Flor is dead. I have been clinging to a corpse, thinking I should lose it. Now, it seems I am condemned not to. How ungrateful. Yes, there is beauty here. My past is here. Perhaps I can be content. But there have been too many battles on this ground. Every sweet thing I see reminds me of some other thing, which is bitter.”
Cyrion said nothing.
“I imagine,” she said, “creature of action that you are, you must find me despicable. My great fault all along has been that I have deliberately averted my glance from everything that went on here, made myself, as best I could, unknowing. It seemed the only manner of survival. To agree to everything. To simper, to praise, to do all I was bid—even to assisting at an illegal burial. Ah, my blind reliance. I had faith that if I did not note it, the nightmare might pass me by. It has. And I am left with—very little. Well, I shall haunt here, then. With the ghosts.”
“In which you believe?”
“I believe there are ghosts here. Oh, not those others I paid lip-service, those riots I assumed to be orgyings of Mevary’s and Jhanna’s—Valia’s. I feared some obscene practice of witchcraft, also, and hid from it, of course. When you related the dreams which had brought you—brought Roilant—to Flor . . . I wondered if she had somehow set them on you, at Mevary’s direction. You see, I do not credit magic, but the force of a dedicated, evil mind—that I do credit, and she, Jhanna, Valia—I feared her from the moment she entered the house. His strumpet, as I was, as he had made me, waiting on me, trying to prize from me any confidence, any weakness. I gave her nothing. She was like a cold whispering at my back.” Eliset waited a moment. Then she read, “there is another cold whispering now—my father. I read your letter, as you knew I would. It made no mention of Gerris. Was he poisoned?”
“It may be.”
“By my uncle.”
“I see you do not ask it as a question. He is the most likely candidate.”
She turned very gradually away from him, averting her glance literally as she had metaphorically described the gesture less than a minute before. Presently she said: “I recall, when I snatched your wine at our hideous wedding banquet, you seemed disturbed. Did you reckon me poisoned, also?”
“It was possible. Someone had sugared one of the cups. I was at that point unsure which.”
“So, you had accepted my innocence by then, after our dramatic dialogue in Cassireia market-place?”
“Not exactly. There has, Eliset, always remained one fragment of this charming puzzle that stayed stubbornly unhoused. This item has tended to implicate you. A riddle. Regardless of your radiant unblame, I could not swear you were not a sorceress.”
“And can you swear it now? Should I tremble?”
“I said, a riddle. I trust I have the answer to it.”
“And I am absolved.”
“You are absolved. Except, it may have some bearing on your future life.”
She waited. A bird began to flute among the leaves. Rather than tell her the solution to the mystery, Cyrion began to tell her about the bird, the method of its song, its colors, its migrations.
Eliset listened in astonishment. After a short interval, she found herself walking beside him through the fermenting heart of the orchard. He informed her of the properties of a variety of flowers they went by, and catching a glimpse through the tangled trunks of the old Remusan wall, he spoke to her of the Remusans.
His voice, so melodious and so flawlessly articulated, almost hypnotized her. The lessons were easy. In some extraordinary way, she felt she would never now forget how that little bird flew to Kyros and Askandris in the winter, or that the white flower reckoned a cure for insomnia, or that a Remusan officer, enervated by midsummer heat, had cut into the stone of an antique cook-shop at Teboras the words: Legionaries roasted here.
But then she said, “This is a curious conversation we are having.”
“Oh,” he said, “I think there has been enough blood and pillage for a day or so. Sameness is a fearsome thing.”
At which juncture, they broke from the orchards entirely, and came out on the dry lawn before the slope. Ahead, the land rose, browning, to the faded hornbeam tree, the ramshackle mansion, the leaning tower, the vista of the sea beyond, which abashed the rest by its unruined splendor.
Eliset took in the view.
“The dowry of Flor. Only consider. If you had honestly married me, instead of by a sham, all this might have been yours.”
“And only consider what a worthless husband you would have received in exchange.”
“I supposed you were Roilant.”
“Did you?”
She looked at him, into his eyes. “You know I did.”
He acquiesced, “I thought you did. In retrospect, I wonder. But I have neither proof nor logic to back me, this time.”
Her eyes were lowered. “Very well then. Since you make no demand you shall have it gratis. Naturally, I continued to perform my part, to ignore my discovery as I ignored all else which might be dangerous. It could have been some game of Mevary’s. Or Roilant’s. For I knew you were not he. It was more than intuition.”
“What gave me away?” he said. And then, so softly she scarcely heard it, “Eliset?”
She raised her eyes again. The sun filled them with every blue nuance current on earth.
“On the cliff,” she said. “Your kiss betrayed you.”
“Because he would not have kissed you.”
“Because it was not the kiss of Roilant.”
“And still you wed me, an impostor.”
“I guessed by then the ceremony would be invalid. Though I was afraid enough that I begged you to remain that night at Flor.”
“Dreading I would claim a husband’s rights.”
She said, “Not afraid of that. A succession of men have forced themselves upon me.”
“And I merely one more.”
“And you, at last, one I would have chosen, gladly.”
Her pride, her equilibrium seemed untouched by what she had said, only her heartbeat flashed whiteness from her throat like the shaking of a petal to and fro.
Cyrion’s hands, no longer those of a swordsman, now those of a musician, came lightly to her brow, her hair, her mouth. She closed her eyes as his lips followed them. As his arms came about her, she drifted, and just for an instant remembered that pleasure is only the passing of a season, before she forgot everything save the man who held her. Forgot even the warmth of the distant sun, the singing of the small bird that in winter would fly away into the desert.
* * *
• • •
On a certain street of Heruzala named Fortress, owing to its proximity to an old Remusan prison, stood a selection of ornate houses now in decline. Once a fashionable area, the high walls and heavily barred gateways, spoke of riches past One house on Fortress Street was of unique concern, to Roilant of Beucelair, if to no one else. It was the domicile that contained his elected lady, she whom he had renounced only that he might protect her from the spells of Eliset—or, in recent parlance, of Valia.
Very early on a summer morning, Roilant’s lady was thrown into a flurry by the announcement that a red-haired gentleman had called on her.
She was thrown into a greater flurry when, on entering the room, she discovered another than the one she had looked for.
Cyrion bowed exactly.
“Excuse me, Madam,” he said. “I am ashamed to admit I may have gained an audience under false pretenses.”
Roilant’s lady recovered her composure rapidly. Her unbeautiful, pleasant face realigned itself. She said, “Indeed, I should have guessed it was not Roilant. His letter stipulated he would be here at noon. He might have been a little late, but certainly never indecorously early. My maid, also, is not given to evasive jokes. Rolling her eyes and squeaking of a red-headed visitor seemed somewhat unnatural, not to mention unaesthetic.”
Cyrion smiled.
“You are being very gracious, in the teeth of your disappointment. For I realize how severe your disappointment must be that I am not Roilant.” Cyrion gravely paused. “You gather, of course, he means to ask you to be his wife, at last.”
“I—” the lady flushed. “His letter appeared to indicate this would be so. His betrothal to the Lady Eliset—”
“—Seems to have proven invalid. I trust you will not judge me forward should I offer my felicitations?”
“Not—at all.” The lady’s mouth grew firmer. “And certainly not, if you will explain who you are and why you are here.”
“We may come to that,” said Cyrion. “But indulge me a moment.”
“Why should I, pray?”
“Because what I recount may be of value to you.”
Roilant’s lady folded her hands and sat down. Nothing gave her away, except that her fingers were a jot too tightly interlaced, as if anxious something might get out between them. Or m.
“Well?”
“Well,” said Cyrion. “Roilant will not have troubled you with this matter, but before he abandoned his—dare I say?—his sincere determination to protest affinity to yourself, in favor of his betrothal vow to Eliset, a number of abnormal events occurred. Firstly, it would seem the Lady Eliset began to haunt him, reminding him of his adolescent promises. Along with the haunting went a variety of oddments—talismans whirling through the air, dried petals falling on his pillow.”
“Perhaps,” said Roilant’s lady, grimly, “the phenomena were caused by a guilty conscience at his desertion of her. And may therefore still plague him, may they not?”
“The phenomena were caused by witchcraft,” said Cyrion. “A very adept witch, able to bend illusion to her will, and with the energetic power to put inanimate objects into motion. I will admit, I am impressed by her skill.”
“Yes,” said Roilant’s lady, “if you believe in such things, you would be impressed. On the other hand, allowing for magics, such items as those keepsakes Eliset once sent to Roilant might well be imbued by their own vitality, and able themselves to reproach him.”
“Then you knew the talisman, the flowers, were keepsakes she had sent?”
Roilant’s lady checked. Again, she reddened.
“He told me, in confidence, some of what passed between them. And that these things had gone to him.”
“The talisman, then, and the flowers. But a pair of cheap gloves seems not to have been mentioned. Otherwise, I am sure, you would not have omitted them.”
“Gloves? No, he did not say she had given him gloves. But what concern is this of mine? Of yours?”
“Tell me,” inquired Cyrion, “are you really prepared to condemn yourself, and him, to a miserable match, simply because your father somewhat likes the notion, and your sorceries have failed?”
Roilant’s lady came to her feet. If she had been in a flurry at the onset, she was now in a tumult. Her cheeks were scarlet and her clasped hands bloodless.
“What are you saying?”
“You know quite well what I am saying.” Cyrion moved to admire the view from a window that looked from its grill on a disheveled garden of rose briers.
“I do not. I—”
“To be plain. Though you have been most adroit, there are one or two avenues you missed. To begin with, even pragmatic Roilant, seeing visions, unsuccessfully ducking amulets, suspected not his conscience or God’s foible, and had them investigated. The fellow who did so assured him witchcraft lay thick upon the chamber. This settled, Roilant must suppose Eliset the witch. I take it you never heard sorcerous rumors concerning the lady, and that Roilant honorably did not mention them, or you might have thought of this yourself. Now, Roilant has discovered that Eliset is guiltless of spell-making, and blames another lady. But I myself have seen that particular lady’s magic in practice. It was not much. Without resort to chemicals and portions, her talent was sadly limited. Though she might have boasted to herself she had the force of will to accomplish what was accomplished against Roilant, she did not. And there is another thing. Since definite objects were employed in the psychic visitations—talismans, flowers—one must deduce whoever worked the spell knew of them. Eliset naturally knew. She had sent the gifts herself. But Eliset was not the sorceress. While the second lady I spoke of is highly unlikely to have known. Roilant could not have told her. Eliset would have kept them secret both from the woman and from her other cousin, Mevary, neither of whom had she any reason to take as confidant. I was also struck by the form of the vision, which made Eliset slender and golden-haired, yet left a blur in the region of her face. Neither did she, in the vision, say a word. Her declaration was written, most spectacularly, on the air. A problem then. Who might be privy to such details as Eliset’s coloring and Eliset’s private gifts—and yet understandably without such details as the physiognomy and voice of one never met?”
There was a slight delay, during which Cyrion courteously examined the roses, while a series of expostulations took place. Then, resuming, “These, I am afraid, are the facts. But what can be the motive? It seems you do not desire to wed unlucky Roilant after all. When you saw the way the wind of his affections blew, you flushed with alarm, just as you are doing now. Which unfortunately, he took as a blush of consent. Thereafter you utilized your most impressive powers to send him from your course back to the old one. Recall his duty, marry Eliset, and he would not bother you.”
The mouth of Roilant’s lady had come open. Rather than stay in this position, she spoke.
