“O-o-oh,” Tambilis moaned. “Oh, beloved, beloved, beloved!” By the first faint dawnlight Gratillonius saw her face contorted beneath him, nostrils flared, mouth stretched wide, yet ablaze with beauty.
He never quite lost awareness of Forsquilis’s caresses, they were in the whole of the tempest, but it was Tambilis whose hips plunged to meet his, whose breasts and flanks his free hand explored, until he roared aloud and overleaped the world with her.
Afterward they lay side by side, she dazedly smiling from a cloud of unbound hair. Her body glimmered dim against the darkness that still filled most of the chamber. Her heartbeat slugged down toward its wonted rhythm.
Forsquilis raised herself to an elbow on his left side. Her locks flowed to make a new darkness and fragrance for him as she lowered her head and gave him a kiss. It went on, her tongue flickering and teasing, before she said from deep in her throat: “Me next.”
“Have mercy,” he chuckled. “Give me a rest.”
“You’ll need less than you think,” Forsquilis promised, “but take your ease a while, do.”
She crouched over him. Hands, lips, erected nipples roved. He lay back and savored what she did. Not for a long time had he brought more than a single Queen to the Red Lodge. Indeed, the last few months he had stood his Watches alone, save for men with whom he did business or practiced fighting, as troublous a year as this had been. Now, though, he had his victories. Of course a difficult stretch was ahead; but he felt confident of coping. Let him celebrate. Let him, also, affirm to Ys that King and Gallicenae were not estranged. Vindilis alone—but he suspected she had largely been glad of an excuse to terminate a relationship they both regarded as mere duty. If anything, she ought in due course to feel more amicable toward him than erstwhile. The fears that Lanarvilis and Innilis nursed would dwindle away when nothing terrible happened. As for the rest of the Nine—
Forsquilis straddled his thighs and rubbed his organ against her soft fur. By the slowly strengthening light he saw her look at him through slitted eyes and her tongue play over her teeth. Eagerness quickened in him. He reached to fondle her. Tambilis, having gotten back some control over her own joints, rolled onto her belly and sprawled across the great bed, watching with interest. There was no jealousy among the Sisters.
Astonishingly soon, even for a King of Ys, Gratillonius hardened. Forsquilis growled, raised herself, moved forward and down again, slipped him in. She undulated. Presently she galloped. Tambilis slid over to lie across him, give him herself to hold close while he thrust upward. Forsquilis’s hands sought her too.
In the end they rested happily entangled and let the sun come nearer heaven. He wondered if his sweat smelled as sweet to them as theirs to him. The chill of its drying was pleasant, like washing in a woodland spring. Well, he should soon be free again to range the woods, far into Osismia, riding, hunting, or simply enjoying their peace. The peace for which poor Corentinus yearned. How Corentinus would regard the scene here! Wicked, damned Ys. Gratillonius smiled a little sadly. He had grown fond of the old fellow. And grateful to him for counsel and help over the years. A strong man, Corentinus, and wise, and in touch with Powers of his own; but this he would never allow himself to understand….
“When shall we start anew?” asked Tambilis from Gratillonius’s right shoulder.
“Hold on!” he laughed. “At least let’s break our fast.”
Forsquilis took her head off his left shoulder. “Aye,” she said, “we may start getting visitors, insistent dignitaries, early from the city. ’Twould disadvantage us did our stomachs rumble at them.”
They sought the adjacent, tiled room. Its sunken bath had been filled but not yet heated. They frolicked about in the bracing cold like children. Having toweled each other dry, they dressed and went out into the hall. Servants were already astir, hushed until they saw that the master had awakened. The carvings on the pillars seemed sullenly alive in the gloom, which hid the banners hung overhead.
“We will eat shortly,” Gratillonius told the steward. To the Queens: “Abide a span, my dears.” That was needless. They had their devotions to pay, he his.
He went outside. Dew shimmered on the flags of the Sacred Precinct, leaves of the Challenge Oak, brazen Shield. A few birds twittered in the Wood. He walked forth onto Processional Way, where he had an unobstructed view of the hills. Streamers of mist smoked across the meadow beyond. The sky was unutterably clear. Between its headlands, Ys gleamed, somehow not quite real—too lovely?
Gratillonius faced east. The sun broke blindingly into sight. He raised his arms. “Hail, Mithras Unconquered, Savior, Warrior, Lord—”
Praying, he began through the silence to hear footfalls draw near, light, a single person’s, likely a woman’s. Abruptly they broke into a run, pattering, flying. Did she seek the King to ask justice for some outrage? She must wait till he was done here. He ought not think about her while he honored his God.
“Father! Oh, father!”
She seized his right arm and dragged it down. Dumbfounded, he turned. Dahut cast herself against him. Embracing him around the neck, she kissed him full on the mouth.
He lurched. “What, what?”
She stepped back to shiver and skip before him. Her gown was dew-drenched, earth-stained, her tresses swirled tangled, her cheeks were flushed and radiance was in her eyes. “Father, father,” she caroled, “I am she! I could wait no longer, you had to know it from me, father, beloved!”
For a moment he could not feel the horror. It was like being sworded through the guts. A man would stare, uncomprehending. He would need a few heartbeats’ worth of blood loss before he knew.
“Behold!” Dahut took wide-legged stance and tugged at her dress under the throat. The lacing was not fastened. The cloth parted. For the first time he saw her breasts bared, firm, rosy-tipped, a delicate tracery of blue in the whiteness. They were just as he remembered her mother’s breasts. The same red crescent smoldered between them.
Whatever was on his countenance sobered Dahut a trifle. She closed the garment and said, carefully if shakily, “Oh, ’tis sorrow that Fennalis is gone, but not sorrow either, she suffered so and now she is free. The Gods have chosen. Blessed be Their names.”
Again joy overwhelmed her. She snatched both his hands. “’Tis you will be my King, you, you! How I have dreamed, and hoped, and prayed—I need not lose you. Ys need not. Nay, together we’ll make the new Age!”
The ice congealed within him, or the molten metal, it did not matter which. “Dahut,” he heard himself say, word by dull word, “daughter of Dahilis, I love you. But as any father loves his child. This thing cannot be.”
She gripped his hand harder. “I know your fear,” she answered fiercely. “I’ve been awake all night, and—and earlier I’ve thought about it, oh, how often. You recall what happened to Wulfgar. But you’re no ignorant Saxon. You know better than to cringe before a, a superstition. The Gods chose you too, you, father, King, husband, lover.”
Was she Dahilis reborn? Dahilis had been almost this same age. No, he must win time for himself. “Go,” he said. “Into the house. Two of your—two Gallicenae are there. Is it not seemliest you declare it first to them? There are rites and—Meet me later this morning, you Sisters, and well talk of what’s to be done.”
He pulled free of her and shoved her toward the Sacred Precinct. She seemed bewildered at his action. Before she could recover he was striding off, as fast as might be without running, to Ys. Abandoning the Wood before the three days and nights of full moon were up was mortal sin, unless urgency arose. He must assemble the legionaries at once, and any other men he could trust.
The barge that carried Maldunilis back from Sena had not brought Innilis to replace her. Instead, the Nine forgathered at the Temple of Belisama. “Aye, the Nine,” said Vindilis grimly.
Summoned, Gratillonius arrived about noon. He came alone, onto the Goddess’s own ground, but in red robe with the Wheel emblazoned on his breast and the Key hanging out of sight. A hush fell wherever his big form passed along the streets. None dared address him. Rumors buzzed through Ys like wasps from a nest kicked open. He hailed no one.
Elven Gardens lay deserted under the sun. The blossoms, hedges, topiaries, intricate winding paths where sculptures sprang forth, were outrageously beautiful. The towers of Ys gleamed athwart the horns of land, the sea reached calm and blue save where it creamed over skerries or among the rocks around the distant island. Hardly a sound arose other than his tread on the shell and gravel.
He climbed the steps to the building that was like the Parthenon though subtly alien to it. Between the bronze doors he passed, into the foyer adorned with mosaics of the Mother’s gifts to earth. Under-priestesses and vestals waited to greet the King. Their motions were stiff and those that must speak did so in near-whispers. Fear looked out of their pale faces.
Gratillonius followed the corridors along the side, around the sanctum to the meeting chamber at the rear. Gray-green light from its windows brought forth the reliefs in stone that covered the four walls: Belisama guided Taranis back from the dead to make His peace with Lir; amidst bees and airborne seeds, She presided over the act of generation; She stood triune, Maiden, Matron, and Crone; She rode the night wind on the Wild Hunt, leading the ghosts of women who died in Childbed. Almost as phantomlike seemed the blue robes and high white headdresses of the Nine who sat benched before the dais.
The door closed behind him. He mounted the platform.
No word was spoken. He let his gaze seek left to right. Maldunilis, fat and frightened. Guilvilis, onto whose homely visage a smile timorously ventured. Tambilis, taut with woe. Bodilis, hollow-eyed, slumped in exhaustion. Lanarvilis, poised aquiver. Dahut. Vindilis, stiff, glowering. Innilis, huddled close beside her, striving not to shudder. Forsquilis, who had been aflame this dawn, a million years ago, gone altogether enigmatic.
Dahut could scarcely sit still. It was as if she were about to leap up and speed to him. Her fists clenched and unclenched. He saw her robe swell, wrinkle, swell to her breathing.
Six of those women had lain in his arms, again and again and again, from the first year of his Kingship; one since the end of that year; one, in shared pain, eleven years ago, then for the past eight years in joy. They had walked at his side, talked gravely or merrily, dealt food and wine and worship with him, quarreled and reconciled and worked with him for the guidance of Ys and the raising of the children they had given him. Now, because of the last and loveliest, they had become strangers.
“Greeting,” he said finally.
“Oh, greeting!” piped from Guilvilis. Lanarvilis frowned and made a hushing gesture.
She would force Gratillonius to speak first. So be it. He braced himself. His back arched between the shoulderblades. That was no way for a soldier, tightening up, but this was no battle such as he had ever fought before. His mouth felt dry. He had, though, marshalled some words beforehand, as he had marshalled his fighting men—Christians, Mithraists—who stood by at the palace. Let him deploy them.
“We’ve a heavy matter on hand,” he said. His voice sounded harsh in his ears. “I do not weep for Fennalis, nor suppose you will. She was a good soul who lay too long in torment. We can be glad she is released, and hope she is rewarded. Many people will miss her, and remember how she served them.”—in her cheerful, bustling, often awkward, always loving way.
Vindilis’s countenance showed scorn. He could well-nigh hear the gibe: Are you quite done with your noble sentiments?
“Because I respect you, I’ll come straight to the point,” he told her and her Sisters. “YTour Gods have seen fit to lay the Sign upon my daughter Dahut. They surely know—as you do who’ve known me this long—that I cannot and will not wed her. My own God forbids. It is not a thing on which I may yield or compromise. If we all understand this at the outset, we can go on to understand what your Gods intend. You yourselves have found portents of a new Age coming to birth in Ys. This must be its first cry. Let us heed, and take counsel together.”
Dahut snatched for air. Tears brimmed her lapis lazuli eyes. “Nay, father, you cannot be so cruel!” Her anguish was a saw cutting him across. He held himself firm between the sawhorses.
Lanarvilis caught the girl’s hand. “Calm, darling, calm,” the Queen murmured. To Gratillonius, coldly: “Aye, we foreknew what you would say, and have already taken counsel. Now hear us.
“What the Gods ordain for Ys, we dare not seek to foresee. Yet the purpose of this that has happened is clear. It is to chasten you, traitor King, and bring you back to the ancient Law.
“In your first year you broke it, you sinned against each of the Three. You refused the crown of Taranis. You buried a corpse on Lir’s headland. You held a rite of your woman-hating God in water sacred to Belisama. Patient were They—though little you ken of what the Gallicenae underwent to win Their pardon for you.
“Your behavior could have been due to rashness, or ignorance; you were young and a foreigner. Likewise, one might overlook your contumacies throughout the years that followed. There were necessities upon you, Rome, the barbarians, even the requirements of that God you would not put from you.
“But thrice again have you sinned, Gratillonius. Against Taranis—aye, ’twas years ago, but you denied Him His sacrifice when you spared your Rufinus—Taranis, Whose own blood was shed that earth might live. The chastisements that came upon you, you shrugged off.”
“I should think Taranis wants manliness in men,” Gratillonius interrupted. “If we had a dispute, ’tis been composed.”
Vindilis took the word: “The Gods do not forget. But They kept Their patience. Lately you defiled Lir’s grounds with your bullslaying, in the teeth of His storm. Still the Gods withheld Their wrath. Now, at last, They require your obedience. This maiden They chose for the newest queen of Ys—and belike the brightest, most powerful, since Brennilis herself. Dare you defy Belisama too?”
“I seek no trouble with Gods or men,” he protested.
“You’ll have it abundant with men also,” Lanarvilis warned. “The city will tear you asunder.”
Gratillonius hunched his shoulders, deepened his voice: “I think not. I am the King, civil, martial, and sacral.” Quickly, he straightened where he stood and mildened his tone. “My dears—I dare yet call you dear to me—how can you know this is true what you’ve said? Why should the Gods force a crisis that splits us, just when we need unity as seldom erenow? For the dangers ahead are nothing as simple as a pirate fleet or a brigand army. I say Dahut is indeed the bearer of a new Age; but ’twill be an Age when Ys puts aside the savage old ways and becomes the Athens of the world.”
The girl bit her lip; blood trickled. She blinked and blinked her eyes. He longed, as he had rarely longed in his life, to hug her to him and comfort her, the pair of them alone. “Dahut,” he said, “hear me. I w-w-want your well-being. This thing would, would not be right. Nay, you’ll be the first princess, the first Queen, who was free to, well, to let her own prince find her.”
At the edge of attention, he saw Lanarvilis wince. Dahut shook her head and cried raggedly, “My King is the King of the Wood!”
Bodilis spoke, flat-voiced. “The wedding should be this day. Go through with it. That will calm the city. Afterward we—you will have time to decide.”
He felt heat in his brows, chill in his belly. “I know better than that. We twain would be led to the bridal chamber, and once there I would be helpless. First will I fall on my sword. Bodilis, I looked not for you to try and trick me.”
She shrank back into herself.
Tambilis stirred. “But is it so dreadful?” she pleaded. “You and I—we grew happy. ’Twas at my mother’s cost, but—why, Grallon? Why should we not welcome Dahut, whom we love, into our Sisterhood?”
“The law of Mithras forbids,” he answered with a surge of anger. “A man without law is a beast. Enough. I told you, this stands not to be altered. Shall we go on making noise, or shall we plan what to do for Ys?”
Vindilis bared teeth. “Because of your sacrilege on Point Vanis, I have denied my body to you,” she flung. “What if all we Nine do likewise? You can have no other woman.”
“And you, you would not be like Colconor, you would not,” Innilis quavered.
Gratillonius was mainly conscious of his sadness for Dahut. He made a one-sided smile. “Nay,” he said, “but I told you, a man ought to be more than a beast. I’ll have my duties to occupy me.”
“I’ll never forsake you!” Guilvilis half screamed.
Before anyone could reprove her, Forsquilis leaned forward. It was like a cat uncoiling. “Grallon, you have right, as far as you’ve bespoken it,” she said. “We do not know what this portends. I fear ’tis a war between Gods, but we do not know. King and Queens, Sisters, night is upon us, the stars have withdrawn and the moon has not risen. We must tread warily, warily.
“Grallon speaks truth. He cannot wed Dahut, not while he abides with Mithras. We may in time persuade him otherwise; or we may learn that his insight, into the Gods Who are not his, was better than ours. Neither outcome is possible for enemies. We can only find our way, whatever our way is, we can only find it together.
“I have no new omens. Mayhap none of us will be vouchsafed any. But this much 1 feel.”
“’Tis plain good sense,” Bodilis murmured.
“What should we do, then?” Maldunilis ventured, pitiably hopefully of an answer.
Forsquilis gave it: “Since this is a thing that never erstwhile came upon Ys, we have a right to be slow and careful. We must be honest before the people; I think then they will accept, although—” she actually flashed a grin—“The words we use to tell them, the show we put on for them, those must be artistry. Give Dahut her honors and dues as a Queen, of course; but let the wedding be postponed until the will of the Gods is more clear. Meanwhile, let us not weaken the sacred marriage by an open quarrel.
“I feel that thus we may win through to a resolving, to the new Age itself. But—”
Suddenly Forsquilis rose. Her skirts rustled with her haste as she went to Dahut. The girl got up, bewildered, to meet her. Forsquilis clasped Dahut close. “Oh, darling child,” she said, “yours will be the most hurtful part. I sense, it whispers in me, all that is to come will spring from you, how you bear your burdens and, and what road you choose to fare.”
Gratillonius saw his daughter cling hard to his wife, then step back with strength. His spirit went aloft, more than was really reasonable. “Gallicenae,” he said, “soon I must meet with spokesmen of the Suffetes. Can we decide what I shall tell them?”
In the event it was Soren whom he first saw, the two men by themselves in the private room of the palace.
“Nay,” Gratillonius declared, “I will not call another Council.”
“Why not?” Soren fairly snarled. They stood within fist range of each other and glared. Evening made dim the chamber, which brought forth the whiteness of Soren’s eyeballs, streaks in his beard, bald pate. “Dare you not go before us?”
“I’ll do that regardless later this month, at equinox. By then we’ll know better what’s to come of this, and we’ll have been thinking. I hope you and your kind will have been thinking. If we gathered earlier, ’twould be a shouting match, not only futile but dangerous.”
“You speak of danger, you who’d bring the curse of the Gods down on Ys?”
“Ah, do you sit among Them, that you are sure what They will do—what They can do? Have the Turones fallen to famine or plague since Bishop Martinus tore down their old halidoms and made Christians of them? Here I am, a mortal man; and I go daily out beneath the sky. Let the Gods strike at me if They choose. My business is with my fellow men.”
“Those may well become the instruments of the Gods, lest the whole nation suffer.”
Gratillonius shook his head and smiled without merriment. “Beware, Soren Cartagi. You think of the worst sacrilege, the murder of the blood-anointed King. I do not believe any Ysan would raise hand against me. That would destroy the very thing you’d fain preserve. Nay, I expect instead the people will rally behind me once they’ve heard my case and thought on it. For I am their leader, and I am their mediator with Taranis.”
“I’ve something else in mind,” Soren rasped.
Gratillonius nodded. “Aye. Another sequence of challenges from outside. Sooner or later I must fall. ’Tis been done in the past, when a King grew intolerable. But you will not do it; you will seek out your colleagues and make them refrain too, as the Gallicenae have already decided to refrain.”
Soren folded arms across his massive chest and compressed his lips before he said, “Explain why.”
“You know why, if you’ll stop to think. Ys is in peril from worse than Gods. I cannot provoke Governor Glabrio further by accusing him of connivance at the Frankish invasion, but there is no doubt. When I sent him a complaint against them, the reply was days late in coming, surly in tone, and dictated by Procurator Bacca—a studied insult. It berated me for attacking and killing subjects of the Emperor, rather than negotiating any differences between us. It said my ‘murderous blunder’ is being reported to the vicarius in Lugdunum, together with a list of my other malfeasances.”
Soren stood quiet while dusk deepened, until he said low: “Aye, we know somewhat of this.”
“You’d have seen the letter for yourselves as soon as my Watch in the Wood was up.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Send a letter of my own to Lugdunum, by the fastest courier Ys can supply. I may well have to go in person later and defend myself. That will be tricky, mayhap impossible. The Franks were unruly, but as laeti they provided Redonia its strongest defense. Now the flowers of them are reaped, the spirit of the rest broken. Ys remains obstinately pagan, its traders cause folk to desire more than the Empire provides, its freedom undermines subservience.
“Nevertheless, I am a Roman officer. Let Rome’s prefect here be slain, and that will be the very pretext Glabrio longs for. He could well persuade the Duke to order an invasion. At worst they’d be reprimanded afterward for exceeding their authority, and their part of the booty would doubtless be ample compensation for that.
“If you are wise, you will do whatever you can to keep challengers out of the Wood!”
“Can you win your case before the vicarius?” Soren asked slowly.
“I said ’twill belike prove harder than any combat for the Key. I am no diplomat, no courtier. But I do somewhat know my way through that labyrinth the government. And I do have influential friends, Bishop Martinus the nearest. It all makes me the sole man who has any hope of keeping Rome off.”
“Suppose you fail with the vicarius.”
“Well, I’ll not tamely let him revoke my commission. Above him is the praetorian prefect in Treverorum, to whom I’ll appeal,” Gratillonius reminded. “And beyond him is Flavius Stilicho, ruler of the West in all but name. He’s a soldier himself. I think likely he can be made to agree that Ys is worth more as an ally against the barbarians, however annoying to the state, than as a ruin. But he will want a fellow legionary overseeing it. And I am the only prefect who, as King, would command the support and obedience of the Ysan folk—and, at the same time, try to preserve the rights, the soul, of the city. Ys needs me.”
Soren brooded for a long spell. Gratillonius waited.
Finally the Speaker for Taranis said, “I fear you are right. I must get to work on your behalf, and afterward with you.”
“Good!” Gratillonius moved to give him the clasp of friendship.
Soren drew back. Sick hatred stared from the heavy visage. “Need drives me, naked need,” he said. “Perforce, in public I shall hold back the words about you that are in my heart. But know, beyond your damnable usefulness against your Romans, you have my curse, my wish for every grief in the world upon your head, blasphemer, traitor, wrecker of lives.”
He turned and departed.
The funeral barge stood out the sea gate on a morning ebb, bearing death’s newest harvest in Ys. Weather had turned gray and windy. Whitecaps on olive-hued waves rocked the broad hull and cast spindrift stinging across its deck. The evergreen wreath on the staff amidships dashed about at the end of its tether. Under the spiral-terminated sternpost, two steersmen had the helm and the coxswain tolled his gong, setting rhythm for the oarsmen below. By its copy forward, the captain kept lookout. Somberly clad deckhands went about their tasks. The dead lay shrouded on litters, a stone lashed to each pair of ankles, along the starboard rail. Elsewhere their mourners sat on benches or gathered in small groups, saying little. Among them on this trip were the King and the Gallicenae, who would be the priestesses because a Sister of theirs was going away.
Gratillonius stood apart, looking off to the dim streak that was Sena. Thus had he often traveled over the years, when someone fallen required special honor, since the day they buried Dahilis. Always at least one Queen had been at his side. Today none of them had spoken a word to him.
When out on deep water, the captain signalled halt. The gongbeat ceased, the rowers simply holding the vessel steady. A trumpeter blew a call that the wind flung away. The captain approached the Gallicenae and bowed to Lanarvilis, who was now the senior among them. Ritually, he requested that she officiate. She walked into the bows, raised her hands, and chanted, “Gods of mystery, Gods of life and death, sea that nourishes Ys, take these our beloved—”
When the invocation was done, she unrolled a scroll and from it read the names, in order of death. Each time, sailors brought that litter to a chute, Lanarvilis said, “Farewell,” the men tilted their burden and the body slid down over the side, into the receiving waves.
How small was Fennalis’s. Gratillonius had never thought of her like that.
At the end, the trumpet sounded again, a drum beneath. There was then a silence, for remembrance or prayer, until the captain cried, “About and home!” Oars threshed to the renewed gongbeat, the barge wallowed around, it crawled back toward the wall and towers of Ys.
Gratillonius felt he must pace. As he commenced, he saw that the Nine had partly dispersed. Dahut was alone at the starboard rail. His heart thuttered. Quickly, before he could lose courage, he went to her. “My dearest—” he began.
She swung avidly about. “Aye?” she exclaimed. “You’ve seen what’s rightful? Oh, Fennalis, may the Gods bear you straightway to my mother!”
Gratillonius retreated, appalled. “Nay,” he stammered, “you, you misunderstand, I only wanted to talk between us—when we land, a chance to explain—”
Her face whitened. So did her knuckles where they gripped the rail after she turned her back on him.
He left her and trudged, round and round, round and round.
A hand touched his. He grew aware that Guilvilis had joined him. Slow tears coursed over her cheeks. “You are so unhappy,” she said. The tip of her long nose wiggled. “Can I help? Is there aught I can do for you, lord, aught at all?”
He choked back wild laughter. She meant well. And this could be the start of healing the wound. Whether or no, at least with her he would not fail or flag, he could lose himself in the Bull—even closing his eyes and pretending, maybe—until he lost himself in sleep. “Aye,” he muttered. “Excuse yourself from any duties that wait and come to me at the palace.” It was where his armed men were. He did not require protection anymore, if ever he had, and soon he would dismiss them, but meanwhile their presence enabled him to overawe some of his angry visitors. “Be prepared to stay a goodly time.”
She sobbed for joy. That was the most sorrowful thing he had seen this day.
The marines and navy men returned, full of stories about their experiences. Their friends met them with tales to overwhelm those.
Herun Taniti came upon Maeloch and Cynan, among others, in a tavern. This was not their disreputable old haunt in the Fishtail, but the Green Whale. The skipper had prospered over the years, like most working men of Ys, while the naval officer and legionary had pay saved, together with proceeds from modest businesses they and their families conducted on the side.
After cheery greetings and a round of drink—
“Do folk truly, by and large, feel the King does right?” Herun asked. “I should think many would be cowering in fear. How shall the world now be renewed?”
“Well, the fish ha’ been running as plentiful as ever I saw, and no storms spoiled the crops, nor did rot strike once they were in, nor a murrain fall on the kine,” grunted Maeloch. “I’d say nature steers a straight course yet.”
“Such as I’ve talked with, whether Suffete or commoner, and they’re not few in my line of work, they’re becoming content again,” added Zeugit the landlord. This being a slack time of day, he could sit a while and gossip with these customers. “Many were alarmed at first, but when naught untoward happened, well, they’re apt to reckon that dealings with the Gods are for the King, and surely this King, before all Ys has had, knows what he does.”
“Young men sometimes get downright eager,” put in the courtesan Taltha. She was there as much for her learning and conversational abilities as for beauty and lovemaking. “They talk of a new Age, when Ys shall become glorious, aye, mayhap succeed Rome as mistress of the world.”
Zeugit glanced around. The room was spacious, clean, sunny, muraled with fanciful nautical images. Only one other of the tables had men benched at it, intent on their wine and a dice game. Nevertheless he dropped his voice.
“Truth is, few will avow it, but I think the faith of most has been shaken by what’s happened; and it could not be shaken so much had its roots not grown shallow. Well, this is a seaport. Under Grallon, ’tis become a busy seaport, strangers arriving from everywhere, with ways and Gods that are not those of our fathers, back when Ys lay for hundreds of years drawn into its shell. More and more of us fare abroad, and carry home not just goods but ideas. Aye, change is in the air, you can smell it like the sharpness before a lightning storm.”
“Men who’ve come to think ’twas not Taranis but Mithras Who appeared on Point Vanis, they’re starting to seek initiation into that cult,” Taltha said. “Myself, I’ll stay with Banba, Epona—They are female. They will hear me.” She signed herself. “And Belisama, of course. But it may well be that She has a unique destiny in mind for Princess Dahut.”
“Well, between us, I might seek out Mithras too,” Zeugit confessed, “save that ’twould harm my business. Also, I’m a bit old for learning new mysteries, or for that little branding iron. No disrespect, sir,” he said to Mithraist Cynan.
“No offense taken,” replied the soldier in his solemn fashion. “We seek no converts like the Christians, who’d conscript them. The legionaries of Mithras are all volunteers.” He paused. “Indeed, lately the King sent a man back who’d fain enlist.”
“What, was he unworthy?” asked Herun. “I’ve heard the cult will take none who’re guilty of certain crimes and vices.”
Cynan smiled a bit. “We’re not prigs. You ken me. Nay, this is an old comrade of mine from Britannia, Nodens, we’ve marched and messed and worked and fought and talked and gotten drunk together for twenty years or more! I’ll name no names. But he is a Christian, like most in our unit. After the battle, he having seen the vision, he went and sought acceptance by Mithras. Gratillonius—I was there, as it happened—he told this man nay. He was very kind, the way our centurion can be when ’tis called for. But he said, first, this man has a wife and children to think about, here in Ys. If he should travel into Roman country, or the Romans come hither, and they learned he was apostate, it might go hard with his family as well as himself. Second, said Gratillonius, this man is sworn to Christ, and on the whole has had a good life. A man should stand by his master or his God, as long as that One stands him true.”
“Well spoken,” murmured Herun. He stared into his cup. “Although I must think, I must think deeper—” Raising his glance: “What say you, Maeloch?”
The fisher shrugged. “Let each do what he deems right, whatever it be, and we need think no less of him,” he answered. “Me, I’ll abide with the old Gods. To do else would be to break faith with the dead.”
Dahut inherited the house that had been Fennalis’s, and immediately set about having it made over. For any purpose she chose, she could draw upon the Temple treasury without limit—she, a Queen. Those of her Sisters who saw the accounts thought her extravagant, but forbore to protest at once and commanded that minor priestesses keep silence likewise. Let Dahut indulge herself this much; she had enough difficulties.
Tambilis called on her the day after she moved in. Dahut made the guest welcome, without quite the warmth there had formerly been between them. Tambilis looked around the atrium in amazement. Ceiling and pillars were now white with gilt trim; the walls were painted red, black spirals along the tops; furniture of precious woods, inlaid with ivory and nacre, bore cushions of rich fabric, skins of rare animals, vessels of silver and cut crystal, exquisite figurines, with less regard to arrangement than profusion.
“You have… changed this… made it yours, indeed,” Tambilis ventured.
Dahut, clad in green silk whereon inwoven serpents twined, a pectoral of amber and carnelian in front, her hair in a tall coiffure caught by a comb of pearl-studded tortoiseshell, Dahut made an indifferent gesture. “The work’s scarcely begun,” she said. “I’ll have this shabby mosaic floor ripped out; I want an undersea scene. I’ll have the finest painter in Ys come in, when I’ve decided whether that is Sosir or Nathach; hell do me panels for the walls, the Gods in Their aspects; and more.”
“Ah, that’s why you’ve not yet had us here for a consecration.”
“Work alone will not make this house ready for that.” Dahut curbed her bitterness. “Come, follow me.” On the way back, she ordered a maidservant to bring refreshments. Sounds of carpentry in progress clattered, but screens blocked sight of the men.
Since some among them were in what was to be her private conference room, Dahut led Tambilis to her bedchamber. It too had a tumbled, unfinished look, in spite of its new sumptuousness. A niche-image showed Belisama helmeted, bearing spear and shield, though not like Minerva; the gown clung to voluptuousness, the countenance stared ahead in unabashed sensuality. It had been stored in the Temple for generations. No Queen since the original owner had wanted it, until Dahut. She bowed low. Tambilis confined herself to the customary salute.
“Be seated,” Dahut said brusquely, and tossed herself on the bed, to lie propped on pillows against the headboard. Tambilis took a chair.
“Well, dear, certes you’ve been busy,” she remarked after silence had stretched.
“What else had I to do?” Dahut replied, scowling.
“Why, your duties—”
“What are they? I am no more a vestal. Nor am I a graduate set free, nor a Queen, mauger they give me the name. They know not what to do with me.”
“You can help where asked. Besides, you have your schooling to finish. I was a child at first; I remember how it was, and thought you did too, such friends as we were.”
“Aye, the Sisters can invent tasks, meaningless things that any under-priestess could do. I can sit through droning hours of lessons. Is that being a Queen?” Dahut’s forefinger stabbed toward Tambilis. “And you, you were at least wedded, already then. And after a while, when you were as grown as I am—” She strangled on rage.
“Oh, my dear.” As she leaned forward, reaching to touch, Tambilis reddened.
Dahut saw. She held back, fleered, and asked in a tone gone wintry, “When were you last in his bed? When will you next be?”
“We—you know we decided hostility to him would be… self-defeating. I’ll plead for you, Sister mine. I’ll work on him as cunningly as I can—as a woman can who does love her man and so has learned now to please him. Be patient, Dahut. Abide. Endure. Your hour shall come.”
“My hour for what? When?” The maiden stirred, sat straight, gave her guest the look of a hawk. “Be warned, I will not wait quietly very long. I cannot. Belisama summons me.”
Tambilis shivered. “Be careful,” she begged. “You can… you can engage yourself for a while yet, surely. This house and—well, I know how you’ve gone forth to hunt or sail or, or otherwise spend your strength till you can rest. Come, borrow that splendid stallion of your father’s, as often erenow, and outpace the wind.”
That was a wrong thing to say, she saw at once. Dahut paled.
Slowly, she replied, “Another horse, a horse of my own, mayhap. But never, unless the King give me my rights, never again will I fare on his Favonius.”
A sudden gale sprang out of the west. Wind hooted, driving rain through streets that became gurgling streams. Waves bawled, tumbled, dashed themselves and its floats against the sea gate; but the King had locked it.
Budic sat alone with Corentinus, in the room that the chorepiscopus had for himself at the back of the church. A single lamp picked its scant furniture out of shadows. Shutters rattled; rain hissed down them. Chill crept inward. Corentinus did not seem to notice, though his robe was threadbare and his feet without stockings in their worn-out sandals. Highlights glimmered across shaven brow, craggy nose and chin, eyes as deep in hollows of murk as were his cheeks. “And what then?” he asked.
The soldier had come in search of spiritual help. Corentinus promised him it, but would first have a report on the lately concluded Council. Several men had already told him things—incompletely, however, and Budic had been present throughout as a royal guardsman. “Well, sir, there isn’t much more to tell. Those like Lir Captain, who would not withdraw their opposition, they got their words entered in the chronicle. Queen Lanarvilis, speaking for the Gallicenae, said they’d keep public silence about the marriage issue, for the time being. The Council in general, it voted down censure of the King, which was the least of what the zealous pagans wanted. It didn’t approve his action, either. Instead, it entered a prayer into the record, a prayer for guidance and compassion from the Gods. It did declare its support for Gratillonius in his politics, especially his dealings with Rome. That was the end of proceedings. They’d ordinarily have considered other matters, you know, public works, taxes, changes in the laws that this or that faction wants—but nothing of it seemed important. It could wait till solstice, when everybody will know better where he’s at.”
Corentinus nodded. “Thank you. I’d say Gratillonius got as much as he could possibly have hoped for, at this stage. God aid him onward.” His tone softened. “Daily I pray he see the Light. But sometimes—sometimes I don’t really pray, because it’s not for a mortal man to question God’s ways, but I wish for a place outside of Heaven and hell, a kindly place for such as Gratillonius, who hear the Word and do not believe, but who remain upright.”
Budic’s voice cracked across. “God bless him—for his, his forbearance. He must not marry Dahut, God must not let him do such a thing to her, but what’s to become of her, then? Father, that’s what I’m here about, the wilderness in me—”
Corentinus raised a palm. “Hold! Quiet!” The command snapped like a hawser drawn taut when a ship plunges. Budic gulped and trembled on the stool where he sat.
For a space, only the storm spoke. Corentinus unfolded his knobby length and loomed up toward the ceiling, arms and face raised, eyes shut.
Abruptly he opened them, looked down at Budic, said, “Follow me,” and went to the door.
The legionary obeyed, bewildered. Corentinus let them out into the deserted Forum. Rain slashed and runneled. Wind keened. Dusk was setting in. Corentinus strode so fast that Budic could barely keep alongside him.
“What, what is this, sir? Where are we bound?”
Corentinus squinted ahead. His reply was barely to be heard through the noise. “A vessel lies wrecked. Women and children are aboard. We’ve no time to gather a rescue party before it’s pounded apart. But the vision would not have come to me in vain.”
Budic remembered a certain night in his home, and stories he had heard from elsewhere. Nonetheless he must exclaim, “What can two men do? The gate is barred. The dock at Scot’s Landing—”
“Too far. Too slow.” And in fact Corentinus was bound not south, but north on Taranis Way. “God will provide. Now spare your breath, my son. You’ll need it.”
Tenements of the well-to-do yielded to mansions of the wealthy. Statuary stood dim in the failing light, along either side of the avenue, a seal, a dolphin balanced on its tail, a lion and a horse with the hindquarters of fish—Epona Square, a glimpse of the equestrian idol—Northbridge Gate, the battlements of the Sisters like fangs bared at unseen heaven—water ramping among rocks under the bridge—the short road that climbed onto Point Vanis to meet Redonian Way—the highroad wan, rimmed by windswept, rain-swept grass and bush, empty of man or beast, here and there sight of a menhir or a dolmen—near the end of the headland, where the road bent east, a blur in the blackness, a gravestone—
Corentinus took the lead down the trail to the former maritime station. Budic stumbled after, drenched, jaws clapping, feet slipping and skidding in mud. Surf crashed against the jetty that it was year by year gnawing away. Under the cliffs, gloom lay thick, the ruin shapeless. Budic tripped over a fragment, fell, skinned his knee. “Father, I cannot see,” he wailed into the thunders and shrieks.
A globe of light appeared at the fingertips of Corentinus’s uplifted right hand. It was like the ghost-glow sometimes seen at the ends of yardarms, but bright and serene. By its radiance Budic spied a jollyboat banging loose against what remained of the dock. It must have broken its painter or been washed off a strand where it rested and drifted here. Three or four oars clattered in the water that sloshed in its bilge.
Corentinus beckoned. Budic could do no else than creep forward, into the hull, onto the middle thwart. Corentinus climbed into the stern and stood erect. “Row,” he said softly but heard with the clearness of a voice in a dawn-dream.
Dreamlike too was Budic’s placing a pair of oars between their tholes and pulling on them. Even in dead calm, a man should not have been able to make a boat that size do more than crawl along. For him to row in seas like this, into the teeth of the wind, was beyond the strength of a madman. Yet as Budic put his weight to the task, the hull bounded forward. It mounted the billows to their crests and plunged down their backs like a hunting cat. Corentinus balanced easily. His right hand carried the phantom lantern, his left pointed the way to go.
Night blinded the world. The lonely light swayed onward.
Finally, finally it picked out its goal. A slim craft of some thirty feet lay hard on a skerry, held by snags onto which it had been driven. Waves dashed clamorous over the rock. They were breaking the strakes and ribs of the vessel, bearing those off. Groanings and crackings passed through surf-bellow, wind-howl. Already no refuge was left for the people aboard, save the section amidships. They clawed themselves to the stump of the mast, the tangle of its cordage.
This had been a yacht, Budic recognized. A couple of Suffetes must have celebrated the end of Council by taking their families out on a day cruise; all Ysans reckoned themselves familiars of the sea. The gale had caught them by surprise.
While he himself was no sailor, living here he had inevitably been on the water often enough to have gained a measure of skill. The surges ought to have cast him helpless onto the reef. He maneuvered in and kept his boat as steady as if it were a skiff on a mildly ruffled lake.
Something passed by, on the verge of sight. A shape half-human, foam-white, riding a monstrous wave like a lover? A screech of mockery, through tumult and skirl? The thing vanished into the haze of spindrift. Budic shuddered.
Corentinus hitched up his robe and made a long-legged step to the reef. There he stood fast, though waves boiled higher than his knees. With his left hand he helped the victims clamber from the wreck and scramble over to the boat. Budic would pause in his labors to haul one at a time across the rail.
They filled the hull when all were huddled together. Their weight left bare inches of freeboard. Corentinus came back to take stance astern. By the light he bore, Budic discerned half a dozen men—ha, Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor—with two middle-aged women who must be wives—the other men were surely crew—and four small children—doubtless the youngest belonging to the Suffete couples, taken out as a holiday treat—exhausted, chilled blue, terrified, but alive.
Rowing did not seem very much more difficult, nor did the boat take on very much more water, than on the way out. Well, now he had the wind behind him. Face full of rain, he could barely see Corentinus give directions. The pastor’s robe flapped around his gauntness like a sail that has slipped its sheets; but the light glowed ever steady.
It vanished after they had made landing at the station, and helped the people up the trail, and were safe on Point Vanis.
Abruptly another shadow, Corentinus called in Ysan—not quite steadily, for weariness was overtaking him too—“Give thanks to the Lord, Who has delivered us from death.”
“’Twas a demon,” babbled a crewman, “I swear ’twas a sea demon lured us, I’d never have let us anywhere near those rocks but we couldn’t see the pharos, I think the wind blew it out, and then there was a shining—oh, the white thing that laughed while we went aground!”
Corentinus grew stern. “If you have looked into the abyss and still not seen the truth, at least keep your pagan nonsense to yourself.” Milder: “Can everyone walk as far as the city? This darkness hoods us, but we’ll keep pavement under our feet. Best we carry the children.” He groped about. “Ah, here’s a little girl for me. Rest you, sweetling, rest you, all is well again and God loves you.”
The party staggered forward. Budic felt how drained of strength he was. Barely could he hold the boy who made his burden. The rescued men must often stop and exchange the other two youngsters. Corentinus paced steadily at his side.
“You’ve wrought a miracle tonight,” Budic mumbled. “You’re a saint.”
“Not so,” the chorepiscopus answered with brief vehemence. “This was God’s work. We can only thank Him for the honor He gave us, of being His instruments.”
“But why—ships are wrecked every year—why this one?”
“Who knows? His ways are mysterious. A Suffete who embraced the Faith would be valuable in winning salvation for Ys. Or God in His mercy may simply have granted these innocent children their chance to receive the Word and enter Heaven. It’s not for us to say.” A laugh barked. “And yet—I am no saint; may He forgive me—maybe He decided that after everything else that’s been happening, high time Ys saw a Christian miracle!”
“Salvation… Princess Dahut, sea-child… D-d-do you suppose this—while she’s still free of the deadly sin—this will change her heart?”
Starkness answered the appeal. “We may pray so. I know this much, Budic, I have this much foreknowledge. If Dahut does not come to the Light, she will do such ill that it were better she had died in her mother’s womb.”