The gale damped down to a high wind and frequent, violent showers. Seas crashed on the wall and gate of Ys. Bodilis would be confined on Sena for another two or three days, it seemed.
That morning Guilvilis was to lead sunrise rites at the Temple. A rainsquall struck while she mounted the steps—on the far right side of the staircase, as it happened. Near the top she lost footing on a tread which centuries of traffic had beveled and the wet made slippery. She slid, staggered, and went over the edge to the flagstones below. Once and horribly she screamed, then lay moaning like an animal.
A vestal who had also been on the way up saw and scurried to her. Having seen how she writhed and how her left foot thrashed but the right did not, the girl sped back after help. Such few as were present at this hour came in haste. An old underpriestess took charge; she had long been married to a physician, and upon taking new vows after she was widowed had become an instructress in the healing arts. They got Guilvilis onto an improvised litter and into a side room where there was a bed.
“Father must know,” said her daughter Antonia, who chanced to have duty. Before anyone could naysay it, the fourteen-year-old was off at full speed to find the King. The old priestess grimaced, and set others to inform the rest of the Gallicenae and fetch the royal chirurgeon Rivelin.
Gratillonius arrived first. He dropped his sodden cloak in the portico and strode aggressively through the vestibule. The Key could be seen to swing on his breast under the tunic which, with sandals, was the only other garb he had taken time to don.
Dim light seeped into the little chamber. A younger priestess and a vestal kept watch. They shrank aside as he entered. He lifted the heavy blankets beneath which Guilvilis lay shivering, and her gown. It became clear to him that her right thigh was broken. He lowered the blanket and stopped above her face. Sweat studded it. She breathed rapidly and shallowly. He looked into her half-opened eyes. “Pupils seem all right,” he muttered in Latin. In Ysan: “Guilvilis, do you ken me? This is Grallon.”
Her gray lips tried to twist into a smile. He kissed them very lightly. “Poor Guilvilis,” he said, “you’ve never had much luck, have your But you’re as brave a lass as ever I knew. Have no fear. You’ll be hale again.” He stroked the thin hair, stepped back, and took stance where she could see him, folded his arms, and waited.
Vindilis and Innilis came in together. The tall woman stiffened at sight of Gratillonius. She glared. “Get out, you bird of woe,” she said, regardless of how she shocked the attendants. “What can you do here save call more misfortune down on her?”
He stood fast. His reply was flat. “Do you, then, accuse your Gods of penalizing loyalty?”
“Please, please, I pray peace,” Innilis implored from the bedside. Her fingers were deft, drawing forth jars, cloths, implements from a bag she had brought. “Beloved, you can best help by standing outside. Let nobody in other than the medicus. Tell the Sisters this is grievous but not mortal, Our Lady of Solace willing.”
Gratillonius began to move but Vindilis left ahead of him, in a susurrus of skirts. He paused a moment startled, then thoughtful. He winced a bit when Guilvilis made a jagged noise. Innilis was cleaning and anointing the abrasions, into which fibers from the garment had gotten. “I’m sorry, dearest, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “This must be done to stave off infection. I’ll be quick, I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
Rivelin appeared, saluted her and the King, made his own examination. “I fear we have no clean break, but a splintering,” he said. “She’ll be slow to heal, at best, and mayhap crippled. The sooner we put traction on it, the better. I’ve need of a colleague to help, a man with strong hands.”
“Here I am,” said Gratillonius.
“What?” The physician mastered his surprise. Whispers had long gone about concerning surgery the King performed once on Sena; and many had seen him competently treat injuries due battle or accident. “Well, my lord, let me describe for you what force must be applied, and put you through the motions, while we send after the necessary materials.”
—When Gratillonius emerged, he found six women gathered in the corridor. His shoulders sagged and he had begun to tremble a bit. Sweat made blots on his tunic below the arms and reeked around him. “It went well,” he told his wives and daughter, dull-voiced. “Rivelin is finishing now, with Innilis’s help.”
“Would you give her naught for the pain? Would you not allow that?” Vindilis snapped.
“Nay, Sister,” Tambilis protested.
“Innilis dared not drug her when she had gone so cold,” Gratillonius said. “Besides, when we began the work she swooned. Later she’ll get something so she can rest quietly. I did not… enjoy myself.” His glance sought Dahut. “It must needs be done.”
The maiden made no response. “Oh, Grallon,” Tambilis whispered, and moved toward him, her hands outheld. Lanarvilis pulled at her sleeve and hissed in her ear. Tambilis halted. Tears in her lashes caught what light there was.
Dahut stirred. “Let me go in to her,” she said. “I will give her the Touch. Shell suffer less and heal properly.”
Forsquilis frowned. “Nay, best not. Not now, not here. The house of the Goddess, and you unconsecrated—Mayhap later, when Rivelin’s let her go home.”
“I may not help my sister, I may not keep Vigil—I may not be Queen, thanks to you!” Dahut shrilled at her father.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “Have someone keep me informed and tell me when I can call on her.”
He walked off. Tambilis half moved to follow, but checked herself. “Patience, my dear,” Lanarvilis admonished after the man was gone.
“But he is so alone, so unhappy,” Tambilis pleaded. “You act as if this were his fault.”
“Was it not?”
“Let that be. Unwise it is to talk about such things,” warned Forsquilis. She went to embrace Tambilis. “I understand. All that you are cries out to go to him. I miss him too, the big sad sobersided lost soul. But this is the sacrifice we must make.”
“Punish him,” Vindilis said, “starve his lust, punish him until he gives in. Not that he will ever again have me. But you others, make him pay. You are the instruments of the Gods.”
“He may force himself on us, now that he can’t have Guilvilis,” said Maldunilis, not altogether fearfully.
Lanarvilis shook her head. “Nay. Give him his due. He is no Colconor. He will not squander the respect we still have for him, nor antagonize us worse at a time when he needs every ally he can find.”
“But what shall we do?” asked Tambilis miserably.
“What we have been doing since he spurned his bride—naught. Give him no invitations. Decline any he gives us. Be coldly polite in conference. When at last he seeks us out, receive him likewise. When he speaks of bed, tell him calmly that he has broken the sacred marriage, not we, and we think the Gods have made an example of Guilvilis. That should deter him—that, and his injured male pride. If not, if he does press suit, well, ’tis for each of us to decide, but if outright refusal fails, then I think we should lie down and send our minds away. He is not such a blockhead that he will not know it.”
“If I can do that,” Tambilis whispered.
Forsquilis bit her lip. “Twill not be easy,” she said. “Remember, though, we do it for him too, that he be brought to make his peace with the Gods.”
“How long must we?”
Forsquilis spread her hands. “As long as necessary—or as possible. Meanwhile hope, pray, seek what small spells we might cast. Who knows what can happen?… Dahut, what’s wrong?”
The princess had started. She recovered herself. “Nothing,” she said. Acridly: “Nothing and everything. A thought passed through me.”
“What was it?” Vindilis asked.
Dahut looked away. “A fleeting thing. Let me pursue it further.”
“Have a care, child. Take counsel with your Sisters. Ever were you prone to recklessness.”
Dahut flushed. “The Gods will watch over me,” she said, and stalked off.
Weather continued windy, cloudy, raw. The sun blinked in and out of sight while shadows swept a darkling sea where white horses went at gallop until they reared up against the reefs. The noise pervaded Ys, a murmur in Hightown, a rumble and boom and monstrous sighing where the wall stood off the waters. The gate was open, but pilots gave its floats a wide berth.
Tommaltach and Carsa paced the top between Northbridge and the Gull Tower. They had been drinking in Carsa’s apartment and decided some sharp air was in order before they supped. Save for the posted guards, nobody else was there. Surf roiled among the rocks below, burst, recoiled in swirls and smothers of foam.
“I wonder that the people take not this as a sign their Gods are angry,” said the Roman. His gesture encompassed the bleakness and the time through which it had prevailed. He spoke in Ysan, the language the two young men had in common; as yet, Tommaltach’s Latin was halting.
“Why, ’tis naught unusual,” the Scotian replied. “You’ve not dwelt here long enough. At home we’d call it an autumn mild and dry.”
Carsa brightened. “Then you think ’twill not make things harder for Gratillonius?”
“Ah, is that what gnaws at you? Well, me too, me too.”
“No offense meant, my friend, but you are a pagan, albeit not of the Ysan kind. You understand these folk better than a Christian from the South can.”
“I am an initiate of Mithras,” said Tommaltach stiffly.
“I know.” Carsa laid a hand on the other’s arm. “Would that you had taken the true Faith! But what I meant was that you, hailing from among heathens, you can see how the evil works within the souls of men. And you’ve relieved me. Thank you.”
Tommaltach regarded him a while as they walked before he said slowly, “You hope Grallon will—be able to—hold out against marrying his daughter.”
“Hope?” Carsa exclaimed. “I pray! Daily, more than daily, prostrate, I implore God to keep her pure.” He snapped after breath. “Do you not?”
Tommaltach searched for words, which was unlike him. “Well, if Dahut becomes truly a high priestess of Ys, there goes many a dream. I’ve never heard that any of them ever took a lover. And if her father says Mithras forbids it, I believe him, though I’m still ignorant of most of the Mysteries. Yet what’s to become of the poor darling? How can she ever be free to make her own life? Wonderful beyond wonder, could she become the sort of Queen we have at home. How likely, though, is that? First and foremost comes her welfare.”
“Mean you,” asked Carsa harshly, “that if her father yields and—the defilement—happens—you would let it go unavenged?”
“He is my Father in Mithras,” Tommaltach said with difficulty.
“I have sworn before God,” stated Carsa, “that if he does it to her, I will kill him.”
The full moon fled through clouds. They were silver where it touched them, elsewhere smoke and swiftness. The light shuddered over earth. Wind blew icy down the valley, a hollow whistling. It ripped dead leaves off trees and scourged them along the road where Dahut ran.
She turned in at the Sacred Precinct and stopped. Breath gusted in and out of her. A cloak flapped about her shoulders. Its cowl had fallen back and stray locks fluttered from hastily woven braids. The paving of the yard flickered wan as light came and went, between three hulks of blackness. The Challenge Oak and the Wood behind groaned. Now and then the Hammer swung against the Shield and a faint ringing thrilled forth.
Dahut raised her arms. The Red Lodge lay darkened, King and attendants were asleep, but somebody might easily awaken. She began to chant. “Ya Am-Ishtar, ya Baalim, ga’a vi khuwa—”
The spell cast, she moved forward soft-footed. A moonbeam showed her lips drawn back, teeth bared, the grin of a warrior in battle.
Nonetheless she paused whenever the old wooden stairs creaked beneath her weight; and she moved the doorlatch with utmost caution, and opened the door an inch at a time. As soon as the gap was wide enough she slipped through and at once closed it, as quietly as might be.
A while she listened. Through night sounds muffled by walls, she heard a couple of snores from the benches where men lay. At first the hall was tomb-dark, then she gained sufficient vision to make them out, barely. The pillar idols loomed clearer, more real than they. “Taranis, lover of Belisama, be with me, the beloved of Lir,” she whispered.
Cat-careful, she made her way over the floor. A banked fire in a trench warned her off with a few blood-colored stars. At the interior door, she must feel about until she found its latch. The passage beyond was less murky, for windows had been let into this rebuilt half and the weather was not so tumultuous as to require that they be shuttered. Their glass shifted between moonlight milkiness and gaping black, but always blind, nothing truly seeable through them, as if she had gone outside the world.
The door to the royal bedroom stood ajar. She shut it after she had passed through and, again, poised wary for several score heartbeats. The single window here was on the west, and the moon had not yet reached the zenith; thus the brightest that entered was an uneasy gray. She could just see Gratillonius. He lay on his side. An arm and shoulder above the blanket were bare. In the middle of the huge bed, he seemed very alone.
Dahut sat down on the floor to take off her sandals, lest she make a noise. Rising, she unfastened the fibula that held her cloak and lowered that garment, likewise her belt. There remained a gown, which she pulled over her head.
For a moment she looked at her body, ran hands across the smooth curves, smiled. Thereafter she spent minutes studying how the chamber was arranged, estimating distances and directions, planning each movement. Finally she padded to the window. When she had drawn the drape that hung beside it, sightlessness engulfed her.
She glided to the bedside, found the top edge of the sheet, pulled it back, slipped onto the mattress, lay until she was sure Gratillonius had not moved, then pulled the covers over her and edged across to him. He breathed slowly, deeply. The slumber spell held, and for hours it would take more than a touch to awaken him.
His back was to her. She brought her belly close against the warm solidity. A shiver passed through her. She writhed. Her hips thrust. He stirred a little. She drew slightly back and waited for him to sink anew.
Thereupon she raised herself to an elbow and brought her mouth down to his ear. A male odor entered her nostrils. His hair and the regrowing beard brushed her lips.
“Gratillonius,” she whispered, “I am here. I could no longer keep from you, Grallon, my darling, take me now.” Her free hand slid by his waist, across the ridges of muscle, to the loins. She closed fingers on what she found and moved them. The flesh stirred, thickened, lifted. Heat pulsed. “Grallon, King, lord, lover, here is your Queen.”
“Wh-what?” His voice rumbled unsteadily, dazed. “Who? Tambilis?” He rolled around groped, cupped a breast. “You?” Joy throbbed.
She flung herself at him, stopped his tongue with hers, cast a thigh over his. Her hand quivered and tugged, urging the bigness whither she wanted it.
He got to his knees and one palm. “Quickly, mount me quickly,” she said in an undertone that could be any woman’s.
His other hand stroked. Abruptly it halted. “But you, you’re not Tarn—Fors—who?” he stuttered. It ripped from him: “Dahilis!”
He pulled out of her clasp. His trembling shook the mattress. “Aye, this is Dahilis come back to you,” Dahut keened and sought after him. He scrambled, thudded to the floor and across it. Dahut yowled.
Gratillonius hauled the drape downward. The heavy fabric ripped free of its rings. Clouds had briefly parted around the moon. Light cast its patina over Dahut where she crouched on the bed.
Whoo-oo, said the wind.
Dahut clambered to her own feet. Tears torrented, agleam in the night. “I would save you,” she implored, “I would have you do the will of the Gods. ’Tis not too late.”
She stumbled toward him. He lifted crooked-fingered hands. “To this have your Gods brought you, child of mine?” His tone was dead.
“Oh, father, I’m afraid for you, and I love you so.”
“You know not what love is, you who… who supposed a man would not know his dear one in the dark. Go. Depart. Now.”
“Father, comfort me, hold me—”
She had come nigh enough to see his face turn into a Gorgon mask. “Go!” he roared. “Ere I kill you!”
Like a bear enraged, he advanced on her. She whirled and fled. Behind her she heard him cry out, “Dahilis, Dahilis!” and began to weep, with the racking sobs of a man unpracticed in it.
Naked, Dahut ran down the road to Ys. She wept also.
More and more, the clouds were swallowing the moon. She should be able to pass unseen through High Gate always open in peacetime, as she had left.
The wind whipped her with cold. Dead leaves tumbled and rattled before her feet. Wings passed overhead, an eagle owl. It vanished with the moon.
Vindilis called on Lanarvilis at the home of the latter. They sought the private room. Lamps burned to offset the dullness of a rainy noontide. Their glow brought out the blue and vermilion of lush fabrics, ivory and wood grain of fine furniture, sheen of silver and gleam of glass. Vindilis’s gaunt figure, black-clad, was like a denial of it. She sat rigid in a chair facing the couch on which Lanarvilis half slumped.
Vindilis went straight to the attack: “Already the time is overpast for decision. Those of us who honor the Gods and fear Their wrath must close ranks.”
“That is… all of us… though we may disagree on what course is wisest,” Lanarvilis said.
“There can be no question of wisdom. Prudence is madness. Better Ys defy the whole might of Rome than forsake her Gods.”
“What would you have us do?”
Vindilis sighed, while her gaze smoldered the fiercer. “Pray for a sign; but meanwhile make ready for it. I’ve sought you first because you are pious, my Sister, far more than some among us. Yet you support Grallon.”
Lanarvilis straightened. “In his capacity as intercessor for us with Rome. That requires upholding his authority in other respects too. I need not like this nor intend to continue it forever.”
Vindilis nodded. “I do not say we should denounce him immediately and call for his overthrow. Nor should we suffer his desecrations much longer. Unless he repent and make Dahut, the Chosen one, the mother of the new Age—make her Queen, and do it soon, then somehow he must be broken. Otherwise Rome will have conquered Ys without drawing one sword.”
Lanarvilis frowned. “Go on.”
“Let us begin by rallying those of the Nine whom we can. It is bitter to say, but he has deluded certain of us. Poor, stupid Guilvilis; well, the Gods have taken her out of the game for a while. Bodilis—Bodilis wants to believe, with him, that the new Age will be altogether different from the past. Those two we dare not confide in.”
Lanarvilis bit her lip. “Shall we plot against Sisters of ours? Nay!”
“I did not call for that. To go on, Innilis is devout, obedient, but she is such a tender and loving person, she hopes this will somehow end happily. We can count on her loyalty, but we must spare her as much pain and anxiety as we can.”
Lanarvilis smiled wistfully.
“Maldunilis too wants an easy way out,” Vindilis went on, “though in her ’tis due sluggishness and a sort of lazy lust for him. Another King would serve her as well.”
“You speak ill of your Sister,” Lanarvilis reproached.
“I speak truth.”
“Are you quite sure you do?”
“Well, we lack time for pussyfooting. Come a crisis, Maldunilis will stand with us, but not firmly. At best, we can reckon she will not take sides against us, now or later.
“Tambilis is shattered. I fear she loves Grallon more than she adores the Gods. She’s young, healthy, will recover and ask herself if she should go on denying him. We must try to make her find the right answer. She feels closest to Forsquilis, unless it be to Dahut. I think you and I, Lanarvilis, should seek the aid of Forsquilis in rallying Tambilis to us.”
The other Queen looked uneasy. “But what of Forsquilis herself?”
“Aye, there’s ever been an enigma there. We can only appeal to her, in whatever way we deem likeliest to succeed.”
“And afterward?”
“The Gods will grant a sign in Their time. We who are entirely true to Them should prepare ourselves; then when we know what must be done, do it.”
Toward evening of the second day after full moon, Dahut appeared at the home of Bodilis. Hitherto she had kept within her own house and bidden her servants turn visitors away.
Weather had abated, going colder but calm, clear in the east and overhead. Westward, though, cloud masses piled blue-black and the sky around the sun was a bleak green. Shadow was beginning to fill the bowl of Ys.
Dahut knocked. Bodilis opened the door. “Welcome,” said the woman low. “Oh, thrice welcome, child. I’m so glad you heeded my message. Come in.”
Dahut entered. Her stance, face, entire body bespoke resentment. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“That we talk, of course. I’ve dismissed the staff. Here, give me your cloak, let’s seek the scriptorium.”
Dahut slouched beside Bodilis through the atrium painted with dolphins and sea birds. “I came because ’twas you who asked. But try me not too hard.”
Bodilis squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “’Tis life and fate are doing that to you, darling. Have you the courage to meet them calmly?”
Dahut’s nostrils flared. She tossed her head.
They passed into the long room full of scholarly and artistic materials. Dahut halted. Breath hissed between her teeth.
Gratillonius remained seated. He offered a smile. “Be of good cheer,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry if I frightened you… earlier. You are the daughter of my Dahilis, and I love you. Bodilis lent herself to this little ruse because else you might not have agreed to see me for much too long. We want naught save to make peace.”
Dahut stared at the Queen. “You knew?” she asked.
Bodilis nodded. “Your father bared his heart to me.”
“I have to none other,” Gratillonius said with the same roughness. “Nor will I. Sit down, dear one. Have some wine if ’twill ease you.”
Dahut sank to the edge of a chair. Bodilis took a third. They sat in a triangle. Silence clamped it tight.
Bodilis broke though. “Dahut,” she said gently, “what you sought to do was wild. Thank the Mother, thank Her throughout your life, that it failed. But your father is not angry with you. Not anymore. You are young, wounded, distraught. Come back to us and let us heal you.”
A flush passed across the pallor that lay like a mask on the face of the maiden. Fury spat: “What did I wrong? I would have claimed my rights, and the rights of the Gods. He refuses them!”
“Would you have consummated the marriage ere the wedding?”
“Since I must.”
“That was surely why the Power of the Goddess was not in you.”
Dahut moistened her lips and looked into her father’s eyes. “You can still make it well between us,” she said.
Gratillonius clutched the arms of his chair. “Not in the way you call for,” he stated. “Bodilis persuaded me ’twas folly in you, rather than wickedness. Well, learn from your mistake. Take thought.”
“We know not what form the new Age shall bear,” Bodilis added. “Can we shape it ourselves? We can strive, at least. Imagine a Queen who chooses her King freely, has him to herself, will not lose him in a fight against some wanderer who beds her with the blood scarcely off his hands.”
“What would you have me do?” Dahut retorted.
“Be patient while we make our way forward.”
“Into what?”
“The unknown.”
“Nay, I’ll tell you whither you’re bound.” Dahut sprang to her feet. Poised before them, she jeered: “You’d have me renounce the Gods, the whole meaning and soul of Ys. Where then shall I seek? Your Mithras will not receive me. Cybele is dead. Christ waits. You’d make Christians of us!”
“If need be, aye,” said Gratillonius starkly. “I’ve lain awake nights bethinking this. ’Twould ease most of our troubles. There are worse Gods.”
“Nay!” Dahut screamed. She pounced across the floor, snatched the wine flagon off a table, cast it against the wall. It cried aloud as it smashed. Shards flew. Redness like blood spattered over books. Bodilis moaned and half rose.
Dahut crouched back. Her countenance had gone inhuman with rage. “Christ be cursed! Lir haul me under ere I give myself to Christ! But I’ll be Queen, true Queen, foremost of the Nine, and the name I take shall be Brennilis!”
She flung the door open and sped from them, out into the sunset.
Next day Gratillonius spoke privately with Rufinus, in the palace.
“We must look to our defenses,” he said, using the Latin that was customary between them.
The Gaul regarded him. “You’ve no idea of making war on Rome,” he murmured. “However, if Ys should become a very hard oyster to open—”
“Ys can become an ally more valuable than it has been,” Gratillonius interrupted. “We’ve sea power, but hardly any on land. The Franks may have learned what their proper place is, but they’ll forget eventually, and meanwhile there’ll be Germani—Alani, Huns, who knows?—pushing westward. What I have in mind—this will take years, obviously, and won’t be easy—it’s to mesh ourselves with the Armorican tribes, especially our Osismiic neighbors, somewhat as we’ve done navally with Rome. They supply most of the manpower, we supply cadre and much of the weaponry.”
“Hm.” Rufinus tugged his fork beard. “How will the Romans take to that?”
“We’ll have to show them how much better it’ll work than slovenly mercenaries and raw reservists. Maximus’s veterans have made a difference already, and the former Bacaudae will be priceless in case of invasion. What we can do for a start—a start toward forming a true regional militia—is simply to tighten and enlarge that fellowship. You’ll be essential to this. But tell me frankly if you think the idea has merit.”
“Quite a conundrum, sir!” laughed Rufinus. The discussion that followed occupied a couple of hours. They decided the plan was a least worth pursuing further… after present difficulties had been resolved.
As he was readying to leave, Rufinus gave the King a long look. “You’re grieved,” he said slowly. “More than just your conflict over Dahut should warrant. Would you care to talk about it? You know I’m a miser where it comes to secrets.”
Gratillonius reddened. “How did you get any such ridiculous notion?” he growled.
“I’ve come to know you over the years,” Rufinus answered, almost sorrowfully. “Tour tone of voice—oh, everything about you of late—” He formed a wry half-grin. “Well, I’ll be off before you boot me out. If ever I can help, I am your man.” He sketched a Roman salute and departed.
Tambilis visited Guilvilis. Bedridden still, the injured Queen was seldom free of pain, which lifted in her like a spear, but endured it dumbly. Her children, the younger ones in particular, provided distraction of a sometimes chaotic sort. Nonetheless she welcomed her Sister.
“You’re sweet to come,” she said from the pillow. “They don’t all, you know.”
Tambilis’s gaze went uneasily around the room. Dusk was fading the gaudy, foolish trinkets Guilvilis liked. “Well, they, they do have many duties,” she mumbled.
Guilvilis sighed. “They are afraid. I know they are. They fear I got hurt because the Gods were angry with me.”
“Oh, now—” Tambilis took hold of the hand that plucked at the blanket.
“Well, I am not afraid,” Guilvilis said. “Grallon isn’t.”
“He comes here too?”
“Aye. Didn’t you know? He comes when he can find time. ’Tis kind of him. We’ve naught to say to each other. He can only sit where you’re sitting. But he does come see me. I think his Mithras God will protect us.”
Tambilis flinched and drew a sign. “Well,” she said with forced cheer, “let me give you the newest gossip from the marketplace.”
“Nay, please,” Guilvilis replied earnestly, “tell me how he fares.”
“But you told me he visits you.”
“We can’t talk.” Guilvilis swallowed tears. “He’s been… heavy. Something hurts him. What is it, Tambilis?”
“I have not… seen him, spoken with him… save as affairs of the city or the Temples require…. He goes about his rounds. Aye, he keeps very busy.”
“Is it this thing with Dahut? How is Dahut?”
“She holds aloof. Ranges alone into the countryside, gone for hours at a stretch. Shuns or scamps all tasks. How can we compel her, if we reckon her a Queen? I tried to speak with her, but she told me to go away. And we were good friends once. May that come again.”
“If only Grallon—Could you make Grallon wed her, Tambilis? Then everything would be well, would it not? You’re beautiful. He might listen to you.”
“Not while I—But I know not if I can continue thus, when he’s so sad.” Tambilis shook her head violently. After a moment she brightened her voice. “Come, this is useless. Let me tell you of a comic thing that happened yesterday at Goose Fair.”
The moon waned toward the half. Each night was noticeably longer than the last.
Fog stole in from the sea during one darkness. At dawntide it hid heaven and blinded vision beyond a few yards. It also damped sound; the noise of surf under Cape Rach drifted in its gray as a remote hush-hush-hush. Sere grass dripped underfoot. Dankness gnawed.
Out through the swirling, between a lichenous tomb and a canted headstone, came Forsquilis from the necropolis. Her gown and cloak were stained, drenched, her hair lank and eyes bloodshot. A tall form waited. Nearing, she recognized whose it was, and halted. For the span of several wavebeats she confronted Corentinus.
“What do you here, Christian?” she asked finally, tonelessly.
The ghost of a smile stirred the stiff gray beard. “I might inquire the same of you, my daughter.”
“I am no lamb of your flock.” Forsquilis made to pass by.
Corentinus lifted his staff. “Hold, I pray you.”
“Why?”
“For the sake of Ys.”
Forsquilis considered the rugged features. The sea mumbled, the fog smoked. “You have had a vision,” she said.
He nodded. “And you.”
“I sought mine.”
Compassion softened his words. “At terrible cost. Mine sought me out of love.”
“What did it reveal?”
“That you had gone to beg a remedy for the sickness devouring Ys. I know better than to tell you, here and now, that what you did is forbidden. In your mind, it is not. But I know that you asked for bread and were given a stone.”
Forsquilis stood moveless a minute before she asked, “Will you give me your oath to keep silence?”
“Will you accept a Christian vow?”
“I will take your word of honor.”
“You have it.”
Forsquilis nodded. “You’ve been many years among us,” she said. “I believe you.
“Well, what I may relate is scant. It concerns Dahut. She attempted something. It was impossible, you’d call it fearsome, but she was desperate. I, through my arts, had some forewarning, and… followed along. Dahut failed. She has not yielded, rather she is bound on her purpose though hell and Ocean lie before her.”
“Possessed,” said Corentinus grimly.
Forsquilis spread her hands from under the waterlogged mantle. “In Ys we would say fated. Be that as it may, this night I sought to learn what I might do toward the rescue of us all.”
Corentinus waited.
The Athene face twisted in anguish. “I can do nothing! I may do nothing. My lips are locked, my skills are fettered, lest I seek to thwart the revenge of the Gods on Grallon. So did it command me.”
“What if you disobey?” asked Corentinus.
“As the pagan Gods visited plague on Thebes because of the sin of Oedipus. But yours would do Their harm because of the righteousness of Gratillonius. The true God is otherwise, my daughter.”
Forsquilis clenched her fists. “Hold back your preaching!”
“I will, I will. You must, then, stand aside while Gratillonius goes to his doom?”
Forsquilis swallowed, blinked, jerked forth a nod.
“Why do you appeal to me?” Corentinus went on, still quietly.
“Can you help him, somehow, anyhow?” she cried.
The fog was parting, dissolving. A sunbeam lanced through.
“That lies with him,” the pastor said. “And with God.”
Forsquilis snapped a breath and strode from him. Soon she was lost in the mist. He remained behind to pray for mercy on every soul gone astray.
Dusk deepened. More and more stars glimmered into sight. Processional Way was a ribbon of pallor between meadow and heights on the right, the Wood of the King on the left, where wind mourned through the oaks. Ys gleamed faintly ahead.
Dahut rode homeward. Formerly her father would have required an escort for her, safe though the hinterland was these days, but now she claimed independence—not that they had met of late, those two.
A man bounded soft-gaited from the edge of the Wood and loped along at her foot. She clucked to the horse before she knew Rufinus and eased. “What will you?” she greeted him.
Eyeballs and teeth caught what light lingered, sulfur-yellow in the west. “I’ve a warning for you, Princess.” He spoke as coldly as the wind blew.
Dahut sat erect in the saddle. “Well, say on.”
“Your father, my King, to whom I am sworn—he is in pain on your account. He is not at war with you, but you are with him.”
“Be off, mongrel!”
“I will not until you have heard me. Listen, Princess.”
“Queen.”
“Listen to me. I’ve my ways of finding out. We needn’t go into what I’ve learned and what I’ve reasoned—not yet—not ever, if you behave yourself. But hear me, Dahut. There shall be no plotting against my King. I make no accusations. I merely say it is banned. I am ready to defend him however necessary or—” a dagger slid forth—“if necessary, avenge him. Do you understand, my lady?” Rufinus chuckled. “Surely you, his daughter, are glad to hear this. Let me bid you a very good evening.”
He slipped into the shadows. Dahut spurred her horse to a gallop.
The day was calm and crisp. Waves rolled almost softly against the wall of Ys and scarcely troubled its open harbor basin. Inland, autumn colors dappled the hills.
Gratillonius stood on the top, above the sea gate, with Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works. “Nay,” he told the fussy little man, “the sample taken shows the doors continue sound. However, it does hold dampness. Dry rot will start creeping under the metal. Within—oh, ten or fifteen years, the wood will be weakened. We must replace it ere then.”
“Of course, of course.” Cothortin pulled at his chin. “Although that’s a huge task. ’Tis not been done in living memory.”
“I know. Yet the records show how, and we’ve time to train craftsmen and divers, everyone we’ll need. What we should set in train soon is the cutting and seasoning of the oak.”
Cothortin pondered. In his fashion, he was competent. “Aye, you’re right, my lord. The Osismiic forests—and when conditions are as unsettled as they regrettably are, ’tis wise to be beforehand.”
“As it happens,” Gratillonius told him, “I’ve need to visit Aquilo and discuss various matters, such as our policy toward Rome, this month. I can also raise the question of timber.”
Cothortiri gave a small, anxious sniff. “Should you leave Ys, my lord, under… present circumstances?”
“’Tis a short trip. I’ll be back in time to stand my regular Watch.”
The longing swelled inside Gratillonius—to be off, away, however briefly, to someplace where the Gods of Ys had no dominion.