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The Black Beast
The Book of Isle, Book Four
By Nancy Springer OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1982 Nancy Springer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-1288-4
CHAPTER 1
I am Frain. I was only fifteen years old when I first heard of Mylitta, and within a few days the doom of Melior had begun. All has changed now; Melior is a memory and I am a swan on the rivers of Ogygia. But I think I am not much wiser.
Tirell was in the habit of wandering in the night, then as always. We shared a tower chamber, and sometimes when I did not feel too sleepy I joined him. I liked to hear him talk. It was better than dreaming.
One night, though, I woke up out of a sound sleep to see him on his way out of the window. He was hoisting himself up to the high stone sill by his hands, his feet dangling. I jumped out of bed, naked as a rabbit, and grabbed him by the knees.
"Are you mad?" I yelled.
"It runs in the family, does it not?" he snapped as he fell. "Let me up, you great oaf!" I had sat on top of him.
"Not if you are planning to climb down there," I told him. "Have some sense, Tirell! It must be a hundred feet to the cobbles, and the ivy is old and sparse."
"So what am I to do?" he shouted passionately. "Ride out by the main gates and take the guards to my wooing?"
"By our great lord Aftalun," I sighed, "are there not enough maids within the walls that you must woo one without? I think—" But he did not wait to hear what I thought. He threw me off. Tirell was slender, not much heavier than I even though he was five years older, but when he was truly angry I believe no one could stand against him. We grappled for a moment, and then I went flying and hit my head against the wall.
He could have gone to his wooing then. I heard him pacing around, but I couldn't move or see. He lit a rushlight, got a soggy cloth, and started dabbing at some blood behind my ear. "Go to," I muttered, shoving his hand away, and I managed to sit up.
"If you are all right," Tirell said quietly, "I will be off."
"Then I will be off too, by way of the gates, and you will have me and a troop of guards for company." I can be angry too, and Tirell knew he was beaten for the time. He cursed and flopped down on the floor where he was.
"I was going to say, before I was interrupted," I told him after a while, "that we could get a rope."
"If I could get a rope in the middle of the night," Tirell responded sourly, "I would have tied you up long ago. They're all over at the armory with the scaling ladders and things."
"So we'll get one tomorrow, and you can go tomorrow night. Surely the girl will last till then?" I looked at his lean, unhappy face and felt my anger melt, as always. "She must be a marvel," I added softly. "What is her name?"
Tirell sighed and gave in to peace. "Mylitta is her name," he answered quietly.
"Do I know her?"
"No, I doubt it. She is not such a marvel. She is just a peasant."
"Pretty?"
"No, not even very pretty."
I frowned, perplexed. It was not like him to be so modest about his conquests. "Thunder, I am not going to try to take her from you!" I protested.
"You couldn't!" Tirell retorted with joy in his voice. "No one could! She loves me!"
I had never heard him speak so earnestly. Was this my cool, mocking brother? At loss for a response, I turned mocking myself. "Indeed, who could help but love you?" I asked lightly.
He snorted. "Not like my other maidens, if I may call them that. Bloodsucking whores, every one of them. But Mylitta cares not a bit for throne or torque or wealth or—or any of it. She just—she just loves me."
My mouth had dropped open. I closed it and swallowed. "Then she is a marvel," I replied, meaning it. "May I meet her?"
"Maybe." Tirell shook off the mood and got to his feet. "Go back to bed, young my naked lord." We sometimes parodied the courtly courtesy between ourselves.
"And you?" I asked.
"I don't know whether I'll sleep, but I'll bide; I give you my word. How is the head?"
"Well enough." It was thumping like a thousand blacksmiths, if truth be told, but I would never admit that, as Tirell knew quite well.
Tirell slept, as it turned out, and I lay waking. It was not only my aching head that kept me up. I was worrying about Tirell, as I often did. I sensed trouble to come. No happy endings were likely for Tirell or for me as long as King Abas was our father. The altar awaited him, as it awaited Tirell, or me in my turn. Then our ribs and lungs would be ripped out whole, spread and held up to the multitude to reveal the configuration of the blood bird. Princes of the line of Melior were accustomed early to the thought of this unpleasant death. Perhaps that was why many went mad. Abas was one of those.
"Father used to sit me on his knee, when I was small," Tirell had said to me once, "and tell me the strangest things—dreams in dragon colors and the thoughts of stones and beasts.... And then, likely as not, he would smite me. It is no wonder I cannot sleep."
"He has never given me anything, either of blows or of dreams!" I had replied, caught between pity and jealousy. The jealousy because our father took no notice of me at all.
"You came later," Tirell answered, "when his mood had turned yet darker. Be glad he does not care for you!" But he would not meet my eyes.
I feared for my brother as he probably never feared for himself, reckless and thoughtless as he was. Where could we run to, where could we take the maiden? There was no place in Vale where Abas could not find us. Abas cared for Tirell, in his harsh way, and his vision was frighteningly sharp. Sometimes his sapience seemed almost divine. He would notice Tirell's happiness, and Tirell would pay the price; Abas could not abide happiness, or dogs, or wanderings in the night....
I remembered one day when we had been digging in one of our secret places (Tirell was only fourteen then and I was nine, but none of our masters could constrain us—we spent our days much as we liked). We had been digging for clams down near the river. That was daring enough, and forbidden. All children were chided not to dig in the earth, lest they loose the flood that is beneath the land. But even we princes did not dare to wash ourselves in the river after we were done, though it ran only a few steps away. Water was greatly feared in Vale. It was used only with many offerings and greatest reverence. So we went back to the castle to wash in water the slaves had brought with all due and proper ceremony. And as bad luck would have it we met Abas in the courtyard. He seldom took any heed of our comings and goings, seldom came out of his chambers at all; I do not know what had brought him out on that day. He stopped where he was and stiffened with an intake of breath when he saw us.
"Tirell!" He ignored me, concentrating all of his attention on his heir, as usual. I did not realize then how lucky I was. Tirell answered him only with a steady glance.
"You have been in the dirt! You are covered with dirt, black—" Abas had recoiled from his son in loathing. It is hard to describe his horror. I do not think he was concerned with the retribution of the Mother or of any god—he had never showed great reverence for Adalis or Chardri. I did not understand at the time, but I think now that the dirt meant far more than dirt to him—that he was afraid, as he feared the night, that he looked at our grime and saw something far worse.
"Rolling in it, rolling in filth! Wallowing—"
"We were digging," Tirell said with childlike appeal and adolescent dignity. Digging was forbidden, as I have said, but I suppose Tirell preferred that crime to the sort of vague perversity Abas seemed to be spinning. Abas cried out in shock and his horror turned to anger.
"So, digging like beasts, deep, deep, and do you not know what lies beneath?" He moved closer to Tirell, threatening, his long fingers wildly addressing the air. "Below, dark, black, beneath, within, do you not know? The grip, the dark, the close clutch, the boneless grasp where the water runs—the thing will take you, draw you down, dark, black. You innocent, stay far from digging...." He was quivering all over, his hands palpitating the air nearer and nearer to Tirell's face, and suddenly they shot forward as if they would gouge out his eyes. I winced in terror, myself, but Tirell stood firm, and Abas crowed in an ecstasy of rage. Then he dropped to his knees before his son, his shaking stilled. I think that disconcerted Tirell more than anything that had happened. He kept his face still, but tears made white tracks through the grime.
"My son," Abas whispered, "my son, keep far from that darkness." He reached for him as if to kiss him, but Tirell bolted, and I ran after him. Behind us we heard yells of incoherent rage.
"I hate him," Tirell panted, still weeping. "I hate him! He is the dark thing, he himself!"
Who could have borne the burden of that mad love? But Abas saw truly, in his way. That darkness was in Tirell.
He was too much like his father for anyone's comfort. No one was afraid of me, a plain sort of person with freckles and rusty hair, but everyone feared and adored Tirell. When he found Mylitta he was twenty, handsome, extravagant—everyone worshipped him. People would line the dirt streets to see him dashing by in his chariot with his cloak flying and his neck gold-torqued and his lash urging the white steeds to yet greater speed. All the young courtiers imitated his clothing and his walk. Tirell had midnight-black hair and icy blue eyes, and he moved like a leashed leopard; I think people would have turned their heads to look at him even if he had not been prince. His face was flawless, as if it had been carved out of white alabaster. He had the legendary tall good looks and coloring of the Sacred Kings, and he had many admirers. But no friends.
And now he had Mylitta, and what was to become of them? I fell asleep finally at dawn, without a hint of hope; I was used to that.
Tirell had no trouble, some hours later, distracting the armorers while I stole a coil of rope from the supplies and stowed it under my cloak. The cloak was an accursed nuisance now that the springtime weather was warming, but like the torque it was a symbol of rank. And for pranks like this it could be useful.
We took the rope to our bedchamber and hid it under the straw mattress. "All right," Tirell said. "Now what?"
It looked as if he would do whatever I wanted. He was still feeling bad about my hurt head, though he would never admit it. "I would like a look at this girl Mylitta for whose sake I am risking my skin," I ventured.
"Not right now, brother mine," he answered moodily. "Think of something else."
"Let us go to see Grandfather, then." Our mother's father was the wisest and gentlest man in all of Vale. If anyone could help us, I thought, he could. Though, of course, I would not tell Tirell that I was casting about for help.
Grandfather lived way out beyond the Hill of Vision, beyond the White Rock and the huts of the priestesses, over two hours of riding away. Often we had raced the distance, yelling and lashing the steeds, in far less time. But on that day Tirell was in a quiet mood, and we rode gently. He was on a white, as always; it was the sacred color of the goddess who would someday be his bride. I rode a big, hard-mouthed chestnut. We passed through the cottages: and shops huddled beneath the castle walls, then the pastureland and farmland beyond, the fertile valley between the two paps of Adalis. Beyond the farms everything was given over to the priestesses. We cantered up through their grove of sacred trees that ringed the Hill of Vision like a brooch. Once above the trees we stopped, as we always did, to look back the way we had come.
The castle stood on the summit of the other pap of Melior-y-Adalis, the bosom of Adalis. From its walls the land sloped steeply to the enclosing curve of the river Chardri that rounded it on three sides. Melior's towers were built of a rich white stone veined in crimson; in the sunlight they sparkled like blood. The twin bridges over the Chardri, Balliew and Gerriew by name, were built of the same stone. One arched to the north and the other to the south. Without them there would have been no passage to Melior. The Chardri flowed great and steady, even in the drought, fed by springs and by the snowcaps of the mountains to the north.
The Hill of Vision rose no higher than the castle summit that faced it, and the wide curve of the river embraced both. But on the Hill were no dwellings of stone, no grazing sheep—nothing except the huts of the priestesses. On the grassy height stood the great altar, the White Rock of Eala, where the blood of Sacred Kings was shed. It was made of three odd, chalk-white stones, like no other rock in Vale, two supporting the third. This was the very high altar of the goddess. A woman could sleep there without fear. The priestesses of the shrine slept there commonly, and barren women went there for cure. Also, Kings of Melior could sleep there with their brides. In fact, they had to. But if a man slept alone beneath that rock, the morning would find him either inspired, insane, or dead.
Tirell and I rode up and around it. We did not care to go under it, somehow, though it would have cleared the horses easily. The priestesses watched us sullenly. Common folk did not come to that place without an offering, hut we came and went as we pleased.
As soon as we passed the altar we faced, almost against our will, the great mountains beyond the Hill. No one ever went to any mountains, but especially not to the huge, dark mountains in the west. At the western foot of the Hill, spanning the reaches of Melior from river curve to river curve and closing the gap in the penannular grove, stood the Wall. It was twice man high and built of rugged brown rock without beauty; it loomed almost as darkly as the mountains. Beyond it lay wilderness. There was no gate.
Our grandfather, the seer Daymon Cein, lived at the very Wall, alone except for a few sheep and some chickens. In his youth he had slept beneath the Rock, and the goddess had given him power. The priestesses half feared him, because of his own greatness and because he was the queen's father. Poor folk would come, make sacrifice on the Hill in order to pass, and hurry on to Daymon. He would receive them gladly and help them however he could. But only the desperate came, for no one liked to venture near the Wall.
Grandfather greeted us with smiles and warm hands, as always. I noticed that he had changed to sandals for spring. His gray beard flowed down over a robe somewhat less than fashionable—less than clean, even. I suppose we princes looked out of place beside him, we in our golden torques and our deep-dyed cloaks and our tall, soft leather boots. But I believe we felt more at home with Daymon than anywhere else except our own tower chamber.
"And how is my daughter today?" Grandfather asked.
"Well enough," Tirell said, which perhaps was not a lie, though we had not been to see our mother. We often stayed away from her for days at a time, until she sent for us. On this day in particular we had taken care to avoid her, because she might have spied something of the secret named Mylitta with her visionary azure eyes. Her father Daymon was looking at us and saw all this pass through our thoughts, but we did not mind too much. He watched us with detachment, almost with amusement, so that we did not fear his meddling. And yet we felt his love.
"So!" he said, when we had settled beneath a solitary yew tree and exchanged some talk. "What shall we speak of today?"
"Tell us about Aftalun!" I said quickly, for I wanted to hear about the beginnings. Tirell did not object.
"All right," said Grandfather, "but think on it a moment, before I begin."
I thought of the ancient void. But though Grandfather and Tirell and Mother were visionaries, I was none. Grass and bickering chickens remained, to my sight. Presently, when the tale was manifest to him, Grandfather spoke.
"Before there was Vale, there was only light and water, and no life except the being of the dragon. There was water to the farthest reaches of the void, and in the midst of it the dragon. In him were all colors that the water had not, and he was beautiful in the light. He lay on the water and slept.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Black Beast by Nancy Springer. Copyright © 1982 Nancy Springer. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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