Patricia McKillip - The Cygnet And The Firebird

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2024-11-29 0 0 458.2KB 265 页 5.9玖币

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One-

Meguet Vervaine stood at the threshold of Chrysom's

black tower, swans flying at her back and shoulder

and wrists, swans soaring out of her hands. She had

stood so for hours. Dressed in black silk with the

Cygnet of Ro Holding spanning silver moons on man-

tle and tunic, she held the ancient broadsword of

Moro Ro, unsheathed, tip to the floor, guarding

against stray goose and cottage child's ball and wan-

dering butterfly, for within the broad, circular hall the

councils from the four Holds had gathered to discuss

their differences under the sign of the Cygnet and the

formidable eye of Lauro Ro. In Moro Ro's day, the

threshold guards would have faced both chamber and

yard, prepared for violence from any direction, not

least from the volatile councils. Meguet, armed by

tradition rather than necessity, faced the hall to keep

the sun out of her eyes. She had gathered her long

com-silk hair into a severe braid; her eyes, green a

shade lighter than the rose leaves that climbed the

walls of the thousand-year-old tower, kept a calm and

careful watch over the sometimes testy gathering.

Members of the oldest families in Ro Holding had

made long, uncomfortable journeys to meet for the

Holding Council in a place where, not many weeks

before, Meguet had found herself raising the sword

in her hands to battle for her life. She did not expect

trouble; it had come and gone, but some part of her

still tensed at shadows, at unexpected voices.

But only the councilors themselves had provided

any excitement, and that was contingent upon such

complexities as border taxes. There had been sharp

debate earlier in the day between Hunter Hold and

the Delta over mines in the border mountains, which

had kept everyone awake on the ninth day of the long

council. Now, the heavy late-afternoon light, the pi-

geons murmuring in the high windows, and Haf

Berg's young, pompous, querulous voice maundering

endlessly about sheep, threw a stupor over the hall.

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Meguet heard a snore from one of the back tables,

Sne stifled a yawn. A sudden wind tugged at her light

mantle. The air was a heady mix of brine and sun-

steeped roses on the tower vines; it seemed to blow

from everywhere at once: from past and future, from

unexplored countries where wooden flowers opened

on tree boughs to reveal strange, rich spices, and

sheep the colors of autumn leaves wandered through

the hills....

She felt herself drifting on the alien wind; a sound

brought her back. The hall was silent; she wondered

if she herself had made some noise. But it was only

Haf Berg, sitting down at last, working his chair fuss-

ily across the flagstones. Lauro Ro watched him im-

passively. She sat at the crescent dais table, the

Cygnet flying like a shadow through tarnished mid-

night stars on the vast, timeworn banner behind her.

Her elegant face was unreadable, her wild dark hair

so unnaturally tidy that Meguet suspected Nyx had

bewitched it into submission. The Holder's heir sat at

her right, wearing her enigmatic reputation with com-

posure. Lauro Ro asked, "Will anyone challenge Haf

Berg's painstaking examination of the problems of

sheep pasturage on the south border of Berg Hold?"

There was a daunting note in her voice. Only a pigeon

challenged. Iris, on the Holder's left, consulted a pa-

per and whispered to her mother.

Rush Yarr sat beside Iris, and Calyx beside Nyx.

The two younger sisters, one fair and reclusive, the

other dark and distinguished most of the time by ex-

traordinary rumors, bore the intense scrutiny of the

council members calmly. When Calyx spoke, pearls

and doves did not fall from her lips. When Nyx spoke,

toads did not fall, nor did lightning flash. But it had

taken days for the anticipation to fade.

The Holder spoke again. Linden Dacey of Withy

Hold wished to bring up the matter of... Meguet

tightened her shoulders, loosened them. A knot

burned at the nape of her neck. She shifted slightly,

easing some of her weight onto the blade she held.

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Across the room, the sorceress lifted her eyes at the

flash of light.

They looked at one another a moment: cousins

bound by blood and by secret, ancient ways. Memo-

ries gathered between them in the sunlit air. The

swans on the hilt and etched blade in Meguet's hands

had taken wing, Nyx had transformed herself from

bog-witch into Cygnet's heir so recently that the sor-

cery in that hidden time and place beneath their feet

must still be rebounding against the labyrinth stones.

The sorceress's eyes, mist-pale in the light, seemed

mildly speculative, as if, Meguet thought, she contem-

plated turning her cousin into a bat to liven up the

tedium. Meguet, returning her attention to the pro-

ceedings, half-wished she would.

Linden Dacey had brought up the matter of a bor-

der feud between Withy Hold and the Delta. A river

had shifted, or been shifted; the south border, defined

for centuries, was suddenly uncertain ... The great

Hold banners swayed and glittered above her head as

she spoke; eyes caught at Meguet. The Blood Fox of

the Delta prowled on starry pads; one eye glinted as\

if thought had flashed through its bright threads. The

Gold King of Hunter Hold, the crowned and furious

sun, glared out of his prison of night. Meguet, gazing

back, felt a sudden chill, as if the face of spun gold

thread were alive again and watching.

Someone from the Delta interrupted Linden Dacey.

There was an interesting squabble on the council

floor. Old Maharis Kell jerked mid-snore out of his

nap. The Holder let it rage a moment, probably to

wake everyone up. Then she cut through it in a voice

that must have brought a few cottagers in the outer

yard to a dead stop. Rush Yarr slid a hand over his

mouth. Calyx, catching a tremor in the air, glanced at

him. Rush, Meguet noted, had recovered his sense of

humor—or discovered it, she wasn't sure which, for

he had loved a sorceress who was never home for so

long that likely even he didn't remember if he had

one. Calyx had entered the doorless walls of the tower

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he had built around himself, and he found her inside

his heart.

Linden Dacey, finished finally, yielded debate to

the chastened Delta councilor. Gold streaked sud-

denly through a west window. Meguet eyed her

shadow, guessed at the time. Another hour. if that...

The Delta councilor bit a word in half and was still.

Meguet raised her eyes. On the dais, no one breathed.

Behind her the yard was soundless. Not a child's

shout, a groaning wagon wheel, an iron blow from

the smithy, disturbed the sudden, bewitched silence.

Meguet stared at Nyx, wondering if, bored or day-

dreaming, she had thrown some spell over the coun-

cil- But Nyx was entranced by the table, it seemed;

she gazed at it, wide-eyed, motionless.

Someone had slowed time.

In the weird stillness, Meguet heard a footfall in

the grass behind her. She whirled, her heart hammer-

ing, and brought the broadsword up in both hands. A

man stood within the tower ring, staring up at the

solitary black tower. The flaring arc of silver from the

door as the broadsword cut through light startled him;

Meguet felt his attention riveted suddenly on her. In

the brilliant, late light, the stranger cast no shadow.

She drew a slow, noiseless breath, tightening her

hold on the blade, trapped in a world out of time by

his sorcery and by her peculiar heritage: the sleepless

compulsion to guard what lay hidden within the tow-

er's heart. The man's face, blurred by the dazzling

light or perhaps by shifting time, was difficult to see.

He seemed a profusion of colors: scarlet, gold, white,

dust, blue, silver, that sorted itself out as he moved,

crossing the yard with a strong, energetic stride.

Tall as she was, Meguet was forced to look up at

him. His hair and skin were the same color as the

dust on the hem of his red robe and his scuffed yellow

boots, as if the parched gold-brown earth of some vast

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desert blown constantly through sun-drenched air had

seeped into him. A strange winged animal embroi-

dered in white wound itself in and out of the folds of

cloth at his chest. The robe was belted with a curious,

intricate weave of silver; silver glinted also at his

wrists beneath his sleeves. A pouch of dark blue

leather was slung over his shoulder; another, of dusti/

yellow silk, hung beside that. He stopped in front of

Meguet's blade- She saw his face clearly then, as sur-

prised by her as she was by him.

His eyes flicked over her shoulder at the motionless

hall, then back to her. His broad, spare face was

young yet under its weathering; his eyes, a light,

glinting blue, were flecked with gold.

He said, amazed, "Who are you?"

Meguet, abandoned, with only a broadsword to

protect the house against sorcery, found her voice fi-

nally. ' 'You are in the house of the Holders of Ro

Holding. If you have business with the Holder, pre-

sent yourself to the Gatekeeper."

He glanced behind him at the little turret above the

gate, where the Gatekeeper leaned idly against the

stones, a motionless figure in household black watch-

ing something in the yard. "Him." He turned back.

"He looks busy." He touched the blade at his chest

with one finger, but did not turn it. He grunted softly,

his eyes going back to Meguet. "This is real."

"Yes."

"Well, what do you expect to do with it? You can't

keep me out of this tower with a sword. How can you

have the power to see me through shifted time and

still wave that under my nose? What are you? Are

you a mage?"

"You have no business in this tower, you have no

business in this house, and you have no business

questioning me."

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file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Patrici\a%20McKillip%20-%20The%20Cygnet%20And%20The%20Firebird.txtOne-MeguetVervainestoodatthethresholdofChrysom'sblacktower,swansflyingatherbackandshoulderandwrists,swanssoaringoutofherhands.Shehadstoodsoforhours.Dressedinblacksilkwit...

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Patricia McKillip - The Cygnet And The Firebird

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