The Song of Andiene

CHAPTER 11



On the shores where they measure time, four winters and three summers went by while Andiene stood and listened to the teaching of Yvaressinest, in the land where they do not count the days.

“I have taught you all you can learn,” the dragon said at last. “Go and conquer your kingdom, and win me my revenge.” His voice was warm with praise, the first time in all her life she had heard such words. “I would not wish you to war with me.”

Andiene laughed happily, not examining his speech for mockery. “Never fear, I shall not try to conquer this land.”

“You may if you please,” he whispered. The fog had thickened, swirling between them, hiding his grayness in the gray mist.

Andiene took a step forward, another step, and stopped. In front of her, the cliff fell sheer to the rocks, and the waves tore against them. Forest, meadow, dragon, all were gone into the mist. Andiene stood on the summit of a mountain that rose up out of the sea.

Sweet-snow bloomed around her feet, and sandray, that heals all wounds that are not mortal, grew stunted for lack of water. Below her lay no river, but merely a cleft in the rocks.

The fog was thinner again, but it had left her robe clammy and clinging to her. When she raised her arms to push her hair from her face, the fabric tore across her shoulders. When she reached back to feel it, it tore again, rotten as if it had been buried in the earth.

How long has it been? She was filled with sudden dread. There was no harsh whispering voice to flatter and reassure her now.

How long has it been? I never saw the night. Has time robbed me of my revenge? Far below her, the sea birds called.

She found it easier to climb down from that mountain top than it had been to go up. Then, she had been barely grown from short-legged childhood, sheltered and pampered all her life. Now she was a woman grown, long-legged and agile, as strong as if she had spent seven years climbing over the hills like the horses of the eastern mountains; she moved awkwardly only when she wondered at her new-grown strength.

The sun was low in the sky when she reached the beach. The stones were warm under her feet. On that high plateau, the sun had never shone to warm the earth.

Driftwood lay bleached and dry above the tide mark. Andiene gathered a pile of it and knelt before it, her hands clasped together. Then she drew her hands slowly apart. Her face filled with pride as the white flame leaped up, lapped at the dry wood, and seized hold of it.

Fat and slow salfish swam in the tide pools near the edge of the cliff. She speared one with a sharp broken stick, cleaned it as best she could, and broiled it on flat rocks heated in the fire.

Once more, Andiene was alone. The dragon would speak to her no more. She had learned all that he could teach her. There were many things she needed to do, but none that she must do at once. She lay on the sand above the rocks, as unthinking as any naked wild animal, and let the sun warm her.

At last she rose, and shook the sand from her pale hair, that hung to her hips as thick as beaten silver. There were three things that she must do. She chose the simplest first. She knelt on the hard stones above the line where the receding waves were breaking, and looked out to sea. Now she knew how far it was to that other shore, the land of her birth. A little space of waves that a flimsy boat could cross. All the distance in the world and none at all.

The salt waves stretched as far as eye could see. The sun warmed her back; the stones bruised her knees. What she looked for, waited for, no watcher would have been able to know.

Magic is not the same as the use of power. When magic is done, the ones who stand watch can see, smell, and hear the shaping of the charm. The magician chants, burns incense, draws patterns in the sand. He puts on a show; it is his effort to coax or force the powers of nature to do his bidding.

The user of power scarcely does anything that can be seen or felt. An onlooker has no chance to understand. So Andiene knelt on the stones and showed no sign of what she did.

The sun quenched itself in the sea, and the flames of its dying turned sky and sea to blood. Andiene watched it, full of joy for its beauty, not looking for omens or prophecy. Presently she turned away. Kingswood trees had set their roots into the rocks below the cliffs. Their leaves are large; their branches are supple. She pulled the branches down and broke them to make a bed, then lay down and slept.

The screams of fighting sea-hawks woke her at dawn. Though the smaller one tried to fly higher and higher, maneuvering desperately, the fish in his claws weighted him down, made him clumsy. At last the larger one rose above him and stooped on him. The fish fell among a shower of black feathers, landing near where Andiene lay. When the victorious hawk circled, she threw stones at it, shouted at it, so that it did not dare claim its prize.

She gutted the fish, a kielen of the deep sea, with a sharp flint. In its belly was a whitish lump; when she scraped it with her fingernail, gold gleamed. She laughed then. “From the belly of a fish—the key to my kingdom,” and she scrubbed the seven-years-lost signet ring in the sand and sea till it was clean, and forced it over the knuckle of her little finger. She broiled the fish for her breakfast, wrapped in seaweed. It is not wise to be wasteful, even with the bringers of good news.

The morning was bright, with strands of clouds across the sky. As Andiene walked along the beach, she made plans, and changed them, turning them over in her mind. She had power enough to win a hundred kingdoms, so she thought in her arrogance, but she had not dealt with people; she did not know their ways. The fisherman’s family had sheltered her; they were the last she had known.

She had not thought of them in many years. I will reward them greatly, she promised herself. I will make them lords of a wide land. But she was troubled. Years had passed, and she had no way of judging time on this timeless shore.

“Where is my enemy?” she asked as she looked out across the waves. As she waited, the look on her face changed to amazement and fierce exultation. He is in my hands! Wind and sea, wind and sea and darkness, rise up and overwhelm him! Overhead, the clouds thickened, and on the horizon it was darker yet.

Wind and sea and darkness, answer my call! Then she stood quietly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The waves forced her to retreat up the beach, as they came crashing in on the rocks. When the lightning began, she lay down in a crevice in the high rocks and waited.

Ships have survived storms far greater, riding them out on the open sea. But when the lightning was at its fiercest, and lit the storm-night as though a blue-shining sun were in the sky, Andiene lifted her head and saw the outline of a ship driving in to land before the wind. The rocks lay far out from shore, sharp as courser’s teeth. They tore at the ship’s belly as it wallowed in the waves. Then darkness fell, but with none of the exultation and terror of the night before. The thick clouds had dimmed the sun to a twilight like that of the dragon’s land.

Andiene huddled between the rocks, but could not sleep. The child that she had been would have died on such a night as that. Her clothing had rotted and fallen from her. She had nothing to shield her from the bitter wind. She struggled to keep her blood warming her, to keep the fire burning within her—work that one’s body does of its own accord when the nights are calm, but is not equal to, when the air is chill and the wind is strong. She was in grave danger of being destroyed by the storm she had wrought.

Daylight came, and the storm was gone. Andiene rose from her cramped hiding place and walked along the beach. It was littered with rubble and bits of wood as far as eye could see. Ahead of her lay the body of a man, in the edge of the surf. The waves washed over him and tugged at him as they went back, but they were too gentle, now, to take him with them.

Andiene knelt beside him, turned him over. The sight of one face, that of her usurper uncle, would have given her joy, perhaps, but she knew from the coarse seaman’s clothes that this would be a stranger. She looked at the drowned man’s face for some time—an ugly sight. Impossible to tell if he was one who had been kind or cruel, gentle or arrogant. Tears came to her eyes, a sense of fury and shame. Dragon’s teaching, and all it has taught me is to bring death, in little ways and great.

She needed all her strength to drag him up above the storm line. She laid him on the wide rocks, so he could lie decently.

She took his dagger and cut her tangled hair, sawing it off close to her head. She stripped off his outer clothes, and carried them down to the sea to wash them in the surf, and hang them to dry on the bushes. When she dressed herself in them, rolling the sleeves and legs in huge cuffs, the coarse canvas cloth felt strange and rough on her skin, and in spite of the washing, it smelt, to her imagination at least, of seaweed and decay.

The beach was littered with flotsam, but she found no more men till she had walked far down the sea strand, near where the cliffs met the water. There one lay, face downward, and as she watched, a wave broke over his head, and dragged him a few inches seaward.

This one was dressed in nobleman’s clothes, and her heart beat faster again with thoughts of revenge, as she turned his face upward. Again a stranger; her eyes stung with tears of shame for what she had done.

Remember that courtyard in Mareja, she reminded herself. The pavement ran dark with blood, and no one wept. This is one who served my enemy.



A higher wave came and broke over the man’s head, as she held it, and she stared in amazement as he gave a feeble cough, and turned his face aside.

Her joy was inconsistent with her grim plans, but it was no less real. This man, slight in stature, was easier to drag up the beach. When she laid his fingertips to his throat, she could feel his heart beat, though feebly, but his skin was cold as the dead. His hands had been tied behind his back in hard seaman’s knots. She touched the ropes lightly and they uncoiled like snakes and fell from him.

“No seed nor root of healing,” the Gray One had said. But she did not remember that; she gave no thought to healing, merely holding the man in her arms and desiring him to live, with all her strength and will.

Presently, his breathing became deeper and slower, his heartbeat stronger and slower also. He seemed to have almost passed into normal sleep; his skin was warmer to her touch.

Nighttime was near. She built a fire and laid him close beside it. He would need food. She had no time to wait patiently to spear a fish. Again, what she had to do shamed her.

She followed the gorge upward. It was dry as though no stream had ever run over the rocks. A flash of white caught her eye; she called softly and the dappled grasskit turned to look at her.

She called it to her in the same way as the dragon had called her to him. She caught it and killed it with a blow to the back of the neck, skinned and cleaned it with the dagger she had taken from the dead man, and went in search of another.

***

Syresh, once a soldier of Nahil, now a prisoner of Nahil and named a traitor, woke from his cramped dreams of coldness. The ship—the ship had gutted itself on the rocks. If he had been free, he would have died. His mail shirt would have dragged him down through the green water.

But they had stripped mail and weapons from him. The salt waves had held him up and carried him to land. He looked at his wrists with a sort of bleary-eyed wonder. The rope-marks were red, but the bonds were gone. He raised his head. The light of a fire, the smell of roasting meat, he was painfully hungry.

There was a youth tending that fire, his back turned. A shock of pale hair, coarse seaman’s clothes, baggy clown’s clothing meant for a man twice his size.

Syresh sat up, awkwardly. The other one whirled around, eyes glinting like some watchful animal. He did not speak.

A lost one from some earlier wreck? Those pale eyes and narrow bones spoke of noble blood, half-bred at least. “Were you on the ship?” Syresh asked, knowing the answer, but hoping to put the boy at ease.

“No,” said the other one. There was a watchful pause, then he glanced down at his clothes, and seemed to feel the need for some explanation. “I took these clothes from one who had no more need for them.” His voice was clear and childish, but his gray eyes belied his voice, staring dangerously at Syresh, daring him to speak some word of distaste.

He did not. He used all the courtliness that he knew. “My name is Syresh, Mareenfil, Tarefile, born of Mareja, and I ask you a great favor—that I may share your fire and eat your food this evening.”

“You may,” was the short reply, as the stranger turned back to the fire. No name was given in return. Though he had spoken more humbly to this vagabond dressed in dead man’s clothes than he would have to a nobleman of his own rank, the honor of the courtesy seemed lost on the other one.

“And I thank you for freeing me from my bonds,” Syresh went on. “Believe me, I was no common criminal. The king, may he rest well, has a quick temper, and is fast to suspect his loyal servants of traitorousness.”

“The King, may his soul rest well,” the youth said dryly. “And may his body rest well in the deep.”

“Is he drowned?”

The other one’s lips curved a little, a secretive smile, a womanish smile, Syresh thought. “I walked the length of the beach and saw no sign that any but you came to land alive.”

“But his ship did not founder.”

“What!” The other one’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl.

They kill the messenger that brings ill news, Syresh thought, but he spoke quietly. “They brought me on deck when the storm struck. And it was no springtime storm. It was woven of witchery. It was as though the world divided—the king’s ship went sailing on in sunshine, and our ship went into the night of the storm, split on the rocks and sank.” He looked at the stranger in sudden fear and speculation. “How do you know of this? How would you know that the King’s ship was near?”

He stared at the youth, terror awakening, and he struggled to his feet, too weak to run or fight, but still defiant. Though he had no weapons at all, the other was armed with no more than a small dagger—and those frightening eyes.

“This is a land that is not!” he said, in sudden fierce understanding. “We were well out from shore, on a plain smooth coast.” He stared at the high cliffs rising in steps before him. “There is no place like this. There is no land to the west … no land to the edge of the world … except … ”

The stranger smiled, speaking softly. “Once I heard an old, old song: ‘Wide and deep is the water that lies between the Nine Kingdoms and Dragonsland, yet a toddling child might cross the straits dry shod, if the Gray Lord willed it so.’ Did they teach you that?”

Syresh shuddered. “What kind of creature are you?”

“Whatever kind I am, I saved your life. I drew you from the waves and warmed you with my own blood’s warmth. Either accept the gift, or throw yourself back into the sea,” the stranger challenged him.

This castaway knew the nobleman’s code. That was a galling discovery. Syresh had dreamed of swearing fealty to some lord, noble of mind as well as birth. To be forced to swear one’s life to a lostling on an unknown shore was a bitter draught to swallow.

But as he studied the stranger’s face, he saw a look of honesty, and power beyond all reckoning. His eyes were cold, but less cold than the sea that rolled its great waves ashore behind him.

Syresh made his decision. He tried his best to kneel gracefully, but his legs gave way; he staggered and almost fell forward onto his face. He was aware of the laughable sight he made, wearing bright silks dulled and stained by the mud, faded to a rainbow medley, the marks of felon’s bonds still red on his wrists. The thought stung his vanity.

“You saved my life; it is yours,” he said. The words almost choked him. Though life was precious, he would not swear unconditional service to a dark magician on this unknown shore. He put reservations in his oath that were not commonly set there.

“I will serve you as long, and well, as my conscience allows, and if ever I cannot serve you, you may ask for the return of your gift of life, and it will be granted.”

The other one showed no anger at the conditions, though his eyes were knowing. Syresh went on with the traditional oath. “I am your liegeman. My hands are your hands, my voice is your voice.”

The other one showed no pleasure, neither did he give his name. Instead he asked a mocking question. “And what of the King? Did you swear him no oaths of fealty? You wear his badge.”

Syresh winced at the reminder, and spoke earnestly to his new-found liege lord. “I swore no oath of this kind. I spoke the common ones only, that all men do. And all oaths were broken when he set those bonds on me. When we lowered anchor in Mareja, he would have had me killed, a traitor’s death, and yet I swear, I was never disloyal, not in deed, word, or thought.”

“You have earned your traitor’s death now, in swearing to me.”

“So I had guessed. So be it.” He reached for the other one’s thin hand and touched his lips to it. Then he stared at the gold ring that weighed that hand down.

“Where did you gain this royal ring, my lord? The same place you got your clothing?”

“Are your oaths broken so soon, Lord Syresh?”

“No, but where? Did the King indeed drown in the storm? His son is young and was not with him. None other in all the land would wear this. Are you royalty of some other kingdom? You speak with the voice of Mareja.” He reached out and turned over the stranger’s hand. On the wide gold base of the ring, ARNM was etched. Whose insignia was that? He turned the hand to the sunlight, so that he could see the thumbprint pattern etched in flesh and metal alike. The same. This royal signet had been made for the hand that wore it.

And then the riddle’s answer came to him. Tears blinded him. “Andiene Rejin-Neve Mareja,” he said. “The lost one. Rightful lady of our land.” He blinked away the tears and looked at her in wonder. “Indeed, I have chosen my liege better than I knew,” he said.

“Lord Syresh, you are tired.” She spoke with more gentleness now. There might have been tears glinting in her eyes too, but he did not dare to look to see. “Let us eat,” she said.

They ate roasted grasskit wrapped in salt-crisp seaweed and sandray leaves. After their meal, they sat by the dying fire, both silent. Syresh was burning with thoughts, speculations, questions, but it was for his liege lady to speak first.

At last, she broke the silence. “In that other land, did any suffer for my escape?”

“Many died, my lady. Many still die. The King … ”

“Do not call him that!” Her voice was fierce as the summer sun.

“The usurper, then, he feared greatly. None knew why, except from confused tales of madness, so many and so wild that we could not guess which ones might have some speck of truth. But because of his fear, he killed any who might threaten him. He feared the grizanes; they are long gone from our land. He fears any with magic … ” and Syresh gave her a sidelong look as he remembered where he was. If tales were true, this land was but a wraith, a wisp of mist. If one word were spoken amiss, the solid rock, the firm sea-sand, would melt and flow to nothingness.

Andiene smiled. “So he has not gained much joy from what he won?”

“No. The city has not answered to him. It cannot, when you are the rightful heir. The bells ring by men’s hands alone. He walks like a man who sees treachery in every man’s face, his hand on his dagger hilt, afraid to turn his back away from the solid wall.”

“Good,” she said. “That will fit my plan well.”

He longed to ask her questions, but her silence was forbidding. At last she rose, and buried the fire in ashes. “There is a bed for you,” she said, pointing to the nest of branches, as she walked away to find her own sleeping place.

The leaves were soft; the branches were springy. Syresh did not sleep any less soundly because the land that bore him was fashioned of magic. When he woke, the sun was high. Andiene knelt beside him. “Up! We have work to do.”

He soon discovered what work there was on this barren strand, as the two of them walked along the shore, gathering the splintered boards that the sea had brought to land. The current had scattered the bones of the ship far and wide along the shore.

“What do we do with these?” asked Syresh, as he dragged another weighty plank back to the pile. Andiene dropped the plank that she was pulling.

“Rest a while. When we have enough that are sound, we bind them together with vines, and sail east. What, did you mean to stay forever in this land that is no land?”

“No, my lady, no, but I had thought that you could … ”

She read his unfinished thought. “I am no ruler over the waves, to tell them to part and let me walk dry-shod to the other shore. But I can call up a current that will drive us ashore in a safe land.”

“What land is safe for you, my lady?”

She answered with a question. “Why had the usurper set to sea?”

“To visit Daner Reji, in the north kingdom, Montrubeja. That king’s father sheltered him for many years, after your father drove him out. The forests are restless, so I have been told, so it seemed safer to go by sea. We were returning before the summer’s heat.”

“And what of the land to the south? With whom does that king stand?”

“Oreja sides with no kingdom that I know of. The lord of that land trusts no man. He watches and waits.”

“Would there be spies there, to send their stories north to the usurper?”

“Yes. As in all lands.”

Her voice was confident. “Then we will go there.”

So they gathered their wrackwood and built their raft. They were slowed in their work by the coming ashore of three more bodies—two sailors, and one, a nobleman, a comrade of Syresh. They took them and carried them up to what seemed the fittest place, a bare outcropping of rock, sheer cliff on the seaward side. It was a proper enough place to lay men to rest in a strange land.

With each new sight of death, Andiene grew more silent and remote. She did not speak of her past; she said not one word of the part she had played in raising the sorcerer’s storm. Syresh did not ask her. He was sworn to her service, better for him not to know.

The raft they built was nothing that he would have willingly have trusted himself to. The vines bound the planks loosely, so that they shuddered and swayed with every step, and wide gaps opened up between them, where any who wished could peer down into the sea.

Syresh tested it with his foot. “This will carry us to the other shore?”

“The sea would seem to be your doom, one way or another,” she said. Although her tone was light, there was steel behind the words, reminding him of his oath of obedience. He seated himself cautiously on one end of the raft. Andiene stepped nimbly through the water and climbed onto the other end.

She faced the land; Syresh looked out over the ever-changing sea.

“Say farewell to the land that sheltered you,” she said, and her voice was merry. He turned to look back, careful to keep his balance on the unsteady planks. He shaded his eyes with his hand. Nothing.

The cliffs were high, rising into the sky, terrace after stepped terrace. He should have been able to see them for leagues. But the sea stretched empty on every side.