“Where’s my Fool?” the duke bellowed abruptly, slamming the table repeatedly with his fist. “Where is he?”
There was some scuffle. Lionheart wondered if he should abandon his post and fetch the poor madman himself, uncertain if anyone else knew where he was hiding. But a moment later, the albino in his brilliant costume stepped into the middle of the room.
He always wore a melancholy face while performing, but before, Lionheart had seen it as part of his act. This time, as he observed the Fool, he realized that the poor man was dying by inches. He could not laugh, even had he wished to.
“There you are!” the duke cried. “Sing us a song, will you? A good one for our eastern friend here. Perhaps something about dragons, since his folk are so fond of them.”
“Your lordship,” said the merchant, his voice sharp, “who is this person?”
“My idiot, of course,” the duke replied. “Who’d you think? Sing for us, Fool!”
“Do you . . . how can you . . . ?” The merchant stared at the Fool, aghast, unable to finish his question. A new understanding seemed to settle in his brain, and the glances he now shot the duke’s way were still more disgusted, yet more respectful as well.
The Fool opened his mouth and began to sing. But it wasn’t the jolly, manic song of a jester. It was a song Lionheart had never heard before, melancholy and, he thought, old.
“I saw her standing on a hill,
Her feet in swarthy shadows shod.
The wind did wisp her hair
And play its fingers there
While the trees did bend their boughs,
Did moan and bend their boughs.
“She stood upon the shadowed hill
And downward turned her glist’ning eye.
She looked on Aiven great,
Upon the closed gate,
But saw the Final Water flow,
The darkened water flow.
“I saw her watching from the hill,
Fair Aiven, burnt so red and sore
Before the bleeding sun.
So strong the spells were spun!
The clouds could never stem the blood,
Not catch nor stem the blood!
“As she stood upon the hill,
I saw within her searching eye,
There formed a single tear.
I tremble now in fear!
It fell upon her silver sword,
The pommel of her sword.
“A light upon that shadowed hill
Shone brightly from the deep’ning shade.
I knew me then the sword,
The fearsome Fireword.
The blade did shiver in her hand;
It trembled in her hand.
“She stood unmoving on the hill,
But whispers in her ear she heard.
Sweet voices called her name
And spoke no more of blame.
I would that she would answer them!
Will she not answer them?
“Yet as she stood upon the hill,
Unheeding all the whispered pleas,
A new voice spoke her name.
I know not whence it came.
She turned her face from burning Aiven,
Looked no more on Aiven.
“The trees alone stand on the hill,
For she has passed along her way.
The veil is o’er my eyes:
Who speaks of truth or lies?
For Fireword has gone from Aiven,
Borne away from Aiven.”
Lionheart stood transfixed by the lunatic’s voice. His mind filled with images of a land he had never seen but which appeared in his imagination as vividly as memories of Southlands. He saw a woman standing as described upon a hill above a burning estate. He saw her weeping, tears of sorrow, not remorse. Strangely, the image of her made him think of Rose Red. It was the first he’d thought of her in some time. The woman in his mind was not the little imp he knew and yet . . . and yet something about her brought Rose Red powerfully to mind.
Then he saw the sword, and it drove all other thoughts from him. He thought, That is the sword that will slay dragons.
The song ended.
Lionheart’s head was light and reeling in the wake of the jester’s voice. He gasped and nearly lost his grip on the amphora in his hand. But the duke spoke, and his growl brought Lionheart’s swimming eyes back into focus.
“How dare you sing of such things in my house?”
The jester gazed at his master, his mouth open as though the last note of his song still lingered on his lips. Then he said, “You asked for a song.”
The duke rose to his feet; his fingers closed threateningly about his carving knife. “You sing of cursed things, poison in my ears. Fireword! ” He spat, and his eyes were bloodshot with fury. “You ghoul, you unholy monster!”
At a sign from their master, armed men strode from different corners of the room. The first one struck the Fool, and he dropped, howling in pain, though the blow had not been great. Each man wielded an iron rod, and when these struck the madman, he cried out as though branded.
Lionheart felt ill. The images of the song swirled in his mind, mingling with the duke’s roar and the pathetic cries of the poor madman. No one moved to his aid. Everyone stared, horrified, either at the beating or at their own hands. Who dared cross the duke?