In the Eye of Heaven Part 27

"Maiden of Spring. Once born, never dying. Most Holy Sister. Maid of spring and harvest, we offer our thanks on this the night of Your cry in the darkness. We who bear and are born, honor Your taking up of the burden of Creation. In Your memory we undertake to do likewise."

The men intoned: So be it. So be it.

After the rumble of voices ebbed away-when the room stood again in silence-Durand saw the Lady nod once. A knight of every conroi made his way to the s.p.a.ce below the high table. Each one bowed in his turn and offered his thanks for the hospitality of the Lady and the thanks of his company for the lives and good fortune of his men. When this ritual had been completed, men entered the room from every side. They were the pale knights from the castle walls. Scores of them. Durand had never seen living men so pale. Each one carried a steaming tureen of pottage.

With a great moan of wooden benches, the guests took their seats. Gray hands set bowls before each man. Durand flinched as a long-fingered and bloodless hand slid a bowl under his chin. Then the gray knights retired to the walls.

Along the high table, the Lady and her handmaidens drank, though no one at the tables below moved. Durand could not imagine eating.

Durand left bread and pottage alone. Goose, duck, veal, chicken, and pork followed, baked in pies or minced in herbs and milk. Durand's head ached. There was a hammering ache in his ribs. Dish after dish pa.s.sed him by, his tongue a bloated thing in his throat.

Durand stared into the rippling silver of the goblet set before him. Finally, he reached out, taking the cup in his hand, raising spiced wine to his lips.

A hand caught his wrist.

The lean face of Moryn of Mornaway was looking back at him. The man would not let go. "Do not drink." "Do not drink."

"Host of Heaven," said Durand. Looking out, he now saw that on all the long tables in the hall, not one platter of the hundreds carried from the kitchens had been touched. Gingerly, he set his goblet down.

Quite suddenly, the Lady of the Bower spoke: "Our feast is at an end. As is this longest of vigils for our warriors. Know, all of you, that on this night, the world is under the eye of its Mother. No creature under this moon may do another harm. A lamb could lie in a leopard's fangs. A hare in the jaws of a wolf. You need post no sentries, and keep no watches. All the lands of the world may sleep at ease on this night. Go now in peace."

The men rumbled thanks to the Queen of Heaven, and each conroi presented itself to the Lady of the Bower in turn, offering praise and thanks before departing. Lamoric bowed low, red helm in place. Moryn stood, straight-backed, and bowed. Ca.s.sonel-hale now, though with a limp-bowed as well. When they had finished, Durand stood and climbed down from the dais, feeling like a ghost.

"Durand?" It was Heremund. "Here. I've got him."

Berchard shouldered his way against the current of departing guests. "Here. He held out the hilt of a sword to Durand. "After the fight, those peasants just turned and melted off, silent as deer. This bit of steel was left lying there. Coen figured you might need it again if you came around."

Heremund clapped Durand gently on the shoulder.

Berchard shook his head. "If you'd been a step further back-half a step!-that man would have split your head like a cabbage. It was mostly the hilt he hit you with. I'll admit: I had my good eye shut when that blade started down."

Durand touched his forehead.

"I've never seen a sleeping man stab anyone," Berchard continued. "It's easier the other way round. Ouen was saying that lance caught right there."

The man reached out, pressing two fingers against Durand's breastbone. A bruise, a broken rib, throbbed under the man's stabbing fingers.

Then his expression faltered, and he withdrew his hand."Durand?" said Heremund.

Berchard nodded, suddenly more serious. "A good knock on the head. Strange things. You lose a few moments. Never remember exactly. A moment before, and then the floor."

The skald had taken hold of his sleeve."Let's get him out of this place," Heremund said.

Durand's chest ached. The pressure of something hard lingered in the arch of his ribs.

They walked through the gloomy castle courtyard and into the chill air beyond the gates.

"You've won, Durand," Berchard said. "No one could fault you."

"Sir Berchard," Heremund said, "I'm sure he'll be fine when his head clears. I'll make certain that he's all right."

Berchard nodded, ready to leave them. "Things like these, they happen at tourneys, Durand. Your friend knew it."

With that, the man departed for the tents.Durand felt the skald's eyes on him. 'Tell me," Durand said."You won, Durand."

He probed at shadow-clotted memory, dreading what he might find. "I won." "What do you remember?"

"I remember a blow. The blade coming down." It winked in his mind's eye. He could see nothing after that.

"Aye. That one shut your eyes. But you got that lancehead up between you, jutting like a stake. The lunge. Cerlac drove himself onto the point. I'm surprised the broken end didn't go right through you."

"h.e.l.ls," said Durand.

Heremund nodded, continuing quietly. "The pair of you just stood there a heartbeat. Then the blade slid."

Durand shook his head. Under his fingers, he could feel the angular bruise over his breastbone-the phantom of that lance balancing its weight against his ribs. It throbbed like a second heart "He died before last twilight," answered the skald. "Host of Heaven," Durand murmured. "Are you all right?"

Raising his hand, Durand answered, "I must think." And he left Heremund, setting off down the track the maidens had taken toward the fields. It had all been so strange. Lamoric's men might have ridden straight to Moryn's little tournament if Hesperand had not pulled them in. Lamoric's father might have waited to hold Alwen's funeral. Gravenholm's heir might not have stumbled home from the sea. He thought of his long vigil in the keep at Ferangore. There were many things that need not have happened.

He had never meant to fight. He should have been pa.s.sing lances and running broken equipment to Guthred. Now, he had met a man and killed him all in the s.p.a.ce of one long day.

The churned earth of the lists stretched before him, and he stepped into the rectangle of matted gra.s.s where the stands had been. Now, the battlefield might as easily have been turned by plowmen as by armored knights.

Alone, he sank to one knee a few steps from the ruined acre. He was as tired as he had ever been. The ribs ached. And he had fetched up right near where Cerlac must have gone down. He thought of his father's savage warnings: A knight-errant was a man in danger of losing his soul.

He blinked hard and breathed. Berchard was right; he had done nothing wrong. Every man knew that when he stepped into the lists, death was waiting.

Against the trees, he caught sight of an angular shape: the well's windla.s.s. A shock of cold water was what he needed. He staggered off toward the well. The air p.r.i.c.kled with ghosts, but soon he had his hands on the well's cool stones. There was no bucket, only the rope running down. He looked over the rim and found the moon hanging below the earth, shining in deep water. His own reflection was like a black keyhole.

He turned the windla.s.s, sending shivers over the image- swinging the whole sloshing moon to his hands. Icy blackness crashed over his eyes and down his chest.

"You are called Durand?" a voice said.

This was not a place to be surprised. Streaming, Durand lowered the bucket.

A dozen paces across the green stood the Stream Maid, her skin pale in the moonlight. She seemed small, her face white under a green veil. A breeze tugged at the cloak around her shoulders. He could not look away.

"I... I ought to have foreseen." She looked down, and Durand felt as though a light had been tipped away from his eyes. "I am afraid I did not antic.i.p.ate-" , Abruptly, Durand realized: this was not his Stream Maid."I'm so sorry," she said. The Lady of the Bower.

Durand could not look away. He could not answer. His stare. The stiff mask of his face. Could she see condemnation there? These things registered on his mind, dropping into the balance one by one.

"No," he said.

"I saw something in you," she murmured. "I did not think it was this. I didn't mean ..."

She was beautiful and very sad. He raised his hand. Her cheek cool as snow against his palm, though his fingers found heat where they slipped into her hair. She seemed very young and very delicate. He could feel the calluses of his fingers catch.

She stepped closer, seeking comfort. Her eyes looked straight up into his. "Durand?" She set her hands on his shoulders, and they kissed, sinking down together by the broken ground.

He could feel the stubble of his chin rasp at her throat. Her hands darted over him as soft as pigeons' wings. He couldn't breathe fast enough. He could feel the ghosts of charging knights even as her gasps swirled in his nostrils, in his mouth. It was like the black water of the well once again, pouring over him. The ghosts of horses pounded the earth on every side. He couldn't see. He couldn't think. He could not be close enough.

By feel, he caught at her skirts, pulling them up, baring her white legs without ever lifting his mouth. Her hands were at his waist, pulling at his surcoat and tunic. He felt her cold fingers fumbling against his stomach, at the cord of his breeches. He wanted more of her. On his knees, he slipped his hands under her chemise, sliding them up her sides. In a moment, she was naked against the ground. He kissed her. He nuzzled her chest. She strained her neck to kiss him. He balanced himself over her and brought his weight down. Her heels touched his calves. Her thighs brushed his sides.

When he finally rolled off, exhausted, into the clammy grip of the gra.s.s, she moved with him, caught in his arms. He stared over her shoulder into the sky. Her fingers played in his black curls.

But, gradually, the motion of her fingers slowed and stopped. "Oh" "Oh" Her voice was a warmth at his neck. He felt her stiffen suddenly, like an animal. Her voice was a warmth at his neck. He felt her stiffen suddenly, like an animal.

"Queen of Heaven, only now does it return," she said. She sat up. Her face was half-lost in shadows.

"Return?"

"All these years. So many men, just for this moment. I see them now. I see them all." "I don't-"

'They fought here." She turned at the waist, unconsciously covering her chest with her arms. "My husband. Poor Saewin. Echoes. I think it was something I wanted. I might have stopped it. But now it goes on. I am an echo come to life."

She seemed to see Durand once more.

"You are not very like Saewin. Not really. There was cruelty in him. And Cerlac! The poor boy. He was so little like Eorcan. He did not deserve-"

She caught Durand's twitch. He thought of Cerlac, and of prophecies under the blackthorn.

"Every year it comes again, just like the first." Where there had been moonlight, now there were ashes.

"All this time." She looked out over the battleground. "It wasn't for sere fields and rotten flowers that our Spring Maid grieved, Durand. There were two men, and they were the best of friends.

"And as night closed round Creation, they met on the dying field: Bruna and Ilsander. She had teased them too far. Their war bands brawled for them from dawn to dusk among the gray stalks. And, as the Eye of Heaven sank in blood, Bruna slew his friend."

Bruna of the Broad Shoulders.

He heard the rotten gurgle deep in his memory: the voices of the blackthorn men, the adder girl. Bruna and Ilsander. The fingers of the blackthorn men had felt the blood of Bruna under Durand's own skin. They had named one of their own number Ilsander. This was what Heremund had spoken of.

'That was the cry they speak of when they tell the Maid's tale." She was huddled over him now.

"Who are you?" he asked, unable to think of an answer that he might endure.

"My duke was another Ilsander," she said. "I was so young. If I had told Saewin it was hopeless, they could have ridden off without a quarrel. Now, what has become of us? Poor Eorcan. I have d.a.m.ned us all with smiles."

She gazed at him, and he could see that just sitting close, he cut her raw. His every twitch of guilt and discomfort was broken gla.s.s. He could not believe that this child was the woman who had torn a land from Creation.

She reached out to touch the bruise on his chest.

"But I am not the one who suffers," she whispered. "The debt is mine, but I live on. I see now that I have lingered long in this otherworld place. There have been many Eorcans. Many Saewins. And there will come another and another until the end of days."

Durand opened his mouth. "It isn't right. We must fight." He would be more than some echo of the First Dawning. "One sin shouldn't echo forever. There must be some way to break this chain."

Her eyelids fluttered.

"I cannot think. My shame has bloodied your hands, but- but Durand, you live for me to grant you a boon." Durand tried to protest. "I am not powerless, even when the dreams descend upon me. Only Lost."

She found the green veil she had worn when first she arrived.

'Take this token, Durand. Take it with you from Hesperand. You have taken a life for me. In return, I shall grant you the life you wish. I will come for it when you call."

' She pressed the wisp into his fist. Her eyes dimmed, becoming vague, as though her one act of defiance was all the curse would allow her. "The dream descends." Like a child, she curled against the torn green.

Durand blinked. "You cannot stay here," he said, thinking of the cold.

She shivered. "But I shall," she said."I will not leave you," he said."But you shall," she said.

He would do one thing. Putting conversation aside, Durand gathered the woman from the gra.s.s and crossed the broad green to the walls of the castle. Pale knights filed down to meet him, and the air smelled of beeswax. Scores gathered round him, candle-pale and awful in their breathless silence. Without surprise, Durand understood that the strange knights were dead men. He saw empty wounds. They took the Lady from his arms as gently as priests, and he knew she would be safe.

And as he turned, his eyes fell on one pale knight. Ashen though he was, in the gray curves of his face, Durand saw the image of Cerlac.

The lead-dark gleam of his eyes was in Durand's mind until he returned to the camp and sleep claimed him; the Green Lady's token was in his fist.

16. Terns above the Gla.s.s

He awoke the next morning in his low tent, a light in his face.It was not yet dawn.

Durand twisted among his blankets, groping for a blade. Then he saw Coensar's face and a lantern.

"First Twilight," the captain said. "I've waited long enough for life to hand me what I want. Now, I will act. Get up and pack your gear. I am not a young man any longer."

"I cannot go without-""Quick and quiet!"

Durand crawled out. Vaguely he saw that one of Guthred's boys was already tearing the tent off his back.

As he blinked into the predawn glow, he wondered where he was. Impossibilities crowded round. A thousand tons of dressed limestone had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away like a page from a book. There was no castle, but there were leaves. Where the shining castle had stood, hulked a mountain of jumbled stones choked with black leaves.

Durand rolled, thick bushes catching at his tunic. He fetched up against a tree trunk. The knights' encampment was alone now, their tents stretched and tangled over a nest of bracken. Wild forest overhung the dripping place on every side.

Coensar, already moving off, said, "It was this way last time."

They were moving. Durand fell in step with the others as, dazed and silent, every man in the conroi stumbled off through the bracken and back into the gray-columned track. He could feel the castle ruin looming like some ogre in the dark. He thought of the woman inside. Though he knew this was Hesperand, he had not understood what that might mean.

Now, the woman he had touched-the woman whose wild-flower scent still lingered on his hands-was less than dust. He thought of the pale knights and the feast of the long tables. It was all gone.

All but the veil that tangled his fingers.

Soon, the River Gla.s.s churned in the mist. Lamoric's men stood as a band of shadows at the high arching bridge, now mossy green and bone gray. Though it seemed an age must have pa.s.sed since they last stood by the span, every man of Lamoric's conroi had survived. Badan the toothless wolf was riding now. Berchard scratched himself even as he stared into the trees. Stepping onto the planks of the bridge, Durand looked into the swift water only to see fish waving like dark banners in the current behind each pier. They fought the cold flow that threatened to carry them off to the foggy Winter Sea.

Coensar stalked past Durand on the bridge and rounded on the men.