Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

Her answer was not verbal, but it was pleasant and John returned to his office over an hour later than he had intended, smiling, the memory of her laughter warm inside him.

For herself, Ayradyss cleared away the lunch dishes (Dack had the robots busy unloading some crates of electronic equipment John had ordered), enjoying the simple task as a means of extending the mood. When the room was tidy, she went into the parlor and eased another log onto the fire. Even though the winter was giving way to spring, the castle remained chill. Taking up a book, she settled herself into a chair and tried hard not to remember that she was waiting to see if the caoineag would come to call. It had occurred to her that the spirit might bind her to her share of the promise, then fulfill her own part but grudgingly.

Ayradyss need not have worried, for she had barely read two pages when the flames leapt within the fire, the wind outside battered at the panes, and the slim, pale form of the wailing woman was seated in the chair across the hearth.

“Is it any good?” the caoineag asked, gesturing at the book Ayradyss had let drop into her lap.

“Good enough,” Ayradyss said. “Seafaring tales. Strange, having been a mermaid, to see a shipwreck from the sailor’s point of view. Of course, in Virtu most sailors are merely on holiday and their drownings trigger a recall program into Verite.”

“Still, activities in Virtu can cause death in the Verite. Peculiar, isn’t it, if only one place is reality?”

“Virtu is reality,” Ayradyss replied, aware that the caoineag must have her reasons for arriving at her point in such a circumlocutory manner.

“So you say, so many say—especially those of Virtu—but where did that reality come from?”

“No one knows. It is the great mystery, the mystery of the First Word, the Creation Scramble. Forgive me, caoineag , but I am not a religious person—not even Deep Fields has converted me to such introspection.”

“But the Lord of Deep Fields has converted you to a creature of Verite, Angel of Virtu. Have you wondered why he did this when all that Donnerjack asked for was your return to being? Wise as John D’Arcy Donnerjack is, he did not even think to ask for you as his bride in Verite.”

“I have wondered at the Lord of Deep Fields’ odd generosity, and I have concluded that he wanted me to bear this child so that he could claim it as the price for my life, but what use would the Lord of Deep Fields have for a child of Verite?”

“What if your bairn is not just a child of Verite? What if, despite the changes made in you, he will still inherit something of Virtu from you? What would that make him?”

“Confused? Wailing woman, I think you are poorly named! Riddling woman would be a better title for you!”

The caoineag dimmed in her chair, her slender form rippling. Ayradyss thought that she had offended the spirit. Then she realized that the wailing woman was laughing. When the spirit grew opaque once more, there was a touch of color on her high cheekbones and a friendly smile curved her thin lips.

“I like you, Ayradyss. ‘Tis a pity… Very well. To tell you bluntly. Not all of Virtu is content to have commerce with Verite be in one direction. The Lord of Deep Fields knows this and seeks an edge in the game. Your son may be that edge, may not be, but Death may have trapped John D’Arcy Donnerjack to give himself that edge.”

“Why John? Why me? We are not the only couple separated by the interface.”

“No, but he is John D’Arcy Donnerjack and you… you, poor soul, are far more than your husband knows. The dust of the black butterfly yet clings to your hair. Have you told John this?”

“I have not.”

“So.”

There was a long silence, companionable, in an odd way. Ayradyss broke it.

“There are tunnels beneath the castle.”

“I know them.”

“I have wanted to explore them.”

“I could show them to you.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I shall see you then.”

“Indeed.”

The wailing woman faded away. Ayradyss smiled, picked up her novel. How nice it was to have a lady friend again, especially at such a time. Robots were well enough, warrior ghosts as well, but there was something to be said for the company of one of your own gender.

She turned the page. The wind was rising on the fictional sea. Outside her window, the ocean’s roar and crash provided her with a soundtrack.

Breakfast porridge and cream still warm inside her, Ayradyss changed into heavy ankle-boots—rather uglier than she would have preferred, but both waterproof and possessed of excellent traction. Over her wool trousers and sweater she tossed on a light windbreaker, more for the protection it offered against wet than because she expected there to be wind in the caverns.

“Going out on the strand again, Ayra?” John said. The stack of disks and reader he held loosely in one hand testified that he must have come over from his office to retrieve the materials he had been reading in bed the night before.

“No,” she said, surprised to hear a touch of defiance in her voice. “I thought I would explore the tunnels under the castle—the remains of the old place.”

John frowned slightly, glanced out the window, noticed the steady drizzle, and nodded.

“The weather outside doesn’t seem very inviting and since you won’t use the Stage…”

“I won’t.”

“Then… Are you taking one of the robots with you?”

“I hadn’t intended to.”

“I wish you would. I only ventured into the fringes of the tunnels, but there looked to be some rough spots.”

“John, I don’t need a nursemaid. Save that for the baby when it comes!”

“Please, Ayra, don’t be unreasonable. I’m not asking you to stay inside; I’m asking you to take a robot so that if you fall or slip or start a rock slide there will be someone to help you.”

Ayradyss almost commented that she expected to have one or more ghosts with her, but held back the words. John did not realize the amount of time she had been spending with Castle Donnerjack’s spectral inhabitants: the crusader ghost, Shorty, the Weeping Maid, the blindfolded prisoner, the Lady of the Gallery, and now the caoineag . And John was not really being unreasonable.

“Very well, John. You do have a point. I’ll ask Back who can be spared.”

John set down his disks and crossed to her. His arms around her, he murmured into her hair:

“Any of them can be spared, my love. You are more important than any chore that needs to be done around here.”

Almost any. You won’t leave your work , she thought bitterly, disliking the petulance in herself. She knew John felt that working steadily on Death’s palace was keeping his part of the bargain that had won him Ayradyss’s return, but she suspected a certain element of pride as well in his devotion to the project. The Lord of Entropy regularly sent electronic messages suggesting revisions and requesting additions to his Palace of Bones. John had mentioned that he felt strangely honored to be receiving communications from an entity that even Verite’s greatest scientists had dismissed as legend.

“Thank you, John,” she said, trying to ignore her internal harangue. “I don’t think I need anything too elaborate. One of the general purpose ‘bots should serve admirably.”

John smiled, embraced her once again, then picked up his disks and reader. “I’ll look forward to hearing what you find, my dear. See you at lunch?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know how far I’ll walk—and I’m getting a late start.”

“Very well. Don’t wear yourself out.”