Gene Wolfe: The Wizard

I said, “I take it the Blue Tijanamir drowned.”

Marder nodded. “The dagger of a man-at-arms pierced his lungs, so that he drowned in his own blood, the fifth fate. The sixth tijanamir, whose color was black, is the present Caan. This is because the old Caan, hearing of the prophecy, gave the sword he had worn that day into his son’s keeping. We are told it is locked away in a sealed vault; it appears that as long as it remains there, the Black Caan is safe.”

I had my own thoughts, but I nodded to that. “It seems the seer erred. He said all their reigns would be short.”

“Seers err frequently,” Marder said, “but suppose we defeat the Osterlings in a month or two. Might we not take their capital, open the vault, and retrieve the sword?”

“We might,” I said, “if it’s still there.”

My inspection of our troops convinced me that winning was out of the question—our only hope was to march north, get as many more men as we could, and collect all the food we could find. If there had been any chance of terms and decent treatment, I would have told Marder and Arnthor to surrender. There was none; and although giving up Burning Mountain, won at such a high cost, shattered what little moral remained, we left it.

In the time that followed, there were days when I wished I were back in my cell. We marched north. The Black Caan, who must have known what we were doing very quickly, moved to prevent us and make us fight. We backed down the coast again instead, spearing fish in the shallows and scrounging mussels and clams. When our horses died (and more and more did) they were eaten at once.

I took the rear guard and had Woddet with me, and Rober, Lamwell, and others. There was scarcely a day in which we found no work to do, for the Caan’s skirmishers were swift, and being eager to drive us from our dead attacked boldly again and again. Like ours, their archers were hard pressed to find or make arrows; but they had slingers in plenty, and there were stones enough to kill everyone in Mythgarthr twice over. A shower of stones, a few javelins, and a charge—it was a pattern we soon came to know well. Broad shields were needed to ward off the stones; even our lightly armed soon had them, woven of palm fronds when there was nothing else. We knights formed the first line and took the brunt of every charge, sometimes slinging our shields so as to wield our lances with both hands, more often with shield and sword, fighting morning and night when we were lightheaded with hunger.

Gylf saved us, finding game where we would have found none, and killing it or driving it to us. Marder told me, when the army took six hellish days to bridge the Greenflood, that our rear guard looked better than the rest. I went to see the rest, and he was right.

We had marched north of Burning Mountain before the Caan halted us. That night (how well I remember this!) we saw its sullen glow again: light the color of old blood staining the sky A page came for me, a frightened boy; but before I tell about that, I must say that Gylf, who had fought like five score men and found food where there was none, had saved me in good earnest that day. I had fallen, and would have died had he not raged over me, killing every Osterling who came near. Marder heard of it, and asked to speak with me. That is why I went back and Gylf with me, to see the starved faces and empty eyes of a thousand men who had been strong.

“Sir Able?”

I had not known there were boys with Arnthor’s army, save for squires who were nearly men; but he was a lad of ten. I was wearing the old helm, having no other, though I had little wish to see the truth it revealed; thus I may have seen his dread plainer than he showed it.

“Her Highness must speak with you, Sir Able.”

I was angry at the condition of the men I had seen, and happy to have a target for my anger. “Morcaine has spoken to me before,” I told him. “I say to you what I said to her. She left me to rot in a dungeon, from which the brother she fears so much freed me. My loyalty is to him, not her. If she wants my friendship, let her earn it.”

He left but soon returned, more frightened than ever. “Her Highness says you don’t understand, that she doesn’t want to talk to you herself. She has company...” His voice had failed. He seemed to strangle, then tried again. “She does, too, Sir Able, something—somebody...”

His teeth had begun to chatter. While he struggled to control them I said, “The queen?”

“N-no. No, sir.”

“The king, in that case. Why didn’t she say so?”

The poor boy shook his head violently.

“All right, the Black Caan!”

He collapsed in tears. “I’ve got to bring you. She—she’ll kill me this time.”

“You will bring me,” I told him. “Come on. I’m tired and want to get this over.”

The Morcaine who greeted Gylf and me was a woman to the hem of her skirt, and a snake below it, the great, trailing serpent body prettily marked with runes of degeneration and destruction.

“Suppose you were king,” she said.

I told her she was speaking treason.

“Not at all. Someone very important is waiting to see you.” She gestured toward the rear of her pavilion, where a black curtain fluttered and billowed. “Still, we may have a minute to ourselves. My brother is sorely wounded. He is determined to take part in the next battle—he knows what happens to kings who don’t fight. No one would regret his death more than I, but suppose he dies. Who rules?”

I said, “Queen Gaynor, I imagine,” though I knew better.

“With you as her sword?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t blame you. She thrust you into that dungeon and left you to rot. You, her champion. Nor is she of the royal line. Perhaps she betrays my brother—perhaps she doesn’t. Guilty or not, my brother thinks her false and has told your liege and others. They might accept her in peace. Not now. Not here. Not three lords would stand by her.”

“You then,” I said.

“Better, because I’m royal. Bad still. I’m no warrior, and none of them trust me. Duke Marder?”

“He would have my sword.”

“An old man without a son.” Her laugh was weak and shaky; when I heard it I knew something had scared her sober. “Who leads this army? Who issues its orders?”

I said nothing.

“You would relish revenge.”

I could not speak, but I shook my head.

“How could you avenge yourself better than by marrying me? You could rape me twice a night. Or thrice. You look capable of it. You could have a dozen mistresses and throw them in my face. You could thrash me with the poker, and all Celidon would call me disloyal if I said a word against you.”

She brought my hand to her cheek. “How strong you are! How can you gain revenge if you don’t marry me? Think about that. You can have Gaynor’s head on a pike. I’m royal, but I’ll be on the other side of the bed, in easy reach.”

“No.” I drew my hand away.

“Listen! We haven’t much time. My brother will be dead in a month. No one will want Gaynor. Many will cleave to me for my father’s sake. More will want you. Wise men like His Grace will fear a new war, pitting brother against brother ‘til the Osterlings conquer both. Calling those who favor us together, we’ll declare our intention to wed.”

She paused, unable to see my face within the old helm, but watching my eyes. Suddenly she smiled. “Curtain! It’s what the jugglers say. Are you afraid to go in there?”

I shook my head.

“You should be.” She tried to laugh again. “I would be, and I brought him. Think over what I’ve said, beloved, if you come out sane.”

Perhaps I nodded or spoke; if so, I do not recall it. She or I or he pushed the curtain aside. I cannot describe the empty inferno there—there are no words. “Take that off,” he told me, and I could no more have disobeyed than I could have picked myself up by my belt.