Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

Rol was silent for a long time. At last he said: “You deserted them.”

Psellos smiled. “Your grandparents? I had a different life in mind, that’s all. But I am doing my duty by you now, Rol. The thing is”-and here he leaned forward, the firelight saffron-yellow in his eyes-“I do not believe that you are the son of Bar Hethrun, the Lost Heir of Bionar. So you can strip those bright dreams out of your head. No, you were born soon after Amerie came back to Hethrun-too soon for you to be his child.” He sat back in his chair, sniffing at the fragrant brandy. “And your blood is too pure to have any of his within it. It is purer even than my own. No, you are a bastard of a different stock.”

“This family of mine-of ours. Who were they? My mother’s parents, and yours. Where did all this begin?”

“In the Goliad, as I said. It is a blighted wilderness now, for wars have carried back and forth across the face of it for centuries, but still a few nomadic clans with the Old Blood in them survive. Golgos itself is a ruin within which squats a Bionese garrison, a mere way station for ships coasting down to Oronthir. One would think that there was nothing left to fight over in the reed-beds and the dried river valleys of that ruined paradise, but myth is a powerful thing. It is said that out of the Goliad will come the mightiest of the kings of men, and so nations bleed to possess it, generation after generation.”

“If my father was not this Bionese nobleman, then who was he?”

“I have told you-I do not know. It is a question I am itching to get to the bottom of-a conundrum. Grayven and I have knocked heads together over it with little result. Amerie was strong in the Blood, stronger perhaps than I. Even had she bedded a normal human, their progeny would have been powerful. But by the makeup of your blood your father, Rol, could only have been a Were, a full-blooded Ancient of the Elder Race.” Here Psellos stared into his glass and chuckled like a man pressed to accept an absurdity. “And of course that is impossible-no such creature has walked upon the earth for millennia.”

Impatiently, Rol said: “What of Rowen? How did she come to be here?”

Psellos continued to peer into the bottom of his empty glass. “Rowen is a foundling. I chanced across her begging in the street, barely strong enough to stand, and took her in, for I could see the Blood in her.”

“And took her to your bed.”

He sighed. “Yes. And why not? Don’t tell me you would not like to sink between those white thighs, Rol.”

“But you are supposed to know her parentage.”

“I lied. I know only that I found her on the streets of Ascari one morning, alone in the world.”

“If you cannot tell her what she wants to know, then she’ll leave you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I will tell her the truth.”

“I know you will. But from now on she will not be staying here to discover some absurd family tree-she will remain here because of you.”

If he had expected to shock, he was disappointed. The triumphant smile wavered on his face as he realized events had evidently moved faster than his calculations. He blinked rapidly.

“She loves you, don’t ask me why. She has loved nothing on two legs in her entire life, I think. She is a queen amongst women-and she loves you. Think on it.”

All of Rol’s fine hatred had burned away to ash. He knew that Psellos was not telling all the truth, but he knew also that much of the truth was there.

“Why have you done such things to her?” he asked tiredly.

Composed again, Psellos waved a hand. “Why is a sword beaten upon the anvil? I made Rowen into a beautiful, pitiless weapon. She is my creation, and will never forget that.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“Yes, I did. Over my long life I have acquired many tastes, some of them beyond the ken of short-lived men. One must always seek diversion somewhere.” Here Psellos rose out of his chair and stood staring into the fire, his hands on the hot mantel.

“Hate me if you will, Rol, but look beyond this night, beyond your love for Rowen and your outrage at her treatment at my hands. You, too, have a long life ahead of you, if the gods are kind-longer than mine, for your blood is purer. I have found with the passing decades that all that once seemed important-riches, women, the esteem of one’s fellows-falls away. In the end, all appetites can be sated save one. We hunger after knowledge. Where did we come from, what black night are we walking toward? For half a century I have devoted myself to the pursuit of knowledge, and the fruits of that pursuit are housed here, in this ancient tower.”

“For such an ascetic, you make a good fist at playing the sybarite.”

Psellos laughed. “I need power, I admit. If I am to defy the Mage-King in my quest, then I cannot do so as a barefoot scholar. I need men to fight my battles for me. One day, I will rule Gascar, and even the Mage-King will hesitate before killing the ruler of one of the Seven Isles. I will have the shield I have been seeking.

“I want you to rule it with me, Rol, and after me. This thing I am asking you to do tonight is the beginning of it. Rowen is yours now, and from tomorrow onward you are my heir.” He turned back from the fire and produced from his pocket a long, glinting key. “As such, you will receive this, to use as you will.”

“What is it?”

“The key to my library and laboratory. The last of the secrets.”

Rol’s fingers had sunk into the arms of his chair. He could not move, so tangled were his thoughts.

“I don’t know-”

“Kill Canoval tonight, and by morning I shall be ruler of Gascar in all but name, with you by my side, and Rowen at yours.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.” Abruptly Psellos returned the key to his pocket, turned away. “You had best get some sleep while you can. It’s been a busy day.”

Rol rose shakily to his feet. “Why should I believe you? This could all be a lie.”

Now it was Psellos who sounded tired. “It could be, but it is not. You ought to be able to sense that by now. Go, Rol. Make love to Rowen-you have earned her. Tell her all this if you please, it matters not. But be ready in Candlemas Street tonight.”

For some reason, he wanted to set his hand on Psellos’s shoulder, so bereft did the Master seem in that moment. But in the end Rol left without another word and stumbled blindly down the endless stair of the Tower to his room.

“He knows,” Rowen said. “He knows we mean to betray him.”

She leaned back into Rol’s arms and the sweat dripped from his face down her shoulder. He kissed salt from the nape of her neck and held her closer while about them in the half dark the steam billowed in strange shapes. It was the only place in all the myriad rooms of the Tower where they were sure of secrecy, and there was something comforting in the darkness and the wet heat.

“You think he meant it-everything else?”

“I don’t know. I might, if I had been there. He is lying about my family, though-he knows something he would rather not say. As for the rest…”

“It is somewhat fantastic.”

“With Psellos, even the truth is never very far from falsehood.”

“What do you want to do?”

She turned, sliding moistly in his arms so that their faces were close enough to feel one another’s breath. Those startling eyes, cold as the blade of a knife. She kissed him on the mouth and her tongue darted in over his teeth. One strong hand descended and gripped his member tightly, making the air gulp in his throat. It stiffened in her grasp, filling out with blood. He could feel a heartbeat pulsing down there against her fingers.

“I want to stop thinking and plotting for a while, just a little while.” She pushed him on his back and became a mist-wreathed shadow backlit by candleflame. Her eyes glittered. In one fluid movement she straddled him and he slid up inside her. Hot warmth, a liquid ecstasy. He breathed in deeply and she leaned forward, balancing her palms flat on his chest. She began moving, minutely at first, and then with gathering momentum. Rol set his hands on her hips and closed his eyes, the sensation rocking him away into some place he had not yet seen.