Simon’s musings were interrupted by a hideous eruption of noise echoing down the passageway—whistles, bangs, and something that sounded like the hungry baying of a hundred hounds.
Morgenes jumped in surprise and said: “Oh, Name of a Name, I forgot to snuff the candles. Wait here.” The small man hurried down the hallway, wispy white hair fluttering, pulled the door at the end open just a crack—the howling and whistling doubled its intensity—and slipped quickly inside. Simon heard a muffled shout.
The horrendous noise abruptly ceased—as quickly and completely as…as…
As the snuffing of a candle, he thought.
The doctor poked his head out, smiled, and beckoned him in.
Simon, who had witnessed scenes of this type before, followed Morgenes cautiously into his workshop. A hasty entrance could, at the very least, cause one to step on something strange and unpleasant to contemplate.
There was now not a trace of whatever had set up that fearful yammering. Simon again marveled at the discrepancy between what Morgenes’ rooms seemed to be—a converted guard-barracks perhaps twenty paces in length, nestled against the ivy-tangled wall of the Middle Bailey’s northeastern corner—and the view inside, which was of a low-ceilinged but spacious chamber almost as long as a tournament field, although not nearly so wide. In the orange light that filtered down from the long row of small windows overlooking the courtyard Simon peered at the farthest end of the room and decided he would be hard-pressed to hit it with a stone from the doorway in which he stood.
This curious stretching effect, however, was quite familiar. In fact, despite the terrifying noises, the whole chamber seemed much as it usually did—as though a horde of crack-brained peddlers had set up shop and then made a hasty retreat during a wild windstorm. The long refectory table that spanned the length of the near wall was littered with fluted glass tubes, boxes, and cloth sacks of powders and pungent salts, as well as intricate structures of wood and metal from which depended retorts and phials and other unrecognizable containers. The centerpiece of the table was a great brazen ball with tiny angled spouts protruding from its shiny skin. It seemed to float in a dish of silvery liquid, the both of them balanced at the apex of a carved ivory tripod. The spouts chuffed steam, and the brass globe slowly revolved.
The floor and shelves were littered with even stranger articles. Polished stone blocks and brooms and leather wings were strewn across the flagstones, vying for space with animal cages—some empty, some not—metal armatures of unknown creatures covered with ragged pelts or mismatched feathers, sheets of seemingly clear crystal stacked haphazardly against the tapestried walls…and everywhere books, books, books, dropped halfway open or propped upright here and there about the chamber like huge, clumsy butterflies.
There were also glass balls of colored liquids that bubbled without heat, and a flat box of glittering black sand that rearranged itself endlessly, as if swept by unfelt desert breezes. Wooden cabinets on the wall from time to time disgorged painted wooden birds who cheeped impertinently and disappeared. Beside these hung maps of countries with totally unfamiliar geography—although geography, admittedly, was not something Simon felt too confident about. Taken altogether, the doctor’s lair was a paradise for a curious young man…without doubt, the most wonderful place in Osten Ard.
Morgenes had been pacing about in the far corner of the room beneath a drooping star-chart that linked the bright celestial points together by painted line to make the shape of an odd, four-winged bird. With a little whistle of triumph the doctor suddenly leaned down and began to dig like a squirrel in spring. A flurry of scrolls, brightly painted flannels, and miniature flatware and goblets from some homunculate supper table rose in the air behind him. At last he straightened up, netting a large glass-sided box. He waded to the table, set the glass cube down, and picked a pair of flasks out of a rack, apparently at random.
The liquid in one of them was the color of the sunset skies outside; it smoked like a censer. The other was full of something blue and viscous which flowed ever so slowly down into the box as Morgenes upended the two flasks. Mixing, the fluids turned as clear as mountain air. The doctor threw his hand out like a traveling performer, and there was a moment’s pause.
“Frogs?” Morgenes asked, waggling his fingers. Simon rushed forward, pulling the two he had caught out of his coat pockets. The doctor took them and dropped them into the tank with a flourish. The pair of surprised amphibians plunked into the transparent liquid, sank slowly to the bottom, then began to swim vigorously about in their new home. Simon laughed with as much surprise as amusement.
“Is it water?”
The old man turned to look at him with bright eyes. “More or less, more or less…So!” Now Morgenes dragged long, bent fingers through his sparse fringe of beard. “So…thank you for the frogs. I think I know what to do with them already. Quite painless. They may even enjoy it, although I doubt they’ll like wearing the boots.”
“Boots?” wondered Simon, but the doctor was off and bustling again, this time pushing a stack of maps from a low stool. He beckoned Simon to sit.
“Well then, young man, what will you take as due coin for your day’s work? A fithing piece? Or perhaps you would like Coccindrilis here for a pet?” Chuckling, the doctor brandished a mummified lizard.
Simon hesitated for a moment over the lizard—it would be a lovely thing to slip into the linen basket for the new girl Hepzibah to discover—but no. The thought of the chambermaids and cleaning stuck in his mind, irritating him. Something wanted to be remembered, but Simon pushed it back. “No,” he said at last, “I’d like to hear some stories.”
“Stories?” Morgenes bent forward quizzically. “Stories? You would be much better off going to old Shem Horsegroom in the stables if you want to hear such things.”
“Not that kind,” Simon said hastily. He hoped he hadn’t offended the little man. Old people were so sensitive! “Stories about real things. How things used to be—battles, dragons—things that happened!”
“Aaahh.” Morgenes sat up, and the smile returned to his pink face. “I see. You mean history.” The doctor rubbed his hands. “That’s better—much better!” He sprang to his feet and began pacing, stepping nimbly over the oddments scattered about the floor. “Well, what do you want to hear about, lad? The fall of Naarved? The Battle of Ach Samrath?”
“Tell me about the castle,” Simon said. “The Hayholt. Did the king build it? How old is it?”
“The castle…” The doctor stopped pacing, plucked up a corner of his worn-shiny gray robe, and began to rub absently at one of Simon’s favorite curiosities: a suit of armor, exotically designed and colored in wildflower-bright blues and yellows, made entirely from polished wood.
“Hmmm…the castle…” Morgenes repeated. “Well, that’s certainly a two-frog story, at the very least. Actually, if I were to tell you the whole story, you would have to drain the moat and bring your warty prisoners in by the cartload to pay for it. But it is the bare bones of the tale that I think you want today, and I can certainly give you that. Hold yourself still for a moment while I find something to wet my throat.”
As Simon tried to sit quietly, Morgenes went to his long table and picked up a beaker of brown, frothy liquid. He sniffed it suspiciously, brought it to his lips, and downed a small gulp. After a moment of consideration he licked his bare upper lip and pulled his beard happily.
“Ah, the Stanshire Dark. No doubt on the subject, ale is the stuff! What were we talking about, then? Oh, yes, the castle.” Morgenes cleared a place on the table and then—holding his flask carefully—vaulted up with surprising ease to sit, slippered feet dangling half a cubit above the floor. He sipped again.
“I’m afraid this story starts long before our King John. We shall begin with the first men and women to come to Osten Ard—simple folk, living on the banks of the Gleniwent. They were mostly herdsmen and fisherfolk, perhaps driven out from the lost West over some land-bridge that no longer exists. Th
ey caused little trouble for the masters of Osten Ard…”
“But I thought you said they were the first to come here?” Simon interrupted, secretly pleased he had caught Morgenes in a contradiction.
“No. I said they were the first men. The Sithi held this land long before any man walked on it.”
“You mean there really were Little Folk?” Simon grinned. “Just like Shem Horsegroom tells of? Pookahs and niskies and all?” This was exciting.
Morgenes shook his head vigorously and took another swallow. “Not only were, are—although that jumps ahead of my narrative—and they are by no means ‘little folk’…wait, lad, let me go on.”
Simon hunched forward and tried to look patient. “Yes?”
“Well, as I mentioned, the men and Sithi were peaceful neighbors—true, there was an occasional dispute over grazing land or some such, but since mankind seemed no real threat the Fair Folk were generous. As time went on, men began to build cities, sometimes only a half a day’s walk from Sithi lands. Later still a great kingdom arose on the rocky peninsula of Nabban, and the mortal men of Osten Ard began to look there for guidance. Are you still following my trail, boy?”
Simon nodded.
“Good.” A long draught. “Well, the land seemed quite big enough for all to share, until black iron came over the water.”
“What? Black iron?” Simon was immediately stilled by the doctor’s sharp look.
“The shipmen out of the near-forgotten west, the Rimmersmen,” Morgenes continued. “They landed in the north, armed men fierce as bears, riding in their long serpent-boats.”
“The Rimmersmen?” Simon wondered. “Like Duke Isgrimnur at the court? On boats?”
“They were great seafarers before they settled here, the Duke’s ancestors,” Morgenes affirmed. “But when they first came they were not searching for grazing or farming land, but for plunder. Most importantly though, they brought iron—or at least the secret of shaping it. They made iron swords and spears, weapons that would not break like the bronze of Osten Ard; weapons that could beat down even the witchwood of the Sithi.”
Morgenes rose and refilled his beaker from a covered bucket standing on a cathedral of books beside the wall. Instead of returning to the table he stopped to finger the shiny epaulets of the armor suit.
“None stood against them for long—the cold, hard spirit of the iron seemed in the shipmen themselves as much as in their blades. Many folk fled south, moving closer to the protection of Nabban’s frontier outposts. The Nabbanai legions, well-organized garrison forces, resisted for a while. Finally they, too, were forced to abandon the Frostmarch to the Rimmersmen. There…was much slaughter.”
Simon squirmed happily. “What about the Sithi? You said they had no iron?”
“It was deadly to them.” The doctor licked his finger and rubbed away a spot on the polished wood of the breastplate. “Even they could not defeat the Rimmersmen in open battle, but,” he pointed the dusty finger at Simon, as if this fact concerned him personally, “but the Sithi knew their land. They were close to it—a part of it, even—in a way that the invaders could never be. They held their own for a long time, falling slowly back on places of strength. The chiefest of these—and the reason for this whole discourse—was Asu’a. The Hayholt.”
“This castle? The Sithi lived in the Hayholt?” Simon was unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “How long ago was it built?”
“Simon, Simon…” The doctor scratched his ear and returned to his perch on the table. The sunset was completely gone from the windows, and the torch light divided his face into a mummer’s mask, half illumined, half dark. “There may, for all I or any mortal can know, have been a castle here when the Sithi first came…when Osten Ard was as new and unsullied as a snow-melt brook. Sithi-folk certainly dwelled here countless years before man arrived. This was the first place in Osten Ard to feel the work of crafting hands. It is the stronghold of the country commanding the water ways, riding herd on the finest croplands. The Hayholt and its predecessors—the older citadels that lie buried beneath us—have stood here since before the memories of mankind. It was very, very old when the Rimmersmen came.”
Simon’s mind whirled as the enormity of Morgenes’ statement seeped in. The old castle seemed suddenly oppressive, its rock walls a cage. He shuddered and looked quickly around, as though some ancient, jealous thing might even at this moment be reaching out for him with dusty hands.
Morgenes laughed merrily—a very young laugh from so old a man—and hopped down from the table. The torches seemed to glow a little brighter. “Fear not, Simon. I think—and I, of all people, should know—that there is not much for you to fear from Sithi magic. Not today. The castle has been much changed, stone laid over stone, and every ell has been rigorously blessed by a hundred priests. Oh, Judith and the cooking staff may turn around from time to time and find a plate of cakes missing, but I think that can be as logically ascribed to young men as to goblins…”
The doctor was interrupted by a short series or raps upon the chamber door. “Who is it?” he cried.
“It’s me,” said a doleful voice. There was a long pause. “Me, Inch,” it finished.
“Bones of Anaxos!” swore the doctor, who favored exotic expressions. “Open the door, then…I am too old to run about waiting on fools.”
The door swung inward. The man framed against the glow of inner hallway was probably tall, but hung his head and hunched his body forward in such a way that it was difficult to make sure. A round, vacant face floated like a moon just above his breastbone, thatched by spiky black hair that had been cut with a dull and clumsy knife.
“I’m sorry I…I bothered you, Doctor, but…but you said come early, now didn’t you?” The voice was thick and slow as dripping lard.
Morgenes gave a whistle of exasperation, and tugged on a coil of his own white hair. “Yes, I did, but I said early after the dinner hour, which has not yet arrived. Still, no sense in sending you away. Simon, have you met Inch, my assistant?”
Simon nodded politely. He had seen the man once or twice;
Morgenes had him come in some evenings to help, apparently with heavy lifting. It certainly wouldn’t be for anything else, since Inch did not look as though he could be trusted to piss on the fire before going to bed.
“Well, young Simon, I’m afraid that will have to put an end to my windiness for the day,” the old man said. “Since Inch is here, I must use him. Come back soon, and I will tell you more—if you like.”
“Certainly.” Simon nodded once more to Inch, who rolled a cowlike gaze after him. He had reached the door, almost touched it, when a sudden vision blazed into life in his head: a clear picture of Rachel’s broom, lying where he had left it, on the grass beside the moat like the corpse of a strange water bird.
Mooncalf!
He would say nothing. He could collect the broom on his way back, and tell the Dragon that the chore was finished. She had so much to think about, and, although she and the doctor were two of the castle’s oldest residents, they seldom spoke. It was obviously the best plan.
Without understanding why, Simon turned back. The little man was scrutinizing a curling scroll, bent over the table while Inch stood behind him staring at nothing particular.
“Doctor Morgenes…”
At the sound of his name the doctor looked up, blinking. He seemed surprised that Simon was still in the room; Simon was surprised, too.
“Doctor, I’ve been a fool.”
Morgenes arched his eyebrows, waiting.
“I was supposed to sweep your room. Rachel asked me to. Now the whole afternoon has gone by.”
“Oh. Ah!” Morgenes’ nose wrinkled as if it itched him, then he broke out a wide smile. “Sweep my chamber, eh? Well, lad, come back tomorrow and do it. Tell Rachel that I have more work for you, if she will be so good as to let you go.” He turned back to his book, then looked up again, eyes narrowing, and pursed his lips. As the doctor sat in silent thought, the elati
on Simon was feeling changed suddenly to nervousness.
Why is he staring at me like that?
“Come to think of it, boy,” the man finally said, “I will be having many chores coming up that you could help me with—and eventually I will need an apprentice. Come back tomorrow, as I said. I will talk with the Mistress of Chambermaids about the other.” He smiled briefly, then turned back to his scroll. Simon was suddenly aware that Inch was staring across the doctor’s back at him, an unreadable expression moving beneath the placid surface of his whey-colored face. Simon turned and sprinted through the door. Exhilaration caught him up as he bounded down the blue-lit hallway and emerged under dark, cloud-smeared skies. Apprentice! To the doctor!
When he reached the gatehouse, he stopped and climbed down to the edge of the moat to look for the broom. The crickets were well into the evening’s chorale. When he found it at last, he sat down for a moment against the wall near the water’s brink to listen.
As the rhythmic song rose around him, he ran his fingers along the nearby stones. Caressing the surface of one worn as smooth as hand-burnished cedar, he thought:
This stone may have been standing here since…since before our Lord Usires was born. Perhaps some Sithi boy once sat here in this same quiet place, listening to the night…
Where did that breeze come from?
A voice seemed to whisper, whisper, the words too faint to hear.
Perhaps he ran his hands across this same stone…
A whisper on the wind: We will have it back, manchild. We will have it all back…
Clutching the neck of his coat tight against the unexpected chill, Simon got up and climbed the grassy slope, suddenly lonesome for familiar voices and light.
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