The Torc

THE CARDS OF DESTINY (2)

It was nearly two sixnights from Ricasson, the festival of fruits and flowers that marked the end of the year, and the beginning of the next. Already, the milk-dusted purple of early grapes and the green and orange and pink of sliced melons glowed on the farmers’ stalls. The air smelt of summer—dust, plane trees, coffee and spices, fruit, horse droppings, hot bricks.

Jalin, Marquis of Tanasthe, only child of the Duke of Kharthion, and heir to the ducal throne of that island duchy, gave every appearance of being self-confident and successful. After all, he was rich and titled, and very handsome. Some might even say he was beautiful. His hair was so black it glinted blue in the light, and his eyes were that perfect shade somewhere between blue and purple of the blossoms of the Jacar tree which flourished just before Ricasson then fell, in a single day, to make a thick scented carpet on the ground. Perhaps they were a little darker than Jacar blossoms, especially when he was in the grip of some strong emotion. But his eyes were undeniably lovely, and their exquisite charm was enhanced by the lustrous dark of his lashes, and the pale cream of his skin.

He was also a wizard, and that may give you much to congratulate yourself about. But when you are still a young man—and eighteen summers is young, even if you have done your military service—it is true the full power of being a wizard is not quite in your grasp. To be sure, Jalin thought he was a better wizard than he was. He also thought he was more intelligent than he was. His insecurities came because in his heart he suspected that these unpalatable facts were true. And he had no one to show off to. Servants, after all, are supposed to be nice about their betters' activities and hobbies. Jalin knew that only too well, so his self-esteem was grounded on somewhat slim foundations.

Jalin was, unlike most people his age—and this was something which greatly shamed him—a virgin. If his father had had a close friend, or a lyubon, to take care of these matters, the heir to the dukedom of Kharthion might have been initiated into the pleasures of love, or at least, the more dubious joys of sex, in the normal way in one of Tanasthe's many brothels. A harbour town, the biggest town in Kharthion, there was no deficiency in the number of brothels, which catered for all tastes, so that no one need go without. But the Duke of Kharthion had lost his lyubon many years before, and being absent-minded as well as squeamish, had felt unable to bring himself to complete his son's education. And Jalin, despite the arrogant cast of his nose, or the distant gaze in his eyes, had been far too shy to do it for himself. He did not lack the resources. His father made him an abundant allowance. Yet Jalin wanted—though he knew it not—love, rather than a loveless coupling, no matter how skilled his partner and how well the whore pretended to love him rather than his wallet. His being the heir made matters even more difficult. Nothing he did would remain secret. And he was so fiercely shy—though he hid it well with his snooty mien and his brief but lofty words—that he recoiled from having his affairs bruited abroad by hoi polloi. He told himself that wizards needed to keep themselves pure or their power would be diminished. There is some lore which suggests that this is indeed so, but there are others who maintain that wizards get so obsessed with power that they lose the taste for love. Whatever the truth, it was certainly true that Jalin secretly found the whole idea of part of his body being inserted into someone else's body rather repellent. Having someone else do it to him appeared marginally more acceptable, but altogether, the whole thing seemed distasteful. This is the disadvantage of a sophisticated urban upbringing. No farm lad or lass would worry about such effete nonsense. But then, they tend not to wash, or brush their teeth either.

There was no shortage of people willing to share their bodies with the Marquis. There would have been no shortage even if he'd been cross-eyed and toad-like. But the servants of the Duke knew their place, and respected the Duke far too much to dally with his son. The bravos who surrounded him when he went out were too fond of him to let any parasite of either gender get too close. And those invited to the balls at the ducal palace were closely watched by the Duke himself. Not that there were many balls. The Duke found they fatigued him and he was tired of constant sycophants and ill-judged praise. If it had been possible, he would have preferred merely to be a wealthy gentleman, left alone with his books and objets d'art. But it was not possible. He was the hereditary ruler of Kharthion, and he had a duty towards his people. The imperial capital was far off, and anyway, the treaty between Kharthion and Cappor gave the island duchy many freedoms, which meant more responsibility for him. He was one of the nine dukes who made up the Capporean Empire, and knew his importance. But he would, if he could, have have given it all up to be pleasantly idle. And so when it became clear to him that Jalin was no keener to become Duke than he had been, it had not been in his heart to force his only son, his only child, to give up his ambitions to be a wizard, and to take his duty as heir seriously. No one had known where the Marquis's talent had come from, but it seemed clear enough to the Duke that his son had inherited it from his mother, who was elf-kindred, a beauty from Cappor whom he has seen dancing on the stage in Wagon Street, on one visit to the capital, and who had come home with him as his bride, scandalizing the entire aristocracy.

Apart from the servants, Jalin had no close friends. No doubt if he had, he might not have been a virgin. Love, after all, often does spill over from one kind into another. The Duke had a younger brother, and no sisters (obviously, or one of them would have inherited the dukedom) but this younger brother was unmarried, so Jalin didn't even have cousins he could spend time with. In many ways, the Duke was disappointed in his son. He had hoped that he would have turned out more soldierly, more ready to defend his duchy and dukedom with force of arms, if necessary. But in truth, the island was in a central part of the Empire, far from troublesome frontiers, and in recent years even the threat of Fnerxer pirates had vanished.

****

The old woman sat in her usual spot, under the shade of the plane trees, the blanket doubled underneath her cushion, her grubby cards neatly stacked, her opaque eyes following passers by just as if she could see them. However arrogant he might appear, Jalin had a soft heart. When he saw the strange old lady, a dzigana by the looks of her, with the colorful dresses and shawls that those wandering people affect, he stopped, and threw a coin into the old lady's bowl.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It is no matter, reverend mother.”

“Sit thee down, nkôsi.

Jalin had not heard that ancient title used before, but he knew it was elvish, as indeed the dziganes were, an errant tribe of peoples melded together from runaways from the law in both Elfhame and the Empire. The language they spoke amongst themselves was a kind of Elvish, barbarized by the inclusion of many words from Capporean but also from the Khars empire and runaways and outlaws from the frozen Yarsfelder regions in the far south.

“Very well, reverend mother.” He paused a moment or two. “How did you know I was ... who I am, my lady?”

“Ha!” she said, and spat into the dust, her aim accurate enough to just miss the Marquis's lustrous kid-skin boots. Jalin wondered how she did it with the milky covering over her pupils. He prepared to rise.

“Don't go, nkôsi,” she wheedled. “Not yet. Let me tell you your fortune. After all, my lord, you have paid.”

“Very well, reverend one.” Her garments might be filthy, and her skin unwashed, but she had power. Jalin could feel it. It was not the power of the elves, or not just their power, the shining essence of light and energy. It was the power of green things, of growth and life, of blood and death. In one hand she clutched a tangle of twigs and berries and feathers, and round her neck she wore a human jawbone. Her power unsettled him.

He knew enough to know that the jawbone came from the previous prophet whose apprentice the old lady had once been, and that in turn her own acolyte would one day wear her jawbone, an unbroken line stretching back to the dawn of time.

She took his hand and traced the lines on it with her fingers. It was a curiously intimate sensation. After several long heartbeats of silence, she said, “I sense danger for thee, my lord, peril mortal.” She took out the cards, shuffled them, and dealt.

Jalin smiled, convinced that this was the merest mumbo-jumbo.

“Do not smile, young fool. I see true. The sword and the rider, not so.” It was. The card that traditionally meant power. Jalin had been startled that she had known he was smiling. That she could see the cards was even more impressive. His eyes flicked from her opaque eyes to her hands and back again, as if he could see and find the trick that enabled her to do this.

The shamaness chortled, “My eyes might be curtained, but my sight is clear. Do you wish to hear more, most noble Jalin?”

Again Jalin was unsettled. He felt her power grow, her aura of magic and insight thicken. He was aware of how immature his own abilities appeared by comparison with hers. He could do things, small tricks, change the appearance of objects, even of animals. But her probings into the future through blind eyes were very different. She dealt another card—Mara, goddess of war and love. She muttered to herself, and then drew a third card. Before he could see what it was, she turned it face down and placed it on the blanket next to the other two.

“Someone close to you will die soon.”

Jalin shivered. “Who?” he whispered, his skin crawling.

The dzigana shrugged. “The mists of time have their own will, boy. Sometimes they reveal everything. Other times... little.”

He didn't believe her. He could sense she knew who was going to die, that she didn't wish to tell him.

“You do not want to be Duke.” It was not a question.

Jalin shook his head.

She nodded. “But if you are not, someone much worse will take power. You have a duty to your people.”

Again Jalin shook his head. He did not want to hear this. He didn't want to be Duke. He wanted to be a wizard.

“The wealth is reward for the responsibilities. You could be poor. No bravos,” she gestured to where his guards stood, bored, shifting from foot to foot, “no warm beds, no full belly. Is that what you want? Believe me, The Lady will answer your every wish, if it is heartfelt enough. Do not give up your throne lightly.”

“I want to be a wizard!” Jalin was angry, in the way one is when one is told an unpalatable home truth.

“Young fool! You are that whether you will it or no. It is your destiny.”

He wasn't sure whether she meant to be a wizard or a duke, but either way he'd had enough of her. He didn't want to hear this stuff. He didn't need to be criticized and ridiculed. He stood up.

“I haven't finished yet!” remonstrated the prophetess sharply.

“But I have, madam! I am tired of this nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Wilful fool! Wait!” she said. “It's important. Don't be a heedless young idiot. I speak true.” She waited a heartbeat, then dealt another greasy card. She inspected it with her sightless eyes for a long time. “You will go on a long trip, in company with two dear friends.”

Jalin shook his head again, too angry and upset to speak. Dear friends? Of course, that was eminently likely. I have so many. He started to walk away.

“Do not forget, my arrogant fool of a lord, this: when you need it, the dziganes will help you. We will meet again, Jalin, duke's son.” Closing her eyes, she appeared to sleep.

With long strides, Jalin turned for home. Never again! What a load of tosh!

As he was about to leave the square, a messenger from the palace ran panting up to him, “My lord, my lord!”

“What?” Jalin was in no mood to be polite. He saw the bravos exchanging glances and was filled with a surge of irritability. He wanted to snap and shout.

“Your lady mother, Her Grace... ”

“What?”

The messenger just shook his head. “Quickly my lord.”

They set off at a run for the ducal palace, which was only a few streets away. It had been built at a time when it was still fashionable for the rich and powerful to live right in the heart of their cities, before it became the thing to withdraw into secluded country estates. There was an unusual disorder at the palace, with servants running everywhere. Even the guards at the gate were not up to their usual punctilio. Jalin raced across the great courtyard, past the fountain with its marble statue, up the broad steps leading to the terrace in front of the palace, and into the hall of the palace.

At the bottom of the great sweep of marble steps descending from the upper story was a crumpled body.

“Mum!” All at once Jalin was a small boy again, his years and sophistication fallen away, and all he could think was No!, a wail of sorrow and horror and grief. The palace healer was bending over her. He looked up as Jalin approached, and his eyes met Jalin's. The look in them froze Jalin's marrow. He wasn't aware that he was weeping, but his eyes spoke his grief. He knelt on the floor next to his mothers' body, and took her hand. “Mama?” Her blue eyes, shaded with the grey of Elfhame, were staring at him, and for a moment he believed that he saw life in them.

“My Lord. Jall.” The healer had known him all his life.

“I know.” Jalin paused, wiped his eyes futilely, and asked quietly, “How did it happen?”

“No one knows. Ragana heard a cry, and came in from the drawing room, and found her here.”

“She fell?”

The healer nodded. “So it seems.”

“Seems?” Jalin looked quickly at the healer.

The healer didn't answer.

“My father?”

“He has been sent for. He was out on business.”

Jalin looked back at his mother. He reached over and gently, carefully, closed her eyes. He had always loved her, her grace, her beauty, her wit, her love. She had always been there for him. He couldn't grasp the reality that she was no longer there, that all that life should be gone. He wiped his eyes again. Wordlessly, the healer gave him a kerchief. Jalin nodded his thanks.

At that moment the Duke came in, running, panting. He fell to his knees in front of his wife, and a great howl of grief rose up to the high ceiling decorated with scenes from history and myth. Jalin withdrew for a moment, to leave his father alone. He was embarrassed by his father's grief. He was young enough to feel that his parents should never show any weaknesses.

“How did it happen?” the Duke asked, struggling to control his grief.

The healer explained.

The healer and the Duke looked eyes for a moment. “She was a dancer,” said the Duke. “She was light on her feet. Even if she had fallen, she would surely have fallen only one or two steps, not all the way.” The healer nodded. Jalin stared at the two of them in horror. If his mother had not fallen to her death but had been what—pushed?—then Jalin wanted to know why and who. He was a wizard. He would find out. And then, with a shock as if someone had poured icy water over him, a shock that made his heart stop and his guts clench, he remembered the dzigana's prophecy.

He turned and ran, ignoring his father's shout, his bravos just behind him. It seemed to take forever to get to the square in the town. He couldn't believe his eyes when he couldn't find her. He scanned the whole square, the wagons selling farm produce and clothes, trinkets and magical artifacts from Elfhame. She wasn't where she had been. Very slowly and carefully, he walked round the square, looking at each stall or wagon, at each doorway or alcove. She wasn't here. She probably had nothing to do with it, he thought. But these thoughts didn't convince him. What else had she said? Something about mortal danger, about danger to his heritage? About a long journey with two dear friends? He realized then that she had just been lucky. All fortune tellers will have you meeting tall dark strangers, or going on a long trip somewhere. She had just been lucky. He felt better, and turned his footsteps towards home. But through his head and his heart the thought she's dead! she's dead! skittered and scuttled. Forever afterwards, the smells of summer would remind of this grief, this aching loss. He tramped home through the Jacar blossoms in the dust, tokens now of unhappiness and loss.

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Chapter 3>>

© 2009 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved.
Romantic m2m novels and short stories