“Tam, I have a gift for you.”
She spoke Ter’s name and the great Falcon came to settle on Tam’s shoulder. He started.
“No—Sybel, he will miss you“
“No. He is a king’s bird. And if you ever are in danger he will protect you, and when I call his name, he will tell me from far away that you are well and happy.” She lifted her eyes to Ter’s blue eyes, and for a moment he said nothing to her. Then words came.
I did not think there would be a place for me again in the world of men.
There is one place, she said. Guard him well and wisely.
I will, greatest of Heald’s children. And if ever you need me, call, and I will come freely.
She smiled. Farewell, my great Lord of Air.
Tam hugged her so tightly that the mist of their breaths in the chill air stilled. Then he mounted behind Drede, the Falcon on his arm. Drede bent low, took Sybel’s hand.
“There will always be a place for you with us if you choose it. And if you do not, there is one place in my heart where your name will be, in silence.” He held her hand a moment against his mouth. Then he turned the dark horse onto the mountain path, and Sybel watched until Tam’s face, turned always toward her, was lost among the trees.
She turned, shivering a little, and went back into the garden. The snow began to fall, light, silent, endless. Gules Lyon appeared silently beside her; she trailed her hand absently through his mane. She went into the quiet, darkening house and sat down before the fire. Moriah came to rest at her feet. She sat there while the fire crept into embers and pulsed within them secretly, and while they burned themselves to blackness, and the night fell, cold, around her, and the snow fell across her threshold, blotted the last footprints of Tam, and the crescents of the prints of the King’s horse. That night, the next day, and the next night she sat there, hands motionless on the arms of her chair, her eyes unwavering, as if she could still see the dancing green flame, and the white hall was cold and silent about her.
She stirred finally, blinking. She saw her animals about her, even the fiery mass of Gyld, curled silent on be stones, and the beautiful, secret-eyed Swan watching her from the doorway of the domed room. She turned and found Cyrin’s red eyes behind her. She smiled a little, her mouth stiff in the cold.
“I am here. Are you hungry?”
Her voice faded, unanswered, among the stones. Then Gules Lyon pushed beneath her hand.
Get up, he said. Tend the fire. Eat.
She rose, sighing, and knelt before the hearth. Then her hands checked, wood-filled, over the grate. She turned, feeling the nameless Thing with her among the animals. She searched for it, her eyes narrowed, in be shadowed comers, behind the folds of tapestry. It stood just beyond her eyesight, just beyond the circle of her mind, formless, nameless. A thought, the sudden pulse of a memory, flicked through her head. She put the wood down and went into the domed room. She unlocked a huge, gold-leafed book, one of Ogam’s, with parchment pages of ancient writings, the collections of forgotten tales as old as the reign of the third King of Eldwold. She leafed through the pages, searching for a few brief lines, and found them finally. She sat down on the floor, the heavy book on her lap, and read silently:
And there is that fearsome monster, which awaits men around dark corners, through dark doorways, in the blackest hours of the night. Only the fearless survive looking upon it. It is called Rommalb, when spoken of, for to speak its name truly is to summon it.
She smiled slowly. “Rommalb,” she said aloud, and turned the name around on her tongue. “Blammor.” And looking up, she saw it finally.
FOUR
It was a shadow in the shadows, a black mist taller than she, with eyes like circles of sightless, gleaming ice. She closed the book and slowly rose to face it. She touched its mind and found it as still, as dark.
Give me your name.
Its mind-voice was a rustle of dried leaf. Blammor.
Why have you come to me so freely? Most struggle to hide their names. But you came uncalled.
I was not uncalled. And you have a strange power, that draws me and that is to see me as I am truly. Therefore I came to you, and I will serve you, as one day you will serve that one who sees you truly.
Do I see you truly now? A black mist with fire-white eyes, sightless yet seeing?
That is part of me.
You fascinate me, she said. Do all men see you this way? There are tales of your terribleness.
Men see what they are most afraid of.
What do you require of me?
Nothing, it said, but your fearlessness. I will go now. I have night work.
It faded into the shadows. They trembled a, moment at its passing.
She turned, rubbing her chilled arms, a little smile crooking her mouth. She went to the hearth again and lit a taper from the green flame burning steadily on the mantel. The fire danced in a few moments from the hearth, and she lit candles from it, and torches, moving softly to place them in the chilled room, while the half-lit forms of Swan, Boar and Lyon watched her silently. Then, faint through the singing winter winds, she heard a shouting at her gates.
Her white brows knit a little, puzzled. She called Ter, then remembered he had gone, so she took Cyrin out with her, and a fiery torch that set the deep snow ablaze about her. The flakes fell in huge, great wheels of intricate crystal that vanished in the torch flame. A man stood cloaked, hooded at the gates, his horse behind him. She moved the torch to light his face behind the bars and beneath the hood his hair flamed.
She sighed. “Oh.” She unlocked the gates, and he stepped into the yard. “Take your horse to the shed on the side of the house; I will keep the others out.”
“Thank you,” he said, the words blowing white in the wind. His shoulders were cloaked with snow that melted in dark trails down his back as he took the torch from her.
He joined her a few moments later in the house. He nodded courteously to Gules as he passed, and to Moriah, curled like a shadow. Sybel took his sodden cloak, hung it to dry beside the fire, and he stood at the hearth, drinking the flame, shuddering.
“That was a long, cold ride from Sirle. Sybel, your house is chilled. Have you been away?”
“No. I have been… I do not know where I have been, but I do not think I have come back yet.” She sat down again, spread her hands to the fire. “Why have you come? You must know by now that Tam is with Drede.”
“I know,” he said. “I came because you called.”
She stared up at him in amazement. He smiled, his chilled face taking color from the warmth, his lean hands cupping the blaze.
“I did not.”
“I heard you. Sometimes, in silence, at night, I hear the voices of things beyond eyesight, like echoes of ancient songs. I heard your voice, lonely in my dreams—it woke me, so I came. You see, I know how it is when you speak a name into an empty room with no one on earth to answer to it.”
She was silent, her mouth open, wordless. He sat down beside her. Moriah rose leisurely, came to lie at their feet and stare at him out of green, inscrutable eyes. Sybel drew a breath and closed her mouth.
“I have never heard of such a thing. What are you? You are a fool in some ways, and yet you know other things that amaze me.”