Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 15

  Mara tried to cover her tears, but Greylock was not fooled.

  “You will freeze up here, Mara!” he cried, and he was surprised by the tenderness in his own voice. Surely she could hear his concern!

  “Leave me alone, Greylock!” she said. “I came up here because I thought I would be alone!”

  “This room is important to me,” he answered, softly. “I will come here when it is my time to die. But no one is supposed to be here until that happens.”

  Greylock tried to look into her face, but her long, unruly hair fell in the way again as she bent to hide her tears. He had a pretty good picture of her face at that moment anyway. He knew that the serious green eyes would be reddened, and that her brows would be knit in a suspicious frown. Her pale skin would be flushed, her mouth set. Compared to the Lady Silverfrost, she would not appear beautiful, but he had chosen her, knowing that it would make an enemy of Silverfrost. Right now, all he could see was her thin shoulders and pale hair. She was shivering.

  “This room is used often, from what I have heard.” She sniffed loudly, trying to regain her composure.

  “It is our tradition to challenge our leaders, Mara,” he said, calmly. “It has kept our leaders, and therefore our people, strong.”

  “This is a deathroom!” she hissed. “A room constructed for death, so that your frozen corpse can be gaped at by all the citizens!”

  Greylock was stunned by the hate in her voice.

  “Have you been praying for my death, Mara?” he asked.

  Her reaction was all he could have wanted. She grew pale, and looked unwillingly into his eyes.

  “No! Never that!” She seemed about to come towards him, then said hopelessly. “Why won’t you let my grandfather go?”

  He remained silent, and she rose to leave the room.

  He stepped in front of her hastily, blocking her exit, holding her briefly in his arms. For a few moments she did not resist, and even relaxed at his touch. But when he lifted her chin to look at her face, she pulled away.

  “Let go of me, Greylock,” she said dully.

  “If Moag is freed, will you stay?”

  “I don’t know, Greylock. He is an old man. He needs me now more than he ever did.”

  “I need you, Mara!” he pleaded. “Both of you!”

  She tried to pass by him again, but he held her back firmly.

  “Please, Mara! My land is threatened. The Wyrrs are calling to me. And the mountain always threatens.”

  “Will you let my grandfather go?” she repeated.

  “This is not something for which I will bargain!” he shouted, angry at her obstinate refusal to listen to him. “I will keep Moag here for as long as I wish. I will not be blackmailed by your love, Mara!”

  “And I will not abandon my grandfather!” she answered, just as fiercely.

  “I see,” he said stiffly. He did not want to go through another wrenching night of knowing that she was under the same roof, but knowing he could not visit her. “Perhaps it would be best if you moved from Castle Tyrant. Slimspear will have moved from Castle Guardian by now.”

  “I think Moag would like that very much,” she said coldly. “And so would I!”

  This time, Greylock let her go without another word. For a few moments, he remained behind, oblivious to the death and the cold. Then, suddenly, the walls seemed to close in on him, claiming him. He left the deathroom quickly.

  Chapter Three

  The throne room was cold and bare, redeemed only partly by the massive fireplace that filled the wall. The flames were stoked to a comfortable, cheerful temperature, but the double thrones were centered against the opposite side of the room as far away from the warmth as possible, Greylock thought miserably.

  He sat shivering on the largest of the high-backed thrones and listened impatiently to another complaint by one of his subjects. The Tyrant wished that the man would finish, for there were only a few citizens left to be heard. The huge room was almost empty.

  As the man told the familiar story of being cheated by the shrewd traders of Bordertown, Greylock’s eyes wandered longingly to the chair set next to the fire, and he wished that he could sit by the roaring flames with a goblet of warm cider. Only the outer walls of Castle Tyrant were actually made of snow, but the inner quarters, constructed largely of porous black lava, seemed no warmer.

  He was surprised when the wide doors swung open and Slimspear hurried in. The steward appeared worried, Greylock saw quickly. Seconds later, he saw the reason for his distress.

  The Lady Silverfrost swept into the room as if accustomed to interrupting the business of the realm, Greylock reflected, as she undoubtedly had when her father was Tyrant.

  She wore a gown embroidered in silver and gold, which her hair matched in brilliance. Her long, luminous hair was unbound, yet not one strand strayed free of her design. On her forehead was a tiara of glyden, which marked her, if her clothing and manner already had not, as nobility.

  The citizen addressing Greylock stuttered and fell silent. Without being told, the man joined the other supplicants scuttling from the throne room. Her cold gray eyes followed them out; even the guards left at her glance.

  Slimspear stood before her gaze defiantly for a few moments, and then reluctantly retired, drawing the doors closed behind him.

  When she finally turned and smiled at him, Greylock found himself flushed with embarrassment. He could not take his eyes off her, and he was a little ashamed that she could have the same unsettling effect on him as she had had when they were small children, when she was the favorite daughter of the Tyrant and he the forgotten nephew.

  “Good morning, Greylock!” she said pleasantly. “Or should I call you Tyrant Greylock?”

  “What do you want, Silverfrost?” he asked. Her accent on his title made him wonder briefly if she had come to mock him. He had not seen her since the day he had motioned Mara and not her to the other throne. He wondered if he had made the right choice. Silverfrost was not the kind of woman one could dismiss easily. Her father, the Tyrant Ironclasp, had brought her up to believe that she would someday sit beside the next Tyrant. That an Underworld woman had taken her place only made her anger more dangerous.

  “You never came to see me, Greylock,” she replied. “So I thought it was time to come to you.”

  Greylock could not keep himself from comparing her beauty to that of Mara. Silverfrost was like the grandeur of the mountain, he thought, and as cold. Mara’s beauty was simple and natural; and she was warm, like the green valleys of the Underworld.

  Silverfrost seemed to guess what he was thinking.

  “Are you still in love with the witch girl?”

  “Why have you come, Silverfrost?” The thought of Mara was almost too painful to endure.

  “I have come to see if there is anything left in your heart for me,” she said, and as she came close to him, he felt himself drawn to her. “Remember how it was, Greylock? It can be so again!”

  He did not answer, not trusting himself to refuse her offer. The memory of the love he had once held for her was strong.

  The smile left her face. “No, I can see that there is nothing left of that love,” she said, almost sadly.

  “I am sorry that you came, Silverfrost,” he said. He waited for her temper to appear; the Lady Silverfrost had never been one to hold back on her anger. He was amazed when her smile returned.

  “No matter,” she said lightly. “I wished to speak with you anyway. Mayor Tarelton has invited me to visit Bordertown and I have accepted his offer.”

  Greylock was not surprised that she had chosen to leave, her position on the High Plateau must have been miserable.

  The ancient barriers to the Underworld had been opened for months, and the path of the Gateway was being cleared of its dangerous rubble. Few citizens of the mountain had yet found the courage to make the venture. The fear of the Underworld, ingrained by a belief in demons, was too strong for the ordinary man or woman to surmount.

 
; Silverfrost, Greylock reminded himself dryly, was not an ordinary woman. For the first time he allowed himself to answer her smile.

  “I hope you will be an example to others,” he said. “When will you return?”

  “I do not know yet,” she answered. “Perhaps I will stay, if the lodgings are suitable. If I decide to return, you will know of it.”

  She swept from the room, and Greylock was left to wonder if he had misjudged her. She had not made a hostile gesture toward him in over a year. Perhaps she had found it within her to forgive him, he thought. He hoped so. She would be a formidable, if beautiful, enemy.

  He rose from his throne and crossed the empty chamber. As he stared into the flames morosely, he heard Slimspear enter softly behind him. The Tyrant looked up with a smile, but saw that it was duty, not companionship, that had brought the steward. The staff of office came down once, softly, signifying that someone was about to be announced.

  The fat shape of Gartlett, the servant of the Lady Silverfrost, waddled into the room and bowed.

  “My lady has left the High Plateau, Tyrant Greylock,” he announced, nervously. “But she forgot to leave her parting gift. She sent me back.”

  He produced a bottle of wine, which he set and poured with great ceremony.

  Greylock was surprised by the princely gift. The citizens of the High Plateau had discovered the wines of the Underworld with delight. The Tyrant himself was one of the few who did not like the new beverage, feeling that its price in glyden was too high, and disliking the effects it had on him. Too many of his subjects had purchased the wine .at exorbitant prices. Still, he thought, an occasional glass was a treat.

  He reached out casually, but awkwardly, from his warm chair and jostled the table with his elbow. The goblet of wine overturned.

  With surprising agility, Gartlett moved to catch the first drops of wine before the red spill could reach of the edge of the table.

  Greylock at first attributed this astonishing reaction to the rarity of the wine. The vineyards of Far Valley produced few grapes, and the wine was of great value.

  A servant girl hurried into the room at the brisk commands of the guards. She took the damp cloth from Gartlett impatiently, and efficiently caught the drippings in the palms of her hands. She walked from the room slowly, unwilling, it seemed, to let a single drop reach the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Gartlett,” Greylock said, still wondering at the agitation of his visitor.

  “You must be more careful, Greylock!” the man cried. “This is the rarest of all vintages, a treasure from Far Valley.” The fat servant poured another measure of wine, this time without fanfare.

  “Will you not have some with me?” Greylock asked, apologetically. The man was so upset, he observed, that he dared scold even a Tyrant.

  Gartlett seemed horrified at the suggestion. “Thank you, no, Tyrant! I would very much like to taste it, of course, but I must decline. If my lady ever found out that I had drank of her gift!”

  Greylock raised the goblet to his lips, eyeing the visitor speculatively.

  A crashing of dishes, a painful scream, made him lower the goblet from his mouth without drinking. Seconds later, Slimspear rushed into the room.

  “Do not drink the wine, Greylock!”

  The Tyrant set the goblet down hastily, finally surmising what had happened. The servant girl had been unable to resist the temptation of tasting the liquid, and had strained the cloth rather than throw it away. She had died for her curiosity.

  Poison was seldom used on the High Plateau. Such a cowardly means of assassination was repugnant to most citizens of the High Plateau.

  Greylock’s eyes turned to Gartlett, who stood beside him as though frozen, his face pale and frightened.

  Before Greylock could stop him, the servant had swooped up the goblet into his beefy hand and gulped down its deadly contents.

  “No!” Greylock cried. “I will not harm you!”

  But he was too late. Gartlett collapsed. The Tyrant lunged from his chair, and caught the man’s head before he had crashed to the stone floor. He wondered what terror the Lady Silverfrost had induced in her servant to make him do this. Gartlett, in horrid contradiction, seemed suddenly at peace.

  “Beware of the Lady Silverfrost, Tyrant,” he gasped. “Her hate is great. She conspires with Carrell Redfrock to murder you.”

  “Redfrock!” Greylock exclaimed. The name explained Gartlett’s fear, as well as the means of assassination. Only Redfrock would use poison to destroy his enemy, for he had nothing to lose. It seemed that the old forms were dying away after all, Greylock thought bitterly. But it was only the traditions that preserved their land that were broken with impunity, while the traditions that held back progress clung tenaciously.

  “They will not give up, Tyrant!” The servant choked. “I have overheard them plotting, late into the night. They are going to approach King Kasid of Trold. They will tell him of the Room of Glyden.”

  Gartlett’s head fell away in his hands, and Greylock laid him carefully on the cold stone floor.

  The screeching caw of a mountain crow came from over his head. He turned to see a huge black bird peering back at him from the high, narrow casements of the throne room, its stance cocky and arrogant.

  Greylock’s hands closed around the goblet, and he tossed it violently at the bird, the deadly wine splashing against the white walls. The crow easily evaded the cup, and noisily flew away.

  The Tyrant knew that it was no ordinary crow, and that Carrell Redfrock would soon know everything that had happened in the throne room from his familiar.

  Greylock berated himself for not suspecting that Redfrock would hide in Silverfrost’s snowcastle. By this time they would have had all the time they needed, he thought angrily, to complete their plots against him. This attempt had only been a warning. The full wrath of Redfrock and the scorned Lady Silverfrost was only beginning to be bent in his direction.

  Chapter Four

  The priests of the Gateway had been adamant from the beginning in their objections to any kind of trafficking with demons. But Greylock had dared to override their protests against the opening the Gateway, and the Gatekeepers had withdrawn to Castle Priest with fervent vows not to emerge until the Underworlders were once again banished from the High Plateau.

  After the failed attempts on his life, Greylock had reluctantly come to the conclusion that he would have to ask for the help of the Gatekeepers in the coming struggle. He was even willing to apologize and face their smug satisfaction.

  The priests had a snowcastle of their own, of course, from which they would not normally emerge except on rare occasions to tutor the royal families, or at the death of a Tyrant. It was a snowcastle set at the very highest elevations of the High Plateau, so that they might better contemplate the three peaks of Godshome.

  Before dawn, Greylock had donned his talons, those extensions of hands which every mountain climber used to grasp the ice, and had begun to climb leisurely toward Castle Priest. In the silence of the dark, with only the sounds of his own labored breathing and the crunch of the spring snow crust to accompany him, Greylock wondered why he had waited so long to make this journey. He had been too long within Castle Tyrant, he thought, too long surrounded by guards. This was what he had always loved most, to be alone on the white snows of the glacier on a clear, crisp morning.

  The sun rose over the glacier while he was still more than halfway from his destination. The mountain plateau looked eternal on such a morning, but the Tyrant knew that it had been destroyed many times by the forces of nature, and that new castles had been rebuilt over the ruins of the old.

  The High Plateau could easily be destroyed by the hands of man, he thought, and such a destruction might not be overcome. He had many questions to ask Keyholder and the other Gatekeepers.

  Greylock avoided the other snowcastles, and tried to remain at equal distances from each of the white walls. He hoped he was only a small dot on the snows, and indistinguishable fr
om the battlements. There were many who would try to take advantage of his vulnerability if they were to see him unescorted. It was safter to stay away, and much more private.

  He was enjoying his solitude. He had disdained to use the much quicker and less tiring route of the lava tunnels so that he could be alone. Stopping briefly to rest, he looked back down the gentle slopes of the glacier until the snows dropped off into the Underworld. No other people were visible at this point. He felt alone in a sea of snow.

  When witnessing such a vista, Greylock could almost understand the theology of the Gatekeepers. The inspiration of their Holy Hierarchy of Tiers was very evident on this morning, though Greylock thought it nonsense. Below the ever-present cloud layer were the hot, humid valleys of the First Tier, with its bewildering array of colors—and its demons. Above was the Third Tier, which the Gatekeepers said was the home of the gods.

  Greylock turned to resume his climb with a sigh, but out of the corner of his eye he saw two small figures struggling against the snows far below. Their progress was slow and awkward, and Greylock guessed that they were not his own people. He debated whether or not to go on, for he still wanted to be alone. But he decided finally to wait and see who the curious figures were. As a precaution, he camouflaged himself in the snows, though he did not believe he was in any danger. It was obvious that he could easily overcome these two clumsy pursuers, or if need be, escape.

  Their progress seemed agonizingly slow, though Greylock knew that this was misleading. Against the backdrop of Godshome, any movement appeared lethargic. One could seem to be crawling yet be moving at a good pace.

  This knowledge did nothing to help him restrain his impatience. One thing was clear, these two would very much like to hurry, if the snows would only let them.