The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [20]
Beneath the mountains of the west
She pulled a knife out from her hair
And stabbed it through his chest
He rode back to his mother’s home
His heart’s blood pouring true
My son, my son, you are so pale
What has become of you
O mother I am wounded sore
And I shall die today
But I must tell you what I’ve seen
Before I’ve gone away
A purple scythe shall reap the stars
An unknown horn shall blow
Where regal blood spills on the ground
The blackbriar vines shall grow
Leoff finished the song, Gilmer listening in evident pleasure.
“You’ve a fine voice,” the old man said. “I don’t cann of this Riciar fellow, but all he said has come to pass.”
“How so?”
“Well, the purple scythe—that was the crescent moon that rose last month, as you said. And a horn was blown—it was heard everywhere. In Eslen, at the bay, out on the islands. And the royal blood was spilled, and then the brammel-briars.”
“Briars?”
“Auy. You aens’t heard? They sprang up first at Cal Azroth, where the two princesses were slain. Sprouted right from their blood, it’s said, just as in your song. They grew so fast, they tore down the keep there, and they creep still. They spell the King’s Forest is full of ’em, too.”
“I haven’t heard that at all,” Leoff said. “I’ve been on the road from Glastir.”
“Sure the news has been up the road by now,” Gilmer said. “How did it miss you?”
Leoff shrugged. “I traveled with a Sefry caravan, and they spoke to me very little. This past nineday I was alone, but I was preoccupied, I suppose.”
“Preoccupied? What with the end of the world coming, and all?”
“End of the world?”
Gilmer’s voice lowered. “Saints, man, don’t you know anything? The Briar King has wakened. That’s his brammels eating up the land. That was his horn you heard blaw.”
Leoff stroked his chin. “Briar King?”
“An ancient demon of the forest. The last of the evil old gods, they say.”
“I’ve never—no, wait, there is a song about him.”
“You’re right full of songs.”
Leoff shrugged. “Songs are my trade, you might say.”
“You’re a minstrel?”
Leoff sighed and smiled. “Something like that. I take old songs and make them into new ones.”
“A songsmith, then. A smith, like me.”
“Yes, that’s more the case.”
“Well, if it’s a song about the Briar King, I don’t want to hear it. He’ll kill us all, soon enough. No need to trouble over him before it happens.”
Leoff wasn’t sure how to react to that, but he felt sure that if the world were about to end, Artwair would probably have mentioned it. “Very well,” he said at last, gesturing above. “Your malend. May I ask, how does it work?”
Gilmer brightened. “You saw the saglwic outside, auy? The wind spins it, which turns a shaft up there.” He pointed toward the roof. “Then there’s wooden cogs and gears, takes that turning and makes this shaft go up and down. That runs the pump, down under. I can show you tomorrow.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“You may be. Artwair has had time to gang and come from Broogh twice now, so something must be keeping him there. And I’m needin’ min rest. And judging by the way the Kuvoolds are pulling at your eyelids, I’d say you need a rest, as well.”
“I am rather tired,” Leoff realized.
“You’re welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There’s another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you’d like.”
“I think I shall, even if it’s only for a short nap.”
He climbed the ladder to the next level and found the bed, just under a window. It was well dark now, but the moon was out, and up the canal some half a league he saw what must be Broogh, a collection of house-shaped shadows, a wall, and four towers of varying height. He saw no light, however, not even so much as he had made out in the far more distant—and probably smaller—villages.
With a sigh he lay on the rough mattress, listening to the wolfwings and nighthawks singing, tired but not sleepy. Above, he could hear the gears Gilmer had mentioned clattering and clucking, and somewhere near, the trickling of water.
The end of the world, eh? That was just his luck.