A Shadow on the Glass (56 page)

After the cold of the mountains the night seemed balmy. Llian threw off his clothes and crept into the shelter, afraid to disturb her. He lay down on top of his sleeping pouch and pulled his cloak over him, lying on his side and staring out the opening at the fire. A single star winked in the triangle between the roof and the tips of the trees. The fire crackled. Something scurried through the leaves on the edge of the clearing. Silence.

Her small hand touched his wrist and gripped it tightly.
“Oh, Llian,” she said. “Come and comfort me. I’m so afraid.”

And Llian reached over and took her in his arms, and she pressed her cheek against his throat. Her breast moved slightly against his chest and her breath was like the touch of velvet upon his shoulder.

“What was it, Karan?”

“Something reached out and touched me, worse than my dreams; but it’s all right—it’s gone now … Tell me a tale, Llian my love,” she said then, dreamily.

“What tale would you like to hear?”

“Any tale.” It’s the sound of your voice that I need, she thought. The words don’t matter now.

Llian thought for a moment. “It is a very sad little tale that I have,” he said.

“No matter,” she murmured.

“It is the tale of two lovers, Jenulka and Hengist.” He paused. Karan burrowed her face into his neck. “A very old tale. A slight tale, excessively romantic, to my mind-no more than a diversion, really.”

“Tell it.”

“Jenulka was the wife of Feddil the Cruel, the Tyrant of Almadin, in ages long past And Feddil was a beast of a man, big and fat, old and gross in his habits. Yet he was strong, stronger than any, and wickeder, and more cunning. His chief delight was in making war, his greatest pleasure in tormenting his people; and especially Jenulka, the youngest, smallest and most beautiful of his three wives.”

“Naturally,” came Karan’s voice smugly in his ear. The familiar forms were the best.

“Who knows why he had taken her to wife, for he had sons and daughters aplenty to carry on his line, and some were older than she was, and all had their father’s beastliness. And Jenulka could scarcely bear the thought of sharing
his bed, because he never washed; his feet were black, his breath foul and his belly huge. But she never did, for Feddil had developed grosser tastes. But that was almost as bad, for all the court, the sons and daughters and the other wives, sneered at her, so little a wife that even Feddil would not bring her to his bed, and Jenulka was mocked by everyone. Her life was a misery and she was more unhappy than the lowest pig girl in all Almadin.”

Llian stopped then, for Karan’s breathing was so faint that he was sure she slept in his arms. The slight aroma of lime blossom came yet from her hair. As long as he lived that perfume would bring her to mind.

“Pig girl,” she murmured appreciatively, her lips almost brushing his ear. ‘Tell on.”

“Jenulka took to wandering down to the River Aim in the early morning, before her chaperone was awake. There was thick forest along the river in those times, and meadows where the tyrant grazed his flocks. There she would sit on the grass, or on a log or a rock, and dream of a lover who was young and handsome and lusty. For though she was shy and quiet she was also passionate, and she longed to give pleasure and be pleasured.”

Karan gave a throaty chuckle.

“Now it so happened that there was a young man came sometimes to those meadows by the river, to sit, to watch the water and the flight of the diving birds, and to think. Hengist was his name. He was an apprentice to the master silversmith, and the least in years though the greatest in talent. A soulful, sensitive young man, fond of music and reading and beautiful things, and he had no interest in the company or the vulgar pleasures of the other apprentices. He often crept off to be by himself. And sometimes, if he saw something that was especially beautiful, he would go back to his master’s
workshop and model it in silver. He was a handsome, dark-haired lad; not tall, but well built,
and clean
.”

“But foolish, no doubt,” Karan said.

“Hush! Hengist came down to the river early one morning and there, sitting on a rock near the shore, was the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen. The rising sun was fire in her hair, dazzling his eyes so that he did not recognize her. If he had he would have fled at once—even to speak to the tyrant’s wife was to court death. But the sun was in his eyes and he crept closer. She turned her face to him and he was smitten.

“Now each of them was shyer than the other, and would never have approached a stranger, but their eyes met and both knew that they had found their undying love, that they were made for each other and for no other. And Hengist crept closer, as in a daze, and his eyes never left hers, though the few paces that separated them seemed like the gulf between the stars. And she half-rose from the rock on which she sat, reaching out her arms to him.

“Hengist took her two hands in his, kissing her fingers, and a delicious shiver passed through her. He looked up at her face, and she was soft and gentle and beautiful; so beautiful that his heart almost broke. Then the splash of a heron nearby broke the spell and he knew her for the wife of the tyrant. To touch her hand was death. He sprang back with a cry and was gone, not even daring to look back.

“Hengist went back to the workshop. He worked at his smithing day after day and night after night, oblivious to the taunts of the other apprentices, and the work that he did, the herons, the meadow flowers, the silver fish in the River Aim, were never more beautiful. How he longed to go back to the river and take her in his arms, but he never dared.

“Jenulka went down to the river still, every morning, to the place where they had first met, and when he did not return
her heart was broken. But Jenulka was strong-willed; she knew that he was too afraid to come—that she must go to him. She went into the town to search for her lover, staring into the faces of the people in the street with such intensity that the townsfolk began to talk about her: that the wife not worthy of love grew mad. Many days she went into the town with her chaperone, until she was quite run out of reasons to go there, and she despaired of ever finding her love.

“Then one day, as she turned back toward the castle of the beast (so she thought of her husband), she chanced to pass the shop of the master silversmith. There, in the window, her eye was caught by a sculpture in silver, a heron splashing in the river. So lifelike was it, so beautifully realized that she knew it—among all the herons on that stretch of the river she recognized it, for it was the one whose splashing took her lover away. She knew at once that only Hengist could have made it, though before that she had not known what he did. She went into the shop and bought it, so praising its beauty that the fawning silversmith brought out his apprentice to meet the wife of the tyrant; for even the
least
wife must have influence. So Jenulka and Hengist met again, and their fate was sealed.

“The next morning Jenulka went again to the river, before her chaperone was awake. She knew Hengist would be there, and he was, and before they knew it they were in each other’s arms. And there, while the river gurgled and the waders browsed stiff-legged in the shallow water, they made their union of love. And each morning after, they went there, and in those brief minutes at dawn their happiness was perfect.

‘It could not last, of course, but it might have lasted longer than it did were it not for Hengist’s foolishness. For in the nights, when he had finished the tasks his master had given him, and the other apprentices sweated and snorted in
the houses that no one spoke of, at the wicked end of town, he set to work on a secret project. It was a statue in silver, a naked girl sitting on a rock by the water, dreaming of her lover. An entirely suitable project, then as now, save that Hengist gave it the face and form of his beloved.

“You would have wept if you could have seen it, for she had skin as soft as satin, as rich as cream and as smooth as marble. Her eyes were as green as jade, as large and moist as the eyes of a cow. Ahh!” he said. “That hurt!” for Karan had jabbed him in the ribs with a knuckle. “I’m sorry. As soft and liquid as the eye of a dove. And her hair was as red as the flesh of a plum.”

Llian warmed to his task. “Her form was as sweet and lovely as you can imagine, for she was slender in such places where it is womanly to be slender, and full and rich and rounded in those other places. Her throat was soft and pale, her shoulders slim and beautiful, and her breasts were firm and round, with such a pearly shimmer to the skin that…”

“Enough,” cried Karan, and even in the darkness he could tell that she smiled. “Where do you get such inspiration? Remember you are describing a statue.”

“Oh yes, a statue. A most beautiful piece, and he worked on it carefully, secretly, and hid it away betimes. But his master, a mean and avaricious man who knew how much silver he had to the dram, grew alarmed at the loss of it and, spying on Hengist, discovered what he had done. Here was a chance for favor, for all knew that Feddil’s youngest wife was cold as well as barren …”

“Cold?”
said Karan imperiously in his ear.

“Hush! It’s just a tale, remember. Please, no more interruptions.

“Doubtless Feddil would be glad of the chance to be rid of her, and the silversmith had a daughter who could take
her place. He sought audience with the tyrant and showed him the statue, though the reward he gained was not what he expected. Feddil slashed off his head with a single sweep of his sword, but the rage passed as quickly as it had come, and he watched Jenulka. Before dawn of the next day he saw her creep from her bed and followed her, with a delicious thrill for the torments that were to come.

“All unknowing they came together in their glade by the river, and lay naked in each other’s arms as the sun rose. But Jenulka was stricken by an inexplicable sadness, as though their love was the echo of a dream that was gone, and she wept hot tears on Hengist’s throat. She would not be consoled, but only wept, and then Feddil came.

“Each saw their death approaching, and wept for the other, but Feddil was not called the Cruel for nothing. He put them naked in a big cell, chained by the ankles on opposite sides of the room. They could see each other, but could neither touch nor speak, for if one spoke the other was whipped. And Feddil’s wicked heart saw at once the best torment for each of them: Hengist to see his weeping lover, but not able to comfort her; Jenulka to see her lover tortured before her eyes.

“But Feddil had another project in mind, and in between the scourgings he brought to Hengist the equipment from the silversmith’s workshop—the furnaces, crucibles, hammers and tongs; the clay and sand for molding and all the other things that he might need. For though he was a coarse and brutal man, Feddil knew Hengist to be a great artisan, and he would have him make a statue of the two lovers in solid silver, to remind him of his power over them, and to
scathe
them. And it amused him that their final embrace should be at his command.

“For Hengist this was the greatest agony of all, to make his beloved in silver, but if he refused she would be beaten
and put upon the rack. So each day he took up his tools, gazed at her longingly, and began to work. He knew every curve and contour of her body as only a great artisan could, and could have made the statue even if he were blind.

“Months went by. At last the work was finished, perfect, and Hengist threw down his tools and wept. Jenulka was but a shadow of herself, thin and pate—a waif with huge dark eyes. Her ankles were chafed to running sores from the chains, and her belly, on which he had once delighted to lay his head, was shrunken and wasted from hunger. And Jenulka looked at Hengist and saw how faded he was. Once he had been slim and handsome, but now the flesh seemed to have dissolved from the bones and the taut skin clung to his skull like a mask. But in their despair they loved each other more than ever.

“Then, it seemed, a miracle, for as they reached for each other as they had many times, stretching, straining to the utmost but unable to touch; perhaps because her bones had shrunk from hunger, no matter what, the fetter slipped down over her slender ankle and she was free, and for once the guard had neglected his duty and was not there to whip them apart.

“ ‘Oh Hengist!’ ‘Oh Jenulka!’ and they were in each other’s arms at last, and theirs was an ecstasy for which there are no words.

“Presently Feddil came in, to view his statue and gloat, and finding the lovers together he thrust his sword through them in a single furious thrust. But Jenulka smiled, looking at the statue that showed what they once had, and had again.

“ ‘Our love will endure forever, while ever there are people on Santhenar, and that is its symbol,’ she said. ‘But you and your children will be cursed and forgotten.’ And then she died, and Hengist too, still locked together.

“Now the statue was valueless to Feddil, a symbol of his
humiliation, and in a rage he ordered it destroyed, melted, even taking hold of the ropes himself to heave it into the furnace. But it toppled and crushed him flat. The people rejoiced at the death of the tyrant, and destroyed all his works; and the statue they put in the great hall of the people, where it remains to this day, the symbol of a perfect and undying love.”

“Oh, Llian,” she said, stroking his lips. “I take back every thing I ever thought about you.”

“As I said, perhaps excessively romantic,” replied Llian, smiling at her in the darkness.