I'm not drunk. I'm just a little giddy from standing on a sword-blade.'
'You mean that you expect someone to try and kill you today?'
T mean,' said Hearst, 'I expect the sky to either stand or fall.'
That was a standard nonsense answer which children on Rovac used on occasion to irritate each other, but to Blackwood it sounded like a random piece of gibberish.
'You,' said Blackwood, slowly, 'are not as bright and cheerful as you seem to be. You are under enormous strain. There are two tides running within you. You are not… you are not at all happy.'
'Happy!' roared Hearst. 'Why should I be happy? This damnable death-stone grinding my nerves to the quick and raw. Dead men underfoot in my dreams. That oh so so formidable – unpredictable! inscrutable! – woman Farfalla, who might even now be measuring cloth for my coronation robes or my shroud. I should be happy?!'
Blackwood did not risk an answer.
Hearst paced up and down, as if burning off excess energy. He had dressed so as to intimidate anyone who might be thinking of foul play. Although he did not usually favour ostentation, today he wore a cloak embroidered with dragons. Beneath the cloak, chain mail. At his side, the sword Hast. At his throat, the multi-faceted black gem which was the key to the tower of Ebber, which had been placed in a setting of shining gold which reflected the glow of the dancing flame within.
'Would you be happy if you were in my place?' said Hearst, turning on Blackwood.
The question reminded Blackwood of one Elkor Alish had once asked him: What would you do in my place? If he remembered correctly, his answer on that occasion had been rather impolite. With Hearst, he tried a milder approach.
'You,' said Blackwood, 'are free to be as happy as you like. But there's no need to be so fierce. I've studied Farfalla carefully. I don't think she means murder. I think she really does mean for you to be the ruling power of the Harvest Plains.'
'Perhaps,' said Hearst. 'But there's something mighty 424 strange going on here. Someone's keeping a secret from me! I can tell it by the way they look at me, the way my footsteps kill their conversations.'
'I think,' said Blackwood, 'that today they plan to consecrate you as a member of the family of the Favoured Blood. Haven't you heard of that ceremony?'
'Oh, I've heard that it happens,' said Hearst. 'But Farfalla has said nothing about performing the ritual for me. Least of all today.'
'You know it has to be done if you want to rule the Harvest Plains,' said Blackwood, it's only a ritual to appease the ignorant and the superstitious so they can say their ruler is of the Favoured Blood, but you shouldn't underestimate the importance of it. Most of the people of the Harvest Plains are ignorant and superstitious.'
'But,' said Hearst, 'why didn't Farfalla tell me if I have to go through with this ritual today?'
'The ritual,' said Blackwood, 'consists of an invocation in the language of the Harvest Plains. Not the vernacular, which you've started to learn, but the formal language which they call the Tongue of the Teeth of the Oldest Stone. You wouldn't understand what was being said. At the end of the invocation, they offer you wine. You have to drink. Farfalla might be hoping to get through the ceremony without you understanding what's going on.' i'd do what's necessary,' said Hearst. 'Doesn't she understand that?'
'Does anyone understand anyone?' said Blackwood.
In Blackwood's judgment, Farfalla truly did want Hearst as a leader for her people, and feared he might take offence if told he first had to be consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood – after all, he was a hero and a conqueror in his own right. i think,' said Hearst, 'you know a little more than you're telling me.'
'Do you really want to know all I've learnt since coming to Selzirk?' said Blackwood innocently. 'For a start, I've read an old book of poetry -'
'Spare us,' said Hearst. 'Tell me, when they bring me this wine – do I have to drink it all? Does it say yes or no in those old books and parchments you've become addicted to?' i don't know,' said Blackwood. 'I'll try and find out, quickly. But if it's poison you're worried about -' it is.'
'- then I'll see if Miphon knows of anything which could protect you.'
'Do that,' said Hearst. 'And I'll be grateful.'
'Then,' said Blackwood, 'perhaps you'd give me an advance on your gratitude and reward me by letting me know the real reason why you're so badly upset.' i'm not upset!' roared Hearst.
And, such was the violence in his voice that Blackwood precipitated himself from the room, thinking it unwise to stay longer.
In truth, the reason for Hearst's strange mood probably had something to do with a letter he had received from a secret embassy from Runcorn. The letter, a bitter epistle from Elkor Alish, accused Hearst of being a coward, a traitor, and other terrible things.
Hearst had burnt the letter, but its words were branded indelibly on his mind.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sunlight through stained glass splayed colours across Hearst's hands: orange, green, red. A goblet in front of him still held wine; blood-red wine. He had taken only a sip; Blackwood had told him a sip was enough.
It was done: he was now, for the purposes of the Harvest Plains, one of those of the Favoured Blood. Farfalla's intentions must now be clear to everyone.
The guests laughed, smiled, joked, pleased that the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst had consented to sample that blood-red wine, that his destiny was settled. Yet the mood in the hall was far from light-hearted. There was something over-eager in the laughter, a hint of savage anticipation in the smiles, a touch of greed in the eyes.
Hearst knew that these people, having tasted victory, had acquired an appetite for more of the same. Perhaps that was why Farfalla now chose to yield leadership to him: because the people, desiring a war-leader, would find one if they were not given one.
Hearst watched.
He was stone-cold sober; apart from that one sip of wine, he had drunk nothing. He toyed with some cold chicken, but had little appetite for it; he had already indulged heavily in an oily, greasy concoction of milk, cream, liver, olive oil, eggs and charcoal which Miphon had prepared for him; this would line Hearst's stomach for the duration of the feast, delaying the absorption of any poisons, and afterwards he could vomit his stomach clean in private.
Hearst bit off some chicken, chewed it and swallowed it down. He felt distinctly queasy, thanks to the oily burden in his stomach, but he suspected if he complained to Miphon he would get no sympathy from the wizard. Hearst took another sip of wine. Just a small sip. Then dared a little more chicken. A harpist was getting to his feet. He called for silence: 'Peace, I beg you, peace. Silence! Not to honour my song, but to honour the one my song praises. Peace, now!'
Farfalla herself stood: 'Silence! You know who we honour. Silence should be our duty, our pleasure.'
There was silence in the hall then, although eating did not stop, and many refilled their glasses. The minstrel struck a chord on his harp, and began. He sang in the Galish Trading Tongue, as a courtesy to Morgan Hearst; most in the Hall of Wine knew that language:
The moon it was riding, but still we had light, The stars for our guide and our fortune foretold, For strength we were gathering in the depths of the night For attack at the daybreak – all strength to the bold!
With the first verse sung, Hearst knew the song was hardly original. It was a pastiche of the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood, which was declaimed in different languages in every kingdom of Argan. Hearst himself had roused out the words of that song, long ago in the High Castle in the land of Trest.
The minstrel told of reinforcements joining Hearst's army under cover of darkness, of Alish's army attacking as day was breaking, of the cavalry of the Harvest Plains shattering that attack, and of Alish's own cavalry meeting destruction when charging the burial mound. And then – distorting history slightly – the minstrel told of the rout of Alish's army:
And the scream! And the Scream! It is one throat and all, Blood greeting sword as the sun greets the sky. Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along: It is ours! It is ours! Raise the Banner, the Song!
There was more: much more. At the end, everyone in the Hall of Wine cheered. Cheered? They screamed:
