12. The palace (VII)

Night had already fallen by the time Oren reached the steps leading up to the corner of the palace. Inside, there was no indication of anything amiss; the lanterns were lit, and the galleries remained as desolate and silent as the night he had arrived. Not knowing how far he might have to walk to find Mira he paced himself, neither resting nor running, until he came to the domed chamber and began to climb the narrow stairs. By the time he was halfway up he was sweating heavily and his knees were beginning to buckle; the effect of his exertions, and of too many days with little water or food, was taking its toll. Grim-faced, he slowed his climb but kept on until at last he reached the uppermost floor.

He managed to find his room again. The bed had been made and the previous night's tray had been removed, but of course Mira was not there. He didn't linger but immediately set off again, not knowing where to turn but certain that he must continue searching until he found her. He wandered the corridors for an hour or more until he heard, from somewhere not far off, a familiar clattering, the meaning of which he understood at once.

In the banquet room the guests were already seated and beginning their meal. All was exactly as it had been the first time he had entered the room, except that the king's chair was now empty. The tiny owl, crouching on its perch, swiveled its head to regard Oren as he entered the room and took the only other vacant seat, the same one he had occupied two nights before. The woman seated on his right — of course it was not Mira — handed him a basket of bread with a perfunctory nod. He broke off part of a loaf but set it on his plate untasted, then lifted the glass of wine to his lips to slake his thirst. Around him the company ate, this time in total silence, while Oren hesitated, debating whether to stay or go or speak. He looked up and saw that the owl's gaze remained fixed upon him.

All at once, and before he knew he was going to do it, he rose furiously to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair behind him in the process. The commotion froze the room; every eye was on him as the words rushed furiously out:

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried, and pounded on the table. “Who are you all? And where is the king?”

For a moment no one answered, though Oren noticed that the owl had suddenly spread its wings and ruffled them in excitement. He was about to leave in disgust when a woman he had taken no previous notice of called him back.

“Wait — don't go,” she began. Oren turned to face her; she was a woman somewhat past her middle years, but still hale and sturdy. Her bearing was solemn, and she spoke slowly and evenly, making sure he caught the full weight of each word she spoke.

“The king, for reasons you well know, is in hiding, to answer the simplest of your questions. For the rest, let me first say that no one holds you to blame for not breaking your silence two nights ago, though we had desperately hoped that you would do so. It's true that your silence has had consequences — terrible consequences, in fact — but you acted as you did out of an ignorance for which you are in no way responsible, an ignorance which, moreover, we were strictly enjoined not to dispel. That injunction has now been abrogated. I will explain everything, but it will take some time, so I suggest you sit down.”

She waited before continuing. Oren did not immediately obey — in fact he was not particularly inclined to do so at all, and was just about to turn his back on her and resume his search for Mira, when two men paraded into the room, followed, as before, by the bearer of the bloody lance. The woman turned her gaze from Oren and watched them cross the room. Oren, for his part, lingered just inside the doorway, watching the procession with a mix of fascination and scorn. It was not until he felt himself roughly thrown to the floor that he realized that a great furious form was rushing past him into the room.

Amid screams of confusion and dismay, Oren staggered to his feet, bleeding from a gash on his chin. The Swan knocked the table in front of him away as if it had been a matchstick; diners, chairs, and dishes flew in all directions. It raised its head above the terrified crowd and emitted a shrill and livid cry that chilled Oren to his bones; then, raising a wing — the underside white, the topside black to match its head and back — it violently swatted aside the nearest human form — it was the woman who had begun the accounting of the mysteries of the palace — sending her insensate against the wall of the room.

A few of the company, those nearest the exits, managed to dart from the room, shouting and raising the alarm, but the Swan's outspread wings had trapped the greater number between the center of the room and the deserted dais. Men and women alike fell to the floor, cowering for cover as best they could, fearing the bird's terrible beak; in the meantime the owl had flown swiftly and silently from its perch and flitted through a doorway. Only Oren remained standing, a few yards away, apparently unnoticed by the terrible bird.

He was barely aware of his own movements as, all at once, he unfroze and strode across the room to the dais. He seized hold of the lance where it had fallen on the floor, and without reflection, without hesitation, stepped towards the Swan and, catching its eye at last, drove the lance viciously, deeply into its heart.

The bird let out a tremendous bellow and thrashed about wildly, the lance still fixed in its breast. Then it toppled, heavily, and settled onto the floor, blood pouring from the wound. Oren approached warily, weaponless now, but as soon as he saw the Swan's opalescent, lifeless eye he knew that it would never rise again.

July 10, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.