Cyrion Read online

  DAW Books presents classic works of imaginative fiction by multiple award-winning author TANITH LEE

  THE BIRTHGRAVE TRILOGY

  THE BIRTHGRAVE

  SHADOWFIRE

  (originally published as Vazkor, Son of Vazkor)

  HUNTING THE WHITE WITCH

  (originally published as Quest for the White Witch)

  TALES FROM THE FLAT EARTH

  NIGHT’S MASTER

  DEATH’S MASTER

  DELUSION’S MASTER

  DELIRIUM’S MISTRESS

  NIGHT’S SORCERIES

  THE WARS OF VIS

  THE STORM LORD

  ANACKIRE

  THE WHITE SERPENT

  AND MORE:

  COMPANIONS ON THE ROAD

  VOLKHAVAAR

  ELECTRIC FOREST

  SABELLA

  KILL THE DEAD

  DAY BY NIGHT

  LYCANTHIA

  DARK CASTLE, WHITE HORSE

  CYRION

  SUNG IN SHADOW

  TAMASTARA

  THE GORGON AND OTHER BEASTLY TALES

  DAYS OF GRASS

  A HEROINE OF THE WORLD

  REDDER THAN BLOOD

  Cyrion

  Tanith Lee

  DAW Books, Inc

  Donald A. Wollheim, Founder

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Elizabeth R. Wollheim

  Sheila E. Gilbert

  Publishers

  www.dawbooks.com

  Copyright © 1982 by Tanith Lee.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Lila Selle.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 499.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY, 10019.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  ISBN: 9780698404571

  First DAW Paperback Printing, September 1982

  First New Electronic Edition, June 2022

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  pid_prh_6.0_140147987_c0_r0

  Dedication

  To Carol McShane,

  Who knows why.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE: The Honey Garden

  1ST STORY: Cyrion In Wax

  1ST INTERLOGUE

  2ND STORY: A Hero At The Gates

  2ND INTERLOGUE

  3RD STORY: One Night Of The Year

  3RD INTERLOGUE

  4TH STORY: Cyrion In Bronze

  4TH INTERLOGUE

  5TH STORY: The Murderous Dove

  5TH INTERLOGUE

  6TH STORY: Perfidious Amber

  6TH INTERLOGUE

  7TH STORY: A Lynx With Lions

  7TH INTERLOGUE

  SECOND PROLOGUE: The Olive Tree

  NOVELLA: Cyrion In Stone

  EPILOGUE

  Prologue

  The Honey Garden

  The plump young man with the bright ginger hair caused something of a sensation as he entered the inn. It was not intentional.

  Dazzled by the hard sunlight of the streets, he judged the three steps of the threshold as two. Finding otherwise, and breaking into an involuntary leap to save himself, he sprang upon an unwitting figure just then in the process of crossing the area, bearing with him two flagons of wine. With cries of surprise and discomposure, both toppled into the clutches of the brass Qirri who guarded the entrance. And, inevitably, struck the brazen gong suspended from her hands. A loud clang echoed through the building, followed by the crash first of one wine jar, then of a second wine jar.

  A silken curtain was thrown aside to reveal the major chamber of the inn, and two male customers, prepared for combat. One was a burly, black-browed fellow, the other a blond Westerner, clad in mail and obviously a soldier, drawn dagger already in professional evidence. From a passage the innkeeper had also come flying. At their feet, two persons writhed and struck about them feebly.

  “Are they killing each other?”

  “The scoundrel is attacking my poor slave!”

  The dark man, who wore the badge of a master mason, at this point intervened, hauling the ginger young man in one direction, while the stunned slave rolled in another. The innkeeper bent over him, cooing. “Speak to me, Esur. Are you dying? And the price of slaves just doubled in the markets.”

  The soldier had already sheathed his dagger. With amusement on his attractive, neatly bearded face, he remarked, “A mistake, I think.” He turned and walked back into the body of the inn.

  Ginger-cheeked now, the plump young man began to explain his error, and produced money to pay for the spilled wine and the spilled slave. The mason stood looking on, toying with the gold coin in his ear.

  Leaving the slave, the innkeeper had gone to examine the brass Qirri. A copy of some pagan statue of the bee goddess—imported when, centuries before, the Remusans had occupied the city—she was the symbol of this inn known as the Honey Garden. Superstitiously, the innkeeper felt her over, was satisfied, kicked the slave to his feet and, taking the proffered money, decided to forgive and forget.

  “You are welcome, sir. The Honey Garden, sweetest inn of Heruzala, lies before you. What may we bring for your delight?”

  Wiping his forehead, Ginger-Hair ordered fresh wine.

  “And roast spiced kid, glazed with honey—our specialty—”

  “Later,” said the plump young man. “Meanwhile. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I am looking for a man. A particular man. I was told I might find him here.”

  “His name, dear sir?”

  “Cyrion.”

  The innkeeper wrinkled his face.

  “This name I have heard. He is a swordsman, is he not? We do not encourage brawlers.”

  “A swordsman, but rich,” said the mason, in an undertone.

  “You know him?” Ginger-Hair demanded.

  “Of him.”

  “He is famous in Heruzala?”

  “Perhaps. And in a few other places, I believe.”

  “They say,” said a new voice, female, a smoky contralto, “that he resembles an angel.”

  The mason, the innkeeper and Ginger-Hair stared after a tall and graceful woman who, having imparted her wisp of information, had gone directly by them, and up toward the street. Her midnight hair was heavily pearled, and her heavy scent remained behind her on the air to interest them for some while. (Unlike the latest arrival, she did not misjudge the steps.) A maid hurried after her.

  “As you see,” said the innkeeper, “we entertain only the very best clients. But if, as you say, he is rich and couth, this Shirrian, then he may well have stayed here—”

  “Cyrion,” the plump young man corrected. He fixed the mason with a determined, if plainly shortsighted eye. “If you will tell me what you know, I will reward you with gold.”

  “Will you now? I know very little.”

  But Ginger-Hair urged him back into the main chamber, and the mason, with a nod of resignation, l
ed him to the table he had occupied before the interruption.

  The table was spread with the complex papers of architectural design, a pen, some ink and a small abacus. It would seem a pleasant enough spot to work. Directly above, a high window pierced the wall, and here a bird in a cage sang melodiously.

  The rest of the large room, its plaster washed by a blue-dye of Tynt, and altogether well-appointed, had few occupants this morning. In a corner the soldier had resumed his own seat and returned to his wine. Farther off, tucked in an embrasure, two men in dark robes seemed to be debating the teachings of the prophet Hesuf, somewhat vigorously. They did not glance at the newcomer, nor at their wine when it was brought.

  Ginger-Hair sat down.

  “My name is Roilant.” Jewels burned on his fingers and collar, and the light from the window described his fine clothes, only slightly sullied by spillage and dusty brass. “The name of my family is, at this point, immaterial. But you can assume I am well able to pay you, if you help me. I trust this will not insult you.”

  “No.” The mason moved his writings and the abacus out of the way as the grudging slave, Esur, approached and banged down a flagon and cups. “However, I prefer to earn my wages, and I am uncertain I can. This inn is a fair one, as inns go. But not the best in Heruzala. You might do better to try for your man at the Rose, or the Eagle.”

  The slave grunted agreement, adding something about falling upon their slaves, who were notoriously savage, before limping theatrically away.

  Roilant did not hear.

  “But I was told he came to the Honey Garden.”

  “Well. He is not here now. You cannot, it seems, miss him. Young, handsome, blond as ice, and dressed as splendidly as King Malban himself, if with rather better taste.”

  The soldier at the nearby table, catching the mason’s comment, grinned. “Poor Malban. Under the Queen Mother’s thumb.”

  Ginger Roilant bridled. “I have met the king. My family has loyal connections with the imperial house of Heruzala, and I would ask you—”

  His request was drowned by sudden altercation. The more elderly of the two debaters in the embrasure had risen, smiting a fist on his tabletop.

  “This line, as any intellectual knows, has been mistranslated from the Remine. Have you no wits, young sir?”

  The other, a man in his late fifties, ignored this youthening, and exclaimed: “You are very wrong.”

  “I tell you the word ‘meek’ is an error. This has been known for decades—”

  Their-voices dropped again.

  The soldier, having finished his own wine but keeping cup in hand, now wandered over to the mason’s table and sat down companionably by Roilant.

  “The old holy man over there,” said the soldier, “has a great many rings. Not uncommon, of course, with such people as the nomads, who must carry their wealth with them. But unusual for a sage, which is what I take the man to be—”

  “To return to Cyrion,” said Roilant.

  “You see,” said the mason, “this Cyrion of yours is elusive. And rather more than merely a swordsman, it would seem. Now he is reported as outriding with some caravan. Now he is studying in one of the great libraries. Now he is outwitting a demon on a mountain.”

  The soldier took up the rhythm. “Now he is in Heruzala. There he is in Andriok. Here he is in the desert Where now? In thin air.”

  “I have been trying to locate him for two weeks,” said Roilant. He, the mason and the soldier all drank deep of Roilant’s wine. “I—need to know his qualifications for a particular reason. This is not idle curiosity. Yet all I hear are rumors.”

  “All I can offer you is little better,” said the mason gravely. “I got the story on the coast, in the port of Jebba.”

  “Jebba!” Roilant cried. “Do you mean he is there?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But it seems he has been, now and then.”

  Roilant sighed. His weak chin sank and his worried eyes dropped.

  “If you will tell me what you heard, I suppose I will listen.”

  “Well,” said the mason, “I render no guaranty of truth. This concerns, for one thing, a form of sorcery. You may not credit such stuff.”

  “Oh.” Roilant shuddered. He collected himself with an obvious effort. “I do.”

  The mason and the soldier exchanged involuntary looks.

  The mason touched the coin in his ear.

  “I want no payment for a tale, then. But I will tell it you, since it describes your Cyrion for you. It begins in an inn at Jebba far superior to this one. . . .”

  CYRION IN WAX

  “Cyrion, be wary of that man.”

  Cyrion raised guileless eyes.

  “Why, and whom?”

  Mareme, the beautiful courtesan, lowered her own eyes swiftly beneath turquoise lids. She was young, lovely, wealthy and accordingly difficult to obtain. Being only for a few, she had learned something of the habits of those few, both in the bedchamber and out of it. This one she believed she knew well enough to judge that the thing he appeared unaware of was frequently what had gained his utmost attention. Besides, their game of lotus-and-wasp on the painted ivory board was beginning, she thought, to veer too readily in her favor.

  In addition, the behavior and appearance of the man in question were difficult to ignore.

  Dark of hair and with the silken olive complexion common in the region, his forehead was bound with gold and his scarlet robe, long as that of a scholar or physician, stitched with bizarre golden talismans. Three pale purple amethysts trickled from his left ear. Satanically glamorous as an eagle, he had stalked into the cool garden of the expensive inn, two human jackals coming after, plainly a bodyguard, a pair of leering sadists, scarred and welted from ancient battles, and clearly keen for more as they smashed forward through the tubs of flowers and the unlucky patrons. Their hands rested ready to their Swords and their fingers were coated with spikes. And nobody challenged them. They mounted the steps beside their master, and stood over him as he seated himself. The seat was on the upper terrace nearest the kitchen wing, among the mosaic pillars and under the scented shade of the orange and cinnamon trees, not ten feet from where Cyrion bent his silver sun of a head and Mareme her coal-black one over their intellectual game. Below, from the open court with its flowers and the palm tree which made a necessary umbrella against the noon sky, men and women had broken off their talk uneasily, and rescued it only in whispers. Those who had been pushed flat arose and resumed their seats in silence. And, strange in this great coastal city of Jebba, where to stare was as natural as to breathe, eyes slid narrowly sideways and no more.

  Presently, the inn’s proprietor himself came hurrying. You could note, from a deal less than ten paces, the sweat making mirror of his suddenly greenish face. He bowed to the dark man.

  “What can I serve you with, Lord Hasmun?”

  The dark man smiled.

  “Eels fried in butter, some quince-bread. A jug of the black, very cold.”

  The innkeeper took a quarter step back, or tried to, on shaking unreliable legs.

  “We have no—eels, Lord Hasmun.”

  One of the jackals stirred eagerly, but Hasmun checked him with an-idle finger.

  “Then,” said Hasmun softly, “get some eels in, my host.”

  The innkeeper fled as fast as jelly would permit, into the kitchen wing behind the house. A minute later, some boys crept from thence into the garden with quince-bread, black Jebba wine packed in ice, and the news that others scoured the fish-market.

  Hasmun sampled the wine. The jackals fidgeted.

  Hasmun laughed, mellowly.

  “Fine living is not for you, lads, eh? Well, go out and play in the streets for a while, my honeys.”

  The bodyguard went, but, in the garden, the conversation grew no louder, and not a head was raised.

  Till Cyrion ra
ised his to ask across the board of lotus-and-wasp: “Why, and who?”

  “I should have held my tongue, I perceive,” said Mareme, very low, “but I thought you had marked him.”

  “The innkeeper? Oh, we are old friends,” murmured Cyrion. He seemed to have remembered the game, and annexed two of Mareme’s pieces neatly before she could fathom the move. When she had fathomed it, she said, “Beautiful as the angels you may be, my soul, but transparent, to a cunning lady of the night. Leave it alone, beloved.”

  Cyrion, having won the lotus-and-wasp, decided to let Mareme win the other game they were playing.

  “I have already caught a rumor here of Hasmun. But not why I must beware of him.”

  “Not only you, my darling. All of us. They call him the dollmaker. Did you know?”

  “He makes dolls then. No doubt a charming trade, the toy business.”

  “Not those dolls that children play with,” huskily mouthed Mareme, as if her voice were trying to reach the very nadir of her throat. “The kind of doll a magus constructs of one he would slay, and then sticks a needle in its liver.”

  “Hasmun is an apothecary, though the rumor says magus. Does the trick work?”

  “Trick!” squeaked Mareme, as if her voice, having reached the nadir, had there changed into her own pet dove-rat. “There are three dead already, and others who have crossed him have gone blind, or their limbs pain them and they cannot walk—Ah, God bless me. He is looking at us.”

  Cyrion leaned back in his chair, and slowly turned his head. The noon sun, raying through the orange trees, fired his elegant silk clothes, and revealed his hair as pure light. It was a fitting halo for the marvellous face Mareme had compared to an angel’s—though whether of the heavenly variety or one of the descended sort, it was somehow hard to be sure. Hasmun was indeed looking in their direction, openly, and with amusement. Now he met this face full on and next Cyrion’s dazzling smile. Hasmun’s eyes half closed, enjoying it all, just as Cyrion seemed to be doing.