Lyonesse

Melancthe looked at him over her shoulder. "Dress yourself."

Sullenly Carfilhiot do

When he had dressed he came to her and put his arms around her waist.She slipped from his grasp and spoke in a pensive voice, "don't touch me. No man has ever touched me, nor shall you."

Carfilhiot laughed. "Am I not a man? I have touched you, thoroughly and deep, to the core of your soul."

Still watching the fire Melancthe shook her head. "You occur only as an odd thing of the imagination. I have used you, now you must dissolve from my mind."

Carfilhiot peered at her in bafflement. Was she mad? "I am quite real, and I don't care to dissolve. Melancthe, listen!" Again he put his hands to her waist. "Let us truly be lovers! Are we not both remarkable?"

Again Melancthe moved away. "Again you have tried to touch me." She pointed to a door. "Go! Dissolve from my mind!"

Carfilhiot performed a sardonic bow and went to the door. Here he hesitated, looked back. Melancthe stood by the hearth, one hand to the high mantle, firelight and black shadow shifting along her body: Carfilhiot whispered to himself, inaudibly. "Say what you will of phantoms. I took you and I had you: so much is real."

And in his ear, or in his brain, as he opened the door, came soundless words: "I played with a phantom. You thought to control reality. Phantoms feel no pain. Reflect on this, when every day pain comes past."

Carfilhiot, startled, stepped through the door, and at once it closed behind him. He stood in a dark passage between two buildings, with a glimmer of light at either end. The night sky showed overhead. The air carried an odd reek, of moldering wood and wet stone; where was the clean salt air which blew past Melancthe's palace?

Carfilhiot groped through a clutter of rubbish to the end of the passage and emerged into a town square. He looked around in slack-jawed perplexity. This was not Ys, and Carfilhiot spoke a dour curse against Melancthe.

The square was boisterous with the sights and sounds of a festival. A thousand torches burnt on high; a thousand green and blue ba

A man costumed as a white rooster, with red comb, yellow bill, white feathered wings and tail strutted past. Carfilhiot clutched his arm. "Sir, one moment! Enlighten me, where is this place?"

The man-chicken crowed in derision. "Have you no eyes? No ears? This is the Avian Arts Grand Gala!"

"Yes, but where?"

"Where else? This is the Kaspodel, at the center of the city!"

"But what city? What realm?"

"Are you lost of your senses? This is Gargano!"

"In Pomperol?"

"Precisely so. Where are your tail feathers? King Deuel has ordained tail-feathers for the gala! Notice my display!" The man-chicken ran in a circle, strutting and bobbing, so as to flourish his handsome tail-plumes; then he continued on his way.

Carfilhiot leaned against the building, gritting his teeth in fury. He carried neither coins, nor jewels, nor gold; he knew no friends among the folk of Gargano; indeed Mad King Deuel considered Carfilhiot a dangerous bird-killer and an enemy.

To the side of the square Carfilhiot noted the boards of an i

Celebration of the festival already had reached a crescendo. Everywhere fluttered ba

Children dressed as barn-swallows, gold-finches, or tom-tits; older folk favored the more sedate semblances, such as that of crow, raven or perhaps a jay. The corpulent often presented themselves as owls, but in general everyone costumed himself as fancy directed.

The color, noise and festivity failed to elevate Carfilhiot's mood; in fact—so he told himself—never had he witnessed so much pointless nonsense. He had rested poorly and eaten nothing, which served to exacerbate his mood.

A bun-seller dressed as a quail passed by; Carfilhiot bought a mince-tart, using a silver button from his coat for payment. He ate standing before the i

A band of youths chanced to notice Carfilhiot's sneers and stopped short. "Here now! This is the Grand Gala! You must show a happy smile, so as not to be at discord!"

Another cried out: "What? No gay plumage? No tail-feathers? They are required of every celebrant!"

"Come now!" declared another. "We must set things right!" Going behind Carfilhiot he tried to tuck a long white goose quill into Carfilhiot's waist-band. Carfilhiot would have none of it, and thrust the youth away.

The others in the band became more determined than ever and a scuffle ensued, in which shouts, curses and blows were exchanged.

From the street came a stern call. "Here, here! Why this disgraceful uproar?" Mad King Deuel himself, passing by in a be-feathered carriage, had halted to issue a reprimand.

One of the youths cried out: "The fault lies with this dismal vagabond! He won't wear his tail-feathers. We tried to help him and cited your Majesty's ordinance; he said to shove all our feathers up your Majesty's arse!"

King Deuel shifted his attention to Carfilhiot. "He did so, did he? That is not polite. We know a trick worth two of that. Guards! Attendants!"

Carfilhiot was seized and bent over a bench. The seat of his trousers was cut away, and into his buttocks were thrust a hundred quills of all sizes, lengths and colors, including a pair of expensive ostrich plumes. The ends of the quills were cut into barbs to prevent their detachment, and they were arranged to support each other so that the plumage, upon completion, thrust up from Carh'lhiot's fundament at a jaunty angle.

"Excellent!" declared King Deuel, clapping his hands in satisfaction. "That is a splendid display, in which you can take pride. Go, now. Enjoy the festival to your heart's content! Now you are properly bedizened!"

The carriage rolled away; the youths appraised Carfilhiot with critical eyes, but agreed that his plumage captured the mood of the festival, and they too went their way.

Carfilhiot walked stiff-legged to a crossroads at the edge of town. A sign-post pointed north to Avallon.

Carfilhiot waited, meanwhile plucking the feathers one by one from his buttocks.

A cart came from town, driven by an old peasant woman. Carfilhiot held up his hand to halt the cart. "Where do you drive yourself, grandmother?"

"To the village Filster, in the Deepdene, if that means aught to you."

Carfilhiot showed the ring on his finger. "Look well at this ruby!"

The old woman peered. "I see it well. It glows like red fire! I often marvel that such stones grow in the deep dark of the earth!"

"Another marvel: this ruby, so small, will buy twenty horses and carts like that one which you ride."