by James Comins
Another tunk and the Leaper launched somewhere behind them. Hope that little Podling stays on his stretcher. How far would it be to ur-Kalivath?
It was not as far as she had imagined. What happened was that the tunnel kept straight for more than a hundred trors. The only light came from far behind them, Light Sickness light and the shine of the yellow gem held by a Grottan. The blue and yellow intersected, producing brief green shapes and elongated black shadows.
Twin spearbolts spat into the Nethercroft's walls and stuck into the stone, pongggg.
Loora squeaked and dove into Yrn's arms, bowling him into the wall and squashing him into the fluted surface of a silver spearbolt. Placidly Yrn examined her like a nurse watching a sick person sleep. With a quick shove, he popped his withered arm back into its socket.
A voice spoke:
"Appears when rest is over
Fills with truthful sights
Then curls up into nothing
And is forgotten in the light."
Yrn and Loora exchanged glances. The voice was slow and resonant and traveled down the corridor from a long way away. The Grottan, Loora noticed, were gone. The sleeping Podling--she hoped he was just sleeping--was lying on his litter on the soppy-damp stone floor.
"Oh," said Yrn. "A riddle. Appears when rest is--a dream, obviously."
He tugged his purple bandanna down as a bright light tore through the hall and blinded both of them. Loora shielded her eyes with an arm.
"Dreams don't appear when rest is over, they appear when rest begins," said Loora, wincing. "No, it's--hm. Filled with truthful sights? If you're right about prophecies being lies, then the only truthful sights are the ones you see in person, when your eyes are open. Like Aughra and that beam from the stars. Hm. The next line--then curls up into nothing--curls up like death, maybe? Is it life? But life isn't forgotten in light, unless it's your life and you forget because you've died? Does that make sense?"
"One rest," the slow voice called down the tunnel, "is in the womb, or the egg, or the seed. And one light is the light that comes down to the dying."
"Right," said Yrn, and advanced a step. "Life."
Ponggg. The silver shaft quivered through his sandal, between two of his toes.
"No," said Loora. "No, the riddle-teller's right. The seed is still alive during its rest and after. But what appears when rest is over? After you're born--a mind!"
"A mind appears after the great rest in the womb, and after the smaller rest of sleep. A mind curls up into nothing in the bright light of death, and the smaller light of dreams. Take a step now, safely," said the voice. They were leaving that little Podling behind.
"Knows not the words with which she speaks
Knows not the grass beneath her feet
Knows not the sky above her face
Knows not the customs of the place."
"Knows not the--a stranger," said Yrn.
"Mmm. One answer. The easy answer. But this is the second question, and the wise know there is a second answer underneath the first," came the slow voice.
"An answer underneath. Okay. Who doesn't know the words they're speaking?" whispered Yrn.
"Someone babbling? A baby," said Loora.
"A-ha, quickly said! And who's to say they are not the same? Is a baby not a stranger to our world, and the stranger not a baby to the land she visits? Take a step closer."
Drawing forward, Yrn put his hand on Loora's arm just like Cory used to, only this time it was Loora who was being guided. She did not like it, she did not shrug him away, and she felt like crying.
"There are three.
One shines brightest white,
One slowly grows weaker,
One glows red in the best light."
The bright light shining down the corridor prevented Loora from seeing much. Yrn's serene expression darkened, and he winced. "I imagine," he said, "that it isn't the Three Suns. That would be too easy."
Laughter from the archer with the spotlight. It wasn't scornful, she thought, but sympathetic. "The third question. Three answers. You have the first."
"What else are there three of?" said Yrn.
"Aughra's eyes. But they don't glow red. Are there three spikes on Crystal Castle maybe?"
"I don't believe they glow red either."
"Seas? There's the Crystal Sea, the Shining Sea . . ." said Loora.
"Wait. The sea reflects the brightest white of the moons, the air grows weaker because . . . because we breathe it? And the land glows red in the best light, at sunset."
"No," Loora said, "the sky glows red at sunset, and the sea shines white, and the mountains erode, growing slowly weaker. The parts of Thra."
"Ah," called the Archer. "Three parts of Thra. Land, water, and sky. The second answer."
"What else are there three of?" Yrn muttered. "What slowly grows weaker?"
"Me. I'm exhausted."
"You," repeated Yrn. "Your body grows weaker as you get older."
"I suppose the heart glows red at its best, metaphorically," said Loora. "When it feels love."
From down the corridor: "Not always a metaphor. A heart full of true love glows red. And the third?"
"I've never heard of anyone saying their mind was glowing white," Yrn said.
"Not the mind, then. The soul. Body, heart, and soul. The self."
"I don't believe in that. Didn't he say the mind shines white at death? Maybe that's the brightest white," said Yrn.
"But it isn't the mind that's shining. It's--I don't know."
The archer's voice: "At death, we witness our connection to the outer universe."
"So it's the connection to the outer universe that shines brightest white," said Loora excitedly. "And our connection to the one we love that glows red. And what connection slowly dies?"
"Connection to dreams, when we wake?" suggested Yrn. "Connection to our bodies?"
"Maybe our connection to illusions, as we grow wiser," said Loora.
"And now that some of your illusions have grown weaker," the archer of silver fluted bolts called, "you may enter ur-Kalivath. Bring the dreaming bean."
* * *
"Bring me the Podling in the alcove just outside the kennels, assistant."
The new Gelfling slave hopped out the door, and skekTek was alone to plan.
Information regarding the Slavemaster's movements would soon be available. There was time to fabricate a concrete cutter.
A material strong enough--the Slavemaster's cells might be reinforced with iron, probably not steel--a concrete cutter made of steel, then, would be strong enough--use kinetic energy, yes, a spinning blade, but not a solid mass that could shatter--perhaps many discs, anchored to a central hub--hard to say how deep it would need to cut--no more than a forearm's distance, probably, the Slavemaster wouldn't waste material on ten-tror-thick walls for a minor prisoner--cutting blades in a circle with a radius of a tror and a half, need a large motor to maintain rotational speed--the Dark Crystal's light could easily power it, but there wasn't a network connecting the light, the larantine hadn't arrived yet, drat that Hunter, slow and unreliable no doubt, no doubt at all, bah!--yes, use the bonestone object to store a charge, it would only take a coating of metal over the words and the handle, such a strange design, whatever could it have been made for?--no time, skekTek, no time, begin fabricating the blades--
Some tolls later, most of the scrap steel was gone and a spoked spinning wheel on a sturdy rod axle was surrounded with razor-edged chunks of metal. Satisfied, skekTek began heating a simple liquid resin and dipped the laser-shining object, coating it opaque. Next for the engine--how to translate the power?--shattercite stored it and shone in back out in all directions, but perhaps carnicite? Yes, it heated, becoming too hot to touch. A few angled thermal conductors and triumph! An exquisitely spinning motor. Oil it well, it will keep accelerating until the charge is spent--ah, wise to charge up the bonestone with a needle-hole facing the Dark Crystal, easy to do and foresightful--
&nb
sp; Now to fit the bladewheel to the motor, oil everything again, strengthen all joints, weakest link yields the kink, work the kinks out ahead of time, skekTek, and you'll have none later--the bladewheel might burn right through the steel, better add a heatsink to the surface, aluminum and lunicite to draw out the heat and direct it harmlessly into the air--yes, it was prepared.
Check, double-check. Tempting to try it, probably WISE to try it, but the concern of the device flinging an infinitely torquing bladewheel at his face--a safety mask, just a precaution--yes--protect the eyes and beak--
As he pulled on the mask, he touched his damaged beak--quite forgotten, quite forgotten--a better bandage--
Yes, a more secure rivet--no use puncturing his beak a second time--
Keep the bug where he wouldn't get out--
And now, the Slavemaster's punishment.
A toll later, all was prepared.
* * *
"M."
No squirmin' out of this one.
Bands over his mouth, around his leg clusters, and around all four of his claws. Upside-down, hung from a hook. All-too-real iron. His shell gone, the pin gone, no locks anyway, just metal shut like vises over his limbs. Couldn't even speak. A blank wall to look at.
Going to take more than a week to get out of this one, Lemny my lad, and that's if Gobber would get a move on. Probably five days before he gets back in the best case.
Getting hungry. Ignore the gurgle, there's no help.
Don't fancy this mess.
Stay afloat, Lemny, just stay above the tides. At least there's no pins, find the good in it, you'll be fearless when you're out. Make a new shell out of clay, bake something shiny into it. Good as new.
The hook rotated slightly, then back, and he found himself turning in the brazierlight.
Lemny, what have you gotten yourself into?
* * *
"Answer it!"
Blossoming bruises covered the Chamberlain's shoulders, and his arched robes were torn in several places. The Hunter had not yet entered the castle, there was no news, and he'd been utterly beaten, possibly in more than one sense. The Hunter would not be hammering on the Castle's outer door like this visitor, whoever it was, or like that infernal Podling merchant and his insect friend. No, he would be entering stealthily, silently, without notice. And he hadn't. This was, this was completely unbecoming!
As the castle door swung open and the knocking person revealed, the Chamberlain felt his day grow worse. A primal revulsion twisted his stomach.
That woman.
His eye twitched.
Her.
She was as bad as those "mothers" that lesser, mammalian creatures had. Or "daughters." Females. Unpredictable, manipulative . . . Males of any species did what they were ordered to do. This was the male way. But females . . .
The Chamberlain was just fascinated enough at gender to be horrified at the idea.
Far superior to be above such divisive binary distinctions.
"Have you been outside, Chamberlain?" Aughra squawked. "HmmmmMMMMmmmm," she added, grinning. Mocking him! The Chamberlain's club-inspired backache was sending claws of pain up his crooked neck to his small head. "There's something wrong out there, old friend, in more ways than one."
At least she had come alone. At least that snickering misfit she called a son wasn't with her. His return to the Castle of the Crystal would be, would be unbecoming.
The Chamberlain arranged his face. "Welcome, Aughra, welcome," he said. "Yes, you are most welcome. Come in, the Emperor will be pleased to see you again. And may I say how pleasant your natural, beakless nose looks? It is perfectly flattering, Aughra."
She wiped a hand across her face and scowled. "I'd like an audience. Everyone together. We have some important matters to discuss. The land of Skarith is dying. The people are dying. Hmp! Needs work. SkekSo should be working on it! Show me in."
"Of course, Aughra, of course. Hmmmmm."
The Chamberlain slid his grimace to one side as he broached the throne room's great arch and announced the new arrival. The Emperor still clutched his punishment club, and the Chamberlain tore his eyes off it and stood sourly at the periphery, wondering why the woman had returned. Probably wanted to talk about nature.
"Emperor skekSo!" the woman called. "Call the Skeksis! I need to speak to everyone at once."
"Chamberlain! Summon them! We honor the Mother of Thra!"
As the Chamberlain shuffled out, feeling his bruises with every step, he could nearly have sworn that he heard Aughra muttering something about hurry up, but it was less than clear.
* * *
"The first step is often the longest. We begin a song of friendship and renewal. Gelfling girl, Gelfling boy, be welcome to the valley of ur-Kalivath. Step with heart, that our home may remember and record your visit, the first dreamkeepers in ur-Kalivath since before the Forgetting."
The Archer was an ur-Mystic. He was as thin as an arrow; his long tail was tipped with a wedge of inscribed silver. Another silver shield covered his angular nose, and thonged gloves stretched over his four forearms. An asymmetric bow of peculiar manufacture was slung over each shoulder, and along his straight, muscular back was strapped a quiver with a hundred or more of the solid silver spearbolts.
Yrn said, "You know about my dream?"
"You are Gelfling, are you not?" the Archer said with a sympathetic smile. "Is dreaming not the gift of the Gelfling?"
"Is it?" Loora asked. The Archer shared his smile with her.
The stretcher was not at all heavy, and Loora watched the closed eyes and faint breath of the ragged Podling. His eyes were so tiny, and the light from his heart had grown so bright.
"Through dreams of Thra, the Gelfling expresses the deepest soulwell imaginable," the Archer whispered over his shoulder as he lumbered down the corridor. "Action and thought are both native to you. We Mystics are restrained from action by our natures. Gelflings, though--ah, there is no mind or voice with more possibilities."
The deformed boy seemed swallowed in rage. "Not all of those possibilities are to my liking," he said in his strict, philosophical voice. Loora was becoming quicker at telling Yrn's moods.
"No? Are you not gifted in your way, Gelfling?"
"It isn't always a gift."
"To be dissatisfied with your inner self! There are paths that lead to change, child, although those who discard their dreams do not always thank themselves. Sometimes it is a dissatisfying dream that sustains us."
The hallway broke into a long redstone chasm over which a narrow bridge arched. It was identical to the fallen bridge beside the Leaper. This chasm went into darkness below, but pursued the sky upwards, and natural light filtered dimly down through red badlands of eroded stone. It was day.
"Are you saying I have a dream, too?" Loora said.
"It would be an unusual woman who did not," replied the Archer as he began the precarious crossing. The bridge's shifting rocks did not reassure Loora. "Have you never accomplished something larger than yourself?"
"Larger than myse--what, like the globe I made? Does that count? Papa doesn't let me do the work I'd like to do, so until the other day I hadn't done anything at all."
"One day you're forbidden from working, the next day you create. This is the way of dreams. They wait."
More feelings fell out of her:
"I also helped negotiate some kind of peace treaty. And I might have fallen in love."
Yrn fired his razor-gaze into her. Shocked. "The boy who died? In the roundhouse," he said. She mmhm'd.
"Creating. Negotiating. Love. The many folds of a dream, like threads in a bowstring. In many ways no intelligent being is just one person. We are many, spun together. With care, we may unwind the threads and come to know ourselves. Through here."
Three red doors were barred. "The final test," said the Archer. "How will you enter ur-Kalivath?"
"Tests," muttered Yrn. "I bet it isn't any of the doors. If I were defending the Valley of the Mystics, I'd p
ut up three doors like these, but I wouldn't make any of them lead inside. I'd put mazes behind them that would always loop back to the beginning, and I'd put a secret door to one side, and that would be the real door."
"A very clever defense," said the Archer. "How would you enter ur-Kalivath, Gelfling girl?"
"I don't think you need any extra defenses," Loora said. "I think your arrows are plenty. I bet they trust you to defend ur-Kalivath, and all the doors lead right inside."
"Very flattering of you," said the Archer, bowing. "Try, then."
She set down the stretcher and went to the center door. The bar on the door did not move. "Yrn, help me lift it," she said. Three strong arms together failed to budge it. "Hopeless," she muttered.
"Let me look around," Yrn said. They were standing on a not-circular platform with dry gullies on each side. The bridge was behind them. Redstone was carved roughly into an anteroom around the three doors, and through the ceiling, the blazing blue sky could be seen. Cragraptors called distantly through the sedimentary striations that cut vertically into the valley. Yrn felt around all the walls with his good hand, even tried singing softly to the stone, but found no hidden doors.
"And if we wished to keep only the foolish out?"
Loora faced the three doors. They were made of stripy redstone and set with silver studs. The studs were not any kind of pushbutton, Loora found. The bars were of solid gray stone.
"Oh," said Yrn. He pulled a small ring in the ceiling and pushed on the middle door, behind the bar. The bar remained, and the door swung inward behind it on a recessed hinge.
"A brute can bother that bar for hours," said the Archer, ducking under, "and never notice that which is right in front of him. It was designed for Skeksis."
Ur-Kalivath was steps and terraces of raw red rock. Above, barely held in place by contortions of angles and gravity, a high dome of arched boulders made the central bowl feel like the inside of a clay pot. The arches cast a shadow like a crawly-web over the steps. Hidden halfway up, in darker shadows, were a network of private caves. Several ur-Mystics crouched in the central bowl and wove shapes in the air. The sound of singing resonated. Around the rim of the valley, waterfalls fed short swamps, and from the swamps grew towering curtains of vine. A vibration of life seemed to glow out of the stones, as if the rock itself might mutate into living faces at the Mystics' command.