Threshold

by Sara Douglass

  We stood side by side, looking at the tranquil river before us. Neither of us said anything for a while, unsure of ourselves.

  “Well,” I said eventually, “it seems that we are free, Yaqob. I almost never imagined that we would –”

  “I never imagined that you would one day betray me like this, Tirzah,” he said, and turned to look me in the eye. “I knew a gulf was growing between us, but I thought it was only because you felt self-conscious about your role in Boaz’s bed. But I have watched you since this morning. Watched you closely.”

  “I came to love him, Yaqob. I’m sorry.”

  Oh gods, what a stupid, trite thing to say.

  “After all he did to you? Tirzah, I cannot believe that you can stand here and say that our love is dead because of a man who has caused you such pain, who tried to kill you! I don’t understand. Boaz is –”

  “Boaz is not the man he first seems. Yaqob, listen to me! Underneath that Magus exterior lay a man of such sweetness and tenderness that I could not help but love him. I wanted to free him as much as you wanted to free all of our friends in slavery. Yaqob, he is an Elemental too! He –”

  Yaqob did not want to hear, and turned away.

  “Yaqob! You do not deserve what I have done to you. But take your retribution out on me, not him…please!”

  Yaqob spun about and seized my shoulders. “I don’t want retribution, Tirzah! I only want you!” He leaned his head close to mine, but I twisted my face away before he could kiss me.

  “No. No, it’s over, Yaqob.”

  “I never thought to stand here on my first day of freedom and listen to you mouth such words,” he said. “I built my life around you, Tirzah, I wove all my dreams with you as their centre. And yet here you say…it’s over.”

  He dropped his hands and walked away.

  I sat by Boaz’s bed during the night, and all the next morning. The fever tightened its hold, and by noon of the next day he was sweating, moaning and tossing about.

  “Tirzah,” Isphet said. “There is nothing we can do. He cannot fight the infection.”

  Earlier we’d sponged him down, and been appalled at the angry red streaks that had spread across his belly and down his flanks. His belly was swollen, tight and hot; internal bleeding aggravated by infection.

  “Tirzah, come away.” Isphet’s hands tightened on my shoulders. Zabrze moved to take my place by Boaz’s side as Isphet led me out into the fresh air.

  “Tirzah, he’s dying.”

  “No!”

  “Tirzah, he is dying! Accept that! There is no herbal I can give him, nothing I can do. Now you must accept it. We can try to make him comfortable, but to be honest with you I do not think we’ll be able to do that for much longer. He won’t keep anything down…”

  I burst into tears, and Isphet hugged me tight. “I never knew how much he meant to you,” she whispered, stroking my hair, rocking me to and fro. “You hid it so well. So well.”

  “I wish he could understand what I say to him,” I sobbed. “I want to tell him that I love him – I’ve never really told him that – but he won’t hear, he won’t hear…”

  “Shush, Tirzah. He knows. I’m sure of it. Now, you must sit up here a while. Zabrze needs time to say goodbye, and I will watch with him. If Boaz worsens I’ll send for you, but for now you need to rest. Look, here is Holdat, he will take you to a shaded corner.”

  She passed me into Holdat’s care. The man looked almost as woebegone as I felt, and he slid an arm about my waist and led me to the rear of the cabins so we could sit in the shade of their awnings. Kiamet was there, too, and we sat quietly for some time.

  “Tirzah,” Kiamet finally said. “This is a strange request, but perhaps it will make you feel better, and I know it would surely comfort Holdat and myself. When you and Boaz sat by the windows at night, sometimes you would read tales to him from the old book. Holdat and I,” he glanced shame-facedly at his friend, “would stand just out of sight, on the other side of the wall, and listen. Tirzah, would it comfort you to read from the Book of the Soulenai again?”

  “Not the Song of the Frogs,” I said.

  “No, not the Song of the Frogs. But there must be many others that you’ve not touched yet.”

  “All right. Holdat, do you still have the box –”

  But Holdat had already retrieved the box from wherever he’d stored it, and lifted the book into my lap. I ran my hands over it, feeling its age, feeling its soft whispering, then, as I had been wont to do with Boaz, I opened it at random.

  It was a story I had not yet encountered, but that was not unusual, for the book was very large and I’d not had time to read through it completely.

  “Oh,” I said, “it is a sad tale, about the death of a king.”

  Silence, and I could sense Kiamet and Holdat look at each other.

  I took a deep breath. “But Isphet says I must accept…accept that Boaz…”

  “Tirzah,” Kiamet said. “Perhaps it is best not to read –”

  “No,” I said sharply, then apologised for my tone. “I think I will read it, Kiamet. Maybe it will give me some comfort.”

  And so I read. I was proud of the way my voice held steady, for the tale opened with the tragic wounding of a great and good king in a battle not of his making.

  And so his servants bore him home, and his people made much ado, and prepared as best they might for his death. He was wounded sore, a belly wound…

  I almost faltered there.

  …that stretched from navel to groin. The surgeons stitched it, but evil spirits had entered with the sword, and the king made much moan and burned with fever.

  As he sank towards final death, the man who tended the frogs by the river appeared at the castle door, and begged to be allowed to see the king’s surgeons.

  “I have a good powder,” he said. “One the frogs told me of.”

  “Oh gods,” I whispered, and stumbled in my haste to read further.

  The king’s servants were not disposed to allow so humble a man access to such eminent folk, but he prevailed, and eventually the frog keeper stood before the surgeons.

  “What have you there?” asked the senior of the group.

  “Powder,” said the man, “that will drive the heat and evil spirits from the king’s belly and make him whole again.”

  The senior surgeon smiled derisively, but a junior stepped forward and said, “How is this powder formed, good man?”

  “In the river, between the reeds, where the waters lie still and warm, can sometimes be found a thick slime that has, at best, a loathsome odour. I collect this slime, and dry it, and grind it, and thus form this powder.”

  “I have heard something of this,” said the junior surgeon, and spoke quickly to his fellows. They were uncertain, but because they were desperate, they decided to try it.

  “Break open his wound,” cried the frogkeeper, as the surgeons hurried away with his jar of powder, “and sprinkle some inside. Mix portions in fluid, and dribble it into his mouth! And…”

  “And what?” Holdat said.

  “And by that time the surgeons had hurried to the king’s bedside and saved the king’s life,” I said. I bent and kissed the cover of the book. “Thank you, thank you.”

  I gave the book back to Holdat then looked to Kiamet. “Is Azam’s small craft still tied to this vessel?”

  “Yes –”

  “Then why do we tarry here, Kiamet? Escort me to the reed banks.”

  Isphet was incredulous. “These…ashes?”

  “In his wound and in his mouth, Isphet.”

  “By what authority?”

  “By the authority of a book, Isphet. Later I shall show it to you.”

  “You can read, girl?”

  I almost hissed in frustration. “That is neither here nor there, Isphet, not when Boaz lies a-dying in that bed.”

  “Zabrze?” Isphet turned to him.

  “The book, Tirzah?”

  I nodded, and so did he. “Let her
be, Isphet.”

  “Bah!” But she stayed by me. “What are you doing?”

  “This is powder, Isphet, not ashes, and I shall sprinkle it in his wound, then mix some in your analgesics and drip it into his mouth.”

  I unwrapped his wound, then recoiled as the stench struck. It smelt even worse than the slime Holdat and I had just gathered.

  Now green and yellow had added their evil colours to Boaz’s flesh. His belly was so swollen he looked five-months gone with child, and the skin was so tight and hot I thought it would split without much provocation. The wound seeped pus from underneath a thick black scab.

  “Isphet, what can I use to lift this scab?”

  “I’ll do it, girl. Ugh!” And we both recoiled from the bed at the foul effluent that poured out as she lifted the scab.

  I took a deep breath from several paces away, then stepped forward and sprinkled the powder until the wound was covered in it. Isphet was by my side with some cloths and a fresh bandage, and we wasted no time in cleaning and rebandaging Boaz’s belly.

  “Holdat?” I called softly, and he was by my side, the Goblet of the Frogs in his hand.

  Isphet looked at it carefully. “Zeldon told me that you’d caged a beautiful goblet, girl. This is it?”

  I gave it into her hands and watched her face as she heard the frogs whisper. “Oh Tirzah, it’s wondrous!”

  As she held the Goblet of the Frogs I poured in a measure of the analgesic herbal, then slowly added pinches of the powder. I wasn’t too sure how much to add (and damn those surgeons for hurrying away before the frog-keeper had time to shout the exact measurement), but I kept adding until the brew had a slightly bitter taste. Any more and his mouth would reject it.

  Then I sat down, dribbled portions between his lips every few minutes, and waited.

  Time passed, but I refused to leave Boaz’s side.

  It was late into the night when I began to notice the difference. His breathing eased, and he slipped into a sleep that was sound, not tormented. Isphet finally persuaded me to rest for a few hours, keeping vigil by Boaz herself, dribbling the rest of the mixture into his mouth.

  I thought I would not sleep, but I did, and woke only when Isphet put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Is he…?”

  “Still asleep, but better. I want to rest myself, but wake me at dawn, and we’ll clean and perhaps sprinkle a little more of that powder in his wound.”

  “Maybe it has helped, Isphet.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “Now get out of that bed and let me sleep.”

  I sat down by Boaz, and smiled. He was breathing deep and easy now, and the fever had broken.

  I kept to my task dribbling in tiny portions of the mixture, but now my relief had let tiredness edge in, and after a while I laid the goblet to one side and rested my head on my arms. Just for a few minutes, I thought. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes.

  I woke at the pressure of his hand on my hair.

  “Boaz!”

  He smiled. “Listen. Can you hear it? It is the dawn chorus of the frogs.”

  Later that day, I let Isphet sit and examine the Book of the Soulenai. She was slightly nervous of it until she felt its soft murmurings, and the fact that I was able to read it she passed over without further comment. As the book sat in her lap I leaned over her shoulder and turned the pages one by one, trying to find the story of the dying king. It was no longer there.

  31

  THREE days later we drew close to Lake Juit. As I stood with Boaz and Zabrze at the prow Zabrze told me the lake was named after the pink and scarlet Juit birds who prowled the marshes at its perimeters.

  “The lake is huge,” he said, shading his eyes as he stared south. “No-one has ever sailed all the way about it.”

  “And the marshes at the lake’s borders extend for further leagues,” Boaz added. This was the first day he’d risen from his bed; he was wan and thin, but his eyes and skin were clear, and his belly flat and cool once more. The wound had scabbed over with pink healthiness, and though he leaned heavily on my shoulder, I did not think it was because he had such great need of my support.

  “The marshes are thick with reeds that trap hot, humid air. They are often shrouded in mist at dawn and dusk,” Boaz continued. “The water’s depth varies from over a man’s height to only an arm’s length deep. It is safest to use a flat-bottomed boat and pole to get about in them.”

  “Not that anyone really does,” Zabrze commented. “It is too easy to get lost among the never-ending reeds. Sometimes fishermen go into the marshes looking for marsh eels. Many have never come back. Fallen over the edge of the world, I think. Or trapped with the gods in some Elysian paradise.”

  “It must be easy to hear the chorus of the frogs within the marshes,” I said, and leaned still closer to Boaz. He recovered with each breath he took, but my own wounds at his close brush with death had scarcely healed over.

  “I think we could land at any point from here on.” Isphet now joined us, Azam with her. Neuf remained resting in one of the cabins; she was still weak from the flight through Gesholme. Yaqob, two days ago, had decided to travel in one of the other boats. It was sad that he felt he had to do so, but both Boaz and I were more relaxed with him at a distance.

  Zabrze thought for a while, then looked at Boaz. “No, Isphet. We shall sail another day or so, methinks. Until we are very close to Lake Juit.”

  “That will take us perhaps a little too far south,” Isphet said. “We joined the Lhyl about a day’s journey north of the lake. I think it best if –”

  “Isphet.” Zabrze reached out and let his fingers graze her cheek. Isphet’s eyes flashed, and I’m sure I looked as startled as Boaz and Azam did. “Bear with me. There is a small landing there, too small for this number of craft, and we shall have to regiment them carefully lest they crash into one another and frighten the frogs, but there is a small landing…”

  He looked to his brother. “Boaz. Surely you know of what I speak?”

  “Many of the nobles have residences dotted about Lake Juit,” Boaz said. “It is very pleasant down here with the breezes that sweep off the water, and it is far from court intrigue.” He grinned at Zabrze. “Zabrze comes here but rarely, and Neuf has not been once!” The grin faded. “But our mother loved the country and the lake. She inherited a house almost on the shores of Juit itself, at the junction of river, marsh and lake. It was where I was born and where I spent the first three or four years of my life. I have never been back since.”

  “We both have emotional ties to that house,” Zabrze continued, “but that is not the only reason I wish to dock there rather than higher up the river. The house is large, but more important is the land attached to it.”

  “The Juit estate is the largest in the family,” said Boaz. “And it has kept us well fed and clothed at court year in year out. It will provide us with many of the supplies we’ll need for our journey.”

  “We are almost five thousand, Zabrze,” Azam said. As with most of the former slaves, his skin now shone with the burnish of freedom, and the lines around his eyes and mouth had relaxed to be more reminiscent of laughter than strain. “Even a rich estate will have trouble feeding that many.”

  “It is better than nothing, Azam,” Zabrze replied. “And perhaps I’ll send some of this lot fishing…yes!” He laughed, and slapped Azam on the back. “That’s what I’ll do. Dried fish may be unappetising, but it should get us to Isphet’s reclusive home!”

  The next day at dusk we docked at the landing of the most beautiful house I have ever seen. To the south I could see the initial expanses of Lake Juit, to the west the great swathes of marshes, while to the east stretched the estate.

  The house was set back from the riverbank some eighty paces, on a slight rise. It was constructed of river mud-brick, and the walls had been glazed but left unpainted so they glowed russet red in the setting sun. It was long and low, roofed in dried and bound river reeds, their colour faded to a soft amber ove
r the decades. Shaded verandahs encased the northern and western aspects, on the other two aspects the roof beams had been extended and were supported by brick columns several paces out from the walls; they were covered with flowering creepers.

  The windows and doors were thick-paned with crystal-clear square patchwork glass edged in dark green.

  “Oh, Boaz!”

  “It is very old,” he said. “Very. Every generation or so the roof is re-reeved, but otherwise it needs little maintenance. The rooms inside are dim and cool. I remember it so well.”

  “And yet you never came back?”

  “It was too close to the frogs for the Magus,” he said, and then grinned and pointed.

  A man was hurrying down the path from house to landing. Elderly but sprightly, he was furious.

  “No notice?” he cried. “No notice, and you bring the entire court? Who is this? Which one? Zabrze? Boaz?”

  He came close enough to see who lined the decks of the nearest boats, and he stopped, his jaw hanging open. “Who is this come to visit?”

  “Me and my realm,” cried Zabrze, leaping the pace distance between boat deck and the stone landing. “Have you no respect, Memmon? Must I give ten days notice?”

  “Memmon is the overseer,” Boaz murmured at my side. “He comes to Setkoth once a year to deliver the accounts for our inspection, but in reality, I think, to see what mischief Zabrze and I are up to. He would be equally furious if we’d given six months notice but were five minutes late.”

  Zabrze laid his hand on the man’s shoulder and talked quietly into his ear. Memmon eventually shrugged, nodded, then proceeded apace back up the path.

  “He goes to rally the servants and field workers,” Zabrze called. “Come now, put down the ramps!”