Except to preserve Heaven from another useless Fall.
And that made the killing of Brynhyld and Kara even more despicable.
In the end, all Corvyn could do was to use his powers to create a pyre and to stand a short vigil while it turned the two warriors into ashes and smoke. While he watched, he sensed no other observers, although the Pearls of Heaven observed everything.
Then, with heavy heart and renewed worry, he once again proceeded along the narrow path, for all paths through the Sands of Time were narrow.
After some distance, sensing movement, Corvyn looked to his left, where, perhaps a third of a mille from his path, half buried in the sand stood a construct of brass and steel. The exposed section protruded some three meters out of the sand, its internal parts moving seamlessly and so quickly that they blurred. Standing beside it, her eyes fixed on a place only she could see, was the dark-haired priestess-goddess of algorithms and the mysteries of metal minds, oblivious to the flood of stereotype plates that flowed from the mechanism as they likely had, or had not, for eons.
From that construct flashed a jagged bolt of silver lightning, likely unseen by anyone or any power but Corvyn, which crossed the intervening distance and drove like unseen needles through his eyes and deep into his memories. The jolt and pain were not quite excruciating.
He shuddered, managing to remain on the electrobike as he continued eastward. Behind him the goddess remained as oblivious to his departure as she had been to his arrival.
Once more he continued under the pitiless light, until, as if rising from the black depths of the deepest ocean in all the worlds visited, a dull gray hull, whale-like but resembling equally a mechanical leviathan, burst upward through the white sands that had impossibly turned to ice splintering away in shards. From that wound in the protective ice, water sprayed upward like a geyser, throwing bodies of all sorts into the suddenly airless sky, where, one after another, they fragmented in explosive decompression, forming a gray haze that shrouded the distant red sun whose rays were undistorted by any atmosphere, only by that haze and the fast freezing spray, drops, and goblets of water.
The chill of airless space froze Corvyn solid, halted the electrobike, and vacuum wrenched breath from his very lungs as a larger black metal globe descended toward the broached leviathan and tractor beams lifted it up and away from the sundered ice and the geyser that still gushed water and shredded life. The metal globe, larger than many moons, its spawn recovered, retreated from the devastation it had created … and from the frozen, silent Corvyn.
In time, Corvyn recovered, and it felt as though shards of ice flaked away from him and the bike as he again resumed his progress. He would have preferred not to have revisited that particular Fall, for all its senseless ugliness.
But then, all Falls are senseless and, in the end, ugly.
When midday came, he stopped and took a long swallow from the single water bottle he carried, his eyes surveying the dunes that never looked the same, not even from moment to moment, dunes that, even when they shifted into forms that should have cast shadows, often did not, and, at other times, cast shadows that were optically impossible.
A dune to his right shimmered, shivered, and then reassembled itself into the semblance of a cliff, abruptly becoming just that, with a low mansion standing before the base of the cliff and a full lawn leading from the shaded veranda toward Corvyn. A waist-high wall surrounded the veranda. A red-haired woman stood behind the wall, her head turned from Corvyn, eyes gazing not at the ocean she could see, but into the golden-green sky.
Corvyn swallowed, and his eyes burned. After he blotted them clear, the woman and all around her had vanished, leaving only a ridge of sand.
He took another swallow from the water bottle, then sealed and stowed it, and resumed his progress.
Several milles passed before the pink sky above him turned into the deep maroon of a place he once knew too well, with multicolored stars filling the late twilight. Then, in an instant, the deep maroon split to reveal a wedge of brilliant orange, and the metallic blue wedges of lightships poured through the cleft in space. From the maroon skies on each side of the wedge, silver-gray needles raced toward the lightships, and with each needleship that struck, a greenish-yellow flash annihilated both ships. Particle beams of coruscating gold lanced out from the invaders, claiming far more of the defending needles … and the orange cleft widened with the oncoming hordes of lightships that hammered the needleships from the sky.
Corvyn looked away, even as the orange sky descended and enveloped him in fire, piercing him like the sting of a thousand hornets … before the physical pain passed.
Then … for a time, perhaps hours, Corvyn continued past little more than sand and more sand, under the pink sky and pitiless light of the sun and the scrutiny of the Pearls of Heaven, glad for the respite, yet knowing there were other sights to see, other Dunes of Memory.
In late afternoon, after experiencing several other occurrences of events that might or might not have happened, Corvyn sensed something ahead, and felt a growing chill.
Walls of impossible ice rose from the path before him, and waves of life-stealing chill ripped warmth from him, and a darkness of a different sort shrouded the space around him. A roughly feminine figure stood in the middle of the path as he neared, her presence forcing him to come to a complete stop, not that it was absolutely necessary, but given the impact on his perceptions, halting was more advisable.
One side of her face was blue, as was the long hair on that side, while the other side was pasty white, with straight blond hair. Both eyes were black and cold. “Have you come to grant me my due, raven of time?”
“I’ve always granted you your due … and more.” So much more, through my failures, and failed efforts.
“You could not do otherwise, though I must point out that, of recent, you’ve been most stingy.”
“There have been neither great battles, nor great deaths nor great heroes.” And that is as it should be.
“For now, dark one. Only for now. One can only forestall the serpent of time for so long.”
“That may be.”
“That will be.” The words seemed to fly from her and wrap themselves around Corvyn, seeming to leach every calorie of heat from his body.
“Only when I fail.” Only when I fail.
The darkness and chill vanished as she and the walls of ice faded into the Dunes of Memory.
Gathering himself together, Corvyn again proceeded, knowing that, for all else he would encounter, and the pain that would accompany each encounter, the worst was past. Besides, all things had their price, and this part of his journey was necessary to pay part of that price … and for other reasons.
Above the clouds or perched on stone,
the raven remains all alone.
19
Close to midday three days and several living nightmares later, Corvyn stopped the electrobike on the top of a ridge, in the narrow gap in the low wall of what appeared to be brown quarzitic sandstone but was not, being far more durable. The wall embodied properties that restrained the Sands of Time from sweeping over the ridge and into the River Jordan valley and stretched southeast to Lake Lethe and northwest almost to Yerusalem. The narrow stone-paved road that began in the gap between the walls was dark gray and extended northeast into the valley to the River Jordan and eventually to Cammat Landing, where he planned to take the ferry across the river on his way to Ciudad Los Santos.
Corvyn did not look back as he left the Sands of Time. There was no need. Even Gabriel’s doves had not been able to follow him through the Sands. While he would like to have thought they managed to return to Yerusalem, that was likely a vain hope. He had seen no sign of them in days. The doves, being naturally skittish, would have avoided whatever power killed the Valkyries, if they had even come close, but would have easily fallen prey to more subtle twists of reality. Still, he had wished the doves no harm, and that was more than he could have said about other beings.
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He guided the electrobike down the long slope. Artemisia bushes grew on either side of the road, spaced irregularly, and with barren ground between them. If Corvyn cared to look closely, he knew he would also have seen scattered clusters of prickly opuntia, at least for the next few milles, before he reached the more fertile and wetter lowlands closer to the river.
After traveling close to three milles, and descending a few hundred yards, he came to the first of the olive groves lining the valley. On the next lower terrace, he passed a grower repairing a stone wall. The man stared, not quite unbelievingly, as Corvyn passed, for seldom did many leave the Sands of Time. Another mille went by before he reached Arbel.
While it was a small town, it would have an inn, if seldom used, and that was fine with Corvyn. He needed a meal, since he was far from certain when he last ate or drank.
One block off the main square, he found the Hillside Inn, an oblong building of beige sandstone, constructed so long ago that it felt as though it were an extension of rather than an addition to the ground beneath. Leaving the electrobike by the door, he stepped inside the small front room and was vaguely surprised to see a young woman wearing a khaki shirt and trousers instead of a traditional robe, with a wide brown belt and boots. She was seated at a desk, an elaborate data matrix projected into the air in front of her.
After seeing him, she blinked, and the matrix vanished. Then she stood and smiled pleasantly. “You seem surprised. Are you looking for a room?”
“I am. Also, something to eat. And yes, I was surprised.”
“We’re not as traditional here as people are closer to Yerusalem. That shouldn’t surprise someone like you, surely.”
“It wouldn’t, not usually, but I spent a long three days on the Sands of Time.” Corvyn smiled wryly. “At least, I think it was three days. Sometimes you can’t tell.”
Her thick black eyebrows rose. “You make a practice of traveling there?”
“Only when necessary.”
She shook her head. “Better you than me. You mentioned food. We can do that, provided you don’t mind simple fare.”
“Simple fare will be just fine.” Corvyn extended his card.
“You haven’t seen the room or sampled the fare.”
“Just take the information and enter it later.”
“You’re either very trusting or even more powerful than you appear.”
“I could say I’m neither, some of which would be true, but the answer is that anyone handling a multilevel spatial matrix can’t possibly be bothered with either incompetence or small-scale theft.”
“And if they could, they won’t be handling matrices long,” she replied, taking the card and scanning it without even looking.
Corvyn had no doubt that she’d discover everything she could later, and that was fine with him.
“Do you want to eat first?”
“If that’s easily possible.”
“It is, and it’s more convenient now, since I was going to fix something anyway.”
“You do everything?”
“We don’t get many visitors, but I agreed to keep it going for the sake of the town. Besides, it’s more interesting. Your only cost for the meal is my company.”
Corvyn decided against saying that he might be getting the better bargain because he could be wrong, although he sensed none of the signs of a principality or power. By itself that meant nothing, but the odds were strongly that she was neither. What else she might be was another question.
“By the way, my name is Jael. The end room is the best. It’s clean. It’s not locked, and there’s a locker outside for the bike. You can put your things there and freshen up quickly, then join me in the dining room.” She looked toward the archway on her left.
“Thank you. I’m Corvyn.” He smiled again, then turned, and made his way outside, where he wheeled the bike to the last room. It was clean, spacious, spare, but well enough appointed that his stay would likely be comfortable. There was a faint scent of tarragon, doubtless from the large bush growing at the edge of the garden that adjoined the inn. He recalled another time.
When fulsome herbs grew so green and wild
In the eyes of one never a child.
Once his cases were in the room, he washed his face and hands. The shower he craved could wait. Then he returned to the front of the inn and entered the dining room.
“Seat yourself,” called Jael, presumably from the kitchen.
As he sat at the table set for two, Corvyn hoped she did not arrive with a bowl of milk, although that struck him as unlikely.
She did not, instead bringing two platters of what appeared to be a chicken curry of some sort with warm flatbread and sliced fresh figs on the side, setting one platter at each place. “White wine acceptable to you?”
“So long as it’s not too sweet.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Corvyn studied the curry, which also appeared to contain raisins as well, and was served with linguine, rather than rice.
“You’d have to call it mixed cuisine,” explained Jael as she returned with two wineglasses and a large carafe, from which she deftly half filled both glasses before seating herself. “Or, as Shelad calls it, ‘mongrel cooking.’”
“Shelad?”
“My handyman and general assistant. He calls himself a dispossessed Poetic, dispossessed because he followed Chana here and persevered until she agreed to marry him.”
“That sounds like quite a story.” Corvyn lifted his glass. “With thanks to you.”
“Wait until you taste it.”
Corvyn sipped the wine, trying to place what it might be, similar to a clean Viognier, not a flowery one, such as Condrieu, not that many on Heaven would recall that ancient vintage. Then he took a bite of the curry and nodded. “They go together quite well. A local vintage?”
“It is, a Viognier varietal. The climate here isn’t the best for Chardonnays.”
Corvyn nodded, keeping his surprise—and confirmation—to himself. He took several more mouthfuls before speaking again. “The curry is excellent as well.”
“I started cooking curries for Shelad and Chana, and discovered I liked the variety of what I could do. He never learned to cook, and she wasn’t about to try curries. Her family is rather traditional.”
“This close to the Sands of Time, that’s not surprising. Traditions are also often walls. How often do you see creatures escaping the Sands of Time?”
“Very seldom. I wouldn’t call it escaping. Most perish away from the Sands. You know that.”
Corvyn did. He smiled. “Most … but not all.”
“Hosea told Shelad he saw a rough beast last week.”
“A rough beast?” Corvyn raised his eyebrows. “Just beyond the wall restraining the Sands?”
“No. At the edge of the groves, heading west.”
“Slouching and heading toward Bethlehem, no doubt.”
“He didn’t mention slouching, but making its way in that direction.”
“Did he say what it looked like?”
“Not in any coherent sense.”
“It would have been coherent to you, had you seen it.”
“Oh?” Jael offered an amused smile.
“How long have you been a guardian?” That was the only possibility Corvyn could think of for someone of her abilities to be in a small town at the edge of the Sands, that and the multilevel spatial matrix.
“Let’s just say long enough to be older than I look. Are you really as old as the Pearls of Heaven?”
“No.” He was far older, if memories reflected age, but there was little point in admitting it, since no one, not even a guardian, would have believed it.
“But close.”
Rather than comment further on that, he asked, “What about you?”
“I’m no Yael, nor Deborah, nor Judith. I’m here to do a job, fill a function, if you will. Most of the Sands creatures can’t survive elsewhere, but those that can…” She shook her head.
“What did you do about the rough beast?”
“Nothing. I tracked it. It decided it wasn’t up to a … rebirth, if you will. It returned to the Sands. What about you?”
“Periodically, I find myself there. Traveling the Sands is … useful.”
“Would you care to explain that usefulness?”
“The Sands hold more than history, more than dreams, even more than illusions and delusions. It’s useful to be reminded how dangerous some of those ideals, dreams, and delusions can in fact be … and have been.” He took another bite of the curry and then another swallow of wine. “You’re aware of those dangers, I’m sure.”
“More from the perspective of the beastkeeper. I’d rather not enter that cage, or arena, if you will.”
Corvyn smiled ironically. “Not all of those failed or lost ideals and misguided dreams remain lost. Some periodically emerge from the Sands to infect yet another generation of misguided idealists or manipulative demagogues, some of whom may even be demigods. At those times, the cage is not terribly useful.”
“You sound as though you’re tracking an escapee.”
“Not yet. More like trying to determine exactly what has already escaped and is manipulating who else.”
“You don’t believe in letting failed ideals expire once more on their own?”
“History has shown that the collateral damage can be far too high.”
“And you would decide that?”
Corvyn laughed, even as he saw the hardness behind her seemingly trusting eyes. “The judgments of those who head the Ten Houses have never agreed. That is why there are ten Houses and hundreds of villages of belief. The ultimate delusion is there is a belief or a theorem that supersedes all others in excellence and suitability, and the penultimate tragedy is that millions believe it, and other millions reject it.”
“Penultimate? Not ultimate?”
“The ultimate tragedy is what comes after that.”
“You’re rather cheerful, for all your shadows of doom, gloom, and grief.” Jael lifted her glass to her lips, but barely sipped.
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