The Fall of Neskaya

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Taniquel raised her hands in a little gesture of surrender. He was coming with her, whether she wanted him to or not, and the only graceful thing to do at this point was to accept his help. Rafael was also less apt to send a party after her if she had her own personal bodyguards.

  “We ride to Neskaya,” she said, “to see why the Tower has fallen silent. To offer what aid we can, if need be.”

  “We ride in honor, then.”

  Taniquel thought about that for a moment, then nodded gravely. She said the word honor, mostly to herself, as if she had never truly spoken it before and now knew its meaning for the first time.

  In the end, it was not just Esteban who accompanied Taniquel, but about thirty mounted Acosta men, a miniature army emerging from the larger force with its own colors and allegiances. She sent the rest, along with Rafael’s and an experienced captain, on to Acosta.

  Pennants bearing the eagle emblem appeared and supplies were packed, including a tent for Taniquel. Graciela somewhat diffidently offered herself as chaperone, for it was not proper for a woman, even a Queen guarded by her own sworn men, to travel unaccompanied. Taniquel accepted, not only for the sake of a propriety she no longer cared about, but because Graciela’s skills might be useful once they arrived at Neskaya.

  The miles passed with infuriating slowness, for the larger force moved slowly on their battle-weary horses. One night they camped beneath the stars and Taniquel fell asleep almost as soon as she stretched out. The next day, they came upon a little trading village by a river. Taniquel went with Esteban to bargain with a farmer for bread and grain for their mounts. She asked news of the road ahead.

  “I wouldn’t go in that direction,” the farmer said, eyeing them with escalating suspicion. He’d refused to speak directly with Taniquel and clearly regarded her as an immodest woman and Esteban a sandal-wearing fool for not beating her properly. “M’cousin two farms over said a tinker came through, told him there’d been witchy wars out Neskaya way. Stone buildings set afire, like they had over to Valeron in olden days. My grandsire, he told of it, how the wizards can make rocks bleed and rivers speak. Me, I think it’s likely Aldaran doings, and I won’t have none of it.”

  Esteban thanked the man, paid him, and they went on.

  Stone buildings set afire . . . The words echoed in Taniquel’s mind as she nibbled the bread, laced generously with coarse-ground nuts and tiny sweet seeds. Esteban sat on his own mount, staring fixedly ahead, giving her what measure of privacy he could.

  Through water you have come to me. Through fire I will come to you.

  Had he tried, and called out, and failed because she could not answer? She wanted to dig her heels in the sorrel mare’s sides and ride headlong for Neskaya.

  42

  The cloudy day muffled the town of Neskaya and its environs in a strange blue-gray haze. Although small compared to Thendara, the town was far older. It was said to be one of the very first human habitations, its origins shrouded by time and legend.

  As Taniquel rode through the outskirts, with Graciela on one side and Esteban on the other, she felt as if she were going backward through history, passing a strange jumble of old and new, of patched-together buildings, wide boulevards suddenly narrowing, walled gardens and houses so old they seemed to be standing only because they were packed so tightly against their neighbors. Few of the buildings were more than two stories, so that she expected to see a Tower rising above them, but even from a distance, there had only been the town.

  Shopkeepers and inn landlords emerged to watch their passage. Children, considerably less ragged and better fed than the street urchins of Thendara, ran alongside. Unlike their Thendara counterparts, they did not beg, only shouted in excitement.

  Taniquel had halted at one of the outermost establishments, an inn and stables. The innkeeper eyed her and the armed men she rode with.

  “Is there any news of Neskaya Tower?” she asked after a few preliminary comments on the weather, the road, and the oat harvest.

  His eyes had darted to the Acosta pennants. There was little enough breeze, so that the eagle emblem remained hidden, but they were clearly not the Hastur blue and silver. “The Tower? What of it?” he said rudely. “Who wants to know?”

  Esteban gestured for them to move on. They’d find out soon enough.

  They had not gone far into the town itself when a pair of stern-looking guards greeted them with drawn swords. Their eyes shifted from Esteban, who by his position and dress was clearly the leader, to the body of Acosta soldiers, to Taniquel. They were wondering what sort of expedition this was, a group of grim-faced armed men in unfamiliar colors, too many for a lady’s honor guard, and with the smell and dried blood of battle still on them.

  The center guard stepped forward and asked their business. Esteban glanced back at Taniquel, for the decision to reveal her name and rank was not his to make. Hers would be the risk of being taken hostage or becoming a target for Ambervale sympathizers.

  Taniquel took in the guard’s bearing, the subtle tensions in his face. Something has happened here. And she had not come this far to shrink from her mission, to hide behind some subterfuge.

  “We have come from the army of Rafael Hastur, second of that name, to enquire of the welfare of Neskaya Tower and to offer any assistance we may on the occasion of need.” Her formal inflection gave her words a stilted character, as was her intention.

  The man’s mouth opened slightly, his gaze flickered from Taniquel to Graciela, sitting with almost inhuman stillness on her horse, as if seeing the two women for the first time. In that moment, the Acosta expedition changed from a military force to a proper escort. Gulping, he bowed.

  “My pardons, vai leroni,” he said, bowing. He gestured for his men to put up their weapons.

  He had mistaken her for a leronis, Taniquel realized. Neither she nor Graciela wore robes which would identify them as Tower workers, but they had clearly ridden long and hard. Even the most dignified leronis could be expected to look trailworn. Gathering her wits, she set her chin and modulated her voice as she had seen Caitlin do innumerable times.

  “What is the current situation?”

  “It is even worse than we thought when the Tower first fell.” The edges of the man’s voice cracked. “The stones keep burning and burning, so that rescue workers cannot reach buried survivors. Not that we expect any. There are so many dire wounded, it was a miracle any made it out alive.

  “Lady,” he looked up at her with fear shining from his eyes, “I have seen what a sword can do to a man’s body and I have heard of clingfire, how anything it touches must be cut away or it burns flesh and bone until there is nothing left. But these flames . . . they feed on stone itself. And . . . I do not know, I am only an ordinary man, I should not have said as much. You are wise women and know more than I.”

  “Take us there.”

  Taniquel could not think even one moment ahead, must not let herself imagine what she would find. They went along one street through an open area where women sold vegetables and flowers from carts, past prosperous-looking houses. Gardens sloped down to a winding stream and on the other side sat an enormous pile of tumbled stone. Graciela gave a small cry and covered her mouth.

  In places, the stones burned, even as the guard had said. It was difficult to tell their natural color, for the flames which flickered over their jagged surfaces or sprang from crevices between them were an eerie blue. Here and there, a robed figure moved about the rubble. A pavilion had been set up on the bank, lined with swathed bodies, and several more on this side of the stream. Two figures in ordinary clothing hurried in opposite directions across the bridge.

  “Who—” Taniquel shaped the word, and for an anguished moment no sound came. “Who is in charge? Where is the Keeper?”

  “Come,” said the guard captain. “I will take you to him.”

  He led the way to one of the nearer pavilions. A woman in a white monitor’s robe, torn and smeared with dried bloodstains across one thigh
and both sleeves, straightened up from where she bent over a pallet. With eyes so dark they looked bruised, she glanced over Taniquel to Graciela, who slipped from her horse and darted forward.

  “Demiana!”

  “Is it Graciela of Hali?” the monitor woman cried. She reached out and brushed Graciela’s outstretched fingertips with her own. “How—how—did word somehow get through? Is help on the way?”

  With a start, Taniquel realized that this slight flame-haired woman was in charge, the senior of all the Tower workers. Where is Coryn?

  Graciela shook her head. “No, we only heard that Hali could not reach you. Edric and Buthold and Jerred and I were in the field with King Rafael.”

  “The attack from Tramontana—”

  “Was stopped in time. We carried the day, for which we will ever remain in your debt.” Taniquel dismounted and walked the few paces to the Neskaya leronis.

  Demiana looked in question to Graciela.

  “I am Taniquel Hastur-Acosta, niece to King Rafael and friend to Coryn of Neskaya.”

  Demiana’s eyes widened. “Coryn’s Taniquel?”

  “The same,” Taniquel said. “Where is he? Is he—”

  Dark, unrecognizable emotion flickered across Demiana’s face. “He lives still, if you call it life. For the moment, anyway.” She gestured behind her. “Here we have those we could safely transport, both our own people and those townsmen who were near enough to be injured.” Her eyes went to the pavilion on the far side of the river. “Coryn is there, along with Bernardo and three others we dared not move.”

  “Bernardo—?” Graciela’s voice held real fear, the first Taniquel had ever heard in her.

  “A seizure of the heart,” Demiana said. “He should recover with rest and care. If I thought he would fare better, I would have had him carried into town, for many have opened their homes to us. But he would only fret worse, so I have left him where he is.” She sighed. “Come with me, Lady Taniquel. I will take you to your Coryn.”

  Although every fiber shrieked to hurry, Taniquel stayed for a moment to ask Esteban to contact the city elders for an assessment of the civilian problems and offer of help. Then she hurried after Demiana and Graciela across the river.

  Drawing closer to the rubble which had once been a marvel of soaring grace, Taniquel shivered inwardly. This close, the fires gave off searing heat. For a moment, she thought it was the pale blue translucency of the stone which gave the flames their tint. Here and there, where the rocks burned from underneath like chunks of wood thrown upon embers, their surfaces glowed so bright it hurt to look too long at them.

  Demiana introduced Taniquel briefly to Bernardo, Keeper of Neskaya Tower. He bore the unmistakable stamp of authority on features drawn thin and ashen around haunted eyes. To Taniquel’s relief, he made no attempt to rise, although his hands stirred on the unbleached muslin sheets.

  When Demiana said, “This is Coryn’s Taniquel,” Bernardo smiled. On impulse, Taniquel knelt beside his pallet and took one of his hands in hers. Despite the pallor of his skin, it felt warm, a good sign, she thought.

  “Do not despair, my child, or blame yourself,” he said in a whisper.

  “What do you mean?” Taniquel asked above a suddenly pounding heart.

  “That’s enough,” Demiana said. “He needs his strength for himself,” with a pointed look down at the older man, “not for conversation.”

  Rising, Taniquel asked Demiana, “What did he mean?”

  “Coryn is there. What is left of him.” The leronis pointed to the far corner, which had been cordoned off with thin sheets strung over ropes. Something cast lambent shadows over the draped fabric. Demiana made no attempt to impede Taniquel as she slipped between the curtains.

  The air in the little chamber was still and warm, catching in Taniquel’s throat. A man lay on a pallet of folded sheets, feet toward her. His arms had been arranged at his sides, legs outstretched in the graceless sprawl of unconsciousness. A strip of spotless linex had been tucked around his hips, but he was otherwise naked. His face was hidden from her, turned away under a tousle of bright russet hair. Only the chest moved, rising hesitantly in shallow, irregular breaths.

  For a long heartbeat and then another, Taniquel stood immobile, staring at the glowing blue-white patches which covered the man’s exposed body. She shuddered and inhaled the faint smell of burned copper.

  “Coryn?” Taniquel fell to her knees alongside the pallet. She stared down at the nearest patch. It was like looking into the depths of an oven where embers still clung to life. When she held out the flat of one hand and gently touched his unmarked skin, it was smooth and resilient. She thought of clingfire, how it kept burning until it was cut away or else there was nothing left to consume. But this was something else, perhaps a kind of laran clingfire. Blue was the color of starstones, of the stone fire which had felled an entire Tower.

  She turned her head slightly at a rustle of cloth from behind. Demiana.

  “What is wrong with him? Can’t you—put the fires out?”

  “We have tried,” the leronis said in a hollow, distant voice.

  What had Bernardo said, “Do not despair . . .”? Demiana, if not in actual despair, wavered perilously close.

  “We have tried,” Demiana repeated heavily. “What you see—this fire—cannot be extinguished from outside. In the battle, he took the backlash through the energy channels of his body. He transported it somewhere, beyond all the known reaches of the Overworld.” She paused, visibly struggling for self-control. “We think he is still out there or perhaps he has already perished and all we see is the body’s automatic reflexes, the way the heart may go on beating for a time, even when the spirit has gone.”

  “And you—what do you think?” Taniquel demanded.

  “If you must know, I think it is too late. I think he died to save us. I am the strongest leronis here,” Demiana said without boasting, stating a simple fact, “and I cannot reach him in the least.” She pulled the curtain aside. “I have already said my farewells. I leave you to say yours.”

  Afraid to change Coryn’s position, even the angle of his head and yet wanting—needing—to see his face, Taniquel moved to the other side of the pallet. His face was unmarked, skin clear and firm, eyes closed in an expression of peace. At once, she was struck by how familiar and yet how strange he looked. There was so much she did not know about him. So much she wanted to say.

  She wondered if she spoke, if he would hear her. Caitlin had once said that people could hear and see even in their sleep, though they might not remember. Everything which a person experienced was imprinted in the energy body, but most especially the words of someone greatly loved. She and Taniquel had been sitting in the solar in the Hidden City, and she had been talking about her own father, how he had slipped into a coma after a series of strokes, and how she had sat at his bedside, telling him what she had become, what she had made of the life he gave her.

  “And when I was finished, when I had said everything there was in my heart to say, he died.” Yet there had been no self-accusation in Caitlin’s words, only a sense of completion and acceptance.

  But I have not said everything there is in my heart to say to you, Coryn, Taniquel thought. I have not even begun to. Where have you gone? Where must I follow, to reach you?

  She took his hand between hers. Though his body had been bathed, dust still clung to his hair and grit beneath his fingernails. There were a few half-healed abrasions on palm and knuckles. The patch on his shoulder flickered lightly.

  On impulse, she bent to press her lips against his. She thought, quite irrationally she knew, that if she could only put enough passion, enough tenderness into that kiss, he would somehow respond. Wherever he was, he wanted to come back to her, or he would if he knew she was here. Of that she was absolutely certain.

  There was not the faintest answer as she straightened up, no movement of his own lips under hers, no deepening of those too-shallow breaths, no flutter of eyelids. She sat t
here for what seemed hours, wondering what to do next. It must be possible to reach him. She dared not believe otherwise.

  As if in a dream, her hand moved to the neckline of her dress and slipped between her breasts, where she carried the handkerchief he had given her. She shivered, remembering the warnings she had been given, the stories of people wandering lost until their fleshly bodies perished. Did she have any right to risk herself, when the future of Acosta depended on her?

  But for this moment, she had set aside her crown. She was no longer Taniquel Hastur-Acosta, Queen and Regent of Acosta, niece to Rafael Hastur, second of that name. She was simply Tani, who had been lost and then found in more ways than one.

  “Vai domna?” came a soft voice.

  Taniquel straightened up to see a woman barely out of girlhood, thin face haloed in frizzy yellow hair, slip between the curtains. She wore the white robe of a monitor. With a dancer’s floating grace, she came over and knelt beside Coryn. Level gray eyes met Taniquel’s. On closer inspection, she was not so much young as almost sexless, with only the narrowness of her chin and her mane of straw-pale hair suggesting femininity.

  “So you are Coryn’s lady,” she said. “Demiana said you had come, but not that you were so beautiful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Taniquel said. “I don’t know you.”

  “Oh! It is I who should apologize. I’m Amalie, matrix mechanic at Neskaya, or I should say I was. I’m doing monitor’s work again, for there are so many wounded.” She glanced down at Coryn’s body in such a way that Taniquel knew she had been the one to bathe him and lay him out like this.

  “If I were to touch that,” Taniquel pointed to the patch of smoldering blue, “would it spread to me? Are they changing, getting bigger?”

  Amalie pushed back her hair with one hand and shook her head. “No. What you see is an outward projection of an event which is essentially energetic, not material. The—fires, if you will—are most concentrated over the energon nodes, which function as capacitance sites—” she broke off. “Again, I am sorry. That is not what you need to hear.”