Emily raises a hand, and he feels a gentle force pushing him back into his seat.
“You really are the bitch goddess. You really are.”
“Did I say I wasn't?” She smiles. Martel likes the smile, drinks it in, and doesn't trust it. The candle on the table, dark green, square, winks out. Martel relights it with a thought, lets it burn, lets the flame flare, and squeezes it into a narrow column that flickers level with Emily's golden eyes, and turns the flame black. He relaxes his hold, and the golden-green flame returns to normal. “Very impressive for a nongod.”
“Flame tricks, dear bitch goddess. What's happening on Karnak?”
“You're the newsie. Tell me.”
“You're the goddess. Tell me what's behind the news.”
“Either an old, old god or a new god, and the gods themselves don't know.”
“So the gods are only gods. Is that it?” Martel again turns the candle flame black, this time to stay… at least until snuffed and relit.
“Why do you fight everything, Martel? You could be a god, and you fight that. You could have light, and you fight that. You could have me, and you fight that. Some things are meant to be.”
He looks up at Emily. Even though she returns the study, her eyes open, they are hooded. But her words ring true, like gold coins dropped on a stone table.
Martel stands, walks around the table, and eases back the heavy chair for her.
“Some things I don't fight. Not forever. Shall we go?” He reaches for her hand.
The fires crackle, black flames licking from his arms and white from hers, twining in the space and instants before their fingers touch.
A plain gold flitter crouches at the end of the pier, empty. They enter.
The hillside villa is small, five rooms in all, with limited access. The cliffs to the back are impassable to any casual visitor, and the lawns and gardens to the front stretch into what seems an endless forest, though he can spot a trail several kilos beneath the villa.
The master chamber opens to the south and to a vista including Sybernal. Martel takes another look at the sweeping emerald lawns that drop toward the distant town, toward the pine forests that seem to guard the grounds.
Emily, or Diana, reappears at his elbow, still wearing the thin white chiton and antique necklace. She is barefoot, without the white leather sandals.
“You're determined to waste all the time you have, aren't you?”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Why did you find me?”
“Why not? Opposites attract.”
“Oh. I'm mortal, and you're a goddess? I wear black, and you wear white?”
“Nothing that simple. You could be a god, but refuse. You could wear any color, but chose black, which is all colors or none. You could have any woman, but spurn them all.”
“You make it sound so simple,” growls Martel, refusing to look at her, knowing that the minute he does he will want her. “Nothing's simple.”
“You, Martel, assume that everything is linked. I'm not asking for the future. I want the now.”
Her hand touches the back of his wrist. He can feel the electricity build in him, holds it to himself, holds back from looking away from the view of Sybernal. “You find me unattractive? Or are you afraid?” The oldest ploys in the universe.
Of course she's attractive. And of course you're afraid. You're afraid of your own shadow, Martel, he thinks, not realizing that he has projected his doubts.
Emily says nothing. Stands next to him, her fingers touching his hand, letting the breeze from the open vista wash over them. Goddesses don't need sashes or sills, do they, the half-thought strikes him, strikes him as he feels his body responding to the desire Emily projects. Not projects, just plain has. She wants him.
Does he want her? Really want her? Does it matter? What about Rathe? Or Kryn?
“… Then love the one you're with,” he murmurs, and turns toward Emily, golden Emily, gilded Diana, whose arms come around his neck, and whose lips meet his.
Kryn, Rathe, Kryn… he buries the names before they emerge as his hands tighten on the bitch goddess he holds, as he drops into the depths and the eternities she represents.
He should feel sleepy, but doesn't, as they lie next to each other, hands touching, arms touching, legs touching.
“What was she like, Martel?” Emily's voice is softer than he'd imagined it could be. “Who?”
“Your lady Kryn.”
“Bitch.” His voice is flat.
“If you don't want to talk, you don't have to. Were you making love to me or to her?”
“Suppose I say both and neither? Suppose I say her?”
“Suppose you did. You still wanted me.”
“Yes.”
“Then that's enough for now. Now is all you have, Martel. Unless you stop fighting it, and become a god. Or recognize that you are.”
“Do you want me just because I'm stubborn?” She laughs, and the silver bells ring in her voice and in his mind. “Touché.”
The pines outside the marble pillars sigh with the breeze. Her hand leaves his, touches his bare shoulder, caresses the back of his neck. “Martel?”
“Umm?”
“Don't waste any more time.”
He rolls on his side to face her, lets his eyes run over her slender body, over the high breasts of the huntress goddess, over the even golden skin… The second time is gentler. He awakes alone in the bed, scrambles to his feet.
The villa is empty, except for the master chamber closet, where three identical white chitons hang, with three sets of identical white sandals beneath. In the bathing chamber, a heated bath steams as he opens the portal. A thick black towel is laid out. His tunic and trousers, immaculately clean, are hung next to the towel, with his boots beneath.
Next to his clothes hangs also a black cloak, with an attached collar pin, a black thunderbolt that glistens.
He uses his perceptions to probe the cloak and pin, but they are what they are, merely a cloak and a pin. He steps into the bath.
Later, clad in his own clothes and the cloak he knows is a present from Emily, he walks out to the landing stage where the golden flitter waits, empty and door ajar. Now… he remembers where he has seen Emily. On the I.D. cube at the CastCenter, on that single cube that had brought the call of blasphemy and knocked poor Marta Farell right out of bed.
Of course. The goddess in one of her playful moments. That is not quite right, he knows, but he shivers, and glances back at the white villa for a last look before he enters the flitter.
* * *
XXVII
A raven—consider the bird.
Bulky, black-feathered, wings stubby for the size of its body, raw-voiced and scratchy-toned, if you will, a scavenger, an overgrown crow. And yet a raven is more than the sum of the description.
Consider the raven, who stands for the darkness and destruction, who embodies all the forebodings of those who cannot fly, and who brings the night to day.
Is then the eagle, who is also scavenger and predator, feathered and screeching in broad daylight, whose sole superiority over the raven is size, the better bird, the more magnificent symbol?
Which would be the mightier were their sizes reversed? Could we accept all that the raven is… and grant him the wingspan of an eagle?
Or is it that we who eat carrion do not like to be reminded of that and revere the predator who tears bloody meat from just-killed corpses?
On planets where the sun kills and the night revives, which would be the better power symbol—eagle or raven?
—Comparative Symbols
Edwy Dirlieth
Argo, a. d. 2356
* * *
XXVIII
Taking the last steps two at a time, Martel reaches the top of the walk that leads to his cottage.
Mrs. Alderson is asleep. That he can tell from the sense of quiet around the bigger house.
The quince by the front portal of the cottage has finally decided t
o bloom, one of the few times since he arrived on Aurore.
As he approaches the low stone slab that serves as porch, front stoop, and delivery area, he stops. Tucked into the portal is a white oblong.
He leans forward and picks it up. The old-fashioned white paper envelope contains an equally antique handwritten letter.
The name on the envelope is his and also handwritten, but he does not recognize the hand, though it does not belong to any of his ladies. Of that he is certain.
He casts his thoughts around the cottage, but finds no one, no sense of lingering. That means the letter within the envelope was left or delivered while he was still at the CastCenter beaming forth his cubes of reassurance on behalf of Gate Seven.
Martel frowns. He sniffs the envelope. The scent, faint indeed, and overlaid with the acridity of ship ozone, is feminine.
Willing the portal to open rather than using his thumb, he steps inside.
After debating whether to open the envelope immediately, he compromises and fills a beaker half full with Springfire before retreating to the rear porch to open and read the letter.
Eridian/Halston
Martel—
I don't know whether you heard. Gates and I bought out our contracts and settled here. We never knew what you heard after Marta's “Edict.” For reasons you can understand, we were afraid to risk contacting you while we were still on Aurore.
So this is sort of an apology, and a long-delayed thank you. Long-delayed because I realized my dreams were true. They weren't dreams at all.
Gates had an accident last year. He was hit by a malfunctioning flitter and almost didn't make it. The doctor made a real fuss. They insisted Gates was fifty standard years younger than he is. His heart and arteries especially. The phrase that sticks in my mind is “almost as if his heart and aorta were rebuilt.”
That's where the dreams come in. One dream I've had ever since you showed up at the CastCenter. Gates is pointing a needler at you. Stupid, I suppose, since Gates has never owned one. But you were throwing a black thunderbolt at him. Next thing, he's lying on the ground, and you are keeping him from dying. Don't ask me how.
The neurotechs tell me that they aren't dreams. I either saw it or I believe I saw it. It doesn't make any difference which. For whatever reason, you saved Gates twice, in effect.
I also wonder why I gave up cernadine. Your influence? As always, the questions are unanswered, and I don't expect a reply.
You are what you are, and for that I am grateful now. I hope you stay that way. Your road is long, I know, and Gates and I, despite your gifts, will be dust long before you scale your heights.
Hollie
P. S. You're also the best faxer left on Aurore, whatever else you may be.
Martel leans back in the chair, places the letter on the table, and picks up the beaker to take another sip of Springfire.
A single chirp from the dorle in the back quince breaks the morning quiet.
So your road is long, Martel. How long? He pushes his own question away and puts down the beaker without taking another sip.
As he stands the breeze from his abruptness swirls the paper letter to the floor, half under the table. Martel leaves it there and paces to the window to look up the hill at the farthest pair of quince trees.
“Even when you erase the footprints and change the memories… just like the song.” The words slip out before he thinks.
He does not sing, but, instead, the words hang in the air next to him, glowing.
I saw your footprints on the sand, Yesterday;
I saw your smile so close at hand, Yesterday.
Yet twenty years have come and gone, Since then;
My hair has silvered from our dawn, Since then.
And all my days have passed away, All my nights are yesterday.
Martel does not look at the golden words he has wrought. Slowly they dim, and after a time the last yesterday fades. Only a single black glittermote circles his left shoulder.
He remembers the letter and retrieves it from under the table, looks at it as if it represents a puzzle he cannot solve. Finally, he places it on the shelf next to the book of poems by Ferlinol. The thin white sheets of paper, with their message from Eridian and the past, fold in upon each other, glow briefly, darken, and stretch into a single black rose.
Martel wipes his forehead and looks away from the flower that will outlast the cottage, and, perhaps, Martel himself. Always harder, isn't it, when you start to care again? He picks up the beaker from the table and downs the rest of the Springfire with a single gulp, ignoring the line of fire that sears his palate and flames down his throat. The dorle chirps once again from the quince.
* * *
XXIX
Some stores are open at all hours, and when Martel leaves the CastCenter, his steps bear him toward the southern edge of the merchants' district, toward Ibrahim's.
He needs Springfire, perhaps some scampig, if Ibrahim has any today, and a few other, more common, items. Good thing you've got an autochef, Martel. Without it, the culinary monotony would have been unrelieved.
The air is quiet on this morning of eternal day and becomes even more motionless as he enters the white-gray paved lanes that indicate the area where the natives, and Martel, shop.
Aldus the bootmaker, oblivious to anyone, is letting down his awning as Martel approaches, scowling and wrestling with the heavy black iron crank. Martel waves.
Aldus wipes the scowl from his face and, smiling a faint smile, waves back.
Across the land and three shops down from the bootmaker's is the next open doorway. As he nears it Martel can already smell the aroma of liftea and freshly baked ceron rolls.
The bakery must be new, since he does not recall it. Outside the fresh white walls and polished door he pauses, then decides to go inside. Entering, from the corner of his eye he sees an older woman, her brown hair shot with gray, disappear through a side door into another room, leaving only her son, a boy of perhaps eleven standard years, behind the counter where the just-baked ceron rolls are laid out.
The liftea has been brewed in an enormous samovar that stands alone on the counter next to the baked goods. Neatly racked beside the tea machine is a tray of blue porcelain mugs, each facedown on a white linen napkin. “Good day, young man,” offers Martel. “Good day, sir. What would you like, sir?” The youngster smiles easily, and Martel smiles back. “Are the rolls as good as they smell?”
“I like them, but we also have the plain ones on the other tray.”
“If you like them,” says Martel with a laugh, “I'll have to try one, and a mug of the liftea.” He hands the boy his credit disc.
“Oh, sir. I couldn't.” The boy looks away. “Why not?”
“I… I… just… well… ah…” His eyes are still fixed on the floor tiles. Flame! Flame! Flame!
“My credit's good, young man, and I would rather be charged for it.”
The boy finally recovers. “It would be our pleasure, sir.”
“I'm afraid I'll have to insist. If people like me eat and don't pay, how would you and your family stay in business?”
The boy's mouth drops open, only for an instant, but he takes the proffered disc and sets it in the reader, which transfers the small credit balance to the bakery.
“Thank you, sir. I hope you like the ceron. It really is my favorite, except maybe for the spice sticks, and we don't have any of those this morning.”
“Ceron it is.”
He picks up one of the sticky rolls and takes a bite. The orange-and-spice taste is as good as the smell, and he finishes the roll in three quick bites. He wipes his fingers on one of the small square napkins laid out on the counter next to the mugs.
The pungent liftea clears the slightly cloying aftertaste of the ceron from his mouth.
Martel looks up from the mug to see a man half enter the bakery, then abruptly back out into the lane.
Martel downs the last of the liftea and places the mug on the empty tray where,
he presumes, it should go.
“As good as you said,” he tells the boy, who is still alone in the room with him. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”
“I suppose I will. You too.” Martel leaves the shop with a smile on his face. Ought to do that more often, Martel. You stay too much to yourself these days.
He glances toward the bootmaker's shop, but the awning is fully down and extended, and Aldus has gone back inside.
Should get another pair of boots one of these days, I suppose.
The lane is deserted, except for two girls playing in the emerald grass next to the linen shop across from the bakery.
The proprietor of the linen shop half steps out of her door, then darts back inside, as if she has forgotten something, Martel shrugs and resumes his walk toward Ibrahim's. A muted clanging becomes increasingly more insistent, and by the time he reaches the middle of the next row of small businesses, each with a low-fenced and trimmed side yard, the sound resembles an off-tune gong.
Behind the grassy lawn that circles a single cormapple, a double door to a metalworking shed stands open, and through the open doors Martel can see two men wrestling with what seems to be a metal tank.
For several units he stands and watches the two as they struggle to straighten the crumpled end of the tank. After the bent metal is smoothed, however, they apply the patch plate quickly, and the two lift the tank onto a small delivery wagon.
Martel looks away from the shed to discover he is being studied by a small, wide-eyed girl who hangs over the half-story railed balcony. He looks back at her, directly. She continues her study.
He smiles.
Her dark brown eyes widen farther, if possible. “…oh…”
The sound comes from behind him, from the metalworking shed, and he glances toward it.
Standing frozen in the double doorway is one of the two men who had been working on the tank. The sleeveless tunic emphasizes his burliness and the bronzed nature of his skin. The man is black-haired, clean-shaven, and his mouth hangs open as he stares at Martel.
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