Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars)

by Jim Grimsley

  I said, “She had red hair and a silver headpiece. Her skin was very fair, not like a woman who works in the fields.”

  The commander received this as bad news, turning away from Sivisal and me. He looked at me keenly. I could hardly read his expression for the fascination of watching his eyes. “Don’t speak about this to anyone. Don’t describe the white-cloaked woman again.”

  We affirmed that we would keep the story to ourselves.

  To my uncle he said, “You’ve done good work, Sivisal, as I knew you would. Your nephew is safe.”

  “Yes sir,” Sivisal said; and then they both switched to that more sibilant language that I did not know. From Sivisal’s expression it seemed plain that the commander’s earlier orders were being repeated. When they were done, the commander walked away from the menumen, gesturing for me to follow, and Uncle Sivisal indicated I should go with him.

  We walked to the shrine in a circular garden between the statues. Everything was in perfect order, as if the grounds were carefully tended. The commander found a clear spring behind the shrine. The water running had smoothed the stone to the slickness of glass, and its gurgling over the pebbles made a pleasant song. The commander looked down into the water for a long time. He was a tall, fair-haired man with fine bones in his face, and long, tapered hands. His slender body gave the impression of strength. This man’s skin and eyes were silver, like starlight, and his skin nearly glittered in light. I noticed this and the commander looked up again, smiled gently. “You’ve had a hard day’s ride. Are you sorry you’ve come to the Woodland after so much trouble?”

  “No. I like it here, I don’t know why.”

  “Your first taste of soldiers’ life hasn’t discouraged you?”

  “Blue Cloaks were quartered on my father’s farm two seasons, nearly three. I know something about them.”

  “And the woman in the white cloak?”

  I shivered. “I haven’t seen anything like her before. But the village folk have always said my Grandmother and Mother both knew witchcraft.”

  “Did they?”

  “Not enough to call down lightning,” I said.

  “Your father’s name is Kinth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your farm is near Mikinoos?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I remember Mikinoos from old days,” he said. “Once there was traffic between your village and my native city, Drii. Did you know I was Venladrii?”

  I nodded. He bowed his head. “My name is Imral Ynuuvil and I’m King Evynar’s son.”

  I was speechless then, and turned away in confusion. There were two shocks in what he told me. Uncle Sivisal had only just affirmed that there was really a city called Drii and here I was, meeting a man who claimed he was the son of the Drii King. More astonishing, however, was his name. Among us, the greatest honor conceivable is to be called by two names.

  His laughter continued in a gentle vein. “Your uncle should have warned you.”

  “Jhinuuserret” is the old word for twice-named. Grandmother Fysyyn taught it to me. In our world, only a few are Jhinuuserret, and they are said to live forever unless misfortune comes to them. The second name comes as a gift from God.

  The Prince dismissed me soon after. I kept watching him, realizing who he was. One of the Twelve Who Do Not Die, the inheritors. Later I saw him deliver a message in writing to one of the riders. She got a horse from the line and was gone in no time. What message she carried I could only guess.

  2

  When supper was ready we ate it seated around the campfire, good venison and warm bread, dried fruit, fresh cheese, wine to wash it down. Uncle Sivisal was propped close to the fire with me to serve him. His wound and the story of our glorious ride had made the rounds quickly, and he had to tell it again and again. At the conclusion of the last time he slapped my knee and said it was a long way to come for such a small package. Everyone got a good laugh at that.

  There was a woman who had brought her guitar with her, and she sang with Prince Imral after a while, an old song from the mountains, with a sweet harmony. I couldn’t understand the words but the singing was fine. Prince Imral had a good voice and the woman, Trysvyn, offered a clarity of tone and total ease in gliding from one note to the next. We Jisraegen believe that to hear music is to hear the mind of God, or as close as we can come when she is far away. No one spoke for as long as they chose to sing and afterward in the silence I found a place for my pallet near my uncle. It felt good to lie back and look at the stars with the echo of those songs running through me. After a day full of so much adventure I thought I would have trouble sleeping, but I was wrong.

  In the morning we rolled our bedrolls and downed our jaka by first sun. We sang “Velunen,” the Morning Song, before riding. I did what I could to help strike camp, packing Uncle Sivisal’s belongings while he grumbled about his shoulder. I waited a long time before getting Nixva in case somebody had forgotten to tell me I wasn’t supposed to ride him any more. When I slipped the saddlecloth over his back, the horse seemed content with the prospect and I asked no more questions. One of the soldiers checked my cinches, but I had saddled my father’s horse a thousand times on the farm.

  I was lost in memory of a dream from the night before, in which I had wandered in a beautiful city. I could remember the city keenly even in daylight, me walking in parti-colored clothes down a broad quay, a riverfront, colored stone underfoot, very beautiful. This was a festival-day in the city and music hung in the air, bangles and lyres and kata sticks, singing sweet and sour. Along the river every house was open, many families sitting on their terraces in festival clothes, some waving to me and some simply nodding as I passed. The city was bright and golden, smelling of horse leather and rich spices, perfumes and scented oils. In the dream I had always known there was such a city. I woke with a longing to return, wrapped in sadness.

  The feeling did not diminish with fullness of morning. I rode with Uncle Sivisal, watching Imral Ynuuvil at the head of the column on his silver mare. When Sivisal had nothing to say to me I daydreamed about the city. We rode from morning to night. After supper I spread my pallet and slept till daylight.

  After supper the next evening, when once again I thought only of finding a place for my pallet away from the campfire, the Prince asked that I sing a song as part of the nightly gathering. He played a white lyre and Trysvyn beat the kata sticks and they led me through a ballad about the Lady of Curaeth, that time she rescued Pel Pelathayn from the Svyssn far to the north. Though I did not know it, I had chosen my subject well. Prince Imral sat back with that look of impassivity the Venladrii adopt when they are happiest. Everyone else like the song, too.

  As if cursed, I dreamed again that night, much the same as before, myself in many colors, singing as I walked along the quay, happy at a festival in a city I had never seen. The dream lasted longer and I saw many docks, buildings, courtyards, boat-landings, parties floating on the water. Some of these landmarks I recognized from earlier versions of the dream. At last I reached what must have been my destination all along, a courtyard in which sat a tall crystal fountain, water splashing in arcs, rainbow shards of sunlight shattered in the fountain, throwing off a million fires. A huge crowd gathered here to wait while oars pulled a red boat toward the landing. A white figure stood in the prow of the boat, a handsome man.

  This was early morning, long before dawn. When I woke from the dream I wanted to walk but there were soldiers on watch and I was afraid to move. I lay sleepless on my pallet and when someone lit the breakfast fire I was awake.

  3

  We rode west for many days. I kept Uncle Sivisal company, and he talked to me plainly about Arthen and camp for the most part and asked questions about my father’s farm and about life around Mikinoos. The wound in his shoulder had stayed pretty sore, given our constant riding. Each night I made a new poultice as one of the soldiers had taught me, theunyn mixed with leaf of asfer and kor, to ease the ache and promote healing. The wound stayed in
flamed but got no worse.

  No conversation provided comfort against the night, when I rolled into my bed and awaited the dream. Sleep came easily each time I lay down, when I had never been one to fall asleep easily. Without fail the dream returned, with the same freshness that had characterized its beginning. Sometimes I walked along the river quay and sometimes through other parts of the city, but ended up in the courtyard where the crystal fountain blazed, where sometimes the red boat pulled ashore and sometimes did not. Soon I had dreamt the place so often I could picture it during my waking hours in every detail.

  Though I mentioned the dream to no one, it was obvious to Uncle Sivisal I had become distracted by something. He questioned me but I gave only a vague explanation, homesickness, the newness of life in the Woodland and the like. I was ashamed to admit to him that I was troubled by a simple dream. But when I began to hear the soldiers mutter about a city in Arthen, toward which we were riding, I began to pay more attention.

  One of the soldiers spoke about the haunted city around the campfire one night, and I asked Uncle Sivisal what she meant.

  “The western road leads to a deserted city,” he said, his expression betraying unease. “We’ll ride there but we won’t go inside the walls. No one does.”

  “Is it really haunted? That’s what the others were saying.”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? I never saw any ghosts there, but I never went inside the walls, either.”

  “Then why does everybody talk about it this way?”

  He thought over his answer a bit and said, finally, “There must be some truth to the stories, I guess. The roads lead straight through the city but we always ride around it, outside. And it’s a pretty big city and a pretty long way around, I can tell you that.”

  “Why is it deserted? Did the Queen make people move out?”

  Uncle Sivisal laughed. “No, Jessex. Cunuduerum was deserted a long time ago, before Queen Athryn was alive. I don’t know the story myself, but I think it had something to do with Falamar. You know him?”

  “Grandmother told me some stories about him.”

  “He was the first king in Arthen,” Uncle Sivisal said. “He killed the priests, and he was a pretty bad man.”

  “He was a Wizard,” I said. “Grandma told me that.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Sivisal said, and I could tell he was about to change the subject. “Anyway, that’s enough about haunted cities. You can hardly hold your eyes open.”

  “Is there a river?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Is there a river near the city?”

  He gave me a curious look. “Yes,” he said. “The city was built at the junction of two rivers. Why?”

  “I just wondered,” I answered, but he continued to study me. So I changed the subject myself, pointing across the clearing where Prince Imral approached with his lyre. “Look, he’s going to sing.”

  That night the dream deserted me and I rested easily till first light.

  The first sign of Cunuduerum one can see is the Tower that soars over the treetops, visible for a long way. We heard the soldiers point it out and Uncle Sivisal showed me where to find it, a slim pillar against the distant horizon, rising out of a sea of green. He grinned and said, “That’s the Spike of the Nameless,” and someone nearby made a sign to protect from the evil eye. Uncle Sivisal did the same and so did I. No one had to tell me what the Tower was for. Any child knows it is a place where Wizards work.

  “Is anybody in it?” I asked. “Does the Queen’s Wizard ever come there?”

  Prince Imral, who overheard my question, said, “No, Jessex. No one has stood in Seumren Tower since Jurel threw down Falamar. A long time.”

  We camped near a wide dark river within sight of a stone bridge. Beyond the bridge stood the walls of the city.

  I had never seen any structure as elaborate as the bridge, which crossed the river on carved stone pylons, arch after arch. The carvings struck me with their somber beauty, the faces of hunters, merchants, tradesmen, weavers, dancers at a festival, youths lovely and graceful. I did not recognize the animals. Uncle Sivisal explained to me that the creatures depicted no longer roamed Arthen, if they ever had; he was from a hunter’s family like Sivisal’s and would have known if they were around to be hunted nowadays.

  We made camp on a grassy knoll near the bridge, since daylight would not last much longer; though I could tell most of the soldiers would have preferred to ride farther and camp elsewhere. The evening turned chilly and I fetched my coat from my saddle-pack, checking as usual to make sure the necklace was hidden in its lining. I helped Uncle Sivisal with his bandage. The wound had survived another’s day’s riding and showed no sign of putrefying. I rolled out my bedroll beneath one of the infthil trees. As I lay on the pallet smelling the bright infthil blossoms a sickening feeling made me shudder, and I wondered if it was the smell of the flowers. Infthil bloom in the summer and bear fruit in early fall. These infthil were blooming far too early and yet were lush, as if the fruit were about to form.

  Restless, I wandered by the dark, broad river, hearing soldiers return with a load of firewood. Along the river, a low stone wall peered out from overgrowth along the back, and the manmade structure drew me. The stone cooled my fingertips. The flowing of the river, hypnotic in the late afternoon light, led me effortlessly toward the bridge.

  I had seen only Mikinoos village in my life, and had no reference for a structure so monumental. Men and women had carved these stones, had moved them into place to make a bridge. Across its back, wagons, carts, horses, human feet had moved, into the city which lay hidden beyond those walls.

  In the distance, the Tower rose over the wall, dominating the whole city. The Spike of the Nameless, my uncle had called it. Prince Imral had called it by another name, Seumren. A High Place, where a real Wizard once worked.

  From far away I heard Nixva calling me. By now I could recognize his voice. I laughed softly at the sound but when he called me again I felt colder and wrapped the coat close around me.

  A feeling of placelessness overtook me and suddenly the sounds of our camp in the distance had no meaning. I walked farther along the road to the bridge. The momentum of motion was powerful. Suddenly the wandering became like my dream and aroused a longing to go on.

  I mounted to the paved stones that led to the bridge. A cool breeze was blowing along the bridge way from the city side. I stepped hesitantly onto the stones. I watched the river from arch to arch, thinking it odd to stand so high over the broad, dark water. At the end of the bridge a low arch beckoned me through the wall.

  I crossed the bridge without considering what I was doing. To tell the truth, I thought I was dreaming. Within moments I stood at the entrance to the main gate that guarded the city side of the bridge. Once my eyes had adjusted to the twilit interior I glimpsed a portcullis suspended above my head, spikes of iron massive enough to crush people and horses. Along the walls were slits in the stone, maybe where more such gates waited, or maybe places for soldiers to stand with weapons. The wall was thick and I had a goodly walk in the dark. But soon I came to the end of the tunnel.

  Beyond the wall, tall sheer buildings flanked the flagstone road on either side. I gaped at these immense structures as anyone in my place would have. I could see parapets at the tops of the buildings; and then, for a moment, I glimpsed a line of soldiers, nearly colorless in the daylight, glaring down with hollow eyes and black-rimmed mouths. When they vanished a chill passed through me.

  By now I could not tell whether I was dreaming beneath the branches of the infthil, comfortable on my bedroll, or whether the dream finally consumed me and I had found the city at last. I passed through the open bronze gates into the precinct beyond. One could see Cunuduerum spreading far off toward the horizon.

  A feeling of overwhelming recognition engulfed me. Beyond the gate was a courtyard, beyond the courtyard a lane lined with mansions, and along one rank of these mansions ran the marble quay where I had wandered, following
along a broad canal which led from the river toward Seumren Tower.

  I wandered farther, passed mansion after mansion along the canal. At first I sensed only the absolute quiet of the place, its desertion. But everything was in perfect order, maintained as if the citizens were expected to return at any moment. Soon I began to imagine that figures moved in the distant houses. I heard voices as well, the murmur of a festival in the ghost city.

  I did not think of my uncle or of anyone I knew. I was in the dream, I was walking down the quay. From the houses I passed I got some greeting; not the laughter and musical speech of my dream but silent, sullen stares. Once I passed a figure on the quay itself, gaunt and transparent so I could see through him to the dark canal. He gazed at me with malevolence and spoke a word that did not sound as if it came from any language I had ever heard. I was afraid of him so I passed him singing bits of melody from my dream. I continued singing as I walked. I had no conception of time and could only guess how long I had been gone. The sun sank low over the mansions along the canal.