by Jim Grimsley
I had headed, since the canal ran that way, toward the High Place. When I approached its shadow, long and cool, I also recognized the courtyard at its base.
The crystal fountain lay beyond broad archways which I recognized, with a start, from my dream. No water flowed in it now. The sun was nearly gone but still struck a little fire in what was left of the crystal. I passed through the archway in shadow and could dimly make out the courtyard beyond. It lay in ruins.
Only the boat landing, the termination point of the canal, stood as it had in my dream.
A wind came up, gentle and caressing. Maybe there was some breath of voice in it but if so, the voice was quiet. Here I stood in the courtyard I had dreamed about so many evenings. The sun would soon abandon me to darkness and more voices, I could feel them gathering around me. I felt curiously stirred and wandered toward the landing, where the boat would come. The end of the quay had been crushed, I could see stone fragments beneath the surface of the water. I stood close to the broken pavement in the slanting sun.
Each fragment of stone shimmered beneath the water, pale like spring flowers. I did not realize what I had been hoping for until I stood there. The boat could not come if there were no place for it to dock. The court of the fountain was silent but for voices no one wants to hear. These days only the dead gathered by the river, and no King ever arrives to ascend the steps to his grand city.
But I had not come here for any of that. I had come to Arthen to serve in a shrine. I kept hold of that thought. I was cold and wrapped my coat close against me. I turned and found where the sun was sinking.
As it vanished I sang “Kithilunen,” the Evening Song, wishing for a lamp to hold in my hand. In the ghost city I could give full play to my voice and I let it soar. Who knows how long since “Kithilunen” had been heard in that ruined place? My voice floated in the air asking YY for warmth and comfort through the night, for safety in the knowledge of darkness, a prayer my Grandmother taught me, older than we are. A prayer that there should be one light in the sky, at least, each night. When the last note died I felt the peace that comes sometimes from singing and sometimes from worship. I took a deep breath and watched dark water. The impression of voices in my head increased.
I heard a real sound, a horse’s hoof striking stone, and I turned.
A horseman appeared in the Courtyard, inside one of the arches, though not the one I had entered. The horse’s coat blazed white in the twilight, like the horse of Death in the stories. The horseman carried no torch but I could see him clearly. I thought him another ghost in spite of the sound of the horse’s hooves. When he rode closer I could see the elegant trappings of his saddle and gear. The man unclasped the russet cloak he wore, as if he found the courtyard warm. When he saw me he reined in the big horse and sat still. After a moment he called out words I failed to understand, his voice musical and deep. When I gave no answer, he rode the horse across the broken courtyard and dismounted.
There was fear on his face. He asked me something in that language I couldn’t understand. His beauty astonished me and took me back to the dream, and when I recognized him I felt as if I couldn’t get breath. He had not arrived by boat this time. Yet he must be a ghost, too. He appeared not much older than Sim but was stronger of body. He wore a light tunic and riding boots. He had a rich mouth, olive-colored lips perfectly shaped, flaring. His eyes were black as night, his skin tawny, between bronze and gold. He spoke to me intently in that ringing speech again, and I heard fear in his voice. I said, quickly, “I’m a farm boy from the north country. The only language I understand is the one I’m speaking.”
His relief was obvious. In Upcountry he said, “You’re not one of the ghosts?”
“No, sir. Are you?”
He laughed, a warm, lively sound. “No, I’m not a ghost either. So we’re both all right that way.”
His horse blew out breath impatiently. The man went on watching me, without hurry. “I heard you singing Kithilunen. You sing well. How do you know that song if you can’t speak true Jisraegen?”
“My grandmother taught it to me. I know what most of the words mean.”
“I heard you from very far away,” he said. “I’ve waited for that song for a long time. Do you know where you are?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m in a courtyard where there was once a glass fountain. Over there is what’s left. Did you know about the fountain?”
“Yes. You know, your disappearance caused quite a stir in your camp.”
“Have you been there? Is my uncle angry?”
He laughed. “Yes, I’ve been to your camp. Your uncle is concerned, not angry. He had just noticed you were missing when I arrived and his friends were getting ready to search for you, even though they’re afraid of this city. I offered to search for you myself.” He stepped closer. I could not tell how old he was, any more. “How did you think you would find your way back so far at night?”
The thought had never occurred to me. I stared stupidly toward the river. “I would have walked along the canal the way I came.”
When he stepped closer I felt a flood of the dream returning; at the same time he lifted my face to catch the moonlight, touching me easily; I hardly gave it note. “You’re like a boy from ten thousand years ago. Arthen is the true home of your blood.” He paused, a slight guardedness to his expression. “Do you know who I am?”
The question made my heart pound. Because I did know. “You’re Kirith Kirin,” I said.
He went on watching me without comment or sign of surprise. His horse called him and other horses approached, torchlight flickering on the arched entryways and then on the ruined flagstone of the courtyard. The black haired man stood there as if he heard nothing. A woman’s voice rose clear and strong, a question.
“I’m on the quay,” he answered, speaking Upcountry. “Where the boat landing used to be. If you look you can see me.”
“Don’t be clever, I don’t have Venladrii silver in my eyes. Why are you speaking Upcountry?” She had switched to that language herself however. The woman rode her horse forward. “Some of Imral’s men have joined us. They crossed the bridge anyway, the boy’s uncle and some other folk. Have you found anything here? Do you think he could be the voice we heard?”
“Yes of course he could,” Kirith Kirin said, and laughed. “He’s right here in front of me, I found him exactly as I told you I would. Send Imral word the boy’s all right, and tell his uncle too.”
She rode her horse toward us impatiently, then thought better of it. “Well, are you planning to be down there for very long? No one wants to be here after dark.”
“For heaven’s sake Karsten, do as I’ve asked. I trust I won’t keep you waiting beyond your patience.”
She said, “At your service, oh prince,” as she rode away, and he laughed again watching her. When he turned to me his voice was gentler. “Everything seems good tonight, even Karsten’s sarcasm. We can’t stay here long, you’ve caused a fuss. Will you ride with me on Keikindavii, Jessex?”
Maybe it was only that he said my name, that made me trust him. Though, more likely, it was simply his charm, something that everyone felt. We walked to his horse. Kirith Kirin saw that I was shivering and wrapped his cloak around me. “How can you be cold in Cunuduerum perpetual summer?”
“It doesn’t feel like spring to me,” I said, and he watched me carefully again and mounted Keikindavii, Nixva’s father, who greeted me grandly. Kirith Kirin drew me up behind him.
“Hold on to me. You’ll soon be warm.”
I hugged his waist. The warmth of his body was wonderful. He paused a moment before he turned the horse to cross the courtyard. “I must have dreamed of seeing the city this way a thousand times,” he said, “and here it is at last.” We rode to meet his soldiers who awaited him with patient torches burning.
4
That ride through darkness was more dreamlike than the walk through the city. His outriders led us quickly, with torches, across the bridge to camp
. The woman he had called Karsten rode close to us. I watched her through the folds of the cloak, noting the strength of her long brown legs, the power of her arms, the beauty of her face framed in shining white hair. There were many riders round her and behind her, and she shouted commands to them, beautiful syllables like singing. In their company, my fear of the dream vanished.
I could hear Prince Imral’s voice along with my uncle’s in the crowd of riders but I could not see them. Keikindavii started neighing long before we reached the clearing where long ago I had helped make camp. The voice that greeted him was one I knew. Prince Kirith felt me squirm against him and half turned. “Do you hear Nixva? He knows his father is coming. He’s wondering about you too, if you can credit it.”
I could, remembering Nixva’s gray eyes from the morning we rode into Arthen. I settled against Kirith Kirin again, brief last moments of warmth before we rode onto the lawn where the cook fire was burning.
We dismounted by a smaller fire close to the river. Kirith Kirin helped me down and kept me by him, not yet claiming his cloak. When his riders assembled he had his Marshal of the Ordinary, a woman named Gaelex, assign them to posts. He wanted a watch kept while we were near Cunuduerum, and sentries. He wanted his own tent pitched wherever Imral was. The soldiers were to be fed even if they had already eaten and anybody who wanted wine was to get it, to the last cup if necessary. He said this in a jovial way. He dismissed his retinue soon after, and turned to his friends. When I started to find Uncle Sivisal Kirith Kirin held me back and said, “Not yet. Wait.”
I stood awkwardly, trying to hold up his cloak and look dignified. In the fire shadows I glimpsed Uncle Sivisal, walking toward the cook fire scowling at me. He bowed to Kirith Kirin, who greeted him by name. “We found your nephew,” he said, “so wipe that look off your face.”
Uncle Sivisal glanced at me, a warning and a question. “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into him —”
“He wanted to see the city,” Kirith Kirin shrugged. “Who wouldn’t, being so close?”
Said in this way, as if I were simply a curious tourist, the remark brought laughter. No one, it seemed, ever had such thought about this place. Lady Karsten added, “At least we know your nephew’s no coward, Sivisal. We found him near the High Place. He was singing.”
This time Sivisal gave me a look with some pride in it. “Well, he’s a sturdy boy, sir. If we can get him back to camp without any more adventure, I expect he’ll get by all right.”
That was that, it seemed. Kirith Kirin’s servant took his cloak. Uncle Sivisal led me back to our fire — with the new arrivals, there were three campfires now. He lectured me, but seemed pleased I had distinguished myself with an escapade. I would have gotten more scolding, I guess, except after a few minutes Kirith Kirin summoned him back for more talk.
When he turned, he wore a clearly worried expression, and my heart sank. I was in trouble after all, I guessed. We got our dinner-portion, nearly a feast compared with our traveling rations, and he led me away from the fire.
His face let me know this was more serious than my straying across the bridge. “Commander Imral sent Kirith Kirin a message the night we met him,” Uncle Sivisal said. “It was about your family. Our family.”
I became still, and a chill passed over me, like the touch of the ghost in the city. “Why?”
“He sent soldiers to guard your farm.” Sivisal watched me somberly. “Soldiers who know their business and will be seen by nobody. Commander Imral asked him to do that.”
This news threw me into some confusion. Sivisal allowed me to sip wine from his cup. “They’re afraid the Queen’s soldiers will make trouble for your family.”
“But they didn’t see us, they don’t know who we are.”
“The woman in the White Cloak knows how to find out,” my uncle said.
“You mean you think she traced our path that same day —” My own words choked me.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be all right.” But he hardly seemed convinced of that himself.
We ate our supper. He brought me a cup of watered wine when we returned to the fire. Some talk passed during dinner, about other things, camp news, a fresh rumor from Cordyssa. I was picturing my mother, doing, as she had promised, the things she had always done.
After a while I asked, “When will the soldiers be there?”
“Soon,” Uncle Sivisal said, but from his manner I wondered if soon would be soon enough.
After this, the pleasant fire and the sound of voices made me sad, and I asked Uncle Sivisal if I could walk by the river for a while. Mercifully he omitted any mention of my recent wandering, maybe because his spirits were low. He directed me to stay in sight of the campfire.
As my eyes adjusted to darkness, I could see the river and walked there. When a thought tried to come into my mind I shut it out. I watched the river and listened to the sounds of its passing. Close to its freshness I felt peace, even warmth after a while, more than the fire had been able to bring. I stayed till the white moon was high. Back at the fires, figures sat drinking wine, their voices reaching me without any distinctness of words. I crawled into my bed without returning to the fire. My mind was full and fought sleep for a long time. Finally Uncle Sivisal went to bed, nearby, and I took comfort in that. A few days ago he had been a stranger, but now he was my only kin in sight. I lay under the soft infthil leaves with fear in my mind, till sleep came. I had no dreams.
5
In the morning we sang Velunen and set out on the ride around the river city. Through the early hours we traveled in the shadow of the city walls, a vast circumference. Prince Kirith and his companions rode at the head of our company, the rest of us after. Toward midday we crossed over another stone bridge, this one less grand than the last, though it was also built when Falamar was King. camp was particularly pleasant that night with the stone abutments of the bridge to reflect the fire and protect us from wind.
At sunset we sang Kithilunen. Kirith Kirin was there but simply watched and listened, saying nothing before and nothing after. A hunting party had gone out during the day and we ate well on what they had killed. That evening only one fire was laid, and Kirith Kirin sat among the rest of us. No one acted as if this were anything unusual. He was boisterous, telling many stories and leading some rounds of singing. It was obvious he was well-loved; in his presence even Sivisal became animated. Kirith Kirin made my uncle show him the arrow-wound and Sivisal did so proudly. The Prince complimented his bravery and remarked that the wound appeared to be healing well. I hoped he would say something to me also, but he did not. Through the evening I watched Kirith Kirin, wishing for some excuse to talk to him. Uncloaked children are expected to be quiet and bother nobody at such gatherings, and adults are expected to ignore them. Still, once or twice his gaze fell on me.
In the morning we formed for ride and crossed the bridge. The forest grew bright and open, the canopy lighter though the undergrowth was still sparse. I asked Uncle Sivisal about the change when we stopped to rest our horses. This part of Arthen was called “Tiisvarthen” or “Goldenwood”, and was a favored place for camp in the early spring before the chill of winter has entirely passed. At that time of year goldenflower trees blossomed here, heavy with petals and scent, and in late spring the blossoms would shower down from the branches and cover the ground. These trees were still budding.
That evening we made camp for the last time in open forest. The white moon rose early and some stars were shining. We were close to a clear stream called Mithuun where I bathed while waiting for supper, amid clear light dying in the golden trees. I picked a spot far from the cookware, being shy of my own nakedness, but I lingered in the water once I was there. My mother had packed oil of elgerath for my journey; I used the last of it in the stream, the fresh smell lingering on my skin. The forest was hushed and still, full of early moonlight, the singing of wind in trees, shadows crossing and re-crossing. As I dressed in my clean tunic the newness of this world took me afre
sh, the strangeness of having bathed in a forest glade, of dressing by moonlight and listening to sounds from a camp full of strangers.
When I returned to camp the place was full of bright sound, the smell of supper and spilled wine filling the clearing where we had settled for the night. Again, no separate fire was laid for the Jhinuuserret but for a long time Kirith Kirin did not come to supper. Neither did Lady Karsten.
I got food for myself and found a seat in the shadows of the fire. Some of the soldiers had already drunk pretty deeply and in many directions one saw flushed faces reflecting firelight or heard voices tinged with the warm echo of good company and pleasant beverage. From beyond the blaze I could hear Trysvyn singing a song in High Speech. Though I couldn’t understand the words I heard the sadness in it, both in Trysvyn’s clear voice and in the song itself. I felt a sudden longing to know what she was singing. I heard the word Cunuduerum again and again.
Uncle Sivisal sat with me. We drank to each other’s health and sat in the light with our cups balanced in our hands. We spoke pleasantly on many subjects, calm friendly conversation that made me feel less like a stranger to him. He told me then that my mother had taken him to visit the place where Grandmother Fysyyn’s smoke went up while he was on the farm. It was hard for him to fathom that his mother was dead. His last memory of her was from many years before, when she was still fairly young. When he talked about her I could see the child saying good-bye to his mother before riding away to the wild forest. She had told him he was bound for a life that would change him from boy to man maybe more quickly than plains life would have, and that he was destined for long service to a great lord. He was the forerunner, the first of her blood to return to Arthen. He must be credit to her. I could hear her voice in the words as he said them.