Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars)

by Jim Grimsley

  I remembered the necklace spinning in the light of my mother’s room. Her face, slightly troubled, as it passed from her hand to mine. I said, “God sent the dream to Mordwen. My mother wanted me to come where I was called.”

  After a while he prepared to return to the naming feast for Prince Imral. He had left his guests to give me this news himself. He went to the flap, saying to Sivisal, “The party from the farm is waiting to talk to you, if you want to question them. I’ve told them to answer your questions without concealing anything. You and the boy have the right to know as much as you wish.”

  “I’d like to talk to them now,” Sivisal said.

  He turned to the door and spoke to Gaelex again. The soldiers entered within moments.

  2

  Uncle Sivisal made them recount the whole story. When they seemed reluctant to describe any particular fact, he questioned them closely until he was certain they were sparing no detail.

  Smoke was still rising from the ruined farmyard when the soldiers found the place. Our neighbors had not found the courage to visit; the Queen’s troops had only been gone from the village a day. Kirith Kirin’s people rode through the farmyard, finding the bodies of my father, Sim and Lise, cut apart by swords, partly eaten by carrion birds. Some of the soldiers built a pyre to burn the bodies while the others searched through the ruined farm buildings. They found Jarred, Histel and Vaguath hanged in the orchard, within sight of the house. Mikif had identified the bodies. Sim’s wife and child were burned in their house; the soldiers found charred bones and naming necklaces, scant remains. Mikif was found in what sounded like the milking shed, though it was hard to tell. It took them a while to find her; she had heard them ride in but had been afraid the Blue Cloaks were returning; when she saw one of the soldiers in a red-trimmed cloak she called out for help. She was in a bad way when the soldiers found her; they sent a member of the party to Mikinoos to bring the physician, but Mikif did not last that long. The soldiers questioned her through her last moments. They said she seemed eager to talk.

  She gave them the few details they knew about the raid. The Blue Cloaks appeared a few days after I left, at sunset, when Father had already come in from the fields and everyone was in the house. The Kyminax witch rode into the yard and called out my mother’s name. Mother went outside, not knowing who the woman was. The soldiers had immediately tried to drag her off, and my father rushed at them, flanked by Histel, Lise and Sim; the soldiers cut them down where they stood.

  Julassa questioned Mother for a long time. Mikif only heard a little of that; the Blue Cloaks had dragged Mikif into the barn by then. The witch asked again and again, where had my mother learned magic? Where was her youngest son? When Mother refused to answer either question, the witch ordered Jarred hanged, and then Histel and Vaguath after him, when Mother still refused to speak.

  Mikif remembered nothing beyond that, and died soon after she finished telling what she knew. She spent her last moments describing the size of the Blue Cloak war party, their uniforms, their weapons, the few names she could remember. Twenty soldiers had ridden into the farmyard. None of them were from the regular northern detachments, as best Kirith Kirin’s soldiers could tell. The Blue Cloaks had worn Drudaen’s crest, the black raven against storm clouds. He had sent the raiders himself.

  The Red Cloaks had ordered the dead burned and mounds raised over the places where their smoke went up. I need not picture carrion birds feasting. A hound had been found wandering about the farmyard, obviously a family pet. They had brought the beast to Arthen, to me.

  “Where is he?” I asked, hoping against hope; there were several dogs on our farm. Gaelex answered, “I’ve asked for it to be brought here. Do you have more questions?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you. Thank you all.”

  I found myself singing Kimri under my breath, as I had on the morning when I rode into Arthen, when the witch all but had me in her grasp. Uncle Sivisal heard me, and came to sit with me again.

  Gaelex returned to say the dog was too big to bring into the tent. A sudden gladness possessed me. “Axfel!”

  In the yard I saw nothing at first, then the outlines of trees, then a huge blur leapt on me with its paws on my chest, and a wet tongue found my face. I embraced Axfel for all I was worth. In his damp, shaggy fur was the smell of my home; memory flooded me and I could not move. I was lost in the hills around our farm, Axfel dragging his tongue through the grass, Jarred running toward me with the news that a stranger in a red cloak had ridden into our farmyard.… I finished my crying there, quietly, and nobody bothered me till I was done. I dried my eyes and sat still on the ground for a long time. At last I asked, “Will they let me keep Axfel at the shrine tent, Gaelex? Do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know of a kyyvi who ever kept a dog before.”

  “Kirith Kirin has dogs.”

  “Most folks do,” Gaelex admitted. She frowned. “But they don’t live in the shrine tent. You can’t let a monster like this anywhere near the lamps.”

  “He wouldn’t have to come inside. He would live wherever I told him to live. Isn’t that right, Axfel?”

  The hound stared at Gaelex solemnly, and Gaelex contemplated him with equal fervor. She said, “I imagine you’ll be able to keep the dog with you.”

  Axfel quietly sat with me, and we watched the moons over the trees. Distant voices threw their echoes over us but no one found us. I was picturing horses riding in darkness, twenty followed by two. I was picturing my mother on her horse, lips pursed with secrets, the witch’s eyes on her. At fourteen I had no notion how I should feel. Now as I am writing, many years beyond fourteen, the image comes on me with fresh bitterness.

  3

  Later, in my cot, I dreamed I was lying in my father’s barn. A fire was burning and I could hear screaming outside. Through the open barn door I saw my father sprawled in the dirt, arm crooked over his head at an impossible angle, a hint of red in his mouth, a red gash in his shirt. Soldiers were shouting in the yard and some of them called my name.

  In the dream I had been lying in the same position for a long time and my legs were beginning to go to sleep. But I was afraid to move in case somebody should hear me. A lump in the pocket of my tunic was stabbing me in the breastbone. With the least motion possible I drew out the lump from my pocket, the necklace my mother had given me.

  The raven flying downward onto the curved talon of some larger bird. Silver chain dangling over yellow hay. I clutched it in my fist as a shadow fell across the doorway, a cloaked figure, hood drawn forward so that no face could be seen. A voice issued from the cloak, and the voice could have been man or woman. “I will be in his mind,” the voice said, “even if I never find him. I will be in his mind wherever he is. He will never be rid of the fear of me.”

  I woke at this point, huddled beneath the wool blanket with a cool breeze blowing through my window. My heart was racing from the dream, and in spite of myself I checked every corner of the room for the hooded figure, hearing the echo of the dream voice in my head. I did not have the nerve to investigate the shrine. After I had got my breath I retrieved the necklace from its hiding place, cutting open the seam of my mattress and drawing out the cloth pouch. I studied the locket in the moonlight. The silver gleamed in my palm.

  This was why he had taken my mother. This necklace. In my mind I could see her hand touching the necklace in the rune-box. She had been afraid when she opened it. Maybe she had guessed what might come.

  A jewel like that one would have been famous for leagues, would have made my mother a rich woman, as rich as my father’s farm could ever make her, and yet I had never heard of it, not even from Fysyyn. But according to my mother, the necklace had belonged to Fysyyn once, and Fysyyn had given it to her.

  Unnamable fear seized me. I heard the sentry walk by my window and nearly called out. But for what? What could I tell anyone, except that I had a bad dream, that I had seen my father lying in the dirt. I will be in his mind wherever he is.r />
  I closed my fist around the necklace. No, I thought, you will not. You do not have power over me.

  4

  Kirith Kirin woke me the next morning, his face hovering over me in dim light. I thought it was another dream, but when I opened my eyes he drew back, as if he wanted to escape without being seen. I sat up and he smiled. “I didn’t mean for you to wake up. I wanted to make sure you were resting.”

  “Is it close to dawn?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t sleep so I came to sit in the shrine.”

  A far away birdcall echoed in the night. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and leaned against the fabric wall. “Mordwen will be here soon, Kirith Kirin. He told me last night he was coming early to make sure I woke up in time.”

  He glanced warily at the door and listened for several heartbeats. From outside one could hear only the breathing of the guard. Kirith Kirin said, “I shouldn’t be here. Mordwen would skin me alive. I’ll go soon.”

  But he was not in any hurry. With him so close I felt tension seize me again, unfamiliar tautness restricting my chest. He asked how I had slept and I told him about my dream, the dark hooded figure, my father’s body lying in the dirt. The dream troubled him, and when I was finished telling it, he seemed more dispirited than before.

  Whether he would have said anything more, I can’t say.

  Mordwen Illythin walked into the chamber, frowning so darkly I wanted to crawl under the bed. Kirith Kirin flushed. Mordwen faced him. The Seer was so angry he trembled. “Have you forgotten yourself completely?”

  “I couldn’t sleep and I came to the shrine to think. I looked in on Jessex to make sure he was sleeping. He woke up. You don’t need to go on like this.”

  “What if someone were to find you here, or see you leaving? Have you no feeling for the boy?”

  Kirith Kirin blushed and closed his mouth, thinking better of whatever he had been about to say. “Be careful.” He sighed, heavily. He stood, turned toward the doorway, his face in shadow. “Good morning, Jessex.”

  “Good morning, Kirith Kirin.” My throat taut and aching. He walked out the door without looking back. He spoke to the guard and walked away. Mordwen stood by the window till his footfalls died to silence.

  He lifted the felva from its place inside the chest. He started to hand it to me and then hesitated, tucking the robe under his folded arms and sitting on the edge of the cot. “I ought not to help you break the rules for the ceremony, but since you’ve already spoken, and since you haven’t yet touched the felva, I want to say this much to you. Kirith Kirin is very lonely, Jessex. In spite of his friends, in spite of Kiril Karsten and Imral Ynuuvil, in spite of me and Pelathayn. You seem to have touched him deeply. I believe that’s a good thing. But you’re still a boy under our laws.”

  “I woke up and he was here. I didn’t do anything.” A sudden ache of loneliness filled me.

  He lay his hand on my brow. His touch was gentle. Words dissolved that he had planned to say. “You’ll have to cut the bath short, it’s close to sunrise. I won’t go with you today. From now on this is your quiet time.”

  I slipped the felva across my shoulders, finding my boots in the dim light. The clearing was silent as I headed through the underbrush, following the path to the creek.

  5

  Days passed. The shock of bad news eased, though a dull ache remained. The curious came each morning to see the boy the Seer had summoned to Arthen: child of a local witch, descendant of stewards, standing in place reserved for the daughters and sons of the gentry. I’m told my presence there caused unrest, but no one ever said so to my face.

  The word for blood hatred is “duruth” in High Speech, and this is what I swore against the Kyminax witch and all those in her house. My lessons in High Speech progressed each day, the language coming to me like something I had known once but forgotten. I suppose that’s only natural since Upcountry is a corruption of the Jisraegen original, but I was pleased to learn it effortlessly, to show Kraele I was no fool. She was a patient teacher, but always distant.

  Soon enough my private sorrow gave way to other concerns. In the world beyond Arthen, events were coming to a head.

  News from Cordyssa was worse than ever. Poor families from across the tax-impoverished Fenax were migrating to the city, living in the streets, begging for bread. Begging soon became rioting, as food grew scarce. The garrison of Queen’s soldiers in Fort Bremn had tried to enforce the peace but ended up killing several of the migrants. To make matters worse, royal couriers and a fleet of Ivyssan accountants had arrived with new tax edicts and orders for a complete audit of city and citizens in the spring.

  I know for a fact a messenger came to Arthen with a letter for Kirith Kirin from the City Nivra, Ren Vael. When the messenger arrived the Prince was on a hunting trip in the southern Woodland, Maugritaxa. The letter was urgent and the messenger rode on with an escort from camp.

  Kirith Kirin had gone hunting the day after Mordwen found him with me in the shrine tent. Imral Ynuuvil accompanied him along with a party of favored gentry. Nothing was ever said to me about this trip, and I was too naive to suspect that it had anything to do with me.

  I performed my duties in the shrine, worked at my lessons, trained with the youngest group of archers, beginning drill in the use of the crossbow. Each morning I rode suuren through the Woodland, returning to Mordwen to describe something for him, a forest glade, a scrap of cloud, a landmark, a beautiful tree. Sometimes he could add to what I saw, as he had when I found Hyvurgren Field. Other times he simply wrote what I told him, always staring at the words after he had written them. He was trying to make some pattern of them. The Praeven, the priests of Cunuduerum, had been able to find a rhythm in the suuren. But if there was a pattern, it escaped Mordwen.

  Only one other time during this interim did I deceive him by omitting something unusual. One morning a few days after Kirith Kirin had left camp, I let Nixva pick our path for us and he headed east toward the nearest arm of River where one of the old roads cut through the forest, easy to follow as if it had been freshly cleared. These roads have existed since early Jisraegen days, the encroachment of undergrowth being prevented by an old enchantment within the obelisks that will last as long as the stones do. The Praeven made the obelisks and over millennia gardened the Woodland to its present state, and in its design Arthen is still as they saw it, for that part of their work pleased YY-Mother. The fact that Nixva had brought us to the road led me to anticipate some worthwhile destination. Mordwen told me there were memorials and shrines hereabouts, some of them dating back to the millennia before the Jisraegen built cities or towns.

  I found no shrine or temple but I did happen across an old stone well, and at the well a tall, broad-shouldered woman was turning the crank to draw up a bucket of water for her cart-horse, which stood lazily chewing grass in a patch of sunlight by the roadside. She called a greeting to me in Jisraegen, and I replied that I did not know the language very well yet, though I could wish her a good-day in it. This made her laugh. “Maybe you speak this language then,” she said in Upcountry. “I think I hear the northern rhythm in your words. Are you a farm-boy, lost in the forest?”

  She stood as tall as Imral, with an angular face distinguished by heavy, dark brows, a well-formed, strong nose and a full, feminine mouth. She looked as if she might be my mother’s age, her black hair touched with gray, fine lines around her eyes. But her body was obviously vigorous and there was no heaviness in her movements as she cranked the water-filled bucket upward, hefting it over the low stone well and filling the rock trough. Her horse drank gratefully as the woman watched me. “Can’t you speak?”

  “Yes ma’am, I can. Excuse me, I was surprised. I didn’t expect to meet anybody out here. Are you from camp?”

  She hung the bucket on the rope again. “No, I’m from much farther away than that. From far beyond the mountains.”

  “I never heard of anybody from that far away. Are you on your way to camp?”


  “Why should I be?”

  “Because no one is supposed to live in Arthen unless Kirith Kirin allows it, and he only allows folks to live in camp. That’s what I thought.”

  She was picking a burr out of the mane of the cart horse, which lazily lashed its tail even though this was much too early in the year for flies. “Kirith Kirin would be glad to see me if he knew I were here, but he doesn’t know, and he won’t know, because you’re not going to tell him.”

  Her tone of voice was the same my mother used when she meant to be obeyed. I was not offended, but watched her more carefully. “I’m supposed to tell Mordwen Illythin what I see when I ride in the morning.”

  “Not everything you see. Mordwen knows that.”

  “Do you know him too?”

  “I know many of the people in your camp. I know Nixva. I know you too, Jessex son of Kinth.” She said this while she was checking her horse’s harness. “I know why you came to Woodland. I may even tell you someday.”

  “Tell me now.”