Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars)

by Jim Grimsley

  5

  Vithilonyi is a drinking man’s holiday. When I got back to camp, the party had already started. I went down to main camp to find Uncle Sivisal, and he greeted me at his tent with a glass of Klyr wine. We went walking through the camp drinking and saying hello to people. It surprised me how many folks I knew — apprentices from archery drill, cooks from the common tent, members of the doctor’s staff, servants of the Nivri and Finru, the Nivri and Finru themselves; all of whom greeted us graciously. A spirit of the holiday returned to me for a few moments while we traveled through that noisy crowd. The wine settled my nerves, Uncle Sivisal had hardly watered it, and in the crowd I felt smaller, less significant, more hidden.

  Far ahead, I saw Kirith Kirin approaching, Imral with him. As if he could feel my eyes on him, Kirith Kirin looked across the crowd to me.

  A whiteness closed over his face. He had never shown me such a cold expression. He looked away. But the two were still approaching us, and soon they were close enough for voices to carry. Imral asked me cordially if I had a pleasant ride that morning. I said yes, my heart pounding. Imral greeted my uncle, who answered in a formal way. Through all this, Kirith Kirin remained silent.

  He was struggling. Whatever sign he was reading in what he had seen at Hyvurgren Field had misled him; he could not look me in the eye. Dread filled me and I wanted to run away. Uncle Sivisal had his hand on my shoulder. I swallowed wine and breathed deeply. Mordwen Illythin found us and instructed me to come with him for the suuren book; the holiday could not interfere with this task.

  Before we opened the book, Mordwen shared a cup of wine with me in his tent. I could hardly speak, feeling dull and empty inside. He asked me to tell him what suuren I had seen that morning, and I did. A white dove flying across a small pond. He wrote it carefully. I was feeling worse and worse. I asked if he would mind excusing me, I wanted to find Axfel and give him a run in the woods.

  I ran home to the shrine tent, ignoring Axfel, disdaining the shrine in favor of flinging myself face-down onto the cot.

  I lay shivering for a long time. Once I got up long enough to tie the flap to my room closed. After that I did not move, lying without thought for hours, breathing as the lake women had taught me. The shivering stopped and a species of relaxation came to me. Afternoon drew on into evening. Sounds of celebration penetrated from the camp occasionally, and once I heard someone’s voice calling for me in the outer shrine. I lay still and quiet, pretending sleep, and the bearer of the voice went away.

  I did actually sleep for a while. When I woke the taste of wine was stale in my mouth and Mordwen Illythin was bending over me, saying, “It’s nearly time for Kithilunen, you must wake up.”

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes. For a moment I could not remember what day it was or how I had gotten into bed. The sound of laughter and music penetrated from outside and I realized the festival was still going on.

  In the lamp room I washed my face in the water basin and went through the necessary preparations for the lighting of lamps for festival night. We would have all nine lamps burning, three of each kind, inside and outside the shrine. Mordwen helped me, running through the steps for the festival ceremony at the same time. I worked efficiently, letting nothing enter my thoughts but what was needed for the work at hand. Peace came to me as I worked.

  We were filling the last lamp when the sound of singing filled the air.

  On Vithilonyi, it is customary to carry torches to the shrine, lighting the torches in daylight and burning them long into evening. At home, when we went to Mikinoos for the Festival there, we each had our own torch to carry. At the shrine that night more lanterns and torches burned than I had ever seen before, in the clearing and in the forest beyond, hundreds of them, flickering light on every side. A feeling of magic possessed me as I set out the lamps and awaited the dimming of the stone. The six I lit when the sun went down joined the three lamps that had burned through the whole day. Standing beside the last lamp, gazing out into the clearing where so many faces were watching reverently, I sang the Evening Song and “Light in the Darkness.” I sang for Commyna, letting my voice rise to fullness, hoping the sound would reach her. It did not seem safe to sing for anyone else just then.

  Kirith Kirin was there. He stood close to the altar, and I passed him each time I brought out a lamp. Even his posture was cold.

  When the song was done I hurried behind the altar, pulling on my coat and slipping out the back of the tent quickly, before anyone could find me. I waited near the brook where I bathed each morning, Axfel beside me kissing my fingers with his cold muzzle. I heard a fair voice call my name once, but I refused to answer. I stood quietly beside the creek till I was certain I heard no other sounds from the tent above. Axfel walked me back up the path.

  Gaelex was waiting for me. While I was untying the flap she slipped out from the shadow that had concealed her, saying nothing, watching my hands on the leather thong. “Hello, Gaelex.”

  Her smile was slightly ironic. “Where have you been?”

  “By the creek. Watching the darkness.”

  “On festival day? You should be with people.”

  “I was happy without them,” I said.

  “You’re expected at Kirith Kirin’s feast table. We were afraid no one had told you. I’ve brought you a fresh tunic —”

  “I like the one I’m wearing, Why do I have to go to a feast?”

  “It’s festival day,” she said. “You’re kyyvi in Kirith Kirin’s shrine.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Her face hardened some. “Put on the tunic and come with me, Jessex.”

  This was a command and I obeyed. I found tunic on my bed, blue velvet, decorated with a line of gold embroidery around the collar, a pattern of circled chain links, with a sleeved coat that matched it, the most beautiful garment I had ever seen. “What you’re wearing is not rich enough for the Vithilonyi feast,” Gaelex said, from outside.

  When I was dressed she walked me to camp, where everyone in the world had put on festival colors. The big eating tables had been set up under a broad tent made of colored streamers draped over tree branches. Kirith Kirin’s engineers had built a stone hearth inside the tent and a big fire roared there, warming pots of spiced wines and other drinks. The center tables were bowed down with food and cooks were wandering from table to table, flushed from their efforts, admiring their handiwork for a last moment.

  I ended up in a seat between the southern Countess Duvettre and Lady Brun, also one of the Anynae, with Lady Karsten a few seats down on the table’s opposite side. Uncle Sivisal even had a seat at the Prince’s table, since he was my kinsman; he was near red-haired Pel Pelathayn, both of them red-faced from wine.

  When I turned, Kirith Kirin was watching me from his seat at the far end of the table. I met his eyes, and again the whiteness washed over him. He nodded coldly and returned to his conversation with Lord Cothryn beside him, the kinsman of Ren Vael who lived in camp.

  I actually enjoyed the feast because of Lady Brun’s company, and also the Countess’s, though to a lesser degree. Neither of them condescended to me or treated me like a child; the rules of adulthood can be relaxed when an adult deigns to do so. It is always odd to speak to southerners because one must pitch the voice to what they can hear, so that one can always tell that there are Anynae in a crowd by the sound of the speech. Brun and Duvettre were ladies of Finru Houses who spoke the lower modes of Jisraegen fairly well, and they were obviously curious about me, having heard the requisite rumors, including the now-famous story of my not-quite-normal illness and the manner by which it had been cured. Lady Brun knew a lot about witches and magic. She was a quiet woman with a long nose and thin lips, an air of reserve, even of shyness. She talked about local witches in the south country and told tales of their efforts to survive under Drudaen’s rule. She made life in the south sound very bleak.

  Householders moved quietly around us pouring wine and setting down plates of food. Musicians had set up in f
ront of the hearth and were playing their instruments, the lyre and guitar blending, the various percussion instruments beginning to compel rhythm. Many traditional songs were sung, among them a portion of “Last Days,” the melody being even more beautiful than I had imagined. The singer was a Venladrii whom I did not know. Trysvyn was with the musicians also, but she was not singing yet.

  Jugglers performed, and later a troupe of tumblers did some routines, standing on each others’ shoulders and the like. All these folks were professional entertainers, one could see their polish, though I wondered how they got into Arthen. After we had eaten there was wrestling as well, some professionals as well as some people from camp. We drank after-dinner brandy and wandered around under the colorful pavilion while the householders cleared away the tables.

  The party was merry and showed every sign of lasting long into the night, in spite of the work there would be tomorrow when we were to strike camp. I found Gaelex talking to Lady Karsten and asked leave to return to the shrine tent. She said I could go.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Karsten said.

  I was surprised by the offer. But she turned to look at Kirith Kirin, who was nearby and I did, too, and found him watching me. Cold and hard. Karsten touched my shoulder to turn me away.

  We walked along the familiar paths. We each had a torch. The fire registered on many levels of my awareness; fire is a good conductor of power, and for that reason many witches never do more than fire-magic. But I had to keep that part of myself locked away, in this world, for now. I breathed the pungent smoke.

  Axfel met us on the way to the shrine, shoving his wet nose into my hands. Karsten knelt to scratch his shaggy head. He readily accepted her attentions. When the big hound had received enough petting he led us to the shrine clearing, full of light, the lamps burning from the nine points of the altar. The varicolored light flowed from the shining viis cloth, shifting everything from dream-tone to dream-tone.

  “This is a peaceful place,” she said, sighing.

  “Come away from the lamp-stand, Axfel,” I called.

  She watched me for a long time. There was some look in her eyes I had never seen before, and I wondered if he had said something to her. Finally I moved away from her, saying good-night departing into the tent. Axfel stayed beside her, thumping the ground with his tail.

  I did not wonder, though I should have, what she saw in me to draw her affection to the surface. It seemed natural to me at the time. But I was not remembering how old she was, how long she had lived. It was a remarkable gift she was giving, to pay any attention at all.

  I felt very heavy and sad inside the shrine. Sounds from camp drifted through the clearing, mostly music and laughter. No one came to pray while I was at the altar, sitting quietly in the slanted lamplight. I was trying to recall the look of that overwhelming light I had seen at Illyn Water, radiant whiteness filling my eyes and my mind, eliminating every thought, every pain.

  The recollection returned to me enough that I could rest. I lay in my cot feeling the renewal of the world in me, the rhythm of change that is like the rhythm of breathing, endless, sometimes catching one unawares. I slept well. No dreams. Rivers of hidden Words flowed through me, the murmuring of magic in my rest.

  6

  In the morning when ceremony was over, the whole army of Woodsfolk set about striking camp for the move to Suvrin Sirhe.

  I had expected noise and confusion and certainly got the first in good measure; camp folks tended to sing or swear or both when doing this heavy, tedious work. But there was no confusion. The process of striking camp proceeded in an orderly way, from my own packing away of the shrine implements, under Mordwen’s direction, to the massive tearing down of the cook tents, the common tent, and the merchant’s pavilions. Gaelex and her marshals were everywhere.

  Mordwen instructed me patiently the way to pack the shrine, and together we capped the oil urns with hot wax and laid them in beds of straw inside crates. The Jisraegen, having been a nomadic people through much of our history, have long incorporated portability into the design of most objects. Every piece of furniture broke down into small, flat components, except the wooden chest in which my tunics (including the two fine ones I had been given) would travel to our new campsite. By midmorning the fragile parts of the shrine had been disassembled and packed into velvet-lined boxes, and the tent itself, now empty, was shimmering and collapsing as householders released the supporting ropes and braces.

  I had kept out my traveling pack, filling a water flask at the creek. I got a ration of food as well; Mordwen warned me sometimes Kirith Kirin rode ahead of the main column and might ask that I travel with his party. This surprised me, given his coldness toward me, but I risked no questions.

  When the viis cloth was folded and slipped into its waterproof leather cover, we followed the cart carrying the whole load into camp. We stopped by the cook line to get the bread and cheese they were handing out for lunch. Even as we arrived the cooks were packing the last of the provisions onto wide-wheeled carts. Within a few moments we were ready to ride.

  We followed a set path, Lady Karsten leading the column, Kirith Kirin out of sight. Prince Imral was with the Lady, and I spied Pelathayn soon after I saw them. Pelathayn was riding with the pike cavalry, his red hair and beard bristling in the morning light.

  Thruil saw us coming and fetched Nixva and Mordwen’s horse, Kyvixa, Nixva’s full sister.

  Mounted on the coal black horse, I felt my first real peace of the day, the vibration of Nixva’s familiar strength. Commyna had said to trust him, that he would find a way to bring me to Illyn Water, and the promise of reaching the lake shore was sweet to me that morning. Mordwen and I took our place in the column, near the shrine wagon. Again I wondered where Kirith Kirin had gone. But soon anticipation of the coming journey swept even that thought from my mind. We who were mounted rode forward, on signal given by Gaelex at Lady Karsten’s command. In a short time shimmering leaves obscured the hillside and valley where we had camped and I was launched forward into yet another new country.

  7

  The lake women kept to their word. Early in the afternoon, when the mounted column was climbing a rise of land ahead of the cart train, I rounded a curve in the road and Nixva plunged into a dark grove of shrubbery and saplings. I felt a dizzy queasiness inside me, and when I looked up from Nixva’s mane the lake shimmered blue in the distance. I said a Word to ease my passage now that it was safe to do so, and took that first curious relieved breath out of real time.

  Vissyn had ridden from the duraelaryn to greet me, I could see her coming from a long way off. She was dressed in simple clothes, brown linens and light-woven wool, a filmy rose-colored scarf in her hair, the color of the sky at sunset. She greeted me with a broad smile and said, “Well, we got you here as we promised.”

  “It was a pretty piece of work,” I said. “Lucky you have Nixva on your side.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” she said, leaning over to scratch Nixva’s nose. “Horses have fates too. You are his.” She looked up at me, changing her tone. “Was your festival-day pleasant?”

  I had some work to do, hiding my confusion from her skillful eyes, but I managed to say, “Oh yes, very nice,” in an even tone, with some hope she would not detect the lie.

  We never talked much about camp and she didn’t pursue the subject that day. We exchanged more courtesies as we rode along the lake shore to the duraelaryn where the cart, horses and loom stood in the golden grass. Vella was working the loom today, singing into the thread and watching the fabric with all her attention, the new cloth shimmering with every imaginable color. Commyna, pedaling the spinning wheel and pulling thread, greeted us with a curt nod when we dismounted close-by.

  Commyna noticed the unaccustomed saddle and pack on Nixva and stated that we must have gotten camp moved without much trouble. “Not that I’m surprised. From what I hear, Kirith Kirin didn’t even stay to the end.”

  “No. He left before the colum
n. I don’t know who went with him.”

  “No one went with him,” Vella said from the loom. “Except the Keikin. You can never get any information from that horse, either; I’d as soon ask questions of a boulder on a mountainside.”

  “Was he angry with you?” Commyna asked.

  “He wouldn’t talk to me at all.”

  “This is what I was told,” Commyna said, though she did not say by whom; nodding vigorously. “Very surprising.”

  By now I knew better than to expose myself by asking questions. The lake women gave information when it pleased them, and not before; they were generous to a fault with rebukes, however. Vissyn settled down to work at the second wheel, and none of them spoke for a long time. They appeared to be staring at the ground, but I had learned enough to know that they were doing magic, something they called “in-singing”, belonging to a higher level of application than I had yet attained. Vella, from the loom, said, “The boy means more to him than I would have guessed.”

  Vissyn, pedaling the wheel, sang a few notes of music. “He has cared for you, Jessex. Perhaps more than he should. But now he knows you are our pupil.”