Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars)

by Jim Grimsley

  I lit a reyn lamp to watch the shrine through the night, not performing any ceremony since sunset was long past, simply bracketing the lamp and kneeling for a moment in the ghostly light. Before we headed to the common tent for supper, I stole a private moment to place the raven necklace in its proper hiding camouflage, stopped up inside one of the lids to the oil-jars behind a seal of wax. The lustrous chain fell into my hand, the polished gem gleaming in raven’s eye. For the first time I connected the image, the talon impaling the raven, with the name Yron. Claw of God. Holding it made my cold hand colder.

  As I finished placing the clay seal, Mordwen called. I thought he was ready to head for supper but when I found him, at the edge of the clearing pulling his hood around his face, he told me I would have to get supper on my own since he had just been summoned to Kirith Kirin’s tent for council. “Apparently things have heated up in Cordyssa by several notches since we broke camp in Tiisvarthen. The spies aren’t giving us very encouraging news either; Drudaen is marching east with an army but no one knows where or why.”

  “Ask if the spies have any news about my mother,” I said, adding “Please,” when I wondered if Mordwen found my asking him to be presumptuous. He said he would, after a moments’ reflection, and a torchbearer led him off.

  Finding the common tent on my own turned out to be no small task in the dark. This being our first day in the new campsite, the fireboats had not yet been set out along the paths, and by the time I had found my coat — worn to ward off the night chill of this new altitude — no torchbearers or torches remained to light my way to the main camp. I found a yard lantern in the shrine-tent workroom, oiled it and lit it, polishing the flue and the mirrored reflectors with the sleeve of my coat. With this lantern as my guide, I sauntered, whistling, through the thickets of fresh-smelling cedar and across the beds of wildflowers shining like stars in the lamplight.

  In the common tent one could feel the general weariness, the sense of relief that the journey was over and the day’s work done. Theduril found me in the cook line to tell me archery drill would begin the next afternoon when my compatriots and I would meet with other trainees to lay out the exercise fields. With some surprise I noted I was actually looking forward to the resumption of drill, and I asked Theduril when I could start working with the longbow as well as the crossbow. Fifteen was old enough, wasn’t it? He squeezed my arm muscle and said most archers started earlier than I had. I was left to wonder what that meant as he sauntered away.

  I waited for the sullen-faced cook to ladle gray gruel and beans onto my wooden plate, and found myself an empty space at a table. The beans weren’t nearly as bad as they looked, and the gruel was edible and quieted the belly. I chewed cornbread and felt content, listening to the hubbub of voices, watching the familiar faces under the swinging lamps, bright early-evening light. I lingered, letting the sounds, the smells, the pulse of that life soak me through, returning my own gladness to the general air as if the feeling could surround me like a visible aura.

  For once I did not feel conspicuous, nor did I hear my name mentioned by anyone as I passed. When I was done with the meal, the cook-tent orderly took my scraped dishes with a gap-toothed smile and said good evening, gesturing with a misshapen hand. I procured my usual pail of dinner scraps for Axfel and fetched him from the dog-handler. The big hound was glad to see me, nearly knocking me over in the process of the greeting. We returned to the shrine tent swinging my lantern, this time not whistling but singing, Corduban and the Ninety-Nine Wineskins. I made sure the shrine was in order, checking the oil in the reyn lamp and polishing one of the fixtures that had got smudged during the alignment. I fed Axfel, scratching his bony head and sat with him while he ate.

  When one lives in a place as public as a shrine, one gives up on any such illusion as privacy. I had gotten used to the sound of footsteps in the clearing, the hush of voices, maybe singing softly or chanting, gazing at the lamp-flame or praying in the side-rooms. Soldiers are a mystical, superstitious lot. That night the shrine heard more whispered words than usual, and counted more knees on its plush rugs; I thought it notable but not astonishing, and kept to myself in the back. The thought that any of the visitors would come looking for me never crossed my mind, and I was surprised to hear footsteps rounding the side of the tent, leather soles brushing dry faris needles, a subtle walk. I pulled Axfel’s big head close to my ribs and watched the flickering torch advance, light illuminating the silvered hand, the ground beneath the booted feet, a unicorn on a chain. Imral Ynuuvil found a bracket for his torch, an iron stake driven neatly into the ground at the customary distance from the back tent flap. He sat next to Axfel and scratched between his ears. “It’s peaceful here,” he said. “You can hear the brook so clearly. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

  “Does Kirith Kirin camp in this valley every year?”

  “No, not every year. That would be tedious. But we’ve been here before. Have you ever been this close to mountains?”

  “No. We never traveled much at home. My grandmother told me about giants that live in the mountains, and dragons, and other monsters.”

  “Giants lived in the peaks once,” Imral said, “but the Jisraegen drove them away after many wars. There are dragons in other places but there have never been any in Aeryn or Arthen that I know about. As for monsters, there are so many kinds it’s hard to say where they stop or start. I’ve seen what I would call monsters in the mountains, but they aren’t as frightening as you might think.”

  “The Orloc live in the mountains, don’t they?”

  “Yes, off in that direction. Beyond Drii in the Barrier Mountains.” He turned to me with warmth. “You may have guessed I didn’t just happen to come here tonight, Jessex.”

  “I thought not.”

  “We’ll be leaving again in the morning. Kirith Kirin wanted to speak to you himself but he couldn’t leave the gathering at his tent.”

  “You’re leaving? Why?”

  He lifted a fallen branch from the ground, breaking the needles to pieces between his fingers. “To meet the Cordyssans. Kirith Kirin doesn’t want them in camp when he hears their news. It appears there’s a lot of trouble in the north.”

  “I heard there were riots because the price of the bread was too high.”

  “That’s part of it. The real news is actually worse. One of the tax collectors was killed by a mob. The city is under martial law, and the garrison commander is attempting to rule the city himself without consulting Ren Vael. We’re afraid the whole place is going to revolt. Who knows? By now it may have happened already.”

  “Why do the Cordyssans want to meet with Kirith Kirin?”

  “For his advice.”

  “Wouldn’t the Queen be angry if she knew they were asking him for advice?”

  “Oh yes, very angry. But they’re willing to risk it.” He had demolished the dead faris branch. “Things are very bad, Jessex. Say nothing of what I’ve told you. But I’m afraid the city is risking war with the Queen. It’s no wonder they’re consulting Kirith Kirin.” He studied me for a moment. “I didn’t come here to tell you any of this, though there’s no reason you shouldn’t know. I came to tell you that Duterian brought some news of your mother.”

  “I hoped so,” I said, “but I was afraid to ask you.”

  “She’s been returned to Ivyssa and taken to Kmur, where the Queen is in residence.” He hesitated before continuing. “Apparently your mother is ill. We don’t know why she’s being moved now.”

  My heart sank. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

  “Duterian said she traveled in the company of doctors and a guard. He wasn’t able to find a way to question the doctors but he managed a look at the guard’s orders — he’s a very clever man, Duterian — and learned from those where she was headed.”

  I slumped against Axfel, feeling the thudding of his heart against my collarbone, picturing my mother traveling under armed guard, my poor mother flying from one part of the country to the other,
she who had thought it a grand journey to ride on my father’s cart to Dagorfast for seed. “She’s still a prisoner,” I said dumbly.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s probably a good thing for your mother to be out of Cunevadrim. The climate is much healthier on Kmur.”

  I hesitated a long time, a hard thought forming in my mind. I tried to tell whether Imral was lying or not by studying him, but he seemed the same as ever. Finally I asked, “Is my mother dead, Imral?”

  “No. Duterian saw her alive. She was sick, but not dying.”

  “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “Believe me, if she were dead and I knew it, I’d tell you. A friend wouldn’t hide something like that.”

  He was trying to tell me something besides the news. I looked him eye to eye and felt a flood of warmth for him. I reached round Axfel to embrace him. He laughed, asking, “What’s all this about?”

  I thought momentarily about all the things it was about and my throat filled so full of words it ached to much to speak. I shook my head, and finally said, “Nothing, Imral Ynuuvil. Mostly my mother and Kirith Kirin.”

  He said nothing to that. Presently he stirred. “I can’t stay. We’re riding within the hour. I’ll tell Kirith Kirin you took the news as well as usual.”

  “Tell him I wish him a good journey.” I felt a vague ache at the thought that he was leaving. “But the news won’t be good, will it? I mean from Cordyssa.”

  “No,” he said, “it won’t.”

  Chapter 8: SUVRIN SIRHE

  1

  I returned to Lake Illyn that first morning in Shadow Country while Kirith Kirin and the Jhinuuserret were hurrying away to meet the Cordyssans. Commyna met Nixva and me as we were rounding the lake’s eastern shore. I was full of news and breathless, blurting out everything I had heard in camp while she listened patiently. When I had finished, she said simply, “Now that you’ve told me what I already know, put those matters out of your mind. It’s just as well Kirith Kirin has left camp. Your training here will claim all your attention. To those in real time you’ll seem distracted, at the very least, for some weeks to come.”

  “You mean I won’t want any company?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean that from now on, time when you’re not here will pass like a dream. This state of mind is necessary.”

  She did not lead me to the broadloom where Vella was taking her turn weaving the magical fabric. Instead she sat with me beneath the spreading branches of a live oak and we talked. By now I was fairly proficient in Wyyvisar, and much of our conversation was conducted in that language, which is nearly impossible to render into normal speech. But essentially what she told me was as follows.

  I would be learning new disciplines, mainly regarding the mastery of the body. We began with a type of meditation that would teach me control of my thinking, both in my consciousness and in the parts of my mind of which I was not normally aware. Without this control I could advance no farther in the circles of power and would be useless to Yron when he came.

  My success in this part of the lake women’s instruction would determine whether or not I would be allowed to proceed, Commyna told me; and not merely because such mastery of thought is necessary to magic. Without such control one is not worthy to do magic at all, one cannot be trusted to move power except in the most elementary way.

  I have since heard from travelers that in the larger worlds, beyond Aeryn, what is called magic is nine parts illusion, and indeed in many places the idea of sorcery is held in contempt, relegated to the world of children’s stories, superstition and trickery. In Aeryn and Arthen this is not the case, since magicians have been powerful in our country since YY made the world:

  In the beginning the YY made darkness

  YY made light

  and in the place between light and darkness

  a world took form while YY sang

  a beautiful forest, and YY made three women to dwell in it

  sisters, for she was lonely

  YY made song and taught them

  singing

  in Words that called storm and shook the ground

  The hymn from which this passage is drawn is called “Luthmar” and contains the story of the first days of Arthen. It was not written by the YY-Sisters nor did Cunavastar set it down; no one really knows the author or authors, but the early Jisraegen recorded the legend when the High Speech alphabet was invented, in the years of the Forty Thousand. In the old days every child was taught “Luthmar.” The “Words” that are referred to are probably Wyyvisar, which was derived from Words used by YY in the making of Aeryn, the first world, and the model for all the rest.

  You will not find this part of the legend written down anywhere else, since it is my own speculation. At the time of my teaching at Illyn Water I had never heard or read Luthmar; the saga had long since fallen into obscurity. The truth concerning the making of Wyyvisar is known only to the Sisters and those to whom they have revealed it. Wyyvisar has ever since been the province of these Sisters, and hardly anyone who has learned it was not taught by them.

  But as I have said before, Wyyvisar is not the only language in which magic can be performed. Cunavastar, who was not allowed to share in the secret of Hidden Speech, derived a magical language of his own.

  Of the making of Cunavastar there are no legends, and his birth is remembered only as the first coming of opposition into Arthen. In the poem he is called the Son of Yruminax, the Other Power. References in other songs echo this saying, and he is called, among other things, “Prince of Blasphemies,” “Nemesis,” “Emptiness-Who-Walks,” “Cunctator,” “Lord of Nothing” “Vortice.” But of Yruminax his father we do not speak, nor have we retained any legends about him. Common folks are afraid even to say his name and refer to him as the Nameless, the One-Who-Is-Not. There is only one other reference to Yruminax in “Luthmar”:

  He was the husband of YY

  An empty face in the bright sky

  a prince of air

  whose true name is the unknown, whose face is emptiness

  whose life is hidden and unspeakable

  One day YY will consume him

  fire eating air

  He is the father of evil and weaklings are his food

  So ancient are the oldest texts of Luthmar that we do not know whether the reference to “father of evil” is also a reference to Cunavastar; portions of the text here are missing and no complete version of “Luthmar” survives.

  The Cunavastar of legend began his life with good acts, whatever the truth of his birth. It was he who invented the worship of YY. He built the Elder Shrines. Anger overcame him when the Diamysaar refused to teach him Wyyvisar. He comprehended much of their thought without any teaching, and finally began the long process of deriving Ildaruen, the Language of Other Power, which will be used to dismantle all the worlds that exist when the time comes. He taught the process of deriving Words to his son, Falamar, who later shared the secret with the Jisraegen priests, and came to regret it.

  Ildaruen is a powerful tongue, with the advantage that one may teach it. Those who make magic in Ildaruen outnumber those who make magic in Wyyvisar for that reason.

  The Sisters and I did not discuss what I had learned about them on Mount Diamysaar, except once when I tried to ask a question about it and Commyna cut me off — mildly, without her usual sarcasm — by saying, “Don’t worry about who we are, Jessex. Concentrate on the teaching and everything else will follow.”

  Indeed, the knowledge that these three gargantuan women were, or might be, the Diamysaar came too late to strike any permanent awe in me. They remained plainspoken and simple, easy in manner, as if I were their mutual child. When I was with them, whatever the circumstance (and these were often eerie), I never feared them.

  Commyna was right about the effect of the new disciplines I began to study. I learned that the mind has deep rivers of memory and sensation whose existence one never suspects. I learned that every moment of my life was stored in m
emory in perfect detail, that each memory could be recalled in its entirety, as if the past day itself were being recreated. This was not always pleasant; who would choose to relive the whole of his or her past without the ability to change it, witnessing anew its blemishes and scars? Who can look at the faces of the dead as if they were still living and not feel pain? I was young, but even in my brief life there were things I preferred to forget.

  I had no way of knowing how long these meditations lasted. For the most part, in such circumstances, time has no meaning, since the trained mind can alter time’s density, making a moment seem like a day, a week, a month. Compared to my hours at the Lake, the intervals when I returned to camp were shadowy and brief, and I walked the torch-lit paths to and from the common tent with the silence of a ghost. My mind was on my teaching, insofar as it was safe for me to think of this teaching away from Illyn Water.