by Jim Grimsley
I climbed toward the fresh rain and wind. Light flickered on the High Place. Above, clouds rolled and massed, lashing rain in increasing density as if the hand that guided the storm were determined to dash out the watchfires and torches burning far below.
But a squadron of infantry could have drilled on the summit with plenty of room to spare. From the stairs to the Eyestone glimmering beneath sheets of rain was a long way. The light within the Stone was no longer steady, but flickered like a lamp wick in its last moments, by which I knew Drudaen was in the stone. He could use it to a degree because he controlled all the other Towers. He had been in the stone for a long time, to that extent.
I smoothed the Fimbrel Cloak in my hands, remembering. The torch would be no good to me any longer and so I extinguished it, laying the smoking brand on the step where the rain kissed it cool. The white stone shimmered on the High Place, shadows swimming beneath its milky surface.
When I called to the Stone in Hidden Words, my enemy heard me, too. “Rock of Ellebren,” I called, “I have come to take you. I am Yron who climbed your Winding Stair and gave your Song to you.”
The light increased. A new kind of darkness descended, a blast of ice engulfed me. My body, from which I had distanced myself, grew numb and heavy. I could feel the Wizard’s hand on my heart, his far-off strength increasing. I was dismayed and sank to the steps, fighting to breathe. My heart labored. The song had momentarily left my mind, and I felt myself, for an instant, perfectly within the Wizard’s power, while he laughed and stretched out his hand.
A dull pain filled my chest and I could no longer see.
But with fear came clarity.
Until I was the master of the High Place I could not hope to defend myself against him.
Unclasping my Cloak, I held it aloft like a banner and let the wind fill it, the fabric unfurling. Lightning shot through the threads, crackling and spitting, and veins of fire pulsed in the air around it, growing, arcing to the Horns. The hand on my heart closed tighter, pain, and I sank completely to the stairway. But the cloak still hung in the wind, weightless, throwing off light and shadow, filling more of the High Place each second, till it covered the Rock and the altars around it.
My enemy was dismayed, thinking I had defied his magic. He kept his hand in me, but the moment of hesitation was enough to give me room to work.
I set foot on the Rune Pavement, saying, “I have climbed the Winding Stair and said the Words of your Ruling Song. Protect me from my enemy and I will dance your dance for you.”
In the stormy darkness, the flickering of the Eyestone lessened, and the light increased. Above, as if in anger, the ripping wind renewed itself, and rain fell in torrents.
I clasped the Cloak and moved slowly forward, my strength returning, the weight of the hand lifting from my heart and my breath coming more easily. Drudaen’s laughter died away, though I could sense him, waiting.
With each step toward the Rock, I diminished his command of the Height, my control over the Tower increased.
One masters the shenesoeniis from the fourth circle of power. Taking a deep breath, I knelt before the Stone, letting the Fimbrel-Cloak fall across the smooth white surface. I had never seen an Eyestone before and studied this one, a sphere of purified muuren suspended in the pavement, supported from beneath by the metal framework I had seen in the Work Room, here encircled with a band of runes and another of Hidden Words that said, “Man, when you come here do not be deceived; Woman, you stand before Ellesotur, whose power is derived from deep places, whose crown is in the clouds; one who fails the Dance will be utterly cast down and lost to all the Circles and to the Wise.”
To be cast down is to die, consumed either by the shenesoeniis itself or by the power of one’s enemy. Such a one cannot pass through Tornimul, cannot be reborn in Hero’s Home. With this in mind, I began the Long Dance of Encirclement.
In the dance the celebrant follows the Rune Path that spirals from the Stone to the perimeter of the Tower. This was a pattern-dance into spin, like many I had practiced at Illyn, but with the added difficulty that the celebrant does not know what movements are required until she or he begins to trace the Path. One is being tested to make certain that one without skill does not become attuned to the shenesoeniis; one is also aligning the Eyestone and other tower-devices to oneself. Once begun, the dance cannot be ended prematurely except by dying in the middle of it.
I stood above the glowing stone, letting the name “Ellesotur” roll on my tongue. I said the Words that are used to open the spiral. Gathering the cloak in my fists, I regulated my breathing into the dual meditation and sent my consciousness far from the world of the High Place and the Wizard’s storm. Turning from the Stone that blazed like the sun, I saw the Rune Path lit before me, containing its beginning in its end. My body was no longer my body. If there was any rain falling, I did not feel it. I trod the Path that only I have trod; though I did not know this at the time. When it was finished, I looked beyond the edge of the Tower into the gulf that lies beyond Ellebren in that sphere. The power of the shenesoeniis awakened and was mine.
4
At once and for many hours my awareness went out from the Tower, through a false dawn into a wakeless day. I could see a long way. I could feel the movements of my companions in Inniscaudra far beneath me, wakening other, older powers within the sprawling stone mansion. In Arthen I could feel the movements of the living, the scouts of Drii afield in the east, the murmuring of trees in elder groves, the lapping of River as it swelled beyond its banks in the driving rain. In the south, in Vyddn country, the encampment of Drudaen and his armies was visible as a whirlpool of shimmering stuff, the center of a summoning of immense power, and all his southern strongholds were like torches burning. He was aware of me and of what I had accomplished. This was a day that had been foretold in the writings he had read of the Prophet Curaeth, and among other meanings it had, it meant his days of waiting were ended. His power need no longer be quiescent.
He stretched out his hand, and even though he was without High Place on which to stand, such was his strength that a shadow of his making fell across the southern land from Amre to Westernmost Karns, north to Genfynnel, boiling over Arthen and reaching in tendrils across the Fenax. The darkness fell as far east as Drii, Pelponitur and the Orloc mountains. Beneath the boiling clouds, forks of lightning fell in waves.
From this distance I could not fight him, not when he had prepared for this moment so long. But I could not sit still, either. I had taken the Tower, I wore the Cloak. To answer Drudaen, to counter his strength, there was only me. For now and for the years to come.
So I did answer him, simply, without artifice. I stood near Ellesotur and sang, a simple song, but one that reached clear south to where he stood in his pavilion raising his gloved hand with the rings that ruled all his Towers on them. I sang, “I am Yron who killed Julassa, whose coming has been foretold; this is Arthen, and no shadow will fall here. Let the Wizard come who can cast me down while I am Yron and this is Arthen, while I am standing in my Tower Ellebren and am Yron Named of She-Who-Names. Let the Wizard come.”
This was my declaration and I sang it. I had not planned the words but they were present, deeply felt, and the Tower was moving in me as if we were one thing, the runes of the kirilidur mine to use, any part of that magic mine, I could feel it through me like a liquid fire. When I was done with the song the whole landscape of storm and darkness shuddered. The light of Ellesotur flared out like a new star, the silver miiren horns bursting into lances of colored fire. Deep within the Tower awoke its hidden devices. My song was heard in Ivyssa beneath Karomast, in the Genfynnel market beneath Laeredon, on the heights of Cunevadrim, echoing on the slopes of Aerfax. Drudaen heard me in his pavilion. Presently, because he could not cast me down and would lose much by opposing me at such a distance, he withdrew his hand from the north. Much suffering was spared that land. But over the south his shadow remained.
Chapter 14: KEHAN KEHAN
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nbsp; 1
That night the light of the Tower was seen as far south as Genfynnel and as far north as Cordyssa, where the town folk thought the eerie glow heralded the end of the world. King Evynar Ydhiil in Drii saw the light from the rain-drenched terrace adjoining his bedchamber as he was retiring for the evening; he rose from his couch, pulled on a robe and watched all night, as Imral told me. Unlike the Cordyssans, King Evynar had seen light like that before and knew what it was. He saw the shadow also, advancing first and then retreating. He was not surprised, having taken warning from the visit of the Sisters. What he did not know for certain he could guess.
When morning came, overcast with purple haze and tenebrous drizzle, he could see that the shadow had been contained and even pushed back by the light over Inniscaudra. He could also see, eastward over Cundruen, another place where the shadow could not hold, where another light shone upward into the darkness. He did not need to guess where this light came from. Eastward, at the end of Cundruen, lay Montajhena.
What power stirred in those ruins he did not know. But he guessed Kirith Kirin would need to be told of this as soon as possible. Kirith Kirin’s messengers had not yet reached him with news of the opening of Inniscaudra, but Evynar needed no telling after he saw the Ellebren lights. He sent fleet-footed scouts westward along the Arthen roads to Illaeryn, carrying word of his own support and news of the ghost-light in Montajhena. He summoned his ministers to war council, for he feared the shadow would not remain quiet for long.
2
Lord Ren Vael was waked by the shouts of his own householders when the strange light on the southern horizon began to burn like a fallen sun. He had barely pulled on his robe and stepped into his fore-chamber before he heard the first echoed cries from the city’s lower quarters.
He saw the light from the roof-walk of his house and knew what it was. Having heard tales of the final battle before Gnemorra — he had been with squadrons securing the Anrex Valley — he was not surprised. Shadow rose up and storms swept across the Fenax out of nowhere, and Ren Vael understood. A chill made him shiver. He folded his robe over his head to keep off the rain. He was a balding man with a sad face and that night he did not so much look like one of the long-lived. Calling in his steward, he summoned the city gentry and burghers and they kept vigil with one another through the long night. At morning, when it became clear that the light in Ellebren had prevailed against the shadow, Ren Vael and his companions set about convincing the rest of Cordyssa the end of time had not yet come. This story is included in a letter Lord Vael wrote to his lover at the time, whom he had sent to one of his estates for protection during the unrest in Cordyssa.
3
Gaelex, on the march toward Illaeryn, saw the Tower radiance as a blue corona beyond Shag Arth, beneath which the soldiers marching from Nevyssan were encamped. The light was bright enough she could review her map by it, pacing back and forth in her tent, rubbing the bump in her hooked nose. I heard this story from her later, when we were riding south; I added the part about her nose, but she was always doing it. She sent word to the sentries to keep a sharp eye but not to worry about the light. The heavens opened up and the rain fell in torrents, swelling the streams that poured down Shag Arth. Gaelex had the trumpeter sound quarters and gave orders for camp to be moved to higher ground.
The sun rose in the morning but its watery light fell through haze. The soldiers struck camp having slept little more than half the night. As the march was beginning Gaelex got word that Amri, the Venladrii girl, the new kyyvi, had wandered off during the rain and spent the night among moonflower. The child was feverish, talking in her sleep. Gaelex gave the order for the march to begin and rode back along the column till she found the physician’s wagon in which the child was riding. The whole violet day the soldiers marched through dregs of storm and tatters of shadow, Amri feverish, talking to herself, Gaelex riding beside her. They encamped that night at Karmunir Gate, the light of Ellesotur silhouetting the somber stone guardians of the High Country.
4
Sivisal lay folded in sleep in Fort Gnemorra’s barracks when the sentries first sounded quarters. He hurriedly drew on tunics and light armor, moving instinctively in the darkness. Outside soldiers were forming up in ranks, everyone gazing at the southern sky.
At first Sivisal thought it was a storm, but he had never seen its like either for lightning or lack of thunder. Cartwheels of radiance danced and glittered, first white as stars and then ruby red, emerald green, turquoise, golden, burning like fire; yet not a sound could be heard. Then, beyond the light, as if a gulf were opening, the stars began to go away.
The stars of our sky are changeable but they do not vanish. He felt cold in his stomach and numb all over, and a picture flashed in his mind, the shadow surrounding him as darkening mist and dissolving him as if he were starlight. Grown soldiers were calling out in fear, nobles and commoners, women and men, and Sivisal could hear the horses crying on the line.
A voice called out from the darkness, harsh and deep. “Curse you all for fools,” the voice said, “don’t you know what that light is? Did your mothers and fathers never tell you stories? That isn’t an enemy, that’s a friend. That’s your nephew, Sivisal. That’s the weyr light from the Tower over YYmoc, and it means the Witch Boy who killed the Karns has taken his place against the other one.”
The words sent a shiver over Sivisal, and he turned to see Cuthru son of None gazing at him in amusement from across a watch fire.
He wrote me this in a letter. Not long afterward his detachment of cavalry, commanded by Theduril son of Vinisoth, was ordered back to Arthen. But Sivisal knew of no such orders that night, and wrote me by the first fractured daylight, recalling how he had carried me into Arthen from his sister’s farmhouse; and now I was walking in the clouds.
5
Queen Athryn Ardfalla saw no light but heard my voice issuing from Karomast; all Ivyssa heard that sound, when I said I would defend Arthen against him. She saw the shadow also. I have read a letter she wrote to her companion, Sylvis Mnemorel, Lady of Durme and Amre: “I’ve heard the new one speak and now Drudaen is answering. Even as I sit here the blackness has swept across Anyn and Kmur. I can’t see the stars. You’ll be wondering, in Novris, whether I’ve at last lost my mind entirely, to allow such a blast across my own country. You will have seen the Diamysaar, as I did. The day has come at last. I can feel the cold in the pit of my belly. Now I have to live with what I’ve done. Don’t come to Ivyssa for a while, my dearest. I’ll be returning to Kmur in the morning, if there is a morning. We’re not very much loved here.”
6
Kirith Kirin studied the lights over Ellebren from his own apartments in Evaedren, the Tower of the Twelve. He and the other twice-named crept there after the mortal lords fell asleep, dead-tired after the long day’s ride. Riding in ithikan is a drain on anyone’s strength; the mortals slept through all that followed, deep into the hollow morning.
The twice-named watched from a balcony as the windows of Ellebren ignited one by one, the burning of roch fire spiraling toward the silver-crowned summit. Kirith Kirin was too impatient to sit and paced the corridors, finally taking his leave of the rest, despite their protests. He found his way down Falkrigul to the Estobren Arches, where he sat down to wait. I found him sleeping on the dry stone hours later when I descended.
I was glittering from my walk on the High Place, charged with vision and smelling of strong storm winds. I knelt by him, wrapped my hand round his shoulder, touched his face with my fingertips. When he was awake and knew it was me, he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes like a child.
The storm was breaking up, white light beyond rolling dun-colored clouds. While rain could not reach us, a light rain peppered the rest of the world, sheeting round the arches in a curtain, the last collapse of the storm’s heart. We watched the rain fall and the clouds roll. This was late afternoon, the finish of an ashen day in the fringe of shadow.
My mind was in many places: on the Height, in t
he Eyestone, within the Tower and the House, in the air over Arthen and watching the darkening south. But one has a lot of mind one does not use. It was easy to be mostly there, with Kirith Kirin, gently pleased by his warmth. Finally he said, “So, do you think we’ve started something?”
“Oh yes. We’re all going to have a pretty bad time of it, I expect.”
He laughed softly. “Yes, I know. Why does that strike me as funny at this particular moment?”
“You like storms.”
He sighed, a deep sound like the release of a weight. “At least it’s started, there’s no more waiting. At least we’re here. For once without any prying eyes.”
“In this particular spot,” I said, listening to the Arches, “no prying eyes will ever see you and me if that will make you happy, Kirith Kirin.”
“It makes me happy now.”
The clouds broke up, a cold, dry wind sweeping down from the mountains to force the shadow south, lifting the amber clouds in tatters as the rain thinned. By sundown the clear sky shone through. The sunset was colored in violent reds and burning golds. We sat into the deep twilight, the shadows of watchfires flickering across our faces. I lay down with him as I had done in his tent the night I thought I was leaving Arthen forever. The warmth of his body was sweet. We held each other quietly in the wind. On high, the summit of Ellebren shimmered like a ghost hand in the clouds.