Beyond The Gate - Book 2 of the Golden Queen Series

by David Farland

  Gallen stood in the wagon and shouted in a strange tongue, "Doordra hinim s Duur!"

  The three giants turned as one, raising their fists to the sky, and cried, "Doordra hinim!" Then they smiled, as if with renewed energy, and raced away.

  Fenorah chuckled. "Stand tall in Duur! Indeed. Where did you learn that old battle cry? The Im giants abandoned the ancient tongue centuries ago."

  Gallen took a seat, but his eyes flashed, and he looked up into Fenorah's face. "I learned it a few hours ago," he said softly. "From a man who has been dead for five hundred years. He served beside the Im giants, and with them he hunted Derrits in the mountains of Duur until he swore fealty to the Swallow, and for her slew the Rodim."

  Gallen fell silent and his eyes lost their focus as he gazed inward. It was a magical thing for Maggie to see him as a boy one day, then suddenly turning into an old man the next, with too much pain and too much wisdom in his eyes.

  Gallen began to sing, and though Maggie had heard him sing a few tavern songs, in the past she'd never thought him to have a fair voice. But now he sang in a voice that was both beautiful and startling, like the scent of a fresh rose filling a room in late autumn, and Maggie realized that it was a talent he'd learned from the Inhuman.

  "In Indallian, the peaceful land,

  among dark pines glowering,

  the hilts were hollowed by Inhuman hands

  in the days of the Swallow’s flowering. "

  "Hold," said Ceravanne from the back of the wagon, and she reached out and touched Gallen's hand, silencing him. "Please, Gallen, do not sing that song. It is long forgotten by those who dwell here, and . . . it hurts too much. Perhaps if it came from the voice of another bard—but not you. You remind me too much of Belorian."

  "He has been dead for many centuries," Gallen said. "I would have thought that time had brought you peace."

  "Not today," Ceravanne whispered. "The memories of him seem fresh today, and the pain still hot. Ifyou must tell your friends of IndalIian in its days of glory, I beg that you do not sing of it around me."

  "What's Indallian?" Orick asked.

  Gallen waved toward the wild hills before them, golden with fields of grass, green with forests. "All of this is the land of Indallian—from the rough coast to the ruined halls of Ophat beside the city of Nigangi, and beyond, even to the deserts south of Moree where the Tekkar dwell. Long ago Ceravanne ruled the empire from the great city of Indallian with her consort the good King Belorian, until the Accord fell. Even today if I judge right by Fenorah's account, their love is remembered as the stuff of legend."

  "It is spoken of," Fenorah said beside the wagon, "though I must confess that I have not heard that song. And the Land of Indallian is no more, while its capital is spoken of with dread."

  "Belorian was more than a consort," Ceravanne said as if to correct Gallen. "He was my lover, my husband in all but name—for by the laws of his people, we could not marry. Yet our love was fierce, before he died."

  "I do not understand," Orick said to Ceravanne. "Your people can bring the dead back to life. Why is he not beside you now?"

  "Because," Ceravanne said, "a man is more than his flesh. He is also his memories, his experiences, his dreams and ambitions. And shortly after Belorian died in battle, the crystals that stored his memories were destroyed, and that is a far truer and more permanent death than the sloughing off of the flesh. We could rebuild his body, but we cannot remake the man." She looked sharply at Gallen, as if to censure him for bringing up such a painful subject, then turned away.

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Gallen urged the travel beast forward with some strange words foreign to the human tongue. The beast responded as if Gallen had spoken in its own language, and it rushed through the hills.

  And as Maggie rode that day, she watched the land roll by. Often she would see ancient lichen-crusted stones tumbled in the grass as they passed some ruin, and twice they passed ancient fortresses that sprawled upon the hills, covered with moss, with oaks growing in the courtyard, their branches reaching over the stone walls like great hands.

  As the day drew to its close, a brief squall blew over, and Fenorah, unwilling to risk that his travelbeast should injure itself by slipping in the mud, decided to set camp in an old fortress, in a great hall without doors or windows. So they brought the travel beast inside.

  The walls were made of huge stones, a meter thick, carved so that various grooves fit together. Maggie suspected that the stone might not deter the Inhuman's signal as well as a dozen feet of solid dirt, but she hoped it would serve nearly as well. She found the most secluded corner and directed Gallen to sit there and rest.

  Dried horse dung left by the mounts of previous travelers served as ample fuel to set a small fire, and Fenorah brought out stores for dinner. They had not had a formal meal since early morning, and everyone was tired, and the poor giant was most weary of all. He curled into a corner while Maggie cooked dinner, and he fell asleep before it was done.

  After a brief dinner Ceravanne withdrew from the group, going out a back hall that led to a tower. Outside, the rain was falling steadily, hissing as it struck the leaves of trees, and the heavy scent of moisture pervaded the room. It was chill and dreary.

  "That song you began to sing today," Orick said. "Will you sing it to us now?" And Maggie hoped that he would, for the sound of music would do her heart good.

  Gallen sang in a low voice the same time he had begun earlier in the day, and Maggie was amazed at his voice, at the easy grace and power in it, as if he'd been born to sing.

  He sang of Indallian, the riches and glory that made it the envy of all the world. He sang of the peaceful peoples drawn by the Swallow to form the great Accord, where each species had equal voices in the open counsels.

  But then the Rodim came, a greedy race lured by tales of the rich deposits of emeralds and gold found in Indallian, and they ravaged whole villages, looted and burned the caravanserais.

  The Swallow's love, Belorian, was a strong man, and he sought to protect his people by arming them. But the Swallow urged him to counsel with the Rodim peacefully, to reconcile with them, bring them into the Accord.

  Yet when Belorian met with the savage chieftains of the Rodim in their mountain camps, they slew him and put his body upon a pole, then danced through the night, proclaiming victory over the land of Indallian, and they sent their armies to Belorian's throne at the city of Indallian, where they heaped contempt upon the dead by destroying the crystal that held Belorian's memories.

  Ceravanne was there, in her tower, and she witnessed the abuses committed upon her people, and upon her lord. Then the Rodim's head chieftain ravished Ceravanne in Belorian's bedchamber.

  Because of the atrocities, the peaceful people of Indallian gathered together and slaughtered the armies of the Rodim without mercy, then fell upon the villages of their women without restraint and murdered their children, removing the Rodim from the face of the land.

  Many went to the Swallow, asking her to have mercy before the final slaughter of the Rodim, hoping to spare some remnant of the race.

  But Ceravanne turned away so that not one child remained.

  And when the Rodim were all dead, the Swallow put a single red rose upon the grave of Belorian, and another upon the grave of the chieftain of the Rodim, to signify that she forgave him and his people, though she had not spared them. Then she proclaimed a year of mourning for the Rodim who lay dead, and for those who were forced to kill them.

  None who beheld her could miss the horror on her face, nor deny her torment. And hours later the Swallow disappeared, and her crystal scepter was found in the mud of her courtyard. Many thought she had chosen to die rather than live without Belorian; while others imagined that she was so horrified by the genocide that was done in her behalf that she turned her back on mankind forever; but her friends swore that she would return when her grief had run its course, and so the legends said that someday she would come back to lead the A
ccord.

  "Four hundred and eighty years ago the Swallow left rich Indallian," Gallen intoned. "And still her heart knows no peace. Yet in songs and legends, people here remember the days of the Accord."

  Maggie looked toward the door that led to the tower, understanding why Ceravanne sought refuge in silence. Ceravanne had said earlier that her love, Belorian, was fresh on her mind, and Maggie felt the pain of knowing that she was surely losing Gallen to the Inhuman, just as Ceravanne had lost Belorian to the Rodim.

  Gallen lay beside Maggie and stared into the fire, unable to sleep for a long time. Sometimes, he thought he could hear snatches of whispers, and he saw brief visions, tatters of memories that belonged to other people. But the song of the Inhuman was weak tonight, possibly because of the storm. Even as this thought struck Gallen, he heard the distant rumble of thunder, confirming his suppositions.

  He got up quietly so as not to rouse Maggie, and he put some twigs on the fire.

  "How many lives you recall?" Tallea whispered, letting the sound of her voice fill the night.

  "Just the seven," Gallen answered. Then to fill up the silence that followed, he said, "I wonder how many more the Inhuman has in store for me."

  "A hundred lives to be remembered," Tallea said. "You fortunate, remember them slowly, over days. Should be easy."

  "Yes." Gallen smiled wanly. "I'm fortunate." A cold shiver of fright wriggled down his backbone. He went to his pack, dug around for a moment, then pulled out a thin film of translucent material and applied it to his face.

  His face suddenly shone like blue starlight as he put on the mask of Fale, and he stood for a moment, his black robes draped over him, weapons bristling on his back and thighs. He recalled how the witnesses at his trial back home had imagined he was a sidhe when thus garbed, a magical being with malevolent intent, and now Gallen could indeed feel it. With his face gleaming in the dark like a ghost, there was little human left in him. He looked like a thing.

  Gallen stood at the door, as if he would walk out into the night rain, and for a moment he wanted to do that, just walk away into the dark and the cleansing rain that was sweeping down in misty sheets.

  Instead he went to a back corridor of the great hall. The floors were thick with dust and moss, old leaves, and the husks of pine nuts carried in by squirrels.

  He stood for a moment, testing the air to see whether the Inhuman would try to send him more memories. But there was nothing. It seemed that for the time being, he was free.

  Using his mantle's night, vision, Gallen negotiated the passageways until he found some stairs curving up the wall of a tower. Muddy footprints showed that Ceravanne had been here recently, and though Gallen mistrusted her, he felt drawn to her.

  He climbed the winding stairs for twenty meters, till he found a room that opened at the top. There, several arching windows were still intact; weathered stones surrounded casements that had long ago rotted into dust. Ceravanne stood beside one such window. Ivy grew in dust on the floor, so that she stood as if in a meadow, surrounded by foliage, staring out into the rain. Her back was to him, and she shivered.

  Gallen went to her, stood for a moment. He could feel the heat of her body near his, and he inhaled her clean scent. He knew that it was only pheromones that drew him so vigorously, yet he found himself wishing to hold her, to comfort her.

  "I hoped you would come," she said, and she turned. With the light amplification provided by his mantle, he could see that she'd been crying, and she stared into his face, at the mask, and he wondered what she saw. A blue glowing phantom, with dark holes for eyes.

  She took his hands, held them lightly, and studied his face. She was breathing heavily, and she said, "That song—I have to ask-from whom did you learn it?"

  "From a minstrel named Tam, who lived here ages ago," Gallen answered.

  "But this man, did he remember me? He didn't know the Swallow in person?"

  "You were but newly gone when he composed the song," Gallen said.

  "And Belorian? Did he know Belorian?" Her voice was nearly hysterical, as if she hoped for some word of her long-dead lover.

  "No," Gallen whispered. "He never knew Belorian."

  Ceravanne gasped and began weeping, fell against Gallen's chest. "Ah, I thought he had. I thought you remembered his face." Then she sobbed from the core of her soul, and Gallen clumsily put his arms around her, tried to ease her pain.

  "So many tears, for one long dead," Gallen whispered.

  Ceravanne looked up, stroked his chin. "You look much like him," she said. "When we first met, I kissed you inappropriately. I guess I wanted you to love me. Being near you has been hard. Forgive me if I've offended you with my affection."

  Gallen licked his lips, stepped back. He'd been aware of Ceravanne, of her graceful movements, of the longing glances she sometimes gave him. He'd imagined that it was all a ploy, a sly attempt to manipulate him. And the Inhuman, with its clever tongue, whispered that this was true-another cruel attempt by the Tharrin to ensnare him. Gallen had never dreamed that Ceravanne could really have felt anything for him, and now he saw that he was but a shadow to her.

  "I'm sorry." He found himself unaccountably apologizing. "I didn't know."

  She looked at him oddly, as if wondering if he told the truth. "Of course you couldn't have known." She turned away. "What of Maggie? Have your feelings for her changed?"

  "Today, I learned of the most marvelous people, far to the south. The Yakrists, they are called, and they care for others more than they care for themselves. They love one another perfectly, and as I lived the life of a Yakrist, I came to understand how weak and imperfect my love for Maggie has been."

  "So your feelings for her are changed?" "I will try to be more . . . understanding of her needs," Gallen said. "Perhaps if I were Inhuman, I would love her more perfectly."

  Ceravanne nodded, obviously distraught, and Gallen realized that she had hoped he would answer differently, that he would say he was abandoning Maggie.

  "And you believe that by enslaving others, the Inhuman is showing that kind of great love?"

  "Ceravanne," Gallen whispered. "I think there is something you should know. The Inhuman is not completely wrong, here. It only wants us to understand one another, to help one another."

  There was a cruel laughing, something that Gallen could almost not imagine hearing from Ceravanne's throat. "Don't tell me that," she whispered fiercely. "I've seen what the dronon are up to. They care nothing for us, nothing for each other. They love only their Golden Queen, and they serve her ruthlessly."

  "And yet they want peace," Gallen said. "They want us to unite with them, and they're offering . . . so much in return."

  "What are they offering?"

  "Life. Rebirth," Gallen said. "They're going to open restrictions on giving rebirth to nonhumans. And anyone can be reborn into the body of their choice, experience life as they desire.

  "And peace!" Gallen continued. "In the past, the people of Babel have been slaughtered in ruthless wars, with everyone trying to conquer their neighbors. But among the hosts of the Inhuman, everyone will live fuller lives. I know what it is to be a Yakrist, and now that I know them, I could never harm one of them. That is what the Inhuman offers, a knowledge of our own brotherhood. And the Dronon will take care of the people of Babel."

  "Gallen," Ceravanne said, looking at him as if he were mad, and a knife of fear stabbed him, for Gallen wondered if he was mad. "The dronon don't care for us," she said reasonably. "You can't imagine that they do. When their own infants are sick or crippled, they grind them up to fertilize their fields. You're trying to make sense, but the dronon are using your own compassion against you. And it's damned unfair of them to ask you to be compassionate, when they lack that capacity themselves. They don't want to free us from our wars and infighting, they want to create nations of slaves with them as our masters. All of the technologies they offer to benefit mankind are technologies we've already developed. If they succeed in taking over, ju
st watch them. They'll give rebirth only to those who serve them best. And they want you to feel good about it."

  Gallen listened to her words carefully, tried to hold on to them, but somehow their meaning evaded him. I used to think like she does, Gallen realized. But when? It seemed to him that his fears of the dronon had stemmed from a dream—a long time ago. Something about Maggie, wearing a Guide, while trapped in a dronon fortress. But just at the moment, he couldn't recall. Instead, a more pressing argument came to mind. "You are no more human than a dronon is," Gallen said, brightening. "Why should you rule us?"

  "Because humans created me for that purpose," Ceravanne countered. "And I crave to serve them. But unlike the dronon, I never force my rule on anyone. If humans desire to elect a human leader, that is their option. But the dronon will not let you serve as equals. They will never accept human leaders."

  There was a long pause, and Gallen listened to her words but could not understand how any sane person could arrive at her conclusion. He finally managed, "The Dronon will accept us. Maggie and I, we are the leaders of the Sixth Swarm. We could take our rightful place, show them how to live together with us in harmony!"

  "But humans don't want to live with them!" Ceravanne said.

  "Agreed, most of them don't," Gallen whispered, and there was an unusual intensity in his voice. He felt almost as if his mouth moved of its own accord, and he merely listened to the words it said. "But what of the people of Babel? They are not humans. Can't you see how your policies afflict them? They have no sense of purpose, so few social bonds across tribes. They have no law, no access to technology. You created them, then abandoned them. They need what humans and the dronon have!"

  "Gallen, I was not formed to be a judge of the peoples of Babel. I can't take care of them, any more than the dronon could. I don't understand all of their needs, all of their hopes. I don't even force my judgments on humans.