Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “Wherever. Until we sleep and wake again, I’m yours. Until then, I’m yours.”

  There is no mockery in that statement, no warning bells to accompany it.

  “All mine? Without reservations?”

  “All yours. Perhaps a reservation or two, though not likely to be the ones you’d normally get to.”

  Martel stops in midstride, looks the golden-haired woman straight in the eyes. She meets his glance without blinking, the black depths of her pupils seeming a thousand kilos deep and a thousand years old.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Emily. Tonight. Tomorrow … who knows?” She laughs, and the laugh carries the sound of bells and hunting horns.

  “Emily … or Diana?”

  “There’s a saying about gift horses…”

  “Flame…” Martel turns and walks northward, vaguely conscious that the woman is matching him stride for stride. Her legs are longer than his, her steps effortless.

  At the North Pier he stops, wipes the sweat from his forehead. She stands there, smiling, cool, golden, as crisp as she appeared four kilos back down the Petrified Boardwalk.

  Martel chuckles.

  “You weren’t offering a choice, were you?” He pauses. “All right, I’ll take you up on it. Let’s drink, and be merry. At the top of the North Pier tower there’s a small restaurant … open all the time, and quiet … not that you don’t know that already.”

  They are the only ones there, besides the host, who seats them at the table on the seapoint of the Star Balcony. The chairs are dark leather that matches the old wood of the circular brassbound table. Both the railing and the overhanging beams lower the light level of perpetual day to that of twilight on another planet.

  The damper chill of the air is a relief to Martel, who refuses to use his powers to alter his metabolism, and who wonders how Emily remains so cool, unless she is indeed tapping the field. If she is, her action is at such a low level as to be unnoticeable. Martel pushes away the thought that brings.

  He tries to push away the other thoughts as well, but they do not stay pushed. No one can sneak up on him. No one! But she has. No one can keep up with him for four kilos. But she has, and without breaking a sweat. Diana, not Emily, has to be the right name.

  And she is familiar, but he doesn’t remember how, where, and he doesn’t want to think about that now, either.

  “What’s happening on Karnak, lady who knows everything?” As he finishes the question, he lifts the glass, just delivered by the unsmiling and dark-skinned host, swallows, and lets the cold Springfire ease down the back of his throat. He would prefer it from a jasolite beaker, but jasolite beakers and old Anglish decor apparently do not go together.

  “You’re right. They don’t,” responds Emily/Diana/????, “but then the old Anglish never would have created an open and paneled balcony above the sea, either.”

  “Karnak?” prompts Martel, consciously shielding his thoughts and taking another sip of the Springfire.

  “You can take the student out of Karnak, but not Karnak out of the student. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Karnak the soul of the Empire of Man … Karnak the Magnificent.” Her lips twist slightly as she finishes.

  Martel nods, looks away from the woman, all too conscious of the tanned body beneath the thin white chiton, of the fine-sculptured neck under the antique copper choker.

  The regular beat of the surf drops a level. Martel knows it will maintain the lower waves for several standard hours, unless a sudden storm comes up, or a flurry of so-called god waves.

  “Can you get there by candlelight?” he murmurs.

  “Yes, and back again.”

  He twitches.

  “I’ve studied you, Martel. Turned from your great ladylove Kryn, you did, to the words, to the dusty tapes of antiquity.”

  He pushes back his chair, puts both hands on the wide armrests.

  Emily raises a hand, and he feels a gentle force pushing him back into his seat.

  “You really are the bitch goddess. You really are.”

  “Did I say I wasn’t?” She smiles.

  Martel likes the smile, drinks it in, and doesn’t trust it.

  The candle on the table, dark green, square, winks out.

  Martel relights it with a thought, lets it burn, lets the flame flare, and squeezes it into a narrow column that flickers level with Emily’s golden eyes, and turns the flame black. He relaxes his hold, and the golden-green flame returns to normal.

  “Very impressive for a nongod.”

  “Flame tricks, dear bitch goddess. What’s happening on Karnak?”

  “You’re the newsie. Tell me.”

  “You’re the goddess. Tell me what’s behind the news.”

  “Either an old, old god or a new god, and the gods themselves don’t know.”

  “So the gods are only gods. Is that it?”

  Martel again turns the candle flame black, this time to stay … at least until snuffed and relit.

  “Why do you fight everything, Martel? You could be a god, and you fight that. You could have light, and you fight that. You could have me, and you fight that. Some things are meant to be.”

  He looks up at Emily. Even though she returns the study, her eyes open, they are hooded. But her words ring true, like gold coins dropped on a stone table.

  Martel stands, walks around the table, and eases back the heavy chair for her.

  “Some things I don’t fight. Not forever. Shall we go?”

  He reaches for her hand.

  The fires crackle, black flames licking from his arms and white from hers, twining in the space and instants before their fingers touch.

  A plain gold flitter crouches at the end of the pier, empty.

  They enter.

  The hillside villa is small, five rooms in all, with limited access. The cliffs to the back are impassable to any casual visitor, and the lawns and gardens to the front stretch into what seems an endless forest, though he can spot a trail several kilos beneath the villa.

  The master chamber opens to the south and to a vista including Sybernal. Martel takes another look at the sweeping emerald lawns that drop toward the distant town, toward the pine forests that seem to guard the grounds.

  Emily, or Diana, reappears at his elbow, still wearing the thin white chiton and antique necklace. She is barefoot, without the white leather sandals.

  “You’re determined to waste all the time you have, aren’t you?”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “Why did you find me?”

  “Why not? Opposites attract.”

  “Oh. I’m mortal, and you’re a goddess? I wear black, and you wear white?”

  “Nothing that simple. You could be a god, but refuse. You could wear any color, but chose black, which is all colors or none. You could have any woman, but spurn them all.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” growls Martel, refusing to look at her, knowing that the minute he does he will want her. “Nothing’s simple.”

  “You, Martel, assume that everything is linked. I’m not asking for the future. I want the now.”

  Her hand touches the back of his wrist. He can feel the electricity build in him, holds it to himself, holds back from looking away from the view of Sybernal.

  “You find me unattractive? Or are you afraid?”

  The oldest ploys in the universe.

  Of course she’s attractive. And of course you’re afraid. You’re afraid of your own shadow, Martel, he thinks, not realizing that he has projected his doubts.

  Emily says nothing. Stands next to him, her fingers touching his hand, letting the breeze from the open vista wash over them.

  Goddesses don’t need sashes or sills, do they, the half-thought strikes him, strikes him as he feels his body responding to the desire Emily projects. Not projects, just plain has.

  She wants him.

  Does he want her? Really want her? Does it matter? What abou
t Rathe? Or Kryn?

  “… Then love the one you’re with,” he murmurs, and turns toward Emily, golden Emily, gilded Diana, whose arms come around his neck, and whose lips meet his.

  Kryn, Rathe, Kryn … he buries the names before they emerge as his hands tighten on the bitch goddess he holds, as he drops into the depths and the eternities she represents.

  He should feel sleepy, but doesn’t, as they lie next to each other, hands touching, arms touching, legs touching.

  “What was she like, Martel?” Emily’s voice is softer than he’d imagined it could be.

  “Who?”

  “Your lady Kryn.”

  “Bitch.” His voice is flat.

  “If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. Were you making love to me or to her?”

  “Suppose I say both and neither? Suppose I say her?”

  “Suppose you did. You still wanted me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s enough for now. Now is all you have, Martel. Unless you stop fighting it, and become a god. Or recognize that you are.”

  “Do you want me just because I’m stubborn?”

  She laughs, and the silver bells ring in her voice and in his mind. “Touché.”

  The pines outside the marble pillars sigh with the breeze.

  Her hand leaves his, touches his bare shoulder, caresses the back of his neck.

  “Martel?”

  “Umm?”

  “Don’t waste any more time.”

  He rolls on his side to face her, lets his eyes run over her slender body, over the high breasts of the huntress goddess, over the even golden skin …

  The second time is gentler.

  He awakes alone in the bed, scrambles to his feet.

  The villa is empty, except for the master chamber closet, where three identical white chitons hang, with three sets of identical white sandals beneath. In the bathing chamber, a heated bath steams as he opens the portal. A thick black towel is laid out. His tunic and trousers, immaculately clean, are hung next to the towel, with his boots beneath.

  Next to his clothes hangs also a black cloak, with an attached collar pin, a black thunderbolt that glistens.

  He uses his perceptions to probe the cloak and pin, but they are what they are, merely a cloak and a pin.

  He steps into the bath.

  Later, clad in his own clothes and the cloak he knows is a present from Emily, he walks out to the landing stage where the golden flitter waits, empty and door ajar.

  Now … he remembers where he has seen Emily.

  On the I.D. cube at the CastCenter, on that single cube that had brought the call of blasphemy and knocked poor Marta Farell right out of bed.

  Of course. The goddess in one of her playful moments.

  That is not quite right, he knows, but he shivers, and glances back at the white villa for a last look before he enters the flitter.

  xxvii

  A raven—consider the bird.

  Bulky, black-feathered, wings stubby for the size of its body, raw-voiced and scratchy-toned, if you will, a scavenger, an overgrown crow. And yet a raven is more than the sum of the description.

  Consider the raven, who stands for the darkness and destruction, who embodies all the forebodings of those who cannot fly, and who brings the night to day.

  Is then the eagle, who is also scavenger and predator, feathered and screeching in broad daylight, whose sole superiority over the raven is size, the better bird, the more magnificent symbol?

  Which would be the mightier were their sizes reversed?

  Could we accept all that the raven is … and grant him the wingspan of an eagle?

  Or is it that we who eat carrion do not like to be reminded of that and revere the predator who tears bloody meat from just-killed corpses?

  On planets where the sun kills and the night revives, which would be the better power symbol—eagle or raven?

  —Comparative Symbols

  Edwy Dirlieth

  Argo, A.D. 2356

  xxviii

  Taking the last steps two at a time, Martel reaches the top of the walk that leads to his cottage.

  Mrs. Alderson is asleep. That he can tell from the sense of quiet around the bigger house.

  The quince by the front portal of the cottage has finally decided to bloom, one of the few times since he arrived on Aurore.

  As he approaches the low stone slab that serves as porch, front stoop, and delivery area, he stops. Tucked into the portal is a white oblong.

  He leans forward and picks it up. The old-fashioned white paper envelope contains an equally antique handwritten letter.

  The name on the envelope is his and also handwritten, but he does not recognize the hand, though it does not belong to any of his ladies. Of that he is certain.

  He casts his thoughts around the cottage, but finds no one, no sense of lingering. That means the letter within the envelope was left or delivered while he was still at the CastCenter beaming forth his cubes of reassurance on behalf of Gate Seven.

  Martel frowns. He sniffs the envelope. The scent, faint indeed, and overlaid with the acridity of ship ozone, is feminine.

  Willing the portal to open rather than using his thumb, he steps inside.

  After debating whether to open the envelope immediately, he compromises and fills a beaker half full with Springfire before retreating to the rear porch to open and read the letter.

  Eridian/Halston

  Martel—

  I don’t know whether you heard. Gates and I bought out our contracts and settled here. We never knew what you heard after Marta’s “Edict.” For reasons you can understand, we were afraid to risk contacting you while we were still on Aurore.

  So this is sort of an apology, and a long-delayed thank-you. Long-delayed because I realized my dreams were true. They weren’t dreams at all.

  Gates had an accident last year. He was hit by a malfunctioning flitter and almost didn’t make it. The doctor made a real fuss. They insisted Gates was fifty standard years younger than he is. His heart and arteries especially. The phrase that sticks in my mind is “almost as if his heart and aorta were rebuilt.”

  That’s where the dreams come in. One dream I’ve had ever since you showed up at the CastCenter. Gates is pointing a needler at you. Stupid, I suppose, since Gates has never owned one. But you were throwing a black thunderbolt at him. Next thing, he’s lying on the ground, and you are keeping him from dying. Don’t ask me how.

  The neurotechs tell me that they aren’t dreams. I either saw it or I believe I saw it. It doesn’t make any difference which. For whatever reason, you saved Gates twice, in effect.

  I also wonder why I gave up cernadine. Your influence?

  As always, the questions are unanswered, and I don’t expect a reply.

  You are what you are, and for that I am grateful now. I hope you stay that way. Your road is long, I know, and Gates and I, despite your gifts, will be dust long before you scale your heights.

  Hollie

  P.S. You’re also the best faxer left on Aurore, whatever else you may be.

  Martel leans back in the chair, places the letter on the table, and picks up the beaker to take another sip of Springfire.

  A single chirp from the dorle in the back quince breaks the morning quiet.

  So your road is long, Martel. How long?

  He pushes his own question away and puts down the beaker without taking another sip.

  As he stands the breeze from his abruptness swirls the paper letter to the floor, half under the table. Martel leaves it there and paces to the window to look up the hill at the farthest pair of quince trees.

  “Even when you erase the footprints and change the memories … just like the song.” The words slip out before he thinks.

  He does not sing, but, instead, the words hang in the air next to him, glowing.

  I saw your footprints on the sand, Yesterday;

  I saw your smile so close at hand, Yesterday.

  Yet
twenty years have come and gone, Since then;

  My hair has silvered from our dawn, Since then.

  And all my days have passed away,

  All my nights are yesterday.

  Martel does not look at the golden words he has wrought. Slowly they dim, and after a time the last yesterday fades. Only a single black glittermote circles his left shoulder.

  He remembers the letter and retrieves it from under the table, looks at it as if it represents a puzzle he cannot solve. Finally, he places it on the shelf next to the book of poems by Ferlinol. The thin white sheets of paper, with their message from Eridian and the past, fold in upon each other, glow briefly, darken, and stretch into a single black rose.

  Martel wipes his forehead and looks away from the flower that will outlast the cottage, and, perhaps, Martel himself.

  Always harder, isn’t it, when you start to care again?

  He picks up the beaker from the table and downs the rest of the Springfire with a single gulp, ignoring the line of fire that sears his palate and flames down his throat.

  The dorle chirps once again from the quince.

  xxix

  Some stores are open at all hours, and when Martel leaves the CastCenter, his steps bear him toward the southern edge of the merchants’ district, toward Ibrahim’s.

  He needs Springfire, perhaps some scampig, if Ibrahim has any today, and a few other, more common, items.

  Good thing you’ve got an autochef, Martel.

  Without it, the culinary monotony would have been unrelieved.

  The air is quiet on this morning of eternal day and becomes even more motionless as he enters the white-gray paved lanes that indicate the area where the natives, and Martel, shop.

  Aldus the bootmaker, oblivious to anyone, is letting down his awning as Martel approaches, scowling and wrestling with the heavy black iron crank.

  Martel waves.

  Aldus wipes the scowl from his face and, smiling a faint smile, waves back.

  Across the land and three shops down from the bootmaker’s is the next open doorway. As he nears it Martel can already smell the aroma of liftea and freshly baked ceron rolls.