The Sea of Time

by P. C. Hodgell

  “Too bad,” he said in that deep but wryly dismissive tone. “It was an interesting experiment.”

  “Betrayed!” Kruin’s voice cracked into a howl. “I gave you access to my city! I gave you control of my court! At your suggestion, I have slaughtered most of my heirs! And now all you can say . . . is ‘Too bad’?”

  The Prophet shrugged. “Some few merit immortality. Most do not. Yours, I fear, is the common lot.”

  “I am not common!”

  “So every man tells himself.”

  Kruin’s eyes desperately swept the room. “I will be avenged. You!” He had spotted Genjar near the door, unsteadily regaining his feet, his gorgeous coat torn, dripping pearls, one of his eyes blackened. “Seize this charlatan!”

  Crows edged, jeering, around the stone petals and stormed the chamber in a fury of black wings. Sharp beaks stabbed everywhere. Jet eyes glittered. Genjar flailed as the birds dived at him. The princess shielded her brother while Tori stood over them both, trying to protect her.

  “We will meet again, I think,” said the Prophet in Tori’s ear. Then he and the birds were gone, except for an eddy of black feathers spinning to the pale green floor.

  Genjar lowered his arms cautiously. Finding himself more or less intact, he limped over to Tori and slapped him across the face.

  “You let that monster escape!”

  “No, Commandant. You did.” The princess released her brother’s slack body and rose, arms wrapped around her swollen belly. “The king is dead, but his last order still binds you. Here are witnesses to that effect, this boy and myself. Honor demands that you seek that false prophet throughout Kothifir, even to the gates of Urakarn if necessary. Go alone or take the entire Host with you if that gives you comfort.”

  A spasm of pain crossed her face.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, my time has come.”

  II

  IT TOOK NEARLY THIRTY DAYS to erect King Kruin’s funeral pyre in the central plaza next to the Rose Tower.

  First came the spice-wood scaffold reaching almost up to the now returned, low-hanging screen of clouds. Then the framework was stuffed with dry oil-bush from the Wastes. Finally, every guild in the city contributed to its facings. Empty suits of armor stood guard at the base. Above them fluttered choice silks, then gilded mirrors reflecting the sky, then illuminated pages, then shining boots, all toes pointing crisply out, and so on and on, guild by guild, up to vast murals depicting the late king’s greatest hunts. Above that, just under the platform to which his body would be lowered, were the spoils of his famous trophy wall. The heads of yackcarn, cave bear, wild cat, and rathorn leered from the heights. Kruin had successfully hunted every creature on Rathillien worth the effort except the wolvers, rhi-sar and—to the relief of his Kencyr troops—the Arrin-ken.

  Meanwhile, Kruin’s body lay in a chilly Undercliff cave especially noted for its preservative qualities. As the days passed, some joked, quietly, that he would have to be broken out of a stalagmite when his obsequies finally came due.

  At last, the day had arrived.

  Tori looked around the plaza as he waited for the rites to begin. Despite the returned cloud cover, or perhaps because of it, the city sparkled. Recent rain had washed away the dust and fresh (if limited) produce was again offered in the food stalls lining the main boulevard. The waiting citizens struck a solemn note in their mourning garb, but under that one glimpsed more festive attire. As soon as the old king was reduced to ashes, the new one would be crowned.

  Some Kencyr claimed that everything had improved as soon as their temple had come back to life, just after Kruin’s death. Tori wasn’t sure what he thought about that.

  With Kruin’s demise and the Prophet’s disappearance, the king’s surviving heirs had come out of hiding. Despite his blood-claims, it had taken them this long to agree on young Krothen as the new king, but only after saddling him with a council of his elders. Tori had heard his former houseguest complain long and bitterly about his lack both of power and freedom, although he still managed to slip off to the Host’s camp for the occasional visit. Although his former experience there had been necessarily limited, he seemed to have developed an admiration for Kencyr life. Certainly, his gratitude to Tori for giving him shelter remained fresh. Although Tori had never spoken his full mind to his awkward guest, he wondered if Kroaky had anyone left besides himself to whom he felt he could speak freely.

  Tori wished the attendants would hurry up. Something about the coming transfer of authority bothered him. As a Kencyr, he was sensitive to power—who had it, who didn’t—and Kroaky still felt entirely too like, well, Kroaky. Of course, that was all he still was until his crowning, but if anyone had asked him, Tori would have said without thinking that Kruin was still alive, still king. Which was ridiculous.

  One of his command, Cully, edged through the crowd to his side. “They say that the princess’s husband, Prince Near, is ailing,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  Tori swore, also softly. The dying hadn’t stopped with Kruin. One by one, his heirs were still falling ill and wasting away. Some blamed it on a parting curse attributed to the Prophet. More accused the Prophet himself, who had not been captured despite Genjar’s best efforts to seal the city after Kruin’s death. True, he had seized some of the street-preachers, but most of the Karnids, with their master, had simply slipped away. Genjar was not said to be pleased, nor was the Council with his efforts, and the commoners simply jeered at him whenever he appeared in public.

  No one but Krothen believed in the existence of the mysterious assassin who cast the shadow of a wolf. Tori wasn’t sure he did either, except for the Prophet’s mysterious reference to someone (or something) called the Gnasher. Nonetheless, the new king-to-be had insisted that he, Torisen, investigate. To do so, he needed help. Harn had assigned him eleven Kendar. Most of them, like Rowan, his second-in-command, were former Knorth, but some came from other houses. Tori suspected that one, Rose Iron-thorn, a Caineron yondri-gon, was Genjar’s spy, but like the others she had served as a guard in Kothifir during times such as the recent unrest and so had special knowledge of the city. The irony was that if Harn had stopped one short, Tori would have been assigned as a mere ten-commander. Instead, Genjar had been forced to give him the commission of a one-hundred-commander even though it was understood to be provisional and probably temporary.

  On the other hand, Harn hadn’t seemed displeased, almost as if he had assigned the extra Kendar to bring about exactly this result.

  Tori couldn’t make out what his small, new command thought about this arrangement. He knew that they called him “Blackie,” mostly behind his back, but to his face they were always respectful, following his orders without question. It helped that they found the assignment interesting, even if it might end up leading nowhere.

  Cully loomed over him—all the Kendar did. He and they were also at least ten years Tori’s senior. If the Knorth had still been in power, Cully might have been a randon sargent in their house. And Rowan had been a randon officer, for Trinity’s sake, now reduced to the standing of a common Kendar. Damn Father anyway, for setting such people adrift.

  “I asked the usual questions,” Cully was saying. “Had they seen anyone strange lingering nearby, or any peculiar shadows? They hadn’t. It apparently isn’t poison: like most of the Council these days, the prince has a taster. I didn’t see him myself, but according to the servants he’s wasting away. The princess is beside herself.”

  “I bet she is,” Tori muttered. Motherhood hadn’t softened Amantine’s militant nature. If her husband died, she was apt to declare war on Urakarn unilaterally.

  The crowd stirred and pointed. A temporary catwalk had been built over the pyre and Kruin’s body was being lowered from it through the clouds. Belatedly, with a nervous rattle, the drums began to roll. Jarred awake, one of the attendants darted forward with a torch and thrust it into the kindling.

  “Too soon!” said Cully.

  Indeed, before t
he corpse had touched the bier balanced on the top, the bottom of the pyre was ablaze as the oil-bush roared to life. Flames leaped upward, outlining the guild offerings and erupting out of the top of the pyre like a volcano. Figures on the catwalk floundered about, burning. Kruin’s stiff body swayed, then tumbled down the face of the pyre, trailing flames. It hit the ground hard, and shattered. Everyone had drawn back except Tori. Throwing up an arm to protect his face, he darted to where Kruin’s head rolled about the pavement. For a moment he held it, looking down into painted blue eyes already peeling in the heat, then he dropped the head and kicked it back into the blaze before he retreated. His fingers were scorched by the heat, and his sleeves smoldered. Cully beat out the incipient flames.

  “You don’t take proper care of yourself,” he fussed. “Truly, the old bastard isn’t worth your hands.”

  “Nor anyone’s,” said Tori, shakily brushing off soot. “Did you see, Cully? I could almost believe that the caves petrified his bones, and I never had much respect for his brains even when he was alive, but that head was wood, through and through.”

  III

  PRINCE NEAR LINGERED ON, and now the princess’ twin cousins were ailing as well.

  “They say that patches of their hair are falling out down to the skull, likewise odd chunks of flesh off of their bones,” Rowan remarked, washing down a chunk of bread and cheese with a gulp from a flask of watered wine. “It sounds almost like the result of a soul injury—you know, like a Bashtiri shadow assassin.”

  Kencyr believed that the soul cast the shadow rather than the body. So did the Bashtiri guild, with lethal effect.

  “King Krothen says he saw a man with the shadow of a wolf,” said Rose. “A white wolf, at that, with a white shadow.”

  “That’s just it: if a wolf is somehow involved, you’d expect blood and broken bones, not a wasting illness.”

  “Are you saying that the king is wrong?”

  “Not necessarily, just that this isn’t anything straightforward.”

  That, thought Tori, was an understatement. He tried to remember if Kruin’s shadow had been intact. Yes. In memory’s eye, he saw the king plunge to meet it on the chalcedony floor. The Prophet had claimed that he was dying of natural causes but might gain immortality if his male heirs were sacrificed. The Gnasher, plainly, was the assassin, but no Dream-weaver. The Master’s consort had reaped souls. What was this man with the shadow of a wolf doing and why, now that Kruin was dead? Around and around Tori’s mind went. No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep. Besides asking questions, his little command had taken to patrolling Kothifir after dark. Tonight, rather than spend another sleepless night, Tori had joined Rowan and Rose Iron-thorn on this second-story balcony overlooking the central plaza.

  Laughter and music floated down from the brightly lit uppermost chamber of the Rose Tower. Krothen held a jolly court, to which entertainers and artists swarmed from all corners of Rathillien. No one ever seemed to sleep. Tori wondered if the new king just didn’t want to be alone. The sense lingered that, although crowned, Kroaky hadn’t yet found his feet. It was rumored that he had tried to bless a caravan of spoils from the Wastes and had failed. Merchants throughout the city had been heard to curse his name when their precious wares crumbled into dust.

  Kruin, alive . . . but how could that be?

  “Look,” said Rowan.

  A figure had descended the stair and was lurching across the moon-washed plaza, preceded by a canine shadow.

  “Is that a dog?” asked Rose.

  “No.” Tori leaned forward, listening intently. “It’s singing . . . I think.”

  What he heard sounded more like a modulated howl, but there were words mixed up in the cacophony, and some of them rhymed.

  Rose stiffened. A child had emerged from the shadows below and was approaching the raucous singer. Before Tori or Rowan could stop her, she had swung to the ground and was racing forward to tackle the latter, who went down with a startled yelp.

  Tori sprinted to the rescue. “Rose, stop! I know this fellow. He clowns for the king.”

  “I do not!” howled the Kendar’s prey, curled up in a furry puddle on the pavement, tail tight between his legs. “I’m a court poet! Hic.”

  The child regarded him solemnly. “Is the puppy sick?”

  “No, dear,” said Rose. “The puppy is drunk. Why did you attack my daughter?”

  “Attack her? I didn’t even see her!”

  Tori regarded the girl. She was only five or six, as far as he could tell, crowned with a helmet of dark red hair. Even in the moonlight, her eyes were a startling shade of green, her gaze solemn and unflinching. “What are you doing in the city at night?” he asked her. “The lift cages don’t even run after midnight.”

  “I climbed.” She handed Rose a packet. “You forgot your dinner.”

  “Oh, Brier. How often do I have to tell you not to follow me?”

  Tori nudged the crumpled figure with a toe. “You can get up now. Sorry about that.”

  “‘Sorry.’ Who apologizes to a poor wolver so far from home?”

  “Ah.” Now Tori understood the other’s shadow as it untangled four lanky legs while its owner rose on two shaggy, shaky ones. Other than fur and a disheveled garland of flowers, he was quite naked. “That never occurred to me. Do all wolvers cast the shadow of a wolf?”

  “It depends on the phase of the moon.”

  “Which tonight is full.” On the chance, Tori had to ask: “Do you know a wolver called the Gnasher?”

  “Oh, him. Steer clear . . . hic . . . that’s my advice. I’m from the Grimly Holt, but he’s from the Deep Weald. ’Nother kind of beastie altogether. What?”

  He looked up, perplexed, at three intent faces.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Why, tonight. He’s up there, entertaining the king. Juggles lights, doesn’t he? Shining Glory, they call him. He’s performed for all the best families.”

  “Damn,” said Tori. “Rose, stay with your daughter. Rowan, come on.”

  “Don’t you want to hear one of my poems?” the wolver Grimly cried after them. “Oh, never mind.”

  Tori and Rowan pounded up the stairs of the Rose Tower. Both were breathless by the time they reached the chamber door where a guard tried to stop them, apparently taking them for performers.

  “Here, now, what’s your act?”

  “We save the king’s life . . . I hope.”

  The crowd within had drawn back to the edges of the room to give Shining Glory room. Tori edged between courtiers with Rowan on his heels. Lights flashed ahead, a rotating circle of spheres flying now low, now high.

  “Oh! Ah . . .” murmured the onlookers, except for those that turned to glare as the intruders elbowed past.

  The performer was a tall, white-haired man with piercing blue eyes, clad in creamy leathers. Soft explosions of light burst from his hands as he increased the number of spheres that he juggled. In their glow he cast no shadow at all, unlike the spectators whose shades whirled against the rose walls as the balls of light circulated. Kroaky sat on the dais in magnificent sky blue robes, entranced, his shadow swaying behind him.

  Each ball of light encapsulated the form of a wolf caught at a different moment. Together, they blurred into a leaping figure.

  “He’s juggling his soul,” Tori breathed.

  The performer flicked one of the spheres toward a courtier. The man staggered in the splash of light, then recovered himself and applauded with the rest, although shakily. Behind him, his shadow wavered in pieces on the floor.

  Another flicked sphere, aimed this time at the young king. Surging free of the crowd, Tori threw himself between it and Krothen. The ball hit him in the chest . . .

  . . . and he was falling over backward grappling with a big white wolf. The floor slammed into him, tables and benches tumbling out of the way. Around him rose the stark walls of the Haunted Lands’ keep that was his soul-image. Jaws snapped at his face. Blue eyes glared down at
him.

  “Who stands between the Gnasher and his prey? Argh!”

  Tori had grabbed a broken table leg and jammed it behind the other’s back teeth. The wolver twisted its head back and forth, trying to gain a grip on the wood. Nails raked at Tori’s arms and chest. Bracing his feet against the beast’s stomach, he kicked him off.

  Footsteps sounded on the floor overhead, pacing, pacing, and the boards groaned. Boy and wolver pup froze, reduced by fear to childhood like two guilty truants.

  “Is that . . .”

  “Yes. My father.”

  The white pup crept backward on his belly. “My father said he would eat me, so I ran.”

  “So did I.”

  “Will he come down the stairs?”

  “Sooner or later.”

  “You wait for him, then.” The pup turned and bolted . . .

  . . . and they were back in the Rose Chamber. The big wolver dropped to all fours, shaking his head. Clothes fell away from gaunt flanks, from white fur marked with shadowy whorls and tangles that resembled the horror-stricken faces of his previous victims, moving as the skin moved beneath them in silent shrieks. Snarling, he leaped toward the door, toward onlookers who scrambled out of his way. Only the hapless guard stood his ground. Jaws snapped and the man fell, his cheek and half of his shadow torn away. Then the Gnasher was gone into the night.

  “Blackie?” Rowan bent over him. “Are you all right?”

  Tori stared down at the remnants of his jacket, at the gouged and bleeding skin beneath. “Well enough,” he said hoarsely. “The king . . . ?”

  “Here, Tori.” Krothen appeared over Rowan’s shoulder, looking dazed. “What happened? All I saw was a blaze of light.”

  “That was your shadow assassin, the one responsible for all the wasting illnesses among your kin.”

  “What? It was? Then after him!”

  The confused, surviving guards scrambled to obey, but the Gnasher had slipped away as his master had before him.

  That night, Prince Near died. At Princess Amantine’s insistence and on the basis of the Gnasher’s attack, Kothifir declared war on Urakarn.