The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Audiart came last, going slowly and laboriously; she was not made for clambering over pathless mountains and made no apologies for her pace.

  Now above him, Tenguft halted, motioning the others to stop as well, while she scanned the structure looming at the top of the slope. Meure found a secure place, and took the time to look as well.

  Now he did not have the panoramic view from the air, wheeling high over the valley, nor the long, dim night-view from the valley floor. Now, in the bright tangerine morning of Monsalvat, he could only see one side of it, and it no longer looked quaint, eccentric, barbarian. To the contrary, it looked ever more grim, although it still retained its erratic air of improvisation. The basic lines of the structure leaned inward, from a many-sided foundation merging with the rock of the mountain, then gradually becoming more or less square. It had, Meure suspected, once been rather flat-roofed. No longer. Now superstructures covered it like lichens on a rotten log; galleries, complete with tiled roofs, turrets, balconies, many connected with masonry staircases, covered or uncovered. Projecting cupolas leaned far out into empty space, some with great open spaces staring out into the air, others closed tightly up with only slit windows for illumination, or outlook. Higher up, it became more erratic, the turrets fading upwards into minarets, watchtowers, some complete with crenelations and embrasures.

  Clellendol negotiated what Meure thought to be a particularly difficult section of scree and joined him. Clellendol, too, had been looking upward, at the strongpoint Cucany.

  “Look yonder,” Clellendol gestured toward the rising suns. “You can see more of these castles on the peaks, all around us.”

  Meure looked in the direction the Ler youth had indicated. Far up the valley, true enough, was another castle perched atop another peak, as precarious, if not more so, in its site. Meure also saw something flickering, a reflection, or sheen, about the dark mass of the distant castle. “What’s the light, there?”

  Clellendol shaded his eyes and watched for a moment. “A heliograph, sending code; it’s regularly modulated. I can’t read it, of course. I should imagine that there’s an answer up there in Cucany on the sunlit side.”

  Meure looked up to Cucany, but couldn’t make out any movement, or indeed, any sign that the fortress was even inhabited.

  Clellendol ventured, “I don’t see much evidence on this slope that they do much, up there, but everything suggests that they observe and comment; make no mistake: they’ve been watching us since we came out of the brush before dawn. I can tell by watching the Haydar girl, if by nothing else; her attention is now about seven-eighths on the city, or fortress, or whatever it is.”

  “She was not afraid by the river, last night.”

  “Curious, is it not? Perhaps whatever she feared will not approach water, although I cannot imagine it . . . but never mind. There is much here which will prove beyond my experience.” Then he changed the subject. “And you—I trust you are learning to follow the wave of the present, to get into the flow of it.”

  “I feel much out of my depth here, to be candid. I am being offered much, but the reasons don’t make a coherent whole. It’s as if I were being guided to something out of the ordinary, for reasons I can’t see.”

  “As you know, those were my feelings earlier. I am more suspicious now, as well.” He glanced upward to the outcrop where Tenguft was sitting warily, her hawk profile outlined against the lighter tan color of the walls of Cucany. “That one, now; Morgin told us last night that Haydars do not enter Incana voluntarily. There is no specific prohibition, indeed, there is no government as such to prohibit them. And as you see, the land is open. But they do not come here except in extraordinary circumstances. They fear these people, these Kurbish Windfowlers, as they call themselves. Morgin either does not know, or is being reticent; but there is something about the past, and something these people did. Flerdistar is trying to plumb it.”

  “I see . . . but she brings us to a land she fears . . .”

  “She has brought you, not us. We simply have no other place to go, and since she’s on the way anyway . . . Moreover, Haydars are known for their refusal to enter any permanent structure. They consider such things to affront the spirit world; therefore a city is unclean; a fortress more so, since it is its permanence that distinguishes it. Yet I do believe she will walk into that pile up there to deliver you.”

  “To whom?”

  “I am asking myself, ‘to what? There is no people in the universe without a fear, or fears. Therefore to override hers she must be enacting a powerful shamanistic role, which is already hers within the Haydar tribe.”

  Tenguft stood and motioned to the rest of the party. It was time to move on. Clellendol stood, and turned to leave, saying quietly over his shoulder, “Still and all, friend, you must go forward, for here and now you own no back into which to retreat, as we might say in the House of the Thieves.”

  Meure said, also standing, “But I am the least of those to set out blindly.”

  “We seem to have gathered little choice, you the least of us. So go forward with faith; and with eyes open . . . you know that on the sea, one can still go anywhere one wants, even though the wind only blows one way, but in a canyon one can only go where the stream leads. But there are streams and there are streams.”

  “What is the meaning of that?”

  “Some courses have carved themselves; others are guided by the skillful arrangement of rockpiles to either side, to provide a given destination. This thing we are on seems unnatural, all the more so with every step we go farther into it. It becomes . . .” Here Clellendol hesitated, then continued, “. . . as if it didn’t make any difference whether we could see it or not. It will even become obvious to you in time. I sound like I’m telling you to become a willing sacrifice, but I’m not; you are to be given your chance. You must take it and act innocently, which is to say, unpredictably. Only there lies safety, in unsafety.”

  Then he turned and began climbing, and would say no more. Meure followed, looking back to see if the others were climbing again after their brief stop. They were, and most were already past him. He looked up the mountain, and began climbing.

  Rested a little, at first they made good progress, but they soon slowed, doing progressively less walking and more climbing. The slope became steeper, and dislodged pebbles now rattled down the mountainside for a considerable distance before stopping. Meure could hear them clearly in the calm air, bouncing and ringing on the stones below. He did not look back, or down.

  He did not look up; now Cucany seemed close enough to reach upward a little and touch . . . In reality, the foundation courses were still a few meters higher than them. But he was now close enough to see the structure in detail. There was nothing particularly modern or sophisticated about its construction: heavy basal courses of dressed stone, laid without mortar, skillfully, but not extremely so. Above that began the masonry, timbers and rubble, projecting braces of stone and wood. The masonry had weathered to warm pastel tan, and the wood to a silvery-brown. Some of the balconies and hanging galleries were almost directly above them, soaring into the aqua-blue sky.

  And Tenguft was nowhere in sight.

  Now he was at the base of the castle, and saw there was a tiny, precarious ledge that ran erratically about the base, disappearing to the east around a projection of the walls. To the left, it followed a spine of the mountain upwards, up a flight of rude steps, at the top of which Tenguft awaited them, looking not at them, but out over the empty landscape, the tremendous open distances of Incana. Meure looked where she was looking: to the east, mountains rose in isolated peaks and ridgelines like waves in a frozen sea, a dun sea illuminated by an orange star. Near the horizon, he thought he could make out the shimmer of heat waves, or a mirage forming, but he could not be sure. The expanse of distance was hypnotic; the horizon seemed much farther away than he knew it had to be from the size of the planet. And he also saw that what Clellendol had said was true: almost every point of high ground held
a structure of one size or another. And that in a good number of them, a flickering, pulsing point of light could be glimpsed, a silvery flickering like sunlight being reflected off an unstable surface, perhaps water, although not necessarily so. Meure felt very uncomfortable, and wondered if he was catching some of Tenguft’s wariness; or perhaps it was the overpowering nearness of this fortress atop a bare and uncultivated mountain, with little sign of habitation in the land, save the enigmatic castles. Inside, they watched, and discussed, and consulted with other castles. . . . Out of the corner of his eyes he could now sense the horizon flickering of the heliographs, first one, then another, then others.

  Tenguft waited for the rest of them to come up on the path, and then continued up the rude stone steps, following the line of the last outcrop. Meure followed her.

  The stairs made a few more blind turns, always upward, and then ended in a smallish stone-flagged porch, facing a tall, narrow doorway shaped in an ogive arch. Tall doors of dark wood and black iron barred the way. Beside the door, a stone gargoyle projected a leering, slavering face into space; stylized drops from its lolling tongue hung down: apparently a bell-pull. Tenguft pulled on the cord without hesitation. They heard nothing within, and waited passively.

  It was only a few moments before movement could be heard inside, in response to the doorbell; there was an immanent thumping and knocking, as if a bolt were being slowly withdrawn, and then the arched, tall doors opened on a figure even more curious than Tenguft and the Haydars, if such a thing were possible.

  At first Meure saw a tall, spare figure wearing a helmet or headdress. Its body was concealed under a long black robe not dissimilar to the loose robes of the Haydars. Like them, it seemed slender and tall, the headdress adding to its height so that it seemed as tall as the Haydar girl. As far as he could see, it carried no arms of any kind. The headdress, however, attracted all his attention: It was as wide as the shoulders and easily twice as tall as the head within. It was shaped most curiously, being built up of a number of superimposed prisms; from a point resting on the upper chest, it rose upward in straight lines to points just above the shoulders—these apparently supported the weight of the contraption. From the shoulder points, small shelves, triangular, stepped back at a rising angle to meet another prism shape, which was a continuation of the opening for the face. This inner prism rose to a height above the head and also terminated in a sharp point. Seen from the side, the lines of the helmet formed a diagonal cross shape. The top was filled in with triangles, points down. The face opening lozenge-shaped, a continuation of the outer lines of the figure. The colors of it were arresting, too: the sides were a bright, deep red, while the rooflike top triangles were painted a flat black.

  A face could be seen inside, but only dimly, for the overhang of the helmet blocked most of the light; the face was heavily shadowed. Whatever was inside seemed bearded, and the eyes were outlined with greenish-white circles, that glowed? Glowed. Fluorescent paint. Meure suppressed an urge to idiotic laughter. Suppressed it because the attitude of Tenguft displayed unmistakable submission.

  Morgin nodded politely to the silent figure, and turned to the members of the party. He said, very seriously, “You see before you the Noble Molio Azendarach, Phanet of Dzoz Cucany. You are his guests, but do not take the word lightly, for travelers are few now in the land Incana and hospitality is not offered to all. Proceed forward, then, with respect.”

  The helmeted person, Azendarach, made a slight motion, a subtle nod, and motioned for them to follow; having done so, he turned and proceeded into the depths of the castle without waiting to see if they were following. Morgin went first, followed by Tenguft and Meure. The rest came after.

  Another helmeted figure slid out of the shadows by the door, to close it behind them, but they had little time to see the second one, save that his helmet seemed almost as large and impossible in shape as Azendarach’s. The Phanet was moving on, down a high-arched corridor which was in strong contrast to the openness and light outside, for it was dark and gloomy, the ceiling fading into shadows.

  Azendarach led them a ways along the dark hallway, and then turned into a narrow way, climbing a steep stairwell. Inside, there seemed to be the same construction as the outside—masonry over rubble braced by half-timbers sunk into the material.

  Now they climbed the awkward stairwell through many abrupt turns until they were thoroughly confused as to direction. The stair was interrupted frequently by small landings with narrow doors fronting on them. None were open, and no sound could be heard; it was as if the castle were uninhabited. Yet the doors were well-maintained, and the sills were swept clean. People lived in Cucany, true enough; it seemed that they were very quiet about it.

  The stairs continued upward, sometimes almost too steeply to be called stairs; rather more like ladders. Azendarach maintained the same pace, whether walking on the level, or on the sharpest ascents, always holding his carriage so that the helmet did not wobble or misalign itself in any way.

  At the last, they emerged onto a broad landing where the ascent ended. All were breathing hard from the climb, save the Phanet, who was opening the iron-bound door with great concentration. While he was manipulating the mechanism, Tenguft leaned to Meure and whispered, “Wizards! Beware!” After she said it, she straightened and shivered slightly.

  Azendarach opened the door and allowed it to stand ajar for them to enter. Light flooded into the dim landing from an enormous room alive with the play of light. The contrast was blinding at first.

  They were obviously high up in the castle, or Dzoz, as Morgin had called it, probably near its highest point. This room appeared to be a single large area, with curtained alcoves along the walls; where there were no curtains, the walls were whitewashed carefully to a uniform flat white. One side was entirely open to the air, and seemed to be one of the projecting galleries Meure had seen from the ground. Facing the south, generally, it curved far out in a smooth line unbroken by supports. Its sill was even more curious, being a pool of water. The roof was stepped back slightly. There was no furniture in the room, save some antique cabinets or wardrobes along the walls, in the curtained sections, and cushions scattered around the floor, which was of flagstones. Air from the breeze outside whispered in the corners of the room, and light played there, some from the bright-dun landscape stretching away to the horizons, and from reflections from the wind-ruffled pool along the sill.

  Another helmeted figure emerged from a curtained alcove and made motions of deference to Azendarach. They spoke then, ignoring the visitors, but Meure listened alertly. To his surprise, their speech was more understandable than Tenguft’s, although to her ears it probably sounded archaic and cryptic.

  Azendarach said, in a thin reedy voice, almost like nasal whispering, “What are the reports, Erisshauten?”

  The one called Erisshauten answered, “Phanet, Dzoz Soltro relayed through Kormendy and Endrode that a party of Lagostomes attempted to pass Vakiflar Narrows, but were repulsed and punished. Dzoz Veszid and Orkeny in the Eastmarch report empty reflections. Lisbene likewise. Midre, Andely and Lachryma report through Malange Gather that a party of Eratzenasters departed the Reach for the Ombur, exiting above Torskule. Atropope had an incident with Korsors. Potale Dzoz has reflections, but they are not clear and a more expert reader has been summoned. . . . shall we dispatch Romulu Bedetdznatsch?”

  “What was their nature, at Potale?”

  “Continuing, but weak. They want an evening reading . . .”

  “Understandable . . . but we may not spare Bedetdznatsch. We will read tonight; have Onam Hareschacht posted from Lisbene. If he leaves now he can be there in time.”

  “Your will, Phanet,” replied the man, and he turned and returned into the alcove from whence he had emerged.

  The prism-shaped helmet turned back to them, and once again the eye-circles stared out of the darkness of the helmet at them.

  Azendarach said, almost whispering, “These are the riders of the ship of sp
ace?”

  Tenguft answered, straining to match the phrasing of the Phanet, “These people and a thing for which I have no word . . .”

  “... No matter. We have taken knowledge of it.”

  “. . . were the dunnage. Those who owned it remained with my people, now of the Ombur.”

  “Just so. I understand. I have read of it in the prodromic current; and so has its profluence been. We did not believe, for there is much that passes understanding in the reflections. Yet they continued so, even to their meeting of the Venatic People, on Ombur. And they were to be here, and so indeed are they here. We shall continue the eutaxy.”

  Meure suspected he was in the presence of a madman, or a lunatic cultist, or perhaps both. Neither were improbable on Monsalvat.

  Apparently Azendarach divined his uneasiness, for he now said, “The Kurbish Windfowlers of Incana are reputed the strangest folk of all Aceldama, which you will know as Monsalvat.” He nodded the heavy helmet toward Tenguft. “That child of open spaces, of the night, and murder, who is no small thing at the arts herself, and who practices divination using the hand-bones of the left hand of her own mother, given to her willingly, I might add, she fears for her very sanity in the halls of Cucany. But consider, civilized creatures. I call you creatures for I know that all are not human. Some of you are of the kind of the ancient enemy, he who made us as we are. Have no fear! For we know the ends of the things of the past, and the Warriors are vanished, faded away. Whatever vendetta might be left over we have more than expiated against one another these millennia. But consider, I say: Incana is an empty land, but no man will march on it, not even the pestiferous Lagostomes. We neither expand, enslave, nor disturb the rest of others with our machinations. We mine the peaks, we grow things in the roof gardens, we trade, we gather the wild things, we limit ourselves . . . altogether good neighbors. But,” here his voice rose in volume, “we read truth in the reflections of the light of this world, and consult, and act, and if we are right, then if some say, ‘there walk wizards on the parapet, ’ then so let it be as they will say.”