He returned to the path and sped his pace, almost immediately encountering a bridge where he was sure one had not been just moments before. The bridge forded a wide crevasse.
He thought now of what Skye had said.
He would fall with the Far Place.
As he peered down into the chasm, where jagged shelves held spills of prim white flowers, he understood that whether they followed the paths or left them for the forest or even attempted to circumvent the forest by shore, Dyothe was only ever going to steer them back into the valley. Trees would close in here, a crevasse too wide to ford would open there.
It would all be done subtly, gently, but it would be done.
Iliff continued along the path toward the valley. There was no longer any hope that it led elsewhere. He spread his awareness as he went, willing the god of the Far Place, Dyothe, to appear to him. But all he could sense was the great diffusion Skye spoke of, mist-like and mollifying. He became alarmed for a moment when he realized that he could not feel Skye, but of course he had never been able to sense her in this realm. It was only when he turned his attention inward that he felt her once more, safe.
The path emerged onto the valley, close to where he and Tradd had first arrived from the beach. He could see beneath the great tree canopy and along the long, low swells where the sleeping seemed to ever rise and fall, the attendants around them pale whispers of motion. Iliff descended to the closest beds and stood where two attendants, one male, one female, smoothed the covers of a fallen Fythe, even though the bed already appeared pristine. The pair were quiet in their doings so as not to disturb the sleeping, Iliff guessed. He waited for them to finish before hailing them.
“Good Fythe,” he called.
They stopped and turned their pleasant faces toward him.
“My name is Iliff,” he said. “I have come over the Great Sea from a far land where I lived and labored among the Fythe for many seasons. There are two others with me. One is my wife. Her name is Skye. The other is Tradd. We do not belong here, none are fallen. I come to request an audience with Dyothe so that we may pass quietly and no more disturb your sleeping.”
While Iliff spoke, the man and woman looked on with what appeared patient interest. Now they turned from him and moved to the next bed. The heat of indignation crept up Iliff’s throat.
“Lo there!” he called.
But neither the man nor woman heeded him. The man ran his hand along the top of the duvet where it was folded, while, from the foot of the bed, the woman pulled the cover gently to.
“I have made a request of you,” he called to their backs. “Either honor it, or tell me why you cannot.”
They did not so much as tilt their heads now.
Iliff strode to the bedside and pulled the duvet from the fallen Fythe they tended, a young man. With hardly a change in their manner or movements, the attendants lifted the side of the duvet from the ground and spread it back over the Fythe, tucking and smoothing it into place.
“Speak to me!” Iliff said, disturbing the duvet once more.
The attendants replaced the covering.
This time Iliff stooped and slid his arms beneath the fallen Fythe and lifted him from the bed. The young man felt uncommonly light, as though there were hardly any substance to him. Skye had felt light in his arms, too, he realized. Not this light, no, but… He raised his face to the attendants. Their beneficent expressions changed little as they turned to him, arms held out. For a moment, Iliff’s vision blurred with sleep. He backed several steps from them.
“I will return him,” he said, “as soon as you heed my request.”
The attendants continued to smile as they came nearer. Iliff’s head nodded.
“Even… even if you take him from me,” he warned. “I will go on disturbing the rest of the fallen. I demand an audience with Dyothe. Either honor it, or tell me why… you… cannot.”
It required all of Iliff’s concentration now to hold the man and woman in focus. They were too near. His faltering vision blurred them apart and then together so that, for a moment, they stood before him as a single being. Their voices whispered in unison, like a rising breeze.
“Return him to us.”
“First… first you must answer me.”
“Return him.” The man and woman diffused into mist before his eyes.
“Answer… me.”
“Return him. Or we will come for her.”
Iliff went rigid, stalling in his retreat. He imagined Skye back in the royal bed, her face, her eyelids, her slender wrists and hands still for all time. The attendants drew the sleeping Fythe from Iliff’s outstretched arms, gently away. By the time Iliff’s vision cleared, they had moved to another bed, ever tucking and smoothing, ever whispering. Iliff looked down to where the young man slept peacefully again, the duvet that covered him soft and even, as though it had always been.
* * *
By the time Iliff reached the clearing, Skye had awakened. Tradd shouted his joy at Iliff’s return, and both he and Skye received him with questions and tender hugs. Iliff shared what had happened, from the path leading back to the valley, to the forest shifting and becoming impassable when he attempted to deviate from the path’s course, to his confrontation with the attendants. The only part he left out was their threat to claim Skye. He did not want to relive that chilling moment.
“So it seems he will not receive us,” Iliff finished. “And neither will he have us leave.”
They sat in a circle in the soft grass. Tradd frowned and scratched his chin. Skye looked to the canopy, her blue eyes distant in thought. Iliff watched both of his companions, his stomach pitted with failure.
“Let us return to the valley,” Skye said suddenly.
“The valley?” Iliff said. “No, no, it is too dangerous.”
“Not if I remain awake.”
We will come for her.
“No, Skye.”
“That is where we will find Dyothe.”
Iliff looked up, surprised to find her eyes shining with certainty. “I have walked the length and breadth of the valley, Skye. I have seen no one. Only the fallen. The fallen and their attendants.”
“Then you have seen Dyothe.”
Iliff looked to Tradd, whose puzzled expression likely mirrored his own, all ridges and furrows.
“When I said that Dyothe’s fate was tied to the Far Place,” Skye said, “I did not know how true I spoke. But it explains the diffusion every time I feel for him. It explains the paths, the shifting forest. Do you not understand? Dyothe does not just oversee the Far Place. He is the Far Place.”
“This place?” Tradd said.
Iliff looked from Skye to the trees around them, whose leaves continued to flutter quietly.
“That means the attendants…” Iliff said slowly.
“Yes. The attendants, too, are Dyothe. They are perhaps the clearest expression of him, the clearest expression of Fythe beliefs. They are the means by which we can speak to him.”
“I tried,” Iliff said, shaking his head. “They would not heed me.”
“Yes, I’ve thought about this,” she said. “But you are not Fythe, Iliff. You are not of the race that believed this realm into being. As such, Dyothe does not feel compelled to heed you.”
“And you believe he will heed you?” he asked.
Skye moved her gaze between him and Tradd. The smile that creased the skin near her eyes appeared both hopeful and sad.
“I have to try.”
Chapter 24
From the edge of the wood, Iliff and Tradd watched Skye descend the slope of the valley. She walked alone, as was her wish, the fine grasses whispering along her strides. “I will be all right,” she had assured them. “I am not tired.” The sweep of her hair and gown became softer with her distance. Soon she was little more than a yellow halo among the gentle swells of the sleeping.
“Look!” Tradd cried.
Iliff saw it too, the strands of mist drifting up toward her. His entire bod
y tensed, but it was Tradd who stepped forward.
Iliff lay his hand on Tradd’s forearm, stopping him. “I know this is hard,” he said. “But I agreed to let her go to him alone. Dyothe emanates from the beliefs of her people. Skye thinks he is more likely to respond to her. Our presence beside her may distract him.”
Tradd nodded, not taking his pointed gaze from where she continued to descend.
“But if her head so much as nods,” Iliff reassured him, “we will go down at once.”
Skye stepped onto one of the swells near the valley’s bottom and waited for the attendants. Though she had forfeited her queenship long ago, she stood there as royalty, her chin raised, hands clasped before her. Iliff felt the space inside his chest stir with her old power.
“What’s she going to say to them?” Tradd asked.
“She will appeal for our release.”
“How?”
“She did not tell me,” Iliff whispered. “I believe she did not want to risk being overheard. But she feels she can persuade him.”
Iliff was relieved to see that the attendants did not climb the swell to where she stood. Instead they gathered before her, as though in audience. He watched Skye’s distant gestures. At one point, she extended a thread of an arm to where he and Tradd stood before turning back to the attendants.
“Is it working?” Tradd asked.
“I don’t know,” Iliff said.
He could feel Skye’s resolve, but not her words. What could she possibly be telling him? he wondered. Their passage through the Far Place would mean Dyothe’s end. The god sensed this. He feared this. Skye had said so herself. Was she trying to allay his fears? Trying to convince him it would be otherwise? No, that did not seem like her. He had never known Skye to be deceitful.
As the meeting went on, Iliff worried less over what she might be saying and more about her stamina. It was the longest she had remained awake, the longest she had stood since their arrival. But even from a distance, she did not appear to be flagging. And every time he turned his attention inward, he felt her strong presence.
“They’re leaving,” Tradd whispered.
Two-by-two, the attendants slipped from the swell. They returned to the bedsides they had departed, becoming androgynous whispers again among the sleeping. Skye lingered for a moment, watching their retreat. At last she turned and made her way back up the grassy slope.
Iliff and Tradd descended to meet her.
“Are you all right?” Iliff called when they were close.
“Yes,” she said, raising her face to them. “It is done.”
And now Iliff saw the faint lines along her neck, the dimming of her eyes. She had summoned everything she had for the meeting. He received her in both his arms. So light, he thought.
“It is done,” she said again. “The middle path is the way through.”
* * *
They left the valley quickly, soon arriving where the path divided in three. Iliff suggested they stop so that Skye could recover herself, but she shook her head and pulled him forward.
“There is no time,” she said. “Please.”
They embarked down the middle path, Skye urging them onward. They went at a fast walk, almost a run. The green and golden leaves sighed around them, and it seemed to Iliff that the trees were retreating. The deep valleys that scored the land were narrower and fewer, the bridges that forded them smaller. It was clearly a different path than they had followed the first time.
“How did you get him to consent?” Iliff asked.
“I would rather not say until the way free is clear.”
Iliff nodded his understanding. What was most important was their passing through Dyothe’s realm, reaching the lands beyond where the old beliefs held no power over Skye. Where she would be restored. Iliff gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She pressed his hand to her side.
At length the path straightened and rose, and the trees before them thinned. A fine mist gathered. Iliff had them slow. He called to Tradd, who strode ahead. As Iliff peered around, he became wary. He feared that once more they would find themselves emerging into the valley, and at the moment Skye was most vulnerable, on the brink of sleep.
“I sense your concern,” Skye said. “But this is it. This is the far border.”
“How can we be certain?”
“Look there.”
Iliff pinched his gaze to where Tradd was returning to them. Even through the stirring mist Iliff could see that his clothes had become gray and weather-worn. He could see the fray running along the hem of his tunic. Iliff looked down and felt the grit of salt returning to his own clothing.
“You’re right,” he said, relief swelling his voice. “We’re nearly through.”
Now it was Iliff who pulled Skye along. The mist soon merged with the long, ashen trunks, blinding the whorled knots. Overhead, the colorful canopy of leaves paled to white. At the same time, Iliff imagined his hair becoming silver, felt the weight of age returning to his limbs. He hurried their pace, hardly able to contain his joy. But soon he could only see a few steps before them.
“We mustn’t lose our way,” he said, holding Skye close. “Least of all now.”
A chirp sounded just then, high and away. It was the first bird they had heard since leaving the lake, and it came from the mist ahead. From the lands beyond, thought Iliff. The chirp sounded again. Smiling, Iliff let it guide them.
Skye slipped from his arm.
When Iliff turned, she stood a pace away. She did not speak, but the mist could not hide her grave face. She lowered her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I can go no farther.”
“Are you tired? Do you need to rest?”
A tear fell when she shook her head. And now Iliff saw what he should have seen moments before. The hair that quavered was fair and golden, coming to a rest over a gown that showed nary a blemish. When she raised her eyes to his, they glimmered with the blue of long ago.
He and Tradd had changed, but she had not.
“It was the agreement we made,” she said.
Tradd wandered up beside them and looked from Skye to Iliff, then back at Skye. He blinked his large eyes.
“What agreement?” he asked.
Suddenly Iliff understood. His joy vanished at once, and in its place stretched an impossible chasm.
“No…” was all he could manage.
“You must understand,” Skye said, “both of you. I am Fythe. He was never going to release me, never going to consent to his own ruin. But there was no reason for him to deny your passage. I persuaded him of this and he agreed.”
She moved before Iliff and held his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Had I told you, you would never have allowed it. But then you and Tradd could never have left here. It is a sacrifice, yes, but a small one. My days were waning. You knew this.”
“You’re staying here?” Tradd asked, his face drawn.
She tilted her head toward him and nodded.
“But we’re so close,” Tradd pleaded. “We could…”
She shook her head. “I made a pledge to Dyothe, a pledge to remain and go quietly to my sleep. Binding are the agreements made with gods. Once spoken, they cannot be undone.”
Iliff found his voice. “Then I will stay with you,” he said.
“No, Iliff. I cannot let you…”
“It was not a question.” He took her hands. “I made a pledge as well, Skye. A pledge to love and honor you, in all seasons, for all time.” He felt as though his voice were going to come apart. “A pledge to stand beside you, whether in wellness or illness. Whether in life or in death.”
He looked down on the ring he had placed on her finger only two springs before.
“It is a pledge I intend to keep,” he finished.
When she smiled, the chasm in his heart wrenched wider, for he knew what she was going to say.
“Your journey does not end here, Iliff.”
“What o
f your journey?” he demanded. “What of the Sun?”
As she stepped nearer, her face seemed to warm before his. She spoke inside him now.
That is what Dyothe does not sense. That there is a space we share. A space you carry.
She lay her palm against his chest, and Iliff felt her presence there more strongly than ever before. It swelled from the bottom of the chasm, filling it with the abiding warmth and motion of her essence, like many blooming flowers.
When you arrive at the Sun, when you look upon it, so too will I. We will recall our origins. And like an aged husk, the belief in the Far Place will wither and fall away. The sleeping will awaken.
I wanted us to arrive there together, he whispered in thought.
And so we will, Iliff. And so we will.
Do you promise this?
“I promise,” she spoke.
Iliff took her in his arms and held her.
A stream of images came then, too vivid to be called memories. He saw a little girl by the lakeshore, the same one who had awakened him. He saw her again as a young woman. While he talked of maintaining his walls, she dreamed of seeking the Sun. When she appeared again, she was older. She showed him a tree with vines that wrapped round one another, some lighter, some darker, then showed him their common root. And now he saw her as an aged woman, one who sacrificed her remaining days so that he might complete the quest he had embarked on so long ago, the one she had so many times reawakened in him. The images ended with their wedding. Love surged beneath his sorrow, and the chasm was no more.
“It is time,” she whispered.
She pressed her lips to both sides of his face, then his mouth, where she remained long. When she stepped back and the hair had fallen from his damp cheeks, Iliff saw the two attendants. They stood quietly on either side of her, the young man and woman. Apparitions in the floating mist.
“Get away from her!” Tradd cried, lunging toward them. “Leave her alone!”
Iliff reached for Tradd’s arm. His own calmness surprised him.
“It’s all right, Tradd.”
“Yes,” Skye said, moving before him. “You have been so brave. And now you must be braver still. You have a journey before you.”
Final Passage (The Prisoner and the Sun #3) Page 15