The Way Between the Worlds

by Ian Irvine

  Llian hung on the door handle, staring into nowhere. It was all beginning again.

  “Have you any idea where they went?” Mendark asked, and when Shand did not answer at once he shook him by the shoulder. “Have you?”

  Shand pushed Mendark’s hand away, though without rancor. “I thought the gate was directed to Carcharon, though surely their true destination is—”

  “What?” cried Mendark, and he suddenly looked uneasy. “Where?”

  “Shazmak!” said Yggur explosively. “Maigraith’s destination is Shazmak. She is going to Rulke.”

  They stared at each other, then Mendark spun around and ran for the stairs. “She’s taken the flute!”

  “Wait!” Yggur yelled after him. “How could she get through all those guards? Anyway, Tallia has gone down to make sure.”

  Mendark came back. “I need more time!” He paced the corridor. In a few minutes Tallia came running up.

  “The flute’s safe in the bakehouse. I saw it! Neither the guards nor the Aachim have seen Maigraith.”

  “So they say!” Mendark said darkly. “All along I’ve been right about Karan. She’s gone over to Rulke too.”

  “Your wits have left you,” said Yggur.

  “Still, they don’t matter. The flute is all that matters now.”

  “I wonder,” said Yggur. “I doubt that we were ever on the right track with this flute. I should have trusted my instincts instead of allowing you to manipulate me. Better we put our faith in arms, and besiege Shazmak before he can build up his strength.”

  “You talk big but you never do anything!” Mendark said. “We’ve got to use the flute and seize his construct. Shazmak can never be taken by force.”

  “Only by treachery,” said Llian, remembering.

  “Well, you go your way and I’ll go mine!” said Mendark. “But I’m not ready.” He shook his head in agitation. “I’m failing at the final hurdle.”

  They separated, each going off on their own frantic business. Llian went back to his work but was too worried to think straight. He desperately wanted someone to talk to but everyone was too busy, even Shand.

  The day dragged on. It was impossible to think for worrying about Karan. In the late morning Shand came in and slid a long piece of paper across the table.

  “Here you are. It took a lot of trial and error, but I’ve put the syllables into what I believe are the correct words.”

  No sze gwi ta sha mu no dzo ta dzo gwu cho ksi lo sze mo nu mu bu gi sze gwi gwu je ru she ksi cha vo gw’uh wi no sze ta mo va mu bu cho ksi kso fe mo nu mu gw’uh gwu ta dzo lu u lo gwi ksi lo gi mu qa kso je e i dzo ta dzo mu no she nu che mo lo cha kso pi lu ta gwu va nu vo cha ru gwi sze ya ta sze pi no sze lo je mu gwi ta sha sze e.

  Nosze gwitasha mu nodzo tadzo gwu choksi losze monu-muBugi szegwi gwuje rushe ksicha vo gw’uh wino szeta mova mu Bucho ksiksofemo numu gw’uhgwuta dzolu’u lo gwiksilo Gimuqakso je’e i’dzo Tadzo muno shenu chemo locha ksopiluta Gwuvanu vocha rugwisze yatasze pinosze loje mu gwita-shasze’e

  “What a strange language!” Llian exclaimed. “What does it say?”

  “That’s rather more difficult, not least because the word order seems quite different from the syntax in our language.”

  “You know the Charon speech, don’t you?”

  “I used to,” said Shand. “I had the best teacher there was, though I dare say I’ve forgotten most of it now. I’ve an inkling what this means, but let’s work on it together.”

  Some hours later, they had come up with the following awkwardly translated lines, which observed the same word order as Shand had set out.

  Held closed is reflecting plate but hides inside key

  Look in interior come what you require to see there is

  Take in hand firstgift be fooled nevermore

  Far-seeing device truth tell

  Lamented lost homeworld (repeat words) mine

  Wheel stopping-point hanging from one is three-parted

  “Reflecting plate means the Mirror,” Llian mused. “Therefore, surely the first line is a restatement of the paradox…” He trailed off. Shand was staring into space, paying no attention.

  “Shand?” said Llian. He shook him by the shoulder. “Shand?”

  Shand floated back to reality. “Save yourself the trouble, Llian. I know what it says.

  “The Mirror is locked, but within lies the key

  Come, look inside, see what you want to see

  Take hold of your birthright, you will see true

  Then the Glass cannot lie to me or to you

  Tallallame, oh my Tallallame

  Your fate does rest on the one which is three

  “I understand it now; it’s the verse Yalkara called out as she went through the gate, that I couldn’t quite catch at the time. She must have been making sure that Aeolior could use the Mirror when the time came, even if it tried to lie to her.”

  “So she was meant to have Yalkara’s gold in hand when she used the Mirror,” said Llian.

  “Then the Glass cannot lie to me or to you. And without it, the Mirror surely has lied to her.”

  “And led her to Shazmak. To Rulke!”

  “Yes,” Shand said, crushed. He sat at the table for a very long time, head bowed, then rose to his feet and slowly went out.

  Llian suddenly had an inspiration. “Shand!” he called out urgently.

  “What is it now?”

  “Remember Yalkara’s book that was… stolen and burnt?”

  Shand’s head jerked up. His green eyes pierced Llian. He was quick! “You young scoundrel!” he said.

  “I had Lilis make a copy, and it was the copy that was stolen.”

  “And you want my help to translate it.”

  “You said you’d do anything in your power to help me. Besides, I’m doing it for Maigraith. Are you too busy?”

  “Yes,” said Shand, “but I’ll find the time. It’s a much more difficult project, though. No doubt you know why.”

  “The script on the Mirror contained only thirty-three different glyphs, and there are a lot more in the Charon syllabary.”

  y:Jan_200927_01_2009_Xml_KeyingCompare-CompletedmergedThe Way between The worlds_261-271.txt

  “Ninety-eight, as it happens, but the ones we know are the most common ones. And I can probably work out a few more. Shall we begin?”

  They worked in Shand’s rooms, more pleasant because Shand fed him at intervals, and Llian found the old man’s help invaluable. Despite his protests, Shand had forgotten very little, and from the context they were able to work out the meaning of quite a few more glyphs. By the evening they had finished the first page, which seemed to be a synopsis of the book.

  “Read it aloud,” said Shand, and Llian did so.

  Shand stood up. “This turns everything upside down.”

  “Everything!” Llian bent his head to the book again.

  Around midnight, seeking a respite from the translating, Llian went walking outside. At the front door of the fortress he ran into Tensor, who had been checking the guards at the bakehouse. Tensor looked surprisingly friendly. But then Llian already knew how mercurial he could be.

  “Chronicler! You’ve come about Karan!”

  “Karan?” said Llian, wondering what he was talking about.

  “Just before she went, she asked me if there were any secret ways into Shazmak. I told her about the fifth way. She did not mention that to you?”

  Llian had a distant memory of Karan slipping into his bed, but that was all. So they had gone to Shazmak! “No, I came to ask you about the reading I made from Tales of the Aachim.”

  “I wondered about your boldness in translating our work without consulting us. But it does not matter anymore. Quote me the passage.”

  Llian did so. “The phrase I was unsure about was khashzik-makattzah. I translated it as the-three-and-the-one, which Mendark took as a sign that the flute must be remade.”

  “I wish I’d known that before we began the flute,” said Te
nsor. “That translation cannot be right.”

  “Then what is it?” cried Llian.

  “It’s not the-three-and-the-one but the-three-in-one.”

  “The triune,” said Llian, feeling a chill run down his back.

  “The triune!” Tensor echoed.

  Llian opened his mouth but nothing came out. His stupidity had condemned Maigraith, and Karan. “Then I’ve made a terrible mistake. The triune is Aachan, Tallallame and Santhenar; Maigraith is the instrument! And the instrument will be lost in restoring the balance. Or… does it refer to Karan?”

  “I don’t know, chronicler.”

  Llian ran back up to the library. The Mirror had lured Maigraith to Shazmak. If the foretelling was correct she would die there and probably Karan with her. He spent the rest of the night going through his notes and his memories, but could shed no further light on the matter. In the early hours he put his head on his arms and dozed. Then, dreaming about Mendark’s Tale, suddenly all the pieces clicked into place. In the chilly clarity of the pre-dawn he saw the deceit in the story, but which one was it, Mendark or Yggur?

  He worked through the evidence until the dawn light came through the windows. There was little doubt, but he must confirm it. I used to be able to move people with my teller’s voice, he thought. I’ll push Mendark as far as he can be pushed, and then we’ll see what happens. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try Yggur. If I survive Mendark’s fury!

  Llian sent a messenger boy down to find Mendark, Yggur and Shand, asking them to come to the library, for he had made a great discovery.

  “What is it?” Yggur asked impatiently, the first to arrive.

  “Something of great interest to you. The greatest interest,” said Llian.

  A spark ignited in Yggur’s eyes, but he asked no questions.

  Lilis came trotting in. She had come up to fetch something for Nadiril. “Stay for a while, Lilis,” said Llian. “You may hear something of interest to Nadiril.”

  Eventually Mendark appeared, the last. “Well, what have you dragged me up here for?” He sounded crotchety. He looked as if he had been up all night.

  Llian noted that Mendark had begun to age already. Two frown lines were etched across his brow. “I’ve made two discoveries,” said Llian. “Here is the first. Tensor has put me on the right track at last.”

  “Tensor!” growled Mendark. “Already you stretch your credibility. Well, get on with it! Time is precious.”

  “My translation from Tales of the Aachim was wrong,” said Llian. “The instrument was not the-three-and-the-one, the flute, but the-three-in-one, the triune. And it is the triune that will be lost.”

  “So the flute need never have been made,” said Yggur. “I was right after all.”

  “Yes,” said Llian.

  “Nonsense!” said Mendark. “Anyway, we have it now and we will use it.”

  “But Maigraith has gone to Shazmak,” said Llian. “If she tries to restore the balance she will be lost.”

  “Restore the balance!” Mendark’s voice dripped sarcasm. “What a load of mumbo-jumbo! This confirms what I’ve long suspected—our master chronicler is a fraud. He is a teller, a voice, but there’s not much wit behind it. No wonder he’s incapable of making my tale.”

  Llian had had enough. “Do not call me fraud, you charlatan!” He leapt up on the table. “Do you want to know why I cannot tell his tale?” he cried. “Because it is a lie Mendark made a thousand years ago and has cunningly reworked ever since. A deceit that has tainted the Histories since the day Rulke was imprisoned into the Nightland.”

  “Calm down, you two,” said Yggur. “Llian, no one who was not there during the Clysm can understand what it was like. Rulke was too powerful, with his city-construct of Alcifer. If we had not stopped him we would have been enslaved just as the Aachim were. It was worth any price, even the Proscribed Experiments.”

  “And the failure of the Experiments?” asked Llian.

  “He was too strong!” shouted Mendark. “Not even the whole Council could stop him.”

  “That’s true as far as it goes,” said Llian, using his voice on Mendark and taking pride in the reactions that he was forcing and, hopefully, the truths that would soon be revealed. “But that’s where the great lie began. Would you like to hear the real truth, Yggur?”

  Yggur was enjoying Mendark’s discomfiture more than anything since the Elludore disaster. “Indeed I would!”

  “I’ve solved the puzzle,” said Llian. “The answer was in a letter written by Nivan of the Council just after the Experiments. Yggur, you were betrayed! Mendark forced Rulke into your mind.”

  Mendark looked shocked but recovered quickly. “Damn you!” he roared. “Cease your lies! There is no such document.”

  “How can you be sure?” Llian said softly, hoping Mendark would give something away.

  Mendark did not. “Because I’ve seen them all!” he snapped. “I had to, to write the official Histories of that time. And the Council members since then have checked the documents. Yggur himself can vouch for that.”

  Yggur’s disappointment showed. “We checked with the utmost care. Unfortunately none of us found anything out of order.”

  “That’s because Mendark had already destroyed the evidence!” Llian said weakly. His bluff was failing and it was going to ruin him.

  “The chronicler grows desperate!” Mendark sneered. “Fame is a drug he can’t do without, even if he has to make up slanders to get it.”

  “Well, Llian?” Yggur said impatiently. “Let us see your evidence.”

  Yggur’s trust in Llian had always been equivocal. Well, he would have to bluff harder, and his fate would rest on the bluff.

  “Why is Mendark so sure about that, do you think? Because he spent a lifetime searching out and destroying every document written by that Council, but only after he had tracked down and killed its members, one by one.”

  “You’re a liar!” grated Mendark. “This is treason and the penalty is death!”

  “You deal a lot in that currency, don’t you, Mendark? But you were not careful enough. This proves my argument,” said Llian, producing the receipt he had found in the archives. “Nadiril confirms that it is genuine.” He showed it to Shand. “It lists a document sent to Mendark by Nivan’s sister, Uivan—My Histories of the Experiment and the Taking of Rulke.”

  “I remember Nivan,” Yggur said thoughtfully. “She was one of the few honest people on the Council!” His eyes flashed fire at Mendark. “But I don’t ever recall seeing that document.”

  “You haven’t,” Llian said softly. “It was never entered into the catalogue. Mendark destroyed it, and every other such document, as he murdered their authors one by one.”

  “You build palaces on foundations that wouldn’t support a sandcastle,” said Mendark, who was angry but unshaken. “Show it to me.”

  Llian passed the receipt to Yggur.

  “The receipt is genuine,” said Yggur, squinting through his glasses. “But there’s still no proof of your charges. Produce the evidence or prepare to be charged with slander.”

  “I will produce it!” cried Llian, preparing to use his teller’s gifts as he had never used them before. “Since finding this receipt I have gone through the archives. I found a copy of the document. It incriminates you, Mendark.”

  Mendark stood his ground, trembling with rage, but still gave nothing away. “Let’s see the document!”

  Llian’s bluff had been called. He gasped for breath.

  “You cannot! Guards,” cried Mendark. “Guards!”

  Osseion was through the door in an instant, followed by a brace of Yggur’s guards. “Take him!” Mendark roared, pointing at Llian.

  Osseion slowly stepped forward, but Yggur said softly, “Leave him be, Osseion. We will hear Llian. Chronicler, prove your case if you can. You have one minute.”

  “I don’t even need a minute,” Llian said arrogantly. “Look at this, Yggur! Mendark used you as bait in his trap. I have the pro
of right here.” He leapt up on the table and with a theatrical flourish pulled a much-folded piece of yellowed parchment out of his shirt. Llian held it high, then thrust it in Yggur’s face.

  “Here, read Nivan’s record aloud,” Llian raged. “I’ll tell you what it says. This is what Mendark did to you—”

  Yggur took the paper and let the folds fall open. It stretched down to his waist. He moved the document up past his eyes. He stared at Mendark and slowly his face grew colder and colder.

  “Be silent!” Mendark screamed. “I will silence you!” He threw out his arm and a flame leapt forth, setting fire to Llian’s coat. Yggur raised his own hand. Mendark sprang out of the way. Shand tossed Llian onto the floor, rolling him over and over to put out the flames. Lilis, standing quietly in the background, ducked to safety under the table.

  Mendark, running backward, swung his arm in a circle. Flames burst out among the books and papers on the table, leapt to the bookshelf beside the table, to a rack of scrolls nearby.

  “No!” Llian shrieked. He elbowed Shand out of the way but it was too late. The papers on the table blazed higher than his head. He snatched his bag of precious journals, on the floor beside the table, from the fire. The cover of one was burning but he stamped it out.

  Mendark sent fire leaping into the bookshelves. Flames licked across the carpet between him and the company.

  “A burning,” he said calmly, standing back to stare at the pyre of blazing books. “A cleansing! The past is gone now. I have cleansed the Histories. My life no longer exists.”

  He watched until the conflagration reached the top of the shelves and roared up into the beautiful paneled ceiling, then walked though the swirling fire across the room and out the far door, which he gently closed behind him.

  Row after row of shelves gushed flames; burning papers spilled out of boxes that had preserved them for centuries. The whole room was on fire. Llian wept for the priceless records that would be lost forever. He stood there, oblivious to the heat, the smoke and the cinders settling onto his hair. His clothes were still smoldering, his beard singed to stubble.