“You should have studied them more carefully when you were with us!” Keyholder sniffed, as if he was insulted that such a poor student could have become the fulfillment of a prophecy.
Greylock remembered how he had disdained the Gatekeeper’s teachings. He had defied the Tyrant Ironclasp by descending into the Underworld because he had wished to find answers to the questions that had disturbed him. If there were demons in the Underworld, he had reasoned, then the way to prove or disprove this was to journey to the Underworld and see for himself. And if he could not be satisfied with the Gatekeeper’s answers to his questions about the source of the Gateway, then the answer lay in exploring the rubbled remains of the path himself. Until this minute he had been unable to admit that he might have been wrong.
“Please, Keyholder,” he pleaded. “I can see now that I was wrong about the demons.”
“No,” Keyholder answered, surprisingly. “You were not altogether wrong, Greylock, though I dared not encourage your blasphemy. There are many things we Gatekeepers do not understand, knowledge that must have been lost to the snows and the firestone. We can only guess at the meanings of some of the passages.”
“But you always said I was wrong!” Greylock said, amazed by the old priest’s admission. “You told me not to question!”
“We could not encourage you, or others might have started questioning our authority as well. We could not allow that. But things have changed. Your return from the Underworld, and the discovery of the Room of Aurim, has changed things a great deal.”
“The Gateway leads into the mountain,” Greylock stated, watching his former teacher intently. “It enters into Godshome.”
“Yes, it is as we have always guessed,” Keyholder agreed. “It is on the far side of the mountain that we will find the gods, if they exist.”
“If they exist?” Greylock said, surprised at the sound of doubt in Keyholder’s voice. This was the greatest of heresies!
“It has been such a long time,” Keyholder said, looking old and tired. The many lines in his face, instead of being tools of his expression now appeared to be what they were, signs of age and worry. “We have had no sign of their existence. They may have left the Homeland by now. They may be gone from the Three Tiers of Existence entirely. I do not know. It is so hard to believe when there are no signs!”
“The Homeland?” Greylock asked. It was a new term to him. “What is the Homeland, Keyholder?”
“There are some things we did not teach you when you were here,” Keyholder said. “There are some things known only to the Gatekeepers.”
“Tell me!” Greylock commanded.
Now it was the priest’s turn to get up and pace, and Greylock slowly turned in his chair to follow him.
“You know that the priests of the High Plateau are called the Gatekeepers,” the old man began. “But you do not know why. The truth is that our entire civilization is descended from the keepers of the Gateway. Once, that road led through Godshome, as you suspected, to the Homeland. It was a magnificent roadway, and required the services of many men to keep it in repair, to rebuild, and to guard. We are the descendants of those men.
“On the far side of Godshome dwelt a people of grace and beauty; they were like gods to us. They were on this world long before us, and had achieved the heights of civilization while we were no more than barbarians. But they welcomed us, and taught us, and in exchange we became the Gatekeepers. Someday, they promised us, we would join them in the Homeland, if we did our duties well. It was from the gods 104 that we learned how to survive on the High Plateau so that we might be near the Gateway. They gave us the designs for our snowcastles and icetowers.
“You see, we ourselves once came from the Underworld, from far to the east.”
“But what happened?” Greylock asked. “Why was the Gateway closed? Where are the gods?”
“I am telling you,” Keyholder said. “If you will only listen!”
“Out of the east came others after us, barbarians in search of the fabled country of the Homeland, or Godshome. The gods welcomed them, as they had welcomed us. In return, they vowed to protect the Gateway. Like us they were not allowed to enter the Homeland, and were promised entrance someday. Unlike us, they resented being left outside. These people settled in the lands which are now known as the Twilight Dells.” Keyholder raised his hand when Greylock was about to object. “Let me finish, Greylock.
“Then came a final invasion of barbarians, out of what are now known as the fiefdoms of Trold, and these invaders refused to be left on this side of Godshome. They demanded entrance into the Homeland.
“The gods called on their sentinels to protect the Gateway. But, instead, they joined the invaders. Then the gods called on our descendants to close the Gateway, and using powers over the earth that we no longer possess, they brought down the walls of the Gateway by calling forth the firestone. The Gateway was closed forever.”
“But what happened to the Wyrrs?” Greylock interrupted.
“The gods cursed the people of the Twilight Dells and named them demons. They were to be imprisoned in that land, a land that was cursed to grow only enough food to keep them alive. There they were to remain until a Deliverer shall come forth, to open the Gateway and lead the demons to the Homeland.
“We were given the duty of watching over them, to keep the memory of the Homeland alive. But before long our people began to forget what they had once been, and for this the priesthood was formed.” Keyholder collapsed into a chair with a sigh. “And now you know all that the priests know or guess.”
“Why was I not told this before?” Greylock demanded. The story explained much. Godshome was not just a frigid legend but the giant gate to another land. The Gateway did not end at the snows of the High Plateau but journeyed through the rock of the mountain. It explained the purpose of a civilization perched in the lap of a glacier.
“As Tyrant, you have always had a right to this information, Greylock.”
“But you did not wish to tell me of this right until it suited your purpose?”
Keyholder looked hurt at the accusation. “We wanted to be sure that you were truly the Deliverer, and needed to know.”
“Why was I chosen, Keyholder? And by whom?”
“By the gods, and because you are the Deliverer,” Keyholder shrugged, and the Tyrant saw that his old teacher was lapsing back into a cryptic way of answering questions. He would not get much more information from the old man, he knew, from his experiences as a student. The Gatekeeper had told him all he intended to tell.
“If what you have told me is true, then I must find a way through Godshome,” Greylock mused unhappily. “I have already tried to trace a route. It is impossible. The way is blocked.”
“I would help you if I could, Greylock, but I do not have the answer. Study the ancient books. Perhaps you will find something that we could not.”
Greylock sighed and pulled the stack of parchment over the table towards him. He was so fascinated by the new knowledge that he did not look up until Keyholder coughed at his ear. It could have been only minutes, or it could have been hours later.
The old priest seemed unsure of himself, even to be fighting the urge to speak.
“What is it, Keyholder? I have to know.”
“I hesitate to tell you, Greylock, because it may mean your death.”
“Tell me!”
“The prophecy of the Deliverer details two journeys into the Holy Hierarchy of Tiers,” Keyholder said, reluctantly. “Just as the Deliverer was to descend into the Underworld and return alive, so too was he to ascend Godshome. Thus would the Deliverer know and save all the Three Tiers of Existence and lead their peoples to the Homeland.”
Chapter Nine
Greylock scrambled up the narrow ledge and looked back down the mountain. Already he had climbed higher up the face of Godshome than he had ever attempted before. The snowcastles and icetowers of the High Plateau were completely obscured by the clouds, and the vista seemed
deserted in all directions. Mists drifted under him and above him, and he was exhilarated by the danger of the climb and an anticipation of what he might find.
He decided to rest for a few moments on this secure ledge, for he doubted he would find another further up the mountain. He put his talons, the two claws of horn he used to clutch the cliff, into his belt.
Soon he would have to choose which of the three peaks to attempt first, for he thought it possible that he might have to try all three. If he found nothing on one, he would have to try the other.
Such a climb as he was contemplating, even the climb he had so far completed, would have been nearly impossible for any other man, but Greylock was confident of his ability. Besides, he thought, every other man who had come up here had been old or sick. Greylock could not recall any young fit men attempting the climb, only those forced by their age or health to seek the comfort of the gods. Of course none had returned! How could anyone survive if one did not try?
Greylock considered the higher summits of the mountain to be easier to scale than the ones he had just covered. But there remained the troubling clouds that obscured the very summit of the mountain, and which had never parted for the eyes of man. The Tyrant guessed them to be bare, windswept rock, like those upper reaches that could be seen.
Greylock was confident on bare rock. On the face of a cliff his climbing skills and feel for the lay of the stone came into play. He knew instinctively where the holds lay and which rocks would give way to his weight.
No, the sheer rock of the peaks did not frighten him. But the treacherous snows did, and they would continue to be a danger at these lower elevations. At any point, snow could come cascading down on top of him, jarring him from his ever tenuous hold on the cliff.
Greylock’s one boon was that ever since he had decided that this pilgrimage was necessary, the nightmares and headaches had left him. He sensed that as long as he followed this course he would sleep soundly.
His greatest bane was his worry over Mara. Since they had married, and since her grandfather had left the High Plateau, she had objected to his every absence. Every journey to Castle Priest had caused arguments to erupt between them. And now he was leaving her with no assurance that he would ever return. It had been almost too much for her to endure.
Mara had insisted on coming along, but Greylock had told her that this was impossible. He alone had very little chance of making the climb, but he knew that with her along there would be no chance. When he was honest with himself, he knew that he was the best climber of his generation, in a land where that skill was highly valued. But he doubted he would survive.
The Tyrant knew that Mara would be honored, no matter what happened, for her role in the battle on the glacier. She would not want while she lived, he thought, no matter who was Tyrant. Still, he carried her face in his mind as he faced the walls of Godshome, and her worried expression, as he imagined it, created a cautiousness in his movements that was not usual.
Her last words had been a threat to leave the High Plateau and search for old Moag. Then she had broken down and run from him crying. He knew that she would be waiting.
The new steward, Kalwyn, had also objected strenuously to his leaving.
“But what if the army of King Kasid comes?” he had cried in alarm. Greylock could not blame the young man for being concerned, but he had explained that nothing could stop him, and the steward had been forced to accept it.
“Make what preparations you can, Kalwyn,” he had said. “I will return as soon as I can. Until then, you will have to do the best you can.”
The mountain trembled beneath him, and snow showered down on him, almost knocking him from the ledge. The tremors had resumed, he realized, after a short lull. “Godshome awakes!” the Wyrr had warned, and Greylock could not help but remember the many tales of catastrophe that had come down to them.
Greylock took a last mental picture of the High Plateau, burning the image in his mind. Then he began to slowly ascend into the clouds.
He saw the storm developing long before it reached him. Before he had started on his journey, he had estimated that he would not be able to finish his climb before at least one storm caught up with him. This had been his major worry, and he considered it his greatest danger.
Long before the first gales of the storm had reached him, he had found a narrow, deep crevice and had crawled into it to the rear. He forced his talons into the walls and made sure that they were tied securely to his arms. He tied his body to them as well, in case his grip on them should be lost. Then he settled back and waited for the storm, which looked to be a big one, to pass.
He woke the next morning to find himself still nestled comfortably in his little shelter. Despite the constriction, he had slept well, for the whistling winds had eventually lulled him. The entrance to the crevice was almost filled with new powder, he saw, but no flakes had reached him. The snow had effectively kept the heat from his body within the crevice, and Greylock was almost reluctant to stir.
He brushed the snowdrift away finally and peered out. The sky was clear, bluer than he could ever remember seeing it. But it was piercing cold, and he shivered uncontrollably for the first half-hour of his morning climb. The new snow made the threat of an avalanche even more dangerous, and he forced himself to climb slowly.
By evening, when Greylock looked up for a final survey of the mountain, it seemed to him that he had made little progress. The summit seemed no nearer than it had that morning. Already the air was growing rare, and yet he was not yet halfway up the stone face. Greylock wondered if it would be possible to breathe at all at such a height.
The snow and ice had crusted almost permanently to his hair and clothes, and he shook them off, cracking the ice where he could find some flexibility. As his eyes followed the lumps of snow as they flaked off into the air, he realized that he had indeed climbed far that day, for the High Plateau was now no more than a minor glacier, one of many covering the mountain.
He was too tired to find a secure place to sleep, and as night fell he chastised himself for letting himself be caught out in the open. Such a situation was exactly what he had admonished himself to avoid before he had started out. But he did not have the energy to search. If a storm happened along that night he was finished.
He was just beginning to realize that his thinking was becoming distorted by the height, the cold, the thin air, and his own exhaustion. But this recognition did not take on much significance because of that very distortion.
The next day’s climb was like a dream, and he knew in the back of his mind that he was fortunate that the weather remained mild, that the one severe storm had occurred while he was still at a relatively low height. He moved sluggishly, his hands and feet automatically and instinctively finding their holds in the stone. By night, he did not think he could have covered more than a few hundred yards.
Still, his mind was at last beginning to learn how it could pierce the fog that was enveloping it, just as his view was being obscured by strangely warm mists. By concentrating solely on his next step, and his next thought, he managed to make some progress. He actually went further the next day than he had the day before, and over rougher terrain. Several times he slipped, and he realized dimly that he had barely avoided plunging to his death. But it had no significance to him. All that filled his mind was the next step, and the larger determination to reach the top.
As his third night on Godshome neared, and the light grew treacherously flat, Greylock looked for another place to spend the dark, cold hours. In the late afternoon a pushing wind had threatened constantly to blow him off the cliff, and he knew that another storm approached.
He did not have far to go. As he surmounted another rocky, icy ledge he spotted the mouth of a cave, set at the very center of the cliff. Curious, he worked his way over to it. The cave had not become visible until he was almost level with it. From below, he knew, even from the base of the High Plateau, it could not be seen, nor had he ever heard anyone ta
lk of it. Which meant he was already higher than anyone could see from below, he realized with a shock. For centuries this gaping split in the gray rock face of the middle peak had lain concealed by the snow, the clouds, and the rock ledges.
Greylock did not think this out. To do so would have required too much of his precious energy. Instead, he was moving gratefully toward it, vaguely amazed at the way he thought he would spend every bit of his energy on the next step, only to find still more reserves for the next step. Fortunately, the ledge he was already on continued straight toward the cave. He crawled into the black hold, and had barely stretched out before he was asleep.
When he once again began his upward journey, he was well rested, though the suffocating lack of oxygen—which he had almost convinced himself that he was used to—struck him with redoubled force. The wind soon froze his exposed flesh numb, and he began to fear that the feeling would not come back. There was no comfort in the lack of feeling, in the escape from the pain of cold. He grew accustomed to checking to see if, in fact, his fingers were clutching the crevice, and that his feet had found the purchase in the rock he meant them to. This constant distrust of his own movements slowed him down even further, though he also needed the brief stops to catch his breath.
He could see no further than a few feet away, for the constant snow flurries swirled around him and blinded him. He soon lost all measure of how far he had come or how far he still had to go. The immense drop he knew to be below him was obscured by the mists, and created in his mind a misleading sense of security. He did not dare stop even when it grew dark, and he continued on, by feel alone sometimes for the cloud cover suffused the light of the moon. He felt instead that he could have simply stepped through the carpet of clouds, to fall forever. He knew that if he stopped climbing for even a moment, he would not be able to gather the strength and resolve to start up again.
He reached the top of the cliff before he was really aware that the end was near. A gentle slope of snow continued upward, so he knew that he had not reached the summit. He hurried onto the ice flow in gratitude, happy to be away from the yawning drop at last, for the fall had been preying on his mind from the first moments of his climb. Only now did he feel safe, and though it was just as cold and windy as before, and the air was thinner, he found new energy to keep climbing.
Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 20