by Robyn Miller
“What, never?” the boy asked, wide-eyed.
“Never,” Aitrus said, smiling patiently.
Gehn frowned, considering that, then looked back up at his father. “But how will we find our way back to D’ni?”
Aitrus took his notebook from his pocket and opened it. Inside, between the tanned leather covers, were page after page of maps and diagrams. Aitrus flicked through it for a while, then, coming to the page, turned the notebook so that Gehn could see.
“Look, Gehn. Here is a map of the tunnels. I have been making notes as we went along. We need only trace our way back.”
It seemed to satisfy the boy. He grinned, then went across to his mother, who stood beneath one of the great machines. She put her arm about him, then looked back at Aitrus.
“When I first saw these, I was convinced that whoever had made them must be long dead, for what kind of race would make such wonderful machines then leave them in the rock?”
Aitrus smiled then walked across to her. “Was it this one that you climbed?”
She nodded.
“You climbed it, Mama?” Gehn asked, looking up at his mother in wide-eyed wonder.
“I did. And then I walked down into D’ni. Only I did not know it was D’ni. Not until long after.”
They went through the gap, Anna leading the way, Gehn close behind. Reaching the pocket, Aitrus lit the lantern again. He knew what lay ahead—Anna had already told him—but now they were so close, he felt a strange excitement. How many years now had he waited for this?
Fifty years, at least.
Anna was first to climb down. At the bottom she turned, reaching up to take Gehn as Aitrus let him down. Then they were in the cavern, where it had first began for Anna, all those years ago. She looked to him.
“It hasn’t changed.”
They went on, climbing up into the tunnel and along, until the three of them stood before the rock fall.
Aitrus set the timer, then took them back to a safe distance. There was a huge bang. The whole tunnel shuddered. As the smoke cleared, Anna picked Gehn up and, following Aitrus, walked through, stepping over the rubble.
It was night. A full moon rested like a shining disk of silver in the center of the blue-black velvet sky. Surrounding it, a billion flickering stars shone down.
Aitrus stood there at the entrance to the tunnel, staring up at the moon. Beside him, Anna held Gehn against her side, her face close to his, and pointed.
“Look, Gehn. That’s the moon.”
“Moon,” he said, snuggling in to her, tired now.
Anna smiled then turned her head, looking to Aitrus. He met her eyes and smiled.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand, “let’s find the Lodge.”
THEY SAT ON THE LEDGE OF THE OPEN WINDOW, looking out across the narrow bridge toward the desert. Gehn was asleep in the room behind them.
Anna listened a moment, then smiled. Aitrus sat just behind her, his arms about her, his chin resting on the top of her head. It had been her secret dream to bring him here and sit with him like this, yet now that it was real it seemed more dreamlike than the dream—a moment wholly out of time. She pressed back against him and felt his arms tighten about her.
“Do you still miss him?” he asked softly.
“Sometimes.”
She half-turned her head, looking back at him. “He speaks to me sometimes. In my head.”
Aitrus smiled, but she could see he only half-believed her, or maybe thought she meant that she thought of her father and remembered his words. But it was true what she said.
She felt Aitrus sigh, a sigh of pure contentment, and turned back, letting her eyes go to the descending moon once more, the smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.
“Ti’ana?”
“Hmm?” she answered lazily.
“I know how much you loved your father, and how much you owed to him, but … well, what of your mother? You never speak of her.”
“No.”
Even the thought of it brought back the pain.
“Ti’ana?” Aitrus sat forward.
“It’s all right,” she said.
She began again, hunching forward as she spoke, letting the words come haltingly. “It was an accident. We were climbing. In the mountains to the south of here. My father had gone up the cliff face first, and I had followed. Mother was last, all three of us tied on the same rope. Father had walked on a little way, to inspect the cliffs we had glimpsed from below. That was why we were there, you see. We were always exploring.”
Anna stopped, catching her breath. Again she saw it, vividly, as if it had happened not thirty-five years ago but yesterday—the staring eyes, the mouth open in surprise.
Anna collected herself, then carried on. “The difficult part of the climb was behind her and she was only six or eight feet from the edge. I could almost have put out a hand and hauled her up. She was smiling. And then her foot slipped. It ought not to have mattered. The rope ought to have held her. I felt a momentary tension on it, then it went, like a rotten vine. And next thing she was falling. And not a sound—just her eyes looking back at me, her mouth open in surprise.
“Father blamed himself, of course. He should have checked the rope, he kept saying, but I could see that he was devastated.”
Aitrus was silent a while. “I am sorry, Ti’ana. I did not know. I should not have asked.”
She turned to face him, kneeling on the ledge. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was smiling tenderly now. She reached out, her hands gently holding his cheeks. “No, Aitrus. You of all people should have known. We should have no secrets, you and I.”
She kissed him then; softly, tenderly, her eyes shining in the moonlight. And as they broke from the kiss, his eyes were wide with wonder.
GEHN WOKE HIM, SHAKING HIM AWAKE. SUNLIGHT blazed in from the room at the front of the Lodge, so strong it stabbed into his pupils, making him shield his eyes then feel about him for his glasses.
“Mama’s gone!” Gehn was saying. “Mama’s gone!”
Aitrus pulled on the glasses, then sat up, putting out his arms to hold the frightened boy. “No, Gehn. She will be back. I promise you.”
But Gehn was sobbing uncontrollably at the thought that he had lost his mother. Aitrus held Gehn tightly until the crying subsided, then, picking him up, he carried him out, through the room at the front until they stood in the doorway, looking out over the valley.
The heat surprised him. It could not be more than an hour since dawn, yet already it was far hotter than the hottest day on Gemedet or Ko’ah. He recalled what Anna had said about the heat; how it was the single factor that determined life here. It was not something he would have written into an Age, but someone, the Grand Master who had written the Book of Earth, had thought of it, and created the conditions for such extremes of cold and heat.
Gehn had fallen silent, yet he still clung to his father’s neck as if his life depended on it. Aitrus looked at him and smiled.
“You want a drink, Gehn?”
Gehn nodded.
Aitrus took him back inside, setting him gently down on the window ledge while he poured him a goblet of cool, clear water from the jug Anna had filled the night before.
Turning, he saw how Gehn was staring about him. “Where are we?” he asked, taking the water gratefully.
“This is where your mother lived when she was young,” he answered. “This is where she grew up, with her father.”
“Here?” Gehn seemed astonished. “But where are the Books?”
Aitrus laughed. “These people are human. They are not like the D’ni. They do not have Books and Ages. This is all they have.”
Gehn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked up at Aitrus. “But how could they live with just this?”
Aitrus looked about him. To be honest, he had asked himself the very same question. Now that he had seen the Lodge, he wondered how Anna had survived out here.
“They made do,” he answered, finally. Yet even as he sa
id it he heard Anna’s voice. She was singing. A song he had never heard before, in a tongue he did not know.
Quickly he joined Gehn at the window, in time to see Anna come over the crest of the hill, a small cart pushed before her. She was wearing a black cloak trimmed with red, the hood of which was up over her head. Seeing them, she waved, then came on again, finishing her song.
Aitrus went out onto the bridge, Gehn beside him. The heat was fierce but not yet overpowering. As Anna came up onto the bridge, she smiled and held out something for Gehn to take. He ran to her and took the strange box, then scuttled back inside, into the shade. Anna pulled back her hood, then stepped up to Aitrus.
“You should wear something on your head,” she said, touching his brow. “Ten minutes in this and you will get sun-stroke.”
“Sunstroke?” He did not understand her.
“The heat,” she said. “It will affect your brain. You will collapse and be ill.”
“You are jesting with me,” he said, smiling, as if he understood she was joking, but she was not smiling.
“It is very dangerous out here,” she said simply. “Both you and Gehn must keep covered up as much as possible. The desert sun is unforgiving.”
He nodded, then. “Where have you been? And that cart …”
Anna half-turned, looking across at the cart, then she turned back to Aitrus. “I went to get it. It had all my books and journals on it. And other things. Fortunately I hid it well, and the desert did the rest. It was untouched, as if I’d left it yesterday.”
“And that song. What was that?”
Anna smiled. “Did you like it?” She quickly sang a verse. “It’s something my mother taught me. I could not sing it before. But now …” Again she smiled, then took his arm, leading him back into the shadows of the Lodge.
As they came into the main room, Gehn looked up at them, his eyes wide. “What is this game?” he asked, pointing to the checkered board, the black and white pieces that were laid out beside it.
“It is called chess,” she said, squatting beside him. “My father taught me how to play, and I shall teach you.”
Gehn beamed. “So I am not going to go to the Guild Hall after all?”
Anna looked down. “No, Gehn. You must go. But not yet. We will stay here for a few days, yes? Just you and I and Father.”
Gehn looked away a moment, struggling with his disappointment, then he nodded and, turning back to Anna, picked up the white queen. “So what is this piece and what does it do?”
“THINBLOOD …”
“Who-man …”
“No-dunny …”
The whispers surrounded Gehn in the darkness of the dormitory; endless, taunting whispers that filled the lonely nights. Gehn lay there, facing the bare stone wall, the knuckles of his right hand pressed into his mouth, trying to shut it all out, but still the whispers came.
The mattress was too thin beneath him, the blankets rough and scratchy. But worst of all was the sense of abandonment that came each evening as the great door to the dormitory was closed and absolute darkness fell.
It was awful. More awful than he had ever thought possible. They had heard him crying the first few nights and had laughed at him for it. And then the whispers had begun, playing upon his fears and insecurity, making his life even more of a misery than it already was.
At home he was used to his own room, his own smooth sheets and blankets. There, a night-light rested in the corner, warm and reassuring. And he knew that his mother was always there, next door, in case bad dreams came and disturbed his sleep. But here there was nothing. Nothing but the darkness and the endless hurtful whispers.
Why had they done this to him? Why? Had he been bad? If so, he could not remember what it was that he had done. Or did they no longer love him? For to leave him here, among these awful, spiteful boys, was surely some kind of punishment.
He could remember his father’s face, unnaturally stern, as he spoke to him the night before he had come here.
“You must be brave, Gehn. It is the D’ni way. It might seem hard at first, but you will get used to it, I promise you.”
So much for promises. But the worst had been the parting from his mother. He had kicked and screamed, refusing to go with them, so that eventually they had had to pick him up and carry him to the waiting carriage.
That had been two weeks ago now. Two weeks of endless homesickness, and the torment of the nights.
Yet even as the whispers multiplied, Gehn found himself thinking of the lesson earlier that day. He had begun to think himself a fool; had begun to believe that the boys were right when they called him “No-dunny” and said he had sand in his head instead of brains. But today he had begun to understand what he was doing here, for today he had seen Master Urren.
Gehn was taught in a group of eight, the eldest aged seven, the youngest himself. Most of it was basic, the kind of stuff his mother had taught him back at home, but some was specific stuff about ink and writing; today’s lecture in particular.
Master Urren, the visiting tutor from the Guild of Ink-Makers, was a big, ungainly, birdlike man, with a long, thin face and huge bushy eyebrows that seemed to form a continuous line across his upper face. He had the habit of staring into the air as he spoke, as if in a trance, then looking directly at one or other of his pupils, startling them. But it was not this habit but his words that had woken Gehn this morning.
With his eyes closed, Gehn could see Master Urren now, his right hand clenched into a fist as he spoke the Ink-Maker’s litany.
“What binds the Word to the World? The Ink!
“What burns the bridge between the Ages? The Ink!
“What forms the living darkness between two lights? The Ink!”
Then, to the astonishment of them all, he had brought out a great tub of ink—lifting a handful of the fine dark granules so that they could see.
“The manufacture of this is a secret. A very grave and great secret, like the secret of the paper, which in time each of you will learn. But you must first prove yourself worthy to be trusted with such a secret, for the making of these two things is the key to immense power—the power to make worlds!”
And there was more, the words issuing thunderously from Urren’s lips, so that Gehn had found himself staring at the guildsman openmouthed, amazed by the power of the words. This, he realized, was what his father had been talking about. This was what it meant to be a guildsman. Until that moment he had thought it a senseless thing to want to be, but suddenly, in one single, blazing moment, he understood.
Gehn turned and lay upon his back, letting his hand fall onto his chest. The whispers had stopped now. Soft snoring filled the silent darkness of the narrow room.
Secrets. He was to be the heir to great and wonderful secrets. Twenty years it might take, but then he would know, as Master Urren knew, and maybe then his eyes would burn with that same ferocious knowledge, that same certainty.
Gehn shivered, then, wiping his hand across his face, formed the words silently in the darkness.
It is the D’ni way.
THE INK-WORKS WERE BURNING. GREAT FLAMES curled up into the darkness, lighting the roof of the cavern almost a mile overhead. Gehn stood on the stone ledge, staring out the window across the rooftops of the upper city. Surrounding him, his fellow students jostled to see, but he stood at the very front, both hands tightly grasping the great central bar of the paneless window, looking out across the dark toward the massive blaze.
They had heard the explosion twenty minutes back, but at the time they had not understood just what was happening. Now they knew. Someone had placed a bomb in the very middle of the Ink-Works. Many were dead. Many more were missing.
For the past eight weeks there had been incidents. Senior guildsmen had been mysteriously attacked. Offices had been ransacked. In the worst of the incidents, three Kortee’nea—blank Books—had gone missing, along with a whole stock of smaller Linking Books. The Maintainers had been placed on constant alert; no one knew
yet who was behind the outbreak.
And now this.
There was a shout in the corridor behind them. Gehn turned, along with the others, to see the Duty Master hurrying down the corridor toward them, his hands waving madly.
“Boys! Boys! Get down from there at once!”
They climbed down, obedient to their Guild Master, yet as Gehn went to walk away, he saw how the Master hung back at the window, staring out at the blaze, the glowing orange light reflected in his pale eyes, a look of pure fear etched in his face.
AITRUS DID NOT WAIT TO BE SUMMONED BUT went straight to the Guild House. All but two or three of the Emergency Council were already there, the others arriving very shortly after Aitrus. As Lord R’hira called the meeting to order, a Master from the Guild of Maintainers hurried in and, bowing to R’hira, gave him the latest report from the Ink-Works.
Fifteen had died. Another eight were missing. It was too early to know for certain, but it seemed that a large stock of ink had been taken.
“But how was this possible?” Master Jadaris asked, when his man had finished.
“Someone is linking to places throughout D’ni,” Guild Master Jerahl answered him. “Someone with special knowledge of the guilds.”
“Someone?” R’hira queried, looking about the table. “Or are there several miscreants? Look at the pattern of the attacks. Not one but six separate guilds have now been targeted. And who knows where they will strike next? The only thing these incidents have in common is that they know the intimate workings of the guilds. They know where we are vulnerable. They know precisely where to attack and when.”
“Veovis?”
All eyes turned to Aitrus, who had spoken the name.
“Impossible,” Jadaris said, after a moment. “He is more than safe where we have put him.”
“Is he?” Lord R’hira asked, leaning toward the Grand Master. “When did you last check on him?”
“Three weeks ago. After the first of these incidents.”
“But before the remainder, yes?”
Jadaris nodded. Then, shaking his head, “No. I refuse to believe it. But if my fellow guildsmen would like me to check?”