Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

by Stephen Lawhead

  Jaire left quietly, and the lights dimmed as the door whished once again, leaving Treet in the soft light from the oval window. He closed his eyes. Yes, it felt good to rest. He would doze for just a moment before getting up.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The moment must have been a long one, for when he awoke again, the sky through the little oval window showed steel-blue dusk. He felt better than when he woke up the first time, so raised his head slowly from the table. The movement made him slightly woozy, but it passed almost immediately and Treet swung his legs over the edge of the table and stood up, draping the coverlet over one shoulder like a toga.

  He tiptoed to the window and looked out. From his vantage point he surmised that he was in a Fieri airship, flying eastward at an altitude of about a thousand meters. It confirmed what he already knew to be true—that they had been rescued from the desert at the point of death by the Fieri and were now en route to the Fieri settlement.

  Below, he could see a slice of landscape—not oyster white and dry as bone, but dark green and lush, and not the washed-out green of the hill country either—fertile looking, with gently mounded hills and shallow valleys filled with small round-topped trees. The silver-blue threadwork of a river wriggled beneath the airship as it pushed its way through the lowlands. The rest was cloudless sky, sinking into twilight.

  Treet heard the door slide open behind him and tightened his hold on the folds of his improvised toga. He turned to meet Jaire, standing in the doorway. “You are up, Orion. Good. Bohm thought you would be.” She held out her arms, and he saw that she carried clothing. “I brought these for you to wear.” She stepped closer, placing the bundle on the table. “When you are dressed, come out. I want to show you something.”

  “Thank you.” Treet nodded. “I will.”

  He stared at the place she had stood long after she had gone. There was a woman worth getting to know on more intimate terms, he thought. I should be so lucky.

  He shrugged off the toga and sorted through the pile of clothing she’d brought for him. There was a pair of loose-fitting underwear which he donned at once, and a pair of trousers of a softspun, loosely woven material, sandy colored, with a voluminous, three-quarter sleeved shirt to match. He put on the trousers, the pantlegs of which stopped well short of his calves, and then tried the shirt, discovering that it had no buttons. The next item from the pile was a wide, plum-colored sash. He took the shirttails and overlapped them around his waist—noticing that he’d lost every ounce of the life-support system he’d carried with him for the last thirty years—stuck the tails into his trousers and tied the whole works with the sash.

  Next he perched on the edge of the table and drew on high boots, dove-gray in color, and made of a canvassy material. He pulled the corded laces tight and wrapped them around the top of the boots, stuffing the few centimeters of pantleg into the boot tops before tying the laces just below the knees. He stood, bounced on his heels a few times to get the feel of his boots, and decided he was ready to join the human race again.

  He approached the door and put out a hand, only to have the thing slide open of its own accord. He stepped through to meet Jaire, waiting for him with her back turned, leaning a graceful hip against a rail. She tossed him a glance over her shoulder as he moved to the rail and saw that they were on a circular balcony overlooking a large, circular room. At intervals, short flights of stairs joined the balcony from below, where three male Fieri—each dressed similarly to Treet, except for the fact that they wore their shirttails out—engaged in various tasks related to flying the airship.

  “Come with me,” Jaire said, moving off along the rail. “How do you feel?”

  “Much better,” Treet said, taken aback by the grating rasp of his voice. “Though I sure don’t sound like it.”

  “Bohm says that will pass.” She put a hand to his elbow and led him around the circular railing to a bank of windows which curved both above and below the balcony, following the contour of the bulb-shaped nose of the craft.

  “This is my favorite way to see Fierra,” explained Jaire, “at dusk, just as the light of the city begins.” They stopped at the first window. “See?” She indicated the view with a sweep of her hand. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Beautiful was not a strong enough word for it. Enchanting, was closer. Below them, unfolding as the airship descended slowly toward it, was a vast, gleaming city, winking like crystal in its own light. Treet’s first impression was of an entire plain sprung up with sparkling faerie castles, or of a glowing cathedral stretching endlessly for kilometers in every direction. It was a city of light—like nothing he’d ever seen, except perhaps in a dream.

  He’d had the idea—from something he’d read in Feodr Rumon’s Interpretive Chronicles, most likely—that the settlement of the Fieri was a simple encampment of mud huts or skin tents, more a wide place in the wilderness than an actual walls-and- pavement city. But this … this vision of splendor was simply beyond all expectation or imagining.

  The airship swung closer, and Treet saw tall, freestanding towers with spires like needles, their points glowing like fiberoptic threads. He saw the sweeping arches of numerous bridges spanning a river that flowed through the city to merge with an enormous, shining lake—shining because fully half the city appeared to be built right out over the water. The mirrored surface glittered with golden light from wings and causeways stretching between luminous mansions. The jetties connecting these floating palaces were so numerous that they formed a glittering webwork—nets of light flung out over the royal-blue deep.

  There were pavilions and courts and halls, groves and gardens and bright arcades joining plazas and parks. Meandering, tree-lined avenues wound through expansive residential districts whose dwellings radiated soft rosy light from high round domes.

  Treet’s eyes blinked in a prolonged visual gasp as his mind sought words to describe what he saw. Then they were descending to a great square marked by rows of blazing pylons. Floodlights played over the spherical shapes of airships anchored in a hollow square formation.

  Treet became aware of the voices of the airship’s pilots as they communicated with the ground crew. Their forward progress halted, and the ship slid down vertically to its berth. The pylons rose up; the airship hovered, then kissed the ground … once … twice … coming to rest like thistledown upon a new-shaven lawn.

  “What do you think of Fierra?” asked Jaire, regarding him with bright, amused eyes.

  “I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven,” replied Treet in an awed whisper. “It’s totally … unbelievable!”

  His answer pleased her, he could tell. He was properly impressed and didn’t mind letting her know. She smiled, took his elbow, and guided him away from the window toward the nearest ramp of stairs.

  Bohm met them at the railing, beaming with keen intensity. “You look well, considering your test,” he said. “I would easily mistake you for one of us—a Mentor, perhaps. Still, I hope you won’t mind being noticed.”

  “Will I be noticed then?” asked Treet, catching an undercurrent of meaning in the old man’s words.

  “Most certainly you will be noticed. I have communicated with the Mentors. They are most anxious to greet you personally.” He paused, waiting for Treet’s reaction. When it was not forthcoming, he hurried on. “But all that can wait until you are feeling up to it. You and your companions are to be our guests, Orion Treet. I ask only that you recuperate and enjoy Fierra.”

  “I am in your debt.” He turned toward Jaire and said, “I think I would recuperate much faster if I had someone to show me your impressive city.”

  “My father has already requested the honor,” she said, linking her arm in his. “I will take you to my parents’ pavilion on the lake—that is, if you wish.”

  “I wish.” Treet smiled, then remembered his neglected companions. “Unless, of course, my friends and I would be too—”

  “I have made separate arrangements for your friends,” interrupted Bohm. �
��You are not to worry about them. They will be well cared for.”

  “Yes, I’m certain of it,” agreed Treet. “It’s just that I haven’t seen them since we were rescued. I ought to check on them at least. Where are they?”

  “Come with me,” said Bohm, already leading the way. “If it will help ease your mind, I think you should see them.”

  One by one, Bohm led Treet into small rooms along the circular balcony. Each room had a padded table like the one Treet had awakened on, and the same conical hood above, making the same crackly static sound over the inert body of one of his companions. All were peacefully asleep—Pizzle was even snoring—and all appeared none the worse for being dragged bodily back from the very threshold of death’s dark and silent gate.

  The sight of Yarden comatose on the table sent a pang of guilt through his midsection.

  “I hate to leave them,” said Treet as he crept from her side. “Maybe I should wait until they wake up and we can talk about this.”

  “If you prefer,” said Bohm. “But that really isn’t necessary. Besides, it could be several hours before they respond.” He gave Treet a fatherly pat on the arm. “Please, allow me to take care of them for you. Go with Jaire, and do not concern yourself about their welfare.”

  Treet hesitated, but there was no reason to doubt Bohm’s word. “All right, I’ll leave them with you for the night.”

  “I will send word to you tomorrow about when you can all be together.” Bohm ushered them down the stairs through the airship’s command station, through an open hatchway, and down a short ramp to the landing field. The gigantic spheres of Fieri airships, looking like colossal mushrooms, each one tethered to a pylon, met his gaze as he set foot on the grassy field. “Good night, Wanderer. May you find in Fierra all that you are looking for.”

  “Good night. And thank you … thank you for saving my life,” said Treet as Jaire took him into the softly glowing night.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  “I think I’m going to like it here,” said Treet. He and Jaire were riding along the wide boulevards of Fierra in a low, driverless two-seater which had met them at the airfield. Jaire had pressed a code into an alphanumeric pad and off they went, cruising silently through the city, guided by the vehicle’s internal navigator.

  Everywhere Treet looked he saw handsome people, some in silent cars like the one he and Jaire were riding in, but most afoot, going in and out of the glowing, dreamlike buildings, or thronging the generous walkways. Treet did not know which impressed him most—the Fieri or their architecture.

  The people were on the whole tall and statuesque, with well-proportioned limbs and torsos, graceful in movement and aspect, their features fairly formed and expressive. In general appearance, they resembled the ancient Etruscan sculpture Treet had become enraptured with as a student—gods come to life. The women possessed a willowy feminine allure that complemented the unadorned masculine vigor of the men. A more elegant race would be hard to find anywhere.

  The architecture, on the other hand, was equally attractive in its own way. Whether clustered together in metropolitan communion, or standing alone on a favored acre, the buildings were individual works of art—given to upsweeping lines and simple, flowing curves, subtle tapers and clean edges. Apparently the Fieri were fascinated with spires, for nearly every structure possessed at least one, and usually more than one of the blade-thin towers. The effect was of an entire city straining heavenward, poised for imminent flight to the stars.

  Most arresting, however, was the fact that the buildings themselves glowed. They were not transparently luminous, like some type of exotic glasswork, for the buildings appeared solid enough; but those same solid surfaces gave off soft, steady light. Most of the Fieri habitations radiated a subdued rose-colored glow, but others shone topaz, pearl, and marbled blue and green, richer than the rarest peacock opal.

  “What makes the buildings glow like that?” asked Treet, waving his hand toward a block of lambent residences. “Some kind of stone?”

  “You’re very astute,” replied Jaire. “We use sunstone from the Light Mountains in the north. Nearly everything in Fierra is made of sunstone.”

  “It certainly creates an effect.”

  The car whisked them along through the city toward the lake—now crawling slowly through heavier traffic, now speeding over seamless causeways, the sponge-vinyl tires whispering on the pavement, the wind cool on their faces as it swirled around the low windscreen. The sky overhead faintly gleamed with a lucent luster—a ghostly aurora of reflected glory—making the night seem alive.

  Treet took it all in—as much as he was able—in silence, too dazzled to speak, letting the panorama unfold around him as he moved through it until he was almost drunk with wonder. The alien beauty of the place made his head swim, and he sopped it up greedily. Soon, though, he felt his eyelids growing heavy as sleep snuck up to overtake him. He struggled to stay awake, but the long days in the desert had eroded his strength, and he had reached the end of his endurance for the day. Finally he let his head flop loosely on his chest and sank into sense-numbing slumber.

  He was still asleep when they reached their destination: a spacious pavilion built on stilts over the lake, connected to the shore by a wide, curving jetty which served neighboring pavilions as well. The car crept to a halt in front of Jaire’s parents’ pavilion, and they were greeted by a slender young man who looked enough like Jaire to be her twin. Treet roused himself just enough to help them bundle him from the car and into the house.

  He walked mechanically through a brightly lit interior, the details of which were fogged with sleep, and allowed himself to be stretched out on a soft pallet in a dark room, one side of which was completely open to the lake. There he was left alone, and he soon drifted to his dreams once more.

  The sun had turned the lake to burnished platinum by the time Treet awoke. He stirred and sat up suddenly when he remembered where he was. He looked around at a large square room devoid of furniture except for the bed and a stand on which were hung several outfits of clothes like the one he wore. The walls were buff-colored with broad borders of cinnamon, textured with an indented pebble grain. Two facing walls bore a curious printed design: a triangle with wings outspread, glowing from its center, sending out rays that became tongues of fire. The same design was printed over the curtained door.

  A fresh breeze ruffled the loosely woven curtains at the open end of the room and flicked up small waves to lap against the pilings. Out on the silver-white water the curved scarlet sails of a sleek windrunner leaned into the breeze as the boat slashed through the water.

  Without thinking about it, Treet found himself leaning his elbows on a balustrade on the walkway outside his room, staring out over the lake. The shoreline stretched in a long scimitar sweep into the distance; he could not see the opposite shore from where he stood, but reasoned that the body of water before him was more inland sea than lake. The air smelled fresh and clean, and Treet detected the citrus scent of orange blossoms.

  His stomach growled, and he realized he had eaten nothing for quite some time—nothing that he could remember anyway. So he moved off along the balustrade in search of some nourishment. At intervals above him were balconies with canopies affixed to crossed poles. No one appeared on any of the balconies as he passed by.

  Treet reached the far side of the great house and turned the corner, continued on along a blank, sun-baked wall, turned again to pass through a breezeway between two freestanding wings of the house. A walkway joined the upper stories. He walked twenty paces and entered a huge courtyard, covered by a bright yellow canopy.

  There Treet stopped. The pavilion was built around the courtyard, and it was easy to see that it was indeed the centerpiece. Rooms opened directly onto it from every quarter, both on the house’s upper and lower levels. Every square meter of the courtyard was filled with plants of the most outlandish varieties. The yard was a veritable jungle of exotic vegetation: all in shades of deep blue-green, with waxy l
eaves and spiraling, fleshy-podded tendrils and wild iridescent flowers.

  The canopy overhead formed a lemon-tinted sky and was made of the same open-weave cloth as the floor-length curtains in his room, allowing the sun’s rays to fall through the loose pattern of the weave. It rippled like a parachute in the breeze off the lake, causing hot, bright spots of sunlight to flitter like phosphorescent butterflies over the plants and shrubs and painted floor tiles of the courtyard.

  Treet gazed at the lush profusion around him and took a step forward, nearly treading on the tail of a creature which at first glance appeared to be the largest black leopard in captivity. The animal turned its massive head toward him, winked huge green eyes, and lazily withdrew paws the size of dinner plates. It yawned at him, showing a furrowed pink tongue and a double row of shining white triangular teeth like shark’s teeth, then slid down to lie on its lightly spotted stomach, stretching muscled legs out into the greenery, effectively blocking the pathway beyond.

  Taking a long, slow step backward, Treet attempted to remove himself from the animal’s presence. He backed two paces and bumped against something that felt like a fur-covered fireplug. Looking down, he discovered another creature identical to the one directly in front of him. This second one raised a paw and took a swat at him, missing by only millimeters. Before he could dodge away, the next swipe hit his thigh and spun him around and down. The great leopard thing grinned at him and put its head forward, licking velvet lips.

  “Hsoo!” Jaire shouted from the upper gallery. Treet glanced up to see her staring down, hands on hips. “What do you think you’re doing? Let him up at once. He’s a guest!” She dashed for a stairway.

  The giant panther cocked its head and came closer to nuzzle his prize, sniffing Treet indiscreetly. “Hey!” cried Treet involuntarily. The next thing he knew he was being licked in two directions at once—one beast slurping left to right, the other right to left. “Hey-y-y!”