Five times they stretched the blanket, and five times lowered it. Then Hercol, studying the valley again, nodded his satisfaction. “The prince has understood… two, three, four-five! Well, there is something you’ll want to know. Five flashes means that the Chathrand is safely away.”
The relief was so great Pazel almost cried aloud.
“Wait! He is signaling again,” said Hercol. “… four, five, six, seven-” He lowered the telescope and looked at them. “Eight. Macadra’s ship is entering the Jaws of Masalym, even now.”
“Then he’s got to get out right now!” said Thasha.
“Can we tell him that?” said Pazel. “Do you have some way to tell him?”
Hercol shook his head. “Olik knows the danger better than we do,” he said. “But feed the fire all the same, boys. We must inform him that we ourselves mean to go on. And then hope that he flees instantly, now that there is no reason to keep searching the city. A noble prince! He kept his word to the folk of Masalym, despite the peril to himself.”
They raised and lowered the blanket several times more, and the light below them flickered twice, and Hercol said that it was the signal that Olik had understood. Then they sat down on the stony earth, waiting for their fire to die. The wind tossed Thasha’s hair about like a tattered flag. The light in the valley abruptly disappeared, as though snuffed, but the friends sat awhile longer in silence.
“I’m a mucking fool,” said Neeps suddenly.
“You are that,” said Thasha.
Neeps did not even look at her. “I’ve got nothing,” he said. “How am I supposed to take care of them? I should be hanged, is what.”
“Not every act of yours was foolish,” said Hercol. “You chose a Tholjassan for a mate: that counts for something. Tame your fear, Undrabust. Your child will find its way in the world.”
“My child,” said Neeps, as though the notion shocked him yet. “Do you know, there are times when my mind just seems to vanish? To go out like that fire down there. I can’t even think about what I’ll do when this is over. What the three of us will do.”
“See first that your future is not stolen from you,” said a voice from the darkness.
The humans started. It was the Master Teller. The old dlomu seemed to have just appeared there, conjured by the night, his cloak billowing about him. They could not see his face; only the silver eyes shone from beneath the hood.
“I warn you,” he said, “it is being stolen even now. We who read the signs have never beheld such a conjunction of ills. Alifros is bleeding; soon it will hemorrhage. And the wounding hand-it belongs to that mage who came before you. Who is he? Will you tell me his name?”
The others hesitated, and the Master Teller said, “I shall name him, then. He is the murderer of Ullimar, Ullum’s son. He is the Traitor of Idharin and the author of the White Curse; he is the father of the Ravens: Arunis.”
“You knew all along!” said Pazel.
“I did,” said the old man, “but you were quite unknown to me, and though you claimed friendship with our brother Prince Olik, I could not be sure. I feared you might in truth be part of the sorcerer’s company-especially as one among you bears a Plazic Blade. Now that that cursed thing is elsewhere I can better sense your goodness. Yes, I recognized Arunis Wytterscorm. Long have I traced the arc of his journeys, in the tremors of the earth, the grinding of her bones against one another. He has come back across the Ruling Sea to plague us again, this time bearing some horrible tool.”
“It is the Nilstone, Spider Father,” said Hercol.
The old man was very still. “That I did not know,” he said after a pause, “and worse tidings I cannot imagine. Arunis, with Erithusme’s orb! The death of this world has been his long, his passionate ambition. Now he has the power to bring that prize within reach.”
“He has aimed a cannon at Alifros,” said Hercol, “but we think he is still struggling with the match. Should he gain full control of the tol-chenni’s mind he will become invincible. That is why we are in such need of haste.”
“When the fishermen return you may bid them in my name to take you swiftly across the lake. But come, your fire is out, and this wind is too chilly for an old man.”
Pazel was glad to move; the night would be icy, and he too was growing cold. They walked back along the lakeshore. At Vasparhaven the green doors opened as they neared, and two novices came forward to assist the Master Teller.
The old man halted them with a wave, then looked sharply at Pazel. “You are quite sure that your arm is not in pain?” he asked.
Pazel, who had almost forgotten the spider bite, shook his head. “It wasn’t bad even at the time, to be honest. And there’s no pain at all now.” When the Teller continued to stare at him, he added nervously, “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“No,” said the dlomu, “I would not call it good, exactly. There are two sorts of reactions to the bite of the medet. One, as I said, is great pain; and that is usually to be preferred, for it passes after several hours. Those who suffer no pain feel cold instead. This begins about a day after the bite, and lasts for three.”
“Cold?” said Pazel, feeling chilled by the discussion alone. “And then?”
“Then the eyes shrivel, and the victim goes blind.”
The humans cried aloud, but the Teller quickly raised a hand. “There is a treatment, and I have asked my people to prepare it. But it must be given to you in Vasparhaven, Mr. Pathkendle. Are you willing to ascend?”
“Willing? I wish you’d told me hours ago! I don’t want to go blind!”
“I had to be certain that you were in no pain,” said the Teller, “and the cure must be given in three stages, over as many hours. It is just as well that you are delayed in crossing Ilvaspar.”
“Let us go with him, then, can’t you?” cried Neeps, who was if anything more distraught than Pazel himself.
The Master Teller shook his head. “Your friend must face this challenge alone. And even if that were not so, I would still be forced to turn away the bearer of Ildraquin. Yes, Hercol Stanapeth, I know your sword as well. It is not cursed, like the Plazic Knife your companion bears. Yet it is powerful, and would throw the quiet music of Vasparhaven into discord.” He looked at Thasha. “For the same reason, I cannot permit you to enter, young mage.”
“Mage?” said Thasha. “Father, I’m nothing of the kind! Some mage is-meddling with me, that’s all. I don’t know why she’s doing it, or how-”
“She?”
Thasha grew flustered. “Or… he, I suppose. The point is, I don’t have any magic of my own.”
“Be that as it may, the power within you is great,” said the Teller.
“Well, do get on with it, Father,” sputtered Neeps. “And please, please make sure he takes his medicine. Don’t turn your back until he drinks it all, and don’t let him spit it up again-”
“Neeps, for Rin’s sake!” cried Pazel. “Father, listen to me, please: if outside magic can do you harm, I should explain-”
“That you carry a Master-Word?” said the dlomu. “I know that, child. It would do great harm indeed, should you speak it within our walls. And I know too that you and your sister have been burdened with augmentation spells.”
He knows that Neda’s my sister, thought Pazel, his mind a-whirl. We didn’t even glance at each other in front of him.
“I trust you will not speak that Word,” the old dlomu continued, “and the language-charm you carry presents no danger, for its power does not extend beyond your mind.”
“Father,” said Thasha, “have you used this cure on human beings?”
The Master Teller looked at her with compassion. “I am old, daughter of the North, but not that old. The last human residents of Vasparhaven succumbed to the plague before I ever set foot in these mountains. Still, our ancient records describe the process clearly.” He put a hand on Pazel’s shoulder. “You must leave your knife and sword outside our walls, Mr. Pathkendle, common blades though they be. Let us go
, now.”
Pazel took a shaky breath. His friends’ eyes were wide with concern, but he forced himself to smile. “Don’t cross that lake without me,” he said, and passed them his knife and sword.
He followed the Master Teller inside, and the novices began to close the heavy doors. Once more the old man stopped them. Looking back at the humans outside, he said, “You may not understand, but this is an auspicious event. The medet is the creature at the heart of our ceremonies and our mystic arts. It is a rare distinction.”
“Getting bitten,” asked Thasha, looking anything but hopeful, “or going blind?”
“Either one,” said the Teller, drawing Pazel away.
Spider Telling
7 Modobrin 941
236th day from Etherhorde
Inside it was cold and dark, but the Master Teller was already climbing the wide staircase before them, and as Pazel and the novices followed him up the air began to warm. They passed several floors, with dark hallways tunneling off into the stone. Pazel saw lamplight at the distant ends of some of these halls, and heard the ring of hammers, the rasp of lathes and saws. “Our workshops,” said the old man, gesturing, “and our warehouses, our mill. In its younger days Vasparhaven was a stronghold where scholars took refuge in times of war or other catastrophe, and kept their learning alive for those who would come after. We are preparing to serve that function again.”
Pazel was distressed by his statement. How much could the old man sense about the world to come? Then, from above, he heard the sound of many voices raised in song-a low, lovely music, and the dread in his heart melted away.
“It is the hour of Evensong,” said the Master Teller. “The hour when we often welcomed guests, in happier years.”
The climb ended on a landing before two large and ornate doors, finished with padded leather of a deep, lustrous red. The novices stepped forward and pulled. Hinges groaned, and the doors swung slowly outward.
A blaze of candlelight met Pazel’s eyes, and a wave of sweet smells-apple blossom, cedar, cinnamon, fresh bread-flooded his nostrils. They were stepping into a grand hall: not vaulted and soaring like that of a Northern palace, but deep and intricate, with several levels to the floor, and pillars carved from the living rock, and many alcoves and niches filled with candles in iron stands. Tapestries adorned the walls, and censers burned on iron stands, gray cat-tails of smoke rising from them to mingle at the ceiling. The hall was full of people. They were dressed humbly, and busy with a variety of tasks, but as the Master and his guests came forward they stopped and bowed as one. Not all were dlomu. The other races of the South were all represented here, in greater proportions than in Masalym. And there were new beings, too, like nothing Pazel had seen before. A hulking figure nearly the size of an augrong, with a barrel under each arm. A pair of lean, wolfish beings who rose from all fours when they bowed. A gray fox watching them from a corner, its tail twitching like a snake. “Welcome, human,” it said in a voice like satin.
“Where is Kirishgan?” said the Master Teller. “I would he met our visitor.”
“I will find him, Father,” said the fox, and darted away into the chamber.
They walked deeper into the room. A young novice handed Pazel a cup and bade him drink. It was wine, pale but very strong, and when Pazel swallowed he felt warmer still. “We dlomu drink more beer than wine,” said the Master, smiling. “But humans always preferred our wine, in the old days when we lived as brothers. Drink it all, child: it is the first part of your cure.”
Pazel finished the wine. As he lowered the cup he wondered if the drink could already be going to his head: for coming toward them was a man-like figure with olive skin and fine black feathers where his eyebrows should have been. They jutted out to either side of his temples, as if a pair of black wings were about to emerge from the skin of his forehead. The eyes beneath these oddest of brows were youthful; but the man himself was not exactly young. He was tall and straight-backed, but there was a subtle, knowing quality to his expression that made Pazel think of the wisdom of great age. The figure greeted him with a bow.
“Welcome, spider’s favorite,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re not afraid of humans,” said Pazel. “In Masalym no one wanted to speak to us.”
“Your murth-cry gave us a start,” said the newcomer, as the corners of his lips curled wryly, “but as for human beings-well, there are stranger things within these walls.”
“Vasparhaven is home to many beings, not all of them native to this world,” said the Teller. “Some were castaways on the River of Shadows, who, unable to return to their own world, climbed to the temple and dwell here yet. Others, especially dlomu, come as war refugees, fleeing the Platazcra. There are woken animals, whom we shelter until their persecution ends. And a few, like Kirishgan here, come as pilgrims did for centuries, before the current darkness: to learn, to study, to bring us new wisdom and carry something of us away with them to distant lands.”
“By his face, Spider Father, I guess that he has never met with a selk.” The olive-skinned figure smiled warmly. “Of course that is no surprise. We are rare enough on this side of the Ruling Sea. In the North we are rare as lilies on a glacier.”
“And yet older than glaciers-old as the mountains themselves,” said the dlomu. “I am glad of this encounter: the young and the ancient of Alifros, met here at the crossroads of our common fate.”
“A crossroads surely,” said the other, “but which road is the world about to choose, I should like to know?”
“So should we all,” said the Master Teller, “for one is sunlit yet, but the other descends into shadow and fear: to what depths none can say.” He took the empty cup from Pazel’s hand. “Our guest would be welcome for a year, Kirishgan, but he has only hours. You know what the second part of the cure entails. The third and final will be given on the Floor of Echoes.” His old eyes focused on the selk. “You will visit the Floor yourself on the morrow, I think.”
“Spider Father!” exclaimed the other, suddenly excited.
“Stay here in the Great Hall for now,” said the Teller, “and when Evensong concludes, be so good as to show him to the door. I will alert the Actors myself.” The old dlomu moved away without another word, flanked by his two attendants.
“So the day has come!” said the one called Kirishgan. “I thought it might have, as soon as I saw your face.”
“What do you mean?” said Pazel. “I thought all I needed to do was drink three gulps of that wine, over three hours.”
“There is a bit more to it than that,” said Kirishgan, smiling again. “Come, and I will try explain.”
He threaded a path through the Great Hall. The people watched, quietly fascinated, and some murmured soft words of welcome. Tapestries gave way to windows, and Pazel realized that they were no longer within the mountain but in the part of the temple that projected over the lakeshore, suspended on those titanic beams. They climbed a short stair, passed a fire dancing in a brass vessel and sat upon a rug in a little glassed-in alcove, with the stormy lake spread beneath them. The wind moaned and rattled the windows, and despite the fire the glass was rimmed with frost.
“The bite of the medet is rare,” said the selk abruptly, “because it never occurs by accident. There are two possibilities. The spider bit you that you might go blind, and stay among us for the rest of your days. Or the spider bit you that you might visit us, and be cured, and perhaps gain something else in the bargain.
“Vasparhaven is larger than it appears from outside, and while most of its halls are open to the whole community, some are closed and sacrosanct. Of these, the most sacred of all is the Floor of Echoes. None go there save the Master Teller, and a special group we call the Actors-and very rarely, travelers in need. The Actors dwell on the Floor for nine months-never exiting, never even speaking to their brethren outside. For those pledged to the Order it is a privilege extended only once in a lifetime.”
“And your Master is sending me there?” Paz
el exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“I cannot tell you,” said the selk, “but I am glad you have come. Three years have I dwelled in Vasparhaven. When I came, weary and cold, I thought only to spend the night, but the Master bade me remain until the deeper purpose of my visit should reveal itself.”
“Has it, then?”
“We shall see,” said Kirishgan. “There is an old rule concerning the Floor of Echoes: that anyone who sets foot in it must leave it by a passage that exits Vasparhaven, and not return for nine years at the earliest. I am to visit the Floor myself, the Master has declared; therefore my time here is at an end.”
A novice brought a tray with a steaming kettle and two cups, and Kirishgan served them each a cup of fragrant tea. Pazel seized it gladly: it was good to have something to warm his hands. “Don’t you mind being sent away?” he asked.
“Mind?” laughed Kirishgan. “On the contrary. Life is rich here, in ways I cannot hope to describe. But I have grown restless. Friends await me far across the Empire, and beyond it too. I doubt I shall ever again know the peace I have found in Vasparhaven. Yet I came here to heal and to learn, not to escape. The arts I have studied here tell me of the doom that is building over Alifros, gathering like a second Worldstorm. I would fight that storm, and those who are brewing it with their hate. I am eager to resume my journeys.”
“And we’re not eager at all,” said Pazel, “but we have to go, as quickly as we can.”
“You are close to the heart of that doom,” said Kirishgan. “You, and your party, and those ill-favored three who came before. And above all the one you call Thasha. I have never felt a stronger tremor from a passing soul! Who is she, Pazel?”
Pazel looked at him uneasily. He had taken an immediate liking to this Kirishgan, but what of it? They’d been betrayed so many times, and the circumstances of his visit to this temple were odd to say the least.
He was groping for some evasive reply when he noticed with a start that his right arm was colder than the rest of him. He placed his hand on the kettle, but only dimly sensed its warmth. “Please,” he said, “what about the cure?”
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