“The second part will be given to you soon,” said Kirishgan. “The third you must seek on the Floor of Echoes. But it is no good counting the minutes, Pazel. Tell me of yourself! For sixty summers have come and gone since last I met a woken human-and ten times that since I met a human from the North. Let us share what we can while the music lasts.”
Pazel sighed: there was clearly no way to hurry anyone here along. Kirishgan for his part was insatiably curious. Pazel told him of the Northern Empires, the cities he’d visited on the Chathrand and his earlier ships. He described the great market on Opalt, the splendid mansions of Etherhorde, the jungles of Bramian and the warm white sands of the Outer Isles. But when he spoke of Ormael and the life he had lost there, he felt a strange emptiness, almost an indifference, in himself. And that was a new sort of loss. I could tell him anything. I could say that Ormalis worship ducks. It’s unreal to him and always will be. And what if they never caught up with the Chathrand, never found a way home? Would the North become just a story for them as well-a yarn that unraveled with each telling, a fable about the lives of people they no longer knew?
“Tell me of the crossing,” said Kirishgan.
Pazel spoke of the awful storms, the lives lost on the Ruling Sea, the Vortex that had almost swallowed the ship. He moved on to their landfall at Narybir, the attack of the Karyskan swimmers, their confused reception in Masalym. Kirishgan listened in silence, but when Pazel mentioned Prince Olik he looked up sharply.
“You are friends of Olik?” he said, his feathered eyebrows knitting. “How close? Did the prince give you no token of that friendship to prove your claim?”
Pazel could only shake his head. “Nothing, as far as I know,” he said.
“Then you are his friend indeed,” said Kirishgan, delighted. “Olik hands gems to those he wishes others to be wary of. Had you produced one I should have told you nothing more. But this changes matters. Olik Ipandracon! Years have passed since I saw his noble face. Where does he wander now?”
Pazel told him what he understood of Olik’s fight against the Ravens and Arunis. Kirishgan was dismayed. “Let him not fall into the hands of Macadra!” he said. “She would find a way to kill even a Bali Adro prince, if it suited her. But more likely she would alter his face by magic or mutilation, and hide him in one of the royal ‘hospitals’ in the west, where those she fears to kill outright are locked away.”
“Your Empire seems fond of such places,” said Pazel. “We were locked in one ourselves. Oh, Pitfire, we should have begged Olik to come with us.”
“Do not despair for him yet,” said the selk. “The prince has a knack for survival, as any must who fall afoul of the Ravens. But Bali Adro is not my Empire, Pazel. Indeed, we selk refuse all citizenship save that of Alifros itself. When I first woke into life, Bali Adro was a little territory on the Nemmocian frontier, and this temple was yet to be built, and the waters of Ilvaspar remained frozen even in summer. Lake and mountain claim no citizenship, nor do the eagles drifting above them. So it is with the selk. By ancient practice most countries grant us freedom of movement, and we joke with border guards that we permit them the same. In any case there are few who could prevent our coming and going.”
“But don’t you have a home?” asked Pazel. “The place you were born, a place you dream of going back to?”
Kirishgan’s eyes grew briefly wary. “That is one secret I am sworn to keep,” he said.
There was an awkward silence. Then Kirishgan seemed to reach some decision, and gestured for Pazel to lean close. In a softer voice, he said, “Hear me, lad. For as long as the Ravens have existed there have been those who fought them. I am one of that number: I resolved long ago to resist them until the day I breathe no more. Olik has made a similar choice, and so have many across Bali Adro and even beyond it. Once, the dlomic Emperors stood with us. But for well over a century now the throne of Bali Adro has been merely a tool of the Ravens, the figurehead behind which they marshaled the Platazcra.”
“I thought those Blades were the whole cause of this Platazcra,” said Pazel.
“By no means,” said Kirishgan. “The Blades and their power are an awful drug, but more awful still is the idea. The hideous idea! Dlomu Irrimatak! Dlomu atop the hill, all others at their feet! It is the founding lie of the Platazcra that such is the natural order, the right path for the universe. How else to sustain a cult of infinite conquest? Without a belief that dlomic supremacy was ordained by heaven, there would be no Platazcra, only frenzied warfare among the various keepers of the Blades. The Ravens rule the South, Pazel, because they gave the dlomu a sick, sweet lie to believe in. And now, through that lie, the dlomu are destroying themselves.”
“Everyone believes in that lie,” said Pazel.
Kirishgan sat back, startled.
“I mean, it’s no different in the North,” Pazel went on. “The Shaggat’s cult on Gurishal-that’s infinite conquest, too. And the Secret Fist, Arqual’s network of spies-why, they’re selling the same blary story to the Arquali people: that they should rule everyone, everywhere, because they’re naturally better and Rin wants it that way.”
His voice tightened. “Do you know how many Arqualis have told me I ought to feel grateful, Kirishgan? Told me how lucky I am that Arqual came along and noticed me, lifted me up? Rin’s eyes, half the Arqualis I’ve met think they ought to be in charge of the world. Not consciously, I don’t mean that. It’s half buried, but it’s there.”
The selk’s eyes were suddenly far away. For a moment Pazel was afraid that he had given offense. Then Kirishgan blinked and looked at him again, and his gentle smile returned.
“Your words touch me,” he said. “The old prejudices, the cleaving to the tribe: half buried, you call them. But if you were a selk you might take hope from that assertion. To bury them halfway is a great achievement. When at last they are fully buried, they can decay into the primal soil from whence they came.”
Pazel looked down at his tea. Years of insults, abuses, slurs flowed like a phantom river through his mind. “I understand your words,” he said at last, “but I don’t think you’d see it that way if you were in my shoes.”
“Perhaps not,” said Kirishgan. “But I am not in your shoes. And when I looked at your party from the balcony I saw a miracle: humans and dlomu riding out together, side by side. That is something I have not witnessed since before the days of slavery and plague.”
Pazel was abashed. He was sharing tea with a being whose memory spanned centuries. And lecturing him, with the deep wisdom of his years.
“Kirishgan,” he said, “my hand’s getting colder.”
“That is expected,” said the other.
“Am I really going to go blind?”
The selk was quiet a moment, and closed his feathered eyes. “There is darkness ahead of you,” he said at last, “but of what sort I cannot fathom. Despite my great age I am new to Spider Telling. And even the Master has his limits. ‘We pan for gold, like peasants along the Mai,’ he says, ‘but the river is dark, and the sun shrouded, and the gold we call the future is more often dust than bright stones.’ ”
“I’ve been scared so many times,” said Pazel. “From the first few days on the Chathrand. Out of my wits, if you care to know. But blindness?” He drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I can face that, Kirishgan.”
The selk looked at Pazel a moment longer, then drank off his tea abruptly and rose. “The time approaches,” he said. “Let us go.”
Pazel got to his feet, and Kirishgan took a candle from the window and led him quickly through the chambers of wood and glass, the varied people of Vasparhaven bowing and smiling as they went. Finally they reached a spiral stair and began to climb. Three floors they ascended, emerging at last into a small, unlit chamber. It was cold here; the walls were ancient, moss-covered stone. There was a single door, and a round stone table of about elbow height in the center of the room, on which rested a box.
Kirishgan set the candle on the table. O
pening the box, he withdrew a small square of parchment, a writing quill and a bottle of ink. Pazel looked upward: he could not make out the ceiling. “What is this place, Kirishgan?” he asked.
“A medetoman, a spider-telling chamber,” said the selk. “Now, let me think-”
He primed the quill with ink, gazed distractedly at the crumbling walls for a moment and then wrote a few neat, swift words on the parchment scrap. He raised the scrap close to the candleflame, drying the ink. As he did so he looked up thoughtfully at Pazel.
“Your country was seized and savaged. It is true that I cannot know what that is like, having no country to lose. Still, I do know something of loss, Pazel Pathkendle. The selk have been killed in great numbers by the Platazcra. We are loath to bow before those we do not love, and our failure to grovel at the bloodstained feet of the Emperor has made us suspect. This was bad enough when the Plazic Blades granted Bali Adro victory after victory. Now that triumph has turned to chaos and defeat, it has grown much worse. Among other things, we are blamed for the decay of the Blades themselves. We talk to eguar, you see.”
“You talk to those monsters?” said Pazel, with a violent start. “Why?”
“Only the elder creatures of this world possess memories to match our own,” said Kirishgan. “We talk to them as we would our peers-as I dare say you would wish to speak to a fellow Ormali, even a dangerous one, if he were to step into this room. But the Ravens imagined that we were plotting their downfall. They could do little against the eguar, but us they have tried to exterminate. They did not quite succeed, but the damage done to our people may never be repaired: not in Alifros at any rate.”
Pazel did not know what to say. He was ashamed of his earlier words to Kirishgan, and his assumptions. At the same time he felt glad that the other had been willing to tell him of such terrible loss.
Then he saw the spider.
It was descending on a bright thread, directly over the candle on the table: a creature of living glass and ruby eyes, twice as large as the one that had bitten him. Kirishgan watched it descend, walking in a slow circle about the table, both hands raised as though in greeting. He was murmuring a chant: “Medet… amir medet… amir kelada medet…” The spider dropped to within a foot of the flame, and its crystalline legs scattered rainbows on the stone.
“Come here, Pazel!” said Kirishgan in an urgent whisper. “Hold out your hand!”
Nervously, Pazel approached. He trusted Kirishgan, but did not relish the thought of a second bite. With some trepidation he raised his hand. Kirishgan took his wrist and tugged him closer, and Pazel’s breath caught in his throat. The spider’s head was inches from his fingertips.
The creature grew quite still. Pazel had the strong feeling that those red eyes were studying him. Two mandibles like slivers of glass reached out cautiously toward his hand. Kirishgan tightened his grip. “Don’t pull away,” he hissed.
It took a great effort not to do so, but Pazel held still, and felt the brush of those strange organs against his fingers. They were barbed; it would have been easy for the spider to grab him with those mandibles and sink its fangs, hidden in that glass knob of a head, into finger or palm.
But this time the spider did not bite him. The mandibles withdrew, and Kirishgan released his wrist.
“Excellent,” he said. “The second stage of your cure has begun.”
“Has it?” said Pazel, starting. “But nothing happened, it barely touched me.”
“Only a touch is required. Now watch.”
The spider turned about on its strand of web, so that its head pointed upward. It remained directly above the candle. As Pazel stared, transfixed, a drop of clear liquid the size of a quail’s egg emerged from its abdomen and descended toward the flame. Though clear, it was thick, and hung suspended like a teardrop. In that moment, Kirishgan reached out and pressed the little square of parchment into the liquid. It passed inside, and the bubble of liquid separated from the spider, and Kirishgan caught it with great care. The spider retreated up its strand and was soon out of sight.
Kirishgan rolled the droplet from hand to hand, inches above the candleflame. It had become a perfect sphere. It was also expanding, and Pazel realized it was hollow. And very light, now, too, for it moved with the slowness of a feather. Then Kirishgan withdrew his hands. The sphere floated above the candle, motionless, glistening in the yellow light.
“This is not part of your cure,” he said, “only a gift, from one traveler to another.”
Kirishgan blew. The sphere drifted toward Pazel; and once away from the candleflame it began a slow descent. “Catch it; it is yours,” said the selk. “But be gentle! The shell is delicate as a prayer.”
Pazel let the tiny sphere settle onto his palm. It was light as a dragonfly, and its surface was an iridescent marvel: every color he could imagine danced in its curves, only to vanish when he looked directly. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Kirishgan, I don’t know that you should give it to me. How can I keep from breaking it?”
“You cannot,” said the selk, “but surely you knew that already? We can possess a thing, but not its loveliness-that always escapes. Close your fist, lock your door, imprison the cherished thing in your home or heart. It makes no difference. When next you look, a part of what you cherished will be gone.”
“I’d like to give it to Thasha,” said Pazel on an impulse.
“A fine idea,” said Kirishgan. “I will send it to her, while your cure progresses. The message within is for all of you.”
Pazel carefully rolled the sphere back into his hands. “Thank you,” he said with feeling. “But Kirishgan, I still don’t understand what that spider had to do with my cure.”
“A great deal,” said Kirishgan. “Pazel, the medets exist in this world the way murths and spirits do: here and elsewhere at once, and detecting us as much by our spirits as our bodies. There was a reason for that bite, and you must seek it on the Floor of Echoes, or there can be no cure. The Actors will help you if they can-but the help of the medets is more important. They are expecting you, though you may not see them.”
He gestured at the door. “You may enter as soon as you like. Leave your boots; they will be returned to you when you exit Vasparhaven. And do not speak on the Floor of Echoes unless bidden to do so: that is essential.”
Pazel looked at him steadily. “This is a sort of test, isn’t it?”
“What isn’t, Pazel?”
“And does everyone who visits the Floor of Echoes take this test?”
Kirishgan nodded. “In one form or another. Tomorrow it will be my turn.” He gripped Pazel’s arm. “I must bid you farewell, sudden friend. Do not forget the heavens: that is what my people say. We are all young beneath the watchful stars. They will wait out our ignorance and errors, and perhaps even forgive them.”
Cradling the glass orb, he descended the stair. Pazel listened to his footsteps fade. It felt strange to be alone in this temple, inside a mountain, on the far side of the world from Ormael. Strange, and eerily peaceful. But he could not linger, he knew. Lifting the candle from the table, he walked to the door and swung it wide.
Another staircase rose before him. It was steep and built of ancient stone, and candles burned in puddles of wax on the crumbling steps, dwindling into the darkness above. Pazel tugged off his boots and set them outside the door.
The stones were wet and cold against his feet. The staircase curved and twisted, and soon Pazel knew that he had climbed the height of several additional floors. He glanced back, and saw to his great surprise that every candle he had passed was extinguished. He cupped his hand protectively around the one he bore.
The staircase ended, as it had begun, with a door, but this one stood open a few inches, and a brighter light was shining through the gap. Pazel crept forward and glimpsed a small fire crackling in a ring of stones. Figures crouched around it, and through their shoulders Pazel caught the flash of a crystal abdomen, the flicker of a ruby eye. Then the door creaked, and t
he figures leaped up and scattered into the darkness.
All but one. A young dlomic woman remained by the fire, wearing a pale peach-colored wrap that left her black arms bare to the shoulders, and a dark mask on the upper part of her face. She was holding a wide stone bowl over the flames. Of the spider Pazel saw no trace.
The woman beckoned him in, her silver eyes gleaming. Pazel stepped through the doorway, and found that he could see neither the ceiling nor any wall save that behind him. A strong draft, almost a wind, blew about them, making the fire dance and flare and shrink by turns. If he had not known better, Pazel would have thought that they were meeting not underground but on some desolate plain.
His candle went out. The woman held the bowl in one hand and with the other took his own, drawing him down to kneel across from her. As he did so a flute began to play in the darkness: a melancholy tune, full of loss and yearning; but somehow thankful all the same, as though there were gifts the music remembered. Pazel closed his eyes, and it seemed to him that the song drained some of the road-weariness from his body. There were other sounds from the shadows, now: a voice softly matching the flute, a repeated note from the quietest imaginable drum. The woman moved the bowl close to his chin.
“Breathe,” she said.
The bowl held a colorless liquid. He gave it an uncertain sniff, and the woman shook her head. She drew a deep breath, demonstrating, and rather stiffly Pazel imitated her. Whatever was in the bowl had no scent.
“Again,” said the woman; and, “Again,” once more. Still Pazel could not smell a thing, but all at once he realized that his eyes were watering-streaming, in fact. The woman leaned closer, her masked face glowing; Pazel blinked and scattered tears.
It was then that her eyes changed. Silver darkened suddenly to glossy black, and the pupils vanished altogether. The woman’s mouth opened, as though she were as startled as Pazel himself. “Nuhzat!” she said, and emptied the bowl into the fire.
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