Tathea

by Anne Perry

  She rode past the fortress of Layamon, a million imperial bricks in the vast buttresses black against the eastern skyline, and traveled on towards Yba and then the outskirts of Hirioth, where the trees stood knee-deep in drifts of bluebells. She saw no demon on her heels, but she felt a shadow behind her. White plumes on the wind reminded her of the Wanderer, and gold buttercups in the sun of Azrub’s glittering arms.

  But under the giant trees of the forest itself, when she had made camp for the night, the Enemy showed a face that she knew instantly. The first being appeared in the precise likeness of a bald-headed man, naked but for a cloak about his loins. His oiled flesh gleamed in the red light of her campfire. Then there was a rustle behind her, and swinging round she saw another, exactly the same as the first, shaven, glistening, his eyes sunken pits in his skull. He crept towards her, low to the ground as if he would use his hands to balance himself, like paws. There was a third, out to the right, also coming slowly closer, eye sockets turned toward her, broad nostrils quivering as he sniffed her scent.

  Casper rolled his eyes in fear and reared back, snapping his tethering rein. Cold terror took hold of Tathea. She scrambled to her feet and backed against the trunk of the giant oak behind her.

  “Run!” she cried to Casper, as terrified for him as for herself.

  As the creatures came closer in slow weaving steps, she felt the rough bark under her hands. There was no escape except upward, and even to try was instinct, not reason. They were probably far better able to climb than she was. Yet the cold breath and smell of decay that came from them filled her with such horror that she swiveled round and climbed the trunk. She hauled herself up a twig, a branch, a bark hole at a time, careless of torn skin and nails, until she was astride the first great bough. The three creatures were crouched below, their hands reaching upwards, clawing at her feet, arms outstretched, sightless eyes searching for her.

  They were reaching higher, their hands closer to her, less than a span away and nearer with every leap, their mouths open, leering with jubilation.

  What were they? Creatures of the abyss, hell-begotten, or fallen men, once human, but now so lost to all light that they had become thus? Had they any conception of truth? Was even the faintest spark known to them?

  There was no escape. She could not climb any farther up the tree, and her strength was sapped, draining away moment by moment like blood gushing from a wound. And they smelled it, their faces avid, mouths open, tongues questing.

  She was slipping towards them, too weak to fight. One almost touched her; another leap and the fearful hands would close over her feet.

  Then a wild thought came to her, born of despair. She could not escape them; she was so weak she could feel herself sliding, the bark of the tree scraping her skin. Nothing could save her from them. But what if they had souls? What if there was still something left in them that had once been human and capable of light?

  She began to speak to them. “It is not too late for you. There is no corner of earth or hell so forgotten that God cannot see it and reach out His hand to you if you will take it ... and live.” She gulped, her heart hammering. “Only learn to love, even the smallest fraction, and you can be loved. Forgive something, anything, and you can begin to be forgiven. The road is open—take it. I will come with you.”

  As she heard her own words, her terror of their obscenity faded. A moment of pity stirred inside her, a glimpse of their loss. Very slowly she stretched out a trembling hand, downwards towards them.

  “Come with me,” she whispered. “Come with the light.”

  But like darkness before the sun, they shrank away, shriveling to small, misshapen things, their power vanished.

  By the time she was back on the ground, she was alone. The glade was filled with moonlight. There was nothing there but the smell of damp loam and the night air and Casper, head down, blowing through his nostrils, waiting for her. Suddenly, far above her came the piercing song of a bird, an exquisite cascade of sound and then silence again.

  She stood with her face to the stars, knowing that she held in her spirit the weapon and the shield against the Enemy and the light to guide her steps through every storm that earth or hell could send, if she would but use no other.

  She stopped at the forest village to see Tugomir and found him much changed. There was a deep heart of calm within him which embraced the million trees of Hirioth with love. She did not need to ask him if he had succeeded at last; it was written in his dark face and his eyes burned with it.

  It was there in Garran and his people also. They wished Tugomir to remain with them not because they leaned on him or needed his command, but because they loved him, as he now loved them, knowing the strengths and the weaknesses of each, the laughter and the pain.

  She lingered there three days, telling him of all that had passed on the western shore, of Merdic and Yaltabaoth, of Drusus and his fortress, of Menath-Dur, and of the vision she had seen of the center of time, and the redemption of all things.

  When they parted, she traveled south again, in the direction of the open lands beyond which lay Sylum and whatever awaited her there.

  On the wide forest path she saw a man coming towards her on horseback, a tall man, riding easily as if he were well used to the saddle. When he saw her he reined in his animal for a moment, then leaned and urged it forward almost to a gallop until it stopped in a flurry of mud and grass a yard from her, and he leaped from it. Only then did she recognize Alexius.

  It had been over seven years. He was changed, older, there was a leanness to his face and gray in his hair, but his eyes and his mouth were the same.

  Happiness surged up inside her without thought of anything beyond the joy of seeing him. She leaped from the saddle and threw herself into his arms in a wild embrace and clung to him as fiercely as he to her. She touched the roughness of his tunic, smelled the familiar tang of leather armor, felt the warmth of his body and the strength of him. Her heart beat so savagely she was shaking. When at last she let go, there were tears on her cheeks and on his.

  “I have everything in the world to tell you!” she said breathlessly, searching his eyes to know how he was, if he suffered any loss or grief, any cloud of the spirit.

  “And I you,” he said gently. “But you tell me first.” He gathered his horse’s reins and swung up into the saddle, holding out his hand to lift her to join him. Together they rode gently along the path, Casper following behind, and with the warmth of his arms round her she told him all that had happened since they had parted in Shinabar.

  The shadows lengthened into night, and at moonrise they made camp and still they talked. In the morning they rose and continued on their way. Again she told him of what she had seen and heard and of the battles on the Waste Lands. She recounted to him the vision she had seen, and how all the creations of the earth, even the trees and herbs, had watched and waited as the man and Asmodeus moved towards the center of time, knowing their soul’s light or darkness was won or lost in that hour. She felt Alexius’s arms grow rigid and sensed an agony of pain in him as if it were in her own body.

  She twisted round to stare at him, pulling his horse to a stop. “What is it?” she said hoarsely. “What has happened?” The look in his face terrified her, as if he himself had seen hell. “What is it?”

  His voice was dreadful when he answered. “There was a rebellion in the east. An evil man arose and killed many villagers because they stood in his path. I fought for Ortelios.”

  She waited, knowing that was not what tortured him.

  “He fled with his men into Hirioth, east of here. I followed him. I knew he would hide where I could not find him, and then when I was gone come out again and harry the villages.”

  She reached to put her hand on his wrist and then withdrew it. This was beyond her power to touch, and she knew it.

  “I burned him out,” he whispered. “I burned the living forest and the trees and beasts in it. I did not know then what it was I did, but I know now. I hav
e wounded the earth, and I have separated myself from it.”

  She understood his horror. She shared it with him as if it had been her own. She could see the terror and destruction, the pain, the charred bodies and the ruined stumps with an agony he was only just beginning to know, but she saw the path he would walk.

  Gently she slid her arms round him and buried her head against his neck, but she could not comfort him. There was no comfort to give.

  She did not know how long it was before she let go of him and he dismounted, leaving her in the saddle. He needed to walk, to feel his feet on the earth. They traveled steadily and in silence. He was alone in a darkness where she could not be with him. He spoke only once.

  “I shall go and find the Flamen priests. I have broken the higher law, and I will answer to it.”

  She did not argue. He had lived all his life with reverence for the laws of men, and then of God. It was not in him to breach them and not pay. To do so would be a greater price than anything they could exact from him.

  They went in silence but for the song of birds, the movement of the wind in the leaves, and the creak of the saddle. She looked at his bowed shoulders, but there was nothing she could say or do. He was alone in a night of his own making.

  It was she who first saw the figure of Immerith ahead of them on the path, his green cloak like the forest leaves. There were two others with him, standing back, their faces grave and filled with fierce pain of loss.

  Alexius looked up and knew who they were. He hesitated in his step only a moment, a faltering, no more. Then he straightened his shoulders and walked towards them.

  “I am Alexius,” he said quietly. “It was I who ordered the burning of the trees. I did not understand then, but now I know what I have done. I have murdered a part of the forest, and I am here to answer the law.” He took his sword from his belt and held it out, hilt towards Immerith, then stood bareheaded in the sun.

  Immerith took the sword and let it fall to the ground where it lay.

  “You would answer to the Flamen law?” he said slowly. “Even if it takes your life?”

  Alexius looked at him. “Without the law, creation perishes. Even God cannot and will not break it. What I have done is terrible. I wish with all my soul that I had not, but I have. I will answer for it.”

  Immerith looked beyond him to Tathea only once, then he nodded his head slowly. He did not glance at his companions, as if he had no need to question their countenance in what he would say.

  “You understand that you have murdered the forest, and that is against the law of God. Your hand was that of the destroyer.”

  “I know.” Alexius spoke so softly his words were barely audible.

  Tathea sat in an anguish of helplessness.

  “Yes,” Immerith nodded slowly, “I perceive that you do indeed understand what you have done, and it is hideous to your soul. There is a law in the universe that cannot be broken. But it is satisfied by repentance and fulfilled by mercy, which is the bond of heaven and earth. You have sinned, and you have been pardoned.” He held up his right hand. “You are again one with all the creatures that God has loved: the birds and the beasts and the stars, and you are one with the forest—and with me, because we have seen darkness and light together, and we have understood both. Go in peace.”

  Tathea felt the radiance blossom inside her and the fire of joy blaze up in her spirit.

  Alexius stared at Immerith. He was dazed with wonder. He sought for words, but there were none that could express what he wanted to say.

  Immerith stooped and picked up the sword from the ground and offered it back, this time with the hilt towards Alexius.

  Very slowly, still in awe, Alexius accepted it.

  Immerith bowed. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “A miracle has happened here and we are both enlarged by it—I because I have given freely and my soul is blessed, you because you have received in humility and you have seen something more beautiful than justice, and thus you are blessed also.” He glanced at Tathea once more, and his eyes were filled with tenderness; then without speaking again he turned and walked back into the shelter of the trees, his companions with him, and the green shadows swallowed them.

  Alexius raised his eyes to Tathea, and they were bright with wonder. He had been given a larger gift than he could grasp, but a sense of the magnitude of it was in him already.

  She smiled at him and urged the horses forward. She knew he needed to walk alone for a space longer. He was too drenched in emotion to touch or share yet, and she was content.

  The following day they came into Sylum and were welcomed by Ortelios and given shelter and food and fresh clothing. He listened with great excitement to the news Tathea brought of the Lost Legion and how they had built a mighty fortress on the western shore.

  The day after that there was a great feast held in the castle. Soldiers, landowners and merchants were there, including the Lord Nastemah and the beautiful Verrani. At least three score men and women were seated round the tables. Torches burned on the walls, shields and armor and tapestries decorated them. Fires burned in huge hearths at either end, dogs lying sprawled before them, waiting for scraps to be thrown.

  Alexius sat at one end of the hall, Tathea at the other. He had had no time to speak to her alone since their arrival. He had been too stunned and amazed with the mercy of the Flamens even to think of telling her why he had come to the Island at the Edge of the World, except that it was to seek her and to ask her to return to the City in the Center of the World. Word of her had drifted back from mariners sailing the northern seas, rumor only. He had come in a wild hope, knowing what had befallen her in Shinabar. He had wanted to see her again. The hunger in him had never died. There was a soul-deep loneliness when he could not speak to her, see her, touch her mind with his dreams. But the more urgent reason concerned her return to Camassia, and this he had barely mentioned.

  Now he made trivial conversation with Islanders and watched Verrani’s fragile beauty and the sadness in her eyes. Always she looked to Nastemah, but there was no joy in her. It was not the gaze of a woman in love, rather of one who was bound by ties of need and fear. When she spoke to another man, the will to please and the expectation of hurt flickered across her face, giving her a vulnerability which stirred his heart with pity.

  Why should she suffer so? The laws of neither the Empire nor the island compelled a woman to remain with a husband who frightened her. Surely the measure of a nation’s civilization was the way it treated its weak, its troubled, those who were different by chance or birth. A race still sunk in barbarism put to death its outsiders, one that was in decline ignored them and allowed them to suffer and to die. Camassia was at the high tide of its power.

  He looked across the table and caught the gaze of Nastemah’s golden, vulpine eyes.

  The evening grew late, and still the guests laughed and talked and drank. The other women were full of eagerness, quick and natural to speak, but Verrani dared offer no opinions contrary to her husband’s. No one seemed to address her directly except on the utmost trivia, such as to pass something across the table, or thank her when she did. On anything deeper they deferred to Nastemah, as if Verrani could have no friends other than those he approved. When she was hesitant, he belittled her and laughed at her expense.

  Alexius watched with mounting anger. As the evening passed, Verrani grew paler, and now her eyes brimmed with tears she dared not shed. He could only imagine her loneliness and her fear. He would have intervened, defended her swiftly and hard, but he knew it would be only momentary, and as soon as they left this hall with its warmth and company, Nastemah could take a terrible revenge on her for any crossing of his will, let alone a public humiliation.

  So he kept silent, but inside he was burning with anger.

  When the final sweetmeats were eaten and the last of the wine drunk, the guests rose to leave. Alexius saw Tathea go with Ortelios. They had much to discuss before she sailed from the island back to the Center of the W
orld. When he told her why she must return there, she had not questioned the need, and Alexius wondered if some vision or prophecy had told her. Perhaps the words of the strange man named Menath-Dur had been sufficient. Explanations could wait until the voyage. Right now it was Verrani’s white face which filled his mind, and her desperate misery.

  Alexius found her in one of the antechambers, standing alone, shivering as if she were cold. There was no one else within sight. He walked over towards her.

  She smiled at him hesitantly and came a step closer. It seemed she wished to speak to him if she could find the courage. Perhaps she had sensed his compassion and his will to protect her.

  “There is no need for you to be afraid,” he said very gently, his voice little more than a whisper. “Imperial law will protect you if you want to leave Lord Nastemah. There would be no disgrace, no slur on your honor or your name. You need not be kept in any bond that has become repugnant to you.”

  She looked at him in amazement, her eyes so wide and clear she seemed like an astonished child, willing herself to believe the incredible.

  From the room beyond the door curtains came the sound of laughter. The light flickered in the torch brackets, making the stone seem golden.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, fear and hope alternating in her eyes, shadows he could not read, memories of pain and dreams from long ago. As she turned her head, the angle of her cheek and the dark coil of her hair could have been Xanthica’s. She was a thousand miles away in a different world, and yet his sense of anger and urgency to protect was the same. He had failed Xanthica. He had been unable to help her see the light that could have been hers, to give her the courage to test faith and prove it. She had denied herself rather than risk losing some part of Maximian’s love. It was never too late, but the cost was higher now, the path immeasurably harder to find, and she had no faith in herself to try, and no hope that she deserved it.